Through the bottom of my glass

Mojo Walkabout c.3

2011-01-19T15:54:00.004-06:00

Chapter Three - Land of the Delta Blues

The next morning as I packed my modest suitcase preparing to leave the casino hotel, I gave a small measure of thought as to what I would do with the day. I knew where I was planning to end up: Memphis, at the Marriott downtown. And, that pretty much meant dinner, some fine Memphis BBQ, and Beale St. later in the evening. The rest of the day was for me to explore. And I had absolutely no idea where to begin. So, I began with breakfast at the buffet in Sam's Town.

“I have a few chips I want to play down before I cash out,” mother said, indicating she had $25 or $35 dollars in extra chips from making it an even $200.

“That's fine,” I said. “I'll just go get some breakfast while you play.” I'd won my money, and had no interest in giving any of it back. That was that. My attention was now turned to my “walkabout”, and I was quite pleased that Sam's Town casino was going to foot the bill on that.

After choking down a marginally palatable breakfast buffet, mom met up with me as I enjoyed some coffee. She gave back the extra chips in a vain effort to increase her winnings total, but all in all she also walked out a winner from the casino. I could tell she was pleased with herself. Hell, I was pleased with myself. Not only for winning as much as I did, but for walking away a winner, and not yielding to the temptation of playing further, risking giving it right back.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” she asked me as I sipped some warm coffee. “Do you want to go check out some of the other casinos?”

“No,” I said. If you've seen one, you've pretty much seen them all, I figure. They were of no interest to me apart from winning money, and I'd already accomplished that. Next challenge.

“I'm pretty much in the mood to drive, explore, find interesting things about this area,” I told her. “This is the Home of the Delta Blues, and I just want to wander it, discover it. I have no agenda. Just a need to explore.”

What was implied, but what I didn't vocalize to her was I simply was soul searching, in a place where the music that speaks to my soul was born. There was no "where" to go, I was here. My feet and my soul will guide me on this pilgrimage. I bore full faith in that. She was fine with it. As I mentioned, while the basic history of the area meant little to her, she too has the heart of an explorer, a traveler, and wouldn't mind a minor detour through some back roads to pass the time until we get to Memphis this evening.

I hit out on the open road back along the casino strip, keeping my eyes peeled for any clues to where my journey would take me. I stopped along the main drag to capture a cell phone photo of an unharvested cotton field, something completely foreign to me as a Midwestern prairie boy. I couldn't explain the fascination, but, these cotton fields spoke to me. Or, maybe just intrigued me? There was a fascinating, almost mystical appeal about them to me.

I found an access way towards the Mississippi River that led to a museum resting along the shores. A yellow school bus from Tishomingo unloaded its rowdy cargo of middle schoolers, and I knew that whatever this museum was, I wasn't that interested in sharing the experience with all of them. But, I did stop to examine the river's edge.

In many ways, it reminded me of back home near Hartford, Illinois along the sight of the Lewis and Clark Expedition's genesis point, only perhaps a little bit wider; the river a little more broad. But, the same familiar Mississippi that I grew up fishing on. And caught very little fish from. I did drink my share of beer along it, in my youth. Mark Twain's Mississippi? Perhaps. But Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn have cell phones and Facebook pages these days. They don't float down rafts.

I snapped a quick photo, and climbed back aboard the jet black Camaro convertible. My journey wasn't to bring me here; there were other places to explore. I had an inspiration! I was blessed with an extremely valuable tool: the mobile Internet! From my cell phone, I brought up a search engine, and looked up Delta Blues historical locations. As I expected, there was a treasure trove of information, with a site devoted to the Trail of the Hell Hound, a reference to a Robert Johnson song. Within this website were loads of suggestions to visit and the significance to the Delta Blues. I now had my compass.

Traveling back on the main strip, I paused at a gas station to fill up and also grab a map of Mississippi. As I unfolded it in the parking lot, I began to see names of towns mentioned in the Internet research. Places like Indianola, where B.B. King and Albert King were born. They were farther to the southern end of the Delta. I saw names like Rosedale, resting along the Mississippi. That's the town mentioned in Eric Clapton's “Crossroads”. I realized that I was searching for the crossroads in a metaphorical sense, searching for my soul. Perhaps I should go see Rosedale? Find the crossroads? Beg for my soul?

Closer still was the town of Clarksdale, Mississippi. It was mentioned several times on the Internet site, and obviously held a plethora of Blues history there. Among them a museum. At only about 20 miles away, I thought it best to head that direction. If that didn't pan out, I'd simply move on further south, and explore more places on the map. The Delta Blues history is steeped in this area. I was sure to find something of interest. Something to fill my soul.

On the way down, I wanted to run through Tunica proper, a sleepy little Southern town a few miles east of all the casinos that bear its name. I took the back road, the original US Highway 61, just to get the feel of it, eschewing the more modern 4 lane highway that replaced it. Cotton fields and bales of cotton littered the landscape, most of it looking very modest, very rural. Similar to the farmland of Southern Illinois I used to travel in my delivery days, but also quite different in topography. This was the Deep South and Cotton is King. And in some places, at a lonely crossroads, you had the feel that some poor soul was lost to the Devil in exchange for glory and fame. Wonder where that could have been, I wondered as I passed each crossing? The Clapton song Crossroads constantly rang through my head.

Downtown Tunica was very pedestrian, and not unlike some of the other small towns I'd passed through back home during my delivery driver days. Shuddered furniture stores, the odd tavern nestled amongst a row of offices, a city square. I was hard pressed to tell the difference between it and, say, Jerseyville or Sparta, Illinois. Americana. Something we all have in common with our small rural towns. A centralized business district of decaying 80 year old buildings speckled with vacated storefronts, a town square, a fire station, some nicer homes close to the downtown, and smaller, simpler homes pushing towards the city's edge.

I declined to stop as nothing in Tunica seemed to offer anything of interest. Clarksdale seemed to be where I wanted to be, and this detour was simply keeping me from it. Mother had been here to downtown Tunica as well, and she agreed, there wasn't that much to see. Quaint little town, very friendly. But my calling was further down the road. Hopping on the more modern 4 lane, I ventured south.

I approached Clarksdale about 20 minutes later with little notion of where to start. Which exit should I even take off the main highway? It was exciting, and at the same time unsettling. I really wasn't sure where to begin. What exit leads to my richest discoveries? I simply allowed my instincts to guide me. There was no wrong answer. It was all a discovery.

I found myself, quite by accident, at theintersection of Highway 61 and Highway 49. A refrain from Howlin' Wolf echoed through my head: “I'm gunna get up in the mornin' baby, and head down Highway 49”. This was it. In fact, the was “The Crossroads”, apparently! Holy cow! What luck!

In the middle of the bustling intersection stood a touristy landmark; a triangle of three blue guitars visible from different directions, along with the familiar road signs for 61 and 49. Beneath them was a sign announcing this as “The Crossroads” Excitedly I found a place to park, grabbed my trusty cell camera, and documented my discovery! In fact, I made it my cell phone wallpaper! Here I was, the heart of it all. With simply instinct and curiosity, I'd discovered the place where blues legend was created.

I knew there was a Delta Blues museum somewhere, and I set out to find it. It wasn't really that big a town, a little smaller than my home town of Granite City, if that. I turned north and looked for signs, and eventually it directed me to an old railroad terminal which now housed the Delta Blues Museum, at the foot of Johnny Lee Hooker Avenue. I could imagine old bluesmen on a porch or stoop, with guitar and harmonica emulating the pulse and rhythm of the freight trains moving down the tracks. The pulse of the Delta, the cotton shipped out of town to New Orleans, or St. Louis, or where ever.

The entrance opened to a small gift shop, and for a modest fee, they allowed us into peruse the museum, housed in the back warehouse once used to stage freight loaded onto and off of freight trains in the old days. Along the wall, magnificent photos of people and places of Clarksdale and the Delta painted a sort of mural of the blues: the dark, weathered lines on peoples faces; the stoops and wooden, weathered storefronts where people gathered; the impoverished, simple homes where they would dwell. This was the poor South. And, thereby these worn faces and weathered places gave birth to The Blues.

But, the Blues isn't all about suffering, hardship, and sadness. Its about good times, love, friendship, and celebrating life as well. And that message comes across in the museum. Mojo. Vibe. Emotion. Blues is about emotion and passion, whether good or bad. Lonely and sad, or happy and joyous. Hurt and betrayed, or loving and committed. The blues articulates our human passions into music in a unique, Southern way. Largely an African-American articulation, but not exclusive to that. The Blues doesn't discriminate. We all can connect to its power and message.

Throughout the museum were displays revealing many of the Delta's great blues artists, their lives and histories, and their story. Often they also displayed instruments that they played, and even clothing they wore. A good number of artists presented I was familiar with, but many of them I'd never heard of. I'm a rookie when it comes to delving into the Blues, but I was here eager to learn.

Of course there were displays representing the famous, well known Delta blues artists: W.C. Handy, Johnny Lee Hooker, Robert Johnson, Bo Diddley, B.B. King, Brooklyn/Lovejoy resident Albert King (born in B.B. King's hometown of Indianola, Mississippi who later moved to the small village north of E. St. Louis) and another man that made his name in E. St. Louis, Clarksdale native Ike Turner. It was obvious that there was a strong pull between the Delta Blues and the St. Louis area, namely the East Side, close to my own home. An amazing feeling. I could feel the threads that tie me into the Blues.

At the far end of the warehouse stood a huge exhibit dedicated to Muddy Waters. They had actually taken apart the old log cabin he'd lived in and assembled it inside the museum. It was fashioned out of thick, gray cypress logs, much more round than the pine or oak used, say, in the time of Lincoln back home on the Illinois prairie. Humble doesn't begin to portray it. Inside ran a short video about his life and his music, and below the video monitor sat a wax figure of him dressed in a dapper white suit, playing his guitar, playing the blues. They say that Muddy always dressed in the finest clothes he could when he performed, because he wanted to present the blues as a fine gentleman. That, he did.

I'd wandered into so much more than I'd ever expected to find!! Fascinating. I couldn't stop grinning as my soul began to fill with what I'd been missing.

In the corner of the shack, encased in a glass box was an oddly shaped, white guitar with a green snake or something painted on it. Very unique. The inscription read that it belonged to ZZ Top guitarist Billy Gibbons! He had the axe fashioned out of a piece of lumber from Muddy's house (an addition that wasn't present in the exhibit, but had been torn down) and when not on tour, Billy allows them to keep it at the exhibit on display. Wow! Who knew?

I wound my way back through the museum, taking in the remaining exhibits on the south side of the warehouse, noting names I didn't recognize, and admiring the ones I did. Guitars, outfits, faces, record albums, stories, history. It was inspirational, actually. So much talent and art from such a small, poor sliver of the country! The vibe, the Mojo, the emotion, it was all there. I had allowed myself to be guided there, and found myself beginning to feel renewed.

The gift shop sold recordings of various artists represented in the museum, along with souvenirs and tee shirts. I was so tempted to pick up some recordings of these artists I'd never heard of, but I knew I could spend a fortune there doing that. I found a tasteful shirt, and happily purchased to help fund the museum, keep it alive. It was a wonderful, much needed discovery. One I may pay a visit to again.

After exiting the museum, I decided to truly “walkabout”, and wander the streets of downtown Clarksdale, snapping pictures like a total tourist. Larger than Tunica, it resembled it in much the same manner. Reminded me quite a bit of my home downtown in Granite City, too. Tremendous similarities. No building too old, or too new. All roughly 45 to 85 years old. Some of them used to house a Five 'n' Dime, now long since shuddered, or a jewelry store long since vacant, no treasure to be found. But other business remained, mostly catering to the Blues.

Outside what once was the Hotel Alcazar, stood a tall blue sign dedicated to Ike Turner, “Rock 'n' Roll and rhythm & blues pioneer”. Apparently, as a pre-teen, he worked at the hotel as an elevator operator and janitor. I wandered around the small urban center, noting small music shops and taverns, along with the odd blues souvenir shop and such. They know there are others, like me, seeking out the history and roots of the Blues. They have begun to cater to that. They could probably do much more, but, its nice that it isn't too over-commercialized yet.

Lampposts were plastered with handbills announcing future (and past) Blues events hosted in the area. I certainly would have liked to have been able to see one of these! Perhaps in the future. I continued to wander the city streets, taking it all in, marveling. You know, it really wasn't that much different than home? Granite is a small, blue collar steel town that's seen better days, but still kicking. This is a small cotton belt town, past its prime too. But the people there are proud, and making a living.

But, this was the cradle of the Blues. A unique place. I'd been to some interesting places that gave birth to styles of music. I've walked the streets of Haight/Asbury in San Francisco. I lived in Seattle in the late 80's where grunge was spawned in places like Pioneer Square. I've drank and dined on the streets of the French Quarter in New Orleans where Jazz was born. Now I walk the streets where Delta Blues legends were born and played. Something I should be thankful for having the opportunity to experience, and I am. Very thankful. Its moments like that which make your life feel special.

I snapped my last photo of a humble “juke joint” at the corner of Blues Alley and Delta Ave. The afternoon sun was shining on a mild October autumn day. There wasn't much activity there now, but I suspected that later this evening, the place would be jumping. Love to experience something like that. But, I had to move on, move on down the road. Mother had been quietly patient, letting me explore and do my own thing. It was time to let her off the hook, so to speak, and on to other things that she could enjoy as well.

Suffice it to say, that little jaunt into Clarksdale was more than I'd ever expected, and while there was so, so much more to explore and to see in the Delta, it would have to wait for another pilgrimage. Promising myself that some day I would return, I decided to head back towards Memphis, get settled into our hotel, and get some dinner before hitting the famous Beale Street, which I was eagerly anticipating. I have several friends that love Blues, love Memphis, and absolutely love Beale Street! I knew, if it were anything like Bourbon Street, I was going to have a wonderful time. These places fill my soul.

Mojo Walkabout c.2

2010-10-26T13:24:00.001-05:00

Chapter Two - Easy Come, Easy Go

Thursday morning we hit the open road, using Mom's Z28 SS Camaro convertible, basically at her insistence. She trusted its reliability more than my aging Durango. Yeah, I know, sounds pretty exciting, doesn't it? And while I admit its a hell of a ride, for someone my size at 6'4”, its a little cramped for long distance traveling. But, I'd get used to it...

Tearing down I-55, it was apparent Autumn was settling into our region. Golds, yellows, browns, and faint shades of red covered the landscape. I admired the beautiful scenery speeding by my windshield at 80 mph. The rocky cliffs along the highway making up the north eastern edge of the Ozark Mountains brought back many a memory of traveling to Cape Girardeau as a youth, where my mother's family is from. This stretch of highway is very familiar. That makes the distance seem much, much shorter.

Crossing into Arkansas, while more unfamiliar to me, but not completely, stoked my anticipation as I know I'm only an hour from Memphis. Mom pointed out something I'd never seen before: a cotton field in full bloom, waiting to be harvested. It was a fascinating sight for someone more adjusted to the Corn Belt corn field/bean field alternations of the Illinois prairie. I gazed upon a field of red sticks covered with shiny, white globes that almost sparkled in the sunlight. So many, it almost looked like snow. Red sticks? Baton Rouge! I was enlightened. I knew I was entering a slightly different world.

Briefly pausing for some mild Memphis rush hour traffic, we made our way down to I-69 directly to Tunica under the late afternoon sun. The highway lead across a wide, flat river bottom decorated only with occasional cotton fields of white and red, but little urbanization. Its as though they looked for the most remote place they could find, and said “lets spend millions and millions of dollars developing this into a new Las Vegas!” Well, I guess Las Vegas was a desert once. Huh, I mean, its still a desert, but... You get what I mean.

Instead of sand and cactus though, this was fertile river bottom soil and cotton. Much of it harvested into semi-tractor trailer sized bales by this stage of the season resting in a barren field, but often we'd pass wide open fields of cotton, still waiting to be harvested. I was becoming enamored with them. I even pulled to the side of the road and photographed one of the fields.

We settled into Sam's Town located at the very end of the strip of casinos in Tunica. Casinos in Tunica are situated in clusters of development amongst the cotton fields, like oases of sin and excess amongst them. Sam's Town is at the farthest reaches of them. Built to resemble a pioneer gold rush town of Nevada, or perhaps the Black Hills of South Dakota, it was still familiarly corporate, and almost amusement park-like. Disneyland for senior citizen slot jockeys.

As a side note, the Sam in Sam's Town is none other than Sam Boyd, President of Boyd Gaming. An ironic, humorous aside to my adventure, and completely unplanned. Each time I passed a Boyd Gaming or Boyd Enterprises sign in the casino, I'd smile.

We checked into a comfortable room, and quickly made our way to the casino floor. Mother was anxious to grab some dinner and hit the tables as she loves to play blackjack. She's not a gambler, she's a gamer. She loves the excitement but she also loves the competition, even if its only with the House. Its not a matter of how much she's winning, its only that she's winning. I guess as her son, I can relate, as I've inherited some of that trait from her.

While her poison is black jack, mine is poker, and I needed to find out when the evening tournament started before I sat down to eat. I'm not as skilled a “cash game” player as I am a tournament player, and cash games require a much larger bankroll than a tournament, and subsequently much more added risk. I'd much prefer to play $50 or $75 in a tournament for a few hours and lose, than have to grind a cash game table with $200 or more out there at stake for 4 or 5 hours, and not feel as confident in my playing abilities.

My guess was the evening tourney started around 7pm, and it was nearly 6pm. That should give me enough time to grab some dinner and mentally prepare for the tournament. To my surprise, when I registered at the poker room, the tournament was about to get underway at 6pm! And, also to my surprise, it was only $20. Well, excellent! Mom shuffled off to grab me a burger to eat while I played, and I jumped right into the fray. I ordered up a Corona from the waitress, and quickly learned beers were complimentary while you were playing. Uh oh! This could be dangerous!

As an added surprise, I learned the tournament was a rebuy for the first hour, unlimited. That meant you could buy back in for $20 if you ran out of chips in the first hour. Any time you wanted. And you could add-on as well. I immediately added on for another $20 doubling my chip stack. Standard procedure in a rebuy tournament. This also juices up the prize pool.

I felt my way through the environment, and felt comfortable in my game. I munched down a cheeseburger while at the table, doing my best to keep the grease off the cards. Not the most spectacular cheeseburger I'd ever eaten, but it would do as sustenance. The good hands weren't coming to me yet. I remained patient, studied my opponents, and looked for opportunities to take some chips to stay alive. I even survived the rebuy period thru the first hour, and since I hadn't really won any big pots I decided to rebuy two more times on break, bringing my total to $80, within what I was willing to spend for the most part.

Time passed into the second hour, and I still wasn't getting much in the way of playable hands or opportunities to steal. You want to be protective of your chip stack and not bleed them away on speculative hands, but the forced blinds were rising in stakes, as well as antes kicking in. I understood the structure of the tournament, which was fast, and knew that I was going to have to make some big moves soon or waste away. People were starting to drop out quickly. It was becoming an All-in Fest. Not unlike the turbo tournaments I would often play online. If I didn't start getting some hands and taking down pots, I'd be next!

One gentleman across from me called a guy down only to have his better hand out drawn on the last card. Ouch! Typical in these types of events. He stood to leave, but the dealer halted him as the counted out the two chips stacks and alerted the unlucky player that he still had a few remaining. 600 to be exact. The blinds were 500/1000. Ouch again! And he was now big blind, which he couldn't even cover! Agony. We both smiled across the table at each other, and he shrugged his shoulders as the dealer dealt his fate. He's all in “dark”, not even looking at his hand. No reason to; it didn't matter what two cards he had, he just had to win to stay alive.

To his good fortune, he won that hand all-in, I think his queen came out and no one had anything better. And while he basically doubled up his chip stack, it still wasn't much. Next hand he still had little choice with his puny stack, and shoved all-in again with any two cards. Once again, he pulled the best hand. Now he was starting to get back in.

“You're going to go from the out house to the penthouse if you keep that up!” I told him as he raked the chips towards himself. He smirked while attentively focused on the next round of cards dealt. He didn't believe it, he was pretty sure he was done for evening. Just a matter of when.

My time of reckoning came soon enough, and with a ragged ace I shoved my chip stack in a go-for-broke gamble that I'd have the best hand and have it hold up, but to no avail. I busted out 17th out of 42 players. Oh well, entertaining. That was enough poker for me. Time to try a little black jack with my mother. Isn't it wonderful, I can bond with my mother at a black jack table? How cool is that?

Mom was seated at table with around 4 others, with an empty seat between her and the rest of the players practically inviting me to the table. I pulled out a couple hundred dollar bills and plunked them down for chips, which made my mother gasp. I guess she wasn't expecting me to buy in for that much, but I felt pretty confident I'd be all right. She's taught me the game well. And at $5 or $10 bucks a hand, it ought to last me a while.

It didn't take long to realize that the dude to my right had no idea how to play black jack, which was chaffing my mother. She doesn't suffer idiots well. There's certain things you don't do at the table, like hit on 12 or 14 when the dealer is sitting on something like a 6, because odds are he has a ten in the hole, and will have to hit, and probably bust. Odds are you'll hit a ten and bust your 12 or whatever. But these drunks are just playing their hand, and “feelin' lucky”. Worse yet, to have something like 13, hit, get a 15, then stay because you're scared now; that drives mom insane. All you're doing is messing up the shoe for every one else. And that's what this drunk was doing. Painful to watch.

What was equally painful was my luck. That black jack table beat my ass. I couldn't win for losing. One of the most brutal sessions I've ever encountered. And it had nothing to do with the drunk guy. I just was getting my hands crushed. 17s losing to 18s the dealer would run showing a 5. Double down on a 11 to get 13, and the dealer turning over a 15 only to hit a 6. Shit like that. Really ugly. I need some more free Coronas.

Mom was holding her own, but it wasn't a picnic for her either. She was barely even, and betting very little. She could feel the table was cold, and waiting it out. Or for the drunks to bust out and leave. I was constantly struggling with 15s and 16 showing up repeatedly as my starting hands, and when I'd get lucky and make something, the deal would beat it. I was starting to steam. And my money was starting to vanish.

“Unbelievable!” I muttered as the deal ran a five card 20, beating my 19. “I think I'm hungry.”

“Yeah,” mom said, “maybe you should just step back and cool off for a while. Sometimes that helps.”

My chip stack was short, so I went ahead and played it down to the felt. It didn't take too long for the house to snatch it away, and deliver me one of the coldest black jack streaks I'd ever endured. With the last of it, I stood up from the table and polished off my Corona. $200 bucks, gone in about a half an hour. Ouch.

“Headed to the buffet,” I announced to mom in disgust. She nodded and continued to play. Hell with that!

The buffet was winding down as it was getting late in the evening, but they still had some prime rib and other decent fare. I scarfed down what I could, but attempted to stay close to my diet. I needed a little cheesecake comfort food after that ass thrashing I took at the black jack table. Hey, I'm on vacation!

While attacking the cheesecake with my fork, I plotted my next move. I knew mom was going to play for a while, and it was still early. 9 pm-ish. I wasn't really done for the evening. Still, I was down about $300, and losing anymore would turn my “walkabout” into a reckless gambling disaster. I had a real dilemma. Gamble on and try to win it back? Or lick my wounds, sit around a casino with nothing to do for a few hours, and be $300 short.

There was only one option: Craps table!

What the hell! I 'm here to have some fun! If things to horribly wrong, I've got mom to bail my ass out. I'm gunna live it on the edge a little bit! I headed over to the ATM and pulled out another $200. $500: that's all I'm losing. Honest.

I learned to play Craps from a computer simulation. Its a complicated game, and extremely fast paced. You can bet on any damn thing you want, practically. They're happy to gamble with you, because the house ALWAYS has the edge. But, as I learned from this computer game, Craps is one game in the casino that you can lower the house edge to almost 50/50. The catch is it takes some money to play, and there are some wild swings of fortune. Craps is the reason they coined the phrase “easy come, easy go”. It can come to you in a hurry when the dice are hot, and it can leave you just as quickly. I either was going to win my money back and then some, or I was going to drop this couple hundred really quickly. That's edgy.

I dropped my two Ben Franklin $100 bills on the green felt, and they pushed me a stack of red and green chips. The dice were out, and I was in the action. First couple rolls were good, followed by a crap out. Pass the dice, start again. Another series of decent rolls, and craps. Start again. That's the way this game is.

Gentleman to my right wearing a pastel polo shirt staggered a bit, swished his beer, and fumbled with his chips. He was hammered. His face was red, as though he'd been out in the sun for a while. He made some bets, playing differently than I do. Like I said, there's lots of ways to play. I sometimes wonder what these other systems are I've seen other people play and wonder if they're successful, but I stick to what I've learned, as it claimed it was the optimal way to play. And the casino knows what I'm doing, because the table staff know where my bets are going when I start making them, and if I miss one, they remind me. Is that good or bad??

A hip hop dressed black gentleman got on a good little roll, and my chips stack began to grow. He seemed a regular as the casino people knew him by name. A couple shooters later, another black gentleman, slightly older, and well dressed hit a hot streak as well. This is what I needed! The chips kept coming to me, and every point me made, I threw a $1 toke to the table staff as a tip. I was their friend now! Let's hope I can stay on the hot side, as I've seen these tables get cold quickly. My growing chip stack caught the attention of my drunken sunburned partner to the right.

“I've never played this damn game before,” he said, “I have no idea what the hell I'm doing!” Followed quickly by another sip of Miller Light.

“Well, looks like you're doin' ok,” I said, being friendly, laying down some bets.

“You sure are,” he said, admiring my chips. “How you play this game?”

I started to show him my system, and he played along. They passed him the dice, and he commenced to roll a nice hot streak of his own. Beginner's luck? Whatever! I was up over $200 by now.

“I have no idea what the hell I'm doin'” he repeated as he kept rollin'. I just smiled and stacked my winnings. “My name's Larry.” he said, “I played 54 holes of golf today, and we're just have some beers.” Well, that explained the sunburn. Seemed a friendly fellow, though.

He crapped out, and the Stick passed the dice to me. Now, one time at Argosy I was playing Craps, and a fella next to me always put the dice on 4 and 1, then rolled, and he had a couple hot, hot streaks. Since then, I always do the same. Dunno if it matters, but I do it any way. I grabbed those ruby red dice, spun them 'til I found a 4 and a 1 and tossed 'em across the felt.

“7, winner!” shouted the Stick.

Cool. Actually, winning come out rolls aren't where the money is at. $5 bet wins you $5 more. I want to establish point and bang some numbers, pushing my odds. Then I start getting 1.5/1 to 2/1 odds, and I usually have $10 or $15 behind. I toss the rocks again.

“7, winner!”

“Hey!” I said, “get those 7's out of my system!”.

I established point, and rolled for a little while. Nice little streak, making me, and my new parter, a little bit more of the casino's money. I also had a growing urge to urinate! The free Coronas were catching up! After I crapped out, they happily watched my chips as I departed for the head.

On my way back, I passed the dude at the poker table I mentioned that almost busted out, and stopped him.

“How'dja do, man?” I asked.

“I won,” he said quietly.

“You won? No shit?” I was floored! He nodded and smiled softly. “Well, congratulations, man!”
He quietly thanked me and went on his way. Not a real talkative fella.

I arrived back at the table and pulled the protective plastic cover the house had placed over my chips. I made a pass line bet, and the hot hip hop dude threw an 8 establishing point. I just knew this guy was hot, and 8 is a pretty easy number to roll, as easy as a 6, and only 7 has more combinations. I juiced up my odds behind my pass line bet on my hunch. Mr. Hip Hop quickly grabbed the dice as soon as the Stick passed them to him, and tossed them down the felt.

“8! Front line winner!” shouted the Stick. Nice! Just as I expected! The table put a stack of chips in front of me, red and green. He kept rolling, and I kept winning. After he crapped out, they passed them to a new player I hadn't seen roll, so I backed down my odds bets until I could see if he was hot. Later they passed the dice again to the well dressed black man and the far end of the table who had some good rolls, and I juiced my odds bets again. He was still hot! This was easy money tonight!

The dice got back to my beginner's luck partner, and he didn't disappoint either. He had a decent little roll, and my green $25 chips were growing still. I thumbed out $300 in chips representing my intial buy-in for the evening and placed them on the top chip rail were I wouldn't touch. I was definitely breaking even! The rack below I counted out about another $300. It was on!

A bald, black gentleman approached the table and came to rest between me and Mr. Hip Hop. Husky guy, intimidating. He started to inquire as to how to play the game, and it was obvious he was about as lit up as my sunburned golfing buddy. I tried to give him a couple pointers, but he didn't really seem to grasp, and also didn't seem that interested.

“I don't think he's gunna make no point!” he said. So, he bet the Don't Come. He obviously hadn't seen this guy's beginner's luck! He was making points! And I was raking it in.

Dice came to me again, but my roll was pretty quick. I crapped out after about 4, probably losing myself a small chunk. I really didn't want husky Mr. Don't Pass to throw, but, who knows? Maybe he's hot? But, when they passed the dice to him, and declined and passed them on to Mr. Hip Hop. I was greatly relieved. Mr. Hip Hop continued to roll hot much to my pleasure, and the displeasure of Mr. Don't Pass. He lost his money pretty quickly, and stumbled away from the table. It was a relief to us all, as he had a weird karma about him.

The hot rollers stayed hot, and I stuck with my system which was working quite well. New players would approach, and I'd back down my bets until I saw if they were hot. Some were, some weren't. I never really did have a hot roll again either, but that didn't matter. Good God! Look all these chips! I've got over a $1,000 in front of me! It might be time to go!

I decided to see if my “hot” rollers were cooling off, cautiously playing a few more rolls. It was getting to be about 1AM, and I was quite happy to be way, way ahead. As my hot shooters didn't have any more good rolls, and Mr. Hip Hop and left anyway, I decided to call it a night and color up. Cha-ching!

“Color coming in,” they said as they took my stacks of green, red, and white. I was quite excited. This was turning out way, way better than I'd ever imagined! They handed me a smaller stack with blacks and a purple $500. Wow, a purple $500! I'd never held one before! We have them in our poker tournaments at home, but not a REAL $500 chip. Cool.

In all, I pocketed about a grand, having lost a little bit on the last few rolls feeling out the table. I made my way back to the black jack tables to find my mom, and she was in good spirits as well.

“Do any good?” she asked. I flashed her my purple chip, along with some black $100 ones. “Woo hoo!'' she said. “I'm up too, almost $200.” I declined to play any black jack as I didn't care to give this money back.

It was a good night for the Boyd's at Sam Boyd's casino. Glad we could keep it in the family...

Mojo Walkabout

2010-10-22T10:04:00.003-05:00

Chapter 1 - Soul Searching

I'm tore down. Almost level to the ground.

I don't think its been any secret to those that know me. I'm ground to a pulp mentally, spiritually, and in someways physically. It's been a tough late summer. Lots of things building, accumulating, piling on. Nothing catastrophic, crippling, or devastating, thank God. Just a relentless friction, like tectonic plates grinding against each other.

Don't get me wrong, things could be worse, and I have much to be thankful for. And that keeps me going. Perhaps that's actually the issue. I keep going, and going, and going. Like the frickin' Energizer Bunny. Banging my cymbals non-stop, no time for rest. That takes a toll on the spirit.

I have a great job, with good people that I look forward to seeing everyday, and paying me good money with solid benefits. More than I've ever earned in my life. So many people don't have that these days, I almost consider it a luxury. I'm blessed there.

Follow that with the fact I'm in a solid, working band that's been the most successful I've ever played in, with some of my closest, oldest, dearest friends. That's a special treat. Every weekend is like a time machine to 1990, reliving some of the funnest times of my life. The attention and admiration I've received, which probably hasn't been warranted I might add, is still, none the less, greatly appreciated.

And, I have two beautiful, intelligent, remarkably talented daughters that make me proud each and every day. They are amazing. You'll never understand what a gift from God means until you have one, let alone two that make you so, so proud. No matter what I've attempted, failed or achieved, my two greatest accomplishments in my life are living and breathing each day within them. That's a powerful feeling.

But, even then, with all that, you become weary. Beat down. Exhausted. It can happen. I was feeling blue.

Its also probably no secret my love life currently sucks. Again, all in all, I have no real room to complain. I've loved and “experienced” some amazingly beautiful women. Some real true beauties. And extremely passionate, as am I. They have special place in my heart, regardless of the final outcome of the relationship.

But, they're gone. Which, is to say, again, not necessarily a bad thing. They are gone for reasons, and I'd hate to be in a loveless, phony relationship. Plus, don't we all dream of the freedom of The Single Life, and the opportunity and liberty it contains? Mingling Units, a friend once told me. Most men, hell, most women in our culture seem to covet the freedom of being single these days, eschewing traditions like matrimony, some barely co-habitating, while most prefer to be on their own. I've got that. I answer to only myself. Freedom. Sweet freedom.

But, even still, I'm tore down. Almost level with the ground. I'm slipping into a funk.

Because, a 40 hour a week job takes the bulk of your time. And that band takes my weekends, kills my social and romantic life, leaves me with hangovers and physical exhaustion and frustration. And being father of two teen age daughters is about as tough as it comes, with softball tournaments and after school basketball games, butting heads with their growing independence, “boyfriends”, ex-wives and joint custody, and dealing with the fact there's just some things they're going to learn the hard way, because they won't listen to dad. Tough love, when I don't want to show that.

And the pretty women? They have their dark sides too; their mind games that leave emotional scars, the money it takes to entertain and impress them, and the wonderful, erotic, ecstatic memories I once shared with them don't keep me warm at night now. Only my dog does.

For all the ups, there's downs. That's life. I'm no different. Same for us all in one way or another.

That's cold comfort. There's a longing for something more. Perhaps just a longing for Peace of Mind?

So, sometimes when I have time to myself, I wander. Explore. Almost a walking Zen state where I have no ambitions, no expectations, only curiosity and a drive to quench that longing for Peace of Mind. One Saturday afternoon, that exploration took me to Edwardsville and Laurie's Place for lunch. I was hungry, and knew they had good, unique food, unlike the predictable cookie cutter entrées of the shopping center outlot boutiqué restaurants.

But, I stumbled into much more that afternoon. They have an afternoon jam session hosted by Mo' Pleasure, a talented group of seasoned musicians playing bluesy, rhythmic jams much different than I'm currently accustomed to. A pleasant “cleanse of the palate” as it were from the 25 years of 80's hair metal I've been playing and hearing. Which, is what perhaps my explorations are about: cleansing the palate of my soul?

Other musicians sit in and jam, some quite talented and entertaining. Some, well, entertaining I suppose. The food is good, and the beer is cold. And, yeah, sure, I also like the cute, young waitress that brings me my order with a soft, sweet smile. Her friendly, flirty personality truly lights up the room, and earns her some pretty healthy tips, I imagine.

Weekend after weekend I would just sit quietly, enjoying my lunch, fading into the crowd, absorbing the sounds and the atmosphere, never tipping off that I was a musician myself. Never trying to draw attention to myself. Because the focus isn't about me, its about experiencing the world around me.

Those Saturday afternoon escapes have been helping me reset my circuits, holding me through the week, and even sparking an interest in my blues roots. The natural progression was to join in the jam. I'd experienced the ambiance enough that it was becoming familiar. I think subconsciously I began to take it a step beyond. Obviously, I wasn't going to get to experience that lovely waitress! She's 20 years younger, has a boyfriend, and probably looks at me as that nice, old man that has long hair and likes Corona. A lot of Coronas! Nothing romantic or sexual. I'm not kidding myself. And I wasn't going to cook the food. Guitar was my option. Time to out myself as a musician.

One afternoon I brought my trusty, weathered Les Paul into the bar and kindly asked to sit in. They happily obliged, and I quickly found myself along side them, flying by the seat of my pants, playing anything they threw at me. It was exhilarating! The guitarist, Spud, is a seasoned pro out of the jazz/big band mode. His orchestral voicings and stylings are such that I've admired his playing for some months now. I was proud to be playing along with him. My years of study and academics at SIUE, long since covered with dust, were quickly dusted off in my noodle as I had to remember chords, phrases, styles and keys I hadn't played in quite some time.

Lavarre is a crooner. A soulful singer, yet suburban in his own way. Almost a crossover, I suppose, easily accessible to both White and Black audiences. His vocal stylings are tight, in the pocket, yet still passionate and lively. Again, I'm just tickled to be standing there, stepping completely out of my element, letting the moment flow. The licks and phrases were flowing effortlessly from my fingers, finding their way from my soul. On several occasions Lavarre would snap his head back, eyes popped out wide, and a broad smile would flash across his face. “Yeah! That's what I'm talkin' about!” he'd pop. My soul was connecting, and it sent a warm chill through me. Spud talked to me later after I played a few tunes with them, told me I couldn't hide in back any more. I'd been outed. And, I had the keys to the castle. High praise. And good times.

Still, that alone hasn't been respite enough from the day to day toils and stress of my regular life. Its as though I'm working 6 or 7 days a week, either as a computer tech, a musician, even as a father, which naturally, comes with the territory of being a dad. I needed to get away. I didn't know where, but anywhere would be fine. In the spirit of Crocodile Dundee, I would go “walkabout”, and explore.

I had a handful of vacation days coming to me, and Boss graciously allowed my request to take them. For a few weeks, I mulled over ideas. Fishing? October is a beautiful month in this part of the Heartland, especially at Beaver Dam near Carlinville, Illinois. I've done some early Fall fishing there, and its peaceful, relaxing, and beautiful. Still waters, crisp Autumn air, and colorful foliage make for a picture perfect scene. But, all my fishing gear was stolen from my garage, so I'd have to replace that. Doable, but, an issue nonetheless. I didn't feel like addressing issues.

Or, I could travel some, wander, truly get away. I love that. I love to explore, take in the surroundings, and discover hidden gems, history, people, business, anything interesting that a place has to offer. But where? My options were virtually limitless. Stay local? St. Louis and its surrounding have plenty to explore and offer a wandering adventurer such as myself. We have a plethora of small towns like Washington, Ste Genevieve, Hermann, etc with individual charm and stories that fascinate me. I was yearning to discover something. Satiate my curiosity.

But, why limit myself to just a local radius? Why not be daring, and take a real road trip? Memphis? New Orleans? Both? There's an adventure! Beale Street and Bourbon Street! The very notion gave me goosebumps! Bourbon Street I was familiar with, but Beale was a virtual unknown to me. My heart, my soul lives for Bourbon Street and the French Quarter! The architecture, the cuisine, the Creole vibe, the music, the mystical Spirit that coarses through it; the hedonistic celebration of human passion is what electrifies the French Quarter. My kinda place...

That was an ambitious target. I wasn't taking a full week off. And, my finances weren't unlimited, either. I realized I was now starting to overthink this whole thing. I wanted this to be more spontaneous, but all I was doing was putting more stress on myself about it.

I finally decided not to decide. I thought it best, it the true spirit of “Walkabout” to just go where the winds cast me. Not think too much about it, and follow my soul, let it guide me, because that's pretty much what this adventure was all about: finding my soul. I've lost it.

However, a new wrinkle developed. When I mentioned to my mother that I was taking some days off and planning to go somewhere, after cautiously announcing I had no formal itinerary, she offered the suggestion of going to Tunica. Tunica; Gambling Capital of the Mid-South. Hmm, it has possibilities.

I weighed the pros and cons. One obvious advantage was by bringing my mother along, my financial needs for the adventure were secure. I didn't really need any financial backing for my adventure, but then again I was fully aware to really do what I intended, I was going to spend a chunk of change. Another issue that I wasn't fond of addressing.

I'm honestly not a big gambler, but I do know how to gamble, and playing a little poker at place like Tunica sounded kinda fun. My poker buddies have gone there, and I've wanted to tag along, but never have. It could even spark my waning interest in poker. Plus, with mom along to help financially, I had the means to play without worrying too much about wasting money. It was a viable option.

Tunica is in the heart of the Delta Blues Country, a half hour from Memphis, and really only about 5 hours from New Orleans. I would be right where I wanted to be! An excellent base camp to mount my expedition into the unknown. The Blues were awakening again deep within my soul, and this would be the perfect opportunity to release and nurture them. I could tell this was developing into where my soul wanted to explore.

The only real disadvantage was that I'd have my mother tagging along. I'd intended this to be a personal, private adventure. A soul searching pilgrimage to somewhere, anywhere. Not a personal bonding session with my mother, nor did I have any intention of using her as some Oedipal surrogate for lack of female companionship. However, she's a traveler and adventurer in her own right, and I knew, after amusing her with some black jack, I'd be free to do as I pleased. She would be no roadblock.

She couldn't give me an definite answer as to her participation in my little excursion until Wednesday. I was fully prepared to have left by then. Leaving Thursday meant I was most likely not going to have the luxury of making it to New Orleans, as I needed to return to St. Louis by Sunday at 11am. My eldest daughter was scheduled to play softball at SLU campus, and I wasn't going to take a vacation from that. But, I'd might as well let her come if she could, as the advantages were obvious.

Once she confirmed that she was able to travel with me, we made reservations at Sam's Town in Tunica for Thursday evening, and the Marriott in Memphis on Friday. No room for Bourbon Street, but that was no issue. It was also firming up my plans more than I had anticipated, but I wasn't attaching any expectations to my adventure. And, I knew there was a window between those places where I could do some exploring in the Delta, she was just going to have to come along for the ride. I would still have my “walkabout”.

Weekend From Hell c.3

2010-06-23T16:46:00.001-05:00

Chapter Three – The Son of Denkinger

Sunlight greeted me as I exited Pop’s at around 6am, and I quickly made my journey down I-55 towards Cape Girardeau. Outside of Imperial, I breezed through McDonalds for some coffee and a Sausage Egg McMuffin (no cheese), but the coffee was absolutely putrid. Completely undrinkable. That was a pity, because I love McDonalds coffee, and I really, really needed the caffeine. I didn’t want to stop again.

Further down the road, I became more and more fatigued. It was worse than last night. The bright sunlight beaming in from my left made me squint, and the squinting made my eyes want to shut. It was a battle. I had a trusty bottle of 5 Hour Energy drink handy just for this emergency which I quickly gulped it down, and waited anxiously for it to take effect. But, the farther I travelled, the more fatigued I felt! This was not good.

Amazingly I arrived at the ballpark at 7:30am. I plodded across the lot to the diamond, dragging my lawn chair and sorry ass. I plopped into my chair and zoned out as they flipped the coin to determine home and away. It was already hot.

Their first opponent was the Midwest Freedom, from the New Baden area, I believe. We didn’t know much about them. It would be a real bitch if I’d just driven all this way to have them lose the first game! But, that’s the risk you take. Come on, girls! Hit the ball!

And that they did. This go around, the girls were hitting them hard, and won the opening day match 7-0! Sami was 2-3, an RBI, a couple RS, and in prime form. I was so proud of her! This was a decent team, and we simply took it to them! It was worth the drive just to see it! Man, we were feeling good! It was wrapped up by 9:30am.

Mom hadn’t checked out of the Drury Suites as of yet, and amazingly, there was now a window between now and the next game that allowed me to race back to the hotel, sleep, and still have time to check out and make the next game. She simply had to make a phone call, requesting that we check out at noon instead of 11am. Wow, sometimes things just fall into place! I just had mom drive back to the hotel, and I basically started my nap on the way there.

She woke me at noon, and I was very groggy. I think I was even talking some gibberish, because I didn’t quite have all my faculties yet. Even on the ride to the facility, my eyes were thick and droopy, and my head was cloudy. It was almost as if I hadn’t slept at all.

But that quickly changed. Once I was in my seat armed with a bottled water and a bratwurst, I started to feel rested. Hot, but rested. In fact, it was blazing hot. Parents with canopies banded them together on the first base side, and we all huddled under its shade. That kept the sun off us, but the heat was everywhere, and there was no breeze to be had. Brutally hot. Sweat poured off my arms, and it wasn’t alcohol from earlier. I didn’t have enough. It was just plain ole Midwest summer heat in full swing. This felt like August, not June.

Our foes for the next game were the S.L.A.M once again. That would be interesting. They gave us quite a game the last time, and I’m sure they were confident this time they could overcome us. I knew there wasn’t a whole lot of room for error, because if our girls started to choke, these girls would have the confidence to knock us out this time. They were so close to beating us last time.

But, that wasn’t about to happen. The Extreme girls were hitting their stride now, and quickly dispatched the S.L.A.M. 12-2. We pounded the ball! Sami line drive tripled her first at bat to right center, and hit later in the game for an RBI. All the girls’ bats were on fire. What a way to come at them after the shenanigans their coach tried to play the day before. It wasn’t even close this time. We were pumped, and the girls had momentum!

Which brought us to our next opponent: The Downstate Rippers ’95. The rematch. This was going to be a game! The Rippers went down to the Phoenix earlier in the Winners Bracket. That left three teams: the Phoenix (unbeaten), the Rippers, and the Extreme. Our ace pitcher was ready, and it seemed so were our bats. Winner plays in the finals. Loser heads home.

The first couple innings were evenly matched. Both teams managed base runners, but both pitchers pitched out of it. The Rippers struck first an inning or so later, scoring a run after a miscue. But we answered for a couple more, taking the lead! The girls were playing with so much confidence! And our ace pitcher was throwing smoke. She hits 60mph from 40ft (she’s used to high school, where the pitching rubber is 43ft). She’s also got good command, and some specialty pitches, like a drop, rise and change. Pitching is so important.

Disaster struck when on a bouncing grounder to second with the first baseman playing in, our second base man fielded a tricky hop but had no one to throw it to. She raced to the bag and dove for it, slapping the ball laden mitt onto the base just before the batter touched!

“Safe!” came the call from the ump, located by the third base bag across the diamond. No!

Normally, he’d be in position at first to make that call, but with runners at second and third, he moves to the other side of the field as the closer plays will be made there. There was no way he had a good view of that play at first, and obviously made a terrible call. We hollered and complained, but it was to no avail. He was within his rights to appeal to the home plate umpire who had the better view, but he refused to. The downward glance of the home plate ump explained it. That guy blew that one.

It was a tough one to swallow. Several runs scored, when that would have been three outs and we would have held the lead. I think we surrendered another afterwards, which gave the Rippers the lead, and time was running out. We had to get some runs!

Tournament games are timed, roughly about and hour and twenty minutes, depending on tourney rules. If time expires during an inning, the home team will bat if necessary. We were home team, so that was something we had going for us. If we at least tie, there would be extra innings, which are handled a special way in softball, what they call “International Tie Breakers”. A runner is placed on second base, and you play a complete inning. If the tie isn’t broken, the next inning they place a runner on third. Then add more runners. You get the picture. But, we had to tie it now before even worrying about that far ahead.

Our ace pitcher had become fatigued, and coach decided to pull her, putting in our lefty, Jess. Jess is a talented athlete, probably the fastest on the club, and a solid hitter, our leadoff. She plays lots of positions like outfield and first base. She’s not our strongest pitcher, but she’s learning, and honestly she’s been getting the outs and getting the job done in games we’ve thrown her in. We’ve lost one of our solid pitchers earlier, who is just now starting to throw again.

This was a big challenge for her, and her father was sitting next to me. Basically covering his eyes, as he wasn’t at all excited about this prospect, seeing the game in her hands at a position she’s new to. He knew the best thing she had going for her is that her speed is so much slower than our ace, they would be having difficulty compensating, and even if they do hit her, the ball probably wouldn’t travel as far.

Well, the gambit paid off, and we managed to hold them in the top half of the inning. We made a couple great plays in the field, and as expected, they struggled with her changeup and slower pitches. Now we had to score one. Or two to win it!

Our bats came through in the bottom half to tie! What an accomplishment! The Rippers made a great play to end the inning and keep us from winning, but we’d managed to tie it and send the game into extra innings! A team that walloped us the day before! This team has so much guts! Another life, girls, lets take it!

Jess walked back to the mound again, and I could feel her father’s nervousness. God, he didn’t want her to blow it. She struggled a bit, and at one point the bases were loaded. This proved to be some what of an advantage because it takes some of the small ball game out of it. They put the ball in play, and we simply threw home to get the lead runner in a force. Grounders, babe, grounders!

Jess did throw one in the dirt which scooted under the catcher’s legs and back to the back stop. Dammit! Ok, they only scored one, and that was only the forced runner placed at second. That one almost always scores in extra innings. Just can’t let any more score, and we’ll get our shot in our half of the inning.

Jess managed to pitch out of that, only allowing only the one run! That was a tremendous relief! Yes, we were down, but we now have a runner at second, and getting that run in isn’t hard; just takes a base hit. And we can hit! We’ve proven it.

We managed to move our runner to third on a grounder, but our next batter popped out, stranding her at third. The mood was tense, but exciting. We knew we could get that girl home! Jess, our lead off came up with two outs. She has power from the left side, and great speed. She’s a slap hitter, too. Lots of weapons. And she’s one of our top girls in average right now, because she’s so speedy, she beats ‘em out!

Jess smacked the ball hard, sending it to short. With two outs, Kate on third broke for home. If Jess was safe, the runs scores and we’re tied again. Short bobbled the ball, which is death with a fast runner heading to first! She hurled the ball to first, smacking the glove pocket a split second after Jess ran past the bag!!

“OUT!” cried the first base ump.

Bedlam erupted. Jess’s father next to me literally climbed the fence, shouting in anger. I had some choice words myself, as did most of those watching. I admit, at least this time the ump was in position to make the call. But, he blew that one as well. A heartbreaking end to our tournament.

Bad calls are part of the game. Sometimes you get them, sometimes you give them. Champions battle through them. We would have won if we’d not allowed the pass ball earlier, or made a play here or there. Destiny was in our hands, not the umps. But to suffer two blown calls like that at key points of the game was extremely frustrating and something these girls couldn’t overcome. In that heat, well, it’s a wonder we took it as well as we did.

We calmed down eventually, and some said that in conversations with the other ump, he would have over ruled the first blown call if the other ump would have ask his opinion. The second call was blown too, but there was no appeal for that. Even the Rippers believed we got screwed.

The girls took it in stride, and Sami told me they were routing for the Rippers to beat the Phoenix. Seems that the game I missed Saturday night, the Phoenix players were very rude and cocky. The girls had no love for them. They respected the Rippers, and wished them luck. I’m curious as to who won that one. It was too hot to stay to watch, and I was too tired.

Mom told me she discovered a Logan’s Roadhouse in Cape, my favorite! Father’s Day dinner at Logan’s! That’s the stuff! I ordered an ice cold 55 Select and a delicious, juicy ribeye, and enjoyed a quiet time with my girls. Well, when they weren’t texting someone else! Of course, they declined to ride home with me because of my broken AC, so I followed them back home. Tired, weary, thinking only of my bed and my poor dog that hasn’t hardly seen me all weekend, we made the long trek back to Granite, not at a particularly rapid pace, stopping once for cheap gas.

Next week, the Downstate Rippers play in our tournament. Let’s see if we can beat them this time!

Weekend From Hell c.2

2010-06-22T16:46:00.001-05:00

Chapter 2 Hotter than Hell

My daughter needed to meet the team at 8am at the fields, but game time wasn’t until 9:30. That gave me the luxury of sleeping in about another hour, as the fields were only five minutes away and my mother could get her there for me for warm-ups. Apparently mom did a dry run the night before, scouting them out, where to park, etc. Yeah, I know.

Select Softball is a very intense sport. These girls practice their asses off, pretty much year ‘round. They arrive at least an hour before on game day to practice. The Collinsville Extreme association has it’s own training facility with four batting cages that the girls have access to year ‘round, and get plenty of one-on-one instruction, something other teams generally don’t have. There’s also private instruction that many of the girls participate in as well, whether from a facility such as Turn 2/The Athletix Factory, or private “tutors”, if you will. Virtually every girl at this level is intensely focused on performance. And the parents are intensely focused on their wallets. It aint cheap!

But, it’s a ton of fun, too. It’s quite competitive, and we all really pull for the girls to win. But, it’s taken for what it’s worth, as well, and we have fun with it, win or lose. I’ve gotten pretty close to many of the parents, and we have just a wonderful time rooting on our girls, drinking some beers, yelling at umps, and marveling at some of the tremendous softball we witness, whether it’s our own girls, the other girls on the team, or some of the amazingly talented opponents we encounter. It’s almost like being a Cardinal fan or something, only your kid plays on the team.

Of course, why all the intense focus on a game that basically has no professional level? Well, besides it being a passion for them and the parents, the Holy Grail of Select Softball is to get your kid a scholarship somewhere playing. And Collinsville Extreme focuses on that very thing. Championships are a great thing. Sami won an ASA Northern National tournament at the 10u level. But, if this can lead not only to building self esteem, setting goals and meeting them, and physical development, but also a path to college, well, that’s pretty damned cool. Dunno if my daughter will make it there. Dunno if other girls on this team will. But some one, or two, or possibly more will. That’s a pretty big deal, a tremendous opportunity.

I slept well and found myself waking before I needed to, and laid there contemplating if I should force myself to keep sleeping or just go ahead and get up. My cell phone chimed that a text message had arrived. Oddly, it was my ex-wife asking if I was at the fields yet. No, I responded, but the girls were. I was trying to capture a little more sleep. She informed me she was on her way there, which, frankly meant little to me, but, ok. Then she texted back my youngest claimed she was still with me. Huh? I pulled myself out of bed, and peered around the corner to locate my darling twelve year old sprawled out on the couch under the covers, with her notebook laptop.

“Hi daddy!” she said. Looks like someone else wanted to sleep a little longer, too.

Sarah, my youngest, helped me find the Shawnee Sports Complex fields as she was with grandma on the “dry run”. They were more than adequate fields, with a “hub” in the middle which housed the concessions, restrooms, and park offices. The hub also housed a shaded breezeway, which often is absent at other facilities. Pretty nice. This particular tournament wasn’t sponsored by any team, but by one of the nation’s softball associations, the USFA, as a Regional Qualifier. That’s the association we will travel to Florida next month to compete in their national tournament. Basically, this is a must attend event, to gain points to qualify for that national.

Lawn chair in hand, I trudged from the parking lot, searching for the familiar black and purple Extreme colors. The skies were a bright blue, with small patches of puffy, sketchy white clouds. The morning dew was lifting, and the air felt an agreeable, comfortable room temperature. Obviously none of the rain that chased me from Gateway International fell here. It must have all pushed off to the east.

Locating their field, I set up camp along the third base line seated next to mom. Sarah located her mother, the ex, and sat a while with her.

“Play last night?” one of the parents would ask me. I’m sure my lethargic demeanor told the answer.

“Yeah, Gateway International. The drag strip. Drove here right after.”

“You’re a madman, D.” And they’d just shake their heads.

Sami sat in the dugout wearing her game face. She noticed me, flashed a smile, but by and large, it’s all business with Sam. The girls pumped themselves up, rattled the bats, popped the leather, and prepared for battle. They have dozens of chants they love to shout from the dugout when they are at bat, and really get pumped up to play. Once in a while, grandma likes to chant them with them.

Sami wears number 17, stands a little taller than most of the girls, and a strong build, but not a stocky one. She’s amazingly quick for her size, which she certainly didn’t inherit from me! I’m about as slow athletically as a person can get. She’s not the fastest on the team, but she can keep up with any of them. This makes her a solid center fielder because of her quick range. She also can hammer the ball. She has one home run so far this year, and a triple that landed at the base of the wall last week. She’s a power hitter. Part in parcel with that comes strikeouts. Like most big sticks, she swings and misses a little too much, too! With that quickness and power, she’s a lethal weapon at the plate, bunting for singles, beating out infield hits, rounding bases with ease, and hammering the long ball. She’s a pleasure to watch and root for.

Today’s opponent was a formidable one, the Downstate Rippers 95. All second year 14u. Our team is about half ’95 and half ’96. Last season at the Collinsville Extreme Tournament, the Rippers took down the 14u Extreme for the championship. Sami wasn’t a part of that team, but most of the other girls were. They had something to prove. They also knew these girls can hit the ball. Hard.

Since this was pool play, the games really didn’t count for anything. Normally, pool play will designate what seed you earn in the elimination rounds. But, USFA tends to do things differently, and instead seed teams by how many USFA points they’ve earned thus far in the season. This was our first USFA tourney, so when the elimination round begins later, it was already determined who we were playing. This game was a just a gimmie. Coach took this opportunity to play some girls at different positions. The out come wasn’t spectacular. The Rippers ripped us.

It was bad enough these Ripper girls can hit, but compound that with some poor fielding on our part, and this first game was a disaster. They pounded our butts 8-3. I was proud of Sami, though. She played very well, hit 1 for 2 with an RBI, and even scored one of the three Extreme runs. Early in her career, her Black Widows coach stressed base running. Sami reflects that, as she’s a demon out there. She knows how to score, and get that extra base.

The mood wasn’t particularly grim, though, despite the loss. We were in good spirits in the stands, and knew that this pool game didn’t amount to much, and were well aware at the quality team the Downstate Rippers were. If we met them again, we’ll give ‘em hell. But there’s no shame in losing to that group. They can play. Plus, with some of our miscues, we beat ourselves.

The next game started immediately after, so there was no rest for this wicked man. The cool morning air was quickly starting to heat up, and I was huddled underneath the shade umbrella attached to my lawn chair. I did manage to make up to the concessions for a cold bottled water and a bratwurst. I kind of have a slight superstition: I almost always get a hot dog or bratwurst at these games. If I don’t, I feel like I’m missed a step or something. Maybe just a little OCD…

The next team, the S.L.A.M. was from the Mineral Area, I believe. Farmington. A young team made up of mostly 1st year 14u, I’d wager. Not big girls. We’d faced them in a tournament at Wapplehorst, and beat them. If this was the same team. Often times there are more than one team from an association, so you have to go by the coaches, and I rarely remember them. We had our ace pitcher going as well. She plays for the Columbia Eagles as a freshman, and she had a terrific season in high school ball.

And, she had a terrific start to the game, which drew the ire of the S.L.A.M. coach. After the third out, he wandered from his third base coaching position and had a word with the ump about our pitchers technique. He then made a comment to the other ump. Obviously some gamesmanship, because he must have been afraid his girls couldn’t hit our pitcher. I made a snide remark loud enough to be heard. That’s just how I am. Bush league shit.

And, watching HIS pitcher pitch it was clear she was “crow-hopping”, where she basically leaps from the pitching rubber as she throws, getting a little more on the ball. Can’t do that. Her back foot has to stay on the ground. Now, I don’t really give a shit about it. We don’t need to win a game that way, but since Mr. Pitching Technique is pointing things out, I made sure to point that out as well. He strutted out to his coaching position next inning, and I noticed his thick gold rope dangling on the outside of his tee-shirt. The Mr T starter collection. Who wears a thick gold rope and a tee shirt? To coach in? That explained enough. He’s a douchebag.

Sure enough, the next inning our pitcher pitched, the ump stopped her and called an “illegal pitch”, something about not “presenting the ball” properly in her wind up, what ever the hell that’s supposed to mean. What bullshit. 5 years of watching Select ball, I’ve never seen that called. We let ‘em know about it, to. It was just a ploy to try and take her off her game. We were incredulous. Come on, man, just beat us in the field with your girls, not with this monkey shit.

And, his girls played pretty well. Their middle infield made some terrific plays to rob us. We were down a run or two at one point, and we were frustrated from miscues in the last game, and some that carried over into this one. We really shouldn’t be losing to this team, and not with our ace pitcher. We should be clobbering them. But, we weren’t. And it was starting to get hot out. Hot as hell.

We righted the ship, and started rattling bats. Sami didn’t figure into much of the offense, she had a single, but never scored. But some timely hits and good baserunning got us back in the lead. A terrific accomplishment to battle back, and battle the horseshit mind games of the other coach.

Which, we were vindicated on. At one point late in the game, with runners on, the same ump who called the illegal pitch on our girl, threw up his hands and called one on the opposing team!

“Illegal pitch!” he shouted. “She crow-hopped. Runners advance.” Yes! Ah ha ha! Justice! So, the ump was paying attention. Good for him!

“Nice call, blue” I chirped. Fuckers. How’s your gold chain now?

We pulled off the 7-6 victory, but it was somewhat of a hollow one. We should have crushed that team, not made it interesting. We need to rattle some bats here. Cutting down on a few mistakes would be helpful too. But, a win is a win. And, since this is pool play, it really didn’t mean shit anyway. Just practice.

The next game was the commencement of double elimination play. Basically, there are two brackets. If you win you stay in your bracket. If you lose, you’re sent to the nether regions of “The Losers’ Bracket”. Now, you’re not eliminated from the tournament, but you play the other losers, and attempt to battle back to the championship, where eventually you’ll play the one team that hasn’t lost yet. If you beat them, great. You’ll play again because they have to lose twice, too. If you lose at any time from the losers’ bracket, you pack up and go home.

Since that didn’t start until 3:30, we had some down time. Sami elected to stay on the grounds with the team, but Sarah, my mother and I headed out for some lunch. We found a Texas Roadhouse, and that would do just nicely. I prefer Logan’s Roadhouse, but, by and large, they’re the same damn thing: steaks, potatoes, and beer.

Gobbling down a small ribeye and a cold Mich Ultra draught, we found we still had a few hours to kill before game time. To me, that meant one thing: SLEEP! We hightailed it to the suite, and I leapt into that soft, comfy bed and dozed off. I’m not sure what became of mom and Sarah, they might have done some shopping or something. Maybe the pool. But I was cherishing every moment I could sleep, because after this, I wasn’t going to get much. I had to play Pop’s tonight. Midnight to 5:30! Ugh!

My little two hour respite was welcomed, and I popped out of bed ready to hit the diamonds again. The midday sun had really warmed things up, and the heat was beginning to feel oppressive. Those poor girls! What warriors! An airshow was taking place a few miles away, and intermittently screaming jets would soar over head. That would get your attention!

We knew nothing about our opponents, the Angels. Dressed in blue and yellow, it was apropos as soaring over head was, in fact, the Navy Blue Angels. Nice of them to get an escort! From the corner of my eye, I’d glance out into the distance and marvel at the fighter aircraft soaring over head. Just like the movie Top Gun when it airs, when I see cool ass jets, I stop what I’m doing and watch. Guess it’s a guy thing?

The Angels on this diamond didn’t prove to be much competition, however. We ate them alive to the tune of 17-2. The bats had come alive! Sami walked a couple times, and a hit with a run scored. Kinda quiet game for her. Made some routine catches in the field. Playing steady. Being a leader.

Since the beating took place in only 4 innings, they stopped the game on the Mercy Rule, which was a HUGE advantage to me! That saved me at least 30 minutes time there, and allowed me to leave for home. By virtue of winning that moved them along the Winner’s Bracket, and their next opponent was The Phoenix at 6:30 PM. I would have to miss that game. If I stayed, I’d be racing back with little time and nothing for dinner.

Clouds rolled in over Ste Gen as I traveled north, and that helped cool things off. A mild breeze blew from my AC vents, but nothing to really cool the vehicle’s interior off. Thank goodness the clouds popped up, though. At least that kept the glaring sunlight from baking me. A small amount of precipitation made me use the wipers for a couple miles, but in all, I was truckin’ pretty good to make it home. I was back just before 7pm.

Now, I had some choices. Hard choices. Sleep? Eat? Hang out? Sleep? I wasn’t due at Pop’s until after midnight. That allowed me the luxury of partaking in our frequent weekend pleasure of “pre-game” at Si Señor, a terrific Mexican restaurant here in town. I’d had a pretty good lunch, which I haven’t normally been eating while dieting. Two big meals a day for me is unheard of now. But, I love Si Señor, and I love getting together with good friends and sharing dinner. It’s always a pleasure. And as difficult as this weekend is, I needed some down time.

So, since I’d had a good nap, I talked myself right into that one! Si Señor it is! I took a quick shower, busting the infield dirt off my body, and lathered up the mane. Since I still had a load in to perform, it was going to be roadie clothes to dinner. I’ll save the “rock star” attire for the gig. I received an update on the Extreme 6:30 game while I primped, and it was not good. They were getting beaten handily, by a team that was obviously the strongest in the tournament. They lost 6-0. Game time tomorrow: 8am. Ouch.

I met the “gang” for pre-game around 8pm, and we had a wonderful time. Tim and Kasey, along with their friend, Liz, all shared a table with me, and while I drank a few Coronas, they hit the margaritas. Hard. Hector, the proprietor, makes margaritas of the Gods, so I’m told, and they love ‘em. Last time I’d been in, Hector told me of a new dish on the menu which was virtually the same as the fajitas that I normally ordered. Only I’d been ordering the lunch portion because of my diet. Well, despite having had a pretty good sized lunch, I went ahead and ordered it anyway. I can’t really even pronounce it, despite the fact it’s been told to me several times. That’s ok, neither can the American waitress.

Now, this delicious entrée is served in a very unique way, which is why I really wanted to try it. Prepared much like the typical fajitas, they’ve also incorporated chorizo and covered it with cheese, and then serve it in a monstrous stone caldron which is pretty hot. It also stays that way throughout. Man, was it terrific! There was obviously much more food than I could put away, and I invited them to try it. They were cautious at first, but Kasey started into it, and she couldn’t stop dipping nacho chips into it and fishing out the chorizo! Tim did some damage to it as well.

We stayed at the restaurant until about 10:30pm, chatting with Hector about the World Cup, tequila, and “stuff”. We did share a shot of Herradura Añejo, and Hector also brought out a bottle of El Jimador Añejo. Quite tasty! Hector and I shared one of those, and it was smooth, much like its brother Herradura. That was enough shots for me!

We bid him adios and made a stop at Eddie’s for a beer. The Alley was playing, and we chatted with some friends. Didn’t stay there long at all though. We had to hit QT for some beer to take backstage. They have a nice backstage at Pop’s with a fridge, so we figured we’d stash some beers back there. They give us five each band member, but this would allow our crew to have a couple.

As we arrived for load-in, the Tool tribute band was loading out, and everything on stage was ready for us to set up. It was a little hectic, but things moved in and out smoothly. We had some terrific help from friends like Tim, Jason, Greg, and Ken. I stashed the beer in the fridge, and brought my stage clothes in. A couple of the Tool tribute guys were relaxing on the couch, and seemed friendly. I tried to use the backstage restroom, but it was locked and occupied.

Tim helped me set up, and I fired up the rig. Everything seemed in order, so it was time to change clothes. I went back to the dressing room to find it still occupied. Oh, hell, I just use the main johns. No biggie. I returned to the stage to tweak any last minute preparations, and satisfied, returned to the dressing room to change. At last it was unoccupied.

“Hey, sorry about that, man,” a young, Goth looking lad said to me. “He was in the shower, trying to get all that latex off.”

“Uh, no problem, dude,” I said. “I used the other john. Just gotta change now.”

Latex? Turns out, I guess the lead singer, much like Maynard from Tool, paints himself half blue and half white in latex. The shower stall was covered in tiny flakes of blue and white. Nice! If you’re gunna do it, do it right!

I heard a commotion inside the room while changing, and overhearing voices I learned that one of the club employees had brought us our “free” allotment of beer, and found what we had brought in. They weren’t pleased at all, and basically confiscated it. Tim protested because of the amount, and they reluctantly allowed him to take it back to the car, but made it clear that if anyone was caught sneaking it in, they would be ejected. Now, this didn’t really sit well with me. And I felt really bad for Tim and Kasey who were going to have to shell out some cash, and Tim helps us pretty much for free.

This continued to fester in me during the first set. Why would they give a shit about it? Hell, they’ve never went back there before. That was the first time. If I’d even waited until after, they’d never even noticed. This was bullshit. All the fucking money this bar makes, and they want to raise hell because of some 55 Select and a Bacardi Razz? Jackoffs! I was tired, I was worn out, and I was getting pissed.

On the other hand, I did notice that not only was the monitor mix TITS on stage, and my guitar SCREAMING, I wasn’t playing too poorly, either. The mojo seemed to be with me tonight. Where the fuck it was last night, I have no idea. But tonight, everything I touched seemed to turn to gold, and every phrase inspired more phrases that I liked even better! Hmm, this aint so bad.

But I was still steaming about them taking our beer. Back stage on break I was grumbling about it, and Tim said the guy even added “hey, this is a business”. Really? Are they kidding me? It was coming to a boil now.

“Fucking bullshit!” I said. Steve, being the ever level headed one, attempted to play Devil’s Advocate.

“Yeah, well, man, how many other clubs let us do that?” he said. I snapped at him.

“Let’s see! Eddie’s lets Rob bring in Guinness because they don’t serve it. He hands it to them, and he marches right up and grabs it from them. Tips them a buck,” I said.

“Oh, well” Steve said. I cut him off before he could go any further.

“Club 111 lets us bring a damned cooler right on stage!” I said.

“True,” Steve said. “But I don’t think Rich would let us do that!” he said.

“We don’t have to! Rich comps our drinks. So does Red Deuce.” I continued. “Its bullshit!”

And my rage continued.

“This fuckin’ bar makes more money than all of them. And they don’t want us putting beer in a fridge they provide backstage? Are you fucking kidding me??”

And, pretty much at that point, I completely snapped. In my rage, I pretty much told Steve I was tired of playing every fucking weekend, tired of the shit, and would much rather just be in Cape right now watching my daughter play. I really don’t want to fucking do this any longer. Oh, yeah, and fuck you to boot. He winced, turned for the door and muttered:

“Uh, ok. Yeah. Uh huh. Ok Rebecca.” And walked out.

Where the fuck did that come from? I kind of froze, and honestly didn’t know how to respond, or even if it was worth it. I’d said my peace. What the fuck that meant, I have no clue. But, who fucking cares? Three more hours of this, and I have to drive my ass back to Cape and watch a game at 8am with no sleep. That was the only thing to concentrate on. My rage was gone. It was time to work.

We tore into the second set, and despite my anger, I was in complete control and wasn’t going to let it affect the performance. I have too much respect for the process than to allow that. Besides, it wasn’t really a bad night. In fact, it was pretty damned good.

At one point, during the Heart song Barracuda, I made my way to my amp at the tail end of the song for the solo outro. I like to get a lot of feedback, squeals, and sounds out of the axe then, really beat and crank on it. I found myself channeling that anger right into my playing. That fucking amp was so loud, and I could feel the sound moving my hair on my arms. All of that emotion and energy transferred right to the guitar and out. Grinding the pick down the ridges of the strings, pounding a high harmonic, and cranking on my whammy bar; everything pouring out in my face. Sounded just about right. I had to smile. Therapy.

The rest of the night continued in much the same manner on stage. The sound was there, the vibe was electric, and the place, by 3:30am, was packed. It was like Stages of old. This is the only place that still has that vibe. It’s a rush. And, like Stages, the young girls were appearing. Nice!

Tim got up and sang his songs, and his wife and a few others jumped up to dance with us. A bouncer crept up on stage to clear it, but I nodded that they were fine, and he quickly left. The party was on! I was having fun despite myself. People at the foot of the stage were rocking, thrusting their hands up for a high five, and very appreciative.

I retreated to the dressing room on breaks, doing very little milling about the crowd. I was in a pissy mood still somewhat, although that was fading. I was tired, and dreading the drive back to Cape mostly. There really wasn’t anything out there in the crowd for me anyway.

Oh, hell yeah, there were pretty girls. And I felt good in my new shirt I’d bought. Kind of an Ian Asbury white dress shirt, minus the frilly sleeves. I could get some attention, I suppose. Make some idle chit-chat. But, it also seemed so pointless. The flirting, the games, the courting. God, I need a lot of energy for that, and I didn’t have any to spare. These girls are so young. Almost need the Jedi mind trick going. I guess they say many dig older men, but, I dunno. I felt ancient. Like a relic.

Not only that, Pop’s isn’t exactly fertile ground for meeting Ms Right. In fact, its about the last place you’d want to start. I was quite content to just hide from it all, focus, and rest. Save myself any further aggravation.

All of the sets went quickly, and the response was tremendous. I’d say the night was a homerun. Fascinating. Here I was, irritated, pissy, snapping at an old friend I’ve known for 30 plus years. But, we nailed one of our best shows in recent memory. How the fuck does that work? I was too tired to contemplate it. With our final song, we had some of the hottest girls in the bar onstage dancing with us. We went out with a bang. The very next moment, I started wrapping cords and packing up. Time to get the fuck out.

Tim rushed up to help, and his help was invaluable. That afforded me time to change out of the glamwear, and into the modest shorts, tee, and ball cap. Derrick met backstage with a stack of $20s and created 5 smaller stacks of $20s. But, they were still pretty big stacks. More than we make anywhere else.

Ok, so I bitched about it, threw a fit, and blew up. But, that stack of $20s in my hand was very welcomed! The crowd rocked. And we sounded as good as we could sound. I could get used to this. Just next time I won’t bring beer.

Weekend From Hell

2010-06-21T15:12:00.001-05:00

Chapter 1 – Bombs Away

Getting through the day at work Friday wasn’t much of a challenge, but I knew the rest of the coming weekend would be. I charged up my batteries at my office desk, preparing for battle. And, I did a tiny amount of psyching myself up because I knew that if I was going to accomplish this weekend without crashing and burning, literally, staying sober or at least not getting hammered was mandatory. There would be no banzai partying. That’s cool by me, as Bud Select 55 has become my best friend and wingman. I just had to make sure I didn’t get “distracted”.

There was another issue on my plate to “psyche” up for: my AC in the Durango was non-functional. I noticed this over a month ago, and took it into the shop. Some kind of part was going bad up by the dash, a dealer part, and it wasn’t cheap to fix. Over $300. But it seemed like, back in early May, that it was functioning. Only after a good hot day later in that month I soon discovered it still wasn’t. Well, have to take it back in.

However, that proved to be impossible. I hadn’t really had the opportunity to get it back to the shop (which is why I tended to it earlier, I knew that was my best window of opportunity), so I called the shop Wednesday to get it in, and she said “can you bring it in Saturday?” Uh, no. That won’t be possible. So, chalk that up to the continuing list of challenges I’d have to face this weekend.

Load in at Gateway International Raceway’s Midnight Madness was to take place no later than 7pm, I was told. Sound engineer Tim, who also booked the gig for us, explained if you wait longer than that to get in, you’ll be in line for quite a while. We play from 9-1, so that meant a little down time there before the gig getting there that early. Don’t normally have that. That was cool, because I needed to change strings. It would also let me rest, focus, and get my shit together for the grueling weekend I was embarking on.

Pulling into the track, I traced the old route once used to get back to Stages in the day, along the northern perimeter of the property along the Cahokia Diversion Canal. That little jaunt brought back vivid memories of Stages’ heyday. It was like a time warp to the halcyon days of St. Louis rock nightclubbing. I hadn’t been along this gravel road since the club closed almost 18 years ago or so. And, I was playing there yet again. Somewhere. Damned if I know where, tho. No one told me where to go.

I wound around the facility, past a checkpoint or two, and eventually found the modest wooden bandstand nestled underneath the towering grandstand along the drag strip. Boozie’s trailer was parked in front, and he had begun setting up his drumkit. There was a smattering of cars parked about, and a small crowd making their way to the grounds. I was understandably curious as to what size crowd we’d be performing for. This had the potential to be a huge, huge event.

Load in was quick and easy, as was set up. The stage was ample, and covered by a blue tarp overhead, so I wasn’t too concerned about the weather or elements on my gear. Forecast was for hot, anyway. I tried to do a rain dance and make this gig go away, but I was unsuccessful. The massive grandstand behind us protected us from the setting sun, so there was some cool shade to be had until the night fell.

The other Rock Bottom fellas soon arrived shortly after I did. Most importantly, Steve showed up with the cooler full of my Bud Select 55! I was parched! It was time to whet the whistle! Still, I knew I’d have to rein it in. I was leaving promptly after this gig, and driving to Cape Girardeau where my family was. My eldest had softball in the AM and I wasn’t going to miss it. 55 Select’s lower alcohol content makes this so much easier!

I changed strings on my Ibanez, “Bob”, while sitting on a picnic bench off of Stage Left. There was no dressing area or band green room to be had. The stage was located to the left of the concession/restroom area, so there was a traffic flow going by the front our stage as the size of the crowd expanded. Guess I’ll be changing into my leather there, I reckoned.

One thing about outdoor gigs, keeping stringed instruments in tune can be a real challenge. Plus, I’ve been fighting my Floyd Rose locking tremolo lately as well. Even when I just bend a string (and I’m kinda forceful, such as when I’m chirping out a Zack Wyldd style harmonic) it throws the bridge slightly out of whack, and I have to jerk the bar back to snap it back in place. Drives Derrick nuts. I’ll try to get that in the shop sometime, if at all possible.

A nice thing about outdoor gigs: I can turn up! I gave it a little juice on stage, and even then, the engineer, Tim, raised an eyebrow. Man, that Bogner Line 6 Spidervalve 100HD is LOUD! Honestly, I think I had it about 2mm past where I set it at Eddies! But I could feel it! Fresh strings and volume, two key ingredients to getting my mojo up and going!

The boys in the band chatted once in a while as we would bump into each other setting up our rigs. I think all of us were wondering if this would suck or not. It was different. Our friends, a band called The Alley had done the gig, and said that while all in all it was fun, the people would just often walk by the stage on their way to either the concessions or restrooms, and stare strangely at them. If they stare at The Alley, they’re going to glare at us…

Changing out of my roadie clothes and into my “costume” (and a cool new shirt I bought, along with my leather pants I can now fit into), we took the stage around 9:20; just a tad later than we expected, but due to engineering, not us. The first song felt good, and I was kind of excited because this venue had so much possibility. There were a small group of friends out front, and a smattering of others observing, beer in hand, curious as to what we were about.

First song in, and the monitor mix was way out of whack. Steve’s voice was so loud, the cones chirped and protested. My voice was pretty overpowering as well. They weren’t going to last at that rate, we’d blow the hell out of them. We paused after the first tune and attempted to make adjustments, but for whatever reason they were unsuccessful. Exasperated, Steve just told them to take him out of the monitor mix completely. He just go out front and sing. That, to me, made things even worse. Without Steve up there in our stage mix, it was like karaoke or something. We almost had to guess where we were in the songs. Plus, it just killed the vibe. And if we can’t get a good vibe, we start to suck.

Despite having a fresh set of strings, and my amp blaringly loud, my guitar playing was suboptimal. I just couldn’t seem to get the phrasing I wanted. I’d riff through a solo, and it felt choppy, sloppy, and uninspired. No magic. Certainly no mojo. I guess fighting the monitor mix and the conditions were taking a toll. I begged them to put Steve back in my monitor, and his voice did modestly appear, but not in proportion to the mix around. And, just as The Alley predicted, people would saunter by and just stare. Even glare.
Steve was of the opinion that they wouldn’t really be there for dancing the first set, and I wholeheartedly agreed. We’d play much more of our rockers early to get some attention. We had a lot to compete with there. And this was a very indifferent crowd.

There were a couple bright spots out front, however. Two young boys were righteously digging it. They couldn’t have been more than 10 years old, but because of Guitar Hero they were quite familiar with a number of our material! They played air guitar and hooted and hollered. Brought a broad smile to my face.

The other bright spots were some of the extremely attractive young ladies that would appear, usually with a boyfriend. They’d stroll by on their way to the concession stand, briefly distracting me from my frustrations on how badly we sucked right now. True, they were all 18-23, and obviously with other guys. But, the scenery was delightful.

Speaking of delightful scenery, Theresa approached Steve’s cooler strategically placed on Stage Left to fish out some watermelon vodka and Diet Red Bull; her drink of choice for the evening. I was pounding something out on the keyboards, and she motioned to whether I’d care for a shot myself. I know I should have declined, but I nodded that I would, eventually. After I quit playing keyboards at least, then I’d sneak just one since it was early. Not privy the interior monologue in my head, she simply took that as a yes, I’d do one NOW. She approached and raised the plastic Dixie cup to my lips. Uh, ok, well, now then.

I parted my lips while glancing down at my hands, desperately trying to continue playing. I’m not an inherent keyboard player, its something I was forced to learn back in college. I have to concentrate while I play them. Theresa alone, decked out in a skin tight bikini top, which struggled to contain her cantaloupe sized breasts, along with flashing her devilish smile is enough to break that concentration. For anyone.

Now, I like a good Jager Bomb. Cold, tart Jager, some sweet Red Bull. I can live with that. I’ve become quite a tequila connoisseur, and it’s become my preferred shot. But a cold Jager Bomb will do in a pinch. Vodka Cherry Bombs should be about the same thing, right?

No. I’m sorry. This was putrid. She tipped that Dixie cup and poured into my mouth a very tepid, foul tasting substance that no where near resembled a Jager Bomb. And, she must have had the damned thing topped off, because it just kept coming. I kept trying to gulp it down, but my taste buds threw a mutiny, and ordered my gullet closed. Streams of the stuff poured from the corners of my “pie hole”, soaking my cool new skeleton sequined t-shirt from my chest to my navel.

As my body, or more accurately my mouth rejected the heinous mixture, I began to protest, but I was “handcuffed” by the keyboards; I had to continue playing! And she kept pouring. I think I wore more of it than I actually ingested, and I’m sure my face bore a look of anguish. I could hear the melody I was playing hiccup as I flinched from the disgust, and I scrambled to get back on track. That will learn me!

At the conclusion of the song I commented over the mic “what the hell was that? That wasn’t a Cherry Bomb! That was a Turpentine Bomb! Bob Ross uses that stuff to clean his brushes after he paints happy, little trees!” No danger of trying one of those. Ever again.

On break, I wandered over to the soundboard and conversed with friends gathered. Both they and Steve explained to me that everything sounded great out front. Steve had retreated to the area out front of the bandstand since his voice in the monitor mix was now non-existent. “Sounds really good out here, man” he explained, with a satisfied inflection to his voice. Yeah, but on stage, it was just dragging us down, I think. I wasn’t feeling it. Oh well, we didn’t seem to be garnering that much attention anyway. We’re an after thought around here. These people are here for racing. No one would notice if we sucked or not.

One thing is for sure, there was plenty of eye candy to take in, so that passed the time. An extremely beautiful brunette paraded by who commanded every man’s attention. Tall, slender, with a tight sexy dress that barely covered her hips, and long, luscious legs. Wow, what a beauty! And, you could tell she knew it. She walked as though she were the only woman on the planet. A very confident strut. She’d walked past the band stand a few times while we played, and wouldn’t even acknowledge we were up there. From the soundboard on break I saw her return, and pointed her out to Derrick and the others around as she proudly strutted by.

“Wow,” I said. “There she is again.”

“Yup,” Derrick replied.

“Hot,” I said.

“Mm hmm,” Derrick responded.

There wasn’t much vocabulary needed. It was guy stuff. Ogling. I guess we tend to limit conversations to one syllable words at that stage.

At that very moment, she stumbled over a cabling cover (bright yellow and black, to be easily seen), and fell to one knee, obviously scrapping it on the asphalt. That garnered some howls from our tiny group of people watchers who’d taken notice of her.

“Well, that’ just killed it for me!” Derrick said, throwing his hands up. “She’s not hot anymore!”

“No, no!” I protested. “Now she’s vulnerable! I think I’ll go ask her if I can kiss it and make it better!” Which, of course, I had no intention of doing. I did feel for her though. That had to sting. Strangely, there was some justice in it, though. She was just a little too cocky in her strut. The nefarious Karma Gods brought her down to size.

As the crowd began to increase as the evening wore on, I figured our second “money” set might get some reaction. Possibly. Then again, I’m not sure a bomb going off would have gotten much attention. When you play outdoors, the area is so large that it’s difficult to really get a vibe going unless they are right up on you, and they weren’t. It was more of just a traffic area and no real way to generate a crowd, with people wandering by. Some smiled. Some glared. Some ignored us completely. C’est la vie.

Way off to my left located in the shadow of the gargantuan grandstand of the Oval Track was a rectangular area roughly the size of a small parking lot, blocked by concrete barriers like the ones you’d find along a highway. Intermittently, they would let cars in into this pit, and they participated in what is becoming a tremendous sensation: drifting. I’d seen it mentioned on the website when I researched the Midnight Madness, but had no idea what it was. In a word, it can only be described as insanity.

These guys get going around that open area spinning out, sliding side to side, and basically doing everything they can to keep from slamming into the barricaded ring of the pit. One guy didn’t, and they took a while to pull his car out. Every once in a while on stage I’d peer over while playing a song, watching these maniacs slide around as though they were on ice. Occasionally, there would be more than one, whipping around, avoiding each other and the walls! Madness!

Second set was put into the books quietly, with very little fanfare. None of the money songs seem to connect much, or stop anyone from using the restroom or getting another beer. By and large, we felt like an oddity there. Very little interaction. As some of the young beauties strolled past us, I’d call out to them to get their attention.

“Hello! My name is Otter!” I’d say. “Rush Chairman! Damn glad to meet ya!” It became my running gag for the evening, to lighten up my mood.

It’s a line from National Lampoon’s Animal House, from the raucous playboy Otter, who spent most of the movie womanizing. A movie older than the people I was saying it to. They probably didn’t have a clue what I was saying, let alone what the reference meant. Some would smile. Blankly. Some would glare. Some looked away as quickly as they could and avoided all eye contact. Perhaps I should have said some quotes from The Elephant Man instead?

On the final break, I was counting down the moments to get out of here and head south to Cape to be with my family. I just wanted to get it over with. Since we started a little late, 1AM was rolling up quickly, and there was no way I was going to play past that. I just wanted to leave. Obviously this would be a short set. Hallelujah! Turpentine bombs took their toll on Theresa, and as I exited the bandstand I found her passed out in the passenger side of my car, which I’d parked directly next to Stage Left. Jason had been tending to her for a while as Steve worked, and once on break, Steve did his best to help her. She had a tough time of it. Very tough.

The Bud Select 55 was gone from my cooler, and naturally I had no buzz. That was a good thing, though, considering I was about to drive 100 miles or more. I was a bit peckish, so I grabbed a bratwurst at the concessions, and a Bud Select draft to wash it down. That set me back almost $10. Did I mention that I knew I basically wasn’t going to make any money for this? The fee for this gig was Scroogely cheap. We should have called the band Bob Crachet, Ebenezer Scrooge’s poverty ridden associate. We were doing it simple for some exposure, and the potential for a big, fun festival crowd. That, and sound engineer Tim is a friend. But, there wasn’t much money in this gig. Not sure there was much exposure, either. Unless I stripped out of my leather pants.

Time rolled around to finish the night, and Steve continued nursing Theresa’s massively intoxicated self at my car. We really only had about a half hour left, and I was adamant about not playing past 1am. A couple young men approached Derrick as he tuned his guitar, and I overheard them ask “you guys do Megadeth?” Well, that would be perfect right now, wouldn’t it? Derrick glanced towards me, and I said “right on!”

We knocked that one out, Symphony Of Destruction, and while I was playing it, I thought “hmmm. Pantera Cowboys From Hell would be a perfect segue.” Steve popped up on stage at the song’s conclusion, but I shooed him off.

“We’ve got another one, dude. Get the hell out of here,” I told him.

He nodded and rushed back to Theresa’s side. Our Megadeth fans appreciated the Pantera too, as I expected, and at this venue, those kinds of tunes are a good fit, I thought. Where to take the set list from here, I wondered. I didn’t need to. Sound engineer Tim approached the stage briskly.

“Hey, we’re done,” he said.

What? Two songs in? There was still 15 minutes left.

“We suck that bad?” I asked.

“No, no,” Tim said. “You guys sound great. There is a huge storm moving this way, and they want to clear it all out. They are shutting down the races and everything. So, we need to tear down. It’s happened before. It’s the weather.”

Roger that. That was music to my ears! Quit early, and load out, I could hit the road and have just a few extra minutes of sleep! I threw that guitar off and started unplugging chords with a quickness. And, judging by the amount of beer in my cup, I could enjoy one more as I tore down. Damn, I love beer! I needed to quickly hit that concession stand one last time.

As I schlepped my gear into the Durango, I found Theresa sprawled across the hard, rocky asphalt next to it. Jason had tried to get her back into my vehicle, but she adamantly protested, and insisted on stretching out across the cool pavement. I’ve fucking been there! I understood exactly what she was feeling. Strange to see someone else go through that very sensation. That cool pavement feels so good when you keep throwing up. So sorry, kid. Next time, ease up the Turpentine Bombs!

I finished my packing job, while Steve and Jason lifted her from the parking lot, carrying her from the field of battle. Actually it reminded me more of a football game, where they haul off an injured player. Steve and Jason each had an arm of Theresa’s draped over their shoulders, and she was completely listless, dragging her motionless legs across the gravel. She took one for the team!

The extra few minutes gave me a moment to relax before I began my long journey to the Bootheel. The crowd was thinning, as was the number of available young ladies. “Hello! My name is Otter! Rush Chairman! Damn glad to meet you!” In all honesty I wasn’t seriously interested in “hooking up”. But, I admit there is a primal part of the male personality, when let loose from his cage, is always on the prowl. Perhaps it’s just the hopeful side of me that wants to replace what is now missing from my life: companionship. Regardless, my weekend was laid out for me, and getting “laid” would be no where near included in those plans, even if I’d wished it. Which, I must admit, I didn’t.

Missy, a friend, was close by, along with her teen aged daughter and her friend. We talked, and flirted. I think I kinda needed that. After what I’d been going through, and suffering some emotional blows inflicted by who I’ve come to consider a very selfish, hateful individual hell bent on blaming everything from Global Warming to the BP disaster on something I did or said (which she heard from someone else), it was nice to feel attractive to someone, even for a minute. There’s no doubt a thick veneer has covered my heart the past few months. Feels comfortable, too. I think I’ll wear it for a while.

We were told “the check was in the mail” regarding our pay, which we basically already expected. There was no reason to stay around for anything, really, so after I changed out of the leather and my Turpentine Bomb soaked tee, I hit the open road. I’d say it was about 1:30 am or so. Perhaps closer to 2am. Faint boils of lightening flashed within the encroaching clouds to the north, reminding me of why we quit early, and how pressing it was I get to the hotel. Besides, with rain behind me, perhaps they will start the games late, and I could sleep a little longer. Sleep. I so need to sleep.

It didn’t take long to hit Jefferson County, Missouri, where I peeled off of I-55 and hit a QT/Wendys. A pit stop, a cheeseburger, and back on the black, lonely highway. Traffic was almost nonexistent by the time I reached Ste. Genevieve, but the storm clouds kept me company, drifting off to my left, probably awakening the good people of Chester, Sparta, and other parts of Southern Illinois in the distance. I could bring up the radar on my phone, and there was a very mean line of storms chasing my heels.

My eyes grew heavy, and the highway was hypnotizing. I punched the CD player, and Jeff Healey now kept me company for the last leg of the journey. I rubbed my eyes frequently, singing along to whatever was coming through the stereo, but trying not to lose focus on the highway. I’ve been to Cape many, many times. My mother’s family is from there. Each exit told me how much longer I had to endure this torturous excursion, for each one let me feel a little closer. If only my eyes will cooperate. Thank God I wasn’t inebriated. In retrospect, thank God for Turpentine Bombs, because I refused to drink them!

The last ten miles were the toughest, as the Interstate narrowed down to two lanes due to construction. I had to be very, very sharp lest I find myself literally drifting into head on traffic, sparse as it was. Plus, because I was forced to slow through the zone, the longer I was going to spend behind the wheel. Keep singing and wailing, Jeff! Even that was becoming hypnotizing.

I made it into the parking lot of the Drury Inn Suites just before 4am to much relief. Instructions were to have a key left in my name so as not to wake everyone up forcing them to let me in. Of course, my mother had already texted me to see if I’d left, and claimed later she didn’t sleep too well worrying about me. I shuffled into the foyer simply exhausted, but here was no one there. Peering through the locked glass doors, I could see a short panel resting on the lobby side of the counter which read “Be Back Shortly”. I tapped on the window, but there was no response. Wonderful. Should I wake the family, or wait. I contemplated just sleeping where I stood.

Five minutes or so, an attendant noticed me and soon produced the key that had been left for me. Operating on pure autopilot, I managed to find my way to the elevator, up to the fifth floor, and into our room. Mom greeted me, and the girls were fast asleep.

“How was it?” Mom asked.

“Sucked,” was all I could muster.

I think she prattled on about a couple other matters, but I was oblivious. Just direct me to the bed I’m sleeping on. The suite was very spacious, and I found the bed most welcoming. Within scant moments of my head hitting the pillow, I was gone.

Pirates of the Caribbean, c.4

2010-06-18T00:16:00.007-05:00

Chapter Four: American Angels

We awoke the next morning, and I felt bad in that I'd pretty much just slept away a whole evening! What a waste! But, I guess we both needed it. Drinking in the afternoon will often to that to me, just make me sleepy and pass out. We crawled out of bed, and talked about what to do with our last day. Damn, I'll be home by evening! Let's let this day drag on!

I decided that I would walk down to the beach and perform my morning Qigong exercise. I'd been planning for a while to do this, just imagining how incredibly awesome it would be to be alone on the beach, one with the universe, drinking in the fresh morning Chi of paradise! And this was the perfect moment.

The sky had cleared and the morning sun beamed brightly across the bay. The white, sandy beach was vacant, and I indeed had the whole world all to myself. I was tingling with anticipation. This was like my own DVD, where they're always beachside in some amazing spot in an unnamed paradise showing you the exercise. Now, I'd found my own. It couldn't have been more perfect.

I found a shady location at the water's edge amongst the palm trees and fixed my gaze out into the beautiful blue Caribbean as my body gently flowed from one Qigong motion to the next. I cannot describe the peace and tranquility I experienced as the ocean waves broke across my bare feet, and I filled my lungs with the sweet, gentle sea breeze as I stretched my arms out wide, twisted my spine, tightened my muscles, and cleansed my Chi.

At the close of the session, I bowed towards the sea and then paused to take in the moment. Calmness. Serenity. Total peace. My mind was open, empty, peaceful. As was the ocean. Gently rolling and spilling across the beach with each wave, it stretched out before me to the horizon. It seemed endless, powerful, all encompassing. But yet still, quiet, unassuming, and benign. That carried over into my body, my mind, and my soul. Where one stopped and the other started, I wasn't sure.

A magical moment, a magical place, and an extraordinary opportunity for myself to experience peace, bliss, and contentment in such an incredible paradise. At that moment, I knew what it meant to be truly blessed. It wasn't something anyone could bring or give me. My children are a blessing. My parents are a blessing. My good friends are a blessing. My love, for Rebecca, or for any love I've ever shared in my life is a blessing.

But, this was different. This was personal. This was for myself. This was peace. This moment was mine. My gift from God. Maybe every moment is? It was up to me to be cognizant of it. On that beach, I stopped and realize that this is what it's all about. Take it in, drink it up, and let it fill my soul until my cup runneth over. Fortune was mine.

I met back up with Becca, and we went off to one last breakfast in Jamaica, enjoying some incredible coffee together. We also had to check out before noon, but were allowed to stay on the resort with full amenities until our coach arrived to take us into Montego Bay.

The bright Caribbean sun tanned our bodies as we sat out off the main pool enjoying some drinks. It was by far the sunniest and most beautiful day of the three that we were there. I even took off my shirt and baked in the sun for some color. I tan easily, and even if I burn, it's usually mild, and then develops into a nice dark tan. The hair doesn't tan so much, tho.

The beers went down smooth and delicious, and Becca discovered the Hummingbird, a drink my mother had recommended we try while on the island. Why she waited until the last day to try it, I have no answer, but she enjoyed the most by far of all the drinks she tried. Our neighbors from Troy, IL wandered by; they were down below at the pool bar which they said was much warmer today. They too were heading back to St. Louis today, but decided to get some more pool bar time in. Becca and I just wanted to relax in the sun. It felt warmer, and more inviting.

It was too brief a stay, to be sure, and we found ourselves back on the bus heading to the airport in the afternoon sun. I watched intently out the window as we wound our way along the Jamaican coast. Camera in hand, I snapped photos as I could to try and capture the Jamaican countryside and it's people. Young children were coming home from school, as I'd see them all wearing similar uniforms, carrying books as they were let off from bus stops. Small towns doted the coastline, with picturesque views that were breathtaking. The juxtaposition of the poverty and the beauty was astounding. Tiny, humble shacks resting amidst a sparkling, majestic coastline. I found it fascinating!

I continued to snap photos as I could, capturing the beauty in a pair of school kids wandering home, old men working on the roadside, small, run down stores and humble shacks, and the beautiful Caribbean encompassing it all. There was a simple beauty hidden with in it all.

Unfortunately, at one point I had to pee again! Too many beers at the bar before we left! Becca was getting uncomfortable as well. She really didn't think she was going to make it, and her eyes pleaded for me to do something. My poor girl! Guess I'll have to be a hero, and see if there was some way we can get them to stop.

There was one of the coach attendants riding along in back with us, and I asked if we were going to stop along the way, to which he commented that we could stop if we needed, no problem, mon. Hooray! He radioed up front to the driver, and quickly they made a pit stop for us. Several others leapt from their seats as well! We weren't the only ones! I tipped the attendant $20 bucks for the favor. Becca was greatly indebted to me for getting them to pull over, and I felt like a true hero for my girl. We were barely 20 minutes from the airport, but there didn't look as though she could have possible held out that long.

And, we were also very, very hungry! The next order of business was to get some food! I figured we could hit Margaritaville at the airport once we got checked in. That was my plan, anyway. Becca agreed. Lunch with Jimmy Buffet, and that damn song, over, and over...

As our coach pulled into Montego Bay, I glanced around to get one last look at Jamaica, it's people, and it's culture. Very unique! It's much more populated than the other parts of the island we visited, far more commercial development. Still, it didn't have a “big city” feel to it at all. Much more of a suburban vibe, interestingly enough. And, with everything in English, it didn't feel too foreign, but did feel Third World.

Jamaica is notorious for crime, mainly murder. I'd heard the horror stories, and the high crime rates. But, I suppose it shares that distinction with St. Louis. St. Louis has one of the highest murder rates in America, but to all of us that know it, know that 90% of that crime is in a couple very bad neighborhoods. Places most people should avoid anyway. Looking out the bus window as Jamaicans went about their daily lives, I wondered if that was the same here. Such a friendly, laid back people. Hard to imagine murder being a top issue. More than likely, it was from the same catalyst as back home: drugs and gangs.

Arriving at the airport, we made the bittersweet chore of gathering our luggage and take one last look at Jamaica. Getting through immigration and customs was lengthy as they were understaffed at the airport, but eventually we were allowed through and made our way to Margaritaville. The airport restaurant wasn't very crowded at all, and a young woman of interesting heritage was seated along with us at a large table, cafe style in the middle of the concourse. I sensed that our server thought she was with us. No matter. She quietly sat a few seats away from us reading a book and drinking a Red Stripe. It was if she didn't even notice us there at all.

I ordered up a spicy cheeseburger, and relaxed with a Red Stripe of my own. Becca found herself a souvenir hoodie from the gift shop area, and we dined on Jimmy Buffet's grub. Across from us was an Air Canada gate filled with milling passengers. Eventually, the young lady set down her paperback, and spoke.

“Are you going to Canada?” she asked.

“No,” we said. “St. Louis.”

We chatted briefly with her, and found that the Air Canada flight to Winnipeg had been delayed due to mechanical issues, and they were waiting indefinitely. Very frustrating. She worked for the airlines in some capacity, but I don't believe she was a stewardess. Knowing she was from Canada added to the intrigue of her ancestry. I believe she had some Indian or even Inuit, as her features were vaguely Asian, but a darker complexion.

When it was all said and done, the waitress slipped us the check. As I'd anticipated, she had put all of our meals on one ticket, which which was fine by me. I felt the need to do something generous. Perhaps it was the Jamaican spirit moving me. No problem, mon!

“Oh no,” the young lady said to our waitress, “I'm not with them” she protested when she discovered there was no check for her.

“Don't worry about, I've got it,” I told them, and paid for her meal. Hell, poor girl is stuck here, can't get home, and probably not the wealthiest of people. I know in my twenties, I was scraping every penny I could to survive. Might as well spread some good Karma. Made me feel good to do something randomly nice for a complete stranger.

The young girl was very appreciative, and take aback, I think. She didn't expect it. Neither did Becca. Beck gave me a warm, loving smile. She didn't know I had that in me, I guess. Just to randomly do something kind and generous for someone we didn't know. That made me feel very proud, to make her smile that way. To make her proud of me.

“Just consider it some help from your American angels,” I told her. “Hope you get back home soon.” With that, we left for our departing flight. Rebecca held my hand tightly as we walked away from the restaurant.

Night had fallen by the time we were in the air. I was still fascinated about flying over Cuba, looking down on the island nation, wondering about it's people, and it's culture. Will they ever throw off the shackles of oppression and join the world as we know it? I'm drawn there, inexplicably. I'd love to see Havana, love to see that nation be free and open again. Tiny specks of light dotted the island down below, and along the shoreline, were much brighter and more concentrated. But that was the only signs of civilization.

We traveled up the coast of Florida, and over a large metropolitan area. I studied it closely, noting the long bridges across a wide ocean inlet, and soon recognized it as the Tampa Bay region, where I'd traveled as a teen. Had an uncle that lived there. Fascinating to see a map like view come to life! Tracing the shoreline to St Pete Beach took me back to his wedding, and the week we stayed there. I was fourteen.

Memories flooded of a trio of young Welsh girls I befriended, one, very cute brunette seemed to have a crush on me, according to her older sister. I was so shy and unconfident, I didn't know the first thing about approaching her. I also met a fun Canadian teen that week that I palled around with. One warm summer night, we strolled the beach, and I saw written in the sand “Darren and Julie from England”. That was her sisters name. Guess I was meant to see that, I dunno. They didn't know how to spell my name. Jesus, hit me over the head, and I still don't get it sometimes. To be honest, 30 years later, I'm still just as clueless I guess. Instead of that Canadian, I should have been walking the beach with her. Dumbass.

Becca and I watched Nights in Rodanthe on the flight back, and snuggled as we could in the cramped airline seat configuration. I continued to glance out of the window and watch the world creep by beneath me. After the movie, the cabin screens remained on, and gave us feedback of what we were flying over, altitude, airspeed, etc. I love that part of the flight, it fascinates me. We were currently flying over Alabama, and places I'd just driven through last summer on our way to Panama City Beach, Florida. I had a bird's eye view of the highway, and it brought back vivid memories of our trip to the Gulf Coast.

New Orleans, Panama City Beach, Tampa/St. Pete, Cancun, Jamaica. I've got that part of the globe pretty well covered! And, I love it. Something just keeps pulling me to this area, The Gulf, The Caribbean, something that soothes my soul and lifts my spirit. The great food, the music, the party, hedonistic atmosphere, the friendly, carefree people.

Maybe I'm just a beach bum at heart?

Pirates of the Caribbean c.3

2009-07-08T11:26:00.002-05:00

Chapter Three: the difference between 22 and 42

After Negril, I was looking forward to a relaxing evening without the disco Pasha, or Dexter St. Jacques firing on my girlfriend while I wasn't looking. I had some fine Cuban cigars to enjoy, and some beers in the minifridge in the room, so it was kick back and relax time.

While Beck showered and manicured her nails, I sat on the balcony with cold beer in hand (not a Red Stripe, but another Jamaican brand which I found very palatable), and smoked a wonderfully aromatic Montecristo Habanos cigar. The air was pleasantly cool, with a mild sea breeze blowing through the breezeway between our building and Building 3 across from our room. An occasional bus or car would pass by on the lone highway to Negril, but aside from this, it was very peaceful. Sheer bliss!

After a while, I'd ran out of beer in the minifridge, and decided that while I smoked the last of my cigar, I'd need to enjoy just a little more beer along with it as I reflected on the beauty I'd witnessed that day. I slipped on my slippers and made the long trek to the nearest bar still open, which was a good walk away, listening to the sea crash upon the shore to my right as I trudged along.

Draft beers, while included with the package, were still only about 8 ounce glasses. That being said, I decided to order, umm, three! One for the long trip back, and a couple more to wrap up this glorious evening! A swig of beer, and puff of cigar, and it was back to the room!

This proved to be somewhat of a challenge, holding three beers, a cigar, and staggering a good distance back to our place! My feet were aching from wearing my flip-flops all day, and blisters had started to form on the tops. Amazing what a few grains of sand can do! This made the walk even more difficult. The amount of alcohol in my bloodstream wasn't probably helping, but it wasn't like a night of Jagerbombs either. I could manage, I convinced myself.

Still, I'd walk a bit with the cigar in my mouth, chomping down, then stop, retrieve the cigar, take a breath, swig some beer, and continue on. The cigar smoke would sometimes catch me off guard and I'd inhale some, coaxing some coughing from my lungs. I'm not a smoker, I just like cigars. Not supposed to inhale them anyway, but, this was proving difficult.

I polished off one beer as I passed “Thumbdick” and the other Roman statuary, which freed me up to get the cigar out of my mouth. Damn, what a long walk! I continued to waddle along, slowly sipping on another brew, and starting to feel somewhat light headed. I attributed this to the cigar and the long walk, along with what was possibly a little too much beer! No problem. This was going to be my last drink for the evening. What a glorious day!

I made it back to the room, and felt a definite urge to use the toilet. I shooed Becca out as she primped, and she made some snide remark about not to go“dying like Elvis” on the “throne”. I was becoming very, very aware that I wasn't feeling good. At all. I placed the remaining beer on the sink, and vowed that I'd had enough for the evening. That one will have to go to waste.

As had happened to me once before when I was sick from drinking, I felt an unnatural urge to lie on the cold floor, which relaxed me. Beck shoved open the door to find me sprawled across it, and descended into sheer panic. I pleaded with her that I was ok, but she would hear none if it. And, since I really couldn't move, I was starting to agree with her. I was fucked up! Like a "soup sandwich", as my buddy Bill would say.

I pulled myself from the floor, and made my way to the bed where I collapsed again. Becca had become frantic, and I seemed to be a tad disoriented. All of this just weeks after my bout at Rumors where I'd missed a gig in the Emergency Room dealing with a Vaso Vagal! Not again! I tried to convince her I was ok, and just needed to rest, but she protested. She tried to call to get help, but was unsuccessful. Her panic was making it difficult to concentrate for her, I suppose.

“Here!” she ordered, “you call!” I was worthless, and just kind of stared at her as though she were kidding.

“I can't.” I said rather incredulously. I was a mess. At that moment, I knew something was wrong. This was something I couldn't handle.

“Well, then I'm calling 911!” she screamed. I chuckled, which only incensed her.

“That's only in America, honey,” I laughed. She wasn't fucking amused. I took the phone and managed to call the front desk, and let them know I needed immediate medical assistance. I was told there would be a charge, about $250 for an in-room visit, and that they'd page the nurse. No problem, Mon.

The news of their impending arrival calmed Rebecca's nerves some, but I didn't feel any better. In fact, I was overwhelmed with the intense urge to hurl. Which I did. With a vengeance. Becca described is as the most unbelievable eruption of vomitus she'd ever encountered. She thought she saw a shoe emerge. Impressive might not be the appropriate description. Horrific is better suited.

Within an instant, I felt so much more relieved. It was as though a weight had been lifted off me. I bolted upright from bed, and immediately expressed how much better I was feeling. Becca was surprised, amidst the repulsion she was experiencing. I took the soiled towel and bedspread quickly to the bathroom to relieve her, as well as for the soon to be arriving MD, as Becca had just explained everything to the staff nurse who'd phoned in for a report, and alerted us he had been dispatched.

Not too long after that, the initial relief began to fade, and I was again feeling ill. Nice while it lasted, but I can't say I was surprised. Slowly, I laid back down on the comfy king sized bed, and tried to shake it.

“You ok,” Becca inquired with a gentle, motherly touch in her voice.

“Well, I was, but now, not so much.” I said. Damn! Thought I had this licked! “I just really want to rest.”

“You can't!” Becca stated. I shrugged her off.

“Naw, I'll be fine,” I said. “Just need to relax. The worst is over.” I said, trying to rest. But Becca would have none of that.

“WAKE UP!” she shouted, jabbing me sternly in the side of my ribcage, jolting me.

“Ow! Gawdammit!” I protested.

“You can't sleep!” she said.

“I'm fine,” I assured her.

She delivered another blow to my side.

“Deron!” she shouted!

“Will you fucking quit that!” I begged. Jesus! What's it gotta take, I thought?

“No!” she said. “I can't let you sleep.”

“Why?”

“Because!” She said, jabbing me once more. “Now, get the fuck up!”

“Chill the fuck out!” I said. Damn she's mean sometimes!

“No, God Damn it, now get up!” she said. Now I was getting a little pissed off. But I could hear the fear in her voice. “Please, Deron,” she said, “please just sit up!”

As I collected myself, the doctor arrived along with the nurse, and a towing a tall IV pole. Much like everyone else on the island, he inquired about my condition with that famous Jamaican accent, which was almost humorous. God knows, I wanted something to laugh about.

I must say, the doctor was excellent, and his bedside manner was first rate. Better than Rebecca's. He took good care of me, and tended to my condition quickly. He assessed quickly that I was probably dehydrated, and they decided to start me on an IV. I wasn't really looking forward to getting more needles stuck in me, not on vacation, but, what the fuck are you going to do? Grin and bare it.

And, as I say, he was a wonderful doctor, and made the whole episode very manageable. He's as good as any MD I think I've dealt with stateside, and his English was probably just as understandable, if not more so!

I suppose the assessment was I was a couple quarts low, but nothing too serious, so they went through a couple bags of saline to top me off, and along with that included some kind of sedative. As that began to kick in, I was ready to fall asleep. Ah, this feels nice, doc!

They took Mastercard, which I fortunately had room for, and the tally was just over $500, including the medicine administered and a simple test to rule out coronary event. Considering my ER visit to Gateway a few weeks prior was in the neighborhood of $6,000, I think it was a bargain. And if Gateway is looking for good doctors, I've got one to recommend in Negril.

They left, and Becca was greatly relieved, and I slipped away into a deep, extremely restful sleep.

I felt great the next morning. Absolutely no ill effects whatsoever! We grabbed some breakfast and coffee, walked on the beach some, and tried to figure what the hell happened to me the night before. I've most certainly drank more than that in my life, and never had that happen! But it could have been a combination of things, I suppose. We also came to the conclusion that I had chicken curry, which I'd never eaten before in my life, and perhaps I had an allergic reaction to it? I know I'll pass on it if I ever see it on a menu again!

We decided to hit the pool bar when it opened around noon. The pool water was pretty chilly, but several of us had braved it anyway because there's just nothing cooler than sitting at a pool bar! It's one of my biggest pleasures when on vacation. I always make sure the resort has a pool bar, as I love to relax half submerged while downing my cold beers, occasionally dunking under the cool water.

One explanation for the chilly pool was the cloudy, overcast sky above. Gray clouds had rolled in from the bay and had cooled things down some. Another was apparently they'd practically drained the pool last night, and were still in the process of filling it back up. Needless to say my nipples could cut diamonds as a gingerly waded across the pool to the bar, and ordered up some beers to take the chill off.

Couple guys sitting next to me at the bar struck up a conversation, as they were apparently on the flight down with us, and the smoky bus ride to the resort as well.

“You guys from St. Louis too?” he asked. I nodded. “I remember you from the bus,” he said. I'm pretty hard to forget, I know.

“Yes, we're from the Metro East,” I said.

“So am it. Troy,” he said, referring to the small town off I-55 just east of our hometown.

“No kidding!” I said. “I'm from Granite.”

“Wow, I grew up in Granite,” he said. Get the fuck out! I'm in a different country on an island for Christ sakes, and I end up sitting next to someone that is from Granite City! Small God damn world.

He went on to tell me who he was, and his name was vaguely familiar. I was acquainted with some of his older siblings, as it turned out he was closer to Becca's age. In fact, he even went to the same Catholic school as Becca! Astonishing!

We chit-chatted and attempted to keep warm, which the alcohol was beginning to assist. We also made small talk with some couples around the corner of the bar, and everyone share a shot together. The party was on! Yeah Mon!

A whole gaggle of young women waded into the pool, and kicked everything up a notch as they were all on a good afternoon drunk and celebrating. What, I don't know, but you don't really need a reason in Jamaica. Whatever it is, everyone will celebrate with you.

They pounded shot after shot, and Becca was egging them on.

“Bodyshots!” Becca exclaimed to hoots and hollers. The wait staff weren't too thrilled at the notion. They could see this getting out of hand very, very quickly, and discouraged them from attempting. So, instead they just kept pounding away shot after shot followed by hoots and hollers, having a good time, and drinking the afternoon away. As did we all.

And, I was feeling great. That IV last night really recharged my batteries! I need to do that every time I go drinking! Just stop in at the ER, say “put in a few pints”, and I'll be good to go!

Becca and I decided to retire to the bedroom, as we were both feeling frisky! We made love in paradise, again, and fell asleep in each other's arms. And slept. And slept. And slept some more! Right through dinner and into the late evening.

At one stage I woke to see how late it was, and decided, since Becca was still snoozing away, I'd better just quickly try to fall back asleep and sleep through the night, because if I get up now, I'm up for the rest of the night. So, I shut my eyes and drifted back to sleep.

Pirates of the Caribbean c.2

2009-06-29T13:05:00.001-05:00

Chapter Two: Jerk Chicken in Paradise

The next morning we basically had but one obligation, to check in with our Apple Vacations “Rep” about setting up travel back to the airport when we are to leave. In other words, have them tell us what time the bus leaves to go back to the airport on the day we leave. Then, the rest of the day was ours.

Now, this is where the Apple people get their chance to sell you an “excursion”, or a trip to, say, go snorkeling, sight seeing, what have you. You can purchase one from anyone you wish, but the Apple Vacation people like to get a shot at you, too. I’ve dealt with them in Mexico, and they are pleasant, not overly pushy. Nothing like the nightmare of the timeshare people! And, in fact, I had all intention of adding an excursion when we arrived, as we wanted to go into Negril and visit the famous Rick’s Café. They had a package where they take you by bus shopping, sight seeing to the lighthouse, then to Ricks for a very reasonable price. All things I wanted to do, shop, get a look at the people and history, and then have a beer at Rick's. Maybe even cliff dive? Well, we'll see. I know Beck won't!

As we started our lengthy walk to the main lobby from our room, we had our first look in the daylight at he beautiful beach along the resort. The beach was tree lined, dotted with white plastic resin lounge chairs, a few of them occupied. Plenty of shade, but the March Jamaican sun was pleasant, not oppressive as the Cancun sun can be.

The sea was calm, with gentle waves spilling ashore. The grounds of the resort were beautiful and very green, well manicured. As with most RIU properties, Greco/Roman architecture was the predominate theme, with many statues adorning the plaza, complimenting the gentle, light lavender temple-like buildings. The centerpiece of one strip of Caesar statues along the path was a tall, naked male figure I dubbed “Thumbdick”.

We met up with our Apple rep to give her the paperwork to head back to the airport on Monday, and she briefly explained we’d get notice in our room the day of departure, etc. That was it, no hard sell! Jamaica is just more relaxed, I guess. So, when I mentioned we wanted to add an excursion to Negril, she happily complied, and set us up for that afternoon! Wow, excellent! At a very reasonable $25 a person. Our afternoon was set!

We grabbed a quick breakfast at the buffet, and shared it outside with some extremely aggressive fowl that hang around, looking for scraps! This one skinny, white feathered fella would just glare at you from about an arms length away, his menacing stare and slow, methodical, impatient strut letting you know that the moment you get up, your food is his! I’d raise my arms up and growl to scare him away, and he’d causally flinch, taking a few step back gently, but by and large he wasn’t startled whatsoever! You little, arrogant bastard! Becca laughed, and we enjoyed some terrific coffee along with our intrusive local “friend”.

We took a stroll along the beach, situated in what’s known as Bloody Bay. How do you like THAT for a geographical location? Palm trees covering the beach offered generous shade, unlike the barren, treeless beaches of Cancun. I could almost envision pirate ships full mast sailing into the bay! “Arrghie matie! Shiver me timbers!” I was not envisioning Johnny Depp, however.

In reality, as I gazed out into the bay, to me it bore more of a resemblance to a James Bond film. The bay was ringed with resorts including our own, and anchored just off shore amid the turquoise blue sea rested an elegant sloop with it's masts stowed. I could imagine some trophy Bond woman slinking around deck in a revealing bikini to the sound of sultry saxophone music carrying two martinis, with a relaxing Sean Connery uttering some pithy innuendo that includes the word “Pussy” (pronounced Push-hie by the esteemed Sir Connery). Very Continental!

Also, stationed at the edges of the resort property were smaller craft manned by Rastafarian looking characters begging passers by to take them out to the sea for fish excursions. They were pushy at times, but took no for an answer very calmly.

Jet-skis would occasionally zoom past the buoy marked limit as well. I think they would occasionally zip across the bay to get attention, using that as a marketing tool to rent the devices. Beck mentioned it as being very enjoyable to ride them, but I wasn't sure we'd have the time to try.

Sometime after lunch, which we skipped (va va va voom! Wink wink), we patiently waited at the foot of the resort’s foyer for the tour bus to arrive to drive us into Negril, however they were running extremely late. Hey, no problem, Mon! No one is in a hurry in Jamaica! It was the same bus running tourists into Negril resorts from the airport, and they were stacked up this afternoon. Running about an hour behind, we finally piled on the bus with some dozen other tourists and headed out on our excursion.

Our tour guide greeted us with the typical thick, Jamaican accent, and she explained different things about the region as we made the short trip into town. The resort is only about 4 or 5 miles outside Negril, which is a sleepy little village located at the western most point of the island. One interesting feature she mentioned is that no structure is allowed to be build taller than the palm trees, which explains why there are no skyscraper resorts at Negril. They are not allowed to detract from the islands natural beauty.

After a brief drive, we arrived at a modest green shack called JammRock to do some shopping, and all piled out of the bus. Inside the tiny shack, it was cram packed with tee shirts and trinkets. The proprietors of the place were decidedly NOT Jamaican, but probably Iranian or Bosnian, or something more Mediterranean.

I found cool shirt after cool shirt, and some very nice Cuban cigars as well. Montecristo, my brand! I wasn’t sure if this was our only shopping stop, as we had other parts to the tour and running behind. I pretty much found everything I wanted and more. So did Becca.

We pooled everything together we wished to purchase, haggled for a discount, and bought one official shitload of goods. In fact, it broke us both of the spending cash we’d brought from the hotel. I still had plenty of money back there, and had left most of my credit cards in the safe as well for safekeeping. So, for the rest of this day trip, well, we weren’t really buying anything unless they took Discover!

After this brief detour, we piled back into the bus and moved along to Negril proper. It’s undulating, steep terrain rises out of the sea, featuring some steep hills reminiscent of San Francisco or Seattle, only perhaps not as tall. Perhaps more like the steep bluffs located in Collinsville and Caseyville, Illinois.

The bus pulled around and navigated a parking spot alongside a run down, flamingo pink shopping strip loaded with cheesy looking tourist souvenir shops. Uh oh! More shopping! And I'd blown my whole wad at the first place! Damn! I felt kinda sick. Guess we’ll just get out and walk, take in the sights then!

We wandered around the sidewalks briefly, noting the shops and people around them. I didn’t really see anything that I’d cared to purchase, but I still couldn’t shake that nagging feeling that I’d made a big mistake spending too much and at the first place we went to and not saving some. I hate misjudging something like that!

Still, I can honestly say there was nothing at any of these shops I wanted or interested me. The tee-shirt prices were much cheaper, but, so were the shirts, and really nothing that I wanted design wise. I'd gotten the best tee shirts at the other place. I guess I didn’t blow it after all, but I was still down on myself somewhat.

Amidst the rundown shops and impoverished local Jamaicans loitering about stood a new Burger King, lending a surreal tie to home. Home Of The Whopper, Mon!

At one point, a Rastafarian looking character with an acoustic guitar wandered up the sidewalk, found a clear corner between two of the shops in the shade, and started to play for tips. I’d made my way back on the bus anxiously waiting to move on, so I couldn’t really hear him perform through the glass of the bus. Still, a fascinating touch of ambiance. Jamaica is a musical place, to be sure!

Before long, we made our way out of downtown Jamaica and backtracked briefly towards the resort, crossing the very modest Negril River. Along side the banks of the river stood a row of shanties huddled together, dilapidated and very humble.

“Wow! Look at those!” Becca said with alarm, noting the squalid conditions the structures bore. At that moment, the tour guide announced we’d be visiting the “artisans” spending about ten minutes or so, which I immediately equated with the “flea market” in Cancun. And, that probably meant…

Yup, we were pulling into visit those same exact shanties! That’s were they sold stuff dirt cheap, and I suspected with the same Mexican hard sell as I’d had to endure in Cancun at their flea markets. It was an eye opening experience, to be sure! They can quickly make one very uncomfortable, hagging over anything and everything.

Cautiously we crawled out of the bus onto the grounds, where all manner of tin shacks held trinkets, hand made items, and tons and tons of tee shirts at ridiculously cheap prices. And let me tell you, the haggard locals were all over you to get you to follow them back to their personal shanty and have a look. I humored one of them, not bothering to tell them that at that moment, I was as poor as they were! I wanted to get a feel for the ambiance. I nodded to Becca to follow, and began to wander down the “streets” of this Jamaican shanty town, with a young Jamaican leading me to his particular spot that exhibited his wares.

Each tiny shed was stocked from dirt floor to tin covered ceiling with all manner of cheap shit. Each polite Jamaican face smiled back at me with a strange pleading look of desire in their eyes, looking to sell me something: anything. Some places housed intricate, hand crafted wooden statues of all kinds. Some were just cheap shit novelty shirts and junk souvenirs. If I had a buck, I 'd bought something just to do my part to alleviate the poverty. But, the slick Iranians got all my money back at JammRock. Sorry, Mon.

About 10 minutes is the maximum you can take of that place! That was as much of the Third World as I ever wanted to experience! I held Becca’s hand tightly, and weaved our way through the earthen avenue of sheds back to the main parking lot and our bus. We were both kind of overwhelmed at the sight of it all. Just such a beautiful country, but so much desperate poverty.

We departed the humble shanty town and traveled back outside of town. Our next destination was the Negril Lighthouse, located on the western most point of Jamaica. The driver took the “long way”, climbing up and down rocky hills, weaving in and out of green valleys making for an interesting first hand look at the local countryside and its unique people.

Jamaicans are decedent from African slaves, many of whom either worked the sugar plantations on the island centuries ago, or from slave trade ships that landed or shipwrecked there. The British outlawed slavery a good deal earlier than our history. As Jamaica was one of the only Caribbean possessions in the British Empire (useful as a pirate staging area to terrorize Spanish shipping lanes, and wealthy Spanish galleons loaded with Mexican gold), it has a unique English culture of its own. Its famous rum, distilled from sugar grown on the island, has lead to many an intoxicating party, I'm sure! They grow more than that on the island as well, which they smoke often.

As we passed small bundles of houses, I'd spot some of these “decedents” as they meandered through their daily lives. Some strolling along the side of the road, some on bicycle. All very modest, humble, but yet seemingly happy and bright. Amidst the simple landscape, they were a simple, happy people it would seem.

Most of the houses we passed were very modest and often run down, some apparently even having been destroyed by recent hurricane activity and abandoned. Although, on occasion, we’d pass a beautiful newer home that seemed strangely out of place among the shacks.

“Out here,” the tour guide said, “live da doctors, da lawyers, da teachers, and da ‘street pharmacists.’” We chuckled. Everyone understood who that meant.

The bus would creak, wheeze, and moan as the driver led us over steep inclines, and through the island's rocky valleys along the narrow, bumpy roads to the coast.

Occasionally, some trees that we would pass bore beautiful scarlet red flowers, which our tour guide explained were the national fruit of the island, but also very dangerous. If picked at the wrong stage, we were told, they were deadly poisonous, but when ripened and picked at precisely the proper moment, it was as delicious delicacy that they served with saltfish. The brilliant red blooms dotted the trees every where we passed, along with many other colorful floral species along the roadway.

Goats were everywhere! Roaming fields, tied to trees, tied to bumpers, goats were plentiful. Occasionally we'd spot cattle, even chickens, but goats were the most popular.

“Do you have goats back home?” our tour guide inquired rather playfully. “Goats are a delicacy here on the island,” she explained. She went on to describe a delicious goat’s head soup recipe that had the whole bus groaning! “Oh, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed. I think I’ll pass on that if it’s on the menu at Rick’s Café. Speaking of which, Becca and I were both getting very hungry, and I was just praying to God that Rick’s Cafe took Discover!

After winding through the hillside, passing shanties, shacks, and larger, more beautiful homes of probably aforementioned “street pharmacists”, we arrived at the Negril lighthouse standing guard the western most tip of the island. We all piled out of the bus for an excellent photo op, and I began to have the urge to urinate extremely badly! Yeeow!

I took some wonderful pictures of the countryside as well as the sea from the magnificent cliffs. Across the tiny bay from the lighthouse sat Rick's Cafe, our next destination. I was hoping to make it to the bathroom over there, but that was looking more and more like and increasingly difficult chore. A well placed bush would suffice for now!

I also snapped some amusing pictures, one of a strange television set resting among the trees near the bluffs. I also posed for an amusing if not juvenile photo of me standing in front of a mounted cannon ala Bob the Enzyte guy. All of it was breathtakingly beautiful. Now, where's the bathroom? Please!

We pulled into Rick's about a 45 minutes or so before sunset, and our tour guide informed us that after the sun goes down, we'll head back to our resort, so they encouraged us to order any food right away so as not to get caught waiting. Check. Find bathroom, order food. Got it!

The cafe was packed, and our tour bus driver delicately navigated the cumbersome bus along the crowded, narrow street to the entrance. My foot was tapping, and I was achingly having to go pee. I made a bee line out of the bus and scanned the premises, desperately searching for the restroom facilities. People were everywhere! It was very reminiscent of The Loading Dock in Grafton, Illinois, except it was perched in paradise!

A friendly red, gold and green sign mounted on a tree pointed towards the john, with arrows that displayed “Mon”, and “Wo-Mon”. Bingo! I can spare you the assorted details, but whilst in the can, I could plainly hear the female side of the restroom. Oddly close, as though the were right next to me.

When I approached the sink, it took me a second, but in between the mirrors on the wall I saw women's faces staring back at me! Whoa! Between the two restrooms, there were only some mirrors separating! You couldn't really see the “business end” of the toilets, but it is a shock to see into the women's bathroom, or to have them stare back at you! Good thing I didn't walk around with my dork hanging out!

Much relieved, I took a second to casually wander the grounds and snap some photos. A modest pool rested next to the bathroom cabana, and seated within the pool were a table full of revelers! Nice seat!!

At the edge of the bluffs, a couple people lined up to a small stairway, and, well, jumped off! I peered down below, some 20 to 35 feet I'd hazard to guess, where I spotted a couple dogpaddling their way in the beautiful azure lagoon towards the landing area, having just taken the plunge. A stairway lead down along the rocky cliff to a flat, man made concrete landing, and people lined every inch of it of the path, holding drinks and watching the action.

I'd worn my trunks in case I'd gotten the hankerin' to take a “dip” off the cliff. As some of my close friends know, I'm deathly afraid of heights. Now this wasn't much worse than a two story building, I guess. I could probably muster up the courage, just to say that I did it. But, it was going to take some coaxing, and some mental preparation. The red warning sign placed before the jumping stairs making clear that this wasn't the safest thing to do and that Rick's takes NO responsibility for your actions should you decided to jump off makes you stop and think it over for a minute. That is a pretty long way down.

And, first things first: I had to order some food! And beer!

I located Becca amongst the crowd, and we made our way to the bar side of the property as the bright sun slowly dipped past the clouds towards the sea. This was going to be the BEST spot to watch the BEST sunset! The bar was sheltered, but had no walls save the back area, and numerous flat screen monitors hung about, displaying all manner of sports, not unlike any other sports bar one would come across. We found a good location at the bar where we could watch the setting sun, and also found some menus. Yes! They take Discover! This is paradise!

I ordered up some authentic spicy Jerk Chicken and a bottle of Red Stripe lager, and Becca ordered some kind of chicken dish, and a Red Stripe for herself. Man, this Red Stripe is good beer! I'd had the import version once, years ago in South County at Brian's Metal's Edge, but as can happen with imports, the taste was skunky and more bitter. My fear was that I'd be served the same. I wasn't. This was sweet, smooth lager. Ice cold, but more creamy than crisp. The first one went down very quickly, and I ordered up another of the squat, barrel shaped, white labeled brown bottles. “Yah mon, no problem!”

I spun around on my barstool with a fresh beer in hand and gauged the speed at which the sun was setting. A patch of light gray clouds hung close in the sky as the Caribbean Sea began to glisten like a thousand jewels. A treasure like no other, lasting for only moments, but free to all to enjoy.

“This is going to be a spectacular sunset,” I told Beck, as I looked over the crowd of people that were starting to make their way to the open air patio tables across from my barstool. With a bank of clouds like this moving in, I know some of the most beautiful sunsets I've seen back home are when the bright oranges and deep pinks slowly fade to rich purples across a partially cloudy sky. I was starting to witness exactly that, with the beautiful golden ocean added in. It was heart stopping.

In front of the bar area towards the edge of the cliffs that lined the premises, a reggae band had begun to play for our amusement on a specially constructed covered bandstand. Unlike the band at the RIU the night before, this band's lead singer was a round, stocky woman wearing some kind of African style head dress. But, like the other reggae band, they were quite talented! Again, I'm not a big fan of the genre, but, I was digging what I was hearing, and the ambiance was perfect: pure hedonism! Great food, great drinks, rhythmic music, and lightshow provided by God. This is what life is!

Without a great deal of delay, our dinner (lunch?) was served to us, and I anxiously dug into my spicy Jerk chicken. It was excellent, with a little bit of kick. Nothing overpowering. Those Red Stripe lagers were going down quickly, too! The look on Beck's face said it all as well: we were in heaven! A complete sensory pleasure overload! Almost indescribable.

With one more Red Stripe, I pulled out my camera as the sun began to touch the sea and slowly sink beneath the horizon. Thicker cloud cover made the sky more gray than I'd expected, but the Jamaican sunset was spectacular none the less! Slowly, the sun sank into the dazzling blue Caribbean, and as it slipped away, the entire crowd at Rick's burst into applause. A magical, peaceful moment shared by all. Wow, kinda moving! Another day in paradise, literally!

We settled up our tab with the barmaid, and made our way to the gift shop to grab a shirt and stuff before getting on the bus back. Had to have something to remember this by! Found a fitting tie-dye tee in my size, and Beck found some appropriate attire. After a quick pit stop at the “head” one last time (hi ladies!), we found our tour guide was searching for us, as all others had boarded the bus to head back.

The trip back to the resort only took about 15 minutes at most, as we'd taken the long way out to the lighthouse, so the drive took the short trip back. But, it was a reflective, peaceful ride thru Negril as darkness descended on the tiny seaside village. I think I'd just touched the edges of heaven. And what a party it is!

Pirates of the Caribbean

2009-06-26T15:06:00.000-05:00

Chapter One: The Adventure Begins

Ever since Beck and I have been dating, and I’ve been working at the hospital as well as playing guitar in Rock Bottom (and some good poker games), we’ve been hitting Cancun about every six months. Beck had never been on a plane before she met me! Nor had she been South of the Border, as it were. Each trip has been a blast, a real trip to paradise. Usually we’ve gone alone, although my mother also went this past Cancun trip, as she basically goes for free as a travel agent.

We, well, were getting spring fever, and I started pressing mom about any good deals to, well, anywhere! Someplace warm! She found a good price on a weekend in Negril, Jamaica. YAH MON! Never been there, but it sounds warm and wonderful! So, on a whim I booked it, got Tommy, our old guitarist to cover me on guitar for the weekend, and counted down the days ‘til I could get some warm weather!

Now, as fate would have it, the day we flew out it was 70 degrees in St. Louis! What’s up with that? Our flight was an afternoon departure as opposed to the early morning Cancun flights, so we enjoyed a bit of the spring like weather here before departing. Had lunch at Si Senor’s, our favorite Mexican restaurant, and I swung by J. Gravity Strings to have some minor guitar work done on “Bob”, my Ibanez, while I’m away. Just a pickup switchout I’d been meaning to get around to.

This was a monumental flight for Beck as she was attempting it sans medication. See, one reason she’d never flown anywhere is because she’s deathly afraid to fly! Just can’t stand the thought of it! But, since I was giving her such good reasons to climb on board (trips to paradise like Cancun), she could talk herself into to it with the provision that she maybe just would have a little Xanax or something to calm the nerves. And, that worked fine.

But, Beck is very health conscious (as you can tell by her dazzling, sexy appearance), and really doesn’t like taking medication. So, this time was going to be sedative free! She was ready! Our past 6 flights (out and back three times) have all been very pleasant. One slightly bumpy trip back the first time out, but that was manageable. She’s finally got the confidence to handle the stress involved.

And, the flight out was a piece of cake. We watched the in-flight movie Ghost Town which was mildly amusing, but it helped to pass the time on the three hour flight down. Well, just under three hours. We watched the sunset as we cruised over Cuba (I didn’t know we could fly over Cuba!), casting a beautiful orange glow throughout the cabin. Got a nice picture of that posted on MySpace. As night fell, I couldn’t really see much of where we were flying over, but as we began descent into Montego Bay, I could see the horizon of night lights dotting a coastline as we approached. Jamaica at last!

The landing was a bit of an adventure as the pilot decided to show us his barnstorming skills, pitching the craft a bit and throttling around. Beck crushed my hand with fear in her eyes as the cabin swayed and dipped. Yeah, I was more than puzzled myself, but filled with excitement having almost reached a new destination, I simply hung on for the ride. Not one of those “grease the plane in” jobs commercial pilots normally employ. That will get your heart racing a tad!

Touchdown was uneventful, however, and the next thing ya know, you’re hitting customs, getting the passport stamped and officially in a Third World country! Wild thing about Jamaica is English is its official language, so everything around seems very familiar. It’s not until you step outside the airport and travel the streets that you realize this isn’t the US.

Jamaicans speak English with that cartoonish accent everyone is familiar with. It’s no joke, they all sound exactly like that! They speak what is called a Jamaican Patois, and while it’s basically an English dialect, when they start conversing amongst themselves I quickly noticed I didn’t have a fucking clue what they were saying! They speak quickly and with “slang” that only they understand.

After finding our Apple Vacation rep and discovering our shuttle bus to take us to Negril, Becca and I relaxed in our seats towards the back of the bus as more vacationers piled in. A back door was opened as one of the crew appeared and began dealing “ganja” right there on the spot with some tourists! They haggled over price and argued quality. Later the dealer approached me, but I politely declined. Not interested, thanks! He made his way through the bus gently offering weed. Becca was incredulous! I knew they sold it here, and I would be confronted, but I admit I didn’t expect it as soon as I arrived!

Once everyone was onboard, we pulled out of Montego Bay and headed down a narrow, two lane highway along Jamaica’s northern coast heading towards Negril, located at the western tip of the island. Jamaicans drive on the left as the English do, opposite of what we drive.

“Left is right,” the guide in front informed us over the bus intercom with a thick Jamaican twang, “and right is suicide!” The bus erupted in laughter.

We passed corrugated tin shanties and run down businesses along the way, examples of the poverty that Jamaica suffers from. Very eye opening. Small groups of Jamaicans gathered at various places, probably celebrating a Friday night, milling and carousing. The “guide” along with us explained it was about an hour and twenty minutes to Negril, sometimes faster, sometimes not. It depends. No problem, Mon.

The bus slowed a number of times to navigate tight bridges, oncoming traffic, groups of pedestrians, and occasional road hazards as we plowed on through the night towards the resort. To our right, I could often make out the Caribbean through the darkness, but only as a shadow it seemed. The night was very dark, and the moonlight was yet to shine upon the sea as it was yet to rise.

I relaxed and watched the bright red LED digital clock mounted over the driver’s seat counting down the minutes until our arrival at “paradise”: the Club RIU Negril resort. Around us, vacationers conversed to pass the time, and I leaned in to listen, getting a flavor of those around me along for the trip. One older gentleman seated next to my left announced this was his sixteenth trip to the island, along with his wife. They simply love coming down here.

From behind me, one of the other tourists wasn’t shy about his vacation plans.

“I’m going to get ‘Chinese-eyes-ed’ and chill out!” he proudly stated. Yah mon, no problem. This was the pervading mood in Jamaica I would come to learn. Yah Mon! Everything is No Problem. And get baked.

And, he proceeded to do just that, sparking up a doobie in the back of the bus during one of the quieter moments of the trip. Almost like high school in Granite back in the 70’s and 80’s! I guess it was a joint. Could have been a pinch hitter, I dunno. Didn’t actually witness it. But, the pungent scent of skunkweed was undeniable, and as we approached oncoming traffic or entered an urban area of one of the tiny towns that dotted the Jamaican coastline, the light would illuminate the interior of the coach revealing a blue-white haze wafting through the cabin. It’s the Magic Bus! The Magical Mystery Tour! Note-to-self: don’t bring the kids next time!

We arrived at the resort around 10pm, and the staff manning the front desk busted ass to get the whole bus registered and rooms assigned as quickly as possible. I tugged my luggage up to the desk, and surveyed the premises.

As typical of RIU resorts, the lobby was luxurious and welcoming. Adorned with statues and mahogany marble tiles, they first impressions are one of elegance and demeanor. There are no walls fore or aft under the expansive roof of the resort as the entire lobby is open air, allowing the cool tropical evening breeze to blow thorough. Across from the lobby desk was the next most important feature, the lobby bar! I could use a cold Jamaican beer!

We were placed in room 4101, which I recognized as the forth and last building on the resort, farthest away from the heart of the place. One of the complaints I’d read about when I looked up reviews on TripAdviser.com about the place was getting a room out in Building Four. Those that got stuck out in the hinterland complained about the walk. Guess I was about to experience that for myself! No problem, Mon!

“I’m hungry!” Beck said smiling, bouncing with excitement. “I must have a contact high! Munchies!” Perhaps it was the ganja, but more likely was we were both bouncing and excited to be in Jamaica: a nice, long weekend in paradise together!

We labeled our bags to be delivered to our distant rooms and struck out to find a food buffet still open at this hour, after a quick stop at the lobby bar for a draft beer of course. Or two. Rhythmic sounds of Reggae music permeated the air as we made our way towards the left edge of the resort. Instantly we were immersed in the culture of the island: warm sea breezes, cocktails, the smell of ganja, and music; fun, upbeat music filled the air around us, welcoming us to paradise.

At “The Coliseum”, a large covered stage area, virtually around the corner from behind the front desk lobby, a local reggae band wailed away to a crowded house. The crowd spilled out from the tables of the cabaret-like setting out towards the main bar that guarded the main pool. Sort of an indoor/outdoor amphitheater, and very cool! Smiles and cocktails abound, and the driving reggae beat felt refreshing.

We stopped to gather it all in, and I was greatly impressed. The performer was of top notch quality, and the band's sound was first rate. This was the real deal! Now, most reggae all sounds the same to someone like me that isn’t really into it, but it is a music of passion, not unlike The Blues, and this guy had real soul! There was no mistaking it.

Adorned with the stylistic dreadlocks, a thin, whispy black man with a billowy white shirt darted and danced around his microphone stand to the classic reggae beat, strumming his Stratocaster along and belting out refrains. I had to smile. Not exactly like the corny “Three Amigos” clad Mariachi one would encounter in Cancun! This was electric, this was soul, this was Jamaica. Yah Mon! No problem!

We managed to find the late night buffet still open, and while the selection wasn't overwhelming, we got some decent food in our bellies, and had a drink or two as the Reggae band wrapped up their set. We were officially settling in.

Ready to party some, we decided to hit the disco Pasha located on the resort next to the Coliseum. It was a tiny, dark bar with a modest dance floor and driving dance music. While it wasn't very crowded at first when we arrived, as the other bars on the resort closed up shop, many other late night partiers found their way down there with us. At one point, it held a decent size group, and all of us were drinking heavily! Yah mon! The bartenders were friendly and laid back as the typical island norm, and by the looks of them, pretty high too. They made it known you could get what you needed from them, as well.

After a brief trip to relieve myself (I'd broken the “seal”) Becca met my return with wide eyes of concern!

“Good lord!” she said. “Sit here!” She was a bit uncomfortable. Where the hell did she think I was going to sit?

“What's wrong?” I asked, sucking down another draft beer.

“No sooner than you get up, and they start hitting on me!” she said.

“Who?” I said, scanning the bar with a raised eyebrow. “Those guys?” I asked, pointing to a group of young men, obviously hammered, and sparking a joint. Punks!

“No! The bartenders!”

Wow, no kidding? Eddie Murphy's gag from Raw describing the womanizing Dexter St. Jacques swinging his dick, romancing your estranged girl played in my mind. I'll bet they are some players. Bastards. Honestly, no different from Eddies, though. Hell, the WOMEN at Eddie's are even more forward towards her.

We attempted to keep good humor about it, and she told me how he said he could “take her AWAY”, but she added “to where? I'm already here?”

Finishing our drinks, we decided to head back to our rooms and retire, where I'd make Becca forget all about Dexter St. Jacques.

I'll take you away! No problem, Mon.

National Lampoons Southern Vacation (sorta) Part V

2009-06-12T10:46:00.001-05:00

The next morning was getaway day, and we were heading back home to STL. I missed my puppy dog! Will be good to see her. Steve, who was watching her while I was gone, sent me a photo of her taken from his cell phone. So sad!

We decided that before we left, we'd wander through one of New Orleans' unique cemeteries. As you may know, since New Orleans is below sea level (and sinking), there is no way to “bury” the dead. So, the old cemeteries are full of crypts, and it's very spooky! Several of them rest outside the Quarter, and mom recommended that we see one, as they are unique. Becca and my junior paranormal squad were more than game!!

We arrived at the gates of one of the famous “resting places”, only to find it locked. They don't open until 11, and it was about 10:30. Well, piss! The streets were vacant, quiet, and eerily calm. Still, I wasn't about to just sit by the side of the road for thirty minutes and wait for the cemetery to open! What to do? Ah! Only one thing! Café Du Monde! Some café au lait and beignets before we head home! By then, the graveyard should be open.

The Café was jammed packed with customers! Wall to wall! We wandered over to the farthest side of the café, along the narrow path that buttressed the levee wall. There were a few tables out there as well, and a group of people sitting, relaxing, taking in some coffee and New Orleans just as we were. Took a while to get our order, but the staff was coping as best they could. I mean, this place was jumping! Guess everyone hits it after church lets out at the St. Louis Cathedral?

As we took in the morning, sipping our coffee, one of the girls noticed a gentleman seated outside along the levee wall, dressed in a snappy black suit, chatting on a cellphone.

“Who is that?” my eldest asked. Just looked like an older black dude, chatting on a phone with wire rimmed glasses to me. Who the hell is it supposed to be?

My mother creened her neck to see, as a true rubbernecker, and her face lit up.

“Oh, that's! That's!” she said excitedly, then paused. Her eyes rolled back, trying to recognize the face, then, as she bounced in her seat, she exclaimed “Samuel L. Jackson!”

Now, I was suspect. You see, once at the Pebble Beach Clubhouse, while having drinks, she claimed that a black gentleman seated by us with a small group was Bryant Gumble. But, instead it was in fact, O.J. Simpson!!

“Sure it's not O.J., mom?” She laughed and smiled.

“No, but that's him.”

I took a good, hard look again, because I sure didn't see the resemblance. He'd taken off his glasses, hung up his cellphone, and looked over at us. God Damn! It WAS Samuel L. Jackson! Not more than 10 ft. away! Before long we began to realize they were in the process of shooting some movie scenes, and some of those around him were his handlers, and people from the crew. I watched a bit, but tried not to gawk. It was amazing that in such a crowded place, no one recognized him.

After that bit of excitement, we decided to check out the graveyard. As we approached, it was obvious that the gates had been thrown open to the public, so I parked the car near by and we cautiously strolled in. It was a sunny, beautiful Sunday morning, sun shining brightly, only a few puffy clouds coasting through a clear blue sky. The New Orleans summer breeze was much cooler than normal for a typical July summer day. A real treat to behold.

The cemetery, on the other hand, was a bit more dreary. While one had to enjoy a beautiful tropical summer morning, the sight of crypts of the dead gave it a surreal appearance. The cemetery was lined by a tall brick fence, with gates on each side wide enough to allow a car to pass into it. The tombs were old an worn, set up in rows. It was haphazardly kept, and almost appeared abandoned. We wandered down the rows, gawking I guess you could say. Frighteningly, a few of the crypts were broken open, and there were obviously candles around, as though some voodoo ceremonies were performed there!

This was the site, by the way for you movie trivia buffs, where Easy Rider shot a bizarre, trippy sequence, with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper tripping on some kind of mushroom or something, wandering the cemetery, being generally stupid, as youth can be, from whatever decade. I felt as tho I was in that same trippy mode. I understood the inspiration, now.

Many of the people buried there were from very long ago, pre 1800's even. Some of the epitaphs were in French, and I tried to make sense of them, having a elementary knowledge of the language. I read one, and made out a good part of it. He was a guerrier, a warrior. A fighter. When he died, I don't even think Louisiana was part of the US yet.

Soon, I found an English translation of his epitaph, and was surprising pleased as to how much I'd translated on my own. He was a Revolutionary War soldier, who fought hard, and was fearless. A born leader. Must have been greatly admired. Rest in Peace, mon frère.

Now, there's only so many crypts you can look at (I wouldn't say admire) before it becomes tiresome. It's creepy enough as it is. My girls seemed fascinated by it, but frightened at the same time. Especially my youngest. She wasn't having a great time, complaining that her head hurt! This place was creeping her out, big time!

At one point, while gazing across the cemetery, I saw a short, black figure dart across the aisle and behind one of the crypts! Did I just fucking see that? I glanced around, located everyone in our party, and NO ONE was anywhere near that part of the graveyard! And we were the only one's there! Naw, that had to be my imagination? I kept quiet about it, because I didn't a) want them to think I was crazy, and b) start to panic them. The little one looked spooked enough as it is.

.We started to make our way out of the place, and I inquired as to what everyone's opinion was. Sami and Rebecca thought it was very cool. They are like that. They like this kinda creepy shit. Sarah, not so much. I'm kinda with her. I've gotten older, and find interesting things, but overall, I'm kinda creeped out by it. Mom had been there before, and as with so many things about my mother, she was ambivalent.

As we exited out onto the sidewalk, Sarah declared “my headache is gone!” She stared up at me with her beautiful eyes with amazement, and a slightly puzzled look. “It just went away.” She turned to look back into the cemetery, and walked back in. Standing three or four steps in, she turned back to me and shouted “now my head hurts again!”

She approached me again, paused, looked at the ground, then back at me, declaring “now it's gone again!” She repeated the process once more just to satisfy her curiosity, with the same results. Now, I can't say there is anything paranormal regarding that, but I do think she's sensitive. I've noticed that. I don't know if it's because she's young, or if it's a gift, but, while I've never really said anything to her, I think she's got some psychic sensitivities. Strange. For her to feel that, I mean. It was strange to her, too.

The cemetery was literally in the shadow of I-10, so with a quick hop, skip, and jump we were shuttling down the Interstate, headed for home. Just a short westerly drive through the bayous, and we'd be on I-55 all the way home, northbound. About 10 hours, and I'd turned it before. Nothing I couldn't knock out.

I pulled over on the outskirts of New Orleans to fill the tank, let the kids get a restroom break, and prepare for the long trip home. Beck, seated in the car alone after everyone ran into the store, asked “so, did you see anything spooky?” She bore a wide, devilish grin.

“Did you?” I asked. She shook her head no. “Well, yeah, I did see something,” I confessed, and told her about the quick, dark shadow I saw run towards one of the tombs.

“Wow!” she said.

Sami piled back into the van, and Becca bursted out “your dad saw a ghost back at the cemetery!” Doh! Thanks Beck! Now I'm going to look retarded!

“Really?! I saw one too!” Sami exclaimed! “Short, dark, like a little kid! It hid behind one of those, things, whatever!” Is she for real?

“Where did you see it, what part of the cemetery?” I asked. She described exactly where I saw movement, the same time I saw it. Creepy!

“Yeah, I didn't want to say anything,” she said, “you know, because I though I was nuts!” I could feel my skin crawl, yet I was really amazed.

Mom and my youngest, Sarah, returned from the convenience store and buckled themselves in as I started to pull away from the gas island.

“Guess what, Sarah,” Sami said, “dad and I both saw something back at the cemetery! And we didn't say anything to each other!” Sarah's eyes grew as big as saucers.

“I saw it too!” Sarah said.

“You did?” I asked . She nodded, and had a blank, pale look on her face. “What was it?” I asked.

“A little girl, in, like, a black dress. She was hiding behind one of the crypt-thingies, like. It scared me!”

Unbelievable! All three of us described the exact same event and hadn't mentioned it to anyone for fear we were imagining it! It was as though we couldn't believe our eyes! But, there's no doubt, all three of us corroborated the stories, and we weren't standing next to each other when it happened, but we each had a different viewpoint of the event. Genuinely fascinating!

All the way home, as my eyes wandered the Louisiana/Mississippi countryside, admiring the bayous wondering how good the fishing would be, I couldn't help but replay that moment in my mind. What did I see at that cemetery? What could it have been? A dark shadow, scurrying across the gravel path between the rows of tombs, vanishing behind one. Isn't it amazing that both my daughters would have noticed it as well? My eyes couldn't have been playing tricks on me! Not all three of us from different angles of the graveyard! And my youngest, the most sensitive of us all, even described her as a little girl in a black dress. Astounding! I was speechless.

Now I want to go back just to investigate the paranormal side of The Big Easy! That would be quite a trip!

National Lampoons Southern Vacation (sorta) Part IV

2009-06-10T17:27:00.000-05:00

Becca and I hit Bourbon Street that evening looking for some good music and good times. That doesn't take long to find on Bourbon Street! Practically two blocks from our Holiday Inn in the French Quarter, we found a hopping little joint with blues music blaring from the wide open, wall-less entrance. THIS is what I'm talkin' 'bout! I was all smiles! The anticipation was over!

We sat and ordered a couple beers (Beck wasn't in the mood for anything phoofy or frilly), and listened to the Rhythm and Blues act on stage tear it up. Something like out of the Blues Brothers, they had a horn section, guitar, keys, drums and bass, and a couple of different singers jumped up and jammed. They were very good! Full of soul and electricity, really bringing it home. Ah! So good to be back in the French Quarter!

Now, I like this kind of stuff, the whole R&B, Motown, James Brown, Blues Brothers kinda sound. But what I was really hoping to see was some gritty, gutsy, guitar slingin' Blues, like Stevie Ray, Buddy Guy, Freddie King, Albert Collins kinda stuff. So, after enjoying a brew and a couple good tunes, I took Becca by the hand and we continued to wander down Bourbon Street, looking for more music. Looking for that Holy Grail of Blues, like I'd heard the last time.

As I'd pointed out to Becca, one of the really cool features to Bourbon Street is at nearly every bar and even souvenir shop there is often a little half door or window where they'll sell you a big cup of beer, or Hurricane, or whatever, and you just wander up and down Bourbon Street, get drunk and party! Hell, one place was even called Big Ass Beers! For those of you who've been to Collinsville's Italian Fest, think that, only with Blues music everywhere, as well as debauchery, tittie joints, and great, great New Orleans food. Hey, no knock on Collinsville's great Italian food, but this is gourmet New Orleans. World class stuff!

We happened up on another club, and stood outside listening to the band. It was a younger group of musicians, and a younger, twenty something crowd. They were good, but very commercial, very Pop oriented. Neah, not what I'm here for. I can get that at Pop's or something. Sharkey's, for Christ's Sakes! Blues, baby! Where are the Blues Masters? Gotta get me some! Someone to Testify!

We wandered farther down Bourbon Street, but more and more all we found was similar to the Pop bar. Some DJ's, some Top 40 bands. Nothing quite like we saw at the first place, and absolutely nothing like what I remembered. Sigh. Maybe you can never go back?

Well, either Bourbon Street had changed, or, I also needed to keep in mind this was Friday night. Amateur night. All the kids out partying. This is the kind of crap THEY want to hear, so they book it to bring them in. Could be that any particular weekday, Bourbon Street would be crawling with Blues bands. But Friday night, that's when they book this crap. Oh well. Still a great time, and Beck wasn't disappointed. She was just happy to see something new. Bourbon Street has a great party vibe, no matter what the music..

We made our way back to the original blues club and took in the rest of the show. We found a table a little farther back this time, as the place was really packed. Another indicator this was one of the only places like this left on Bourbon Street. At least tonight.

Beers weren't cheap, but the music was pretty damn good, and we had a wonderful time. I probably should have brought more money down, but that just kept me from getting too hammered. I can do that any weekend with Rock Bottom. Keepin' it cool tonight.

At one point, they introduced the trombone player, which they claimed was the great nephew of Louis Armstrong. Yeah, right. I bet 45 different musicians in the Greater New Orleans area stake that claim. Can't swing a dead cat around Bourbon Street without hitting someone claiming to be Louis Armstrong's nephew! Don't bother with a DNA test, they are probably full of shit.

In the great tradition of New Orleans jazz and blues, he started singing “When The Saints Go Marching In”. Damned if he didn't sound like Louis Armstrong! Great stuff. They started to parade around the bar like a New Orleans festival, marching and soloing to “Saints”, coming right up to the table, wailing away on trombone, trumpet, sax. Quite a treat! They took a donation basket as well, gently requesting tips. I think I had about a $1 left. But, they were worth it, and as a fellow musician, I wanted to show the respect. These guys were the real deal!

Regardless of his Armstrong heritage, he could play a hell of a 'bone, and the whole group was filled with seasoned blues musicians. They rotated around a number of different singers, but the one I think I enjoyed the most was a Black gentleman with a colorful leisure-type suit and matching shiny leather shoes, with a sharp Trilby hat commonly worn by his ethnicity of an older generation. Kinda of a 70's “pimpin'” look. Huggy Bear, from Starsky and Hutch fame. The man could sing some blues. He was a stud.

We stayed for a hour or so, and both agreed it was time to call it a night. It had been a long day driving, and getting a good night's sleep sounded really good! Must be getting' old! Plus, I guess we were still recovering from the Extreme season end party the night before in Panama City Beach. Neither one of us wanted to party too much tonight. So, we headed back to the hotel and crashed almost immediately.

The next morning, I glanced out our 10th story hotel room and gazed out over the French Quarter as the sun rose. This old, battered city still had life in it. What a wonderful trip we were having. I love to travel, just as my mother does, and was counting my blessings. Like New Orleans, I've been through a lot, but still kicking, still going strong. And I love sharing it with Beck and my girls.

Mom had set a date for us at the New Orleans School of Cooking. She'd been down here just this past February for Marti Gras, and stumbled onto this place. Knowing I love to dabble in cooking, she said I must go and take in the demonstration, it was wonderful! Kinda like watching Emeril or something, where they cook the food and tell stories about the culture. The hostess was extremely amusing, and the food is fantastic! Sounds good to me! As a child of 10 or 11, I was fascinated by watching shows on PBS like Justin Wilson's Cookin' Cajun, and Julia Child. Cooking has fascinated me from a very early age.

Just a few blocks away from our hotel on St. Louis Street we were face to face with the New Orleans School of Cooking. A very humble place by its appearance, located inside an old brick building with very little ornate decoration. Close to what I would expect to find on St. Louis' Laclede's Landing. Probably was an old warehouse at one time. Much less decorative than so many other places in the fanciful Vieux Carre.

Inside was a General Store type setting loaded with all manner of spices, cook books, kitchen utensils, just tons of stuff for the kitchen. It smelled wonderful in there! So many spices! My eyes grew wide at the possibilities! I could spend way too much money in here! Too bad I really don't know how to cook!

Becca and I gravitated towards the hot sauces, and I admit, my mind began to race, plotting possibilities for dressing up my World Famous hot chili! What could I put in? How can I make it really killer hot? Mwahahaha!

About the time for the class to begin, we were led past some glass panel Pella doors to a large classroom setting filled with circular dining tables, and at the head of the class was the kitchen. Suspended over the stove hung a large mirror, allowing all in the class to view directly down into what ever was cooking on the stovetop. Ingenious!

Mom was disappointed to learn that the woman who hosted the class on her visit wasn't hosting today's class. But, this woman assured my mother that the gentleman who was would be just as much fun, and we'd all love the food. By the way, today's menu was Jambalaya, Gumbo, Bread Pudding, and Pralines, all New Orleans staples. Yum! Can't wait to compare my Jambalaya to the real thing!

Our chef was a short haired, gray haired gentleman with a white apron that adorned the School of Cooking logo. He sported large framed glasses, and seemed a bit meek and on the effeminate side. But on the podium, he promptly came to life with a booming oratory, and was a charming, affable host.

He treated it in the way you would expect a professor to teach a course, after all this was the New Orleans School of Cooking! But, he was also very amusing, having a wonderful time with the food and the crowd, keeping the demonstration light and interesting. He had a wonderful sense of humor that came through very quickly. He was a natural performer.

Now, I'm fascinated by history, and especially regional history. I've studied a bit about our own French Colonial history around St. Louis and southwestern Illinois, because after all, the French were the first to settle around here. So, the tie into Louisiana history and the Cajun culture is fascinating. Our esteemed host was from, in fact, Detroit. Not very Cajun! But, his mother was Cajun, and often on summer vacations he spent time in Louisiana visiting the family, learning the craft of cooking this wonderful style of food. And, his family owned a restaurant in the Detroit area.

He introduced us to the origins of the culture here, the French and Cajun, the Jewish influx, the Creole/African American contingent, and how they all mixed together. All while whipping up Gumbo, Jambalaya, Pralines, and what was my absolute favorite, Bread Pudding. At first, that sounded like the least interesting thing on the menu. But when it was time to eat, I gave it a whirl, and fell in love with it. All of it was wonderful! I was pretty close on my Jambalaya, too! Of course, mine comes out of a box of Zatarains, and his was made from scratch!

After the class and a wonderful lunch, we adjourned to the General Store, pumped full of inspiration and ideas for our next cooking experience. A clever marketing tool! But, I happily wished to shop and pick up some things I'd seen, like the hot sauces, and also Joe's Stuff, which is a special blend of Cajun spices made on the premises they introduced us to. Great stuff! I also picked up one of the aprons with the school logo. I was hooked!

We headed back to the Cafe Du Monde for some Cafe Au Lait, and Beck and I decided we'd sit with one of the psychics at the Jackson Square area. Since we've become more interested in the paranormal, it seemed like an entertaining flavor to the trip. We were blown away by Star, the psychic that helped us with the paranormal investigation of Becca's home. What would a New Orleans psychic have to say? New Orleans has a very spooky, paranormal edge to it. It's alive with psychic energy, from the Creole Voodoo practice to the alleged “vampire” contingent!
So, we pick a random sooth sayer, and he started to read our tarot. He was a bulging, hulk of a man, with a Greek face. I think some where in our conversation he mentioned having been a former pro-wrestler. He looked it, only down and out.

It didn't take too long before I realized this guy was a charlatan. But, that in itself was fascinating. Having been around a woman that is truly psychic, it's fascinating to see someone try to pretend to be one. I could see right through him. He was probably more like some homeless dude that was just looking for a way to score a quick buck instead of cleaning car windshields. We tipped him at the end, but I considered it more of a donation to the homeless than any thing else. There were no psychic insights here from this poor guy.

We met back up with the girls and my mother, and did some souvenir shopping, exploring, and sight seeing. I bought some cool shirts and stuff, some scented candles at the flea market, just all around junk that most touristas buy. The ladies were in shopping mode, and having a ball. A wonderful afternoon of exploring and taking in the family friendly side of the French Quarter.

We even stopped at a Voodoo shop and perused it's wares. All manner of spiritual offering candles, protection bags, anything and everything you'd imagine a Voodoo shop to be. They also had a cigar shop, and I picked up some good cigars to enjoy that evening. Beck looked calmly at home. I think she was a Voodoo priestess or something in her past life!

As the afternoon wore on, Beck and I decided to rest before heading back out for the evening. We'd noted a number of “haunted tours” of the Quarter that were available which met back at the Voodoo shop, and were kicking around the idea of taking in one of those. But rest was in order first.

Honestly, that turn into us just crashing early for the evening. We really didn't do a damn thing! We were exhausted! We just cuddled up in our room, and relaxed the night away. So much for a wild and crazy Bourbon Street night!

National Lampoons Southern Vacation (sorta) Part III

2009-05-06T14:00:00.014-05:00

July, 2008

It's been almost 10 months since I made this trip, but I promised I'd finish the story of our summer vacation/National Softball Tournament last July, and we had so many wonderful experiences in New Orleans that much of it is still fresh in my mind. It was a jewel of the trip. Bear with me as I recall what all transpired.

Getting up the next morning wasn't easy after multiple beer bongs, chicken fights, and all around heavy partying with the Extreme parents, but we managed to pack up and checkout, hitting the highway before noon. I figured on New Orleans being about 5 hours drive from Panama City Beach. As long as we could get there by sundown, I was cool with it.

It amazed me how long it seemed to take to travel down the Florida State Highway out of Panama City to get to the Interstate! Such a short segment on the map seemed to take an eternity! Maybe it was the hangover? But, before long, we hit I-10, and geared up for some serious ass-hauling in a westerly direction. This is the South, after all, everyone treats the Interstate like a NASCAR track. Shades of Smokey and the Bandit or the Dukes of Hazzard.

I'd driven this route once before, when my mother and I last visited New Orleans in the early '90's. We visited my uncle down in Clearwater, FL one summer and decided to cut across to The Big Easy on our way home, much as we were doing now. Only this was about 4 hours shorter or so. Once on the Interstate, it was pretty much a clear shot in. My mother and Father used to travel to New Orleans annually, often by Amtrak train, and more recently my mother had just been to Mardi Gras with friends. She knows N'awlins pretty intimately.

We passed quickly through Pensacola, and then Mobile, with the Gulf Coast far off to our left in the distance. The license plate game continued, and Becca was increasingly frustrated at both seeing plates that were already spoken for as the list was growing much shorter, and the inability to beat my mother to the punch at recognizing remaining states. It's like my mother has radar for these things!

We ran into a few showers as we cruised through Biloxi, and I couldn't help but think about playing poker at some of the Gulfport casinos. I dream of playing some big time tourney away from home. Every billboard I passed beckoned to me! But, I pressed on. No poker on my family vacation.

Also noticeable was the absence of any visible damage from Katrina. This was where the bulk of it actually struck, not New Orleans. But, as we crossed over into Louisiana, there were more signs of residual damage, as parts of the highway bridges were being rebuilt. So much of the area down there is swampy, wet, or just plain part of the Gulf, that much of the Interstate is a just a bridge.

As we came into New Orleans, a good part of the outer suburban ring of residences appeared to resemble a war zone. Abandon houses and apartments. Boarded up or shattered windows. Scarred roofs. Graffiti. Visible damage still left unrepaired from '05.

I actually flew over New Orleans on my way back from my first trip to Cancun in August '05 as Katrina struck. But from 35,000 ft, there was no way to see the damage it was reeking. Now I was getting a first hand tour. Sobering.

Even after 15 years since my last visit I managed to find my way into Downtown New Orleans without a map, and make my way to the Vieux Carré, or French Quarter, and find the Holiday Inn on Royal and Canal St where I'd stayed the last time. I was very excited to be back. I fell in love with the French Quarter my first time there. The music, the food, the party, it exemplified everything that I'm about! Almost as if there's something eerily familiar about it.

As we peeled off I-10 to the Canal St. exit, the ravages of Katrina were still evident, and much of it looked run down, impoverished, and even deserted. The decrepit and abandon buildings we'd seen on the outskirts were prevalent downtown as well.

“Why does this look like E. St. Louis?” my observant young Sarah asked?

“Because, in a lot of ways, it is like E. St. Louis!” I explained to her.

Her eyes were as big as saucers as we passed some locals sitting on the stoops of their humble residences. I could tell this was a culture shock for her! She had to be thinking, “What the hell is Daddy doing!”

Traffic was a disaster heading down Canal Street, inching along at a snail's pace. It was 4:30 PM, rush hour. I was growing anxious as well as frustrated. My eyes would wander as we crept along, taking in everything around me, embracing it, and at times rekindling old memories. You could see beads hanging from high tension power lines that powered the cable cars which ran up the middle of the boulevard, remnants of Mardi Gras some months prior. The shops and buildings, even the people reminded me of areas of midtown St. Louis, such as Grand Ave, or Jefferson Ave. In fact, St. Louis once had street cars similar to these.

New Orleans has so much in common with St. Louis (city) that in someways, I felt like I was back. Colonial French heritage, along with Spanish occupation. Wild Mardi Gras. A majority of African-American residents. The Mississippi. Hot, muggy summers. Blues music. A very similar soul, really.

But, there is a palpable difference, particularly when you enter the French Quarter. New Orleans is a Southern Belle. A débutante. She wines and dines you, entertains you, romances you, and exhibits a stately elegance and grace that St. Louis just doesn't seem to have.

St. Louis is the steady girl you bring home to momma. A sensible family woman, unpretentious, her direct and down to earth sister. New Orleans is the face fanning, eye fluttering concubine that, while in her presence, makes you feel like a suitor attending her royal court, even though she has no crown, no title, no pedigree.

And beneath that is a soul, a pulse, a passion that flows stronger than back home in St. Louis; New Orleans is vibrant, while St. Louis is more reserved. A Yin and Yang mirror of a culture from similar ancestry. Yeah, I think of all this kind of stuff, stuck in traffic.

Checking into our high rise hotel room right in the heart of the Vieux Carre and only one block off Bourbon Street, I anxiously led my family out into the late afternoon to explore, embrace, and enjoy all that New Orleans had to offer. I wanted to find somewhere to eat, and there are so many wonderful choices in the French Quarter! I was hesitant to really drop some “dime” on something like Antoine's or Brennen's, two of it's most famous establishments. World renowned, in fact. Emeril used to work at Brennan's. Still, we were on vacation!

I also did some scouting for nightclubs so Beck and I could enjoy that evening, as during my last visit I was just overwhelmed at the wonderful Blues music and musicians I encountered wandering Bourbon Street. Club after club of wonderful, soulful Blues. I wandered from club to club with draft beer in hand, three feet off Bourbon Street. Heaven! How much had changed? Where were we to go? The anticipation was driving me crazy!

We passed down Royal for a block or two, which is mostly antique boutiques, art galleries, and some fine restaurants, like Brennan's and Antoine's, actually. They are both located on Royal. New Orleans has such an artsy, free spirited, but elegant feel to it. There's nothing stiff, mathematical, or deliberate about it. Each building has a personality of it's own, from fanciful wrought iron balconies, ornate, elaborate, decorative facades, and hidden, majestic courtyards. Each and every facet expresses its own individuality. Sami quickly began taking pictures, and I could tell she was digging it. She understood, and began to embrace it's beauty.

We turned a corner and made our way to Bourbon Street one block over. A Friday evening crowd was beginning to mill up and down the street, which was blocked from evening motorized traffic. Quickly, everything around us took on a gaudier tone. While the basic beauty of the French Quarter was still there, a tacky mask of neon and sex permeated our senses. Bourbon Street was the cheap, trashy side of this elegant village, but even still, it was quaint and fascinating in it's own way..

Amidst the night clubs and souvenir/tee shirt shops were strip joints and possibly even brothels. Blues clubs, tees and mugs, and girls, girls, girls! I made my way through, ignoring the Hustler Club and Penthouse joint, trying to recall the great places I'd heard all that wonderful blues music. But much of Bourbon Street had changed. Gone was The Olde Absinthe House, replaced with a fruit smoothie bar. And the strip joints were looking sleazier, and sleazier.

I pondered where in the word to eat as we marched down the cobblestone street, becoming more concerned that finding dinner was an imperative, and to set aside my curious desire to explore as I had a family to attend to. I also discovered we had wandered into what was quite possible the sleaziest section ON Bourbon Street! Marquees filled with pictures of couples and groups committing sex acts on display stunned me! I'm not sure if they were simulated or actual, but I suddenly felt very uncomfortable walking my two young daughters, and hoped they hadn't noticed. But, I think they had.

“Daddy?” Sarah asked in a sweet, frightened voice. “Can we go down a happy street?”

“No doubt!” Samantha chimed in.

I panned it off, told them something about New Orleans being a city with lots of facets, a dark side, etc. But, basically I was trying to hurry them out of there as quickly as I could, and started to consider moving off Bourbon Street back on to Royal as I turned the conversation to eating dinner.

About this time we approached Pat O'Brien's. We debated dining either there, or The Court of the Two Sisters, which was my mother's favorite back when her and my father would travel to the French Quarter. It was close by. But we agreed to hit Pat O'Brien's. In fact, it was a welcome relief to find more normal businesses after a block of sleaze and smut!

Pat O'Brien's is famous for a couple things. First, the flaming fountains. You heard that right. They have these fascinating water fountains in the courtyard with fire leaping from them! The main dining area was out in a beautiful New Orleans courtyard, with green ivy and wrought iron ornaments, from the tables and chairs to the balconies and such. Magnificent!

Pat's is also famous for The Hurricane. A special fruit punch and rum concoction which is very sweet and deceptively potent. They created it back in the 1940's when rum was in great abundance in New Orleans, but no really good ways to mix it.

I ordered up a Hurricane and a heaping plate of spicy jambalaya and we enjoyed a wonderful early dinner out in the courtyard. It was good to be back! And good to share it with my family. Dinner was a hit with the girls, who were beginning to feel more comfortable, and Becca was in paradise, I think I can say. She was enamored with it the beauty and the vibe of the city. For a closet Goth recovering Catholic, this was her kind of place! Like Interview with a Vampire, it seemed the hypnotic, sexy Creatures of the Night were just waiting to walk the streets amongst us!

After dinner we wandered around the Quarter, moving off Bourbon Street to please my youngest. We past all manner of shops and places. Even noted Reverend Zombie's Voodoo shop that looked very enticing! Lots of souvenirs, taverns, restaurants, and the like, coupled with beautiful balconies and weathered buildings. Katrina hadn't really hurt the French Quarter all that much, thank God. Even spotted the historic Preservation Hall, where they still play old Ragtime Dixieland Jazz. But, with the long lines, I thought we'd pass on that this trip.

We made our way to Jackson Square, located at the foot of the Gothic St. Louis Cathedral. Surrounding the tall, wrought iron, shrub covered fence that lines the square were all types of carts and vendors. Some peddle art and drawings on demand. Some are psychic fortune tellers. And interesting street market of arts.

We noticed a crowd gathering around a younger gentleman with a small tray erected before him, decked out in a derby reminiscent of Charlie Chaplin, with long, straggly locks and a wispy Faustian goatee. He wore baggy trousers held up by suspenders, and a white wife-beater tee shirt. Kind of a homeless Johnny Depp meets Gallagher!

His delivery was smooth and seductive, with a wry smile and quick hands, it was obvious he was a street magician, so we stopped to watch. He moved through his routine deftly and smartly, but it still had a feel of spontaneity and improvisation, and was incredibly entertaining. I can't express how impressed I was! This guy was the real deal. His name was Dante', and I've since looked him up on the web, he actually has his own website. Outstanding is all I can say.

While I can't remember in depth all that was said and the wicked banter he developed with the crowd, he had us all in stitches as well as amazed. All just on the street, at random, for our pleasure. What a marvelous find! These are the kind of treasures that New Orleans holds.

At the end of his big “gag”, where he produced a seemingly incinerated $20 bill, signed by an audience member before he lit it's envelope on fire, from an unpeeled orange which magically appeared from under his derby resting on the tray before him, he then kindly asked for any tips, and my mother gladly tipped him $20. I think I gave him some more myself. Breathtaking magic!

The girls were now officially in love with New Orleans.

We wandered over to Decatur Street as the evening sun set, and found a table at the famous Café Du Monde, an outdoor market style café established in 1862, that overlooked the bustling Decatur Street, along the levee wall that buttressed the Mississippi. The café was quite crowded, but we managed to flag a waitress quickly, and soon we were enjoying Café Au Lait and Beignets, a powered sugar confection not unlike funnel cake. The girls thought this was the greatest thing ever!

After enjoying the delicious coffee and milk combo, we sat relaxing, watching the evening traffic pass. Sit long enough at the Café Du Monde, and the whole world will pass you by, they say, as it's open 24/7, except for Christmas, and when the occasional Hurricane passes too close. The girls were anxious to get into the hotel pool, and Beck and I wanted to hit a night club, so we picked up and wandered back to the hotel. I'd been bragging on the unbelievable blues bands I experienced the last time, and couldn't wait to take in some of that action.

Wax on, wax off

2009-03-03T21:13:00.001-06:00

Ok, ok, guess I “got some 'splainin' to do”, as Ricky would say to Lucy in I Love Lucy.

No, I didn't have a heart attack, or any type of coronary event. The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated...

But, yeah, I was concerned as hell when I started to lose consciousness, sweat profusely, and almost puke. I had no good reason to explain what was happening to me, and since heart disease is a major factor in my family history (and undoubtedly most likely the cause of my own demise in the future, unless we cure heart disease by then), I thought it prudent to have a doctor tell me I was fine, rather than make that assessment on my own. After all, if I was incorrect, this would have been my LAST Rock Bottom gig, potentially!

Bringing everyone up to speed, I had a little incident the other night at Rumor's minutes before the show. A brush with mortality, so to speak. Something that 10 or 15 years ago I would have treated differently, but at 42, you stop to pause a moment, and think “ruh ro, is this IT?” Yeah, getting old is a bitch. I'm not panicking, or having a midlife crisis or anything like that, but, while I still feel 21 years old at heart, my heart, in fact, is 42, twice that! With plenty of miles on it to be sure.

See, back when we played at Daddio's, a few weekends ago they have one of those popular punching bag machines where good drunk Hoosiers (not unlike myself) can take aggression out, and prove all kinds of macho shit. Always a good time. I kind of equate this with the Ole Ring-The-Bell-With-The-Sledge-Hammer game that were often seen at carnivals, maybe still are. You punch the machine as hard as you can, and you get a score. Anything over 900, you're an official Bad Ass! Weeee!

After a couple Jagerbombs, I found myself taking a couple swings. Hey! I'm a hockey player! I'm not above hauling off and punching things to prove a point! And, I was consistently pegging about 875. Just under the official 900 “Bad Ass” plateau. Dammit! And, in what was a portent of the future, I found myself swinging and missing to which I attributed to Jagermeister. My old buddy and guitar wizard John Ringling from The Ultraviolets had a good laugh with it observing my whiffs.

So, there I sit in Rumor's a few weeks later, waiting for everyone else to get this thing going, and I can't help but watch of some of the ladies (and later a couple Salty Dogs) pummeling one of these machines. Can I break 900 sober I wondered to myself? I bet I can. Let's find out!

I popped a $1 (yeah, a $1 a shot!) in the game, and sized up the bag. I stretched out my arm slowly, taking aim, imagining planting my fist firmly in the center of the bag. I focused power, like a young Daniel-san from Karate Kid, breathing deeply, gathering chi. Then I rared back and popped the thing with as much force as I could muster. Sorta.

As I had once before (while intoxicated), I merely grazed the bag. The full force of my Herculean blow barely touched leather, rendering my score an insulting “001”, I kid you not. That garnered some howls from the Salty Dog contingent seated behind me. Guess I'm a lover, not a fighter!

More unfortunately for me, my follow through landed on the edge of a cocktail table that was improperly stationed directly left of the machine, my fist firmly crashing into the solid edge of the chest high, rounded table.

Fuck! That hurt! Fuck! I can't believe I missed! FUCK! A “001”? Son of a bitch! I have the shittiest luck! Flashing like a beacon: 001. LOSER!

My hand throbbed with pain, and after the embarrassment wore off, I quickly started to assess the damage. Basically, the band was ready to go on, staring over at me and my shenanigans, so I needed a good, stiff Jagerbomb to ease the pain, both from my hand, and my pride. I stretched out my fingertips to alleviate the soreness, and glanced down to note my index finger covered in blood, dripping onto the floor. HOLY SHIT! I'd opened an almost ¾ to 1 inch gash just below my knuckle from the blow to the sharp edge of the table. Just what I fucking need!

I hurried to the bar, requesting a bar rag and a Jagerbomb. The towel, I pressed to my hand. The Jagerbomb, I pressed to my lips. Neither one of them made me feel much better, nor stop the bleeding. Well, shit! Beck had rushed to my side and attempted to assist. The sight grossed her out pretty badly.

“Get some ice on it!” she insisted.. Good idea. I requested some ice, wrapped the towel around my hand, and made my way over over to my side of the stage and sat, pressing down on the wound to stop the bleeding so I wouldn't hold up the show too badly. I knew didn't break my finger, just cut it pretty badly, and probably bruised the bone. It hurt pretty good, but not any worse than one of my gout attacks. I just wanted to stop the bleeding and start jamming. How irritating, and humiliating!

Before long, I noticed that my arms were covered in sweat. I mean, I was sweating profusely. I also began to feel kind of light headed. My cheeks felt cold, but my arms were wet with sweat.

“My God,” Rebecca said, “you look white as a ghost!”

“Yeah, and I think I'm going to puke,” I added.

My stomach began to feel very nauseous, and I was obviously becoming woozy. What the hell? I checked on the bleeding, and it wasn't really stopping. The wound was deep. And, I wasn't sure if I was going to make it. I mean literally. Something was wrong with me.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital, honey” Becca said. It didn't take me long to agree. I knew she was absolutely right. Could this be a heart attack? I didn't want to find out the hard way.

“You're right, let's go.” I said, and mumbled something to the band I had to leave. I think Becca was kind of surprised I agreed so readily, but something like this that I can't comprehend is no joke. That's what I pay insurance for. Let's use it.

As I walked towards the door, I nearly blacked out. Becca later said that I was talking incoherently, but I didn't feel incoherent. Just that I was about to go. Nothing nervous, just, strange.

We drove down to the hospital in Granite where I work because I don't pay co-payments there, and Becca was on the horn to her family, and I called mom to let her know what was up, but not to bother to show up unless I deemed it serious enough. I felt badly for the guys, but it was completely out of my hands. This is what I had to do. Sucks, but that's life. Literally, possibly my life at stake. I'd hoped I was wrong, but if I was wrong and stayed, I could be dead.

The staff was surprised to see me that late, and got me looked at quickly. I was starting to feel better by the time we'd arrived, and was pretty confident this wasn't anything related to a coronary event. But, I still wanted to know what the hell was happening to me. Becca's parents popped in to check on me, as did her sister who also works at the hospital. Good people.

After some X-Rays, an EKG, and enough needles stuck in me to officially consider me a pincushion, Dr. Arendale explained I had a classic “vasovagal”. Basically, I was fainting. Becca likes to call it “swooning”. The pain, coupled perhaps other factors (possibly stemming from a car accident that I had 20 years ago that I don't remember) helped cause it, my heart rate dropped, blood left my brain, and I was about to passout. Bizarre, because none of this freaked me out. The pain was bearable, because once you've suffered from gout, you can take a good amount of pain. My main concern was getting the bleeding stopped in time to not hold up the band. Regardless, my body reacted much differently than my mind, and said “night night!”

He also said he was going to need to put a couple stitches. Well, there you go. I really had no other choice, did I? Had I not had this “vasovagal” episode, I surely would have attempted to play on, and probably bled all frickin' night! Let's get it done! More fucking needles...

Somewhere along that time, a total drunk was admitted in who had apparently been struck by a car. He was barely coherent, and didn't know his own name from what I could glean. All he did was growl like a pirate: “aarrrrrgh!” Constantly. I'd imitate the poor ole guy to Becca's amusement, adding “Blow me down!” or “Shiver me timbers!” I'll smoke a turd in hell for that, I suspect. One of many.

Dr. A made his way back and they “stitched me up”. I felt like making some smart ass hockey related comment, but I just didn't have the spunk. I just wanted to get this shit over with and get home. There was no possible way I could make it back up to the gig now, so just getting home and putting this behind me was all I could concentrate on. That, and Black Beard the pirate in the room beside us.

“You're gunna feel this,” the doctor warned as he jabbed the needle into the wound to apply the local anesthetic. He wasn't kidding! First a white hot stabbing pain at the source of the wound, about on par with gout, maybe just a bit sharper, then an equally painful freezing sensation. I'm certain my facial expression wasn't one of enjoyment.

“Yeah, that will get your attention,” the doctor admitted.

Then I couldn't feel a damn thing! Within moments, he was pulling some string through my finger, and I basically stared straight ahead, not watching.

But Becca was, and her face said it all. She contorted and grimaced as he stitched my wound closed, and appeared as though she was becoming ill. You can sit through Saw III, but can't watch me get a couple stitches, hon? LOL!

That was basically it.

“Come see me next Monday morning, and I'll take those out,” doc said. And I was on my way home. Well, home to Becca's, where I cuddled up and nursed my wounds. I heard that Kene Turcott filled in for me, and that the good word of my episode was already circulating around Eddie's and the Ivory Tiger show. Good news travels fast!

A one! I scored a one! What a fucked up night. Cocktail table: 1, Deron: 0.

In my next blog, I'll finish up my trip last year, culminating with our trip to New Orleans, and this weekend I'll be heading to Jamaica! I'm sure there'll be some story to tell about that trip!

National Lampoons Southern Vacation (sorta) Part II

2009-02-03T18:51:00.000-06:00

Yeah, it’s been a few months, sorry! So much going on, and so, so many Rock Bottom shows. No way I can blog about them all! We had a big change again in personnel, with Tom Ackman sadly deciding to take a break from playing. He’s burnt out. I respect that. Miss you, man! Bums me out though. I never really wanted to be “THE” guitarist, although I have been through most of my playing days. I always feel the music sounds stronger when there are two guitars, especially when playing covers where we must mimic a wide variety of styles. Just adds so much more depth and versatility to the mix. Alone, I just feel like it sounds too thin, and I don’t want the focus on me. It’s about the music, and kicking ass.

Derrick picked up the ball though, and without missing a beat brought in former Jagertyme bassist Rob (“JagerVito”), and Derrick switched back to his native instrument: guitar. Losing Tommy was a drag, but I was comfortable with Rob and Derrick, so no real big deal overall. Just another learning curve as we were basically changing TWO instruments, despite Derrick having been in the band since last February. The first couple shows were pretty smooth, and Rob sings, so the harmonies that I think help define our sound were still very, very strong! Yay!

I must say, we’ve got great fans that just keep coming out in huge numbers, and that’s not only flattering, at times it’s perplexing! I dunno what it is we’re doing that’s so right, but, I’m not complaining!

Our first night into Alton Sports Tap was greeted with a wonderful crowd! We had a group of young guys play a set before we went on who must have brought some older people in, and that just made the night a huge success! Good kids, just starting to feel their way into playing live. It was fun. I saw myself a little bit there, although I wasn’t playing quite as young as these guys were! I could drive myself to the gig the first time I played! It was also cute to see them have “groupies” wearing their band tee shirts, and I imagine they were very proud of their “men”. Just set off a neat vibe for the night, and we carried it on, rocking the house. At first, the whole group of them stayed, sitting directly on the ground in front of us as we tore into the first set. It was almost strangely intimidating. Made me pick up my “game” a bit. Like “yeah, old man, lets see what you’ve got!” Or even “wow, when I grow up, I wanna play like you!” Either way, that’s some pressure you don’t expect to feel at a show! I kicked it in the ass a touch just because.

Oh! While they were playing, I remembered a time back at Granny’s Rocker where Randy E. from Riff Raff once sent a tray of shots up to the stage, all of them a clear liquid. When sampled, we discovered they were only water! I turned to Derrick and remarked “we need to send them a tray of shots of water, like Randy did!” Derrick’s eyes lit up, and he quickly spun towards the nearest bartender, ordering up “shots” of Coke which he delivered personally to them on a tray! Twisted! Leave it to Derrick to corrupt young minds! Ok, ok. So, it was my idea!

In other news, the Eddie’s shows have been insane! Halloween rocked like you wouldn’t believe, and New Years was surprisingly excellent. I say surprisingly, because they did charge cover, at a place that never charges cover. Couple that with the fact I figured so many people avoid going out New Years in favor of partying privately to avoid driving home through DUI check points, I didn’t expect a huge turnout. I was dead wrong. It was awesome!

Following that, we’ve played Eddie’s in January and February, and the crowds have NOT let up! That astounds me! I made mention of it to Wayne that “hell! This was a bigger night that Halloween!”

“Naw!” he said in disbelief. Halloween was a tremendous night! But, a week later at our weekly poker game, he took me aside and said “you know, you were right! We had a bigger ring last Saturday than we did on Halloween! Jim (the owner) told me!”

You Rock Bottom fans are truly something else! Thanks so much!

So, back to my story about last summer’s awesome trip with my family.

We left Memphis (and the delicious Jim Neeley Interstate BBQ) and I “used the Force” to navigate across the southern suburbs turning southeast to highway US-78, which to my delight was a recently constructed four lane superhighway! The one thing I feared about this route was to find the only access from Memphis to Panama City was two lanes, taking us forever!! Instead, we zipped across Missississippi and Alabama at a strong clip, noting Tupelo, MS, Elvis’ birthplace, along the way. Not much else. I managed to catch the afternoon Cardinal baseball game driving through down there, as one is STILL in Cardinal Nation!

Outside of Birmingham, AL the highway did reduce to two lanes, and we hit some traffic around 5PM. I was surprised how many gentle hills the terrain held down there! Nothing like the flat prairies of home, I guess. The two lane stretch through Birmingham proper was a minor jaunt, and before long we hit I-65 to Montgomery, AL. From there we peeled off the Interstate to US-231, which would take us straight into Panama City, FL. Made us feel like we were almost there! But, we weren’t.

The road tended to alternate between two lane to four lane in the more urban stretches. Night had fallen, and this started to be the more adventurous part of the day. Once it gets dark and you’re in unfamiliar territory, minutes and hours seem to stretch out. How much farther?? Small towns would appear out of the darkness, the highway would widen, then the darkness would consume us again as the road narrowed back to two lanes. Over, and over again.

We wanted to stop to grab dinner, but I’m just so into local places I eschewed stopping at any nationally named places I recognized around Montgomery. Probably much to the chagrin of my family riding along, who just wanted to stop, rest, and get some food!

Finally, somewhere around Troy, AL, I found steakhouse not unlike the Logan’s Roadhouse chain, or Colton’s in Poplar Bluff, which I make a point to dine at every time we play there for the biker rally. The Santa Fe Cattle Co. A western motif adorned the walls, and very, very crowded; Saturday night. Probably the best spot in Troy AL. Or for miles around! Still, everyone agreed to wait; we grabbed some drinks at the bar, a cold draft beer for myself, and some fruity, girly drinks for Beck and Mom, and we sat patiently munching peanuts from an old barrel next to our oak stained waiting bench, tossing the discarded shells on the floor. I LOVE these kind of places!!

The wait wasn’t unbearable, especially with a cold beer in hand, and after a great steak, some rest, a couple more frosty draft beers, and a nice time bonding with the girls, we took off down the Alabama highway once more, anxiously anticipating our arrival in “sunny” Florida. Well, of course, it’s not very sunny at 10PM! But, very unceremoniously, we crossed the Florida state line somewhere in the darkness, and the road led on. And on. It was quite a drive!

Around midnight, we arrived in Panama City, and using the “Force” again, I navigated us to Panama City Beach, and finally the resort, Edgewater, where we checked in, and made our way to the condo. It was a nice apartment style villa which had only one drawback, a flight of stairs to carry our luggage. Apart from that, we had nice, comfortable rooms, a kitchen, a laundry room, a balcony that exited out from both the master bedroom and the living room, and two bathrooms! This was going to be so much nicer a stay than a week in a cramped hotel room like a Days Inn! This was luxury!

The next morning, we took a tool around the beach area, heading to Gulf World where we were all to meet to swim with dolphins. The strip along Front Beach Road was crowded with resort highrise buildings and shops of all kinds, mostly souvenirs. I spotted “Crazy Pete’s Sunglasses”, and declared “Crazy Pete’s off his meds!!” That became the joke of the week, with both my girls and Becca exclaiming it whenever we drove by. We all agreed to do some tee-shirt shopping soon.

With a sketch map, an address, and my J.S. Express courier experience, I managed to track down Gulf World. We arrived at 9:30 AM for the activity, but doors didn’t open until 10. Piss! With a half hour to kill, we wandered down to one of the local shops to browse, a joint called Purple Haze. We noticed more than one of these shops along the strip, as they are hard to miss. Displayed above each entrance, airbrushed in a less than elegant style hung what appeared as a giant purple cloud personified with a face blowing purple air as it exhaled. The significance escaped me for a moment, until I entered the establishment.

As Becca and I crossed the threshold, flanking each sides of the entrance stood chrome wire panels holding colorful plastic beer bongs which covered every possible square inch! Ah! Of course! This wasn’t a tee-shirt shop! It was a PARTY shop! Not so much like the “head shops” back in the days of yore in my Hoosier hometown, where one could buy records, tee-shirts, belt buckles, waterbeds, and any drug paraphernalia known to modern man. But, yeah, kind of the same thing, with a more turista flair. “Dude, where’s my car???” “Sweet!” “Dude!!!”

And, it was decidedly an NC-17 establishment. Some of the tee-shirts bore the raunchiest, foulest display of humor I could even think about displaying in public! There’s funny, then there’s, well, just trashy. These were decidedly the latter. Nice. Note to self: don’t bring the girls in here. Spare them the trauma!

After finally being let into Gulf World, my girls got a chance to swim with dolphins, which was really, really cool. Intelligent, playful, elegant. Incredible creatures. I was enamored with the mammals when I was my girls’ age; I couldn’t have imagined a chance to do what they were doing! But, as an adult, I was much more content to stay dry and watch my girls experience it, snapping photos like a proud parent. My youngest seemed as enamored with it, as I was at her age. My oldest, not so much. She thought it was cool, but when it came to petting at touching the creature, she was less than enthusiastic. All in all, a really neat experience, and we wandered the grounds where they had housed for exhibit all manner of creatures, from puffins to parrots. A nice family stop. Damn, I’m so domestic! Becca and I were all smiles.

Later, all the parents and team members of the Collinsville Extreme met up for the opening ceremonies, which were strangely held at an outside mall called The Pier located right off the beach, instead of the ball diamonds. Usually, these kinds of things were celebrated with a parade through the ball diamond, all the girls throwing beads or candy, what have you. They even traded gift bags with another team, in which we’d all purchased different manner of beach things. Instead of the diamonds though, the entire tournament met at the parking lot, and they paraded through the outdoor mall. Ok, whatever. At least we know where the mall is now!

I met up with Eddie, one of the rowdier parents of the bunch, and he was in very high spirits, obviously looking forward to the upcoming week. He was discussing his latest purchase with one of the other parents, Donnie. “Yeah! It’s a beaut!” Eddie said. “They had a ton of them, right when you walk in! I was, like, DAMN!” They both chuckled.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Beer bongs!” Eddie cheerfully replied with a devilish grin. Oh no! This might get ugly…

We all tried to hit Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville restaurant after the parade located at the southern part of the mall, overlooking the Gulf, but naturally there was a three HOUR wait to get us all seated. We settled for the place next door, which had excellent grub sans the whole Jimmy Buffet shtick. How many times can you hear Margaritaville in a sitting??? Overall, it became a nightmare, as nothing was really organized very well, just kind of thrown together as they could. The head coach was absent from the trip due to a new addition to her family, and the younger assistant, barely out of college, wasn’t the most adept at managing all of this, which I admit really wasn’t to be expected of her. No one else really seemed to take up the slack, though. God knows, I wasn’t going to volunteer myself!

We settled into our apartment/condo quite nicely that afternoon, making a stop at Publix, a very fine supermarket on par with anything we have here in STL. One of the advantages to keeping costs down on this adventure was the kitchen provided at the condo, so we made our own breakfast, lunches, and dinner. We loaded up, making it like home. I even brought the mini-BBQ grill, and set it up on the balcony. I found a nice cigar shop where I purchased some excellent cigars, and often spent a quiet moment on the deck, drinking a cold Bud Select and smoking a nice cigar as the sun would set.

In all, it was a very pleasant vacation/tournament. The girls played well, winning a few, losing a few. They were a young team, first year 12u for the most part, so we didn’t expect them to tear it up too much. They won their share, though. My oldest daughter played extremely well; we were all quite proud of her. She hit the ball hard for several RBI extra base hits, and made a couple great catches in the field. She’s a center fielder, and she did us proud.

I had a slight run in with the assistant/acting head coach, who benched my daughter for showing up late to a game, when we in fact showed up on time to caravan to the diamond with the team, only to learn they had changed the meeting time, and not notified all of the parents, obviously. That really pissed me off! I handled it professionally, and didn’t bring it up until the game’s conclusion, but I expressed my dissatisfaction to her and the Organization’s top administrator, who was along to help. I was livid, to say the least, because there was no reason to punish my daughter for something she had no control over. It pissed my daughter off as well, and was probably the major factor in not returning to the organization this season.

That not withstanding, we enjoyed ourselves tremendously! Panama City Beach is great! My Aunt and Uncle from Huntsville, AL made the trip for a few days along with my three young cousins who are all my daughter’s ages. One evening we all ate at a local BBQ place called Sonny’s, which I enjoyed almost as much as Jim Neeley’s Interstate. Two great BBQ stops so far! My Aunt, Mother, and Rebecca managed to polish off a gallon of Sangria they made back at the apartment. Crazy to watch my mother, my aunt, and my girlfriend all get a snoot full! They were hilarious!

We did our fair amount of shopping, picking up tee-shirts and what not, and did manage to eat at Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville for lunch at a slower, more manageable time. Not bad. Great view! Sat on the patio, looking out at the rough seas. Double red flag days were posted much of the time we were there, which basically meant stay he hell out of the water! We did notice some emergency vehicles buzzing by now and then from the patio of Margaritaville, but didn’t know why until later that evening when we learned there were a couple drownings. People didn’t heed the warnings, went out into the surf, and were caught in riptides that swept them to their deaths! Not something to play with!

By Thursday afternoon, the Extreme had been eliminated from the USFA Nationals, and we decided that afforded us enough time to head to New Orleans on the way home! Hooray! Thursday night would be our last in Panama City, and in celebration of the final game of the season, many of the parents all discussed meeting at the larger pool of the resort located across the street from us in the Villas over at the highrise side. There was a large pool there, flanked by Jacuzzi hot tubs, and the beach out past that. Under the moonlight we drank, told stories, and relaxed, having put the season behind us. And Eddie brought out the beer bong!

We passed it 'round, and Eddie challenged me and Rebecca to a round of “chicken” in the pool. The coach, probably holding a serious grudge against me, leapt at the chance to be his partner, and we drunkenly agreed. I mean, I can hold my own, although Eddie was a pretty big guy! He was no push over! Red haired and freckled, probably about 4 years younger than me, if that, and I had some weight on him. The coach was a butch, bull dyke softball stud, but not really tall. Beck is of course almost 6 feet, and works out constantly! I figured with leverage and Becks strength, we’d take ‘em!!

I was wrong. It didn’t last long! That coach was exactly as mean and hyper aggressive as you can imagine, and “man” handled Becca, who quickly fell forward. I was strong enough to keep our balance and try to fight back, but Becca’s long legs clamped around me as my head was shoved underwater, and I was being suffocated! I felt like a terrorist at Abu Graihb!! We quickly relinquished, licked our wounds, graciously congratulated the winners, and pounded another beer bong!!!

About that time, a young, visibly inebriated college age girl approached our group, singled ME out, and challenged me to a beer bong contest! Are you kidding me? Instantly, I got it from both sides; cheers from the parents that wanted to see me race her, and jeers from the young group with her, that thought she could bury me! Really? She’s that good, huh? Let’s do it!

I poured a beer into her bong, then we poured one into Eddie’s which I used, and I had another beer in hand in which I’d taken one or two drinks from, and used it to fill my bong to its brim.

“I’ll take a little handicap, Brandi” I think her name was. Yeah, I was being sort of an arrogant prick about it. LOL! Damn, that was a lot of beer! Let’s not make a complete ass of yourself, Deron!

Someone counted three, and we released the tubes of brew into our gullets. I can remember swallowing twice, and upon the third gulp, nothing but foam reached my lips. I hurriedly blew the foam up through the tube like a horn, signaling my completion with a foamy, soggy salute! I glanced over at her, and she was still struggling to get a second gulp down!

Thrusting my fist high into the air, extending my index and pinky in the traditional “heavy metal” sign salute, I trumpeted “YOU MESS WITH THE BULL, YOU GET THE HORNS!”

Everyone erupted in laughter! There was sheer astonishment on all their faces (well, except Eddie’s, who just grinned ear to ear) that I could pound that entire bong in two gulps! Who do they think they were dealing with??? Even the young partiers patted me on the back in amazement.

“Doooooood, that was a-MAZING!”
“Two fucking gulps!”
“Holy fuck, man!”

Yeah, I must have been setting an impressive example for all the kids to see!

Don’t try this at home, kids, I’m a TRAINED professional!!!

National Lampoons Southern Vacation (sorta) Part I

2008-10-08T00:32:00.003-05:00

I needed a vacation. Work hasn’t been particularly difficult, but, it’s work none the less. If I had my druthers, I’d be fishing, or grilling, or playing poker or something. Not 9-5ing it in the cold basement of a 100 year old hospital, that’s for certain.

Now, sure, I’ve taken a couple long weekend jaunts to sunny Mexico with my super hottie, relaxed on the beach, drank all the Corona I could stand, and spent warm, sexy nights in her company. But, those weekends go quickly, and next thing you know, I’m back at the desk answering phone calls, helping the “brain trust” around here that can’t seem to remember one password from another. Far too complex a task to expect out of health care providers, I’ve come to realize.

Couple that with the bands “grueling” schedule! Ok, yeah, sure. I’ll grant you, we’re not Metallica, touring the world, playing 256 out of 365 days a year, logging miles like a trucker with three child support payments. We’re weekend warriors. But, we play every friggin’ weekend, and when we play, I think I spend as much on beer and Jagerbombs as I make. Try that working 40 hours a week, and spending weekend daylight hours on a softball diamond with your kids, hung over and bleary eyed from only 3 hours of intoxicated sleep (and “extracurricular activities”), only to have to lather, rinse, and repeat later that evening. As enjoyable as it all is to be a “barstar” and get paid to drink, it’s a soft, persistent grind that wears you down like a slow running stream.

So, I needed some real time away.

But, when do I find the time? There’s always something going on, and people depending on me, whether it’s my job, the band, or my girls. A tough row to hoe.

Now, the past two years, my talented older daughter has played in national softball tournaments. Won the ASA Northern National championship her first season in Springfield, Mo as 10 year olds. Last year, it was Minneapolis, MN, where they finished a respectable 13^th out of 45 as first year 12u in ASA. Minneapolis was certainly more interesting than Springfield, Mo as a vacation destination, but, apart from The Mall Of America, much of the trip was spent on the diamond or in the hotel room. Playing “Pass The Trash” poker in the lobby was about the extent of the amusement.

This season, she played for a different organization, and they chose not to play ASA, but instead aligned themselves with a newer softball organization, the USFA. And, knowing that so much of our free time is spent at these diamonds, instead of attending a national tournament in Bugtussle, B.F.E, they wisely chose to play at a vacation spot: Panama City Beach! Woo hoo! Awesome! Arrangements were made, and basically we had a condo for the week just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Gulf Of Mexico!

Now, my mother is a part time travel agent in her retirement, as she simply loves to travel. There was no question she would be attending, which was very convenient. Not only in that she was helping me bankroll the adventure, but she could help serve as nanny while Beck and I could get some “alone time”, and actually have a vacation amidst all this!

Now, mom is the consummate travel agent, and we plotted our trip with the softball tournament as the centerpiece, but not the end all/be all! We were going to do some traveling! Lord knows where we’ll end up! So many destinations along the way!

Along with that, I brought my Barbecue U.S.A. cookbook with listings of great, authentic barbecue joints across the country. It was my intention of discovering some great barbecue to sample, enhancing ideas of my own. I was secretly very excited about this, and couldn’t wait to find some marvelous ‘cue! After all, I was driving through the heart of some of the best barbecue in civilization, the South!

We packed up a rented mini-van to the gills for a 10 day adventure. The six of us found space inside, crawled in, and before long we were rolling south down the highway towards the Gulf of Mexico. Our first destination: Memphis, Tennessee! Without fail, about 10 miles away from home, we quickly discovered that we’d left something behind (phone charger or something, I don’t remember), and were forced to make a quick retreat to recover it. Not the start I was intending! What turned into a 45 minute detour had us crossing the McKinley Bridge a third time. The journey had officially begun.

We quickly began the “license plate game”, as different states plates were called out as they were spotted. My mother, fresh from her Western US road tour last summer, turned out to be quite a pro at spotting them. She was almost uncomfortably fixated with obtaining all fifty states; she kept a meticulous list on scrap paper. At all most any time, you could quiz her, and she was keenly aware of what states we’d seen, and what states were left to discover. OCD anyone?

There was little remarkable about the drive to Memphis, as mostly it was dark, and I’d been down this road a number of times, whether to visit Cape Girardeau, where my mother was born, or to camp at Reelfoot, where I used to go crappie fishing every spring before softball and Rock Bottom sucked all the air out of my spring time weekends!

We did manage to stop at Lambert's Cafe in Sikeston for dinner, Home of Throwed Rolls. Numerous times I've tried to stop there on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and this place is packed! Lengthy waits, as every church bus in 7 states is alongside the large kelly green "shed" that houses the restaraunt. But, tonight, this close to closing, we were led in quickly, ate some good rib sticking grub, and caught a few rolls tossed at us from about 30 yards! Good fun!

I managed to catch some of the Cardinal game on the radio along the way down outside of STL, and Beck manned the car stereo the rest of the time, manically searching the airwaves for music with the attention span of an AD/HD suffering 7 year old on a sugar buzz. From country to classic rock, it was a schizophrenic jumble of hit radio playing as our soundtrack while we drove deeper into the night.

Mom had booked some cheap rooms at a Super 8 in Memphis for us, of which she even got a discount on! When we crossed over the wide Mississippi about midnight from Arkansas, the hotel was easy to locate, virtually on the banks of the Tennessee side. A large motel for the chain, which typically is made up of two or three story facilities, this was an older structure with 6 or 7 floors, in a fairly industrial part of Memphis. Super 8’s are never known for being in a classy place! The narrow parking lot was very crowded, with only a few scant remaining spots to be had.

Tired and worn from the late evening drive, we hauled our “getaway” bags up to our fifth floor room leaving the bulk of the luggage behind. Along the back side of the hotel, across the sloping street, I spotted an old, vacant structure that looked like some institution of some kind at one time. Very old, reminding me of Malcolm Bliss or some hospital/insane asylum, with a domed rotunda crowning the spooky, bricked edifice. Also, white, wooden “barracks”, for lack of a better word, sat nestled along side the brick wings of the institution. It bore the hallmark signature of turn-of-the-century Army architectural design, almost a Boy Scout camp look, and had fallen into general disrepair; its worn porch that rimmed the structure was collapsing, the whitewash fading to gray.

I know I’m sounding crazy, but from where I stood, I could just sense the paranormal vibrations from the place! It was overwhelming! I stood, almost memorized by its haunting appearance, strangely drawn to it. What in the world was it? And who is still there? Fascinating! What I wouldn’t give to drag the paranormal teams I’d met and spend a night casing that place for something other worldly!

As we made our way along the opposite side to our respective rooms, a gathering of Black men clad in leather jackets sat carousing outside the rooms, pounding beers and telling stories. At first this sight startled my two young pre-teen daughters, I think. I was taken by surprise by the fact that, well, sure, they were Black, no big deal, but they were bikers! All decked out in leather coats with colors on the back, just like regulars we would see down in Poplar Bluff or Gobble Holler! Wild! Kind of a culture shock. The whole biker mystique is more of a Red Neck thing. Black guys tend to like those crotch rockets and European leather outfits, don’t they? Guess I wouldn’t know. A lesson in why one should not stereotype.

And, as you can imagine, they were fairly rowdy on into the night out there. I guess they were talked to by the management, and eventually they quieted down and we got some sleep. The next morning as we were checking out, we ran into a group of them down in the lobby. Mostly in their late 40’s to early 50’s, I say, with graying around the temples. Judging by their jacket “colors”, they were from Minnesota, and design on the back was a hilarious silhouette of a biker resting on his ride with a huge afro that sticks out about a foot in every direction! The name of the club escapes me now, but they obviously had a sense of humor about it. Soul bikers!

On the way out, I drove around to get a look at this mysterious place across the street in the daylight. A canopy of trees covered the grounds as it overlooked the banks of the Mississippi. I tried to drive down to the front, but the street along side the property lead us straight to the river’s edge, where the structure loomed high overhead, perched on the bluff.

The road stopped at a gated entrance leading to a barge transportation company. Two local gentleman in their 50’s or 60’s sat hanging off the back of their pickup truck, observing us as we approached. I swung around in front of them searching for some access up the top of the bluff, but there was none, just the river and the industrial barge landing.

“You look lost,” one of the kindly gentleman said as I rolled down the window.

“Well, no,” I said, “I was just curious what in the world that was up there. Trying to drive by to get a better look at it but ended up down here.” He nodded and smiled.

“Oh, that up there?” he said, motioning to the top of the rocky bluff. “Well, most people don’t know, but that was once the old Marine Corps Hospital,” he said.

As I showed a genuine interest in local lore, he and his buddy continued share more about the local area; stories of civil war sites, and even some good Elvis tales, like where the King used to be seen often riding around Memphis on his motorcycle in the evenings by himself. It was a fascinating tiny detour that gave us a rich, local flavor for Memphis, and interact with some of its people. A fortuitous stop, something I really enjoy doing. Getting to see the “other side” of things. Getting into the nooks and crannies of a location, find out what it’s really like to those that live there. The native aspect.

After discovering the proper path around the former hospital, we passed slowly by to pay our respects. Nothing really as foreboding in the daylight as it was in the darkness. Looked like something from my local Scott Air Force Base, mostly run down, unkempt. Part of it was still in use, however, as some adjoining structures had fresh coats of paint, and gated entryways. So, some of the compound still thrived. Wonder what stories those that work there could tell? What goes on there at night?

{BTW: as a side note, I actually Google mapped it, and you can see some of it from the satellite photo, as well as a neat shot in the accompanying Panoramio link of the old bridge at 55. Check it out here! Off Metal Museum road, and part of it is that museum now. The Super 8 is up and to the right of it across Illinois St.}

Our next stop was Graceland, home of the King, baby! Now, I’ll come clean about my feelings about Elvis. I find him interesting as a piece of Americana. There’s no question he was talented, and his impact shaped the latter part of the 20^th Century popular culture, it could be argued, as he was such an influence on later musicians like The Beatles, or even Ozzy Osbourne, for that matter. Whether music, radio, television, or movies, in his time, Elvis ruled. But, no, I can’t say I’m that huge a fan of the music, although with some of his stuff his talent clearly shines through.

But the whole “bigger than life” persona that was created that surrounded him and took on a life of its own, that I find extremely fascinating! He was a humble guy from humble beginnings, and when you “study” him (his history), you can see that he never really lost that about himself, even though his life around him was, well, unfathomable, of Roman Caesar proportions.

Across the street from Graceland is where the tour stuff starts, and is surrounded by shops and other Elvis exhibits, like his personal Boeing 707, the Lisa Marie, his car collection, and even exhibits dedicated to his jump suits and Army service years. It’s almost a Six Flags amusement park feel with dozens of curious “fans” from all walks of life and cultures taking in that which was “Elvis”.

We bought our tickets and grabbed a seat on the tram that ferries you across the street to the Graceland complex. As we passed through the gates, a digital audio tour guided us through with our headphones, regaling us with stories of the history of Elvis and the Graceland grounds (not named Graceland by Elvis, but by the doctor that build it in the ‘30s, after his wife’s aunt that helped them purchase it who's name was Grace). It is surreal to walk the grounds and hear his voice in the headphones and such.

It didn’t strike me as an overly impressive mansion, very reminiscent of homes I’d delivered to in my JS Express days in Ladue or Town and Country. Fancy, yes. Luxurious? Well, perhaps in 1950. For “The King”, it was actually fairly humble.

And, yeah, the interior was kinda tacky. Colorful peacock stained glass foyers, white shag carpets, stained glass mirrors. It all was something straight out of That ‘70’s Show! Pictures of Vern and Gladys Presley still hung on the walls, giving it a very homey feel. And, no, they still don’t allow anyone upstairs out of respect for Elvis, whom also very rarely let anyone upstairs. It was a private area for him, and guests rarely ventured up there.

In all, as I toured “his home”, that’s exactly what it felt like: walking through someone’s house! How perverse! Here we all were, traipsing through someone’s life! His home! I was almost voyeuristic, in all honesty. Almost unclean.

It wasn’t until we got to the “Trophy Room” attached to the side where it started to feel more like a museum or something dedicated to his life and his greatness. Enshrined there are timeless items such as his gold lame’ suit from the ‘50’s, memorabilia, walls of gold records like Hound Dog and Love Me Tender, costumes from movies like Kid Gallahad and Clambake!, the famous ’68 Comeback special black leather jumpsuit (yeah!), tons of stuff like I was expecting to find.

Out back behind the mansion rests a large rolling pasture with running horses. The tour leads you to his racquetball court he had built at the foot of the pasture, and inside the large court walls are covered by platinum records, every square inch! There are several cases full of this trademark ‘70’s jumpsuits, and video clips of his performances of that era playing on monitors. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it all, both from amazement, as well as the humor of it. It was his Greatness on display, but also everything that has become a caricature of what Elvis is. I was sharing it with my daughters, and it felt like a twisted history lesson, because this was Americana.

Most of the rest of my group didn’t seem to have nearly the interest in it all as I did, because they seemed to be breezing right though the exhibits, leaving me behind while I studied the nuances of everything on display. Like I said, it’s not like I’m some big Elvis worshiper, but, one has to admit, his life, his ascent to stardom, and the excesses that led to his demise are fascinating stuff in my view. I was exploring and savoring all of it.

We visited his grave out back in the meditation garden, along with those of his family. Kinda odd, to think that they are buried right there. But, I can’t say that I had any Spinal Tap like epiphany when I stood there. It was peaceful and serene, though, and could see why Elvis liked the Garden, and why they’d bury him there.

In the pasture behind the racquetball court, they kept horses in the stable, while a few were out enjoying the countryside, and along side the fenced line of the property were, well, Graceland’s neighbors. Just a nice, Memphis suburban neighborhood, with Elvis in the middle of it. I stopped to gaze over the scene. The bright, July summer morning was a Southern delight. Perhaps there was a ghost of Elvis with us: not the jumpsuited, race car drivin,’ womanizing rock’n’roll icon, but the peanut butter nanner sandwich eatin’, family lovin’, horseback ridin’ simple Mississippi southern boy who was living a dream here.

Back on the other side of the road, we visited some shops, toured the plane (was that the bed where he and Ann-Margaret possibly joined the Mile High Club?), saw his cars (my youngest had her heart SET on seeing his pink Cadillac, and she wasn’t disappointed!), and even saw dozens and dozens of his elaborate jumpsuits. By now, it was as though you were in another world from what was across the street. And honestly, you were. A fascinating glimpse into something that most of us could never even fathom living.

When we arrived, I spotted the Graceland Harley-Davidson shop on the premises, so I naturally had to obtain a tee shirt for my collection. One of his Harley’s sat on display, as he was an avid motorcyclist (which I’d already learned from the local on the barge dock). The selection of shirts there was vast, and now that I’ve lost weight, it’s so much easier to find shirts that fit!! Yea me!

But, naturally, the one I REALLY liked was out of stock! Grudgingly, I settled on a different one, Beck found something sexy too, and we paid at the counter, serviced by a friendly middle aged woman. I think I signed the registry or guest book or what not, and she struck up a conversation on where we’re from. That lead to where we’re going, all that sorta small talk, and while explaining that we were headed to Florida, we were gunna go get some good, classic, famous Memphis Barbecue for lunch.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “where y’all gunna go?”

“I’d heard ‘Rendezvous’ is famous ‘cue,” I said. One of the places mentioned in my BBQ Almanac I stowed along. To my surprise, she shook her head no.

“Naw, honey, Jim Neeley’s Interstate. Just down the road, ‘cross the state line.”

“Really?”

“Mmm hmm. That’s where you wanna go.” She gave me a wry, knowing smile.

Now, just across the “state line” made it sound like quite a ways away, but she assured me it wasn’t. She gave me some quick directions, and there was no question it was closer than Rendezvous, and in the direction we wanted to travel anyway, so, off we go! Some more local flavor discovered! This is what I’m talking about!

Off we traveled, and much to my surprise, the Mississippi state line was but maybe ten or fifteen blocks from Graceland. A couple turns here and there, and I discovered Jim Neeley’s Interstate Barbecue. {These hyperlinks are kinda cool!} A humble place, almost like a converted Pizza Hut or something, found on Stateline Rd, right off Interstate 55.

The menu was loaded with variations of barbecue, from ribs to pulled pork, and the ubiquitous sides like potato salad and baked beans. I ordered up a combo platter, while a waiter delivered a group of guys seated next to us their “sampler platters”. They were loaded to the gills, over flowing with ribs, pork, beef, corn, potatoes, everything!

“Damn!” the black fella exclaimed as the rested the feast before him. It was apparent he wasn’t expecting that much!

Ours came later (nothing is in a hurry in the south), and my combo wasn’t short on eats, either. It was delicious, and slathered in a tangier tasting sauce than back home, very smoky. I was not disappointed. The beef ribs were very filling, and the sides divine. A home run. I savored each bite.

“This is the best barbecue I’ve ever had!” my oldest shouted. “Besides yours, of course, dad!” she added, having thought she’d hurt my feelings.

Honey, I wished mine was this good. Another gem discovered by meeting the locals and finding what they eat. A very special treat.

Road ta Gobble Holler

2008-06-16T15:46:00.000-05:00

What’s this? Another blog? Only a week after he posted his last one? Is it the Apocalypse? Should we repent all sins? Will the universe end in 2012 as the Mayans predicted??? Can I wear white after Labor Day?

Yeah, well, guess I’m just in that kind of mood. Probably the coffee. For those of you who don’t know, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea several months back. My snoring was keeping Rebecca awake (can’t have that!), so I went to the sleep center here at the hospital where I work to see what can be done about it. After some testing, it was confirmed that I have very poor sleep. Didn’t surprise me in the slightest. My mother suffered from it, and she had a surgery to help treat it.

What did surprise me is some of the things the doctor said the apnea was affecting, most notably my metabolism. He promised me that once I started getting proper rest, my metabolism would shift, I’d feel completely different, with more energy. With that, I’d be able to drop off weight, because as it stands suffering from sleep apnea, my body couldn’t, my metabolism wouldn’t let it. It was like a Catch-22. My palette had become thicker in my mouth due to weight gain. I had to lose weight to correct this. You try to lose, but you can’t lose. All affected by sleep quality and its association with metabolism. Kind of a downward spiral.

So, after starting the therapy of sleeping with a mask that kept my airflow open through the night, giving me restful sleep, he prescribed me some stuff to help me lose weight (basically a mild appetite suppressant, and a blood sugar conditioner to turn my body into a fat burning machine as opposed to a carb burning one), so that would in turn shrink my palette, and ultimately alleviate the condition. On top of that, he suggested two things to increase my weight loss: restrict carbs (nothing as Draconian as Atkins induction phase, but sensible carb reduction: eliminating sugary stuff, pastas, white bread, yeah, beer too) and start drinking coffee to kick up my metabolism.

Well, I’ve been getting the best sleep of my life, and I’ve quickly lost about 45 lbs since February basically just eating ribeye steaks, drinking Bud Select (3 grams of carbs!), and drinking coffee. Wow, this is easy! It’s made a profound difference. Obviously just losing the weight will give you energy, but it runs deeper than that. I do have much more energy, and stamina, and I feel younger, to be sure. When I turned 40, I felt 40. Now I’m approaching 42, and I feel much more like 32. It’s really been that kind of change. I hope to drop about another 45 lbs by fall, and we expect that my apneaotic condition will have improved enough that I won’t have to wear the C-PAP mask to bed.

Long story short: I’m feeling much, much better. And, I’m excited about it.

Well, I’ve bored you enough with that. As for the paranormal occurrences I’ve written about recently, there’s basically nothing new to report. I’m stunned at the success. Was it some kind of placebo effect? While hard to dismiss that, that would illustrate everything we experienced was mental, in our minds. But there was physical evidence events were occuring. So, I think I can rule out it went away because we believed it went away. The next question seems to be is this just a lull, or is it permanent? Only time can answer that. But I feel more comfortable over there than I ever have, while I’m still very watchful, and always observing.

So, since there’s nothing paranormal to report (and honestly, since that experience, I’ve been still trying to wrap my head around it, so I’ve kind of back off pursuing my interest in it. I haven’t given it up, but, for now, I just don’t want to deal with it!) I’ll tell you about some Rock Bottom stuff. We’ve been gigging plenty, and there are all kinds of stories.

We’ve had a great time down in Poplar Bluff playing the “South’s Gunna Do It Again, Biker Style” rally’s on Labor Day the past two years. Lotta fun! Well, that parlayed into being invited to play at Gobble Holler Rally outside of Farmington, Mo. Needless to say, we were excited!

We played the Friday night before this show at Club 111, which wasn’t a bad show, but not one of my best. The beer was flowing strong, and we took a few detours towards the end of the night that I’d wished I hadn’t steered us towards. When I woke, I cleared the cobwebs, and thought “hmm, what the hell were we thinkin’?” Oh well.

My daughter was over in Mattoon for a softball tournament, but with the hellacious rains Friday, the entire thing had been cancelled. They were on their way back, they told me, waking me with a noon phone call. I could feel my brain slosh around inside my fuzzy cranium as I pulled myself from my bed. I have to get motivated.

I’d hoped to get out on the road by about 2pm, but that sure as hell wasn’t happening. I also had to make up with Bec. We were both a bit too drunk last night, and sometimes we get surly, and rub each other the wrong way. Wow! Nothing better than to wake up, hung over, remembering stupid shit you played, said, and fought about. I’m getting too old for this shit.

But, once the dust cleared, we said our peace, and kissed and made up in an adult fashion. We aren’t children, and we’re not perfect either. I was looking forward to taking her down to Farmington, and although she was feeling pretty yucky, she was still receptive about going. As long as she could figure out something to wear! Fashion show!

Mom and the kids rolled into town, back from the cancelled trip, and I met them for lunch at Ravenelli’s while Beck got herself together and packed. Since I wasn’t going to see them until tomorrow, I wanted to take every opportunity to spend at least a little time with them. Once I returned from lunch, I decided to check into hotel room availability in the area, since I didn’t have to drive to Mattoon to watch my little slugger play. No dice. Everything was booked, save for a three bedroom suite at the Days Inn, for $165. No thanks, I’d like to actually profit some money this weekend instead of be in the hole after shelling out $4 a gallon to get down there.

The wheels were rolling about 4pm, and I was feeling guilty for starting so late. Derrick was to get down there to set up the rig, and Steve had mentioned getting down there as well to help out. Shocking, I know! I kinda took that as a gentle hint to do the same, but now I was behind. An $80 fill-up at QT at Meremac Bottoms, a case of beer and ice in the cooler, and we were Mineral Area bound.

It was a beautiful afternoon to drive, and I was feeling much, much better than the hell I felt like when I woke. Beck was starting to come around as well. Having made the trip a number of times, it really didn’t seem long before we were breezing through Bonne Terre.

“Wonder if they have any rooms,” Beck mentioned as we passed a two story, brick motel called Red Cedar Lodge.

“I dunno,” I said, looking at the scarcely populated parking lot, “I didn’t call them. I thought they were, like, a fishing lodge or something, you know? Resort kinda thing. What the hell, let’s find out.”

I swung around and pulled in to check as Beck stayed in the car. Not a terrible looking place from the front at first glance. There were a couple people in the tiny lobby that greeted me, and motioned to another behind the counter. He was a dark, Hindu Indian with an accent as thick as Apu’s from The Simpsons. Typical. Is there some Hindu scroll that directs them all to manage New World motel chains?

To my pleasant surprise, they did indeed have rooms, and at a very affordable $40! In fact, frighteningly affordable. I knew what that meant instantly. It was “the Roach Motel”. Well, it will have to do.

We pulled around back, and quickly unpacked some things. The room was on the second floor of a shoddy, worn structure that looked as though it has seen some better days. Kinda like seeing someone from far away that looks attractive, but up close, you realize they are a trainwreck! At the end of the balcony, a “resident” had blocked off access with a small piece of plywood, keeping a couple puppies at bay. Wonderful

The room was very humble, and the bed was small. Bec quickly unpacked her seven million toiletries (as though we were staying a week), and I shoved my bag of Rock N Roll clothes in the closet, with the intention of swinging back by before the show to prepare. I wasn’t going to set up gear under the warm June sun in long, black jeans and a studded leather belt!

“EEEEEEEEEK!!” Bec screamed from the bathroom. “THERE’S A BUG!” Well, that didn’t take long! I came to the rescue, and in the tub was a tiny little guy, but a monster in her eyes. She hates them. This was going to be interesting! I snuffed him with a piece of toilet paper, and disposed of it. You should see my waterbugs! This guy was nothin’.

Steve had also called during our trip, and had told us Derrick was basically behind us, having left about 4pm. Steve himself hadn’t left at all! Well, looks like I’ll get the opportunity to help load in after all!

Bec and I returned to the road, passing through Farmington proper, and out about 10 miles to the festival grounds. Simple enough to find. At the gate, I, of course was allowed in gratis, but “girlfriends” had to pay $5. Whatever. The grounds were covered with campers, and it looked as though we’d have a very, very nice crowd. I was getting excited now.

Boozie and Derrick were stage side, their trucks and trailers sprawled out along side. The stage was two flat bed trailers with a canopy constructed over it to keep the sun off us. Probably some rain too, if need be. But all things were go for a beautiful, picturesque summer evening. No rain, please! Out from the stage a couple yards were some large round wooden spools with poles running up from the center. It took me a second, but then it hit me: dancing poles! LOL!

Most of Boozie’s drums were up, but none of the PA. There was a set of speakers onstage blaring 80’s tunes, but they weren’t ours. They belonged to some local who’d helped the band out the night before. Derrick made him move some stuff from the center area, and before long had the lighting truss set up behind Boozie’s kit, stringing that all up. I set up my rig with a quickness, but noticed I didn’t really have any power handy.
We weren’t using Carson for lights and sound, as Derrick has a great rig, but Carson always had a powerstrip run for me. Now, I had to fend for myself to locate an extension chord, powerstrip, and power source, for that matter! I decided just to get my amp plugged in and let it warm, and deal with the other power later. I could run into Farmington and get a powerstrip at Wal-Mart if I had to.

A burly, gray haired biker approached on stage, and began to bark out orders.

“Git me a mic I can use, and turn that shit off so I can say something,” he bellored. Uh, well, ok. The local guy had a wireless mic, and they shoved it in his hand as he stepped out onto the stage area.

“Alrightnow,” he announced out to the grounds, “we’re gittin’ ready for the anvil shoot if y’all wanna come down here by the creek and watch. You probably aint gunna see it back there behind dem trees.”

Anvil shoot?

He went on to give a brief, and actually interesting history of “shooting anvils”, and declared they themselves were World Champion Anvil Shooters. I didn’t know there was even a competition! He was the featured anvil shooter in the Reese Witherspoon movie “Sweet Home Alabama”, no less. Didn’t see it, but, that is saying something.

They planned to shoot these 101 lb anvils 900 feet into the air. Really? Now that I just might like to see! Why the hell would anyone want to do that? Well, in fact, he explained, and it made perfect sense. It’s a tradition that goes back a century where cannon balls were scarce, and to signal a warning shot to alert a community about an impending attack, say the Confederate or Union army, or even to scare gathering Indians, the blacksmiths would get their anvils, and they’d shoot them off.

So, true to his word, they blasted these frickin’ anvils sky high! Upon hearing the deafening blast, I’d gaze up over the treetops that lined the Holler, and a spinning black anvil would rise up into the sky about 800 or 900 feet, then fall to the earth, plunging into the ground about 5 or 6 feet, I was told. You don’t see THAT everyday!

Bec and Mrs. Boozie sat in the cab of Boozie’s truck socializing whist we set about bringing this whole thing together. I hadn’t roadied like this in quite some time. Didn’t miss it, either! A couple strong arms from the campers helped Boozie and I out getting the heavy stuff out of Derrick’s trailer while Derrick directed traffic. We loaded the cabs up onto the stage, and rolled the poweramps along side on the ground. Now what?

“Here, you guys can plug these in,” Derrick said, handing us lighting cables. Ran those. “Here, plug in the monitor cables.” Ran those. “Wanna run the speaker cables?” Ran that too. Boozie ran his mikes from his drums. Derrick reluctantly pulled off the face of the circuit breaker box, and went to work tapping into the power. Visions of Carson’s ill fated attempt in Bonne Terre in’88 filled my mind. Does Derrick know what the hell he’s doing? I stayed close, in case something happened while Derrick attached cables to the power source.

About that time, without any warning, they fired off the Civil War replica cannon on loan from the South’s Gunna Do It Again, Biker Style friends. Everyone helps everybody out at these things! I mentioned to Derrick “boy, wouldn’t you have loved to have had that go off about 3 minutes ago while you were tapping into that live circuit box??”

Wonder if they’ll shoot anvils this Labor Day in Poplar Bluff??

Took a while, but it was starting to look like Boozie and I had done all we could. And the clock was ticking. The sun was fading fast behind the Holler. I hadn’t anticipated spending this much time on the whole thing. We weren’t starting our show at 9pm, I could tell you that. But, I didn’t want to start at 11pm, either!

My plan was to head back into Farmington, get something to eat at a local Mexican restaurant that has a sister restaurant here in Granite, and get cleaned up at the Roach Motel, changing into my rock n roll clothes. Maybe even hit Wal-Mart and get a powerstrip and extension cord.

Not likely to happen. I was becoming flustered, and Bec tried to console me, telling me just to go get ready, make ‘em wait. But, I would have none of it. It was dark by the time we decided to head into Farmington, and all of us were very, very hungry. Derrick stayed behind to get the rest done as Steve showed up, thinking we were starting at 9pm. Guess again, Steve!

My solution was to go have dinner, and then just go back and play in my roadie clothes. Who gives a shit if I’m wearing black jeans, a Harley shirt, and a studded belt? Well, Bec says she does, but, I think it’s more important that we get on stage as soon as we can. I had an old powerstrip that will do for this show, and scared up a long enough extension cord to get everything running on my side.

So, the Boozie’s followed us back into town to the Mexican joint. It looked a bit different than ours in Granite City, and Bec remarked on how much she liked it. As long as they had the same fajitas, and cold Corona’s, I was cool with it!

To our surprise, we saw Hector, who managed the Granite location, standing at the checkout register at the front door. He told us, in is Antonio Banderas accent, he used to work at this one, and he was in town visiting, I guess. He wasn’t working. He’d also had some margaritas, it appeared. Possibly cervezas! We chatted for a bit, and were seated.

Dinner was warm and delicious with the Boozies, and we relaxed. I love that part. I kept an eye on the time as I sucked down some Corona’s, and knew it was a 15 minute ride back to the gig. I was comfortable now, just knowing I’d get back and go on like this instead of “Bar Star”. The nice thing about this choice was how fast they bring the food. “Yeah,” and Boozie said, “they’ll mow your lawn and plant your flowers while you wait!” True! They bust ass.

At dinner’s conclusion, the friendly waiter (who also worked for a time at the Granite location) handed the Boozie’s their check, and I tried to grab it to pay it. I’m such a nice guy! But, they wouldn’t let me.

“That’s THEIR check,” the waiter said. He had a coy smile on his face, which I couldn’t place why. I mean, I know my girlfriend is smokin’ hot, but I’m not sure that was the reason.

When we got up towards the register, I was trying to figure out the total of the bill so I could pay our share, and I noticed it was ridiculously cheap! In fact, our order wasn’t even on the check! What?

“Hector took care of you,” the smiling Latino informed me.

“Wow! Gracias!” I said. What a guy! Never in a million years did I expect that! Free dinner! You know, it’s always nice to be around and support good people. I’ve had lots of good friends, and made good connections with people, and it’s little things like this that just make the world go ‘round. Hector is quite a man.

We arrived back at the show, and Derrick was frantically working to get everything up. He was stressin’. We tried to get a sound check in, and we noticed only one side was working on the main system. Derrick fiddled around, fucked with this, adjusted that, and then threw up his hands.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed in a heat, “I lost half my fucking board!” Ruh ro. That’s not good.

“I’ll have to figure out a way to rewire the system,” he muttered, and set off to do just that. I glanced at the time on my cell phone. After 10pm. Maybe we were going on at 11pm?

Some of the more drunken patrons were getting a tad surly, with some woman bitching about us not playing. Brutal. Definitely starts to bring the mood down. I tested my amp, and warmed up a bit. It sounded fine, but outdoor gigs dry up my fretboard, and my playing feels choppy, and broken. Tonight looked like no exception. I sprayed down my fretboard with some Fast Fret, trying desperately in vane to smooth out my phrasing, but it just wasn’t happening.

We got the show off, and Derrick sent out instructions to our ladies to let us know right away what the sound is like, and try to adjust it from there. The unanimous answer was Steve wasn’t loud enough. Derrick tweaked that, and in all, by a few songs, the mix seemed pretty good out front. I mean, considering without a sound man out front, it could have been a complete train wreck, especially since Derrick had to run the system mono, different than what he’s used to. We started to find a groove, and connected with the crowd quickly.

We played about an hour, and I went ahead and ended the set, letting them bring on the Miss Gobble Holler contest. The two gents that run the affair, along with a posse of friends, hauled up a huge trophy for the occasion, and promised $500 in prize money. I snuck off the stage after grabbing a beer from my cooler located Stage Left, and met up with my honey. I wanted to relax. The contest would do just fine without me!

They didn’t have all that much problem recruiting contestants, and Steve’s girl, the reigning South’s Gunna Do It Again, Biker Style wet tee shirt champion, made her way up there. That meant we were kindly asked to cheer for her, which I didn’t mind, although I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be needed. She was a lock to win. Guess I’m going to have to watch this after all?

Thankfully, they decided against making it a wet tee shirt affair, which meant we didn’t need to worry about soaking any monitors and other equipment. They figured they’d just all strip down and get “nekked” right there for our pleasure, which is exactly what they all did. And, they were a very friendly bunch! They all seemed to “get along” very, very well! Days of Caligula, on display in the Mineral Area.

One disturbing episode was when they discussed openly what type of music to, well, get “nekked” to. Hip Hop, or Rock? The eternal Red Neck question. Although it wasn’t refered to as “Hip Hop”, but a far more derogatory, racial term, albeit amusing. I’ll not repeat it in deference to my good friends of “color” that I enjoy strong relationships with, in fear of making offense.

Then, on stage, one of the “posse” grabbed the mic, a very large, burly, imposing character, and belted out “You know how I feel about *#& tunes! Fuck ‘em! White Power! White Power!” He thrust his fist in the air. The mood was very mixed. Yeah, a hoot or a holler from a redneck or two, but I think most people just wanted to crawl away. I know I did. I didn’t want to be at a Klan meetin’!

Well, that settled the music choice, and off they went, dancing and disrobing. I’ll tell you, there’s some women that have a whole lot of self esteem, I guess, because I wouldn’t have shown my naked ass up there! Maybe it was the alcohol? I dunno. The area out in front of the stage was packed; you couldn’t get anyone else in there! It was a hit, to be sure.

Needless to say, Theresa won hands down, although the second place finisher wasn’t too bad, I guess. Of course, I was with the sexiest of them all, but she was going to get naked for me, not Gobble Holler! Hee hee!

I shuttled my way back on stage at the conclusion of the contest to set out the monitors, mikestands, and my pedal board that we’d cleared to make way for the contest. Theresa stood holding her trophy, and basically nothing else. Just a smile. I did my best not to give my buddy and lead singer’s girlfriend the “once over”. Just be polite, say congrats, and focus on the monitors, Deron! Not her naked body! I overheard them say she won $300, which seemed light. I, as well as Theresa, thought it was $500 to win. But, we were corrected. $300 for first, $200 for second. Fair enough. Theresa didn’t seem to mind sharing. She just wanted to get dressed and get off stage, I think!

We quickly repositioned the monitors out front, and I ran my pedal board and microphone to its original location. Quick signal chain check told me I was live and ready to rock. Everyone else seemed in place, and I was anxious to fire up our second set with everyone’s attention. But, sadly, following the contest, the large throng began to trickle away from the front stage area, and by a couple songs in, I could tell it was thinning out. Damn!

Those that stayed were very loud, and we had a great time. Seems like everything went over pretty well. My playing was still choppy, and phases were forced out, but, I knew that 98% of the people listening didn’t know that, or were too drunk to care. Or too tired. We played into the late, late hours.

We attempted to end with a nice bang, and were even called up for a couple encores by the rowdy remaining revelers, including the party’s host, who seemed to really enjoy us and the evening. Hey, that’s almost what really matters.

When someone organizes a huge undertaking like this, and all that goes into it, and they, in the end, have a great time and say warm, encouraging things, well, that’s about all we can ask for. Bar owners are there to make money. I want them to book us back, but I don’t really care if they like the show, because that’s not why we’re there. But, in a private party/festival like this, making the host happy is a higher priority, I feel. Glad he was impressed.

Steve kinda walked off before the second encore. He was done. Derrick and I scrambled to play “one more!” to appease the crowd and the host. Derrick shouted to me “Fire Woman, I’ll sing it!” Right on! And off we went. Didn’t sound bad at all. And fun to play again. But, overall, not the way I wanted to wrap up the show. Oh well.

I found out later that Steve had managed to get very, very fucked up, and basically had to get off stage and sit down before he tossed his cookies! Yeah, we were having some fun. Theresa’s mammoth bottle of Jager she was passing around didn’t help things either! Guess Steve tapped into that a wee bit too much! Trying to keep up with Derrick? That’s suicide!

I wound down after the show with my uber sexy woman, and talked with those that stayed up late, and still wanted to hang out. Much more than the Poplar Bluff shows, where once we quit, it seems like everyone peters out. I sat and talked after the show with a bunch of people, it seemed. The host brought up a case of beer, and placed it on the stage for anyone to grab, but, actually, not too many took advantage of it. It was time to wind down.

The host informed us that he was having a birthday celebration down here again in middle August, and begged us to play that as well. We had to break it to him that we were already booked. Jesus, I think we’re almost booked through ‘til 2009! I’m pretty positive we’ll be back next June, and I’m looking forward to that. It was a great time. Lotta fun to play these outdoor things. So many more people, and they, the biker crowd, really love the stuff we do. Good people, too.

I broke down my gear feeling tired and worn from the show. With the bigger stage and atmosphere, I was playing in a more “Arena” role, over exaggerating my moves and such. That takes a toll on this aging body, I can tell you! I loaded out, and met with my woman, who told me the Boozie’s were going to follow us back to the Roach Motel and see if there were any rooms left, as Boozie was too tired and too drunk to throw the tent up in the dark. Derrick stayed at the stage, camping out in Boozie’s “mini-tent”.

Naturally, there were no rooms left at the Red Cedar, so, we invited the Boozie’s to crash on the floor. They had a nice, quality air mattress given to them by the parents, and Mrs. Boozie set to inflate it as Boozie crashed in a chair, eyes half mast, looking exhausted from the gig.

“They didn’t give me a pump,” Mrs. Boozie said, flipping the uninflated, creased vinyl mattress over and under. There was no way to manually inflate it, it was huge. Guess its sleep on the floor, then!

“You can sleep here with Bec,” I told her. There was no way I could let a pregnant woman sleep on a hard floor. Boys should do that.

“Naw, that’s ok, I’m fine,” she said, and spread the airless mattress out, tossed some pillows and a cover, and the two of them snuggled on the floor despite my protests. Hell, I tried! Can’t force her! I respected her wishes, and rolled over to snuggle with my girl. It was about 5am.

Within moments, Boozie started sawing logs! He was cutting down Redwood Forests. Becca laughed it off, and Mrs. Boozie acknowledged he does tend to snore. We all managed to sleep fine, though. Even Bec, who constantly complains about MY snoring! Hey! What gives??

The bright sunlight shone through in the late AM as I stirred from my sleep. Boozie was still sawing down National Forests, but the ladies had awoken. Boozie sputtered awake, and announced “I think I swallowed a roach!” That was Bec’s favorite line of the weekend. The staff knocked at the front door, announcing “housekeeping!” It was barely 10AM, for God’s sake! We shouted at them to go away, and I began to wonder when checkout time was.

Bec informed us all there were tiny pinholes of sunlight coming in from the ceiling in the shower. Her naked shower session will probably end up on the Internet somewhere. A huge mosquito hunter bounced in one corner of the room, and Bec begged me to kill it, but I refused. I love those guys! They eat mosquitoes, for Christ’s sake! Mrs. Boozie didn’t like it one bit, either.

We packed up our things, and made ourselves ready for the day. Upon folding their airless air mattress, Boozie took a look at the bulky side attachement to it, finding a power plug. Soon, it became obvious that the pump was built into the mattress, and all they had to do was plug it in to start airing it up. They slept on the floor for nothing.

“AWWWW! You’ve got to be kidding me!” Boozie said, glaring an evil, wide eyed look that could kill someone a hundred times over. She sheepishly apologized, and I tried not to laugh. In all, Boozie took it very well. Now they know!

Breakfast was in order, and we all agreed to head down towards Farmington to find somewhere to dine. I could have sworn I saw a Huddle House or something, and it took a couple exits, but there indeed was such an establishment. They are owned by the same group that does Waffle House, but I came to find they’re much more elaborate. We drug our tired, sore, hungover carcasses in to meet Farmington’s Sunday breakfast crowd, and tried to “fit in”.

Much like dinner before at the Mexican joint, conversation was light hearted and the food was good, really hitting the spot. Can’t really remember what was said, as my mind was still pretty cloudy and fatigued from the night before. Had to pay for our own this time, as there was no one to pick up my tab like before. That’s ok, I got that kinda cash!

We saw the Boozie’s off, as they headed back to the “Holler” to load drums, and Bec and I set off East on the busy highway leading away from the Mineral Area. I was anxious to get home, get some much needed rest. Maybe play a poker game or two. Or just spend it cuddling with the woman. That would suit me fine. Anything but another night in a Roach Motel!

tele-psychics, smudging, and holy water, served with macaroni and cheese

2008-06-03T16:13:00.001-05:00

So much has been going on with Rock Bottom, my dear readers! Things are really hopping, and we’re having some great times. We’re all close friends outside of the band, which is so, so important when you start grinding these shows, weekend after weekend. Despite the redundant song list, the familiar haunts (interesting choice of words), and similar faces, every time I see my other three mates, we have a great time, and it makes everything a positive experience.

On top of that, we were stunned by Tom Ackman’s sudden departure from Just Mr., one of the area’s top acts, and his subsequent request to join us! Where the hell did that come from? Don’t ask me! But, I, for one, welcomed the thought as I’ve always felt more comfortable in the two guitar band structure, plus it allows me to plays some keyboards, which keeps it interesting and adds so many great songs to our mix. Or fills out the ones we currently do. More work for me, though! Like I’ve got time to practice!

And there were other considerations, namely where do we fit him onstage, and splitting what we make five ways sure doesn’t go as far as when we split it four ways. While we’re not really in this for the cash, it helps when every night I sweat it out, I have some money left over after my bar tab and filling my gas tank. Since I’m fortunate to have my beautiful girlfriend that I adore, I’m not in this for the chicks! So, cash is king!

But, the addition of Tom will help us get into some A list venues that know him like The Phoenix, House Of Rock, and Sharkey’s, which flat out pay better. Bigger stages, too. So, it’s all good! Rock Bottom is going to rock even better! Tom adds vocals, top notch guitar expertise, years of experience in top area acts, and he’s a good friend, which ultimately is the most important factor, we feel. Expect great things! We do!

So, as you can tell, I’m starting to get excited about playing again, and I figure, if my schedule allows, I be writing some more chapters in the long epic here that is my life. That is, if I can remember them, and find a way to present them that’s interesting, and not repetitive. A tall order, sometimes!

But, I have unfinished business with my last chapter, one dealing with “the paranormal”! As you remember, my lovely and gracious Rebecca was experiencing what we believed to be paranormal activity in her home the past year, and I stumbled on some local investigators who’d agreed to check it out. It was a fun, interesting time, and they came away in agreement: something was going on! Now what?

Basically, Brian, the lead investigator for St. Louis Paranormal Society, left that all up to us. I must admit, he is very laid back, never pushy, always allowing the homeowner to dictate what is allowed. He offered to bring in a psychic and “cleanse” the home, should we wish to go that route. Bec was more than willing! They also asked permission to film the proceedings, as they were putting together a documentary. Again, not a problem for us. As with the investigation, there was no talk of being charged for any of this.

Brian had Star, the psychic associated with StLPS, phone Bec to get some preliminary info, and do a reading over the phone. She had not been told of our investigation’s findings, just that we were interested in getting the paranormal activity to cease.

I wasn’t present at this reading, but Brian said those that she’s done reading for that he’s spoken with have come away like her abilities were uncanny. Janet from Mineral Springs Haunted Tours also spoke very, very highly of this woman’s gifts. It wasn’t long before Becca shared these same observations. After providing the woman with merely her birthdate, and what color the house was, the psychic began to tell Becca about her past failed marriage, talked of negative energy surrounding the house, named off various relatives and things about them, and even said “does the name Thomas, or Tom, or Ken mean anything to you?” Bec replied that it didn’t, but Star then said, “it will to your boyfriend. Pass that along to him.” Later that weekend, Tom Ackman approached us at Eddie’s about joining the band! Holy shit!

She got to the matter at hand at the house, and she seemed to believe there were three people, or spirits involved. There was a little girl, a baby boy, and a mother, one who was very sad, like she had post partum. They had been there a very long time. Perhaps even before this house was built. Something on the land, or tied to it. There was a fire, and the mother got her baby out, but the little girl perished. The mother feels so much guilt, and she wants to reunite with her. On and on. Said the owner previously (and called her by name) knew of the ghost, but was reluctant to tell Bec.

The little girl doesn’t know where her mother is, and is trying to communicate with Becca, thinking she is her mother. She’s hungry, and doesn’t understand why she won’t get her some food. Interesting stuff. Nothing we’ve been able to co-oberate, but, we’d always seemed to think what we’d been sensing was a small child, and we heard the EVP’s of a small girl on the tapes that my daughters made during the investigation. Star had no knowledge of this prior to the reading. And, she said she could remove her, move her along, reunite her with her mother. There were a few things Bec needed to do first, counteract some negative energy around the place, but she was pretty confident she could “cleanse” the home.

They arrived at noon on a sunny, spring-like Sunday. Basically, it was the two investigators, Brian from StLPS and Adam from Midwest Paranormal Investigations, along with Adam's young fiancée, Lauren, a bespeckled, bearded guy named Joe something that was going to film the "cleansing", and the psychic, Star. She was a pleasant, middle aged woman, about what I’d expect a psychic to be like; a little free spirited, somewhat disheveled, earthy, understated, wearing a loose fitting white blouse and long, flowing red skirt that almost touched the ground.

We showed them around a bit, and Star checked out the house, and at one point, stood in a spot in the spare bedroom directly behind the computer and said "she left an imprint here". That was interesting. "Here," Star told me, "stand here." So, I did. "Can you feel it? Like a tingling from the floor?" No, I didn't feel anything. Nothing odd whatsoever.

So, anyway, at that spot, the investigators put some things to try and draw her out. Milk and cookies, some stuffed toys, a ball. Etc. Things to attract a young girl. They set up a camera on them, shut the door, and filmed to see if anything moved. We'll hear back on them from that, later.

We went into the living room where they played the taped interview we’d conducted at the prelim to give Star a feel for what we've been experiencing since she’d never been informed. Boy, watching yourself on a video tape can be very disturbing! I felt like a boob! I wanted to crawl under a table and hide!

Star kind of half listened, but it was obvious she was picking up different things, and was already onto what was going on. We kind of shut the tape off once it became apparent this wasn’t of any great use, and I mentioned that the only thing left on the tape was the encounter where I saw the unexplained flash of blue/white light in the living room moving towards the closet that I chronicled in my last blog.

"There is a portal!" Star exclaimed in a sudden, almost spasm like gesture. "It's right outside. On the side of the house.” She turned and looked towards the closet, pointing.

“Over there, on the other side of the wall?” Brian asked. We all turned and gazed towards the infamous closet.

“Mmm hmm, that’s it!” she said. “I just figured it out."

She then turned to me and laid THIS on me!

"You are very gifted. In many past lives you were a powerful shaman, medicine man," She said, looking up at me from the couch, staring into my eyes. "With the Druids…"

"Ok…" I said. I was taken aback. Where is this coming from? She continued to speak directly to me.

"And Native Americans..." she continued, searching for something, her eyes roaming, "Vikings! You were a powerful Viking priest, too!"

"Wow, I'm Norwegian! And Scot." Very strange! "But not any Indian that I know of."

"And they took your powers away," she went on, almost seemingly as though I wasn’t there. She was looking off into the distance now, past me, past the walls, past everything. "You,” she continued, with a broken pause, “you made some people angry for something you did."

"I do seem to have that ability!" I flippantly chimed in.

"You were associated with some people, and they thought you were part of this group, and against them, so the punished you, and stripped you of your powers. We're going to get your powers back. Umm hmm.” She said as she nodded, looking as she was formulating something in her head. “You will be able to use your intuition again. Read peoples feelings, get your magic back." She went on, explaining how I was without all this, and it would be returned to me.

Really? Will this help my poker game, I thought to myself? I didn’t say this aloud, though. She was serious, and strangely, I had to respect that. Because she had been right on about so many things thus far.

She went on: "We need to right that karmic wrong, show them that you aren't the person they thought, so they quit screwing with you. That portal is allowing them contact, to fight you. I want to "smudge" you,” she said. Brian’s face lit up.

“We need to smudge him, then?” he said with a child-like smile. Then he nodded.

“Yes,” she said, “we’ll need to do that. We’ll smudge you, which will protect you, and then you stand there at the portal, stand up to them, show them you're not what they thought, that you weren’t who they thought you were, or associated with, or whatever, and you'll get your power back from them. Mmm hmm." She nodded again, and looked away, as though she was talking aloud more than talking to me.

Well, I can do that... sounds easy enough! I have no idea what she means, though.

"Because until we close that portal, we can't get the little girl out. So, I hate to break it to you. That's what we have to do! Yep. It’s gotta be done."

"I don't mind," I told her.

"Good, good," she said. "I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

I wasn’t sure how I was taking it! Not everyday some psychic says to you “you have some Karmic wrongs from past lives, and you need to be smudged.” That doesn’t happen everyday! How does one take that?

So, what the game plan seemed to be was "smudge me" which was supposed to protect me, and I guess cleanse me of some Karmic wrongdoing, or whatever, then go close this portal outside the house, then attempt to lead the girl out. From what I could gather, the psychic seemed to think the portal was connected to me, or that I was interfering with it, or it had drawn attention to me because of these alleged "past life" events. Without closing that portal, there was no way to get rid of the girl. The girl probably wasn’t even aware of this portal, they actually weren’t related.

Hey baby! Smudge me!

So, Star and I wandered outside, where the sun shone brightly. She stood next to the house right in front of the driveway, next to where this famous closet is inside the house that seems to be a focal point of activity. In fact, it was the highest EMF spike in the house last time the investigators checked in March, and a source of a gas leak when Becca first moved into the home, a pipe fitting located directly under it.

"Oh," Star said with alarm, standing in the patchy grass next to the window where the TV sits, staring at her feet. "Yup, right here! The portal is here. Oooo! Lots of nasties! We're going to have to close this. Here!" she motioned to me, "stand right here. Can you feel it?"

Do I want to? Again, I stood where she told me, and I concentrated. But, I felt nothing. I sheepishly shook my head no.

"Well, we're going to smudge you, and do like we talked about, ok?" I nodded. Sure, no prob. "That way we'll close it up, get rid of the nasties! Ok." She said, and wandered away. "Don't want to do this there, let's come over here." She also confided in me that she preferred it not be done while filmed by StLPS’s crew. It was personal, for me. She suggested that I not allow it, which I agreed to.

In the back, by a tiny pond, we took some salt and encircled me and Star. We were assisted by Adam and Lauren from Midwest Paranormal. Adam had taken a few EMF readings outside.

“Any spikes?” I asked. He showed me the meter, resting at 0.2, the typical ambient reading. Nothing.

They lit some Native American sage, got it smoking after some difficulty, and Star proceeded to perform some ritual around me of basically brushing smoke all over my body. Harmless enough.

"Who here has relatives in Chicago?" Star blurted from nowhere. I shook my head no. I’ve never even been to Chicago.

"Uh, I do," Adam muttered.

"Ah, good, ok! I was picking that up, wondering. Call them! Yes, you should call them."

Adam respectfully nodded, grabbed for his cell phone, and wandered off. I never did hear more about that from him or what it meant.

“Ooh, good!” Star exclaimed. “I made contact with your Guardian Angel. He’s here!” she told me. Uh, ok. That’s comforting, I suppose. The stream of consciousness continued from her.

"What is wrong with your knee. Did you have knee problems?" Star asked me.

"No,” I said, staring down as the sage smoke wafted up into my face, “but my entire leg was destroyed in a car crash. The knee was fine."

"Well, something about your knee," she insisted.

"I have a scar here where they did the surgery to the bone," I said, pointing to my jeans along the underside of my kneecap.

"AH! That's it!" Star said, and proceeded to waft sage smoke towards it. I had to chuckle. She’s something!

After all that, they wandered off to start the next phase. I kind of stood alone by the little pond in Bec's garden, and started to think about things. I felt kind of distant. When Star mentioned that there was a portal outside, and that it was connected to me, something strangely made sense. Why?

I'd always felt a sense of unease, especially late at night when the living room was dark, connected with that closet, and that side of the house. I very often, when putting my shoes on to leave late at night, would stare over at that closet, over in the darkness, and, well, just sense something I couldn't explain. I thought it might be tied to the girl. Often, when I'd walk out to my car parked in the driveway, I wondered if it was even tied to that closet at all! I thought to myself, "maybe it's something outside the house? Maybe the neighbors have had this, too?" I swear I've always felt that. Now I have a psychic telling me what I strangely had sensed before!

As Adam approached me, I mentioned it to him. "It's like, she says these crazy things, but yet, I know she's right!" I told him. "There's no proof there's a portal, or any of that," I said. "But, when she pointed it out, I KNEW she was right. I knew something was there!" Adam just had this coy smile. He's been to several of these with Star, and I think he's never ceased to be amazed.

Something else started to wash over me. I was overwhelmed about an understanding of my relationship with my old buddy, Paul Joseph. Paul, in younger days, has dabbled in occult, and paranormal. He would have enjoyed seeing this. Paul and I, in fact, have a notable relationship of many things in common. Spirituality, and Zen. I've joked that I've known Paul for a very, very long time, like two kindred souls. It became apparent to me that that isn't a joke. I sensed now, or felt a bond with Paul that I think goes back a very, very long way, through lifetimes. It's no wonder we are the friends we are. We always have been. It was making strange, perfect logical sense to me. I wish I could explain, or prove it. But, strangely, I just know.

I went in to check on Bec as Star had instructed me to while they were to start the process outside at the "portal". I kinda talked with her, attempted to assuage her fears. She was pretty freaked out by all of it. Growing up Catholic, this is freaky shit for her, not something she can wrap her head around. She had confided in me before hand that she was nervous about doing this at all, fearful of what could be conjured up. Would this make things worse? I tried to console her. Eventually, when I realized I could comfort her no further, I thought "well, time for me to see what the hell's going on outside.”

The whole group was out there minus Bec, and they had created a circle in salt along side the house over to the fence/property line about 14 feet. Inside the circle was a cross, or an X. When I came out, Star handed me some salt, and said "now, I want you to run along and trace that circle. Go ahead and do that.” So I did.

But, as I started to do this, I was overcome, and I mean, I want to tell you OVERCOME with a sense that I should NOT do it in a clockwise fashion. I should trace this circle in a counter-clockwise direction. I started to ignore that bizarre impulse, but, then, I changed my mind, in fact felt compelled to stop, and did exactly what I thought I should do. I traced it backwards. I mentioned this to no one.

She went through some ritual, and she warned us about how she speaks in tongues, so pay no attention to it. Don’t get freaked out. Then, did her little thing. Very Native American in its nature. There was a very Judeo-Christian component as well. Very spiritual. I watched intently, with an open mind. There was no Hollywood, nothing flashy. Very earthy, and matter-of-factly.

Then, she handed me holy water, and told me to sprinkle that along the cross, or the X inside the circle. I started to, facing the house, stepping backwards towards the fence, when AGAIN, something came over me, and I KNEW I mustn't do this walking backwards! I turned and faced the direction I was sprinkling, and did as she directed. Something, well, no, my INSTINCTS were to do it this way, and it was overwhelming. Never once did anyone motion to do it this way. I was guided to by instinct.

I stood back, and she said some more things, people were talking, etc. But, I started to feel something. Remember, when I stood in that one place, I felt NOTHING. Just a mundane, bright, spring Sunday afternoon; nothing out of order.

Yet now, standing outside here, I was feeling something, and I couldn't explain it, or tell what it was, or where it was coming from. But it was positive. I tried to quantify it, put a label on it. It was difficult. I was searching myself. What is this I'm feeling? I can’t deny it. I can’t explain it. I’m starting to feel something. The nearest thing I could attribute it to was, triumph! I felt a sense of triumph, and vindication, but, yet not like I'd ever felt it before. It was, just, different. It also made absolutely no sense, and was related to no event that had taken place! Wow! Strangeness!

Then, it was followed by a complete and TOTAL sense of calmness, and clarity. I fucking kid you not! While the first sensation, the triumphant sensation, was more vague and subtle, I was washed over with calmness, more so than at any time that I've ever experienced meditating in my Zen practice. It was powerful, complete, and encompassing.

I felt compelled at this point to let everyone know, as this was, in a way, still an investigation. I frankly explained the feelings I was finally having during this, basically just the later part of the “ceremony”, and the also regarding the compulsion to follow my instincts on the tasks Star had asked me to perform.

"You're getting it back," she said, and then turned away, making no other issue. I can't explain it, but, something happened to me. I'm dead serious.

Also, I began to sense something else. While watching this go on, I paused to study Brian. He’s a young guy, about 28 years old. I began to understand his role in all of this. I had a sense that Brian's mission, or role is to bring people together, like Star, and these clients, and solve these issues. I don't think he even understands that, he probably thinks it's his curiosity that does it, but it's not. Like a strange, karmic dance, his role was as a catalyst to bring all the elements together. I was starting to think I was losing my mind! Why would I start thinking this way about someone I hardly know? Why do I think I know motivations that probably he doesn't even know he has? It was almost creepy. It was like I, I know you’ll think I’m fucking looney tunes here, but it was as though I could see, for just a moment, into Brian’s soul.

We went inside, and did that whole rig-a-marole. They had the “smudge” going, we were making noise shaking bells and such, which Star explained would help draw out the spirit. Star had given me the holy water to sprinkle, Bec was to spread salt, and Star kind of chanted, and directed us through the house. Yeah, it looks as silly as it sounds, but, hey, after what I just went through, a little salt and water sounds good to me! No harm it. Like I said, open minded is the word of the day, here. And, for the most part, nothing much seemed to be coming of it.

There was this, however: we entered the spare bedroom to do what we needed in there, the place where Star had felt the presence of the little girl during the initial walk through. Nothing had appeared moved from the various items they’d laid out, so I don't think they will catch anything on tape as they were hoping. Nothing pointed to any paranormal presence.

Star did what she does, chanting, praying, directing “traffic” with the rest of us. Beck tossed salt, Brian spread the sage smoke, and I sprinkled holy water. All good. We shook our various noisemakers. Star was speaking towards the spot on the floor, and began to call out to the little girl, trying to talk the little girl in to going towards the light, telling us to pray, etc. It was a rowdy, raucous sight to behold.

She directed Lauren to stand in that spot we’d marked earlier as we continued to shake our noise makers, which Lauren did. But, I don't think she felt anything. She just shook her head and stepped aside. Star then directed me to stand there, which I obliged, standing right where I stood earlier, and had felt nothing before.

Friends, as I stood in that same exact spot, I was overcome with deep, sad, powerful emotions, those of longing, loneliness, sadness. I felt it. I felt her! "She's here!" I announced. My skin started to crawl.

I’ve felt this once before. At an old girlfriend’s allegedly haunted apartment in South St. Louis City, I'd been inexplicably overcome with a cold sensation of longing and loneliness while looking at a poster of a regional Minnesota band I was acquainted with, until I was forced to step away from the poster. This was the same! Exactly the same! There was no denying it, no explaining it, as I had stood exactly here earlier, and felt nothing of the sort!

Now, I was feeling such fear, deep sorrow, even detachment. And they weren’t my emotions! I tried to wrap my head around it, but, I honestly couldn't. I continued to stand there, not shying away, and the ritual continued around me as the feeling began to fade. Then, it was gone, as though sand had slipped through an hour glass, and I stepped aside, trying to get a grip on what I just experienced.

This is just speculation after the fact, but I think the little girl was afraid to leave, was afraid to go, because she was scared, and didn't know what was ahead of her. She didn't want to let go. It was a letting go, and she didn't want to do it, but she did. She was so afraid to let go, afraid to be alone, but she finally did. That seems to be what I felt. As crazy as that sounds! I was overwhelmed with questions. There were no answers.

"Everyone tell her bye!" Star said as we continued the ritual. "Bye, bye!" they all said, dutifully. “Bye,” I muttered softly. But, I knew she was gone. I felt her go already. I think Star did too. The others might have felt it silly, saying “bye” to no one they could see. But, I knew. She was leaving, and Star had it exactly right. Then, Star put her foot on the spot, tamped down on the hard wood flooring, and announced "she's gone." And, I knew it to be true as well. We moved on.

We did a couple more ceremonial things to close the cleansing, nothing really that special to mention. Then it was done. We gathered in the living room, all of us pretty quiet. I was at a complete loss for words. Star pulled out boxes of macaroni and cheese from a cloth bag. A strange non sequitor.

“It’s important to have a feast, to eat at the conclusion,” she said, handing them to me. “So, I brought this as a gesture. If you don’t like macaroni and cheese, just donate it to a shelter or something. It’s just symbolic. No big deal. Ok, then.” She was done.

Adam mentioned something very, very interesting, breaking the calm. He'd taken an EMF reading again at the closet when he first arrived, and photographed it. As before, there was an EMF spike of around 3.4 at the closet, just as in the first investigation. The highest in the house, same as last time. But now, after the "cleansing", he took another reading, the EMF reading was normal, about 0.2! WOW! I was stunned.

I really wanted to stay and talk with them, but I had to get to Greenville. My daughter’s softball game was to begin in about a half hour, and I was an hour away. So, I said my goodbyes. I also hugged Star, because, again, I had a compulsion, and instinct to do so. Very, very odd, but I knew I couldn’t leave without that gesture to her.

When I walked out to my car, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the passenger door window, and, my God, it's like it wasn't me! I saw myself, well, differently! It was me, but, it was different. I mean, I've lost some weight, so my face has changed a bit, but, I don't know. And, while it was scary, startling more like, it was good! Like, I dunno, a different aura? Beats the fuck out of me! But, that was what I saw, and what I thought when I saw it, honestly.

Time will tell if what we did that afternoon did what we wanted. Thus far, the house has been very quiet, and very comfortable. But, I'm telling you, I personally feel different today because of it. And I have no explanation for it.

Ghost Hunters

2008-04-28T16:28:00.001-05:00

Hello again, faithful readers! Back again to try and entertain youse with stories from Stage Right. Of course, I’ve kind of detoured off the “rockstar” (or more accurately “barstar”) posts, and have been sharing the more bizarre paranormal activities that I’ve been experiencing, just to mix things up, have something different to write about.

As for Rock Bottom, things have been going very well, we’ve played some new material and are learning even more, and there’s lots going on just out on the horizon. We’ve been having a fun time, to be sure.

Back home, as I mentioned, we set up a meeting with The St. Louis Paranormal Society, and were very interested in having them come in, take a look, see if they think there is some true “paranormal” activity, or if this was just common place, house settling type events. As I say, I’m an open minded skeptic. I know there are “more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy”, to quote Shakespeare, but you’re gunna have to prove it to me. The old Missouri axiom of “Show Me”.

My lovely girlfriend has told me many strange happenings that have occurred in the 10 months she’s lived at this residence, most of which I’m at a lost to explain to her, but having not seen, I cannot vouch for either. And, I’ve shared several with her. On several occasions, we’ve heard (and felt!) a thunderous crash emanating from the living room while we lay in bed. When I leapt up to investigate, I found no signs of anything moving, and when I try to recreate the sound, the nearest I can come is picking up the corner of the couch and dropping it on the hard wood floor! What could cause this? House settling? Contraction of the foundation from weather fluctuations?

I’ve also shared with her what she’s experienced where a water faucet in the bathroom turned on by itself, then shut off, again, as we lay in bed. I could clearly hear it as did she, and she investigated to find water pooling in the bottom of the sink, as though indeed someone had just used it.

One evening shortly before the STLPS investigators came for a preliminary interview, I was standing with Beck in her spare bedroom which houses her computer desk. With my coat on, getting ready to leave, myself standing at the bedroom doorway, facing down the hall while Beck stood from her computer chair within the spare room, I actually witnessed a bright, blue/white “flash” of light, for lack of a better word, rapidly cross the living room, just below the ceiling, and vanish as it moved towards the living room closet, an area where we’ve all felt very uncomfortable around. It was moving very quickly, it was very, very bright, did not reach the ground that I could see, and had almost, I hate to say, a “mist” quality about it, as though the middle part of this form was solid white, but the edges were more of a bluish color, and wispy.

I froze in mid-sentence, startled, trying to process what it was I just witnessed. Was that car headlights? I focused my hearing, but I could hear nothing pass by outside, and we always hear the traffic through her thin walls. I even strained to spot the tell tale signs of passing red taillights through her living room window to confirm what I’d seen was only a passing vehicle, but there wasn’t any. There was no activity outside what so ever.

Beck immediately picked up that something just caught my attention, and inquired what the matter was.

“Nothing,” I assured her. I couldn’t possibly explain it, and it wasn’t really solid enough to say “I just saw a ghost”. I didn’t. I saw a strange, vaporous blue/white form of light move across the living room. Something that could easily be debunked as car headlights. Except there weren’t any cars going by, and in truth, car headlights tend to be dimmer, and have a more yellowish hue, unless they are the bluer halogen beams.

I walked into the living room and again peered out the window, down the street to confirm that a car hadn’t passed by. I was still at a loss to explain this. I looked out the front door, and none of the neighbors where in any vehicles in their driveways, so, again, that couldn’t explain it either. From the angle I saw the light, and the motion across the room, I think it could have only come from a car pulling into the next door neighbor’s driveway, which was directly next to the room I was standing in, and I didn’t hear any car pull along side. I clearly would have been able to, and probably heard car door slamming as well. No one pulled in next door.

It was a mystery, and I didn’t want to alarm her with something I didn’t have any explanation for, or solid evidence as paranormal. So I kept it to myself. She is on edge enough around the house with all of this!

We met with the STLPS guys one evening, and they asked us for our accounts of what we’d seen, and they video recorded the whole thing, and audio recorded it. Both for record keeping, and for investigative purposes. That’s when I explained the odd flash of light I’d witnessed just a few days earlier. Beck found that discomforting. They asked us some questions about our beliefs, and took a short tour of the premises. Couple a nice guys.

They agreed that it sounded interesting to them, and volunteered to come over some evening and investigate, should we (she) wish it. I left that up to Beck, as it’s her house, but that was pretty much the reason we contacted them! We set up a mutually agreeable time, and they were to return with full field hunting gear.

Naturally we were very excited, although somewhat nervous. Was there anything really here? Would they experience it? Were we just going to come off as kooks? And if they DO find something, THEN WHAT? As you can tell, there was no real good ending for this. Either we’re going to be thought of as kooks worried about bumps from a house settling, or we were living in the Amityville Horror! What were we getting ourselves into?

The rolled in one evening, and I’d brought by two daughters over to witness. My oldest had already been on the Haunted Tour at Mineral Springs, snapping her camera and bravely enduring the séance. I figured she’d be able to handle this. But, I couldn’t NOT invite my younger daughter, although I wasn’t sure how she’d react. But she insisted that she be allowed to attend, and I thought, what the hell. Probably not going to have anything happen anyway.

The STLPS duo set up four infrared cameras in different key locations of the house: facing the living room closet where we’ve had some uncomfortable feelings; in the spare bedroom on the computer, where the computer chair has been heard to slide across the hardwood floor; in her bedroom facing the closet where I’d experienced the feeling of someone standing next to me along side the bed, and in the basement, looking through the main room into the doorway of the laundry room.

After the cameras were hooked up, adjusted, and “taping” on the DV-R set up in the kitchen as master control, we shut off all the lights in the house, and began the investigation. I think it was about quarter after 10PM. I sat monitoring the large flat panel screen quartered with all four infrared cameras with one of the investigators, while the other grabbed his digital tape recorder, his hand held DV-R, and his EMF detector, which noted spikes of Electro Magnetic Fields, and scurried off into the darkness for field work.

They also provided some simple hand held tape recorders if any of us cared to do any EVP work, which is Electronic Voice Phenomena. Basically, sometimes when you record something in a paranormal environment and play it back, unknown voices can be heard. My daughters seemed eager, and very bravely took one of the recorders and wandered around the upstairs floor asking repeated questions, attempting to communicate with our so called “ghost”. They were very thorough, and I was quite proud of their nerve! I couldn’t have done something like that at their age. They basically never really went too far from us up stairs, as the house isn’t all that large. But, it was brave none the less!

I watched them as the entered different rooms, my oldest leading the way, pushing the tape recorder out ahead of her in the darkness, and my younger daughter trailing behind, holding close to her. I also scanned the screen looking for anything that might catch my attention, but for the most part, the black and white screens seemed pretty innocuous.

Once in a while, however, I’d notice a small ball drift across the screen. Then another. Then, perhaps another. Orbs? Fascinating! Eagerly, I pointed them out to the lead STLPS investigator.

“Yeah,” he said calmly, “you see those. Here’s an interesting experiment you can do.” He instructed Beck to take a couple throw pillows, and standing in front of the nearest infrared camera, beat them together. Instantly, dust shot into the air, and from that moment, I saw tons of my so called “orbs!” Just dust. Creepy, but very explainable.

“Sometimes you catch the real thing, but mostly, it’s just dust,” he explained. “This house is exceptionally clean,” he noted. Beck keeps a spotless house! “You can imagine some of these older, abandon places we investigate, and all the dust! You see this sort of thing constantly.”

So, the sensitivity of these cameras was pretty impressive to pick up movement of tiny dust particles in a darkened room. Of course, as I settled into studying the camera images as they were being recorded, some of the excitement faded, as the revelation of the dust tempered my excitement.

After the girls wrapped up a good session of EVP work, we settled in for what was looking to be a quiet, uneventful session. The lead investigator was fatigued from an all nighter he’d pulled the night before at another investigation, and rested in the living room chair quietly. His partner continued to scan the house, noting to me once as he passed by that he strangely found that both closets we mentioned had high EMF readings, with the one in the living room having the highest. He then proceeded to the basement.

My youngest daughter pulled up a chair beside me, and joined in the fun. It was kind of fascinating to watch, yet kind of dull at the same time. You just felt like something MIGHT happen at any second. But, nothing was, really.

I noticed on one corner of the screen the second investigator walking past the camera located in the basement, and he entered the laundry room down there. The lead investigator wandered over, and we began talking about the DV-R setup, and how he too enjoys just sitting and monitoring it, sometimes. That anticipation.

My daughter noticed something on the screen, and pointed out to us that a clothesline located in the laundry room appeared to be moving, almost swinging.

“Look at that, daddy,” she said.

“Yes hon, one of the investigators just went in there,” I said. The lead investigator peered over my shoulder.

“He did?” he asked. Although we couldn’t see him, I’d seen him enter there. So, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. We continued to talk. The line continued to move.

“What’s that?” my youngest asked, pointing to a strange, dark shape on the basement ceiling, above the swaying clothesline. It did seem out of place.

“I dunno, honey” I said. The lead investigator looked on as well, and kind of shrugged his shoulders.

“Not sure what that is,” he said, staring at the screen. It looked, faintly, like a slight discoloration on the ceiling, and as though it was shifting, but, it wasn’t very strong. Then it disappeared. We were at a loss. Moments later, the investigator left the room and soon I could hear him coming up the basement steps.

“Saw you go in the laundry room,” I said. “You were playing around with the clothesline, it looked like,” I said, marveling at the sensitivity of the infrared. He paused.

“You saw that?” he calmly asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “we were watching. These things are neat!” The investigator kind of looked past me and approached the lead investigator, and they quietly shuffled off. I continued to focus my attention on the screen, noticing that the clothesline had stopped appearing to vibrate, and there was no longer any hint of that dark “shadow” across the basement ceiling.

After a moment, they returned to our “Central Command”, heading again towards the basement.

“We’re going to reposition that basement camera,” the lead investigator said, matter-of-factly. “We’re not getting the angle we want out of it.” I nodded, sat back, and continued watching. It was very relaxing.

They went into the room for a brief time, then re-emerged. They removed the camera from the main basement area, dragging it into the laundry room proper, and pointed it across the room at the clothesline and at an apparatus Beck has hanging from it used to dry socks, undies, and the like. A circular contraption with clothespins attached that freely hangs from the line, dangling in the open. It was still. Everything in the room was motionless.

They returned from the basement, and were fairly tight lipped about the whole thing. At this point, it started to dawn on me: something was up. Something was going on, but they weren’t saying much. They were just observing. They certainly weren’t tipping their hand. I started to keep an even sharper eye.

My oldest had continued her very thorough EVP investigation of the upstairs, and I suggested that she and her sister do some work downstairs.

“I’m not going down there!” my youngest announced.

“I’m not going down there alone!” my oldest added. Well, guess it’s my turn.

“I’ll go down there with you then.” My oldest agreed, and we wandered down into the pitch blackness of the basement. My pulse did race a bit, but overall I was calm, curious, and, well, kinda had to be a brave soldier for my daughter! Don’t want her to think I’m some big scaredy cat! Truth is, if something really startled me, I’d probably piss pants!

We gently walked through the basement with the tape rolling, and my daughter called out “anyone here?” There was only silence. I lead us over to the laundry room. I figured if we were going to get anything, it would be in here!

The gray light from the basement window shone down onto the floor, and I could barely make out shadows of a bench and washing machine, etc. I couldn’t really see the clothesline, but it appeared still. My heart was pumping in my ears. Off to the far side, I could make out the circular ring of red LED lights from the infrared camera re-arranged by the investigators.

“Anyone here?” my daughter called out. We were met with stone cold silence. I spoke a few things, trying to get a response. Basically, I felt like I was talking to an empty room. A very dark, empty room. My daughter continued to question the darkness. We neither heard nor felt anything. It was silent. Well, we gave it our best shot. Might as well, head back upstairs. I wasn’t really uncomfortable. There just didn’t seem to be anything more to do. We wrapped it up and headed back upstairs, and I felt good I did a little investigating with my daughter. Do they have a Girl Scout badge for that?!

Things began to settle, and the investigation became one of waiting. My youngest had become very sleepy, and I figured it was time to take her home and put her to bed. It was well past midnight. This was going to go on until daybreak, they suggested. I quickly shuttled her home, and returned to the investigation.

I returned to find my oldest watching the monitor as I was, while the lead investigator and Beck sat in the living room, discussing paranormal events, passing the time. The other investigator was continuing to conduct research in other rooms of the house, sitting quietly, recording for EVPs, and filming with his DV-R.

“Look at that, Dad!” my oldest whispered. She pointed to the camera located in the living room at the very edge, and at a small “glow” that would appear, and then disappear near the wine glass shelf located between the living room and the dining/kitchen area.

“Huh!” I said with surprise, noticing the phenomena. That garnered the attention of the lead investigator. “There it is!” I said as it reappeared.

“Wait a minute,” my daughter said. She walked across the kitchen and stopped. “Is it still there?” As she said that, it vanished.

“No,” I stated. “It’s gone.” It became apparent that it wasn’t paranormal.

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s just the glow of the TV monitor in the kitchen, and us walking in front of it, huh?” She was right on! Impressive. A very subtle event to notice, and very logical deduction to explain it. And, from a twelve year old!

“Wow!” the lead investigator told her. “Nice pick up!” he said. She beamed a bright smile, and sat back down next to me, watching. Waiting. Wondering.

Before long, I grew tired of watching the four screened monitor. It was starting to become like watching paint dry. Nothing was happening in the basement, although there was one orb that flashed by and headed straight for the camera. But, by now I’d pretty much dismissed all of those as just plain old dust.

I settled on the couch next to Beck, relaxed, and wondered if we’d ever really catch anything. My daughter had grabbed one of the tape recorders my girls were using that was full, and had begun to play back the recordings to see if they had caught anything. It didn’t take her long! She had EVPs!

The first one we discovered was a very faint “hi!” My daughter noticed it, and brought me the tape to listen to. I began to put it in the full context, and was amazed!

The recording goes something like this: my daughters were located in front of the living room closet, and had opened it. My oldest asks “is there anyone there? Do you like closets?” Then there is a pause, and my youngest asks a rather light hearted “hellllllo?”

On the tape, there is the sound of two distinctly loud rapping noises.

Then a small voice whispers “hi!” Shortly after that, you hear my youngest again say “anyone there?” They obviously don’t hear either event! Now, if they’d heard either the raps, or the voice, they would have freaked out! I played it again and again, and marveled.

Naturally, I started to rewind all the available tape, and start listening for more odd anomalies. Before long, I found another one.

The girls were in the computer room asking questions, when you here an adult voice sternly say “girls!” It’s not really in context with anything asked. At first, I thought it was my own voice. But, that proves not to be the case. They were in a different part of the house, and when you play the tape in its context, you can hear my voice in the background in another part of the house, the kitchen where I was monitoring the screen. I never went into the rooms with them. Another unexplained event!

The best one came later, as we were eagerly searching for them now. As the girls went into Beck’s bedroom, they stood at the doorway, too frightened to walk all the way into the darkened chamber. My oldest stuck out the tape recorder into the darkness and asked “what is your name?” From behind her, you can hear the muffled voice of my youngest say “ask it again!” My oldest obliges, and repeats “what is your name?”

From right in front of the tape recorder, you hear a voice speaking, one of a child, but what it says cannot be understood, and it trails away. Then, plain as day, and spoken directly into the microphone is the voice of a young girl who replies “Amy”. Not a whisper, mind you. Plain as day! That is followed quickly by the muffled sound of my youngest saying “did you hear that?” My oldest then says, “no, what?”

Chills ran down my spine when I first played this, and I think I must have played it 15 times that night dissecting it, putting it into context, and figuring out who those voices could be! All along, we’d wondered if this activity was being cause by a spirit of a child, and now I had that child introducing herself as Amy! WOW!

The investigators were pretty impressed as well. They began to dub my daughter as their Jr. Investigator In Training. She was having a lot of fun with it. She was fascinated, as we all were. Except Beck, who was now convinced more than ever she’d bought the door way to hell!

About 2AM, surprisingly, the investigators wrapped up. The lead investigator was greatly fatigued, and they decided they had plenty to go on. The other investigator, away from Beck, began to explain to me what happened in the laundry room and his personal experience there. They were going to wait to see what the recordings revealed for a definitive, but what he did say was when he went into there, he did not touch that clothesline, and as he was down there investigating, he began to notice the contraption hanging from the clothesline began to spin and twirl!

After a few weeks of waiting, we did get back in touch with them, and sadly, there really didn’t have more than what we’d already known had existed. The tape clearly shows the clothesline moving during the investigators experience, but you see him enter the room, the event occur, and the investigator leave the room. Nothing proves that he wasn’t the one moving the line, other than his word. The odd shadow we noticed on the ceiling of the basement during this event was the investigators own hand held DV-R with a crude IR light shining on the ceiling as he attempted to capture the motion from his viewpoint, but it was unsuccessful.

There were no other captured EVPs apart from the three, but they were three solid EVPs, and they double checked them against the DV-R cameras in the rooms, and they did occur as we suspected from the context we could hear on the tapes. The EVPs were not coming from anyone else in the group.

So, they felt like we had a genuine paranormal event going at the residence, and the next step, should we care to pursue it, would be to get in contact with a psychic they’ve used a couple times whom they feel they’ve had success in “cleansing” the house. That is, unless Beck was now comfortable with just the knowledge that she wasn’t imagining things.

It didn’t take Beck long to decide. “Let’s bring her in!” she said. She wants her house back!

And that will be my next blog, as that even occurs this weekend! Stay tuned!

Hotel "California"

2008-03-25T16:32:00.000-05:00

Well, kiddies, guess I’ll take some time to write some more. We’ve been pretty busy, and the schedule keeps loading up, too! I can’t even remember all the shows we’ve played! We’ve been back to Eddie’s (just this past weekend) and it rocked as always. I even played a weekend with Ivory Tiger, and we had a blast! Just a ton of fun with those guys! They are like brothers. They even came out and played with us last weekend, and lit the place up! Thanks brothers!

Derrick is settling in nicely, and we’re starting to feel our way around what the sound is going to mature into. Obviously, Derrick wants to get his feet wet, and ease into the Rock Bottom mix, and that takes some time and a few shows, especially since bass isn’t Derrick’s native instrument! But, that’s come along quickly, and now we’re starting to build, learning new tunes and blending Derrick’s style and personality into our mix. I’m very, very excited! It’s been too long for Rock Bottom not to have some fresh tunes and such, and we’re finally getting down to that! Look for some great improvements in the upcoming months, and look for much more advanced repertoire! Still, it’s going to rock like Rock Bottom! We’re not going to fix what isn’t broken! As I say, I’m really excited! So much fun to hear some different songs, and still play the kick ass rock we always play.

And, you Rock Bottom faithful never cease to amaze me! The places we play are always crowded to the gills, and everyone is so warm and friendly! I see so many Rock Bottom tee shirts! I feel like I must know everyone, because I’m always talking to someone who enjoys the show, and just wants to rap. It’s kind of overwhelming sometimes! And both flattering, and humbling. It’s just a big rush to know people enjoy coming out to listen to you on a Saturday night or something, and let you know about it. I do appreciate that, because without that, as I’ve said, I’d probably just be playing Guitar Hero or something to get my fix. It’s because of you fans supporting us that I actually get to do this!

Well, just for a change of pace, I’m going to talk about something completely different! Just to liven things up a bit around here. The RB shows have been fun, and we’ve been rocking. But, I’ve had some weird things to share, so here goes!

I can’t say I ever had that big an interest in paranormal stuff. When I was a kid, my father would torture me by dragging me to the fun house. I never saw anything fun about having the shit scared out of you! I know many do, but I don’t. In fact, I think I’ve seen studies where some people, when put in dangerous or frightening situations, they exhibit more adrenalin, or something that makes them enjoy it. Thrill seekers.

Others produce higher levels of serotonin, and thereby feel very uncomfortable. I must be one of those. I never felt pleasure out of the thrill of doing something dangerous or edgy. You might be surprised to know that, as many would find performing in that category. I’m here to tell you, it’s not.

So, I generally don’t watch gory movies that frighten you with a startling surprise when you least expect it. I don’t generally find myself attracted to something that would produce that effect. I’m not saying I haven’t watched them, but, if I had a choice, I’d settle for something a little more predictable, shall we say? At least, not cardiac arrest inducing!

There has been one caveat to this, however. I’m fascinated by Ghost Hunting. I’m scared shitless to investigate, but I’m still fascinated by it. The Dave Glover Show has run entertaining episodes of Lemp Mansion investigations every Halloween. Neat stuff. The recent wave of shows on television that feature this topic have also captured my interest, and I’ve become enamored with them. I generally Tivo Ghost Hunters, and often watch Paranormal State, and A Haunting. I also love the World Scariest Places series they used to run, and one of my favorites was on Alton, which seems to have quite a paranormal history.

Now, let me preface the rest of this by saying I’ve never lived in a haunted house. The house I grew up in that I’ve been living in since 1974 has had absolutely no paranormal activity that I can ever remotely recall. I have had girlfriends that swear their houses/apartments were haunted, and even had some unexplained occurrences in one of them, down in South St. Louis. But, it wasn’t “wow, look! I see a ghost!” Still, I’ve had some strange things happen around me. Things I don’t have easy answers for.

When I was in my early twenties, we often did “Ouija” boards. We would actually make one with letters of the alphabet cut into squares from paper, arrange them in a circle, place five lit candles in a pentangle, and use an inverted wine glass as a pointer. We’d mark the glass with three drops of candle wax, and each put our fingers on the stem after placing the glass in the center of the table.

While at first I was very skeptical about this, I am here to tell you, I cannot explain the things if seen while doing this. You can make up anything you want, blame it on pranksters, believe in spirits, or attribute it to telekinetic powers of the brain. The fact is, I have, on many occasions, witnessed sessions where questions were answered, and only certain people knew them. I won’t do one in my own home (although I did try once when we got really drunk, and it didn’t work, surprisingly), and I don’t recommend anyone trying, because I don’t know what the hell it is!

So, it’s safe to say I’m an open minded skeptic. I’m fascinated by it, not only for the possibilities of supernatural ramifications, but I find it just as interesting if it’s some kind of human invention. A kind of hallucinatory reaction to environmental stimulus. Why do we all often have these kinds of experiences? What are they, really?

Back to the city of Alton. As documented, it’s reported to be one of the most haunted cities around. There is a dark, sinister history to Alton. Site of the Civil War Prison, horrible atrocities were committed there against Confederate soldiers. It’s almost a dark stain on the town. I’ve learned there are some other interesting features about Alton. The river bends around from north to south to south to north, then turns south again right at Alton. This creates a lot natural energy flowing into Alton, they claim. There are also large deposits of limestone throughout the bluffs as well. These can act as resonators for energy and such, I’m told. Like a natural energy capacitor.

The result is tons of paranormal activity in and around Alton, and one of the most active is the old Mineral Springs Hotel located on Broadway. Now, I’d seen a few things about it on shows like Scariest Places they showed on Fox Family. And, I’d done some Google searching on it as well. I knew where it was. I’d read up on some history of the site. Basically, I was just too chicken shit to go!

So, one afternoon with Bec and my daughters driving with nothing to do, we found ourselves looking for eagles along the River Road. Eventually that lead me to downtown Alton, and that, for some reason, guided me to Mineral Springs. I’d always wanted to walk in and look at the place, just to say I did. So, I did! Or, I should say, we did.

There’s nothing really spectacular about it when you walk around. Just an old Alton building, refurbished for the most part, yet still rather plain. We wandered some shops that are still open, and there was little pedestrian activity. Just a slow Saturday afternoon.

Bec pointed out a small black sign that read “Ghost Tour, January 18th. 7:30 PM” That was tonight! What luck! “Do you want to go” I asked? She nodded enthusiastically. A thin, aging, Mortitia Adams looking woman locked up her office and approached us, and I inquired about the tour.

“Yes,” she said, “our first one is tonight. I run it.” Really, what a coincidence! We chatted a bit about the whole thing and what the tour entails.

Back when I was married in 2003 while in Savannah, Georgia visiting in-laws, my ex and I once took a midnight “haunted” walking tour of the beautiful old part of town. It was fresh after a thunder storm, and lightening still crackled across the black midnight skies. What a backdrop! A young man dressed in Colonial attire led us around various places, stopping often to tell fascinating tales of haunted lore. It was very interesting, very fun, and a unique way to see the old city, which dates back to the late 1600s. So, this sounded as interesting. Even more so, because we’d interact!

“Oh, take me daddy!” my twelve year old shouted. “Please take me!” Hmm, I dunno. They say this is the real deal! Do I bring my twelve year old daughter to this?

Well, after dinner, we went back, and I did indeed take my oldest. She brought a camera, and we took the tour, and had a wonderful, interesting, creepy time! From the beginning, my kid was snapping pictures and we could clearly see small, white “orbs” on them. What the hell? We often smelled jasmine, and Bec complained several times I was touching or pinching her, when I wasn’t, and no one was around her!

Wayne, the guide, led us around and told terrific stories of all the other worldly “inhabitants”. I strongly recommend it to those that are curious, or like local history, or even just looking for something different. It’s different! It concludes with a séance at the end in one of the old pools. Now, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d never done one, but I’d done Ouija boards, and as I mentioned, I have reservations about them!

I won’t spoil too much of the tour for those that wish to see for themselves, but all three of us were all smiles of wonder and amazement. Both my daughter and Bec were spooked, but they still enjoyed it. Afterwards, Bec and I knew we’d have to come back, and we’d have to bring friends! This was a unique kind of party! And, I wanted to do some investigating, because my daughter brought home tons of pictures of “orbs”. What the hell are these things? I’m starting to feel my Ghost Hunter oats, here.

There is another thread running through this that brought us here to Mineral Springs. You see, since Bec moved into her house, she’s complained of, well, ghosts! Before she even really mentioned it to me, I had an experience lying in her bed while she was out of the room. I felt that someone walked past me along side the bed towards the closet. A very creepy sensation. I didn’t mention it to her. After all, there was nothing more to say than “I just felt creepy.” There’s no doubt she’d run with it, and now EVERYTHING would be something ghostly! But, as I mentioned, an old girlfriend had a “haunted” place in South City, and I’d felt creepy things there, too. I know them when I feel them, and this was something odd. I kept an eye on things.

Over the past months, she’s complained numerous times about various episodes, from doors opening by themselves, to the shower turning off and on. Eventually, I confessed that I too had a strange experience in her bedroom. We began to pay closer attention.

Once, while laying together in her bed, we heard the faucet in the sink turn on, then off. Upon investigation, there was water at the bottom of the sink. It had indeed been turned on, then shut off. We’ve also heard loud crashing sounds coming from the living room, but when I investigate, there’s nothing out of place, and we can’t tell where the noise comes from. This is a small sample, not a comprehensive one.

So, I guess this has stirred up interest and we found ourselves touring Mineral Springs. Looking to see what a REAL haunted house is like. We found out! That place is wicked!

Afterwards, while at work, I found myself wondering about all of it. I started to Google. I found the website to the tour, and browsed around. That led me to a link of a paranormal investigation team: The St. Louis Paranormal Society. That’s when it struck me: let’s get someone to investigate Bec’s house like the TAPS guys on Ghost Hunters! She whole heartedly agreed.

I Googled around, and noted that there are more than a handful of these types of paranormal sleuths around the area. All of their websites have interesting pictures and tales. Fun looking stuff, in a frightening way. Doubt I’d have the stomach for this! Let’s face it, I’m kind of a chicken shit when it comes to this. I’m still dealing with Dad dragging me off to scare the shit out of me at the fun house!

I gravitated back to the STLPS because it was on the Mineral Springs site. I emailed them about our experiences, and not long after, I was emailed back by Brian, the founder, and he was interested, wanting to know if we’d allow them to interview us, and perhaps investigate. We said “sure”.

In another strange twist of irony, the lady who runs the Mineral Springs Hotel Haunted Tours, Janet, works with, of all people, Bec’s mother! She found out how much we enjoyed the tour, and that Bec was experiencing what might be paranormal activity in her home. She contacted Bec, and told her of her ghostly experiences, and when we mentioned Brian and the STLPS, she was enthusiastic. She also gave Bec and amethyst for “protection”. Okay.

With a free weekend off, we returned to the Mineral Springs for another one of their monthly tours. With a heads up, Janet also had Brian and Alex from STLPS meet us there, and we took the tour with Alex. They were very interested, it seemed. It was on. They were coming to interview! Good Lord, what am I getting into?

The tour was again very entertaining. I’d heard the stories before, so I was more in ghost hunting mode, with my trusty digital camera. Surprisingly, I didn’t get orbs where I’d thought I’d get them last time, where the Jasmine Lady fell to her death. In fact, I didn’t really smell the signature jasmine odor. But, I still did get some. I came to find out some orbs are just “moisture orbs”, I guess that can be caused by high levels of humidity and moisture, even dust. What’s even more odd is I’ve spotted orbs on me at Rock Bottom shows at both Eddie’s and Club Midtown in Alton. I’ve never seen that before. Ever. They are always right by my left arm. I’ll post them sometime.

Tonight, there was nothing like the one’s my daughter shot with her camera. I suppose the moisture was down. But, I did still get some, and I tend to believe what I go was even stronger “orb” action, whatever that’s worth. I still have no answer for them.

The tour was much more crowded this time, and things seemed pretty slow as far as activity. I thought this tour might be more of a disappointment. I was soon proven wrong, however! A couple notable issues: several people were tripped while walking at different places of the tour, including a regular paranormal investigator who comes every tour, pretty much. Also, during the séance, one gentleman had to leave due to a powerful headache that struck him. Wayne had warned this occurs on occasion, and his belief is that it’s due to the people who died from head injuries at the pool. Also, during the séance, two men in the circle across from me began to twitch, and almost laugh. When asked what the issue was, they both explained that something was ticking their arms and ears.

Not long after that, we heard a spine tingling “giggle” from a little girl! There were no little girls in the séance! The two women next to me spun as I did towards the sound, and we muttered to each other “did you hear that too?”

And the little girl “giggled” again! It was unmistakable! It wasn’t in the pool, exactly. It was hard to tell where it was coming from. It was loud, and almost resonated through the whole pool area. And everyone heard it. We began to murmur, still trying to figure out if we actually heard what we heard!

And she giggled again! Three distinct times! Wow! This was the real deal. Just when I thought nothing much would occur, I was stunned to her what is alleged to be the ghost of “Cassandra” giggle three times in the pool. Fascinating! The séance quickly broke up after that, as people were all shaken and bewildered about it all. Alex from STLPS confirmed he’d heard it, and was taping for EVPs (electronic voice phenomena), and we’d see if he caught the giggling on tape.

With that, I now was very interested in seeing what happens when these local paranormal investigators run an investigation at our little paranormal abode! Would we capture any evidence? Was there anything like this going on at Bec’s house? Time would tell.

I’ll blog about that here very, very soon! Stay tuned!

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue

2008-02-28T16:53:00.003-06:00

Well, there I go again. I’ve been lax. I’ve warned youse! I just haven’t had the time nor the inkling to blog too much! Not that there hasn’t been anything to bog about. We’ve had some great shows and some great times! I guess I’ve just been living them, and not really trying to remember them once the moment has past. That makes it hard to write about later.

And I’ve been getting hell for it, too. Old friend Carol cornered me the other night at Eddie’s, clamoring for a new blog. And, she had nice words about my writing as well, which is a pretty good carrot. So, let’s see if I can find some words to throw down.

After C.J.’s departure, we pretty much all three unanimously agreed to quickly find a replacement. In many bands I’ve play for in the past, once a member left, often the others would just go their separate ways. This was different. We knew we had a good working chemistry, and we’ve got a good calendar and staple of clubs to book. We needed to move forward and keep Rock Bottom going.

I quickly turned to Paul, my life long friend and brotha from anotha mutha. He reciprocated by offering his help in any way he could, but the stipulation was that he still wasn’t interested in any long term commitment. He’s had his fill of Weekend Warrior gigs, and loves the freedom to pick and choose when he decides to venture out from under his rock, so to speak.

Our shows with Paul were wonderful gigs. He’s my right hand man. Not only was he able to jump directly into any of the Rock Bottom regular songs (even those that weren’t standards that he’s played for eons), we were able to toss out some of OUR old classics, which brought a very fresh new feel to the set list. It was welcomed, and just what the doctor ordered.

We played around with some old classics from our Knucklehead days that still fit the mix, like Sammy Hagar’s Heavy Metal, and Fastway’s Say What You Will. Great early ‘80’s K-SHE stuff! We also would sometimes play Dokken’s Its Not Love, which always puts a smile on my face.

Yeah, also did some that weren’t quite in the mix, but very, very cool as well. Iron Maiden’s Two Minutes To Midnight really lets both Steve and Paul show off, so that was cool. Gives some of the real hard core ‘80’s metal fans a taste. We also played Sabbath’s War Pigs, and Rush’s Tom Sawyer towards the end of the night, which are a ton of fun to throw in. Boozie was rather upset when I’d pull ol’ Tom Sawyer out in the third set, because he’d be too buzzed to wrap his head around it! Just this past show, I surprised him with Fly By Night, and he was not amused. I think I have something coming to me; I’d better keep my head up!

But, in all, we stressed staying with the Rock Bottom model, the “brand” if you will, and not resurrecting Knucklehead. This group of faithful, awesome fans loves Rock Bottom. We didn’t want to send a message like “Hey, Rock Bottom is dead, enjoy some Knucklehead!” We want them to keep coming back to support what they have supported so strongly. I mean, everyone likes hearing some different stuff, and our sets were getting a tad stale, we knew that. But, we also don’t want to fix what isn’t broken!

I tossed a couple other tunes in there as well that we have the luxury of performing with Paul. I think Nickleback’s Figured You Out is a great money song that girls love and guys appreciate, but it’s tuned so low, to do it properly on bass you need a fifth lower string. With Paul, that was no problem. It was a hit everytime we played it.

I also took the luxury of having my long time right hand man in playing some blues, which I rarely get the pleasure to play much in this format. Again, probably not something we’re going to work into the Rock Bottom mix very much, but it was nice to play Stevie Ray Vaughan again. I can really open up my soul, and show a much different side to my style, and my voice.

I played The Sky Is Crying a couple times, and once, down at Schatzee’s, I even did Texas Flood, just because Sky got such a good reception. Good times. I think the Rock Bottom faithful really appreciated hearing us playing some different stuff, just for the sake of hearing us try something new. The reception is always warm.

But, we knew it would be short lived, and we were trying to decide where to go after Paul fulfilled his obligations to us. Many talented players had thrown their hats into the ring quickly, much to our surprise. The decision wouldn’t be easy. It was comforting to know we had choices, and flattering that without even putting out a call, we were getting interest in the position. And, there would be some who were disappointed, because we could only pick one, and all of these prospects were friends. Feelings could get hurt. That's the toughest part of the business, because at that point, it becomes business.

When Derrick Howard approached us, we were stunned. Derrick is a long time friend, dating back to the heydays of Stages, Granny’s Rocker, The Landing, you name it. We partied hard together for many, many years through different bands. He’d made a personal connection with Steve and I many years ago, just from having beers, enjoying the same music, enjoying performing, and enjoying life. He’s even an old hockey buff like Steve and myself, regularly attending Blues games. Our camaraderie extends past rock n’ roll. Whenever Steve and I weren’t gigging, whether two years ago at Eddie's, or fifteen years ago at Granny's Rocker, we were at his shows, having a great time. He’d kind of fallen out of the scene after Jagertyme split last year, but had resurfaced in the past few months.

None of us had ever been in a band with Derrick, but often have jammed together. In fact, Derrick was instrumental in the reformation of Knucklehead, putting us in touch with Scrappy in 2003, which pretty much led to Steve and I coming out of “retirement” and playing still today. Many times, Derrick ran sound for us in Knucklehead.

He’s a talented singer (former lead singer of Jagertyme), a front man in his own right, a solid guitar player and musician, and one heck of a sound man to boot! All qualities that we were looking for! A natural fit!

With one caveat. He’s not a bass player! That’s what stunned us. Why would Derrick ask to join the band on bass, when he’s not a bass player? Well, that in itself is flattering to us. He’s obviously willing to give it a shot, learn a different instrument, just to play with us. How do you say "no" to that? We talked it over, and if he was willing to try, then it all made sense. Our search ended.

That’s not to say Derrick was ready to just jump up and sail away with us. He wanted to practice. Practice? What the hell is practice?? Oh, yeah. Practice. We’ll, I guess we could. But where? None of us have anywhere where we can!

Steve sprung into action, and called up our buddy Jim at Club 111. No problem, Jim said. We’re more than welcome to come jam there. So, on a couple different Sunday afternoons, we set up at Club111 and, well, practiced! Imagine!

Now, mind you to those that don’t know (and as Derrick was soon to learn) there is a much different role on bass than playing guitar. Sure, there are only four strings. And being able to play guitar means you can PLAY a bass, but that doesn’t mean you really know how the songs go. Not only will the bass line sometimes run counter to the guitar part, or drone on a single note while the guitar fills in the accompaniment, the bass must lock in with the drummer, forming a vital role in the back bone of the sound, which guitar rarely does. While Paul Smith is the master of this and makes it look simple, it takes a knack, and rhythm.

And this is why Derrick stressed wanting to practice, because he was going to have to get the feel of this, and it’s not just a matter of “ok, what song? What key? Got it!” and off we go. I learned this myself when helping Ivory Tiger out on bass during Geo’s absences. It’s a different beast! I’d hoped that my experience there might help Derrick, should he need it.

We practiced, and Derrick worked hard. It was tedious at some points, because while we’re all playing songs that all four of us have played for eons, Derrick still requested to go over them, because this was a whole new animal to tame. With only a couple practices, I’d say we ran through 70% of what we know. And there was little time to work up much new material to boot. This was "get Derrick's feet wet, and let's attack!"

Practices were fun though, and very upbeat. We drank, we laughed, we screwed around. It was good times, and portents of things to come for us, I’d say. Derrick was very serious, though, as I know he was trying his hardest to hold up his end, and support the group. After the first rehearsal was over, we all traveled to Mac N Mick’s with friends that had came by to watch, and we all bonded, I suppose you could say, over pizza and beers. The chemistry began to solidify.

Derrick decided he was ready to jump in, and we kicked it off on a Friday night in early February at Rumors in Wood River. I set up in my tiny corner, fetched a beer, and ordered two Jagerbombs; one for me, and one to welcome Derrick into the fold. “Damn, man!” he said to me, “I’ve already done like, three!” Guess everyone was doing some welcoming to Derrick!

From the get go, things felt awkward, and different. We had a good opening crowd, and the types of throw away songs we normally play I felt were going to be too weak. Not polished. But, I didn’t want to go with Money Songs so soon, leaving us thin at the end. I was vexed.

The nature of the mix just didn’t bring out Derrick’s bass, which left me to cover most of the sound, it seemed like. I’m just so used to having that powerful bass pumping behind me, it makes me feel safe. Now, I felt naked and bare. Uncomfortable. I didn’t mention anything, just played as best I could, and hoped for the best. Derrick was a bit on edge, it seemed, pushing to do his best, which was making him a bit tight. Perhaps a touch nervous?

The crowd was a tad reserved, which can happen on a Friday night. With the tension hanging in the air between the four of us, it seemed that every mild reaction from the fans signaled something felt wrong, that all eyes were bearing down on us, and pressure was starting to build. I'm not saying that was what was actually happening, but for me, I felt that uncomfortable vibe. I did my best to shake it off.

We charged through the songs, and as the evening wore on, and the beer and shots flowed, we started to get a handle on things, and I loosened up as well. Started to enjoy myself. We got to the Money Songs, and the crowd began to light up. I knew everything would be alright. It’s just a learning curve. Just got to get through this night.

By the start of the third set, I glanced over at Derrick, who had begun to resemble Marty Feldman. One eye looking one way, one eye looking another, and a glazed look over both! Ruh Ro! This might not be pretty! As it was, he played a good set, and we managed to notch the first show under our belts. Not as effortless as with Paul, but we weren’t expecting that, either. This was apples and oranges.

Next day, Derrick called to tell me “dude, I promise I won’t get as drunk tonight, man!” I had to laugh. That’s like John Wayne Gacy telling Ted Bundy “I’m not going to murder as many people tonight, man!” We’re both sinners when it comes to partying it up! “I found out I must be out of practice!” I assured him there was no problem.

At the start of the Saturday night show, I again noticed Derrick’s bass wasn’t very strong in the monitor mix, so after a couple songs, I pointed it out to Carson. Derrick mentioned something about his bass amp head being underpowered, and Carson proceeded to dial him into my monitor. At last! Like a nice, soothing, warm blanket, those wonderful low frequency vibrations surrounded me, and I felt a gentle calm wash over me. It’s amazing how passively picky I am, but once I get what I’m looking for, I’m quite happy! I started to feel excited.

That alone put me in a much better mood, and from the get go, the show was better than last night. All through the night, song after song, Rock Bottom was emerging anew, and sounding as kick ass as it ever had, in my opinion. After one break, I made a point to pat Derrick on the back, let him know he’s doing a good job, and I felt it’s coming together. “I’ll get there!” Derrick promised, as though talking to his new boss.

He didn’t need to say it. I already knew that.

Auld Lang Sine

2008-01-18T16:34:00.000-06:00

Well, haven’t been writing too much, even though we’ve had quite a few gigs, and there were stories to tell in each one, that’s for certain. I guess I’ve kinda lost my passion for blogging about it all. I even toyed around with telling you all I was taking a sabbatical from here on out, but, well, never really felt like writing even that much!

But, as it stands, I still may throw a story or two out there, when I feel like it. If anyone even still reads these things. I pretty much feel I’m writing to myself, and, well, hell, I already know the story! But, I often get nice comments on the stuff I’d written in the past, so occasionally I get a hankerin’ to wax poetic about it. Occasionally.

Club 111 has been a difficult place for us. It’s kind of sad, because we really like the place, and the guy that runs it. He’s an old sound engineer pro that’s been working in the area for quite some time. Steve and I never worked with him, but we have mutual acquaintances, and road stories to share. We moved our poker game there on Wednesday nights to help bring the guy business, support him like we do all the bars that book us.

One show, however, was one of my worst in memory. Somewhere along the line, my beautiful Rebecca had some difficulty out on the dance floor. C.J. warned me, trying to get my attention, but I figured it was just her getting a bit light headed, and I was sure our friends would tend to her. While I was understandably concerned, we do have a job to perform, and I wanted to show to continue seamlessly, rather than cut everything off for something personal on my part. This isn’t about me. As they say, “the show must go on”.

Well, I was mistaken. Actually, unbeknownst to me, and pretty much everyone else, she was attacked on the dance floor. Some psycho Hoosier broad, while calmly dancing with her and chatting, suddenly grabbed my beautiful woman by the hair and body slammed her head first into the floor! Confusion ensued, and eventually her troublemaking boyfriend escorted this bitch out, and caused all manner of ills out in the parking lot. Allegedly threatened to kill Steve’s woman, brandishing a pool cue, what have you. Police were dispatched, and he was carted off to the cooler. I guess the psycho bitch, after receiving some punches from her boyfriend, got away in her car. It was bedlam.

Once I finally learned of it, most of the ruckus had settled, leaving me basically powerless to resolve anything. Everyone crowded around Beck to help tend to her, and I was kind of shut out of that as well. I was confused, and Beck was very dazed. I do thank everyone for their attention, and helping see she was alright. It was just a plain fucked up mess all the way around.

Of course, I some how turned into the bad guy for not stopping the show, for not riding in on my gallant steed as a knight in shining armor to rescue her and save the day. I had absolutely no idea it was occurring. On top of that, it would have been hard to finish the show locked up in a Pontoon Beach holding cell for assault and battery, too. But had I seen it, that’s probably exactly what would have occurred. I would have lost it.

Security tapes caught everything, and the fine police work by Pontoon Beach had her identified and in custody in a few days. Beck refused to go to the hospital, and despite a few days with a huge lump and splitting headaches, she suffered no lasting effects from the attack. Just the scars of being brutally attacked for no reason. Her crime? Being just too damn sexy!

About a month later we were back at Club 111, and Beck was hesitant to attend, but she did. It was close to the holidays, and money was tight, I’m sure. Our crowd was very lackluster. Many of our good friends showed up to support us, and we always appreciate that. But, since overall the place was dead, even their loyalty didn’t keep them there long. There were better things to do, to be sure.

With that, about halfway through the show I gazed out into the crowd, recognizing all 7 or 8 faces in attendance as close friends. It was a bummer. Reminded me of some of the horrible gigs I first had years and years ago at tiny little joints like this where, again, the only people that showed up were my close friends, or the band’s girlfriends. It was a time warp all over again. And, not a pleasant one. It sucked.

So, to relieve the torture, the boredom, and the frustration, I started jacking around with whatever song came into my head. It was a fuck around practice, at this stage. One of the brighter spots was The Scorpions, Big City Nights. We pulled that one right out of the ass, and sounded like we’d meant to play it! Right on! Those are moments on stage I live for! When it all comes together like that, it’s a real rush for me.

Speaking of Rush, I fucked around with my favorite Rush riffs, too. I always do that. One of the reasons I love Rush is Alex Lifeson has those classic guitar riffs! As soon as you hear it, it’s like “BAM!” Great tune! Spirit of Radio, Limelight, Working Man. Whatever. You open that with guitar, and it’s just like “yeah! That kicks ass!”

But, I have no intention of playing the song. I just fuck with the cool ass guitar intro for my own personal enjoyment. Sometimes Boozie will jump in, because lets face it, drummers love (and hate) Neil Peart! It’s fun.

Chuck, looking exceedingly bored (as he often does) handed his bass to old buddy Kene Turcott from Frantic, and Kene jumped in and fucked around with us. Hey! Cool! Jam session! This might be fun! Who else is out there? We have been playing for a while, probably break, time, but, who cares. Let’s have some fun!

So, we played a couple tunes, which were mostly disasters, and just chuckled. That’s about all you can do when a gig fizzles out as this one did. Look for something to pass the time, amuse ourselves.

Mercifully, we only butchered a couple things, and I too decided it was time to set the guitar down, get a fresh beer, and regroup. Figure out what the fuck to do next. This was a disaster, and I felt really bad for Jimmy at Club 111. He’s trying so hard to make this work. This is his livelihood. He’s got real money tied up in this. I don’t. I’m just here to drink beer, impress my girlfriend, and have fun with the buds. No one shows? Hell, I don’t care! But not him. He’s got to make this work. And it’s not working.

As all this is rolling through my head, C.J. starts to break down his gear. Quietly. Just tearing it down. “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “he’s probably right. This sucks. No real reason to finish the night. Ought to just pack it up and go home. Maybe that’s what I’ll do, too. Hate to just leave, though, and rat fuck Jimmy.”

Either Steve or Boozie approached me, and pointed out C.J. packing his things.

“He’s pissed,” they said.

“Yeah, this sucks. I guess I don’t blame him,” I said.

“I guess he’s all pissed off at you, and he’s going home. That’s kind of bullshit.”

Huh? Pissed off at me? Moi? What the fuck did I do? Hell, I didn’t even want to play the show!

See, we were scheduled to play the whole weekend, but to make this club work, Jim has started booking Latino bands on Saturdays, and with radio support from the local Hispanic AM station, they are starting to draw good crowds. It’s going to save his business. So we were double booked. C.J. didn’t really want to play the gig at all, and I didn’t care either. But Steve complained about losing the money, and got us in there for Friday only, which C.J. and I agreed to do. Now he’s pissed at me? For what? This catastrophe isn’t my fucking fault!

“Yeah, well, you started playing that Rush song, and he got pissed off, and said ‘I’m done!’ Guess he’s really pissed.” I was told.

Now, I had to hit the side of my head to make sure I heard this correctly. He’s what?

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I said.

And with that, C.J., without saying a word, packed up his shit, and loaded out. The next morning, he removed himself from friends lists on our My Space accounts for each band member, spouses, and even close friends. Talk about passive aggressive. C.J. was indeed “done”. No whimper, no “fuck you”, no “so long and thanks for all the fish”. Just quietly removed himself from our My Space. That’s the 21st Century way of breaking up, I guess.

Well, Steve tried to do some damage control, and it was relayed to me that should I “apologize” to C.J. for trying to make him look like an ass, things would be set right.

So, that’s it, huh? I need to apologize. Hmm…

I gave it some thought, and then I thought some more. Then, I realized I was doing all this thinking because, well, what the hell was I apologizing for? If I did something wrong, I’m quick to apologize. I have no ego to bruise. I’d much rather make amends than hurt someone.

But this was different. In fact, this was insane.

Sorry, I’m not going to say a damn thing. I don’t owe him or anyone anything for what happened that night. Not a God Damn thing. So don’t expect one from me. Steve probably thinks I could have just to make it all go away. But, Steve also knows me very, very well. I’d never do that. Steve was right.

Boozie didn’t really give a shit. I concur with Boozie. Let’s move on.

So, with that in mind, I gave my old buddy Paul J. Smith a call, and he was more than happy to oblige. He hadn’t played since his fill in stint with Just Mr. (in fact his bass hadn’t been out of it’s case since July he tells me!), but this was all run of the mill standard shit we play, and that’s the way we want to keep it. Rock Bottom has a great base of fans, and we want to treat them like gold. Yeah, putting Paul in the line up pretty much makes the band Knucklehead (in fact, trivia note: Boozie was the original Knucklehead drummer until Scrappy became available, and we’d wondered how we’re going to have a 19 year old play drums for us at these major clubs, so we kind of tossed Boozie overboard, and he never lets us forget that!), but different fans came to see Knucklehead. Rock Bottom fans want Rock Bottom, not Knucklehead. And we want to give them Rock Bottom, because they are wonderful, wonderful fans.

So, Schatzee’s in Belleville was something of a reunion. It was something of a setting right between old friends. And, I think more than anything, it was just business as usual. Paul fit in seamlessly; we played our typical Rock Bottom set, for the most part, and got a great response from the crowd. It was a blast.

We did venture out of the Rock Bottom box just a tad, and played some stuff WE wanted to do, and it was received warmly. Instead of Dokken’s Breaking The Chains, we did It’s Not Love. Not sure that old one was remembered by those in the crowd. But, we also threw in Rush (because I’m such a cockhead!) Tom Sawyer (Boozie nails that song, but I found out he hates playing it in the last set), and Alice N Chain’s The Rooster, a Knucklehead staple. I also whipped out Nickleback’s Figured You Out, because Paul has the 6 string bass, and that song is tuned WAY down to C. Chicks LOVE that tune.

The one song I played strictly for me was some Stevie Ray Vaughan, The Sky Is Crying. Paul and I briefly had a Blues/Rock trio called Three Blind Mice, where I played a tribute set to SRV. Anytime I’m with Paul, I like to play one for old times sake. It feels so good to belt out the blues. One night I think I also played Texas Flood, which Steve later told me sounded even better. Great stuff. Love getting a chance to play it once in a while. Not all the time, but once in a while.

We also stepped out of bounds with Iron Maiden’s Two Minutes To Midnight, and Sabbath’s War Pigs, but, again, no one really seemed to mind. Everything went swimmingly, all things considered. I know it wasn’t really Paul’s “cup of tea”, but he performed professionally, and handled everything we threw at him.

The end of year Rumors gigs went very well, too. He’s built a good following there, and they seem to dig our music. Plus many of our regulars showed up, and lots of familiar faces and musicians. The party was on. I had some of their steak kabobs, and while a bit more pricier than Fast Ed’s, they were delicious to be sure. Very, very tasty.

New Years Eve seemed to go on forever, as they decided to stay open until 4AM. At midnight, when 2008 rolled in and I kissed my beautiful woman, I then fired up a big, fat cigar courtesy of Scotty Garber, and gave a big “FUCK YOU” to the Illinois State smoking ban, now considered in effect. To mark the notorious event, we even played Motley Crue’s version of “Smokin’ In The Boys Room” just out of spite.

The party dissolved into a free form jam session by about 3AM, with members of Frantic, and others slogging away. We were trashed. Poor Kene Turcott could barely stand up finding his way through the songs. While I’d warned Beck that we might not have a good crowd (I’ve had more than one New Year’s Eve gig that was desolate), it turns out the place was packed to the gills! It was past 3AM, and we were going on strong.

Paul’s woman began to succumb to the smoke (ironically) and with that, Paul had to cut the party. He apologized profusely, but it was I who apologized for us going so long without really warning him. He understood, and knew it was a party, he didn’t want to cut off everyone’s fun. He apologized yet again.

And with that. We brought in the New Year. And it will be new, to be sure. But, worry not, Rock Bottom fans, it’s still going to be the same great brand of Rock Bottom music you appreciate.

We just might have a few new wrinkles to it, that’s all. I might just have to blog some more, now.

Wilmouth Stock

2007-10-26T15:13:00.000-05:00

Subject: Guitarist - Rock Bottom
Venue: Wilmouth Machine Co., Brighton, Illinois
Date: Saturday, October 20th, 2007

Dave is an old hockey buddy of mine. We skated together back in the day; he was a defenseman, tall and gangly, I was a rookie “power forward” a little taller and a little older, trying to bring up my skills with the more experienced Pee-Wee players. Although I’d been skating since I was six, I didn’t start playing hockey until 7th Grade, and I had a lot of catching up to do. I wanted to be goalie, so I figured my lack of stickhandling and such wouldn’t be an issue when I joined the team. But they had two goalies already, and as big as I was, they wanted me out there banging guys, not stopping pucks. So, I had to pay my dues as a third line role player and try to catch up.

At that age, it’s tough being one of the weaker, new players. Kids can be really tough. I had some real assholes on that team that rode me hard for being a rookie. It toughened me up, and made me mean as well, which a hockey player needs to be. I learned to take it out on the other team when I could. And I did.

Dave was never one of those guys. We always had a friendly rapport. He was a 6th Grader, and I was in Jr. High, so I guess he respected me for that. He never said a bad word to me.

A couple years later in high school, when I played on an older Midget level team, I did get my shot at playing goal, and I relished it. It was everything I hoped it would be. All in all, I really, really wished I would have gotten the chance to be a goalie from the start, but at least I got one chance, and I made it count. We beat Cahokia, admittedly a weaker team, 8-3, for my only appearance in the pipes in youth hockey. I’m 1-0!

I did make some nice saves, which surprised even me. In warm ups, I couldn’t stop a beach ball! Every shot they took was like trying stopping a B-B. It wasn’t nerves, either, because I was excited. It was adjusting to the game, the angles, and the bigger nets, having played so much street hockey. I thought I was doomed as every warm up shot sailed by me into the back of the net!

But, when the game started, I stopped the puck on some really big plays, and had the time of my life. Got some hoots from the crowd of parents who were amazed that Boyd kid could actually stop a puck. Apart from crushing kids in the boards, I wasn’t much use for anything else!

As I stepped off the ice that night and basked in the glory of my first (and only) goaltending win, Dave’s mom, who was watching the game, waiting for Dave’s Bantam level game following mine, rushed up to me and said “Wow! I was asking everyone ‘who is that new kid in goal for these guys?’ I had no idea that was you! Way to go, Deron!”

These are good people.

Dave and I remained friends in the many years that followed, and our paths went in very different directions. Dave went on to play Junior B level hockey for the St. Louis Jr. Blues based out of Affton. I, of course, learned to play guitar.

Occasionally we’d play roller hockey together in pick-up games. He’d really filled out at about 6’5”, and quite a player. I was usually in goal now, living out my fantasies at tending the pipes because I could call the shots, not a coach or my parents. And we drank beers. Plenty of beers. Sometimes I’d stop Dave on a breakaway. Sometimes I didn’t. We’d drink afterwards and needle each other about it.

One day last year, I ran across Dave at a Rock Bottom show, as I often would now that my hockey days are over, and he told me about his huge party he was throwing up at his place in Brighton. Halloween costumes, bon fire, hay ride. And, he wanted to book us. How much would we charge?

I always get nervous when this question arises. How much to play your house? First off, we probably can’t fit at your house. So, now we’re talking outside. Second off, we’re loud. Very loud! We’re going to piss off your neighbors. The common reply is “oh, all my neighbors will be there!” See, there’s usually no way out of this conversation!

So, one way is to be honest, and tell them that it’s going to cost some money. That usually gets them thinking. And if they say “fine”, then basically it’s worth it, and we’ll go ahead and do it, telling them that they are in for it, as long as they understand how loud we are, what kind of power it takes to run our lights and sound, and all that. While I can do something for a friend, I can’t ask the rest of the band to donate time, and the soundman who works his ass off for this. It’s just the way it has to be.

With Dave, he had his ducks in a row. He lives out on property in Brighton, with few neighbors, who, of course, will all be there. He owns a machine shop with industrial machines to operate, and set us out back under a covered overhang, so there was plenty of power and shelter. And the price was right for him, he even paid us a bonus after we were done last year. Like I said, good people.

Last year was a blast. We had a hell of a time. Which isn’t what we’re usually expecting in a “private party”. Yeah, the cops did come about 1AM, but they were nice, and just asked us to shut down the band, which we complied. I think the huge fireworks display they set off got their attention. Past that, no real issues, and a great time was had by all.

This year, we were eagerly awaiting our return to Dave’s “shed”. From what I was told, there were to be improvements. He’d extended the “overhang” where we played out over the crowd. There were to be other add ons was well. Great! Let’s make a great time even better!

Bec and I made the long trek up to his “estate” up through Fosterberg. We dressed for the occasion as well. While I still wore my roadie clothes on the way up, I was waiting to change into my Gynecologist lab coat and dress clothes to become “Dr. Seymor Bush”. Stethoscope included!

Becca wore an extremely sexy cop outfit, with short, short skirt, bare midriff, long, black PVC boots that ran past her thighs, and fish net stockings. Oh la la! She was gorgeous! Please, arrest me! I’ve broken the law! Perhaps a strip search is in order?? In that outfit, she must have stood about 6’2”! I was in heaven! I’m such a lucky guy! I’m not much for dominatrix, but, uh, I could get used to it…

Naturally, it took longer to get there than I’d remembered, and I could have taken 255, the local highway that had been lengthened to reach up into Macoupin County, but no matter. We got there soon enough, and I loaded in and set up.

Many at the party had passed us going the opposite way riding in the hay ride headed into town. There were quite a number of them! There were a good number back at the grounds as well. The place looked very festive as well. Dave had created a metal fire breathing dragon, which looked a lot like Stegosaurus, and that was to set a huge pile of word and debris alight to create the bonfire that stood outside the “shed”. He’d built a huge shed where the overhang once stood, so that the area we played in was all covered, and that will help keep the noise down, I suspected. Backing into the shed to unload, I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Boozie, dressed as Pebbles and Bam-Bam from Flintstones fame. Spanky, drummer from Frantic, was also in attendance dressed as Fred. I didn’t spot Wilma, now that I think of it.

The stage area looked great! While we still stood in gravel like last year, Boozie’s drumkit was up on a very nice metal platform with a huge Budweiser banner running along the bottom. Like playing the VP Fair on the Landing! Flanking each side of the stage hung two huge metal balls from the ceiling. One near Stage Right was painted black, and cut out like a black cat, I’d say, with a flashing red police light in its mouth. The second, not far from my head in Stage Left, was painted like an orange Jack-O-Lantern, and also was lit up. It all looked first rate. I was very impressed!

One of the added “features” this year Dave wanted to try was to elevate the drums with a fork lift. However, I was told in the tests that didn’t work too well. It was all too heavy. The fork lift kept tipping. They also planned to “fly” C.J. with the overhead crane, but he hadn’t gotten power out to it yet. The only thing ready to go was the “fire breathing dragon.” Oh well, we’re still going to have fun! The place looked neat!

Setup was quick, and then I found a place to change into my costume to prepare for the show. Bec and I schmoozed for a while, seeing many familiar faces. I also gorged myself on some jambalaya and some roast beef. Oh, and the cup cakes were to die for! The whole food spread was very, very impressive! Dave showed us the coolers full of beer for the band, and we settled in as C.J. and Ness arrived to set up, and Steve appeared as well with Theresa. Only Ness was in costume, a sexy Bat Girl outfit.

People began streaming in from the hay ride, and a queue formed around the food tables as everyone dove in for some good grub. I figured it was soon to be time to fire up since the bulk of the party had now arrived. We were scheduled to commence at 8PM, but it was past that as the hay ride went long. Dave let us know he wanted us to go ahead and wait until the bonfire was lit before playing. As long as Dave is happy, everyone is happy!

We had a few power issues, and at one point, my amp went dead. Not good! Hope this wasn’t going to be a trend tonight. I told you what a nightmare these things can become! I searched for Dave, but he was nowhere in sight. In fact, it’s really going to be hard to track him down at an event like this. Not only is he the Master of Ceremonies, per se, he’s the stage manager, the event manager, and, well, it’s his party, damn it, and he’s there to have fun! Guess I’m just going to have to wait!

A ring of people formed right outside the entrance to the shed, and I surmised they were about to light the bonfire. I also surmised that’s where Dave was, manning the dragon, so tending to my power issue was going to have to wait. From over the tops of people’s heads, I could see a small blue flame was now emanating from the dragon’s nose, but for several minutes there was very little action past that. Scrambling behind the dragon were several sets of legs, attempting to correct something it seemed.

In my heart, I hoped nothing would go wrong for poor Dave, who was struggling to get this prop to work as he designed it. These always sound like good ideas, but… Have I ever told you the pyro stories from Saturn Cats? Catching Steve’s head on fire? We didn’t need a repeat of some of the things I’ve seen when boys play with fire!

With little fanfare, orange flames began to shoot from the mouth of the “dragon”, and that was cool enough! But, not quite far enough to light the pyre. Just short. Uh oh. They scrambled some more, adjusting and fitting. I have no idea what they were doing. I doubt anyone else did either. It was an odd moment. Many began to have doubts this was going to work at all.

Then, flames shot forth again, this time blasting the side of the pyre! The head of the dragon was on a hinge, and they swayed it back and forth, spraying fire on the pyre, which quickly set ablaze and lit the night sky! From Poplar Bluff and now this, I’ve seen some wild bonfires here recently! What’s up with that? Flames lept to the sky, tickling close to the surrounding trees, and heat engulfed us all. Most slowly backed away from the raging blaze.

I turned and look back at the shed, and noticed my power was back on. Carson must have tended to it for me. Right on! I’m ready to rock! So was everyone else! Full bellies, bonfires lit by fire breathing dragons, beers and other drinks flowing! It’s time for Rock Bottom!

Actually, before we could get underway, I’d noticed they had already begun the Halloween Costume Contest as I made my way towards my side of the stage. All manner of costumed contestants paraded before us, receiving applause on which they were judged. A group of five dressed as the Addams Family, and that took down top prize. No Uncle Fester, I’m disappointed to say, but a neat Cousin It! Skyle from Rebel Train is the original Cousin It, I might add…

Boozie delighted us all with the Addams Family theme song as an intro, along with several others, including the Flintstones. Boozie kept playing them, and I began to wonder if we were going on at all!

He played the familiar Rock Bottom intro, replete with siren and “Kick ass and chew bubble gum” announcement, and we tore into Poison’s Nothing But A Good Time. We were off to have a good time of our own.

I glanced to notice how incredibly packed the crowd was! I mean, there were more people than an Eddie’s show, it seemed! Unbelievable! No Mikey, though! Where’s Mikey? We can’t play Van Halen without Mikey!

My guitar amp was having some trouble filling my stage area, which is expected at an outdoor gig. I left it about where I normally keep it, in hopes that Carson would bring me up in the monitors. He didn’t. Frustrated, I walked back to the head and cranked it up, not expecting it to make much of a difference. I was wrong! It sounded glorious! I fired that bitch up, and my guitar just sang! It was a real charge!

The shed was rocking, and we were at the peak of the night. I rattled off good tunes to play to keep them going, and we connected very early. I threw in some Dokken for my buddies because they always request it, and I know that was one of Dave’s all time favorites. The opening set really rocked.

About halfway through, however, a disastrous thought occurred to me. This might be the very peak of the night, and we were using what for most intents and purposes were our throw away songs and set. The basic dynamic of playing a night club is the first set is usually thin, and the party gets started later. That wasn’t the case here, and I should have been aware of that. I should have been ready, and I failed. I was kicking myself for not starting with our stronger songs and really setting this place on fire.

Speaking of which, I was beginning to be concerned of that very fact! The bonfire was huge, and the winds were strong, lapping all over the place. The heat was so intense, they quickly removed the fuel from the “dragon” in fear it could explode. He’d placed the bonfire far enough away from the shed that it seemed safe, but I’m not sure he expected the bonfire to be so huge, and the winds so strong. We didn’t need a Great White performance!

Some of his buddies/employees started to douse the fire with water from a hose, and that increased the smoke factor immensely. Boozie made a comment to me about us all asphyxiating in here if we didn’t get another door open. It wasn’t that bad, but, it was getting thick.

We wrapped up the first set and the crowd went wild. It was as good as any club show we’ve played in Rock Bottom. Indistinguishable from Eddie’s, Rumors, or Shatzee’s. Better than some places we’ve played! It was a real home run of a set. I just hoped enough of them would stay to hear us get rocking on the second, more powerful selection of songs.

Dave was all smiles, and approached me about the smoke problem.

“Oh, one of my guys freaked out, and was wetting down the fire. You wet that all down, and all you get is smoke! I had to go turn the water off, and that was that!”

It was true, the smoke had abated, and the fire was much more manageable now.

Like a lunkhead, I’d forgotten to bring lawn chairs for my beautiful Rebecca to sit in, so she sat on the drum stage by my side of the stage on our break. Her sisters also were in attendance, so she had some company while I worked.

I kissed and loved on her, and then made my way to the restroom, a group of porta-pottys that were placed outside the shed. This was one hell of a party! It began to cross my mind that this might evolve into an annual Brighton Fall event! Wilmouth-Stock!

As I worked my way to the john, many in attendance stopped me and heaped praise on our set and sound, and I again signed drumsticks and tee-shirts. I’m still trying to fathom that one. I work at a hospital, but these people want my autograph for playing songs that other people wrote, made famous, and made tons of money on. Whatever puts a smile on their face, I suppose!

I did my best to keep an eye on time as to not take too long a break. There was no structure to this gig whatsoever, and people would be cutting out soon to boot, so we needed to keep the party up and running, lest we lose our crowd. Many appeared to be evaporating as it was, after that shed packed first set that tore the roof off (well, fortunately not literally!)

I corralled the band (mainly Steve and Boozie, as C.J. was promptly in position, lighting a cigarette, waiting to gear up), and we fired off the second set. Once the sounds of Skid Row’s Youth Gone Wild filled the shed, people crawled from the woodwork and started filling the grounds in front of us again, head banging, dancing, whooping, and hollering. It was right where we left off, much to my amazement!

The flow of the second set was perfect, and we managed to top the first set, I’d say. We were connecting with everyone, and this was coming off as a huge success. Old buddy Kene, guitarist from Frantic (and former teammate of Dave and myself in the old hockey days), whispered in my ear (at 110dB) that Dave wanted to do Talk Dirty with us. So, we stopped the action to drag him up, and the place went nuts. Another homerun set!

I managed to dedicate Tesla’s Love Song to my beloved Becca and to our wonderful trip we had to Cancun last week, and gave her a kiss at the conclusion. Hey, this wireless guitar transmitter is fun! That felt very special. She was obviously having a ball. As was I!

C.J wasn’t happy that I pulled Pour Some Sugar out, but it was also a huge hit, filling the dance area with lots of partying women, and drunken dudes. Several of the women were very friendly, I might add, but, hey, I’ve only got eyes for one, ladies! She’s the real deal! But, it just showed we were connecting, and everyone was having a wonderful time.

We rolled off to take our last break, schmooze with the crowd, and drink some beers. It was a wonderful show so far, and I anticipated that was probably the highlight of the evening. In fact, I was amazed we had that strong a crowd for the second set. Another home run.

I grabbed some of the wonderful crème filled chocolate cup cakes and gorged myself. Relaxed for a bit, held my beautiful girlfriend who had changed into warmer clothes, and enjoyed the moment. The show was going wonderfully. In this set, I’ll see to it that we get Kene and Spanky from Frantic up.

I made my way back into position about 25 minutes into the break, and C.J. was still in his corner, ready and willing. I’m motioned to Steve, and he started to make his way over, and then disappeared. Damn it! Boozie was basically stumbling around the shed, looking as though playing drums was the last thing he was interested in. It is like wrangling cats!

I finally got Steve to wander back on stage about 35 minutes into the break, and we gave up on Boozie. He was rocked! I’m not sure he remember who Rock Bottom was at this stage. We recruited Spanky up, and just played our normal set. Hell, Spanky has seen us enough times, he already knew what songs to expect!

The crowd had thinned as I’d expected, but the ones still there were pretty wasted, and they were very loud! A rocking crowd, to say the least! Dave came up and pretty much sang every song we played along with Steve until we got to Sweet Child O’ Mine, and that pretty much did Dave in! I looked for Kene, but he was no where to be seen. Guess I’m on my own!

Boozie stumbled around stage and poured shots of Captain Morgan Parrot Bay into our mouths, and that was pretty gross. Not a big fan of it. Jager would have been much better! Becca like it, though. I don’t think Boozie even touched his drums at all the final set. It was all Spanky. Nice to have a pinch hitter come off the bench like that!

Mercifully the night was soon finished, and the cops hadn’t appeared. Dave was all smiles, as was the handful of revelers that had stayed the entire evening with us. The boys helped me load my Durango, and I fished out the last of the beers in the cooler. Boozie and his wife were annihilated, and I made sure they had a ride home. They didn’t need to be anywhere near a steering wheel!

C.J. paid me my handsome cut for the evening, and he looked pretty buzzed as well. Kene appeared and apologized for not getting up on stage, he’d passed out! Then he woke up, wandered around, and passed out again! Now that’s a party!

God only knows what Dave will cook up next year to top it. Can’t wait for another Wilmouth Stock!

Rock Bottom Nation

2007-09-25T16:28:00.001-05:00

Subject: Guitarist - Rock Bottom
Venue: Pop's, Sauget, Illinois
Friday, September 14th, 2007

The calendar continues to be filled for us, and that’s been both entertaining, and physically draining. Boy, we’ve been playing a ton of gigs! This past weekend at Shatzee’s in Belleville I think we saw a little strain, as moods were a bit testy amongst the group. Nothing nasty, but, just that edginess that starts to form like a crust whenever you’ve been spending a lot of time doing the same thing repetitively with the same people over and over.

But, in all honesty, the shows were a big success, we made a bunch of new friends and fans, and I heard nothing but good things and compliments on our song selection and performance. Some real ego stroking, which, well, is better than being told you suck!

The real treat I want to tell you all about was our opening slot at Pop’s for Chicago area Motley Crue tribute band: The Crue. We’d been given a large amount of comp tickets to give away, which we did readily. Still, I wasn’t sure how many people were going to attend an evening show at Pop’s to see a tribute band (and us) that they’d never heard of. I was in for a very big surprise!

Word was we were to show up for sound check at around 5 to 5:30pm. Yikes! On a Friday, that was a bit of a stretch; to get off work, get ready, and get there for that! Steve said from the get go he didn’t think he could make that. I managed to get cleaned up, and Rebecca got herself together (and looked dynamite, I might add…), and we pulled in to the back stage loading area around 5:30. Not to bad!

Several of our helpful road crew appeared from around back, and quickly we shuttled my rig out of my Durango onto the side stage at Pop’s as a sort of makeshift staging area. The Crue were still setting up their rigs, and the house sound tech, Jason, I think, was busy juggling microphones and directing traffic. Somewhat of a hectic, busy atmosphere.

I surveyed the “landscape”, and it was as I’d remembered. Pop’s is Pop’s. While I’d played the old Pop’s back before the fire burnt it down to the ground, I’ve never played this new Pop’s as a member of a booked act, but I have sat in with a couple bands, including Baywolfe on the main stage, and Those One Guys on the side stage. Last year, following the Biker Rally in Poplar Bluff, I showed up Sunday evening for a surprise birthday party for Bozer the Hoser of Riff Raff fame. In all, it all seemed strangely familiar to me, to be honest.

C.J. and Boozie were in attendance, milling around, waiting to get a chance to set the stage. I couldn’t really tell who The Crue were, and who were the crew! They all looked the same, and none of them really looked like anyone from the real Crue. It didn’t take me long to spot the accent, though. Within minutes, I knew where they had to be from: Chicago! Please don’t be Cub fans!

I even brought a book, Dan Harrington on Hold ‘em, Volume II, to read in the interim, as I figured there’d be quite a bit of lag time between sound check and our actual performance. I really don’t have much time to read, it seems, and I thought this might be a great opportunity. I was wrong. Never cracked it open. The atmosphere and anticipation prevented me from really sitting down to relax. I wanted to get my rig going, and get a feel for the stage and stuff. But The Crue were still setting up, doing their thing, and basically, I had to wait. I didn’t want to bury my nose in a book. I wanted to take it all in. It felt like the “good old days”, that fun anticipation of a big show!

I quickly found a nice AC120 power outlet off to the side to plug in my Blue Voodoo amp, letting the tubes warm, hoping for a nice, rich tone would be waiting for me when we took the stage. Donovan pulled my axes from their cases, sprayed them generously with Finger-ease, and set them up on stands off stage left, letting them air out and breathe.

“There you are, Mr. Deron,” Donovan announced to me, placing Black on the stand next to Bob, my Ibanez.

“Thank’s man, I appreciate it,” I told him. These guys do a lot of work for us, and really do it just for the thrill of getting a chance to do it. While I buy them a beer or a shot once in a while, I don’t have any money to really pay them for their efforts. So, I try to go out of my way to let them know they are appreciated, because they don’t really have to do it. And it does make my world easier, allowing me to concentrate on the show.

The Crue guitarist had pulled out his Explorer style guitar, and fired up his rig that was setup Stage Left. A Line 6 unit. Not too bad. He was a medium build, short haired dude, with kind of a hard core look to him. Not an 80’s hold out. More of a contemporary metal head. As he warmed up, he proved to be a decent player, with some good chops, some shredding arpeggios, and a metal technique. His guitar was an Aria II, which I remember in the day as a kinda cheap model. But, he played it well, so I guess it works for him.

As The Crue dragged on setting up their portion of the stage, C.J. was getting antsy. He still intended to race back to Granite and get himself ready for the show. And, he wanted to take the time to get everything right. And rightly so. Those kinds of rituals clear the mind, and focus oneself for “battle”, so to speak. When we got the call that we were to be at sound check at 5ish, we didn’t realize that meant BOTH bands. We figured they would be set up by now. Instead, it quickly became 6pm, then past, and we weren’t any closer to getting our stuff up there.

At one point, C.J had given up, and basically was going to let our buddy Zack check his rig, which came as a bit of a surprise for Zack! C.J. figured he’d just better bail out. We don’t really do sound checks, so, as long as his rig worked, that’s all that mattered.

About that time, The Crue fired up through the mains, and ran through a couple tunes. The singer did have a Vince Neil-ish type of voice, and it made me smile. They played some really cool old Crue from their first album, Too Fast For Love. Now yer talking! That used to be quite a popular album with Steve and I back in ’85 or ’86, tooling around town in Steve’s Plymouth Laser, cruising for high school girls.

It didn’t take long, though, and I could tell this guy didn’t have Steve’s range. Some of the high stuff eluded him. Aw well, we can’t all be the Steve-a! The couple songs they did sounded pretty cool, and I was looking forward to hearing what all they were going to whip out tonight. I love the old Crue, and it seems these guys were in that mold. Right on! That’s what I want to hear! The guitarist tone was loud and sounded quite good. Mick Mars was pouring out from the stage at Pop’s!

After a bit of tweaking and plunking, they finally seemed satisfied.

“All right,” the big, burly bass player bellowed, “let’s get off here and give these guys a chance to get set up, man.”

Seems he was down with our plight. They scuttled off and set things aside while their crew tended to moving shit out of the way for our crew to move in.

“I guess you can set your stuff here, man,” the guitarist said. “I’ll put some tape down marking where my amp was.” I was a little confused.

“Naw, I’ll just set up right in front, you don’t have to move anything,” I told him.

Before we could either make a move, Boozie’s massive drumrack rolled by, shoving us out of the way.

“All right,” the sound tech announced, “we’ll put this here.” Here being right where I was going to put my rig!

“Wha-“

Before I could even protest, I began to see the problem. Boozie’s rig was so immense, that placing it in front of the Crue’s drumriser would have left scant room for Steve.

“Yeah, what I’m really worried about is the cymbals and all that coming through the singer’s mic,” Jason explained. I see. That too! So, Boozie gets shoved over to the side. Well, then where the hell am I going to put my amp? Eh, no big deal. I’ll just shove it off to the side stage, and point it across stage. That lets me really turn it up and rip!

We finessed things about, getting them into position. I turned to the soundguy and introduced myself.

“I’ve seen you play,” he said. I was surprised at this. “You were in Knucklehead.” Amazing! I guess that’s a positive thing. I guess he could remember me because I suck out loud, but that didn’t seem as likely. But, possible.

The Crue guitarist pulled me aside. “Hey, man, did my amp sound ok out there?”

“Sounded great,” I told him.

“Cuz it sounded tinny up here,” he said. “Must have been the monitor mix.”

“Could be. It sounded great out front.” I told him.

“Cool.”

With that, he ducked out from the moving chaos that surrounded us onstage. With eager anticipation, I fired up the rig. Wow, not nearly as loud as I’m used to! That smaller 50w head in such a big room, let me tell you! It doesn’t come close to filling it up! I warmed my fingers up and got used to the room, the stage, and everything. Lost myself in the moment briefly. I’m going to have to be louder!

Drumcheck was tedious, as always. Bong! Bong! Bong!

“Next…”

Bung! Bung! Bung! (Beavis, he said Bung!)

“Next…”

C.J stood idly by, having decided to wait it out since we were finally underway. It still wasn’t happening fast enough for him.

We each checked our instruments and tweaked the monitor mix to our liking. Steve showed up in time after all (as it was around 6:45), and even he got a mic check. We stared at each other, then started off a song. Don’t even remember what it was. One that we weren’t planning on playing that night. I wasn’t really happy with my amp sound. Something didn’t feel right. He’d brought it up in the monitors, so I could hear myself just fine. But, ugh! It was off.

Three quarters the way through the song, the soundman broke through on the monitors.

“Ok guys, that will work. We’ll start about 8:30.”

The song ground to a halt, and C.J. was out the door. I turned and looked at my amp, but there wasn’t much to tweak. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. It sounded fine over by my amp, but… Wait! Exactly what the Crue guitarist was talking about! Kind of tinny! I’ll bet it rips out front. Too bad I can’t hear it.

It must have been sometime after 7pm after I crawled down from the main stage, as they were letting people in the front door. It didn’t take long for familiar faces to stroll by, many of them wearing Rock Bottom tee shirts. Along the side of the stage, Donovan set up our own tee-shirt vending “booth”, replete with black, day-glo green, and new hot pink Rock Bottom shirts!

I grabbed a beer (aluminum pint of Bud Light), grabbed my girl, and sat to relax before the show. People kept streaming in, most with Rock Bottom shirts, and most of them people I know! Wow, this is going to be interesting! A party atmosphere was brewing.
A couple members of Becca’s family arrived wearing their “Joe Dirt” mullet wigs and outfits! Hilarious! Hell, they looked like they just walked out of Eddie’s! Hard to tell it was a costume, it was that authentic!

“How did my amp sound?” I asked Becca.

“Awesome!” she said. “You guys sounded awesome!” Well, that’s what she’s supposed to say, right?

As the clock ticked down and the time drew near, I scanned the crowd once again from my side off stage. It was packed! I never imagined we’d have this many people! And so many of them were Rock Bottom faithful! I dubbed it “The Rock Bottom Nation!” It was incredible! Hmm. Almost a bit nervous! Can’t believe all these people came to see us! Got to give them a great show!

Jason played our intro through the PA, and we were off. First rate light show making us look bigger than life, concert sound pumping out our sound, mammoth stage for us to prowl on; it was pure heaven! I finally felt like a real BAND again, instead of just some bar stars in a rinky dink dump.

We obviously skipped any Crue songs (oh, how we’d like to have played one, though! But that’s just not Cricket!), we tore into the heart of our 80’s favorites, attempting to put on the strongest show we could. The dance floor crowded around before us, and everyone stared up at us in rapture! We had them all in the palm of our hands! My amp was blazing, and everything felt very comfortable, very smooth. I was able to put a lot of the nuances that I like to throw in: the chirps, the glissandos, the dive bombs. Real bombastic, over the top shit! It was glorious!

Many of the crowd that had gathered right in front of me weren’t familiar at all, but they were really digging it. They seemed really surprised to hear the kind of stuff we were playing, and it was just what the doctor had ordered. So many people love this old 80’s stuff, and frankly, I guess we don’t realize how hard it is to get anymore.

Each song we’d peel off was received with a “Hell ya!” or a “Fuckin’ A!” Heads bobbed, fists pumped, all of them screaming the words. Jesus, you’d think we wrote these fucking songs!

In what seemed like a flash, but was actually probably at least an hour, Jason chirped into our monitor mix.

“Couple more, guys.”

Wow! So soon! Hell, we want to play all night! We wrapped up with Crazy Train, which really let me step out and show off a bit. Besides the solo part that I’ve been playing for, oh, 23 years (longer than some of the crowd has been alive…), the end of the song we get to do a big “arena rock” ending, where I can jerk off, play a million miles an hour, and all that rigmarole. God, it went of great!

With the final crashes of Boozie’s cymbals, the crowd in front of me erupted. In an instant, I was whisked back to Stages, when we’d played for some huge crowds, all of them really rocking. Even reminded me of Poppa Don’s in Farmington (only there were even more people at that show!), when we tore the roof off that mother fucker on Halloween. It was that good. We’d scored!

People reached out towards me from the floor, and I was startled. Reaching up, waving, and calling out. That doesn’t happen. Of course, none of the places I play anymore are that far above the crowd. I leaned forward slapping them, giving them “five”. More hands poked from around the monitors, and I just kept slapping. It was intense. I guess it’s been a really long time since I’ve played and felt this way. Maybe 15 years or more. It was the reason I’d play, to be honest. To get people off. To let them enjoy themselves. To rock, for lack of a better word.

After the show was a circus. There was a tremendous buzz throughout Pop’s. There was little question: we’d kicked ass. Many of my friends’ faces were beaming. Not only were they having a great time, but they were proud. It was a real “hometown” feel. Like we’d all done it together.

I actually signed some autographs and drumsticks, which is always a bizarre sensation. I mean, I’ll never be rude and turn one away, because they do it out of admiration. But, what the hell you want my autograph for?

“Here’s my autograph of Eddie Van Halen, and my Ted Nugent guitar pick. Oh, and my signed drumstick by this guy who works at a hospital in Granite City.”

Good luck selling that on E-Bay!

The Crue took the stage, all four members having donned mullet wigs of their own. Three jet black wigs for “Mick, Nikki and Tommy”, and a platinum mullet for “Vince”. While I didn’t really have a problem with it, some found it a bit cheesy. Hey, that’s show business!

They tore into their set, and in all, I thought it sounded pretty good. But, the crowd was kind of skeptical. We’d won them over, that’s for sure, and when you come out to be a Crue tribute band, in St. Louis, you better damn we be the Crue! I was surprised how tough the crowd was for them.

Of course, I got several obligatory “you guys are so much better,” and “Fuck these guys, bring back Rock Bottom”. That’s kind of embarrassing. It’s not a competition! We’re just there to party, have fun, and get wild! We’re not there to be “better” than anyone. And I get embarrassed when it breaks down to that. I hope they weren’t getting that vibe. It will be hard for us to get more opening slots if we’re kicking the headliner’s ass off the stage!

Boozie approached me, commenting on the group.

“The Tommy Lee guy is really good!” Boozie said. I nodded. “I don’t know about the wigs, though…” He flashed a wry smile, a Boozie trademark.

I kicked back and reveled in the moment a bit, having pulled off a very memorable show. Accolades continued to pour in from friends, and just plain fans. It was obvious we’d made a real connection. None of that would have been possible without the great support from “The Rock Bottom Nation.” You people are wonderful. With that many people there rocking and having a great time, it was infectious, and helped us win over the crowd. As I say, we couldn’t have done it without you guys.

I stayed for the whole Crue set, and afterwards wished them well. They were very amicable. Seemed like a nice bunch of guys. We drove off to Eddie’s to catch Ivory Tiger (who’d also made it out for our set at Pop’s), relaxing in the afterglow of a wild party there at Pop’s.

I wish every show was like that one.