Dude-50

A little of this, a little of that; rants, raves, photos, doodlings and thinking out loud

Friday, October 20, 2006

Happy 50th - With Many Thanks and Stolen Lines from The Big Lebowski

Age is a tough concept
And the more you age
The more you say it doesn’t matter
Which means there are a lot of people
Who are saying too much
Especially since it doesn’t matter
At least according to them

I don’t know where I fit in to this
But it maters less to me on the days
Me and the boys –
Mack, Walter, Donnie, Jack, Southside and the Dude -
Hit the bowling alley
Bowl a few frames, grab a few beers
(I don’t really drink,
so I grab a Sasparella)
and we talk about the things that go on around us

We talk about how funny life is sometimes
How people get all caught up in the search for something big
When what they are looking for is usually right near by.
And we talk about how some things seem big at the time
(like that time Woo peed on the Dude’s carpet
That carpet, after all, tied the room together so well –
Did it not!)
And sometimes we just talk about bowling –
The gutters, the strikes, the what-have-yous –
Or we talk about Maude.

And these visits are refreshing
Because we always part ways feeling the same thing:
It doesn’t matter how old you are
It only matters how you are feeling as you get through the day

And, of course, it only matters who you are inside
That’s the one constant throughout life
And isn’t that the true measure of a man?
(well, that and a set of testicles...)

CBGB & OMFUG

Southside Ed and I at the legendary CBGB & OMFUG (Country Blue Grass Blues & Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers). Unfortunately, CBGB's is no more but it left behind some great memories.

Strummer is Still Here



Strummer tribute on the side of a building in the Village.

"The Future is Unwritten!"

27 years ago - November 2002

27 years ago
cool, early-fall Saturday morning
a Plymouth Valliant with a full tank of gas
a stack of 8-tracks on the passenger seat
2 packs of smokes
and an open road between Virginia and my destination of Stratford, Connecticut

A handful of pills
and a six pack of Schlitz bottles to wash them down
“Who's Next” blasting on the speakers
as Daltry sings,
“Out Here in the Fields”
I pop a couple of white crosses to keep me alert
“I fight for my meals”
I take a Darvon to keep me mellow
“I get my back into my living”
I have a dime bag of pot to keep a buzz going
and a hit of blotter acid
which I already cut in half
and will take one half when I complete
the NY roadway puzzle
and approach the New England foliage

I was never much in school
choosing instead to let my mind drift
out the open window
and dream of the open road.
But I did remember the lessons
of “Fear and Loathing”

Now

27 years later
I find myself on that same stretch of road
A fall Saturday morning sunrise in Virginia
Paving the way for the final stretch
Of my drive from Georgia to Connecticut

A rented car
A full tank of gas
A stack of CDs on the passenger seat
My cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter
A 20-ounce Caffeine Free Diet Coke
And pack of salt-free rice cakes in waiting

A handful of vitamins
And bottled water to wash them down with
“Who¹s Next” with bonus tracks
playing on the speakers
as Daltry sings,
“The Song is over”
I swallow a Coenzyme Q-10 to preserve cell membranes and blood cholesterol
“It¹s all behind me”
I take a Manganese pill for glucose tolerance
“I should have known it. She tried to find me”
I also pop a Zinc for my immune system, a Garlic tab for my cardiovascular system and a half dozen other vitamins to maintain generally good health.

27 years
from I-19 to I-46.
there have been many miles
on that journey

initially
when reflecting during my recent drive
I thought the contrast was one of a 19-year-old
who had time and an open road ahead of him
Vs.
A 46-year-old
who now faces a road winding closer to its end

But that is not really the case

The 19-year-old wanted answers
The 46 year old realizes the value in questioning
The 19 year old looked for paradise
The 46 year old realizes the value in searching
The 19 year old was a dreamer
The 46 year old realizes the value of dreams

The 46-year-old has always stayed true
to the ideals burning inside that 19-year-old,
although the fire has been tempered
with a realistic sense of what one person
can accomplish

I was happy to let the 19-year-old move on ahead of me on that road
I don¹t think I could have kept up with him
And I¹m sure he wouldn¹t be interested in what I had to say
But it was nice
For a brief period
To see him again
And revisit a road traveled long ago

Wednesday, October 18, 2006



This site is protected by Nero!

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Walking with Jesus (September 14, 2001, in New York City)

Under the construction scaffolding taped to the windows on one side of a building on Park Avenue and 26th Street in New York City were hundreds of handmade posters all on 8-and-a-half by 11 inch paper all with the same question,
"Have You Seen This Person?"
One man, pictured with his family, was on the 67th floor of the World Trade Center when two planes smashed into the two 110 story towers, eventually causing them to crumble to the ground.
a woman, pictured smiling on the beach, was on the 101st floor.
a man pictured holding his clarinet was on the 52nd floor while another man pictured with a small child and golden retriever was on the 66th floor.
one man, pictured smiling, was visiting the World Trade Center for a meeting...
the hand posters seemed endless; so many people to save:
a woman with her son, a man with his wife, a woman at her desk, a guy next to his car; some photos were just head shots while others looked like they were taken from modeling portfolios. some photos were candid shots of people hanging out with friends and some were
posed.
none gave a hint that any of these people knew what would be coming on September 11, 2001
and now they were on sheets of paper on black-tinted windows on 26th Street looking much like the Vietnam War Memorial wall.
the lively faces on the hand posters would follow us through the city everywhere we went
they were on cars, in store windows, on telephone poles, on mail boxes, at bus stop shelters - everywhere they dominated an unusually quiet city
and the faces on the fliers stood in sharp contrast with the exhausted and concerned
expressions of the people walking through New York City
I love New York City
but the George Gershwin music that usually appeared in my head whenever I visited would not be playing on this day

On Wednesday, the day following the attack I told my friend Charlie, an ordained minister,
that I couldn't take just sitting around listening to the news (especially since the media, like it always does in these situations, seemed more concerned with naming this tragedy than reporting objectively on it!
For the record, “America Under Attack” won the media’s “name that disaster” game and will now take its place with other favorites, like “Horror in the Heartland” and “Terror at the Ivy Walls”)
Charlie and I decided to hit the city and see if we could help
after all, we were only an hour-and-a-half away
So, on Friday - three days after the attack - we hopped on the train
Because Charlie was a minister we had access to many areas although few needed our ssistance
and we didn't want to hang out anywhere where we weren't needed
so we walked...
to the Armory on Lexington Avenue
to Saint Vincent’s Hospital
to the Village
to as close to the World Trade Center site as the police would let us get
Unless you were a cop, fireman, emt, engineer or steel worker you weren't getting too close
All along our journey we talked to people
and each conversation was near a poster of the lively faces
“where you from?” was the question we were most frequently asked
by unusually friendly cops and firefighters.
“Connecticut,” we would say
“Great, thanks”
and all seemed genuinely grateful that people would travel to New York to help
Charlie would, of course, ask everyone how they were holding up.
“I feel like I haven't left this spot in three days,” said one cop who was stationed at the end of one of the streets that leads to the World Trade Center rubble.
“where were you when you heard about this?” one guy in the Village asked us at a Thai restaurant where we took a break to eat
that conversation lasted awhile
At the Jacob Javits Convention Center where all the workers and volunteers went to eat and rest and where a steady stream of supplies, like gloves, face masks and food were arriving like a steady, welcomed, stream I asked a firefighter where the closest fire house was located
“I wouldn't know,” he said, “I'm from Kentucky”
cop cars from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, Rhode Island and far beyond lined one side of the center
a fire crew from Accokeek, Maryland, who looked exhausted and shell-shocked, were resting by a car a man in a New York Yankee baseball cap, who looked like he was probably an iron worker who just finished a very emotional shift at ground zero, was leaning forward and talking to another man. The other guy, who had a Boston Red Sox baseball cap on, had a comforting hand on the guys shoulder as he listened.
Maybe this IS the end of the world, I thought.
Maybe these lively faces looking at everyone from the hand-made posters were starting to make strange things happen
this was the only place I have ever been where, like the old Grateful Dead song said, there were “strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands”
and it was under a backdrop of a half-acre of crumbled buildings which was serving as either a grave or living hell for about 5,000 people who thought Tuesday, September 11, 2001 would just be another day in their journey through life.
These 5,000 were the lively faces whose posters lined the streets
And as we left the site to prepare for a somber ride back to Connecticut the faces followed us to Grand Central
“I'm glad I was here, but I don't know if we did any good,” I told Charlie.
“of course we did,” he said.
“we saved no one, we played no role,” I said
“but we ministered to a number of people who just needed to talk,” he said.
“we showed support just by being here and we reinforced the fact that people do care”

we saw the last of the faces as we boarded the train
but I suddenly realized the faces were not saying "save me,"
because they had to know we couldn't
and they weren’t calling for revenge
although that point will be lost on the politicians, who will wrongly spill innocent blood while confusing revenge with justice
the faces were saying "carry on"
and that, of course, we will
and I don't know how long those faces will stay with me
I think they will be around for awhile
they are welcome to stay
and the next time I go into New York City
we will all listen to some Gershwin

peace

Lunch is the Most Important Meal (June 1998)

One morning, some years ago, Rory and I were doing our usual morning scramble to get ready for school. Rory was a kindergardener at Melissa Jones School in Guilford and I was a junior at Southern Connecticut State University. Realizing we were running late, Kelly packed us a couple of lunches and as I ran out the door to bring Rory to the edge of the long driveway to get his bus, I tossed one of the lunch bags in his backpack. The other I put in my backpack.
My morning didn't get any better once I got to school. I had to rewrite
A paper, take an exam and defend one of my papers with a professor that
argued like a rugby player plays.
I didn't expect my day to get any better when I sat down with a
Newspaper and my lunch.
But then I opened my lunch.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Teddy Grahams cookies, an apple and a juice box. Cool, I thought.
So cool, in fact, that the rest of my day was a breeze. It was like I had a jar of asshole repellent; nothing bothered me.
I went home after my classes and baked some bread between reading chapters of my chemistry book.
When Rory got off his bus and ran down the driveway, I went outside to greet him with a high-five at the door, but he ran right on past me.
"What's the matter buddy?" I said, following Rory into his room.
"My mom hates me," he said.
"No, that's not true," I said. "You're mom loves you very much. How could you even think your mom hates you."
"Look," Rory said, pulling his lunch bag out of his backpack and handing it to me.
Inside I found: a ham sandwich with chedder cheese, lettuce, tomato,
onion and spicy mustard; celery sticks; and a can of vegetable juice.
"Oh no," I said. "You had my lunch!" (maybe his mom hates me, I thought)
"And where's my lunch?" Rory asked.
"I ate it," I said. "But I ...."
"Arrrrgh," Rory said, "You both hate me!"
It took some time to convince Rory that it was an honest mistake and no one hated him. But, after that, I never underestimated the importance of a good lunch.
And I never made myself another lunch without Teddy Grahams!


Jack is looking like a badass!

Old Man on a Motorcycle (July 2003)

His motorcycle shot from the Stop & Shop parking lot
The loud motor broke the quiet, orderly manner in which people were packing groceries in their cars
The old, sagging skin on the bikers face was stretched back and flapped
in the loud wind
that peeled from his Harley
It was almost like the jowls of a dog
Fiercely but freely flapping in the wind
I bet he was a bad mother-trucker in his day
I always thought bikers were pretty cool
and I dug/dig biker chicks
And as he left the parking lot
I could barely make out the “If you can read this… the bitch fell off”
on the back of his faded white t-shirt
I thought that might have been funny at one time
But I think “the bitch” has been
off his bike a long time