We play CD's where I work.
This breaks the ominous silence as deal junkies paw through the gently used merchandise. Although sometimes, when the CD ends, I let the silence ride awhile in the hopes that people will get uncomfortable.
Torturing the customer is my first rule of retail.
One woman pretty much runs the show in the story, reluctantly. Sometimes I feel bad for her. The manager is never there because he spends most of his time in the Manchester store and in corporate meetings. So the running of the store falls on the shoulders of this woman.
Elderly, indecisive, forced to answer too many questions and make too many decisions.
Sometimes I feel bad for her. Except for when it comes to the music. Then I want her dead.
She plays almost exclusively fifties music. I like some fifties stuff, in fact I like a lot of fifties stuff.
In small doses.
Not every single fucking day. Over and over and over again. Many times when the CD ends she just restarts it and I get to suffer through the same shit all over again. Back to back.
There is one particular song that I fucking hate. It is the one song that represents all I hate about fifties music. Every time it comes on I reach for the scissors to puncture my ear drums.
"Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows", by Leslie Gore. Jesus Christ, the name alone is enough to destroy my mental equilibrium.
And the song. The fucking song. One of those ridiculously upbeat, cluelessly positive songs they wrote in the fifties when they were trying to pretend there was no such thing as divorce and disease and alcoholism and crime and prejudice and hatred and death.
The song makes me want to puke. Go listen to it right now. Make sure you have a bucket handy.
The worst is when I walk in the door and that song is on. As I approach the entrance every day I am deathly depressed. With each footstep it becomes more inevitable that I will walk through those doors and spend the next five hours in a parallel universe where I am expected to care about the opinions and the lives of old ladies, where I am forced to have conversations with woman about how "cute" this blouse is.
If that song is playing as I walk into the store, and it happens, I immediately fall to the floor, curl up in a fetal position and begin to sob hysterically.
Typically, some old broad will lean down and ask if everything is alright, young man. Then I punch her in the face.
Had an old lady tell me the other day how much she loves the music we play because she hates all this "new" music.
New music? What, since 1950? Are you fucking kidding me? With one mindless comment she is dismissing 67 years of music evolution?
There is one song I would play, if we had it, over and over again. 100 times a day.
And the lyrics go: "We gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do."
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Always Ducking
You never know where it will come from.
Been reading a bunch of easy reading books lately - flying through them like a stealth bomber through the sky. Resting my brain, I guess.
Reading a collection of short stories from Russell Banks. He wrote "Nobody's Fool", which I read, and which subsequently became a top five favorite movie for Carol and me.
Point is: I like the way the man tells stories.
So I am reading along, innocently, a story called "The Burden", when I got knocked to the ground with the following words.
"When you love someone for years, you lose sight of how that person looks to the rest of the world. Then one day, even though it's painful, you push the person away, and suddenly you can see him the way a stranger sees him. But because you know so much more about him than a stranger can, you are frightened for him, as frightened as you would be for yourself, if you could see in yourself, as you see in him, that you're not quite right, that you don't quite fit into the place the world has tried to make for you."
There is so much truth and insight in those words that I should have cautioned you not to read them.
But it's too late now, isn't it?
I hope you can absorb then without putting a bullet in your brain.
Been reading a bunch of easy reading books lately - flying through them like a stealth bomber through the sky. Resting my brain, I guess.
Reading a collection of short stories from Russell Banks. He wrote "Nobody's Fool", which I read, and which subsequently became a top five favorite movie for Carol and me.
Point is: I like the way the man tells stories.
So I am reading along, innocently, a story called "The Burden", when I got knocked to the ground with the following words.
"When you love someone for years, you lose sight of how that person looks to the rest of the world. Then one day, even though it's painful, you push the person away, and suddenly you can see him the way a stranger sees him. But because you know so much more about him than a stranger can, you are frightened for him, as frightened as you would be for yourself, if you could see in yourself, as you see in him, that you're not quite right, that you don't quite fit into the place the world has tried to make for you."
There is so much truth and insight in those words that I should have cautioned you not to read them.
But it's too late now, isn't it?
I hope you can absorb then without putting a bullet in your brain.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Butch Trucks
This one hurts a lot.
Butch Trucks was one of the founding fathers of The Allman Brothers Band. A band that got under my skin when I was fifteen and stayed there through today and for the rest of my life.
The founding fathers were: Duane Allman, Gregg Allman, Butch Trucks, "Jaimoe" Johanson, Dicky Betts, and Berry Oakley.
Duane Allman died in a motorcycle crash in 1971 at the age of 24. Berry Oakley died in a motorcycle crash in 1972 at the age of 24.
Those deaths were devastating. Since then The Allman Brothers have motored on through various lineup changes and three break ups, to get their musical message out to the world.
Through it all they stayed true to who they were.
When they first came upon the scene nobody knew what to make of them. A six man band with two drummers - are you kidding me? - with musical tastes inspired by the blues, by jazz and by country - a band that would jam at length on many songs and then bring it all back home with a precision and ferocious emotion that would blow you away.
Butch put it perfectly in a Rolling Stone interview from last year: "We were out spreading the gospel of this music we had discovered. We never thought that we would be more than an opening act. Atlantic Records was riding our ass constantly to get Gregg out from behind the organ, stick a salami down his pants and jump around the stage like Robert Plant. We told them to go fuck themselves. 'We're playing this for ourselves. We've tried it your way before. We didn't make any money and we had a miserable time.'
The Allman Brothers Band had a unique voice, they knew it and they stuck with it. Butch Trucks was a huge part of that voice.
Jaimoe was the other drummer. He played with a jazz feel; he was not a power drummer. He added subtlety and accent. Butch was the power guy. Wailing away with strength, keeping the band in line, giving them a solid base from which to soar.
He had a strong personality too. Always spoke his mind.
At concerts, when the other musicians walked off the stage, leaving Jaimoe and Butch to jam, very few people moved. Typically, when there is a drum solo, people go to the bathroom, grab a beer and mill around. Not so with The Allman Brothers. Butch and Jaimoe jammed ferociously, delicately, powerfully and in a way that made your jaw drop.
We could always identify the rookies in the crowd - they headed for the bathrooms. They had no clue what they were missing.
When you get something special in your life, something containing the magic to make your life softer, you hold on to it with all your strength.
That is what The Allman Brothers Band was to me.
It has been almost 45 years since an original member of the band died. Plenty of time to get comfortable with having them around. Honestly, I have been worried about Gregg. His health has been fragile for a long time. He cancelled a bunch of shows last fall due to health concerns, and that really worried me.
So Butch's death came as a great shock to me. I did not see it coming. I don't know if he had health issues.
My closest friend Phil C and I saw Butch with his new band The Freight Train Band at a small dinner type venue last summer. Thank God for that opportunity.
What a night. We had dinner. Prime rib for both of us. We drifted into the hall, set up with round tables throughout the room, a small, intimate room with close proximity to the stage.
The band came out and rocked that place to the ground. Phil and I were blown away. We didn't know anybody in the band beyond Butch. Turns out his son, Vaylor Trucks, was playing guitar and man could he wail.
Butch Trucks gave Phil and I the gift of incredible music, a night we laughed together, and ate and drank together, stared in awe at the stage and jumped up for standing ovations again and again.
That was the power of Butch Trucks. That was the power of The Allman Brothers Band.
The Allman Brothers broke up in 2014. Thanks to my sons, I was fortunate enough to see their second to last show ever - at the Beacon Theatre in NYC, the Holy Grail for Allman Brothers fans, with Phil. My sons gave me the tickets. It was yet another spectacular ABB memory for us.
Since then I have been secretly hoping for a reunion concert. I kept that hope alive in my heart because I could not accept the possibility that I would never see The Allman Brothers Band again.
The death of Butch Trucks is too much. Too final. It hurts a lot.
When you get something special in your life you have to enjoy it at every opportunity, every turn, because nothing lasts forever. And when it goes away all you have is memories.
I have the music of The Allman Brothers Band and the music, personality and life force of Butch Trucks to keep me going.
But there is a void. Huge and final that will never be filled.
I am sad and empty today. I believe I will feel this way for some time to come.
Requiescat in pace, Butch Trucks.
Thank you so much for the music and the memories.
I loved, respected and appreciated having you in my life.
I will never forget you.
Butch Trucks was one of the founding fathers of The Allman Brothers Band. A band that got under my skin when I was fifteen and stayed there through today and for the rest of my life.
The founding fathers were: Duane Allman, Gregg Allman, Butch Trucks, "Jaimoe" Johanson, Dicky Betts, and Berry Oakley.
Duane Allman died in a motorcycle crash in 1971 at the age of 24. Berry Oakley died in a motorcycle crash in 1972 at the age of 24.
Those deaths were devastating. Since then The Allman Brothers have motored on through various lineup changes and three break ups, to get their musical message out to the world.
Through it all they stayed true to who they were.
When they first came upon the scene nobody knew what to make of them. A six man band with two drummers - are you kidding me? - with musical tastes inspired by the blues, by jazz and by country - a band that would jam at length on many songs and then bring it all back home with a precision and ferocious emotion that would blow you away.
Butch put it perfectly in a Rolling Stone interview from last year: "We were out spreading the gospel of this music we had discovered. We never thought that we would be more than an opening act. Atlantic Records was riding our ass constantly to get Gregg out from behind the organ, stick a salami down his pants and jump around the stage like Robert Plant. We told them to go fuck themselves. 'We're playing this for ourselves. We've tried it your way before. We didn't make any money and we had a miserable time.'
The Allman Brothers Band had a unique voice, they knew it and they stuck with it. Butch Trucks was a huge part of that voice.
Jaimoe was the other drummer. He played with a jazz feel; he was not a power drummer. He added subtlety and accent. Butch was the power guy. Wailing away with strength, keeping the band in line, giving them a solid base from which to soar.
He had a strong personality too. Always spoke his mind.
At concerts, when the other musicians walked off the stage, leaving Jaimoe and Butch to jam, very few people moved. Typically, when there is a drum solo, people go to the bathroom, grab a beer and mill around. Not so with The Allman Brothers. Butch and Jaimoe jammed ferociously, delicately, powerfully and in a way that made your jaw drop.
We could always identify the rookies in the crowd - they headed for the bathrooms. They had no clue what they were missing.
When you get something special in your life, something containing the magic to make your life softer, you hold on to it with all your strength.
That is what The Allman Brothers Band was to me.
It has been almost 45 years since an original member of the band died. Plenty of time to get comfortable with having them around. Honestly, I have been worried about Gregg. His health has been fragile for a long time. He cancelled a bunch of shows last fall due to health concerns, and that really worried me.
So Butch's death came as a great shock to me. I did not see it coming. I don't know if he had health issues.
My closest friend Phil C and I saw Butch with his new band The Freight Train Band at a small dinner type venue last summer. Thank God for that opportunity.
What a night. We had dinner. Prime rib for both of us. We drifted into the hall, set up with round tables throughout the room, a small, intimate room with close proximity to the stage.
The band came out and rocked that place to the ground. Phil and I were blown away. We didn't know anybody in the band beyond Butch. Turns out his son, Vaylor Trucks, was playing guitar and man could he wail.
Butch Trucks gave Phil and I the gift of incredible music, a night we laughed together, and ate and drank together, stared in awe at the stage and jumped up for standing ovations again and again.
That was the power of Butch Trucks. That was the power of The Allman Brothers Band.
The Allman Brothers broke up in 2014. Thanks to my sons, I was fortunate enough to see their second to last show ever - at the Beacon Theatre in NYC, the Holy Grail for Allman Brothers fans, with Phil. My sons gave me the tickets. It was yet another spectacular ABB memory for us.
Since then I have been secretly hoping for a reunion concert. I kept that hope alive in my heart because I could not accept the possibility that I would never see The Allman Brothers Band again.
The death of Butch Trucks is too much. Too final. It hurts a lot.
When you get something special in your life you have to enjoy it at every opportunity, every turn, because nothing lasts forever. And when it goes away all you have is memories.
I have the music of The Allman Brothers Band and the music, personality and life force of Butch Trucks to keep me going.
But there is a void. Huge and final that will never be filled.
I am sad and empty today. I believe I will feel this way for some time to come.
Requiescat in pace, Butch Trucks.
Thank you so much for the music and the memories.
I loved, respected and appreciated having you in my life.
I will never forget you.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Just To Set The Mood
After a while - quite a while - the screaming no longer got through to him.
He sat in the dark, illuminated only by the glow of his television.
He lived in what he considered to be abject poverty. Ragged clothes, always behind in the rent, subsisting on Dinty Moore and tuna fish. Ramen.
Fuck it. Who gives a shit. Nobody promised him a good life, no one ever told him life would be easy. Christ his parents were both drunks. When they weren't drunk they were fighting and spitting back at bill collectors. Puking on the floor and scraping up change for the next bottle.
Fucking assholes. They didn't give a shit about him; treated him like an ungrateful dog. When they died in a flaming drunken wreck, trapped inside to hideously burn to death - he went out and got himself a bottle of premium shit.
Had himself a private little party. And pissed on their graves the first chance he got.
That's why he was confused. She was his savior. She was different. A sensitive, loving person who truly seemed to care for and about him.
At first he was standoffish. The only relationships he understood were violent and loveless; keeping his distance from people was his own private sport.
But she broke through his defenses; wore him down. He opened his heart.
Turned out to be a fucking mistake. The biggest fucking mistake of his life.
She was no different than anybody else. Picking at him to get a better job or even a second fucking job. Are you kidding me? What flaming asshole works two jobs? Doubling up on humiliation and degradation?
We need this, we gotta do that. Jesus Christ, he learned a long time ago that life was nothing but a very dark joke. If you had enough whiskey and could avoid being evicted you had reached the pinnacle; you were in fucking heaven. Doesn't get any better than that.
So he coasted; he floated. That was it. That was all he wanted; life would offer no more than that.
But she wanted more. And she never fucking let up.
Out of nowhere there came another scream. Jesus, where the hell did she get the energy for that? She had been chained to the oil tank, naked and cold, in the cellar for five hours now as he decided how to eliminate her.
Shut the fuck up! He threw the baseball he was squeezing at the door with all his strength. Sounded like a goddamn bomb going off.
He heard her crying.
Good, let her fucking suffer.
On the floor in front of him was a baseball bat, a Glock 17, and a kitchen knife.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to beat and torture her, or just kill her quick and be done with it. It was a question of how much energy he wanted to expend.
He had time. He could think it over, plug into his emotions at the appropriate moment and give her what she deserved.
A final gift to his lovely lady.
In the meantime, he dialed up Requiem For A Dream. His favorite movie of all time.
Just to set the mood.
He sat in the dark, illuminated only by the glow of his television.
He lived in what he considered to be abject poverty. Ragged clothes, always behind in the rent, subsisting on Dinty Moore and tuna fish. Ramen.
Fuck it. Who gives a shit. Nobody promised him a good life, no one ever told him life would be easy. Christ his parents were both drunks. When they weren't drunk they were fighting and spitting back at bill collectors. Puking on the floor and scraping up change for the next bottle.
Fucking assholes. They didn't give a shit about him; treated him like an ungrateful dog. When they died in a flaming drunken wreck, trapped inside to hideously burn to death - he went out and got himself a bottle of premium shit.
Had himself a private little party. And pissed on their graves the first chance he got.
That's why he was confused. She was his savior. She was different. A sensitive, loving person who truly seemed to care for and about him.
At first he was standoffish. The only relationships he understood were violent and loveless; keeping his distance from people was his own private sport.
But she broke through his defenses; wore him down. He opened his heart.
Turned out to be a fucking mistake. The biggest fucking mistake of his life.
She was no different than anybody else. Picking at him to get a better job or even a second fucking job. Are you kidding me? What flaming asshole works two jobs? Doubling up on humiliation and degradation?
We need this, we gotta do that. Jesus Christ, he learned a long time ago that life was nothing but a very dark joke. If you had enough whiskey and could avoid being evicted you had reached the pinnacle; you were in fucking heaven. Doesn't get any better than that.
So he coasted; he floated. That was it. That was all he wanted; life would offer no more than that.
But she wanted more. And she never fucking let up.
Out of nowhere there came another scream. Jesus, where the hell did she get the energy for that? She had been chained to the oil tank, naked and cold, in the cellar for five hours now as he decided how to eliminate her.
Shut the fuck up! He threw the baseball he was squeezing at the door with all his strength. Sounded like a goddamn bomb going off.
He heard her crying.
Good, let her fucking suffer.
On the floor in front of him was a baseball bat, a Glock 17, and a kitchen knife.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to beat and torture her, or just kill her quick and be done with it. It was a question of how much energy he wanted to expend.
He had time. He could think it over, plug into his emotions at the appropriate moment and give her what she deserved.
A final gift to his lovely lady.
In the meantime, he dialed up Requiem For A Dream. His favorite movie of all time.
Just to set the mood.
Monday, January 23, 2017
Life Choice
I must become a vampire.
I have no choice. Eternal life. That just might give me enough time to get my shit together.
I have no choice. Eternal life. That just might give me enough time to get my shit together.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Hey, I Was Thinking.................
Anybody wishing you a happy new year lately?
Anybody asking how your new year is going? No? What a surprise.
Wanna know why? 'Cause there ain't no new year. There ain't no old year. It's all the same fucking year.
Over and over and over again.
Janis Joplin had it right when she said: "Tomorrow never happens. It's all the same fucking day, man."
So what the fuck, what's the point? For Christ sake, it's January 19 and you haven't lost a pound. You're working the same soul-sucking job. You haven't even killed your boss yet, right?
You get home and go right for the whiskey and, three generous drinks in, you are fantasizing about crucifying your boss, you visualize yourself driving the spikes through the palms of his hands and his feet, blood spurting up into your face; dripping in rivulets down the front of your shirt, blotting out the writing on your name tag.
You raise the cross, making sure it is firmly planted. Then you begin throwing ball bearings and lug nuts at his body until it sags in agonizing death.
You dream about it but you haven't done it yet, have you. What happened to your to do list?
You haven't moved anyplace warm. You haven't bought that motorcycle you covet, you haven't picked up your guitar or started to learn to speak Italian.
You have not increased your earning capacity; you ain't got enough money. More sacrifice, no access to the finer things.
You have not begun to move in more interesting circles, you are not challenged by creative and interesting people.
You are moving in circles, like a dog chained to a post.
It's all a conspiracy, man. The holidays were created to inspire false hope. You get a little giddy with all the glitz and glimmer. You start to think that life could be better; Christ it could even be fun. You think, "Yeah, man - I can change. I can turn my life right around; reinvent myself and bring happiness, success, pride and money back home right into my heart and my wallet."
Yeah, baby - you picture that big fat wallet and all the good things it will deliver. Dinner out whenever you want; clothes to be proud of; nice car; bills paid, no worries, mon.
You realize that money ain't the root of all evil; the lack of money is the root of all evil.
Suddenly it is the middle of January. Cold, clear, winter skies reveal the truth.
You are shattered. You ain't gonna change, nothin's gonna change. You are stuck in a swamp, treading water, giving up dignity until you die.
You become empty. You put your head down and dutifully go to work. You pay the oil man and eat cat food.
You become legless, helpless and subservient.
That's what they want, man. They want you broken and servile. Now things can move ahead as planned.
For them. Not you.
happy new year, baby.
(Editor's note: Despite the tone of these words, I remain resilient and hopeful in 2017. I don't even know where the words came from. The Devil, I'm guessing.)
Anybody asking how your new year is going? No? What a surprise.
Wanna know why? 'Cause there ain't no new year. There ain't no old year. It's all the same fucking year.
Over and over and over again.
Janis Joplin had it right when she said: "Tomorrow never happens. It's all the same fucking day, man."
So what the fuck, what's the point? For Christ sake, it's January 19 and you haven't lost a pound. You're working the same soul-sucking job. You haven't even killed your boss yet, right?
You get home and go right for the whiskey and, three generous drinks in, you are fantasizing about crucifying your boss, you visualize yourself driving the spikes through the palms of his hands and his feet, blood spurting up into your face; dripping in rivulets down the front of your shirt, blotting out the writing on your name tag.
You raise the cross, making sure it is firmly planted. Then you begin throwing ball bearings and lug nuts at his body until it sags in agonizing death.
You dream about it but you haven't done it yet, have you. What happened to your to do list?
You haven't moved anyplace warm. You haven't bought that motorcycle you covet, you haven't picked up your guitar or started to learn to speak Italian.
You have not increased your earning capacity; you ain't got enough money. More sacrifice, no access to the finer things.
You have not begun to move in more interesting circles, you are not challenged by creative and interesting people.
You are moving in circles, like a dog chained to a post.
It's all a conspiracy, man. The holidays were created to inspire false hope. You get a little giddy with all the glitz and glimmer. You start to think that life could be better; Christ it could even be fun. You think, "Yeah, man - I can change. I can turn my life right around; reinvent myself and bring happiness, success, pride and money back home right into my heart and my wallet."
Yeah, baby - you picture that big fat wallet and all the good things it will deliver. Dinner out whenever you want; clothes to be proud of; nice car; bills paid, no worries, mon.
You realize that money ain't the root of all evil; the lack of money is the root of all evil.
Suddenly it is the middle of January. Cold, clear, winter skies reveal the truth.
You are shattered. You ain't gonna change, nothin's gonna change. You are stuck in a swamp, treading water, giving up dignity until you die.
You become empty. You put your head down and dutifully go to work. You pay the oil man and eat cat food.
You become legless, helpless and subservient.
That's what they want, man. They want you broken and servile. Now things can move ahead as planned.
For them. Not you.
happy new year, baby.
(Editor's note: Despite the tone of these words, I remain resilient and hopeful in 2017. I don't even know where the words came from. The Devil, I'm guessing.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)