Santa Face

It's droll, pointless reading for the most part. I'm talking about some hapless fek's account of his holiday preperations and the goings-on that surround it. Most everybody shares in the experience in some form or another to some extent anyway so why waste important minutes of your life reading about somebody else?
And really it's only comforting if you can relate to it. Some anecdote about the conversations you overhear in line at the post office. A minor squabble with a significant other about their choice of Christmas cards. Or if the cards will even reach their destination in the five mail days left or what message does it send about the sender for waiting so long.
Or how many trips back to the big box store to once again exchange outdoor lights after climbing on the roof and connecting all 8 strands before checking them on the ground only to find out one and a half strands actually work. Or how easy it is to walk into a bookstore with a long list only to walk out with purchases for yourself.
Or how time and money run out and you haven't found time to get that thoroughly thoughtful and close to perfect gift for your brother and how quickly it turns into a Lowe's gift card because you're at least certain there is a Lowe's in Boston.
I still love Christmas though.
Merry Christmas!

Hunky-Dory II (in case there is another)

If you look up the definition of hunky-dory, that is, if you ever find you need to, it says,
"fine, all right, satisfactory."
So if you're kind of a low-key person that description might indicate a strain of giddyness or something more akin to maybe a wow.
The night before Thanksgiving last at the Eastern Avenue Hall, I had what I thought was a hunky-dory night behind the kit (drummer speak for, well, drums). And if history serves me, and it doesn't always, I'd be willing to bet at least the bass player, Mitchell Wood, and maybe even Jacques, the guitar player/singer with a hat, were feeling the same.
As a potentially muscular, rhythmic nucleus who've played together on and off for over 20 years, hunky-dory we should be at the very least. Then you throw Dennie and Pete in the mix that night and you get what ever the word is that is a step or two above hunky-dory. Let's chew on that for a moment shall we?
More importantly I want to thank everybody who came out and stayed at least till I started playing bass. Seriously, it was a very genuine and appreciative crowd. I know it takes dynamite sometimes to get my wife and I out of the house for something more closely related to drudgery than anything special.
I think special is like, maybe, two notches above hunky-dory actually. And yes, Honey, I'm cleaning my office as I write this.

First Cold

I don't want to come off all pessimistic but, we have about 4 more months of this. So we better somehow learn to make the most of it. Isn't it reassuring that I'm here to, not only describe the obvious, but to help guide us, the peoples, through these dank, dark months to come with witty banter, crazy made-up stories, divorced mother of 5 boys style cussing and sometimes stark photo-realism. Stay tuned for more uplifting-ness.

Tenderness

I've probably logged in about 45 years of "bud time" with thizguy. On the one hand it's monumental. On the other hand, it's just a long dang time. I've climbed great trees that aren't this old.
I don't often over-think this, this kind of unnatural...thing until a picture like this comes along. And only then do I start to toss around how we have managed to stay afloat where other, more Olympic style attempts have not. If I dumb it down, I'd guess proximity, forgiveness and Stephen Stills have all played some role in this.

I'm not going to scratch out a long list of things we've done for each other over the years because that's too labor intensive. And friends should not be about labor intensive-ness. It is important however to expose some things from time to time like when he nonchalantly said yes when I needed a place to stash my collection of Playboy, Penthouse and Oui magazines from the 80s when I married for the second time. Or when we were in high school, he offered his parents home as a safe house when some of us where on the lamb from the police for streaking down Main Street. Or this tender moment when we were setting up at a bar and Jack had a power source question or some shit and he asked me for the name of the manager and I gave him the first name that cropped up and he called out, "Pete, Pete," to nobody as the rest of us sat back, doubled up in pain from laughing so hard. Cheers, old timer.

This picture is taken at Tapper's Cabin probably around '74 or '75.
Sent to me from Anne Vanderlawn Williams via Mark Vanderlawn.

Nehmen Sie Das Van

Rendezvoused with Greg, Mitch and Jack at the lake last Saturday. Stowed the guitars and a few amps and finally us into the van and headed south toward the Indiana border.
Sir Gerg and I sat side by side in back knockin' knee caps while semi-sandwiched between the gear.

Early afternoon and it was sweaty hot with the only air conditioning (er breeze) coming from the open driver and passenger side windows which did the trick actually until Jack lit that turd of a cigar.

It's been about 15 years or so that this particular configuration assembled together in one vehicle. And while maybe just a touch awkward for me at first only because the options for conversation were so numerous that it was difficult to know where to start. So I did what anyone might do and started leafing through the New York Times.

We unloaded and carried everything up a short flight of stairs to the side of the stage, giddy to lookout among the crowd, while another band was wrapping up their set.
Standing to the side we ogled and attempted to size up the folks to try an determine if our brand of guitar shtick would make a dent.
You can look all you want but you never really get a good impression until you get out there and rock 'em for all it's worth.

We did this two weeks ago to a very receptive crowd which was cool but the stage mix was, well, not so great. We feared if it sounded like this on stage what does sound like out front. But you don't know if you're not carrying a trusting soul to man the board during your set so you just forge ahead and hope for the best. This gig was the opposite. Kind of a luke warm reception with a few random, sweaty dancers doing their best to kick their shorts up in the heat while the sound on stage was mucho gusto! Adapt and Conquer I always sometimes say.

Sweaty, hot mid-afternoons on stage take their toll so we didn't waste much time packing up and listening to a few from the evening's headliner, ? And The Mysterians minus the ?.
We jumped in the van and prepared to do what any four guys with 2 and 1/2 hours to ride would do, settle in, crank open the windows and listen to the Lions kick some Patriot butt.


Photo: clydekeller.com

The First Annual Newaygo Kayak, Sub And Snorkel Fest

Brad, Vicky, Jim, Melissa, Le Nadeaus, Brother Bill, Mark, Kathe, Marj, Cindy, Terry, Vonnie, Kevvy, Ann and Janna. And those are just the names of the people I could see. This may not be wise, I know, cause sure-as-shootin' I'll forget but hopefully not alienate somebody. but it's important for me to try and thank everybody who were kind enough to make the effort to come out last night with the sketchy weather and all. This was a fun platform to jump off of...if yer a gittin' my vague, biz-speak.
I just hope at the very least, the beer was decent.

Wayne Cochran and Elvis

WOOT (?)

Last Saturday, what? What's that? Right, well over a week ago on a Saturday's eve, a stupendous evening was had by I think a few at the I.O.O.M. or is it F.O.O.M. where Tim Bengsston filled the guitar boots, Mitch and Jack did other things. And I did what I could to stay dry so as not to offend. Special thanks go to, Dan, his wife, Jan&Jim, Brad&Vicki, Warren and that Thompson lady, Jim&Melinda, Jorje, Kevin, Ann, Bobby Z, Kurt, Faith, Kristi, Holly, Mike&Kyle, Danni, Terry, Margie, the Dunn posse and I apologize profusely if I've omitted anyone oh, and the bartenders and wait staff. Great job. We dig your place.

Beer Poster, Bieres De La Fauvette by Leonetto Cappiello

Leonetto Cappiello

Cappiello's Maurin Quina
c1906

Leonetto Cappiello (1875-1942) was a leader in the French poster as advertisement movement in the early 1900s.

A POSTCARD FROM HOWARD CITY

Okay, this is not Howard City. This is 88th Street South of Fremont looking west at about noon last Saturday. I have a thing for airplanes. My wife does too. I still run outside and search the sky for aircraft when I hear engines that don't sound familiar.
I also fear I've written this before. If I have, so what.
Maybe this where people will say "I think the backslide began about the time he repeated himself with that story about the crop duster." This may go down as the beginning, the beginning of his... Memoir Of Sillyness!

Sugar Pie DeSanto - Soulful Dress

A Country Mile

I really like this photo. Don't know who it is or when or where exactly. But it speaks volumes.

Floyd And Betty Lou

I don't think I actually ever set my sights on being an early riser. I always just was, to the annoyance of several. If there was ever an early morning rustling of anything of any type...probably me. But after years of trying so hard to tip-toe around, eventually, it's like to hell with it, get up already.

The act of sleeping in always seemed to be attached to other families and not mine. There was a kind of foreign sort of element to it, maybe a little bohemian or a little whiff of affluence maybe, like I knew what that was. My family seemed to be the family who invented daylight.
On Saturday mornings as a kid, I would saunter or ride my Typhoon down the sidewalks of my neighborhood long before the first lawn mower cranked up. I would ring the doorbell and eventually Floyd or Betty Lou would open their door while the rest of the family was still asleep. And with as much kindness as they could muster at that hour, request that I return at a more reasonable time.
A more dejected kid may not have returned. But I didn't know any better.
I turned away and walked down the street, along their 7 foot high fence that we weren't supposed to climb and through Meyers backyard into McGhee's Woods for awhile until I did hear the lawn mowers. And then head back up to Floyd and Betty Lou's to see if Susie was awake.

It's A Bikini World

This '67 comedy, starring a post Disney, Tommy Kirk, (Absent Minded Professor, Old Yeller, Swiss Family Robinson and Shaggy Dog) doesn't have much to do with British motorcycles or my favorite musicians or where you can find a fine pair of Brothel Creepers or even people or places from my hometown. But, it does have bikinis. And a pretty happenin little soundtrack with: We Got To Get Out Of This Place by The Animals, Walk On (Right Out Of My Life) by Pat Vegas, Liar Liar by The Castaways, Attack by The Toys and Spread It On Thick by The Gentrys (pictured).
In the same vein as a Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello flick and probably equally as compelling because it had Hondas and, well, bikinis.
No, I haven't seen It's A Bikini World yet, but, I have read about it and, well, it does have bikinis.

IMDB

Dune Buggy

Certain signposts in life should read "not as smart as" maybe, rather than the somewhat less sunnier, "stupid," "idiotic" or "potentially fatal" even.
Such as the time when on one morning, way too many of us jumped into Jeff's open, roll-bar only Jeep with a freshly plucked, Waldo's keg that we huddled around as we sped up the highway for a day of fun and frolic on the dunes of
Silver Lake.

One of the many other joys of the area, I'm guessing, was the Silver Lake Sun Club. The local nudist camp that, no matter how many backroads we went down, seemed to elude us.
I remember when I was just a bit younger and seeing nudist magazines with pictures of nudist volleyball and how I thought that looked pretty interesting. And that if we were diligent enough at seeking this camp out that we could actually run across such an event.

Another similar fascination within rural Oceana County took place a few years later when the annual Women's National Music Festival set up camp Northwest of Hesperia. You always knew when the festival's road crew came through in advance of the show by all the Subaru wagons with Vermont plates.

Photo: Diane Arbus' Retired Nudists

Lordy Lordy Look Who's...Sixty?

Nice to see Gary, Paula and Tom and even some Craig. Some of the Maple Street / East Avenue, extending out to 48th, street team. Of course there was never enough time to catch up with them or a bevy of other folks either. Good to see everybody.

I thought I'd read that Robin Williams grew up around Grosse Pte.. But I wonder if he may have had family on this side of the state?

Farr View Dairy

Actually, I do remember having a milkman. White uniform, white truck, thick whole milk with paper caps. Rarely did I ever see chocolate. Maybe our dairy didn't swing that way, maybe my folks didn't, maybe it was too fancy-pants. I really don't know the answer to that. Now eggnog at Christmas, that was another story altogether. My brother Tim wouldn't have had it any other way. And cultured buttermilk, my god who drinks that stuff. My dad did.

Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend

A kiss on the hand may be quite continental
But diamonds are a girl's best friend
A kiss may be grand
But it won't pay the rental on your humble flat
Or help you at the automat
Men grow cold as girls grow old
And we shall lose our charms in the end
But square cut or pear shape
These rocks don't lose their shape
Diamonds are a girl's best friend
Diamonds are a girl's best friend

Let's Rock

There may come a time when a lass needs a lawyer
Diamonds are a girl's best friend

There may be when a hard boiled employer
Thinks you're awful nice
But get that ice or else no dice
He's your guy when stocks are high
But beware when they start to descend
It's then that these louses go back to their spouses
Diamonds are a girl's best friend
Diamonds are a girl's best friend

Let's rock again

Lyrics from T-Bone Burnett's Diamonds Are Girl's Best Friend

Photo from the movie RPM - Revolutions Per Minute(from imdb.com) - About a radical, west coast college professor who takes over during a campus revolt but can't decide between restoring order or anarchy.

Bobby D On A 500 Brit

Some say he crashed his Triumph Tiger up around Woodstock, New York. Some say he didn't. And some just don't say.

Photo: Getty Image

A Tale Of Urban Terror And Savagery: The Moped Choppers

Ace Motorcycle And Scooter Company's Rocker's Reunion, vintage bike and scooter rally. Saturday May, 7th. Chicago, Illinois.

I had just finished going back and forth like twenty times till I fit into the parking space the size of a shoe. I was walking briskly toward the intersection when I first felt the vibrations beneath my feet. After staring at my shoe tips, I looked up, and there they were, revving their engines, waiting for the green light. And the thunder was deafening...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Photos: si!

CC And Company

A) 1970's Broadway Joe Namath as CC Ryder, motorcycle mechanic.
B) Ann-Margret as Ann McCalley, fashion journalist.
C) CC Ryder joins band of desert biker hooligans.
D) Hooligans pick-up writer Ann who is stranded by side of road.
E) New recruit Ryder is smitten with kitten.
F) William Smith as Moon, the leader of these savages known as The Heads, isn't exactly giddy about the sparks that are flying and decides to pour cold water on their fire.
G) Ann and Joe Willey don't like being cold or wet so she climbs on back of his AMF era Harley and they head out of Dodge.
H) Wayne Cochran and The CC Ryders do their Mitch Ryder best.

imdb.com

Kitten Rides A Tiger

Thrill seeker, motorcycle enthusiast and all around double barreled bundle of joy, Ann Margaret, starring in this 1966 film, The Swinger, on a Triumph Tiger 500. Margaret, as writer Kelly Olsson, swings hard to prove to girly-mag editor, Tony Franciosa's Ric Colby, that she's capable of the steamy romps she writes about. And that her stories are everything his sexy-time magazine requires.
Whew! Its getting a little warm in here for 1966. The wattage from Ann Margaret alone could provide power for most mid-size towns.

Photo: dailymail.co.uk and imdb.com

Easty On A Bonney

Clint Eastwood with Tish Sterling resting from a chase scene on a 650 TR6 in 1968's Coogan's Bluff. The tale of an Arizona cop sent to NYC to bring back a bad dude played by Don Stroud (who also gets some reel time astride a 500cc, T100R, Triumph Daytona). This film was also the inspiration for 1970's McCloud with Dennis Weaver which I absolutely dug the absolute crap out of right up there with Rock Hudson, Susan Saint James and Nancy Walker in
McMillan and Wife.

Coogan's Bluff is in New York City and is the name of a cliff off a hillside somewhere around 155th street.

Photo: dailymail.co.uk and imdb.com

Driven Too Far By His Own Hot Blood

Marlon Brando leaning on what might be a Triumph 650 Thunderbird in 1954s The Wild One. Sporting the Schott Perfecto One Star as t-shirt. With his policeman-like hat cocked to one side, someone might've suggested something to Marlon about rolling the pant legs down a bit but that might have been risking a swift, square toed engineer's boot to the arse or a shiv through the ribs.
This kicks off a brief, shirttail, motorscooter retrospective.

Photo: Everywhere

JC's Got That Swing

The other JC as he holds court from his throne during this pre Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson's, Johnny Carson Show.

Photo: Life

The Real Old Fashion Days

A fetching photo (minus the scrawled city pendant) of what looks like Main street looking east in bustling, downtown Fremont. Anybody out there have a guess what year this is and how you might tell? I'm good for maybe 20 years either way but I'm going with 1900.

Forgive Me Father For I Have Eaten...A Lot

I could have this all wrong.
Not necessarily a great way to start out I know. But this way I kinda cover my ass. Does the name Spatafore ring a bell? They were Roy's mother and father in-law. You remember Roy, the 8th grade biology teacher? A one time Motor City weightlifter crowned, Mr. Detroit.
Well the Spatafores owned the local sugar based gold mine downtown known as Caruso's. The town was already blessed with a Tastee Freez, a Frosty Freeze, an IGA, a Kroger's, a Hometown Super Market, a Mini-Mart and Bultman's Thriftway. Not to mention a Ben Franklin that already had a pretty killer candy section in it's own right. But this Caruso's, this, was the real deal.

Serious home made chocolate peanut clusters and sea foam, red and black licorice and other stuff that I probably didn't like so it probably won't get mentioned. And one of those light green, porcelain milk shake blenders that fit at least 2 or 3 stainless steel, milk shake containers. And when they poured the shake out into a tall, v-shaped glass, there was always some left that didn't quite make it into your glass and you wondered just who the hell that was going to end up with that.

This couple, the Spatafore's, didn't seem to be made up of any of the elements that make up sunshine, or anything even remotely warm...or fuzzy. Mr S. was a big guy. Six-two or better and, well, just big. And the only thing worse than a grumpy guy is a big grumpy guy. And Mrs.S., she wasn't exactly winning any PTA awards either. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember either one of them uttering a word. They seemed to communicate with their eyebrows which, in themselves, were quite significant and nimble.

About the time incense and rolling papers started making their way into our very humble, non yet side burned, very Christian Reformed little hamlet, Caruso's was also on a path toward change. A path that lead straight through our hearts like a blackened arrow. This path toward this thing that will change the way we eat for the rest of our lives. This thing...this thing called...pizza-by-the-slice.

And A Fine Night It Was

Saturday night, steak fry night is enough to get even the most surly of Moose members off their patooties and in to town. And I'd like to personally thank Doug Nadeau, whom I'd never met before, but I'm pretty sure his name is Doug, for all his kind words. Roxanne and Bob, great to see you both. Dody Rottman-Miller, havent seen you at a gig since like, Sneakers. Rodney, husband to Roxanne, thank you for bringing me up to speed on life since I saw you at the EZ Mart about 2 weeks ago. Kenney, havent seen you since ZZ Top. Thank you, your woman and whats his name Smith for making the trip and hanging all night. Kathe and Marge, thanks for staying. Kyle, Dannie, Mike and Darlene thank you. Brad, Vicky, your daughter, Warren and your wife who is Sherry Thompson's sister, Jim and Melissa Graham, Ted and Sue Splitstone, Jan and Katy, Dennis-Mitch's cousin and your wife, Jerry Westbrook and Lisa, Dave Salada, andTrish and Cliff. And a special thank you goes out to Kathy With A K, bless her heart for babysitting 2 out of 3 grandkids that night, whoa! I apologize if I've misspelled, omitted or just plain go it wrong. It was nice to see you all
Oh, and by the way, thank you Gerg, Mitch and Jack for remembering any of the chops we may have had, wished we had or lied about and said we had.




Photos of Mitch taken without written consent.
(it might bode well for the photographer to hit the sauce a bit just before he wields the camera to steady those shaky hands)(could it be the other way around)?

South Of Bakersfield And North Of Heartache: The Palomino Club

On a street in the San Fernando Valley, east of the 405 and west of Burbank sat a 1400 square foot dance floor attached to a bar, a grill and a stage called The Palomino Club.
This rough and tumble country and western music joint opened in the early 50s and saw all your top dollar acts like; Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee sashay through it's saloon doors.
The Flying Burrito Brothers, Elvis Costello and the Plimsouls all made live recordings there as well as the bar serving as a back drop for a few films with Clint Eastwood and Burt Reynolds.

The club opened at 6am to allow the Valley's 3rd shifters their happy hour and stayed open through afternoon sound checks so regulars and fans could not only watch rehearsals for free but to also take part in impromptu meet and greets.

Through the 80s until closing in '95, you could watch Merle Haggard bump into Lone Justice who'd trip over Dwight Yoakam who was joking around with Neil Young while Neil was showing off the finer points of his tour bus to the Meat Puppets.

Photo of a scene from Every Which Way But Loose.Borrowed from dearoldhollywood.blogspot
Content from thecountryclassics.com

Of Elephants And Camels

I may have posted this undated photo before, or at least one that is similar. Looks like turn of the century, Main Street Fremont when Main Street was a dirt road. If this was, at the time, the town's annual summer parade celebration, I don't think they were calling it Old Fashion Days. But I like that this was once what my hometown looked like.

We Witnessed (And Joined In) A Brutal Skanking

Last night The Intersection was inhabited by what appeared to be evacuees from a bomb scare at the neighborhood AARP travelogue.
And being the consummate entertainment complex that it is, staff responded in kind by offering a rollicking dancehall style party for the victims.

Rhythm was provided by the English Beat who, from the moment they strapped on, busted out irresistible, soul kissed ska like; Hands Off...She's Mine, Tears Of A Clown, Twist & Crawl, Mirror In The Bathroom, Sooner Or Later and the Staple Singer's, I'll Take You There.

We almost didn't put forth the effort to go to this show, but we're grateful we pushed our little envelope, for I believe we were skanking, my wife and I.

We, including my stepson and his wife pretty soon, would plunk down serious cash (under $100) to do this again. Go See Them Now!

The Mighty Pines Of Montague

At least 6, maybe 7 badly written pages ago I started writing about what criteria i might ponder when considering the notion of starting an upbeat, pop combo. And just after that wadded up 7th page I decided that the criteria were too numerous and too ludicrous to mention.
So I whittled down what I thought were at least a few of the corest of the core considerations. And that these of course can be used in tandem with a multitude of other subjective and perhaps less useful guidelines that you yourself might come up with, or, you could simply just chuck this to the wayside and go back to typing meaningless drivel.

First) Look for skills that knock you back a bit (you'll know what I mean when you hear it).

Second) And that these skills will compliment your own (and others if there are more than you).

Third) With any luck you will see yourself having nice, cordial conversations with this person (possibly on more than one occasion).

Fourth) Prepare to keep looking.


There now, feel free to print this out or forward on to others as a friendly, helpful hint.

Photo: The Shaggs from 1968's Philosophy Of The World
(from isyes.blogspot.com)

Gertie Turns Thirty

My oldest daughter just celebrated her thirtieth birthday. A landmark birthday. And a solemn birthday.
I know it to be a landmark birthday because Walgreen's has a card slot for a 30 year old.
I think she's a little miffed about the whole thing. Not so much about Walgreen's but I wonder if it's because I neglected to place a 4th grade picture of her in the Times-Indicator with the message, Looky Looky Who's Thirty!

I wish I could find words for her that would help slow things down for a while. Kind of like stopping the clock but we would still be moving. The only thing I can say with absolute conviction is that I love her, and that it's a process, my dear. We should be thankful we are able to be a part of it.

Hey Sunshine, you're on deck!

V-ROOM V-ROOM

James, who lived down the street, and myself, turned out to be pretty good at mimicking the sound of the shovelhead slap by using a couple of stiff playing cards held by a clothes pin, flapping through the spokes of a '66, Huffy Davison.
It also must be told that we were equally adept at spotting discarded, still smoke-able cigarette butts along the side of the road. Cigarette butts that were screaming at us for one more chance at life. We would play God, Jim and I.










Then one Saturday morning, Mike, Pete's cousin, showed up in our neighborhood with a Mattel V-RRoom Motor on his bike. A small crowd gathered.
I remember feeling humbled. I had only seen these on the Saturday morning toy commercials that came on between the cartoons.
This. This sound. This fake motorcycle sound. It comes from money. Only money can make this sound, Jim said.
And besides, everybody knows you don't start a motorcycle with a key in a switch on the handle bars. You kick start the son-of-a-guns, right Jimmy?

Cheeze And Rice

Jesus Christ! I mean no blasphemy here, it's more about the exclamation point. And no, I really don't want to tick the big guy off, he or someone similar in their organization have done great things for me, but Jesus Christ!
Look at this beautifully ornate, art deco style theatre, The New Fremont, which later, as many of us know, became the OZ - now a hair salon for Christ's sake.
At what time exactly did the character of this town decide to take a hike and never return.
Maybe, in my state of giddiness to dig up what was, I should also be tempering my archeology with the possibility of discovering disappointment. This shift in expectation would allow me to diffuse any awkward, public or private displays of bummed-outed-ness well in advance, and allow me to continue this journey with renewed vigor.

Hang Down

Franklin Delano had the fag hang down. What a cool smoker, Frank. Here, he's tellin somebody, "Don't do as I say, do as I do or I'll kick yer ass sure as you're sittin next to me and I'll look good doin' it."

whoa whoa whoa

The good news is the nicotine patches seem to be working. The bad news is the FDA is taking their sweet time approving the anti-cheeseburger and onion ring patch to be worn in conjunction.

FatBooth app.

G'(Hack)Morning...spit

Hi. I'm Todd Truman. And I smoke fags. Maybe if I write about it I'll be less apt to go back to it. That's horseshit really I know. But nothing wrong with adding a new defense angle to the strategy. Like zone, man to man, half court, full court press and scribbling about quiting. It's all about what you've got in the playbook man. And doesn't it always comes down to the sports analogies?
I'm not fairing to badly though. 6 weeks yesterday with one misstep. And that sure was one tasty misstep I'll tell you what.
I think about it a lot. Even dream and fantasize about it. The art of the long pull. I used to rehearse that huff back in the gullies behind junior high. When you're in ninth grade and you want people to see that you smoke (otherwise why would you), you want to look damn convincing, like you knew how to strike a match with your thumb tip on your way out of the womb.
Ironically, I still kind of dig the naughtiness of it. It's still sexy in a really stupid, dinosaur kind of way. That's why I seek out photos of people smoking. The yin and the yang. The romantic and the downright idiotic.
I mean why die in a house fire from smoke inhalation for Christ's sake when you can ultimately achieve the same effect by smoking for 40 years. (That's a keeper, I'll have to write that one down).

With Bonnie And Clyde Like Fervor / Drift Buckin'

Boy, they just don't make snowmobiles like they used to. As you can see, it doesn't appear that the County snow plow drivers are even out of bed yet. I wonder, after confronting the driver of the vehicle coming straight for you, how pleasant the tone of conversation was while deciding who was going to be the one to back up.
O' course if this couple happened to be Bonnie and Clyde, there probably was no conversation.

Drift Bucker is a term Rob Ter Veer or Jim Bolens used to describe a $200 rust bucket that you'd buy in November so you could put your stellar, $1000 dollar, I get more chicks in this thing, Plymouth Fury up for the winter.

Oui Oui !

I love this photo and wanted to share it. I bummed it off Schott Bros. Facebook page. This is model, Crystal Renn in Schott's lambskin, women's Perfecto in a photo shoot from Paper Planes Magazine.

ronniehanna 1962-2011

Sometimes I heard Ronnie, never just Hanna, but always ronniehanna. Just 4 easy syllables. Sure, What-A-Guy, his company's namesake and really, with no irony, the most accurate description anyone could ever bestow upon someone, would inherently follow.
I hadn't known Ronnie all that long. Sometimes, as a sales rep, you refer to particular time frames by the line you carried at the time. I met Ronnie during his days with Stussy at an Embassy Suite's show in Southfield. The show was so dead, there was nothing to do but dangle over the hallway wall in the atrium and talk shit to other reps.

He had just come off a long stint with Michael Brandon and was starting over with Stussy. He was full of himself and had lots of stories about the crap sides of this business I had never known. And I thought I'd already lived enough crap stories. Christ, there's more?
So I kind of held Ronnie at a yeah, right, whatever sort of distance. I don't know that I admitted it to him, almost sure I didn't, but I was envious of him. How much longer than me he'd been in the business, the people he knew, the places he'd gone and the money he'd made...and lost.
Yet he was starting all over again, like many in this business do. So our kinship, if I may call it that, started then.

And since then, I would go out of my way to spend even a few minutes at one show or another to catch up. Bands and music were another thing we jawed over. He used to tell me that while he lived in Milwaukee, he was often mistaken for Sammy I think his name is, the shorter guy in the Bodeans. Once, while in New York for the Men's Collective, it was my 5oth, and he took me out to dinner because I was away from home on my birthday. When I lost my gig as a rep after being in a motorcycle accident, he called me right away and asked me if I needed cash. He told me about the summer he moved to Milwaukee and how it ceremoniously coincided with the police rummaging through the condiments in Jeffery Dahmer's icebox. And finally, last summer, he made a point to stop by my hotel after the show and we had a smoke and a cocktail while admiring a cat sized rat walk the fence line on the patio.

Not many people in this world leave you wanting more. And now of course when I can't, I wish I would have nudged our friendship further.
I will let that be a lesson.

Cheers, Ron.

The Seaway

When ever I'm in the vicinity of Seaway Drive and I just feel like taking a little time out, say, for like a night or two, I like to kick back at the Seaway with a really big bottle of something nasty. You know the size bottle I'm talking about? There about the size of an old file cabinet. You practically have to tip em over onto a pallet and haul it away with a fork lift. That size.
(I'm just jokin, Honey. I've never had to use a forklift).

Mr And Mrs.

This couple could have been my parents. But, I suspect, as much trouble As I got their son into, they quite likely would have declined the offer.
This photo is important to me for a number of reasons. One; I totally forgot about The Green Bean.
While it may stand out as one of the more inglorious vehicles ever made, it represents a time when we were finishing high school, and we had the whole world in front of us, and the most important thing we were concerned about at the moment was who had papers.

Two; This particular angle of the house depicts the door to the sun room where we watched Bewitched at noon. It wasn't just the Snow Capped Franks we were avoiding, it was the importance of autonomy, being able to walk away from it all, for like, 25 minutes. We returned reinvigorated, maybe even a little bit arrogant.

The roof to the sun room also served as an important cog in one of the greatest sneak outs from a sleep-over ever to be busted by a mom for.
It seemed flawless on paper:
A) Climb out second floor bathroom window to roof of first floor sun room. B) Jump off sun room roof to ground below.
"Tuck and roll" I whispered. "Remember to tuck and roll."

While returning from whatever pointless adventure we earlier set out for, we realized we left out one small but very key element to the success of this euphoric, no walls can hold us, flight to freedom. Just how exactly, were we gonna get back up to the bathroom window.
This minor set back to our plans quickly took a back seat as we tip-toed through the woods toward the house when we stopped, dumbfounded. We stood silent, trying to make sense of it. There-are-now-many-more-lights-on- in-the-house-than-when-we-left.
Shit! Norma was awake!

Three; You are missed Mrs. Leaver

The Pendletones

The dawn of hipster surf...

Hot Car Girl

I'm often asked how I met my wife.