And I saw her face (3/24/20)

The are so many memories these days, so much time to reflect. Music has been such a big part of my life for so long now, it is safe to say that music , for better or worse, is my life. For that lifelong love affair, today we pay the price. We pay the price for our love, as we so often do. If life has taught me anything it is that with love comes loss, abandonment, disappointment, and despair.- in this instance it is The loss of one’s livelihood on an industry wide, international level; the abandonment of hope , the disappointment and despair of witnessing the catastrophic collateral damage playing out in real time- A global natural disaster of cataclysmic proportions. That said, it is not all gloom and doom, right? You gotta stay positive. My musical memories are legion. Songs still bring joy- the togetherness of being deep in the midst of a raucous , boozy Brooklyn Hibernian crowd shouting “SPITS OUT BRITS OUT, ONLY SMOKES CARROLL’S”, art the top of their lungs- that melds into a mist of confetti world wide, as the Unified Scene gather from near and far to show their love for their band and their peers. Killer parties almost killed me, indeed. In hindsight, I am a lucky man indeed. But it starts so long ago, a half century or so, give or take a month or a year. Could it be the summer of 1970 in Big Bear or Crestline or Arrowhead or somehwher up a long and winding road in the southern California mountains. My very young parents are still married. They were so young, that I am sure that I listened to all of the hits of 1966 in utero. Lyndon Johnson and the man on the moon, Richard Nixon, Walter Cronkite and the nightly distorted body counts, may of 68 and my subsequent fixation of this era in history. But I digress, it is the summer of 1970, or maybe 69 or 71, and we are on a family holiday in a cabin in the woods. And by family, I mean the whole family, the only time I remember the whole family in one place at the same time outside of my grandparents house. It is remarkable, a postman’s holiday. I am obsessed with the Monkees, and the television show which must be in syndication at this point- my telenannies – Mike , Peter, Mickey, and Davey. Here I come on the last train to Clarksville, baby, because I’m a believer, don’t ya know. I’m a 3 ½ year old believer with a black tambourine and arrhythmic dance moves correlative to a pissed up step parent at a suburban shit house soiree. I am electric and atonal on the landing of the staircase of the rented vacation home. I am a toddler tom cruise risking my business in my sears and roebucks underoos. I am 5 minutes of entertainment for the blue nun fueled adults. I am 5 minutes of perpetual entertainment when you had to flip the side every 2 minutes and 32 seconds. I am the first grandson and nephew, the only child , the prodigal son. I am the apple of my mother’s eye. I am a positive member of the human race, a distraction from Vietnamization and the Culture wars. I am a believer, and brother, I am hooked.