It was hot... Boy was it hot

Me 'n' old Skipper sat on a bench. It was hot.... Boy was it hot.
A long time ago I wrote the lead -- or something very similar –- on a newspaper column that helped launch a journalism revolution. It was a prime moment in the birth of the News Brothers.
Yeah, I know. Unfortunately the revolution – with its purpose to put out good newspapers, have fun and take pride in serving a community (because the pay was virtually nothing) – was pretty much squashed by the corporate mindset. What’s that mindset? Well, I guess to define what the corporate mindset is, you just drive to the Gulf of Mexico and look at the tar balls, the oil-reddened water, take a deep whiff of the burning oil and look at the dead pelicans and dolphins.
It is a world that is dominated by the likes of Shotgun Dick, that fat radio blowhard, big insurance, fruitless wars for oil and foreign countries who own the monetary system of the land of the free and the home of the brave. What’s happened to our country? Let’s get our pride back. Maybe find a more perfect union where generals don’t take their shots at the commander-in-chief in “Rolling Stone.” Heck, that magazine used to feature John Lennon and the Grateful Dead. Now it’s Miley, Joe Jonas, "Lost" and some four-star general puffing up his ego by back-stabbing the President of the United States of America. Talk about your corporate mentality. It’s in the Army now. As a reporter, of course I would have written that story if the general had the immense ego and lack of manners to tell it. What has happened to common courtesy? Is the Army going to be in charge? Well, if so, just remember the scene in "Dr. Strangelove" when Slim Pickens goes for his nuclear bomb rodeo ride.
Oh, the Big O is far from perfect, but he deserves to have his generals complain in the privacy of the Oval Office over glasses of Ovaltine and plates of oil-drenched Gulf shrimp.
Another story, another night. The News Brothers were the kinds who would have confronted their boss face-to-face. In fact, I had to on more than one occasion visit the publisher. And I survived, even earned extra respect. Back then it was OK to stand up to bosses to their faces. And they responded in kind: Face to face. Backs were for patting or for scratching. Elvis: What happened to our country?
Now the News Brothers story will be told one day soon. Not in this forum. Parts of the story are to be found on You Tube, where my co-conspirator Rob “Death” Dollar has several videos posted. Some of these are at the bottom of this page or at the THE NEWS BROTHERS page on Facebook.
The Skipper mentioned at the top of this little foray was an old salt, a stretcher of the truth, a man with a heart of gold, both a mentor to and a believer in the News Brothers. He was short of education and grace, gnarled with arthritis and simply brilliant. He told us stories of Al Capone, of Pearl Harbor, of carny sideshows and being on a ship that was shot out from beneath him in the North Atlantic.
True? Didn’t matter. I loved Skipper … whose real name was Okey Stepp. Old friends called him “Red,” for the hair he once had. We just treated him as one of us.
I thought of this today because my friend, Rob, sent me a note commenting on this 100-degreee weather. "It was HOT today. Boy was it HOT. And I wasn't even sitting on a bench," he wrote, an acknowledgement of that one special, very hot day when I went out to do a column about the effects of the horrid weather on Clarksville and made it only as far as the bench in front of the Royal York Hotel.
Back then, and we’re talking three decades back, the old hotel – once a luxury joint where movie stars stayed – was something Roger Miller might have been thinking about when he wrote that “rooms to rent 50 cents” line in “King of the Road.”
“Fireproof” read the neon sign on the hotel window. The rooms inside, even the perches that held the thin mattresses, were made of concrete and tile. It’s been refurbished to something resembling luxury in the decades since.
Back then, though it was a home for drifters, down-and-outers, lovable losers, no-account boozers, Skipper and the News Brothers.
Early in our association, Rob and I -- along with other News Brothers and several guys who since have died, others who have backed down and bent over to properly salute corporate journalism and some who just enjoyed a laugh and a smoke with their coffee -– would retreat to the coffee shop at the Royal York Hotel between editions of The Leaf-Chronicle newspaper in Clarksville.
We’d get to work at about 5 a.m., get the first edition done by about 9 or 9:30, go grab an endless cup of coffee from Raissa Gray, the proprietress of the joint and a true News Brothers enthusiast, and then go back to get the second edition and, for awhile, the third or “FINAL” out.
That was back when the newspaper was still aiming for 21,000 circulation. We made it up to 24,000 at the height of the News Brothers reign. Since we all left Clarksville –- I turned the lights out when I was the last News Brother to move on back in 1988 –- I have no idea how circulation has gone. Down, I would guess, like that of the rest of the industry.
I’m not sure. I like the folks up there and wish them well. After all, I spent almost 15 years bleeding for that newspaper in its pre-corporate incarnation. I’ll tell you, I’d rather read a News Brothers newspaper -- with its focus on terrified escaped monkeys, monster catfish, war-ravaged soldiers, civic corruption and hillbilly homicides than the USA Today Jr. that serves as Chamber of Commerce “local journalism” in cities around the nation. Not necessarily addressing Clarksville here, but the whole darned industry.
This isn’t the fault of the workers who do their best to hang onto jobs and work with honor, knowing that the bottom line guillotine soon could rise over their heads. Whack! One more unemployed head rolling out the door doesn't do much to solve the problem.
Oh yeah, we didn’t just have wild news stories back then. We had stories that touched the heart, including my own very real detailing of my friendship with the mother of a football player who was murdered and Rob’s story of a fellow dressed up like Santa Claus who was on his way to a Christmas Eve party when he noticed a house on fire.
Without a single “ho” –- hey stop it, I’m talking about the famous “ho-ho-ho” that Santa’s known for, not the angels of the night -- he ran into the house and rescued the occupant. And then, faster than you can say “Rudolph’s got a brand new bag,” Santa was off to the party.
Tell me you wouldn’t buy those newspapers?
Oh yeah, and to toot my own horn, I also wrote a column three days a week that told more stories of real people. The premise was that we all are more alike than different, that we share the same hopes, dreams and ambitions and fears, even if we weren't in the proper advertising demographic.
I would wander the streets and just start conversations. If it was Christmastime, perhaps I’d frame the story in holiday detail. Floods on the Cumberland? Go find a person who has lived there forever and who can tell of high waters past. World Series time? Find one of the former Negro Leagues stars who lived in the city. Enjoy lemonade and conversation. And share their stories with our readers.
Which brings me back to the very hot day when I wandered out the side of the Leaf-Chronicle building onto Third and walked the block down to the Royal York. I needed a column about the heat and I think I’d already visited the local ice company.
I saw Skipper in the lobby of the hotel. I can't remember all the details now. He probably was watching “Bonanza” reruns, I bought him a cup of coffee to go, and we went outside and sat on the bench. And we talked about the weather, the war, women, newspapers … I can’t remember now. I can’t find the column now that I’m still surrounded by piles of books and music and paraphernalia of my journalism career while contractors try to reclaim my downstairs space from the flood damage, little thanks to insurance companies or FEMA.
I told Rob tonight that if he has a copy of that column, I’d love to see it soon.
You see, today, since my car has been displaced from the garage by our furniture while the rec room, my office and the laundry room are being healed, I decided that it had been taking too much sun. It needed to be polished. It’s an old car and did not have one of those new-fangled laminated finishes. You actually have to wax it a few times a year.
So I took it to one of those self-wash joints, over in Melrose, and washed and rinsed it and then applied a light wax. It took about 45 minutes, and even though the work was in the shade, I sweated through my Butler Final Four T-shirt (a gift from “Flash” News Brother, a professor at that storied Cinderella university. He has short hair, but he’s a great guy with a swell wife I've known since she was in sixth-grade or so).
On the way back to my house, I swigged greedily from a Pepsi Maxx 20-ouncer and hoped that soon the air-conditioning would overcome the stifling heat in the 26-year-old car.
Yep, me and my old Saab, we rolled back to Crieve Hall. Boy was it hot.
When I came upstairs, there was the message from Rob, adapting the old Skipper lead to comment on the weather today up in his home state of Kentucky, where he serves as a secret agent and government head-counter, all the while maintaining his sense of wonder and humor. I often send him a note to ask “Why?” when things happen in life. Neither of us has the answer. "Why not?," I guess.
So this evening I’ve been thinking about that day on the bench with Skipper. It’s nasty out today and it looks like it’s going to be with us, as Jay-Z might say: “for a spell.”
I wrung the sweat from my Butler T-shirt, put on my Team Italia shirt (it is World Cup time, though I could care less about soccer) and I sat down at the keyboard.
Thanks to Rob, I had a great memory of an afternoon spent drinking coffee in the burning heat on a bench in downtown Clarksville.
Me 'n' old Skipper sat on a bench. It was hot.... Boy was it hot.

Memories of Toad, Lizard King, sum-sum-summertime, Capt. Kirk, Blue Cheer & the Mighty Quinn

Started an interesting, to me, discussion the other day on Facebook when I just tossed out a favorite summer song. Wanted to see what people said in response.
I wrote the following in my status: All-time favorite summer song? How about Cream's 'Toad' played full-blast, echoing off the surrounding buildings.... Just thinking. Not sure yet....
I landed on “Toad” because of some time going through my memories lately, at least in part due to reconnecting with Capt. Kirk, Terry Kirkwood, an old college chum who served in the Navy. He was the guy Ho Chi Minh pointed out as a reason it was necessary to get all of the Americans out of the former South Vietnam. I mean, Capt. Kirk was no intergalactic warrior. He was just a pool-playing swabbie whose claim to fame was that he entertained the deck mates up and down the Delta by singing Tom T. Hall’s “It Sure Can Get Cold In Des Moines": The Iowa weather was 13 below/I had come to Des Moines for a radio show/I awoke in the evening from a traveler's sleep/With notions of something to eat/The old elevator slid down past the floors/My head and my eyes said "You should have slept more."/The man at the desk said the restaurant was closed/Outside it was 14 below….
Of course, if I am indeed telling the truth above, Capt. Kirk, a proud native of Des Moines, where he now works as something of a telephone sharecropper and reformed carnival sideshow airbrush T-shirt artist (his life’s ambition, it turns out), was singing that wintry song of his hometown because it was always hot in Vietnam.
So that’s not a summer song, of course. But my e-conversations with the Captain, who was a faithful sidekick and pal during the time Ames, Iowa was my turf -- I know, who would want Ames other than me? But I loved it there. It was where I met Groucho Marx, that Ginsberg poet guy, my Uncle Moose, and, yep, the boys from Sha-Na-Na. And the late Dennis Wilson before he was the late Dennis Wilson -- have inspired me to remember those days and nights among the tornados, cornfields and pig barns.
And that’s where this summer song conversation began. Because during that time in my life, I lived in high-rise dormitories on the campus of Iowa State University.
As on any campus, the greatest times are in the spring, when the taste of summer arrives and music pounds from every available window, floor speaker and ‘65 Falcon. After an Iowa winter (see Tom T.’s song above – I love that guy, by the way. His wife, Miss Dixie, too.), it’s great to feel anything resembling summer heat and perhaps feel some summer beat ricocheting off the high rises while throwing Frisbees over the rows of sunbathing coeds.
And those are the greatest memories I have of “Toad,” because it is Cream at its finest, particularly Ginger Baker at his best. His work opened the doors for a lot of rock drummers to go ahead and take the forefront. Good or bad, a lot of drum solos have come from that wondrous 13-minute version of “Toad” that’s found of “Wheels of Fire.” It earlier had appeared on “Fresh Cream” and was a staple in concert.
Now I’ve seen Cream. But I probably felt Cream the best on spring days in Ames, Iowa, when, without a doubt, the live version of Toad would pound from someone’s speakers and shake the air from Larch Hall to the power plant.
Perhaps it’s not my all-time favorite summer song. But I do know that every spring I do dig it out and play it. Loud. Try it sometime.
By the way, years ago, I had my vinyl version of “Wheels of Fire” stolen. If someone out there has a copy of it with my name on it, I’d welcome its return, no questions asked. Also lost “Bitches Brew” and a couple of Zappa albums.
Here are some of the responses I got to my posting about songs that bring back summer memories:
Father Laird MacGregor, Episcopal priest of the manly Pressed Rat and Warthog order: “Ridin’ in My Car” by NRBQ. But then he rethought some and came up with entire "Pet Sounds" album by the Beach Boys. “Conjures memories of one summer in particular," he writes. Perhaps it was the summer he opted to cut his long hair, shave his head, enter the priesthood and give up his favorite breakfast of licorice-flavored Schnapps and Wheaties.
The good padre, rector to the famous News Brothers band of journalists co-founded by this author, then adds “Nobody has mentioned Mungo Jerry.”
So, with that in mind, I figured I’d dredge up that old Mungo tune: In the summertime when the weather's high, /you can stretch right up and touch the sky,/when the weather's fine,/you got women, you got women on your mind./Have a drink, have a drive,/go out and see what you can find.
Kinda makes you wonder why Mungo Jerry isn’t hailed as a great band in the vein of The Beatles or at least be mentioned in the same line as Canned Heat.
Jim East, an old journalism pal opts for Eddie Cochran’s version of "Summertime Blues.” I personally would go with The Who version from “Live at Leeds.” But Jim’s a stubborn traditionalist in the most sincere way, though perhaps not a Republican. Speaking of that tune, who remembers the version by Blue Cheer? Yep. I see you nodding out there.
Darryl Illmo Prince writes in that he likes an old-reliable that will have you dancing: “Gotta Go With Van The Man … ‘Brown Eyed Girl.’”
Drew White, Blue Oyster Cult’s meatiest fan, weighed in with " ’Gimme Some Lovin' by the Spencer Davis Group. In the car, windows rolled down and the volume turned up to 11. It sounded even better in the old days of AM radio coming out of a single speaker grill on a metal dashboard!” Drew still has that old sound system. It’s on concrete blocks in his front yard. Next to the fridge. Nah, not true. But nice image.
Ray “Da Plane, Boss” Duckworth chose Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.” Must have come from a time before Ray only listened to Jimmy Dickens while sipping coffee and watching for airplanes from his patio.
Bush Bernard seems to be speaking from his musical heritage in the bogs of Louisiana when he says “"Play that Funky Music, White Boy."
Renee Elder says “For me, personally, it's got to be ‘Rikki Don't Lose that Number’ by Steely Dan.” Now I’m not a Dan man, but that’s a pretty nifty little pop tune, although it’s not in my collection for some reason. I’ll not lose sleep over it, though.
Chuck Emery, formerly the honcho of failed Catfish Bay Records, a fine musician and former Chukker’s record store owner on Franklin Street before Clarksville got blown away by the tornado says “Toad or NSU or I Feel Free...or maybe a medley!”
Janice Kay Brewster Staggs says “Love Cream, but think I'd pick a Led Zep song.”
For David Sims it’s "’Blue Sky’ by the Allman Brothers. Greatest kick-back song ever.”
My cousin Michelle Robertson weighs in with another of my own favorites by my old pal John Sebastian: “Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck.....”
Kathleen Carlson, who obviously wants to take off all her clothes (it’s part of the lyric of this ridiculous and I can’t believe she’s serious choice): "It's getting hot in here” by Nelly. Nelly or Skanky or one of those pop/hop guys were preferred by executives at the morning newspaper to Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson back when I was there. Caused me problems when I was in charge of entertainment coverage, as I really didn’t cooperate. “You can’t be a maverick and not think like me and be a success here,” or something like that I was told. Yet, I found personal success came by playing Cash and Kristofferson stories above Skanky and Nelly or whoever. Oh yeah, Shaggy was the other one. I thought this was Music City? Oh well, thanks for bringing this up, Kathy. Are you OK? Is it getting hot in there?
Rob Simbeck has a couple of haunting melodies on his mind this summer when he submits "Tie: ‘Spooky’ and ‘Time of the Season.’"
And then there’s Reinaldo Garcia, who not only picks the song, he picks the summer and the city: “L.A., 1967, Light My Fire (long version.)”
You know that I would be a liar if I didn’t say I loved that song. Heck, I bought all the vinyl put out by Jim and the boys. I even like The Doors’ “Soft Parade” album, which is the one most don’t like. Course I’m no Lizard King.
In wrapping up this little experiment, I think any song that makes you smile and think of great summers past is a good song.
Actually “Toad” isn’t my favorite summer song. That would really be “A Day in the Life” from that 1967 summer album about that little vaudeville band that was formed in Paul McCartney’s head.
No, it would be “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” because it dominated the AM dial during the one year when I was cleaning out stalls and trimming weeds at a day camp in Chicago.
Or maybe it would be Rick Nelson’s version of “Summertime and the livin’ is easy, fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high” from my true youth.
Nah, I’ll stick with “Toad.” At least as this first day of summer descends on us tomorrow morning.
Later in the day, I may opt for a visit by the Mighty Quinn.
Course I do like that slamming coffin lid at the end of "A Day in the Life."

Summertime, and the livin' is queasy; Fish are dyin',water is black -- and I love my friends

What’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happening?
Actually, I borrow that line from rock opera about the original “Superstar,” although when I saw it first, Ben Vereen, the guy with the bag o’ silver, stole the show.
That was maybe 1970 or so at Ravinia, outside Chicago. The young woman who took me turned out to be some sort of Republican judge in Florida. Obviously we had little in common, as I’m not particularly judgmental nor, well, Republican. Although I know some of both. I'm not even overly judgmental toward Republicans. I know some and enjoy their warped sense of tomfoolery.
Anyway, the reason for this thought today is that I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on. What’s going on… heck I should’ve used a little Marvin Gaye to open this particular segment, but it’s too late. Don’t want some Florida conservative judge questioning my judgment.
“What’s the buzz?” or something that sounded a lot like that -- though perhaps more guttural -- was a line I uttered to myself the other day when I stood outside and looked down at the pile of building materials that are in my driveway. Just scraps really. The contractors are doing a good job.
Looks like we’re maybe a week removed from having the lower level of our house restored to something resembling the lower level my wife, my father-in-law and I constructed all those years ago. I was the “muscle,” as I got out of most of the real tool-wielding by powering up a drill full-speed through my index finger. It hurt.
My cousin Jeff, an electrical wizard who came to Nashville because he was taking part in the plastic cars experiment down in Spring Hill, helped too.
Heck, I even bought one of those little toy cars. They were nice unless you worry about durability and resale value. They had the basic composition of a Corvette, which means that if you ever were in an accident, you probably would be as dead as a guy is who’s in an accident in a Corvette… except the news story would read “Tim Ghianni died when his Saturn was T-boned by a Kia” rather than “Tim Ghianni perished when his red Corvette burst into glorious flames after it was T-boned by a Kia.”
Of course, dead is dead. But wouldn’t you rather your last ride be in a Corvette rather than a Saturn. Or a Porsche, like James Dean. Note I said “James” rather than Jimmy, who apparently keeled over from too much sausage. I didn’t know him well. Although I did buy “Big Bad John” when it came out. It was OK, but I was more into Elvis, Duane Eddy, those Everly boys and Chuck Berry.
Of course I’m getting off the point again. That happens to me. My friends say it’s dementia… no “demented.” That’s it.
I counter it’s just that I’ve got “too much in my head.” My high school football helmet, back in the days when I had to shave my head to play football and I took out future Republican judges – in short before I let my hair begin growing and growing and growing … occasionally succumbing to a buzzsaw so I could cash in at graduation and whatnot … was 7-7/8. They had to order it from the Chicago Bears. That’s true.
Anyway, the point of this story, which is all so obvious by now, is luck and friendship and oil.
My luck has not been, well, swell lately.
To recap:
I am underemployed. That means I fight for every little job I can get as a writer or as a journalism adviser in order to feed my family. But I like it, in that the only real jerk I have to answer to is the guy I look at in the mirror when I shave. And, that dude’s scary, as I shave in the shower.
I love my work with the young people though. They need to learn journalism and communication skills from people who know them and have practiced them before the business became mechanized, push-button and autopilot.
Things seemed to be turning some sort of professional corner when 20 inches of rain fell in my front yard a few weeks ago. The basement that I’d toiled in, my office, my little fortress of solitude, was washed away.
Of course, the first thing I did was contact my insurance company, where a couple of different high-ranking and over-achieving bottom-liners told me – tongues obviously deep in cheek -- to “begin remediation immediately” and they’d get back to me to help. What they didn’t tell me was they were going to deny my claim for the remediation or for the rebuild.
Then began my three weeks of dealing with FEMA and the SBA. The end result? Well, it may not be in yet, because I seem to get a new letter every other day in which FEMA denies my claim and the SBA says it can’t help me. But it looks like I’m stuck with the tab. A lot of you out there know how this feels. I’m not alone.
I mean, this isn’t Bangladesh, but it might help if the late George Harrison would host a fund-raiser for me. “My friend came to me, sadness in his eyes, told me that he needed help before his house dies.”
Course it’s not that bad. At least I have a house to rebuild … with the $424.24 check FEMA sent me. OK, I live in a pretty nice middle-class neighborhood. I lost my lower level and all of its contents, other than my books and music. And it’s worth $424.24 according to the government. Oh yeah, it’s not just the Feds who are denying any help. Old Tennessee Gov. Phil Bredesen puts his signature on each denial. I can imagine him sitting in that stupid massive bunker he and Andrea built over there on Curtiswood, looking at FEMA applications and laughingly stamping his signature on them. I wonder if that bunker leaked all over the oil barons and the like that are entertained there?
Other things have happened in my “what’s goin’ on” ponderings.
Of course, the worst thing was that my cat died. I loved him as much as anything, and anyone who wants to find out more about that should read the two preceding blogs. I can’t go there tonight. Tomorrow I should be getting his ashes.
But this isn’t one of those “if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all” tales.
First of all, I’ve really found out how blessed I am… well, I’m not a “blessed” kinda guy … how about “fortunate” instead. As in “Fortunate Son,” from the same guy who sang “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” Middle Tennessee’s collective anthem early last month.
But I truly am fortunate to have good friends.
One of my oldest and dearest friends, Rob Dollar, has assisted by providing good vibes from his home in Hopkinsville and from the road where he is a secret agent and head counter for the federal government. Well, actually he’s a Census Bureau leader of some sort and as soon as the counting stops, well, maybe he can become governor of Kentucky … or work for FEMA.
He also is the driving force behind this blog. “Why don’t you write a blog, Flapjacks?” he’s been saying for two years. Finally I had something to say and a need to say some of it and he worked to make it happen.
Another great friend who has stepped forward has asked to remain anonymous as to what he’s done. All I can say is that he was one of the few bosses I ever had that I not only liked but who still is alive. I’m glad about that latter in particular. A good friend, even though a little unassuming, who knew when real newspapers roamed the earth.
And then there’s Captain Kirk, who reemerged in my life after about a 30-year absence. Somehow, Cappy, a sailor from the Vietnam war who has turned sort of religious on me (not that there’s anything wrong with that), came upon my entries on Facebook about the flood and he began contacting me from his headquarters in Des Moines, Iowa. Back in college, I occasionally would “beat” him in pool at the bars, so others would want to take him on. Pool hustler and his pal chased into the dark night. Laughing.
Cappy reminds me that I once led the charge as we rode the range at Iowa State University, where I had fun while also getting good grades and sometimes only shaving half my face. Even if I had a full beard. I’d shave half the face and see how it felt before shaving the other.
More about him later. Suffice it to say he spent 35 years as a carny sideshow T-shirt air-brusher before he figured out he’d hit a dead end. … My friends, like me, can be stubborn. Even the humblest dreams die hard.
And while reconnecting with Cappy, I also reconnected with a guy I knew in Iowa who was going to vet school. Now he’s a part of a veterinary hospital in the L.A. area. He runs marathons and takes care of his family. He says he sleeps with his banker … who is his wife. Anyway, he has offered me long-distance advice and consolation when I’ve been going through the trauma of losing my cat. This vet is named Tom Carpenter. I’m not sure the lessons I taught him back in the dorm were always good for him, but he generally was game. And he’s a darned good vet, by all accounts.
Oh sure, there are other friends who haven’t touched base, but that’s OK. They have their own lives to lead.
I do have to say that Peter Cooper, one of the few journalists working at 1100 Broadway who‘s not afraid to be seen in my company, has been among my best supporters. He’s purchased several platters of lamb souvlaki for me and made me laugh. Gonna lick the platter, the gravy doesn’t matter. I keep telling him my luck will change and I can buy. He keeps on patiently waiting.
He’s also talked music with me, which is something I need. Music is important. I’m not talking about that Miley Cyrus chick who wears no underwear and sings like her underwear is too tight. I’m talking about Tom T. Hall, Bobby Bare and Johnny Cash.
And then there’s Bush Bernard, a true supporter, who provided me CD-playing equipment -- mine died in the flood --and gave me a big boost. He also said he lived through hurricanes and built back, so I would return as well.
The great Radney Foster spent time detailing his own flood foibles with me. And he also listened intently when I told him my own.
And then there’s Brad Schmitt. I don’t hear from him much. But that’s OK, as long as he’s in his meetings. He’s a good guy. He also had to rebuild. He’s got a new gig with the CVB. No we’re not talking about “Barefoot Jerry and the CDB, gather round children, get down.” The CVB is the Convention and Visitors Bureau here in Guitar Town and Brad is writing for them. I still hope he gets back on TV. Maybe he can talk big boss Butch down at the CVB into returning the promised calls to discuss what writing I could do for his fine organization.
There have been others who have stepped forward as well, so I have come to really appreciate the value of a few good friends. And some are basically Facebook friends, like Jerry Flowers, who has become something like an electronic brother. Oh, he’s a little more conservative than I am (most people in this particular human race are), but he’s a great guy. Even offered me and my family shelter from the storms of life.
Speaking of the storms of life, I had encouraging words from Randy Travis during a long and wide-ranging conversation. We had 15 minutes scheduled, but we both had so much fun talking, we went on for 45. He’s a great guy.
And then there’s the President of the United States of America. I began to fantasize back in my early flood ramblings, about the Prez visiting me to cheer me up.
Of course, he wasn’t here at all. The Secret Service has called to make sure I say this for sure. They don’t want the word to spread that the President of the United States of America was playing basketball here with me, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Tom Petty and the late Richard Manuel of the Band. Sometimes Jerry Garcia stopped by to play mandolin while Hendrix played acoustic guitar and Vassar played his fiddle.
Anyway, even IF he was here, demonstrating his basketball form on my driveway and cussing like Jay-Z, I kept telling him he should be down in the Gulf Coast States taking care of the oil leak.
“Coast Guard admiral says there’s no leak,” he’d say, driving toward the hoop, using his butt to clear my son, Joe, out of the way.
He didn’t listen to me, and proved, as a result, that he’s just as good at ignoring a problem until it becomes an epic disaster as was his poker-playing pal and mentor George W. Bush.
So, what’s the buzz? What’s goin’ on?
This summer was going to be glorious. There was going to be a time at the beach in late May, early June. That had to be canceled because furniture had been floating around my ankles. Course, as it turns out, I wouldn’t have gone anyway, because my cat turned so ill.
The vacation was rescheduled for later in the summer…..By then the crystal white sands of the Redneck Riviera ought to be nice and black and covered with dead wildlife and the occasional rotting BP executive. Sometimes I see Kenny Stabler down there. If you don't know who he is, I guess you are younger.
And then tonight Ringo Starr decided he wasn’t going to talk with me.
Hope your summer is going well.

A kid, a prayer, a goldfinch, Hendrix and Buddy help me say goodbye to my best Pal

The young woman talked soothingly of “your baby” as she took Pal from my arms and put him on a cart.
He was going to be stored in a walk-in refrigerator for a couple of days, awaiting cremation.
I picked out a little cedar box, a miniature version of the one that holds Buddy’s remains, for Pal’s ashes. My son has instructions to put the little cedar boxes in with me. Heck, I don’t care if they cremate me too, and mix my ashes with my Buddy and Pal.
“I’m going to be 79 when you die,” said Joe, indicating that he believes I’m going to far outlive the odds my oldest friends would offer. Many of them are dead and others are highly medicated.
But regardless of the point when I do die and Joe mixes up my ashes or puts me in a Hefty bag at the curb or whatever, as long as the two boxes of my animals are with me, that won’t matter. Because, by that point, of course, I’ll be holding the cat in my arms and letting the dog run across some sweet meadow, with that laughing bark.
Yeah, these are my dreams. I gotta admit I’m having a lot of trouble now that my Pal is gone. As he’s been bunking in the bedroom since the flood, I am accustomed to leaving the bathroom after showering and walking across my room, reaching into the little upholstered cube bed and petting him. Course, in recent weeks, I always was aware the gentle stroking of his head could well be the last. And Sunday, I did give him that final stroke.
I still feel his light jump onto the edge of the bed in the middle of the night. Then realize it’s not any more real than the barking I hear many nights, a somehow reassuring sound, like Buddy used to make when he stood at the door downstairs and begged me to wake up and come down to take him out. Of course, if I didn’t hear those barks, I’d be licked in the face by the dog who could stand dead-even with the raised queen mattress and stick his brownish-pink nose right in my face.
Pal’s not here. Nor is Buddy. Or perhaps they're both here in spirit. The other day, as I leaned over Pal's body at the crematory and said goodbye for the last time, admiring his beauty, the proud face, his almost regal bearing – even though his once solid body had been ravaged by the cancer – I knew I would see him no more, at least for now.
Except in those dreams. The circle of life and death. Or however that works. I’m not sure. I used to have a black-light poster of Jimi Hendrix, I purchased it right after his death: “Meet me in the next world: Don’t be late,” it read.
I have no idea how that works. Perhaps Jimi’s playing “Little Wing” while Buddy and Pal listen. That’d be nice.
It’s just strange around here. The house is in disarray, ever since the flood. It’s clean, but cluttered, as I try to conduct my business from the living room, stacked with books and music.
Every time I catch a sideways glance at one of the piles, I at first think it is Pal, sitting on the floor and watching me type.
The contractors are good guys and they are in the basement, bringing it back.
I just wish that someone could bring my cat back.
"Good luck with that, old buddy," my son will say, making me smile at just the right time. He's a lot like me. Poor kid.
I remember one time, years ago, when I talked about my cat and my dear friend, Peter Cooper, said I didn’t seem like a cat kind of guy. He wasn’t saying anything negative, just that I seemed more like a big-animal guy (course Peter has these really weenie little pocket dachshunds, Russell and Loretta, who are beautiful and special animals.)
But when Peter made the cat comment, I told him the story of Buddy and Pal and how they became part of my family before I ever went to Romania to pick up Emily and long before the second trip to get Joe.
Speaking of Joe, he asked me if it was his fault Pal died. He said he had prayed that Pal would die quietly and not suffer. He was afraid that the request had been granted and he had given his old dad too much heartache to handle, given the many other recent challenges.
I told him that it was a good prayer. That it didn’t cause the cat to die. That age just caught up with him. And that Pal loved him. And he didn't suffer.
“You should pray, Dad. It would make you feel better.”
I told him that in my own way I do, every time I stare at the stars and wish … and dream… and marvel at the universe and at the sound of tree frogs and cicadas and tires squealing in the night.
“Joe, why don’t you add a couple of lines to your prayers for me, would you?”
“Dad, I pray for you every day.”
Figure I can’t do much better than have this young fellow, who is either going to be a weatherman (probably) or a cop (his backup plan), who has this pure soul, put in a few good words for me.
He then asked if cats go to heaven.
I could have gotten into all kinds of philosophical discussion with him. I had a deeply religious grandmother who said no animals go to heaven.
I remember the old movie “All Dogs Go To Heaven” that I bought for Suzanne after Pepper, the dog she had when we married, died, also of cancer.
I don’t have the answer. But I can’t see why not.
As I was mulling this today, the most beautiful goldfinch – if you don’t know me, goldfinches are my favorite wild bird – landed on the bubbling fountain out on the deck. I watched it as I drank my coffee. I don’t know if I’d ever seen a prettier bird before, even in goldfinch terms.
And the way it stayed there and looked into the window seemed oddly satisfying and enriching. Then he spread his wings and flew into the tree-line filled with hackberry trees.

Loving and losing my best Pal

Pal Kitty was about 6 months old, but his growth stunted by living on his own when I pulled him from the top of the shrubbery where he was hiding from bigger cats.
I’d seen the little cat the morning before, when I took my dog, Buddy, then a mere 30 pounds on his way to the 120 pounds he became in his 11 years, out for a walk before I drove to work at the Nashville Banner.
I just figured it was a kitten, wandered away from its mama, so I left the little pink animal alone. Besides that, my wife had just a month or two before rescued the dog, we named Buddy, over on Nolensville Road.
Didn’t really need another pet right now. Busy enough trying to make sure the puppy becomes housebroken and quits chewing up the linoleum in the kitchen.
At night, though, there was a horrible howling and growling outside, so I climbed from bed and went to the front of the house where the little pink animal, terrified, clung to the highest, thinnest branches of the evergreen shrub. The bigger cats were after it. But they couldn’t climb that high.
I reached in and grabbed the few ounces of fur and took him inside. First I told my wife I was going to put him in a box in the garage. Which I did. I also said we would try to find the cat a good home.
She laughed at me, because she knew I already had. The next day, after leaving work, I drove the little cat out to the vet. He was the one who told me the animal was probably 6 months old, judging by his adult teeth. He’d be stunted and perhaps unhealthy for life.
That night, the little cat slept on the foot of the bed, with Buddy. As we’d named the dog after a line in “It’s A Wonderful Life” when George Bailey hollers after his “Ol’ Buddy, Ol’ Pal,” it was pretty easy to choose a name for the cat.
We were afraid that the bigger dog would not take to the cat. Instead, they quickly became best of friends. We’d close the cat up in the bedroom during the day at first, thinking this would keep him from pestering the dog. Until I came home one day to find the cat was wrestling with the dog. Seems Pal was small enough to crawl beneath the door. He also could pin the dog to the ground. Good thing Buddy was a nice animal.
No need to separate them again. For the rest of their lives they were best of friends.
Buddy grew to be 120 pounds. He was apparently a mix of German Shepherd and Chocolate Lab and was a handsome fellow and great friend.
When he died six years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever feel that heartache again. But I did. Today. When Pal’s long fight with bone cancer finally ended.
Pal was a small cat, but he did flourish despite the early odds. He grew to what the vet called “a perfect 10-pound cat,” a weight he carried until a couple of years ago.
That 2008 physical showed him down to nine pounds. But he still apparently was healthy.
Last August, during his annual physical, the vet noted that the cat had dropped a couple more pounds.
Without going into detail, it basically was determined that he had bone cancer. Tumors began to grow on his jaw. Then on his chest.
He was 16. Too old for chemo. She said she could put him to sleep, but as long as his quality of life was OK, she’d let us determine that.
So we began a 10-month process of watching the cat lose weight, but still remain happy and loving. Most mornings, if he was hungry – which was frequently until the last couple of days – he’d wake me up with licks in the middle of the night.
He could jump up on the bed OK, but it was more difficult to get down, so I’d grab him and set him on the floor. He’d follow me into the kitchen. Or sometimes Suzanne would tire of listening to the licking and do the feeding duties.
His days were spent doling out love. Before the flood of early May, my office was on the lower level of the house. Pal didn’t much like that. He’d come down and howl at the doorway into my office. I’d grab him and pull him onto my lap. Sometimes he'd climb onto the window ledge to watch the goldfinches just outside. But he quickly jumped down and howled at me some more.
I think he just thought that since his litter box was downstairs – over in the laundry room – a guy shouldn’t come down there unless it was for a bathroom break.
My relative “underemployment” in the last three years allowed me to grow even closer to the cat, if that was even possible. It's not like there ever was much emotional distance between us. When he was younger, and I was still taking naps when the kids were, he’d climb on my stomach and sleep right with me. Buddy would sleep against my legs.
But Pal had grown old and bony. It was tough for him to get on the bed. He’d prefer to remain in his own bed, an upholstered little cube thing with a couple of openings, that was on a blue wingback chair in the living room.
He would visit during the night, drop off a few licks, and then climb back in the box.
Evenings and football Saturdays and Sundays were spent either in my lap, Suzanne’s lap or on the back of the couch. He enjoyed being around his family. He actually seemed to like sports a lot, particularly baseball – when his eyes would follow the ball.
We knew his health was failing, that he was living out cancer's death sentence. And we knew his time was getting short. At Christmas time, he hardly fiddled with the special yarn ornaments that were placed on the lower branches just for him to play with.
He used to run with them all over the house. We knew it was his last Christmas. We knew it was his last New Year. We knew that when he turned 17 a couple of months ago – a rough-guess birth date we figured by the vet’s reckoning – he would have no more birthdays.
Still, he enjoyed his special food, a crunchy kind that is good for urinary health in males. He crunched away with gusto and was especially happy when a new bag was brought in the house. His elimination processes were fine. His breathing good, though on humid nights increasingly shallow. Despite his ailments, he was as happy as he made us.
He enjoyed the small scraps from the table, the ham or turkey, even the piece of cake or chips – tastes he’d probably acquired during his rough, scavenging first six months of life, before we found each other in the front yard shrubbery.
Like us all, his life was altered by the flood.
But in his case, and now in retrospect, ours, it was good. When all of the furniture needed to be moved to make room for my piles of books, music, my computer and the paraphernalia from the office downstairs, Pal’s chair – the blue wingback that held his little cubical bed – was moved into our bedroom. He just had to navigate the footstool to step on the bed and continue to dole out his licks, although they were accompanied by a gruffer purring.
His litter box, which had been downstairs in the laundry, was moved into a corner in our room. We also put his food and water there. He was free to roam the upstairs, but he was happiest in the bedroom. Especially when we were there with him.
The cat himself, who still was loving, dropped to 3 pounds or less and he no longer had to climb downstairs or jump off beds. Since May 2, he had everything – including the two people he loved most – within 10 feet.
And since my office was relocated into the living room, he could come in here, climb on the couch, even climb on the desk and watch my fingers on the keys.
He enjoyed his life. We often thought when he had a bad day that perhaps it was time to call the vet for the lethal dose. But he’d bounce back, be happy. And he continued to eat and drink. And lick. He was slow and ailing, but in the same good spirits that captured my heart when I met him back when I was 41 years old.
Until Friday morning. Suddenly the cancer caught up to him with frightening fury. He fell onto the floor when bound for his litter box. His hindquarters suddenly failed. He had bounced back before, so we fed him and gave him water and hoped for the best. Of course, we knew the worst was more likely.
Saturday morning, he got up, drank and ate. For the last time on his own.
Then he fell down. For the first time, he obviously was uncomfortable. After holding him up while he used the litter box, my wife and I put him back in his bed. I called the vet. It was time.
But the vet didn’t return my call. And now I’m glad.
This morning, Pal’s breathing was strained as he fought for oxygen through his open mouth. Suzanne and I loved him, cleaned him up and gently dried his fur. He had not been able to make it from his bed to the litter box during the night. He'd always taken pride in being well groomed. We weren't going to allow him to leave us in condition that he wouldn't like. We comforted him. I called him "Honey-boy," a term I used for both Buddy and Pal, when they roamed the house on Rochelle Drive like Butch and Sundance.
But this morning, he would neither eat nor drink. He turned his head away from the spoon of soft food that had been his favorite 3 a.m. treat. He wouldn't even allow an eyedropper of water in his mouth.
We put him in his bed, next to ours. And we told him to go to sleep. That we loved him. That it was OK.
He died quietly in his bed. Surrounded by people who only hope we’ve returned the love he gave us.
Some philosopher, maybe it was me, once said that loving animals and watching them die is a gift they give us, that they actually help prepare us for the losses of parents and other human loved ones.
Perhaps.
It doesn’t get any easier though.
He was my best Pal.

Kid Rock-style country makes me hanker for Lefty, ET & Shel

Watching Kid Rock emcee the CMT Music Awards the other night, I had to struggle for a moment to remember just why it was I fell in love with Nashville back in 1972. Or was ’71? Long time ago. I was making water heaters by day and roaming the streets of the city by night. One reason I fell in love with this city was the guitar player who took the “stage” nightly at … well, I can’t remember the name of the joint. It was right across from Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, because on occasion Lefty Frizzell, Ernest Tubb, one of the Cash boys or some other Grand Ole Opry stalwarts would come in to sing along with the house band. They may have been trying to kill time between the end of the Grand Ole Opry -- which then was in the Ryman Auditorium regularly and not just as a refuge from the flood -- and the Midnight Jamboree down at ET’s Record Shop. Hang around long enough on a summer night and you’d see Loretta Lynn or Little Jimmy Dickens perform for free and for the joy of music. There were times that I took a nap after my shift on the line and got up just in time to go down to see those shows. So much older then, much younger than that now. There was no such thing as a suburban Donelson ET Record Shop or a Grand Ole Opry House – submerged or otherwise -- at that time. In fact, Lower Broadway was a place of bars, honky-tonks, sticky-floored peep shows and other “night shift” workers who would openly proposition day and night. Their clients apparently were led to rooms above what now are souvenir shops. Suppose they all -- or at least those who picked up that trade -- eventually moved to Dickerson Road or Murfreesboro Pike. Sure, some visitors may have found Lower Broad a little seedy. I relished in it. I’ll have to look up the name of the guitar player sometime. I do remember that they found him dead, dreams of glory dashed, in the high-rise residential hotel that's name I can't recall. Can’t remember if he was reaching for some needle arm that drove him down to hell or if he was just expired. He was a big guy. Man he would play. Lower Broadway was not the neon lit, family friendly Disneyesque district it is today. I’m sure tourism officials are pleased. And, for the most part, I guess it’s good. It wasn’t more than a year or so after I first hit town that the Old-Time Pickin’ Parlor opened on Second Avenue North. Now a booming restaurant an club stretch, it was a warehouse wasteland there, reminding me as much of the ghost towns I used to explore during my long pursuit of the secrets of Joshua Tree and the non-existent American Dream. First time at the Pickin’ Parlor, I saw Doc and Merle Watson. That was before Merle got run over by a tractor. Guests may have included the likes of Vassar, Dawg, Hartford. Perhaps even Garcia. You never really knew. I was fortunate in that Vassar became a dear friend in his later years. It was a privilege. Yes I still go downtown, or rather to Lower Broadway, occasionally. In fact, I likely will go back down to the fancy tourist district this weekend, if only because I love the city and I love the fans who come to CMA Fest. Although I guess more of them come in from Brooklyn and Bonn than Defeated Creek any more. Most have never stopped at Wall Drugs, in other words. If you don’t know what that means, it matters even less to me. But I do lament the old and sometimes seedy ghosts at times. Rather than recreating “classic country” with new-fangled music-goosing machines and the like, the real stuff played down there on Lower Broad in that bygone era. There was the jolt and joy of listening to the weeping steel and the occasional visit with Lefty or ET, either in a bar or while sat in Tootsie’s back room. Boot heels hooked under the tabletop, they’d lean back in those suds-soaked chairs, armpits stained dark after leaving their spangles and such across the alley in the Opry while they sought refreshment. Sometimes I’d hang out in the alley, and talk to those guys. Sometimes I’d sneak in the alley door and catch the Opry’s last few segments. Or perhaps I’d go down Fifth a few steps and watch someone swampin’ them tables down at Green Gables. Yep, Waylon fans, there really was such a joint, but I'm joking about it being here. It was in Texas, and Billy Joe Shaver's mom swamped tables there. He wrote songs about it. It escapes me right now the name of the restaurant where I’d drop in, down Broadway, where I’d have coffee, trying hard not to succumb to the urge to bother Roger Miller reading the first editions of the morning newspaper. Or perhaps it was the last edition of the afternoon paper. He smoked a lot. So did I back then. I’m sure Roger was just twisting the words around for pleasure. “Dang me. Dang me…” What rhymes with that? Of course that song predated those nights, but you get the idea. “Woman won’t you weep for me?”  Oh, yeah, the restaurant was Linebaugh's. Merchants is there now, occupying the space of Linebaugh's as well as the old Merchants Hotel.

As for Roger, well, speaking of roller skating through buffalo herds or, more to the point, twisting words for pleasure, there was Shel Silverstein. I’ve written before of my first encounter with one of my heroes. Shel one night, likely well-oiled but precise of diction, coaxed his late-night buddy, Bobby Bare, into helping me load up my 1965 Falcon’s trunk with the bricks that Metro was tearing out of Fifth Avenue South. Metro was modernizing by tearing out the old bricks and replacing them with asphalt that would help spawn potholes and please the tow truck drivers who still claim that stretch, although I understand there is still a seething border war. Again, another story. Most of you don’t remember the brick streets. Heck, I was sure not going to forget them. So for some reason, at 2 a.m., I decided it was a good time to take a few souvenirs. Shel and Bobby came up to me from the vacant lot where they’d parked their car, a lot that decades later would be buried someplace near the special Jack Daniels entrance into the Bridgestone Arena. I liked the smile and the friendly tone that approached me in that humid early morning. If you don’t own it yet, Twistable, Turnable Man: A Musical Tribute to the Songs of Shel Silverstein came out Tuesday on Sugar Hill records. Guys like Prine, Kristofferson, Bare Sr. and Jr. and Ray Price sing the great words of the poet. If you ever heard Shel sing, by the way, you’ll know that he made Kristofferson seem like Caruso. Ever see the footage of him doing “Boy Named Sue” on the old Cash show from the Ryman? But if you ever spoke to Shel, you came away feeling better. Like the easygoing conversation we had when he did more than his share of loading bricks. I think the absurdity of helping a long-haired young man load his trunk with apparently obsolete bricks while guitars – electric and steel – echoed through streets of Guitar Town suited him just fine. Done, he and Bare bounded, or at least, vanished into the night. I told Shel I loved his songs and such. Bare, well you really can't find fault with him. He's now a great friend and mentor. Sometimes we talk about our road bricks introduction.  And there were the nights spent at the Tally-Ho Tavern – the site I believe now is occupied by a Curb building – on Music Row. If you were lucky, Kristofferson was in town. Don’t bother him, but catch him and Billy Swan, Charlie Daniels, Funky Donnie Fritts, Arthur Alexander, Billy Ray Reynolds and  Bare out on the picnic tables, swapping tunes. The Rev. Will Campbell, who lived downstairs from Kris in the rotting tenement a few feet away may be there too. Likely not preaching. Captain Midnight, a renegate radio outlaw, also a friend I acquired along the way, may have been challenging Waylon to a knife-throwing contest. I told Kris about those memories once, when he and I looked for what once was the Tally-Ho and he just smiled that grizzled movie star smile. He'd not been back to those sites in three decades when I took him. He was curious, but shared my melancholy that all "the old stuff" was gone. Anyway, memories like those guided me into something teeteing between respair and wild, ribald Johnny Russell-style laughter while watching the CMT’s -- what used to be called the Flameworthy Awards… Or what I dubbed back during my days at the morning newspaper “the Spongeworthy Awards.” I like Kid Rock. And there are some great musicians in the likes of Brad Paisley and Keith Urban. But the Nashville I fell in love with is as much in the past as whatever bars or pawn shops stood where the Predators play hockey or the happy Detroit “rock-rapper” emcees a show that is supposedly a big night for country music but instead is some TV programmer’s nightmarish vision of what fans want. Tom T. Hall, George Jones, Loretta Lynn and my old friend the late Carl Smith likely slept right through it. If they watched it, it may have been one of the few times when the others considered Carl lucky. I’ll be back on Lower Broadway, either Saturday or Sunday. I’ll look for Roger Miller. I’ll look for Lefty Frizzell, who actually was an affable sort. Maybe ET will show up, at least in spirit, in front of the record store. More likely, I’ll gawk at and give directions to the tourists. Maybe I’ll talk with my pal Mandolin Dan, who likely has had a good week. I’ll think of other down-and-outers I knew who have died. I’ll remember when the joint named Possum Holler blasted orange neon into the night somewhere near where the Hard Rock is today. I love Nashville and what it has become. There is no better city. But it’s not what it was 38 years ago. Course neither am I.

CMA Fest triumphs by leaving Fan Fair's sideshow feel in the dust (but I miss Tammy Wynette)

The quadriplegic from Pennsylvania coal country was one of my favorite acquaintances back during what they used to call Fan Fair here in Music City, USA.
I’m not complaining about the newer, sleeker CMA Music Festival at all. It actually is far superior to the old Fan Fair. I know, because I experienced both. In fact, for several years, before my life as a newspaper expat, I plotted coverage of the CMA Fest and before that Fan Fair.
For example, I’d gather Peter Cooper, Brad Schmitt and -- when he wasn’t yelling at his lava lamp -- Craig Havighurst into a conference room at the morning newspaper and we’d toss around ideas. I gotta admit, I worked a little blue in those days.
Before that grouping, I had Jay Orr and Tom Roland. And before that, when I was at the late and still lamented afternoon daily, I had Orr, whom I used to call “the professor” for no real reason. And Michael Gray, back before he got so slender. Oh yeah, I had Calvin Gilbert for awhile too. Nice man. Bad beard.
That’s a pretty good collection of talent over the years. It was an odd mix of country music scholars, a country music reporter who loved Richard Marx, a business-oriented music writer who was then considered among our town’s finest and most public intellectuals, a great and loyal friend who was and remains the king of kosher fart jokes (and some that weren’t) and another loyal friend who has gone on to become an Americana superstar who will bring the Sheboygan Elks Club to its knees (not that they need that much help, after nights of pickled eggs and warm Schlitz).
We’d talk about who should be profiled. For example: which rising star would Peter follow for the week, writing the always fun look at how this CMA Fest was seen through the eyes of, say, SheDaisy or the Kinleys.
Then Brad would pipe in that he wanted to make sure he was where the girls were. He didn’t care if they were musicians. He just hoped they were charmed by his combination Borscht Belt schtick (check the spelling) and effervescent charm and charming array of massive black shirts. He’d then list a bunch of events he’d be at, usually where Mindy McReady and Cledus T. Judd would join him at the trough.
Of course, Craig would write about the impact on Music City of 576 million tourists, according to the random “eenie, meenie, minie moe” counting technique perfected by tourism honchos and insurance adjusters… .
It was pretty much a story budget that we’d amend each year. For example, if Mindy McReady wasn’t available, Brad would spend time with Charlie Pride or, in a bizarre twist, that little guy in the annoying Big & Rich video. These kinda guys aren’t gonna be comin’ to my citaaaaay if I have any choice.
And if Peter couldn’t find a rising star, he’d find one who was all washed up, choking on the stench of Old Granddad and failure, and paint a glorious picture of resurrection.
Just kidding here. I enjoyed these planning sessions and most of you know that Peter and Brad are, to me, like two sons. Peter likes to talk music with me and I with him. Unlike many younger journalists, he knows the first name of George Jones and also knows that is different from Grandpa Jones, my old Thoreau-spouting friend. Peter and I’ve been known to share a large souvlaki platter. Gonna lick the platter, the gravy doesn’t matter.
And Brad, well, he is a man I’ve come to admire as much for being able to deal with a series of setbacks and still maintaining his level head and positive outlook as for his personal warmth and, well, large array of black shirts.
As for me, well, here I am, sitting in my living room, after my downstairs office was flooded out during the great Gurgling Water Massacree of a month ago, and I’m typing about CMA Music Festival for free, as no one will pay me to do so.
As I do this, I keep coming back to the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania.
Anyway, I do like what the CMA Fest has become and what it has done for our city. Despite my sometimes anachronistic appearance, I am a fairly progressive sort who wishes only the best for our flood-ravaged city. And I have a lot of respect and even admiration for many of today’s stars, like Blake Shelton and Miranda Lambert.
And the CMA Music Fest brings in an estimated 67 billion bucks daily while the tourists are here. I think I made up those figures. We’ll see if they turn up in the local press.
It really is cool to see the newer and younger artists. I mean, Carrie Underwood does look better than, say, Loretta Lynn. Although I’d rather listen to Loretta sing. Sorry Carrie: My daughter does love you, though. And you looked swell in that softball outfit Monday night at Greer. That oughta sell a few more CDs.
And Josh Turner makes female heartbeats patter faster than Conway Twitty did in his later years.
And who wouldn’t prefer to see Kenny Chesney sing about his blue chair ponderings rather than seeing Billy Ray Cyrus do Achy Breaky Heart? (This is a hint… stay tuned).
These are all pluses of the new festival. Well, not new anymore. Just the way most of you know it because of its recent, splashy, star-spangled and well-shaved success. And I hope you support it. I know I’ll try to get down to a couple of events, mainly because I like to be around the enthusiasts who come from all over the world to get Taylor Swift’s autograph.
Oh, yeah, I like Taylor Swift a lot, even if I don’t like her music that much. She’s a good person, which to me matters a lot.
But as much as I love the CMA Music Festival, and as much as it brings back fond memories of planning out coverage while Brad Schmitt did his old police reporter best to shoot holes in every story anyone was planning – including his own, which usually had the most holes, as it were – the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania always returns to my heart when CMA Music Festival gets going.
You see, before the makeover – and like I said, it’s generally very good – the thing was called “Fan Fair” and was held in the sweaty barns, mule stalls and near the manure pits at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds.
Of course, we all have a way of remembering the charm and grace of things in hindsight. The charm of Fan Fair was in the wide array of pawn shop glory and claustrophobic sweat and panic attacks.
I don’t lament its passing. But I do miss some of the seedy Joshua Tree roadside snake show flavor of the old Fan Fair.
Everyone was jammed in those little stalls. It didn’t matter if you were Garth Brooks – who once did 24 hours straight of autographing in his booth – or Jimbo and Jim Beam, leaders of the Starcrossed Cattle Ranchers Swing Band and Bowling Team from some coal town in Pennsylvania. If you had a CD to sell or a pin to sell, you were there.
And sometimes there were guys, like the kindly and cool quadriplegic, who followed the band from the coal town to Nashville as they took their shot at the big time in this cow manure scented section of 110-degree Nashville. I can’t remember if they were wearing their bowling shirts. They may have left them in the swelter of the adjacent trailer park.
I would go most years, even after it became CMA Fest, to check things out. And, as I hate heat almost as much as I despise floods and that creep who chose to rub against tattoos instead of Sandra Bullock, I relished the air conditioning of the venues in the modern era.
But sometimes I can’t resist the sort of melancholia that sweeps over me when I remember Conway and Loretta on the stage at the side of the race track. Or the big reunion between George Jones and Tammy Wynette, back when she was still alive. I still love George and I miss Tammy a lot. I wish she was still around. Although no one would recognize her.
Heck, if I remember right (I may be right, I may be crazy), the Beach Boys were there one year. I believe Brian Wilson brought his sand box and Dennis Wilson was still dead. Mike Love was there and I think maybe that guy from that stupid TV sitcom that produced the phenomenon known as those sexy and sometimes lightweight Olsen sisters. I can’t remember his name, other than the fact he dumped a supermodel wife or vice versa. But that has little to do with Fan Fair, anyway. And he wasn’t a good drummer.
OK, you ask me where the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania coal country comes in. I wish I remembered his name. He was a great guy, full of life-affirming philosophy. I spent more than an hour with him as his friends made sure he made it to the various shows and booths.
I was there as features editor of the old Nashville Banner. And while Jay Orr and either Calvin Gilbert or Michael Gray were studying the serious acts and pontificating on the joys and sorrows of Fan Fair, I was always going out there in my role as a columnist, seeking human interest stories.
I chose this one day back in 1992 to go to the Fairgrounds because I had been reading about the “Cyrus Virus” spread by a pelvic-thrusting singer who was capturing hearts in backwoods Kentucky, which is much of the state. I wanted to see what this guy was all about.
So I made my way to the big stage and stood in awe as this mullet-headed mother nature’s son sang and danced to the almost unforgettable (unfortunately) song with its gripping lyrics: “Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart / I just don’t think it’d understand/And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart/ He might blow up and kill this man.”
The crowd – mostly 57 years old with pig-tails and stretch, pink and yellow clothes held up by elastic American flag suspenders (and we’re talking all genders here) – screamed wild approval.
“So this is country music,” I said, as I watched the twitching, seemingly good-natured guy begin his skyrocket to stardom that would spawn Hannah Montana and a slutty looking Miley Cyrus. Put some pants on, kid.
As for me, well, I wasn’t all that impressed. I mean, I thought he was talented and all. I later found him to be a really nice guy. But I had come for George Jones. And I thought I’d seen Skeeter Davis someplace back in the barns/exhibition halls. She was the one who brought the Byrds to the Opry and I always loved to speak with her.
So, as I walked out of the grandstands and down into the potholed pathway back to the halls, I saw this guy in his wheelchair. He was laughing. He was happy. Billy Ray Cyrus, he figured, was pretty good.
It all didn’t matter, because instead of sitting back in his home in a Pennsylvania coal mining town making small talk with Bob Barker, he was here, in Nashville. And maybe he’d see George Jones or Loretta Lynn. Heck, this Garth Brooks kid was pretty darned good, even though he had by then begun his Peter Pan act, he reckoned. For the record: Garth always has been kind to me, so I had to agree with my new friend.
I found much joy in talking with this guy. It made my trip to the Fan Fair grounds worthwhile. And I climbed back into my crappy red Saturn with its peeling impenetrable clear finish and drove back to the offices of the afternoon newspaper.
I began to sing. No it wasn’t “Achy Breaky Heart”, that would be too good an ending. I think I was singing “May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose.”
Course, I really can’t remember if any of the above is true. It was a long time ago, in an era that will from now on be known as a time not only before the flood but before Hootie became a country superstar.