The Sky Is Falling: Another Trip
The following is a public service announcement brought to you by those who know better than you.
The Never Weather Service has issued a severe winter storm warning in effect from now until the end of time. If you are one of the unfortunates in the path of this life-threatening weather system - which could pack a wintery precipitation wallop of two inches to seven million feet of snow in addition to tornadoes, hurricanes, wildfires, riots, earthquakes, bad television and a possible monsoon - you are strongly advised to scurry to your nearest grocery store and stock up for the end of life as you know it.
And make sure you're as rude as humanly possible. This is paramount.
If that means scrapping to the death for the last loaf of bread or gallon of milk on Earth, so be it. This is an emergency that may or may not happen, but be very afraid regardless. Other products worth taking a life for include, but are not limited to: soup, eggs, Hot Pockets, frozen dinners, ice cream sandwiches, fruit snacks (any brand), frozen pizzas, toilet paper, soap (pump, bar or otherwise), macaroni (or any such pasta that can be found), broth (beef is fine, but chicken is preferred), toothpaste, video games, Starburst jellybeans, applesauce, pudding, Pop Tarts, and crossword puzzles.
Again, this is a highly dangerous situation that requires your utmost fear and preparation. Anyone who does not panic is doomed and has clearly forgotten the Blizzard of '78. Best of luck, and may God be your copilot.
I'm cranky right now, my friend. But it falls on the mellow side of cranky, so at least there's that.
Here I sit, awaiting a winter storm that is projected to bury and fossilize man-and-womankind throughout my entire area. I've been waiting all day, because my schedule was scrapped in anticipation for what still hasn't flashed its nasty grin.
I don't sit still very well, but I'm getting better at it. It's kind of like saying a less-than-safe driver is getting better at driving due to not hitting anything yet this week, but that's beside the point. I know you aren't particularly interested in how well I deal with sitting still ...
And I don't blame you. Not in the slightest.
The panic began days ago despite the first reports warning of a mere ten inches of total snowfall spread over a two-day period. That's really not too crazy for life in the swamp. But per usual, the fear swelled along with the rumors, which quickly propelled the precipitation projection to somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty inches ... per second.
I'm spreading the sarcasm sauce on very thick, of course, mainly because I find it all so amusing, if not somewhat nauseating.
But I prepared, I tell you ... I really did. I was right there among the horde of other paranoid freaks two days ago, combing the shelves for whatever groceries remained. Do I need to tell you that I vividly recall the blizzard of all blizzards, the one that reshaped how we folks in these parts get down with violent winter weather forecasts?
And I was thoroughly ready, mentally and physically, to awake this morning as a shut-in, buried to the hilt in snow with nowhere to go. My mind was set on my own sautéed version of "all work and no play," much like John Daniel Edward "Jack" Torrance of The Shining lore, but without the axe ... and the attempted murder ... and the actual murder ... and the hallucinations ... or general insanity ... or freezing to death.
So maybe not much like ol' Jack Torrance at all then. I just wanted to be stuck at home with no other choice than to do creative shit with that menacing stranded vibe greasing the wheels.
How's that?
Much to my daylong disappointment, all it did was rain in front of a cold, damp, gloomy February backdrop. I still have been engaged in the creative hubbub, but damnit, the wheels aren't greased. I need the wheels greased. I was ready, man ... I really was. I wanted a snowstorm, and all it did was ...
Hold on. What's this? Is it ...? It is. It's snowing, actually quite significantly. I do believe the storm has arrived, and I'm about to eat my words. But I am always prepared to eat my words.
That's why I try to cook them up to be tasty.
Like a thick, inviting slab of Thanksgiving turkey - or a greasy egg sandwich with generous amounts of salt and peppahhhhh.
So now I'm going to channel my inner-Jack Torrance, fire up the music and take another trip to wherever I end up.
You're more than welcome to come along, as long as you bring the bread and milk.
The wheels are greased. Let's roll.
Styx - Too Much Time On My Hands
I believe my adult days spent as a performer were certainly predicated by my childhood.
Of course, everything we do as an adult is, was, and will be forever resting on a foundation that was poured in our youthful formative years. But sometimes things happen when we are kids that script our future endeavors with a heavier hand and darker ink. There's just some kind of internal switch that gets tripped and, whether it happens instantaneously or lies dormant until future ignition, causes a reaction in us that creates a large part of our selves-to-be.
For me, that was singing on the bus. Singing Styx on the bus, to be exact.
"Yeahhh, I'm sitting on this barstool, talking like a damn fool ... got the twelve o'clock neeeews bluuuues ..."
I have to estimate that I was around eight years old (that seems to be the age that so many of my musical recollections stem from), and my knowledge of barstools was non-existent. And you know, I absolutely loved the fact that I could utter a swear word in the context of a song and get away with it.
I'd still play it at a low volume in the confines of my bedroom - even pressing the stop button if I heard footsteps creaking down the hallway - to avoid any undue shame I would feel if caught listening to such rubbish. I wasn't raised in an album-burning, holy-rolling household by any means.
I was just a wide-eyed kid who was taught that cussing was off limits, so I assumed that applied to what I was listening to as well. I didn't know how old Dennis DeYoung was at the time, but I knew he wasn't a child, and apparently throwing out an occasional "damn" for emphasis was not just fair game, but a necessity.
However, that didn't stop me from wondering if his mom was ever disappointed in him. Ah, to be a kid again.
But it made me feel so damn cool to experiment with such a rhythmical introduction to swearing, and it really busted up the older kids on the bus. With portable cassette player in tow, I got on the bus each day with Styx and my new friends from REO Speedwagon, and off we rolled to another day of second grade.
Mornings were sluggish, as you might imagine. There was no excessive frolicking or performing for this guy, not when there was a big day of whatever the hell was going to happen at school.
I still very much enjoyed school at that time, so I was always ready to - and did - face it with a smile.
Needless to say, it helped to have Styx along for the ride. I would listen intently to every note, every word of every song, soaking up all the coolness I would need to breeze through my day while impressing each one of my second-grade classmates with my ironclad grip on all things rock-and-roll.
Well, it didn't exactly go that way all the time. But you know what I mean.
I grooved, strolled and strutted right through each day with ease until, at long last, it was time for the ride home. That's when the party started, or as much of what I could compare to a party in my ignorant youthful bliss.
"Hey, sing some Styx. Let's hear you sing some Styx. C'mon, sing some Styx," the older kids hounded.
I would always initially decline. Even as an eight-year-old "rock star," I was painfully shy, like a nun in a locker room - boys or girls.
They wouldn't let up, so I would give in, clear my nervous throat, press play, feel out the groovy intro, and await my cue.
"Yeahhhh, I'm sitting on this barstool, talking like a damn fool ... got the twelve o'clock neeeews bluuuues ..."
And they loved it, or seemed to anyway. Applause always followed, and I imagined Dennis DeYoung himself singing some Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly or other old relics to the older kids on his bus. "Wow, and look where he ended up," I beamed to myself.
But looking back, perhaps these older kids - who paid me in nickels, dimes and even an occasional quarter sometimes - were simply amused by the second-grader who naively sung of barstools, news blues and bottles of cold brews. Maybe they found outrageous humor in witnessing such a young kid swear with rhythmic gusto, using words they weren't allowed to throw around their houses, either.
All I know is that I got an enormous rush out of stepping outside of myself entertaining them, and the applause felt remarkable. So good, in fact, that it became a huge part of my life down the road on countless stages in front of countless people.
I feel like I still got paid in nickels, dimes and the occasional quarter, especially in the early days.
But that gradually got better, along with my swearing.
That got much, much better ...
Exodus - The Toxic Waltz
"Nine minutes ...!"
"Eleven minutes ...!"
"Eight minutes ...!"
Delivering pizzas could be a lucrative occupation for a musician, just as it could also be not so lucrative. It depended on a host of variables - the day of the week, the time of the day, the weather, etc.
When it was good, it was good. When it wasn't, it wasn't. The feast-or-famine scenario was always in full effect, like shooting craps in a dark alley with random, unsavory thugs and hustlers. Dealing with the generous and, conversely, the greedy was the order of the day, and service with a smile was key to either success or demise.
Your choice ... or should I say, my choice, as one of those onetime pizza slingers from another era in a different world.
It was the job of the driver - when not putting his or her life on the line in a crazy hustle to ensure prompt, profitable delivery through rain, snow, sleet and traffic - to take care of all the things needed behind the scenes to make each and every pizza joint hum. There were boxes to fold, there was sauce to stir, dough to make and cut to specifications, and myriad utensils to keep spotless as spotless could be.
You know, something to do with the health department, keeping a license or what have you.
And then ... it would happen.
"Delivery ...!"
The first available driver would leap to the call, expeditiously moving the order from delivery rack to insulated sack. When it was beyond a reasonable doubt that the order was correct and ready to fly, it would be whisked out the door with the driver, who would call out the amount of minutes that had expired from the time the order was placed.
"Fifteen minutes ...!"
Anxiety rode shotgun if that much time had gone by, as the order was in danger of being late ... and the tip was in as much peril of not existing.
Each delivery made my stomach growl, even if I wasn't hungry. Just the smell of pizza would do that to me, taunting me like a vacation I wasn't able to take at the moment and making me feel like a weepy child. I would crank the engine over, wait for it to purr and, several times, hear the following flow from the speakers ...
"Here's a new dance craze that's sweeping the nation
It's called the Toxic Waltz and it's causing devastation
You're jumping up and down like a psycho circus clown
Slamming with waltzers all the way around"
Yeah, that's how it was in those days. I found life and energy through craziness. Sometimes I think I still do.
The race against time began, whipping around curves and corners; cruising down back streets wrought with potholes, stray cats, blind dogs, slow children and angry pedestrians; cursing at drivers I found to be worse than me. All of this happening with one eye darting from the road to the time, which ticked away minute by jittery minute, and Exodus cheering me on.
"You get caught up in the whip, thrown into a flip
You aim for someone's head to stain the floor red"
I made it to the destination, a feat that would be miraculous by today's standards without such newfangled technological aids as GPS to light the way. None of that for me, thanks. This was sheer, cutting-edge instinct at its finest.
Or ... just knowing my way around town.
Scooping up the order from the passenger seat, I began the frenzied last mile up the sidewalk to the front door.
Wait, did I forget the Coke? I better not have forgotten the Coke. That's a fireable offense, and maybe even a sin that sends a person straight to Hell around here.
Ah, whew ... nope. I remembered the Coke.
I dashed to the front door with a long ponytail flapping in the wake, delivering the goods (with a smile, mind you) and completing the transaction seamlessly. A tip was involved and the pressure was off; back to the car to continue drumming along on the steering wheel to my evening's soundtrack.
"Everybody's doing the toxic waltz, kick your friend in the head and have a ball
Come on and do the toxic waltz, and slam your partner against the wall
Everybody's doing the toxic waltz, good friendly violent fun in store for all
Get up off your ass and toxic waltz ... if you hit the floor, you can always crawl"
Back in the store, remnants of the song followed me inside. The groove was still there, pulling my strings like a marionette that was now stirring a large kettle of dough with thoughts drifting in dreamlike anticipation to the next time I would be on a stage.
Or to the next time I would feel the inflating freedom of escape.
Or even to the next time I would be back in my car.
"Delivery ...!"
"Eight minutes ...!"
Journey - City Of The Angels
She carefully applies her makeup. Tonight will be the night.
Her dress fits tightly, but not in a way that one would perceive as trashy. Tonight will be the night.
Wiry hair that once flowed softly and smoothly is now cropped short above the shoulders. But she's still a looker, she convinces herself. Tonight will be the night.
The phone rings loudly, breaking up a private moment of self-scrutinizing reflection. It rings unanswered until all is silent again. Tonight will be the night.
The unforgiving mirror shows hard lines under a harsher glow of fluorescence, but they're no match for a little extra foundation and a generous layer of mascara. Tonight will be the night.
He combs his thinning hair that used to be thick and full, but not to worry. Worrying may only make his scalp more vulnerable. Tonight will be the night.
He brushes jagged teeth stained by nicotine, booze and time. They could be worse, he reasons. Tonight will be the night.
The pungent smell of dated musk permeates the room's limited air supply. But the label guarantees to drive women wild. Tonight will be the night.
Were these lines around the eyes this noticeable last month, or even last week? Don't think about it, he says. Tonight will be the night.
His suit, once considered trendy, now bears the wrinkles only years of hiding away in a closet can create. It matches his face, so all is well. Tonight will be the night.
The phone rings loudly, breaking up a private moment of self-scrutinizing reflection. It rings unanswered until all is silent again. Tonight will be the night.
She washes off her makeup and removes her dress, carefully returning it to the closet with the others. A sad sigh says it all.
He takes less care placing his suit back on its usual hanger as he did removing it; even less than he did the last time he dared to be so bold. A sad sigh says it all.
Maybe next time.
Aw, the poor fools. Well, I believe this trip is over. I think I'll go watch the snow ...
And make an egg sandwich.
