80s Airwaves - 80’s Music, Movies, Media & More

In the past two weeks, while becoming more active on Facebook, a classmate informed me that our 25th reunion was in the works (Class of ’85) for 2010. During this time I’ve probably viewed dozens, if not hundreds of current pictures of classmates, read dozens of their status posts and watched slide-shows of my former friends and classmates on Facebook. Not to mention scads of scans of old photos from grade school and high school. With all of that online and available, I wondered if a reunion was really necessary, in our new age of digital reminiscence.

At our 20 year reunion, just four years ago, we already did the social catch-up thing. So now, thanks to both Facebook and some past reunions, we already know how fat some people have gotten, how much hair some people have lost, who has kids, who has implants, who lives where, who is divorced and how many times, who died, who was born again and all the rest. The passage of time has meant that we all celebrated our 40th birthday a couple years ago and, for the most part, our lives are underway. You have gone to college, or not, you have likely selected your “career path,” you may have purchased a house or two, you have probably had children, and some of you may even have grandchildren. The only real question that matters to me today is; What’s next?

If we set aside the past twenty four years of “life” that’s happened to us all, and look from here out, what does your future look like? What are your expectations and what dreams or goals remain unfulfilled? Can you, in the immortal words of the legendary band The Replacements, “Look me in the eye and tell me ‘I’m Satisfied’”? I wish there were a website that made it as easy to share future goals and ambitions as Facebook makes it to relive past glory days. My suggestion, start with five targets for the next five years and a total of ten if you want to go ten years out, like I have here:

1. Learn Boating and Ocean Navigation
2. Spend no less than two weeks in Ireland/Isle of Man
3. Live outside North America for at least three months
4. Buy a cottage or condo in another country
5. Write a book – probably a musician biography
6. Buy a franchise and/or Create a Franchise/License Opportunity
7. Launch another business – become completely self-employed
8. Air Balloon Ride within the Grand Canyon
9. Create a Music Library/performance space open to the public and suited for aspiring musicians
10. Find a new home in NC or SC – near the ocean of course

“Make sure the fortune that you seek, is the fortune you need”
– Ben Harper “Diamonds on the Inside”

If you want to share and compare “What’s Next” lists at the next reunion, I will look forward to hearing your future goals and the stories of your life. If you care about what was going on with me just before the 20 year reunion, that post is still up – click here.

-pjc

For all our friends back in WI/IL and the WHS Classmates, here’s an email I sent seven years ago about today, THE FIRST DAY OF SUMMER! Please have one on me in our absence - we’ll be visiting a local beach here in CT or RI as well:

From: pjc53147
To: woodstock1985@yahoogroup
Sent: Monday, May 6, 2002 7:40:22 AM
Subject: [woodstock1985] Friday June 21, 2002 Take the day off and come to LG!

The first day of summer arrives on Friday, June 21 this year
kiddies and that now means something to anyone from the
Woodstock High School Class of 1985. As opposed to
having some “official” reunion every 10 years, why
not just agree to gather on a specific day and place? That day is
the first day of summer and the place is Fontana Beach on Lake
Geneva. Bring your beach chairs, frisbees, boats, water wings
and refreshments and get some sun on that old body of yours!

Do not expect name tags, bad cover bands of 80s music or any
other type of formal organization. Just show up and hang out at
the beach, Chucks, the Abbey or any of the surrounding
establishments. Run into old friends and enemies and buy them
a drink or two. Can’t make it this year? See you next year then;
same first day of summer and same place.

This does not in any way replace an “official” reunion someone
might try to organize. This is the unofficial and absolutely
informal reunion that no one will organize… or maybe even
recognize.

Patrick J.

Saturday - May30:
Up early with Aimee - she has a client on Saturday morning’s so no more sleeping in. After breakfast with Seinfeld, I walk the dog, run the neighborhood and hit the shower. During the dog walk another neighbor walker stops to ask what’s happened to Aimee - that she’s not seen her in months. While considering playing up the idea of being a psycho killer who’s chopped up his wife and placed her remains in the burn pit out back, I confess the truth instead and outline her new direction on becoming a personal trainer. Seemingly disappointed with my true story, Carol wishes me well with my walk and probably creates her own ideas of where Aimee’s body has been hauled off to.

After running to the post office to stop mail and heading home to pack quickly, we are off to the Cape for a day with the family and a night of great Tapas for dinner. The Cape house is simply stunning - see pix. Every Summer we make a pact to enjoy the house even more since, given Aimee’s Grandfather’s ripe old age of 90, we are never certain how much longer this gem will be available to us. Her aunts have done simply amazing things with the landscaping and the house is in full bloom - along with the pine pollen. We arrive to find Grandpa outback painting the fence between the family house and his own private residence that he build for his new wife. The man still looks amazing given his years and makes me rethink my ideas of old age.

After a cocktail or two at the house - called “dressers” for those keeping track at home, we head off for dinner. Not remembering that Embargo had outdoor dining we take a booth near the bar and promptly have a half-dozen dishes brought to our table with a very steady supply of liquids as well. A $22 tip to the waitress and an extra $20 to the bus boy who was clearly the hardest working guy in the bunch and we’re back to the Cape house in time for ice cream deserts with the family and their friends. Off to bed early for the 4am alarm.

Sunday - May 31:
Aimee’s alarm goes off at three fucking something. My cell alarm goes off at a more reasonable four fucking fifteen. A quick shower, shave and repack of the basics. Let Mr. Joe pee on a few trees and we wish him well as we depart Osterville MA just shortly after 5AM. A quick trip to the Providence Airport - not really Providence a sign inside tells me - actually Warwick RI - can’t recall the airport name; GI Joe something or other. P.T. Barnum… ? no. The flight from RI to Charlotte goes off with out a hitch. Lots of Nascar stuff within the Charlotte airport reminds me of Jim and why he should be moving his family to NC. I’ll take some pix on the way back through to help convince him -since the odds of him flying again are slim. We don’t miss a beat on the 30 min trip from Charlotte to Savannah airport. As you might imagine, the Savannah GA airport is all about southern charm and quaint out the ass. They stole the rocking chairs idea from Charlotte - or was it vice-versa? Who cares. Aimee’s friend is there to pick us up - and she’s obviously disappointed about the no alcohol until 12:30 on Sundays law in Georgia - it was 12:15 when we landed.

After a bit of bad navigation we find Savannah with both hands and even get lucky enough to find our house for the week. We show up early and our host is actually in the unit doing wedding planning with some clients. We are none too discrete as we drop off our bags two hours early, mix ourselves cocktails for the road and set off to find some lunch on the river walk a few blocks away.

The Savannah river walk is none too impressive: Very similar to the river walk in San Antone - but not nearly as much fun or as scenic. There simply aren’t enough bars. We run into a psychzophrenic who seems to silently mimic everything Aimee is saying to a friend on the phone. The friend, who had lived in the Midwest, now lives 30 miles outside Savannah - so we are seeking some local advice. We try his first suggestion - margaritas at the Slippery Frog or something. Every god-damned drink comes from a Slurpee machine - nothing on the rocks - no hard stuff. And the crap tequila they use combined with being all ice, delivers some evil combination of brain-freeze and hang over headaches without the benefit of actually being drunk. Who was this guy and why exactly were we listening to him?

We get the call from our house host/wedding planner dude that our “house is clean”. After another couple stops for drinks, and coffee and muffins for the next morning, we head back. The bad tequila takes its toll, and combined with a bit of sleep deprivation, the three of us crash for nearly three hours. Gathering our senses in time for dinner, we decide to take the car over to the City Market. After peeking in on a few different restaurants, “we” decide on another Tapas restaurant. Not a real Tapas restaurant according to my definition, just one actually called Tapas. My definition comes from the UK TV show called The IT Crowd: Tapas = Tiny food from Spain. My Cajun Chicken Tortellini dish is enough to give a guy my size heart seizure - but beyond some over cooked noodles - it was very tasty. Our waitress, who could also double as a bouncer in case things get crazy at Tapas, gives us some great tips on where to go and what to do while in town. She also tells us the story of someone who borrowed her car, left a note and let her dogs in from the rain and yet they went to jail for three years thanks to her. Backing away from the restaurant carefully, we head off for some late night shopping and whiling at Kroger before returning home for the night.

Monday - June 1:
The misses forces me into a work out, after a breakfast of coffee and a blueberry muffin with cinnamon crusties on top. And while we planned ahead for coffee and creamer and Splenda and muffins - who’s thinking about filters? Luckily, a paper towel sufficed nicely and didn’t catch fire - much to my disappointment. After a sweaty work out and shower, all three of us were off to Tybee Island for a Monday in the sun.

Tybee Island is only about 20 minutes east from our north-easterly Savannah house. After a stop at the Tybee post office to pay a bill and another stop at the local Waves for an umbrella and some flip-flops we hit South Beach on Tybee just after 1pm. A few Margarittas and a bad cheeseburger was all we needed to clear the webs for another fun-sun day. For anyone not familiar with Tybee - it’s like a very quaint version of Myrtle Beach with plenty of bad food joints, dusty beach bars and cool people you’ll be better off to have met. I cant wait to return.

Though the bartender at the beach bar had it in for me I believe - or at least in for my wallet. Bitches. That must be something they teach you at bar-keep school; how to soak people. Keep them drunk enough that they tip heavily, but not so drunk they pass-out. Or maybe she learned that while dancing her way through college. Maybe both. I barely remember packing things up off the beach, but I guess we did. Would hate to think I blew $30 for an umbrella and $10 for an umbrella auger only to leave them both behind for the gulls to pick at.

Some of the locals in the downtown Tybee bar suggested CJ’s or AJ’s - BJ’s? Anyway, we were there for dinner. Aimee was asked politely to put on some clothes since the owner noticed her wearing only a bikini top. While I don’t recall the name of the joint- we did snap off some nice pictures that will help me later and we all look pretty happy. And as we left, Aimee slid some European looking dude her friend’s number - at least I hope it was her friend’s number…

Tuesday - June 2:
Aimee and friend head off early for a run. An incident at Kroger’s has established itself as a meme with our group; “Y’all must be sisters” recurs frequently as Aimee and friend seem to have the exact same taste in clothes, shoes, bikini’s, workout gear - just about everything. Including two “fancy” red dresses that they both choose to wear to dinner tonight. With me, looking more like Don Johnson than Don Juan, many Savinnians (?) cast unapproving glances at the three of us as we moved from streets to shops.

I now believe there is a lot more merit to this idea of soaking. Maybe it’s not just something taught in strip clubs or barkeep schools, maybe it’s a trait that is acquired or developed. It certainly could be learned by both sexes. It’s a very subtle art. Maybe it’s a gene that is passed from generation… Or maybe I’m just bitter about a $200 dinner tab. Yep - that’s probably it.

Following our fancy dinner in their fancy dresses, we once again miss the mark trying to find the Six Pence Pub where our guide for the night is waiting patiently for us to fill our new glow-in-the-dark cups for a true Savannah Haunted Pub Crawl. While I had imagine a grey-haired lady, native to Savannah, or at least Georgia, instead we were led fearlessly through the night by a red-haired native long-islander. While she transplanted herself here over a decade ago, she’s still very clearly a Yankee, but the rest of us tourist don’t seem to care much as we all point out idiosyncrasies for our own dialects.

The Ghost Pub Tour was great fun, but probably should have required a bit more drinking and maybe a bit more socialization amongst the group. Highlights included visiting the 17 Hundred 90 Inn and hearing the story of how the young female ghost there took her life when he much older husband would not allow her to leave on the ship with a young naval captain who was heading off to sea. The Pirate House pub/restaurant also holds a place in history where Captain Flint died, along with hundreds of other souls who were being shanghaied to be placed on a pirate ship and set off to sea, when their drug wore off and they awoke in the midst of a secret tunnel. Death was said to be immediate and probably not very pretty either. Discussion about the Savannah graveyard was also significant, so much so that I ended up purchasing a book about the yard the next day. Our tour concluded at the Moon River brew-pub on East Bay - or as we’ve been referring to this main corridor that runs adjacent to the river walk; eBay. The Moon River has a handful of it’s own stories and certainly had a creepy upstairs are where most of the public is not allowed to go. We walked on to a movie set for some independent film of a guy who makes a doll come to life and then does bad things to her. Sounds like Weird Science of the Lambs. The building is really creepy and our group begins snapping more pictures in a desperate search of strange orbs, objects or faces within the frame. Nothing seems to develop, but a good time was had by all. All except the tortured souls who have to play host to us roaming, rambling bunch of drunken misfit idiots nightly.

Despite some drama at the Irish pub on River street following the tour – some of which apparently required one of our tour friends to press her breasts together so other people could get photographic evidence of her cleavage – it became somewhat clear to me that walking the streets of Savannah after Midnight with two ladies in red who were well in the bag was probably not the most sound of ideas. Our tour guide gladly guided us to a taxi stand just off eBay street. When I walked up to the window, the driver was clearly sleeping. When I announced our destination through the open passenger window he awoke and seemed to go from zero to 10 in about 45 seconds. After we were all aboard, I notice an oxygen tube attached to our drivers face, which combined with his rough gravelly voice clearly indicated a long-time smoker. As he put his van in drive, and made exiting very difficult or at least dangerous, he grabbed a Swisher Sweet and unwrapped it quickly. I watched in horror as the guy put the thing in his mouth – he was not going to light this, was he? Envisioning exploding taxi vans in the dark Savannah night sky, I was relieved to see that this was his remaining (final?) vice. Check off one more night in Savannah with one more full day to go.

Wednesday - June 3:
Knowing that today will be our final full day in Savannah I nix the return to the beaches and bitches of Tybee idea and I start our small group off early in quest of some true BBQ. After having read about Walls BBQ on a variety of website and guides, and seeing from a website that it was open Wed-Sunday, we walk the few blocks that separates our rental home for the week from Walls. While their address was 515 E York, we walk down York and see only some older small homes - including one at 515 which is very clearly not a restaurant. As we turn a corner we see an alley that runs behind the York street homes and sure enough, there’s a sign for Wall’s at the corner. The three of us meander down this alley, complete with feral cats, over-flowing garbage cans and cars on blocks. What an ideal setting for lunch in beautiful Savannah! This is the historic district, however, so maybe history trumps beauty in this neighborhood. As we come upon the… building, I am expecting to smell the place before seeing it - but no such luck. Walls, my friends is open on Thursday’s through Sunday, not Wednesday, and I am totally disappointed. And yes, my female accompaniment reminded me to phone first for future reference.

Not giving up easily, and with Savannah guide book tightly in hand, I reconvene our group to find another BBQ target. I remember reading about another place called Angels BBQ, and even though they aren’t listed in my handy book, I am at least now well aware of the power of phoning first. My call reveals that the owners of Angels are away and will not be returning until June 10th. We page through the book and find another place called Sticky Fingers in Savannah on Abercorn. Abercorn street was just two blocks over from where we currently stood like tourists waiting for guidance. I call to confirm and sure enough Sticky Fingers is open! I could almost smell the smoke from where we stood. Or so I thought. As we reach Abercorn and start to make our way south, I notice the street numbers were in the low hundreds. That doesn’t seem right. I open my guide book again and see that Sticky Fingers is listed at seven thousand something Abercorn… Another call reveals that they are in SOUTH Savannah. I had no idea there even was a South Savannah - seems a bit redundant, but what do I know. Three missed targets and three hungry and slightly hung-over tourists now have a mission. We are not stopping until we find BBQ in this damned town. Asking some locals on the street, they each mentioned Walls, which clearly even they didn’t realize wasn’t open on Wednesday’s. I feel justified in my original goal and now wish we had an extra day to enjoy this magical smoked meat palace. Someone, who looks to be just moving in suggests Tony Roma’s. Really? I am going to fly into Savannah Georgia and go to a rib franchise for lunch? Don’t think so. You must not be from around these parts.

A few more quick page flips and I stumble upon BBQ Express on Whitaker - over a few more blocks and north towards the City Market. At the same time my wife gets a lead on a place called Blowin’ Smoke even further west on MLK. We call both and they are open. We choose to target BBQ Express first because it’s closer and we are getting damned hungry by now. Before arriving we all agree that if there is no beer or alcohol we would move on to the next (last) option. Amazingly, the BBQ Express smells great from the outside, is buzzing with activity inside and thankfully owns a liquor license as well. We settle into the last four-top available and a few minutes later our much sought after BBQ arrives. As is usual with bad food, everything was super tasty, everything went well with beer and beyond missing out on what looked to be some legendary onion rings, I would highly recommend venturing south to the BBQ Express for any other SAV tourists near the City Market.

Following lunch, we decided to do a bit of trinket shopping and drinking (of course). A vacation without drunken shopping simply isn’t a vacation, so we started our shopping trip with two rounds of top-shelf margaritas from a Wild Wings franchise within the City Market. After getting primed, the ladies set off in one direction for shopping and I set off in another. The first stop for me was the cigar store (priorities). While paying $9 for a Romeo Y Julietta Reserva Real seems unreasonable, I am on vacation and figure what the hell -the glory of drunken shopping. “It’s just money - I’ll make more” will likely be my final dying words.

Next stop for me, a very hip, slick and trendy art studio called AT Hun. The owner, Chuck Hamilton, is messing with songs on a keyboard he has in the store, singing love songs to his wife, worker, girlfriend - not really sure. What attracts me most is a large picture of The Big Lebowski hanging outside the door - near a sign that reads “Your welcome to bring your drinks, your food and your dog. Really!”. Hey - an independent retail store that is actually open and welcoming to their customers - what a concept. The studio owner offers me a warm welcome and points out a few of the artists on the wall - including himself (clearly a technician suffering from an entrepreneurial seizure). But Chuck IS the artist responsible for “His Dudeness”. If you haven’t seen the Big Lebowski yet - a Cohen Brothers movie featuring Jeff Bridges in his most ideal role since The Fisher King, you need to stop reading this drivel now, quit your job and go watch. Chuck was very cool, and much to my luck, both his posters and framed works are on sale. $105 later, I am now the proud owner of “His Dudeness” personally signed by the artist himself, complete with an obscene F-word quote from the movie on back. On the way out, I encouraged Chuck to see True Romance since our conversations led me to believe he would love that movie. Hopefully, if I’m ever back this way again, I can walk in and see some large renderings of Clarence and Alabama.

After spending some time talking with a friend on the phone about his dad having some pretty serious heart issues, I uncovered a Candy Factory of some type and purchased a handful of caramel creams (called bulls-eyes by some) and also found a jar full of Zotz by the checkout. Zotz! I haven’t seen Zotz in many years - so I bought a strand. Zotz are hard candies that have some major fizz chemicals inside so as the candy dissolves in your mouth, you end up with an alka-seltzer on your tongue. It’s not nearly as pleasurable as I remember and I probably should have just let that childhood memory stand as it was. It also didn’t help my wife’s already gaseous situation one bit.

On our way home we remember the Farmers Market already in progress at the Trustees Garden next door to our house. I purchase a wedge of some really tasty Thai Pepper Cheese made with raw milk, while the ladies buy some home-made baked goods. We retreat home where I enjoy my cheese, my cigar and three and half Rolling Rocks alone before it’s time to leave for our dinner date with the local friends. The cigar - by the way - worth every CENT of $9. One of the best experiences on this trip was sitting on the second floor balcony savoring the cheese and cigar while watching all the greenies get out of their V8 pick-ups and V6 SUVs with their “recycle now” shopping bags in hand, heading for the farmers market. Almost as entertaining as watching the feral cats that were below me chasing birds and foraging for their own organic foods.

After having blocked the patio doors for fear of cigar smoke intruding on their own wine tasting session, the ladies unblock the doors in time for me to realize I have about 10 minutes to shower before our dinner date with the local couple from the Midwest - yes, the same ones who recommended the damned Slurpee bar (called Wet Willies actually - not Slippery Frog, honest mistake). There were a series of events that night - alcohol related of course - that I will try to summarize below, but keep in mind, we have had drinks in hand pretty much since our BBQ lunch, with the exception of an hour or two of shopping.

First stop of the night, the same Irish Pub from the night before, along the river walk to get drinks to… well, to walk the river front and select a place to eat. Not sure if we picked our restaurant because of the food options (cheap oysters) or because our drinks were getting low, but we end up at a Raw Bar -more drinks for all! It’s clear from the dinner conversation that someone within our party, let’s call her drunk friend #1(or DF#1), may have not had enough to eat today. Beyond getting pretty obnoxious and resentful, DF#1 knocks her half-full drink over. Dousing me nicely, but luckily nothing that requires me to buy, borrow or steal a new shirt for the night. After a few Red Stripes and bad jerk chicken, we head up the street looking for more trouble. We discover a “Cheap Coldest Beer in Town” sign and decide to test the theory – the power of advertising. Another round for all (with wheels) and we quickly decide that the live entertainment here is worse than no entertainment so we move on yet again. DF#1 continues to insult people and generally, either be loud or sulking, oscillating quickly between those two extreme points. The entire party is growing weary of her comments and lack of tact.

Last stop of the night – Smiles, a dueling piano bar. A bouncer at the door let us all know that we cannot enter with drinks in hand. So we all stand outside the doors and enjoy the remainder of our refreshments, taking in the night air and clearly audible music from inside. While waiting, a bevy of Savannah’s Best Sorority Sisters arrived with a clearly pleased and proud single gentlemen acting as chaperone for the ladies. “James” was how he introduced himself, but since he explained to me that he was from Chicago originally, I’ll refer to him simply as Jim. Jim was so clearly on the make. Attempting to charm, coerce and cuddle his way into the Savannah society circles of influence that these ladies apparently / probably could allow him access to. While we made small talk, DF#1 made it abundantly clear that she wanted to be introduced to my suave new friend from Chicago, which I grudgingly did. On the inside more drinks flowed, songs were sung and dancing ensued.

Unfortunately, that’s where our happy tale turns. Things started off fine for DF#1. While I had actually bet that it would take her at least two drinks before we found her on-stage singing, I had underestimated her prior drink-to-food ratio, as well as her overarching need to be heard as the next fucking Mariah Carey. With barely a half a drink down, she sat next to the slimmer of the two piano players. They started off with her on one song, but when that was clearly not a winner with her vocal range, they switched quickly to something else – something about Earl? No idea. She did pull it off and, with a little help from my wife, once again ended up giving yet another guy her phone number (the piano player). Meanwhile, as her reward for participating on stage, she has bumper sticker for Smiles slapped on her… bumper.

An hour or so later, DF#1 is attempting to dance with Savannah’s Sorority Sisters – which doesn’t take them too long to figure out just how drunk she is. Then she’s dancing – and pointing? Some very strange and obvious call for attention that says “Hey, look at me – I think I’m hot and I think I can dance and sing too!! Yaaay!” At one point Jim from Chicago is running toward the Sorority Sisters and DF#1 seems to thinks he’s finally come to his senses and is running toward her. Just like in the movies, he runs right past her and she frowns for almost a full second before letting the alcohol guide her back to happy, pointing, dancey-singy land. Yaaaay! Twenty minutes later Jim from Chicago is planning something and leans over to whisper in DF#1’s ear – she envelopes the poor guy. It was something like a praying mantis or venus fly trap or some damned freak of nature thing. Never saw a man be enveloped by such a horny drunk woman in my life, but there it was.

Around Midnight, DF#1 is now onstage with my wife as they attempt to dance with one another. From the video evidence, it’s clear that my wife is the more active of the two. And it’s now obvious to me why so many lesbians seem to flock to my wife at a wide variety of events (three or four within the past year that I can think of). But what’s also clear from the video, is that DF#1 is now seriously slowing down for a reason. The pointing is still there, but its not as obvious or attention getting as it was 30 minutes earlier. The song ends and the ladies magically disappear.

By this point, I’m frustrated. I had paid good money, okay $5, to hear Warren Zevon’s Lawyers, Guns and Money on piano, and it had been almost an hour since that request was submitted (on the convenient napkins ideal for song requests (and tips)). At one point, my wife was on-stage with the piano player hassling him about not playing the song. He admitted not knowing the words and could they play “Werewolves” instead. I concurred. Meanwhile, my wife returns from the ladies room, sans DF#1. “She’s getting sick.” Apparently not to bothered by this, my wife, having gone through many years of this before with DF#1, continues to sing, dance and party. Every five or ten minutes, one of the ladies from our party goes in to check on the DF#1. Eventually, the Piano player begins the opening melody to Werewolves. To my chagrin, my wife retreats back to the bathroom, right around the same time the Werewolf was “Drinking a Pina Colada at Trader Vics”. A few seconds later, both ladies exit the ladies room, one requiring heavy assistance in order to exit without falling down. Our group needs to go -now– right in the middle of MY fucking Warren Zevon request.

Thursday – June 4
While the ladies were up half the night with their bathroom tea party, I got some pretty sound sleep. The next morning was a bit awkward as DF#1 made excuses about why Kettle One was so bad for her and so forth. Our time had come. It was time to get the hell out of this town and time to let this Georgia “Peach” get back to ATL.

There are two simple morals to this lengthy story;
1. Be very careful about who you spend your vacation with.
2. If your career path leads you to become a dueling piano player, please learn the fucking lyrics to Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”

-pjc

I am sorry to say that we will not be able to attend your high school graduation celebration at the end of May.

On that day, at that exact time, we will be arriving in Savannah Georgia for a brief getaway - a place we’ve always wanted to see and experience after reading and hearing so many great and mystical things about it.

But I did not want to let this occasion pass without sharing a few thoughts that I hope will serve you well as adulthood greets you both.

Over the past four years your “world” has been made up almost entirely of your high school, your school friends, your local community and your loving family. Over the next four years, and beyond, you will likely encounter a much larger world than you had known to exist outside of Rock Falls or even outside of Illinois. For your own well-being and benefit I urge you both to take full advantage of the opportunities to explore the opportunities! Use this precious time to discover a new world and discover the great people and personalities who make up that world by being open to it.

Far too many people at your age decide who they are, what they like and what they want, while never leaving home. This view of the world, while still legitimate, lacks many things including depth, experience and imagination. But mostly it lacks perspective. Your mother, father, brother and sister will always represent home, but the next ten years of your lives will help you decide where YOUR home will actually be. Be certain that when you make that decision, it is based upon real experiences, real passion and true knowledge that these next several years can bring you. Take this time to discover the things that bring you joy, from art to books to films, music and people, all without influence of others and without apologies.

We wish you both the very best that life has to offer.

Last night, as we ate left over turkey tacos and fresh margaritas (rocks - no salt), we were simultaneously watching a documentary on actor/hustler Rockets Redglare and making arrangements for my wife to attend the funeral of her Uncle who just passed in Louisville. Again, pronounced Lou-uh-vill. The documentary, available at Netflix, did an excellent job of demonstrating how so many events will impact someone’s life and truly make up who they are. Rockets certainly had an interesting life, from day one when he was born and had to be weaned off the heroine habit that his 15-year old mother had already developed for him. He witnessed and participated in prostitution and, before the age of 14, had already seen two killings by family members close up. The movie includes testimonials from big time Hollywood types include Matt Dillon, Steve Buscemi, Jim Jarmusch, Willem Dafoe and more, all covering the same point; Rockets was hustler. When you thought he was down he came back, because even while down he still had the street smarts to survive. The power of this documentary wasn’t based upon a “watch the dying fat man” angle that it could have taken, but instead look at the amazing life this guy lived, the things he’s done on stage and on screen, the people that he knew and the life experience he had.

A few weeks back, there was a segment on CBS Sunday Morning about a “coach” making a living by training people on how to LOOK busy while they were at work. While mostly a humorous piece by their most comedic reporter, Bill Geist, this person really was teaching people how to do less while fooling their managers into believing they were working. Yes, this is what our country needs right now. More people doing less, while being better actors. Isn’t it bad enough that our nation is already so massively distracted with American Idol, America Can’t Dance, America’s Fat Losers, American Mom of 14 makes a porno and gets pregnant yet again! Why is it that so many of us do not know how to get a job done, from start to finish? While our home values drop by 20% and our 401k’s become 201k’s and while the pink slip is a known reality for probably 10% of us this year, why are we so fixated on someone else’s reality? Is our life so uninteresting that we really need to sit idle in front of a TV for 2 hours a day, three days a week to see someone else’s Idol dreams come true?

Back in 2005, when I was really pushing to get a job outside the Midwest, I was doing phone interviews during my lunch hour and on my way to work and on my way home from work. I was talking with recruiters, checking references and speaking with CEO’s and senior level people about what I can do and what I can provide to their companies. I remember making some significant progress with one NY based firm, and according to the recruiter, I was one of the final three being seriously considered. Then I got the call that they were going with someone else. The recruiter owned up and admitted, “they wanted to go with someone else – someone from the east coast.” I tried hard to defend my pure and true Midwestern work ethic, the hours I put in, the projects I was most proud of, my development of international websites, but ultimately, they knew there was difference between people who will work hard and people who can truly work smart. There is a difference between people who know HOW to get something done and can do it, versus those who will work hard at what you tell them to do. Within my first six months of living in the tri-state area I understood this “resourcefulness” quotient much better. During that time I had access to a team of about eight foreign programmers who would all work hard at the drop of a hat, and do explicitly what I told them to do, but not necessarily in the smartest or most effective ways. Now, after almost three years as a resident here, I understand why an east coast person would get the nod over my formerly more sedate, yet eager, Midwestern psyche.

What’s strange is that my true passion for computers and technology likely came from an attempt to avoid manual labor - not work, but physical, manual labor. During my first “working” summer, at the tender age of 13 (1980), my step-father locked my entire summer up as employee of Heider’s Berry Farm in Woodstock IL. While most teen kids had the summer off or maybe spent a few weeks detasselling all those acres of corn, I spent my full three months working a fruit and vegetable farm with illegals, a few ex-cons and some college kids who all needed the cash with few questions asked. I remember my very first day, walking across the dirt floor of the barn and up to a group of about eight men, all listening intently to the boss, John Heider, while I obnoxiously announced “I’m here”. Heider looked at me with his one good eye and paused, and then just kept talking about whatever it was he was talking about. I was nothing but a farm hand now and I had better be a good one if I expected to stay throughout the summer, regardless of my age or job experience. I learned a LOT that summer. Since it was an open to the public, self-pick farm and I was one of the few people who could speak English but wasn’t legally suppose to drive, I became a “field manager”. Explaining to Chicagoans who had come out to the “country”, in Woodstock, to pick their own strawberries. I would talk to each bus load about how to properly pick a row of strawberries – what to look for and what to leave behind. Learning about public speaking and managing people older than you certainly was a benefit to me. Lots of other stories from that summer, but I am digressing…

The summary is that working hard in Heider’s farm fields and doing manual labor at the Intermatic factory for my next high school summer, basically taught me that I didn’t want to follow in the footsteps of my mother and step-father. I wanted to use my head to make a living so I focused very intently on computers and bought my first computer, a Commodore Vic-20 in late 1980 or early ’81 with the money I had saved from Heider’s. Along with my best friend, who owned an Atari 400, we taught ourselves BASIC and Assembly Language. We would use our lunch hours to visit Beyer’s Newsstand in downtown Woodstock at least once a week to see whether the new COMPUTE! Magazine was in stock or what other computer magazines we should buy; Creative Computing or Byte, there was so much to learn. And if we didn’t find a way to broaden our minds, we could preoccupy ourselves while inconspicuously glancing over the healthy selection of skin mags or finally resigning ourselves to a bad burger and a cherry coke at the counter. At the age of 15 we launched our own software company, Supreme Software, just for Atari and Commodore computers. We created one program, a video check-out system, for the very first video store in Woodstock – Accent Video. Unfortunately, we did the work in trade for a 300bps Modem for my Vic, which got me in a lot of trouble, but I am digressing again…

Continuing my passion for technology and design, and attempts to avoid manual labor and shop class, I would return frequently to Tom Juran’s Graphic Arts class at Woodstock High School. We learned about printing and design, and heard stories about something magical called a Macintosh that would really revolutionize “desktop publishing and design.” Graphic Arts class is where I first heard Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. I was astounded. These amazing stories from the Message and the celebrations within Parties. There was this whole other way of life that was being revealed to me through music that I had not heard before. From there my “street” education had begun; Grandmaster Flash introduced me to Run DMC, which in turn took me to Ice-T and Public Enemy and eventually NWA. Those early influences, I’m certain, pushed me to be a Club DJ, which in turn got me into radio in Chicago which allowed me the knowledge and confidence to launch 80s Airwaves back on May 1, 2004. Without which, you would not be reading this, nor I would not be writing this.

For those of you seeking a more obvious moral, working hard is not sufficient. Pretending to work is a serious mistake that is truly a waste of your life and other people’s precious time. The idea of retirement will soon be quaint memory like family dinners, station wagons and 300 baud modems. To survive this new world we need to be street smart, well connected, working smart and always be aware of what’s happening at every level - and that takes a lot of work.

-pjc

Disclaimer - I’m quite certain this post will anger some: not my intention - not my fault. Stop reading now if you like.

There are somethings that men do not do. FOR EXAMPLE:

A man does not email staff, asking for help with a critical situation, and also CC the CEO to draw attention to himself and the problem. If you need help, ask, but kiss ass and cause drama on your own time. People are, by nature, less likely to put much effort into helping you, if you are throwing them under a bus while asking.

A man does not tell his friends to quit their job to join his new venture unless the funding is locked down OR you tell your new employees they may not get paid. Convincing people to leave paying jobs, when you don’t actually have a job yourself or a real company with cash flow for that matter, is wrong at every level. What’s worse is after you’ve cost those people tens of thousands in real savings (not just lost income), lost houses, credit issues and failed marriages, you then pick up the phone and ask for help with a new “iPhone Apps” business idea you’ve been pitched. Please. You, my ex-friend, are a punk bitch. Make good on the damage you’ve done, or at least admit your wrong doings before calling me again.

A man does not throw himself down on the ground and cry for ANY reason. Except maybe if you’ve been shot… somewhere painful. If your mama died, or your lady is leaving you or your dog bites your balls; suck that shit up and move on. And if you actually do drop to your knees to cry and beg to keep your job or beg for her not to walk, don’t be surprised when someone pukes on the back of your head for making them physically sick over what a punk bitch you really are.

When did some men get so fucking weak? When did this entire “CYA - cover your ass” culture thing start? Way too many people have excuses for everything and yet seem to accomplish nothing.

This morning, when someone on Twitter asked about our most favorite albums, it all kind of clicked for me. During the past several years, I have literally worn out copies of The Dirty South by Drive By Truckers. There are MANY great tracks off this 2004 album - “Daddy’s Cup” was the one that caught my ear while shuffling thru a Chapel Hill record store, but the one that stands out strong is “Carl Perkins’ Cadillac”. Here’s a bit of the good stuff from Mike Cooley of DBT:

Mr. Phillips found old Johnny Cash while he was high.
High before he ever took those pills and he’s still too proud to die.
Mr. Phillips never said anything behind nobody’s back
Like “Dammit Elvis, don’t you know, you ain’t no Johnny Cash”

But Mr. Phillips was the only man that Jerry Lee still would call “sir”
Then I guess Mr. Phillips did all of Y’all - about as good as you deserve
He did just what he said he’s gonna do and the money came in sacks
New contracts and a Carl Perkins’ Cadillac

There is a lot of power there. Simple statements about respect, talking face-to-face and doing what you say you are going to do. “Come hell or high water”, as my step-father would say. And the resulting benefits of money in sacks, new contracts and a big-ass Cadillac. Sign me up.

Even the opening line, “Life ain’t nothing but a blending of all the ups and downs,” speaks volumes. I always think about my wife’s grandfather and his life. He just turned 90 a few weeks back. I shot a video with him five years ago, where he talks about his month long journey cross-country that he and his buddies took back in the 30’s. He talks about being a fighter pilot in the war and his plane going down. How he journeyed on foot through the jungle for 25 days to get back to his base camp. He has clippings from the paper because no one knew whether he was alive or dead. The guy came back, received his awards, raised six kids with his wife, and spent over 20 years with General Electric in Louisville (pronounced Lou-uh-vill) as a sales and marketing executive before retiring in 1980. But the “guy” hasn’t stopped. He still plays golf, almost daily, with a handicap I would be happy to have. He still sells real estate - condos to retirees in Florida. He drives himself and his new lady to dinner almost every night, in a Cadillac of course. Just last Summer we all packed into two cars so he could take us all out for ice cream after dinner - he LOVES ice cream. Now I see where my wife gets it from and where her father got it from! And now we are preparing for his 90th birthday celebration at the home he built on Cape Cod over 40 years ago. There’s no question; he is not a “guy”. He’s a man. A man with some faults, to be certain, but a man, none the less.

I am damn proud to know him for as long as both of us are still around.

And I think, during these difficult times, we all need to “man-up” a little more. Take responsibility for your actions and admit when your wrong. Do what you say you are going to do - plain and simple. Defend with honor what you believe in, regardless of potential outcome. And enjoy the birthday cakes and ice cream while you can.

-pjc

Let me be the last to say Happy New Year to you all.

If you were wondering why things were so quiet here or with my Twitter postings (Tweets), it can be blamed directly on a new project I launched during the last week of December. Those of you who know me well and how I’ve spent the better part of my life surrounded by music, musicians and DJs, will not be surprised to learn that I’ve launched a new online resource for independent musicians and bands called the Social Media Music Guide (SMMuG).

My single, simplistic goal with SMMuG is to help bands/musicians connect with their fans, friends and followers by leveraging technology. I am accomplishing this by providing easy to understand and easy to implement suggestions/recommendations on a wide variety of social media resources. For example, I am providing reviews of Podcasters, Webcasters, Music Review Bloggers and Online Promotional Resources in order to help musicians understand what is available to them, from one single, reputable (okay, reliable) source. I envision this turning into a quarterly zine or PDF guide, given how much I’ve been writing there. This is an entirely free online music marketing and promotional resource - if any money is made it will be from Google AdWords or maybe affiliate links to Amazon or CDBaby (when I get the time to figure THAT out).

A new interview I just finished yesterday, was with the Executive Producer of a new independent movie called The Graduates. This a pretty amazing concept that I am excited about. Basically, an independent film crew, put together the soundtrack for their movie, made up entirely of independent artists, who agreed to give away their music on the soundtrack in order to promote both the film AND their music. Ryan Gielen, the Executive Producer I interviewed, has set his sites on giving away 1 million soundtracks. He even granted me a special SMMuG code in order for anyone reading this to receive the 2 digital disc soundtrack for free. So hit this link, put the soundtrack in your cart and when checking out be sure to use SMMUG as your special code to save $18 and get some great music as well! Maybe the great soundtrack will entice you to see the movie later this year… MAY-BEE.

And while the new SMMuG website isn’t about critiquing music or providing music reviews, each week I am personally selecting a music video that is featured on each page of the website. This week features a new discovery for me - a very talented artist I discovered thanks to the CD Baby podcast; his name is Aidan Hawken. Check out the video on SMMuG and then go promptly to CD Baby and buy one of his CDs. The latest is called The Sleep of Trees - I ordered it yesterday! The Aidan Hawken video currently featured on SMMuG, called “Crush”, is from his first album.

Another great music discovery this past week came thanks to the musical genius that books bands for the Late Show with David Letterman. On Friday night’s show (Jan 30, 2009) they featured a NJ band called Gaslight Anthem doing a song called The ‘59 Sound. While I’m usually fast asleep by the time the musical guests air on Letterman, I lucked out this time. These guys have a faster punk-pace to them with an East Coast (Springsteen-esque) rockabilly feel that is both 50’s retro and current at the same time. A bit easier on the ears than Mike Ness of Social D and in a more modern rock vein. Dare I say, Daughtry? Great stuff though- I’ve ordered their latest CD (on Amazon yesterday) for a life-long friend who is dealing with a lot of stuff right now, including a deep, dark Wisconsin Winter.

So moving forward, I’ll likely keep this blog/website as my personal escape, but postings will likely be infrequent - maybe once per month. Beyond the duties now required for SMMuG, I am also working up a business oriented podcast that I reserved the domain for last month and am starting to line up guests for next month. More to come on that as well. In the meantime, follow me on either Twitter account; 80sAirwaves or SMMuG. I am still not on Facebook much, because as I pointed out six weeks ago, I just don’t get it.

I hope you are well.
I hope you are healthy.
The winter is drawing to a close and Spring will bring a lot of great things for all of us. Enjoy the Superbowl today and spend some time listening to music this week. Take 40 minutes out and listen to an ENTIRE CD without disruption.

-pjc

Gary V at WineLibrary asked about the best documentary we’ve seen this year. While Life and Debt was not new this year, it is a very well produced 2001 documentary on how the Jamaican economy was ruined by the IMF and other Economic Hit Men, that I saw just a few weeks back.

In my 40+ years of life, I’ve been to Jamaica at least six or seven times. I’ve been there as a traditional “tourist” who took the crazy bus ride to Ocho Rios to the all-Inclusive hotel and never left the grounds “for security purposes”. I’ve stayed at the less desirable (cheaper) hotels in Montego Bay (Mobay) who really didn’t care where you go so long as your bill was paid (and where we promptly purchased wristbands in the back alley in order to score free food and drink from the adjacent all-inclusive next door). And I’ve stayed with friends in houses that had no security guards, gates or dogs. We were part of the parish visiting the same stores and businesses as the citizens. I’ve visited the markets, haggled with the sellers, eaten Jerk Chicken from road-side stands, been approached by prostitutes, negotiated with thieves and haven been inspired by Rastafarians. My love for music was expanded while attending Reggae Sunsplash in the late 80s. I am proud to report that an important element of who I am today, is because of my visits to Jamaica.

Anyone who’s been to Jamaica can tell you about the poverty. That part is easy to see as soon as your bus leaves the airport bound for the luxury hotel. “Oh look honey, they have cows and goats in the street!” Most Jamaicans subsist for one year on approximately the same amount you’re going to spend in your six days and seven nights on their island. The beaches are beautiful, the people are hard-working and sincere, the hotels are plentiful and the land and climate are ery suitable for growing just about any crop or livestock. So why would a country like this have such abject poverty? That’s where this Life and Debt starts.

A Rastafarian once taught me that “time is mon-made.” While we were discussing that idea, another Jamaican was negotiating with me, to barter my $25 watch for a very cool skull he had carved from wood. So, while I did agree that time is man-made, it still clearly has value. Though I did go home without a watch…

Life and Debt is an ideal documentary for those who have been following the Confessions of an Economic Hit Men series from John Perkins. If you’re looking for some “best case” scenarios on how to bring an entire country to it’s knees with debt, here is exhibit A. In step-by-step detail, we understand how a country, released from 400 years of British rule in 1962, foundered for 10 years and then began borrowing from the World Bank and the IMF in an attempt to stabilize their economy. The results of this downward spiral of debt has even more impact when you’ve witnessed those results from the safe side of your bus window.

Another Rasta taught me about respect; “respect for all living tings.” To this day, I will often refer to people I don’t know as “sir” or “mam” as an immediate sign of respect. I try to give all people the benefit of the doubt, at least until they prove themselves unworthy. Once I understood this concept, it was easy for me to see how disrespectful tourists were, not just in Jamaica but in other countries as well. As a part of this core change, I started to sign my business letters “Respectfully” as opposed to the more common “Sincerely”. Sincerity probably doesn’t play a large role in business these days, but Respect and trust is something that is vital for positive transactions.

The highpoint of this film is that it clearly documents that Jamaicans can grow just about any fruit or vegetable as well as be productive with dairy farms or livestock. The problem has been the trade agreements which allows food to be brought in from other countries at a price lower than farmers are capable of producing on their own. Jamaica has the ability to be self-sustaining, but their history of borrowing and past political obligations have put them in a position to be simply consumers of other countries goods. It no longer makes sense for them to be farmers of any sort and even attempts at creating sweat shops near Kingston have failed.

Whether you are in the game or not, doesn’t matter, because the game is ALWAYS going on. You’re either being played or you are the player, but the game is on. During our last trip to Jamaica, from a balcony view you could see a bunch of little tiny shops set-up just outside the security gates near the beach. A handful of Jamaicans were enticing the tourists with trinkets, t-shirts and other semi-legal goodies. Security near-by provided warnings, but didn’t actively prevent us from visiting this make shift market outside our “Safe zone”. A few nights later, while dancing in one of the clubs inside the hotel, who do I see but the same Jamaican’s who security was warning me about during the day. I believe the “market” was a set-up by the hotel to earn some cash off-the-books and that those who worked those stalls were likely hotel employees.

Similarly, one of the nagging issues I had with this documentary was the portrayal of Michael Manley, former Prime Minister of Jamaica, as a victim. We are expected to look into his wise old eyes and feel sorry that he did all he could do, that he had no choice but to accept the funds in order to keep his island afloat. But I wanted other opinions. How do Jamaicans feel about the 15 years he served them? What did other countries, in similar situation do, to avoid this kind of exponential debt cycle? And where the hell is Bono in attempt to get this debt wiped clean to give Jamaica a fresh start? There were many questions like this, that had they been asked or addressed, could have made this a five-star film.

In the end, we’re left with the sense that tourism, in all it’s ugliness and disrespectfulness, is what Jamaicans are forced to deal with in order to provide some level of decent services for their people. They might have the ability to be a self-sufficient country if not for a different history with different leadership. So here are a few helpful hints for those of you traveling to JA this winter season:

1. Big Respect - This is not your country, though you might want it to be.
2. See the Sights - Not just Dunns River Falls and all the other traps, get a taxi and ride. Stop at shops and stands and ENGAGE. If you spend your entire week at the hotel, you haven’t experienced Jamaica. Even though you think your tan and cornrows prove it.
3. Small Dollars - Even if you’re going to an all inclusive, where “gratuities are included” they’re not. If you want to be treated like a schmuck from New Jersey so be it, but learn how to tip inconspicuously and you’ll get first class treatment everywhere.
4. Don’t Get Stupid - Leave your expensive jewelry at home - NOT back at the hotel. Take cheap stuff with you and don’t make yourself a target. You can roam the streets and the shops, but always be aware of what’s going on. These are desperate times here in the US, but it’s been desperate in JA for decades and they know how to survive. The game is always on.
5. Rent the Movie - Life and Debt, but buy the soundtrack!

Personally, given my nature, or maybe my star-sign (Aqaurius), you’ll always find me gravitating towards warm waters, beautiful beaches and a strong supply of rum and Red Stripe. I think Negril is next on our hit list…

-pjc

Within the last few weeks my wife has become… well, “obsessed” is a strong word, so I’ll say fascinated with FaceBook. She was surprised to learn that I had created a FaceBook profile over a year ago and that I had not found the same level of intrigue as she has with this new social tool. A year ago, I was hearing a lot about it through podcasts and blogposts, so I created an account, but after adding a handful of friends, I really put it aside for other priorities. Shortly thereafter Twitter came along and with that I was hooked.

Last night she mentioned that she now had 40 FaceBook friends. I commented that I would rather to talk to 600 people I didn’t know on Twitter than the six people I actually do know on FaceBook. She said that was weird and I agree. I don’t think I can explain it intelligently, but I think it has something to do with anonymity. When we ran our online radio station for nearly 18 months, everyone we knew was aware of it. A handful even listened! But with the attention of our friends and family focused here, on 80sAirwaves.com, I became restricted in what I could talk about. When we decided to shut the radio station down, a lot of that was because we were so heavily focused on relocating and finding new jobs. But that isn’t something that you want your boss or your bosses wife to read about while you still have a job. Today, I would like to poke fun at the homogeneity of Wisconsin, but I don’t because we still have a lot of friends and family there. Who will probably stay there for a long time… so I won’t… for now.

Beyond the concept of anonymity, I just don’t get FaceBook. On the rare occasion when I do log-in to my FaceBook account, people have requests for me to deal with. Decisions I need to make about who I consider a friend and who I don’t. People throwing snowballs at me, giving me Muppets, buying me virtual drinks and asking me to take quizzes on what celebrity I might be reincarnated as. What the hell? Sounds like a singles bar stuck virtually somewhere between Naked Lunch and Fear and Loathing. Twitter is simpler. You can choose to follow me or not. I can choose the same. When I find your Tweet stream to be boring, insulting, stupid or if the songs you Blip via Twitter suck, I can choose to not follow you with two clicks. Simple. And please, please, please – do not use animated icons to represent yourself on Twitter. We do not need another frickin’ MySpace people! In an attempt to maintain some FaceBook credibility, I did install the app that basically rebroadcasts my TwitStream. I’ll check back in a few months to see if it’s still working.

On another social website, I have a network of over 80 professionals and executives who I know and associate with. Yet, earlier this year, I turned off my link to this website from that profile. Again, I do not feel it necessary for me to have every facet or every online personae of me connected. In many ways I see it as a danger to my privacy and my ability to write openly here. Adding one single friend or current employer can dramatically change the dynamics and tip the scales in terms of what can be said, or what should be said. Keeping audiences separated also allows for different types of communications. While the executives I know might be interested in my project developing a business opportunity podcast, most people here or on Twitter probably wouldn’t care so much. People subscribe to my 80sAirwaves Twitter feed because they want to be reminded about music or movies or TV shows that they might have otherwise forgotten about. It’s friendly, enjoyable and simple entertainment, from one stranger to another.

-pjc

PS: I know these posts have been “On the Dark Side” for sometime. I’ll try to be sunnier. I know people sometimes come here seeking their trip down 80’s memory lane in order to find a bit of happiness and reminisce about better times. I’ll work harder to provide that here, as I do with my Twitter stream. And in the spirit of that commitment, I wish you and yours, Happy Fucking Holidays!

There’s been a strange confluence of events this past week. It seems the repercussions are catching up their offenders. I will not go into all the details because this is not exactly an anonymous writing outlet for me, so let me talk about the father of a “friend”, who was not unlike my father.

My father, from what I can recall, smoked cigarettes and drank beer nearly his entire life. When he served in Vietnam, I am told that he wrote for the Stars and Stripes, though I’ve not been able to find any way to access back issues. He also did B&W photography for them as well; not only do I possess some pretty disturbing images from the war that he took, but I also have the Nikon F1 he brought back with him. My Dad spent 20+ years with a small town newspaper covering local politics. He had a column that people actually read and cared about. Having visited him and his friends many times at the Gazette, I remember the strange smell of the newsroom, the marble floors and the smoke-filled air (before the computers were installed in the 80’s). After making deadline for the day, usually between 2-3PM, Dad would walk down one block to “The Pro Shop”. There the smoking would continue, the beers would start to flow, greasy cheeseburgers for lunch and everyone would focus on the Chicago Cubs for a few hours or talk about the horse that probably wasn’t really a horse.

When he retired from the paper, my Dad did what any self-respecting writer would do, he opened his own bar. More days, weeks and years of cigarettes and beers, and those damned Cubs. “Maybe next year” his best friend Charlie would add, to keep things positive. Despite being estranged from my Dad nearly 16 years, my soon-to-be wife insisted that we find him and invite him to the wedding. We caught up with him, in his bar, right around my 30th birthday. It was more than strange, because we had just so much in common.

Dad was invited to the wedding in October and he came with his “girlfriend” of 25 years. We drank, danced and celebrated. About a month later, that cough he had, that wouldn’t go away wasn’t pneumonia. It was lung cancer and it was bad. Nearly 40 years of cigarettes, coffee, cigarettes, beer and cigarettes (in that order) caught up with my dad in the cold of January and took him out in a bad V.A. hospital in Iowa. Looking back, it was both surreal and so real, it’s hard to grasp. Here we were newlyweds, spending four sleep-deprived days in this hospital watching him try to get enough air into his lungs to survive.

At the funeral, I’ll bet 400 people came. Not just friends and family, but newspaper workers from many years ago and even local politicians that he wrote bad things about. Guess what he wrote must have been true because they didn’t seem to be holding any grudges and talked about what an ethical guy he was. Lots of customers from the bar came and then went; back to the bar I’m sure. Sadness and nostalgia mix well with alcohol. And while I met many people who knew my Dad and liked him and appreciated him, what I didn’t see was too many people really broken up or surprised that he died at the age of 53.

Earlier this week, a friend mentioned that he had not been getting any sleep because his father was on his deathbed. Another lifelong cigarette smoker enjoying their final breaths while saying good-bye. My friend talked about feeling bad because he felt that the time is now. That we would rather see his Dad pass, as opposed to be suspended further in his current state. I knew that feeling. When I sat in that hospital room staring at my Dad’s body, the one thing that crossed my mind was that he would have never wanted to be an “old” man. He would have never wanted to be a burden on someone else. He would never want to reach a point in his life where he had to rely on other people to do simple human things, like feed himself, bathe himself or other various functions.

Ultimately, I think both of our Dads lived the lives they wanted to live. It is easy to look back on someone’s life and make judgments. “If he would have smoked less, drank less, ate better, exercised more, etcetera and so forth, he could have lived until 70.” But that wasn’t the life either of these men chose. I’m sure they recognized that they were not living well (healthy), but they were living as they wanted. This wasn’t about quantity, but quality and happiness. So when someone lives with no regrets, it’s really hard to have much sympathy for the outcome, when it comes.

-pjc

A bit of lyrics from John Mellencamp’s – Your Life is Now:
See the moon roll across the stars
See the seasons turn like a heart
Your fathers days are lost to you
This is your time here to do what you will do

Chorus:
Your life is now, your life is now, your life is now
In this undiscovered moment
Lift your head up above the crowd
We could shake this world
If you would only show us how
Your life is now