The Funkiest Band In The Land Part 2

Went to a concert a few weeks ago, J. Geils at Pine Knob. A couple years ago I saw them at a theater in Detroit and wrote a piece about the show. This is not your typical rock n roll band. I can honestly say there are no other groups that do what they do, play the type of music they play and have a relationship with Detroit like they have.

This is, what can be described as, a White, Funk, Rock Band. The music is, how can I describe it, funky, energetic and most of all, just plain fun. They first started something like 40 years ago and, with a few breaks in between, have been together ever since.

I’ve seen the band, in concert, a number of times and have always enjoyed the show. Seeing them in Detroit is completely different than when I saw them in San Diego. The last time I wrote about them I spoke of how Detroit is like a second home to them. It’s not just me saying it; the band has made it clear on numerous occasions that Detroit literally fed the band in their salad days. A two or three night sellout was not uncommon while they couldn’t even sell out one day in most parts of the country.

So, I went to the show and, as expected, the place was jammed. Yes, they played all their hits and yes, the crowd loved them. I, on the other hand, felt a little sad. I knew that this would be the last time I would ever see them live. I say that because, and I know this sounds weird, besides the fact that the members of the band are all in there 60’s; I noticed something that night that made me think this way. I couldn’t help but feel, that on many of the songs they played, they were just “mailing it in”.

Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here, they were fun and everyone was on there feet cheering like mad. It’s just that they didn’t seem to be working as hard as they normally do. On numerous songs, Peter Wolf, the lead singer, basically just spoke the words instead of actually singing them. The music was just as powerful as usual but Wolf, normally the highlight of any of their concerts, seemed tired. The show itself was still good and, like I said earlier, the crowd loved it. It just wasn’t what I expected.
I did notice something that made me happy though. I saw the real power of music and what it can do to someone.

I’ve written about how much Peter Wolf means to the band and what an incredible front man he is. On this night I really saw what he feels. Let me explain. I truly saw the music move the man. There is no way that he could plan some of the moves he does. I could actually see the music running through the man and how his body moved in these strange ways, simply moved by the music coursing through his veins. Even though he wasn’t as dynamic as he normally is, I saw what could be called a love affair happening right before my eyes. It was so obvious how much he loved this music. Just the same can be said about the music loving him. The two seemed to be meant for each other and watching the music and Wolf interact with each other was truly a treat.

So, for me, the concert wasn’t the great show I was hoping for. I did however, once again, appreciate rock n roll for, not only what it is, but also what it does to the soul. Peter Wolf embodies what it does; he is almost its messenger, if you will. That’s something I’ll always remember and hope those that were there remember too.

The Luckster

Just got back from the Vet’s, had to put Lucky down. There is no question that the time had come and I did what was right for her. The Vet said that she’d probably had a stroke and it had paralyzed the back half of her body. I had known for a month or so that she wasn’t going to be around much longer and when I heard her crying while just laying on the floor, well, the decision was made for me. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel any pain. She was my friend and I’d never want to see my friend in pain.

I was fortunate to have her in my life for over 12 years. She was already over a year old when she came to live with us so you have to figure she was near 14 when her time came. 12 years is a long time and memories are many.

I remember when we caught her laying down on her stomach with her entire face in her food dish eating her dinner. It was then that we all knew she was a true member of the family. There was also the time that Shelly put a dog door into the sliding glass door out to the backyard. Lucky was so confused; she didn’t have a clue what it was. Shelly had to crawl through it while calling her name in order for Lucky to understand that through that door was the backyard. There are so many more great memories, as we all have about our furry friends, that it would take another 12 years to repeat them all.

She was such a gentle soul and I think that was her greatest trait. She never barked, never had a problem with any other animal and absolutely adored people. All she ever wanted out of life was to be loved and everyone that knew her would comment on how sweet she was. It was always a pleasure having people meet her. She wasn’t a jumper and would just want to be near anyone new. This was truly a case of, just knowing her was to love her.

I will miss her terribly, as I already do. I’ll miss her crying to me every time I would start to peel myself a Banana and me ending up just giving it to her. I’ll miss telling her to put her “Kepi” (sp) down and her coming from wherever in the house she was to put her face on my lap. I’ll miss the way she would lay down by putting her head on the floor and letting her body just drop behind it. Oh, I’ll miss so many things about her but most of all I just miss her being here.

I used to ask her if we were good friends and she would always give a little yelp to let me know we were. We really were. She was my friend and she was my family. I am so grateful for the years we spent together. I have been talking to friends about her and have said that it seemed everyone knew her. Even if you hadn’t met her, you knew her by how much a part of my life she was. I feel a little odd still carrying on about her after a few days but, honestly, I really don’t care. She was my Dog and, as cliché’ as this sounds, my best friend. I can’t imagine what I would have done after the divorce if she hadn’t been with me.

I keep looking up for her and expecting her to walk into the room to ask for something. I feel a little sad when that happens. On the other hand, I hope I feel her presence for years to come.

Hmm...

So, doing all this over analyzing that I continually do to myself, I find all kinds of things to beat myself up about. On the other hand, especially lately, there have been a few things that make me wonder if there might be a thing or two about me that that I should look into. My friends have always made me feel liked but that, and I don’t mean to downplay these relationships in any way, is what friends are for. Granted, I’ve attained a whole bunch more friends than I ever thought I’d have, and it’s wonderful just knowing they’re around.

The thing that’s been messing with my constant attempts at self-loathing is coming from total strangers. I work with the public. I see and speak to, on average, 200 people or so a day. Many of these are customers that come in to the store two or three times a week and when you see someone that often, well, you develop a relationship with them. I’ve been doing the customer service thing for years and, dare I say this, I’m really, really good at it. I’ll put my ability to deal with people up against anyone. Wait a minute, did I just admit to something good about me? Hmmm, feels a little odd. Anyway…

The other day, as I was running a register, a couple women came through and I just started playing with them. We were all three making comments about being up so early and how much we’d rather be on a beach somewhere. I said a few things that made them laugh, nothing unusual as I usually can make customers smile and laugh in a situation that doesn’t normally foster that kind of behavior. Anyway, as they were leaving and I was thanking them for their business and the two of them were laughing about something I said, one of them turned back towards me and said, “ Thanks for making our day”. I gave my standard response of, “I’m here all week, try the Veal” and they laughed some more and went along their way as I started playing with the next in line. On my way home I started thinking about what she said and other instances came to mind of total strangers, usually customers, saying that kind of thing to me. It turns out, it happens quite a bit.

Thinking about it has made me think that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been mistaken about myself. I might be a little more likable and worthwhile than I’ve ever given myself credit for. Boy, that’s kinda scary isn’t it? I’ve never paid attention to the comments from customers before. I mean, I’m just playing with them, they know that, surely they’re just playing with me too. They most certainly couldn’t be serious when they say things that are complimentary towards me, could they? Well, could they? I’m constantly being asked, by these total strangers, if I’m up to being fixed up with a friend of theirs. I, of course, just laugh it off to them and get past the question as quickly as possible. I had a woman I slightly recognized come in the store the other day with a few of her friends. As she saw me she told the group, “This is the guy I was telling you about”. I made that kind of impression on this person? That’s pretty cool. Again, maybe I’ve been wrong.

I’ve actually been feeling kind of good about myself for the last few days. Actually having a little self-confidence. I still have my demons but, seriously, the last few days I’ve been actually contemplating accepting one of these offers of being fixed up with someone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll be jumping into this overnight, it’ll take a little time, but I actually feel a little closer to breaking down a wall that’s been around for almost five decades than I’ve ever felt.

Maybe I’ve been wrong, that’s something to think about.

Trying To Deal

Since my last post, I’ve kind of found myself in an almost funk, if that’s the right way to say it. I’ve always known the story but have always set it up as just an incident in my life that really didn’t matter. Something like a schoolyard fight that would be forgotten or placed so far back in my memories that I’d only cruise by it in my thoughts every once in a while.

I’m not sure what, in the last few months, has brought it back into the forefront of my thoughts. Sometime before Christmas I started hearing his voice. I’ve heard it a number of times over the years but this was different. It was much louder, much closer and much more consistent. I started waking up in the morning hearing it. I’d hear it throughout the day. I was always able to shove it aside in the past but this time, I just couldn’t shake it. I knew that he couldn’t harm me, or anyone else for that matter, yet still felt a fear. I keep finding myself right back where I was all those years ago.

Writing about it had to happen. It’s how I deal with everything in my life and this was quickly becoming something major. I’ve talked to a few people about the feelings that enveloped me while writing it and how I was able to finally admit to myself how much of an impact on my life this incident had. This is the first time I can remember placing blame on someone else for something so wrong with me. What I’m finding a bit difficult is that I actually find myself feeling guilty about pushing the blame onto someone else. Questioning how I’ve been unable to “get over” something that took place almost four decades ago. I know that there are so many others that have been through much worse and I truly marvel at their abilities to have gotten past it. They are much stronger than I, that’s for sure.

The problem I’m having now is the fight within myself over whether I was right in bringing it up at all. Since bringing it out into the open, I’m finding myself much closer to it than I’ve been in years. It’s a major topic of conversation in my head. I’m finding the smallest things in my everyday life have a way of reminding me of it. I just hear the voice on a regular basis lately. I know I’ll be seeing someone to talk to about it soon, my benefits just came through from work, and hopefully that’ll help me keep things in perspective. Until then though, all I can do is do all I can, if you know what I mean.

I Was 12

A 12 year old boy is put on a Greyhound bus to go visit a relative less than 100 miles away. While on this bus, events happen that, looking back some 38 years, seem to have had a major influence on this boys life. What happened on that bus has happened to thousands upon thousands of kids throughout time. The issue with this particular time is that this boy is me.

To say a sexual molestation took place would, to most people, be an untruth. To a 12-year-old child, it certainly wasn’t something he’d admit to even if it were. To a 50-year-old adult, looking back over all that time, I still have trouble figuring out how to label it. Nothing physically happened, aside from a hand consistently being placed on my knee. It was the words being spoken that still echo inside my head to this very day. If there’s such a thing as verbal molestation, well, I guess this might be the definition.

Being asked if I’d like this done to me, or how about that? Me, in a voice weakened by fear and drowning in tears, saying no to each query. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d say, over and over again. “Why don’t you let me just…?” Me, again unable to get the words out, for a complete lack of air in my lungs. I was 12 years old, you Bastard, 12 years old.

Over the years I’ve told a few people this story and I’m always reassured that it wasn’t my fault. Logically I know that. I also know that I didn’t have to sit in the window seat on a nearly empty bus, but that’s what 12 year olds do. I could have screamed and yelled. Maybe not. I don’t think my voice could have been heard by anyone, outside of my head.

I remember his face. I remember every line, every bump. I remember how his mustache had a bit more color on one side than the other. I remember how one eyelid was a little more closed than the other. I remember his dirty fingernails as his hand kept finding my knee as the verbal assault went on for what seemed like months to a 12 year old child.

I was chatting with a friend the other day about this and she asked if I still look for him. I couldn’t really answer. I’m absolutely convinced, even after all these years, that I’d recognize him. I’d like to think that I’d find him and hurt him somehow but we all know that I wouldn’t confront him in any way. He scared me like nothing has ever scared me before or since. After 38 years, he still has a hold on me on some level. He won. I fear intimacy. Every Shrink I’ve talked to about this has put a direct link to the two. Is it any wonder that holding hands is probably my favorite thing in the world? That’s what 12 year olds do. I was 12 years old once and because of this man, in many parts of my life, I still am. I was only 12 years old.

I Get Letters

Doing this writing thing has, to say the least, allowed both friends and total strangers to see a part of me that they would never show others. In writing I’m not afraid to show the face we all hide from others. It also helps me while out in public. I can be alone in my thoughts and most people know that I’m fine. In most instances folks are concerned when someone is very quiet or detached in a group. There was a time in my life when I was always being asked if I was “ok” or if everything was alright. If there was something wrong, those that knew me best would know what was going on and I always found that remarkably comforting.

Another positive side of my writing is the allowance of trust that friends along with total strangers have bestowed upon me. This side effect is probably the one thing I’m most proud of when it comes to this. I couldn’t even count the number of emails I receive, mostly from people I don’t know, telling me their deepest, darkest secrets mostly relating to whatever my latest post was. I sometimes feel as though my email box has become some type of a confessional to many. I almost feel like a voyeur while reading these notes admitting the darkest secrets of ones life.

The subject matter ranges from petty crimes to things much more serious. I’ve had notes telling me of a transgression against a sibling over 30 years in the past. Most of these are just a way for the writer to get something off their chest. I never respond to these notes, I have no intention of becoming a “Dear Abby” or anything like that. I have, in some instances, sent a note asking if I could include their tale in a blog and if they agree, I sometimes have.

I will say this though: I have never written anything about anyone’s issues told to me in confidence. I think most of the writers of these notes understand that and that’s a good feeling to have. It’s one thing to be believed in by those that know me, and I value that dearly. It’s something totally different to have that same trust placed by total strangers. Total strangers to me at least. I sometimes get the feeling that these strangers know me a little better than I’m willing to admit.

Hey Nineteen

I went to a local haircutting place to get the old noggin shaved. Seriously, I must be the easiest haircut they get in a day. I just walk in and ask for a number one blade all the way around. Anyway, I go in and some little Pixie that couldn’t have weighed more than 17 lbs. with 13 shades of hair has me sit in her chair and starts to wrap my neck with that tissue they use.

It’s at this point that I’m always asked if I really want to use a number one blade. They ask if I realize how tight to the scalp it’ll make my hair. Have you seen my hair? Do I look like I worry about how tight to the scalp it is?

Once the buzzing begins, for reasons I’ve never understood, whoever is doing the buzzing starts doing their “get personal with the customer” gig. I prefer the no questions cut but I understand that they want to give me that personal experience. Every once in a while there may be a decent conversation that ensues but yesterday I was in the chair while someone who may, on a good day, pass for 18 tried to converse with me.

This is the part that got to me. Truly, there was nothing that this young woman and I could have talked about, in the time allotted that would interest either of us. It occurred to me that I’m fully one generation older than this girl. Talking politics didn’t seem to be something that would get us anywhere and I didn’t care enough to ask her about who she was dating. We each made a feeble attempt at conversation as I just waited for the cut to end.

Something that I’m well conversed in is music. As I was sitting there I thought about bringing up the subject. How could this young woman know about the music I listened to? How could I know anything about the bands she enjoyed? I had to giggle inside as a song started playing in my head. “Hey Nineteen” by Steely Dan started ringing very true to me. I’m getting old.

“Hey nineteen, that’s Aretha Franklin.
She don’t remember the Queen of Soul”

Ahhh, to be young again…