Blog Entries reposted from the my blog

Introducing Roy Dufrain

I just updated my blog, The World According to Cosmos with updates about three of my oldest friends,Jim Davidson, Gary Noland, and Roy Dufrain.

Jim Davidson is a talented Jazz piano player from Berkeley who returned to playing jazz professionally after retiring from a corporate career a few years back. See my blog for more info at https://wp.me/p7NAzO-2Mv
Gary Noland grew up across from People’s Park. He has written hundreds of provocative, challenging, and whimsical classical music pieces along the lines of Eric Satie and the French composers of the early 20th century, but with a style that is uniquely his own. See my blog for more info at https://wp.me/p7NAzO-2Mi

Roy Dufraine Updates

guest post by Roy Dufrain


Roy Dufrain is my college roommate from UOP. We lived at the Euclid House next to campus which became an alternative frat house of sorts. We had wild parties every Friday night for two and a half years — the best parties on campus. Boy, we had fun He taught me so much, became a “deadhead”because of him, and tried various things with him, and we occasionally performed demented music together at campus events. He was a Raymon College student, but unfortunately, because of money problems did not finish his senior year. He was also the editor at the university’s paper and published a number of my poems and essays while we were there. You can find his work on my blog at
https://wp.me/p7NAzO-2MW
or on his blog RoyDufrain.com or his substack and medium links. Enjoy

I also posted recent poems written on my writing com site you can see them at https://wp.me/p7NAzO-2M3
Note: I hope to resume podcasting soon. Spotify no longer supports WordPress blog conversion so I am looking at alternatives and hope to resume podcasting soon. Stay tuned.

Introducing Roy Dufrain

University of the Pacific Raymond College History

Raymond College, an undergraduate honors college at the University of the Pacific, existed from 1962 to 1979. Located in Stockton, California, it was a unique institution with an interdisciplinary curriculum that emphasized learning across the natural sciences, social sciences, and humanities. Let’s delve into its fascinating history:
1. Founding and Vision:
• Raymond College was the brainchild of University of the Pacific President Robert Burns. Faced with a new generation of qualified applicants, he sought to create a personalized educational experience for students.
• Inspired by the success of Oxford, Cambridge, and the Claremont colleges, President Burns envisioned residential cluster colleges as a way to maintain high academic standards while expanding the university.
• Raymond College was the first of three cluster colleges developed under this vision.
1. Curriculum and Structure:
• The college offered an innovative interdisciplinary liberal arts curriculum.
• Initially, it provided an accelerated three-year program, but later expanded to offer a four-year program as well.
• Key components of the curriculum included:
• Introduction to the Modern World: A shared cohort experience for incoming first-year students.
• Language study: A year of language learning.
• Math, physics, chemistry, and biology: Sequential courses.
• Humanities and social science classes: Literature, philosophy, art, religion, economics, history, psychology, and sociology.
• Students received written evaluations (term letters) instead of traditional letter grades.
1. Provost and Philosophy:
• Provost Warren Bryan Martin played a pivotal role in shaping Raymond College.
• He emphasized the importance of the liberal arts and the holistic preparation of students for a fulfilling life.
• The first class of students arrived in the fall of 1962.
1. Legacy and Impact:
• Raymond College influenced the entire University of the Pacific.
• Its emphasis on student-centered learning, liberal arts, and interdisciplinary studies raised academic expectations across campus.
• The college operated in the tradition of the liberal arts, fostering intellectual curiosity and engagement.
Raymond College, though short-lived, left a lasting mark on education, demonstrating that sometimes “growing larger by growing smaller” can lead to transformative experiences for students1234.
He is a talented writer and musician living in Clear Lake California.
you can check his work out here at Medium and on Substack as well as on his web page
Roy Dufrain.Com

THE YEAR OF TWELVE SONGS is my latest music project. Some of you got a preview recently, with an all-acoustic version of a song called Finish Strong. Now I’m sharing a new version with added instruments and my efforts at sound production. Plus some backstory and something sort like old-fashioned liner notes (remember those?). I plan to do this with a different song every month and hopefully learn a lot in the process. Check it out with the link below and let me know what you think.
Roy Dufrain Jr.

Hey Jake, everything is at roydufrain.com. hope all’s well with you.
ROYDUFRAIN.COM
ROY DUFRAIN JR | Substack
ROY DUFRAIN JR

Roy’s Best Books 2023

Some words I liked a lot this year.

ROY DUFRAIN JR
Far Sickness, by Joshua and Ava Mohr
This is my 8th annual December ramble about the books of my year. Not necessarily books that came out this year, but books I read (or heard) that moved me, taught me, made me cry, or cracked me up. It kind of feels like I’m late with this year’s edition but hey — two-day shipping at your preferred online bookseller, right?
FICTION
Nowadays I often avoid reading the latest best-selling, prize-winning, must-read fiction that everyone’s talking about. Because over the years I’ve learned not to trust hype. I like to wait a few years to see if anyone’s still talking about the book. See if the title comes up in a discussion and someone says, God, I loved that book, years after they read it, and they start talking about the character or scene that stuck with them. To me, that’s how you know. Not by critics’ reviews book trailers or Reese Witherspoon. (However, if Ms Witherspoon is out there somewhere, this does not mean I wouldn’t want MY book on your list someday! Just sayin’).


But this year I read two of the latest novels from two big names in fiction — because I had loved previous work by both authors and because multiple writer-friends flat-out raved about these new books. And now I will rave about them myself.
Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver, is the best novel I’ve read in years. The best overall reading experience that delivers in all facets. The sense of total immersion in a world, the intense rooting interest in a main character, the epic scope of historical context, the deep underlying interrogation of the real world, and the sheer delight in artful language. I can’t think of what more to ask from a novel. And, frankly, I can say pretty much the same things about The Vaster Wilds, by Lauren Groff, although Groff’s tale delivers in its particular way. Read them both, and see what you think.
NON-FICTION
The Gutenberg Revolution: How Printing Changed the Course of History, by John Man. Okay, I admit there are maybe three people reading this who could be marginally interested in this book. One of them is my father, a fellow ink-stained wretch as we used to say in the biz. And the others have similar or adjacent backgrounds. But, even if you don’t have ink and perhaps newsprint in your blood, or an old pica pole in a desk drawer at home, this is a fascinating blow-by-blow account of the twists and turns of fate, greed and genius that resulted in one of humankind’s most impactful technologies, on a par with gunpowder, the electric light or the personal computer.
BONUS NON-FICTION
Beatles 66: The Revolutionary Year, by Steve Turner. An amazingly detailed, month-by-month tour through a year in which the world changed the Beatles and the Beatles changed the world. I went to Audible on this one and listened to most of it in the car on a long drive to and from a writer’s retreat. It made for a great company.
Consider This: Moments in My Life After Which Everything was Different, by Chuck Palahniuk, author of the novel, Fight Club. This is a very different kind of craft book: personal, direct, funny, truth-telling, even illuminating at times. The subtitle hints at one of the biggest takeaways because Palahniuk is referencing what he sees as the key piece of wisdom he has to pass on — in the end, writes about the moment after which everything was different. If that gets your writer’s brain running like a hamster, this book’s for you.
And in the GREAT BOOKS BY NICE FOLKS I KNOW category… Far Sickness, by writer/teacher/editor Joshua Mohr, who is a huge favorite among scribblers here on the Upper Left Coast. This slightly demented short novel — a collaboration with Josh’s ten-year-old daughter Ava — seems to live somewhere between the old Fractured Fairy Tales cartoons from the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and a Guillermo del Toro film, and this juxtaposition of innocence beside horror is only enhanced by Ava’s charmingly bloody illustrations. But underneath all of that is a heart-wrenching journey through the deepest kind of trauma and regret to somewhere resembling hope. Which is exactly what readers usually get from Josh’s work.
That’s all for this year, folks. Remember, as Stephen King said…
“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”

The Last Great Acid Trip
Or how I won a footrace against a dog named Pig Pen
ROY DUFRAIN JR
Remember the Red River Valley
A story, a drink, and a song
ROY DUFRAIN JR
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Remember the Red River Valley
A story, a drink and a song

ROY DUFRAIN JR
I was watching the movie based on Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild, and there’s this scene where a little boy with the sweetest voice sings Red River Valley to Reese Witherspoon. I hadn’t heard that song in I don’t know how long, and in an instant I was transported — in that way that a song can flip a switch and turn your mind (and your heart) into a four-chord time machine. Know what I mean?

I was no longer a late-middle-aged man reclined on my couch watching Reese Witherspoon’s hit movie. I was eight or nine years old, and it was 1966 or 67. My older sister Debi and I were staying with our grandparents somewhere in Sacramento. I don’t remember why or for how long, yet I’m sure I could draw an accurate floorplan of the tiny one-bedroom bungalow they had. Memory is such a rickety contraption
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ROY DUFRAIN JR
Does MLB even like baseball?
One fan’s thoughts on the current state of the game

ROY DUFRAIN JR

Every summer I try to watch the Little League World Series on ESPN. At least a few innings here and there or a game or two in the earlier rounds of the tournament, and then of course the championship game. It always refreshes my love of the game of baseball.

Little Leaguers epitomize the art of trying. No one plays with more heart. Certainly not the professionals who make millions of dollars playing for the corporations masquerading as teams in Major League Baseball. These kids throw and catch and swing and hit with such intensity, they run and jump, they dive and slide, they smile and laugh and cry and scream, and they radiate joy and a full immersion in the moment that seems to elude the professional players, indeed the modern adult in general.

They also remind me of how I fell for the game in the first place.
It started when my dad took me to Candlestick Park when I was little. Five years old, Giants and Cards, 1963. I saw Willie Mays and I was awestruck by his speed, his grace, his power and magnetism. Unforgettable. But it really took hold a few years later when I started playing the game myself. And watching the kids in the Little League World Series always takes me back to that.

Three Flies Up on the playground during recess. Saturday pick-up games with five guys on a side. Playing catch with Dad in the front yard. Wiffle ball at the neighbor’s house. Imaginary games played in my head while bouncing a beat-up dirt-brown hardball against the retaining wall until holes broke open in the cinderblock. Eight years old on my first team, looking at my coach like some mythical hero. Breaking in a new mitt with glove oil, an old ball and two shoelaces. Ten years old in my first full uni, real cleats, stirrup socks.

The Turner Gas starting nine. In the late 70’s I helped coach a Farm League team.

In the late 70s, I coached a Farm League team (there was still no such thing as Tee-ball, at least in my town) for a couple years with some buddies, a few guys I knew from school or work. Man, we were a motley crew. Bunch of hard-drinking working class heroes, some of us barely into our twenties, none of us great players or even great students of the game. But every one of us had played and loved the game as children, and every one of us loved passing that on to the kids we coached.

Our team never went to the Little League World Series, but our kids played with the same joy and the same all-out effort. To the limit of their skills (or perhaps their coaches’ skills), and with every bit of their hearts. And I’m willing to bet many of them came away with a deep and abiding love of the game.

In recent years, Major League Baseball officals have been in the workshed, frantically tinkering with the game, turning this screw, hammering that nail, wrenching on bolts. All in the name of attracting more fans, specifically younger fans. They’ve made a series of rule changes to speed up play and create more offense in the game. They’ve even hooked up with a huge gaming firm to juice up fan engagement. That’s right, MLB, for all intents and purposes, now has an official league bookie (but that’s another rant all by itself).

Individual teams have also made changes to their product, changes designed to appeal to a younger crowd. At their ballparks, they’ve added huge video screens and booming sound systems and countless promotional gimmicks.

I saw this first-hand when my wife and I took my father and a friend to a Giants game this year. I’ve been to my share of games over the years, both at Candlestick and Pac-Bell/AT&T/Oracle Park, although I hadn’t been in awhile. We live 2.5 hours from San Francisco, so it’s always something of a project to get to a game. And man, it’s gotten expensive. Even though I got the tickets fairly cheap, the travel and the food and drink kicked my wallet’s ass. (For example: just four dogs and four beers, $108.) Throw in another round and a little merch and my VISA card was crying uncle.
And the experience this time was… different.

I’ve always enjoyed the roomy rhythm of live baseball. You know — it’s a breezy shirt-sleeve salty beerfoam day. You start up a conversation with the stranger in the next seat. Maybe someone on the other side of you is patiently, diligently — and quietly — recording the details of the game on their scorecard. You laugh at the heckler several rows down. Hey Blue, he says, Try using both eyes. There’s a guy coming down the stairs yelling, Beer here, cold beer. You can actually hear the pop of a fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt and the umpire yelling, Stee-rike! The organ player plays the intro and the crowd yells, Charge! right on cue. At the crack of the bat, the whole place roars or groans in unison.
If you’re an attentive fan, you’re watching to see how the players adjust to every pitch. Is the centerfielder playing deep or shallow, straightaway or cheating left or right? Are the infielders at double-play depth, or drawn in to prevent a score from third? Does the batter adjust his stance or grip with two strikes on him? Where is the catcher holding the target for the pitcher? How big of a lead is the runner taking off first?
And I’ve always found there was time for all of that and more during a day at the ballpark. Not just time but space, as in mindspace, or call it the capacity to process stimuli. Like I love it when you see someone taking a nap at a baseball game. I don’t think of them as being bored; I think of them as being relaxed. You never see someone nodding out at an NFL game, right? I’ve been there. Way too loud and crazed for a nap.
Anyway, that whole feeling of comfort was missing from this last trip to Oracle Park. Don’t get me wrong — the park is still beautiful and inviting, and the staff was wonderfully personable and accommodating to my 90-year-old father. But the overall experience felt cluttered, uncentered, diluted. Like a novel without a main plot.

There is a nearly constant roaring jumble of sounds that distracts from rather than enhances the game. Incredibly loud, pounding music in five-second snatches before and after almost every single pitch, piped-in beat-heavy pop music at a volume that completely precludes normal conversation with your friends, much less strangers. I honestly think there was more music than game. There is so much music the poor old organ player can hardly get a chord in edgewise.
The crack of the bat seemed diminished by comparison. The game itself seemed smaller.
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I’m actually okay with most of the new rules. I was feeling puritanical about a couple of them at first, but oh well. On TV, I do appreciate the quicker pace. I mean, we all had enough of the guys who stepped out every pitch to get all OCD with their batting gloves. And I think, on the field this is still essentially the game of baseball. But in the stands, I don’t know. In the stands it feels more like a carnival or a disco surrounding a nearby baseball game.
All of this makes me wonder, does MLB even like baseball?
</dimaking baseball great againv>
They’ve taken some of the pastoral nature out of the game. I’ve always heard, in a competitive business environment you need to differentiate your product, market what makes you special. But MLB and its team owners are making baseball more and more like every other sport. Loud, fast, powerful and showy on the surface, boom, crash, bang.
And maybe that’s not how you create real baseball fans. Not with louder music, or in-game betting come-ons, or even by tweaking the game for quicker play or more offense. Even though I hear attendance is up this year, I’m skeptical any of that will directly result in more hardcore baseball fans in the future.

When the Giants won it all in 2010.
Because maybe true baseball fans are made not in the stands, but on the field.
In playgrounds and sandlots, in front yards and neighborhood streets. With fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and friends and teammates and teachers and coaches and the heroes among them. With taped-up bats and mud-stained balls and hand-me-down mitts and the jackets our mothers made us wear thrown down for bases. Or in our first full uniform, our first pair of cleats. Those stirrup socks. Chatter from the dugout, a fresh-raked diamond, chalk on the baselines, a new-mown outfield.
Yep, I think that’s the easiest way to get it, that lifelong bone-deep baseball jones. Not in the stands or on TV, but playing the game. Like the kids in the Little League World Series and the kids I coached back in the 70s. And like me.
I still love watching the Giants, and I treasure all the memories I have, from The Stick to Oracle and Mays to Posey. I’ll still be on the couch with Krukow and Kuiper talking ball in the booth and the Orange and Black on the diamond. But now I’m not sure when, or if, I’ll ever go back to an MLB ballpark.
And that makes me a little sad.

The Red Shoebox Guitar
Sting-Rays, Stratocasters, Beatle Boots and Destiny
DEC 30, 2021 •
ROY DUFRAIN JR

The Last Great Acid Trip
Or how I won a footrace against a dog named Pig Pen
JUN 18, 2023 •
ROY DUFRAIN JR

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The Red Shoebox Guitar
Sting-Rays, Stratocasters, Beatle Boots and Destiny

Previously published by the Coachella Review. (thecoachellareview.com)

Photo by Dima Dimax from Pexels
On hot Saturdays the neighborhood men took refuge in their garages.
They opened their garage doors and ran portable fans, and they turned up the Giants game on the transistor radios that sat on their workbenches. The men fixed things and made things and drank bottled beer out of old round-shouldered refrigerators. Wives and children were generally not invited.
That summer of 1966, Bobby Highfill and I were both eight years old. Our mothers were forever shooing us out from under their feet and into the great outdoors, which in our corner of suburbia consisted of a few square blocks of housing tract and one dead-end street of undeveloped lots known to local kids as the Trashlands, where Bobby and I both served honorably in the Great Dirt Clod Wars of Concord, California.
Another garage to which we were generally not invited belonged to Mrs. Chambers, a widow who seemed to always have her hair in curlers and parked her pale green Hudson Hornet by the curb and turned the garage over to her only child’s rock and roll band. Her son, Larry Chambers, was the lead guitarist, and my own uncle sang and played rhythm guitar.
Uncle Art, my mother’s baby brother, lived with us on Cranbrook Way because he’d been kicked out by my grandparents for reasons my mother insisted I was too young to understand. He was seventeen years old, and he went to high school and drove a red Corvair and had a blonde girlfriend who wore pink lipstick and pointy sweaters. And he played guitar in a real working band that played dances all over the Bay Area and once opened up for Martha and the Vandellas.
The band was called the Royal King’s Four. They played Top Forty fluff like Sherry by the Four Seasons and Sugar Shack by… whoever the hell did Sugar Shack. But, like every other cover band in the world in 1966, they were now learning Beatles songs as fast as they could.

They rehearsed in Mrs. Chambers’ garage, usually in privacy, but when it was hot they would open the garage just like the neighborhood men. A small crowd would gradually form in the driveway, mostly teen girls in tight shorts with pastel blouses tied up in front to flash their soft, smooth bellies. Yes, even at eight I noticed how the girls were drawn to the music. But Bobby Highfill and I would wriggle our way through the girls to get a clear view of the band. Well, not the band so much as their instruments — more precisely, the guitars.
The guitars were called Stratocasters, and they were magical. Mysterious chrome knobs and complicated hand movements controlled the sounds that traveled across the wires and erupted from the amplifiers as sparks of music. The guitar my uncle played was painted like a flame, and Larry’s guitar was black as his bad-boy pompadour. When the band took a break, the Stratocasters were laid down in cases lined with gold velvet, where they waited for their masters like swords locked in stone.

It’s possible to want something so much that you don’t dare ask for it or even speak of it, for fear of the hole that a no would leave in your heart.
And yet, someone noticed.
It was one of those hot Saturdays, and Bobby and I were pedaling our Sting-Rays homeward after another glorious battle in the Trashlands, when we heard his father’s whistle on the wind. I’ve never been able to whistle like Mr. Highfill. My sister learned to do it, but I never could. He had one of those two-finger whistles that you heard from blocks away and recognized as a command. We pedaled harder.
When we arrived at Bobby’s house, Mr. Highfill stood in the driveway, arms crossed. The garage door was open. He was a balding man in khaki slacks and a short sleeve button-down shirt. I’m not sure I ever knew what he did for a living — sales I think, but of what I have no idea.
We skidded to a stop and dropped our bikes on the front lawn. Without a word, Mr. Highfill turned and, with a wave of his arm, invited us into the garage. We followed numbly beyond the raised door, into the inner sanctum, where the fan whirred and the refrigerator hummed and the fluorescent light sputtered. The live smell of fresh sawdust and the sweetness of paint hung in the warm air.
Mr. Highfill took something off the workbench and bent down to lay it in my arms. It was my first guitar — handmade from the finest materials available in the closets and garages of suburbia: a Keds shoebox for the body; a plywood neck, nails for string pegs and four industrial-strength rubber bands for strings. The plywood was marked with thin stripes of brown paint to represent frets. The shoebox body of the guitar was spray-painted cherry red and decorated with golden musical notes rendered in glitter and Elmer’s glue.
It was the most beautiful, most inspiring thing I had ever touched.
My own father often said that I was old before my time. I was an oddly serious kid, frequently reading deep meanings in the tea leaves of my young life, and in my restless mind the red shoebox guitar foretold something momentous and inexorable. Of course, Bobby received a matching guitar, and I decided right then that we were manifestly destined to embark on a career as a performing duo.
But first, we needed a repertoire.
A year before, when I was seven, my favorite Beatle was Paul — you know, the cute Beatle. I liked John too, but he was merely the clever and cheeky Beatle. Some would say he was actually a smart-aleck punk overflowing with attitude. Then, at a certain point, it became clear that John was something more — he was the troubled Beatle.
It became clear with the song, Help! It was one of the first Beatles records with lyrics that were noticeably more complex and interesting than “I want to hold your hand” or “She loves you, yeah yeah yeah.” I didn’t understand my reaction consciously at all, but I was drawn to it immediately. (Like I said, an oddly serious kid.) Forever after, my favorite Beatle was John — the Beatle with inner demons.
Bobby and I spent most of that Sunday in my bedroom with a portable phonograph, a notepad, and the 45rpm record of Help! By day’s end, we had the vocals down cold… okay, we had the vocals down lukewarm.
Next, we needed outfits.
All the big bands wore matching outfits. The Beatles had shiny blue-gray suits with collarless jackets and black leather boots. The Beach Boys had striped shirts. Every band on TV matched — except for those hoodlums, the Rolling Stones. Even the Royal King’s Four had matching suits and skinny ties and boots like the Beatles.
Bobby and I had seen pictures of the Beatles wearing turtleneck sweaters, and we each had red turtleneck shirts. We’d seen the Royal King’s Four wearing their jeans “pegged” at the bottom, and we bothered our mothers into doing the same to ours. But we still needed that final touch.
We needed the boots.
I don’t know how Bobby got his Beatle boots, but I had my aunt to thank. It happened when I was dragged along on a shopping trip with Aunt Irene and my mother. My two older sisters could be left on their own for the entire day, but I could not be trusted to the same degree.
The shopping itinerary included Kinney Shoes. The ladies inspected pumps and flats and sandals and kept the salesman busy measuring their feet and helping them with try-ons. I posted myself at the display of kid-size Beatle boots, and I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything. I just stayed and stared in a trance of longing. Like all mothers, mine was adept at tuning out her children when convenient. And my Aunt Irene was not a sucker for a child’s dreamy yearning. She was a woman with both the posture and character of a straight-backed chair. But, to my surprise and relief, she became my benefactor. “Will you buy the damn shoes already,” she said to my mother. “I can’t stand to look at him anymore.”
Now, all we needed was an audience.
Our first (and only) paying gig was something of a guerrilla performance. We were not, per se, invited to perform in Mrs. Chambers’ driveway. However, it was conveniently located within our limited touring radius, being just down the street from my house on Cranbrook Way.
We showed up on a Tuesday afternoon unannounced, looking sharp in our matching turtlenecks, pegged jeans and Beatle boots. The garage was open and the Royal King’s Four were practicing. A crowd of four or five girls loitered on the concrete, popping their gum, looking out cooly from under long bangs. We waited for the band to take a break, then we stepped out front with our matching shoebox guitars.
Our setlist for this engagement consisted of Help!… followed, of course, by an encore performance of Help! In the showbiz vernacular of today, we killed. We were paid a whole quarter each by the fawning Mrs. Chambers and every member of the band. The teen girls squealed and said “Aww, so cute.” One of them tousled my hair.
Being an oddly serious kid, I quickly invested most of my fortune in literature. Batman, Superman, Richie Rich, Little Archie. Comic books were twelve cents apiece then, three for a quarter. I’ve since performed for less satisfying payment on more than a few occasions.

I didn’t yet know that the summer of ’66 would be my last on Cranbrook Way.
My father was fed up with the Bay Area rat race, especially some of the rats in charge. He found a new job in a small town by a big lake in the distant hills of Northern California. The Royal King’s Four broke up when Uncle Art joined the army.
On our last day in Concord, Bobby came over to say goodbye and we took one last spin around the Trashlands on our Sting-Rays. Then my father added my bike to the pickup load while Bobby and I stood on the bright sidewalk and shook hands like men as tears slipped onto our cheeks.

I found my second guitar under the Christmas tree in 1968 — a three-quarter size Harmony acoustic from the Sears catalog. Classic sunburst finish, with a white plastic pick guard and a golden braided cord to use as a strap. I begged my parents for lessons at the local music store known as Bandbox Music. I was sure that Skip, the owners’ son, would turn me into a full-fledged guitar god in no time at all.

After three weeks of one-finger chords and plinking out Twinkle Twinkle, I was hopelessly, irredeemably bored. Now I begged my parents to let me quit. But, thanks to those excruciating lessons, I wrote my first song in 1970, an instrumental I called Psychedelic Butterfly. By then I was twelve years old, the Beatles had broken up, and I was newly under the musical spell of Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead.
I guess you’d have to say that Harmony acoustic was my first “real” guitar — certainly more real to the hands and eyes and ears. But perhaps not to the heart.

My newest guitar is a beautiful all-mahogany Martin acoustic that cost more than many automobiles I’ve owned. But, every time I pick it up, some part of me is back at that garage on Cranbrook Way, keeping time with my Beatle boots and strumming that glittering red shoebox guitar.
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The Late Great John Prine
A personal tribute to a unique voice in American music


Photo by Ron Baker, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
I remember the precise moment I first heard John Prine’s voice, even though someone else was singing. That’s how distinctive his songwriting has been.
This was the fall of 1975, during the first few weeks of my time as a student at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. The division of UOP I was enrolled in was called Raymond College, and it was one of those semi-experimental, accelerated, interdisciplinary liberal arts programs that had become quite popular in the 60s — in other words, a haven for nerdly hippies like myself and other brainy kids who saw themselves as square pegs in the big old round-holed world of higher learning.

It was a semi-regular function at Raymond for students to stage their own version of “Show and Tell,” sort of a smart, young and mouthy update on the old grade school tradition. And so it happened, at the first Show and Tell that I attended there, in the Raymond Common Room right off the quad, that an older student strapped on an acoustic guitar, took the stage and performed Prine’s song, Illegal Smile, a wry and winking ode to the stress-busting benefits of unnamed controlled substances.
The humor and the folksy wordplay in the title lured me right off. Then I was hooked by the rebellious mischief in lines like: “Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone, no I was just tryin to have me some fun.” But also the hint of depth in the verses: “When I woke up this morning things were looking bad. Seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.”

Then a line only Prine could write: “A bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down. And won.”
It’s quintessential Prine, giving you the shallows of depression wrapped up in a self-deprecating joke, all in a simple unassuming image that sticks to the side of the bowl of your heart.
So, thanks to Steven Meinrath, wherever you are, for introducing me to John Prine’s voice that night at Raymond Show and Tell. It has led to many indelible memories scrawled across decades of my life.

By my second year at Raymond, I had become something of a Prine evangelist, spreading the good news of his workboot wit and wisdom to a cousin, a sister and a few left-behind high school buddies and crushes. “You gotta listen to this!” I’d say. “It’s like a whole goddamn novel in a three-minute song. It’s some kind of country existentialist parable.” And I’d put the needle down on “Six O’clock News,” a haunting tale of illegitimate birth, diary secrets and suicide, in which the past sings harmony with the present and the knick-knack shelf has a speaking part. In the final scene, Prine sings: “The whole town saw James Lewis on the six o’clock news. His brains were on the sidewalk, and blood was on his shoes.” Then, for the final time, the past echoes the refrain: “C’mon baby, spend the night with me.”
Around school, in the dorm rooms and disheveled off-campus rentals where empty bottles clattered in the morning trashload, a small enclave of cultists formed. There was me and my girlfriend Emma, plus a redneck pharmacy student nicknamed Eddie simply because his surname was Haskell, and two blandly named engineering students, John and Steve. Truthfully, the engineers barely put up with it, but the trio of Emma, Eddie and I were hardcore. I remember the three of us standing around a yardsale table in someone else’s kitchen, singing Prine songs loudly from heart-memory in drunken acapella far after our schoolnight bedtimes.

And I remember the summer after I dropped out of UOP and thumbed down the California coast with my copy of Kerouac’s On the Road in the back pocket of my overalls. I met a junkie Nam vet named Terry who wept honest tears right there on the onramp when I sang Sam Stone, Prine’s sad and sharp-eyed portrait of a vet who o.d.’s after coming home from the war.

“There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes,” Prine laments, and today, after a white-powder past of my own and a veritable police lineup of friends and family lost to the low ravages of hard drugs, that searing image still stings the heart like the cherry of a lit Marlboro.

It might not seem an obvious connection, but there’s huge crossover between fans of The Grateful Dead and John Prine. I remember the parking-lot joy of singing Prine songs with a just-met burrito-selling guitar player outside a Dead show at Cal Expo in Sacramento. And you can always spot a few Dead shirts at a Prine show, at least in Northern California. Prine speaks to the Dead’s Americana foundation that was built in to Jerry Garcia’s bluegrass roots, Bob Weir’s love of cowboy songs, and lyricist Robert Hunter’s deep poetic connections to the mythologies and imagery of Old West outlaws and Depression Era wanderers. Like much of the Dead’s work, Prine’s songs were obviously not designed and constructed with the market in mind. In fact, these songs don’t feel designed at all, but rather, revealed, in the sense of a sculptor of song chipping at the rock of his experience with simple sounds and rhymes, finding an image, a figure, a theme, and honing it to rough perfection.

To the audience’s ear and eye and heart, Prine did not perform these songs — the songs were him, and he was the songs.
Many pop, rock or even pop-country fans still don’t know Prine’s name, but ask other artists who their favorite songwriters are, and his name often comes up. Johnny Cash once put him in his “top four.” Roger Waters of Pink Floyd called his work “extraordinarily eloquent.” None other than Bob Dylan has also named Prine as a favorite. Elvis Costello said what he desperately wanted to do when he started out was write songs like John Prine. But he couldn’t. No one can.
Lazy magazine writers will write about Price’s work and call it the poetry of the common man. But it’s not. It never was.

He was not a common man. He was a quite uncommon artist who happened to come from a common history. Small town Midwestern upbringing, undistinguished military service, a limited non-classical musical education, delivering the daily mail in Chicago while making up songs as a hobby. It’s that meeting of an uncommon mind with a common past, that artistic but grounded knowing of the ordinary, that gave him the standing to say what he said the way he said it. Like no one else. This is the elusive and prized quality of authenticity, which I think really comes down to honesty. Prine had all of that in spades. He had a royal flush of it.

Down through the years, I saw Prine perform live four times. I wish it were more because each of those four shows is in my top twenty concert memories of all time. But I’ve been lucky in a weird way because each of the shows was in a different decade — late 70’s, early 80s, early 90s, and late 2000s (or “oughts” if you prefer). So, each show was at a different point in Prine’s career but also at a different point in my life. This has made it feel as if Prine’s songs and my heart met in a different space each time, as if the songs kept finding other parts of me to touch.
In 1990, my sister Debi was 35 years old and dying from a rare lung disease called pulmonary fibrosis. I was living with her and my two little nephews, trying to be of some use during the mystifying and relentless progress of her disease. I had turned her on to Prine way back in the 70s, and his music had ever since been something we had a special connection over. Early in that last year of her life we made it to Berkeley for a double bill of Prine and Nanci Griffith, another shared favorite. We sat in the eleventh row with Debi’s oxygen tank on the floor between us.

My sister, Debi, 1988.

At one point it all became too bittersweet for me.

Prine was singing Bruised Orange (Chain of Sorrow). The chorus goes like this: “You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder, throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter? But it don’t do no good to get angry, so help me I know. For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter. You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there, wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow.”
I was deep-down angry and weak and bitter at the approaching death of my sister, but Debi was one of those rare people who lived instinctively by the advice in those lyrics. She was not wrapped up in a chain of sorrow. I looked over at her with a tear slipping down my face and she just smiled and nodded her head at the song and at my tear. It was the last concert she ever attended.

I’ve never believed in heaven, and I’m damn sure these days that your flag decal won’t get you in, but maybe a life of picking up a guitar, opening up your country mouth, your full heart and slightly disarrayed mind, and then reaching a million other people in the gut, where their own deep histories live — maybe that could get you in if there is such a place. I ain’t in charge, but it sure would count by me.

Farewell, John Prine. We will miss you down here.

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Me & the Godfather down in Fuzzytown

ROY DUFRAIN JR

During my weeklong recovery from oral surgery — an altered state I have affectionately referred to as “Fuzzytown” — Mrs D and I watched the entire Godfather trilogy on three successive evenings.

Of course I have seen all the movies more than once in the past, but never in such close temporal proximity. Admittedly, I was in the company of my new friend Mr Norco for the duration of these screenings, but nevertheless I have some thoughts…
One thing is clearly undeniable: the original Godfather movie (released in 1972) still holds up as one of the great films of our time. Marlin Brando’s portrayal of Vito Corleone is absolutely brilliant and magnetic, a model of complete inhabitation and revelation of character equal if not surpassing his astounding and seminal work as Stanley Kowalksi.
Also, the story arc of Michael Corleone — the inexorable unveiling of the gathering momentum of his coming of age as he is incrementally transformed from his family’s beacon of redemption to its shadowy emperor of murder — manages to approach the finest Shakespeare tragedies in both its insight into human frailty and its mythical qualities.
Godfather II is really about the extraordinary talent of the evolving Michael Corleone (and by extension all of humanity) for self delusion, compartmentalization and rationalization. And through the extensive backstory sequences of Robert De Niro as young Vito, this “second act” underlines one of the major themes of the trilogy — that of family history as inescapable and incontrovertible destiny. At the end of the movie, when Michael goes so far as to kill his own brother to preserve his power, we see Michael at something akin to an addict’s “rock bottom,” a place where absolutely any decision is possible… except the decision to face his own wrongs.
Godfather II is made somewhat choppy by the numerous time shifts and flashbacks, and I frankly think it’s been overrated simply on the strength of the young De Niro’s magnetic screen presence, and the audience’s understandable satisfaction in connecting De Niro on screen to Brando, whom we all recognize as his natural predecessor, both in terms of talent and intensity.
Godfather III has been much criticized for various reasons. Yes, it’s true that Sophia Coppola’s performance is wooden and amateur. Even this sofa jockey, watching under the influence, was wincing as some of her lines clunked out of the surroundsound like malformed Playdoh bricks. It’s also true that the great Robert Duvall’s absence is a significant disappointment. His performance as Tom Hagin, the Irish orphan adopted off the streets into the Corleone family, (never quite receiving the full acceptance he was quietly desperate for), was wonderfully understated and poignant throughout the first two films. And it’s true that the storyline of this film is perhaps not sufficiently compelling on its own. But frankly, the second movie does not stand on its own either.
However, seeing all three movies in quick succession and taking them as a whole, I think Godfather III is underrated as a third act to the overall story. What we see is an older, hollowed out Michael Corleone, physically and psychically exhausted from the Sisyphean task of preserving his power, his identity, and his internal sense of correctness. Publicly he is making one final show of claiming legitimacy, while privately he is confronting the likelihood that redemption is out of reach for a man of his crimes.
His one desperate plea (or play or ploy) is for simple forgiveness… and perhaps some semblance of peace… perhaps a truce or at least a stalemate with his past. Yet, Godfather III provides one of the most indelible lines of the entire trilogy when Michael stands in a kitchen after learning that all of his machinations are crumbling around him in betrayal and violence… then, with fists clenched and shoulders collapsing in defeat toward the very center of his being, he growls to the heavens…
“Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”
That one line sums up the futility of Michael’s struggle throughout the entire trilogy — the struggle against the momentum of his darkest possible destiny, the struggle against his coldest and most remote self. And the universal resonance of that moment is that it sums up our own struggles to overcome the weaknesses we all recognize in our darkest mirrors. In the end, there is nothing that Michael Corleone can do, no one he can pay, and no one he can murder to prevent his sins from becoming his legacy.
Perhaps God and his son are capable of forgiveness, but history does not offer such refuge. At the end of his story, we and Michael are left with only one inescapable reality: that each of us is capable of destroying our own soul at the smiling behest of our quietest desire.
Taken as a whole, the Godfather trilogy is one of the great literary experiences available in American film. That is why it has lived on as an important touchstone of our culture’s mindset for many years now. Michael’s journey taps into something that is timeless and specifically human; his story is not simply a morality play about power’s corruption, but a deeper exploration of the human desire to rise above our meanest impulses, the drive to be truly in charge of the history we make, and the dream to live out the love and justice we imagine we are capable of.
https://www.roydufrain.com/p/me-and-the-godfather-down-in-fuzzytown?r=kcikc&utm_...

If Not Words
A Young Man’s Journey Toward Meaning

ROY DUFRAIN JR

I think of 1978 as my Kerouac period.
Before that was my blustery Hemingway period, and afterward my disastrous Hunter S. Thompson period. But 78 was Kerouac, and in the spring I drifted out of college and began to dream of going on the road.

If Not Words was previously published by the literary journal, Scarlet Leaf Review. (scarletleafreview.com) Estimated reading time: 18 minutes.

Of course, I needed a Neal Cassady — a running buddy like the mad ones that Kerouac famously shambled after, the ones who are “mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
That was what I needed. What I had was Pat Kelly.
I first met Pat in Lupoyoma City, a small-minded town next to a big muddy lake three hours north of San Francisco. He was the new kid in eighth grade, from Texas by way of San Jose, with a junkie father locked up in San Quentin and his fortyfiveish mother shuttling drinks at the Weeping Willow Resort & Trailer Court. I won’t go into it here but, at the time, I was in a murky state of social exile myself, due to a local scandal involving my family. What drew me to Pat was our shared status as temporary outsiders, and the fact that he was completely unimpressed by Lupoyoma gossip. That just wasn’t how he measured the world.

I met him because our American History teacher sentenced him to three swats for “cracking wise.” The teacher had a thick wooden paddle drilled with holes to reduce wind resistance. Pat rose from his backrow desk and said, “Now, how much history do you think I can learn from three swats?” He was taller and older than the rest of us. Straight blondish hair, parted down the middle and tucked behind jughandle ears. Tanktop shirt and wide bellbottoms over black motorcycle boots, and his wallet on a silvery chain secured to a belt loop. He took long gangly strides to the front of the classroom, with his chin up and his shoulders back.
The teacher glowered. “Make it five then.”

Pat faced the class and grabbed his ankles. The teacher swung for the fences. Pat overacted a mockish “Ow!” with every blow, and the teacher tacked on another two swats — to zero effect on Pat’s demeanor. I had a front row desk, and after the final swing Pat straightened up and flashed his wide floppy grin at me, then earnestly advised the teacher to watch the Jack LaLanne show. I laughed. The whole class laughed. The teacher pointed at the door and ordered both of us to the principal’s office. On the way out Pat paused at the threshold, looked back across the room and said, “Seven a.m., Channel 3,” with a big wink, and turned out the door. He had something I hadn’t seen before — an attitude or quality I admired, even coveted, but couldn’t name at first.

In those days I collected baseball cards and words — words I read or heard and wanted to remember or accrue to my character.
I had the young idea that words had a way of adding up to a man, and I wanted to choose the right ones. Words that said, listen, and rang the air like silverstruck crystal. I wrote down their definitions in a reporter’s notebook that was spiral bound and narrow, with pages that flipped rather than turned. My father was the editor of the town newspaper and I’d stolen the notebook from his dour, disciplined office. I kept it under my bed in a Keds shoebox with the baseball cards.

Exultation was the word I collected for Pat. Triumphant joy. He measured his world in degrees of exultation though he’d likely never seen the word. It was a way of being in the world that I wanted to understand and claim for myself. Late on a school night, with the rest of the house quiet and dark, I sat crosslegged on my bed with the paperback dictionary splayed open in a circle of lamplight and copied the definition into the reporter’s notebook.
We ran together all that school year, in creeks and alleys and neglected vacant lots, in parks and ballfields and quarter arcades. Cut classes to fish by the sunny lake, trespassed in empty dilapidated houses and burglarized the Little League snackshack. Partners in boyish crime.
Once, we kind of stole a car. Just a daytime joyride around the pockmarked backstreets of Lupoyoma in a big Chevy station wagon that belonged to some girl’s mom. That girl would do anything for Pat. And if she didn’t, another girl would. But her mom did not feel the same, and neither did the city police. Their entire fleet of vehicles — all three — converged on the station wagon at a four-way intersection. Black and white Fords and spinning red lights to our left, right, and rear. The street in front of us was clear — Pat could’ve gunned it and started a chase, but he calmly pulled over, put the car in park and turned off the engine.

“Oh s***, we’re going to jail, my dad’s gonna kill me,” I said.
Pat grinned and shrugged, “Win some, lose some, partner.”
Between us on the green vinyl bench seat, the girl was sobbing. Pat put his arm around her, gently tilted her head and kissed the top of it.“Don’t worry darlin,” he said, in that Texifornia drawl. Then he opened the car door and stepped out like a fifteen-year-old man.
The girl and I were immediately cast by the presiding adults as good kids under a bad influence, and we were ordered out of the way as officers handcuffed Pat and marched him toward one of the police cars — chin up and shoulders back.
I heard around town that he was sent to the notorious Bottlerock Ranch, the closest thing to reform school in Lupoyoma County.
I didn’t see him until a year later, the day we became cousins. Well, my cousin married his cousin, and Pat figured that made me and him cousins too. I still don’t know if that’s correct, but such technicalities were not Pat’s concern. From that day on, whenever I ran into him, whenever he spotted me in a crowd — at family weddings or funerals, July picnics, or drunken teen parties — he’d always wave his arms and holler out, “Cousin! How the hell are ya!” He never lost that thing I was trying to pin words on, even with the cops always on his case and rarely more than ten bucks and a wink to his name.
I graduated from Lupoyoma High in 75, but Pat already had his G.E.D. and loved to remind me that he earned it at continuation high solely by reading through their collection of Louis Lamour. When I told him I was going away to college, he pshawed and said, “Cousin, you’re doin it the hard way.”
Emmalita Romero was somehow immune to Pat Kelly’s charms. In 1978, she and I were scholarship kids, chasing upward mobility at the small, ivy-aspiring University of the Pacific in Stockton. We had met in Economics 101, which Emmalita eventually aced and I did not complete. We lived off-campus in a rickety one bedroom apartment on a dead-end street — and in sin, as her father regularly assured us.
One February twilight Pat showed up like a long-lost one-man surprise party.
Screeched and skidded to the curb in a dusty copper Lincoln borrowed from his mom’s latest boyfriend. Early sixties Continental, low to the ground and half a block long, with suicide doors. He honked “shave and a haircut — two bits,” leapt out of the car, raced around to the passenger side and made a great show of mock chivalry holding the door for a young bleachblonde who emerged waving a fifth of gold tequila above her head. Emmalita and I stood on the brick front steps, both shaking our heads, only one of us smiling. Pat turned to me, opened his arms wide and cried out, “Cousin! How the hell are ya!”
Emmalita muttered something in Spanish and rolled her eyes in my direction.
I gave her a palms-up shrug.
We all got tremendously drunk shooting tequila at the second-hand kitchen table with the blue paint peeling off and the raw wood starting to show.
Pat and I took turns telling tales of our juvenile exploits as if they were Homeric epics. Needling each other and arguing over details until we ended up out front on the community lawn in a clumsy, laughable wrestling match.
“Boys.” Emmalita said, categorically.
The blonde turned out to be Pi-Delta-something. Pat had sugartalked her right off the steps of the sorority house, and at some point he slipped her out the back door and was balling her from behind, right on our little porch, bent over the wooden railing with a panoramic view of the parking lot — the February cold be damned.
It was Emmalita who opened the door and discovered them. She yanked it shut in a hurry. “What the hell!” she said. “He’s f***ing her on the back porch!”
I tried to smile. “We did it there once, remember?” I slid my arms around her waist.
“It’s our porch!” she said, slamming me in the chest with both hands.
Emmalita stomped off to bed, the Pi-Delta blonde passed out on the couch, and Pat and I stayed up and finished off the tequila. The blurry dawn caught us still at the kitchen table, commiserating and confessing. Or was that just me? I vaguely remember reading outloud from On the Road and resolutely proclaiming, “I’m sick of teachers you have to call Doctor. They act like they can write a prescription for your whole f***ing future. Here, kid, take two Aristotles and call me in the morning.”
“Ya worry too much,” Pat said. “Always did. Come look me up in Santa Barb this summer. Gonna get me a landscaping job, probably get you one too. Gonna build rock walls for rich ladies whose husbands ain’t home.” He shot me a big wink and laughed.
“Yeah, right,” I said. But the possibility took up residence in my mind and hibernated there the rest of the winter.
When spring came around I received a postcard advertising a bar and restaurant called The Palms, in the town of Carpinteria, just down the coast from Santa Barbara. On the front there was a blue-sky picture of a whitewashed building rimmed with green cornices and fronted by a row of towering palm trees. “The Palms” was painted in voluptuous green script arcing high across the white bricks. On the back, the address of the place, the canceled stamp, and in Pat’s half-schooled printing, “The weather is here, wish you were beautiful! Ha!”
I didn’t show the postcard to Emmalita. I tucked it between the pages of my brokenspine paperback of On The Road and reshelved the book in our “library” made of salvaged boards and stolen milk crates.
According to legend, Neal Cassady sent an eighteen-page, sixteen-thousand-word letter to Kerouac which transformed his writing forever. What I got was a nine-word postcard with no return address.
Still, I considered it an invitation of sorts — and a map.
It was late April and late Thursday night, and I had everything except my toothbrush in the new backpack. Two changes of clothes, three harmonicas, two Kerouacs, one Kesey, my old paperback dictionary, two hundred bucks rolled up in a sock, the postcard from Pat, and my reporter’s notebook with room for a few more words. I promised myself they would be words of change and becoming, not the cautious preparation of academia. I leaned the backpack against the wall next to the front door — bright orange nylon, shiny aluminum frame, army surplus mummy bag lashed on, and I told Emmalita, “I want to be on that onramp with my thumb out no later than seven in the morning to catch those business guys headed for San Francisco.”
She’d been in the bathroom almost an hour, showering and getting ready for bed. She came into the living room wearing the white full slip that always knocked me out. Nothing underneath. Long black hair dripping wet. “Baby, it’s a twenty minute walk to the freeway,” she said, “even more with that heavy thing on your back. You can sleep in and I’ll drive you in the vee-dub before I go to class.” She slinked across the carpet and her smile was dressed in red lipstick. She pushed me back on the sofa, pulled off my t-shirt and shorts and straddled me in the white slip. She shushed me when I opened my mouth to speak — and that was probably a good thing because I might have said I love you.
Emmalita didn’t indulge in that kind of talk. Traditional monogamous relationships were obsolete. She was a liberated Chicana who read Betty Friedan and Simone de Beauvoir and had marched with César Chávez. She dismissed Kerouac as one of the last great chauvinist pigs, but she listened when I read aloud on long car rides and in our bed on hot Stockton nights unfit for sleep or love. “You get so excited over these words,” she would say, like a new mother saying, “Aw, so cute.” But I would ignore that and talk about the blue echoes of Coltrane’s saxophone in the syncopated rhythms of Kerouac’s prose, and the way it spoke to me that he rejected button-down society to search for his own meaning across the map of America.
When I’d called my father to say that I was dropping out of school to go on the road, he’d offered me a job at the newspaper.
But when I told Emmalita, she understood. (Of course, I kept Pat Kelly’s name out of it.) We were sitting on the red brick stairs by the front door in the early evening, the bricks still warm from the afternoon heat. We brought out bottles of beer and watched the sun slide into the low skyline across the valley. I showed her the new summer catalog from the university, with the fake snapshots of students at internships, posing with stethoscopes, clipboards and briefcases like children playing dressup. I pointed and jabbed at the pictures and said, “That’s not me. That’s not me. That’s not me either. I’m not in there.”
Emmalita nodded and took a long sip of beer. She didn’t try to talk me out of it or lecture me like a parent. “Go,” she said, still looking out across the rooftops. “I could never forgive myself if you don’t. And after graduation I’ll be leaving to law school who knows where.” She picked at the bottle’s label with a fingernail. “We’re young. We each have our own dreams.”
We didn’t want to live our parents’ lives, tangled forever in regret and resentment. We agreed they were childish, and it was a satisfying irony that we were so adult in our acceptance of individual freedom. She even promised to store my records and books — including my stack of rare blues albums and the first edition Hemingway I’d found at a yard sale.
The day I left, I woke up in the near-dark, alone in bed, with the the feeling that I was already late. I found Emmalita at the kitchen stove frying chorizo and eggs, still in the white slip. She looked at me sweetly over her shoulder. “Your favorite,” she said.
“We don’t have time for breakfast,” I said, but she just turned back to the pan and stirred with the flat wooden spoon. The smell of chorizo rose in steam.
“You know he never found it,” she said. “He drank himself to death. All that going and going and he never found the meaning of anything.”
I sat down at the kitchen table and studied her. So beautiful and smart and surehearted, so luminous of purpose. That was the word I’d written in the notebook, watching her the first day of Econ 101, already pestering the professor with feminist critiques. Luminous. Shedding light. Now I memorized the hair rolling down her back in black waves, her shoulders warmed to gold by the light of the one bare bulb in the ceiling, her shape moving under the slip like a liquid silhouette, the reflection of the lightbulb trembling in her eyes.
I still had to go.
It was eight-forty by the time we got to the freeway, and a rare spring fog had crawled in off the delta. The commuters were long gone and two bums had already taken positions up the onramp. Emmalita pulled over and left the engine running. She gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead while I maneuvered my pack out of the back seat. I walked around to her window. She rolled it down and turned her face to me. Her eyes were wet. I looked down at the ground and said, “Thanks for the ride.”
She said, “Will you even miss me?”
“Of course,” I said, and bent down to kiss her.
She reached out the window and slapped me so hard I saw floating spots. “Estúpido cabrón!” she said. “You will miss me. And when you come back, maybe I won’t be here. And if you don’t come back I will scratch all your records and burn your Old Man and The Sea. Pendejo!”
Her rear tires spit gravel as she sped away.
I trudged up the onramp past the two bums so as not to steal first position, which I knew would violate hitchhiker etiquette. At the time I knew that and little else about citizenship of the road. My older stepsister had started me young with daytrips thumbing around Lupoyoma County, but I had never ventured an overnight trip before.
Now I would trace one small piece of Kerouac’s map — if I could ever make it out of Stockton.
The fog was tentacled, the cold insidious. The bum in second position hunkered down on a bedroll in a tattered fatigue jacket. I stood and blew into my cupped hands. The first-position bum watched with gristled detachment. I use the word “bum” because “homeless” wasn’t established as the preferred euphemism in 1978. Drifter sounds too nefarious, hobo too archaic, wanderer too soft-focus. And these appeared to be respectable bums — not recreational or philosophically ambitious, not the dharma bums or wino savants of Kerouac, but respectable nonetheless. When I walked past, each of them offered a chin nod to acknowledge my good manners.
A car or sometimes two at a time came up the onramp every few minutes. It was not a steady stream. I stood shivering with my head bowed, shifting pebbles with the toe of my boot. Then a car would appear and the two bums and I would present ourselves, one-two-three, in rapid sequence. The bum in the first position wore a blue knit cap and was stooped and gray-stubbled. He held up his right hand as if measuring an inch between his thumb and forefinger to show that he only needed to go a mile or two. The bum on the bedroll was younger. He stood up and let his arm hang down with his hand below his hip, his thumb angled out but cooly indifferent. Then me, standing lock-kneed with my arm perpendicular to the road and my eager thumb almost quivering. I made eye contact with every driver, recalling my high school counselor’s interview advice.
A truck stopped and picked up the gray-stubbled bum. He nodded through the window as he rode past. The other bum picked up his bedroll and walked down to the old bum’s spot. He sat down, then looked up and waved me toward him. When I got there he said, “Where ya headed?”
“Santa Barb,” I said, trying to sound suitably traveled, “actually Carpinteria.”
“Headed down the coast myself,” he said, and took some time to look me over. I became hotly aware of my new orange pack, my brightly washed overalls and clean farm bureau workboots, my peachfuzz face and the girlish dark hair flowing down to my shoulders. Bangles. Yes, I wore bangles.
The bum said, “Wanna go together?”
I must have looked confused.
“Sometimes it’s better with two guys.”
“Oh.”
“People think it’s easier to be crazy alone.”
“Yeah.”
He put out his hand. “Name’s Terry.”
He wore a red bandana headband over unruly curls of rusty brown hair, and his unfinished beard reminded me of my grandmother’s windowsill cactus. He had dark squinting eyes and a handshake that read like a swim at your own risk sign. He said he’d been on the road for years. He’d never been outside North Carolina before the army, but he’d come back from Vietnam with a spiteful heroin habit to kick and a desire to see the country. “See what I was killing for,” he said.
Here was a piece of the America I thought I was looking for, the sad and true but unbroken America you couldn’t find in a dorm room or a library stall.
Or in a rickety apartment playing house with a future lawyer. Or the dusty office of a podunk newspaper. I now felt that I was officially on the road although I hadn’t managed a single ride. I could see myself on a barstool at The Palms, regaling Pat Kelly with exaggerated tales of my tremendous adventures with Terry the All-American bum.
The sun burned through the fog, then started in on us. Terry had a pair of aviator sunglasses that might’ve been stolen off Douglas MacArthur himself. Dark green lenses and gold wire frames with the looping ear stem. We finally got a ride from a freckled high school kid in a 65 Ford Econoline van. Terry sat shotgun with one elbow out the window, with his windblown hair and red bandana, and the reflections of the highway speeding across those sunglasses. I climbed in the back and sat on a lumpy mattress covered with a ratty brown bedspread. We rumbled west across the great San Joaquin Valley, straight at the sun.
I dipped into the money sock, handed the kid a ten, and Terry convinced him to let us sleep in the van, parked on the street outside his parents’ house in a monochromatic subdivision. But the parents got wise and we were rousted out around dawn, the panicky dad pounding on the side doors until we emerged, then threatening us down the street with a golf club. Nine-iron I think.
We crossed the southern arm of the grayspackled San Francisco Bay that afternoon on a long low bridge like a highway upon the water. Terry had a Vietnam buddy who owned a bar in San Carlos. The bar was a surly looking place surrounded by chopped and raked Harley Davidsons. Terry marched through the swinging door like no big deal and I fell in warily behind him. Every head in the bar swiveled to stare us down.
Terry’s buddy was a stone outcrop of a man called Sergeant Oliver. Dark straight hair down to his belt, wild thick beard and a big bearish laugh. “You better stick to yourselves,” he said to Terry. “My regulars don’t take to outsiders, and I got no time to save your ass. Again.” He laughed and confined us to the storeroom with a deck of cards and a bottle of house bourbon.
But, by his own admission, Terry was not a reliable follower of orders. And I was following him. We slipped out when Sergeant Oliver was busy, and Terry made fast friends of the whole crowd by sharing the bourbon and losing at pool. I played harmonica along with Free Bird on the jukebox, and after we helped close up the place Sergeant Oliver locked us in, and we slept like ragged children, curled up in the red leather tuck-n-roll booths.
The next day we got sidetracked and stranded in the farming town of Watsonville, where it rained like hell was water.
But Terry somehow knew where to hop the fence at the city yard, and we clambered over and sought shelter in huge sections of concrete culvert. There were dozens of these cylinders big as railroad boxcars, laid out in tidy rows waiting for some major construction project. I followed Terry and we ducked into one. Inside it was all cozy echoes, outside nothing but the hiss and patter of rain… until we heard the low snarl of the watchdog. Then it was a cartoon scramble back over the fence and a half-mile jog to an all-night laundromat, where we spent the shivering night soaked through and nodding off in yellow plastic chairs shaped like your butt.
I relished every minute of these complications and travails, and I harbored the furtive belief that some holy chemistry of fate was involved in appointing Terry the All American bum as the patron saint of my road.
In Big Sur, now four days gone from Stockton, we chanced on a woodsy encampment beside the highway, where nearly thirty fellow travelers were set up. This confluence of meandering souls seemed to call for a suitable commemoration. A tiny shack of a store stood across the highway, someone’s weatherbeat hat was passed around camp like a collection plate, and the fire, whiskey and talk burned late into the night. I pulled out a harp and jammed blues with a sunburnt old picker from Show Low, Arizona. Terry met a frizzy haired hippie woman headed up to Mendocino to make pottery, and I believe he spent some time in her sleeping bag. I scribbled the definition of confluence in my notebook. Where two or more streams or paths become one.
I don’t remember lying down to sleep. I do remember waking up, alone, the contents of my pack dumped on the ground, the money sock stretched out, empty. There’s enough regret and disillusion already built into a hangover without robbery in the bargain. I never saw Terry again, but I found the aviator sunglasses in a pocket of my backpack — a weak apology I concluded, and I tucked them away in the pouch of my overalls.
Blood-eyed and down to seventeen dollars, I nursed my pride in the woods of Big Sur all day, then slept troubled under a three-quarter moon.
There was a phone booth next to the little store, and in the morning I sat on the nearby lawn and eavesdropped on the desperate phone calls of a few weary travelers.
I got to thinking maybe Emmalita would wire me some money back in Monterey. It would mean surrender, but I could catch a Greyhound and drowse in her arms that very evening. I rehearsed the entire call in my head, playing both parts — her finger-wagging satisfaction and my redface shame.
I thought of the postcard from Pat Kelly with the sunlight flashing off the bricks of The Palms. I’d told Terry I had family in Carpinteria who were expecting me. But Pat was not expecting me. I hadn’t seen him but once in the past year. I had nothing to go on but that sunny photo and my own restlessness.
I thought of my father. “A pipe dream,” he had said. He’d offered me advice as well as a job. “Son, you won’t learn how to write on the side of the goddamn road.”
“I might learn what to write,” I said.
But my father was an editor, not a writer. Words were either essential or expendable to him, and always in relation to a specific and utilitarian purpose — science, commerce, the news. In his mind, fiction was a toy made of words. He’d scoffed and shook his head. “Might as well stick that thumb up your ass.”
But now I got up off the ground and pulled out the MacArthur sunglasses and put them on like a coat of armor. I strapped on the dusty orange backpack, walked over to the southbound lane and stuck my thumb out for the next car. My hand low against my hip.
Two days further down the coast, I had a ride that would have taken me all the way to Carpinteria, but I got out five miles short in the tiny town of Summerland — because Kerouac had once spent the night on the beach there.
I hunted up a liquor store and spent my last folding money on a half-pint of Southern Comfort and a family-size can of pork and beans.
I walked to the beach in the Summerland twilight. I made a driftwood fire, ate the beans out of the can with my pocket knife, and sipped the sweet liquor like sacrament. There is a certain bliss contained in the moment when one owns a full belly and a full bottle at the same time, even if one also owns an empty wallet. I was bleary and beat and alone without a dollar to dream on, and yet I had the tremendous sense that all was right. In that hour, on that beach, on the map of my heart, I crossed paths with Kerouac.
I thought of that word, tremendous, because it appears so often in On the Road, and in so many contexts that you begin to think he was spraying it around as decoration, unconscious of its specific meaning. I got out the paperback dictionary and read the definition by the firelight: “very great in amount, scale, or intensity.” The root was the Latin word for tremble, and it made me think that Kerouac knew exactly what he was doing, consciously or not. He wanted to suffuse his prose with that deep underlying sensitivity. To bequeath his own shudder at the amount, scale and intensity of America, the world and life. He wanted us to ingest that feeling, swallow it, absorb it and sweat it out the way he had, if only for one night on one beach.
I copied the definition of tremendous onto the final page of the notebook. I sucked Southern Comfort and spoke stumbling poetry to the darkening sky — for the writing gods and for Kerouac, for the full moon, for hope, for words. I stripped to my paisley boxers and danced a silly jig around the fire, and I raised my bottle in a toast to Pat Kelly. Months before, in that drunken dawn at the kitchen table, I was reading from On the Road and he stopped me when I said, “they danced down the streets like dingledodies.”
He laughed and shook his head and pounded the table. He said, “Cousin, what in the blue f*** is a dingledodie?”
I tried to explain that Kerouac invented the word. I said, “you have to get the meaning from the story and the rhythm and the way the word sounds in your heart.”
There was a pause during which Pat carefully refilled my shot glass with tequila. Then he stood up and stretched his upper body across the table so he was leaning on his elbows and his face was close and out of focus.
He said, “What I want to know is, do you say more with all these words, or just talk more?”
I toasted him now from the sands of Summerland — and I toasted my father and Emmalita and Kerouac and Terry the All American bum. Because words do make men. And women and toys and news and futures and lovers and wars, every question, every answer, the whole damn thing including the part we name our soul — the part that’s invisible to our physical senses yet we feel it tremble at life. In the end what is the trembling made of, if not words?
I found my overalls rumpled on the sand. I slipped the postcard out of my pocket and looked at it with the firelight bouncing off the glossy photo. I turned it over and laughed at the joke one more time, then I tossed it into the flames and watched it catch fire. I pulled Terry’s sunglasses out and threw them in as well. I ran to the backpack and grabbed the reporter’s notebook. Page after page, word after word, I tore out and crumpled, and I offered them all to the giddy flames.
I slept straight through to the late morning sun like a man sated by exhaustion. I got up and walked into the ocean. All the sweat and dirt and doubt of the road rafted away on the foam. I finally caught a ride into Carpinteria that afternoon, Friday, a full week after I tromped up that first onramp in the fog of Stockton.
I found The Palms, and I found Pat there in a cramped little bar off the restaurant. Maybe six stools at the counter and a few tables in the corner, every spot filled with drinking, shouting, haranguing men. It was a workingman’s bar.
They were carpenters, painters, bricklayers and plumbers, and there was not a suit among them or a doubtful word.
Down the bar there was some kind of contest taking place and a huddle of men chanted and slammed their fists on the bar in unison. Of course Pat was in the middle of the commotion. I fished the last coins out of my pocket, ordered a draft and watched him in the barback mirror.
He’d changed somehow. He was shirtless, that wasn’t new. And he sat at the bar like a rooster, still chin up and shoulders back. But the hat was new — a dented straw cowboy hat the color of September hills, the brim rolled up a little on the sides, dirt blonde pony tail hanging out in the back. And the mustache was new — a trimmed biker-style fu Manchu that added a thousand miles to his face. But he hadn’t changed that much. The matronly woman who brought my beer told me he was eating raw cayenne peppers on a bet, with two more to go before winning the pile of money laid out in front of him. “Boys.” she said, and shook her head.
Pat drained his mug in one swig and wiped his mouth with the back of a sun-dark arm. He looked down at the waxy red peppers in the clear glass snack bowl. He drew a deep breath and raised his right hand to the edge of the bowl. Then he spotted me in the mirror.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he hollered out, and he turned on his stool with a holy goof grin and stood up and cried out to the whole bar, “It’s my little cousin!” He made it sound like an extra payday, and some of the men belly-laughed and cheered and lifted their drinks. He held up a finger that said just a second, turned back to the bar, and picked up both of the remaining peppers. He held them up for all to see and the crowd roared approval. Then he dropped the red peppers daintily into his upturned mouth.
His shoulders tensed. He worked his jaw. His forehead beaded sweat. His eyes bulged and watered and his open hand pounded the bar. He chewed and swallowed and gagged so his cheeks filled up like Dizzy Gillespie trumpeting high C. He gulped down someone else’s beer and then bowed his head in concentration — or possibly a sinner’s prayer. The crowd hushed. He raised his head, swept up all the money with one hand, punched at heaven and hollered, “Bartender! Drinks all around!” A tremendous cheer erupted like the end of a long bloody war.
I shouted and roared and drank deeply. I exulted.
Note: Roy turned me on to the great beatnit writers. we did a few hitchiking trips as well.
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The Boy on the Corded Rug
How John Lennon validated my self-belief

ROY DUFRAIN JR

I was at a friend’s house that winter night when John Lennon was killed.
We were watching Monday Night Football and drinking beer. Howard Cosell announced the news as if the quarterback had been sacked on third down — “John Lennon, outside his home, shot twice in the back… dead on arrival.” It was December 8, 1980, my twenty-third birthday.
Ten years before, in December of 1970, Lennon’s debut solo album was released. It was called John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, and it changed my life. That claim now sounds strange, even to me — grandiose, hyperbolic, almost obsessive, especially considering the who and why of his death. Still, it feels true.
Many of us feel a deep emotional connection to the music we love, and sometimes to the artists who made it. I’ve found many kindred spirits in many different styles of music. I’ve found solace, inspiration and comfort for the heart, reveled in excellence, danced and shouted in catharsis, wondered at cleverness. I wouldn’t say any of it changed my life in a profound way.
But John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band album did change my life, at least my view of life, and largely because of one song in particular.
I didn’t have much of a sound system then — a pale green plastic record player that was made by Westinghouse and folded up like a suitcase. I had scotch-taped a penny to the turntable arm to plow through any scratches that might skip the needle. It was another year or so before I saved up enough for the cheapest Sharp component stereo system in the Spiegel catalog.
I remember putting the needle down at the beginning of this brand new John Lennon record, then rushing to lie flat on my back on the big oval corded rug, my head on a pillow, the record player on an old TV tray behind me.
I closed my eyes and heard the sound of bells.
That’s how the first track on the album begins, a succession of church bells that warble and slur on top of a scratchy background hum as if the bells were recorded from a faint radio broadcast and then slowed down. It makes for a portentous, funereal effect, an appropriate lead-in to the song, which is simply called Mother, and deals with Lennon’s feelings of abandonment by both of his biological parents.
Mother you had me, but I never had you
I wanted you, you didn’t want me
So I… I just gotta tell you… goodbye
Like the opening pages teach us how to read the voice of a great, original novel, this first song sets a pattern that is echoed throughout the album, a pattern of deceptively simple lyrics that are rarely ambiguous, unusually direct, and at times uncomfortably, even brutally honest and revealing. And this is matched with sparse but dramatic musical arrangements, with surprisingly light production touches from the notoriously controlling Phil Spector.
Throughout the album, Lennon’s voice and guitar or piano is usually accompanied only by Ringo Starr on drums and Klaus Voormann on electric bass. There are no background singers, only the occasional artful out-of-phase doubling of Lennon’s own voice, singing in unison rather than harmony. The tone of his voice ranges from clear and airy to harsh and scratched raw, but he always controls it perfectly to convey the emotional content of the song. It never sounds affected, and he never indulges in showy vibrato or any other unwarranted vocal gymnastics. There’s a purity there that seems quite rare today.
Mother ends with multiple repetitions of the couplet, “Mama don’t go, Daddy come home,” which is first voiced as a mournful plea, but Lennon dials up the intensity with each repetition, eventually building to a desperate gut-wrenching scream that fades out and leaves an aftertaste of sorrow, but also a sense of a past reckoned with, a troublesome demon purged.
This was not Beatle John as we had previously known him, certainly not the cheeky, wisecracking John from Hard Day’s Night.
Even before the Fab Four cleared the mop-top phase of their career, Lennon was easy to identify as the troubled Beatle, with edgy introspective songs like I’m a Loser, and Help!, but the songs on Plastic Ono Band took this personal, confessional style to a whole new level that hinted at the realm of psychoanalysis.
At the time of these recording sessions, Lennon had recently undergone primal scream therapy with its originator, Arthur Janov, who taught that many psychological issues were tied to childhood trauma and could be resolved through re-experiencing and fully expressing the trauma in guided therapy sessions.
Hence, the alternative title for the album could have been There Will be Screaming. And there was. Not only in the opening track, Mother, but also memorably in the song, Well Well Well. That song’s verses suggest a certain cynicism about the prospect of social change, then lead to a chorus that simply repeats the words, “well, well, well, oh well,” but goes even further than the closing refrain of Mother, to a place where Lennon’s scream finally becomes something close to retching. It borders on disturbing, which I think was entirely intentional.
With Lennon’s best scratchy, accusatory voice and his stuttering fuzzy guitar sounding slightly out of tune, and in places out of time, plus Ringo’s dogged minimalist drumming and Voormann’s insistent bass, Well Well Well is nearly ragged and rollicking enough to throw into a proto-punk retrospective, if anything labeled proto-punk had been played by a thoughtful, sensitive, tortured musical genius, that is.
But there is more to this album than the screaming and casting out of demons. Again, as in a good novel, there is balance and contrast and an emotional rhythm. There is the bitterness of disillusion on I Found Out, and the tender self-care of Hold On; the demolition of traditional life models in Working Class Hero, and the childlike innocence of Love; the sneering irony of nostalgia in Remember, and the naked vulnerability of Look at Me.
Still, you might be thinking, so what, it’s a good album, maybe a great album, but how is that life-changing?
We have to go back to that thirteen-year-old boy on the corded rug. He knew nothing of Arthur Janov or primal scream therapy. He didn’t have the capacity (or the inclination) to break down the instrumentation or deconstruct the lyrics. He didn’t know much about Lennon’s personal battles. He was just a boy on the cusp of adolescence, a boy with his own struggles, a boy newly discovering his own doubts and disillusions.
He lay on the floor and closed his eyes and heard bells.
Isn’t it a shame that in today’s cluttered world we seem to have forgotten how to listen to music with that level of attention — with our mouths (and our typing fingers) shut down and our ears and hearts all the way open?
I see that boy now in my memory, and I wonder in what way I am still that person. Is that old saying even true that a person’s entire inventory of cells is somehow swapped out, thrown into the vast molecular recycling bin every seven years? What is it then, that somehow congeals and holds together a certain pattern of energy that is the individual you or me, even as we decay toward our inevitable disintegration?
I imagine my experience, lying on the floor in front of the plastic Westinghouse phonograph, was one of empathy and a sense of insight, a feeling of being trusted with someone’s most difficult truths. I knew Lennon was rich and talented and adored, but I wasn’t so aware that he had doubts and conflicts and scars and regrets and a few scores to settle, like everyone else. And there must have been an adolescent thrill in hearing Lennon break rules and cross lines that popular music didn’t usually cross, laying himself so bare, calling out critics and cultural authority.
Then came the song I claim changed my life. The title is as simple and direct as the rest of the titles on the album. Just one word.
GOD
God is a concept by which we measure our pain. I’ll say it again.
God is a concept by which we measure our pain.
I don’t believe in magic. I don’t believe in I-Ching.
I don’t believe in Bible. I don’t believe in Tarot.
I don’t believe in Hitler. I don’t believe in Jesus.
I don’t believe in Kennedy. I don’t believe in Buddha.
I don’t believe in Mantra. I don’t believe in Gita.
I don’t believe in Yoga. I don’t believe in Kings.
I don’t believe in Elvis. I don’t believe in Zimmerman.
I don’t believe in Beatles. I just believe in me.
Yoko and me, and that’s reality.
The dream is over, what can i say.
The dream is over, yesterday
I was the dreamweaver, but now I’m reborn.
I was the walrus, but now I’m John.
And so dear friends, you’ll just have to carry on.
The dream is over
To follow through with my comparison to a novel, every great novel comes to some kind of climax, some resolution of the conflicts embodied in its story. God is the climactic song that brings to a head all the pain, anger and realization of the rest of the album. It rejects the authority of received mythology, including the mythology of Beatle John.
To the boy on the rug, already a closet agnostic at thirteen, this was a loud shout of validation, and not just because of the questioning of religion.
In an even larger sense, the song offers broad affirmation and permission to all those who would throw off the shackles and blinders of culture and think for themselves, love for themselves, be themselves in a world that is always pressing on you to conform, to fit into one mold or another. And it offers a glimpse of moving past all of that into a clarified, illuminated future. The dream is over. Believe in yourself. Carry on. This faith in your own heart can be a refuge, a home you can return to when you get lost. Having that can change your life.
The shock of that December night has never quite faded. Like losing a family member before their time, there’s a sting to every memory of the man, every note of his music. Like the charged taste of metal when you test a battery with your tongue, not a lightning bolt anymore but still bitter and hard. John lost his future. His family lost their future with him. And we lost our future of connecting to him, of recognizing our growing, struggling selves in his music and his honesty about his own growing, struggling self.
The music lives on, as they say. And maybe somewhere in the world today there’s a doubtful pimply kid clicking around online who will stumble into a YouTube post of Plastic Ono Band, and he’ll stuff his earbuds in and push play.
And he will hear bells.
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Remembering Muhammad Ali
Why he was a hero whether we agreed with him or not

Muhammad Ali would have turned 80 years old today, January 17, 2022. It also happens to be Martin Luther King Jr Day, in a year — an era, really — that all too clearly echoes the elevated tensions that inflamed the unrest of the turbulent Sixties.
How frustrating and disappointing that we as a society seem to have grown so little in all these years. But how inspiring to remember how both these men rose above their times and how each of them, in their own way, shook up the world.
Ali passed away, in June of 2016. Looking back now, that location in time seems to be right on the cusp of this current era, straddling the border, with one foot in the calm before the storm and one foot in the hurricane itself. Name the storm Division. Or Polarization. Or Culture War. Blame it on Inequality, Moral Decay or White Supremacy. Or Patriarchy, Corporatism or Globalism. We find ourselves in what feels like an impasse, a bumper to bumper traffic jam on the highway of cultural development.
At the time of Ali’s death, I put fingers to keyboard in an attempt to clarify why the man’s life and death felt so meaningful to me (and perhaps to others). Today I’m revisiting those reflections below…
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Farewell to the great Muhammad Ali.
There were so many sides to the man. So many people today are expressing their own impressions of this transcendent figure. So many different words are showing up in articles and posts. Of course, people often speak first of his athletic skill. The New Yorker said he had “physical wit.” A clever phrase but maybe still an understatement. He was a physical genius who, in his prime, raised heavyweight boxing up to the level of art. Others speak of Ali’s bravery, confidence, humor, grace, kindness.
To me, Ali seemed to always be coming back from defeat.
If I was ever aware of him as Cassius Clay, I don’t remember. I was only nine years old when he refused to serve in Vietnam, and my earliest memories of him are about the controversy that followed and his unjust exile from the career and status he had rightfully earned with his fists.
Another word we’re seeing today is “sacrifice,” and few other public figures in our time have proved their beliefs by sacrificing as much as Ali. He had all the riches and power that America had to offer him. He was “King of the World,” as he so brashly proclaimed. Yet he was willing to give it all up — to go to prison if necessary — in accordance with his conscience. It’s something he gave us all to think about.
Which requires more bravery — to follow the crowd to battle, or to stand alone and question the purpose of war?
When he came back, I listened to his first fight against Jerry Quarry on my bed with my ear pressed against a handheld transistor radio. When he lost to Joe Frazier, I watched in the local theatre. When he rope-a-doped George Foreman to finally regain the championship in 1974, I was sixteen, listening in the driveway on the radio in my first car, a 1962 Ford Fairlane.
Of course, he lost again. And he came back again. In the ring and in the world. Against younger boxers, against judgmental society and against cruel disease. He became possibly the most well known, and certainly one of the most admired men in the world. The word “icon” gets thrown around too casually these days. Ali was the real deal. To quote the dictionary, “a person regarded as a representative symbol of something.”
Yes, a representative symbol of those many words showing up repeatedly today: skill, grace, wit, kindness and the rest. But each of those words by itself seems to be reaching for a more complete summary. There must be something about the man that encompasses yet exceeds all those words, such that, even though we might not agree with his every word or action, we see that something about him represents the best in us.
I think what finally seals Ali’s indelible power in our hearts, what we see in him that we wish for ourselves, what he truly symbolizes — is the triumph of courage and principle over injustice. That is what I see in Muhammad Ali’s life that I hope lives somewhere within my own heart, and within the heart of our society in general.
And then there is my favorite Ali quote — and I’m sure I won’t be the only one to recall this today because it so captures Ali’s wit, charm and fierce sense of self. In one of their many post-fight interviews, Howard Cosell remarked on Ali’s bravado. “You’re being extremely truculent,” he said. And Ali came back without missing a half-beat: “Whatever truculent means, if that’s good, I’m that.”
And so much more.
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Is Hitting a Baseball Really the Hardest Thing to do in Sports?
Two guys in recliners share their wisdom

ROY DUFRAIN JR
Making Baseball Great!Making Baseball Great Again, Updates

Photo by Pixabay: www.pexels.com
Hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in sport. That is the accepted and acknowledged barroom and living room wisdom.
Regular Joe down at the end of the bar says, “Look man, you got a round ball that’s three inches wide, it’s closing on you almost a hundred miles an hour and you’re supposed to hit it with a stick that’s even smaller around than the ball. That’s why you’re a freakin allstar if you can pull it off just three out of every ten times.”
“Damn straight,” you holler and raise your glass. “Hardest thing to do in all of sport.”
It’s never exactly clear what things are being compared, but nonetheless it’s an article of faith that hitting a baseball is the most difficult among said unsaid things.
But is it?
Cut to my living room just a few Sundays ago, when my father, Roy Sr, sometimes referred to as Old Roy, or more delicately as Roy 1.0, joined me to watch the Giants game and bask in each other’s considerable baseball expertise. Fortunately, on this particular Sunday, Mrs D was visiting relatives somewhere across the continent, thus the living room was temporarily an eye-roll-free zone vis-a-vis the running of our expert mouths.
Friendly beverages were involved, the Giants were losing in the late innings, and soon talk turned to our superior understanding of the game of baseball compared to the hopeless, flailing, trend-following, stat-blind, blockheaded ignorance of, you know, pretty much everyone ever professionally employed at the highest levels of the sport. Such is the cross borne by every long-suffering couchbound sports fan.
So, after yet another Giant struck out to end an inning with the bases loaded, one of us sighed in resignation and threw the old bromide out there, “Well, like they say, it’s the hardest thing to do in sport.”
And of course we went through the whole litany: three inches wide, rounded bat, hundred miles an hour, seven out of ten failure rate.
Incidentally, it’s not just barroom — or living room — wisdom. Even the venerated Popular Science has published an article claiming, “A unique blend of physics and neuroscience makes the skill astronomically difficult.” (www.popsci.com/story/science/why-is-hitting-a-baseball-so-hard/?)
So, don’t roll your eyes at the two Roys just yet.
But what are we really talking about here? What, in fact, are the aforementioned ‘things’ we might fairly compare to hitting a baseball? Let’s define them. Let’s say, for instance, completing a pass in the NFL. Or let’s say, making a basket in the NBA. Or hitting the fairway in professional golf. These are all discrete, repeatable accomplishments required on a regular basis for a top-level player to be deemed successful in their respective sport.
And I suddenly got a clear look at the fly in the logic — or the flaw in the ointment, whatever. I realized this dog couldn’t hunt. Or, more importantly, count. You see, when you throw a pass in the NFL, that’s one throw, one single attempt, with one positive or negative result: complete or incomplete. When you take a shot in the NBA, it’s one shot, make or miss. In golf, you hit one shot from the tee, your ball either lands in the fairway (or on the green) or it doesn’t. These are all straightforward one-for-one records of accountability.
And it’s true, by all the accepted measurements these skills are less difficult on average than hitting a baseball. Top passers have completion rates above 60%. Top shooters make baskets around 50% of the time. Top golfers hit the fairway on up to 70% of their drives.
However, in baseball, when we say someone’s an allstar for hitting the ball 30% of the time, we’re not talking about a one-for-one relationship.
We’re talking about hits per ‘at-bat.’ And in any single at-bat a player could see multiple pitches and make an unknown number of swings. Plus, the 30% only counts the number of times a batter hits ‘safely.’ When the batter hits the ball but makes an out, it’s not counted. Even though the batter has, in fact, achieved the illustrious feat of hitting the baseball, that achievement is ignored in the calculation of their standard batting average.
That doesn’t seem fair.
When a quarterback completes a third-down pass but it’s short of the first down, he’s still credited with a completion. If the forward dunks the ball at the buzzer but the team loses by one, the basket still counts. When a golfer hits the fairway but bogies the hole, the record book will still say he hit the fairway.
So I says to Old Roy, “What if you counted every single time the batter puts the ball in play? After all, isn’t that the physical act of hitting the baseball, which is what we’re supposedly measuring?”
He goes, “Yeah, that only makes sense. Even if you’re out, you’ve already done the job, you’ve hit the baseball. Why shouldn’t that count?” And he takes a drink.
I’m wondering, jeez, did we just out-think the entire history of barroom pundits? Because, if you count every time the batter actually puts the ball in play, there is no way that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in all of sport. No way. Right?
Now I’m thinking, yes, these two Sunday blabbermouths in their recliners just completely overturned conventional wisdom. Over cocktails during the seventh inning stretch we had apparently debunked one of the greatest and oldest truisms in baseball lore. If only the skeptical Mrs D were here to appreciate our brilliant insight! I mean, I better write a nice wordy essay to impress my friends and anyone else who will listen.
Couple days later, I decide to hunt down the numbers that would prove the case.
First, I go to baseball-reference.com and look up the 2022 National League Batting Champion, Jeff McNeil of the New York Mets. In 589 plate appearances, McNeil had 538 official at-bats (subtracting walks, hit by pitch, sacrifices, reaching base on a fielding error). In those 533 at-bats, his 174 hits yield a .326 average or a 33% success rate. But to calculate a more accurate success rate, let’s include all the times he put the ball in play but made an out. To get that figure, simply subtract his total strikeouts from total at-bats, and you’d pretty much have it.
In McNeil’s case that’s 533 at-bats minus 61 strikeouts = 472 balls in play. That is approximately an 89% success rate. In 89% of his at-bats, McNeil hit the baseball, supposedly the hardest thing to do in all of sport. WTF!?
But then it suddenly dawned on me, Oh s***! Each swing is an attempt. Not each at-bat. Each swing. To truly measure the difficulty of hitting a baseball against those other sports skills, you need to calculate swings vs balls in play. In this discussion, nothing else really matters.
I won’t begin to list all the crazy anal-retentive baseball stats you can find online nowadays. If you looked long enough you could probably learn how often your favorite shortstop scratches his balls during the ninth inning of Tuesday night games in Oracle Park. And yet, I scoured more than a dozen sites before I found something close to what I was looking for, and not surprisingly I found it at billjamesonline.com
Here’s a simple breakdown of swings vs balls in play for McNeil’s 2022 season. 1110 swings, 477 balls in play. What about other high caliber players? That guy Aaron Judge had a pretty good year in 2022, didn’t he? 1240 swings, 400 balls in play (of which quite a few of them went over the fence). Luis Arraez led the American League in batting: 1034 swings, 507 balls in play. World Series Champion and perennial allstar Jose Altuve, 1022 swings, 441 balls in play. Among my beloved Giants, Brandon Crawford, 872 swings, 313 balls in play. And among the hated (although in case highly respected) Dodgers, Mookie Betts, 1072 swings, 472 balls in play.
And — drum roll — the corresponding success rates: McNeil 42.97%; Judge 32.25%; Arraez 49.03%; Altuve 43.15%; Crawford 35.89%; Betts 44.02%.
The Inescapable Conclusions:
• The best hitters succeed at hitting the baseball on only 30–50% of their attempts.
• The barroom pundits were right after all, although for the wrong reasons.
• It’s very hard to hit a baseball. You might call it the hardest thing to do in sports.
• Old Roy and Marginally Younger Roy are nearly as full of it as Mrs D’s eye rolls would suggest. We will now return to our recliners and cocktails, thank you.
• Thank you for reading Fire and Dreams. This post is public — feel free to share!
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Roy introduced me to Baseball, and American Football. We saw a lot of baseballl games on TV at the Euclid House as well as SNL in its prime time seasons. as well as 70’s classic TV shows.

THE YEAR OF TWELVE SONGS is my latest music project. Some of you got a preview recently, with an all-acoustic version of a song called Finish Strong. Now I’m sharing a new version with added instruments and my efforts at sound production. Plus some backstory and something sort like old-fashioned liner notes (remember those?). I plan to do this with a different song every month and hopefully learn a lot in the process. Check it out with the link below and let me know what you think.
Roy Dufrain Jr.