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Something slightly loftier, pointed and hopefuly witty. |
| The ever popular question of what now comes to mind on yet another end and begining. |
| For me, drumming has always been on the list of “one hundred things to do before you die,” and over the past year I have been trying to check that off my list. Sure, I can play along with any given song, but I always wanted to learn the theory and technique that makes a good drummer great. Illusions of public performance notwithstanding, I have read books on drumming, flipped through drumming magazines and watched in great depth video and training tapes from some of the best drummers alive in the hopes of self improvement. Neil Peart has long been one of my all time favorite drummers for his sense of style, technique, and skill. He becomes one with his instrument and makes it look so easy; for lack of a better word. I’m not trying to be the next Neil Peart as that would be impossible and a sacrilege, but rather someone who simply enjoys playing on a spiritual level and to gain a sense of accomplishment. I met with a drum instructor a few weeks ago and after a short interview decided he would fit the bill to mold my meager skills into a capable drummer. His name is Arik, and yes, that is how it’s spelled. Now, let me take a moment to “add” it to the dictionary and make gone the little squiggly red lines under his name. His resume’ is impressive, having been in the Marine Corps, played on the Marine Corp Band, and is now enrolled as a student at ASU with a BA in musical theory. To see him in public you would never guess he was a Marine. He looks similar to the cartoon character in “Bevis and Butthead,” the hippie guitar playing beat-nick, but as far as I know he is not a “tree-hugger.” Arik seemed as excited as I was in taking me on as a student. I’m not his typical student of such tender years and wonder what is on the young minds of those that pass me in the halls of his studio. The studio is located in an old music store on the north-west side of Phoenix. A short ride up the freeway is all it takes from my house. The store is crammed with shelves of LP format records with titles from BB King to Journey, to Nat King Cole, and Frank Sinatra. You stumble over old guitars and drum kits as you walk past the little waiting area, which is where I receive most of the “stares” from the younger students. The walls are covered in posters and musical paraphernalia from past and present. Near the entrance is a cork board with business cards and wanted ads for local musical hopefuls. I’m a long way off from applying for one of those gigs, if ever, but it was a nice little side fantasy while waiting for Arik to finish with his 2:30 student. I poked around the store listening to the sounds of a practice pad being hit in paradiddle fashion while making small talk with the store clerk. I found the drum section; a little out of the way corner of the shop with volumes of training books piled on top of each other. I began flipping through them when the store clerk announced, “Doctor Arik will see you now.” I managed a small wry smile and went into the studio. Inside the studio sat two drum kits in their most basic form one for student and the other for instructor. We discussed my goals and what I hopped to accomplish and put together a training outline and started right in. He first had me demonstrate my current abilities and I blasted out my best solo effort trying to maintain whatever technique I knew to be correct. He smiled and we started with proper stick control and a brief lecture of stick grip; matched grip or traditional grip. I opted to learn traditional grip which is the natural grip used mostly in marching bands where the drum is worn on a sling and hangs over the left hip. I have no intention of joining the marching band, but this grip is useful for many drumming techniques and I thought I should learn as much as possible. After a very quick thirty minute session, Arik set me up with some training material for home practice and we set my next lesson. I guess I am on my way to checking off that little box on my long list of things I want to do before I die and if writing doesn’t pan out for me, perhaps my career as a musician will. Hmm, the fantasy continues. |
| Holy Cow the Cubbies are going to the playoffs…again. Where is Harry Caray when you need him? This entry alone my be all that is needed to "curse" my beloved Cubbies chance of victory. My participation as a Cubs fan has caused a family rift since I was a young boy. Normally, Cub fans are “north-siders”, while the “south-siders” typically root for the White Sox. I grew up on the south side so you might imagine, I have been the brunt of many-a-Cubs joke, but I usually let it slide off my shoulder without incident. I remember as a boy going to my first Cubs game. Wrigley Field is one of the last original ball parks still in use in the country. It has not fallen prey to the corporate name change like so many other parks and venues these days. Wrigley Field is in Chicago and has served as the home ballpark of the Chicago Cubs since 1916. It was built in 1914 as Weeghman Park for the Chicago Federal League baseball team, the Chicago Whales. It was also the home of the Chicago Bears of the National Football League from 1921-1970. Located in the residential neighborhood of Lakeview, Wrigley Field sits on an asymmetric block bounded by Clark and Addison Streets and Waveland and Sheffield Avenues. The area surrounding the ballpark contains bars, restaurants and other establishments and is typically referred to as Wrigleyville. The ballpark's mailing address, as many fans of the movie The Blues Brothers know, is 1060 W. Addison Street. During Cubs games, fans will often stand outside the park on Waveland Avenue, waiting for home run balls hit over the wall and out of the park. (However, as a tradition, Cubs fans inside and sometimes even outside the park will promptly throw any home run ball hit by an opposing player back onto the field of play, a ritual depicted in the late-1970s stage play, Bleacher Bums, and in the 1993 film, Rookie of the Year.) I can still smell the freshly cut grass. The arriving fans would fill every seat and the park would come alive with echoing announcements and pre-game activities. In field, the team would be warming up, much like you see today, but fan-player interaction seemed more the norm and getting an autograph was a simple procedure of hanging over the dugout roof and handing a ball to your favorite player. Despite their rollercoaster record and predictable habit of “blowing” games, it’s hard to top the magic that fills this park and the energy emitted by the fans. I have little memory of a time before Harry Caray, although he did announce for the White Sox until 1981, his ever-famous “Holy Cow” and his slurred rendering of “Take Me out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch are only a few Harry-moments. Sometimes I was certain he was going to fall out of the booth as he leaned out to greet fans and lead them on to a Cubs victory. Harry would normally get the first letter of the players name correct and completely butcher the remaining syllables much to the amusement of the fans and television announcers. Since his passing in 1998 guest celebrities now fill in during the seventh inning stretch, but it’s not quite the same. Still, the magic remains and the die-hard fans patiently wait for a World Series victory…hopefully before they too pass. *Historical data from Wikipedia |
| You would have thought they were reconstructing the pyramid ruins instead of putting up a dividing wall for the installation of a pastry oven at my third place. During this little project, they have been closed in the evenings and have put quite a dent in my predictable little world. I have been forced to visit alternate Starbuck locations for my fill of coffee and atmosphere while having to jockey for a comfortable table among their regulars. It was like being the new kid at a new school; I could feel the eyes watching me while almost hearing their thoughts of “who’s this guy?” So, from the patio of “my” third place I feel at ease once more; the planets in alignment, the air cool and the sky open with a banquet of shimmering stars. I find my table as I left it and settle in for some reflection while trying to ignore the hot sting of my freshly tattooed arm. Since my little bike journey and my impromptu visit with Nicole, my tattoo artist, I made arrangements earlier in the week to put aside some time to get back on the table and turn Nicole loose on my “re-work” that I started almost four years ago. Initially, I had a “friend” transfer my design from paper to skin and I soon discovered that he was lacking in the skill and technique required for such a piece. Not being one to “complain” I allowed him his practice with me as guinea pig while trying to be supportive and encouraging to a new artist. My work of art, as I envisioned it was soon reduced to uneven lines and rapidly fading ink caused by a “heavy-handed” tattooist. After getting a brow-beating from Nicole for having allowed someone with such little experience near me, she agreed to restore my masterpiece, while adding some flow and symmetry of her own. Tonight was my second sitting with Nicole and my first in her new studio of two weeks. I arrived early to allow for the customary small talk and for the nickel tour of her studio. It’s located on the west side in an up-and-coming part of Phoenix and boosts fresh paint with tasteful graphics and an artistic flare. The gallery-like theme continues into the main entrance which opens to exposed ventilation ducts and loft-like beams. The walls have an earthy tone offset with stenciled designs that flow throughout the room. The smell of fresh paint fills the air and you soon forget you are in a tattoo parlor. A glass display case houses various drawings and designs of each artist along with a portfolio showcasing their clients completed works. In one corner sits an old Victorian sofa and table where waiting clients can visit and plan out their next piece. Unlike typical tattoo studios with private rooms, this one is partitioned into little work stations where each artist openly performs their craft. Of course this means that the client is also on display for all to see and might give some clients pause depending on “where” the tattoo is going. My experience has taught me that people with tattoos consider their bodies to that of a canvass and find no shame in showing off their art. I made myself comfortable on the black leather table while Nicole, with the cleanliness of a surgeon, laid out the necessary tools of her trade. She went right to work picking up where she had last left off; coloring and detailing the outline of my design. At this point Nicole is mostly silent as she tunes out any distractions and becomes one with her new creation. I close my eyes attempting to tune out the sensitive spots she is coloring in taking momentary glances of her progress. The “buzz” of the tattoo gun echoes off the walls as she “fills and wipes,” repeating this process as she moves along my forearm. Occasionally my hand or fingers will twitch as she passes over a nerve but is quickly controlled by her skilled touch all without missing a pass of her “brush.” We pause for a few breaks; her to stretch, and me to have a Red Apple and before long Nicole is finishing up another section of my sleeve art. She applies a cooling spray and wipes the excess ink before wrapping my arm with non-sticking gauze. “Until next time.” she says with a smile and gives my arm the customary “pat” of completion and I reply, “Yes, until next time.” |
| Today family, friends, and a sad community said farewell to another fallen hero. Officer Nick Erfle is the latest Phoenix police officer to be gunned down during an arrest attempt leaving behind a grieving wife and small children. The story remains the same, and some will say its part of the job, and I say shame on the lawmakers for not enforcing our border policies that might have prevented this guardian of peace from being taken away so soon. Not far from my third place and my home, during a mid-afternoon’s day, officer Erfle was questioning a man he observed jaywalk through a busy intersection. The offender, a 22 year-old illegal immigrant drew a firearm, and in a most cowardly fashion shot our officer to death. I salute officer Erfle's gallant attempts and heroic efforts to “make a difference” in my community and offer this poem, written by an unknown author, in his memory. The Final Inspection (author unknown) The Police Officer stood and faced God, Which must always come to pass. He hoped his shoes were shining, just as brightly as his brass. "Step forward now, you Officer, How shall I deal with you?” Have you always turned the other cheek? To My Church have you been true?" The Officer squared his shoulders and said, "No, Lord, I guess I ain't, because those of us who carry guns, Can’t always be a saint. I've had to work most Sundays And at times my talk was tough, And sometimes I've been violent, Because the world is awfully rough. But, I never took a penny That wasn't mine to keep... Though I worked a lot of overtime When the bills got just too steep, And I never passed a cry for help, Though at times I shook with fear, And sometimes, God forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears. I know I don't deserve a place, among the people here; they’ve never wanted me around, except to calm their fears. But if you've a place for me here, Lord, it needn't be so grand, though I never expected or had too much, so if you don't, I'll understand." There was a silence all around the throne Where the saints had often trod As the Officer waited quietly, For the judgment of his God, Step forward now, you Officer, You've borne your burdens well, Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets, You've done your time in Hell." Thank you for your sacrifice Officer Erfle. You will be missed. |
| Sweet relief! This is hopefully the first of many pleasant evenings to come minus the weight of the hot air which has become common place. Soon, I will be unpacking last year’s autumn fashions and seeing what is still in style and what still fits. As the circle of seasons come and go so does the inevitable effects of gravity upon this aging man. Although I feel little difference from my younger days, there are noticeable changes, mostly in the way of graying hairs. Now, this change is more socially acceptable for the male of the species, but for me, it has not been a welcome transformation. Each time I sit for a haircut I am shocked at the black to gray hair ratio that falls onto my lap. It’s usually met with a roll of my eyes and a request to my local barber to change the black cape to a lighter shade in an attempt to mask the freshly cut gray hairs. Add to that the birth of new hair growth in places that were as barren as a dessert during my younger days. I guess matters could be worse as I still have my hair and the ability to see my feet while standing. I can even tie my own shoes, so my flexibility is intact. I have noticed that I seem to get more compliments on my appearance then earlier in life but am not sure if it’s my maturing looks or the fact that I am more self confident, or a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, it’s not always easy to deal with being a solitary, quite, creature of habit. An exciting evening for me might involve a good book, a hike in Squaw Pear Park or, as many of you might have guessed, writing in the comforts of my third place. I like to think of myself as being on a journey with no destination, and no deadlines, while achieving a better understanding of my surroundings. It’s my little humanities class. |
| A day of rain was a soothing relief from the days of record breaking heat. The puffy cumulous clouds surrounded the city as they made their way over the golden mountain range and in past Camelback Mountain. Towering high into the air they darkened as they prepared to release their payload of moisture on the hot ground below. From my southern vantage point I could see the huge cumulus clouds overpowering the lighter, friendlier cirrus clouds. Swallowing them whole it was only a matter of time before the large rain drops arrived. The sweet smell of rain preceded the coming storm as the birds took flight for nearby shelter, the limbs of olive trees and tall palm trees begun to sway in the increasing wind, as if bowing in submissive obedience to Mother Nature. The distant echo of thunder rolled over the mountain tops announcing the storms arrival and the first drops of moisture begun to fall to earth. An invisible wall of steam could be felt rising from the baking pavement like a fire being extinguished; the earth seemed to let out a satisfying sigh of relief and eagerly took back what it had given up over the long hot summer. The heavy drops danced off the ground creating little rivers that flowed into each other. Shallow puddles began to form and a ballet of little circles erupted from the rain drop impacts. A pedestrian running for cover momentarily interrupted the dance of the rain drop circles as he sloshed his way through the storm. The sun soon took back the sky as the clouds parted; exposing patches of blue atmosphere in contrast to the gray storm clouds. A colorful rainbow appeared as the residual raindrops passed in front of the suns rays, bringing to end the dance of the rain drop circles. |
| I’m under the broken clouds of the Arizona sky sitting at my third place. A gentle breeze drifts across the patio taking with it the heat of the day. In the distant south-eastern horizon an intermittent lightening show performs for all to see. Thursday’s seem to be the busy night for my little Starbucks. This can cause some internal turmoil if “my” table is occupied by strangers. I do have a couple of back-up tables for “emergencies” but tonight I am happily seated at my normal table. From this spot I have a clear view of the comings and goings of my fellow coffee junkies. It’s been in the hundreds for so long now I don’t think fall will ever get here. One hundred and nine days of consecutive 100 degree plus temperatures. Whew! The pay off will be worth the wait once the cooler temperatures do arrive. I have always enjoyed autumn as long as I can remember. In Phoenix however there is no real change in the colors of our landscape and it arrives quite unexpectedly; one day it’s just cooler. We don’t even turn back our clocks. Unlike Chicago, autumn in Phoenix is a state of mind with subtle flares of fall. The evenings are the best, offering pleasant outdoor temperatures for star gazing or sipping a hot cup of coffee. The scent of a freshly lit fireplace fills the air (yes, we have fireplaces) and the night sky seems more crisp and clear. For me it’s also the time to don my tight-fitting dress blue uniform and start another Toys for Tots campaign. Each year I travel from school to school and speak about life in the military to elementary children as well as other various organizations that sponsor Toys for Tots drives. I bring pictures of the places I have been, along with some battle gear and a few MRE’s –Meals Ready to Eat- for the kids to sample. I’m always surprised at how much they enjoy eating them as we –Marines- have always found them very unsatisfying. The MRE is a dehydrated meal containing such delights as spaghetti and meatballs to chicken and dumplings. Included in the package are cheese and crackers, candy bars, cookies, gum, matches and some toiletries. These MRE’s are said to have a one hundred year shelf life and can only be truly appreciated after having spent months cut off from society, or if you’re a curious kindergartener. The children seem to love them although I think it’s the experience of tearing them open to find what’s inside. What ever their reasons, they couldn’t be any more adorable. At Ford Elementary one year a young student asked, “¿Es usted el presidente?” as I entered their classroom. I had to laugh and assured her I was not. Autumn is also time for me to reunite with my military veteran friends and celebrate Veterans Day, and for me, the Marine Corps birthday. I take these two days off from work and participate in Phoenix’s Veterans Day parade, after which I pay a visit to the Veterans Hospital’s nursing home to sit with the veterans that reside there. They love telling their stories and I enjoy listening to them share. They are quick witted and sometimes grouchy, but nonetheless an honor to visit with. I met one veteran, Garth, who is a Pearl Harbor survivor. His account of survival was both moving and impressive. He was a sailor aboard the USS Oklahoma. After being hit by a Japanese torpedo, the ship, heavily damaged began to list, dumping its young crew over board into the shallows of the harbor. Garth recounted the enormous struggle for survival as he endeavored to swim clear of the massive monolith that was bearing down on him and his shipmates. He could only watch in horror, knowing full well that many of the men still remained trapped inside as the ship rolled over exposing its hull. Another veteran, Mary, was a nurse in the Army Medical Corps during WW II. She proudly showed me photographs of her in her dress greens asking if I thought she was a “catch.” I had to admit, she looked beautiful and it was hard to believe it was the same woman standing before me now. She was quite the flirt as I recall, as are most the residents there, normally the men showing off to the nursing staff. Not quite dead yet they tell me. I learned a few months later that Mary had passed away not long after our visit. I will always take the memory of having met such a wonderful proud woman with me. It is with these people, my brothers and sisters in arms, with whom I find comfort. Perhaps it’s that we share a common bond of service and sacrifice that allows for such a natural friendship to form. They are so proud. |
| Not long ago in our not to distant past, America was a prideful nation. World War II was nearing an end, the defeat of evil and those that sought to destroy whole civilizations fell. The citizens of this nation came together for a common bond and showed the world that America would not run from fear, threats, or force. These were our grandfather’s and to hear them speak of the service they gave during WWII is moving and patriotic. They are a living history of our past mistakes and triumphs, our bravery and fears all rolled into one and they typified the youth of a strong nation. Six years ago today our country fell prey to an attack of enormous proportions and joined the long list of countries subject to terrorist warfare. Like our grandparents before us we all remember where we were and what we were doing the day time stopped. For me, it was just another day. I was nearing the end of my enlistment with the Marines, after having served from 1983 to 1990 and then reenlisting ten years later as a reservist. My civilian job was as a service mechanic and I had just arrived to work that September morning to hear the first of many reports from New York crackle from my little transistor radio. The other guys gathered around to listen and we thought nothing of these first reports, thinking it must be a small plane that lost its course and hit a building. We moved to the break room where we watched the carnage unfold on TV. It was bad, but still the notion of an attack was not even a thought. Then as the camera pulled back, we saw another plane come into view, bank left, level out, and… the rest need not be told. A collective gasp was what I remember hearing, then the room fell silent as we watched in horror and disbelief at what our eyes had just witnessed, and we knew this was no accident. There wasn’t a dry eye in the shop that morning and our east coast transplants feverishly tried to phone back home for more news of their loved ones. It was our Pearl Harbor happening all over again only this time for the whole world to see. In the days that followed the attacks the skies over America fell into an eerie silence as all flights were cancelled. Our nation was in a collective state of shock and our way of life had been altered forever. The things we took for granted were now in question as we tried in vain to search for answers. In doing so, something else was changing around us and as the days turned into weeks there rose a familiar taste from our past. The namesake of a nation was reborn and we were once again united for a common bond, The United States of America. Flags flew from homes, offices, and from the beds of trucks. Patriotic slogans became motivating forms of greeting. “Let’s Roll,” was on everyone’s lips and we were pumped. Eager for closure and thirsty for pay-back; we were once again a proud nation. Enlistment into the armed forces soared and the crime rate dropped as thousands of American’s searched for ways to help. We had put aside our petty differences and rose to our full potential; if only for a moment. It was a taste of America that lives within us all and for a brief moment in time we were one. But time has a way of fogging our memories and being replaced by blame and accusation. Slowly the flags begun to disappear from sight and our overwhelming drive to make more, spend more, and have more had returned. We seem to be a fickle nation content with our reactive attitudes, short attention spans, and “bandwagon” mentality. If the home team is winning we are there for support, but let them loose a game or two and they are yesterday’s news. Epilogue: No matter your political or military views, take a moment to remember our troops and the freedoms you enjoy because of the sacrifice they make. Thank a cop and remember the trials they face each day they put on the uniform. Shake a fireman’s hand and ask yourself if you would brave a falling building for someone you do not know. These people do not hesitate to step in and act selflessly for our defense and our safety. They are not without fault, they have no super powers, and they do not ask to go where we send them. They are us; they are Americans. |
| 27 July 2007 Friday Bitter sweet Friday had been one of those days that you wish you’d stayed in bed. Although the day tried, the ugliness of the world seemed to over rule the excitement for my newly appointed position at work, and, most importantly, the concert with Rush that evening. I was having silent debates with myself- as I sometimes do-about whether or not I should attend the Rush concert here in Phoenix or just try to make it to Red Rocks, Colorado as originally planned. I had been looking forward to seeing Rush play in the venue Neil Peart has described as “magical” in his book “Roadshow.” He even used a photo of the venue as the cover for the book. The escape from the Arizona heat was worth the trip alone, but this was Rush. Recent changes with my job at the airport would make leaving the state near impossible even if for one day’s time. Our manager had recently quit and accepted a job closer to his home in the north valley. Not long after Eric resigned one of the service technicians decided to quit which left me and one other man to handle a great deal of work. It would be unfair to leave James alone to bear the burden, or so I felt. My true reason was that James lacks the ability to manage without some form of guidance and that concerned me. He is an older black man, a fellow brother Marine, and one of the most soulful men I have ever met. He tends to stray from task very easily, and that can be quite troublesome in our line of work. Despite futile attempts in correcting this behavior I have learned to deal with his shortcomings as best as I can. It’s hard to grow upset with James given his gentle spirit and comical mannerisms. Still, leaving him for such a long period would make me to uneasy to enjoy the trip in the first place. OK then, it was settled. I would go to the Phoenix show, I agreed with my self inwardly, although I am certain anyone who happened by my office would notice the wry expression and furled brow and realize my conflict. The only thing left was a ticket to the venue. At this late date I wasn’t holding much hope for anything but a lawn seat, but at least that would get me in and able to see the band I had been following since I was a young boy. I logged on to Ticket Master and typed in the necessary information and presto, I had a solid seat. I was surprised at how close I would be seated and thought, “It must be meant to be.” Section 203 at what is now called Cricket Pavilion, in Phoenix. I prefer the old Desert Sky Pavilion name, but who am I? The last time I was there was in 1997 for ironically, Rush. The weather forecast for tonight’s show looked promising, although it’s a rain or shine venue regardless, but section 203 is safely under the enclosed seating area so I should have no problems. I was eager to finish out my day at work and get home to change into some suitable concert-going attire. I planned on getting to the venue with enough time to purchase some Rush paraphernalia, get a few bottles of water and perhaps talk one of the sound guys into getting some items signed by the band. Traffic on the I-10 was snarled as usual so to pass the time and avoid any road rage conflicts I broke out my Vader drum sticks and started to practice my paradiddle rudiments on the dash and steering wheel of my truck. Now, I don’t really recommend this type of “careless” behavior while driving, but as I said, it keeps me sane while navigating the congested sprawl of Phoenix. The foot pedals of the truck work wonderful for simulating the foot work needed in drumming. I manage to keep the vehicle on course while using my left knee to steady the wheel which leaves my hands free to “drum” about the cab of the truck. When the time comes to signal a lane change, I will activate the turn signal lever in beat to the music I’m playing or to my rudiments. So, if I’m doing paradiddles, which is a four-beat form of “RLRR” or “LRLL” I will hit the turn signal lever at just the right moment, never missing a beat. There are the times when I am forced to abandon all drumming activities for an evasive maneuver or two, but for the most part I only break out the sticks during slow speed traffic. Nonetheless this must appear very unusual to the passing motorist; this guy drumming out a beat while driving. I argue its much safer then say, texting while driving for my eyes never leave the road. Alas! I arrived to Cricket Pavilion an hour early and found a parking spot close to the exit for easy access out after the show. Yes, I’m always thinking ahead. The diehard Rush fans where “tailgating” and enjoying the tolerable warmth of the evening. I walked through the gauntlet of parked cars and trucks listening to the “pre-concert” display of Rush tunes blaring from the car speakers. A steady “hum” of excitement hovered in the air and I could tell it was going to be a great crowd for the show. I was forced to be subjected to the venues security “pat-down” before entering the gates. I had the pleasure of being frisked by one of the female guards who did a hasty job at best of insuring everyone’s safety, but I did promises to call her in the morning. One thing I want to know is why the male guards couldn’t pat down the female concert-goers? Hmm, hardly seems fair. I usually don’t like large crowds and become slightly claustrophobic but I was enjoying the energy as I entered the gates and found my way to the souvenir booth. The line snaked around the booth and across the midway of the court yard as some fans stood on tip toes to get a glimpse of the available “swag.” I spotted the shirt I wanted right away; a depiction of Neil’s hands gently holding a pair of sticks. On the back of the shirt listed the concert tour dates and venues. I also decided to get a copy of the tour book which is normally packed with interesting tidbits of band information and pictures. This copy was no exception. The cover boasted the new album art work on a glossy red stock and hosted a vast collection of photos from the R30 tour. Each musician wrote a little essay to accompany their photo. Alex wrote a piece as only he can, a comical interview of himself, by himself. It is an interesting interaction of words to say the least. Geddy of course speaks of his love of music and his band mates while touching briefly on the newest of their work. And then there is Neil who talks drums while trying to maintain his solitary persona as best he can. After getting some water, making a “pit” stop and having a Red Apple, I made my way to my seat and got settled in. I had a straight unobstructed view of center stage and I couldn’t have been happier. To my left was the sound mixing boards and camera equipment and to my right, the isle. I sat and read from the book I had with me to kill time before the start of the show. I enjoyed some people watching in between page turns and noticed all the “old” guys, like me, some with their kids in tow clearly trying to pass on the Rush torch to the next generation. There were a large percentage of young people there which surprised me because anytime I mention Rush in mixed company, I get the deer in-the-headlights look and inevitable question, who are they? The show kicked off right on time as is common with Rush and on a large projection screen behind Neil’s drums a comical movie intro, starring none other than the band, played with dramatic effects and comical satire. Then the first song; “Spirit of Radio” and the crowd came to life. I tried with little success to capture some of the concert on my little cell phone camera but soon abandoned that notion. They played for four hours bringing to life some old favorites as well as many of the new songs from “Snakes and Arrows.” After a thirty minute intermission they returned to a very anxious crowd eager for Neil’s solo performance. As a drummer myself, and only in hobby, I have always been fascinated with Neil’s skill and precision he displays behind the drums. His fresh and innovative compositions have made him a percussion maestro and given many would-be drummers the drive to excel and push their own drumming abilities to the limit. Neil changed his drum solo around and sported a fresh set of drums, shiny and new. He played flawlessly although I am sure he would disagree. Seeing them that night only drove my desire to see them in Colorado the following month. That would never come to pass and I became the proud owner of two unused Rush concert tickets that will forever remain framed in a little corner of my music room. After a very welcomed encore of “YYZ” and “Witch Hunt” the members of Rush waved and wished the crowd a good night then dashed off stage and out of sight. The show had come to a speedy but satisfying close and all that remained were the notes floating in my head, forever etched as memories in my cranial archives. I suddenly realized how thirsty I had become and that a slight ache was working its way up my neck and into my head. No doubt some effects from the secondhand smoke of marijuana throughout the concert. Hmm, now I just needed a bag of Cheeto’s to complete my rock concert experience. I remained seated while the heard of people “mooed” their way out to their cars. I wanted to give myself a clear path and avoid any stumbling fans exhibiting their “beer” muscles. This turns out to have been a useless precaution as the Phoenix police had the entire venue closed down to one exit while they performed a car-by-car search for a subject wanted for a felony crime. Some of the fans continued with their tailgate fare while others sat in their cars, slowly jockeying forward in a slow moving precession towards the only available exit. I was among those inching along as I had started feeling nauseous and the ach in my neck had taken full hold over my head. I was growing inpatient by this time as an hour had passed since the end of the show and we were all still in the parking lot. Information on the radio was limited, informing us that a “police incident” was unfolding and to remain clam and cooperative. Another hour later I was finally on my way home and I couldn’t get there fast enough. It had been a long day full of excitement and of sadness as I silently reflected on the four members of local media that had been killed in a mid-air helicopter collision earlier in the day. From Channel 3, pilot Scott Bowerbank and his photographer Jim Cox and from Channel 15, pilot Craig Smith and his photographer Rick Krolak. They had been covering a police pursuit when they collided over central Phoenix. Yes, Friday might have been better spent in bed as the ugliness of the world had a hold over Phoenix it seemed and the long wait to leave the Rush concert was the result of a police officer loosing his life in the line of duty. Officer George Cortez, a young man, married with two kids. The typical scenario when you hear of these things. It was a bitter-sweet day for me and a rollercoaster of emotions for a city. The pillow looks inviting and I close my eyes on Phoenix saying a silent “thank you” to our newest angels and an end to the day. |
| Arizona has some of the best trails around and today I got an up close look at just a few of them as I set out for an all day bike journey that would take me from east Phoenix into Tempe. I put a few essentials into a back pack; water, digital camera, towel and my traveling journal book then made some last minute adjustments to my trusty “Target special” mountain bike. To make things slightly easier, I trucked my bike to a central location, enjoyed a morning cup of coffee, a Red Apple [1], and brilliant sunrise before setting out along the canal trail towards Tempe and the Town Lake. I was already dreading the heat of the day as I peddled along the dirt path and battled a head wind towards the Salt River. More of a Salt River bed these days as Arizona struggles to maintain its water supply during a ten year drought. Mesquite trees litter the bed along with Sonoran or dessert grass and a variety of cacti species. In 1998 Tempe officially dedicated a section of the Salt River as Tempe Town Lake. With the help of an engineering company from Japan a section of inflatable dam was constructed on the west end of town to enclose the river and provide a management system for water flow during the raining season. The river was filled and today hosts such activities as boating, fishing, and pathways for sun lovers. I pushed harder, trying to build up momentum to ascend the Mill Avenue Bridge, as Tempe Town Lake came into view and my first rest of the day was within reach. I searched for a shaded spot to rest and found the abutment of the bridge looked promising. I had reached the north bank of the lake and took a moment to splash some water on my face and take in the opening view of Tempe’s city line. It is quite appealing with its clean modern buildings and Arizona State University’s football stadium nestled in between the buttes. I was surprised at the lack of fellow sun-seekers this holiday Monday. It seemed I would have the park to myself which is not something I am willing to complain about as I do enjoy spending quality time with my thoughts. Mounting up again I rode the span of bridge into Tempe proper, arriving on Mill Avenue, Tempe’s main road and the heart of the city. Lined with shops and night clubs it hosts the student population of ASU and the many tourist that visit each day. The streets were quiet and again, I was pleasantly surprised by the lack of people. I peddled along Mill Avenue looking for an out door patio for some journal writing. Ah, Starbucks dead ahead. Perfect as it’s been a couple hours since my morning coffee. Sweaty and sticky I worked my way through the crowded lobby and up to the counter to place my coffee order. I thought here is where everyone was hiding for the day. Not wanting to “spoil” myself with a cool place to rest, I headed to the outside patio where I sat in a shaded corner with a full view of the opening street. I finally started seeing a few people brave the heat and enjoy some window shopping and lunch at the various diners along Mill. College boys with backward facing ball caps walked in groups looking at the other scenery common place on Mill Avenue; the college girls. I enjoyed a few glimpses myself and was then drawn to the small group of Harley-Davidsons entering town. All I thought was, "I have got to get my bike finished and back on the road." (Another story). The street crowd thickened and busses came to life stopping and depositing more would-be shoppers and “gawkers.” Car horns announced their upset with the jaywalkers as they tried locating that special parking spot before being stolen by someone in a more nimble car. My destination for the day was still an hour away so I gathered up my things and peddled out of town east on University. This road passes through the center of ASU, hence its “clever” name. I rode along the designated bike path and decided to pay a visit to my tattoo artist whose studio would be approaching a few miles up the road. I met Nichole many years ago when she was a regular at my third place and we struck up a conversation based on the many tattoos she has covering her body. She is a unique girl to say the least, a walking art museum depicting colorful tattoos over much of her exposed body. She is slightly over-done for my tastes, but a very nice girl and an excellent tattoo artist, doing most of her work free hand. She specializes in “cover-up” work or better known as fixing other artists mistakes. The piece on my arm was the result of a “friend” who was just getting started and didn’t have the skills to properly fill in large areas. But, live and learn; it was free. I came to rest just outside her studio, sweaty and breathing as if I had run a marathon. She greeted me warmly, being careful not to transfer any of my moisture to her. As usual, she was wearing her trade mark low cut top which provided a rather healthy PG-13 view along with some new ink she must have had done. She wore her dark hair up and sitting atop her head rested a baby boa constrictor snake. At first, I thought it was ornamental, but its darting tongue gave me pause enough to realize it was real. She scolded me about my apparent lack of commitment in getting my arm piece finished. I retorted with the ever-popular I’ve been busy excuse which was met with a wry look. To prove her wrong I set up a sitting for September 19 and paid in advance. After some more small talk, I bid her goodbye and headed off to my father’s who was expecting me for a Labor Day feast. I could feel the sun had done its job on my skin and thought about the one item I had forgotten to pack for the day. Sun block! I arrived at dad’s to find him and his wife Helen enjoying a cigarette on the patio of their tiny two bedroom apartment. They had followed me out to Arizona in 1998 and have lived in the same place since. My father and I had reconciled our relationship many years earlier after having told him of my upset and disappointment in having an alcoholic as a father. It’s not what I would describe as a “father knows best” relationship, but it gets better with time. Although I am a smoker too, I am always reluctant to visit them as they smoke in their house and you leave smelling like an ash tray. They have made an effort to not smoke inside during my visits, but for the most part the damage has already been done. We had some chit-chat over dinner, a nice corned beef and cabbage, and I teased him about cooking for the wrong holiday. He said he would prepare a nice barbeque for St. Patrick’s Day to make amends. Knowing I had a long ride back to Phoenix we kept the visit short and I promised to phone him when I got home. It’s funny, but even at the ripe age of forty-one; I haven’t stopped being his “little” boy. The bike ride back to where I had parked my truck hours earlier was nice and seemed to take half the time as the journey out. The tail wind helped but I was still eager to get into the comfort of the air conditioned truck for the rest of the ride home. All totaled I estimate the days ride to be about 25 miles. My only complaint is for a new seat. [1] Red Apple reference used from the movie "Pulp Fiction." Red Apples are a fictional brand of cigarettes, from the scene when Butch meets Mr. Wallace. (Also referenced in Neil Peart’s book, "Roadshow.") |
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