Turntable

It was June of ’86 when I hopped a plane for Port Richey, Florida. My former girlfriend had moved out of New York months earlier and I was in chase despite the fact we weren’t in love with each other. Ours was the kind of relationship that wasn’t interested with being in love. Cliches kicked the shit out of you and made you old before you really got going.

For most of the year and change we were together while she was still living in New York, forever had seemed a million miles long. And then it got lost one night when we were involved in a car accident that took my best friend’s life. Everything, every single thing, changed. We stayed together out of a hopeless desperation to save ourselves from drowning. Until the winter took us to different places, and New York, it became a place full of ghosts.

We broke up but stayed in touch. She almost got pregnant to a college football player while I swore I’d found my future wife in a Hardee’s Drive-Thru, and then we kept turning into someone elses until she called to tell me to get there, just for the hell of it.

It seemed like a great idea until I was touching down in Florida and wondering why in the fuck it was that life didn’t come with annotations. And then we were there, trying to catch up on everything we had lost and not having a chance in hell of getting back to what we had been before our lives spilled out in different directions.

The time I spent with her was filled with the kind of education only experience can provide. Among the things I learned was that the girl had more of my stuff than I remembered giving her. There was a half closet full of my clothes, including winter jackets she had no use for in her new locale but took with her just so she could wear them whenever she thought of me. She had a bunch of my vinyl, to which I cursed myself for giving up so easily. Other items of note included a sweet purple and gold Magic Johnson jersey, a Brooklyn Union Gas pylon I had gifted myself after a night of partying and a football helmet.

The more salient lesson happened from the moment I touched down and she ran into my arms. It was blatantly obvious that we tended to disagree. About everything. She thought the world was flat and I knew it was round. I was a Reagan kid and she loved Carter and Mondale. I read books like No More Vietnams and she read books like Phaedo. She was Mets, Chinese take-out, screwdrivers and U2 while I was Yankees, pizza, Corona and Bon Jovi.

It had never occurred to me that we had absolutely nothing in common back when we had been inseparable. But with the passing of time and place, now it was impossible to ignore. Once upon a time, I just assumed we were passionate and fiery. That’s some interesting shit. But the idea that we were just a couple of stupid kids who had nothing in common? Not so interesting.

So we debated who the best band in the world was and we never got back to even and then we argued on everything else. Until she was telling me to get lost and then I was hopping a plane out of there. Without my Magic Johnson jersey, or my two tone leather jacket . . . or my vinyl.

Twenty years later, we reconnected thanks to an old friend. There was zero expectation of anything romantic happening, but I had to admit it was nice to hear her voice again. She told me she was back in New York and she asked me if there was any chance we might be able to catch up over drinks. We were both divorced with kids and life was flying by and drinks with an old friend felt like a chance. To just forget all the things that time had stolen.

I had to get there. If only to ask how my LP’s were doing . . .

 

 

 

 

Doomed Journeys, Beer Logic and Stealing Home

Fuck Tacos

Remember that “Tastiest Taco” challenge me and Linds were supposed to embark on several months back? Yeah well, fuck tacos . . that’s what happened to that challenge.

Because, Cuban sandwiches seem to drop out of the sky in meat and potatoes Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Tacos? Not so much. Our doomed journey began with a mutual friend’s suggestion that we check out a dive bar he frequented. The lead seemed solid enough, and the beer specials were friendly. So we showed up on “Taco Tuesday”. As per the definition, it means that the establishment created a holiday just for tacos. Which means there should have been ample amounts of said tacos on the premises. SO many tacos that if you drew up satellite imagery, Pennsylvania would look like one big fucking taco from space.

Okay, maybe I’m being just a tad bit hyperbolic. But was it too much to ask that we might shake loose a taco or several on a day that was designated as ripe with the little buggers?

Beers First

We put in our drink orders first, because . . priorities. And besides, the first rule of taco eating is to always be hydrated. And I know, I know . . alcohol tends to have the opposite effect. Which is why you have to drink more of it.

It was a good thing we had our drinks when the horrible truth came down.

“We’re out of tacos . . ” The waitress informed us, as if it was no big deal that we weren’t going to be able to warm our taste buds in tortilla blankets. It would’ve been akin to saying Wednesday lost its hump or Saturday Night lost its fever. The Shakespearean tragedy of it all was lost on her.

Tacos Cardio

Top Five Thoughts on “We’re Out of Tacos” Night? . . sure why not.

5- Is it scientifically possible to ‘run out’ of tacos if you’re a restaurant? I mean, you can run out of tortilla shells . . but if you’re a restaurant and you ain’t got any of the other basic ingredients to a taco? You’re probably out of business.

4- We should have been gifted free beer for the regrettable inconvenience.

3-We went on a taco challenge and ended up on a taco diet.

2- If you run out of tortilla shells? Compensate with flat bread and corn chips . . close your eyes and bon apetit!

1- As a result of this ordeal, I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch Nacho Libre even once. That. Is. Sad.

 

The dive bar was strike one, after which there were another couple strikes in there somewhere . . it’s been a while now. The doomed challenge was not limited to restaurants, either. When I offered to make tacos for my kids, they turned them down. After which I realized I might never eat a taco again.

Sooooo, the winner of our Tastiest Taco challenge was . . . .

Yeah . . I know. But here’s the thing. You know what you get when you ask for a taco at Taco Bell? A fucking taco, that’s what!

At this point, you’re probably asking, ‘Hey Sorryless peeps . . so what’s the next food challenge’? To which we reply, there ain’t one. We’re gonna stick to erotic food stories with no specific main character from now on. We shall simply rejoice in the glory of food as we bang the shit out of it. How much more poetic can you get?

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Fast forward to our latest jaunt . . . it was a dive bar, because we’re consistent with our culinary delights. Imma be the provocateur and give up the money shots. I ordered the wings with Chesapeake Bay sweet spice sauce. It was hot and sticky sweet as per the Def Leppard method of doing business. A promising opening act . . .

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The pit beef sammy on a kaiser roll was played up on the restaurant’s website as if it was last meal delicious. Sorry but, if that was my last meal I’d skip dinner and buckle up for hell. I picked at it before deciding as to whether I would dive in and it proved dryer than Jason Bateman’s humor, so I decided I would try and revive it with some culinary surgery when I got home and chowed down on my side of onion rings instead.

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The girls ordered gravy fries, which is a tasty combination of super foods- essential to a long life . . for your cardiologist. In Quebec, they add cheese curds and call the stuff ‘poutine’, because they’re so much more sophisticated than us ‘Muricans.

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The girls got the cheesesteak with bacon crumbles on the side since Linds ain’t the biggest fan of bacon. It got me thinking. Imma order a side of bacon crumbles everywhere I go. Yes, especially Starbucks.

This particular establishment shall remain nameless for a couple reasons. For one thing, we ain’t got much of anything good to say about the place. The food was just ayt and the service was horrible. As I was packing up my sammy to go, I joked with the girls that I should take the plate as a parting shot.

“Take the plate Marc, please . . take the plate,”

As per Ali’s orders, I stuck the plate in my Styrofoam container and made way for the door. Let the record state that Ali was the mastermind of this heist, and I . . the unwitting accomplice. I come from a broken home and I never had a male role model growing up. Unless you count Pat Riley.

I don’t know if this will become a thing, but in the event it does, we might try our luck with tacos again. I really don’t give a blessed fuck about the tacos, but I do loves me some Fiestaware.

 

 

 

 

Three Days in Woodstock

Woodstock Heart

If someone thinks that love and peace is a cliche that must have been left behind in the Sixties, that’s his problem. Love and peace are eternal ~ John Lennon

The morning sun was shaking loose and sprinkling its rind across a Thursday morning that had come much too soon. Our three days had behaved like mercury- with a fiery abandon whose rambunctious particles cleaved the hours into minutes and the days into memory. Q scavenged the fridge for anything that could be used before we left town. Our ‘moving day breakfast’, much like our conversation, was abundant and tasty. We chowed down whilst jamming to music whose province had become more expansive on this particular morning. For every musical spill out of the sixties, there was another song that spelled a different time and place. We traded favorite songs as we dined, eager to fire up the flat screen on the wall as if it were a mystical pelt that spoke of our histories in four minute verses.

Going up the country had proven to be a magical ride, for more reasons than that farm in Bethel, New York had wrought. Our Woodstock experience turned a couple of blog neighbors into the very best of friends. We’d shared so much of the everything that had brought us to this place, and then we kept right on going; prevailing on the mood of a place that never grew up.

The ride into town after breakfast was filled with stories out of other times and places, and reflections on the times and places we had shared over the course of three days. Like a favorite song that you don’t want to end, we played our steps on a loop and got high on the payback. We had pushed our way into that line of five hundred thousand strong  . . . intent on making it two more crazy kids whose moonshine didn’t need a bottle and whose music didn’t act its age.

And maybe this place hadn’t been our first choice. All we knew is that it spoke to us in a language borne of stardust driven six strings and restless voices that once raged inside the deepest reaches of the night. The echoes reminded us that the things we lose in a fire will become the things we carry with us. It’s up to us to shine a light on them, wherever we may go.

Time may thieve the days, but the light . . that’s ours to keep.

3 Days In Woodstock

 

Woodstock bus

The Museum at Bethel Woods is the good acid. Because it will trip you out inside the time spent, with no shitty side effects. Yanno . . like ending up in the ER, or dying.

could go through a good many different sentiments in regards to the forty five minute gallivant me and Q took through its halls, and maybe I will have something more specific next weekend. But a very profound revelation has come to me as I sit down to write this latest Woodstock entry, so Imma go with it.

This revelation is a crush of emotions, stacked in a neatly felonious pile of thoughts that stole me all the way back to the UK in the fall of 1994. It was a year in which O.J. Simpson got away with murder, the Republicans took back Congress and Throwing Copper made the musical band Live a global bumper sticker.

Back then, I was roaming the vast halls of the British Museum when me and my wife came upon the Rosetta Stone. After our tour guide tap danced right past it with a couple here and there shout outs to the ancient Egyptians, I pulled her aside and told her to keep Vanilla Ice (my pet name for our guide) at bay while I did some heavy petting with history.

And so it was that I pushed the velvet rope aside and touched the Rosetta Stone, after which I wrote out a check for a religious experience that is still paying me back to this very day.

Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting the same kind of experience when me and Q made the rounds at Bethel. Until we came upon it. A rusted scrap of the chain link fence that got tucked into history by a couple hundred thousand pair of barefooted soldiers, after which Woodstock became a ‘free concert’.

had to touch it, of course. Because this was the musical Rosetta Stone, and well . . there was no velvet fucking rope stopping me. And even if there had been, Q would’ve been like “Fuck ’em, hug it for all I care,”.

And so I did. And as it turns out, the fence? It was electrified . . in the very best kinda way. Because it took me all the way back to the UK, and then it took me even further back than that. Back to a time when music was a prayer so sweet and songs were living ends.

Songs that thieved the stars and pledged them to a vinyl page, and in so doing, turned that sound into a madness that seeped into every living inch of you. Lyrics that tasted of sweet velvet plums that hung like magical kites on trees borne of thunder, with a melody that wept the misbegotten remains of a day into the luminescence of a brilliant forever after.

A great piece of music can steal back time. Leaving you breathless and shaken and spent. Alone and together, high and grounded, resolved and disputed. It preaches to your choir as it stirs your soul into the kind of rebellion the previous generation loses sleep over.

And that’s how the kids of Woodstock closed the book on a decade torn to its seams by war. It was a decade that began with John F. Kennedy promising the moon to a restless nation, and delivering that very thing with months to spare when Apollo 11 planted its talons on a patch of mystical dirt George Bailey had once claimed as his own on the silver screen.

The betwixt and between left a heavy price on the heart and soul of a vociferously tribal generation otherwise known as the ‘baby boomers’. They watched Camelot get stolen on a beautiful fall afternoon in Dallas, and then again five years later inside a Los Angeles hotel. They watched Martin Luther King’s dream come true with the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and then they watched its shepherd fall in Memphis less than four years later.

And it was those kids, who grew up inside the rattling bones of an archaic set of rules, and who punched hard at the skeletons and made haste with the gravel of the zero sum game they had inherited. It was those kids who made metal out of three heavy summer nights, shouting medieval chants inside their rocket booster clogs. They cheered and fucked and got high to the sounds of a new and distant future whose logic did not rhyme with the establishment. At all.

They hammered out a fledgling constitution possessed of a wholly different set of amendments that ran counter to the bomb sheltered TV dinner taxes they had been made to wear for a decade’s worth of time. Their demands were quite simple. Give us peace and love through music, or get the hell out of our way and we’ll prove how that kind of shit works.

And maybe it’s naivete that kept me holding to that fence. And then again, maybe . . . just maybe, it’s knowing. Knowing what it feels like to refuse the convention of a society that hasn’t ever gotten a damned thing right since Hector was a caveman trying to fetch some rock and roll out of a couple twigs.

Maybe, just maybe, I was finally in a place that understood me. And maybe, this was better than that time in the British Museum with the Rosetta Stone.

Turns out, being a stranger in a strange land has its privileges.

 

 

Three Days In Woodstock

Woodstock Traffic Jam

The ride from Woodstock to Max Yasgur’s farm in Bethel, New York is a stained glass portrait of mountain ranges that unfurl in rhythmic piecemeal. Inside the deep emerald wound of birches, maples, cedars, hornbeams and spruce, you can taste the flavor of a thousand years worth of patience.

Geologically speaking, the Catskills are not considered mountains but rather, a dissected plateau. I’m not much for geological definitions when there is a romance to be gleaned in the union of these highly rambunctious summits that are busy stealing time with the skies above. So I call them mountains, and these mountains . . they’re very particular about the company they keep.

Sexy Hitcher

The sixty mile stretch between two historic towns is a Henry Beeston field trip. We pass rudimentary walking bridges, intractably constructed man made dams, gorgeous hiking trails and handsome colonial log cabins with stovepipe chimneys and front porches adorned with American flags.

The road names that carry us to our destination read like verses straight out of American Gothic- Watson Hollow to Peekamoose to Sundown. The pulse of these arteries beats in time with the letters of Washington Irving and the allegories of Thomas Cole as we pass exit signs for Swan Lake and Monticello.

And it is all so fucking beautiful that I’m not nearly as concerned as I should be over the fact that my fuel gauge is swimming at low tide. It ain’t helping that we haven’t passed a gas station since leaving Woodstock, or that it feels more likely we’ll find Jimi Hendrix hitching to Bethel than a fucking convenience store with gas pumps. No wonder only half a million peeps showed up at the Woodstock festival. The other half a million ran out of gas along the way . . .

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There is no sign of Jimi, but we went scoreboard on the gas station, after which we close in on our destination whilst trying not to sound overly optimistic. Because the truth of the matter is that we don’t know if this destination is going to feel like 1969 or a cheapened rendition of that very special place in time.

As we turn right onto Hurd Road, Q snaps a shot of the sign which reads Welcome to Bethel Center For The Arts– the sign is cypress wood with raised letters in painted wrought iron. It owns a polish that gives me pause, seeing as how I do not equate the three day festival of peace and music with any kind of polish. Woodstock was a beautiful mess is what it was.

Bethel Woods Sign

To say the parking area is expansive is like saying Carlos Santana was skilled with the six string. We park in one of the several alien sized football fields and make our way to the pearly gates of music heaven. And once again I’m struck with how polished the place looks. The main building houses conference rooms, banquet halls and a museum. First impression? The architecture resembles an effete non-denominational church with money to launder and pastors on retainer. In other words, the shit is all polish and no grit . . and I am feeling major pause.

Having Q as my partner in crime sets my boots straight and allows me to dream some. And so now I’m dialing up that concert in my head and I’m letting myself dream on whats to come. And now I just know Imma open those doors and Jimi’s gonna be waiting on us. And he’s gonna be wondering where in the fuck all the gas stations between here and New York City got to. And then he’s gonna ask us if we’ve ever been to space.

And then? He’s gonna take us.

Three Days In Woodstock

Woodstock Night

Woodstock isn’t a destination, it’s a state of mind.

Every morning feels like Sunday, every afternoon like Saturday and every evening feels like church. There is a unique charm to the jagged little town built into the side of the Catskill Mountains. Its quirky architecture and funky colored Victorians tell stories without saying a word. You can lose the beaten path in a couple minutes time simply by taking a hard left or right; the side streets behave very much like channels of a forgotten sea. Woodstock is a snow globe variation of town and country as if penned by Thoreau.

After my run, Q and me made plans to see Oceans 8 in the late afternoon. We tucked in a quick jaunt to the grocery store to pick up some particulars for our evening menu. A craving for Bloody Mary grilled cheese sandwiches was prevailing, as was the need for some late night snacks to sate ourselves after cruising the four twenty. We ain’t tokers by any means, but when in Rome . . yanno?

Deer

The ride to the theater is much the same as a ride to anywhere else when it comes to this neck of the woods. It becomes a road trip, replete with rolling passages out of a Currier and Ives fever dream. The miles read like chapters in a book out of a time before progress birthed chain restaurants and every single person, place and thing became a brand.

As for the movie, welp . . here’s a quick shot review on it, because why not?

The best spin-off since I don’t remember when. Sandra Bullock and Cate Blanchett are a hot buttah get down of a dynamic duo, and their cast of characters . . I thought, were infinitely more interesting than the Oceans 11 gang. Sandra plays Debbie Ocean, little sister to Danny, and she’s keeping on with the family business by planning a rather artful heist. Cate Blanchett rides shotgun as Lou, her sister from another mister. They wrangle up a sexy as all get out posse and then, they pull off the ultimate cinematic heist. They make the Oceans franchise, theirs now.

Later on, back at the ranch, we played carnival with more Woodstock festival tunes whilst I broke the seal on some Woodford Reserve. We buddied them up with some frosty bottles of brew and immersed ourselves once more in the counter culture movement that culminated in those three days of peace and music.

Right

The provocative blueprint of those sammys did not disappoint. And then I broke out a Cuban cigar, which had been gifted me by my Canadian counterpart for this three day summit. And as we sipped our tumblers into a divine rhythm on the porch, a family of deer decided to crash our party by strolling across the backyard and reminding us who really owns this place. And then a little later on, we achieved the manifest destiny of all those who visit Woodstock proper. Needless to say, we arrived at the corner of peaceful and easy, and it was a magnificent trip.

We talked about the morning, and about our planned trip to Bethel- the site of a three day festival of music and peace that would change everything. And I think we wondered, silently, whether it would be everything we’d built it up to be over our two days together.

We had no idea.

 

 

Three Days In Woodstock

Downtown Woodstock

Washington Post journalist Alexandra Petri once referred to Woodstock as the natural progression of all that steam of a nation’s restless youth. I would like to say I was wrestling with the thought as I turned onto Rt. 375 and peddled the last remaining grains of sand from a four hour car ride. But truth be told, I just wanted to get to my Airbnb and hug my lit chick bestie, and then bend elbows to a couple frosty ones at a local watering hole.

That’s when the cosmos took a shine to me, tossing me a precious gem with which to spoil on for the space between. Petri’s name came up in a discussion that was taking place on the radio show I’d tuned in to, and before long they were culling a particular line Petri had fostered out of long lost places. It made the perfect amount of sense for the perfect storm that was Woodstock.

It defined a generation because, for a few days, it bottled its peculiar zeitgeist.

The words seemed congruent, if not familiar. Quotes are negatively buoyant creatures, in that they need thrust so they do not fall into the depths. And perhaps this quote is destined for obscurity, I don’t know. What I do know is that its pertinence was tangible, its timing impeccable, its gospel-like purity a gift.

I met up with my partner for this expedition and after a rather long and righteous embrace, we took to the road in search of nourishment. And frosty beverages. This was our first meeting but you’d never have known it from the chatter and buzz of familiarity we filled the missing puzzle pieces with.

The town of Woodstock has a printers box familiarity to it. Tracing the shadows of the Catskill Mountains, the main drag is a crunch of art galleries, cafes, gift shops and funky residential Victorians painted in all the colors of a time before houses became monotone showcases.

Oriole 9 Cafe was our first stop. We fell for the kitschy looking road sign that cropped it’s lovely head out from under the slumbering tree shade. The sign was a wonderfully budgeted scrap heap of a simple thing, hanging out on a main street whose bustle had gone lost to the bigger and badder places of a country whose best ideas became incorporated love stories long ago.

Oriole 9

I found the address to be of interest: 17 Tinker Street. My favorite number merging with a favorite word of mine, tinker. A word which possessed the essence of our three day archaeological dig, because tinkering would be the abject purpose of our manifest. To learn our friendship in real time and to learn a place we had stuck a virtual thumbtack into quite spontaneously.

Because Woodstock hadn’t been our initial destination. It wasn’t even our second choice. The parallels to the Woodstock Festival and this ‘mini-vacation’ . . . they were everywhere. Both events were three days long. Both were held in locales that were not the original idea. And both made funky music whose crimson scream was a baptismal fire of a thing.

We ordered up, beers first, and then toasted to finally being in the same place after lots of conversations about being in the same place. We went with craft beers, which can be an exercise in futility if you are not otherwise committed to the stuff. But we chose right because the choices went down smoothly with no sticker shock. The friendlies had an ample amount of awe without the requisite shock that some of its brethren possess. We toasted to solidarity, pastry dishes, ’80’s music, wrong turns, the Montreal Canadiens and Coca Cola. Well, maybe we didn’t toast to every single one of those things at once, but the sentiment was prospering with the clinks, so there’s that.

On This Site

We settled on our lunch selections and then we prospered a conversation whose wing span mated Budapest with Boucherville and the Bronx. We painted the lastima of foreign times in bold colors and transformed the cursory applications into a cursively luminescent mood. After lunch, we skimmed our toes in the center of town before heading back to our Airbnb to unpack before heading out to shop for groceries.

Topics of conversation ran the gamut: from peaceful protests to the death of heroes to military quagmires. Parallels once again, from there to here. From John and Yoko to Kaepernick . . from Watergate to Trump . . from the Gulf War to Vietnam. Inside of strange days, the song remains the same.

Peace Sign

Still, the sixties stand alone as a decade in which the world changed for its better and its worst. The Woodstock Festival closed out the decade, tucked between the tumult of ’68 and the Kent State shootings in 1970; a couple of mean and thankless bookends to a musical event whose footprints still matter. Because Woodstock is where Aquarius grew up. It’s where half a million souls learned us a lesson on democracy that didn’t include bullets, bombs or intimidation.

It’s where a garden grew and prospered on the spirit of true believers who weren’t about to let the complicated arrangement of the times keep them down. They were kids who had watched their leaders get stolen away, their voices get bullied into submission, their hopes and dreams get mitigated by an establishment whose best ideas had little to do with real progress.

With dark clouds behind them and more straight ahead, they invoked the spirit of our better angels and made peace over three days. And if that is a ‘peculiar form of zeitgeist’, then I know one thing for certain.

We need more of the stuff.