Eddie wasn’t a scumbag type of musician. In spite of what I said earlier, there are some really classy musicians out there. They’re swimming in a cesspool of low-lifes, but classy musicians do exist in the rock-n-roll world. Eddie was one of them. He was one of those guys who was so funny, he didn’t have to do or say anything to make you laugh. We played in a band together for a short while, he was an extremely talented musician and one of the humblest and kindest guys I’ve ever known. So when I found the address and walked around back to the garage, (a shack really), I was a bit nervous and my mind was buzzing with curiosity.
I knocked and Eddie opened the door. * gasp * Wow, Nate was right. I could have passed him on the street and wouldn’t have recognized him at all. However, Eddie’s smile could still light up lower Manhattan -- he was completely tickled to see me. He wouldn’t have recognized me either – I had a close-cropped military haircut instead of the long black mop of 80s rockstar curls he had last seen me in.
His place consisted of a card table with two lawn chairs, a cot, and several cardboard boxes masquerading as pantry, dresser, bookshelf and china cabinet. He also had an elderly dog who was happy to see me. He apparently needed a couple fresher legs around. How embarrassing! He was even skinnier than Eddie. Well Eddie invited me in and we made small talk for a minute or so. He really was unrecognizable; he looked like those old pictures of concentration camp survivors. He was gaunt and pale instead of chubby and lively and my concern must have been obvious on my face. He addressed all my unspoken questions. Yes indeed, all that Nate had said was true. Nevertheless, there was still a side of me that was in total denial – how could this happen to Eddie, of all people? Tracy had ruined him. It would have been more merciful for her to have shot him than to reduce him to a withered shell like this.
Well, I told you earlier that Eddie was one of the humblest guys I’ve ever known. Just wait.
J.P.T.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - HEARING OF EDDIE
Okay, Nate, who had given me such a hard time about joining the military, was now pumping my gas. What sweet justice! I was happy as a duck frolicking in a mucky pond in the St. Louis summer.
Until Nate asked, “Hey Jean-Paul, have you seen Eddie since you got back?”
“No, I haven’t. I heard he and Tracy got married though.”
Nate leans down, and rests his elbows on my door. He takes a look around, as if to make certain no one will overhear him, “Oh yeah, he got married all right.”
“Yeah?” I’m getting interested just because of the tone in his voice.
“Yeah, he got married, you know, to Tracy. But she cheated on him, dragged him through hot coals, divorced him, took him for everything he had, and hung him out to dry.”
Since you don’t know any of these people, I’ll just tell you that this news was akin to having lightning strike the tree you’re under -- this just couldn’t be. Eddie and Tracy were one of those couples that you knew were going to stick together through thick and thin. Eddie was just head over heels about her, talked about her all the time. Eddie played bass -- a fantastic bass player -- and was one of the jolliest guys you could ever meet. There was something really wrong about this situation – it was simply too unjust. Something so bad couldn’t have happened to Eddie, and certainly not at the hands of his precious little Tracy. It just couldn’t be.
“Are you serious?”
“Totally! He lives over in Castleton Hills neighborhood.”
“Oh man, I’ve got to go see him.”
“Okay,” his tone was telling me to drop the idea, he stuttered and hesitated, “well, he’s not the same guy.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” again, he was trying to change my mind, “just…well he’s different now than he used to be. He’s skinnier ‘n a rail, you know.”
This too, was like discovering your grandma was a drug dealer – Eddie was, well, big-boned: a bit on the chubby side. The girls always said he was like a big cute teddy bear. That completely fit his jolly personality as well as his musical instrument. Some of the best bass players are pretty big guys, a bit on the hefty side, I think it’s because a little extra tonnage really helps those bass notes come out better. He used to have a great set of meat-hooks that could really give the bass strings a workout.
“No way! Eddie?”
“Oh man, you’re gonna freak when you see him.” Perhaps he was accepting the fact that I was going to see Eddie.
Nate gave me directions to Eddie’s. He was apparently holed up in some nice lady’s detached garage in a fancy neighborhood. So I didn’t pass go or collect 200 dollars, I went directly to Eddie’s.
Wow, was I in for a shock!
J.P.T.
Until Nate asked, “Hey Jean-Paul, have you seen Eddie since you got back?”
“No, I haven’t. I heard he and Tracy got married though.”
Nate leans down, and rests his elbows on my door. He takes a look around, as if to make certain no one will overhear him, “Oh yeah, he got married all right.”
“Yeah?” I’m getting interested just because of the tone in his voice.
“Yeah, he got married, you know, to Tracy. But she cheated on him, dragged him through hot coals, divorced him, took him for everything he had, and hung him out to dry.”
Since you don’t know any of these people, I’ll just tell you that this news was akin to having lightning strike the tree you’re under -- this just couldn’t be. Eddie and Tracy were one of those couples that you knew were going to stick together through thick and thin. Eddie was just head over heels about her, talked about her all the time. Eddie played bass -- a fantastic bass player -- and was one of the jolliest guys you could ever meet. There was something really wrong about this situation – it was simply too unjust. Something so bad couldn’t have happened to Eddie, and certainly not at the hands of his precious little Tracy. It just couldn’t be.
“Are you serious?”
“Totally! He lives over in Castleton Hills neighborhood.”
“Oh man, I’ve got to go see him.”
“Okay,” his tone was telling me to drop the idea, he stuttered and hesitated, “well, he’s not the same guy.”
“So?”
“Nothing,” again, he was trying to change my mind, “just…well he’s different now than he used to be. He’s skinnier ‘n a rail, you know.”
This too, was like discovering your grandma was a drug dealer – Eddie was, well, big-boned: a bit on the chubby side. The girls always said he was like a big cute teddy bear. That completely fit his jolly personality as well as his musical instrument. Some of the best bass players are pretty big guys, a bit on the hefty side, I think it’s because a little extra tonnage really helps those bass notes come out better. He used to have a great set of meat-hooks that could really give the bass strings a workout.
“No way! Eddie?”
“Oh man, you’re gonna freak when you see him.” Perhaps he was accepting the fact that I was going to see Eddie.
Nate gave me directions to Eddie’s. He was apparently holed up in some nice lady’s detached garage in a fancy neighborhood. So I didn’t pass go or collect 200 dollars, I went directly to Eddie’s.
Wow, was I in for a shock!
J.P.T.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - NATHAN PUMPING MY GAS
All right, yes, I played in a few groups. That’s when I found out that rock musicians are, in general, scumbags doing their darndest to hit (a) rock-bottom, (b) the poor house, (c) hell, or (d) all the above. Of course D! You know how when you try to save someone from drowning, and the drownee panics and drags you down with him so that you both go to a watery grave? Yeah, that’s what the music world is like: a whole bunch of waste-cases dragging you down with them so you can all die miserably together.
So there, I had wasted several formative years rubbing elbows with these miscreants and saw how stupid I had been. Having met some “real” guitarists who hadn’t made it big, I knew that as good as I was at guitar, I had little hope of attaining stardom. So I cut my losses and ran. I ran from the music scene like a girl whose poofy 80’s hair caught on fire from one of those ridiculous flaming concoctions that some drunk musician spilled on her in a bar, and I have never looked back wondering what if.
Nevertheless, at the time, I had a legitimate problem -- having lived the stupid life of a musician, I had frittered my high-school years away and wrecked any chance of achieving what could be called “an education.” So before I even graduated, I enlisted in the military. You might never have guessed, but that didn’t sit well with those who swore I was destined to shred my guitar on stage before millions in a world tour and rake in massive quantities of money. In particular, there was one friend named Nate. Nate and I were really great friends … until I enlisted. Wow was he pissed! You’d think that I’d wrecked his new car, burned his house down, and was drinkin’ in some cross-town bar with his girl! He berated me, cussed me out, and basically reamed me out a new one. To this day, I still don’t really understand why he took my enlisting so personally. He then tried to convince me to go with him to college so we could party-hearty. Needless to say, I went to basic-training and he went to college.
Well, this tale isn’t about Nate. Nevertheless, I’ve got to talk about him because I bought a really cool sports car. I know you’re wondering where this is going. This tale is kind of an experience, so just bear with me. Okay, back to the “sports car,” It wasn’t a Porsche, or a Corvette, or even a Mustang, you’ve got to be kidding -– remember I frittered away my chances for a real sports car by trying to be a musician. Anyway, it’s like a poor man’s sports car, but to me it was really cool: a blue and silver Shelby Charger. It was cheap, it was quick, and it had a hatchback that I could stuff massive quantities of stuff as I moved from one location to another. Ah, the military life. I really feel like tossing a grenade when I hear some sissy politician in a $700.00 suit talk about how overpaid military folks are.
So, as I mentioned earlier, I came home on furlough. Yes indeed, I drove my sporty car home to St. Louis and the very next day, I pulled into the Sinclair station to fill’er-up. You’ll never guess who was pumping the gas. Of course! Nate! It seems that he did go to college, and he did party-hearty. He partied himself right out of an education and now he, Nate, the guy who reamed me for enlisting, is pumping my gas. I have to admit that it was deliciously satisfying.
However, my satisfaction was very short lived. Oh man, just wait until you read what Nate told me next.
J.P.T.
So there, I had wasted several formative years rubbing elbows with these miscreants and saw how stupid I had been. Having met some “real” guitarists who hadn’t made it big, I knew that as good as I was at guitar, I had little hope of attaining stardom. So I cut my losses and ran. I ran from the music scene like a girl whose poofy 80’s hair caught on fire from one of those ridiculous flaming concoctions that some drunk musician spilled on her in a bar, and I have never looked back wondering what if.
Nevertheless, at the time, I had a legitimate problem -- having lived the stupid life of a musician, I had frittered my high-school years away and wrecked any chance of achieving what could be called “an education.” So before I even graduated, I enlisted in the military. You might never have guessed, but that didn’t sit well with those who swore I was destined to shred my guitar on stage before millions in a world tour and rake in massive quantities of money. In particular, there was one friend named Nate. Nate and I were really great friends … until I enlisted. Wow was he pissed! You’d think that I’d wrecked his new car, burned his house down, and was drinkin’ in some cross-town bar with his girl! He berated me, cussed me out, and basically reamed me out a new one. To this day, I still don’t really understand why he took my enlisting so personally. He then tried to convince me to go with him to college so we could party-hearty. Needless to say, I went to basic-training and he went to college.
Well, this tale isn’t about Nate. Nevertheless, I’ve got to talk about him because I bought a really cool sports car. I know you’re wondering where this is going. This tale is kind of an experience, so just bear with me. Okay, back to the “sports car,” It wasn’t a Porsche, or a Corvette, or even a Mustang, you’ve got to be kidding -– remember I frittered away my chances for a real sports car by trying to be a musician. Anyway, it’s like a poor man’s sports car, but to me it was really cool: a blue and silver Shelby Charger. It was cheap, it was quick, and it had a hatchback that I could stuff massive quantities of stuff as I moved from one location to another. Ah, the military life. I really feel like tossing a grenade when I hear some sissy politician in a $700.00 suit talk about how overpaid military folks are.
So, as I mentioned earlier, I came home on furlough. Yes indeed, I drove my sporty car home to St. Louis and the very next day, I pulled into the Sinclair station to fill’er-up. You’ll never guess who was pumping the gas. Of course! Nate! It seems that he did go to college, and he did party-hearty. He partied himself right out of an education and now he, Nate, the guy who reamed me for enlisting, is pumping my gas. I have to admit that it was deliciously satisfying.
However, my satisfaction was very short lived. Oh man, just wait until you read what Nate told me next.
J.P.T.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
THE SO-CLAMORED-FOR TALE - INTRODUCTION
In a past life, (listen, this is just an expression that means it was a long time ago, a couple careers back, when I was young and foolish), I had come back to the St. Louis area on furlough from where I was stationed in the military. It had been a long time since I had been home and many things had changed.
First, I suppose you should know a few other things so that your mind doesn’t wander as you read this so-clamored-for tale. As a youth, I had only seldom dreamed of the military life (only after a cool movie). I really wanted to be a doctor as far back as I could remember – most of my life. However, in middle school, I discovered Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, which was sort of like MTV before there was MTV. Oh yeah, seeing all those famous rock, jazz, folk and pop stars performing on stage was too much for my young psyche: I was mesmerized.
By the way, when I was in elementary school, and everyone in the class was reporting on what they wanted to be when they grew up and I declared my desire to become a doctor, it was Mrs. Adams who said I'd never make it because it was too difficult. Yeah, THE Mrs. Adams who walked about the classroom incessantly flossing her teeth ALL freaking day long. Yeah, YOU know who I'm talking about! She went on and on and on about how many years of college there was, how intense the studying would be, yaada yaada yaada. Mrs. Adams, if you ever read this, let me tell you a little something. I had terrific grades and was a really smart cookie, why would you piss on a little kid's Wheaties like that?! I shoulda told my dad what you said so he coulda come down and given you a knuckle sandwich, you tooth-flossin' sicko dream-crusher! Don't you remember my report on Abraham Lincoln I wrote on my very own but which you accused me of getting my dad to write it for me?!?! Huh?!?! Remember?!?! I was spelling-bee champion of the entire grade school two years in a row! On that very day you dashed my dream of being a surgeon, I could have beaten you on any human anatomy test!
Okay, that was cathartic. I shall now continue.
So, understanding that I could never be a doctor because it was too difficult, it was easy to follow the world’s wide and well-trodden path to destruction: I immediately discarded all aspirations to help the world be a better place. Yes, I saved up money to buy an electric guitar. I was crazy in love with this dream! I would gaze for hours at the pictures of the lead guitarists of groups whose LPs I listened to. I skipped lunch and went without lots of goodies in order to save for the guitar. I hoarded change and dollar bills in a family-size pickle jar and after not gaining any weight for several months, I bought my first electric guitar. Looking back, I realize it was a cheap guitar that no pro would have ever considered using, but I still think of it as a sweet instrument because … well, if I have to explain it, you just wouldn’t understand why. My dad pitched in a good amount so I could have an amplifier to play it through. I took lessons and practiced round the clock. It oughta be clear by now that I poured my soul into this dream – I starved myself to buy one, idolized those who had made it big, and I ate, slept, and drank guitar licks - I really did fall asleep with it a few times! Before long, I had become a pretty good guitarist. I wound up playing lead guitar in a number of rock bands, having fun doing cover songs.
So how in the world did I wind up in the military? That’s for the next post. See you soon.
J.P.T.
First, I suppose you should know a few other things so that your mind doesn’t wander as you read this so-clamored-for tale. As a youth, I had only seldom dreamed of the military life (only after a cool movie). I really wanted to be a doctor as far back as I could remember – most of my life. However, in middle school, I discovered Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, which was sort of like MTV before there was MTV. Oh yeah, seeing all those famous rock, jazz, folk and pop stars performing on stage was too much for my young psyche: I was mesmerized.
By the way, when I was in elementary school, and everyone in the class was reporting on what they wanted to be when they grew up and I declared my desire to become a doctor, it was Mrs. Adams who said I'd never make it because it was too difficult. Yeah, THE Mrs. Adams who walked about the classroom incessantly flossing her teeth ALL freaking day long. Yeah, YOU know who I'm talking about! She went on and on and on about how many years of college there was, how intense the studying would be, yaada yaada yaada. Mrs. Adams, if you ever read this, let me tell you a little something. I had terrific grades and was a really smart cookie, why would you piss on a little kid's Wheaties like that?! I shoulda told my dad what you said so he coulda come down and given you a knuckle sandwich, you tooth-flossin' sicko dream-crusher! Don't you remember my report on Abraham Lincoln I wrote on my very own but which you accused me of getting my dad to write it for me?!?! Huh?!?! Remember?!?! I was spelling-bee champion of the entire grade school two years in a row! On that very day you dashed my dream of being a surgeon, I could have beaten you on any human anatomy test!
Okay, that was cathartic. I shall now continue.
So, understanding that I could never be a doctor because it was too difficult, it was easy to follow the world’s wide and well-trodden path to destruction: I immediately discarded all aspirations to help the world be a better place. Yes, I saved up money to buy an electric guitar. I was crazy in love with this dream! I would gaze for hours at the pictures of the lead guitarists of groups whose LPs I listened to. I skipped lunch and went without lots of goodies in order to save for the guitar. I hoarded change and dollar bills in a family-size pickle jar and after not gaining any weight for several months, I bought my first electric guitar. Looking back, I realize it was a cheap guitar that no pro would have ever considered using, but I still think of it as a sweet instrument because … well, if I have to explain it, you just wouldn’t understand why. My dad pitched in a good amount so I could have an amplifier to play it through. I took lessons and practiced round the clock. It oughta be clear by now that I poured my soul into this dream – I starved myself to buy one, idolized those who had made it big, and I ate, slept, and drank guitar licks - I really did fall asleep with it a few times! Before long, I had become a pretty good guitarist. I wound up playing lead guitar in a number of rock bands, having fun doing cover songs.
So how in the world did I wind up in the military? That’s for the next post. See you soon.
J.P.T.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
THE TREBUCHET TALE THAT SO MANY ARE CLAMORING FOR
I have had some requests from friends that I post this incredibly ridiculous story from yesteryear. It is quite a tale and I’m sure it will take many posts. I will start working on it soon and begin posting within a week. Think you can hold on that long? Great!
J.P.T.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
