music – NEARING THE END OF THE LINE

THIS OLD GUITAR Part II: Hello. I’m Johnny Cash

The subject of my most recent post was my mother’s old acoustic, six-string, arch-top guitar that had been lying around and gathering dust in our house since Ma’s 1940s country and western band heydays. That, and even more so, the almost fairy tale effect it ended up having on a couple of young boys during the early ’60s. Because that’s when I toted it all the way out to the Mallett homestead in Sebec, where it fell into the hands and creative imaginations of high school sophomore Neil and his sixth-grade brother, David Mallett. And then…

Ta-DAH! The Mallett Brothers duo was born!

And over the next few years, I was so very fortunate to be in a position to witness, and often even accompany, those troubadours as they entertained their growing fans with their many live performances; not to mention often catching their records playing on the radio or watching their television broadcasts. It was amazing. And I don’t care who, or how many others, would claim the same thing, I knew that I was their greatest, and longest lasting, fan.

By that time, I’d started flirting with freshman Phyllis Raymond. And the heavens knew that I was wishing for something extra to boost my image in her eyes. And then (abra cadabra!) an unexpected divine gift just seemed to fall right into my lap!

I’d met Neil in the school lobby one morning as usual just before school started.

“You’re not gonna believe this!” he told me with an excited grin.

“What?“

“Johnny Cash is coming to the Bangor Auditorium!“

“Whoa! No shit!?” That was news! “I mean, Wow!”

“Not only that! Red and I are gonna be opening for him!” (‘Red’ being the family nickname for David. They all had nicknames, all the brothers. Bub, Mose, and believe it or not, Neil’s was ‘Ike.’)

“What!? You are not! NO WAY!” That was the most unbelievable thing I’d ever heard.

“We really are!”

“That’s just crazy! But… how!?“

“Well, it’s not gonna be just us. A bunch of local musicians have been invited to play too.”

“Wow!“

And sure enough, there it was. That very day, right there in the Bangor Daily News that morning!

At that time, I had no idea then who George Jones, June Carter, or the others were, nor did I care. All I could think of was… this was a potential Date Made in Heaven! I couldn’t wait to pass Phyllis my note reading, “How would you like me to take you to see Johnny Cash in person??? I can make that happen!”

Can you imagine how cocky I felt, writing that? How manful I was feeling? How… lucky? Me thinking the only dates Phyllis had ever been on were (A) meeting up with somebody at the Rec Center or (B) being walked to some crummy high school play with me. Because like me, she was living in Nowheres-ville. But… come on! I mean, Johnny Cash! She’d have to be looking at me now as somebody interesting, you know? Somebody with connections. Somebody so… upperclassman. Like, maybe she was thinking, Who knows? Maybe Tommy will be getting us tickets to see… ELVIS next??? You never knew.

It was cold and raining hammers and nails on the night of the concert (I just stole a Tom Waits’ phrase there– I didn’t make that up). I’d only had my license for a couple of weeks, and I’d logged practically zero hours of night-time driving, so my driving was a little iffy, but still I was pushing it as fast as the speed limit allowed because we’d gotten off to a late start. We rolled into the auditorium parking lot, threw open the car doors, and ran (holding hands) through the rain to the main entrance!

Inside, I quickly pushed my three hard-earned dollar bills in through the ticket-lady’s window (and I mean, can you believe only a buck-fifty for a major concert???!!!). Already we were catching the faraway-upstairs-strains of David and Neil belting out “Tear After Tear,” so we flew up three flights like a couple of Hollywood lovers while the final movie credits were rolling through the happy ending of some big romantic movie!

We popped out into a gigantic balcony packed with Johnny Cash fans and, sure enough, way down there on the main floor, far away and looking tiny, were David and Neil harmonizing, picking, strumming, and just sounding so damn good.

They got to perform more numbers than I ever would have expected they’d be allowed, considering the size of the line-up slated to play after them. Probably it was because the audience was so into them, judging by the wild applause and whistling. They had fans from all over the state of Maine by that time. I felt so proud of them. And so blessed to have them as my friends.

It was a night to remember for them of course, but also for me. A handful of incidents, some of which I saw for myself and some which I learned from the Malletts who witnessed them first-hand backstage, remain logged in the memory-album of my brain.

A cute, though insignificant, one occurred while Neil and David were performing on stage. I was keeping my eyes glued right on them, so I didn’t miss it. I think it was David, but it could have just as well been Neil (David, I think). (Whichever.) Both of them were down there singing, picking, and strumming their hearts out when (bink!) like a glitch in the matrix, someone’s guitar pick launched from the strings like a tiddlywink. Sparkling in the spotlight’s beam over the heads of the audience, it arced out and way like an indoor micro-meteor! It was cool to see the performers do their double double-take the instant that happened, but then soldier right on like the troopers they were.

But there were things that weren’t so cool that evening, too.

There were a lot of other locals lined up to play before The Man in Black. They started off with a yokel named (wait for it) Yodeling Slim Clark (A.K.A., “Maine’s Great Yodeler”). Three guesses as to what he mostly did. And there were other locals too. Hal Lone Pine. (Sure. Somehow I too tend to doubt that that was Hal’s actual last name.) Big Slim? What? Two Slims on the same card? Terri Lynn? Jeanne Ward? I didn’t know them, nor do I remember their performances at all. It was getting to be a long night.

It was Yodeling Slim Clark who led off after The Mallett Brothers. And in between the numbers, some emcee from somewhere out of sight down on that stage babbled on at us from time to time like some carnival barker: “Hey folks. It won’t be long now for the main event!” Or “You just wait! Johnny’s champin’ on the bit to get on out here on stage with his Ring of Fire!” But George Jones was up and the audience went wild. I didn’t know who the hell he was at the time, but it was easy to gather from all the roars and the applause that he was of The Grand Ol’ Oprey Big Time. As was June Carter. I’d never heard of her either.

They night was growing long, everybody waiting and longing for The Man in Black. And then something ominous happened. “You know what, Ladies and Gentlemen? We’ve had lots of requests to hear old Yodeling Slim Clark one more time! Come on out, Slim!” And you could feel it rippling through the audience. What? Yodeling Slim, again? Why?! Good Lord, wasn’t once enough?! And then, “Don’t you worry, folks! Johnny’s here! And he’s gettin’ ready to come out here in just a few, and give you the show of a life time! He’s here!“

I immediately looked around at the fans seated around me, who were also immediately looking around at all the fans seated around them. Puzzled frowns all around! I heard a whisper behind me that took the whisper right out of my mouth. “Damn! I don’t think Johnny’s HERE!” And suddenly that was the writing on the wall. For all of us. There was a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. The emcee didn’t say he wasn’t here, but something about the way he insisted that he was here knocked the wind right out of your sails, I can tell you that. And then… damned if we weren’t listening to old Yodeling Slim all over again. Talk about adding insult to injury…

And guess what. Johnny really wasn’t there!

According to Neil, later on, the people responsible for the show were going nuts backstage. Pulling their hair out! Where the hell was he!? Nobody knew!

They’d been stalling for too long, which helps to explain the long night. I mean, can you imagine the bedlam there would be with everybody angry as hell… and demanding their money back?! After stringing us along seemigly forever, and then torturing us with Yodeling Slim a second time.

A coupla days later, Neil described Johnny’s actual arrival this way: All of a sudden a backstage double door was kicked open, letting the wind and rain gust in. And there he was! In a long, black coat, possibly a rain coat, and a cigarette poking out of the corner of his mouth. Behind him stood the band with their guitar cases and amps. Dripping wet, he stepped inside and flicked his cigarette butt across the floor! And Neil? He chased that butt down and scooped it up! And yes. He had himself a genuine, bona-fide Johnny Cash souvenir!

I know that he kept this memento for a long time in his billfold because he showed it to me. More than once.

However, once when I related this story to some people over at David’s home a few years ago, Neil pooh-poohed my account by saying, “I think you’re using quite a bit of poetic license there, Tommy,” to which David spoke up in my defense, “The hell he is.”

(Sorry, Neil)

Anyway, it turned out that Johnny and his good ol’ boys in the band were quite inebriated. That much was obvious by the way we watched Johnny swagger up to June Carter out there on the stage, toss his guitar over his back to hang off his shoulder by the guitar strap, grab June around the waist, tip her over a few degrees below the horizontal, and plant the longest kiss I’d ever seen planted on anybody’s lips. And the crowd erupted with whistles and catcalls! I was shocked!

I didn’t know it then because I knew nothing about June and very little about Johnny except his wonderful music, but both of them were married. And not to each other.

But not for long, after that.

A few days after the concert, word got around that Johnny and the band had demolished a couple of motel rooms where they’d spent their night. Probably in a drunken blackout. I don’t know.

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But what I do know is… hell, that was one unforgettable date! Very heady stuff. Especially for a couple of small-town, never-been-anywheres like Phyllis and I. But as far as I was concerned, I’d totally done it. Because after a date like that, what girl was ever gonna drop me? I drove her home thinking, Oh yeah, chick’s gonna stick with me. (OK, I admit it. Actually I was thinking that with a big ‘I hope‘ tacked on.) But it was pretty good plus yardage for me.

I mean, hey, I was in with the Mallet Brothers, right? So, like, from her point of view, maybe anything was possible. Maybe I really would end up taking her to see Elvis next, for all she knew. Or… Ricky Nelson. Or…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But you know what blows my mind? That none of this might have (wouldn’t have), happened had it not been for one musical instrument that my Aunt Elva had purchased for my mom, Violet Lyford back in the early 1940’s.

Because in 1963, it just so happens that one antique guitar was shown to two young boys, along with a tiny bit of brainless instruction about how to play four simple guitar chords. And a duo who called themselves The Mallett Brothers hit the stage shortly after.

Later the youngest one, David, went off to college with his guitar, and over time blossomed into this amazing national and international singer-songwriter who to this day has seventeen albums to his credit. And today, two of his sons are setting the world, or at least America for now, on fire as The Mallett Brothers 2.0.

You want some irony though? Some twenty-five years later, after the original Mallett Brothers began, I’m still fooling around with those same stinkin’ four chords. Yeah. How do you like them apples?

But whatta say… LET’S HEAR IT FOR MA’S GUITAR…!!!

THIS OLD GUITAR

I grew up in a home that had an old acoustic guitar just lying around in it. It was my mom’s.

Way back in the early 1940’s, she and some of her wild siblings and friends formed a locally popular country-western band that played at the area Grange halls. According to a 1999 article in Paper Talks: as dirt-poor as they were, Ma’s (Violet’s) older sister Elva earned enough cash by “cutting potato seed” to purchase a guitar for herself and one for her. They named themselves The Bar-K Buckaroos. Mom’s brother Chester, a born con man, acted as the band’s “manager” under the imaginative name Ace Dixon.

(A cherished Lyford family story is that our dad, Raymond, was smitten and became a big fan of mom’s during one of their concerts. Reportedly performing a popular song of the day called “Winking at You,” she came strolling down through the audience, coming to a stop right in front of him, and then personally serenading him with a few lines. {And winked at him!} And the rest is history.)

So anyway, the guitar. When I was in junior high, Ma taught me three basic chords, all in the key of C: C, F, and G7. I discovered that with those three, I could navigate my wannabe singer’s voice through most of the popular songs at that time. Eventually, however, I found that if I ever wanted to be able to handle The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun,” I had to familiarize myself with the A minor chord as well. I mean, anybody and everybody who was learning guitar that I knew wanted to play that particular song, it being so dark and cool.

Back in 1960 I had a friend who owned an electric guitar and an amp. I’d spend hours with him in his bedroom taking turns blasting his neighbors. We’d crank that amp up to a 7 on the Richter scale and let’er rip. This Wayne Smith was so much more talented than I was. (And if you’re wondering how good I was, my answer is: not so much. I think I got to be… promising, but that’s as far as I ever got.)

I’d learned the do re mi scale in C though, which enabled me to pick out the melodies of popular songs in that key fairly easily. So from Wayne’s bedroom, the neighbors got treated to my loud rendition of “Apache,” an instrumental made by famous by The Shadows in 1960, or The Ventures’ popular “Walk Don’t Run.” On top of that, and being nuts over Johnny Cash, I worked hard to learn to play the chords of his hits in his signature style while picking out the melodies to boot.

But like I said, “promising, but that’s as far as I ever got.” There are a couple of reasons:

(1) I’m lazy.

I’d already learned to play practically everything I wanted to play in the key of C. Trying to master playing the necessary chords for pop songs in other keys? Well, that was difficult, wasn’t it. Smacked of effort. So why bother? C was good enough for me. And besides, if I wanted to play songs in higher or lower chords… hey, that’s what capos are for, right?

So… laziness.

(2) I suffered from terminal stage fright.

Although in the safety and privacy of my room I practiced! practiced! practiced! like I was trying to get to Carnegie Hall (and had even begun to show some definite growth), the problem was this: the moment I’d feel a few eyes bearing down on me while playing, my brain would just fly right out the window.

It’s been that way all my life. For instance, as a kid I played a lot of basketball with a number of older kids. Every weekend after Central Hall Rec Center closed down at 10:00 pm, a bunch of us would rent the floor and play ball till 1:00 am next morning. I got really good at it too. I’d honed a hook shot that was deadly. I was hell on wheels.

Now of course, you’re probably thinking, Oh sure, in HIS OWN OPINION he was hell on wheels. So… how good was I really? Answer: good enough to make the starting five on the A-squad three years running. In 7^th grade. In 8^th grade. And in my freshman year.

Why?

Stage fright. Oh, I was just great during practices. And in each one of those three years, when the jump-ball tip-off signaled the start of first game of the season, I was right out there on the floor. with the rest of the starting team. But…

There’d end up being about 150 fans’ eyes gawking at us, but particularly right at me (or so I felt). Consequently, I became dazed, confused, and “frozen.” One of my teammates would shoot the ball over to me and guess what: I’d just stand there, watching the ball bounce off my chest and disappear out of bounds.

And after that happened twice, Coach would call me over to the sidelines, look deep into my eyes and ask, sincerely, “Tommy. What’s going on?!” And my answer (to each successive coach, three years running) was always the same: an embarrassed, “I… don’t know…” After which I’d spend the rest of the season warming the bench.

Sad irony: I was as bad at performing with the guitar as I was at basketball. And not only that but, yeah, up through my sophomore year in high school it was also that way when talking to pretty girls. Which sucked, but… it just was what it was.

See, this is what the ancient Greeks called a ‘tragic flaw.’

However (A) by 1962, I was still looking sort-of-hopefully toward my (possible?) musician-future-stardom with some degree of optimism, but (B) although I had no way of ever expecting the irony of it (nobody would or could have), the future-BIG-payday teased at by the windfall of Ma’s guitar wasn’t going to be about…

…me.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now, I’ve mentioned in previous posts that my best friend throughout high school (and beyond) was a fella named Neil Mallett. He grew up in Sebec, Maine, located a few miles north of my hometown of Dover-Foxcroft. From kindergarten through eighth grade, Sebec kids attended school in Sebec. However, beginning with their freshman year, they joined us ‘townies by enrolling in Foxcroft Academy.

Neil and I were both enrolled in the College Prep curriculum at FA, so the two of us ended up taking all the same classes. Not only that, but Neil ended up sitting right behind me in pretty much every class due to the fact that our unimaginative teachers could think of no better way than alphabetical order to arrange our seating plans. This recurring proximity sealed our friendship. Consequently, I soon found myself becoming a frequent visitor out at his home in Sebec.

We didn’t have a lot in common at first. I lived in town in a house resting on a boring single acre of land; Neil lived in the country. Our house was boxed in by the houses of our many, many next-door neighbors. He lived in a not-at-all crowded, neighbor-filled-neighborhood. His homestead had all kinds of things mine didn’t. An old field truck that I could drive. A tractor. A huge barn. A flock of sheep. A big German Shepherd. At least four other brothers. A mom filled with spooky stories. Big country breakfasts every morning. And lots of fields with haying to be done.

It was wonderful. For me, a rural agricultural Disneyland. I wanted to live out there in Mallettville. I wanted to be a Mallett.

I stayed over often.

**Dumbass me.** **Notice the brown rectangular roof of the *very large building* down below in the upper half of the photo, for a sense of scale…**

All kinds of things happened out there. For one thing, I got fear-frozen up maybe 200+ feet up on the 260-foot, still-under-construction Telstar tower that was adjacent to one of their properties.

Practically all the boys from miles around felt compelled to climb that tower at one time or another. It was a rite of passage.

Another thing that happened is that I got to spend almost an entire summer haying out there. My God, it was hard, hot and sweaty work, but I loved every minute of it.

Now, harking back to the real adventure: one time out there, in the winter of ‘62, I got to talking about how much I was enjoying playing my Ma’s guitar at home. Neil’s and his younger brother David’s ears perked right up my descriptions. And so I got asked to bring Ma’s guitar out there for them to check out next time I came over.

So we made plans for that.

“It was a dark and stormy night.” Freezing, windy, and snowing. One of Neil’s older brothers pulled up in our driveway to chauffer the guitar and me off to Sebec. And since the entire rear window of the car was for some reason missing and the snowflakes were swirling around inside the interior, I wrapped the instrument up in an old blanket to keep it as dry as possible. It was about a 10-minute ride.

So anyway, the guitar arrived in one piece (and no worse for the wear), and we brought it into the warm Mallett living room. Everybody gathered around for my little demonstration. And believe it or not, even though I was among very good friends, I still got as nervous as hell while doing it.

Wow though, Neil and young David really got into the whole idea that with only three, maybe four chords, you could play “any song.”

***BOYS! Grow Giant Mushrooms in YOUR Cellar!***

Sounds pretty much like a pitch from one of those ads in the back of some 1950’s comic book, doesn’t it. But that is pretty much what I told them anyway. But of course…that turned out to be an unintentional untruth of course.

Anyway, it was a hands-on experience for them, each taking turns, trying out the chords, and immediately learning about the guitar-player’s painful fingertips. But I figured that, like most kids who just dream and dream of playing the guitar, that the nitty-gritty reality of the commitment involved would end up making short work of that dream. Besides, they didn’t even own a guitar.

But unbeknownst to me, the guitar I’d just handed over was like Jack’s magic beans in the story of Jack and the Beanstalk. Something immediately took root in these two guys. I mean, by placing that completely ordinary musical instrument into their sweaty little palms, I was unwittingly creating a monster. (Well, two monsters actually.) (And to be clear: I’m talking ‘monster’ in a good way… in a very good way.)

Because in a few weeks, they had a guitar of their own. And in a few more weeks, they had two guitars! And damn, they could both play them! Head and shoulders above what I was capable of. And on top of that they’d discovered they could sing as well, David assuming the lead vocalist role, and Neil backing him up with the harmony. They quickly assembled a playlist of popular folk and country songs and took them out on the road.

**This article from *Up North* (Jan/Feb 2008) by Shelagh Talbot**

Next thing you knew, they were performing a couple of numbers before the student body at Foxcroft. And were a sensation. Everybody loved their sound. Word got out. Their reputation spread. They were asked to perform gigs at Rec Center, churches, weddings, and grange halls just like my mom. And they had become… The Mallett Brothers.

(Yes, I know– right this very moment there is a nationally popular band called The Mallett Brothers [David’s two sons, Luke and Will] out there making a big, successful splash in the music world, but Neil and David were the original Mallett Brothers back in the 60’s.)

Before you knew it, they were even showing up on television— TV talent shows, performing in guest spots with other well-known local singers, and then (lo and behold!) they came out with their own television show!

Early in the 60’s I was fortunate in that, being such a close family friend and all, I was allowed to accompany them on their various grange hall gigs all over the area. I liked to think of myself as sort of their ‘roadie’ but, in reality, I was more of groupie, just tagging along for the adventure.

And then, in another blink of an eye it seemed, they began cutting a few 45 rpm records. And songwriting became added to the mix. That was a family affair, beginning with their mom, Pauline, who penned the song, “Solomon,” (the yellow label featured in the photo below). The Mallett Brothers were off and running.

These records found their way to radio stations around the state of Maine, got plenty of play time, and bolstered their growing popularity.

The 45 in the center is titled “Cole’s Express.” The story behind that one is that The Mallett Brothers got hired by a large firm in the small city of Bangor, ME, namely Cole’s Express. They were hired to sing their way north to south, east to west all over the state of Maine to promote Mr. Cole’s company. It was a lucrative deal.

Oh how I envied them, staying in motels, meeting all kinds of interesting people, and getting paid for doing something they were more than passionate about. The YouTube video below was recorded during one of their stops in Fort Fairfield, Maine.

But hey, one of the best and most memorable of the many gigs I got to accompany them on was on Monday, July 20th, 1963. This was during the total solar eclipse of that year, at the dead center of the eclipse path which lay smack-dab in Dexter, Maine. Dexter hosted an unforgettable 4-day celebration that included vendors, food, dancing, a talent show, and music.

Headlining the music on the stage that day was The Mallett Brothers. The weather was perfect. And a family of performers were so taken by David and Neil, that they invited us to come out to view the eclipse on their family’s farm. It was great. We got to watch the confused cows slowly heading in across the fields toward the barn only to stop and turn around when the sun came back out. And then we also got to hear the rooster crow an untimely cock-a-doodle-doo, announcing morning for the second time that day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So here’s my point… well, at least PART I of my point (look for one other ‘Part’ of the point in this adventure). So many things subsequently happened only because there was this old guitar, a left-over relic from the 1940’s, left leaning up against a side of our piano in the family living room back in the mid-1950s. I mean, suppose my mom never received that guitar in the first place, and that there’d never been a little country western group called the Bar-K Buckaroos. Would I have taken that amateur interest in playing a guitar anyway? I don’t see how. At least not then. Would I ever get some other opportunity to learn about those three chords? Possibly. A lot of kids did.

On the other hand, I’m pretty positive I would have met and befriended Neil anyway though, thanks to the alphabetical-seating-order-fetish of those unimaginative teachers of FA’s College Prep classes. But there wouldn’t have been that particular winter’s night gathering in the Mallett living room, listening to me playing those easy chords.

In fact, minus the cause (the guitar) and effect (David’s and Neil’s early musical career) I, Neil, and David could all very likely be living lives in some alternative reality. I mean… horror of all horrors, what if I’d (haha) gone over there and, in an enthusiastically glorified and charismatic manner, shared with them the basketball path I was futilely trying to master, and had somehow tantalized and mesmerized them with the amazing scientific precision of that deadly “hook shot” I had honed so sharply? Might then Neil and David have put their creative energies into competitive sports instead? And might David and Neil have become famous brother-athletes on a national scale, like Peyton and Eli Manning?

OK, now you’re probably wondering what it is I’m smoking. Just being facetious. But yeah. Really. What if there hadn’t been that guitar at all, eh? Did the guitar have anything to do with me finding a permanent girlfriend? Yes!

Did that guitar have anything to do with David and Neil crossing paths with The Man in Black, Johnny Cash? Yes, I believe so!

But stay tuned to find out. Look for “This Old Guitar, Part II” in the next day or two.

WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES. ANOTHER OPENS…

OK— Sue had dumped me. Yeah. Me, deep-sixed once again. Why? Because no girl could possibly have been expected to possess the patience of Job when it came to waiting for my sexual maturity to catch up with hers. Which was apparently never gonna happen anyway. The story of my life. (I had to hand it to Sue though. She’d really hung in there for a long while. What a trooper.)

But now, at that point in my long life, I hafta say I’d never known any pain as deep and troubling and hurtful as the one I was experiencing then. I was the saddest of the sad sacks. Sometimes for short periods, I could bear the post-op trauma of having had my heart ripped right out of my chest; but then… I’d make the bad choice of playing Paul Anka’s “Lonely Boy” on my record player, and that’d send my seemingly-never-ending love-life-pity-party right off the rails, and I’d go all sappy-soap-opera-pathetic on myself.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But going into about the third week or so of my own personal “Death Valley Days,” a handful of my friends who were worried about me moping the rest of my life away came over to talk me into going out with them. I argued against it, said I didn’t have any desire to, said “No way!” But they browbeat me into it, packed me like so much baggage into the car they were riding around in, and hauled me down to The Sugar Shack.

The Sugar Shack (so-named due to the popularity of Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs’ 1962 hit tune, “Sugar Shack”) was a small, evening hang-out for kids.

It was put together by the community as a sort of “nightclub for teens.” With the lights kept dimmed for atmosphere, you’d spy vending machines, the juke box, the tiny dance floor, and a few tiny table-and-chair sets scattered around. Showing up there was the ultra-cool thing to do back then.

So our car rolled up into the parking lot out front. Everybody started bailing out to go inside. I started to get out myself but, in the nick of time, I eyeballed Sue and her new (crumb-bum licensed) boyfriend climbing out of his car, parked two-cars-over! So:

I immediately slammed my door shut and ducked right down out of sight onto the car’s backseat floorboards. My friends freaked out. They pulled my door back open and started commanding me to come on out and just get over it. It was time, they told me. Time to move on.

But I wasn’t having any of that. I just felt so vulnerable and stupid and hurt! Plus, I was pretty sure I was having a hear attack! I slammed the door shut again and locked it. So they hauled the front passenger-side door open and one of’em, leaning in over the back of the front seat, continued scolding me like I was some petulant child.

“No. Come on in. This’ll be good for you! You need this.”

“Easy for you to say!” I told them.

“Tommy, trust us!”

I took in a deep breath and sighed it back out in a long sigh. “OK OK OK! I give up! Alright?! Just… Just give me a minute here, OK? I just need to take a breath… You guys go on in. In a minute I’ll come in.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah, damnit! I do.”

“OK, then…”

So in they went. And much as I didn’t want to move, I did manage to sit up and climb out of the car. And believe me, it was a long jog straight back to my house and back to the safety of my “cave.” But I was so relieved to be back home and out of “danger.” I just wanted to climb into bed with the blankets over my head.

But more than relieved, I was really pissed. I began rifling through my LP’s. And after finding what I was looking for, I lifted Paul Anka’s “Lonely Boy” off the turntable, slapped the new platter on, and lowered the stylus into the grooves of the very first song on the A-side. The title song.

And I cranked up the volume…

The last thing in the world I needed to hear again right at that moment was “Hey, Tommy. Time heals all wounds.” I preferred Dion DiMucci’s take on things. So I blasted the anthem!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Weeks later, when the wound actually had scabbed over to some extent, Time found me seated back on my barstool at Lanpher’s soda fountain counter, nursing me a root beer fuzzy. I had to admit I was better, even though I couldn’t stop the bad habit of picking at my scab now and then. Thank God ‘Runaround’ Sue had apparently found better things to do than hang out there anymore.

So I was a junior now, and school was due to start back up in a few weeks. It was a time of ambivalence. The Back-to-School sales were on. I’d probably be getting a couple of new shirts and a couple pairs of chinos over at Koritsky’s. And maybe a new belt. But of course, I’d get most of my school supplies right there at Lanpher’s Drug. Funny, how having to make the annual purchases of a few new notebooks and ballpoints and pencils could add a tiny bit of eager anticipation to your life, despite the fact that you really wished summer vacation would last forever.

And speaking of ambivalence, the Piscataquis Valley Fair was coming right up too. I was still of the age where there was a lot of excitement and anticipation in seeing all those Fair posters stapled to every other telephone pole. Because if there’s one thing I thing I really dug back in those days, it was the wild feeling I got wandering around the sparkling midway after dark with my cronies. The Ferris Wheel decorated like a Christmas tree with its red, blue, and yellow lights; the Tilt-a Whirl squeezing the screams right out of the sloshing guts of its passengers; the hurdy-gurdy music of the carousel; the soft sawdust “floor” snaked with cables leading to the tractor-like racket of the generators anywhere and everywhere, powering everything; and even those greasy scarecrows from who-knows-where hired to operate the rides. All of that!

But more than that… the girls!

Girls all over the place. In bunches of three, four, sometimes even five or six. Everywhere you looked. A parade of girls. Girls in shorts or capris. Girls wearing Hawaiian leis draped over their shoulders. Girls toting chimpanzee-sized stuffed teddy bears or holding little kewpie dolls some guy’d won for them. Girls nibbling daintily at big, pink clouds of cotton candy. Girls from your school. Girls from outta town. Foxy girls who’d knock you out with their fetching beauty if you dared to stare too long.

Ah yes. The Piscataquis Valley Fair. Every autumn. The excitement!

And the inherent ambivalence…Because we’d wait hungrily every year for the fair. And finally it would come! Yay! BUT…practically the very next day, when all of its lights had winked out for the year, when all of its tents had buckled and collapsed, when all of its rusty rides had been dismantled and loaded back onto the semis, and the fairgrounds had been left an empty trash-and-ticket-strewn graveyard… the SCHOOL bell would ring!

Because the calendar showed us you couldn’t have the fair without school right on its heels, year after every year. School with its alphabetic-order seating plans, its morning assemblies, its homerooms and study halls and spitballs, its essay assignments and pop-quizzes, its detentions, but…

when you really stopped and thought about it…

Well, the girls.

(So school wasn’t all that bad.)

Anyway, back to me sitting on my stool at Lanpher’s…

A friend (who happened to be a girl but not a girlfriend) had just gotten up off her stool to leave; but she’d stopped momentarily and was gawking out the big glass storefront at something. “Hey look! Who’d have thought! Freddy’s got himself a girlfriend.”

The voice in my head said, Freddy? I called out, “You talking about my cousin Freddy? Or…”

“Yeah. Him. And wow, he’s got himself quite a cutie, too.”

Holding my big, frosty mug in hand, I got up and joined her at the window. And yes: wow was correct. There he was. And there she was. The two of them strolling in conversation past the Esso station across the street. My first impression was, Well. Look at you, Freddy you old dog. My second was, But whoa! Check her out! She was cute. At least from a distance.

“So… who’s the girl? I don’t recognize her.”

“A freshman.”

“Oh! Yeah. Freddy’s a freshman too this year.” I found myself wishing I could get a better look. “She from town?”

“Oh yeah. From over on Winter Street.

“Ah!. Winter Street. Right around the corner!”

“God, Tommy. I can see your mind working right from here. You’re so obvious.”

“Whattaya mean?”

“That you’re so interested. I mean, you’re getting a real good eyeful there.”

“Hey. C’mon. Freddy’s my cousin, for cryin’ out loud. Family. Of course I’m… interested... in who he’s dating. If… he is dating, that is. It’s… like, you know, keeping up with the family news.”

“Family news. Ha! Right. You just keep telling yourself that.”

“What’s your problem, anyway?”

“Problem? Do I have a problem.Who said anybody has a problem?”

“So anyway… what’s her name?”

“Phyllis. Phyllis Raymond.”

“Oh.”

“’Oh,’ he says. Yeah. If you got a pencil, I can write that right down for ya, if you want. Don’t know her phone number, but I can probably get it.”

“Well, you’re the helpful type, aren’tcha.”

“I am, I am. I’m on the Pony staff. Always looking for a juicy scoop. I like to keep track of what’s going on, yeah. But anyway. I don’t think they are.”

“Are what? ”

“Dating. Freddy and Phyllis. At least, not that I’ve heard. I mean, maybe they are. But anyway, I can find out and get back to you.”

“Whatta you got? Too much time on your hands or something?”

“No, actually just busy, busy, busy.”

“Stirring up gossip, yeah.”

“Well, the Fall Edition of The Pony will need stories, won’t it. And it’ll be coming out before you know it. But hey. Be nice! If you want me to put the good word out for ya. That you’re interested in her, that is.”

“Jeez! She’s with Freddy.”

“I know. Who’s a lowly freshman, though. Right? Like you were, year before last. A freshman without any status. Remember?”

“Oh, believe me. I do. I’d like to forget.”

“Well, you’re a junior now. You can crush freshmen. So don’t worry.”

“Oh, you’d worry, if you had my track record. I’m thinking about becoming a monk in a monastery.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta run. But, I’ll pass the word along for ya. And no, don’t thank me.”

“The word?”

“Phyllis. Phyllis Raymond.”

“That’s the word?”

“No. You’re the word. See ya.”

“OK. Bye.”

Hmmmm…. Phyllis Raymond.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And so the county fair finally did arrive. That last bastion of summer vacation, all that was left holding back the inevitable onslaught of teachers, books, and early-to-bed school-nights. Summer’s last hurrah. Remember the Alamo, and all that.

I was there with a couple of my cronies. Inhaling the electrifying carnival excitement, and experiencing the thrill of the hunt: the sport of girl-watching.

Us, looping ourselves through the midway, around all the crazy Wonderland rides, over around the cow-pie-stink of the livestock sheds, then back around through the fried dough-and-French fries food concessions, and eventually right back through the midway once again. Over and over.

What else was there to do, with your pocket-change so quickly running low?

But my God, weren’t the girls lovely!

And us? I look back on this evening shaking my head. The three of us really just spinning our tires and going nowhere. And we knew we were losers, sadly. I’m reminded of a song, and if I were to ever make a movie of this scene, that song would make a perfect backdrop soundtrack.

THREE COOL CATS 1958 The Coasters

Three cool cats, three cool cats
Parked on the corner in a beat-up car
Dividing up a nickel candy bar
Talking all about how sharp they are,

These three cool cats

Three cool chicks three cool chicks
Walkin’ down the street a-swingin’ their hips
Splitting up a bag of potato chips
And three cool cats did three big flips for
Three cool chicks

Up pops the first cool cat
He said, “Man, look at that!
Man, do you see what I see?”
“I want the middle chick!”
“I want that little chick!”
“Hey, man, save one chick for me!”

Three cool chicks, three cool chicks
They look like angels from up above
And three cool cats really fell in love
But three cool chicks made three fools of these
Three cool cats, three cool cats

Three cool cats, three cool cats,

Three cool cats, three cool cats

But then… something unexpected… Gradually, we’d become aware that the three of us were being dogged by a couple of half-pints. What they were following us for, I couldn’t imagine. But it irked and, consequently, I stopped and spun around on them!

“What the hell do you two punks want? Trouble? Beat it!”

But they didn’t beat it. On the contrary the shorter of the two, the one six-inches taller than a yardstick, stepped forward. Right up to me, in a seemingly confrontational manner, although he wore a nervous grin.

“I got a question,” he said.

And I was thinking, Who the heck is this kid? And what question could he possibly have for me? I mean, I don’t know him from anybody.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Look, I don’t know you. And you don’t know me! So…”

“I got a question,” he said again.

Jeez, the nerve. “Heard you the first time. Alright. Spit it out. And… it better be one hell of a good question, too.”

“You the guy who likes my sister?”

Well that floored me! He’d just blurted it straight out. I stared at him.

“What?” I definitely hadn’t seen that coming. “What’d you just say?”

“Are you the guy who likes my sister?”

I shook my head, as if to shake some cobwebs out. “Your sister? Listen fella, if I don’t know who you are, then I don’t know who your sister is, DO I. Why? You gonna beat me up or something if I say yes?”

I mean, I was thinking, has this squirt got me mixed up with somebody else? Like somebody in some family feud, like the Hatfields and the McCoys?

“So…? Are you?”

Jeez. Again, the nerve of this kid. Like one of those yapping little pug-faced dogs on my paper route. But oddly, I could feel myself getting pulled right in. Because somewhere out there was a girl we were talking about. And Girls? That was my favorite topic. But who? Who was she?

“Well… how can I like somebody I don’t even know who she is?”

The theme song of The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis could’ve been playing itself in the ‘juke box’ in my head:

“She got a name? This sister of yours..?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what the hell is it?”

“Phyllis,” he said.

Phyllis. He’d said Phyllis. Suddenly everything changed.

Because (A) I didn’t know any Phyllis. I’d never met a Phyllis in my life. But (B) there was… one Phyllis that I knew OF, wasn’t there. Freddy’s Phyllis. The cute one.

But… how was this all happening?

I studied the twerp. I looked him over, like some guy inspecting a used car he was thinking of buying.

“OK. Then your last name’s Raymond. Right?”

He nodded.

“What’s your first name, kid?”

“Willy.”

“I see. Well, Willy. The answer is yes. I do like your sister. I like her very much. So— whatta you care?”

He just blurted it right out. “Can I have a quarter?”

“Can you… what?”

“Can you give me a quarter?”

I couldn’t believe the brass this kid had. “Jeez, I dunno. Why would I wanna do that? I mean, twenty-five cents? Do I get something out of it?”

“Maybe.”

“Well then, how about this? Say I give you a quarter. And then you? First you tell your big sister you talked to me, OK? And tell her my name. Tommy. Tommy Lyford.“

“She already knows your name.“

“She does?”

“Yeah.”

I was thinking, She DOES? She really does??? And Whoa, was that my heart that just leaped up out of my ribcage?

“Oh. OK. Sure. Good. So… And… then you tell her that… yeah, I do. I do like her. How’s that?”

“OK, with me.”

“Alright. OK with me, too.”

I fished a quarter out of my pocket and held it up before his greedy little eyes. “One quarter. And know this: there’s plenty more where that came from. You dig? If you play your cards right, that is. So, you might wanna be helpful. Right?”

“OK.”

I dropped the quarter into his sweaty little palm. And my God, he was off like a rabbit, with his buddy chasing behind. ! He obviously had something particular in mind to spend it on.

But here’s the thing. I couldn’t believe how upper-case-‘F’ Fortune had just parachuted right down out of the friggin’ blue and handed me an in. An in being something I could use. A connection. I mean, sometimes life can apparently be like a Monopoly game. When you least expect it, you draw a card that says, “Your bank has made an error in your favor. Collect $200.” Was my luck possibly changing?

And how did Willy even know who I was? Somebody must’ve been talking about me. No, about me and this sister of his, this… Phyllis.

This Phyllis Raymond.

Suddenly, I was actually looking forward to school finally starting back up again for the year on Tuesday.

I, JUKE BOX (Please play me…)

People say you are what you eat. I say you’re what you consume (just my short way of saying you are what you eat, what you read, what you watch, what you listen to, and whatever you experience). Because anything and everything that crawls its way into, and gets processed by, your brain becomes a part of you, after which your outlook is never quite the same. Because the ever-growing sum-total of your experience both alters and continuously filters the way you perceive and understand the world you’re living in.

(The above wisdom , courtesy of my vast and venerable 77-years of life experience on the planet, and… you’re welcome.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now, here it is, let’s begin:

Music has always had its way with me. Has practically owned me. All my life. Not that that’s a bad thing. Probably because I was born into a household with the kitchen radio playing pretty much non-stop, its rhythms and vocals rocking me in the crib as soon as I was brought home from the maternity ward. Likely even before that, as I suspect I was grooving to WABI am’s top 40 while still in Mom’s buffered-but-not-totally-soundproofed womb.

And as a side-effect, I’ve developed this condition I call Juke Box Brain Syndrome (JBBS). It’s this often annoying (just ask my wife) tic whereby any random word or phrase spoken in any random conversation I’m having (with you or anyone else) just might act as a trigger, very much like a quarter dropping down the slot of some back-to-the-60’s juke box to play a song. But instead… it’s me. I am that ‘juke box.’ And I have no control over the trigger.

Typical Example: So we’re barreling down I-95, Phyllis driving and pushing 75 in a 70 zone like everybody else when suddenly some car rockets past us in the passing lane! Phyl exclaims, “Whoa! That guy’s gotta be doing 85, 90, 95 miles per hour, if not a hundred!” And then, click!

See, that’s the ‘quarter’ dropping into me, the ‘juke box’ and then, me, bowing to something like a post-hypnotic suggestion, I obediently sing (you could almost say ‘play’) a couple of lines from a song. Weirdly, the song this time turnd out to be from one of those little, yellow, plastic, 78 rpm records I had as a kid back in the 1950s. It’s titled, “The Taxi That Hurried”:

“This is the way he likes to drive, 70, 80, 95…

fast as fire engines go, compared to taxis they are slow.”

Now yes, it’s true, a couple of lines from Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” would have much been less annoying.

But see, it’s never up to me. I don’t consciously choose the songs. They just come of their own accord, from the song vault somewhere in my decades-long memory.

Later in the day, in some other conversation, some other word is apt to bring up a line or two from Leonard Cohen, Doris Day, The Beatles, Dolly Parton, Tom Jones, or ABBA. Who knows? It’s like I have Song-Lyrics Tourette Syndrome. And oh, I know… so many many songs. Songs from prctically all genres. (Well except for gospel. And rap. And hip hop. I guess I’m too old for hip hop and rap, being a curmudgeon now. You know– today, having been born in the mid-1940s is like having come from another planet.)

(By the way, I can’t help being hung up on wondering if I’m the only one on the planet suffering from JBBS. I mean, surely there must be others. So please. Let me know in the comments if you, or anyone else you know, also suffers from JBBS. I will appreciate it.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So my CD shelf and five computers and cellphone and brain are brimming, bursting at the seams with my lifelong music collection. But fortunately, this go-to jukebox in my head has saved my sanity so many times. The songs have acted as everything from my prozac (for when I’ve been down and depressed) to my much-needed comedy channel, laughter being the best medicine. My mental health owes so much it to this affliction.

And so what I would like to do here… no, what I’m going to do here…is share with you a few of the songs from my personal comedy vault that have often tickled my fancy and pasted a silly smile on my mug over the years, despite me.

So consider this a free, unrequested playlist offered from my JBB to your brain, a sample JBB pot pourri, if you will. I have no guarantee that you’ll listen in, (hope you do give it a shot) but if you do… you’ll know something about why I’ve adopted this first one, “I’m Different” by Randy Newman, as my personal theme song.

(I’m including the lyrics so you can follow along.)

“I’M DIFFERENT”

“I’m Different “

“I’M DIFFERENT” by Randy Newman

I’m different and I don’t care who knows it
Somethin’ about me’s not the same, yeah
I’m different and that’s how it goes
Ain’t gonna play your goddamn game

Got a different way a walkin’

I got a different kind of smile

I got a different way a talkin’

drives the women kind of wild (… kind of wild)

He’s different and he don’t care who knows it
Somethin’ about him it’s not the same
He’s different and that’s how it goes
And he’s not gonna play your gosh darn game

I ain’t sayin’ I’m better than you are

But maybe I am

I only know that when I look in the mirror

I like the man (We like the man)

I’m different and I don’t care who knows it
Somethin’ about me’s not the same
I’m different and that’s how it goes
Ain’t gonna play your goddamn game

When I walk down the street in the mornin’
Blue birds are singin’ in the tall oak tree
They sing a little song for the people

And they sing a little song for me (La-la-la-la) (Thanks, fellas)

(He’s different and he don’t care who knows it
Somethin’ about him’s not the same
He’s different and that’s how it goes
Ain’t gonna play your gosh darn game)

I’m different and I don’t care who knows it
Somethin’ about me’s not the same
I’m different and that’s how it goes
Ain’t gonna play no boss man’s game

I can’t tell you how many people over my lifetime have informed me that I’m “different.”And each and every time I heartily thank them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Now, I spent 34 years here in this state of Maine enduring life as a career high school English teacher. And as you might imagine, getting and keeping the attention of the typical high school English student for 50 minutes every day is no easy task. It takes a magician, if you really want to know the truth. However, early on I discovered the music really doth have “charms to soothe the savage breast.” (-William Congreve [1670-1929] {whoever the hell he was}).

So now, here’s where being ‘different’ can pay off. Ever since my Mad Magazine-reading early childhood, I’ve been attracted to some pretty bizarre novelty songs, many of which came were played weekly on something called The Doctor Demento Show on the radio. I found Doctor D’s playlists a frickin’ gold mine for stuff that could really catch your typical high school student off guard.

And wheneveer I found myself bogged down trying to keep them awake while trying to teach what a metaphor is… Johnny Cash stepped right up to the plate:

“FLUSHED FROM THE BATHROOM OF YOUR HEART”

From the backdoor of your life you swept me out dear
In the bread line of your dreams I lost my place
At the table of your love I got the brush off
At the Indianapolis of your heart I lost the race

I’ve been washed down the sink of your conscience
In the theater of your love I lost my part
And now you say you’ve got me out of your conscience
I’ve been flushed from the bathroom of your heart

In the garbage disposal of your dreams I’ve been ground up dear

On the river of your plans I’m up the creek
Up the elevator of your future I’ve been shafted
On the calendar of your events I’m last week

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As a teacher, I assigned the kids a lot of creative writing, which I guess is what I loved teaching the most. Usually every year I would have my kids write an original short story. This would include employing the basics of the short story, such as CONCRETE DETAIL, CHARACTER SKETCH, PLOT, CONFLICT, COMPLICATIONS, CLIMAX, etc.

In the early stages of the project, I watched kids struggling with not enough detail or too much detail that was unrelated to the PLOT. I’d coach, “Try not to just use any DETAILS that are unnecessary.Only use specific details that will support the PLOT by helping to move the story right along to the CLIMAX.

“And secondly, the most essential key to a good short story is CONFLICT”. So I would prompt them: “Can you imagine a story without useful DETAILS, or (heaven forbid!) without a CONFLICT? I mean, what would that even look like? How boring would that be?

“Well here, let’ me show you’s find out. Here’s a little song by Bob Dylan.” And boy, would the kids ever really perk right up at his name. “Like wow, Bob Dylan! This class is really gonna rock!”

Unfortunately for them, this particular Bob Dylan song was going to be a real nothingburger, Dylan’s most comically boring recording ever. Which was my point. I mean, just look at the limpid title for starters:

“CLOTHES LINE SAGA”

After a while we took in the clothes
Nobody said very much
Just some old wild shirts and a couple pairs of pants
Which nobody really wanted to touch
Mama come in and picked up a book
An’ Papa asked her what it was
Someone else asked, “What do you care?”
Papa said, “Well, just because”
Then they started to take back their clothes
Hang ’em on the line
It was January the thirtieth
And everybody was feelin’ fine

The next day everybody got up
Seeing if the clothes were dry
The dogs were barking, a neighbor passed
Mama, of course, she said, “Hi”
“Have you heard the news?” he said with a grin
“The Vice-President’s gone mad!”
“Where?” “Downtown” “When?” “Last night”
“Hmm, say, that’s too bad”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,” said the neighbor
“It’s just something we’re gonna have to forget”
“Yes, I guess so,” said Ma
Then she asked me if the clothes were still wet

I reached up, touched my shirt
And the neighbor said, “Are those clothes yours?”
I said, “Some of them, not all of them”
He said, “Ya always help out around here with the chores?”
I said, “Sometime, not all the time”
Then my neighbor, he blew his nose
Just as Papa yelled outside
“Mama wants you to come back in the house and bring them clothes”
(Woo-hoo)
Well, I just do what I’m told
So, I did it, of course
I went back in the house and Mama met me
And then I shut all the doors

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Back in 2009, my wife and I were fortunate to score front row seats at a concert in Albuquerque, NM. The concert featured the duo of Lyle Lovett and John Hiatt, both singer/songwriters. Both songwriters had a very good sense of humor, as was illustrated in some of their music.

This next song, “Old People” by singer/songwriter John Hiatt, makes me feel grateful because (ahem) I’m not one of them yet…

“OLD PEOPLE”

Old people are pushy
They don’t have much time
They’ll shove you at the coffee shop
Cut ahead in the buffet line

They’ll buy two for a dollar and 50
Then they’ll argue with the checkout girl
They’ve lived so much behind them
They’re tryin’ to slow down this goddamn world

Old people are pushy
Well, they’re not mushy
Old people are pushy ’cause life ain’t cushy

Old people are pushy
They’ll drive how they want to drive
And go as slow as they want to
They don’t care who stays alive

And they’ll kiss that little grand baby
Up and down the back and all around the front
They don’t care what you think of them
That baby has got something that they want

Old people are pushy, well they’re not mushy
Old people are pushy, cause life ain’t cushy
(Old people are pushy, they aren’t mushy)
(Old people are pushy, cause life ain’t cushy)

Old people are pushy, cause you don’t know how they feel
And when you pretend you do
Well they know it’s not real
Pretty soon it’s gonna be all over
Good enough reason not to let you pass
They done seem like sweet, little old people
But they are not about to kiss your ass

Old people are pushy, well they’re not mushy
Old people are pushy, cause life ain’t cushy
Old people are pushy, (old people are pushy)
Old people are pushy, (old people are pushy)
Old people are pushy, (old people are pushy)
‘Cause life ain’t cushy
Old people are pushy,
Old people are pushy
Old people are pushy
Cause life ain’t cushy

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Lyle Lovett also has a quirky sense of humor. He has written some very serious and beautiful songs in his lifetime, but songs like this one, “Don’t Touch My Hat” always put a Lyle Lovett smile on my mug…

“DON’T TOUCH MY HAT”

Man you better let go
You can’t hold on to
What belongs to me
And don’t belong to you

I caught you looking
With your roving eye
So Mister you don’t have to act
So surprised

If it’s her you want
I don’t care about that
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

I grew up lonesome
On the open range
And that cold North wind
Can make a man feel strange

My John B. Stetson
Was my only friend
And we’ve stuck together
Through many a woman

So if it’s her you want
I don’t care about that
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

My mama told me
Son, to be polite
Take your hat off
When you walk inside

But the winds of change
They fill the air
And you can’t set your hat down
Just anywhere

So if you plead not guilty
I’ll be the judge
We don’t need no jury
To decide because

I wear a seven
And you’re out of order
‘Cause I can tell from here
You’re a seven and a quarter

But if it’s her you want
I don’t care about that
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

If it’s her you want
I don’t care about that
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

No it never complains
And it never cries
And it looks so good
And it fits just right

But if it’s her you want
I don’t care about that
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat
You can have my girl
But don’t touch my hat

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The following story/song was written by one of my favorite songwriters of all time, Harry Chapin, the man who wrote “Cat’s in the Cradle” and so many more. Humor comes in many forms. There are very different flavors of humor. In this case, the humor’s kinda grim. But man, what this wordsmith does with words! WARNING: Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen. You are going for one hell of a ride…

“30,000 POUNDS… OF BANANAS”

It was just after dark when the truck started down
The hill that leads into Scranton Pennsylvania.
Carrying thirty thousand pounds of bananas.
Carrying thirty thousand pounds (hit it Big John) of bananas.

He was a young driver,
Just out on his second job.
And he was carrying the next day’s pasty fruits
For everyone in that coal-scarred city
Where children played without despair
In backyard slag-piles and folks manage to eat each day
Just about thirty thousand pounds of bananas.
Yes, just about thirty thousand pounds (scream it again, John) .

He passed a sign that he should have seen,
Saying “shift to low gear, a fifty dollar fine my friend.”
He was thinking perhaps about the warm-breathed woman
Who was waiting at the journey’s end.
He started down the two mile drop,
The curving road that wound from the top of the hill.
He was pushing on through the shortening miles that ran down to the depot.
Just a few more miles to go,
Then he’d go home and have her ease his long, cramped day away.
And the smell of thirty thousand pounds of bananas.
Yes the smell of thirty thousand pounds of bananas.

He was picking speed as the city spread its twinkling lights below him.
But he paid no heed as the shivering thoughts of the nights’
Delights went through him.
His foot nudged the brakes to slow him down.
But the pedal floored easy without a sound.
He said “Christ!”
It was funny how he had named the only man who could save him now.
He was trapped inside a dead-end hellslide,
Riding on his fear-hunched back
Was every one of those yellow green
I’m telling you thirty thousand pounds of bananas.
Yes, there were thirty thousand pounds of bananas.

He barely made the sweeping curve that led into the steepest grade.
And he missed the thankful passing bus at ninety miles an hour.
And he said “God, make it a dream!”
As he rode his last ride down.
And he said “God, make it a dream!”
As he rode his last ride down.
And he sideswiped nineteen neat parked cars,
Clipped off thirteen telephone poles,
Hit two houses, bruised eight trees,
And Blue-Crossed seven people.
It was then he lost his head,
Not to mention an arm or two before he stopped.
And he smeared for four hundred yards
Along the hill that leads into Scranton, Pennsylvania.
All those thirty thousand pounds of bananas.

You know the man who told me about it on the bus,
As it went up the hill out of Scranton, Pennsylvania,
He shrugged his shoulders, he shook his head,
And he said (and this is exactly what he said)
“Boy that sure must’ve been something.
Just imagine thirty thousand pounds of bananas.
Yes, there were thirty thousand pounds of mashed bananas.
Of bananas. Just bananas. Thirty thousand pounds.
Of bananas. not no driver now. Just bananas!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Iris Dement and John Prine:)

After that one, let’s end on a quirky-sweet “love’ song by John Prine and Iris Dement… “In Spite of Ourselves”

This duet with Iris Dement was written with Iris in mind. Prine’s wife said she called Iris to tease her
about the song and Dement said it took a lot of courage to sing some of the lines the first few times.

She don’t like her eggs all runny
She thinks crossin’ her legs is funny
She looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter Bunny
She’s my baby I’m her honey
I’m never gonna let her go

He ain’t got laid in a month of Sundays
I caught him once and he was sniffin’ my undies
He ain’t real sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like it’s oxygen
He’s my baby
And I’m his honey
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We’ll end up a’sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we’re the big door prize
We’re gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won’t be nothin’ but big old hearts
Dancin’ in our eyes.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin’
And keeps on tickin’
I’m never gonna let her go.

He’s got more balls than a big brass monkey
He’s a whacked out weirdo and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he’s howlin’ at the moon
He’s my baby I don’t mean maybe
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We’ll end up a sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we’re the big door prize
We’re gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won’t be nothin’ but big old hearts
Dancin’ in our eyes.
There won’t be nothin’ but big old hearts
Dancin’ in our eyes.

(spoken) In spite of ourselves

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So yeah… Now you know a little more about me, and where me brain’s been.

Stay tuned if you dare for Part II, coming soon, wherein I will share with you music from my stash that I feel is not only creatively composed,but has been honestly impactful and instructive in my life.

Thank you for Listening.

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Tag: music

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