Wednesday, February 29, 2012
R.I.P Daydream Believer
Earlier today I had this odd premonition that Paul McCartney was going to pass away-for real this time. I have been in a big Beatles reading mode of late, having just finished reading the 2009 updated version of Hunter Davies' excellent must-read (and only authorized)1968 biography of the group before diving into Geoff Emerick's "Here, There and Everywhere: My Life Recording the Music of The Beatles". Maybe that had something to do with it. When I did open up the interweb news page , I did not see the death of Macca headlining the entertainment section. No, the "cute" Beatle was apparently alive and well somewhere in the world. The news was not so good for another iconic 1960's pop star. The "cute" Monkee, Davy Jones ,passed away suddenly from a heart attack at the much too young age of 66.
Other than enjoying the reruns of their abbreviated show on WLVI when I was a "tween, and a couple of the hits, I never was much of an aficionado of their overall canon, having never purchased a single recording of The Monkees. I fell more into the "pre-fab four" opinion of the group. I just never could get past the original cynical intention of the group's origin, when compared to the Beatles more organic origins. Yes, once the Liverpool lads fell under Epstein's wings, and then later Martin and EMI et al, they became part of the corporate music world. But they certainly paid their dues to get to that point. And created much more influential music than the Monkees could ever lay claim to in their brief career.
Nonetheless it is sad news, but Paul's passing will hit the generations of our household a bit harder when that day comes.
Monday, February 27, 2012
My Daughter's Creations
This is something my daughter created at school the other day. It made me smile
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Damn Belgians
Christmas eve I made what has apparently become an annual tradition: a trip to Trader Joe's for some last minute holiday treats." Those candy cane sugar cookies looked good. Into the basket! Chocolate fudgie thingies ? Into the basket! One pound bars of imported Belgian chocolate? ( if it's half as good as their beer...) Into the basket! Fast forward a couple weeks ...one of those hefty cocoa bars was forgotten in a bag , left on a chair , in our living room. Then it was discovered by our dog, an undersized 20 month-old black lab mix. Discovered, then consumed in it's entirety in about three minutes. An emergency trip to the vet, $350( and many worried children's tears ) later she is back to her old self, aside for the fact that when she does her "business" it looks more like something out of a Kingsford bag due to the charcoal gunk she has been having to take. Another Belgian catastrophe averted. Damn Belgians.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thirteen years ago today we lost my brother David very suddenly. We lost not only a sibling, but a best friend. He was just twenty-six. He was the proud father of a seventeen-month old son, with another on the way. This was one of his favorites and I dedicate it to his memory, and to all those who have gone through similar tragedy. Thousands of days can pass; yet the wound remains raw.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
One of my earliest childhood memories is singing along to songs as my mother drove around delivering newspapers from her car. I remember hearing songs that would stay with me the rest of my life. I also remember being brought to tears and begging to change the station by either songs that were too sad, or just plain terrible. At least to a toddler’s ears.
At my elementary school we had no preschool or kindergarten, so my school memories started with first grade. It was the first time I was in the same room with a real guitar, when the music teacher would make her weekly visit to our class. Up until then the guitar had only been something I saw on television, or in the windows of music stores. Hearing the beautiful sounds those strings made when she strummed them, I thought “this must be what it sounds like in heaven“. I still remember the first song that music teacher played for us, all the way back in 1973. It was “Michael, Row The Boat Ashore”. I definitely can trace my love for, and my moderate ability to play the guitar to that very moment.
Like many families today, the 1970’s were not an easy time to raise a family. My parents had six children, and did not have an easy time raising their brood. They did not own their own home , so we moved around quite a bit. Not always to the best of neighborhoods, but we always had clean clothes and enough food to eat, so I can’t complain. Being the new kids at school all the time though,was tough. Many times the only tangible thing that stayed the same for me and my siblings was my mother’s old record collection that would go with us on each move. She seemed to have everything in her box of old 45s. We may not have had any friends at the new school, but The Beatles, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Beach Boys, Carl Perkins et al would be ready to entertain us and keep us company in unfamiliar surroundings, as soon as we unpacked the box.
I had just turned ten when our latest move took us across the bridge from Beverly to Salem. After five years we left the suburban ,single-family confines of our former town and moved into a tougher, more urban neighborhood of triple deckers, where sidewalks and asphalt took the place of lawns and woods . A lot of the kids at my new school came from families where school was not the primary focus at home. For most of these parents, much like my own, keeping the roof over their heads took priority over supervising homework. Many worked two or three jobs, and their kids were pretty much on their own when they weren’t in school. I had a paper route of my own soon after we moved in, and classmates I would often encounter on the street would make the completion of my route “interesting” to say the least.
We only lived there for three years and I have forgotten most of my teacher’s names . I do remember though, my music teacher, Miss McSorley. Unlike some of the other music teachers I had had up to that point in my young life, she played contemporary music. At school! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis.The Beatles. The Beach Boys. The Carpenters.It seemed as though she raided the record box at our house. She knew the power behind music, and was able to capture and hold the attention of thirty hungry, hyperactive and streetwise kids with the simple act of placing a needle on a piece of spinning vinyl. The class would start out as a rowdy, seemingly uncontrollable group, acting like a scene out of the movie “Lean On Me” , but seconds after that needle dropped we would all be singing our hearts out .
Throughout my life, through thick and thin, music has remained a constant in my life. It led me to learn the trumpet which I played from elementary to high school , including the marching band which allowed me travel to places I could not have seen at the time otherwise. I was able to travel across New England to Canada , performing and competing in competitions. As a teen I returned to my first musical love, the guitar, which soon led me to learn how to write songs, playing and recording in local rock bands with gigs from Boston to New York, as well as making lifelong friends. Now as a father, it is so gratifying to see my children developing their own love of music, standing at the threshold of music’s call. I am honored that music has enabled me to sing and play songs with the children of my church parish. Every time my son or daughter puts their fingers to the keyboard, or the children let it rip during our sometimes cacophonous sing-alongs in Sunday School , I really do hear the sounds of heaven.
At my elementary school we had no preschool or kindergarten, so my school memories started with first grade. It was the first time I was in the same room with a real guitar, when the music teacher would make her weekly visit to our class. Up until then the guitar had only been something I saw on television, or in the windows of music stores. Hearing the beautiful sounds those strings made when she strummed them, I thought “this must be what it sounds like in heaven“. I still remember the first song that music teacher played for us, all the way back in 1973. It was “Michael, Row The Boat Ashore”. I definitely can trace my love for, and my moderate ability to play the guitar to that very moment.
Like many families today, the 1970’s were not an easy time to raise a family. My parents had six children, and did not have an easy time raising their brood. They did not own their own home , so we moved around quite a bit. Not always to the best of neighborhoods, but we always had clean clothes and enough food to eat, so I can’t complain. Being the new kids at school all the time though,was tough. Many times the only tangible thing that stayed the same for me and my siblings was my mother’s old record collection that would go with us on each move. She seemed to have everything in her box of old 45s. We may not have had any friends at the new school, but The Beatles, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Beach Boys, Carl Perkins et al would be ready to entertain us and keep us company in unfamiliar surroundings, as soon as we unpacked the box.
I had just turned ten when our latest move took us across the bridge from Beverly to Salem. After five years we left the suburban ,single-family confines of our former town and moved into a tougher, more urban neighborhood of triple deckers, where sidewalks and asphalt took the place of lawns and woods . A lot of the kids at my new school came from families where school was not the primary focus at home. For most of these parents, much like my own, keeping the roof over their heads took priority over supervising homework. Many worked two or three jobs, and their kids were pretty much on their own when they weren’t in school. I had a paper route of my own soon after we moved in, and classmates I would often encounter on the street would make the completion of my route “interesting” to say the least.
We only lived there for three years and I have forgotten most of my teacher’s names . I do remember though, my music teacher, Miss McSorley. Unlike some of the other music teachers I had had up to that point in my young life, she played contemporary music. At school! I couldn’t believe it. Elvis.The Beatles. The Beach Boys. The Carpenters.It seemed as though she raided the record box at our house. She knew the power behind music, and was able to capture and hold the attention of thirty hungry, hyperactive and streetwise kids with the simple act of placing a needle on a piece of spinning vinyl. The class would start out as a rowdy, seemingly uncontrollable group, acting like a scene out of the movie “Lean On Me” , but seconds after that needle dropped we would all be singing our hearts out .
Throughout my life, through thick and thin, music has remained a constant in my life. It led me to learn the trumpet which I played from elementary to high school , including the marching band which allowed me travel to places I could not have seen at the time otherwise. I was able to travel across New England to Canada , performing and competing in competitions. As a teen I returned to my first musical love, the guitar, which soon led me to learn how to write songs, playing and recording in local rock bands with gigs from Boston to New York, as well as making lifelong friends. Now as a father, it is so gratifying to see my children developing their own love of music, standing at the threshold of music’s call. I am honored that music has enabled me to sing and play songs with the children of my church parish. Every time my son or daughter puts their fingers to the keyboard, or the children let it rip during our sometimes cacophonous sing-alongs in Sunday School , I really do hear the sounds of heaven.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
he rises long before dawn
just to face another day
a boxer’s caught in the ropes
punch drunk in his own way
Holy Jesus,
I don’t know how
he does this
the hot steam rises
from that same old broken cup
I remember how it burns his hand
as he hopes for some better luck
Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again
his road is so well traveled
he might as well drive it blind
the miles pass like the sunsets
in the mirror behind him
the years keep on rolling by
like so many falling leaves
dropping from the sky
that one day will be calling him back home
Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again
this ain’t no deperate prayer
I’m hoping he can say
no , its just a worn out legacy
til he passes away
just to face another day
a boxer’s caught in the ropes
punch drunk in his own way
Holy Jesus,
I don’t know how
he does this
the hot steam rises
from that same old broken cup
I remember how it burns his hand
as he hopes for some better luck
Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again
his road is so well traveled
he might as well drive it blind
the miles pass like the sunsets
in the mirror behind him
the years keep on rolling by
like so many falling leaves
dropping from the sky
that one day will be calling him back home
Holy Jesus I don’t know how he does this
over and over again
this ain’t no deperate prayer
I’m hoping he can say
no , its just a worn out legacy
til he passes away
Thursday, March 24, 2011
It's The Little Things
Today I had to have my first follow-up bloodwork taken to see how the thyroid meds I started taking in January are working. I braced myself for a couple hours lost from an otherwise productive day.
Since I am under the care of an endo doc at MGH I figured I would have to haul myself into downtown Boston to get tested. Dealing with the traffic, the tolls, the parking fees and the lost time from work. You know, fun stuff like that.
How pleased was I to find out that the satellite branch they have here in Waltham would do the test . Not only was it not more than a bit out of the way of my commute to work, but THERE WAS FREE PARKING!
I was in and out in about ten minutes, but I easily spent eight of those minutes wandering the unfamiliar halls looking for the office. Turned out that they are only listed on one of the first floor directories. Guess which one I checked?
Since I am under the care of an endo doc at MGH I figured I would have to haul myself into downtown Boston to get tested. Dealing with the traffic, the tolls, the parking fees and the lost time from work. You know, fun stuff like that.
How pleased was I to find out that the satellite branch they have here in Waltham would do the test . Not only was it not more than a bit out of the way of my commute to work, but THERE WAS FREE PARKING!
I was in and out in about ten minutes, but I easily spent eight of those minutes wandering the unfamiliar halls looking for the office. Turned out that they are only listed on one of the first floor directories. Guess which one I checked?
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