How NOT To Raise a Kid

I am a father. My son is quite a talented artist. Now 17 and a Junior in a magnet arts high school, his future is bright. His mom and I have done whatever we could to nurture and encourage this talent.

‘Encourage’ is the key word.

Last Sunday I went over to Winter Park Golf Club to play nine holes. I was on the first tee warming up when a father and son walked up to the tee and asked if they could join me. I said sure. The boy was 10 years old, dressed impeccably, sporting a fine set of fitted clubs, Nike golf bag and hat. Dad wasn’t playing. I hit my drive then stood to the side awaiting the kid’s shot. The dad started – “Now remember what the pro told you…” The boy hit his drive a little fat, about 100 yards. The father, “That was terrible. Hit another one.” The boy re-hit and it was a much better shot.

As we walked down the first fairway we made our introductions. John and John Jr. The dad was friendly towards me, but a drill sergeant towards his son. The boy missed the green with his approach shot – the dad remarked, “Is this what I am paying for lessons for?!? Jeez.”

This went on for the balance of the round. The boy walked along from shot to shot with the dad chirping in his ear. The boy never said a word – head down, determined. He didn’t look like he was having any kind of fun.

On the fourth hole the boy bladed a chip shot across the green. The dad berated him. I then followed suit with my chip shot, also blading it across the green – “Looks like my son is wearing off on you.” I demurred, saying oh no. It was a tough shot, and just because I was getting a little tired of the dad’s boorish behavior, added, “And so was his.” I was walking a fine line, as I never tell anyone how to raise their kid, because surely I would be offended if someone tried to tell me how to raise mine. But it was apparent this guy didn’t have any idea how tough this game is.

He also has no clue on how to raise a kid.

On the seventh tee, while the kid was hitting hit drive, I said to the dad, looks like he has had some lessons. The dad said oh hell yes. He’s been to the David Leadbetter academy, and is presently working with the pro at their home club. He also made it clear to me that this kid is his (the dad’s) ticket to scholarships and the easy life. He is living vicariously through his kid. It is sad. And it is wrong.

Walking down the last hole, I finally had a moment alone with the kid. I asked him, “So, are you going to play on the PGA Tour?” His reply, without hesitation, “Of course.”

Yeah, well if he doesn’t end up hating both the game and his dad before he’s 16.

Seeing my opening, I told him, “Hey, remember. It’s a game. You’re supposed to have fun.”

We putted out on the last hole, and in typical professional fashion, the boy came over to me, took his cap off, shook my hand and said, “It was a pleasure playing with you sir.” I lightly chuckled at the kid’s decorum beyond his years and said, “You too, John. Keep having fun” and shot a look at his dad. Heading to my car, I said to both of them, “Have a good evening” to which the dad replied, “Oh we aren’t done yet. We have more stuff to work on.” and marched the kid back to the first tee.

Legend has it that Tiger Woods’ dad was quite demanding on him. Earl Woods would try to mentally strengthen young Tiger by coughing in his backswing or challenging him all the time. Obviously, it worked. He developed one of the greatest players of all time. But I just cannot imagine Earl berating a young Tiger…especially in front of strangers. Tiger speaks very fondly of his dad, and that hug they had after he won the 1997 Masters seems to indicate Tiger appreciated what Earl did for him.

I am not picturing such fondness between John and John Jr.

As I mentioned at the start, my son Nick is a talented artist. I think he will go far with this talent. Now, I am far from an ideal father, but I cannot ever imagine looking at one of his drawings and saying something along the lines of ‘Jeez this is crap. That’s the best you can do? Get back to your easel.’

And that’s why Nick loves his dad.

And why John Jr. will end up hating his.

Advice to the Class of 2012

I remember many moons ago in the summer of 1981, fresh out of college, living in Houston, Texas. I graduated with my Bachelors degree in May and two months later I moved from northeast Ohio to Houston. To get a job. Northeast Ohio was going through a very hard and deep recession, and my guidance counselor had one word of advice: Leave. I was 22 years old, very full and very sure of myself. I was ready to unleash my awesomeness on the world.

So I went to Boomtown. I was there for maybe two weeks, when I read an article from Lynn Ashby, a columnist for The Houston Chronicle. Somewhere I still have it – it was titled, ‘To The Class of 1981: We Don’t Need You.’

Ouch.

That really pissed me off. Don’t need me? How DARE you! You obviously do not know who I am!

Yeah. They knew exactly who I was. Mr. Ashby’s point was, we are doing quite fine, thank you, and do not expect to wow us with your presence. Part of that was a Texas attitude thing as they were facing thousands of transplants (like me) invading their city with the idea that we were gonna show them how things were done. It was his reminder that they didn’t need saving, and certainly not from some 22-year old punk with a freshly minted Business degree from a state college in Ohio.

Now, Mr. Ashby stated his view rather inartfully, but there was an underlying truth to it. And it is a piece of advice that now, over thirty years later, I am ready to pass on to the next crop of college graduates. It is this:

We are doing quite fine, thank you.

That is not to say we don’t need you. We do. We need you to do the crap work we had to do when we had no real-world relevance. But that is just the way things are. We are not impressed with college degrees with the only relevant experience attached to it was as a lab assistant in your Psych 101 class. College is not real life. And many would say college does a poor job for preparation of real life. I agree. Because that’s not college’s job. Their job is to educate you, but you still have to learn how to wash whites separately, eat on $25 a week, and learn your place in the work arena.

And that place is the bottom of the totem pole. Where we once were.

Grads, there’s no shortcut. No secret handshake that, once learned, gets you a corner office and an executive assistant. You are not going to make six figures by your second year of gracing yourself with your presence. We may, if we like you and the job you do, decide to keep you around for awhile.

We need the comedic relief anyway.

You can also dispense with sucking up to the boss, because he (or she) is very ‘hep to that. Because we did that too. Want to impress the boss? Work until 8pm a few nights to beat a deadline by three days. Forego a Saturday afternoon of beer pong and log some desk time so you can have that proposal sitting on her desk when she comes in Monday morning. Ask coworkers if they need help on a project. Make yourself invaluable though hard work and being there. You will get noticed. Even when you think you’re not…because people are watching you. So make sure you’re being watched for the right reasons.

Don’t want to do that? Well, the world needs ditch diggers too.

Some will say that’s harsh. Yes it is. But that’s business, and business is harsh.

So just remember – we’ve been here a while and, more importantly, have been where you are (or about to be). But also remember this – It’s not personal. We like you. You remind us of what we once were. So realize that you do not possess anything we do not already have other than youthful hubris. You represent fresh blood, an (hopefully) open mind, and lots of energy ready to be exploited. That’s what you bring to the work arena.

But Lynn Ashby was right.

We don’t need you.

What I Like

So I have been writing a lot lately about music. Old music. 60’s and 70’s stuff. What’s good, what’s overrated, what should be avoided like I-4 at rush hour. That era represents my formative years when I was morphing from nerdy loner kid to geeky teenager to well, a nerdy loner geeky adult. So that era has an impact with me. I am also writing this with the sad realization that I only knew one of the bands nominated for best Rock Band at this year’s Grammys. Fortunately, it was the winner, Foo Fighters.

Therefore I am sure that some (certainly not many) may have concluded I am an old fogey that longs for the days when Foghat opened for Thin Lizzy at the Hollywood Sportatorium.

Not really. Cuz Foghat sucked.

But besides that. Some may believe that I think today’s music is a bunch of pubescent crap. Well, yeah. Some is. Case in point – I would be totally fine if Blink 182 broke up and never produced another whiny note. They’re the Foghat of the new millennium. Annoying. And it has now been twenty years since Grunge hit the scene, so that is also music of another generation. So I cannot say in good conscience that Alice In Chains is new music. I like the Chains, but they’re yesterday’s news.

So it’s time to get with the new century. There are a number of new bands (meaning, the last 10 years, so don’t give me that 2002 was a long time ago, mmmmkay?) that I really like. Their music has depth, meaning. And they can shake a coat of paint off the side of the house. So here are three ‘new’ bands that I totally dig, and thanks to their presence on the scene, will keep things fresh while still honoring where they came from -

Chevelle

Angst in a nutshell. Lead singer Pete Loeffler can lay down a whine but he’s not a pussy. He’s not looking for sympathy. He’s looking for a party. And the platform that his vocals are built upon is pure rock power chords –

Deep Purple could do that. Chevelle takes what the greats before them gave them and spiffs it up into a nice, new millennium mosh pit.

System Of A Down

Music for ADHD victims. Their songs are a panoply of, here we are…NO we’re now over here…FOOLED ya…we are now in left field intercourse. This is not music for the masses. Some of their stuff will leave you with a migraine, including this one –

You’re heading to the medicine cabinet looking for the Tylenol, aren’t ya. They scream, they have unintelligible passages, but unlike the Death Metal genre, they come back to a melody. C’mon now, you know you were swaying to the ‘Everybody’s gone to the party have a real good time’ part weren’t ya?

Sure you were.

The Raconteurs

Okay, this is for you, Dawn. But I like the Racs. I like any of the stuff Jack White is a part of. He’s got charisma and stage presence. And they have wonderfully crafted songs that are just a little off-kilter to keep you interested. That’s okay. Steady as she goes –

Now sure. I have other new bands I like as well. Case in point - The Strokes, Five Finger Death Punch, Puddle of Mudd to name a few. The sum total of these bands and their works has me feeling good about where 'new rock' is heading.

Just please. Don't ever resort to hair spray and spandex. One era of Cinderella was enough.

Guilty Pleasures

We all have them. And I got mine.

Now sure. Some of a more prurient nature that I won’t get into here, and please, keep yours to yourself too (unless I am part of them). But we all have those things we do that, deep down, we are not really proud of, as we feel if they were found out it would somehow lessen how people view us.

Well, I am getting too old to care about such fronts. I yam what I yam. And here are a few of my guilty pleasures that may make you view me differently. I’m ready for the fallout.

Cici’s Pizza

Being half Italian, I may get disowned for this. Some of my more distant ancestors would likely give me a Youngstown Tuneup over the revelation that I occasionally frequent a place where their ‘Italian food’ as about as Italian as French Fries are French.

Sue me.

I subscribe to the theory that pizza is like sex - when it's good it's very good, and when it's bad...it's still pretty good.

C’mon $5.99 for all the pizza, pasta, salad, breadsticks I can eat? So what if it’s pimply teenagers making the pies instead of Mario? And so what if it’s not authentic? It tastes pretty good and there’s plenty of it. Look, there’s a half zillion pizza joints in this town, and if I wanna go plunk down twenty bucks so some sweaty Vito makes me a triple meat authentic pie I can. And I do. But more often than not I cruise over to Cici’s for a nice thirty minutes of shoving as many types of kind of okay pizzas as I can into my mouth.

And the coup de grace with Cici's is two words:

Dessert pizza.

I rest my case.

 

Techno Music

This is definitely going to get me branded as a hypocrite, given the tomes of stories I have written about rock music, what bands rock and which ones are lame-o-matic. I have certainly set myself up for criticism as I have painted myself as a Rock Snob.

Well, I am. When it comes to rock I like to think I have high standards and a discernment over what has integrity/talent and what sucks canal water.

Fortunately Techno isn’t Rock. It’s my diversion from it. And yes, I know it is a manufactured sound, something concocted in a studio replete with over-dubs, drum tracks and synthesizers. Something that cannot be duplicated on stage, but only on a computer.

But I loves me some FatBoy Slim. And Crystal Method.

Sorry.

 

Celebrity Apprentice

Donald Trump is a major assbag. A tool of the highest degree. But for some reason I get a vicarious kick out of watching celebrities chuck each other under the tires in the boardroom, trying to permanently attach their lips to The Donald’s backside. I don’t give a damn about the first 90 minutes of the show, but I must tune in to see if Dionne Warwick or Gary Busey goes sideways. The last half hour is must-see trash TV.

Plus Ivanka is smoking hot.

 

Wal Mart Socks

Actually, lemme alter that. Wal Mart undergarments. No wait – stuff from Wal Mart.

Seems like whenever I go to Wal Mart I check out with a typical Wal Mart slate of purchases: Fruit of the Loom underwear, orange juice, motor oil, an Alumina-wallet, some crappy DVD from the three-dollar bin, plums, Q-tips.

And socks. I don’t know who George is, but he makes good socks. Three pair for 8 bucks. Unless they got the price slash thing going on, when I can score three pair for 6 bucks. I’m talking argyle, reinforced heel and toe, office attire sock that I gladly wear under my $300 suit for special work occasions, like preventing unemployment or sucking up to the boss.

If he only knew.

But then again, now he does.

Overrated

I guess I am obligated, based on recent stories; to address the category of most overrated rock bands. To recap, I exhorted on who I thought was the greatest rock band ever (The Who), which begat a story on the most underrated bands. Both of those stories were positive feel-goods, at least from my end, as I attempted to show why all the above were deserving of far more respect than they earned.

Now it’s time to flip the script.

Rock is littered with bands that achieved far beyond their talent. To be clear, I am not talking about one hit wonders here – those bands got their requisite fifteen minutes of fame then faded as they should have. Nothing overrated about the Starland Vocal Band or Bubble Puppy. They had their hit, had their time on the charts then went back to wherever they belonged…which was, not annoying us anymore.

No, I am talking about bands, some of them legendary, as the list will reveal, that in my mind fluked their way to fame. Bands that, if you dissect their work, even minimally, reveal a sham. Now, there is a common thread among the bands on this list, and that is excellent timing. Some appeared at the most opportune time and took advantage of a sentiment or a mood. Hey, cool. But do not ever confuse opportunity with talent. Cuz these bands, quite frankly, did not have much.

So here we go. I got my Hater Hat firmly planted on my head. And with a Ringo Starr (most overrated drummer) drum roll, I give you, first, the runners-up of Most Overrated Rock Bands in history:

Boston

This band roared onto the scene in the mid-70’s with a rich, deep, hard rock groove featuring double-lead guitars and the somewhat soulful voice of Brad Delp. They dominated FM radio airplay and their debut album went multi-zillion platinum. “I close my eyyyyyyes and I slip awayyyyyy….’ Then the double-leads kicked in. Infectious, soaring guitars.

Then we found out it was all manufactured in a studio. Tom Scholz was an MIT grad in Engineering who took basic guitar riffs and processed them through various electronic gadgetry, mixed it, mixed it again, then for good measure mixed it one more time before deciding it was a sound worth making money off of.

That first album had fans screaming for more. It took a couple of years for Sholz to 'manufacture' another album, Don’t Look Back, in 1978, that sounded, well, exactly like the first one. But since the debut was so good (supposedly), fans ate up the second one. They wanted more. It took eight years before they got Third Stage, which sounded, you guessed it, like the first two. The bloom was clearly off this rose. Three albums in twelve years were enough to show this wasn’t a band.

It was a science project.

The Sex Pistols

Here was a band that was the beneficiary of outrageously good timing. Coming out of Britain in 1977, they cashed in on a growing unrest among the masses due to a recession and a general distaste for the royalty over there. So they did a lot of heroin, screamed loudly, and hated everything. They didn’t do songs, they did primal rants. Zero musical value. Johnny Rotten (what an appropriate surname, even if it was concocted) couldn’t sing, Sid Vicious couldn’t play guitar, and the rest of the hacks were equally horrible.

“I-I-I am an Anarchist-ah!”

No, you suck. And it is an absolute travesty that they are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

KISS

Y’all knew this was coming, didn’t ya? I have never been a fan of KISS, but hey, at least take comfort in knowing there is a band that I think is even more overrated than them.

But first, my case for having them here:

To be fair, KISS is a great party band. They had some anthemic songs that to this day will get people out shaking their asses. And further, they put on one hell of a show. The KISS Army is a loyal, devoted bunch.

But musically, they’re kindergarteners. Know how most rock songs are three power chords? KISS couldn’t handle three, so they reduced it to two. Really, none of them are decent musicians, as witnessed by their laughable ‘Individual’ albums of the late 70’s. Okay Ace Frehley scored a semi-hit with New York Groove, but you would think that, with four albums consisting of a combined 40-plus songs…if they were any good, there would be at least a half dozen memorable tunes there, right?

There wasn’t. Because there’s very little talent. And they also had the annoying pretense of thinking they were better than they really were. Amazing what makeup and costumes can do, eh?

And Gene Simmons is the biggest douchebag on the planet.

And now…I give you the Most Overrated Band in Rock History:

The Grateful Dead

Oh my. I can already feel the backlash. The DEAD?!? How could you?

Here’s how.

First off, TWO drummers? WHY? Look, I have listened to the Dead’s music and I have divined nothing within it so intricate that it requires two percussionists. They basically play the same damn thing anyway. My guess is one of them was their dope connection so they felt obligated.

Their musical library. Quick – name a Dead hit. I’ll give you Touch of Grey and Casey Jones. Name another one. Okay, Truckin'. This band was around for forty-plus years and nobody can tell me what was so wondrously memorable about their songs. That’s probably because their legion of followers were as drug-addled as they were.

But the real reason is, they didn’t do songs. They did impromptu jams. And that’s the defense their fans give for their supposed greatness – it wasn’t about spitting out airplay hits, it was about their concert aura, how a Dead show was the most spiritually uplifting, five-hour tie-dyed party on the planet (I am still trying to figure out which planet they are referring to). So they just went wherever the feeling (and the dope) took them. And yes, I know, the Deadheads will say that’s what made them great, and why they followed the band on their tours. No two shows were the same – in Memphis they may do a 20-minute version of I Need a Miracle, and the next night in Nashville they may extend it to 30 minutes.

What-freakin-ever.

The thing is, even those extended, boring jams were lousy. They were of high-school garage band level talent-wise. What, Jerry Garcia dropped some killer blotter acid so he thought he was suddenly Jimi Hendrix? He wasn't. Bob Weir could sing, but when they went off-script, which they consistently did since they never had a script, it just sounded like a muddled mishmash of guys trying not to overdose while performing. Having been hatched in the San Francisco Summer of Love of 1967, they caught the imagination of the times and turned it into forty years of crappy musicianship. They were the epitome of the now-tired cliché - the more you drink, the better we sound.

So there you go. Four bands that each member of should wake up each morning thanking their lucky stars that they were able to get over on the rest of the world and make a fortune being lousy.

But knowing the Sex Pistols, they’re likely just to give us the finger.

What’s Your Sign?

Every now and then, when I am in the middle of a, say, work conversation on a technical matter, I will preface a statement with “Well, the Virgo in me wants to know…”

The reason I do this is, according to the day I was born, I am supposed to be cerebral, pragmatic and inquisitive. I am also supposed to be anal retentive, critical, and generally a pain to be around. I would make a good accountant but a lousy chef. I am able to balance budgets but cannot get more creative than adding two plus two. Virgos are meticulous perfectionists. Supposedly.

Guess I better straighten up around here then in case the Zodiac Police drop by.

Look, I don’t want to poo-poo astrology, but the, ahem, Virgo in me has a hard time believing that your personality is predicated on what day you were born on. And further, that every single person on the planet that was born between August 23 and September 22 has the same traits. And if you were to go with the Chinese zodiac, they go by years (Happy Year of the Dragon, y’all). So in their system everyone born in a specific year have the same traits. So everyone born this year, 2012, will be like this:

The key to the Dragon personality is that Dragons are the free spirits of the Zodiac. Conformation is a Dragon's curse. Rules and regulations are made for other people. Restrictions blow out the creative spark that is ready to flame into life. Dragons must be free and uninhibited. The Dragon is a beautiful creature, colorful and flamboyant. An extroverted bundle of energy, gifted and utterly irrepressible, everything Dragons do is on a grand scale - big ideas, ornate gestures, extreme ambitions. However, this behavior is natural and isn't meant for show. Because they are confident, fearless in the face of challenge, they are almost inevitably successful.

Sounds like we’re gonna have a glut of porn stars in about 20 years.

I was born in the Year of the Dog. So maybe if we mix the traits of a Virgo with the traits of the Dog, we can get a bit more specific. Yeah, that may work, since now we’re talking about September 1958, 1970, 1982 and 2004:

Dogs can be a bit overwhelming, due in part to their attentive natures. They can march in and take control of a situation, even when it doesn’t involve them directly. This can lead people to think Dogs are nosy or gossipy, but in reality, he just means well. Money and status don’t matter to the Dog. He is more concerned with the welfare of his family and friends and will do whatever it takes to help them out of a tight squeeze or a rough spot.

Hmmm….so the Virgo says I am critical…but the Dog says I am concerned for the welfare of others. Yeah, okay – I am concerned over your inability to know bullshit when you see it.

Did I mention that Virgos are also known for their sarcasm?

I don’t believe in this astrology stuff. But I have to admit that it is interesting, and I find many things I don’t believe in interesting. Like the Tea Party. But I digress. I readily admit that talking about personality traits tied to astrological signs is great party conversation. It even has a certain fascination, as we tend to assess our personalities against what the zodiac says they should be. Invariably we find similarities that could make one conclude hey, there may be something to this. I find this happens when they talk about the ‘positive’ traits of their sign, but as soon as the negative traits are listed, they tend to go Oh no. That’s not me.

So people get what they want out of it. Hey, I’m down. Whatever works. But please – to let it run your life or plan your day? "Oh I can’t take Aunt Harriett to the store today…my eighth moon in the fifth phase of the third house says I’m gonna wrap my Prius around a tree.”

That’s a bit obsessive. Sounds like you were born in September.

Further, the signs say whom we are supposedly compatible with. Hey, many people believe that their mate must have a compatible sign lest the marriage degenerate into a miniature hell on earth. In my case, being a Dog, I am supposed to avoid Dragons. So all you 12-year olds are safe out there. But you 24, 36 and 48-year olds, watch out. We are supposedly oil and water.

Dang. And there’s some hot 24-year olds I would like to get to know.

But alas, I can’t. Not because I am old enough to be your father (shut up), but because your Dragon will devour my Dog. Which actually sounds kinda hot.

But I digress again.

Anyway, if you want to believe in this stuff, who am I to say you shouldn’t. It’s my nature to be skeptical. After all, according to the stars I am a vain, cold, unemotional automaton who falls asleep while making love. Virgos are supposed to make good bus drivers or pimps.

So don’t get on my bad side.

Year of the Buzzard

I see that, according to the Chinese New Year, this is the year of the Dragon. Nice. And, of course, just like the traditional zodiac, everyone who is born this year will all have the exact same personality traits.

But that’s now what I want to talk about.

I was driving down I-4 this morning listening to the only FM station that plays rock in this town, and my mind drifted back to when I was coming of age in northeast Ohio in the late 1970s. Yep, I started doing a ‘back in my day’ rant in my head, and the crux if it was how little of ‘my’ music is on the radio these days.

Getting older? Sure. But nowadays it is more about ipods and playlists and downloads and Pandora and satellite radio that customizes each person’s songs to their personal liking. Hey, technology is a wonderful thing. Digitized music shrunk down to a device the size of a credit card that can store thousands of songs. Slip it in your shirt pocket, plug in the Skullcandy and you’re good to go. Consequently, traditional FM just ain’t what it used to be. It has become the poor-man’s playlist.

This was not the case in 1978.

Back then, FM radio was the shit.

Not only because of the music (which was a huge part of it) but because that was our only true vehicle for song delivery. Oh sure, we had eight-track tapes, but any good upstanding red blooded slacker-in-training in northeast Ohio listened to one station, and one station only - WMMS 100.7. The Buzzard. The station said those call letters stood for 'Where Music Means Something'. We always said it meant 'Weed Makes Me Smile'.

The 'Buzzard' moniker predated a lot of markets that imitated WMMS by calling their station ‘The Ape of Cincinnati’ or ‘The Wolf of Kansas City’ or whatever. The Buzzard was it. They won Rolling Stone’s FM Radio of the Year award nine years straight, and for many of us late-teens with raging hormones in the greater Cleveland area, it was our mantra. The Buzzard told us what to do. Whether it was Jeff & Flash on the morning drive, Denny Sanders mid-days, Kid Leo on evening drive or the BLF Bash late nights, they summoned, we obeyed.

Kid Leo signed off at 6pm, but on Friday nights he would end a bit earlier, so that we could be treated to Murray Saul telling us that we "GOTTA GOTTA GOTTA GOTTTAGGOTTAGOTTAGOTTA GET DOWWWWN DAMMIT!" which seque'd into the same three songs - Friday on My Mind, Cleveland Rocks, and Born to Run.

BLF Bash would play Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain (the full 20-minute version) every Saturday night at midnight while he likely banged some hot groupie in the studio…or so we imagined.

WMMS was our Facebook. It was our social network that told us where to be, who to be with, and what events that were not to be missed. In 1978, to celebrate their tenth anniversary on the air, the held a free - FREE - concert featuring none other than Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band. For the months preceding it, they copiously gave away free tickets to this show, held at the Cleveland Agora, and each time they announced that the twentieth caller would win I would dial (rotary-dial phone) like mad to score those tickets. Alas, I couldn’t. But that was okay, because they broadcasted it live.

I attended college in the mornings and worked at a grocery store in the afternoons. I was in the Produce department where most of my time was spent trimming heads of lettuce, wrapping packages of plums and smoking weed out back…or in the cooler. Being out of the customer area of the store provided me the opportunity to jam out to WMMS, every day, from 3pm to 9pm. Then I would get in my 1978 Camaro Z-28, pick up a 12-pack of Genesee Cream Ale, and me and my cohorts would do whatever criminal misdemeanors we had planned that night…while listening to WMMS. It was a time of relative innocence and freedom - of That One Summer where everything was shimmeringly bright - we were old enough to get down, but young enough not to have mortgages, babies or bills.

WMMS always had the first announcement of any concert dates, and I can recall one in particular - Led Zeppelin. Their 1980 tour. WMMS announced the tour dates at the Richfield Coliseum (which has since been torn down) and how to get tickets. Due to the expected onslaught of demand for such a high-profile show, they had a special arrangement that required getting a money order and mailing it in. The day they gave out the instructions I ran down to the post office to get that money order. Yes, back in those days that’s where you got money orders. The instructions were very explicit - tickets were $30 apiece (Thirty bucks!) plus a $1.50 handling charge, so $31.50 each. I drove like a bat out of hell (Meat Loaf) to the post office ready to hand them $63.00 for my money order then straight to the mailbox.

Standing in front of me was this very cute blonde who was trying to explain to the middle-aged teller what she was trying to do - ‘Uh, they told me I have to, uh, get a $30 plus a dollar fifty, I think, money order for…’

I jumped in. I said “She's going to see Zeppelin! She heard it on WMMS! She needs a $31.50 money order! And a $63 money order for me! ZEPPELIN!!!! WOOO HOOOO!!!!”

Yeah, I tapped that.

Sadly, that tour got cancelled when John Bonhan, Zeppelin’s drummer, died of asphyxiation. He drowned in his own vomit after binge drinking. So I never got the tickets.

Looking back, that event was the beginning of the end for WMMS, and for that phase of my life. Less than a year later, I graduated from Kent State and moved away from the Cleveland area. I became an adult.

Now it's over 30 years later. I'm a middle-aged, responsible father with a mortgage and a mundane job. As I drive down I-4 towards downtown Orlando heading to work, I have WJRR blasting through the box. And I hear that Red Hot Chili Peppers are coming to the Amway Center, tickets going on sale next week.

And I think, I hope Anthony Kiedes doesn’t overdose before the show.

Most Underrated in Rock

Earlier this month I wrote a story on who I thought was the greatest band ever. The Who. Kind of surprisingly, a number of people agreed with me. I was waiting for the Led Zep legion to come out and hang me. Seems the consensus, based on my extremely small focus group of 12 followers, is that not only are The Who the best ever, but that Who’s Next was one of, if not the, greatest rock albums of all time.

Well, that’s a subject of another debate. This time I want to delve into the topic of most underrated band. The only one ground rule I had in this highly subjective competition was, it had to be someone people have heard of, so you can’t say ‘My cousin’s kick-ass garage band.’ These have to be bands that people would at least say, oh yeah…I remember them.

With that kick-off, I give you the three bands that I think truly never got the recognition they deserved. First, some Honorable Mentions:

The Spin Doctors - Awesome debut album with a quirky fun pop sound, then pfffft. What the heck happened?
Montrose - You're Rock Candy Baby...you're hot sweet and sticky. Sammy Hagar's first band.
Chicago - Never inducted in the R&R HOF, which is a glaring oversight
Midnight Oil - Most relevant Australian Band (Sorry AC/DC)
Cake - Best band you've probably never heard of

Now, I give you the three runners-up, in no particular order:

The Kinks

Okay. Everyone has heard of The Kinks. Many would even go so far as to say, “UNDERRATED? Cmon Jer…they got their due.”

I respectfully disagree.

Sure, they had longevity. Sure, they had hits – Lola, Sunday Afternoon, Come Dancing, Superman, and they even get re-relevantized every holiday season with Father Christmas (give us your money…we got no time for your silly toys…).

But my rationale for including them in this ‘Most Underrated’ category is, they gave us the best guitar riff in rock. And like most memorable rock riffs, it was simple and powerful. Five notes –

Da DADA Duh Da…Da DADA Duh Da…

Girl, you really got me now. You got me so I don’t know what I’m doing.

I just gave you an earworm and you’re tapping your feet now aren’t ya?

I rest my case.

Thin Lizzy

Trust me, this band was a lot more than 'The Boys Are Back In Town'. Led by one of the most charismatic frontmen in rock, a black-Irishman, Phil Lynott, this band had attitude. And they delivered that attitude with a tight, clean sound that had you simultaneously dancing your ass off and sticking your middle finger in the air in rebellion. Their songs were also the works of professionals of their respective crafts, that, when melded together, told wonderful tales of life in the streets, mysticism...and cowboys. 

Yes, cowboys. This is my favorite TL tune -

Sadly, their career was short-lived thus never getting the true accolades they deserved. But for a period of time, from 1975 through 1980, nobody was better. And Phil was taken from us too soon, dying in 1986 at the age of 36.

 

 

Humble Pie

Wow. What a band. They were a power punch to the solar plexus courtesy of a driving blues beat punctuated by the one-of-a-kind voice of Steve Marriott. Steve was absolutely amazing. There was no voice like his – a soaring, snarling, soulful much-larger-than-his-body where-in the hell-did-that-come-from sound of absolute joy. Nobody put more of himself or herself into a song than Steve did. Thirty Days In the Hole, Stone Cold Fever. And, of course, he didn’t need no doctor –

But it wasn’t just Steve. That band also featured a guitarist that went on the have a decent career. Guy by the name of Peter Frampton.

But the winner of The Most Underrated Band in Rock History Is…

The Dave Clark Five

The DC5 was part of the British Invasion of the mid-1960’s (that coincidentally also brought us The Who and The Kinks). From 1964 through 1968 they traded top of the chart hits with The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, churning out hit after hit – Glad All Over, Catch Us If You Can, Because, Do You Love Me, Bits And Pieces…to name just a few.

They captured the tone of that era perfectly – that mid-60’s pop sound. They were The Beatles with more ‘party’ to them – they were innovative, being the first rock band to have a saxophone player. And if you were having a party, they were the band you wanted in the house. They also introduced the concept of ‘over-modulation’ to producing, later mimicked by Phil Spector and his Wall Of Sound. That sort of almost too-loud, make the speakers shake distortion that had you reaching to turn down the volume, making you think that it’s your phonograph player with it’s crappy speakers doing the deed.

Nope, that was just the DC5 doing their thing. And doing it very well. 

What also made the DC5 beautiful was their simple message - let's have fun. There were no social statements to their music, no hidden lyrics that could only be discerned by playing the song backwards, no hidden agendas. They didn't try to make us think - they wanted us happy. Their message was this: We are gonna have a party, and we are gonna make sure every ass is shaking on the dance floor. Joy. Pure joy. Certainly what we needed as a country in the wake of the Kennedy assassination and the deepening of the Vietnam War. The world was bleak and sorrow filled the air...until the DC5 re-injected some much-needed and cathartic joy.

Their career was rather short-lived, as the psychedelic sound of the late-60’s made most people turn away from that pop sound of a few years earlier. Sadly for DC5, they weren’t some bubblegum band that should have been discarded. They were legendary, and those songs still hold up. If you disagree, give a looksee at the following, or as Dave said, WATCH ME NOW!” -

Tell me you aren’t gonna play that song at your next frat party.

They were (finally) inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2008, about twenty years too late, which, in my opinion, cemented their status as most underrated. It took the world far too long to catch on. Tell 'em Tom -

Better late than never, for the most underrated band in rock history.

Pop Tarts and Hurricanes

I bought a house in 2003, in the nice Florida town of Port St. Lucie. A modest 3/2/2, 1600 square foot slice of suburbia. It was built from scratch and I moved in on December 17, 2003.

Nine months later, in September 2004, I was directly hit by two hurricanes. Frances and Jeanne.

Bitches.

I had never been through a hurricane before, and then – double wham – Frances, a Cat 2, hits on September 4, and exactly three weeks later, Jeanne, a Cat 3 followed the identical path. The eyes of both passed right over my nine-month-old house, as I stayed inside scared out of my wits armed with candles and a loaded shotgun. See, I had heard that after Hurricane Andrew hit Miami in 1992, that there was widespread looting. Well by God, nobody was gonna loot my house!

There was the first lesson. Nobody robs houses during a hurricane, dumbass. They do it afterwards, when the power’s out and the police are busy with other things…and if you live in Miami.

So the loaded shotgun was kinda unnecessary.

The days following the hurricanes were really crazy. You don’t realize how much you depend on electricity until you don’t have it. And I’m not talking about the obvious stuff like for air conditioning or cooking food. It affects everything. For example, gas stations. After the hurricanes passed, gas stations had plenty of fuel in their underground tanks, but you couldn’t get it…because it takes electricity to pump the gas into your car. Street signals don’t work, so each intersection was like a miniature demolition derby where playing chicken was the norm. The radio said to ‘treat each intersection like a four-way stop’ – yeah okay. Tell Earnhart Junior that as he tears through it at 60mph.

Life gets very boring without electricity. No television, no internet. You better have good batteries in your radio because that’s your only connection to the outside world. Which in retrospect, was not that big a deal, since all you are going to hear are 24/7 reports about intersections without working signals.

It is amazing how quickly our mightly country degenerates when there's no electricity. You kind of get glimpses of what Haiti must be like during these times. As we got to our third and fourth day of no power, people started getting desperate. And pretty ripe, from four days of no bathing (which is, by the way, why you are supposed to fill your bathroom tub with water prior to the hurricane coming). Reports of FPL repair trucks, and rumors of where they are restoring power, become the dominant conversation. Hand-made signs at intersections, directing the power trucks to specific locales with the promise of lemonade, food...or other basics needs (use your imagination) were constructed. "FPL...WE ARE ON ELM STREET...FREE BUDWEISERS!" You know how in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, women flash for beads? They were flashing for electricity after the hurricanes here.

Which brings up another phenomena that occurred in the wake of the storms. The electric dance. Not to be confused with the electric slide. Or the atomic dog. No, this was a spontaneous celebration of individuals when the power finally came back on. In my instance, it was a late afternoon as I was lying in my recliner with all the windows open, trying to get my house down to a comfortable 87 degrees. It was Day Five after Frances. I had my eyes closed, trying to force another break from harsh reality, when suddenly, I heard a 'whirr...POP' sound outside. Then there was a flicker of my lights...then off...then...ON! My cable box fired up, my a/c kicked on and my fridge started humming. Power! Overcome with relief, I took to the streets - "WE HAVE POWER!!! POWER I SAY!!! MWAAAAAHHHH HAHAHAHA.....!!!!" And proceeded to do a dance that confirmed my permanent whiteness:

The Electric Dance.

Eating obviously becomes a challenge. To this end, you are advised to stock up on non-perishable foods. MREs – Meals Ready To Eat – were distributed. And that’s another lesson learned. If you see a line of people anywhere, stand in it. Because it meant they were giving out something – ice, bottled water, new fenders…whatever. Get in that line.

You got nothing better to do anyway.

But back to food. Here in Florida, they advise residents to have a ‘hurricane kit’ at the ready, stocked with batteries, first aid kit…and non-perishable food items. I had one. It was stocked with Pringles potato chips, Planters nuts, and pop tarts.

Pop tarts. I had never in my life ever eaten a raw pop tart. They have to be heated in the toaster don’t you know – gotta kill all those preservatives. Well let me tell you – I ate so many GodDAMN unheated pop tarts in those days after Frances and Jeanne that whenever I see them now in the grocery store my mind immediately flashes back to those days after those hurricanes. I cannot even stomach to look at them, much less consume them. Even heated.

The plus side of the Hurricane Season From Hell of 2004 experience was my neighborhood grew closer. My next-door neighbors fired up their charcoal grill and cooked up food for everyone. And everyone brought their meats from their without-electricity refrigerators to cook up before they spoiled. We had a grand time.

But eventually thing got back to normal. Power was restored, and we got back to our lives.

Then Hurricane Wilma hit in 2005.

And I didn’t eat a single damn pop tart.

The Kids Are All Right

I was just sitting here thinking about my largest source of pride. My son Nick. He is a great kid. Does well in school, is polite, never embarrasses himself or me.

Which got me thinking – is he a typical teenager?

I mean, I am, of course, biased. I’m his dad for crying out loud, and if he weren’t a good kid I would likely still insist he was. But he truly is a good kid. He lives with his mom, and as such I do not have daily contact with him, so I don’t know if he’s sneeking behind the water tower at school and copping a few puffs or bullying the neighborhood kids. So I ask his mom if he’s getting in any kind of trouble. Her reply: ‘Oh heavens no.’ If anything, Nick keeps to himself too much and should socialize more. But as far as warning flags as he morphs into an adult, they’re not there. Not yet, at least.

And to find out what a ‘typical teenager’ is I ask my friends and co-workers about their kids. Time and again, I hear few problems. Oh sure, there are cases of recalcitrance or worse, but it seems like the next generation is, by and large, doing okay.

Whew.

Rewind back to when I was a teenager. Rebellion was the buzzword. What we did was defined very easily – whatever pissed off our parents. Back then the social construct heavily touted was the Generation Gap – the gulf of values and beliefs that existed between our parents and us. And honestly, looking back on those days, I feel ashamed. My dad was a World War II veteran who worked two jobs to put a roof over our heads and food in our snarky, disrespectful stomachs. My mom also worked, and she thanklessly and selflessly gave of herself for me and my three siblings’ betterment. And their reward was attitude from all four of us. Or worse.

Good thing abortion was illegal back in the 50’s.

There were monumental gulfs on politics, music, damn near everything between my parent’s generation and ours. Rock and roll was here to stay, and Frank Sinatra was an old fogey. We questioned political leaders while our parents respectfully obeyed them. We protested, they conformed. We opened our mouths, they kept theirs closed. We were considered disrespectful anarchists, to be shoved into a corner and a lid placed on.

So okay. Back to today. Now we are the parents. Ohh boy. Payback time, right?

Doesn’t appear so.

My son loves classic rock, the same music I grew up with. He disagrees with me on some things, but agrees on many. And the ones he does disagree with me on, we can have a discussion about with total mutual respect and without shouting or slammed doors. I honestly cannot tell you the last time I had to raise my voice to him. And he interacts with other adults in a respectful manner. Further, his peers seem to be the same way…if how they interact with me on Facebook is any indication. Gawd, this was nothing like how my dad and I interacted when I was 17.

So does this mean we’re producing a bunch of clones? No. What I think it means is we have raised a generation of kids that ‘get it’ insofar as what we have tried to impart on them. They are free-thinkers, but they seem to, more or less, embrace the same values we did. There’s no perceived Generation Gap, at least as far as I can see.

What does this mean for our future? Not ours, in terms of our generation, but in terms of how the next generation will deal with the world. Well, I think it means they will be cooperative, collaborative, and a bit cynical.

Just like we were with everyone.

Except our parents.

What’s Your Zen?

The world is crazy. Daily grinds can, well, grind you down. We all need an escape, an oasis where we can shut out the madness and calm our minds. Something that is positive, calming, rejuvenating.

So jumping out of airplanes doesn’t count.

I’m not talking about what we do for a rush or for excitement, but rather, what we do to just get away without burning vacation days or spending a couple thou on a cruise. So you can’t say ‘I hop a plane to Bali.’ No you don’t. Hopefully you have a regular activity that’s easy to access. I have one.

I hit chip shots.

I know. I live life on the edge. What can I say.

But that’s my point. This doesn’t have to be some kind of elaborate or costly thing. It just has to be your personal little getaway place. Well, mine is Saturday and Sunday mornings for about an hour or so at Casselberry Golf Club’s practice green where I put on my earphones, throw the iTunes on shuffle, dump my bag of shag balls, and zone in. Two bags of shots, 100 balls each. First bag is usually nice high flop pitches and the second are low running shots.

The world stops. And that’s the key to this activity. I think of nothing other than soft hands through impact, back of right hand to target, and keep the blade square. There are no thoughts of what bills to pay or how I want to throttle the Finance Director at work. Just club on ball, trying to make those shots land softly and roll out to the little flag on the green.

And I sing whatever is playing in my ears. This morning, the playlist featured the following:

So Watcha Want, Beastie Boys

What I Really Want, Alanis Morrisette

Weapon Of Choice, Fatboy Slim

Stormy Monday, Allman Brothers

End Of The World Party, Medeski, Martin & Wood

All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crowe

Everything Is Broken, Bob Dylan

Backwater, Meat Puppets

Caress Me Down, Sublime

And yes, at times I get looks from other players as I sing ‘Mucho gusto me llamo Bradley-ah…I’m hornier than Ron Jeremy-ah…’

Like I care. It’s my own little impenetrable bubble.

I believe this is the key to sanity. Like that line about ‘dance like nobody’s watching’…? That’s how I practice. It is just me out there.

I now do yoga, which ranks second on the list of zen activities, but I am still learning how to do that, so I’m not at the ‘just let it flow’ level, as I am still trying not to vomit during downward dog. But I’ll get there.

So for now it’s me and my balls.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

The Genesis of Dweebness

How does one become a geek? Is one born that way? Or is it more of a learned habit, of finding activities that one enjoys only to realize that they are judged as being the domain of societal misfits?

The answer, is, yes.

See, coolness is learned. But I believe we are all born geeks. I mean, how does a newborn know what cool is? They obviously don’t. What – did 3-month-old Fonzie shun his teddy bear diaper for a black leather one? No. The Fonz was in the same clueless pool of unknowing formula-suckers as the rest of us.

But somewhere along the way, the cool kids got something. Not a memo, but they just somehow became attuned to what others perceived as cool, and emulated it. God bless these perceptive people, as I was too busy wrapping my toy soldiers with paper from my mom’s adding machine as she cranked out numbers as an accountant. While The Fonz was out practicing how to impart a nuclear wedgie to the local sap geek, I was hiding from him – under my mom’s kitchen table, giving my plastic army men an armor coating of paper. Fonz was coolness in training. I was oblivious of what the world thought of, well, anything.

So we learn one thing that geeks have in common. Loneliness. Or more accurately, contentment in being alone. That was me. I was not a social kid. The majority of fun I had as a kid was in activities concocted in my mind, and executed without the assist of anyone. As a result, I was creative and kind of smart. And alone.

Cool kids are neither creative nor kind of smart. Or alone.

What cool kids are, is popular. That requires social contact. They thrive in social settings. My brother was very cool. So was my sister. Not surprisingly, they had – and still do have – lots of friends. They have PhD’s in popularity. They have always had an innate sense of what to say in a particular situation and it always came out…cool. They got the laughs. So did I, but never intentionally. Cool kids get people to laugh with them. Geeks get laughed at. Which just makes us wrap our plastic toy soldiers with more adding machine tape.

See, those toy soldiers don’t laugh back.

This sounds like a sad tale, and it is not necessarily so. It is just a matter of Darwinian selection. Everyone can’t be cool. If everyone were, then nothing would be cool. Cool is a special, ubiquitous quality that certain people just get. And Lord, there were many times I wished I could get splashed with what my siblings had, like a Holy Water of Coolness. I wanted to be able to saunter up to cute girls like I saw my brother do countless times, drop a couple of syllables, and have them walk off with me like they did with him. When I would try that, I would stand there slack-jawed, my brain erased of any thought, and oftentimes I would just drool or blurt out some kind of inane, insane comment about how nice the weather was…when it was ten below zero out. Consequently, the girl would laugh at me, then turn and walk away…and pass along to her friends that I was mentally retarded.

I didn’t have the gift. The Cool Gods didn’t lay their hands on me. And I never learned it under the kitchen table with all those toy soldiers and all that adding machine tape.

Dweebs are over-achievers. Cool kids are usually under-achievers. This stands to reason, since the cool kids got the respect just by being in that groove they were in – there was no motivation to achieve when the world was already eating out of their hand. This helps to explain, at least in my own case, why I got two college degrees and bristle at any perceived hint of rejection. Us dweebs try to construct a coat of respect, since we can never be just accepted…or so we think. Those formative years of being chased after school, de-pants'd in the playground, and being given held-down wet willies have permanently etched scars in our psyche.

Cool kids don’t have to go to therapy. They are very happy in a world that revels in their appearance. Geeks keep psychiatrists in business. Don’t believe me? How much you wanna bet that Freud was writing in his tablet, as the poor sap was on the couch, “Major four-alarm GEEK’…?

Okay, maybe not.

Because that’s another construct of geeks. The combination of isolation, societal awkwardness and too smart for our own good equates to major neuroses. We don’t see the world as it is, but rather, as the dangers to our fragile psyches that it can be. As I mentioned, we do not feel accepted…even when we really are. If a girlfriend says something like ‘I’m going to run to the store for some milk’ we hear, ‘She’s leaving me for good.’ We are a handful for anyone close to us. We feel misunderstood. We need constant reassurance that we are good enough. The vicious cycle in completed when the girlfriend leaves and we are left alone, clueless as to why she thought suggesting the Marvel Comics convention as a Saturday night activity was a bad idea.

Oh well. This is my lot. We are all – or most of us – constructs of our formative years. For many it takes a lifetime to overcome these experiences, if ever at all. In my case it is a constant cycle of gaffes and inner searches for why I do and act like I do. Why do I over-exert? Why do I try to be right? Why do I think someone will be impressed that I know the last 50 U.S. Open golf champions, when what is actually happening is they just want me to shut up?

Move over, I need a seat on Freud’s couch.

I have some experience in 12-step recovery programs. Want to find out where all the adult geeks are? They are at these meetings. One thing I have learned from my time in these gatherings is, we all share a common trait – we did not feel accepted; we felt like we never fit in.

Bingo.

Note that I didn’t say we didn’t fit in – I said we felt like we didn’t fit in. Chances are pretty good we were fitting in quite nicely, and that we were being accepted just perfectly. But we just could not believe it. You were all lying. I know you think I’m a societal leper. I want to get away from this. I want to get away from you. I want to go crawl into…a bottle of tequila.

Because tequila doesn’t laugh at you either.

And tequila also had the added benefit of…making me cool! Two shots and I was funny. Three and I am charming. Unfortunately, after the fifth I was vomiting. So there was a small window of opportunity for me to feel comfortable with you before I was doing technicolor yawns in the Men’s room. It was a delicate dance, and one that I could never seem to do correctly. But, it was in these recovery meetings that I found kindred spirits. People that felt just like I did. And acted out just like I did. And most importantly, showed me how to overcome these feeling of inadequacy and live a contented, serene life.

And I can also tell you this – I never heard anyone in these meetings say ‘I was the popular kid.’