Middletown Dreams

The most beloved car I ever owned was a 1971 bay window V.W. bus. Converted into a band/surf ride by my brother Chris, it was the ultimate car for a kid that surfed and played drums. I could fit my kit, part of the light show, and a 2x6 mattress to snooze on. I used to make runs to Melbourne to get Spectrum and M.T.B. surfboards, for the surf shop I worked for. I once put forty five neon airbrushed thrusters in that thing. Shag carpet, a Pioneer head unit, amp in the glove box, 110 watt 6x9's in the back, and 30 mpg. Gas was just over a buck a gallon and I was twenty. What more could a guy need? I would get on the road for a board run, and pretend that I was heading out solo and never coming back. I was being strangled by my home town. I just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere with a music scene, and people that didn't know my life story.

The band I was in was reaching it's zenith and even though we were big fish in the bowl, I wanted more. We had just recorded a few songs at a studio in Stuart and I finally felt like I was getting somewhere as a song writer. One song called "Small Town Boy" outlined my dreams of escape. The guitar player (ever the paranoid prick) confronted me about the lyrical content and my plans for the future. Shrugging him off, I replied that there was going to be surf the next day, and beyond that I was planless.

My best friend was at school in Gainesville and I was a community college drop out. One epic three week swell and the return of my older brother ended my collegiate career. I surfed my way to a few F's and lost my music scholarship. My brother shipped out of town to Tallahassee and F.S.U.. I was friendless, brotherless and I hated my band. One night in a fit of melancholy, I threw some stuff in a bag, loaded my drums, drove to the turnpike with forty bucks and a gut full of discontent. I got all the way to the on ramp, but I couldn't pull the trigger. Rush's newest tape was spinning in the deck, but even they could not motivate me out of the nest. I lost it, as my bus idled in an uneven murmur. It was the private kind of emotional upwelling best performed without witnesses. Frantic and unfettered, both pathetic and metamorphic, all in one regurgitation. I hobbled home in defeat and got to work late the next morning. I was uncharacteristically quiet and my boss picked up on my vibe, leaving the shop for me to handle alone. It was a grey January day, with blown out waves and cold north winds. Three customers came in and the phone rang twice. The previous nights exercise was a failure in my eyes but I planted the seed that day that lead to my final curtain call in July of 87'. The dress rehearsals, the walks to the edge of the diving boards, staring at the clouds, are all fuel for the things that mold our lives.

Here's to big talk, big dreams, and leaving the comfort zone. Jump. I dare you.

W.B.Z.N.

The Pretender

You have to come to grips with the fact that the cost of doing business on this planet, leaves a destructive wake. Every pursuit noble or otherwise leaves (for lack of a better Eco cliche) a foot print. I am very saddened by my inability to recycle the wood from my half pipe. It was another in a long line of great ideas that ended up (literally) in a pile by the curb. I hate the fact that it will likely cost more to truck this to the landfill in Jackson county, than it did to purchase it in the first place. All dreams big and small have a price tag hanging.



Wreckage comes in many forms, but in my experience the most explosive results come from the ones that start out with good intentions (now there's a great slogan for a greeting card, kitty poster, or bumper sticker). My wife asked if I was riding and suggested she tag along. I thought this would be a great opportunity, to give riding as a couple, another try. I had previously traumatized her and the elder son years before and just assumed that bridge had been burned. We cruised down the Greenway and I was mindful not to go what I considered, to be to far. At the base of the hill we drank water and chatted. She looked nervously at the climb and I assured her we would be fine. Some disharmony occurred when I was talking her through shifting to the little ring and I reached out to push the shifter, you know, to help, totally forgetting she was a novice rider. I pushed her bars set her off balance and down she went. To her credit, she wasn't mad and never showed any animosity toward her assailant. Despite all the havoc of getting her vertical, tearing the chain back into place and her tender pivot points, she really does ride well. If she ever developed the inclination (perhaps with her next, well adjusted husband) she could be a great rider.

We made it back to the car, with a little struggle, up the hills. I tried to give her a push and nearly crashed her a second time, you know, trying to help. All was fine, and I bought her a slushy (which always works with the boys after a tough ride) and got her home. No matter what happens in the future, and I hate to break the day down to the lowest common denominator, she looks great wrapped in Lycra. I will try to focus on that, when I am pining away in the home for old, divorced, cyclists.

I had a banner week. I rode five days. I feel like a cyclist again. A cyclist that has to do physical therapy exercises eight times a day, but a cyclist none the less. Even and unfortunate run in with a truck load of drunks, a call to the police, and the inevitable anger fallout such encounters produce, could not dampen my first real week back in the saddle.

To cap the whole week off, Zak and I rode picture perfect, A+ conditions at Munson. We talked about his trip out west, his future in college, his engineering aspirations, and I basked in the light of his optimism. Any sport that can allow a twenty year old and a forty six year old to hang out, has to be good for the soul......but that doesn't mean there won't be a pile of wreckage once in a while.

W.B.Z.N.

Frankenstein

This dude......

Put this stuff, on this bike..........

And made this Wrecking Ball happy!

Thanks Worm, thanks crew. Man, I never (no bullshit) thought I would ride a road bike again. The fact that the bike makes juniors nervous and veterans double take, is a total bonus. I've never had so much room on a sprint! Embrace the weirdness that comes your way.

W.B.Z.N.

Home At Last

When I quit playing music professionally in 2001, cycling filled the void. It was my methadone. It cured the itch and took the edge off the jones. Sure I sat in on a sound check or two, but really those were just little spins round the block. It was nothing like the miles I used to put in when I was a four hour a night, five nights a week, fifty weeks a year, journeyman.

The similarities between being a drummer and a cyclist are numerous. You actually have to work out, and get in shape, to be good. All four limbs work equally and its is really hard work (if you do it right). Having stamina is just as important as being musical in the rock world.

As you well know, I have been deprived of my once obsessive cycling schedule. It is a great little coinkydink that I got a few gigs during this dark era. You know doors opening when others are closing, and all that Hallmark hullabaloo. I stunk up the first gig because I wasn't ready and I didn't have time to practice. It was the equivalent of watching the gap increase and your mates disappear over the horizon. There is nothing worse than seeing a bands disappointment when you miss a fill or fumble through a tune because you don't know the correct groove. My lack of riding opened a ton of space on my calender and I went to the woodshed. I shook off the cobwebs and got back to basics. I put in the hours, I learned the tunes, and the payoff was a great gig the likes of which I hadn't had in years. Man it felt good, and in the interim something wonderful happened. My stress went down, and my neck improved. I have been able to do some honest rides as of late.

I hope this all comes off as thankful and not boisterous. I am as perplexed as anyone by my necks diva like behavior, and I was surprised I was able to regain a little swagger behind the kit. I am hoping to serve both mistresses with equal vigor, but I know I am floating on a bubble. For now I am on my third day in a row of riding and I can watch T.V. while playing a "Purdie Shuffle". Maybe I am the headless dancing chicken, maybe I am Fred Astaire, we'll all have to stay and see how this episode ends.

W.B.Z.N.

A Change Is Gonna Come

I rode a bicycle yesterday. After a serious "give it to me straight " talk with my neck saw bones. After being released by my physical therapist, after living in a cold dark place, I have a new plan. I am going to ride until it hurts too much. Then I am going to rest, and repeat step "A". That's all an Irish American Brother can do. I can't make my neck stop degenerating. I can't turn back the clock to when everything was wonderful, and my neck is as good now as it will ever be. So I will endeavor to persevere. Would I love to be the cyclist I was in April? Yes, but if big dreams were limousines ...we'd all have a ride. Ain't no use cryin' over what is and what may never be.....so for now I will ride (and promise not to talk like a blues guitarist ever again).

W.B.Z.N.

I Want To Thank You

Ah Jaysus Frankie, you were a fekkin saint!

My eyes are like two piss holes in the snow.

W.B.Z.N.

I'll Be Seeing You

On the way to Neils wedding, the fact that it was Independence Day weekend escaped me. I was reminded, as I entered the stream with all the other Salmon, heading somewhere to spawn. Twenty odd miles in, a speed trap complete with multiple F.H.P. cars, planes, and heli's, convinced me it was time to pull a "Ben Stone" and exit the interstate, ala "Doc Hollywood". The drive immediately became delightful and scenic, and I devoured the North Florida landscape I have grown to love. Highway 27 is an old favorite peppered with little towns, then I-75 (no avoiding it under time constraints) and on to the hell that is Orlando. I reunited with the Alday clan of Altha, a family that was as much a part of my life as my own, for the six years I managed socialburn. I was astounded to find them happy to see me and we all played "remember when" for much of the rehearsal dinner. I was abducted by the wedding party and we went to a bar/time capsule. Drinks were drunk, and songs were sung, and fun was had by all, even the old man seventeen years the senior, of anyone else attending.

Watching Neil and his beloved say their vows, I ran the highlight reel of the years that we spent as manager and client, friends, and in many ways father and son. How can you ever tell a person that bought you a house, a couple cars, that was the star of the most interesting chapter of your biography, what they mean to you and how proud you were, to be part of their life. I pulled Neil aside and did my best through watering eyes. After our private goodbye, I snuck away and pointed my car to my old home town of Ft. Pierce. I slipped into the Ipod and an onto empty turnpike, as the rest of the world was looking skyward at things exploding. Everyone was somewhere else, and I was headed to a party, with an old friend and a woman that broke my heart.

Rob was on the phone guiding me in to the last parking space at the party. Someone handed me a beer and people came out of the darkness that I have not seen in thirty years. Names, faces, handshakes, memories long dormant from a trunk in my mind marked "Ft. Pierce, do not open" spilled out before me in a parade of familiarity and estrangement. People told stories about me as though I wasn't standing there. Some I remembered, and some not at all. Both were served up without a care for what emotions they triggered, all ending with the same phrase: "what happened, where did you go?" Rob took me around until I had seen everyone, handed me another beer and yelled the name that motivated my late night escape in 1987: "Diane!" The name hung there, I thought to myself an echo would have been appropriate. The three of us chatted and talked about all our histories together. Rob and I were friends, Diane and I were a couple and it was a million years ago. They never met back then. In 2003 they met in Tampa, dated back in Ft. Pierce, and later married. They showed up in Tallahassee in the fall of 2005, as I was in the throws of managing the band. It was a strange night that led to me leaving them with a cab company phone number, unanswered questions, and a past I didn't want to confront. Now here we were again, partly because I felt bad about that night, and because I wanted to solve a mystery I had been carrying in my spiritual luggage for years.

She was drunk and a person I almost didn't recognize. The face and eyes struck chords, but mostly the strange emptiness of twenty five years fell between us, like a canyon with no bridge. It was at once familiar and vague, but I was left with relief that I was not nervous and that her old spell had no power. It had died with the young man I once was, and neither one of us were remotely the people we were then. Our demeanor and appearance, were weathered by life, good and bad. Still there was a shared chapter, and enough to talk about so that awkward silence never overcame us. She filled in some blanks and asked some questions I never expected. In the end, much like the insane amateur fireworks show, I was happy to have survived, and glad I had witnessed the spectacle, emotional and pyrotechnical.

The next day we shared an uncomfortable lunch together. They were very hung over, and I felt like a guest that stayed a day too long. I drove by my old house on Sandia drive, vacant, foreclosed and slowly being reclaimed by a thicket of a yard, that once was the manicured pride of my Father. It stood indignant to all our Christmases, tears, laughter, weddings and funerals. It was a shell of something that was home. I saw myself skating the circular drive, playing drums in the corner room and my Sting Ray knock off, laying in the yard. I wondered how many times my Mother called me to dinner from that porch, hidden by unkempt plants.

I got back to familiar territory around sunset. I was on an alternate route which took me along a twisting back road to I-10. I passed a country house being pulled back into the earth by vines and growth of all manner. The frame was contorted and warped like a painting by Salvador Dali. It's form was recognisable and alien in equal measure, and I felt a kinship with it, that I never would have known before this trip.

Nothing remains the same. The earth, reclaims everything eventually. It is the cycle we all ride. People, drift in and out of our lives, like trains at a station. Some stay, and some become strangers, when once they were lovers and friends.

W.B.Z.N.