11 O'Clock Tick Tock

Neil Peart describes it (in his books) as a disease called: "the internal jukebox". I have always joked that my rides are good, or bad based on what song is stuck on repeat in my casaba. Today it was a bitter sweet U2 song. It's a song I love, and a song that carries a profound sadness for me.

My last year in Ft. Pierce, I used to surf with a couple guys I met from Jacksonville. They invited me to one of the most insane party's I had ever attended. A bunch of surfer/swimmers had a shindig which (among other debauchery) involved a bulldozer, a destroyed construction fence and me skateboarding/falling down a flight of stairs, without spilling a drop of beer. When the semester ended they left and I lost touch with them.

My first day at T.C.C. in 1987, I was rushing to a class, when I heard someone call my name. Mark Stephans was walking toward me with his hands out at his sides in a "what the hell" gesture. We exchanged info, and over the next few weeks started my first Tallahassee band: "The Reign".

Mark wasn't a great guitar player, he wasn't even a good guitar player, but I became attached to him. He had a great quirky sense of humor and he could disarm my intense behavior with a grin and one liner. It is very out of character for me to keep sub par players around, but I couldn't bring myself to fire Mark. All musicians good or bad usually do one thing really well, and for Mark that was a song by U2. He loved that song, and even though his ability was limited, he would always nail it. He suffered from severe stage fright and as we played over the next year, he became a hard core drinker. I confronted him about it, I told bartenders not to serve him, all to no avail. The band had a meeting and demanded that I let him go. I too, had reached the end of my rope, and over lunch I gave him the bad news. He teared up and so did I, but I couldn't cover for him anymore and I was angry. I was angry that he wouldn't, or couldn't stop, and I was angry that one of my favorite people, was denying me his company.

He moved back to Jacksonville to recover. One night at a gig, he reappeared. He said he was sober, and asked if he could come back. I couldn't take a chance on him and I didn't want to get rid of the guy that helped us when Mark left. He walked out and I never saw him again. It was a terrible moment, I will never forget.

A couple of years later at the Cab Stand his ex girlfriend told us he had died. He locked himself in a hotel room and drank till it was over. He had a lot of unresolved pain and his drinking had ravaged his body. He truly was a gentle soul that wasn't tough enough for this world. He was twenty eight years old.

The first line of the song is; "It's cold outside" which was what I was thinking as I rolled down Woodgate, suffering in the wind. It started the song, and movies of him in my mind, as I struggled to eek out two hours of ride time.

We played the song for Mark that night and fumbled through the rest of the set, before having a few beers, and telling stories about him. I always felt like I had a hand in his demise. I tried to save him, but I didn't have the tools. I still laugh from time to time, when I think of things he said, and whenever that song comes up, it always reminds me of him.

"Call out your name....call out.... you better call out!"

I miss you Bro, I'm sorry.

W.B.Z.N.

Tight Rope

Worm called Sunday and suggested we do a flat pedal ride. Turned out to be a very cool day. We both rode a ton of stuff we hadn't pulled before. I finally got the big Fern log. I felt like I won the lotto. I am really sore from bailing so many times but you couldn't pry the grin off my grill with a cats paw.

W.B.Z.N.

Turn, Turn, Turn....

I hated my clothes for being clean. I hated my bike for not having a drive train problem. I hated Big Worm for fixing it. I hated Spanish Mackerel, for showing me he has a snap and a sprint. I hated Slade, for riding from his house on the last two rides.

My oldest said: "You will feel better when you get out there."

We call him "Captain Positive" around our joint. How that kid came from my D.N.A., I have no idea. I guess there was more Mom in the mix, good thing too.

The sun was hitting the Greenway in a very nice golden hue. I thought about my Bro in D.C. depositing another pound of flesh to the research team, that saved his life. I was reminded that whenever you can, wherever you can, you must ride. Turning the pedals is not a chore, it is a privilege.

I rode the upper part of Caddy after the levy. If you want to know how surfing feels on land, let go of the brakes and keep it around twelve miles per hour. Flows like a river baby.

I slid back into my hood, and big ringed the Woodgate climb, out of the saddle. The pasta was hitting the table, as I walked in the kitchen. I fell asleep at 7:30 and cruised through to 6:00 a.m.. That happens about once a year.......What was I talking about ? Oh yeah. God, I love riding bikes

W.B.Z.N.

Teacher Teacher

"Why do you need to speak to a councilor?"

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. Her lunch is in a Subway bag next to her. The drink is sweating into a tight puddle. There are three desks to greet needy students, and hers is the only one with a person behind it.

'To talk about my Mother." I say dead pan and I wait for the smile. Crickets. Tough crowd. Is this thing on?

"Sorry, I need to speak to someone about enrolling and to get a copy of my transcripts."

My whole life has been the pursuit of recreational endeavors. If you can't make any money at it, I am an expert. I am obsessive. I am fortunate that I never directed that energy toward gambling or drug use, because I would be long dead.

Lots of my friends skateboarded. They just didn't do it for an hour before school and three to five hours after. They liked it, but none of them asked their doctor when they could skate again before the compound fracture in their arm was set. Fewer still had Fathers so concerned for a sons safety, they locked up the skate gear, knowing that the kid would skate before the swelling went down.

I could not sleep for thinking about surfing. I would dream of waves. During long flat spells I would drive to the beach every day hoping for miracles. Once preparing for a surf contest, I went to the beach everyday for thirty two days. When there was surf, I'd run mock heats and see how many waves I could get in fifteen minutes. If there were no waves I would run to the end of the park and paddle back, two or three times.

"You need a mathematics assessment test......it's in this building, room 208. Come back with the score and you can talk to a councilor."

"Sweet!" I say (with a thumbs up).... Nothing.

"NEXT!" She says, as a tattooed skinny jeans guy walks by, so bored he can barely stay awake.

My sons music teacher asked me how much I was practicing by the time I was Lil W.B.'s age.

"Three or four hours a day." I reply.

"Ah.......obsessed." She says. She knows the symptoms as a long time sufferer.

I had a mismatched kit, that looked like jelly beans. All different colors and brands. I had one tom, a snare with no bottom head for the second tom and an old bass drum balancing on a waste basket for a floor tom. Most of it was fished out of a trash pile by my Brother and I. My room was covered with saw dust from my sticks. I ruined the rug with my pedal.

My music life occupied my every thought and dollar for the next twenty five years. Jobs for me were only a means to support the habits. I have never really had a job that defined me. It was just what I did for money. That was all fine until I over heard my youngest tell a friend that I didn't finish college and we were fine. It changed the way I saw my life. On a hill in Georgia, the thoughts of what I should have done robbed me of my focus, and caused the single biggest mental bonk I ever had on a bike. Call it what you want, I couldn't shake the feeling.

"One of your history credits is going to fall off but other than that you just need a Humanities, and elective and your Math. We can enroll you in the History and I will make a note on your file that you will start the Math next semester."

You wake up one day and you're forty five. Worried about losing time on the bike. Worried about not being with the crew enough. Worried about this years W-2. Worried about putting on weight. Worried about all that time. Worried about choices. Worried about setting a good example for your boys.

I've had a really good time. Now I need to crack the books. I will still ride as much as I can, I just can't put it first for a while.

Next adventure?......Check.

W.B.Z.N.

I'm Sorry

Okay I get it, we had to live with a douche nozzle for eight years that couldn't complete a sentence in English if his oil stock depended on it. I know he was an ex drunk with an important Dad, and the Masons propped him up to the highest office in the land. I too am angry, that we had to live with nothing more than a letter man homecoming king and that he dug us into some really deep mud holes.

I also get that Barrack is cool. It's nice to have a well spoken, good looking man in the White House. I too got chills during his campaign and I voted for him. I love the fact that the guy and his wife can find two and four on a dance floor. I like the fact that actual artists I listen to are endorsing him (the fact that it coincides with the release of their latest album aside). I think it is a wonder of our time that we finally elected a MAN of the people instead of some entitled prick from a rich family. I am behind him in every way and I couldn't be happier that he's OUR guy.

Now: can we all stop looking up at him like prepubescent school girls at a Jonas Brothers concert? Can we stop pretending that his wife is the Virgin Mother and that his angelic kids have the cure for cancer running through their cute little veins. Can we PLEASE stop referring to him in terms normally reserved for sons of divine beings? Can we all just realize that this is how a president is supposed to look and behave, and that this should be the norm and not the exception?

I applaud his every move and I am glad to be on the winning team, but I would like to bring him back to what I voted for: a Human Being. Maybe we could all take it a down a notch or two. There will be plenty of time for a victory lap after the issues are worked out....don't ya think? I know the dust has hardly settled on this historic election. I don't want to be a wet blanket on the good feeling the country has for the first time in our lifetime, but I swear if I see one more (*RICH*) teary eyed celebrity, I am gonna hurl.

Congrats Mr. President, thanks for winning and giving us all hope. Good luck on the job.

Oh yeah.....bikes are cool. Rock on.

W.B.Z.N.

Somebody Get Me A Doctor!

I've fallen off my bike and I can't get back on! Please send help!

W........b.............

Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue

On our bike trip to Macon, I was introduced to my latest obsession: the movie "Iron Man". The movie is good to be sure, but the draw for me was the Tony Stark house. I love modern architecture and the house in movie is amazing not only because it houses a billionaire, is a compelling design on a very dramatic site, but it's just freakin cool. The C.G.I. masterpiece takes more than few ques from famous Frank LLoyd Wright apprentice; John Lautner. So began my obsession with all things Lautner. I have been scoring the net finding as many examples of his work as possible. I have developed a love of his later concrete houses. I have been tortured by the alarm clock as it pulls me by the neck, out of the dream homes, where I live my subconscious second life.

I have a personal connection to his work that I wasn't aware of until I discovered one of his California houses. It was featured in a Brian de palma film called "Body Double". Back in the golden era of 80's musical schlock rock, I did a record in Hollywood with my first real band. We (through a series of music biz underworld mishaps) made the acquaintance of Barry Whites manager. He agreed to sign us to his label when he learned that our manager (specializing in South American imports) had disposable funds. Before you could say: "wire transfer to a fictitious name" we were on a plane to Hollywood, reading about ourselves in several Florida periodicals. We stayed at Tony's (I know) house in Hollywood Hills and the scene that greeted me every morning, was the house designed by Lautner.

Over the next few weeks we made our record at the (then) famous Devonshire Studios. Crystal Gale was across the hall, the Daz Band was in studio C and in the main room was a bunch of rubes from Ft. Pierce. We really didn't get to play that much, as the rule of the day was to use drum machines and keyboards. I did get to sing on the track and over dub real cymbals, after getting in a heated argument with (famous arranger) Jack Schulman. He read his resume aloud to me, citing his work with Dianna Ross, Henry Mancini, Barbara Streisand, Barry Manilow, and countless other artists I hated. He stormed out, and I cut the overdubs. The engineer, who had treated us like punks up to this point, laughed for half an hour. He declared that I had "balls" and adopted us as friends for the rest of the project.

The weather, surroundings and the sight of that house, made me believe that anything was possible in that west coast fantasy land. I would look up imagining what it would be like to live in a house on a pole, and play music for a living.

For the eighteen days we burned through piles of untraceable cash. We ate next to Eddie Murphy at the Hard Rock Cafe, ran smack into Ben Vereen in a market, saw Carlos Santana channel God at the Palladium, and heard every shitty band in L.A.. The record we made was a huge flop and disappointed our fans, family and us on a biblical level. We returned home and hit the ground smoking like a tiny unseen meteor. It marked the begining of the end to my tenure in St. Lucie county, set up the greatest romantic heartbreak of my life, and nudged me toward Tallahassee...the place I played in some epic cover bands, met my wife, and started riding bikes.......(C'mon you knew the tie in was coming).

W.B.Z.N.