TO CONGRESS….ON THE OCCASION OF TANGLING WITH THE HEALTH CARE SYSTEM YET AGAIN (Late Night Dedication #6)

Knowing that they’ll screw it up again, no matter what they do…or don’t do…And yes, this is really dedicated to the moment they file into their House of Vipers…one after a dread ‘nother:

What, you thought I was gonna go for “Won’t Get Fooled Again”?

Heck, I’m wore out, but I ain’t yet simple-minded! Besides, that ship done sailed.

TO THE DWINDLING PRECIOUS FEW, AKA “THE SURVIVORS OF THAT ENTITY TO BE NAMED HEREIN” (Late Night Dedication #5)

NOTE: I’ve spent the last year working on a detective novel which (unlike my previous fiction projects) actually fits the commercial norms of the modern publishing industry, such as it is. I’m pushing myself to finish it by the end of March which is the principal reason posts have been short and sweet of late. There’s only so much “writing time” in a day. That said, these dedications are fun for me and I hope they are for you as well. I’ll be back to longer pieces and deeper thoughts (hah!) in the near future, but, for now, the hits just keep on comin’. 

My erstwhile fellow blogger, Neal Umphred, also one of the world’s great authorities on record collecting, has a couple of very interesting Elvis-related posts up (Links below**). We’ve had some back and forth in his comments section which led down the circuitous trail that, via a reference to his experience wearing a Kinks’ button in the late sixties, inspired tonight’s dedication….which is not a record by Elvis or the Kinks.

Of course it’s not. That wouldn’t be circuitous at all!

Neal’s experience (in the late sixties) wearing a Kinks’ button as a kind of secret language understood by few reminded me of my experience with another band and another kind of secret language in junior college a decade or so later (circa the spring of 1980).

I was, by then, the editor of my ju-co newspaper on my way to a career in journalism. That was before my journalism professor, a Florida State grad, inadvertently talked me into becoming an English major (FSU does not have a journalism school) by convincing me I should attend her alma mater. This was happening at the same time my yearbook professor, a University of Florida grad (the only reason I wasn’t editor of the yearbook was because I had already accepted the position as editor of the newspaper), talked me out of going to UF, where I had previously been headed, by suggesting I’d be happier as an English major.

Got it?

Good.

Anyway, with all that roiling around me–I’d been spotted as a talent! Pressure, pressure!–one of the ways I insulated myself from the madness was by walking up to the chalkboard in the journalism room every week or two, taking a furtive look around to make sure no one else was present and writing the following:

Sebastian, Yanovsky, Butler, Boone.

There was a reason I thought somebody–somebody!–might get this.

John Sebastian had been a ubiquitous presence in our high school lives, via his #1 hit with the theme song to Welcome Back Kotter, which also played every week when that show aired. (It was, God help us, very popular with high school audiences of my day. Not everything that was wrong with us could be blamed on the hippies!)

I thought somebody–somebody!–might see the name Sebastian, and think “I wonder if that means the guy who sang ‘Welcome Back Kotter?'” And that after that somebody might have some vague memory that John Sebastian had been the lead singer of a certain rock and roll band from the long lost sixties of our elementary school years.

I waited a whole semester for this to happen. I waited through all the speculation about who might be writing this mysterious message on the journalism school’s chalkboard every week or two. I waited through the occasional dark murmurings that it might be somehow linked to the school’s occasional bomb threats (ubiquitous even on rural southern college campuses back then, lest we forget), which forced evacuations in one building or other (usually around test time) throughout my two years there (though never of the journalism school…which only made some people more suspicious that it might be one of us, utilizing the classic diversionary tactics of guerrilla movements everywhere!)

I waited through the occasional fellow saying that he didn’t know why, but those words continually appearing on, and disappearing from, the board, were driving him crazy!

I waited, hoping somebody–anybody!–would get it.

If it was a guy, I was going to shake his hand and buy him a Nehi Grape sody pop and a Heath ice cream bar (my college drugs of choice).

If it was a girl, I was going to marry her.

I had my priorities straight!

Only….

Nobody got it.

Ever.

I finally had to fess up it was me.

But I never did tell anybody what it meant.

Let the Philistines figure that out for themselves.

I was off to Florida State. To major in English and stay broke the rest of my life!

I’ve stuck to my guns. I got my English degree. I’ve stayed broke.

Many years later, permanently literate, permanently broke, wandering about in the new millenia, I chanced upon Little Steven’s Underground Garage one late night (probably coming home from watching an FSU football game at my friend MG’s house). Little Steven was expounding on the virtues of some sixties’ moment or other (The Big TNT Show?…the memory hazes), and, at the end of a long monologue on how there had been one shining moment when we were truly together he set up the next song by saying:

“before the Empire divided us.”

And he played this, which I now dedicate to whoever’s left in the Empire’s wake, still trying to muddle along, just outside of its Leviathan reach.

Courtesy of Sebastian, Yanovsky, Butler and Boone:

**Link to Neal’s very worthwhile pieces here and here!

TO THE WHOLE FREAKIN’ WORLD…SHOULD IT FIND ITSELF IN NEED (Late Night Dedication #4)

Inspired by the collection of zombies, goons, cadavers and creepy-crawly escapees from Mansonoid dreams I spotted in the capitol this week when the dread crew that runs what’s left of the government assembled in one ghastly space for Donald Trump’s first address to congress….But, really, for those of us who get C-Span, this could be needed at a moment’s notice practically any day…Keep it handy!

 

TO MY EYES, MYSELF AND ME (Late Night Dedication #3)

I went in for some new glasses today, an act that requires observing oneself in a mirror. That’s not an activity that’s normally on my daily, weekly or yearly agenda. Any hour of any day, there are pretty much always other things I would  rather look at than me, myself or I.

So today, whilst choosing among a variety of frames for reading glasses that will mostly be seen by me, myself and I, I was forced to confront my oft-lasered (and injected and cut upon) eyeballs. Seven years since I had any serious treatments and still, this song came immediately to mind and stayed deeply enough implanted that (and I swear, as God is my witness, this happened about thirty seconds after I wondered how I’d feel about it if it played just then) hearing the Guess Who’s “These Eyes” on the radio on the drive home couldn’t dislodge it.

Sing it Wynonie!

SON OF THE BEACH….LATE NIGHT DEDICATION (Richard Hatch, R.I.P.)

Cross categorizing here so I can manage a tribute to Richard Hatch and start a new category as well. And why I never thought of Late Night Dedications before now is just one of those mysteries that is destined to haunt the universe down to the last days….Meanwhile.

Way back when, I liked Richard Hatch (shown at the right) in The Streets of San Francisco and the original Battlestar Galactica. But his one really remarkable performance–and his relevance to this blog–was his Jan Berry in the TV movie Deadman’s Curve which I saw when it originally aired in 1978 and never forgot. So far as I know, the movie is only available on YouTube or through various bootleg sites. That’s too bad, because Hatch nailed his fellow So Cal native to a tee and the movie caught a bit of the casual sixties’ hedonism which was intrinsic in the surf-n-car scene Jan and Dean exemplified which has rarely, if ever, been portrayed as affectionately elsewhere.

The movie is hard to see, but all you really need to know about Hatch’s performance (matched by a wonderfully callow turn from Bruce Davison as Dean Torrence) is that he caught what there was to catch about the spirit that created this, which can now be dedicated to his own ghost, as well as Jan Berry’s…and whoever that kid was who wanted to race all the way to you know where:

…And, no, I have no idea why the movie was called Deadman’s Curve instead of Dead Man’s Curve. That’s another mystery for the ages.