Bangers

For your convenience, the list of Rolling Stone's top 100 (ahem) drummers. Listed here so you don't have to scroll through the RS site.

100. Christian Vander, Magma
99. Travis Barker, Blink-182
98. Steven Adler, Guns N’ Roses
97. Cindy Blackman, Lenny Kravitz
96. Larry Mullen Jr., U2
95. Chris Dave, D’Angelo and Robert Glasper Experiment
94. Meg White, The White Stripes
93. Tomas Haake, Meshuggah
92. Ralph Molina, Neil Young and Crazy Horse
91. Brian Chippendale, Lightning Bolt
90. Janet Weiss, Sleater-Kinney
89. Bill Stevenson, Descendents
88. Jon Theodore, The Mars Volta and Queens of the Stone Age
87. George Hurley, The Minutemen and Firehose
86. Phil Rudd, AC/DC
85. Tommy Lee, Mötley Crüe
84. John Stanier, Battles
83. Ronald Shannon Jackson
82. Glenn Kotche, Wilco
81. JR Robinson
80. Steve Jordan, John Mayer Trio
79. Mick Avory, The Kinks
78. Micky Waller, Jeff Beck Group
77. Moe Tucker, The Velvet Underground
76. Earl Young, The Trammps
75. Earl Hudson, Bad Brains
74. Michael Shrieve, Santana
73. Pete Thomas, Elvis Costello
72. James “Diamond” Williams, The Ohio Players
71. Butch Trucks and Jaimoe, The Allman Brothers Band
70. Tommy Ramone, The Ramones
69. Dale Crover, The Melvins
68. Jerome “Bigfoot” Brailey, Parliament Funkadelic
67. Greg Errico, Sly and the Family Stone
66. Kenny Aronoff, John Mellencamp
65. Sly Dunbar, Sly and Robbie
64. Chad Smith, Red Hot Chili Peppers
63. Dennis Chambers
62. Tony Thompson, Chic and The Power Station
61. Clem Burke, Blondie
60. Mick Fleetwood, Fleetwood Mac
59. Jim Gordon, Derek and the Dominos
58. Sheila E, Prince
57. Manu Katche
56. Richie Hayward, Little Feat
55. Max Weinberg, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
54. Questlove, The Roots
53. Jimmy Chamberlin, The Smashing Pumpkins
52. Matt Cameron, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden
51. Alex Van Halen, Van Halen
50. Cozy Powell, The Jeff Beck Group, Rainbow, Whitesnake, and Black Sabbath
49. Vinnie Colaiuta
48. John “Drumbo” French, Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band
47. Dave Lombardo, Slayer
46. Dave Garibaldi, Tower of Power
45. Billy Cobham
44. Jerry Allison, The Crickets
43. Phil Collins, Genesis
42. Bill Ward, Black Sabbath
41. Carter Beauford, Dave Matthews Band
40. Jack DeJohnette
39. Ramon “Tiki” Fulwood, Parliament Funkadelic
38. Jim Keltner
37. Jeff Porcaro, Toto
36. Steve Smith, Journey
35. Fred Below
34. Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann, Grateful Dead
33. Tony Allen
32. James Gadson
31. Roger Hawkins, Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section
30. Clifton James, Bo Diddley
29. Carlton Barrett, Bob Marley and the Wailers
28. Carmine Appice
27. Dave Grohl, Nirvana and Foo Fighters
26. Danny Carey, Tool
25. Earl Palmer, Little Richard
24. Steve Gadd
23. Elvin Jones, John Coltrane Quartet
22. Levon Helm, The Band
21. Ian Paice, Deep Purple
20. Bernard Purdie
19. Tony Williams, Miles Davis
18. Joseph “Zigaboo” Modeliste, The Meters
17. Terry Bozzio, Frank Zappa
16. Bill Bruford, Yes and King Crimson
15. Buddy Rich
14. Ringo Starr, The Beatles
13. D.J. Fontana, Elvis Presley
12. Charlie Watts, The Rolling Stones
11. Benny Benjamin, The Funk Brothers
10. Stewart Copeland, The Police
09. Al Jackson Jr., Booker T. & the MG’s
08. Mitch Mitchell, Jimi Hendrix Experience
07. Gene Krupa
06. Clyde Stubblefield and John “Jabo” Starks
05. Hal Blaine
04. Neil Peart, Rush
03. Ginger Baker, Cream
02. Keith Moon, The Who
01. John Bonham, Led Zeppelin

The Art of Quitting

That's right. I cannot think of anything clever, trenchant, witty or even snarkalicious to write.

So I quit. The May Days Essays. A few days early. Big deal.

Not a big deal.

Some of the best decisions I've made over the years have been to quit: bands, relationships, jobs, you name it.

In my sense, quit is not synonymous with give up. It means: "Enough of this bullshit. I am not getting anything out of this endeavor, and, more paramount, I am not giving anything of value, either. I need to move on, to replace the current sitch with something better."

So there.

Think about it. Why stay mired in an unhealthy, detrimental or otherwise fucked-up place? It wastes your time; it fills you with negativity; it drags down those around you. Of course, you don't want to hurt anyone. Yet, you hurt yourself by standing pat and suffering the stagnation.

Remember what the fictitious Uncle Joe said a few days ago (May 20, to be exact): "It's not what you do; it's what you make."

I want to make it better, Jude.

Thank you, readers for following me this May. I'll be back, when the imp of whimsy strikes. Hey, one of you may be the target.

Stories: Two True!

The Bad Boy

Geeze, I can't remember the name of the club. It was Denver. Two weeks Five (sometimes six!) sets a night, six nights a week. Two Hollywood agents had book us into a tour of Colorado, Washington and Montana. The agents, both corpulent men with bulbous eyewear, had misrepresented us as a Top 40 band. Which we were decidedly not. On the whole, the experience was dreadful.

But we were DIRECT FROM LA, even though we had been living their only a few months.

One mitigating factor was our assistant roadie, one Joey "Bad Boy" Mancuso. Only 18, he had signed on with us over the summer and moved to the City of the Fallen Angels with us as an adventure. Which it was. Joey, a sprite of a guy was simply a joy to be around. He worked hard, behaved unpredictably (hence the nickname), and buoyed our spirits every day.

He begged us to let him sit in on guitar. This also happened daily. The band hemmed and hawed a tad. Finally on our last night at the club, in the penultimate set, we gave Bad Boy the go-ahead. He raced back to our rooms, which were in a dank hotel basement next door.

He returned with a blousy, disco-type shirt and satin bellbottoms with glitzy embroidery. Platform shoes completed the outfit. We brought him up near the end of the set.

"Helping us out on guitar, here's the Bad Boy, Eric Clapton's rhythm guitarist!" Joey leapt onto the stage, and the band launched into a semi-rousing version of the Yardbirds' "I'm a Man." The song eventually breaks into a rollicking, double-time jam. Bad Boy did us proud. Using a slide on the neck and a wah-wah pedal, he started wailing. The audience caught on, and crowded the dance floor, clapping in wild appreciation. Joey was height challenged enough that our guitarist and bassist arched their guitars over him as a showcase.

Bad Boy was a natural; he looked as if he had been doing this for years. He made the right faces, hair flying, working the females in the crowd with flamboyant cuteness. No one seemed to notice that he had been at the club every night as our roadie for two weeks. Crowds will believe, seemingly, anything they hear over a microphone. The rest of the band played it straight.

Despite calls for more, Bad Boy quickly exited the stage and hid out back at the motel.

One fan came up to Larry, our killer lead guitar player. "Y'all guys were good, but that Bad Boy!"

Joey came back with us the next to day to load the van and head for Butte.

The coolest part: Bad Boy Mancuso couldn't play a lick of guitar.

---

The Banana Divorce

Includes blue language. It's the only way I can relate it. Deal with it, okay?

I had just stopped in the WaWa to pick up some stuff. As I walked in, I saw a ramshackle station wagon park near me. The vehicle had Florida plates. Packed to the gills with luggage, lamps, golf clubs and other effluvia.

A couple dismounted. In their early 60s, I'd say. The woman sported a dour look, as if she had just smelled something off-putting. The husband wore a porkpie hat, Bermudas, knee socks and crinkly wingtips. He had a small, precise mustache.

Inside, the first words were hers, "LOOKIT THESE BANANAS, HARRY. IF THESE AIN'T THE MOST FUCKING SICKLY BANANAS I EVER SEEN! AND THE PRICE! MIGAWD!"

Harry, as calm as a mountain pond, said, "Dear. This is a convenience store. They are not known for fresh, reasonably priced produce. We just came here for your Virginia Slims, not bananas."

"HARRY, I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK WHAT YOU SAY. THESE BANANAS SUCK. SO DOES CONNECTICUT! CAN'T EVEN BUY A DECENT FUCKING BANANA! JESUS! MAKE SURE THEY GOT THE THE MENTHOL LIGHTS!"

Zarim, the affable clerk, said something in Farsi. Harry and I gleaned that Virginia Slim Menthol Lights were not on the menu. I could feel the heat of the woman's seethe.

"NO FUCKING CIGARETTES, EITHER. WHY THE FUCK DID I EVER COME HERE WITH YOU, HARRY? WE WERE FINE WITH MY SISTER IN FLORIDA!"

Harry raised his voice a scoche, still dapper, "We came here because we both hate your sister. And her mangy flea-ridden cats. And her layabout son. All in a trailer, Myra" His shoulders seemed to sigh a bit.

This was getting good, I thought. By now, the whole store was watching. City people were stifling giggles. Finally, Harry, too, spared a grin.

"YOU THINK THIS IS FUCKING FUNNY? I'LL TELL YOU HOW FUNNY IT IS! I'M LEAVING, RIGHT NOW! SO GO FUCK YOURSELF! USE A FUCKING BANANA."

With that, Myra marched out of the store. Ten customers, plus Zarim and I, crowded toward the door. Harry stayed back, a tight look on his face. She flipped up the wagon's tailgate and removed two huge suitcases. She lugged them to the bus stop, which was right in front of the store. As luck would have it, a city bus pulled right up. With tremendous effort, Myra clambered onto the jitney with her valises. In an angry huff of diesel, she and the bus were gone.

Everyone turned to look at Harry. Coakley Bridgeforth, with whom I had played Little League, said, "Whoa, Ace. Didja see that!"

Zarim said, "Iptha putamescu golorath." Or some thing to that effect.

And Harry? He burst into a little jig, smiling grandly. Thrusting his hands into the air, he said, "Thirty-two years, THIRTY-TWO YEARS I BEEN WAITING FOR THAT PILE A SHIT TO LEAVE ME!"

With that, everyone walked up to Harry, offering congratulations.

He asked me, "Is there a liquor store nearby?" I pointed him to one just two blocks away.

Smoothing his clothing (and mustache), Harry said, "Banana liqueur, I think."

Don't Forget To Forgive Me

In actuality, the head of today's post is a song title. Never mind that it was written by my daughter Grace when she was about six. It was actually part of a medley, including "Don't Forget to Love Me" and "Don't Forget to Kiss Me." The last song, as little Gracie would admonish me, "is for the girls."

She also wrote a paean to her gym teacher. I will not name him or the song, but the last line was "He's too cute to say 'no.'"

Ah, these kids today. And yesterday.

But the initial title has been ringing true for me lately.

Forgiving, I believe, is some powerful shit. And—like bulbous C7 Yule lights, funny sitcoms, modest athletes, and uneasily-offended people—the concept has become antiquated, shopworn.

Is there that much that is unforgivable? I think not. What, someone called you a name? Someone broke up with you? Grabbed your parking spot?

In line with a dearth of forgiving is the waxing of the word hate. How can you hate a band, a team, a TV show, or seafood. Really? No, I do not hate Pink Floyd, as a friend asked me last night. I just cannot stand their wobbly, snoozy, grooveless, goes-nowhere music.

Also in line is the faux apology. Example: "I'm sorry, but I drink only sweet wine." Now, I might feel sorry for someone with such horrid taste in the noble grape, but why apologize for one's opinion?

Forgiveness is such a noble trait. I have written before about the galpal who stopped seeing me and tried to apologize years later. I was never mad about the split, but felt a tad disappointed. Her apology was heartfelt; she looked almost morose. My admiration for her zoomed after that night. And has stayed in that rarefied air.

It is also noble to cut off someone's apology, to tell them no apology is needed. How often does that happen?

I am relieved when I am forgiven. I felt great when a guy—who was at odds with me for years (and I with him)—came up to me with a handshake many moons later. I felt lightened, almost buoyant.

I once knew a basketball coach (let's call him Spike) whom I heartily disliked. I was an official at the time. He was a nitpicking, never-happy bully to us zebras. He often got personal with criticisms. He was so obnoxious that every referee in town couldn't stand doing his games. One night, a fellow ref said to me before one of Spike's games, "Let's just ignore him tonight." It worked like a charm, for Spike's BP went up exponentially the less we paid attention to him.

One Christmas Eve, I spotted Spike at church. I found myself wondering whether he sneered at The Big Guy during Mass. I was hosting my annual All Holler's Eve Bash afterward, so I buttonholed Spike and invited him. He looked as if I had just hit him with a taser. He demurred on the invite, but I felt better about myself.

I can think of quite a few people whom I'd like to apologize to and ask forgiveness. It's been so long, I think some may have departed.

Try this, folks. It not only restores your faith in others, but theirs in you.

I apologize for such a serious tone today, for my lack of snark. Please forgive me.

Turning Japanese

A healthy, heapin' helpin' of Holleran haikus for you today.

Hot ham in deli
Had to try a little taste
Bingo! Lunch today

Mother pushing pram
Thumbs texting, oblivious
Total douchebag, she

"Millionaire" hipster
Dumbass can't do simple math
Says, "Well THAT sucks." Bye

Woman in linen
Pedi paint matched her flip-flops
I was attracted

Cool tune at jazz jam
Fanboy claps on 1 and 3
Threw a stick at him

"Voice" singer screaming
Feeble fireworks, bad pitch
That's earslaughter. Next!

New gal in my life
Says I'm amazing, brilliant
Wants to be friends

Huge guy at Weis*
Can't tuck shirt; stomach hinders
Buys only ice cream

* This is pronounced "Wise's" in coal-country parlance. Ergo, the line is five syllables.

Misfit Albums

I know these are somewhere in your collection. I treasure them.

The Excess of Mediocrity

I was watching the tube (Can we still call it that? I can, with my CRT array.) this morning when an ad for some sort of "hard soda" appeared. It led to a tagline: "LIVE HARD." Okay. Then a suffix slides onto the screen: "ISH".

I can see the meeting now. Hipster agency creatives, wearing berets and Birkenstocks, think they have come up with a smidge of genius: "Live hard." Then comes the counterattack of the Client Suits. "Well, we don't want to get too edgy here. Why can't we say 'hard-ish'?" Guess who wins? The agency folks clomp away to a Wes Anderson film festival while the execs celebrate their blandness.

No one admits to the fact that the target audience for said beverage is 15-18 year-olds with lopsided hair, skateboards and Doors t-shirts.

Wendy's now has Ghost Pepper Fries. Really? Do you think this faceless chain (now that Dave Thomas has passed into glottal-stoppage heaven) would ever put actual ghost peppers on spuds? They are hotter than Lucifer's autoclave. No, Wendy's food modifiers (I dare not call them chefs.) have found a way to dumb-down said peppers so that people in Iowa will eat them.

Even KFC tried their hand at Nashville-style hot chicken. From all accounts, the real deal is Dante-level hot. But in their TV spots, the Colonel's minions insert the disclaimer, "But not TOO hot."

No, this is America. We don't want it TOO anything.

Blandness rules. As I BookFaced earlier today, I wasted two hours of my life watching "50 Shades of Grey." This is a sleepy tale of a sadist rich boy who wants women. Mainly to turn them into punching backs and whipping posts. BUT, the mahoffs had to keep an R rating, so no real naughty bits are shown. From other sources, the book was plenty steamy. Plus, the plot, the acting and everything else around the film were of no merit whatsoever.

Let's water down what we can.

Is that SUV a Ford or a Hyundai? What does it matter? When I was a kid, it did. Cars had panache; they had variety, some excessive. We kids couldn't wait to see the next year's models. They were different. Which is a vile curse today.

Both 1959s. We knew the Chevy from the Caddy.

At a luxe wedding, an annoying photographer had all the guests assemble for a group shot. He artfully placed himself above us on a patio. Hooray! Toast! Joy! Well, enforced joy. In the final image, one person had his back to the camera, glass held high. When I got called on the carpet by the bride's mother. How dare I misbehave? I said, "How didja know if my back was turned?"

She said, "Ace, who else would it be?" I felt a frisson of pride.

Let's not poke TOO much fun. Let's keep the same old jokes. Every sitcom deals with a dysfunctional group, as if this is in itself funny. The lines aren't humorous, the actors wan. Just make someone fat, gay, nerdy or zombielike. That should be enough. Not.

Or, you could be brilliant like Ernie Kovacs, Mort Sahl or the Smothers Brothers.

Yes, I loved (and miss) the National Lampoon magazine. The rag was an equal-opportunity offender. Could any periodical run this cover today? Or an issue devoted to death?

Could Belushi do his Samurai sketches? Murphy as Buckwheat?

I can hear the disapproving "oohs" from here.

Playboy has stopped showing nude photos of comely lassies. What? Will Arby's go vegan? Victoria's Secret become prim?

Trump wants to rid our country of the differently-complected. Ted Cruz says rubbing one off will send you on a cruise with Charon across the Styx.

Country "music" screams beer, patriotism, Jesus, pickups and pontoon boats. And if you don't buy into this mouth-breathing lifestyle, you're not a true fan. Hank Williams and Conway Twitty never pushed their agenda on me. Chew tobacco, spit, indeed.

Whom is Bruno Mars going to imitate for his upcoming hit? He's already cribbed from Sting, Prince, Marvin, and the Brothers Johnson? Cowsills next, maybe?

I weary of the chorus of tweets of remote starters as people try to find their cars in the lot. I continue to buy off-brand petroleum jelly. I will ignore singing waiters. I still have yet to see The Sound of Music. I anxiously await the second season of Baskets.

You'll know where to find me. You've got my back in the photo.

Dangling Conversations

True chats. As verbatim as I can make 'em. Content through the years. Yes, I love cashiers of all stripes.

Basrtender: So I hear your daughter's playing music.
Uncle Acey: Correct. She's a music major at Temple.
B: Well, my son plays in the sympathy orchestra in Williamsport.

UA: What a nice gift. What kind of blender is that?
Newlywed Bride: It's an Ostracizer.
UA: So, when you turn it on, does it kick you out of the kitchen?
NB: What?

Female Friend: My sister Chelsea is kinds goin' out with this guy, but it's strictly platomic.
UA: Does he live in D. C.?
FF: What?

Fan at Wedding: Hey Ace, the band sounds good. Here's my girlfriend Lori. C'mon Lori give 'im a kiss. He's a famous drummer.
[Lori obliges. I eye the open bar.]
FaW: Say could youse play a song? Y'know that one from the movie where where Richard Gere plays that flyboy, and he's bangin' Debra Winger in that hotel alla time.
UA: Oh, An Officer and a Gentleman.
FaW: Yeah. Play "The Lift Is Up."

Guy in Line: Yeah, I work in Traffic Control.
UA: I did that one summer. Had to time certain routes and note traffic flow.
GiL: Well, I hold up the stop/slow sign.
UA: Did you ever drop it?
GiL: No way.

[At a farewell concert]
Fan: So's the band breakin' up?
UA: No, we're moving to California.
F: So then this is your final debut.

[In Tulsa. I approach a convenience-store cashier with some beer and place it on the counter]
Cashier: You gonna go 'head and git that, now?
UA: Well, I believe I have already gone ahead and gotten it. I should like to pay for it now.
C: Wanna sack?
UA: A sack would be splendid.

[Buying a small tank of helium for party balloons]
UA: I dunno, this feels a little light. Maybe it's not full.
Cashier: That does feel light. Would you like to pick out another?
UA: No, I'll take my chances with this one.

Bar Patron: I been to Connecticut. I have a sister in New Haven [accent misplaced on first syllable, BTW]. I go visit her all the time.
UA: I hear they have a couple of colleges there.
BP: I wouldn't know about that.

Fan at Bar: Hey Ace, play some Phil Columns.

UA: Does anyone around here use the verb form doesn't?
Coal Country Cashier: It don't matter.

Server: Fresh grated pepper on your salad, sir?
UA: No, I'm driving.
S: Oh.

[Guest teaching a mini course at my alma mater]
UA: There's a conflagration outside my classroom window.
Assistant Principal: A fight? Where?

In my golden years, I continue to amuse myself in small ways. I share them with you, my faithful readers.

Uncle Joe

1:17 pm

I first met Uncle Joe in the park. I spotted him as I rounded a bend by the pond, looking for a place to eat my lunch. Washington Park, Indianapolis. As I grew nearer, I saw he was popping some treats into his mouth, plucking them from a paper bag.

He seemed content, with just a hint of a smile dancing about the corners of his mouth. I stood back, behind a tree, and counted. He threw every fifth treat to waiting pigeons. In fact, the birds seemed to count with him. They would scatter diffidently as the man ate four treats, then turn their heads and seemingly gather 'round for the fifth.

He was round. Everywhere. His head, barely covered with a thinning, comb-over coif, was a perfect sphere. A short-sleeved white shirt from another era. Bulbous arms protruded. Wrists, hands, fingers: all chubby in their separate cylinders. Impossibly high-waisted dun-brown pants from days gone by. Cuffed. Wide, small feet in sturdy shoes. Suspenders and a belt. Maybe sixties, maybe older.

The man, the birds, the treats, the orbs. I walked near him.

"Yessir," he said as I came within five feet.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Yessir. Fine day. Birds know it."

"They count to five."

"Yessir. You picked up on that. Very observant. Yessir."

I told him my name.

He said, "Uncle Joe here. That's what everyone calls me. Yessir."

Before I could ask him, he slid slightly on the bench, pointing to the vacant space next to him.

"Good a place as any," he said. "Yessir."

I sat for a minute. I forgot about the sub in my bag from Jockamo's.

He said, "What brings you here?"

I shrugged and said, "Lunch."

I went on, "I work at ComesTron, on Keystone. Assistant brand manager."

"Is that right? And why do you tell me this? I would rather know more about you than your job."

I gave him the rundown: Born in Cincy, Moeller High, Xavier undergrad, Purdue MBA. He seemed unimpressed.

He said, "There's more to life than what you did, or even what you do. Think about that. Yessir."

With that, he rose chubbily and left, the pigeons in his wake, jousting for every fifth bit.

I sprinted through my sub. I had a one-o'clock meeting.

About a week later, a happened to take lunch in the park again. There I found "Uncle Joe" or whoever he was. He sat in the same spot, snacking again. No pigeons this time.

"Yessir," he said.

I sat down, as if pushed.

Uncle Joe said, "Okay, since you seem so interested in what you do, tell me about it."

No problem. "I am part of a really exciting project. You see, I am part of the Sound Dawg Move Forward Team. We sell dog food. Pretty soon, we're launching a whole new line: Puppy Chow Fun. It's the world's first dog food with a pan-Asian, sustainable flair. There's a pun there, because Chow Fun--"

"Yessir. I know that Chow Fun is a Chinese dish with broad noodles. As opposed to Mei Fun, which has thinner ones. Been around, you know? Yessir. But what is your task?"

"Well, I am positioning the brand, working on strategy, tag lines, audience appeal."

"Aren't dogs the audience?"

I had no comeback. Uncle Joe offered me a treat. I accepted. It wasn't candy, nor a savory bit. It seemed to have a vegetable taste, with the kick of spice. Delicious.

I asked, "What are these? What are they called?"

He said, "A snack."

We sat silently for a while. Finally, my companion said, "Gotta go."

The pressure was palpable at work. Launch dates had been set, but the PCF overall branding platform had yet to be established. My team was responsible for this.

I didn't return to the park for a while. When I did, Uncle Joe was plopped right where I expected him. Feeding the birds. We exchanged "Yessirs." It just seemed right.

He began,"I did some research. Your ComesTron really doesn't manufacture anything. They sub all that out to firms in Mexico. You work in a big building with hundreds of other people, all deciding what to do with this stuff once it's made, right?"

"I guess so."

He took a snack. He said, "So, lemme guess. You go to meetings all day. You shuffle papers around. Read reports."

I sighed, "That's about right."

Uncle Joe sighed too, "But the reason you're not happy at work is that you don't actually make anything. You sit and Think Big Thoughts. In the end, who benefits? Dogs? Do you really think they care about Asian food? Aren't there hundreds of dog foods on the market? Isn't there a whole aisle of pet food at Kroger?"

"Yeah, but we are making new inroads in ramping up the Diversity Dog category! Why 56% of the--"

"Bah. Numbers. 'Diversity Dog!' Did you ever make something yourself? Something you're proud of? Something that helped people?"

"Well, I used to play gigs on the trumpet. I played in the band at XU. But you can't make a living doing it."

"Really? Who says that? I'll bet your music reached many people. Hell, there's music everywhere. In cars, on TV, radio. Even in elevators. Someone had to make that music. So someone gets paid for it? And what do you get now? A salary, a Swedish car?"

"Actually, I have a BMW. But it's only a 3-series, and it's a 2009."

"Wonderful. Does it get you from here to there better than a cheaper Ford? Here, look at this."

He handed me a small object.

I said, "It looks like a spice of some sort. But there's no smell to it."

"Correct. It's actually a nutmeg. Or rather a nutmeg replica. I carved it out of walnut. Yessir. You see, I'm from Connecticut, which used to be called the Nutmeg State, before stuffy politicians thought the term archaic. The 'nutmeg' came from crafty Yankee peddlers who used to carve these same objects. Nutmeg was the most expensive spice in the world then and in very scarce supply.

"So these peddlers were like you. They figured out how to market something special, exotic even. Except unlike you, they actually made it. Then they figured out a need for something that didn't actually exist. Like your Fun for Pup whatever. I make these treats, too." He handed me one.

I said, "These are remarkable. Where can I get some?"

Uncle Joe said, "You can't. They are my creation. I made my fortune selling the recipe to a company like yours. All the money up front. Yessir.

"And I predicted what would happen. The company couldn't even figure out what to call this stuff, much less how to sell it. So they buried it, satisfied that no one could steal it from them. This way, I was only one who benefited. A terrible business, even though it gave me security."

This time, Uncle Joe got up abruptly. He left without a "Yessir."

That afternoon at work, my group got called on the carpet. We were told that the mothership was mothballing the Puppy Chow Fun project. All of our jobs were in jeopardy. Buyouts were available.

I left the office right after the meeting. I went back to the park. Uncle Joe was not at his bench. Instead, I found a bag of treats, a small wooden nutmeg and a compact disc on the bench. The music was Chet Baker in New York. A little-known trumpet player. On the paper bag was a note. It said:

"GO MAKE SOMETHING."

I returned to my car and drove to my condo in Beech Grove. I packed my clothes and possessions. Everything else was rented.

Then I drove to Cincinnati.

2:21pm

How to Write Good

As in drumming, I ain't the best scribe ever. But here are some hints and tips I've picked up over the years writing at various rags, on the Interwebs, in the employ of ego-driven agencies, and to myself. Remember, these are not rules. You know how I feel about them,

In no particular order:

You don't write for others. Then you would lose your voice. But you do write to others, unless its a diary or grocery list. Bear in mind that you want somebody to read your words. And enjoy or learn from them.

There is no substitute for a strong grounding in proper usage, grammar and syntax. If you still think "I'm gonna try and do that," or "I should have went home," is good writing, you need to buff up them skills. Once you have the basics down cold, it is easier to bend them. Honest.

Vary the length of your sentences. If they're all short or all long, they are hard to read.

In the same vein as the above hint, try not to start every sentence with its subject. Prepositional phrases and dependent clauses work wonders. NOT adverbs. Frequently, a weak sentence begins with an adverb.

Avoiding copulae (i. e., linking verbs) will strengthen your writing. This is true. It seems false. It also appears impossible. Stronger verbs bring vibrancy to writing. "The athlete didn't like the interviewer," vs. "Flapjack Culpepper deflected the beat-writer's questions."

I'm not a fan of long paragraphs. Unless you're Hemingway or Thomas Wolfe. Which you ain't.

Fancy writing is not necessarily good writing. "The slate sky loomed sadly over the landscape like a foundering blanket that kept people entombed," says plenty of nothing.

Unusual words are like habanero peppers. Used sparingly, they can spice up a piece. In liberal doses, they will ruin people's tastes. "The wind keened about the sagebrush," is fine. Then put keen to bed for the rest of the story.

Read—and sponge from—good writers. What are their habits? How do they treat plot movement, dialogue and exposition?

In like fashion, peruse lousy writers on occasion. There are plenty out there. This is why places called libraries exist. Learn to avoid their poor prose. Caveat: It's not enough to dislike a writer. The big question: How would I fix it?

Unless you're quoting, don't write in the same manner as you speak. To wit: "Many sophomores attended the annual Spring Frolic. It was like, I mean, awesome."

While I'm on my soapbox, I say isn't it time the entire English-writing world put awesome to bed?

A bad habit: telling readers what you've already shown them. "Sgt. O'Greeley moaned as he climbed another flight of stairs. Sweating mightily, he vowed to cut back on the cheeseburgers at J. G. Melon. He was out of shape."

Invite readers into your story. Do your best to put them in the setting and allow them to meet the characters. A hallmark of poor writing is to admit to readers, "You hadda be there." Bring folks there. The best compliments I have ever received are from people who said, "Wow, I felt as if I was in the story."

Too many rewrites spoil the broth.

Now, I shall try to put this shit to use when I write a story tomorrow. Watch for Uncle Joe.

Fun is Life

I cannot say "Life is fun" because I firmly believe that "fun" should never be used as an adjective. I have felt this way for many years, ever since a hostess asked me to being some "fun cheese" to a party.

As I dodder about in my half-double here in Coal Country, I am still dedicated to Fun. I especially enjoy My Own Fun, which may come at others' expense, but does no harm whatsoever. Feel free to steal (or modify) any of these for your own use and annoyance.

WARNING: JUST ABOUT EVERY TIME YOU PLAY ONE OF THESE LITTLE JOKES, YOU WILL BE THE ONLY PERSON WHO ENJOYS IT. LEARN TO LIVE WITH THIS. STRICTLY FOR PERSONAL USE.

Crossing the street is always fun for me. I enjoy "freezing" at a DON'T WALK sign, usually in a goofy position. Then assume a silly gait as you cross. DO NOT LOOK AT ANYONE FOR A REACTION. Just enjoy the moment.

The Supermarket Stare is cool. As you push your cart down the aisle, lock your eyes on someone far away. Then, as you get closer, DO NOT turn your head or eyes to keep focus on the other person. Just keep your gaze where it was. FUN!

Restaurant Fun: When a waitron asks you, "Is everything alright?" rub a specific part of your body (I prefer the upper-outside thigh) and say, "Well, I've got this rash ..." Follow that up with, "Well, you asked!"

Air Travel Fun: I must credit my brother with this one. Once we were given seats by the emergency door, with attendant legroom. Cool. A flight attendant came over and gave us the are-you-physically-able-to-do-the-door-thing speech. Tom gave her a blank smile and nodded once or twice. Finally she said, "I'm sorry sir, but do you speak English?" With a faux-Slavic accent he said, "Diet Coke." Later we played the Back-of-the-Head Game: "Let's see, that's Princess Di sitting with Jackie Gleason and Crabby Creiner from Jetland Street."

Dr. Fun: Tell doc you just got back from a vacation in the Isles of Langerhans (they're in the pancreas). Or that you received a Bundle of Hiss (heart) for Christmas. Once I saw an ortho dude for a small injury. I could not crack the guy. He was tanned and poloed, on a Friday afternoon, obviously dying to take the Benz up to the Vineyard. Finally, as he wrote out a prescription, he asked, "Does anything bother your stomach?" I said, "Ferris wheels." Bingo.

Hospital Fun: I have some doozies, but many are too blue for this space. A good one is to stash some grapefruit juice after breakfast. When it's tinkle-cup time, pour the juice in. If someone remarks about cloudy pee-pee, chug the juice and say, "Let's run it through again."

The Great American Neck Snap. One of my all-time faves. The bare bones: How many people can you get to turn their heads? The quicker the better. Malls are a great venue. Just talk with a friend in a normal voice, but shout out one word. "Remember when the Stones sang 'HEY you, get offa my cloud'?" Or, "I love when Bowie said, "Wham, bam, thank you, MA'AM'." ADDENDUM: Do not turn and look for Snaps; just keep walking. AceBrag: I once achieved a Neck Snap of Guinness proportions. I was sitting at a Yankee game, along the first-base line, about halfway up the field level. A fight broke out—a fairly vicious one—near the right-field foul pole. Many turned right to watch the ensuing tussle, complete with cops and security drones. But the game went on. I prayed for bat-ball contact. On the next pitch, the batter complied, fouling one off to left. I screamed, "HEADS UP!" I estimate a mega-Snap of thousands occurred. Total success.

One-timers:
A salesman called me once, peddling an alumni directory from my alma mater. Once I ascertained that this was a non-school, private, for-profit enterprise, it was time for Fun. I finally said that I was Ralph Holleran and that my brother Tim had expired the year before. He had died when he ran into a burning kennel to save three Pomeranians. Two years hence, you shoulda seen the heads turn when I showed up for my reunion. To detractors, I said, "And you bought that stupid book!"

It's always a gateway to Fun when you meet someone for the first time and that person realizes you have a mutual friend. Once I said, "Geeze, you're not nearly as heavy as your sister described you."

I asked a salesperson at a hardware store, "What sizes do those yardsticks come in?"

In St. Louis, I had an excellent Italian dinner in the famous Hill neighborhood. My waiter had a thick southern drawl. I cringed at his pronunciation of proscuitto. So I asked him for a a dram of Scazzverona as a postprandial digestif.

When I see an empty cashier line at The Dollar Dreck, I ask the cashier to do a price check on a package of ersatz Brillo.

POSTSCRIPT: Many of these gags are known in my old 'hood as Treatment. Do not allow Treatment to linger. Admit you were kidding. Unless you want to have even more Fun.

What I Don't Miss

A counterpunch to yesterday's piece. See menu at right for What I Miss. Get it?

I don't miss:

The heinous downgrading of women. Examples: Gender-segregated Help Wanted ads; unequal pay; "That's a man's work,"; commercials that said, "So easy, a woman can do it,"; "the fair sex," etc. Yes, there's a long way to go.

Pabulum TV shows, especially "variety" programs such as Perry Como, Andy Williams. Numbing music and ersatz comedy.

Grown-ups who yelled at me. My folks were great. But school, drum corps, bosses. I stopped listening when I was ten.

Being hit by teachers. Lawsuit today.

Bullies. I got off easy with a few "shrimpie" comments. I knew kids whose everyday life was an ongoing Hades.

Getting new clothes, which were always baggy. "He'll grow into them, ma'am." I didn't grow. Fiction.

College. Four years was perfect. I was outta there. Angry Viet Vets, horrible food, stone-cold Catholic girls, warm beer, out-of-touch professors.

The whole anti-hippie thing. I saw two different teachers, armed with scissors, go after shaggy students. A replica of an actual billboard in my hometown:

Oppressed speech. Every Vietnam protester was a Commie, hippie, pinko freak. As dictated by adults.

Doo-wop music. Although I came of record-buying age at the tail end of this, I hated it.

Impossible-to-unfasten brassieres.

Overall censorship by prudes."Hell" was a curse. "Cover those knees with that skirt, missie." Mad magazine was evil. Stay on the straight-and-narrow. Balderdash.

Every grown-up was always right. Do not challenge anyone older, even when being mistreated. I knew a lot of parents, teachers, overseers, etc. who were total asshats.

Scrambled eggs other than my grandmother's.

Food in general: fatty, fried, gray, sickeningly-sweet crap.

Dressing up for church.

The Latin Mass.

Sitting in a gray cubicle, trying to write clever copy or come up with The Big Idea. Massive egos. Working for moribund-brained MBAs. Meetings. Churn-and-burn work environments.

Cars that broke every three years.

Marching in parades.

Not enough culture or creativity in my life. Such things were taboo.

The adults who tried to get me to quit music.

Playing four (or more) sets a night for greedy nightclub owners. I know: I fought for this life.

Performing at weddings. The musician's gulag.

I'm going to stop here before I begin to depress myself. Sweetness and light, tomorrow. Promise.

What I Miss

I know; I know. You've seen the memes and read the posts.

"We drank out of a garden hose."

"We didn't come home until the street lights came on."

"We had metal dashboards and no seatbelts."

"We played outside instead of on an Xbox."

Guess what? It will never be that way again. Racists who claim they aren't, miss when the whole town was white. Nobody got a handout. Gooks and Japs were the enemy.

Yada, yada, yada.

I appreciate now. I am entwined to my DVR. I enjoy Google. And I am flippin' lucky that I can still bang on the drums. A nice piece of yellowtail sashimi? Luvvit. Beer made by two hipsters from Sheboygan. Some apizz' at Modern. Madame Secretary. Among other things.

However, I will venture into my own Wayback Machine today and relate what I miss. Then tomorrow, what I don't.

I miss civility.

I miss Saturday matinees at a theater with only one screen.

I miss athletes who carry themselves with dignity, pride and humility—win or lose.

I miss people who look askance if you dared use a double negative. We don't got none no more. (Okay, that's a triple negative.)

I miss waiting until spring to wear sneakers after a winter of well-built shoes. I miss—at roughly the same time of year—disentombing my glove from its sarcophagus in the closet, embalmed in neatsfoot oil.

I miss Dutch Leonard.

I miss true satire.

I miss (and yes, I've said this before) women who wouldn't think of wearing a dress or skirt without stockings. Until summer tans appeared.

I miss good songs. Ones you can remember. Sung by people who have an acquaintance with something called melody.

I miss making out. When that was all that happened. Because she didn't allow you to reach second.

I miss people who say "you're welcome."

I miss sturdy brogans. Shined.

I miss my dad, on the phone Sunday morning, making a few calls. That afternoon: a cookout with forty folks in our backyard. Uncle Frank, on his five-stringed guitar, bellowing "It's a Sin To Tell a Lie."

I miss the fact that you never complained about school (or a teacher) to your folks.

I miss actual milkshakes. That someone assembled.

I miss being tucked in at night.

I miss my grandmother's fried chicken. And scrambled eggs.

I miss when, in January, people stopped talking about football, enjoyed basketball and anxiously awaited baseball season. And even during the fall, when men wouldn't ignore their families to watch games.

I miss reading letters. I still write them. But I used to have pen pals. You couldn't phone; it was too expensive.

I miss the vaporizer, steaming away on the top of the chifforobe, when I had a cold.

I miss my hometown and the people there.

Enough of this nostalgia. Back to snark soon.

Kids' Books for Everyone!

It's about time our little ones actually learned, instead of just being entertained!

Not original, but couldn't resist.

How to Play

Music that is.

No, I'm not coming from the stance of being an "ace." I did teach for some time. Could not lie to parents whose kids sucked, didn't practice or didn't care.

But I have learned.

Practice perfect. If you practice mistakes, they become ingrained in you. If you keep it up, you will get worse at your instrument.

It's not about time. It's about using the time well. Plus, if you just count hours, you will be practicing when you're tired. Which accomplishes nothing.

Go back to basics. Woodshed on those scales, etudes, exercises and rudiments. You won't be sorry.

Speed kills. If you really feel like you need to be the fastest kid on the block, you are probably sacrificing technique to do so. And singers, high notes and vocal fireworks kill.

You don't need the best. Equipment that is. In my experience, players who talk incessantly about their gear are often substandard musikers.

Go easy on the headphones. Especially for drummers. They are great for learning certain chops and playing along with your idols. They are pieces of shit in teaching you how to drive a band (see, drummers?) or play in an ensemble.

Work on your sound. This one talks to horn players in particular. If I hear you ripping off sixteenth-note runs, I never get to appreciate the actual sound you are producing. And that sound is everything. Hey, Mr. Hendrix, Jr., do you really needs 22 stomp boxes to sound good? Jeesh!

Play with the best. The more you surround yourself with master players, the better you will become.

Learn to read. Or brush up. I have seen slump-shouldered players banished from sessions because they couldn't read a chart. At least learn to follow the "roadmap" of a chord chart. You can do this in a week.

Quit. Did I just say that? Yep. "Shift gears" might be a better admonition. If your group is going nowhere--or stuck in a rut playing the same gigs in front of the same people, change is the only thing that can rescue you. Okay, Slumpy McGuinness grew up on your block. He can't play bass. He is holding you back--and probably others. Bye, Slumpy.

Play the song. Not just your part. Most likely, you're there to support a singer. Here's an idea: Why not set a wonderful sound picture for a beautiful song? Or would you rather shred?

Don't trust your friends. Relax. I'm sure your buds travel all over creation to see you play. Of course, they're going to say how great you and the band are. But these folks are biased. See how you to when playing in front of new audience. That is a better barometer.

"Tasty" is great. "Too tasty" is, well, boring. The world needs offensive linemen.

Listen. To what every other player is doing. This means learning your music inside/out/over/under/up/down. When you can play the tune in your sleep, now your ears are freed up to improve the entire ensemble. If you know only one way to play a tune, head to the shed. Now you begin to make it better, Jude.

Don't base your playing on someone else. There already is a Clapton, Peart (!), Winwood. When you get comfortable with your own self, people will listen more closely. If you imitate, you will never find your own voice.

Record. As often as possible. This allows you to re-examine your playing in the best way. And also discover what might need work.

Open up. To other types of music. If you are a into Metal Vöid, cool. Just don't expect to get called for gigs where you have to play at less than 11 on the amp.

Disregard the civilians. Of course, they pay to see you play. Appreciate them. But bear in mind they don't know much about music. Folks will always react to a hit song played in mediocre fashion. But when you and the gang pull off a way intense tune, don't be surprised when you get a wimpy golf clap. In short, acknowledge and entertain the crowd. Just don't base your performance on them.

Some of this may seem brusque. It's not meant to be. I'm not even talking about the business here.

Now go play. Or practice.

The Chase Scene-Demystified

Was watching a film on the CRT the other day and witnessed a lively, spirited chase scene. It occurred to me that there are only a few parts to such a scene and that directors have been cutting and pasting the same clichés together for, well, decades. Here's my collection. Warning: As a convenience, I am simply using Good Guy/Bad Guy nomenclature. I realize that women do get involved, as well as the entire LBGTIV?XPi community. No offense meant.

The Hotel Conundrum
Many chase scenes begin in hotels (or nightclubs). Often the Bad Guy overtakes private security in an elevator.

• Unidentified Good-Guy security people are always foiled pre-chase and usually experience physical harm.
• The scene must go through the kitchen.
• The kitchen help are always Hispanic or Asian. They get really upset about said scene, with much shouting in many languages. None of them sustains serious injury. 
• No member of the kitchen staff does anything to thwart the Bad Guy.
• Both Good Guys and Bad Guys must knock over a rack of plates or cause somesuch other damage.
• No chase scene ever ends in a kitchen.

Obtaining a Vehicle

• In miraculous fashion, Bad Guys end up at the front of the hotel, even though they left through the kitchen.
• There is always a hot car or massive SUV waiting.
• Bad Guys commandeer these vehicles from civilians and valets with little or no resistance. Perhaps some fist-shaking ensues. We never learn if these poor folks get compensated for their loss.
• Good Guys must wave impatiently to their drivers to pull around and pick them up. This gives Bad Guys the proverbial Head Start.

Face it, McQueen wrote the book.

On the Road

• Overriding Rule: Both Good and Bad Guys in cars never hit anything important with gunfire in a car chase.
• If the group gets to a highway/freeway, the Good Guy always catches up to the Bad Guy. They drive abreast.
• The cars begin to bash each other, side to side. Although it looks as if major damage is being done, all cars are still driveable.
• If the chase is in Europe, Bad Guys feel free to cross the median. Oncoming traffic avoids collisions, as if by magic.
• If the Bad Guys have a MiniCooper, they will eventually jump onto the sidewalk. They will annoy pedestrians, often causing groceries to fly all over the joint.
• At some point, a bevy of local cops will join the fray. They are useless and simply crash into one another.
• If the chase occurs anywhere in the Middle East, it must continue down a narrow alley ringed with merchants. One fruit stand will be mushed to smithereens, with melons and other comestibles airborne, followed by keffiyeh-clad, cursing locals.
• If any movie is shot in San Francisco, there will be a car chase. And every car is shown lifting off at intersections. This is ironclad. There are no flat streets in this town.
• Sometimes a bus or other jitney is involved. The drivers of these vehicles must be portly, balding, African-American gents. Such scenes are inserted to slow down the Good Guys. The public vehicle will incur some damage while the drivers stare bug-eyed and let out with a "Whoa!" or "Omigod!" But no one is hurt. 

On Foot

• Bad Guys run faster and know shortcuts. Good Guys have no idea about a route because they are itinerant agents who don't know the lay of the land.
• All Guys must brusquely manhandle civilians out of the way, rather than avoid contact.
• An escalator will be involved, with multiple Guys going down the wrong way.
• The woman, pram and infant will go unharmed.
• Once again, if in the Middle East, see the above point re: fruit and alleys.
• No civilians intervene, e. g., tripping bad guys, etc.
• There will be an unmarked door. Bad Guys instinctively know this is a way to evade pursuers. They duck into it, and Good Guys pass the door, then realized they are lost and go back and use the door.
• Every street crossed has plenty of traffic. All Guys must slide across a hood at some point. SFX: horns beeping and indecipherable epithets.
• Bad Guys can easily scale any fence built by humans. Good Guys, not so hot.
• If  Bad Guy plunges from a bridge into a river, the Good Guys do not follow suit. Instead, they look rueful and throw their hands into the air. And ... cut.

In General

• Everyone involved is an expert driver, highly skilled in life-threatening evasive maneuvers.
• If a Guy commandeers a motorcycle, it is a dirt bike originally driven by a wimp. These bikes can amazingly navigate steep stairs and other impediments, no prob.
• The only hope for Good Guys is when the Bad Guys crash their cars and lose consciousness. Otherwise, Bad Guys get away.

You're welcome gang.

Guest post(humously) from Robert B. Parker

Shucks, I shouldn't have held onto this for so long. Couldn't think of anything to write today, so please accept this offering from the late RBP.

Even though it was midmorning, I was in my lounge mode. I had just closed a good piece of business involving an errant heir. I grabbed him up before he could squander his sizable fortune on a slattern in Isle of Palms, SC.

So I plated up a couple of banana-nuts from the Pewter Pot, made myself a pot of Café Bustelo and settled down with the Globe crossword on my desk. Although an angry wind whined its way up Boylston Street, I was in a safe place.

Until a couple odder than Mr. Simon could have imagined strolled into the office.

The guy, I noticed first. He was definitely muscle: squat, swarthy and jittery. He wore an ill-fitting Anderson Little suit, solid navy, with a solid maroon tie. Was that a mustard stain on it? I disliked him instantly, which can be an asset when you're a private dick. I actually preferred the term Creative Investigator, as my card read. And I hated solid ties with solid suits. Just bad form.

He wore cop shoes.

Most of all, I eyed the bulge near his left armpit. You see, varsity muscle have their suits tailored to better conceal a piece. Plus, no beef worth his ribeye would wander around Boston with such a despairing, brow-furrowing visage.

She was a knockout.

Before I could take her all in, Beefy spoke.

"Spenser?" he said.

"Aha," I said, lowering my chair and sipping the joe. "It can read."

"What?" the duo said, in concert.

I said, "Well. That's the name on the door. And ma'am, I felt it politically correct not to assign a gender your, erm, escort."

Beefy was still afluster, so I let my eyes graze.

Tallish, maybe five-nine. Probably early fifties although looking much younger. Beautiful locks of burnished copper, in a seamless pageboy. Just a scoche of makeup. A brown skirt, sufficiently short enough to display two perfect pins encased in sheer hose. A nubby, price-intensive tweed sportjacket. Medium oxblood heels, supremely matching a leather purse. Coach, I thought. A demure scarf hid other assets.

But what hit me first was the Bronze Goddess. Which scent intoxicates me. Not that I am fluent in women's cosmetics. Said elixir was also worn by Susan Silverman, PhD, she of Cambridge and, occasionally, my bed. We have been off and on for almost two decades. Now, it was on. My nostrils faltered.

The dumbass jolted me from my reverie. "I doan like guys like youse." He stirred a bit.

I said, "I don't mind the opprobrium, but your grammar is horrific."

I saw him twitch again. As he said, "You tink you're a hard guy," his right arm went under his jacket. Before the dolt got the last word out, I was around my desk. Twinkletoes I am not, but years of boxing have left me somewhat adroit on my feet, if a tad scarred around the schnozz.

I grabbed the guy's right wrist and twisted it violently behind his back. I gripped his collar with my left and shoved him smartly into the door jamb. His head met metal with a crisp snap.

I said, "Don't think I'm a hard guy. Just am."

As he slumped to the floor, I turned to his companion. "Ma'am," I said, "if we're going to do any sort of business, I'll need Rufus Leaking here to leave the premises."

She looked horrified, face flushed. She said, "I abhor violence. But you are correct. That is not his name. Wayne, you may leave. Add your carfare to my bill. You have proven useless."

I said, "Seems." I resumed my seat as Wayne, wheezing loudly,  managed to pick himself up and head for the hall.

I closed the office door and locked it. I eyed the right-hand desk drawer where my .357 lay in wait. Wouldn't need it, I figured.

The woman said, "Wayne used to work for my husband, Trent Tetherton. I thought I might need him today. It appears not..." She paused and drew herself together.

"I am Trent's ex-wife, Blanche. Mr. uh, Spenser."

"As in the zillionaire-I-make-golf-clubs-for-the-stars Trent Tetherton?"

"The same."

"Spenser is fine. I am titleless. But there certainly is no need to bring, er, a physical minion along when you wish to hire a Creative Investigator. I assure you. I actually serve at your pleasure. How can I be of assistance? Coffee?"

She shook her head. I'd have to guess.

"Martial infidelity? Money worries? Blackmail? Threats? Business treachery?" I was beginning to run out of reasons for my employ.

She shook her head again. I searched mine. I said, "A missing person?"

She nodded vigorously. The scarf fell away a bit. And the view was gratifying.

I said, "And do you wish me to find someone? Or bring someone to justice?"

"Both. It's my daughter, Jonquil. She's been abducted."

"I have never met a human named Jonquil. Do have a son named Forsythia?"

"You know, Mr., ah, Spenser, you can be quite annoying."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tetherton, I was hoping you'd notice. It's a trait I've been honing for years. Comes with the job. Now tell about this abduction."

"Well, Jonquil is an only child. My pride and joy. She's all I have left, after I evicted my cheating husband. She's a senior at Cranmore, majoring in ceramics."

I stirred my tepid coffee. "And I'll bet you took old Trent down for more than a few drachmas. Bronze Goddess doesn't come cheap." Neither did Cranmore, a school for young ladies of a certain pedigree who had no discernible talent or intellect.

My visitor reddened again. "You are also rude, sir."

"It complements the annoying part. Now details." I beamed, which seemed to mollify her.

"It began at last year's Spring Jubilee at the college. Jonnie met a musician there. A drummer." She spat the two occupations out as if they were vile curses.

"Now it appears as though she's run off with him."

"How old is 'Jonnie'?"

"She's twenty-two. She spent some time in Basel after her sophomore year."

Of course, Basel. I raised my palms, as if in surrender. I said, "I have to tell you, Mrs. Tetherton, there may be no crime here."

"WHAT!" The word was a projectile. I wondered when someone last contradicted her, The Carter administration?

I added, "She's an adult, in everyone's eyes. Unless someone forced her, she has the right to 'run off' with anyone she darn well pleases, to be frank. Maybe she eloped."

I thought Blanche Tetherton was going to swoon. I do this to women from time to time.

"And who might this 'musician' be?"

"Ace Holleran."

I brushed some cobwebs aside. Yep, the guy who used to play here with Orchestra Luna. A pretty good drummer. Maybe a tad craggy in the face. I heard he had hit the big time in L. A.

I said, "What I can do, ma'am, is find your daughter. Maybe even bring her back to you, if that's what she wants."

"Will this be in the papers? I hope not." I noticed that she had rearranged her scarf over her chest. Drat.

"No need for that unless there's been a crime. One more question. Would there be, say, an honorarium for the drummer if he cuts ties with her?"

"My financial situation is quite entrenched, Spenser. I can buy just about anything I please. Here's a picture of Jonnie."

She didn't blink when I mentioned my up-front fee. Finding an itinerant musician might be expense-laden.

She produced a checkbook. Its cover matched her footgear and bag. I began to like her. As we stood up, the scent of the leather and the Bronze Goddess mingled in heavenly fashion. We stood a foot or so apart. Her eyes moistened. I thought she might hug me. Didn't.

I said, "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"There isn't a hard guy anywhere on this planet named Wayne."

Her thin lips parted, revealing an incandescent smile. Then she was gone.

I didn't sit long. I had work to do.

If I Ran Television ...

Everyone kvetches. "A zillion channels, but nothing worth watching."

Heck I can fix that. Below, some modest proposals for shows and networks, all doable.

The Pink Floyd Channel - Can't get to sleep? I know the feeling. 24/7 Floyd vids. Commercials by ZZZquil, Ambien and Tylenol PM. Guaranteed: no tempi over 72 beats per minute. Nighty-night!

Grammarian Sports - All your favorite sports talking heads ... plus athletes! Here's the nifty catch. Each time someone abuses the language, a stern, prim schoolmarm (armed with a Taser) corrects these gaffes, and the speaker cannot proceed until s/he corrects the error. Add in a smart electric zapadoo for every "y'know."

The Little Rascals Channel - Just think, your favorite classics at your disposal. Unexpurgated too, no matter what Cosby says. I can hear that cake go "Weep ... Wow" already. Hey goat hold it, there's a baby throwing money out the window! O-tay!

The Free Bird Channel - Perfect for frat hazing, annoyance or just plain torture, this network would offer continuous Skynyrd covers by a melange of garage (and garbage!) bands.

The Deadliest Hunters - A savvy group of camo guys, all outfitted with the latest kit, track animals using high-tech appurtenances and manly ordnance. BUT, in the same woods are Jimmy Ed Tarbox and his mouth-breathing clan, banged-up on moonshine and loaded for bear ... and hunters encroaching on their property.

Emeril Returns - Our fave Mass-Cajun chef tries a new tack: This time around, his army of minions backstage perfecting the "heroes" are nowhere to be found. Ergo, he's actually cooking. Don't miss the Rachael Ray swimsuit episode. BAM!

Morgan Freeman Phone Messages - Just send in your personalized greeting and The Voice of God will read it on the air, enabling your IDroid to resonate with magic and importance.

Transgender Sumo - Self explanatory.

The No-Tune Network - Your fave music vids—all with the AutoTune stripped from vocals. Amuse your friends! Here's what Adele and Taylor really sound like.

The Non-Harmon Channel - A lively gallimaufry of tube fun and adventure. Plus—believe it or not—not one show includes Mark Harmon!

The Deadliest Ketch - The trials and tribs of the well-bred, nasal yacht set in Newport, RI. Duly soapy brine. What are Courtwright's TopSiders doing under Agnetha's bed? Tune in to find out. Racy, indeed.

I'm watching, DVR at the ready. Check your leastings.

26 Minutes Redux

I first attempted this exercise in Febraury of '15. I wanted to write a (very) short story ... just to see how long it took. I didn't write with undue alacrity. I just sat and wrote until I was happy. It took 26 minutes. In the mood for another story, I plan on writing for 26 minutes, then stopping wherever I am. So, bear with me, all of my dozen fans. The neighborhood of Park Terrace is chronicled in one of my ever-growing trove of unpublished novels, Slow Dancin'. You can read the other scribblings here.

May 10, 2016, 4:00pm

Tales from Park Terrace

The New Kid

Since few people moved in and out of Park Terrace, a new kid at school was huge news. The girls of St. Dymphna's, daintily jumpered and saddle-shod, would start the whispering. The guys would eventually come around. This all happened just before Christmastime. I was in the sixth.

The kid's name was Dickie. A little taller than I (well, everyone was, even the girls), but gangly. A walking pantograph, if you will. He seemed to amble about the playground in multiple directions, as if avoiding an unlucky straight line. Maggot Nimmets challenged him to a race. This was an early testosterone test among the kids of Park Terrace. We ran everywhere.

Dickie managed to fold his arms about his corpus. He replied in a calm, almost aristocratic voice, "I'd rather not." Maggot launched a few choice words in the new kid's direction, none of which ruffled Dickie.

Dickie was a bit of a towhead. but it wasn't the color of his hair that we noticed. It was his coif's lack of direction. His hair spiked crazily away from his head—amazingly mimicking his limbs. Sister Hugo even took after him with a comb, brush and Vitalis that first day. She was a stickler for neatness. Dickie protested mildly, "This will have no effect, Sister. I am not debonair."

He was right. Big Fun Laughlin pegged it, "Kid has mental hair, Nipper," he said to me.

One of the girls asked where Dickie lived. He turned his head—but his hair seemed to turn in an opposite direction—and said, "I reside on Barkentine Lane."

Uh, oh. This road was on Seeman's Hill, the small enclave in Park Terrace reserved for the moneyed few who still lived in the city. The automatic attachment: Here's a snotty rich kid. Most Hill kids attended fancypants private schools in the 'burbs that encased our crumbling city.

As a matter of course, Dark Mark Longeuil challenged Dickie to a fight a few days after his arrival. For Mark, tussling was a hobby. Some kids built car models. Mark fought. He wasn't the toughest kid, but he was the most fearless.

Mark batted Dickie about the shoulders a few times, "C'mon kid, let's go."

Dickie's disposition stayed waveless, a tranquil pond. "I shall not go anywhere with you. And I abhor fighting."

I decided to step in and offer to walk home for a bit with Dickie. My home on Midfield was on the way.

Dickie shed the slightest tear. He said little. I tried to calm with stories of guys who had bested ("taken") Dark Mark.

Soon after that, most of us left Dickie alone. He was a superlative student, but slings of "brown nose" gave him little pause.

When spring rolled around, he found himself on Ballard's Field, home of the PT Little League. He was picked for the Green Sox, my team. Coach Ziggy Toth, an evil, tobacco-spewing martinet, eyed Dickie cautiously.

In the third game of the season, Ziggy took a chance and used Dickie to pinch hit. We were down to the Panthers by ten runs. Dickie calmly strode to the plate. His elbows seemed to extend into the opposite batter's box.

He took three balls and two strikes. Ziggy cursed under his breath. On the sixth pitch, Dickie swung. His limbs (and hair) flailed in the spring sunset. Ash met horsehide with a feral crack.

And the ball flew off his bat. And flew and flew and flew into the industrial waste site, way over the fence.

Dickie set new league records that year, both for strikeouts and homers. He seemed to effect only those two modes of at-bats. He shunned any praise. His father would drive him home in a leviathan of a Cadillac.

We won the league championship. Dickie refused to play for the All-Star team, saying, "I would rather end my sport season here."

When school began in September. Dickie wasn't there.

I forget his last name.

4:26 pm