Gray and overcast. Cool. Melancholy baby.
I joined a roomful of old friends, and many people I didn't know, at a downtown church this morning in remembrance of another friend, Eric, whose decomposed body was found earlier this month in the Genesee River. Foul play not suspected. It was, quite simply, the tragic end to a very sad life.
Handsome. Adorable. Star athlete. Track team. Ski team. Highly intelligent. Kind and tender soul. Ravaged by schizophrenia and decades of drug abuse.
Those present reminisced about his appreciation of flowers and constant seeking of knowledge: philosophy, science, religion and physiology. Almost all comments returned to his gentle nature and indomitable spirit. To his abundant sense of humor and the sparkle in his eyes. A family friend of his, who arranged the memorial service, shared how he presciently said to her, "Everyone has a future ahead of them; I have only my past." To ease that pain, an older man brought a chrysalis that is expected to hatch this week to remind us of how, like a butterfly, Eric has been released from this life's bondage and transitioned to another state. I take comfort in knowing he's now roaming someplace infinitely more beautiful than here.
My favorite stories were those that reminded me of my time spent with him while growing up in Pittsford village. Stories, with long overdue apologies to his father, about stealing bottles of 1962 Château Lafite Rothschild from their wine cellar which gained the neighborhood moniker "Klein's fine wines." Stories about the various caves and forts he inhabited throughout town. And story after story about his love for music--which seemed to be another shared bind between Eric and many of us.
After some discussion of how he firmly believed he was, in fact, Jumpin' Jack Flash (a song another friend posted on Facebook in remembrance last week), one pony-tailed dude whom I had never met, commented on the notable absence of music today. He then got up and played Mr. Tambourine Man on the piano. And for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I listened to the lyrics while attempting to suppress my sobs.
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it
As for me, I have spent years scanning the sidewalks as I drove down East Ave. looking for him -- because that's where I would tend to see him most often. You could find him walking anywhere and everywhere in this city, his long, gray hair flying. He always looked homeless yet strangely content.
Now that he's gone, I know that I will continue to look for him because old habits don't die easily. But now my seeking will be filled with a low grade melancholy feeling. Just like today.
Hey Mr. Tamborine Man, play a song for me. In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.
Showing posts with label bob dylan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bob dylan. Show all posts
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Dancing Queen
I'm thrilled that it's taken a turn for August so early in the year. Sunshine. Hammock season. Little League games. Neighborhood walks. Heaven.
Lastly, what makes me happiest (well, one of the things at least) is dancing like a goofball (yeah, an oft-cited fact). Out with the girls a couple of weeks ago, we were driving home early and made a spontaneous U-turn on Monroe Ave. Kidnapped them with a last minute decision to see the Hi-Risers at the Bug Jar. We waded successfully to the front of the crowd and danced our little hearts out. Too much fun.
And last week, Cracker. Not as glorious as last year because a) I love dancing outside in the rain and b) their set was much too short this year but they're such great musicians, it never grows old for me. The best part? They played their Camper Van Beethoven hit, Take the Skinheads Bowling. The second best part? Sal, their bass player, stopped to chat with us in the parking lot after the show. Apparently, they had gone to the Bop Shop, home of the Hi-Risers' Greg Townson, earlier in the day and loved it. What's not to love?
Finally, this weekend is the 24th annual Bob Dylan birthday party at the Bop Shop atrium. Taking the kids to hear daddy play Positively 4th Street. Can't wait. Memorial Day weekend here we come!
Lastly, what makes me happiest (well, one of the things at least) is dancing like a goofball (yeah, an oft-cited fact). Out with the girls a couple of weeks ago, we were driving home early and made a spontaneous U-turn on Monroe Ave. Kidnapped them with a last minute decision to see the Hi-Risers at the Bug Jar. We waded successfully to the front of the crowd and danced our little hearts out. Too much fun.
And last week, Cracker. Not as glorious as last year because a) I love dancing outside in the rain and b) their set was much too short this year but they're such great musicians, it never grows old for me. The best part? They played their Camper Van Beethoven hit, Take the Skinheads Bowling. The second best part? Sal, their bass player, stopped to chat with us in the parking lot after the show. Apparently, they had gone to the Bop Shop, home of the Hi-Risers' Greg Townson, earlier in the day and loved it. What's not to love?
Finally, this weekend is the 24th annual Bob Dylan birthday party at the Bop Shop atrium. Taking the kids to hear daddy play Positively 4th Street. Can't wait. Memorial Day weekend here we come!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Like a Rolling Stone
Hunkering down inside today given that we're having another 12-17" of snow. It's beautiful.
The other night, when the hubby's family came for Christmas, we began talking about Crete because my sister-in-law's best friend married a Greek man who now lives barefoot and begrudgingly on Long Island.
My girlfriends, sister and I were barefoot and begrudgingly poverty stricken on Crete many moons ago. After spending a few days in Athens seeing the sights, we had taken an industrial tanker to Crete and slept on bunk beds overnight just to save a buck. What we hadn't counted on was that there wasn't another cheap return to the mainland for another few weeks. So, after a number of days at the beach and nights at the disco, my sister and my roommate Bae flew back to London. I can't remember exactly when the others left. I just know that my girlfriends Gail and Oliver stayed in the little town of Malia with me until we could take the next tanker off the island.
Highlights of our visit included a) the creamy yogurt, b) the freshly made moussaka, c) dancing to "Vamos a la Playa" which was a big Eurotrash hit at the time, d) Oliver getting kissed on the lips by some Greek geezer who said, "You have such big, strong legs" (over which she was distraught for weeks -- not the kiss from an old man, mind you, but the fact that "he said I had big legs") and e) getting propositioned as we walked down the street by every guy who saw us (i.e., a crowd of young blonds and one gorgeous redhead). "Are you American?" "Will you marry me?" (Why not? Let's just skip the boring getting to know each other part.)
Once we finally arrived back in Athens, we found out that the bus we were planning to take to London was broken so we scored a fleabag hotel for approximately $1/night (i.e., $0.33/each). It had cockroaches the size of a man's shoe on the steps and the water didn't run. There was enough of a trickle in the sink to brush our teeth but no showers were to be had. We didn't have enough money to do much so we saved it for grilled cheese sandwiches each night in the deli across the street.
(Note: I'm sure our parents would have helped had they known but this was pre-cell phones and international ATMs. On a side note, the only call we did make from a payphone was to Scott Spezzano at Rochester's own WPXY because we heard "Sister Christian" one day and no one could remember the band. For those keeping score, it was Knight Ranger.)
Every time we walked in for "dinner," the owner of the restaurant would immediately play Dylan in the jukebox and call out "Three Cheese of America Sandwiches" as if he had known us for years.
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
On our last day, we were trailed through the city by some middle eastern guys and we became a little fearful. When they hopped on the bus that we took to the beach, sat a few seats behind us, jumped off where we did and followed us onto the beach, we were scared to death. As the first group of guys we passed called out to us, Gail threw her towel and bag down and pretended we were the best of friends. "Hi!" Oliver and I followed and we ended up spending the day at the beach with these kind strangers who ensured our safety and drove us back to the hotel.
The next morning, we awoke to the cops outside. Our hotel was being condemned and we were being evicted. Oh well. When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.
The other night, when the hubby's family came for Christmas, we began talking about Crete because my sister-in-law's best friend married a Greek man who now lives barefoot and begrudgingly on Long Island.
My girlfriends, sister and I were barefoot and begrudgingly poverty stricken on Crete many moons ago. After spending a few days in Athens seeing the sights, we had taken an industrial tanker to Crete and slept on bunk beds overnight just to save a buck. What we hadn't counted on was that there wasn't another cheap return to the mainland for another few weeks. So, after a number of days at the beach and nights at the disco, my sister and my roommate Bae flew back to London. I can't remember exactly when the others left. I just know that my girlfriends Gail and Oliver stayed in the little town of Malia with me until we could take the next tanker off the island.
Highlights of our visit included a) the creamy yogurt, b) the freshly made moussaka, c) dancing to "Vamos a la Playa" which was a big Eurotrash hit at the time, d) Oliver getting kissed on the lips by some Greek geezer who said, "You have such big, strong legs" (over which she was distraught for weeks -- not the kiss from an old man, mind you, but the fact that "he said I had big legs") and e) getting propositioned as we walked down the street by every guy who saw us (i.e., a crowd of young blonds and one gorgeous redhead). "Are you American?" "Will you marry me?" (Why not? Let's just skip the boring getting to know each other part.)
Once we finally arrived back in Athens, we found out that the bus we were planning to take to London was broken so we scored a fleabag hotel for approximately $1/night (i.e., $0.33/each). It had cockroaches the size of a man's shoe on the steps and the water didn't run. There was enough of a trickle in the sink to brush our teeth but no showers were to be had. We didn't have enough money to do much so we saved it for grilled cheese sandwiches each night in the deli across the street.
(Note: I'm sure our parents would have helped had they known but this was pre-cell phones and international ATMs. On a side note, the only call we did make from a payphone was to Scott Spezzano at Rochester's own WPXY because we heard "Sister Christian" one day and no one could remember the band. For those keeping score, it was Knight Ranger.)
Every time we walked in for "dinner," the owner of the restaurant would immediately play Dylan in the jukebox and call out "Three Cheese of America Sandwiches" as if he had known us for years.
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
On our last day, we were trailed through the city by some middle eastern guys and we became a little fearful. When they hopped on the bus that we took to the beach, sat a few seats behind us, jumped off where we did and followed us onto the beach, we were scared to death. As the first group of guys we passed called out to us, Gail threw her towel and bag down and pretended we were the best of friends. "Hi!" Oliver and I followed and we ended up spending the day at the beach with these kind strangers who ensured our safety and drove us back to the hotel.
The next morning, we awoke to the cops outside. Our hotel was being condemned and we were being evicted. Oh well. When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.
Friday, May 16, 2008
The Answer My Friend
I realize that wind power, at this point in time, is expensive and doesn't yet justify a large investment -- at least economically speaking -- given that (even with government subsidies) the technology is insufficient and cannot cost effectively meet large scale production needs in a predictable fashion. Yet I do look forward to the day when wind turbines are economically viable and can provide safe, reliable, clean energy.
But I also think that people opposed to wind farms because they detract from the beauty of the landscape cannot see the forest through the windmills, so to speak. I personally think turbines are beautiful: clean lines, peaceful movement, dramatic presence.
(Image from Corus Group)
However, with all that said, I cannot help but ponder -- as I continually drive past what used to be Kodak Park and is now a barren landscape of leveled (i.e., imploded) buildings, empty parking lots and exposed pipes right in the heart of our city -- why do we need to put wind farms in areas of beauty? Why can't we put them in the midst of post-industrial urban decay? The answer may be as simple as the fact that underneath my proposed, ex-manufacturing landscape lies a sea of difficult-to-navigate, subsurface infrastructure (e.g., cables, pipes). Who knows.
I personally think an urban wind farm could redeem waste land that otherwise may remain neglected and an eyesore.
But I also think that people opposed to wind farms because they detract from the beauty of the landscape cannot see the forest through the windmills, so to speak. I personally think turbines are beautiful: clean lines, peaceful movement, dramatic presence.
(Image from Corus Group)
However, with all that said, I cannot help but ponder -- as I continually drive past what used to be Kodak Park and is now a barren landscape of leveled (i.e., imploded) buildings, empty parking lots and exposed pipes right in the heart of our city -- why do we need to put wind farms in areas of beauty? Why can't we put them in the midst of post-industrial urban decay? The answer may be as simple as the fact that underneath my proposed, ex-manufacturing landscape lies a sea of difficult-to-navigate, subsurface infrastructure (e.g., cables, pipes). Who knows.
I personally think an urban wind farm could redeem waste land that otherwise may remain neglected and an eyesore.
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