All the stuff what I like.

Influential X

darin

Concluding the series recalling the top ten life and literary influencing albums in my collection (in no particular order), I hope you’ve enjoyed this journey with me. More than that, I hope maybe you’ve looked up some of the albums and artists I’ve included in my list, streamed some of the tunes … and maybe you’ve been inspired to think of your own top ten.

All good things come to an end. My list of ten ends here, with—

Post Ten of Ten

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Pronounced Leh-Nerd Skin-Nerd LS

G D Em F C Dsus D Dsus D Dsus D

Chances are, if you play guitar that’s enough to tell you what this post is all about.

It was 1979 for me, two years after the fateful crash in Mississippi that took Ronnie van Zant, Steve and Cassie Gaines of the band Lynyrd Skynyrd from the world. I was twelve. My next-door neighbor was thirteen. And we were going to start a band.

Now, I’d never played any instrument, really. I did try trombone in beginning band in 5thgrade. I had long arms, and that’s all it takes to excite an elementary school music teacher into believing he’d found the next great … who is a world-famous trombonist? I don’t even know.

But me and my friend were going to start a rock band. And this kid’s parents had money, so he possessed a really nice drum set and a really nice electric guitar and amp. He couldn’t play either of them. But that didn’t matter. Together, we could make one hell of a racket.

He put on Skynyrd’s first album and played track eight, the very last song on the album, Freebird. He asked, “Guitar or drums?” Guitar came with a chord chart—the aforementioned progression. In no time, I was strumming away while my friend attempted to lay down a beat. We were headed for the big time. Not really. My guitar ability came to an abrupt end after that Dsus chord. Those solos? Forget it. His drumming was more headache than heartbeat. We parked that thing in the garage.

But at twelve, there’s a lot going on in a young man’s head. Dreams. Fantasies. Fears. Awakening to some of life’s harsher realities. And this song, this album, and this band became a pretty big part of ushering adolescence and beyond into my young life.

I asked my dad to take me to the record store to buy the album. I listened to it over and over. I just about wore that album out.

I felt the irony of a man writing and singing about going away because he was ‘free as a bird’ … and then departing via an airplane crash. I wondered about life and death—you know, as a kid, one of the first times that concept really crosses your mind. I pondered what it would be like for those members of the band that survived to have lived while their friends died. And I was struck by the music—southern rock, they called it. Different than the other music I’d heard. It was down-to-earth. That’s the only way I could describe it then. Still fits when I hear those tunes today.

I spent the most time listening to Freebird—it’s like ten minutes long, for crying out loud. But I also toured the rest of the album, and enjoyed almost every song. Simple Man grabbed me. I loved the down-home feel, a boy and his mama. See—there’s the southern charm. Who up north called their mother Mama? The song’s story spoke of what matters most in this world. Practical advice. And in real-time, advice worth following.

Gimme Three Steps, too. Life advice! Be careful who you look at, young man! You never know if she may be the object of someone else’s affection … and the next thing you know, “you could hear me screaming a mile-a-way as I was headed out towards to door!” Tuesday’s Gone spoke of love’s breakdown. I was just at the age where that stuff started to compute for me, the hurt when you liked someone and they didn’t return your affection, or worse, when I met the kid whose parents were divorced. That was so strange to me … Parents divorce? Oh my!

This album became a thought-provoker for me in that most formative season of my life. It was the story that captured me—the story in each song … and the story of this band that met its end in a horrifying way, leaving their fans to wonder what might have been. Left me wondering how often all of us, every human being, encounters a ‘what might have been?’ longing.

And how life itself is fuel for a writer’s writing. Ronnie van Zant said it best, as only a good old southern boy can: “If prisons, freight trains, swamps, and gators don’t get ya to write songs, man, y’ain’t got no business writin’ songs.”

 

 

I'm so happy to be here!

I Was A Fifty-One Year Old Flip-Flop Virgin

darin

Miracles do happen. On occasion, an old dog can be taught a new trick. I’m living proof. Or, better … my feet are living proof.

IMG_0303

Here’s something very few of you know about me. Startling writer confession, are you ready? Intimate and personal. Here you go–

I was a fifty-one-year old flip-flip virgin. 

It’s true. The first time my feet ever wore flip-flops happened in July 2018, three months after my fifty-first birthday. This summer during our month in the sun, I purposed myself to man-up … or … toe-up. And although it was difficult at first, I’m happy to tell you I’ve learned to love my flip-flops. I’m a convert.

You may think this confession of mine ridiculous. You most certainly think my reluctance is even more ridiculous. Doesn’t EVERYONE wear flip-flops?

Something else you didn’t know about me: I am very protective of my feet. I don’t know how or why this is the case. It just is. What does this look like? I’ll tell you.

  • My feet never go outside unshod. I wear shoes every time I step out of my house. Always have. Never have I gone outside barefoot. A simple task like running out to the driveway to get something out of the car, or stepping out to put something in the mailbox, or even stepping out in the yard to walk the dog … ‘Let me grab my shoes’ is always my first thought.
  • My feet are incredibly sensitive. As you might imagine, my heretofore virgin feet are soft and not calloused. Walking to the car in the driveway would be painful for me barefoot. I’d feel every little pebble or imperfection I stepped on as if I were walking on nails.
  • My feet are most often socked. See the photo above? That’s my feet … right now … as I’m typing this blog post. See? Socks! Why let my feet get dirty or dusty walking on floors? Slip on socks … perfect. Comfy. Cozy. Clean.

Recognizing that this really was an unknown to me–the convenience of wearing flip-flops–I purposed myself to experiment this summer in Florida. I wanted to become a flip-flopper.

Those of you who lost your flip-flop virginity young, be grateful.

I faced three challenges. (1) Getting used to having something between my toes. OUCH! Let me just tell you, those of you who lost your flip-flop virginity young, be grateful. Trying to convince fifty-one year old toes which have always snuggled together in bliss that a big rubber or leather strap needs to poke into their sacred space … daunting. And (2), trying to educate your toes to flex just enough to hold on to the flip-flop as it flips and flops–for fear that if you don’t grip it you’ll flip out of your flops and DANGER! DANGER! … it was stressful, I tell you. ‘Step … grip … step … grip.’ I quite literally had to think about what you thong-wearing veterans do without so much as a thought. Finally (3), learning to keep the flip-flops from falling off your feet when you sit down on a barstool … oh my! This is of particular importance to me, because I sit on a lot of barstools. I am a writer. I’ll confess: I’m still learning this. I need more practice. Hehe. Help me out? Invite this old boy out for a pint. I’ll just grab my flip-flops and be on my way.

Seriously, I’m pretty proud of this milestone in my life. I conquered a fear. O, HELL NO! I won’t be walking out to the mailbox barefoot! But I will slip on my flip-flops and make the trek. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?

All the stuff what I like.

Influential IX

darin

Continuing a series recalling the ten most life and literary influencing albums in my collection–in no particular order. Although I’ve gotten to this album at Roman numeral IX … were they prioritized, this album would rightfully be number ONE. I’d further assert, THIS ALBUM should be numero uno on everyone’s list. You there! Get to the store! Buy it! Listen to it! THIS ONE will change your life!

How’s that for a run up?

Post Nine of Ten

Born To Run: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

This album dropped in 1975. But it wasn’t until 1982 that I discovered it. Thanks to a Jersey-girl named Gina Nardone. BTR

Gina was a pizza chef at Don Ciccio’s Big Cheese (sort of like a poor man’s Chuck E. Cheese restaurant) where I was … The Big Cheese. Think I’m kidding? I’ll offer photo proof below. Look how proud Mom was in this picture. Her son had made it to the top!

“You don’t like The Boss?” Gina said, incredulously? “He can’t sing!” I argued. “You don’t listen to The Boss for his singing voice,” she protested. “You listen to Bruce for the story.”

And that, my friends, is probably the best piece of life advice I’ve ever received.

Over the years, Bruce’s gravely voice has grown on me. And that band–“You’ve just witnessed the heart-stopping, pants-dropping, hard-rocking, booty-shaking, love-making, earth-quaking, Viagra-taking, justifying, death-defying, legendary E STREET BAND!”–is, in my humble opinion, the best live band in the world. But it is Bruce’s storytelling that initially caught my attention and has been a go-to escape ever since.

BCGina handed me a copy of Born To Run one day at the pizzeria, “I dare you to really give this a listen and come back here and tell me you’re not a fan.”

The album opens with Thunder Road. I saw the screen door slam. I saw Mary’s dress sway. I was there, from the very first few notes, watching the story unfold. I smirked at the line, “You ain’t a beauty but, eh, you’re alright.” Brutally honest.

I was drawn into the action. I cheered Tenth Avenue Freeze Out’s announcement that they’d “made the change uptown and the Big Man joined the band.” I felt the tension of all the teenage and young adult angst, of trying to find your way in the world. It was real. I was living it, too.

I flipped the album over–and my life would never be the same.

Cars, girls, an (underage) sip of warm beer in the soft summer rain–all of the components of my own coming of age saga–and the illusive promise of a bright future became the soundtrack of my life from the ages of fifteen to … today.

Someday girl I don’t know when we’re going to get to that place where we really want to go and we’ll walk in the sun … But until then tramps like us, baby we were born to run

Gina was right. I was a fan. THEN … I heard Jungleland.

If you haven’t … you must. The story is as heartbreaking a teenage love story as exists anywhere. There are parts of the story, I dare say, we all can relate to. And if the story doesn’t stir you deep, The Big Man’s nearly three-minute long sax solo will. Best three-minutes in rock-n-roll history, I tell you.

I credit three major contributions to my wanting to become a writer: (1) Mom instilled the treasure of stories and storytelling in our family. (2) My sister Diann gave me a copy of Shel Silverstein’s Where The Sidewalk Ends when I was ten years old. And (3), Gina Nardone handed me a copy of Born To Run when I was fifteen.

Springsteen is THE BOSS. Take it from … The Big Cheese.

 

 

 

Did'ya blow?

FMM

darin

Five Minute Memoir quip #431

I’m wondering … How often do you suppose we unintentionally become the a$$- – – in someone else’s story?

I was on the beach yesterday as the tide was coming in. My wife and I had to move our chairs and all our gear back several yards to avoid being washed out to sea. Then we noticed, off to our right, someone’s towel. The rising tide was closing in. My wife and I discussed, “Should we go move that stranger’s towel back?” We wondered aloud about the risks–would someone see us touching their stuff and be angered? We did the obligatory look around–we saw no one who might have owned this towel. We considered that it may have been abandoned or accidentally left behind. Just then a wave reached the towel–not enough to carry it away, just enough to dampen the edges. It wouldn’t be long, though. What should we do?

Just then a man came running up from far away. He’d been swimming and the current had obviously taken him way down range of his towel. He bent down, scooped it up … and shot an incredulous look at us. You know what that look said to me? You got it.

So today he’s telling that story to others. “And there were these a$$- – -s sitting right there next to my towel and …”