Sans Sons —

a Song in Names Only

Jesus Christ

Isaac Newton

Plato

Mother Teresa

Florence Nightingale

Mary Magdalene

Joan of Arc

Lawrence of Arabia

Edward the Confessor

Betsy Ross

Rosa Parks

Bert Parks

Susan B. Anthony

Arthur C. Clarke

Ralph J. Gleason

the Dali Lama

the Pope

the Babe

Dr. John

Dr. Suess

Dr. Kellogg

Howard Hughes

Amelia Earhart

both the Wright brothers

Henry David Thoreau

Oliver Wendell Holmes

George Bernard Shaw

Beethoven

Tchaikovsky

Vivaldi

George Gershwin

George Balanchine

George Washington

Louie Armstrong

Lionel Hampton

Lillian Hellman

Billie Holiday

Bettye LaVette

Ella Fitzgerald

Leonardo da Vinci

Michelangelo

Salvador Dali

Jackson Pollock

David Hockney

Georgia O’Keefe

Andy Warhol

Dostoyevski

Chekhov

Keats

Poe

Pound

Proust

Rimbaud

Whitman

Koufax

Mississippi John Hurt

Tennessee Williams

Washington Irving

William Blake

Henry Miller

Henry James

H.L. Mencken

T.S. Elliot

J.M. Barrie

Lewis Carroll

Edward Albee

Virginia Woolf

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edith Wharton

Eudora Welty

Emily Dickinson

Dorothy Parker

James Baldwin

Carlos Castaneda

Raymond Chandler

Allen Ginsberg

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Gore Vidal

Vaclav Havel

Edwin Hubble

Queen Elizabeth I

Oprah

Odetta

Annie Oakley

Harriet Tubman

Lily Tomlin

Diane Sawyer

Gilda Radner

Molly Ivins

Gloria Steinem

Gertrude Stein

Julia Child

Liza Minelli

Ginger Rogers

Mack Sennett

Billy Wilder

James Dean

Sal Mineo

Marilyn Monroe

Ann-Margret

Ava Gardner

Jacqueline Bisset

Bo Derek

Lauren Hutton

Daryl Hannah

Greta Garbo

Katherine Hepburn

Betty White

Ellen Burstyn

Burgess Meredith

Peter Ustinov

Montgomery Clift

Harry Dean Stanton

Victor Mature

Rock Hudson

Jimi Hendrix

Joseph Haydn

Bill Monroe

Aaron Copeland

Sonny Rollins

Little Richard

Charles Mingus

Jim Morrison

Lou Reed

Robert Hunter

Ron ‘Pigpen’ McKernon

Dave van Ronk

Garth Hudson

Steve Martin

Mitch Hedberg

Michael O’Donoghue

Bill Hicks

Dick Cavett

Graham Chapman

Tracy Chapman

Laurie Anderson

Dusty Springfield

Patti LaBelle

Christine McVie

Bonnie Raitt

Debbie Harry

Dolly Parton

Stevie Nicks

and … Janis

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

searched and deranged by yours,

Sir Really

Brian Hassett at

BrianHassett.com

Original Author’s Note:

This was written in April 1991 as a present to Jack’s oldest New York friend, Henri Cru, for his 70^th birthday.  Henri and I had been friends about ten years at this point, and there are endless stories about him, but this is the tale of just one night.  It was sort of a written-to-order gift:  Henri wanted the girls painted pretty, the jazz described just so, etc., even adding a few brush strokes himself.  The title comes from my writing about Henri in the Toronto Star, calling him, “Greenwich Village legend Henri Cru,” and the term playfully stuck for the rest of his life, which sadly ended the year after this night took place.

2010 Author’s Note:

When I read this two decades after he & I last spoke, I could hear his voice again. I hope it works for you — but I’m totally back in his junk-filled apartment listening to Henri tell stories.  He had the funniest way of talking.  A gracious loquacious preacher, with a little Edward G Robinson, ya-see?

As Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art.”
And boy, was he ever.  I have tons of phone messages he left over the years — many beginning, “You’re not gonna believe this, but …”  It would be such a cool project to gather them onto one tape so you could just listen to Henri’s stories for hours. I need an intern.

We lived 3 blocks from each other, and he’d call all hours of the day or night.  I was in my primetime 20’s so was out a lot, but my early-‘80s phone machine would record until the cassette ran out, so there’d be these nights I’d get home in the ska-doobalee of half-past-threebee, and the machine would take 5 minutes to rewind …

Henri loved this birthday piece, and gave it out to everyone he met till the day he died.  He’d always give away his last copy, and then call me in a panic cuz he “desperately” needed a new one.   :- )

Henri was just crazy in the Best way you can be crazy.  Boldly himself, eccentric, benevolent, honest . . . loopy as a loon, but joyously in love with people and life — like so many of the characters Kerouac captured in his books and who populated his life.  And mine, too.  How ‘bout you?

The Legend Turns 70

An Easter Sunday  In Greenwich Village

When I got the birthday invitation phone call to Henri’s House of Cards, on Bleecker Street, Manhattan, U.S.A., I was duly warned – “My apartment is smaller than the last time you were here.” And I knew with all the crap Henri carted home, he didn’t mean he’d rented out a room.

This first invitation was followed a few days later by an urgent midnight phone call. “Why — it’s Henri again! Is the party off?  Or we’re getting together a different night? Or, I know, he’s dis-inviting me — his old boozin’ beat buddies are in town and he wants them to have a seat at the Birthday Table.” But noooooooooooo. Not this Cru. He was calling fervently in the middle of the night to simply tell me the rest of his guests would be “just a bunch of real regular fella’s, and I wanted to let you know you’ll be amongst friends. There’ll be no roughnecks or oddballs — just the very nicest people I know in New York.”

“Real salt-of-the-earth types are they Henri?”

“YEEEES,” he bellowed, “You’ve got it exactly.”

He wanted me at his sanctuary by 5:00 on Sunday for some afternoon cocktails before an Easter dinner at a local Village establishment, followed by Maynard Ferguson at The Blue Note. “Hot damn,” I thought. “I’ll be hearing a legend, with a legend!”

As I arrived for the mysterious afternoon rendezvous with god-knows-who, I was smiling over Groucho Marx’s commandment about not belonging “to any club that would have me as a member.” There was no telling what colors might be at this Rainbow Gathering.

From the elevator canyon in the Atrium vestibule I peered up through the opening and could see Henri’s be-signed door with what appeared to be bar stools outside. As I bopped out of the elevator, there was Henri perched in his doorway like Santa Claus in summer, waving his big paw in the air and grinning like a retired Buddha. Sure enough the bartender was positioned behind his overflow stools, with the swatches, swirls and shapes of his castle spilling out behind him.

And speaking of his spilling castle, Henri’s stock-piling of supplies dates back to Pearl Harbor: You never know when you might get bombed, so months of supplies are always needed. And for anyone who gets bombed as often as Henri, you can never be too careful.

The party boy was looking great on his birthday I must say. I couldn’t believe how combed and perfect and full his hair was. His face was cheery and his eyes were bright. And you shoulda seen the vest and tie!

As he rolled his wheelchair backwards down its track (because there wasn’t room to turn around) the other birthday celebrants started coming into view in the dark recesses of The Cru Cave. There was Beanstock Gorman — who I used to think was quite tall until I met Big Tums who was towering above the refrigerator (which was very difficult to distinguish amongst the mosaic of streetside collectibles). Out from the darkness reached the big greeting hand of Beanstock’s on arms that seemed to stretch like Mr. Fantastic’s. Henri graciously ducked while Tums reached over like a pool cue to do the same.

Just as I was starting to feel very insecure about my height, these two Celtic guards began having some kind of Easter hallucination right in front of me, crying out, “Mary, Mary, Virgin Mother Mary of Christ, you look stunning!” I thought that was an odd thing to say to me, and as I turned around to inquire, out of the darkness sashayed this vixen princess in a tight black miniskirt and thigh-high boots. She was grinning so proudly it looked like she really did just sire Jesus! I started thinking to myself, ‘Now wait a minute, am I in Henri Cru’s apartment? Who is this girl? Maybe she´s in the wrong place. The door is open,” I thought as I looked beyond to see it was closed.

Running beneath the curvaceous soft leather skirt ran a dancer’s bodysuit that marvelously illuminated her finest curves. She was happy and giggling like a shy little girl on her birthday. “You look wonderful Mary,” “Mary, you look great,” “Ou BOY,” the guys were falling all over themselves trying to get a better view and out-compliment each other. She blushed, giggled, shuffled and swayed to the chorus of praise. Finally, as the wave began to subside, she politely said, “Hi, I’m Mary,” and reached out her delicate hand. “Henri bought me this outfit for his birthday. Try to restrain yourself,” she said, giggling again in time with the room.

Just as it was beginning to sink in that Henri actually knew someone this pretty, out from behind one of the columns of boxes popped this petit, long haired angel of about 17. Who are these girls, I was asking myself. The Celtic’s cheerleaders or what? “Hi, I’m Alexandra,” the dainty little face said. “Do you have a light?” Things were definitely looking up.

My old friend Henri has lived in Greenwich Village a long time. Some say too long. Visiting his apartment is like visiting a museum of two-for-one offers, or some collage of consumerism. Piles were supporting piles which became walls upon which more stuff was hung.

It’s kind of like that game Mousetrap, where nudging one item could set in motion an unstoppable string of events that crossed the entire room. So much was balancing on top of so much that the tiniest sneeze could bring down an empire. It was Henri’s House of Cards in more ways than one.

The place ticked with the complexity of Professor Pott’s windmill laboratory in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and mystified with the single light bulb ambiance of a subterranean prohibition bookie joint. There was absolutely no room left to stand, except on Henri’s wheelchair track which ran the width of a chair from the front door to the kitchen. Period.

And of course stalactites of flotsam had begun to drip from hooks in the ceiling, in the form of backpacks and tied-bags with clothes hangers hooked on. The cross-beam poles of sagging hickory were draped with belts, utensils and tools of every contrivance. The two Celtics were continually bashing their noggins on some suspended pot or other, or getting their faces caught in cobwebs of clothing, all the while doing this peculiar sort of ceiling dance as they bobbed their heads around the ever-shrinking cavern. It was sort of like urban spelunking. Or like taking a long trip with six people in a small car where every time you wanted to get something — even if it was out of your pocket — all six people had to re-arrange themselves.

And so it was into this slightly tight madhouse that some old trucking friend of Henri’s, Red Jackman, came stumbling in. Old Red — easy to see from his nose and eyes where he got his name — arrived with the slurring promise of a colorful philosopher. He promptly plopped himself down on the center stool and began pontificating about Christ. “Jesus was the only man who talked sense,” he said about 35 times in a row. Seeing as it was the day of His resurrection, the gracious thing was not to argue. Not that anyone could yell a word in sideways.

About this time, over the din of the droning drunk, Henri announced his most prized birthday present of the day: a box full of pre-rolled joints specially from a friend of his old flame Frankie Edie Kerouac Parker. Edie and Henri definitely fell from the same tree. Seeing them together is like watching two married Nick and Nora’s wise-cracking one-liners off each other in a good-natured battle of one-upmanship. Henri showed us the funny birthday card she’d sent, but it just couldn’t make up for her laughter or her silly asides being there.

That joint may have been one the most enjoyable I ever shared with a seventy year old sailor, a couple of Celtics, and two Miss America contestants. I suddenly began to feel like I’d run away with the circus . . . as the Duke Ellington that was tooteling from some hidden recess began to come into focus.

“Here you go Mr. Jackson,” Beanstock said, passing the number to the drunk.

“That’s Jackman,” he protested, and was so pleased to be smoking a joint with two beautiful young girls that he took the occasion to fall off his throne. On the way down he tried to grab two separate stacks of Henri’s Building Blocks, bringing entire mountains of cigar boxes and fishing tackle cases cascading down on top of himself in a Chaplinesque whirlpool of drunken helplessness.

Beanstock and Big Tums cast their fishing pole arms over and hoisted the hoser back onto his stool for another round (even though it should have been stopped with a TKO). Verbally, or slurbally, Red didn’t loose a beat (or the floor, unfortunately) throughout his compromising collapse. He was still ranting on about Jesus, the joys of speaking Hebrew, and his fancy for Alexandra’s, uh, affections.

With one man drowning, the cru began to think about rations and fresh air. Showtime was nine o’clock, and we were thinking —— Chowtime.

Beanstock suggested, “A little Mexican place I know on Third Street — Senor McDonalds.” No argument. It seemed the plan was to leave Mister Jackman in a slumbering daze and high-tail it out of there. Nobody wanted to test his dexterity inside the Blue Note. But just as we were in that ocean of motion, ol’ Jack started to come around, and Lord knows he was out the door with us. A helluva cru we were to look it, lemmi tell ya.

So this highly charged group hit the pavement with Beanstock driving Henri.  He took off with the girls down the Bleecker Street sidewalk that Kerouac once described old newspapers blowing along as his idea of “fame.” I was hanging back with staggering Red, when suddenly the cru cut straight across Bleecker through a temporary lull in the river traffic.

It was the old Village Dash, with Beanstock and the girls taking the early lead. Without conferring, the plan went in effect — using Beanstock’s long sober legs to motor Henri in a high-speed chase away from the Collapsing Clown.  Tums and I gave Red the sense he was still with the Cru, while Beanstock wheeled a hard right and shot straight up the center of Sullivan Street between the lines of parked cars.

We lollygagged with the loopin around a bluff of flowers at a corner deli, and distant spied the royal procession snapping their quick left into the mayhem of Third Street.  With the Jack of Reds bent at the corner sniffing the daisies, we darted off like fish through the sea of Sunday people.  I think I heard the Batman theme playing somewhere in the background.

We managed to safely disappear into the sanctity of Senor McDonalds, and promptly sat as far from the windows as possible. Henri backed in between two tables and we all crowded around with our backs to the window for coverage.

It was a grand Easter supper at America’s most famous restaurant — and I was at the Captain’s table! We had a full encampment, and a glorious feast amid wrappers and shakes and salty language. With Big Tums in front of me, Birthday Henri to my left, and my bag with the journalist’s tape recorder to my right, I felt we had the enemy at bay — until I looked and saw the chair was empty where my bag used to be! The horror! The emptiness!

I immediately dashed for the door — and just as I got there, coming out the restaurant’s other doors was some guy holding something in his winter coat. I lunged at him without even seeing his hands — grabbing for the grey backpack he was holding as cover, still not seeing anything that indicated he had mine.  I just knew I wasn’t going to let anybody leave until I’d searched them.

Then I suddenly saw my black strap dangling behind his and grabbed with both hands, catching the strap with one and my bag with the other.  He offered only guilty resistance, and I pulled my life back into myself.

I pulled the bag to my chest and stormed back into the restaurant, never even looking into the face of my thief.  But I’d foiled New York crime once again.

Inside the suddenly bright fluorescent restaurant everything had stopped and everyone was starring at me. Apparently I’d yelled, “My bag!” fairly loud and a jaw-dropped audience was waiting.  I just rushed to my encampment in the shock of a loss reclaimed, and the collective silence didn’t help one bit.  I high-fived Big Tums — and Beanstock wanted to know what was in the bag — which allowed me to bless and give Easter thanks to the resurrection of each of my lost lifetools.

The Sunday Supper ended peacefully after that, and in no time our cru was on its way across the street to the crowning performance of the evening — Maynard Ferguson’s closing night at The Blue Note Cabaret in New York City.

One of the pivotal trumpet voices of American Jazz was about to give a command performance in the Village of its birth. Henri was bubbling and bouncing like a little kid on his way to Disneyland. Hearing Maynard was to bring back the euphoric swing era of the 1940s for one more night. “He’s one of the last authentic old time jazz players around,” Henri was telling me as we crossed the street. “You can count all the great living trumpet players on one hand,” he went on, “with two fingers amputated.”

Inside, just after we squeezed into our table for six, Paul Schaffer arrived with his parents and sat beside us. Shortly, Maynard himself came swaggering past to pay his regards. There was quite the feeling of anticipation in the air: the glittering mirrors of the famous nightclub; the closing night of a trumpet legend; the attendance of a TV band leader; and the jazz-jumping revisitation of Remi Boncoeur in Greenwich Village.

Maynard’s set was smokin’. He had four horn players with him, an excellent pianist, a 19-year-old upright electric bassist, and drums. All the arrangements were pure horn — no guitar or keyboard solos that had no part of Maynard’s sound. It was just the real thing in the club where other musicians come to hear what you’re up to. This ain’t the road show in Poughkeepsie.

The big guy blew for over an hour, which was pretty great for lungs about Henri’s age. “He doesn’t face the floor or the back of the stage like some novice,” Henri pointed out. “He holds his horn high and proud and in-your-face, confident of hitting the notes, and not burying his instrument like some others.”

Maynard let his young players load up the bases early in the song, and then right when it was climaxing he’d step to the plate and blow the home run solo. He’d wait till the mood was just right then lift you away on one intergalactic joyride of a soul, slingshotting it into Masterspace, and Henri would cry out, “Strat-o-spheric!” The pure brass voice of scatological American history blasting loud and screeching clear — over the fence and into the Mississippi. True and free.  Maynard on Closing Night!

He even announced a nice howdy-doo to honorable Canadian Paul Schaffer and his lovely parents from Thunder Bay, Ontario. He regretfully overlooked the mighty Henri, but he coulda been bucking for that shot on Letterman.

The night ended with a bopping version of “Birdland” that blew the napkins right off the tables. All the hornmen were letting fly in one climactic scream of brass-driven magic. It was the “Johnny B. Goode” of jazz — and Henri was rocking back and forth in his seat and hollering something about the “20th century Gabriel.”

And all of a sudden it was over, and the saxophone player was hanging at our table ordering a beer. Henri was quick to snatch a yak, a laugh, a shake, and a birthday autograph to which the hornman grinningly obliged.

We were one big, glowing band as we poured back into the buzzing Village street scene that was just hitting its evening stride. The lights and the street people were blinding our eyes like coming out of an afternoon movie into the sunshine. I thought back to my bag thief lurking in the shadows, hitting on other civilians. Mary was lookin so hot she had to keep bashfully beating away all the boys on the block. Once again our Cru was cookin’.

The evening ended, as all good birthdays should, with a comfortable debriefing back in the host’s living room. Or in this case, wheelchair track. We gathered ‘round the old maestro and sang “Happy Birthday,” and everybody made their testaments to how Henri had changed their lives. The King held court and told stories of wayfaring adventures. Then he sparked up another number for the band. The Cru was in rapture. Beanstock began channeling Lenny Bruce . . . entertaining The Rat Pack in the pack-rat’s maze . . . with background be-bop blasting the soundtrack and setting the tempo . . . and Henri riding it all on a wise-cracking flow, ya-see . . .

The joint was jumpin’.

And he was only 70.

The Olympic Torch was passin through Oakville yesterday, had to go.  It was down at the huge “creek” that created the center of town at the mouth of the massive Lake Ontario.  There’s one main bridge, and at end of it is the town’s central library and performance center.

Some guy from Oakville won Gold, Silver and Bronze medals an Olympics or two ago, and he’s part of the Canoe Club based down on the creek below. He was supposed to take the Torch kayaking up the river, but it’s frozen. In fact, it’s totally freezing out, and I’m wearing my big winter jacket, but you wanted to show your red, so I pulled over a giant Team Canada hockey jersey, and looked like freakin Turk Broda on a bike in the circus.  And of course add a fire-red, torch-head blazing toque — just in case anybody hadn’t noticed me yet.

Adventureman and Mama Bear

As I’m reconnoitering on my shuttle-craft bike mission, I find the Olympic crew setting up base camp right in front of the library doors, and from a stunningly gorgeous Jordana Brewster who certainly lit my torch, I charmed the exact route right out of her.

I tie up Ranger, and went scouting on foot for the best scenic overlook on the now-confirmed mental map.  Turned out to be right at the beginning of the bridge, standing on the fat flat road barricade beams, where you could see everything that’s comin’ along the street and the whole bridge they’ve closed off for the “ceremony.”

With this perfect secret viewing stand scouted and secured by the Bears and their cubs, I decided to do a test run of the path I planned to run beside the Torch to the next exchange spot.

As soon as I zooped around the corner of the library, there’s the entire Olympic village!  Runners, officials, torches n everything!  In what appears to be their just-unloading staging area right in front of the library doors!  The cool white running suits, the white toques, and the white torches they’ll carry.  Just standing there near the vans.  Nobody’s around.  There are thousands of people lining the street, craning their necks for some dim view of the road, and here’s a half-dozen medal-winning Olympians standing a hundred feet behind them.

And they’re just as friendly as can be.  Some little kid comes up and the Olympian lets him pretend to hold the torch and have his picture taken. And I’m like, “I’m getting in on that!” And it’s this John Wood guy, who could be my new bff, won the Silver in ‘76 for kayaking or some damn thing.  Zoom-bitty-zoom and I’m holding the bloody torch!  He’s like, “Here, I want you to feel how heavy it is.”  And sure enough it was pretty light for being such a big thing.  It’s about 3 feet high, and the flames come out of this black strip about 10 inches long with all these little holes, so if part of it blows out, part of it always stays lit.  

Note:  there’s nobody around!  

Course, right away I get on the cell and call Mama Bear and her cubs to scamper over quick and boom-bitty-boom, there’s dancing Bears in on the act! 

Here’s a picture of me taking a picture of Mama Bear and brother Long John Silver . . . 

and here I am in full Adventure blaze with Adam the Goldmedalman …  

 

All of a sudden — a cheer goes up from the street. “Let’s see if we can get that perfect spot back!” And dashity-dash, sure enough.

Big parade float-type trucks roll slowly along the running route, with Canadian dancing girls looking almost hot in their parkas.  They use one painted lane of the roadway as the perimeter for everyone to stand behind.  A little sign on a truck is flashing, “The Torch will be here in a few minutes.” And everyone’s so waitin-for-something-to-happen they cheer the Coca-Cola truck!

Standing on high, Boom, I clearly see the flame early on.

Carrying the torch past us onto the bridge is 87-year-old Rhona Wurtele-Gillis, who, along with her twin sister, competed for Canada in Alpine skiing in the 1948 and ‘52 Olympics.   

And all the polite law-abiding Canadians are standing dutifully along the line without any barricades or enforcement, and then Boom, as soon as she’s past with the Torch, and, as respectful as we are, well, darned if there wasn’t just nobody there on the “bridge enforcement” per se, and what the heck?  The crowd quickly dissolves from two straight-line formations into this swoosh of amebas slowly then faster spreading like water across the empty bridge.

And I’m like, “Hey, this looks like a surf!” and I grab my board and jump right in, at first at a politely fast Canadian paddle, then the hell with it, I’m running — cut to the outside, zip-zam-zoodle, deak-I-am, and Boom!  I slant-right at the end zone and there’s the Aging Alpine Adonis standing beside a kid, and they light Torches — which is the big dramatic moment in these Olympic Torch runs — passing the flame from one to another.

They call it “torching off” — and there’s a whole ritual to it.  The lit torch and the unlit are both held high, perfectly perpendicular, and then they each tip towards the other until they touch, or “torch-off,” and hold them in an upside down V.  After the second torch ignites, they still hold them together for a couple seconds so there’s this huge raging double flame at the peak.  Then they separate out straight up and down, and the new person jogs off.  And after a quick minute or less of pics with the flame, there’s a specially trained fire guy at each exchange who extinguishes the torch.

So, this all happens right in front of me, and I’m like, “Wow!”

And then the kid with the fresh Torch starts — as per the revised route — back over the bridge the way it just came, in order to head to the Canoe Club.  But he’s running into the wind or something and his flame is really low, plus he’s not very tall, and all these people are still streaming onto the bridge right past him in the opposite direction and don’t even see him.

But I’m stickin with the flame, baby!  Totally running along side him.  And by the time we get off the bridge, the whole street that was just packed about 2 minutes ago is ¾ empty.  Nobody seems to get that this is the Torch coming back the same way.

I can see there’s still a huge crowd up at the intersection, so I cut off the corner and bolt for the “torch-off” point ahead.  And sure enough, I get right there just before the fame does — and the kid is handing off to none other than Oakville’s triple medal winner Adam van Koeverden!  I’m on the front line, three feet in front of him, and all the camera crews are rolling — The Shot of the Day.  This is the guy who carried the flag for Canada into the stadium at the last Olympics.  We don’t have too many multi-medal winners up here in Lil’ old Canada, so this guy’s The Man.  And I’m like, “Wow!”

And meanwhile he takes off down the road toward his Canoe Club.  I wasn’t planning to run anymore, but he was going kind of slowly, so I thought, “What the hell?” and I start jogging after him.

He goes down the big hill to the club and the creek, and I watch from this perfect view on the crest, the whole spectacle, camera crews and people running like chasing the bulls in Pamplona.

And all of sudden another kind of fake-out happens — somebody with an unlit torch (John) is walking away through the parking lot and taking half the crowd with him.  But the flaming torch is still blazing down by the river, says Neil, so what the heck? says I, racing down the mountain like a skier, wooo-hooo!  Zippity-zooming, and just as I get there, Kayaking Adam has his big red instrument hoisted over one shoulder, with the flame held with his other arm, and since he can’t paddle the water, he portages along the shoreline with both kayak and Torch!

Parts of the impromptu path have all these people clustered, and then there’s whole stretches with nobody but crazy me and him.  Oh, and the six guards.  They’re all in Olympic uniforms;   2 run in front, 2 on either side of the Torch, and 2 behind, creating this about 4-foot bubble around the Torch-bearer.

So we loop all around the park by the crick, and head back up to the Club and sure enough he’s handing off to brother John!  Because of the enormous crowd for this momentous Torch-off between their two famous champions, I’m jogging in the back of a parade.  But everybody bails as soon as we hit the hill back up, and sure as shootin it’s just me and Long John Silver & The Six-Pack running up the mountain, and I got my hands in the air clapping to people ahead.  Make some noise!

As we round the corner, a bunch of John’s friends are waiting and they’re yelling and he’s yelling and they’re waving and he’s waving and they’re cheering and he’s smiling and they’re snapping shots and he sees someone who makes him start to run over to the sidewalk and the two Captains in front simultaneously yell, “Hey, get back in line!  Stay in the center,” and he and I are laughing and he hollers to his friends, “I gotta stay on the straight and narrow!”

And all of sudden we hit traffic!  They don’t even close all the streets in this po-dunk town.  The Captains yell, “Goin’ Left” and they squeeze over and suddenly they’ve engulfed me.  I’m in the sacred circle.   And Mother Captain in front immediately looks back sensing her nest encroached, and before she could say anything, I go, “I know, I’m trapped!”  And the next available break in traffic I cut to the sidewalk, and even the cops are takin’ pictures.  It’s Brother John!  Oakville’s prized Olympic hero until Adam took a bite.

I ran over a mile of  The Torch Route with one of the greatest Canadian Olympians and several other glowing Silver foxes.  I’m exhausted, warmed by the flame, and fully stoked with the Spirit.  

Ma’man, Long John Silver — his post-run torched Torch — and a Beaming Mama Linda Bear!

Hippie Holidaze!  

and a Glistening New Year’s Olympics!  

Brian O’Canada 

karmacoupon@gmail.com 

with a twinkling & loving nod to Neal Cassady . . .

Coming into Manhattan thru the Holland Tunnel, 6PM on the Friday of the Labor Day Long Weekend . . .
My first moments in Manhattan since Obama’s Election Night.
And on the exact anniversary of the very first day I first arrived in this town 29 years ago.

Everything’s not too bad considering, until I cross all the way over the island to the FDR entrance at Houston — and it’s freakin’ closed!  No reason no warning.  Just big orange blockers.  After contemplating just running them, I turn with everyone else and head back to First Avenue to go uptown. It was already a freakin’ nightmare of Long Weekend Friday rush-hour traffic and now the FDR detour is merging with everyone funneling off the freakin’ Williamsburg Bridge so fuget-about-it.  Motionless in the quicksand, I brilliantly hang a right onto dark n shady Clinton St. (New York’s first black street) and sneak up to Houston to get around it.

When I turned onto First Avenue from Houston — Zero Street — I couldn’t believe I was seeing a green Avenue light still shining there for a second so I gunned it like hell for the holy grail through the yellowing intersection and right into the end of the racing pack.

Zippity-doo-dahing along the crazy off-road tarmac they call avenues in this town — this whole island should be four-wheel-drive only.  But I’m in the mood for some real driving, so I scooch the hell up with the flow and make it all the way to 14th St. without stopping!  But suddenly the light’s turning so again I run the yellow past stopping cars on all sides and jump in on the bare-assed end of the next flow. “This is great! I’m gonna stay right here!”

I’m heading for 23rd where I plan to cut over onto maybe clearer 3rd Avenue, but I’m thinking, “Sumpthin’s goin’ on here.  This thing’s flowing.”  And you don’t break your flow in New York if things are going your way.  So, Boom, I stay on it, bouncing through Gramercy Park, using all three mirrors, windows open cuz you need all your senses, jumping lanes as needed, having to not worry about Casey cuz I’m on a serious roll.  But of course I glance back for a nano-second and she’s got her claws dug into the luggage and is holding unshakeably on.

Hit the 30’s and still haven’t stopped, slaloming between yellow cabs and other non-personal cars.  Nobody in their right mind would risk their own vehicle at more than 10 mph on these cement bike trails.

Suddenly I’m completely surrounded by buses — ahead, behind, both sides — driving in their dark canyon shade, deafened by their roar, gassed into a stupor by their smoke and all the while knowing I could be crushed like an ant in an instant by any one of the Goliath’s bouncing un-phased at 40 mph up this horribly broken track.

Then Boom — the U.N. coming up! “Go tunnel or road?  Tunnel or road?”   Too quick.  In the tunnel lane and there’s no movin’. Poof, down into the dark hole of the only Manhattan non-water-crossing tunnel, then just as soon Bloom!  Out and back into the light — and the red one ahead just turns green!!  Suddenly I’m crossing freakin 50th Street!   And a new flow’s starting!  Zoom, right into it, not letting up on the pedal at all.  If there’s any space ahead, take it.   Go go go.  ”Keep chasing the front of the serge, Sarge.”

All of a sudden, “That’s the 59th St. Bridge! That’s the last traffic clog on this Avenue!” And I’m passing 60th St. and haven’t stopped since Houston!

Suddenly it’s just your regular daytime bouncing rapids — fast flowing cars all around, shushing over cement moguls, in the zone, in the flow.  Next time I look up I’m passing my old neighborhood, 81st Street. “No frickin’ way! I gotta tell Rob when I get there. I just went 80 freakin blocks in one shot!”   And of course right then there’s a major clog!  But I’m feeling fine cuz I just set a new freaking All-Time Non-Stop Record!

There’s all these trucks unloading and cabs and people and about 1 lane trying to squeeze through, but I’m already sailing at a mighty clip up the center of the river and keep bullishly paddling straight ahead to where I’m through without stopping — and as soon as I pop out of the hourglass the light ahead’s turning yellow so I just floor it and make it through only by the courtesy of the old New Yorker’s rule: “Never pull into an intersection without first seeing if some maniac is gunning the light.”

But I’m way in the back of the flow again so I just give ‘er, and poor old Casey’s holdin’ on for dear life, but I gotta get with the flow, man — flooring it through yellows all the way till iI catch up.   And Lord help me but I’m crossing the fat freakin’ 96th St. at a race-car pace, dented cabs and army-surplus-bumpered trucks smashing along on either side, everything’s raging at breakneck New York old-school speed when we all lived by, “The speed limit is whatever you can manage to drive on these crowded lumpy roads.”

Boom! Going fast as hell through the crazy trunk-bouncing pot-holed rapids of Harlem when the thought first hits, “What if I could make it all the way to Rob’s 117th Street! . . . Play it smooth, now.”   I’d raced all the way from the back of the last yellow-light pack up to the pole position. “Don’t be too fast and hit the red.” I pulled ‘er back and just surfed on the crest of the wave.   Easy now, easy, just flowin’ with the lights, and glide in softly for a you-won’t-even-notice-it landing, a sweet coasting turn onto 117th Street. And of course I roll right up and park directly in front of his apartment where I won’t have to move the car till Thursday.

117 blocks non-stop through Manhattan during rush-hour on the Friday of a Long Weekend.

In the words of John Cassady — “I’ll take it.”

Be here now.

Brian & Casey O’Cassady

The Grand Humanity Jam Continues

Summer Summit ‘09

The “We Made It This Far” Anniversary.

July 31st  –  August 9th, 2009 

An historically great crew reuniting . . .

A massive scene recreated . . . 

Look homeward, Angels.  

*     *     * 

Overview:  (July 31st thru August 9th) 

August Long Weekend (7/31-8/3) — Opening Reception, and gatherings at various lakes.

Wednesday Night Summit (8/5) —  at the new District nightclub, a block from Portage & Main.

Friday Night — “A Midsummer Night’s Social” (8/7) — the reunion “dance” at Earl Grey Community Club.

Saturday Afternoon (8/8) — Ball Hockey under the Dome, Yoga in the Park, and Brunch on the Bridge.
Saturday Evening — various house parties.  

*     *     * 

BREAKDOWN:  (for Woodstock in Winnipeg) 

With all the characters, the settings, the soundtrack, and the images, we’re recreating Winnipeg life in our time. 

Tuesday or Wednesday morning I’ll be on CBC’s “Information Radio” with Terry Macleod talkin about all this — 89.3 FM in the Peg, or you should be able to hear it here:  www.cbc.ca/inforadio/ 

FRIDAY, July 31st – “Christmas in July” — Opening Reception and welcoming home out-of-towners at a classic house in River Heights.  (7 PM on) 

LONG WEEKEND:

Gimli:  the 120th annual Islendingadagurinn festival weekend     Gotta crew.  Contact me if you wanna joyn in.  (And the joy will be emphasized.  Not to mention Jerry Garcia’s birthday celebrations on Saturday.)  
Lake of the Woods:  a singularly dense mob of old gangsters in the hood.

Monday — travel back to The Peg

Tuesday — chill, regroup, recoup, and reacquaint with family.

Full moon is August 6th — so it’s going to be blazing for the next three nights.

WEDNESDAY night (Aug 5th)  at   The District:  6PM till 2AM last call.
177 Lombard at Rorie, a block from Portage & Main.  Includes separate nice hundred-person restaurant with full dinner menu for those who want to start with an excellent meal.
“It’s super-deluxe comfy everything — like somebody’s really nice house.”
It’s a just-opened nightclub, like one of those secret New York hideaways  — antique couches and mystical chairs — 20-foot ceilings  – surround-sound music – flat-screens, pool tables — and it’s all a wireless hot-zone for Skyping the missing.

* Evening includes 200 of the best songs you ever heard at a party in 1979.

7:30 or 8 PM  – Group Photos at nearby Hollywood & Vine signpost.  I mean, Haight & Ashbury.  I mean, Portage & Main.  Take your own, and/or we’ll shoot from a ladder and have 8×10s by the Friday dance.

THURSDAY – 1 PM — Tour of  Kelvin High School!  Including photo-ops around the classrooms, in the stepped theater on the 2nd floor,and on the classic Kingsway stairs outside.  Followed of course by a trip to “Tubby’s” for some Italian health food, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some beer & wine involved.  

Evening – much needed time with family and pillow.  Or  . . . 

The Pre-Kelvin “Gang” Summit — the River Heights Junior High Reunion  at a house in River Heights, and maybe a bar-b-que at “the club.” 

FRIDAY night (Aug 7th) — A Midsummer Night’s Social – the big “Grad Dance” 30 years later   at Earl Grey Community Club  – 7:30-PM till 1-AM (and counting) — with the Cowpokes, One Life, etc. (see details below)

SATURDAY afternoon (Aug 8th) – 1 PM   The All-Star Celebrity Old-timers Ball Hockey Game –  at “The Dome” at Grosvenor School, btwn Guelph & Wilton.

1:00  “Yoga in The Park with Francie” – in a peanut park near the hockey game.

Brunch on the Bridge
The Sals on the Provencher Bridge
or with nearby alternates maybe it’ll be  Food at The Forks   –  four restaurant/bars with patios:
Muddy Waters BBQ  patio holds 60, no reservations, the best place.
Beachcombers – patio holds 80.
Finn’s – terrace holds 50, 150 inside, serves “pub food”
Spaghetti Factory – has a patio
The Tallest Poppy – Saturday all-day breakfast – at Logan & Main (Dunc’s place)

Saturday Night (Aug 8th) — It ends as it all began . . . with a circuit of house parties.  

Sunday (Aug 9th) — multi-denominational church service — time and location TBD.  

Reflections & recovery back-yard gatherings.   

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - - - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - - - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - -

The All-Volunteer Executive Improvised Winging-it Committee – 

Brian Hassett — Prankster-at-Large, Sherpa Shepard, Lead Detective on the case
Bill Hodgson (from Philadelphia) – Official Bandleader Composer & Conductor
St. Joey / Mayor Myles / DJ Harry Vest — Director of Winnipeg Operations
Duncan Lennox — The Wizard of Wednesday — and Cent-Com Commander
Stu Hay (from Toronto) — Senior Download Officer and Headlining Comic
Joanne Gillies — Mother of the House, Saturday’s Reunion Award Winner
Kim McDuff — “Lady McDuff” — President of Earl Grey Community Club
Jeff Cantin (from Boston) –The Gang’s Official Curator of Photography
Su Lowery (from Victoria) — Bureau Chief — West Coast Operations
Diana McGhee (from Oman) – Official Midsummer’s Poster Artist
Leslie Stafford  –  Official Reunion Media Relations Liaison
Francie Adamson (from Toronto) – Official Reunion Artist
Joseph & Pat Myles — Honourary Reunion Chaperones
Mrs. Terry Kupchak — Honourary Reunion Teacher
Mrs. Jamieson — Honourary Reunion Teacher
Mr. Hutton — Honourary Reunion Teacher
Mr. Belton — Honourary Reunion Teacher
Bobby Stahr – Senior Reunion Prankster

[yes, that is The Stanley Cup's profile] 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Prairie buffaloes are returning to the herd from 3 continents and 25 different cities, and counting.    Victoria, Vancouver, Whistler, Banff, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon, Regina, Kenora, Hamilton, Oakville, Mississauga, Toronto, Barrie, Ottawa, Boston, Buffalo, Detroit, Philadelphia, Washington, Tampa Bay, Miami, London Ontario, London England, and Oman in Southwest Asia. 

From the left edge to the right coast, from Argyle to Ravenscourt, from St. Paul’s to St. Mary’s, from the class of ‘65 to the class to ‘07, from grey hair to pink hair  

This is multi-school, multi-year, multi-national, & multi-disciplinary.

There’s going to be music, video, photography, spoken word, oil paintings, posters, improv madness, and the whole thing’s gonna be some kinda theater! 

– — – — – — – – — – — – — –

“A Midsummer Night’s Social” (Hodgstock) — every Winnipeg musician you ever heard of will be playing Friday August 7th at the Hodgson social at Earl Grey.

“From Woody & Hank,
       to Jerry & Frank.”
There will be versions of:
The Clearwater Boys (bluegrass quintet  to open),   the Cowpokes, both acoustic and electric,  One Life,  Million Civilians, The Wake, The Yipmen, Inna Riddim, you name it.

Think Rust Never Sleeps meets The Last Waltz.
It’ll start acoustically, gently, inspiringly, with a greatest-hits of wooden music — bluegrass into folk into country into unplugged rock n roll;
Followed by scorching electric rock, from dancing classics to shredding mayhem,
and through it all streams a steady flow of guest performers and different Band configurations.

At Earl Grey Community Club:  7:30 – PM till 1- AM (and counting).  $10
360 Cockburn St. — at Fleet St. — btwn Stafford & Pembina, and Corydon and Grant.  And may we suggest coming by Duffy’s cab. Parking isn’t real great, and you’re going to be way past drinking-&-driving by the end of this.

We all know about Neil Young at Kelvin, but Earl Grey Junior High was where he went when he first arrived in the Peg during the start of grade 9 — and this next door Community Club was where he was a 45-playing DJ for the canteen dances, and is where he played his very first gig with his very first band! – (The Jades) 

And besides all this madness, anybody can arrange any other kind of a “just us” gatherings!  Could you imagine?!?

And of course there’s a “Kelvin 30th” Facebook group for those so inclined.  

Accommodations:

Where I’ve stayed — and to me is really the only place in town — The Fort Garry Hotel — the giant castle in the center of it all.
If that’s not to your liking, there are actually a number B&Bs — go to BBCanada.com. There’s the Columns, the River Gate Inn and several others in Armstrong Point — it’s an area Very Much like River Heights, and very central to everything.
Or The Marlborough Hotel is also pretty cool and castle-like, and is also right downtown.
The old highrise NorthStar on Portage Avenue is now a nice Radisson.  I’ve stayed there and it’s totally acceptable. 
Or there’s The Inn at The Forks, overlooking the historic river junction of the two rivers, and is not unreasonable.
Or the Viscount Gort is still there on Portage Avenue.
Or if you wanna go funky nostalgic — The St. James Hotel above the Fox & Hounds Tavern! ☺

Most common comments so far — “Before, I wouldn’t want to do this, but now I really do!”  — “This just made my summer!”  –  “This is fun already!”

Most common comments from those Not in the Class of ‘79 – “I wouldn’t wanna go to my own class reunion, but THIS is gonna be wild!” — “I went to my high school reunion and it was fun, but this sounds crazy!”

The Grand Humanity Jam continues . . . .

I wouldn’t be me if it wasn’t for you.

This festival is made possible by generous contributions from Google and Facebook.

surreally,

your pal,
Brian

karmacoupon@gmail.com

RAGING   GLORY

*

*

The   D.C.  Dispatches
[Revised Edition]

*

1 – Jan. 14^th -   Barackstock on Sunday

2 – Jan 17^th –  We’re Gonna Sing

3 – Jan. 18^th – The Baltimore Report

4 – Jan 19^th –  Blissfully Ravaged In Democracy

5 – Jan 20^th –  The Day That Could Never Happen

6 – Jan 21^st – The Day Everything Changed

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Barackstock on Sunday

Hey Homies of the BrotherHood of all that is Good!

The “Mission Inauguration” — Shucks & Awww Ground Operation has Commenced.

Other than Tuesday’s 11:30 – 1:00 swearing-in coverage, this Sunday’s concert will be your best chance to enjoy the Inaugural jazz without being there.

Here’s what we know  . . .

2:30PM — The Welcoming Event -
“We Are One: The Obama Inaugural Celebration at the Lincoln Memorial”
Obama & family WILL be there.
HBO is producing.

The Official Line-up so far . . .

Bruce Springsteen
Stevie Wonder
Bono
Sheryl Crow
John Mellencamp
will.i.am
John Legend
Herbie Hancock
Beyonce
Shakira
Mary J. Blige
James Taylor
Garth Brooks
Usher
Josh Groban

Martin Luther King’s son, Tom Hanks, Jamie Foxx, Denzel Washington and Samuel Jackson will be among those reading historical & inspirational passages.

More as it develops 

Brian O’Bama

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

We’re  Gonna  Sing

[#2  --  January 17^th]

Checkin in from Yasgur’s Farm,
Maggie’s Farm,
Obama’s Farm.

Just got the physical ticket in hand and’ll be right up front for the swearing-in on Tuesday.

Going On The Road in a few minutes to Baltimore for the Whistle Stop tour — the train tracks, Festival Express, my grandfather George the CPR engineer, the Dream Tracks Indian book with Teri McLuhan, the hopping trains in the Peg to get around town — all clicketty-clackin into one.

Barack and Joe ridin’ the rails,
from Constitution Hall in Philadelphia to Constitution Avenue in Washington,

and Brian & Mitch are Jack-&-Nealing in the salt-streaked Blue Bomber Cruiser
lookin like it’s burned white through re-entry
from driving like lightning through the salt-dusted blizzard roads,
chasing history’s trains
and America’s future.

*
The HBO stage at the Lincoln Memorial is just Gorgeous and HUGE!
This is SO Woodstock –
in the 21st Century.
It’s entirely custom designed and built for this one concert,
with camera booms swooping,
and dozens of Jumbotrons rippling the images across the Reflecting Pool
to America,
and the world,
this one, short, creative human fireworks celebration.

So right.

And now

Breaking News:

This musical spiritual moment will be beaming live into your eyes starting at 2:30 Sunday for free on every HBO station in North America!

This is a visual auditory novel — a large canvas that’s being painted by many of the greatest artists of our time, for one moment only.

As a species, we’ve done some things right.
And there’s Lots of work ahead,
But for a moment,
We’re gonna sing.

surreally,
on Christmas Eve in the Universe,

Brian O’Bamathon

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
The Baltimore Report  –  Bama Sightings and Concert Rehearsal

[#3  January 18^th]

I saw The Man in Baltimore today!   :-)
woo-woo!!  goo-goo ga’chooo-chooo!
He & Michelle and Joe & Jill all went up the steps at the small old-world town hall square in front of City Hall, maybe 30,000 people, we breezed right in.  You can watch the speech online but he was talking a lot about the history of America and how the great works that prior Americans did need to inspire us to rise to that in our own lives, and collectively as a nation.

*

He just came across as so comfortable — staying a long time afterwards shaking hands and just hanging and waving and being very calm and kind to people.

The guy’s in the middle of this Whistle Stop whirlwind and about to start the hardest job in the world in the middle of two wars and a depression, and he’s just buoyant.  He instills confidence.  And earnestness.  And honesty.  And a friendliness.

I talked to a couple different women who had gone to Martin Luther King’s “I Had a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial in ‘63 — and one of them remembered that “scrawny nasal singer with a guitar“. 

Afterwards, the streets in every direction were like a Dead parking lot with happy people selling just about anything you could think of with some image of Obama on it — toy trains, toques, posters, postcards, baby clothes, flags, car window flags, every possible article of clothing from jackets to underwear, every type of glassware for the kitchen, wooden flutes, bobblehead dolls . . .

Baltimore is the third city I’ve been to that was completely jazzed and transformed by the joy, pride and hope that this guy brings to people’s hearts (after New York and D.C.)  You could hear “O – ba -  ma” randomly hollered from car windows.  And groups of strangers starting to chant, “Yes we can,” for no particular reason, and then laughing that they’d all done it together.

*

We drove back from Baltimore (where we’d parked at the classic Camden Yards Ballpark) and went straight to The National Mall for the concert rehearsal, joining maybe a hundred people there in the cold sub-zero night.

And who should be playing as we walk (and then run) in but U2!    Priiiiiide, in the name of love.  And City of Blinding Lights, Obama’s campaign and favorite U2 song, and which the band also played (debuted?) outdoors at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City.  Bono’s struttin around like Mick Jagger, and Clayton’s wearing this huge hooded parka that looks so ridiculous, like a Neil Young Road-eye.  : -)

Then James Taylor came out and did three takes of this beautiful, long Shower The People you love with love, with John Legend, Jennifer Nettles and others really stretching it out vocally into some transcendent channeling chant off the final refrain.  [and P.S. -- that 3^rd take was even better than the Sunday show!]

Then Garth Brooks ran though a couple takes of a 3-song medley that includes bye bye Miss American Pie, which is just gonna go over so freakin’ well!  The guy’s such a born entertainer.  He has this whole choir of kids that come out and just lift it. There were about a hundred of us in a space designed for millions, but he was just giving it like we were the world.

And then afterwards, I’ve never been much of a Garth Brooks guy, but he came over to where we were standing and talked to every single person, signed anything for them, posed for pictures.  I talked to him for bit, asked him how Don McLean was doing — he said, “He’s doing great.  He’s too stubborn to have it any other way.”    I told him I’d seen them duet at his show in Central Park, and he was, “Ah boy, you sure hit the big ones!”    After he’d talked to everybody and his handlers were sighing, “Thank gawd!  Let’s gooo!” just then this whole bus full of people suddenly arrive.  “Hey, Garth!  We’re from Texas!” they’re yelling as the whole herd of them runs up to him waving their cameras.   

Brian  (and Garth)

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Blissfully Ravaged in Democracy

[#4   --  January 19^th]     (post-concert)

“blissfully ravaged in democracy”

were the only words I was able to scribble down
after returning home from the wars,
eyelashes singed and clothes still smoldering
from celebrating this democracy and world we live in.

There was a joy that I’ve rarely felt before,
and it came after the concert
biking around the Washington Monument and the Capital Dome
with all the families of America,
whether they were foreigners just arrived,
or descendants of slaves,
whether in new full-length leather coats,
or mama’s cloth rag from the attic,
whether they squeezed the family in the car and drove up from Atlanta,
or flew in from Boston for the day,
everyone was united in their love passion for Democracy  –

and how it’s not something you have,
but something you DO.

And these people and this spirit
is what’s on display for the world to see in Washington DC right now.

Here’s kids running up the steps of the Capital
and jumping for joy that they are where they are,
trading off cameras to send pictures home.

Today, it was all about the kids
in each of us
being ignited.

It’s the families — the fathers and mothers shepherding their herds,
THAT was powerful.
Bono singing Pride, in the name of love,
from Martin Luther King’s stage,
or Will.I.Am’s riffing vocal rap and Sheryl Crow’s grooving on Bob Marley’s One Love,
or Stevie Wonder taking us to a Higher Ground in that climactic jam,
or John Mellencamp’s Ain’t that America? that I kept singing all afternoon
biking through the shining rainbow faces of America,
or the soulful duet of A Change Is Gonna Come by Bettye LaVette and Bon Jovi — that Stole the freakin show,         [click on any to see and hear]

{ The Prez  n  The Queen }

or of course Barack’s Amazing speech of beauty, strength and brevity.

All that was powerful . . .
But it all came down to families,

of relations or not,
of natural-born Americans
or not,
who recognize how great
voting
and voting for Hope can be.

And we’re all the living proof
we need.

Brian

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The Day That Could Never Happen

[#5  January 20^th]     (pre-Ianug)

Brothers and Sisters of the Universe,

The final and official stage of our National Transformation is here –
And all of us are taking The Oath
to be more understanding of others
and to help each other as ourselves.

And masses of Hopesters and Democracy-loving Americans have made it to the mountaintop, running like water through the streets, which are all closed to cars this glorious day.  There’s t-shirt and button vendors lining every riverbank;  giant rows of port-o-potties are winding through the trees like a giant Christo installation;  and packs of police and fatigue-wearing National Guard everywhere are — but never a single arrest is ever made.

The High temperature tomorrow is predicted to be maybe 32 degrees -
so, feel that freeze when you sees
those couple million standing there in majestic dignity (as MLK called it).

After it’s over, Obama and everyone on stage will walk back inside the Capital Building where the new President has lunch with the members of Congress.

As usual for this kind of moment, I highly recommend hitting “mute” as soon as it’s over so you can let it sink in and form Your Own opinions – You saw it for yourself;  the talking heads will still be babbling about it years from now.

At 1:20-ish,  a large helicopter will rise up from the other side of the Capital building and ex-President Bush will fly the hell out of our lives.  It’s a very cool visual moment — the peaceful hand-off of the leadership of the most powerful country in the world.

3:45-ish   the parade begins — as President Obama rides in his new tank Caddy from the Capital Building along Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House.

Live it or lose it.

scrumptiously & surreally,

Brian

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The Day Everything Changed

[#6  --  January  21^st]        (post Inaug)

There’ll never be anything like this in my lifetime.

The greatest moment of my life?  Probably.

And I got to spend it all with my best poli-warrior buddy, Mitch!

He always “got it”, and we fully lived Clinton’s election and inauguration – but as great as all that was . . . this was transcendent, beyond words.

It’s changing history –  besides eveverything else, a major nation electing a minority to lead it — and as it was happening, every single one of the 2 million people I met were Beaming with joy.  In terms of a crowd euphoric, the only thing I ever heard of that was like this was Woodstock in ‘69.  And that changed a lot, but this was Woodstock in the seat of power.  Jimi’s Star-Spangled Banner was the prelude, and a scant 40 years later, here’s that scorching soul of new thinking actually overtaking the reigns of government.  As Barack put it in his speech, roughly, “That a man who not long ago might not have been served at a local restaurant could now stand before you to take the most sacred oath in this nation shows how far we have come.”

Rollin in after 9 hours of sub-zero frost I looked like a guy stumbling down off Everest — white parched lips, face scorched red from freezing, but liquid eyes blazing.  And the thing I miss most in the tranquil heat of home are the screams of joy I heard all day long.

So, please excuse if this isn’t polished sculpture — but the levee’s broken and emotions runneth over.  I know you have our own wonderful memories of this day and what it all meant, but here’s a tale of the day everything changed from someone who was there  . . .

*

I left the apt. in Virginia at 9:30 by bike.  It was 22 degrees — without riding into the wind.  Starting out in the carless streets of Rossyln and crossing the scary-empty bridge it was like living through one of those end-of-the-world movies.  Not only were there no cars, but all the people were already at “the show” and it was just me and the wind.  I finally got to the last point they’d let me ride by about 10:15, worked the miles of snaking security line, and was inside the gates by 10:45.

My ticket was for the Blue South field which was off center, but after seeing the freeform mayhem once you were inside the security zone, I figured I could wing it, and weaved and excuse-me’d toward the center, and in no time I was right in front of the stage!

And then the whole show goes down, which you saw on TV.  Part of the fun of being there was all the running commentary everyone was making, like me yelling, “Dr. Strangelove” at Dick Cheney in his wheelchair, the comical booing of Bush, the “Na-na, na-na-na-na, hey hey, good bye” chants.  It was all in good fun.  And of course I just loved Aretha singing, “Let freedom ring!“  And that beautiful orchestral piece by John Williams, with Yo-Yo, Itzhak & company elevating us like wind into heaven.   And my new-favorite Reverend Lowery closing the show with the poetry of Amen.  And of course Barack’s speech.  But you saw all that for yourself.

{That’s Barack delivering his Address, looking to his left.}

*

THE PARTY AT THE PODIUM

When the official program was over, the fun started.    Just as I figured, everyone started to leave.  Once again I was happy I grew up in Winnipeg and could handle a little cold, and I just stepped over the green fence and walked straight to the podium.  Security was over.  The new President and all the ex’s were back inside the Capital building — there was nothing to “secure” anymore.  So I just breezed right the heck up there and started the party.

Those who were really touched by what happened were still sitting there aglow.  A few others, like me, had shimmied up on the energy waves.  I just kept riding it till I was right below the podium with the music stands and walls of cameras on either side.  It was just a gorgeous party — and it went on for hours.  People from all over the country and all over the world were handing each other their cameras, laughing, and ouing and awing.  And looking out at the crowd from the Capital hill and seeing people all the way to the horizon — what a sight!  What a moment.  There was no one there who’ll ever forget it.

And then of course when the Marine One helicopter rose up from behind the Capital with the now-former President on board, and once again without a shot being fired, the most powerful nation on earth changed it’s leader — and elected a member of a minority “race”.  We gotta be doing something right.

*

I could’ve lived in that party for the rest of my life.  And in fact I think I will.  Everyone was SO happy, beaming, radiating, loving, friendly.  Any which way you turned was another amazing picture.  Straight up at the glowing Capital Dome.  Looking out at the masses of people as far as you could see.  Looking into the blissful faces right next to you.  Looking up at the deep rich red, white & blue flags draping the brilliant white Capital.  The sun coming out from behind occasional clouds in the bright blue sky with the flags flapping against it.  Just overwhelming beauty.

Cell phone access was way-intermittent — messages coming in from Canada, New York City, Pennsylvania, California, and friends in the crowd trying to find me.  So I head on down outta the party to the now vacant Mall, and go to my favorite General’s monument, Ulysses S. Grant majestically on a horse right at the foot of the Capital, looking straight down the Mall — I was just communing with the big guy.  And right in front, the Capital Reflecting Pool is frozen, there’s one person skating on it, and scads of kids running and sliding on the first ice surface they’ve ever seen.

It’s a grounding spot for people to find me, and Democracy-loving road warrior Nadette from New York (the only person I know who made both the election night at Barackefeller Center in NYC and the Inauguration in D.C.) pulls it off, and so up we ramble back to the Podium Party, and Lord knows it’s still goin on.

*

And after another hour of New Years Eve hugging and doing unto others, I walked over a few feet to where you could actually look all the way from the Capital down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House — all cleared off and waiting for a parade.  And then Boom ! — suddenly there’s a roaring stream of blue motorcycle cops to my right.  A loud cheer go up from a crowd far away.  Some flags are marching past.  A band is playing.  “The parade’s starting!”

Everybody said you can’t do both.  It’s either the parade or the Inaug.
But I’m walkin forward.
I ask a cop, “Was that Obama that went by right in front?”
“No, there’s a couple of bands first, then him.”

Oh my God, really?

The whole thing is — I’m still inside the Capital grounds.  Everyone coming for the parade is on the other side of the Avenue.  So I just start walking towards it, skip over a few fences, la dee-dah across a grass field, and I’m right at the point where the cars are pulling out of the Capital!

And there’s the press trucks shooting backwards behind them — there’s Andrea Mitchell reporting from the back of one of them.

“They’re coming!” I realize.  “I’m right here!”

And then Boom! — there he is!  There’s “the Beast” — the new nuclear-proof Cadillac — and there’s Michelle 20 feet in front of me, there’s the kids sitting facing their parents and all waving and beaming out the windows, and there’s Barack on the other side!  I’m right freakin here!  This is the whole Big Parade Moment that people have lined up for since 7AM.

Not only did I see the swearing-in beginning of this Presidency right up front, but I’m standing on the curb as our new President Obama drives by on his Inaugural trip to the White House!

*

This was God’s gift.  I had put so much into doing the Inaug right, I had no plans or hope of seeing the parade — and here I am a few feet from the family sedan!

All sorts of other amazing, touching, life-giving moments happened with people of every age and color, it would take a long night of beers just to scratch the surface, but this was The Moment — God’s glowing gold bow on the gift of the Inauguration, after a day of freezing, weeks of planning, months of campaigning, and a lifetime of volunteering in Democracy — and this is the thanks I get!

*

Take what You’ve gathered from the day, or let contemporary historians nudge you, but I just wanted to share one person’s experience of participating in Democracy the day history changed.

This will be on postage stamps and dollar bills a hundred years from now.  And no matter where you were, you lived to see it.  Thank your spirit source.

And now the rest is up to us.

Brian O’Bamathon

karmacoupon@gmail.com

BrianHassett.com

*

Election  Night  2008

by Brian Hassett

Early morning in the Universe  –  sunrise over a New America.

I arose from the floor of a Harlem hotspot dreaming of something way bigger than me.  And right off the mat, the Election Morning Ritual of tea & subtlety, pacing & breathing, and dreaming in the bright new light of it.

And there’s the widescreen of Barack & Michelle & their girls walking into the polling booth in Chicago and taking their time to burn in the memories of casting their historic ballots.

And all over New York you could hear doors slamming on apartments and taxis and trains as young and old, black and white went through their daily rituals — and today’s quite singular one.

I realized we were getting Obama as President, at least as Veep to Hillary, back on Super Bowl Saturday in January when I first watched will.i.am’s “Yes, We Can” video (here).  It had just been uploaded the night before, and I watched it early in the jingle-jangle morning and just lost it — couldn’t watch it without getting choked up for weeks afterwards.  It was so obvious then that he was ours — America’s, the world’s, right now’s.  Somehow it felt more ancient than futuristic, more traditional than trendy, more Rushmore than YouTube.  And it was good.

But of course there was still a helluva race ahead — first the primary against Hillary and then the general against McCain, and it did look close a couple of times, but especially starting that Monday of the Lehman Brothers collapse and McCain “suspending” his campaign and stumbling around like Henry Fonda in the woods in On Golden Pond, followed by Colin Powell coming out on Meet The Press, you knew who was going to win.  In fact, I was able to post the final election results on this here site on Halloween, a full four days before election day — and was 99.5% accurate.

I spent the afternoon getting all gussied up in black velvet tails and Ben Franklin knickers with knee-high socks topped off with a top hat, accented with colorful Obama buttons, and everything underneath my waving homemade Obama pennant flag with a little red & white Canadian one on top.  All I needed was a clanging bell and some rolled parchment.

Heading into the Election Night, for the first time in my life I was the most popular person in Harlem!  Looking like a “Hear-ye, hear-ye!” town crier from the American Revolution, I was carrying Obama’s flag into battle — lighting up faces of people who still haven’t come close to learning English.  Shopkeepers were waving, and mothers were pointing me out to their small children.  Passing pedestrians were either breaking into huge smiles or full-out hollering, “Obama!”  It was dusk on the final day of The Nightmare From Texas, and minorities may have been happier than anyone that the lying war sap’s reign of error was ending.

Riding the subway through Harlem in black velvet regalia — facing beaming white smiles from dark African faces, shining and sharing across the aisle like Washington will soon be if  all goes according to plan.  A little boy beside me is admiring my buttons, and finally says in the cutest voice, “All Barack!”  So I reach in my bag and find a button for him just before he gets off.  And some guy’s watching me do this, and he pulls out his keys from his pocket and wound off and his little Obama key-chain and handed it to me across the subway car.  It’s the coolest thing and I’ll cherish it forever.  And so I looked in my bag and found another button and handed it across to him.  And there was some guy standing nearby smiling as he watched all this go down, and the guy I just gave the button to handed it to him.  A crowd got on right after that and we all got separated — but within seconds all us strangers had just given each other something for nothing.  America was changing right before our eyes.

Then I’m off, flying between the towers of Midtown, when suddenly a-ha, a “Vote Here –>” sign for a polling station, and, decked head-to-toe in Obama, I enter most illegally and go beaming around.  Poll site day-workers are smiling back huge hugs, and then I spot the ancient New York State steel levered polling machine and go over to open the curtains and have a good gander –

but Nooooo — The Big Bossman spots me and nearly football tackles me the heck outta there!  So there I was;  Tossed back into the Manhattan rush-hour of snappy suits and swinging briefcases, big ego scowls and some big-hearted smiles.

And then ah into the ah of the Election Plazah at Barackefeller Center!  People.  All beaming faces.  Lights.  A red, white & blue skyscraper.  Broadcast trucks.  Giant screens.  And rows of flags waving wide and high in tonight’s heavy winds of change.

There’s lots of people, but it’s not crowded.  And NBC had once again laid out the red carpet.  Well, actually it was blue.  And plush and thick, from one end of the plaza to the other — “Election Night 2008″ woven into the ground that democracy’s participants were walking on.  And not just Americans, but thousands and millions who came here from foreign countries, like me — because “America” is so much a part of so many.

And meanwhile, I’m getting photographed more than I ever have in my life.  Plus, they’ve got somebody dressed up like donkey and somebody like an elephant, and for an hour the three of us become the most in-demand trio in New York.  And on top of that, the inside of my coat is lined with buttons that I’m selling.  Which I never even mentioned to anyone, but people kind of figured it out.  All I kept saying was, “Vote Socialist!  Vote Obama!”

And a couple times I actually get challenged about being an interferring Canadian, but I quickly bounce ‘em back with ol’ Christopher Columbus and Thomas Paine and Alexander Hamilton as pretty cool un-Americans.  And if that don’t shut ‘em, I drop Albert Einstein, Andrew Carnegie and Madeline Albright.  And if that don’t do it, John Lennon, Neil Young and Charlie Chaplin usually does.  You can be American from wherever you’re born.

And waving my colorful homemade flag was doing the trick!  It was like a freakin’ antenna pulling in the channels.  Friends were tuning in from all over.  Philip the Iraq war reporter with his big pro camera weaves in documenting the stories of regular people in the eye of history.  And here’s Levi, the online LitKicks disturber, happily dancing through the crowd like it’s an outdoor Dead show.  And there’s the Jimmy Carter staffer Zoe waving from her comfortable perch, soaking in the immensity of it all.

And friendships are being made instantaneously all over the plaza, conversations starting without introductions.  It was a family reunion and we all knew each other.  And even though it was early it felt pretty late, with everybody already a little giddy, a little silly, a little too happy — and it didn’t matter to anyone.

And of all excellent things they were actually handing out plastic beer mugs!  Or maybe they were coffee mugs, but I figured they’d work way better for beer.  So, I copped several for the crew, and off dee-do.

It was getting time to plant the flag and hold the fort.  There are two main giant screens:  one for NBC, and one for MSNBC, which has been my network of choice since it came on the air about 10 years ago.  And to boot, it’s their side of 30 Rock that’s completely bathed in Democratic blue and turns out to be the naturally livelier side of the grand plazoo all night.  So, I promptly claim n maintain the center screen-front fort-site!

There’s a six-inch high curb running across the battlefield a perfect distance from the screen and it makes the best forward line I can think of.  Next, I’m lookin for SOUND — where some half-deaf old people can hear what’s being said even while crazy New Yorkers are screaming in joy.  And right along the curb line directly in front of the MSNBC screen, there’s a nice big Bose speaker on a stand, squared off by barricade stantions.  So that becomes our solid right flank;  and I’m holding down the front curb-line;  and our left flank is held by Gina Gershon’s sister and a wall of her girlfriends who haven’t moved in an hour.  ”We’re solid.”  “We’re bull’s-eye center.”  “It’s a go, General.”

We had our private box at the theater  – once we had our perimeter secured, there was a buffer of about 50 people deep in every direction around us – and we could just GO! And lemmi tell ya, nobody’s burners were on “medium”!

And as I keep waving my Canadian–Obama flag, along comes Winnipeg-Manhattan guitarist brother Terry;  and Paul, who I only just met but who’s been a friend for life;  and Anna, Philip’s pregnant wife blessing her child who’ll be born around the same time as the next President in January.  And here comes Ralph the producer, and Brad the net oracle, and Anne the global adventurer.  And then comes somebody holding up a giant Obama yard sign as they’re dancing and weaving through the crowd, and as the sign floats closer, sure enough, underneath it all is Nadette, an actress friend of nearly 30 years bringing suburbian lawns into this uber-urban plaza.

And from our private box we could easily make runs to the deli which you could almost see from our “seats”.  The only trick was getting back through the outer ring of the scene — excuse-me-ing through the tight outer strata of late-comers and non-insiders, then weaving through the gentler inner rings of patriots to our secret center where we had enough room to dance.

And dance we did.  Along came four cute girls from England who’d flown over just for this moment and were as funny as that other Fab Four who flew over here.  Or the flowing French poet who’d also flown in just for this.  Or the gorgeous Kim Basinger with the flower in her long blond hair.  Or the Canadians who kept appearing all night from Vancouver and Montreal and Toronto and Edmonton.  It was like all the Americans who materialized in Ontario when we were registering people to vote with Democrats Abroad.  In fact, as the night comically revealed itself, our encampment became surrounded by Canadians — typically too shy to say anything, but when they saw my flag came and stood near and felt safe.  I became the freakin’ Canadian Consulate at Barackefeller Center on Election Night.

As Zoe & I are making what we thought at the time was the final beer run of the night at about 7:40, and we bump into this group of four Midwestern couples in their 40s and 50s leaving the scene.  Of course we start talking and they mention they’re heading out to get something to eat, to which I say, “Are you fuckin’ crazy?!  The big moment is coming right up and you’re gonna be staring down at a tuna sandwich?!”  They all laugh as I give ‘em hell, Harry.  So, Zoe & I hit the deli, and sure enough a minute later the whole crew of ‘em come in and say, “You convinced us.”  And they just grabbed some road grub and headed back into Democracy’s mosh pit.

Another wonderful thing about the scene was the diversity of people.  Besides there being every conceivable shade of pigmentation from the darkest African blacks to translucent northern whites, there was also every body type, age, and orientation.  There were turbans and ball caps, piercings and wheelchairs, suits and sandals.  It was America, and it was the world.

I was talking to this bunch of Jamaicans and we were all laughing and beaming and “Yesing,” and their accents were so damn thick I understood not a word they said the entire time!  Except “Obama.”  Yet we were totally communicating for a good long time — our faces and hearts knowing what the other was saying all along.

And I’ll tell ya, there’s been a buncha times I wished John Lennon was here, but oh boy, none more than while we’re talkin’ bout a revolution, well, you know.  And how this was the world playing out that he and so many other visionary men of peace have shared through sermons or songs or non-violent stands.  This was the dream — and it has manifested and is dancing and cheering and wired.

It’s like tonight had gone into sudden-death overtime where you couldn’t leave because it could be called and be over at any moment!  The best part of course was when the Dems scored points by winning a state — and a cheer went up as far as you could hear, echoing through the canyons of our spines.  And for every Kentucky or Mississippi there was a playful boo, then we laughed out loud at our own silliness.

And as each state was called, just like in ‘04, NBC had these two giant tapestries, one Dem blue & the other Republican red, that were being pulled up the side of 30 Rock, one foot for each electoral vote won.  Except this time the blue side was climbing much higher than the red one.  

Although my predictions for the Presidential winner, electoral college numbers, percentage split, and Senate and House seats were all Dead on or close damn to it — the one thing I (joyously) didn’t get right was the time the news organizations would project a winner.  I knew it could come at 8, and if not then, at 9 for sure.  “There’s no way we’re not going to know before 10.”  But all those hours came and went with nothing.

Here’s an obvious conspiracy for those who enjoy those sort of things:   There was obviously collusion between the networks to all hold off their Presidential projections until 11PM.  They obviously didn’t coincidentally all make the “call” at exactly the same time.  They coulda called it a week ago, or anytime all night . . .  but what the heck, the whole county was riveted until the match was sparked and the emotional fireworks set off.  No matter when you tuned in or arrived at your election night gathering, by 11:00 you’d been on the edge of your seat for a while.  Or, the edge of your curb, as the case may be.

There was a clock on the bottom of the screen — and although it was obvious to some of us what was going to happen when it struck 11:00:00, most in the crowd didn’t know it was coming.

But after hours of good-vibe build-up, the clock ticked eleven and the screen tocked Barack — and the voices and the spirits and the hands shot up, fingers splaying, eyes blazing, thousands jumping, people hugging, falling into another, high-fiving hands so fast you never see the arms, screaming, tear-soaked faces like thousands of brand new parents – but no romantic midnight New Year’s Eve couples kissing — for just a moment there was something even bigger than one loved one.

Some people were frozen in Buddha-still calmness, others were bent over crying and shaking.  People were hanging out windows, flashbulbs were flashing from every direction, horns honking over everything, girls screaming like Beatlemania, it all swirling into a roaring, deafening tornado, tossing us side to side, but hardly anyone falling down.  And the cheering kept going — there was no person telling us to simmer down so the show could resume.  Talking heads were yammering away on movie screens and the speakers were still blaring but we were all chanting “O – ba – ma”  or “Yes we can” so loud nobody heard a word.  And after one wave of peak cheering would begin to subside, another would start out of nowhere and everyone would raise their voices and arms again for no reason except the joy of it, the beyond-beliefness of everything — as new layers of what just happened were rolling through people’s hearts and minds and out their faces.

For some it was a tearful release of exhaustion after sleepless nights for days or weeks or months — defenses down, fatigued openness, sleep-deprivation delirium.  And for others it was such a sweet gentle smile of serenity.  . . . “Finally.”

But so-sadly, with the networks calling it at 11:00 — that was the exact time of the last elevator to The Top of The Rock rooftop so there was no way to kiss the sky as well as all the pretty girls in the plaza.

After a prolonged evening of anticipation, the dominoes fell quickly.  I lost any sense of time at this point, but it seemed like right after the projection, John McCain was walking out to give his concession speech.  As I expected, he was huge and gracious — his best speech since I-dunno-when.  Poor old guy got waylaid somewhere, off into the Rovian practices of kill n torture what you don’t like and ask questions later (See, also: Iraq, Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo, Clelland, Kerry, Bush-McCain 2000, etc., etc.)

Everybody was in a “boo-McCain” spirit, but I knew he was better than what we’d seen in this campaign.  So every time he said something particularly gracious, I’d yell, “Alight!  Give it up for John McCain!”  And nobody would.  The crowd had followed my every cue all night — when to clap, cheer, laughing at my one-liners — as Zoe said, “You had those people eating out of your hand,”  — but when it came to giving props to the distinguished gentlemen from Arizona, I had zero pull.  

And geez I just gotta say — in politics, your opponent is your enemy only until you win; and the moment it’s over, you become colleagues again.  You compete as hard as you can, or “vigorously” as Obama wonderfully called it;  then we all work together.  Done.

So, immediately after McCain finishes his concessionary congratulatory comments to the new President-elect, the world was transported via Marshall McLuhan stacks of amped televisions to the massive gathering in historic Grant Park in Chicago where Democratic supporters had their heads bashed in by billyclubs in 1968 – and had them blown off by words in 2008.

And once again, Obama Presents a beautiful stage, with a classic row of flags like those waving around the Washington Monuments and this Barackefeller rink in New York City.

And as the soul-speaker soars, the Barock Center New York crowd is cheering like we’re at the greatest Central Park concert ever.  Except there’s no rock star.  There’s not even a person.  Just “two big screens and a politician.”   And we’re peaking all over the city, all over the country, all over the world in a synchronized riot of joy.  This is not just an American story, not just a black story, not just a Democrat’s or young person’s story, nor just an immigrant’s story or this story — it’s all of us — all North America, Africa, Europe — dancing as one, in more ways than one.  It’s every underdog, every book-reader & book-writer, every neighbor, every one with hope in whatever language they speak — this Rose smells as sweet tonight.

And Obama’s calmly asking for our collective help, our common good.  It gets so quiet you only hear the people sobbing in the crowd of thousands.  Complete breakdowns.  Some couples now hugging like they didn’t at the New Year’s Moment — because now one of them is shaking and crying.  We see the soon-to-be-famous tears from Jesse and Oprah, but seeing them for real glistening in the Barockefeller Lights on the cheeks of both women and men, old and young, white and black, red-eyed and helpless, weeping uncontrollably, and there wasn’t an unblurry eye in the house.

“This is our time to reaffirm that fundamental truth, that out of many, we are one;  that while we breathe, we hope.  And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:  Yes, we can.”

And your cells and limbs harmonize with the words, and you’re “Yes!”  And Joe Biden walks out, and that gem finally kicks in – “Oh my god!  Joe freakin’ Biden is Vice President!!”

And as the guests began to leave, I stayed and shook hands or winked into their dazey eyes or stood for a picture next to their ear-to-ear smile as they passed from the plaza womb out to the new world of New York tonight where strangers were stopping strangers just to shake their hand.

As we were leaving the light and into the night, my final image was of the giant blue column still climbing up 30 Rock, and the whole plaza bright and glowing . . . like it should be.

Meanwhile the streets were all a half-hour-after-midnight on New Year’s Eve — laughter echoing through every canyon, girls holding hands and skipping down the sidewalk, old shopkeepers watching everything from their doorways.

Terry and I whirl around the corner onto Sixth Avenue and Boom!  Right into the Midwestern crew we talked into staying at 8:00!  And it was now a whole lot more than a few hours later.  The well-put-together folks we’d met were now red-faced and joyous with their glasses listing crookedly, their hair a shambles, shirt-tails flapping, just a puddled mess they were, and as soon as they saw me rounding the corner they dropped their bags and ran over with giant bear-hugs of joy, thanking me most profusely for encouraging them to stay.  And the leader goes, “Hey, wait a minute,” and rushes back to his bags, and another guy says with a beam, “You’re gonna get something nice.”  And sure enough he comes back with this high-end print of an almost 3-D painting of Obama & Biden that will beam tonight from my walls forever.

And after a boatful of giant hugs, off they sailed into the glistening New York Sea at night as Terry & I floated on down the Avenue of The Americas, following The Great Invisible Forces to . . . . Times Square.

And as we whoosh around the corner into Times Square’s trash & vaudeville – the barricaded streets, shut-down sidewalks, yellow police tape everywhere, battalions of uniforms, and eight lanes of traffic racing through the center of it!  The massive crowd has dissolved down to a nice loud throng — so we fit right in! – bolting directly to the center island — the core of the core – ground-to-sky screens all around — Obama’s ears 8 Miles High — a constant roar — traffic, different speakers blasting different speakers, and a very high cheers-per-second ratio.

cue:  ”Dancing In The Streets” — loud.  [Phil Lesh & Friends, NYC, Nov. 6th, 2008 recommended]

And my Canadian flag’s immediately attracting a flood of delirious Canucks, some from the city I just left, some from places I never heard of.  And again it’s the celebrity flash-flash of my town crier top-hat n tails hailing in the news in Times Square routine.

All heck’s broken loose — for a moment it seems like old New York — people having a good time and no one interfering.  “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” is being belted out by an ensemble well beyond any concerns over harmony.  There’s a thousand Lady Libertys with one arm raised holding torches of camera-phones broadcasting beacons of freedom’s light to the rest of the world.  It’s the first time New York’s been like this since the Rangers won the Stanley Cup in game 7 at Madison Sq. Garden, when all the cars on Seventh Avenue were caught in the human flood, and the streets for blocks around became an instant street party — and you could walk up the avenue between rows of cars high-fiving both drivers and passengers from their open windows.

It was like that all through Times Square, except it seemed every car was coming from an Obama party, not just arriving at one!  It wasn’t random drivers caught up in some random New York street party, but every person in the city was in on it.  Or at least every person who was awake and outside.  The few Republicans here were long since safe behind their security systems, and anyone who was alive for the last few hours couldn’t help hearing and seeing and feeling the emotional and literal fireworks shooting off of every streetcorner in New York.

It was Fourth of July.  It was Beatlemania screams still echoing outside Ed Sullivan’s Paramount Theater.  Not only was every car smiling like a cartoon, and every driver too, but there was a person sticking out of every sunroof that went by — and people leaning out the side windows to high-five the Times Squarers as they drove through the piazza.  And if you weren’t honking your horn enough and got stuck at a light, brothers reached in your open window and honked it for you.  And not only were people chanting as they marched, a fire truck went by honking out “O – ba – ma” on his horn in time with the crowd, and the young Irish cops were doing stand-up routines for the crowds and working the passers-by like the best street comedians.

I talked to one of the officers in charge who said there’d been no problems at all over the entire city all night.

Nice, eh?

New York, I love ya!  So much like the blackout night five years ago  — happy positive vibes emitting from everywhere.  It was Woodstock without the mud.  It was a sunrise without the hangover.  It was a White House without a Bush.

And word filters up that Union Square was overflowing with people, and St. Marks Place in the East Village has broken into a spontaneous street-long block-party, and it was clear this was not going to be over anytime soon. 

And it was so gawdamn global – the giant screens were flashing crowds of people in Paris and London and Rome and Rio and Sydney and Toronto and hot-damn, summer in the city!  The back of my neck feelin’ all goosebumpy.

It was great that we were not dancing just cuz it was some date on a calendar, but because of something worked for by people the world over — and because of all the changes this will bring, from the smallest of human exchanges to the speeches of kings — it’s “a transformation of civilization” as Neil Young is currently singing it — it’s the hundredth monkey cracking the cocoanut for milk — an evolutionary step in our species — a turning-point that’ll be taught long after we’re gone.

And it’s happening now.  If you can read this, you’ve got your invitation.  We are the cells that are multiplying.  We are the lucky ones that make it across the river to The Promised Land.  This is a moment all people will wish they lived through.  And that this is even bigger for the world than it is for America.

It is our time, as he kept saying.

Live it or lose it, as I keep saying.

= = = = = = = = = = =

And wonderfully P.S.

A night later, a bunch of us went to the best band goin’, to my ears, Phil Lesh & Friends, and at the beginning of the show, the 68 year old bandleader came out and Dedicated the show – something I’ve never seen any GD member ever do  . . .

Phil:  ”Two days ago, we lived through and participated in a turning point in history, as important as anything that we’ve seen in our lives. And I bet everybody in this room was a part of that in some way. So, I want to dedicate this show tonight to that uniquely American spirit, which was just thrown up, at the perfect moment, with this man, and this movement, and these people.  So, here’s to you!”

Followed by chants of, “U.S.A., U.S.A., U.S.A.,” at an underground Grateful Dead concert in the core of Manhattan!   

*

*

See, also:  the Election Night 2004 story

= = = = = = = =

by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@gmail.com

“Keep your smile on and it’ll light your way.”  BH

I’d always remembered the way she told the story the first night that she got free.  It was the most amazing, real, solo story-telling performance I’ve ever seen in my life.  Then I somehow remembered her name!  Ashley Smith.  So I was able to look it up online, and even though this is a slightly edited down version, all I can say is — be in a quite place, get yourself comfortable, don’t be distracted, and just go right into this. 

There’s something about her accent, her demeanor, her calmness, her honesty . . . this person just picked out of the hundreds of millions, who never expected to be in front of a camera in her life, let alone held by an escaped convict who’d just killed people.  And all on the same day. 

And this was riffed the evening it ended and before she went to sleep — like, it was still live in that day for her.  This is so raw. 

And it was done on the fly in (I think) the restaurant of the hotel that the city put her up in that night.  The reporters just plopped her on a couch, and she just riffed it all out in one uninterupted non-stop solo!  How she holds it together and keeps going is just riveting, chilling, jaw-dropping . . .

 video:  http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/7180835#7180835 

news story:  http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/7157845/ 

I recommend to everyone I know to watch this. 

It’s a real-life performance you will never forget. 

p.s.  There’s this whole huge passage edited out of the link above.  If anyone ever finds the whole entire story, let me know and we’ll link.  In the meantine, here’s this whole amazing part that’s edited out — frombetween 5:30 and 9 in the morning . . .

About 5:30, 6–well, 6, 6:30–he said, “I need to make a move.” And I said, “A move?” He said, “I need to get rid of this car before daylight, this truck [the agent's].” I said, “OK.”

I knew that if I didn’t agree to go with him, follow him to get the truck–he’d just take the truck, then one thing–or two–one of two things. He would kill me right then, and say, “All right, well, if you’re not going to help me, then I won’t need you anymore.” Or the police would never find him, or it would take longer. And someone else would get hurt, and I was trying to avoid that.

So I went . . . I said, “Can I take my cell phone?” He said, “Do you want to?” I said, “Yeah.” I’m thinking, well, I might call the police then, and I might not. So I took it anyway. He didn’t take any guns with him. The guns were laying around the house. Pretty much after he untied [me], they were just laying around the house.

And at one point, he said, “You know, I’d rather you shoot–the guns are laying in there–I’d rather you shoot me than them.” I said, “I don’t want anyone else to die, not even you.”

So we went to take the truck, and I was behind him, following him. And I thought about calling the police, you know, I thought, he’s about to be in the car with me right now. So I can call the police, and when he gets in the car, then they can surround me and him together, and I could possibly get hurt, or we can go back to my house.

And I really felt deep down inside that he was going to let me see my little girl. And I said–or then when I leave, he can be there by himself, or he–he finally agreed to let me go see my daughter. I had to leave at 9, 9:30. And I really believed that he was going to.

From the time he walked into my house until we were taking that truck, he was a totally different person to me. I felt very threatened, scared. I felt he was going to kill me when–when I first–when he first put the gun to my side. But when I followed him to pick–to take the truck, I felt he was going to–he was really going to turn himself in. So he took the truck.

He got in the car and I said, “Are you ready now?” And he said, “Give me a few days, please.” I said, “Come on, you’ve got to turn yourself in now.” I didn’t feel like he might–I felt like he might change his mind, that he might not want to turn himself in the next day, or a few days after that, and that if he did feel that way, then he would need money, and the only way he could get money was if he hurt somebody and took it from them.

So we went back to my house and got in the house. And he was hungry, so I cooked him breakfast. He was overwhelmed with–”Wow,” he said, “real butter, pancakes?”

And I just talked with him a little more, just about–about–we pretty much talked about God . . . what his reason was, why he made it out of there.

I said, “Do you believe in miracles? Because if you don’t believe in miracles–you are here for a reason. You’re here in my apartment for some reason. You got out of that courthouse with police everywhere, and you don’t think that’s a miracle? You don’t think you’re supposed to be sitting here right in front of me listening to me tell you, you know, your reason here?”

I said, “You know, your miracle could be that you need to–you need to be caught for this. You need to go to prison and you need to share the word of God with them, with all the prisoners there.”

Then 9 came. He said, “What time do you have to leave?”

[ then the conclusion of the story continues on the clip ]

                                     The Prankster Meets The Penguin 

So, I went to the Ranger game last night at Madison Square Garden.  What a hoot!  Before the game, there was some rock band called Overtime or something playing out front on the plaza;  and there were these shooting gallery games like at the Hockey Hall of Fame where you shoot the puck at little holes around a lifesize photo of Lundqvist, and another one that measured how hard your shot was.  And there’s this giant bronze statue of some guy outside the Garden, maybe it’s Mr. Garden, i don’t know, but they had the old guy decked out in a giant Rangers jersey.  

I went in for the pre-game skate and a bunch of Ranger fans had made scorecard signs like diving judges hold up during the Olympics.  And there’s one guy walking around in complete diving gear with a snorkel and facemask and a “Crosby Diving Team” shirt.  And all behind the net that the Penguins were shooting into during warm-up was a line of people holding diving scorecards.  Of course, Crosby answered this by setting up a goal a minute into the game.  And the Rangers never really recovered.  It ended up 5-3, but it was even more lopsided than that.  

When it was over, I didn’t want to leave — as usual.  I said to my hockey brother Rob, “This is like after my last Dead show at (nearby) Giants Stadium — i didn’t want to leave the venue and we walked all around the upper hallway looking down at the emptying stands and the stage tear-down.  Just keep soaking it in.  I didn’t know at the time it would be the last show ever, but just in case it might be, I always soak in everything to the maximum.” 

So we do just that up in Blue Heaven, surveying all of MSG like a wide-angle photograph developing on the brain, burning the image onto the glossy paper of memory.    

My poor buddy’s a hardcore Ranger fan so he’s a little down seeing his team essentially eliminated, but he’s being very easy-going about it  – if only because he’s a little stunned in shock.   So, we finally leave and luckilly come out on the 8th Avenue side, and I guide our stroll around by the load-out door where there’s about 50 fans waiting to get autographs or just to cheer the players as they leave.  As soon as we get there, Mario Lemieux comes out in a car with his wife, and I’m thinking, “This is sort of interesting.”    

There’s just tons of bright-faced young hockey fans — like this one kid, it was his 15th birthday, and he’s there with his dad and wearing one of the old style teal Pittsburgh jerseys like they wore for The Winter Classic outdoor game this year.  These kids, these fans, all know what the players look like without their helmets on, and they’re shouting out their names as they see them walking out in their suits to get on the bus that’s parked in the runway.  Some different Penguins come walking down the ramp and go right past us.  A couple of them stop and sign autographs.  

And all of a sudden, there’s big Hal Gill!  So i go over to him — he was kinda lost — like he was walking past the bus along the sidewalk, and had to stop and turn around, and I’m, “Hey Hal!  Good to see ya!  And good luck, eh?!  Hey, I’m from Toronto!”  And this makes him break into a big smile, “Great!” And I’m, “I’m so glad you get to be with this team now.  It’s the only way a Leaf will ever win the Cup!” and he laughs, and says thanks, shakes hands and heads for the bus.  

Then a few people start yelling, “Hey Jarku!” as Ruuto walks up — another guy I wouldn’t know from Adam — Ind i suddenly remember I have all these hockey cards in my bag, and pull out my Ruutu card and run over just as he’s about to get away and the 15 year old kid gives me his Sharpie and Ruutu signs the card.   

Then a couple others come along in their fresh n snappy suits, and then — there’s one guy I actually recognize!  Jordan Staal!  It’s just cuz he’s always on TV, and is really tall and skinny and has that sorta blondish hair and he’s just walking right out past all the fans and out to the street.  I run up to him cuz he’s really one of my favorite players — hockey’s new royal family and all — and i start walking along beside him going, “No way!  Jordan!  Way to go man!” and I’m slapping him on the back of his brown leather jacket and he’s not wanting to break his stare from straight ahead, almost like a guard at Buckingham Palace who’s supposed to not turn his head.  Not to mention him thinking, “Who is this crazy Rangers fan?  And am I about to be attacked?”  But I’m just making such a big fuss over him he’s goin’ with it, and I look up at his face that’s about as far away as the top of the Empire State Building, and I can see he’s got this huge beam on and is laughing — and I’m just sorta running along beside him since he’s walking very fast and determined, and I’m about 5 jumbo beers into it and I just kept slappin’ him on the back and raving on about how great the team is and how I’m rooting for them and he’s just laughing away at my enthusiasm and stick-to-it-ness.  

So, he’s walking the same direction as Hal and Ruutu were, and I realize their bus is parked out on the street, and so I watch as he and the other guys climb up the stairs and disappear into their dark cave.  It wasn’t a regular big charter tour type bus, but a mini-bus, like you see shuffling people around at airports.  

All of a sudden, I dunno, but . . . suddenly there was no security type person standing at their bus door, and I thought, “Ah-ha.”  

So I walk out nonchalantly into the road as though I’m just going to cross the street, and I see the bus door is open!  And I go, “No way!”  

So, I turn, and just Boom – I run up the stairs and onto their bus!  

There was a driver in the driver’s seat, and he didn’t say anything.  It was really dark in there so it was hard to see exactly, but nearly every seat was taken — like they were just about ready to take off.  So I stand up at the front like a tour guide holding onto the silver pole, and I just start in on this riff, super excited, quite skiddlie, but i just started goin’, “Hey you guys!  I just wanted to tell ya you’re just great!  And thank you for what you’re doing for hockey all over the world.  This is just the best thing.  The way you’re doing it, inspiring the kids, and hockey fans all over, it’s just fantastic and i just wanted to make sure you guys knew it and how much it’s appreciated, and you guys are doing the right thing and doing it the right way!”      

It’s really dark, and I don’t know most of the player’s faces, but I can see Jordan Staal, he’s on the aisle about 2 rows from the back, and maybe he had an overhead light on or something, but I could see his tall head and he’s just got this huge teeth-beaming smile on — a fellow twinkling prankster for sure.  As a performer, you often pick out one person in the audience and deliver the show to them.  Zone in — and if you’re totally connected to that person, have them hanging on your every word, you don’t lose your train, and everybody else can ride along.  So I’m sorta delivering this whole spontaneous monolog to Staal.  

And it was so weird, cuz you sorta picture a hockey team’s bus as i dunno, rowdy, partying, everybody talking at once — sort of a Slap Shot scene.  But everybody was in very proper suits sitting quiet and back-straight in their seats like a troop of uniformed soldiers or something.  But the General was on the bus!   

And he was right in front of me!  The very first seat beside the stairs is Coach Therrien, and he’s laughing away, I couldn’t believe it!  But I knew I had the room if he was laughing.  :-)  But I didn’t wanna look too closely in case he signaled for me to leave.  And it’s so great that in this 9/11 world they weren’t too freaked-out by this strange guy jumping into their midst.  Neither the coach nor the players nor any staff ever made a move to stop me, and here I was given this spontaneous, unsolicited pep-talk to the entire frickin’ Penguins team!  

I’m looking right into the faces of the guys in the first couple of rows but I couldn’t positively identify any of them — those damn helmet disguises they wear!  I think the rookie type guys have to sit in the front — none of the first few rows were Laraque or Talbot or Malkin or Malone or any of those super recognizable faces.  

I had the presence of mind to realize that they weren’t kicking me off, and that I actually had the entire team’s rapt attention, and the coach is sorta rocking back and forth in his seat he’s laughing so much.  It was like open mike night, and the host had just nodded that you can do another song!  :-)  So I did.  

I went into something like, “I’m from Canada,” (I wanted them to know I’m an authentic old-school purist hockey person, not just some demented drunk New Yorker)  So I told them, “I just drove all the way down here to see you play tonight, and I just want you to know that everybody up there is rootin’ for you guys.  And what you’re doing is just great!  And just keep goin’!  The whole hockey world is rooting for you guys.  Believe me.”  And I gave ‘em a nod & a stare with a good long pause.  

I remember thinking that I didn’t wanna say anything to jinx it — like talk about The Cup or anything beyond this series.  So I just said again, “What you’re doing is just great!  Keep doin’ what you’re doin’!”   I couldn’t believe I was there — and I was sort of running out of material and didn’t want to overstay my bizarre welcome, so I just gave them a happy final wave in farewell and scampered down the stairs as fast as I climbed them.  The whole time I was just beaming with joy, and I’m sure that’s what allowed me to be there unchallenged.  

So, . . . that was the night I ran onto the Penguins’ bus in the middle of the playoffs and gave them a pep talk.  

you can also hear my crazy live morning-after riff (the April 30th episode) at

 http://thatradio.podhoster.com/index.php?sid=1399

Brian

BrianHassett.com

karmacoupon@gmail.com  

                                                                     Or

           Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned At A Grateful Dead Concert

            The weekend of my 30th birthday, four old friends drove from Winnipeg to New York to help celebrate it, and the Grateful Dead flew in from San Francisco to play.

            It’s a curious story how the Dead have ended up following this displaced Canadian around all these years.  I first heard them at an older friend’s house when I was about 16.  Of all the musical vibrations emanating through my teens, I’m still not sure why it was these guys who were strumming the rhythm of my inner pulse.  Why wasn’t it The Beatles, The Stones, Elvis, Bruce, or any of the other aural entities who captured my peers’ ears?  Why was it the Grateful Dead, a San Francisco acid-rock band from the sixties, and not some Canadian beer-rock band from the seventies?  I mean, I’d barely even heard of acid, let alone knew what it was, let alone done it at one of their concerts.  And I’d certainly never been to San Francisco.  Fifteen years later, I’m still amazed that what struck me then, continues to strike me today.

            After I first heard this otherwise unknown band in Winnipeg, I held their sound between my ears and went off in search of their records.  The stores in my farm implement outpost didn’t have a Grateful Dead section.  Most didn’t even have them under “Misc – G.”  Finally in some basement New & Used joint I found one, and the journey began.  At the time, no one else I knew was listening to them.  I mean no one.  And since they weren’t on the radio or anything, it was difficult to put their records on at parties.  I remember it got to the point where I would plead to get one side played, which would give me a fix for the night.  Even then, before I’d ever seen them, or even thought that I would, I was living on nightly fixes.  Little did I know the size of the future doses.

            The concept of seeing a band live wasn’t even in our frame of reference.  In Winnipeg, we weren’t too sure what a concert was, and were hardly aware that they existed.  So few tours came to town, the ones that did were more like a traveling exposition that everyone felt obliged to attend but didn’t quite understand.  And it seemed like the Grateful Dead were something that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. 

            But one afternoon, there in a 7-11 on the corner of this lily-white elm-treed neighborhood in a mid-western prairie town, I was flipping through a Rolling Stone magazine when I came across a two-page photograph of a huge crowd of people that looked like an aerial shot of Woodstock ─ only the caption read, “100,000 rise for The Dead.”  I later learned this was the famous Englishtown, New Jersey concert, and I was looking at the heads of many of my future friends.  I remember crouching there, slurping a slurpee out of a plastic hockey cup with the condensation dripping to the floor, looking at this black & white spread of people pushing toward the stage, and realizing it wasn’t for Jimi Hendrix and a cast of hundreds.  “The Dead again?  Who are these guys?”  A hundred thousand was the population of my town.  I realized then that something was definitely going on in America that we didn’t know anything about.

            These odd little experiences began piling on top of each other out there on the frozen tundra.  There was the time that out-of-town band played at The Zoo and covered their tunes.  There was that poster on the wall at the babysitting place.  There was that chapter in Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. 

            After high school I bought a van, with my subconscious mind muttering, “This’ll get me to a Grateful Dead concert.”  The next spring, friends and I drove to Vancouver and settled in.  Before long, word filtered up that the band was playing in Seattle.   The show was sold out by the time we heard about it, but I remember phoning and pleading, and somehow getting to mail them a money order because the extra soundboard pulls or something would be going on sale in a week.  Either way, from our naive little apartment on the wrong side of the border we were able to procure our first tickets to a lifelong adventure.

            The initial show was general admission, and there was this unusually comfortable conformity in the amount of space each person took on the floor.  The Deadheads we talked to all seemed surprised that this was our first show.  We were wondering, “What do you mean?  Isn’t it yours?  Why do these people all think this is strange?  Why are they grinning at us like that?”

            After a summer of starving out west, I ended up in college in New York, whereupon the Dead promptly came to town for eight shows at Radio City Music Hall.  Suddenly the phenomena I’d brushed up against in Seattle was in town for a fortnight.  What were once misunderstood expositions was now a visiting circus!  And what a spectacle it turned out to be, with the camped-out American hippies pulling off a coup at music’s Palace of Versailles!  This was the sacrificial whiplash of my indoctrination, where The Innocent Canadian gets snatched up and flung through the American Animal House Fraternity, with everyone plastered on a 20 year bender of social freedoms.

            And now, on this most recent birthday weekend, as I danced across the threshold from my first three decades and into the next, the house band was playing once again. 

            My old school buddies from Canada and I arrived in the parking lot at noon for a 7:00 show, joining tens of thousands of tailgaters already in full twist.  Every car, hatchback and van was smothered in transparent Dead decals, every window exposing the backpacks, cloths and gear of a moving army with too few vehicles.

            Various periods of the band were playing from stereos in every direction.  Wherever we stood, dancing licks from some incarnation would dominate, until we wandered on and a different one would weave into focus.  The most deadicated were blasting crystal-clear speakers perched on rooftops, inspiring you to linger a little longer when the tune was sweet.

            There we were, broiling on the blacktop of a steel-filled parking lot in the devastating heat of a Greenhouse summer, with beers and juice were for sale every few feet, and grilled-cheese sandwiches twice an aisle.  The visiting foursome had never been to a Dead show before, and despite my fervent preparations, they were still stunned silent.  But after we had encircled the Giant coliseum once, they seemed to have internalized the dancing shuffle and oft-interrupted pace, and were singing the collective tune of the kind, kind day.

            Granted, there were overripe school kids guzzling beer, and here we were in our thirties, but there was no question that they were us and this was the culmination of a personal dream.  From those little tid-bits in a 7-11, and chance platters at a pal’s place, I was finally able to pull a group of old friends into the Kaleidoscopic Dancehall after all these years.  I’d spent much of my teens trying to convince everyone we should move to California.  The Great Migration never took place, but now some latter-day version was. 

            The long, circular asphalt stroll somehow condensed the years gone by.  Here, far from the madding Mounties, were free-styling Americans ─ that most shocking group in the eyes of Cautious Canucks ─ who were smoking joints, tossing frizbees, and GOING FOR IT, something that’s as foreign to Canadians as all-English labeling.  Here were my four porcelain-white brothers a million miles from the jaywalking tickets of home, sashaying through the breast bouncing, sun worshiping euphoria of a world they’d never seen.

            I wish I could have time-traveled the optimistic faces of my youth into the land I discovered later, but then who doesn’t?  In New York I was able to find what we’d been striving to build on our own on that frozen permafrost.  I’ve never been able to share, except on occasional weekend outings, the findings of my Expedition South of the 49th.  But now, here we were, crossing the boundary between the plans of our twenties and the work of our thirties, and the faces and flames were together once again to share it.  It’ll be a different picture at the next decade’s dawn, but for now, as youth was burning away like that last slurp of gas from an empty tank, at least the car was full of the same faces as when the journey began.

            Not everything was perfect.  It was stupefyingly hot, and a couple of the gang didn’t quite get The Big Picture, but that’s part of it too.  It’s what we are not that defines us as clearly as what we are.  We weren’t of one mind back then, and we weren’t that weekend on the tarmac.

            But what we were was together, and if there’s anything homo sapiens crave, it’s more of the same.  If you can gaze into the human mirrors of your childhood every couple of years, you’re never going to grow too old, or wander too far astray.  If you can’t tell how fat you’re getting by trying on your pants, invite your soulmates over for coffee and check the waistline.  You can be full of shit, but they’ll see it.  You can blow your balloon as full as you want, and they’ll pop it.  Your carefully stacked rationalizations will topple in a breeze of your own reflection.

            And it’s a joy.  It’s a joy when you wake up to find you that you’ve been doing something right all along.  And it’s even a joy to see where the sails need trimming.  Only old friends can bring that into focus.

            And so it is with any band, … or novel, or movie, or canvas.  Good art grows with you.  If it’s real, it’s there for a lifetime, and you’ll grow up in its landscape.  Charlie Parker when you’re 50, or van Gogh at 60, will still inspire a celebration of life, but they’ll be in a different shade than today.  All the tingles you ever felt are still there for the rekindling.  The masters of eternity knit with the golden thread of our spirit, and have weaved a little of each of us into their song.

= = = = = = = = = =

by Brian Hassett

karmacoupon@gmail.com

www.BrianHassett.com