Reviewed: a day in the life

First things:

It’s seven, get up before Jerry and his dad, quick shower and outta here. Poppy bagel at Reuben’s? Plain cream cheese or schmear? Oh, I need that coffee bad. Jeez just went to bed at four-thirty. I’ll get a nap between jobs this afternoon.

At Reuben’s: 

Damn, that coffee’s hot. ” Hey Joey, could you make sure next time that you really toast that bagel?” Can’t get good help. Snicker. Who am I to talk? Damn, she’s hot…” hey watch it buddy, hot coffee here!” where’d she go? No place to sit now.

On the IRT subway:

Look at that dude in the corner, man, what’s he on? The guy next to him, like he’s going to Maiden Lane. Some stock market place. Ow! There goes the corner dude falling asleep on Mr. Stock Market’s shoulder. Must be some potent shit! Too early to visit the Magical Kingdom.

This car stinks. Hey, some cool new graffiti. My stop next.

Mid-Town:

I wouldn’t say I like these crowds.

Three deliveries later: “let’s see pick up at Harmon, Marx, and Tobias, drop off at LevinFabrics.”

“Hi Mister Levine, sure I’d love some tea. How’s the family? Arthur’s decided on CCNY. That’s great. Those guys from Columbia would be a bad influence on him. How do I know? I see them drinking every night in the Village.”

Five deliveries later. In the back of the dispatch office- a two-hour power nap, followed by the last two deliveries of the day.

Five pm:

Pick up my ax (guitar) at Josie’s, head down to the Why Not. Check with Jerry or Toppa about tonight’s sets.

Might as well go to get a bit to eat. Got a buck, eating cheap tonight.

Six pm the Village

Settle in at the music room at Cafe Rienzi’s. So quiet, I can hear my guitar while I tune. I really need to put some cash aside for new strings. Ah, here’s Sue. “What’s up, Hon? Where are your sets? I’ll come and fill up the crowd. No, I haven’t seen Lefkowitz yet. I’m hoping we can play together later.”

Eight pm till ten – sets at Cafe Why Not, Dragon’s Den and back to the Why Not

The first set of the night

“Oh no, he’s back. Shit, Jerry, you booted him out last night, why’d you let him back in tonight?” ( in the background) – “I’m sober, want ta hear me recite the preamble to the Constitution? How about the Tridentine Mass?” Jerry- ” Look, Mister Terry, you have to quiet down, or I’ll call the cops like I did last night.”

” Welcome to the Cafe Why Not. I’m Wes, and I’d like you to tune out Mr. Martini over there – bad day at the office, huh, Bud?, and I’ll sing a couple of songs for you. The first one is Wild About My Lovin’.”

” Well now, listen here people

I’m about to sing a song

 goin to Saint Louis

And I won’t be long

Cause I’m wild about my lovin

I like to have my fun

If you want to be a gal of mine baby

bring it with you when you come

Well now, Jack of Diamonds told

the Queen of Spades

Come on honey stop your foolin ways

Cause I’m wild about my lovin

I like to have my fun

If you want to be a girl of mine

You got to bring it with you

When you come”

Ten pm – Minetta Tavern

“Guinness Toby. Oh, that’s good. I bet they don’t put up with drunk jerks at Gerdes or the Gaslight. The idiot tried reciting the preamble to the Constitution, and when he couldn’t get past the first line, he settled on the Our Father. Strangest prayer I’ve heard for a while. I never suspected that God’s name was hollowed, the way he pronounced Kingdom come made it sound a lot more like King Kong’s cum. The tips in my basket were good, though. I think they liked how I handled him.

Ten twenty until eleven twenty pm final set performed at the Dragon’s Den

Same old Same old made some money.

Eleven thirty pm – Rienzi’s 

Louie Lefkowitz, Sue, Mitch O’Brien, and me howling like it’s a full moon. Singing songs. Ah, Listening to Louie play the blues harp. He’s one of a kind. I’ll play Roll in my sweet babies’ arms next. Sue’s hot tonight. We’ll head over to Tomkins Park afterward, head of to Sixth Avenue, and get some food. Got enough for new strings, maybe a new capo.

Three am – Christopher Street

“Hey Tom! You up? want ta let me in? Shit. I’ll sleep right here.”

Six thirty am-

“Wes? What the…why are you sleeping here. I left the door open for you.” Me – ” can I use the shower, I have to get ready for work.”

Viewpoint

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">I was born and raised in New York City. Please don't laugh, but when I was little, I thought that country referred to the vacant lot with a tree. Eventually, my mother took me to some of the larger parks in the city, and my concept of the country developed just a bit. Joining the Scouts saved me from a terminal New York focus by introducing me to the world across from Washington Heights accessible only by crossing the George Washington Bridge. I began to have dreams of leaving New York and voyaging over the map's edge into that great unknown. I had been to camp in New Jersey and upstate New York, but by and large, my view of the world was one of a vast horizon across from the Bridge with indicator arrows stabbing down from the sky. The neon arrows marked California, the "West," Chicago, and the Mississippi. To the North was Boston and the "North Woods."<br>The illustrations of " A New Yorker's View of America" are close to how I imagined it.<br>It rested there until one late March morning when I departed from New York's Greenwich Village for Boston. Later, I traveled north during the summer to see what was on offer elsewhere in New England. Among other things, I discovered towns with actual rural borders. You came to a place where the town ended. Snip. In town, then out of town into fields and woods. No suburbs – NYC went on for miles with nothing but the city, and then miles of suburbs. It never seemed to end, like a nightmare where the urban landscape went on forever.<br>When I came to the border, and there was nothing but fields and woods, I was amazed that It seemed for a second as though I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. Cue Rod Serling – "Imagine that you've stepped into a world…"<br>Deciding to explore this strange phenomenon, I traveled to Maine, where I took a job at the Poland Springs Hotel. From my room in the dorm for hotel workers, I could see nothing but forest. Early in the morning, rivers of fog crept up the valley to the hilltop where the hotel sat. In the evening, I watched gaudy sunsets over the Presidential Mountains to the west. None of my previous life experiences compared. Sunsets over the New Jersey Palisades were boring by comparison,<br>Among the friends I met were a brother and sister working at the hotel to earn college money. Each week, we'd spend time around a campfire singing songs and exchanging stories about our lives. There were lots of differences and some similarities. We were all currently as far away from home as we had ever been in our short lives, and we all had an appetite to see more of the country. The differences were substantial. They had never been as far as the state capitol in Augusta or Portland ( Maine's largest city). They had seen those places on television, and that was the only reassurance that I wasn't spinning a fantasy. Boston was near the end of the world.<br>One night around the campfire, I told them about the cartoons and illustrations of a New Yorkers view of the United States. They laughed because it was the same sort of picture they had had of the United States except their tiny island was the viewpoint, and small lights indicated everything to the westward.I was born and raised in New York City. Please don’t laugh, but when I was little, I thought that country referred to the vacant lot with a tree. Eventually, my mother took me to some of the larger parks in the city, and my concept of the country developed just a bit. Joining the Scouts saved me from a terminal New York focus by introducing me to the world across from Washington Heights accessible only by crossing the George Washington Bridge. I began to have dreams of leaving New York and voyaging over the map’s edge into that great unknown. I had been to camp in New Jersey and upstate New York, but by and large, my view of the world was one of a vast horizon across from the Bridge with indicator arrows stabbing down from the sky. The neon arrows marked California, the “West,” Chicago, and the Mississippi. To the North was Boston and the “North Woods.”
The illustrations of ” A New Yorker’s View of America” are close to how I imagined it.
It rested there until one late March morning when I departed from New York’s Greenwich Village for Boston. Later, I traveled north during the summer to see what was on offer elsewhere in New England. Among other things, I discovered towns with actual rural borders. You came to a place where the town ended. Snip. In town, then out of town into fields and woods. No suburbs – NYC went on for miles with nothing but the city, and then miles of suburbs. It never seemed to end, like a nightmare where the urban landscape went on forever.
When I came to the border, and there was nothing but fields and woods, I was amazed that It seemed for a second as though I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. Cue Rod Serling – “Imagine that you’ve stepped into a world…”
Deciding to explore this strange phenomenon, I traveled to Maine, where I took a job at the Poland Springs Hotel. From my room in the dorm for hotel workers, I could see nothing but forest. Early in the morning, rivers of fog crept up the valley to the hilltop where the hotel sat. In the evening, I watched gaudy sunsets over the Presidential Mountains to the west. None of my previous life experiences compared. Sunsets over the New Jersey Palisades were boring by comparison,
Among the friends I met were a brother and sister working at the hotel to earn college money. Each week, we’d spend time around a campfire singing songs and exchanging stories about our lives. There were lots of differences and some similarities. We were all currently as far away from home as we had ever been in our short lives, and we all had an appetite to see more of the country. The differences were substantial. They had never been as far as the state capitol in Augusta or Portland ( Maine’s largest city). They had seen those places on television, and that was the only reassurance that I wasn’t spinning a fantasy. Boston was near the end of the world.
One night around the campfire, I told them about the cartoons and illustrations of a New Yorkers view of the United States. They laughed because it was the same sort of picture they had had of the United States except their tiny island was the viewpoint, and small lights indicated everything to the westward.

When the hotel closed for the season, we went our sperate ways. They went off to college, and I moved on to other “frolicking detours.”
I don’t think I ever expected to hear from them again. But just before Christmas, I got a call from the Teahead of the August Moon (self-proclaimed chief potentate of the Folkie Palace) that a package had arrived from Maine for me. That evening we all sat at our table in the Back of the Harvard Gardens drinking beer. My friend Bill handed me the package. After carefully removing the outer paper wrapping, I removed two protective cardboard panels to find a watercolor painted on heavy paper. It was the view from the top of the hill where the hotel sat. Looking west and south from the hotel were little arrows marking places like New York, Portland, and Los Angelos.
There was one arrow that was labeled “Wes’ Folkie Palace, Grove Street, Boston.”

Memento

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn't remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper's address nor the shipper's name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – "sign here." I signed.<br>Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here -<br>Dear Wes,<br>Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you've written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.The postal notice said it was the third attempt. I didn’t remember any previous, so I trotted down to the post office before it closed to retrieve the unknown package. It was soft, Taped over thoroughly, and wrapped with string. I neither recognized the shipper’s address nor the shipper’s name. I asked the postal clerk if she was sure it was for me. She indicated my name and my address – “sign here.” I signed.
Inside was my old backpack, my old fleece-lined denim jacket, and an odd assortment of small items I vaguely remembered owning. The last I member seeing this assortment of possessions had been in 1968, lost somewhere on one of my road trips to nowhere. A note, there must be a note? Here –
Dear Wes,
Nothing is ever truly lost. Between the stories, our mother told about you, and the two old letters from New York, we were able to locate your address on the internet. Mom would have loved to read the stories you’ve written. She would have wondered though why you never wrote about her. You really should, you know. Just before she passed, she asked that we locate you and return your pack and jacket. She was sorry afterward that she swiped them from you.

Betsy Hildegard

I pawed over the pack, the jacket, the assorted items, and the letter. I was grimly looking for the identity of the woman who had ordered this package sent to me. Nothing. Betsy Hildegard had been confident that I’d instantly recognize who her mom had been, and her great importance to me. No recall, no stories. Just unfair.

Then in one of the side pockets, I found a small note card envelope. Opening it here was the message: “Wes, Thanks for all the wonderful memories.”

Communard

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Kicked out. That's right; I got kicked out of the commune I had joined. I was told I had issues with privacy and property. They were correct. Other people randomly invading what I thought of as private space, my bed, was beyond my comfort zone. My guitar was the only real possession that I owned, and having it used without permission set me off. The third and final time I found Donnie with it, I refrained from putting his lights out. But, he walked funny for a while. So yes, I was asked to depart by the commune's council—the best decision.<br>As one of the few left who knew much about gardening, I left a deficit in the food raising knowledge base of the community. Most of my fellow communards had trouble recognizing a carrot grown in soil. Their primary contact with vegetables had been a grocery store produce aisle.<br>I didn't miss the political orientation sessions that were required attendance. As one of the few working-class kids, I tended to howl with laughter when the doctrinaire talked about encouraging the workers to join the coming revolution. I had tried to explain that in 1968 many of the white working-class had a large enough slice of the pie that they felt no need to ruin things for themselves. They drove new cars, had union jobs, and their kids went to the state university. Also, there was not a lot of respect owed 19-year-olds who had never worked in a mill, factory, or any job of any kind. Things would have to deteriorate incredibly for those folks to reject their current course.<br>My experience at the Internationale farm shoved me firmly into the camp of being a recovering anarchist. Not being one to hold my feeling in, I shared my opinions. At my favorite drinking establishment, the wise heads of the Harvard Gardens sagely nodded their heads in agreement. Visiting our table that evening was Sol. Sol was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, an experienced community organizer, former communist, and a local ward heeler for the Democratic organization. After letting me blather on for a while, Sol looked up from what had to be his tenth beer and said to us, " Listen, guys. Mao's Little Red Book is all good and excellent, but hard work wins the day, not airy theory. To mangle Napoleon – Determination is to Doctrine as two to one."Kicked out. That’s right; I got kicked out of the commune I had joined. I was told I had issues with privacy and property. They were correct. Other people randomly invading what I thought of as private space, my bed, was beyond my comfort zone. My guitar was the only real possession that I owned, and having it used without permission set me off. The third and final time I found Donnie with it, I refrained from putting his lights out. But, he walked funny for a while. So yes, I was asked to depart by the commune’s council—the best decision.
As one of the few left who knew much about gardening, I left a deficit in the food raising knowledge base of the community. Most of my fellow communards had trouble recognizing a carrot grown in soil. Their primary contact with vegetables had been a grocery store produce aisle.
I didn’t miss the political orientation sessions that were required attendance. As one of the few working-class kids, I tended to howl with laughter when the doctrinaire talked about encouraging the workers to join the coming revolution. I had tried to explain that in 1968 many of the white working-class had a large enough slice of the pie that they felt no need to ruin things for themselves. They drove new cars, had union jobs, and their kids went to the state university. Also, there was not a lot of respect owed 19-year-olds who had never worked in a mill, factory, or any job of any kind. Things would have to deteriorate incredibly for those folks to reject their current course.
My experience at the Internationale farm shoved me firmly into the camp of being a recovering anarchist. Not being one to hold my feeling in, I shared my opinions. At my favorite drinking establishment, the wise heads of the Harvard Gardens sagely nodded their heads in agreement. Visiting our table that evening was Sol. Sol was a veteran of the Spanish Civil War, an experienced community organizer, former communist, and a local ward heeler for the Democratic organization. After letting me blather on for a while, Sol looked up from what had to be his tenth beer and said to us, ” Listen, guys. Mao’s Little Red Book is all good and excellent, but hard work wins the day, not airy theory. To mangle Napoleon – Determination is to Doctrine as two to one.”

Riding

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Don't know precisely when I realized that I was not alone. Maybe it was the scent of good quality dope being smoked. I haven't used since '71, but the nose can still tell the quality stuff. That was what woke me up to the fact that I wasn't alone in the car. Not actually alone, but not actually in company. I hesitated to look to my right because I knew the passenger seat was now occupied.<br>Just so you know, I'm not a stranger to this sort of stuff. Until my Mom passed on, my dad made regular visits to assure me that he kept watch. When she died, his waiting ended. So this wasn't a restless family member. Slowing down for a curve, I saw the big loose army jacket, the unkempt red beard, and the telltale unfocused eyes of my friend Bill high on grass. " Can't get this stuff where I hang out these days." I saw a glimmer of light and an inhalation followed by a pause. "Jeeez, that's good." cough. "Remember when we used to hitch this road?" " Hey! You ever find that weird town with the elephant on the globe? No?"<br>I was a bit concerned about the scent if I got pulled over by a state cop. " Don't worry about the smell. It'll clear out with me. I was just out to score a bit."Don’t know precisely when I realized that I was not alone. Maybe it was the scent of good quality dope being smoked. I haven’t used since ’71, but the nose can still tell the quality stuff. That was what woke me up to the fact that I wasn’t alone in the car. Not actually alone, but not actually in company. I hesitated to look to my right because I knew the passenger seat was now occupied.
Just so you know, I’m not a stranger to this sort of stuff. Until my Mom passed on, my dad made regular visits to assure me that he kept watch. When she died, his waiting ended. So this wasn’t a restless family member. Slowing down for a curve, I saw the big loose army jacket, the unkempt red beard, and the telltale unfocused eyes of my friend Bill high on grass. ” Can’t get this stuff where I hang out these days.” I saw a glimmer of light and an inhalation followed by a pause. “Jeeez, that’s good.” cough. “Remember when we used to hitch this road?” ” Hey! You ever find that weird town with the elephant on the globe? No?”
I was a bit concerned about the scent if I got pulled over by a state cop. ” Don’t worry about the smell. It’ll clear out with me. I was just out to score a bit.”

There was nothing said for a while, and I was beginning to think I had just had a bit of a waking dream. I had been driving straight for fifteen hours, and my last cup of coffee had worn off. Then I heard: ” You haven’t been through Baltimore for a while, so I haven’t had a chance to tell you that I was cool with Darryl and you scattering the nickel bag of seed over my grave.” “Damn, that was fifty years ago Billie!” “Hey Wes, where I am we don’t exactly keep close tabs on time.”

“Like aren’t you going to take a toke? Oh, that’s right, you quit…but I bet you think you’re tripping right now. don’t you.” Cough. “Damn, things have changed. I didn’t even have to make a connection. I bought the stuff in a store. In a store! Hey, I gotta go… I got some brownies for the guys. Nice seein’ you Wes. Don’t bother stopping to let me off. I’m good.”

Despite his assurances, the pot’s scent remained in the car even after I opened all the windows. In the rearview mirror, my eyes appeared dilated.

I have to quit driving straight through from Oak Island to Massachusetts in one go. The fifteenth hour of driving is the worst.

Cardinals

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">"Win?" It was my friend, the Monk, shouting. "There is no winning in life; it's an illusion. A hundred years from now, people will ask? Bill, Wes, what did they win? A childish drinking game? Who cares." Somewhat outraged Bill howled: " I'll care, damn it!" the previous evening, I had attained the exalted rank of Cardinal ( Once a Cardinal, Always a Cardinal!), but Bill had, at last, made Pope. As cardinals – the College of Cardinals – all of us had processed around our favorite bar, the Harvard Gardens, and gotten thrown out and banned. Bill maintained, in his hungover state, that it had all been worthwhile. From that evening forward, when inquired: " are you a Pope?" his response would be – you bet your Gucci clad ass!<br>The depth of our hangover necessitated liberal amounts of freshly prepared cola from Fox's drug store down the street. Foxie had an old-time soda fountain and prepared the drink fresh from the syrup. The secret mixture that Foxie made would eat your stomach out if you had it too often, but would cut the recovery time on a hangover to two hours. We were hitting the two-hour mark, and Bill felt feisty enough to swing back at the Monk's piety.<br>The Teahead of the August Moon chose that moment to pop his head out of his bedroom. Pointing his index finger at us, he declared: "out, and don't come back."<br>Periodically the landlord, other tenants, the current resident feature of the Teahead's affection, caused a general eviction. When this happened, we all packed our bags and decamped for other digs. Eventually, the Teahead relented, and we all dribbled back into a reconstituted Folkie Palace. This time it appeared as though the eviction would stick.<br>After our banning at the Harvard Gardens had been forgiven or forgotten, the entire troupe of evictees gathered to discuss the situation. After a while, we decided that as a unit, we didn't need the Teahead, and could create our own Folkie Palace. The stumbling block to this was the first month's rent and security deposit. The reason we all resided at the Folkie Palace was our total lack of economic status. Bill and I considered ourselves to be Pius Itinerants, brothers of the road – vagrants. The Monk was medically unemployable, Mike the Vike was too involved in illegal substances, and was known to every landlord on Beacon Hill as an undesirable. The others were more irregular in attendance at the Palace and could be re-homed more easily.<br>We decided to send a delegation to the Teahead with peace offerings. Bill and I were elected to go. Me because I was the Palace's resident jongleur or troubadour and Bill because his regularly refreshed murals decorated the halls and walls of the Palace. We arrived with precious gifts of a case of beer, pizza, and donuts.<br>As we arrived, Andy, the Teadhead's longest-lasting girlfriend, was bumping an enormous suitcase down the stairs. We helped her move all her goods downstairs and into a waiting Checker Cab. At the top of the stairs was a forlorn Teahead. We entered, presented the appreciated beer (Narragannett in Giant Imperial Quarts) pizza, and donuts. Of course, we stayed to commiserate with our friend. He was lonely. His love had deserted him. Friends inconsiderately decamped to other places leaving him isolated.<br>We insisted that his friends were waiting for him only three blocks away and that we would send a committee to Andy as soon as things calmed down. Calmly we lead him to a reunion at the Harvard Gardens.“Win?” It was my friend, the Monk, shouting. “There is no winning in life; it’s an illusion. A hundred years from now, people will ask? Bill, Wes, what did they win? A childish drinking game? Who cares.” Somewhat outraged Bill howled: ” I’ll care, damn it!” the previous evening, I had attained the exalted rank of Cardinal ( Once a Cardinal, Always a Cardinal!), but Bill had, at last, made Pope. As cardinals – the College of Cardinals – all of us had processed around our favorite bar, the Harvard Gardens, and gotten thrown out and banned. Bill maintained, in his hungover state, that it had all been worthwhile. From that evening forward, when inquired: ” are you a Pope?” his response would be – you bet your Gucci clad ass!
The depth of our hangover necessitated liberal amounts of freshly prepared cola from Fox’s drug store down the street. Foxie had an old-time soda fountain and prepared the drink fresh from the syrup. The secret mixture that Foxie made would eat your stomach out if you had it too often, but would cut the recovery time on a hangover to two hours. We were hitting the two-hour mark, and Bill felt feisty enough to swing back at the Monk’s piety.
The Teahead of the August Moon chose that moment to pop his head out of his bedroom. Pointing his index finger at us, he declared: “out, and don’t come back.”
Periodically the landlord, other tenants, the current resident feature of the Teahead’s affection, caused a general eviction. When this happened, we all packed our bags and decamped for other digs. Eventually, the Teahead relented, and we all dribbled back into a reconstituted Folkie Palace. This time it appeared as though the eviction would stick.
After our banning at the Harvard Gardens had been forgiven or forgotten, the entire troupe of evictees gathered to discuss the situation. After a while, we decided that as a unit, we didn’t need the Teahead, and could create our own Folkie Palace. The stumbling block to this was the first month’s rent and security deposit. The reason we all resided at the Folkie Palace was our total lack of economic status. Bill and I considered ourselves to be Pius Itinerants, brothers of the road – vagrants. The Monk was medically unemployable, Mike the Vike was too involved in illegal substances, and was known to every landlord on Beacon Hill as an undesirable. The others were more irregular in attendance at the Palace and could be re-homed more easily.
We decided to send a delegation to the Teahead with peace offerings. Bill and I were elected to go. Me because I was the Palace’s resident jongleur or troubadour and Bill because his regularly refreshed murals decorated the halls and walls of the Palace. We arrived with precious gifts of a case of beer, pizza, and donuts.
As we arrived, Andy, the Teadhead’s longest-lasting girlfriend, was bumping an enormous suitcase down the stairs. We helped her move all her goods downstairs and into a waiting Checker Cab. At the top of the stairs was a forlorn Teahead. We entered, presented the appreciated beer (Narragannett in Giant Imperial Quarts) pizza, and donuts. Of course, we stayed to commiserate with our friend. He was lonely. His love had deserted him. Friends inconsiderately decamped to other places leaving him isolated.
We insisted that his friends were waiting for him only three blocks away and that we would send a committee to Andy as soon as things calmed down. Calmly we lead him to a reunion at the Harvard Gardens.

After being evicted from the Gardens due to the Teahead’s loud maudlin behavior, we went back to the Folkie Palace to resume our interrupted life.

“Win?” quoth the Monk. “why it’s nothing if you can’t help a friend.”
“Be quiet ou there!” yelled the newly risen Pope John.

Twenty

“A man who views the world the same at 50 as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.” Muhammad Ali

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">When I first saw this quote at fifty-five, my reaction was one of surprise. I felt lots different than I did at twenty; there was no alcohol, no tobacco. Thought wise, the effects of the world meets Lou had caused changes in aspirations and dreams. Some of those had been radical. Most of the friends and associates I had known at twenty were dead. We lived a fast life that was self consciously full of spectacle, and I alone am escaped to tell you the stories. Interestingly I circled to take up woodcarving again, and while I no longer write and perform songs, I do write and perform via this blog.<br>For those who think that you can return to where you started at twenty, I'll offer another quote. This one from Ella Fitzgerald: <strong><em>"It isn't where you come from; it's where you're going that counts."</em></strong><br>Take the good from twenty, cherish the memories, and then get moving.When I first saw this quote at fifty-five, my reaction was one of surprise. I felt lots different than I did at twenty; there was no alcohol, no tobacco. Thought wise, the effects of the world meets Lou had caused changes in aspirations and dreams. Some of those had been radical. Most of the friends and associates I had known at twenty were dead. We lived a fast life that was self consciously full of spectacle, and I alone am escaped to tell you the stories. Interestingly I circled to take up woodcarving again, and while I no longer write and perform songs, I do write and perform via this blog.
For those who think that you can return to where you started at twenty, I’ll offer another quote. This one from Ella Fitzgerald: “It isn’t where you come from; it’s where you’re going that counts.”
Take the good from twenty, cherish the memories, and then get moving.

Choice

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Some books make a difference. I've had a favorite game for years; I'll give a friend five minutes to pick the two volumes they'd take with them if they had to leave all the rest behind in an emergency. You can have an entire library, but if you had five minutes to pack, there would always be one or two that you'd shove to the bottom of your rucksack.<br>Sometimes the choices seem counter-intuitive. There have been some surprising choices. People do not always act to what you think is their type: one of my most hard-boiled friends chose Joyce's Dubliners and a collection of poetry. Another emergency medical texts and the Bible. A third, more recently, showed me their iPad which, contained a complete small library – cheater!<br>Some people will go with the sentimental favorites, books they've had from the beginning. For others it's practical foundational material. Everyone has a reason for the choice, but they may be unwilling to reveal them to you.<br>The books I always shoved to the bottom of my rucksack when I was on the road? A book on forestry – because I had dreams of being a timber cruiser ( the boy from the big city, right!), and a compilation of folksongs I liked. So, what would your choices be? Share them if you wish.Some books make a difference. I’ve had a favorite game for years; I’ll give a friend five minutes to pick the two volumes they’d take with them if they had to leave all the rest behind in an emergency. You can have an entire library, but if you had five minutes to pack, there would always be one or two that you’d shove to the bottom of your rucksack.
Sometimes the choices seem counter-intuitive. There have been some surprising choices. People do not always act to what you think is their type: one of my most hard-boiled friends chose Joyce’s Dubliners and a collection of poetry. Another emergency medical texts and the Bible. A third, more recently, showed me their iPad which, contained a complete small library – cheater!
Some people will go with the sentimental favorites, books they’ve had from the beginning. For others it’s practical foundational material. Everyone has a reason for the choice, but they may be unwilling to reveal them to you.
The books I always shoved to the bottom of my rucksack when I was on the road? A book on forestry – because I had dreams of being a timber cruiser ( the boy from the big city, right!), and a compilation of folksongs I liked. So, what would your choices be? Share them if you wish.

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