Auld Lang Syne

It's not New Year's, but the events of the past few weeks evoke "the days gone by" or whatever translation of Robbie Burns' Scots you prefer. I know several, but the connotation is the same, remembering old times.

Bishop Eustace Prep School awarded it's Excalibur Award to a good friend from my class of 1972. That impetus caused a reunion of sorts with many friends from that stage of my life. Simultaneously, a small circle of friends from Siena College starting reaching out. So in the course of 10 days, I reconnected with two pivotal links in the chain of my existence.

In June, I begin my seventh decade on this big, blue marble. Reawakening these relationships has paradoxically disrupted my aging process.

I met up with several of my Eustace alumni, and while greyer and less spry, our irreverence and zany humor survived. So did our enjoyment of imbibing sundry potions and herbal treatments. Within minutes our conversations harkened back to those four years, 1968-72. Our class was transitional. We were the last all-male class to graduate Bishop Eustace; the last freshman class that went through hazing (yes beanies, stupid chores dictated by upper classmen, etc.) The Vietnam war raged; college campuses were aflame. We all faced possible conscription. All the while listening to what I consider the best soundtrack ever. That was music to remember.

In August 1972, I entered Siena, a Franciscan college on a small, bucolic campus outside Albany,

NY. Little did I know the phantasmagoria that would emerge. While I stayed for four years, I did not graduate. Some Franciscan canon that your GPA had to be higher than your blood alcohol content.

But alcohol was not the only alchemical elixir with which we experimented. The sirens' spell of Kerouac, Burroughs, Thompson, Kesey, et. al. beckoned me.   I embraced the libertine lifestyle of Rimbaud and Verlaine. Envisioning myself as an artist, I attempted to make myself mad and so truly experience joie de vivre. I was an artist without an art; emboldened by the words of Neal Cassady, "Make your life your art."

Sometime around sophomore year, collegiate activities took a backseat to Fallstaffian debauchery. I saw myself as the Ringmaster, creating misadventures each more daring and droll than the previous.

Examples:
Taking hallucinogens before partaking in the pre-computerized hell that was class registration. That

semester I enrolled in metaphysics, epistemology, Eastern philosophies, late-19th century British writers and contemporary American literature. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Or the hitch-hiking trip from campus to Dayton, Ohio for St. Paddy's Day. Or stealing car batteries to keep a friend's GTO running until he could afford a new alternator. Or, wandering through an ROTC mixer joining into conversations muttering nothing but inane utterances: "Mergle, merglewert, fleegelphilmpt..."

Looking back on those days, I'm not sure if I was exploring bohemian lifestyles, or running away from the specter of responsibility. Mayhaps both motives existed on the same thoroughfare. Be that as it may, the exceptional phenomenon of those halcyon days were the bonds of friendships we forged. They have withstood the strain of time. For that, I am truly thankful. As ever - BB 

"The poet is a madman lost in adventure." - Paul Verlaine

Ill Spent Youth

I endeavor to avoid the pitfalls of nostalgia. Despite that caveat, I do look fondly back on my youth.
They were halcyon days when viewed through the silky cocoon spun by the white, middle class culture of 1950's America.

While I grew up in pleasant surroundings the world was in turmoil. Here's a brief list of events that occurred while I aged from 5 to 10:

1959 – Revolution in Cuba led by Fidel Castro

1960 – U2 pilot Gary Powers shot down over Russia  - war possible

1961 – Berlin wall erected – war possible

1962 – Cuban Missile Crisis – war imminent

1963 – President John F. Kennedy assassinated

1964 – Troops, not just advisors, sent to Vietnam beginning a police action - semantically a new term, but war nonetheless

 

1964 was a bellweather year. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan, Rolling Stones first album, the Civil Rights Act passed, to paraphase a song from that year, "The times they were a'changin.'" One mostly unnoticed thing that happened in 1964 was a garishly painted bus left La Honda, CA filled with a Merry Band of Pranksters searching for a kool place.  

https://vimeo.com/24145054 

Little did I know how much this bus trip, and the tidal wave that followed it, would affect me. 

Over the next eight years, I emerged from my protective pupa. This metamorphosis transformed a quixotic idealist into a thrill-seeking vagabond. The works of Kerouac and Burroughs led me to the underbelly of society. Dive bars, dealers, con men, junkies, hoodlums filled me with a strange exhilarating fear. The antics of Ken Kesey and Hunter Thompson led me into the alchemical search for enlightenment and bull-goose looney craziness.

Did I achieve aforementioned enlightenment? Not really, kind of, maybe...I'm not sure. My chemical experiments certainly manifested a different perspective on viewing this world. But I did learn that seeking answers in a substance is like looking for music in an instrument. They are tools nothing more. Understanding hides among weird scenes inside the gold mines of our own experiences. That vein of wisdom lays dormant until we are in the correct state of mind to make use of it. Whatever the hell that means. Don't ask me, I just write this stuff.

As for the craziness part, ahem, well, I ah...let's just say that part has been redacted from the official records. Maybe some day there will be a Freedom of Misadventures Act, but names will have to be changed to protect the guilty. 

I'm still waiting on some of those psychedelic promises to be fulfilled. Take LSD. We were told that the major problem would be the flashbacks that could occur at any time. So I figured it was a special promotional offer. Buy one, get one free! I'm still waiting on that free trip. All these years and nothing, no flash of colors, no life-changing insight, not that feeling of a oneness with the universe that an acid trip could produce. Thinking back, it was like a metaphysical time-share without the set of free golf clubs. And I don't even play golf. As ever BB

"And I said look here brother-who you Jiving with that cosmik debris?  Now is that a real poncho or is that a sears poncho" - Frank Zappa, Cosmik Debris

 

With Friends Like You

A couple of Saturdays ago, I perambulated to a few public houses for live music. I am fortunate to live in a neighborhood where several establishments within walking distance offer entertainment. My intention was to enjoy the bands, have a few beers and get home before the bars close at 2am. To quote Robbie Burns,

"The best-laid schemes o'mice an' men

Gang aft agley."

Part of my scheme succeeded. I purchased only beers. However convivial, charitable cherubs must have spread their wings over Fells Point that day. Numerous compadres offered me additional libations. My polite demeanor forbade refusal of their largesse.  I have itemized the day's Homeric intake. 

2 Irish Whiskeys, 6 Natty Bohs, 1 single malt scotch, 1 Jagermeister,  2 Bombs, 1 lemon drop, 1 red-headed slut and a tequila.

 Please note that this did occur over a 11 hour period. It started at Leadbetters around 3pm for a Mike Darby/Hootenanny performance. Then to Cat's Eye Pub for the blues of Nothin' But Trouble followed by the eclectic sounds of Eddy & the Haskyls. Despite my intention, the evening ended with the brightening of the house lights and announcement of last call. 

One would think that my expansive experience exploring the domain of bars, taverns and pubs would have taught me better. One would be mistaken.

To my amazement, the following morning did not bring a gargantuan hangover. Angelic forces must truly been at work that weekend. A degree of fogginess muddled my consciousness.  My mouth was a paradoxical blend of arid dryness and pasty sludge. Ceteris paribus, my condition was remarkable.

The benefit of an exploit like that should be a lesson learned. Armed with the knowledge of such a foolish occurrence, my behavior should improve. I would not book that bet. As ever - BB 
"I learned a long time ago that reality was much weirder than anyone's imagination." - Hunter S. Thompson