I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 18

This is my first blog post since back surgery. It’s not like my memory turned to Swiss cheese or anything like that. I just got busy with other things like learning how to get out of bed, learning how to get into bed, and trying to get comfortable while in bed. But as for being cool, it had to wait. Well the wait’s up…

So it’s the spring of ’81 and the band is making its way to Texas. Before we left for this set of shows, we had been offered a show opening for Cheap Trick at a Texas baseball stadium which the band decided to pass up as there was only a few hundred dollars offered and it would never cover expenses. Everyone figured our album would be out soon enough, the record company would back us and there’d be plenty other big opportunities. All we had to do was record an album. Patience fellas, patience.

Now here’s where it gets fuzzy. I know there were three gigs booked and Houston and Dallas were on the docket. The other was either in Austin or Lubbock. Those potholes on Memory Lane will get you every time. I suspect it was Lubbock because there were definitely some tasteless Buddy Holly death jokes. I don’t recall anyone singing Don McLean’s “American Pie” though. That’s a relief. I’ll resist the temptation to make “Chevy” and “levee” jokes though.

Now, again, here’s where some fuzz sets in between the ears. As I recall the club in Houston was in a dumpster when we arrived. Then, when we arrived at the supposed gig in Dallas, we found out that it was actually the night before. A certain, “party hard” band member had received the call from the booking agent about the change a few weeks back. Unfortunately, he was full of post gig alcohol and had an added distraction having to do with his Chevy and some female levee (Sorry: the temptation was just too great to pass up on that low hanging fruit). Anyway, you know what they say about men who think with their gear sticks….The message was never communicated to the correct party. See, you don’t have to be old to have potholes on Memory Lane. Just drunk and horny.

Finally, we play in Lubbock (I’ve now convinced myself that it wasn’t Austin). But, the luck of Texas continued as the band vehicle broke down a few miles short of the gig. After contacting the club, they sent two vehicles, which were enough to take us, the gear and our luggage to the club. I had the pleasure of riding in the back of a pickup truck, which in spite of being in the south was still freaking cold in March.

The uneventful gig was played and the question was “now what?” Luckily, it was the last gig of the tour, but we had planned on driving back to New York. With no van and little money, we were left with limited choices. We found a cheap motel and waited until the vehicle damage could be assessed. The report came back that it would take up to a week for the parts to arrive. We were stuck in Texas for the time being.

Barry and I had other ideas though. He being the older, responsible one, and me, being the youngest and a momma’s boy, both knew we could cobble together enough shekels to get plane tickets back to NYC. In keeping with our character descriptions, he called his girlfriend. I called my parents. All we had to do was get to the airport and the tickets would be there awaiting us.

When we get to the airport, I show some ID and my ticket is granted. Barry though, had no ID. This is something that may be hard to comprehend in 2015, but in 1981 this seemed to make perfect sense to Barry. My guess is he’d been mugged enough times on the streets of New York to not want to replace his driver’s license once again. As I didn’t drive, I had no worries. But, the ticket agent wouldn’t give Barry his ticket. We showed him drum sticks, a guitar and a tour itinerary. Still a no go. What I recall finally worked was Barry showing him a copy of the band’s 45 with his picture on it. The agent begrudgingly relented but made Barry promise he’d send him an autographed copy of our LP when it finally came out. In a post 9/11 world, this could probably never happen again. You gotta have ID….and what ticket agent under the age of forty would want vinyl records anymore?

Relieved that the tour is finally coming to an end, we take our seats on the plane. As I recall we sat in the last row, right near the bathrooms. Once the seatbelt sign is turned off, I decide I should shave before I fall asleep. Perhaps I had visions in my mind of adoring fans welcoming us at the airport ala the Beatles flying into Kennedy Airport in 1964. It was probably just to break up the boredom. Nonetheless, during this pursuit, the plane starts jerking. I rush through my shave, and get back to my seat only slightly bloodied. In the meantime the turbulence is getting pretty bad. Everyone is ordered to stay in their seats and keep their seat belts on. Before I can say “bebop a lula” an overhead compartment opens up, carryon luggage falling to the floor. People are starting to freak out. The curse of Texas is apparently still upon us. I assume the end is near. Am I really going to be a rock and roll tragedy? I’ve no discography and I’m not twenty-seven yet! Well at least I have ID so they can identify my body. They’ll have to check Barry’s dental records to figure out who he is. Curse you Texas!

It must have been when we got out of Texan air space when the turbulence subsided. The rest of the flight was uneventful. When the rest of the band got back to New York a week or so later, they started talking about firing the booking agent and the manager. Obviously, it was their fault that the van broke down. I think I chimed in that they caused the turbulence too.

So, you want to be a rock and roll star?

© Curt Weiss 2015

Observations on my 84 year old father: “Back to the Drawing Board” Edition

Observations on my 84 year old father: “Back to the Drawing Board” Edition

Combover

Dad: Curt, I need a CPA.
Me: Why?
Dad: Well I got that death benefit and I don’t want to pay taxes on it.
Me: Dad, you may need to pay taxes on it. If that’s what the law says…
Dad: I tried to put it into an IRA, but they said I was too old. Why would they punish people for being too old?
Me: I don’t think they’re punishing you for being too old. I think IRA’s were created so people would be encouraged to save for retirement. According to the IRS, you’ve been retired for 17 years. Just go to H&R Block.
Dad: I think this is too complex for them.
Me: Dad, I’m sure they’ve dealt with people acquiring death benefits before.

Sometimes people make things more difficult than they need to be. Sometimes they just don’t want to pay their taxes. Take the Fogelman brothers, Mitch and Murray.* They owned the Rivoli Merchandise Corporation, established in 1961 at 50 Howard Street in Manhattan. They were near the corner of Mercer Street, just behind Canal Street and Canal Hardware, the shop my dad owned.

Rivoli was one of the many businesses in the area that had accounts with Canal Hardware. They would buy stuff like nuts and bolts, brooms and mops, Lysol and Lemon Pledge. Most would pay too much for these items in exchange for neighborhood convenience. Bleach, which would cost no more than a $1.99 a gallon at the supermarket, would cost $3.99 at Canal Hardware. When you need something quick, and there’s no real supermarkets in the neighborhood, as was the case in 1990, you’re OK with paying a 100% premium for a counter brush delivered to your door.

Rivoli never paid on time. Not that they didn’t have the $47.83 they owed. They just were too busy and disorganized to get around to paying it. It was my job to go and collect, not that I was any sort of mob enforcer. I was a gentle, friendly reminder to middle aged Jewish business owners who knew my father for 35 years, that it was time to hand over a check for that toilet brush.

This one time though my dad wanted me to enquire about renting their space. He was flush that month and as narcissists have grandiose ideas, he was convinced he needed to expand. The money was burning a hole in his pocket and the IRS would only take it if he didn’t spend it…or hide it. As Rivoli had been around for close to thirty years and always complained about how lousy business was, he thought they might be happy to just rent us their space.

Through the back door and past the garbage bins I go, across Howard street and over towards Mercer. As you enter Rivoli, all you can see in their dimly lit warehouse, that probably hadn’t been painted since the Truman administration, are half open boxes strewn about in complete disarray. Falling out of them are tchotchkes. These are packages of stuff you’d see in 99 cent stores or the junk you’d win when you turned in your skee-ball tickets. I’m talking about colorful erasers and pencils, super bouncy balls, spinning tops, plastic rings, etc. Otherwise known as junk. Perhaps even known as crap. Take your pick.

Mitch would be darting amongst the flotsam and jetsam with a pencil behind his ear while Murray would be at a desk in a side office with papers and reams of documents strewn about. When Murray looked at me, it would be with the disdain of someone who’s had their rightful misery interrupted by someone who dares to have the luxury of being 25 years younger than him at their disposal. Usually he just dealt with whatever papers he had in front of him, comb over flopping across his hand which held his forehead in place. They had a young, African-American bookkeeper/office assistant who said nothing but also had a look of utter disgust on her face at all times. She seemed to know she needed Rivoli to make a living and barely tolerated it, Mitch, Murray or visitors. We all need a goal in life and this was her constant reminder of what not to aspire to.
As for Mitch and Murray they both were middle-aged and overweight, had comb overs, half glasses on a chain around their necks and rashes on their elbows. Their best days were behind them and they had to pay the bills, put the kids through school, keep the wife out of the few hairs they had left on their sweaty heads and hope to live long enough to retire to Florida with the money they still had after they paid the tax man his vig.
I’d call out to Mitch who’d never remember my name, but would remember my father.

“Hi Mitch”
“How’s Lloyd?” he’d ask.
“Not bad,” I’d say. “I need to pick up a check.”
“Sure” he’d say. “Hey Murray! Give the kid a check. Canal Hardware. How much is it?”
“$47.83,” I’d say.

Then I’d ask him how business was.

“Business? It’s terrible! And those fu*king gonniffs at the IRS…”

Murray, who was silent through his exuded misery, would momentarily raise his head to interrupt Mitch, to pipe in and second the point: “Fu*king gonniffs ! ! ! !”

Back to Mitch…

“It’s worse than ever!”

I figured it was time to make my pitch…“Well, why don’t you just let us rent your space? You wouldn’t have to worry about this facachta business and can just make money off of renting it to us.”
Mitch, who was a whirling dervish of diabetes and seemingly a minute away from a heart attack at all times, stopped dead in his tracks.

“Why should we rent to you?”

I replied “Like you said, business is terrible.” Mitch looks me dead in the eye and with an heir of outrage and defiance says “Where’s it written that business should be good?” Murray joins in and barks out, “Forty years feast, forty years famine!”

The bookkeeper seems even more deflated than before. She wished they’d taken the deal. I take my check and go on my way.

It’s back to the drawing board for the bookkeeper and Lou. Especially Lou. The IRS will do that to you. Life will do that to you.

At least Lou has all of his hair.

© Curt Weiss 2015

*I must confess that I can’t guarantee that Murray is the correct name. I know Mitch is correct because I googled it, but for the sake of myth, let’s all just agree that Murray sounds appropriate. I know it’s the same as Glengarry Glen Ross. Just work with me here.

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 17

College KIngo

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 17

Onwards we went across this great land…

In Detroit I experienced something new: having someone from the club stand lookout with a sawed off shotgun as your gear was loaded out in the wee hours of the morning. I appreciated that the gun was pointed downwards at all times. I sensed that it could blow your head clean off, and personally, I liked my head right where it was, thank you. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d see a sawed off shotgun.

We had a Chicago contingent waiting for us which the band had developed on previous trips. Some of them followed us to Champaign, Illinois where we played the University of Illinois, and Carbondale, where we played Southern Illinois University. I can’t help but notice the irony in the fact that although most rock and roll musicians never attended college, they’ve probably visited more colleges than most other people to play gigs. In the 80’s colleges had budgets to put on rock and roll shows which were great as fill-ins between club dates. The facilities are often cleaner as well as the attendees. As for the staff, the organizers seemed to hand out yellow shirts that said “Security” on them and if you could figure out how to put one on, you could be on the security staff. That seemed to be all the training you needed. I guess they got a free meal out of it…and the t-shirt.

After going through the normal pre-show “what will I wear tonight” period of pondering, I decided to go for a small 50’s bowtie. It worked with my flecked jackets. All of a sudden Smutty yelled out, “Check out Lewis’ tiny bowtie!” Dibbs added “That’s your style Lewis. Stick with that.” Well, I wanted to fit in, and clipping on a bowtie was easy enough, so I stuck with it. “That’s your look. You could be known for that,” said Smut. Dibbs closed the subject with a nodding “Nice,” but when Dibbs said it, it actually sounded as if he was saying “Noice.” It was a phrase he would also use when describing liver and onions. I think my bowtie smelled better but if it was a real sweaty gig I guess that would be debatable

In Minneapolis we played at a club called “Duffy’s”, which doubled as a strip joint during the day. While waiting for the crew to set up for sound check you could entertain yourself by enjoying a cold beverage while being additionally entertained by professional topless dancers. Not amateurs: professionals. Only the best for traveling rock and roll bands.

Smutty carried a phone book with him that also doubled as a diary. I am here now confessing that I looked in it one time. In it he mentioned how happy he was that their old drummer had been replaced by “cool Lewis.” Thanks Smut.

© Curt Weiss 2015

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 16

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 16

It became obvious pretty quickly that life on the road, like club life, could get mighty boring. It was mostly endless driving in the van of farts. There was music and lots of jokes but also lots of gas. However, when possible, we did exactly as we did in the clubs: chased girls, looked for inebriants and occasionally found interesting music. When not playing or driving, we also searched for clothes.

With each band member sporting a hair dryer, we tested the electrical capacity of many a roadside motel. We may have been the only band to blow hotel fuses from coast to coast until the arrival of Motley Crue and Poison a few years later, a badge of honor we all wore with pride. As the crew wanted to partake in the fruits of the road, they also spiffed up their hair. This could make the mirrors awfully crowded. Like the New York Dolls’ said: “Your mirror’s getting jammed up with all your friends!”

You learn pretty quickly that certain towns have a flavor all their own. Like New Orleans. I really looked forward to New Orleans. It had a great rock and roll history, being the home of Fats Domino, Little Richard, and their great drummer Earl Palmer who went on to play on so many of Phil Spector’s hits. Plus Louis Armstrong…and Mardi Gras of course. At the hotel, the desk clerk strongly recommended we not walk around after dark though. Hmm…no fun until we get to the club I guess.

At the club we were booked in (Jeds? Jimmy’s? Ole Man Rivers?), we ventured out into the house before the show to get a sense of the crowd, see if there were any people we knew or perhaps make new friends (pick up girls). I soon found myself surrounded by a group of pimply young fellows. One of them had the obligatory rockabilly bandana around his neck. His hair was incredibly greasy, and combed into some sort of unsophisticated quiff. He also seemed to have a deformed hand and may have been missing a few fingers. As he and his oily cohorts closed ranks, it was somehow communicated to me that the last time the band was in New Orleans, the drummer had ripped one of them off for drugs. As I was the drummer, they came to me to collect, not knowing that it was Jerry they were looking for, not me.

As a New Yorker, I immediately responded with my mouth. I told them I had nothing to do with it and that it was Jerry who ripped them off. It was behavior like that which got him exited from the band. At that point the wall parted and I just went on my way as they stood there disappointed. What could have turned into some sort of a “Drug Store Cowboy” moment, evaporated into nothingness. These guys were just kids, out of their league. My New York, “Who the f*ck are you?” attitude, seemed to stop them in their tracks. If they only knew what a momma’s boy I really was, they could have had me peeling off twenties pronto…assuming I had any.

I saw the finger challenged guy several more times over the next day or so, as well as future trips to New Orleans. He was known to us as “George the Max,” and while he was friendly, he seemed like a character out of a Tom Waits’ song. We were told he was a junkie, ergo why he ended up in that situation with Jerry. Maybe he was a just a dabbler trying to make a few extra dollars. Who knows what the real story was. Goodness knows what his life must have been like, so I’m in no position to judge him. People can be quite cruel to those who are different and don’t quite fit in. Little did I know that he was actually quite an accomplished guitarist and in time would play with bands I have a lot of respect for. Punk Rock was a good place for misfits, junkies, sleazeballs, oddballs and greaseballs. It’s a way for the uncool to be cool.

I don’t remember if it was raining though.

© Curt Weiss 2015

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 15

Stones asleep

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 15

While I can see the rehearsal in my mind, I remember very little other than going through the songs and being asked to use the butt end of the stick to play the snare drum louder. I had barely played the drums in over a year so I was in no position to argue. To this day I still hold the sticks the same way. Whenever I see a drummer playing the snare with the traditional end of the stick, I question whether they’ll ever get a good enough “thwak” out of it. It’s hard to break old habits. Cool habits.

After the rehearsal, we went our separate ways and everything was left up in the air. The next day, late afternoon if I recall correctly, my doorbell rang. I had just moved in and didn’t have a phone installed yet. This is before cell phones, texting and e-mail, so if someone wanted to talk to you immediately, the only other options were physically finding you or sending a Western Union telegram. I answered the door and it’s Barry, asking if I could rehearse again that evening. He only lived about five blocks away, on the second avenue side of CBGB, so I assume he got a call from Dibbs or Smut to walk over and find me. He knew where I lived as Dibbs and Jerry had lived there previously. As kismet would have it, I wasn’t working that day and was home unpacking boxes. As to whether I could rehearse that night, I let him know that I would find time between putting my socks into drawers to get there.

It must have been decided after the first rehearsal that I was in the band because on the way to the second one Dibbs said, with a coy smile, “Well Lewis, I guess you’re a Rockat now.” I’m sure he thought it somewhat ironic that this fellow who a little over a year before had appeared before him in red flares and a shag hairdo (his description, not mine) was now in this highly stylized band. I sure found it ironic. As for his tone, it didn’t convey honor or the winning of a prize. It conveyed to me that I was in for an adventure that was both overwhelming but also underwhelming by its daily, grueling mundanity. It was almost like he was saying “kid, you have no idea what you’re getting into.” He wasn’t kidding.

I was told after the next night’s gig at Zappa’s in Brooklyn, we’d be on a multi-week tour heading south and into the mid-west. As a new comer to the road, I was advised on what to bring: the number of suitcases (one), pairs of pants (three), etc. One more thing. “You’ll need a hairdryer,” Smutty told me.

I spent the day gathering up my road needs, getting someone to keep an eye on my apartment and quitting my job at the record shop. There was a moment when I was getting ready for that night’s gig…my first gig…and I looked in the bathroom mirror and noted the moment. I was 21, in a band with a major label record deal and a new apartment that Jerry Nolan had previously lived in. The bathroom had a shower and tub in it too. My previous apartment had a tub in the kitchen and a bathroom in the hall. I smiled as I fixed my perfectly coiffed hair and adjusted my collar. I felt as if I had made a breakthrough and I was on an upwards path towards eternal coolness. I’d started March 3rd at my humdrum record store gig. On March 5th I was a professional musician. It was like I had won the lottery.

Before the show, in a mentoring and helpful gesture I’m sure, one unnamed band member caringly asked if I was nervous. Before I could answer, I smelled something horrible. I suspected what it was but being the new guy didn’t feel I could say anything. Before I knew it, another band member said, “What’s that fuc*ing awful smell?” The previously caring partner was also a silent cheese cutter. He was now on a chair with his legs over his head, cackling and spreading his butt cheeks…yes, his pants were still on thankfully. Dibbs was right: I was in for an adventure. And yes, the passing of gas, not always silently, would soon reveal itself to be a universal activity on the road. Cool? Nah. Did it break up the boredom as well as the wind? Yes.

After the show we got in the van and started on our way to Washington DC to play two sets at the 930 club. The equipment went into the trailer and the band got into the van. There were no seats in the rear, and as we were all tired, within minutes everyone tried to catch some shut eye for the four hour drive. With crew members up front driving, all five of us were on the bare floor of the moving van in the dead of the night. We were all lying in the same direction, almost as if we were group spooning. With a certain sort of comfort and satisfaction, I silently said to myself, “I’m one of the guys.” It was like being in a gang without the guns and knives. There may be nothing cooler than camaraderie.

© Curt Weiss 2014

Observations on my 84 year old father: “One Night with Lou” Edition

Observations on my 84 year old father: “One Night with Lou” Edition

On a recent short trip to LA, I spent one night with Lou at his bachelor pad. Lou started working his magic early in the day. He mentioned that he had chest cold symptoms and that he’d want to leave early from my sister’s Xmas party later that evening. This is how he rolls for every holiday party, even when my mother was alive. Only difference now is she’s not there to arrive bearing large platters of food. When he would start moaning about leaving an hour after he got there she would usually roll her eyes and say “Oy, your father wants to go home already,” or ignore him altogether. She knew he’d just want her to make a full meal for him while he watched boxing. She learned to forestall this by not only bringing loads of food to the party for the guests, but a separate meal for him, usually spaghetti and Chicken Cacciatore with garlic…on the bone of course.

Before we left for the party he started chopping up fruit so he could prepare his Herculean meal first thing in the morning. He’s still making his weird food concoctions. As he’s prepping it, he’ll inevitably try to get me to taste a chopped up piece of fruit. He’ll try and hand me a half grape, always sliced lengthwise, but his finger will be right in the meat of the grape. Call me a priss, but I wouldn’t accept soup from a waiter if his finger was in it, and won’t do the same from my dad…especially since I don’t see any soap in his bathroom. By the way: the grapes go in to his cereal. If he has cherries, they go into his drink concoction, floating like ice in a cocktail. Note: the next morning, as usual, half of the breakfast goes into the garbage. The leftover drink does get covered up with cellophane and go into the fridge. He seems to be evolving ever so slightly.

On the drive over I prodded him for info. Some blogs are crowd sourced. Mine is Lou sourced. He did his standard review of his multiple court cases, untrustworthy lawyers and doctors, and other related pursuits like wanting to buy a car, another back surgery, sell a screenplay, etc. He didn’t mention wanting plastic surgery. Another subject that was never broached: my mother.

It’s difficult to find things to talk about that don’t rile him up, depress him or encourage his madness. If I mention some of the old characters at work, it goes something like this:

Me: “Dad, I wonder what ever happened to Feliciano?”
(Feliciano was a Puerto Rican sales person in his store who was as close to Groucho Marx as a Latino could get).
Dad: “Ah, he stole from me.”
Me: “What about Charles?”
Dad: “I don’t remember him.”
Me: “He was from Haiti and had been a local assemblyman.”
Dad: “I think he started his own business with what he stole from me.”
Me: “I saw Ricky’s son online. He’s a big deal dentist now.”
Dad: “Well his other son testified against me. He showed up on the stand in makeup and false eyelashes. He’s a real problem for Ricky.”

I switch conversations and search for other types of small talk.

Me: “Dad, have you gone over to the senior center lately?”
Dad: “Yes, I had a nice conversation with a lady (pause). She turned out to be 93 (shakes his head)”
Next subject:
Me: “So dad, did you get your e-mail address all straightened out?”
Dad: “Yes. I needed it for a dating service.”
Me: “You mean a senior dating service?”
Dad: “Yes.”
Me: “But dad, you don’t like older ladies.”
Dad: “That’s OK. I said I was 64.”

I saw this coming. He told my sister that he said he was 74. As usual, he can’t even get his lies straight.

All in all though, he seems to be doing relatively well under the circumstances. As a narcissist he has the ability to think only of himself and his needs and not get overwhelmed by the emotions that others might. Ergo, the death of my mother seems to bother him financially, but not emotionally to a great extent, at least outwardly. Yes, he gets isolated, seeks companionship, and even has hinted at wanting to use his you know what to do you know what, something my mother and him didn’t seem to do for years as they had separate beds. I know: TMI, but all lessons for the rest of us as we age.

Before I left, he asked me to drop him off in Santa Monica. He likes walking on the pier and I’m sure it helps his breathing problems related to his cold symptoms. In the back of my mind though, I also suspect he wants to be in Santa Monica because there’s plenty of doctors and hospitals. This way he could feign some illness, get rushed to a local hospital and stretch it out to where it become an all-expenses paid vacation by the beach. I drove him up and down the strip to find just the right spot for him to jump out. He’s trying to find a new place where the kids are hip. That Lou gets around.

© Curt Weiss 2014

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 14

 

I Am the Coolest Man on Earth Part 14

A few days before Smutty called me, I heard from one of my Soho News pals, the one who previously dated Jerry. She needed to move out of her apartment. She hadn’t paid her rent in two months and wanted to know if I would pay it in exchange for taking over the lease. This was a no brainer. The place was cheaper and better than my present apartment, in the downtown area and had a great pedigree. It’s hard to believe there was a time when you could walk into a landlord’s office and work out a deal like this…all for less than $500 for the landlord and a few hundred for her to sweeten the deal. It was also three blocks from CBGB in the heart of Little Italy.

Still not fully unpacked, I put together an outfit to meet the band. We were going to rehearse so I didn’t think it was necessary to dress like I was going clubbing. A tuxedo jacket and a cummerbund were overkill. I decided to wear tight black jeans, no glasses (of course!) and the two toned loafers. I had a red shirt that was similar in style to the one Elvis wore in Jailhouse Rock while singing “Baby I Don’t Care.” Mine had a deeper neck line though…and I did care. As for the band, I already knew Dibbs as he used to sleep on the sofa at the apartment I was taking over. The rest of them were unknowns.

I went to an address in the West Village, walked down some steps and rang the bell. Before I knew it we were all sitting around and talking about the situation: the label wasn’t happy with the record and the band wasn’t happy with the drummer. Dibbs and the Sunbeam Bread Girl vouched for me and they all seemed friendly enough. It was all down to whether I could play the drums and learn the songs. I had seen the band a dozen times so I didn’t think that would be a problem. Just swing and act like Jerry behind the kit.

Before we left Smutty said, “You’ve got to be cool if you’re wearing those shoes.” Never doubt the extra edge that a solid pair of two-toned loafers will give you.

© Curt Weiss 2014