Friday, September 16, 2011


  I've spent over a week recuperating from "Church", alternating between hours of TCM on my couch and crawling in the rubble under a friend's ancient barn, trying to determine what was keeping it standing. I had a bad case of post-partum depression. The Tobias Yves Zintel show had gone nowhere and once the debris had been swept up in the chapel, sanctuary was just another word for empty room. I'd even made the unwise decision of quitting facebook, shrinking my already little comfort zone into a pitifully puckered asshole. Three cats can only be so much company.
   I'd known R.Kennedy was coming to town with his band the JAM MESSENGERS for a while and intended on seeing him in Woodstock, but without facebook the lines of communication had gone dead. OK, guess I had to punch in the password in order to get back in touch. "WELCOME BACK!" the computer greeted me. Christ- I'm such a tool. My first surprise was that the show was in Hudson, not Woodstock. Fuck, that was 20 miles south of Albany. I definitely did not want to make that drive. It took all the energy I could muster AND a whining call from RK to get my ass in the car. Oh well, it was still better than driving to Manhattan.
  THE SPOTTY DOG was a narrow book store on a main street of high end stores selling high end crap. I had 4 dollars and change in my pocket. "I'm on Kennedy's list." I told the young granola chewing hippie minding the door. "It's $5. There's no list." I pulled out the crumpled bills and lint covered quarters. "4 is OK." he said. I was pitiful. Then I spotted RK and he got me back the four bucks and bought me a beer. That was better. Three of us went outside to blow one.  When Kennedy left to do something, the granola hippy yelled at the other guy (Mike Edison) and myself for smoking next to his door. "Come on guys..." he moaned. Still getting yelled at and now they're half my age.
   There was a girl in short skirt and wool socks sliding around on the floor alternating between screeching into a mic., over a tape of her screeching into a mic. and apologizing for the whole thing. I'd missed RK's train mate- this guy Mike Edison a writer from the New York. We drank our beers and waited for socky girl to run out of steam. THE JAM MESSENGERS are Kennedy and a Brazilian one- man- band by the name of Marco Butcher. Somehow a blond woman named Sandy from Detroit was also on board, driving the rental and sitting in on the drums. Edison and I watched as RK unleashed his shirtless, manic blues act in the little bookstore.  I was waiting for him to climb the shelves, toppling them onto the crowd. Somehow we got out alive.
   I'd agreed to put up the bunch for the night. RK rode with me and the others followed in the van. Two hours later, following me down dark back roads, on a head of talking powder and the three of them were slack jawed and hopelessly lost."Where the fuck are we?" they asked. I took them to the bar for some bad fried food and more beer. By the time my headlights lit the church the van of fucked up hipsters were primed for an epiphany. As I turned on lights and sound systems and Kennedy stuffed the pipe i saw fresh just how good I have it here. Sometimes I lose that perspective. Sandy, Marco and Mike bounced from gallery to outhouse to church to inner sanctum, babbling and vying for Kennedy and my attention with their own twisted freakazoid histories. We didn't quit until 5am.
    By the time I'd crawled into the nest, and the rest had scattered on the couch, futon and floor I'd been rejuvenated by the tribe. RK and I had reaffirmed our keep doing it until your dead with or without support credo, as i learned just how cool my new guests were. Marco- a pure musical genius from the favelas of Rio, ladies man and all around charmer. Sandy- hot widow, Detroit musical royalty (Jack, Patty, etc come over for bar-b-qs) and natural drummer. And last but by no means least Mike Edison- drummer from Sharkey's Machine and Raunch Hands, and as I sit here reading his book I HAVE FUN EVERYWHERE I GO- a helluva fucking scribe. Thanks folks. You put me back on track. My door is always open.


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