The Construction Site

Sitting a few hundred miles south of New York State is a land lost in time.A strange place indeed. Recently I had to travel there to attend to some business and was greeted with what is known as true southern hospitality. With drinks in hand and seated around a table with a group of acquaintances  I was introduced to a "new comer" to the already established group in a very  simple but direct way... While politely pointing at me the intro from the host of the get together went as such:  "This here is a Yankee boy who you might actually like"...with me.... being the Yankee boy. WHAT??

Being on the dark side of sixty years of age I am a long, long way from being called a boy by anyone.  As far as a Yankee, well I guess you got me there. However, These southerners are still fighting "the war". State's Rights, integration, Equal Rights, segregation, President Obama, FOX News,  are all topics I wish to avoid when south of Mason Dixon, especially after a few Diet Cokes. But those topics  are generally  brought up after a few bourbons, the drink of choice for my compatriots. Making sure I have been  consistent with taking my blood pressure medicines so I don't blow a fuse I sometimes  am ready to "take up arms" and fight the war, again. Other times it is too futile to even try. A wise man once told me you can't change a negative  to a positive and as hard as you try the negative will only  be further ingrained.

So the business  "This Yankee Boy" needed  was to get some construction work  done by the locals AKA The Yokels. While all smiles when the construction expert arrives to price out the various jobs, as soon as I speak  I hear, "where y'all from in New Yawk? You ain't from deez parts now 're ya?" Screwed before I start.  I know the quote just went up, substantially. A few head nods, a scratch or two from the pencil on a pad and a promise to "Call ya later" was made by the contractor.

 Now  " later"  to me, The Yankee Boy, would be that afternoon or evening. But, no, how naive on my part. " Later" can be anytime from an hour or four (reasonable) to the " Day After Hell Freezes Over". Attempting to call them on the phone only gets their  voice mail "Yo, dis be Bobbie Joe Construction, leave da message and I'll get back at cha .Remember yo business means everythang to us."   Eventually, usually four days and two attempts at phone contact I tend to give up.

Hedging my bets I contacted at least four quotes for each specific job needing subcontracting. Occasionally I lucked out and got a call, estimate, and contract within a few hours. New problem occurs when the contractors said, after dropping off machinery and supplies, "See ya tomorrow."  Shoot, I never asked what" tomorrow" meant  as one day led into the next and finally on to a third day...almost Biblical. Then it occurred, The New York in me came out, came out with a vengeance. I spewed information about "time is money", and many other items which I cannot repeat. They shook their heads and said, " What's up with him?".

Next trip, I bring a group with me, someone who understands this Yankee boy.

Been A Long Time...

It's been a long time since I posted...but I have written plenty and over the next few days I'll post some meanderings and thoughts which might or might not make sense in today's context, Fall of 2012.

Country Music on Long Island

The Jazz Bus: Country Music Comes To Long Island
It has been years since we had a true full time country music station in this area. Long Island never seemed to be a hot bed for “country” activity. Bands seem to shun the area mostly getting as close as the PNC Arena in Jersey or the casinos of the tri state. So additionally for this area live country music was a rarity just like a radio station. Taking it back to the 70’s I do remember WHN-AM and most recently WYNY as country outlets, both too short lived. Clubs like Max’s Kansas City featured Waylon Jennings in 1973, a show still considered a breakthrough in our area, followed by acts appearing at The Lone Star (later uptown as Lone Star RoadHouse) but on Long Island only a few small places catered to the true fan.
Demographic studies done by radio land execs proved that the Country music fan is not what some believe; a missing tooth or two, hard drinking, driving a rusted pickup, trailer park heartbreaker. No, today’s fan is primarily a married, home owner, with two cars and a mortgage: a suburbanite. The group lately has been slightly skewed toward the female variety, aka the CONSUMER, and a great loyal audience base. That same study indicates that if a country music station built upon this estimated fan base that station will surpass the listener base of say WPLJ, one of the most listened to stations in the tristate area.
It’s here, the station anyway, MY COUNTRY 96.1 (WJVC) broadcasting out of Center Moriches. Only problem for me (Far West Suffolk County) is the signal is either too weak or non-existent at certain times of the day. However, the ease of the internet allows me the opportunity to pick 96.1 up on my computer, (LICOUNTRY.COM) where I spend way too much time anyway.
Country music is the new Rock, simple. Well at least it is for us “older rockers” who wish to see great musicianship, live. Recently in my travels to NYC (Madison Square Garden) I saw Brad, Keith, Sugarland, Kenny, et. al. and compared those great shows with the musicianship of Eric, Jeff, Jimmy, Alvin. Sacrilegious some would say.
July 3, LI DUCKS Stadium, The Country Music Fest sponsored by the aforementioned MY COUNTRY 96.1. Arriving a few minutes before the starting time of 6P.M. we found the parking lot almost filled to capacity. Walking toward the stadium one could see a sea of cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and of course the obligatory “Daisy Dukes”. With recorded music soaring in the arena spontaneous line dancing sprung up and we didn’t even start LIVE yet. After a few announcements the show was off and running. Six bands in 3 hours, downtime minimal due to each band using the same equipment, twenty five minute sets, BINGO, fireworks at 9. A wonderful night of music was had by all. Amazingly but somewhat expected ,the “buzz” in the exits was all positive; Great show, great sightlines, good sound, video screens a plus, all the concessions were opened all night, bathrooms spotless… you get the idea. Another “surprise” show will be announced soon. I’m in. jazzbus@gmail.com

Stick Ball Anyone?

The Jazz Bus: Stick Ball Anyone?
Recently I took a drive through the neighborhood. With school closed for the summer I knew I needed to drive cautiously as I would probably see plenty of kids riding bikes, playing in the streets, jumping rope, just having the time of their lives. What I saw was streets that were eerie, emptier than Dodge City’s Main Street during a noon showdown. Coincidentally, Cat Stevens, “Where Do the Children Play?” was on the radio. His mantra rolled around in my head for a bit. Then it came to me. The roads are basically unsafe. No one stops at the big red STOP sign any longer. Today, the octagonal sign is rather a mere suggestion that the driver slows a bit, from sixty to say a reasonable forty MPH, looking to and fro before speeding up again while driving unimpeded through the intersection. Oh, and all the while on their cell phone and smoking a cigarette with the other hand. My bride tells me I am getting grouchier because I yell and complain when I see things that do not make sense. OK, I am grouchy but rightfully so this time. This makes no sense.
Here’s how it happened: Traveling from Tanner Park on Wilson Avenue I slow as I pass the bait store knowing there is a STOP sign directly ahead at the intersection of Montauk Highway. Out of the corner of my eye a landscaping truck complete with an attached loaded equipment trailer goes through their STOP sign on the service road to my left thereby cutting me off. Luckily I was alone in the car and the only one subjected to possible whiplash. The passenger of the landscaping truck, the one without a seat belt on with his feet on the dashboard grinned widely at our predicament. When I regained my senses I beeped my horn so that they would know I was alright. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and gave me some form of sign language acknowledging that they were okay too. Relived that their entire crew of five in that small truck’s cab as well as the three men perched back in the trailer were safe and sound, I jotted down the phone number painted boldly on the side of their truck. Concerned as I was for their safety I made sure I called that number about every half hour or so from when I got home (about 2 a.m.) .Unfortunately the boss/owner never picked up. I tried again late last night and will again tomorrow.
So today I traveled to another busy intersection, one off the beaten path, parked my car for about fifteen minutes and observed. Yup, just what I thought. I must have missed the legislation issued that a red STOP sign now means NOTHING. Just an octagonal inconvenience placed on the side of the road, a true distraction for the driver. So I propose: no new STOP signs to be made or old ones repaired or restored. Just DRIVE AT YOUR OWN RISK signs like for swimming when there is no lifeguard at the beach.
I remember a time when kids played in the street from sun up to sundown without fear. The bumper sticker needs to be revised, DRIVE CAREFULLY-SCHOOL IS CLOSED.jazzbus@gmail.com

Mama Told Me Not To Come...

The Jazz Bus: Mama, told me not to come…
A few months ago Randy Newman and his piano thoroughly entertained a very sparse crowd for two magnificent sets of music from his long, storied catalogue. A lone spotlight led the man of the evening to the grand piano which was slightly off center of the C.W. Post College’s Tilles Center stage. A quick bow to acknowledge the few in the house and IT’S MONEY THAT I LOVE led the way. Off and running, the first few selections seemed somewhat rushed and pedestrian, without spirit. Prior to the fourth number Mr. Newman who seemed perplexed addressed the audience, telling his first of many humorous anecdotes. Complete with an impressive 19 Academy Award nominated songs ( 1 Oscar) ,five Grammy’s ,three Emmy’s to his credits, and a few gold records songs thrown in , this man with an acerbic tongue commented on how and why the “ rich people dressed as empty seats” so as not to be seen as a fan of his. A few nervous laughs from the crowd, a sip of water for the pause he needed for it to sink in and both he and the collective we seemed a bit more relaxed. With SHORT PEOPLE he had the audience in the palm of his hands, by POLITICAL SCIENCE which ended the first set, he had us standing.
During the second set which featured many songs from HARPS AND ANGELS he commented about the children in the audience and stated with tongue planted firmly in cheek, “if I knew you were going to bring them, I would have played the Toy Story stuff early so you could go home”. He then described his reminisces of the Dick Cavett’s interview of Lester Maddox which prompted Newman to pen the song “Rednecks”, a funny song better understood after the story was revealed. The 33 song double set offered on our night was in anticipation of the May 1 release of RANDY NEWMAN SONGBOOK #2, “picking up from where #1 didn’t go”. A shout of “We Love You” from one member of the audience was met quickly with (the profanity removed) “Next time bring some X-ing friends”. Ah, a night to remember…Jazzbus@gmail.com

Tribute Bands

The Jazz Bus: Tribute Bands
Imagine going to OLD TIMERS DAY at Yankee Stadium, 2011, and hearing, “Now batting Number 7, Mickey Mantle” and seeing Mickey Mantle walk to the plate. Well, not exactly The Mick but an “exciting recreation” of The Mick. Wait, nobody can swing like the Mick, nor run as fast. Who is this guy? Bummer, huh? Yea. That’s what I think about so called “Tribute” bands. Why bother when it’s all been done before, only better.
These thoughts were pounding through what’s left of my brain as we, The Bride and I, boarded the LIRR for our sojourn into Manhattan to see RAIN: A Tribute To The Beatles. What was I thinking getting these tickets on the advice of a friend who reviewing the show stated “I felt like I was back at Shea Stadium”? I had only hoped she did not mean watching The Mets (50 wins 112 loses) because I assumed she meant 1965 and The Fab Four.
Sunday morning on the westbound train is a bit different from the Saturday 3 a.m. eastbound to which I am more accustomed. The Sunday clientele is a bit more refined, dignified , soft spoken, and lacks that vulgarity so freely used on the other train; in other words these “commuters” were quite sober, especially today as all alcohol was banned for “the courtesy of those attending The Puerto Rican Day Parade”. Our day was thoughtfully planned; a visit to Strawberry Fields, a matinee on Broadway ,dinner after the show and a stroll through The Village . What more could I ask for?
First, the weather when we left Copiague was not cooperating, over cast, and a bit chilly. The train ride, a local, made all its appointed stops, and I felt the tinge of a stomach bug coming on. Arriving to the throngs of Penn Station we immediately looked to aide my pangs, but what resembled a pretzel was harder than rock candy. A cab ride resembling the Cyclone at Coney Island deposited us at our destination where we spent a few moments deciding where to go. The sun was shining but a trip to Strawberry Fields was out so we had a “diet coke” in a pub.
The show was a pleasant surprise. No plot, no story except the progression of the Beatles music. The first act better for me than the second one. The characters all “resembled” the Fab Four, the sound recreation great, and being partial to percussionists I thought “the drummer”, as they used no reference to the “characters” they played, was note and pitch perfect. I could have done without the numerous requests to “stand up and dance” or “wave your hands” (Hey Jude), or flash the peace sign (John circa 71).
After the show another exciting ride at 150 MPH downtown to The White Horse where we dined al fresco, a true street show unto itself, followed by a nice evening stroll through Sheridan Square and The Village, exploring some of the old haunts. Standing on West Fourth watching the basketballers in The Cage I thought back to times past, the music, the travels, and friends…I guess that is what tribute bands are meant to do. jazzbus@gmail.com

Retirement??? No Way

The Jazz Bus: Retirement??
Retirement you say ,to which I respond, “No way”. While I may not have a “9 to 5 “ or respond to the alarm clock every morn ,I do rise from my slumber , eat breakfast and “go to work”, whatever that may mean for that particular day. Yes, I left the “rat race” but under no circumstances am I “retired” because that’s what old people do (no offense meant). Daily I do what I want, when I want, or whatever the bride, now referred to as “my supervisor”, has planned for me. Currently I am an unpaid worker in the home improvement business. What started out as a simple request, “Honey, Can WE paint the bathroom vanity?” lost its partnership of “we” and became “my new job”. Simply put the vanity painting led to a desire for new hinges and handles, then a new vanity top and sink which when installed by me led to minor plumbing repairs followed by major leakages under the sink . My apprenticeship in Electrical work started as the newly painted vanity needed new lighting which led to the dreaded ordering of new wallpaper to cover the barely noticeable space where the old fixture had vacated. The Supervisor pondered “ a beach theme and Wayne Scotting the lower walls” to which I silently responded, “What?” followed by “Who the heck is Wayne Scotting ?”; I only hoped he was a subcontractor, but alas, I now have a complete understanding of what “wainscoting” is, how to cut it, and put it up.
Not satisfied “we” added chair rails, and of course the obligatory corner molding all which needed to be mitered to perfection which takes painstaking patience, for which I am not known. Now come the towel racks, toilet paper roll holder and assorted wall items which morphed into buying new towels and rugs to match the new wallpaper. What started as a one hour trip to pick up some paint, off white was the color, led to a few hours standing in the Paint Section deciding which white because they have 42 selections of off white. Who knew? , not me. Each day about 5 pm The Boss calls it a day, she is tired from making all these decisions and she allows me to wash up to become “The Chef”, as well as the much needed mixologist, two for ones . So in the past few weeks this “retired soul” was a plumber, electrician, carpenter, all around handy-man, chef, bartender, waiter, and any other job out there; A worker who no longer has a union to protect him from work place abuses. And I don’t get weekends off.
So the question posed was “Where have you been?” and “who are you?” can now be easily answered. Check Home Depot, Lowe’s, F and D Supply, any plumbing supply house, or maybe the lighting store on Route 110 and look for the guy who is not smiling, the one walking a few steps behind the hyper excited woman who has a handful of color swatches. So, Ralph, NO, I didn’t go on vacation or retire, just got a new boss and NO TIME OFF to write. (Someone help me, please) Kindred spirits can write me…but don’t expect a reply as The Boss is watching. Jazzbus@gmail.com