"I'm Over here Now"

At first the words would not come at all, just a half-hearted sentiment left on a Facebook page that would soon see more hits in a matter of hours than most people see in a week.

Or more!

We live in a time where the term friends is tossed around so loosely that the very word has lost its true meaning. The sheer number of friends has become almost like a status symbol, yet who am I to hypocritically preach about it? Currently, I boast a total of 349 friends, though not out loud. No one truly has in excess of three hundred plus friends, or a thousand, or several thousand.
Louie Appel had 1,690 when he left us on the evening of October 17th.

We were left speechless, physically and emotionally deflated.

Defeated.

Louie was a super hero with the obnoxious power to make people laugh...whether they wanted to or not.

All we can ask is, why when the world needs more super heroes, we are left with one less?

He was my hero, something I hadn't realized until his untimely passing.

He was loud, he was brash, he was vulgar at times.

All right, he was vulgar pretty much 99% of the time.

He was big.

For obvious reasons, he was the center of attention in every room he entered, but he stood taller than most and not just because of his size. He touched the lives of so many others, most likely without ever knowing it.

The world knows it now.

In a matter of hours, his Facebook page came alive, the outpouring of grief and sentiment reaching from far and wide.

He had a Rolodex as big as his heart and when the recipient on the other end of the phone would pick up, laughter would ensue.

I know.

I had witnessed it many times, often as he shirked the responsibilities of the workplace. I had the pleasure of working twice as hard alongside him, while his laughter reverberated loud enough to speed up the erosion of the walls where so much plaster had already chipped away on its own. Whoever he was speaking to would probably complain of a ringing in that ear for several hours, maybe days afterward. I'm convinced that I will forever experience some degree of hearing loss, most likely in both ears for the very same reason.

And I'm okay with that.

We always had music playing in that office. Going back in my collection to the mid-80's (something I continually do today), I chose a tape one afternoon of a Long Island band I'd had the pleasure of interviewing during my beloved college radio years.

"Who is this?" Louie asked with a keen ear tilted towards the speakers.

"This band that was on the second WBAB album back in '84. The Young Breed."

With the speed of a gunslinger in the wild west, he reached for his trusty black book, small enough to fit in his back pocket, but somehow with an infinite amount of pages contained within.

"Hey buddy, ya listenin' to this?" he addressed the answering machine of Jim Laird, the one time lead singer of The Young Breed and someone I hadn't seen nor heard from in at least a decade. I looked at him in awe, proudly holding the phone in front of the speaker and wondered silently, is there anyone you don't know?!

Louie gave me a second chance at a reckless youth I had longed to recapture, if only for a moment.

"I'm playing with John Eddie now," he told me in 1994.

"The Jungle Boy guy?" I asked incredulously, referring to a 1986 regional radio hit I had never much cared for.

"The band's great. You gotta come to a gig."

Most of the gigs were way down in South Jersey. In my corporate trappings at that time, I had left the bygone days of traveling to club gigs afar long behind. With reckless abandon however, I experienced a brief taste of life on the Rock and Roll road in the back of a maroon colored, beat up van driven by someone called "Ohmboy."

Peeling out of a Tom's River parking lot at the end of a late night, the three of us screaming "Bang, bang, just like that y'all," I could just make out the face of the former CBS recording artist in the wake of dust and debris left behind likely wondering if he might ever see us again.

The following afternoon, this wayward band of not so road weary travelers arrived in the City of Brotherly Love, far too early for a 10PM show-time. At 3PM we stepped out of the elevator and into the management office of Middle East where we were met with a combined look of fear and confusion from its proprietors; two brothers who I will say in the interest of political correctness were not from around here.
"Who are you guys?"

This, directed at me in a heavily accented voice tinged with angst.
I swear if it wasn't for my clean cut looks and harmless demeanor, one of them would have pulled a gun from the desk.

Instantly springing to action, my hero donned a Fez from a nearby shelf and without missing a beat disarmed the tense situation with a quote from my favorite rock and roll movie of all time.

"Tell 'em Jonetti and the Cruisers are here."

I laughed out loud.

The brothers remained silent.

I told you they weren't from around here.

Philadelphia was like a homecoming of sorts for John Eddie who apparently had spent a lot of time there in his youthful past. Louie felt eminently at home there as well, choosing to play the last set that evening in his underwear.

Then, Louie was comfortable anywhere.

In my mind, his greatest accomplishment was continually breathing life, if not restoring said life to a band that had literally given musical voice to all that is "Morty."

By the mid 1980's. Mazarin had become a local mainstay, poised on the verge of possibly becoming the next Long Island musical success story. When drummer Marc Mazarin chose that inopportune moment to depart for a honeymoon, Louie was called in. Slipping seamlessly into the driver's seat, the band had not missed a beat that summer. Unfortunately, I have no recollection of actually meeting him in those earliest days. Thankfully, I am blessed and lucky enough to vividly recall the last time we saw each other which seems like it was only yesterday. In reality, July really was just yesterday. Twenty-six years following his debut as an official Mazarin drummer, he had slipped right back where he was most comfortable.

I would be remiss in not slipping a small Debbie Gibson tale in here. For most who have known the big guy, it is no mystery that his first taste of success and super-stardom was as the drummer behind the teen pop sensation, something he had been continually reminded about in jest from far too many of his contemporaries. Following a long day in the corporate world, the two of us had ventured out to dinner one night on the company's dime.

"There's a diner around the corner," I suggested as we exited the stuffy confines of then financial powerhouse Paine Webber.

"F**k that," he answered. If it's on the company we're going to the Harley Davidson."

No better than the many tourists who surrounded us, we headed across the street to the overpriced New York City location of the Harley Davidson Cafe. Following an interminable wait before being seated, Louie slipped effortlessly into let's make the waitress uncomfortable mode. Embarrassed, dumbfounded, but used to it, I finally opened my mouth after several minutes of his good natured abuse and told her:

"Don't worry, he's harmless. He's the Debbie Gibson guy."

I don't know if her confusion stemmed from the fact that I had made little sense, or that she was most likely too young to remember who Debbie Gibson was.

"Go ahead," I instructed Louie. "Do that thing from the video."

That thing had been nothing more than ducking party streamers at a mock birthday celebration in the music video for the 80's hit, Out of the Blue.

Right on cue, Louie got real serious for a second.

We're talking dramatic actor serious.

With a few deep breaths for effect and an ounce or two of concentration, he perfectly recreated his award-winning moment with exuberance.

Our waitress was unmoved, unfazed, uninterested.

Or simply confused.

Had the crew who had shot and edited that video over a decade earlier been on hand, I'm convinced they would have used this take instead.

I envied his bravado, his lack of self-consciousness and his ability to make sure that wherever he went, people would be left with a lifelong impression. In recent years I was proud and honored to jokingly introduce him as my lil' brother. Let's face it. He was nobody's little anything.

He was my friend.

We weren't as close friends as so many others who are shedding tears of their own at this moment, but always stayed in touch over the last several decades, sometimes intermittenly as it had been recently, or with the occasional degree of regularity. Whether it had been months, or just a matter of days, whenever we spoke or got together, laughter was always paramount. I don't need to outline the number of incredible people he has worked with throughout his career, to illustrate just how big he was. He played and walked amongst some of the greatest because he was one himself. He wasn't a revered figurehead like the Pope, or the President, or The Boss.

He was simply Louie.

And people loved him.

One close friend started a Louie Appel Facebook fan page.

Just because he was Louie.

On a Facebook page overflowing with grief and sentiments one friend wrote simply: "I'm not crying for you. I'm crying for me."

When Louie passed in his sleep alone in a Las Vegas hotel room while on tour with John Eddie, one close friend vowed that he would not fly home alone.

Mikey Bones purchased a plane ticket and accompanied the big guy across the country.

Lou Appel left this earth with 1,690 friends.

Most likely a lot more than that.

And I am thoroughly convinced he loved each and every one of us.

All he ever wanted to with his life was play the drums and he accomplished that. He followed that dream, held on to it and never let go.

I envied that courage above all else.

He was my hero.

He left us with tears, he left us with smiles, he left us with anger in our hearts.

Anger because he should still be here.

Oddly, in Citizen Kane fashion, he left us with a cryptic Rosebud message displayed on his Facebook cover page.

"I'm over here now."

If Louie were with us right now, he would kick our collective asses for shedding all these tears.

Lil' Brother, wherever you are, I know that you are laughing there. If it's a bit too loud for the locals, don't worry about it. They'll get used to it. In the meantime, could you kick it up a notch or two so we can hear it over here?

We can sure use a little laughter on this side right now.

SEE YA!

Macroburst: The Forest Hills Tornado

On September 16th, 2010, a severe and unexpected storm system charged eastward across New York City and adjacent boro's spawning two tornadoes and a Macroburst. The first tornado touched down in Brooklyn, with sustained winds of 80 mph. The second tornado hit northern Queens, this one with sustained winds of nearly 100 mph. In the neighborhoods of Middle Village and Forest Hills, a rare event resulting in winds of over 125 mph leveled trees, buried cars and caused widespread structural damage to many homes.


I was reading Stephen King’s The Mist one summer morning in July of 1986.
“Old trees want to hurt you. And I think they’d kill you if they could.”
Under a thick leafy canopy on the deck of a small Pennsylvania cottage, I read the line again.
I remember it today as if it was only yesterday.
“Old trees want to hurt you. And I think they’d kill you if they could.”
That single line, so awe inspiring, its powerful picture painted so succinctly has lived in my mind and most likely my soul for decades.
I never dreamed that one day I would come to understand it almost intimately.

1. Before the chainsaws.

There is something about New York City in the immediate days following the conclusion of another Labor Day weekend. The overall mood seems to change from relaxed to one of almost solitude as another summer season unofficially makes its way into the great hall of memories. The typically frenetic pulse of a corporate world still reeling from a down economy remains placid, yet hopeful.
Some type of weather front was due to move in during the evening hours. I had not paid a lot of attention to the early morning forecast, noting only that rain would arrive right in time for the evening commute. I privately welcomed the warmer temperature and humidity following several unseasonably cooler days. While Mother Nature had chosen to jump straight into fall, I was hoping for a long Indian summer this year. Work had quickly picked up that second week of September. On the afternoon of the 16th, I had been dispatched to an upscale Fifth Avenue retailer to oversee what should have been a simple equipment set-up for an evening party. After several hours of placating the uptight client, I was simply looking forward to getting out of there. It took a moment to register the headlights driving past the front door. The ferocity of the falling rain dominated my immediate thoughts followed by the disappointment of having to wait around a little longer than I hoped.
“It’s like Armageddon out there,” I jokingly said to one of the technicians.
The rain was definitely impressive, the storm unexpected. Turning to the client I reassured her that rain of this magnitude often ends quickly. I’ll never understand why I felt the need to instill a sense of positive reinforcement that the show would indeed go on. When the rain tapered off and the sky had lightened to its normal evening shade, I traversed the 14 blocks back to the office in a light drizzle and called home to mention I was running a few minutes late. My wife’s outrageous claim of a tornado touching down sounded typically over-dramatized, something I blithely poked fun at. My immediate surroundings showed no signs of anything out of the ordinary. Her return phone call a few minutes later told me to avoid taking the Long Island Railroad and opt for the subway instead. While far more expensive than the underground mode of transportation, I prefer taking the railroad which usually deposits me in my hometown in less than fifteen minutes. The scene in Penn Station upon my arrival was one I had witnessed many times before when the railroad is unexpectedly experiencing service delays. An announcement from the overhead speakers cited debris on the tracks as the reason for the system wide suspension. Relegated to the fact that the homeward bound commute would take a little longer, I reluctantly followed the slow moving mob towards the subway. Knowing that the Queens bound trains would be horrifically overcrowded; I boarded a train in the opposite direction first, with the hope that a downtown station would be far less chaotic.
The gamble paid off. I settled down into a seat, opened my book and never looked up until reaching my stop roughly 45 minutes later.
Forest Hills has undergone several transformations during my time here as a resident. When I first laid down roots in the mid 1990’s several bars and clubs pervaded the main part of town. Now, known more for its shopping, restaurants and banks (which seemed to have popped up every hundred feet or so), it has become one of the most populous areas in the borough of Queens. Clients would often raise their eyebrows at my mention of a Forest Hills address before I lightheartedly informed them that I walked through that neighborhood to arrive at mine. Comprised of many Tudor style homes on cobblestone streets lined with mighty trees, Forest Hills Gardens is often associated as a place for the privileged or elite. It is also home to the exclusive West Side Tennis Club, which sits in the shadow of the Forest Hills Tennis Stadium. The original site of the U.S Open, the structure is also an integral part of the New York City Music Trail, having hosted many renowned artists including the Beatles who played there prior to their iconic appearance at nearby Shea Stadium.
Ascending the stairs from the subway I privately sneered at the light drizzle still falling. The sight of leaves and twigs strewn across the sidewalk added some credence to my wife’s earlier proclamation of a brutal storm. The unexpected scene of a major thoroughfare closed to traffic due to a sizeable fallen tree stretched across the road stunted my forward motion. I looked around in total disbelief at the surreal scene before me, only now becoming cognizant of the rising crescendo of unending sirens both near and in the distance. The continual flashes I had attributed only to heat lightning came not from the sky, but from the multiple cameras and cell phones. The people who held them spoke in hushed tones, or not at all. I overheard a bus driver notifying a small crowd on the corner that service had been completely suspended. That was when I noticed that just over his shoulder the front door on the Citibank behind him had been ripped off its hinges. Reaching for my cell phone, I placed a call home to describe the scene that I was looking at, but could not get through.
No surprise.
Like the great blackout of 2003 or the horrific events spawned on 9/11, cell service was obviously overburdened. Heading away from town and into The Gardens I could see the revolving lights of several emergency vehicles ahead illuminating the incredible sight of a monstrous tree horizontally splayed across the street. Beyond and in all directions, I witnessed much more of the same carnage. Things like this don’t happen here, my mind reeled, falling back on the trusted assumption that it can’t happen here!
Devastation beyond comprehension.
It amazed me that the neighborhood still had electricity.
With no other option, I veered down one of the side streets in an effort to reach home, none of which were passable in any type of vehicle, others completely impenetrable on foot. At one point I had gotten turned around so many times, that I had actually lost track of where I stood. Most of the trivial landmarks that I would only subconsciously recognize were gone, obscured by the incredible amount of flora now at eye level, leaves, limbs and branches that until recently had resided in the sky high above. In the darkness, I could barely make out the makes or models of cars crushed and buried underneath, nor could I see many of the cables spread at my feet or suddenly dangling in front of my face until it was nearly too late. Realizing that most of these were just telephone or cable wires, I still took extra caution to keep a safe distance away. Finally arriving home, I made the mistake of telling my son he would most certainly be spending Friday at home and not at the elementary school I had just walked past. While the building seemed to have escaped nature’s wrath unscathed, the immediate area surrounding it would make it impossible for kids to get there.
And dangerous.
Mayor Bloomberg didn’t see it that way.
I have very few positive things to say in regards to any form of government. I have seen countless stupid decisions made with little or no regard to public feelings or safety. Opening schools the following morning in the immediately affected areas was absurd and downright irresponsible!
My wife felt that I was overreacting when I had finally reached home equipped with extra milk, water, flashlight batteries and bags of ice. We had not lost power as yet, but I had become convinced that as cleanup crews began the task of clearing trees and removing limbs from overhead power lines that electricity would certainly be cut at some point. I remember co-workers ridiculing my decision to go downstairs to the ATM and withdraw some emergency funds as news of the Pentagon being hit by a third hijacked plane unfolded on the morning of 9/11. There was no one in the bank at that moment. An hour later, the line was out the door and around the corner.
Call it instinctual preparedness.

2. Clean-up and Reckoning

Following a night filled with the sounds of sirens and helicopters, the hum of chainsaws now dominated this late summer morning where daylight brought with it a peaceful picture of destruction. Blue sky, a warm breeze and bright sunlight belied the scene outside. Remarkably our street had been primarily spared while only a handful of homes away on the adjoining cross street, everything was in complete disarray. The roots of many downed trees had upturned several sections of sidewalk, another obstacle to be concerned about as I unbelievably ushered my seven-year old to school, instructing him to be wary of downed wires while simultaneously raising branches out of the way so he and several others could get by. Arriving teachers, many of who had traveled from vicinities unaffected by the storm stared in awe while voicing their own discontent at school being open. Parents from other parts of the neighborhood reiterated tales of horror including blown out windows and bookcases being knocked over in high-rise apartments. With one ear attuned to the multiple conversations, my eyes fell upon the unbelievable sight of the school’s flagpole bent in the middle at a near perfect ninety degree angle. Damaged homes, cars and trees aside, it was the vision of this one lone flagpole that I will probably most remember long after this incident has become a distant memory.
One part tourist, one part intruder is how I felt while I negotiated the streets with both digital camera and video camera. In the aftermath of 9/11, I felt the immediate urge to document it. Securely at home in Queens, I committed those memories only to the written page. Similar to that sad day, I had loosely witnessed this tragedy safely from afar. Only through the miracle that is You Tube have I been allowed a brief glimpse of what it actually felt like much closer to the point of impact at the time that it was happening. The powers that be had yet to confirm that any type of tornado had touched down, though through the eyes of everyone in town, there could be no other explanation. Part of it was morbid fascination, but the urge to shoot video served more as an extension of my need to fully document this event. There are people in other parts of the country, certainly other parts of the world who have experienced something of this magnitude several times over. When I look at the pictures and the video, see the local news clips or just walk the streets, I still cannot believe that I would ever see something like this first hand, so up close and personal.
It is personal.

* There is a house that I walk past everyday as I meander through the Gardens on my commute home that I am simply in awe of. During the spring months when the flowers are in full bloom under the crown of such magnificent trees I have often stopped on several occasions just to admire it, telling myself that next time I will photograph it.
Next spring the flowers will bloom there again.
The majestic trees, so grand and prominent however are now gone.
I wonder if the homeowners will miss them as much as I.

* I was on the street looking up towards the sound of a chainsaw emanating from somewhere behind the mass of leaves and limbs that obscured the upstairs windows of a home. Someone had to begin the task of clearing whatever debris they could before the professionals would arrive to remove the monstrosity from the front lawn. Unable to see who was behind the window, I turned away when screams rose from somewhere behind me. I quickly looked back to see a raccoon come out of the top of the tree and race down the trunk towards street level, desperate to escape the intrusive buzzing of the piercing saw. I had not considered whom, or for that matter what else had been displaced by the storm.

* Outside the West Side Tennis Club, I found another sight that will forever remain ingrained in my memory. The mutilated and fallen fences underneath a litter of tree limbs obscuring a number of tennis courts would make dramatic news photos, but it was a lone SUV remarkably undamaged sitting alongside the entrance that might garner a bit of interest had anyone paid closer attention. The small sliver of branch that had pierced the taillight on the passenger side left little more than broken pieces of plastic on the street beneath. The speed at which it had traveled must have been similar to that of a bullet shot from a gun. The other end clearly visible on the inside showed little damage as well, seemingly a perfect incision.

Several months after the events of 9/11, I made my first trip to the downtown area of Manhattan. Dropping by for a quick meeting with a client, I grew impatient at the slow moving crowd climbing the subway stairs, agitatedly wondering what the holdup was. When I reached daylight, I immediately staggered back, the shock of the view before me almost too much to handle. On many occasions in summer’s past, I had exited from that same set of stairs to meet friends for lunchtime concerts on the World Trade Center Plaza. A lifetime New Yorker, I had barely acknowledged the view from that staircase of the buildings that defined the downtown skyline. On this cold December afternoon. Looking across that street for the first time after the buildings had fallen, I could see glimpses of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond, something that had long been obscured by the once mighty twin towers. A defining moment in my life, it did not bring any sense of closure to the horror that was 9/11. Instead, for the first time, I truly understood what those buildings had meant to the city of New York. The gaping hole left behind could never be filled.
Not on an emotional level.
Walking home last night on the same streets that I always have, I experienced a complete sense of Déjà vu. On what had once been a tree lined street seemingly always covered in shade, I had a completely un-obscured view of the train tracks and the buildings beyond.
I stared in shocked silence.
Another defining moment.
Like New York City, the Forest Hills skyline would forever be changed.

The streets I have walked daily for more than fifteen years are barely recognizable.
Neighbors can now freely look upon each other whether they choose to or not.
The sound of rustling leaves from a passing breeze is clearly diminished.
Beyond the shock value, what is left in the wake is simply sad.

Tom Mortensen
September 2010

A "Thank-You Card" from Queens

Blogger's Note:
It's no mystery that I have been a devoted Beach Boy fan for most of my life, a tale that one day will find its way here under my "I've Always Considered Myself Clueless Musically," series.*
* (Search back further in the archives to find other music obsessions including the Electric Light Orchestra and the Partridge Family.)
Recently, I had the incredible good fortune to sit down with Grammy Award winner and Beach Boys founding member Al Jardine. He is the second Beach Boy I have had the chance to interview and I can say with confidence that this one went far smoother. In November of 1981, I orchestrated (quite unprofessionally, yet successfully) a chance to talk with lead singer Mike Love shortly following the release of his solo effort, "Looking Back With Love." I was a college freshman at the time who thought I knew everything.
I was starstruck.
I was clueless.
'Nuf said.
Exhibiting a bit more professionalism, confidence and research, this second chance at seeing a dream realized has resulted in what follows. Undeniably, there were a few missteps along the way in finding time to actually sit down and talk. After all, I was the small man on the totem pole compared to iconic brands like Rolling Stone; WCBS-FM, WPLJ-FM, Scott Shannon, and a host of Sirius satellite channels. In the end however, Mr. Jardine proved as patient as he was professional. Following an all too short twenty minutes, we parted with a new found respect for one another. He has recently released his first solo effort, "A Postcard From California." Admittedly, it's difficult being objective having been a fan for so many years, but this disc will forever remain my soundtrack for the Summer of 2010. It is simply a beautiful piece of work that makes me proud to be a Beach Boys fan. The interview will appear in an upcoming edition of Forest Hills / Astoria Celebrity & Entertainment.
- Morty


Now you know that I’m goin’out west,
I think that it’s for the best,
Hopes and dreams are what this nation’s built on
- A Postcard from California
Al Jardine

The lure of California remains as much a viable entity today as it has for centuries. Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath” paints one of the earliest pictures of the California dream as seen through the eyes of the dust bowl era sharecroppers forced to journey west in search of a better life, a second chance.
Paradise.
Al Jardine’s westward odyssey began nearly a hundred years later with the very same thought in mind, albeit less a few of the hardships.

“It was a long flight. It would have been a longer drive. When you heard the word California mentioned around the house, it was like whoa, the Land of Oz.”

It’s a tale he reiterates on his recently released solo effort, “A Postcard from California.”

“The title track takes us from upstate New York where I grew up as a child, on an epic journey across the Untied States to San Francisco. This song reflects that migration during post-war America, from our colloquial setting by Lake Ontario to the vast Pacific.”

It’s a far different vision than the more revered notion of surf, sand and sun that he helped to create as a founding member of the legendary Beach Boys. The fantasy inspired by their music remains intact every time the stylus makes contact with vinyl, or the laser with plastic.
I have yet to comprehend how the sound is delivered to my beloved iPod.

“We always sang about our environment, which at the time was surfing and hot rods Now I’m more mature. I’m in a different environment.”

...and just off the rocks floatin’ out in the bay,
sea otters play in the cool ocean spray.
The California gray whales playin’ there
haven’t got a care.
- Looking Down the Coast

“Originally, it was intended to be more of a green album. I’ve always had an infatuation with coastal California and an interest in ecology and the environment.”

“Don’t Fight the Sea” is one of the true high points on the album. The ethereal falsetto on the refrain alone sends a powerful message, but it’s the vocal arrangement and flawless harmonies that make this tune so majestic. Through the wonder of technology, Jardine has managed to pull off what so many others could not; bringing every one of the original Beach Boys back together in song.

“It’s actually a thirty-two year old endeavor that was supposed to be part of a Mike Love, Al Jardine project. Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much time to do a solo record, so the song just languished and sat there.”

Originally written and recorded by Terry Jacks of “Seasons in the Sun” fame, Jardine felt it would make a fine complement to the Beach Boys repertoire.

“It’s just great writing, but I felt it was too Canadian and I told Terry, we have to Americanize these lyrics a little bit, so instead of ‘I was mucking about when the tide went out,’ I wrote; ‘I was messing around when the tide went down.’ He practically let me rewrite the whole damn thing. I kept his first verse intact and went with my original lead vocal from 1978. I tried redoing it, but couldn’t seem to recreate that same energy and passion. Somewhere around that time Carl (Wilson) and Bruce (Johnston) added background vocals. In 1988, I got Carl to sing this really haunting solo about a mariner in the doldrums, which is the second verse.

I’m caught in the wind, the tide’s coming in,
The fog’s closing in over me
My blood’s running cold, ‘cos my life is on hold
For years I’ve been adrift on the sea
- Don’t Fight the Sea

Brian (Wilson) added his trademark falsetto at that time and it was only recently that I got Mike (Love) on there.”

The album also features second generation Beach Boys, Al’s sons, Matt and Adam, original member David Marks, more commonly referred to as “The Lost Beach Boy” and the most unlikely Beach Boy of all, country legend Glen Campbell.

“We’ve had a relationship with Glen going as far back as ’65, when he filled in for Brian who had suffered a nervous breakdown. His voice today is really incredible. He nailed this vocal on the second verse of “Postcard” that just amazed me.”

Through a combination of persistence and some old fashioned beating on doors, Al has managed to amass an impressive array of guest artists including Neil Young, David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Gerry Beckley and Dewey Bunnell (America), Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers) and Steve Miller, who provides lead and backing vocals on an updated blues rendition of The Beach Boys 1965 Number one record, “Help Me, Rhonda.”

…And with the free wind blowin’ when the girls come ‘round
We’ll make a little magic when the sun goes down.
- Drivin’

Departing from the green portion of the album, “Drivin',” a brand new composition and “Honkin’ Down the Highway,” a Brian Wilson penned tune from the 1977 Beach Boys Love You LP provide a return to that true and carefree summer form. Al trades lead vocals with Brian on Drivin', a comical tale of a road trip gone awry, while America’s Gerry Beckley and Dewey Bunnell provide backing vocals and a brief nod to their own number one hit, “A Horse With No Name.”
It is Jardine’s vivid imagery of the other California however, that makes this musical journey so worth the ride.

I was walking down the beach in San Onofre.
It was such a beautiful day.
The wind was blowin’ through my hair,
The waves they chased my cares away
And the sun danced in the morning sky.
- California Feelin’

Long a staple on the Beach Boys bootleg circuit, this Brian Wilson composition dates back to the mid 1970’s. With his two sons contributing backing vocals and lush harmonies, Jardine and his band to some degree have re-imagined the classic Beach Boys sound.

“I’ve taken just the basic elements of the track and added this big burst of harmony that really sets it off nicely, and then ‘Looking Down the Coast’ is an epic piece in itself because it really goes into detail about the flora and the fauna of Big Sur.”

La Cuesta Encantada; the Enchanted Hill is a place almost as magical as the music that draws us there.

“San Simeon is beautiful. I started with this line, ‘and then we kissed underneath the stars, under the spell of Venus and Mars,’ and my producer, Scott Slaughter, embellished the song around that to incorporate the whole landscape including the elephant seals that live around the beaches there. My son Adam came up with this beautiful poignant melody at the end. I get chills just thinking about it.”

Poet Stephen Kalinich, who has written several songs for the Beach Boys, composed “Tide Pool Interlude,” an emotional tribute to the awe-inspiring magnificence of the Golden State. Delivered eloquently in spoken word form by actor Alec Baldwin, this short poem simply sums up Jardine’s undeniable love for California. In 1972, while recording in Holland on a Beach Boys album of the same name, he wrote “California Saga.” A fan favorite from its inception, Al harbored the underlying notion that there was room for improvement. Enlisting Neil Young, David Crosby and Stephen Stills, this new recording, complete with banjo and an intro titled Campfire Scene personifies a more authentic northern California feel.

“In looking back, we gave our all
and there are things
I don’t care to recall”
- And I Always Will

Next year, the Beach Boys will celebrate their 50th anniversary. Undoubtedly, it has been a rocky road on the way to that half-century mile marker, the proof lying in the fact that there are currently three touring factions of the band on the road. There has been no mention of an upcoming reunion to commemorate this milestone, although the opportunity to hear all of the members, both living and deceased, in perfect harmony on this release is encouraging. The disc takes an unexpected turn, closing with an emotional ballad that seems almost out of place, as one would not equate a member of the Beach Boys with this particular style.

“I don’t know how I came up with that. The music in it is beyond my reach. The subtle changes I think I intuited from Frédéric Chopin. We added these beautiful strings and I thought ooh, this is getting better. Somewhere in my mind, I kept imagining this faint horn, almost like an oboe. One of the musicians mentioned an English Horn, and I said sure. It’s my favorite song on the album.”

The array of musical styles on Postcard is almost as impressive as the collection of guest artists that turned out in support of this project. “And I Always Will,” highlights a heartfelt vocal and adds yet another dimension to the music of Al Jardine, proving that this is indeed a true solo effort, an extension of the artist as an independent entity, separate and apart from the group for which he is best known. Provided with a subtle, yet tasteful environmental message, a virtual travelogue of a land unknown to many, and a fun, fresh look at the California dream, Al Jardine has given everyone a reason for celebration.
And for that, I say thank-you.




* "A Postcard from California" is currently available on iTunes and at Amazon.com

The Pen is Mightier Than...Part IV: Ethics in Question

In this case, I use the title in its literal form. The pen just might be mightier as I draw attention to something I have let simmer inside me long enough. Recently a co-worker from my past had the audacity to question both my business practices and work ethic. I have always stood by my work ethic which has been near flawless to a fault. I don't plan on drawing any attention to this particular posting, but those who know me may accidentally find it on their own and will undoubtedly know of whom I speak. Sadly, my mild mannered personality forces me to internalize things rather than speak my mind.
I don't like confrontation.
I don't like rocking the boat.
The recent assault on my character has been all consuming. In typical Morty fashion however, rather than physically stand up for myself, I have chosen to take the coward's way out. Writing about it, while I hope may prove therapeutic will, if nothing else set the record straight. The dramatically creative side of me will take over as I write an imaginary response in letter form. The letter of course will never be e-mailed, nor sent in the traditional sense, but will remain here.
No names will be mentioned.
For all who continue to read this, you may draw your own conclusions.

Former Co-Worker,
Your recent ambush on my current employer while he visited the facility I selflessly and often over zealously gave 18 years of my life to, was unfair and uncalled for. If your desire was to get under my skin, then I offer congratulations.
It worked.
If your despicable plot was to somehow debase my character, or instill in his mind some degree of doubt or mistrust, it failed.
Your delusional rant and factual misrepresentation was met with derision and laughter.
You consider yourself some type of martyr, choosing to accept unemployment in lieu of putting your older and last remaining colleague out of work, while portraying yourself as a victim at the same time. You selfishly insinuated that I was partly at fault for the final demise of the company, a company which was wildly in free fall at the time of my departure. On the surface, my decision to leave may have seemed hasty, but inside I spent many months agonizing over it while simultaneously trying to devise creative ways to keep the business viable. Already inundated with the consistent amount of work that continued to come in, trying to grow (or at the very least maintain) that business on my own proved a near impossible task. Understanding thoroughly that book/autograph signings, abundant personal days following late night shows and the disgustingly inordinate amount of company time you spent surfing the web were clearly your priority, I chose not to inconvenience you with work related tasks, which admittedly can be bothersome, especially when it interferes with far more relevant issues on Blabbermouth.com. Thankfully, the clients I had nurtured for more than a decade (and long prior to your arrival) kept enough work coming in to support your enthusiasm for the World Wide Web while contributing in part to the paycheck you received on a weekly basis. The fact that a small percentage of those very clients chose to follow me in my endeavors is testament to the service and enthusiasm I showed them over the years. I apologize if you mistakenly construed their dedication as theft on my part. Remember how often you would exclaim in exasperation what a pain in the ass the woman from the largest news gathering agency in the world was? Luckily, I handled all of her incoming work following the multiple mistakes made by my predecessor, placated all of her doubts and kept her as a viable customer within our former company. With my decision to find a more stable environment elsewhere, you suddenly came to the decision that she really was not that difficult to deal with after all.
Hmmm.
It was never my intention to take any of the clients with me, although I certainly earned that right without question. I could have been a typical scumbag citing the unwritten rule which says business is business, and taken the entire client database with me, unfortunately the shrewd gene does not lie within me. As I had made my transition prior to the onset of the traditionally slow summer season, there was no reason for me to make contact with any of those clients, short of saying farewell and thanks for the support, at least not until the e-mails loosely hinting that I had also absconded with video editing software started showing up in my inbox. I literally lost sleep for nearly a week, knowing that our former employer may have harbored the very thought that I had stolen anything! A frenzied string of responses followed as I continued to add to the list of places I felt the software might reside within our former office space. Several days later, I took it upon myself to drop by and look for it myself. The proclamation from your last remaining colleague that you had not gotten around to looking for it came to me as no surprise. Even after my absence, Blabbermouth, Break.com and YouTube obviously demanded your immediate attention. In less than the time it took for me to walk out of my way across town, the two of us unearthed the missing discs. For your records it was number three on my list of possible locations. Mere minutes spent away from your vaunted websites would have saved a week of unneeded stress and sleepless nights on my behalf. You can bet if our boss had been in town you would have been on it in seconds, similar to the employee of the month act you would pull every time he was in the office. Disgusted, I would inwardly laugh as I opened the door on a morning when he was due to arrive to find you already at your desk, something that for the most part was a rarity. The staged interest you took in the welfare of our clients was often a brilliant performance that our former employer seemed to enjoy with relish. You often mentioned your 15 minutes of fame spent on the big screen for an independent film. Obviously, you took something away from the experience, because several years later you sure convinced our boss that the salary you were paid was actually worth it. I could go on with a laundry list of further examples, your seemingly endless quantity of sick days for instance (various procedures notwitstanding), but that would fall under the category of sour grapes and nitpicking on my part. I never professed to be the golden boy in that organization, and openly admit to both yourself and the untold millions in cyberspace, that I too spent a fair amount of time surfing the web on the boss' nut. The only difference between you and I was that I EARNED that time, much of it based on late nights, weekends and work brought home (without any compensation from our esteemed leader), not to mention the time spent working durng regular business hours while you pretty much took a pass. In closing, I will say in your defense that there were times when you busted your ass to help get product labeled, packaged and shipped, especially when things were simply overwhelming. You also paid attention to detail and presentation when something left the office. Yes, there were a few shining examples of some actual work and caring on your part. Sadly, those moments were too few and far, too far in between. To answer your accusation that I may have had something to do with the final death throes of that company, I wholeheartedly agree. I should have made the boss aware of your lack of input several years ago, before he literally wasted untold THOUSANDS on your mostly undeserved paycheck. It was he who once told me as I tried to hint what was really going on behind his back, "There's two sides to every story."
You have told yours, and now the world knows mine.
I would tell you that maybe we'll cross paths on Blabbermouth.com sometime, but that's kid stuff. Besides, I have work to do.
It's what I do.
When I'm on company time that is.
Sincerely,
your disappointed, but no longer disgruntled ex-co-worker.

*Blogger's Note
For all of those who patiently made it through this last posting, I apologize for the detraction from my original mission statement to keep this place positive. I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

The Difference

Writing has long been a part of my life and while for several decades I let that passion fester, my mind continued to function in much the same way that I would assume a writer's would. Maybe I am shamelessly humble, or probably lack the confidence that a true writer feels.
There it is right there...a true writer.
While I treat this as more of a hobby, mostly due to the fact that the real world is constantly in the way, this is truly my calling. Granted, the writing has been more about the quick gratification, the personal high that comes from another successful blog posting or magazine submission. I never intended for it to touch the lives of others. My recent past however shows quite the opposite. On a Monday morning, facing the beginning of another lackluster work week, this Letter to the Editor @ Forest Hills Celebrity & Entertainment found its way to my inbox.

Dear Joe,
I am a staff member of St. John's Bread & Life Program. I have never written a letter to the editor before but felt I wanted to tell you how much reading “Just One Life” meant to me. Mr. Mortensen did not write with fonts but with chords of his heart. Having lost two very dear friends this past year, reading the article and the words of Lynda Dobbin-Turner’s songs spoke to my grief and healing. They were inspiring. I appreciate the articles appearing in your magazine. Please know how much they mean to the community – and not just in Forest Hills or Astoria. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Rita Marie Trucios
Director Social Service
St. John's Bread & Life Program

The article she mentions was a labor of love for me, opening up a part of myself that I did not know existed. The woman I wrote about is someone I have never met in person. As a blogger, I often find myself looking for ways to draw more traffic to this site. Selfishly, while perusing the sites of blogger's like myself in an effort to make them aware of my own existence, I stumbled upon the world of Lynda Dobbin Turner. As a big city guy living and working in the metropolitan area, I immediately came to the conclusion that here was a simple country person living a simple country lifestyle. What I found however was inspiration and someone who is far stronger than I could ever imagine myself to be. What follows is my 2009 holiday submission to Forest Hills Celebrity & Entertainment. With no space limitations, I have chosen to include several more pictures which did not appear in the original layout for the magazine.
I am proud,
I am humbled,
I am speechless.
I made a difference.
- "Morty."




“We got a lovely skiff of snow last night which will make a nice quiet day for Shane and me to regroup by the fireplace and get grounded again. Tonight, we're planning to put up our Christmas tree. Maybe that will help fire up the spirit of the season for me.”

I met Lynda Dobbin-Turner in November of 2008, the chance crossing of our paths purely by circumstance. Worlds apart, we have little in common beyond our affinity for country music and our passion for writing, she a songwriter, me…let’s just say I still consider myself in the category of aspiring. While we have never met in the conventional sense, I have found in this remarkable woman a deep sense of inspiration that has reached out across the many, many miles via the World Wide Web and touched my soul.

“It's hunting season around here again. A calf was accidentally shot in our west pasture. Before we could dispose of the remains, a group of Bald Eagles found them. They are awe inspiring in their majesty. Even amid the frustration of needless loss, we are blessed to be living in a place that gives us such beauty in exchange.”

Lavenham, located in the Canadian province of Manitoba is a tiny hamlet with a population of only 50. Microscopic, by borough of Queens standards, it marks the furthest I have been from home while seated at my PC. The incessant pattern of controlled chaos taking place outside my Mid-Manhattan office window infringes upon the landscape she has painted, so openly shared for the world to see via her blog. At a glance, this brief glimpse into a paradise imagined by most, only through the world of National Geographic may seem a simpler way of life, but it is not without its share of hardships. Following the release of her first CD in 2006, the culmination of a thirty-year dream, Lynda Dobbin-Turner knew immediately that it would not be a once in a lifetime event. Caring for a son afflicted with Cerebral Palsy however, would always be her main priority. Shane’s early diagnosis meant that he would never do many of the things that a normally developing child would, but with fierce determination and an undying spirit, Lynda made sure that he would live a life full of love, laughter and adventure. By the age of 16, he had dipped his toes in two oceans, sped on an airboat through the Everglades, ridden horses, snowmobiles, ATV’s and roller coasters. The staff and students of the local elementary and middle schools welcomed Shane openly.
“There were certainly bumps along the way, anonymous letters that pierced the spirit but the effort paid off and I think it was a shining example of what Inclusion can look like”
Shane turned 17 on January 18th, while remarkably, Lynda had a dozen songs nearly completed for her next CD, which would continue along the lines of its predecessor, offering further insight into Canada’s prairie province, and a lighthearted look at what makes this singer songwriter tick. Whether dreaming of a place near the ocean that allows her to “put her gifts in motion”, or looking back at the years of growing pains and teen angst: “If I could write a letter to that girl back then, I’d tell her it’ll be alright,” or the woman over 40, convinced that the inability to make up her mind is due simply to the onset of Age Activated Attention Deficit Disorder (AAAD), we find an individual who has lost neither her resolve nor sense of humor in light of the monumental struggles faced in raising a terminally ill child. I grew excited as her second musical outing began to take shape. We would correspond briefly when time allowed, me anxious to learn more about her real “Little House on the Prairie,” while offering my own whimsical thoughts on life in the big city.

“I watched the sun rise up this morning, just like it did yesterday.
It’s funny how so much goes on the same, when everything has changed.
Did I not tell you all I should have; I hope you read between the lines.
We would have done more if we could have, but we just ran out of time.”
- Won’t Say Goodbye (From the CD “Just One Life”)

My world stopped briefly one dreary March afternoon when I checked her blog on a whim. I stared in stunned silence at a picture of the smiling child she had strived so hard for, a boy who had known little of boundaries, because she refused to acknowledge them, a young man who had seen and accomplished more in his brief existence than most ever will. For the first time in my life, I wept for someone so far away, someone I had never met.
In June, still devastated from her loss, Lynda returned to the studio with new songs that surfaced in working through the pain of that loss.

“If you’ll just look inside, soon you’ll realize,
There’s a fire that these struggles cannot kill.
See my heart, see my spirit, see the light that shines in me
See the love I could offer, and the friend that I could be…”
- When You Look at Me (Shane’s Song)

“I’ve seen the difference that a commitment to inclusion made not only in Shane’s life, but in the lives of all the other students he connected with. “Just One Life”∗ is a tribute to the difference that just one life can make.”

Last year I brought attention to the East Coast Car Association raising money for children diagnosed with long-term illnesses in our area. I have witnessed both here and afar the difference that everyday people can make in challenged lives. Maybe by simply using this gift I have been given, the gift to write, I can touch others to do the very same.

Morty 101: Politically Inept in a Politically Correct World

Blogger's Note:
Under the gun and under the wire for another magazine submission, this came to me on the day of the greatest snowstorm seen in the NYC tri-state area in years. The timing could not have been better as just days later, our fill-in governor is under pressure to step down. Call me cynical, but I wholehartedly believe that there is no such thing as an honest politician, and that those who come off as good hearted and squeaky clean simply have not been caught yet.

All right, so it’s tough to sit here and think happy springtime thoughts while outside my window the sound of a passing snowplow briefly overwhelms the echoes of multiple shovels scraping pavement. Admittedly, the snow continues to fall as I type, yet by the time this publication winds up in your lucky hands we will have long arrived at that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Flowers bloom and short sleeves abound under a tranquil blue sky during this early and unusually warm spring season.
Global warming or wishful thinking?
Now, far be it from me to exercise my right of free speech, but coming off both the coolest summer and coldest winter in recent history, haven’t our elected leaders taken this global warming thing far enough? Even southern Texas and sunny Florida saw record snowfall amounts this year, not to mention the rest of us right here at home. Why, even in an unprecedented display of intelligence, our illustrious mayor and designated school officials opted for snow days on more than one occasion. Yes, using the word intelligence in the same sentence with any type of government official can often be construed as a contradiction in terms.
Or term limits?
I never talk politics. I don’t like talking politics. I am thoroughly independent and hate everyone equally. Maybe I am shamefully naïve, but when did politics become an Olympic sport? Finger pointing has created a whole new level of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Does anybody remember “The Name Game,” that annoying old ditty from the 60’s?

“Shirley!
Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley
Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley”

I am unsure how it might be received today, but I can tell you that with some updated lyrics it just might stand a chance.
I call it “The Blame Game” and it goes something like this.

“Democrat!
Demo, Demo, Obama, walked into a problema
Fingers pointing everywhere
Healthcare.


Republican!
Republican, the GOP, who is watching the money?
Economy is still failin’
Palin”

All right, my future as a songwriter remains in question but don’t stop me now, I’m on a roll, which incidentally is something the MTA is not. We have all reached the conclusion that fare hikes will never be enough to keep the trains and buses rolling, yet it doesn’t hurt in keeping the wallets of the fat cats…well, fat.
It’s time to take a little trip, good people. Now, rather than beat an old cliché to death and tell you how things might be in a perfect world, follow me into a comfortable place of naïveté I call “Morty’s World,” a place where hospitals remain open just outside the shadows of newly constructed multi-billion dollar baseball stadiums.
Your tax dollars at work.
The average employee can actually afford to get to work thanks in part to someone we’ll call “Joe, the MTA worker.” An ethical man tired of greed and mismanagement resulting in un-fare hikes and a budget deficit nearly in line with the price tag of the aforementioned mammoth arenas, “Joe” decides to step up to the plate (pun intended). As a lifelong employee in the transportation industry, “Joe” takes a minor pay raise, ascends the corporate ladder and instills a few ideas of his own with the understanding that if they do not work, he will willingly step back down to give someone else the same opportunity he has been afforded.
The view from the top is breathtaking.
“I can almost see my outrageously overpriced two bedroom apartment from here,” he muses, looking around the new office in which he sits, marveling at the very thought that it alone is far larger than the dwelling he calls home. The wheels in his head begin to turn.
“Hmm,” he thinks, his finger tapping upon the fine walnut desk. “Where can we begin to cut costs?”
He removes the Montblanc pen from the gold plated desk caddy, touching it to the fine textured stationery while CNN inexplicably drones from the 60” flat screen plasma affixed to the wall opposite an oversized gaudy abstract.
Meanwhile, The fat cats have been sent away on extended leave for the duration of this historical experiment, yet rather than whisk them off to a five star tropical resort; they are involved in another type of research. Call it a return to roots as they partake in that great American pastime, Spring Break. They fly coach, stay in cheap sordid motels and the only refreshment they can afford comes in the form of cheap domestic swill, most of which is obtained by entering poolside beer chugging contests. Later they will become disorderly. The cops will arrive and they will forever disappear into a third world prison far off the tourist path.
Unfortunately, the spinning wheels of a car in search of pavement underneath the ice has prematurely interrupted my reverie, roughly depositing me back here in the real world left to wonder if the suggestions of our friend “Joe the MTA worker” may possibly have helped to solve the insurmountable while sparing citizens further inconvenience. Someone once told me that writing could be cathartic.
Visualize with me wisps of steam lazily rising from the warm pavement following a fresh springtime rain, a metaphor for my finally recognized need to vent. Having never visited the offices of the MTA, I can only imagine the accommodations of those who sit at the top, but let’s face it. We all share a similar vision don’t we?
Have I brought us a step closer to world peace or at the very least inspired someone to take a practical stance at cutting the MTA deficit without layoffs or raising fares?
Have I accomplished anything beyond a hopeful smile or chuckle?
I doubt it.
But we can dream, can’t we?

A Complete and "Udder" Disgrace

Blogger's Note:

I had initially considered writing about our first dude ranch experience in the lighthearted "Morty" long form that really sets the tone for this site. Thoroughly disgusted however with mismanagement and blatant misrepresentation of the resort in question, I opted to get in touch with the people at Trip Advisor where I posted an accurate picture of what vacationers might experience after emptying their wallets to a dysfunctional family run organization. What follows is a first person review originally submitted to tripadvisor.com shortly after our return home.

Before you check their website, which is a complete and utter fabrication, I am hoping that potential guests of this hellhole will take the time to thoroughly research the establishment. Unfortunately, I was "roped in" (total pun intended) by the slick look of the pictures featured on their site.
We stayed in the "Nevada" section of the building, checking in on 8/22, a date which should also have served as checkout. The room was musty, reeked of mildew, the carpet borderline damp. The furniture, well past its prime was scarred and scratched, while two of the dresser drawers would not open properly. Only a background in physics could help patrons make sense of the bathroom faucets, the sink proving exceptionally dangerous to children who will have a difficult time discerning the hot from the cold settings. The mattress on the bed nearest the window, completely worn on its left half nearly required a side guard to protect the occupant (me) from falling to the floor (the wife always gets the better half). The bed in the middle of the room, while in better shape from a chiropractic standpoint featured a dangerously protruding piece of metal jutting out from the frame; something my wife painfully discovered after scratching her lower thigh. Had she not noticed it first, the potential injury that may have been suffered by an exuberant six year old may have warranted a trip to the emergency room for stitches or worse. The grating on the air conditioner, also past its prime was cracked and crooked. Our traveling companions staying across the hall fared no better. Their air conditioner had no grating to speak of, the wallpaper was peeling, and the mattress on bed number one with its deeply pronounced dip from top to bottom would guarantee multiple trips to a chiropractor most likely followed by back surgery. A dangerously protruding piece of metal on the lower corner of bed number two would most certainly have sent that unsuspecting six year old to the hospital as well. The housekeeping staff while courteous was far from thorough, except in the main lobby area where the overwhelming scent of furniture polish permeated the area. The public bathrooms off the lobby were nearly immaculate, yet take a walk down the dingy hallway past the Food Court and Silver Dollar Saloon to check out the public bathrooms there. Far enough off the beaten path, these two rooms were simply filthy.
The sighting of some type of large rodent running across the downstairs hall from a storeroom to somewhere underneath the hallway stairs was especially repulsive, not to mention beyond disturbing as the area was literally adjacent to the filthy room that passed for a day camp!
I will not go into detail pertaining to the Food Court, as I did not spend a lot of time there. The pizza offerings from the rarely open “Angelo’s” were a far cry from the succulent pie pictured on the official Pinegrove website. While the limited selection of pies were often cooked fresh, the razor thin crust would harden quickly upon egress from what loosely could be considered the oven, the sub standard toppings turning gristly, dry and papery shortly following. The dining room fare was not exactly a step above that of the food court. The limited, unimaginative selections were generally tasteless. Our first dining experience found the prime rib impossibly tough. A buzz saw would not have sufficed! A later attempt at Prime Rib (yes, unbelievably we did remain for the duration of our stay) several days following proved a bit easier to stomach, but cutting around the fat was the equivalent of following an intricate treasure map. The salmon had the consistency of pudding. A brief complaint to our host, the ever-unlikeable “Cowboy Denny,” was merely brushed off with a rudely smug grin and the comment, “There are a lot of ways to cook Salmon.”
Tell it to the “Chef.”
Let’s briefly interrupt the negative with a brief nod to the only positives.
“Tapadero’s,” provided a brief respite from the horrors of the dining room. This small restaurant (another relative term), with its complete lack of ambiance or atmosphere served Italian food cooked fresh to order that was surprisingly edible and tasty.
The horseback riding marks the only reason to even briefly consider a visit here, “brief” being the operative word. The corral staff was friendly, professional and confident, easily placating the fear and uncertainty in first time riders, while capably managing large groups of the un-initiated through their introductory riding experience. The mountain scenery before descending into the twisting wooded trail, while not quite breathtaking is inspiring. These staff members clearly displayed their love for the animals and the job as well. I would have a hard time believing that they were faking it.
“Faking it,” however is where Pinegrove seems to excel. There was little to no semblance of any type of “ranch” experience. Nowhere was there a cowboy in sight. Staff members were adorned in simple polo shirts bearing the logo of this horrific establishment. The pseudo-Vegas style entertainment was passable at best. Jugglers and magicians catered to the pint-sized crowd, while allowing adults a fair amount of genuine laughs. I had a distinct problem with only one of the comedic magicians whose name escapes me for the moment. His risqué sexual and homosexual references while over the heads of the younger ones did not go unnoticed by the pre-teen crowd. It was obvious that he was used to dealing with more of a non-family casino crowd rather than the prisoners held hostage in the “Bullroom.” I call the guests prisoners, because there was literally nothing else to do during Showtime. “Rusty Johnson’s Wildlife Show,” kicking off at 9:30 put most of the younger set to sleep, not a surprise, as it was a bit late for them at this point anyway. This individual’s bland and boring tales of life in far off lands for snakes and alligators was a snooze-fest to put it lightly.
The “Bullroom” really had the capability of being so much more. Why there was never a live band playing country music on the sizeable stage following the lounge acts would almost remain a mystery, yet it did not take much to realize that “management” here was nothing more than selfishly frugal. Granted, not everyone is a country fan, but why not maintain the western illusion even for a brief moment? Upstairs, the “Silver Dollar Saloon” would more aptly have been named “Death Valley” as either no one knew of its existence, nor cared.
Let’s take a trip outside to the pool, where a quick five or ten minutes with a leaf blower and a broom would have done wonders. The leaves and branches that littered one side of the pool deck made walking in bare feet hazardous.
(Anyone up for another trip to the E.R.)?
The white 1980’s era plastic pool furniture stained, uncomfortable and generally filthy followed suit with everything else in the place. The pool slide, the clear highlight for guests of all ages could clearly have been the setting for a catastrophic fall by a child due to missing bars along the upper edge of the stair railing, providing a gaping hole for someone small enough to either step or fall through. The occasional appearance by an inattentive slide attendant at the top who was too busy “texting” to pay attention was simply pointless. Traffic control for the dual slides would have been non-existent had it not been for the help of parents who cared enough to see not only to the safety of their own children, but others as well. The lifeguards appeared bored, restless, and when paired together (rather than having one at the top of the slide) paid more attention to either their cell phones or each other than to the activity happening in the water.
Mere words cannot describe the deplorably horrifying condition of the toddler’s wading pool.
Meanwhile back at the ranch…
Not much had been mentioned about the brown water incident during our unfortunate sentence here. Sometime during the late afternoon of Tuesday August 25th, the water began running brown from sinks and showers alike. Flushing the toilets resulted in a bowl filled with H20 unfit for even the lowliest of fungi. A trip to alert uncaring management poised at the front desk was met with a combination of boredom and annoyance, followed by a clear reluctance to provide additional bottled water to guests who were smart enough to consider utilizing it for the simple everyday function of tooth brushing. Rather than leaving paying customers in the dark, management could have made an effort in alerting the public to the problem while offering an apology for the inconvenience. A simple note on the lobby bulletin board would have sufficed, followed by an update or some type of assurance the following day that the water was once again clean. Of course, it was impossible to tell looking at it running from a rusty faucet into an equally rust stained sink.
Well, to make a long story only a tad bit longer, I would gladly offer up suggestions on how to better utilize the miles of wasted space or manage time between shows and activities, but as I have no plan whatsoever on returning to this pit, I will follow management’s lead and not make the effort.
Returning briefly to the utter fabrication of their website, pay little attention to any of the remaining pictures of cowboys, the dining room, guest accommodations or food. The mouth-watering barbecue shots are either old, or a blatant lie. There was evidence of an area that may once have been used to that extent, but is obviously no longer in existence. I will close by saying that I am not a seasoned traveler used to five star, four star or even three star accommodations. I vacation only where it is affordable and reasonable. Take this review with the proverbial grain of salt, as it is only one person’s opinion. My six year old, who incidentally had the time of his life here would beg to differ.
But then anyone can pull the wool over the eyes of an unsuspecting child.

*Afterword
The pictures of succulent pizza and the dank, dingy food court have since been removed from the website. Several reviews both preceding and following that of my own have also drawn attention to these area's. Further reading of the "one star" rated reviews will offer insight into the alleged "five star" ratings. Apparently, there is money to be made in Pinegrove Bucks in return for a positive review. Several people make reference to the offers of bribes. As I have no solid evidence to substantiate these rumors, I will treat them as just that.