I Never Knew Their Names

Store Closing, Everything Must Go, Lost Our Lease. We’ve all seen these garish posters declaring the pronouncement not as a stroke of ill fated luck or unfortunate news, but appearing as more of a party invite.

“Hurry, hurry, come one, come all, get it while you can at unbelievably low prices. Take advantage of our misfortune and help pay back the vendors who selflessly plied us with these goods you see here.”

Businesses come and go everyday, even more so in an economic climate that remains in recovery mode with little sign of showing improvement in the near future. It’s always big news, sensationalism at its best when one of the larger corporations suddenly owns up to its financial nosedive and is forced to cease operations or undertake some type of reorganization to remain in business.

And then there’s the little guy, the small business, the mom and pop shop. In this case I draw attention to the nondescript storefront with the hastily written sign on a piece of green oak tag simply stating, Closing. All groceries 30% off, written not in shame or disgust, but with a true sense of disappointment and sadness.  I’m not sure how long Metropolitan Fruit & Vegetables on Metropolitan Avenue at 69^th Avenue has been around. There was nothing dynamic about the façade that would leave an everlasting memory behind. In fact, it was no different in overall appearance or presentation than so many other produce stores, corner groceries or dare I say it, bodega’s that dot the Queens landscape. This small area in the extreme southwest corner of Forest Hills has grown rapidly in the past years, seeing the addition of superstores including Staples, Home Depot and Sports Authority. Trader Joe’s, while not in the same strata as the aforementioned businesses has undoubtedly become the hottest neighborhood commodity providing food and groceries with a nod to small-town America, albeit in a quasi-generic corporate nature. Living just outside of the largest city in the nation, our frenetic urban lifestyle belies anything that could even be considered as small-town America, yet even within our borough of Queens there still remains a sense of community. Fruit & Vegetables changed direction several years ago depleting their wider array of produce in lieu of providing more sundries and small food items, which filled a hole left behind locally when the Key Food across the street had closed down. While the selection of groceries was not as wide ranging as the nearby Stop and Shop or Trader Joe’s, there was always the convenience of stopping in to pick up last minute or forgotten items without having to deal with the crowds. Sadly, it was the lack of crowds that has spelled the demise of this local convenience store. Sadder still, with the closing of Fruit & Vegetables, we lose yet another piece of our identity probably due to the open arms with which we over zealously welcome the larger more recognizable conglomerates. Frankly, I never knew the name of the business and simply referred to it as the pretty lady store due mostly in part to the…well, pretty lady that worked behind the counter and always delivered service with such a genuine smile. It was more than just the smile though. She watched my son grow up during his youngest years and on days when we would drop in to say hello it was hard to gauge whose smile was wider, hers or his. When she moved on some time ago to pursue other interests, my son was left wondering, what happened to the pretty lady? The owner; a gentle, kind man treated everyone with not just professionalism and customer service, but with a large degree of warmth and familiarity, paying testament to the fact that even if we do live in a fast-paced metropolitan society, there really is a bit of Americana here; a feeling not generated by a corporate office in a fancy skyscraper someplace, but one that comes directly from the heart. He understood the needs of this community and often went far beyond the extra mile. When the Christmas blizzard of 2010 roared in, the store remained open until late that evening and then reopened the following morning much to the relief of this writer who was able to procure toothbrushes and assorted supplies for the small number of unexpected house guests that were trapped here for two days. When Super Storm Sandy forced the early closing of the local superstores last October, the proprietor remained open and accessible to serve his neighbors. On his last day of business, almost like a fairy tale, the pretty lady returned. I received a call in my office late that afternoon.

“Daddy, Guess WHAT? I saw the pretty lady today and she remembered me. She gave me such a big hug,” my son gushed with excitement. After a short pause, almost as an afterthought he added, “I think she was crying a little bit.”

I think we all are, I thought hollowly.

When I returned home a couple of hours later, I witnessed the last minutes of the business in operation, silently cursing the multitude of vultures who swooped in to take advantage of the last minute savings like it was a party.

Groceries were now 50% off.

Ultimately, I could not be too judgmental. It’s still a tough economy. The voice of my son’s excitement still echoed within my head, a 10 year olds proclamation of amazement.

“She remembered me, and she gave me such a hug.”

Of course she did, I thought wistfully. That’s exactly the type of people they were. Scenes like that are far less likely to take place in the big box stores where most of the help begrudgingly works for little better than minimum wage and getting to know the customer is not nearly as important as getting more money and bigger sales. It’s just not a great business model, but then I don’t think the pretty lady and kindly owner considered us as customers. We were more like friends.

Maybe family.

When the crowd thinned out, I stepped inside to say hello once more to the pretty lady and then goodbye. The owner took my hand in a firm handshake and said thank you. I could see the anguished tears welling up in his eyes. I simply nodded and said, “No! I’m the one that should be thanking you.”

“I’ll miss you,” he answered, looking around at the near empty shelves. He wasn’t just talking about me in that sentiment. He was talking about all of us.

I never knew their names.

But will never forget their faces.

 Letter to the Owner:

More than likely you will never see what I have written, but if these pages somehow find their way to you, know that what you leave behind is not an empty storefront, but a legacy. You were everything that we should all be, everything that our children should aspire to be. You have touched the lives of so many in this community and while a lot of us may never know your name, we will never forget your sense of caring and loyalty. On behalf of everyone in this little piece of Forest Hills, our own small town, I wish you health, luck and prosperity.

Say, New York Whadda Ya Say?

Can I come back to the Opry,
Come back to Music Row?
Hang with some ol' buddies,
Write some tunes with some young guns I'm gettin' to know?...
      - Say, Nashville Whadda Ya Say
         Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers
         from the album Pilgrimage
         (2009)


             “What in the world are a bunch of country singers from West Texas by way of the Grand Ole Opry doing at 54 Below; the posh, hip, new nightclub in New York City?”

   The question posed comes not from the reporter whose job it is to pursue such matters, but rather from veteran singer songwriter, country superstar, Broadway performer and frequent Fox News Channel contributor Larry Gatlin who returns with brothers Steve and Rudy this Saturday for a rare Manhattan appearance.

“My friend Jamie DeRoy is well known in the Broadway and cabaret circles. I’ve been a part of several of her shows and did one a few weeks ago.  Well, you wouldn’t think that these very sophisticated New York patrons of the old nightclub, cabaret scene, would take to Larry Gatlin, but I walked up there, sat down on the stool, sang ‘em a couple of songs and they loved it.  I figured, ‘Good, why don’t we try it again with the brothers?’”

Larry Gatlin and the Gatlin Brothers were a driving force in country music playing sold out shows in major venues across the country and spawning more than a dozen top 40 hits through the 70’s and 80’s. In the early 1990’s when country music inexplicably became an overnight worldwide phenomenon, the trio nobly gave up their share of the spotlight to make room for the sudden influx of rising young talent. Following the culmination of their Adios tour in 1992, the singer songwriter found himself once again center stage on an altogether different stage playing the lead in the hit Broadway musical, The Will Rogers Follies. While the play may not have made the record books for its production run, the singer may yet set a record of his own (if statistics are kept for such things). You see, the idea of retirement did not seem as comfortable as it should have been which ultimately resulted in The Gatlin Brothers Never-Ending Reunion World Tour. In 2009 the band released Pilgrimage; their first CD of brand new studio recordings in nearly two decades, but radio airplay remained elusive as stations chose to stick close to the more non-traditional mainstream sound of today’s country, something the songwriter cited on the album’s first single.

“The song Johnny Cash is Dead and His House Burned Down is of course a tribute to the late great Johnny Cash, but it’s also about the changing of the guard a little bit. ‘I got nothin’ against the young country stars, I could use more fiddle or steel guitars,’ it says. That’s just a metaphor to tell the new generation, let’s not forget where we came from and upon whose shoulders we stand.”

Currently Gatlin resides in Nashville again where he is spending some time writing and mentoring new talent, giving back in much the same way that legendary superstars like Dottie West and Johnny Cash had done for him when he first started out.

‘He’s everything a singer, everything a writer, everything a picker ought to want to be,’ Cash stated in the liner notes of Larry Gatlin’s 1974 debut release, The Pilgrim. Larry Gatlin may not go down in history with the same reverence as The Man In Black, but there is no denying his integral role in country music history.

“When the brothers and I started out, we did it the way the Gatlin Brothers felt it. We wanted to be true to our calling and true to our fans.  I told people back then, ‘I might not be the greatest songwriter in the world but I’m the greatest songwriter in the world to write songs for me and my brothers to sing’ and I still believe that.”

If I come home to my home away from home ,
Will there be any open arms for me?...
Can I come home to good ol' Music City, USA...
Say, Nashville Whadda Ya Say?
      - Larry Gatlin
           (2009)

HOW CAN I SLOW DOWN?

1.

Long Island

Autumn 1989

          “Slow down!”
          Her harried request had gone quickly ignored. Slowing down was the last thing on the mind of this particular driver who had Taken to the Highway at a now excessive rate of speed in an effort to catch up to a tour bus in a simulated chase scene resembling something straight out of Smokey and the Bandit.
“You don’t even know if it’s their bus,” she continued desperately.
Mine was not to reason with a white knuckled, soon to be ex-girlfriend in the passenger seat, but let’s face it. How many other tour buses bearing the mural of a runaway stagecoach could possibly be traveling this same stretch of highway headed in the direction of a venue slated to host a Marshall Tucker Band concert later that same evening? I put the pedal to the metal and tailed the bus to a motel parking lot. Listening to the dull rumble of its engine now idling only a few feet in front of me, I waited patiently for someone to emerge.
          “They’re probably trying to reach the police on their CB radio right now, I’ll bet. Maybe they think you’re a stalker,” she chastised. “Or some type of crazed fan.”
      I ignored her and watched the bus with an eagle eye. The silence and inactivity were broken after several minutes when a non-descript grey Chevy pulled up alongside. A relatively clean cut individual wearing glasses and dressed in a black polo shirt and jeans stepped out and approached the car.
          “Can I help you?” He offered in an accent that clearly said he was not from around here.
          As I began to relate a rather long winded tale of my very tenuous third party connection with the band in question and my hope to briefly introduce myself to its lead singer, he quickly interrupted.
          “I’m Doug Gray,” he said laughing.
          I was humiliated. How could this average guy, wearing glasses no less be the same one that had helped to propel the Marshall Tucker Band to unimaginable heights for nearly two decades? Why wasn’t he on the bus partying like a rock star? It was an unsettling realization when I quickly came to understand that that part of his life was likely long behind him. Mentally doing the math in my head, I figured he had crested the big 4-0 by now, which could likely account for the glasses as well. In a showing of true southern hospitality right there on Long Island’s North Fork, he quickly waived away any embarrassment with a genial handshake and an invitation to the sound check later that afternoon.

2.

New York City

March 2013

          Sitting in my Midtown office awaiting a phone call from the very same individual who was instrumental in shaping the soundtrack of my life, I thought back to that first awkward meeting almost 25 years in my past and realized that it was not merely an act of kindness on his part, but a philosophy, an attitude that continues today and is a true contributing factor to the longevity and staying power of a band that began its journey in Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1972. Now celebrating their 40^th anniversary, Marshall Tucker founding member Doug Gray admits, “It is truly strange. Being an original member and knowing where we came from… I know the guys; some of whom are no longer on this earth would be extremely happy that all of it is still going on.”

Perhaps the pinnacle of that excitement was recently reached when the band was invited to appear on the stage of Nashville’s historic Grand Ole Opry.

          “There’s actually no words. These people welcomed us with open arms. Here I was walking into a place that Hank Williams Sr. had played and had to beg to get on there!”

          The Opry may seem an odd venue for a band that falls more into the category of classic rock, but it’s tough to pin just one label on their music. The Marshall Tucker Band were forerunners during the great southern rock era of the 1970’s, but unlike many of their counterparts offering up lengthy jams and blistering guitar solos, their music also infused a blend of blues, jazz, country and pop. One of the songs the band is most known for is the monster 1977 hit, Heard It in a Love Song. Gray remembers the tune being in the vault for nearly a year before putting his vocal stamp on it.

          “I had some kind of mental block with that song and came up with every excuse not to do it. There were so many other great songs that Toy Caldwell had written and personally I just did not like this one. I’m an old rhythm and Blues singer and now I’m gonna sing this pop tune?”

Four minutes and one take later a hit record was born; something that the singer still finds bewildering.

          “All of a sudden it was being played all over the country and now I have Toy joking around telling me, ‘well buddy, I guess you’ll be singing that for the rest of your life.’ It’s not a bad song, but for me it just never had the impact of something like Take the Highway or Can’t You See.”

          In 1972 the band entered Macon Georgia’s Capricorn Recording Studio to lay down tracks for their first album and unknowingly made rock and roll history.

          “Toy came up one day and said, ‘write this down for me real quick.’ He used to do that all the time and I would find a piece of paper and scribble on it. He starts singing this song to me, ‘Can’t You See, Can’t You See, what that woman,’ He wanted me to sing the song originally, but that wasn’t my voice. It’s too smooth. His was gruff and it was like he was testifying, almost like the little old man at the gospel church that just all of a sudden belted something out that shook the world.”

          Not far from the truth, Can’t You See became iconic and has been covered countless times by artists including Waylon Jennings, Alabama, The Zac Brown Band and Kid Rock. The song has made its mark in multiple films and was recently penned the number one Southern Rock tune of all-time by Ultimate Classic Rock magazine; an honor that Gray is respectfully grateful for.

          “It was wonderful to have that happen, but I still find it hard to believe. I mean look at Lynyrd Skynyrd,” he says laughing. “They got all the songs, all the hits.”

          For More than four decades now, Doug Gray has been blessed with the opportunity to continue a dream that began with him and five boyhood friends, and while he makes it a point at each and every performance to publicly thank fans for that honor, his gratitude runs far deeper. Recently the band mounted a major relief effort to aid many of the victims of Super Storm Sandy. Collecting clothing, supplies and more than 1500 blankets, several trucks were dispatched to our area from their Spartanburg, South Carolina home.

          “You know the Northeast has given us so much right from the very beginning. Had this been the original band we would have done exactly the same thing. I mean think about it. How many times in our lives are we ever gonna be able to appreciate and give something back?”

          Today the Marshall Tucker Band tours relentlessly, playing to standing ovations and sold-out shows not just around the country, but in many places around the world. On several occasions they have journeyed to Iraq to show their support and play for the troops. Things seem to be coming back around full circle for Gray and fans as well. In 1976 the original members toured Europe for the first time. Several shows were recorded and plans had been set in motion to release a live album shortly afterwards. Their contract with Capricorn Records was due to expire however, causing a 27 year delay in seeing those tracks released. Stompin’ Room Only finally saw the light of day in 2003, allowing fans of yesterday and today a true glimpse into the peak of their career. This month the current incarnation will travel to Switzerland to play the International Country Music Festival in Zurich where tape will roll yet again.

“It was always about the music, always about the songs and always about the fans. Right now things are really meshing again and I’ve got some of the greatest musicians in the world in this band. Our personality as a group continues to touch people now as it did when we first started out. Every night I go out there and know the audience still feels the music as much as I do because they’ve shared so much with us. What a tribute that is to the writing and career that we put together.”         

With no thought of slowing down the band continues to work on new music as well, which will undoubtedly be released somewhere down the road. Marshall Tucker returns here in March playing shows in the tri-state area, Pennsylvania and Maryland with plans to double back in the summer sharing the stage with good friends the Charlie Daniels Band.

“And how can I slow down,

When I can’t stop running…”

How Can I Slow Down

From the album Where We All Belong

(1974)

"Morty" The Good Guy

I've always been a victim of something I have come to diagnose as the "Guardian Angel Syndrome." Maybe I was in the wrong place (work) at the wrong time when I picked up the phone and suddenly found myself a week later helping a person I had never met get a DVD produced in time for a 5th Grade graduation celebration. Admittedly, I am taken with the opening number, a tune performed by the graduating class and written by someone I know nothing about (and ultimately have never met either), Reading through some earlier posts on this site, you will find other examples of my good natured will. It's something I am proud of and hope will rub off on my 9 year old son (the then 2 year old pictured above). I don't pat myself enough on the back these days, but I will undoubtedly sleep better for awhile knowing that I have done my part to help someone else.

 - - Morty
     June 2012

Spreading Love, Sunshine and Good Vibrations to a Whole New Generation

 Using “God” in the title of the first studio release by the Beach Boys in over two decades does not make it “God Only Knows,” yet one can almost Smile at the subliminal implication, be it intentional or not. It’s hard not to imagine the worst after surviving band members Brian Wilson, Mike Love, Al Jardine, Bruce Johnston and Dave Marks decide to reunite and record new material just in time (all right maybe a wee bit late) to celebrate their 50^th anniversary. The result however, is a surprisingly credible continuation of days long thought, long gone.

That’s Why God Made the Radio marks The Beach Boys 29^th full length studio recording. From the opening vocals of Think About the Days, there is no question that Brian Wilson is seated comfortably in the Driver’s seat. Beautifully melancholy, this 90 second introduction showcases the band’s relatively unhindered vocal prowess accompanied only by piano. Unfortunately, the title track and alleged radio single immediately follows. Still impressive in the vocal department, That’s Why God Made the Radio is comically cliché. Recalling the days of “tuning in the latest star from the dashboard of my car,” it unjustly feels as if America’s Band have become little more than a sad caricature of what once was.

“The good times never have to end, and now’s the time to let them happen again”, Mike Love sings on Isn’t it Time, a bouncy tune that would have fit seamlessly on an 80’s era Beach Boys release. It’s clearly evident that the lead singer’s agenda in pursuing surf, sun and Fun, Fun, Fun remains hopelessly intact, especially on Spring Vacation. Mr. Love is in great voice here, co-writing a tongue in cheek cut that laudably pokes fun at just how we got here:

           “Some said it wouldn’t last.

All we can say is we’re havin’ a blast…

Easy money, ain’t life funny

Hey, what’s it to ya?”

The cut itself is non-offensive with its laid back adult contemporary feel, but by this point in an album that spans only 39 minutes, the hoped for magic is beginning to wane, taking on more of a tribute band feel. The Private Life of Bill and Sue is simply as ridiculous as its title implies. This one likely remained in the can during Brian Wilson’s Imagination sessions in the mid 90’s when reality television was still a hot commodity. Pseudo Margaritaville fodder, it’s nothing more than reality show Kokomo.

Shelter is another unremarkable middle of the road ballad likely culled from the very same sessions, as co-writing credit goes to Imagination producer Joe Thomas, who collaborated on 11 of the 12 new tunes.

Just about the time you’re getting ready to consider throwing in the towel, something wonderful transpires. Mike Love’s Daybreak Over the Ocean is simply stunning. Originally considered for his unreleased 2^nd solo album in 2005, this track captures the true essence of the original Beach Boys sound so perfectly that it could conceivably have found a home on 1965’s Today.  A perfect complement, the Wilson/Love (and Thomas) penned Beaches in Mind is a solid modern day summertime anthem.

             “Southbay surfin’ again.

Haven’t been this way in I don’t know when

If I have my say, we’ll be back again

Where the good times never end”

How this cut was not chosen to be the single, especially considering the time of year at which this disc was released will forever remain a mystery.

            The album takes a decidedly more poignant turn with Strange World, as Wilson’s more reflective side takes over. It’s a drastic change, similar to the monumental leap taken decades earlier from 1965’s Summer Days (and Summer Nights!!) to the revered Pet Sounds in ’66. Strange World even comes complete with a bicycle bell, quite possibly a second subliminal implication to another introspective tune from that long ago classic LP.

            From There to Back Again is unquestionably, the finest moment here and begins a suite of three songs that brings the album to its foregone conclusion. “Sunlight’s fading and there’s not much left to say,” Wilson mournfully laments on Pacific Coast Highway, a cut that begins with an A cappella intro almost eerily similar to Our Prayer from the legendary Smile sessions, a feeling that carries on to Radio’s swan song, Summer’s Gone. Beginning with the lonely tinkling of wind chimes and a haunting piano that subliminally (hmm) echoes the renowned riff of Wilson’s old nemesis, Heroes and Villains, there is no question that the final message here signifies far more than its title implies.

             “Summer’s gone.

I’m gonna sit and watch the waves.

We laugh, we cry

We live then die

And dream about our yesterday."

            Brian Wilson has finally found closure here. Whether the band follows his lead or decides to continue further is anybody’s guess. Ultimately, the Beach Boys have delivered with minimal disappointment. Should this prove the final bow, they have departed on an admirable note, leaving in their wake nothing less than Good Vibrations.

.         

Bluey's Gone

Winding along a cobblestone street past old world Tudor style homes, I breathed deep the aromatic scent of freshly burning wood wafting from the chimneys above. I could almost envision Chestnuts roasting on those open, albeit controlled fires within. The holidays nearly upon
us, I hoped for just a dusting of the white stuff to complete this tranquil
picture postcard that danced like visions of sugar plums in my adult head,
which admittedly would not know a sugar plum from the inexplicably revered roasted chestnut.
Deep within the confines of my trouser pocket, the not unpleasant vibration from my cell phone interrupted my blissful state. I contemplated ignoring it with the hope of returning to the traditional Christmas scene unfolding within my overactive imagination, but alas duty called in the guise of my wife. Before I could utter a witty
salutation, two words shattered the peaceful night with the violence of an unexpected thunderclap.
“Bluey’s gone!”
With his exaggerated long nose and a limp tail that never wagged, Bluey had wandered into our lives nearly a year prior during an afternoon shopping excursion. While my significant other merrily scooped up bargains within our tax bracket, I had been left with the task of silencing the incessant sobbing coming from our grumpy bundle of joy. With a frenzied finesse that only an exasperated father can accomplish, I seized a furry blue pup from its comfortable home in a holiday themed display unit and thrust it into the arms of my wailing toddler. He briefly looked up at me in wonder and then instinctually cooed softly to the newly acquired canine. Like Snoopy and Woodstock, or Linus and his iconic security blanket, the two had become inseparable.
Until now.
“All right, calm down,” I said, taking on the
calm demeanor of a 911 dispatcher. “Does he know that Bluey’s missing yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s retrace your steps.”
“We dropped by my mom’s first, then
stopped at Sears before…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I abruptly interrupted. “Why did you go to Sears?”
“What difference does that make?” she snapped.
I smiled sadistically, knowing full well that she could barely navigate a major
thoroughfare without making an impromptu shopping pit stop.
“Did he have Bluey with him when you went inside?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember. I think so.”
“He definitely had him when he left your mom’s?”
“I don’t know,” she yelled.
With uncanny timing, call waiting signaled the intention of my mother-in-law to get her two cents in.
“Hello?”
“Bluey’s gone.”
While she droned on, reporting every minute detail of the search they had conducted, my mind wandered, imagining a rigorous Find Bluey campaign that would begin with the liberal plastering of leaflets on telephone poles and the windows of local businesses. How long, I wondered before I could contact the authorities and report the disappearance of our beloved four legged friend? Which civil group should I reach out to first? The Fire Department maintained a sterling reputation for rescuing wayward felines from mighty oaks; yet, the Police Department could quickly canvass the area once I filed the missing blue animal report. Thankfully, call waiting chimed again interrupting the ongoing in-law status report; something that should have been wrapped up in only a sentence or two.
“He ain’t there,” I reported, sullenly accepting the fact that there would be no happy ending in our immediate future while simultaneously questioning our qualifications as responsible parents (my initial non-involvement in this fiasco notwithstanding).
What followed was a near death defying race to the scene of the crime. She drove with reckless abandon. Laws were broken, fists raised in anger, gestures a woman should never be privy to. I’m a white knuckled passenger when the wife commandeers the vehicle, but this was no longer a spouse behind the wheel. This was a frantic mom on a mission.
I was proud.
I was scared.
I yelled.
A LOT!
Junior laughed.
I’m not a child psychologist, nor do I play one in print, but this kid was having the time of his life. His head whipped violently from side to side as we ascended the winding ramp of the parking garage. I rooted through the glove compartment for Dramamine, while simultaneously scanning the asphalt for any sign of furry blue road pizza. Trying to get my sea legs back, I walked unsteadily towards the store entrance, lagging far behind wife with child in stroller who had taken off running at high speed, the little man’s squeals of delight echoing through the eerily quiet cavern.
“We lost a little dog,” she hurriedly informed an uninterested security guard. “He’s blue and has a really long nose and a tail. Has anyone turned in a blue dog?”
“He’s not real,” I offered with a shrug of the shoulders.
We entered the selling floor through the electronics department where I momentarily lost sight of the purpose of our late night expedition. In Women’s, my betrothed had dropped to floor level, slinking beneath a maze of hanging fabric, looking not unlike the Grinch on his famous Christmas Eve foray. Above, the tinkling of electronically enhanced sleigh bells beamed from the ceiling
speakers, signifying the opening of Sleigh Ride, one of the most annoying holiday tunes ever recorded. Without warning she shot up out of nowhere, howling with joy and likely scaring the crap out of nearby consumers.
“I found him,” she squealed!
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I cheered.
“Look, it’s Bluey,” she gushed, happily handing over the little critter that had looked no worse for the wear.
“Yay, Bluey,” he answered in childlike bemusement.
We marched proudly past the still nonplussed security guard on our way back out.
“Thank you for believing,” I said theatrically and then turned to address the weary, confused looking shoppers.
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

"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