30th Anniversary of UN International Day of Persons with Disability

 Today is 30^th Anniversary of the United Nations International Day of Persons with Disability. Oddly enough, it goes without notice in the countries where the most work on disability has been done. In the US, the ADA has been so effectively enforced, that most persons with disability can now live and work nearly as regularly as our able-bodied citizens. For the most part, we don’t rely on disability enclaves or specialty schools to integrate our disability population into regular society.

Not to say the work is done, but due to the incredible drive and perseverance of our predecessors, we are standing/sitting on the shoulders of giants. Those giants include ADA lobbyists Justin Whitlock Dart Jr. and Patrisha Wright. Portland’s Richard Pimentel wrote the first guidelines on training for disability in the work force. Athletic greats Jim Martinson and Candace Cable broke down doors that most able-bodied persons didn’t know existed. Scott Rains was a quadriplegic who traveled the world in the days before any airlines had a clue as to how to transport him.   

There is a Catch-22 to this success. I am so independent now that I have very few friends with disabilities. I have acquaintances and colleagues, but in the States, nobody in my immediate social group has a disability.

But when I’ve traveled abroad to low-resource countries (Albania, Bangladesh, Ghana, Nepal, Senegal among others), nearly ALL of my friends are persons with disabilities and their families. If they are lucky, they live in a disability enclave where necessary services are right outside their door (schools, hospitals, grocery). But most tend to live at home with family members caring for their every need. In many instances they haven’t left their homes in years if not decades. They are given the necessary things to stay alive, but transportation systems and architecture ensure they will not be able to thrive like their able-bodied counterparts. Reliable disability unemployment statistics are hard to come by, but it’s no stretch to say that in poor countries, it’s 75 percent and higher.

By any definition, they are 2^nd class citizens. There are of course exceptions, and some have risen far above their station. My friend Javed Abidi, who had spina bifida was the president of Disabled Persons International, went from relative poverty in India to speak in front of the Indian Parliament and get the Indians with Disability Act passed.

But Javed was by far the exception, not the rule. So what can we do? First of all, just reading this missive is a big step forward. Voting for politicians who support and promote your country’s participation in UN Disability programs is another big step. If you would like to get more involved, you can donate to the International Rehabilitation Forum that not only promotes disability awareness in poor countries, but also operates rehabilitation medicine fellowships throughout Africa and Asia.  

Thanks for listening!

IRF Films

IRF Disability Awareness Videos

Top 5(6) Live Sports Events

1) 1999 Women's World Cup Final - plenty claim to have been there, I was. Brandi Chastain whipping off her jersey with the club and the country enveloping her in victory love. Changed women's sports  forever. Next to the Mircale on Ice, the most iconic US sports moment of all time.

2) Easter Sunday, Milwaukee County Stadium, April 19, 1987. The Brewers hadn't really recovered from the 1982 World Series loss, but at the beginning of the 87season, the went on a tear winning 11-straight out of the box to tie the American League record for wins starting the season. The streak was puncutated by the only No-hitter in club history by Juan Nueves. But we needed one more win to break the AL record, and more importantly make local hamburger chain George Webb cough up free burgers as they had promised for decades if the Brewers (or Braves) could win a dozen straight. But as it turns out, 12 straight wins was too much. The Brew Crew was down three runs going into the 9th and the crowd gave them a standing ovation before their at-bat just to acknowledge how great the thrill ride had been. It was over, but damn that was fun!

Then we get a walk... then a base hit... and then Rob Deer blasts a monster over our heads in the left-field bleachers and ties the game up!!!! This can't be real!!  Another base hit follows, but now we're at the bottom of the order with weak-hitting shortstop Dale Sveum. No worries - we've got good closers and we're good for extras. But Dale Sveum is NOT. He blasts a 2-run jack into the right-center bullpen and Milwaukee explodes as if they've won the World Series! The city goes NUTS- people are high-fiving each other out of cars on Wisconsin Avenue! George Webb is checking his meet stock to see if he can feed the city!   (unfortunately we haven't had a Brewer's moment remotely similar since)   

3) Oct. 23, 2022. Portland Thorns vs. San Diego Wave. NWSL semi-final. It's been a brutal battle the entire day and Providence Park is still reeling from the Timbers penalty-kick loss in the 2021 Final. Can we take another home playoff loss?? It would be BRUTAL for soccer city! Then miraculously, and probably way after any normal referee would have stopped the clock, Crystal Dunn, takes a strike and finishes off the Wave with her FIRST goal of the year. The capacity crowd expands to three-times it's volume and screethes in glorioius redemption! Rose City sends a shock wave you could hear all the way to Seattle!


4) Oct. 29. 1993 - Illinois vs. Michigan. It was Halloween in Champaign and all the requisite chemicals were flowing. We were tied with Michigan for the Big Ten lead, but not given a real chance. But our D held Michigan out of the endzone and when the gun blew off we stormed the field! Never been part of anything like it in my life. At one point I was so compressed by the throng, that I lifted up my feet and was carried around the field via my stomach muscles! Don't know if Memorial Stadium has seen anything quite like it since. 

5) 1982 World Series Game 5 at County Stadium. Gorman had been in a slump and the baseses were loaded late in the game. We needed a dinger, but he delivers a bases-loaded clearing double. He slid into second barely beating the throw and the greatest hit in Brew Crew history was celebrated with a stand-up slide and a city-shattering explosion.

6) 1980 Nicolet vs. WFB - WFB natitorium. This was the grudge match of all grudge matches. Bay was loaded, but we had some depth and we were up for the challenge. The meet goes back and forth all night long. Bay's ahead, then we're ahead - never more than by a few points. It comes down to the 400 Free Relay and we have to beat both their A and B relays to win. Our big guys held service, but the B relay was getting worked. And then Hans Landwehr gets in the pool and pulls the most amazing 100 free of his life. He's down 5 yds at the 50. He cuts it to 2 yards at the last 25... but he's running out of gas. Then he erupts in the greatest explosion of energy that the animal lane (the lane where all the distance swimmers train) has ever seen. He bolts ahead and smashes his thumb into the WFB touchpad that stops the clock. It looks like he got in there, but we're not sure. The scoreboard shows the same time for both relays. Then, the swimming official hands his decison to the score table. Nicolet First and Third! The place goes f'n NUTS!

The sole reason the Casa, a group of ex-Nicolet swimmers and musicians, exists is because we’re all WHO freaks. I hadn’t seen the WHO since October of 1996 when I left the Rehabilitaton Institute of Chicago (RIC) in the wheelchair I would have to live in for the rest of my life.  That show was 26 years ago, almost to the day, and 14 years, almost to the day when twelve of us invaded the St. Paul Civic Center to sit in the 21^st row for what was the most significant event of our lives.   

For that ’96 WHO show, Shawn Levy picked me up from the RIC where not only did I pull a month in rehab, but my brother Andy did his residency studying the same condition I found myself in.  I did my first car transfer into Shawn’s rig. We went to her apartment in Wrigleyville and the Scotty boys came over and smoked us out, which was interesting because I was still heavily on opioids. We then drove over to the United Center (The House That Jordan Built!) where I used my first handicap parking spot as well as my first public handicap bathroom (that really freaked me out). It was the Quadrophenia tour which was a mindfuck of a show, seeing as Entwistle was still alive. Billy Idol played the part of Sting, and pedo, Gary Glitter played wicked Uncle Ernie (ewwwww….)

I saw Daltry warm up for Clapton about 15 years ago at Summerfest. It was Roger, Simon, Pino Palidino, Rabbit Bundrick and Zak. It was a short 45-minute set, that brought me to tears when they played a vicious Young Man Blues. My brother-in-law, Mark, nudged my sister Nari when he saw me tear up and said something like, “Hey, I think Tom’s having a rough time.” She looked over at me and asked if I was OK. “Yeah,” I said, “I’m fine… it’s just… it’s just that this… THIS is what it’s all about! All the shit… the Casa, the traveling… it’s all about THIS!!”

And then last week I found myself in Brighton itself. I watched Quadrophenia a week earlier because I knew I was going there and I wanted to refresh myself on what the place looked like. I’d never been there before, but my hostess, Lesley (with whom I spent a night in jail Abu Dhabi in 1988… long story) made sure to take me to all the relevant Quad sites.

So one would think I would be ecstatic about the WHO coming to town, but I was less than luke-warm. My college teammate, Tom Scotty, had seen a couple post-Entwistle shows and found them disappointing at one point calling one “Who-Karioke.” And that’s coming from as dedicated a WHO fan as I know. The two of us met on the springboards at U of I when he double-bounced super high, then jumped off doing a triple Townshend windmill in the air. I was like, “Are you a WHO freak?” He replied with the first quintessential Scotty “intellectual dumb-guy” response I’d ever heard – and would quickly become part of my personality – “Why yes… yes I am!”

My enthusiasm was also demured by the horrible showings of the post-Garcia renditions of the Grateful Dead. Aside from one Phil-showing in San Francisco, the half-dozen post-Garcia shows I’ve seen have been god-awful and a stain on my memory of the band that not only changed my life, or saved my life, but actually BECAME my life. I never would have even flipped the vinyl to hear the second side of the current DEAD’s repertoire and I certainly didn’t want my image of the glorious WHO tarnished in anyway.

Alas, I had no intention of paying the $200+ ticket to see The WHO. But just a month earlier, on a whim, I looked at tickets for a Roger Waters show. They were equally expensive, but on the day of the show, the secondary market had them for $25! I swallowed up a pair and had the time of my life watching an extravagant Floyd show with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than a decade. We also got the handicap-bump to some good seats when I exchanged the nose-bleed tickets for handicap seats.

I went online the morning of the WHO show and, sure enough, there were $25 seats available. I scored a pair then looked for an accomplice. My first choice was Lance Halvorson who sat next to me in the 21^st row in St. Paul almost 40 years ago. Lance couldn’t swing it, but my major Portland partner-in-crime, Jeff Ovington, also a massive WHO fan, scooped up the ticket. I was excited, but skeptical. I even blew off pre-funking for the show and opted for a workout at my pool. Not exactly the raging sentiment I had going into the St. Paul show where I would have taken a life to get the 12 tickets we needed to make sure we were all there.

Jeff met me outside the Moda Center at the same spot where Greeble, another attendee of the St. Paul show, met me a few years earlier to wait in line for Springsteen floor seats. On that occasion, Greeble told me to get a “Lotto” ticket and wait to see what number they call. For Springsteen shows, if you have a floor seat, you pick up a lotto ticket then lineup outside the venue in the order of your number and wait to see if your group’s number is called. They randomly select a number and start the floor entry procedure from that number. Before they made the announcement, Greeble leans to me and says, “Just watch -  they’re going to announce a number and twenty people are gonna scream and jump up and down.” Seconds later they made the announcement and everyone around us screamed and  jumped up and down. We won the freaking lottery and got to see the E-Street band front row leaning on the stage.

Jeff and I weren’t as lucky, but we still got a massive handicap upgrade from the nosebleed seats I’d purchased. We were on the side of the stage, just in line with the front-line of the band, albeit 20 rows up. But we were the only ones sitting in our section. We had a platform to ourselves, which proved extremely useful when we would eventually need to jump out of our chairs and scream.

I didn’t think there was a warm-up band, but four scraggily musicians walked right underneath our viewing platform and took the stage. I didn’t catch their name but gave them the benefit of the doubt and listened to their set. At one point, I looked over at Jeff and said, “Hey, that guy kinda looks like Mike Campbell.” They rocked the place for a few tunes then the singer says, “Hey.. I’m gonna play some shit from a band I used to be in.” The crowd went nuts and they started playing the Tom Petty classic, “Refugee.”   He didn’t just look like Mike Campbell… he WAS Mike Campbell! Ends up it was Tom Petty’s birthday, so he played a full Petty set and we went nuts. We paid to see two Hall-of-Famers, and we got a third for free!

Now it was time to put eyes on Pete Townshend. I hadn’t seen him in more than two decades. I’m not gonna lie. Pete Townshend is the most influential figure in my life. All I am, all I do is because he told me to “Go to the Mirror Boy!” I dropped my faith (happily) because of him and I became a relentless traveler because I needed to find answers and truths he said we should seek. All my life-long friends are my friends because of our dedication to the messages we learned from listening to the WHO. It's not a religion, but it is a philosophy. There’s a Townshend song, called “The Seeker”
 where he….  I’m getting ahead of myself…

The 30-piece orchestra took the stage, warmed up and then it slowly unfolded. Simon Townshend and Zak Starkey (Pete’s brother and Ringo Starr’s son) took the stage and addressed their instruments. The crowd went nuts. Then… holy shit – Pete fucking Townshend comes out and picks up his axe. It’s all business-like as he straps it on and prepares to blow our fucking minds. Roger strolls up on stage for just another tricky day. They are 77 and 78 years-old respectively. As rock stars, if you didn’t kill yourself in your 20s and 30s, it ends up you lead a pretty healthy life. They both looked more energetic and alive than any septuagenarian one would ever cross. I mean Keith Richards still dances around a Stones stage.  Whose grandparents can do that?

The crowd went insane while the 30+ musicians on stage prepared. Seeing as this was an orchestra show (another reason, I wasn’t overly excited – these rock band-orchestra shows are usually buzzkills), there’s a bit of tuning up as the musicians pick up their gear and get ready to play. Then the lights went down, the horns and string bows raise…

____________________________________________

They kicked  off with an operatic version of the Tommy overture. It was just the classical musicians at this point, but the outfit had a bit of dig to it. It wasn't soft, fluffy ethereal music. The horns and high strings were really biting into this material. Zak Starkey kicked in early and stayed amazing all night. If this was a 3-ring circus, Zak certainly is no third fiddle. From our angle above the stage, it was easy to witness him relentlessly pounding that kit – which he did all night long. He’s the third WHO drummer after Moon and Kenny Jones. But he’s held that chair longer than any of them.

Then the big boys chimed in. Daltry takes his first breaths into the mic and immediately one realizes this is no washed-up, old-guy, crackly rock-star voice. He is clear, vibrant, powerful and energetic. He graces the Tommy material with a voice that can’t be described as “Aged” but purely dominant. Freddy Mercury in his prime was not as dynamic as Daltry is on this stage. I’ve heard Pete doesn’t like touring, but he does it because Roger needs to. If you had an instrument like Daltry, you would need to exercise it too.

The Tommy material is uplifting and pulls the audience in. Then – BAM!! Pinball Wizard!!!!! Get the fuck out! They knock the crap out of this tune with all the requisite windmills and mic twirls. The orchestra does nothing but accentuate the most vibrant parts of the song with trombone blasts and piercing high-end violin. It’s out-of-this world music. WHAT THE FUCK AM I AM WITNESSING!!!

It’s at this point that I realize, I’m not only at a WHO show, I’m at one of the best shows I’ve ever seen in my life. From there they go through a selection of what I’ll call post-“Great”-WHO songs, which they absolutely dominate -> Who Are You, Eminence Front (Pete KILLING the vocals), You Better, You Better, You BET.

And then we got a personal gift from Pete to the Casa. We get the tune that describes our entire existence – our sole (soul?) quest in life. I never cried at church, but I cried here – “They call me the Seeker!! I’ve been running low and HIGH!!! Won’t get to get what I’m after – till the day I DIE!!!  

I have tears running down my cheeks and I realize I’m not at a rock concert, I’m at a freaking deliverance! I’m transformed into the 20-year-old kid in St. Paul. 40 years later and all those feelings, all that inspiration, all that energy has now been VALIDATED!!! After all these years we stayed TRUE! Hell, most of us became musicians! We were the seekers then and continue to be them now. Until the end of our lives, we will remain the SEEKERS!!!

Before my tears dry, they kick into Naked Eye and the emotions build up again. They are not the greatest rock and roll band of all time. They’re something more than that… they’re the fucking WHO.

But they are, in fact, the greatest rock band of all time, so they had to do their due diligence and power though the greatest songs ever written. Before they’re done they blow the crap out of Another Tricky Day, Behind Blue Eyes, Won’t Get Fooled Again… The Orchestra has been off stage for a half-dozen songs, but return for the Quadrophenia material – which was actually the only reason I thought the WHO would need them in the first place. And of course, it crushes -> The Real Me, I’m the One, 5:15, Love Reign O’er Me… If there is only one thing that’s missing, it’s John. The arrangements and musicianship is over-the-top, but they can’t launch like they could with Entwistle. He was just too big a force and no player on Earth can replace him. Zak does an amazing job playing the Moon parts, but a bass player trying to replicate Entwistle?? Ain’t gonna happen. I was wondering if they would attack “Drowned” but seriously, what’s the point without Entwistle?

And then it had to end. They’d already played Won’t Get Fooled Again with Daltry wrecking the building with his primordial scream. The familiar clanking of Baba O’Reilly emerged and the crowd jumped to their feet, not dancing, but blasting out of their seats with fists in the air. We’ve been treated to a revival, and we don’t want it to end!

But of course, they had more tricks up their sleeves. The first chair violinist pops out of her seat and starts into the violin music we all know at the end of Baba O’Reilly. It starts up slow, but in a few seconds, it builds into a manic Celtic spiritual romp. It’s insane! The crowd can’t contain itself! We’re screaming as if these are our last seconds on Earth – we could only be so lucky!

And then BAM! She hits the final note and the Moda Center explodes in tones and volumes I’ve never heard before. The building is fucking WRECKED! There’s no more to say – no encore. Just the stage bows. We’re too devastated to go on.

Jeff and I, who have been singing our throats out all night long, look at each other and are actually happy there’s no encore. We can’t take anymore!

But as we’re walking out, you can hear the house manager giving us one last treat. Above the noise of the crowd you can faintly make out the first pre-Tommy tune of the night – BATMAN!

 

 

 

Telluride

I'd just gotten home from a disgusting day of making and hauling crates for the Great Gift Company of Milwaukee. I was looking forward to one of the Milwaukee's Best's sitting in the fridge of the Eastside apartment I was temporarily sharing with my brother, Dan.

            I took off my shoes and put on the Soft Machine album that we'd picked out of a 50-cent record bin. Neither one of us planned to be in Milwaukee very long so the only pieces of furniture we owned were two $12 patio loungers. Ever since the trip across the Bridge to Venice, Dan and I had gotten used to a rigged form of comfort - nothing in our lives was permanent.  We picked up a flat on the east side after both of us had spent most of the previous 18 months abroad. Compared to the train stations and multi-bunk hostels we'd stayed in, the tiny apartment was pretty damn nice. Things may not have been exceptionally glamorous at the $250/month Pulaski St. pad, but they were definitely functional.

            Just after I'd put down my first gulp the telephone rang. I usually got home from work an hour before Dan did, and sometimes he'd call for a ride.

            "Dude, can you come and pick me up?" he asked.

            "Sure, 5 o'clock cool?"

            "Now," he said. "Listen - Paul Wolfert skied off a cliff in Telluride. Derf's dead."

            The words hit me like an anvil. "Our Paul Wolfert?" I asked, "Derf? You sure?"

            "Yeah, man," he said, "You gotta come get me outta here. I can't take this here."

            I tried to collect myself, but the emotional surge was overwhelming. "Alright, man," I said, "I'm on my way."

            I hung up the phone, took a couple swigs of my beer and jumped back into my rusted out Horizon to navigate the snowy streets of downtown Milwaukee. Rush hour was just starting, and I was out of control behind the wheel. I may as well have been drunk on a bottle of tequila. My mind was floating as I missed two stop signs and twice had to jam on the brakes. It was simply inconceivable that Derf, one of the most vibrant and active members of the Casa, was no longer with us.

            The Casa was out to conquer the Earth, but the Earth had decided to take one back.

I finally made it to the front doors of Discovery World, the children's museum where Dan gave tours and made sure kids didn't destroy exhibits. Dan was leaning up against a pillar with barely enough energy in his legs to support his body. He wobbled over to the Horizon and flopped himself in the seat as if he'd been shot in the arm. I'd been holding back tears, but with the two of us looking at each other with weeping faces, we both let go. A van behind us honked at us to get a move on and we simultaneously screamed at the guy to fuck off.

            I put the car in gear and pulled away but I had absolutely no business being behind the wheel of a car. I took a back route out of downtown and as soon as we got out of heavy traffic Dan started in.

            "Barb (our sister, a TV news producer in Milwaukee) got the news over the Associated Press wire --  'A 23 year-old Milwaukee man, Paul Wolfert, died yesterday in a skiing accident in Telluride, New Mexico.' Barb called Mom and asked her what Paul Wolfert was doing. Mom told her he was skiing in Colorado.  Then she called me and asked if I knew the name of the town. I told her Derf was in Telluride. Next thing I know she's reading off the AP wire and asking me if it was him. I'd love to tell her that there's a town in New Mexico called Telluride and it ain't Derf - that the AP got it screwed up. But it's him. He's dead. Townshend's alive, Keith Richard's alive, Jerry's alive - fucking Syd Barrett's even alive. Derf is dead."

            Derf arrived on scene during our youngest brother Bagus's junior year in high school. His father had been transferred from New Jersey to Milwaukee, and Derf roamed the halls of Nicolet looking for Deadheads. We'd been to Dead shows before, but we didn't really know the intricacies of the scene. Derf  had been to dozens of shows on the East Coast and could recite set lists from tour after tour. He was the first one we ever knew who had a massive bootleg collection, and he could whip off the lyric to any song on any tape. He taught us all how to be Deadheads.

            We knew he was smarter than he let on, but he was the quintessential high school stoner. He enrolled at Tulane after high school and proceeded to flunk out of his first semester because he kept going out on tour. This didn't sit too well with his parents who strapped him down for a summer and made him study. When he went back to school he still took the occasional 2,000-mile solo drive to go on tour, but he started studying. He graduated from Tulane in four years and got a 4.0 his last two semesters.

            Telluride was just a transition before he would start working for his father. The Wolferts had high hopes for their son, but those hopes had been swept away by an avalanche in the Rockies. We assumed they would call us for a memorial service when they were ready, but it never happened. There were dozens of questions to be asked and answered, but we were left in the dark with just a press clipping. We needed to know more.

            After returning from France I resumed a correspondence with Chloe, a girl I'd been seeing during the summer with the Lake of the Ozarks Water Show. She was going to grad school at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. After a couple of letters, we decided we wanted to see each other again. My diving show bank account was getting thin, and I wasn't sure I would be able to make the trip. When Derf died I looked at the map and found that Telluride was just on the other side of the San Juan Mountains from Durango. I was running short on cash but only a few weeks away from returning to Les Avenières and a paycheck. I was coaching a local diving team, and as soon as the high school swimming season was over I booked a train to Colorado.

            The California Zephyr pulled out of Chicago's Union Station just before sunset, and I floated across the Great Plains with someone else at the wheel. Amtrak was like a luxury liner compared to the cramped second-class trains I'd taken in Europe. I had plenty of room, and they even offered movies for the long two-day trip. But as nice as the coach was, this was still an American train which meant I would be dropped off miles from my final destination. I read myself to sleep and woke up with the first peaks of the Rockies dominating the Denver skyline.

            I transferred trains in Denver and moved into a bubble car for a nice, slow, eye-jarring afternoon over the Rockies and along the Colorado River. As the terrain switched from high mountains to wide-open plateaus, the Zephyr pulled into Grand Junction just short of the Utah border. There were no trains to Durango, but I figured it had to be a fairly easy hitch. It's a three-hour drive with just a few towns in between. Most people would be driving straight through. I walked out of town to US Highway 50 and made a "Durango" sign out of a Dominos Pizza box I found on the side of the road. I started hitching at 4:30, but by 6:00 was losing daylight.  Nobody was heading to Durango.

            When the sun finally set, my appearance changed from an honest-faced hitchhiker to a shadowy figure on the side of the road. I was hungry and anticipated crashing somewhere in the desert. There was an IGA just off the exit from where I was hitching, so I tucked my sign away and went in to buy some groceries. As I stood at the checkout line a thirty-something mustachioed cowboy asked me if I was the guy trying to hitch a ride to Durango.

            "Yup," I said, "That's me." I pulled out the sign tucked into my bag and smiled hoping he was on his way there.

            "I'm not on my way there," he said, "but I do know there's a Trailways headed that way, and we might just be able to make it."

            "Hey, that sounds great," I said. "How far's the station?"

            "Don't worry," he said. "I'll give you a lift. Paul Preston's, the name."

            "Tom Haig," I said. "Thanks for the offer. It was getting cold out there."

            We walked out to the parking lot, and I tossed my bag and guitar in his pickup. "Hey, you wouldn't be watching the basketball games would you?" I asked. It was the weekend of the NCAA semifinals and after years of getting bonked out in early rounds, the Illini were playing Michigan in the Final Four.

            "My boys are crazy about that stuff," he said, "Seton Hall just beat Purdue. Illinois and Michigan just started."

            "I'm an Illinois grad," I said. "We've been so close so many times. I think this is our year."

            "Michigan's tough," Paul said. "But I gotta agree, I think it's your year."

            We pulled into the bus station, I thanked him for the ride and pulled my gear out of the back. The station was closed, but he assured me that buses came and went all the time whether or not the doors were open. I walked up to the schedule on the door and discovered I'd just missed the last bus. The next one wasn't until 2:00 the next afternoon.

            "Damn," I said. "Well I'm going to find a bar and try to catch the end of the Illinois game. Might as well get something out of this."

            "Hold on," he said. "I got three boys at home who've got their eyes glued to the TV. Why don't you just come watch it with us?"

            "If it's no bother," I said. "I'm dying to catch the second half."

            Paul didn't think twice. He threw my gear back in his truck and drove me to his house on the outskirts of Grand Junction. We pulled into a fenced-in yard enclosing a one-storey bungalow and a garage with a well-worn nine-foot basket dangling at a slightly forward angle. Paul led me through the front door where his three sons were glued to the TV and his wife was making dinner. "One more for the table tonight," he said. "Tom here is on his way to Durango. He missed his bus, but he's an Illini. I just couldn't let him sit out on the road with his team playing in the Final Four."

            "You're from Illinois?" his ten-year old crew cut son asked pulling the collar of a Denver Bronco shirt out of his mouth.

            "Yup," I said, "I spent five long years there - all for this. How we doin'?"

            "What's Illinois like?" he asked,

            "Flat!" I said. "How we doin'?"

            "It's real close," he said. "Ain't very flat around here is it?"

            "Thank God no," I said. "I can't stand flat."

            Paul had walked into the kitchen to explain the situation to his wife who didn't seem too thrilled with unexpected wild card company. I sat down on the couch between the boys and focused on the game. Paul's wife came out with cheese and crackers and the boys jumped all over it.

            "Now mind your manners boys," she said, "Tom's likely to think we're a bunch of trailer trash. Jimmy, ask Tom if he wants some first."

            Jimmy offered me the tray, I took some and thanked Paul's wife.

            "Lynette Preston," she said offering me a coke. "Sorry to hear about your misfortune. We're just having hamburgers tonight. Is that all right?"

            "Hamburgers sound great," I said. "Can I help out in there?"

            "If you can just baby-sit the boys here that'd be all the help I could ask for."

            "Sure thing." I said.

            As it turned out the boys were baby-sitting me. Illinois and Michigan took the game down to the final minute. I got off the couch and moved up to the front of the TV. As it got down to the final seconds the boys (who were now loyal Illinois fans) and I started screaming at the set. Just at the buzzer Michigan's Glen Rice tipped in a loose rebound and once again, the Illini were toast.

            "God Dammit!" I screamed. Then I looked at the room and the boys were all silent with Lynette standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I could tell that kind of language wasn't allowed in this house. "I'm very sorry, I just lost my cool - it's just such a hard way to go down - to Michigan and all."

            Jimmy's face was smiling ear to ear as I tried to explain myself. He was about to crack up when Lynette said, "Now those things happen. Let's just get to the table."

            Jimmy knew if it had come out of his mouth he wouldn't be waltzing over to the table for hamburgers.

            We sat down to dinner and Paul had us all hold hands for grace. The grace was a long solemn speech taking in the events of the day and the lessons we had all learned about hospitality and emotion.

            "God has lessons for us every day if we are wise enough to accept things with an open mind and a contrite heart. So bless this food, Jesus, and shed your divine light towards us so that we may accept your coming. Amen."

            "Amen."

            After Paul's sermon my verbal splurge didn't just seem unwelcome, it was downright blasphemous. I ate my hamburger on best behavior and was quick to pick up the plates and do the dishes. Naturally Lynette wanted to intervene, but I insisted.

            "So are you on vacation, Tom?" she asked.

            "Kind of," I said, "I'm really just between jobs. I've got a job in France that starts in two weeks."

            "France," she said. "That's sounds exciting." She didn't pry more and I figured she didn't need to know she was housing a circus clown.

            "Now why are you on your way to Durango?" she asked.

            "I've got a friend living there and I haven't seen her in a long time."

            "An old friend who's a girl or an old girlfriend?" she asked.

            "Yeah, she's an old girlfriend," I said, "but it's been a couple of years. Nothing serious."

            "Sounds romantic to me," she said, "You're coming all the way from Illinois on the train just to see her - she must be someone special."

            "Oh, she's special," I said, "but I'm not going there with any expectations. I just want to see her."

            "Did you call her from the train station?" she asked. "I bet she's worried sick."

            "No, I…"

            "Well what's her number?" she said, "You men are always leaving us women in the dark. I bet she's sitting at home looking out the front window for you right now."

            I gave Chloe a call and explained the situation. She said she thought I might not make it down and wasn't really expecting me. She'd be waiting tables by the time I got in so I should just go to the bar where she worked instead of her house. By the time I'd hung up the phone Lynette had fixed me a bed on the couch.

            "You're staying with us tonight," she said. "No reason for you to find a motel. They're all disgusting around here."

            "Wow," I said, "That's incredibly hospitable of you. I really hope I'm not putting you out."

            "Not at all," Paul said. "Now suppose you play us some guitar."

            "Yeah," the boys screamed. "Do you know some country tunes?"

            I had to think about that one for a while, but I came up with a couple Grateful Dead cowboy standards that did the trick. The only problem with the Dead's cowboy tunes is that they're not about God-fearing Christian people, and I was definitely in the midst of God-fearing Christian people. The boys got a kick out of me singing about whisky drinking, card-playing gun-toting cowboys but I could tell Paul and Lynette weren't exactly comfortable with my set list. I finished off with "Ripple" and they seemed to be much happier.

            "We'll be up early," Paul said. "We go to church on Sundays. You're welcome to join us."

            "Sure thing," I said, "Good night." I hadn't been to church in years, but my bus didn't leave until 2:00 and I didn't want to put them in the position of trusting me in their house with them gone. Church it was.

            I woke up with the sun and showered the train ride off my body. Paul's family already had breakfast on the table by the time I got dressed. I apologized for not having any church clothes with me but Lynette assured me that this wasn't a very dressy church group.

            We drove to the church and everyone greeted Paul and Lynette like celebrities. This wasn't any simple Paul. I had been staying at the home of Pastor Paul of the Grand Junction chapter of the Western States Church of our Lord Jesus Christ. Paul introduced me to his gathering as a young man traveling the country in search of his future. I took that as a sure sign that he thought I needed saving.

            Before services started we split into groups for Sunday school. I went with Paul's group which was talking about St. Paul's travels into Greece and what is now Yugoslavia. When Paul pulled out the map, I told our small class that I had traveled much the same route as the Apostle Paul had. I started to describe the mountains and the coastline, but when I got to the part about sleeping in the car in a communist country I could tell that was a little too much. I let Paul finish.

            Paul concluded his lecture, then we gathered with all the other Sunday school classes for services. Paul led the congregation in song and scriptures while they still wondered who the hippie was sitting with his family. Paul finished the service, but I still had three hours before my bus left. I told them that they could just drop me off at the bus station, but they wouldn't have anything to do with that. Lynette had made some sandwiches for lunch, and Paul insisted I see the Grand Junction National Monument before I left.

            We packed a cooler into the pickup and they drove me deep into the plateaus and canyons of the Grand Junction National Monument. I'd never been in high desert before, and I imagined Road Runner and Coyote zooming out in front of us at any moment. Paul asked me what I was doing in Europe so I pulled out some diving show pictures and described the show.

            "Well I'll be damned," he said. Lynette slapped his hand on the wheel and told him to be polite. We pulled over to picnic high above the Colorado desert, and Paul insisted he take my picture in front of an old Indian monument. Soon enough it was time to catch my bus. We dropped back into Grand Junction and stopped off at the house so Lynette could pack me a dinner for the ride.

            "God be with you on your travels, Tom," Paul said.

            "Thanks," I said, "You've been incredible hosts - I don't know how I can repay you?"

            "One day you'll be rich and the lord will send you a hitchhiker," Paul said. "Take him in."

            I shook their hands and stepped up to the bus. They waited at the curb until the bus pulled out. I waved out the window as if I was saying goodbye to old friends. Ever since dropping Catholicism I've had a real tough time with proselytizing Christians, but the entire time I was with this pastor he never tried to push anything on me at all. He simply laid out his life for me to examine. I could take from it what I wanted. I assumed I was going to get a speech somewhere along the line but he never went for it. Paul was everything that was right about religion. A preacher who didn't preach. The Prestons were a rare spiritual gift but only the first of the long week to come.

            The bus ride to Durango from Grand Junction is probably the best bus ride in North America. I felt like I was in a John Wayne movie as I passed through Montrose and Ouray, summited the 11,000 ft. Red Mountain Pass, then slid into the gold-mining town of Silverton before the sun went down just outside of Durango. With the sun gone, the temperature dropped to near freezing so I hustled my way to Chloe's bar before my fingers got too cold to hold my guitar case.

            Chloe said she'd be working, but it was a casual bar and she'd have plenty of time to visit. I walked in the door and saw her standing at the bar. She dropped her tickets on a tray and ran over to give me a great big hug and a kiss.

            "Listen," she said, "It's getting really busy. We're having an open mic night and it gets pretty packed. Throw your stuff over there and I'll put you on the list. You're going third."

            She pointed over to a pile of instruments lined up on a small stage. Without even asking me she ran up to the chalkboard on the stage and wrote my name down. The only reason I brought my guitar was to play at a campfire. I wasn't really sure I wanted to go on stage with a bunch of kick-ass mountain guitar pickers.

            "How good are they?" I asked.

            "Oh, they all suck," she said. "You'll do just fine."

            Dan and I had been playing quite a bit in our cramped apartment, and I actually had 15 or 20 tunes worked up. The last time she'd heard me play was three summers ago in the Ozarks. I'd done a lot of busking in Holland and Germany since then so I figured I was ready. I'd never sung into a microphone before though. I was more nervous than I was jumping off an 80-foot ladder into the Persian Gulf. 

            Chloe ran around taking orders from the bar as it began to fill up. I was tuning my guitar when she slid a beer onto the table next to me. A couple of minutes later she dropped a burger and fries on the table and said, "Eat this but don't burp when you sing."

            Almost every guitar case on stage had a Dead sticker on it, so I knew I was in the right crowd. I was just hoping nobody would steal my set before I got up. The first guy got up and proved to be an obnoxious crooner who tried to pull off a Roy Rodgers set. He was a faux-cowboy, and it showed with every note he sang. The second act was a duet, a guitar player and a woman singer. Had they rehearsed they would have been really nice, but she kept choking on the lyrics and was even more nervous than me. Chloe was right - they did suck. I wasn't going to be much better but at least I wasn't out of my league. 

            I borrowed an acoustic pick up from the first guitar player and did a sound check into the mic. "Check, Check 1, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh, Check." I didn't know what I was doing with a mic, so I just did whatever I'd seen other people do. I strummed the guitar a couple of times and the guy at the soundboard gave me a thumbs up. "How's everyone doing tonight?" I said. "I'm Tom. I'm a friend of Chloe's from Wisconsin." I pointed to her and she waved with a pitcher of beer in her hand. She looked a whole lot better with a pitcher of beer in her hand than the rotund servers I'd seen at Oktoberfest in Munich. "I just got in from Milwaukee and she put me up to this so if it sucks, it's her fault."

            "Blame it on me!" she yelled across the bar.

            Dan and I had worked out a great version of "Jack Straw," and I had it down cold. It didn't sound nearly as good without his leads, but I played right through it and didn't crack once on the lyrics. Chloe walked by the stage and told me to sing louder. The music teacher nun I had in third grade told me my voice was so bad that it might be better if I pick up a horn instead of singing. Pushing that voice over a house system almost paralyzed me with fear, but I had no choice. Next up was "Scarlet Begonias” into “Fire on the Mountain." I turned up the guitar and tried to project myself through the mic. A tiny stage monitor below me let me hear myself sing. As long as I kept my voice within the volume of the guitar I was okay; if I tried to belt it out it was gonna really suck.

            Three songs down the tube and time for my finale. I could have stayed conservative, but it had been going well enough so far. I gritted my teeth and went for the long version of "Terrapin Station." It's a long complicated tune with a pile of lyrics and three, big, completely different sections. I figured if I made it through the guitar parts correctly at least they could forgive my singing. I rarely played it through at home without choking on one part or another, but the crowd scared me straight and I made it through without missing a note.

            I looked up at the bar clock towards the end and saw that I'd been up there for a half an hour. That was plenty. I closed the tune on a soft note then leaned into the mic and in my best Elvis voice said, "Thank you very much." I didn't get any standing ovation, but the full crowd applauded and a couple of Chloe's friends looked over at her and winked their approval. I got off that seat as fast as I could.

            Chloe came over to my table, gave me a beer and big hug and said I was the best act so far. "How'd the singing sound?" I asked.

            "Oh that whispering you did under the guitar parts?" she said. "It was fine."

            I turned red and slammed my beer. I was happy to have gone when I did. The next two acts were polished performers singing original tunes. They were the reason for the full house. At least I didn't chicken out.

            Chloe poured me a couple more beers and waited for the dining crowd to finish eating. Her boss let her take off early, so we piled my gear into her pickup and headed to a one-room cabin she was sharing with a ski instructor from Purgatory. We cranked up the space heaters, smoked out and got to know each other again. If I was going to make any moves on Chloe this wasn't the place. I'd been up and traveling since 6:00 and I was ready to crash anyway.

            In the morning the ski instructor took off, and we had the cabin to ourselves. I climbed in bed with Chloe and we started fooling around, but she put a hold on it before it went too far. "Can we just go slow," she said. "I'm just a little screwed up right now and now that you're here I just need to take things slowly."

            It wasn't the best news I'd heard, but who was I to push anything. She'd just ended a long-term relationship and needed to be independent for a while. We chilled out and made breakfast then she took me on a tour of Durango. I always picture a city before I get there, and I'm generally incredibly wrong. Durango, however, was exactly how I'd imagined it - lush forests and high mountains with wide western streets. The John Wayne movie I started on the bus from Grand Junction was still working for me.

            Chloe had to go to work, so she left me with a key and a mountain bike. I'd never been on a mountain bike before and was kind of pissed off at how slow it went. I went for a big climb high outside the city and wondered why in the world anyone would want such a slow toddling bike. I dropped from a mountain pass back into town but couldn't get any speed at all. Mountain biking was new in 1989, and I didn't get the idea that you were supposed to ride on trails. I was riding in one of the top mountain biking areas in the world but taking the thing out on highways as if it were a road bike. I'd love to have that ride back right now.

            When she came back that night it was clear that she wasn't in the mood to do anything but talk. I was hoping to kick-start something and invite her to come stay in France for a while, but it just wasn't working out. And I had other things to concentrate on too. I had to find out what happened to Derf.

            The next morning I dropped her off at work and took off in her pick-up past Mesa Verde National Park to Telluride. I turned north from Cortez and drove along the Delores River with 14,000 ft. peaks on either side of me. Although the train ride through Northern Colorado was pretty, it wasn't anywhere as dramatic as the mountain routes I was used to in Isère. But as Colorado State Highway 145 climbed its way up the sides of the San Juans the roads got narrower, the switchbacks tighter and cliffs sharper. Before long the valley dropped far below me, the trees gave way to sheer rises, and I was feeling the drama of the Alps. 

            A few miles past the 10,000 ft. Lizard Head Pass I took a right and turned towards Telluride village. I came across a young athletic woman walking on the side of the road, and thinking what Paul Preston told me, pulled over to offer her a ride. She wasn't hitchhiking, but the road dead-ended into Telluride. There was nowhere else she could be going. 

            "Need a ride into town?" I said.

            "Sure," she said. She took a second to size me up then figured I looked safe enough. I opened the door and she climbed in.

            "Hi,' she said, "I'm Janice."

            "I'm Tom," I said. "This place is incredible. I've never been here before."

            "Yup," she said, "Telluride's the best. Ski season's over, and I gotta leave tomorrow. I'm really gonna miss it."

            "Hey, you don't know where I could find Cassidy's Bar?" I asked. "I've got a friend who used to work there, and I want to see if anybody knows him."

            "Cassidy's?" she said. "That is so freaking weird. That's where I'm going. I work there. I've got to pick up my last paycheck before I head out."

            "No shit," I said. "How long have worked there?"

            "All season long," she said. "And it's been a long season."

            "So you knew Paul?"

            "Paul who?" she slowly said.

            "Paul Wolfert - from Tulane - he died in an avalanche last month."

            "Who are you?" she said.

            "I'm a friend of Paul's from Wisconsin."

            "I was Paul's roommate." She said.

            We stared at each other with dropped jaws. I almost ran the truck off the road. 

            "You were Paul's roommate?"

            "Yeah," she said, "I was going out with his friend - he was going out with my friend. We all worked at Cassidy's. The four of us shared a condo."

            "We never found out what happened!" I said. "His parents never called us. Nobody in Wisconsin ever knew the story. What the fuck happened?"

            "Holy shit," she said. "This is really weird Can we pull over?" I pulled the pickup over just before entering the city. "You're really Paul's friend right - you're not a cop or anything."

            "A cop? Do I look like a cop?" and then in my best Milwaukee accent, "Do I talk like a cop?"

            "No, but Paul's friend is on trial for manslaughter, and we don't want any more shit to come from this. Here's what happened. It was the day after Valentines Day and we were all super hung over."

            "And I'm sure Derf went for a little wake and bake," I said.

            "Wake and bake?" she said. "I did, but he didn't. Paul never smoked. And what's this 'Derf' name."

            "'Derf' is Paul," I said. "I don't think I ever called him Paul in his life - and what's this you're telling me? Derf wasn't getting high?"

            "Nope," she said, "He drank with us, but he never got high - not while I was with him, and I was with him all the time."

            Apparently Derf's academic turn around came at the heels of quitting dope. He was a perpetual stoner, and apparently he'd had enough. The last time I saw him was at the Hampton, Virginia Dead shows two years earlier. He was definitely smoking then. Apparently he'd changed quite a bit.

            "So anyway," she continued, "We were all hung over, but the weather was starting to warm up, and he knew the big out-of-bounds bowls were going to get dangerous in a couple of weeks. Paul, a Kiwi he used to ski with, and our friend Billy had made a pact to ski Temptation Ridge before the season was out. The three of them took that lift over there (she pointed to a lift at the far end of the cavernous Telluride horseshoe valley) and hiked up to temptation ridge - over there. You can't see it from here. It's on the backside of the mountain."

            "So they got to the top of the ridge, ate lunch then got ready to go. The three of them jumped off at once, and it knocked a big chunk of snow off the cornice. Billy skied to the side of the trail, but Paul and the Kiwi were stuck in the path of the avalanche. They tried to get out, but it caught up to them. They tumbled and screamed all the way to the bottom. Billy went for help, and the ski patrol found them frozen stiff. I was still in the condo when the news came on the radio. I couldn't believe what I was hearing."

            Tears were welling up in her eyes then we both started to cry. I reached over and gave her a hug. "Sorry, I had to make you do that," I said. "In Wisconsin we didn't know anything. He was a really good friend, and we didn't have any closure. I think we'll all be much better now. Thanks, from all of us."

            "God, that sucked," she sniveled. "I haven't thought about it for a couple of days. I thought I was over it. I've never lost a friend. You know what I mean - it's not like you can pick up a rule book and deal with it."

            "I think that's the only rule," I said. "You have to deal with it. You can't just pretend it didn't happen. It won't go away until you give it some peace. Now we've got some peace."

            "You want to go for a hike?" she asked. "I've got some stuff to do in town, but I was going to go up the mountain one last time before I took off."

            "Sure," I said.

            I hadn't even entered the city of Telluride and already had gotten what I'd come for. I drove Janice to Cassidy's, and she gave me a breakdown on what the place was like in high season.

            "Everyone's gone now," she said, "but when this place is hopping, it's a mob scene. Everyone here is rich and they'll throw money around like it's confetti - Sting's house is right next door."

            "So this was Derf's hangout," I said.

            "And this is where they had the memorial service too," she said. "It was really upbeat. His parents and his brother flew in, and they had what I guess you'd call a funeral right here at the base of the mountain. We were all crying, but then at the end it was really sweet and hopeful. Paul's gone but we're not going to forget him."

            Janice picked up her check then asked me if we could do one more errand before hitting the mountain. She had to pick up the mail for a friend who was house-sitting for some locals during the off-season. The friend was out for the weekend, and she said she'd watch the place until she got back. We went to the house, but the door was wide open. She was a little freaked until she saw a young guy installing a ceiling fan in the living room.

            "Hi," she said, "I'm Janice. I'm supposed to pick up the mail for Carolyn."

            "Go ahead," he said, "I work for the owners, I want to get this thing up today. I'm outta here tomorrow - Hey, you work at Cassidy's don't you?"

            "Yeah," she said, "I thought I recognized you. This is my friend, Tom. He was a good friend of the guy who died in the Valentine's Day Avalanche."

            "The Kiwi or the guy from Wisconsin?" he asked.

            "I knew Paul Wolfert from Wisconsin," I said.

            "That's weird, man," he said. "I work ski patrol. I pulled him out."

            "What?"

            "Yeah," he said, "I was working ski patrol that day. My dog and I went up in the helicopter. The dog found him and I dug him out. It wasn't pretty. I don't need to…"

            "No," I said, "go ahead. What did he look like?"

            "He was a frozen bag of broken bones," he said. "Completely pulverized. The hill didn't spare one bone in his body. I don't think he suffered though. Avalanches do quick work. He probably rode it for a while then got hit in the head by a rock."   

            I'd been in Telluride for less than an hour and I'd only met two people.  One was Derf's best friend and the other was the person who pulled his body out. If I'd shown up a day later I never would have met either of them. Derf had to be hovering above the ceiling fan. I could just hear him say, "Psyche!" - then giggle with his stoned red eyes barely open.

            Janice and I said goodbye to the ski-patrol worker and walked out of town high above the valley. She was as freaked out as I was. We smoked out in a deep canyon where the four of them used to bring beers and build huge bonfires. The fire scar and log benches were still there. From on top of the canyon we could see Temptation Ridge and the gigantic bowl that took Derf's life. I'd solved my case before I'd barely even opened it. In two short hours I'd seen it all. It was time to head out; I had a story to report back at the Casa. Paul died pushing the envelope - just like the rest of us always tried to do.

            Janice and I hiked back to town, and I drove her to the condo unit that she'd shared with Paul.

            "I won't be renting this unit next season," she said. "I don't even know if I can come back here. Maybe I should just to exorcise the demons."

            "It's not Telluride's fault," I said. "I can't think of a more beautiful place to die either."

            "We'll see," she said. "It's a long summer. Life changes."

            I gave her one more hug, and we exchanged meaningless addresses. I waved to her as I pulled out of the driveway and headed back to Durango. As the sun started to drop off in the desert it threw a radiant glow onto the peaks turning them into crimson thrones for the gods. I reached over into Chloe's tape box and fumbled for a tape. Chloe always listens to great music so I plucked out a loose unmarked tape and tossed it in the deck. Derf and I were the only ones there to verify this fact but I swear to you these are the first words that came out of that tape deck:

 

Now he's gone...

Now he's gone... Lord he's gone

He's gone.

 

Like a steam locomotive rolling down the track,

He's gone, he's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back.

He's gone.

 

Nine mile skid on a ten mile ride.

Hot as a pistol but cool inside.

Cat on a tin roof, dogs in a pile

Nuthin Left To Do But Smile Smile Smile.

 

Now he's gone...

Now he's gone... Lord he's gone

He's gone.

 

Like a steam locomotive rolling down the track,

He's gone, he's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back.

He's gone.

 

Goin where the wind don't blow so strange.

Maybe off in some high cold mountain chain.

Lost one round but the prize wasn't anything

A knife in the back, and more of the same.

 

He's gone...

 

(He's Gone 1972 Hunter-Garcia)

 

  

Diary of a Mad Bootlegger

With all apologies to Matt Scotty and Ken Magee, who invited me into the 10 albums meme, I have broken the rules and posted albums with quite a bit of editorial comment. I just couldn't help myself. These records meant the world to me. They are the main reason I've been a musician for 35 years and spent thousands and thousands of hours trying in vain to match their brilliance. 

But there's one more rule I have to break and that is by listing my No. 10 Album -  the SONY Walkman Pro 6 bootlegging deck. After just my first few Grateful Dead shows, I found my way into the tapers pit and discovered the wonders of recording live concerts. All you had to do to join the club was buy one of these tiny recorders and any of the guys with the huge rigs and 17" mics would let you plug right into their box - provided you hung around to flip the tape when needed. You didn't necessarily have to be straight to do this, but if you were too zodded out, or if you uttered a single sound, you would be dismissed from the pit. It wasn't as fun as running wildly around the venue and screaming all the lyrics, but if you did your homework, you left the show with a nearly pristine recording that would be the envy of all your friends once you landed back at your home base.

Our group of Dead Heads had aquired one of these high-quality recording units and everytime we went out on tour, it was assumed you would take one night to keep your shit together and watch the deck. It also proved to be home base for everyone we were traveling with as it was the only consistent location at each venue - directly behind the sound board.

Quite quickly, the Dead shows became routine to bootleg and not much of a challenge. But I put my bootlegging feet to the flames in 1985 when I decided to record the entire 16 hours of the first Farm Aid Concert, which took place just a few blocks from the Chateau Relaxeau, my college home in Champaign, Illinois. I borrowed the deck and a mic, stuffed it into my trousers and limped into Memorial Stadium using a crutch which would become my mic stand for the day. I dished off 12 blank 90-minute Maxell  UDXLII tapes to all my friends who easily walked them in one at a time. (Actually the security guards had no chance against us. The Diving Illini used Memorial Stadium as our training center. We knew every inch of that place, and the night before we stashed a cooler with beers and dry ice to make sure we were well hydrated throughout the day.)  By 8 a.m., I was rolling as When Willie Nelson and Neil Young took to the stage and opened up the marathon festival with "There Are No More Real Cowboys in This Land." We all took turns holding the crutch in the air and flipping the tapes. The end result was an incredible audio document of 50 of the greatest rock and country acts in history.*

I was desperately poor in college and had no resources to purchase a Pro-6.  But just three years after my first stint in the tapers pit, I found myself in the bowels of the Kowloon electronics market, with a fresh wad of cash from my first job and a garden full of brand-new 1/2 priced, tax-free electronics. I threw down the equivelant of $150 and grabbed a taxi back to my flat holding the first big purchase of my new adult life - a bootlegging deck.

I was also talked into buying a SONY MC3 condenser mic which was the perfect mic for the Pro 6. I spent the next day walking around Hong Kong recording sounds and asking people to talk into the mic. When I got back to my room, I listened to the tape and discovered the mic to be crystal clear. The tape, which I eventually foolishly recorded over, was as clean as any tape I'd ever pulled out of the tapers pit. It was magic and I was hooked.

For the next five years I traveled around the world recording every band I saw.  I bought the deck to record Dead shows, but as it turns out, my job kept me out of the States for years at a time and I didn't get to see many Dead shows. In their stead was a golden four-year stand at the Jazz a Vienne festival, 30-minutes south of Lyon, which was tantamount to receivng a degree in contemporary jazz. The Pro-6 and EMC-3 recorded all the greatest active jazz players on the globe. Chick Corea, Stanley Clarke, Stanley Jordan, John McLaughlin, Al Dimeola, Bireli Lagrene, McCoy Tyner, Bob Berg, Herbie Hitchcock, Stan Getz, Lee Ritenour, Carlos Santana with Wayne Shorter (1:45 - no vocals), Joe Zawinul, Ron Carter, Lena Horne, Betty Carter... and finally on my very last night in 1991, Miles Davis. (10 weeks and 5 shows after I recorded him, he was gone.)

And aside from Jazz a Vienne, some memorable recordings were Pink Floyd and Joe Jackson (both in Grenoble), Paco Di Lucia (Lyon - he signed my bootleg tape!),  Leo Sayer (Surprisingly amazing - Abu Dhabi), Leo Kotke (Amsterdam), Hot Tuna (Milwaukee), Hunter S. Thompson (Smoked out with him - Marquette University) and of course 20+ Grateful Dead/Jerry Garcia Band shows.

And then finally, the day I was leaving France after the best four years of my life, one of my closest friends STOLE my bootlegging kit. While I was at work finalizing the end of my contract, he doubled back to my house and stole the black leather satchell that I bought at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul that held the Pro-6, the ECM-3, all the patch cords and batteries and the last 2 recordings I'd made - Lena Horne and Miles Davis.

I've since encountered the theif on many occassions and he explained to me that he had a drug problem (he did) and he was young...  I forgave him. But when I asked him what he did with it he said, "I threw the tapes out and sold the Walkman..." I unforgave him. For a few years.   Now we're friends again.  Kinda.

I ended up buying another Pro-6 a year later, and made some great recordings (Pearl Jam w/Neal, Phish [x3], 10,000 Maniacs, Allman's, Blues Traveler - My last Dead shows at Portland Meadows), but it wasn't quite the same. And then concerts got too expensive... and I got divorced and I moved 20 times... and now I have no idea where that deck is.

But without doubt the No. 1 Album on my list is my Walkman Pro-6. 

*Alabama, Hoyt Axton, The Beach Boys, The Blasters, Bon Jovi, Glen Campbell, Johnny Cash, David Allan Coe, John Conlee, Charlie Daniels Band, John Denver, Bob Dylan, John Fogerty, Foreigner, Vince Gill, Vern Gosdin. Arlo Guthrie, Sammy Hagar, Merle Haggard, Daryl Hall, Emmylou Harris, Don Henley, Waylon Jennings, Billy Joel, Randy Newman, George Jones, Rickie Lee Jones, B.B. King, Carole King, Kris Kristofferson, Huey Lewis, Loretta Lynn, Roger McGuinn, John Mellencamp, Roger Miller, Joni Mitchell, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Charley Pride, Bonnie Raitt, Lou Reed, Kenny Rogers, Brian Setzer, Sissy Spacek, Tanya Tucker, Debra Winger, Neil Young, Dave Milsap, Joe Ely, Judy Rodman, X