Saturday, March 28, 2009

FUC Houston *

OK, so it's 1980 and my wife and I are attending First Unitarian Church of Houston, the first time either of us have attended church in years. But it's cool. The people are real, we have common values, we're having a great time getting to know them all. My first thought being: "Wow, I didn't know it, but I'm a Unitarian!"
One of the things I noticed quickly was that people were interested in who I was, and that no one ever started the conversation with "so what do you do for a living?" I've always seen that as the first of the judgement questions. People were more interested in my beliefs, exploring ideas, and talking politics. It was a whole new world!
My boss was happy (he didn't know about UU belief), I was attending church and he was the catalyst (thanks again SR-See "It's All Religion".) Rita and I were on a pleasant learning curve with fellow seekers, ok, actually FUC was the non-churchy church. They didn't even pray, that was fine with me, as I've always seen corporate prayer as a bunch of groveling and asking of favors, special dispensation, etc.
But there was a choir, and good music, the sermons always had something to zing you at some point. I loved that... sermons that were engaging, yet there was always something to disagree with, and that was fine. We socialized with a couples club; co-vivants, I was a steady Men's Group member, learned about feminism, and made friends of all ages. We helped resurrect the RE program after it and been dormant. I worked with teenagers and made a friend that I still see and work with from time to time.

This was terrific and so we wanted to share it with everyone. Our family members (to their credit) did come out a time or two, but did not relate to what was going on. Some of them completely missed the point, I had thought. Now I realize like many religious experiences, one man's truth is another's hogwash. This goes both directions.

These days reminded me of the Green Monkey story.

It's a story I first heard about as a kid. I was into science fiction, in particular, the stories of Ray Bradbury. I read an interview with him in the Sunday paper where he spoke of the difficulty growing up "different". Take that as you will. Anyway, he said he read a story (as a child) that told the parable of the Green Monkey:

If you were to take a monkey, any ole monkey from the jungle, paint it green, and then release it back into the wild, the other monkeys would kill it. Not because it was a threat, but because it was different.

Short tale huh?

Ray Bradbury then explained the lesson he learned was to cover your tracks, and project what you had to, to survive. 'Said it may have saved his life... Boy, did I relate to that! Even at age 7 I felt like was born in the wrong world.

It also tells a great deal about the human condition. (damn monkeys).

Relating the story to my fellow UU's, they immediately understood when (in an issue of the newsletter), I referred to them as "a colony of green monkeys". The green monkey became the mascot of the next canvass drive, a seamstress sewed me into a green monkey costume, and I sang a version of "It's Not That Easy Being Green" at the canvass dinner in the ballroom of the Meridian Hotel.

There is more to the Green Monkey tale, but it will have to wait until another time.
I'll end with this:

Somewhere along the way, I uncovered that Ray Bradbury was a Unitarian Universalist.


*Good thing this doesn't take place in Kankakee!

Friday, March 27, 2009

You Got Problems?

More than once I've said: "Any problem you can buy your way out of is not a problem." Feeling like a physical wreck, 'just got the news that a long time friend and partner in the piano business, is in intensive care, and likely to die. Listening to the report from his girlfriend, I could not contain my shock. I had driven over to his place out of concern that he had not heeded my stern recommendation to get to a doctor two days ago. "You've been too sick for too long dude" were my words. CB and I are a great deal alike, and not just that we hate dealing with the medical establishment. We both have a strong work ethic (his is stronger than mine), we're about the same age. We've been in the piano business about the same amount of time, had a fair amount of success with it... CB is more generous than I, more compassionate probably more loyal. Not to make him into a saint or anything, his weakness is that he didn't take care of himself as well as he took care of others. The first time we met was at a Galleria area hotel more than 20 years ago. The hotel was his customer, but an outside client had called me in to tune for an event. CB was tuning in another part of the banquet area, and when seeing me, stopped and came over to introduce himself. It was just a nice gesture. I guarantee than 9 out of 10 piano tuners would have been in "protect territory mode" but CB wasn't at all. The man has bailed me out of a tight spot more than once. When an internal snafu resulted in a piano not being delivered to a show just outside Austin late a couple of Decembers ago, I called CB from my retreat location, we had a piano that had to go NOW. He was on it, and saved the day. For all his trouble, my truck had died on a country road on the way back that night. By some miracle, it started again and he got back.Oh I've been able to step in for him a time or two, but in the relationship it was usually CB catching my back. Only thing to do now is pray for a miracle. "If it is Your Will, give him another chance..."

Monday, March 23, 2009

Hair Wars 1968-1970

I have to bring up this subject because it was such a battleground for so long. That fight should not be forgotten. Not when millions of inches of hair lie wasted on barber floors. Particularly when some of that hair was mine. This battle continues in various other guises today.

When did the hair fight begin?

The hair fight began for me in high school. It was a classic tale of the little powerless guy against the regaining authority. Established power never likes to give an inch of it away, that move is always seen as "the erosion of order".
What adds to the mystery is the support of people that have only to gain. In other words, like today's world where Joe the uninsured will fight to the death against single-payer health care. Why? Because that's Socialism!!

But I digress.

Why did boys want to grow their hair? Probably the same reason I wanted to grow mine. It told you something about who I was (and who I wasn't), at a glance. Yes, it made a statement. The statement was: "I'm not about the status quo, I'm about this new thing".

I began to assume control of my hair at an early age, but just the act of combing it differently was met with Fascist-like hair enforcement at the hands of my parents. Their reasoning was "it looked ugly any way but combed straight back". The reaction to my wanting to change my look was always incredibly overdone.

In fairness, I want to point out that my long haired hippie-type friends were not all that open and accepting either. Well, my friends were, acquaintances, sometimes not so much.
For a while we would attend Sundays in Lincoln park. Some people called them love-ins, be-ins, or any of a number of hyphenated ins. Colorfully dressed artsy people and their dogs were there, with music, just hanging out (OK, there were a few drugs too).
I did notice once, after losing a battle with my parents (they got my hair cut...short), acceptance was not as forthcoming from some of the same folks who welcomed me the week before. I concluded the brotherly love of some members of the counter culture was considerably more shallow than I had hoped for.

Having an independent streak (a mile wide, some would say), caused the battle to rage on for years with my parents or whoever had something to say about it. (see Mr Psychic). It wasn't a problem at school; my high school, Prosser, got a load of new hip teachers to replace the Marine Corp drill sergeants that were there when I first started. They were just out of college and totally into The New Thing. I actually had support from them.

It's safe to say then that the Hair Thing, represented far more than a personal statement. This came to light one night when my father and I were exchanging angry words on the subject. At the height of it he called me a Communist! I will admit I didn't have a comeback for that (as it made no sense to me). Only later did I understand the level of knee-jerk reaction-isium was behind the flak many of us kids were taking. The Communist fear-mongering of the 50's never left many of my father's generation. Once, in a rare intimate talk, I shared with him that I had made a 5 year plan for my life. His reply was: "5 year plan? The Communists made 5 year plans!".

The friction between he and I came to a peek in 1970. It was my final year of high school. I had made up for the year I had cut (10th grade), by attending summer school, night school and carrying more classes during the regular year than was legal. I told you I had support of my teachers, they rocked!

The old man had come to check up on me after ignoring me and sending me no support money for 6 months. I believe he had a (General) MacArthur fantasy. Well, he was there to demonstrate who was in charge (of my life). This was after ME being my own boss for nearly half a year. I spoke to my budds, the teachers and asked them to put in a good word for me, then took him on a tour of my classes.
By the time that tour was over, he was still insisting I get my hair cut, but took me to a stylist so that though longer, my hair would look... well, styled.
It took a couple of days for him to figure out he'd been bamboozled.

I was reneging on my agreement to move to Texas with my family after graduation. I was moving out of Clifford Royce's house into my own 2 room tenement apartment. He caught me in the middle of the move. It was ugly. Let me explain: besides being my father, he was a large man, around 6'4" 280 lbs. He was a master at intimidation in all it's forms. I was 17 years old and defying him with everything I had.

He took one last turn cussing me, threatening me, invalidating me, and as I sat there taking it, I actually began to see red. I was so angry that I can honestly say had there been a weapon within any kind of reach, I would have killed him dead with it... twice over. That experience taught me something about murder and "a crime of passion". It is real.
It was the end of the Hair Wars, and the start of me having control and responsibility for my life. I knew if I was paying my own way, my parents could not (and would not) do anything about my choices. After that, I informed them of my life decisions, but never asked their opinions, certainly not their permission on any matter.

Fast-Forward 5 years: My parents are divorced, my father is a long haired pot smoking party boy.
* * * *

Sunday, March 22, 2009

It's All Religion

Actually, that's the punchline (or chorus as we songwriters call it) of a tune I wrote called the Prophet inspired by Khalil Gibran's book of the same name. What I want to begin talking about here is religion. OK, I could have done better with that... waited until you were halfway through and then sprung it on you, or better still, slipped it in your ears while your mouth was laughing at something almost entirely not on point.
Since I've lost 90% of my audience anyway, I'll continue. Everybody has their story of how they were brought up in this or that church. How they ditched this or that church at first opportunity. My son explained that he ditched the church of his upbringing because he came to the conclusion that "these were not my people". I didn't bother to speculate aloud that we would probably see him and his future wife upon the age in which their future children came home from school with the fear of (a future) hell put in them from the more "enlightened", "religious" children.

I can sum up my early training in a quick paragraph or two, have patience.

My parents were not church-goers, Dad was a non-practicing Irish Catholic, Mother a non-practicing Southern Baptist. For reasons you may already know, they didn't want to become members of any group that would welcome the likes of them (See 1960-1963), if their secret were discovered, they would definitely become persona non grata.
As a young child I was taken to the Baptist church a few times and really liked it. I liked it enough that I would walk myself when no one else would go with me. I thought it was interesting and the people were nice to me... but when I asked questions about the holes in some of the stories, well, they were less nice, and never answered my questions unless you call "you've gotta have faith" an answer.

After my parents became "legit", our family began to attend a Congregational Church in our neighborhood. It was cool in that the Scouts met there (represent!), my parents cultivated a social life, and we got something resembling a religious education without the emphasis on the fantastic tales requiring an absence of critical thinking. A good experience all around.
Until the place imploded.

Internal fighting brought the church to it's knees, and a well established faith community closed it's doors forever.

This is all going somewhere.

'Next church experience was at The Temple of Light (See Mr Psychic). By then I was on staff as a musician and somewhat more into the production, but I enjoyed it on several levels. My favorite religious part is when we said the creed each week. One line was

"We believe in an Infinite Intelligence".

'Got to admit something embarrassing here: I thought the line was "we believe in infinite intelligence. 'More of a human potential take. But I like it as written too; another good name for God.

Since I'm admitting embarrassing things, here's another: I misspelled both "infinite" and "intelligence" when I first wrote it. I am however, infinitely intelligent enough to use spell-check.
'Left the Temple upon relocating to Houston in 1972 and did not attend anywhere until 1979.

OK, this is taking longer than I originally thought.

The Houston Chronicle religion section often had features about some Unitarian minister or lay person, and the articles would whet my curiosity about the Unitarian Church. Not feeling any spiritual vacuum, I wanted to have a look, because "at least we should meet some interesting people".
This was about the time I had begun my apprenticeship as a piano technician. The odds of coming across one of these are 1 to impossible-1. The boss, who was a Church of Christ elder, informed me his family was in church "every time they unlocked the doors", and they strongly recommended their employees do the same. If I did not have a church, he was proud and happy to pick me up and bring me to his. These are near - direct quotes.

We became members of the First Unitarian Church of Houston shortly thereafter. It is pretty simple, about the same as subscribing to a magazine. But not for me. I requested an interview with the minister, Webster Kitchell, and he left a card game on his day off and came to talk to me. What I remember of our visit was:

Webster Kitchell: "Do you believe we are all born with a mountain to climb?"
Me: "yes".
Webster Kitchell: "Do you believe there is more than one way up the mountain?"
Me: "yes".
Webster Kitchell: "You may be a Unitarian Universalist".

Friday, March 20, 2009

Mr Psychic

Clifford Royce was one of the more interesting individuals to enter my family's life. He was one very busy Psychic Man! He taught development classes (how my mom met him), had a daily radio show, and a weekly TV program. But wait! There's more! He preached on Sundays at his church in the Oak Park Arms Hotel. As I knew him he opened Mr Psychic's Restaurant. He also did psychic counselling, and kept boarders at his house. How do I know that? I was one! Royce was invited to hold seances at our house to help us get to the bottom of all this ghost business. We discovered we had more ghosts than Star Trek had aliens! There was an old man, a colored housekeeper, a dog, along with occasional special guest ghosts.

Well, Clifford Royce opened the door to a new career path for my mother, one that served her well the rest of her working life. We had some very cool seances at my house, at least as good as what you see in the movies. When the pressure of being a teenage border-line drug addict became hard to handle, I had some counseling sessions with him where he used hypnosis to keep me from wanting to get high. (It worked for a long time). Oh, about the sessions, Royce used past-life regression to take me back to a previous incarnation.

My previous life was of a guy named John West. He roamed around the mid-west gambling and hanging out. He eventually acquired a spread in Texas, but before he got the place going, he was shot in the head. I remember well the feeling of pain in my head when we hit that spot. The John West story illuminated a number of loose ends that didn't make sense otherwise: I was born with the desire to learn to speak Spanish (although we knew no one who spoke it). As a youngster I had a love/hate relationship with Texas; I wanted to be here and I didn't. When I did finally get to Texas (particularly Austin), what I learned about Texas history explained a bit about the John West story. Stephan F. Austin deeded him a grant in Austin colony that already had Mexican people living on it. John didn't speak enough Spanish to negotiate, and wound up shot off his horse shortly after arriving.
Anyone over the age of 30 already knows the Great Po-ba has a wicked sense of humor: the Parkside house was in a town formerly known as Austin IL.

When my father took a job on the Mississippi gulf coast, my family started packing to leave Chicago. I wanted to stay and do my last year at the school where I had things worked out. Clifford Royce went to bat for me and got my parents to agree to leave me in his care. So I stayed at the Psychic Manor from September 1, 1969 - June 20, 1970. Royce, his wife Ursla and the two boys lived downstairs, while me and a retired gentleman named Hanrahan lived upstairs. Every now and then a touring fellow psychic would bunk in the other bedroom for a few days. I came to think of Metaphysical folk like carnies. It was a little bit science, and a lot of show-business. Cliff was no fun when watching the Amazing Kreskin, or Uri Gelher, he always would explain how they did their amazing feats.

My first church gig was at The Temple of Life Church. This was where Clifford Royce held service on Sundays. For years it was in the ballroom of the Oak Park Arms Hotel. As church, it was great theater: Each week the opening was the same; the lights went down and 2 lit candles were in an alter in front of the podium. The band would go into the long version of Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the piece crescendos at the end, Royce would come lumbering down the middle aisle to the pulpit. At the end of the service, Rev. Royce would feature one of his star students giving quickie "insights" to individual people in the congregation. This was worth staying for! Now and then Royce would channel an old colored slave lady friend of his, and she would give the readings. That was always a riot... It was like there really was someone else up there.

I was only 13 when I first started in the band there. My job was to play the hymn melodies on saxophone and do a solo number each week. I would break out my sax on Sunday morning, play the hymns in the key they were written, and after I got the melody, would transpose so I would be playing in the right key with the piano. The "band" was made up of an older lady that played piano (with only 3 fingers on her right hand), a guy who played a Cordovox (this looks like an accordion, but is electric and sounds like an organ), a drummer, and me. I did this gig for about a year that time.

Later, when I was 17, and living at the Royce house, I went back to playing at the church. I was visiting one Sunday and noticed the drummer couldn't stay awake during the service. I mentioned this to Royce, (of course) he knew and said he was looking to replace him. I guess after our conversation he had a vision or something because he called right back and asked me to take the drummer job. It was easy and I knew I could stay awake for an hour so I was back on the payroll. I alternated with a female vocalist and every other week she did the solo.

In Spring 1971, Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeplin came out. I learned it right away and played it the next Sunday at church for my solo. Royce asked if I wrote it as it had several references that applied to my life at the time. I did the song knowing there was one part he'd disapprove of; about the lady buying the stairway to heaven. Wisely he didn't want his patrons criticised.

Another of the interesting things about Mr Psychic was; he made a really big first impression... he weighed like 450 pounds. When I drove him around (he didn't drive) in my VW bus, it was like it was going to tip over when he got in the back. He had circulation problems due to his huge size and someone came to the house to give full massages several times each week. His weight wasn't what what finally did him in, it was just the opposite.

CR enjoyed introducing me to acquaintances as his "son from a previous marriage".
After a couple of his associates made the humorous inquiry as to whether I was a boy or a girl, (see "Hair Wars") I finally told him the next time somebody asked that, I would reply with "I may look like a girl, but I fuck like a man!" Soon enough, one of his friends asked the question, he looked at me, I shrugged and started to say my part, but he interrupted with "Billy says he may look like a girl, but he assures us he makes love like a man". Royce was nothing if not deadpan. He had a dry sense of humor, and hardly ever laughed.

The last chapter of the Clifford Royce story is the strangest of all.
Due to his immense size, he was always having health crisises; heart attacks, spells, you name it. Somehow he would always come back from them. The doctors finally told him he must lose the weight.
Intestinal bypass surgery had just been invented, and CL was in the first wave of recipients. Sure enough, Clifford Royce began to shrink. . . And shrink. . . And shrink. About a year after the "life-saving surgery", Clifford Royce died weighing 60 pounds, too weak to live.

How to Survive Delivering Chinese Food in Chicago

One of the jobs I did while half-supporting myself in high school. (I guess you could say I worked my way through high school.) Was at a wire factory in Addison Il. Addison was a good 45 minutes down the highway, but I had pretty much my pick of hours, so I worked there when I began senior year. About six months later, the owner of the factory discovered Mexicans so us local boys were quietly let go.

I discovered the delivery job on my own, Howard Dong was always recruiting new drivers, as he had a thriving business and a high turnover. I found I enjoyed the work, made decent tips, and ate a good dinner every night.

If you imagine there are a few stories to tell concerning driving food to all parts of Chicago until 1am each night, you are right. After all, I had to go into Gold Coast condos, and west end welfare hotels. Night shift workers at the post office and students in dorms up studying late.

I'll start with the most obvious one first. Yes, hot women often did answer the door in baby doll negligees and hint strongly they would like a driver to deliver far more than the egg fu young, but that only happened to the balding guys with the pot bellies. It never happened to me (lucky dogs!).

Here are a few things that did happen while I was chauffeuring people's dinners around, and I'm not making any of it up:

Before I begin, the disclaimer: yes, I was a 17 year old delusional hippie-type who believed first in the power of the Shanghai Menu. I was told putting that menu on my dashboard would give me powers other motorist could only dream about; park in tow-away zones, DOUBLE PARK (if the tow-away zones were filled up), basically, it was a talisman that warded off all evil. I also understood that how you carry yourself can make the difference of dudes messing with you or deciding not to mess with you. I always walked shoulders back, head up, and knew if anyone was within 75 feet of me at all times. Using the power of the Shanghai menu, I always parked right in front of the building I was going in, keeping the number of steps on the street to a minimum.

Now a few tales from the streets of Chicago.

Most of my customers were nice people who took care of me and I took care of them. Owner Howard Dong was the original blueprint for Mr Crabbs on Spongebob Squarepants; he took ALL orders, everybody's money was good with him. While some drivers would flat out refuse to deliver to some areas, I never did (after all, I had the power of the Shanghai Menu). This could mean heading to a west end welfare hotel on a Friday night and taking a couple of big bags of food in a rickety elevator with some derelict junkies, but it didn't bother me (I was Spongebil delivery guy!). These were neighborhoods sane white people would avoid driving through in broad daylight, they were that dangerous. These guys would generally give me a little something only because it was a novelty to see a white boy at all.

I was bringing an order to such a place one Saturday night around midnight to the "front desk". Here's why front desk is in quotes: It was a fortress with thick glass and bars with a little slot for pushing money and room keys through. Not what you'd normally think of when you say front desk. Well there were a couple of people in line ahead of me so I stood there to wait for them to finish their business (the food was for the two desk ladies). The guy in front of me was drunk as hell and giving them a hard time. Not violent, he was just really out of it. When I looked over his shoulder to try to figure out what the deal was, I saw he was trying to push his er ebony fire-hose through the slot at them. They were telling him to go away and squealing, it was more funny than dangerous. He finally got the hint that he couldn't pay for a room that way and staggered off.

One of the times when I was driving through the projects (these are high rise ghettos) the kids had the fire hydrant open as they sometimes do on a hot summer evening. Well, the window on my VW van was open to get some air as well. The cars in front of me slowed down not to hit one in case they ran out in the street. Suddenly between two parked cars a boy jumped out with a bucket full of water and threw it through my window. I was drenched, the food was all wet, and I was mad as hell. Thinking these were pint size pranksters, (and I was the adult authority) I stepped out of the van to bitch them out. I was already out of the car when I saw they had backup; the older brothers were standing by. I was back in the car and explaining to the rather large fellows how clever the little guys were, what a good joke they pulled on me ha ha. Happily, they not only let me live, but didn't even rob me of my wet food! The power of the menu I tell ya!

Among my semi-regular drop-offs was Chess Records on South Michigan Avenue. I would crane my neck to see who might be working on any given visit, I usually saw Muddy Waters, he would be producing some gospel choir or other (boring but) rent paying exercise. I was also driving the night of the big Sly and the Family Stone riot. Sly stood up Chicago 3 times during booked shows. They planned this free performance to make up for all that and (of course) Sly didn't show. 100,000 + people went on a rampage. I'm glad I didn't take off work for that!


I probably have 12-15 stories worth telling; the Yellow Cab that rear-ended my van in front of Cook County Hospital, among them, but I'll only mention one more that showcases my stupidity. This was a delivery to a different project (high rise slum) on the south side. Now this place was way notorious; the police refused to patrol there after dark. Naturally I said "no problem, I'll take it". It would take a full page to fully explore the full dimension of how utterly dumb that was, so let's just get on with it shall we?

I had to park a distance from the building, and there were several buildings; you couldn't tell which one was the right one. I'm walking around out there asking for directions (10 o'clock) when a large fellow in a beret stops me and wants to know what I'm doing. I tell him I'm taking an order of shrimp fried rice to somebody. He looks at me like I've lost my mind.
The Black Panthers patrolled the place at night, it was the only thing passing for security there. His interceding may have saved my life.
He got on his walkie-talkie and radioed ahead and made an arrangement for the food to get where it needed to be. Then he told me to leave and never come back there again.
I drove food for about a year-and-a-half, I didn't take my life in my hands every night, something good eventually came of it; I met George Price.
George also lived in a high rise, but it was on Michigan Avenue (where wealthy white people lived). Every time I brought him his food he would be interested in me and ask questions about what I was doing with my life (a nice guy). After several deliveries, I was offered a job with his small company doing something in an exciting new field: commercial typesetting (this is typesetting with a computer!).

My first real job 8-4pm M-F. Paid a starting wage of $100./week. But that wasn't too bad in 1970. Unless you wanted to do more than eat and pay the rent. My transmission died in my VW van, so I had to go back and work at Shanghai again to pay for that. It was pretty much just like school, day and night, 5 days a week.

The job at Graphic Sales was cool because we were the cutting edge of the business. They had been setting type with hot metal on the Linotype contraption for about 80 years, we were doing it on photo-paper with a large computer, then pasting it on the layout board. If you think it sounds crazy primitive now, you shoulda seen the other guy(s)... they ran a thing that looked like a hay baler, but it had a furnace on it melting lead to form into characters. Then another guy (who had been in training for a couple of years) would take it, put it on a proof press to check it. THAT was primitive!