The “Zone” definitely exists. I’m referring to that elusive state of mind wherein an otherwise challenging activity can be effortlessly realized. One hears the term commonly applied to sports though it can relate to any pursuit most often of the creative variety. Dope-fiend poets and creatively parched artists might pursue this condition via chemicals. In a related vein, I’m reliably informed that “Microdosing” in Silicon Valley is a thing wherein corporate employees consume minimally active amounts of hallucinogenics to facilitate innovative thinking by gently disrupting routine mental patterns. This practice, while not appearing in anyone’s official Human Resource Handbook, appears to have informal support albeit in a “go ahead and do it but if you get too high, we’ll definitely fire your ass” kind of way. Frankly, I’m not impressed. If you can’t go full tilt with the experience and accept all that goes with it then you are a coward. Of course, I’ve written about such excursions which, for me, are a rigged game. But hey, every generation is entitled to a stab at enlightenment or just mere synaptic stimulation.
Say What You Will – But Those Krishnas Know How To Mediate
Back to the Zone – I’m talking about a spontaneous release from limitations that happens independently of intention. I know it exists because I experienced it with some regularity in the Summer of 1974 while shooting hoops behind Springdale Christian Church. (As a matter of trivia and memory of the time, I was wearing out Lou Reed’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal” album). Most of my friends had moved out of the area by then leaving me with little else to do except to solitarily perfect my basketball game – basically a one-man game of Horse. My experience with the Zone began after seeing an infomercial for Silva Mind Control a proprietary meditation system seemingly based in part on Transcendental Meditation – itself a proprietary system. However, the former alleged to unlock powers of clairvoyance, which I think was just an advertising nod to the popularity of Extra Sensory Perception at the time. The Amazing Kreskin had a TV show then which discussed such things although Kreskin made it clear that he was a Mentalist which meant his “paranormal” demonstrations were the result of endless hours of practice combined with a solid knowledge of human reactive behavior. It’s like when a magician says, “pick a card, any card” he or she is actually “forcing” a specific card into your hands in a way that you don’t realize. The same concept is employed in mentalism wherein a series of statements might lead another to think in a certain way, or of a certain number or name.
Why can’t you just smoke a bunch of weed like everyone else ?
Since I had no money or inclination to purchase either program, I spent time at the Stewart Lakewood Library reading up on the general topic of meditation. Wanting something more practical, I leveraged my area Krishna connections which yielded basic instruction. When I told a friend about my Summer project he replied, “why can’t you just smoke a bunch of weed like everyone else ?” I don’t know if you’ve ever meditated or thought about it but I’ll let you in on a really big secret. Are you ready? Here it is. The mere act of trying to meditate is in fact meditation. Set a timer, a cooking timer will do if you don’t have a smartphone. Direct your thoughts to an object (e.g. your breath or some consistent sound). When distracted by your thoughts, make a gentle effort to return them to the object of focus. Keep doing this until the timer goes off. That’s it. I used to meditate to the rumbling sound of an air conditioner. That said, I am not a Swami. Nor can I levitate, lie comfortably on a bed of nails, charm cobras, maintain an erection for 4 hours (at least naturally) or perform any of the things customarily associated with mountain-dwelling holy men or Sting.
Let The Ball Return Home!
None of this means that pursuing meditation leads to basketball genius although maybe it did for me that Summer. But maybe it was just a simple matter of me being able to get out of my own way. I started shooting baskets and decided to do a hook shot. A strange thing happened. Milliseconds before I physically initiated action, an image popped into my mind – there was a flexible tether, (like a bungee cord), attached to the basket with the other end being attached to the ball. I received an intuition that all I had to do was raise the ball and “allow it’ to “return home.” Instance swish. It worked. And it worked again and several times after that, Not 100% but like 98%. And it wasn’t just the hook shots. It happened when shooting on the run while doing oblique cross flips, or tossing the ball over my head without looking at the basket. I did get a witness though.
A guy named David had moved into the Perkerson Baptist Church parsonage located three houses up from mine. Spotting me on his walk home, he sauntered up to see me in the basketball trance and was amazed, as was I, that my shots were all going in. He even challenged the process by attempting to block me but to no avail. “Jesus Christ”, he said. “How are you doing that ?”. “I have no idea but I don’t think Jesus has anything to do with it“, I replied. “Meditation I guess.” He didn’t believe me. Can’t blame him. How do you explain something like that? If you are looking for this part of the story to continue, it won’t. Not because I’m holding out or are trying to sell you my “secret method”, just that this short period in 1974 was pretty much the only manifestation of the “Zone” that I have experienced, at least to that degree. Why it was associated with basketball, a sport I played only casually, and not some more personally meaningful area of life, I have no idea.
Who the Hell is Gene Dahlbender ?
But what does any of this have to do with Gene Dahlbender? You could (and should) Google him and he’ll show up. He was a golf wunderkind born in 1923 whose acquaintance I made in 1977 when he wound up working in some capacity at the GMAC – General Motors dealership. It was a good gig for him as there were plenty of people who knew of his celebrity. His accomplishments were legend and his enduring skills, even then, silenced the most prolific Stewart Avenue bullshitter, “Gene Dahlbender ? That guy is really good”. Very high praise considering that golf tends to provoke a lot of competitive behavior and strong envy. This was one of the first situations wherein no one on The Avenue said anything negative about his golfing ability – his personality maybe but not his skill. Here is a summary of “Geno’s” accomplishments from the Georgia State Golf Association web site:
Dahlbender’s tournament record includes the following: medalist in the Southern Amateur twice, winner of the 1948 Southern Amateur, six-time qualifier for the U.S. Open, and eight-time qualifier for the U.S. Amateur. He also competed in the 1949 Masters. He won the Sunnehanna Amateur twice and the Atlanta City Open seven times. In addition, he won the Southeastern Amateur twice and won the Georgia Amateur in 1962
Not only was he a great competitive golfer he was also capable of trick shots particularly in response to those spontaneous betting situations that will inevitably emerge on the course, “Hey Gene, bet you can’t make that shot with a blindfold on.” Yes… he could. He never discussed golf with me or anyone and if someone brought up the topic he usually reacted with disinterest and silence, waiting for the subject to change. Not having Internet access in 1977-78, I couldn’t really dig up much about Gene except that which others would share which was plenty. I do know that he went to the ophthalmologist for which my Mother worked – an old Atlanta money doctor who was beyond thrilled to have Gene as a patient. According to my Mother, Gene was polite with the barrage of questions about his career along with the inevitable, “Hey Gene, could we play a round or two some time ?”
I was told that Gene gently and deftly steered the conversation to me (your humble author) and how he admired my potential – not in golf but in education. Wow, so Gene shut down the doctor and simultaneously gave me a plug. It became clear to that he was beyond fatigued with being asked about why he never turned pro – a legit question for someone of his considerable talents. I suspected that Gene might have had a form of insecurity that blocked him in some way. Later on, I was told he developed a fondness for the bottle, which is something I could see but the same could be said for most of the people circulating on Stewart Avenue.
Could Have Been A Contender
I had mostly forgotten about Gene until about 7 months ago (pre-COVID). I was waiting for my turn in a crowded barbershop while overhearing a golf conversation between two old-timers. One of them mentioned Gene’s name. (When someone says “Dahlbender” it’s gonna stick out). I listened to them praise the guy up and down and ponder his situation. “Too bad he never turned pro, he had that bad tournament”. So, a defeat stopped all that genius although I don’t believe it was a single episode. More likely, something in his general thinking undermined his best work. The other old-timer added, “yea, and once he started drinking, well, that was it“. Perhaps that was true but only to an extent. If you met the guy you could see that he had more than a few gears in his thinking, quietly shifting (at least from the outside) between them. Yea, maybe the booze helped lubricate that process but there was more nuance to him than could be seen by casual interaction especially if it was gonna be JUST about golf. Maybe he wanted to be known for more than something that came easy for him?
I’m pretty sure that Gene never meditated. Having met some prodigiously talented people, (I’m not one of them), it’s been my observation that merely having a high level of natural ability is not enough. It usually requires ongoing development and refinement to perform in the big time. But if one is not so inclined, then he or she will likely remain at a baseline which is still probably much higher than that of anyone else. But it surely must leave a level of dissatisfaction. For those of us average ability, it can be frustrating to see someone so talented not rise to the top. In my case, Gene was very nice to me and expressed great interest in my future intentions and encouraged education. He did it in a way that seemed genuine. By the time I first met him most of his life was behind him but he remained a hell of a nice guy. From time to time, I still toy with the idea of conjuring the Zone for use in my life. I still meditate but it’s not led to that kind of breakthrough. Why I connect the two, Gene and the Zone, I don’t entirely know though it could be that for a brief time, and in a private, different way, I experienced the effortless mastery that he did. It would be cool to do so again.
Each year, the title of “Mayor of Stewart Avenue” was given to a successful area businessman who exhibited likeability and, more importantly, a willingness to share that year’s bounty by hosting a number of alcohol-fueled bashes designed to distract everyone from the undeniable economic decline plaguing the area. In preceding decades, I’m sure the honor was reserved only for those of the highest moral rank, those captains of Southwest Atlanta industry whose wholesome character guaranteed success, well-behaved children, and a Norman Rockwell home life. For sure, mid 20th century enterprise was prosperous though by the 70s, businesses offering things like boat motors and fishing accessories were not a priority for Stewart Avenue residents. The economy had leveled off into auto pilot which, for a while, was fine but the fiscal dip started cutting into the bottom line. Many stores moved or closed while sleazy car dealers, Liquor Stores (a hit in any economy), No-Tell Motels, and privately owned markets (such as Brothers Three) remained. By the end of the decade there weren’t many candidates for the mayor title though it was a decent excuse to have a party.
The last “Mayor of Stewart Avenue” I recall with any clarity was a guy named Ken K. (his relatives might still be around so I’ll take the anonymous approach) who seemed to be doing quite well financially. He was fond of a drink which he might enjoy spontaneously throughout the day as can only the person with enough money and authority to avoid a rigid work schedule. This didn’t mean that he didn’t work just that he did so when it suited him. Like many in the area, he carried a gun and, when drunk, might discharge it more so to punctuate whatever was going on rather than out of self defense.
I know he certainly did it one night in Bros 3. He stumbled in the front door as he raised a 22 and popped of some shots with the bullets going into the ceiling. We were on him quickly from behind and wrestled the gun from his hand after which he staggered outside to his Cadillac where he wrangled the door open and fell into the front seat with his legs hanging out. Someone later pushed his legs in and shut the door, not out of the customary concern for a brother human, but just to get his ass out of the way. (Whoever did it probably rifled his wallet). When I returned the next morning, he was sitting in the store dealing with a hangover. He had no memory of the firearms display or, more likely, just didn’t want to cop to it since that would involve the assumption of responsibility. Besides, he already had a drink in his shaky hand to take off the edge.
Carrying a gun was not as odd as you might think given the time and place. This was long before credit card use (or possession) was ubiquitous, when gambling debts were always settled with cash (most still are) thus, being rolled was a distinct possibility. Additionally, being known around the Avenue as someone not afraid to bust a few caps could discourage a would-be robber. It could also work against you in that a thief might conclude that it’s easier to first shoot and then take the money. There were instances of that also. A cocky repo guy named Rick, known to “pack heat”, as we used to say, overplayed his hand one night and was himself gunned down by someone who feared being shot first. It flipped me out because just two days before he had helped me execute a candy bar stealing rat who had taken up residence at Brothers Three. I had found the sugar eating rodent behind some Styrofoam coolers. The rat hissed and Rick, who was standing nearby, handed me a 5-iron from a pawned bag of clubs while urging me to “fuck that rat up, boy !“. I took aim at the rodent, who had moved onto his haunches, and swung the club in a perfect arc, culminating in solid contact with his neck which snapped him into the next dimension.
Anyway, back to Ken K. His general manner of speech inferred intoxication. He slurred his words, grunted, and didn’t walk straight even when totally sober. Many in the area would drink daily and one of my regular duties was to mix drinks at 4:45 sharp for Roughhouse and whomever might be joining him. My orders were direct – make the drinks simple and strong – usually Tanqueray and Tonic or Vodka and OJ. This was the backdrop against which I learned to function. These guys worked pretty hard at the so called “straight job” in addition to whatever side “action” they had (usually gambling). It was hard enough for me to get to work after school and back home in time to finish homework but the Avenue education I received opened my eyes to intriguing possibilities – legal, illegal, and in between. Many of these men would keep drinking well into the evening and sometimes even into the next morning – yet would take exception to the idea of having a drink before the appointed “cock tail hour”. Others had no such compunction. Most people, especially business owners, need to be sober at least for some portion of the day though if your supplier or partner is like you then it’s just as easy to do deals over lunch time (and sometimes breakfast) drinks. You can do this if you are the boss.
The mayoral election ceremony event was just a formality as that year’s recipient was usually selected well in advance during various drinking sessions held throughout the year. In previous decades, I bet there was a rigid protocol in place for nominations and voting, followed by a family-friendly award ceremony where high quality, catered food was the main event. The general banter would revolve around christian ethics and economic betterment with large checks being written to charities. Many of these businesses were good for sponsorship of Little League teams over at Perkerson Park which at the time was a really big thing (a topic I discuss here). This was the era of Civic clubs such as the Lions, Civitan, Shriners, Elk, and Moose Lodge whose membership included Stewart Avenue business owners. They surely liked to drink but held up the veneer of social respectability at least until much later in the evening when clumsy sexual propositions would be made to waitresses and even the wives (and sometimes daughters) of fraternal brothers. Such activity, emanating from amateurs and the inexperienced, is never effective.
The 70s version of the Mayor’s ceremony, however, would dispense with any social pretense and might well involve women of the night (as a stated intent) and numerous bottles of liquor being hastily consumed straight out of the case. (Wives and daughters would most definitely NOT be in attendance). Dice games would breakout and public nudity would occur. In terms of the setting, it could be a bar but might just as easily wind up in a place like Kaiser’s Trim Shop where the work area would be converted to a party space – although no one bothered to move customer cars out of the way – the backseats of which might be used for a quickie. I know all of this to be true because it would be my job to run the liquor down to the shop in preparation for the event.
None of the Mayors I encountered would have been invited to articulate their personal ethics and entrepreneurial philosophies at a Church or to a classroom of business students. However, it would be too easy to dismiss them as layabouts or hedonists (well uniquely so) because many did in fact build businesses from scratch and managed to purchase homes, cars, and finance college education for their children. Even In the face of economic decline, these types were agile and pivoted into other lines of work. They might also tap gambling winnings to pay college tuition or at least a child support payment. Anything to keep the hustle going.
Another thing I noticed about these men was their general lack of self-pity, not that they didn’t complain now and then, but it was usually just a happy hour comment, “the goddamn bank wants to foreclose on the shop”, that would soon be forgotten in the interest of finding a way around the problem even if it meant just accepting it. So, no – they wouldn’t be writing the next “Habits of Successful Business Dudes” but they could probably give a mean Ted Talk on innovative thinking in times of crisis. The title might be, “A Business Guide For The Functional Alcoholic – How To Have A Good Time, All The Time”. Had any of these Mayors been around during the crash of 29, (some were, though as children), they certainly wouldn’t have jumped out the window. Nor would they have missed using acute national economic ruin as an excuse to have a drink. À votre santé
This is an update to my Stewart Avenue Crime Time Part 1 post on what I believe to be a very important development for the Stewart Avenue / Metropolitan Parkway corridor. The City of Atlanta Office of Cultural Affairs has just recently called for proposals to install art in and around the Zone 3 Police Precinct which is soon to be built at 2353 Metropolitan Parkway. Area residents, as well as the Police Chief, expect the precinct to contribute significantly to neighborhood safety but also to the revival of the area’s image. I find it interesting, and entirely appropriate, that the precinct will be located directly across from what used to be The Alamo Plaza where the nadir of Stewart Avenue took place in 1993. As an area native, I appreciate what I think is a strategic decision though even if it wasn’t, it represents a stabilizing bookend to that tragic event which I covered in Let’s Go Drink One. I’ll provide an excerpt here: (I know – how arrogant to quote myself though it is kind of relevant)
Some North side guys experienced a nasty bachelor party run-in with a transsexual hooker and his/her pimp. It was the classic consumer case of “we didn’t get what we paid for” although the “Returns Department” issued a “Lead Refund”. So the City stepped in, closed down the the Alamo Plaza, (once a wholesome motel for traveling families), repaired some potholes, did some repaving, and applied a new name with little expectation that anyone would buy in to the idea that it would change anything.
The Stewart Avenue name had already become quite offensive to city leaders of the time and the resulting double murder at The Alamo (sounds like the name of a movie) was the proverbial last straw. Check the Atlanta Time Machine page for some more details. Atlanta likes to change street names as if that alone will fix things but I sincerely hope the precinct makes an impact. Logistically, the location is excellent as it provides plenty of room for expansion as well as rapid access to a number of areas. While I can’t be sure, I think this might be the essential turnaround event for this area to flourish. In-town properties are scarce and the Metropolitan corridor is minutes from Downtown or the Airport with almost no traffic when compared to all other parts of Atlanta. Lastly, if you are new to this blog, it’s pretty much devoted to the history (albeit a personalized one) of Southwest Atlanta so feel free to look around.
Life can sometimes pile on in ways that seem unfair, particularly when compared to those people better prepared (if only financially) for the vagaries of existence. Most will view a job layoff, the loss of a family member, or being dumped as exceptional and not something to be taken personally. Those more accustomed to misfortune might view such events as evidence of diminishing luck and regress towards a fatalistic outlook. And if you swallow the idea that the exception has become the rule, then a drink, or something like it, can help keep the mind straight as conventional coping mechanisms will become increasingly ineffective under chronic stress. Of course, drinking is a conventional coping mechanism customarily employed by the masses to smooth nerves frayed by a demanding boss, a looming deadline, or a shrinking bank account. Social drinking can also ease communication with prospective love interests or at least cushion the trauma of personal rejection (is there any other kind ?) so it’s not without benefit. However, when pursued over time and ritualistically, (e.g. happy hours, nightly cocktails, weekend benders, tail gating), it can facilitate an incremental nadir involving a special blend of raw misery, legal problems, and self-loathing – which lends credence to the expression:
If you have 100 problems and 1 of them is drinking, then you really have only 1 problem
Alcohol (or an opioid) is no respecter of persons. It exhibits a profound normalizing effect across socioeconomic and racial groups. To wit, there are plenty of well-heeled sloshes who find themselves quivering through withdrawals in a sweat-soaked hospital bed, lying next to a homeless guy as both wonder “how the hell did I wind up next to him ?” At that point, they have more in common than not. My personal view is that addiction is a spiritual tapeworm which intercepts any good that might ordinarily be destined for the better parts of yourself. The addiction flourishes even as you don’t and inversely so. A deteriorating physical state and decline of self esteem will correspond to an increase in cravings.
I’m no Carrie Nation. So, if and to what extent someone drinks or “uses” is really their business until it spills over (no pun intended) onto spouses, children, co-workers, or strangers at which point it does become a larger issue. Morally though, if you wish to supplement, limit, or expand your consciousness then no problem as long as you keep your personal revelations away from me. After all, I did my own brand of experimentation and also worked in a liquor store which involved frequent encounters with urban shamans hawking their drug-and-booze-derived philosophies. Stewart Avenue was mostly a hard drinking section of town though one had easy access to any thing including LSD, the Ayahuasca of its day, which promised deep insight otherwise available only to the Mystics or meditating mountain dwellers. Despite its undeniable entertainment value, it didn’t really “fix” anyone or anything. A friend, and one time prelate of the local LSD scene, offered:
If I’m being honest, the wonderfully intricate answers that were so solid in the trip, would easily disintegrate with the first bit of returning reality. All that insight ran for cover when I sat down in front of that unpaid stack of bills.
Evidently, knowing life’s underlying scared geometry doesn’t help with the tedium of daily living. What a surprise ! The power company doesn’t really care if you just spent 7 hours circling the rings of Saturn while mind melding with The Universal Architect. Just pay your bill there, Dr. Leary, and we’ll turn the lights back on so you can experience some REAL “illumination”.
Geez ! What’s Got You So Worked Up ?
But what started this particular post (rant) ? Ah yes, this 1980 video of Richard Burton being interviewed by Dick Cavett. A friend of mine sent me the link and I recall seeing this interview when it originally aired. Well I think so. I might have been out partying and saw it later in reruns. I always liked Burton and in addition to being a quality actor he possessed a velvety smooth baritone which I emulated in my youth (minus the accent) to unintentional, humorous effect. Anyway, he discusses a number of things though it’s the topic of alcoholism that interests me. Let me be clear that I’m not particularly interested in roasting Richard Burton or entertainers in general though this video so well captures the struggles of substance abuse that it merits discussion. The majority of the video commenters cast him as an unwitting victim, unfairly targeted by alcohol, whereas I see someone in denial who continues to play an active role in his own demise. Being equipped with abundant financial resources and a certain level of fame meant he didn’t have a particular boss to please. Nor was there a looming financial disaster that, for those of fewer means, might motivate a life change. He could, and did, delay his descent even though his persona had already become inextricably linked to alcohol. Unlike Dean Martin, who comically exaggerated his own drinking to good effect, such an approach would not be helpful to Burton who was, after all, an accomplished thespian who generally took on serious and challenging roles.
Accommodations were made for his “situation” which involved accepting work beneath his talents and for less money than he commanded in previous years. Anyone seeing the will know instantly that something went horribly wrong. Merely taking the role raised eyebrows. To be fair, It was a bad movie all around so its failure can not be attributed solely to Burton, but he was supposed to be the ace in the hole to ensure its success. The funny thing was that both Burton and Boorman, (the director with an unfortunate surname), thought separately that each was doing the other a favor. I suppose what really concerns me about the video are his references to maintaining abstinence via “my particular form of self control and, of course, the enormous assistance of my wife” as if either could realistically sustain abstinence in the long run. And was it really her job to monitor his behavior ? I’ve also never met someone, firmly in the alcoholic grip, who could summon enough self-knowledge or will power to effectively control addiction. There are heavy drinkers who are not at all alcoholic who can stop given sufficient motivation. They distinguish themselves from “real” alcoholics by being able to not drink without experiencing the crippling anxiety exhibited by one who has become “pickled” and not only wants the drink but “needs” it.
How Much Is Enough ?
In my experience, Burton was not simply a heavy drinker who accidentally got a bad rap. He wouldn’t cop to being an alcoholic though readily concedes, “I’m right on the edge of being one”, something I’ve heard numerous times from people invested in the idea that a drink remains a reasonable option despite all evidence to the contrary. In this regard, the video can be as harmful as it might be helpful in raising awareness to the problem of addiction. In Burton’s case, what was once a stellar career ended 4 years later at the age of 58 due to complications from alcoholism. Just so you won’t think I’m singling him out, take a look at this video of Oliver Reed and this one of Jack Kerouac both of which serve as evidence of decline hastened by substance abuse. Reed passed away from a heart attack attributed to a drinking bout during a production break from filming The Gladiator. I’m not sure that I ever fully bought into the idea of chemically assisted inspiration though admit that getting out of one’s own head can lead to productivity though in no way guarantees it.
Without giving too much away I will say that I’ve tried such an approach (like it wasn’t already obvious), but found that it offers diminishing returns – and might even present a bill. Your mileage may vary. I recall reading The Pleasures of Opium by Thomas de Quincy and nodding (no pun intended) in agreement with his description of “portable ecstasies” and how “happiness might now be bought for a penny, and carried in a waistcoat pocket.” For the uninitiated, he is talking about opium but substitute in the name of any popular recreational chemical and you get the point. Also, substitute in the word “inspiration” for “happiness” and you will understand why creatives might be loathe to forgo use of something that at one time might have worked for them. The Stewart Avenue Kid © 2019.
Learning Your Craft
Lots of guy learn to play guitar simply to impress girls but those with serious intent usually separate themselves from the pack by progressing rapidly and seeking out performance opportunities, which is where you really learn your craft because you see instantly what works. Getting feedback from strangers is essential to growth and if you are in any way good, you will own your weaknesses and learn to separate the constructive comments from the crap. During a live set, I once had an obese lady throw a dill pickle at at me in what I initially believed to be an expression of dissatisfaction until she pulled out another, (from where I do not know), placed it between her rather large breasts and started licking it. While this didn’t count as nuanced feedback on the performance taking place, I did take it to mean that whatever song we were playing in that moment was provoking a definite reaction and should maybe remain in the set (or not). See, that’s profound and memorable feedback you would never get in a pure rehearsal situation or when playing for friends.
It’s a general truism that praise from a family member or a close friend (or sales person) is mostly meaningless outside of its ability to soothe and encourage – unless, or until, it is balanced by input from a neutral third party with specific knowledge in the domain under consideration. In absence of such it becomes an American Idol kind of thing where the tone-deaf contestant submits for an audition on the encouragement of a drunk uncle who sort of, kind of used to be in a band that, back in the day, got really close to making it. And when the contestant gets slaughtered by the judges, they really never saw it coming because no one had “the talk” with them about their actual prospects for a music career. Not to say that American Idol judges (or drunk uncles) are especially knowledgeable (some are, some aren’t) but there is a certain level of bad that is objectively observe-able in those desperate for a shot at stardom. Let’s just say that playing some tunes at the family barbecue picnic is fine though should never be confused as a general validation of talent.
A Very Short Artist and RCareer
As I pointed out in this post, there were many cover bands in the East Point, College Park, and Sylvan Hills areas with most of them working the local bar circuit while writing originals in hopes of attracting record company interest. Many were accomplished in faithfully reproducing the rock tunes of the day with some of them choosing to play songs likely to appeal only to other musicians. This became a problem for club owners whose priority was to sell alcohol. (No one can easily dance to “Roundabout” by Yes). Thus, bands would have to calibrate their performances for dancing and drinking or risk not being invited back. In their group biography, Aerosmith referenced a deliberate intent to avoid the cover band grind so they could focus on their original set even if it meant living in poverty and having to steal food. While playing 5 sets, 6 nights a week will do wonders for your musical chops, and put a few bucks in your pocket, breaking out of that into a record contract is difficult especially if your original songs are simple approximations of the covers used to promote beer purchases.
I went to Los Angeles right before “hair metal” peaked and the glut of bands made it pointless for anyone to come to LA since there were a million groups already present most of whom were equally as good as, if not much better than, anything you could bring to town. It was a peculiar mix of desperation, greasy long hair, and onset alcoholism. The mayor should have put up a sign “Dear Rock Bands – No Vacancy. There is No Room for You. Go back Now“. Everyone was incredibly insecure and restless which led to aggressive drug use and frequent personnel turnover as guys jumped ship to find that “magic” combination that would land them the top marquee spot at Gazzarri’s, The Whiskey, or The Starwood. (See Penelope Spheeris’ The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years which explores this topic in much greater depth). Once “pay to play” was implemented it should have been a sign that maybe you go back home and roll the dice there (and much more cheaply). Some bailed out of the hair metal scene and landed in “New’ Country bands – a genre just then getting off the ground. Most found straight jobs or enrolled in College and generally adjusted to a life of convention. Some, however, couldn’t let it go and kept at it even though hair metal continued to wane in popularity.
You Guys Are Marvelous, Let’s Keep In Touch
I once shared a large number of drinks with an A&R guy at Atlanta’s Charley Magruders who was in town to scout one of “The South’s hottest bands“. I was astonished by his capacity for alcohol as well as his general knowledge of politics and science which dominated that evening’s discussion even as everyone else was totally digging the band. This didn’t make a lot of sense to me so I asked him about the group, “Oh them”, he said, as if they were an intrusive presence, like an apartment neighbor playing the stereo too loud. “Well the singer is too pudgy, the guitar player is good but he looks 35, their songs are average – they are more like jams, not real songs and, besides, everyone else has passed on them”. So he was there just for the drinks – the band’s manager was picking up his tab (and by extension mine). He had absolutely no intention of signing them with the main reason being that no other record company wanted them so how could they be any good – outside of the club scene, that is ? When the sweat soaked singer (he actually was kind of fat) looked over at the A&R guy for the smallest sign of approval, my host raised his glass high and gave the thumbs up as if watching a 26 year old Mick Jagger lather up the crowds at Madison Square Garden. Al Pacino would have been envious, so masterful was the acting.
He invited me to join him and his boss (my potential employer) not long thereafter at Danny’s in Marietta where he similarly rejected another “hottest band in Atlanta“. It was particularly awkward when the singer and guitar player sheepishly strolled over to check-in during a break. My record label friend adopted a hyper-supportive tone,“Dynamite set guys. Any hotter and we would have to call the fire department”. Wow. What a line. Any career I had been contemplating in A&R ended that evening as I didn’t relish the idea of having to lie so overtly to bands. I was told to treat it like a mediocre date – be positive and polite, promise to call, but let it fade into history and if you just have to be honest, then do it via phone to eliminate the possibility of physical assault. I was really good at identifying talent (still am) just that I lacked the tolerance for accommodating the endless layers of bullshit endemic to the music business. The bands that did get signed believed quite mistakenly that their troubles were over and certain fame awaited. But of course, that rarely panned out and the A&R guy who signed them would always leave or get fired leaving them with no advocate at the office. But that’s okay. Everyone at the label “still believes in you, baby” even as they quietly drop the option for the second record and slowly, yet firmly, show you the door “Let’s keep in touch, you are so talented“.
There is a type of musician who, in the presence of more flashy players, can easily go unnoticed though you quickly realize that he or she is instinctively covering a lot of parts musically and vocally, while writing songs that do an end-around on your critical thinking filters. As an example, instead of using a complicated chord progression, they “see through it” and offer a tasteful alternative that is easier to play and provides fluid voice leading ultimately resulting in something better with much less effort. Most of these guys are what I call intuitive musicians who see the bigger picture of any song and work inwards to remove the junk, thus allowing the essence of the song to become evident – as opposed to the more technical musician who just likes to throw in things on top. The late Sonny Sharrock characterized most rock guitarists as “Jugglers”, musicians who have a set number of “tricks” they rotate though or juggle as part of their performances. It doesn’t take long before you’ve heard all of their tricks and become bored.
But there were two guys in Sylvan Hills who were of this intuitive type. The first was Terry K. whose Father was a local music teacher. Terry was part of The Spontaneous Generation who had a regional release in 1968 with “Up In My Mind” backed by The Who’s “Pictures of Lily”. Jan Whitten was also in the band (cousin of Mike Whitten, the original drummer in the Atlanta rock band Alien). Most people from Sylvan Hills will probably remember an unfortunate accident which resulted in Terry’s general withdrawal from life though he still wrote songs and served as a sounding board for others. While he wasn’t the type of guy who mastered note-for-note renditions of something like Third Stone from the Sun he could comfortably sit in with someone who had and offer complimentary accompaniment all without much preparation. He had a solid ear, almost like a jazzer, so hearing chords and melodies was easy for him. Need a harmony line ? No problem. Advice on a chord substitution ? Sure. A complimentary descending keyboard chordal sequence ? How many do you want ?
There was another guy name Olin Rainwater who fell into this category though he was far more prolific in terms of musical output having written hundreds of songs. He was truly a walking band in the sense that he could sing, play guitar, and write tunes so he required minimal backup to perform. He could have easily been a power trio guy in the vein of Mountain or Creem as his lead lines were bluesy and his rhythm was spot on even as he was singing. The act of singing and playing simultaneously came quite naturally to him whereas I always struggled with that. When it came to covers, Olin was able to listen to songs, even those with rich instrumentation and complex arrangements, and boil them down to the essentials. Oh, he might miss some of the extensions but his ultimate chord selections captured the right tonality while leaving room for the color tones which he could supply vocally. Amazingly, he could do this within minutes of hearing a song and, best of all, be ready to perform it not long thereafter. Now, that’s talent and courage that few people have. I would still be worried about whether a chord was an F#minor with a flat 5 and he would be like, “No, let’s do it. 1-2-3, go”. That he was so confident bolstered my confidence which made it all so much easier. It was an additive, no, a multiplicative effect that was truly liberating. When people trust each other, great things can happen.
While rehearsal was important, he also liked to throw songs my way (his own or cover tunes) which required learning the song as the band was playing it. This involved me looking at his guitar neck, copping the chords, and internalizing the structure – again, while the song was being played. He might solo but it was just as likely he would give me the nod. It all somehow worked – not because I was so good but because I didn’t have to worry about him dropping the beat or screwing up which only emboldened me to try things I normally would not have. Like me, he was a Stones fan particularly of the weaving interplay between the two guitars where the listener might not be able to immediately distinguish who is playing what. It all sounds so well integrated that there is no need to dissect it. Besides, if that even crossed your mind it simply meant the performance was at best average.
When it came to writing songs, I didn’t know what his process was but it was fast and versatile such that he could write to a title or a phrase or begin with a set of chords. However, he told me that his biggest challenge was the distraction of having multiple options. He felt he could go in different directions – rock, country, R&B, or avant-garde and it wasn’t clear what the most expedient thing would be. And the resulting confusion undermined his goal setting efforts. Most people are limited in a way that makes these considerations largely academic or irrelevant, but Olin was gifted in an absolute sense so I could appreciate his struggle (not that I shared in it) just that he truly had a number of possibilities that most artists do not. And there was always the tug of financial obligation which led to a stint with local oldies band The Cruise-O-Matics. just to pay some bills.
There are a number of stories to relate though I’ll let it sit for now. I do recall with great fondness in the mid 80s stopping by his apartment on Pharr Rd which he shared with his future wife Sloan. At the time I was living behind the original Longhorn Steak house on Peachtree so it was easy to pop by and talk, learn tunes, and generally shoot the breeze. We had both left the south side for more convenient access to things and Buckhead was only in the earliest stages of becoming the obnoxious night time entertainment district that it would grow to be. However, then it was easy to get around. But as is the case in life, he went his way, I went mine and it was quite some time before I spoke with him courtesy of a chance encounter with Sloan. Unfortunately, he passed away a couple of years ago but it was really good to reconnect. For a taste of his music check out this video compilation assembled by Dean (a fellow south sider and good friend to Olin) which is just a sample of a much larger catalogue of impressive stylistic variety. I have an 8-track tape of some of his sessions completed at Song Bird studio off of Howell Mill Rd which I plan to convert to MP3 – as soon as I find an 8-track player to do so. © 2019 The Stewart Avenue Kid
My first actual “get off my lawn” experience came from a guy who lived on Springdale Place in Southwest Atlanta. (Out of respect for the current owners I won’t be specific about the address). On my way home from school. I cut though this guy’s yard and he comes out screaming that I was “disrespecting his home” and that I shouldn’t be “so goddamn lazy” and that I should “get a haircut”. When I related this story to others, someone rolled his house (something of a lost art) which of course made the guy think that I did it. Anyway. Moving on to a more general (if not biased) view of this dynamic – It becomes the duty of each generation to discredit the one preceding it just as the established populous will condemn younger generations who “carelessly squander” the “hard won freedom so selflessly given” to them by their forefathers. “Ungrateful young punks” was a commonly heard phrase. Some degree of generational friction is inevitable and especially so in times of economic decline when people go on fault finding missions. However, I’ve also noticed that in communities where job possibilities remain scarce, Happy Hour conversations will usually telescope down to the troubles of that particular day as taking a longer view becomes far too depressing. Sort of a working man’s realization of “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof“. And the commonality of the shared struggle, along with gallons of booze, would allow people to forget the differences which is why you could find people in their 20s tossing back drinks right next to some geezer all without conflict unless (or until) someone cadged one too many drinks which was a serious offense.
His defense mechanism involved blurting out random accusations of homosexual activity with the hope that any scrutiny he was enduring would be redirected to his target long enough to allow for an escape
Speaking of which – there was a professional mooch named Ray, a young guy, who got banned from LP Pips for stealing left over drinks from uncleared tables. He positioned himself in proximity to large parties waiting for the group to disband after which he would swoop in and guzzle half empty pitchers of warm beer while alternately sucking down residual vodka from long abandoned mixed drink glasses which might also contain cigarette butts. “The vulture is a patient bird, my friend” he would say of his “accomplishments” which was shocking in that he saw his scavenging as some noble strategy sanctioned by Mother Nature. When confronted, his defense mechanism involved blurting out random accusations of homosexual activity with the hope that any scrutiny he was enduring would be redirected to his target long enough to allow for an escape – sort of like an octopus squirting ink to disorient. And as people took time to puzzle out the veracity of his claim (which might also involve those not present such as the President, Mary Tyler Moore, or Billy Graham) he would be gone. Someone rightly pointed out that if he put half as much energy into legitimate enterprise as he did mooching, he could afford his own damn drinks and perhaps rescue whatever was left of his loathsome reputation.
Talk to any young woman who worked a hotel check-in desk during a typical fraternal convention. Having to endure the amorous advances of fezzed-up “Potentates” took its toll
Mooses, Elks, Lions, and Shriners
While I encountered many representatives of preceding generations at Brothers Three and Banks Liquor store I also ran into them at the The Stewart Avenue Moose Lodge which was located on the hill behind the Golden Ribbon. The Lodge served as a private club for the older set who basically liked to get their drink on, shoot some pool, and have the occasional BBQ for charity which is ostensibly what they were all about. What I liked about the Moose crowd was that they did not give a damn about anything and with the exception of a few jerks who couldn’t hold their liquor it was a laid back place. If you walked out the door connected to the pool room, the view overlooked the Ribbon and a portion of Stewart Avenue. If you were buzzed enough you got the idea that this was really “something”. That you were seeing a “city in motion, on the up and up” and that just maybe things were going to work out after all. But then your eyes would fall down to the parking lot of The Ribbon where someone was throwing up.
This was still the era of the Fraternal Organization which included The Lions Club, The Shriners, The Elks, The Lions Club, The Rotary, The American Legion, and The VFW with lots of member overlap between them. Civic clubs used to be THE way to get the inside angle on good jobs particularly in sales. I’m not challenging the sincerity of these groups, or their charitable contributions, but they could do some Olympian level drinking which, in the case of the Shriners, was addressed by Ray Stevens in his “all too real” Shriner’s Convention song. For supporting testimony, talk to any young woman who worked a hotel check-in desk during a typical fraternal convention. Having to endure the amorous advances of fezzed-up “Potentates” took its toll and on-the-spot employment resignations might occur due to the unrelenting (and completely unwanted) attention from men with more hair growing out their nose than on their head. George Carlin’s Shriner assessment was quite direct possibly because they disliked his long hair and hippy sensibilities:
Forty percent of all arrests, traceable [to alcohol]. Fifty percent of all first admissions to mental institutions traceable to alcohol. And then, of course, there’s diabetes, gout, high blood pressure, heart disease, insanity, divorce. So I always say “Drink up, Shriners!” whenever I see a couple of ’em.
Despite the generational friction, you could learn something from these old timers though it always fell along very practical lines such as “work for a good company”, “get married”, “buy a house”, “have children”. (preferably in that order). This was totally understandable if you grew up in the shadow of economic ruin and ongoing military activity both of which would require different existential skills than those required in the 60s and 70s wherein diplomacy and social activism might be more appropriate over a defensive mentality. (“Are you a Hawk or a Dove ?”) It’s the difference between protecting hard-earned achievements and trying to grow something totally new based on a kinder world view. Both approaches are useful although not necessarily in equal amounts or at the same time or under the same roof. Maintaining hyper vigilance in anticipation of the next financial crisis would come at some mental expense just as throwing caution to the wind when planning one’s future could be reckless and irresponsible. Family dinner table discussions could be very interesting.
Defrocked Priests and Trust Funders
I knew a guy who liked to drop acid and read The Book of Revelation. That took courage.
Moving into less serious territory, there were a couple of older characters I enjoyed talking to. The first was a former priest who I’ll refer to as Father O’Malley since I never knew his name or the circumstances of his departure from the Church – defrocked, resigned, or excommunicated ? There weren’t many Catholics in the area so it was hard to verify his backstory, but I could easily imagine him in the predawn darkness shuffling past rows of saints, some high level, some obscure, on his way to the six a.m. Mass where he was met by the same three parishioners. He had the stilted gait of the aged though his face remained unaffected by any pain he might have had so people thought him to be much younger. Periodically he would walk into the liquor store carrying a large Bible in whose margins he had scribbled various interpretative notes highlighted by tobacco smears and dried bourbon splotches. I thought these writings must surely relate to secret truths or ancient christian mysticism. And maybe they did – but there was also quite clearly a phone number written on at least one page (in the Book of Ephesians) with the name “Zelda” under it. His brand was Maker’s Mark which had that melted seal thing going on which maybe reminded him of Papal authority. Or maybe he just like getting blasted and reading the Bible. I knew a guy who liked to drop acid and read The Book of Revelation. That took courage.
Father O’Malley rattled on about church politics and how the priorities were all wrong (something of an understatement even then). “I should have been paid by the sin” he laughed. “There is no money in saving a soul just once – you gotta keep ’em coming back to pony up. Confession is just a cover“. I imagine that it was such frank talk that displeased his superiors which no doubt facilitated his exit though he had a point which definitely applied to other denominations. If you are “once saved, always saved” then why bother going to Church after conversion ? Evidently his years in the Confessional gave him preternatural ability to see through anyone’s line of bullshit and, when drunk (which was most of the time) he called them out which made him no friends. My takeaway lesson was that having deep insight into others is worthless in absence of self-restraint.
There was another guy named Bill – a pipe-smoking, professorial looking gentleman of some means which, based on his check mastheads, was due to a trust fund. Well into middle age, he alluded to Ivy League education, extensive global travel, and friendships with famous musicians though rarely included specifics. It seemed calculated to promote an air of respectability but there was a sophisticated sleaziness to it all which was very entertaining. One evening he is in NYC having “soup at Ratner’s” with some “poet friends” and two days later he is San Francisco “listening to an acetate of the upcoming Grateful Dead” album. I suspect that portions of his overall story were true though he clearly had a well lit pilot light for bullshit that could be fully dialed up in the presence of women or whomever it was needing to be impressed. He was like a performer always in search of an audience. And I was just a struggling student working in a liquor store which is why I think he let me in on his approach that legitimized “aggressive embellishment” when discussing one’s pursuits and accomplishments. “Don’t understate what it is you do. Talk it up. If you don’t then no one else will”. He had a point and I definitely needed to up my self promotion game. His “thing” was to mix pipe tobacco with marijuana and puff on that throughout the day. He could get away with it too since he looked perfect with a pipe (the only thing missing was a monocle). This “system” allowed him to smoke up in public without getting “too stoned” so he was engaging in a form of micro dosing decades before it was in vogue. He took great pains to ensure that the odor of his special blend did not betray his motives. That he was rarely without his pipe completed his cover. In addition to the look, he also had the confidence to pull it off which supports the idea that if you do something with élan then no one will take notice.
As always there is more to say and these are but two of the older characters I encountered on a frequent basis with the bulk of them being kind of hard-assed about life and not the least bit interested in anyone’s opinion especially coming from some “young punk“. What I did find was that if you could make people laugh (intentionally or not) then you would be welcomed. Not necessarily because they liked you, but just that the tension of the day would be eased, the laughter would attract women, and then the drinks would REALLY start to flow which is really all a working man really needs. There will always be the world class bullshitters like Bill and while I don’t see myself ever rising (or sinking) to his level I do understand his motivations and took a page from his book. The same with Father O’Malley. Just because I can see imminent trouble in the lives of others doesn’t mean that I should say anything. They probably already know anyway. (That I can’t seem to recognize it in my own life is another issue altogether). By the mid 70s there were at least two retirement communities in the area that were well populated and this overlaps with my job at Brothers Three that involved helping old women hide booze under their groceries so they could smuggle it into these buildings. Anyway, maybe I’m writing all this because I’m “getting up there” which I knew would happen though didn’t realize it would be here so soon. © 2019 The Stewart Avenue Kid
During the 70s, In addition to the Krishnas, The Way International (TWI) had a significant presence in Atlanta as did The Unification Church. Even Scientology had someone working the plaza down at Georgia State University. Speaking of the plaza there was also a “fire and brimstone” preacher who would drag a really big cross through there while raging on about “rampant Devil Worship”. He got banned from campus though my primary beef wasn’t his belief that we were “Irredeemable Minions of Satan” (a decent name for a metal band) but that he had attached a wheel to the bottom of the cross to make it easier for him to haul it around. Talk about being hypocritical and lazy.
I don’t think anyone joined the Moonies specifically to get laid but by the looks of many of them, The Unification church might have been their only shot at having some sex at least in this lifetime.
But it was The Moonies who exhibited that far-way, slack-jawed look that media outlets seized upon as evidence of the supposed “cult mind control” being used to siphon off the energies of American youth for seditious ends – basically to stockpile tax-exempt cash reserves for the gurus and self-declared men of god running the show. The shot callers at the Unification Church kept its labor force on the streets up to 12 -16 hours per day hustling for dough. And, unlike TWI or Scientology, the Moonie crew rarely bothered to hawk the benefits of membership except when inviting people to their weekend retreats at which, according to media reports, food was withheld pending the completion of long sermons after which famished attendees consumed drug-laced food (allegedly) designed to keep them from leaving the retreat which all along had been nothing more than a base camp for new recruits.
I don’t know how accurate this media report was but the Moonies did flourish perhaps by providing Mass Marriages calculated to ease the tensions and loneliness of the over-worked novitiates upon whose shoulders the “Church” was being built. That your spouse might be someone you didn’t know or even like was supposed to be overlooked in the name of church growth. I don’t think anyone joined the Moonies specifically to get laid but by the looks of many of them, The Unification church might have been their only shot at having some sex at least in this lifetime. The only Moonie I met that was in anyway cool really wasn’t a Moonie at all – he just masqueraded as one so that, like a hobo riding the rails of freedom, he could get free passage around the country albeit as part of the sweaty Moonie horde. He put in the time, sold the goods, and reunited with the group at the end of the day but confessed that he would be leaving once he rotated back to California. I’m not sure how he escaped the attention of the over-seers because, unlike most of his church peers, he had an undeniable streak of independence that in a cult situation is really frowned upon. I even asked him how he pulled it off. “I’m a good worker, I keep quiet, so they leave me alone”. Words to live by.
I do know that claiming large blocks of personal time was a standard technique of all the “new religions” which was remarkably effective as it would slowly isolate you from soon-to-be-former-friends, school mates, and family. Your initial involvement might be one meeting a week, then it’s three and then you are scheduling school and work around “ministry functions” because they start talking about spiritual priorities as if earning a living and going to school are inferior “worldly pursuits”. Car rides to and from various events are crammed with other “believers” and talk centers around arcane theology and there is always some upcoming special event which is right about the time you realize you are involved in something far more involved than you had originally imagined or even wanted.
While the mission of the organization involved promoting the Word Over The World, in my view it was more about having a young, mobile and unpaid sales force on the road working in the financial interests of The Way International.
If you aren’t immediately familiar with The Way International you might recall them being roasted by “The Soup” in relation to the dancing ability of their performers seen in the “Renewed Mind” video – although my experience with the organization predates this event by decades. The Way touted a form of power-based Christianity offered in home fellowships called “Twigs” so one need not tolerate musty sanctuaries filled with paraffin skinned geezers wagging the bony finger of accusation just because you had long hair. No Sir ! TWI offered fellowship with people your own age many of whom were attractive young women immersed in a new flavor of Christianity. The main pitch of TWI was a class called PFAL (Power For Abundant Living) which alleged to provide keys to the more “abundant life” referenced in John 10:10. The class was pitched (at least to me) as a one stop shop for spiritual truth that could totally replace all my previous religious training and provide a general blueprint for successful living. However, I soon learned that there were other classes to take (such as “The Renewed Mind”, “Dealing With The Adversary”. “The Christian Family And Sex”, “Intermediate and Advanced PFAL”) and if you tossed in the outreach platforms such as the one year “Word Over The World Ambassador” program and “The Way Corps” leadership program then you could easily become busy for years. There was even a College at Emporia Kansas for those with academic inclinations.
While the mission of the organization involved the promotion of the Word Over The World, in my view it was all about having a young, mobile and unpaid sales force on the road working in the financial interests of TWI. I won’t go into the group’s theology here as entire forums exist to debate that, as well as the ethics of the leadership, but there was a great deal of terminology to be learned which served as a marker of your current organizational progress. Within a five minute conversation you would encounter unbelievable amounts of bullshit buzzwords and internal lingo (“take a checkup from the neck up“, “get your needs and wants parallel“) yet people would walk away from it all exhilarated as if something meaningful had actually just happened. My distillate thinking on TWI is that many participants were on the level, at least initially, and really wanted to make a difference. But any time you have a large group of young, impressionable, and naive people, someone is going to notice and find a way to take advantage of that. I had a lot of friends involved in that scene, but I give them the credit for that and not TWI which was simply the umbrella organization under which we might have met.
He exploded into laughter as Colt 45 sprayed out of his nose – “Who let this crazy white motherfucker in here ?” Who indeed…?
I never really ever left TWI because I never really joined them at least not to the extent that everyone else did. My default approach to life has always involved an insatiable curiosity flanked by a strong level of paranoia which meant that I could easily be found in the strangest situations without every wanting to fully invest in whatever scene I had stumbled upon. In short, I was a natural party crasher who got easily bored (or suspicious) with the party that everyone else seemed to really dig. To wit, I once wound up in the bowels of West End at a poker game as the only white guy sitting next to a Black Panther, fresh out of Reidsville who, in growling tones, was laying out his vision of the future. “The last days are soon coming for you and all things White – your happiness and fortune will soon be mine“. I really wanted to avoid confrontation, but his timing was impeccable. I responded, “Well thanks for the head’s up there Eldridge but the end isn’t here quite yet” while laying out a full house (jacks over 9s) which took the pot. He exploded into laughter as Colt 45 sprayed out of his nose – “Who let this crazy white motherfucker in here ?” Who indeed…?
My involvement with TWI slowed to an end for a couple of reasons the first of which was that it was inconsistent with the lifestyle I enjoyed as part of the general Stewart Avenue experience (see the posts on this site for a deeper description). So, you know, hanging it all up to serve a Church, any Church, wasn’t on my mind. Second, I wanted to finish College and since I had to work to pay tuition there was little time left anything else. My last meaningful intersection with TWI was as a side musician for a band who had entered “The Way Music Challenge” which was sort of an internal “Battle Of The Bands” with the prize being… well I can’t really remember. The tunes were easy cover songs (at least I thought so) though the actual show itself was typical Way production with its hyper “attention to detail” thing going into over drive. People obsessing about how someone’s hair was combed (or wasn’t) or if the lighting was hitting the stage “correctly”. Guys ! It’s just a church gig – not The Stones at Madison Square Garden.
I did have a conversation with a Scientologist back in the 70s and when I told him that I had spent some time with TWI he responded, “Man, those guys are really intense. They are like a cult aren’t they”.
I was hungover the day of the show and could barely hide my contempt for the whiny control freaks in charge of it all, but I was supportive of the band I had agreed to help so just wanted to see it through. After sound check, and before they let in the crowd, I noticed this stunning blonde in a form fitting yet very tasteful white dress standing over my amplifier, cleaning the dark spots and scuff marks off the tolex (the consequences of playing dingy bars). I was amazed that anyone would even care (again “attention to detail”) and I fell into something of a trance watching and wondering how far she would go in cleaning it. She went all the way which was very hard work – especially so given her attire. When I got on stage for the performance the amp looked sparkling new. She gave me a big grin. I wanted to ask her out but as I knew I didn’t want to go to another “ministry function” I just let it be.
If you’ve made it this far you probably want to know what any of this has to do with Stewart Avenue. Or you were (or maybe are) associated with TWI and some search engine result brought you here. Anyway, in the former case it does matter in the sense that at one time in the 70s (and into the 80s) you could easily encounter Salvation Army workers, Hare Krishnas, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Baptists, Moonies, Way people, and a few groups who couldn’t be classified walking up and down The Avenue some of whom were just on their way to a destination while others stopped to “witness” to passersby. I got to meet many of them simply because they would stop by Brothers Three for some refreshment or just to stand in the air conditioning for a while before going back out into the heat of Summer. That they all got along or at least tolerated one another was pretty amazing. I never saw any fights, or anyone try to convert anyone else. That would have been funny. However, I did have a conversation with a Scientologist and when I told him that I had spent some time with TWI he responded, “Man, those guys are really intense. They are like a cult aren’t they“. Oh, the irony….
One of my favorite origin-of-life theories involves the notion that each of us has chosen to be on Earth to experience a recreational break from Eternity which, I suppose, could become boring. Kind of like choosing to pull off the Cosmic Highway into a rest stop – in this case Earth. Like how a traveler down I-75 might check out one of those Alligator farms on the way to Florida. Certainly this can all be represented in far more noble terms but I’ll hold off on the deep theology at least until Happy Hour. Some of the early church sermons I endured as a kid were as interminable as the promised pleasures of Heaven (or agonies of Hell) that await us upon departure from this planet. I remember sitting in a stifling-hot sanctuary fidgeting against itchy “church clothes” while having to feign appreciation for the Preacher talking about things that made me paranoid long before I knew such a word existed. When someone says, “God is always watching over you” my default reaction is, “Wow. Even in the bathroom ?”
And then there was that after-the-service walk down the center aisle and the predictable comments of elderly parishioners who smelled strongly of moth balls. It was like they were being embalmed incrementally so by the time they got to their own funeral there wouldn’t be much left to do except slip them into the coffin. The only thing that made the overall church experience bearable was a number of cute girls in the nearby pews but the scene was too well chaperoned to offer any interaction opportunities. My family “churched around” at places like Springdale Christian, Perkerson Baptist, and Capitol View Baptist before settling in at Capitol View Presbyterian (no longer in existence) located across from Sylvan High School. At the time, Presbyterian churches represented a form of “Christianity light” in that you got “sprinkled”, not fully immersed and your personal interpretation of biblical passages could be as figurative as you would like as long as you didn’t try to start theological debates. I think the Presbyterians were trying to go after the “walk-aways” from the Baptist Church which was a total drag (at least for me) with its promised damnation for those refusing to comply with the hyper conservative missives of the church few of which could actually be found in the Bible. Being horny was definitely a crime even if you didn’t act on it. Even thinking about being horny was off limits so on that account alone I needed to find another scene.
The general activities at our church were geared towards the interests of “older people” and youth programs weren’t even on the map. I recalled how Pilgrim children always looked like adult Pilgrims except in miniature. There was no period of adolescence back in the the Pligrim days and the kids were viewed as adults-in-training simply to be seen an not heard until they could demonstrate comparable levels of repressed behavior customarily exhibited by adult Pilgrims. The concept of adolescence emerged only in the early 1900s evolving slowly over time well into the 60s as the youth of America grew restless with the idea of having to leap directly into forms of work favored by their parents especially when there were new possibilities on offer. That this might have been perceived as laziness or ingratitude for the sacrifices of previous generations was most unfortunate. The early work-aptitude tests I took made no mention of artistic occupations and teachers sought to route anyone with such tendencies into factory jobs, draftsmanship, architecture, or some form of engineering. No Sir. No way was society going to tolerate another generation of distracted, self-indulgent hippy workers.
When someone says, “God is always watching over you” my default reaction is, “Wow. Even in the bathroom ?“
The reason I bring any of this up is because lots of people, (then and now), didn’t seem to understand how and why various religious cults grew in popularity in the 60s and 70s, but when considering what I just told you then it should be easier to understand. Put simply, organized religion of that time, combined with long established societal expectations, ignored the interests of young people while doubling down on the practice of berating the youth of America for not falling in line with another war on communism. The social condition of the US was far from ideal at the time and a generic repetition of what might have been appropriate (or at least familiar) a decade or two before might not be in the best interest of the country. So, imagine that in this context if some new, hip church showed up that intentionally welcomed young people then could it be that big of a surprise that there were takers ? I mean a church (even if it wasn’t a recognized one) that had people your age who held common interests ? That didn’t require you to wear suffocating clothing ? Alternative religions exploded in size in the 70s because young people needed a place of their own – that’s all there was to it. In saying this I have demeaned the work of many Sociology PhD students who had to dress it all up just to get past their committees and eventually graduate although I stand by my version that has more explanatory power.
A pothead acquaintance of mine used to roll joints on his Ouija board to get “some of that paranormal thang goin’ on – Ghost Ganja !“
It didn’t mean that these setups were all on the level or that they had the best interests of everyone in mind. Maybe they did at first and the mission got corrupted over time or perhaps there was bad intent from the get go. Some “older” people figured out how to mobilize and manipulate “hippie labor” to their own ends. And it certainly didn’t escape my attention that lots of participants (young and old) were simply pleasure seekers looking for action. So you had older clergymen dipping into the congregation for some “comfort” but it was all rationalized because there are “no rules” right ? Any pretense about trying to better the world through communal action was generally abandoned although, as we moved into the 70s, the sex and drugs remained. Any time you have large collections of young people then hookups will happen and outsiders will notice – some of whom were representatives of the larger mainstream churches angry that their offering plates were losing money to some “sex cult”.
For reasons only they could tell you, the Hare Krishnas used to aggressively canvas Stewart Avenue in the late 60s and early 70s which paralleled their activities in downtown Atlanta especially before rock concerts at The Omni where they would offer bread and incense in exchange for small change donations. The Krishna women (the few that there were) had this rapid fire sales move where they would step to you while pinning a rose to your shirt all within like two seconds after which they would extend their hands to get the donation. It was an impressive maneuver and easily worth the 50 cents I might offer as tribute. On Stewart Avenue, the Krishnas worked the stretch starting at Zayre’s discount store up to Stewart Lakewood Shopping Center as there was a fair amount of foot traffic which simplified their goal of selling incense or a copy of their magazine which talked of the “GodHead”. They targeted younger people such as myself but weren’t shy about talking to anyone who might have some spare change jingling in their pockets.
For those old enough to remember, Atlanta Airport, and US airports in general, used to be plagued by any number of religious and human rights groups who would aggressively panhandle travelers so much so that it was finally shut down altogether. Such activity was masterfully parodied in the Airplane movie wherein Robert Stack runs a gauntlet of donation seekers. The Krishnas had a temple down on Ponce which hosted a weekly vegetarian feast where it was rumored that they laced the food with “brain washing chemicals” which only served to intrigue me. But my objections to the Krishnas had nothing to do with religion or their choice of food (spiked or otherwise). I could just never join a group that required baldness or at least a crew cut. Maybe I was vain but I also noticed that women did not generally look favorably on Krishna men except perhaps for the female Krishnas themselves who always seemed to have a peculiar form of body odor. It’s quite possible that the men did also but the women had this flirty way about them that involved getting much deeper into your personal space which would make any hygiene deficiencies much more apparent. Of course, 4 hours of canvasing the Atlanta streets in July might result in having a certain body aroma independently of your religious mission.
I’ll be splitting this post up into multiple parts because I’m like 1800 words into this thing and still have a lot to cover. But before I wrap this up I wanted to point out that the first ever Christian (or religious) bookstore I ever encountered was Berean Christian Bookstore located on Cleveland Avenue. It’s still there ! Although I think the name might have changed. For those of you familiar with the area, who might also be having a senior moment, this was close to the Old South Bottle Shop and the K-Mart farther down Cleveland Avenue right after it crossed over I-75. One could also move farther down the road to play a few rounds of golf at Brown’s Mill Golf course.
While this doesn’t seem such a big deal now it was then because it never occurred to me that there would be an entire enterprise dedicated to christian publishing. I just assumed that all you needed was a copy of The Bible and a decent Church and you were good to go. But Berean’s had like 15 different styles of Bibles and Concordances on offer as well as study guides in addition to books about “Godly Living”, “Christian Ethics”, and several publications on the dangers of the occult – to which I was immediately attracted. This wasn’t at all a superficial interest as my Father had a book by parapsychologist Hans Holzer, all around “ghost guy”, long before such a thing was popular. I read how he and his “medium friend”, Sybil Leek would investigate supernatural activity which probably influenced later movies like Poltergeist. Just to say that I was no stranger to the terminology of the occult or its negative image in the eyes of Church.
I had a Ouija board when I was a kid and I’m certain that any spirits inhabiting that thing were scared off (more probably bored) by my inane questions. The odd thing is that I kept misplacing it although it later occurred to me that maybe it was hiding from me. “Oh no – You again ! Please, NO !” I wasn’t the only person who took a cavalier attitude towards the thing – A pothead acquaintance of mine used to roll joints ON his Ouija board to get “some of that paranormal thang goin’ on – Ghost Ganja !“. At the time, Scéances were still happening and there was a group of older kids who held these things and they talked about how they got “signs from the beyond” so I attended one of these and NOTHING happened. Well, the girl next to me did put her hand on my thigh which in my mind qualified as a supernatural event. So we left the Scéance early thus breaking the “sacred circle” albeit for a very good reason…. Stay tuned for Part 2.
I find myself at a crossroads with this post in that I’m struggling (albeit mildly) about the direction in which I should take this blog – if I should take it anywhere at all. It was originally motivated by a self-serving need to document some of the events and perspective of the area before I forgot it all. Most of these posts are things I’ve related in conversations through the decades so I figured why not just write it all down and refer people to it just to save time ? You know – I’ll create a “FAQ for Stewart Avenue” kind of thing. What I didn’t understand is that people don’t read as much as they used to and competition for attention is at an all time high what with various social media notifications littering one’s phone. This is in addition to ongoing daily responsibilities and the inevitable vagaries of life. It’s also somewhat problematic that my posts tend be much longer than the typical blog one might encounter. For that I make no apologies because I’m always trying to get AT something with these things even as I’m attempting to be informative at a factual level. Were I a better writer, the posts might be more impactful with fewer words. As to what exactly it is I’m trying to get AT, I don’t really know. It could be something really heavy, (at least for me), though it’s probably just more of the general restlessness I’ve always felt that doesn’t allow me to feel satisfied with the various projects I pursue. I’m no tortured artist here but I know well the frustrations associated with trying to nail down a specific feeling or idea and falling short. Most work is only an approximation of a greater ideal anyway and I suppose I can be cool with that. At least for today anyway.
So people prefer to hear these stories along with any comments (wry or otherwise) that I might use to punctuate the narrative. And having spent a significant amount of time in various “night life” establishments I do realize that the verbal tradition has always been more popular than the written one. And these stories will usually sound better after a few drinks though alcohol is by no means a prerequisite for enjoyment. Nonetheless, I’ve attempted to capture that verbal “saloon dynamic” in how I write these things but it’s only an approximation of how I would REALLY convey the story which might involve more grit. And it wouldn’t be at all gratuitous since the language of the time and place was in fact, on average, more primitive though infinitely more to the point than what one encounters in other parts of life. Just to say that you might suspect that what I’ve offered in these posts is a somewhat sanitized version of events…..and you would be right.
Anyway this approach has all sort of worked and I do get positive feedback although the target readership for this blog is surprisingly hard to nail down demographically. On any given day I get 15-20 visitors most of whom appear to be genuinely interested in the content but there are always a number of apparent out-of-towners who seem interested in escort style companionship as evidenced by the search terms they use and the articles they access. For example, I somewhat regret using the word “prostitute” in one of the post titles because it draws in the “wrong element” (albeit a minority) though prostitution was (and continues to be) a big factor in the demise of Stewart Avenue so it was reasonable to include it. In summary, I do get steady readers who are enjoying the content but I get comparatively few comments thus it remains a mystery as to what they might like to see in future posts. This is not at all to say that the “well has run dry” only that I don’t really know who the readers are so it’s hard to know what direction to pursue. I completely understand that many are, like myself, former residents of the area but there is large variation in age with some having lived there and left before the down turn.
The “baby boomer” generation is supposedly those born between 1946 and 1964 which is a wide enough interval to guarantee big differences in taste, interests and motivation so what might be fascinating for me might not at all be for someone born in 1948 (although I’ve gotten interesting feedback from people as old as 90 !) As an example, I get antsy in discussions with Atlantans who aggressively praise Lewis Grizzard as a comedy genius since I never really “got him”. Grizzard did no one any favors by trying to make a fetish of being southern combined with that over the top, “down home” humor which seemed only to turn back the clock on how southerners are perceived. Put it this way, I’ve never met someone who actually tried to make their southern accent MORE intense although comedians like Jeff Foxworthy who, with his cackling drawl, continue to perpetuate a post-modern Hee-Haw idea of what life is like in the south. He makes a lot of money so there is obviously a market for it. I make distinctions between him and someone like Jerry Clower who actually grew up in the stark rural environment he used to generate material for his act which was more akin to improvisational story telling than offering mere riffs on “redneck culture”. Clower was more organic whereas recent “southern comedians” are more contrived and glibly observational which is odd since most (if not all) of them are in fact southern ! This isn’t to say that I don’t see value in what I call “working class humor” and one the best modern examples actually comes from Canada in the form of the “Trailer Park Boys”. I relate to that show on several levels because 1) I’ve had friends like that and 2) were it not for a few lucky twists of fate, I might very well be one of them ! That show has like 10 seasons though I’ve only watched perhaps the first 5 of them. That it’s set in a Canadian trailer park is just a small detail as the set of characters is somewhat universal.
What has amazed me is that I’ve been able to travel to different parts of the world and have a talent for finding the equivalent of Stewart Avenue in that locale. It could be that I unconsciously seek it out but it’s probably just as true that it seeks me out if that makes any sense. Perhaps I’ve been indelibly marked with a universal symbol which implies that I’m always down for some action and craziness. And maybe I am but I’ve somehow been able to put that aside long enough to get some work done now and then. It’s been suggested that perhaps I should making a documentary of the area what with guerrilla style, IPhone-based filming being all the rage. So it should be relatively cheap outside of personal man-hours. And while this is a possibility the question then remains “for whom would I be making it” ? Once I get a direction in mind then the compass will surely work. Your comments are welcome.
Perkerson Park, situated in Southwest Atlanta, had been largely ignored for decades before it experienced a resurgence courtesy of a Disc Golf Course which has flourished in the location since its debut in 2011. It amazes me that this general area continues to be ignored by developers given that before the real estate bubble Capitol View had some action and Sylvan Hills was being eyed by a number of land speculators. Since that time, however, investors continue to hold on to their money waiting to see how the Belt Line project will progress. While I’m aware that people started moving into the area as far back as the 90s the growth has never been comparable to that experienced by neighboring areas such as East Point and College Park. Years ago I ran into a buzzed hipster who claimed to be a reporter / writer for Creative Loafing (if i recall correctly – I was probably buzzed also). She was telling anyone who would listen that she had just closed on a “cool house”. Upon making an inquiry as to its location I was met with the classic hipster response of “Oh I’m sure you won’t know where it is but if you must know it’s Capitol View”. Rather than engage in a back-and-forth with someone hell bent on one-upping the universe, I offered a simple, “You’re such an urban pioneer”, which she mistook as a compliment. Back to the geography – it’s important to note that the official address for Perkerson Park is 770 Deckner Avenue which produces confusion for those unfamiliar with the area as there is a nearby street called Perkerson Rd. which hosts the Jeremiah S. Gilbert house located in the neighborhood of Perkerson Woods. In reality Perkerson Park is more aptly described as being in Sylvan Hills so the proximal street names can be somewhat misleading.
Wholesome Jam Sessions
A reader of this blog informed me that in the early 1960s the majority of Perkerson Park “action” was mostly of the “wholesome variety” with the pavilion being a favorite hangout for teenagers and church groups. My source also tells me that local boy turned music star Tommy Roe would show up for the occasional jam session as he was perfecting tunes like “Sheila” though he was somewhat protective of that particular composition perhaps sensing that it would be a hit. Later there was The Spontaneous Generation who was destined for the big time and had some success with Up in My Mind. (backed with a cover of The Who’s Pictures of Lily). They never realized their full potential due in part to an unfortunate accident involving keyboard player Terry K who remained in the region for quite some time thereafter making music now and then produced by local music teacher Jon Lloyd. Another band that jammed there included Enertia though there were other musicians worthy of note whom I will attempt to cover in a future post.
Relative to aesthetics and geography Perkerson Park was lush green and in close proximity to Sylvan Hills High School (The Golden Bears) which insured a lot of use by students. (Exactly what they “used” there varied with the times). The Park was comprised of two major parts – the upper level which contained three baseball fields (one for softball) and the general recreational area that included a tennis court and a pavilion. The levels were bisected by an unimpressive creek that ended into some woods which provided an easy escape for marijuana smoking kids seeking to avoid the law or bullies looking to rip them off. Those not experienced with navigating that back patch of woods (or too stoned to do so) would inevitably trip on the underbrush or run into trees. You then had to loop around behind Cahoon Street and emerge between one of the duplexes to complete your escape – not that I would know anything about that.
“You Bitch. How Could You ?”
In my first year of Little League the ball fields were unkempt with over grown grass and a creaky old score board with metal numbers. In my opinion this was the best situation as we could play baseball in peace without hyper competitive parents injecting their madness into our games. As the 70s progressed I noticed that some of the dads would drink liquor at the game and harangue coaches to get more playing time for their “gifted son” who might very well be just an average player. Some of my coaches were “fans of the flask” themselves and weren’t above getting a little tight to deal with the lunacy of the parents. One of our coaches passed out during the game and we let him sleep it off as we knew how to deal with tactical game issues as well as he did. The funny thing is that while in his semi-coma state he kept muttering, “you bitch, how could you” under his breath. It became a tag line at practice and later games. I’m also pretty sure more than a few affairs got started at the ball field bleachers as some of the dads would zoom in on women whose husband always seemed to be traveling. The pickup action would start even before the game as some guy would slide onto the bleachers next to a Mom and open with the line, “so what team does your son play for ?”. In reality it was a small world then and people more or less knew who was in the market for action as the gossip traveled rapidly. But it was still kind of tough to watch such garish displays wholly lacking in polish. To put it bluntly these guys had no game and even I could see that.
Each team was sponsored by a local merchant such as Holton Dodge or Millirons Garage (I played with the brothers Larry and Donald) though we were individually required to sell chocolate to raise additional funds to further supplement the league’s bank account. As if that wasn’t enough each team also had to select a “Team Queen” who was usually a sister of one of the players although a cruel dad singled out an effeminate player as a possible candidate. It all escalated to the point where they had a beauty pageant to select the prettiest Team Queen. It was a total circus and I got tired of showing up because of all the activities that had nothing to do with baseball combined with the coaches becoming all “big league” and competitive even though most of them really had no solid ideas about the game let alone how to teach the fundamentals. Worst of all they took note of whose parents showed up and benched any kid whose parents (or parent) didn’t show up. In effect bowing to pressure to play the children of the loudmouths and sponsors. This, combined with the fact that my folks were fighting at home led to a personal malaise and a corresponding slump on the field. What had once been fun was now a total drag. I do have to give props to one of the umpires, Don F., who cheered me up and was very encouraging.
Being Too Good Can Be a Problem
Most parents were completely delusional about the true extent of their kid’s actual talent and it was only in the face of “real talent” that it became clear that their son was probably not destined for the big leagues. As an example there was a young black kid named Daryl Underwood who hit home runs with great ease and he regularly embarrassed the league’s best pitchers by effortlessly “moon decking” any type of delivery that came his way. Despite his obvious ability (or perhaps because of it) he was denied participation in that year’s All Star team. This was one of my first personal experiences with overt racism and it puzzled me that the league would forgo the superior abilities of a player simply because of skin color but the coach was overheard saying in a rabid tone that that year’s team was “goddamned going to be 100% lily white“. This all became academic at least for that moment when Daryl died not long thereafter having fallen out of the back of a pick truck on the way home. There was another great athlete named Jeff Culbreth who was far too good for the Little League scene and after a successful high school career in baseball, football, and basketball he was drafted by the Braves though spent only one year with their Greenwood team before returning home and also meeting with an untimely demise.
Ah before I forget – here is a picture of one of the sponsor pages from my 1970 version of the Perkerson-Sylvan Little League bulletin. Check the end of this post for more pictures. If you grew up in the area get ready for a trip down memory lane mes amis.
Quaker State Hair Mousse
The Park was also a place for backseat romance for the younger crowd but guys like James B. (a mostly toothless illiterate gas station attendant) enjoyed taking his conquests there for some action which he would relate to us (completely unsolicited mind you) at Bros Three. He had a habit of punctuating the sexual aspects of his story by sharply inhaling air which made a whistling sound as it rushed over his bare gums. The volume and duration of the resulting sound corresponded to the level of pleasure he had experienced. Once he started down this road there was no stopping him so you would just have to walk away if it got too vivid. He would usually be smoking no filter Camels during these performances and if he inhaled too deeply or quickly he would double over into a paroxysmal coughing fit. Upon recovery he would behave as if nothing happened and then offer, “but it was soooo goooooood”.
James worked at the Shell station at the corner of Stewart and Cleveland which was operated by Raymond Hoffman a straight-laced import from Pennsylvania with whom I later worked at Banks’ Liquor Store. James was pretty good with gas station activities and this still being the era of full service gas stations he had plenty of work. It also put him in direct proximity to lustful women who would drive into the station in various states of undress. I believed him as we experienced the same phenomenon at Bros Three with the Drive in Window which was actually more of a door. The trouble though was that these women were usually unappealing in the extreme at least as far as I was concerned. Some of the older guys, or guys with lower standards, would happily roll the dice.
James was not what you would call a hygiene fanatic. On Friday he would have a couple of day’s worth of accumulated oil in his hair which had dropped from the grease rack under which he spent most of his time doing oil changes and lube jobs. Gobs of the stuff would still be there on Monday afternoons when he stopped by for a few beers. It functioned like sort of a hair Mousse. As he had pretty thick hair it kind of worked but he had this continual petroleum smell that followed him around. Every time he lit up a cigarette I was afraid he might burst into flames. None of this seem to deter his conquests. James had a daughter who took a liking to me and she would drive up to Bros Three and ask if I wanted to “go parking” with her. She would catch me on the way back from taking trash to the dumpster (how romantic). It’s not that she was bad looking just that after having endured many of her Father’s conquest stories, combined with the whole petroleum hair gel thing, I really couldn’t get enthused. I mean what if she too enjoyed making that whistling sound ?
I cannot reasonably capture the significance of Perkerson Park in a single post. I just wanted to present an overview here. There are many more stories I could relate but I’ll save them for the book ha ha). Anyone with personal experience of the Park will have their own tales on offer – the proverbial good, bad, ugly. And depending on the era of your experience it could be innocent memories of teenage romance, a family reunion or a church barbecue. Or …..maybe a bad (or good) acid trip, a great band, or a fight between those types who had no other way to distinguish themselves except by violence. In fact my last time at Perkerson Park was not a positive one as it seemed to be inhabited by those with no promising job possibilities so they didn’t know where else to go. I mean once you start closing in on 30 you might want to consider making some decisions that don’t involve getting blasted in the Park. And while I can understand the appeal of such actions and wasted plenty of time doing nothing myself – I kind of knew that it was best to move on. © 2017 The Stewart Avenue Kid
And finally here are some more excerpts from the 1970 Perkerson-Little League bulletin: