Upper Peninsula, Michigan
I wasn't very old, maybe five, when I went into the woods with my mother to get a deer. I can see her with the .30-.30 carbine to her shoulder, behind the fallen beech trunk, and the gray brown buck down in the snowy ravine looking up as the unbelievable crack of the rifle broke the world in half. The buck leaped up the side of the ravine below us, and mother levered another round home and fired again. The buck seemed to raise up in the frozen air and then he went down, forever.
As mother dressed the buck, I asked her what my father used to do. "He worked in the woods," she said, drawing the hook knife along the belly of the buck.
I wanted to work in the woods, but it worked out differently.
It was cold, the air was full of frost.
"This is a young buck," she said. "Young bucks are alone, and they aren't as experienced. Lucky for us. We'll have meat this winter." I helped Mother drag the buck out of the woods on a toboggan. I felt bad for the young buck, but I was young.
Time passed, and I was working in California, living along the coast. Showing off for a young girl beneath the Pacific Beach Pier, I rode my surfboard into a piling. The hospital in Chula Vista is close enough to Mexico that you can see it from the windows in the hallways. I was going under when the anesthesiologist said "just talk."
"I was in some frozen woods, skating, and there was a full moon above. My dog was running over on my right. It was as bright as day, but still night. I was skating along the frozen swamp. It was heaven."
"It never froze in the Phillipines," the nurse said, "I don't know what that's like, but it sounds nice."
"It was nice," I said.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Brough Superior-THe Mozart of British Cycles
The opening scenes of "Lawrence of Arabia are as indelible as a first kiss: an overhead shot of an impossibly young and beautiful Peter O'toole prepping his Brough Superior for a run through the English summer countryside. THe following events were at once mythic, tragic, meaningless and mysterious. I have posted some research and backround on the Brough from Wikpedia below.
Brough Superior
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Brough Superior LogoBrough Superior (pr. bruff su-peer-ee-or) motorcycles and motor cars were made by George Brough in his Brough Superior works on Haydn Road in Nottingham, England from 1919 to 1940. They were dubbed the "Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles" by H. D. Teague of The Motorcycle newspaper. Approximately 3048 of 19 models were made in 21 years of production. In 2004, around 1000 still exist. T. E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia") owned seven bikes and died from injuries sustained while crashing one. George Bernard Shaw was another among many celebrities that were enthusiastic about Brough products.
George Brough was a racer, designer, and showman. All Brough Superior motorcycles were high performance and superior quality. Most were custom built to the customers needs, and rarely were any two of the same configuration. Each motorcycle was assembled twice. The first assembly was for fitting of all components, then the motorcycle was disassembled and all parts were painted or plated as needed, then the finished parts were assembled a final time. Every motorcycle was test ridden to ensure that it performed to specification, and was personally certified by George Brough. The SS100 model was ridden at 100 mph or more prior to delivery. The SS80 model was ridden at 80 mph or more before delivery. If any motorcycle didn't meet specification, it returned to the shop for rework until it performed properly. The fit and finish was comparable to a Rolls-Royce automobile, and were among the most expensive motorcycles.
Brough Superior motorcycles have always been rare and expensive. Because of their connection with Lawrence of Arabia, their high quality of fit and finish, and their reputation for reliability and race victories, they are among the most collectible motorised vehicles. In 2007, prices ranged from $40,000 to more than $3,000,000 USD.
Lawrence of Arabia on a Brough Superior he called George V. Lawrence owned eight Brough's in all, listed below, with notes in brackets:
* 1922 - Boa (the name was short for Boanerges) * 1923 - George I (the cost of £150 was more than the price of a house at the time) * 1924 - George II * 1925 - George III * 1926 - George IV * 1927 - George V (RK 4907; see photo) * 1929 - George VI (UL 656) * 1932 - George VII (GW 2275) (the bike he died on) * Undelivered - George VIII (still being built when Lawrence died).
Brough Superior
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Brough Superior LogoBrough Superior (pr. bruff su-peer-ee-or) motorcycles and motor cars were made by George Brough in his Brough Superior works on Haydn Road in Nottingham, England from 1919 to 1940. They were dubbed the "Rolls-Royce of Motorcycles" by H. D. Teague of The Motorcycle newspaper. Approximately 3048 of 19 models were made in 21 years of production. In 2004, around 1000 still exist. T. E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia") owned seven bikes and died from injuries sustained while crashing one. George Bernard Shaw was another among many celebrities that were enthusiastic about Brough products.
George Brough was a racer, designer, and showman. All Brough Superior motorcycles were high performance and superior quality. Most were custom built to the customers needs, and rarely were any two of the same configuration. Each motorcycle was assembled twice. The first assembly was for fitting of all components, then the motorcycle was disassembled and all parts were painted or plated as needed, then the finished parts were assembled a final time. Every motorcycle was test ridden to ensure that it performed to specification, and was personally certified by George Brough. The SS100 model was ridden at 100 mph or more prior to delivery. The SS80 model was ridden at 80 mph or more before delivery. If any motorcycle didn't meet specification, it returned to the shop for rework until it performed properly. The fit and finish was comparable to a Rolls-Royce automobile, and were among the most expensive motorcycles.
Brough Superior motorcycles have always been rare and expensive. Because of their connection with Lawrence of Arabia, their high quality of fit and finish, and their reputation for reliability and race victories, they are among the most collectible motorised vehicles. In 2007, prices ranged from $40,000 to more than $3,000,000 USD.
Lawrence of Arabia on a Brough Superior he called George V. Lawrence owned eight Brough's in all, listed below, with notes in brackets:
* 1922 - Boa (the name was short for Boanerges) * 1923 - George I (the cost of £150 was more than the price of a house at the time) * 1924 - George II * 1925 - George III * 1926 - George IV * 1927 - George V (RK 4907; see photo) * 1929 - George VI (UL 656) * 1932 - George VII (GW 2275) (the bike he died on) * Undelivered - George VIII (still being built when Lawrence died).
Monday, October 20, 2008
Poem for Brigette
I climbed a broken rock face in the dark, and rested on a high ledge
eating wild blackberrries,
thinking of you, Brigette
as the Sangre de Christos appeared in the pure singing sunlight
eating wild blackberrries,
thinking of you, Brigette
as the Sangre de Christos appeared in the pure singing sunlight
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
"I Cry All The Time"-Published at Zoetrope
God grant me the serenity to remember who I am.”-Joe South
Las Vegas Evening: Heat Exhausted Birds Fall Dead From the Sky
I was in bed on Saturday night, crying, watching Univision, not understanding a word. I was crying while Don Francisco hollered hysterically at Jackie the weather girl, dancing a teasing little twitch in front of the band. My phone played “Stranglehold.” My brother, living near elderly mother in Dallas, was taking care of things as usual, feeling the heat and looking back in a bloody rage.
“Nice going,” he said, his voice at organ stop vox drill-sergeant sarcastic.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t ever tell Mom about your out-of-control blood pressure again. She’s crying, ‘my baby, I almost lost him when he was a baby’ and the rest of it. Did you tell her you quit smoking, you liar?”
“Probably. I’m sorry. We were talking about something else. I called her to verify a story about Michelangelo and Leonardo tending to an eye injury with pigeon blood.”
“What the hell are you talking about? No, don’t tell me, just don’t make me call again about this. I’ve got my own problems.” Dead connection.
There was nothing to do but get up and ankle out onto my little terrace with a cold bottle from the refrigerator. I drank cold water in the Las Vegas pizza-oven heat, praying my headache would ease. One thing I knew for certain. I knew what it felt like to love a creation so much that you wanted to talk to it. That was one thing I had in common with Michelangelo, the bearded, marble dust covered genius of Florence and Rome. I wrote about Gerda Taro, and in the middle of the screenplay I fell in love with her. I fell in love with a woman killed 70 years ago in the Spanish Civil War. I had an orange tattoo on my forearm: “Photo Taro”, her logo. I wanted to travel somewhere and talk to her. It’s different with living people. I tend to travel the other way from them. I don’t have any pity for my own blood. This was interesting, because my own blood pressure was killing
me. Who said there was no balance in the universe, no consequences for actions? My years of drinking, weight, and cigarettes were chickens on the roof beam now. Maybe that’s what made me fascinated with a marble sculpture depicting a mother and her dead son, a son who once told his mother, on the street, that he did not recognize her, that he had no family, and yet there she was at the end. The Pieta. It sure is. A mother’s unconditional love shown for all of us. There was a line from an Emmylou Harris song where God says: “you may be a mess, but you’re still my child.” There is a connection somewhere, but you get it.
Behind the Hard Rock
Huge shallow pools, bright and sparkling in the enormous sun like a titanic turquoise and silver necklace. Sleek young women wearing good jewelry, heels and tiny swimsuits at poolside, the men in surfer trunks milling about in crotch deep waters where they could drink, gamble, connect with beautiful young women who know more then the men do, but keep it camouflaged until they know the score.
I, along with two guys from Miami, was sitting in a fully appointed (wet bar with bikini’d bartender) party cabana behind the Hard Rock. I was making a movie pitch to two indie-movie producers who needed a solid project to launder some money for some people who didn’t listen to movie pitches. The hired producers to do that. The two men from the Miami wore David streamline shades and Technicolor pool clothes, Prada flip flops. A platinum haired bartender from an agency in hot pink bikini tended bar behind them. They were drinking. I was applying for a job. I guess you could say we were all working. I told them about the scupture, a mother holding her dead son and grieving.
“I don’t get it,” the hairier producer said. “Help me out. Are you talking about Michelangelo the rapper, because I kind of get a woody thinking about that.”
“No, the sculptor, ” I said, lighting a Camel.
“Ok, let‘s cut the shit and get down to it,” the shaved head producer said, glancing at his clunky platinum watch and making a face. “ By the way, this is a no-smoking cabana unless it‘s weed . So put that out. I didn’t come to Vegas to get smoke blown up my ass. So here I am, listening about a piece of shit sculpture of a broad holding her dead son. Just so you know, I’m doing this because I’m re-paying an outstanding marker to a dear friend . Otherwise, the closest you’d get to me would be bringing the ice and wiping my ass. Why should we make this? Who even cares about it?” He sat back and waited. It was a good question. Maybe nobody. Maybe everybody.
“Michelangelo,” I said, evading the question, “made his masterpiece at the height of his powers and under enormous pressure. He suffered an injury to his eye while using a thin chisel and thought he’d lost it.”
“Lost what? His schwantz?” The hairy one shook the ice in his drink to signal bikini girl. He had a twenty dollar bill wrapped around the glass.
“I’m falling asleep here,” the shaved one said
“An apprentice” I continued, “took him to his greatest rival, Leonardo-not the ninja turtle- who knew something of human physiology. He sprayed cool pigeon blood into the eyes, and the shard of metal eased out. Leonardo bandaged him, a patch actually, and asked him about “The Pieta.”
“The what?”
I ignored them.
“Leonardo said ‘I heard you threw a mallet at the base because it wouldn’t talk to you.’ Michelangelo looked at him with one burning eye and said, ‘no, I threw it because I couldn’t talk to them.’”
“Ha” the hairy one said. “Wack job. He wanted to talk to the statue”
The shaved one took a long drink. He looked at me with no hostility on his faceted, hairless face. Maybe was thinking about a muscular, lusty Italian sculptor, sexing up a hot babe beneath a huge Italian moon, ripped off from“300“. Leonardo. The old hateful prick who trains Mike for the big project, a statue of the broad with the dead guy in her lap. “Fanfare for Mike” by Bill Conti, Jr.
“You want something to drink, Johnny?” The shaved one was genial now, using my name for the first time.
“How about some water,” I said.
“Hey, Seka the Bartender. Some Pellegrino for our guest” The platinum girl got a small green of bottle Pellagrino out of the refrigerator and handed it to me. She smiled.
“Do I tip you?” I asked
“Let them handle it. I love the idea, Honey. It reminds me of when I used to go to mass” she said. Just then, I started to cry.
“What‘d she say to you? Hey, what did you say?,” the shaved one said.
“Allergies,” I said. That was a lie. The meds that flattened out my blood pressure made me cry all the time.
“I’m kinda getting a hold of this thing’s jerk rope” the shaved one said. “You got a script?
I handed him a manila envelope containing 233 pages.
“He was switch hitter, wasn’t he? Michelangelo,” the shaved one asked.
“I don’t know. He loved beauty in men and women. He was in love with a woman and probably in love with a man. It wasn’t considered unusual. There is nothing known for certain of his personal life. My script is a story about his work and the pressures around him. Think “Amadaeus” meets “Rome.”
“We could shoot in South Africa. Or Libya,” the shaved head producer said. “Even in the Caymans.”
The hairy one was quiet now.
“Why don’t you let us look at this fucking thing” the shaved one said. “Who is your agent?”
“Beth Planet.”
“We heard of her. Tough bitch.”
“She’s my niece.”
“Oh, sorry. Anybody else seen this?”
“ Russell Crowe,” I lied.
“Shitsky,” the hairy one said, sitting back into the coral cabana lounge.
“He‘d be perfect as Michelangelo” the woman piped up.
“Just stay out of it and get our guest here another Pelligrino. We got enough producers around here.” the shaved head producer said. To me, genially: “What did he say?”
“Russell said he was thinking about some things.”
“Listen, take some Pelligrinos with you. It’s hot like a rented box in this desert,” the shaved one said, gesturing with irritation toward the platinum haired woman “Get him some Pelligrinos, for Christ’s sake. Johnny, we’ll be talking with you. Hey, are you still boxing?” He dropped into a mild boxer’s crouch.
“No,” I said. “I’m 55 years old. I’m a carpenter.”
“Oh yeah,” said the hairy one from the coral cabana lounge. “That sucks.”
“Being a carpenter or being 55?”
“Never mind, “ the hairy one said. “I don’t know what I meant.”
“Hey, how would you like to meet Tommy Lee? His cabana is just over there.”
“No thanks, I’ve got to get to work.”
I had gone maybe twenty feet when the platinum bartender touched me. She had a net bag clinking full of Pellegrino bottles.
“Don’t forget your water, Baby. And I loved your idea. Don’t let those guys make you cry. We’re all just making money. Why don't you call me? My card's in this bag. I'll make us a nice light supper. Take these and God Bless.”
Beth Planet Calling
“Hello Uncle Johnny… You’ll never guess who just called… No. Russell Crowe… Yes... He wants to know why everyone knows about the Michelangelo script except him… He thinks it‘s a great idea… He almost fired his California office… I faxed it to him…You need to get out here today…Dallas? …Well tell Grandma you have to go see Russell Crowe and she’ll understand …She thinks he broke up Meg Ryan’s marriage?… Put Grandma on ”
Las Vegas Evening: Heat Exhausted Birds Fall Dead From the Sky
I was in bed on Saturday night, crying, watching Univision, not understanding a word. I was crying while Don Francisco hollered hysterically at Jackie the weather girl, dancing a teasing little twitch in front of the band. My phone played “Stranglehold.” My brother, living near elderly mother in Dallas, was taking care of things as usual, feeling the heat and looking back in a bloody rage.
“Nice going,” he said, his voice at organ stop vox drill-sergeant sarcastic.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t ever tell Mom about your out-of-control blood pressure again. She’s crying, ‘my baby, I almost lost him when he was a baby’ and the rest of it. Did you tell her you quit smoking, you liar?”
“Probably. I’m sorry. We were talking about something else. I called her to verify a story about Michelangelo and Leonardo tending to an eye injury with pigeon blood.”
“What the hell are you talking about? No, don’t tell me, just don’t make me call again about this. I’ve got my own problems.” Dead connection.
There was nothing to do but get up and ankle out onto my little terrace with a cold bottle from the refrigerator. I drank cold water in the Las Vegas pizza-oven heat, praying my headache would ease. One thing I knew for certain. I knew what it felt like to love a creation so much that you wanted to talk to it. That was one thing I had in common with Michelangelo, the bearded, marble dust covered genius of Florence and Rome. I wrote about Gerda Taro, and in the middle of the screenplay I fell in love with her. I fell in love with a woman killed 70 years ago in the Spanish Civil War. I had an orange tattoo on my forearm: “Photo Taro”, her logo. I wanted to travel somewhere and talk to her. It’s different with living people. I tend to travel the other way from them. I don’t have any pity for my own blood. This was interesting, because my own blood pressure was killing
me. Who said there was no balance in the universe, no consequences for actions? My years of drinking, weight, and cigarettes were chickens on the roof beam now. Maybe that’s what made me fascinated with a marble sculpture depicting a mother and her dead son, a son who once told his mother, on the street, that he did not recognize her, that he had no family, and yet there she was at the end. The Pieta. It sure is. A mother’s unconditional love shown for all of us. There was a line from an Emmylou Harris song where God says: “you may be a mess, but you’re still my child.” There is a connection somewhere, but you get it.
Behind the Hard Rock
Huge shallow pools, bright and sparkling in the enormous sun like a titanic turquoise and silver necklace. Sleek young women wearing good jewelry, heels and tiny swimsuits at poolside, the men in surfer trunks milling about in crotch deep waters where they could drink, gamble, connect with beautiful young women who know more then the men do, but keep it camouflaged until they know the score.
I, along with two guys from Miami, was sitting in a fully appointed (wet bar with bikini’d bartender) party cabana behind the Hard Rock. I was making a movie pitch to two indie-movie producers who needed a solid project to launder some money for some people who didn’t listen to movie pitches. The hired producers to do that. The two men from the Miami wore David streamline shades and Technicolor pool clothes, Prada flip flops. A platinum haired bartender from an agency in hot pink bikini tended bar behind them. They were drinking. I was applying for a job. I guess you could say we were all working. I told them about the scupture, a mother holding her dead son and grieving.
“I don’t get it,” the hairier producer said. “Help me out. Are you talking about Michelangelo the rapper, because I kind of get a woody thinking about that.”
“No, the sculptor, ” I said, lighting a Camel.
“Ok, let‘s cut the shit and get down to it,” the shaved head producer said, glancing at his clunky platinum watch and making a face. “ By the way, this is a no-smoking cabana unless it‘s weed . So put that out. I didn’t come to Vegas to get smoke blown up my ass. So here I am, listening about a piece of shit sculpture of a broad holding her dead son. Just so you know, I’m doing this because I’m re-paying an outstanding marker to a dear friend . Otherwise, the closest you’d get to me would be bringing the ice and wiping my ass. Why should we make this? Who even cares about it?” He sat back and waited. It was a good question. Maybe nobody. Maybe everybody.
“Michelangelo,” I said, evading the question, “made his masterpiece at the height of his powers and under enormous pressure. He suffered an injury to his eye while using a thin chisel and thought he’d lost it.”
“Lost what? His schwantz?” The hairy one shook the ice in his drink to signal bikini girl. He had a twenty dollar bill wrapped around the glass.
“I’m falling asleep here,” the shaved one said
“An apprentice” I continued, “took him to his greatest rival, Leonardo-not the ninja turtle- who knew something of human physiology. He sprayed cool pigeon blood into the eyes, and the shard of metal eased out. Leonardo bandaged him, a patch actually, and asked him about “The Pieta.”
“The what?”
I ignored them.
“Leonardo said ‘I heard you threw a mallet at the base because it wouldn’t talk to you.’ Michelangelo looked at him with one burning eye and said, ‘no, I threw it because I couldn’t talk to them.’”
“Ha” the hairy one said. “Wack job. He wanted to talk to the statue”
The shaved one took a long drink. He looked at me with no hostility on his faceted, hairless face. Maybe was thinking about a muscular, lusty Italian sculptor, sexing up a hot babe beneath a huge Italian moon, ripped off from“300“. Leonardo. The old hateful prick who trains Mike for the big project, a statue of the broad with the dead guy in her lap. “Fanfare for Mike” by Bill Conti, Jr.
“You want something to drink, Johnny?” The shaved one was genial now, using my name for the first time.
“How about some water,” I said.
“Hey, Seka the Bartender. Some Pellegrino for our guest” The platinum girl got a small green of bottle Pellagrino out of the refrigerator and handed it to me. She smiled.
“Do I tip you?” I asked
“Let them handle it. I love the idea, Honey. It reminds me of when I used to go to mass” she said. Just then, I started to cry.
“What‘d she say to you? Hey, what did you say?,” the shaved one said.
“Allergies,” I said. That was a lie. The meds that flattened out my blood pressure made me cry all the time.
“I’m kinda getting a hold of this thing’s jerk rope” the shaved one said. “You got a script?
I handed him a manila envelope containing 233 pages.
“He was switch hitter, wasn’t he? Michelangelo,” the shaved one asked.
“I don’t know. He loved beauty in men and women. He was in love with a woman and probably in love with a man. It wasn’t considered unusual. There is nothing known for certain of his personal life. My script is a story about his work and the pressures around him. Think “Amadaeus” meets “Rome.”
“We could shoot in South Africa. Or Libya,” the shaved head producer said. “Even in the Caymans.”
The hairy one was quiet now.
“Why don’t you let us look at this fucking thing” the shaved one said. “Who is your agent?”
“Beth Planet.”
“We heard of her. Tough bitch.”
“She’s my niece.”
“Oh, sorry. Anybody else seen this?”
“ Russell Crowe,” I lied.
“Shitsky,” the hairy one said, sitting back into the coral cabana lounge.
“He‘d be perfect as Michelangelo” the woman piped up.
“Just stay out of it and get our guest here another Pelligrino. We got enough producers around here.” the shaved head producer said. To me, genially: “What did he say?”
“Russell said he was thinking about some things.”
“Listen, take some Pelligrinos with you. It’s hot like a rented box in this desert,” the shaved one said, gesturing with irritation toward the platinum haired woman “Get him some Pelligrinos, for Christ’s sake. Johnny, we’ll be talking with you. Hey, are you still boxing?” He dropped into a mild boxer’s crouch.
“No,” I said. “I’m 55 years old. I’m a carpenter.”
“Oh yeah,” said the hairy one from the coral cabana lounge. “That sucks.”
“Being a carpenter or being 55?”
“Never mind, “ the hairy one said. “I don’t know what I meant.”
“Hey, how would you like to meet Tommy Lee? His cabana is just over there.”
“No thanks, I’ve got to get to work.”
I had gone maybe twenty feet when the platinum bartender touched me. She had a net bag clinking full of Pellegrino bottles.
“Don’t forget your water, Baby. And I loved your idea. Don’t let those guys make you cry. We’re all just making money. Why don't you call me? My card's in this bag. I'll make us a nice light supper. Take these and God Bless.”
Beth Planet Calling
“Hello Uncle Johnny… You’ll never guess who just called… No. Russell Crowe… Yes... He wants to know why everyone knows about the Michelangelo script except him… He thinks it‘s a great idea… He almost fired his California office… I faxed it to him…You need to get out here today…Dallas? …Well tell Grandma you have to go see Russell Crowe and she’ll understand …She thinks he broke up Meg Ryan’s marriage?… Put Grandma on ”
Friday, September 12, 2008
"Birch Trees" by John Olson 9/11/08
(For a friend who lost her sister)
Birch trees like just enough sun and
a long, cold slumber.
They awake to rain
and share it with the sandy loam.
Just enough and no more,
even give fire against the freeze, waiting like soldiers in ranks
beneath the snow.
And when there is no more time,
they lie down in a sea of ferns;
A doe and fawn bed
down next to the white bark.
Birch trees like just enough sun and
a long, cold slumber.
They awake to rain
and share it with the sandy loam.
Just enough and no more,
even give fire against the freeze, waiting like soldiers in ranks
beneath the snow.
And when there is no more time,
they lie down in a sea of ferns;
A doe and fawn bed
down next to the white bark.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Excerpt From My Short Story
From: "Message From Beyond Death Involving Las Vegas and the Afterlife" published on Zoetrope Virtual Studio.
"I discovered in 11th grade that I liked routine and new things in tandem. Many people are like this. It is a wondrous thing. I awakened early, went out on a cold winter’s morning in my Troy Colts sweatpants and t-shirt to the yellow “Free Press” box bolted to the mailbox post and got the morning paper. The air was frigid and you could feel it in your lungs. The winter birds were ranked on the power lines. A clump of bare birch trees with trunks white as a wedding dress stood against the tweed woods where the frozen swamp was. Sometimes I skated to the bus stop through the frozen woods. One night I skated through the trees on clean ice with a full moon over head, my dog Mac on my right, running along, barking. Walking back with the frosty rolled up paper I could smell the diesel exhaust from the big trucks on the other side of the narrow, frozen river. It smelled good, almost like pretzels baking. They growled and prowled like big cats in the DPW yard. In those days, I read the Detroit Free Press every morning. For breakfast I had dark toast and a cup of instant coffee and read the paper. Headlines. Back page of pictures and Bob Talbert‘s column. Entertainment. Sports. This morning, I flipped to the back page and what I saw froze me. The Beatles playing on a London rooftop. I loved the Beatles. They could not play live anywhere else except the roof of an office building. It was a sublime solution to a host of problems. Paul had a heavy black beard and a black suit, playing that violin shaped bass as familiar as my mother’s face. Ringo wore a wet-look coat of a type that was then fashionable. John, like a carving on a bowsprit, long hair blown back by the wind as he sang into the mike, playing that white Chuck Berry-style guitar. George, dark and long mustachioed like a tartar. Brooding watchfully with his dark guitar. I felt as light and high as a cloud. Why? It was rare, surprising news and a picture of people I loved. 40 years later, I discovered that Ringo’s striking wet -look Carnaby coat belonged to Maureen, his wife. Ringo came to the rooftop and found he was cold. Maureen put her raincoat on him. It fit. Also, at the end of one song, Paul says “Thanks, Mo.” That was Maureen. She was clapping, going “yea!” I wrote this into a character in a screenplay about winter street racing to show a character snapping out of his winter depression. The movie person didn’t get it. 'It’s not visual.'"
Beatles rooftop clips on the video bar below.
"I discovered in 11th grade that I liked routine and new things in tandem. Many people are like this. It is a wondrous thing. I awakened early, went out on a cold winter’s morning in my Troy Colts sweatpants and t-shirt to the yellow “Free Press” box bolted to the mailbox post and got the morning paper. The air was frigid and you could feel it in your lungs. The winter birds were ranked on the power lines. A clump of bare birch trees with trunks white as a wedding dress stood against the tweed woods where the frozen swamp was. Sometimes I skated to the bus stop through the frozen woods. One night I skated through the trees on clean ice with a full moon over head, my dog Mac on my right, running along, barking. Walking back with the frosty rolled up paper I could smell the diesel exhaust from the big trucks on the other side of the narrow, frozen river. It smelled good, almost like pretzels baking. They growled and prowled like big cats in the DPW yard. In those days, I read the Detroit Free Press every morning. For breakfast I had dark toast and a cup of instant coffee and read the paper. Headlines. Back page of pictures and Bob Talbert‘s column. Entertainment. Sports. This morning, I flipped to the back page and what I saw froze me. The Beatles playing on a London rooftop. I loved the Beatles. They could not play live anywhere else except the roof of an office building. It was a sublime solution to a host of problems. Paul had a heavy black beard and a black suit, playing that violin shaped bass as familiar as my mother’s face. Ringo wore a wet-look coat of a type that was then fashionable. John, like a carving on a bowsprit, long hair blown back by the wind as he sang into the mike, playing that white Chuck Berry-style guitar. George, dark and long mustachioed like a tartar. Brooding watchfully with his dark guitar. I felt as light and high as a cloud. Why? It was rare, surprising news and a picture of people I loved. 40 years later, I discovered that Ringo’s striking wet -look Carnaby coat belonged to Maureen, his wife. Ringo came to the rooftop and found he was cold. Maureen put her raincoat on him. It fit. Also, at the end of one song, Paul says “Thanks, Mo.” That was Maureen. She was clapping, going “yea!” I wrote this into a character in a screenplay about winter street racing to show a character snapping out of his winter depression. The movie person didn’t get it. 'It’s not visual.'"
Beatles rooftop clips on the video bar below.
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