Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
seemed more reasonable to block off, say, eight hours for personal stuff. Make it ten hours for
unanticipated stuff, like a rigorous broadcast schedule. That would still leave fourteen hours,
yielding nine to eighteen goes a day. Think of it! God, how satisfying would that be?
Topping it all off: the money. I didn't mention the money to my sweetie just yet. I was sav-
ing the news of my decision to become a radio rock star for a special celebration.
The girlfriend looked troubled, annoyed and upset. She walked away, leaving me to won-
der what. What?
Even eight times a day would be better than what we had, which was what? Two? Three?
Ah, youth; taut as a drumhead and subtle as a pounding—and soon to be rich, rich, rich!
She announced soon after that she would head to Miami to be with her mother, and she
left. Such was the fickle nature of showbiz. I liked her, supported her and tolerated her quirks.
I could not imagine anything long term, but her departure felt like a loss of magnitude pos-
sibly greater than showbiz. She humbled me. I had nothing but picking apples and stealing
pop bottles, slinging pizza when I could stand it, and roofing until springtime melted into
summer. I could meet my pesky needs but felt foolish dragging dates up the staircase and
pounding the jam into the floor/ceiling for Geoffrey's family to ignore like the two hundred
fifty pound fuck in the attic.
It was the best of times and the worst of times.
Something had to give. Months stacked up, and those of us stuck in the campus/jungle in-
terface felt like sitting ducks. Movement could change things, but the questions of where to go
and what to do became circular and migrations became conceptual. The best option to con-
finement was upping the dosage.
We could sit and spin, with lyrics to facilitate our lyrical notions. In
Mr. Tambourine
Man
our jingle jangle mornings got validated—as evening's empire crumbled into sand, and
though we were not sleepy our weariness amazed us . . .
And the ancient empty street's too
dead for dreaming.
I saw Bob Dylan not too long ago. he interviewer asked if he would con-
sider composing more lyrics like those written in the 60s. Dylan said, “No. That won't happen
again.” Is
the ancient empty street too dead for dreaming
? Probably not, but the singular lyric of
the 60s will be a long time coming back.
Meanwhile, becoming one with the smoke and pale light, we drifted, mostly on short trips
around the bend.
