Stoned English Majors
On a late-spring night half-a-century back, best as I recall, I drove a Plymouth through a restaurant napkin and entered another universe. Of the first I’m reasonably sure; second, certain. It was a time of infinite possibility, near-probability, life all full ahead, fears masked in male bravado, if there at all, and as the black rotary phone in my bedroom shot unanswered rings at Phil’s place, it was like I could hug the future. And expect it to hug me back. 1970, 18-edging-toward-19, was the last year I’d live with my folks in their West Oak Lane, Philadelphia home, which has housed...
Read MoreVisitor
As I drew nearer the house, my carriage rolling slowly under a clear sky, not a single sound to mar the late afternoon, a sense of dread pervaded my soul. Still several miles away, I could see the ancient structure atop the hill, regal and prominent, like the residence of a Lord or a King residing in sunlight and majesty. The house had occupied that spot since ancient times, and from its birth it has been occupied by the family Van Cordt. Such a large and beautiful house it was: Of its size one could wander along its hallways and easily get lost in transit from one room to another; Of its...
Read More4’33
Okay, okay, I know … I remember opening this bottle of Zocor that is right here in front of me. I mean, it was just a few minutes ago that I did, just before I let myself get distracted by the news on TV that wasn’t really news, nothing that Walter Cronkite would have put on the news anyway. The question remains, the question the bottle seems to be asking me is: did I already take my nightly tablet? Honestly, I haven’t a clue—and that, of course was something I did or didn’t do after I opened the bottle. I do remember taking a tablet—but was that last night, the night before, the...
Read MoreSuffering
I first laid eyes on her in a Massachusetts State House conference room. She was taking notes during a debate over a new voting rights bill. I was there as an ambitious investigative reporter in search of an interesting story. I nudged Lucas, my friend and fellow reporter. “Know her?” I asked. He leaned into me and whispered. “Jessica Boyd. Committee staffer.” He frowned, shaking his head. “She’s involved with some dude named Leo.” I accepted the information as gospel. Lucas—single and always on the hunt—knows the skinny on every Beacon Hill mark. I recorded her name in my...
Read MoreFor What It’s Worth
Woolworths at Cedarbrook Mall, just outside my home town of Philadelphia, didn’t look like much, but that was beside the point. Back in the Sixties, it was a great place for teenagers like me to visit during trips to the mall, especially the variety store’s record cut-out bin. Filled with carelessly tossed-in crap, near-crap, and the occasional gem, at 33 cents for a 45-rpm single, a buck for an LP, it invited those long on musical thirst and short on cash to find keys to their universe. One afternoon in 1968, I found one of mine, a rare version of Buffalo Springfield’s self-titled...
Read MoreThe Bridge at Restitution
True definition is impossible – at least that’s what I’ve heard. Each pair of eyes defines the world their own way. To my eyes, it was about Jip and The MC (The Motley Crew). To others, it was more about “the times.” Some people are tailor-made for the times. All I knew was Jip came to our school. and it seemed he was instantly an important piece of our puzzle; and we were a puzzle. Jip fit us perfectly: the funniest kid anyone had ever seen and a natural-born leader for natural-born followers. Our times? It was the end of June and the end of a road for...
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