Goodbye Ralph MacDonald...RIP

It's a sad time in the world of music. Early Sunday morning, December 18^th, while some of us partied and some of us slept, 67 year old Ralph MacDonald, lost his long battle with lung cancer. With his friends and family gathered at his bedside, his soul went gently into the night, to emerge bathed in the bright light of his final reward. The music world morns his loss and grieves for his family. Always to be remembered.... never to be replaced, Ralph will remain a beacon guiding those who knew him and those who never will, leading us all to strive for better music and better lives. He lived life to the fullest, touched the greats and made them greater. He was a Jazz legend, Rock legend, and song writer extraordinaire. Regrettably, most Parrot Heads and Trop Rock aficionados only new him as a Coral Reefer. He was, and will remain throughout time, much, much more. Rest in peace, Ralph MacDonald. 1944-2011.

A Beautiful, Heart Warming Christmas Story

The Truth About Rudolph by: Don DaPyrate

My wife says I'm crazy.  She should know. No, it's not that. She's spent her whole life in a mental health career, and she should know crazy when she sees it. I'm almost sure she's wrong this time, though. I spent a lot of time in mental health facilities, myself. Gradually, they started trying to find ways to grab my keys. The last straw was when they finally snatched them and tried to drag me into a small room with soft walls and a tiny window in the door. I escaped...er, made good my exit, and never looked back.

However, I digress. The point is, that I know what I know, and I may not be crazy. You listen to my story, and judge for yourself.

With time, stories become vastly different from their origin, and usually far from the truth. Lines spoken and left unrecorded can become completely changed in context and meaning from what was actually said. Such is the true story of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.

The century was numbered in the higher end of the single digits, so it was a long time back. Novgorad, that was before it was called St Petersburg, was a thriving city in a cold little land we now know as Russia. The Winter that year was especially cold and brutal. In fact, it looked as though there would be no Christmas in Novgorad that year because of the inclement weather. It was just too cold for Santa to fly.

Though all the children were sad, they couldn't cry. If they cried, their tears would freeze on their faces and eventually build up in layers, until they were encased in a giant ice cube. Then, they could no longer go to school, or do their household chores. It was truly a hard Winter in Novgorad, and the prospect of there being no visit from Father Christmas. Of course in Russia he was known as Ded Moroz. It means the same thing as Santa Claus and he has the same red suit and long white beard.

Enough history! On with the story.

So, with it so cold and a strong likelihood of no Christmas presents in their near future, the dry eyed Novgorad children just stood in their cold little houses and looked pathetic. It was no different in the household of Rudolph and Natasha Ivanov and their 5 children. Natasha was brewing up hot drinks and baking delicious wood fire cookies, trying to cheer up the Ivanov brood. It wasn't working.

You can't quell the heartbreak of no Santa with tepid gruel and flat bread.

The science of meteorology was in it's infancy in the ninth century. Alright, you got me. Nobody had a clue about meteorology. It was pre-discovered at that point. Most everybody just looked outside and said, “yep, it's snowing.” Or maybe it wouldn't be snowing, so they'd say, “nope, it's not snowing,” However, A young Novgoradian named Rudolph, took a more critical view of the situation.

Rudy (his buds down at the local drinking establishment called him Rudy) would look outside and see what the weather was like, then write it down in his journal. After 9 years of note taking, Rudy thought he could see a pattern. Mainly, he realized that if it was Winter, it was probably going to be cold and possibly snowy. He also noted that if it wasn't all that cold, even if it was Winter, it might rain instead of snow. He could guess, most of the time, that if it was getting warmer outside in the evening, it might rain overnight. This led the quick minded Rudy to think he could predict what the weather was going to be tomorrow, by what it was like today.

December 24^th: We'll use that date because nobody seems sure when they actually celebrated Christmas way back then. Anyway, Rudy went outside on the evening of December 24^th, and predicted that Ded Moroz would be making his run as scheduled. He was the only person in Novgorad who thought Ded Moroz as going to make it. Soon, the word was all over Novgorad that Rudy the weatherman was finally off his nut for sure.

“He's coming, Natasha,” Rudy said. “It'll be warm enough for his sleigh to fly.”

“No way!” said Natasha.

“Way,” said Rudy.

“No way,” his good neighbor Boris said.

“Way,” said Rudolph. “You'll see. It's going to be warmer. In fact, it's going to rain. He'll be wearing a slicker, but Ded Moroz will come tonight.”

Boris just rubbed his neck, shook his head, and walked back into his house. “That Rudy's as crazy as a no legged cat trying to kick a flea,” he mumbled.

In the morning, when the good people of Novgorad looked out their windows, they were amazed to see rain dripping from their eves and familiar sleigh tracks in their yards.

The children cried tears of joy. Really. They didn't freeze on their faces! In the living room of every little house there stood a fresh, gaily decorated tree. Every tree was surrounded by piles of presents. Every Novgoradian child had a very “Happy Christmas”.

Amazed but happy, Natasha ran to Rudy and threw her arms around him with delight. “Rudy, I don't know how this happened. How could you have ever kept up such optimism? It's been below zero for the last eight weeks. What made you think you could predict warmer weather for Christmas Eve?”

“Well, Natasha,” Rudy grinned. “It seems like you should know after all these years with me. Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.”

VETERAN'S DAY - 11/11/11

     Today is a day that is much overlooked in the United States.  No, I'm not talking about it being 11/11/11.  Everyone's talking about that and reading all sorts of strange and intriguing things into the numerology of it.  Give it up number crunchers, it's just another day in the life.  The moon will make a circle around Earth, and Earth will move 1/365th of the way around our Sun.  No, the day I'm talking about is Veteran's Day.  
     da Pyrate is amazingly enough, a military veteran.  Not just in the Pyrate Marine, but in an actual branch of the US military.  Army, to be exact.  Way back before I was really born, I was a soldier.  Now, that's nothing to call heroic or to brag about.  It wasn't some "calling" I was drawn to.  In those days, either you were a college student or a draftee.  Not enrolled in an institution of higher learning, the only way to avoid the draft was to enlist.  It gave you some choice, though not much, in what path your military life would take.  Of the six male progeny of Mr. and Mrs. da Pyrate from the dirt road in Upstate NY, four of us served.  Two of my brothers didn't, due to no fault of their own.  Too poor to go to college, I went to Ft. Dix, NJ., then on to various spots around the world.
     I served my time, and got out.  I didn't enjoy standing in line, at all.  I found even less enjoyment in eating the hearty yet somehow crappy food and wearing the same outfit every day.  Even pyrates have sartorial choices.  I eventually completed my education and found a career I loved.
     All that leads me to being an undisciplined pyrate with spots on internet radio, and writing poems and phrases for a living.  That's still not where this is going.
     Today, I did something that I'd never done.  I got something for free.  Well....not exactly free, but close because I only had to pay for my drink.  Lunch was on Applebees, if they were led to believe that you were a veteran.  I led them to that conclusion, and had an excellent lunch, surrounded by families, working folks, and lots of similarly mooching veterans.
     As I sat at the bar enjoying my chicken, I struck up a conversation with a fellow who stated that he was a vet, but was buying his own lunch.  I shook his hand and congratulated him.  I told him I had to take the freebie because my cardboard box got wet, and I had to move into my Merceded-Benz.  The parking fees, I said, were keeping me flat broke.  He sneered.
     Then, I did what I'm asking everyone who may read this, to do.  Even if Veteran's Day 2011 has long passed when you see this, do it anyway.  Please shake a vet's hand and thank him for spending his time serving his country.  If it was six months of active reserve, or a thirty year career, it was time well spent for the greatest cause I can think of.  Whether that vet served as a supply person, or a combat infantry-person, he/she played an important roll.  Every individual Soldier, Marine, Sailor, Coast Guardsman, or Airman has stood in the line that protects the freedom we all enjoy.  
     When you see that ancient, bent, and maybe even wheelchair bound, ex-military person in the Veteran's Day parade, show them respect and admiration.  They are the ones among us who have actually done something to deserve it.
    

 Sunrise

The giver of light rising over the horizon.

The clouds above and the mists below

Truncated it's roundness.

A Vivaldi flute concerto orchestrated the scene.

Thoughts danced through my mind

About the significance of the moment.

It is the giver of life, maker of the winds,

The great ember of our solar system

Making it's presence known again.

A spiritual moment.

Mel Chaplin

1999

I Miss Maggie

I Miss Maggie

By: Don Winfield

      Lying here in my hammock, I open my eyes and squint out at the blue Caribbean, and then up at the green parrot squawking in the palm tree above. I don't think about it as much as I used to, but now and again my mind takes me back to the tragic events that brought me to this beach. You ask how it is that I'm retired at forty-one, living in an island paradise I bought rock cheap from Jimmy Buffett? Jimmy had never seen it. He claimed he'd picked it up as an investment, back in the '80s, after he sold the charred land under the remains of his burned out hotel over on St. Barts. He said he wanted someone to have it that could make a home there.

      As I swing gently in the shade, I often find myself thinking about Maggie. She was my wife and best friend for eighteen years, until the day we drove into St. Pete to do our weekly shopping and banking.

      Our on line sales business was providing us with a comfortable living. We figured if we kept salting away a little tax free money, in small amounts each week, we'd beat Uncle Sam and be able to retire while we could still enjoy it.     Of course, American banks have their crazy rules about disclosure, and lots of unnecessary IRS scrutiny. So, American banks would not be friendly to our long term plans. That's how the incident began.

The Incident:

      At first glance, and even after a long, hard look, it didn’t seem like a place where such a catastrophe could happen. It was a towering seventeen story glass and steel building, vaguely shaped like a giant lizard standing on its hind legs. Its tinted windows were placed so as to create the illusion of a multicolored scaly reptile. Due to poor planning, cost overruns, unpaid bribes, and typical bureaucratic ineptness, the completed building was a clumsy looking affair. I always laughed and told Maggie it looked like a hung over Komodo dragon having a rough Sunday morning. As ugly as it was, it was ironically constructed so solidly no building inspector or civil jury could find cause to tear it down and replace it with a more attractive office complex.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Maggie and I always did our banking after lunch on Tuesday. Like most people, we'd fallen into a routine that meshed with our other needs.

      The small, cramped office on the 16^th floor, had “TWBSA, LLC.” (which stood for Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, Limited Liability Company), stenciled in gold leaf on the narrow, opaque glass window. This unassuming office seemed an even less likely place for what happened.

      I'd left Maggie there for about ten minutes, while I went to the rest room. It wasn't far but I had to follow a few mostly obscured arrows, and go down to the 15^th floor. When I returned to TWBSA, she was already gone.

      Actually, she was still there. However, a religious person might tell you that what remained of Maggie was the earthly shell of a soul now departed. She had completed our off shore wire transfer and was leaving the bank. From all accounts, a pirate had suddenly appeared. Brandishing an 18th century cutlass, sporting an eye patch and a tri-corn hat, he had flung the door open with a violent shove. The rampaging rogue burst into the tiny office, shouting, “Arrrrr! Don't nobody go fer yer buzzers! Face down on the floor or ye be shark bait! I'm here fer yer booty!”

      To the pirate's amazement, nobody moved. The huddled bankers stood like statues. With wide eyes and gaping mouths, they just stared at the door behind the pillager. The only sound was that of retching, as Robert, the bald, bespectacled teller, puked into his open cash drawer.

      Coincidentally, Monday had been FWBSA senior teller Jolene’s, 37^th birthday. The bank manager had crowned her ‘FWBSA Queen for the Day’. The traditional “birthday tiara” was too small for her enormous head and, embarrassed, she'd set it aside. By quitting time, she'd forgotten about it and left it behind.

      The tiara was left on a shelf beside the coat rack, and was still there after the bankers went home at the end of the day. That's where Willy, the office cleaner, found it. Having an eye for Jolene, he attached a sexually graphic note to the fake crown before fastening it to the inside of the door. The crown's spikes hung about eye level to a 5’7” person, and protruded about eight inches from the door.

      Maggie was reaching for the knob, when the door flew open and the pirate burst in. One of the tiara’s spikes caught Maggie in the right eye. When her nose hit the door, the spike had gone completely through her brain. Maggie was dead. She was still standing, held up by the tiara. Willy had super glued the fake crown to the wood door, just above the fogged window. It turns out that though cheap, Wal*Mart brand “Instaglu” bonds exceptionally well.

      I was shocked, heartbroken, and devastated. My life partner, soul mate, best friend, and lover, was snatched from me. My happy marriage had ended unexpectedly, in a high rent, under sized, commercial space on the 16^th floor of a hideous downtown lizard.

A Land-Farin' Man:

      There were 16 witnesses on the sidewalk outside the “Gecko Power Tower” when a cutlass waving, eye patched, buccaneer, ran through the lobby and into the street. Those present watched as his tri-corn flew off and landed near a fire hydrant. Most recalled seeing him skid to a stop, reminiscent of Wiley Coyote. He quickly retrieved the plumed hat, resumed his stride, and continued southbound on the pedestrian mall. Most ignored him, thinking he was some kind of one man “flash mob” who would be expecting a tip. A few who kept watching him thought he may have gotten into a waiting vehicle and sped away. A lady pushing all of her belongings in a stolen Wal*Mart shopping cart, signed an affidavit stating he'd, “flown into the sky like Peter Pan.”

      Of course, no two witnesses told the same story. Some said he headed south down Salamander Boulevard. Others swore he disappeared into the sun, heading west up Island Parkway.  The cops put out an APB for the entire city.     

     Police have to use whatever information that's available, to create a composite of many the things happening in the midst of such calamity. Deputy Dan Frain’s All Points Bulletin stated that a red or maybe blue, or silver, or orange, two or four door sedan, mini van, or topless sports car, had whisked the bandit away. He could have gone either south or west, or some other direction. The police had nothing to work with. Everybody saw a pirate but nobody came close to identifying the escape vehicle.

      The car the whacked out pirate wannabe used was a 1979 VW Rabbit Cabriolet. The owner had begun restoration and had installed junk yard doors, fenders, hood, and trunk. Each replacement part was a different color. This eclectic array of hues had confused and bewildered the eye witnesses into a total lack of observational accuracy.

Justice:

      The traces of a crime can disappear quickly in South Florida. Before sunset, the stolen getaway car was abandoned, re-stolen, disassembled, and the parts delivered to an array of waiting VW Rabbit convertible aficionados.

      The sword wielding pirate, having learned the hard way that the Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, LLC, held no appreciable currency, returned to a tattered tent behind a Motel 6 in the Florida Keys.

      My sweet Maggie's killer would never be punished. The following Tuesday, needing to clear his desk clutter, Dave Ortiz, a busy Pinellas County Coroner's assistant, labeled Maggie's death accidental. The investigation ended.

      The inept pirate, who’s name was Rutledge, would eventually be sentenced to 90 days in the county jail. There, he would tell a fellow inmate about his attempt to rob the TWBSA in St Petersburg, and how he'd made a clean getaway. It was a jailhouse confession to a crime that was officially never committed, but his story would never reach the authorities.

      Several points below a genius IQ, Rutledge had never figured out how to make it safely from his ragged tent behind the Motel 6, to the 7- Eleven on the other side of US-1. Speeding vacationers traveling up and down the Keys at 4:00 PM on a typically busy Friday, kept him marooned on the yellow line. A passing Monroe County Sheriff's deputy rescued him. Since it was the eighth time he'd saved Rutledge from the same spot, the deputy roughed, cuffed, and stuffed him into his cop issue Crown Victoria. Rutledge was booked into the Monroe County lock-up, for habitual J-walking.

      Sixty-one days into his 90 day sentence, Rutledge was being released early for good behavior. He was about to step into the lobby and regain his freedom, when he noticed that his left Reebok was untied. In front of the heavy steel exit door, Rutledge bent over to knot the flapping lace. Just at that moment, a hungry three hundred pound guard, in a hurry to enjoy his triple-decker ham and cheese sandwich and Diet Coke, barreled through the metal door. Rutledge's head cracked open like a fresh egg, and his brains splattered all over the gray tile floor.

      After a brief, neck-rubbing investigation, the floor was cleaned with Sure Save discount bleach.   The previously homeless Rutledge found a home three days later in the Monroe County paupers cemetery.

Coping:

      Maggie's one million dollar life insurance policy was doubled by the accidental death determination. A big check comes every month, and I've set up a diversified investment portfolio to insure my continued solvency. A couple of months after Maggie's funeral, I sold the small bungalow 10 blocks from the beach, and burned the furniture in the front yard. I scrapped my 1988 Taurus, and didn't even make a victory lap through town before I left. It was straight from bonfire to airport in a taxi, and off into the friendly sky.

      Now, I'm living in this little piece of paradise. The island is small enough to afford, but big enough to be safe in a tropical storm. I spend my days looking out on my private Caribbean beach from my front porch or hammock. 

     Am I lonely way off here in the middle of nowhere? Well, I've got the sun and the palm trees. I've got the pristine white sand, the warm ocean, and a thirty foot sloop that I can sail around on all day. Sometimes I just go fishing in a calm inlet, enjoying the peace and solitude. Then, after a day of sailing or fishing, I come home to a tropical drink and a good meal.  My companion, Marita, was a bartender when we met, and is an excellent cook.

      Marita is no Maggie, mind you. Yet, I was pretty lucky to find a beautiful, always tanned, 22 year old island girl, who was willing to come tidy up my tiki hut, and clean up the various messes she frequently helps me make.

      I truly do miss my sweet Maggie. It's not easy, but I feel I owe it to her to keep working hard to adapt.

A Non-Fiction Tragedy

STUPID KILLS

An Opinion Piece

by Don Winfield

I estimate that 95% of the untimely deaths on this planet are from stupidity. Yep. If you don't die of one of the terminal illnesses that will eventually kill every species that has a pulse, as a human you're most likely to die of an act of stupidity.  It may be yours, but it could be someone else who's the cause. Old age gets credit for nearly all of the natural (non-stupid) deaths, even though the autopsy usually names a specific cause. Face it. We get old, all our parts get old at the same time.  Sooner or later either enough of of those parts, or one of them that's really essential, gives up the ghost. But, 'natural causes' is not what this rant is about.

Unless, of course, stupidity has achieved 'natural cause' status.

Today, I went to the scene of an incredibly tragic act of stupidity. Wednesday, a relative of a man who belongs to an actual social organization that I am a member of, became a victim of blatant stupidity. A few minutes after noon, while most people and maybe even the victim, were either thinking of lunch or sitting down to eat, his life came to sudden violent end.

This was a case of another person's stupid act tragically terminating this man's hopes and dreams. Stupidity altered the lives of his family, friends, and everyone who depended upon or loved him.

On an acceleration ramp of a major highway, some damned fool pulled the stupid stunt of stopping in the driving lane. The key to successfully negotiating an acceleration lane is to accelerate! Stopping is not an offered option. There's no stop sign there. I looked.

Except for the obvious, no one will ever truly know the final thoughts and actions of the victim.  But, it's likely safe to say he was following a vehicle up the high speed acceleration lane. He was presumably accelerating to blend into the 65 mph plus Summer traffic heading north on Interstate 81. I would be looking in my mirrors, glancing over my shoulder to the left, and gauging the speed of approaching traffic. That's what you'd be doing, too. That's what you are supposed to be doing. It's the safe thing to do.

In the split second it takes to check traffic behind you, either in your mirror or with a sideways glance, a lot can go wrong. What went wrong this time was that the idiot right ahead of my friend's brother-in-law, stopped. He fucking stopped!

I didn't mention it, but the victim's mode of transportation was one that's invisible to too many motorists. He was riding his beloved Harley-Davidson motorcycle. When you stop dead in front of a motorcycle being driven by someone who assumes you're going to do the right thing on an on ramp, that's what your doing. You're stopping him dead. The motorcycle rider braked hard. The skid marks are still painting the highway at the accident scene. It looks like that's all he had time to do.

From my experience, having ridden a motorcycle for several decades, many automobile drivers operate under a shroud of misinformation. Generally, they feel that motorcycles are dangerous, foolish contraptions, which are ridden only by mouth breathing knuckle draggers. That is, of course, if they think of them at all. A large percentage of the automobile driving public ignores motorcycles.  Automobile operators frequently offer no common courtesy to motorcyclists.  They seem to operate under the false impression that bikes can stop on a dime. That entire train of thought is flawed, and kills hundreds of motorcyclists every year.  

Motorcycles can't stop as quickly as a car.  They can't they swerve as nimbly around an obstacle as a car can.  The unbend-able laws of physics prohibit it.

Don't be stupid. When you are driving a car, be aware 360 degrees around you.  Just like the Driver's Ed instructor taught you. Watch for the small profile of a bike.  

When you're riding your motorcycle, scooter, or even your old blue bicycle, be 100 times more careful and alert than you are in the relatively safe steel cocoon of your car.

Remember... Don't be stupid.  Stupid kills. 

A Song for the Pirates of the Susquehanna

Yes you are "a pirate, a few hundred years too late."  That's from a Jimmy Buffett tune from a couple of decades back.  Today's Pirates, who roam the big river in the Southern Tier of NY, are the socially appropriate and philanthropic Pirates of the Susquehanna, Parrot Head Club.  Someday, like the nighty Susquehanna, we may all run off to the sea.  Until such time, let's enjoy doing what we love most and work together to make life better for our phellow citizens of Planet Earth.  Here's a link to a short video of a tune for those river Pirates, that will get your toes tapping and your head bobbing to the beat.  Enjoy!

http://youtu.be/TYKhp-Z2NLw

Where Did The Music Go?

Open Letter to Radio Margaritaville

For the last year or so, I've been hearing a lot of complaints about the difficulty of finding Trop Rock music on the radio. The problem finally caught my attention and I began to take note of my own unconscious and conscious habits in this regard. There is only one TR station that you can “take with you”. It was started by Jimmy Buffett as an internet station, and was one of the radio pioneers on the WWW. Many Parrot Heads invested in their satellite radios to tune in RadioMargaritaville.

There is a small problem. RadioMargaritaville.com, has strayed far afield of what we Parrot Heads find worthwhile. Recently a group of 20 plus Parrot Head Club members gathered for a party. The discussion turned to the topic of our favorite musical genre'. Most of us have been Jimmy Buffett fans long enough to remember when his music was the only music in that style available. There had been the music of the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, etc., but that's not the same at all.

Most of us go back to a time when one could only assuage their desire for 'Island Country' or 'Gulf and Western' music by buying Jimmy's latest vinyl or cassette offering. Seldom heard on the radio, and never heard in Upstate New York nightclubs, this music languished as a largely unknown entity. Sure, some people knew who Jimmy Buffett was. Wasn't he that nasal voiced hillbilly who sung “Come Monday' and “Margaritaville”?

“Margaritaville” wasn't as big a hit as “Monday”, but it had the greater impact, didn't it? That song has built an empire of clothing lines, paraphernalia, dining, and night-clubbing venues. It also built an entire music genre' 'Tropical Rock is an exciting and fast growing musical style, embraced by millions. Who knew?

The point, sans history lesson, is that the music known as 'Trop Rock' is burgeoning world wide, and becoming an entertainment force to be reckoned with. It's what Parrot Heads want to hear when they turn to Radio Margaritaville on Sirius-XM.

If we want to hear Bruce Springsteen, Willy Nelson, Bruce Hornsby, or Vince Gill, we know where to find them. It's frustrating to a 'boat drinker'. We've spent our money for a Sirius or XM receiver. We pay the broadcast fee to hear it. Then, we have to listen to the clutter of main stream Country, oldies, and other genres clogging up www.RadioMargaritaville.com . Trop Rock's presence is diminishing on the station that should be the main source of it.

This genre' does not appear on broadcast radio if you live in the greater Northeast. We can't turn to a Miami, New Orleans, or Havana station, to fulfill our need for a tropical beat. Luckily for us T-Rock mavens, there are places we can go to salve our tropical souls.

There are now many internet stations one can click on to and find the music we love. In the past decade and a half, a great number of fine 'Trop Rock' musical acts have cropped up. They've become part of a bona fide and increasingly more recognized genre' of music that is gaining a firm foothold in the musical world. They are not Jimmy Buffett cover bands any longer. They are authentic stars of the genre' with a plethora of CDs, DVDs, and their own product lines available. They are now all over the web. Incidentally, they are producing some of the finest Trop Rock being recorded today.

A beginner searching for the genre' can simply click on www.Live365.com and find a large number of Trop Rock internet stations. You won't find it listed, but type trop rock in their search box at the upper right of the main page, and you'll get all the Caribbean Country, Tropical Rock, or Gulf and Western you want.

For the favorite choices of many of our Parrot Head Club members, just go to www.beachfrontradio.com; www.islanddreamzradio.com; Permanent Vacation Radio: http://www.pvradio.com/; Coral Coast Concoctions: coralcoastconcoctions.com, and many others you'll find on a quick Google search. The current biggest favorites are www.BeachFrontRadio.com from Central PA, and www.troprockwny.com, from Western NY.

Sadly, it may be a long while before the tropically deprived Northeast gets any broadcast 'Trop Rock' stations. Your computer, however, can offer relief when you're in your home or office.

If you are displeased that our musical mentor, Jimmy Buffett, has let his station stray from it's presumed purpose, please join me in e-mailing the station with your thoughts. Maybe if enough Parrot Heads and PHC's show their concern, we'll eventually notice a gradual return to the music that we all go there for. It's the music that built Jimmy's station in Key West, and if he's not more diligent, the lack of that music could be the station's downfall. After all, who but Parrot Heads are even going there? Who else even knows or cares about it's existence?

Bikes Up!

It's April 18^th. Spring in Upstate New York is off to a late start. About 1 month late to be exact. I was just talking to a lady who is in Buffalo and she's watching snow falling outside her office window. Our weather comes from the West, so..... Here, in Sanitaria Springs, it's a cloudy 52 F. and there's an edge to the damp air that makes you think it could snow here tonight. It also makes you think about a lot of things you could be doing inside the toasty house. Or, things you could be doing out in the garage.

Outside, in my garage, awaiting the sun and warm ambient temperatures we're all hoping for, are my 2 Hondas. The CX500 has been out already. Twice. There were a couple of 70ish days at the end of March and beginning of April, and I couldn't wait to shake something down. Probably myself more than the bike. It wasn't much fun on those 65-70 degree days. The air was crisp, like an oddball warm day in Winter. The chilly air stung anything that wasn't well covered. Sure, a wind-breaker was enough to keep me warmish, and gloves were a must. Are anyway, really. Just for protection. My face, however, suffered from the biting 55 mph wind. Well, maybe a bit faster than that, 'cause like the Red Rocker says, “I just can't drive 55.” The same temps, once the weather finally breaks, will be perfect for riding. That's what makes a warmer ambient temp such a desirable thing. The weather really wasn't good enough yet to justify hauling out the big V65 Sabre. “Soon come, mon. Soon come.”

In a very real sense, this day each year is like a holiday. A genuine annual celebration day. It's never the same date every year. Too many variables involved. But there is a day, every year, that my new license plate stickers come from the Utica DMV office. That's where we Southern Tier folks have to send our mail-in renewals.

Naturally, they will get lost if I don't install them on the bikes immediately. That being the case, I grab the Windex and paper towels and head out to the garage to do the joyful deed. Joyful, because it means that there's another Summer of riding approaching, and now I'm ready for it.

First there's the ritual spraying and wiping down of the plates. Pay special attention to the 2011 sticker. It's got to be especially clean, 'cause that's where the new Mylar tag has to be placed. Even though the '11 stickers are starting to lift a bit at the corners, they can't be removed. Well....they could be. I just don't. I like to see how many I can stack up before the state forces me to buy another color plate. That happens every so often, and I've always had every sticker I got during that color series, still on the plate when it gets replaced.

Many old yellow plates, and previously issued white ones, are up on the wall of my garage. Their job is to keep many happy years of biking memories alive. Now and then I'll look at a certain year's plate and go back to that particular Summer in my mind. Bike memories are unlike any others I have. Even the big crash of '73 brings a smile to my face. The story that goes with that is stuff fiction writers can only wish they had to work with. Oh, yeah!

You think stacking stickers is quirky? Let me tell you quirky, buddy. As the accompanying pic shows, I put my registration stickers on upside down. I always have. Why? How the hell do I know. I'm not a shrink. If I was, I wouldn't go there in a million years. My mind is a labyrinth of tunnels that really don't deserve having anyone poking around in. Probably has something to do with being noticed or being different than the other kids. Look it up in your freakin' freak reference books. Save yourself some time and energy, though. Don't write and tell me what you find. I like my annual stickers installed the way I do it, and I'm not going to change a thing.

All these decades of upside down registration stickers have never been mentioned by the cops. With me setting my own speed limits, I can't say they haven't had their opportunities. Now and then a friend or new acquaintance will notice the inverted sticker and mention it. I just smile and tell them I must have been drinkin' when I put them on. It may seem like an indictment of my character, but nobody has ever argued the point.

I look at it this way. If I'm ever upside down in a ditch, the cops will immediately note that my bike is legally registered. They'll know I was a thoughtful rider........ before the crash.

Draw Blood

“It looks like you haven't had blood work since '07, Mr. Winfield. I'm going to order it before your next appointment.” Dr. A. eyed me critically but his soft Middle Eastern accent soothed like honey oozing down a sore throat.

That ominous declaration started a real life sit-com that somehow seems to typify my current life phase. Dr. A. wrote a lab order sheet and handed it to me. I dutifully took it along with my co-pay receipt, prescription for an increase of my main blood pressure medication dosage, and my cell phone. I had obediently turned it off upon entering the exam room. Paraphernalia in hand, I trudged to the receptionist to 'check out'. I grinned inwardly at the irony of having a desk marked “Check Out” right outside a Cardiologist's door. You need an appointment for that too, these days?

I made a follow-up appointment, allowed appointments to be made for me at an Osteopath and a Dietitian. Knees are going and I've just learned I'm too fat. This getting old means there's a lot of appointments to keep. Apparently it's time to pay the piper for dancing with wild abandon, nearly non-stop for over half a century. They assure me I'll be a better man for it.

Blood work was ordered to check my triglycerides. Surely a fictitious concern. I'm supposed to go the next morning but when it arrived I realized I'd forgotten to fast. Ha! I got to stay home. I was probably subconsciously screening my true feelings. I didn't want to go to a vampire in Johnson City at 6:30 AM, anyway. Fasting is hard when you're used to eating the best things in life every waking hour of every day. You don't want to know what my typical diet consists of. Let me just say that it's every kid's dream to eat what I eat in the frequency and quantity I eat it in. Dr. A says I need to stop eating like a kid and eat like an adult. I'll have to find more adults to observe. I still use the old knife, fork, and spoon method my mother taught me. I conveniently forgot about the blood work.

Life goes on and after awhile I visit the Osteopath. He's in the same building as my cardio guy and that reminds me that I've yet to get the blood siphoned off. A month has passed and I still haven't found the lab paperwork, so I see Dr. A's receptionist. She calls downstairs for my chart and....SURPRISE! The original lab order is still in my chart! Unbelievable. I've looked everywhere and then looked everywhere else, repeatedly. I think the receptionist put it back in the chart just to goof on me. Make me think my marbles are untethered, or something. Well, the joke's on her. I didn't misplace it after all, and I'm not telling Dr. A. his receptionist is responsible for raising my blood pressure. He might think she's too hot for his patients to handle.

Between searches for my bloodwork order, I managed to make it to the Dietitian. She laughed and joked, talked about Jimmy Buffett and Parrot Heads. Her brother is one. I didn't judge. I left her my card. In the end I left her with an 1800 calorie diet that sneaky old Dr, A. told her to give me, and many more tips on cutting salt out of my life than I'll ever remember or wish to use. So he wants me to lose weight, eh? Guess he didn't have the stones to tell me I'm fat to my chubby little face. He doesn't know how easy going I really am.

The big evening arrives! NPO after 6 P. That means not to stick anything but a toothbrush in my mouth from dinner until after the next morning bloodletting. I told my wife to tackle me if I headed toward the kitchen or one of the several stashes of Reese's Big Cups, Mason Mints, Gertie Hawk's Smidgens, or the tray of huge muffins I picked up at Sam's Club. She told me I'm on my own. I have never been able to rely on my will power before, so why would she think I could this time? After all these years you'd think she'd know me better!

Made it. I awoke at 5:00 AM, famished. It took at least 10 seconds to realize why I felt so weak and puny. Some diminutive Pakistani was starving me, and probably laughing all the way to the bank.

Stumbling downstairs, I made a pot of coffee. No need for my wife to suffer because of my life of debauchery and disrespect for the temple that is my body. A glance in the mirror shows the temple has become more of a ragged old tent. With a monumental display of strength, I managed to avoid stuffing my face with any of the numerous available goodies. By 6:00 AM I've ultimately lurched my way to Johnson City.

The Lab Tech doesn't look reliable at this hour. She smells of sex and stale booze and has obviously missed her third cup of coffee. I probably look as hazy to her gaze as she does to mine. She rallied rather well, though. After excusing herself for a few minutes to compose herself, she returns to the lab smelling of Febreze and Altoids. She's ready to look at my paperwork. “Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Winfield,” she groaned, staring at my lab slip in disbelief. “It doesn't say what work he wants done, and Dr. A. hasn't signed it.”

“You mean I starved myself for days, left my warm bed in the middle of the night, dragged my dog out of the house to keep me company, and the sheet is blank?”

“Well, not blank,” she mumbled. “They put your file information sticker on the top,”

“I feel bad I bothered you with this sorry lack of preparation,” I purred convincingly. “I hope someone else shows up for blood work this morning so you won't be sitting here all alone.”

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “You came such a long way, and after all that starvation and trouble, I'll just take it. I'll draw the usual amount and if I don't get enough or they want something weird, I'll just call you back in.”

“Oh. You can do that?” I asked with surprised innocence. “I don't want you to get in any trouble.”

That sealed it. Hell and high water couldn't have kept that girl from draining my vein at that moment. She'd show them all how resourceful and responsible she is, and they'd be damned proud to have her. It wouldn't hurt that now I probably wouldn't mention her sad condition to her supervisor, either.

Minutes later I was tempting death on the J. C. Circle, heading back to Sanitaria Springs for a cup of fresh ground Kona coffee. Almost three years in the making, and involving a string of comedic errors rivaling a“Seinfeld” episode, it was over. Now I had only to wait for the news, good or bad.

When the results came back, I had the last laugh. Yes, I'm 35 pounds overweight. Sure, my knees need chemicals to keep the bones from rubbing together. But! Here's the rub........perfect cholesterol numbers, and my triglycerides are great. I can eat all the junk I want. Plus, I hear the lab tech has decided to start getting some rest and a shower before her early morning blood lettings.

Happy Birthday Jordan Lynne Winfield, 3/25/2011

My son Chris and my beautiful daughter-in-law Jaime, had their first child about 8:15 this morning. I was sitting here dazed by the wonder and joy of it all, and moved to putting my thoughts on paper. These aren't my exact thoughts, of course. I am incapable of expressing them. But, I hope these words say what a truly wonderful and joyful day this is for this unworthy grandpa. Welcome to the planet Earth, Jordan. May your heart be filled with your mother's and father's love, spirit and determination. Don't let gravity or anything else ever hold you down.

Jordan Lynne

The sun was bright on that cold March day

We knew Jordan Lynne was well on her way.

No news of any kind had our hearts on the edge

But no news is good news it's said by the hedge.

Grandmas and Aunties were all so aflutter

Impatiently awaiting to click every shutter.

She'll be the most loved child on the planet

Years before, that was hammered in granite.

Hair chestnut brown and eyes of bright blue

“She looks like her dad, no she's really more you”

As the relatives gathered around and opined

Deep in their hearts she became more entwined.

She's here, she's here for all to love and hold

From birth to adult, even when she grows old.

She's already the most loved child on the planet

Everyone can see it's hammered in granite.

A "Purposeful" Party

It was no place for the faint of heart or anyone reluctant to party hearty. Who would have thought that staid olde Windsor, CT would be the scene of a massive 4 day party of wild Trop Rock phans?
Only about 500 souls, suffering from the great Northeast's frigid winter induced 'cabin fever', that's who.
From February 24th to the 27th, the Marriott in Windsor hosted this huge phlock of Parrot Heads. They caroused, drank, ate, stayed up all night, and spent their money to further the causes of several charities. After all, it's mainly about helping your fellow man if you're a true Parrot Head. That's why the organization's motto is "party with a purpose". There's no rules saying Parrot Heads can't have a wild time while raising funds for local and national causes, so they do. In fact, they do on a tremendous scale.
It can be described, but not in a forum such as this. It takes participation in the Parrot Head nation known as Parrot Heads in Paradise, Inc. and one of the affiliated clubs in your local area, to get the full impact of how much can be done and the amount of phun to be had.
Raising funds and having a great time doing it were the main thrust of the 4 day party in Windsor. However, to put perspective on this convention and differentiate it from any other you may be familiar with, think about this. The main business conducted here was to plan the next several New England Parrot Head Conventions. It becomes a party to plan the next party! Cool!
Party on Parrot Heads!

Pat the Cashier

If one of the cashiers decided to show up they’d keep the lights and gas pumps on and do business until the next shift either did or didn’t appear.

If nobody replaced them by the end of their shift, they simply shut the pumps off, locked the doors and left. That's how it went until Pat came to town.

Pat had a different way of doing things than her co-workers generally did. She was a responsible person who would stay at the register and make calls to her fellow cashiers between customers, trying to find one to come in and work the next shift. She frequently had to work doubles, and usually counted on being in the store from 5:00 AM until 11:00 PM before going home. Pat was used to not getting any breaks, but she has certain regular customers who would watch the counter for her while she went to the restroom, or took a minute or two to restock the diary case. If a customer came in, the regular would call out to her and she'd come ring them out. Soon, Pat was promoted to Store Manager.

Everyone, including her boss in the Albany office wondered why Pat was so loyal, and such a hard worker. Only her Albany based supervisor knew her gender, as she dressed and groomed with a metro-sexual androgynous look.

That only deepened the mystery surrounding her, and Pat usually took quiet pleasure in the whispered questions she often heard her customers asking one another when they thought she couldn't hear.

“Do you think Pat's a man or a woman?” someone would ask.

“I think Pat's a dude,” another would say. “I saw him loading full LP cylinders into the rack yesterday. He wasn't straining or even breaking a sweat.”

“Yeah, I don't picture any women around here doing that. LP tanks are heavy, and that top shelf is about 7 feet up,” the first customer replied.

“Pat never has make-up on, and that short hair doesn't give anything away,” the second customer said. “Those flannel shirts and baggy jeans don't tell you anything. That's for sure.”

********

Pat grew quiet and her chest tightened whenever she overheard those conversations and comments. Sometimes she felt like she couldn't breathe and she'd fall silent as her memory flashed to a balmy summer night three years earlier.

It was a hot night in Tuscon. The late news had been unremarkable. The usual urban happenings: Auto accidents, house fires with families and pets trapped inside, both failed and successful convenience store robberies, and the standard hit-and -runs. They had no interest in national or international news so she and Marty had gone to bed at 11:30. The newlyweds made love and talked for a half hour before kissing good night. The conversation had mostly been about school and recreation for Marty's seven year old daughter from his previous marriage.

Since they got divorced, Marty's first wife, Rosie, had been arrested for selling crack cocaine to an undercover Arizona State Trooper. Her plea bargain had bought her a year in the county lock-up, and five years probation. After her arrest, Marty had no problem gaining full custody of Amy Lynn, and she lived with Pat and Marty in their comfortable home.

Once Rosie was out of jail and landed a job, the family court judge had ordered her to pay Marty $200.00 a month for child support. Marty had told the judge he didn't need or want any money from his ex-wife, but judge Barbara Hemingweigh secretly wanted to make Amy Lynn's mother suffer a bit more for her misdeeds.

The drugs and criminal lifestyle had made the former Mrs. Lightner a dangerous woman. She hated that Marty had married Pat and was raising Amy in a nice suburban home, while she was still immersed in a profane life of drugs and hand to mouth living.

********

2:45 AM No sound awakened Pat or Marty. No stealthy footsteps across a floor, or light in their eyes aroused them.

A deafening explosion. Pat awoke, scared and disoriented, bolt upright in bed. A flashlight wagged side to side in the darkness and a man's muffled voice mumbled, “there, the bastard won't need any more child support.” The sound of a heavy weight hitting the ground outside the window, then footsteps running down the walkway toward the street.

Later, Pat would realize that the voice had a Mexican accent, and that the flashlight's beam was very bright with a blueish hue.

Right now, she was frozen in place. Time stopped and Pat reached for the bed side lamp in slow motion. Her thoughts and movements felt like her mind and body were encased in heavy liquid, slowing down her every process.

Pat was momentarily blinded by the light from the reading lamp, but she blinked and struggled to see. She flung herself out of bed and onto the floor when she saw the bloody mass of raw meat that had been Marty's handsome face only a couple of hours ago. Screaming, Pat ran down the hall to Amy's room. The child was still asleep, causing Pat to think the worst had happened, but a shake awoke the little girl, and Pat grabbed her out of the bed. Quickly wrapping the child in a blanket, Pat dashed out the back door and ran screaming through the unlocked rear entry of the house next door.

********

Three years later, and 2500 miles away, Pat had another life in Plain View, NY. The convenience store was a haven from her memories of that horrible night and all that had happened in the aftermath.

Pat's recollection of the Mexican accent, the LED flashlight, and the window escape, had helped detectives amass a mountain of forensic evidence to catch the killer. To lighten her own sentence, Rosie had rolled over on her boyfriend, telling the DA it was all his idea. Rosie had coerced him into murdering Marty, but she struck an excellent plea bargain. For her testimony, Rosie had only 3 years tacked onto her probation, and she was a free woman.

With Marty dead, Amy Lynn's custody was awarded to Marty's mom and dad. Only in their early 50s, they were young enough and successful enough to provide Amy with a good life. Pat was happy for Amy, but missed the little girl every day, wishing she could raise her in Marty's honor.

Pat's early life, and all signs of her upbringing in Arizona no longer existed. Jessica Marie Toffman had been born Valentine's day 1981, in Phoenix, Arizona. Her parents had been proud when she received a sheepskin from the University of Arizona, proclaiming her to be a Bachelor of Science in Business Administration. But her new Social Security number and drivers license proclaimed her to be Pat O'Hearn, and her birth certificate now said she was born in San Fransisco, California.

Life in rural Upstate New York was peaceful. There was little chance that Rosie could ever find Pat and make good on her promise to hunt her down and kill her for “stealin' my man, and takin' my daughter away from me”, as she alleged. Her own life of crime had sealed Rosie's fate, and though Pat was innocent, she was serving a life sentence. Some days, a certain voice, or a fleeting glimpse of a woman entering the store or pumping gas outside, still sends a chill up Pat's spine. For now, it's better to be safely obscure in her sexuality and gender as the hard working, mysterious loner who manages the Hess Mart in Plain View, NY.

Another Way to Get There

This short essay is by Mel Chaplin an American who resides in Brazil. I think you'll be entertained by Mel's thoughtful contributions, so his work appears from time to time on this forum. Enjoy!

In preparation for my sailing trip I had made a list of tools. On this list was a buffer/sander. It would save a lot of elbow grease when cleaning and polishing the boat. I was looking for a deal, so I went to one of those big box super lumberyard/ tool/hardware/garden stores. A secret mission was in my heart when I sauntered into the sanctum sanctorum of “guy-dom”; the tool department.

I strolled slowly up and down the aisles. It was a Mitty'esque day dream. I walked, unhurriedly, by the saws, screwdrivers, drills and wrenches that surrounded me. What satisfaction! I was in the midst of a grand collection of gadgets that would warm the heart of any handyman. Tools were all lined up on the hooks in their tidy rows. My finger reached out to touch the lightly oiled metal of a pristine drill bit. What a great sensation feeling the bit's sharpened flutes. These tools, sorted by size, make and type, lived there begging to escape to live in someone's cozy tool box. At the hammer display, my pulse quickened at the sight of their gleaming wooden handles, unscathed by use. The heads shone, not yet marred by the collision with the first nail. I lifted one, swinging it slightly, feeling the weight, noting its balance and sensing how that cold hardened steel head could drive a small spike home with ease. There were so many different sizes, weights and shapes. From small slim tack hammers on one side, graduating up to hefty five-pound hand sledges at the far end of the rack. Moving onward there were hand saws, miter boxes, clamps, sandpaper and pry bars. My euphoria grew as I went around the corner and on my right, spotted the large table saws, drill presses, band saws and lathes. They were all lined up, standing at attention like soldiers on parade.

On the left were electrical hand tools saws, drills, and routers. Finally, right there in the corner next to me, were the disk sanders/grinders. I had never owned one, but now that was about to change. A half-dozen brands were on display, but my eye instantly went to the one marked "CLEARANCE! DISPLAY MODEL". It was a Black and Decker. The little information chart, like the ones posted in front of all its brothers, was gone; Not even a price. This was the last one. It was maybe 9:00 AM, and not many buyers had yet graced these hallowed halls. The "associate" was not otherwise occupied so I beckoned to him for assistance.

“This is the last one, how much?” I queried.

He came over and looked at it. He flipped it over and found the model number. We ambled along to his computer terminal. "Well it was originally $49.95, but if you want it, how ‘bout $39.95?" He gave himself away with the "how ‘bout". I knew I could do better.

"Well, yeah! If you've got the box and papers and other stuff," I said. Figuring if those things were lost, he would be willing to negotiate further.

High above the hammers and drill bits, etc. are shelves. They are hidden behind facades covered by graphics. Mr. “Associate” gets the sliding ladder and proceeds to look through each and every section for the box and other accouterments. The buffer's box was not in the first section, nor the next, and so forth till the very end when he say's, "looks like it’s not here”.

"I don't know, without the warranty and wrench, it's kinda risky.” I responded thoughtfully.

"Well, what about $29.95?” he replies.

That was the kind of number I was waiting to hear. ”OK,” I said.

To change the price he had to get an override number. After a consultation with his co-associate, the correct code was indexed, and money exchanged. I left with a smile on my face, a warm glow in my heart, and a new buffer/sander in my bag.

The moral of the story is: The second best way to a man’s heart is through his tool box.