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Three A.M.

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  I love 3 A.M. I was hired as lead guitarist and ended up touring up and down the East Coast with one of Chicago’s best Blues Bands at around 3 A.M. one night in Tucson, Arizona after I won a cutting contest earlier in the evening (in this case, a ‘Cutting Contest’ is when guitarists gather together to out-play each other on the bandstand). I played one of the best shows in my life in front of about ten thousand people at an outdoor music festival in Michigan and took the stage for that show at 2:57 A.M. I suffered my greatest loss at about 3 A.M., which also happens to be about the time of night that my wife and I conceived our daughter. I got a chance to glimpse behind the veil, to peek behind the façade of this existence that we all generally agree to be reality at around 3 A.M. one night, and that experience changed my understanding of myself and the world in which I lived forever. I have recorded my best musical work, written my funniest stories, and lived a larg
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An Old Friend's Favor And The Physics Of Aging

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“ You know, Psyk, we’ve known each other a long time now, and…” Well, slap me in the face with a week-old halibut and call me ‘Richard’: here comes one of THOSE phrases; the first half of a sentence that NEVER ends good when the second part of the sentence comes bounding out of the ‘Old Friend’s” cock holster... “We’ve known each other a long time now” is a phrase second only to “Honey- we need to talk…” in the Great Wheel of Life Changing, Unexpectedly Devastating News... or, it could be that the ‘Old Friend’ that is revving up an earnest, poignant, and highly manipulative story designed to bring you to such an emotional crescendo that you would positively JUMP at the HONOR of helping them move house, in which case you break out a baseball bat and use it to erase the name of the “Old Friend” from your Christmas Cards list. Let’s go down the Rabbit hole on this particular encounter: The Old Friend who claims that ‘we ‘ve known each other a long time now” is
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My, How I Wanted to be a Pygmy! By Carrie Ranworth

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  When I was about 8 years old, I wanted to be a Pygmy. Pygmies are tribal hunters and gatherers, living in the Congo basin. They’ve been there longer than anyone knows. Even scientists, studying their DNA, can’t figure them out. The average adult mail reaches a height of less than 4 feet, 11 inches. They live as they did many centuries ago. Google pygmies and you’ll find out. All about their huts, camp fires where they fix their meals, and everything! I thought they were wonderful and I wanted to be one. Let me tell you about it. First of all, I grew up in the 40’s and 50’s. Two highlights of my childhood were that we went to the library every week on Saturday and in school, every Friday, we received Weekly Readers. My Mom took us to the library in our small town of 3000 people. We walked 3 blocks. Not too many cars so soon after the war. Books were a big part of our lives…no e-books, 5-Gs, ports, recharging cords and no screens. (The only screen in town was
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An Excerpt From: "The Dark Bizarre"

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  Ahhh, Peyote. We meet again. Peyote is a psychoactive alkaloid that comes from a small cactus that grows wildly in the Chihuahuan Desert. The cactus can be found in areas of Texas and Mexico and is common among scrub where there is limestone settlement.  You usually find small “buttons” on cactus’ that grow close to the ground. This is the peyote.  It can be chewed, or it can be boiled into a tea. Indian tribes have used peyote for generations; not only for spiritual purposes, but for anesthetic purposes as well. Peyote is sometimes given to a woman experiencing childbirth. For me, peyote was twelve hours of teeth grinding, eye popping, muscle clenching weirdness. I popped the horrible tasting root (is it a root? Must check sometime…) into my mouth and started chewing. At the same time, I went and retrieved a joint out of the car, lit it, and started to inhale the sweet smoke. I was going to need this joint, and probably one more, because about a half an hour after I swallow this pey
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Walking Barefoot Through The Burning Embers Of Your Love

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For any of you who think I’m about to fire off some Honky-Tonkin’, Beer Drinkin’, Shotgun-Rack-In-The-Back-Of-The-Pick’-Em-Up Country song lyrics based on the TITLE of this screed; relax. Your woman has left you, wrecked your truck, and got your dog neutered. Nothing I can do about it. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, put on some Led Zeppelin and tell everyone your ex has Industrial Strength South African Super Herpes, like a MAN! No. This is NOT a country tune; it’s a symphony played on a trashcan accompanied by a dancing monkey wearing a little vest who whines musically about the outrageous cost to the nation of Jerry Nadler’s waistline.  Far ago, in a land long, long away, I was celebrating the end of my first tour as a bandleader at a party hosted by my good friend Ed at his family’s cottage on a lovely lake in Central Michigan. Everyone was there; old high school friends, a few band members, our entire road crew (both of them), and my cousin Scott, who drove up to the pa
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Phone Call From A Lunatic

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    It’s 2:30 in the morning. It’s quiet here in God’s Country. Too quiet. Suddenly, the sounds of the late, great Jimi Hendrix’ “Purple Haze” blares from my night stand. It’s my ringtone because…why not? It was either that or a recording of me screaming: “THE PHONE IS RINGING! THE PHONE IS RINGING! ANSWER THE FECKING PHONE, YOU IDIOT!” I move to answer my phone, only because I have left strict instructions to everyone on my address list NOT to call me after 9:00 at night unless they are on fire. With that in mind, now I am interested. Is one of my family or friends ACTUALLY on fire? “Hello” “HEY MAN! WHAT’S GOIN’ ON?” I knew that voice. My mind reeled through my past, images playing in my head: horrible weirdness, substance fueled, degenerate behavior, mind-numbing madness. This phone call was going to cost me… The voice on the other end of the line was Air Wreck Martin. He was born Eric Martin, but became Air Wreck after he spent one night in the 1980’s tripping b
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DON’T WHISTLE IN G’PA’S BARN, SNICKLEFRITZ! (And other old wives’ tales and names) by Carrie Ranworth

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  Did your grandma ever call you a Snicklefritz when you were a little kid? Mine did. (And Whippersnapper, Dingleberry, and a few others.)  Did your grandpa warn you not to whistle in his barn?  Mine did.   I thought my old people were cool but a little strange and superstitious.  Here’s why.  I grew up in an era when special names and superstitions were common.  Bombs were falling over Europe, Hitler was on the march, men and women were contributing to the cause of freedom by enlisting in WW2, and I was a squirmy, mischievous little kid singing “Don’t sit under the Apple Tree” while sitting under the apple tree.  (I sat under there and practiced my whistling!) Mom often used special names like Snicklefritz to call me out from under that tree so I could wash up for supper.  Snicklefritz….I think it’s Pennsylvania Dutch and means “a mischievous child.”  Our family wasn’t Pennsylvania Dutch but the name fit the kids in our family.  We’d never been to Pennsylvania but I was told I tal
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