The freshman’s bags sat on the floor next to the bed his mother had just finished making up. It would be the last time she made his bed and the last time his dorm room would look this neat. He and his parents had already met the R.A., toured the music building, and eaten dinner at one of the uptown restaurants. It was time to say goodbye.

His father and mother had timed it so that they would leave for home just as he was walking across the campus of Bowling Green State University to his first meeting of incoming marching band members; the young man was at school a week early for band camp. After hugs and kisses, his parents departed and he headed over to the music hall with butterflies in his stomach.

In the massive band rehearsal room he sat among a group of fellow freshmen and some upperclassmen. He didn’t know it at the time but the people who would become his best friends and future roommates were also sitting in that room, probably feeling just as anxious as he was.

Later that night, when these new students had returned to their dorm rooms with instructions to get plenty of sleep (they had a long day ahead of them), the freshman found himself alone in a vast, empty dorm building. His R.A. was already hitting the bars and the rest of his classmates were living in a group of dorms where 90% of all incoming freshmen lived. He was away from them, having been placed in an upperclassmen dorm due to the fact that he would be rooming with his cousin, a sophomore.

While groups of kids began to mingle and form friendships, the young man propped his feet up on the windowsill and continued reading John Irving’s The World According to Garp.

(more…)

For me, the waning days of summer always bring to mind the city homecoming fair that took place at the end of every August in my hometown of North Olmsted, Ohio. The fair, a celebration of the city’s past and present, was held at the North Olmsted Park, located right around from my childhood house, and was a weekend-long affair that always began on the last Friday night in August and ran through late Sunday afternoon.

I can recall the mystery, allure and romanticism of that city fair from the eyes of a child. At night, when the traffic noises had quieted, you could hear the excitement of the fair through the open windows of my bedroom. The cranking of the carnival rides, kids screaming, cotton candy machines swirling, grills sizzling, and rock and roll bands playing from the gazebo. Man, I wanted to be there; I wanted to be grown up enough to wander through the crowd and absorb those noises and smells and to feel like a part of the community.

By sixth grade, I was deemed old enough to venture up to the park during homecoming, as long as I was with a group of friends. If we were a pack we couldn’t get into trouble, right? Actually, I hung out with a good bunch of kids, and the heightened feelings and butterflies we felt around girls were more exciting than any mischief we might get into. Even as an awkward kid who didn’t attract many girls, it was still a great feeling to have.

Something happened during the transition between ninth and 10^th grade, though, and the fair was no longer exciting; rather, it had become a quaint symbol of complacency. In my arrogant teenage mind, I looked at the hundreds of folks who had grown up in North Olmsted (and still lived there), and thought, “I’m not going to be like them. I’m going to get out of here.” Instead of looking forward to the fair’s wondrous foods and prizes, I looked forward to pointless nights of cruising the Metropark valley in the back of some guy’s Escort while the radio blared acts like the Who, Lou Reed and Joe Jackson. (more…)

I am running for my son.

That is the mantra I repeated to myself in times of exhaustion when I was training for my first two marathons back in 2003 and 2004. The early morning runs, the aching joints, the self doubt, all of these things played a factor in wearing me down and making me want to quit. But then I would repeat those six words to myself and I would find some buried reservoir of energy and continue moving forward.

I am running for my son.

The reason behind my sudden urge to run a marathon was raising money to find a cure for cystic fibrosis, the deadly disease that Jacob was diagnosed with when he was barely a month old. Cystic fibrosis is an inherited chronic disease that affects the lungs and digestive system of about 30,000 children and adults in the United States (70,000 worldwide). A defective gene causes the body to produce thick, sticky mucus that clogs the lungs and leads to life-threatening lung infections, and obstructs the pancreas and stops natural enzymes from helping the body break down and absorb food. To combat the disease, Jacob must do daily breathing treatment with a nebulizer and a machine called “The Vest,” which vibrates his chest to break up any mucus build up in his lungs.

Additionally, he must take enzyme supplements to help him digest food. Jacob takes a total of 13 different medications daily to keep him a healthy little boy who loves to play with his older sister, Sophie.

After a two-year hiatus, a simple jog through a rain-soaked parking lot last Thanksgiving lit a spark in me to begin running again. Between 2003 and 2006, over $20,000 was raised for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation through the marathon fundraisers I ran. The time felt right to make another go at it. New shoes were bought, a slow steady regime was adopted, and on November 16, I will participate in the Pasadena half marathon, just two days after Jacob’s 7th birthday.

This past summer, we visited family in Ohio and I stuck with my training as best as possible. The very first morning, as I cut a path through the memories of my childhood jogging through the neighborhoods where I grew up, an epiphany hit me. I vividly recall a Coldplay song chiming through my headphones and I had a clear vision of the future. Jacob and his loving sister, Sophie, were sitting together on a swing, reading, he with his head on her shoulder. They were older, in their teens, and the sun was setting behind them. In this vision, I stood, observing, feeling blessed for the wonderful life I have and the beautiful family I love. And it occurred to me, suddenly, that I am not just running for my son.

I am running for my family. (more…)

Running is a solitary sport.

You may train with a group or run a race in the company of one or two other people, but in the end, the concentration and dedication falls upon your shoulders alone. Sometimes when I run, it’s with music blaring through headphones; other times, with only my thoughts and the rhythmic slapping of my soles (and my soul) on the ground. In some ways, being a runner is similar to being a musician — the hours spent practicing and training are all for an experience that may only last an hour of your life.

That was my experience when I was a devoted drummer, but that was back in the ‘80s, when I emulated musicians like Neil Peart of Rush. I believe every drummer goes through a rite of passage in discovering Rush, a period of exploration in which, as a drummer, you come to appreciate Peart’s precision and flawless technique. What I’ve always loved is the ease in which he makes every drum fill sound effortless, whether it’s 16 toms or just his snare. One listen to that famous drum section in “Tom Sawyer” (from 1981’s Moving Pictures) and you’ll know what I mean.

I came into Rush, which also includes guitarist Alex Lifeson and bassist/vocalist/keyboardist Geddy Lee, after their space-age prog period had ended and they’d moved into a more mainstream rock territory. These years coincided with the principal period of my life in the basement, between junior high and college. This was a time I was tinkering daily with my eight-piece white Rogers brand drum set. (more…)

Once chance intervention, see what it can signify
The slightest misapprehension, baby
And we’d have passed each other by
When I heard your sweet voice callin’
Saw your light come shinin’ through
I couldn’t stop my heart from turning
Churnin’ out my love for you, my love to you

Before I met Julie, I was not a Bonnie Raitt fan, primarily because of ignorance. When Raitt won three Grammys for her 1989 comeback record, Nick of Time, a close friend of mine called her “overrated.” Knee deep in college music, I blindly agreed with my friend (you know who you are) and never drew an opinion of my own. I would have continued to disregard Raitt if my life hadn’t changed on August 1, 1992, when Julie and I went on our first date. At that time, Raitt’s “Not the Only One,” from her 1991 Nick of Time follow-up, Luck of the Draw, was getting plenty of exposure on all of the soft rock stations across the land. My boss at the time, Barb, happened to like things on the mellow side, which meant that I was subjected to huge doses of Whitney Houston and Gloria Estefan. I also heard plenty of “Not the Only One” in the summer of ’92. However, that song, with its crisp harmonies and plunky guitar, was pleasant to the ears and kept me from wanting to smash the radio into little pieces. What’s more, Julie liked Bonnie Raitt, so I was more inclined to give the veteran blues singer a chance.

As some of you know (and by my account of that date in a previous entry), our first date was simply wonderful: out to the movies, a couple drinks, some mediocre wings and fantastic conversation. As she dropped me off at home, I asked Julie for a kiss goodnight. That one kiss told me everything I needed to know about this woman, about life, and about the way that love works. I knew I was going to marry her right then and there. Needless to say, this was a little disconcerting, it being one date and one kiss and me only kind of knowing her. But as the weeks passed and the two of us saw each other every single day, I felt that the love was real and that I could not spend the rest of my life without her. (more…)

Years ago, after packing away most of my old 45’s, I gave several to my friend Steve for prosperity’s sake. Among them was Led Zeppelin’s “The Immigrant Song,” one of their greatest triumphs from their third album, released in 1970. However, the treasure of this particular single was the rare B-side, “Hey Hey What Can I Do,” unavailable on any Zeppelin album (until the release of the first Led Zeppelin box set in 1990). I would never call Steve a big Zeppelin fan. (This may have something to do with an incident when his mom scrutinized “Whole Lotta Love” blasting through the tape deck. There’s nothing worse than having to explain Robert Plant’s sexual moans to your mother.) Steve preferred the angst and teenage wastelands of the Who, anyway; always a lyric guy. Being a drummer, I was drawn to the rhythm and blues, and the grunge and the groove, of Zeppelin. Like all of our friends, we discovered Zeppelin and the Who on our own, before there was a format known as “classic rock,” instead relying on the tastes of our peers (or peers’ older siblings). At a time when Zeppelin was only beginning to receive renewed radio airplay, it was quite unusual to hear “Hey Hey What Can I Do” on the radio. Luckily, I was able to track down “The Immigrant Song” at a record store so I could give it a spin whenever I liked.

On a warm summer night in June 1985, Steve and I bunkered down in my house while the parental units were away for the weekend. That night, we sat through Ken Russell’s interpretation of Tommy, sampled the booze from the decorative liquor bottles in the wet bar (replacing the missing contents with water, because, you know, parents never notice) and wound up meeting a couple of girls at the city park around the corner from the house. One of the girls was my ex-girlfriend. No, we didn’t hook up; in fact, there was no hookage that night, just some innocent flirting between my best bud and the ex. I didn’t mind. She had broken up with me back in the fall — my first break-up (complete with embarrassing Favreau-esque/Swingers-like phone calls on my part… ugh, painful). I realized I’d never have another shot with this particular beauty. What kind of friend would I be if I stood in the way of Steve’s teenage bliss? That night I basically gave him permission to date her, nullifying the guy code about dating your best friend’s ex-girlfriend. Eventually, Steve and I returned from the park and switched on the video of Zeppelin’s concert film, The Song Remains the Same. Giddy from our moonlight encounter, we pranced around the house like idiots, using my old crutches as guitars, imitating Jimmy Page drooling on himself during his killer solos. (more…)

In the fall of 1991, Robbie Robertson released his second solo album, Storyville, to glowing reviews, including a four-star feature write up in Rolling Stone (“a mature and masterful work that lends additional luster to the formidable legacy Robertson shaped with the Band”). A month later, Nirvana’s Nevermind was released, and we all know which one went on to be considered one of the most important albums of all time. Robertson’s Storyville is all but forgotten, which is a shame, because the record’s atmospheric tribute to New Orleans contains one of his most beautiful songs, “What About Now.”

I’m not sure what prompted me to have Steve buy me Storyville for my birthday that year, most likely Anthony Curtis’ review in Rolling Stone, but “What About Now” was also receiving minor airplay on, of all places, the AOR radio station in Toledo that I listened to while finishing up my senior year at Bowling Green. Initially, I was drawn to the haunting melody, but I was soon taken by Robertson’s lyrics.

There’s gonna be a change of season
Indian summer look around and it’s gone
Why you wanna save the best for last
We grow up so slowly and grow old so fast

We don’t talk about forever
We just catch it while we can
And if I grab on to the moment
Don’t let it slip away out of my hand

Hearing those words sung so plaintively by Robertson gave me some perspective on life as I was completing my final semester of college in the spring of ‘92. During that time, I rushed to complete my senior film, stressed about the remaining courses I needed, and worried about my deteriorating relationship with my then-girlfriend. If only for five minutes “What About Now” allowed me to escape these burdens to try and live in the moment. While the nation was beginning to raise its fists to the screams of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, I would seclude myself in the dank basement bedroom of my college apartment house to absorb the harmonies of Robertson, Ivan Neville and the ethereal voice of Aaron Neville. (more…)

If you should find yourself in North Olmsted, Ohio with a few extra minutes, you can drive past the North Olmsted high school. There, if you know where to look, you’ll find a brown brick, perfectly centered between two windows on the way to the soccer practice field at the back of the school. Because it is brown, this brick blends in nicely with the rest of the orange and tan skin of the school. That layer of burnt umber, oil-based paint was applied to the wall on a humid, scorching afternoon in August 1990. At the tail end of my time working on the North Olmsted Board of Education summer maintenance crew, I decided to leave my mark on the school in which I grew up and started the path to adulthood.

For three years, I worked alongside a group of college guys my age and a group of men in their 40s and 50s (“lifers” as we called them) who were the full-time maintenance men for the school system. Each year, our summers were spent sweating our asses off in the Ohio heat, primarily painting classrooms and the exterior trim of the schools. My friend, Jeff, landed me the job and I convinced him to persuade Mike Clancy, the head of the maintenance department, to hire Steve, too. Like I said, I matured during that period. I learned how to be a better friend, an okay boyfriend (which would provide me with the lessons to be a good husband someday) and a halfway decent painter. Those laborious days were full of Diner-esque conversations; lazy, introspective moments; and a lot of good music playing from my Emerson dual cassette boom box. Although there were many songs I grew to love during that time, many of those tunes hold only nostalgic value to me these days. However, one song remains a favorite basement song and it is one I would include in my personal top ten: They Might Be Giants’ “Ana Ng”. (more…)

Like many Saturday afternoons, we found ourselves straightening up the house, the children and I. It was June 2007, it was hot, and they were beginning to bicker. What can you expect? The last thing kids want to do on a weekend is clean up after themselves. While I did my best to make sense of the one thousand toys scattered around the playroom, Sophie and Jacob had the simple task of picking up their toys, shoes and movies in the living room. I’m sure at the time I thought we would surprise Julie, who was at work. However, my two darlings began to argue and my nerves were beginning to fray. Instead of erupting and unleashing anger, I decided to alleviate the growing tension with music.

Our house is always filled with music, whether it’s coming from the stereo, the television, Sophie’s room, the kitchen, or through the voices of my loved ones. Julie can sing like an angel and Sophie appears to have inherited this wonderful trait. It’s still too early to tell what kind of singing voice Jake will have, but like his sister, he has a natural talent for keeping the beat (something from the old man, I suppose). I sprang into action and threw in Paul McCartney’s Memory Almost Full, which had recently been released, skipping the first track and going right to my favorite song, “Ever Present Past.”

The driving rhythm of the song’s opening immediately captured the kids’ attention, especially when their father decided to revisit the high stepping of his high school and college marching band days.  Jacob cracked up, his cheeks full and eyes squinting, while Sophie broke into a gorgeous wide open grin that lit up her deep blue eyes.  “Follow me!” I commanded and we created our own parade, weaving down the hallway, through the kitchen, around the playroom and back into the living room.  At the song’s bridge, I shouted, “Crazy dance!”  The three of us twisted and turned, jumped and wiggled like loons.  When the instruments suddenly stopped just before the final verse, we froze until the music restarted.  Our parade picked up once again moving through the house.

And then it was over.  Two minutes and fifty-six seconds of pure bliss created a memory that will stay with me a lifetime. (more…)

The death of Stevie Ray Vaughan struck a deep chord in me. Back when he was making his breakthrough in the early ’80s, an upstart Akron radio station, WONE, became an early supporter of the guitarist and his band, Double Trouble. I had listened to ONE since it took to the airwaves; therefore, I quickly became a fan of Stevie Ray and his remarkable talent. As his legend grew and his life story became available (this was before the Internet, so whatever information you learned about your favorite artists generally came through the voice on the radio), I soon learned that Stevie Ray had an older, less flashy brother, Jimmie, the longtime axe slinger for the Fabulous Thunderbirds. The T-Birds were enjoying their own wide success in the mid-’80s, with their “Tuff Enuff” single and album. As I found out more about the Texan brothers, I became fascinated at how the Vaughan brothers it mirrored my own life in a small way.

I grew up worshiping my older brother, Budd, especially his drumming skills. He is a more nuanced drummer than I ever was, and much better technically. Budd had a knack for playing any song thrown in front of him, be it Rush, Chicago, Missing Persons or even the fusion jazz of Maynard Ferguson. You name it, he had the patience and diligence to master what was on the record before making it his own. That he was always a beatkeeper first, choosing his moments to display his own pizzazz, speaks volumes about his personality: Finish the job at hand before showing off and having fun. I, on the other hand, never met a drum fill I didn’t love, or an empty space in the music to place them. It would be years later before I would appreciate what Max Weinberg and Stan Lynch were doing with the E Street Band and the Heartbreakers, respectively. You can see how I would correlate my life with Stevie Ray’s: Younger brother who lives in the shadow of older, more talented brother, goes on to become flashier musician, maybe even trying to outshine the sibling. That’s not to say I was bitter. Hardly. Like Stevie Ray, if anyone asked me who my influences as a drummer were, at the top of my list was Budd (just like Stevie always mentioned Jimmie as one of his).

On August 27, 1990, Stevie Ray boarded a helicopter to fly to Chicago after finishing a gig with Eric Clapton, Buddy Guy, Robert Cray and Jimmie. The helicopter crashed in the dead of the night and Stevie Ray Vaughan died at age 35.

(more…)