c.
2018 Rod Ice
All
rights reserved
(6-18)
Note
To Readers: What follows is the yield of another sleepless night in
Thompson.
2:00
a. m. - Time for coffee.
I
was grateful for the hour. One early for most, but late enough from
my own perspective to celebrate having managed to sleep for about two
hours. After several attempts at being in bed without much restful
slumber, I had finally reached the point where exhaustion overwhelmed
my joint pain. Having tossed back and forth from my left side to my
right, somewhere, the hours slipped by without notice. I was immersed
in darkness, hearing nothing but the friendly noise of the box fan on
my side table. A sound matched to the medical breeze provided by my
CPAP machine.
My
pre-dawn ritual was about to begin.
After
starting a pot of coffee, I turned on the television. My Black Lab
was in his favorite spot on the couch. So I let him snore without
interruption. I selected the ‘Tune In’ channel on my Roku, then
brought up the Phil Hendrie podcast, episode #1189.
Caffeine
awakened my brain cells as the voices went on aural parade. Steve and
Bobbie Dooley, Bud Dickman, Robert Leonard, General Gaylen Shaw. And
of course, the host, himself. I checked for messages on my phone but
there were none. Eventually, my dog wanted to go for a walk. His
reward, afterward, was a handful of treats and a slice of fresh
bread.
Wrangler
likes plain bread. I reckon a low-carb diet would break his canine
heart.
3:00
a. m. - Rubbing my eyes.
I
pondered watching an episode of Max Headroom, the series broadcast in
1987-88 with Matt Frewer, Amanda Pays, Chris Young, W. Morgan
Sheppard and Jeffrey Tambor. It had been on the CW Seed channel, but
disappeared in recent weeks. I found it again on the website
Dailymotion. The show evoked memories of coming home late from work,
at Kresse’s Bi-Rite in Chardon, where I was on the grocery crew.
Dinner would consist of leftovers, a 12-pack of beer and whatever was
on our cable TV. Sometimes, this meant watching odd films on Cinemax,
CNN news, or a videotaped episode of the bombastic Morton Downey, Jr.
program. Max had been in the mix, as well. My recollections were
hazy. Yet two things had endured across the span of time between then
and now. First, the quirky cool of Frewer’s portrayal of the main
character as an artificial being. Second, the luscious depth of Pays’
lovely eyes. Seen from my modern perspective as a retired,
middle-aged mule, her spark of big-haired, 80’s charm still caused
my heartbeat to pause.
4:00
a. m. - Pondering more coffee.
My
friend Janis texted just after the hour. I had to re-check my phone
to be sure of the time. But my empty coffee pot confirmed that
another hour had passed as I sat at the computer.
We
chatted in bits and pieces of verbiage, sent between our mobile
devices. I began to fear the coming of sunrise. Night was my cloak.
My shield against the oppressive force of responsibility. While the
world was unconscious, I could roam. Free to imagine while tapping
away at the keyboard. A voyager in rhyme. Yet the brightening sky
always sapped my power. Like a vampire, I had to seek refuge from the
day. Or more accurately stated, my creative self had to flee. In the
light of morning, I was simply an aging fellow with bad knees and a
disintegrated hip.
I
could only finish my work and hope for nightfall to arrive once
again, as my friend’s texts grew shorter and fewer in number.
5:00
a. m. - Silence.
Eventually,
I realized that my soulmate on the phone had disappeared. Her workday
was beginning, in Ashtabula. Meanwhile, my own session at the desktop
PC had nearly ended. My Black Lab had chosen a new spot on the living
room rug. He snored more loudly than before. I wondered if the extra
carbs provided by Schwebels Baking Company had given him a bit of
‘food fatigue.’
A
search on Wikipedia revealed that Matt Frewer had reached the
esteemed age of 60. Amanda Pays was 59. W. Morgan Sheppard had nearly
reached 86. Chris Young, who portrayed a child-prodigy among adults,
was 47 years old.
Suddenly,
another memory popped up in my Max-flashback. I recalled that Garry
Trudeau had created a fictional takeoff of the character called ‘Ron
Headrest.’ A stuttering tech-bot, satirically intended to aid
President Ronald Reagan. The idea worked so well that it transcended
the comic strip, even inspiring off-Broadway performances, a video
and a movie. I bought the title song as a 12-inch vinyl single. It
was called ‘Rap Master Ronnie.’
I
had heard the record played locally on WDMT-FM, from Cleveland.
Having
encountered Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five in New York,
before moving home to Ohio in 1983, I was taken by the programming
available on this local station. It helped influence me to write a
‘Hip-Hop’ tune of my own called ‘Too Bad To Die’ which I
recorded on a return visit to the Empire State in 1984. An Internet
search revealed historical notes about FM-108, and something more –
a post on Mixcloud from one of their ‘Clubstyle’ broadcasts in
1985.
6:00
a. m. - Bedtime.
By
now, the darkness had begun to surrender. I bowed my head and gave
thanks for what had transpired while I sat at the desk. Now, it was
time to write.
Comments
about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to:
icewritesforyou@gmail.com
Write
us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024
No comments:
Post a Comment