“Editorial Decisions”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Note: What follows here is a bit of self-analysis. Writing about the process of professional writing. Apologies to those not personally active in the field, or interested in peering behind the veil.

Absolute power.

In yonder days, this sort of governance was carried out by a monarch of some sort. A king or queen, often said to have been anointed by higher grace. In modern terms, possessing such might would more likely be characterized as a dictatorship, frequently avoiding mentions of God altogether. Civilized nations have graduated to more democratic habits. But in the world of professional journalism, the concept has lingered on with indelible force.

When the production of printed matter was a more tedious process, one publisher could enhance or restrict the flow of news and information for an entire community, simply by editing their newspaper content. Thus, public opinion could be shaped and molded at will. Buoyed by education or sunk by prejudice. This authority to choose came simply from owning the press. Internet connectivity might have seemed likely to explode the primitive ethos. Yet with many journals still published around the country, this anachronistic way of life has continued. The results remain vague and varied like those in charge.

For this writer, the looming presence of an editor neatly fit that paradigm of blessing and curse. Some were investigators by nature, curious and questioning, always. Happy to test limits and boundaries. Seeking content not seen elsewhere. Looking to find new horizons. Others were gladdened by huddling in their respective enclaves. Echoing echoes of repeated duplicity like a mirror reflecting the same muddled points of light over and over again. Going along to get along. Stale and safe. Neither gaining or losing ground, but existing for the purpose of a static sentience.

When I wrote for a motorcycle magazine published in California, my editor had a keen sense of the genre. Each new submission had me pondering if I might have reached his limit of professional endurance. But over-the-top material was an everyday meal for this seasoned fellow. His publishing parameters were vast. So I rarely encountered the sting of veto power. Perhaps a sort of liberty inappropriate for a developing wordsmith, in need of guidance. Later, at a local newspaper, this judicial gavel swung more freely. When I offered a column about a local football hero of consequence, it was rejected because he did not like sports of any kind. The yield was numb acceptance. And a document cheered by readers when it finally saw publication elsewhere, at a later date.

In each case, the rule of law was precipitated by one man’s opinion.

My retirement from traditional print media in 2014 felt like a sort of defeat, at first. Being unplugged from the continuum. Yet when I began the new ‘WOTL’ online series, a twinkle of magic appeared. Suddenly, the prose on each page was truly my own. Rendered in the purest form.

My heart sang a Lou Reed composition from years before:

I’m Set Free (The Velvet Underground, 1969)

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

To the memories of yesterday’s clouds

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

I’ve been blinded but - now I can see

What in the world has happened to me

The prince of stories who walks right by me

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

I’ve been set free and I’ve been bound

Let me tell you people - what I’ve found

I saw my head laughing – rolling on the ground

And now

I’m set free

I’m set free

I’m set free to find a new illusion

Cyberspace technology has offered a revolution of unparalleled significance. With the ability to sling words around the globe, some writers have truly been empowered. One need honor few restrictions of content, when working as a solo creator. Yet the resulting glut of material has created a blurred focus for many readers. The tide of garbled and unpolished work has washed upon every shore. Creating a world in which some editorial sifting might be useful.

Working long hours overnight, I sometimes ask my Black Lab for a canine review, after tapping away at the keyboard. I invite him to put a paw to the screen and opine about the words displayed. With the house otherwise empty and silent, he typically growls out an old-man groan of sympathy. But, little else. Still, the admonition seems clear enough.

“Writer, edit thyself.”

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Voices, Part Two”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

The wee hours.

Something about working overnight has always seemed proper in the Ice household. We are a flock of ‘night owls’ by nature. But as I moved into permanent retirement in 2016, this method of living became more than a tendency. After a brief period of readjustment, it developed into a habit of consequence. One that ruled my moods and motions with little mercy.

Often, this has yielded lots of useful prose when at my desk, after hours.

But a recent night offered something more. While working on a project for the Geauga Independent, my online newspaper, voices began to chatter from a Silvertone transistor radio on the bookcase. Pondering my coffee cup, I wondered if too much caffeine had created some sort of hallucination. One founded on childhood horseplay imitating Mel Blanc in classic Warner Brothers cartoons. Or my later affinity for driving home from work, long after dark, with the Phil Hendrie Show via WKBN in Youngstown. Yet the visitation of vocal spirits was something more. Something undeniably real.

I peered at the radio relic in disbelief. Breaking the stillness, voices began to echo as I wished for something stronger than my coffee:

“Boys, my name is Rascal T. Pettibone,” a wild, southern character spoke. “And the ‘T’ stands for Texas!”

“Well, I’m Dudley Perks,” a second voice interjected,in the raspy tone of an irritated nerd. “You
 sound like a hillbilly with a mouth full of mashed potatoes!”

“Look here, boy,” the country cowpoke growled. “I don’t care for the tone of your talk. Do you hear me?”

“Whaaat? All I hear is a hick trying to sound impressive,” Perks replied.

“THAT’S EEEEEE-NOUGH!” Pettibone exploded. “I’ve had enough of your attitude. And when I say I’ve had enough, I mean that I’ve had EEEEEE-NOUGH!”

“Enough is what I’ve had of you, hayseed!” Perks snickered. “Finish those mashed potatoes before you go on a rant!”

Four-letter words flew from the tinny, tiny radio speaker with abandon. Finally, I slammed my coffee cup on the desk. “That’s enough from both of you!”

There was a silent pause. Then Pettibone apologized.

“Boy, I didn’t mean to get you all riled up...”

Perks agreed. “Whaaat? Who are you out there? A thin-skinned whiner?”

I shook my head. “What?”

“The kid’s right, dammit,” Pettibone observed. “I’d say it’s time to toughen up a bit there, pardner.”

I picked up the radio to make sure there was no battery in the case. Puzzled and pondering, I turned the knob for a different station. But the voices continued to sound.

“Look boy,” Pettibone growled. “Playin’ with the damn dial won’t make us shut up, okay?”

“I ain’t shutting up for this hayseed!” Perks exclaimed.

“Hey, watch your tone, junior!” Pettibone thundered. “Are you dumb or deaf?”

“I’m not in the mood to hear the same boring scheiss,” Perks chortled. “Blah, blah, blah, the same patter about having enough of whatever you’ve had enough of… the same old same old… BOOOOORING!”

“I reckon it’s about time for some fistichoppin’ boy!” Pettibone threatened.

“Fisti-whatting?” Perks said in disbelief.

“MY FIST, BUSTIN’ YOU IN THE DAMN CHOPS!” Pettibone yelled.

“Ooooh, I’m scared now,” Perks squealed. “The big, tough redneck is going to lose an argument by using his knuckles because his brain can’t do the job.”

I was baffled and out of breath. “ENOUGH!”

“That’s my line, pardner!” Pettibone thundered.

“True story,” Perks agreed. “It’s his line, he said it first.”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” I pleaded. “Things were great here until you two decided to haunt my transistor radio. I was about to finish a manuscript.

“Go ahead, don’t mind us one bit,” Perks laughed.

“Get your jollies, pardner!” Pettibone said sarcastically. “Don’t mind us, we’re just hanging around the superhetrodyne stratosphere.”

“What??” I shouted.

“The word ‘what’ is my line,” Perks teased. “This big sack of equestrian poop makes me say it all the time. Whaaaaaat?”

“Fistichoppin’ my boy!” Pettibone roared. “Get yourself ready! TEETH ARE GONNA FLY!”

“Stop it!” I commanded. “Stop it now!”

Another silent pause took hold. Then, Perks whispered from the speaker.

“You are kinda edgy,” he said. “I hate to agree with mister-mashed-potato-eater here, but I think you need some Prozac or something.”

Pettibone chuckled to himself. “Prozac or a stiff shot of whiskey!”

“How about both?” Perks wondered out loud.

“STOP IT!” I demanded. “STOP RIGHT NOW!”

Perks grew quiet again. “Geez mister, you know this is all in your head. You can turn it off just like turning off the radio. Just twist your switch.”

“What?” I said while gasping for air.

“Turn the damn switch, boy!” Pettibone laughed. “This is all in your head. Ain’t you figured that out yet? We... do... not... exist.”

“Me?” I coughed with frustration. “This is all because of me?”

“Wow, that’s a revelation, right?” Perks sneered. “You imagine stuff and it happens. Just like when your brain thinks of other stuff and it ends up on paper, through your fingers.”

“Paper, hell!” Pettibone declared. “Writers don’t use paper no more! It’s all on a damn computer screen now, junior!”

“He knows what I meant!” Perks complained.

“You mean this is all in my head?” I said quizzically.

“Of course it is!” Perks guffawed. “What, you think Silvertone made radios that run without a battery?”

“Sears did it all,” Pettibone reflected. “But they didn’t do that!”

“Soooooo,” I interrupted. “If I just put you two out of my mind, it will end this verbal altercation like Phil Hendrie finishing one of his netcast episodes?”

“You are brilliant,” Perks taunted.

“Damn, the boy figured it out!” Pettibone huffed.

“Okay,” I sighed. “Here we go… tuning out out… turning you off… off off off...”

A third pause elapsed. Then, the radio speaker nearly burst with amplified hilarity.

“You can’t turn us off, boy!” Pettibone cheered. “We’re with you, forever!”

“Forever!” Perks repeated. “Forever, forever, forever!”

It was 3:00 in the morning. The windows were still dark. My coffee cup was empty. My belly had twisted itself into a knot. My head ached, But the screen of my PC was full. At last, I could go to bed.

“Good night, Rascal. Good night, Dudley.”

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Carrie Hamglaze Returns”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Gone, gone, gone.

After the holiday season of 2018, I expected the typical slide into a winter funk. Geauga County had been unseasonably warm throughout the weeks of festivity and celebration. But then, winter appeared and I had to contend with real snow. Normally, I kept balance by the use of a second-hand, medical cane. But I somehow managed to trade this implement for my shovel. It served as both a prop and a scoop for the frosty flakes. With care, I cleared the precipitation that had heaped itself on my driveway. Piled deep enough that it reached almost to my knees.

With the seasonal gloom in effect, I had more time to spend in the home office, writing. This inverse wealth of time had always been welcome in January and February, with temperatures below zero. But a nagging bit of doubt soured these weeks of reclusive reflection.

Where was Carrie Hamglaze?

After Christmas, my erstwhile friend and spiritual mentor had literally disappeared. Her dignified apparel of Irish green nowhere on the frozen landscape. Her resonant, melodic voice not heard in the markets around our county. I texted and called and wrote and wondered, without enlightenment. Even my brother-in-law, who normally sat in her circle of devotees at the public library, reported of her absence.

She was, quite simply, gone.

I received a bogus friend request on Facebook, from what appeared to be a ‘cloned’ profile in her name. This only deepened the mystery. I commented on her genuine page, as did other friends. Yet no response returned. My yearning for this friend began to foster something more dreadful – real concern. Was she well? Or in the hospital? Unable to connect? Or alone somewhere, cold and hungry?

Oh, Carrie!

My heart was wounded. Finally, I began to post about this lingering mood of fear, on social media. I clicked through old photographs of her, on my phone. Each image inspired sweet adoration with an afterglow of emptiness. Where could she have gone? My heart ached with every passing hour struck by the clock. Worry pooled in my belly.

Then, a friend from Hambden messaged about her status. “Rod, I saw Carrie in town. She is alive and well, I can say. Feisty and fearless!” My pulse quickened. Then another contact spoke with similar fondness. “Carrie was here in Chardon today, I could not reach her in time, through the crowd, but her gait and figure were unmistakable as ever...”

Finally, a friend from the Giant Eagle store sent a message of good cheer. “Rod, Carrie was here today, filling her basket with cookies and Irish tea. She mentioned having a new phone. I wrote down the number for you.” A bloom of hope swelled my heart.

Carrie! Carrie! Carrie!

When I attempted to enter the new number into my phone contacts, there were several previous listings already stored. I deleted these and updated her information. Then, pecked out a short note. “Have missed you, my friend. Glad to hear that you are well...”

Her reply appeared a day later. “Hello, hello!”

After chattering in text about the post-holiday slump, I wondered aloud if she might deliver some creative prose via her new cellular device. I knew that she did not have a computer at the moment. But I reckoned it would be easy enough to capture her work from the messages and transform them into a document for my online newspaper, ‘The Geauga Independent.’

My offer went out with much excitement. “I have always believed you are the true conscience of our county. The ‘Grande Dame’ of local journalists and former public servants. Your voice should rejoin the chorus. Since you haven’t been in the Geauga County Maple Leaf for awhile, I would like to include your thoughts and reminiscences in my own newspaper.”

Her reaction reverberated with positive energy. “I’ll give it a try!”

A couple of days later, I received her first installment:

“The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month is an historic time for all

members of the public who pause near the steps of our great Geauga County Court House to hear the

patriotic words of veterans who have been presented medals of honor for their heroic deeds defending our country in times of war. Their allegiance to God and country makes us all proud to be Americans.”

I scratched my head. The technological thread between us had become frayed over the distance. Puzzlement clouded my comprehension as I clicked forward to the next page:

“I spoke to the distinguished man afterward and told him I was

proud to be there as we prepared to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the end

of WW 1. As a daughter of WW 1, I was honored to tell tell him of my dad's

service in the gas division of the ‘war to end all wars.’”

I bit my lip. Her stoic command of local history rang out clearly. Yet the message had been muddled by electronic gremlins. One last page of text remained:

“My dad was Harcourt Aaron Hamglaze. After his military service ended he graduated from the Keystone Academy of Business in Pennsylvania. He traveled around the world and spoke five languages. After this great adventure, I am glad he returned home to marry my mom. We had a wonderful life...”

I scrolled back and forth through the pages. Trying to fashion a whole cloth out of her unwoven tangle of yarn. Eventually, my fate became obvious. I bowed my head in surrender. Still wishing for rescue. More time was needed to complete this writing task.

The Geauga Independent would have to wait.

I sent a last plea from my phone. “Carrie, what you have sent is wonderful, but sections of the document are missing. Almost like a magazine with pages torn out for some other use...”

She responded immediately. “Yes, I am getting to know the quirks of this new device. Light years beyond my old flip-phone. Sorry. Will have a look and contact you again. Be well!”

A last burst of text filled the screen. It was a traditional blessing she liked to repeat:

“May the road rise to meet you

May the wind

be always at your back

May the sun shine

warm upon your face

And rains fall soft upon your fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you

in the palm of his hand.”

“Amen,” I messaged, in closing. “So glad to hear from you again...”

Carrie Hamglaze had returned.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Word Jazz Farewell”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Saturday.

Normally a day to be celebrated as the weekend-in-effect. But in my retirement, every day has become a weekend. Time itself no longer holds meaningful power over existence. The pace of self skips no longer to the rhythm of a clock. So instead, I have simply learned to exist. Flowing here and there where the boundaries of an outside world offer rude interruption, like a current of water nibbling away at the soil. I win, I lose, I win, I lose, I win.

When I returned home from a day with Janis, a day of thrift-store exploration, Chinese food and Dairy Queen dessert, my arthritic joints were exhausted. My left leg turned nearly sideways on its disintegrated hip. I had enough oomph in my flesh to get the mail, and take my Black Lab outside. Then, it was chair time. I had to sit.

I wanted to nap like Garfield, the cartoon cat. Then awaken in time for CRAGG Live, my favorite Internet radio program. Often, such intentions were likely to fizzle and smoke into futility as I slept. But tonight my tick-tock awareness was on point. Consciousness returned about 9:15 p.m., when I noticed that the house felt colder. More from my own fatigue than the air temperature. I clicked on the Roku and waited for Terry and Tiffany Du Foe. Meanwhile, I checked my iPhone for messages. On Facebook, John Gorman, former Program Director at WMMS in Cleveland, had posted about a notable passing.

Ken Nordine, the beloved creator of ‘Word Jazz’ was gone.

I slumped in my chair. Deflated, like an athlete’s ball gone flat. My eyes stung and burned from tears. The everyday CRAGG feed continued, with no live broadcast. I poked at the YouTube app on my device, locating his ‘Colors’ LP, from 1966.

“Olive… poor thing… sits and thinks… that it’s drab… sure does… sits and sits and sits and thinks… about its olive drab drab… doesn’t know… doesn’t know that it is about to be named color of the year… by those with a nose for the new… by the passionate few… yeahh… olive!”

The album had begun as an advertising campaign, spurred by the Fuller Paint Company. But interest in Nordine’s work expanded the project. The recording was a familiar artifact for record collectors and wordsmiths, like myself. Later, he produced a series of commercials for Levi Strauss that ran in the 70’s and 80’s. While his name remained unfamiliar to many, his voice became universally known. A part of our greater generational heritage.

CRAGG never went live, remaining in their 24/7 archive loop. A technical issue had sidelined the show. Yet I felt grateful. The ‘Colors’ audio document continued to stream in my living room, now more loudly, from the Roku. I pondered discussing Nordine’s career with friends during my Cornell television apprenticeship, some 40 years ago. Finally, I posted about these personal memories on social media.

“1979 - We used to go away from Ithaca, in New York, to a place we called ‘The Hill.’ Our cast of artists, dreamers and malcontents from Channel 13. At an intersection of two county roads, marked only by the crude, hand-painted sign for a place named ‘Teeter’s Barn.’ There, we would gather, turn up the radios in our cars, drink beer, look up at the stars and ponder life. One night while I went through a pack of Schmidt’s or Genesee or Piels or Utica Club, and the sky was a vast oasis of electric pinpoints floating on black... there came a broadcast from the NPR station nearby. An extended set of Ken Nordine. Appropriate, incredible and everlasting as we listened and watched in the night. Four decades later I can only bow my head silently and mourn his passing. While giving thanks for what he inspired in me and my community of friends. Rest In Peace...”

The attendees for our meetings at this rural spot were many. David Bly, my co-host for television broadcasts. Alan Dunning, who owned a real Fender Stratocaster and a Volkswagen microbus when many of us were broke and walking. Annie Daino, the theater student and Beatles aficionado. Bette M. Burke, the PhD candidate and mentor to the group. Paul & Mollie Race, our hippie parents-in-waiting. Perhaps even others, who hid in the shadows.

Nordine’s voice soared over the landscape. A fitting companion to nights spent away from the hustle of Cornell University and Ithaca College. In my thoughts, those moments of spiritual escape, and his work, are forever connected. Pieces like ‘You’re Getting Better’ had become part of my own DNA.

“I want you to know you’re getting better… I don’t care what everyone’s been saying… you’re getting better. They’re the ones who’ve been getting worse. And uh… they don’t like what you’ve been doing. Understandably. Do you think they can watch you strip yourself of one unnecessary thing after another? Day by day becoming so to speak, naked, or free, and not feel the way they do? Of course not. It’s painful to get rid of things you don’t need. And they know it… they wouldn’t be saying what they’ve been saying if they didn’t want you to stop...”

Passers-by would stop on occasion, to offer roadside assistance. We always explained our momentary situation with gratitude and deference. Sometimes. Members of the Sheriff’s Department discovered us while traveling through the isolated area. But amazingly, there was never a complaint. It seems likely that even with 40 years having elapsed, there must be stray beer bottles still nestled there, in the dirt. Not unlike lost echoes of ‘Word Jazz’ bouncing across the atmosphere.

“Make it on your own, the way you’ve been doing. And remember… you’re getting better! Excuse me now, I have to, uh, go. I’ll just dissolve right here, in front of you. See you...”

Ken Nordine, hero and muse. Rest peacefully dear friend.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Sidney”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Bollocks. In 1977, at the age of 16, I had never heard that British term before.

My world consisted of a few square miles northeast of Pittsburgh. Though a native of Ohio, I had landed in the Keystone State for what would be a three-year stay. Like many teenagers of that era, I busied myself with collecting vinyl records, plucking away at my guitar, and absorbing counterculture habits, wherever they could be found. In the era before Internet connectivity, that was not so easy to accomplish. But through a selection of newspapers, motorcycle magazines and local radio stations, my bond with the world outside of Pennsylvania was maintained.

Nearly everyone in high school listened to WDVE, the commercial Rock giant. Yet I favored two lesser broadcast outlets. WYDD, a beacon of free-form programming, and WYEP, a public station with local roots. Both delivered a varied stream of content far outside of the popular mainstream. This meant I often heard everything from Roy Buchanan to Kiss to John McLaughlin to Devo in a single day of listening. Having grown up on household staples of Folk, Blues, Country & Western and Jazz, I absorbed this scattered mix with much enthusiasm. Then, in 1977, a tonal grenade exploded from my RCA radio.

They were called the Sex Pistols.

When I talked about the group at school, not one member of my class had actually heard their records. Soon however, erroneous stories circulated of the band defecating on stage, playing in various states of partial nudity, and other acts of anti-social horror. My friends clung to more conventional artists for security, like Peter Frampton or Bob Seger. Yet each story of disreputable behavior only increased my appetite for these foreign yobs. I taped their songs off of the radio. Then, very late in the year, a copy of ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’ appeared at a local store. It glowed with infamy as I lifted it from the record rack. Like an eerie talisman of black magic. Johnny Rotten, Steve Jones, Paul Cook… Glen Matlock was already gone… and a striking figure who seemed destined for an unholy kind of immortality from the moment his image appeared.

Sid Vicious. Born John Simon Ritchie, in 1957.

He was almost anorexic. Spiky hair, leather-clad, sporting a padlock hung around his neck and thumping a Fender Precision Bass that looked more like a potential weapon than a musical instrument. An adult brain might have pondered his capricious disregard for amplified art, himself, or the greater pool of concert-going humanity. But I was a kid. His impulsive, ill-considered manner of performing struck me like an epiphany. I had not felt such energy since the first time a Chuck Berry recording hit the hi-fi. A classic Bob Gruen photo captured him wearing a button that resonated in my young soul. It read: “I’m a mess.” Secretly, silently, I knew what he felt. My only wish was to be so free. To able to live without concern for convention. In a postmodern time, without heroes, Sid waved his stringed scepter defiantly. 

And I cheered that misanthropic act.

A year later, I had moved with my family to the Finger Lakes region of New York. By chance, a television apprenticeship became available through a Cornell University program at my high school. In the weeks that followed, I started a local Punk Rock show, armed with nothing more than an armload of albums from my own collection. Part of my wardrobe was a padlock on a chain, around my neck. I willingly channeled Sid’s vibe, on-air.

Some even suggested ‘Rod Vicious’ as a moniker to consider, for television. It did not fit my personality, however. And I reckoned it was a bit too obvious. But the forthcoming Sex Pistols movie provided a clue. Thus, I adopted the name of ‘Swindle’ for the spotlight.

Sid’s path continued a zig-zag course through minefields of fame, addiction, violence, media-hype, and abuse. His re-interpretation of the classic ‘My Way’ incinerated popular idioms. Nancy Spungen’s murder in New York City set his image ablaze. Then, in February of 1979, he was gone. I was on the air at Channel 13 in Ithaca when he died. A friend from Discount Records fashioned her own tribute for my leather jacket. The button read: “Sid Lives.” I wore it for the rest of my time hosting the show.

In death, as in his short span walking the earth, he burned like a firecracker. Bright, hot, rude, raw, undeniably overwhelming, and then vanished in a wisp of smoke.

A recent pause with YouTube revived these memories. In the midst of a sleepless Ohio night, I drank coffee and clicked through channels on my Roku. Then, the Sky Arts production “Sid! Sid Vicious Documentary” appeared on my screen. It opened an unexpected, time-warp adventure. With lingering effects of Canadian beer still throbbing through my head, I sat back in the chair. The video literally had me spellbound. Paralyzed by joy, reverence, and a sense of loss. Not just for this flawed icon, but for myself as I was… younger, more strong of heart and clear of purpose.

Sid was 21 when he surrendered to the filthy tide of a heroin overdose. He never became old, fat, indifferent, married, divorced, jaded, crusty or un-hip. Mortality fixed his image forever. Only those of us who lived onward, into old age and decline, can marvel at his tainted purity. He stands now, turned to stone, like a guidepost. Marking the passage of one era to the next.

We, the living, have not been so immortal. By breathing the infatuating vapors of life, we embrace a perverse, walking death every day. A death of ourselves, of souls, personalities, images, dreams, plans and hope itself. A death unintended by our birth. A death of purpose. A death of youth, of love, of faith, of self. Sid, in his grave, will live forever.

That is the conundrum of Rock & Roll.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Walking Home, 1979”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Inspiration.

The fantasies and frustrations associated with this indispensable fuel are many. Seemingly opposed in nature, yet authentically halves of a greater whole. Like a crackle of lightning, bursts of inspiration arrive with rude and mighty immediacy, and then disappear into nothingness. In their wake, the memory of that instant illuminated by fire can be everlasting. But their energy must be harnessed in the moment. An opportunity of inspiration lost is truly lost forever.

A recent example of this phenomenon happened when I was perusing the social media platform, Facebook. A friend with whom I share a connection to the city of Ithaca, New York had posted a poem written about his student memories of that distant burg. As I read his work, my nostalgia for Empire State returned:

Jake's Red & White: Ithaca, New York: 1972


by Drew Stevenson

Hangovers,
Self-inflicted oppression.

Friday's misguided hours
Easily assuaged Saturday mornings
With walks down Court Street
To Jake Geldwert's grocery
And a cold bottle of Yoo-hoo
To drink on my way to Joe's Restaurant
Where gin and friends await
And hangovers' further vengeance delayed.

But Sunday hangovers linger,
The Court Street walk not so sprightly.
The bell over Jake's door rings
And I cross the wood floor
To the frozen foods case,
Selecting two pot pies,
Chicken or beef,
Morton's or Swanson's,
It doesn't matter.

Jake, a small man with a big presence,
Stands behind the counter.
One day he will drive a would-be robber
From the store with a broom.
As I put the two small boxes down
He always jokes
That I owe a hundred dollars for them
And I always hand over my couple of bucks
With a smile.
Mrs. Geldwert stands quietly nearby,
The tattoo on her arm.
Auschwitz.

Back in my apartment
I heat the pies in the oven,
Dump them together in a bowl
And unenthusiastically
Break up the steaming crusts with a fork.
Hangovers & Jake's Red & White.
Saturday & Sunday mornings of my youth.

In personal terms, I had arrived in Ithaca during 1978, with a passion for radio broadcasting and Punk Rock music. My departure came five years later, having exhausted the creative opportunities at hand and the good will of friends. I read Drew’s composition with much enthusiasm, while having coffee. It had me pondering similar moments from my own experiences, by Cayuga Lake. A reply-in-text began to form in my head. On my iPhone, words filled the screen with joy and reverence:

Walking Home, 1979.

West State Street
Tompkins County, New York
Malcontents on the air
Music addicts
Poets, philosophers, personalities
A hippie disc jockey from Michigan
A teacher of video arts
A fellow from the public library
A PhD candidate from New Orleans
An Aussie student
A clerk from Discount Records
A visionary with tape machines
And me
Only 17
Leather jacket with razor blades from the medicine cabinet at home
Padlock on my neck
Like Sid Vicious
A nail and chain on my shoulder patch
Like the Ramones
On Friday nights
I grew under the lights
Like Audrey II
In an urban zoo
Shouting, sweating
Fist in the air fouled by cigarettes and beer
Live crowd of university kids
All ready to be part of the show
Freaks on display
Thrashing their budget guitars
In the hope of glory
Aliens in their own land
Everyone was in a Punk band!
Nervous police outside
Confused, amused
Polite in the moment
While we burned dollar bills
Drove the Guru’s VW onto the set
Drank, spit and swore
Took calls with no safety delay
Ran videos from Cayuga Lake
Thrashing, crashing
Finally settled back to earth
At 1:00 a.m.
Then at the State Diner, up the street
We had a meeting of sorts
Post-production
Laughed at ourselves
Planned and scammed
For next week
On Channel 13
Leather heroes
Studded, painted, chrome-tipped
Worship of the un-hip
Channeling pavement mojo
Reckless
Fed on desire and ambition
Fed to the fill
Fed on vinyl grooves
And seedy moves
But in a moment it would be still
Friends bid welcome to the dawn
Soon to rise
Alone, I zipped my jacket
Savoring the last coffee sip
My shoe-leather trip
Up to the Commons’ edge
And north
Each block toward home
Taking me farther away from the melee
From the reverse day
Step one, two, three
Boots on the sidewalk
Kicking out the rhythm
Of Clash tunes, or Richard Hell
Quieter and quieter
Not in my head
But around my ears
Past the park where fights happened for money or bragging rights
On certain nights
Past the closed emporium, remodeled
Past porches lit with pale light through cloudy windows
Past an Olds Toronado, in gray
Past the old gas station
With its green, early 50’s Chevrolet
The car I needed
But never bought
With pennies in my pocket
And dryer lint
A $14.00 guitar over my shoulder
Walking, walking
Brown house
White house
Yellow house
Out and about
Walking
Northward trek away from the studio set
Until I reached my home
North Cayuga, by Fall Creek
Stealthy in the dark
Up the front steps
Quiet into the kitchen
A pot of macaroni & cheese
My reward
My reprieve
Sat on our threadbare couch
Just before sunrise
Rubbing my eyes
Meal in my belly
On top of Miller High Life
And liquor
Off-stage at last
A turned page
A scripted ending in place
Surrender my face
Leather hung in the closet
Clark Kent once again
Meek and silent
New York stations on the cable
Hammer films
Or Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill
Cheesy, cheesy
So ended my night
Until next week
Pro wrestling displayed
Statement made
Pogo and Cretin Hop, moving to the brat beat
Feeling neat
On West State Street

The brilliant flash was gone almost before I could catch my breath. I tapped out the stanzas with excitement and fear, not wanting to lose these images before they were captured. Then, after writing my recollection-in-poetry, I sat in silence. With orgasmic intensity, the muse had spoken in my ear. Then, said no more.

My chore was finished. Now, it was time to share.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Trumped”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

The Bizarro World. A spinning cube of opposite reality.

First, it was a series by DC Comics from the early 1960’s. Later, the angular planet Htrae was reinterpreted on NBC’s ‘Saturday Night Live’ during the Reagan administration. The inverted, backwards universe was even mentioned on ‘Seinfeld.’

But in recent days, for this writer, it has become something more genuinely personal. A twisted paradigm, come to pass.

My unreal reality.

I was in Geneva, shopping for groceries at the local supermarket. A place I had managed until early retirement, in 2016. While selecting eggs and butter for my cart, a conversation about sports, beer, pizza, and old habits of the industry ensued. A friend busied himself filling the milk section as we talked. Then, a neighbor strolled by, on his own customer adventure. He had been a meat cutter at one of the other stores where I worked. Now dressed in flannel and denim, instead of his familiar service-white. Now, like myself, this happy fellow had retired and found a new life off-the-grid.

Dairy Manager Sloe and I had been trading stories of long hours and patient customer service. But Reeve the butcher took our conversation in a completely new direction.

“Hey Rod, I don’t miss the old days, in those chilly coolers full of chicken, pork and beef,” he exclaimed. “Glad to be free at last.”

I nodded with a smile. “Agreed, my friend. It just came unexpectedly, for me. Barely being able to walk, you know...” I patted my cane for emphasis.

“Things are great now that I don’t have to get up so early in the morning, and we finally have a president who is getting things done!” he observed. “It’s a good time to be alive!”

Sloe and I were stunned and silent.

Reeve raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, guess I never asked… do you like Trump?”

Sloe excused himself to retrieve another ‘u-boat’ flat of milk gallons, leaving me alone in the aisle. My face began to redden with embarrassment. I normally tried to avoid the subject of politics in public areas like a grocery store.

“No, not a fan of the ‘Cheeto-in-Chief’ at all,” I confessed.

My erstwhile cohort Reeve was miffed. “Really? You know the economy has bounced back, jobs are coming home to America, gasoline prices are dropping… things are great now! MAGA!”

I coughed into my fist. Many thoughts came to mind. First, that the economy had been recovering over a period of years, since Mr. Obama was in the Oval Office. Second, that some jobs were actually leaving, as General Motors was closing their Lordstown plant, not far away, to build the new Chevrolet Blazer in Mexico. Third, that fuel prices were simply a result of the world market. As an example, costs-at-the-pump had spiked under George W. Bush, despite his family’s crude-oil connections.

But instead, I verbally drooled on myself. “Nooooo, not a fan.”

Reeve was flustered. He threw up his hands in a gesture of disbelief. “Well, good to see you, neighbor. Take it easy!”

Driving home, after a brief wait in the checkout lane, I pondered that my friend had been a lifelong Democrat, and trade-union member. He was an outlier of sorts. So I did not dwell on our polite confrontation. Before going home, I stopped to see relatives, in Hambden. I wanted to share some of the special bargains found at my former store, while checking on the state of our family.

I took a seat in the living room, across from Rom, my brother-in-law. “Good news,” I said cheerfully. “Mom’s Social Security payment arrived on time, via direct deposit, despite the government shutdown. I was able to write a check for her share to the nursing home, as proscribed by our agreement with West Virginia DHHR.”

My sister breathed a sigh. “Glad to hear there wasn’t a delay.”

“No thanks to the politicians in Washington, D. C.!” My brother-in-law griped out loud. He was still in his pajamas. A heart attack last year had slowed his pace of living. But done nothing to soften his tone. “I hope they shut things down again! Build the wall, build the wall, build the wall!”

I felt invisible, stinging needles all over my face. “They can’t do that again… just can’t.”

“Why not?” he yelped.

I shook my head. “That was a total failure, at every level. We were about to see the system of domestic air travel collapse. Government checks were going to be stalled. Workers were off-the-job or performing their duties without compensation...”

“MAGA!” my brother-in-law growled. “Shut it down again!”

I was befuddled by his point of view. “You did not see the chaos, growing worse with each day? Nobody won in that political battle. Nobody.”

“Shut it down!” he yowled. “We get a wall or they get nothing at all!”

I stared at the floor for a minute. Then, recovered enough to mention the full shopping bag I had brought from Geneva. “There are packages of bacon, ham steaks, and some chicken breasts...”

My sister nodded, with gratitude. “We thank you.”

“Fox News says Hillary wants to run again, in 2020,” my brother-in-law complained, ignoring the shift of our conversation. “Would you rather have her in the White House?”

My face was on fire. “Rom, you know I am a Libertarian. What I really want is a sane system of government. But apparently we can’t manage that in the United States.”

He chortled at my remark. “You are a dreamer!”

“Oh yes,” I agreed. “And as John Lennon sang... I’m not the only one.”

Driving home a couple of minutes later, the cube planet was spinning in my head, once again. But instead of being a fantasy illustration, it had become a symbol. One that marked my own descent into a black hole of time and space. The Bizarro World was no longer unusual, surreal, or imaginary. It had trumped the traditions of yesteryear.

The cube was now my home.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Tape Archives, Revisited”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Personal Note: A recent episode of ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go Live’ featured a vintage program on cassette tape from the early career of Terry DuFoe. A tribute to Elvis Presley, shortly after his death. While listening, I began to puzzle over unearthing some of my own past recordings. What follows here is the story of that adventure.

Cassette tapes.

Around 1970, I first experimented with this analog format, after using reel-to-reel recorders and while flirting with the popular, but flawed, 8-track brick. It was inexpensive, portable, and user-friendly. For song ideas, it made a perfect audio notepad. Twenty years later, I was still using the same method to capture demos of my crude, original compositions. With a guitar, and a book of scribbled lyrics, these blank shells of magnetic tape could do anything.

Except outlast time itself.

When my father passed away in 2018, I began to ponder the journey that had taken me from childhood to the point of retirement. Sorting through the home of my parents began this process. But it continued with a nostalgic thrash through my own heap of stuff. Here and there, I discovered that cherished relics had tarnished over time. Their condition did not match the enduring perfection of my memories. Antiques were broken. Books were scattered. Magazines were shredded.

VHS videos and cassette tapes were sometimes dusty, moldy, sticky, and wrinkled inside.

I quickly learned to approach each artifact with the care and patience of an archaeologist. This meant that going through the collection was tedious. My yearning for echoes of yonder days had to be stilled in favor of caution. Every moment of imprinted tape was precious.

My own personal song archives rested in a green footlocker from the Kmart in Ithaca, New York. Carefully sorted in storage containers were volumes of work going back to 1976. The tapes traced an evolutionary path from basement doodles with guitar to more modern, fully-expressed ideas. Around 500 demo tracks were included, up to the middle 1990’s. When career aspirations took over, and my newspaper routine began to flourish, these scraps of inspiration were abandoned, out of necessity.

Then, Father Time intervened.

Due to health issues, I had to retire at age 55. A step I took without enough preparation or knowledge. The struggles that followed were many. But while handling details of my late father’s estate and the care of my mother, these treasures resurfaced.

The green footlocker was hidden under a football blanket, in the midst of my front hallway. During an interlude of winter mayhem sired by the Polar Vortex, I had become homebound for several days. Huddled indoors, with temperatures below zero, my ears were tickled by whispers from this weathered casket. “Let us live!” it seemed to plead. “Let us live again!”

Just moving the footlocker was a chore, as I could not walk without my Invacare cane. I had to flip it sideways, onto the couch. When opened, it reeked of must like an Egyptian tomb. But then, a portal opened to yesteryear. Old photo albums were inside, with magazines, cigarette cartons, Rock & Roll pins and buttons, diaries, souvenirs and… selected boxes of audio cassettes.

My stereo system had developed a malady of sorts, when being moved from the living room to the back office, a few years ago. I needed to re-wire its speakers. But the chore required more mobility and vision than I had in my present condition. So I checked Dad’s old Sony radio from West Virginia. After a cleaning, the device still would not play tapes in a competent manner. So I rummaged through the front closet for my oversized, Sanyo AM-FM-Shortwave boom-box.

That device worked well enough. Now, I could begin the excavation.

I immediately remembered Terry DuFoe’s comments about his radio tapes. “They might work, or blow up. We don’t know what to expect!” I wound each cassette through all the way, and back again, before listening. Some warbled a bit from usage wear. Others were damaged and refused to produce anything more than an electrified cry for relief. But most still yielded their contents willingly.

The first was a session in 1979. I had my $14.00 Teisco guitar (possibly a Kawaii product) and homemade amplifier fashioned from a discarded tape-player chassis. My television co-host, David Bly, played a set of bongos. He also provided the recording apparatus. We were in the control room at WTCC-13. Next was a two-song set by the Lazy Sods, also from that year, our only recording as a group. Then came a practice tape from Cayuga Lake, in 1981. A document with more polish and greater musical skills, but less authentic energy.

The afternoon passed as I captured five videos with my iPhone.

The green footlocker had only begun to reveal its wealth of vintage tapes. Yet my appetite had been sated. I decided to continue the experience on another day. For now, one goal swelled my consciousness.

I needed 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