Daytona Beach

Daytona Beach: (n) city in NE Florida, a seashore resort

Oblivion can be very powerful if you know how to use it.

Acting stupid is not the same.

But legitimately being unaware or vacant of knowledge can occasionally win you favor in the Universe—and sympathy from those who are baffled by your misunderstanding.

There was a time I was young enough that I should not have been on my own, but old enough that I was allowed to be.

It is the true danger zone of the human journey.

Everything is legal but nothing is necessarily prudent.

I was traveling around at the time with two young ladies, who persisted in believing that we could make great music together—and someday others would confirm it.

We had absolutely no idea what was going on in the world around us. We had some sort of strange amnesia that caused us to think that the Earth was a desert island—and even though there were a multitude of creatures creeping along, we were quite unaware of their presence.

This is the condition we were in the first time we rolled into Daytona Beach, Florida. Unknown to us, we had arrived in town nine days before the Daytona 500 race.

I had a vague recollection that this was some sort of very large event.

With cars.

The young ladies, when told about the Daytona 500, questioned:

“500 what?”

We landed during a time that was far enough away from the race itself that there were still lots of motel rooms. But the people renting them were nervous that if we occupied a room, would we get out soon enough that they could triple the price for the racing crowd?

We didn’t care.

We promised we would only stay for two days, and we set out to learn everything we could about Daytona Beach.

The first day, the town was pretty vacant, and the beach was free of obstruction.

We discovered something that was so neat it still makes me grin: you could drive your car on the beach.

So we did—up and down—careful to avoid pedestrians and dogs chasing frisbees.

It was so much fun.

We pulled over, opened up our windows and doors and looked at the ocean until it felt like the huge splash was gazing back at us.

It was so much fun that we actually stayed one day too long. So by the time we left the region, people were everywhere. It looked like they were standing up, stacked together like cordwood.

But we had already enjoyed the town.

We had investigated the beach.

We had perused the ocean.

So we were ready to move on.

Unfortunately, because of the Daytona 500, we had to drive all the way to Fort Myers, Florida, before we were able to get a motel room that didn’t cost everything we had in our pockets and more.

But it was fun. You see, we were young. If we had arrived two days later, we’d have been jammed and unable to get in.

Sometimes God asks Mother Nature not to punish us for being ridiculous.

There’s an old passage that says, “God winks.”

Yes. Because He’s a Father, He sometimes has to understand that we’re just brats. Many of our antics are based on foolishness instead of evil.

Dayton

Dayton: (n) a city in SW Ohio

Growing up in Central Ohio, Dayton was eighty miles away—just far enough that you felt going there was “taking a trip.”

I’ve always liked Dayton.

When I first started as a musician—impoverished and therefore ridiculed by friends and relatives as being irresponsible—I had a little place I went to in Dayton to perform my songs, where they treated me like I was on the top forty—and also, in some way, like I was a long-lost relative from Yugoslavia.

They loved me.

Therefore I loved them.

That’s when I learned the system. It is so much easier to love people when you know they’ve already made the leap to love you. It is certainly possible to love people when they’re considering loving you so you can share those feelings back with them in a considerate way.

Yet it is nearly implausible to love someone who has decided that you are not pleasing.

Loving those who don’t love you.

There’s really not any nobility in it—even though for centuries we have touted that true spirituality is ignoring one’s feelings in an attempt to aspire to more god-like actions.

But since we’re not supposed to be gods—we’re human—it seems forgivable to go ahead and feel at least “iffy” about those who place us in the reject pile.

I felt rejected in my hometown.

I wasn’t perfect, or even close to it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t do things that were worthy of critique.

It’s just how quickly those around me were ready to criticize.

In Dayton, I felt human.

I felt that my presence brought a smile.

I believed they even looked forward to seeing me.

I heard applause.

I received edification.

And because I did, I grew. I experimented. I took some chances.

I found out that my right hand and my left hand could do much more on the piano than I had imagined.

My voice could go higher.

I could actually sing on pitch.

My music gained emotion.

I was willing to listen to those who favored one tune over another without sensing an attack.

Somewhere on the eighty miles over to Dayton, my visit there and the journey back, I always healed.

The process was faithful—every time. I left home despondent, curious if the evening would make it better. I took a deep breath, put together a show, played it the best I could and expanded in the appreciation.

My heart grew, and I drove home—a little less defensive.

It was heavenly.

It was an experience I grew to cherish—and named “The Dayton Effect.”

 

Day Tripper

Day Tripper: (n) a person who goes on a trip, especially an excursion lasting one day

I was well into my thirties before I realized my parents were very conservative.

I should have known.

My mother would tell absolute strangers that she voted “a straight Republican ticket.” That meant she walked in, pulled the lever down for all the “R” candidates, no matter who they were.

Honestly, throughout my high school years, I was not interested enough in politics to distinguish between the colliding hordes.

All I knew was that the Beatles came to America and I liked what I heard and my parents decided the Fab Four were communists, attempting to use African music to raise the heart rate of American youth, to lure them to their will.

Because of this, I was not allowed to watch them perform on the Ed Sullivan Show. I had none of their records. If one of their tunes came on the radio, I had to listen to a speech about how evil they were (while trying to hear the plea from them to “hold her hand”).

I had one escape.

My friend, Paul, would invite me over to spend the weekend at his house, and Paul’s parents liked the Beatles. His mother even said they were “cute.”

Unfortunately for Paul—who wanted to play basketball, goof off and eat foods his mother normally would not prepare unless there were guests—I sat directly in front of their stereo and listened to the Beatles for hours at a time. Matter of fact, Paul finally complained to me that I wore out part of the vinyl on a Beatle record because I played it over and over again.

It was the song, “Day Tripper.”

The guitar lick and the drums made me want to dance. I was fat, awkward and had never really thought about dancing before—but Day Tripper did it to me. Sometimes I forgot where I was and began my little dance routine, which made Paul look over and laugh at me. I didn’t care.

I wasn’t concerned about what the lyrics meant.

I wasn’t thinking about whether John Lennon was more popular than Jesus.

And I certainly was oblivious to whether Paul was dead or not.

I was a kid who heard a beat, who felt joy, and for a moment was transformed from my swirling uncertainty of adolescence into a jubilant being who actually believed that “love is all we need.”

It just “took me so long to find out.”

 

Day of Judgment

Day of Judgment: (n) Judgment Day.

I was recently accosted by a religious fanatic.

He explained to me the error of my thinking.

For I personally favor believing in God without needing a devil, enjoying Earth, not worried about heaven, and dying without expecting too much.

This particular advocate for the Good Book was completely frustrated by my ignorance and heresy.

Here’s what he told me:

“You can’t have God without the devil. You can’t have heaven without hell. And you certainly don’t have redemption without sin.”

He was pretty sure he was right. He was more than willing to offer me many examples to prove his point.

He reminded me of a man I once met at a shopping mall, who wanted to sell me a magical pan. He knew everything that pan did and was even willing to demonstrate its uniqueness.

But at the end of the whole experience, since I really didn’t need a pan and wasn’t planning on using it, I walked away as he spoke to my retreating form. “You just don’t know what you’re losing!”

When I think of the possibility of a Judgment Day, I consider that judging, which I have been taught to avoid, will apparently, in that last hour, be levied against me.

And what will God judge?

My motivations?

My energy?

My persistence?

My intentions?

My results?

My Biblical prowess?

Or my church attendance?

Then I asked myself, what kind of individual would be interested in that kind of stuff?

Also, what kind of heaven would that individual really have to offer?

So I set it to the side.

If there is going to be a Day of Judgment, when I arrive, there won’t be any time to cram for the test or make up credits.

I will be who I will be.

I will know what I know.

And I will be evaluated on what I held dear.

 

Day by Day

Day by Day: (adj) taking place each day; daily

My children and grandchildren have a favorite word they use in the midst of discussing entertainment and music from former times.

The word is “dated.”

Once that word is spoken aloud into the chat, they are convinced that the material is no longer relevant, and may even have been “corny” or too simplistic in its inception.

I understand it is the prerogative of every generation to ravage the art, reactions of the previous.

It’s just that with the turning of the present screw, I’m not quite sure what’s the driver.

What is determining cultural thinking?

And what is being abandoned under the guise of progress?

One afternoon, I played the soundtrack from the Broadway musical, Godspell, for my young ones. The music from that particular experience still stirs me and reminds me of a time when protesting Vietnam led to objecting to stupidity, which welcomed a search for wisdom.

In the midst of that, the nation experienced what was referred to at the time as the “Jesus Movement.”

I’m not going to use this article to either analyze nor defend that brief time in our history. All I wish to say is that a song from that Godspell musical, in my mind, personified the mood of the nation from 1971 to pre-election 1972.

Day by day

Day by day

Oh, dear Lord

Three things I pray

To see thee more clearly

Love thee more dearly

To follow thee more nearly

Day by day

It was so common and uncomplicated that it took the air from the room.

I still weep when I hear it, conjuring memories of my own time and also the sheer joy that encompassed the congregated whenever it was sung.

I enjoy much of today’s music and today’s entertainment.

I am not stuck in the past.

But I am cemented into some convictions—one of them being the power in believing that good things can be achieved … day by day.

 

Day

Day: (n) the time between sunrise and sunset

I certainly would not want to be so presumptuous as to suggest that I have found some pearl of great price or fragment of wisdom that is life-changing for every human soul.

But it works for me.

And honestly, it’s difficult for me to care about you if I feel maladjusted.

I’m not nearly as likely to sense empathy for your modicum when I’m toiling with my “bottom of the barrel.”

And I do want to feel for you—somewhat. Enough to be helpful, but not so much that I’m taking phone calls in the middle of the night.

So I will tell you, the best thing I do—the happiest discovery, the most intelligent endeavor and the “eternal” that seems to bring me life—is taking every single day and breaking it down into as many pieces of possibility as I can.

When I make out a “Things to Do Today List,” I include waking up, putting my feet on the floor, morning pee and brushing my teeth.

That’s four things right there.

For instance, by the time God did four things in Genesis, there were birds in the sky.

I don’t say this because I want to be silly or make meaningless things possess significance.

I just think if something I do is unique, it deserves a moment of celebration.

For bluntly, there is nothing like waking up.

No moment in my day will be quite like that first splash of awareness that enters my mind, when I translate from sleep to reality.

Likewise, throwing my legs out of the bed and onto the floor may be the greatest exertion ever undertaken—I mean, in comparison to other times when I exercise and already warmed up.

Must I defend the beauty and the glory of the first morning pee? I love to hear it as it hits the porcelain and splashes into the tide. I love the power I feel when I change the color of a toilet full of clear water.

Brushing the teeth—it is the symbol of salvation. Dirty incisors and crusty molars being immediately transformed into shining stars in my mouth simply by a minute-and-a-half cleansing.

And that’s just to begin my day.

Don’t forget dressing.

Breakfast.

A little reading.

Catching up on some emails.

Stepping outside to see what the day has to offer.

There are so many highlights in one day that are set apart and precious. How dare we ever discuss a week? A month? Or a year?

Take no thought for tomorrow, for tomorrow has its own problems.

Consider the day.

Pack it full.

Rally around its possibilities.

Regale its offerings.

Giggle at its missteps.

And tenaciously survive its grumbles and complaints.

 

Dawn

Dawn: (n) the first appearance of daylight in the morning

I have personally put in a request to find and hire the agent who represents Snickers. It’s not a bad candy bar but it’s certainly not worth all the hype.

  • Good agent.
  • Good product placement.
  • Good advertising.

Likewise, I would also be willing to hire the representative who promotes the word “dawn.”

Every human being seems to get all fuzzy and whimsical when they think about the beginning of a new day–the sun rising, the Earth waking up and stretching, to begin its mission and set in motion great things.

The dawn seems awfully hopeful and interesting unless, for some reason, you have a job that makes you get up at dawn.

This means you’re usually getting up in the dark.

The light does not come in quickly, and it’s breakfast in a chilled room before you begin to see what kind of day, weather-wise, is coming, and have the ability to read the newspaper or the Internet without overhead lighting.

It would do us well as mortals to realize that everything afforded us—be it fresh water, cheap fruits and vegetables, love, or dawn—well, each thing takes a sacrifice.

It demands focus.

And there are times these things may disappoint us by not showing up exactly when and how we want them to.

There’s nothing philosophical about the dawn–not even by its “early light.”

Some of the best decisions I’ve made were in the middle of the night. I’ve often been guilty of getting up too soon, and having all my energy blown by 9:15 A. M.

No, dawn is when Nature has decided to commence a new day.

In itself, it is a tingle of light.

You may glamorize it, or if you think it’s too sudden, you may demonize it.

But the dawn is like everything else—it’s made available to us during our journey.

It shows up with no promises…

…and leaves the heavy lifting to us.

Dawdle

Dawdle: (v) to waste time; idle; trifle; loiter

I don’t know whether to apologize to the word “dawdle” because it’s so old-fashioned that it’s already up in the attic with dust all over it, or to feel sorry for folks who never had a grandparent speak to them tersely, “Come on! Don’t dawdle!”

You see, I didn’t know what “dawdle” meant when I was a kid, but I did know the sound of my grandparents when they were pissed off.

That was an era when grandparents were very dignified and would never think of saying “fuck you,” but with the same intensity of voice would call you a “pernicious dawdler.”

“Pernicious” meaning constant and unchanging.

And “dawdler”—a lazy mofo.

We call these words “old English.” Sometimes I wonder if they’re still spoken in England or just bandied about the royal palace by aging monarchs.

I think “dawdle” would suffer anyway—even if it weren’t so stuffy-sounding.

People, in general, do not like to be hurried.

Matter of fact, one of the worst things you can do if you’re waiting in line behind someone is suggest they speed up—or dare to act upset because they’re taking too long. (This usually causes them to slow down.)

But writing this essay makes me think about when I dawdle.

I now dawdle a little bit about going to pee. It’s not a big deal—and when I get there, I really enjoy myself.

And sometimes I delay by watching another television show—putting off getting my butt up to go to bed.

I dawdle over doing chores (although I never call them chores). Chores are things you would never do yourself, but somebody has suggested you address them. Yes, I have dawdled over things that people want me to do that I don’t necessarily want to do myself.

So I am grateful you can join me here, on the final day of “dawdle’s” life on Earth.

From now on, young children, when asked what the word means, will look with a perplexed face and say, “Dawdle? Isn’t that one of Donald Duck’s nephews?”

Davis, Jefferson

Davis, Jefferson: (n) man who served as president of the Confederacy throughout its existence.

I’m not brave.

I am not a warrior for the truth.

I am not the kind to run up, state my opinion and stand my ground.

I prefer to appear from behind with a squirt gun, spray everyone and scamper away.

But there are certain things that elevate my consciousness, stimulate my “god-image” and demand that I build a fortress.

I spent most of my adult life living in the American South.

On one occasion, I overheard a gentleman talking about hosting a “minstrel show” in the community. I immediately assumed I misunderstood what he said, but when he sounded it out for me slowly, I realized that he intended on producing a program that was begun in the Confederacy after the Civil War, which allowed white people to dress up in blackface and make fun of the Negroes.

I was confused.

I thought minstrel shows had been outlawed years ago.

Now, here was the word, flying through the air as if it had wings.

For a moment I was emblazoned with a ready hostility—but still, tepidly opined, “Aren’t those illegal?”

The man became indignant and explained that minstrel shows were part of the heritage of the South and gave the people in that region a sense of pride over what had been pursued attempted by President Jefferson Davis and all the Rebels.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Freedom,” he replied.

Even if I were to buy in to the idea that Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Jefferson Davis were just trying to “protect their way of life,” I would still be left with a stark anomaly.

If the Civil War was all about “state’s rights,” standing up to Washington, D. C., and not being pushed around anymore, why not just free the slaves and change the dynamic?

If it really wasn’t a malicious adventure to keep four million kidnapped human beings in chains and forced labor, why not just take the higher ground and convince the entire world that you were merely out to sanctify your choices instead of imprison human flesh?

Jefferson Davis was not a nice man.

I suppose if you sat down and had a drink with him and shared some boiled crawdads, you might find him amiable.

But on the inside was a greedy, corrupt man who insisted that black humans were mongrels and needed white people to help them reason.

And he did all of this standing in front of a church, holding a Bible in his hand.

Davie

Davie: (n) a town in SE Florida.

I have a unique perspective on Davie, Florida.

After years of traveling on the road and performing, I decided to settle there because it was near where my son, daughter-in-law and two granddaughters lived.

They had just begun a church and I thought it would be so terrific if I could join them and help out in any way my box of experience might afford.

You see:

The key to that phrase is “I thought.”

You would assume that after many years of living, I would realize the weakness—and sometimes even complete calamity—of the words “I thought.”

I never asked my son and his family what they felt about me moving down there.

I didn’t seek permission.

I envisioned something in my own mind—how things might pan out without ever realizing that those around me might not consider my gift of time with them to be of as much interest as I had supposed.

It went poorly.

When I tried to be involved, I seemed nosy.

When I backed off, I appeared offended (though I wasn’t).

When I waited for them to contact me, I was pissed at the infrequency.

And when I tried to start other things on my own, they were somewhat threatened by my intentions.

Along with this colossal misunderstanding, I ended up living in a very small home—well beneath my needs, not to mention my standards.

Although I can recite many miraculous things that occurred during my stay in Davie, Florida, whenever I hear the word “Davie,” what comes to my mind is:

“It’s better to move when you feel a tug…”

“…than trying to shove your way in.”