P.A. Kane's Blog, page 2

—Fall 2024—a novel

—Fall 2024—a novel

 

—Summer 2024—

—Summer 2024—

 

Hey . . .

P.A.KaneThis here website you just clicked on is the official homepage of author P.A.Kane. It feels funny to say that because when you think of a so-called “homepage” you maybe think of a place that is dynamic, a place that distills fabulous time-sensitive information. But the truth is not a hell of a lot goes on here. Occasionally I’ll put up a quick hit idea in the form of an essay or a poem (like below) but mostly this place just sits here and doesn't do much of anything while I work on more involved projects. Presently, I’m writing two books—a novel about a throwback blue collar guy named Larry Plumb who’s trying to adapt to a world that has little use for him. And, a non-fiction book about the 1970's desegregation of my alma mater, South Park High School. I’m excited about both projects, but these things progress inch by inch in a painstaking manner. Hence, the lack of activity at the “homepage.”Of course, while you’re waiting for these projects to be completed I can offer you a bevy of alternatives. Over there in the right hand column are links to my other platforms and books. Buffalo Mud is a satire/fake news site that mostly focuses on my hometown of Buffalo, NY and is updated weekly. Going Mobile With P.A.Kane, is the daily travel lounge of my two-month, eight-thousand mile trip around the U.S. in the summer/fall of 2022 in my Ram Promaster van. There’s also a link to my Amazon page where you can find my book of essays and two novels. And, finally in the archives of this site you can find things I’ve posted here. I’d recommend, “The Four Day Rental.”   Thank you for the interest and support. Hopefully I’ll have some new product up in the not too distant future to give this “homepage” some much needed excitement. P.A. Kane June, 2023

The Five Stages Of Western New York Lake Effect Grief

 Lake-effect snow occurs when dry, freezing air picks up moisture as it passes over a body of water. The water evaporates into the air and as it hits land cools and transforms into heavy wet and often voluminous snowflakes. 

Normally this snow is a bit of a nuisance to the people of Western New York, especially in Erie County/Buffalo. But sometimes it can be devastating as it was from November 17-20, 2022, when upwards of seven-feet of snow fell in the southern part of Erie County.

In addition to having a strong back you need a certain amount of mental toughness to endure these once in a decade snow events. Though I have no certifications or official training as grief counselor, as a lifelong resident of Erie County I am an expert in the five stages of lake effect grief.

The Five Stages Of Western New York Lake Effect Grief

Denial.

Middle of November  

And the always too bright

The always too chipper 

Local weather person with white capped teeth

Says prepare thy snow throwers

Extract thy snow shovels from the garage rafters

Lake Effect devastation is upon us

You call bullshit

Say these forecasts are wrong as much as they are right

And with a sardonic laugh you say:

If only I had a job where I could be wrong half the time

Anger.

But deep down you know these

White capped tooth bastards are right

They’re always right about the lake effect

This is fucking Buffalo . . .

When the call comes from your Florida friend

Who crows with a trenchant snort to be careful shoveling

Because you’re a lot closer to seventy than thirty

It takes great strength not to verbally blow him up

And you secretly hope the next Florida hurricane

Takes out some roofing or sections of fencing

Or does some other damage to his house 

Bargaining.

As the heavy wet flakes swirl relentlessly

For hour upon hour and pile up on the ground  

You pray to God for mercy

After all you are closer to seventy than thirty

And you promise that

You’ll really try to listen to your wife’s work stories

You’ll put the seat down and put away the dishes

You’ll quit threatening to throw all her junk out

You’ll stop stalking high school girlfriends on Facebook

You'll go to bed before proving everyone on Twitter wrong

But alas . . .

It keeps snowing and snowing and snowing

Depression.

Having failed to receive any of God’s grace 

You know what needs to be done 

And listlessly affix the air pods, boots, hat, gloves and coat

Of course, last year’s gas is still in the snowblower 

And the fucking thing won’t start

You grab a shovel and try to listen to

Thomas Pynchon's, “The Crying of Lot 49” 

But you understand it even less

Now that you’re closer to seventy than thirty

But you soldier on one shovel full at a time

And are reminded of not being able to leave the dinner table

Until you ate your brussel sprouts one mouthful at a time

Mom could be such a hard ass

Acceptance

One shovel full at a time you move the wet white mud

It hurts your melancholic head and your declining body 

Because, after all you are closer to seventy than thirty

But soon a path forms, widens and reaches an end point

You feel the muscle memory return Your breathing evens out and your core tightens

That Robyn Hitchcock song “Meat,” makes you dance a little

Starting to feel it, you give a thumbs up to your scary neighbor 

Who has all the pro-gun signs on his lawn as he digs his truck out

Suddenly you have your stroke back and you’re flicking snow

Like Tiger hits it three-hundred, like Josh throws it seventy

Though there’s still lots to do, it’s alright, you know you’ll make it

With ibuprofen . . . and bourbon

   

   

The Five Stages Of Western New York Lake Effect GriefLak...

 The Five Stages Of Western New York Lake Effect Grief

Lake-effect snow occurs when dry, freezing air picks up moisture as it passes over a warm unfrozen lake. The lake water evaporates into the air and as it hits land it cools and dumps all the moisture it gathered on the ground in the form of fat heavy wet snowflakes. 

Normally this snow is a bit of a nuisance to the people in the southern part of Western New York (Buffalo and Erie County). But sometimes it can be devastating as it was this past week when it dumped between 3-7 feet in the area. The snow bands typically hover and are very specific. One county over to the north, Niagara County received but a dusting. So while there was a driving ban and all but essential services shut down in Erie County, fifteen minutes away in Niagara County, all the pawn shops and Meth labs were fully operational. 

There’s a certain amount of mental cognition and processing that must occur to keep a positive healthy outlook through such a devastating weather event. Though I have no certifications or official training, as a lifelong resident of Erie County I think I am more than qualified to address the five steps of lake effect grief.

The Five Stages Of Western New York Lake Effect Grief

Denial.

Middle of November  

And the always too bright

The always too chipper 

White capped tooth local weather person

Says prepare thy snow throwers

Extract thy snow shovels from the garage rafters

Lake Effect devastation is upon us

You call bullshit

Say these forecasts are wrong as much as they are right

You laugh and say if only I had a job

Where I wasn’t penalized for being wrong half the time

Anger.

But deep down you know these

White capped tooth bastards are right

They’re always right about the lake effect

This is fucking Buffalo . . .

When the call comes from your Florida friend

Who tells you with a laugh to be careful shoveling

Because you’re a lot closer to seventy than thirty

It takes great strength to not blow him up verbally

And secretly you hope the next Florida hurricane

Takes out some roofing or a satellite dish at his house

Or does some other minor damage 

Bargaining.

As the heavy wet flakes swirl relentlessly

For hour upon hour and pile up on the ground  

You pray to God for mercy

After all you are closer to seventy than thirty

And you promise that

You’ll really try to listen to your wife’s work stories

You’ll put the seat down and put away the dishes

You’ll quit threatening to throw all her junk out

You’ll stop stalking high school girlfriends on Facebook

But alas . . .

It keeps snowing and snowing and snowing

Depression.

Having failed to receive any of God’s grace 

You know what needs to be done 

And listlessly affix the air pods, boots, hat, gloves and coat

Of course, last year’s gas is still in the snowblower 

And the fucking thing won’t start

You grab a shovel and try to listen to

Thomas Pynchon's, “The Crying of Lot 49” 

But you understand it even less

Now that you’re closer to seventy than thirty

But you soldier on one shovel full at a time

And are reminded of not being able to leave the dinner table

Until you ate your brussel sprouts one mouthful at a time

Mom could be such a hard ass

Acceptance

One shovel full at a time you move the wet white mud

It hurts your melancholic head and your declining body 

Because, after all you are closer to seventy than thirty

But soon a path forms, widens and reaches an end point

You feel the muscle memory return and your core tighten

That Robyn Hitchcock song “Meat,” makes you dance a little

Starting to feel it, you give a thumbs up to your scary neighbor 

Who has all the pro-gun signs on his lawn as he digs his truck out

Suddenly you have your stroke back and you’re flicking snow

Like Tiger hits it three-hundred, like Josh throws it seventy

Though there’s still lots to do, it’s alright, you know you’ll make it

With ibuprofen . . . and bourbon

   

   

Going Mobile

Good day readers of P.A.Kane.net, I've got exciting news—I won't be posting anything here in the near future. Isn't that great?

Instead, I'm going to concentrate on a new blog called: Going Mobile With P.A.Kane. You can check it out over there, but in short my wife and I bought this fully equipped Ram Promaster van and we are headed out on our first van life cross-country trek. The first stop on our maiden voyage will be an overnight in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario where we'll look to have a coffee and a cruller with Ted Nolan at a local Tim Horton's. From there we head west to spend a night or two with friends in Duluth, Minnesota. We continue to move west for a couple of days at Mt. Rushmore and the Badlands in South Dakota. Then it's over to the Grand Tetons in Wyoming to do some hiking. Our journey turns south at that point as we head to Montrose, Colorado for our niece Rachel (and Kyle's) wedding. Our daughter from Los Angeles will meet us there and after the wedding we'll mess around in Colorado until my wife has to fly home for work. I'll take our daughter back to LA, spend a few days there and then mosey back across the country by myself contemplating the ultimate causes of the universe—you won't want to miss that.

And, you won't have to because as we/I go along I'm going document this first ever van life experience with daily posts from the road. So make toast and tea and join me as we go mobiling across the U.S.A.

    

It's Been a Banner Year For Looking Out The Window

     I have to admit it hasn’t been a great year. There’s been all this unpleasantness about Ukraine, inflation and the insurrection. Even Taylor Swift had to face some troubling developments that for once wasn’t about some boy in skinny jeans not knowing what he gave up when he dumped her or when she dumped him—I don’t know much about Taylor Swift or her music. I’ve heard though, there’s a lot of dumping going on in her songs.

At any rate, Taylor’s unpleasantness came about when some super clever Virginia Tech Phd. named a millipede he discovered in Tennessee after the mega popstar. He called it: Nannaria swiftae or Swift twisted-claw millipede. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t be too thrilled to have a hundred-legged creepy crawly thing that slithers out of the bathroom drain and startles you just as you’re about to get in the shower named after me. I’m not even close to being a popstar with a penchant for making hit songs about boys in skinny jeans dumping me or me dumping them, but I would find this very unsettling. 

     Still, like T-Swizzle I’ve had my share of distressing moments this year too, from getting Covid to a hefty repair bill because I didn’t properly winterize the water system in my mini-RV. I drained the tank, but didn’t blow out the lines and add antifreeze. I’m new to all this mini-RV, van life stuff. My brother says there’s always a price to pay when you’re new to something. He calls it—The Dumb Tax. It’s the tax you pay for being dumb about something and not properly winterizing the water system in your mini-RV is pretty dumb. But, still it’s not like my house burned down or I don’t have food to eat. It’s more like having a broken table leg and an expired carton of milk in the fridge. Of course, all of this has been offset by the banner year it’s been looking out the window. 

     The window in question is in the little back room of my house where I spend most of my time. My desk, laptop and books are in that room along with a flat screen TV where I watch clips of Josh Allen on YouTube. Being from Buffalo, except for thirteen heartbreaking seconds it’s been a banner year for watching clips of Josh Allen. But when I’m not at my desk pecking away at my laptop or watching clips of Josh Allen, I’m usually sitting at the end of my couch looking out that window into my yard. Sometimes with a book and sometimes with a coffee or a cold drink. But mostly it’s a lot of sitting and looking out the window. 

      Animals are involved as well—two cats and a dog, so the couch is pet proofed. The arms have anti-scratch tape for the cats and a quilted cover to catch up all the dog hair. Most of the time when I’m in that room, whether I’m sitting at my desk, watching Josh Allen clips or looking out the window, our dog, Kaya Francis Bean is sitting there with me. The cats only come in occasionally to complain about needing to be fed or for a scratch behind their ears—they’re very touchy about the way you pet them. KFB isn’t touchy and she’s always there like some kind of British sentry at Buckingham Palace, but in a laying down relaxing sort of way.

Besides not being touchy about how you pet her, KFB is a forty-nine pound Jack Russell/Lab mix who is prey intensive and a lightning fast runner. She also is a sweetheart and a big wiggler. All I have to do is look at her and her back end starts to shake all over the place. And forget about it when I’m sitting at one end of the couch looking out the window and she’s at the other end and I give her a little scratch, she shakes like call girls walking down the street in a bad 1970’s cop show. 

     My wife used to shake like that when I gave her a little scratch, but now she just sighs. I get it—we’ve been together a long time and it’s hard to get excited and shake for a man who dribbles on the bathroom floor and everyday for nearly thirty-years has asked, “What’s for dinner?” That’s why it’s good to have a KFB. She never sighs and is always looking for a little scratch. Plus, she doesn’t care if I dribble on the bathroom floor or if I'm perpetually perplexed about dinner. What’s the old joke—If only I could be the person my dog thinks I am.

     So when I’m not making my wife sigh or watching Josh Allen clips or pecking away at my laptop and I’m sitting at the end of the couch looking out the window I feel this peaceful kind of nothingness. It’s like I’m a kid again kid sitting on the front steps of my house watching the world go by—seeing neighbors driving or walking down the street or maybe Mr. Bausch from across the way watering his lawn. Sometimes a friend might come by and sit on the steps with me. We’d probably talk about something for a bit—maybe baseball or if it’s the summer of 1972, we might be talking about the Watergate Hearings—that Martha Mitchell was a hoot. But really, there wouldn’t be much to say because you’re a kid after all and you don’t know much about anything, even if you play baseball or are watching the Watergate Hearings and eventually we’d sit there doing nothing. 

     Lao Tzu in the “Tao Te Ching,” challenges people to balance all of the something they’re constantly up to by also learning to embrace the nothing. “When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.” That is some pretty clever doublespeak by Lao Tzu—even more clever than naming a millipede after Taylor Swift. Still, I take the point. We spend a great deal of time scrolling, watching and listening to the unpleasant news about Ukraine, inflation and the insurrection and not much time doing nothing. When I’m sitting on the end of the couch looking out the window it’s wonderfully dull. All I see is a small bit of our yard, which has a Rose of Sharon and some daylilies butting up against the fence at the back of our property. From there it’s over the neighbor’s fence and garage and into the driveway of another neighbor where a white SUV sits. It’s just a static little nothing picture. Sure the garbage trucks rumble down the street weekly and in winter there’s snow plows and occasionally I’ll see the neighbor who owns the white SUV talking to someone in the driveway, but most of the time it’s a whole lot of nothing. 

     So to get relief from the unpleasantness that comes with scrolling, watching and listening, I’ve made this a banner year for looking out the window into the nothingness. Thoreau had a little cabin where he considered Walden Pond and I have a window at the back of my house where I consider my wonderfully dull yard and that of my neighbors. 

     I should note, looking out this window when the fall comes will probably no longer produce this euphoric detachment and emptiness and instead will turn into anger and dread as I face up to a considerable amount of raking and clean-up I’m going to have to do when the leaves hit the ground.  

     

     

            

     

      

 

The Four Day Rental

      

It was a four day rental just down the road from Skaneateles (pronounced: skin-ny-at-las)  on Lake Otisco in the Finger Lake region of New York State. The mid-June weather was pleasant and the rolling green hills that descended down to the lake provided a wealth of charming views. On one of those hills sat the two story rental which was constructed of decorative hard split cinder block with double hung windows and a metal roof. A large deck extended out from the side door and curved around to the front of the structure. From the deck you could hear the shallow Otisco waves gently kiss the shore and you could get a glimpse of the lake through a multitude of leafy trees, but not in a way where you would say things like, “Wow, what a view!” or “Leaping lizards, that’s some body of water!”  Though the construction of the rental was newish, the inside was filled with old wood, creaky fixtures and antiques. Shelves with hundreds of hard-covered books lined the living area and made the place smell like a 1960’s library, but without all that talk of injustice and revolution. The downstairs half-bath was called the “National Geographic Reading Room—RJ Munson Librarian,” and that too had shelves filled with hundreds and hundreds of National Geographic magazines dating back to the 1960's.        It was quite a lovely place, but like the two aging couples that had rented the musty house for the four days the water pressure was spotty. The copper pipes rumbled and wheezed but the water trickled out slowly and sadly like from an old crumbling Roman aqueduct. Worse yet, despite the slow, sad trickling that was like a Roman aqueduct you had to jiggle all the handles to get the water to stop. But even when you jiggled the handles the water still came out in drips and drabs. The two aging couples were like that too—they had to jiggle all their handles but the water still came out in drips and drabs.

     Despite all the jiggling, dripping and drabbing it was hard to be upset in such a lovely place. Plus there was all that pleasant weather and those rolling green hills. And since there was such pleasant weather and rolling hills the aging couples decided to go for a hike. 

     The hike was to take place at the Hinchcliff Family Preserve, which was a few miles from the four day rental. It should be noted that neither of the couples knew the Hinchcliff family. You know how that goes sometimes: “I know this guy Hinchcliff. His family has this nature preserve just down the road from Skaneateles. Says I can hike it anytime I want.” 

     It wasn’t like that. Anybody could use the Hinchcliff Family Preserve. In fact, when the two aging couples pulled into the little lot adjacent to the trails there was a Toyota Prius with a “Bernie 2016” bumper sticker parked there too. Beneath a little enclosure also adjacent to the little lot was a young man with a ponytail perusing the map of the Hinchcliff Family Preserve.    

     The aging couples said “Hello” to the young man with the ponytail and he returned their greeting with a: “Hey,” and then continued his perusal of the preserve’s map.

     The aging couples didn’t need to peruse the map for very long, at least not as long as the young man with the ponytail. They quickly plotted a 3.5 mile course and were off. But once they got past a little open meadow adjacent to the lot they found the route went directly downhill and then uphill. When they came to the point 1.1 miles into the hike, where they could either continue on for 2.4 more miles or go back to the car and then back to the four day rental for drinks, they chose to skip the last 2.4 miles and go back to the car. 

     Huffing and puffing, sipping water they congratulated themselves for the two-hundred-thirty-seven calories they burned on the 1.1 mile hike—a fancy Apple watch calculated the calories they incinerated on the hike. By the way, the young man with the ponytail perusing the Hinchcliff Family Preserve map beneath the little enclosure adjacent to the lot was gone when they returned and so was the Prius with the “Bernie 2016” bumper sticker.

     Calories was a big topic of discussion among the aging couples and over drinks back at the four day rental the conversation turned to egg whites. One of the men blustered about an egg white sandwich on a skinny bagel with a slice of Velveeta being only one-hundred-seventy calories, but nobody was really impressed. One of women, who had a background in food science, said there wasn’t much nutritional value in egg whites to which the man who was advocating for the egg white sandwich asked, “Why would you eat an egg, which is seventy-five calories when you could eat an egg white, which is only twenty-five calories?”

     But none of them seemed to buy this argument and they looked at each other with a “Can you believe this guy?” type of look and gave each other a sly smile. The man advocating for the egg white sandwich didn’t understand why they didn’t follow his logic but didn’t press the issue. After all, who needed to press an issue about egg whites when the four day rental was so lovely and the weather was so pleasant and there were all those rolling green hills.

     Later after dinner the two aging couples played the card game euchre. The game was new to one of the aging couples so they broke into teams. The two aging men were on one team—one experienced and one inexperienced. The same with the two aging women—one experienced and one inexperienced. The aging man who advocated for the egg white breakfast sandwich on a skinny bagel with a slice of Velveeta was slow to pick up the game. The other three aging people made subtle jokes at his expense and again shared sly smiles. Yet somehow, the team with the aging man who was slow to pick up the game destroyed the other team. 

     Though he remained impassive, like a Raymond Chandler character waiting for the other shoe to drop, the aging man who was slow to pick up the game was secretly very happy to win, especially against the aging woman with the food science background who dismissed his egg white breakfast sandwich. He knew it was petty and trite and maybe even hiding a bit of deep rooted male resentment, but he couldn’t help himself—he really enjoyed destroying her. He tried thinking about how lovely the four day rental was and the pleasant weather and the rolling green hills, but even that didn’t help—he still really enjoyed destroying her. 

     The next morning over a breakfast that didn’t include egg whites, skinny bagels or Velveeta the aging woman with the food science background complained about the lack of sleep she had gotten due to her husband’s malfunctioning CPAP machine. It was a portable CPAP machine that had malfunctioned. The aging man had another CPAP machine, but that was at home and was malfunctioning too. There had been a recall of that machine over a year ago, but it had not been repaired or replaced yet.

     A long discussion ensued about the recall of the aging man’s regular CPAP machine and how these big companies screw you over and harass you with endless solicitations and sell your personal information so other big companies can screw you over, harass you with solicitations and then sell your personal information and there’s nothing you can do about it unless you wanted to hire a Philadelphia lawyer. The aging couples engaged in a lot of eye rolling, guffawing and head shaking, but still, it was hard to stay mad because the four day rental was so lovely and there was all that pleasant weather and those rolling green hills.

  From there the aging women worked on a jigsaw puzzle together in the kitchen of the four day rental and the aging men engaged in intellectual pursuits. Well, some would say only one of the men engaged in an intellectual pursuit and the other man was a pig. The aging man who was a pig was the man who was slow to pick up euchre and had a thing for egg whites. He was a pig because he was a writer and the whole time the aging women worked on the puzzle in the kitchen and the other aging man with the malfunctioning CPAP machines read a book about the migration of the Tuscarora Indians—taking copious notes on one of those fancy iPads—he sat on the large deck that curved around the front of the four day rental and wrote a graphic sex scene for a new book he was working on.

     The aging man had written graphic sex scenes in other books and people had objected to them and called him a pig. He kind of didn’t get the criticism since some of the most celebrated authors of the 20th century and his own personal favorites, John Updike and Philip Roth had written many graphic sex scenes and trillions of women were crazy for that “Fifty Shades of Gray,” book where a billionaire seduces and dominates recently graduated college co-ed. But somehow, the aging guy who was slow to pick up euchre and advocated for egg whites was considered a pig because he had two-teenagers do it doggie style in a closet.

     Soon the two aging women came on the porch that curved around the front of the structure complaining that their eyes were blurry and their necks hurt from looking down on the puzzle. The aging man writing the sex scene was loathe to tell the woman what he was doing and instead made a joke about the irony being injured putting together a puzzle. The other aging man reading and taking copious notes about the migration of Tuscarora Indians came onto the porch too and they made jokes about getting injured putting on socks, sewing a quilt, lifting a twenty pound turkey from the oven and other sad maladies that befall aging people like them. But it was alright because they were at the lovely four day rental with all that pleasant weather and the rolling green hills.

     They ate some lunch and the aging women returned to the puzzle. The aging men continued with their tasks too: the reading and taking copious notes about the migration of Tuscarora Indians and the writing of a graphic sex scene. 

     About 3pm the aging woman had enough of the puzzle and wanted to go kayaking. The aging man who was slow to pick up euchre and might be considered a pig had finished writing his graphic sex scene and offered to take them to the launch area in his pickup truck. The other aging man with the malfunctioning CPAP machine stayed behind and continued with his reading and note taking. 

     After successfully helping the aging women launch the kayaks at Big Tony’s Boat Launch the aging man re-read the graphic sex scene he had written earlier while he waited in his pickup truck. He was pleased with it. It got him excited and he didn’t even need one of those little blue pills which was necessary when excitement sometimes betrayed him.

     When he finished reading the graphic sex scene the aging man pulled out a lawn chair and sat at the waters' edge near Big Tony’s Boat Launch enjoying the pleasant weather and taking in the rolling green hills. Sitting there the aging man thought about the graphic sex scene he had written and he laughed to himself a little and felt like a pig.

     Later that night they again played euchre and the results were the same. The team with the aging man who was into egg whites and was slow to pick up the game and a bit of a pig destroyed the team of the aging women. 

     Again, the aging man took secret pleasure in dominating the woman who had dismissed his egg white breakfast sandwich argument, but this time he didn’t sit there quietly like a Raymond Chandler character waiting for the other shoe to drop. This time the aging man talked about luck and thoughtfully downplayed their success, but in a monotone voice as if he was Lou Reed working out the lyrics to “Vicious” or “Street Hassle,” but secretly he really enjoyed crushing them. He also felt just as petty, trite and resentful as the prior night. This time he didn’t even try to fight it, he just enjoyed that too. 

     In the morning the woman with the background in food science didn’t complain about her husband’s malfunctioning CPAP machine. Seems the two part electrical cord had become slightly undone and lost its connection, but they had discovered the problem before going to bed and got a good night’s sleep.  

     Not long after breakfast it started to rain. The four day rental remained lovely and the rolling hills remained green, but the weather was no longer pleasant. This forced them inside and wrecked the aging couple’s plans for a bike ride. Instead, the aging women continued to work on the puzzle, the aging man with the now fixed CPAP machine continued to read and take notes on the migration of the Tuscarora Indians and the aging man who was writing what turned out to be a pretty hot graphic sex scene, continued to write, but not about sex. It was about the fallout from sex, replete with tears and recriminations.

     Taking a break from the puzzle as the rain momentarily subsided the aging woman who was married to the man who was slow to pick up euchre and wrote graphic sex scenes was on the deck that curved around the front of the four day rental. The aging woman was looking over the top railing of the deck and heard and then noticed two tiny baby birds with their heads turned up, beaks open begging for food in a snug but tiny nest on a seriously thin branch. 

     The aging woman alerted her husband who was slow to pick up euchre and was a bit of a pig along with the other aging couple. Looking over the top railing the aging woman who discovered the snug but tiny nest on the seriously thin branch conjectured that they were perhaps hummingbirds, which was possible since the little long beaked chicken winged sized birds had been buzzing around sipping from the perennials in a flower box outside the kitchen window. Glumly, as they looked at the tiny begging birds in the snug nest on the seriously thin branch, the aging woman who discovered them noted that small birds due to predators, shrinking habitat and accidents typically live less than two-years, which, given their chicken wing size, seemed right.

     The rain persisted throughout the day and though the two aging women worked assiduously it was obvious they were not going to finish the jigsaw puzzle, given this was the third day at the lovely four day rental. Also, the aging man who had been diligently reading and taking notes about the migration of the Tuscarora Indians, still had a lot more to read and a lot more notes to take. Same was true for the other aging man who was slow to pick up euchre and wrote graphic sex scenes. Many more depictions of teenagers doing it doggie style in a closet needed to be constructed as well as the tears and recriminations that resulted from the teenagers doing it doggie style in a closet. 

     But they were not defeated. You didn’t get to be a pair of aging couples by giving into defeat, even if the pleasant weather at the four day rental with the rolling green hills had abandoned you. You also kept going even if you weren’t able to complete all your tasks. You moved forward even if the baby birds in the snug tiny nest on a seriously thin branch turned out not to be hummingbirds, but some other tiny bird whose now returned stoic mother looked up at you with a single eye from the snug nest with an expression that seemed to say, “Move along you wrinkled old bastards. We’re just tiny chicken wing sized birds waiting for a hawk to swoop in and eat us or big gust of wind to blow our snug tiny nest on a seriously thin branch away or the owner of of this lovely four day rental to come along and chop this and other trees down so you can sit on that deck with your Tanqueray and tonics and say dumb shit like: “Wow, what a view,” or “Leaping Lizards, that’s some body of water.” None of that stopped them.

     Later, as the rain persisted at the lovely four day rental they were predictably shaken watching clips of “House Select Committee on the January 6 Attacks” on YouTube. Quietly they may have thought to themselves with alarm, but dare not speak it—”Our country is headed toward a civil war.” Still, they moved forward. 

     The next morning, as the aging couples packed up to leave the lovely four day rental they suffered another indignity as the sad tickling water that came out in dribs and drabs was now non-existent. It was as if the Visigoths had broken through overnight and totally destroyed the leaky crumbling Roman aqueducts. But they got past that too.

     The aging man who was slow to pick up euchre and was a bit of a pig was also annoyed that stopping in Skaneateles on the way home that his wife who discovered the baby birds in the snug tiny nest on the seriously thin branch spent $226 on bowls, cups and other things they didn’t need—he thought it would be better to just give the $226 to someone who needed it rather than buy all this stuff. And the wife of the aging man was annoyed too because she was of the opinion that she could damn well spend $226 any way she pleased. This was a recurring argument spanning the life of their long marriage that they always found a way past. 

     And finally the last indignity the morning presented happened to the aging couple where the woman had a food science background and the man had a thing about the migration of the Tuscarora Indians. Roughly two-thirds of the way home the transmission on their Lexus SUV ceased up, rendering the vehicle immovable. Towing and repairs would cost thousands and thousands of dollars, but they just smiled and continued forward.

     Though events had gone awry for the two aging couples near the end of the four days at the four day rental they could endure these hard left turns because they understood life is mostly pain and suffering with moments of grace and transcendence. And while aging couples knew pain and suffering was a given, they also knew right around the corner was another lovely four day rental with pleasant transcendent weather and graceful rolling green hills.      

      

       

                      

Murder Most Foul

Over the last year I've read the three-thousand page, four volume set of Robert Caro's "The Years of Lyndon Johnson." In the final volume, Caro does an in depth profile of John F. Kennedy. I came away from this profile not only with more knowledge and understanding of Kennedy, but also extremely impressed with the man. Last year when Bob Dylan released "Murder Most Foul," which chronicles the assassination of Kennedy I wrote an essay without fully understanding what was lost that November 1963 day in Dallas. So today, May 24th 2021, on the 80th birthday of America's greatest artist, Bob Dylan, I thought I'd repost that essay.

On April 4, 1968 at 6pm, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down by an assassin's bullet in Memphis, Tennessee. I was a six-year old white kid, in an all white neighborhood and only had a vaguest notion of him. I knew he was an important man, but didn’t understand the words associated with him. Words like civil rights, non-violence and others. So, I asked my dad: “Who is this Martin Luther King guy? After a moment’s hesitation he said, “He’s like the President of the blacks.” Though I certainly wasn’t aware of the struggle of marginalized black and brown people at the time I did know there was a division between the races. In 1968, even a six-year old could discern the divisions in our troubled country. So, this explanation made sense to me.

Nearly two-months later to the day Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated on June 5, at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Nobody had to tell me who he was. Not only did I hear my older siblings and their friends talk with great excitement about RFK becoming the next President, I knew he was the brother of the slain 35th President, John F. Kennedy. 

Like the Kennedys, my family was culturally Irish-Catholic and the Buffalo neighborhood where I grew up on the south side of the city fancied itself as the 26th county of Ireland. The Irish-Catholic roots were such that the entrance ways to many of my friends' houses had pictures of Pope Paul and JFK hanging side by side. Pope Paul was the keeper of the faith and JFK was the sainted martyr taken from us before his promise was realized—in a most foul way.

On that November morning when JFK was murdered Bob Dylan was twenty-two years old. The previous May he had released his second album, The Freewheelin Bob Dylan to much acclaim and good sales. It contained some of his most enduring compositions: “Blowin In The Wind,” “North Country Girl,” “Masters of War,” among others. In thinking about the release of Dylan’s seventeen minute epic, “Murder Most Foul,” which brutally chronicles the assassination of JFK, that was one of the things that struck me—Dylan was just twenty-two years old on the day of the murder. 

At the time Dylan said he didn’t necessarily feel the assassination more than anyone else. But what everyone was feeling was utter devastation. This was the first death of a sitting president in the television age. From the day of the assassination to the memorial three days later all programming and commercials on the three existing networks were cancelled. The average American home consumed almost eight hours of coverage per day from the assassination on Friday to the memorial on Monday. It was a single rapt audience not seen again until maybe the tragedy of 09/11. At twenty-two Bob Dylan wasn't quite the Dylan we shortly would come to know, but he was an American, and all of America was shocked and devastated.

Dylan’s personal situation was that of a twenty-two year old kid living with his activist, art school girlfriend, Suze Rotolo, who is pictured with him on the cover of Freewheelin. Rotolo’s parents were members of the Communist Party and had strong left wing commitments which Dylan embraced. In addition to identifying with the political views of Rotolo and her family it’s reasonable to believe, like other young people, Dylan was swept up in the promise of JFK. Kennedy was a progressive in the tradition of the New Deal and had a beautiful wife and family. He cultivated a dazzling image and communicated a message of hope and progress with soaring inclusive rhetoric. 

Arriving in New York from Minnesota on the cusp of JFK’s inauguration, Dylan’s talent and ambition quickly made him a national figure. With the release of Freewheelin, the aspirations JFK spoke of with such towering elegance and power were all coming true for Bob Dylan. And then the President was assassinated.  

Revelations of marital infidelities, drug dependencies and hidden health issues tarnished JFK’s image in the years following his presidency. These lapses were unknown to the public while he was in office and like the rest of the country JFK’s assassination probably hurt Dylan very badly. Yes, I know he’s made statements to the contrary. But given the epic proportions of “Murder Most Foul,” I find it hard to believe he didn’t feel this tragedy deeply, even if it didn’t find expression in a song like other events during that period. And, yes, I know it’s never wise to make statements about what Bob Dylan is thinking or feeling. Misdirection has been and remains an arrow in his quiver, but I’d rather leave the sideshow questions to others and instead try to hear and feel the songs.

And what I hear in “Murder Most Foul,” is a grievously injured twenty-two year old Bob Dylan, in the same way millions of African-Americans would have been injured if Barack Obama had been gunned down in the street like a dog.  Like Obama, JFK was a man of great skill and intellect, but more than that he was a symbol of our best selves and what we could be. He was a transformational figure, a precursor to Obama’s idea of “hope and change,” which would see all of us rise. Of course, on both accounts that’s not how it played out. But, judging from the language of “Murder Most Foul,” not only was Dylan grievously injured by the assassination he’s still pissed at what was taken from us on that November morning in 1963.  

Musically, “Murder Most Foul,” is a brooding minimalistic chant. The recurring piano lines, meager percussion and mournful strings vibe like a setting sun. Dylan distills the details of the assassination more as a narrator than singer. And while the couplets maybe don’t have the grace and style befitting a Nobel Laureate they are clear headed in their despair and anger. “Murder Most Foul,” as described by the writer Tim Sommer, “. . . is a scream, whispered.”

The details of the murder come to us in words like slaughter, mutilated and killed while Dylan bitterly tells us “the King” was shot like a dog with no respect. There are grotesque images that would be appropriate in any Quentin Tarantino film—blown out brains, blood in the eye and ear and the exploded head of the President. 

The crime is laid out in the opening part of the song and is followed by a series of pop culture allusions. Dylan mentions the Beatles, Woodstock, Altamont, even the horror movie Nightmare On Elm Street. At first, it’s a little disorienting trying to see what the game is and I get how some want to go to the “American Pie” pop angle—seventy-four songs are named checked in “Murder Most Foul” according to NPR. But as Dylan continues to detail the crime with mentions of Zapruder's film, Oswald and Ruby along with references to songs by The Grateful Dead and The Who, at about the ten minute mark after citing “What’s New Pussycat” by Tom Jones and “What’d I Say,” by Ray Charles he tells us what he’s thinking:

                                What’s new pussycat, what’d I say?

 I said the soul of a nation been torn away

And it’s beginning to go into a slow decay

                             And that it’s 36 hours past judgment day . . .

He hinted at it earlier in the Delany Plaza passage, where faith and hope and charity died. With the promise of JFK we had a moment to turn the page on our troubled, unsettled past but it died there in that nightmare on Elm Street, our American soul torn away, leading to a slow decay. Yes, there would be some short term civil and voting rights victories, but MLK and RFK, the ascendant movement figures who would lead us from this darkness were gunned down as well. And with their deaths any chance for faith and hope and charity were gone.

We ignored these coups and instead filled our heads with the pop of Stevie Nicks and Billy Joel. We fell prey to the deceptions of Johnson and Nixon. And while they were deceiving us Wolfman Jack played us “Aquarius/Let The Sunshine In,” by The Fifth Dimension. Then, as our confidence sagged we were told “It’s Morning in America Again.” With this new beginning came a philosophy that would subtly dismantle New Deal policies and the government institutions that helped people, but we were content to listen to the Eagles take us to the limit. A “Contract With America,” came next, formed out of emotionally charged, focus group language meant to divide. A cable network saw money in this division, played fast and loose with facts and assassinated the character of anyone who disagreed with them, while we listened to John Lee Hooker and Dickey Betts. Out of the rubble of 9/11 attacks we were again duped into another fake war and there was a Wall Street crash while we got down with Elvis and Bob Willis. A transformational figure came next speaking of hope and change, but the roots of decay and division were so entrenched he was thwarted, nullified and disrespected as we continued on our perilous journey bopping along to Monk and Charlie Parker. And here we stand, in the middle of a pandemic and with hundreds of thousands dying we’re told America is being made great again while Wolfman Jack plays the old Civil War song about Union Army’s complete destruction of the south, “Marching Through Georgia. ” And he’s also playing “Murder Most Foul.”

That is what Dylan is telling us. We turned away and filled our heads with pop ditties while our country decayed from within. News commentators and pundits opine how we’ll rise up and come back from this pandemic because we’re America and that’s what we do. But the America I see is a country bitterly divided against itself. We don’t read or think critically. We ignore science and don’t trust facts. We are deceived by those who profit from our resentments. And as we retreat to our separate corners we fail to understand that none of us are free until all of us are free.

You can listen to “Murder Most Foul” as an anguished work of art; as a Shakespearean allegory; as a tresure trove of James Joyce like allusions; as a retelling of troubled American history; or as an anchor in the Dylan catalog. It exists on multiple levels. But, however you process it, one thing is clear, as we teeter on the edge of the abyss, “Murder Most Foul,” is an indictment of present day America and the hope and promise we let slip through our fingers while we were otherwise occupied. 

Nearly six-decades have gone by since people were clamoring for Bob Dylan’s response to the assassination of JFK. In 1963 the twenty-two year old phenom had none to offer. Grief is a fickle thing that burns red hot for a time and then simmers and cools in the recesses of our being, but never really goes away. Now, through the prism of time and tragedy, Bob Dylan has finally found a way to express that grief and it’s a murder most foul. 

The Last Playlist: What Is It?

Thank you for clicking over here and thank you for considering my book.

The Last Playlist: A Sonic Epitaph (TLP) is unique in the realm of memoir writing. It combines a music playlist with personal essays for a trans-dimensional reading experience that is sometimes fun, sometimes uplifting, sometimes heartbreaking. In addition to touching all those human pressure points, TLP is also thoughtful and entertaining.

Still, you might be asking—who are you to write a memoir? The short answer, of course, is nobody. But it’s more complicated than that. Writing this book was motivated by the death of my mom. Even though I was in my thirties when she passed I found that I didn’t know her beyond a typical mother/son relationship, which greatly saddened me. I didn’t want that for my own children and since we always bonded over music I thought to write some stories about my life linked to songs I found meaningful. Combined into one package these songs and their corresponding essays make up TLP. Also, when I pass from this world, this playlist—the last playlist—is to be the music at my funeral party. So, it’s music, it’s memoir, but more than that—it’s a love letter to my kids.

TLP is broken up into three sections: Preface, Introduction and Essays (the actual playlist):

In the Preface I give a little history and how to on playlists, which I have been making since the early 80’s when they were called mixtapes. Yes, I’m that guy at a party who drops in his mixtape or hits up the bluetooth speaker and you’re like, “I never heard any of these songs, but OMG, this mix is altering the essence of my being. Please, P.A.Kane, take me home.” To which I’ll respond with a smile, “Thank you sir, but I’m spoken for.” Point is, I know a fair amount of music and know how to put it together into a good mix. So, it’s a little background information.

In the Introduction I give a brief account of my life starting from just after high school to present day. As stated I explain how I was motivated to write the book after my mom passed. Also included is a discussion about the necessity of planning your own death along with instructions about what should occur at my funeral party upon my demise—(*hint* no white wine or white claw). And, finally, I share some of my personal history, mystery and bewitchery as well as my dreams, schemes and a whole lot of other things. More background information—see a trend?

The Essays—and the actual playlist make up the bulk of the book. Here’s where I detail all the episodes that shaped my life. While the songs and the corresponding essays have a “deep track” feel they are mostly made up of familiar artists from the rock era such as: Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young. The most popular song included in the playlist is the 1973 top ten hit by Stevie Wonder—“Living For The City,” which presents some of the bone chilling realities people of color faced in the early seventies. I use the song to explain what I knew about race growing up in my all white neighborhood and what I learned about race when I actually met some black people entering high school in 1976. I use “Cut My Hair,” by The Who to detail my troubled life at home when I was a teen and I employ the song “There’s Always Someone Cooler Than You,” by Ben Folds to mark those moments of grace where no one was cooler than me. 

While TLP is set to music it is not necessary to know or like these songs. The essays speak for themselves with the music being an added feature—it’s like a two for Tuesday on your local rock station. But if you are interested in the music you can listen to TLP at my YouTube channel by clicking the link below. 

The Last Playlist

In closing—though I’m not the type of person who would normally write a memoir, I nevertheless think the experience of delving into myself was incredibly valuable. Sitting here, inch by inch writing out events from my life has given me great perspective and understanding of who I am. It has made me respect my experience and not be ashamed or be afraid of the person I am. I worked really hard on TLP and I’m very proud of how it turned out. And, I think it would be of great benefit to everyone to sit down with pen and paper and jump into themselves a little. With careful, honest thought you’d be surprised at all the treasures you’d find.

Again, thank you for considering my book.

P.A.Kane

November, 2020