Re-formed Buffalo Springfield Prove They're No Los Angeles Codgers; Audience, Not So Much...

By Peter Rodman

SANTA BARBARA, JUNE 8--
A friend of mine asked for "the Full Report" on the Buffalo Springfield's reunion show, and I was happy to oblige.  I was also conscious of retaining, for my review, as many concert details as possible--despite my overall fatigue.  (As opposed to the most telling fashion statement of the evening...fatigued overalls.) 
But let's be frank--age is as much a factor for the audience now, as it is for the band.  In that context, because the seats at the fabled Santa Barbara Bowl are a mere 15 inches wide--with NO armrests!--I had to carefully time any 'pants adjustments' to coincide with the four prolonged standing ovations.  Otherwise, I would not only have injured those adjacent to me, but caused untold embarrassment to the Rodman family name.  In addition, simply unfolding my arms required wiggling the circulation back into them, before any said adjustments could even be considered.

Buffalo Springfield, version 2010 (from left): 
Joe Vitale, Stephen Stills, Richie Furay, Neil Young, Rick Rojas 

Face it:
At my age, and in this shape (and in that 'seat'), there was no way to document the proceedings here (at AARPSTOCK 2011) in anything even approaching the detail some might prefer.

In other words, I forgot to bring a pen.  And nobody else had one either. 
Apparently, even women stop carrying pens after 25 years of marriage, because by that time, they've stopped carrying purses altogether--especially in Santa Barbara. 
Yes, these are 'the Golden Years'--when a girl knows 'the hubs' has made it, and accessorizing the Montecito chalet is no longer in doubt--as long as she'll take a Tuesday night in June, to let the old jamoke revel in his favorite band from 1967.
I'm telling you, I must have asked 25 people...no pens!
 
So, be forewarned: I did not record the set list in detail, for you. 
Besides, my days as a daily newspaper writer are over. Heck... newspapers are over!
But if I were still a music writer, I'd have made you up a detailed 'set list' from last night's show, worthy of a cross between Phillip Seymour Hoffman (as Lester Bangs in Almost Famous) and Marv Alpert's most anal basketball statistician. 
It would have listed every song from top to bottom, with asterisks for encores, and who played what...I promise.  But since I'm only doing this for the fun of it now, my failing memory will simply have to suffice. 

I'm gonna just say what my overall impressions and feelings were, once I can edit out MOST of the details of a turbulent journey--including hookers, literally knocking on my airport hotel door all night in San Francisco the night before, having had to stay over because of repeated flight delays, and cancellations.
I won't kvetch about that stuff.

This is about the music, man!!!
But suffice it to say, I wasn't feelin' too 'groovy' by the time I made it to the concert, on Tuesday.

In fact, an afternoon cat-nap turned into a coma, deep enough to have been induced by laying down in front of an actual Buffalo Springfield Steamroller...if you know what I mean.

And if you know what I mean--about any of this--you are my target audience, and their target audience, and like me...you know Buffalo Springfield.  

So:

In the afternoon, just to suss out the place (and mostly to refresh my memory, directions-wise), I sojourned up to 'The Bowl,' as we Santa Barbarans call it...and was greeted by hand-printed signs everywhere, saying
"NO CAMERAS. NO VIDEOS. NO CELL PHONES.
NO WHISTLING OR HOLLERING BETWEEN SONGS.."
and about eight other forbidden behavioral quirks I never made it to, like NO LATE LIBRARY BOOKS, NO READING GLASSES, NO CRAPPING YOUR DEPENDS, and most curiously, NO EXPLAINING THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF COUNTRY ROCK TO YOUR WIFE DURING THE OPENING ACT'S SET.
Oy, such detail!  I mean, the Bluebird Cafe sells t-shirts that say, "SHHHHHHH!"...but that's a 75 seat bar, not a major outdoor amphitheatre.

Go figure.
I swear, I am not making up those "rules"( except all the ones after the 'whistling and hollering between songs' part).
Even the backstage parking guy helpfully volunteered, "It's specifically on Mr. Young's orders." Guessing there were no Chinese maitre'dee's around, I figured out who he meant.

I told him I had hoped to possibly stumble on the soundcheck, but it was still only 3:45...and while there was a tour bus there,  I knew that must belong to (my good friends) Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings--the opening act. 
When I say 'good friends,' they're people whose houses I've been in, and I've supped with, and hosted on my radio program many times, and who would themselves say we were good friends, unless I started tweeting untoward pictures of myself wearing only Fruit of the Looms (with the original, collectible logo on them) to various receptive females (presumably in nursing homes) around the country. But let's leave that icky thought behind, shall we?

The point is/was, we've been friends, yeah. 
I love Gil, and I love Dave.
But have I called them in the last five years?

No.

Is the phone number I have even current?
Not likely.
See 'em around town now and then, but they've been busy touring and recording and being great....and I've been busy, ummm...mowing the lawn, writing a book I may never finish, covering my bald spot with Toppik, and hangin' out on Facebook, 24/7. 



Dave Rawlings, Gillian Welch

The parking guy said they'd already done their sound check, so I knew that was their bus--but in truth, it was a process of elimination. Because there is simply no way the entire 'core three' in Buffalo Springfield  (from the Summer of Love) are gonna effin' share one bus.  There'd be no 'love and peace'  if they did.


Anyway, ten years ago I would have approached the bus and said "hello" out of the blue, far from our Nashville homes, but  now, I just thought "That'd be too weird," though I know they would have graciously received me.

In fact, I was reticent to even call my old Boulder friend (and teenage hero) Richie Furay, but since he suggested it when I told him I was coming, I did put in a courtesy phone message, saying, "Have a great show, Richie! I'll be out there rootin' you on!" or something along those lines.

By the time I pulled out of the venue in the late afternoon, many more (identical) tour buses were groaning their way up the hill, towards the lot.  Obviously...THAT was "them."


I declined to turn back....but this Monmarte-like neighborhood was already crammed with cars, seemingly parked on each others' backs, and grey-haired hipsters excitedly converging on the venue. 
Even when I had checked into the Motel 6 three hours earlier, two scary drunks, stinking of pot and wearing grey dreadlocks interrupted the process to say, "Heyyyyyyyy, man!!!  YOU'RE an old HIPPIE!!! Must be goin' to the Springfield concert!!!! Right on, mannn! When you leavin'!!!???"
Oh look...it's Wayne and Garth's grandfathers...drunk.

Get to the show, I know.
That's what I was thinking, three hours later...late, having 'overnapped' again...
Suitably forewarned about the camera thing, I left behind my trusty Nikon 200mm zoom/rig completely--packed just for the occasion, but no longer a viable option-- and simply tucked a fLiP video cam into my jeans pocket.

It's hard trudging uphill, ten blocks, on gout-ridden feet. 
I finally got to the meet-up place my local friends had designated, and the kindly guards said, "Take your time," as I tried to huff out the words, "Is this the area known as the Wine Bar?"
Easy, old man...you'll be okay.
My friends, whose 4:30 dinner reservation I had slept through, had said, "Park at the high school!"
But even though I used to live here, I was too embarrassed to mention that I no longer had any idea where the high school was.


As luck would have it, I actually beat my friends back to the Bowl, by show time.
While I was waiting, I bought the requisite 'Buffalo Springfield' zippered hoodie ($60...XL, please) and chatted up the extremely cute t-shirt girl, who was more than accomodating.
"See?" I winked, "We old guys still know how to flirt!"
She smiled back at me, with those cobalt blue eyes, and that smooth, flawless, youthful skin--looking right through me...
"That's okay!!!," she chirped. "You're SAFE!!!"
Oh.
Thank YOU very much.

Jeez, Edith...

(The two ants in the middle are Dave and Gillian.)

By the time we'd all met up and bought our wines, and walked up the steeper-than-Red Rocks stairs, Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings had already started their set.  It was still light out, and the setting is spectacular (I'd last been there for Brian Wilson, some ten years ago). 
Behind them was a huge "BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD" logo, in the familar italic typeface that graced their debut L.P.  Under that, a planetarium-style amalgam of backlit stars.
But with no 'big screens' and the 7,000 or so seats well removed from the stage, they were tiny--even from my close-up section (fifth row of the first tier behind the 20 rows of folding seats).
I could see their new, white 'Manuel' (rhinestone) suits, an obvious nod to the Parsons/Burrito contingency, and quite frankly, a sartorial concession to their first-ever major tour-opening stint.
But for the most part, as folks filed in, loudly talking and not paying almost any attention to the music, their two-part delicacy was lost to the crisp air of sunset.


One secret to the SB Bowl is that the 'worst' seats have the best view: 
Over the mountains, the stage, the city, the unmatched harbor, and then the ocean...and THEN...(on a clear evening like this)...the Channel Islands.
(I tried to remind my pals of that, as my seats were far closer to the stage, than the ones I'd bought them.)
Mine, I said, were too low to peer over the trees, and the stage, and out into the pastel orange, Pacific sunset.
In the cool dusk air, the sound mix seemed to reach us in bursts of treble, and while it was rich, it had no legs--sorta like the venue's wine. The sound hit you, and then disappeared like dry ice, almost upon arrival.
I gingerly grabbed thirty seconds of low-held video from my seat (sun still up, but barely now), VERY unobtrusively. 
Ten full minutes later, I received a visit from (again, a very nice but very firm) security guy:
"Hey...I've been told...on orders directly from Mr. Young...that if we find any video or cell phone cameras, we are to immediately remove the camera, and the person using it.  Hope you understand!"
"I'm so sorry," I said, looking around at my seat mates earnestly.
"Don't worry," I assured him, tacitly reminding him of our collective age group. "...I'm compliant!"
(My pre-compliance video clip can be found, above.)
My whole row thought it was among the weirdest warnings they'd ever heard, at a concert. 
Wow...
"Mr. Young!"...mentioned a second time...by a separate guard...four hours later.
(Guess we know who's in charge on this-here tour!)

The charm of the Bowl (and its related drawback) is that it's not unlike Forest Hills in '67, which was more of a club with rules: No nonsense, no riff-raff, curfew, decorum, the whole bit.  And there's something to be said for that. 
But in respecting the neighbors (and the strict 10 p.m. curfew--$1,000 a minute fine, if you go over), the poor soundman had very little to work with.  An outdoor theatre must be UNsubtle in its sound, by definition, or it just...dissipates.
This was a near-fatal problem for Welch and Rawlings.  Nobody gave a shit about their show--which was as good as anything they do at the Ryman or on Prairie Home Companion, or wherever--because most of it was drowned out by arriving guests. Until they closed with "White Rabbit," this crowd hadn't unleashed their "I'm 60 and I deserve a bit of unfettered nostalgia" fervor...but boy, did they, at that point! 
BOOM! Engagement.

From then on, for me at least, the nostalgia worked. 

I truly believe that (despite some rough edges) from everything I've heard on bootlegs and such, this is the best-ever version of Buffalo Springfield.

I don't curse much anymore--it's unbecoming, of an old person--but Richie Furay is a fuckin' rock star. 
In my opinion, he carried the show. 
And if Stills and Young have done some remarkable catch-up work (since their rusty debut at Coachella last year), Furay's still the one with the lion's share of the stage appeal. He's got the voice, the onstage demeanor, the lack of pretense and ego, and an overall comfortability factor the others have simply worn out, over 40 years of 'Monster Fame' Furay has never shared. 
He's fresh; they're less so.

But the best parts about seeing this re-tooled Buffalo Springfield were, in truth, 'parts'--collaborative moments, unavailable from any source but the sum of the three surviving members, period. Those occasional blends in background harmony singing ("if I do come back at all...alllll") simply cannot be found in any other configuration, solo or otherwise. 
The real reason this show/tour is so worth doing, is the vocal blends and guitar tones peculiar to this particular band.
Though the material is surprisingly durable, Buffalo Springfield was never so much about a song, as it was about a sound.
We have not been able to revisit that particular sound, for over 40 years...and in regrouping for this tour, I believe that is the key:  We boomers have squeezed nearly every lemon dry, nostalgia wise--and in 2011, Buffalo Springfield remains a curiously untapped source, found nowhere else, that can still give us the $100-a-seat goosebumps we so crave.

It did that much, and then some.
"On the Way Home," "Burned" (a marvelous guitar showcase for that pedal tremelo that first introduced Stills to our consciousness), and Richie's cut-through-the-night vocal on "Do I Have To Come Right Out And Say It" were early highlights, for sure.
Neil Young was, as advertised, the 'Alpha Dog' of the bunch.  Stills has been beaten into submission;  Furay, the happy loyalist, is finally getting his due.
Young was the first to speak.
"How ya doin'?" he said, shaking his requisite fringed jacket.
Two songs later, during a recurring sound glitch, he approached the mike again:
"How ya doin'!"

Richie leaned in, to ask Neil if it was okay to dedicate a song to a couple whose 29th anniversary it was.  Young nodded his acquiescence.
(Do you think he'd have leaned in to ask anyone else?)

The three men wore the kind of reasonably blue bluejeans, you only get in department stores--the ones that fade the way only older peoples' jeans fade: straight, slate blue.
No 'Diesels,' for Buffalo Springfield. Nor 'True Religion' (unless you count Richie's day job) either.
Think Wrangler's Stretch--not Levi's 501's--but it still made for a smartly handsome lineup of 60-somethings.

 
Stephen Stills not only played marvelously--adopting his seldom used 'Buffalo Springfield' style--but sang perfect 'thirds,' harmony-wise.  He's dropped around thirty pounds since the last videos we saw.  Still, when forced to sing lead--and it seemed like a push--he was far less effective.  My theory is (no joke here) ill-fitting dentures.  Something about his speech and singing has been off now for several years, and all I want to say is, we have a place in Brentwood Tennessee called 'Dental Bliss,' where they apparently feed you so much laughing gas that you simply won't care anymore, while ya git yer teeth did...for what it's worth.
Young actually made them re-start one Stills song...stopping it so blatantly that I figured it was a rehearsed 'bit.'
But whether or not it was, his ego dominated the proceedings, and his own vocal effectiveness didn't kick in until "I Am A Child," which may have been the highlight of the whole show.  It was perfect--not in a Neil Young Live-Archive-Released-From-Massey-Hall-In-Toronto way...but in a uniquely BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD way.  He adeptly covered the harp parts himself;  the others did backgrounds; everybody was ON.
That can't be said for some of the pacing, which took a few distinct dips, almost as if Stills was flagging (I thought) on the tempos...but again, no Richie version of "Kind Woman" has ever sounded quite like the BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD version, which they ably delivered in tip-top form tonight.  His intro to it was the longest speech of the evening, detailing how he met...(and right here, the other two chime in, like mocking brothers...."Naaaaancy!")  His voice is in the best shape of his life, period...and Stills did an applause grabbing mandolin-strum during each chorus, echoed by Young's piano trills, all perfectly augmenting a show piece of the evening. 
Still, there were low points.  As with the original records, "Go and Say Goodbye" was a yawner by the Buffalo Springfield, in no way competitive with the turbo-charged Poco version.  Same story on this night.
Thankfully, the "Bluebird" jam of yesteryears was truncated some, and I still maintain there's gotta be that banjo part at the end, no matter what.
I liked how Young moved around, urging Stills on at times, mocking the guitar battles of olde.
"Oops," he said after one tune, "I think I just hit the worst chord of the whole tour.  This is why we broke up in the first place!"
And, "We're the Buffalo Springfield...we're from the past!"
And, "Still got the Earl Warren Fairgrounds?  We played there...just a little while ago!"

My friends were less familiar with the original Springfield albums.  I wondered how they'd feel...and near the end, since we weren't sitting anywhere near each other, I mozied (sp?) downstairs. 

They were down there, and already leaving. 

I could see where not knowing these deep album cuts might have made for a boring show, to them. 

They blamed the 'bad sound'...but to a lifelong fan of the Springfield, the sound was fine.  Not overpowering, just an honest band, actually playing every note, muffing a few, but giving it all a real 'go.'

This was a very specific show, about very specific songs from a very specific time, by the specific players who'd originally played them.
Not for the casual fan, maybe...but just about right, for this one.    
  

As I was writing this, my cell phone rang.

It was 1:30 a.m.

The caller ID showed Richie Furay's number...but he'd hung up, after two rings.

Honest mistake.

But hey...know what?

At my age, I'll take an accidental rock star 'pocket dial,' over any backstage pass.

____________________________________________



UPDATE:  Following my silly joke above about his accidental late-night phone call, Richie did in fact leave a very sweet message, the next afternoon. One hopes he'll forgive my revelation, in the service of comedy.  
____________________________________________
This article Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

"Me and Oprah"

　
　

By Peter Rodman

　




Sometime during the fall of 1991, I was boxing up my life, to move from my beloved 'penthouse' studio apartment in Chicago, to my just-as-beloved new beach home, in Santa Barbara.
Packing everything alone, I found myself entranced by the daytime TV shows, which most men never even see.


Apt. 3208, The Elm Street Plaza,  Chicago

Of course, there were Springer, Geraldo, and a few others…but Oprah Winfrey obviously stood out, as somehow above the rest.
Until....

By the third day of this exercise, I realized I’d just seen three consecutive shows depicting American men as the biggest losers on the planet.
In one show, Oprah actually featured “Men Who Beat Their Pregnant Wives." The next was ’Alaskan Hunks,’ and so on.
So I wrote her a note, simply saying, “Can’t you do any better than that? That’s what we expect from Springer, and those other guys, Oprah…not you!!!”

Fast-forward to six months later. I’d settled in to my beautiful new home out west, and was happily enjoying my first full-time west coast experience, when out of the blue, I received a call.
“Hello," said a voice from Chicago, “My name is Jamie, and I’m a producer for the Oprah Winfrey Show.”
“Uhhh..hi.”  (???)
“Oprah wanted me to call you, and tell you she received your letter--and she’s decided to do something she’s never, ever done before: An entire show, devoted to peoples’ letters!”

“That's great,” I said.  The truth is, I was covering up the fact that I'd completely forgotten about even writing it!
Once she got going, though, I figured she meant they'd just be reading my little note...which would be embarrassing enough, but acceptable...I guessed.
But 'Jamie' continued:
“Oprah wants you to videotape your letter at home, for the show!”
“Ohhhh,” I said, nonchalantly. “Well, to be quite honest, I only ever intended to write it--I never intended it, I mean I never imagined it as me, getting on the show! And besides, I don’t have any video equipment! So I really don’t think it’ll work.”
And that was that.
I figured I was off the hook.
Wrong!!!

The phone rang again, a couple hours later.
“Hi, Peter...Jamie!”
It was like we were old pals.
“Oprah says to go to any video or camera shop you like, and just rent whatever equipment you need…and she’ll pay for it!”
I said I’d try.
Yet another, more insistent call came--this time, putting a time frame on it. “She needs it by Friday.”
Now, if you’d like to skip the rest of the story, there’s a tape of my appearance on the show on facebook at the moment. Enjoy.　

But (can't ya guess?) there’s a lot more to it...

For one thing, I was working for a major airline at the time, flying overseas every single week. For another, my room mate (and best friend) John had a 9 to 5 job in town, and because we knew the old ladies on our Shoreline Park area block used to wonder if we were gay, we liked to...well...mess with 'em, a little.
When John got home from work, he’d step out of the car and I’d say, nice 'n loud...
“Is that you, Hon?”
Or he’d say, “Huu-uunn!!! I’m Hooo-oome!!!”

Believe me, despite the females coming in and out of our house at all hours of the night, that poor little old lady across the street spent many, many hours peeking through her blinds, desperately trying to 'suss out' the situation.
In retrospect, I guess we were a little cruel, that way. 
Okay, so that's the set-up.

Now...I’m home alone with all this rented video junk--which, in 1992, was not small.
I had tripods, all kinds of wiring, and a camera approximately the size of a refrigerator. (Okay, that's a slight exaggeration.)
But I did have one dilemna:
How’m I gonna film myself, talking to Oprah, without running around from behind the camera to the front of the camera, like an idiot, on national TV?
Beyond that, I had no editing equipment, so I had to make one tape, with the right 'take' on it.
Nobody was around; I wasn't gonna ask the little old spying neighbor-lady to operate this thing; and I hadn't made any new friends in Santa Barbara, yet.
I’d hosted my own TV show before, so I knew how stupid that would look.
Hmmmmm.
I resolved to set up the camera looking out the side door, then go out the front door, and casually walk into frame, through the side yard.  "Hey, Oprah...!"
Mister Cool.
"Hey, Oprah?"
NOT!!!
The problem was, it took me around ten 'takes,’ before I was happy with the result.
Me. 
Alone outside in the yard, visibly talking to no one, but loudly saying, "Hey, Oprah!"

Imagine the lady across the street (and she was, believe me)...wide eyed, looking through her blinds as I obviously walked around the yard, ten times in an hour, talking aloud, to a non-existent person named, “Oprah.”
When I finished, I Fed-Ex'd the tape to Oprah in Chicago, thinking that was the end of it. (I’d been told the whole show was just going to be peoples’ letters on videotape.)
Next day, Jamie calls:
“Oprah wants to set you up with her girlfriend on the show!”
What?
“Absolutely not.”

“...Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to embarrass myself or anybody else. No way!” I said.
How many of those things ever go well, on TV?  Besides, although I definitely have no right to be, I’ve always been prohibitively picky, in the ‘love’ department.
I stood my ground. Jamie sighed, and we agreed the video would be enough.
Then she called back again. “Are you sure? Oprah will pay for your date, and--”
“NO! I don’t think I could even imagine such a thing. I’m sorry. We’re just going to have to leave it at that, if it’s okay with you.”
When she called back yet again, Jamie had another idea:
I should just come to Chicago and “tell” my letter, on the show. “We’ll pay your airfare!” she said excitedly.
“Jamie, I work for the airlines,” I reminded her. “I fly free. And I hate to be a bad person, but I never wrote this letter intending anything like this.”
We finally struck a deal,  after she offered me three free nights in a luxury suite at the (then brand new) Meridian, in my old neighborhood, the Gold Coast of Chicago. I flew myself there.
When I got to my room, I couldn’t believe the care that had been taken, to make me feel comfortable. Fresh flowers, a selection of CDs “personally chosen for you by me, Oprah,” and meal vouchers for the whole long weekend.  Hard to imagine now, but in 1992, having a CD player in your room was pretty impressive, let alone having one stocked by Oprah.
I wasted no time contacting a recent girlfriend or two, and between lunch dates and catching up with old friends, made the most of a beautiful weekend in Chicago. By Monday, I began to see the other 'Oprah' guests collecting in the lobby.
There was a guy, also named “Peter,” who was in the end-stages of AIDS, as gaunt and frail a person as I've ever seen out of bed, and still breathing. I asked him what his letter had been about.
“I just wrote to tell her how inspired I’ve been, during these tough times, and everything she means to me.”
I just about broke down crying, right then and there.
Peter was the sweetest soul, and he knew it was over for him…but this would be his last hurrah.

Several other guests, including Mike and Melissa (whom you’ll see on the tape) shared their stories in the lobby, the morning we were to go to the taping.
When I got a free minute, I called my Mom, who lived in an apartment complex for the elderly in Ann Arbor. “Mom, it’s me!” I started. “Guess what! I’m gonna be on Oprah!!!”
My Mom loved me a lot, but after nearly 20 years of hearing all my 'razz-ma-tazz' about being on the radio,  TV, and in the papers, she could barely contain a yawn, at this news.
“I don’t really watch Oprah,’ she said.  Mom preferred old movies.

Now, a fleet of long black limousines was gathering around the block.
Poor Peter, the AIDS guy, was alone in his wheelchair, so I said, “Hey, Pete…why don’t we ride together!”
With that, Oprah’s frightened looking producer came scurrying over, to say quite firmly:
“No!" she barked,  Every guest must ride in their own limousine!!! Oprah insists!!!”
And so we did.
At the show, we pre-planned guests were held away from the rest of the audience, already seated, until right before the taping began.  There are no accidents, on 'Oprah.'  Everyone who talks is carefully seated (and vetted) just before showtime. Some (like myself) are even able to negotiate a few free days extra, in Chi-town--though quite frankly, I was trying to talk them out of having me, which is why I was (inadvertently) sucessful, in getting so many extra perks.
As I walked by the front row, a girl whispered (loudly enough for me to hear it) “That’s him!”
I took a glance. Of course. That was Oprah’s ‘friend.’ (The blind date I'd refused.)
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Good decision, I thought.

The taping went well, and from that day (April 11, 1992) forward, I became friends with Mike and Lisa. We exchanged Christmas cards and occasional phone calls for nearly 20 years. I really related to his story.
Mike drove a UPS truck, and his 'beef' with Oprah, was that she acted like poor men should treat their wives especially nice, since they didn’t have money. His point hit home with me--and probably every other workin’ stiff out there. Anyway, a sweeter couple you’d never meet, so we hit it off well.
Poor Peter bravely recited his litany of praise for Oprah, although it looked like his head was literally going to fall off his neck.
When I got back home to Santa Barbara, my Mom called. Suddenly, she was very interested in my upcoming appearance on Oprah!
“When does it air, again? Are you sure? What time is that on here? Do you know what channel?”
Apparently, she had casually mentioned it in the cafeteria, and all the old ladies went bonkers.
“Oprah!!! Your son is gonna be on Oprah???”
Mom being kind of a loner, this worked wonders, for her popularity at the Sunrise Apartment complex.
She began regaling them with stories of my life in media, adding that I was now flying overseas as a flight attendant, yada, yada, yada.

It felt good, to have made Mom happy.

After the show aired, my Aunts, Uncles, and cousins all called, with very sweet messages. I was especially amused when one said, in a new York accent, “Pete, ya did good...didn’t embarrass the family at all!”
Whew, huh!
But when I finally talked to Mom after it aired, she was a little...less than enthusiastic…and I just couldn’t figure out why.
It took some time, but I eventually realized that, since she had mentioned to her fellow seniors that I was a flight attendant, and my name was 'Peter', the old ladies must have figured, “Gay.”
And then...when Oprah kept repeating his name ("Peter") over and over on the show, the ladies almost certainly decided I was the other Peter, since they wouldn't have known me from Adam.
It all made sense, in their world--which was at least a generation before my own. 
But just as quickly as she'd found some much-needed positive attention before it aired, Mom was back in Awkward Land afterwards...and couldn't quite figure out why.
Neither can I, looking back on it--which is kinda funny, in a 'dated' sort of way.
And which goes to show, ya never can tell.

Almost a decade later, we were still laughing about it all.
A lot.

But I always knew 'the other Peter’ couldn’t have lived for very long after the show--and although his particular segment isn’t included here, that’s what I think of, when I think of my time on Oprah.
That, and my narrow escape from a disasterous, nationally televised blind date!

As I write this, it's been nearly twenty years, since the show aired.  I've only included a short excerpt here, pertaining to my own appearance.   But earlier in the tape, Oprah introduces the 'viewer's letters' theme by saying, "We've been doing this show now, for five whole years."
At the time, that sounded sorta monumental, believe it or not.
Today, I watched her very last syndicated "Oprah Winfrey Show."
Twenty five years.
As you see 'em come and go, the numbers make you feel old...but that's a 'nother whole column.
Godspeed, Oprah.


_________________________________________
Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

Cicadas!!! [My Personal War on Terror]

By Peter Rodman

The first thing you do, when you realize a 13-year cicada invasion has begun, is you run inside and get the camera.
Then you run back outside, grab a few shots of bugs, and excitedly return to your office, to do what we would all do, in that situation:
 


Spend a half hour uploading them to your Facebook page! (complete with a can't-miss comment):
         "They're heeeeeerre....."  

Now, sit back and wait.

Like.
Like.
Like.
“We saw some yesterday!” 
Like.
"WE saw some last week."
(...same damn guy, always tryin’ to one-up everybody!)

But it was only after the photos were posted that it suddenly dawned on me...this one ain't goin' away, after you post it.
“Uh oh....this is real. They are back!"

To give you a tiny idea of the sense of siege I felt last time they came to town, the cicada infestation actually caused me to allow smoking in my house, for God's sake--just so I wouldn’t have to open the door. 
That's how bad it got.

Well, okay…confession:
My Mom was the smoker in question, God rest her soul.

Mom had the misfortune to select the precise time of the last '13 year' infestation, for a rare visit to the South.
On her first day here, we drove to Paducah to visit our kinfolk, and the ride was completely bug-free.
(Apparently as part of the treaty ending the Civil War, President Lincoln allowed most of Kentucky off the hook, on the cicada thing.)  But when we returned, two days later, it was as though we had entered an actual monster movie.

I am not kidding.
I’ll never forget us arriving back at my place in Nashville and just sitting there in the car, petrified to leave.  We must have prepared for our desperate sprint (from the car to my front door) for at least fifteen minutes.
Anyway, during that time inside the car, things were at least as tense as they must have been last week, in the White House Situation Room--especially considering that the President never had to unfasten Mom's safety belt, and then gather up the 'groceries' (“Rye?" Check. "Vermouth?" Check. "Carton of Chesterfield Kings?" Got ‘em!) before going out into enemy territory.


“Sure is dark in here!” I said, fumbling for my keys.

“Dear Gawd,” my now wide-eyed Mom said, pointing to the solid, inch-thick curtain of bugs now completely covering all the windows.  There is something hilarious to me--to this day--about an elderly woman, offering her deadpan evaluation of a really, really bad situation.

“Are you ready?” I asked, like a Cicada Commando Fighter.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said bemusedly.

But even Mom had no idea what was in store, and as she opened the door and got bombed by several million flirty, sticky, giddy cratures.
I heard her mutter again, in that special New York accent, "Gawd luv us all!"
With that we crunched, cowered, and flailed our way to my front door--itself already under attack--as though it were a 4x8 foot Nestle Crunch Bar they had to devour, immediately.

Even though I had thoughtfully set Mom up a virtual 'living room' outside on the balcony deck--and lovingly mixed the proper Manhattans for her (“Two-to-one, no cherry!”)--when I finally peeked outside, the place looked like something out of ‘Mothra.’

The ashtrays and easy chairs I had set up--not to mention the TV, and the knitted 'throw' in case she got chilly--were completely covered in short order, with these merry roach-like creatures, who were mating faster than a Friday night crowd at the Oak Beach Inn. (Can ya tell I had a good time in my youth, back at the Oak Beach Inn?)
Even the sound they made sounded suspiciously like,
“…come here often?”

Anyway, after I separated the curtain of bugs from her face and discovered that yes, Mom actually was still under there, I decided to let her inside the house--to chain-smoke me into oblivion, for the final three days of her visit. During the next two days, I inhaled more second-hand smoke than Gracie Allen.  As a postscript, Mom’s gone now…which really makes me regret that third night-- when I finally couldn't take it anymore, and dropped her at a local hotel. (See photograph, above.)

The reason cicadas wait thirteen years before generously sharing their 'Passion Play' is to make absolutely sure you’ve forgotten how miserable it was last time around. After six weeks of this nuclear barrage, surveys usually show a spike in the populations of places up north, like Detroit--as people gradually decide they’d just as soon endure the occasional mugging as run a gauntlet of rock festival-style procreation among insects that would have scared the Hell’s Angels out of Altamont, had these creatures been there.
Believe me, I’ve been in some bad crowds.
But there is no crowd as bad as a few trillion cicadas on your property.
Even though the bugs (in their defense) are patchouly-free...I'd still rather be at a Grateful Dead concert, using somebody else's half-eaten chicken wings as a headrest, while laying on that moldy blanket that's been keeping their spare tire from clanking around too much in the trunk, for a couple decades.

So today--after fulfilling my ritual Facebook posting obligation--I decided to prepare in earnest.
I decided that I would "pay any price, meet any hardship, and oppose any foe," all of which seemed to work for President Kennedy, during the most serious moments of his administration--like that time he had to finally decide between Angie Dickinson and Marilyn Monroe.



Note: The blue parts are my backyard.

 To understand where I’m coming from, you'll need to know a little bit about where I live. I bought my little house because it was nestled atop a pretty little hill.
What I forgot to do was check out the area behind the house, which turns out to be nestled at the bottom of many massive hills. After a few years of realizing my backyard was constantly underwater, I contacted the city.
They were very helpful, bringing me topographical maps and charts and patiently detailing for me precisely why my backyard is usually underwater.
It seemed to almost fascinate them.
“See this?” the guy said, as though we were looking at a toy train set. “This is the area above your yard, with an aerial breakdown of the topography…in color! Isn’t it amazing? And…see this? This is where every other yard to the north drains into your backyard. But what’s interesting is…see this? That’s all the yards to the east that you don’t see, and…see this? They also drain all to one place…your yard! Wish I could help ya…!”

So yes, I’m used to it by now.
But with the 13 year cicadas on the way, I decided to fight back.
For one thing, even though I’ve got a car in the garage, the other one is in the driveway. And just in case I have to drive somebody else’s Mom out of the 'hood at the height of the onslaught (to get the makings for Manhattans, of course) I figured it might be a good idea to buy a plastic “car cover.”
But I didn't stop there.
Noooooo, not me...
I arrived home with several hundred pounds of insect-killing granules; roughly enough to eradicate the Taliban. My strategy would be to spread a bag on the backyard deck, then sweep it through the cracks between the wooden planks, so the muddy-muck underneath doesn’t become a haven for God-knows-what kind of creatures--including, and especially, cicadas. Unfortunately, I could not find the word "cicada" among the approximately 25,000 species of insects listed as 'goners' on the bag, if you use 'Bug B Gone.' I bought it anyway, undeterred.

Being a cautious guy, I also bought a few of those face-masks, like the ones Japanese people tend to wear on special occasions, like "leaving the house."
I sometimes wish Americans were that considerate, don't you? Imagine…me protecting you from my cold, by wearing a mask!
I don't know much, but I do know that the level of consideration for your fellow man in Japan far exceeds the level of consideration at my local Wal-Mart--where the cashier sneezed into her hand just before licking her thumbs to separate the plastic bags, so she could more easily pack my protective face face-masks, bug poison, and orange sherbet purchase into the bag.
Anyway, I figured a mask might help protect me from the rising 'dust of death' I was about to bestow upon my deck--so I got the extra thick, deluxe face-masks, which allow nothing at all to penetrate--including air, as it turns out.
I was hyperventilating before I left the garage.
I bravely strapped that sucker on, scissored open a 50 lb. bag of poisonous bug dust, and began lovingly brooming it across the backyard deck, carefully guiding it through the spaces between the slats, with my unspoken best wishes to whatever miserable creatures might be stuck in the unseen mud, below. And please, don't start...I know, I should never kill another living thing! 
But when the mosquitoes under there set up a mailbox that said "1 Bubonic Place," I personally thought they went a little too far.

I decided, then and there, to forego the plastic 'car cover,' even though that was the original reason for my trip to the store. And it had seemed like such a clever way to avoid having bugs smother my 'outside' car...but things change, people.
Suppose it did keep a couple trillion cicadas off my ’96 Stratus? Who'd remove it after six weeks, with all those dead bugs on there?
Certainly not me.
As you can see, I tend to slightly overreact to critters...but I'm not the only one. 
This morning, a fire ant rang the doorbell, and begged me to let him in.
I've just called Ameritrade and canceled all my pecan futures.
And if you should see any online, I'm looking for a plastic house cover. 
　

___________________________________
Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
Please note:  Some of this was made up, just for fun.

Pledging My Time

By Peter Rodman


"Time keeps on tickin', tickin', tickin', into the future..." --Steve Miller

I don’t know exactly when it was that I began to accumulate so many clocks. Years ago, I had only four or five clocks to change, when Spring would ‘spring forward,’ and Fall would "fall back."
Now, I find myself scurrying around the house, in a stress-filled ritual that takes an hour of its own, merely to rediscover the many clocks which, tonight, demanded my time.
The clocks, they are a-changin'--but in this house, when 'times change,' it takes a lot more time, than it used to.
One thing I do, that I'm not sure everybody does, is that I have certain clocks set 'faster' than others.  Alarm clocks, ten to fifteen minutes.  Office clocks, likewise.  But I always keep my kitchen clocks and my watches as accurate as possible, so the last thing I see, going out the door, is the reality of my dilemna.  Hey...time is short.
If you're not careful, even that car clock could throw you off, today.
It always amuses me, when otherwise intellegent people panic on airplanes, thinking they're going to miss their connections, simply because they refuse to change their watches, after takeoff. 
"I always leave my watch set for home!" they'll boast, as if staying in the wrong time-zone is something to be proud of. 
Honestly, does that approach ever really work, for anybody?
I subscribe to the old hippie adage:

"Be here now."

And change your freakin' watch to where you are, Einstein!

Got a sec?
I must say, I liked the old 'Daylight Savings Time' routine, much better. 
These days, it's March-and-November, when we jump back and forth (or forth and back, in truth) but I liked it much better, when it was in April-and-October.  Congress somehow became convinced that we'd all save lots of money, if the sun was up more often, when we were driving home...or something. 
Maybe it's just me, but as time goes by, I'm more and more resistant to change.
I'd like to know who 'took the minutes' at that hearing.

My kitchen clock is a pretty reasonable facsimile of the old “standard” clocks we had in elementary school, during the ‘50s. I found it in an old hardware store in Nashville--so dusty and shopworn, that the clerk couldn’t even remember whether or not it was for sale, let alone at what price!
How long had it been there?
Nobody knew; a long time.
I think they finally decided to charge me around $8 for it. 

This is the kitchen clock,
which reminds me of the
pilfered courthouse clock,
which reminded me of all
the clocks in grade school. 


In truth, this clock replicates yet another clock I had, just like it, back in Colorado--going back decades, now.
It, too, was a replica of that same old ‘school clock’ we all knew and loved/hated, but I am going to take a huge risk here, and confess to you that in procuring it, I may actually have committed a crime--and quite possibly, a  federal crime:
I stole it.
That’s right, I took it.
I’m not proud of this, either...

It was 35 years ago. I’d been summoned to the Federal Courthouse in downtown Denver, sometime during the mid ‘70s, and I only remember that I had to wear a tie, and that is all I remember. No, I wasn’t a witness; nor a defendant, or a job applicant…but I’ll be darned if I can remember exactly why I was there!
I just remember that I had to show up, and that they completely wasted my day.
Could it have been to obtain (or renew) my FCC broadcasting license?
Quite possible--back in those days, they were a lot more discriminating about who got on the air.
(Well...not that discriminating:  I got on!)
I honestly can’t remember what it was about, but it was some sort of meaningless legal exercise, I remember that much..
Anyway, long story short, I’d moved my car several times,  to avoid getting any parking tickets, because whatever it was took most of the day, and my time kept running out, on the meters.
While jumping in and out of the building, I began to notice that each time I entered and left, there remained a forelorn pile of junk, near the courthouse door--rusty nails on broken lumber, empty paint cans, and a clock laying there near the top, its wire carelessly tangled throughout the mess--next to an overstuffed garbage can, all of it, obviously,  headed out into certain oblivion.
On about my fifth trip back and forth, I noticed that they’d “updated” all of the other working clocks in the courthouse building, but this one--with its nearly ‘art deco’ numbers from what looked like the late '30s, was decidedly the 'odd man out'--and set to be discarded, for sure. 
You might say its time had come and gone.
So, I like to think I 'rescued' it.
If that's true, I actually saved time, down at the Courthouse that day.
No wonder I found that clock fascinating... 
I'd stared at one just like it--all day, every day--throughout my 'single-digit years' on this planet...just willing the time to go faster, in class.
And no wonder everyone looked at me like I was crazy, when I expressed an interest in it.
This was 1975. 
The last thing on anybody else's mind, was summoning up some sort of  'nostalgia,' for an institutional-looking clock which recalled nothing, if not a repressive time in America we'd only recently escaped, during the '60s.
Anyway, as the shadows grew longer and my tie got loosened, I finally got up the courage (read: bad judgment) to first pick up the clock and look it over, then ask a few office people in the hallway if they knew what was up with it, and finally, yes…I just took it. Nobody thought that was a bad idea. (Then too, the guys I had decided not to ask all had uniforms on.)
In retrospect, I kinda wish I hadn't...but hey, it was garbage to them!  Still...it's one of those moments you just can't take back.
I sincerely hope enough time has passed, that my 'federal crime' is no longer prosecutable.
If they do come after me, I can only hope they'll give me 'time served.'
After all, would that clock have been any better served, in a Denver landfill? 
And what is life, if not a series of stolen moments? 
(Okay...I'll stop now.)

Alas, the statute of limitations on the clock itself was only a couple of years, on my Boulder kitchen wall. I would like to add that I would not do that, today. It was wrong; but, hey...nice clock!
Under the kitchen replica of the courthouse replica of the school clocks, hangs a hand-painted, wooden piece of pie, given to me by my octogenarian Aunt and Uncle, a few years back. It says,

“LIFE IS UNCERTAIN...

EAT DESSERT FIRST."

My uncle has since passed away--but it makes me smile, to know that he felt that way, even 88 years into this adventure.
A wiser statement about time could hardly be found. 
Never "save it for later."

People use time as an excuse all the time.  "I ran out of time." 
"The time got away from me." 
I remember when George W. Bush was in office, we were constantly told, "Now is not the time" to question things, and "there'll be time for that, later on." Now, those same people are telling us, "Time is running out! We have to act now, before it's too late!"

During the ‘60s, I had an inordinate fascination with ‘clock-radios.’

These represented the cheapest way to A.) feel like a real teenager, even if you were only ten; B.) gain freedom from your parents, by staying in your room with something really cool to do, like listen to the radio all night; C.) buy something ‘ultra-modern’ looking and sleek, every year or two, that instantly became the sleekest, most ‘ultra-modern’ looking thing in your room; and oh, yeah…D.) to help wake you up for school.
When all the clock-radios finally went digital, I lost my fascination for them. My last clock-radio now resides in the guest room, here. It’s one of those ‘80s Sony “Dream Machine” cube thingys, and it may well be the last digital thing I truly DO know how to 'program.' (When they took the next step and put two clocks to program in each “Dream Machine,” that’s when they finally lost me.) 

But if they ever bring back those Jetsons-like 60s clock-radios, I’m in!

There’s a large 'Beatles' clock on the wall in my office; you can’t miss it. But I almost did last night, when re-setting all the clocks. Fact is, I never really look over that way, because it’s surrounded by the floor-to-ceiling photographs and memorabilia from my life, hung mostly to amuse any guests I might have, though I rarely do. I simply ignore it all.
A few people have bought me “CD clocks” or "record clocks," over the years. There are a couple of those, still around.

Then there’s one clock I keep, specifically because it goes backwards, when the batteries get low. (I ain't kiddin'...check out the video, below.)
It reminds me of a truly weird night at my apartment in Chicago, when I awoke in the middle of the night with an awareness that a deceased friend (and as it happens, a fairly popular singer) was "right there in the room," with us, in spirit!
I remembered that this friend had told me of  Carlos Castaneda; I was more into Archie Bunker.
Anyway, I woke my new girlfriend up to tell her the great news, that my dead friend was 'right here with us!'-- and it's a measure of her devotion to me, that she wasn't out the door immediately.
Realizing this sounded insane, and not one to believe in the 'occult' at all, I decided to get up and wash my face--to rid myself of this ridiculous dream I'd had.
In the bathroom, all soaped up, I took a glance at one of those little alarm clocks you keep around, just in case you need an extra--for when you have to catch a plane, or something...and, sure enough…the little bastard was (I am not making this up) ticking backwards!
Whoa…..spooky!!!  Even my girlfriend found this impressive. 
Think I'm lyin'?
Check THIS out:

So I did the reasonable thing, by 1985 standards (not!), which was to call the deceased female singer's ‘ex’ in Hawaii, “long distance” (not cheap, back in pre-cell days) at one in the morning, their time.
“Yeah,” he said matter-of-factly, “Peter, this has been happening to everyone lately. I’m getting all kinds of calls like this, about her 'visiting' people. I believe in it; and I know she did. Now…can I go back to bed, please?”
Fact is, I don’t. Believe in 'it,' that is. Whatever 'it' is. Hey, I wasn't born yesterday!
But I still like to keep my backwards clock around anyway…and the next day, I replaced the battery, in Chicago.

"Ahh, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that, now."--Bob Dylan

I’m happiest when it gets dark early, frankly. If it’s “5 o’Clock Somewhere” and it’s not dusk yet, you won’t find me celebrating--not even if Jimmy Buffet himself offers to buy the cocktails.

I know what you're thinking:
'When was the last time
you got your clock cleaned?'

My most reliable clock ever has been this well-worn 50 cent 'road clock' I bought in Beijing, which has always functioned like, ummm, clockwork--though it looks somewhat the worse for wear, now. 
But the truth is, one of my few inate 'talents' is my inner clock.
It never lets me down.
I can set an alarm, no matter where in the world I am, and I almost never need it. My internal clock will almost always wake me up, moments before the alarm goes off.
(I’m not saying I’m worth anything when I first get up, believe me. In fact, I'm not. It’s just that I will be up on time, without benefit of clocks at all.)
After reading this, you may think my place worthy of an episode of Hoarders, but this is only partially true. There are things I relentlessly collect--but that‘s another whole column. 
What sets clocks apart (apart from me setting them) is that my clock collection, unlike all the other collections, has grown inadvertently.
I had no idea last year that I would own more clocks this year.

On a recent visit to a local gift shop, I went in with money and came out with a bag full of novelties (read: junk that amused me), one of which was this irresistible wind-up alarm clock with actual bells on top, like something out of a retro-Bugs Bunny cartoon. I’ve yet to set the alarm, but can’t wait for the brrrrrriiiinnnggg to happen, when I finally do.
“Brrrrrring it on.”
So overnight, after changing not only the clocks, but the timers, the DVRs, DVDs, cameras, ovens, microwaves, and more than a dozen watches, I will have truly put in my time.

Well, it's time for me to go now. 
I don't know where the time has gone, do you?
Perhaps, as Yogi Berra once put it, "It got late early."
All tolled, I’m guessing thirty or more clocks and watches got changed, last night.
I don’t begrudge Daylight Savings Time, although I more or less come down on the side of the Rolling Stones, who famously sang:

“Sunshine bores the daylights outta me!”

I guess it's very important that we all keep moving forward each year...until the fall.
Perhaps another Dylan quote best portrays my internal conversation with all these clocks, as I change them...and they change me:

"Well, early in the mornin’
’Til late at night
I got a poison headache
But I feel all right
I’m pledging my time to you
Hopin’ you’ll come through, too."

______________________________________________________
This column and all the photographs herein are Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

RELEVANT LINKS:

To hear Bob Dylan's "Pledging My Time," go to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZ24lH39GSY
And here's Larry Cordle--a Nashville legend, performing his sublime "Lonesome Standard Time," at the fabled Station Inn:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMMB6rUoPHg