...thanks to a Monday night 6/24 showcase at Berklee for instructors. See you 7/1.
Upcoming shows are at the bottom of this page

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THE LOSS OF GREAT BROWN MEN AND THEN LITTLE TEENY MOMENTS OF JOY AND HOW WE SHOULD TAKE THEM WHEN THEY SHOW UP

I wasn’t much of a baseball fan until a few years ago. The only sporting event my folks ever took me to was the 1970 Trenton 200 Indy car race. I started to like baseball in the 2000’s because it was live, easy-going background when doing hobby stuff. So no, I’ve never been but a fair-weather fan. But I knew the names. I knew there was a greatness to Willie Mays, I knew there were records he held, I knew he’d battled racism, and I knew he played center field. I knew his name long before anything about the Tuskegee Airmen or Bessie Coleman or Benjamin O. Davis. Hell, I felt I was a historian genius knowing who Jesse Owens was. So his passing on 6/18 was marked here by my flurry of Wiki research and more appreciation for his accomplishments and his loss.

The bow shot closer to home when close friend Tom Prasada-Rao died on the next day, Juneteenth, after a long bout with cancer. One of the best songwriters I've ever known, our claim to fame together was that when we were both attendants at festivals in the mid-90’s, people would confuse us. Yeah, I know, brown guys with guitars, even if one was Indian and sported a tunic and a fez, how easy to make that faux pas ok no not really. But we’d laugh it off, maybe the same laugh Willie Mays laughed at the ever-present epithets hurled his way from racist “fans” from the bleachers when he was at work.

But it was Tom’s guitar playing in the 90’s redirected me to what my right hand could and should be doing on the strings, and he followed that with Grammy Nominated songwriting that, well, goes like this:

https://www.facebook.com/iamTPR/videos/2719040008205713

See what I mean? C’mon. Who wants to fish downstream from writing like that? And what the dickens to die a day after Willie Mays, on Juneteenth no less? damn, Bro.

So I was pretty low when I went to pick up my car and its new struts, $1300 later. I was putting on a good face for manager Paul behind the desk when he asked about and started talking about model planes. I discovered he was into them too. It was 5pm, the shop was closed by now, and we’re scrolling through our phones for snapshots and video for show-and-tell. In the meantime I noticed how each mechanic - white and brown - came in and greeted Paul with a handshake and the kindest of “see you tomorrow(s)”.

Later that night around 11pm while working in solace and silence on some model in the basement, Doug calls. Doug calls like once a year. Doug who two years ago listened me talking about making an album while sharing a room at a model plane contest and piped up in the middle of my story “Hell, I want to donate to whatever album fund you start”, that Doug. Doug who now excitedly talked my ear off about our upcoming July NATs and how he was getting ready “now". Doug who knew nothing of my losses.

Doug and Paul - just some Older White Men who showed up with joy as part of their day and have no idea the lift supplied and the deeper credence they gave to Willie’s, Tom’s and mine.

Goodness is out there.