It was late at night. . .

. . . on what seemed to be. . .

. . . an early summer evening but was in reality, an obscenely unusually warm March evening.  Returned home from rehearsal and philosophizing with the boys in Oho.  Grabbed a quick bite of leftover pizza (not just ANY pizza mind you, but a chicken fajita pizza with a drib of Lamoreaux Landing Bordeaux blend to accompany) and headed off to shower and sleep. . .

. . . when I heard from across the street, the sound of an acoustic guitar and a young, blues-influenced male vocalist.  I would like to have grabbed my Taylor and joined them, but being quite older, wise and tired, I decided not, and simply reveled in the memories of similar evenings in summer as a youth and the just plain pleasant feeling that listening to that faint music through the open window on this warm, spring evening provided.

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This town's like the one . . .

. . . sang about in 'The Green Green Grass of Home'

This photo of Gingerbread House is courtesy of TripAdvisor

All the perfect picket fences
And gingerbread cottages in a row
Brightly colored walls on every house
And if figure on the lawn
Peace and calm
I found where I belong
Til the murder in our Avalon

You could hear the children laugh and play
All their games on any day
Pretty Moms and Handsome Daddies
Would walk hand-in-hand down the street
Any summer night
You could never find another place
Where your life would be so good
I considered this my jackpot won
Til the murder in our Avalon

Now and air of uneasiness
Pervades everything
I can't seem to get any rest anymore
Might have been a heaven on earth
A place we could be
Safe from all the rest of the world and humanity
There was no stranger
No homicide
You killed our love
It was clearly a job from the inside

Now the trees are greener than before
But a chill is in the air
People go about their business
And everyone acts like I'm not even there
I've been told it's time to move along
And that life continues on
I've described your heinous crime in song
It was murder in our Avalon

AVALON
© 1997 Raymond M. Jozwiak




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Here I am. . .

. . . at the beach. . . for a week. Man, do I need it.

Talking with a nice lady about the Independent Music Network's August Radio Special while at the beach. Not sure about the details but I sure hope I can be on it, or at least my music can.

The drive was good and though I am not an 'endurance' driver, I made the complete drive with our regular (at least last and this year) stops at some New Jersey wineries enroute ("en" the LONG "route", mind you) to our beach destination. We rent a condo in a 'moderate-rise' (8 stories isn't really high, is it?) and have been able to arrive directly at the complex for the keys, and forego the stop at the realtor's office to pick-up the rules, promotional material a bottle of water and a pat on the back, obtaining the keys from the condo office upon arrival after that. But THIS year, since we forgot to bring along the paperwork received in the mail from the realtor, we MISSED a big change. You're now supposed to pick-up your KEYS at you required stop at the realtor's office. We found this out from a competitor realtor who had their pickup setup righth there at the condo and who were no very 'Sweet' or sympathetic about our situation. Easy/simple though, a short ride back up the road to the realtor produced the keys (the rules, promotional material a bottle of water and a pat on the back) and some extra sympathy for the lack of it offered by their competitor. Problem solved!

Or so we thought. Four armloads of luggage/stuff and five flights up in a slow elevator, we find that not one, but both of the keys to the condo DO NOT WORK. Telephone calls, building supers, locksmith talk, news of news tumblers LATER, (about a 45 minute ordeal) we're in!

Ah, vacation. A puzzle, a laptop, a martini and a Jim Beam Black later, it seems like nothing ever happened. Kind of like. . . summer camp.



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