Taking in. . .

. . . my daily sustenance down at my local Scottish restaurant when I noticed that my entree was more than I bargained for. Look what I got. The manager said there was compensation coming my way. But not today. Don't call us. Don't call us. Don't call us, we'll call you.

Auntie Lynn said it would be a sin to waste my precious vocal expertise. So I took me to audition down at the prestigious theatre called the Ritz. Producer man was nice as he could be. He said I was fine, but not this time. Don't call us. Don't call us. Don't call us, we'll call you.

Seems I've been hearing the same thing since I don't know when. Some with a little less confidence might just give in. I'm no one's fool unless I want to be. Life can be cruel. Won't someone please just CALL ME!?

At the end of what had seemed to be a perfect evening, just what did I do? Could it be something I said or didn't follow-through? I wish I knew. We danced and dined. I even kissed your hand. Under a twinkling sky I said goodbye when you cried don't call us. Don't call us. Don't call us, we'll call you.

©1997 Raymond M. Jozwiak


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Not much fidelity. . .

. . . emanated from a 3 x 5 inch transistor radio, but who knew from fidelity? When you're five years old and you're starved for sounds, a transistor radio is nothing short of a little jewel box. Mine was a General Electric, black. Very sleek. It was maybe 1 1/4 inches thick with a length and width similar to a post card. It came with an 'earphone', only ONE bud, no FM stereo here, which was perfect when circumstances warranted private listening.

Walk Like a Man, It's My Party, Ring of Fire, Blue Velvet, Surfin' USA, Blowin' in the Wind, Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Rubber Ball, Big Bad John, Blue Moon, Traveling Man, A Hundred Pounds of Clay, This Diamond Ring, Mrs. Brown You've Got A Lovely Daughter, Dang Me, Do You Love Me, Louie Louie, I Saw Her Standing There, Needles and Pins, You Really Got Me, It's Over.



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Whenever. . .

. . . I get to feeling discouraged, or sorry for myself, I like to read things like. . .

Every part of the scheme shows that this man [George Stephenson] has applied himself to a subject of which he has no knowledge, and to which he has no science to apply. (Parliamentary Committee 1825)

Far too noisy, my dear Mozart. Far too many notes. (Emperor Ferdinand after the first performance of The Marriage of Figaro)

I liked your opera. I think I will put it to music. (Beethoven to a fellow composer)

If Beethoven's Seventh Symphony is not by some means abridged, it will soon fall into disuse. (Philip Hale, Boston music critic, 1837)

I played over the music of that scoundrel Brahms. What a giftless bastard! (Tchaikovsky's diary. 9th October 1886)

We don't like their sound. Groups of guitars are on the way out. (Decca Recording Company about the Beatles.1962)

These boys won't make it. Four-groups are out. Go back to Liverpool, Mr. Epstein, you have a good business there. (Recording Company)

I'm just glad it'll be Clark Gable who's falling on his face and not Gary Cooper. (Gary Cooper on his decision not to take the leading role in "Gone With The Wind")

They may be world famous, but four shrieking monkeys are not going to use a privileged family name without permission. (Frau Eva von Zeppelin)

He bores me. He ought to have stuck to his flying machines. (Auguste Renoir, on Leonardo da Vinci

This fellow Charles Lindbergh will never make it. He's doomed. (Harry Guggenheim, millionaire aviation enthusiast)

Very interesting, Whittle, my boy, but it will never work! ( Professor of Aeronautical Engineering at Cambridge University)

You will never amount to very much. (Munich Schoolmaster to Albert Einstein, aged 10)

Professor Goddard does not know the relation between action and reaction and the need to have something better than a vacuum against which to react. He seems to lack the basic knowledge ladled out daily in high schools. (New York Times about Goddard's revolutionary rocket work, 1921)

Stanley Matthews lacks the big match temperament. He will never hold down a regular first-team place in top class soccer. ( Unsigned football writer when Matthews made his debut at the age of 17)

Why do you necessarily have to be wrong just because a few million people think you are? (Frank Zappa)

Failed in Business, 1831. Defeated for Legislature, 1832. Sweetheart/Fiancee Died, 1835. Nervous Breakdown, 1836. Defeated in Election, 1836. Defeated for U.S. Congress, 1843. Defeated again for U.S. Congress, 1846. Defeated once again for U.S. Congress, 1848. Defeated for U.S. Senate, 1855. Defeated for U.S. Vice Presidency, 1856. Defeated again for U.S. Senate, 1858. (Abraham Lincoln, Elected President of the U.S.A., 1860)


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Who's to blame?

Jimmy only went outside to take a walk. And when he saw his buddies, stopped to play some ball. Nobody heard the shot ring out 'til they saw him fall. Jimmy was gone. And everybody shakes their heads when the story's told. Jimmy was ten years old. Tell me how can we stop the slaughter? How can we stop the pain? How can we call this order? Oh it's a shame. What a shame. How can we stop the slaugher? How can we stop the pain? It could be your son or daughter. Then who's to blame?

A screaming siren split the calm of a summer night. The crowd was pressing in with eyes that were filled with fright. What can a population do to make this thing right? Haven't we tried? NR association claims that it's still our right. Oh what a noble fight! Tell me how can we stop the slaughter? How can we stop the pain? How can we call this order? Oh it's a shame. What a shame. How can we stop the slaugher? How can we stop the pain? It could be your son or daughter. Then who's to blame?

Hear the roar of the gunning motor. Hear the squeal of the spinning tires. See them running through city streets. Ready, aim and fire. Have you ever felt like the victim? When the culprit has all the rights? See them running through city streets. Ready, aim and fire.

So here we sit in comfort and indifference. If the situation gets no better put up a fence. The problem isn't getting smaller, it's grown immense. What can I do? I could save my pennies, buy a magnum; protect my self. Safety for all my wealth. Tell me how can we stop the slaughter? How can we stop the pain? How can we call this order? Oh it's a shame. What a shame. How can we stop the slaugher? How can we stop the pain? It could be your son or daughter. Then who's to blame?

©1993 Raymond M. Jozwiak



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Beatles, Schmeatles. . .

. . . maybe it didn't really last that long, my career as a Beatle, but it was a potent experience. And thanks to my Mothers' Day debut, I got a taste of public performance, the energy shared between performer and audience, and I certainly did like it. Although the Beatles' influence upon me had subsided by this time, they were undoubtedly a profound influence; a lingering presence in or on our culture and myself as well and though I was not by any means an obsessive fan, I was always an appreciator of the music of the Beatles. Little did I realize at the time, their music-like all the music that I absorbed over the years, influences and informs the music that I make today in some form or fashion.

Around this time my record collecting appetite grew as did my curiosity about and pleasure in the music all around me. Soon added to my collection (and some borrowed from my sister) were records by Herman's Hermits, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, The Dave Clark Five, The Turtles, Paul Revere and the Raiders, The Animals, Tommy James and the Shondells and more. And added to that, one Christmas I was to receive one of the most treasured gifts of my childhood, that technological miracle that could connect a young boy to the great big world outside, that marvel of marvels. . . the transistor radio.

My little musical world was instantly widened and the musical menu available to me embellished beyond belief. In those days, there were many 'Top 40' radio stations which in truth (much like pop stations today) played a surprisingly small selection of songs over and over and over and over and. . . well, you get the idea. But to me, to possess this little box of my very own, that travelled easily with me, over which no one else could exert their control (broadcasting had not become concerned with 'parental contol/guidance' concepts yet) which provided me with endless (as long as I provided battery power) music, was nearly nirvana.



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John, Paul, George, Ringo. . .

. . . and Ray. Well OK. I didn't LITERALLY become one of the Beatles. But I did learn to imitate, to some childish/childlike extent, a Beatles performance of I Want To Hold Your Hand and She Loves You. I used to sing them to the bus driver on the way to school and to any and ALL of my relatives- most of whom were a more than receptive audience.

This Beatles 'experience' led me to my first public performance. My Mother's sister was a member of the 'Ladies Organization' at her church and one of their activities was an annual Mothers' Day breakfast and showcase. The affair was held in the church hall and consisted of a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, hash browns, fruits and cakes followed a program of Polish folk dancers, an occasional crooner and some 'talented' children or possibly a novelty act. I was recruited to be the youngest member of the Beatles, this incarnation comprised of some older boys, offspring of other of the 'Holy Family' membership, all of whom I had never met.

We all wore wigs, made cleverly and skillfully of black construction paper, picture THAT, if you will. The Beatles record was played, and we all sang along. No Nilly Vanilly lip-synching stuff for us NO SIR! And I even played my little, plywood, Toy Barn acoustic guitar, which I incidentally didn't even really know how to play. I only knew the 'moves'.

But, fortunately for this group of wayward impersonators, the 'moves' were indeed what counted, because as fate would have it, we were A HIT! Of course not for our musical abilities, though. We were a hit because we were the children of members and relations to members of the ladies sodality at the church. But that didn't matter to us. As a matter of fact, I don't believe I ever even saw those other Beatles again, and if I did, it was never again in a Beatles capacity to be sure. Nor do I know whether or not any of them pursued solo careers (certainly none achieved individual success to the extent that McCartney did) but a lasting impression was made upon me.


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Southward bound. . .

. . . a latte grande on the sea between my legs. All around I see the saints. I see the dregs and the byproducts of civilzation enter, exit from stage left; stage right. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.

Through the town, sometimes with baggage some without, making a livlihood. Up or down, any direction that you choose. And among the fast foods, strip malls and traffic, there's that name again as plain as day. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.

Harry was certainly rich. But it only was money. Very few liked him that much. Now it seems kind of funny.

Just the sound of his name, spoken with respect and reverence that's owed to him, brings to mind beneficence without a peer. And it warms the heart to think of the thousands Harry helped, but not while he was here. Then, another monument to the elusive and mysterious Honolulu Harry, the richest man I know. Honolulu Harry, the richest man in this life or the next.



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