My Car
Not exactly "golf-ball-sized" hail
The Sunday edition of The Miami Herald has a feature article on the Florida Rocks Again! podcast, by Jordan Levin, who wrote that great piece about the Overtown soul scene a while back.



I loved it. Made me cry, damn it.
I even loved the Cat Stevens soundtrack, and I stopped listening to Cat Stevens sometime around 1977, when I turned my back on singer-songwriters in favor of punkish and/or laddish sounds. Seeing the film makes me want to put together my own version of a soundtrack album, as one was never released (most of the songs can be found on Tea for the Tillerman and Mona Bone Jakon, or whatever the hell that record was called).
So, if you've never seen the film, I urge you to do so. If you have, then you might want to check out the original screenplay and Colin Higgins's novelization thereof.
Also, when I did a search to find out whether or not that was Tom Skerrit playing the motorcycle cop (it was, under the pseudonym M. Borman), I came across Whitney Matheson's "Pop Candy" piece about the film from a few years back.
"Harold, everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves. You just can't let the world judge you too much."
In real life, however, the boss tends to fire you before you've had the chance to quit.
I was once fired onstage, at the Hangar in Hadley, Massachusetts. Summer of '82. The band was called Nietszche and a Horse. It was at a point in my musical development when my skills were rudimentary at best (they're slightly worse these days), and I was sitting in with them on keyboards at a gig I'd helped set up. The weather was bad and the club was near empty as the band kicked off a substandard set. I remember playing some ill-advised, atonal harpsichord leads on "Under My Thumb." When the song was over, the band's lead singer, Ian, turned to me and said, "Mike, get off."
In late '95, I got fired from my long-running, well-paying gig booking bands at the Bay State Hotel in Northampton, Mass. a few weeks after getting married to my first wife. Some people speculated that the bar owner, who was quite the closet case, figured that since I was now a married man, he could never have me, so he shitcanned me. Actually, the last straw was a Tuesday night show by Godhead Silo that was unbelievably LOUD while at the same time barely attended. The owner, who lived on the second floor, directly above the stage, had passed out early in the evening after something like three dozen Budweisers. But the unholy racket produced by the band, and their equally volume-loving support act, roused him from blottohood and he was not happy about it. Not happy at all.
Of course, I'm not trying to come off like Charles Bukowski in Factotum, or Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces. It's not like I haven't held good jobs for lengthy periods of time. I have over 20 years experience in broadcasting, and almost as many years experience as a freelance writer/editor. My old record label was in business for over twelve years, and my production company has now
existed for almost as long. What I'm trying to say is that now, especially since I've become a family man, I'm less inclined to bounce from job to job. What happened on Monday, losing two jobs in a half an hour, was a freakish deja vu. It happened, and it had to happen.
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