Nothing To See Here: “Massachusetts After Midnight”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Many of us here in the mortal realm like to celebrate birth anniversaries with festive parties, or counting up cheerful greetings and good wishes, like candles aflame on a cake. But for this writer, in recent times, that special day of my calendar year has been less notable and more fraught with the cares and woes of simply continuing to be alive. A condition eminently preferable to having expired too soon, yet burdensome when considered from the end.

 

In the current hour, I had been pondering that a virtual mentor and broadcasting hero, Terry DuFoe, left us after a long battle with numerous health conditions. He passed on the third day of this month, and would have reached his own mile marker one week later. Thus, on that occasion, his daughter offered a celebration of life over the internet airwaves. With the opening of his gifts via YouTube, afterward.

 

On September 11^th, no more than 24 hours later, a somber mood took hold when remembering the tragic and shocking events that occurred in 2001. That alone would have been enough to still my heartbeat in reflection, and give me a reason to seek the comfort of an alcoholic beverage. But as I sat on my front porch, a place of refuge from demons and depression, a message appeared on my cell phone. One that indicated my friend David, who once shared hosting duties with me while on-the-air at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, had passed away in the afternoon.

 

I was of course, not surprised, as he had been institutionalized for a long while, somewhere around New York City. Yet the moment still struck with stunning force. Because I knew that from now until eternity, my own journey had been upended.

 

It would never, ever, be the same again.

 

I met my collector friend late in the year of 1978. Because the brood of which I was a member had relocated from Pittsburgh and the Three Rivers, to the Finger Lakes Region, my internal compass was off kilter. I sought some sort of purpose in being awake and aware of myself. This yearning to be useful led me to accept an apprenticeship at the local cable outlet, where I could learn about television production. An opportunity provided through Cornell University.

 

It is a story often repeated here, because of what it meant in personal terms.

 

 

David was given my phone number by the fellow in charge of Channel 13, someone in that position because of a Pell Grant from the government. When he first dialed that exchange, we did not know each other. And it took a minute or two before I realized that we had little, if anything, in common. He had grown up in a setting of higher education, and library skills inherited from his mother. He had a natural ability to organize and archive resources. His views and opinions had been colored by that fast-paced, progressive environment. He was not shy about expressing himself, especially to someone younger and unfamiliar, like myself.

 

As a native of Columbus, Ohio, I was barely 17 years old and had grown up in a traditional, Midwestern family. My outlook did not have the hard edge of someone more educated and experienced. Though artistically, I was eager to learn and develop. My perceptions were tender and raw. But I had a strong affinity for music, which had come from both sides of the family.

 

And that was the connection. We chattered away for two hours at least.

 

When I began to host a local show, dedicated to Punk and New Wave sounds, David was there as my wingman. While I offered noise and energy, he had a genuine understanding of how popular music was evolving. His knowledge kept me from stumbling into a vacuum of irrelevance. Together, we made a memorable duo. One that seemed to work in front of the cameras, and also, behind the scenes.

 

When I was privileged to visit his home residence, the true scope of what he had amassed came into focus. There were shelves of vinyl records everywhere. Along with posters procured from stores around the city, related magazines and books, and closets full of concert T-shirts. He reminisced about having seen Jimi Hendrix twice, as a young fan. His trove of keepsakes included rarities of all sorts, autographed items, and even bootlegged material.

 

In those olden days, I did not own a car. But this new contact had a Japanese wagon, a Datsun model which already carried many clicks on its dashboard indicator. He did not hesitate to drive hundreds of miles to see shows. Or even to escape the ennui of working at a regular job, when not playing his role at the TV studio. I spent many evenings eating pizza at Napoli’s, our favorite hangout in the city. One favored by students and drifters, and their countercultural conspirators.

 

My creative chum liked to spend long hours at the wheel of his Oriental rig, overnight, with an onboard cassette deck blaring tunes in rapid succession. He edited tapes so that there were no gaps in between tracks. I never had a chance to catch my breath while listening. This meant I would return home as the sun was about to rise, feeling groggy and fatigued. I could never understand how he was able to shake off the effects of such travel, before going to the county library for regular duties, during his workday.

 

One of these impulsive adventures began with a ration of fast food and refreshments, before setting out to witness the stars twinkling overhead, and hearing a new offering by the Gang Of Four, an English group that was breaking new ground in the tonal realm left from Punk experimentation. As I watched our surroundings blur into a haze of electric lights and fleeting shadows, my ears were teased with a kind of poetic imagery that was vital and new.

 

“Woke up this morning, desperation AM

What I’ve been saying, won’t say them again

My head’s not empty, it’s full with my brain

The thoughts I’m thinking, like piss down a drain...

 

And I feel like a beetle on its back

And there’s no way for me to get up

Love’ll get you like a case of anthrax

And that’s something I don’t want to catch”

 

I had gotten lost in screeching waves of feedback, and jangling bursts of guitar. Then, the sight of a Massachusetts road sign appeared from a stream of headlight brilliance. I gasped slightly, and burped hops and grains from earlier in the evening.

 

David was enchanted by the accomplishment he had just logged.

 

“We did it, Rod! We did it! All the way to the land of those dirty Red Sox, and Jonathan Richman!”

 

We were still many miles from Boston, of course. Yet I guessed that we had somehow driven for about three-and-a-half hours from our point of origin. I had been only semi-conscious in my seat, so this revelation filled me with disbelief. I wanted to be at home, in my bed. Still, I guessed that the trip would be entertaining to share, once we returned home.

 

This memory was the first of many to reappear, upon hearing that my counterpart from Tompkins County had slipped into eternity, and a restful slumber, free of pain. I had to wipe tears from my eyes, as they stung with sweat and charcoal smoke.

 

Those distinctive GOF bass lines continued to echo, reconstituted in my gray matter, even after I had stopped drinking. I would need a lengthy pause to recover from what had transpired, in the modern era. But until then, on the cusp of 64, the glow of that yonder night would suffice.

 

Godspeed, David. Say hello to all the stars in Rock & Roll heaven.