Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 14: “Overload”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Hearing from Kookshow Baby had been a surprise. Yet the news she conveyed threw me off balance. I could not conceive of Cult Radio A-Go-Go being left without its founder at the helm. Though by example, Terry DuFoe had provided a durable template for the media cooperative that I suspected would endure and thrive, into the future. This faith in the inevitable cycle of life was something I expected to depend upon for decades to come. But instead, it lasted approximately one week.

 

Then, my co-host from days at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, passed away after a long illness.

 

I first met David in 1978. He was known for working at the Tompkins County Library, and also for being connected with ‘The Guru’ who was our coordinator at the station. Upon being introduced, we had a long conversation about music. A subject that both of us held as most important in our lives. In the days, weeks, and months that followed, I came to realize that we were two strong individuals with wholly dissimilar backgrounds. Likely to have never been friends, if not for our shared love of tonalities and rhythms. This lone interest brought us together. On the air, we were a lively team, corralling a crew of correspondents and instigators that kept each episode vital and interesting. But in everyday life, our cooperation yielded a kinship of brotherhood.

 

We stayed in touch long after I returned home to Ohio, in 1983.

 

Both of us went through a succession of career woes, marriages and divorces, and the hardship of aging. Because he was older, his challenges seemed to appear more quickly. Yet his pure affinity for concerts and record collecting never waned. He battled diabetes for at least 30 years. And still never surrendered the passion for lyrical artistry, as a result. Instead, the difficulty of getting around seemed to sharpen his focus.

 

He and my radio mentor in California had graduated from the mortal plane, a mere eight days apart.

 

Briefly, my wordsmithing jones was nullified by these twin developments. I couldn’t do much of anything expect drink. So, I spent long hours on my front porch, staring into space while a rotation of Punk and 60s Garage tunes streamed wirelessly, via Spotify. These sessions sometimes lasted until long after sunset. I would swat mosquitos and belch, crush empty cans, and rock in place, on my wooden bench. Finally, I received word that a former neighbor, someone who was cantankerous, loud, and often obnoxious when living at the back end of my street, had died unexpectedly. That jolt broke my static mood. I had heard many times that such events generally come in threes, in a triple-strike of fate and consequences.

 

That was the last bowling pin to fall. Now, my emotional overload had dissipated, at last.

 

I tried to call my pigtailed counterpart on the west coast, but predictably, she did not answer. I guessed that her own routine had been exploded, and would perhaps, never return to a lasting state of rest. She would be busier by far than ever before. With cats and guests, online networks, and household chores, and her own, vintage doublewide abode, all on the property of their abandoned drive-in theater. I did not envy her predicament. Though there was a tingle of affection in my heart for the idea of rejoining her for more movie watching and country-fried cuisine. A fantasy that lingered, despite being situationally improbable and generally impossible.

 

My brother, sister, and close companion, Janis, had all landed at skilled-care facilities around our area. My brother-in-law had senile dementia. I was functionally disabled, and hobbled by a lack of mobility. These factors meant that in a sense, I was rooted to my spot. Yet able when at my desk, to imagine, and write freely.

 

To stay safe from the gloom of mortal finality, I wrote a tribute for David, which was posted online. In particular, I recalled an after-hours jaunt to the border with Massachusetts, from our home base at that time, in the Finger Lakes Region.

 

A group from the United Kingdom, called Gang Of Four, still echoed in memory. Their use of feedback and aural bombast, over a pounding bassline, provided a proper soundtrack. Both on the road many years ago, and now, as I reflected on the death of my eccentric pal.

 

“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 was grateful to have my mental block lifted, at last.

 

Questions of all sorts persisted in the days thereafter. What sort of funeral arrangements had been made for my chum, if any? What would become of his collection, which was considerable, and massive in scope? Who would honor his legacy, beside the few of us who had remained vigilant in our friendship? Ultimately, what would keep his trove of knowledge and experiences from vanishing, forever?

 

I had already faced such ponderous queries when our mutual bandmate and advocate, Paul Race, had passed away in 2014. And when my own father did the same, in 2018. Both had amassed huge libraries, and been dependable for wise words, when needed. A vacuum that could not be filled existed in their wake.

 

By comparison, my own limited talents and resources were not so impressive. But I took their stories as examples of how I should proceed, in reverse. I needed to do better. Though in the moment, I felt arguably weak and overwhelmed.

 

Salvation came in the form of an opportunity to send out more books from the household stash. With late-night TV rattling corporate cages from coast-to-coast, and in Washington, I was inspired to offer some of my fictional, trailer-park volumes as a sign of comedic valor. I reckoned that satire remained a valuable tool. One not yet taken away by any government edict or societal norm.

 

I visited a favorite postal depot in Rock Creek, a few miles from my rural home. One with ground-level access that comported well with my failed hip and knees. The clerk there was familiar, and cheerful upon seeing my shaggy, slumped-over profile in her doorway. I reckoned she must have been assigned to the small outpost from Cleveland, or another more metropolitan area. Though it did not matter. I always enjoyed seeing her on duty.

 

“Y’all sendin’ out more books, boy? Good fo’ you! Dang, all these packages goin’ here, there, and everywhere! Ya must be busy in that office of yers! But that’s a good thing, right? Keep them fingers movin’ and yo’ eyes on the prize!”