Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 8: Contract

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

The offices of Bowery Beat Records in New York City was a busy place, even against the backdrop of a metropolitan area known all over the world. Their focus on new-age entertainment used a business model that was thoroughly modern and timely. No one involved in the operation had any illusions about tackling the dominance of dinosaur companies and their huge, legacy catalogs. Yet by providing access to streaming services, one-off releases, and sharp promoters of live events, nationwide, they were a factor of consequence in the marketplace. Indie artists flocked to their label with the sort of ingenuity and eagerness that had long ago disappeared from the rosters of competitors. In addition, they scouted talent wisely. At isolated venues in every state, where rhythms of social upheaval and creative zeal were strong. Where audiences received the joyful exuberance of yonder days, in prodigious quantities. And where unique noises and protestations could be heard that shattered stale paradigms of art and public behavior.

 

Seely Frye was the mastermind of this work-in-progress. But she considered herself to be more of a guide than a leader. A library scholar, channeling work already brimming with value and importance.

 

I had been awake for about an hour, when she dropped an invitation at my Messenger account. Something that made me remember her previous attempt at making contact. A full pot of coffee had barely affected the gloomy grayness inside my head. So, as I read her virtual note, over and again, a sense of disbelief took hold. The thought that someone, somewhere, would watch one of my homemade YouTube videos, and be moved enough to reach out with a proposed contractual agreement, seemed quite ridiculous. Yet she included a number where I could reach her, for further discussion.

 

I bristled at the confident tone of this bold gesture. Most likely, a sales pitch from the dirty underbelly of hucksters and hawkers who liked to troll naïve troubadours and their bandmates. But when checking with my long-time associate Yarl Trite, in the Finger Lakes, I received confirmation that BBR was indeed, a legitimate enterprise.

 

My pal was a record collector, and veteran of hundreds, even thousands, of Rock, Jazz, and Reggae performances. A fellow who had figured out the trick to enjoying physical longevity, while maintaining a fresh attitude toward being alive.

 

He left a quick response after I had called, and missed making contact.

 

“Hey Rod, I got your voicemail. Bowery Beat is real, I have some of their releases. Like a CD box set from Salamander Sacrament, they’ve got a big following in Maryland, I’ve heard. Or Atomic Gelatin, that bunch broke up after playing at CBGB in the 70s, and reformed about five or six times afterward. They actually have a few titles on 8-track tape, believe it or not. Maybe intended as a spoof on Record Store Day, I don’t know. But I thought it was hilarious. Worth checking out, if you’re still into that kind of stuff. Now, who called you from their headquarters? A woman named Frye? I think she’s a distant cousin to Martin Fry who was in the group ABC, but her branch of their fam dropped the letter e, for whatever reason. Trust me though, they’re legit. Shit buddy, I don’t figure you get ten hits on your video channel from anybody in Ohio. You’re practically anonymous out there. Let her talk! Give the lady a listen, what can you lose? It can’t be much fun sitting in that singlewide trailer!”

 

My face reddened a bit upon hearing his jab about my home residence. But what he observed made good sense. So, as the morning brightened with more caffeine and a break in the clouds overhead, I reached for my cellular device.

 

The line rang several times, before being picked up by an automated answering service. When I punched in a client number to their personnel exchange, I got another series of tones. Then, a soft, buttery voice filled my ear. I could nearly catch the tickle of her breath with each spoken word.

 

“This is Ms. Seely! How may I help you today?”

 

I have always been awkward in social situations, particularly when making a cold call. My mouth had turned salty and dry. I actually wished for a brew from my refrigerator.

 

“I umm, am responding to a message you left here. This is Rodman Swindle, I live in a county near Cleveland, south of Lake Erie...”

 

I heard a squeak of recognition. Followed by a deep breath and a tapping of nails on a desktop.

 

“SWINDLE! IS THAT YOUR REAL NAME? FOR FUCK’S SAKE, TELL ME IT’S NOT A MADE-UP PRANK!”

 

I sighed heavily. My lips tasted like sand and dust.

 

“Yeah, that’s a genuine handle there... not a joke. I got teased quite a bit in grade school!”

 

Frye sharpened her tone as if concentrating on a job list for the day.

 

“I’ve been trying to find you for a few weeks. I must say that your footprint on social media is very limited. That made my staff surmise that you weren’t a young songwriter, to be blunt. Those kids are more savvy about the trade. They know a lot, right from the get-go. Their promotional strategies are really very interesting!”

 

I wasn’t sure if her comment was intended as an insult, or a compliment.

 

“Well, yes... I’m in my 60s, if that means anything.”

 

The record maven laughed and whistled before continuing her hustle.

 

“Okay, I can appreciate that, Rod. With such things in mind, let me get right down to business. My label makes its bones from innovation. We operate differently than the ancients. Our promotions, our concerts, our product line, everything is based on artistry. It’s a matter of mining a groove, do you understand? That might be doing pop-up shows on a street corner, or grabbing photo-ops where they are least expected, or even collaborating with inspired vandaleros and their spray-paint canvases, wherever they might be...”

 

I had become lost in her terminology.

 

“Vandaleros? Who? What?”

 

Frye was amused by my cluelessness. She snorted and rustled paperwork on her desk.

 

“They are urban activists. Performance artists, of an aggressive and energetic sort. I think we need to have a real meeting, Rod. How long would it take you to get here... to New York City?”

 

My stomach had begun to ache. What I really wanted was a cold beer, and a quiet interlude on my front porch, alone. Yet now, that seemed unlikely to transpire.

Nobody Reads This Page – "Grandma’s Example"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, of any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others. On your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death – even death on a cross!” Philippians 2:1-8 (NIV)

 

I have often written about the example provided by my maternal grandmother, who lived with us at different periods in her life, after becoming a widow. Her presence in our household had a great influence on my own path, both in terms of intellectual and spiritual development, but also as a fledgling writer. She was a rural entrepreneur and a family matron, yet incredibly humble in every way. Her selfless approach to living inspired me as a child, and has remained meaningful, ever after. Her sense of rhythm and cadence in poetic verse sparked an interest in following that lead into creative work of my own. I owe her a debt that can only be repaid by staying active, with my pen.

 

That journey continues, even today.

 

Recently however, I pondered that the baseline she set for us was now being reflected in one of my siblings, instead of wordsmithing charted in ink. During a quiet celebration for my sister and brother-in-law, upon the 40^th anniversary of their wedding day, I lingered in a murky sense of irony and detachment. She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, which her oncologist said was on the march throughout her body. And her husband was lost in the twilight of senile dementia. An affliction we had already seen overtake my late mother. These challenges muted our joy with a sense that reality is often a cruel taskmaster.

 

My kindred counterpart was no longer the robust, cheerful figure that I had come to take for granted, over the years. Her stance was stooped, and her gait was slow and ponderous. She looked oddly frail and weathered, gaunt in the face, but with limbs swollen for some reason. I could detect that participating in our minimalist gathering was a chore she endured out of loyalty. A moment of togetherness much needed for all of the brood, but one that left her feeling fatigued.

 

Yet as I sat sharing conversations across the room, in a round-robin exchange of news and notes, and polite nonsense, my kindred opposite reached beside her lift chair, for a package. It appeared to be from an online vendor such as Amazon, Walmart, or another purveyor of various goods. She ripped open the bag with some effort, rummaged through the resulting mess, and produced a bottled condiment which carried the image of a character from a Canadian television program. One that I followed as a fan.

 

“Coney Island Saucery Presents – Trailer Park Boys, Ricky’s Smokes Let’s Go Hot Sauce. A smoke forward hot sauce featuring infused hemp hearts, bright middle tones, and a warm lasting scotch bonnet heat.”

 

Before my career as a salaried, retail manager had ended, I often thought that actor Robb Wells and I looked enough alike that we might have been distant cousins. Though my modern appearance had evolved into something more akin to what most people would associate with dwelling in a cave.

 

I was caught by surprise when receiving this small gesture. Because of course, it was her day to shine, not my own. And also, because of the dark undertones that permeated our pizza fest. The moment still glowed with importance and cheer. Yet a cold crispness hung in the air. A realization that mortality would visit our genetic group, just as it has done since the beginning of time itself. On a schedule set by circumstance, rather than logic or reason.

 

I was moved to reflect on the lessons of Grandma McCray, and how losing her when I was only a youthful spud of eleven years, seemed indefensible and wrong. Now, my grandnephew was predestined to suffer a similar indignity. One charted by fate or perhaps, the celestial omnipotence of a higher being. For some in our bunch, there was cause to wonder about the goodness of that supreme force, and how such events were arranged in the cosmic timeline. But for my closest relative, in terms of chronology, no doubt over Bible truths had been aroused. She remained steadfast in her faith. Wholly grounded in the belief that love is eternal, because it is a reflection of the gift given by our creator, in terms of salvation and an eternal reward.

 

Just as in the familiar, scriptural story of crucifixion and finality, my sister had mustered a sort of courage that made her bedrock philosophy even stronger than before. One of sacrifice and service. Of truly placing the well-being of her husband, siblings, children, grandchild, neighbors, fellow parishioners, and associates, above herself. Even at a time when many would speculate that a gray mood of self-interest might be warranted. Perhaps, even desirable as a sort of defense mechanism when witnessing the prospective end of days, approaching.

 

I had been somewhat overwhelmed with our emotional interaction, particularly because of my own bent toward staying isolated, and busy at the desk. So, I did not properly react at first to the bottle of pepper extract. I placed it in a pocket door of my refrigerator. Possibly with the notion of sampling it on tacos or fried potatoes, or some random, home-cooked feast.

 

But then, weeks later, I woke at an early hour before sunrise, with the meaning clear and present in my head. This venerable, queen fowl of our gaggle had thought of me instead of herself, even at a moment so dire and deeply distressing. The expression I felt was one of kinship, and kindness. As stated in those hallowed pages of yore, ‘becoming obedient... to death.’ But with an unflagging zest for living, and for sharing the familial bond that had always made our connection so meaningful, and enduring. My beloved sister, now a grandmother in her own right, had manifested the same love I saw as a wide-eyed kid, in central Virginia. It represented an achievement worthy of praise.

 

It gave me assurance that somewhere beyond the golden gates of eternity, Lulu McCray would be proud, and pleased.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 7: Connection

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Like much of the atmosphere in our junkyard oasis at Evergreen Estates, I attributed the zig-zag course of my humble existence to isolation and beverage alcohol. Having a regular schedule imposed by gainful employment had kept me on track. A beneficial part of working to earn a regular paycheck, away from my personal domain. Yet with that routine scuttled by forced retirement and disability, suddenly, I found myself cast adrift.

 

At the Swindle Shack, in modern times, clocks and calendars had little meaning.

 

Even the images that passed through my head during hours of restful slumber had become fractured by this new paradigm. I dreamed in fragments, rather than full chapters. Often without a literal timeline to bind these visions together. Personalities and settings were subject to change at a pace of frantic revelation. I would wander through cascades of color against a backdrop of light or pervasive darkness, sometimes lost and seeking direction. On other occasions I was combative, flailing at ghosts and demons without purpose. With each jog in the mindstream making me dizzy.

 

Kookshow Baby would appear as I slept, now and then, to chide me for lapsing into willful loneliness. Her witty asides burned my ears with a torrid sting of truth. She would stroke her long pigtails, and pout with puffy, red lips, offering a kiss of defiance.

 

“Y’all say it’s a bummer bein’ stuck in Ohio by yerself, boy? But who went home when he coulda stayed in Cali? Who passed on workin’ with Terry and Tiffany DuFoe, at the abandoned drive-in, and Cult Radio A-Go-Go? Who turned cold, when a strong, young woman like myself was ready to let ya into her doublewide world? It was yer call, buddy! Don’t moan and groan about it, now! That trucker pal of yers knew the way home, he didn’t need anybody to ride shotgun! Y’all did this thing to yerself!”

 

After being confronted through such hallucinatory episodes, I would wake up sweating and out of breath. Often sitting on the edge of my bed for a half hour before gathering the courage to roll over, and go back to sleep.

 

The result was an artistic point of view unlike my earlier work. I embraced themes rarely touched upon, before.

 

Urban Intelligencer

 

Cigarettes traded, first

Then bombshell bits and butcher knives

The urban intelligencer said

“How am I gonna stay alive?”

He carried a baseball bat

Across the spare tire in his car trunk

He figured breaking glass and bones

Would show he was done being a chump

The first swing made him a star

Nobody ever tried to push him so far

 

He came out of Cleveland

Right down by the lakeshore

Grew up getting robbed at daylight

Until his calluses couldn’t feel sore

He was numb and stooped

Lived in that vehicle, or a camping tent

His wild eyes were hot and bright

He sat drinking rotgut, at 99 cents

After years of that mental abuse

He was less human, and more fermented juice

 

He needed a change, quick

From this solemn, sad, state of affairs

Went out to a rural encampment

But that kind of world wasn’t his lair

Ended up at a trailer park

Miles from where good people gleam

Stuck in a longbox on wheels

Just another bland, human sardine

It made him bitter enough

But he had felt that street vibe, protecting his stuff

 

A neighbor with lots to say

Started giving him her opinions

He bared his teeth like a badger, crazed

The bitch went running in another direction

Soon enough, he had no friends

No one dared to get close

But even from a distance there was a smell

Of sweat and bourbon from his clothes

He didn’t crave companionship at all

Spent his days staring at the trailer walls

 

Eventually that baseball bat

Found its way into his hands

He sat out by the front porch, waiting

For any fool with a wish to be slammed

Eyes peeled of their onion skins

Ready to look deep into the dark

He was the odd man out

At the mobile village park

Many rumors started to swirl

They figured he was lonely without a steady girl

 

Then came a day of reckoning

He woke up from an outside nap

Started cursing and spitting

And tugging at his trucker cap

The commotion carried far

They could hear it up and down the street

He belched and crushed cans all day

Sat there kicking and stomping his feet

He was armed with his post of shaved wood

Shouted, “I wish a motherfucker would!”

 

Then a bullet from next door let fly

Some domestic dispute got out of hand

A sheriff’s deputy had to quell

A fight between a woman and a man

Both of them were quarreling

In a way that threatened the public peace

Gunfire shattered the Walmart radio

The Country tunes rudely ceased

That urban immigrant was felled

Went face-down, right where he dwelled

 

Nobody knew him well enough

To fill out a burial claim

His body stayed abandoned with the county

No request filed, for his remains

All around those clustered lots

There was a shared sigh of relief

The whole neighborhood was glad

To be rid of their boorish, drunken beast

A cranky, crabby malcontent

Off to eternity, the poor bastard gent

 

With a matter of months, elapsed

The mobile box got a new resident

Some other hopeless, hapless rube

Living on a slab of cement

Stuck inside a single-wide

Like letters in a postal slot

Coughing phlegm and Marlboro reds

Shooting Bud Light, and sniffling snot

That was a better match, by far

Than the old dude who had been living in his car

 

No tears were cried as an afterthought

The memory was forgotten

Nobody gave a shit about

What a work of fate had begotten

Gossip said that the urban man

Had been planted in an unmarked grave

Up the hill at a township field

Where veterans and grandparents were laid

It was all for the best

Like cracked eggshells, left in an empty nest

 

On a Monday morning, while checking e-mail accounts, I noted a message sent via the LinkedIn website. A spot on the internet long forgotten as my regular career ended abruptly, years earlier. A recruiter named Seely Joan Frye had posted a comment on my page, under a link to YouTube content. Her response was breathy and effusive.

 

“Rod, are you still active as a songwriter and performer? I am with a record label in New York City, and we are looking for new talent. Our business model is timely, we focus on submitting product to streaming services and online radio outlets. The dinosaurs hawk legacy material, while we want to mine for gold as yet untapped. If you have any interest, please contact me immediately! I promise that you won’t be disappointed!”

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 6: Hard

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Creating song lyrics evoked the sort of individualistic vibe that comprised a response to years of struggle during the 1990’s. At that distant point in time, I was married, raising a son with my first wife, and working long hours in a retail shop. Eventually, after a change of ownership, I had ended up on third shift, permanently. The toll it took on my personal life was considerable. But most vexing of all was the constant fatigue of going without regular sleep. Days off vanished into collapse.  I became alienated from friends and family members. When on duty with my employer, there was a constant badgering from management at all levels. So, when I did find a moment to put a pen to paper, what flowed onto the page was often stark and strikingly authentic. Tough prose, offered as if being dispensed from a knife’s edge.

 

Revisiting such memories from a modern perspective, I reflected on surviving that period, and finding relief in the grace of a loving creator. What came from the ether was more of a poetry-slam product, than purely musical. Yet the yield was still worthwhile.

 

Hard Times

 

Hard times, a bitter pill

Like weary Sisyphus, rolling his rock up a hill

I find myself bored with kicks and thrills

The last gasp of a waning day

Comes as I watch the sun fade to gray

I know that the poet has no reason to stay

At the edge of darkness, I find

The words of Dusty Rhodes come to mind

“Remember hard times!”

 

At the dawn of tomorrow anew

I stand there with mud on my shoes

Confident over cashing in gold doubloons

The reward of this faithful exchange

Is little better than a handful of grain

But preferable by far, to doubt and disdain

Here’s a detective’s uncovered clue

Words from Bob Dylan still ring true

“When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose!”

 

Now this observation might seem suspect

It would be easy to debate what I project

To behold this gold nugget like a flittering flyspeck

But past the limit of a roadblock gate

There’s a better path to another twist of fate

A crooked creek dug into sandstone and slate

When I read words on a cereal box

I remember that Hunter said he knew the school of hard knocks

“Trust in God, but row away from the rocks!”

 

Hard times, never far from the possible

They linger long enough to turn silver dull

And make dents in the Titanic’s hull

I want to run away but that choice was spent

Fretting over the worth of a lonely, red cent

Now I’m homed in a big box, sat on the cement

It’s time to fold the cards, you must see

In the words of a bard from antiquity

“Speak hands, speak hands for me!”

 

I take no pleasure in retelling the tale

Of being born in the belly of a whale

Yet that origin gave me strength to prevail

I swam across a metaphorical divide

Left in place by a creator on the downside

Pure and postured like an amusement park ride

I remember that a Rolling Stone proclaimed

Mick Jagger was his name

“I was ‘round when Jesus knew his doubt and pain!”

 

Hard times, enough of a default

Making ends meet at the corner-store vault

For a pack of smokes and a 40 of malt

It’s no walk through a garden of grace

When the cold winds whip at an uncovered face

Winter lasts forever, summer for a day

I recall James Brown keeping it free

Dispensing truth, rhythmic and funky

“We’d rather die on our feet than live on our knees!”

 

I don’t have much more to offer but that

A children’s rhyme like your Cat in the Hat

A strong aftertaste left, from Ramen and sprat

Turn back your clocks to comprehend the perks

Of celestial bodies, spinning far beyond the earth

A loose speck of dust, the key to rebirth

I heard it with my good ear, pressed to a tin cup

Churchill shook his fist at naysayers mistrust

“Never, never, never give up!”

 

This peering into the past seemed particularly timely, as water woes struck the development of mobile homes where I lived in Ohio. Inexplicably, our system had experienced a total shutdown, three times in two days. For myself, living alone, the inconvenience was slight. I had managed to do a minimal load of laundry, and a round of dishes, in between these unexpected interruptions. But for neighbors with families and typical job responsibilities, the hardship was much more pronounced. When I looked at a Facebook group dedicated to park residents, the attitudes and language displayed burned my eyes like a salty brine.

 

Threats of legal action, seeking to get local media outlets involved, or outright violence, were many. The general mood was explosive. I had to put my phone aside, after scrolling through the plethora of posts and comments.

 

On my porch outside, I found a respite from this verbal conflagration. With a cold brew in hand, I started my Weber charcoal grill. In the refrigerator were three flavors of homemade bratwurst, and some whole chicken wings. I felt confident in readying myself to cook a worthy feast that would take my mind off of our current troubles, and feed any visitors, if necessary.

 

While drinking, one of the feline strays on my street decided to visit in hope of receiving a treat. A small, shy tabby with distinctive, white paws. I had nicknamed the cat Boots Kitty, and kept appropriate vittles on hand for when he chose to skip up my access ramp. Then, after the wandering runt was done filling his belly, another click-clack of animal nails sounded from the driveway edge. This time, a neighbor’s Black Lab appeared, also in search of edible handouts. While seeking more refreshments from the kitchen, I rummaged through my cupboards for some canine delectables. Then, returned to the wooden bench.

 

The brats were an assortment of marked-down items from the meat case of my favorite grocer in Geneva. Tickled with Italian seasonings, hoagie spice, and chorizo. The last of this trio produced a particularly tempting aroma, while grilling.

 

From across the street, a fellow member of the community paused by his Dodge minivan, and gestured with a hungry expression. His appetite seemed to match those of my animal companions.

 

“You got that kettle going, eh? Good for you, man! I’ll be right over!”

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 5: Neighborhood

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Having revived my music groove, with renewed vigor, I began to think about how past projects in that vein had provided extra avenues for self-expression. My regular work in the home office was meaningful. Yet when creative moments took me into the realm of a storyteller-with-guitar, in the tradition of John Prine or Lou Reed, I received an extra measure of gratification. This detour centered me on the notion of writing lyrics about members of my own neighborhood, with candor and courage. Something similar to what I had done many years ago, in my basement studio near Lake Erie.

 

Charting the ill-fated escapades of those in my orbit had proved to be productive and rewarding.

 

I knew that despite the drawbacks of living in a community where rented lots and prefab homes were the norm, a unique vibe existed. One that could be tapped with a bit of poetic flair, and depicted in verse. Though many residents were transitory, arriving and departing randomly as financial needs and legal obligations dictated, some lived on-site for a long time. I had been an inhabitant of the junkyard oasis for more than 23 years. A span that still seemed impossible to comprehend or justify. But through that inglorious achievement, I had grown as a wordsmith.

 

In yonder days, I had been too soft for a genuine Blues experience. Too comfortable, too lazy. Too sheltered from the ugly truths of living beyond safe spaces and polite society. Now however, there was a hard edge to everything I wrote, and sang. My voice had the timbre of whiskey and cigarettes. My scribbled sonnets carried bruises and scars.

 

With Reed’s carefree approach to weaving a tapestry of allies and enemies into his compositions, I began to think about the world just outside of my front door.

 

Trailer Tales

 

“Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men 

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid”

 

Having completed this personal assignment, I felt satisfied. Recording a version with my iPhone seemed proper to do, as a next step. But instead, I turned off the light over my computer, and reclined in the roller chair. A brief interlude of nothingness followed. I closed my eyes, and faded into the ether, willingly. Soon, I was snoring loudly, with both arms draped over the sides of my seat.

 

While dreaming, I pondered sharing a snippet of what I had created in an e-mail message to Kookshow Baby. I reckoned on being ignored in the moment, though persistence would not allow me to surrender so quickly. Her absence had become familiar over the past few months since I visited the west coast. So, I expected to be brushed off like crumbs from the dinner table. Yet almost immediately, her signature address popped up in one of my online accounts. She included laughing emojis, and a pair of shrugging figures with their hands held aloft.

 

Her approach was very direct, without giving any explanation for the extended absence.

 

“Gawdamm, Rawd! Y’all got some messed-up people livin’ around ya there in Ohio! Hoo boy, it sounds a lot like my mama’s friends when I was a kid! No wonder yer head ain’t on straight! That’s what ya get fer goin’ back to that part of flyover country!”

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 4: Motivation

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

With an incentive to stay active and present in the moment, I decided to ride my creative groove, despite being in a funk over Kookshow Baby. The Old Drunken Buzzards had provided a spark of inspiration. Feeling the ferocious kind of courage that had been lacking for many years, I was ready to revisit my songwriting ambitions, once again.

 

Subject matter was easy to identify. Having lived in an isolated community of mobile homes for well over 20 years, while sliding deeper into personal hardships and alienation, I had a heightened sense of being on the social fringe. A metaphorical location that had inspired many pioneers in Blues, Folk, or Country & Western music. That mindset worked well to bring out the darkness in its full measure. Something that sharpened my lyric output, and overall approach to wordsmithing.

 

While sitting at my desk, ideas began to stream directly to the keyboard. Every verse interpreted this slow-paced, emotional descent into a hard, hellish environment. One built on a foundation of exploitation, abuse, and a lingering desire to escape. With the only true relief coming from cigarettes, marijuana, or beverage alcohol, enjoyed in mass quantities.

 

This was the world that I had inherited. Bad when viewed against a contrast of career goals and familial affinity. Yet good in the name of making art.

 

Disability Blues

 

“Sitting alone in a funk and a daze

Wondering why I decided to stay

Somebody said that there’s a fall for a fool

When you brush up on the golden rule

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Sitting silent, with my face in my hands

Trying to remember playing in a band

My guitar wasn’t primo, perhaps

But I damn sure followed Hound Dog’s roadmap

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

How does it feel when you ain’t got a friend?

Pretty much like every day since then

I never cried about the hand of fate

‘Cause it was always hard cheese on my dinner plate

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I got loved, and left in the lurch

Kicked out of Sunday School, up at the church

Went walking home with no socks or shoes

What else is a poor boy gonna do?

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

The judge said, “It’s time to repay!”

I should have bargained with the magistrate

But instead, I toughed it out and learned

Life is rough when the bridges burn

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On my knees, looking through a storm grate

Coughing up what I could not escape

The best advice I got was, “Leave it alone!”

But I ignored, the ringing of my telephone

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Broke and busted is my new address

I’m damn sure no overnight success

I heard laughter, and happened to see

The old bum they were teasing was me

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Slept in my truck for more than a day

Under a bridge back in New York State

Every morning brought a sunrise chance

But I was already dumped at the dance

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

I might have turned around this hopeless affair

Got my ass, out of the electric chair

But too late, I came to know

That there’s more to life than taking it slow

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Stood up tall, at the river’s edge

Rambling and ready for whatever came next

With a promise, a wing and a prayer

Looking down at the deep made me scared

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Don’t bother to bury my bones

It doesn’t matter that I walked these streets, alone

When the breeze blows my ashes away

You’ll have forgotten that I went astray

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

Somebody said it’s a natural fact

You get stronger, after a heart attack

I’ve survived too many to complain

They just make me glad to lessen the pain

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

A bottle neck turned up in the air

Whiskey fills my throat, and empties my cares

If I wanted to debate the details

I would have studied books, not slugs and snails

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

She looked at me like a painted rock

Said, “Boy, you must be good at picking a lock!”

It made me grin that she felt so sure

I was glad to spend a minute with her

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

On the road out of town, I went

After packing up, and folding my tent

The last thing I saw was a pillar of salt

And I knew everything was my own fault

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold

 

That’s the way it goes

When good times run cold...”

 

I was gaining momentum now, penning new lyrics almost every day. For the first time in months or years, I took out guitars from the household stash, to record demo tracks for future sharing. These included a vintage, American-made Applause roundback acoustic, and a Gibson Les Paul Special, a sleek pluckster, hued in black. Both favorite tools for composing.

 

For the moment, I gave up on trying to contact Kookshow Baby. It seemed clear that she had either been sidetracked by some avalanche of responsibilities, or simply did not wish to continue exploring a long-distance relationship. Either way, I had to accept that verdict of circumstance cheerfully, as a practical matter, or wallow in a useless pool of self-pity. Doing the latter made no sense when I had been so busy at my desk. But I logged a mental note to check in with Tiffany DuFoe more often, just to keep my place in the Cult Radio A-Go-Go community.

 

I had no time to be grumpy. There was more, meaningful work to do in the Swindle Shack!

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 3: Encouragement

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

The Old Drunken Buzzards had struck a nerve with their Facebook contest. For the first time in many years, I had music playing in my head, throughout the day. Random riffs and tunes that were floating in the ether. Yet I had no outlet for these ideas. I spent mornings at my desk in rural Ohio, tapping out lines of verse in a quest for self-awareness, and purpose. As during yonder times, while spinning vinyl relics on our Sears & Roebuck, Silvertone hi-fi, I petitioned the music gods for benevolence.

 

Members of our family had long insisted that I wasted all of my talent. But I knew better. The pilot light burning inside of me was not a flickering glow of futility. It represented a meaningful connection, sired at birth. One with heroes of old, who labored in the fields and then spoke about their joys and sorrows over strums of acoustic guitar, or vocalized harmonies. In their stead, I had crawled from the womb with foot stomps, plucked plectrum strings, and mountain magic tickling my ears. That made the difference. Otherwise, I might have followed my father’s path into preaching the gospel of Christ. Or charted a course into gainful employment at some faceless, commercial firm.

 

My failure was also a foundation for success.

 

While financial rewards were fleeting and few, I filled my notebooks with a bounty of scribbled, gold nuggets. Page after page of creative notes that I hoped might someday serve to bolster the artistic continuum.

 

Now, I had that vibe echoing in my skull, once again, thanks to the rowdy bunch in Seattle. With their video offerings in mind, I returned to my cause with gusto. What followed was a personal renaissance that I needed, badly. As before, my heart and mind lay open before the world. I was once again able to speak freely, in verse. An achievement long lost amid the cares and pitfalls of everyday living.

 

Alone

 

“Fifteen years alone

A feat most certainly unintended

Life choices gone astray

For an aging fool, rarely befriended

Stiff and slow on the move

Stooped and stumbling throughout the day

My pace matches the need

Surrounded by what has gone away

Gone away

 

A single, solitary man

Once tunefully celebrated in song

A keeper of random hours

A schedule shot from dusk to dawn

If I take my chair

And compose a sonnet, sans the sunshine

It is for the good I work

Neil Diamond’s yield is fully mine

Fully mine

 

Some view this path I take

And pity what they see in the light

But I have no sorrow over fate

I am glad to labor in the night

Cares and causes take effect

I move in silence to the next

Pages flipped with deliberate force

To keep all my woes in check

Woes in check

 

How odd it is to recall

That once I did my best to schlub

A face that shined with hope

I wanted membership in the club

Yet now the truth is seen

I do not care for that affection

I’ll gladly steal the shadows

And use those shades for my protection

My protection

 

I went a week or more

Without any contact being made

No other human soul

Pierced the bubble to invade

That brief span of liberation

Thrilled me with an empty pause

I felt as if a gift had landed

Falling from the sleigh of Santa Claus

Santa Claus

 

Sympathy would turn me weak

So with deaf ears, I beheld the protest

Of well-meaning minds

That sought to ease the loneliness

But in the hour of midnight

When a moonburned sky peeks through my glass

I give thanks for emptiness

Give thanks for getting a pass

Getting a pass

 

Ginsberg and Kerouac

Speak to me when the clock ticks down

I hear their verses echo

From closet crypts to my shantytown

If I would be so bold

To swing my quill in a deliberate act

I hope to be forgiven

For the talent that I lack

Talent that I lack

 

The embrace of self is proper

When no other heart exists

To contemplate the orbit

Of a purposed, planetary riff

A time to ponder circumstances

A time to ease myself into the naught

A time to feast upon

The guilt that a sinner wrought

Guilt that a sinner wrought

 

Maybe this task, undertaken

Means less that I might have desired

Yet the bottom line goes reeling

It Is a reason to conspire

If I might turn some heads

By going too long without quoting Voltaire

Neglect will shield those mistakes

And keep me gladly unaware

Gladly unaware

 

Kick the metaphor into shape

Lingering too long on the tongue

If effort must drive the seeker

Then I will be the prodigal son

Off schedule, and far behind

Was my tardy dance a surprise?

I’ll bow my head as a penance

And deferentially close my eyes

Close my eyes

 

Fifteen years spent alone

A feat never before celebrated

Life choices gone in smoke

For an aging fool, gangly gaited

Stiff and slow with breaths that come

Noisily, throughout the day

My pace matches the bent

Of a creator’s direction in chalk, erased

Chalk erased...”

 

Instead of sending romantic messages to Kookshow Baby, at her trailer in the DuFoe compound, I copied these impulsive bursts of imagination, and pasted them into rambling reports, shared in a spirit of kinship. I guessed that she would understand this need for self-expression. Her own journey had been one so unique and gritty, that I felt we were bonded in spirit. Many weeks passed without a reply, however. I engaged in overthinking about this absence, to the point of anguish from pondering her silence. It made me edgy and emotionally brittle. Yet this steady stream of new material continued to flow.

 

I was grateful to be metaphorically ‘back in the saddle.’ Indeed, I had never really wanted to be anywhere else. Except perhaps, at the abandoned drive-in, with my radio queen. Star-struck, in southern California.