Erin Shaw Street

Storycorps in Birmingham, Alabama: Our First-Hand Experience

 

Of my 34 years, I've spent 18 of them, half a life, interviewing people for a living. (OK, I spent more time at USC writing about moody postmodern Irish poets, but I spent plenty of time in the summers cutting my teeth as a newspaper intern, so that counts!)

But today I did one of the most, if the not most important interview of my life -- interviewing Dad for the StoryCorps Project.

For those not familiar with StoryCorps, it's a non-profit that travels the country and offers people the opportunity to quite simply tell their stories. In short, you bring a partner and ask anything of him or her in the span of 45 minutes while sitting in their tricked out Airstream (more about this in a moment). Participants are then given a CD and their stories are archived in the Library of Congress, with some of the best being played on NPR.

Their motto: "Every Voice Counts."

***

I've been a big fan of their NPR broadcasts for years, and was excited when StoryCorps announced a visit to Birmingham. So, when tickets went on sale, I was sitting by my computer, nervously hitting the refresh button to get a spot. (It's a good thing that I did, since all the spots were taken within a few minutes.)

I didn't think twice about who I would interview. My Dad is such a great storyteller, and despite the tales he's told me and shared on his blog, we'd never sit down and done a formal interview, never mind a recorded one. He seemed a little trepedatious, but I promised that I wouldn't throw him any crazy curve balls.

Preparing the list of questions was tough -- there were so many subjects I wanted to cover. Going over that list was like a flashback of our family's life, and more than a few tears welled up when I got to some of the more difficult questions.

Against the advice of some, I actually shared the list with him. I get why in general it's not good to do this (and as a journalist I rarely share). But I asked Dad if he would feel more comfortable getting a general outline and he said yes, so I respected his wishes. (It worked out well for us, but I also understand not wanting to compromise the spontaneity too -- everyone has to decided on the best strategy for theme.)

***

We arrived a few minutes early to the shiny silver Airstream parked outside the Birmingham Civil Rights Museum and were greeted with warm welcomes by a young woman who would help facilitate our discussion. The first step was filling out paperwork. (On a side note, I thought it was interesting that they listed "transgender" as a category -- right on. Not sure about the difference between "gay" and "queer" -- meant to ask aout that.)

I was getting really nervous at this point, mostly because I wanted to get the interview right -- and because I'd never interviewed my Dad before. Before we got started, asked him how he felt:

Before we knew it, our host was ushering us into the Airstream, which felt a bit like hallowed ground. The Airstream! We were lead to its studio, which takes about half of the space (the other half has a small space with a desk and seating). She closed the door and was great at explaining what would happen.

Dad and I sat face to face in a booth similar to that of a restaurant. In fact, she stressed several times to think of our talk as a conversation that would take place at a kitchen table, which is always good advice. She advised me to just use the question list as a guide and to feel free to go wherever the story took us.

We were asked to turn off our cell phones and advised that any noise, including the shuffling of papers, would be recorded. (She even took away my beloved pen cap -- they know what they are doing!) We were also given small cups in which to pour our drinking water. Shhh...

She explained that she would help us keep time by giving simple signals when we were reaching 10, 5 and one minute points. I also put my father's watch on the table to help me gauge time. And we were off ...

 

(Note: both of these images were taken afterwords.)

The conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about questions I'd prepared -- about how a boy who grew up in New York ended up in Alabama, about his time at Woodstock, about the evolution of technology and its influence on his life, and advice on how he did such a great job of raising three kids (ahem).

But we also talked about things I hadn't planned for, like the state of his religious beliefs (I seriously didn't know I would ask about this) and the time he could have gotten a full ride to Harvard (wo.)

There were many other things we shared too, which were recorded on a CD and handed to us right after we finished. Some of them are a bit private to talk about now, but we might share later. And heck, you can look it up in the LIbrary of Congress to get the real skinny.

***

Why did I think it would be so difficult to interview Dad? Maybe, in addition to admiring him so much and always wanting to make him proud, it's because I knew that long after we're gone, great-great-great Shaws and Streets could listen to the recording and learn about this great person's history -- and our family's history. That's pretty serious stuff.

At the end we were both pretty relaxed, and posed for photos that they take to go along with the recording. We listened to the CD in the car before he dropped me off, and the audio was remarkably clear.

I'm eager to hear about the experiences of others who participate in Birmingham (and elsewhere). Thankful to have been given this opportunity.

And wanting to record more stories of my family, with a reminder that sometimes the best stories are right in front of you.

 

Related Links:

WBHM 90.3

MagicCityPost: StoryCorps To Record Birmingham Stories In Birmingham

The Terminal: StoryCorps Comes To Birmingham

Al.com: Birmingham-Area Residents Tell The Tales of Their Lives

Nine years ago today: The Day The Scissor Sisters Played Their First Date With Shane

Two important things happened on this date in history:

1)The Scissor Sisters performed their first show 

2)I walked into Surin, shook hands with a stranger at the bar, and within five minutes knew that I would marry him. (If he wasn't a psycho killer.)

Shane doesn't believe the part about me knowing within five minutes, but it's true. Within a few weeks he met my parents. My Dad didn't look up from the Yankees game. "Figured he was just another one," Dad would say later.

This is the first picture we took together that night, at a Cancer Center event (and yes, we look much different today):

 

It happened.

And then this happened.

Shane and I are incredibly different. I tell stories for a living, and he explains nanoparticles to grad students. He's an introvert who likes nothing more than curling up on the couch with a book on Roman history, while I'm an extrovert who likes nothing more than being surrounded by a room full of friends, usually talking (loudly).

Sometimes our differences seem like a gulf. They are pretty staggering at times. Sometimes we don't even like each other very much. But we meet in the middle. We disagree about what "the middle" is, mope a bit, and cross to the other side, or at least wave.

We know each other's scars, the jagged areas where we've gotten hurt and healed, left with imperfections on and below the surface. I say that though we got married under Vulcan's bare bottom in 2004, I feel like I only got a real taste of marriage in 2007 when I saw him in the shower after his surgery to remove kidney cancer.

He's seen me through some doozies too: my anxiety during Nate's first few months, more than a few serious stress-related illnesses, deaths of people close to me. Not to mention the *typical* stuff: supporting me as I run from daycare to airport to God knows where next for my work, all the while I wonder if I'm on the right path.

There's a Wilco line from their song "Reservations" that goes, "Oh I've got reservations/about so many things/ but not about you."

That's how I feel this September 21. But the song that most sums up where we are now is this one by Ingrid Michaelson. 

Happy Anniversary Shane Street. Thanks for taking me the way I am.

Ingrid Michaelson - The Way I Am [Acoustic]

Elvis Tree: Hunka Hunka Valentine Edition

A few weeks ago I was a tad bit mortified when a colleague came to my house and saw that I still had a Christmas tree up. In February. (It's even more embarrassing when that colleague is an expert at home and garden decor. Ahem.) Given, it wasn't just any old tree, it was the Elvis tree.

The Elvis tree, born of a lazy Saturday in 2008, has taken on a life of its own. What started out as a whim has turned into a movement in the Street house. OK, I'm the only one who participates in this movement, but still.

In December I moved mountains to get the dining room painted gold to better accentuate the Elvis tree (and my black lacquered Asian furniture, circa Miami Beach 1983). Gold paint is exceedingly difficult to apply, and it took about five coats from our trusty painter to make it stick. But it so accentuated the Elvis tree. A room fit for a King.

There was a legitimate reason to leave up the Elvis tree in January, it being his birth month and all.  Then January slipped into February. I found myself standing in line at Hobby Lobby (behind someone returning a plastic banana - what?) While staring at ScriptureMints, the idea came to me: the Elvis tree must be decorated for Valentine's Day.

Divine revelation? Whispers from The King? Tough to say.

I spent the rest of the day styling the Elvis tree, with pink flocked dust flying all over the place. The result?

Behold: A Hunka Hunka Elvis Valentine Tree 2010. Next stop, St. Patrick's Day?

Related Links:

Happy 75th Birthday: My Journey Inside The World Of Elvis Tribute Artists

  
 

 

Happy 75th Birthday Elvis! My Journey Into The World of Elvis Tribute Artists

Anyone who knows me knows that there is really one man who has the key to my heart: Elvis Aaron Presley.

Today would have been his 75th birthday. To celebrate this special day I am re-posting a story that ran in The Birmingham Weekly in August 2001. 

This story chronicles my first person adventure into the world of Elvis tribute artists, and it remains one of my most favorite stories to report and write.

(On a side note: reading it now makes me want to do some serious editing, but I held back. After all, authenticity is important when writing about impersonators ... )

Oh, and the picture to the left: that's my Elvis tree. Lighting a candle near it today ...

"Onstage With The King"

On the 24th anniversary of Elvis Presley's death, a fan travels to Memphis for a behind-the-scenes journey into the world of Elvis impersonators

        He's sitting at the piano, toying the keys with his fingers, bobbing his head to the rhythm. A slicked-back black pompadour is the first thing that stands out. Then the profile, an unmistakable view of an American icon. It's a hot summer day in Memphis. Right now, there's nowhere else for Elvis to be.

        For a minute it could be him -- the only "him" who matters in Memphis in August. But of course, it's not. This is 2001, 24 years after Elvis Presley's death. The boy with the pompadour is just another illusion sitting in the bar of the Memphis Holiday Inn Airport, where thousands of screaming fans have gathered for this year's edition of "Images of The King," one of the largest and most well-known -- some say definitive -- Elvis tribute artist contests.

        They're everywhere. Strolling through hallways belting out gospel tunes, standing by the registration desk comparing sideburns, lining up in the atrium, wearing Hawaiian shirts and preparing for the seemingly never-ending rounds of karaoke. They come from Japan and Canada, California and Maine. Several even hail from the Magic City, where the Elvis contingency is multiplying.

        The boy at the piano is 16-year old Carlos Varetti of Buenos Aires. An active member of the Argentinian Elvis Presley Fan Club, he is one of thousands who have traveled to Memphis for Elvis Week, the annual event during which fans celebrate the life and legacy of Elvis Presley. August 16, 1977 was the day he died, nearly a quarter a century ago.

        Many people regard him -- EAP, The King, the Original Boss -- as a caricature of the man in his later years, a shadow of the young rock and roll star of the '50s. But to these fans, he is no joke. Each has a story, a reason they love him -- or imitate him on stages and in living rooms across America. They don't want to be Elvis, these tribute artists say. They pay tribute to him by putting their own personal spin on his act.

        For Carlos Varrenti, who gets teased a lot by his friends back home (they say Elvis is "old" music), it's difficult to explain why he styles his hair in a pompadour and listens to music recorded before he was born.

        "The first time I ever listened to Elvis was in my country on the television," Varrenti says. "When I saw him I just couldn't believe. When he sings something, how do you say it? He transmits a feeling."

***

        Like thousands of others, I am in Memphis because it is the 24th anniversary of the death of the most formidable pop icon of the 20th century. Elvis Week is an amazing cultural event -- many fans use their annual vacations to tour Graceland and attend the dozens of activities around town.

        I could say I came to Memphis purely to study a fascinating anthropologic phenomenon, but that's not entirely true. I am a fan, here for many of the same reasons as everyone else. Sure, I don't know every movie line, chord change and biographical details, but it's safe to say my knowledge goes a bit above the norm.

        I love Elvis. To me he's part Hemingway and part heart breaker, a walking contradiction and supreme artist. It's like John Lennon said -- before him there was nothing. Perhaps even more than the many himself, I am drawn to the culture of his legacy. After all, I was only a year old when he died.

        Since the day I stumbled into a beach side seafood restaurant when I was 16 years old and saw my first Elvis tribute artist, I'd had an intense curiously for all things King. I'd been to Graceland twice, where I did what all fans do -- sign the wall outside the mansion, eat peanut butter and banana sandwiches, listen to the story of his life and his music. I knew Elvis and this world in a casual way. But I needed to get closer.

        My real entrance into the world of Elvis tribute artists came earlier this summer, during the first ever "Elvis in Dixieland" contest, a hugely attended impersonator show held at the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex. If it was ever evident that Elvis is still in style it was there, where fans young and old crowded the room to watch each performer take his turn.

        It was there that I met Elvis tribute artist Bradley Scott, a 31-year old resident of Middleton, Ohio, who spends much of his time working on his ac.t Like other impersonators, he watches Elvis performance videos and movies to get the moves, the snarls, and the shakes just right. He practices during his full-time gig as a cook at a Denny's-like diner, belting out ballads over his carefully flipped omelets.

        His signature look is a powder-blue studded jumpsuit -- "Tiffany" blue by Elvis standards. He wears the suit, along with layers of theatrical makeup, gold rings and lots of hairspray, to his shows all over Ohio, He's been doing this for 15 years, performing at family reunions and VFW Halls, but has only started to get serious about competing over the past year.

        "It's a brotherhood kind of thing that brings us together," Scott says.

        It's also something of a circuit. There are websites and booking agents and year-round contests all over the country. Competitors like Scott lay out thousands of dollars of their own money to travel to the shows. Anyone can do Elvis, but few can do him right. Judges want the looks, the voice, the moves and the magnetism.

        A lucky few impersonators get to leave their full time jobs for the bright lights of Vegas or stints on cruise ships. Others go home with nothing more than kisses from front-row fans, news, about the next show and a desire to do it all over again.

        The "Images of The King" contest, held for the past 14 years during Elvis Week, is one of the most widely known contests. The first place prize is $1,000. But for many competitors, it's not about the money. The contest is the showcase for some of the best Elvis impersonators in the world. For Scott, it was a chance to perform alongside some of the most well-known impersonators, like Doug Church, who is known as "the voice of Elvis," and Ryan Pelton, a handsome former graphic designer who looks so much like Elvis people go quiet when he enters the room.

    The stakes are high, Scott told me that day in Birmingham when I told him I wanted to know more about this world. Then he popped the question: would I consider being his designated scarf girl -- his on stage assistant -- for this important occasion? Would I be up to the challenge? Could I take the pressure?

    Anything to get closer to The King.

***

        A Scarf Girl In Training

        Elvis actually didn't use women to hand him stage accessories. Rather, a member of his male entourage performed the duties. Some tribute artists do the same; others rely on women. It is simply a matter of personal preference.

        The duties of the scarf girl seem simple enough: Hand your Elvis a fresh scarf at the appropriate moment -- usually after he's draped one around the neck of an adoring female fan. Make sure when you drape the red silk swath around his neck you don't distract the audience from his hip-shaking, brow-sweating moves. Do it quickly, moving to the background as not to overshadow the presence before you.

        Make sure the scarf is on good and secure -- Elvis doesn't want to be made a fool by running around the stage chasing after drifting scarves. Never, ever, for any reason, let him be without a scarf. Elvis wants to leave the audience wanting more, but not wondering why he isn't bestowing scarves and kisses.

        Make sure his cup of water -- not bottled water, because Evian isn't authentic to the time period -- is nearby. Hand it to hi, at the end of each song during his banter with the audience. Don't make him ask for it. Know.

        Have his cape laid out behind  your feet, ready to grab in one swoop. Before his emotional closing song, "How Great Thou Art," walk quickly behind him, pull up his collar, find the three large snaps and Velcro and attach the cape. There are only 13 seconds during the carefully timed banter and the cape must be secured. The absolute worst thing would be for his cape to fall when he spreads his arms like a glorious peacock.

        The duties of the scarf girl seem simple enough.

***

        I knew I'd entered the competitive world of Elvis when I walked into the lobby of the Holiday Inn, where the "Images of The King" contest is held. Here it's not uncommon to see throngs of Elvi standing at the coffee bar. Elvis is a 24-hour lifestyle around here, as evidenced by the daily karaoke contests and informal sing-alongs by the bar piano. For  the uninitiated, it is a head turning, even bizarre, scene.

        But as an official scarf girl, I was far from uninitiated. I'd practiced during the car ride to Memphis, thinking how to best execute the scarf hand-off while blasting "Elvis: The Alternate Aloha" on my care stereo. With a suitcase full of red and black clothes, and whit a touch of gold lame to match Bradley Scott's brand new jumpsuit, specifically tailored for the occasion, I was prepared for my duties.

        "They're here to see me, not you," Scott says as we rehearse the act again and again in his hotel room. He means this in the most instructive of ways, I think, swallowing any ego I might have packed with that gold lame.

        During this rigorous process, I realize that being a scarf girl is so much more than standing on a stage. It is a challenge in carefully time moves, a job for only the most graceful magician's assistant. It is about standing perfectly still in front of 1,000 of the most critical and devoted fans.

        What if I made a mistake -- dropped the water or choked him with a scarf? What if I couldn't fasten the cape in time? It would be my worst paranoia coming true -- shaming the King of Rock and Roll, or at least a likeness thereof. Perhaps Bradley Scott had picked the wrong scarf girl for the job.

        But there was no time for looking back. I was wearing leather pants and eye shadow a la Priscilla. The time was approaching. sort of. The competitors had drawn numbers to determine their order on stage. Scott had drawn the final performance slot, number 19. With 15 minutes allotted to each elvis, it would be a long night. Still, we looked on the bright side -- he would be the last tribute artist to perform on The Day, August 16.

        "It's like opening your presents on Christmas. Tonight I bring out the big ones," Scott says, while dousing dozens of red silk scarves with cologne. "I know I can count on you."

***

Hail To The King

        "The need for Elvis tribute artists is just going to increase," Rick Lenzie says later that night. The 27-year old watches "Images of The King" from the back of the Holiday Inn ballroom, near tables of tribute artist CDs and T-shirts. Lenzie, a mattress salesman by day, lives about an hour north of San Francisco. he's been on the circuit since 1993, when he entered a contest at his wife's suggestion.

        He's had success with this version of young Elvis: He was an extra in the film "3,000 Miles To Graceland." He as also the winner of Birmingham's first "Elvis In Dixieland" contest, which qualified him for the final round of "Images of The King," which would be held Friday and Saturday nights.

        Lenzie was so impressed by the turnout during Birmingham's contest that he is planning on moving here and joining the ranks of at least two others Elvi who are serious about their passions -- Tarrant resident David Lee Roseberry, the mastermind behind "Elvis In Dixieland," and Reggie Randolph, a Hueytown native who got his break of Dick Clark's "Your Big Break" less than a year ago.

        Eagerly watching the competition, Randolph, clad in a dark suit circa Elvis' early days in Vegas, explains why he loves performing Elvis. "He was everything. He did every kind of music there is. He was the total package. Elvis will always be in."

        That's certainly true in this room. Elvis tribute artists continue to perform for a loyal and growing group of fans.

        "He's a beautiful singer and a beautiful person," says Thelma Solmos, a 67-year old retired bar owner from South Bend, Indiana. She met the real Elvis at one of his first shows, and now follows tribute artist Doug Church. Solmos saves money each year to attend Elvis Week, and she says it's worth every penny to see the performers an chat with the friends she's made at similar events.

        While most of the hardcore followers of the tribute scene are old enough to remember Elvis in his prime, plenty of younger fans also attend the shows. Some are rabid about the music and th man, including a handful of teenage impersonators giving the older guys a run for their money. Some of the younger folks are curious.

        "I see him as an icon but I don't seem like the rest of these people," says J.C. Royalty, 24, a Brooklyn resident standing by the merchandise table of a female impersonator. For Royalty, who was visiting friends in Memphis, the contest is an interesting vacation diversion. "It's almost like a satire," he says.

***

Stage Presence

        After pondering the cultural phenomenon, and watching a writer from a national magazine get thrown out for attempting to get performers to pose with a guitar-shaped toilet seat cover, it was time for me to get serious. Bradley Scott was getting a lot of attention from the fans who noticed his new black jumpsuit. Our time -- his time -- was quickly approaching.

        I went over the routine in my head again and again. Four songs. Water, scarves, cape. At 1:30 a.m., seven and a half hours after the show started, it was time. Bradley Scott cracked the door leading to the stage and peered out. "This is the day. It's here," he said, watching Jimmy "King" Kai, and Elvis from Long Island, thank "the band," which was, in actuality, a CD player (the Friday and Saturday night finals featured a live band).

        There was no turning back. I was holding a mass of cologne-soaked scarves and an eight-pound cape with studs digging shapes into my arm. It was time. The first thing I saw was the light, a tremendous, piercing sea of light. Then I was following a man in a jumpsuit, surely looking out of place.

        Where should I stand? Too close and it would look like I was trying to steal the spotlight. Too far and I couldn't do my duties. Then it hit me: how should a scarf girl look? Serious? Or like she's being moved by the riveting performance at hand? Perhaps I opted for an "in between" look, that of a surgeon rocking out to some James Taylor in the O.R.

        It didn't matter. There I was, doling out scarves and holding onto the water for dear life. Accidentally I picked up the cape too early, only to receive a head shaking "No!" from Scott. Attaching the cape was my biggest fear about this thing and it was coming true. But when the right time finally came, between the third and fourth songs, I nailed it. He nailed it.

        After "How Great Thou Art," Bradley Scott lifted his arms and turned his back to the audience, unveiling the cape. Perfection. Or so I thought. Nothing is perfect in this world of Elvis, even for the most diligent scarf girl. As he ran off the stage, something dreadful happened. The cape, in all of its glory, came unfastened. He caught it before it hit the floor.

        Catching his breath behind the stage, he shook his head.

        "How did I do?" he asked, as "Living La Vida Loca" played in the background while the judges tallied their scores.

        "You rocked. It was the best I've ever seen you do," I answered. It was the truth. Bradley Scott had the charisma and voice and moves and spirit. He was authentic, as authentic as an Elvis tribute artist can be. He worked hard and loved what he did. Others saw it too, fans and performers. He got close.

        Listening to the finalists being named is like reading the list of kids picked for the soccer team. Bradley Scott looked around as the names were called. Several  of Birmingham's finest made the cut/ But close wasn't enough for Bradley Scott.

        "I thought I had it," he said, as fan club presidents hugged their finalists.

        We talked about what it takes to win, about having the right looks and impressing the right judges. What does a guy have to do to be The King? He wondered about his costume. We decided he  had done his best Elvis. With each contest, he's getting better, closer to Elvis himself/

        Scott shaved off his sideburns the next day and wore a T-shirt with denim shorts. After listening to at least 15 versions of "My Way," I better understood why Scott and fellow tribute artists want to sing and move and look like him. Elvis rocked. For his faults -- the man was human -- he made you want to rock. Who wouldn't want to be near that?

        On Saturday night, the winners were announced. David Lee, Birmingham's own, took third place. He's onto more competitions -- first Canada, then Caesar's Palace.

        Bradley Scott isn't stopping either. There's a routine to tweak and some extra Velcro to be swen into the jumpsuit's collar. As I left the hotel, another Elvis was singing "Kentucky Rain" at the karaoke bar.

        "Hey, what would you think about being my scarf girl at the show in Indiana?" Bradley Scott asks.

        I've come close enough to The King. For now.

       

Related Links:

Elvis Fans Mark His 75th Birthday At His Beginning

Lonely Planet Guide To Elvis' Birthday

       

       

   

I Have A Bell, A Hammer, And A Song To Sing: Thanks Mary Travers

One night back in the late 80s, when I was in middle school and we still lived on Southridge Drive in Clearwater, I got a call from my Dad. He and Mom had gone out for a nice seafood dinner, except that Mom didn't yet know she was allergic to shrimp. Their date night askew, he said he was bringing her home and asked if I would like to go see "Peter, Paul, and Mary" playing at Ruth Eckerd Hall.

Peter, Paul and who?

At that time I was floating musically between whatever Casey Kasem was playing on his long distance dedications, the vinyl in my Dad's collection and some disco records I got at a garage sale. Don't ask where that came from, seeing as how I was born in 1976.

So Dad had an extra ticket, and I eagerly climbed into the station wagon to head to see Peter, Paul, and Mary.

I heard all their classics: "If I Had A Hammer," "Where Have All The Flowers Gone," "Leavin' On A Jet Plane," "Lemon Tree," "Puff The Magic Dragon."

At 11 or 12 there was something about this music that got to me. I didn't understand it yet, but I just about stood up in my chair when I heard that there was a hammer and a bell for justice - yes! If they needed someone to sing out about love, their dreams, their brothers and their sisters, I was the first one in line.

And when Mary's strong voice sang about soldiers not returning from war, it gripped me in a way that I couldn't explain then. I knew nothing about war. Vietnam was just a little more than a decade before, and had touched my own family, but to a kid in suburban Florida, it seemed like so long ago.

Racism? Unjustice? Mere concepts to me at this point, sentences from school books. But the undertones of those words moved me, made me take note that I would one day have to respond to these ugly realities. Would I be on the right side?

Interspersed with sometimes haunting, other times upbeat harmonies, they were stories that would resonate with the generation still processing the tremendous change of their youth. My Dad's generation. "Oh when will they ever learn, oh when will they ever learn?"

I probably nodded wisely and naively with my little blond bob. (Too bad I didn't  veer into a complete world of acoustic singer-songwriter study, cause soon after I would sadly purchase a Milli Vanilli tape). But two decades later the words still ring true. The mysteries of violence, the sting of leaving people you love behind, and  the hopes of childhood and a forgotten dragon -- they all resonate more than ever.

So thank you Mary Travers. I didn't fully understand your words then but I heard your powerful voice, and  it is one that I will play for my son.

Epilogue:

By the way, if you care about the music of Mary Travers' generation, and its impact on culture and music to come, check out my Dad's "Boomer Top 100." It's a list he's been making for several years and he wants input to help him figure out the most influential songs of that generation.

Dad's Boomer Top 100 List

I have a favor to ask of you.

Some of you know my Dad, others just know him through Facebook posts or my stories. Dad has worked hard on creating a list he calls his "Boomer 100" in which he picks the most influential top 100 songs of the Baby Boomer generation. This isn't a "best of" list, but one that he's given a lot of thought to that is most reflective of the 50s-80s and cultural milestones of the time.

He has been working on this list on and off for two years, and has posted it online. He really wants to get feedback from others, which is why I'm writing. Will you please take a moment to visit his blog? It has a link to his "Boomer 100" song selections.

Take a look and please leave a comment on his blog about why you agree or disagree with various selections, or if he's left something off. It's an interesting list and look back at the past 40+ years of music.

He's going to post the final answers Sept. 20, and would really appreciate your thoughts. Please feel free to pass this on to anyone, music lover, Boomer, child of Boomer, pop culture aficianado -- and encourage them to leave comments on his blog. It will mean a lot to him, and to me!

Let me know if you have any questions and thanks rockers.

Ever Wonder Who That Guy At Woodstock Was?

Ever wonder who the guy is in this infamous Woodstock picture?

In honor of the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, here's the big reveal: It's my Dad!

Not really, but he was there, and he's finally written his first person account.

Here's the link:

Music and Mud: My Memories of Woodstock

Check it out and leave him a comment!

August 2

I took this photo during a recent trip to Texas. Remind you of someone?

Your sign's element is Fire. Leo is ruled by the Sun.

You are highly dramatic and like to be center stage. Leo is poised and confident, loyal, sincere, and makes a good organizer. Leo is proud and dignified, enthusiastic, and ambitious. Leo likes luxury and pleasure and is willing to pay the price for it. Leo is colorful, self assured, outgoing, impulsive and expansive. Leo is authoritative and affectionate. You expect praise and you give praise.

Possible negative aspects of the sign Leo:
You can be jealous, arrogant, vain, self centered, and a show-off demanding attention. You are flashy, domineering, and snobbish, and have feelings of superiority over others.

Thanks to a surge in your level of self-respect, no one will intimidate you today.

           32 was good. Thanks for Vegas, Jazzfest, for seeing Ben Folds at the Ryman, for sweating out serious chakra flow yoga in Miami, Obama, my first ever Mardi Gras, Ryan Adams at the Alabama, Bucky's Birdcase Lounge and suede Diane VonFurstenberg boots in Fairhope. Dang those are killer boots.

        For taking Nate on his first two beach trips - first with his toes in the beach at Pensacola and then in Clearwater. For pirate ships and sunrises on ranches.

    And for celebrating five years of being married. Thanks Vulcan!

         For letting me work on my words each and every day.

    Yeah 32 you brought some bad times too. Really bad times actually. But now that you're gone I will forgive you and invite in another year.

So, on my 33rd birthday, here's my new manifesto:

I believe in the power of storytelling.
And sweet tea vodka.
Of family and supportive friends.
And Elvis, always.

Scene from A Sunday Morning: Color Me Badd

It's Sunday morning, 7 a.m. I'm drinking coffee and watching "90210" (original of course).

It's the "Things To Do on a Rainy Day" episode, circa 1992. The one with Color Me Badd as guest stars. Central plot line involves Donna, David, Brenda and Kelly plotting to meet Color Me Badd, then Donna accidentally seeing her mother cheating on her father in Color Me Badd's hotel. You know the one.

Nate stumbles downstairs, takes one look at the TV. Scene:

Nate: I want to watch Diego.

Me: We're watching 90210.

Nate: Why?

Me: It's one of the most important television shows of all time, and it's important that you come to know it.

Nate: Why?

Me: You'll understand later. Shhh, Kelly is about to meet the lead singer of Color Me Badd.

Nate: Why is he bad?

Me: He's not bad. It's an expression. Look at their jeans!

Nate: I want to watch Dora the Explorer mommy.

Me: Sometimes we can't get what we want right away. We'll put on Dora when this is over. That's Donna Martin.

Nate: Donna Martin is yucky.

Me: Donna Martin is not yucky. Donna Martin graduates!

Nate: Donna Martin graduates!

End scene.

This is a true story. No names or details have been changed to protect the innocent.

Back from North Carolina

On each trip I bring back something for Nate.

I try for this something to usually be a book, though at times I fall short and have to get a stuffed something or other at the airport gift shop.

I like to find books about the  places that I have been, so I can share these stories with him, and get him ready for his own adventures.

Yesterday, while in Chapel Hill, NC, I did a first -- ducked into a comic book store when I saw this, a comic book about our president, in the window. For the record:

1)It's a serious comic book
2)It was the first time I've ever been in, let along purchased a comic book
3)Shane was completely rolling his eyes when I gave this to Nate as his "'prise" from this trip

Unfortunately I couldn't bring back this guy below (err, girl) in my suitcase. Her name is Oprah, and I spent the past few days with her and her kids. Get it -- kids! Yeah, I'll keep my day job.

Got to know her during some time on a goat farm, where I learned about the day to day operation of making cheese, running a farm (including goats, cows, and pigs) and an organic garden. But you have to read the rest of that in the magazine.

While there, I also enjoyed sweet lime pickles for the first time. I had no idea that they were a regional delight, but being a pickle aficionado was completely hooked. They were sweet, they were salty, they were homemade deliciousness.

Plus the pickles were made from cucumbers grown on the farm. I am convinced that even I can learn how to pickle pickles, and am on a mission to find out more.

I was somewhere between the chicken coop and the mulberry bush yesterday during the Michael Jackson service, which was a bit odd for a pop culture junkie. Listened to some of it on the drive over to Chapel Hill post-farm.

Then, as I walked on Franklin Street I saw the sign below in a pub window at the same time a truck drove by playing "Billie Jean." 

Heat + standing in a field of pigs + travel can make a girl tired. So when I saw the sign for the Aveda school in Chapel Hill last night I ducked in and got a manicure, a vampy purple.

They said it was a chakra massage, and the technician used oils that were supposed to calm my "root chakra" (which surely needs calming). From their website:

This service combines the art & science of pure flower and plant essences with a variety of massage techniques to ease muscle tensions, soothe the mind, and bring balance to the chakra system.

Not sure if that worked, but my nails look good.