Sing!

“Almost heaven…………West Virginia……………Blue Ridge Mountains……….Shenandoah River……..Life is old there , older than the trees…….Younger than the mountains, flowing like the breeze…”

Stop.  Stop.  Stop.

Correct musical artist.

 Wrong song.

Take it from the top.

“He was born in the summer of his twenty-seventh year ……Coming Home to a place he’s never been before…Left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again…..Might say he found a key for ev’ry door……..”

That’s better. This is the song I wish to sing. Rocky Mountain High by John Deutschendorf and Mike Taylor. Deutschendorf was better known as “John Denver.”

I am in Denver, Colorado USA. Thoughts turn to you John Denver, singing about the Rocky Mountains and the beauty of  Colorado.

It is often difficult to think of people who influenced my life that have departed.

This is  my first trip to Colorado; and it’s quasi-motivated by a pop song.

Rocky Mountain High was on every  radio station’s play list in the 1970s. Our family would sing along to this John Denver song in our green Mercury station wagon, with faux wood paneling. I have happy memories of family car sing-alongs as we tooled up the Maine Turnpike to our summer home. Whenever Rocky Mountain Highwould play from our car radio, our entire family would sing along–especially my father (who sings Gregorian chants and still remembers how to sing the pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic Mass–in Latin–without sheet music.)  He too was a John Denver fan.

Maybe somewhere out there, there is a family singing in a automobile to Poker Face. I don’t know what moves or motivates modern American families when it comes to car singing in the 21st century. Do families still sing in cars–together?

Rocky Mountain High is a ebullient, catchy, bouncy, environmentally friendly song. It is on my private top 25 “Songs-I-Like” list.

John Denver seemed outstretched towards the end of his short life. I speculate he left his often difficult world not as happy as he could have been. Just an intuitive observation.

In a secret way, I dedicate my Colorado trip to John Denver however hokey this sounds. As a youth, the thought of being a mile high above sea level was intriguing. I wanted to see snow covered mountains–in summer. It took thirty plus years to make my dream a reality.

John. You were a  great singer and lyrical story teller. I hummed your song as I deplaned from my Delta Airline flight at the Denver, Colorado airport; a structure that looks like a circus tent.

Yes, humming this classic song was sentimental and goofy, yet it transformed me back to a happier time in my life; a time  when summer was elongated and laced with limitless possibilities.  

The best way to describe Denver, Colorado  is through its people and environment. In a future post, I will write a stream-of-consciousness piece sharing my impressions of Colorado. I’m braced for the “what is this?”  and “what  is your point?” e-mails.

The point is, points often move in different directions; adrift at times–like we often feel at times. 

I say, spice it up.  ee Cummings wrote in a different style. Many shook their head thinking poetry must have structure rigid as steel. I sort of remember this in my Freshman Literature class at Boston College.  I say essay writing takes many different forms.  When I publish my Denver post (no relation to the outstanding Denver newspaper) I’m sure the “what is this?” e-mails will arrive in my in-box.

The air is thin in the Mile High City. I did feel short of breath and woozy at times. Was this the Rocky Mountain High John Denver was singing about?  Was this caused by being in an altered  state of  consciousness due to Colorado’s magnificent scenery and air? One will never know since I’ll never have the opportunity to take you out for dinner John and have a meaningful, rich conversation.

John. Thank you for the inspiration. Wherever you are in the universe, on this glorious third day of summer, I’m singing your song.

Brendan Ben Feeney

X) ” Hello. Ben?

I) “Yes.”

X) “Great to chat with you!”

A conversation begins. I am along for a ride—– on a one-way street.

X) “I am tired. So tired. Yes, tired.”

X) “I’m running around. Running in circles. Yes, circles. Running around.”

X) “Too much to do. I can’t keep up. No. I just can’t keep up. No. I can’t keep up. Breakfasts. Power lunches. The chicken pot pie circuit. Too much to do.”

I)  “I had a frontal lobotomy.”

X) “That’s good. Good. Yes good.”

X) “I am soooo busy. Sooooo busy. So too are the kids. We are all running and racing. Sooooo busy.”

I) “I dyed my hair fuchsia then braided my armpit hair.”

X) “Great. That’s really great. Yes, great. I like my new hairdoo.”

I) “I decided to run away and join the circus.”

X) “Yup. Yup. Yup.”

I) “I’m the new guy under the big top. I get blown out of the cannon. The second option was feeding lions.”

X) “Ah ha. That’s right. Good. Good. Good.”

I) “Sky diving lessons today? Tomorrow is my competitive knitting night. Celtic step dancing on Wednesday. Friday—San Francisco Cable Car surfing. Want to come?”

X) “Oh, I’m so busy. I am running. I can’t keep up. Chasing my tail. Breathless! Running. Yes. Running.”

I) “I am adrift on an iceberg. Lost at sea with no life jacket.”

X) “That’s nice. Wonderful. Great. Nice. Yes. Nice. What about the weather. It’s cold?”

I) “I decided to get a tattoo of a donkey on my butt. You know I hate needles. They make me pass out. Turn blue.”

X) “Super. That’s great. I’m happy for you. Yes. Happy. Animals are lovely. Blue IS your color.”

I) “I think you are not listening.”

X) “Right. Right. Right. ”

X) “Yup. Yup Yup.”

I) “I’m considering applying for a job at Hooters. I want to be a Hooter Boy. I hear the tips are phenomenal. Yet, orange is not my color. I do have man tits. I hesitate filling out the application. What are your thoughts?”

X) “Oranges are nutritious. A lot of vitamin C. Oranges. Yes. Oranges. The best are from the Indian River region of Florida.”

X) “So good to talk with you! Don’t be a stranger. Come over! We’ll have coffee. We will talk more. I promise to call more often.”

I) “That will be………….”

Click.

 I stand in the kitchen–confounded–yet not surprised. The  lonely sound of a disconnected phone hums an acquard a silence. Stunned? Yes.

Surprised? No.

Jaded.I think so.

Hurt. Well yes.

Disappointed? I’ll say! 

Yup. Yup. Yup. Yup. Right. Right. Right. Ya. Ya. Ya.

Brendan Ben Feeney

I bet you thought the next word is………… HAMMER.

Wrong.

I truly enjoy singing the song If I Had a Hammer co-composed by Pete Seeger and Lee Hays of the Weavers. I find Peter, Paul, and Mary’s version of this song moving and a call to action. Peter  Seeger sings his iconic song with gusto and buoyancy. We sing a rousing rendition of  If I Had a Hammer at GLIDE Memorial Church, San Francisco, California during Sunday worship service.

 I digress.

Dateline. San Francisco, CA, USA. Location. Noe Valley. I am driving to the Noe Valley Bakery located on 24th Street. I’m up early on a weekday morning.

I come to an intersection. I’m  forced to STOP.

Why?

A school crossing guard,  wearing a fluorescent safety vest, gestures me to STOP. He is holding a portable, hand-held STOP sign.  A thought dances across my mind. I want a STOP and GO portable crossing sign.

 I like the fact this sign has two sides. STOP on one side. GO on the other.  Interchangeability is a good thing. So too is flexibility. This sign has two messages–not one— like traditional STOP signs one finds at major intersections.

If I had a STOP and GO sign, I’d use it in the morning. I use it in the evening. All over San Francisco.

If I see someone being rude, cutting a movie or concert line, dropping the F-bomb, or yelling at their children in the supermarket, I’d pull out my sign and expose the STOP side.

When I see the doorman at my residence helping my senior citizen neighbor down the stairs to the street, I flip my sign to GO………as in “you GO Mrs. (name withheld for privacy)! Fresh air laced with a hit of Bay Area fog. Movement keeps you young. Enjoy you walk, up and down Nob Hill. Proceed with delight. Pat dogs along the way. Waive to riders on the California Street cable car line. I do it all the time. A nice habit.  Enjoy observing people doing Asiatic exercises  in park  across from where we reside. Read the San Francisco Examiner. The sun is your reading light.

When I see someone not waiting their proper turn at one of San Francisco’s famous 4-way stop intersections  at the apex of a steep hill,  I’ll roll down my car window and thrust arm out the window holding my sign. Which side is exposed? You know. Work with me people.

What about the community garden on the back side of Twin Peaks? I spot a volunteer working on a hillside garden. I hold up my sign. The GO side gleams in the sun. GO for encouragement. GO after weeds. Make the hillside come alive with wild California orange poppies, tall exotic blue blooms, and off-white calla lilies. Make our city landscape beautiful due to your volunteerism and kindness to the earth.

As an urban metropolis, San Francisco grapples with the systemic problem of hunger. In the land of plenty, many go to bed hungry. This disturbs me. I’ll hold up my sign to remind people to STOP when grocery shopping at Safeway, Whole Foods, or Cala Market  and donate food to one’s neighborhood food pantry.

Green means GO. So I waive my sign to the executive bicycling to the Financial District located at the base of California Street and the curvature of Market Street. GO green. One less car on the road. You get 2 waives from the GO side of my sign. It reminds me that I need to ride my bike more often. I vow to distance myself  and break away from the California car culture. I admit it. Riding a bike takes effort. I will STOP instead and get an Presidio Passion sundae at Ghirardelli’s, next to the Fairmont Residences. 

STOP.

I’ve changed my mind. I want to order the new Gold Rush sundae. Visualize peanut butter, hot fudge, vanilla ice cream in a glass dish. Topping this treat is a  mound of whipped cream the height  of Mt. McKinley. Eventually I must GO to  Weight Watchers. That’s another story.

What do I see? A  dog pooping in  Alamo Park? An irresponsible dog owner with no plastic bag to clean up the you-know-what? I dislike dog doo stuck to the the bottom of my shoes. I flash the STOP side of my sign to the dog walker who neglected to scoop-the-poop. Nothing like a little STOP-sign-guilt to break a bad habit.

STOP and admire the pathways and zen artistry at the Japanese Tea Garden  in Golden Gate Park. Did you know, the gardener who help create this amazing pocket of tranquility was locked away in a Japanese-American internment  camp during World War II? True. STOP racial profiling and war hysteria.

GO to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Stand under the walkway and marvel at museum-goers 5 stories above as they pass above you.

STOP racism. STOP sexism. STOP homophobia. STOP ageism.

GO to the polls. Vote. Democracy is not a passive sport to be watch from complacent sidelines. Throw the bums out if they are not representing you.

STOP domestic violence. Arms are for hugging–not hitting. Words are to be melodic–not acerbic.

GO to art openings and support artists.

STOP school bullys. I once had rocks thrown at me while walking home from Junior High School. The pain of the experience lingers.

GO forward into the day and proceed with delight and wonder. Count clouds. Look for migratory birds and welcome their return.

Open more drug rehabilitation clinics and alcohol detox centers. Help people STOP the cycle of addiction and receive medical care without  judgement.

STOP and GO. STOP and GO.

If I had a STOP and GO sign, I’d use it in the morning. I use it in the evening…….all over San Francisco.

Why not take my new sign on the road and use it all over this land? Why I’ll  even take it to Iceland in February.

Just a thought as I patientlysit  waiting for children to safely cross the street near the Noe Valley Bakery on 24th Street. 

Children–learn, think, and act responsibly. Write. Read. Stare out the window. It is good for you. Sit with a  student who eats alone in the lunch room. Come home excited, telling your family…………”Guess what I learned at school today!”

Zap.

Back to reality. Back to 24th Street. Zone in.

The crossing guard sign turns his sign  from STOP to GO. He gestures me out of my mind-wandering state. I GO, proceeding with a new sense of possibility. If I had a …………………..

Brendan Ben Feeney

Did you eat cotton candy as a child?

Cotton candy is a”dentist’s delight.” Its texture, color, and shape captivates the eye and grabs your attention like a Texas bee hive hairdo.

Did you marvel  how sugar morphs into what looks like the stuffing of an IKEA pillow? All this, in a matter of seconds!

It’s not like I rip stuffing out of pillows or anything. Well, maybe to dream of cotton candy.

Cotton candy is hard to come by. One finds it at carnivals.

Carnival workers have a difficult life.

Like roadies for rock bands, they set up and break down shows. Carnys move from town-to-town.

So much for sleeping on a soft pillow. Most Carnys receive low pay can’t afford a truck, never mind a nice camper to serve as a home on wheels. The carnival workers who sell tickets, do the grunt work,  or load and unload kids with runny noses onto Ferris wheels often  sleep in the vortex of an empty tractor trailer.

I was traveling on the highway this week and spotted a carnival setting up. The carnival went up fast, like a wiz kid playing with Legos. Driving past the carnival, my mind perceverated on cotton candy–until some “bo-bo” honked his horn, rolled down the window and yelled, “Stay in your lane *&%$ head.”

 Delightful.

My head is made of poo.

I briefly understood the life of a carnival worker from doing a photo shoot at the Scallop Festival on Cape Cod. The scallop dinners took second stage. The  mega blowout carnival was really the top attraction.

I chose to document the disassembling of the carnival for the shoot.

I shot pictures of tired looking Carnys,  wandering souls,  breaking down a floating duck game. Two Carnys lifted several kiddie swimming pool, causing a temporary Mississippi flood.

The object of this water game is to capture a duck with a net, look at the bottom of the rubber duck for a number, then see if you won a prize. I noticed 85% of the ducks had no prize notation on the bottom as they were being stowed away for their next rip-off, I mean, gig.

I shot images of a  20-something man, skinny as a rail, covered with tattoos. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He had a James Dean element. A lost soul working  alone, breaking down a lame miniature roller-coaster meant for kiddie riders. Sunken eyes, a broken  looking expression  on his face, this Carny did not bother to acknowledge my presence. He kept working.

Then,  an incredible shot  unfolded before my eyes.

I spot a nimble shirtless man. His stomach muscles and ribcage projected like a movie.  His Levis jeans were stained with motor oil and paint. His  boxers shorts–exposed. He climbed  to the top of the Ferris wheel like a lemur hopping from tree-to-tree in Madagascar. I was in awe of his agility.

He reached the top of the Ferris wheel, did something mechanical with a wrench, then scurried down the natural scaffolding of the carnival ride.

I holler to him. “That was great. You Wamma Jamma up and down the Ferris-wheel with ease. Damn!”

 “It ain’t no big deal. I’m not afraid of heights,” he exclaimed.

I am.  I freak at heights.

I informed him I was a photographer and asked if he wouldn’t mind repeating what he just did–climb to the top of the Ferris Wheel–as I photographed him.

Without reservation he said, “Sure, man……………. Ten bucks.”

There goes my dinner money.

I reached into my pocket and gave him a crumpled five; the rest in singles.

If this were a certain well known diva fashion, it would be, “Pay my agent $5,000 for 10 minutes of my time–and work fast. I have  a limo to catch up-town and my legs are in need of waxing.”

Stashing the cash in his pocket he  hollered, “Check this out!”

The Ferris-wheel operator flicked an electrical switch. The lights of  the monolithic Ferris-wheel lit up, flashed, and pulsated at set intervals.

Neon eye candy.

Cool shades of green, blue, red, pink, and purple. A photographer’s nirvana.

I reached into my Canon camera bag and pulled out my best low light camera.

Batteries charged. Camera strap in position. I readied myself to shoot  175 rapid fire-frames.  The Carny shimmied to the top of the Ferris wheel with grace and ease.

Click. Click. Click.

I intuitively knew this session was the real deal. Like a New York fashion shoot—without attitude.

Then my impromptu model reached the top of the Ferris wheel and hollered down at me, “Look at me. I’m Jesus!”

He balanced himself on the scaffolding, armed outstretched like the statue of you-know-who atop of a hill in Rio. It was a sight to behold.

The real Jesus was sort of a lost soul. He roamed from town to town in tattered clothes looking for acceptance, followers,  and preached unconditional love. He mingled with the downtrodden and oppressed; sort of like the Carneys I encountered. Yet, I’m not sure if they are so holy. Who cares. These are workers who could least afford to buy a ticket for  quasi non-winnable games and tickets for rides I’m sure would fail a safety inspection.  

 “Don’t fall for Christ sake. Come back down,” I hollered up to him.

 “*&%$ NO. You come up here with that camera. You should see the view from here. I see the &%$#’ing ocean.  It’s beautiful. The Counting Crows once sang…..”We all want something beautiful.” This lyric resonated in my head.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll pass,” said I “yet, if you put me on one of those the bucket-like seats, and turn the Ferris-wheel on–then I’ll see what you are seeing.”

“*&^%, man. I’m trying to break this $^%$’er down. No ride. Climb.”

Pass.

Next contestant.

After posing a minute or two, he climbed down.

 “Got a cigarette?” he asked.

“No. I don’t smoke.”

“You should. You don’t know what you are missing. Nothin’ like a beer and a cigarette to start the day–and end the day.”

Nice.  

I profusely thanked him for being part of my photo shoot, then slipped him a few more bucks before hopping back into my car.

Time passed. I moved to other photo projects. It occurred to me I neglected to download my carnival shoot.

Later, in my studio, I pull out my low-light  Cannon with a zoom lens  the size of an obese foot-long Nathan’s hot dog.

I flick open the slot where the media card  locks into position.

I freeze.

What?

No media card?

I shot those incredible images with no “film.” (Old habits are hard to break. I still call digital media cards–film.)

Where is “Jesus-of- the-Ferris-wheel?”

Where is my  saint of Rio ?

Damn it.

Then it occurred to me. Don’t get upset and angry. This was a moment in time. I enjoyed the interplay between artist and subject. We were both naturally loose and relaxed. He was showing off his skills. I captured his skills and bravado–or so I thought.

Some iconic images are never to be documented. Some great images never get displayed. They just happen. These are images that reside in one’s mind’s eye; the dwelling place of  imagination.

Driving past that carnival  being set up next to the highway in the rain made me think of that Ferris wheel Carney I met on Cape Cod. Where is he tonight? Is he is working a State Fair gig? Setting up or breaking down the same rickety Ferris wheel in a small town in America’s heartland? Will children delight at the sight of a tilt-a-wheel, Fun House, Cotton Candy booth, and carnival games and rides pulling into their small town?

Jesus of the Ferris wheel. If you read this, thank for being my subject. The pictures will never be published. Yet you left an indelible mark on my memory. Flick that switch on tonight in Fargo, North Dakota or Billings, Montana. Make children happy as you take a long hard drag on your cigarette, exhaling smoke into America’s heartland.

Our paths will never meet again.

Life on the road.

 Brendan Ben Feeney

A party invitation!

Fairways Bowling Lanes, Route 9. Westbound. Natick, Massachusetts. 3:15 PM. Sharp.

The year is 1971.

The occasion: Bradley Reisenhardt’s  birthday party.

I’m was not a big fan of Bradley Reisenhardt. We never collected baseball cards or burned leaves with a magnifiying glass together. Nor was Bradley part of my bicycle posse or chestnut hunter/gatherer of friends.  Yet, why not attend? His birthday party was a bowling birthday party held Fairways Bowling Lanes.

After May 2oth I will write about Fairways Bowling Lanes in the past tense. Fairways, the hippest, retro bowling alley west of Boston is days away from closings its doors forever.

 Gone.

Kaput. 

No party. No last bowl. No last waltz. No last slide down the polished lanes only to land hard on my ass.

Sad yet true,  the closing of Fairways marks the end of an era.

Fairways Bowling Lanes opened in 1955. It’s architectural style is true to 1950s  form. Its color scheme screams the 1950s; aqua, tan, and a retro shade of puke green.

At Fairways, you rented bowling shoes. Cool shoes. Ones with burgundy and tan leather stripes with a big numbers on the back heel to indicate your shoe size–not your age. When you returned shoes after bowling, the teen behind the shoe concession sprayed each pair with disinfectant. Who wants that job? PU.

Fairways has plasic contor benches. You mold into their curvilinerar form. We gravated to the curvature of the bench. Somehow it felt cacooning and comfortable to sit in this particular spot between taking turns to bowl.

Fairways is a candle pin bowling alley. Small balls. Small pins. No Fred Flintsone and Barney Rubble big bowling balls.

Easily distracted, I would watch bowling balls magically fly back and clink to a stop on the  automatic ball return track. I would hit the pin reset button just to watch pins reset.  Hit. Reset. Hit. Reset.  A modern marvel to a child of the Baby Boom Era. A perfect bowling score.

There is a 1950s style scorekeeper’s desk complete with an ashtray. Who kept score? Only serious bowlers. We kept rolling bowling balls until something made contact. I was never a serious bowler; a social bowler. A birthday party bowler. King of the gutter ball.

When I was an undergraduate at Boston College, I returned to Fairways with friends. One of my friends from the Midwest exclaimed, “What. No beer? What kind of a bowling alley is this?”

I replied, “A sober one?”

Fairways  attracts families, groups of friends, church groups, veterans, leagues, and was perfect for couples on a double date.

Fairways is well lit. Warm in winter. Cool in summer. One of its post World War II charm? Air conditioning.

A close neighborhood friend read me an article in the Boston Globe noting the closing of Fairways. She dug the article out of her newspaper recycling  bag just for me to read.   I felt stunned to learn of Fairways demise. A sign of the times. Who bowls anymore when you can sit in front of  a laptop and play virtual checkers, bowl, or kill aliens with someone in Uzbekistan? In the end, the article noted the high cost of heating and  cooling the mammoth 26+ lane alley.  Wasn’t this a reason–warmth and cold—that attracted customers in the first place?

Fairways is a pristine example of 1950s architecture. It is emblematic of the post World War II era. Two friends chimed in. Where are local, state, and/or national historic societies to save Fairways? Bill Gates. Steven Spiegelberg. Where are you? Be white knights and please rescue Fairways in Natick, Massachusetts. You can bowl for free…….

At my neighbor’s house, we mimicked each other……..they way we use to bowl at Fairways. Legs spread wide. Two hands on the ball. A pendulum swing, back, then forward. With a jerking motion, we would  project (throw) the bowling ball down the lane. Roll baby, roll.

Strike!

Noooooooooooo.

ANOTHER gutter ball.

Try again. Who is keeping score?

I am in a way.

I can count on two hands the number of buildings being knocked down or going out of business from an era when America freshly defeated fascism—and a communist lurked under every bed. Our national social and architectural heritage is being destroyed with each tick of the clock.

 I want to toss one last gutter ball at Fairways before it closes.

 Please.

Pretty please?

That ball is going, going……………………………gone.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Mothers give unconditional love.

Mothers are the best listeners in the universe.

Mothers allow you to bring frogs and ants home, then remind you to release frogs and ants back to nature.

Mothers strategically place band-aids where it hurts, even if there is no cut.

Mothers bake the best chocolate chip cookies.

Mothers are often overworked, undervalued, and often give more love than they receive in return.

Mothers deserve  flowers, chocolates,  and nap time.

Flowers, chocolates, and nap time are often illusive and never arrive at the door.

Mothers think of others often ahead of themselves.

Mothers are sympathetic and empathetic to those in need–even outside their family circle.

Mothers are rock solid. Unflappable in the face of adversity.

Oh, the adversity my mother has  faced in her 80- plus years!

She still has a song in her heart, a smile on her face, and kind words to strangers.

Women make this world a better place.

To all  mothers who read my posts…………Happy Mother’s Day.

To all women, I celebrate you today.

Take that delicious nap.

 Feel no guilt about  the concept of  “me time.”

Wear those pink fluffy slippers.  Don’t care if the doorbell rings.  Answer it wearing the whole regalia…….rag-tag robe AND pink fluffy slippers.

 Be yourself—–not what others want you to be.

Brendan Ben Feeney

 My thoughts turn to you, Tobias Wong, on this on this sunny day in California. I wish you were here to enjoy this magnificent day, exploring the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, with me.

I was made aware of Tobias Wong’s artwork/design-work by a friend in the New York art world. When describing Mr. Wong’s Dadaistic work, she became animated and expressive. “You HAVE TO see Tobi’s work. It’s one-of-a-kind. It takes aim at materialism, consumerism, the drug scene, functionality, form,  architecture, design, the environment, and all of society’s ‘isms.'” 

 I begin my journey in search of Tobias Wong.

I discover a photograph of Mr. Wong’s street installation piece. He filled plastic bags with air and pinned them on a homemade portable display pole.

What is he selling ?

 Dreams for $1. I write it again………..plastic bags filled with air. They are Mr. Wong’s version of dreams.

Dreams are illusive. Dreams are fast fleeting like a comet streaking across the night sky. Dreams are difficult to remember; to nail down. I want to know more about my dreams, yet I’m unable to do so. This causes friction and frustration.

Tobias sold dreams on New York streets. To me, this is a happy thought. This is how I think of you, Tobias.  Happy…. selling dreams as New Yorkers fail to pay attention to a brilliant mind amongst their presence.  A missed opportunity. Their loss.

I want to purchase a dream. My wallet is open. George Washington appears faded, green, crumpled, and grumpy. I imagine handing over my hard-earned buck to Tobias. I now own a dream. It’s tangible. It’s art.

A chair that lights up? Chairs are not suppose to illuminate. They are functional. Something to plunk your ass down into, crash, sit, and/or chill out. Tobias’ chair looks so inviting–and uninviting. I do not want to be the center of attention. The true me is shy. I do not want to glow.  I just want to read, dangle my right leg over the arm of a chair, fall asleep, read the Tufts University alumni magazine, or simply vegetate.  Tobias makes us think of every day objects in different ways and push us towards new realms of thinking. I like that.   Way-to-go, Tobias! You broke the mold–and left the mold in shards—-scattered across the wooden floor of a patron’s swanky million dollar Manhattan loft.

You took on corporate America with your gold plated coffee stirrer. Tobias bedazzled it with real gold. Ah…the golden arches.

A coffee stirrer is a bland, mundane plastic artifact of daily life. Mr. Wong ramped-it-up five levels andmade us aware that a simple pop culture artifact was a staple of the undergroundnd drug scene. Just like Marcel Duchamp, you took an overlooked artifact and leave us in a wake of thought. If this were a crit in art school, students would get it. We would clap and say, “right on.”  To those not familiar with Dada, most would scratch their heads and say, “What the #&%?”

Ah, Tobias’ smoking gloves.

Smoking is banned indoors in most places. Tobias, did you design your smoking gloves to be  fashioninable and cool–  or to keep you from the cold while smoking outdoors? Designing these gloves made me think of marketing 101 at Boston College. See a void. Fill it. Get rich. Laugh all the way to the bank.

Smoking gloves. Be seen smoking with Wong smoking gloves while possibly coming down with emphysema or lung cancer! Why do I sense George Carlin would have  latched on to this concept–and turned it into a comedy sketch?

To me, your sterling  silver encapsulated pills are the apex of your artistic brilliance.

Pop 1 silver pill. Take 2–they are small. Hell, take an handful. Mother’s little helpers go down easy with vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon. 

As a society, we have a pill for most ailments.  Americans tend to like pills.  We produce and consume trillions of  pills.

Sad? Pop a pill. Ache? Pop a pill. Have acne? Pop a pill. Gas? Reach for pills. Having trouble with your wee wee? Pop a pill. Have nothing better to do? Pop a pill.

Pills. Pills. And more pills.

We all want to think we are special. Egalitarianism is a myth. Strike that. Egalitarianism is a lie. We all think our poop smells like roses, yet Tobias created a conduit to make our poop glitter with sterling silver. Was Mr. Wong trying to make us think that my poop is more valuable than YOUR poop?

 My poop glitters……………. does YOURS?   I shit silver! What do YOU shit? Plain brown?

Feel the put-down? Ouch.   

Tobias, when I heard you took your life I instantly felt sick to my stomach. The word is taboo yet I will write it in bold type.  SUICIDE. 

Anyone who has lost a friend, loved-one, family member, or acquaintance to suicide knows the emotional pain felt by those left behind. I want questions answered. With suicide, questions linger. WHY????  How could this have happened?  We may never know why.

Tobias,  you were much loved and admired for your work.

Back to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

I exit the 2nd floor of the Museum of Modern Art where several of Tobias Wong’s works are currently displayed.

I soooooooo want you to be by my side at this moment in time.

I envision we come across a docent tour. We stand in the back  listening  intently to the tour guide speak about your work. When it comes time for  questions, I leap outside our imaginary baseball on-deck circle. I’m up at first at bat.

“What was Mr. Wong THINKING  when he created this—thing? *&%$!  GD!!!!! This is &%$@! I’ don’t get it!”

Tobias. Your turn. Chime in. Work with me…………

“Yeah, what the *&%$!!! Is he on crack? You call this art? *&#%!”

 We leave the group and exit towards the stainless steel elevators. The same  shiny doors I once shot a self portrait that hangs on the wall, of the summer home, of one of my patrons.  We ride the elevator to the 5th floor– laughing only when  the doors close tight. 

We are now upstairs at the indoor/outdoor sculpture garden and cafe.  We have an espresso and split a slice of mocha cake while chatting about LB’shumongous spider sculpture. We kick back in a well designed modern chair. We chat about design, the Red Sox, not knowing all the words to the Canadian anthem, San Francisco bathed in fog, New York at night, The Blue Lagoon in Iceland,  the art projects we are currently working on, and the lack of affordable studio space for artists.

Oh, Tobias. How you would have loved this sun-drenched day in San Francisco.

Dada master.

Canadian who made it in Manhattan.

Though provoker.

Artist/designer  who now floats above us in a bed of dream-like clouds. 

$1  per dream.

Sleep in heavenly peace, amongst your clouds, Tobi.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Sleep.

Brendan Ben Feeney

Happy Earth Day to All!

I’m in San Francisco,  California, USA to celebrate the city’s green heritage, shoot film, still photography, and look at the optimistic side of a world gone environmentally wacky as each moment passes. Here I go. Let’s celebrate Earth Day with a Brendan Ben Feeney Across-Stick.

Earth Day! I extend thanks to Senator Gaylord Nelson and Denis Hayes. 1970 feels like yesterday. You had an idea and brought it to fruition. As we sing in church…”Sing oh happy morning, we sing age-to-age…”

Air. Clean air. Thank you American Lung Association, those who worked for the passage of the Clean Air Act, and hard working people who push daily for tougher emissions standards.

Rethinking energy. To the people of Iceland–love your geothermal energy! Love your green country.

The tall trees of Muir Woods. Dusk and dawn are my favorite times to roam the forest.Cape Cod National Seashore Park.  Dawn and dusk are my favorite times to roam. Thank you John F. Kennedy for establishing this national treasure.

Hip, hip, ho-rah for John Muir— writer, activist, sage, and visionary.

Dedicated community activists. As Robert Kennedy noted it takes one ripple, like when a drop of water strikes a larger pool of water, to start the dynamic of change.

And chemical companies called Rachael Carson a kook; a woman off her rocker. Rachel, if it were not for you…. Spring 2011 would be silent.  I hang a Tibetan prayer flag in your honor today.

Yosemite National Park. Yellowstone National Park. Arcadia National Park. All the national parks. State Parks. Community open spaces.

Earth. Air. Wind. Peace to all.

Brendan Ben Feeney

No.

It’s not what you are thinking.

Randy. Steven Tyler. Jennifer Lopez. Some other new guy. What’s-his-face? Oh. I almost forgot. Ryan Seacrest.

I am writing about Rex Trailer.  Rex is MY American Idol.

If one grew up in Boston during the later years of the Baby Boom era, you know Rex Trailer.

To adults my age who came of age during the late 1960s, Rex Trailer was a god-like figure. He was a local television legend; a cowboy hero. The Rex Trailer Show was broadcast once a week–in black and white. If you want to get all Ivy-League about it , The Rex Trailer Show fell under the heading of  “Children’s Programming.”  Decoded. Attractive to advertisers who sell sugar coated breakfast cereal with flimsy toys hiding at the bottom of the box. Mr. Trailer also ran a side travel business taking kids to “sunny California.” 

My parents would not let me travel with Rex. We went on family vacations in our 1960 white Ford station wagon–the size of Manhattan. I was not disappointed about not being allowed to travel with a TV cowboy. It was a posse of obnoxious rich kids who signed up to travel with Rex to the original Disney Land.  I never went to Rodent World until I was 32. I was not impressed.  Am I un-American for writing this?

Rex’s television show was not broadcast on Channel 2. Channel 2 is Boston’s Public Broadcasting Service affiliate. Channel 2 is educational TV. A station for egg-heads. Intellectuals. I came of age before that big yellow bird, with whacked out feet, hatched at Bostons’ Channel 2.  The “Channel 2  set” would NEVER let  a faux cowboy grace their airwaves. This was the time when Boston only had 3 major TV stations–and “that” station (Channel 2) with tons of British programming and a former spy with a cooking show, who baked French souffles and sipped a lot of wine on air. Julia something?

Back in 1968 one  had to turn the TV dial by hand. Cable? That was something you sent to France. A clicker? That was a tough girl from Dorchester chewing bubble gum.

 Looking back with nostalgia, The Rex Trailer Show was mind candy. Fluff. An urban cowboy. Did it occur to me at age 8 that a cowboy in Boston is like a lobster in Montana? Sounds like an old SAT analogy question (that I flunked).

To me, Rex Trailer was the real deal. A rider on the open range. (More like a commuter on Boston’s Southeast Expressway.)  He was statuesque and telegenic. He wore a big ass cowboy hat.  I imagined cow dung clung to the the bottom of his pointed leather cowboy boots. The opening of Rex Trailer show was the hook. Rex rode a muscular horse through the Massachusetts countryside to a song  titled Hoof Beats. The landscape where Rex rode in the 1960s is now Suburban sprawl. One now finds strip malls. There convenience stores that sell purple Slurpees and cheesy out-of-code/date tuna subs with wilted lettuce.

Rex rode past the famous Mary Martha Chapel. So what if this was an prissy iconic white New England church. It was still the American West to me.  In 1968, anything behind my backyard, to the left, was “the West.”

A hallmark of the show was the posse line-up. Rex would select one very, very, very, very lucky member of the audience to watch for, and identify a person chosen in advance as an outlaw. This  imposter joined a line up. This line up was a movable shake down. The posse walked pass  the lucky kid whose job was to rat out the impostor. I think if this kid successfully identified the outlaw he or she won a big prize.  A bike? A baseball mitt? A box of Space Food Sticks?  …………….Did I mention that if you were the posse outlaw picker, you were very, very, very lucky. I must remember envy is one of the 7 deadly sins preached at Sunday School. I flunked Sunday School. I was told I looked out the window too much.

In graduate school I took Research Methods and Statistical  Analysis. I passed with flying colors because I knew one formula.  The Rex Trailer show came at a time when Baby Boom children like myself were like ants on a Hostess Twinkie. You could not go ANYWHEWRE without lines of kids or crowds of families, driven in their Manhattanesque station wagons. Baby Boom = lots of kids vying for the same goodies. Demand outpaced supply. Numbers are finite. In this case,  what was in short supply were  tickets to appear live on The Rex Trailer Show. To obtain a coveted ticket to appear on  The Rex Trailer show was like getting a ticket to ride tethered to Sputnik. It was not going to happen. I had to settle for viewing my hero on our black and white TV, lying on our mod living room floor.

Tewnty years later. Cut to the chase.

 I am an adjunct professor at Emerson College. Emerson College is known for broadcast journalism, business communication, creative writing, film, acting, speech & language pathology,  and television  production. I walk  into the faculty mail-room to get memos and student papers out of my facility mailbox. I turn to the left. A tall telegenic man wearing a cowboy hat is also getting his mail. We are reading the same memo about grade submission.

I drop the memo and freeze.

 I was going to crap my pants. 

The REAL Rex Trailer is standing next to me.

What do I say?

 “You were was my idol back in 1968?”

 Do I say, “Howdy, Rex!”

 That’s lame and rude.

What about, “Pickin’ up your mail, partner?”

No way.

Should I say, “I was your biggest, biggest, biggest, gagunda  fan when I was 8 years old. Here. Sign my  grade policy memo.”

I just made a simple dip-of-the-chin gesture. Rex made the same gesture in return.

It was 1968 all over again at  the Emerson College faculty mail-room.

I was listening to WBZ Radio, AM 1030 last night. Dan Rey, the host of a live talk show titled “Night Side” mentioned he was at a charity event over the weekend and Rex Trailer was in attendance. Mr. Rey noted Rex turned 91.

91!

My childhood cowboy hero is 91? OMG!

Age is timeless. So too are television cowboys and childhood heroes.

Rex, if you read this, I want to say I really, really, really wanted to be on your show. The law of statistical averages were NOT on my side. I liked Pablo. I liked Sargent Billy. However,  YOU were the show. You were my American idol.

Want to hear me sing Hoof Beats? Oh, there is a second song from the TV show. Boom. Boom Boomtown! I know every word. I bet I can sing it in Icelandic or German if I practice like a good buckaroo.

Let’s not…………..and say I did.

Brendan Ben Feeney