The End

The depression and anxiety attacks have taken their toll. I no longer, well, I haven't had any love of any sort at home for almost 20 years. I wish I could start a new life but my health stands squarely in my path and leaves almost no choice. I've pretty much had it. My stomach is in constant knots and I feel like there is someone or something screaming to get out. Screaming and clawing and I am exhausted from fighting it. I really have no place to go, so I've packed a small backpack and a few key items of my life including my tattered and much-loved copy of "Catcher in the Rye". I slipped out the backdoor like a thief into the night. Tears stream down my face as I picture my boy, Jack the dog, sleeping peacefully. My soft footsteps kick up debris as I trudge down the road.

An empty train station is no place to try and compose yourself at 3AM, so I stand and wait for, I guess, the first commuter train of the day. I quit smoking years ago, but I have never craved one more than right now. It would play hell with my lungs but it might calm my stomach down. Plenty of time to think as the dawn starts to break. It's always lonely and fucking cold early in the day. I'm shivering, my face streaked with tears, I must look quite pleasant with my swollen eyes and gaunt complexion, if I'm not careful I might get tossed from the train for looking like a vagrant.

The train was warm, at least. It was almost totally empty and I sat with my hands clasped just staring at them. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to do. One thing I did know, was I wasn't coming back again.

I got the key to the highway

Packed and bound to go

I'm gonna leave here runnin'

Walkin' is much too slow

Yup, gotta learn that song on my resonator before I leave this earth. That was the one thing of consequence I took with me besides my harps. It's like dyin' with your boots on, I wasn't goin' down without 'em.

The Newark station was empty and depressing as hell. A couple of homeless folks slept under newspapers on a couple of benches. I made note of what section of the paper was covering them, lest I need some warmth in the future. I purchased a seat on the Denver bound Greyhound, intending to jump ship at Goodland, KS. I knew I'd have plenty of time to think about what the fuck was so great about Goodland. First off, I'd passed by it thumbing my way West a couple dozen times and 2nd it was so far out on the prairie I could stand in a wheat field stark naked and no one would probably notice, perfect. So began a couple of days' jaunt that would take me smack dab down I 70, a road I probably knew better than any other.

The wheels on the bus go round and round

I used to listen to my baby granddaughter sing that song. There were no cute babies on this bus, to be sure, it was maybe 1/2 filled with a conglomerate of poorer than most senior citizens. Poor bastards, this country sure did right by them. While I was here by design, these folks had little to no choice. We bumped and wheezed over the road stopping in every podunk town along the way. If you want to get a look, and I mean a good look at the real America, this is your best bet. Most of the towns were 1/2 closed down it seemed, with blank movie house marquees tired old cafes, and of course corporate America's answer to paradise, 7-11, Dunkin Donuts, and a McDonalds. Loads and loads of pork and unhealthy flab wandering around. The bus pulled back onto the highway, I leaned in towards the window and then noticed something scrawled on the seat in front of me

Fuck You

Most of the music I owned was stored safely inside my head and I hummed to myself as we rolled along. I'm sure my 2000 + CD and LP collection were at this point scattered to the four winds or in an old dumpster somewhere, such was my tired old life.

I wrote a poem once about chicken and dumplings in Abilene, Kansas, and after the bus parked I went in search of some. "Drake's Bakery" seemed like a good place as any and as I entered I saw that I was correct. Even though it was still fairly early the place was almost filled with farmer types settled in for their morning grub and cup of mud, "jackpot" I thought as I sat at a counter stool. Soon I was treated to something far better than chicken and dumplings if that was possible, a big plate filled with biscuits and sausage gravy. That's the way to go if you're going to croak from being an obese but poor old man. I went to wash up after breakfast and looked at myself in the mirror. "Jesus, I look like pure shit" my frazzled brain spat out at me. Bags under my eyes, a 2-day stubble of snow-white whiskers, and a look in my eyes that told me I was nearer the end. Where was the beginning? I wept as I realized what the fuck I was doing, I had come here, at least in another day, to breathe my last on this earth. Not a religious man, I prayed for my children, grandchildren, and wife, that they would not suffer too much from my cowardly act. I saw no other way out.

*This is getting too dark, even for me. Suffice it to say there are only 2 logical (?) endings for this twisted saga. 1) I get to Goodland, KS., check in to a Motel 6, purchase a gun in town, wait for the paperwork to go through, pick up the gun, load it, and stroll to the field between the Motel and the Interstate, face the setting sun and blow my brains out. 2) Same as above only instead of suicide I fire 6 shots in the air, and the police come and find me in a crumpled sobbing state, long story short I wind up in a psych unit in Topeka, Ks. From there it just becomes a story of shadows and phantoms. I just don't have the nerve to finish the story, if you want to know the truth. 

The above story does have a few truths in it, however, after 35 years of marriage my wife and I are in damn good shape, all things considered.

I Could've Had Religion (WNCR Cleveland Radio Session / 1973)

The Prodigal Son

The Age of Grub Hub

This used to be a quiet neighborhood, with lots of kids having fun, block parties. yards kept neat and clean, you know, pride. That notion has gone the way of covered wagons and Howard Johnson's restaurants. As folks have retired and moved away and other friends have left this mortal coil, they have been replaced by a new breed of neighbor, the ones that don't give a rat's shit about anything, especially the upkeep of their property. I am now surrounded by 3 houses, all rental properties which are run by no account slum lords. Roofs covered with moss, yards filled with weeds have become a stomping ground for all sorts of chipmunks, possums, and raccoons. I sit on my patio with a bottle of "Devils Cut" Jim Beam and a war surplus flame thrower and try my valiant best to keep them at bay. It's a losing battle. 

The purpose of this rant was I just noticed yet another Grub Hub delivery to my neighbor across the street. They get all their meals this way and it's hard to imagine who the hell is living there, it's either a pack of deranged meth heads or the last remaining visage of Marjorie Taylor-Greene's "America First" build the wall fan club. Either way, no one inside can be more than a portly pile of hardened arteries swimming in a sea of styrofoam take-out containers. I'll keep an eye out and let you know.

And They Called It Puppy Love

 Well, it had to happen eventually, sooner or later the Gods would intervene and I would be allowed to once again broadcast my show. Years ago I disappeared from the airwaves due to situations beyond my control. in the ensuing time my mentor, Joe, has worked feverishly to patch things together once again. Now, without further interruptions, Harmonica Joe's Back Porch is being re-launched at 7PM EST Sundays & Tuesdays. The format will be the same, that is, Blues sprinkled with a healthy dose of "Roots", "Country" (Alt, Bakersfield, Honkey Tonk), and classic Rock.

DreamStreamRadio.com is the place to tune in for this smorgasbord of good music and a cheesy, so-so radio host.

When I first heard the Blues it certainly was puppy love. I had acquired a harmonica earlier that summer from a dude I met during a road trip from Jersey up towards Montreal. He showed me a few tricks and presented me with a Hohner Marine Band, key of D. I didn't know much about the Blues except the tunes that came out of British rock bands, who revered the format. 

My puppy love blossomed into a full-blown lust festival. The first time I heard a Muddy Waters album and heard the amazing sound of Paul Butterfield on harmonica, well, there was no going back. You'll hear that love on my show twice a week. If you have a moment, tune in, I would certainly appreciate it!

Please note that currently, as of April 1, I am on a short sabbatical, mostly searching for edible cannabis and Devil's Cut Bourbon. You see I need these things in order to operate smoothly and in a coherent manner. Things are coming together soon. Check my shows' FaceBook page "Harmy's Back Porch", adios til then.

 Baseball and the Blues

After all, that's the name of the blog, ain't it? Well, there are bills as well. However, I'm loathed to speak of that subject, mostly because I see the creditors peeping through the blinds and furiously setting their Robo callers to my phone number.

When covid first reared its despicable face, I decided to retreat back to my childhood for just a bit. The '60s as a kid were a pretty safe time as I remember so why not drop back by for a spell? I was already ensconced in comic books, and have been for years. However, on a trip to my local shop, I spied something I had not seen in at least fifty-plus years. Packs of brand-spanking new baseball cards stared up at me through the glass counter. Something was very wrong though, where I had paid a nickel a pack all those years ago, the price now appeared to be four dollars a pack! Not only that, you got far fewer cards per pack and NO fucking gum. What the fuck?! I caved and bought a pack.

Another big difference between now and then is the sheer number of different cards and sets of cards. Not only in baseball but basketball and football AND hockey as well. There once was 1 set of cards for the season, stretching from early May to early September, probably 500 cards in all. That was it. If you didn't get the first few numbers in the series by early June, you were just plain out of luck.

I cannot believe how many different sets of baseball cards there are right now. Only 2 companies exist at this time, Topps and Panini. In the late '80s, there were at least 6 that I can remember. Those were the days when yuppies first realized you could turn a quick buck investing in old cards. After all, everyone's mom threw 'em out, so with that mindset, the card companies churned out millions of cards to meet the high demand. What resulted was the "Junk Wax" era. These days, complete sets of cards from this time frame are cheap as dirt, think "junk bonds" and the crash of '87 and you'll get the idea.

There is a boatload of guys like me out there who started collecting again due to the same reasons mentioned above. This has resulted in an all-out war between grown men all scrambling to retrieve cards to resell on eBay and other sites. Fast money means cruel tactics. Even the media has begun reporting after the Target chain discontinued sales due to a strong-arming incident at one of their stores where a gun was pulled and the entire area went into lockdown. When the going gets weird, the weird resort to violence. This can also be seen as a commentary on our society as the "Trump Populist" movement gathers steam and barrels through the heartland picking up all sorts of obese cowboys and Lynyrd Skynryd Confederate flag wavers. Myself, I politely step to one side and let the inevitable death juggernaut steam on by. card collecting reminds me of a great time in my life, a time when all that really mattered was what I was going to spend my$.25 allowance on. 

All you fucking angry midgets can stay out of the playground! 

To wit: 

and this is just a small sample of stuff thus far released in 2021

 No Shave November

It lasted a total of two days before I caved. The stress of nothing but snow-white whiskers, the itch, and the continuing ballot-counting became too much to bear. One thing that came out of this election that I can get behind was the legalization of grass in NJ, I didn't believe I'd live to see the day. Of course, by the time one is finally able to step into a store and purchase some product may be quite a while. In the meanwhile, I will continue to survive on opiates and generous amounts of Makers Mark. After this hideous example of America doing its duty at the polls, I am more convinced than ever that I need to seriously hole up with a powerful blast of internet speed, several large-sized vials of percocet, and a couple of cases of bourbon. The percocet was no problem in scoring across the mighty Passaic River in downtown Patterson. The brothers are happy to oblige an aging, unbalanced white man with a ponytail screaming rhetoric from Malcolm X. The bourbon, that's a sick and twisted saga of ignorance and injustice.

I was speaking of No-Shave November, got sidetracked a bit, which is way easy to do these days when my gelatin-like brain, living on little sleep, lots of caffeine, and otherwise the last ounces of adrenaline I can muster, are being fully used trying to make sense of what this country is going through. Not since the Civil War has this country been so divided and as one historian put it, I believe Shelby Foot,'The Civil War is still being fought today and we are still in danger of losing it". Naturally, all this really means is that the hacks and bag men who used to slither about in the halls of Congress are now front and center howling about Socialism like a crazed lunatic on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue.  Meanwhile, in the deepest bunker of the "Peoples House", President Trump, his legitimate and illegitimate offspring along with bat shit crazy Mayor Rudy are hunkered down taking maddening swipes at anyone who dares enter with anything but good news. One staffer is quoted as saying "The President reminds me of a rabid cornered wolverine protecting her young at all costs". Grim.

So, No Shave November continues on with nothing left but the ashes of a country which once was, a case of bourbon which is now severely low, and a pile of 2020 Baseball cards that still need to be categorized.