Boy on Bike vs Car (Memoir #4)

Baseball 001_2 (3)As a kid in the 1950s, I lived in the small village of New Carlisle, Ohio. It wasn’t precisely Pleasantville, but darn close. Like a lot of young boys back then, I played little league baseball. My position was catcher, and I did a fair job at it. The ball fields where we played and practiced were just outside the city limits, past the grain elevator, and across the railroad tracks, less than a couple of miles from our home.

The speed limit for cars in New Carlisle was 35 mph, but as soon as you crossed those railroad tracks, it jumped to 55 mph. Teenagers had drawn a line across State Highway 571 at that spot because it was exactly a 1/4 mile flat straightaway to the leading edge of the bridge that crossed Honey Creek. Most drivers, even if they weren’t drag racing, hit the pedal when they crossed that line.

I would ride my bike, a three-speed Schwinn, to and from practice and the games every day in the summertime. This particular day, I rode through town, crossed the tracks, and as I got close, turned my bike to the left to cross State Highway 571 and down onto the gravel road that led to the practice field.

I usually cleared myself before crossing the road, but my head must have been in the clouds because I didn’t look back until I was a third of the way across. Bearing down on me was a car close enough to make the grill appear like grinning death. The driver must not have seen me either because he did not slow down.

I stood up on my pedals and pumped for all I was worth. My burst of speed probably saved my life because the car narrowly missed my leg but still slammed into the back tire of my bike. The collision threw me into the air. Instinctively, I tucked into a ball, did one rotation, and came crashing down, tumbling through the ditch next to the highway–I had no protection because it was the fifties–nobody wore headgear or pads.

The driver, a young man, probably in his thirties, slammed on his brakes, pulled over to the side of the road, and ran back to me. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you until the last minute. I am so sorry.”

I had picked myself up out of the gravel where I had landed and brushed off the dust and the small sharp stones partially embedded in my legs and arms. I had several cuts and scratches but didn’t break anything. “I’m okay.”

The man insisted we file an accident report with the police, so he picked up what was left of my destroyed bike and put it in his trunk. I climbed in the car beside him, and we drove back into town (remember it was a more innocent time back then). We both made statements (I kept assuring everyone I felt fine), and then the man (sorry, I don’t remember his name) drove me back to the ball field, gave me $25 cash to replace my bike, and drove off.

I told the coach what had happened and said that I was okay and ready to practice. He said, put on your catcher gear, and so, I did.

This is not quite the end of the story.

While still at the ball field, my mother gets a phone call from the police asking if I had come home yet, was I still feeling okay, and what did she want them to do with my mangled bicycle?

She said, “What are you talking about?”

And the cop said, “Your son got hit by a car.”

I imagine she gasped a little at this point. “Where is he now?”

And the cop says, “He left here in the car of the guy that hit him. I think he was taking him back to baseball practice.”

“Don’t you know?” I never heard my mother curse, but I imagine the cop got an earful of angry shouts about how could they let me get in a car with a stranger and just drive off like that.

Keep in mind there were no cell phones at this time, and certainly no pay phones at the ball field, so she had no way to check on my whereabouts or well being. We only owned one car, and my dad had it at work in Dayton, so other than walking the two miles to where I might be, she had to pace the floor, hoping I was okay and would show up unharmed after practice.

When I walked in the front door (coach gave me a ride), I received a rollercoaster of emotions–happiness, anger, frustration, and concern. Mother reminded me that this was the second time I had almost given her a heart attack. (For the first time, see Memoir #2). I said, “sorry,” and that was that until my dad came home from work and I had to repeat the story once more.

Upper Respiratory Infection

Here’s an excerpt from my novel Drafted about catching a virus in the Army and how they dealt with it…

*   *   *

Sarah started her day the same as she always did since becoming an Army nurse. Up at the crack of dawn, a quick shower, then after donning her crisp, white nurse’s uniform, she drove her permanently assigned (it’s good to know people in high places) jeep to the base hospital, arriving at oh-eight-hundred hours.

Just inside the entrance, she grimaced at the hand-colored picture of the stern-faced base commander, General Herbert Wolf, with his pencil-thin mustache, hanging next to a photograph of the commander-in-chief, President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Sarah hurried across the black and white square tiles, past the functional plain gray walls, until she reached the elevator, which she took to the sixth-floor nurses’ station.

She signed in, picked up her chart, and began her morning rounds, starting with sickbay. Military procedure calls for all soldiers, even if dying, to get up when revelry sounded at oh-six-hundred hours, make their hospital bed, and then sit in the hard wooden chair beside it until the doctor or nurse showed up at oh-nine-hundred hours. It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t have to…this was the Army.

Sarah picked up a tray with a bottle of aspirin and several small paper cups filled with pink Kool-Aid and entered the “upper respiratory infection” ward. She got her usual amount of whistles and woo woos. “Okay, boys, you all behave now.” She turned away so they couldn’t see her smile, secretly pleased that her package could still deliver.

The soldiers each wore a blue hospital pajama bottom and a white T-shirt with his last name stenciled in black letters on the front. Sarah handed each one, in turn, an aspirin and a cup of pink panther piss–the affectionate name given by the patients to the administered Cool-aid drink.

“What’s the chance of getting some penicillin or antibiotic, darling?” One soldier asked.
“Slim to none,” said Sarah. “You soldiers will be just fine.” She drew out the word “fine” at the end, which gave away her birth state of Georgia, although she hadn’t lived there for more than ten years now. It didn’t make much sense to Sarah to keep forty men locked up in one big room with no ventilation, coughing on each other like crazy, and spreading germs. Still, she accepted it as hospital policy, along with not distributing any penicillin.

The doctor arrived just after Sarah completed her rounds. He started his examinations with the first soldier on the right side of the room. While the man held up his T-shirt, the physician listened to his breathing with a stethoscope. If the Doc heard a raspy sound, he’d pronounce, “One more day of bed rest.” If the lungs sounded clear, he’d say, “back to duty.”

The fifth soldier being examined by the doctor leaned close and whispered, “Doc, you have to get me out of here or get me some penicillin. I am going to die in this crappy room unless I can get away from all these sick people and get some rest.” He slipped a twenty-dollar bill into the doctor’s pocket.

The doctor smiled and announced, “Nurse, have this soldier released with a three-day pass.” The other patients moaned in envy as the happy soldier ran out the door, shouting, “I’m free! I’m free!”

Doc finished up and hurried out the door, nurturing the hope of another round of golf before night fell or the fall weather turned nasty. Sarah gathered up all the empty cups in a plastic bag and tossed them down a trash chute just outside the ward entrance, and then headed back to the nurse’s station to write up the morning report. Free car, free housing, surrounded by single men, and they still pay me every month. Nope, not a bad life at all.

 *  *  *

Broadway 1969

Hooker hours in the glowing night
Shocking colors scream for your attention
Dollars down for anticipated delight
Bare bulbs and peeling wallpaper

Striped legs dangling from below
Exposing velvet thighs that call
Girls that say no in the day
Become night prey from alcohol

Flashcubes blind starry eyes
Floating bosoms dance to the beat
Bag ladies roll their carts along
While pigeons decorate Mr. Cohan

Lulu glows above selling sneeze control
While gay applause rings out at Liza’s debut
The Great White Way reports the Times
Just swallowed another Jersey tourist

Such a life here, not all can lead
Though many willingly pay the price
It’s a lover’s leap to any other street
But a lost Broadway dream can steal your soul

Homebound Diary

virusOfficials in an attempt to stop the spread of the coronavirus have shutdown many public places like restaurants, clubs, theaters, bowling alleys, beaches and suggested no gatherings of more than ten people and even then you must maintain a distance of six feet apart. Now we have been asked to remain in our homes for a period of two to six weeks.

This is one person’s imaginary, hopefully funny, accounting of that experience…

Day One:         Not so bad. I’m getting a paid day off work. There are lots of things to do around here. Maybe I’ll clean the garage.

Day Two:        Forget the garage. I’m binge-watching all eight seasons of Game of Thrones.

Day Three:      No new sports in three days. They canceled the NBA and March Madness. I never got to fill out a bracket. Just noticed a woman sitting next to me on the couch; turned out to be my wife.

Day Four:        Counted the floor tiles in the kitchen twice. Two are missing. Number one suspect is my neighbor.

Day Five:        Experts predict a baby boom in nine months. It would take a hell of a man to accomplish that when you have to stay six feet apart.

Day Six:          Doctors recommend meditation to alleviate the stress of dealing with the impact of the virus on our lives. I’ve been doing that for years, but I call it “afternoon nap.”

Day Seven:      Run out of food, so I must venture forth. It’s recommended you should wear a mask, so I’m going as Freddy Krueger. That should shake ‘em up at the supermarket.

Day Eight:       Had an interesting conversation with the dog today; she has a fantastic grasp of Plato’s teachings.

Day Nine:        Starting to hallucinate…keep seeing hoards of Democrats chasing me, trying to shake my hand…

Day Ten:         Today, I invented a new variation of the Kevin Bacon game…Six Feet of Separation.

Day 11:           Stores out of toilet paper. I had to put a two-sheet limit for each visit to the bathroom and confine peeing to the shower or backyard. Don’t ask.

Day 12:           Organized the spices in the pantry in alphabetical order. I ordered a new bottle of wattleseed from Amazon. They say the estimated delivery would be 2024. Throwing out all recipes that call for wattleseed. Discovered I don’t have any recipes that need wattleseed.

Day 13:           Stores out of meat. Shot a moose today for food, but the antlers are preventing me from putting it in the freezer. Guess we will have to barbeque the whole thing.

Day 14:           Cable TV went out. The Internet is down. Read all my books twice. We are reduced to doing charades of Gilligan’s Island episodes.

Day 15:           Looking forward to the end of home isolation, so I can participate in the annual community May Pole celebration and dance. TV is back on. Waiting for the Governor’s announcement…

To be continued?

 

 

Bunk Bed Disaster (Memoir #3)

When I was about thirteen and my brother, Bill, six, we shared a room in my parents’ house. To save space in this average-sized room, so we each could have a desk/set of drawers for our stuff, they bought us a bunk bed. In the early ’60s, our simply constructed bunk bed had a wood frame, two mattresses, and a ladder. There were no guard rails, and the top bed sat right over the bottom bed, held up by two adjustable metal slats with double metal hooks on each end that embedded into the wooden frame.

My dad used to travel a lot in his civilian job as an aeronautical engineer at Wright Patterson Air Force Base (WPAFB). He would fly out to the various plane manufacturers such as Boeing, McDonald Douglas, Lockheed Martin, and Northrop Grumman to work with them on the design and construction of military aircraft.

One night when he was out of town, I prepared for bed as usual, around 10 pm. My younger brother lay in the lower bunk already asleep; my mother in her room. I took off my glasses and turned off the light. Being all of 13 years old, I felt the ladder to the top bunk represented a “kid’s way” of getting into bed.

My method consisted of running across the room, springing off the bottom bunk, and launching myself into bed. What I did not know was my violent method had been driving those twin metal hooks deeper and deeper into the wood, effectively splitting the frame to the point of being unable to hold up the top bunk.

On this night, the frame gave way, the end slat swung down, like a pendulum, and the top bunk fell. Luckily, the metal slat holding up the left side of the upper bed held, saving my sleeping brother from being crushed. I walked across the floor to retrieve my glasses, turn on the light, and survey the damage. For some reason, my bare feet kept sticking to the wood floor.

With the light back on, I could see the top bunk bed resting on the bottom bed like the hypotenuse of a right angle, just beyond my brother’s feet. The crash had woken him, and I yelled at him to get out of bed quickly because the head of the top bunk could give away at any minute. He ran to my side near the bedroom door, also noticing the sticky floor.

I became aware of a throbbing in my right foot and the source of the stickiness at the same time. The metal slat holding up the foot of the top bunk with its two large steel hooks had made side-by-side parallel slices in the top of my foot, the deepest, cutting through an artery, so that every time my heart beat, blood would spurt from the wound. The floor of our room looked like the floor of a slaughterhouse.

My mother came to the doorway, saw all the blood, and almost fainted. I hopped into the bathroom, stuck my foot in the tub, and turned on the water. Feeling faint, I sat down on the edge of the tub and asked her to call Doctor Busch. We had no hospital in New Carlisle, Ohio, the closest one in Springfield, twenty miles away. In the early ’60s, there were no clinics, no walk-in urgent care facility; all we had was a family doctor.

Dr. BuschDoctor Busch said to meet him in his office. Mother got me a bed sheet, I wrapped the wound as tight as I could, keeping up the direct pressure, and then the three of us in our bare feet and pajamas made it to the car and drove downtown. Busch had already opened up his office and waited for us at the entrance; it was now eleven o’clock at night. I had lost a lot of blood and continued to slip in and out of consciousness. The doctor helped me out of the car and into his exam room.

Doc removed the blood-soaked sheet, gave me a local, cleaned out the wound, and once I turned numb, sewed me up; it felt like someone tying my shoelaces. I do not know if he even charged us. This is how medical care used to be. God Bless Dr. Busch.

When my dad returned from his trip the next day, the first thing he did was un-bunk the beds, throw out those dangerous metal slats/hooks and replace them with several wooden slats (instead of only two) on each bed.

I still bear the scars and will never sleep in a bunk bed again.

 

Pandemic

AUG.2010 116 (2)I know. Non-stop television coverage of the latest plague to destroy mankind has dominated the conversation for the last several weeks and the last thing you need is another rant, but I’m going to write something anyway.

If you are homebound like me, missing your sports, music concerts, going out to restaurants, celebrating Saint Patrick’s day at your favorite pub, tired of Gilligan’s Island reruns or binging the Game of Thrones…again, I propose a novel idea…reading. It’s either that or going back to the 1000 piece, all white puzzle you started six months ago

Remember the joy you had, curling up on a rainy Saturday in your favorite chair wrapped up in a blanket and the latest adventure or romance book on your lap, a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows floating on top within reach. No? Never tried that? You should. Now every day is Saturday.

Or in my case, start writing a blog, a short story, a memoire, a novel or maybe a brillant non-fiction book about my area of expertise…snipe hunting.

I know the coronavirus is a terrible thing. Nobody likes being sick or worse dying before you are ready or losing a loved one. I do think we’ve gotten a little crazy about this; fighting over toilet paper and bottle water, hoarding food, creating long lines at stores, airports, etc. But you already know that. This is not the apocalypse, judgement day or the dark ages returning. We will still have food, electricity, heat and running water.

One positive thing is the pace of the world has slowed down. You can relax, take a deep breath, meditate, do yoga, read, write, or contemplate nature out your window. I’ve been retired for a few years now, but I never slowed down. Now thanks to the government and this disease I am forced to self quarantine…and I don’t mind.

I  do mind the stock market tanking. It’s painful to watch, even if it is only on paper. I fight the urge to check the numbers on the hour and try to avoid the TV news channels that have the Dow Jones ticker changing in real time with a large down arrow next to it.

Well, enough ramblings. I’m going to take a nap, do some yoga, count the silverware while deep breathing, and then go back to writing on my latest novel, “The Case of the Killer Sasquatch: A “Tracker” Baptiste Mystery.”

…or maybe I’ll turn on the TV and see what Gilligan or Mary Ann or the Professor are doing?

 

A Golfing Memory

Me putting 2Watching the final round of the PGA tourney on NBC at Bay Hill, Orlando. Lucky to play this course once with some friends from the Golf Channel. We noticed the foursome behind us included Arnold Palmer playing his home course. We reached the 18th hole, a par four with the final approach shot 160 yards over a lake. I am lying just short of the lake and Arnold walks up and says, “You have been watching us all afternoon, now we’re going to watch you.” I am not a good golfer, the added pressure was too much, I tanked and dropped my shot somewhere in the middle of the lake. Arnold patted me on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve put a few in the water too.” After finishing, we sat around in the club house, drinking beer and swapping stories. Wish I had a selfie from that day.

The Medicare Tango

AUG.2010 116 (2)

I went to my UCLA doctor for my annual physical, and the receptionist asked me, is your insurance the same? I said no, my former employer decided to switch from United Healthcare to Aetna. By the way, I just heard Aetna is being bought by CVS, the drugstore.

Receptionist: I wouldn’t know anything about that.

Me: It could be a good thing. Maybe now we’ll get a break on drug costs.

Receptionist: I wouldn’t count on it.

They asked me for my new ID card and made a copy.

Me: Is Dr. Brown here today?

Receptionist: No, he has moved on. You will be seeing Dr. Jones.

Me: This is my fourth doctor in four years.

Receptionist:  Exciting, isn’t it? Although, technically, Dr. Jones is only a resident.

Me: So, he isn’t a doctor yet?

Receptionist: Almost!

Me:  Is my annual physical covered with my new Aetna Medicare Advantage insurance?

Receptionist: Yes, it is.

Me: What is included?

Receptionist: For free, with no co-pay?  Medicare requires we talk to you for 45 minutes, or we don’t get paid.

What if I have something wrong with me or he wants to do some tests?

Receptionist: If you want to bring up any medical problems, it will cost you extra.

Me: What do we talk about for 45 minutes?

Receptionist: Anything you want, as long as it’s not about your health.

Me:  Blood Test?

Extra.

Me:  Immunizations?

Extra.

Me:  Urine test?

Half off if you bring your own cup.

So I sign a form promising not to mention anything to the doctor about my current health.

After discussing books, movies, theater, and how expensive medical school had become, the doctor ordered blood tests, a couple of shots, shingles, and pneumonia, and because I have high cholesterol and my father died of a stroke at 58, a CT coronary calcification screening.

Doctor: Be sure and get your shots at your pharmacy. If you get it at the doctor’s office, there is a charge.

Me: So, I should go to the grocery store pharmacy to get my shots for free? Not here at the doctor’s office?

Doctor: And they give you 10% off your groceries!

Me: You think this CT coronary calcification screening is necessary.

Doctor: Absolutely! You don’t want to have a stroke like your father.

Me: Does my Aetna Medicare Insurance cover this test?

Doctor: I have no idea.

I call the UCLA imaging department to schedule my CT screening. Can you tell me if Aetna covers this procedure and what it will cost me?

We can’t tell you that until you schedule the test. After you do, we will call you and tell you if your insurance covers it.

So, I schedule the scan. I wait for two days and then call them back.

Me: You never called me.

What for?

Me: I scheduled my screening, as you requested.

A pause, then a voice says, ah, yes, I see it is scheduled for Friday.

Me: So, does Aetna cover the test?

I don’t know. You will have to talk to Aetna. Here is the procedure code and our ID number.

I call Aetna and give them the code. Am I covered?

You are! And there is only a small co-pay…no wait; you haven’t paid anything toward your annual $700 deductible, so it will be full price, around $150.

Me: Well, that’s not terrible. Let’s go ahead; my almost doctor says it’s important.

The day before the scan, UCLA calls. “Uh, Aetna hasn’t approved the procedure yet.”

Me: Why not?

You didn’t get preapproved.

Me: Did I need to be preapproved?

Of course, this is an investigative technically advanced test.

Me: It’s a CT scan. You must do them all the time.

Exactly.

Me: Was I supposed to get the preapproval?

No, your doctor was.

Me: Did he?

Apparently not.

Me: What should I do now?

Call your insurance company. Sometimes if the patient calls, you can get them to approve the test faster.

I call Aetna.

It’s on hold. Didn’t you know you need to be preapproved first?

Me: No. Why didn’t your representative at Aetna tell me that when I called three days ago.

She should have.

Me: What do I have to do to get preapproved?

Call Evercore.

Me: Who is that?

They are the ones who do the preapprovals.

Me: Aetna doesn’t do their own approvals?

Not where you live.

I call Evercore. A recorded voice says, “What is your case number?”  I don’t know. Representative! “What is your case number?”  I don’t know. Representative! “What is your case number?”  I don’t know. ARRRGHH!!!

I call back Aetna and tell them I can’t reach Evercore. They need a case number before the automated voice can proceed.

Aetna: What’s a case number? Never mind, let me try. Please hold. Minutes pass. The rep comes back. I can’t reach them either, and your doctor won’t call me back. Now everyone is closed.

Me: I’m not closed. The test is tomorrow.

We should wait until morning and try again. You really should have called sooner. It normally takes 2-3 days to get a preapproval.

Me: I DID!

Oh, yeah. Here it is in the record. Weird!

An hour later, the UCLA imaging department calls.  Did you get a preapproval?

Me:  No. Aetna/Evercore couldn’t get my doctor to call them back, and they say preapprovals require three days to process. They only received an email from you yesterday.

Why didn’t you request it sooner?

Me: ARRRGHH!!! I wasn’t supposed to. Plus, neither the doctor’s office nor Aetna ever said they needed preapproval for this test.

Well, don’t worry about it, even if it is preapproved, after you get the test, and we submit the claim, it will be denied.

Me: What?

It happens all the time. A patient has the test done, we submit it, they deny it, and then the patient has to pay the full price $410.

Me: Even if the test is preapproved?

Yes

Me: What do you suggest?

Forget insurance. Take the self-pay option, and we can discount it to $275.

Me: This sounds like a scam.

(Pregnant pause) What do you want to do?

Me: Cancel the test, die of a stroke, then come back and haunt all of you forever.

(PS: I never got the scan. I wish I could tell you that this story is made up. Some of it is, but not much, and the names have been changed to protect the guilty.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Streaming Services vs. Cable/Satellite TV

The proliferation recently of streaming services reminded me of the birth of cable (I was there 1971) when content owners approached cable companies offering programming packages in exchange for distribution and a share of the revenue stream.

Now with the technology to send HD quality sound and picture through the Internet, the content owners can market directly to the consumers who have abandoned traditional programming sources and still keep their cable/satellite revenue.

If you add up the dollar costs to the consumer if he subscribes to all the streaming services (Peacock being the latest), there are no substantial cost savings over cable TV. And because most streamers still offer “packages,” it isn’t true a-la-carte, which is what most consumers, when surveyed, say they want, but at least it’s a little closer to the former ideal consumer model (only paying for what you watch-which is 10-12 channels on a regular basis).

But the high cost today of producing content prohibits anything other than a mass audience (see the negative cost vs revenue numbers from the recent “Cats” movie) to break even, or if lucky, make a profit. And with audiences splintered into tiny slivers, resulting in diminishing advertising revenue, consumers will likely never see a cable a-la-carte offering of channels.

Content remains king, and those who offer the best streaming package for the price will win (Netflix for now and certainly Disney). Like cable networks, the good channels will survive (Fox News, ESPN, HGTV), and the fringe ones will die (Trio, Soapnet, Style). Only now, the competition will be which streaming service offers the best original programming and old movies and TV shows.

So, where are we?  Streaming is the new alternative to Satellite, which was an alternative to Cable, which was an alternative to a TV antenna. We have gone from free fuzzy images and mono sound on three channels (if you got the rabbit ears positioned just right) to shelling out $200 a month for a 4K picture and sound on hundreds of channels and in 2019, according to The Hollywood Reporter, a record-setting 532 original scripted TV shows.

With DVR technology and streaming options, it might be interesting to do a new viewer survey to see how many TV shows the average consumer watches/follows each week since the consumer measurement model seems to be changing from channels watched to programs watched.

Prognosis:  Consumers will continue to pay cable and streaming services to get access to all the content they want to watch with an ongoing individual analysis if the content desired is worth the asking price. I predict there will be a lot of trying, adding, dropping of streaming services for the next year or two. The big winner here is the content owners, because no matter which source you pick, they still get paid (although they get a bigger cut from streaming).

The main advantage for customers with satellite/cable is live events and first access to TV shows when they air. The main advantage of streaming for today’s on-the-go consumer is they can choose where they view that programming – cell phone, tablet, laptop, Xbox, or smart TV.  Me, I still prefer my 65 inch HDTV with seven-channel surround sound.

Side note: I remember in the early ’90s when we launched GTE Video (Now Fios TV) in Clearwater, Florida, and people told us we were crazy—nobody could compress video and transmit that signal over our twisted-pair copper network with any quality—you needed a cable network or a satellite. Fast forward 30 years to 2020, and a lot of us are getting the latest HD streaming services over that same twisted copper network. Not so crazy, huh?

 

“Too Old To Rock ‘n’ Roll: Too Young To Die”

This song came from Jethro Tull’s’ ninth album and was written by Ian Anderson. But like Ian, I and my bandmates in Revolution Road came to the same conclusion – No, you’re never too old to Rock’n’Roll.

Revolution Road plays classic rock from the 60’s and 70’s complete with a tie-dye background, fringed vests, striped pants and peace signs everywhere, celebrating the Woodstock generation and beyond.

Country Club Quad (2)

We have been playing in clubs, outdoor concerts and private events in the Los Angeles area for the last eight years. Lots of bands in Los Angeles, including quite a few famous ones, but what makes us unique is that everyone in the band is at least sixty years of age, and some of us are even older than that!

RR (2)

Some might be ready for the rocking chair at this age, but we opted for rock and roll instead. Revolution Road consists of Bob on keyboard, Rich on bass, Jack on drums, and Bobby on guitar. Three of us sing and do harmonies from the Beatles, Beach Boys, Monkees, Eagles, Elton John, Doors, CCR and many more. We have more than 60 songs on our playlist.

Band

So if you are having a event for fifty or a thousand and want to party like it’s 1969, give us call…you are never too old to dance like nobody is watching.  Revolution Road is available for booking in Los Angeles through Gigmasters:  Revolution Road You can also see and hear us perform at this link.

Here are the lyrics to that song:

The old Rocker wore his hair too long,
wore his trouser cuffs too tight.
Unfashionable to the end — drank his ale too light.
Death’s head belt buckle — yesterday’s dreams —
the transport caf’ prophet of doom.
Ringing no change in his double-sewn seams
in his post-war-babe gloom.

Now he’s too old to Rock’n’Roll but he’s too young to die.

He once owned a Harley Davidson and a Triumph Bonneville.
Counted his friends in burned-out spark plugs
and prays that he always will.
But he’s the last of the blue blood greaser boys
all of his mates are doing time:
married with three kids up by the ring road
sold their souls straight down the line.
And some of them own little sports cars
and meet at the tennis club do’s.
For drinks on a Sunday — work on Monday.
They’ve thrown away their blue suede shoes.

Now they’re too old to Rock’n’Roll and they’re too young to die.

So the old Rocker gets out his bike
to make a ton before he takes his leave.
Up on the A1 by Scotch Corner
just like it used to be.
And as he flies — tears in his eyes —
his wind-whipped words echo the final take
and he hits the trunk road doing around 120
with no room left to brake.

And he was too old to Rock’n’Roll but he was too young to die.
No, you’re never too old to Rock’n’Roll if you’re too young to die.