Snow shoeing in Southampton, MA

O.k., it’s really winter now. Tomorrow we’re expecting up to a foot of snow. I thought today would be the perfect day to break in my new snow shoes.



My lady friend and I trudged down the street to the conservation area that has miles of trails which the snow mobilers have been ripping up for the past two weeks. The temperature was in the low 40’s and the sun was pale and tired looking. Layers were quickly shed as we trekked down the trail and across some rather narrow footbridges that spanned an ever-widening melt stream.



We followed the hoof prints of a rather large buck that had been stripping a branch of its bark.



The wood was quiet, expect for the low gurgling of the stream that ran parallel to our trail.



We trekked for an hour up to a horse pasture off Glendale Road that was desolate. Not a single animal was showing itself. From the pasture you could see a glorious panoramic view of the “Seven Sisters” mountain range.

Lloyd Cole ‘No Regrets’ Pleasant Street Theater, Northampton, MA, October 4, 2007

Wow! Two shows in one year! Lloyd Cole came home to play yet another stellar, low-key show in the valley. This time, Lloyd played the “Music after Movies” series with the likes of Thurston Moore, Juliana Hatfield and Winterpills. It was theater owner Bob Lawton’s last ditch effort to resuscitate his failing movie house which is now up for sale.

I don’t write reviews and have no intentions of doing so here but let’s just say that opener Zeke Fiddler needs to reassess his music career. He sucks with a capital S and not just because of his crummy gear. Poor Lloyd was ever the gentleman and offered Zeke the use of a proper guitar cord. Zeke however preferred the authentic sound of crackling amp to go with his hushed, whispery-thin vocals and incredibly tedious musical arrangements. Thankfully his set was short.

What can I say about Lloyd? Each of his two shows this year in the valley has been unpredictable and magical. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a performer mingling effortlessly with his audience, chatting up retiree-aged golfing buddies or calling out to his teen-aged son Will in the audience to call “Mom and ask her for a ride home if your falling asleep!”

Lloyd’s set covered mostly his post-Commotion’s work, plenty of his recent work and a smattering of his booze-fueled songs from his New York period. He was at ease with the audience and at one point remarked how odd it was to see no one drinking. He promised to get everyone out before their sitters started to call. Oddly enough, with the exception of a few folks, everyone in the audience seemed 50-plus. Lloyd covered a couple of Tim Hardin tunes, prefacing them with “I wrote these after I got out of the Marines and on heroin.”

Lloyd shone on “The Young Idealists,” “My Bag,” “Patience,” and “Like Lovers Do.” Playing well over an hour and half, Lloyd confronted his negative image and offered that he had “no regrets” about his early career and his current low-key performances.

I just want to play some fado songs and get drunk with Lloyd sometime.

I hate dogs

Recently, my daughter and I spent a morning at a horse show in Southampton, MA at King Oak Farm. To break things up from the horse trials and competitions,they held a dog show. Any dog could enter, and no special skills were required. My daughter took this picture. She's in love with taking pictures and steals my camera often. I will find hundreds of pictures of nothing after she's done with the camera. Often the pictures are pretty good.

Easthampton, MA, Fourth of July

My lady friend and I spent a pleasant Fourth of July evening on the Lower Mill Pond in Easthampton. We decided that we wanted to be away from the crowds celebrating the Fourth at Nonotuck Park and would paddle around the Lower Mill Pond and wait for the fireworks. I believe it’s called urban canoeing. It became quickly apparent to us that the pond was vibrant and teeming with wildlife such as beaver, muskrat, water rat, osprey, heron and a plethora of unseen fish jumping out of the water. While weed-choked and a bit on the dirty side, the Lower Mill Pond has an eco-system of its own that thrives in the shadows of the Eastworks building on East St.

Beaver—displeased with our presence, splashed their tails in front of us as we paddled silently across the murky water. We were rewarded with the sight of them swimming underwater or jumping through the air to circumnavigate us. Water rats swam around us, intent on escaping into the underbrush of the shore. Osprey flew overhead, lonely and dejected waiting for something to happen. Dragon flies buzzed us repeatedly. As the sky darkened, fire flies emerged, setting off a brilliant display of tiny LED’s. By 9:30 p.m. the sky became pitch black and the fireworks began. We paddled out to the best viewable area and drank our libations in silence as the fireworks ricocheted around the pound and off the Eastworks building. It was wonderful and weird. We had the pond to ourselves (at least free of humans) and it was spectacular. I would suggest to anyone to have the same experience next year.

A walk through downtown Chicopee

Not much has changed since we first filmed this in 2003. In fact the only change has been the mayor, from Goyette to Bissonette (ironic how similar the last names are). Someone should bitch about this.

Lloyd Cole @ the Brass Cat, Easthampton, MA, July 14, 2007

Sometimes life here in the Valley is so sweet. Imagine this: in 1984 Lloyd Cole and the Commotions released my all-time favorite recording, Rattlesnakes. This was the soundtrack to my teen years living in Boston. I memorized the lyrics, track listings and credits (and if need be—would recreate the album cover photo). Yes, I am a fan and will do nothing here but praise Lloyd Cole. There was a tiny listing in the Hampshire Gazette that Cole would be playing the Brass Cat. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as Cole lives in Easthampton and has not played out here in years. Sure, whatever. As the hour approached, I stood outside the Cat, nervously pacing and braced myself for disappointment. The first person I saw in the bar was Cole chatting at the pool table with a local. Dressed for the PGA tour, his shock of black hair now graying, I nearly melted down. Should I approach him? No, not drunk enough. I perched myself on a barstool and observed his every movement. Christ, I’m a celebrity stalker. I grew anxious waiting for a sign that he would approach the Cat’s ridiculously tiny stage. Then anger. Anger over the locals ruining my religious moment with their loud voices, pool playing and Red Sox game on all three televisions. Without fanfare, Cole stepped onstage, tuned his acoustic guitar and began to strum “Perfect Skin.” I grabbed a stool and planted it right in front of the stage. Ten other people stared in rapt attention. Despite Cole's stripped down versions, I heard Anne Dudley’s strings, I heard Blair Cowan’s keyboards. I was 18 again, and in love and alive. Cole played a number of songs from “Rattlesnakes,” often hitting the high notes that were a trademark of that recording. His between songs patter was minimal and often apologetic about being an aged singer. Cole could’ve cleared his throat for an hour and that would’ve been fine by me. Cole covered two Tim Hardin tunes, a Dylan tune and of course, “Chelsea Hotel” by Leonard Cohen. His finger-picking and vocals were spry and graceful. He asked the audience to pick some tunes and my voice went mute as I wordlessly mouthed “Brand New Friend.” In the end, it was “Undressed.” Forty minutes into the set and it was all over. Cole walked off stage and packed his guitar up. I wiped the dampness out of my eyes and fled the Brass Cat.

The Legendary Ron Hall, late of WHMP, Northampton

There’s a song by the defunct Boston-based band, Big Dipper called, “Ron Hall.” The song has nothing to do with the enigmatic, legendary Northampton broadcaster Ron Hall formerly of WHMP. Yet, when I think of Ron Hall, that’s the soundtrack I hear. Big Dipper’s song was nervous and edgy. It was about a man who wrecked his house in the end. My Ron Hall was my neighbor for over a decade. He lived next door to me and kept to himself with his wife Barbara and their dog, a Scottish Terrier whose name eludes me. They actually had a succession of Scotties, all buried in a small patch of ground beside the apartment they lived in for years.

Ron and his wife were ghosts, specters who flashed in the night at weirdest moments—usually awkward ones. Despite my erratic lifestyle, they never complained of the noise, the crowd that revolved around me, or the late-night door banging, “open up, I know you’re in there!” They went about their mysterious business as if my life was no imposition on theirs—and it was. All things balance out. My life may have been erratic, but their life was simply put…weird. They lived in a sparsely furnished two room apartment with no air-conditioning and barely a fan in the dog days of summer. In the winter they were always bundled up—even in their apartment. At all hours of the day they would tramp up and down the stairs with their dog, going for walks or sitting in their car in the parking lot with the engine idling for long periods of time.

I moved to 158 King Street in Northampton for the first time in 1993, and then again in 1994 where I took up residency till 1998, and then again in 1999 till 2002. Ron and Barbara were constant tenants having lived at 156 King Street for nearly a decade. They moved once—next door (my old place at 158 King Street).

It was a self-contained building that offered nothing except a roof top patio that Ron would frequent in the summer—nude sun-bathing. His wife always wore a heavy coat whatever the weather and had a pallor of death about her. They entertained no one, cooked nothing but broccoli for themselves, and watched QVC constantly. One infamous encounter with Ron occurred when I cleaning my kitchen floor. He knocked on my door and asked if I was cleaning with something, I said “Ajax.” He replied, “I guess we’ll have to move.” I countered this with, “I won’t use it anymore if it bothers you.” He didn’t reply and vanished.

I had one encounter with Ron that was deep and meaningful. Augesten Burroughs’ book Running with Scissors had just come out. I asked him if he knew some of the characters in the book. He knew Dr. Turcotte (the “Dr. Finch”) and characterized him as someone far buggier than Burroughs’ depiction. He told me that Alphonse Turcotte was brilliant and an enfant terrible, and nobody crossed crazy like him. I was floored. Ron fingered somebody as crazy—he actually entered judgment about somebody other than himself. Who could be weirder than he and his wife in my book—nobody.

You see, Ron said little to anyone. While I judged him like crazy, Ron did nothing of the sort. He offered nothing in the way criticism. He never had an unkind word for anyone, or complained about the shit end of the stick that he had been given at WHMP. And boy, did they give him the shit end of the stick.

Ron was the anchor of the morning drive. He tirelessly reported on his off hours for a mere sound-bite of whatever was going on in Hampshire or Franklin County. For his efforts they cut his on-air time, benefits and livelihood. By the early 2000’s, Ron’s career was in jeopardy. WHMP had been bought out by a mega-corporation. They had no compunction about letting this weirdo go. He was buying time, day-by-day. He didn’t fit their mega-conglomerate expectations and he knew it. When the word came down that changes were to be made at WHMP, Ron had the clarity of mind to resign and move on.