Are You Sure?

Are You Sure?

“Adventures happen everywhere you go.” That’s what my friend Marni likes to say. I, myself, wouldn’t say everywhere, but I understand where she’s coming from. I have always had a knack for coming back with a story I didn’t have when I left. It doesn’t matter where I am going to or coming back from. It doesn’t matter if I’m with others or by myself. The story might be funny, poignant, or just plain bizarre, but rest assured, adventure seems to find me. I’ve been told that it’s really me who finds the adventure since, often enough, they are incidents that pass everybody else by without notice. On one hand, I blame my year-and-a-half of architecture school for tuning me into seeing the world from a different perspective; on the other hand, I’m grateful for it. It constantly brings me humor and what a wonderful existence that leads to. Laughing is usually more fun than crying.

           The following are a handful of experiences that don’t warrant chapters of their own, but were high enough on the “fun meter” to share.

           The first happened when I was about ten years old. My father owned a marine electronics store in Pompano Beach, Florida. His shop sat right on the intracoastal waterway, which attracted a number of wealthy customers who would cruise up and down its waters. Some of you might remember Evil Knievel, a daredevil stuntman who rose to fame by breaking one motorcycle jump record after another. When my dad came home one night and told me that he had put some equipment on Evil Knievel’s boat, well, I just thought that was the bomb dot com. Everyone heard about that the next day in school. 

           One day, a man dressed in jeans and polo shirt walked into my dad’s shop and asked about a certain piece of equipment. Upon discovering that this man not only owned a boat but was a pilot of the Goodyear blimp, my father offered a barter that I will forever be grateful for: he traded the nautical equipment for a ride in the blimp, family included. 

           That blimp, since retired, was named the Enterprise, and was parked at Pompano Beach Airpark—the same location where my dad had become a pilot, flying a Cessna Skyhawk 150; N734QP. Along with another pilot buddy of his and their mutual flight instructor, Dad invited my mom, my brother, and I for the ride of our life.

At one point the pilot of the blimp, at fifteen hundred feet up in the air, stood up, turned around, and walked back to the passenger seats, declaring, “I’ve got three other pilots in this thing, there’s no reason for me to be flying it.”

With all twelve of our eyes on the empty captain’s chair, two of them got up and occupied the seat rather quickly, but they were just the first of us to fly the blimp; everyone got a turn. My dad is one of those that can bore you to death with his slide shows, so no worries, there are plenty of pictures for us to relive our lighter-than-air escapade. 

This next one happened in the year 1996. I was working at Walt Disney World when I saw an open casting call for a TV show. The television show was called Hey, Hey It’s Saturday, Australia’s version of Saturday Night Live, and they were celebrating their 25^th anniversary at the same time Walt Disney World was celebrating its own twenty-fifth. Hey Hey was doing a couple of broadcasts from Epcot, and the Aussies were looking for interesting acts to be on the “Gong Show” segment, renamed “Red Faces” after the star of the show, Redmond Symons. For those who don’t remember The Gong Show, it consisted of three different acts performing a skill, stunt, or something crazy for a panel of judges. At the end of each performance, the judges would all give the contestant a score from one to ten. Whichever performer had the highest score at the end of the night was declared the winner. It was a very silly show with crazy skits and stupid jokes, but the nuttiest part of all was its namesake. Behind the judges was a huge gong, and sitting in front of each judge was a mallet to strike that sucker if the act was so horrible that it had to be ended immediately. It was a perfect fit for me.

           I was always trying new things anyway, and my mind drifted back to an act I saw someone perform on the Late Show with David Letterman. This incredibly skinny man stretched a standard wire hanger and proceeded to walk through it. He had to do one limb at a time, but in the end his entire body went through. The audience lost their minds and cheered as if their team had just won the World Series, but I thought to myself, What’s so hard about that?

           Obviously, I must have been pretty skinny back then to even consider being able to do a stunt like that, but just as expected, not only was I able to walk through the wire hanger, it didn’t even take much effort. I instantly had a new act in my repertoire to dazzle and impress any unsuspecting audiences that should come my way. Now the Gong Show was calling and I knew I had a winner. I took my act out of the hope chest, dusted it off, went to the audition, and crushed it. A star was born. 

            In my memory, the event is like a fever dream. One of the judges that night was Dweezil Zappa, son of the musical icon Frank Zappa. I also remember the other two acts: one was a man who could balance anything—including a bicycle built for two—on his chin, and the other was a guy who climbed ladders that weren’t leaning against anything; he just angled it towards the sky and started climbing. I have to admit, I was pretty impressed with both of them, although in hindsight I doubt very much that either of them could walk through a hanger, so there’s that. 

           My downfall was utilizing the full three minutes of my allotted time. Things were going swimmingly, but with my added theatrics to build the suspense, the audience got antsy and started to yell, “Gong! Gong! Gong!”

Just as I was starting to step through the hanger, one of the judges obliged. GONG! And, just like that, my forty-five seconds of fame were over. It happened so quickly. I thought I was on my way. Heart broken and dreams shattered, I stood on that stage motionless, slumped over next to the host while he started asking me questions about the act and explaining that time was of the essence when impatient audiences are involved. He then asked the audience if they would still like to see me walk through the hanger, to which they excitedly applauded. Excuse me? I thought. You just got me gonged and you still want to see me finish my act?

 In actuality, I was having a blast with the entire scenario and I didn’t want to leave the stage without performing my death-defying feat. So, excitedly, I looked at the host and replied, “Sure!” They started my music back up and I walked on through, without any theatrics this time. The double-crossing, two-faced, no-good audience cheered, and I left with a bent hanger and another story to tell. 

The final incident was more luck than anything. However, I often subscribe to the adage that you make your own luck—or, as I’ve often heard it said, Luck is when preparation meets opportunity. If you sit around waiting for your lucky break, you will often wait forever, not even noticing when it passes by. If you work your butt off to master skills, gain knowledge, and gather experience, when the lucky break arrives, you can hop on that train and ride it into the sunset. In this case, that ride was the hammered dulcimer, and the train engineer was Paul McCartney. 

           Sir Paul. One of the four members of my favorite band of all time—as well as that of many millions of people who feel the same way—the Beatles. It was 1997. Only a year before Paul’s wife, Linda, passed away, breast cancer ending her life far too early. I had picked up the hammered dulcimer about a year earlier and, thanks to twenty-seven years of addiction to musical instruments, I learned it rather quickly, and was beginning to record what would become the first of numerous albums. My vacation from Disney gave me enough time to visit my friends and musical cohorts in Arizona, so I packed up the dulcimer in a flight case (originally made for Jean Luc Ponty’s lead guitarist—another story for another time), and began a journey that will forever be hard to top. 

           Paul and Linda were known for hanging out in the Tucson area, not far from where they lived. It was a big enough town where they could blend in and small enough that people quickly loosened their grip on star-struck fascination and pretty much let them be. There is even a story—although I’m not sure how true it is—that in one restaurant, an elderly waitress who had no clue who Paul was heard him talking about music and asked, "Oh, you play music? Are you in a band? My granddaughter's Quinceañera is coming up and the family is looking for a good band. How much do you charge?"

           Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective) I was not from Tucson and had no idea that one of my idols was a regular townie, so when Paul and Linda waltzed into a café where I was calmly eating my grilled cheese with bacon, I pretty much lost it. Rarely am I smitten by famous people. I certainly honor their talent, but I don’t see them as any different from you and me. I can’t explain why Paul was an exception. I’m not kidding when I say my palms got sweaty and my mouth dry. My thoughts exploded. Holy crap! That’s Paul McCartney. That’s a Beatle. Don’t stare, that would be uncool. But that’s Paul McCartney. I should at least go say hello and shake his hand. Definitely. I will never have this opportunity again. But should I really? Shouldn’t I just leave him alone? Shut up. Don’t think about it. Just do it. Get up. Go. Now.  

           I can’t tell you what transpired word-for-word because not only did the entire experience feel like a dream at the time, it still does today. I was nervous, but I wasn’t shy; I had been a performer long enough to be able to fake confidence no matter the situation. I walked over to their table and he was, as he has always been known for, very generous and patient, and even asked me a few questions once I told him I was a musician. Of course, his first question was the same as everybody else’s: “What do you play?” I listed my instruments, being careful not to say any that I wasn’t completely proficient on, just in case the insane happened and I was asked to play for him, and when I got to the hammered dulcimer his eyes lit up.

“The hammered dulcimer?” he repeated back to me.

“Yeah, I’m recording my first album right now.” 

“Do you have anything I can hear?” What? Paul McCartney is asking me if he can listen to my music.

Straining to keep the confident look on my face, I replied, “I don’t have any finished recordings yet, but I do have it with me.” I then thought to myself, I just jumped off a cliff.

“Can I see it?” he asked. Now I’m feeling faint, because I know that Paul looking at my hammered dulcimer is going to lead to me playing it for him—which is exactly what happened, though not right then and there. I accepted his invitation to their ranch the following day and to make a very long, very magical story short, Sir Paul and I hung out in his home studio for at least an hour; me teaching him the basics of the instrument, and the two of us hammered away, making up tunes on the spot. So, as crazy as it seems, I can truthfully say that I have written and performed songs with a Beatle! Nothing that’s going to get airplay, but still, pretty damn cool. 

           These are the kinds of things that happen to me. Not usually as monumental as that last one, but experiences that certainly warrant sharing.

           Speaking of sharing, I’ll end with one more gem: I love games. Board games, word games, card games, it doesn’t matter; I love them. One of my favorites is called “Two Truths and a Lie.” This game is played with a group of people—often ones you don’t know very well—and you tell them three things about yourself, two of them true and one made up. They have to guess which one is the lie. It’s a lot of fun, and you’d be surprised how many times the truths sound so outrageous that the lie becomes believable.

So, let’s play. You and me. Right now. I just told you three stories. The Goodyear Blimp, The Gong Show, and Paul McCartney. Which two are true? 

           Are you sure?