Round The Dial

9/17/07

By: Tom Hallett

QUOTE OF THE WEEK:  "I don't need much more money, and I thought that when I retired that nobody would want to talk to me anymore. Then I did, and people still want to talk to me."- Johnny Ramone

SONG OF THE WEEK: "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow"- The Ramones

RIP: Johnny Ramone (nee' John Cummings) 1948-2004

It is with heavy heart and an almost palpable feeling of free-falling that I begin this, the first REAL edition of Round The Dial with no 8th-grade level editors fucking with my paragraphs for "column space" or censoring my thoughts, ideas, and concepts. I'm not feeling bummed because I'm striking out on my own; On the contrary, I'm THRILLED to be able to finally establish my own web presence and surround myself with honest, caring writers and staff, and those True Music Fans from the Twin Cities to Chicago to L.A. to Indiana to Athens, Georgia to Alaska, Canada, England, and Nova Scotia, whom I know regularly read my blatherings and reviews- no, I'm draggin' ass today because this past weekend marks the anniversary of the date we lost the third founding member of The Ramones in a decade. Johnny, King Of The Three Chord (and sometimes two) Guitars, passed away on Sat., 9/15/04.

I was sitting in a local pub here in Homer, Alaska this past Saturday night with my wi-fi cruisin', diggin' some shit on the web when I checked MySpace, where I'm a "friend" of the Official Ramones Fan Club. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach when I saw the header for their latest post- it simply read: RIP.

I knew it had to be about Johnny or Dee Dee, though I have plenty of respect for CJ, Ritchie, and various other Ramone recruits over the years, the four original members of the band seem to be bound, by some evil rock and roll curse, to not only NOT get their proper dues as genuine, honest voices in the evolution of rock n' roll/punk rock, but to DIE young and BE FORGOTTEN by the general population.

 I mean, if you're a college kid reading this, Johnny's age (He was only in his mid-'50's when he passed) might seem advanced to you, but with the current and future medical technology we have available to extend the average American's life-span, that age will someday seem quite young for a person to die, that is, if you're lucky enough to live even as long as Johnny did with our current political/military-industrial situation.

If I were Tommy Ramone, I'd see a doctor regularly, and if I were a college kid who may be drafted soon, I'd definitely get the fuck out of my dorm room, shut off that video game, and VOTE these assholes out of office. Ya don't vote, don't expect any sympathy when your generation gets even more fucked by the government than mine has or Johnny's was.

Johnny Ramone wasn't perfect- far from it, as a matter of fact. While his "1-2-3-4!" axe attack will forever ring loud and proud from the annals of American rock n' roll, the fact is that Johnny, according to scads of statements made by his contemporaries and even his own bandmates, could be a real dick when he wanted to. I didn't know the man personally, but I always figured with Joey wrapped up in affairs of the heart, Dee Dee busy trying to score smack, and whatever drummer they had at the time just hoping to hell he'd be able to hold on to his coveted position as rhythm-keeper for THE BEST punk band EVER, that Johnny kind of HAD to be a dick sometimes.

It was Johnny who watched over all the band's touring, financial interests, and day-to-day bickering like a big brother to those scrappy little New York street punks when they all (along with original- and only surviving original member- Tommy Ramone) formed in the early-to-mid '70's.

It was Johnny who took the heat when the other band members fucked up at a gig, it was Johnny who stuck up for his mates come hell or high water, but it was also Johnny who would chastise and literally shout down the other band members- in their own best interests- and no matter what out-of-context quotes you may have read in the "press" over the years, it was Johnny whom the rest of the band looked to for guidance, help in their brief episodes of sobriety, and to "deal with" the "straights" who didn't have a fucking clue what treasures they were booking into their clubs and bars or signing to their labels.

I personally think the Ramones would've flamed out long before Adios Amigos (their final "official" album) hit the record stores in the '90's without Johnny's tough love approach to the business side of rock n' roll, public appearances, and PR bullshit- ah, if only the Replacements had had a "Johnny"- Bob Stinson might still be alive and the 'Mats could be returning to the music world for a second, more grounded run at creating their particular brand of rock art. Sure- the surviving members of the 'Mats have gone on to (mostly) successful solo careers, whether in music, business, or art, but ya gotta wonder what would've happened if Paul, Tommy, and Bob had actually listened to drummer Chris Mars when he'd say, "Hey guys, enough is enough, we've got a show to do tonight- DON'T SNORT THAT RAT POISON!!" Just a thought.

In the end, Johnny's legacy is huge- the caliber and moral characters of the folks surrounding him lovingly at his bedside (Including his wife, Linda, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam, Rob and Sherrie Zombie, singer/songwriter Pete Yorn, and actors Vincent Gallo and Talia Shire) when he passed away from long-term prostate cancer this past weekend speaks volumes for the variety and genre-defying influence he and his band had on the music world, and the entire planet in general. Though they began as a cartoonish, Carbona-sniffing band of self-proclaimed "pinheads," Johnny (and, behind the scenes, drummer Tommy, who did the band a lot of favors after resigning his seat on their hallowed kit stool) eventually steered the group towards pop success (which culminated in the infamous incident where producer-turned-murder-suspect Phil Spector reportedly held the Ramones at gunpoint and FORCED them to record several songs in his mansion/studio in Hollyweird) and, through his smart business accumen and general sobriety, helped The Ramones become the institution they are today- as recognized by the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame, at least- if not mainstream radio.

To wrap up my salute to Johnny's life and career, and how much his guitar-playing and song-writing abilities meant to me over the years, I'm going to leave the topic with a Top Five list of Ramones songs that are NOT overplayed on the radio or used in TV commercials and that you should, if you don't have them, hunt down and add to your collection. As a matter of fact, other than their rather wishy-washy covers album a few years back, even Adios Amigos had a few nuggets on it- which means you should own EVERY RECORD THE RAMONES EVER RELEASED!! Onward, then, rock soldiers, and remember Johnny this week...

Tommy's Top Five Under-Rated Ramones Tunes:

1) "Wart Hog"- a catchy, pounding, thrashing beast of a track with Dee Dee on vocals, this cut really showcases Johnny's both simple and amazing style of literally bashing his axe, with fingers that must have bled a million times, and the band is in perfect harmony here. Short, sweet, and some of the best under-exposed Ramones material out there.

2) "Outsider"- Why this song wasn't used in the movie "The Outsiders" (based on the book by S.E. Hinton and starring a bevy of now-famous actors, including Matt Dillon) is beyond me, but at least horror novelist Stephen King was cool enough to commission the band to write the theme for the Pet Sematary film adaptation's soundtrack. This song features Johnny strumming, slipping, and sliding across those strings like they were made of nylon instead of flesh-rending steel, and the lyrics perfectly describe the band itself and most of their fans. Awesome shit that you can find on various Best Of's or The Complete Ramones set.

3) "Bad Brain"- From its' very first ferocious chords, "BB" best encapsulates and validates all of the songs the band wrote about mental illness (which several of them actually were diagnosed with by doctors over the years- ma-ma-ma-ma- we're all crazee now, as Slade once so famously howled), including "Psychotherapy," "I Wanna Be Sedated," "Teenage Lobotomy," and "Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment" in one two-minute blast of Johnny's trademark axe attack and Joey's distinctive Naw Yawk vocals- plus you haven't heard it on the radio since ummmm....EVER!! Check it out.

4) "I Want Everything"- a blaring ode/chastisement to the general wave of selfishness and personal gratification/exultation that began sweeping the nation in the "Smiley Seventies/AKA "The Me Generation"-era and continues to spread and poison the very heart of even rock and roll itself. This song should have been written immediately after The Ramones' estate lawyers approved the use of "Blitzkrieg Bop" (Remember, there were no Ramones songs in TV ads until after Dee Dee's death- a coinicidence? I doubt it.) in a soda-pop commercial on television- talk about slowly undermining the powerful, anti-establishment beast that rock once was! Hey! Let's use the music that makes those kids rebel in harmless, toothless, cartoonish television ads, that way the music's effectiveness in aiding and abetting free-thinking and honorable, American rebelliousness will be so de-fanged and de-balled that even the fucking Ramones won't mean a damn thing to the next generation. Oh, you mean that band that does the song for kid's vitamin-fortified grape drink called "Somebody Put Something In My Drink? Yeah, you get the point. Fuckers in suits. Ugh.

5) "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow"- This track not only serves as a reminder of how quickly we can lose those who are closest to us, seemingly out of the blue (Johnny faced his earthly demise with admirable valor and kept his illness on the down-low, preferring to exit this mortal coil surrounded by friends and family with the same fierce dignity and pride he projected as de facto leader of The Ramones. "Someone had to pay the price..." sings Joey on this one, and in this case, I'm afraid those "someones" are US- I never thought I'd outlive the fucking Ramones, I'll tell ya that much. Listen to this song!! Rest In Peace, Johnny- You're the big brother some of us never had, and your loss will reverberate through the universe like a sad, sorrowful sigh....say hello to Joey and Dee-Dee for us!!

OK, 'nuff said on Johnny- at least he didn't "accidentally" overdose on heroin like Dee Dee, so we can only figure it was shitty luck of the draw that he, like Frank Zappa, who also never feared to speak his mind, basically died of cancer of the ass. The only difference is that Frank made a career out of anal and fecal-related musical material, while Johnny spent half his life dodging assholes!! On to some local music news, then a very important CD review I hope you'll all read and then go out and buy the album- remember, all it takes for evil to take root (no pun intended, Earl Root!!) is for good people to do nothing. Get involved. Give back. Give of yourself. Give a shit. Word up....

THE TREEHOUSE RECORDS DEBACLE (Or, Last Night A Record Shop Clerk Saved My Life):

I first heard about the following tale from Treehouse Records owner/operator Mark Trehus a little over a week ago, when he e-mailed me desperate for ANY press attention to the current situation he and his store are caught up in. What IS the situation? A lot of local folks have no idea, because not only will the local mainstream press NOT cover the issue, but even upstart young, supposedly-local-friendly magazines and papers like the one I used to work for (REVEILLE Magazine) are putting a kibosh on the story.

Mark asked me to call him, which I did, and he explained the situation from his point of view. It seems he'd sent a letter to the editors at REVEILLE, thinking it would be posted and help people better understand what's going down with his store- a former employee stands accused of allegedly funneling funds -ie embezzling money- from the business. Sounded like an issue that needed addressing to me- I mean, if the guy is doing what Mark alleges, shouldn't other local business owners be tipped off that they ummm....PROBABLY SHOULD NOT DO BUSINESS WITH THE GUY? I think that's what Mark's initial intent was when he sent the letter to the staff at REVEILLE, being completely unaware that the fella seems to be very close friends with the staff of the online-only mag.

Here's where I started to smell a rat: The REVEILLE kiddies posted Mark's e-mail statement initially, but for some unfathomable reason turned right around and pulled it back off the 'web. Why? Is it because they're those "Minnesota Nice" kinda peeps who just (affect hipster-style vocal patterns here) "Like, don't want to be involved in any controversy, man?" Or is it because the gentleman who stands accused of allegedly embezzling funds from Mark's shop (or his family) has some kind of financial or other hold over the REVEILLE editors? Either way, I found it reprehensible enough that my editors had actually CENSORED a local scene stalwart's heartfelt cry for help and public support regarding this issue by pulling his letter and then basically ignoring him that I began making phone calls of my own- the first to Mark, the second to the gentleman in question, then back and forth to Mark and (fruitlessly) to my editors,who not only didn't return my calls, but actually sent me an e-mail asking me to "hide" the issue as well.

When I spoke with the accused fellow via phone (long distance on my dime from Alaska- Christ, why does your local news have to come from 3,000 miles away?), he immediately seemed nervous and very uncomfortable even discussing the subject, and advised me that he'd have to speak to his lawyers before he commented. What kind of funky, dirty dealings are going on in your city THIS WEEK? I probably monitor the music scene on the whole via my local friends and the 'net from here at the top of the planet than most of your local "rock reporters" do - keep in mind that I was also the first person to report to my editors that the wall of the 400 Bar had crumbled on top of some hapless bypassers, as I actually cruise the news sites looking for information that will be of use for LOCAL readers, and found the story on KARE-11's website literally moments after it happened. What in the hell are these kids at REVEILLE doing that they aren't even aware that the hallowed walls of local rock n' roll are literally crumbling around them RIGHT DOWN THE STREET? And WHAT is UP with Jim Walsh?

Lately, though Jim acts like he "cares" in his columns, he apparently didn't even have the guts to argue the validity of the Treehouse story with his editors at REVEILLE. Or maybe he's just too busy getting his ass kissed by local 'Mats nuts that he's "too busy" to deal with a story like this. I personally don't know- I've always considered Jim a friend and somewhat of a mentor, but I'm starting to worry about the guy myself. Where's the compassionate, caring, fulla-spit-and-fire Jimmy we knew and loved back in his Pi-Press days? Oh yeah- in some basement playing folk guitar while the world above him actually FALLS APART!! Very, very sad, Jim. I hope the shine of your book deal wears off soon and we get you and your soul back on the right side of the fence. Word.

As for the rest of the REVEILLE staff, I understand that they're young and relatively inexperienced, but it's just common sense to delve into smelly local issues if you're going to present yourself to the public as a "champion" of the local scene. No wonder Mark wondered why REVEILLE wouldn't cover the issue- Walsh was supposedly his "friend" too. God, the rotten shit a little money does to people. Fucking sad.

Are the editors of the mag so enamored of their positions in the "press" and hanging out with local "rock stars" that they actually don't even give a damn about said subjects, or are they just green, wet-behind-the-ears youngsters who don't realize that local bars falling apart and local, landmark indie record shops may be being robbed blind by one of their "pals" are print-worthy matter because they're too busy sitting in the "hip" hang-outs, kissing ass and planning parties instead of reporting actual NEWS?

I'll let you decide- see how much coverage any of the other local press besides this column gives ANY time to either this story or the CD I review this week, which deals with the homeless population of the Twin Cities and is a loving, genuine effort by DOZENS of nationally revered musicans to HELP THE STARVING PEOPLE IN YOUR CITY. I guess it's just not "hip" and "cool" and there aren't enough "hotties" involved to make it worth their whiles to cover the issues.

What a bunch of stinking, rotten, insider, scenester BULLSHIT!! I'll stick with the old adage "I'd never join any club that would have me" and be able to look in the mirror tomorrow morning, thank you very much.

Fuck money- it's just AIR anyway- do you really think there's a "Gold Standard" anymore? Or that there's any gold in Fort Knox at all? Or that gold is actually worth anything these days at all? And what would happen if EVERY rich, over-paid, no-talent actor/actress, musician, businessman, and politician all decided to cash out of their banks TOMORROW? Do you really think there's even enough paper money printed to pay them all off- not to mention that it would completely destroy the entire country's financial standing. THERE IS NO MONEY! Like I said, it's all AIR- that's why Britney tore out all her hair!!

Anyway, back to the phone call I made to the gent accused of stealing from Mark Trehus at Treehouse- when I called him, he stuttered and stumbled (by the way- I myself am NOT afraid of lawyers or ANYBODY'S local "clout," my job as a reporter is to get the facts straight, that's why I made the call- to let both parties have their say) through my questions about the alleged crime, several times forcefully telling me to "Talk to (my editor) Steve McPherson about this!" Which led me to believe, and still believe, that there's something awry in the offices of REVEILLE magazine- or, I should say, the third table outside the rear of the Nomad, where their offices actually are. Christ.

Ridiculous. To sum things up, the former Treehouse employee, when asked if he had ANY comment in his own defense AT ALL, told me he'd have to "....speak with my attorneys before I say anything," then reiterated that I should really "Talk to Steve McPherson about this deal." Ugh.

First of all, if you're not guilty of something, why the hell would you hire lawyers in the first place? This guy hasn't been charged (YET) in court for his alleged crime(s), only been accused of them. Why not sit down face-to-face with Mark and discuss the situation rationally? According to him (the accused), he's taken out a RESTRAINING ORDER against Mark- who, I have to say consistently, over the past several decades I've known him, has NEVER displayed the slightest violent tendencies, and actually EXUDES a vibe of peace and love of music that shines through whether you go into Treehouse to browse their amazing vinyl collection or you run into him at OTHER music stores and sales around town.

Yeah, Mark is the kind of guy who's not afraid to shop at his competitor's stores, make himself available and open to the public, or unabashedly lend a hand to someone in need- I've personally seen him give countless deals to vinyl hungry customers who were a few bucks short of the total purchase amount for the vinyl they just HAD TO HAVE that day. Hardly the kind of guy I'd expect anyone to file a restraining order against. I think Mark's record (I doubt he has one with the law, but even locally and regionally, he stands as a respected member of the local music community and is revered in many quarters for all of the great things he's done to help perpetuate and support local music and mom n' pop record shops- check out his info on the Treehouse MySpace page to suss out what kind of fella Mark is and judge for yourselves.

Just before press-time today, I received the following message via MySpace from the REVEILLE editors, and in the interest of fair-minded journalism (NOT "dirty laundry," which, as I've said before, if you're involved in the local music scene in any way, YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE ANY OF- and while I still disagree with their opinion that the story is a personal one (If someone's going around ripping off local stores- and again, I say IF, then every local business owner should be privy to at least the facts surrounding the story), I've decided to toss into this tale, despite the fact that I think calling Mark's post to their bulletin anything less than an actual "Letter To The Editor" is just an easy way out of getting involved in a story you either don't give a damn about or care too much about to expose, either way, quelling such matters only serves to feed the fire, so to speak, and to fan the old gossip mill. As writers and reporters, I feel it's our duty to report local music news, and once again, I'm not afraid of a good scrap when I feel someone is being wronged.

I don't mean to come off like St.George killing the dragon, or the guy exposing the Emperor's New Clothes, but jesus, let's just get the story out there with the facts exposed for the public to decide for themselves instead of insulting one of the community's most respected scene founders/shop owners. Awright, kids- there was only two sides to this story, but with your recent post in MY PUBLICATION, you've thrown yourself (however unwillingly) into the mix- so here's your fair two cents worth- more than you gave Mark:

Posted by Reveille Magazine, blah blah blah. Ahem. I'm sorry, but the matter DOESN'T INVOLVE YOU? Aren't indie publications supposed to be all about taking on the stories the corrupt mainstream press won't touch? I'm a bit confused by all the "niceties" being extended here from folks who decided to treat Mark like an escaped mental patient. He was selling records when you kids were still in diapers, and I'm pretty sure he'll still be doing so long after you've had your little fling with local celebrity status, so I WILL give him his day, just as I have given "the other fellow" involved and yourselves.

THAT'S fair journalism, not ignoring an issue because you "don't want the drama." Christ. Good thing David Brinkley and John Chancellor didn't say that when it became crystal clear that our fight in Vietnam was a complete fucking waste of time and lives- you probably don't remember, but the press used to actually tell something of the truth, and it was those old-school reporters who went out in the field and got INVOLVED with stories- which resulted in hundreds of photos and hours of film footage of people actually dying and black body bags containing the remains of American kids who'd been drafted being broadcasted on the national news, which in turn led to THE END OF THE VIETNAM WAR.

Don't want to "get involved." Christ. Why EXIST then? Who are you to call yourselves members of the press when you don't want to get involved??

 Absolutely reprehensible, and I know Edward R. Murrow is rolling over in his grave as you sip your gin n' juice and make big plans to do nothing for anyone but yourselves. That's the kind of selfishness and egotistical bullshit that's allowed the press in this country to SUCK over-all in the first place for the past three decades or so. Shame on you!!! GET INVOLVED!! Or go away- why should anybody read your mag if you're not willing to "Get involved" in things that affect their lives and the city they live in?

So what do I do? I'm three thousand miles away, can't do personal interviews or go kick anyone's asses myself (figuratively speaking, for you lawyer types- take that one to Judge Judy, ya shysters!) to help right this wrong, and after appealing to the REVEILLE editors to at least consider posting a revised letter from Mark (a phone message that went unanswered, but the ultimate answer to my query was revealed the following morning, when I received an e-mail from the REVEILLE staff telling me that they wouldn't be printing my column any longer and that my writing style probably didn't "fit in" with theirs. I had to laugh, considering that our original goal at REVEILLE was to make space for all different styles and types of writing, as long as it was passionate, True, and for the good of all concerned.

No, methinks (especially after just discussing future story ideas with the editors a week or so previously, an e-mail that was met with enthusiasm and excitement- funny how that attitude disappeared the minute I pressed the staff to repost Mark's letter, eh?) that my self-involvement (I freely admit that I, too, could've taken the punk way out and ignored Mark's plight, but as all of my long-time readers well know, I don't back down from a fight or anything I perceive as an injustice- perhaps that's why other members of the "press" laughingly call me "Please Don't Hurt 'Em Hallett) in the Treehouse issue so freaked out the staff of REVEILLE that they figured they'd let me go and I'd just go away, like, you know, the way things turn out on bad T.V. sitcoms, soap operas, and useless "hipster" flicks. Guess what? I'm not going away- and neither is this issue, until it's been resolved between the parties concerned or in court, which is where this whole mess is going to end up, you betcha.

My reasons for pressing this issue are not motivated by self-glorification (hell, I just lost my -ha ha ha- "job" over it, though I never received dime one from the REV staff for any of the work I did for them) or personal gain, but because I truly believe SOMEONE in the local press has to take a stand, draw a line, and say "HEY! FUCK THIS SHIT! NOBODY TELLS US WHAT TO PRINT OR NOT PRINT!!"

Ben Franklin would probably challenge the staff of REVEILLE to a duel out behind the Nomad if he knew how inconsiderately and unprofessionally they have treated this situation- and God knows how many other ones that went down and the story was quashed for "political" or "financial" reasons where the folks involved didn't think, like Mark did, to contact me about the situation, knowing I'm probably one of the last honest, no-bullshit, will-never-fucking-sell-out writers left in town. And I don't even live there full-time!! Fucking ridiculous.

Therefore, I AM going to print Mark's e-mail (which has been slightly revised from the one he originally sent REVEILLE, which was quelled) and let the readers study both sides (the accused and Mark's) of the issue and make up their own minds. I will not suffer a bully or a back-room dirty deal, as long as these fingers can still type, you, the reader, can be assured that you will find the Truth here in these pages, and there are NO ISSUES I'm afraid to tackle.

Frankly, I'm not really scared of much but running out of wood in the middle of winter, so if you have an issue the rest of the TC press won't deal with, bring it to me and I'll study on it and decide if its' worth mentioning BECAUSE IT'S WORTH MENTIONING, not because it's "hip" or "cool" or "stylin'" to write about. If it's idiotic, I won't print it, but if it's valid and I feel it deserves to take up my readers' time, I will cover the issue.

Mind you, while I personally tend to believe Mark's side of things concerning this issue, that I don't know, nor have I ever met, run across, or had any dealings at all with the other fellow, who I don't particularly care about unless he really is going around town stealing money from mom n' pop record shops.

Notice as you read the above screed again, lawyer-types, that I have referred to this man's reported illegal activity as "Alleged" every time I've mentioned it. I'm not Judge Judy- but if I were, I bet I'd have a field day in a court room with this little mini-drama. So- without further ado, here's the revised letter Mark Trehus sent to the REVEILLE staff that they inexplicably pulled, or censored, whichever terminology you prefer to use:

Here is our refined statement. Please pass it on to Andrea.

Ian Anderson has managed to rip off a local independent record store (Treehouse Records) for at least, by our calculations, $2000.00. How could we be so blind, you ask? Well, we fell for his choirboy sales pitch as well as the media attention he managed to bring to his resume.

Anderson was hired to do bookkeeping in November of 2006, and left in June of 2007. He was left unmonitored to do work on an external hard drive from his home in Northfield. The main requirements were that he transfer financial information onto a Quicken program, categorize and balance that information, and complete our monthly sales tax payments.

First, he lied to us about his reason for leaving the store. He told us he needed to "devote every free minute" of his summer to writing his book, when in actuality he had been hired to manage Eclipse Records (he has since been fired). He began working for Eclipse while still theoretically working for us, unbeknownst to both Eclipse and Treehouse—which constitutes an obvious conflict of interest. Several times in early 2007 he was asked to bring over the hard drive so we could see how he was doing. He assured us that he was all caught up, so we didn't force the issue. (I had gotten a tax extension for 2006 anyway, so time did not seem of the immediate essence.) After his tenure at Treehouse ended, we then intensified our requests for the return of the hard drive. He ignored our repeated requests for nearly two weeks before we finally received it—time enough, he apparently figured, to get his last check before we found out how much he had taken me for. By the time we were finally able to try and reconcile the external hard drive's data with our accounting program, our collective jaws dropped in astonishment at Anderson's level of deceit! When his "work" (and lack thereof) is compared to all others who performed the same task, there is a huge and undeniable discrepancy in work hours reported vs. the amount of work accomplished in the apportioned time. For what takes my present bookkeeper 3 hours a month, Ian reported an average of MORE THAN 10 TIMES THAT every month! In addition, while Anderson claimed to be "completely caught up" with the bookkeeping, there were in fact entire months of data missing from the ledger, work completely undone. Much of the work that WAS done was incomplete and incompetent to boot. The one month that he didn't ask for my girlfriend's (and former bookkeeper's) assistance in filing our monthly sales tax with the State of Minnesota, he completely screwed it up (which may or may not have contributed to our having been recently audited). When confronted with our initial discoveries, Anderson's mother responded by hiring a lawyer. Not ONCE did Anderson, his mother or his attorney offer an explanation or respond to my repeated requests to try to resolve the matter.

There are many other things we could mention, and these are just a few of many instances of Ian's dishonest behavior. We have been pondering whether or not we should devote the time and effort necessary to press charges for what we certainly perceive as a felonious level of swindling. We find it highly unlikely that a guy who would intentionally swindle money from a struggling, independent record store would not hesitate to commit further egregious acts of dishonesty with others.

Sincerely, Mark Trehus, Treehouse Records

There ya go, kids. I've done all I can on my end- personally, I can't wait to see this issue out and am rooting like hell (as usual) for the underdog- and let's just say I don't usually consider people over 18 who need their mommies to hire lawyers "Underdogs." 'Nuff said, feel free to comment among yourselves, but until the matter is settled, either personally or in court, I feel I've done my part to help keep the facts straight and give everyone (including my former "employers") their chance to comment.

I wish Mark the best through this debacle, which must be horrific for his general state of mind, let alone his heart-rate and that nervous twitch in his left eye he probably was afflicted with when he got his hard-drive back. If you, as the reader, feel as if you're a genuine supporter of local, mom n' pop type record shops, go to Treehouse this payday for your music fix instead of one of the chains- once these cool little stores are gone, they'll be gone forever, like street-cars and shoe-shine boys. Good luck record hunting!! Up next, real-life rock n' roll tales an' CD reviews...

HOME SWEET HOME: A TALE OF HOMELESSNESS, HORROR, AND REDEMPTION

I've lived in many geographical locations during my travels over the past twenty-odd years, from the sweltering, never-ending summer of Miami, West Palm Beach, and Daytona, Florida, to the coldest heart of Alaska the year I spent in Fairbanks, where there are two seasons that go immediately into one another in the blink of an eye- summer, when it's been known to reach well over 80 degrees above zero in July, then BAM!! right smack into winter, nary a hint of fall- the leaves just die and fall overnight and the temperatures plummet very quickly to the exact opposite- eighty degrees BELOW zero!!

The summer I spent living in a tent on the banks of the Tanana River (where I actually met a National Geographic photographer floating downstream in a raft and had pictures taken of my camp-site- don't know if they ever made print, but it was amazing just huddling around the campfire for a couple nights and hearing his tales of travels deep into the bush country of Alaska with no car or other means of transportation besides the log raft he'd built himself) just outside Fairbanks was idyllic, though not always comfortable. Not that I had any reason to grumble. You see, I was homeless by choice, having dropped out of college (wouldn't you if your alma mater's initials were BSU? Sorry Bemidji!!) and hit the road just because I was restless, unencumbered, and curious about exploring the farthest reaches of the country I lived in.

I was young, strong, hadn't hurt my back yet (I've had two surgeries to my lower fourth lumbar and am facing a third- ouch! And no I won't share my meds with you, lol), and was young, dumb, and apparently clueless enough about the possible dangers of my situation that I had to have stood out like a sore thumb among the labor-weary pipeline workers in town for supplies, the hookers- both Native American and lower 48 white trash, and local partiers- many of whom were desperately hooked on the veritable POUNDS of cocaine that were wafting down like tiny, evil white snow-flakes upon the booming village back in the '80's- and the regular townsfolk, who, in those days still ran the down-to-earth, genuine Alaskan-owned places I liked to hang out in- bars, concert venues, and liquor stores like it was old-time Deadwood. They could see a cheechako comin' a mile away, though I'd lived much of my younger life in the South Central area of the state, I was obviously relatively new to the road.

In any case, I was clearly green and wet as a baby's bottom behind my ears, and I'm sure that ignorance glowed about me like the illumination of an innocent little angel or the shine of a sucker to a shuckster in a casino, but it also probably saved my life more than once- if you're too idiotic or partying too hardy to realize you're surrounded by potential pain and death, sometimes, by the grace of God, Allah, or some guy from The Whiskey Sournotes, you're "protected." They do say God protects fools and drunks, and by Jeezus I played both roles perfectly in my early '20's.

When winter came shrieking in on the banks of the river (I'd had a donated tent from the Salvation Army decked out quite nicely with a boom-box, double mattress, lawn chairs, a cook stove, and plenty of supplies from the supportive Christian church network in Fairbanks and the Tanana Valley in general, so that tent saw plenty of good-time action betwixt myself and several highly attractive females I met in my drunken ramblings who were probably more impressed that I shaved and showered daily and actually had toilet paper in my tent than taken by my absolutely smashing good looks- that's a joke, kids- and inimitable charm. I should've known though, when the group of a dozen or so lone wolf Harley Riders I spent the summer being neighbors with tore their tents down one night and disappeared without a word. I was more worried about where I'd have to start finding my next bag of herbs than I was about why they'd hit the road so quickly, anyway.

The morning after they left, I awoke, soaked to the bone, staring up at the rainy, cold, grey skies above me. The chilly wind had begun howling so fiercely from off of the snow-capped mountaintops around me and down through the valley that it had actually pulled my tent's pegs up and blown it up into a tree behind my campsite as I lie there like a lump, obliviously sleeping off the nine or ten beers and four or five doobies I'd indulged in the night before. Dripping wet, cursing, and desperately trying to save my now-soaked back copies of Creem, High Times and Easy Rider magazines (as well as my poor, abused cassette tape collection- I was far more concerned about the continuation of my own personal entertainment than I was with the food, bedding, or clothes that were also as wet and sloppy as if they'd just been dunked in the Tanana itself), I pulled up camp, packed all my shit in various bags and plastic trash sacks and began dragging the whole load down the road, not quite knowing what else to do.

Eventually, as I made my way along the small dirt road towards the highway into Fairbanks, I came upon a short-haired blond man sitting on a stump in front of a small travel trailer, umbrella shoved down the back of his raincoat so he remained dry while he toked furiously on a hooter and strummed an out-of-tune acoustic guitar. "Hey!" I hollered. He looked up, clearly disconcerted by my sudden appearance, especially since I was veritably carrying all of my worldly posssessions on my back and in my hands. "Hey." he said, rather haltingly, not sure whether I was there to rob him, arrest him, or simply chop him up into little pieces and feed the fishies. Can't say I blame him- in retrospect, I'm pretty damn lucky I didn't end up buried under some flower delivery guy's house after being picked up hitchhiking and becoming the victim of an unknown but voracious and evil John Wayne Gacy clone somewhere out on the highways and biways of America. But as I said, I was, as they say, young, dumb, and full of come, so I blundered through things in relative safety.

My new-found friend proffered the joint to me, and I immediately dropped all my shit in the middle of the dirty, muddy road and trundled over his way, where, as we smoked that insanely powerful Matanuska Thunderfuck, I learned his story. He'd just been kicked out of his house by his seriously religious wife (they had a young son, as well, I later learned) because of the very habit he was helping me to indulge in- she had already filed for divorce and was planning on completely taking him to the cleaners, so he'd taken his pick-up truck and a travel-trailer full of supplies and, living off of money he made doing day labor for construction companies around town- a job I soon became quite familiar with myself- and set up camp just down the road from the river. Construction in the winter in Alaska? You bet your ass, kids. No, they don't stop building shit in Fairbanks in January when the wind chill is down around 100 degrees below zero, they simply staple thick plastic around the structure and fire up gigantic heaters while the carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and head-scratching guys in official-looking white hard-hats work in an atmosphere so warm many of them were pounding, measuring, and sawing away dressed only in t-shirts and jeans.

But, as I am wont to do, I digress. The bottom line of this little tale is that the guy (whose name was Wes, I think) had just about ran out of funds himself, his trailer was way too small for two stinky guys to share, and he was on his way out to a suburb of Fairbanks called (I am NOT shitting you- you can check it out online and find that every goddamned word I'm about to tell you is true) North Pole. Yeah, you know, as in SANTA CLAUS? I eventually ended up living in a small heated cabin behind a restaurant I worked at. I still have relatives who believe the substances I was doing at the time caused me to make up the entire scenario, but hop in your car/truck, head up the Al-Can highway, and you'll find that Hallett doesn't lie.

I worked at a pizza joint named THE ELF'S DEN, I lived on SANTA CLAUS LANE in NORTH POLE, Alaska, and directly across the street from my job/home was (and still is, as far as I know) a GIGANTIC STATUE OF SANTA and his official workshop- where they still receive letters sent by kids from all over the world to Santa. Now, odd enough as this address seemed to my family when I would write home to Minnesota, even stranger of an experience was eating magic mushrooms by myself in that tiny cabin and staring out the window at the whole scenario just as my buzz kicked in and the first chords of Black Sabbath's "Heaven And Hell" rang out of my gigantic boom-box- talk about mondo bizarro.

And people wonder why I'm half-nuts! That year wasn't my only brush with homelessness over the years- due to my own stupid decisions (when I dropped out of BSU, I dropped acid and woke up on a bus in Chicago with a friend from college, who was shocked that I didn't recall that, at the heighth of our trip, we'd decided to head down to Florida for Spring Break just like all of our more well-heeled chums had- you can imagine how fun that was, heading down South, completely broke, blowing off school, family, and friends with some vague plan to remain in Florida after SB and be "beach bums." Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Just as it's ninety degrees or more in the day in places like Daytona Beach and Miami in that season, the temps drop to fifty-five or sixty at night, which may not sound too bad to a Minnesotan or an Alaskan, but when one swelters through 12 waking hours sweating their way down the beaches and through the various hotel parties there, then tries to sleep on an old grave-stone after the temp has dropped a good thirty degrees, you tend to spend some very chilly and uncomfortable nights.

Eventually, my friend had enough of Florida and, being the intelligent, left-brained individual he was, headed back to Minnesota to finish school and become an accountant. Which is probably what I should've done- gone back and finished my degree but Noooooooo- I was too into Kerouac and living life on The Road to care about boring things like college educations, later job and retirement opportunities, and well, life outside the "Stoner" world in general. So I stayed on, still homeless, though some days I'd make enough picking those magic mushrooms out of cow pastures and passing them off to the hippies and bikers there that I could afford a cheap motel room. Those opportunities were rare, though, and after a spell I set out for Miami Beach, thinking that's where I'd find paradise.

First of all, for those not in the know, "Miami Beach" proper is NOT the premier party headquarters of Florida- it's (or at least it was back in the early '80's) mostly populated by displaced Cuban refugees and retired New Yorkers, who for some reason all seem to be Jewish. Not that it mattered to me whether they were African, Pakistani, or Israeli, I was more concerned with who they WEREN'T- cute, single, wild young girls!! Unfortunately for myself and my raging hormones, the average age of the Jewish women there was around 85, and you could be shivved right on the street for even talking to one of the Cuban girls.

And while I eventually learned there were far better places to live and hang out in Miami and Florida in general (and found my share of the above mentioned lovely creatures along the way- Southern Girls LOVE Yankee boys, though the same cannot be said for Southern Boys, who, on the whole, absolutely despise any male of any color born North of the Mason-Dixon Line. Something to do with some war somebody lost a century or so ago, I'm still not clear as I could barely understand most of the native males through their thick accents and missing teeth), I still ended up spending a few more months then (and several years later) homeless. I hung out with the winos, the whores, the junkies, the street detritus spewing out from over-crowded prisons and insane asylums, and occasionally would be temporarily "adopted" by older, attractive women who had their own apartments, jobs, cars, and lives. At least until their boyfriends or husbands were up for parole or on their way home from some foreign assignment doing God-Knows-What (helping invent crack? Working up the formula for the AIDS virus in some lab in Jersey? Ask those guys from the X-Files) - I didn't really care, since I was more concerned with getting out of said apartments and homes with my pants on right-side out and my head uncrushed.

My final brush with homelessness in Florida (before I wised up and took a construction job, which may have pounded the living hell out of my back, therefore contributing in some small way to my current state of physical health, being on a cane, etc. but gave me back not only a weekly paycheck but my dignity and a place to shower ANYTIME I wanted, after saving for a few weeks and finding a couple of roommates on the construction crew!) was horrible enough that it kept me working menial labor jobs for the next couple of years, and once I met my ex-wife in St. Paul in the late '80's, those days were (and will hopefully remain as such) gone forever for this boy.

It was late, getting chilly on an early February day in Miami, and I'd taken leave of my tiny, $2.00 a day, sixth floor walk-up hotel room (you know the kind- you usually pay BY THE HOUR lol) that was full of cockroaches larger than most family cats and (without air conditioning) was so HOT that, when I went out one day looking for work and left my plastic radio on the window sill in the sunlight, IT MELTED!! I came home to a puddle of plastic covering the devices' pathetic little speaker. Time to move on, I thought, I'd rather sleep outside and be a little colder than swelter in this shit-hole one more night. Besides, there were two very, very, very gay Cuban gentlemen living across the hall from me who thought it was absolutely hilarious to wander into my room without knocking, completely nude but for a chef's cap and a pearl necklace, and ask if I had any extra salt, sugar, milk, etc. AHHGGGHHHH!!! Well, once the tunes were gone, so was I.

I walked for miles down unfamiliar streets and alleys (once having to stop and take off my beat-to-hell sneakers to massage the gigantic blisters that were forming on my feet from walking so long on that hot, unforgiving, paved-over former piece of paradise), looking for a place to just lay down with my (stolen from the hotel room, along with two towels, half a bar of soap, two packets of coffee, four sugars, and the mildewy stationary which I had been surprised to find, along with Gideon's Bible, in the drawer beside my rickety bed) one thin blanket and a lumpy pillow, which I had rolled up and tied like a sleeping bag to my back while I carried my small bag of personal items in my right hand while keeping my left buried deep in my hoodie pocket so it looked like I was carrying some sort of small arms mechination. To this day, I'm astounded that I, a (at the time) 150-pound white kid with an idiotically innocent face and long blonde hair, didn't get rolled, beaten, or even offed by any of the lunatics I fraternized with or even lived around.

I guess walking with my head held high, not being afraid to make eye contact, and singing out loud at the top of my lungs ("Hey, ese', joo theenk we should roll thees el stupido Americano walking through our neighborhood at seven PM on a Friday night?" "Naw, sheet mang, joo hear what he's singing? That cabrone ees fucking CRAZY!) lyrics to Ronnie James Dio ("You're a rainbow in the dark!" ) and Rick Springfield tunes "(I wish that I had JESSIEEEEE'S GURRRRLLLL!!!") kept the wolves at bay, so to speak, but I'm still leaning towards the "God protects drunks and morons theory," both of which categories I definately fell into at the time.

Either way, on this particular evening, I finally ran out of steam near a place in Miami (I had no map, no sense of direction- hell, no sense at all- and had no idea I was walking into what would become one of the largest and most traumatic inner-city riots America had seen since Detroit burned a decade earlier) that, a fellow street bum advised me, was just a few blocks from the Salvation Army, which had closed for the evening by that point but would be open at six AM with hot breakfast, prayers, showers, clean clothes, and at least 3 nights of sleeping in a real bed guaranteed. I figured (after refusing to give my direction-giver one of my last seven Marlboros) I'd sleep under a near-by freeway overpass, the old-fashioned-kind (which now are purposely designed and built to avoid having people like errrrr- me- sleep there) which slanted uphill at about a seventy degree angle and had at least twenty or thirty feet at the very top that was perpetually in darkness, thereby making it a perfect place for hobos, winos, and hapless, homeless screw-ups such as myself to drink, shoot up, or just waste the days and nights away in relative privacy and some degree of protection from the elements.

I made my way up the concrete embankment, walking carefully and quietly, not wanting to freak out somebody fucking or shitting or shooting up, and after my eyes adjusted to the dim light, noticed that there were 15-20 other folks camping out up in there- mostly old black homeless men, one or two Cubans, and a tightly-gathered knot of Jamaican refugees who- bless their hearts- noticed me and that I was different from the average idiot sleeping under the bridge and subsequently not only shared a delicious pot of their native gumbo with me but also several HUGE spliffs that eventually sent me crawling off to find my own space to sleep off my buzz and put to rest my weary bones. I took my shoes and socks off so the blisters could naturally pop and feel at least a small breeze, wrapped everything I owned up in my hoodie, which I used as a pillow so nobody could snatch my shit while I dozed fitfully, and readied myself for a long, terrifying night. After one last look around (everyone else seemed to be sleeping by this time), I pulled my thin blanket up over my head and passed out. Around 4AM, a younger black dude who'd been laying a few feet away from me shook me awake frantically, saying, "Hey blondie! You better get the fuck outta here, that's what I'm fixin' to do!! Them riots just started and look at the fellow on the other side of you!"

I blearily sat up, yawned, and took out my lighter so I could check the time. That's when I realized something was highly amiss- not only could I see my watch just fine in what should have been the deepest, darkest blackness just before dawn, but there were reflections of flames flickering and licking at the edges of the shadows that had been our meager protection from the law and smidge of privacy against passing morons in high-octane sports cars (those folks like to do fun things like throw eggs and garbage at the homeless, thereby apparently feeling morally superior or "cool"- a bully is a bully, whether they're pulling their shit from the window of a speeding car or dropping water balloons out forty story windows onto the heads of unsuspecting side-walk travelers below. MORONS!) and SUV's.

I turned my head to see what the guy meant about the geezer sleeping on the other side of me- I'd spoken with the gentleman briefly the night before, swapped stories before we fell asleep, and had planned on going "can hunting" (the practice of collecting aluminum cans and- in Florida, at least- glass soda pop bottles until one has enough to buy their bottle, bag, or other form of self-medication for the day) together after the sun rose. The old man (whom I had taken to calling "Pops" in our brief but enjoyable conversation we'd had a few hours earlier) had clearly expired, either from illness, old age, or the elements, sometime between 10PM and 4AM; His lifeless body was twisted in an unnatural position as if he'd passed away in private (I say private because nobody admitted to hearing any noises from the duffer as he exited this earthly plane) and highly exquisite agony. One of his hands was sticking up in the air with the fingers bent in bizarre, seemingly impossible angles as rigor mortis set in, and the look on his face was one of absolute terror- his mouth was wide open, frozen in a silent, eternal scream, and his eyes were so wide open they apeared to be perfect circles- and with his pupils rolled back in the sockets, he vaguely resembled one of the walking dead from the cult classic horror film Dawn Of The Dead. Hands down, one of the Top Five Freakiest Fucking Moments Of My Life.

Needless to say, I picked up my shit and followed the guy who'd awakened me immediately down the ramp and across the street. We were the only two left (living) in the underpass by that point, the others having had already lit out for the day to hunt cans, work day labor for their booze or dope, or hit the Sally's, which was my plan as well, having not eaten or showered for two days by this point. I shared one of my few last cigarettes with my new-found comrade, and we got to know each other (his name was Beau and he was from Athens, Georgia, where there were warrants out for his arrest for back child-support- according to him, the warrants could have been for chopping up young white idiots who sleep in freeway underpasses, now that I think about it, and he claimed that he'd come to Miami to escape the Georgia police and find a job in the then-booming Florida construction business.) as we literally watched the city around us burn. And no, I didn't report the body to the police- I would've been bonked on the head by a night-stick and thrown in jail along with the rest of the homeless and street crazies, who were being rounded up poste-haste by the Miami PD to help avert their potentially joining in the looting and rioting. My plan was to get the hell out of Overtown before anything remotely close to that scenario went down.

Sirens raged, police, fire trucks, and ambulances raced past us one after another, each one seeming more urgent that the one before, until finally a convoy of National Guardsmen (one of whom threw me a full pack of Camel Lights from the back of his passing truck- one in a long series of deeds/events that have kept me from totally reviling the usually selfish, self-absorbed human race- as I like to say, I love humanity but damn, I hate people! I'm (sort of) kidding about that, but was nonetheless surprised at such an unexpected (if unhealthy in the long run- I'm still trying to quit smoking cigarettes and lemme tellya- they really are harder to give up than heroin- but that's a story for another day) act of kindness from that young soldier as his convoy roared past us, the youthful soldiers all armed to the teeth, AC/DC, Whitesnake, and Black Sabbath blasting from their individual cabs, and for a moment I wondered if the world itself was ending right before my eyes.

I had been aware of what's come to be known as the "Cuban Boat Crisis" for awhile- Fidel Castro, being the smart and smart-ass dictator he is, had finally agreed to let some of the thousands of Cuban politcal prisoners who hated his government and the communist system in general go free from the jails and asylums some of them had been locked in for over a decade. His big joke? He basically only released violent criminals, rapists, murderers, and child molesters from the prisons and insane asylums of Cuba and set them adrift towards Miami as a little "gift" to the Reagan administration and the Cuban dissidents who had set up home base in Miami with the goal of eventually unseating Castro with America's help. God knows, we need their cigar tobacco and precious beach sand- that's a joke. Anyway, after being kept in filthy pens and being treated like human waste for over a year, the Cubans were in full-on riot mode, and were busy burning the city of Miami one neighborhood at a time. Most Americans at the time were as full of phony patriotism (Oh, God Bless Ronald Reagan and the wonderful, be-suited fuck-tards who run this land today!!) as they are in the modern era, and didn't seem to care a whit about the nasty business going on at the highest levels of our government, so of course there was never any real resolution to the problem, as long as America got what she wanted. What do we want?

What we really want is EVERYTHING (Can you say "Manifest Destiny?" Sure, I knew ya could) because we're Americans, and goddammit, enough is never enough for us, is it? Not only do we require every other country we interract with to take on our political system (for what THAT'S worth), but seem tirelessly driven to shove our own religious beliefs (as a nation, not individually, so please, no letters from disgruntled Mormons. I was only kidding the other day when two of them came traipsing up the long, uphill driveway I live at the top of to preach to me- one greeted me with "Hello, brother! We're here representing the Holy Living Lord!" to which I responded by pulling a 40-ounce bottle of Budweiser and a pack of Marlboro lights from the bag in my hand and said, "Well, I live here, and I represent the church of the Holy Living Forty Ouncer and the Sacred Tobacco! Wannna come in and share my religion while I hear about yours?" Needless to say, they turned, white-faced and in complete horror, and trudged their merry ways back down the hill.) Yes, I know, I'm going to hell, but not because I pulled a funny on some guys who think Jesus was hanging out in the American wilderness in the 1850's but because I CAN'T BE A GOOD BOY!! Ha. Ha.

Anyhow, to put a cap on this ever-growing portion of my life-time memoirs (sorry, but if ya read me on a regular basis, you know I tend to ramble- if I got paid by the word I'd be writing this column from Fiji or Maui, you can bet on it!), my new-found buddy and I followed the Army trucks as far as the mission, which was still serving breakfast, and where I saw, on the television in the lobby, the city of Miami burning around me. I was square in the deadliest zone of what's now come to be known as "The Overtown Riots," when disgruntled (and some completley insane and criminal, but not all) Cuban refugees and a large number of inner city dwellers had decided they'd waited long enough for the government to pay attention to their particular plights (homelessness, unemployment, outright discrimination- remember, we're in the heart of old Dixie Land in the mid-'80's here- bales of killer weed and high-grade cocaine are floating in from busted drug runner's boats and washing up on the beaches, Miami Vice is the 1 television show in America- Christ, the TRUE-LIFE plot to SCARFACE is actually happening right around me, but I'm too poor and street-level to have ever ran into any of the Pacino-type characters, thank God) and had risen up while I was sleeping next to a dead man under a freeway overpass.

My pal and I watched the news as long as we could, then after being booted out of Salvation Army to go "job hunt" (doing what, I wondered as the mission's pastor handed us leaflets and flyers about job searches- running like rats through the alleys so the pissed-off and terrified cops and National Guardsmen took pot-shots at us, not being able to tell whether we're just two guys looking for work or two local terrorists intent on blowing up a building or setting fire to a police car?) Needless to say, I parted ways with my bud and, with specific directions from the pastor, found my way to Biscayne Boulevard, a part of Miami that was a bit run down but not affected by the riots. There, I stopped at a random motel (these places on Biscayne were so old and run-down- built by gangsters in the fifties and sixties- that their swimming pools had long been bone-dry and baked by the sun, the rooms had stands where the televisions used to be bolted down, and the residents worked by day and sat around their cabanas during the evening, listening to Phil Collins and drinking Budweiser.

I talked the nice older woman who ran the place into letting me help her do some fix-up jobs around the place in exchange for a residency in this cool one-room apartment on the roof of the motel office, and spent that night (after getting a $20 advance from the boss) sipping cold beer and watching the deadly glow of Overtown burning on the skyline. The riot, of course, was eventually quelled and many of the Cubans were expedited back to their homeland (where, rumor had it, Cuban soldiers shot at them as their tiny boats floated toward that country's beaches- the ones who lived probably ended up serving maggot-infested chow to our "political prisoners" in Guantanamo Bay, but at least they're not walking our streets anymore, hallelulujah!! We've got enough of our own insane criminals who were raised here in America but have a decidedly less intelligent grasp of the English language than even many of the Spanish-speaking Cubanos I ran into down in Dixie.

Eventually, I met the Southern Belle I'd been searching for (hey come on, I was 19 and my head was full of idiotic dreams and plans that couldn't have come to fruition unless I'd been raised vacationing in the Hamptons, so indulge me my youthful lust, willya?), got into the construction business, and left the world of homelessness behind BECAUSE I COULD. Right now, this minute, this second, someone in your neighborhood is sitting, head in hands on their desk, weeping silently because they've just crunched the numbers for the fortieth time and have finally come to grips with the fact that there's no way in hell they can pay the house mortgage this month (and they're already a year overdue), and his or her entire family are about to (unwillingly) embark upon a horrific journey into the world of the homeless. Remember, I did it by choice, dreaming long-forgotten dreams and feeling like Kerouac, writing notes on bar napkins and scores of those tiny 3M yellow note-pads, while people like the one(s) I just mentioned have a significant other and several kids and have no idea where they're going to live until times get better or they get help. They're wondering if they'll be able to keep their families together, if their children will be taken away or even remain safe at all, and how the hell America has gotten so uncaring about the working class Joe/Jane that the actual homeless figures are too horrifying to even think about.

Let's just say the subject is hitting closer and closer to home every day, you and I are definitely in the running to become stuck in the situation I just described at the drop of a hat, and even your most-easily entertained, American Idol/American Gladiator fan/Joe six-pack knows deep down that our country is fucked and well fucked financially, as we continue to daily fund a useless war and the (ahem) "honor" of an administration that's so evil, so careless, so thoughtless, so soulless, that not only is New Orleans still under six feet of mud, but your own bridges and local edifices of rock n' roll are literally rotting out from under you.

Where ARE your tax dollars going? Who's on vacation on your dime right now, which senator is trying to pick up little boys in men's rooms, how deep and long-reaching and irreversible are the evil plots Cheney, Rummy, and King George have hatched,and how long will it be before we WAKE UP (yeah, that's what the REVEILLE thing is all about- stop snoring, America, and start to share what you have and to help other people, even if it's just a smile in line at the store, helping someone broke down on the freeway, donating your garage full of crap to the Salvation Army or (gasp) even volunteering to work with the homeless and less fortunate instead of tossing trash at them as they push their pathetic shopping carts full of rags and old newspapers down your block.) and DO SOMETHING?

Get used to it, pal- and remember, when you're out on your ass and have to survive in the community of homeless that you've looked down on, reviled, and abused over the years, that some of them might remember your faces and decide to gut you while you spend YOUR first night under a freeway overpass. OK, there's one of my many adventures, one that led to some great material for writing but was not comfortable, fun, or something that I speak lightly of (despite my smart-ass asides, I'm serious here- you could be next)- we are, as a nation, headed quickly toward a financial/employment crisis on a level we haven't seen since The Depression and Wall Street Crash back in the early part of the last century- and those are FACTS I've heard from reputable financial experts in the past few weeks.

So you see, having lived through it (even if it was by choice- and believe me, I had no idea what I was getting myself into), I know first-hand that it's not romantic, or cool, or Kerouac-ian to sleep under overpasses and be a BUM if you don't have to. It's just plain stupid, and I did it in an era where (as I quickly found out once I joined the job market) America was overflowing with tons of cash, drugs, and HIGH times. Today's homeless world is surely even more miserable, dark, and death-ridden than the era I spent on the streets. Which is why I'm reviewing the album I am this week, and why I just subjected you, the reader, to what may have been an uncomfortable read (especially if you're among the few financially-blessed folks left in the country, at least the type who'd read a music publication) and a terrifying reminder of how close to the edge we all literally are. Onward, then...

Various Artists

GIVE US YOUR POOR

2007

Appleseed Recordings

Set for release on Tuesday, Sept. 25, this eclectic batch of artists (the album's PACKED with volunteer musicians, bands, and singers, ranging from Jon Bon Jovi to Keb' Mo' to Natalie Merchant to Bruce Springsteen & Pete Seeger, Dan Zanes, Bonnie Raitt, Buffalo Tom, Jewel, Tim Robbins, and Danny Glover, each of whom contribute their own interesting and eye-opening peek into the world of the homeless. Of particular interest to Twin Citians should be the records' large focus on the homeless community surrounding you in Minneapolis/St. Paul.

My advice? Don't grin out of the side of your mouth or feel superior or act like a bourgeois asshole next time you run across the ubiquitous homeless populating the streets of our fair city- very, very, soon, that dirt-smeared, sad-looking, hungry man or woman you're laughing at could very easily be YOU or your brother or sister or cousin or neighbor. The situation is of such massive proportions, and so out of control, that not only are whole rosters of famous musicians focusing on it, but narrowing their focus (at least on this album) on YOUR CITY.

The CD makes no bones about its dire subject matter right from the get-go, with a track called "Land Of 10,000 Homeless," an audio documentary including commentary from actual Minneapolis/St. Paul homeless folks set to music. Rather than try to explain their feelings, worries, and calls for help from my point of view, I'm going to quote a few passages of the spoken word track here.

The track starts out with a man speaking, introducing himself ("I'm Shawn, and I'm homeless- I can pass as a...'regular civilian,' which is what we call them" (meaning people with homes and jobs.), then goes on to a break-down scat from a 'Cities street brother: "I'm on the street again! What is that? I ain't got a place to say/It's cold and damp in a hobo's camp..." finally morphing into a testimonial from a life-long St. Paul resident: "My name is Bill from St. Paul Minnesota, I was born here, and I'm homeless right now. See, I took care of my dad for 12 years and then he died. The nursing home costs and all that stuff just ate up the house- so we lost the house. I was out on the street, it just happened so quick! It took me awhile to learn how to BE homeless. What do you do? Alot of stuff, you have to learn, where the bathrooms are, where the showers are, it takes you about a month to really figure out what's going on...and it's lonely too. Six o' Clock in the morning, there's nowhere to go, you just wander the streets. I don't want to be here all winter, 'cause I don't want to freeze to death. This place is full, they don't have anyplace to put you, and you have to walk the streets at night, and you can freeze to death. I know a lot of people who've froze to death."

The track gets even more heartbreaking as a child's voice chimes in, "My name is Tasheena, I'm nine years old, and I'm homeless. I've been homeless for two years; it feels hard to be homeless, it's scary, sad, and it's embarrassing, because people tease you for living in a place like this." You hear some sorrowful, angelic gospel singing in the background, then Bill continues, "...it just seems like we don't exist- and we DO exist. And there's a lot of us. I tell you, in St. Paul/Minneapolis, there's thousands, and you just don't realize it. Maybe we'll go away if you don't say anything. But there's more every day, I see new faces every day....say you work out at Ford, they shut down for a month or two, you're down on the list...how long does it take before you miss a payment and lose your house? This is a tough country to live in- why don't you help people out? It'd be kind of nice to get a bus card instead of having to walk sixteen miles to work..."

Other stand-outs here include Keb Mo's scorching slide-blues number, "Don't Let Me Go Homeless," Natalie Merchant's "There Is No Good Reason," in which she admits she's been there herself, Springsteen and Seeger's haunting "Hobo's Lullabye," Danny Glover's spoken word (over bad-ass back-beats) diatribe, "My Name Is Not "Those People," Buffalo Tom's catchy, heart-rending crowd-rouser, "Ink Falling (Father Outside)," Glover's "When We Left Minneapolis," which breaks down every Truth on this subject intelligently and touchingly, and album closer "Here And Now," by Mark Erelli, which is a countrified slice of Reality with absolutely scathing lyrics as well as being a timely, hope-inducing speaker-burner.

All in all, an excellent collection of music with the added bonus of REALITY thrown in- something most Americans are desperately trying to avoid facing, but also something that's terrifying and far-reaching enough that it brought artists of this caliber out to DONATE their time and talents to the project. There's no point in preaching about giving to your fellow man or tithing to the widows and orphans of your community and the world at large, but I will say that those ignorant, self-obsessed fools who are busy running their credit cards into the ground or gambling away their families' rainy-day fund at the casino tonight are a helluva lot closer to the state of being where the folks who spoke at the beginning of this record are than they realize.

It's not funny. It's not as easy as, "Get a job," "Go away," "They're bums," or "Well, as long as I'M doing OK." No folks, there's a reason Overtown burned all those years ago, and there's a reason Detroit burned the generation previous, and there's going to be a reason you wake up one morning (hopefully in your own bed and not on a park bench covered in old newspaper) when you see the fires begin to light the night sky of Minneapolis- when the downtrodden have taken all they can take, they're going to come and take what you've got. Helping them now might be a better idea than having some of the darker elements of that particular portion of American society breaking through your sliding glass doors, ransacking your house, and perhaps even harming you or your family in their hysteria and urgency to escape before police or National Guardsmen (are there any left on American soil, King George? Or are they all too busy dying in a foreign desert in order to save your pride- as if ANYBODY ON THE PLANET will ever think anything good of you or your family or your ilk again?) can arrive to "save you." Wait 'til the homeless march into the White House and help themselves to Georgie's lunch- I'll bet we see a different approach to homelessness if it goes that far,eh?

For now, if you give a damn at all, look around you at the people in your neighborhood. You can't be expected to save the world on your own, or give a dollar to every wino bumming around the end of the block. But what about that young family that moved in a year or so ago, you know- the one where the dad used to leave every morning at 7AM for a daily commute to a job but now he simply sits on the porch sipping a beer with a blank look in his eyes as he peruses the "Jobs" section of the Pi-Press or the Strib? Why don't you bake a casserole, buy a nice "Welcome To The Neighborhood" card, and go introduce yourself to the mom- who's probably working two jobs now to cover the bills even as she watches more and more of the family's income dwindle and knows in her heart she's fighting a losing battle.

You CAN make a difference. There are ways to help without supporting addicts, alcoholics, and ne'er do wells. Call your local shelters, write letters to your representatives, vote appropriately and fairly, and above all- START GIVING A DAMN!!

The next installment of this CD series on the plight of the homeless just might include YOUR voice describing your fall from social and employment grace. For your sake, I hope not, but if you can help and aren't, you're just as guilty as Bush and his ilk for the state of the world around you.

BUY THIS ALBUM- it will change your life, and maybe those of people like Tasheena and Bill and a million others who are HUMAN BEINGS and not disposable waste. Available in stores on 9/25/07 or you can e-mail Appleseed Records in West Chester, PA, for more info online at info@appleseedrecords.com

That's it for this time out, folks. We'll have a decidely lighter-spirited column next week, tons of new reviews, and lots of grubby rock and roll gossip. Ha. Ha. Stay tuned to the 'Dial and until we meet again in these pages- make yer own damn news.

If you have local/regional/national music news, CD's, or gigs you'd like plugged in this column, or you just want me to hand-deliver a letter to Giant Santa for you, send replies to Tmygunn77764@yahoo.com