Pardon My French

“When good Americans die, they go to Paris.”---Oscar Wilde

Less than two months from now, my child bride and I will be in France, doing the things people who go to France do.  Strolling down the Champs-Elysees hand in hand while itinerant musicians play La Vie En Rose.  Clambering to the top of the Eiffel Tower for some bubbly in the champagne bar.  Looking for Louvre in all the wrong places.  To be on the safe side with the natives I’m learning to say “Woody Allen sent me!” in French.  Woody’s films brought more people to Paris than Notre Dame, the Arc de Triomphe and Brigitte Bardot combined, and the Paris Tourism Bureau owes him a small statue, at least. 

Don’t forget Hemingway, either.  Ernest was a big fan, his thoughts on France defined by his time living there as a young, struggling but deeply happy expatriate in the 1920s.  He called Paris “A Moveable Feast,” which meant that wherever you go for the rest of your life, the city and its magic will always stay with you.  “There are only two places in the world where we can live happy,” declared Hemingway.  “At home or in Paris.”  You’ll note that nobody ever says this about Rotterdam or Saskatoon..

I’m hoping things work out better than my first visit to Mexico, where I soon learned the buses don’t always run on time, people give you directions whether they know them or not and it’s a bad idea to get ice in your Margarita.  Fortunately, we have infiltrators to help us as niece Kathleen set out with a scouting party two years ago to get the lay of the land (she lives on the Left Bank; no, not Kathleen).  In any case, we’re ready.  We have our stash of euros for the public toilets, our Charles DeGaulle backpacks and our pickpocket-proof money belts and we’ve learned all the words to The Marseillaise in case we wind up with a bunch of hooligans at an international soccer brawl.  Oh, and we promise you---We Won’t Come Back Til It’s Over, Over There.

Getting There Is 1/16th The Fun

One of the reasons I have never gone to Europe is my antipathy for long flights.  That and my deep fear of running into a McDonald’s in Saint-Remy-de-Provence.  I remember being captured once by an airplane in Honolulu and hauled all the way to Boston, a cheery hop, skip and jump of 12 hours.  When I got to Beantown, I felt dazed from sensory overload and bruised as if beaten by cricket bats covered with foam padding.  After abstaining for years, I reluctantly flew to Anchorage, arriving in a fog at one a.m. to find my travel agent had given the wrong date to my hotel and rental car company. Talk about getting cold-cocked.

On the other hand, I haven’t seen my old pal Gilbert Shelton, a long-time Paris resident, for nigh onto 64 years, when both of us were stirring up a hornet’s nest with University of Texas censors while turning out monthly issues of the Texas Ranger humor magazine, and it seems like time’s-a-wastin’.  My six months in Austin were a revelation marked by daily epiphanies, a swirl of new friendships and colossal good times, which started with me living in Gilbert’s condemned apartment, engaging in life-and-death waterballoon fights involving hundreds of warriors, meeting crazed women and dining in venerable Mexican-town restaurants at midnight.  Shelton: “Try the enchilada plate, it’s only 88 cents.”

Gilbert left and rarely came back, opening a tiny workspace and studio called Art Kerblooey at 9 Rue Francois de Neufchateau in the 11th Arrondissement, wherever the hell that is.  This is not a retail store, I’m assured by nephew Gavin Shelton, so don’t trek out there looking for Fat Freddy’s Cat paraphernalia.  Even if you happen to find Gilbert there, remember he’s 85 now and subject to feeling grumpy, so you might want to bring along a peace offering of sweet tea and an enchilada plate.

Anyway, I’m told the airlines have outstanding perks these days if you’re willing to pay the piper.  For a grand extra, you get seats that fold out into a bed, for a thousand more a stewardess will bring wine and tuck you in at night and for another thou she’ll get in bed with you.  Oh, and don’t forget your compression stockings, we don’t want to be stopping at the Landspitali hospital in Reykjavic to take care of your ugly blood clots.  Other than that, bon voyage!  See you at Notre Dame.  What do you mean there’s no football?

Whatever Happened To Continental Capers?

Remember when we had these things called travel agencies?  Back in the real golden years they were scattered all over town.  You could pop in at a moment’s notice and plan a trip to Tanganyika or Detroit with the aid of skilled experts and all of it was free because the travel agencies were largely subsidized by the booming airlines.  Alas, one day at a Pan Am picnic, the CFO took a look at the payouts and screamed “Stop that train!”  In no time flat, the travel agencies found out what fade to black means.  Now we have to do all this stuff ourselves.  Oh sure, there’s AAA, but we stopped using them when Freida at the Need-a-Tow? desk who held your hand til help arrived was replaced by Clarence the Computer, who said they’d get to you in eight or nine hours if the traffic lightened up.

Though they are rarer than turtle teeth, travel agents do exist, hiding their shame in little duplexes or tawdry booths at the farmers’ market.  I was given a clandestine phone number for “Yvonne,” by an underground friend who prefers to go unnamed.  I called her and she gave me directions to an address on SW Second Street near downtown Gainesville.  “Knock three times and whisper low,” she said.  I went as close to the address as I could get, parked on the property of a deceased burger joint and started looking around, but there was no such number.  I foolishly asked a pair of convenient malingerers if they knew Yvonne, but they were high on Ashwaganda and slowly discussing their fascination with the color magenta.  I carefully drove around a couple of reclining derelicts and made a mental note to avoid downtown any time there was not a Flying Pig Parade happening.  Oh, well.  Sometimes you just have to reach down, pull yourself up by the bootstraps, uncork a bottle of Jameson’s Triple Distilled and call Delta.  Hopefully, you won’t get Ganesha.

Kathleen Ellison, D.C. Coordinator, Killeen For President campaign, 2019

Anticipation Always Trumps Reality

“At the age of thirty-seven she realised she’d never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair,”---Marianne Faithfull

Me neither, but a nice tour bus with a sack of baguettes will do.  Thanks to Woody and early James Bond, I feel like I know the basics of the City of Light and what I don’t know niece Kathleen will hip me to.  Kathleen Ellison, now the wife of Yaniv Barzilai, still appreciates me for helping to hone her driving skills on the interstate when all others fled in terror at the prospect.  A dermatologist by trade, Mrs. B. wound up in Paris after her husband drew the long straw at his State department job.  Not to say that Yaniv didn’t pay a weighty price for his plum posting---his previous stops were in lovely Azerbaijan, famous for its sterling waste management and exciting garbage floods and never-dull Kabul, home of Kidnapers ‘R’ Us.  Walk across a hot bed of coals for eight years, eventually you get a cushy spot with a view of the Eiffel.  Seems only fair.  We’re staying with the kids for a couple of days while we get our feet wet.  Knowing Kathleen, we won’t be bored.

On Day 3, it’s off on the Rick Steves 7-day tour of Paree with our new friends from Albuquerque, Duluth, Pflugerville and Roanoke.  We have not done much of this group touring sort of thing, although we did enjoy our Duck Tour in Boston in a bus that converted to a riverboat.  When we headed for the Charles, Mildred and Larry up in front jumped out because they didn’t know how to swim; we picked them up on the way back.  Forest Gump had tour groups figured out…they’re like a box of Dunkin’s, you never know whether you’ll get Nutella Croissant or Jelly.  The tour guide can make or break the day, of course, and we had a jolly lad.  Pulling up to a pub across the street from a tiny ancient cemetery, he told us “This is the only place in the world where you can drink a Sam Adams while looking at his grave.”  Maybe Marcel Marcel will have a few similar bon mots in his poche.

We’re Off To The Coxville Zoo

Sometimes Rick Steves gets a bit weary and gives you a little time to explore Paris on your own.  I think we’ll be passing on the famous catacombs and the Musee des Egouts sewer museum due to Siobhan’s allergies to intricately stacked skulls and femurs and her lack of interest in urban plumbing.  While on our own we’ll be guided by the colorful suggestions of my cosmopolitan cousin Beverly Mack, who’s been there and done that:

“We did the big things…Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, etc., but we more enjoyed the smaller venues like the Pantheon, the Grand Mosque with its adjacent Moroccan restaurant and walking along the Seine through the Latin Quarter past crowded Notre Dame and nearby Shakespeare and Company bookshop, then on down the Champs Elysees through the Tuilleries, past the Louvre pyramid.  Don’t miss the flower market.  If I could do only a few things in Paris, they would be: visit the Pantheon and the St. Chapelle chapel; have a meal at Jean Paul and Simone’s Les Deux Magots and visit the adjacent St. Germaine de Pres church.  And lounge at a local sidewalk bistro as often as possible, just people watching.”

Beverly is one of those wise women who trekked through Europe in her youth while we were haggling with Mexicans over the price of onyx in Puebla.  Perhaps a smarter choice, although we have funnier stories.  After all, nobody worries about the Evil Eye in Montmartre.

C’est tout pour aujourd’hui….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

   

Looking For The Guru

“Show them a light and they’ll follow it anywhere.”---Anonymous

Guru shopping ain’t what it used to be.  Maharishi Mahesh Yogi has ascended into a higher state of consciousness, teenager Prem Rawat (aka “The  Baby-faced Bullshit Artist”) has rebranded himself as a humanitarian author, Jim Jones drank the Kool-Aid and was scattered at sea and Charlie Manson spent 50 years in prison and was shivved by metastatic colon cancer.  The real tragedy was the underrated Mr. Rogers, who passed at a young  74, leaving his followers shaving their heads and rending their garments.  Now what?

Where is Baba Ram Dass when you really need him?  In 1967, Richard Alpert, a cohort of Timothy Leary at Harvard, traveled to India and became a disciple of Hindu guru Neem Karoli Baba, who gave him the name Ram Dass, meaning “Servant of Ram.”  Alpert returned to the U.S. and in 1971 wrote the seminal book Be Here Now, which became required reading for all would-be hippies.  He also wrote or co-authored twelve more books on spirituality over the next four decades but it was the square blue gem Be Here Now for which he’s remembered.  The book resonated deeply with young people due to its immense cultural hype, unbridled hedonistic joy and the sense of shared community it provided during a defining moment in pop culture.  Readers and reviewers generally concede BHN is a transformative counter-culture bible that acted as a bridge between the psychedelic experience of the 1960s and Eastern spiritual discipline.  For many, it was a profound, life-altering and deeply impactful guide they carried with them into middle-age.  The New York Times said the book “captured the spiritual zeitgeist of the early 1970s.” 

Baba Ram Dass died on December 22, 2019, at the age of 88.  Since then, we got bupkus.  Deepak Chopra, a millionaire 100 times over?  Come on.  Eckhart Tolle?  We don’t think so.  Perhaps Self-help Sing, the comedic persona of Masood Boomgard is a more suitable guide for modern society.   Singh advocates “unmotivational advice” to help people lower their expectations and just chill.  He often advises people to quit, go home and sleep if they have a bad day, rather than trying to get blood out of a bad turnip.  Boomgard has already amassed 1.7 million followers on Instagram and is popular on TikTok and YouTube.  Check him out if you like.  We’re still looking.

Still Life With Tom Robbins

In 1980, a little-known author named Tom Robbins took it upon himself to answer the question of How to Make Love Stay in his new book Still Life With Woodpecker.  I was 40 years old at the time with the paperwork from a second divorce in my pocket so it was obvious I needed a little guidance in this area.  I was so taken with the book I bought a dozen of them for my twelve best friends.

That’s not to say Tom Robbins ever really answered the question, but his book was filled with enough sterling advice that it quickly catapulted up to #1 on everybody’s best-seller lists and sent Tom on his way.  For a while, Robbins became the Guru of Love.  Still Life was a philosophical but funny work which championed romantic individualism over social activism, arguing that Love is the ultimate outlaw that defies rules, and magic must be used to keep it alive.

The central question asks how to maintain the magic.  Robbins’ answer is not exactly a revelation (work like hell at making additional magic rather than just consuming the initial excitement), but his treatment of Love as an outlaw gadfly that refuses to obey rules and social convention, that slips and slides across the floor and out the door, is genius.  The author suggests that lovers should “aid and abet” each other in capturing this unpredictable free agent.  The book contends that people are never perfect but Love can be.  Robbins alleges that the world contains a set amount of good and evil and the goal is to keep things stirred up to prevent evil from solidifying, rather than to completely eliminate it.  Satisfaction often comes from being playful, rebellious and immature rather than cautious or overly responsible.  Criminals break rules, outlaws live outside them entirely.  The book’s famous last line suggests that individuals can reclaim their joy and innocence, overcoming past limitations:

“It’s Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood.”

That’s sort of our motto around here.

James Hollis Knows Exactly Who You Are

James Hollis, Ph.D. is a prominent American Jungian psychoanalyst, author and public speaker based in Washington, D.C..  He’s best known for applying Carl Jung’s depth psychology to help individuals find personal meaning and purpose and to navigate life transitions, particularly in the second half of life.

Hollis has been listening to people in that second half for over 40 years.  He knows what you’re thinking and he’d just as soon you didn’t ask him, “Is this all there is?”  Somewhere between 35-65, most of us hit a wall.  The career, marriage, identity you built in your twenties and thirties stops making sense.  Hollis calls this the “middle passage” rather than a mid-life crisis.  He says it’s your psyche demanding you grow up again.  The first half of your life is spent adapting to the world.  The second half is about adapting to your soul.  And the soul rarely wants what the ego chased.

Hollis says “We are all living out someone else’s life.”   The middle passage is when you notice the script isn’t yours.  Anxiety often means you’re waking up to that fact.  Anxiety, depression, restlessness---these aren’t malfunctions.  They’re your psyche telling you that life is too small for who you’re becoming.  Hollis disagrees with almost everybody about what an individual wants most in life.  “The goal should be meaning, not happiness.  What is life asking of you now…not what do you want from life.  Flip the script.”

No Ten Steps for this guy.  And Hollis refuses to comfort you.  “You’re going to have to grieve the life you thought you’d have before you can live the life that’s waiting.  Growth requires necessary suffering.”  Then again, if you live in Septuagenaria or further down the road, that’s probably not a big deal for you.  Hollis’ life philosophy in a nutshell is “Shut up, suit up and show up.”  Whiners need not apply.

Still in a quandary?  Here are some suggestions:

1. Stop asking “What should I do?” and start asking “What’s being asked of me?”  Sit for 5 minutes each morning and ask “where in my life do I feel constricted, bored or anxious?”  That’s where the task is.  Symptoms point to the task.

2. Whatever dilemma you’re in, it’s your fault not someone else’s  Next time you feel resentment or immobility, finish this sentence: “The part of me I haven’t lived yet is ….?”  For instance---the part of me I haven’t lived yet is The Writer.  Then go spend 5% of the week attending to that deficiency.   Be careful if the answer is wine taster or motorcycle racer.

3. Hollis says “The second half of life is built on a thousand small surrenders.”   Try this: before bed tonight, ask yourself “What is one small thing I could do tomorrow that honors the person I’m becoming, not the person I was?”  Call someone you haven’t spoken to in months or years.  Throw away an old role.  Take a walk without purpose.  Bring Bill Killeen a nice pastry.  Small is sustainable.  You can do it if you try.  Oh, and cream puffs are always nice.

Elizabeth Gilbert Takes No Prisoners

You probably remember Elizabeth Gilbert from the book Eat, Pray, Love, which sold over 12 million copies or the Julia Roberts film of the same name.  The book chronicled Gilbert’s journey of self-discovery and spiritual healing after a divorce at age 33.  Now in her mid-fifties, Gilbert reflects, “I spent my twenties trying to be good.  I spent my thirties trying to be interesting.  Now I’m in my fifties and I just want to be done with my own nonsense. I’ve never seen any life transformation that didn’t begin with the person in question finally getting tired of their own bullshit.” 

Where James Hollis asks “What does your soul demand,” Gilbert inquires “What would you do if you weren’t afraid of being embarrassed?”  Same depth, different delivery.  She calls it “stubborn gladness” vs. Hollis’ “necessary suffering.”  Elizabeth personifies creativity as a drunk fairy.  She wants you to “Stop waiting for courage, just do the thing while you’re scared.  Perfectionism is just fear in really good shoes.  Fear is allowed to have a voice, it’s not allowed to have a vote.  It can ride in the car but it has to sit in the backseat.  And it can’t touch the radio.  And it definitely cannot drive.”  Translation: You don’t eliminate fear.  You put it in its place like a cranky toddler.  Also, “Argue for your limitations and, sure enough, they’re yours.  But seriously, who wants to win that argument?”

Gilbert’s forte is making depth accessible.  Hollis tells you to enter the swamp.  Gilbert hands you hip waders and an alligator joke, then shoves you in.  Same swamp, less drowning.  In an era when fake gurus live in penthouses, wear Armani and spout gibberish, she’s the wizard in the clown suit, standing on the corner handing out fliers.  Don’t be afraid to take one.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com  

Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun…

Mr. Doublemint used to tell us that using his gum would cause our Happiness Quotient to burst into a nova, which might be the ultimate case of gilding the lily.  Until now.  Mr. D. has presently been grossly upstaged by one Dario Amodei, an Artificial Intelligence company CEO, who tells us we’ll soon be able to double our lifespan.  Nobody doubts that having AI churn through unfathomable amounts of data in search of useful therapies and maybe even cures is a logical notion.  Whether processing information on cellular senescence, telomere shortening, cancer, mitochondrial dysfunction, genomic instability or a legion of other causes of aging and death, research has shown that AI will be an invaluable tool.  But entrepreneur Amodei has bigger ideas.

What if Artificial Intelligence was more than a tool?  What if, instead, it was the lead author of the next chapter in human longevity?  The idea has led some technologists, most notably Amodei, wagonmaster of San Francisco-based goliath Anthropic, to the controversial conclusion that AI won’t just continue the longevity revolution, it will supercharge it.

“This might seem radical, but life expectancy increased almost 2x in the 20th century—from 40 years to 75—so it’s on trend that the ‘compressed 21st’ would double it again to 150,” Amodei wrote.  “There already exist drugs that increase maximum lifespan in rats by 25-50% with limited ill effects.  And some animals already live 200 years, so humans are manifestly not at some theoretical upper limit.”

Dario Amodie is not one to dawdle.  At the 2025 World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, he claimed that AI could double human lifespans in just five years, a mind-blowing timeline, but one he says is in line with AI development.  And he’s not alone.  Futurist Ray Kurzwell has stated that AI could push the pause button on aging as soon as 2032 in two ways.  The first is through the use of AI-enabled medical nanobots that can repair damaged cells and deliver drugs directly to the affected region.  The second is the ability to back up our brains to the cloud via AI, something much more dubious considering our limited knowledge of the human brain and how it works.  Dario Amodie, of course, is a lesser-known new guy with a dog in this fight and Ray Kurzwell is a noted optimist.  What does David Sinclair have to say?

The Sinclair Predictions

“The first person to live to 150 has already been born.”---D. Sinclair

David Sinclair, a Harvard University Medical School genetics professor and author of several books about aging believes that with current medical technology aided by Artificial Intelligence, startling upcoming breakthroughs are inevitable.  “It’s realistic to believe the goal is realistic for people currently alive,” he states.

“The epigenome, the software that tells cells which genes to use, can be reset to a more youthful state.  Partial cellular programming using a cocktail of molecules or gene therapy will be used to turn back the aging clock.”

Sinclair argues that instead of treating individual diseases like cancer or Alzheimer’s as they appear, we should focus on the underlying root cause of all of them, aging itself.  He clarified that his goal is not just to extend the time one spends on Earth as a frail, elderly person, but to extend the healthy vital years.  He imagines a world where 120-130 year olds are as active and healthy as 60 year olds are today.  Sinclair’s trials for reversing aging are in their early stages right now.

If David Sinclair is the adult in the aging room, Bryan Johnson is the whiz kid teenager running around the house with ants in his pants.  Johnson, a young 46, is the hottest longevity guru on the block with his $2 million a year Blueprint project to reverse aging and achieve a biological age of 18.  The optimistic tech entrepreneur uses extreme data-driven methods to achieve his goal, one of which is to consume 111 supplements a day.  He has a strict diet, constantly monitors his organs and even gets plasma donations from his son.  All this has allowed him to reach (by his calculation) a biological age of 21.  Unfortunately, instant replays of his achievement cannot be sent to SEC headquarters for verification.

Another contender for longevity guru of the decade is Peter Attia, a Canadian-American physician and author of Outlive: The Science & Art of Longevity, a runaway best seller.  Attia is famous for his evidence-based podcasts and focus on healthspan and he has a booming clientele.

The Death-Defying All-Star Team

1. Elizabeth Bathory.  Lizzie has the Guinness World Record as the most prolific female murderer ever, with 650 scalps on her belt.  Nothing personal, though.  The Hungarian countess really needed the bodies to replenish her bathtub, where she regularly bathed in the blood of her young victims to maintain her youth and beauty.  Didn’t work.  She was finally arrested in 1612 and confined to her castle, where she passed away at age 54.  Nice try though, Liz.

2. Charles-Edouard Brown-Sequard.    This Mauritian scientist gained notoriety for his unconventional methods and eccentric behavior in the world of hormone study.  He is especially famous for the Brown-Sequard Elixir, which he claimed could make people look younger and live longer.  Aging faster than he liked, Charlie began injecting himself with extracts from the testicles of guinea pigs and dogs, positing that these substances boosted his strength and enhanced his sexual performance.  You could argue that he succeeded, living to age 76 when the life expectancy for a male born in 1817 was 30-40 years.

3. Peter Thiel.  American billionaire Thiel has zeroed in on blood transfusions as a means to extend his life.  With an estimated worth of $9 billion, Thiel reportedly aspires to live until he is 120 years old.  He has invested heavily in anti-aging research since 2006 and admitted to ingesting human-growth hormone to maintain his bone and muscle health.  Currently, Thiel is focusing on parabiosis, the scientific term for rejuvenating blood transfusions, but is hedging his bets by taking steps to cryogenically preserve his body just in case.

4. Howard Hughes.  Howard had no magic amulets or wondrous elixirs, he was just hard to kill.  Hughes was a daredevil in the public mind and an innovator within the aviation industry who became famous for his experimental and often controversial ideas concerning airplane design and performance.  In May, 1943, he was practicing water landings in a Sikorsky amphibious aircraft and crashed heavily into Lake Mead, killing two of his passengers and sustaining severe injuries himself.  Three years later, while flying the experimental XF-111 prototype reconnaissance plane, Hughes crashed again near the Los Angeles County Club, destroying three houses before exploding into flames.  Howard managed to drag himself free of the plane despite suffering a crushed chest, which relocated his heart to the right side of his body; he also had several broken bones and severe burns.  His doctors considered his recovery a miracle, but Hughes gave the credit to fresh-squeezed orange juice.

5. Doulas Bader.  Bader was a somewhat reckless Royal Air Force pilot between the World Wars, known for undertaking aerobatic maneuvers which were both dangerous and forbidden.  In 1932, during one such adventure, Bader crashed and the injuries he sustained were severe enough to cause surgeons to remove both of his legs, one above the knee, one below.  After he recovered Dougie lobbied to be returned to flying status, arguing that his near-death experience gave him insights which would be invaluable to younger pilots.  He was denied until the outbreak of World War II created a demand for pilots.  Accepted, he became a flying ace over France, during which time he destroyed one airplane due to his error when attempting a takeoff.  Despite suffering an ugly head wound, Bader continued to fly, rising to the rank of Wing Commander.

Douglas Bader fought in the Battle of Britain and became one of the RAF’s most successful pilots before being shot down and captured by the Germans.  Despite the handicap of two artificial legs, his numerous escape attempts so annoyed the Nazis that he was sent to the allegedly escape-proof Colditz Castle, where he remained until the war ended.  Once freed, he returned to the Royal Air Force and lived to a sprightly 72.  

On Second Thought…

Sometimes, the idea is interesting but the execution has faulty pistons.  The startup Nectome was interested in preserving the brain’s “connectome” (all its memories and connections) by using a high-tech embalming fluid.  Trouble is, their process is 100% fatal since it must be performed on a living brain to ensure perfect preservation for future digital uploading.  As Emily Littela used to tell us, “never mind!”

Theoretical research suggests that an observer falling into a Schwartschild Black Hole could technically delay their inevitable death at the singularity by using a “momentary impulse” or “kick” from an engine.  The traveler still dies, but this strategy maximizes his “proper time”---the subjective amount of life he experiences before hitting the center.  Sorry researchers, nobody is paying any attention to your billboards.

Future medical concepts include nanorobots that crawl through blood vessels to manually destroy arterial plaque.  By clearing blockages without invasive surgery, these microscopic machines could theoretically act as a human life snooze-button, delaying death from heart attacks or strokes indefinitely.  But what if a nanobot or two goes rogue and decides to blackmail a subject in quest of a dacha on the Black Sea?

Medical professionals often observe patients who appear to wait for a specific event, such as a loved one’s arrival or a particular birthday or a Grand Finale before passing away.  This is attributed to the intense conscious effort required to maintain breathing during terminal illness; once the will is satisfied and “Happy Trails” comes across the Heartwood sound system the happy camper finally lets go.  Let’s hope it’s back at the hotel or the management won’t let us come back any more.

Some old-timers swear by lizard avoidance.  You must never let a lizard count your teeth or it’s curtains.  The ancients also thought you should turn over a shoe under the bed if you heard a dog howl at night.  And then there is the old favorite, making a deal with the devil, like Dorian Grey and Donald Trump did.  We all know what happened to Dorian, and our embedded D.C. reporters tell us the dreaded Tumbu flies are busily coalescing on the muddy banks of the Potomac.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com   

    

The Agony & The Ecstasy

Thursday, April 30

It’s like slow torture for planners, these last few days before an outside musical event.  Crates of money have been spent, talent has been assembled from far and wide, t-shirts have been printed and schedules have been calculated to the last minute, all of which can be blown to smithereens at the drop of a hat by nail guns calling themselves thunderstorms.  There has not been a sniff of rain in our area for more than 40 days, but now there are ugly members of the dreaded Cumulonimbus gang sitting in the anteroom ready to hear that magic word---“Next!”

It’s not as if a jolly sun-shower is in the offing.  Mr. Weather is promising noisy boomers, brisk winds and enough precipitation to wash your Green Room out to sea.  If the venue allows, should you postpone for a day?  Not yet, the tyrannical Florida weather is just waiting for you to do that so it can take a 24-hour snooze and come back the next day.

Fortunately for you, the first day of your weekend features an indoor show which looks to be packed and all your friends will be there.  It should be a time of satisfaction, of reaping your rewards, an occasion to sit back and bask in the sunlight of a job well-done.  Instead, you’re up at night, visions dancing through your head of lightning bolts like those Billy Batson used to conjure up when he yelled "SHAZAM!”  Waiter, this is an outrage, there’s a large fly in my soup!

Showstoppers Wil Maring & Robert Bowlin (lead photo and this one by Rick Davidson)

Friday, May 1, 9 a.m.

Before we tackle the elements, there’s a show to put on.  That wry little devil Wil Maring is coming in from Bramblebranch, Illinois tonight with the partner she politely calls “Mr. Bowlin.”  Robert Bowlin, master guitar player, fiddle virtuoso and who knows what else plays his role as the long-suffering husband to a T, generally deferring to Wil but every so often getting off a muted zinger.  Maring plays bass, sings like an angel, writes lovely songs and invariably leaves her audiences tickled pink.   There’s a cruel rumor afoot that Robert might fiddle up Orange Blossom Special tonight because Bill is 85 and can only wait so long.  Generally, Mr. B. eschews the song so people won’t think he’s a showoff, but this is an obvious emergency so we’re hoping he’ll relent.

The mayor of Gainesville, good old Harvey Ward, will be in house to introduce his local buddy Mike Boulware.  Mike’s been on the sidelines for awhile with a nefarious illness he finally wrangled into submission and he’s eager to get back to work and cast his pearls before swine (not Harvey…the rest of us).  Boulware has some new songs to show off and will open the show for Wil and Robert, a fitting move since he’s the man who first brought them to Gainesville for the Hogtown Opry in 2023.  Maybe Mr. Bowlin will let him sit in as the train whistle on Orange Blossom Special.  Not that I’m pushing.

Bill with faithful Indian companion AMK (photo by Wendy Thornton)

Friday, May 1, 3 p.m.

My favorite emcee Anna Marie Kirkpatrick keeps sending me texts of optimistic weather forecasts from the Gainesville Sun, completely ignoring the bleaker ones from the Weather Channel, AccuWeather and Dan Bland, the weather man.  Meanwhile, Gina Hawkins is shoveling coal into her imposing Karma Machine while artists Gary Borse and William Schaff are chanting Ho’oponopono prayers to drive the clouds away.  Gary has friends in high places, so you never know.

The outlook is bleak, but as Davey Crockett once said, “Be sure you’re right—then go ahead!”  Of course, we all know what happened to Davey.  We’ll start with the Last Tango In Gainesville movie at noon on the Heartwood lawn and carry on from there.  If Will Thacker’s Gathering of the Tribes gets three or four hours to reune and raise a glass before the storms invade, it beats nothing.  And we’re not ready to give up on Ho’oponopono.   The practice emanated from the depths of the wise and sophisticated Hawaiian culture, which is nothing to sneeze at.  After all, look where they live.

Mo' better Mike (photo by Rick Davidson)

The Ecstasy

The evening of May 1 was lovely to look at, delightful to hold, a rare time when the planets aligned, the prince nudged a slipper onto Cinderella’s foot and everyone lived happily ever after.  The weather was clear, everyone arrived on time, the mayor surprised Mike Boulware with a nice introduction and 70 paying customers filled the room with bonhomie, joi de vivre and appreciation for the vast talents of the performers.

First, Uncle Remus Boulware roasted a few marshmallows over the campfire and spun wonderful tales of Bre’r Rabbit and Bre’r Fox before inching into some emotional melodies that made ladies weep and grizzled old men clear their throats.  Then those gypsy rovers from over the hill, Wil Maring and Robert Bolin showed up with their magic flutes, guitars and fiddles and went about their business.

Many of you may never have heard of Wil and Robert but anyone who has experienced their charm and massive talent always comes back for more.  Their repertoire is unique, tough to label, a combination of Maring’s thoughtful and lovely originals, a couple of old standards and a tablespoon of swing, up from a teaspoon.  Robert Bowlin may not be a household name but musicians know who he is and what he’s capable of with guitar or fiddle.  Aware of Bill’s withering age and predilections, Robert finally acceded to his three-year-old request to play the Orange Blossom Special, but don’t ask him to do it again.

Nobody’s in a hurry to go home when these two are lighting up the stage with clever tunes and revealing tales of the bizarre lives of poor souls addicted to playing music for a living, but there’s a grand finale for everything, including enthralling acoustics.  With a sigh of regret, the room rings with applause and appreciation and Friday night is done, a sad victim of the sleepy Heartwood cleanup crew.  Fortunately, there’s always tomorrow when they’ll be back again to spice up the afternoon set of Patchwork on the big stage.

Day is done, gone the sun and there is little hope for succor in Mudville.  The rainclouds rattle in the west and pick up their pace, off to spoil the next day’s party.  Not a solitary forecaster offers encouragement.  We kneel down by the side or our bed and chant a few Ho’oponoponos.  Hey, you never know.

Chasing Rabbits Band (photo by Rick Davidson)

Saturday, May 2, 11 a.m.

The Heartwood team has decided to set up for music inside and out.  Paul Boharski, privy to exclusive weather reports known only to the Portuguese Navy, is vacillating.  “If we can get by this one morning storm we should be okay until after two,” he predicts.  We agree to run the Last Tango movie inside and set up for the first band outside at one. Everybody is concerned about the possibility of high wind gusts later on, but one catastrophe at a time, please.

People start to drift in, stopping at the merch table to talk or buy a t-shirt.  Nobody is especially optimistic, especially Cathy DeWitt who keeps texting advice to go inside.  Though devoid of raindrops at Heartwood, it’s pouring at her house.  Gina Hawkins and Vicki Bordeaux email to say they’re also under fire.  We call Gary Borse, who is still chanting in his back yard.  “You can’t expect Ho’oponopono to cover the whole city,” he scolds.  “It’s a focused phenomenon covering a limited area.  Don’t worry, though.  Heartwood will be alright.”  Okay, Gary, if you say so.

A slow stream of weather-defiant ex-hippies meanders in.  “It rained at Woodstock, too!” one of them remembers.  “Yeah, but we were 21 then,” grumps his dubious wife.  We realize we’re going to take a bath—if you’ll pardon the expression—on t-shirt sales.  Messages rain in asking about cancellation but we promise the show will go on.  The crowd grows to about half the size of the Last Tango earlybird brigade with still no precipitation.  We feel like the Dutch kid with his finger in the dike.  We know the apocalypse is coming, we just don’t know when.

Fifteen minutes into the first act, a drizzle begins, then a very light rain.  The band, Chasing Rabbits, plays on like the band on the Titanic, waiting for disaster to strike.  Instead---amazingly---the rain relents, retreats, ground down to nothing either by unusual good luck or the efforts of faux Hawaiians chanting in the hills of Fairfield.  People are looking at the weather on their cell phones and seeing storms overhead, but there is nothing.  Call it what you like, I’m going with the chanters.  The day…hallelujah!…is saved, the principals exult and the crowd thickens.  It’s the ultimate boon, the successful shot in the dark, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  It’s the Hawaiian Miracle of The Grand Finale! 

Heroes Of The Day

1. The Audience.  In an era when professional abstainers--those who strive to find a reason never to leave the house--abound, let’s lift a toast to those who always show up.  Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of pessimistic weather forecasters stays these rugged individuals from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.  The frantic meteorologists, rabid for rain, didn’t help, painting an ugly picture of torrential downpours, stage-blasting lightning and powerful winds, the better to keep you cowering under the bed.  Let’s hear it for the likes of Gary Gordon, encumbered by a grumpy body but possessed of substantial grit and a stellar wife.  The ex-mayor wobbled in, did his bit on stage and sat through the entire show.  Not to say there aren’t people with legitimate dilemmas, of course.  Regular customer Jill Rosier gets a day pass because a tree fell on her house.  Trump that, Michael Goettee.

2. The Bands.  Michael Derry and Chasing Rabbits showed the patience of Job as their 1 pm set was delayed 20 minutes by introductions and an unexpected award given to Bill.  Once unleashed, they went at their task with a vengeance, rousing a fretful crowd previously staring at the storm clouds.  Eventually, a light rain fell halfway through their set, lasting about 15 minutes and running off not a soul.  The band played on.

Patchwork band (photo by Rick Davidson)

The Rabbits were followed by Cathy DeWitt’s long-lived group, Patchwork.  Cathy, who was thrilled to be high and dry, has been in every Bill Killeen event in one incarnation or another, performing with The Relics at the ‘22 Tango and with Patchwork at all three Hogtown Oprys.  Patchwork provides a nice change of pace from the rock ‘n’ roll bands, playing everything from original Florida folk, country and bluegrass to forties swing and rhythm & blues  This time, they had Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin with them to add to the fun. 

Couch Messiahs (photo by John Hawkins)

The Couch Messiahs, now about twenty years in existence, might be Gainesville’s most popular band.  Mike Marino, Don David and company have a broad set list, playing a mix of Americana, roots music, R&B and country, bringing a high-energy sound to the stage and always delighting a growing fan base.

Nancy Luca Band

Over the course of the day, the audience at these affairs ebbs and flows as fairgoers opt for lunch off the grounds, go home to feed Spot and Puff or reune with friends in a quieter setting.  They always return, however, for local phenom Nancy Luca.  The crowd swelled at the Last Tango In Gainesville when she jogged on stage and the same thing happened Saturday.  If “beloved” is an overused word, and it is, it’s entirely appropriate where Nancy is concerned.  Unsullied by success, she acknowledges everyone as if they’re old buddies, she poses for photos with anyone who asks (even Randall Roffe) and she never even inquires what she’s getting paid, despite flying to and from L.A. on her own dime.  Then, of course, she goes on stage and kicks ass with her old pals, Anna Marie, Tom Holtz, Fritz Knaggs and George Covington III.

Uncle John's Band

After days of agonizing over the choices, we hired Uncle John’s Band from Tampa to close the show.  Paco Paco and FATWOOD did the job at The Last Tango with a grand flourish and we were looking for another strong finisher this time.  Gina Hawkins and I eventually pared the list to her favorite pair and I opted for this Grateful Dead cover band because GD music is universally loved but also due to the fact they had played Gainesville earlier in the year.  “The audience loved them.” said Chelsea Carnes of Heartwood.  “The people were up and moving.”  The price was a little more than we usually pay, but there are six players and they had to come up from Tampa.  “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed,” said Rich Whiteley, the head man.  We weren’t.  Faced with fast-dropping  temperatures and a post-Luca dwindling crowd, Uncle John’s Band stopped many would-be departers in their tracks with their first number.  It’s no easy task following Nancy’s energetic set, but this outfit was ready to wake up the echoes.  It’s safe to say that virtually noone was sitting during their set.  One lifetime Deadhead who accepts no imitations stared at me in wonder and said, “Close your eyes and that’s The Dead on stage.  I can’t believe it!”  After the show was over, I told Rich, “If I do this again, you won’t be last on the bill.”  Then, I thought about it and turned around.  “On second thought, of course you will.”

3. Solo Acts.  As I marveled in next-day Facebook posts, my emcee Anna Marie Kirkpatrick, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, was the glue that held the show together.  Charged with introducing the principals, nudging along the pokey soundchecks and keeping the trains on schedule, all while singing with Nancy Luca in the fourth set, AMK was a colorful blur.  Only Liberace had more costume changes during the same afternoon.  At the end of The Last Tango, there was a bit too much time between the end of FATWOOD’s set and the arrival of Tom Shed to sing Auld Lang Syne.  Our fault.  This time we got Don David on stage as Uncle John’s last notes rang out and Anna Marie had a sudden inspiration to back him up with the band for the closing number.  All went swimmingly.

We decided to have a few friends of the bands make introductions this year.  Grand Finale publicist Will Thacker brought on Patchwork and David Atherton introduced Couch Messiahs with aplomb, but David Hammer lit up the afternoon with his Introducers Hall of Fame uniform bought for $43 from China.  When Nancy Luca saw it, she made David a deal he couldn’t refuse and is now the proud owner.  Those three introducers, by the way, are people who always show up and ask no questions when called upon.

Richard Parker & Will Thacker, champions of justice

Something should be said about Richard Wynn Parker, president of the Subterranean Circus Fan Club.  Richard’s unsolicited publicity bulletins for our events are all over the internet, you couldn’t avoid them if you tried.  He operates in a whirlwind, spinning out colorful hype and endless fantasies from his fan cave in Jax.  Mr. P. used to travel the Gainesville route in the good old days as a restaurant supply salesman and made friends everywhere he went.  He is an unparalleled example of a caring husband, a great friend and a stoic who “won’t let the old man in.” as Clint Eastwood likes to say.  Live long and prosper, Richard!

4. The Heartwood Guys.  In Chelsea’s absence, Stirling Myles carried the ball and did it well, smoothing out the wrinkles, laying out the chairs, nudging me to keep the schedule on track.  We started out 20 minutes late after the opening intros and awards and we finished on time at 8:15.  Stirling was so impressed he went home early.  Paul Boharski, production manager and master of the Heartwood sound machine, covered himself in glory Friday night with the sound quality at the inside stage.  Mike Boulware called it one of his favorite listening rooms anywhere; Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin were just as impressed.  The sound checks Saturday were challenging but kept to under 20 minutes.  All the musicians we talked to were upbeat about Paul’s steady-as-she-goes operation.

Da Mayor, His Excellency Harvey Ward (photo by Rick Davidson)

5. Gainesville Mayor Harvey Ward.  In how many towns does the mayor show up to introduce musicians and deliver proclamations at a rock ‘n’ roll reunion?  Okay, maybe Berkeley.  Harvey graciously did all this and even hung around to take in a few acts and describe his own abbreviated musical career.  We’re trying to encourage him to take up a new instrument for future extravaganzas because accordion players are in very short supply around here.

6. The Homegirls.  Thanks to Julie Osborne and Laura Benedetti for their many long hours at our multi-lingual t-shirt table and to my wife, Siobhan, for bringing pheasant-under-glass lunches and eclair desserts, traveling back and forth to Fairfield to feed the animals and putting up with all the aggravation these affairs produce.

Goodbye and good luck to the inimitable Regina Coeli/Gina Hawkins, my significant other in all the Hogtown Oprys and this Grand Finale.  She has abandoned us for the sweet life in lovely Brevard, North Carolina, where she will now be known as Mrs. Ed.

Finally, to my pal Richard Parker, who firmly insists there will be another reunion event: Don’t bet on it, Richard, but if there is it will be for everyone who has made it past the American life expectancy age of 79.  We will call it Overtime and bring in Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton to play.  Will Thacker will juggle a dozen poisonous snakes, Anna Marie will lead the two-day dance marathon and Gina will parachute in for a visit.

Happy Trails to you til we meet again.

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Grand Finale shirts still available in both colors and five sizes.  $30 to Ringmaster, PO BOX 970, Fairfield, Florida 32634.  All shirtholders get free admission to Overtime.                

Quo Vadis?

“Would you like to swing on a star,…carry moonbeams home in a jar….and be better off than you are?  Or would you rather be a mule?”---Johnny Burke 

What would you do if you were in reasonably good health but were told you had a month or two, maybe even a year to live?  Might be a good idea to mosey up to the ticket office at the train station because maybe you do.  Once you’re rolling at a good clip down the Septuagenarian Highway, all bets are off.  Worse yet, the Octogenarian Turnpike is a permanent Falling Rocks Zone, the original Highway to Hell where strange, unnamable body parts start collapsing inside you and leaking out your orifices.  Sooner, rather than later, you’re gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship and go sailing through the air, so it’s past time to sign that reverse mortgage, get paid off in small bills, grease up the woody and head for Adventureland.  Maybe you’ll even find some magic along the way.

Sure, we know it’s neat and tidy at Assisted Living but have you ever seen Bryce Canyon at night or ogled The City by the Bay while walking across the Golden Gate Bridge?  Maybe catch a Sedona vortex at prime spinning time and watch your impetigo fade away?  Oh, pish-tosh, you say but sober observers Bill and Siobhan once met Marge and Eddie near the airport vortex and Ed said this: “My lungs used to hang out at an interstate ramp, holding a sign that said ‘Will Work For Air.’  At home in Michigan, I can’t walk across the street.  But in Sedona, I can do anything I want, like hiking out here today.  It’s the vortexes.  They create miracles.”  Yeah, we know, you’re rolling your eyes.  Eddie would say don’t knock it if you ain’t tried it.  “There are all kinds of options for travelers,” he says.  “Would you rather go somewhere for a chili cook-off or a life-changing experience?”

If you’re on your way to Santa Fe or tripping out to Taos, you might want to stop exactly in the middle of nowhere at legendary Ojo Caliente, New Mexico, where believers pour in daily for the healing waters.  Caliente is one of a very few hot springs spas on Earth the waters of which contain four healing minerals---arsenic, lithia, soda and iron in naturally sulfur-free waters.  We felt invigorated after an hour there, but for an elderly Native American woman in our pool, the waters were a lifesaver.  “I travel two hours to get here and two hours back every week,” she said.  “Sometimes more.  I can’t function otherwise, I get no help from what doctors recommend.  This place is a panacea for me.”

Maybe your flesh is willing but your spirit is weak.  You’ve always wanted to see California’s rosewoods, so take a long look at the big boys and edge on up to Mount Shasta, a renowned spiritual destination with a powerful energy vortex and the Earth’s first chakra.  Shasta is a hub for healing retreats, meditation and nature-based wellness, focusing on spiritual growth and rejuvenating body and mind.  The mountain, itself, is renowned for its stunning natural beauty, snow-capped peaks and mystical Bohemian vibe.  If you occasionally wonder where have all the hippies gone, you can still find a bunch here, wandering through the crystal shops tootling their flutes.  Lisa Marie Mercer is already on her way.

Where Is Edgar Cayce When You Really Need Him?

Edgar left us alone and blue in 1945.  Thousands he rescued from misery mourned the day, attesting that but for him they’d have been laid in the cold, cold ground years ago.  Cayce was an American clairvoyant who reported and chronicled an ability to diagnose disease and recommend treatments while he was asleep.  During thousands of transcribed sessions, he answered questions on subjects like healing, reincarnation, dreams, the afterlife, past lives, nutrition, Atlantis and future events.  Cayce said he was a Christian (probably the safest thing do do at the time) and not a spiritualist or a communicator with spirits.  He is considered the founder of the New Age movement and a principal source of many of that movement’s characteristic beliefs.

In the Fall of 1910, Edgar Cayce became the subject of increasing publicity for his medical readings.  The following profile was printed in The New York Times on October 10 of that year:

“The medical fraternity of the country is taking a lively interest in the strange power said to be possessed by Edgar Cayce of Hopkinsville, Ky, to diagnose difficult diseases while in a semi-conscious state, though he has not the slightest knowledge of medicine when not in this condition.

During a visit to California last Summer, Dr. W.H. Ketchum had occasion to mention a case involving Cayce and was invited to discuss it at a medical banquet attended by 700 physicians.  Ketchum’s speech gave an explanation of Cayce’s strange psychic powers during the previous four years.  The talk created such widespread interest that one of the leading Boston medical men invited Ketchum to prepare a paper as a part of a program of an upcoming meeting of the American Society of Clinical Research.  Its presentation created a sensation and Ketchum was deluged with letters and telegrams inquiring about the amazing Edgar Cayce.”

People who had been helped by Cayce began coming out of the woodwork.  The public couldn’t get enough stories about this miracle man.  On January 17, 1911, Cayce and his father gave a public demonstration at a suite in Louisville’s Seelbach Hotel.  In June, a Nashville newspaper advertised Cayce’s readings.  Cayce was mentioned in a new encyclopedia.  Cayce’s increasing popularity attracted entrepreneurs who wanted to use his reputed clairvoyance for profit.  A cotton merchant offered him $100 a day for readings about the cotton market.  People asked where to hunt for treasure, the outcome of horse races, where to dig for oil.  In May of 1921, the Cayce Petroleum Company began drilling about six miles north of San Saba.  In June, 1922, Cayce advertised free baby picture day at his studio in Selma, Alabama.  It was a non-stop circus as everyone wanted a piece of Edgar Cayce.   By October, he was associated with the Cayce Institute of Psychic Research.  Cayce was now spending most of his time on non-medical issues.  There are all kinds of speculations on what Cayce was and was not but the prevailing opinion of most observers at the time was that he was a legitimate healer, the likes of which we haven’t seen since.

Ah, But We’ve Still Got Charlie Goldsmith! 

We know you’re cynical, and with good reason.  We all saw the Elmer Gantry movie back in 1960, watched Oral Roberts con enough suckers to build a university in 1963, suffered the ravings of crackpot radio evangelists while driving through Arkansas and were mesmerized by the gall and eyelashes of Tammy Fay Bakker on the televised PTL club in 1974.  Phonies, every last one of them, trolling for dollars from a general public desperate to believe.  So what’s the story with this new guy, this Charlie Goldsmith?  Seems like he just popped in out of nowhere one day and now he’s got the natives all adither for the first time in generations.

Goldsmith is an Australian “energy healer,” who’s been around longer than you think.  He apparently discovered his healing talents at age 18 and was willing to participate in several scientific studies to state his case.  In 2015, The Journal of Alternative and Complimentary Medicine published results of the first study in which Goldsmith treated 50 reports of pain at a 76% success rate and 29 reports of non-pain problems at a 79% success rate.  That’s not soggy gingerbread.  The study, conducted at NYU’s Lutheran Hospital caught the attention of producers who got him a TV deal, a series called The Healer, showcasing his unique gift of alleviating pain and promoting healing within minutes.  Despite initial skepticism, his work has amazed many, including medical professionals.  Goldsmith’s unusual ability is to focus his energy on a patient’s problem areas without actually touching him.  Often working in under one minute, he focuses on “transmuting and releasing” stagnant energy, which patients describe as experiencing sensations of heat, cold and/or tingling.  He sometimes hovers his hands over the affected area, aiming for immediate relief especially from chronic pain, inflammation and infections.  By all indications, his success rate is close to 80%.  And here’s what makes Charlie Goldsmith most different from your run of the mill healer---he doesn’t charge a penny for his services.

In 2025, Goldsmith authored the book “Human Medicine: The Lost Manual for your Emotions” and developed Ennie, an energy healing app.  Based in Los Angeles, he continues to collaborate with doctors, researchers and sports organizations to integrate his methods into modern medicine.  He also conducts live shows focused on human medicine and healing.  He remains very focused on bridging the gap between energy work and traditional medical practices.  Oh, and even without collecting patients’ fees, Charlie Goldsmith is currently worth a nifty thirty-eight million dollars.  

Shelter From The Storm

Meanwhile back in Funkytown, the last survivors of the hippie revolution of the sixties and seventies are gathering at Heartwood Soundstage this weekend for one last be-in.  Successor to the penultimate Last Tango In Gainesville, The Grand Finale offers two days of music, memories and potential goodbyes for The Generation Which Changed The World, even if just for a couple of decades.  “Sure we were naive idealists high on drugs,” says Andy Dennis of Cassadega, “…maybe we were a little bit selfish.  But we were aware enough to know society was running off the tracks, the government was out of control and we had young kids with bright futures being mowed down in Vietnam for no good reason.  Today’s kids should be so naive.”

The Grand Finale comes in two parts; a Friday evening concert on Heartwood’s inside stage by Wil Maring, Robert Bowlin and Mike Boulware at 7 p.m. and an all-day bash with five bands on Saturday, preceded by the Last Tango In Gainesville movie at noon.  Two deceased heroes of the Last Tango, Paco Paco and Blake Harrison will be remembered during the afternoon.  Admission to the Saturday session is free but a ticket from Heartwood is required.  Use the address below to order tickets for either or both days.

“It’s like Custer’s Last Stand for us,” smiles Ricky Coniglio of Hartford.  “I’m joining up with two old fraternity brothers from back in the day.  All of us have health issues, but we said the hell with it, we’re going.  We went to the Subterranean Circus the first year it was open and everybody in the house gave us a hard time.  I put an enormous poster of Raquel Welch on my wall, smoked pot and started burning incense.  They threw me out of the fraternity and my friends Jerry and Clark quit the next day.  We’ve been best friends ever since.  Whenever we get together, I bring the poster. We put it up on the wall over our restaurant booth one year and everybody in the place came over to see what was going on.  One guy even sold us some grass.  So you ask if our little band of brothers is going to The Grand Finale, perhaps the last of its kind ever?  I ask you---is the Pope a White Sox fan?  See you at the t-shirt table.  I’ll be the guy who looks like Jerry Garcia and I’ll be purchasing the Extra-Large.”

Here’s the link for tickets, compadres:

https://heartwoodsoundstage.com/shows/the-grand-finale-01-may.

bill.killeen094@gmail.com