July 11, 2112

Sorry, neighbors, but Dave's gonna rock out tonight.

My late sister gave me Rush’s 2112 LP album when I was 16, probably for my birthday. At the time, my collection was mainly classical — Beethhoven, Tchaikovsky and Liszt — with a smattering of Deep Purple and Tom Jones (!). Yeah I was a weird kid. Still am. But she knew I would like that album, because she knew me.

It was the evening my musical universe changed.

Rush’s 2112 taught me that a dozen barre chords could smash a pair of 6-inch speakers into pulp, make me desperate for decibels that I could never achieve at home (to this day) and turn me desperate to learn guitar right the hell now. Music didn't have to be about puppy love and sex but could be about politics and ideas and weird novels I'd never heard about, but immediately devoured.

(Note: Ayn Rand was full of shit.)

Progressive rock became my thing, thanks to this album. My CD rack and vinyl stack is still heavy on the Yes, Jethro Tull, ELP, Genesis, Zepplin, Floyd and Styx. And I still listen to them, often. Like, tonight, and loud.

After “Moving Pictures” in 1981, the band moved away from the bombastic crash chords and pretentious lyrics I loved so much and began to incorporate Reggae, Ska and other influences that I never had the background or education to really appreciate. While Rush were no longer the white-hot center of my musical universe, I admired their growing technical mastery.

I first saw Rush at the Chicago Stadium when they were promoting their "Farewell to Kings" album in 1977. I've seen them two or three times over the years, the last in July 2010. They were as great as I had remembered and hoped they’d be, despite us all looking old. They rocked the hell OUT and did a "2112" medley for us senior fans, who were extremely grateful.

I am happy to note that my son likes Rush. He enjoys the old stuff — in small doses — and has a
fairly extensive collection of their newer material from the late 1990s, when they’d returned to a more guitar-forward, power-trio sound. (Albeit much more polished and featuring radio-friendly subject matter. Hey, a band’s gotta eat.)

My musical muse and me.

When I heard drummer Neil Peart had died, a bit of me died along with the news. (I learned after he died it was pronounced "Peert," not "Pert," and I’d been confidently saying it incorrectly all those years. Dammit.) I found myself deeply missing my sister, and wishing I could just call her up and thank her for that moment in the mid-1970s when my head exploded over the course of a 20-minute-and-34-second full-side prog-rock anthem.

Rock On, my Rush Fan Friends, Rock On. And happy 58th birthday, my dear little sister.

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Frostbite Friday Golf

February 21, 2020

So I played golf today. Boughton Ridge Golf Course sent me an email touting "Frostbite Friday": $12 for 9 holes, with cart, including a free soup and chili bar. Hell, I've golfed in colder than 24 degrees F (-4 C). It was a pretty bluebird day, not a single cloud in the sky all day, with a light breeze from the west veering toward the south.

Granted, putting was a challenge under the prevailing conditions. Every green was covered in an inch of crusty snow, and there were no actual "holes," per se. If I got the ball within a gimme of the stick, I called it good. Most of the flags were down on the ground, however, so I called it done if the ball touched any part of the cloth. 

On a couple of greens, the flags were completely buried, so I had to improvise. I lost fewer balls than you'd think, as the snow was so crusty the balls would bounce and sit on top. I actually came out ahead: I picked up a lot of balls that I assume were left behind during midwinter fun tournaments when the snow was deeper. They were mostly Titleists, unfortunately, of which I'm not a big fan and will use for water hazard shots.

On most of the tee areas, the ground was frozen solid so I couldn't get a tee in the ground. In those cases, I used a 3-wood off the rocky "turf." (I parred the first hole that way!) Finally, on the 5th hole, the snow was deep enough to use a tee. I'm guessing — with some confidence — that I'm the only member of my family to tee up a Top Flight golf ball in two inches of snow and hit a pretty damn good 180-yard drive down the middle. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

Tip for all you winter golfers: keep a chemical hand warmer in the same pocket with your golf balls -- the balls will retain their elasticity and go farther. Otherwise it's like hitting concrete.

Finished with a mid-season-average 44, thanks to my generous scoring rules, and headed for the clubhouse for clam chowder (a bit bland) and Italian wedding soup (very tasty). Tom, the course manager, told me I was literally the only person to take advantage of Frostbite Friday today, for some reason. I would recommend it highly; I didn't have to wait at a single hole.

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