The God of Balance

Thanks, Earl, glad you liked it. As for the Ozzy/Gary Moore thing, I was just talking about that the other day, recalling a blurb in a magazine like Hit Parader back then that read, I believe, "John Sykes says Gary Moore is the greatest guitarist who ever lived. Ozzy says he's an ugly, nasty kunt." While I suppose both can be true, that seems to be quite the difference in perspective. When Moore died, Ozzy was nothing but respectful and complimentary. Life is often a trip.

They're just assholes. Would that include the, uh, er, um......BMW motorcyclists?

Yep, I have, and it was totally unexpected. My old lady and I are pass baggers. No, it has nothing to do with kidney stones - we love to visit mountain pass roads, both normal and 4x4, and smoke a fat joint there while reverently listening to an elite song (Natural Science, My God, Dogs, Pareidolla, Spiral Architect, Octavarium, 7empest, L'Enfant Sauvage, Are You Receiving Me?, The Kentucky Meat Shower, Heart of the Sunrise, etc.). Depending on the status of that particular state or province, other cool things may occur. A bit more on that below. Once, in a big hurry, we had to resort to a roach and Scuttle Buttin'. Many things are simply better at a mountain pass, I always say. So, one lovely day earlier this century we were on Colorado 114, a great road we've named the Blaze Bayley Memorial Highway (yeah, I know...Blaze ain't dead, but that's what we bloody call it) that connects US 50 E of Gunnison with Saguache and the top of the exquisite San Luis Valley, the largest alpine valley on Earth. It's kick-ass country, to put it mildly. CO 114 crests the Continental Divide at North Cochetopa pass, and that's where my unexpected brush with uber-greatness occurred. Driving a tiny RV, we pulled over at the pass and got royally baked on weapons-grade nugg, in this case Cinderella 99. She grabbed the camera and hobbled, injured from a car wreck, up the trail from the parking area in search of anything interesting to shoot. It turned out that the parking area was, at the moment, the local epicenter of interesting. I looked to my left and noticed a lone fellow removing his motorcycle helmet and revealing an amusingly red, road-battered, happy face as he pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket. Strolling that way to say hey and check out the big, green pass sign, the leather-clad chap nodded an earnest greeting-with-smile and I did same. I immediately noticed the BMW logo on his bike, for my longtime best friend is a BMW fanatic (the 4-wheel variety - on a bike I suspect he'd be loudly and bloodily off to the Land of Wind and Ghosts within seconds). The guy seemed familiar to me as I mentioned that the previous time I'd driven that pass, a truly harrowing experience, conditions were nowhere near as hospitable as we enjoyed that day. He replied, "Oh, really? Well, glad ya made it through." The earnest, pleasant smile remained. BAM! It was like a mule kicked me in the nose, then shoved a drumstick up each nostril. Yeah, I recognized the face and another minute would have brought realization, but the voice is what did it. I was standing next to Neil Peart, stoned off my ass, at a scenic, otherwise-deserted mountain pass. It's true, and it rhymes. He clearly noticed that I'd recognized him and his aura, for lack of a better term, went from placid to guarded. It was quite interesting, really. I, generally unflappable and effective, was rendered utterly, uh, flapped and infantile. What to do? Even though it was far from my first brush with greatness in a rock and roll rampage dating to the late '70's, I felt like I was going to pass out. How should I handle handle such a diamond-studded, cold fusion-lookin' moment? T'was truly the mess and the magic. I was the mess, in case you were wondering. First I turned to my right 90 degrees, toward the pass sign, and took a sidestep away, giving him more personal space. What to say? "The Continental Divide....ya gotta love that, man!" "Indeed," he elegantly and succinctly replied. I looked over my shoulder for my girlfriend, hoping she could get in on the action. He followed my gaze, seemingly concerned that some more long non-awaited non-friends were about to burst from the treeline. Our RV was small, but one could stuff a bunch of redneck hippie stoner rock and roll degenerates like us in there. The seconds rolled by and a pregnant pause hung over us. Neil began to prepare to saddle up and I, most fortunately, figured out what in the hell to say. Amazingly calmly and staring at the sign, not at him, I announced, "It is my carefully reasoned opinion that the lyrics to Natural Science rank as one of mankind's greatest artistic achievements. It's the Sistene Chapel in words on an album sleeve. The Krakatoa of allegory. 'Living in their pools they soon forget about the sea.' " I avoided second-person pronouns, keeping it indirect. He seemed a bit surprised and suddenly more relaxed. With a wry, smoky grin he replied, "I'm sure the author appreciates that." I thought of something else - "BUT, next to the sheer glory of side one of Hemispheres, it almost sucks, if that's even possible. Impressive." I did my best imitation of the nekkid, hedonistic feller standing on the brain, one leg cocked out and its same-side arm extended to him. "OH, WAIT! I goss-ta entirely disrobe!" I reached for the front of my jeans. He laughed heartily in a little cloud of mountain breath. I can still see the shape of the cloud. It's funny how acute senses can sometimes be. He snuffed his cigarette, conscientiously, of course, in a little container he carried, just as I always have (litterbugs suck) and grabbed his helmet. I made note of his responsible smoking and quipped "I bet that ain't how Axl Rose woulda done it." More laughter. Frantically scanning my memory banks for one last thing to say, I gently pointed at him and said "Two final things." He stopped his preparations, paying attention like a gentleman. "One, you've made a real difference. Well done, sir! Two, I totally loved you on Gilligan's Island." He laughed even harder. YOWZA! I scored! Laughter, my secret weapon, saves the day yet again. The odds of me being a dumbass there were surely about equal, at best, to being a boss. Good thing the stars were aligned and the gods weren't malign. "Have a safe, wonderful trip," I blurted, voice still trembling a bit. "Same to you and whoever you have stashed in the forest," he replied. I turned and walked away, wondering if I should turn and look back or just play it cool. There was no hope for the latter - next thing I knew I was close to the ground, knees bent in a full squat and arms over my head in a pose remarkably like that of the great Basil Fawlty after suffering vast, humiliating despair. https://thiswastv.files.wordpress.com/2013/02/basil_hopping_mad.png I was plain freakin' out. After that sad-yet-valid spectacle, I somehow managed to get my cervical spine vertical again and looked at Neil. He was taking my picture with a flip phone, it seemed. Well, either that or he was looking at something on the display - my tenuous hold on consciousness made discerning which roundly impossible. A minute later he was gone. Just after that another rider, similarly clad and equipped, whizzed by without stopping. I've no clue if they were associated. A few minutes later, my better half emerged from the woods to find me in a tizzy. The notion that he photographed me sure added some zazz to reading those 3 relevant books - each time I turned the page I wondered if a photo of me doing the Basil Fawlty squat would explode onto my retinas. That occurred not. Bummer. I've still only made it a short way into the so-far-fantastic Traveling Music, so I guess there's still hope of a mention, somehow, but I ain't holdin' my breath. I guess the odds are better than they were in that scary Africa bicycle book, tho. I've met many devil music dignitaries, even partying with a few. This oh-so brief crossing of paths, however, ranks at the top, no question. Neil Peart is arguably the most important individual in rock history, for he single-handedly changed things to an extent very close to singularly exclusive. EVH would be in that class as a guitarist, but he lacks the multifaceted might of The Professor, who just as an author was a monster. The tiny taste of his personality was fascinating. He was so content in the crisp alpine air before stiffening up when he got "made," yet he still eased into a plenty affable state when the interaction moved in a cool direction. It couldn't have lasted more than 100 seconds, yet was staggeringly rich in nuance and cool vibe, kind of like....wow....Neil's drumming. And lyrics. And writing. Go figure, eh? On subsequent trips to Colorado and anywhere else that potentially crossed paths with Neil's shunpiking, I was a few times able to position us in places between shows that at least increased the odds of a repeat near-coronary. I even wore the same clothes and hat and I've no doubt that scalpel-sharp guy would have recognized me, especially after I quickly stripped and did the Hemispheres thing for him proper-like. Due to low odds of success and logistical concerns, I stopped short of bringing a big brain on which to stand. Alas, that never happened, but one guy who looked a lot like Neil and rode a similar bike sure was rattled when he happened to pull into our scenic stakeout spot only to have my large frame dashing at him, mouth agape, eyes immense, arms outstretched, and skin pale as toilet paper from shock. "Sorry, dude.....I thought you wuz someone else." We're on a quest to have me experience 10 cool things guys like me fancy in each of the 50 USA states and 13 Canadian provinces and territories. Of 630 boxes to check we've managed just under 300 in what may be the coolest mission in history. It started with 1 thing and snowballed to 10. I suggested adding an 11th thing - accidently dumbstumble into meeting Neil Peart - but we decided that a tad farfetched and just stuck with the already-demanding 10. Nunavut is gonna be interesting. R.I.P. Neil. Thanks.

Bad drivers are everywhere. A good driver drunk (within reason) is much safer than a bad driver sober. I've seen outrageously bad driving everywhere from Istanbul to Caracas to Vancouver to Manhattan, but, by far, the worst I've seen have been in Detroit, Baltimore, Memphis, New Orleans, and Shreveport. For some reason, the residents in those cities have remarkable difficulty knowing the rules, avoiding bad habits, extending courtesy to those from whom they need nothing at the moment, and working well within a dynamic system. Merely sitting and watching the fiascos at a 4-way stop can be quite entertaining in those cities. One other aspect I've noted that seems unrelated to the above - in terms of types of cars to watch out for, I've noticed a disproportionate amount of douchebaggery from drivers of modern muscle cars - Camaros, Challengers, etc. Among many other things, they seem especially prone to pointless tailgating and stopping at lights with 5 car lengths in front of them, apparently so that they can whip out their stupid phones and get on Instagram or whatever a precious few seconds sooner. Of course, during times of heavy traffic, that creates a backlog and ripple effect that can last hours. It's amazing how many innocent people one buffoon can obliviously inconvenience. Now, when the two above paragraphs come together, which, thankfully, does not seem all that common, things really get screwed and activating Civil Defense or the Emergency Broadcast System becomes a consideration.

Cities full of hatred Fear and lies Withered hearts And cruel, tormented eyes Scheming demons Dressed in kingly guise Beating down the multitude And scoffing at the wise That second half REALLY hits home.