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“Every time they thought you’d call you just turn your back and walk…..”  ‘You’re Still the Same’    Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

The words were amongst the many quotes from musical legends that I could read as I made my way through the long tunnel that separated my hotel room from the fueling station (pool complex). A sparkling waterfall, to my left, bathed in the reflections of the giant glass guitar. The sound coming from the speakers was the soundtrack of my life. The tunnel was the gateway to the energy source. After a long exhale, I took a bold step into the bright light. Today I was beginning my 65^th journey circling the sun. I was back to the place I’d been before.  I have arrived at the point in life where the grades are being handed out by the teacher, and the teacher is myself. I had returned to the place where all those evil demons had brought me to my knees. The same evil spirits that smacked me, threw me off course, putting me on the verge of Hari Kari. Striding through the dark tunnel I could feel the anticipation of a heavyweight prize fight. I was very confident the demons that resided here were not going to lay a glove on me. I grabbed a couple of towels to guard against the early morning south Florida wind. The pool boys and girls were dressed like they were getting ready for a day in Bismark, North Dakota. They still did their best to sell product. “It’s 55 right now, but it will be up to 65 by noon, with a sun index all the way up to 6.0.” I plopped down in a lounge chair, snuggled with a book (‘First Lie Wins’)and made sure I was directly in line with the source. Within 30 seconds my eyes were closed.

The past four years I was enrolled in a four-year self-help class. I signed up under my own recognizance. I am the instructor, the administrator, and the writer of curriculum. Life is series of journeys and tribulations. The only possible way to keep yourself traveling safely is to consistently hold yourself accountable for your actions and mind-set. I was in Southern Florida to celebrate the end of long and successful four-year project, while at the same time calculating plans for the next part of the long-term plan. The destination I chose to exorcise my demons had all the temptations that had haunted me since I started hustling ping pong at the age of seven. It was no accident that I flew right into a place that had defeated me too many times. I was there to test myself. I needed to go face to face with my old friends . I needed to show them all I had recaptured my soul. The only way to destroy your demons is to stare them down, and then enter. For me it has always been about options and I wanted to prove to myself that mine were still wide open. We all have our demons, recognizing them is one thing, but trying to defeat them is a much taller order. It is a natural human trait to avoid all reality that gets in the way of what you believe “You love to do.” In rooms across the world, people, places, and things” are what is correctly preached to be avoided if you are committed to change yourself. In other words, avoid situations where your demons will be put you in a situation that you may not be ready to handle. For four days I was in the middle of enemy lines. I walked the Casino floor with a power and sense of humility I never dreamed possible.

I had arrived the day before, which happened to be the day of the NFL Conference Championship games. A huge “Sports Book” was a new addition since my last trip, and it was clearly the center to all the action. To get to the steakhouse bar I had to walk through the stream betters getting in their halftime fix. The restaurant was a sea of purple jerseys quietly waited for Lamar to make something happen. Between games a band of some old school crooners took to the stage. The lead singer looked like an older version of Jerry Lee Lewis, and had the movements of a younger Elvis Presley. He had extremely long fingers, a fancy suit and captured the room as if his band was making its last stand. I sang along to his cover of Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ when the guy with the Michigan hat, whom I had previously encountered at the pool, jumps right in my grill. “What the f…..,  bad enough about the Ravens, I had Kentucky laying four, and then some little shit from Florida hit a three at the buzzer to make it 79-76.” I am forced to lean back in my chair from the smell of his breath, ‘shit happens,’ I say in as disinterested of a tone as I can muster. He obviously could not read my body language. He proceeded, uninvited to spew all the language and personality traits of a compulsive personality. Within minutes he pulled up a betting application. Pointed to the amount of money he had paid in fees to this gambling vehicle: $188,742.18 in the calendar year of 2023. He then moved on to tell me all about his sexual conquests, going as far as to show me pictures. I was trapped but was not going to allow this unfortunate man to ruin my party. I had decided to settle in and enjoy a set of some good tunes.  ‘I got markers waiting for me at the blackjack table,’ I said to him as I rose from my stool. “Oh cool, are you at the high roller tables,” as I nod, he continues, “Great I’ll see you there.” I have not completely quit lying.

My adjustment landed me at a blackjack table, one with the kind of level suited for someone who was anything but a high roller. Since the age of 18, I have spent at least a full year of cumulative time seated at a blackjack table. Anyone who has indulged at this magnitude likely understands the game of “21” has all the elements of an emotional torture chamber. The feelings range from ecstasy to depression. Hope to doubt. Stimulation to impotence. I had always been the kid who loved the roller coaster but vomited every time. Participating at the blackjack table was not in the original plan. Four days of sun, good food, lots of rest, and absolutely no gambling or alcohol was the assignment. In the center of hell, it can be difficult not to end up putting your feet into the fire. ‘One thousand please.’ My stay at the gaming tables, my lone venture indulging the beast lasted three shoes, about 20 minutes. It took my first blackjack “21” hand to find the trigger for my motivation to walk away. The rules have changed yet again. In all my years in the game a “blackjack” for the player paid two to one. I glanced down to my ace of clubs and one-eyed jack only to realize the return was 130 dollars instead of 150 dollars. I said nothing, but my decision was made. I pushed my stacks forward and took my 940 dollars’ worth of chips to the cashier’s window. That would be the end of my gambling for the entire trip. The rush of power I was feeling was palpable. The same young man who would get orgasmic at the sight of green felt could have never seen himself as the old man walking away from it all just because he could.

The up-front motivation for my mid-winter trip was all about rest and vitamin D. It was about closing an old chapter, going back over all the past chapters, and determining where we were going next. One more time I wanted to go right to the edge and wave goodbye. I was where I was to reinforce the power I have in recent years obtained over my demons. I was in South Florida, alone, for the fist time in almost two years. I could go anywhere in this great big world but I purposely chose to dive into the belly of the attractions that had at one time swallowed me. The sounds, the lights, and the electricity merge into a dangerous cocktail filled with dopamine. The action can knock you over if you’re not careful. Inside the casino for a compulsive gambler is the same as the inside of hell. The casino contains all the trappings designed specially for the customer to lose all sense of time as well as any perspective of money (reality). There are ten cocktail lounges, 200 gaming tables, a recently added sports book, and over 140,000 feet of casino floor carpet, of which I probably treaded across ten times a day. In each pass through I could not sense any weakness, only strength. Every step I took felt like I was on a victory march through the land of the defeated. I was face to face with my demons. I was not afraid. I had rendered them powerless. There was no doubt about who was now in control. I could see the gargoyles walking behind me shaking their heads.

I was exiting the long tunnel for the final time of the trip. I passed a middle-aged man leaning on his cane taking a photograph of the pool scene through the waterfalls.  Inside the hotel I pressed the up button and waited for my ride. Stepping out of the cable shuttle I was about to enter was my old, or should I say new, buddy, the man in the Michigan hat. If not for the big gold M on his hat I could not recognize this man, I had been forced to get to know only a few days ago. He looked like he had just gone through a 15 round prize fight. I quickly put away my smug grin and greeted this lost soul like a childhood friend. Mr. Michigan appeared to have aged ten years since I last saw him on Monday. The tea bags under his eyes sagged to his upper lip. “Hey man, I hope you made out better than I did the last couple of days.” It was a bit past nine am. Most of the people of the world had already eaten their breakfast and had started their busy days. The carry bag was strapped over his broad shoulders. “I dropped about 50 grand, didn’t get any sleep, but man did I have a great time.” There was zero concern shown by my new friend for how I had made out on my stay, but that’s way it is when you’re moving that fast. I stepped into my lift and pressed 23. I took a deep breath and knew it was time to grab my things and find my way home. I had come to say goodbye to all of my old beginnings and hello to new endings. On the ride home I thought about Mr. Michigan and the opposite directions we were headed.

The January sun had yet to set. The street poets’ tourists, and locals were outside in the raw elements braving single digit temperatures. A middle-aged woman, Mary, a regular serenader, sang out her version of the well-known biblical passage John: 3:16. Having an opportunity to improve on the lives your ancestors built was Matt’s definition of the American Dream . The idea of America is to have that chance. An opportunity that no matter the circumstances you are born into you have more of a chance in America than any other place in the world. In the weeks that followed those new years’ protests Matt’s little town regained the look it had settled into post Covid. The regulars moved about as if  the world was ticking at its normal beat. A funeral procession of two teenagers, whose dreams died in car crash earlier in the week, passed by. The “new regulars” were pushing shopping carts with their life possesions making their way back to their homeless encampment on the edge of town. Matt easily recognized many new faces wandering the streets. Of the 10,000,000 lost in America, completely undocumented, Matt had noticed 10 to 20 new people hanging in the streets. People who have been looking for a place to call home, anywhere they can and so far, this was their spot. This is America now. In the small towns and the big cities, the new world order has arrived uninvited and untethered. The pieces, of what the ruling class describes as a reset have been shoved down the proletariat’s throats and we are all going to see what gives. There certainly is feeling that 2024 is our last legitimate hope of healing and becoming one again. The narcissist in him said “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” but the little boy who dreamed big dreams realized he is living in most titillating times ever and planned on being right in the middle of the fight.

A crowd had gathered to listen to Mary strumming her prophecies. It was a Friday night in a small city located on the perimeter of the biggest city of them all. The sights and sounds were a blend of baited anticipation and an unsettling malaise.  There was an aura of being on the edge of history. There wasn’t a film crew in sight on this day, yet the setting was like a panoramic scene to the opening of the movie “2024”. Matt loved movies. He viewed life as a big picture show that each one of us gets to develop the part of their choosing. There are some assignments (race, gender, and ancestry) that you cannot control. Everything put together is called “the hand of cards that you are dealt.” ‘Other than that , you get to pick your character,’ Matt mused as he left the coffee shop and stepped out into the twilight. ‘If you can survive the battles of life long enough you get an opportunity to evolve into the role that leads to purpose and meaning.’ Further down the street Mary’s voice gave way to a tiny woman in her seventies reciting ‘Homer’ through a bull horn. In the 2024^th year since the birth of Christ, on the streets of an upstate New York town, Homer’s words read like it was the ^eighth century B.C.,  “No one alive can escape it, neither brave man nor coward. I tell you- its with us the days we are born.” Matt stopped in his tracks. ‘When we are born it is simply the first step toward death. Since the creation of Adam and Eve every human life that enters this world is on a rocket ship to the end of their days.’

Matt walked along the main thoroughfare with a focused gaze. It was on Fair street that a group of approximately 50 protesters had formed a processional causing a stoppage of traffic. The red, green, white, and black flags decorated the night. Down the street things were getting out of hand. “Freedom for Gaza’” was the chant of a group of five protesters who attempted to break down the door of the local congressman. As wars rage across the world, the inevitability of this kind of event increases in all hamlets across the country. Matt was standing still, taking in the madness that had found his way to his doorstep, when a stranger approached him. “Hey man can I ask you a question? “ Matt prepared for a tale of woe as stared into the man’s brown eyes. “My aunt passed away yesterday; can you spare me a bus ticket to Connecticut to get to the funeral?” Matt reached into his pocket and handed the man a bill with Andrew Jackson’s picture on it. Matt was a sucker for a good story, especially a short and clear one, even when he knew it was a lie. Yes, the bible says: “It is more blessed to give than receive.” A repeated biblical refrain that is often preached and rarely executed. Sure, the world and its people are in constant need of assistance since the beginning of man’s time on earth. Turning back to the street Matt could not help but think of the millions of misplaced persons in all the cities across America. They were here now; in all the nooks and crannies of America coming to get their piece of the American dream.

The top and the streets have been taken. The fight will be in the middle. He had heard the modern-day populists screaming  “the end of times” and the day in front of him was painting a similar picture. There is no one questioning the fact that we are living in extraordinary times. To Matt It was getting more and more obvious that in the coming year Americans will find a sliver of common ground or perish.  The signs and warnings have been everywhere all you have to do is look up. The enemy is upon us, and we are waking up to the realization that the enemy is ourselves.  Since 2020, 10,000,000 refugees now roam the American landscape without jobs, homes, or the skills to make a living wage. Matt’s grandparents were immigrants via Ellis Island in the 1920’s. His grandmother worked in the subways of New York. She never smoked a cigarette in her life and died of Emphysema in her early 60’s. Matt’s grandfather had been a bank teller before retiring to the country and went to an early grave. Matt said a ‘thank you,” to two people who had blessed him with his father as he headed back to his car. “The American Dream that Matt was living had been gifted to him as “an opportunity” all those years ago by Wilhem Siegel and Margaret Shumacher.

Matt abandoned the cry of his politically correct friends’ pleas “to go along to get along” prior to unelected officials signing us all up for the implementation of the new world order under the guise of the ‘Green New Deal.’  The people of America have been bamboozled, lied to, and pushed around like the sheep our government believes they are. History hasn’t written the ending. History tells us all civilizations meet their demise but Matt could not but help lament , ‘What now?’ Has the moment that we all seem to be anticipating already passed us by? The story is being written before our eyes. It is a story of division in a country that’s name alone is United. The Union has a wide gap that has been hemorrhaging at a rate of no return for several years now.  We have been dangerously hovering over the line of ever returning to simply a moderately divided country. The issues causing the divide have outgrown political parties and have roots in a far too cooperative government and media. The conventional ways of getting our ship rowing together seem to have failed. The issues such as Immigration, Education, and equity, which have been long held standards of why the United States has positioned itself as the standard. We have come together after Civil War, after World Wars, and after Cold Wars in the name of United States. In today’s moment we can’t even come together on the definition of male or female.

The police cars surrounded the parking lot of Barter town’s Holiday Day Inn. The area’s assemblyman, a bought and paid for Green Machine product of the United States Military Academy at West Point, was railing to local businessmen about how lucky they were to have big brother protecting their interests. The best irony should be greeted with silence, but the fact is this congressman would have been happy to take a legitimate meeting with the protesters. It was during the pol’s blathering socialist ramblings that a pro Hamas group of protestors stormed the gathering with anti-Israel signs shouting’s,” Free Hamas now”. The event was described in the local news as peaceful, but the sounds that have been ignored for so long had arrived in the middle of a business class private ritual. Matt was driving past the melee (the same day that New Hampshire was holding their 2024 presidential primary) that had traffic stalled for 30 minutes. The granite state and the other 49 territories the ‘American Dream” is on the ballot. To a large percentage of the American public, who never felt included in the dream, there is a sense of relief of absolving personal accountability. It appears too many citizens have allowed the crutches of government to be their only means of personal evolvement . For those among us who have only marched to the beat we create there will be no more placating the weak who “go along to get along.” It is time to officially take a stand. “There is only one good, knowledge, and one evil, ignorance.”…….Socrates.

Matt’s mind was working overtime. The holidays have a way of doing that to us all. “The journey of 1,000 miles must begin with a single step,” had been his daily reminder during the process. In recent years Matt’s travails had run into more than it’s share of life’s inevitable roadblocks. Somewhere near the time he was entering his sixth decade the plan for a transformation had begun to take form. It was obvious to himself that a conversion needed to take place to transition into the twilight years with dignity and relevance. Matt found his way into a local coffee shop on the Western Hemisphere’s shortest day of the year. In the dusk of December, staring through the window pane, Matt could see only darkness. The day, in a litany of ways, symbolized the beginning of the end. Matt understood transformations only stop when you stop breathing. For this moment surrounding the holidays of 2023 he was feeling pretty good of the work he had put behind him. Beginning tomorrow the days would start to get brighter, longer, and filled with more hope. We here on this side of the world will be heading in the same direction as the sun worshippers. ‘Life is a continual set of beginnings and endings; it is a nonstop mental gymnastics exercise of making decisions, followed by evaluating the results.’ The only way to get anywhere is to keep moving, to keep changing, always adapting.’ His words sounded so efficient when he said them to himself. Matt had been exposed to the algorithms for living a successful and purposeful life.

It had taken Matt far too long, but somewhere amid a midafternoon bender he had an epiphany. He was confident he had learned his lessons; he had survived the plethora of bullets so painfully dislodged. Now it was time to execute life on his terms.

“Take the first step.” It sounds simple to have a plan. You write down some great ideas, think about how and when to implement, and then press the begin button. Matt put faith in “plans,” but like most humans, his plans looked great on paper only. It hadn’t taken Matt long to figure out that getting where you end up on this journey is all about the choices you make. Once thing for sure about Matt, he was as insecure as he was cocky, but he marched to his own strange beat. Since his early childhood Matt made a habit of observing other people’s life choices and as the years went pass followed the results of those decisions. Matt did not desire to be anybody else, but he was adept at walking through the orchard finding the best and the worst apples. Matt wanted to learn why some apples made it to your mouth and others died on the vine. Being gifted with the tongue of a very (sneaky) smooth talking father, had in the end, been both a blessing and a curse. Still gazing into the darkness from the java shop, Christmas lights reflecting in the glass, was a perfect setting for Matt to take inventory of his unwritten make-over project. “Fix yourself, and see what happens,” he whispered his secret formula to himself.

Christmas and New Years are a time for resolutions and new promises that you make to yourself. Matt had made several New Year’s proclamations over the years. He was unable to follow through on one. Matt finally was learning that transformations and resolutions are two very separate essences. “I am going to be kinder next year,” is a very popular declaration individuals shout to all who will listen. Through his experiences Matt realized that people loved to talk in the present on how much they are going to change, but they need to wait until the next year to do it. “I’ll start my diet after the holidays,” Matt often heard his father say sometime around the various approaching holidays. They were wasted words every time. Matt’s dad chose not to recognize the difference between resolutions and reformations, therefore never had to wrestle with the burdens that go along with personal transformation. Matt did not struggle talking a ‘good game’, but implementing actual change into himself was a slow and onerous procedure. It is fun to think about changing into the people we would prefer to be. The problem for Matt was not in the good thoughts, rather than that darn execution. Being all the things, you desire to be is challenging when dealing with your past together with the people in your life currently. Matt had spent years balancing “the one day at a time concept” vs. “tomorrow keeps coming as long as you’re alive.”

January 11^th, 2022 was a typical deep winter afternoon in the northeast. Matt walked into one his regular haunts with no thoughts of any sort of ‘about face’ in his mind. After a couple of cosmopolitans his confusion started to take on some clarity. “All right buddy, I’m out, my daughter and her friend are home making dinner.” Matt’s daughter pushed a Corona in front of him. The voice that had been speaking silently to him for several years suddenly got loud: “No thanks,” said Matt, “I just decided I’m going to see if I can stay dry the rest of this month.” Before that day, the reformation plan was loose and seemingly impractical, now,  a specific step had been taken. The trepidation as to how long his sobriety could last was at the top of his mind. “it shouldn’t be that hard to not do something. Sounds simple. Chores and tasks overwhelmed Matt but just not doing something should be an easy step to take, you don’t even have to take one.

“Everybody does a dry January,” Matt could hear his daughter suggest, “why not go a full year?” Matt did not respond but he knew she was on to something. For more than a couple of years Matt had had this personal transformation project in the back of his mind. “I’ve got to find a new direction; I have been heading down a dead end. It is time to turn around before you don’t have a chance to.” Matt had contemplated putting on the brakes and realized if he was going to find his way back to himself it could not be done without a clearly focused mind.

The first day of 2024 arrived with a snowless cover. As the year began with a world on the edge Matt was ready to take on a role of a completely new character. For sure the journey of 1,000 miles into 2024 had already begun.  The long route home was still blazing with Christmas lights a week after Jesus’ birthday. Matt was starting the new year with a readiness spilling over with anxious excitement. He thought about the long trip of preparedness that had now settled into the first day of 2024. Matt turned his stare into the quiet gray sky. It was the kind of eery still it gets when the weather has calmed after the first snowfall. But the snow has not arrived just yet, aware that the major storms are still directly in front of us. Matt was on the most exciting journey of his life with no idea exactly where he was heading. If you are fortunate enough to make it deep into life remaining relatively healthy one can’t help but take a personal inventory. The process of evaluating who you are and where you have been is not for sensitive types. The painful results of our lives are sometimes best unevaluated. The only way we can evolve to recognize who we are is to look in the mirror. Matt had looked in the mirror in recent years and had lost that once young and ambitious young man of days gone by. In his mind the mirror held all the answers. “I guess it is never too late to be the kind of person I wanted I wanted to become,” Matt said to himself. It is all about options in life and Matt was determined to get the game right.

“Some hang on to ‘used to be’, live their lives looking behind,”  Matt was listening to Joe Cocker on his car stereo. He had consciously abandoned the artist in him as he came of age in the land of jocks. He had accepted the labels others had assigned: Arrogant, shady, conman, who was entirely oversold. The world is full of “others” who think they can easily identify the winners from the losers . Transformation is defined as ; “A thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.” In simpler terms it means to “alter oneself.” Matt was searching for a new perspective, and he knew that his plan had to be based on his experiences. What a novel, concept; giving yourself a mental and physical makeover, Matt said out loud. It certainly makes sense that if you do not spend enough effort investing in your personal well being you are making the greatest mistake of your life. If there was one thing about Matt, it was that he never shied away from taking care of himself. If you’re not fixed how do you expect anybody to respect your opinion. Matt believed that unless you are mentally ill every human is responsible for themselves. It is that simple “get yourself as good as you can and good things will start to fall into place.” The days were already lengthening, the new year had arrived. The holidays were over, and the resolutions made.  

Blue and Red. Two of the three primary colors in the spectrum of art. Alone, both are symbols of strength. Together they are the top two colors used in advertising. When red and blue are mixed, they create a variety of purples, such as violet and lilac. According to Google, blue is the people’s choice as the world’s favorite color, red runs a close second. Not even close, these two colors are the ones most prominently displayed on book jackets, and retail merchandise. In today’s American politics everything is about blue and red. Do you live in a red state, or a blue state?  Did you vote for Biden, or Trump? Red and blue dominate the landscape of American politics. Although many Americans claim to be independent, lavender and mauve are rare shades in current times. Political discourse has become so volatile that you’re not being honest with yourself if you can’t admit that America is, either in the midst of, or certainly headed towards our country’s second Civil War. The color divide in the United States is at its widest gap in my lifetime. And I don’t mean black and white.

Last Thursday night, on national television, the American public had an opportunity to watch two Governors, one who is the poster child for blue State policy, and the other preaching red state mantra. On one side of the stage stood the state of California’s Governor, Gavin Newsom. The lean handsome politician is a glowing commercial for a progressive left winged agenda. According to his critics he is morphing the state of California into a model of the Chinese system of socialism. In the other corner was Ron DeSantis, the Governor of Florida. DeSantis had a maverick type of approach when it came to leading his state’s fight against federal mandates during Covid 19. DeSantis fought against federal shutdowns and grew heavy criticism for Florida’s early return to schools during the pandemic. He resisted federal government directions regarding covid and was one of the first to buck vaccine mandates. His critics have labeled DeSantis a racist, who wants to ban books from schools and destroy Mickey Mouse.

Gavin Newsom is the blue state’s “machine like” candidate. He promotes the left’s progressive platform with his slicked back hair, and smooth words gliding across his lips. Newsom was bred on the political philosophy that “big government” is the answer to all that ails America’s constituents. He believes the government’s job is to make sure the playing field is equitable for all. Newsom is a “Robin Hood’, who wants the wealthy to bare more of the tax burden. Gavin Newsom believes the federal government should throw a big comfy blanket around the downtrodden of the world.  He was the pied piper of whatever President Biden said regarding shutdowns. In bending his knee to the teacher’s union Newsom kept California’s public schools closed for nearly two years. During Covid Newsom forced workers who refused to get vaccinated (for personal and religious reasons), to lose their jobs. California is a sanctuary state (major cities of San Francisco and Los Angeles) and is a haven for illegal immigrants to make their way into the United State with little resistance. The facts during the debate indicated that Newsom’s blue state of California is near the bottom of three critical categories that are of urgent concern to the public: education, crime, and inflation. Despite this fact there are many pols from both blue and red states who believe Newsom will replace Biden on the Democratic ticket sometime before November.

In the other corner wearing bright red trunks stood Newsom’s foe, the controversial Governor of the sunshine state, Ron DeSantis. He has been the leader of Florida the last six years and quickly developed into the blue staters biggest enemy. He is the Republican party’s front running candidate for President after Donald Trump. The blue staters see DeSantis as the same devil they see Trump as. Newsom is a polished politician coming from big money (he’s one of the Getty Oil family), DeSantis is of a much humbler background (but he did go to Yale). DeSantis is of Hispanic descent and served this country in the Marines Corps. DeSantis touts his state as being one of the most efficient during Covid. The stats say deaths per thousand in Florida were lower than in California, a fact that Newsom never did address. Ron DeSantis operated Florida in complete contrast to the two biggest blues states of California and New York. The disdain from the progressive blue staters was directed at DeSantis for spitting in the eye of federal lockdowns and vaccine mandates. He is also a fierce opponent of critical race theory being taught in Florida public schools. He is pro-life and adamantly opposes open borders. He was lambasted for loading up a group of illegal immigrants who had arrived on his doorstep and sent them to Martha’s Vinyard. DeSantis is a staunch supporter of state’s rights and would like to see government have less of a role in propping up individual plights. He is a strong constitutionalist who wants to leave rights such as abortion, education, and taxes up to each state. DeSantis believes in taking power out of the hands of the federal government. Last Thursday these two stood on a stage together, attempting to debate the issues that are the most urgent of the day. The American public got a clean look at the glaring extremes between the most recognized leader of a blue state pitted against the most recognizable representative of a red state.

There they were on stage, standing toe to toe. The contrast was as stunning as expected. For 90 minutes Newsom plead for a more “managed democracy” directed by an engulfing federal government. DeSantis is viewed by his opponents from the left as a right winged dictator who symbolizes all the characteristics as the evil leader of red state philosophy. Newsom fawns over “as big as you can get federal gov’t”, DeSantis was propped up by Trump and finding it difficult to remove himself from his thumb. His critics say “DeSantis is ‘Trump squared’ in terms of his politics. Newsom, who continues to insist he 100% stands behind President Biden’s re-election bid, is an eloquent orator able to slip and slide away from any question. DeSantis, his critics say is an evangelistic right winged insider. No matter what you think of Newsom’s ideology he deserves kudos for going on a perceived hostile channel (FOX). The detractors of Newsom see him as a “Manchurian Candidate” built to be a well-oiled computer of smiling facts spouting out a far-left agenda. They see him as an old time “con man who sells potions in a traveling show.” The takeaway for myself was: “I think it was great that the two came together to face each other. Yet, they were both so adamantly pitching their message that there was very little, to no, common ground struck.

To come to any sort of resolutions to the extreme tension that exists amongst our fellow countrymen we must first recognize what our differences are. Last Thursday, two titans of two major states in America stood on the stage and gave their representation of who stands where on the issues of the day. It is way past time to remove the traditional methods of labeling individuals. We must stop thinking in terms of Republican and Democrat, Liberal and Conservative. The Ideological war that is raging in America can be understood by how red states and blue states operate from opposite perspectives and priorities. It has become apparent that the two-party system of politics in America is a failed antiquated formula. As the two parties exist today there is little chance, they can govern this republic effectively again. If you tuned in to watch Ron DeSantis and Gavin Newsom have at it on a stage in Georgia, the people of America had a fair look at the future leaders of the red and blue of these two failed political parties. Both men, no matter what you think of their politics, are the political leaders of America’s future. One reverently believes that America’s only way forward is with a big federal government holding your hand all the way along. The other believes in “rugged individualism”, which for the people lacking in the standard needs sounds a lot like “let them eat cake.” Red vs blue did not suddenly create purple last Thursday night. It should have given the American electorate a clear picture of the major gaps in ideology that appear to be accelerating. In 2024 the people of the United States, especially the ones who now label themselves purple, will be forced to pick blue or red. It will be the biggest decision of all our lives.

The Lyke’s (Ray and Mary) humble abode sat directly across from my early childhood home located on Hook Street in Hurley, New York. My family resided in that location for only six years (1960-1966), but in the short period of time I developed two habits that not only stayed with me but grew stronger in the following 60 years. In those years on Hook Street barely a day would pass without me finding my way into the Lyke’s kitchen to have at least one glass of Mary Lyke’s home brewed iced tea. For the remainder of my life iced tea never stopped being my Mother Mary’s milk. For 365 days a year, every single day of my life, iced tea has been and still is my go-to refreshment. Way back in the sixties as I would sit and enjoy Mary’s special formulation, I would hear some strange music coming from a nearby bedroom. The occupant of that adjacent room was a 16-year-old teenager, who, when she wasn’t sequestered in her room doubled as me and my brother’s babysitter. Inside Doreen’s room was a shrine like museum dedicated to some new British band called the Beatles. She had posters, buttons, tickets to concerts, movie stubs, and individual photos all pertaining to this group of boys wearing the long hair and huge smiles. From the moment I laid eyes on the lads I thought they were a non-human kind of special. In my six-year-old imagination they must have been a creation of Doreen’s silly machinations.

Earlier this month I learned the Beatles were releasing a track John Lennon had recorded back in the seventies. I am not a fan of Artificial Intelligence, but technology presented an opportunity for the two living band members, (Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr) to work with AI and some old demos they had been given by John’s spouse (Yoko Ono) in the nineties. What they produced was a single track that had the four legends standing together harmonizing in a way that has yet to be mimicked. I went immediately to my feed to watch our heroes together, one more time. I could not believe my eyes. There was The Fab Four, together, laughing, singing to each other, sounding as if it were 1965 again. There were all the boys, 43 years after the assassination of John Lennon, and 23 years since the death of George Harrison, frolicking about as if they never experienced a nasty break up. First came all the goosebumps, then the flood of tears as I watched the video of their new song repeatedly. The memories came flooding directly at me. The first one, and most vivid vision, was a night back in 1966 when Doreen asked my mom permission to take Gary and me to see the movie ‘Help’ at the Sunset Drive In. It was the Beatles follow up movie to A Hard Day’s Night (1964). When lights came on, I remember seeing Ringo running across the big screen wearing a gawdy, but extremely valuable red ring on his finger. Seeing the Beatles that night at the Sunset Drive In was a feeling I wouldn’t have again until I fell in love for the first time. That night, the three of us sang “she’s got a ticket to ride,” all the way back to Hook Street.

Our babysitter didn’t understand the amazing present she had given myself, and my brother.  Five minutes into the movie as the Beatles screamed for help, I was hooked. I was prepared to join a cult of crazed teenagers across the globe who had already fell in love with John, Paul, George, and Ringo. On a chilly February afternoon in 1964 the lads from Liverpool arrived at New York’s LaGuardia International Airport and the composition of America’s social culture was altered permanently. On Feb. 9, 1964, a Sunday night, the Beatles made their first appearance on the famed “Ed Sullivan Show’. They sang ‘She Loves You, and ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ in front of 200 hundred screaming teenyboppers in the Ed Sullivan studios. A phenomenal 73,000,000 watched the British invasion from their homes. These four young men, who were from the same city of Liverpool England, would go on to sell more records than any other band that ever-struck notes together. It is not a stretch to say from 1964-1969 the Beatles changed the way the world looked and sounded. To say they changed my little life, and my outlook upon it, is a fact. Like so many others who are feint hearted, it was love at first sight. These four baby-faced men with the floppy hair had a mystical aura surrounding themselves that made me positive that this band had been put together somewhere beyond the earth. The Beatles presented a unique progressive style of tight-fitting suits, thin neck ties, pointed black boots, to go along with the big smiles: oh, those smirky smiles. “We may be bigger than Jesus,” John joked upon his arrival on American soil.  It was the words that streamed from their mouths that sewed my enduring love affair with the Beatles.

At first glance, my favorite Beatle was Paul. To my 6 years old eyes, Paul looked as if he could be one of my mates on the playground. His sheepish grin attached to something I could only recognize, innocence. I wanted to believe that Paul was the ringleader of the gang. As the years went on, I discovered, that it was my brother’s favorite, John, that was considered the founder and final decision maker within the group. John was 40 years old when he ended up being shot down in the street in front of his home. All four of these men were geniuses, but John stood out as the Nietzsche philosopher, a deep guru, helping a whole generation learn to critically think and contemplate the social issues of the day. At the time of his death Lennon, along with McCartney, were considered two of top song writers in the history of the earth. His personal development musically and psychologically is evident in the trajectory of his work from ‘Please, Please Me’, or ‘Help’ to his later classic hits ‘Don’t Let Me Down’ or ‘Imagine’. In the beginning every LP that was put out by the band, no matter who was the original collaborator, the writing credit read Lennon/McCartney. While leaning to McCartney in my younger years, it wasn’t long before I began to appreciate John’s genius. God only knows what the world missed by not having John around the last 45 years. “The third Beatle”, not necessarily in the that order was George. He of the handsome quiet type who would also evolve into a prolific songwriter and performer in his own right. Doreen’s favorite was Ringo. The unfazed, goofy drummer who never missed a beat. Sitting in Doreen’s bedroom listening to old Beatle 45’s was the greatest introduction to the world of music a kid could have. 60 years later that raggedy looking bunch from Liverpool, England would be considered the most influential entertainers of the past two centuries.

I received word that an old tape recording, written by John Lennon, was out there floating around. Along with the help of recent technology, Paul and Ringo were able to put Lennon’s track to video of the G.O.A.T.’S performing one last song. Like out of a dream, standing together were the four lads from Liverpool bonding one last time. There, once again I was looking at the four infectious smiles, together like they were on The Sullivan Show with the whole world watching. I was looking at Paul and Ringo, today, singing and dancing merrily with their two deceased childhood buddies. All the generations they touched had a chance to remember how the Beatles had played an important part in their lives. We loved them for so many reasons; the way they looked, the way they dressed, and for the words that came out of their mouths. But mostly we loved them because we went through the loves, and the break ups of our lives together. Their catalogue of poetry is embedded in their followers more than any history lesson we ever learned in school. I confess to having watched the official last song more times than I care to admit. Each time I headed for the tissue box.

We don’t often get a chance to say our proper goodbyes to the special people we squeezed so tightly during our lives. The Beatles made me believe all dreams were possible. That the top of the mountain was reachable. Artificial Intelligence has given us one last goodbye to our friends. New technology made it possible to see the four lads together one more time, making us feel like only they could. The question “what is your favorite Beatle song?’ comes up occasionally. After viewing this latest release of nostalgia,  the latest Beatle release ‘Now and Then” will replace ‘Help’. After wearing out this new tune, I sent my old babysitter an inbox message on fakebook. ‘Hey Doreen, have you seen the new music video put out by Paul and Ringo? I’m thinking about doing a story on the Beatles. Who was your favorite, Ringo? What do you remember about our experiences with the Beatles on Hook Street?’  It did not take Doreen very long to message me back: “Of course, I’ve seen it. I was madly in love with the Beatles, still am, especially Ringo. Two things I remember about you Richie, your love for the Beatles and your love for my mom’s iced tea.” My travels of late have me passing by Hook Street on occasion. With ‘Now and Then’ streaming on my car radio I took a turn back unto the road of 320 and 318 Hook Street.. Past the Naccaroto’s, and before the Roland’s. I stopped my car in the street between houses. Over the musings of ‘Now and Then’ I could hear four louder voices coming from Doreen’s old bedroom. ‘Help me if you can I’m feeling down and I do appreciate you being round.’ I drove away hearing those soothing voices of my past singing in the present: ‘Now and then I miss you. Now and then I want you to be there for me.’

The wind was whipping hard off the banks of the Hudson River. It was a bitterly cold January night on the grounds where America’s Generals are manufactured. I was eight years old making my first visit to the United States Military Academy at West Point. Myself, my dad, and my brother were getting ready to enter the venerable Army Gillis Field House, home to the 1968/1969 Cadet basketball team who had the nation’s basketball community buzzing about the young gun the Army had hired to run their basketball program . As my family found refuge inside the warmer, but still frigid field house, my dad leaned over and spoke to me in a reverent tone, “Richie, keep a close eye on the coach of Army.” It’s hard to forget the way my father said those words to me. I remember thinking ‘wow this guy must be special, because my dad was not easily impressed.’ As if he was delivered from the night sky, from the top steps of the arena, strode a determined looking young man who had been the West Point Men’s Varsity Basketball Coach the prior three seasons. Robert Montgomery Knight was 30 years old and had already been anointed by the New York City sports media with the nickname of “The General.” That cold night heated a passion for basketball in me that would last for 20 years. In the next two decades all thing B-ball would be a top priority in my life. My mentor in that span of time was Bobby Knight.

On that night, from the moment I laid eyes on the fiery leader of the cadets, I decided I was going to play college basketball at whatever college he would be coaching. I quickly discovered that there was a consensus among sports writers, and Army hoop followers, that Bobby Knight, in his mid-twenties, had established himself as one of the top teachers in the country. It wasn’t just that his undermanned Cadet team (In those days if you were over six foot five you could not attend any of the three Military Academies) were beating some big-time programs. It was the way they played defense that got more attention than the victories. His team’s played with a sense of intensity and purpose of which I have yet to see matched. That January night, as I sat packed in warmly between my dad and brother, with 5,000 other witnesses, watching a passionately crazed baby-faced man stalk the sidelines like a tiger stalking his prey. Knight saw himself as Patton chasing Rommel through the dessert. That night I watched him berate officials, scream like a madman at his team, and mostly will his team to an 81-66 win past Seton Hall. Playing point guard that night was a kid from Chicago named Mike Krzyzewski.  In one night, I saw the greatest coach of his time coaching a player who went on to break all his mentor’s coaching records. Long before Nolan Richardson’s Arkansas team of “40 minutes of hell” or Frank Davis’s “94 tight” Knight’s West Point teams picked up opponents’ base line to base line providing a clinic in suffocating man to man defense. What I felt that night in the Army Field House turned out to be very real. I went on to play four years of basketball in college and became a High School Varsity Basketball Coach at the age of 24.

As I was beginning my coaching career Coach Knight had moved on to Indiana University. With the Hoosiers, Knight would win three National titles, including his undefeated 1976 team. They are still the last Division I College basketball program to go a full season without a loss. In the years I was playing and coaching basketball (1970-1990) Knight was easily the most recognizable name in basketball. Some loved him, most hated him, but 95% of those who played on his teams would take a grenade for the team, or their General. He coached the game in a time before there was anything known as “a player’s coach”. If you elected to play for “The General” you understood from day one it was “his way, or the highway”. His players played each possession as if it were their last. His players never, ever, questioned orders or strategies. The few times I saw anyone challenge Knight they were instantly refuted, embarrassed, and sometimes physically assaulted.  Playing for Knight meant every practice and every game you were going to leave every ounce of effort you had in your body on the hardwood floor. The General’s teams respected all, feared none, and the players that made it through four years graduated 100% of the time. In my years playing college basketball I would always look back to those Bob Knight Army teams and focused on playing every night and every practice with that type of intensity. After graduating from college, I was ready to teach the kids about General Patton in the classroom and imitate Bobby Knight on the basketball sidelines.

My coaching and teaching career began in Pine Bush, New York in 1982. My first gig was as the J.V. basketball coach for the “Bushmen” (literally their nickname) which was located 30 minutes due west of West Point. I was confident I was on a course to be one of the top coaches in the area. In everyday life I have no problem being “an original”, yet in my initial years of coaching it was obvious that I was doing too much mimicking. After three years of a very successful run with the “Bushmen” my alma mater came calling. John Ford was the athletic director at New Paltz High in 1985. “Rich we have been watching your progress the last few years. We are excited to offer you the position of varsity basketball coach. There is one thing I want to make clear before you accept, I will not tolerate any Bobby Knight type antics.” The year before, “Coach Knight”, on a warm February afternoon in Bloomington Indiana, got overheated and threw his chair across the floor of Assembly Hall as a Purdue Boilermaker stood on the free throw line preparing to shoot technical fouls. For his loyalists, the winning deflected his bullish behavior. The very next year (1986/87) Knight would go on to win his third and final National Championship. I lasted four years as the coach at New Paltz. The honeymoon was short and bittersweet. There were more than a few rewarding moments. The best one was meeting my wife Donna whose brother was on my team. At the time I was coaching , the game itself was going through some major changes in the rules. The three-pointer arrived, the transition game became a priority, and passing up a two-footer for a 25-foot jump shot became a strategy. It was not until the September, before what would have been my fifth season, that the athletic director called me into his office. I knew it was coming, “Rich, the school board of the New Paltz School District has decided they do not want ‘a win at all cost type coach.’ They have instructed me to not renew your contract for the upcoming season.

My dismissal turned out to be an abrupt ending to my official affiliation with basketball. There were other offers and opportunities, but the days of being the next Bob Knight were finished for myself. While I was making the first big transition of my adult life Coach Knight was digging a hole for himself in Indiana. The age of videotape would provide the concrete proof of the type of abuse he dished out to all who had direct contact with him. Besides throwing a chair on the court during a game, he poked officials and players in the chest, and he verbally accosted Indiana University’s administration in the press. Finally, after violating a “zero tolerance” order, despite three National titles, 902 wins, and a legacy of being one of the best to ever to roam the sidelines he was given his walking papers by Indiana President Myles Brand in 2000. A year later the now neutered General accepted the head coaching position at Texas Tech. From 2001-08 Knight did well enough not to tatter his reputation as one of college basketball’s most impactful mentors, before retiring and moving into the television analyst booth.  Although his continued boorish behavior caused him to lose some of the luster for me, I choose to remember the “Army Bob”. Bobby Knight was a very well read and intelligent man. In another time Knight would have been a top General in the United States Army, commanding troops in places like Normandy or the Philippines. Not unlike many old General’s, coach Knight could not find a way to evolve. He went into the millennium hanging on to his stubborn mantra of “my way, or the highway”. In the end, the man who once commanded the audiences of Presidents turned into a sort of caricature of himself.

The news came down last week, Robert Montgomery Knight had passed away at the age of 83 due to complications related to Alzheimer’s. It has been 54 years since that childhood “Knight” that I was introduced to an imposing figure, fittingly wearing a G.I. Joe haircut. My eyes fixated on a college basketball coach nervously pacing back and forth. He was like a bobcat, growling, staring, constantly screaming instructions to his team, and with his mere presence intimidating the opponent. Like the infamous 17-year-old bank robber, “Billy the Kid” his legend grew rapidly far and wide. The 6’5” former Ohio State sixth man took very little time to establish himself as the quickest draw in college caging. By the time Knight became head coach of the Hoosiers, he had established himself as a hoops guru, particularly on the defensive side of the ball. Every High School basketball coach in America signed up to attend instructional clinics conducted by Bobby Knight. When he spoke basketball everyone within hearing distance came to attention. When an order was shouted to one of his players, they carried it out exactly, or their ass went to the bench.

Bobby Knight lived in a space inside his mind where winning was not optional, losing was unacceptable. The record shows Knight won consistently (902-371), and he won within the rules of the NCAA. To me his most impressive credential is that 100% of the players who played four years for him walked across the stage at graduation. I still hear myself screaming “See the Ball” as I encourage my charges on defense. Until I sat down to write this story, I had not realized that I was merely channeling the voice echoing from West Point’s Gillis Field House all those years ago.

The Sunday prior to Labor day 1967 was the kind of idyllic day that is indelibly etched in my mind. The high blue summer sky wasn’t going to catch the sun hiding on this day. The steam was bouncing off the concrete patio that was acting as the dance floor for the annual end of summer blowout party held at Williams Lake Hotel in Rosendale New York. The sounds of splashing water and crews constructing sandcastles could be heard over the music pouring out from the patio. The summer sun worshippers were draped over the upper balcony listening to the Lake’s summer house band doing their cover of Sinatra’s ‘Summer Wind.’ If ever there was a day in my life when I could have stopped the clock, just one time, that day back in 1967 would have been it. Standing at the top edge of the patio I had the perfect view to say my goodbyes to all things summer. It was the ending of an innocent era. We were on the brink of RFK, MLK assasinations, the summer of love, Woodstock 69, the moon landings and the Nixon Presidency. But on this day the innocence remained. The blue and yellow rafts sprinkled across one of the seven Binnewater glacier lakes. The shrieking of the shuffleboard was being drowned out by the “Simon Says” game that had broken out on the side lawn. Teenage waiters and waitresses hustled to get the food and beverages to the patrons who were hanging on to those last few delicious sips before the curtain closed on another summer. The game room was bustling as the teenyboppers were desperate to make their final move or else wait another summer. From the juke box the Zombies were asking: “what’s your name, who’s your daddy, is he rich like me?” This is what the Sunday before Labor Day looked like to a seven-year-old boy as the summer of 1967 was saying good-bye.

Underneath the sleeping willow trees, a couple of the boys from way back when, oblivious to their surroundings, were punching time clocks hovering over their makeshift chess board. From a perch between the stage and the water, I surveyed the little piece of ground that was my fiefdom for one more day. Looking back more than 50 years later I am still amazed at how idyllic the scene presents itself. My mom was on a beach chair by the water. She was good for a full day gossiping in a last grasp effort before she was back to reading fairy tales to elementary school kids. Before we moved to New Paltz my dad worked summers at the Lake tending bar, and this Labor Day would be his last. He reminded me in the morning, “remember when you come into the bar call me Uncle Randy.” At the time I had no idea what kind of game he was playing, so I went along. Craig Murray and Candy Canning, the two Lake teen stars walked hand in hand towards the woods on the perimeter of the property. I always paid attention when I saw the boy get the girl, especially Candy Canning. I never stopped to think how fortunate I was to be creating so many sweet memories of my childhood. As a seven-year-old I assumed this is what summer looked like everywhere. Those Labor Day weekends were filled with experiences of provocative intrigue. I was not aware at the time, but the summer of 1967 would be the last of my “perfect little summers.” I was having my last look of good adulting fun while maintaining utter innocence. I had the feeling a movie reel was playing and everyone in the scenes were actors playing roles in my story. A tall handsome young man named Don Anderson was being introduced on the patio stage. All the young girls swooned to the crooner’s (part time server) upbeat rendition of  ‘Mac the Knife’. The sun was brighter, the music was smoother, and the libations were ice cold.

If any of the American holidays are bittersweet, it is Labor Day. One big party representing a sendoff to a summer full of seasons in the sun. In the next breath it meant a time to open books and get serious about all the tasks ahead. Labor day weekend is a metaphoric portal of play time to work time, of summer shenanigans to getting your nose to the grindstone. Labor Day is very similar to New Year’s in that in both instances it is a time for both looking back and planning ahead. Those first few summers spending July and August at Williams Lake gave me a magical look at a big summer party. The waiters were tall and handsome wearing white shirts, long pants, and black bow ties. The waitresses donned short shorts to go along with loosely fitting tank tops. Nobody was aware of it then, but it was era that was losing its glitter. The Catskills and resorts like Williams Lake were losing most of their market share to oceans and casino vacation spots. The days of going to the Lake with your family were giving in to family excursions near the ocean. For a short span of years Williams Lake contained a mythical enchantment for a very impressionable pre-teen. The memories of sailboats drifting at sunset, sparkling splashing water, and the ice cream trucks filled with toasted almond bars. Everyday my mother gave me a quarter which I had to make last through the day. Twenty-five cents were good for one seven-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola, (10 cents), a bag of Bachman pretzels (five cents), and a game of pinball (10 cents). The total experience was priceless.

Flash forward fifty years to Labor Day Sunday 2023. I stared out into the quiet of Sunday evening coming down from the back deck of my house on Flower Hill. Gazing out into the groggy twilight the past didn’t seem so far away. All those school days of being a student, and then a teacher, when Labor Day was all about play time ending and work time beginning. When I left teaching Labor Day turned into a day of me declaring “Rich Siegel Independence Day.” There would be no more ringing bells screaming at me, no more tests to take, no more out of touch administrators telling me what, and how to teach. It was time to leave summer and school days behind. It was time to enter a world where you were accountable every day to yourself only. A world where you were measured on the results you produce. A world where you are your own boss and completely accountable for yourself. A world where there are no unions or gov’t agencies to support you when you slip. Before I blinked my eyes, I spent 35 years working for myself, where any income I was paid was only from business I directly produced. No matter what, throughout the years whether I was a schoolteacher or an insurance man, Labor Day has been a time of reflection and transition. It has been a time for singing the songs that you heard anytime you were near a body of water. Labor Day is a time for setting goals and putting on your serious face. For me, it has been a time of letting go and for starting anew.

Sitting alone on my back porch the end of summer 2023 there were certain things that didn’t look any different than the end of summer of 1967. The school busses were warming up, leaves were already showing a hint of orange, and the nights were beginning to chill. The cars stood still on the New York State Thruway filled with city folk attempting to be the first one home from the mountains and lakes of Upstate New York. As we grow older, we tend to think the world was such a better place when we were young. I would speculate all generations come up feeling that way. The fact is we change, we evolve, and so does the periphery world around us. None of us stay the same, nothing at all stays the same, and certainly nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky. “Heading out to San Francisco for the Labor Day weekend show, I got my hushpuppies on I guess I never was meant much for glitter and rock n roll.” Every Labor Day weekend since the time I left home for college I sang the words to the Jimmy Buffet song “Come Monday” on the golf course to my golfing mates. To me the song represents a symbolic transition between summer and fall, childhood and grown up. “Come Monday it will be alright,” Buffet opined of a summer love that he intended to carry over to fall.

This Labor Day turned out to be a reflective opportunity to remember and respect all the Labor Days of yesteryear. Tonight, I didn’t hear splashing water, or local celebrity crooners making the young girls cry. I drifted all the way back to the innocent nostalgic summers of my youth and the world it exposed me to. In my head was a vision of Jimmy Buffet cruising the California coastline top down, girl, and guitar securely in hand. There was nothing in his view except for ocean and the setting sun. The summer was over. It was time to head south to start looking for that lost shaker and salt.