Greatness Seems Always Just Up The Road:

"...he talks about Denver, and being drunk, and being on the road. I like it."


Catfish: "...who's gonna outlive us all with his mountain bikes and heart-rate monitor."

Dual connect in Pacquiao/Marquez III:

25th Anniversary of Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame Show:

Meatloaf (right) pays respect to Jeff Beck (left) at the Les Paul After-Party (about a year or so ago).

Julio Cesar Chavez at The Garden:


So yeah reader, last week I was in Denver. I flew back to Brooklyn early Monday, but even now don’t quite have my bearings. I changed the clocks just before I left, then had to deal with the two hour time difference between Denver and NYC. It kind of messed me up. Plus the thin Denver air forced me into the hospital after I passed out in front of Benny’s Mexican Cantina. Altitude sickness. Even know I don’t feel that great.

But I’m alright.

On my way to Denver I started On The Road by Jack Kerouack. A book I’ve heard about for 20 years, but never got ‘round to reading. Always one of those I assumed I’d get to. In time. But the time wasn’t ‘til now.

If you never read On the Road, it begins with Kerouack’s roadtrip from New Jersey to Denver. While en route, he stops in Joliet, Illinois; former hometown of my old buddy Jake (may he rest in peace).

Jake’s been dead a good number of years now, but I can never shake him. I still run with the same circle of friends here in New York, and everytime I go back to Denver I’m reminded of the wild-ass times we’d had. At all the places. We met in Denver, and it was Jake who’d dubbed me Lodo. Jake or his brother Catfish.

Anyway, that story’s for another time.

Jake was a big Kerouack fan--or at least, was very aware of him; and may have even introduced me to On the Road all those years ago in Denver. Yet I also recall him making several derogatory comments about the book; and certainly didn’t encourage me to read it. Neither did my friend Rules, who’s opinion I hold highly. So its taken 20 years for On the Road to climb my chart high enough for airplay.

I started it at JFK as I waited for my flight out west, and when Kerouack mentioned his stop in Joliet, Illinois, my heart began to race. There was Jake all over again. And when I got to Denver, I passed all the stomping grounds where we’d shot our movie. But now they weren’t just ours. They were Kerouack’s. And Neil Cassidy’s. And my man Catfish who’s gonna out live us all with his mountain bike and heart-rate monitor.

Jake, Catfish, Morrisey--those are the three brothers. Actually there’s another brother I haven’t met--Shockey, who’s still allegedly in Joliet. So that makes four.

But Jake’s gone now, so I guess three’s right after all.

When I saw Catfish this time around he looked a bit haggard, but still wore a smile and had good news.

“Come on freak,” he said to me, “lets go to Morrisey’s. He’s got a bunch of those Cheeba Chews.”

“Where’s he live now?”

“He’s at The Colburn, where Alan Ginsberg and Neil Cassidy had a threeway with Cassidy’s wife. You’ll see if you keep reading that Kerouak.”

“I guess I haven’t got to that part yet. But how serendipitous that Morrisey lives there! We’ll be almost connected to greatness.”

“Well,” Catfish said as he handed me a bike off his wall, “I don’t know about that.”

While in Denver I caught the Manny Pacquiao/Juan Manuel Marquez fight on cable. I’m a big fan of both those guys and after this last fight I think its safe to say they have a legendary trilogy to their names. I thought Marquez won this last one by a round; but in fairness to Pacquiao, I root for the protagonist. And it was Pacquiao who pushed the fight more. Either way it was a great match, and I'm sure we'll see these guys again somewhere down the line.

The day I left Denver my friend Rules noted On the Road on top of my pile of clothes.

“Why’re you reading that?” she asked me.

“I don’t know. Guess its time had come. I like it--he talks about Denver and getting drunk and stuff. Its good.”

“Oh God Lodo! That book is so stupid. ‘Ugh, this morning I had a beer. Tomorrow,...I’ll have another beer.’ Geez--you’re a better writer than that guy.”

“Really?” I asked, taken aback by her comment. “You think maybe there’s some greatness in me?”

Rules took a moment to consider it.

“...You’re better than that guy, that's for sure.”

As I mentioned, I returned to Brooklyn this past Monday, and Tuesday night caught Buddy Guy at BB King’s Blues Club. Last time I saw Buddy was at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame Show two years ago, which is about as close to timeless greatness as I’m ever gonna get. Buddy performed with Jeff Beck. Sting was there. Aretha Franklin. Lou Reed. U2. Springsteen. Ray Davies. Metallica. Mick Jagger. A few names you might recognize. Course I was in the upper deck--about 300 yards away, but what’d I expect for a show like that? Front row? Its not like I’m special.

But Tuesday night was a whole different story. In some ways it was like my Jeff Beck moment at the Les Paul After-Party, only much easier since Beck’s kind of aloof when it comes to people and fans, whereas Buddy eagerly and fearlessly engages an audience. Here’s a picture of him (below) as he walked the perimeter of the crowd with his wireless electric guitar.
Sure its out of focus, but I never claimed to be a great photographer; and every drunk in the place jostled me for position. But when Buddy passed me I gave his trapezoid a little squeeze and yelled Go baby, go!!--just like I did to Jeff Beck at the Les Paul party, and for a moment I felt genuinely connected to a timeless legend.

Course between the flight to Denver, the pay-per-view Pacquiao fight, and the Buddy Guy show I blew all my money. So despite it being Saturday I’m just gonna stay home tonight and watch Julio Cesar Chavez, Jr. fight on HBO. Unlike his father, Chavez, Jr. isn’t particularly great--at least not yet; but I still root for him since he was kind enough to take this picture of me (below) at The Garden.
I didn’t even know who he was at the time. Just asked him if he’d take the pic and he agreed with no attitude whatsoever. And I think its awesome.

Only when his father suddenly showed up did I learn who I’d been next to all night. And what did I do? Why pop a flash in his dad’s face of course! I probably deserved a smack for that bonehead move--if not worse; but those guys didn’t have time to bother with a flea like me. I mean, after all they’re great.

And who am I?



* NOTE: All pics taken by Lodo Grdzak, except: # 2) The Colburn Hotel; and # 4) Pacquiao/Marquez. Those pics stolen off Google Images. All rights reserved on my pics.