And so we did. On so many levels.

It was the summer of 1982. At least the beginning of it. I had graduated from CW Post Center of Long Island University. I had already seen all three Asbury Park Clash shows and my friend Charlie (also a Post toasty) and I were about to embark on a month long trip to England and France.

Charlie and I were both photographers. Me having hot new photos of the Clash plus my other photos from Bonds and The Palladium shows, and Charlie had his more social documentary black and white portfolio. Our first week there would be a mix of business and pleasure.

Before it all started there was a ton of preparation to get ready. I went out and bought 40 rolls of Kodachrome. This was going to be the biggest trip of my life, thus far, and it certainly needed to be documented in all its Kodachrome glory.

If documentation was in order I also needed at least three new thin red journals and red Flair pens to go along. On some level I have to thank Dorothy for getting me into journaling. I had started journaling shortly after we met. It’s especially wild to look back on any of those journals so many years later. It sure helps to fill in some of my memory gaps, but also sometimes stirs up feeling I had long since put behind me.

I have to admit, that as I post excerpts from my journals, they will be heavily edited. Never adding unless [indicated] and way more “removal” than anything else. More to protect the innocent, and at times, the not so innocent. As verbose and telling as they were, sometimes they were just the rantings of a 20-something year old man-boy-child groping his way through the world in the process of “coming out of the cupboard” / closet … literally.

A few days ago I had the most bizarre thing happen. I was working on my computer, a MacBook Pro 15″ 2.53 HHz Intel Core Duo Uni-body and an attached Apple 24″ LED Cinema Display. I was in the middle of something, when the image on the screen split in half. The left half of the screen was on the right and the right half on the left. For a split second  (no pun intended) I freaked! Then my brain immediately went into troubleshooting mode. After I tried a few things in the Display System Preference, I just decided to restart. That fixed the issue. And I thought nothing more about it.

Now a day later … Thursday June 12th … I was again working on my computer, when the whole 24″ display went black! No warning. No dying wheeze. Nothing. Blackness. Wow … the screen went to sleep? No. The MacBook Pro screen was NOT black. Panic time!

Music is an odd master. It makes you see things. It makes you feel things. It makes you do things. And if you possess talent … it takes you places. But of course … you have to supply the gas.

Rewind to early 1980′s, the film department of CW Post Center of Long Island University. It’s the place I first met the the “Hoov” … Geoff Hover to be exact. Fellow film student, music lover and vinyl junkie. Because of our love of music and other mutual interests, we became fast friends.

Fast forward to present. In the time between Post and now, Geoff got married to Tatiana and they had three boys, Indiana Hoover, Texas Hoover, and Duke Hoover. It seems the talent gene runs deeply in the Hoover offspring. One of the musical offspring of “the boys” is The Salvation Band.

It all started with an idea and an eMail.

A long while back I started posting my Clash photos from the various shows I had attended over the years 1980-1982. My photos of the Clash @ The Palladium NYC 1980, the Clash @ Bonds NYC 1981, and the Clash @ Asbury Park Convention Hall 1982. When I was taking photographs I was more a fan with a camera. I wasn’t officially there as a journalist, but I have always been a documenter. A photograph by nature is a documentation of an event in time. Being a college student back then, if I had the money to spend on film and developing, or at least for the film, I would certainly take my camera to every show I went to. “In those day” (god did I just say that?) anyone could bring a camera into a venue and take photographs. Not so much now unless you’re press, or are sporting a camera phone or small digital number. But back then it was all allowed. No problem. So I have lots of “documentation” of bands I saw through the years. The Clash being one of them.

On March 7, 2009 3:45:30 PM PST I got a very interesting eMail from a gentleman named Daniel Garcia. It was a brief, yet rather interesting eMail, to say the least.

The sins of the father are visited on the son, or so it is said. I don’t know if his sins are, but I certainly know his genes are raising some red flags.

It’s been a crazy month. I’ve spent a good part of it trying to find an orthopedic surgeon to look at my shoulder, my MRI, and give me some answers. I finally found one & I do have some answers. Dr Roberts my new ortho-surge injected my shoulder with cortisone. Yippee-o-ti-aye motherfucker! And it’s working. The pain is subsiding, swelling going down, but there’s still “clicking”. Two out of three ain’t bad! So I’m waiting on a followup with Dr R. But I digress.

Let’s get to it. The heart of the matter. And yes the matter is my heart. And maybe it’s not. Let me explain. A few weeks ago I went to see my primary care physician Dr Rosenfield. It was time for my monthly blood tests. I’m tested every month to monitor a whole host of things, testosterone level, cholesterol, vitamin D level, lipids etc etc. But this time the phlebotomist told me, “Dr Rosenfield wants to add one more test. It’s a new blood test to see if you have any heart issues”. Um. Okay?

The sun is shining and glistening on the clear blue water of the swimming pool. Birds are chirping and spring in certainly in the air. The balcony door is open and the cats are soaking the warmth of the rays like the furry solar panels they are. It’s a good day for good news. But not just yet …

About a month ago I went for an MRI on my left shoulder. The news wasn’t too promising. It appeared I had a torn rotator cuff, a Type II SLAP tear, and bicep tendonosis. Certainly not a death sentence, but a pain in the shoulder indeed! With that info in hand, Dr Hannah Cho of Seattle Spine & Sports Medicine had directed me to see an orthopedic surgeon. Now this is where I’d usually create a funny name to mask the identity of a doctor I was seeing. But in this case I think it’s important to name names.

No. This is not a post spewing esoteric, aquarian, philosophical navel-gazing ideology. It’s also not an exploration of my deepest darkest secrets and longings. Through tremendous fields of magnetism and abhorrent forces of nature and science, it’s a deep slicing look into inner mechanics. My inner mechanics.

As you may or may not know, I was in an auto accident back in November of 2009. November 2nd to be exact. I was fully stopped and waiting to pull into the parking lot of our condo complex Bridgehaven. Both hands were on the wheel, left foot depressing the clutch, and right foot resting above but not pushing on the accelerator. Waiting. Within a fraction of a moment I would have been in the process of turning my wheels to make that left turn. Normally before this happens, I’d look at oncoming traffic, look into my rear look for people behind me, again at oncoming traffic, and if clear, making the turn. I’ve done this a million times with no surprises, eventually reaching my destination beyond the other side of the south bound lane of 15th Ave NE—the parking lot. On this day, things were different. Very different. Before I could finish my left turn “event sequence” / ritual, I got to the point of looking at oncoming traffic, the first time, and was about to look to my rear-view when BOOM! I was struck in the rear of my car by a woman driving a white Nissan. Did she break? No. Did she hit at (probably) 30 mph? Yes. Did she push my car 6 feet? Oh yes she did!

Originally posted on my blog Siliconundrum.

The question is … but is it art! It’s something I use to ask/say to my other “arty” friends back in Jr High back in the glorious(?) 70′s(?) … OMG! And so the question is raised today. I’m not trying to rekindle the age old battle about clay Art vs Craft. No! I’m saying it more tongue in cheek this time around.

I have to give a big shout out to Diana Fayt for turning me onto a very cool app called Hipstamatic for iPhone. She published a photo yesterday which I knew came from her iPhone, so I tweeted her asking what app. I knew there were billions an billions of apps it could have been. She was kind enough to tweet me back a reply. So of course I fire up iTunes and spent a whopping $1.99 and purchased a copy for myself. All I can say is WOW! It’s like my 1st gen iPhone dropped orange sunshine!

After meeting a downtown client this morning, (my day job is being a Mac computer consultant) I decided to take my new toy.app and re-explore the Pike Place Market. It’s been a long time since I had been or was inclined to take photos. One of the pitfalls of living in Seattle for so long is becoming apathetic to the innate beauty of the market. Tourists or not!

Crazy Janey and her mission man were back in the alley tradin’ hands
‘long came Wild Billy with his friend G-man all duded up for Saturday night
Well Billy slammed on his coaster brakes and said anybody wanna go on up to Greasy Lake
It’s about a mile down on the dark side of route eighty-eight I got a bottle of rose so let’s try it
We’ll pick up Hazy Davy and Killer Joe and I’ll take you all out to where the gypsy angels go
They’re built like light and they dance like spirits in the night …

Bruce Springsteen . Spirits In The Night

New Jersey September 1974. I had just started my first semester as a photography major at Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in wonderful New York, New York … just like I pictured it … skyscrapers and everything. I was living in an apartment with my sister Diane in Rahway, NJ and commuting every day to the fashion district of NYC. Walk a few blocks. Hop a train at the Rahway station … four stops later … Linden, Elizabeth, Newark … arriving at New York Penn Station. It was an amazing time of learning and spreading my newly found seventeen-year-old wings to fly.

If you lived in or around New York City you knew of the legendary Bottom Line. Located at at 15 West Fourth Street between Broadway and Washington Square Park, the venerable music venue, owned by Allan Pepper and Stanley Snadowsky, opened its doors February 12, 1974. One of the premier music clubs in Manhattan, was the birthplace of many music acts. Shows by Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, The New York Dolls, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, The Ramones, Hall & Oates, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Charles Mingus, Toots and the Maytals … and of course The A’s.

The Bottom Line also “introduced” many acts via showcases. You just got a record contract? You were courting the major labels? You probably played a showcase at the Bottom Line. Many a career was launched from this stage. The Bottom Line seated 400 people and had a no smoking policy long before that restriction became New York City law. It was one of the most intimate places to see music in NYC. No matter where you sat, or stood, you had a great view of the stage and the band.

Following are photos of Richard, Rocco, Terry, Rick, and Mikey from the stage of the Bottom Line June 9, 1981. Enjoy!

It was an unremarkable Monday. Got up. Had my protein shake went to the gym. Did upper body & my physical therapy exercises for my “wounded knee”. Watched cute muscle boyz at the gym. Woof! Hey …. I might be aging … but I’m not blind! Went home cooked up another protein shake & eggs for breakfast. Then headed off to meet a client at Peet’s Coffee in Fremont.

Pretty typical Monday so far. Met with Dave & Greg formally of Passage Maker Yachts here in Seattle. Sadly Greg had to close shop because during the height of our “economic downturn” (read Republican cluster-fuck) he could no longer get loans from the bank he had been using for years. So he closed his door. But I digress. I picked up Dave’s MacBook. Got a cup-a-joe … some

A hummingbird flits at the feeder. Unaware that the rains of fall have come. The coolness of day changes green to orange red. Falling to earth like a shredded patchwork quilt. The flowers are few and nectar is rare, but those flying dynamos carry on. Such persistence. Such dedication to a singular effort.

The cats nuzzled together. Keeping warm through their union. The hummingbird persists. The cats unaware and uncaring of their industrious friend’s progress. They’ve had their fill. First eating. Then cleaning. Then sleep.

And here I sit. Friday mid-afternoon. The couch. My nest. Sleepless. How I wish I could be as industrious and relentless as that hummingbird. Or as unaware as said cats. But here I sit braced from pain. The pain of a wounded knee. It’s no allusion. No intimation. Just fact dressed in a black supportive shroud.

I was walking through the park one day. Well okay. Not so much a park, as my living room. And it was