Colorblind Graffiti

I think a book could be written about the late Chuck Cuminale, AKA Colorblind James (see some fantastic history of the Colorblind James Experience here). Somebody oughta write a book. He was a lot of things to a lot of people, a local 'rock' band leader, songwriter, poet, not to mention a husband and father of three boys. Taken at the age of 49. I grew up next door to Chuck, so he was always Chuck to me, as opposed to the personality "Colorblind" to much of the rest of world. As a kid, and as an adult for that matter I definitely looked up to him. Some comments I wrote about him after his death can be found here, along with comments by so many others who knew him well, many better than me.

I often think about him and the things we did together during childhood. A while back I remembered an incident from all those years ago that was particularly funny to me, so I wrote it up and passed it along to just a few people who I had Chuck in common with as a close friend. It was just one of those things that showed how Chuck was not like other kids.

Allow me to recycle it:

- - - - - - - -

Let’s call it 1967. I’m about thirteen years old. I live a short distance away but I’m hanging out with my old Manse Lane buddies. A veritable gang, we are. I’m probably the youngest of the bunch, along with Jim Lotze. The gang is rounded out, as best I can remember by Rick Lotze, Horse Provenzano, Carl Hotto, Wayne Young, and fearless if somewhat reluctant leader Chuck. If I’m thirteen these guys are about 16. This gang was a bunch of wiseasses if not badasses. There were no future convicts in this group. The order of the day was wisecracking humor, making fun of others, barbs back and forth.

A summer night with nothing to do, so we roam. Probably from house to house, gaining gang members and moving on. Eventually we are out in the open weedy field that ran along behind the houses on the south side of the street. That field used to be unoccupied by anything except a makeshift lacrosse field that we used after someone’s father mowed down some of the weeds. But on this night the eastern end is now a construction site, where the Rochester Christian School is being erected. It’s a typical construction site, with a bulldozer, piles of materials and equipment and partially-raised brick walls.

Lo and behold, someone had a can of spray paint. Red. I have no idea why they have it, or if it was premeditated to bring it. But there it is, and now the talk is of vandalism, and what to paint with it. We laugh at various things we could do with the spray paint. It’s dusk and moving quickly into darkness. More laughing. There happens to be a large white shed on the far side of the site. Chuck has settled on what its going to be. The paint is going on the shed. We have now moved into graffiti vandalism. But unlike any other mid-sixties roaming gang of teenagers on a summer night, there will be no drawings of genitalia, marijuana leaves, no profanity, no racial slurs. And it is further decided that we will each take turns contributing to the act, so all are equally culpable. The cap comes off and the paint goes on. When the deed is done, we step back briefly to view our handiwork before taking off into the darkness. In neat, large, red block letters, we have championed a great cause to all who can read: “Re-elect Chester A. Arthur."

painting by Paul Dodd:

http://www.therefrigerator.net/art/paintings/icons6.html

Blonde on Blonde

I drove to Buffalo twice this week. On the way back yesterday I listened again to Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. And actually it was the reissued/remastered version that came out a few years back. I actually got it in 2006, which I believe was the 40th anniversary of the original release.

I get boggled every time I listen to that CD. How a person can come up with so much great material at one time is beyond me. It's got 14 songs and every single one of them knocks me out. There isn't single clunker on it. If you forced me to pick a least favorite it would probably be Rainy Day Women, and that went to No. 2 on the charts.

I don't want to get going on what was his best album, or best songs ever, or where his best lyrical work was. You can't do that with someone like Dylan - it's an exerecise in futility. But he was an absolute poetic machine on this album. The cover shot was out of focus but the words were sharp as a tack:

"The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face."

"The guilty undertaker sighs...the lonesome organ grinder cries"

"When I asked him why he dressed

with twenty pounds of headlines

stapled to his chest"

"Inside the museums,
Infinity goes up on trial...
Voices echo this is what
salvation must be like after a while"

Most of the musicians were session guys, but there is heavy presence by Al Kooper and Robbie Robertson. Joe South even played some guitar. Other members of The Band also contributed, but apparently those songs didn't make the cut.

I was 12 when it came out and I was listening to it then, in my 12-year-old way, because my brother had it. The lyrics meant nothing to me then - it was the sound. But forty three years later I'm still digging it, and even though the de facto meaning of some of the lyrics might still be elusive, they "glow like burning coal." (OK, different album, but you get the idea).

The Second First Day

I remember my first day as a professional geologist. Monday, August 21st, 1980. I had finished school in May with a bachelor's degree, and worked the summer installing vinyl siding, which I'd had experience with before. In mid-summer I got word of an opening at an engineering firm in Rochester, where the boyfriend of a classmate at Geneseo with was quitting, because they were headed off to Texas for grad school. I sent my resume, got an interview, and sealed the deal.

I'd had a lot of jobs up to that point. My first was at the Rochester public market when I was about 14. Then it was the Bernunzio/Randisi family-owned RanCora Bakery, around the corner from the market (they later moved it to Webster). Later it was a painting business with buddy Rick, painting the new homes his dad built. My sister got me a job at the old Village Grill at the Four Corners in Penfield, as a busboy. I stuck around there for a while and became a lunch cook, then on to dinners. I did some carpentry, and more siding of apartment buildings. I did a stint at a plastics injection business, on the night shift while I was going to MCC. I made all kinds of wierd plastic parts for Xerox copiers. So I'd had a few "first days" at work before.

But this was going to be different. This was a career gig. I now had a career, not just a job. This elevated everything. I had to act different, think different. And look different. I knew I'd be doing a lot of field work, but there would be office time, too. I needed some new clothes. I bought some some new khakis, and a shirt or two. I remember looking in the mirror wondering if I really looked the part. I also remember thinking, no.

So I reported for duty on day one. Dressed in my new duds, my introduction to the consulting engineering business was painting the walls in some new office space. I got paint on my khakis.

Twenty eight years later, still at the same company I was part of a reduction in force, a downsizing, an adjustment, a lay-off. I got fired.

Fast-forward four months. I got hired by another engineering firm. Similar but different. A smaller company than my previous employer, but almost four times as many people in the building as I was used to in our branch office. My first day was filled with introductions - I night have met forty people. CEO, President, Department Heads, HR and Admin people, and most of the people in the environmental department that I'd be part of. I told someone that even though I had all this gray hair, it was only my second first day at work ever, at least as a professional.

There happened to be that day a company-wide meeting at lunchtime, with over a hundred people in attendance. There were several presentations by group leaders, and the HR people talked about all of the new and recent hires, including me. One of the presenters even referred to me as "an expert in natural gas exploration," which I am not by any stretch of the imagination. Somehow in going from my resume to that powerpoint presentation, my experience morphed into something that sounded waaay too important. I sat there thinking "what did I get myself into? Isn't there just a room somewhere that needs painting??"

I wiped my sweaty hands on my new khakis.