WENTZVILLE, MO -
Finally the mornings are truly cooling off and becoming fresh and invigorating. As a habitual early riser, I cling to these fresh starts as a promise of new possibilities every day. It helps me as I struggle with my “Irresponsible Punk Rock Lifestyle.” (Irony Alert)

As a child I delivered the morning paper, and walked about 6 miles every day carrying my paper sack with newspapers in front and behind me. It was joyous in the spring and fall with heavy dew, fresh grass clippings or leaves stuck to my boots as I strode along. In the summer, the predawn day was the only relief from the heat– literally the coolest part of the day.

Winters’ mornings I had my parka over my head with ear muffs and a transistor radio playing future classic songs. I remember lots of Elvis Presly hits in predawn hours– lonely blues songs as I walked the railroad tracks toward my assigned route, in the cold and dark, alone. This was so long ago, the Norfolk and Western Railroad still lit the switch signals with Kerosene, and the red and green lights shone brightly. I could climb up the standard and warm my hands on them.

After I finished my paper route, I would go to a dank little doughnut shop where lonely old single men for whom the world had no use for any more, would gather, as old men for whom the world has no use for any more do, drink weak coffee, dunk doughnuts, and stare into space with watery old eyes, under florescent lighting. I joined them. The huge old waitress wondered if it was a good idea to give even weak coffee to a 12 year old kid. I read the newspaper I had just delivered, and shuddered that this was all life had to offer. It was my way of bracing myself for school.

But years before my paper route there was one morning each August where my father and I went to the fair. We always got there at 5 am to eat at the cafeteria with the Farmers for whom my father had the deepest reverence. He had grown up on a farm in northern Indiana, and next to scientists, and university professors, farming was about the only other honorable thing a person could do with their life.

We looked at all the agricultural exhibits, the demonstrations of construction arts, such as brick laying and welding. My father knew a lot about welding and would point out the finer parts of recognizing good work from bad. We looked at the vintage farm equipment, early gasoline tractors and steam thrashers. We looked at all sorts of things.

We always finished with the Midway, always closed at such early hours. Night walls were pulled. All the lights on the quiet and still rides were off. And the sideshow was always silent . I remember walking in front of the Banner lines (that I now know were Fred Johnson masterpieces), mesmerized with wide eyed curiosity at the sad and gaunt faces on the painted canvas. I wondered– what every young child wonders– what happened to those strange people on the banners to end up like that? Fire eaters, snake charmers, sword swallowers, a man with three legs, a person with four eyeballs, a person of a Third Sex, and someone who was referred to as only a Question Mark. If I lived my life badly and offended the gods, would I be transformed thusly? Could such a thing happen to ME?

Well, it did! I am glad to say I am no worse for the wear. I’ve been back to the lonely donut shop last July and while there are still old men each morning, they don’t seem as lonely. In fact, on the entrance wall are snapshots of old friends who meet regularly and experience a sort of diner fellowship unknown in my salad days. Whole groups were there and everyone seemed to know and be friendly with everyone else.

And now that I perform in front of thousands every year, along side the Most Dangerous Beauty Alive. I, too, know the finest gift there is: being able to share.

I look forward to every morning still– even after all this time.

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