Ohmigod! Ed McMahon at my door. It’s about time someone wants to give me lots of money, and I could really use it. I always wondered if Publisher’s Clearinghouse was even legit. But there’s a gorgeous woman behind Ed flashing pearly whites and a large check. And a cameraman. So, he introduces himself, as if he needed to, and told me it was my lucky day. He threw his arms around me to give me a big congratulatory hug and I got a whiff of some really strong BO. Whew. Take a bath dude. I almost said. But I wasn’t yet sure how certain I was of getting the money. So, I kept my mouth shut. But when he started talking to me real close up – maybe for the cameraman’s benefit – I got a whiff of his breath. Whew again. Garlic, onions, unbrushed teeth and booze booze booze. Heck, it was only ten in the morning. I guess things weren’t so good since he stopped co hosting the Tonight Show. Or, maybe being second banana to Johnny finally got to him. As he stood before me and kept talking about the prize, explaining how I’d won a cool million and the rules for receiving it, I had a chance to get over my surprise and take a closer look. What was that stain on his tie? How wrinkled his shirt was. Geez, did those scuffed shoes really even match? Maybe he’d been too drunk to tell when he got dressed. Poor guy. I guess crashing from fame can really take its toll. He finally finished talking, and I thought he was turning around to finally get me my check, but he just leaned over and puked all over my lawn. He turned back to me, running his sleeve across his mouth, but he unfortunately left a couple bits of vomit for me to stare at. At last he called over his lovely assistant with the check as I was thinking how much fun it would be to spend it all romancing her, when he burst out crying and just spilled his guts about what a miserable life he had and how lonely he was, and to top it off, he said his investments in the beefsteak mine hadn’t really worked out too well and he was broke. This was just a bit much for me, and as he handed me the check, I turned it over, endorsed it over to him, handed it over to him, and told him to have a nice day. Selflessly at the moment. But I quickly realized that my act of kindness might impress his assistant and maybe she’d come rushing into my arms and we’d fall in love and live happily ever after. And we did.

Who remembers the first Chicago Transit Authority LP? Well, maybe we should start with Who remembers LPs? I sure do. From the first few I owned and carefully chose as money was limited to the over 6,000 I amassed from 20 years working in the music biz. I’ll tell ya, it’s those first few that I paid for myself that I know and love the best. In fact, I remember a Beatles song with a skip in it that never sounded right at anyone else’s house without that skip. Back to CTA. Best known for ‘Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?’ and ‘Question 67 And 68’ their first album also had a killer version of ‘I’m A Man ‘ made famous by The Yardbirds but originally by Bo Diddley. But it was the songs that weren’t as well known  such as ‘Beginnings’ and ‘South California Purples’ and the over the top psychedelic ramblings and rumblings of ‘Free Form Guitar’ that I’m remembering. I had the most fortunate experience of knowing people that owned a set of Voice of the Theater speakers which were about half the size of a refrigerator if not as heavy. They got hauled around quite a bit for parties. They spent some time at a home in Topanga Canyon, occasionally set just a few feet apart and pointed right at each other. Enough room for one person to sit in between them. You must understand that these are speakers usually hung from the sides of stages in concert halls. And later stacked in piles at each side of the stages as concerts got bigger. Can you imagine sitting in between with an appropriately powerful amp and the right recreationals? One friend was convinced that a John Mayall cut called ‘Driving Sideways’ from the Crusade LP was the best thing you could listen to at outrageous volume. Good call, Mike.

Oh, by the way, does anyone remember the Yardbirds? A British Invasion group that spawned a few guys named Clapton, Page and Beck and some excellent tunes as well. Maybe we’ll talk about them next time.

From the dock, without the whiteness of the hillside filling the viewscape, I could see the activity at street level and was overwhelmed. Not that I’ve never seen quaint fishing villages all over the world before, but each one teems with its own local activities, never the same from country to country. Of course they all have a lot to do with fish. At this time of morning, mostly boats are getting ready to leave for the early fishing run of the day. Even from my perch at the rail, I catch a whiff of strong coffee and pipe smoke. I notice many people smoking pipes. Haven’t seen that too much in recent years, other than the occasional pot smoker at a rock concert. I see stem after stem poking out from the mostly oversize mustaches on faces I think I would like better if they were smiling. I’m sure I wouldn’t be smiling if I was going to work at dawn without the first cup of coffee in me. Nonetheless, those faces certainly don’t match my post card impressions of Greece. Maybe on the way back with the ship’s belly full of flounder and the crew’s belly full of falafel. Oh shucks. I knew this wouldn’t last. The crewman is waving at me to get on with it. I’m sure they can’t reload until they’ve cleared the vessel. So, without fully absorbing the scene before me, but excited about giving up my observer status for one of participant, I grab my just so rightly lightly packed bags and hit the gangplank.

As soon as I begin the walk up the dock, children are yelling at me. Their English is horrible, but I am clear they are trying to sell me cheap souvenirs they carry on trays strapped over their shoulders. There is a row of the very magnets I’ve been staring at for years in anticipation of this moment. At first I am irritated at having to navigate this gauntlet of urchins. Then, I remind myself that I am here to experience everything and this is part of that. I give myself a quick check up from the neck up and meet the gaze of the child most earnestly in my face, with a smile on my own. I can see that he is unkempt, with streaks of dirt across his cheek. I can see a world in his eyes and his expression that is at once sad, pleading and I must say, worldly and complex as if he’d really been around at his age, which couldn’t have been more than 12 or so. Whatever I imagined I could read in that expression, I knew I had no idea what his life was like. I wanted to reach out, but knew I couldn’t buy from him or even interact with this child without being assaulted by all the others. I promised myself I would find a way to show some support for these street kids during my visit. So, still smiling, I imagine they can read the goodness in my heart but I know nothing matters except them ending the exchange with more money in their pockets than they started, and I move on.

Looking out, I can see the dark water, watching it glide slowly by. I can just make out the land mass in the distance, dotted by dim lights. As the ship approaches the tiny, quaint harbor the dawn begins to break, sun coming up over my shoulder and the dim lights of shore disappear in the brightening sky and the world starts to come alive for another day. All too quickly to really enjoy the surreal awakening of the hillside, which, in the increasing daylight, becomes almost entirely white. I wanted to pay more attention to all the shades in between the dark and the light, but became overwhelmed by the assault on my senses that came with a first look at a new place. Do I smell fish, or just have such a strong idea of what I will find here that I imagine I’m smelling fish? Even as I finish the thought, I realize I am smelling fish. Maybe not all so fresh. Oh well, what do I expect in a fishing port?

Ever since one of the guys in my men’s group came back from Greece and gifted us all with ceramic refrigerator magnets, I’ve been imagining the isle of Santorini. It is much as I imagined from the magnet. What an amazing hillside of whitewashed structures. Surely all other colors must be banned by law, though later I discovered the brightly colored doors that must be exempt. The smiling, mustachioed port crew expertly guides our small, inter island ferry into place. One of so many vessels in the harbor, moored, but still bobbing in the chill morning air. There was clearly no law against the color boats could be painted. And I haven’t seen so many pea coats since the 60s. With matching seamen’s caps, they look just like a snapshot you’ve seen in a travel magazine of a Greek fishing village. As the passenger’s disembarked, all carrying their own belongings, I was still standing at the rail taking it all in.