I Miss John Belushi Back in the day, thirty years ago, I could be found on most Friday evenings during the school year behind the bowling alley. There the gang would hang out and drink, imbibe in drugs of dubious legality, and if you were lucky, hook up with the fairer sex.

Ah school days…

Just got to thinking about the scruffy dude with the twelve string acoustic guitar. I forget what his name was, just remembered he hung around the city, singing crappy covers. After a free beer or two, he would start playing his own stuff. Complete with harmonica, he’d ripoff Dylan or Springsteen, hoarse voice, mumbled words, and all.

It was my introduction to the faux-sensitive douchebag. Unkempt hair, shoes without socks, three-day old beard, denim jacket and torn jeans, he was a fashion pioneer or poseur. Not quite sure because I was just a teenager and only recently coming into my own fashion-wise.

I remember the Dude, as he shall be named here, for two things: his aforementioned appearance and the chicks. God, did they love the Dude. As long as he kept playing. Each heartrending ballad from the open roads of the Capital District or Asbury Park made the gals think “Oh my God, he knows, he knows…” Didn’t matter a lick that without the guitar, the girls would sniff “more disgusting Cohoes riff-raff,” he was gold as long as he could play the notes.

On the occasion that he would stop playing and get another beer, I might chat him up at the keg. Having siblings in the mental health business served some purpose as I couldn’t exactly diagnose him but I could determine that he was a bit off.

“Another beer dude?” I inquire.
“Don’t mind if I do. Troubadoring is thirsty work.” He accepts. Naturally.
“Dude, when did you pick up the guitar?”
“Man, it seems like yesterday but it was many, oh so many, years ago. I was doing a stint at CDPC*.” The dude was honest to a fault. And yes, he spoke like that.
“What were you doing there?” I am not doing my job if I’m not following up.
“Oh my man, I had problems. Problems with my Mom, problems with my Dad, problems with the service, and finally problems in the county lockup.”
“And did CDPC help?”
“They gave me the guitar and a new set of problems, with the ladies.”

I see…

Down in the office courtyard, there is another tortured artist belting out his psychotic upchuck, fingering his twelve string. Ruminating on lost love, broken hearts, and failed relationships, he sings to fourteen people, six of whom may be developmentally disabled. He wears a baseball cap, has a ponytail, sports some beard, determines that his stage tee shirt have at least three holes.

I want to rip that guitar out of his hands and smash it to a million splinters.

I guess that makes me another angry white man.

*Capital District Psychiatric Center  ¶ 1:54 PM