There were a few things I hadn't taken into account. As hard as that degree was to obtain, I quickly realized that an AS degree meant nothing to these folks, which was a stark contrast to what I had been led to believe through BCC's Marketing Department with all of their stats, charts and numbers pointing to how easily I would find gainful employment out at NASA with my newly-earned knowledge. It's not that I didn't enjoy filling out 10 to 20-page applications that wanted to know everything I did as a toddler, but it was more the responses, or lack thereof, that bothered me most. Of all the applications I put in, I think I remember one company taking the time to tell me I wasn't needed, and the rest simply ignored me. One thing, however, that never let me down was music.
I had always been a musician, as far back as I could remember. I started playing drums at age 5, and when I got my hands on my sister's Sears mid-sized acoustic guitar a few years later, I was in a state of utopia! I asked her to show me a few chords, which she did, and the next day I had written a song. The reason I jumped from job-searching to music was to give a bit of background on why I was writing songs in the first place, and I'll get back to the significance of the job market, shortly. You see, I was born with what I was told was a "gift". Was it a gift from God? No. I now know that's not it. It was a gift from my grandfather's side of the family. Maybe. Most likely it was a gift of chance that my molecules were aligning nicely, but pop-pop was pretty talented.
My pop-pop Norman, so I was told, could play anything on any instrument, but all I ever watched him master was the lifting of 7oz. Budweiser nips, which didn't bother me, because he'd let me sip off of them from time to time. Anyway, back to the gift. The gift, regardless of where you think I should believe it came from, was powerful. I learned at a young age that I had the ability to mentally dissect a song in my mind while it played. I could separate all of the parts, bass, drums, guitars, pianos, etc...., and actually picture, in my mind, what the artist was doing with their hands to make the sounds. This allowed me to mentally learn the songs, by ear (or mind, if you like), on all of the instruments at the same time while I was listening to the song. In other words, by the time I got home and ran to my drums or guitar, I could already play most of the song. Well, at least my mind could. Sometimes it took some work to get my hands to agree with my mind, though.
My young musical influences were whatever station my dad put on the radio in our AMC Rambler station wagon as we drove here and there. I was his first-born son after 5 girls so he dragged me around everywhere he went. I also got to hear his endless collection of LPs consisting of mostly Frank Sinatra, big bands, and Broadway musicals, and more playing on his little, but endearing stereophonic record player. Let's summarize this section by saying I had no shortage of exposure to many different types of music, and that both of my parents recognized my "gift", and were most supportive of anything I wanted to do with music, although financial resources were non-existent.
As the years went by, and sex, drugs and rock n roll entered into my life (THANKFULLY), and I leaned more toward heavy and rebellious music such as Black Sabbath, Kiss, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, well, you get the point. It's possible that my father being killed by a drunk driver in a car wreck when I was 13 had some influence on this, or maybe not. I never coherently thought it through, but rather just listened to the sounds I liked. My songwriting style certainly followed, and I began writing some really heavy tunes back then, such as "Release Me From My Grave", for example. I have to admit I still had a soft side then as well. I could go on and on about music, but that'll have to be later. Ok, back to the job market thing....
After what seemed to be ten years of pumping out 10-page applications to the Space Coast, and NOT ONE job offer, I was sinking. I was working at Ace Hardware and making $6.85/hr. I could barely afford to pay my rent, let alone buy food. I was living in a busted-up old mobile home trailer in Sharpes, just north of Cocoa. Nobody cared about the diploma I just worked so hard for. Nobody needed me at all, and any jobs that became available were going to relatives of those already employed at the Cape. It was now clear that I would have to change gears, another interesting story I will save for another blog post, as it's a story all its own. Now, more about the home break-in...
Over the years I had managed to collect a few dear belongings, such as a 1985 Sunburst Fender Stratocaster that I paid off by bringing an extra $10 to every guitar lesson until the jubilant day I took it home with me, and a few other things that I thought I couldn't live without. Then one day, that all changed.
I came home from work and walked in the front door like any other day of the week. There was one thing different, or at least on thing I noticed right away. The back door of the trailer was flapping in the breeze. I knew I had locked the door when I left, so there was an immediate sense that something was horribly wrong. I quickly ran to the back bedroom where I hid my guitar under the bed. She was gone. I then ran back to the living room where I kept my stereo gear. It was nearly all gone. I guess they couldn't balance my Sanyo speakers atop the rest well enough to get it all. My stomach was in a knot, and nothing seemed real at this point.
Unless you have been blatantly robbed from what you deem to be your one personal place on Earth, you could never really understand the feeling. I made a police report with the Sheriff's Department, only to be told "Shut up and stop telling us how to do our jobs, you are likely never going to see your stuff again". They were right about that part, but not for a lack of trying. I went door to door pretending to be selling in my own neighborhood, thinking it was somewhere close by, but found nothing. I had a strong feeling it was a local friend who I so generously invited into my home to share music and fun, and trusted. I know who he was, and confronted him. He either learned how to act really well, or just didn't do it. I wasn't sure, but I continued my search elsewhere. I searched every pawn shop in Florida, but still nothing. The only positive I had was that they left me my 6-string acoustic guitar and a set of Sanyo speakers. The guitar that I used to write songs of sorrow, life and love over the next 30 years. I don't even remember what happened to that guitar, but I remember how my heavy songwriting style changed dramatically over those years, directly relating to the fact that my Strat was gone. I still have the Sanyo speakers today, some 20 years later, and they are still in perfect condition aside from the front cloth, and they sound better than any speaker I've had, since! I was inspired to write this blog today because after all that time, I finally wrote my first heavy rock song. This, somehow, in a very strange way, symbolizes that I have finally and completely healed from the trauma that I experienced that day, and now I can move forward and complete my first heavy rock CD in thirty years!
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