Here, There & Everywhere – December 11th, 2001
by Bing Futch
“I do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon’s sphere.”
Puck from Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”
Over hill, over dale, through brush, through briar, the tall trees watch as I dance past, the low oceans rumble at my approach. The bass dropping out of slow-crawling Buick Regals accompanies my strut down new avenues, through the shiny bright evenings of this new college town and that old warehouse district. It’s a pip. It’s a long laugh, the painful kind that brings a chunk of tears to each eye. Strafing the east coast of Florida on a beach inspector tour of wharf-twisted coastal college towns, I recently had a chance to share a basket of sublime moments with my good friend Paulie Gregg. Follow Paulie and the fun will find you, Lovers of the Long Laugh. He kept me running over the course of two consecutive weekends, reveling in musical, mental celebrations of life and this I can tell you directly: I’m all the better for it. I’ll try to pass it along. But first, we step closer to home.
November 8th, 2001
Lost & Found – Longwood, Florida
Casual Folklor, John Doe Jersey, Stem & Bing Futch
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Lost & Found nightclub is quickly making a name for itself as an “anything goes” kind of venue. In the low market that is the greater Orlando music scene, it is probably the carnival sideshow to all the other clubs, representing as game booths and thrill rides. L&F draws the curious out. With regular comedy shows, open mic nights, wacky band battles and a calendar filled with musical potpourri, it’s starting to see a clientele base that will routinely wander in, seeking amusement.
On this night around 9:30 p.m., the adventurous club-goer would’ve found yours truly on-stage with an Appalachian mountain dulcimer, singing, stomping, yellin’, pickin’ and grinnin’. “Country-flavored niggah!” I shouted after the first road-dusty tune, drawing hoots and hollers from the crowd. I’d like to think that they’re just being polite when they applaud.
After a 30-minute set, I headed back to the section of bar that’s nearest the doorway and launched onto a barstool. Bryan from the band Wrong leaned over and asked “could you do that for us?”
“What? Like at a party?” I asked.
“Yeah, for our CD release party, January 11th. Here.” He swayed a little on his chair.
“You want me to open for Wrong?” I’m not exactly heavy.
“Yeah man, I just want you to do what you did right then,” he said, pointing towards the stage where John Doe Jersey was setting up. “I like all kinds of music, you are totally right for our party.”
“I’m fuckin’ there!” We shook on it.
After cashing in my beer coupons, the band fired up and I moved towards the stage, camera in hand. John Doe Jersey, come to find out, is a fairly young band with under a year of experience. They came off as refreshingly professional, however – and delivered a set that was filled with crazy hooks, energetic arrangements and passionate songwriting. Lead singer Justin Courtney, sort of a grunge-ish David Hasselhoff, attacks songs with a clear, dry voice and seems most effective when not wrassling with his guitar, which attempted to stage-dive off his shoulders at one point during the set. Guitarist Doug Odegard delivers most of the punch and crunch with Suthin’ style and the rhythm section of bassist Ryan Dick and drummer Chris Carlile worked melodic magic for the quartet’s dynamic pop-agressiveness. They’ve got some work to do and apparently knew it, spouting the oft-heard post-gig lament “that wasn’t our best show”, but as it’s been countered time and time again: only the band really knows what goes where. They’re a group that I’ll be looking forward to, down the road of their evolution.
Casual Folklor is a band that has the strong, steady legs of a sailor and has more than likely weathered its evolution through attrition. With a jam band sensibility and a positive spirit, this ensemble rolled onto the stage with an easy authority and proceeded to groove the assembly. Parts Phish and Widespread Panic with a dash of Dave Matthews Band thrown in to keep it from losing too much of a personal face, this retro-underground sound is familiar in a hippie-fied way and yet it pushes musical boundaries with psychotripic guitar noodlings and the rootsy blow of a saxophone nudging against fusionistic bass acrobatics. Lead singer Tony Cuchetti has a laid-back delivery but can floor it when the song hits a peak. Prevalent throughout the music is a sense of joy and peace, fueled by the irie vibe of the Rasta. The diversity of the band’s music and their assured, reverent set cast a spell on those who could dig it, and many did.
Turns out that I knew one of the players from Stem. Augustin Frederic used to tend drums for the first band I ever wrote a story about: Heronymus. Now, still with that gigantic kit of his, he’s adding the fine touches and grace notes, latin-inspired rhythms into Stem’s art-rock cereal bowl. His performance even brought out former Heronymus lead singer Tim Williams, who recently got married and is planning on moving to New York. Williams played the part of “Kaa” in a version of “The Jungle Book” that I scored music for back in 1997. Not much later, his band was performing at the House Of Blues at Downtown Disney and I was backstage with the guys, snapping photos and basically laying the groundwork for my musically supportive career today.
But I digress, which was unfortunately easy to do while Stem performed. While the individual band members did play their instruments technically well (for the most part), there was a serious lack of unity on-stage. It was as if, one observer said, they were all standing in seperate rooms, completely unaware of one another. It didn’t help that their highly progressive art-rock overtures seemed half-thought through, disjointed in a way that wasn’t intended. There were moments of brilliance, but for the most part – just a really interesting band at another UCF keg party.
Not in itself a bad thing, you understand.
All in all, it was a good night for music. I got some Krystal money out of the deal and a gig on January 11th, 2002 with WRONG, JALOPY, and O.F. BEATDOWN at Lost & Found, I’ll have to admit, it’s getting better. Getting better all the time.
November 18th, 2001
Holiday Inn Oceanfront – Melbourne, Florida
Sons Of Marley Reggaefest
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Time to bring that Paulie guy back into the story again. Readers of this column will remember him from Beach Bash Dish and probably a few other editions that I can’t currently recall. He’s an energetic personality; an idea-guru and businessman who looks and sounds like an agreeable surfer in a blonde ponytail, which is only appropriate because he is a surfer and is highly agreeable. Paulie’s one of those guys that just about everyone knows and nothing bad can be said about him. Always up and nearly always smiling, with respect for his fellow man and a love for the purity of life – he has trained his passions into the artistic world through photography and the support of local music.
Promoter George Toler, known for his wild and primal “Jamaican Me Crazy” events, is a tried and trusted showman who knows a thing or two about getting bodies out to represent. Together with Paulie, they set a buzz ablaze throughout the region and there didn’t seem to be much doubt that the show would be huge. As early as 9:00 a.m., vendors begin setting up booths and tents, lining the spacious boardwalk as the sun crested higher above the scene. I had arrived at 7:30 a.m., checked-in and crashed until about 1:00 p.m. Emerging into yellow, invading brightness, I set foot upon the wood and surveyed the incoming festival-goers.
This was a bunch that was prepared to have fun. The garb collectively, colorfully emblazoned with familiar swatches of red, yellow and green. Tables and racks full of Bob Marley merchandise, pamphlets speaking of Haile Selassie I and offering up rare family West Indian recipes. Jewelry, delightful utensils, traditional island wear and CD’s of sweet, sweet reggae music. Another two hours to go and the assembly was already into the mood – hanging out with drinks, gazing out over the tufted sand dunes and into the eye of the Big Atlantic. George, looking a little tired from a frenzied red-eye night, greeted me by one of the food stations. “Did you get checked in alright?” he asked. I admitted that I had. Paulie and his roommate Scott had a similarly frantic set-up schedule and were preparing for a long day of being the footsoldiers of the show. The tour had been at Orbit the night before and the usual post-gig festivities, along with ensuring that the camp move smoothly, seemed to be both a blessing and curse to the team. “It went off last night,” said Paulie, with a tired smile. “I’m ready to do it again.”
The tech crew had been fussing with the sound-system, trying to iron out some kinks. When the music finally kicked in, there was a small cheer and some of the idle began to move to the beat. It was about this time that I felt a pair of arms around my waist, hands linked around my stomach in a familiar way. I turned to see my ex-wife Chinesa looking up at me. “I brought you something,” she said. Before I could fully register her presence, I looked up to see the approaching men who more than likely had to hurry behind her. Zeke, Big Wave Dave and Gary, the drummer from Naked Head were walking towards me, mischief in their eyes and smiles on display.
Here we go.
“The party starts now,” I said, embracing each of them in turn. How dangerous would this be? With a room, a cooler full of Miller High Life and God knows what these biker-riding sons of bitches were packing on them, it would truly be one of those days that required constant rolling of videotape. “I’ve got a room, let’s go there.”
My suggestion was met with great enthusiasm.
Boxelder took the stage shortly after 3:00 p.m. and a quickly-striding George stopped to ask me if I had seen Paulie, that they were looking for him to introduce the band. Not being able to help in the least, he continued on while the four well-adjusted room partiers made our way to the front lines. This band has been a favorite of mine for a few years now, since I discovered their album “What For?” at the bottom of a CD pile in the old Jam Magazine offices. Their soulful, spiritual, groove-inspiring music jumped out at me, birthing a feature review. Since then, I’ve had the guys (Bryce, Eli, Matt, Jacob and Patrick) on the WWRR internet radio show and have been tickled shitless to share a few bills with them at inland clubs as well. Besides being real down-to-earth dudes, they are consummate players and songwriters that know how to pack a tune with emotion and primal power, as evidenced by their latest recording “Love, Light, Affection” It is the rare record that seems to have this undeniable effect: it turns just about everyone who hears it into drooling fanboys. This is serious, I tell you. Members of my own band drive out of Orlando over to Cocoa Beach to see Boxelder perform and Panama Beach is looking better all the time. Bryce comes out there and starts wailing on the bongos and lets his tam slip slowly off until his lion’s locks are whipping about like Medusa revisted as a surf icon. With the band grooving mightily behind him, he sings out in that singularly expressive voice, eyes wide open and seeking connection with the audience, body in tune to the message, signing the meaning to underscore the point. Such musical magicians, Eli and his guitar pixie-dust, Matt and his burning fuses, Jacob – solid and sensible like the black man play bass in a Kingston band, Patrick with his solid time and tasteful interplay on the drums, a body can’t help but move itself when these guys stir their soup and serve it hot. And what they say is the truth, songs of diversity and respect, one love and positive thoughts that build up instead of tearing down.
They played beautifully this day.
Freeflow Conspiracy has become another one of my favorite groups to witness live. With a beach-side rap-rock angle, they are instant party music, complete with horns and a double MC attack by Mike Lipsky and Brian Hafer. With Jim Shaffer (guitar), Andy Middleton (bass), Jack Hoffpauir (horns and tables) and Dave Settgast (drums) fueling the machine, the band usually rips a hole in the proceedings through which everyone can climb. For some reason though today, the lads got off to a bad start. The energy normally present at downbeat was lacking, there was a pretense of presence, minds seemed elsewhere. Even their musical performance was sub-par, not as tight as they usually can be counted for. At one point, a call to the crowd to “jump! jump!” ended with the band sullenly giving up after a few measures of non-compliance for the curiously stilled gathering. Heads bobbed, toes tapped, but where was the all-out body-motion that accompanies any given Freeflow show? Come to find out later that there was a bit of a dispute before they went on-stage, which surely accounts for the band’s unusually tame set. But in the eyes of some people, they don’t know that – and you only get one chance to make a first impression. With the ever-growing masses coming to find out who’s opening for the sons of Bob Marley, what better time to shine and show your irie vibe?
Someone saw Ziggy Marley walking in the ocean down the cliffs from the boardwalk. He was splashing and soaking up the energy, not being bothered at all. Someone else tapped me on the shoulder and whispered “let’s go back to the room” and I went, happily, without looking any further for Ziggy.
The last part of the show was an old-style revue that led up to performances by Stephen, Julian and Damian Marley, who have been traveling around writing new chapters of the Marley Legend. Like the old record company tours that featured act after act of the label’s best, the groove quickly shifted towards an island dance hall vibe with sets by Third Force, Phat & Jazzy, Ghetto Youth Crew, Mr. CC, Daddigan and Yami Bolo. As the sun retreated over the far side of the causeway, a slight chill gripped the air and some of the throng, now packing close to 1000 people, donned windbreakers and sweatshirts to insulate themselves.
Most didn’t need it. The body heat generated by hundreds of good-timing vibesters was raising temperatures all along the darkened boardwalk as they danced. Throw-down after throw-down on the stage with minimal pauses between the performers. By the time the Marley’s took their positions, the entire boardwalk had transformed into some writhing, feral, many-celled entity that lived within itself, complete symbiosis. As I floated through the crowd, video camera held-aloft, recording the passage, I sensed a positivity that broke down all barriers, reduced all paranoia, lowered each wall. Despite the amount of drinking that went on, there were no angry stares, wobbly challenges, prideful scuffles. Eyes met and smiled, hands shook and bumped fists. Shoulders were squeezed and backs patted as the wandering continued. Gazing up, the dingy yellow lamps illuminated the undersides of balconies on the tower where many had taken the Room and Concert Package option. Enjoying a bird’s eye view of the celebration, they alternately flitted in and out of their own private rituals, then spilled back out onto the boardwalk where the mood was, to say the least, surreal.
From sunrise to sunset, the honey-soaked rhythms of reggae music rolled, billowed off of the stage and met head-on with the incoming waves of salt and wind from the ocean. Caught in the crossfire of life-giving energy, we all were. Out of deference to hotel guests, the show ended at 10 pm, leaving many people with plenty more to party about and no option for staying on the boardwalk. As the tide of people flowed out past pool and entrance, many were surprised by the appearance of the Marley Brothers in the front lobby, waiting to meet and greet with those who had partaken of the experience. This was a small gathering as everyone else filed out either to cars or into the modern day catacombs of the hotel.
After saying goodbye to the other members of our little crew of rolling stoners, I headed up to the penthouse that had been set as headquarters for the entire day. The two-story, ultra-modern layout provided for a classically opulent way to soak in the afterglow of the event. Artists and members of the organization wandered the pad, reflecting and rejoicing in the success of the day (something like 1400 people in attendance) and what it represents: a return to the old school of producing and promoting shows.
Paulie and George have many other plans up their sleeves and the next big blow-up should make this lastest triumph pale in comparison. “We’d like to do more diversity shows,” said Paulie. “Bring everybody together.” Plans to bring shows of this kind to Orlando have been discussed and Toler’s had experience filling up venues such as the old Beacham Theater with his parties and events. By marketing their finesse for assembling gob-smacking shows, the pair hopes to become a household force to be reckoned with.
I gleaned all of this while partying myself into a blissfully mindless stupor. The graying of the world, the winking out of the light and when I awoke, I was back in my room, laying on the bed fully dressed. Later in the day, Paulie calls me and we catch up with the Post-Gig Rap. Discovered that I had basically wandered upstairs and passed out on a bed while shooting interiors of the penthouse. He walked me to my room at about 5 a.m., then watched as I promptly resumed the sound sleep that had so recently begun.
We laughed about the antics of the day and night, then he asks me what I’m doing the Saturday following. Seems he’s heading to Jacksonville to take some pictures of Atlantic recording artists Superfly Rodeo and wants to know if I’m up for going along on the ride. Follow Paulie and the fun will find you. I said, “hell yes!”
November 24th, 2001
Jacksonville, Florida
The Superfly Rodeo Experience
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Just under a week later, Paulie picked me up early Saturday morning and we began the long road to Jacksonville for the JaxFest Sports and Music Festival. It gave us time to talk of many things, from our respective divorces to his time spent as a team leader during Operation: Desert Storm. Ever since I met the man backstage at a House Of Blues show, I’ve gotten to know him bit by bit. With every visit to his house and every phone conversation, each little snippet of history and experience reveals more of each of us to one another. It became evident that he’s on a mission, that all of his different interests actually combine to support his drive to revolutionize. And party like a wild rockstar.
He’s worked with a number of local bands, mostly unofficially, but still helping to make shows happen, taking photographs, organizing and promoting events. Now, as he says, “I’m ready to take it to the next level.” Superfly Rodeo is a band that he has reached out to – they performed at the Sixth Annual Beach Bash this year to benefit, once again, The Sea Turtle Preservation Society, and it appears that this trip will be a sort of productive mingling. “Think you can handle it?” he taunts playfully, indicating that the party stakes will be high. I’m thinking about Jacksonville, college town, home to Limp Bizkit and city of many bridges. I’m thinking that adventure awaits. But it’ll be a working adventure.
The daylong show is being held at Kona Skate Park in Jax, a chipped and faded landscape of half-pipes, pool runs and meandering hillsides. There’s a punkish band on-stage as we arrive, parking somewhat close to the backstage area. The three ham and cheese sandwiches that I had packed for the trip are now fewer by two as we head over to the table, check against the guest list and enter the skate park proper. Even in the early afternoon, there seemed to be easily 300 people milling about in all directions. A sparse cluster gathered in the grass before the stage next to a big white hospitality tent. Spotting Superfly guitarist Mathmatical, whom I had met at the Sons Of Marley Reggae-Fest, we joined the growing number of bandmembers clustered around a radio truck including drummer Scott King.
The area behind the stage was mainly dirt, sloppy with moisture in patches that gave it a Woodstockian presence. Lined up along the cyclone fence were staged drum kits and an EMT vehicle, heading the still, silent motorcade of band trucks and SUV’s. A particularly large Suburban wheeled past and Paulie looked after it. “That’s Fred Durst,” he said. “Fred’s here, he told them he’d come out.” I glanced after the dark blue truck for a few seconds, then turned my attention to the band Cards In Spokes, playing their set to a group of kids who were plainly itching for a mosh pit. “Go get some beer,” Paulie said. “Take the lanyard that I got from Scott.” After getting some video shots of the band, who were doing their best for the hard-to-pin-down crowd, I slipped into the beer tent and uploaded some suds.
Apparently, only pros and amateurs sponsored by pro shops were allowed to skate on this day, so the action on the various pipes and other hard surfaces was pretty amazing. Extreme sports enthusiasts gathered around pools and giant wooden U’s, whooping it up and applauding the more spectacular maneuvers and cringing in empathy for the major wipe-outs, of which there were many. For awhile, I floated back and forth between the airborne exhibitions and the music stage, which was slowly gathering a small crowd of moshers, drawn by the imminent approach of Superfly Rodeo’s set.
Guitarist Jamie Carreon, sporting full-on liberty spikes, fidgeted with gear while bassist Juno Vasquez tested his rig. No sign of lead singer Lee Grisham, whose intense stage presence has earned him comparisons to Henry Rollins.
But there was still awhile to go before the pre-dusk ritual of checking the sound climaxed in the final set of the day. If I’d had any doubts about Paulie’s Fred Durst comment, they were doused as Durst began making his way towards the beer tent, flanked by a big latino-looking bodyguard and surrounded by a small circle of appreciative fans. Since I was heading that way, I whipped out the cameras and caught a few shots before leaving the fray to make a beeline for the kegs. Limp Bizkit isn’t one of my favorite bands and I’m not terribly impressed with Durst’s bad-boy, “break shit” persona, so I didn’t hover. I did get him to flip me off on-camera, which could always be used for something, I suppose.
As Superfly Rodeo prepared to let it rip, I spent my time catching all of the back-stage action, from the twiddling of faders and knobs to the final positioning of gear on-stage, last minute conversations and mugs into the camera. Fred came over to stage-right and took the MC microphone, announced the band as they huddled together and the game was on. They charged through a short, but energetic set, pulling the entire population of the skate park forward to the main lawn area. Light design was nice and eerie, something that Carreon used to his full advantage, balancing over the red gels at his feet and getting psychotic in his stance.
Despite the no-balls sound of a county-fair set-up, the group more than demonstrated its power and had hangers-on grooving and pumping fists to the music.
Darkness fell quickly and it looked like tear-down was going to be a true and unsensitive bitch. As the band walked off-stage and began mingling with supporters, the plans for after-party were heard murmured and shouted across the ever-messier fields. It was decided to rendezvous at the house of a guy named Ed, but not before a Publix run that would yield some frozen pizzas, garlic, veggies, beer and extra spicy tortilla chips. Ed struck me as being the sort of “been there, done that” kind of guy that Paulie seems to make a habit of knowing. Pleasant, laid-back guys who have a history of successes and failures that read like major motion pictures. As my promoter friend worked some extra-special touches into the pizza, the discussion about where to go, what to do and what to do it on arose, ironically as “Almost Famous” began to unspool on the television set.
It was still disgustingly early. After attempting to crash a club downtown and swooping through a pizza pub, Paulie and I ended up at a small apartment on Jax Beach. There was little talk of business, however, as the battle plan was forged. Which club would we be heading to? The answer came up: The Ritz. After a visit from a nice man who brought nice things, I dosed and headed out with the motley group to the club, which was looking to be packed on a Saturday night. With ornate wooden panels and a center island bar, it took a deep breath and a pre-emptive “excuse me” to enter the establishment. Lee leaned over the bar and pointed to myself and Paulie, speaking to a bartender.
Well, that would be just fine, I thought. Paulie and I were essentially stranded far from Ed’s house with a bunch of party-hungry guys. We might as well roll with it. Beers were served.
I tried to keep a loose tandem with my blonde friend, just to maintain enough of a presence in case anything went down for any reason. He was gravitating away from the narrow space between the bar and the front door, heading into an expansive zip code of floor that was dense with bodies. He was looking at something back towards the front door and without bothering to attempt spotting it, I asked him what he was smiling at. He nodded in that direction, not removing his eyes and I leaned over to follow his gaze. There, leaning against the door, putting the moves on a brunette chick was Fred Durst, bodyguard maintaining a space around his client, waving off autograph seekers and discouraging would-be picture takers. I had had enough Durst-sightings for the day and was much more interested in looking at college women, so an announcement was made about my imminent loop around the huge circle in the center of the restaurant.
A good loop it was.
I made it back around in time to see Lee mouthing the words “let’s go” and we drifted out of The Ritz just as the ugly lights came on at a disgustingly early 1:30 a.m. At this point, I’m starting to peak – two hits of X to start my field trip and by the time we’re back at the apartment, the neighbors are dropping by with treats and cases of beer. Keep in mind now, this is not a large space by any means. A two-bedroom closet with the fortunate inclusion of a balcony for overflow purposes. When the number of inhabitants reached 20, it became interesting to see what connection, if any, the partiers had with the host. It would’ve appeared in most cases to be none. The whacked out poet guy, dressed in all black, talking of his recent move from California. The three silent girls on the futon who resisted advances from whacked out poet guy, the old symphony-composer-lookin’ dude who wandered in much later. Freaks and geeks, smokers and jokers, private parties in the bedrooms, something elicit possibly going on in the bathroom.
The bathroom is the privy privy, do you know what I mean? Any room of a house or apartment, you can duck into with a friend. It’s not unusual to hang with a buddy in the kitchen or in a hallway – in a bedroom, it’s quite accepted to slip in and close the door. But go with someone into a bathroom and there’s the idea that something freaky’s going down in major-league style. With all the doors closed, the apartment suddenly seemed much smaller, especially when Fred Durst and his bodyguard walked into the place.
Jee-cripes, I just can’t get away from this guy today, I’m thinking while on a phone call to a friend. Leaving the apartment, I endeavoured to hit the beach and take a nice, trippy, moonlight stroll – leave all of the rock ‘n’ roll excess behind for awhile. Enjoy my own personal excess on a solo mission for enlightenment.
Never been to Jax Beach before – the sand is of a singular virtue, though difficult to judge its tone by the moon and the amber lights of apartment houses. The sea, black and bubbly, lunged upon the steep and shiny slopes that leveled off at my shoes. I played sandpiper games and held the cel phone out to the crash and the roar so that she could hear and imagine the beauty.
When I returned, Fred was gone and the party was beginning to flag out. But not before more merry was made involving beer runs, dusty dollar bills, mortars, quarter sticks of dynamite and fake bubba teeth. Paulie, that Energizer Bunny of party-hounds, actually laid down on a couch to sack out before I did, but didn’t get much rest due to the early dawn antics of Lee and Co. Nothing could awaken me once I put down for the morning, not even the little explosive popper packages that the crew tossed to stop me from snoring like a razorback. It was 11 a.m. when I felt a tap on my knee. “Hey, you ready?” It was Paulie. Time to hit the road again.
Waking and baking, heading back to Ed’s house and then polishing off the last of the Rolling Rock before making the trip back down south. Of course, coming so soon on the heels of Thanksgiving weekend put us in the midst of heavy traffic, which gave the “Ice Man” and myself some time to figure out what we’d learned over the past couple of weeks. Every industry has a fringe and I have been looking for a way to tap into that periphery for quite some time. It is true that it’s not always what you do but who you know. I’d like to think that even if you know someone, you still won’t get ahead unless you’ve got what it takes. Nepotism can only take one so far, you know. My purpose on this trip was to shoot, compile, edit and present a chronicle of the day’s events on video as well as get some much-needed practice working with sports action. If it nails me a contract to produce something down the road, what did I say at the beginning of this collection of musings? I’m all the better for it.
Of course, Paulie wasn’t quite done with me. He had plans to lure me over to Melbourne once again in the coming weeks and there were tentative plans to raid the Spinnaker Resort during Spring Break 2002. His infectious enthusiasm and idealism is a Godsend for people who are looking for a catalyst, those who have been waiting their time to shine. In the crowds, in the quagmire – on the beach and in the city, there’s a movement taking place on the positive tip. The same old song-and-dance, smoke-and-mirrors doesn’t fly in these eccentric circles of artists, businesspeople and good old-fashioned salt-of-the-earth types. We the people are tired and restless. We’re edgy and hopeful, we’re looking towards the change on the horizon and no longer merely wishing it were closer. Now pulling it with invisible tendrils of involvement, making it ours.
Making it happen.
“bfsig”
