Greetings From Asbury Park

I actually wrote this on Apr. 16, the day after a late night gig at Georgie’s in Asbury Park, NJ. I haven’t been to Georgie’s in over a year, but I look forward to it every time.

Every time I make this periodic pilgrimage to the motherland, (central New Jersey), I fill my itinerary with idealistic thoughts of meeting up with old friends and every single member of my family. And then I sleep late. And then it rains. And then I can’t wait to go home. And there go the best laid plans.

So this  morning I set out to find a filling breakfast and real good coffee. It’s widely known that I’m a self-professed coffee snob. I just can’t get it dark enough or strong enough. (The same goes for beer) I’ve been known to travel with my own french press, but I haven’t packed a cooler of Imperial Stout – yet. But I digress. I ended up at My Kitchen Witch in the quaint little shore town of Monmouth Beach, NJ. Whole grain pancakes with a side of bacon. and when they say side of bacon, they mean a side of pig. There was enough bacon to to feed a family of four. Again I digress.

I’ve been meaning to send a copy of my live CD, Free, to the radio station at Brookdale Community College, where I spent at least three years and never earned an Associates degree. Since the disc was still in my car, I decided to take a detour and drop it off in person.

There are no signs on campus directing one to the radio station. Instead, I looked for an antenna tower, and quickly realized the cluster of satellite dishes would be my best clue. I scurried around in the rain, found an open door and eagerly looked for the station. After repeating four flights of stairs two times, and wandering around the Math/Science building (which feels like chewing on tin foil) I looked for someone who could help me.

From out of a doorway, down a long hallway, emerged a man. A tall man, almost seven feet tall, snacking on a bag of M&Ms and wearing multi-colored warm-up suit, walked toward me. After soliciting his help, and as we strolled towards the elevator, I looked up – way up – at his familiar face.

I said boldly, “What’s your name?” He replied, “Howard Finkle…” I couldn’t really hear the rest, because I blurted out, “You were one of my instructors when I was student here in 1984.” I continued to tell him how I never completed my education, but I have managed to earn a living as a graphic designer, my field of study. I don’t know if he thought that was cool or a complete slam on the system of higher education.

There are two instructors that I remember. Dan Schroll, my communication design teacher. He was good. And this guy. He was tall. Really tall.

I dropped off the CD. I hope to get an interview in a few months. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

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