Dear Frank,
I know I’m supposed to be writing about you, but ever since I learned you’d left us for the record store in the sky, all I’ve really wanted was to talk to you one last time.
Dear Frank,
I know I’m supposed to be writing about you, but ever since I learned you’d left us for the record store in the sky, all I’ve really wanted was to talk to you one last time.
Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
No matter how you’ve lived your life … saintly, and with a whiff of heaven in your aura, Dora, or a little naughtily, with a more checkered past than you’d care to admit … you want to be rounding third base and heading into home plate with a fine group of worthy team mates, and a cheering section that still likes you, whether because of, or despite, your resume and reputation.
I must have done something right, because I’m blessed with a lot of wonderful people in my corner.And so many of us share a musical background.
As much as it’s a sappy platitude from the late music legend Andrew Gold, there’s no other way of saying thanks to those who have stuck by me year after year. I have over 2800 ‘friends’ on my Facebook profile. This isn’t a boast. It’s a matter of fact and it’s not to point out the quantity. I’m the rare exception in social media who actually knows most of the people I’ve friended.