Guitar Hero

I had this friend. It was back when we was young—in our 20s and early 30s. Yeah dust had just been invented.

Paul was a wild, fun guy. I really enjoyed his company. He played guitar in a few local bands and, like all the boys who came along, Carrying soft guitars in cardboard cases, All night long, he figured on breaking big. Paul’d be a rock ‘n’ roll god, touring the continents, lighting up Melkveg, Baku Crystal Hall, Earls Court, Forte Fanfulla, playing the music he loved and reading Baudelaire while the planet sped by below.

Along about 30, rock god-hood yet elusive, he figured it’d make sense to score a Plan B. And he did. Paul was a great cook. He’d host these smash dinners for all his buds. Of Italian descent, there’d be exquisite Parmesan polenta, incredible tortas, linguine with clams, grilled octopus and more. What feasts!

Being a great, masterful and artistic chef was Plan B. Awesome. Paul knew someone who hooked him up at a sweet, trendy, NOW restaurant in a hip upstate New York vacation spot. FAB start!

Here’s the thing—unless you’ve opened your own joint or are some sort of lucky celeb type, you start at the bottom. You work your way through the levels—commis chef, chef de partie, sous chef and finally head chef. Paul hadn’t counted on this. He chafed against the structure, the rules. He just couldn’t cook in someone elses kitchen.

He returned to Boston and the print company where we’d met. By now he was a supremely angry, not so young bee. We lost touch.

I think when Paul went to that chic, happening upstate New York town, he thought his life would  be magically sorted. He would emerge from the chrysalis of his frustrated ambitions into this molto gratifying existence. He would be a successful, respected and renowned chef. Their would be babes at his beck and call to match his artistic elan. His rage and dissatisfaction would be gone.

Ah, if only a change of venue could transform every last one of our troubles into stardust and kittens. Change has to start from within. I can go from underpass to castle but if my heart is still a blob of boiling mud, well, the kingdom ain’t gonna be all beer and skittles now, will it.

I understand anger, I truly do. Here’s the thing though—I can’t be around the mad, rage machines all the time. They wear me out and then I don’t have the energy to tilt at my own windmills or triumph in my own battles.

Also too, let’s have some variety. Mix a little joy with a sprinkling of calm into all that heat. To paraphrase a certain typewriter, all ferocious ire and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Unleashing my killah google fu, I cast my net for Paul. Happily, I found that he’s playing in a local band—still out there gigging. Maybe, hopefully, he’s found some peace and happiness.