“Folk Hero” and America at 250

My journeyman years began in 1992. My Syracuse professor, Tom Herling, handed me his beat-up nylon-string classical guitar and told me to get out there. Fresh from my college band, I cracked open my mother’s old chord book, learned E minor, A minor, and D7, and started writing.

I wrote ten songs in three weeks, strumming out frustration while watching clouds roll over the hills near Yale. I played midnight open mics and carried that guitar everywhere. The magic was in my fingers—some chords brought sadness, others left me thoughtful. I played silly amateur songs for anyone who would listen until my fingertips burned.

I headed to New York City, inspired by Tom Waits, and busked on the streets. It paid for pizza and broccoli, and I played Lach’s Antihoot open mic, where Lach himself tapped a glass during “Mystery Machine.” Those streets welcomed me, and I fell in love walking avenues with my guitar and a girl who couldn’t look away.

That same guitar kept me sane through lean years in California. It helped me make friends and brought me to Venice Beach, where I met the woman I would marry. I wrote her twenty songs and two musicals. She opened my world to singing in other languages, and my fingers discovered new shapes on the fretboard.

I took the guitar to McCabe’s in Santa Monica for repairs, but the real wear stayed in my heart and the sun lines around my eyes.

Today it rests quietly in the corner of our bedroom in Ventura.

Tomorrow America turns 250. Happy Birthday, America. My guitar and I have shared one hell of a ride in your backyard.