Thanks to old Westerns, I always associated the 1800s with muddy streets, saloons, poker, piano players with arm garters, and good-time girls in red and black corsets. Grand Rapids was probably always squeaky clean, so the grit-free Gaslight Village might have been accurate. But it was a little disappointing

There at least should have been some road apples behind that horse-drawn fire engine to add some realism.

The only other field trip I remember was an occasional outing to Blandford Nature Center during maple sugaring season. There’s nothing quite like the thrilling story of syrup production to hold the attention of a 10-year-old boy. The journey from sap bucket to boiling tub was almost as entertaining as a peak up Miss Kitty‘s skirt.

Millions of kids grew up the same way. And for most kids it’s probably not much different 30-plus years later. That’s why a lot of people might be surprised – and even pissed off – if they heard what I heard Friday evening while I waited for a pizza at Mellow Mushroom in Winter Park, Florida.

I didn’t think anything of it at first, because I’ve lived in the Orlando area for a long time. My kids grew up here. And theme parks are something most people here take for granted.

There were three girls waiting for a table with a dad. The girls looked to be around 13, and they were talking about why they skipped school that day. One of them summed it up nicely.

“There was just no way I was going on that field trip. I mean – seriously? Like I want to go to Sea World for, like, the HUNDREDTH time in my life? I don’t think so. MAYBE if it had been Universal or Islands [of Adventure]. But they said something about that being an extra $10 per person. Whatever.”

At first the conversation barely registered.

Then it hit me. I know people in other parts of the country who would flip out if they heard this. There are plenty of kids who would love to visit Sea World even once if they had the chance. And these spoiled little girls don’t know how good they have it.

Oh well. Those kids outside Florida might not have the luxury of living down the road from some of the world’s most popular tourist destinations. But I bet they get to see some killer road apples.

I’ll tell ya right up front that this story doesn’t involve sex, drugs or a party at The Viper Room. So you can go ahead and change the channel if that’s a deal-breaker.

Like a lot of his peers in the music business, Kevin runs his own show these days. He doesn’t have to worry about label execs, extraneous layers of management, or political bullshit. The flipside, however, is that he has to fund his own records, book the tours, and handle all the promotion. It takes a lot of  hard work.

Not working-in-an-oilfield hard – but time-consuming and draining.

Despite all the work it takes to be an indie artist, the demise of the traditional record-company business model might be the best thing that ever happened to Kevin. His fan base continues to grow because he embraces social media and gets to know people on a personal level. Fans across the United States, the United Kingdom and Europe regularly invite the Nashville native into their homes to perform house concerts. And anyone who attends one of these intimate shows is Kevin’s friend by the end of the night.

Thousands of those friends waited patiently over the past year for “Some Comfort,” the new record Kevin released in April. When the album dropped, he flew to Los Angeles from his current base in London to shoot a video for the title track. That’s a long trip, but the location was necessary in order to include actress Cory Oliver. She appeared in Kevin’s first video, 1994’s “Red-Blooded American Boy,” and he wanted to recreate a scene from that video.

The view from Kevin's hotel.

On Friday, April 27, Kevin wrapped up the video and checked into a hotel near Los Angeles International Airport to get some rest before flying to Nashville the next morning. By early evening, he was getting a little restless and decided to pass the time by performing an impromptu webcast from his room.

Promotion for the webcast was nothing more than a quick Facebook post accompanied by a phone-cam picture of the view outside Kevin’s window. The webcast kicked off around 11 p.m. Eastern / 8 p.m. Pacific, and people tuned in from as far away as England and Korea. Among the viewers were Kevin’s high-school friend Greg Gough, and Greg’s wife, Sherri.

About 24 minutes into the show, Greg typed in the comment stream that he was watching from a hotel in Los Angeles, and the view outside his window looked a lot like Kevin’s.

Here is a transcript of what Kevin said as he read Greg’s comments:

“Oh really? Greg? What hotel are you in right now?” (laughs)

“That is funny.”

“OH MY GOD! Greg! You’re in the same hotel right now.”

“Come to room 1081 and knock on the door. I’ll let you in and you can join the webcast. That is AMAZING! That is hilarious.”

Turns out Greg and Sherri were on the floor below Kevin. They came right up to the room, and two buddies reunited for the first time in 25 years – in front of a worldwide audience.

The planets really had to align for this to happen. Kevin was staying at the hotel for less than 24 hours. Greg and Sherri arrived around 3 p.m. on their way from New Zealand to Nashville, and they were booked on a 7:30 a.m. flight home the next day.

It was just a sliver of time. And without the power of social media, a couple of old friends never would have known they were sleeping under the same roof.

Social Media also will play a significant role in Kevin’s “50 States in 50 Days Tour” later this year. It’s a grueling, seven-week trip that he makes occasionally to raise awareness of the problems faced by kids who age out of the foster-care system when they turn 18.

Everyone reading this can help by spreading the word, securing sponsorships or hosting a house concert. Stay tuned for more info on the tour. But in the meantime, feel free to contact me if you want to help.

If you’re a music fan, you might be interested in hearing about Kevin’s connections to a couple guys who had a tiny bit of success in the business: Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley. I could tell you those stories, but you’d much rather hear them from him. Catch Kevin on the 50 States tour and you will hear plenty of great stories.

I guess I could tell you about the time Kevin called me from England and we were about 15 minutes into the conversation before I realized he rang me whilst lounging in the tub.

I was just glad it wasn’t a Skype call.

I only snack on it at work to fill the void with something non-processed. But you wouldn’t catch my buddy Paul doing that if it was the last food on Earth. Seriously – I think he would accept his fate and expire before he consumed this vile stalk.

Somebody please pass the ranch.

That’s what I told my Friday lunch crew when we went out to eat a couple days ago. Yeah – that was Monday. But we missed the last few Fridays because we were on holiday break, and we had to catch up.

I suggested we go to Macaroni Grill this Friday so I can satisfy my lasagna jones. Paul and Dale said Olive Garden is the way to go. And Paul and I both agree that Carrabba’s does a pretty decent job as well. But it became a moot point this morning when I saw a Facebook post from Juan, who runs the cafe in the lobby of my office building.

Roma’s Quick Cafe is serving lasagna today. I put in my order immediately.

NOTE: Ordering lunch through social networking is pretty sweet!

Now I’ve had my lasagna, and we are free to eat something other than Italian on Friday.

By the way, we used to have a fourth member of the lunch party. Our friend Josh was part of the group for many years until he pulled stakes and moved to South Canada about a year-and-a-half ago. I’m pretty sure he would vote for Fuddrucker’s.

Those encounters are both amusing and a little frustrating for Donovan, because he never stopped recording and touring with Blue Meridian — he just switched coasts. The band’s sixth studio album, “Skint & Shattered,” was recently released online and is physically available this week.

If you were a fan of original music in Orlando during the ‘90s, you had your choice of great bands to see on most nights of the week at The Sapphire, Go Lounge, Barbarella, Scruffy Murphy’s, Skinny’s, The Copper Rocket or House of Blues. And Blue Meridian was one of the most active, prolific bands on the circuit.

As the quartet’s founder and frontman, Donovan was a relentless promo machine. In addition to being a musician, he was a freelance graphic designer who churned out unique posters for every gig.

Donovan Lyman

The band maintained an aggressive performance schedule, released a couple of well-received indie albums and won numerous awards. At the same time, consistent airplay on Real Radio 104.1 turned “Sideways Silverjet” and “The Way I Feel” into regional hits.

And then the band disappeared.

Well, not really. That’s a common misconception among a lot of East Coast fans.

Blue Meridian has been alive and well in Los Angeles for almost 10 years now. After the band’s first West Coast tour in the early part of the last decade, Donovan decided California was the place he ought to be. So he came home, tied up some loose ends, held a fire sale at his Bumby Avenue house / rehearsal space / headquarters and headed west.

I still miss the Bumby house, which was only a few minutes from Beefy King. I frequently met Donovan at the classic Orlando lunch spot whenever I could break free from being an Internet Pioneer at “The Orlando Sentinel.” Some of the best times were when we grabbed our Beefy sammiches and spuds, and then took them back to his place. That’s when I got to hear the latest songs and new mixes before they made it onto a stage or CD.

Luckily I’ve been able to continue the experience virtually since Donovan settled in LA and formed a West Coast version of Blue Meridian. And we still have lunch at Beefy King whenever he’s in town.

To those of us who faithfully show up a few times a year at Donovan’s Orlando shows, Blue Meridian never went away. Actually, the band is more popular than ever. There is a strong fan base not only in Southern California, but also in Europe and the UK, where the band is a big draw on international tours.

Orlando album-release party

Now that you know Blue Meridian is still around, it’s time to get a beer in one hand and a copy of the new record in the other.

Come out to The Back Booth in Orlando this Wednesday at 8:30 p.m. for the Orlando release of “Skint & Shattered.” Donovan will perform an acoustic set full of old favorites and selections from the new album, which will be available at the show.

I bet he will even explain the album title. And if you’re really nice, he’ll let you buy him a Red Bull and Vodka!

If you absolutely can’t make it to the show on Wednesday, then head over to CD Baby, Amazon or the iTunes Store and buy a copy of “Skint & Shattered.”

Donovan spent four years perfecting the performances on this record, but it was worth the wait.

The first finished track I heard was “Heaven’s Heavy.” I loved it right away because it sounded familiar and fresh at the same time. It has a classic Blue Meridian feel, but stands apart from anything on previous releases.

What is consistent across every Blue Meridian record, however, is the lyrical imagery from Donovan.

Oh love, on a string. It makes you jump so high like you’re bounding about on springs.
Is that all the heaven we’ll find? Don’t be scared of what our powers will be combined.

“Godspeed” is a driving anthem that will probably be a favorite of fans who like the heavier material from the self-titled first album and “Brave Angel.” Donovan even lets loose with a powerful “C’MON!” during the song’s opening. That little element made me flash back to the “Blue Meridian” album, where he did the same thing going into the second verse of “Dream Breathe Scream.”

“Lina Los Angeles” is chock full of SoCal references. This chorus makes me smile every time I hear it:

Lina Los Angeles, give me a slow kiss, pour me a Grey Goose, put me in show biz.
Lina Los Angeles, queen of the Wild West, you’re kind of a big deal, and I’m sort of impressed.

The record lightens up a bit sonically with “Never Grow Old,” “King of Hearts” and “God’s Daughter,” all of which are in the vein of the quieter, more ethereal material on “Avalon & Babylon & Me.”

When the song “Crystal Clear” first appeared on “Avalon.” It was all finger-picked guitar, mandolin and violin. It had a bluegrass and Irish folk vibe the first time around. Donovan recast the song for “Skint & Shattered” with electric guitars, a heavy bass part mixed right up front, and a lockstep rhythm that brings to mind “(I’m Gonna Be) 500 Miles” by the Proclaimers.

If you are an old Blue Meridian fan who didn’t realize the band is still making music – you should buy this record. And if you’re in Orlando, please come out to The Back Booth Wednesday night.

If you’ve never heard of Blue Meridian before, but you’re a fan of good rock ‘n’ roll with well-crafted lyrics – you should buy this record.

I’ll even make you a deal. And by “you,” I mean the FIRST person who wants to take me up on the offer. Not EVERY person. If you buy “Skint & Shattered” and decide it’s not your cup of tea, contact me and I’ll personally refund your money.

There ya go. Nothing to lose.

And now — the videos.

Bug them about wearing a helmet when they get on a bike or skateboard. Teach them about stranger danger and how to dial 9-1-1. Keep them away from Jerry Sandusky.

But it wasn’t until this week that I realized a classic piece of Americana is actually a tool of the unified forces that are hell-bent on corrupting our youth with the systematic introduction of drugs, disrespect, dalliance and dependence.

I’m talking about …

… “Frosty the Snowman.”

This has nothing to do with political affiliation or religious preference. The song is an equal-opportunity offender. To prove the point, I hereby submit my analysis of the lyrics:

Frosty the Snowman was a jolly, happy soul
With a corncob pipe and a button nose
And two eyes made out of coal

Right off the bat, the song urges our children to use tobacco and fossil fuels. “Hey, kids. Coat your lungs with tar, and use coal for everything possible instead of choosing an eco-friendly alternative.”

Frosty the Snowman is a fairy tale they say
He was made out of snow
But the children know how he came to life one day

What’s that? One moment there was no life, and then POOF there was life? I see … so now we’re teaching creationism in our holiday ditties. Got it.

There must have been some magic in
That ol’ silk cap they found

So much wrong here. In two short lines, the songwriters managed to introduce the concepts of occult and welfare. The kids in the song “found” the hat, and then gave it away. Just like the government finds tax money and gives it away to people who sit around hitting the pipe all day while the rest of us work. Obviously that hat belonged to someone! Maybe an old person who will catch his death of cold if his head isn’t covered. The kids should have turned it in to Lost and Found.

For when they placed it on his head
He began to dance around

Dancing? Hello! You let kids dance and it’s a slippery slope straight downhill to drinking, making out, car wrecks and a Kenny Loggins song.

Frosty the Snowman was alive as he could be
And the children say he could laugh and play
Just the same as you and me

Sure, kids, head on outside and play with every drifter and hobo who come through town. Traipse around with these ne’re-do-wells, then see how quickly you end up chained to a tent stake out in the woods while your captor writes ransom notes using pus from his open sores. The good news, is you’ll get your 15 minutes of fame on the side of a milk carton.

Frosty the Snowman knew the sun was hot that day
So he said let’s run and have some fun before I melt away

The sun is hot. But this Frosty character doesn’t even stop for a moment to suggest that the kids lather on a little SPF 30 to protect their delicate epidermis. Once again proving himself irresponsible. You know damn well that Obamacare won’t pay for skin-cancer treatment.

Down to the village with a broom stick in his hand
Runnin’ here and there all around the square
Sayin’ catch me if you can

I’ll tell you why he’s running here and there. Forgive me for getting all street on you bitches, but “snow” is another term for cocaine. The “snowman” is selling drugs to your children. He himself is all hopped up on the devil’s dandruff and can’t stop running around the square.

He led them down the streets of town
Right to the traffic cop
And he only paused a moment when he heard him holler stop

Frosty only paused a moment. That’s it. Then he continued on his merry way, even though the local constable had to holler at him. This drifter has no respect for law enforcement, and you’re letting your sunscreenless children run around town snorting cocaine with him.

Frosty the Snowman
Had to hurry on his way
But he waved goodbye sayin’ please don’t cry
I’ll be back again some day

Just another good-time Charlie who destroys a few lives then moves on down the road, leaving a trail of empty promises about coming back one day to make all your dreams come true. This is the stuff of Lifetime movies.

It’s time to thumppity-thump-thump Frosty’s ass for good.

Hazard lights flashed on a small pickup truck. The driver was trying to push it off the road — and by “off the road,” I mean to the entrance of a shopping center more than 100 yards away.

I stopped at the light and glanced back, assuming someone would stop to help the guy. Apparently everyone who was eastbound on University Boulevard at 6:45 a.m. had a very important appointment they couldn’t be late for. Or maybe they were afraid that the Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks away would run out of pumpkin muffins or Munchkins. Because no one stopped.

It was a small truck. A Ford Ranger, I believe. But it’s not easy to push and steer at the same time. So the poor guy’s forward pace was somewhere between post-op heart patient using a walker, and me at the end of a 5k.

He was on track to reach the McDonald’s parking lot by Black Friday.

Click on the image to enlarge it and see where I was when I spotted the truck.

So when the light turned green, I did a U-turn, parked in the right lane behind the powerless pickup, snapped on my hazards, and hopped out to help push. By working together, we picked up the pace and quickly made it to the parking lot. That’s when I became aware of a road-grading characteristic that’s not typically a factor when you’re behind the wheel of a fully functioning vehicle.

That little swale at the entrance to a parking lot turns into the Snake River Canyon when you try to push a truck full of roofing material across it. After some rocking (my suggestion, thank you very much), we gathered enough momentum to get past our obstacle.

Take THAT, Evel Knievel!

We pushed on for the final 50 feet into a parking spot and took a well-deserved breather. That’s when Roofer Guy told me his transmission was shot. All this time I assumed he was out of gas, but that wasn’t it at all.

RG knew the transmission was about to go. He already bought a rebuilt unit, and planned on taking the truck to his transmission guy after work on this very day. English is not RG’s first language, so I missed some of what he said. I caught something about how he already called The Boss to let him know what happened. And there was another bit about a tow truck that would take his truck to the transmission place if necessary.

I was a little distracted by that point because I remembered that my van was 150 yards down the road … unlocked … with my laptop backpack on the back seat.

I’m not much of a worrier, and I really wasn’t very concerned about anyone walking off with my laptop. The bigger issue was that some hungry soul barreling down University toward her pumpkin muffin might slam into the sexy Caravan if she didn’t notice my hazard lights. It would suck to kill one driver while trying to help another.

As I was about to walk away, RG “God blessed” me a couple times and then reached into his pocket.

“Here, here. Let me …”

Right away I put up my hand in protest.

“No. I can’t take anything from you. I was glad to help. Seriously. You don’t owe me a thing.”

But RG continued.

“Here, here. Let me show you.”

He pulled a business card out of his pocket.

“See. I even have a card for the tow truck. I was ready for this.”

RG looked pretty confused by that point. I’m sure he was bewildered by the gringo who had an aversion to looking at a business card. Probably figured it was some odd phobia exclusive to middle-aged white guys.

Yes, RG. You were ready for this. And now I’m ready to crawl under a rock.

I already forget a lot of shit, or just don’t pay attention. It can only get worse.

There was plenty of time to reflect on my forgetfulness after I spotted an unread newspaper while on my way to work a few days ago. I assume the paper was unread because it was still rolled up snugly in its protective condom.

The sheathed newspaper was traveling westbound through Orlando on I-4 around Princeton Street when I made visual contact. It was hurtling toward its destination — on the trunk lid of a Toyota Corolla. This was a great discovery because it gave me a lot to think about during my 50-minute commute:

• Did the driver pick up the newspaper off her driveway and set it down on the trunk lid while loading the car or running back inside for something?
• If so, what did she go back inside for? Possibly her lunch, or the book of crossword puzzles she works during her break at the insurance company.
• Maybe the paper carrier accidently deposited that day’s collection of dated news and 12-hour-old scores in the front yard instead of the driveway. And then a kind neighbor walking his golden retriever deftly sidestepped the sprinkler to snatch the newspaper from the wet grass. The back of the car probably seemed like a sensible place to put the paper.

My speculation ended abruptly when I connected the dots and started thinking about how many times I’ve forgotten about something on the outside of a vehicle after setting it down for just a sec:

A Coke in a to-go cup. Pretty common, I suppose. So I know I’m not alone with this one. I remembered it as soon as I heard something sliding across the roof. That was right before I glanced in the mirror and watched 16-ounces of ice, high-fructose corn syrup and caramel color spread across the rear window, followed by a cartwheeling cup.

Packet of papers from the Orlando Science Center. It was a few years ago in January. I know it was January because that’s when we always renew our family membership. Among other things, the envelope contained four guest passes for friends and some IMAX CineDome passes. The envelope lifted off like a kite when I pulled out of the parking garage and onto … oddly enough … Princeton Street.

Garmin handheld GPS. We were on our way to a cabin in North Carolina for a week of hiking and canoeing, and I was excited about heading into the great outdoors with my first GPS. Everyone and everything was loaded in the van. I put the GPS on the roof next to the luggage rack while I stood outside the cockpit and checked my pockets to make sure I had my wallet, keys, phone and sunglasses. Satisfied that I was good to go, I climbed in and took off.

I planned on stopping two minutes from home at CVS for an extra pack of AA batteries. Halfway there I had a really bad feeling about my new toy that had been delivered by the UPS man less than 24 hours earlier. I patted my front pockets to see if the GPS was there. Then I checked the console and drink holders. Damn!

I pulled into CVS and decided to go through the motions of buying the batteries. Although it would be a moot point if the Garmin was already roadkill. As I stepped out of the van, I reached up to the luggage rack — and there was the GPS. My lucky day.

Samsung Blackjack. This is the one my kids still give me a hard time about. We were on our way somewhere. Probably the science center. I pulled out of our neighborhood and got up to about 35 mph when I heard an odd scraping sound on the roof. Once again, the mirror gave me a great view of the carnage as my phone launched off the back of the car.

I watched it bounce down the turn lane. The battery cover went one way, the battery dislodged and went the opposite direction, and the phone itself skidded to a stop 20 or 30 feet away. Much to my surprise, the phone actually worked after I collected and reassembled the pieces. Props to Samsung for making a tough device. The phone’s performance sucked — but it sure could take a hit.

I’m pretty sure this list should be longer. But I’ve forgotten about the other incidents.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the bugs. Or the frustration of never striking it rich in the Lotto. But some people don’t take constructive criticism very well when they’re behind the wheel. And sometimes they respond by taking target practice on the rear window of the constructive criticizer.

I think I met him once before. Probably a year ago, because the Lutheran church near my house has their big rummage sale at this same time every year.

My youngest son is quite fond of garage sales, rummage sales, yard sales, thrift stores and anywhere else he can get a bargain. He’s a budding little entrepreneur — often thinking ahead to how he can flip an item on eBay, Craig’s List or at his own garage sale. It’s funny to see a 9-year-old meet the gaze of someone 40 years his senior and say, “Can ya do any better?”

Yesterday my wife took him to Day One of the annual sale at the church Bill attends. Among other things, Son No. 3 came home with a set of computer speakers. This brings his stable of computer speakers to around six sets.

A kid can never have enough sound reinforcement.

Turned out one of the speakers was missing its little plastic base. So this morning, I took No. 3 to the sale as soon as it opened at 7 a.m. He wanted to get there and search for the AWOL speaker base before the Electronics Department became overly rummaged.

No luck.

That’s when Bill sidled up and asked in a working-class British accent if we found what we were looking for.

Actually, I can’t say for certain that his accent is “working class.”  But I’m going with it. Partly because he just didn’t strike me as a guy who spent his working life behind a desk.

We explained the situation and showed Bill the speaker stand we brought with us from home, thinking maybe he’d seen its mate. Bill said, “Would you like me to make one for you?”

Really?

“Well I’m quite a carver of wood,” Bill said. “It’s something to keep me busy in retirement. I make all the crosses around here. I could carve a stand to match this one. It’ll be wood instead of plastic. But it will work.”

No. 3 eagerly accepted the offer. At least he was as eager as any 9-year-old will be when forced to speak with a grandfatherly stranger who talks funny. Bill told us to stop by in a couple weeks. He’ll leave the finished piece and the original plastic stand with the church secretary.

I’m not sure how much cross-making is required at a small church. Bill implied that most of the crosses he makes are small ones worn around the neck — not the life-size, behind-the-pulpit type. So something tells me he has a few openings on his shop calendar.

Sure No. 3 looks forward to having (almost) matching speaker stands. But I have a feeling that in the end, Bill gets as much out of this deal as my son.