Ella shows off her Tiger Rag commemorating Clemson’s 2016 National Championship. The Tiger Rags were handed out to all fans in attendance of the 2017 home opener vs. Kent State, when the Tigers celebrated the national title.
Three years ago today (Sept. 2, 2020 since this post will go up after midnight), I took Dylan and Ella, along with my nephew Brayson, to the season-opening Clemson football game against Kent State in Death Valley.
For Ella, it was her first Clemson game. And she ate it up.
The Tigers won 56-3 that day over the Golden Flashes. Since Dylan has been the focus of a lot of the photos I’ve put out there, this is Ella’s turn to shine.
Left to right, Brayson, Ella and Dylan pose at the top of the hill in Death Valley late in the 4th quarter against Kent State.
Ella gives the Tiger Cub a high five.
A good photo of Ella and Dylan, though I feel like something is missing. (Note my Deshaun Watson G.O.A.T shirt.)
It took a lot of work to get Ella to pose with this Clemson cheerleader on the field after the game. She is beautiful. The cheerleader’s not bad, either, I guess. If you’re into that.
Ella was much more thrilled to be posing with a member of the Rally Cats, or as Ella called them, the sparkly cheerleaders.
Clemson backup quarterback Zerrick Cooper pauses for a photo while signing autographs for the kids on the field after the game.
The Tiger Band throws shade at Ohio State during the halftime show by spelling out the score of Clemson’s 2016 playoff win over the Buckeyes, who have never beaten the Tigers.
Tiger Band gives the Clemson head coach some love.
“It’s Not Dark Yet, but it’s getting there.” — Bob Dylan
My friend Sandy posted something on her blog, Frazzled Daisy, about losing power for a few hours last night thanks to remnants of Hurricane Laura.
Her post brought back memories of when the power would go out when I was a kid, either because of thunderstorms, tornadoes, hurricanes or ice storms, and the things my family and I would do to pass the time without electricity.
It also inspired me to pick out a dozen of my favorite songs about the dark, or at least that incorporate “dark” or “darkness” in the title. I’ve listed them in reverse from No. 12 to No. 1.
I’m sure I’ve failed to list some that others would include, but these are those that meant the most to me.
Enjoy. Or don’t. Either way, if you got this far, thanks for reading.
12. Whistling In The Dark, They Might Be Giants
This is a strange little tune – aren’t they all – off the band’s 1990 seminal release, Flood. Whistling in the dark is an oft-used phrase that holds numerous meanings, usually in reference to oxymorons or paradoxes. To speak knowingly of something despite possessing little actual knowledge about the subject. Or scraping up the courage to deal with a frightening, life-threatening or life-altering situation.
11. Promises In The Dark, Pat Benatar
The first lady of 1980s rock wrote this song with her guitarist and future husband Neil Giraldo. The subject matter is the scars from prior relationships and how they affect lovers’ current relationship.
“Just when you think you got it down, … Your heart securely tied and bound, … They whisper, promises in the dark.”
10. The Dark Side Of The Street, The Flying Burrito Brothers
A popular non-single off the trio’s No. 2 album CSN from 1977. Stephen Stills wrote and sings lead on this tune, which like many of his at the time dealt with his marital issues.
8. On The Dark Side, John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band
This Springsteen-esque tune actually predated Born In The USA as it was released along with the movie “Eddie And The Cruisers” in 1983. Cafferty and crew were originally credited on the soundtrack as Eddie And The Cruisers. The move was a dud, staying in theaters for a whopping three weeks. And the song didn’t do much better, reaching No. 64 on Billboard Hot 100 chart. But when the move was re-released to video, the song shot to No. 7 on the Hot 100 and No. 1 on the Rock Tracks chart. And it’s been repeatedly made famous at venues like Crybabies and The Fillin’ Station when my buddy Ken Szarek belts it out on karaoke night.
7. Shot In The Dark, Ozzy Osbourne
Written by Ozzy and bass player Phil Soussan, the song off 1986’s The Ultimate Sin album was one of Osbourne’s biggest chart hits. Soussan originally wrote the song with references to the 1964 Pink Panther film A Shot In The Dark. Ozzy reportedly changed the lyrics to make the song more night stalker-esque.
“I’d rather be in some dark hollow, where the sun don’t ever shine, … Than to be in some big city, in a small room with you on my mind.”
4. Fishin’ In The Dark, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Written by Wendy Waldman and Jim Photoglo, this 1987 ditty was The Dirt Band’s third No. 1 song, and the single has since gone platinum. I always found it interesting … many of the girls I knew in college of the sorority persuasion would talk of how they abhorred country music. Until you played this song. And then it was like someone screamed, “Hey white girls, let’s sing “Grease” songs at karaoke.” On another note, this is what Wikipedia has to say about the song’s content: “The premise of the song is a couple contemplating a late-night fishing expedition. Specifically, the adventurers plan to make their way to an undisclosed river and chart constellations during an evening in which a full moon is present. Furthermore, the tentative date for this excursion is set in the late spring to early summer.” Come on. We all know this song has nothing to do with fishing.
3. Darkness On The Edge Of Town, Bruce Springsteen
The title track from Springsteen’s fourth studio album, this 1978 song is emblematic of The Boss’ moving away from the romantic and youthful lyrics about escaping with girls in cars and toward the adult world where his song’s characters make a decision to stand their ground and fight for whatever it is they desire. And the consequences of winning and losing those fights. And it’s easily one of my top 10 favorite Springsteen songs.
“Well now some folks are born into a good life, and other folks get it anyway, anyhow, …
Well now I lost my money and I lost my wife, them things don’t seem to matter much to me now.
Tonight I’ll be on that hill ’cause I can’t stop! …
I’ll be on that hill with everything I got! …
With lives on the line where dreams are found and lost, I’ll be there on time and I’ll pay the cost, …
For wanting things that can only be found …
In the darkness on the edge of town.
In the darkness on the edge of town.”
2. Not Dark Yet, Bob Dylan
You knew there would be a Dylan song on here somewhere. A song on 1997’s masterpiece Time Out Of Mind, which won three Grammys, it was the album’s first single. I’ve read some things saying his writing on this song was inspired by Keats. Who knows? I don’t care. I care more that this was one of the three dozen or so songs featured over the closing credits on the three seasons of HBO’s Deadwood, a favorite of mine. It appears in Season 2, Episode 1, if you care about such things. It’s also mentioned in the movie High Fidelity, also a must-see. This is just a damn good song.
“She wrote me a letter, and she wrote it so kind. She put down in writing what was on her mind. I just don’t see why I even care. It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting’ there.”
1. Dancing In The Dark, Bruce Springsteen
If you know me, you had to know this would be No. 1. There are better songs on this list. But this one holds the most meaning. Written by Springsteen as an afterthought in a couple of hours, it was the biggest hit on the album that changed my musical world. And it was literally playing on the anesthesiologist’s radio when my son Dylan came into this world. It’s an upbeat pop song on an album full of songs that are depressing. But like the title track Born In The USA, the up tempo and passionate delivery belie the song’s true meaning. It’s an incredibly sad song. In Mary Chapin Carpenter’s cover version of this song, a 1990s live B-side, she introduces the song as a “bummer sad song by someone else.” (On a side note, find this version and listen!) Unfortunately, the emotions in this song are emotions with which I’m familiar.
“You can’t start a fire sitting around crying over your broken heart. Well, this gun’s for hire, even if we’re dancing in the dark.”
Two years ago last night, I, along with my kids, spent the night in my new-to-me house for the first time.
That, in and of itself, was quite an accomplishment. It was already almost two months after we closed, which was also delayed. Both bathrooms were torn out at the time of closing. Finally, by Aug, 24, there was one functioning, finished bathroom.
The delay in being able to move into the house played a part in the decision not to file for custody of Dylan and Ella. That was a tough decision then and I still go back and forth about what was the best thing to do.’ (I’ve since filed for custody.)
I had closed early in July. I had hoped Linda and I might “rough it” in the house on the first night. But circumstance had other ideas, and I didn’t see her until after midnight in what would be a pretty crappy week before a really crappy week, which I now know was even crappier than I was aware at the time.
Despite the circumstances at the time, I was hopeful. I finally felt like I was going in the right direction and there were good things ahead. I was in love, I was hopeful, I was optimistic. And a couple months later it all came crashing down.
And I tried hard to save it and thought we had, for a while at least. But a couple of bone-headed weeks for me were the last straws for Linda another couple months later and that was it. Though, to be fair, I believe now it simply wouldn’t have mattered. I think she intended to do what she did for a while and I just served it up for her.
And I’ve been in a hole ever since.
I’m well. My kids are well, happy and thriving, actually. I’ve taken a second job editing a weekly newspaper and I love it despite the stress.
But if I told you I was doing more than surviving, … getting by, … I’d be lying.
I penned a Facebook message two years ago tonight (Aug. 25, 2018) thanking my dad and Linda and friends who had helped me get to where I was after the hole I was in a couple years before.
You can’t tell the people you care about that you love them too often. You should do it at every opportunity. You never know when you won’t get another chance.
I must have read that note 15 times today. But I couldn’t share it. Though I still mean every word in that note, I can’t put it out there.
Looking back at that day and that note, it’s hard not to be disappointed at how things turned out. And I haven’t been able to just get over it.
I know all of this sounds cryptic. But I just needed to get it out. It’s for me, not you.
Despite the disappointment and all the other emotions I’m dealing with on a daily basis, I want to repeat the sentiment of what I wrote that day.
I want to thank my father, William McCombs, without whom I would be lost. Without fail, he has always been there for me. Everything I know about being a man, I learned from him.
Despite how things went and where they are now, I am grateful to Linda. More than I can express.
And I’m grateful to Dawn and Bryan and Ken and Fran and Erin and even Mike, though I’d be lying if I said that relationship wasn’t strained, as well.
At some point, I’ll get out of the hole. It’ll happen. I know it will. But until then, I’ll be here at the house, getting by.
A week or so ago, after picking my kids up for the weekend on Friday evening in Columbia, we stopped for dinner at Lizard’s Thicket near the airport.
For the unfamiliar, Lizard’s Thicket is a small chain of meat-and-three style restaurants in the Columbia area. Like Cracker Barrel, Dylan and Ella are fond of their food.
As we entered, I noticed and elderly man and his wife – I assumed – sitting opposite one another in a booth near the front of the restaurant. There was a walker stationed at the end of the table, and the woman looked quite frail, leading me to believe it was her walker rather than his.
I took notice because he looked tired, like a caregiver. I recognize this from watching my father descend over the years as he cared for my mother. By the time my mother passed in 2012, my father was a shell of the man I knew growing up. He had aged 50 years in 15.
Though he tried, the smile wasn’t the same. He dealt with blood pressure issues and depression, and my mother’s situation, and stubborn streak born out of fear, contributed to the accelerated demise of my father’s professional and military careers.
But he soldiered on. I heard my grandmother tell my mother once that she was lucky. Most men would have left and my father did not.
Statistically speaking, she was right. Noted and bloated TV psychologist/talking head Dr. Phil says 100 percent of relationships where one partner is a caregiver end in failure. I don’t think that’s 100 percent accurate, but I’ve no doubt it’s close.
As I watched my father, the best man I’ve ever known, struggle, I was not much help. I just hoped the strain and stress wouldn’t win. Once when my mother was being particularly difficult about something, I told her that if she killed him before she lost her battle to the myriad illnesses that were slowly taking her, I would never forgive her.
I haven’t endured what my father did, but my divorce several years ago and, more recently, the end of a serious relationship have hit me hard. I deal with anxiety, struggle to sleep, and quite frankly, I’m admittedly depressed.
Almost seven years ago, a freak occurrence – my mother banged her leg on the pole under a table at a restaurant – led to a heart attack and, eventually, my mother’s passing.
In the seven years since, my father is again the man I knew when I – and he – was younger. He smiles more, talks more, and his wonderful, dry, sometimes dark sense of humor is back. Despite a knee replacement several years ago, he is more active than he was 10 years ago.
He was lucky. My sister and I are lucky. If my mother had lived another 5 years, there is no doubt in my mind that my father would not have. I’m not sure if that would make him among Dr. Phil’s 100 percent or not.
Back to the couple at the Lizard’s Thicket. Though their interactions went unnoticed to my kids, I watched. I do this often in public.
The woman was lost. She could barely feed herself and appeared on the verge of tears the entire meal.
He did things for her. But he was not kind. It troubled him. It was like he had somewhere else to be, something else to do and she was keeping him from it. He was annoyed. He once yelled at her that the potatoes were not hot.
Then, when it came time to leave, he stood and waited for her to get up, while holding her walker at the ready. When it took more time than he anticipated, he banged her walker on the floor repeatedly in frustration.
I wanted to cry.
As bad as a look as it was for him, I don’t blame him. I don’t know that he’s a bad person. It’s quite possible that he’s just tired. Beyond all human limits. He’s at his end, and the fact that’s he’s still going is in itself an accomplishment.
That didn’t make it better for her. You could tell she was struggling emotionally, not just physically. She just couldn’t “do” anymore. And like most people in this country, they likely don’t have the means to make things any better for themselves, to get care for her above what he can provide himself.
All of this makes me even more grateful for my father. I’ve never told him that enough.
He never bailed on my mother, though at this point in my life, I can’t say I would blame him if he had. He could have tried to make his life better. He instead tried to make my mother’s better. And is still trying to do the same for my sister and me.
If I live to be half the man my father has been, it will be an accomplishment.
While procrastinating late Monday night, as I so often do when I have a viable writing topic, I found myself listening to music.
It’s not an uncommon activity in my life. A large percentage of my disposable income (and a lot that should have never been disposable) has been spent on music, not to mention my time, both disposable and indisposable, as well. Concerts, records, tapes, CDs, road trips.
But I’ll admit that over the last few years of my marriage, which LEGALLY ended in 2016, aside from time spent in the car, music had all but disappeared from my life. And maybe that should have been a sign. But that’s another story for another day.
Anyway, as I said, I was listening to music, something I do again, typically late at night. A strange mix … Dierks Bentley, the Cowboy Junkies, Henry Mancini, Metallica and Dave Brubeck. (I’ll admit, there was 10 minutes of George Carlin mixed in there, as well.)
I was listening to this strange mix as I put off writing something more substantial than my Facebook post from earlier Monday evening about former two-time National League Most Valuable Player and longtime Atlanta Braves standout Dale Murphy. Ironically, I’m still going to write that post, but it’ll be another day now, at least.
So, of course I was going to write about that. Being a former journalist — being a former journalist is like being a former Marine … there’s no such thing — the story presents some interesting and frustrating dilemmas during a time when the press is badly needed, as well as badly maligned.
Someone I know from high school, a lifetime ago, had shared the latest installment of National Public Radio’s Tiny Desk Concert. Featured for June 25, 2018 was Rakim, initially, at least, of Eric B. & Rakim fame.
I’ll admit it. Aside from straight up classical music, the least represented major genre in my music collection is rap. Or hip-hop, if you will. Old school Run D.M.C., some Sir Mix-A-Lot, Eminem, Kendrick Lamar … but not much else. A lot of it doesn’t interest me. A lot of it I respect but simply don’t enjoy.
I have read a lot about Rakim. But I haven’t listened a lot to Rakim.
But I did Monday night.
And I was treated to 9 minutes and 37 seconds of brilliance that maybe I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for 30 years ago, when Eric B. and Rakim were on top of their game. Kind of the same way I have a different appreciation for jazz now than I did as a young man.
And in a lot of ways, comparatively, Rakim’s style is jazz, at least vocally. His lyrics and voice are his instrument, and while aggressive, he is not necessarily loud and not in a hurry. Much as Willie Nelson brought jazz phrasing and guitar to his otherwise solid country gold lyrics, Rakim in some ways does the same thing.
It’s evident with the live band, rather than a DJ, backing him in the small NPR studio. The musicians are tight and work infectious grooves through three songs, allowing Rakim’s lyrics to shine as his instrument.
I was impressed. I had a moment, really. Usually, though, it’s when I hear something new that blows me away. I am admittedly not used to, at this point in my life, hearing songs more than two decades old, performed by the original artists, that pique my interest so completely.
My son, Dylan, possibly in the wrong place at the wrong time, can attest. He walked in the room in a moment of boredom after his computer crashed, expecting to wander in and wander out.
Instead he was detained by me and forced to surrender 9:37 of his evening, too, to sit and watch this Tiny Desk Concert. Not surprisingly, to me, he found himself, like I did, enjoying the video, foot tapping and hands popping.
The final two songs of Rakim’s three-song set, were “Paid In Full” and “Know The Ledge,” … classics and songs I will now seek out. But they followed “King’s Paradise,” a song released a few days ago and featured in Season 2 of Marvel’s Luke Cage on Netflix.
“King’s Paradise” is Rakim’s first new release in a decade. Suddenly, seemingly, I’m hoping it’s not his last.
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