For Thursday, September 3, 1998 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 707 words

Transformations

Things I didn't do on my summer vacation.

Beginning this essay makes me think of Woody Allen. I remember when he started out in film making. All his movies were cornball funny. He was a zany guy making films like Bananas, Sleeper, EYAWTKASBWATA, Annie Hall, and so on. A Woody Allen film meant zany comedy.

Then he shifted. He became dramatic and introspective. Remember Interiors? It was good, but gloomy. I was disappointed. I wanted the old Woody back. I wanted another knee-slapper.

Then Bob Dylan changed. Kurt Vonnegut changed. Countless favorites of mine changed. Steven Speilberg, reliable maker of adventure and sci-fi fantasies like Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T., and three episodes of Indiana Jones, changed. His recent films -- Shindler's List, Amistad, Saving Private Ryan -- have definitely put him into a new category, a new artistic phase of life.

It took me a long time to stop following the stories and start following the story tellers. I found myself melancholy, nostalgic whenever entertainers changed their style. Slowly, I learned to be more tolerant of transformations.

I didn't do any backpacking this summer. I didn't even camp out. I haven't been to any of my old haunts -- South Fork of the Yuba, Crystal Basin and Uncle Tom's Cabin, Yosemite, Big Sur. I didn't even go on the school's spring backpacking trip.

My tent hasn't been unfolded in almost a year.

Susan and I haven't taken any mystery road trips. We drove to Tahoe and Reno a couple of times, but that was all in the cards. In the past we've found ourselves as far away as Orick and Los Angeles on our random summer morning cruises.

We haven't been to the UC Theater, Telegraph Avenue, Tilden Park, Fenton's Ice Cream, Flint's Barbecue, Hamburger Mary's, the Curran Theater, or the Beach Chalet in years.

Yet, we're still active. It's just that we've developed new haunts and habits. Why wasn't I backpacking with my students last spring? It was because I took my wife to Mexico. I'd never been to Mexico.

School started. Some of my students have been grumbling. "Where is the old Mr. Gibbs?" they ask. They want me to take them hiking, camping, fishing. They are melancholy, nostalgic when I tell them how long it's been since I've run into the woods. They shake their heads.

Then I started looking back over my columns since the early '80s. I wrote some pretty weird stuff back then. Remember the Magic Key stories that floated unanchored through 700 words like so many balloons in a storm? Remember the Zenbo stories? I just haven't had the desire to go there in a long time. I seem to have shifted more toward realism and personal experience, abandoning my flights of fancy. Though, I still like a good Möbius-strip fiction every now and then.

Sometimes when I'm at a loss for a topic, like now, I briefly consider tapping out an old-fashioned loop-de-loop. But it seldom comes off. Been there, done that.

The oddest thing happened the other day. I got email from Phil Anstrom, an old Pennsylvania high school buddy who moved to Austin, Texas, and became an English and Yearbook teacher. We've met a few times at class reunions, but not much in the last 27 years. I have always thought it was groovy that we both became teachers.

Well, Phil also plays guitar on the side and his email said this: "Steve, I'll be in California visiting Paula, a musician friend who runs the Baltic Restaurant in Point Richmond. She's booked to perform at the Union Hotel in Benicia. I'll be accompanying her."

Amazing. Simply amazing. My childhood buddy Phil from across the USA was flying in to jam at the Union Hotel. What are the odds?

While eating dinner at Robert's China Garden I asked Phil how teaching was treating him. He said, "I quit. I've joined a successful band and we're booked to play the Bahamas."

I took pause. My old pal who had chosen a career similar to mine was moving on. He was turning in his red pen. I felt melancholy, nostalgic. Then I slapped myself three times and bought him a beer. "You go, Phil. Go get 'em."