A Pirate, A Puppet, A Poet, A Pauper, A Pawn And A King ~~~~ Music has been the primary discipline in my life; the catalyst behind whatever it is that I have become. I’ve been a melodious pirate as I energetically negotiated my trumpet through an exciting, but expositive arrangement of “Can’t Buy Me Love” with Ella Fitzgerald on the Ed Sullivan Show. (A “live microphone” into the living rooms of over a hundred million households was both exhilarating and intimidating to a twenty year old.) I’ve been a rhythmic puppet, when I steeled myself to the jeering of a knowing and offended audience at The London Palladium, when the valve on my trumpet experienced its own grand mal seizure during a now infamous opening trumpet cadenza for The Stylistics on “I Can’t Give You Anything.” (And I sure couldn’t!) I’ve been a harmonic poet when I waxed eloquently as a playful gust of wind carried my music aloft during a symphonic concert on The Esplanade, in Boston. I covered brilliantly with a few “ad libs” from page two of the Hot Licks For Dummies book. What a shame we were performing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2. The look on the “myasstro’s” face was priceless! I’ve been a humbled pauper when I arrived in the United Kingdom as a “child of the universe” (straight from Woodstock) without a plan and five hundred dollars to my name. But, I had a trumpet! And I had my love to keep me warm! And the timbre of my tenacity prevailed as I penetrated the depths of parliamentary etiquette in order to avoid the humiliation of deportation. A mere ocean hadn’t posed an obstacle, keeping me from the woman I intended to marry, and so I wasn’t about to let a few international treaties get in my way. I approached a member of the British Parliament who had influence, and whose name was Dennis Dover. He answered to the name “Den”. “DEN!” Unfortunately, I heard, “Ben!” “BEN!”… and I addressed my letter to him c/o Parliament: “Mr. Ben Dover, MP. House of Parliament, Westminster, London.” And so… three huge gentlemen from Scotland Yard arrived with little ceremony, and an overwhelming abundance of intimidation to “escort me” to the airport. There followed much posturing, and groveling and they agreed to allow me to remain in the country through the weekend provided that by Monday morning I held a certificate of marriage to a loyal British subject in my most unworthy hands. Irene and I were married the very next day. The magistrate who married us was a Benny Goodman fan, and so my father’s notoriety from that infamous trumpet section carried the day for us. Forty three years hence, I’ve been a reluctant pawn in the chess-like maneuvers of some extremely enigmatic socio-economic and judicial dynamics (whew, again!) when I sought to cash in on my currency, only to find myself in My Current Sea. King Is Best!