Oct 1

Oct 1 Time Trippin'

Architecture, Cityscapes, Public Declarations, Street Musician, Travel

“Sometimes the light’s all shinin’ on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it’s been”

— Truckin', Grateful Dead, from American Beauty (1970)

Bob Weir was 29 years old when those words first sounded, as a phono cartridge passed over the vinyl platter’s grooves. Captain Trips was 28. Both were slightly older than the college kids who adopted the last line as an anthem. But think about it. The Grateful Dead had been a working band for only five years in 1970. The trip may have been strange, but ‘long?’

Maybe. Time is an artificial concept, as Plotinus and Boethius suggested long ago. So to a college student, or a 28-year old who pursued no post-baccalaureate degrees, five years may be perceived as an eternity. But for those of us on the other side of life’s warped curve, five years is a mere drop in the bucket. Five years, roughly 23% of a 22-year-old college graduate’s then lifespan; only 7% of a 68-year old’s. One thing is for sure: Every 68-year-old has earned the right to proclaim, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.” Births of children, deaths of parents, unexpected deaths of friends and colleagues, career setbacks and advances, new-found interests and discarded ones, travels to unimagined destinations, societal advancements and steps backward. For everyone, life unravels in ways that could never be imagined while living in the freshman dorms.

And so this past weekend, I did some time trippin’, heading back to Madison for a cousin’s wedding. A marriage between two women—a union that was unthinkable when I started college 50 years ago this fall, but now just another happy occasion—thanks for including me! And not such a big change. The guy who ran one of the State Street record stores that I frequented during my college years was assumed to be gay, as were one or two staff members. But since we all shared a common interest, nobody made a big deal about it.

Madison fits that paradigm—change, but constant. Outwardly, there are noticeable differences, but not really. Like many cities, Madison has a visible homeless population living on the street, but in 1973, or whenever I first noticed him, there was only Bobby, who purportedly lived in the steam tunnels running beneath Bascom Hill. There was also “Napalm Man”— rumor had it that he had been disfigured in Vietnam—who roamed aimlessly in the area between Memorial Library and the foot of Bascom Hill.

State Street remains a street with retail establishments and restaurants catering to college students. Yes, there now is a Target, but Ragstock is still selling vintage clothing. Spuds, the donut shop, is gone, as are the Pub and Ella’s Delicatessen—although there appears to be an Ella’s off campus.

The State Street Wendy’s is gone. If I correctly recall the storefront, Wendy’s has been replaced by a Starbucks—seems like an even trade. Rickety old houses with large wood porches suitable for a beer keg still populate the side streets off State Street, but are now joined by some steel and glass structures.

The Plaza Tavern & Grill endures just off State Street at 319 North Henry Street. I was a never a fan of the Plaza Burger, but I couldn’t resist poking my head into the bar where I first had a Gin & Tonic. Based on the layout, I suspect that the establishment expanded to the north, but pinball machines still line the wall adjacent to the entranceway. My favorite machine, Gold Rush, has been replaced by the Avengers.

I was disappointed to see the original Rocky Rocco site occupied by an establishment serving Hunan Chinese cuisine. I also noticed that no one was wearing Madtown T-shirts, which is progress. Speaking of pizza, I didn’t see the Pizza Pit, where I used to buy what I thought was a mean pie. I did notice large wood-burning pizza ovens in Memorial Union, with the glowing flames illuminating the pizzas cooking inside.

Walking around campus, I missed all those film-society posters advertising weekend showings in the Econ building’s large lecture hall, where friends of mine who ran one society once decided to cash in on the annual Wisconsin Bankers’ convention by showing Deep Throat — perhaps they were attracted by the echos of lectures on macro and micro economics. When Professor Donald Hester gave his Money and Banking final exam in that hall, someone pulled the fire alarm shortly before the appointed start time.

As I recall, that Deep Throat showing was necessitated because the society had brought Noel Neill to a theater on State Street to speak about her career as Lois Lane in the Adventures of Superman series. Virtually no one showed up, so someone needed to raise some money.

After her lecture, I had a drink with Neill and several others at Paul’s Bar—you remember, the one with a large tree in the middle of the room. I am happy to say that Paul’s endures, albeit with an updated storefront. Looking through the window, I couldn’t tell whether the tree has survived, but the sign outside implies that it is still growing. Not unthinkable, particularly because Neill made it to 95, dying in 2016. Trees usually outlast people.

Virtually nothing has changed on Langdon Street, or more appropriately, Frat Row. The houses are as rundown as ever—not all that surprising given that an additional 50 years has passed since I went to a fraternity rush party. Not my thing: I lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

Today many of the frat houses sported beer cans and mattresses lying on a porch, in an adjacent alley, or on the lawn. At one, a few frat brothers could be seen reluctantly greeting the day, probably after a late night.

The big surprise was the Edgewater Hotel at the far end of Langdon Street. Something looked different. It was no longer a low-rise structure. Turns out most of the hotel migrated to a structure that was built to the east of the original, opening in 2014. To the architect’s credit, he stylistically paid homage to the original buiding, which still stands.

Aside from the Law School, Bascom Hill is largely unchanged. As for the Law School, the open space that separated the original building from a then-newer faculty building, is now enclosed in a structure resembling an airport terminal building. Not an improvement, which can also can be said of a metal-clad building on Langdon Street that houses the campus Hillel, credited to the Barbara Hochberg Center for Jewish Student Life. I am partial to the original building because that was where I was unceremoniously bar mitzvahed when the Lubavtichers found out that I was not legally a man — turns out my status meant that I did not count in the minyan necessary for the Saturday morning services I had been roped into. I had been doing someone a favor—not otherwise my jam.

Today was probably the most beautiful day of the year, so I headed to the Memorial Union. I am always a little suspicious about that place. Yes, there were students enjoying themselves on the terrace for what is probably the last chance they will have until next spring. But I always notice all the old people who are time trippin’ while sitting in the signature green, red, and yellow metal chairs. Are they faculty or alumni? I suspect the latter.

Large portions of the union have undergone modernization, but the Rathskeller has undergone no changes. Nor has the modern dining room (probably dating to the late Fifties or mid-Sixties), where I regularly ate breakfast and dinner for six years. I forgot to check whether they were still serving a concoction known as fudge-bottom pie, which I dutifully ate every night during the fall semester sophomore year. When I returned for the spring semester, I gagged on that stuff the first time I put the fork in my mouth. Never ate it again.

The outdoor dining facilitates are now much more elaborate than they were back in the Seventies. One end features a bratwurst grilling area that also offers a variety of beers. Yes, bratwurst still reigns in Madison. The Brat House is gone in name only, reborn as Brats on State. All I know is that one night after studying for an exam, I stopped in for a brat. Two hours later I was in University Hospital vomiting into a toilet, as a nurse stood over me, saying “You must feel a whole lot better after that. On your way home, buy a six-pack of Seven-up, and drink all of it.” I was up all night, aced the mid-term the next day on zero sleep, but I did feel a lot better. Suspected food poisoning.

And so it goes. The memories, mostly good, came flooding back. I smoked dope here; I first talked with my good friend Peter Greeley at this spot in the pouring rain on Langdon Street until I invited him in after we were totally drenched; a group of us sang jug band songs (as in the Lovin’ Spoonful) in a parking lot that has since been paved over so that an alumni wall and fountain could be erected.

I was a bit surprised by all the activity anticipating next weekend’s homecoming game. I don’t recall anyone painting the windows in the Memorial Union, or covering sidewalks with slogans in colored chalk. To put it bluntly, nobody gave a shit about homecoming, except for the unsanctioned bonfires on State Street, with drunk students shimmying up the lamp posts as the crowd below shook the posts hoping the revelers would fall to the ground.

And with those memories, I couldn’t help but think about being on the other end of the arc. I have no complaints. It was on a high school visit to Madison when I first truly discovered Bob Dylan. I went into Lake Street Station, a record store originally located in a wood house on Lake Street. A modern brick building with a dentist’s office and a CBD store now stands on the site, with Peter Tosh’s Legalize It blaring from speakers.

In that wood house, I bought my first bootleg—the so-called Royal Albert Hall recording from Dylan’s 1966 tour, which was actually a concert recorded at the Manchester Free Trade Hall. It is still probably the greatest performance ever recorded. Anyone who doubts that should compare the live version of Leopard Skin-Pill Box Hat with the studio one released on Blonde on Blonde. Just one spin of the album explains why the late Robbie Robertson is said to have played geometric guitar lines.

As for Dylan, he has given us much advice about life, but probably the best advise is embedded in the line, “He not busy being born, is busy dying.” Good advice for a 22-year old. Even better advice for a 68-year old. Got to keep bending and extending life’s arc.

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