The Trial: Day One Part One

My journal from 1993, continued...

February 2, 1993

Wait. Wait. Wait. Woke up this morning at 7:30 to be there in time for the (supposed) 10AM start. Got there by 9:30 or so and waited until 11:00, bullshitting with the other jurors. Skip (#4) and Jim (#2) and Rudy (#6) and I (#5) talked about every small subject imaginable. What the hell will we be able to dig up for conversation if this trial goes on for 2-3 months? The possibilities boggle the mind. We finally filed down to the courtroom, somewhat edgy and giddy. After being seated, the judge spoke to us again about appreciating our service, and instructed the clerk to read the statement of charges. I listened to them with a new intensity, placing each incident within a time frame in '89. It still amazes me how many charges we will have to rule on.

The prosecutor began his opening statement. We were brought up to speed on the entire case against (Charles Arnett) Stevens and (Richard) Clark. It started with the two of them getting together in high school as friends. After that time Clark joined the Army Reserve and Stevens worked at a pawn shop. The DA contends that Clark and Stevens met up around early '89, and that the two of them exchanged knowledge. Clark about effective killing methods and Stevens the sophisticated weapon, namely an Israeli-made handgun called the Desert Eagle. (I was right in my recollection of the weapon).

Clark and Stevens then supposedly went to an apartment complex on Chetwood, in Oakland, and by some means lured a young woman to the vehicle they were in, where Clark used three rounds fired from the passenger side toward teh driver side to mortally wound her. ((Leslie) Noyer is her name). He then allegedly gets out of the car and stands over her, bringing the weapon to within 18 inches of her head, and administers two shots as the coup de gras.

The DA shows us the horrible photo of her body, the skull cap blown ten feet from her body by the force of the last two shots. The photo doesn't affect me too terribly, what with my experiences seeing things like that (and worse) through the various photo labs I've worked in. It does visibly shake some of the jury members, and one or two people get up from the gallery and leave, probably to get some air. He shows us the weapon, the shell casings found at the various scenes, slugs taken from the bodies of the victims, and attempts to tie them all to Stevens. He shows us maps of the Oakland area, with red dots for murders and blue dots for attempted murders. He relates the circumstances of the shootings:

Two women returning home after a party, driving on an Oakland street. Their car is riddled with bullets. Neither is seriously injured. The casings matching the "tool marks" of a Desert Eagle are found at the scene. The area of the gunman is shown in its proximity to Stevens' home: down a driveway, across a church parking lot, over a fence from the apartment of Stevens. Noyer was killed just blocks away from the same point. The DA tries to show the ease of escape for Stevens from both points.

Then we hear about (Lori) Rochon. She was the first actual killing on (Interstate) 580. A single round was fired into her from (her) passenger side, mortally wounding her. She was able to stop the car without crashing, but died of the wound shortly thereafter. I then remembered hearing about that the morning it happened, knew that she was driving a white Mustang. Sure enough, the DA showed us a picture of the car and it was that Mustang. I remember that I felt glad that I was still driving the 24 Freeway to work and didn't have to pass the scene. The traffic reporter said that it was being treated as a potential homicide, and that sent a shiver through me.

I think that's when I started feeling edgy about being shot on the freeway. People were getting shot down in L.A. around the same time, and my fear was that my semi-aggressive driving habits might get me killed as well. Funny what you imagine...

Then we hear about two other incidents where shots were fired, but nobody was killed. A van was shot up at the 24/580 westbound merge, then three minutes later a man named DaSilva was slightly injured when (the windows of) his LeCar was shattered by several more shots. A fellow who read about this shooting walked down to the scene and found one of the shell casings bearing the same tool marks as the Desert Eagle. Imagine! How many people really have the wherewithal to go search a crime scene on their own just to "see what they can find"? Maybe I'm naive about this, but I can't see legions of people crawling about on all fours near every other shoooting in Oakland.

Oh, I put this one out of context: A 16-year-old boy was shot in the head three times in an outlying area of Oakland, He was, as the prosecutor put it: "...a drug dealer, as so many young men today are..." Well! The bot was taken by surprise, and three rounds were pumped into his skull at close range. We saw another graphically gory photo of him, showing the "stippling" effect of gasses and lead particles around the wound indicating weapon proximity. Again, a casing from a Desert Eagle was found. Whoever, and I stress not using the defendant's name here, used that gun was crafty but stupid. Leaving the brass at the scene of all these shootings was going to do in the shooter sooner or later, unless the person just tossed the weapon in the Bay and picked up another one.



Part Two Real Soon...

The Trial: Selection

From here on I will be quoting directly from my journal from the time. Jan told me it would be the best way to come to grips with what I was experiencing. Once again she proved why I love her so.

January 25, 1993

At this, the fourth pre-trial visit to Section 6, it seems like a reunion. I recognize the people from my interview group, including the big guy who was obsessed with having many chickens for lunch. (Oh yeah, forgot that part!) I think about speaking to him, asking him if he had chicken and maybe how many he had, but sanity takes hold and I refrain. There is still that feeling of pent-up excitement in the air as we are ushered into the courtroom, a smell of old paint, dust, sweat mingled with aftershave and perfume. We are all silent but for the shuffling of feet. Everybody files into the room and finds a seat. Once again the whole crew is waiting for us: bailiffs, reporters, attorneys, the sanke man, clerk and assistant, and the judge, William McGuinnes. He's a pleasant guy, showing a lot of deference to all of us for sacrificing so much of our time to this cause. With the calling of the roll, the action begins.

McGuinnes instructs the clerk to read off a list of twelve names, randomly selected, to compose the initial jury. My name is the fifth one called, no particular surprise to me. I take my seat as juror #5, knowing deep in my soul that I will not be removed, that I will be here when the process is complete...

(This morning was odd, filled with snippets of dreams, odd talismans appearing in my second sight. The most vivid looked like this


It is the front of an eagle's beak clutching a bright ball of light with distinctive rays shining out. It reminds me of something from the Mayan art I saw recently on PBS. I'm not going to try to interpret it, but it was one more sign to me that my life path is being followed and intersected by this trial.)

...Three hours later. After numerous challenges by the three parties involved, the gallery has been cut to just six people from about 60-70, we are all in place. I have not been challenged since taking my seat. The only other person from the original group of 12 called still there is #6, the fellow next to me, named Rudy. The same Rudy from the interview group who wanted to discuss football to great lengths. I suppose we'll have something else to talk about from now on...

The bailiff shows us the jury room on the sixth floor, our home away from home for the next couple of months. He tells us the mundane details. Everybody seems a little shocked, bored, excited all at the same time.

Afterwards, as I drive home, I feel a sort of relief from finally knowing, but apprehension over the upcoming trial. How long will it really go? They said 8 weeks or so, but when has a government official ever really stuck to estimates? Hearing witnesses, seeing evidence, watching an ancient process being played out before me as I, along with four (other) men and seven women "good and true" sit to judge guilt or innocence, life and death. It connects us to thousands of others, maybe millions through history who have answered this call. Therein might lie the thrill running like a cool blue current through our veins, expressed in nervous laughter and glassy eyes.

This should really be memorable.

Next up: We're off!

The Trial: Stages

Voir Dire:

In the United States, it now generally refers to the process by which prospective jurors are questioned about their backgrounds and potential biases before being chosen to sit on a jury. It also refers to the process by which expert witnesses are questioned about their backgrounds and qualifications, in order to potentially give an expert opinion in court testimony. As defined by Gordon P. Cleary: "Voir Dire is the process by which attorneys select, or perhaps more appropriately reject, certain jurors to hear a case."


I didn't think much about the jury duty experience over the next few weeks. It was strange enough that I was in the same room as a two guys accused of such heinous crimes. I remembered back when they were in the news, in 1989. There had been a couple of news reports about people being shot at and/or killed along Interstate 580 in Oakland, but even though I often took that freeway I never got the sort of fearful feeling one might in a case like Son of Sam or something.

I do recall one report clearly because of the nature of the story. On my way down to Berkeley early one morning the news was dominated by the capture of a young man who had shot at a couple of drivers on I-580 in the wee hours of July 27, 1989. The first guy, Rodney Stokes, had survived having three shots fired at him by ducking down and playing "possum". He then watched as the assailant drove forward and accosted another driver, shooting him fatally. Stokes kept his cool and after contacting the police was able to finger the shooter. The cops had the guy in jail and were questioning him. This action spoke to the altruist in me. I would have done the same thing as Rodney Stokes. That's what I was thinking at the time.

Spin forward four years and now I have seen this man standing before a judge with his accomplice. It made those stories more real. I had seen this accused killer and he really didn't look like a bad guy. I guess that was the point, with the nice clothes, neat haircut and nerdy glasses.

Next Letter

The next correspondence I got from the County was in a regular envelope, sent to me by the prosecutor's office. I was instructed to come to the courthouse on a particular day for voir dire. In this part of the trial preparations, small groups of potential jurors come in and sit in a small room, waiting to be called into the courtroom for individual questioning. There were three or four other people with me and we made small talk, speaking only a little about the particulars of this case. None of us knew that much about it, with one exception. There was fellow, a tall, rather overweight guy who seemed really anxious to get on the jury. He said he had been summoned before but never "made it". It seemed like he considered it a personal affront not to be among the chosen, just the opposite attitude most folks brought to jury duty.

Eventually a bailiff poked his head into the room and said: "Mister Newbegin, please." I followed him through the heavy wooden doors into a now nearly empty courtroom. Only the principal characters were there: The judge, defendants, lawyers, clerk, stenographer and bailiffs. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach much like the one I have before performing or public speaking. I was directed to the jury box and took a seat, a microphone before me.

First to question me was one of the defense attorneys. He asked me about my responses to the questionnaire concerning alcoholism in my family and my views on the jury system. I was forthright in my replies, talking about how alcohol had been tough on our family and that I had a lot of faith in the system, flaws and all. They asked me about my umpire experiences. "I suppose it's pretty tough to put up with the criticism, isn't it?"

I gave them my corny answer: "I call 'em like I see 'em."

Then Mr. Burr rose. I could feel my gut clenching as he walked slowly over to me from his seat. There was a sharpness, calculation in his eyes, and he smiled slightly and said: "Good morning, Mr. Newbegin". I knew I could not be untruthful with this guy. He was going to get the facts, ma'am.

"How did you first hear about this case?"

"I had heard some reports on the radio about a couple of people being shot on the highway. Then I heard about the guy getting caught one morning when one of the people he shot at followed him."

"And what did you think when you heard that report?"

"I guess I was hoping they got the right guy."

"You have heard that this case involves charges of murder in the first degree along with three special circumstances?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is a capital case, Mr. Newbegin. If this defendant is found guilty of the charges and any of those special circumstances are found to be true, he could be sentenced to life in prison without parole or the death penalty. Were you aware of that?"

"Yes, sir."

Burr went on to discuss with me my views on the death penalty. He asked me whether I thought it was a deterrent, talked about California Supreme Court Justice Rose Bird, whose controversial stand on the death penalty had gotten her fired. At the time I supported the death penalty as just another way of punishing people for the most heinous of crimes. This trial was my "put up or shut up" moment.

"What I need you to tell me, then, is this: If that were the case, would you be able to cast a vote to send this defendant to the gas chamber for the crimes he committed?"

I looked at Charles Stevens, who was busy writing something at his seat. Always writing, almost never looking up. I turned my gaze back to Mr. Burr. "Yes, sir, I could."

"Thank you, Mr. Newbegin. No more questions, your Honor."

I got up and headed out of the courtroom. I had no real sense of what would happen after that. Outside, the fat guy was still hanging around in the hallway by the elevators. "Hey, how'd you do?"

"I don't know, I just answered the questions."

"God, I hope they pick me for this one. This is just so cool, huh?"

"Yeah, cool. See ya."

I got in the elevator, went back to my car and returned to the working world. I thought about Burr's question and really had little doubt I could do it. If these terrible things were true, well, he deserved to fry, right? I felt at once a little excited, a bit overwhelmed by the potential experience. I guess I could see why the fat guy was that way. He was just acting out what most of us were thinking.

Furthur: A Jury of His Peers?

The Trial: Preface

I will not be writing a linear account of all the events in my life after Jan and I were married. Too many stories would be left out because they are still being written; they are not yet resolved. This particular tale is a big honkin' nugget that deserves the light of day. Enjoy!

The Letter

It came through the mail slot like every other piece of correspondence I got every day of every week. I thought at first I had gotten a parking ticket I'd forgotten, left unpaid. "Superior Court of Alameda County" and the Seal thereof right on the front, light blue lettering on a white envelope. One of those perforated types that requires instructions to open. While I followed those notes carefully, I still tore the inner notice slightly. And there it was:

"You are hereby summoned to appear at Superior Court for Alameda County for jury duty."

Ah, really? I had joked with friends who complained about jury duty that I had never gotten a summons even though I had been a licensed driver since I was 16 and registered voter since 18. Now it was my turn. You know, people bitch about it but I thought: "Cool. Wonder if I'll get on a jury." I told my boss at Custom Process, the photo lab I worked at in Berkeley, that I had gotten the summons. I said I thought I probably wouldn't even make it to a trial. He looked at me kinda funny and shook his head: "Oh, you'll be on a jury, all right."

"What makes you say that?"

"I know you, Ed. If I was on trial for my life I would want a whole box full of people like you."

I didn't know what to say. I suppose it was a compliment, but could it have been a backhanded one? Was I gullible? Too empathetic? Ask too many questions?

The week I was to report I had to call before 8AM on Monday to see if my number was one of this week's pool. If not, I would be in a temporary pool for six months, then cut loose. I was on my way to work early that day and i forgot to call before I left, so I pulled off the freeway and stopped at a pay phone near a McDonald's. I slotted the quarter in and dialed the number. A recorded message rattled off the group numbers and sure enough, I was in. I had to report to the courthouse that day.

I called one of the guys on my crew and told him not to expect me that day and headed for downtown Oakland. I parked in the city parking garage and strolled around to the huge entryway. The courthouse is perched just above Lake Merritt.

A quick pass through the metal detector and up to the third floor to sign in and join the other cattle waiting to be called. I had brought a book, Bones of the Moon by Jonathan Carroll. A truly weird book to be reading in preparation for jury duty.

The lady in charge of the cattle call room would occasionally rattle off a list of names and tell them to go to Department so-and-so on floor something. The room was emptying out and I was still there, reading away, eating snacks from the vending machine. Finally my name came up, along with 20 or so others. We all filed out and headed for Department 6, Judge William R. McGuinness presiding.

As we shuffled in and took our seats. one man stood on the right side of the court and watched us all enter. He had a nice designer suit, short, dark, bushy hair and, as I wrote in my journal at the time: "snake eyes". His right elbow rested in his left hand and his right hand was on his chin, index finger just touching his lips. He scanned the room slowly, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. This man was Ken Burr, the Alameda County prosecutor.

On the left side sat a couple of other suits. The defense attorneys. We all got settled and finally Mr. Burr turned around and sat at his table. The clerk told us we could remain seated as Judge McGuinness entered, which was a little disappointing. Not like TV at all. Not the last time I'd have that realization, either.

Then the bailiffs brought in a couple of guys who could only be the defendants: One a large, darkly complected black man who looked terrified and the other a lighter-toned, confident looking young man with large, dark-rimmed glasses. His almost haughty gaze swept the rows of potential jurors once and he took his place next to his attorney.

The clerk of the court stood and began reading the charges. And oh, my, what a list of charges: Four counts of First Degree Murder, Six counts of Attempted Murder and two Special Circumstances. The main defendant was one Charles Arnett Stevens, known four years earlier as the I-580 Freeway Killer. His co-defendant was Richard Clark, who was being tried for his role in one of the murders. Damn! When I get summoned, I really get summoned!

After the charges were read, the prosecutor told all of us that we would be given a questionnaire. We had to fill it out at our seats and hand it in before we left that day. Then all the principals left the court, with just the bailiffs sticking around as proctors. The questions were pretty run of the mill, asking if we knew any of the people involved with the trial in any way, from the judge to the attorneys and defendants to any investigative personnel. We were asked about any crimes committed against or by each one of us. Had there been any history of alcoholism in our families? I related my Dad's struggles with booze and his father's drunk driving accident that seriously injured a man who died within a year of the accident.

Then I went home. We had been told that about 300 people were being considered as potential jurors for this trial, so what were the odds?


Answer: Not as astronomical as I would have thought...

More music, more music, more music...

Spin me back down the years and the days of my youth.
Draw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.
Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.


Life & Such

After the realization, the denouement as it were of my musical pipe dreams, I didn't play much. It's like one of those movie montages where one item, or person, sits perfectly still while everything else around them goes by at super speed. The guitar just sat there, waiting. I worked, tried going back to school as a journalism major, crapped out on that in less than a semester. We moved to Hawaii, where I used a simple cassette recorder to put down a tune I'd been working on for my boy PJ. I started working on it while he was still in utero, and this is the only recording:

The Secret of Life (For PJ)

Also my only instrumental. I was often sad living in that paradise, and occasionally I'd pull out the old Guild and strum So In Love. Why were these words still so relevant to me? I was married and happy, happily married, happy, right? No. There were things happening that I was too blind, dumb, whatever...to see.

I was at a party one night there in Hawaii and one of the guys kind of took me under his wing. I got to go out to the garage with the other "brahs", smoke some fine pakalolo and play a cool Taylor guitar he had. Everyone thought I was great! I was reminded of that feeling the first time I performed in 7th grade.

Mainland Bound

All the things that led to my separation and divorce are laid out in sordid detail in earlier chapters. Now I was back in SoCal with nothing to my name but my car, my bike, some clothes and the Guild. It was a present from my folks Christmas 1975, and I still have it. A luthier friend of mine once said: "That's the cool thing about classical guitars. The older they get, the better they sound, all mellow and shit." True that.

I played a lot during my exile, but I didn't write songs. I wrote a ton of poetry, along with some long letters to my soon-to-be ex. Still that guitar was a life saver. It has nicks and scratches all over it from my performing days at Shakey's Pizza Parlor, along with newer ones from the kids climbing on it and playing it. An old friend sitting there, always waiting.

When I first got to California I had a Yamaha steel 6-string, but it was stolen not long after I moved there. Never had a strong attachment to it, though I hope it found a good home.




Fast Forward

After I got back to Northern California I was so busy putting my life back together I just let the Guild sit quietly again. But after I bought her a companion, an Epiphone FG160-ASB. Great sound, solid axe. Now I could start building those callouses again! Still no performing, though.

I got a job working at a custom photo lab and shortly thereafter met a fellow named Michael G., who had a nice home studio and lots of musical friends. I started going over to his place from time to time, recording tunes like:

Dream Zone, written by a friend of mine.

I kept going over to his house, playing on my own with occasional guest musicians, and then Michael started joining in, playing seafaring tunes and ballads. Over the years we played more and more often. I wrote more songs, he introduced songs he liked, we got toasted and had fun playing. Other folks would come over, joining in or listening and singing along. We performed at the Freight & Salvage in Berkeley on open mic night. We played at a couple of parties. The toughest thing was this: Michael just wasn't, isn't that good. he's a passable musician but put him in front of people and all the rehearsal in the world can't cure his flop-sweat.

We fought about the material. He got to be a prick. I was frustrated by our inertia. He thought we were going to be a touring band! Pipe Dreams, indeed! One night he basically told me off in front of a mutual friend and I walked out. Called him a couple of days later and basically broke up with him. Strangest phone call ever. Breaking up with a dude is not what I had in mind. We didn't speak for over a year, until February of 2009, when we got together for a jam with some other guys. Since then we've jammed a couple of times but nothing like before. Nothing like the fun we had doing this one:

It's Normal to Smoke Pot, about my views on the state of the Federal Reserve. I think. Or not.

Yes, it's rough, oh so rough. But we had a great time making it, as far as I can remember.

Misc Music

I was lucky enough to hook up with some bluegrass players as well, and every year I go to the annual Pickin' Party, where my inner redneck gets a chance to strum some traditional 'grass tunes.

Christmas 2000, our first year in the new house, my lovely wife Jan got me a Martin DM-12, a magnificent 12-string guitar. I thanked her by polishing up a tune I'd written for her:

Faith in Me, a song that came to me and refused to be ignored.

Here are my two steel beasties:

I was on a jury in a capital murder case. Strong shit there. After I finished the ordeal another song came to the surface:

A City of Light, written about Charles Stevens, the I-580 Freeway Killer

Jan and I sing together. She plays the piano and sings in local choruses. My four kids are all musicians or performers in their own right. Life is good. And I will play on....

C	F	C
	One toke over the line, sweet Jesus,	one toke over the	line

	C/B	Am	D9	F	G	C
Sittin' down	town in a	railway	station,	one toke	over the	line

	C
	Waitin' for the train that goes home, sweet Mary

	F	C
	Hoping that the train is on	time

	C/B	Am	D9	F	G	C
Sittin' down	town in a	railway	station,	one toke	over the	line

I Got the Music in Me

I write the songs that make the whole world sing
I write the songs of love and special things
I write the songs that make the young girls cry
I write the songs I write the songs...

Don't that tune just bring the tears to your eyes? Yeah, me too. Barry may have been a big sellout but he could take baths in hot and cold running cash for years and never see the same $100 bill twice. So what's a struggling musician to do?

Early Days

When I was in the second grade I got my first musical instrument. It was a plastic ukulele, a gift from my Dad's parents. I can still remember my Pop telling me that all ukes were tuned to the song "My Dog Has Fleas". Very short number. I played around with it for a while but eventually it got laid aside with the mythical baseball card collection, first edition Spiderman comic and mint-in-box Original Slinky.

Next up was the piano. My Grams, Mom's mother, had graduated from Julliard School of Music and had played the piano extensively, along with having a passable singing career. So when we got a piano in the house and Grams came to live with us, I started taking lessons. While I enjoyed playing tunes, I simply detested having to learn sight reading sheet music. I also hated the endless finger exercises that sounded like nothing to me. I had no passion for this instrument, though when nobody was around I would open the top and play the strings inside or run my fingers over the keys in random ways, creating strange, discordant melodies. In other words, junk music. But mine nonetheless.

In the sixth grade I got the bug to play again. A friend of mine was in the band, and he said they needed a coronet player. No clue, me. I went in and the band director told me he could teach me how to play. Cool. It got me out of class early twice a week. I started learning the instrument but two things became clear to me pretty quickly: 1) I had to sight read again and 2) Playing this thing hurt! My jaw hinges were sore, my lips got numb and every now and then I'd blow out my eardrums. No fun whatsoever. The final straw came when Mom came to see a performance at school. She noticed that I wasn't moving my fingers like the other horn players and correctly correctly deduced that I wasn't keeping up. While I was out a day or two later she took the horn back to the rental place. I didn't complain.

I was also in the sixth grade chorus. Miss Milford was my teacher and the accompanist. She loved my clear, bell-like voice, singing noted as high as any of the girls in the company. I got a place of honor, right next to the piano. I even got some solos! Then, one dark day, my voice changed. I tried to make it soar, but just crawled out and flopped around like a drunken frog. I thought it was just temporary. I kept saying: "I think it's 80% laryngitis and 20% my voice changing." Two months later it was official: New voice. I was now a Bass, not a Tenor. I was banished to the ranks of the unwashed, far in the back rank of the kids who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Abandoned and forgotten, this Golden Boy. Sucked.

Revelation!

In middle school I was listening to a lot of pop music on the radio. I would stay awake at night, listening to music like the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Black Sabbath and the cool funk and soul so popular in the Washington, DC area in the 60's and 70's. I wanted to be like those guys, Play on the stage, get chicks, travel. First I would need to play something. Enter Mrs. Siemanns, my 7th-grade music teacher. One day she brought a dozen beginner guitars to class and asked us to pair off and learn a song to perform in class. My partner was Tom McGuire, a weird kid who was also in my Boy Scout troop. I wanted to learn This Land is Your Land, by Woodie Guthrie. Tom wanted to do the easier piece, Proud Mary by Creedence. I couldn't get him to change his mind, so we did that one. We practiced in school and at his house and then finally the day came.

I had performed onstage before but this was different. I was actually nervous! Tom and I got our turn and played the thing through. As I performed I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me. Their attention to my performance was palpable, like energy being beamed directly into my bloodstream. I was bit by the showbiz bug. I wanted more.

I went to my parents and told them I wanted my own guitar. Amazingly, they got me one. Nothing fancy but it was a really nice beginner model, Sears Silvertone. I played it for a while, found it not so much fun and gradually abandoned it, letting it sit in its case in the corner of my room. Then one day I came home to find my little sister Lori playing my guitar in her room. Hey, what gives here? "Mom said it was OK for me to play it because you weren't playing it any more." Is that so? Well, I can fix that. I had the Mel Bay Basic Guitar Chords book and I set about learning each and every one. With no real plan outside of that, I sat on my bed night after night, putting my fingers on the strings where Mel told me to. I would strum the chord and listen to the sound of it. I learned to play chords in progression: G to C to D, C to F to G, D to A to E and so forth. By doing this over and over I started to hear those progressions in the music on the radio. "Wait, this sounds familiar..." And it would all fall into place. I started playing with the tunes there and off my sister Leslie's record player. It was official. I was a guitar player.

For Christmas of my freshman year I got an electric guitar and small practice amp. I sat in my room and played along with Abbey Road, Black Sabbath's Paranoid and other LP's. I also experimented with feedback. That lasted until Dad came pounding on the door, shouting at me to knock it off with the God-awful noise.

Journeyman Days

My biggest problem was that I didn't know anyone else who played, so I had to keep pushing myself to learn more. Mom and Dad had had enough of paying for music lessons and Grams was a bit of a snob about guitar players. So my first two years of high school didn't see much progress in my playing. Then came military school.

It wasn't long before I found other guitar guys to play with. A fellow named Stacy Evans invited me to come and jam with him and some other guitar guys. I accepted, and learned quickly the Rules of the Jam:

Bring guitar
Sit Down
Shut Up
Join in whenever you want
Don't ever say: Hold on guys, slow down. I can't keep up!
Bring something to share (songs, drinks, or grass. Preferably all of the above)

My musical sensibilities grew by leaps and bounds with all the different things my classmates brought to the table. I listened to Robin Trower, Todd Rundgren, Frank Zappa, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Wishbone Ash, King Crimson and so many others. I met my friend Jim Lange, another guitar guy who helped shape my view about the mental approach to being a musician. What kind of artist was I? What was my philosophy?

Even with all this experience, I never considered taking my studies further after high school. Why? I still didn't want to read sheet music. Chord charts were easier and those little black dots made my head hurt.

College

The best thing about being a passable musician is that it can get you laid. Play some sweet tunes with genuine feeling and someone will want to boink you. So it was with me in college. Not that I was any Lothario, but I was rarely lacking. My musical talents grew somewhat in that I played with other guys from time to time. Sitting in stairwells, we could imagine ourselves in a huge concert hall only without the screaming, adoring fans.

I met a lovely young lady there named Nicole, and she became the inspiration for my first original song: So In Love.

After a couple of weird years I finally got back on track, studying music with college professors. It was amazing, spending the day exploring my muse and networking with other motivated musicians. We played, sang, got high together. I was the assistant manager for the campus music club, The Glass Cellar. We had various traveling groups in, including Happy the Man.

Meanwhile I had written some more tunes:

Claudia, about yet another girl.

Pamela, ditto.

Death to Disco, about Man's inhumanity to Man.

My sister Lori and I joined a short-lived group, playing cover tunes by the Eagles, Steve Miller, Peter Frampton, etc. Our first gig was our last. After all our practice we thought we were ready to hit the road, but Fate stepped in and on our plans. We were supposed to play at a middle school yearbook signing party. Lori and I picked up the lead guitarist Billy at his high school and met the other guys at the gig. There were about 200 kids there so this looked promising. Then the guitarist realized he'd left both his guitars in the parking lot at his school! My buddy Bill, also in the band, ran him back to get them, if they hadn't been stolen. Meanwhile it was blazing hot, I was wearing my silk shirt and bell bottoms with my platform shoes (oh yeah!), sweating like a pig. "When are you youngsters going to start?" asked the principal. "Oh, our guitarist will be right back..."(we hope).

By the time Bill and Billy got back the crowd had dwindled to about 15 kids and the rest of us were developing heat stroke. We slammed our stuff together and started playing. The sound levels were horrible, we were out of synch and Billy was still pissed about the guitars, even though he got them back. By the middle of the third song the principal had heard enough and literally pulled the plug on us. That was it for The Band that Never Was.

My best gigging experience was at Shakey's Pizza Parlor in Tyson's Corner, Virginia. I was hired at forst to be a pizza guy, then I became a bartender. We had a great house musician named Jay who was a fantastic piano player and showman. He also didn't mind sharing the spotlight with audience members. It was the precursor to karaoke bars! Just bring in some sheet music and Jay would play the tune to accompany you. Not your key? Jay could transpose on the fly.

When he left for greener pastures I saw my chance and took it. I told the manager I would play Friday and Saturday nights for $10 an hour and free beer. He took it and I was a star! I had a regular group who came to hear me and I performed covers plus stuff I had written. It was the best performing experience I ever had. But one day the owner decided to go all Fern Bar, so the old "Gay 90's" decor was out, along with the house musician, me.

I was jonesing to play in front of people, so I put an ad in the classifieds, something like: "Guitar player seeks performance venue. Will travel." I got a couple of calls, including one from a place in Morningside, Maryland. I went out there and spoke to the owner. I was nervous, anticipating the audition. He never even asked me to play. Jusy kept talking about putting my picture in the front window with the notation: "Appearing Friday and Saturday nights 10PM until 2AM" Well, OK. Turned out all he needed me for was to stay open an extra hour. I played that nearly empty room for 6 weeks or so and blew that pop stand.

Dad wasn't happy with my college course choices, and after one too many arguments I moved out. There went my college bankroll. After kicking around the Washington, DC area for a while I got the bug and moved to California. Better luck there, no?

No

I figured that if I hung out and played the guitar on my couch, I would be discovered by a recording exec and make millions playing for the masses. Pretty bad plan. So I got my girlfriend pregnant, married her and started working for a living. I gave music one more shot, though. I went to Ventura College with my heart set on getting into the music biz. I even won a spot in a Master Class in vocal performance! It was just after that performance that I asked my professor the question that had been on my mind for the last five years. I looked him in the eye and said: "Am I good enough to make a living doing this?" Without a pause, Mr. Kenney said, "No, Ed. You have a solid voice and good command, but it would take far more than that to make it in the world of operatic vocal performance. I'm sorry."

I looked at my wife, and she was nodding in agreement. So, there it was. Time to give it up and grow the hell up. I had a kid, a wife and bills to pay. Quit dreaming and wake up, fool.

Part II: Striking a Balance...

My Automotive Life

Now comes the expansion stories. The items vaguely alluded to in Book One which need to be put in their proper context and time line. I begin with a tome concerning my love/hate/stupid/unfortunate relationship with the Horseless Carriage.

Do You Have A Leesance for Your Minky?

With my poor performance in school weighing me down I stood little chance of getting my driver's license by sixteen. Just another thing to hold over my head, though that strategy really never worked. Then suddenly the problem was solved when Mom and Pop decided to send me to military school. They figured that I would need a license to visit friends whenever I came back for the Holidays. So some small good thing was going to come from getting sent off. Whoopee!

I went to Driver's Ed classes at the local high school that summer. Weird side note: We had just moved from Vienna, where I had gone to two years of public high school, to Alexandria, my holding cell before shipping off to SMA. The local high school was called Robert E. Lee. And it was an exact carbon copy of Madison High, my previous school, right down to the room numbers. I would walk into the building from my new, unfamiliar world and into one eerily reminiscent of my old life, then back out onto the surface of Mars for all I knew.

The driving classes were boring but necessary. Truth to tell, my Mom had been letting me drive her car for a while before I even took the classes. Not alone, but with her white-knuckled next to me.

So I get my license in early August and three days later Mom lets me take a few friends for a spin in her car (1970 Ford Torino wagon) and I promptly get into my first accident. Funny how you can't pass somebody while somebody is passing you. Yeah. The other guy bounced off me a few times but I'm proud to say I kept it on the road. He was a big ol' redneck who threatened my family until Dad put the cops on him. So I didn't drive the car again until my first time back from school.
Car One

My Dad had a lot of problems with cars. Well, the cars weren't the problem. He just drove them badly. After owning two VW bugs and a really cool Mustang, (and trashing them all), he got a Ford Maverick. Once I started driving it became "my" car. I didn't own it. I still had to ask to use it, but it was the one I got to drive. Robin's egg blue with a straight 6 under the hood. Real chick magnet. Some notable events in our sordid history:

*I crashed it into my girlfriend's car one day when we were crossing a divided highway. She stopped in the center and I didn't see until it was too late.

*I got at least two speeding tickets and a couple of other moving violations. Driving was just so much fun!

*When I came home for Christmas break I was so incredibly happy to be home. I wheeled the Mav up to 7-11 and got my stuff. As I backed out of the lot I cut the wheel and promptly raked my right front bumper down the driver side of the car parked next to me. I stopped, surveying the damage to the other car. Oh, shit...I looked around - no witnesses. My eyes darted to the store - just a guy in there pushing a filthy mop, not looking at me at all. Shift into drive, pedal to the metal and I am out of there.

I drove over to my buddy Scott's place, dreading the potential damage to my car and how I would explain it to my Dad. When I got there I walked cautiously around the front and peered at my car. Nothing. Not even a scratch. Weeks later Dad saw a tiny bit of paint had flecked off at the site and went ballistic, believing somebody had hit and run the car "recently", and since I hadn't driven it in that time I was off the hook. Fate is feakin' funny. Made up for the times I got hammered for shit I didn't do.

I worked at a local warehouse and we got stoned during the day every day. On the way home one night I decided to impress some girls I worked with by racing up beside them and giving them a sexy wave. They laughed, but in a second those smiles became looks of terror. I hadn't noticed the bend in the road coming right at me! I slammed on the brakes, went over the curb, missed a telephone pole by inches, skidded back onto and across the road and bounced off the opposite curb. The undercarriage was boned. I tired to tell Dad that the accelerator had stuck but that was bullshit. The car was shot and needed a lot of repair work. I wasgoing off to school anyway, so who cared?

Car Two

After military school I went to college, and while I was there the parents decided the old Mav now belonged to my sister. Nice. When I came back from ODU with my tail between my legs I was carless. Dad let me use his car from time to time but that was a desperation move only. No matter what I did he always knew when we had messed with the car. I even emptied the ashtray and he asked me why the single butt he left in there was missing. Entrapment! Arrgghh!

So I went ahead and wrecked his car. Drove it into a ditch. Two days later I was in the Navy Federal Credit Union signing loan papers to buy my own car. Dad had picked out another Maverick, owned by a friend down the street. I bought it, moved out of the house and almost immediately sold it at a loss to buy my most favoritest car.

Car Three

A buddy of mine at Shakey's Pizza had this car he wanted to sell. It belonged to his grandfather who had just passed away. It was a 1964 Ford Custom 500, and the old man had driven it to town and out in the fields. The rear bumper was all rusted out, it smelled like mildew. I loved it.

A few months later I drove "Old Bessie" to California. She got me back and forth to work, supervised my dates, escorted me and my new wife home from the wedding and brought my firstborn son home from the hospital.

The gas gauge stopped working at one point but I just guessed the mileage I'd get with each tank and it mostly worked. I only ran out of gas a few times. When I finally had to leave her behind to go to Hawaii it broke my heart. I never got a ticket and had no accidents the whole five years I had her.

Hawaii Cars

When we got to Oahu there was a car waiting for me. It was a 1982 Datsun B210. Blue. Boring. Fortunately some nice guy I used to work with decided to steal it and trash it, so that was all for that piece o' crap. The insurance settlement got me my third Maverick, a 1970 this time, red with no heater. Hawaii model.

We also had the use of a cool 1965 Lincoln Continental. I loved tooling around in that big ol' car, letting the warm tropical breezes waft over me.








So after the move back to California and my divorce, the red Mav was my mate, my space capsule, my red badge of geekdom. Tough to impress any gal who went out with me when I couldn't even turn the heat on to keep us from freezing on a date. And such a sexy ride! After my exile in SoCal I got back to the SF Bay Area and moved from job to job, dragging the Mav behind me. Got tired of a car with no personality and decided on a switch to something...different. Enter Alexander, my red 1980 Toyota 4x4 pickup. Now that was a man's vehicle.


Jan and I had just started dating and this was my "newly single guy" truck. 2-seater. Just a guy and his girl out for a rugged day on the mountain. Cast iron rear bumper, so I could back into anything with impunity. Fear me, little passenger cars! Make way for the King of the Highway! This was my attitude, right up until my girlfriend became my wife and along came a new brood of kids. No room for all those people in the truck, but it had served me well. We used it as a moving van and Jan had learned to drive a stick on him. The name Alexander came from my boy Peter. The only car I ever gave a male name to. We traded him in for:

The Buckaroomobile! (1994 Mitsubishi Expo)

Yeah, it is a minivan of sorts, more like a station wagon that started to turn into a van and stopped halfway. We loved it. Smooth driving and lots of room. We drove it to CA to Cincinnati, up to Seattle, down to Phoenix. We brought Zack home from the hospital. Just a few months after we got it I was washing the car when I noticed some interesting scratches on the hood. Upon closer examination I saw the name "Casey" etched into the paint. There were other designs as well, and they remain to this day. Over the years the Buckaroomobile has been Jan's commute car, the family travel car, my business vehicle and is currently in the hands of its rightful owner, Casey. It has 226,500 miles on it, all put there by the Newbegin family.

Since then I've owned a Kia Sephia and a Chrysler PT Cruiser. I have the occasional fender-bender, about one every two to three years, same with minor moving violations, never really my fault, oh no.

I put about 120 miles per day on my car, whatever it is, and the toughest part each day is dealing with my fellow drivers. Speed, following too closeley and dangerous lane changes threaten my safety and sanity each time I hit the road. And it doesn't help that I'm a recovering Type A driver. I want to run these twits into a ditch half the time, but I don't think that would please the Buddha, so I breathe deep and get home alive.

Another good case for gun control, let me tell you.