This is me. The one the author of the prior Panflick History books calls his hero. The one the author says is a theologian of potential repute, a psychologist to move the world past its pharma-daze and so forth. It will not be deemed a sin, I assume, for the subject of such distorted surmises to finally take a hand in things. Your author to this point is no longer employed in this effort. His labor of love has fallen into my hands. I shall explain his demise in time. Henceforth, I. Adam Panfick, shall recount the history of the decades between the 1970s and now. I shall be the autobiographer as it were. The subject as well. And the interpreter. The object too. In other words, Here I am.
Yes, I can see the Music Inn from here, the sloping grass, the stage below, no more removed than the tapes of my memory. There is that nasty moment when I introduced John Prine with such fulsome praise that he swept by me on his way to the stage with a glance of such malevolence that I placed him in a pantheon (with Danny Kaye) where disappointment dwells. I can hear David Bromberg calling me from behind the stage on his way to becoming a friendly acquaintance, intelligent and in love with what I was doing at the time, which was filling our home in Stockbridge with the stringed instruments David and I would soon be trading. You will not get the previous analysis of my trajectory in the world, all the way back to my odd ancestry. But I will tell you about the song that made me cry when Mildred finally died on her 102nd birthday. And I will tell you about the celebratory wrecking of my marriage to Ganya as honestly as I can. And I will narrate events that might place me in some competition with fabled denizens of the American road such as Mr. Kerouac, Mr. Pirsig and Mr. Least Heat Moon. The scenes from the Music Inn seem far removed from these latter-day Bowery digs. But, as I say, they are on tape.
It snowed again yesterday. It is all I can do to pace the halls of this tawdry residence, seeking to eke out the exercise demanded by my doctor. My only sex is self-administered, fueled by films I get from Netflix. Days go by with no sight of a soul. That I should be cheerful through it all is a testimony to my capacity for bemusement. This aplomb continues to serve me well as I approach my eighth decade.
Book Nine of The Panflick History is in progress. The previous eight books can be found with other scribblings here > http://buff.ly/1otRJAt