Old Stoners

View fullsize

Image CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication

Everywhere I go in NYC, the smell of marijuana fills my nostrils, mostly from young stoners who’d rather hang out on street corners and jive-talk about rap music and basketball instead of getting a job or attending school.

Speaking of stoners, I recently got back in touch with Lenny Schwartz, my old guitar teacher from the 1970s. He now lives in a trailer park community for senior citizens in Florida. Regrettably, he still thinks of me as his 16-year-old student with the no-name acoustic, struggling to compete with his superior Ovation Celebrity Model II with the plush hard shell case.

Since our first text conversation, Lenny has sent me numerous photos of instruments he claimed to have built forty years ago as an apprentice luthier in Glen Park, Indiana. Most of the shots were dark, grainy, or out of focus. What was I supposed to say? Or not say? “Have you sold any of them? Do you still have a few stuffed in the closet of your trailer?” All I could think of were variations of the same compliment, whether I meant it or not: “Wow, the rosewood model is a beauty; it must have taken a long time to build, or, I'll bet that 12-string sounds excellent.”

For some reason, Lenny's messages have become increasingly hostile over the last several months. First, back in November 2022, he called me a liar when I told him I've lived in New York City for almost 40 years, and later, he asked if I was ashamed of my wife because I hadn’t sent him a photo of her.

Soon after, when I grew tired of his phony zen master musical philosophy, he said, “I can't teach you anything anymore,” to which I replied, “Teach me what? We haven’t seen each other in 40 years; I thought we were friends reconnecting to discuss music and life.”

Last month, Lenny sent a picture of himself at a barnyard jamboree strumming an expensive-looking acoustic whose make I didn't quite recognize. When I asked him about the guitar, he became agitated, “I don't know what make it is. Someone handed me the guitar, and I started playing it.” I told him to chill out, and his texts stopped for several weeks until he started complaining about an upcoming St. Patrick's Day jam, and he had to be the one to think of new songs to play. I replied, “That's why I don't waste my time playing cover songs. I'd rather concentrate on original music.” He flipped his lid, insisting, “There are too many guitar enthusiasts in the world playing original songs, and since you’re married, you'll probably never play in front of an audience again.” What?

I finally realized that his ramblings, similar to those of my brother, Joey, are fueled by persistent marijuana use, which can cause paranoia and preoccupation with the past. At this stage of his life, Lenny has nothing better to do than sit in a rocking chair on the front porch of his run-down trailer and get high.

Marijuana is supposed to enhance creativity, but sadly, old Lenny doesn't have an original bone in his body, so he's unable to escape the musical comfort zone of tired Seals & Crofts compositions, which he's been playing for the last 50 years.

I no longer have the time or patience for stoners, especially the old armchair variety like Lenny, who want to rest on their laurels and boast about petty accomplishments, backyard barbecues, and grandchildren from the comfort of their white, gated, suburban Florida communities, while lecturing me about crime-ridden “inner cities.”

Save your breath, grey beards. Grab your bongs and canes. There’s gonna be a book burnin’ in the town square tonight!