In the early 2000s, Mrs LS and I routinely went to DisneyWorld and all the parks—-at least once every two years. Then Universal opened, and when it went full-in with the Marvel characters we decided to go there. And that led to life lesson #1.
We got a travel deal whereby if we stayed at one of the Universal upscale hotels—-something we liked to do anyway—we would get “first in line” express passes that allowed you to bypass the long lines. We headed straight for “Spider-Man,” where the line was long.
Upon arriving we were very proud of ourselves.
We had express passes, and arrogantly walked by all the plebes in the “normal” line. We were SPECIAL.
Upon getting to the front we hopped in our little car. Weren’t we important?
The ride started. But something wasn’t right. Nothing looked right. We couldn’t see much of anything—-we could feel the movement and vibraion of the car, but none of the characters were definable.
About halfway through we realized everyone else was wearing 3D glasses. We had been so pompous about being at the front—-with our noses up—-that we missed the little bin where you picked up your glasses. I never forgot that lesson in humility from God.
BE HUMBLE
Around 1972 my band was opening for the “James Gang” at the Yuma Convention Center. Joe Walsh had just quit, and Tommy Bolin—a legend, whom we had known from playing the same club circuit for years—was the guitarist.
At that concert, I was pioneering a “flaming drum solo,” where I set my tympani mallets on fire (and all my cymbals were wiped with lighter fluid). The key was that the mallets sat back stage soaking. When the solo started and I began my BOOM BOOM BOOM bass drum beat when the lights went out, our singer Corky was to run back and grab the mallets, and SQUEEZE THEM OUT before lighting them and handing them to me.
The crowd was already excited and when he handed me the lit mallets they went wild. I would assume the power-rock pose by making an “X” with the mallets over my head. Then I would take my time, finally hitting just one of my big cymbals on the left side.
Mekong Delta in the 1960s. I mean, it looked like a napalm run. Flames spread across the stage and my cymbal was a tower of fire and the crowd went crazy thinking they would see a human sacrifice.
I realized that in the excitement Corky had not squeezed the mallets out. I screamed “CORKY!” and he yelled back, “Yeah, man,” his eyes closed clapping along with everyone else. So I tried the cymbal on the other side.
Mekong Delta.
“CORKY!!” “Yeah, man.”
Now crews were hard at work with fire extinguishers and my guitarist was tyring to put out his guitar which was engulfed in flames.
What if I did a roll around all nine of my tom toms? Surely there wasn’t enough flammable goo to survive that? I was wrong. After the roll, I was surrounded by nine pillars of fire. Only my snare drum . . . between my legs . . . remained. Thinking it was the last time I would ever play drums, I did the fastest snare drum roll in my life and the inferno gradually slowed, then stopped. The crowd was a tad disappointed but appreciated my willingness to give my life for their entertainment.
PAY ATTENTION TO THE LITTLE THINGS. THEY CAN LITERALLY BE A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH.
Years later, while attending ASU graduate school, I became friends with a real jock named Mike—-who also happened to be a really good historian. I think we were the only two graduates of the ASU program up to that point to get tenured university jobs. I could be wrong.
Anyway, we would play basketball, occasionally in the parks around Tempe. I was not very good, Mike was very good. I could only beat him by luck if a game came down to a last shot.
We were playing when a couple of very "jock-ish” frat looking guys with no shirts on, their muscles gleaming with sweat, asked if we wanted to play two-on-two. Now, Mike did not look like an athlete. He was about 6-foot tall, slight, and had a strange, uber-flat shot . . . that almost always went in. I am 5’8” and totally unathletic and had an even weirder shot.
Nevertheless, we played them. I relied on Mike, who could not be guarded. He hit tough shot after tough shot. These guys should have destroyed us but it was a tie game as we neared 20. Oddly, I had the ball in my hands for the last shot. I figured, “Why not draw the foul?” So I pump-faked. My opponent went up, then came down on me as I released . . . and it went right through for the win. “Annnnnd ONE!” I shouted in celebration. The frat boys were mystified.
NOTHING IS A GIVEN. SURPRISES ARE COMMON. NEVER GIVE UP, NEVER SURRENDER.
Larry Schweikart
Rock drummer, Film maker,NYTimes #1 bestselling author
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