The revolution will not be televised, but Skywalkers will

The strangest part of “Skywalkers: A Love Story” on Netflix is that it is more love story than a how-to on 21^st-century Internet attention-getting. It’s both, really, but love story trumps likes and NFTs.

Ivan and Nikola are two people in search of likes in the cyber universe. To do that, they climb to the tops of the world’s tallest buildings, perform for the camera and drones, and post it all online. “Rooftopping,” it’s usually called. But now “Skywalking”  is in the film co-directed by Jeff Zimbalist and Maria Boukhonina.

Skywalkers Ivan Beerkus and Angela Nikolau make money through NFTs (but don’t ask me how). It’s illegal what they do, trespassing at least and could be a danger to their own lives and those of rescuers and pedestrians below. My thought was this: don’t these two have anything better to do? I mean, what good do they do for humanity? If I sound like an old geezer that’s because I am. These rooftoppers were damaged during childhood, neglected and maybe worse. But come on – stunting on top of tall buildings is the best you can do?

My attitude horrified my family. “It’s a love story – pay attention!” That was my daughter. “It’s incredible what they do,” asserted my son who used to free-climb the ancient granite rock formations of Vedauwoo in Wyoming. “My God,” my wife said something like this: “You sacrificed your Favorite Son pedigree to be the writer you dreamed of being.” She was the most upset and it chastened me because I truly was not thinking clearly.

It was a love story. It began as a spree but then the duo became concerned for the other’s welfare. Ivan didn’t want Nikola to fall from a great height and die. Nikola seemed shocked by this and after a lot of turmoil   including a break-up, she reconsidered, discovered she didn’t want him to fall from a great height and die.

Many of their skywalker friends had already died. Death became real and it was no longer a lark. It was deadly serious. That’s what makes their conquest of the world’s tallest building in Dubai so glorious. They did it, discovered each other along the way.

Roll the credits. There they are performing in the Dubai sky and a batch of songs roll with the credits. One song catches my attention. It sounds like a hymn and I don’t get it because The Good Lord is named in the lyrics and and I hadn’t seen any gimme that old-time religion in this documentary. The music was beautiful. I scanned the credits for the music and discovered “Stand on The Word” by The Joubert Singers. I went to YouTube and listened many times.

It’s a rousing hymn, as gospel as can be. Looking for the lyrics, I came across a link to “David Byrne’s Desert Discs,” a list of songs from his BBC Radio Program he would take to a desert island if he ever got the “Cast Away” treatment and didn’t have Wilson to talk to. “Stand on The Word” by The Joubert Singers (studio recording) was on the list with “I Wanna Be Your Dog” by The Stooges and “The Revolution Will Not be Televised” by Gil-Scott Heron. That’s some list, Mr. Byrne.

The “Skywalkers” will be televised. And now it’s all over but the critiquing. They are all over the Internet. Some have the same issues with it that I do. From Wikipedia:

"Nell Minow, writing for RogerEbert.com, rated the film 2 out of 4 stars, describing the protagonists as "two careless adrenaline junkies taking ridiculous risks to get likes on social media" and criticizing them for being 'completely self-centered.' "

Co-director Zimbalist said this:

“There’s a danger to romance,” Zimbalist told Netflix’s Queue. “It crushes us. It breaks our hearts. It breaks our hopes. Here, that danger is material. If the love falls apart, if the trust falls apart, it’s life or death. That felt like such a potent way of taking this amorphous sense that we all have in our romance and externalizing it and making it tangible.”

I get it. Well, I got it, with help from my family.

But back to “Stand On The Word” and God’s role in the soundtrack.

Curiosity took me to Google and it sent me to the Red Bull Music Academy. Musicians probably know this source but dorky 75-year-old bloggers do not.

Aaron Gonsher wrote on RBMA on May 20, 2016: “The Tangled History of the Joubert Singers’ “Stand On The Word.” He tracks its known history:

"In 1982, Phyliss McKoy Joubert was working as the Minister of Music at the First Baptist Church in Crown Heights, New York, when she gathered a group of musicians to record the gospel album 'Somebody Prayed For This.' 'Stand On The Word,' the album’s opener and the first song Joubert had ever written, was performed by a group of sweet-voiced children that she christened the Celestial Choir, and it stood out as a tinny yet remarkably addictive assertion of God’s omnipotence."

Decades of mixes and remixes followed. One was allegedly done by the legendary DJ Larry Levan of the Paradise Garage in NYC. He featured it as a late-night disco tune.

That’s how he works

That’s how

The good Lord, he works

Gonsher sums up the song’sorigins this way:

“Stand On The Word” remains a worship song regardless of whose fingerprints are smudged on a remix….The chorus rising in one voice, splitting into call-and-response, and its exhilarating piano lines can’t be seen as anything but gospel music….It doesn’t matter who received the revelation first – only that it was eventually transmitted. And if so, that’s all there is to it: That’s how the good lord works.

Yep. As the song says. As the singer sings. Skywalkin’ all the way.

Sunday morning round-up: Big & Strange, WY and FL

A round-up is a task performed by cowboys when they bring in the cattle.

I am not a cowboy. But I spent 30 years in The Cowboy State of Wyoming so sometimes feel like one.

Yesterday, a big galoot from Laramie, Wyoming – Frank Crum, 6-foot-7, 315-pound OL for the Denver Broncos -- caught a touchdown pass from Bo Nix as the Broncos beat the Bills. Crum grew up in Laramie, played football at Laramie High School, and played six years for the UW Cowboys. His father and grandfather all played for UW. Way to go, big fella.

Later, in overtime, Bo Nix powered the Broncos to the OT win. He broke his ankle along the way and now is out for the rest of the playoffs.

Meanwhile, UW’s Josh Allen, everyone’s favorite in Laramie where UW retired his uniform number in tribute, sat and watched his Super Bowl dreams evaporate.

A big, strange day for Wyoming. Wyoming excels in Big & Strange.

I miss it. Now living in Florida which has its own Big & Strange.

Earlier in the day, Chris and I cheered on the Florida Gators as they beat Vanderbilt 98-94 in NCAA men’s basketball. The Gators (UF my alma mater) are a hard-driving bunch with players from all over, some appearing mysteriously out of The Portal. There’s this small guard Xiavian Lee who portalized from Princeton to make amazing shots and there’s Rueben Chinyelu who steamrolls his way to the bucket. I was happy to see the win and glad there was no OT to interfere with the Broncos/Bills game. I know of no Wyoming connection for the Gators but looking for one.

Just finished reading (for the second time) “Never a Lovely So Real,” a biography of Nelson Algren by Colin Asher. I love the book for its unflinching portrait of Algren powered by Asher’s love of the subject. Algren was my first writing mentor, a strange old man dressed in rumpled clothes and a beat-up cap who taught writing to UF undergrads in 1974. I was a non-trad student, a university newbie at 23 who had been out doing something interesting. Nelson taught writing in many places (including the MFA bastion at Iowa) and was openly scornful of learning writing in the academy. He came from those mean streets of Chicago and learned his trade on the road. He wrote about the travails of regular folks. He must have looked around that stifling classroom and said what do these people know of the ways of the world? Go out and do something interesting and then write about it. I did. Was still learning. Algren told great stories and my Vietnam vet buddy Mike and I took Nelson to a strip club on Gainesville’s outskirts and had a swell time. We smoked pop with him although he said it didn’t do much for him as he had smoked it many times with jazz cats in 1930s Chicago. Nelson liked one of my stories and gave me his agent’s contact info which I never followed up on. He also gave us all a list of recommended reading and I worked my way through it, parked deep in the stacks of the UF library. Asher has a new book coming out which sounds cool. It’s titled “The Midnight Special: The Secret Prison History of American Music” and will be released by W.W. Norton on June 30. Check out his cool web site at colinasher.com for more info.

I get up every day cursing Trump and his fascist minions. Cursing is one thing. Doing something about it is another. I am a lifetime voter and Democrat who has been active in party politics. It ain’t always pretty but you gotta get your hands dirty if you want to make something. Algren was blacklisted for 30 years for being a Commie. His pal in the WPA Writers Project, Richard Wright, was forced out of the U.S. for his activism. I write regularly to the dimwits who want to turn Florida into a Maga Playground. Write. Demonstrate. Vote, please vote. There’s a good chance that Trump and his goons will find excuses to close the polls in November. Do not let him do that. It’s up to you.

Because Lorca was a poet, his country hushed him

 

Posted Jan. 9 on Facebook by the poet. Ninety long years ago,
Lorca was murdered by fascists. His spirit lives on.

A (belated) Christmas memory, Colorado and Capote

"The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere

Is a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow."

That's the refrain in "Colorado Christmas" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, a song written by Steve Goodman. I listened to it numerous times during the Christmas season and call it up other times. It's pure nostalgia, a musician in a L.A. hotel dreaming about "Telluride and Boulder Down below." No mention of Denver, my hometown, or Aurora, where I did some of my growing up, or Fort Collins, where I attended grad school. Telluride is a wonder, deep in the Rockies, well known for skiing and summer music festivals. Something beautiful about sitting on a grassy field under the stars listening to music. Boulder, of course, is known coast-to-coast for its counterculture vibe, beatniks and hippies, Naropa Institute, the CU cafeteria named for a Colorado cannibal, "South Park," and the Flatirons jutting up to the west like, well, flatirons. John Fante grew up in Boulder. You can get heated up about your favorite cause and then cool off at the Dalton Trumbo Fountain Court on the CU campus.

So, is NGDB from Colorado? They are in the Colorado Music Hall of Fame and many in its roster of performers live in Colorado. Long-time member Jimmy Ibbotson had a recording studio in Woody Creek outside Aspen, also known as the lair of the late Hunter S. Thompson.

I first heard "Colorado Christmas" in Aspen. Christine and I were up in Starwood, heading to our friend Steve's father's house, when we got stuck in a snowbank. We drove an AMC/Renault compact, not even front-wheel drive. Driving up the night before, we got lost and stopped at an intersection where a big 4WD was parked. Obviously lost, we waved, the window rolled down, and John Denver poked out his head. Yes, he said, this is the right road to Starwood. We thanked him and didn't even ask him for a song. We maneuvered up the scary road to the summit. Two hours later we drove down. The next morning, we drove back up and got stuck. As we did the usual rock-and-roll motion to free the car, "Colorado Christmas" came on the radio. I thought it was the most beautiful song I ever heard even though at that very moment we were stuck on a quiet Christmas morning in the Colorado snow. "The closest thing to heaven on this planet anywhere..." What could we do? We laughed, and kept on rollin'.

We live in Florida now.

Speaking of Christmas memories --

"A Christmas Memory" was a 1966 Emmy-winning televised story by Truman Capote. A remake appeared later but it lacked what made the earlier one stand out, narrator Capote. So special to hear his voice recall a rural Alabama childhood memory. A young Capote (Buddy in the story) is deserted by his parents and stays with his grown-up second cousin Sook whose goal for the season is to make 30 fruitcakes for friends and neighbors. She is dirt-poor in the midst of the Great Depression and she and Buddy scrape together what they have saved during the year and set out on their quest. First stop: salvage "windfall pecans" from Farmer Callahan's grove. They buy makings at the general store and a bottle of bootleg whiskey from Ha Ha Jones Fish Fry and Dancing Cafe. They make the cakes and distribute them just in time for Christmas. The cakes are sweet and imply a bit of a buzz. The sweetest part is the young Capote and his grown-up voice, this tiny story that came from the writer who gave us true stories of Kansas murderers, Manhattan society dames, and tortured souls who haunt Tiffany's. Capote was a tortured soul but how he could write. 

Listen to Linda: Don't ignore those symptoms

This is a reprint of a Wyoming Tribune-Eagle column by old friend and work colleague Linda Coatney of Cheyenne, Wyo. It speaks of a subject important to us all, especially those of a certain age. Reprinted as a public service, whether you're in the windswept wilds of Wyoming or the soggy swamplands of Central Florida. 

We remember our brother Tommy

Tommy Shay and his dog Duke

In Memoriam: Tommy Shay 

Thomas Gerard Shay (“Tommy”), age 65, passed away peacefully after a short illness on Christmas Day, 2025, with family at his side.  He was an organ donor and willed his body to medical research. He was born in Denver on Jan. 28, 1960, and grew up in Wichita, KS, Moses Lake, WA, and Daytona Beach, and was a long-time resident of Palm Bay where he worked as a machinist for 30 years at Winchester Interconnect, Melbourne. He is survived by brothers Michael Shay (Christine) and Timothy Shay (Jen) both of Ormond Beach, four sisters Molly Shay Shakar of Decatur, GA, Eileen Shay Casey (Brian) of Winter Park, FL, Maureen Shay Martinez (Ralph) Ormond Beach. and Mary Shay Powell (Neill), Tallahassee, and his significant other, Tani Hopkins, Decatur, GA. His brothers Daniel Shay (Nancy) of Ormond Beach and Patrick Shay (Jean) of Palm Bay preceded him in death, as did his parents, Anna Hett Shay and Thomas Reed Shay. His family meant everything to him and he will be mourned by his nephews and nieces: Kevin, Annie, Meghan, Connor, Ryan, Bryce, Thomas, Michael, Katie, Maggie, Erin, Katie, Olivia, Finn, Mayzee, Sean, Maddie, Olivia, Morgan and his many great-nieces and nephews. Tommy grew up surfing in Daytona Beach and was a founding member of the “Hartford Heavies.” The family dog, Shannon, was his constant companion while he surfed.  As an adult, he spent Sundays surfcasting with friends on Melbourne Beach. He lent a helping hand to family, friends, and neighbors who looked forward to ripe avocados and limes from Tommy’s backyard orchard. He camped with his dogs Ophie and his hound Duke who passed away in 2023. He was proud of his stamp and coin collections. Tommy was a metal detector hunter and tossed foreign coins on the beach for other hunters to find. “He looked out for everyone,” said his surf-fishing buddy.  Tommy loved dogs and requested donations be made to Riley’s Rescue of Brevard County, 215 Krefeld Rd. NW, Palm Bay, FL 32907 or FL Aid to Animals/Palm Bay, 3585 Bayside Lake Blvd. SE, Palm Bay, FL 32909. Tommy was a spiritual person but at his request, no service will be held. His family has tentatively scheduled a Paddle Out on April 4, 2026 at the Hartford Avenue approach in Daytona Beach; details to be determined.

The family welcomes comments and remembrances. 

https://www.news-journalonline.com/obituaries/psar1368055

When surfers die

Dedicated to my brother, Tommy Shay, 65, who died Christmas Day in Orlando from cancer complications.

Paddle out, man. Dig deep, feel the tide’s pull as you stroke against it. Surf is bitchin’ today. A storm heads through, leaves behind a five-foot swell that breaks clean in the offshore wind. You paddle with the swell, ocean feathers around you and something magnificent jumps in your chest as you glide with the wave. This moment will last forever. You kick free and head back to the breakers to find a circle of surfers in a becalmed sea. One holds an urn of ashes. In it are beach sunrises, great waves, friendships. The ashes drift with the sea. One last time, you paddle out to meet the sun.

Paddle Out for Tommy tentatively scheduled at Hartford Av approach in Daytona for April 4, with warmer seas and fair winds.