Author Archives: Hardin Butcher
Big Band on Bus: A Tale of the Open, Go^%$mned Road (Part Deux)
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher Editor’s Note: The following events took place (really) on a recent Big Band road tour. All names have been changed—not to protect the innocent, but to preclude Dr. Butcher’s being sued. Syntax and diction will be familiar and routine for readers who are, know, and/or live with […]
Big Band on Bus: A Tale of the Open, Go^%$mned Road
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher Note: The following events took place (really) on a recent Big Band road tour. All names have been changed—not to protect the innocent, but to preclude my being sued. Syntax and diction will be familiar and routine for readers who are, know, and/or live with Big Band […]
Tressel, Tattoos & The Need to Belong
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher LONG ISLAND New York—(Weekly Hubris)—6/13/11—With the three-ring circus of media attention surrounding the Ohio State football program over the past weeks, it has become apparent that perception has once again fallen to reality. Jim Tressel, a man whose public persona was that of dogged coach, moral compass, […]
Have Trumpet, Will Travel (& Travel, and Travel)
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher “In a highway service station/Over the month of June/Was a photograph of the earth/Taken coming back from the moon/And you couldn’t see a city/On that marbled bowling ball/Or a forest or a highway/Or me here least of all/You couldn’t see these cold water restrooms/Or this baggage overload/Westbound […]
The Wrong of Spring, or DO Sweat It
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher LONG ISLAND New York—(Weekly Hubris)—4/11/11—Ahhh, spring. What could possibly be more universally welcomed than the return of warm weather, baseball, and the faint, glimmering hope of another sunny summer? And what a winter we’ve just wrapped up here on Long Island! It seems like every week there […]
Remembering Buddy Morrow
This IS My Day Gig! by Hardin Butcher Long Island New York—(Weekly Hubris)—3/28/11—People often ask me how old I am. That either means that my cherubic face doesn’t match my withered sardonicism, or that I’m in the midst of doing something that a grown man isn’t likely to do outside an Adam Sandler film. I […]