I have known Greg for over 50 years and I’ll say that he is one of the most bizarre human beings I’ve ever met. While successfully dodging all of the things that would have made him an upstanding citizen, college, career, marriage, family, he managed to seize a little bit of back door success in his later years with a flat pick in his hand.
Who and what is to blame for the countless hours of bluegrass twang waffling from the open windows of his Southeast Portland home? His neighbor Fiddlin’ Dave and an old dusty Doc Watson album. On a couple of occasions Dave and Greg went busking across this vast country in an old VW bus armed with a toolbox full of duct tape and bailing wire. They both love the little towns in the South, stopping at every thrift store and pee wee golf course along the way. They would pick tunes in the courthouse square.
Though he looked ridiculous in a polyester cowboy suit, Greg’s state of sweet innocence and oblivion was mildly entertaining. Greg and Dave also made two exciting trips to Europe. I will not go into the poodle incident in Prague. It was ugly. I’ll just say that absinthe was consumed without supervision.
Back home Greg seems to have everyone fooled and is now teaching this stuff of bluegrass music encouraged by the late George Chudacoff who taught Greg everything he knows. If you happen to run into Greg at a bluegrass festival, or take any of his classes or lessons, (I’m sure you will agree with me about the bizarre). Happy pickin’!!