HITCHHIKING
WITH LARRY DAVID
An Accidental Tourists Summer of
Self-Discovery in Marthas Vineyard
PAUL SAMUEL DOLMAN
GOTHAM BOOKS
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Copyright 2013 by Paul Samuel Dolman
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Dolman, Paul Samuel.
Hitchhiking with Larry David : an accidental tourists summer of self-discovery in Marthas Vineyard / Paul Samuel Dolman.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-101-62173-8
1. Marthas Vineyard (Mass.)Description and travel. 2. Dolman, Paul SamuelTravelMassachusettsMarthas Vineyard. 3. Dolman, Paul SamuelChildhood and youth. 4. HitchhikingMassachusettsMarthas Vineyard. 5. Dolman, Paul SamuelPhilosophy. 6. Self-actualization (Psychology) 7. David, Larry. 8. Marthas Vineyard (Mass.)Biography. 9. Marthas Vineyard (Mass.)Social life and customs. I. Title.
F72.M5D65 2013
917.44'9404dc23
2012047073
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are the authors alone.
Introduction
In the summer of 1974, Steven Spielberg and I landed on Marthas Vineyard. I came for a family vacation; he was there to shoot Jaws.
I stepped off the old, single-engine prop plane and knew instantly that this was where I belonged. Quite simply, it was love at first sight. I felt as if there were magic in the wind. My spine tingled; I could taste the sea on my lips. This place was home.
With its quaint New England charm and captivating beauty, the Vineyard sits off the base of Cape Cod, a mere seven miles from the reality of the mainland. With her pristine beaches and endless miles of green meadows, the island feels like heaven. There are no traffic lights, billboards, highways, or malls on this rock. An unguarded feeling permeates peoples attitudes and tends to relax their faces. Yes, I know, an environment this laid-back and carefree sounds almost un-American. Which is precisely the charm of the place.
The island is cool in another way, too. While the rest of the country staggers through the sweltering heat of summer, the chilly Atlantic waters keep the Vineyard incubated in a comfortable climate with fragrant sea breezes. Even in the underbelly of August, it is not unusual to throw on a sweater when contemplating the stars.
Aside from the occasional borrowed bike, or the sight of me strolling along the nude beach, there is no real crime on these shores. The Vineyard is safe enough for residents to leave the front door open and the keys hanging in the ignition; even to do a little hitchhikingsometimes with surprising results.
Both the world and I have changed quite a bit through the years, yet this magical little isle has managed to stay relatively unspoiled. Though I have traveled extensively, the Vineyard has always felt like home. Its the one place where I can completely let go and see the extraordinary in the ordinary.
I believe in miracles.
For all the people throughout my life who have picked me up when I really needed a lift. Thank you!
CHAPTER 1
Soul Mates
At the age of forty-eight, feeling becalmed in listless waters without a following wind, I am drawn toward geographic salvation. I am once again on a plane returning to my summertime sanctuary, hopeful that my mystical island goddess can heal that which lies broken within me. I pray that the Vineyards magic will repair not only some recent wounds, but maybe a few old ones, too.
God, has it really been six years since my last visit? Theres no excuse for the lapse, other than wanting to avoid the insanity of my parents. Actually thats a pretty good reason. Visiting them in Florida during the winters has fulfilled my filial duties, up until now.
As the clouds pass below my wistful gaze, my mind drifts back a decade, to that time in Nashville, Tennessee, when I was running my company, South Beach Entertainment, named for my place of birth. South Beach was more boutique than behemoth. The business allowed me to channel my love of music and empowering people into a career that was enjoyable, and eventually quite lucrative.
What did South Beach do? Whatever our clients needed or wanted. We helped songwriters to hone their image and select their songs; get their music to major artists; and get recorded. One client had a scenery company that built stages; another owned a recording studio in Florida that produced songs for television and film. We would pretty much do anything, as long as it was legal and somehow involved the most crucial aspect of any entertainment venture: long strategy sessions over ridiculously expensive dinners.
I had come to the Music City straight out of Berklee College of Music in Boston, the famous school where, for reasons that elude me to this day, I received a full scholarship to study composition and the piano. For two long years, I tiptoed around the hallowed halls, waiting for their expensive bookkeeping error to be discovered and for my deportation to commence. During that time, I also managed to write and record several songs that caught the attention of the Nashville publishing houses. After a few of the songs were actually published in exchange for a modest sum of money and a few pints of blood, I packed up my rat-infested Back Bay hovel and headed south.
I occupied my evenings playing piano at what was surely the worlds smokiest bar. Not only did this place completely cure me of any stage fright, it also taught me to play a wide variety of show tunes while holding my breath for three to four hours at a time.
I also caught a break while pumping gas on my first full day in town. I noticed a guy across from me filling up his shiny ride, and figured since he had a new car and a beard, he had to be in the music industry. This calculation proved correct, and within a month I was working for his company in the tape roomthe Nashville equivalent of the mailroommaking cassette tapes for the more successful writers in the firm. If it werent for this one man, I would never have worked in the music business. And to this day, I have never forgiven him for it.