I stopped by the Orange Blossom Fair on my way home from my Saturday gig because,in part, a student of mine had some paintings hanging at one of the art booths. I didn't see him, but I saw his two paintings. One was a man standing under a moon and a cactus standing under the sun. The other was a thing with a tribal mask and a sideways Kabuki and/or Elvis face hovering over a city-scape, also sideways.
I don't know art.
I also thought I'd get myself a big floppy hat for summertime at this booth Do told me about.
I also thought that I'd check out the fair, since I've never gone.
So I walked around and found the hat place fairly quickly. $20 bucks and full head coverage for those hot, sunny days of summer. It ain't attractive, but it covers my head. Liked it so much I got one for Mom when we take her out in the sun, which doesn't happen often, but it happens.
Soon, I located the booth where Spicoli, my student, said he would be with his art. Before checking the art, I decided to get something to eat.
There was typical fair fare: funnel cakes, corn-on-the-cob, falafels, various types of phallic organ meats.
There was a beer garden of sorts with several micro-breweries on display. I don't drink anymore, but I checked it out for the food possibilities. As I entered, I witnessed one of the many reasons why beer at a public function is a bad idea. This drunken kid and his drunken girlfriend were arguing with this poor rent-a-cop about why they couldn't take their 3/4's full cups of beer with them out onto the main thoroughfare. There were signs going in and signs going out that mentioned that all beer had to stay within the boundaries, and everyone else seemed to understand that, but this guy kept asking the same belligerent questions: "Don't they sell beer in other booths? What's the big deal?"
The big deal is that assholes like this guy should be kept in as confined a space as possible so fewer people have to deal with him.
I stopped by a kabob stand after studying what was being served. I ordered a kabob and was surprised to see that I got just that-a kabob and nothing else. I had to ask for a fork and a napkin. No knives. No side-dishes. No water.
It was a delicious, chicken-flavored charcoal kabob. The problem with most street faire food is that it sounds like a good idea until you bite into it. I wish there were a natural law that said that, when you eat street faire food and find it less tasty, its calories or cholesterol don't count.
Anyway, my top ten ideas for street fair booths that would be sure to make money:
1. A ukulele clinic. I saw a guitar and drum clinic, but there were few people there learning about the guitar or drum because, on a hot, sunny day, they're to hefty to carry around at a large street fair. I think ukuleles would be a better draw. They are small, unthreatening, easy to carry and you could have a kid playing one in no time.
2. A napkin booth. Most Faire food is sloppy food. The kabob I had was smothered in barbecue sauce to accentuate the delightful charcoal flavor. The two napkins I had were gone before I had finished half the kabob. You could charge $5 bucks for a set of six napkins.
3. A food exchange for people who begin to eat their food from another booth and immediately regret buying it. They might be willing to trade theirs in for someone else's mistake.
4. A vomitorium booth for people who eat bad street food. You could use ostrich feathers. In fact you could raise ostriches just for this pupose. After every visit to the vomitorium booth, the guest would once again have an empty stomache ready for the next (hopefully) tastey morsel. Emu feathers for the little'uns.
5. An Ostrich Burger booth for next year if the vomitorium doesn't take off as well as expected.
6. A drunk dunk tank for dealing with obnoxious drunks who don't know how to behave in public. When a person gets drunk, the rent-a-cops could just handcuff them and take them to the drunk dunk tank. This would be the same as a regular drunk tank, except the drunk would be handcuffed and helpless to swim around in the tank. You could have someone recue them before they drowned, if you wanted to.
7. A shade booth.
8. An atheist booth to hand out literature about our isloation in the universe.
9. An agnostic booth.
Every booth with any religious affiliation would have to be placed between an atheist and an agnostic booth. Hey, why should they have it so easy?
10. A panpipe smashing booth. These guys were entertaining when they first start popping up at these faires. But, hey, I've had enough. Give it a rest.
I still like bagpipes, though.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Dream #1
I am going to the Taos Writers' Conference again this summer. I just got letters from both workshop leaders. In these, they usually ask participants to complete specific writing assignments.
The leader for my poetry workshop has asked us to write down two sentences that represent authentic voices of people we know. So, if your a friend of mine and I ask you to repeat something you said and then try to write it down, you know why. Please continue to try to sound authentic.
The other assignment is to write down four dreams we have had. I have been having a little anxiety over this. Other than the dream about the angry bunnies, I can't think of one. Part of that is because I have been asked to. I think, because dreams are of such a personal nature, my subconscious is blocking them. The only thing that comes to mind are the usual flying, falling, swimming type dreams.
By the way, when I fly in my dreams, I am usually flapping my arms and am in an upright position and I need to make a walking motion to go forward. If I stop any of these, I begin to fall.
So, lately, I have had trouble remembering my dreams. If I do remember when I get up, I'm usually in such a hurry to get to school, that I don't take the time to write them down. When I find myself at school behind a desk with a pen and paper, I have already forgotten the dream.
I think also, because I have had trouble getting a full night's sleep lately, I'm just not alseep long enough for a dream to really get going and make an impact on me.
So, last night, I got to bed early and really got a good night's sleep.
Here's my dream before it dissipates into the light of day:
I am at a high school dance. It is outside in kind of a surreal twilight setting. In fact, it seems to be at the church I grew up in, an old, stately building-somber looking and dignified. Students from my school are all dressed up. They are all dancing. They all want to see me dance.
My sisters appears. We begin dancing. The dancers are not doing any contemporary dances. Instead, they are doing ballroom-type dances. In fact, it is a pretty quiet dance for a high school dance. Everyone is dancing on either the lawn or the parking lot, with the church in the background.
So my sister and I are dancing and doing pretty well. We dip towards the end of the dance. Then, as a joke, we continue dipping until we are on our asses. Then, I continue the dip even further, and we are on our backs.
We laugh. Then we start to get up-my sister first. But she can't get up. Every time she tries, she falls back over. She lifts her butt first and tries to steady her legs and just collapses. I notice that her legs are malformed at the knee, kind of long and skinny, and realize that she might never get up again.
Still sitting on the ground, I become very self-conscious of the fact that I too might have trouble getting up. I try very slowly and find my legs indeed are wobbly. After a couple of attempts, I do get shakily up. But it's clear that it isn't easy. In fact, everyone at the dance notices and is concerned. A car drives by and my sister, still having trouble standing, gets in and speeds off.
That's about where I woke up.
When I began this, I thought I'd try analyzing it. But I think I won't-at least not in writing. I believe that dreams are methods used by our brains to resolve issues that we can't resolve in reality. For example, if your boss is an ass, and he treats you like crap, but you need the job and can't really do anything about the problem, your brain tries to take care of it at night so, at least partially, your brain can feel like the problem has been dealt with. In reality, the problem might still exist, but the tension is relieved a little bit as far as your brain is concerned.
The leader for my poetry workshop has asked us to write down two sentences that represent authentic voices of people we know. So, if your a friend of mine and I ask you to repeat something you said and then try to write it down, you know why. Please continue to try to sound authentic.
The other assignment is to write down four dreams we have had. I have been having a little anxiety over this. Other than the dream about the angry bunnies, I can't think of one. Part of that is because I have been asked to. I think, because dreams are of such a personal nature, my subconscious is blocking them. The only thing that comes to mind are the usual flying, falling, swimming type dreams.
By the way, when I fly in my dreams, I am usually flapping my arms and am in an upright position and I need to make a walking motion to go forward. If I stop any of these, I begin to fall.
So, lately, I have had trouble remembering my dreams. If I do remember when I get up, I'm usually in such a hurry to get to school, that I don't take the time to write them down. When I find myself at school behind a desk with a pen and paper, I have already forgotten the dream.
I think also, because I have had trouble getting a full night's sleep lately, I'm just not alseep long enough for a dream to really get going and make an impact on me.
So, last night, I got to bed early and really got a good night's sleep.
Here's my dream before it dissipates into the light of day:
I am at a high school dance. It is outside in kind of a surreal twilight setting. In fact, it seems to be at the church I grew up in, an old, stately building-somber looking and dignified. Students from my school are all dressed up. They are all dancing. They all want to see me dance.
My sisters appears. We begin dancing. The dancers are not doing any contemporary dances. Instead, they are doing ballroom-type dances. In fact, it is a pretty quiet dance for a high school dance. Everyone is dancing on either the lawn or the parking lot, with the church in the background.
So my sister and I are dancing and doing pretty well. We dip towards the end of the dance. Then, as a joke, we continue dipping until we are on our asses. Then, I continue the dip even further, and we are on our backs.
We laugh. Then we start to get up-my sister first. But she can't get up. Every time she tries, she falls back over. She lifts her butt first and tries to steady her legs and just collapses. I notice that her legs are malformed at the knee, kind of long and skinny, and realize that she might never get up again.
Still sitting on the ground, I become very self-conscious of the fact that I too might have trouble getting up. I try very slowly and find my legs indeed are wobbly. After a couple of attempts, I do get shakily up. But it's clear that it isn't easy. In fact, everyone at the dance notices and is concerned. A car drives by and my sister, still having trouble standing, gets in and speeds off.
That's about where I woke up.
When I began this, I thought I'd try analyzing it. But I think I won't-at least not in writing. I believe that dreams are methods used by our brains to resolve issues that we can't resolve in reality. For example, if your boss is an ass, and he treats you like crap, but you need the job and can't really do anything about the problem, your brain tries to take care of it at night so, at least partially, your brain can feel like the problem has been dealt with. In reality, the problem might still exist, but the tension is relieved a little bit as far as your brain is concerned.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Bruce Springsteen's "The Pete Seeger Sessions"
Billy C, Princess Canary, and I recently took an expedition to the Folk Center to check out ukes and just hob-nob about the lovely town of Claremont a couple of weeks ago. While there, I bought the latest open mike DVD and some nifty wound soprano uke strings. I thought I would transfer my Nyl-guts to my Oscar Schmidt and put these new honeys on my Harmony.
After our visit, we went the eatery next door and got some fine grub. Then, we adventured over to the Rhino Records store across the street. Billy wanted me to test-drive the new Springsteen CD, "The Pete Seeger Sessions," which has the Boss and a band of musicians jamming to tunes associated with Pete Seeger, the folksinger/shaman of the USA. He had this one song in particular that he wanted me to hear.
The nice tattooed girl at the check-out counter gave me the preview CD and I sauntered over to the listening station, placed the CD in the player, and put on a headset. I got no sound, so I adjusted the nob. Still no sound. I adjusted the nob again. Nothing.
Billy C went over and got a young lady with multiple piercings to come help me. She pointed out that I had the wrong headset on. Someone had put the headsets for my machine on top of the neighboring machine and had put that machine's headset on my machine. So I un-switched them, made a couple of self-deprecating jokes, and put the new headset on.
I couldn't figure out why the Princess and Billy would laugh every time I made a comment about the CD as I was listening to it. Apparently I was doing that thing where you talk loudly when wearing a headset because you forget that you're the only one for whom the music is loud. So, apparently, I was shouting at them and I guess people were staring at me.
But, what the hey, this CD is worth shouting about. It has a snazzy informal, jazzy feel to it. Springsteen pulled a folk music thingy by not just singing the songs, but re-interpreting them, making them contemporary. Heck, he showed how timeless these songs are.
I remember singing songs like "Ol' Dan Tucker" in elementary school, having no idea what it was about. Springsteen takes these and other songs and gives them the feel of news-worthy immediacy they must have had when our folk-fathers first created them. You could imagine Dan Tucker sitting there, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, laughing at what someone had been written about him.
Each rendition is a gem, but the ones that stand out to me are the gospel tune "Mary Don't You Weep" and "The Eerie Canal." Also, the Seeger staple "We Shall Overcome." Every time I hear that song, I get misty-eyed.
After our visit, we went the eatery next door and got some fine grub. Then, we adventured over to the Rhino Records store across the street. Billy wanted me to test-drive the new Springsteen CD, "The Pete Seeger Sessions," which has the Boss and a band of musicians jamming to tunes associated with Pete Seeger, the folksinger/shaman of the USA. He had this one song in particular that he wanted me to hear.
The nice tattooed girl at the check-out counter gave me the preview CD and I sauntered over to the listening station, placed the CD in the player, and put on a headset. I got no sound, so I adjusted the nob. Still no sound. I adjusted the nob again. Nothing.
Billy C went over and got a young lady with multiple piercings to come help me. She pointed out that I had the wrong headset on. Someone had put the headsets for my machine on top of the neighboring machine and had put that machine's headset on my machine. So I un-switched them, made a couple of self-deprecating jokes, and put the new headset on.
I couldn't figure out why the Princess and Billy would laugh every time I made a comment about the CD as I was listening to it. Apparently I was doing that thing where you talk loudly when wearing a headset because you forget that you're the only one for whom the music is loud. So, apparently, I was shouting at them and I guess people were staring at me.
But, what the hey, this CD is worth shouting about. It has a snazzy informal, jazzy feel to it. Springsteen pulled a folk music thingy by not just singing the songs, but re-interpreting them, making them contemporary. Heck, he showed how timeless these songs are.
I remember singing songs like "Ol' Dan Tucker" in elementary school, having no idea what it was about. Springsteen takes these and other songs and gives them the feel of news-worthy immediacy they must have had when our folk-fathers first created them. You could imagine Dan Tucker sitting there, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, laughing at what someone had been written about him.
Each rendition is a gem, but the ones that stand out to me are the gospel tune "Mary Don't You Weep" and "The Eerie Canal." Also, the Seeger staple "We Shall Overcome." Every time I hear that song, I get misty-eyed.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
The Canaries Rehearse
After dinner tonight, we headed back to Mama C's assisted living apartment and rehearsed "I Shall Be Released" by Bro Bob. Blowhard (the nickname comes from his angelic abilities on the harmonica) C played his guitar, while Billy C played baritone uke and I played my fluke. We each took a verse and harmonized on the chorus, With Blowhard taking melody, Billy C taking tenor, and me singing baritone. Sounded sweet. There was a moment when it looked like we might start on another song, I think "Positively 4th Street," but I asked that we rehearse "I Shall Be Released again." I wanted us to come a little closer to nailing it than we had. Billy and Blowhard had a little more practice on it than I had, so I needed to go over it a few times. So, if we appear as the Canaries again, that will be one of the songs.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Can You Hear Me Now?
Remember the second installment of Star Wars? Not the second episode, but the second installment, The Empire Strikes Back. There was this bald guy who followed Lando Calrisian around. He never spoke and had this electronic gizmo around his head, covering his ears. No one ever explained who he was, what he did, or what the gizmo was. The only time it was ever hinted at who he was and what the gizmo was for was when Lando realized that he had to help Leah and the robots escape aboard the Millenium Falcon because all hell was about to break loose. At that moment, the bald guy and Lando shot one another a knowing look. At that point, I surmised, all of the little lights in the bald guy's head Gizmo started broadcasting instructions into the Millenium Falcon's data base and perhaps notifying all of Lando's loyal friends to get the Hell out of Dodge.
The bald guy and his gizmo were there for these types of emergencies-at least that's what I surmised. I figure now that this gizmo was an old-school futuristic rendition of a cell phone. If the film had been made in this day and age, or if George Lucas could digitally fix it, the bald guy would be wearing one of those ear-pieces that you see on the streets today.
I bring this up because today I am at the RCC Reading and Writing Center and my friend and colleague (The Lee, as I call him), has just introduced me to one of our fellow adjunct instructors. The three of us chatted for awhile and I couldn't help but be distracted by this ear-piece she was wearing. It looked like one of those things Madonna wears onstage, except it had this wire that ran down the front of her blouse and ended at this little tiny microphone that was clipped near her collar.
These devices seem to be the rage. Many people whom I respect, including Billy C, wear these things. There was even this guy at the harmonica workshop
who played a blues harpo and wore one of these things. That just seems weird to me.
I have an old-school cell phone: big, awkward to carry in your pocket, always lost. I sometimes carry it with me. But I only use it grudgingly, since fewer and fewer places seem to have reliable payphones. Few people have the number because I don't want to get interrupted when I'm busy with something else.
I've always had a slight phobia about phones, since my days working retail in the Monkey Wards' Catalog Department. So I try to control their intrusions into my life. I can't imagine why anyone would want one around all of the time.
The first time I realized how behind the times I was occured when I went to grad school at the same university where I had earned my BA 20 years earlier. Back in the day, you would see mostly people walking around talking to each other. But the first thing I noticed in grad school was the number of people walking around talking on their cell phones. As I approached graduation, I began to see people walking around seeming to talk to themselves. These people, of course, had these little wire microphone things so they wouldn't have to hold the cell phone to their heads and get brain cancer.
Now, of course, they have these little ear-piece cell phones that you can just stick in your ear and go forth in a state of constant contact.
Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase "Be Here Now."
The bald guy and his gizmo were there for these types of emergencies-at least that's what I surmised. I figure now that this gizmo was an old-school futuristic rendition of a cell phone. If the film had been made in this day and age, or if George Lucas could digitally fix it, the bald guy would be wearing one of those ear-pieces that you see on the streets today.
I bring this up because today I am at the RCC Reading and Writing Center and my friend and colleague (The Lee, as I call him), has just introduced me to one of our fellow adjunct instructors. The three of us chatted for awhile and I couldn't help but be distracted by this ear-piece she was wearing. It looked like one of those things Madonna wears onstage, except it had this wire that ran down the front of her blouse and ended at this little tiny microphone that was clipped near her collar.
These devices seem to be the rage. Many people whom I respect, including Billy C, wear these things. There was even this guy at the harmonica workshop
who played a blues harpo and wore one of these things. That just seems weird to me.
I have an old-school cell phone: big, awkward to carry in your pocket, always lost. I sometimes carry it with me. But I only use it grudgingly, since fewer and fewer places seem to have reliable payphones. Few people have the number because I don't want to get interrupted when I'm busy with something else.
I've always had a slight phobia about phones, since my days working retail in the Monkey Wards' Catalog Department. So I try to control their intrusions into my life. I can't imagine why anyone would want one around all of the time.
The first time I realized how behind the times I was occured when I went to grad school at the same university where I had earned my BA 20 years earlier. Back in the day, you would see mostly people walking around talking to each other. But the first thing I noticed in grad school was the number of people walking around talking on their cell phones. As I approached graduation, I began to see people walking around seeming to talk to themselves. These people, of course, had these little wire microphone things so they wouldn't have to hold the cell phone to their heads and get brain cancer.
Now, of course, they have these little ear-piece cell phones that you can just stick in your ear and go forth in a state of constant contact.
Puts a whole new meaning to the phrase "Be Here Now."
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
The North and The South
I didn't say anything tonight, but during the Mt. Rub walk, my body was talking to me about two different subjects at once.
Normally, since I am diabetic, I try to eat something before I exercise. I'm having to re-train myself in this regard. My afternoon didn't go as I had planned. I ended up in a books store because I ended up with an extra hour to kill. So I went and bought a copy of Emile Zola's GERMINAL, which my teaching partner wanted me to read. I went in the back to the froo-froo coffee place and ordered a lightly sweetened froo-froo coffee beverage and sat down to read for a little while.
When I finished, I figured that the milk and beverage would carry me through the hike, since I had a late lunch.
On my way to Mt. Rub, I got trapped by the usual 6 PM train that seems to always slow to a stop when your in a hurry. So I untrapped myself and went and got a few groceries for my lunch tomorrow. I thought about a preemptive trip to the restroom before my walk, since it takes around an hour and I had just had a froo-froo coffee beverage, but I was a little worried about being too late and Do was waiting and I didn't want to leave her hanging out there alone that close to dark.
When I finally got to the mountain, I was about five minutes late.
The walk went well until we began to round the first bend on our way back down. First, I began to feel nature's call. I thought about stopping somewhere and exercising the male prerogative of urinating at will, but the mountain was busy with walkers and I thought I could hold it for awhile.
Then, I began to feel a little hungry. This gradually built up to full-out bonking (when your blood sugar drops). I keep some energy bars in my car, which was 15 minutes away, so I figured I'd be okay. But, as I got closer, the bonking grew and I began to feel a little wobbly. I didn't say anything because I still thought I would be okay.
At the same time, my bladdular needs were increasingly increasing. It was a race between bodily urges.
I probably should have said something about the bonking to Do, but I didn't. But I did wonder if I would have to linger in my car while the energy bar entered my blood stream. Then I remembered that I had a case of orange juice in my trunk that I had not yet unloaded. So, when I got the car, I chugged that, which took less time to de-bonk me than the energy bar would have.
As far as the other need, let's just say I took care of that soon after.
And, by the way Do, if I seemed like I was losing interest in what you were saying and that I was in a hurry to get away, that's why. I was having a little trouble focusing.
Well, a few minutes with Zola, and I'm out.
Normally, since I am diabetic, I try to eat something before I exercise. I'm having to re-train myself in this regard. My afternoon didn't go as I had planned. I ended up in a books store because I ended up with an extra hour to kill. So I went and bought a copy of Emile Zola's GERMINAL, which my teaching partner wanted me to read. I went in the back to the froo-froo coffee place and ordered a lightly sweetened froo-froo coffee beverage and sat down to read for a little while.
When I finished, I figured that the milk and beverage would carry me through the hike, since I had a late lunch.
On my way to Mt. Rub, I got trapped by the usual 6 PM train that seems to always slow to a stop when your in a hurry. So I untrapped myself and went and got a few groceries for my lunch tomorrow. I thought about a preemptive trip to the restroom before my walk, since it takes around an hour and I had just had a froo-froo coffee beverage, but I was a little worried about being too late and Do was waiting and I didn't want to leave her hanging out there alone that close to dark.
When I finally got to the mountain, I was about five minutes late.
The walk went well until we began to round the first bend on our way back down. First, I began to feel nature's call. I thought about stopping somewhere and exercising the male prerogative of urinating at will, but the mountain was busy with walkers and I thought I could hold it for awhile.
Then, I began to feel a little hungry. This gradually built up to full-out bonking (when your blood sugar drops). I keep some energy bars in my car, which was 15 minutes away, so I figured I'd be okay. But, as I got closer, the bonking grew and I began to feel a little wobbly. I didn't say anything because I still thought I would be okay.
At the same time, my bladdular needs were increasingly increasing. It was a race between bodily urges.
I probably should have said something about the bonking to Do, but I didn't. But I did wonder if I would have to linger in my car while the energy bar entered my blood stream. Then I remembered that I had a case of orange juice in my trunk that I had not yet unloaded. So, when I got the car, I chugged that, which took less time to de-bonk me than the energy bar would have.
As far as the other need, let's just say I took care of that soon after.
And, by the way Do, if I seemed like I was losing interest in what you were saying and that I was in a hurry to get away, that's why. I was having a little trouble focusing.
Well, a few minutes with Zola, and I'm out.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Last Night of Class from Hell
I took a celebratory-late night walk up Mt. Rub tonight. I started pretty late, about 7:10 PM. But I had to exercise the polluted feeling I had from taking this damn class on English Language Development. God, it was horrible. And I'm not sure that anyone became a better teacher for it.
So, I'm done.
The walk did me good. It was around 8 when I wound around the mountain and started downhill, so I got to see the city at dusk and the clouds that blew in overhead as the wind swept around me and my fellow hikers.
I'm walking at a pretty brisk pace these days, when I walk alone. I might walk a little slower when walking with Do, but that's because we talk and talking slows one down. When I'm alone, I get going pretty fast. I'm going to try to walk every night this week.
So, I'm done.
The walk did me good. It was around 8 when I wound around the mountain and started downhill, so I got to see the city at dusk and the clouds that blew in overhead as the wind swept around me and my fellow hikers.
I'm walking at a pretty brisk pace these days, when I walk alone. I might walk a little slower when walking with Do, but that's because we talk and talking slows one down. When I'm alone, I get going pretty fast. I'm going to try to walk every night this week.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Brother Can You Spare a Dime?
I was looking for the link to the chords and lyrics of "Brother Can You Spare a Dime," and I found the lyrics with the following intro, sans chords. Anybody know what the chords would be?
They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob.
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job...
They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead --
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
They used to tell me I was building a dream
And so I followed the mob.
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job...
They used to tell me I was building a dream
With peace and glory ahead --
Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread?
Thursday, April 20, 2006
The Angry Bunnies
This post by Howlin'Hobbit
reminded me of a dream I had about one of my phobias.
I don’t have many fears. In fact, most things that people are afraid of don’t bother me at all. I don’t mind being in an elevator, even when it’s stuck between floors. Heights only bother me a little bit. But I do have one irrational fear. It goes back to when I was a little boy.
When I was three years old, I was brutally attacked by my pet hamster. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I remember its beady, crazed eyes; its razor sharp teeth; its calm, quiet demeanor before the attack. If only I had known what it had in store for me.
Fluffy had just had a litter of baby hamsters. After this miraculous event, I would spend hours staring into her cage as the pink baby hamsters nuzzled her soft white belly fur, suckling on their mother's tiny hamster bazooms. I did not know that you’re not supposed to disturb a mother hamster and her young. They become irrational. My parents had warned me to leave her alone, but I was a curious child and often had to learn for myself. I had reached into the cage to pet Fluffy one too many times. She snapped and bit me on my finger, causing a geyser of blood to gush forth. I cried and screamed. My mother grabbed me and pulled away before it was too late. Blood spurted from my wounded finger, spraying the walls and furniture of our once-pristine home.
Fluffy then turned her back to me and cannibalized her children.
Since that time, I have had a fear of rodents. I won’t run from the room screaming if you show me one, but I do not like to hold them or pet them. I fear their teeth and try to avoid them at all costs.
I even have a recurring nightmare where I am hanging in a tall, narrow room, holding onto a chandelier for dear life. I am barefoot.
On the floor are several angry bunny rabbits (yes, I know that rabbits are not actually rodents, but remember this is an irrational fear). They are huge and their eyes are red with fury. Their teeth are longer and sharper than Fluffy’s were. They are leaping, snapping at my feet. My hands are sweaty, causing my grip to loosen.
But I cannot let go, or the angry, angry bunnies will get me.
reminded me of a dream I had about one of my phobias.
I don’t have many fears. In fact, most things that people are afraid of don’t bother me at all. I don’t mind being in an elevator, even when it’s stuck between floors. Heights only bother me a little bit. But I do have one irrational fear. It goes back to when I was a little boy.
When I was three years old, I was brutally attacked by my pet hamster. I remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. I remember its beady, crazed eyes; its razor sharp teeth; its calm, quiet demeanor before the attack. If only I had known what it had in store for me.
Fluffy had just had a litter of baby hamsters. After this miraculous event, I would spend hours staring into her cage as the pink baby hamsters nuzzled her soft white belly fur, suckling on their mother's tiny hamster bazooms. I did not know that you’re not supposed to disturb a mother hamster and her young. They become irrational. My parents had warned me to leave her alone, but I was a curious child and often had to learn for myself. I had reached into the cage to pet Fluffy one too many times. She snapped and bit me on my finger, causing a geyser of blood to gush forth. I cried and screamed. My mother grabbed me and pulled away before it was too late. Blood spurted from my wounded finger, spraying the walls and furniture of our once-pristine home.
Fluffy then turned her back to me and cannibalized her children.
Since that time, I have had a fear of rodents. I won’t run from the room screaming if you show me one, but I do not like to hold them or pet them. I fear their teeth and try to avoid them at all costs.
I even have a recurring nightmare where I am hanging in a tall, narrow room, holding onto a chandelier for dear life. I am barefoot.
On the floor are several angry bunny rabbits (yes, I know that rabbits are not actually rodents, but remember this is an irrational fear). They are huge and their eyes are red with fury. Their teeth are longer and sharper than Fluffy’s were. They are leaping, snapping at my feet. My hands are sweaty, causing my grip to loosen.
But I cannot let go, or the angry, angry bunnies will get me.
My Set List
1. I Wanna Be Like You
2. Bears
3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime
4. Times Like These
5. Wayfaring Stranger
6. Fisherman's Blues
7. Little Red Riding Hood
8. Maggie's Farm
9. Quinn the Eskimo
10. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House
13. Wild Honey
There are probably others.
Works in Progress:
1. Over the Rainbow
2. Song to the Siren
3. Within a Mile from Home
4. Buster Keaton
2. Bears
3. Brother Can You Spare a Dime
4. Times Like These
5. Wayfaring Stranger
6. Fisherman's Blues
7. Little Red Riding Hood
8. Maggie's Farm
9. Quinn the Eskimo
10. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
11. Daydream
12. Come on Up to the House
13. Wild Honey
There are probably others.
Works in Progress:
1. Over the Rainbow
2. Song to the Siren
3. Within a Mile from Home
4. Buster Keaton
Saturday, April 15, 2006
In Defense of Tofu
This was going to be a reply to a comment from Do, but it turned into another blog entry.
My theory is that, often, it's not the meat, but the stuff we put on it that makes it flavorful. So, in most soy-based meat substitutes, it depends on what you do with it. The flavor, to me, comes from the fruits and vegetables anyway. So instead of ground meat, I put the ground soy substitute in my spaghetti sauce. Infact, my tasty version of spaghetti sauce is this:
1. Saute one chopped-u onion and as many chopped-up cloves of garlic as you can stand.
2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.
3. Dump in 1 can of lentil soup, one jar of tomato sauce, and one can of tomato paste.
4. Stir.
5. Simmer.
6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.
6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.
7. Eat.
8. I also sometimes scramble some eggs or egg substitute or egg whites and use that instead of adding the soy.
9. Either way, I don't miss the meat.
10. In honor of my late great friend Keith R, "That's what she said."
Yes, I am aware that most of us eat much more protein than we need. That's why I surround my protein with fruits and vegetables. And carbs.
Yes, I am aware that we eat far more carbs than we need, so I cut that down too. I'm not sure that I'm ready to go cold turkey on that yet. Or that I need to. My inner jury is still out on that one.
Barry Sears, the Zone guy, says that soy protein is good because it helps regulate your blood sugar (one of my concerns these days).
He also likes cottage cheese.
Cottage Cheese tip: mix about two cups of berries with three and 3/4's cups of cottage cheese and 1/4 cup eggwhite-based protein powder. Sprinkle on some cinnamon (also good for managing blood sugar, so they say) and nuts. MMMMMMMMboy! Try Greek-style yogurt instead of cottage cheese, even better.
When I do crave meat, I go organic, or at least free range. It is better for you and tastier, as is anything organic.
As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.
My theory is that, often, it's not the meat, but the stuff we put on it that makes it flavorful. So, in most soy-based meat substitutes, it depends on what you do with it. The flavor, to me, comes from the fruits and vegetables anyway. So instead of ground meat, I put the ground soy substitute in my spaghetti sauce. Infact, my tasty version of spaghetti sauce is this:
1. Saute one chopped-u onion and as many chopped-up cloves of garlic as you can stand.
2. Add one package of soy crumbles and brown.
3. Dump in 1 can of lentil soup, one jar of tomato sauce, and one can of tomato paste.
4. Stir.
5. Simmer.
6. Glob it on some spaghetti or other pasta.
6A. Add some Parmesan cheese.
7. Eat.
8. I also sometimes scramble some eggs or egg substitute or egg whites and use that instead of adding the soy.
9. Either way, I don't miss the meat.
10. In honor of my late great friend Keith R, "That's what she said."
Yes, I am aware that most of us eat much more protein than we need. That's why I surround my protein with fruits and vegetables. And carbs.
Yes, I am aware that we eat far more carbs than we need, so I cut that down too. I'm not sure that I'm ready to go cold turkey on that yet. Or that I need to. My inner jury is still out on that one.
Barry Sears, the Zone guy, says that soy protein is good because it helps regulate your blood sugar (one of my concerns these days).
He also likes cottage cheese.
Cottage Cheese tip: mix about two cups of berries with three and 3/4's cups of cottage cheese and 1/4 cup eggwhite-based protein powder. Sprinkle on some cinnamon (also good for managing blood sugar, so they say) and nuts. MMMMMMMMboy! Try Greek-style yogurt instead of cottage cheese, even better.
When I do crave meat, I go organic, or at least free range. It is better for you and tastier, as is anything organic.
As for Tofurkey, stay away. Stay very away.
Friday, April 14, 2006
What's Good and Bad about Soy Protein
Ok. Before anyone hits me with the line about wanting to enjoy life and eating what tastes good and all of that, let me just say that, health-wise, I've reached a point where my body is saying ouch and I have started listening. I'm not on a diet so much as returning to eating foods that aren't going to kill me. I have never seen "Super-Size Me," but I have been living it for the past couple of years.
And, just so you know, I actually like fruits and vegetables. I also Have always been able to dabble in non-dead-animal types of food and enjoy many of them.
The only thing that has changed is that I am partially abandoning my previous eschewment of "substitutes." That is, I used to insist that any processed food that substitutes for the real thing (i.e. Silk instead of milk, Nice Dreams instead of ice cream), really only reminds you of that which you are doing without and, therefore, most people who try these things will only go back to that which is supposedly bad for you.
So, to lower my cholesterol, I have begun to use some meat substitutes. Maybe not permanently, but for now. Here are my thoughts about the good and bad aspects of each:
The good thing about TOFU is that it is cholesterol free. The bad thing is that it tastes like tofu, so you have to dress it up.
The good thing about SOY PROTEIN POWDER is that if you throw a dash of it into a cup of cottage cheese with lots of fruit and it give it a pudding-like consistency. The bad thing is that it tastes like soy protein powder and ruins the flavor. Egg protein powder has a more neutral flavor that compliments the fruity cottage cheesey concoction.
Soy Italian Sausage tastes ok. But it has a grainy quality and doesn't plump when you cook it.
Soy ground beef substitute is fine in a marinara sauce, which I think makes it a bolognese sauce, but has a more chewy texture.
Soy nuts and endame baked endame are a good source of protein, but soy nuts are a little too crunchy and endame aren't crunchy enough.
Non-soy cooking tip: If you mix egg substitute with egg white, you can make an omelet that looks almost like a normal omelet. If you put the egg white in the pan first and let it begin to cook and then put in the egg subsitute, it really begins to look like a real omelet.
Tofurkey is dressed up tofu. Tofurkey sausage is neither turkey nor sausage.
And, just so you know, I actually like fruits and vegetables. I also Have always been able to dabble in non-dead-animal types of food and enjoy many of them.
The only thing that has changed is that I am partially abandoning my previous eschewment of "substitutes." That is, I used to insist that any processed food that substitutes for the real thing (i.e. Silk instead of milk, Nice Dreams instead of ice cream), really only reminds you of that which you are doing without and, therefore, most people who try these things will only go back to that which is supposedly bad for you.
So, to lower my cholesterol, I have begun to use some meat substitutes. Maybe not permanently, but for now. Here are my thoughts about the good and bad aspects of each:
The good thing about TOFU is that it is cholesterol free. The bad thing is that it tastes like tofu, so you have to dress it up.
The good thing about SOY PROTEIN POWDER is that if you throw a dash of it into a cup of cottage cheese with lots of fruit and it give it a pudding-like consistency. The bad thing is that it tastes like soy protein powder and ruins the flavor. Egg protein powder has a more neutral flavor that compliments the fruity cottage cheesey concoction.
Soy Italian Sausage tastes ok. But it has a grainy quality and doesn't plump when you cook it.
Soy ground beef substitute is fine in a marinara sauce, which I think makes it a bolognese sauce, but has a more chewy texture.
Soy nuts and endame baked endame are a good source of protein, but soy nuts are a little too crunchy and endame aren't crunchy enough.
Non-soy cooking tip: If you mix egg substitute with egg white, you can make an omelet that looks almost like a normal omelet. If you put the egg white in the pan first and let it begin to cook and then put in the egg subsitute, it really begins to look like a real omelet.
Tofurkey is dressed up tofu. Tofurkey sausage is neither turkey nor sausage.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Oriole Spotting
I'm pretty sure it was an oriole. Black yellow, with a little white thrown in.
My Department Chair came in to ask me to run a meeting the next day, since he was not going to be there. So, while he rattled off stuff he wanted me to cover, my eyes drift the back window. And there, on the fence, sits this beautiful couple of birds. One has a bright yellow breast with oriole type markings. I have never seen one. I'm not sure if orioles even live out here in the Inland Desert. He was there with his girlfriend, who was less colorful-the way of most of our ornithlogical friends.
I shouted, "Look! It's an oriole!"
My DC turns around and looks.
"Yeah, nice. So discuss the new textbook adoption, and if you have time..."
"He's flying towards the window!"
My DC turns around again.
"Hm. Very nice. Then, let people know how much is in our budget...."
There isn't much that's pretty outside my window. A lake is located behind us, but you can't see it. What you do see is debris from the state park. It's an ugly view. But occasionally you see a bird or two.
Once, while lecturing, I saw a redtail hawk sitting on the fence. I've seen quite a few of these in the area, but never outside my window. So, I drop the lecture and say " hey, look, everybody!" and point at the window.
The students turn around, look, someone says "Hm, neat bird," and they turn back towards me.
They couldn't have been less impressed.
Is nature doomed?
My Department Chair came in to ask me to run a meeting the next day, since he was not going to be there. So, while he rattled off stuff he wanted me to cover, my eyes drift the back window. And there, on the fence, sits this beautiful couple of birds. One has a bright yellow breast with oriole type markings. I have never seen one. I'm not sure if orioles even live out here in the Inland Desert. He was there with his girlfriend, who was less colorful-the way of most of our ornithlogical friends.
I shouted, "Look! It's an oriole!"
My DC turns around and looks.
"Yeah, nice. So discuss the new textbook adoption, and if you have time..."
"He's flying towards the window!"
My DC turns around again.
"Hm. Very nice. Then, let people know how much is in our budget...."
There isn't much that's pretty outside my window. A lake is located behind us, but you can't see it. What you do see is debris from the state park. It's an ugly view. But occasionally you see a bird or two.
Once, while lecturing, I saw a redtail hawk sitting on the fence. I've seen quite a few of these in the area, but never outside my window. So, I drop the lecture and say " hey, look, everybody!" and point at the window.
The students turn around, look, someone says "Hm, neat bird," and they turn back towards me.
They couldn't have been less impressed.
Is nature doomed?
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Harmonica Workshop
Attended a beginners' harmonica workshop today at the Folk Center. The cost was $20, plus the cost of a harmonica. I couldn't find my Pocket Pal, so I sprung for a Hohner blues Harp, which cost $29.95.
I mean, what the hey.
A local blues harpist guy ran the workshop, which was pretty much a bust. The lesson here is two-fold: 1) Not all talented musicians are good teachers and 2) It is hard to teach a large group of people how to play a tiny instrument that you have to blow air into, or suck air out of, for that matter.
I had a similar experience during a pennywhistle workshop at the Folk Festival last summer. Didn't learn much there either.
At start time, the class was pretty small. The instructor stalled, or so it seemed, until the class size swelled to about 20 people. The attendees ranged from folk like me, who had barely ever attempted to play harmonica, to those who had elaborate harmonica cases, with Multiple harmonicas in different keys. Billy C brought Blowhard Canary with him, as did another father his son. A mother and daughter came. They looked like sisters.
The guy played a pretty good harp. But he spent the first 45 minutes of the two-hour workshop talking about other players, playing cuts from a couple of CD's, and talking about places where you could hear the blues or sit in and jam with the players. Gave us a few handouts that we could have gotten if we had just bought the book he copied them out of.
Most of the rest of the workshop was that way, with a few demonstrations by the teacher, interrupted by the occasional excuse for the class to blow into their own harps.
I mean, the guy could have had us in the palm of his hands if he had shown us how to play a scale. He could have followed that with a couple of progressions or techniques. I don't think people would have cared that they weren't playing any songs, as long as they learned how to move their slobbery lips back and forth a few times. It would have even given the actual players that showed up a chance to show off a bit-maybe even help the newbies out a little.
At the end, one of the players asked that the instructor teach an intermediate class where he shared some of his licks. Translation: teach us how to do something next time and we'll forgive you this time.
I asked Jerry who was teaching the uke workshop. They have never offered uke workshops before. This was for beginners, so I thought it might be a waste of time. But I was interested in taking a more advanced workshop. This workshop was cancelled because of poor turnout, but Jerry suggested that maybe I could teach one as I was farther advanced than the lady who would have taught the cancelled workshop.
I was flattered. Billy C and I talked about it a bit and thought we could co-teach. It would be fun to do it that way.
We had dinner at the Pizza and Such next door. We usually dine at Heroes, a local big food, beer, and wine establishment. By "big food," I mean that the portions are huge, as are the servings of beer and wine. But I have never had anything there that I thought was as good as it was big.
We had eaten at Pizza and Such once before and it tasted good. I had a salad (eating a lot of those these days), as did Virginia Canary. Mine was good and hers looked interesting. Tonight, I had a different salad, which was just as tasty as the other. So, it looks like Pizza and Such will be my future stop for eats on Open Mike Night.
Right now, I'm gonna get my Harmonica for Dummies book and my new blues harp and do some damage.
I mean, what the hey.
A local blues harpist guy ran the workshop, which was pretty much a bust. The lesson here is two-fold: 1) Not all talented musicians are good teachers and 2) It is hard to teach a large group of people how to play a tiny instrument that you have to blow air into, or suck air out of, for that matter.
I had a similar experience during a pennywhistle workshop at the Folk Festival last summer. Didn't learn much there either.
At start time, the class was pretty small. The instructor stalled, or so it seemed, until the class size swelled to about 20 people. The attendees ranged from folk like me, who had barely ever attempted to play harmonica, to those who had elaborate harmonica cases, with Multiple harmonicas in different keys. Billy C brought Blowhard Canary with him, as did another father his son. A mother and daughter came. They looked like sisters.
The guy played a pretty good harp. But he spent the first 45 minutes of the two-hour workshop talking about other players, playing cuts from a couple of CD's, and talking about places where you could hear the blues or sit in and jam with the players. Gave us a few handouts that we could have gotten if we had just bought the book he copied them out of.
Most of the rest of the workshop was that way, with a few demonstrations by the teacher, interrupted by the occasional excuse for the class to blow into their own harps.
I mean, the guy could have had us in the palm of his hands if he had shown us how to play a scale. He could have followed that with a couple of progressions or techniques. I don't think people would have cared that they weren't playing any songs, as long as they learned how to move their slobbery lips back and forth a few times. It would have even given the actual players that showed up a chance to show off a bit-maybe even help the newbies out a little.
At the end, one of the players asked that the instructor teach an intermediate class where he shared some of his licks. Translation: teach us how to do something next time and we'll forgive you this time.
I asked Jerry who was teaching the uke workshop. They have never offered uke workshops before. This was for beginners, so I thought it might be a waste of time. But I was interested in taking a more advanced workshop. This workshop was cancelled because of poor turnout, but Jerry suggested that maybe I could teach one as I was farther advanced than the lady who would have taught the cancelled workshop.
I was flattered. Billy C and I talked about it a bit and thought we could co-teach. It would be fun to do it that way.
We had dinner at the Pizza and Such next door. We usually dine at Heroes, a local big food, beer, and wine establishment. By "big food," I mean that the portions are huge, as are the servings of beer and wine. But I have never had anything there that I thought was as good as it was big.
We had eaten at Pizza and Such once before and it tasted good. I had a salad (eating a lot of those these days), as did Virginia Canary. Mine was good and hers looked interesting. Tonight, I had a different salad, which was just as tasty as the other. So, it looks like Pizza and Such will be my future stop for eats on Open Mike Night.
Right now, I'm gonna get my Harmonica for Dummies book and my new blues harp and do some damage.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Japanese Death Poems
As much as I like poetry, I rarely buy one book by one author. The exceptions would be poets I really like. For the most part, my poetry library is made up of thematic collections: Poetry for Men, Poetry for Troubled Times, Spiritual Poems. Poets in these books are usually heavy hitters like Shakespeare, Yeats, Whitman, Hughes.
I have been browsing this one book called Japanese Death Poems this week. I know, it ha a pretty dismal title. But its tradition is in Zen. jisei is the tradition where a poet records his observation of his last moment on earth. A jisei is very short, not constrained by form, and usually taken down by a witness while the poet dictated. This all makes sense considering the circumstances.
I think, in The Last Samurai, that final utterance by the guy who actually was the last samurai, was supposed to be his jisei.
Of course, if any of the other samurai had their own jisei, we didn't get to hear any of them. Not over the sounds of the Howitzers.
If you want to go to a webpage about this, here it is (that is, if I actually do this right):
OK. It didn't work.
Part of the book is made up of death poems by Buddhist monks. One of them, Goku Kyonen, tapped his stick on the temple floor and wrote
The truth embodied in the Buddhas
Of future, present, and past;
The teaching we received from the
Fathers of our faith
Can all be found at the tip of my stick.
He tapped his stick again, shouting "See! See!" and died.
The other part is made up of death poems from the haiku poets of Japan, including Basho, who wrote
On a journey, ill:
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields.
Yes, Orson Scott Card, I know it's in translation.
This one guy, Mumon Gensen, a monk, wrote two:
Life is an ever-rolling wheel
And every day is the right one.
He who recites poems at his death
Adds frost to snow
and
Life is like a cloud of mist
Emerging from a mountain cave
And death
A floating moon
In its celestial course.
If you think too much
About the meaning they have
You'll be bound forever
Like an ass to a stake.
I like them both. But how can one guy have two death poems? Wouldn't the last one be the death poem and the other just be the second-to-last poem he ever wrote? Couldn't he make up his mind?
Anyway, I admire that people who choose to make their final act one of creation. I know that for people like Warren Zevon and George Harrison, that final creation probably also gave them something to live for as their bodies were ravaged by cancer. But I think it also speaks of their strength to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."
By the way, the first edition of William Butler Yeats final poems ends with a really long poem entitled "Under Ben Bulben." This apparently was insisted upon by Mrs. Yeats.
A few weeks before his death, Yeats had arranged these poems in the order he would have liked to seem them appear in this book. This, while not his jisei, was the poem Yeats wanted at the end.
Politics
`In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in
political terms' - Thomas Mann
HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
I have been browsing this one book called Japanese Death Poems this week. I know, it ha a pretty dismal title. But its tradition is in Zen. jisei is the tradition where a poet records his observation of his last moment on earth. A jisei is very short, not constrained by form, and usually taken down by a witness while the poet dictated. This all makes sense considering the circumstances.
I think, in The Last Samurai, that final utterance by the guy who actually was the last samurai, was supposed to be his jisei.
Of course, if any of the other samurai had their own jisei, we didn't get to hear any of them. Not over the sounds of the Howitzers.
If you want to go to a webpage about this, here it is (that is, if I actually do this right):
OK. It didn't work.
Part of the book is made up of death poems by Buddhist monks. One of them, Goku Kyonen, tapped his stick on the temple floor and wrote
The truth embodied in the Buddhas
Of future, present, and past;
The teaching we received from the
Fathers of our faith
Can all be found at the tip of my stick.
He tapped his stick again, shouting "See! See!" and died.
The other part is made up of death poems from the haiku poets of Japan, including Basho, who wrote
On a journey, ill:
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields.
Yes, Orson Scott Card, I know it's in translation.
This one guy, Mumon Gensen, a monk, wrote two:
Life is an ever-rolling wheel
And every day is the right one.
He who recites poems at his death
Adds frost to snow
and
Life is like a cloud of mist
Emerging from a mountain cave
And death
A floating moon
In its celestial course.
If you think too much
About the meaning they have
You'll be bound forever
Like an ass to a stake.
I like them both. But how can one guy have two death poems? Wouldn't the last one be the death poem and the other just be the second-to-last poem he ever wrote? Couldn't he make up his mind?
Anyway, I admire that people who choose to make their final act one of creation. I know that for people like Warren Zevon and George Harrison, that final creation probably also gave them something to live for as their bodies were ravaged by cancer. But I think it also speaks of their strength to "rage, rage against the dying of the light."
By the way, the first edition of William Butler Yeats final poems ends with a really long poem entitled "Under Ben Bulben." This apparently was insisted upon by Mrs. Yeats.
A few weeks before his death, Yeats had arranged these poems in the order he would have liked to seem them appear in this book. This, while not his jisei, was the poem Yeats wanted at the end.
Politics
`In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in
political terms' - Thomas Mann
HOW can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here's a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there's a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Walking the Rub
Took a walk up Mt. Rub today around noon. Cloudy and drizzly most of the time.
For weekday, there were more people walking that I had expected.
On the exercise front, I went pretty fast. Shaved about five minutes off my usual time. Probably because I wasn't talking. BUT don't take that to mean that I don't like walking and talking. That aspect of the walk has been therapeutic for me.
Scenery-wise, it was indeed cloudy and drizzly. The road was wet, as was the ground. Along the way, I saw a sweatsuit on the path. I kept I eye out for the former wearer, but saw no one. It will remain a mystery.
As I approached the top, I saw a couple of hawks just hovering in the sky, occasionally fluttering their wings so as to stay in one place. I wish I had taken my binoculars.
They played that game with me that birds of prey play when a human approaches their territory. I have seen this on my bicycle outings at the lake as well. As you approach, they act like they don't see you, but subtly shift out of your sight-range as you get closer.
I remember once in the desert, I could see a hawk hovering like this and then diving at its prey below. It moved so quickly that it looked like it had just disappeared.
As I started the downhill, I saw what looked like a dozen or so hawks cavorting lazily in the sky, much like the first two, except they were looping around one another. I have never seen anything like this. In fact, I always thought that hawks claimed territory in pairs and that you wouldn't normally see this many this close to one another. But there were about twelve of them.
I guess they could have been some other kind of bird, but they looked and behaved like hawks. Buzzards I have seen, and their wingspread always looks more raggedy. These birds had the even wingspan that you normally see in a hawks. They were not crows, as their feathers were multi-colored.
This group played the same game with me. As I walked down the Rub side of the mountain, they drifted over to the Riv side. As I turned the corner and started down the Riv side of the mountain, they drifted to the Rub side.
I could also see downtown Riv's tall office buildings, their top floors dissolving into the clouds.
On my right, grasping a branch of a shrub, a hummingbird twitched its head around, perhaps wondering if I saw it, its throat feathers shifted from emerald to ruby as it did so. Near the bottom of the hill, a couple of woodpeckers argued while clinging to a palm tree.
I saw two cats: one calico; the other almost white, with highlights of orange. This last cat approached me and I could see it had blue eyes.
For weekday, there were more people walking that I had expected.
On the exercise front, I went pretty fast. Shaved about five minutes off my usual time. Probably because I wasn't talking. BUT don't take that to mean that I don't like walking and talking. That aspect of the walk has been therapeutic for me.
Scenery-wise, it was indeed cloudy and drizzly. The road was wet, as was the ground. Along the way, I saw a sweatsuit on the path. I kept I eye out for the former wearer, but saw no one. It will remain a mystery.
As I approached the top, I saw a couple of hawks just hovering in the sky, occasionally fluttering their wings so as to stay in one place. I wish I had taken my binoculars.
They played that game with me that birds of prey play when a human approaches their territory. I have seen this on my bicycle outings at the lake as well. As you approach, they act like they don't see you, but subtly shift out of your sight-range as you get closer.
I remember once in the desert, I could see a hawk hovering like this and then diving at its prey below. It moved so quickly that it looked like it had just disappeared.
As I started the downhill, I saw what looked like a dozen or so hawks cavorting lazily in the sky, much like the first two, except they were looping around one another. I have never seen anything like this. In fact, I always thought that hawks claimed territory in pairs and that you wouldn't normally see this many this close to one another. But there were about twelve of them.
I guess they could have been some other kind of bird, but they looked and behaved like hawks. Buzzards I have seen, and their wingspread always looks more raggedy. These birds had the even wingspan that you normally see in a hawks. They were not crows, as their feathers were multi-colored.
This group played the same game with me. As I walked down the Rub side of the mountain, they drifted over to the Riv side. As I turned the corner and started down the Riv side of the mountain, they drifted to the Rub side.
I could also see downtown Riv's tall office buildings, their top floors dissolving into the clouds.
On my right, grasping a branch of a shrub, a hummingbird twitched its head around, perhaps wondering if I saw it, its throat feathers shifted from emerald to ruby as it did so. Near the bottom of the hill, a couple of woodpeckers argued while clinging to a palm tree.
I saw two cats: one calico; the other almost white, with highlights of orange. This last cat approached me and I could see it had blue eyes.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Open Mike
A good night at the Folk Center. A big crowd that stayed big until the bitter end. A few people left, but there lots of people at the end of the evening.
Many talented acts also. Do and her fam brought her boyfriend-in-law to play one of his songs with them playing back-up. They had quite a band going with Jimbo on keyboards, Do on uke, Lins on sax, and bfil on accordion. It was a novelty song with a lot of one-liners crammed together and delivered in at rapid speed. Funny song. Talented bfil. Talented family.
Billy C played Space Oddity on his uke and was among the best of the night. He actually had a nifty little solo that he worked out.
Leemy C did a sad Dylan song. He's voice is getting stronger as is his guitar playing. He was good, but there's this kid about his age that also attends these things and performs. He's sort of attached himself to Leemy. All during Leemy's song he kept singing lines ahead of Leemy, who was trying to interpret the song. This kid was not loud, but could be heard. I guess when Leemy would pause he assumed that Leemy forgot the words or something. Hey, let the guy do his own song.
I performed Little Red Riding Hood, a song that I have been threatening to play for almost a year now. I made a couple of mistakes, but the crowd got spontaneously rowdy and didn't seem to notice. After my first howl, they started howling on their own. At the end, they started making random animal noises. I guess it's my new audience participation song.
The koto playing Chinese girl was there again. It's not really a koto, but the Chinese version of a koto. Similar, but maybe not the same. She was magic.
This one guy who sat in front of me kept making comments at inapprpriate moments that were meant to be funny but weren't and I wanted to tell him to can it, but it wouldn't have done any good.
So, the two high points of the night were Billy C in the first half and koto-babe in the second.
The Folk Center is sponsering a silent auction to benefit victims of domestic abuse. One of the items on the block is a ukulele with one free ukulele lesson. The ukulele in question is a cheap Mahalo. This tiny lady who is running the auction asked me if I would be the free ukulele lesson guy. I'm not sure. I'm afraid my first lesson would be to tell the pupil to go buy a better ukulele.
It's strange to me that the Folk Center wouldn't put up a better uke, like one of the flukes or fleas at least--or even a Sunlite. It's strange that they would invest money in what amounts to cheap toys.
Many talented acts also. Do and her fam brought her boyfriend-in-law to play one of his songs with them playing back-up. They had quite a band going with Jimbo on keyboards, Do on uke, Lins on sax, and bfil on accordion. It was a novelty song with a lot of one-liners crammed together and delivered in at rapid speed. Funny song. Talented bfil. Talented family.
Billy C played Space Oddity on his uke and was among the best of the night. He actually had a nifty little solo that he worked out.
Leemy C did a sad Dylan song. He's voice is getting stronger as is his guitar playing. He was good, but there's this kid about his age that also attends these things and performs. He's sort of attached himself to Leemy. All during Leemy's song he kept singing lines ahead of Leemy, who was trying to interpret the song. This kid was not loud, but could be heard. I guess when Leemy would pause he assumed that Leemy forgot the words or something. Hey, let the guy do his own song.
I performed Little Red Riding Hood, a song that I have been threatening to play for almost a year now. I made a couple of mistakes, but the crowd got spontaneously rowdy and didn't seem to notice. After my first howl, they started howling on their own. At the end, they started making random animal noises. I guess it's my new audience participation song.
The koto playing Chinese girl was there again. It's not really a koto, but the Chinese version of a koto. Similar, but maybe not the same. She was magic.
This one guy who sat in front of me kept making comments at inapprpriate moments that were meant to be funny but weren't and I wanted to tell him to can it, but it wouldn't have done any good.
So, the two high points of the night were Billy C in the first half and koto-babe in the second.
The Folk Center is sponsering a silent auction to benefit victims of domestic abuse. One of the items on the block is a ukulele with one free ukulele lesson. The ukulele in question is a cheap Mahalo. This tiny lady who is running the auction asked me if I would be the free ukulele lesson guy. I'm not sure. I'm afraid my first lesson would be to tell the pupil to go buy a better ukulele.
It's strange to me that the Folk Center wouldn't put up a better uke, like one of the flukes or fleas at least--or even a Sunlite. It's strange that they would invest money in what amounts to cheap toys.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Spring! Tra-la Tra-la
First day of my Spring Break. Have thus far spent most of the day relaxing.
I haven't posted for awhile because I have been busy/lazy.
Open Mike this Sunday. The Canaries haven't rehearsed, so I don't think we're going to be the Canaries this Sunday. I have been practicing a couple of chord progressions for songs I might play. My choices are a slow, brooding love ballad from the 60's that has had a bit of a revival lately, a Dylan song that I should know by now, or a song that I have been threatening to perform but have yet to perform. Maybe this weekend would be a good time to perfect the lot of them.
This month, they're starting the Open Mike a whole hour earlier so it won't run as late as it has in the past. I'm interested to see how that goes, what with people's learned habits and all. I plan (I said PLAN) on getting there early. But I don't know if I can ever get there as early a some of the people who show up an hour, sometimes an hour-and-a-half, sometimes two hours early. I like doing it, but it's just not THAT important to me.
When I logged in today, I noticed that I started to write a post about some of the music I have discovered on MySpace, which I feel in my heart is made up primarily of teenagers and losers, but has actually been a functional tool for me in connecting with some uke community people.
Anyway, I will post about some of the uke stuff I found there.
I haven't posted for awhile because I have been busy/lazy.
Open Mike this Sunday. The Canaries haven't rehearsed, so I don't think we're going to be the Canaries this Sunday. I have been practicing a couple of chord progressions for songs I might play. My choices are a slow, brooding love ballad from the 60's that has had a bit of a revival lately, a Dylan song that I should know by now, or a song that I have been threatening to perform but have yet to perform. Maybe this weekend would be a good time to perfect the lot of them.
This month, they're starting the Open Mike a whole hour earlier so it won't run as late as it has in the past. I'm interested to see how that goes, what with people's learned habits and all. I plan (I said PLAN) on getting there early. But I don't know if I can ever get there as early a some of the people who show up an hour, sometimes an hour-and-a-half, sometimes two hours early. I like doing it, but it's just not THAT important to me.
When I logged in today, I noticed that I started to write a post about some of the music I have discovered on MySpace, which I feel in my heart is made up primarily of teenagers and losers, but has actually been a functional tool for me in connecting with some uke community people.
Anyway, I will post about some of the uke stuff I found there.
Monday, March 06, 2006
A Scare
There are two former students of mine from my high school who are now taking my college night class as a part of the Middle College program, which allows a selected few students to earn college and high school credits simultaneously.
After the first break, I noticed that one of the girls did not come back and had left all of her books and stuff on and about her desk. Five minutes, ten, 15, then about twenty minutes and she hadn't come back yet. I got kind of worried because it's a college campus and I haven't had a semester yet where there hasn't been an incident of some creep coming on campus and attempting to assault some female student. That, and the campus gets very dark at night and there are lots of nooks and crannies for someone to lurk undetected. And she's a teenager and still pretty naive. And I guess I have a slight father instinct.
So I begin to worry and wonder what to do. Normally, is a student left, I'd figure it's everyone for themselves. But, like I said, she left her stuff.
There's no phone in my room, so I give the class an assignment and take a quick sweep outside to see if she might be chatting on her cell phone or something. Then I walk to the English Department office and tell the receptionist my concern and ask she that she report this to the campus cops, just in case one of them sees her.
I go back to my class and try to act like nothing is wrong, but am completely distracted during the ensuing discussion about some essay we'd read.
Her friend asks me if I wan her to call this girl's cell phone and see where she is. She does so, but no answer.
So, it's been almost an hour at this point, and I'm really worried.
Just then, she walks in. She was fine, but her car had somehow gone flat in the parking lot and she had called her family and her father had come to fix the tire and that's where she had been.
Kids.
After the first break, I noticed that one of the girls did not come back and had left all of her books and stuff on and about her desk. Five minutes, ten, 15, then about twenty minutes and she hadn't come back yet. I got kind of worried because it's a college campus and I haven't had a semester yet where there hasn't been an incident of some creep coming on campus and attempting to assault some female student. That, and the campus gets very dark at night and there are lots of nooks and crannies for someone to lurk undetected. And she's a teenager and still pretty naive. And I guess I have a slight father instinct.
So I begin to worry and wonder what to do. Normally, is a student left, I'd figure it's everyone for themselves. But, like I said, she left her stuff.
There's no phone in my room, so I give the class an assignment and take a quick sweep outside to see if she might be chatting on her cell phone or something. Then I walk to the English Department office and tell the receptionist my concern and ask she that she report this to the campus cops, just in case one of them sees her.
I go back to my class and try to act like nothing is wrong, but am completely distracted during the ensuing discussion about some essay we'd read.
Her friend asks me if I wan her to call this girl's cell phone and see where she is. She does so, but no answer.
So, it's been almost an hour at this point, and I'm really worried.
Just then, she walks in. She was fine, but her car had somehow gone flat in the parking lot and she had called her family and her father had come to fix the tire and that's where she had been.
Kids.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Celebrity Update
So Billy C and I went to this place in Redlands where they have live folk music, allegedly. We decide that we'd like to check it out as a part of an unspoken quest to find music that matters.
The place was called the Martini Vault or something like that. It was a tiny place with lots of variations on the martini. We entered and found three people inside and no band. We asked about that and the bartender told us that the band was setting up in back, in this alley that wended its way hither and yon. We walked out the back door and, sure enough, there was a place where the bands played. This band's name was Bucksworth.
Billy orders a beer and I order my first and last ever martini.
We go back and, indeed, the two members of the band, the drummer and the singer-songwriter-leader were setting up. The venue was al fresco with a canopy overhead and a much-needed-but-sorely-under-performing heat lamp. The performance area was lit by one lamp behind he band area, meaning that it was pretty dark. Billy approached the band members and asked when they would start performing.
Like I said, it was dark and the three of them looked like silhouettes as they stood there talking.
The drummer, the leader, and the Billy chatted for a couple of minutes, when all of a sudden the drummer squinted at Billy and did a double-take and shouted "Billy?"
Billy then did a double-take of his own and shouted "Jake!"
It was Jason, profile #4 in volume 1 of my series on famous people I have known. Jake, as you will recall, played drums for The Skeletones. He was the son of the director of the theater group we both performed in many years ago and he played drums for most of the shows. He quit The Skeletones and now kept time for this band.
He was a teenager then. Now he's 43.
Just then, their guitar player Kevin Bacon walked in with Rob D'Arc and John Wayne.
I made that last bit up.
We shat the shoot for awhile and listened to their first set.
It was freezing cold out there. Everyone was bundled up, making the place look like an inuit single's bar.
The band was really good. The leader has a real ear for hooks and catchy phraseology. Nuke-Bob says check it out.
The place was called the Martini Vault or something like that. It was a tiny place with lots of variations on the martini. We entered and found three people inside and no band. We asked about that and the bartender told us that the band was setting up in back, in this alley that wended its way hither and yon. We walked out the back door and, sure enough, there was a place where the bands played. This band's name was Bucksworth.
Billy orders a beer and I order my first and last ever martini.
We go back and, indeed, the two members of the band, the drummer and the singer-songwriter-leader were setting up. The venue was al fresco with a canopy overhead and a much-needed-but-sorely-under-performing heat lamp. The performance area was lit by one lamp behind he band area, meaning that it was pretty dark. Billy approached the band members and asked when they would start performing.
Like I said, it was dark and the three of them looked like silhouettes as they stood there talking.
The drummer, the leader, and the Billy chatted for a couple of minutes, when all of a sudden the drummer squinted at Billy and did a double-take and shouted "Billy?"
Billy then did a double-take of his own and shouted "Jake!"
It was Jason, profile #4 in volume 1 of my series on famous people I have known. Jake, as you will recall, played drums for The Skeletones. He was the son of the director of the theater group we both performed in many years ago and he played drums for most of the shows. He quit The Skeletones and now kept time for this band.
He was a teenager then. Now he's 43.
Just then, their guitar player Kevin Bacon walked in with Rob D'Arc and John Wayne.
I made that last bit up.
We shat the shoot for awhile and listened to their first set.
It was freezing cold out there. Everyone was bundled up, making the place look like an inuit single's bar.
The band was really good. The leader has a real ear for hooks and catchy phraseology. Nuke-Bob says check it out.
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