Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Safe ~ Risk

March 30, 2010
...questions we ask ourselves from time to time? We'll see; This Blog has taken a lot of time. Most of them weren't as short as this one is. Most of them have come from writings started in advance with a little idea, a sentence or two then worked on and presented here.

I'mm working on more of those while getting involved in other art projects that are taking up even more time than I expected; most of what's coming relates to the poem on this blog. I'll be back with those stories quicker than we may be able to make this decision;

SAFE ~ RISK

the risk!
risk it
SAFE

risk it
SAFE
saved

the risk?
SAFE?
risk it?
risk it?
SAFE
saved -?

risk it??
SAFE??

the risk
SAFE??
risk it??
what if??
safe??

the risk???
safe???
risk it???

safe???
risk???
safe???

risk????

Monday, March 29, 2010

MMusic in Bloom

March 29, 2010

Dub bull jammed with a dude
Cat licks schooly would room
Disk pea an a guy end
His auld tea time tunes
His feeling tolled, sang to
All bookie – his bliss
I hell’d, come pally mman
Close dose page is ‘n gist
Git on wit it buoyed
Slay it! Knock out chore head
Wear grate, out! That scents
Know way you’ve blown; dread
Pour Site ‘n sound’s schmaltz
Mild graze in ‘tween’s page
Goin’ one, two the next like
Know one care’s you’re stage
Your view, movie B you
A peer rant chew are
Your clothes spin the tail
Who ever; you’re far
Sow OH? Pin your I’s end
Jet’s jam overt hear
List in – Coltrane mmuh mman
Ten Thousand? Know fear
Say you’ve knot put time in?
“…As many,” says you
Shake know difference, shake lamb
Oui, know your fears, poo!!
Just jam width your soul
We’re, heart’s on our sleeve
Get Offa that stool; pigeon
Aye know, when believe that
Once you let gogh come
Yule easy; gist; try
They hear you mman; blows!
The point? Out! Willed, fly
That’s not all there is ‘course
Next time booked, you fake
Maybe some one like who?
Will coals you, they’re rake
Takes less than a pocket
To groove with in won
Mowed lawns, vahz is, flowers
Tall towers; weigh gums
Hand feasts, door; know less
Pow were sum, nil, end none
When mmusic breed’s test
They’ll listen, smiles, fun
Or even next cheer haps’
They’ll grant you, fine space
‘Stead of out in the cold
Audition’s diss faced
Or other then hid in
Town’s thirsty slight bash
You’ll Shine, when they’re smitten
You’re oven, they’re ash in of
‘Course won neva nose
Pry or a tease whished
Doze castles on hills
Leave some, play – shake’s fish
Your flower a weight’s bloom.

The MMan Up Stairs

March 28, 2010

Eyes wake up in the morning two the creaks of hurried feat
The mman upstairs in rising stalks his bedroom’s squeaky street
A brace sieve sounds our endless as he shuffles o’er his floor
Thuds wake mme up; heels never stop until heaves out the door

Heels promptly wakes at 6a.m. each day clocks on the plop
Bowels groan, pounds, coughs, his lungs decayed,
His body sounds our rot.
Heels opens doors, craps toilet‘s flush
His cat jumps off the shelf
Steels stomps hard floors in cease ain’t he,
Aye, wonder threw mmy self

He shadows mme each time aye slide to john’s room ‘fore relief
Heels sound as if they follow mme, from room to room for grief
I’ll sit, din’s quiet aisle here shush steps, ass overhead he weights
Until through, drained then chases mme to kitchen’s search for plates

I’ll make yumm food, prepare phew meals,
Wild creaks swirl overhead
Our steps will match, well seemingly
While burghers, eggs are bred
Spaghetti sauce, veal parmesan,
Hamm sandwich, oar juice drink
Reverb burr rating creaks, thuds; whack it!
Blares at crypt ticks, plinks.

I’ll due dry dishes, wipe holes, stove end, open fridge, top drawer
Heels step rite up, as zoned mmy knows, or forehead is their floor
Insulation never fix is loud socks, know nude feet
Through lost he strolls, gag in gin coughs, his buss stops on pit’s street

Treks in the next line, sit, stop, yes
I’ll gladly relish warms
Win hope full sky’s there’s no up stares
To wake calm sleep; heal storms
I’ll rouse, win sun rise wonder ring,
How creaky guise is doing
I’ll n’er miss screech is chokes, cat heaves, groans,
Snores, pounds, depth end spewing.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Johnny Ciambotti

March 27, 2010

Yes, we're all getting on in age here but all mmy limbs still move, the gray matter's still intact and I can still kick your ass on the set; and of course do too this great tech knowledge E, everyone can be found pretty easily on the net, eh EC?

I’mm also a painter who has never stopped what I've loved doing most in life since the age of 12; playing drumms; still with the same fire and determination on the kit I’ve always had; changed a bit to ad the higher register and Latin sounds of the LP bongos which also did away with the common set-up of the double tom same dome; which added a bit more surprises just to keep you on your toes.

Now as they say, on with the most important stuff: Johnny Ciambotti.

He was really the first Clover band member I talked to and I guess the one who had to be satisfied to accept this drummer on his team. When he did, from then on, he stood next to mme more times than I can remember.

It’s just part of playing together as a bassist and a drummer do. We were a team at that time. We were the foundation of one of the incarnations that we built with Clover; our band at that time.

I’mm a right handed person who plays drummset right handed. As a drummer I’ve always preferred to have whoever was playing bass to be on mmy left side. Unless chart reading from a mmusic stand it’s the side that mmy hi-hat is always on and where mmy head, eyes and ears do the most work.

That’s where I remember Johnny smiling at mme most of the time. That’s of course if he wasn’t singing the high harmony part with the other members of Clover. Usually it was the four guys up front; Johnny being one of them. Hopper, the keyboardist was as a rule to one side or the other until he came out front to dance.

When I was performing with Clover, in and after the UK days, Johnny liked wearing a clean white Fedora; white or black pants with red suspenders and either a white or a black shirt. He also wore mirrored shades most of the time on stage or not.

You can see that image of him in the photos taken of us in 1976; taken at Victoria Station in London and can be viewed here: http://www.clover-infopage.com

Much before moving to England, we played the earliest concert we ever had at the Cow Palace in San Francisco, California. There were supposed to be three bands including us but another was added. We all decided it was so early that we thought to wear pajamas on stage. Johnny wore a red set of long johns. His personality was red.

I didn’t hear until today, Saturday that Johnny had passed away in what seems to be unfortunate circumstances. He was in Los Angeles, California where he lived and worked as a Chiropractor besides doing gigs with lots of other people. While being operated on for something else I guess the doc’s had to deal with an aneurysm that they couldn’t and that was it. The net has more info.

Needless to say mmy condolences are extended to Gia his daughter, his family and friends; sad to know he’s gone. Although I’ve not seen nor heard from Johnny for a long time, I still feel the loss; like I would if any of the Clover guys I played with were to pass. For more reasons than I can write here, the two years for mme are lasting a lifetime.

Awhile ago I had mentioned what a great team/rhythm section/duo I thought Johnny and I were. From the very beginning we worked at trying to sound like one sound. Anyone who can tell will hear his notes and mmy bass drumm were in synch.

I’mm not saying we were perfect all the time but we were as close as most. It felt good to feel Johnny next to mme. When he left to sing up front it was even better when he returned to stand ‘back there’ with mme.

Johnny always had a good energy, smile and warmth about him. He wasn’t one of those bassists you may see who just stand stoically on stage while playing. The mmusic made him move his body.

Short story of Johnny here; The middle days of Clover really. He was also crazy at times, that’s for sure. The days when we weren’t living in England for that long. Johnny used to drink a lot and just get nuts; like the stories anyone hears of Rock ‘n Roll bands destroying things while being a bit past the point of sobriety. Elevator and hallway pisses; moving paintings;just plain over the top...

One time in the van he was so drunk and cantankerous; he was looking for trouble. He and I were in the back seat. He just grabbed a handful of hair on one of the guy’s who were sitting in the front and started pulling it out; just one of his uncontrolled, unpredictable days.

Sheesh, after playing with him for about two years there’s so many stories that come to mmind. Most of them happy ones where I can picture him and his mustached smile; after just popping raw garlic cloves in his mouth; or eating vegetarian, whenever that was.

Johnny was something else. For as short as our relationship was compared to this lifetime, he was a great team mate. Some people you just don’t forget. I’ve missed him; I always have. From the very beginning of our first handshake when we looked in each others eyes, I felt his heart.

Rest in peace pal.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Notes Due Tell

March 26, 2010

NOTES DUE TELL

Approaching rooms unfurnished,
Leaving notes of the dour.
Leaving notes on the wall is
Leaving note’s clutch, the shower.

Leaving notes spills the lay - dulls.
Leaving notes plies the whish.
Leaving notes sting’s the say - bulls.
Leaving notes? L- 7-ish.

Leaving notes tear’s the sealing.
Leaving notes off - the curb’s.
Leaving notes paw’s - a peal - wrings’.
Leaving notes throe’s - disturbs.

Leaving notes burn’s the kitsch in.
Leaving notes fry’s in pan.
Leaving notes weave gone, fit’s sin.
Leaving notes dam’s the spam.

Leaving notes core - deplore weighs.
Leaving notes climb’s toot - tines.
Leaving notes reek’s the ploy, praise.
Leaving notes spits the times.

Leaving notes sprinkles din sighed.
Leaving notes hang’s two dry.
Leaving notes scent, “Out width the tied!”
Leaving notes buy ‘n bide?
Leaving notes by end . . . . Bye.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

The XP Sociiiiiety

March 25, 2010

Today’s blog really has a long story connected with the words at the end. I’mm saving that for a later time. The words themselves deserve to be left on their own. Maybe the impact will be a stronger one; so…

Without too much explanation, just let mme say that the following poem or lyrics have nothing to do with computers or what anyone may be familiar with as any kind of a computer program.

After you read this, I hope you realise this is no joke or fiction. It is real. Today’s blog concerns:

The XP Sociiiiiety

We're gonna tell you a story, it's sad but true
It's about these kids that are not like mme ‘n you.
The XP Society - children of the night.
They won't be seen when the sun is bright.
Just like the owl and frogs in the park,
Singing with crickets that play after dark.

They run and play in pale moon beams,
While other kids sleep, dreamin' dreams.
Moonlight becomes their sunshine..

DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?

Daddy's know that their time is short,
'Cause mom has read the XP REPORT.
Complain or cry won't ease the pain but
Working together, that's the main thing.

We gotta find out how to help these kids
So they can grow up - like you’n i did...
These little one's are perfect in most ways 'cept
They can't stand the ultra-violet rays so…

DON'T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?

There are things that we can do if we just pull together and see it through.
We can make them suits that filter the sun
So they can play outside and have more fun.
Special kids wearin' special suits
From the top of their head , to the sole of their boots.
If you want to donate it's easy to give...
Just open your heart, to help these kids live.

Dial our number for children of the night ‘n
Then we can walk with them into the light.
* It's 1- 800 – 543 - 9797 *
You'll be proud you've given. You'll be PROUD you've given.

DON'T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?
WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU, WON'T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY ?….
DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU, DON’T YOU WANT TO BE
IN THE XP - SOCIIIIETY?
WONT YOU? - WON’T YOU?
WON’T YOU? - WON’T YOU?
*(not a working number)*

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Wonders of the Whirled

March 24, 2010

I guess similar to a few blogs ago, this little missive was the same process a blog awhile back. The only difference being, the headlines changed as did the words or poem at the end here. To refresh memories, I had read more than a few headlines months ago; this poem, like that one, the headlines and topics were borne anew.

Taking you back a little bit, the year was around 1975 or thereabouts. I was living in a pretty old house at the time. The landlord who was about sixty plus years old was raised in the house. That will give you an idea of its age, and in this instance its condition; not a remodel.

The structure of the house was already falling apart and close to collapse. The only thing holding it up was a few gross of almost rusted through square nails. Holding up one corner of the house was an old black iron, wood stove. Rather rebuilding the foundation the stove was shoved underneath the house for that specific purpose.

There was no plumbing in the kitchen. I found this out after about three years when the sink drain was not working properly. The faucets needed replacing as well. When looking for the trap that goes to the following drainage; there was no following drainage. Looking further is when I found that everything drained into the dirt below.

Anyway, just reading the words at the end here, reminded mme of an old newspaper I had read after finding it underneath decrepit linoleum I tore off one of the floors in that same old house. The newspaper found was a full issue of a September, 4th, 1924 San Francisco Chronicle. There was also part of a September, 4th 1925 issue.

September 4th, oddly enough or coincidentally perhaps, is mmy Birthday. Needless to say both had turned a copper brown with age. A few of the pages edges were torn as well but it was quite readable. The ads were the favourite and the funniest parts to read. The histories of products and the related photographs were hilarious.

I had stored both newspapers. When moving to the rez in 1994 and almost completing building mmy house, I had searched for and found those same newspapers. I wanted to decorate the walls of the bathroom with them; something I always wanted to do in a bathroom.

Mind you, I’mm sure you’ve seen rooms with old newspaper wall paper except for the fact that the wallpaper was new; mmine wasn’t. Very carefully, I had glued the old newspapers to the new bathroom walls then sealed them in place with a quality, long lasting sealer.

I had applied the front pages first. Amazingly enough those big, black, 72 font sized headlines of the old newspapers exploded with the war in the Balkans. Yes, that’s right. Just about the same time I was installing the wallpaper, the same kind of conflict was going on in the Balkans again. Only this time it was the more modern Mr. Bad boy Milosevic and all his war crimes rape and pillage soldiers of fortune.

Pretty strange, I’d say. This tells us again that, the more things change, the more they stay the same. The wallpaper was conveniently place in front of whoever cared to flush their eyes while leaving their last favourite drink or meal to the workings of a different flush.

Wars have began, ended, began and didn’t really end in the first place in more than one part of the world. They seem to flame up again and again. For too many reasons on both sides, they continue for not only decades but for more than a few centuries; and maybe thousands of years. Like they say, history has a way of repeating itself.

That’s why the title of this blog has the lovely title:

Wonders of the Whirled

Birds flew – Chicken fear
Earthquakes dawn threw dusk
Warning’s flood - tsunami sphere
Hurricanes, fright gains – bussed

Terrorist blasts, E coli pales
Glow bill’s warming – rising gas hails
Nuclear threats – town slide’s mud passed
Famine’s hunger, sorghum’d mass

Cocaine diss charged – securities beach
Subtropical depression, attack schedule’s leak
Shock ‘n awe can’t touch the caves
Intelligence designs or deficits in trades

Borders crash play no room at the in
Race with migrant’s pace, desert’s brim
Need id alcohol - oil’s prize fright
Stars, war’s news, spewed sea saw’s blight

Military tact-tricks charge at gaits
Lands mines, mine’s lands bicker wring states
Economy sheds – Dows drop - rise sin
Cultures clash width doubt with in

House past Bill stood left to write
Rock, it’s fired, threw window’s spite
Odium’s crime rash, border lines shill
Dough nation ask tray - spacecrafts hill

Trains Co. lied in - bike paths kill
Infants dying, hiked mass swill
Prison flights shoot pile it’s unfurled
Their’s the glue lambs - Wonders of the Whirled.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

A Gift From a Four Legged

March 23, 2010

It was April 1st, 1995. In another nine days it’ll be fifteen years ago since this memory happened. The summer before, July 1994 I had just moved to the Cheyenne River Sioux Reservation in South Dakota.

Habitat for Humanity was originally the purpose for relocating. After the Jimmy Carter Work Project thirty home blitz build was over, I had stayed to find a place to live as well as to continue a creative life.

After a short while I was staying in a 20’ long or short really trailer that someone had let mme sleep in for the summer months. A winter stay was out of the question. The little camper/trailer was not set up to withstand winter months. Besides that it was smaller than tiny.

I had to move. At the end of summer being at the right place at the right time really I had acquired a little thirty two foot long by twenty six foot wide, green metal pole barn garage. It had two roll up doors, and one entry door. It was on a single ‘city’ lot 50 feet x 150 feet deep.

It had no windows but it did have a little electricity. It also had a nice cement pad throughout. Basically that was its floor. The tin roof was good; the side walls were also in good shape. The structure belonged to a house a local friend of mmine had bought as his main residence.

He didn’t want the garage so he had passed the name of the same owner to mme so I could see if in fact it too was for sale. It was. I acquired the pole barn located on the gravel road a month or so later.

I could see the potential for a two story home that would be located in town on the rez and. Not living on the rez very long I didn’t want to move out to the country until I knew how to survive in such a remote place. This was also a first house; everything was new and foreign.

Shortly after buying the deeded property I began to remodel it into what would become home. It was the fall of 1994. Winter was coming quickly. An immense undertaking, it wouldn’t be long before the cold winters surrounded the tin sides. The freezing weather began quickly.

I tried to work fast but no matter how fast, I was still working with what would be considered an empty shell. I was also working alone. That’s the way I wanted it really; not to mention that I couldn’t pay a crew to help either. Even if I could, I’d still rather build it alone.

There was nothing in the shell except what I’ve already mentioned. Plumbing? None whatsoever. I had installed a 220 electrical power cord for a stove I thought I’d purchase down the road. Another necessity was to install a propane line for a dependable heat source I acquired at a later date. Most of the building materials were recycled.

In other words I was designing everything personally and loving every minute of each process. Before the winter began I had acquired a huge pot belly stove burning wood inside the big empty space. I worked hard to try and survive the harsh winters of Sough Dakota.

Before snows did arrive I had also purchased a new and very good make and model chain saw. I wasn’t fooling around with a used anything where the main heat source was concerned. I traded a car I had bought at a farm auction in exchange for a used ‘rez truck. The truck was to carry anything; cords of wood, building materials, etc….

When winter did come, I had a few cords cut, stacked, covered and sitting just outside the house. I was going to survive this first winter and didn’t want to depend on anyone for anything if at all possible. I worked every day from sun up to way past sundown most days. Sometimes until well past midnight; sometimes all night to sunrise.

No matter how hard I worked or how long, it seemed like I couldn’t get warm. Even with the huge pot belly stove burning six big logs all day long. Before moving to the rez I had purchased an insulated suit that I also had slept in. I thought wearing it would help; but it didn’t.

South Dakota has 50 below winters many days. A tin building with no insulation was like living in a freezer with the door shut. The owner before had left a long, grungy, dirty couch I used as a bed. I placed it right next to the stove barely feeling the heat in the big open space.

I usually woke up all hours of the night usually until the next morning shivering to death. In hindsight there were things I could have done to stay warmer but finding this out later didn’t help back then. I was a city boy trying to survive in a first time ever environment.

After a few months that were colder than any place I’ve ever experienced in mmy whole life. Luckily another friend, the very first person I had met on the rez, Gilbert offered a room in his house. He and his wife Grace said I could stay for the winter. They and their two boys went out of their way to offer a warm and kind friendship.

They also fed and basically treated mme like part of their family. They gave mme a room and said I could stay there as long as I liked or until I felt it time to move into mmy own home. They would help mme get whatever I needed in the way of information or help of any kind when or if I ever needed it. They basically saved mmy life a few times.

I can’t tell you the debt of gratitude I feel for Gilbert and his family for all they did. Grace, Gilbert’s wife is no longer with us. She died of cancer a year or so after we met. The truck mentioned earlier is what Gilbert asked to trade for the car. He said Grace needed something more comfortable to travel to Rapid City for her cancer treatments. We traded straight across; gladly. I needed the truck and vice verse.

The ‘rez truck’ was just that. It had four flat tires, two broken windows and a broken key in the ignition. It was still a good trade for both of us. It also had a lower gear than first. I pulled many a stuck car out of the gumbo mud or the deep snow with that truck; ‘Ol Blue.

Of course another great story is having the ignition fixed by a local friend, Ira. An amazing feat by one of the guys on the rez who I admired a hell of a lot; not only for that feat but for he and his wife raising their kids as well as they did with what very little they had.

They’re both monuments to anything anyone cares to do in life. One of their sons, Casey just graduated I think from either Annapolis or West Point. If anyone has ever been to a rez, seen or knows the odds; the things the people who live there are up against, just to survive, you’d think they both deserve a medal or definitely a salute. Hau….

I worked until I just couldn’t keep warm at night any more. I was losing too much sleep just trying to keep the fire going. The cement floor and the tin sides weren’t conducive to keeping in any kind of heat. I got out of bed to work with one bare light bulb blaring rather than lay there and be colder. It was a pretty dire situation. No toilet.

MMy hands were constantly frozen. After fighting it as long as I could I finally decided to take Gilbert and Grace’s offer and move in with them; at least until spring came or I could get the house much warmer to work inside. I didn’t have much to move. Most of the things I moved from Pittsburgh were stored somewhere else on the rez.

Every morning I’d get out of bed about 7:30 to enjoy cowboy coffee with Grace and Gilbert before setting out to work on the house. Some days passed where I couldn’t get to the house mostly due to the unbelievably inundating snowstorms with blizzard conditions.

Whiteouts like the ones on the rez are times I never dared to go out for fear of never finding the house or even coming back for that matter. There have been too many deadly occurrences I’ve heard about. People were not able to see two feet in front of them. It just wasn’t worth the chance. The house over a half mile away wasn’t close.

One morning after a big blizzard had subsided; I decided to take a chance. Usually in a place like that, one has to plug in the vehicle into an electrical source so as to keep the oil warm; otherwise the engine won’t even turn over. MMy van was parked to the side of the house located in a little enclave or subdivision called No Heart.

I had bundled up good with all the layers of clothing underneath the insulated suit. I pushed the door open while moving about fourteen inches of snow away from the opening. The van was covered with snow. Luckily a few days before I had plugged the plug to keep the oil from freezing. The sun was shining but it was still well below freezing

I walked around to the side of the house the van was parked on and kneeled down to unplug the plug. As soon as I did that a little black Labrador puppy came running from around the back of the house.

I looked up because I heard his paw steps in the crunching snow. He came directly towards mme. When he was close he stood between mmy knees as I was still bent over unplugging the plug.

His tail was wagging a mile a minute. He had something in his mouth that he immediately dropped in mmy lap. I began petting him or her. Before I could spend any time looking for a collar or give more pets, he or she took off running just as fast as when it had arrived.

I was still kneeling while whistling and trying to call the puppy back but it just kept running on. It seemed like it had a place to go. Freezing cold doesn’t help one feel anything especially with all the clothes on. I looked down. Still in mmy lap was the gift the puppy had left.

I picked it up with cold gloved hands. It was caked with the pure white crusted snow. I could see bits of what looked like fur sticking out from under the layer of snow. I began rubbing and scraping the snow off. The more I scraped the more fur I could see until I had scraped enough off that I could see that it wasn’t fur at all.

It was feathers. I kept scraping and scraping. The feathers were becoming more and more visible. It was beautiful. The designs were like a painting Mother Nature would paint on one of her creatures.

After spending about five more minutes scraping the snow off the feathers I could see what the puppy had dropped in mmy lap was a whole back of a big flying something. It wasn’t bloody in the least.

I didn’t know it was a Red Tailed Hawk until I brought it inside to show Gilbert and Grace. They said it was a welcoming gift from the spirits and that I’d might like to share it with others. I gave them each a gift. A feather for Gilbert and one of the delicate plumes for Grace.

From that day on I’ve handed out almost the entire gift. The bird’s back was huge. I can’t count how many feathers I’ve given away including the plumes (for women).

I still have a few left. Every time I look at them they remind mme of not only the rez, Gilbert, Grace, their two boys and our times together but the day the puppy dropped them on mmy lap. Thanks to the black Labrador puppy, the memory has brought many warm days.

Monday, March 22, 2010

A Ride to Pierre – 2

March 22, 2010

It was summertime and the living was easy, as the song goes so did we. There were no fish jumping in the car but the wheat, corn, soy beans and whatever the hell those farmers out there were growing was certainly beginning to get higher than a car’s canoe roof rack.

Passing the thousands of acres was like looking at paintings that were being presented like a slide show before your eyes. One colourful field blended into the next one and the next one. Some didn’t blend at all like definite defined lines of brown dirt cutting a clear line like a knife sliced off the brown colour not mixing with the tan hued wheat.

The patterns and colour changes of rolling hills and dales countryside was more than inspiring at sunset. Many times in later months and years while living on the rez I got to see what those same views looked like at sunrise as well as the change of the seasons. Often times the intensity of colours was almost too surreal to be believed.

The ride to Pierre was about an hour and a half. In that time I think I counted four cars going in the opposite direction. No cars or traffic were either in front or behind us. Pretty amazing. Other times after this first trip there weren’t that many more. I’mm sure there’s a lot more traffic now but nothing like an average corridor any place else.

She said, “Last stop, The Dakota Mart. That’s where we’ll go shopping before we leave Pierre. Right now it’s almost lunch so we’re going to go for lunch. Where do you want to go?” “Where? You’re asking mme? Come on, you know I’ve no clue; you pick a place,” I said.

The place she wanted to go was one of those hamburger chains until I convinced her that a proper meal was in order; in honour of the occasion of showing the new guy around; and that we did. An Italian place run by a guy with a cowboy hat was the closest we could find to anything that resembled a red sauce smelling interior.

I asked for a taste of a small spoonful of the open plains prized sauce. After a poor resemblance of mom’s specialty, I thanked the mman and said no thanks. We left to have Chinese. We found an authentic one that wasn’t operated by anyone wearing cowboy hats or string ties.

We sat down to enjoy the long ago taste treat; and that it was. It was a few years since the last time enjoying that particular cuisine for mme; definitely the better choice. We savoured the meal over two hours.

After leaving the Asian experience mmy friend drove us to the capital building. Behind it and on the side in clear view of the road is a huge man - made lake, or pond. How those sizes are distinguished, I don’t know. The body of water was enough to keep ducks and geese happy.

I’ve since visited the pond a half dozen times. In winter the water doesn’t freeze to ice like most of S.D. would. It’s part of the artesian water system that travels through the SD underground waterways. There are a few on the rez. One in particular in Cherry Creek is where I designed and built with locals, a nice outside bathing system and a place to wash dishes. A BEFORE photograph is at top there. A hot tub

At the lake/pond in Pierre, on the left (if you go) is a pretty good sized sculpture with an eternal flame dedicated to the firemen of the state. That’s right. Except unlike the Kennedy one in Arlington, it’s not burning oil or whatever they use for that. The water from the artesian wells has so much sulfur in it that you can actually light it.

After walking around the lake we wandered through the capital building. Not much to report on there other than it’s like a lot of capital buildings with all their capital stuff. Different seasons bring different decorations. I didn’t have an appointment with the governor so we didn’t hang around any longer. It was getting late. Time to shop

We visited several other areas, most of which I don’t quite recall at this point. Remember, this was the first visit since moving to the rez. After this trip I was acclimated so a few more excursions followed when I was the driver. Pierre is or was a cool little town regardless.

It was time to shop for food. MM friend found and drove us to The Dakota Mart. One of the favourite shopping places for many people who traveled from the rez to Pierre just to shop for groceries there. Not much is saved really when one considers paying for gas and anything else extra that the rez didn’t offer; but it was a good day out.

Some locals had relatives or friends that lived in Pierre, so longer stays for them were not unusual. I’mm sure there’s lots more things in Pierre but I was more in a hurry to get back to the rez before dark so shopping for food was the next and last order of business.

Walking into The Dakota Mart was like many grocery stores; nothing unusual except for the fact that it was bigger than our local store. It also had a few items not offered locally. The only product that I remember affecting mme was that they sold whole Salmon; cheap.

They weren’t fresh but they were whole. When I looked at the price I had to buy a bundle to take back home. They were frozen and I didn’t think to carry a cooler like some folks do for the 90 minute drive home. I did on later trips for this same purpose. As I recall a whole 2 pound Salmon was only $2.00. I bought a half dozen; a favourite fish.

I can’ tell you how glad and privileged I feel to be able to have lived in a state like South Dakota. Not only in South Dakota really but that it was the rez was even more special. No matter what you may have read about things that happened over one hundred years ago, some of those negative things still do exist but so do more positive ones. Life is what you make of it no matter where we live.

One of those positive things is the land and the people who were forced to live there are still there. Families that date back in a long history.

As I may have mentioned and I probably will again and again; the rez or most rez’s really are not easy places to survive or live. For all the reasons you may know and many you probably don’t, it’s a pretty hard life for most people. Very few will tell you how easy things were or are for them. If it is easy, it wouldn’t have been since birth.

Count your blessings.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

A Ride to Pierre - 1

March 21, 2010

When I was living on a Native American reservation for the five years I did in South Dakota, the very first time I’d leave town would be to relieve cabin fever and accept a ride to visit and grocery shop in Pierre

Pierre, pronounced pier, or peer is the capital of that gorgeous state. Although there was really only one big grocery store on the rez, it was nothing in size nor did it have many of the products offered compared to bigger cities. In 1995 mmy home town had about 500 residents.

Five years later when being asked to facilitate a mmusic mural for and with a grammar school in Michigan, a Kroger’s chain store was the very first grocery store I had seen other than the one mentioned a little later in this blog.

I remember that day in 2001 as if it were yesterday. Although I was raised in a big city, years later living in a small one for five years, I stood at the cheese department while gaping in awe and amazement at the amount of choices of just CHEESE for about ten minutes.

I picked up and looked at many of the packages with names on them that I’ve never seen nor heard of before. It was like finding a treasure chest on a desert island except for the process of picking one and paying for it was the next step.

It just presented to mme once again how not to take anything in this life for granted. That thought came to mme more times than I can count while living on the rez. Most of the people there have a really hard life; not all mmined you, but most.

Two of the poorest counties in the U.S. are in S.D. The Pine Ridge reservation and The Cheyenne River Sioux reservations are those places. I lived in the small administrative town of the CRST. The CRST is about the size of the U.S. state of Connecticut.

There was another place for grocery shopping in the immediate environs of the tiny administrative and the main town of the rez. It was a much smaller family owned business about one fifth the size of the main market owned and operated by the tribe.

The tribe had mostly the same group of people, a committee in charge of the telephone company, a propane company, and all sorts of tribal run businesses that really kept a good eye and hands on their businesses when and after they took over the mostly failing and poorly run enterprises.

One person in particular was J.D.; one of the main people if not the main person period that was responsible in turning the tribes businesses into profitable and on going or growing concerns. A good man with plenty of knowledge to accomplish anything he set his mind to in order to help his people. Kenny W-Es, Bill J are other ones.

The big grocery market was a tribal run business the committee had taken over in order to keep it growing. I think J.D. was also a rancher but don’t quote mme on that. Like many people on the rez, ranching and farming are mostly the way of life in that getting to be less remote area.

Of course it’s been growing and becoming less remote for the last one hundred years or so. There used to be 14 lumber yards there in the early days when the government checker boarded reservations. That was done to try and assimilate the Native Peoples thereby once again taking land away that was initially given to them.

After building a house and settling in to a singular kind of lifestyle almost immediately I mostly hung out in the tiny town or stuck close to it. I had met and made enough friends and acquaintances without needing to go too far in any direction for any reason whatsoever.

There was one video store; three businesses that sold gas but only one could work mechanically on a vehicle. Once you’ve been to a place where there’s only one grocery store, one that can fill most of your needs, you may find out that having a few dozen more choices isn’t really necessary unless something specific is needed for a reason.

Maybe you can relate being on a desert or a desert island where one source of water is the only place you’ll find it. It’s all we need really. Now if you want different kinds of coloured or flavoured water, that’s another story. Competition is good and monopoly’s are not. OK?

Living on the rez at that time was a very comfortable environment. I had gone there for one specific reason while hoping that if I stayed there long enough I’d find the others. I was glad to be left alone to do the things I had wanted to do for a very, very long time; years in fact.

After a while I did get a wander lust because as I’ve said, I hadn’t traveled too far in any direction. Friends or families I had met often tried to talk mme into traveling with them for a weekend shopping in the capital city of Pierre, South Dakota. To this city boy it’s a long ride.

I had always bowed out with a thank you anyway mostly because I didn’t want to travel the seventy five miles one way it took to just go shopping. That was like going to another state where I came from.

Not only that but most of the time spent would be in a car with too many people crammed together before all the packages that couldn’t fit in the trunk were piled on laps and any place one could find with no room to breathe.

That didn’t happen all the time but when it did the obvious choice for mme at least was to just shop locally. I know or knew many people went to do other things besides shopping. I guess I got to be more like a hermit without realising or being too aware of it until one of mmy friends pointed that out.

I admitted it at the time but thought nothing of it because I was perfectly satisfied doing what I was doing. That’s all I needed. It wasn’t that much later when I took mmy friend’s words to heart. That and the fact that I got a bad case of cabin fever. I decided to expand the horizons a bit to see what I could see or do in the capital.

It was when that same friend asked mme again to take a little trip, “to go shopping for groceries or whatever,” were her words. This time I accepted gladly. It only took a year or more but here we come Pierre.
Sheesh, what’s with the seventy five miles anyway? Couldn’t they put that city and its airport a little closer to us? Is what I used to think.

She drove and I sat in the passenger seat while looking at everything that passed by in a whiz. Yes, a whiz. When a person doesn’t really travel that much or lives in a small slow town; unless one uses a highway everyday, which I didn’t; seventy five miles an hour is like flying in a jet compared to what a calmer ride would be in the horse and buggy speed of people like the Amish; night and day difference.

To Be Continued:

Saturday, March 20, 2010

The Flaming Tree

March 20, 2010

After living in California for about twenty years, give or take a few, I relocated to one of the bigger cities of western Pennsylvania. Why? Longer stories here but suffice it to say I wanted another change. If you’ve not guessed it by now I’ve got the wander as well as the wonder lust. If you’ve traveled on any vacation, you’ll know why.

Besides all that it was too long before I had witnessed an actual fall season. It was a long time since I’ve seen multiple colour bursts or patterns painted on foliage and forests of trees appearing to be on fire. Fall is as if an army of inspired artist’s passed through everywhere while throwing or painting precisely everything as they went.

If it’s not a mmusic or an art project, commission situation or any of those combined as a work/play thing that take mme to wherever it is, then I’ll go it alone, with mmy FACE of course. We’ll just move to wherever seems to be calling us at the time; hang for as long as it takes. Mind you, nothing is easy or as simple as it may appear. As you can imagine there are the same trade off’s as any you can imagine.

Mind you this is one of the reasons I’ve lived in so many cities while claiming to have visited every U.S. state except one. The single reason or factor of one is mostly because as technology goes at this point of scientific discoveries, we’re not yet able to drive to the big Island. That and the fact that I’ve never been asked to play in the Pro Bowl is why.

The year long residence in Pennsylvania was one such place. Like many of the places I’ve visited in the past I had a good friend who lived close and on the outskirts to a big city really. He and his family were living not too far from where I first witnessed the fall foliage I’ve not seen in over twenty plus years. I could have but didn’t until now.

Driving cross country with his wife’s home state and their home being the next to the final destination I had seen a bit of fall’s colour. If you’ve not seen it, the Pennsylvania Turnpike passes through some of the most beautiful scenery one can see in this United States.

As a matter of fact, at that time Tom and his wife owned the old civil war type farm that wasn’t a farm. It was the same place when first being mesmerized; I sat in front of a tall, thin, plain as day tinted red/orange tree. If it wasn’t for the fact that there were no siren’s blaring, no smoke or intense heat, I could’ve sworn it was on fire.

The flame seemed to be the entire tree that had the shape of a stricken match or a lit candle pointed skyward. I sat there on the dry dirt in front of the house in pure amazement. It seemed like I was in a Disney dream. The approximate place I set mmyself was thirty feet away from it. I had to be sitting there for over an hour. It was unbelievable.

As an artist I was asking mmyself what the hell was I doing by missing these work of art views for so long. No matter where mmy head turned the next view was more beautiful than the last. Turning back to the same view brought the same reaction. I just couldn’t get enough of any view no matter where mmy head turned.

Tom the owner and I drove from his home in Pennsylvania to his farm in West Virginia. It took a few hours to drive to his home away from home. Our mmusic lives pretty much paralleled. He had been off play for a while as well. The drive gave him an excuse to recharge again.

His life was also that of a mmusician and a fellow drummer at that. Where we differed was his preferred bands were mostly of the blues variety. Alvin Lee and Johnny Winter were two of his long standing gigs and claims to fame. They and he are parted; in mmusic’s history.

Tom and his wife purchased the property but he’s the one who really took advantage of its rural and more remote to civilisation qualities. I’mm sure if he had a choice he’d rather be ‘on the farm’ so to speak than anywhere else; at least for as long as it took to slowly wind down like a long distance runner who would change pace and crawl instead.

Viewing Mother Nature anywhere really, no matter the weather, time of year, night or day. She rejuvenates us from a hurried, scurried and intense life where one may often need a break; a change of pace heals.

Being in the presence of oceans of humanity who may be screaming with joy every single day is one of those intense parts of many a mmusicians life. There has to be a balance for most if not all of us, or it’ll take a toll one may not necessarily prefer that’s for sure.

Like a pill prescribed by the doctor who left all the medicine to heal one’s self for anything, just lying around to be discovered or found for any purpose really, Mother Nature’s store is where we’ll usually find the cure. Sitting in front of a flaming tree was a cure in pure colours.

Friday, March 19, 2010

A Greenwich Gangster Band

March 19, 2010

Well, they weren’t really a gangster band but I call them that because of how I first saw them dressed like Mr. Nitty. I’ll backtrack a bit here

The year was around 1985 or so. I had taken a three week vacation with Pam, a wife at the time. We flew from our in the woods suburban home in NYC to London, England. We were booked to stay for three weeks. I on the other hand stayed more than three months mostly because of finding and adding more of a mmusic experience.

After our three week British tour to visit the wife’s relatives as well as a few pub crawls, jams and whatever we’re with all’s in Burton on Trent, Dovedale, Derby, The Bass Brewery, Cathedrals and such plus more than that we did, Pam returned to the good ‘ol U. S. of A.

I had kept in touch with a great friend and his family who had moved to another part of London. I phoned them to touch base when they asked mme to stay longer and at their house for a while. A month later I relocated to a pub on the south side of the Blackwall Tunnel.

The Mitre Pub was located technically I guess in Greenwich; the same Greenwich of Mean Time fame. Change your clocks yet? Pass time…

I was asked to do a gig at the Mitre every Thursday night with a group of mmusicians I had known ever since arriving in England almost ten years earlier. Another Mick, the bassist asked if I’d like to join him and a few other locals in a band situation. They called themselves Corporal Henshaw; after one of the characters in an early 60’s TV show, Sergeant Bilko. Ancient people know who that was, eh?

One of the players was a fellow countryman from the U.S. who relocated to London and worked as the booking agent in the Mitre. Keith was his first name; his last I don’t remember. He was also living upstairs from the Mitre Pub. After a few weeks of traveling back and forth from Hackney, Keith asked if I’d like to stay at the Mitre as well; there was plenty of room with another apartment really. I moved in.

I thought it would be cool to live above a Pub and that was it. Luckily for mme the business didn’t stay open until the wee hours in those days. When I wasn’t playing but still rooming there, getting enough of sleep was no issue. Besides that, the times bands performed in that country were nothing compared to the U. S. Gigs over there only lasted for a few hours; usually finishing by 11pm. Piece of cake.

The reason I mentioned staying in the Mitre Pub in Greenwich was because very shortly after I had moved there, I ventured out walking. If anyone had seen the south side of the Blackwall Tunnel, at that time, you know there was absolutely nothing except a huge water tank behind it and an old demolished church about a block away.

When I say the water tank was huge, I mean it was really huge. Like one of those you’d see at an oil refinery. Picture that up close and there you have it; behind the Mitre by about 100 feet or so. Then of course there’s all that traffic coming and going out of the tunnel. Let mme put it this way; the smell wasn’t like a garden of roses but more like a Venus Fly Traps undigested meal; exhaust fumes added to it.

I did venture into the demolished church for a gander one afternoon. That was also a huge structure. Walls and ceiling were still intact. The floor was covered in all kinds of demoed materials that rain, wind, snow and weather of all kinds had blown in there. It was a big mess.

One great weather late afternoon I had taken a walk to the place where the famous tall ship, The Cutty Sark was moored or dry docked. After a tour all around the huge hulk of history, I was getting heavy hunger pangs. Just on the corner, pretty much right there at the Cutty Sark was a little East Indian Restaurant. I entered and filled up.

I’d tell you everything wonderful about that meal but at this point I’d rather get to the point of the title of this little story. It was about 7 or 7:30pm or close to it when I exited the restaurant to walk back home. When walking there I was on the same side of the street as the Greenwich clock was located. Returning home I walked on the opposite side of the street. Now I have an image of a tall iron fence.

As I was walking, looking across the street, I saw about six guys carrying what looked like vegetable crates into a little pub. The door
was opened and mmusic was pouring out all over mme. It sounded like Sinatra type of song material. The more I walked the louder the mmusic was getting. The lead singer had Sinatra down pat; his way.

Then it stopped. I was still across the street and about 100 feet from the entrance. I kept looking over to the opened door when about seven guys charged out laughing. They stood against a wall opposite to the pub. They were all wearing the same kinds of suits and hats. That was the funny part of it. I walked across the street to join them.

Turns out they were the band; of course. Why else would they be dressed like that? Like that were black suits with wide light grey pin stripes and matching Fedora’s. The leader was a Pearly King. After I had the opportunity to play with them and to know them a little bit Mr. Pearly King showed mme a photograph he had recently taken with Princess Di. Remember her Highness Princess of Wales? One in the same. A Pearly King is in Google, it’s late, save mme time, OK?

He, Mr. Pearly King was in full regalia and she, P. Di in her plain but expenseive normal everyday Princess attire. She appeared to be fondling one of Mr. Pearly King’s pearls or whatever those things are all over the clothes he was wearing at the time. In any case besides that he was also a full fledged copy of a Mr. Sinatra clone by knight.

I’mm getting a little ahead of mmyself here. At this point we’re at the introduction stage while all the suits in question were leaning on an outside wall of the pub they had just exited. Boisterous mob they were and all in the moment of the big band era. That’s what their mmusic was like. Almost every song was vintage 1930’s, 40’s and almost 50’s. They did it their way someone might say. Was that someone you?

Apparently when I was passing they were just about to go on their first break; and did. I walked across the street at their gathering and asked who I didn’t know at the time but turned out to be Mr. Pearly King himself, if they were playing a private party or was it an open thing? All at once I got both answers from different sources. Then they all had a nice laugh at the new Mr. American’s expense. Funny boys.

They asked why I wanted to know. I said I’d like to come in and listen. After their little expressions of privacy and not I then said that if they were open to it, then I’d like to jam. They all looked mme up and down and said first of all I wasn’t dressed up enough for the occasion. I walked to the still opened door and looked inside.

Noticing that they were the only one’s dressed like Al Capone I said they were the one’s that looked out of place. I’d fit in very nicely behind the drumms thank you very much. The next fifteen minutes went tit for tat with everyone in the circle. They were really funny guys. All of whose names to this day I don’t have a clue or remember.

The only two guys I DO remember personality wise at this point years later, were Mr. Pearly King himself and the organ player dude. An uncured alcoholic who played only when he had to and always with a drink in one hand if he could get away with it. He usually hid, did.

He had a twitch that he just couldn’t hide. His head would twitch to one side, one eye would blink and one of his shoulders would rise a bit; not much but enough so that anyone could see all three happened at once. I felt sorry for the guy but he was happy as long as there was a drink in one hand; or both. Needless to say he had dire health issues.

The break was over and everyone headed inside to the pub. It was a raucous crowd whether the band was playing or not. When the band did begin to play again, most of those sitting got up to dance. Some sang the familiar tunes as they danced and the rest sang as they sat.

One thing I did notice about being in England at that time, many places I went to where there was entertainment or not; maybe just a jukebox if there were no mmusicians, people would sing along with the mmusic. It didn’t have to be that old stuff which means to say up to the 60’s even but they sang up to the date songs as well.

Just picture a modern version of a Medieval Pub with long tables of friendly people drinking grog while crammed next to each other. That was the scene I witnessed many times in different towns, not necessarily all pubs. Church basements, something like Moose Lodges but not called that were also where many people burst into song.

After watching and listening to Mr. Pearly Sinatra and his pin stripe mob while enjoying another circle of quite boisterous patrons, Mr. Pearly called mmy name over the microphone and basically ordered mme to approach the bandstand and take his drummer’s place.

I do and always recognise the matter of respect for the other guy so I apologised to drummer guy. As he was getting off the bandstand I asked if in fact he wouldn’t mind if I sat in for a few songs. I’d only play if he gave permission. He laughed and said, ‘Sure mate, have yourself a go, I’mm leaving these sad blokes pretty soon anyway.”

So there you go and there I went. He handed over a pair of sticks; I sat down to play; the rest of the night as a matter of fact. Apparently Mr. Pearly King overheard drummer guy say he was going to leave the band pretty soon. Pearly King guy fired him on the spot. Lucky mme. From then on, I had the gig; and what a gig it was. Not only THAT night but the few more months following. A football club was one.

The only night I couldn’t play with them was the every Thursday night gig at The Mitre. Remember that one? Right. Needless to say after falling nicely into that gig, I couldn’t stay that long anyway. Remember the wife had left a few weeks before so I had to get back to the states. Three months later, I did but not before being involved in more stories of the Pearly Sinatra’s. The Football Club remembered.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Milwaukee's Cloth


March 18, 2010

I don’t remember the year but it was shortly after 911 happened that I was visiting a friend in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Lovely city. Although they’re not mmy chosen team, the Green Bay Packers are part of Wisconsin’s DNA. I’ve not seen much of the state but what I have experienced in a few cities visited, I really like the Badger state.

Hayley’s Corners is where mmy friend spent years applying the chosen vocation. We traveled to another gorgeous area; one of those stunning places with a huge blue lake where Mother Nature touched her magic wand to create a region one would think looks like heaven.

I know the time of year was shortly after 911 because one of the locales mmy friend and I visited at the time was the newly built Milwaukee Art Museum (MAM). The photos on today’s blog are part of its structure. It appears to be a huge cruise ship on Lake Michigan. When those ribs open up it seems like it could easily take off and fly.

Displayed outside as an exhibition unto itself was part of one of the boilers from the World Trade Center. I couldn’t believe that whoever had the idea to do that not to mention to ship that thing from place to place did. It must have weighed tons. It brings to mmind how much energy and power it took to destroy the two buildings; truly amazing.

Needless to say the mangled mass of steel was transformed into something else that looked like it would belong in a museum’s sculpture show. Because of what it is, obviously it was located on the bottom most floors of the World Trade Center. Top floors crushed it.

Another eye opening work of art I’mm not sure if it’s still there or not, was viewed as one looks to the right and enters into the huge, modern lobby area. A very large, colourfully, entangled and twisted work of glass art by the famous artist Chilhouly hangs from ceiling to floor.

It had or has to be about thirty feet or more tall. Like Cristo, another famous and internationally known artist, I’d like to meet Chilhouly as well, one of these days. Both artists, without a doubt, if you’ve not seen their work I recommend you check them out if you get a chants.

Milwaukee’s Art Museum is a great architectural wonder. It has three buildings. The one I liked the most was designed by Santiago Calatrava. I’ve seen a few of his works in person; many more in books. The man is a creative and spatial genius. I took so many photographs of walls, cubby holes, light fixtures and all odd sorts of things in the MAM. Every form one could see it seemed was so interesting to view through a camera’s lens. I recommend visit at least thrice.

You may also want to visit the Harley Davidson motorcycle factory as well. Maybe you don’t know that famous of all U.S. of A. motorcycles are manufactured in Milwaukee. If you didn’t, now you do. Like Pillsbury the baking flour people or even Miller Beer, “The beer that made Milwaukee famous,” or so they claim in the old advertisements.

MMy friend brags to be able to see the Miller factory from the house parking lot. Lucky them. On the other hand if there were a Guinness Brewery, I’d move there pronto. I’mm not an, ‘It’s less filling,’ or lite beer person that’s for sure. If I had to worry about filling mmy stomach, I’d eat. Guinness, there’s a beer to fill up on if you’re eating.

This brings us to the words for today’s blog. As you may have noticed there hasn’t been an entry with a poem or whatever you want to call these things, in quite a while. Maybe after reading, or giving up trying today’s little twister missive you’ll thank mme for that. It’s a hard one.

In any case, I know this blog is difficult to read at times, to understand or even care about as strangers or friends but that’s just the way it is. It’s entered on this date none the less. Give it a go or a throw. Figure it out and you’re worth your weight in ale or the read whine of heave in

Without a doubt, you’ll have to decipher most or the majority of the words at the end - yourself. Basically so you won’t be too diss tints from it; it was some of the things the friend and I did and witnessed while spending about a week touring the summer city of Milwaukee.

You may be able to tell we attended a kite festival. That was so cool. I think it occurs every summer in the huge park adjacent to the MAM. The kites were modeled after all kinds of things; like a replica of the old Forbes of Forbes magazine castle/home; a Flying Pig of course; a shark; jets; airplanes both modern and antique; an eagle; hippo; etc…

A kite race and picnic were also part of the MMicks. The friend, always prideful of not only the culinary displays but of all the actual food anyone invited to taste those tables can taste. From the beginning appetizers/plural to the multiple courses of you name it at any given time, to the deserts; one has to be completely empty before the start. Maybe this is where that Miller fluff comes in? Sheesh; not a chance.

It was a gourmet picnic, that’s for sure. Let’s not forget the before and during dinner drinks; wines and after dinner top it off’s of a different liquid; sometimes a tiny container containing Grand Mariner will be carried along to be included in the desert. The friend is definitely a thoughtful and complete to every small detail, chef. (Merci, there J)

A few partial images of photo’s I took at the MAM were used in some of the digital mmusic designs you may find on mmy home page somewhere. Whether you can pick them out or recognise them is another story. Good luck finding any one of them. If you can pick any out from that day; a gold ducket for your bucket or to hang on your:

Milwaukee’s Cloth

I Max crest
Kilimanjaro waves blessed
Stripes magnet iron on one
While try plain's flyin’
Winged broods sighed 'n
Sharks kites - wild boars flights were flown

Matched winged chums charmed
Crest, too lunged alarmed of
Loop de loop’s 'n
Diving in troupes
Watched by groups
Of sky's winged lunch bunch

Picked nicked air, bye strings
They ran - towed plastic things
Arrived in bikes - all tried
Pedal pals four - two do ride
Together knee's moved
'N grooved in strides
Of unison's plea’s improved

Smilin’ miles threw stiles - said, "Hi MAM" - turned
Window's magnet set on Centers boiler - burned

On to Harley hog's sway- where potato songs were played
Left to write - Willy's tagged -MM's posters stayed

Post tours - coffee shops
East Side - in the bin
Sitting out sighed tray did guise
Alterra's left did in

Write on trays - just helped yourself
End Window’s mag on tin
Was left -through rite - wild registered
Remained be sighed it - grinned

Italian Villa's stepped - know tram
Crab apple’d wedding’s anew
Can’t walk down the aisle of blue slated waves
Know insure rants willed never pass through

Then on too Wisconsin's Conservatory - true
Where MMusic’s taught - end them - learned
Bye heard’s whizzed passed through halls - books clued
Scales up - downed classics - knights’ oil burned

Sow - win - the end - " On the board it will hang
Up and down the stares, Yes!" she said, sang
In MMedicine's school passed too mman - lass end rocks
Too per forming Arts house Liszt through Bach’s

The Arts shop mistress - the violinist too
Strolled in and touched 'em - just like y'alls may due
Said, "Thank you much, got 'nother one MMack?"
Hear, pass it on m'am - prayed tell – please the tact

"Aye - wonder if given sum clues sole dear friends
True place of towns players 'n mmusicians intend?"
Oklahoma? – 77th – family's stored in mmusic’s gear
Left posters - 'chure's ‘n cards - put 5 in - penned back they're

Wild X a student of M ‘n- aye -A-D
Artist/guitarist was poppin' up art was he
Of art's popped charge - while knee'd
Talked his abstract popped art's out
In D school mag's left three
One him - one prof's - watched based balls props
On lips up-down mouth's spree

Rode on down to view Kites Fest
Packed picnic - end prints two marina's resting left
'Joy'd spectrums colours - plastics drifts on wings
While kites wind songs played tightened, whitened strings

Yes the glossy's were ready for framing - end too
XP lyrics - fine print copies were weight in seeded pew

Guessed they wondered, “What’s 'fore this?
Who’s left leaving all this stuff?"
Grabbed the mike - spoken kites
Left for shore - white clouds in puffs

Led it be - yes it’s we
Too care? Too know things rife
Too more of those of leaving's left
And tour wit's end threw write
Be entertained - 'fore aye due stop
Think end of won's for sure
Know Bailey’s take a rose his flock
To Don's gogh key's - MM's stored

This master mixer's mman 'o MMick's
Think chef's hand did these yet?
The ate bye ten's 'n foamed cores fanned?
Proposals scene knews met?

All post tours hand did? End too MM's?
‘Round thoughts all gone? Then through?
He's past the cards know boxes, too end?
Or end Mill Walk Ease Cloth
Donned blew?

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Big Pink – 5

March 17, 2010

I’mm not sure of the route we took but suffice it to say it was a few hours drive. That part of the trip was pretty uneventful unless one considers the sheer volume and tones of so many people, especially all the happy children along for the rolling Big Pink touring experience.

The sound although not really deafening was like you’d imagine with that much humanity loaded into one space; several different groups all talking at various volumes and mostly all at once. It was like there was a big family reunion but with all of it taking place inside a confined area of floor and windows space; no escape while moving.

Unlike the modern buses of any period, legally having to be equipped for human emergencies such as too much or even just a little liquid consumption, the driver was asked to pull over someplace; or more times than imaginable any place to relieve whatever had to be relieved quickly when many little people were crammed in the space.

Needless to say, I can’t tell you how many times this happened but I will tell you that one of those stops had to be for a going quickly fat to flat tire. Yes, I’mm a frayed so. The soon to be emergency was avoided at the very last minute. The last minute because we were almost arriving at our final gig destination; almost but not quite there.

I can remember this part of the story like it was yesterday, it was so cool. We were within the perimeter of the town of Davis. Not even the outskirts really but pretty close to where we had to check in for the festival. Unfortunately one of Big Pink’s rolling feet just couldn’t wait another turn before everyone heard the rhythmical hiss; air escaping.

Even worse, she was losing air faster than a broken balloon at a well attended kindergartener’s birthday party. Too many more revolutions and Big Pink’s foot would be rubbing its metal on asphalt. The immediate guess was that it must have been something one of Big Pink’s feet had grabbed without noticing it would in fact stick to its insides thereby causing the quick loss of fat and full to thin and empty

Without a doubt this is where the positives of these kinds of experiences occur and something good always comes of it. Just ahead was one of the normal gas stations that used to be plentiful in those days. We all could see its big opened garage doors on the right as we rolled to a stop slightly in front of and to the left of them; just in time for Big Pink’s foot to be flatter than a pan cake. Lucky us. We stopped.

Not a facetious term in this instance. We really were lucky; on several counts. One was that the flat didn’t happen in the middle of the road or highway, too far away from anywhere to get it fixed for that madder. Limping on the side of a busy road wouldn’t be any fun.

Nope, not this day; for some reason we had a lot more good on our sighed. This, even more evident when I exited the bus to find the man in charge of the gas station. I had the pick of five men who gathered in front of the big opened door to see what would exit from the circus.

With a smile bigger than Soupy Sales I walked up to the grinning gentlemen and said something like, “Say guys, luckily for us we just got a flat tire. As you can see from all the humanity hanging out the windows, not to mention the colourful display of our name on the side of ‘ol Big Pink there, we’re a little choir from a few hours away. We’ve got a gig that starts not too long, time wise from now. As you can see we’re in need of your kind assistance; whatcha think?”

One of the gentlemen who I gathered was the General in charge pointed to two of his underlings and like the Godfather himself, pointed to the bus full of happy spirits without using any vocal accompaniment. The two anointed one’s then walked briskly to Big Pink’s pan cake and asked mme to ask everyone to exit the bus.

Little did they know that the exercise in itself was more than a big deal. They were sure it was a necessary one. I walked to the opened doors and passed that information to the General of the choir; big M.

After a longer than usual preamble of precautionary measures the choir General then passed the pleas exit information to the horde on the bus. The excited exit movements began as everyone, not all at the same time mmined you, got up from their comfortable rug seats. Kids with balloons and stained candy faces were told to leave the balloons or potentially lose them to the heavens. Hold mom’s hands and walk.

The adult passengers grabbed the hands of those too small to walk the streets or wander alone. Most of this was in as orderly a fashion as anyone can imagine a circus of this nature and size could accomplish. In tow were the one by one by too’s, some with sticky hands of chocolate or holding dolls, toys and a few with balloons exited en mass; vocalisations of everything were the kiddies added attraction.

As everyone d-bussed the two greasy clothed mechanics about to attack the flat tire looked well amused. The other three gentlemen watched the circus parade of tiny tykes ‘n moms find a place to move out of the way. They marched like gaggles of geese or ducks following the leader to a safe distance while asking if this were a food source.

As it happened a large grassy area was right next to the station. The Big Pink crowd sat and amused themselves while the tire was being worked on by the tire fixing professionals. Grunts and groans commenced. The electrical tools attachments couldn’t stretch that far so the distraught mechanic’s had to manually continue by hand.

Kindly like soldiers following the orders of the gas station General the two strained with determination. Big Pink’s history was evident when the rusted nuts of the rusted bolts were harder to unwind than a grist mill not oiled since the Middle Ages. This was a time for no mere mortals when the gas General called out the heavy artillery. Still inside the station was Big Bernie. The right man with the right tool.

Big Bernie towered over as well as muscle powered over all his compatriots including the General. All Big Bernie had to do was to untwist each nut that wouldn’t; the rest of the job was a piece of cake for the other two. Untwist he did and then left the rest of the unscrewing to the other two soldiers. The two privates quickly proceeded with the rest of the job taking Big Pink’s shoe off entirely from there on with no problem.

In the meantime Mr. General expressed his professional opinion by saying he definitely had no replacement. When the privates take off the tire they’ll have to bring it into the fix area to see if the tire can be repaired right then and there or we were, using his knowledgeable expression, ‘shit outta luck.’” Well, that wouldn’t be good. Let’s hope for the best, eh?” was mmy response. He smiled warily.

Well, lucky us. When the privates brought the sad faced tired in to be checked in the dipping water challenge, they found a hole no bigger than a 16 penny nail. When one considers the size of the rubberised foot compared to one of those tiny imports, it was minimal in deed.

Mr. General expressed although it looked like it’s past the time of a new shoe, Big Pink’s foot can be repaired. He asked if we’d like them to do that. I responded with no thank you would you please return it to its proper place and we’ll continue driving to Hawaii. He smiled at mmy facetious reply after which I said yes, please; we’d appreciate it.

The kind sounding man then pointed to one other associate who was to do that job as well as to pick another one of his friendly assistants to engage in the healing and repair. As I watched for a short while Mr. General and I had a nice conversation about the weather. He was also very inquisitive as to whom we were and what exactly were we doing in his town. Where did we come from and how long did we exist.

I responded with the initial opening of introduction information and expanded upon that. He was smiling the whole time while expressing how much fun the whole crowd seemed to be having in this what could have been a sad experience. I told him that it’s a Gospel Choir pal, so we try not to let little things like this bother us; besides that we’re all on our first trip/gig as somewhat of a family. As you can see, we’re having a circus of a time. The man was very funny and friendly.

After the twenty minutes or so it took from the water challenge part, the tire was fixed in short order. The boys of repair set Big Pink’s foot back in place; we were ready to roll once more. I walked outside to pass that information to the choir Mistress who passed it on to everyone else.

At that point like the circus exiting, the same circus in another procession of giggling vocalists and their charges even quicker, reentered Big Pink. We were ready to roll. One last step was to pay the General and his rubber repair platoon for a job well done.

I walked up to the General who was inside the business part of his station. He was pushing so many buttons on his cash register that the ringing reminded mme of sounds one may hear in a casino when a jackpot occurs. I was beginning to get frightened. He unrolled the long paper receipt and presented the end in its totality. I grimaced.

When I looked at the long column of numbers I just couldn’t figure it out. I said to him that after all these numbers what you have at the end here is not a total. If there’s an end number then for the life of mme I can’t see it. He asked mme what in fact did I see at the end.

I said, “Not to be funny or anything here Mr. General, but all I see at the end here is a bunch of zeros.” He said, “That’s correct son, the price is zero, nada, nothing; you and your nice choir owe us nothing.” I said, ‘Nothing? Nothing? You mean you did all that hard work, not to mention bringing in the overpowering power guy, and you’re not going to charge us?” He said, “That’s right son; have a nice concert; you’re a nice group of people; our little gift to you.”

Needless to say, I was very surprised by saying something pretty close to or exactly like: Whoa; that’s unbelievably kind of you; WOW, what a great gift!! Thank you; thank you so much; thank you very much Sir! The guy had a big smile, shook mmy hand vigorously when I said, “So I guess we’re on our way then; thanks again.” He said, “You’re very welcome, maybe you’ll come back and see us again.

At this point with a smile bigger than Christmas I ran out to the bus and told everyone what had just happened. They all yelled with joy. One right after the other immediately made a suggestion that the choir director agreed upon. Everyone in agreement wanted to get out of the bus and sing a song to the station General and his crew of cool.

Like the circus exit and reentrance before, everyone exited the bus while I went back into the station to summon the entire cadre of cool for a personal performance of our choir. When approaching Mr. General with this, he quickly gathered his men. They all dropped their tools while at the same time Miss Choir mistress arranged everyone in a semi circle, kids with balloons and still candy smudged faces.

They discussed what would be the perfect song for this most special of occasions. The men gathered approximately fifteen feet in front of the choir about to give a personal one time performance; acappella at that. Mistress Choir director quieted everyone after which she asked the whole group to say THANK YOU in unison. They did while the kids screamed, everyone applauding the men who stood before them in the standing ovation that lasted well over a minute.

Two songs were decided upon in the bus. If I’mm not mistaken it was both we’ve performed many times before and will during the time of our performance of the festival. ‘Wings,’ lead singer was Carol. Her name I remember like most of the singers. She chose a song she loved to sing. It was basically a ballad that presented all the good qualities of each separate section of the backing tones of the choir as well as her angelic voice. It was a powerfully moving song and lyrics.

The song that followed was, “Smiling Makes Your Dimples Grow.” It was a happy faster paced song that included our dancers who also did their routine for the tiny audience and one quite appropriate for the time. Positives produce positives. After the short performance Mr. General and his crew of cool applauded generously and with whistles.

Every one of the adults went to touch and shake the hands of every crew member of cool. Like the way the loading and exiting of the bus beforehand, this ending was the same. The entire choir and their charges entered the bus for the last time in an orderly fashion with the happiest expressions on their faces, with and without candy smudges.

As we slowly pulled out of the gas station, the crew stood in line. They waved goodbye to all the kids with balloons that hung out every window and waved so long back while screaming thank you’s until out of hearing distance. The concert went the same way. The great feeling continued the rest of the weekend through to the way home and the departure at the original place it began; from Big Pink.
“Smiling Makes Your Dimples Grow.”

Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Big Pink – 4

March 16, 2010

The second day Big Pink was parked out front; I was inside cleaning her up, down, top to bottom as best as one can. After all little tykes and the likes of all the choir members had no place to sit other than a not so soft padded rug. There was nothing I could do about the seats so I tried to make the sad rug as clean and as comfortable as possible.

I strung a long extension chord from the house to a good sucking vacuum along with its various attachments. The doors were closed. Over the din of the vacuum while whistling Don’t Fence MMe In, I heard more than a few loud bangs. I wondered if Big Pink had ignited herself until looking up and over to the doors. In the split door scenery was an always frowning Mr. O. I wondered if that was his unhappy look or his happy grin that I always mistook for other why’s.

Opening the creaking doors I gave a big smile and a howdy do with words that went something like, “Hiiiiiii Mr. OOOOO. Lovely day isn’t it? How can I help you?” Not smiling of course he asked if I lived there. “Live here? Do you mean within this bus?” I asked. “Nooooooo, not in this thing but in our neighborhood,” was his reply. I smiled.

“Sheesh, Mr. O, I’ve lived here for several years now; don’t you recognise mme from the wanted posters at the post office? Maybe you forget that from time to time I’ve waved to you while you’ve attended to your lovely landscaping duties. Seriously, Mr. O. Yes, I do live here, and have been right next to you for over two years. Several times your son and I have played basketball in your yard,” was the response.

He then asked if this ugly thing was going to be parked there long. I replied with a longer answer but suffice it to say, it didn’t prevent the retired Navy Doc from continuing his frowns from then until I moved away about eight years later. Big Pink was initiated and welcomed into the neighborhood although grudgingly so by the chosen few. I’mm sure Mr. AND Mrs. O began searching for some kind of law that would prevent this kind of a ‘thing’ parked in their castle area.

On the other hand. While living in that same house, there were many jams of all kinds of mmusic. From time to time several other neighbors would compliment on those occasions asking when they would happen again. One particular neighbor said she always sat outside with her husband whenever this happened. Not all the neighbors on that street were uptight or angry at the odd ones out.

Big Pink was scrubbed, rubbed and flub-a dub- dubbed until she sparkled and Shined. The next day, a Sunday was a choir rehearsal in one of the local small spaces between the furniture of someone’s house. Usually at these occasions I was the first to arrive in order to claim enough comfortable space for the drumms and yours truly.

When the choir arrived the rest of the living room was crammed with humanity; including the guitarist Dave, the bassist Clyde and the saxophonist Dennis. We cluttered around the old upright, black piano where the choir mastered everyone else with arms flailing in every bass, alto, soprano and baritone directions. Big mom M led the brood.

During the rehearsal someone raised their hand and asked if anyone in the room owned that cool Big Pink bus parked just outside. Raising sticks I claimed ownership, or owner-bus. When everyone heard this, all at once they ran to the big picture window to take a gander then cheered one big cheer surmising or knowing full well that this was in fact the new transportation to nirvana’s dreamscape and future gigs.

Seriously, I don’t recall nor claim ownership of the last two paragraphs due to memory lapses which I do apologise for but suffice it to say that everything before that did in all truth occur. The Fairfax Street Choir was a great mixture of more talent than Barnum and Bailey could muster to entertain the troops before Custer’s last stand.

Besides having a well respected leader/director, very knowledgeable and mostly patient person at the head of the entire choir, the rest of the gang volunteering all their talents ended up as basically an evenings worth of a more than entertaining review in true form.

Forgive mme if mmy numbers are off here but I think remembering there were at least two very good dancers whose names I’ve forgotten; but their steps, energy and part of ‘The Show,’ I certainly haven’t. They were a great part of the whole concept of the vaudeville review.

The choir also had a few mmusical groups within the group. Like one of the few male lead singers, songwriters who in later years played one of the Fab Four in one of those infamous Broadway type plays. He was one of mmy favourite singers with a red guitar song and a guy whose band I had the opportunity to play for at times. He was great.
Another male choir member, also a fun pianist to play with became a Los Angeles movie mmusic composer. I’ve a few tapes of our off shoot with another female choir member who also played a violin. Her dad was a vocal person/teacher. Her well trained and purely magical voice often made mme smile while jamming with her as well.

The choir like many gospel choirs mostly of the soul persuasion moved and grooved like not many some may experience in many churches; although some quite often. No one stood still on stage or in the audience when we performed; at least in those types of songs that called for those kinds of experiences spiritual or rock and roll.

Everything about the playing part for this drummer at least, was very moving, gospel fun. The four band members were there to move themselves and to help the others groove forever smooth. We were there to support the singers and in turn the singers always projected professionalism, power and charisma to captivate any audience.

On with the show:

The next thing I knew we were getting ready and discussing at the last rehearsal space a previously booked gig which was to take place at the University of California, Davis campus. It was to be an outdoor festival of some sort where another choir was to perform as well as all manner of festival activities for the whole family; food, drinks and fun

One nice summer weather Saturday morning; about eight or nine a.m. I drove Big Pink to the prearranged time and place. The entire choir was gathering for our first away from home gig. Everything needed for the overnight stay was being loaded on and into Big Pink. One more explanation here. By everything I mean everything possible.

Because the choir consisted of young women most of whose husbands or boyfriends weren’t members, their combined children unbeknownst to Big Pink and I were also invited along so to speak. That meant that not only was Big Pink carrying most of the members of the choir but their children as swell. Estimating years later I’d say that besides the choir about a dozen or so more children were part of the load. I’mm talking a few babies or very young children here too.

Reality set in when the tiny tots and their mothers asked mme if they could write things in water colours or chalk on the side of Big Pink. If permission was granted then ‘they said, ‘we’ll all wash it off after the trip.’ Facetiously I looked for crossed fingers behind their backs as well as in a somewhat serious tone asking for confirmation in writing.

As soon as permission was given like the dawn opening of a Sears after Mother’s day sale where 90% off was to take place; everyone ran to get their tool of choice and returned to begin to compose the mural of the day. The name of the choir was written in crooked, irregular and big multi-coloured letters by anyone big enough to hold a brush dripping with water paint. Big fat pieces of chalk were used as well.

Screaming kids began blowing up all kinds of balloons. Mothers began tying strings on to them. Then of course the kids were taught how to tie those to as many places as they could find where Big Pink was concerned. I really wish I had photos of that day; or just one.

I’mm tellin’ ya, Big Pink looked like a circus vehicle without the circus. It was as if Big Pink lost her way out of the Barnum and Bailey daily caravan. Those inside didn’t care one way or the other which direction it was headed. It was beautiful really. Everyone was having fun, scribbling and giggling while trading coloured chalk and brushes.

The kids were going on a dream cruise. The moms were in babysitting heaven and I was the driver. “OK, ALLLLL A BOARRRRRRRRRRD,” was the next little request by the head of the choir. Again I stepped up to the last step, crawled into and fell into the only seat on the bus. Everyone else just piled on in a continual stream of joyful happiness.

I heard more than once from several different sources, mostly those who have been in a bus before; where do we sit? More than one person responded silently by pointing fingers down to the well cleaned rug while others just said, sit down on the floor. That was it.

No one really cared if there were seats or not. Most children ran to stand at the windows before driving off; until the driver warned moms to beware of where their children were in case of quick stops or opened wide enough for young types to slip out. It was a party tour.

They sat in freedom circles of close friends or leaned backs to the walls among all the coolers, bags and boxes of clothes, as well as all the instruments packed before hand. It was a picnic without panic. The food and drinks were soon available upon request by the singing moms who seemed to just be along for the tykes to enjoy the ride.

Big Pink didn’t even grunt or groan with the added weight. Without all her seats bolted in, this mass of humanity and their possessions wasn’t even close to Big Pink’s overload capacity. I slowly pulled out of the station as her engine purred like a new born kitten; except for a few sputters and spurts of exhaust. A little engine of big could, did.

The day before I had paid attention to all the just in cases where Big Pink was concerned; filling up the gas tank, checking the water level, brake and transmission fluids, and added one quart of oil. Luckily before the passengers were to ad their little creative touches, I had also washed every window inside and out. I also vacuumed again just to make sure nothing indigestible was to be swallowed as candy.

The drive began very smoothly. Even with so many diversified passengers in attendance, we were pretty much on schedule. We’re off

To Be Continued:

Monday, March 15, 2010

Big Pink - 3

March 15, 2010

Although the driveway exited onto a side street with basically very little traffic, I still pulled out with deep trepidation while looking both ways; just to make sure an unexpected train with 80 or more attachments to its three or four diesel locomotives or one of those huge overloaded two trailer lumber trucks wasn’t coming right at us.

No way would they be able to stop in time. I looked both ways twice more. There was also no chance in hell that I’d remember the forward or reverse double clutch method after applying this movement only once. Regardless, mmy worries were quickly diminished when good ‘ol Big Pink’s engine stopped and drifted into the middle of the road.

Unfortunately, the inexperienced tank driver hadn’t given enough of gas to keep the slow momentum going. I hummed and prayed once more while twisting the ignition to the on position, smiling with embarrassment. Big Pink purred very nicely. After looking forward the big little engine was shifted into first gear. We were off with a slow roll. Her engine pulled with as much gas as was supplied.

Needless to say the slower than a slug movement was not even close to the rabbit like energies of something attuned to a newer Cabriolet convertible. Big Pink chugged along with diligence and determination to reach the next corner. Looking both ways, in the rear view mirror as well as forward to make sure no moving vehicle was in years of coming within eyesight, Big Pink was double clutched; we moved on.

She handled like one would think a big thing like that would handle. Power steering? Fuhgeddaboudit. One also was reminded to give plenty of time before coming to a stop, especially when little children, pregnant moms or even humans that looked like seniors with or without those walking bars were waiting on corners; white canes too.

The rest of the ride from corner to corner, street to street, one turn after the next and back to the driveway was almost uneventful. Except for a few stop and starts of the engine due to the driver’s inexperience with double clutching was concerned, the trip was a slow won.

Enough knowledge and drive time was accumulated between Dick and me to decide to ask the next group of questions. Those were, legal registration, price and how many miles per gallon did Mr. Owner know that Big Pink would achieve. All the answers were given except for the miles per gallon question. “Depends on how you drive,” was that answer. Fair enough I said; surmising that it wouldn’t be surprising if one to ten was the correct answer. We’d carry more cash.

In any case the legal papers were brought out, the price was $300.00. I thought just two of the tires without wheels or air was worth that much. I paid the man while watching if he had a sly smile or not. I figured he was getting rid of Big Pink for some reason but that one I didn’t care to know. He opened both hands without smiling like a man who would be twirling both ends of a big black and long handlebar mustache in a two handed thumb and forefingers pinch.

Dick followed Big Pink and its driver back to our house in Ross. Unfortunately the next step was to pull up and park Big Pink on our little tree lined street. I say unfortunate because everyone on that short street of old inherited and newly minted money had circular driveways. Most with tall hedges so as not to be able to view insides.

There was what the neighbor next door, a woman at the time on the local town council called a ‘driveway in the back.’ It was only long enough to park something like a VW Beetle. Big Pink was about a mile longer than those save on gas imports and too wide to navigate trees.

Dick and I estimated that she’d stick out like a bigger pink thumb about three quarters of the way across that street back there. We had a dilapidated garage that could park a baby buggy without its handle. It was built around the time every household inventor was trying to figure out how to put little combustible engines on their bicycles.

Besides all that the thing was stuffed with everything imaginable left before we rented the place. The owner’s dad even used it for a local get together place for all his buddies to enjoy the latest tub of beer brewed especially for that week’s occasion. Proof of this was further established when noticing all the pathways around the grounds were lined with upside down empty brown glass beer bottles. Some broken

Another deciding factor of our unavailable driveway is that our Norwood neighbors newer cars we were sure would have a hard time circumnavigating Big Pink’s back bumper. The only solution of course was to park Big Pink right in front of the property thereby making her the only vehicle visible on the mostly empty and quaintly quiet street.

That I did. Dicks Jag was then relegated to the driveway in the back. Something which he didn’t do most times because of the danger it would be to follow the path to the house in the dark; even with a beware of bottles sign which without moonlight would not be seen anyway. Understandable of course so now two vehicles were in view.

Needless to say when pulling into our street with no sidewalks on either side, I parked Big Pink as close to our six foot hedges as possible. Our house was on the right; at least two feet were needed to exit and enter whenever those times arose. A rose would not have been given to mme when the woman on the town council visited the next day. Without question she had the same question the day before.

“Why can’t you park this thing in your back driveway?” she repeated. Well Mrs. O, I guess if you have a long enough measuring tool or a torch, maybe you could show us how to fit this lovely vehicle in the space allotted without plugging up that dead end street inhabitants; is how I can best explain mmy most civil response. Big Pink blushed.

The whole time living in the Ross house, the better part of almost ten years, Mr. and Mrs. O didn’t care to know anyone existed next door to them. Mr. O never gave a smile or a kind greeting at any time; even while pushing his rusty, greasy lawnmower when I yelled a good day.

A few years after moving in, I did manage many games of basketball in their back yard after being welcomed by their son. Nine years later their daughter was mmy lawyer at a divorce hearing when I happened to be the recipient of glad tidings.

She so skillfully made it possible for mme to keep the house because of the two dogs that lived there well before a spousal arrival. After years of growls and scowls I was thankful Mr. O’s jean’s eventually came in handy for something.

To Be Continued: