Bashed By Critics; and the Home for Wayward Musicians:part 1 of 3

***I decided to re-publish so this and the next two appear a day apart.****

My old friend, Joel, in NC has decided to try his hand as a literary critic. He's elected to hone his skills on me. If you ask him, he'll deny it.

However he informed me that my political commentary is of no value, that opinions on issues of the day are a dime a dozen, and that he doesn't even agree with my views. Obviously he has a misguided sense of what constitutes a free society, and of what is the true genesis of the problems we face today, yesterday, and no doubt tomorrow in the realm of soft tyranny and matters of state.

Far be it from me to set him straight. I prefer my friends enjoy a blissful life, and as they say, "ignorance is bliss", so what kind of friend would mess with that?

In honor of my dear friend's limited awareness in the stuff of freedom, and because he requested it, I will tell the tale of my residence in the Home for Wayward Musicians. It is a painful tale for me to tell, and it was a troubling phase of my life, but it did have its moments.

I think I'll have to make this a two or three post series.----It worked: parts 2 and 3 are probably going to appear Thursday and Friday, respectively--if not respectfully
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Part 1; HFWM

It was somewhere around 1984, and I was an habitual drinker, and else. My marriage had been trashed within the last couple of years and there was nothing to temper my judgement and life choices. I was behaving as if there were no tomorrow, and co-workers at the car place seemed to believe there wouldn't be. They tried to talk me into letting them pay for life insurance and listing them as beneficiaries. How insulting. They were drunks! Yet I was elected most likely to meet the Reaper first.

Well, I showed them. My nifty VW van (a plush '82 Vanagon) got repossessed, primarily due to negligence on my part. I could have sold it, paid it off, and made a tidy profit. Tending to basic affairs of life was just not on my agenda. I almost never checked the mail. When I did, it was only because the box was stuffed to the point that you could hardly remove it without the use of special tools. I'd empty it and just throw all my unopened mail in the trash.

Finally, I couldn't even handle going to work, pretending I was trying to sell cars. I quit. I notified the landlord that I was leaving. I didn't have the dough for next month's rent anyway. I figured if it wasn't enough notice, take it out of the security deposit. At least the place wasn't trashed by me. Frozen pipes overhead had burst and made a fountain of the ceiling light, and the landlord did little to help the situation. The carpet smelled like death.

It was zero degrees and felt like minus infinity when the pipes burst. Must have been a bunch of dormant flies in the ceiling because it caused them to wake up. It was like a horror film. I tried everything on the carpet. Tons of baking soda. The landlord's guys had done the wet vac thing but it did not help the smell, hence my efforts. I vacuumed it all up before I left.

Having almost no money, few sober moments and no ambition whatsoever when it came to trying to reason with the property manager, I headed out on foot. I guess I didn't have too much stuff, because I am not overly clear on what I did with anything. I believe I gave a three sided screen, that I made to serve as window treatment, to the nice red headed girl who lived upstairs. We had an odd and somewhat one sided relationship. I guess she thought I could be saved. Or maybe she thought I could be easily and agreeably used and it would look as if I was the one incapable of anything more--which I was.

There I was, walking toward the Somewhere Else Tavern, hoping no one passing by would recognize me now that I was a professional pedestrian. I certainly hoped none of the nice people who'd bought cars from me spotted their once beloved sales creature.

It's true, I did have some fans in that regard. Blitzed or not, I had an aversion to playing games or hiding the truth. The car game back then could be a little odd. Mostly you helped people in the same way they put people into houses they couldn't afford by sinking them into loans they probably wouldn't be able to pay back. Dumb people, but who's got the heart to play on their greed to feed his/her own?

Sure, the people jumped at the chance, but it still wasn't the right way to do things. I spent more time trying to talk people out of buying than into it. I was not getting rich.

this is a good time to stop and go to part 2.

prelude prologue

The posts below which tell some of the story of my time in the Home for Wayward Musicians cover just a bit of the education received from the experience. It was during that time that I became adept at playing background with bands, finding ways to supply a little excitement to the music and find spots to fill without stepping on the tune.

It is interesting to note that at that time I was incapable of vocally testing a mic. I would test by playing harp into it but couldn't talk or sing into a microphone. Not the case now as I do both.

Within a couple of years after the story told below, I was again in Miami where I spent the better part of the next nine years. I played very little with bands during that time and for about four years after that. But the ability to jam and to handle a solo during the song stuck with me. My actual skill on the harp improved most when I got with the group in Memphis. And everything has improved since I started playing with Copper Creek here on Ballistic Mountain.

Playing is something that I've done and then not done and then done again. Otherwise I'd be better than I am and would have learned more sooner.

Even though I was in serious trouble in ways, the time spent in the world of the Somewhere Else music scene was the best foundation for knowing how to jam that I could imagine. So many quality players and, in my case, the necessity for becoming versatile. I wanted to play and often my only chance was to play on the stuff other harp players wouldn't do because it wasn't meaty blues harp material. I could usually find some piece in the fabric that lent itself to floating in a note or two. Some of those became my favorites.

I've never seen a true jam of the sort they held at Somewhere Else anywhere since then. That is probably because noone I've encountered knew how to hold it together, yet ensure it wasn't overly structured like Aubrey aka McGoo, keyboard player-scratchy wild vocalist. He's since passed on, and he was a good man. Dave the drummer was highly under rated for his ability to help a guy like me feel confident and feel the joy while playing. They taught me to take chances and they tried to teach me to be comfortable being myself on stage.

Sometimes we'd have ten or more musicians on stage and on a good night it clicked. On a really good night, what started as a jam off a particular song would evolve into something that went on for half an hour and took some really good turns.

The real confidence came when I hit Memphis and realized that though the players were good, they lacked much of what was taught at Somewhere Else. I wish I had videos of some of those jams. Otherwise there is no way you'd believe the quality, spontaneity, and energy of those events. Not to mention some of the connections to bands and divas you know.

I should add that when I quit being drunk and drugged, my playing improved.

Goonions

So, I don't have much to say. Not in the mood to write. I'll tell the tale of taking Fin and BG hostage for a three hour tour maybe tomorrow.

In the mean time, I'm heading to the port to dump grain, cut brake lines, mess up rail cars and such, hold the guards hostage and get away with it under the veil of collective bargaining. I'm immune to consequence because I'm talking UNION here. The Ballistic union of underachievers. Well maybe some of the rank and file will get their wrists slapped, but since I'm the UNION BOSS I can't be prosecuted. It is a legal thing from 1973. Enmons decision. Since this is a "legitimate union objective", I'm in the clear.

Some other underachieving union is getting my work and I can't let that go unpunished. I'm the victim here, and anyone who says different is a racist tycoon who will get smashed to bits.

Should be an early night. The port activity won't take but a couple of hours. Then we'll all go to the Ballistic hall and watch tv, wait for the evil producers and transporters of goods to cave, and watch the money roll in. We'll expect pay for days we might have worked had they actually hired us instead of someone else. It will be fun.

Too Many Wake Up Calls

Despite the many indications that maybe I should change the routine, I tend to do no such thing. Now that friends are arriving in a nearby town for the night in just a few hours I am suddenly aware that there is no way to make my place hospitable in less than a few days.

Too much stuff, too little space, and it is all jumbled with little organization. I've had times when it was well hidden so it wasn't too hard to half way be able to offer something less than a frightful hermit hovel experience. Not so today.

I guess I'll show them where it is help them navigate out to the back deck for the view, then be on our way. It is definitely a mental illness and I hate that. But it is a step this side of the line from jumping off a cliff or taunting a cop into shooting me. That is progress in my existence. Something inside, very deeply rooted, constantly tells me that earth would be better off rid of me, or that I would be better off rid of me. That is not a good thing, so I generally try to keep it at bay. But I know that is what keeps me in a state of environmental chaos and out of the loop--distant from friends and much of life.

Whatever the deal, I'll meet them in Pine Valley and hope my car is not too dirty for their sensibilities. I have no small vacuum to take care of it, it is hot today and the do it yourself carwash with good vacs is 20 miles away in a place that is even hotter than here. Timing wouldn't work overly well.

I did what I could to make room and remove things from the car but there are few places to put many items I'm using for current work. Thanks for febreeze. I have used liberal amounts, spraying into vents and all over everywhere. It tends to work fairly well.

It is clear that I need to have to do a lot of things every day, and that I need tons of exercise. I am not comfortable with letting myself go to the point of having an old man's body. You can only fake it so long, then the truth wins out.

Mountain Madness and No Dead Uncle

The big blowout on Ballistic Mountain was surprisingly successful. Unbeknownst to me, we have a few navy SEAL types up here. The guy whose property we were on was once a SEAL and then an instructor in the SEAL program. I did not pick any fights.

Apparently there are families who live up here with fathers doing tours of duty off in Afghanistan and places like that. Some of their kids were there and sang songs related to soldiers and such. There was a bit of a patriotic theme to this party, even though the actual theme was island Hawaiian or something like that.

The retired SEAL and his wife had the place set up very well. He had a flat bed trailer rigged as a stage with decorations and lights and beachy stuff. They had tents with tables and chairs and plenty of room for people.

Kids sang, adults sang and we played. Then they asked us to play some more. That was when we did my tune where I jam out in C minor off a tune I wrote long ago. We don't do the whole song, we just jam. Or I jam and the guitars lay down the rhythm and the progression. It either goes well or I lose my sense of the thing and am not too happy with it. This was by far the best it ever worked out in a public forum.

Then they demanded more and more. That is when it got cool. Some songs were ones that various people knew so they came up and sang with us. The neighborhood folks who were there had a great time. It ended up with some people just sitting around with guitars coming up with stuff to play and sing, and at the last just some singing.

Copper Creek, that's us, played well. I am glad to see how relaxed we all were, and at the same time how much we were on our game. The music was tight and we were loose. It was one of the more rewarding gigs we've done--but not monetarily since it was a freeby neighborhood thing.

I'm glad it worked out so well. You never know about these things. The crazy guy who sang last time wasn't there. That is the guy who sang an original song of maybe 97 verses about his uncle shooting himself in the bathroom. It was not fun from any angle. Fortunately there was no such riffraff, and none of the people who played were bad. All of it good.

I was not expecting to enjoy this or to feel much a part of it, but I did like it, and because they liked what I did I felt like a minor celebrity. That can be fun. Other than that I don't know. Still wonder what is next or what I ought to be doing.

Ballistic Madness

The longer I've lived here, the more aware I am that many people who live up in these hills are crazy and could be dangerous. Not saying that is a bad thing, necessarily, just how it is.

I only see the people as they barrel down or up the winding dirt road creating a hazard to others, while I flip them the finger. Wonder how many recall that. Today there is a talent show/arts and crafts fair/ bake off up the road from me. They are using our P.A. so we'll play first.

When you play to a crowd of crazies it can go either way. They might be whooping and dancing or they just stare blankly while you do the best, freest solo of all time. You never know with these Californians in the hills, or much anywhere else for that matter.

Many of the people up here are nice so don't let me taint it too much. It is just how it is. Maybe the crazy ones make such an impression that I think their numbers are greater. California is a strange place altogether. IF one is wealthy, it is the place to be, like most places. Maybe wealthy is the thing to do regardless of location. If you are not well to do, you can usually get by, but then the personalities and little things bother you more.

I'm hoping to play well this afternoon. I'm feeling tired inside and that will probably energize me temporarily. It is definitely a pretty day for it, as most days are.

We'll be east of my house past the place where the mules live.

Sunny and Mild on Ballistic Mountain

I'm still uncertain what kind of weather is typical for my micro climate at any given time of year, but I'm pretty sure this is the hot season, and the time when Santa Ana winds might blow. We have had some 90 to 100 degree days, but in classy San Diego style they are tempered by breezy days with temps of 80 or less.

Then if you work way over in Rancho Bluster Bucks, home of the trophy everything, it is even more pleasant. Since that is what I do, I'm a happy camper today. Finally, low humidity, just enough heat so that the sun's rays feel good, and the work went well...sort of. I may have killed some grass in a plant bed.

I was using the new secret teak cleaner-brightener on the Englishman's stuff and forgot to wet some of the adjacent vegetation. Namely the little clumps of grass in the plant beds. Undiluted, the cleaner will do a number on plant life. If the vegetation is wet down well, it does no harm. The cleaner-brightener is all greenish and not a cause of global warming, earthquakes, or flooding--provided that you do the right thing and wet the adjacent grass clumps well.

Maybe the 1.5 square feet of grass was already brown; bright brown. Maybe not. It will grow back or else I'll have to make peace with the landscaper. In any case, I'll take the initiative and let the house manager know I may be the cause of the problem and inform her that the effect is not permanent. The soil is not forever tainted.

Oh well. Finally get a product that does a great job, and I fall down on my very complicated, high tech, unbelievably challenging, mildly rewarding task.

At times like this fear creeps in. Why am I such an under-achiever? Will my mind go completely numb and dull before I put it to real use? Why did I have to protect that kid by beating up Stooowahrt in kindergarten, thereby cementing a lifelong distrust for authority because Mrs Anderson(I bet there never was a Mr Anderson-she just usurped the title) refused to hear my side of the story and she punished only me, causing me to distance myself from ever being an enthusiastic participant in the educational process?

Yes, I think I finally found the key to all I've done and all the times I turned my back on opportunity. It's that damned Stewart. But if I had not stepped in, he might still be whipping little Joey with the banyan roots (they grow down from the branches like vines). Life is not always a thing of justice, but I bet Mrs A had to answer for that in the hereafter. No way she's still around. She was old even then, at least by my measure.

So, now that I am here, what do I do? I've ruined the best relationships, embraced the worst until even I saw the light, and wound up in Hermitville. It is better than it was, and I must remind myself to see and appreciate that fact. Far better than just a few years ago.

Don't think that just because I identify Stooowaart as a root cause of my difficulties with tyrants that I don't cite wimmins as playing a role in my state of abundant confusion. I certainly do. They will break your heart, say yes and mean no, or maybe, say no and mean not today but maybe yesterday, and still be the best reason for taking another breath.

Too much for me to figure and define. I'll just focus on the neighborhood talent, arts and crafts, bake-off event this saturday on Ballistic Mountain. Our group, Copper Creek will kick off the talent part. It is one of the guitar player's P.A. He's pretty much lead vocalist and driving force of the group, too. But, it never kicks if any of the members is out. Good bunch to play with. We'll do just a few tunes and hope they demand more, but this sort of crowd is peculiar and you never know.

Some nice people up here. Some brain dead rednecks of both sexes as well. Kind of like the country version of a dysfunctional family you see well portrayed in a couple of movies. Carolina is one such flick.

And I should prepare for the arrival of the semi-ex curmudgeon and the sexy librarian on Monday. They'll be overnighting nearby in one of my favorite itty bitty towns so I hope to get the car clean enough in case a tour is in order. Otherwise there'll be no room for them and it would scare them away.

It'll be good, regardless of my messy lack of organization. I must not be too close to Godliness, since cleanliness and I have barely ever made one another's acquaintance. One of these days...

Seeing those two again will be a bright spot in the landscape of my near future. I hope they aren't too tired. They've carved out a very demanding, non-stop itinerary for this adventure.

Tennis Villains

Serena just adds credence to the idea that...never mind. She's kind of classless, even though an exceptional athlete. I hate that ghetto finger wag, head bob thing. Pure jerry Springer nation.
So, I am fine with her losing to a classier player.

Now this guy Novak. I don't like that guy too much. I guarantee you he was a bully in school and still is. But he's of the kind that once people fight back hard enough, he curls up in a ball.

Federer and Nadal, I like, but they don't have this guy's number. He'll crumble if they get the edge and quit being intimidated. I think Djokovic and his coach are evil doers and that's all I have to say about that. Novak Djoko does have a cute girlfriend.

That brings me to a half baked theory. It is common knowledge that women go for the jerkiest guys. This may be because nature expects the jerkiest people to multiply, and being self centered bastards to reverse this trend of humans sacrificing their own well being for that of species they only heard existed, liker snail darters or monkey beetles. The other theory is that there is no figuring wimmins whatsoever.

Serena is an embarrassment if you think of her as representing the USA in tennis. These people make big money and that is because it is so rare that anyone can play at that level. It doesn't always follow that they have class like Roger Federrer or that pretty Caroline chick.

Better to be a player than spectator. That covers just about anything in life. It is the degree to which I spectate rather than perform that fuels my discontent and frustration.

You Just Never Know

Sometimes I feel like a character from a science fiction tale; like my reality is not quite what I think of when I think of reality. Maybe I'll wake up and find out it is all different.

Whatever it is, I couldn't have predicted much that has gone on in my life. Too many times I've changed location and everything about my life. I miss some of the people that have fallen from the radar along the way. That is the tough part. I guess at one time I figured they'd only be disappointed in me or turn out to be less than the loyal friends I thought they were, or both. I'm over that part. Some serious betrayals at impressionable phases of life probably planted those seeds.

That stuff is long gone. But I doubt the moving about is. Except now, I try not to lose contact with people. The last trip helped cement some reunions and establish or re-establish the bonds. If nothing else would have come of it, I think that would have made the journey worthwhile.

But that has nothing to do with what I was thinking. What I was thinking is that it wouldn't surprise me to end up on a house boat in some salt water harbor somewhere. What I'd do in a place where the floor was constantly moving, I'm not sure. At least the yard wouldn't be in danger of catching fire, and there'd be no weeds or poison oak.

Maybe it would be better to live on the land or have a bridge house. I now wonder why and what I was thinking.

Never mind.

New Philosopher General's Warning

Not quite clear whether Sally read this or originated the idea. The conversation was punctuated with much laughter and high tech info. Whatever the case, she is my source for this. I did not think of it on my own, though I wish I had.

The suggestion is a gem: In plainly legible letters, have a banner at the bottom of every news broadcast, at the top of every newspaper---do something aurally equivalent for radio--which states
Warning: This Broadcast May be Fact Free

I'd go further and also include this important message during every political speech or press conference.

That way they can go ahead with the fear mongering report but those who can read might eventually think to themselves, "Hmmm, maybe this is just sensational hype and not even true".

Given the state of edgy panic which has gripped people this 911 season, such a warning could not come too soon. There is reason for concern on many fronts, but I think much of it is misplaced or twisted around.

What entity or abstract thing do I fear the most? Number one would be my own government. 2 is bad health, tied with wildfire.

If I trusted more than feared the government, then I might have terrorism listed. It's just that I tend to think terrorists have become the useful idiots of our own power mad money thieving officials, so it is difficult to have any idea what is true on that subject. Given the treatment good people receive routinely from our own authorities, I'd say your chances of being abused or killed or ruined or robbed by your own government and their agents are much greater than being molested by foreign lunatics.

Doesn't mean I think radical islam is not dangerous murderous lunacy. Just means I think our own lunatics are more likely to get us first.