Tuesday, September 27, 2011
If You Were In The Back Seat...
...of the Tourmobile, on the road that leads on and off of Ballistic Mountain, and BG was in the front passenger seat, this is how it would look. You can see she has long hair. I have to say that BG has really great looking long dark hair. Fin may or may not have let on to the blogger world how pretty she is. OK, that bit of info is now out for sure
The Day The Music Died
Greensboro's music scene in the 80's has been a topic I've discussed a few times here. Many people are not aware of how many musicians, actors and the like have come from NC. NC has produced more than its share, but that is not totally relevant, just a bit of info.
The phenomenon known as the Somewhere Else Tavern Sunday night open jam is what I'm addressing here. Those who were lucky enough to be around for those events and had the opportunity to participate still talk about that period of time fondly. We all find it slightly frustrating that we've never been able to encounter an open mic or jam situation in which those in charge, or participating, seem to "get it".
My critic friend and I have discussed this at length, trying to analyze what ingredient was unique to that place and time which made the thing work so well, and produce such outstanding live, spontaneous music. Why was it so good that name bands who were booked at Greensboro's Coliseum would sometimes rush over to the Tavern after their show hoping to jam with the Somewhere Else Crowd?
It certainly wasn't the upscale neighborhood or the state of the art facilities. The Tavern was in an edgy neighborhood, and may as well have had sawdust on the floor. You drank your beer out of the can, unless you were willing to down that piss they called "draft beer" out of a plastic cup.
In their defense they did eventually get the license for liquor by the drink, and when Burley wasn't pinching pennies he could make the best Long Island Ice Tea ever made.
I think everyone who had the good fortune to be a part of that scene for any length of time agrees that the essential catalyst that allowed the mix to produce magic was Aubrey Henley, known in music circles as McGoo--possibly due to his whimsical resemblance to the cartoon character (I never knew for sure). What I do know is that he could contain a stage full of guitar players, percussionists, etc. so that they would play with, not all over, everyone else.
How he made it work, I can't say. But when he was manning that B3 and admonishing the band to "Bring it down, y'all!", all but the most diseased of guitar players would heed the advice.
The style of music played did not fit any particular category as no "purists" were in any position to dictate their own dogmatic ideas like "blues only, and these are the rules that make it blues", etc. Since I was rarely home and had no significant music collection, the majority of songs I played at the jam were new to me. The first time I heard most of them was when I played them.
I consider that a blessing because I had no preconceived notion of how it should be. That way I just tried to fit something in to aid the overall tune and not be so bad that McGoo threw a beer at me or something. Actually he never said a cross word to me. He had to up the urgency of his requests for people to tune or tone down a bit once in awhile in the case of over eager guitar players who did not have the sense to play background when it wasn't their lead.
That much was organized; you did not take your time until it was your time. He'd say something like, "break it down band, tell it, Johnny!". He called me Johnny most of the time. Some people do and it is perfectly natural in those cases, usually. Not many people but some.
Maybe it was the timbre of his voice that helped. He had a sort of screechy, gravelly sound going. I heard it was due to an injury received in Vietnam, where his job was to chauffeur either a colonel or general around in a jeep. Someone blew something up and he caught shrapnel which affected a vocal chord. Maybe a true story, and maybe not. It seemed feasible, and I'm pretty sure the jeep driver aspect was true.
I was really tentative back then but that is where I learned how to play a lead break in a song with a band. Once in awhile I really got hold of it, and once in awhile my time would go double the usual. They say you can't really teach people how to do that thing of jamming and fitting when and where you should. I don't know. It was one of the more astute Berklee grads who told me that.
I have noticed in my musical adventures since then that most people I've played with can't really jam like that, or don't. It was a huge surprise when that sunk in. For a long time I was talking a language foreign to those players because they'd never actually participated in a jam that might change directions or be begin with someone just making up a riff and going from there. Especially not on a stage in front of a crowd.
And many of those players were very good, better than I. But in the school of jam, barely pre-schoolers.
Often there was a standing room only crowd. Word got out and it became the cool thing for the hip yuppies in the area to attend.
I've never even heard of a similar scene, or one that approximated The Jam. It was open, so if you had the nerve and thought you could hang, you could get up there. You may have a tough time if you thought you were going to get up by yourself and sing a ballad with no other musicians on stage. It was a jam. Can you lend your ax to what they are playing? Better be able to do that because it wasn't just a showcase for front men. If you were able and good, you could earn some front man time.
If there were a ton of players there, sometimes you had to take turns. Instruments like harmonica are not often good in multiples. So, if there were other harp players there, it was good to either get up there early so you didn't have to wait, or just wait until a break so you could have your turn when it started back up.
Another trick for guys like me was to play on the songs most harp players wouldn't play. It may mean playing very mellow sweet straight harp or just floating little notes in here and there. That became something I enjoyed doing and it gave me more chance to play.
But nothing worked very well for long if McGoo wasn't there. He and Dwayne (not sure he spells it like that), the sax player , had a two man band and played various venues throughout the state.
They were the heart of the jam, and McGoo was the heart of the heart. He was like no one I've ever known. Edgy, yet as kind and gentle as they get. He was something, and it is the world's loss that the movie makers and people who make you famous did not broadcast these things nationwide or worldwide.
Maybe that would have spoiled it. I don't think McGoo cared about such things. He finally married a good woman and had a child. He cared for friends and family and that was that.
At some point the jam died. McGoo got a regular job and was absorbed in the family life and caring for his people. And about four years ago Aubrey died. I don't know the exact day, but I'd have to say that was the real day the music died.
The phenomenon known as the Somewhere Else Tavern Sunday night open jam is what I'm addressing here. Those who were lucky enough to be around for those events and had the opportunity to participate still talk about that period of time fondly. We all find it slightly frustrating that we've never been able to encounter an open mic or jam situation in which those in charge, or participating, seem to "get it".
My critic friend and I have discussed this at length, trying to analyze what ingredient was unique to that place and time which made the thing work so well, and produce such outstanding live, spontaneous music. Why was it so good that name bands who were booked at Greensboro's Coliseum would sometimes rush over to the Tavern after their show hoping to jam with the Somewhere Else Crowd?
It certainly wasn't the upscale neighborhood or the state of the art facilities. The Tavern was in an edgy neighborhood, and may as well have had sawdust on the floor. You drank your beer out of the can, unless you were willing to down that piss they called "draft beer" out of a plastic cup.
In their defense they did eventually get the license for liquor by the drink, and when Burley wasn't pinching pennies he could make the best Long Island Ice Tea ever made.
I think everyone who had the good fortune to be a part of that scene for any length of time agrees that the essential catalyst that allowed the mix to produce magic was Aubrey Henley, known in music circles as McGoo--possibly due to his whimsical resemblance to the cartoon character (I never knew for sure). What I do know is that he could contain a stage full of guitar players, percussionists, etc. so that they would play with, not all over, everyone else.
How he made it work, I can't say. But when he was manning that B3 and admonishing the band to "Bring it down, y'all!", all but the most diseased of guitar players would heed the advice.
The style of music played did not fit any particular category as no "purists" were in any position to dictate their own dogmatic ideas like "blues only, and these are the rules that make it blues", etc. Since I was rarely home and had no significant music collection, the majority of songs I played at the jam were new to me. The first time I heard most of them was when I played them.
I consider that a blessing because I had no preconceived notion of how it should be. That way I just tried to fit something in to aid the overall tune and not be so bad that McGoo threw a beer at me or something. Actually he never said a cross word to me. He had to up the urgency of his requests for people to tune or tone down a bit once in awhile in the case of over eager guitar players who did not have the sense to play background when it wasn't their lead.
That much was organized; you did not take your time until it was your time. He'd say something like, "break it down band, tell it, Johnny!". He called me Johnny most of the time. Some people do and it is perfectly natural in those cases, usually. Not many people but some.
Maybe it was the timbre of his voice that helped. He had a sort of screechy, gravelly sound going. I heard it was due to an injury received in Vietnam, where his job was to chauffeur either a colonel or general around in a jeep. Someone blew something up and he caught shrapnel which affected a vocal chord. Maybe a true story, and maybe not. It seemed feasible, and I'm pretty sure the jeep driver aspect was true.
I was really tentative back then but that is where I learned how to play a lead break in a song with a band. Once in awhile I really got hold of it, and once in awhile my time would go double the usual. They say you can't really teach people how to do that thing of jamming and fitting when and where you should. I don't know. It was one of the more astute Berklee grads who told me that.
I have noticed in my musical adventures since then that most people I've played with can't really jam like that, or don't. It was a huge surprise when that sunk in. For a long time I was talking a language foreign to those players because they'd never actually participated in a jam that might change directions or be begin with someone just making up a riff and going from there. Especially not on a stage in front of a crowd.
And many of those players were very good, better than I. But in the school of jam, barely pre-schoolers.
Often there was a standing room only crowd. Word got out and it became the cool thing for the hip yuppies in the area to attend.
I've never even heard of a similar scene, or one that approximated The Jam. It was open, so if you had the nerve and thought you could hang, you could get up there. You may have a tough time if you thought you were going to get up by yourself and sing a ballad with no other musicians on stage. It was a jam. Can you lend your ax to what they are playing? Better be able to do that because it wasn't just a showcase for front men. If you were able and good, you could earn some front man time.
If there were a ton of players there, sometimes you had to take turns. Instruments like harmonica are not often good in multiples. So, if there were other harp players there, it was good to either get up there early so you didn't have to wait, or just wait until a break so you could have your turn when it started back up.
Another trick for guys like me was to play on the songs most harp players wouldn't play. It may mean playing very mellow sweet straight harp or just floating little notes in here and there. That became something I enjoyed doing and it gave me more chance to play.
But nothing worked very well for long if McGoo wasn't there. He and Dwayne (not sure he spells it like that), the sax player , had a two man band and played various venues throughout the state.
They were the heart of the jam, and McGoo was the heart of the heart. He was like no one I've ever known. Edgy, yet as kind and gentle as they get. He was something, and it is the world's loss that the movie makers and people who make you famous did not broadcast these things nationwide or worldwide.
Maybe that would have spoiled it. I don't think McGoo cared about such things. He finally married a good woman and had a child. He cared for friends and family and that was that.
At some point the jam died. McGoo got a regular job and was absorbed in the family life and caring for his people. And about four years ago Aubrey died. I don't know the exact day, but I'd have to say that was the real day the music died.
Monday, September 26, 2011
When Your Dealer Is A Critic
It seems that I was not entirely correct when I said that Joel, of North Carolina fame, was trying his hand as literary critic. He has become a critic at large. Not being one to do things the easy way, he is not focussing just on literature. If it needs or doesn't need criticizing, he's on it.
The latest criticism deals with how I write my posts---the mechanics of it. I volunteered the fact that I don't write in a word program and then paste it here. I just type it in Blogger's post create thing. The original one, not the one with added bells and whistles. I only switch to that if I want to use big red letters or something like that.
I do tend to hit publish before doing much proofreading, then I read it and usually notice that I used the wrong form of there/their/they're, left off the y in they, or forgot to put a subject and verb in a sentence, e.g. "...and a big...". Often I rush to edit as soon as I see the first thing, skim a few more lines while on the edit page, then publish again.
It probably makes it look like I published the same thing five times if I check the archive list, which I haven't done in recent memory. My bad.
I like to write in this box and don't know why. It feels better than a big blank page and so that is what I do. No excuse, no shame, no regret, no problem. Except to critics at large.
No, the critic at large insists it makes no sense and just isn't the right way to do things. The feel of the critical assault is that because I do things this way, I am no good and probably should be shot.
Why do you put up with it? Why not have him banned for life from the internet and other places?
Very good questions. But there is just one very significant catch; he's the pusher man--my dealer.
Only Joel knows where to get Richard's Delicious Seasoning (that's the name of it whether you think it delicious or no). The stuff is really good on my favorite sandwiches; spinach, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mayo, mustard, and the vegetarian pictures of bacon they sell, on whole wheat or rye toast. Melt the cheese on one of the pieces before assembling the sandwich.. I like the Morningstar Farms pictures of bacon. Of no relevance but I do not like that textured protein stuff at all. That is the crumby stuff that is supposed to be like hamburger or something. People cook with it instead of ground beef, I think. Not for me.
It's good on home fries too. But really good on the sandwich. I'm hooked, and my only connection to the stuff is Joel, critic at large. See the problem? I have to pretend to agree, or to do things his way. I can't take legal action or hire someone to play rap music under his window. Aside from the cost, if I tried to silence the critic, he'd cut off any possibility of hooking up an O Z, or a kilo of the magic powder.
So, let's pretend this was written on my computer in a word processing program, then neatly pasted into the blogger new-post box. It is a delicate and important issue. There will come a time when I run out, and I do not look forward to the withdrawal symptoms when there is no Richard's Delicious seasoning in the cupboard.
Richard must have been pretty confident that people would find this mix delicious to name it that. Maybe he's arrogant, or maybe his wife or someone close to him tried it and said, "Hey Richard! This seasoning is delicious! You should go up to that little store in Brown's Summit and see if they'll let you sell it there."
Richard then procrastinates because he doesn't know what to call it. He thinks about calling it My Mix of Hen's Teeth, Oyster Poop, and Blood Pudding, but then everyone would know the secret ingredients. Richard can mix spices, but thinking a thing like this through may have been too much.
Then the other person--wife or friend or relative or trusted pastor--comes over and asks if he's talked to the store yet. Months have passed.
Richard cannot tell a lie. Naming his seasoning is bad enough, he doesn't need the mind twist keeping up with a lie would bring, so he admits that he hasn't done anything toward marketing this addictive substance.
The clever friend or wife, etc. decides to take the bull by the horns. She/he puts some of it in a mason jar and strolls into the store demanding to see whoever it is that decides what goes on the shelves. This involves maneuvering around a large cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver hawking beer.
She--I've decided it was a wife or girlfriend or sister. She has cooked up some kind of beast, maybe a piece of fish, and seasoned it with the secret mixture. The store owner is hooked. "This is some deeelicious seasoning!"
They make a deal, and since the sample she left was hastily labeled, Richard's delicious seasoning, they went ahead and put that name on the printed labels. No one knew if it would be liked universally. You never can be sure of what will sell in cases like this.
Before you know it, Richard's seasoning is famous and people in California are writing about it on the internet, breaking into a cold sweat just thinking of the day when they'll run out and not be able to get more. Unless the critics can be appeased.
See what happens? It may seem strange to hide out and go incommunicado, but just look at the complications which arise when you decide to revive old friendships and stay in contact. Your best friends can turn out to be critics and send you into withdrawal because they are your only source for Richard's Delicious Seasoning.
Howling Wolf will solve some of the problem, but on the crazy vegetarian sandwich you'll be craving Richard's. Your life could be ruined, all because your old friend turned out to be a vicious critic, and you are no longer in the driver's seat. If you don't take the beating, you're doomed.
And you thought my life was easy, and that you have problems? I guess hearing about my complicated dilemma has brought you to your senses and you are at page two of your gratitude list as we speak.
The latest criticism deals with how I write my posts---the mechanics of it. I volunteered the fact that I don't write in a word program and then paste it here. I just type it in Blogger's post create thing. The original one, not the one with added bells and whistles. I only switch to that if I want to use big red letters or something like that.
I do tend to hit publish before doing much proofreading, then I read it and usually notice that I used the wrong form of there/their/they're, left off the y in they, or forgot to put a subject and verb in a sentence, e.g. "...and a big...". Often I rush to edit as soon as I see the first thing, skim a few more lines while on the edit page, then publish again.
It probably makes it look like I published the same thing five times if I check the archive list, which I haven't done in recent memory. My bad.
I like to write in this box and don't know why. It feels better than a big blank page and so that is what I do. No excuse, no shame, no regret, no problem. Except to critics at large.
No, the critic at large insists it makes no sense and just isn't the right way to do things. The feel of the critical assault is that because I do things this way, I am no good and probably should be shot.
Why do you put up with it? Why not have him banned for life from the internet and other places?
Very good questions. But there is just one very significant catch; he's the pusher man--my dealer.
Only Joel knows where to get Richard's Delicious Seasoning (that's the name of it whether you think it delicious or no). The stuff is really good on my favorite sandwiches; spinach, tomatoes, cheddar cheese, mayo, mustard, and the vegetarian pictures of bacon they sell, on whole wheat or rye toast. Melt the cheese on one of the pieces before assembling the sandwich.. I like the Morningstar Farms pictures of bacon. Of no relevance but I do not like that textured protein stuff at all. That is the crumby stuff that is supposed to be like hamburger or something. People cook with it instead of ground beef, I think. Not for me.
It's good on home fries too. But really good on the sandwich. I'm hooked, and my only connection to the stuff is Joel, critic at large. See the problem? I have to pretend to agree, or to do things his way. I can't take legal action or hire someone to play rap music under his window. Aside from the cost, if I tried to silence the critic, he'd cut off any possibility of hooking up an O Z, or a kilo of the magic powder.
So, let's pretend this was written on my computer in a word processing program, then neatly pasted into the blogger new-post box. It is a delicate and important issue. There will come a time when I run out, and I do not look forward to the withdrawal symptoms when there is no Richard's Delicious seasoning in the cupboard.
Richard must have been pretty confident that people would find this mix delicious to name it that. Maybe he's arrogant, or maybe his wife or someone close to him tried it and said, "Hey Richard! This seasoning is delicious! You should go up to that little store in Brown's Summit and see if they'll let you sell it there."
Richard then procrastinates because he doesn't know what to call it. He thinks about calling it My Mix of Hen's Teeth, Oyster Poop, and Blood Pudding, but then everyone would know the secret ingredients. Richard can mix spices, but thinking a thing like this through may have been too much.
Then the other person--wife or friend or relative or trusted pastor--comes over and asks if he's talked to the store yet. Months have passed.
Richard cannot tell a lie. Naming his seasoning is bad enough, he doesn't need the mind twist keeping up with a lie would bring, so he admits that he hasn't done anything toward marketing this addictive substance.
The clever friend or wife, etc. decides to take the bull by the horns. She/he puts some of it in a mason jar and strolls into the store demanding to see whoever it is that decides what goes on the shelves. This involves maneuvering around a large cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver hawking beer.
She--I've decided it was a wife or girlfriend or sister. She has cooked up some kind of beast, maybe a piece of fish, and seasoned it with the secret mixture. The store owner is hooked. "This is some deeelicious seasoning!"
They make a deal, and since the sample she left was hastily labeled, Richard's delicious seasoning, they went ahead and put that name on the printed labels. No one knew if it would be liked universally. You never can be sure of what will sell in cases like this.
Before you know it, Richard's seasoning is famous and people in California are writing about it on the internet, breaking into a cold sweat just thinking of the day when they'll run out and not be able to get more. Unless the critics can be appeased.
See what happens? It may seem strange to hide out and go incommunicado, but just look at the complications which arise when you decide to revive old friendships and stay in contact. Your best friends can turn out to be critics and send you into withdrawal because they are your only source for Richard's Delicious Seasoning.
Howling Wolf will solve some of the problem, but on the crazy vegetarian sandwich you'll be craving Richard's. Your life could be ruined, all because your old friend turned out to be a vicious critic, and you are no longer in the driver's seat. If you don't take the beating, you're doomed.
And you thought my life was easy, and that you have problems? I guess hearing about my complicated dilemma has brought you to your senses and you are at page two of your gratitude list as we speak.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Joel Was Wrong
I spill my guts. Tell tales of my troubled past, including Somewhere Else blablabla.
No one cares about that, Joel. It is like an inside joke. To the people outside it can look odd, repulsive, boring or stupid. Not one single comment or reaction which indicates no one has time to read all that, and if they do they aren't talking. Why? Because it did not leave them a single thought to add or express.
Your career as literary critic will never get off the ground until your instincts improve.
In the mean time, I still think we're being played like fools by establishment politicians. Obama for sure, and it seems te media is in cahoots with Perry and Romney--no relief there. It is a poorly scripted stage play and we are suspending disbelief so we can enjoy and participate in the story.
The end.
No one cares about that, Joel. It is like an inside joke. To the people outside it can look odd, repulsive, boring or stupid. Not one single comment or reaction which indicates no one has time to read all that, and if they do they aren't talking. Why? Because it did not leave them a single thought to add or express.
Your career as literary critic will never get off the ground until your instincts improve.
In the mean time, I still think we're being played like fools by establishment politicians. Obama for sure, and it seems te media is in cahoots with Perry and Romney--no relief there. It is a poorly scripted stage play and we are suspending disbelief so we can enjoy and participate in the story.
The end.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Home For Wayward Musicians;part 3
Where was I? Mavrin, oh yea. So I was pulling in about 80 to 100 dollars a month playing with Mavrin. I could pretty much drink and smoke for free because there were always people from the Tavern playing and they'd let me sit in. The perks of being accepted in that way meant you got brain numbing or enhancing agents given to you.
Most of my basic needs were covered but I'd never confronted the issue of How Am I Going to Eat? Fortunately, I was not that much of a food fanatic at that time. And Dave had experience in the world of limited or no means. This experience carried over to matters like laundry as well.
I learned about buying rice, and mixed frozen vegetables and other cheap stuff. We'd cook a lot of rice, and he'd mix his with chicken noodle soup and I'd mix mine with beans or mixed vegetables. I learned about dried beans and soaking them. Stuff I didn't ever have to do before. When I was married, my wife was the brains of the outfit. I had, however learned to iron before landing in the wayward home.
My youth was spent in a sweatshop behind the house making spears and other parts for spearguns. And doing yardwork. I was not well schooled on normal day to day aspects of maintaining one's life. To this day, I am very bad at it. Also, I have a tough time attaching reward to work. That may be because the reward to work connection was not obvious or just because I have peculiar wiring. I have done well at finding some satisfaction in about any work I've done, though. Once I get started. Getting started is an issue for some other story.
I spent some time there, rolling the van downhill to get it started, showing up at various places in a fifty mile radius to sit in and drink free, eating cheaply and probably more healthfully than I had in a year or two, and playing harp for Mavrin's rockabillys at some very odd and spooky venues. I won't go into that.
The goings on at Dave's house are a bit foggy in my memory. I remember some young ladies there who for some reason were hanging around in undergarments, yet they weren't actually with anyone. I couldn't say no at that phase of life. I'm lucky no inconvenient diseases were passed my way.
We had to do what we could to stop Steve B from shoplifting from the neighborhood market. It was a small place and the guy running it knew that guitar player was stealing. Slime ball. That is where we bought our rice and other things.
It was still winter and rather chilly. Dave's house had an oil fired heater in the middle of the living room. The oil tank was on the side of the house. We couldn't afford oil, but it turns out the Cat Lady's house, through the woods, nearby, was vacant as she'd been relegated to a home. Not sure what happened to all the cats. There's a reason Dave called her the Cat Lady.
With the Cat Lady in the rest home, or sanitarium, and the house vacant, and apparently never going to be otherwise. At least she'd never be back. It did not seem unreasonable to prevent her heating oil from going to waste, which it would have.
I felt proud suggesting a bucket line using milk jugs. We soon had enough oil to get the heater fired up. Maybe I am only remembering it this way, but I am pretty sure I was the one who figured out how to get the heater going. Dave may have played a part. He seemed adept at such things. I do know it took some doing, and that the guitar guy, Steve B, was not useful for that.
Had we wanted to attempt arson or something, then Steve B would be the go to guy. I kind of recall that Dave did his best to keep him away from the heater firing process. Steve would be the type to poor gasoline in there if it wasn't lighting immediately.
Eventually, I realized I couldn't live with no aim whatsoever, so I went to Miami to straighten out a bit, work with a friend, and oversee roofing work being done on my mother's house while she was out of town. Then I went back to NC and lived other crazy places. The drying out did not last, but I did have an awakening of sorts that helped in future days and probably kept me alive.
To this day, I know if I'm in a bind I can wash clothes in the sink or the bathtub, I can soak beans in good times and bad, cook rice and live cheap. I've never met anyone else who put stick on letters on a nice Gibson guitar, or met anyone prone to misspelling his own name.
Dave absolutely was good for his word. We made a good team, he having a van, me a license. He never would let me pay much of anything after that initial utility bill, but he did put the bill collector hammer down on sleazy Steve, so I guess that kept the lights on.
I remember one night we were lost in the van and a cop stopped us, He gave me a drunk test but let us go because we were sure we were only a couple of blocks from our destination. It turns out we were a long way off course, but on back roads. I recall we made it somewhere, but where, I can't say. I did keep to completely untravelled streets, but it is good I did not do anyone harm.
That old van was great. I wish they still offered a stick shift on the column like that. Three on the tree with a straight six engine is a recipe for reliability and easy repair.
None of this is the sort of life anyone would have expected of me. Clean cut, good test scores, naturally somewhat innocent, and of a middle to upper middle class upbringing. Truth is, I kind of expected worse.
I expected to be a career criminal of some kind. But then I realized the moral implications of taking what is not yours. Other crime, like drug sales involves people who are just too worthless to do business with so I didn't be a criminal. Although I see nothing wrong with an individual growing poppies or pot or whatever for their own use or even for sale in many circumstances. The feds see it another way, and I am not drawn to that business or to crossing paths with the slimy authorities.
It has been a very disjointed journey. On minute I am engrossed in patenting a thing which had ample market, then I blindly quit it altogether, then before I know it I'm playing some backwoods redneck lunatic bin with Mavrin's Rockabillys, Racing Van parked strategically outside for quick getaway and good downhill starting runway.
And before I know it, I'm a semi-hermit trying to figure out what I must do to feel normal or at least on a pt toward balance, stability and adequate companionship. I guess I don't try too hard at the figuring of that. It does feel much better not being drunk and convinced that the things of self destruction must be right. If nothing else, I do have that.
One thing for sure, I had a lot more women around when I was poor, drunk and crazy. But after that I lost the ability to not take others seriously, and I look at consequences to others as well as myself. That sucks.
Most of my basic needs were covered but I'd never confronted the issue of How Am I Going to Eat? Fortunately, I was not that much of a food fanatic at that time. And Dave had experience in the world of limited or no means. This experience carried over to matters like laundry as well.
I learned about buying rice, and mixed frozen vegetables and other cheap stuff. We'd cook a lot of rice, and he'd mix his with chicken noodle soup and I'd mix mine with beans or mixed vegetables. I learned about dried beans and soaking them. Stuff I didn't ever have to do before. When I was married, my wife was the brains of the outfit. I had, however learned to iron before landing in the wayward home.
My youth was spent in a sweatshop behind the house making spears and other parts for spearguns. And doing yardwork. I was not well schooled on normal day to day aspects of maintaining one's life. To this day, I am very bad at it. Also, I have a tough time attaching reward to work. That may be because the reward to work connection was not obvious or just because I have peculiar wiring. I have done well at finding some satisfaction in about any work I've done, though. Once I get started. Getting started is an issue for some other story.
I spent some time there, rolling the van downhill to get it started, showing up at various places in a fifty mile radius to sit in and drink free, eating cheaply and probably more healthfully than I had in a year or two, and playing harp for Mavrin's rockabillys at some very odd and spooky venues. I won't go into that.
The goings on at Dave's house are a bit foggy in my memory. I remember some young ladies there who for some reason were hanging around in undergarments, yet they weren't actually with anyone. I couldn't say no at that phase of life. I'm lucky no inconvenient diseases were passed my way.
We had to do what we could to stop Steve B from shoplifting from the neighborhood market. It was a small place and the guy running it knew that guitar player was stealing. Slime ball. That is where we bought our rice and other things.
It was still winter and rather chilly. Dave's house had an oil fired heater in the middle of the living room. The oil tank was on the side of the house. We couldn't afford oil, but it turns out the Cat Lady's house, through the woods, nearby, was vacant as she'd been relegated to a home. Not sure what happened to all the cats. There's a reason Dave called her the Cat Lady.
With the Cat Lady in the rest home, or sanitarium, and the house vacant, and apparently never going to be otherwise. At least she'd never be back. It did not seem unreasonable to prevent her heating oil from going to waste, which it would have.
I felt proud suggesting a bucket line using milk jugs. We soon had enough oil to get the heater fired up. Maybe I am only remembering it this way, but I am pretty sure I was the one who figured out how to get the heater going. Dave may have played a part. He seemed adept at such things. I do know it took some doing, and that the guitar guy, Steve B, was not useful for that.
Had we wanted to attempt arson or something, then Steve B would be the go to guy. I kind of recall that Dave did his best to keep him away from the heater firing process. Steve would be the type to poor gasoline in there if it wasn't lighting immediately.
Eventually, I realized I couldn't live with no aim whatsoever, so I went to Miami to straighten out a bit, work with a friend, and oversee roofing work being done on my mother's house while she was out of town. Then I went back to NC and lived other crazy places. The drying out did not last, but I did have an awakening of sorts that helped in future days and probably kept me alive.
To this day, I know if I'm in a bind I can wash clothes in the sink or the bathtub, I can soak beans in good times and bad, cook rice and live cheap. I've never met anyone else who put stick on letters on a nice Gibson guitar, or met anyone prone to misspelling his own name.
Dave absolutely was good for his word. We made a good team, he having a van, me a license. He never would let me pay much of anything after that initial utility bill, but he did put the bill collector hammer down on sleazy Steve, so I guess that kept the lights on.
I remember one night we were lost in the van and a cop stopped us, He gave me a drunk test but let us go because we were sure we were only a couple of blocks from our destination. It turns out we were a long way off course, but on back roads. I recall we made it somewhere, but where, I can't say. I did keep to completely untravelled streets, but it is good I did not do anyone harm.
That old van was great. I wish they still offered a stick shift on the column like that. Three on the tree with a straight six engine is a recipe for reliability and easy repair.
None of this is the sort of life anyone would have expected of me. Clean cut, good test scores, naturally somewhat innocent, and of a middle to upper middle class upbringing. Truth is, I kind of expected worse.
I expected to be a career criminal of some kind. But then I realized the moral implications of taking what is not yours. Other crime, like drug sales involves people who are just too worthless to do business with so I didn't be a criminal. Although I see nothing wrong with an individual growing poppies or pot or whatever for their own use or even for sale in many circumstances. The feds see it another way, and I am not drawn to that business or to crossing paths with the slimy authorities.
It has been a very disjointed journey. On minute I am engrossed in patenting a thing which had ample market, then I blindly quit it altogether, then before I know it I'm playing some backwoods redneck lunatic bin with Mavrin's Rockabillys, Racing Van parked strategically outside for quick getaway and good downhill starting runway.
And before I know it, I'm a semi-hermit trying to figure out what I must do to feel normal or at least on a pt toward balance, stability and adequate companionship. I guess I don't try too hard at the figuring of that. It does feel much better not being drunk and convinced that the things of self destruction must be right. If nothing else, I do have that.
One thing for sure, I had a lot more women around when I was poor, drunk and crazy. But after that I lost the ability to not take others seriously, and I look at consequences to others as well as myself. That sucks.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Pseudo Science with Prof. John0**; and very fast food
Beware any scientific information which you read or hear from normal news sources. The reason for this is simple; most journalists do not grasp the math behind it, nor do they catch the subtle, but important, defining factors, caveats, and limits which are important in truly understanding experiments, discoveries and studies, and the conclusions drawn from them.
"NASA says there's a 1 in 3200 chance that the space debris will land on a person!". This is a mild example. Very mild, because it contains enough information to analyze a bit further. At first you think, "I'm wearing my helmet because I have a 1 in 3200 chance of being squashed by a dead satellite!"
Wow. Chances are worse for winning the lottery or getting lucky at the lesbian sports bar in Memphis (straight male point of view). Do not fear. There are, what-a couple of billion earthlings scrounging around on the planet? So, you only have a 1 in however many billion chance of being the squashed earthling and, if they dumped this exact stuff 3200 times, odds are only once would anyone get nailed.
If space were privatized all those drunken, obese tyrants in DC would be filing all kinds of injunctions and making rules out the ying yang to prevent companies from being so irresponsible as to not pick up their space trash before putting someone at risk. That may be beside the point. The point is that the implication of the news report makes you think your chances are greater than they are.
It might be a good idea for a private outfit to go collect stuff that isn't being used before it comes flaming through the sky. They could come back and sell the stuff on ebay for big money. That is how it works in a free market without corruption, which means the government doesn't handle the money or assign the contract and force and fraud are squelched instead of promoted by publicly paid authorities.
Also, I question how accurate such an estimate of odds can really be. Especially since they can't even pin down the day of the event. Or couldn't at the time they gave the Vegas odds of a human getting bonked by the debris.
Another interesting tidbit I read concerned the problem some scientists are having in Europe (and elsewhere, come to find out) because the neutrinos sent from somewhere I forgot are arriving in Italy faster than the speed of light. This has been going on for three years. They originally sent the stuff there for some other reasons but noticed delivery time was a little faster than they allegedly thought possible.
I used to be able to do the kind of math involved in all such equations but I forgot it. And that bugs me because news stories first filter through a journalist which means some fact is almost always wrong. You have more like a 3200 to 1 chance of that happening. I know, that is like saying 10 times out of 9 they get something wrong. I stand by it.
Then the journalist decides to put it in terms the public will understand. Since they think you are idiots and they are lazy, they try to figure out the quick phrase that will sum it up. So, something that might take lengthy equations and all kinds of complicated parameters to properly describe is laid out in a phrase that may or may not contain any truth relevant to the issue.
As a result you have people asking questions like "Do you believe in GLOBAL WARMING?", as if they were asking if you believe in God, or the Tooth Fairy, or those trolls who make people get lost in that woods north of Seattle. We've heard that the science is all in, and Al Gore even rode on a Scissor lift to explain it (although the hockey stick model has been discredited). Believe in?
Anyway, these neutrinos, which I assume to be a rare spice used in fine Italian dishes, are really hauling ass. The article says this is shaking the world of science and much of Einstein's work because it is based on nothing with mass going faster than light.
This troubles me in more than one aspect. First, did anyone honestly believe that some way, some how, nothing would go faster than light? And does that really shake it up that much? I figure it is like Newtonian physics; it predicts and explains things within certain limits.
You get beyond those limits and the other stuff kicks in. If scientists don't expect and actually strive to formulate theories and discover proof beyond current limits, then why in hell do we allow them to be paid with tax dollars? I strongly dislike that sort of scientist--the one who is afraid of new knowledge--and believe me, that ilk is plentiful.
Actually, I thought they'd already found things trucking along faster than light, but like I said, I forgot what I used to know and the speedometer on the BallisticTourmobile doesn't go up that high, so who cares?
I think UPS, FEDEX and the Postal service should hook packages to these things and charge like crazy. Your package would be there before you could ask, "How long will it take to get here?". People would pay big bucks to have important things shipped right now.
We've yet to scratch the surface on the nature of all that is, both big and small. Some things are easy to see. Like vertical posts, set with precision instruments on earth should be parallel, right? Not really. Follow the line up to infinity and posts set exactly vertical a few yards apart will be way far apart up there near the infinity road marker.
That is assuming that gravity pulls toward a point at the center of the earth. That is probably only a rough and somewhat inaccurate assumption, but it works OK. Just like the ocean isn't flat on top even if the sea is totally calm. Other wise it would follow a plane which is tangent to the earth's surface. Even then it may not really be flat because the bigger picture of the heavens may actually look like the road up to Ballistic Mountain.
So, once again, don't get too set on an opinion because you hear about a discovery or study in the news. If you are lucky, you only have half the real story. And if a neutrino snatches your purse, don't waste your time trying to chase it down. It will be in Italy before you get the first step completed.
Here's an excerpt or two, hopefully out of context, from a source somewhat more astute than BBC or AP where I first saw the article.:
CERN has a similar, higher-energy version of the Fermi experiment called OPERA, which sends neutrinos from a source in Switzerland to a detector at Gran Sasso in Italy. After accounting for all the sources of error, the people running the OPERA experiment expect that their measurements may be off by as much as 10 nanoseconds. The neutrinos got there 60 nanoseconds ahead of when we'd expect them to arrive if they were moving at the speed of light.
Notice the reference to opera. Perhaps I was wrong about using these things only for seasoning food. Perhaps it has something to do with the fat lady singing, or people wearing helmets with horns on them on stage.
The OPERA neutrino detector hardware. (so say they!! Looks like old blowers in a junk yard if you ask me.)
In defense of my seasoning explanation, here's another bit from the same article:
Neutrinos have generally made the news because they engage in what are called flavor oscillations,...
Notice the word "flavor"? Case closed.
That article can be found here...and ...here. Haha. That's a trick--both heres go to the same place. So does the and. See how life and science are full of surprises?
The article cited is definitely more scholarly and complete than the one I read from the mainstream source.
I should note that many of those involved in the discovery of this oddity have been hoping someone will figure out what they did wrong so that it will be shown that these things don't exceed the speed of light. Otherwise they have to deal with something that requires new equations and theories. They admit it. Very smart on their part. They leave it to the skeptics to figure out if they screwed up. I respect their approach.
**Prof. John0 is the science editor for the BallisticTour Journal of All Things Worth Knowing, and the acknowledged science and poet laureate of Ballistic Mountain. He lives quietly with coyotes, wild animals and imaginary friends in southern California
[wondering how Fin and BG's whirlwind tour is going. Covering lots of territory. I hope to see some of the pics they took while I had them kidnapped in the Ballistic 'hood]
"NASA says there's a 1 in 3200 chance that the space debris will land on a person!". This is a mild example. Very mild, because it contains enough information to analyze a bit further. At first you think, "I'm wearing my helmet because I have a 1 in 3200 chance of being squashed by a dead satellite!"
Wow. Chances are worse for winning the lottery or getting lucky at the lesbian sports bar in Memphis (straight male point of view). Do not fear. There are, what-a couple of billion earthlings scrounging around on the planet? So, you only have a 1 in however many billion chance of being the squashed earthling and, if they dumped this exact stuff 3200 times, odds are only once would anyone get nailed.
If space were privatized all those drunken, obese tyrants in DC would be filing all kinds of injunctions and making rules out the ying yang to prevent companies from being so irresponsible as to not pick up their space trash before putting someone at risk. That may be beside the point. The point is that the implication of the news report makes you think your chances are greater than they are.
It might be a good idea for a private outfit to go collect stuff that isn't being used before it comes flaming through the sky. They could come back and sell the stuff on ebay for big money. That is how it works in a free market without corruption, which means the government doesn't handle the money or assign the contract and force and fraud are squelched instead of promoted by publicly paid authorities.
Also, I question how accurate such an estimate of odds can really be. Especially since they can't even pin down the day of the event. Or couldn't at the time they gave the Vegas odds of a human getting bonked by the debris.
Another interesting tidbit I read concerned the problem some scientists are having in Europe (and elsewhere, come to find out) because the neutrinos sent from somewhere I forgot are arriving in Italy faster than the speed of light. This has been going on for three years. They originally sent the stuff there for some other reasons but noticed delivery time was a little faster than they allegedly thought possible.
I used to be able to do the kind of math involved in all such equations but I forgot it. And that bugs me because news stories first filter through a journalist which means some fact is almost always wrong. You have more like a 3200 to 1 chance of that happening. I know, that is like saying 10 times out of 9 they get something wrong. I stand by it.
Then the journalist decides to put it in terms the public will understand. Since they think you are idiots and they are lazy, they try to figure out the quick phrase that will sum it up. So, something that might take lengthy equations and all kinds of complicated parameters to properly describe is laid out in a phrase that may or may not contain any truth relevant to the issue.
As a result you have people asking questions like "Do you believe in GLOBAL WARMING?", as if they were asking if you believe in God, or the Tooth Fairy, or those trolls who make people get lost in that woods north of Seattle. We've heard that the science is all in, and Al Gore even rode on a Scissor lift to explain it (although the hockey stick model has been discredited). Believe in?
Anyway, these neutrinos, which I assume to be a rare spice used in fine Italian dishes, are really hauling ass. The article says this is shaking the world of science and much of Einstein's work because it is based on nothing with mass going faster than light.
This troubles me in more than one aspect. First, did anyone honestly believe that some way, some how, nothing would go faster than light? And does that really shake it up that much? I figure it is like Newtonian physics; it predicts and explains things within certain limits.
You get beyond those limits and the other stuff kicks in. If scientists don't expect and actually strive to formulate theories and discover proof beyond current limits, then why in hell do we allow them to be paid with tax dollars? I strongly dislike that sort of scientist--the one who is afraid of new knowledge--and believe me, that ilk is plentiful.
Actually, I thought they'd already found things trucking along faster than light, but like I said, I forgot what I used to know and the speedometer on the BallisticTourmobile doesn't go up that high, so who cares?
I think UPS, FEDEX and the Postal service should hook packages to these things and charge like crazy. Your package would be there before you could ask, "How long will it take to get here?". People would pay big bucks to have important things shipped right now.
We've yet to scratch the surface on the nature of all that is, both big and small. Some things are easy to see. Like vertical posts, set with precision instruments on earth should be parallel, right? Not really. Follow the line up to infinity and posts set exactly vertical a few yards apart will be way far apart up there near the infinity road marker.
That is assuming that gravity pulls toward a point at the center of the earth. That is probably only a rough and somewhat inaccurate assumption, but it works OK. Just like the ocean isn't flat on top even if the sea is totally calm. Other wise it would follow a plane which is tangent to the earth's surface. Even then it may not really be flat because the bigger picture of the heavens may actually look like the road up to Ballistic Mountain.
So, once again, don't get too set on an opinion because you hear about a discovery or study in the news. If you are lucky, you only have half the real story. And if a neutrino snatches your purse, don't waste your time trying to chase it down. It will be in Italy before you get the first step completed.
Here's an excerpt or two, hopefully out of context, from a source somewhat more astute than BBC or AP where I first saw the article.:
CERN has a similar, higher-energy version of the Fermi experiment called OPERA, which sends neutrinos from a source in Switzerland to a detector at Gran Sasso in Italy. After accounting for all the sources of error, the people running the OPERA experiment expect that their measurements may be off by as much as 10 nanoseconds. The neutrinos got there 60 nanoseconds ahead of when we'd expect them to arrive if they were moving at the speed of light.
Notice the reference to opera. Perhaps I was wrong about using these things only for seasoning food. Perhaps it has something to do with the fat lady singing, or people wearing helmets with horns on them on stage.
The OPERA neutrino detector hardware. (so say they!! Looks like old blowers in a junk yard if you ask me.)In defense of my seasoning explanation, here's another bit from the same article:
Neutrinos have generally made the news because they engage in what are called flavor oscillations,...
Notice the word "flavor"? Case closed.
That article can be found here...and ...here. Haha. That's a trick--both heres go to the same place. So does the and. See how life and science are full of surprises?
The article cited is definitely more scholarly and complete than the one I read from the mainstream source.
I should note that many of those involved in the discovery of this oddity have been hoping someone will figure out what they did wrong so that it will be shown that these things don't exceed the speed of light. Otherwise they have to deal with something that requires new equations and theories. They admit it. Very smart on their part. They leave it to the skeptics to figure out if they screwed up. I respect their approach.
**Prof. John0 is the science editor for the BallisticTour Journal of All Things Worth Knowing, and the acknowledged science and poet laureate of Ballistic Mountain. He lives quietly with coyotes, wild animals and imaginary friends in southern California
[wondering how Fin and BG's whirlwind tour is going. Covering lots of territory. I hope to see some of the pics they took while I had them kidnapped in the Ballistic 'hood]
Dynamic Disruption
It has been another odd phase in the life. Just not in balance. Not synchronized.
That leaves me a little less than at the top of my game when it comes to reading people and their reactions.
So, hopefully Fin and BG had a good time on the brief tour. I think they were tired from driving all day, and really just wanted to eat and sleep.
I ignored those clues, held them hostage in my dirty car, made them look at my horror film dirty house, and finally drove them back toward their hotel and safety. No one screamed or cried so I guess it was not too bad.
It was enjoyable to me, except I hate having the big mess. For some reason I went ahead and let them see that problematic aspect of things. I guess I thought it would be bad not to take them to the back deck so they could judge if I tell lies or accurately depict my circumstances. It is not a bad place.
I felt bad once I realized how tired they were. It has to be a byproduct of the break neck itinerary. I'm still wondering if it would have been better not to take them for that drive around the neighborhood.
In any case they were clicking off pictures like a couple of Japanese tourists. Is that racial? So be it, and who cares. Do Japanese tourists generally snap more pictures that the ones from Poland or Iceland? Who knows. It is their reputation.
They were headed up the coast first thing the next morning. I guess all is OK. I did hear that BG left her fancy water bottle in my car. I mailed it to her home in Mississippi. Had we known sooner, I could have run it out to them before they took off. I hate losing my travel cup or not having it handy.
It was good seeing them. They looked great, and they have a very spiffy rental car. I hope they enjoyed the stop. It really is a high paced trip they are on.
I'm not feeling in touch with much at the moment. Maybe that is OK
That leaves me a little less than at the top of my game when it comes to reading people and their reactions.
So, hopefully Fin and BG had a good time on the brief tour. I think they were tired from driving all day, and really just wanted to eat and sleep.
I ignored those clues, held them hostage in my dirty car, made them look at my horror film dirty house, and finally drove them back toward their hotel and safety. No one screamed or cried so I guess it was not too bad.
It was enjoyable to me, except I hate having the big mess. For some reason I went ahead and let them see that problematic aspect of things. I guess I thought it would be bad not to take them to the back deck so they could judge if I tell lies or accurately depict my circumstances. It is not a bad place.
I felt bad once I realized how tired they were. It has to be a byproduct of the break neck itinerary. I'm still wondering if it would have been better not to take them for that drive around the neighborhood.
In any case they were clicking off pictures like a couple of Japanese tourists. Is that racial? So be it, and who cares. Do Japanese tourists generally snap more pictures that the ones from Poland or Iceland? Who knows. It is their reputation.
They were headed up the coast first thing the next morning. I guess all is OK. I did hear that BG left her fancy water bottle in my car. I mailed it to her home in Mississippi. Had we known sooner, I could have run it out to them before they took off. I hate losing my travel cup or not having it handy.
It was good seeing them. They looked great, and they have a very spiffy rental car. I hope they enjoyed the stop. It really is a high paced trip they are on.
I'm not feeling in touch with much at the moment. Maybe that is OK
Home for Wayward Musicians; part 2
[I've tried to use the option to schedule posting times so this will appear below part 1. Then I decided to stagger the posts, in case anyone reads the story.]
There I was walking down the road on a sunny, cool, crisp, North Carolina day under a Carolina blue sky. No idea what was next but I knew I might find solace at the Somewhere Else Tavern.
The music scene in Greensboro at that time was incredible. The heart of the action was the Sunday jam at The Somewhere Else Tavern. Other nights often turned into spontaneous nights of vibrant live music, but Sunday jams were fairly dependable.
People would not believe the quality of the jams, the nature of them, and the number of big names that drifted in. There were also many who'd toured with name bands, big stars and all that. I hardly paid attention to that aspect because I was, and am, woefully ignorant when it comes to band names and who's who. There were grads from Berklee School of Music, Juliard, and people that may have been kicked off of other planets and just dropped off at the Somewhere Else Parking lot.
I arrived that afternoon about 2 PM, I think. If I'm not mistaken it was a week day. No one was there except a couple of the usual suspects; the bar owner, the old guy who drank beer 24 hours a day, the guy who did all kinds of odd jobs and such there, and my favorite drummer, Dave. That explained the old ford van parked on the opposite side of the building from the parking lot, facing down a rather steep slope.
That was the vehicle we dubbed, "The Racing Van". A 65? Ford with three on the tree. Wow, I didn't know Dave had a car, and I was fairly certain he had no license--a misunderstanding with the authorities involving drinking, I think.
It was my lucky day. Dave said he had a place for me to stay, and would be grateful if I would drive since I was legal, and I had that "clean cut all American boy thing going". I informed him of my lack of funds and he disclosed that he was also in the same fix.
As a matter of fact, if he couldn't pay the $120 outstanding utility bill, his power would be cut. It had to be paid that day. How convenient. I happened to have that much, so we worked a deal. Pay the bill and stay as long as you like. We can split up the power bill in the future. Besides the shifty and less than trustworthy guitar diseased Steve B was renting a room. And he owed money. He'd pay the next bill or be out. Steve B was odd. That's about all I can say. He wasn't the type you thought might punch you or anything, and he wasn't really stupid. He just had his values misplaced, if they existed at all.
Dave had somehow been given use of a large, pleasant, very old house in Jamestown, rent free. I think whoever owned it was dead, or got it from someone who was, and felt it better to have it lived in that just let it sit and rot. I've never been clear on that detail, or on the matter of who actually owned the Racing Van. It was registered and had legal plates. I trusted Dave and knew if an issue came up, he'd step forward and take blame rather than let me go down for something not of my doing. Dave had a bit of the Code in him. You either understand The Code or you don't.
My room was one of the better ones. It seems like we found wood and materials and built me a closet. I guess we went back and got my bed from the apartment in the racing van. Oh yea, the van had no starter. That is why we always parked on a hill. That way we could let it roll, put it in second and pop the clutch. It usually started without us having to push it back up a hill. Usually.
This was my period of purely dropped out, almost homeless. One of my periods of that. There was another span of time in the same general era, after being at Dave's, which found me working temp jobs and sleeping on a few different women's couches or in their rooms. Sometimes both.
OK. Due to the fact I was never not under the influence and constantly drinking, there are some very blurry extended periods of time.
I do know that I began playing with a very very bizarre band fronted by the one and only Marvin, aka MAVRIN. Sort of a country band. We had a gig most weekends, and we did not hold out for the high paying stuff. That's the guy I mentioned another time who used stick on aluminum mailbox letters to write on his guitar. Dave often filled in when the regular drummer couldn't make a gig.
On his guitar, in mailbox stick on letters it said, Mavrin's Rockabillys. He misspelled his own name. I didn't say anything for a couple months and neither did anyone else.
When I did ask if he spelled Marvin, M A V R I N, and pointed to his now defaced, very valuable Les Paul, he exclaimed, "W'll Ahl be! I spelt my own name wrong!" Dave and other friends have referred to him as Mavrin ever since. Mavrin was a bit spooky in a country sort of way. Never did figure out the nature of the rotgut stuff he always drank. He sipped it somewhat stealthily out of a dark bottle in a paper bag.
Whatever it was, it definitely was potent. Made Mavrin want to dance--not a thing of beauty.
part 3 next
There I was walking down the road on a sunny, cool, crisp, North Carolina day under a Carolina blue sky. No idea what was next but I knew I might find solace at the Somewhere Else Tavern.
The music scene in Greensboro at that time was incredible. The heart of the action was the Sunday jam at The Somewhere Else Tavern. Other nights often turned into spontaneous nights of vibrant live music, but Sunday jams were fairly dependable.
People would not believe the quality of the jams, the nature of them, and the number of big names that drifted in. There were also many who'd toured with name bands, big stars and all that. I hardly paid attention to that aspect because I was, and am, woefully ignorant when it comes to band names and who's who. There were grads from Berklee School of Music, Juliard, and people that may have been kicked off of other planets and just dropped off at the Somewhere Else Parking lot.
I arrived that afternoon about 2 PM, I think. If I'm not mistaken it was a week day. No one was there except a couple of the usual suspects; the bar owner, the old guy who drank beer 24 hours a day, the guy who did all kinds of odd jobs and such there, and my favorite drummer, Dave. That explained the old ford van parked on the opposite side of the building from the parking lot, facing down a rather steep slope.
That was the vehicle we dubbed, "The Racing Van". A 65? Ford with three on the tree. Wow, I didn't know Dave had a car, and I was fairly certain he had no license--a misunderstanding with the authorities involving drinking, I think.
It was my lucky day. Dave said he had a place for me to stay, and would be grateful if I would drive since I was legal, and I had that "clean cut all American boy thing going". I informed him of my lack of funds and he disclosed that he was also in the same fix.
As a matter of fact, if he couldn't pay the $120 outstanding utility bill, his power would be cut. It had to be paid that day. How convenient. I happened to have that much, so we worked a deal. Pay the bill and stay as long as you like. We can split up the power bill in the future. Besides the shifty and less than trustworthy guitar diseased Steve B was renting a room. And he owed money. He'd pay the next bill or be out. Steve B was odd. That's about all I can say. He wasn't the type you thought might punch you or anything, and he wasn't really stupid. He just had his values misplaced, if they existed at all.
Dave had somehow been given use of a large, pleasant, very old house in Jamestown, rent free. I think whoever owned it was dead, or got it from someone who was, and felt it better to have it lived in that just let it sit and rot. I've never been clear on that detail, or on the matter of who actually owned the Racing Van. It was registered and had legal plates. I trusted Dave and knew if an issue came up, he'd step forward and take blame rather than let me go down for something not of my doing. Dave had a bit of the Code in him. You either understand The Code or you don't.
My room was one of the better ones. It seems like we found wood and materials and built me a closet. I guess we went back and got my bed from the apartment in the racing van. Oh yea, the van had no starter. That is why we always parked on a hill. That way we could let it roll, put it in second and pop the clutch. It usually started without us having to push it back up a hill. Usually.
This was my period of purely dropped out, almost homeless. One of my periods of that. There was another span of time in the same general era, after being at Dave's, which found me working temp jobs and sleeping on a few different women's couches or in their rooms. Sometimes both.
OK. Due to the fact I was never not under the influence and constantly drinking, there are some very blurry extended periods of time.
I do know that I began playing with a very very bizarre band fronted by the one and only Marvin, aka MAVRIN. Sort of a country band. We had a gig most weekends, and we did not hold out for the high paying stuff. That's the guy I mentioned another time who used stick on aluminum mailbox letters to write on his guitar. Dave often filled in when the regular drummer couldn't make a gig.
On his guitar, in mailbox stick on letters it said, Mavrin's Rockabillys. He misspelled his own name. I didn't say anything for a couple months and neither did anyone else.
When I did ask if he spelled Marvin, M A V R I N, and pointed to his now defaced, very valuable Les Paul, he exclaimed, "W'll Ahl be! I spelt my own name wrong!" Dave and other friends have referred to him as Mavrin ever since. Mavrin was a bit spooky in a country sort of way. Never did figure out the nature of the rotgut stuff he always drank. He sipped it somewhat stealthily out of a dark bottle in a paper bag.
Whatever it was, it definitely was potent. Made Mavrin want to dance--not a thing of beauty.
part 3 next
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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
==============================================
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.
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
==============================================
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.
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.
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About Me
- John0 Juanderlust
- Ballistic Mountain, CA, United States
- Like spring on a summer's day
