Little Jazz Guitars

"Jazz" has always interested me. The term connotates: "improvisation upon a central theme." Nothing more nor less. My Dad was a Jazz Musician. My Stepfather(s). Yes, I drew to an inside straight and ended up with two Stepfathers. "Good, Bad and Ugly," to be sure. Anyway, one a VERY GOOD reed player and the other a keyboard and percussion Guy. United States Navy Guys. A house full of Jazz. Then #2 bought me my first guitar, a GIGANTIC Kaye Jumbo Twin F-Hole Western body bass. It was named: "Thud." Because, that's what it did well. No soloing, no melodic passages, no timbre or nuance. Just: "Thud."

It took me about 6 months to leave it unguarded in the High School Band Room. I nearly throttled the Pissant that tried to "liberate Thud." He was a Turd Amongst Men anyway. A squirrel turd in the reefer brownie mix. His last name even resembled the word: "Turd." I shall not divulge his true identity. One of the edicts of this here blog-thang. He was voted (by other Turds) as "Most Likely To Become Famous" in my High School Senior Annual. I was on that Staff. I wanted to crucify The Turd. Not a good Journalistic etho. I was (and still am) "all about the 4 w's." Yes, this blog is Editorial in nature but, that's because I'm not "reporting." Shit, it's not even Editorial. It's a rambling series of vague remembrances and recollections, designed mostly to amuse myself and keep my fingers from rotting away and my brain nimble.

"Rotsa' Ruck." Some Navy Guys might say that and have.

Anyway..."Jazz." Why does it matter and why is it "fun?" The answer is simple: "Because there are no rules."

 It's like a darkened Playhouse full of all the girls you wanted to make out with when you were 16 and nobody sees ya' doin' the so-called "Gangly Ones" that had some quirky beauty that nobody else noticed. My Wife was an Ugly Duckling kind of Gal. Like Karl Malden got into a bar fight with a Pirate's Dream. Well, not exactly but, she was "flat as a board" until she got some Seaman in her. Awful pun. Intentional. She became more and more beautiful as the years passed. Jazz. She just needed some rehearsal time.

Me? I don't "play" Jazz. I "Am Jazz." To paraphrase Salvatore Dali. But, he was talking about drugs, which was/is part of "Jazz" too. "Out of Self And Into The Fire." Pointy Tail, Horns And All. Turn it loose. Let 'er BUCK! We can shorten Andy Warhol's time frame to eight seconds at this juncture.

This kind of shit makes me want to own a Parker Nitefly with onboard COSM and Fishman USB interface. I am currently content with my '57 Les Paul Junior copy (Epiphone Custom Shop, Korea, TV Yellow, P-100) and '60 Magnatone Lap Steel. I may off the L.P Jr. for a Parker, if sufficiently persuaded. Any takers?

Check out this Mug:

One of those Berklee Guys. Student, then, Teacher. Shredding his ass off. Yes, it's "Jazz." Because: "No rules, all bets are off."

Another side of the same Guy:

http://youtu.be/IVhggQCqvqI?list=PLF79E2411FCC21739 (the video link doesn't copy)

Good Afternoon,
-Doc





      

Boredom and Pinched Nerves

I wasn't expecting this "pinched nerve" thing in my lower back to last as long as it has. It's been two weeks running now. Just can't "shake" it. Been taking it easy, been on a couple of forced marches to see if that might help. It didn't, really. I seem to remember this kind of thing happening in the past and it just sort of "was gone when I woke up" one day. That could happen anytime now and it'd be fine with me. A guy can only take so much Tylenol. Like: 500mg every 6-8 hours, unless you want to become a liver/kidney transplant candidate. Acetaminophen is bad stuff. Stay away from it if you can. If you can't, drink LOTS of liquids. Keep your whole system fluid. That is to say: "Dynamic." Keep everything moving.

Stretch. Gently. Don't try to "force" anything. Move slowly and deliberately. Find something to occupy your mind.

Getting "Old" sucks. The option is far worse.

I was at these shows. Alpine Meadows/Valley, Wisconsin, 1989. My final "Tour." Mostly, I was: "Just along for the ride." I could have seen any of the shows for free. I just didn't care that much. I was getting out of the van in Pittsburgh. 5 Hippies from Park City, Utah, go on a Grateful Dead Tour in a 1 ton Ford van. Three of them end up hating each-other. One guy's $400.00 tent (with all his gear inside) gets stolen. 1 Other Guy, Your's Truly, gets thrown out of a show in Minneapolis for accidentally wandering into a "restricted area." I know better, just got lost is all. The College Frat Security Guys didn't give a shit. I would never go to another show, ever. Go figure.

I wouldn't go to the 50th Year Patchouli-Fest in Chicago this year, for all the B.J.'s in Phuket. I'll leave that to the Trustafarians.

-Doc

Diggy-Diggy

G'it Wi't It.

60Hz hum, git with it.

Friday The Wha?

The 13th. Know the significance? I'll tell ya'. I, personally, attach no particular significance to the date but, I'm sure, many do. Fuck 'em. Feed 'em fish and tell 'em it's "chicken."

"Paraskevidekatriaphobia." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friday_the_13th

-Doc

You Don't Need A Weatherman...

...To know which way the wind blows. Especially when it's coming at you at 40mph. Not quite "Screaming: Mary!" but, you get the idea.

The farther North one went on the coast, the worse it got. Wet, cold and windy. Blew a fence down in the yard. A section of it, anyway. It was rotten at the bottom and finally had enough torture.

I did have a great (not) time with my back during the storm. "Pinched" something in my lower lumbar region. It still doesn't feel 100%. So, I'm "taking some time off" from daily duties.

Short and tart,
-Doc

Kaleefournia Windage

30 mph gusts in the middle of the night. I walked out to find two of my neighbors in their Nanook get-ups, braving the elements, sometime around 03:00. Me in wind resistant Longjohns. Polypropylene inside, cotton outside. Alaska holdovers. It didn't bug me that much. Pineapple Express kinda' storm. The leading edge was noisy but, dry. The windows were rattling a bit but, nothing major. I could hear the trees whistling, which, I enjoy. Birds were "grounded."

Rain is on the way, f'er sure. It may or may not amount to much. It felt like we were getting the Southern end of a swirly. Typical for this time of year. I lent someone my '80's Sierra Designs Goretex jacket. He needed it. Otherwise, he would have been really uncomfortable. I don't wear the thing much anymore anyway. Bought new gear this season. It's still  Primo Gear. I've taken good care of it.

Now, of course, it's dead calm and sort of clear and "warm." High 50's anyway. Not bad for February 7.

Had a dream about an old friend. It woke me up. Dali'-esque, post-apocalyptic, busted shit everywhere, just like the bad parts of Pacoima, flaming/burnt cars, Zombie-like people, yadda-yadda. Mike and I were having a good time walking through it though. Strange how dreams work. There are numerous theories. None of them: "100% true." None of them mean a whole lot after waking up. I take my morning medications and it all changes. Light, color, sounds, tactile perception. Television or music. Coffee, cigarettes and maybe a doughnut. Today, it's biscuits and gravy.

My neighbors are "Stuck Outside Of Reno With The Memphis Blues Again." Semi wreck. They can't get "up the hill" to Tahoe. They'll cut around Sarcastimento to Williams, then to Ukiah and North. Solid plan. "Huckleberry and Pippi" will be fine. Der Deutschen Wagon does well in shitty weather. My '60 Karmann Ghia kicked serious ass in crappy meteorological circumstance. 1825cc twin side drafts, flow-through. "Beefed up." High end gears, better suspension, etc.. "Poor Man's Porsche." "German Jeep."

Now, it's "too damned quiet" outside. Which denotes rain on the way.

So, it goes.

-Doc

 



       

Monkey Meat vs. Women From Odd Planets

It just sounded good. What's in a title? A header? Headline? Tag? Wampeter, Granfaloon or Foma? Spot the difference.

It's all lies, from an outsiders' view, Babies. Kurt, since I ripped off his line, might say that. Actually, he said: "I'll tell you one thing, Babies. You've got to be kind." Which is: "Poignant, erudite and true." He had a certain knack for such things.

I had clam chowder and garlic toast for dinner last night. I cheated. Progresso soup as a stock, then a build up from that with Yukon Gold potatoes, green onions, celery, white wine, garlic, whole milk, a can of minced clams (juice inclusive), black pepper, Spike and butter. I embellish all canned foods. That, Tequila and rain left me with one option: "dreams."

I dream in Technicolor, C.G.I., Quad Sound and tactile sensory perception. I "feel" my dreams. I have no idea if other people do or don't. I've never asked. Dreams are sacred. The personal domain of the Dreamer.

I often dream of Women I Have Known. Some that I don't know. Characters pass in and out of my nocturnal musings like ethereal apparitions, borne of smoke and mirrors. As a rule, they possess mystical properties. Some fly. Others slither. They all amuse. They're all Witches. Or Wizards. I bow, humbly. Then again, I do that with almost anyone and everything. All are worthy.

Except Bullies and Terrorists, Politicians and Thieves. They get No Thing. Ever.

Peanut butter and Jelly Sandwiches all go to "Heaven." Coffee, too. Especially if it's raining and there's: "Nothing else to do."

My Pal, Mark, (His real name) says: "Life isn't about complaining about the rain. It's about dancing in the puddles." Not a direct quote. I'm ad libbing. Mark's famous. A wonderful guitarist and vocalist. I dig The Cat the most. You get the idea. (I DIG ALMOST EVERYONE THE MOST.) It's a Maynard G. Krebs line via Dobie Gillis.

Mark:

Good Rainy Day Music. I love the guitar he's playing here. A '54 Les Paul Studio Special. I have guarded it with my life (and a hand under my left arm) @ 24th and Mission at 03:00 on a New Year's morning.

Another one:

Aufenzie,
-Doc






 

    

LIKE SMOKE AND OAKUM

If'n ye' know them words, run like 'em. Nautical terms. Haul full sail an head downwind, sailor.

A Pineapple Express is blowing in. Rain, Rain and if you don't care for it: More Rain. Spring done sprung. It's about damned time. At least they're warm.

Like it or don't, not, won't, can't, it's wet out there. The Call is for 10" over a week. Now, I don't know that I believe that number but, it wouldn't surprise me, none. "Don't like the weather? Wait a half hour." Thus goeth the folkway.

I like rain. It "cleans everything up, and brings mushrooms, with a period of sun afterwards. Black Chanterelles? Yea, Buddy. Goldens? Just as well. Spring brings the early flush.

05:00. A great time for rain to begin.

More later. There's a movie on, coffee brewed, cigarettes burning, all that "morning stuff."

-Doc

Not as good as the real stuff but, "what the Hey?"

   

Be Careful About Who's Money You Pick Up

It's a  Wm. S. Burroughs quote. Junkies say lots of weird things. Go figure. It comes with the territory. Now, would that be Kansas or Manhattan, Tunisia or London? Pick one or all.

I went shopping at the "Groceries For Way Cheap" joints today. Found some good bargains, as per usual. I always do. Two pounds of "irregular" bacon for $5.00, 2 pounds of decent coffee beans for $10.00, some Old Guy vitamins, a tube of Triple Antibiotic goo, some cookies or something but, the "real deal" was in the parking lot. As I'm walking out of the store, I notice a full bottle of what is probably going to turn out to be Wino Piss or something. Then I kick it a bit. It doesn't "move" like Wino Jizz. I pick it up. It's a full bottle of Tequila, a full, unopened, 1.75 litre bottle of "not half bad" Gold tequila. I check the cap. Still sealed. I run the dozens on poisoning possibilities and decide: "Nah, some hapless bastard just dropped it as they were loading their car." As it turns out, I was right. Not a damned thing wrong with it. I know the store I'd just left sells the crap. I also know it costs about $18.00 for the bottle. Fuck me. God loves me. God loves Tequila, salt and limes. I have the salt and limes at home already. The last time I drank allot of Tequila, I ended up in jail in Wyoming. It better not happen this time.

It is going to rain Pigs and Monkeys around here for the next week. Today was the Magic Window Of Opportunity. Get your supplies laid in, sailor. It's gonna' get weird out there. Not that I don't have the rain gear (or Tequila, now) but, it's always nice to have some "fall back," just in case The Wind And Shit Collide.

Go sail/fish/tend/cash buy awhile. You'll learn. Or, you'll die. There is no "trying." You "know" or you don't.

There's always the Red Cross for the fuck-ups.

Got batteries? Check. Got lamp oil? Check. Got wood? Check. Coleman stove? Check. 0 degree sleeping bag? Check. Long John's Clean? Check. You get the idea...

Listening to Wendy O. Williams and The Plasmatics. My Pal, Michael, got to work for 'em, a million years ago. I always thought the photo of Wendy with the Electrician's Tape over her nipples was sorta' cool. It's on an album cover or something. Mike was a drum guy, I'm an "image guy." Wendy's Silicone Enhanced Tits are so iconic. Like the Statue Of Liberty In Bondage, or something. Not that I'm a big fan of "nipple enhancement." I like 'em: "perky, pink nippled and not overstated." Some weird accident in a High School gymnasium or something is surely to blame for that fixation. Or: I simply find altered anatomy to be weird.

Wendy doesn't "sing." She "GROWLS." It's 80's L.A. Punk at its' zenith. What's not to love?

I can only listen to that stuff for so long. I had to switch Brands.

Apparently, my neighbor is having sex with himself. I don't care. They're "Apartments."

It has nothing to do with: "switching brands." Honest Injun.

Vinnie, in not one of his better periods. He's shitfaced. I still like the guy, though. I grabbed a dollar bill off a sword, held over the audience. Teenage Fool that I was. Hell. I didn't know if it was sharp or what...

Anyway, by this time, Bob Ezrin @ Warner Bros., had got ahold of them and the rest is history.

Batten down the hatches, Mate.
-Doc


   



  

 

Somebody Put A Bug Up The Neighbor's Ass

I have a neighbor, The Scrodfish, let's call him (I have before) with a penchant for early morning and late night, all-fucking-day-long "Reggae" listening. On his cheap-assed 5.1 channel sound system, cheap little "cube" speakers mounted on walls and way too high up near the ceiling, which, turns his entire one bedroom place into a giant speaker enclosure. He also doesn't understand (or "care") that bass, by nature, is all mono and also "goes looking for a place to reproduce itself," if not properly processed. That secondary "home" is my apartment, as well as the one above his domicile. The guy's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He will spend hours telling you that he IS, however. We all know the type.

Anyway...I ramble. "Somebody" seems to have finally made an impression upon him that his shit was simply too damned loud. Probably the Landlord. Maybe the New Guy that just moved in above him. Certainly not me. I've been telling him to knock it off for a couple years, but treat it case-by-case. I will simply walk over and ask him, as politely yet forcefully as possible to "turn it down." I'm "done" with that approach. I'm also not going to declare an "Audio War" upon the hapless bastard. My rig is just TOO POWERFUL for this building. (It's a solid, 4" thick walled, Oak Building that's 60 years old) I could rattle the china out of everybody's cabinets. Then again, I could fire up the 300w system and a 4x10" Fender Bassman cabinet and REALLY GO TO TOWN. But, I'm not THAT much of a Dick.

Instead, now, Scrodfish gets the Silent Treatment. "The Perma-Shine," I like to call it. A holdover from Alaska Days Gone Past when there was an asshole in a bar I didn't want to talk to. That vacant look in the eyes that asks the silent question: "WHY are you even talking to me?" Then, a quick spin on the heels and a vanishing act. People tend to "get the message" and respond by either becoming combative or compliant. It's a win-win for me in either situation.

William S. Burroughs' advice was to: "Not give the mentally impaired the time of day." Scrodfish has "impaired" in spades. I have the same in: "No time of day." I'm kind of a Dick when I finally reach the end of my rope with someone/something. "When it's OVER, it's OVER." Turn the page. Walk away. Don't look back.

Enough about this crap though. Even I'm not that invested in calling attention to idiots. If the din stays at a reasonable level, I can function. On the other hand, if it gets all fucked up again, the Landlord's getting a call. I don't: "Call The Cops." Not unless there's gunfire and it gets out of hand.

The Robins are back. Actually, allot birds are starting to show up. We're smack dab in the middle of the Pacific Flyway for migratory birds of all kinds. The Aleutian Geese are still here. Some actually stay all year round now.  

Spring is on its' way. Trees are doing their "early bud" thing and certain insects and animals are trying to decide "what's really going on" out there. It's raining most of this week around here. Also in indication of Spring. Northwestern California is back to 90% of its' usual rainfall total for this time of year. We still have a dozen or so years of drought to catch up upon.

I bought a knife this morning. It was too good of a deal to pass up. A $95.00 retail Titan Damascus Steel (1095) with a Camel bone handle, fixed blade, 3.25" fixed blade with bolster scabbard affair. $27.00 after a 72% discount from a joint I do online business with: Dvor. I collect knives, guns, knick-knacks, hardware, curios, weird stuff, T-Shirts, musical equipment, tools, all kinds of stuff. It will all come in handy at some point. Some of it gets given away as gifts.

So. A blousy gripe, a few words about Spring and some more words about junk collecting. That's "enough" for this morning. I have stuff to do. More food shopping, put some cash in my pocket, etc..

Coffee, cigarettes and Warren Zevon. I like Warren in the mornings. It sets the tone for the day's morass of "Reality." Or, whatever passes for Reality out in the so-called: "Real World" these days.

Out,
-Doc

     

The Good News Is:

Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow.

The bad news, you already know. Unless you're a N.E. Patriots fan. A pox on their deflated balls.

My two teams are the San Francisco 49ers and the Seattle Seahawks. In that order.

At least the Giants won the World Series. That'll hold me over for another year.

I won't be playing Monday Morning Quarterback on this Bowl game. It is what it is.

Hunter S. Thompson had this to say, a few years back, after his final Superbowl:

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 years more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun - For anybody. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax - This won't hurt."

-HST

Then, he blew his brains out.

-Doc 

Hunter and Warren were friends. Seems about right. Depending upon how much you actually know about them. They had allot more in common than most people will ever know.