Correction. Syntax.
OF The Kilt. Not, UNDER.
Rest, Meine Freude.
-Doc
Sunday, May 31, 2015
She Said: "Goodbye, Norman."
Marylin Monroe said those words. The ones in quotes. Warren Zevon wrote a song that contained the very same words. Ashes to ashes.
Earlier, yesterday evening, I learned of the passing of a Friend. It's becoming a Syndrome. Guys dying all over the place. I suppose that means I'm "getting old." Fuck. Me, next. (Back of the line, hopefully)
Ian was: A VERY LARGE Scotsman. Tossed Kaber with the best. There was a wrinkled up, used up, fucked up, penis underneath that damned garment. I jest. I'm sure his Joint was fine. Never saw it.
"Don't Let Us Get Sick." I've spoken the same words about most every Human Being I've ever known. The ones that I: "give a shit about," anyway.
I "gave two shits" about Ian. His ashes will be scattered tomorrow. Someplace that he cared about.
He recalled "Hamish" from Braveheart, to look at him. He hadn't forgotten That Rock. The sword was sharp, the shield worthy. Not that he was Mel Gibson's Pal or anything....
I have numerous stories. They shall rest, as he does now.
"The Pain Of Death Is For The Living." -Anon.
"Join me in that place where we all shall tarry." -Anon.
I don't "know" that Ian would enjoy a Irish Catholic Blessing but: "May the Devil know you're dead one half hour before your passing, Friend."
Hoist a pint! Call Spirit! Come Winds! Blow to that place where....
...A dream of you woke me.
-Doc
Earlier, yesterday evening, I learned of the passing of a Friend. It's becoming a Syndrome. Guys dying all over the place. I suppose that means I'm "getting old." Fuck. Me, next. (Back of the line, hopefully)
Ian was: A VERY LARGE Scotsman. Tossed Kaber with the best. There was a wrinkled up, used up, fucked up, penis underneath that damned garment. I jest. I'm sure his Joint was fine. Never saw it.
"Don't Let Us Get Sick." I've spoken the same words about most every Human Being I've ever known. The ones that I: "give a shit about," anyway.
I "gave two shits" about Ian. His ashes will be scattered tomorrow. Someplace that he cared about.
He recalled "Hamish" from Braveheart, to look at him. He hadn't forgotten That Rock. The sword was sharp, the shield worthy. Not that he was Mel Gibson's Pal or anything....
I have numerous stories. They shall rest, as he does now.
"The Pain Of Death Is For The Living." -Anon.
"Join me in that place where we all shall tarry." -Anon.
I don't "know" that Ian would enjoy a Irish Catholic Blessing but: "May the Devil know you're dead one half hour before your passing, Friend."
Hoist a pint! Call Spirit! Come Winds! Blow to that place where....
...A dream of you woke me.
-Doc
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Falling Asleep Too Early Or...
...Becoming A Creature Of The Night/Early Mornings.
Lots of times, I fall asleep too early. It's both an escape mechanism and/or I'm simply "tired." Sometimes, it's spicy food, other times it's a weird dream. Still other times, I just have to take a piss. Or, sleeping gets boring. The last one, I'm just "making up." Sleeping is way too cool to get boring.
Yesterday was mostly boring. I didn't bother to write anything, it was so boring. My neck hurt (slept wrong), I had menial chores to do and went over to the neighbor's house, to let her know that I was going to get some wood from her and would be in her backyard. I used to talk to her Husband, before he passed away. He used to come stand by the fence between our places and smoke cigarettes. I'd amble over and shoot the shit with him every so often. He had been a U.S. Marine during Korea, a Communications Technical Sergeant, I think.
My building recently reverted back to its' previous owner's possession and he had been over in the neighbor's yard putting up some bracing for his old leaning fence. I wondered if the Gal was still using her woodstove or fireplace and asked. She has a fair amount of well cured wood stacked up and I mentioned to her that if she wasn't going to use it, I'd like a few pieces to use for camping trips. Just enough to burn small "Indian Fires" for a weekend. I don't make "Huge, Raging, Bon Fires" while camping. Just large enough to keep warm or heat up some water for coffee or tea. Anyway, I got some wood and put it in a large milk crate to be stored in my little cubby that comes with my rental. The Neighbor Lady asked if I would mention to my 83 year old, retired High School Teacher Owner Guy that he'd forgotten to paint one of the surfaces on the braces he'd installed. I'd do it myself, if I knew where the paint is.
My Uncle, a 95 year old former Fighter Pilot during WW2, jumped out of "a perfectly good airplane" on his 95th Birthday this past month. With another guy holding onto him, of course. I sent the video out to some of my friends, being rather proud of The Old Bird. He earned that moniker. He was a "Bird" Colonel in the Army Air Corps, later to be the United States Air Force. At one point, he commanded 6,000 men, in Vietnam. He also was a P-47d Pilot, a Base Commander in S.E. Britain, First Waver on D-Day, fought in Korea and then Vietnam. Hal "Point Rolled" a B-17 with a General in the back, which he almost got "Court Martialed" for. (He "rolled every aircraft he ever flew," which was allot of planes.) Hal also worked for Strategic Air Command and at The Pentagon. My Mom's older Brother. He retired to start his own Company and do consulting work. He's written three books. I am the proud owner of a Draft, spiral bound, of one of those books. Still: "Up and At 'Em" at 95. Wow.
Uncle Hal:
Gnarly, huh? Nice: "Slide Into Home Plate!" Good on ye', Buddy.
As a much younger man, then a Major in the 506th, Winkton, U.K.:
What will I be doing on my 95th Birthday? Taking a Dirt Nap, Probably.
03:00, Saturday. What else is there to "do" on a Saturday morning? Type, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, watch videos/TV, fart around. Kurt Vonnegut was of the opinion that that's why we're here. "To Fart Around." Hal knew/had met Kurt at a Writer's College in Iowa. Somewhere West of Iowa City, if memory serves.
Get busy, folks. We're "Burnin' Daylight."
Out,
-Doc
Lots of times, I fall asleep too early. It's both an escape mechanism and/or I'm simply "tired." Sometimes, it's spicy food, other times it's a weird dream. Still other times, I just have to take a piss. Or, sleeping gets boring. The last one, I'm just "making up." Sleeping is way too cool to get boring.
Yesterday was mostly boring. I didn't bother to write anything, it was so boring. My neck hurt (slept wrong), I had menial chores to do and went over to the neighbor's house, to let her know that I was going to get some wood from her and would be in her backyard. I used to talk to her Husband, before he passed away. He used to come stand by the fence between our places and smoke cigarettes. I'd amble over and shoot the shit with him every so often. He had been a U.S. Marine during Korea, a Communications Technical Sergeant, I think.
My building recently reverted back to its' previous owner's possession and he had been over in the neighbor's yard putting up some bracing for his old leaning fence. I wondered if the Gal was still using her woodstove or fireplace and asked. She has a fair amount of well cured wood stacked up and I mentioned to her that if she wasn't going to use it, I'd like a few pieces to use for camping trips. Just enough to burn small "Indian Fires" for a weekend. I don't make "Huge, Raging, Bon Fires" while camping. Just large enough to keep warm or heat up some water for coffee or tea. Anyway, I got some wood and put it in a large milk crate to be stored in my little cubby that comes with my rental. The Neighbor Lady asked if I would mention to my 83 year old, retired High School Teacher Owner Guy that he'd forgotten to paint one of the surfaces on the braces he'd installed. I'd do it myself, if I knew where the paint is.
My Uncle, a 95 year old former Fighter Pilot during WW2, jumped out of "a perfectly good airplane" on his 95th Birthday this past month. With another guy holding onto him, of course. I sent the video out to some of my friends, being rather proud of The Old Bird. He earned that moniker. He was a "Bird" Colonel in the Army Air Corps, later to be the United States Air Force. At one point, he commanded 6,000 men, in Vietnam. He also was a P-47d Pilot, a Base Commander in S.E. Britain, First Waver on D-Day, fought in Korea and then Vietnam. Hal "Point Rolled" a B-17 with a General in the back, which he almost got "Court Martialed" for. (He "rolled every aircraft he ever flew," which was allot of planes.) Hal also worked for Strategic Air Command and at The Pentagon. My Mom's older Brother. He retired to start his own Company and do consulting work. He's written three books. I am the proud owner of a Draft, spiral bound, of one of those books. Still: "Up and At 'Em" at 95. Wow.
Uncle Hal:
Gnarly, huh? Nice: "Slide Into Home Plate!" Good on ye', Buddy.
As a much younger man, then a Major in the 506th, Winkton, U.K.:
What will I be doing on my 95th Birthday? Taking a Dirt Nap, Probably.
03:00, Saturday. What else is there to "do" on a Saturday morning? Type, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, watch videos/TV, fart around. Kurt Vonnegut was of the opinion that that's why we're here. "To Fart Around." Hal knew/had met Kurt at a Writer's College in Iowa. Somewhere West of Iowa City, if memory serves.
Get busy, folks. We're "Burnin' Daylight."
Out,
-Doc
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
"What" is CRAZY?
It's an interesting question, huh? I think we can all agree that those people who put the cat in the microwave, direct traffic while naked (unless their med's get screwed up or they quit taking them), hurt themselves or others, see things that aren't "there/here/anywhere," suggest that "the world is going to end on a specific date," have private conversations with "God," (Wherein: God answers, audibly.) or any number of unexplainable phenomena are: CRAZY. Of course, that is a sorrowfully lacking list of possibilities for "CRAZY" and may or may not suggest that your dear Author is, himself: "half a bubble off." I don't deny the possibility. It is my firm belief that the people that deny their own CRAZINESS are, perhaps, the nuttiest squirrel turds on the ranch. The most probable theorem at work here is that the "most well-rounded personality in the world," still has a bit of CRAZY in it. That's "Normal." The "Old Normal," not the New One. I have no idea what the New Normal is. You'd have to ask someone that plays a Crazy Person on TV.
Back in the 70's, Ronald Reagan closed all of California's "Mental Hospitals" and let the "CRAZY people" roam the streets to: Commit crimes, direct traffic while naked (which is 'sort of a 'crime' I suppose), act out in various ways, find drugs that were 'kind of like' all the bad stuff they'd been administered while in those "Hospitals" and end up in Prisons, other Psychiatric Lockdown Facilities and/or just dying. Thanks, Ron. News Flash! "NO MORE CRAZY PEOPLE!" They're all dead or in prison, where they belong.
Psychiatrists want to "help" CRAZY people. Police want to "punish and/or lock up" CRAZY people. Doctors (The Lazy Ones) want to medicate CRAZY people into submission. Politicians want to get elected again. CRAZY people want to be Left The Fuck Alone.
My ostensibly "sane'" Brother (Wife, Kids, House, owns a company, drives a Corvette, goes to Church, acts in ways that most people consider perfectly "sane,") also talks to God. So do I. Are we CRAZY? Probably a bit. In some dark little corner of our psyche, there's a room marked: "No Access." The caveat here is: "Nobody knows about that." Or: "Talking To God, takes place in private and nobody knows about it." So far, God hasn't left me a Post-It Note or anything. Not that I haven't: "Felt That Intangible Presence." It's something you have to experience for yourself. I can't "tell" you anything about it.
Note: My Brother IS completely sane. Me? Debatable. It depends upon which Doctor you talk to. A "smart" LCSW once told me: "WE'RE ALL CRAZY." It's the only "sane" answer I've ever heard...
Consider the Myth of Cassandra. If you're unfamiliar with it, read up on the subject. Use Wikipedia if you must. In Modern Times, Cassandra would be locked up in the Rubber Room, heavily medicated and subject to snickering coffee break room ridicule by her own Psychiatrists. On the other hand: "SERIOUS FUTURISTS" are regarded as "gifted and thoughtful, deserving of praise and worthy of consideration." Go figure.
I would suggest that: CRAZY is in the mind and eyes of the beholder. What was CRAZY last week is "Brilliant" the next. "Orange is the New Black." Thanks, Ron.
Wild Man Fischer? Definately Crazy. Frank Zappa? It depends upon: "Who the listener is." I think he was a Genius. Other folks think he was just CRAZY. Now, Dennis Hopper was batshit nuts. Tom Cruise? Whacko. Jerry Falwell? Totally Certifiable. Pat Robertson? Times 4. Hitler? Out Of His Mind/Off Planet/The Lights Weren't Even On. Brittney Spears? Unfortunate Mouseketeer Gone Feral. Miley Cyrus? Allot like one of my Old Girlfriends. George Bush The Kid? NUTS. Dick Cheney? Megalomaniac, Sadist, Psychopath. Mel Gibson? Talks to God. Mumbles allot. God tells him to shut the fuck up and lay off the sauce.
The Other Side Of The Coin, entirely: Capt. Beefheart? Buckethead, Most Artists, etc.. I think the term "eccentric" fits better. Fine lines and all that stuff. The list goes on for aeons...
Well...The implants in my head are twerking, my Merry-Go-Round is Boop-Booping, The Eskimo has killed the Fur Trapper and: "There's hamburger all over the highway in Mystic, Connecticut." I didn't shoot that guy in the face on purpose. I thought he was a Skeet target. God said: "Pull the trigger! It was my Inner Grimace. Yea, the one from McDonald's."
Recently, a LAW was passed in Wyoming wherein: It is now: "Illegal to share wildlife/landscape photographs with The Federal Government." Yep. It's the Inner Grimace Guy's way of telling us to piss off and mind our own damned business. Better than getting shot in the face, I suppose. Wyoming is a weird place. I know. I've spent two Summers working for The World's Worst Dude Ranch. Just look for the "Gas Pump Farm" on your way to the South Entrance. Ya' can't miss it.
When I woke up and came into the Living Room this morning, Twelve Monkeys was on. Brad Pitt is a wonderful NUTCASE in films when he wants to be. (And, how in the Hell does he do that thing with his eye?) He's probably not the Tightest Wrapped Dude in the world in personal life, either. BUT, he makes lots of money, has a Wife and Kids, drives whatever car he feels like driving and is FAMOUS. ("Yay! Colonics for EVERYBODY!") Which, is probably allot like being CRAZY, anyway. Bruce Willis is probably much less CRAZY in real life. He was a Bartender in Chicago, after all. Six of one, half dozen of the other...
Some people think Buckethead is CRAZY. I think he doesn't like to talk.
CRAZY? Piece of cake. Eccentric? A little harder to pull off.
Who Loves Ya', Baby?
-Doc
Pitt and Willis:
Buckethead: (A wonderful piece of music)
The Skipper: (RIP, Don.)
Back in the 70's, Ronald Reagan closed all of California's "Mental Hospitals" and let the "CRAZY people" roam the streets to: Commit crimes, direct traffic while naked (which is 'sort of a 'crime' I suppose), act out in various ways, find drugs that were 'kind of like' all the bad stuff they'd been administered while in those "Hospitals" and end up in Prisons, other Psychiatric Lockdown Facilities and/or just dying. Thanks, Ron. News Flash! "NO MORE CRAZY PEOPLE!" They're all dead or in prison, where they belong.
Psychiatrists want to "help" CRAZY people. Police want to "punish and/or lock up" CRAZY people. Doctors (The Lazy Ones) want to medicate CRAZY people into submission. Politicians want to get elected again. CRAZY people want to be Left The Fuck Alone.
My ostensibly "sane'" Brother (Wife, Kids, House, owns a company, drives a Corvette, goes to Church, acts in ways that most people consider perfectly "sane,") also talks to God. So do I. Are we CRAZY? Probably a bit. In some dark little corner of our psyche, there's a room marked: "No Access." The caveat here is: "Nobody knows about that." Or: "Talking To God, takes place in private and nobody knows about it." So far, God hasn't left me a Post-It Note or anything. Not that I haven't: "Felt That Intangible Presence." It's something you have to experience for yourself. I can't "tell" you anything about it.
Note: My Brother IS completely sane. Me? Debatable. It depends upon which Doctor you talk to. A "smart" LCSW once told me: "WE'RE ALL CRAZY." It's the only "sane" answer I've ever heard...
Consider the Myth of Cassandra. If you're unfamiliar with it, read up on the subject. Use Wikipedia if you must. In Modern Times, Cassandra would be locked up in the Rubber Room, heavily medicated and subject to snickering coffee break room ridicule by her own Psychiatrists. On the other hand: "SERIOUS FUTURISTS" are regarded as "gifted and thoughtful, deserving of praise and worthy of consideration." Go figure.
I would suggest that: CRAZY is in the mind and eyes of the beholder. What was CRAZY last week is "Brilliant" the next. "Orange is the New Black." Thanks, Ron.
Wild Man Fischer? Definately Crazy. Frank Zappa? It depends upon: "Who the listener is." I think he was a Genius. Other folks think he was just CRAZY. Now, Dennis Hopper was batshit nuts. Tom Cruise? Whacko. Jerry Falwell? Totally Certifiable. Pat Robertson? Times 4. Hitler? Out Of His Mind/Off Planet/The Lights Weren't Even On. Brittney Spears? Unfortunate Mouseketeer Gone Feral. Miley Cyrus? Allot like one of my Old Girlfriends. George Bush The Kid? NUTS. Dick Cheney? Megalomaniac, Sadist, Psychopath. Mel Gibson? Talks to God. Mumbles allot. God tells him to shut the fuck up and lay off the sauce.
The Other Side Of The Coin, entirely: Capt. Beefheart? Buckethead, Most Artists, etc.. I think the term "eccentric" fits better. Fine lines and all that stuff. The list goes on for aeons...
Well...The implants in my head are twerking, my Merry-Go-Round is Boop-Booping, The Eskimo has killed the Fur Trapper and: "There's hamburger all over the highway in Mystic, Connecticut." I didn't shoot that guy in the face on purpose. I thought he was a Skeet target. God said: "Pull the trigger! It was my Inner Grimace. Yea, the one from McDonald's."
Recently, a LAW was passed in Wyoming wherein: It is now: "Illegal to share wildlife/landscape photographs with The Federal Government." Yep. It's the Inner Grimace Guy's way of telling us to piss off and mind our own damned business. Better than getting shot in the face, I suppose. Wyoming is a weird place. I know. I've spent two Summers working for The World's Worst Dude Ranch. Just look for the "Gas Pump Farm" on your way to the South Entrance. Ya' can't miss it.
When I woke up and came into the Living Room this morning, Twelve Monkeys was on. Brad Pitt is a wonderful NUTCASE in films when he wants to be. (And, how in the Hell does he do that thing with his eye?) He's probably not the Tightest Wrapped Dude in the world in personal life, either. BUT, he makes lots of money, has a Wife and Kids, drives whatever car he feels like driving and is FAMOUS. ("Yay! Colonics for EVERYBODY!") Which, is probably allot like being CRAZY, anyway. Bruce Willis is probably much less CRAZY in real life. He was a Bartender in Chicago, after all. Six of one, half dozen of the other...
Some people think Buckethead is CRAZY. I think he doesn't like to talk.
CRAZY? Piece of cake. Eccentric? A little harder to pull off.
Who Loves Ya', Baby?
-Doc
Pitt and Willis:
Buckethead: (A wonderful piece of music)
The Skipper: (RIP, Don.)
Sunday, May 24, 2015
MEMORIAL DAY
Around here, Memorial Day is a rather somber kind of day. It was actually yesterday. I tend to reflect upon those that have lost their lives in service to the United States of America, display the Old, Ragged, Glory on my door (It went up yesterday and will come down at Sunset tomorrow), usually watch a baseball game or two and otherwise just "get on with Life" and do the things I usually do. In my ideology, it's not a day to "celebrate" or "party." The whole Weekend is usually pretty low-key.
First off, I drink some coffee, smoke some cigarettes, take my medicines, stare into the One Eyed Monster (TV) and ponder what needs to pulled out of the freezer for dinner. Next, I think about what might be included in this here thang and maybe listen to some Good Old American Rock and Roll. The Grateful Dead are "up" on the TV Radio thingamajig.
I use DishTV and there is no way I would even consider using any other TV Provider. I've tried them all and this is the one that stuck to the wall. Better satellites, doesn't break up so badly in the rain/wind, my $90.00 per month package (with line "insurance") has enough bells and whistles to keep me entertained and maybe the only gripe I have about DishTV is that there's no way to format the picture in "old, square dimensions." I still have two analog TV's that just won't die, knock on wood. Both came from thrift stores. #1 is a Japanese Magnavox that was sold as a "Pro Studio/Editing Monitor" and has more inputs and outputs than ANY plain old TV had in 1985. Still has a crystal clear picture. I route the audio from Dish Box through my digital home stereo amplifier. Set #2 is an old (probably late 90's) U.S. Magnavox that also has Japanese components but is branded as a U.S. manufactured unit. Plain old TV there, no fancy this n' that's. #2 is in the bedroom so, it gets watched early mornings, late nights and I sleep with it on. a "bad" habit I got into many years back. I program the sleepytime schedule before I go to sleep so I get mellow-ness all night long. Anything with a constant flat modulated voice-over will do. AHC allot of nights, especially between 01:00 and 06:00. Animal Planet, Nat. Geo., T.H.C. 1 or 2 will do after 04:00 as well.
Yes, that was/is a shameless "plug" for DishTV. I HATE my local satellite company AND DirecTV. Both blow dead <Insert Favorite Species Of Rodentia Here>.
Hard to believe that the Grateful Dead are celebrating 50 years of playing together this year, huh? Especially when I think about my first concert attendance happening in 1966. I was 12 years old. I was with my Dear Grandmother in Golden Gate park. I had no idea "what" I was watching/hearing. I just knew it was Groovy and that I Should Be Paying Attention. When I would go up to S.F. to hang out with Granny and my Uncle in the Summers, it was always Sunday In The Park. Always ending up at the Japanese Tea Gardens. I think I went to my "final" Grateful Dead Show in 1989. Utah to Pittsburgh, Pa. in a '76 Ford 1 ton van with four Other Hippies, all of them younger than me. I really wasn't all that excited about the shows, I just wanted to get to Pittsburgh, where I was going to hang out with my Ex-Wife. It was, of course, a mistake. I think I lasted about two months before I went back to My Coast and some semblance of Normalcy. Then, back to Utah to work and play some more. Lots of Deadheads in Utah, for whatever reason. I always thought it was kind of weird. On the one hand, you have the Magic Underwear People and on the other, a thriving Counterculture.
Typical weird 2015 weather outdoors. Fog. Low clouds, which, may or may not burn off during the afternoon. If you don't like the colors Green and Gray, you're not going to enjoy The Lost Coast, Man. 51 degrees right now. Flannel pants, a Jerry Garcia Handprint ball cap and a "Dolphin Club, S.F." sweatshirt on. Giants game @ Rockies, 13:00 PST. We "won one/lost one" in yesterday's Double Header. Down a peg to two games behind the Dodgers. Who cares? It's only "almost June." Lots of games left. 2+ hour rain delay start last night. The weather in Denver is all fucked up, too. There was hail @ Mile High (I refuse to call it "Coors Field") Stadium yesterday. "Too" because it certainly is FUBAR around here, weather-wise.
"I'm goin' where those chilly winds don't blow..." -Traditional/Guthrie/Monroe/Garcia/Hunter/etc.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Going_Down_The_Road_Feelin%27_Bad
"Wave It Wide And High!" (Apropos For Today)
-Doc
The upshot of the Evening is that M*A*S*H is on TV tonight. On the other hand, the Giants got their asses handed to them in Denver. Tit for tat.
I Love watching Robert Duvall crack up and lose it. Never get tired of watching it. The progression of (Hawkeye and Company) screwing the poor guy right into the ground is a delight, even all these years later. Seems like everytime I watch this, I forget that Bud Cort (Harold and Maude) is in the film. I've never decided which of the three guys is funnier and I don't care. Last night, Kelley's Heroes was on. I watched part of it. Enough to hear Oddball (Sutherland, again) do his "Other Dog Imitation." Donald, I like allot. Can't stand his Kid though, ever since he started doing the Jack What's-His-Name-Act. He was much better in "Flashback" with Dennis Hopper.
First off, I drink some coffee, smoke some cigarettes, take my medicines, stare into the One Eyed Monster (TV) and ponder what needs to pulled out of the freezer for dinner. Next, I think about what might be included in this here thang and maybe listen to some Good Old American Rock and Roll. The Grateful Dead are "up" on the TV Radio thingamajig.
I use DishTV and there is no way I would even consider using any other TV Provider. I've tried them all and this is the one that stuck to the wall. Better satellites, doesn't break up so badly in the rain/wind, my $90.00 per month package (with line "insurance") has enough bells and whistles to keep me entertained and maybe the only gripe I have about DishTV is that there's no way to format the picture in "old, square dimensions." I still have two analog TV's that just won't die, knock on wood. Both came from thrift stores. #1 is a Japanese Magnavox that was sold as a "Pro Studio/Editing Monitor" and has more inputs and outputs than ANY plain old TV had in 1985. Still has a crystal clear picture. I route the audio from Dish Box through my digital home stereo amplifier. Set #2 is an old (probably late 90's) U.S. Magnavox that also has Japanese components but is branded as a U.S. manufactured unit. Plain old TV there, no fancy this n' that's. #2 is in the bedroom so, it gets watched early mornings, late nights and I sleep with it on. a "bad" habit I got into many years back. I program the sleepytime schedule before I go to sleep so I get mellow-ness all night long. Anything with a constant flat modulated voice-over will do. AHC allot of nights, especially between 01:00 and 06:00. Animal Planet, Nat. Geo., T.H.C. 1 or 2 will do after 04:00 as well.
Yes, that was/is a shameless "plug" for DishTV. I HATE my local satellite company AND DirecTV. Both blow dead <Insert Favorite Species Of Rodentia Here>.
Hard to believe that the Grateful Dead are celebrating 50 years of playing together this year, huh? Especially when I think about my first concert attendance happening in 1966. I was 12 years old. I was with my Dear Grandmother in Golden Gate park. I had no idea "what" I was watching/hearing. I just knew it was Groovy and that I Should Be Paying Attention. When I would go up to S.F. to hang out with Granny and my Uncle in the Summers, it was always Sunday In The Park. Always ending up at the Japanese Tea Gardens. I think I went to my "final" Grateful Dead Show in 1989. Utah to Pittsburgh, Pa. in a '76 Ford 1 ton van with four Other Hippies, all of them younger than me. I really wasn't all that excited about the shows, I just wanted to get to Pittsburgh, where I was going to hang out with my Ex-Wife. It was, of course, a mistake. I think I lasted about two months before I went back to My Coast and some semblance of Normalcy. Then, back to Utah to work and play some more. Lots of Deadheads in Utah, for whatever reason. I always thought it was kind of weird. On the one hand, you have the Magic Underwear People and on the other, a thriving Counterculture.
Typical weird 2015 weather outdoors. Fog. Low clouds, which, may or may not burn off during the afternoon. If you don't like the colors Green and Gray, you're not going to enjoy The Lost Coast, Man. 51 degrees right now. Flannel pants, a Jerry Garcia Handprint ball cap and a "Dolphin Club, S.F." sweatshirt on. Giants game @ Rockies, 13:00 PST. We "won one/lost one" in yesterday's Double Header. Down a peg to two games behind the Dodgers. Who cares? It's only "almost June." Lots of games left. 2+ hour rain delay start last night. The weather in Denver is all fucked up, too. There was hail @ Mile High (I refuse to call it "Coors Field") Stadium yesterday. "Too" because it certainly is FUBAR around here, weather-wise.
"I'm goin' where those chilly winds don't blow..." -Traditional/Guthrie/Monroe/Garcia/Hunter/etc.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Going_Down_The_Road_Feelin%27_Bad
"Wave It Wide And High!" (Apropos For Today)
-Doc
The upshot of the Evening is that M*A*S*H is on TV tonight. On the other hand, the Giants got their asses handed to them in Denver. Tit for tat.
I Love watching Robert Duvall crack up and lose it. Never get tired of watching it. The progression of (Hawkeye and Company) screwing the poor guy right into the ground is a delight, even all these years later. Seems like everytime I watch this, I forget that Bud Cort (Harold and Maude) is in the film. I've never decided which of the three guys is funnier and I don't care. Last night, Kelley's Heroes was on. I watched part of it. Enough to hear Oddball (Sutherland, again) do his "Other Dog Imitation." Donald, I like allot. Can't stand his Kid though, ever since he started doing the Jack What's-His-Name-Act. He was much better in "Flashback" with Dennis Hopper.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Let's Bury The Turkey and "see if it grows."
So. I have decided to just bury the Bering Star crap and get on with my Bad Self to other frontiers. The story is only interesting to me, probably.
Today, in Grist Magazine, a blurb-ish kind of news featurette I receive once a week in the Inbox, there was a piece about a Family Of Idiots being confronted by an Actual Nature Lover because the FOI was defacing a railing with their "Name Graffiti" in a State Park in Oregon. Deschutes National Forest to be exact. I made a few "comments" using one of many alternative venues for spew and venom via email. I read. Allot.
The Family Of Idiots were actually "defending their right to deface the railing" because it was "Their Park, Too." Huh? Let me share a quick anecdote. For any of you that have worked in or near a National Park or other such Recreational Area, this is an Old Yarn and quite common...
I was standing on the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park when a "Fat Guy In Bermuda Shorts With Black Socks And White Tennis Shoes" tossed a soda can over the guard wall and into the Canyon. I approached him and asked: "What did you just do?" He couldn't remember. I reminded him. He didn't see anything "wrong" about tossing said soda can into a National Park. "It's j'es a big ole' hole inna' ground, Son." I corrected him on his use of the moniker, "Son." I told him he could refer to me as a National Park Ranger. (I was lying) I furthermore explained that he ought to haul his 300 lb. ass down into the Canyon and retrieve his trash. There was a recycle bin about 50' away, as well. He started mumbling off some excuses and apologies while explaining that he "couldn't possibly haul his immense girth over the Canyon Wall and get the can. I concurred. I asked him if he'd prefer the $1,000.00 fine instead. More stammering. His bulbous Kids were eyeballing the ground. His Wife was pretending to take photo's of something in the other direction. I stepped back and took his photograph. I explained to him that, since I was "off duty" I'd have to go find someone in uniform to deal with him. He offered me a bribe. I declined. I told him that I felt like I had shamed him "enough" and reminded him that these are Public Lands, NOT YOUR Public Lands/Garbage Can and was going to "let him off with a warning." I then climbed into the
Anyway, this kind of stuff goes on, every night, every day, in ALL of OUR State and National Parks, on BLM Lands, National Forests, etc., etc., ad infinitum. The ideology seems to be: "The World is OUR garbage can and we paid for it so..." Fucking Idiots. Ya' just can't fix: "STUPID."
I have "Done My Time In The Trenches" raising funds for most all of the easily recognizable names in the conservation and environmental field. The whole alphabet soup of people saving The Planet from morons, a dollar at a time, a day, minute and second at a time. It was a viable alternative to being in the Army or what have ye'.
Things to do, people to eat. Squawk To Ya' Later,
-Doc "Tree-Huggin' Sumbitch" Anchovy
Another fine recording (with a fine full combo, no video, just good music.):
https://archive.org/details/wz1982-10-22.Capitol_Theater.flac16
Today, in Grist Magazine, a blurb-ish kind of news featurette I receive once a week in the Inbox, there was a piece about a Family Of Idiots being confronted by an Actual Nature Lover because the FOI was defacing a railing with their "Name Graffiti" in a State Park in Oregon. Deschutes National Forest to be exact. I made a few "comments" using one of many alternative venues for spew and venom via email. I read. Allot.
The Family Of Idiots were actually "defending their right to deface the railing" because it was "Their Park, Too." Huh? Let me share a quick anecdote. For any of you that have worked in or near a National Park or other such Recreational Area, this is an Old Yarn and quite common...
I was standing on the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park when a "Fat Guy In Bermuda Shorts With Black Socks And White Tennis Shoes" tossed a soda can over the guard wall and into the Canyon. I approached him and asked: "What did you just do?" He couldn't remember. I reminded him. He didn't see anything "wrong" about tossing said soda can into a National Park. "It's j'es a big ole' hole inna' ground, Son." I corrected him on his use of the moniker, "Son." I told him he could refer to me as a National Park Ranger. (I was lying) I furthermore explained that he ought to haul his 300 lb. ass down into the Canyon and retrieve his trash. There was a recycle bin about 50' away, as well. He started mumbling off some excuses and apologies while explaining that he "couldn't possibly haul his immense girth over the Canyon Wall and get the can. I concurred. I asked him if he'd prefer the $1,000.00 fine instead. More stammering. His bulbous Kids were eyeballing the ground. His Wife was pretending to take photo's of something in the other direction. I stepped back and took his photograph. I explained to him that, since I was "off duty" I'd have to go find someone in uniform to deal with him. He offered me a bribe. I declined. I told him that I felt like I had shamed him "enough" and reminded him that these are Public Lands, NOT YOUR Public Lands/Garbage Can and was going to "let him off with a warning." I then climbed into the
Anyway, this kind of stuff goes on, every night, every day, in ALL of OUR State and National Parks, on BLM Lands, National Forests, etc., etc., ad infinitum. The ideology seems to be: "The World is OUR garbage can and we paid for it so..." Fucking Idiots. Ya' just can't fix: "STUPID."
I have "Done My Time In The Trenches" raising funds for most all of the easily recognizable names in the conservation and environmental field. The whole alphabet soup of people saving The Planet from morons, a dollar at a time, a day, minute and second at a time. It was a viable alternative to being in the Army or what have ye'.
Things to do, people to eat. Squawk To Ya' Later,
-Doc "Tree-Huggin' Sumbitch" Anchovy
Another fine recording (with a fine full combo, no video, just good music.):
https://archive.org/details/wz1982-10-22.Capitol_Theater.flac16
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Tales From The Sea, Volume 2
O.K., where the Hell did I leave off yesterday, anyway? Baseball/ Customizing Company Clothing/ Let's Throw The Boss Overboard? Shit, I had to go look...
The S.F. Giants just finished "sweeping" the first place in Division L.A. Dodgers. 1.5 games out of the #1 spot now. 4-0 today's game. Today Los Angeles, tomorrow The World! Nah, it's just Colorado.
There's an old quote about Warfare: "Long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror." The same can be/should be said about any work on the water or catching/processing fish. One minute you're laying around in your rack laughing yourself silly over something Tom Robbins wrote and the next minute you're working 20 hour days for three weeks straight and being a combination of punch-drunk, silly and grouchy.
We'll deal with punch-drunk first: Staying awake for 20 hours, with three .5 hour breaks to eat mixed in there somewhere, sleeping 3.5 hours per night, will make you crazy after a couple of weeks. Twilight Zone kinda' crazy. "A signpost up ahead...Nah, it's a fish with a machete." A guy has a hard time knowing whether he's awake or asleep sometimes. You know you're on Auto-Pilot and you don't care. It's all overtime after two days and that's GOOD. We like $1,000.00+ a week paychecks. More, if you have certifications and such. If you step off the boat with $20,000.00 at the end of the Tour, you get to go to REI or whatever, drop $2 G's on new gear, stay in a hotel, get laid with someone that isn't wearing Danger High Voltage Yellow Wet Gear and go hiking in Denali National Park for a month. After your "Land Legs" come back, which takes about a week. It's a couple of the reasons God invented Beer, Bar Girls and Hotels. There are lots of ways to blow your savings in Anchorage. The Alaska Rail System is as good as any other getaway car.
Secondly: Silly. Shit gets straight up nuts after staying awake for extended periods of time. Ask any truck driver. Ask any Soldier, Summer Resort Line Cook, Janitor or Jailer. Most accidents happen from lack of sleep, drunkenness, inattention to details or plain carelessness. Or, any combination thereof.
Thirdly: "Grouchy-ness" is usually its' own reward. Not only do the people you're around hate you but, as an extra, added attraction, you hate yourself. Nothing tastes good, there's never "enough" of anything and the Universe smells like somebody took a crap in its' mouth. Lucky for you, it's only YOUR mouth and it will pass after some Ipana or baking soda and a good brushing. Sleep? Even better.
And, when the money runs out: It's UNENJOYMENT and BONUS TIME! Yay! MORE MONEY!
"Hey, Man, you want to go to Hawai'i for the Winter?" "O.K., just let me have a couple cups of coffe, pack and we're outta' here." Those are, verbatim, the exchanged words on a January morning in 1993, after spending six months playing around and going between Homer, Ak. and everywhere else I could think of. The Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival was a high-point in the Summer. End of the first week in August, my Birthday Weekend. Look out, Frauleins, Musicians and Bears...Oh, My! Talkeetna is a great place to hang out. A staging place for Denali climbs and general festive debauchery. Hawai'i, did however, sound a whole lot better. Three days later, I was in Lahaina, Maui with a cold drink in my hand. Sort of. That's another story entirely.
Remember: "Things Go Better With...Wait For It: MONEY!" Fuck Coke. Both kinds. Old Coke and New Coke.
A Volcanic Eruption can and will brighten up your life, if you're waiting on a tent repair job in Anchorage. Mt. Spurr, across Cook Inlet from Anchorage, went up after the Talkeetna Affair. I tore a zipper on my North Face Tent sometime after the Festivities. I think I went up to get the tent fixed in late September. I remember that I caught First Snow coming back down the Kenai Peninsula. Thanks for Hotels, God. Stuck in Anchorage, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and drinking Bourbon for most of three days. Playing "Drunk Chess" with the other guests while waiting for the ash to settle. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_McKenna
<Oyster Stew Break Here>
Mmmm. "Fake" Oyster Stew. One can of Progresso "Loaded Baked Potato Soup," 8 oz. whole milk, "some" water, 1 can (8 oz.) Cove Oysters w/juice left in, celery, 1 whole Yellow Onion, two good sized potatoes, diced, green pepper, chunked, a couple Thai Bird chili's, seeded and flamed, diced, "some" black pepper, fresh Cilantro to taste and as much butter as you like. Heat until veggies get chewable and be careful not to cook too fast or you'll "break" the milk. Bread and butter, optional. Crackers in stew, mandatory. Oyster Crackers, even better.
O.K., so maybe this is best split into thirds. Or, simply "buried" right here and now. Tomorrow will tell. These Sea Stories develop a life of their own and skid off the road for no good reason sometimes.
And there are cocoanuts all over the Highway in Homer, Alaska,
-Doc
What I was listening to after the ball game:
The S.F. Giants just finished "sweeping" the first place in Division L.A. Dodgers. 1.5 games out of the #1 spot now. 4-0 today's game. Today Los Angeles, tomorrow The World! Nah, it's just Colorado.
There's an old quote about Warfare: "Long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror." The same can be/should be said about any work on the water or catching/processing fish. One minute you're laying around in your rack laughing yourself silly over something Tom Robbins wrote and the next minute you're working 20 hour days for three weeks straight and being a combination of punch-drunk, silly and grouchy.
We'll deal with punch-drunk first: Staying awake for 20 hours, with three .5 hour breaks to eat mixed in there somewhere, sleeping 3.5 hours per night, will make you crazy after a couple of weeks. Twilight Zone kinda' crazy. "A signpost up ahead...Nah, it's a fish with a machete." A guy has a hard time knowing whether he's awake or asleep sometimes. You know you're on Auto-Pilot and you don't care. It's all overtime after two days and that's GOOD. We like $1,000.00+ a week paychecks. More, if you have certifications and such. If you step off the boat with $20,000.00 at the end of the Tour, you get to go to REI or whatever, drop $2 G's on new gear, stay in a hotel, get laid with someone that isn't wearing Danger High Voltage Yellow Wet Gear and go hiking in Denali National Park for a month. After your "Land Legs" come back, which takes about a week. It's a couple of the reasons God invented Beer, Bar Girls and Hotels. There are lots of ways to blow your savings in Anchorage. The Alaska Rail System is as good as any other getaway car.
Secondly: Silly. Shit gets straight up nuts after staying awake for extended periods of time. Ask any truck driver. Ask any Soldier, Summer Resort Line Cook, Janitor or Jailer. Most accidents happen from lack of sleep, drunkenness, inattention to details or plain carelessness. Or, any combination thereof.
Thirdly: "Grouchy-ness" is usually its' own reward. Not only do the people you're around hate you but, as an extra, added attraction, you hate yourself. Nothing tastes good, there's never "enough" of anything and the Universe smells like somebody took a crap in its' mouth. Lucky for you, it's only YOUR mouth and it will pass after some Ipana or baking soda and a good brushing. Sleep? Even better.
And, when the money runs out: It's UNENJOYMENT and BONUS TIME! Yay! MORE MONEY!
"Hey, Man, you want to go to Hawai'i for the Winter?" "O.K., just let me have a couple cups of coffe, pack and we're outta' here." Those are, verbatim, the exchanged words on a January morning in 1993, after spending six months playing around and going between Homer, Ak. and everywhere else I could think of. The Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival was a high-point in the Summer. End of the first week in August, my Birthday Weekend. Look out, Frauleins, Musicians and Bears...Oh, My! Talkeetna is a great place to hang out. A staging place for Denali climbs and general festive debauchery. Hawai'i, did however, sound a whole lot better. Three days later, I was in Lahaina, Maui with a cold drink in my hand. Sort of. That's another story entirely.
Remember: "Things Go Better With...Wait For It: MONEY!" Fuck Coke. Both kinds. Old Coke and New Coke.
A Volcanic Eruption can and will brighten up your life, if you're waiting on a tent repair job in Anchorage. Mt. Spurr, across Cook Inlet from Anchorage, went up after the Talkeetna Affair. I tore a zipper on my North Face Tent sometime after the Festivities. I think I went up to get the tent fixed in late September. I remember that I caught First Snow coming back down the Kenai Peninsula. Thanks for Hotels, God. Stuck in Anchorage, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken and drinking Bourbon for most of three days. Playing "Drunk Chess" with the other guests while waiting for the ash to settle. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_McKenna
<Oyster Stew Break Here>
Mmmm. "Fake" Oyster Stew. One can of Progresso "Loaded Baked Potato Soup," 8 oz. whole milk, "some" water, 1 can (8 oz.) Cove Oysters w/juice left in, celery, 1 whole Yellow Onion, two good sized potatoes, diced, green pepper, chunked, a couple Thai Bird chili's, seeded and flamed, diced, "some" black pepper, fresh Cilantro to taste and as much butter as you like. Heat until veggies get chewable and be careful not to cook too fast or you'll "break" the milk. Bread and butter, optional. Crackers in stew, mandatory. Oyster Crackers, even better.
O.K., so maybe this is best split into thirds. Or, simply "buried" right here and now. Tomorrow will tell. These Sea Stories develop a life of their own and skid off the road for no good reason sometimes.
And there are cocoanuts all over the Highway in Homer, Alaska,
-Doc
What I was listening to after the ball game:
It was either The Nelson Band or re-runs of Magnum, P.I.. The Nelson Band won, hands down. Yippee!
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Scrap The Old Girl?
In 1992, I crewed upon a vessel flagged P/V Bering Star. Icicle Seafoods, out of Seattle owned and operated her. She was a "barge." That is: "Not under her own power" and had to be towed from fishing grounds to fishing grounds. We left The Ballard Locks on January 6th, I think. Towed up through the Inside Passage and into Prince William Sound. We hid from a storm in Yakutat along the way. A very small, depressing little cove with some boats in it. The tow vessel's (M/V Impala) Skipper, a good sailor and Captain, determined that it was was too risky to continue farther. The decision was a good one. We all hung out, doing busy work and in our bunks, reading, lolling around the Movie Room or drinking coffee and swapping lies in the Galley. The Kid, one of my "crew" guys, turning into The Big Yak Monster. We took photo's but, they got lost along the way. Our first Fishery was a test for Pacific Cod, which was a dismal failure. I did get to make a "P-Cod Snowman" with a cigarette hanging out of his mug...
ALL of my photo's from that 6 months were lost in transit in Bellingham, Washington. About 50 rolls of film. I could be sad about that but, it's water under the keel.
It was somewhere around this time that it was also decided that I would, because of my previous experiences, both at sea and on land, and age (I was 38 years old at the time) that I would take over running the Box House. The Box House was where all of the "fish coffins" were made in a rather large hydraulic mandrel press with hot glue and pressure to be stacked by the 1,000's and then stuffed down a vertical chute that fed the Production Line. As Head Maker of Fish Coffins, I acquired the moniker, "The Fish Mortician." Hell, it was collective. We were ALL "Fish Morticians." "We didn't kill 'em, we just put them to bed, frozen."
The Bering Star had a sauna. A fucking sauna on a Processing Barge. Go figure. It came in real handy when your muscles were all sore and you were dirty/smelly. I never had to touch a single dead fish during the 6 months I was aboard that scow. Still, sweating out dust and waxy cardboard fibers was a nice way to spend an hour or so. It was a "wet" sauna. Water poured over hot rocks. Showers, "real showers," were rationed, rather irrationally. The Turd that was my Immediate Superior was responsible, in part, for that. His Majesty was worried about exceeding our alloted use of fresh water, which was, decidedly, finite.
Before we continue what promises to be a long, breezy, possibly two day entry/account of the '92 P/V Bering Star Tour: A photo of what the Port side looked like:
It is important to note that: The M/V Impala is 120' long, powered by two GIANT V-12 Diesel engines and "gen-sets" while the P/V Bering Star was 240' long, generator power for machinery, to push hydraulics, and line power only. Six decks tall, including the stuff you can't see, below the waterline and about 60' wide at top roof. I don't know "where" this photo was shot but, The Aleutians is a good guess. Or, hiding in a small bay somewhere. The two vessels don't seems to be underway. This photo shows the "off-load side" of the B'Star, where pallets of flash frozen fish were ramped onto a tramp freighter bound for Japan, in the case of Herring, which was my main fishery while I was on her. The Japanese wanted the eggs, as they're a "delicacy" item and we got the Herring carcasses back later to be used as crab bait.
Bow shot:
Note the Bald Eagle sitting on top of the "office." Helicopters could land on that structure. I know. I took off in one, a little Hughes Air "Loach?" in June of '92 while giving my Boss "The Finger" as soon as the skids left the deck. Off the boat, no longer employed by said Company. I grew to really hate my Boss, who had, over the years, turned into a raging: "A.A./N.A. Nazi and General Buzzkill of a Human Remnant." I still want to punch him. Right in the balls. My Old 400 pound Hawai'ian Pal, "Baa-Baa" (as in "Black Sheep") used to call it the "Scoop 'Em" punch.
My "Window On Alaska" was just forward of the middle landing of the staircase on the "Starboard" side of the barge. If you look really hard, you can see two square windows forward of the top of that staircase@ photo's Left. The aft one was "mine." Top bunk, all curtained off for both privacy (a relative term) and another curtain on the window (it wasn't a port hole) to block the light, when there was any. I spent allot of time to myself to avoid any of the Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah Team Spirit Games that Management cooked up to keep people's minds occupied. James Michener, William Faulkner, Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Robbins were busy occupying my mind, thank you. That and a large volume of cassette tapes, about 200, I made before I got on board. A Sony Sports Walkman with Mega Bass is your friend when there's noise you don't want to hear around you.
I think this photo was taken in either Seward, Ak. or Dutch Harbor, Ak.. It's hard to read where the F/V Farrar Sea was flagged. It looks long enough to say: "Anchorage." Could be "Afognak" too. Who cares? It's not important anyway.
This is going to turn into two segments. I can feel it. I need to go find some more photo's.
What I had hoped to end up with in the story is: The other day, I discovered that the B'Star was retired and will be turned into scrap. I had called the Home Office in Seattle and that's how I heard the yarn. My reason for calling them was to find out if I could get a sweatshirt with the Bering Star designation below the logo you see in the photo above. I used to refer to the logo as "The Romantic Ideal" and, in a two panel cartoon I drew while aboard, the "Dismal Reality" was a floating shoe box obscured by sleet and rain in the middle of nothing but dark water. I gave it to the Gal that was the "Barge Manager" (equal to Barge "Captain," sort of. The Chief Engineer actually was Top Kick on this thing.) when she commented about how much she liked it. ("Hi, Amy!") I also discovered, out of sheer boredom and a fondness for puzzles and games, that I could take an adhesive backed sticker and re-arrange the letters to read "Frozen Testicles" instead of "Icicle Seafoods" as an add-on to my deck hat (hardhat to you). Had to do some serious cut and paste work to make it look good. What else are ya' gonna' do while waiting to be towed to the next grounds? Ya' don't want to tell all of your stories at one sitting. You'll run out of Overstatements and Jokes.
Listening to Jethro Tull this morning. I got to witness Jethro Tull blow Led Zeppelin off the stage in about '69 or '70. Tull was "fired" as the Opening Act after that night. Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, you fucking WANKERS! The first Jethro Tull recording I owned was "Stand Up," which was released in September of 1969, which was perfect. I was a Sophomore in High School. I was also: "Already Working In The Business," albeit, the low-rent-trailer-park-end of The Music Biz at that time. I would have seen Jethro Tull that year, to update my earlier foggy memory. You know what they say about the 60's, right? "If you remember the 60's, you weren't there." Right on, Far Out and Groovy, Baby!
Some groovy Tull, MSG, 1978:
Mudhead: "What are YOU going to do when you graduate, Porgy?"
Porgy: "I'm going to cut the soles off of my shoes, sit in a tree and learn to play the flute."
Love and a 12" Crescent Wrench,
-Doc
ALL of my photo's from that 6 months were lost in transit in Bellingham, Washington. About 50 rolls of film. I could be sad about that but, it's water under the keel.
It was somewhere around this time that it was also decided that I would, because of my previous experiences, both at sea and on land, and age (I was 38 years old at the time) that I would take over running the Box House. The Box House was where all of the "fish coffins" were made in a rather large hydraulic mandrel press with hot glue and pressure to be stacked by the 1,000's and then stuffed down a vertical chute that fed the Production Line. As Head Maker of Fish Coffins, I acquired the moniker, "The Fish Mortician." Hell, it was collective. We were ALL "Fish Morticians." "We didn't kill 'em, we just put them to bed, frozen."
The Bering Star had a sauna. A fucking sauna on a Processing Barge. Go figure. It came in real handy when your muscles were all sore and you were dirty/smelly. I never had to touch a single dead fish during the 6 months I was aboard that scow. Still, sweating out dust and waxy cardboard fibers was a nice way to spend an hour or so. It was a "wet" sauna. Water poured over hot rocks. Showers, "real showers," were rationed, rather irrationally. The Turd that was my Immediate Superior was responsible, in part, for that. His Majesty was worried about exceeding our alloted use of fresh water, which was, decidedly, finite.
Before we continue what promises to be a long, breezy, possibly two day entry/account of the '92 P/V Bering Star Tour: A photo of what the Port side looked like:
It is important to note that: The M/V Impala is 120' long, powered by two GIANT V-12 Diesel engines and "gen-sets" while the P/V Bering Star was 240' long, generator power for machinery, to push hydraulics, and line power only. Six decks tall, including the stuff you can't see, below the waterline and about 60' wide at top roof. I don't know "where" this photo was shot but, The Aleutians is a good guess. Or, hiding in a small bay somewhere. The two vessels don't seems to be underway. This photo shows the "off-load side" of the B'Star, where pallets of flash frozen fish were ramped onto a tramp freighter bound for Japan, in the case of Herring, which was my main fishery while I was on her. The Japanese wanted the eggs, as they're a "delicacy" item and we got the Herring carcasses back later to be used as crab bait.
Bow shot:
Note the Bald Eagle sitting on top of the "office." Helicopters could land on that structure. I know. I took off in one, a little Hughes Air "Loach?" in June of '92 while giving my Boss "The Finger" as soon as the skids left the deck. Off the boat, no longer employed by said Company. I grew to really hate my Boss, who had, over the years, turned into a raging: "A.A./N.A. Nazi and General Buzzkill of a Human Remnant." I still want to punch him. Right in the balls. My Old 400 pound Hawai'ian Pal, "Baa-Baa" (as in "Black Sheep") used to call it the "Scoop 'Em" punch.
My "Window On Alaska" was just forward of the middle landing of the staircase on the "Starboard" side of the barge. If you look really hard, you can see two square windows forward of the top of that staircase@ photo's Left. The aft one was "mine." Top bunk, all curtained off for both privacy (a relative term) and another curtain on the window (it wasn't a port hole) to block the light, when there was any. I spent allot of time to myself to avoid any of the Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah Team Spirit Games that Management cooked up to keep people's minds occupied. James Michener, William Faulkner, Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Robbins were busy occupying my mind, thank you. That and a large volume of cassette tapes, about 200, I made before I got on board. A Sony Sports Walkman with Mega Bass is your friend when there's noise you don't want to hear around you.
I think this photo was taken in either Seward, Ak. or Dutch Harbor, Ak.. It's hard to read where the F/V Farrar Sea was flagged. It looks long enough to say: "Anchorage." Could be "Afognak" too. Who cares? It's not important anyway.
This is going to turn into two segments. I can feel it. I need to go find some more photo's.
What I had hoped to end up with in the story is: The other day, I discovered that the B'Star was retired and will be turned into scrap. I had called the Home Office in Seattle and that's how I heard the yarn. My reason for calling them was to find out if I could get a sweatshirt with the Bering Star designation below the logo you see in the photo above. I used to refer to the logo as "The Romantic Ideal" and, in a two panel cartoon I drew while aboard, the "Dismal Reality" was a floating shoe box obscured by sleet and rain in the middle of nothing but dark water. I gave it to the Gal that was the "Barge Manager" (equal to Barge "Captain," sort of. The Chief Engineer actually was Top Kick on this thing.) when she commented about how much she liked it. ("Hi, Amy!") I also discovered, out of sheer boredom and a fondness for puzzles and games, that I could take an adhesive backed sticker and re-arrange the letters to read "Frozen Testicles" instead of "Icicle Seafoods" as an add-on to my deck hat (hardhat to you). Had to do some serious cut and paste work to make it look good. What else are ya' gonna' do while waiting to be towed to the next grounds? Ya' don't want to tell all of your stories at one sitting. You'll run out of Overstatements and Jokes.
Listening to Jethro Tull this morning. I got to witness Jethro Tull blow Led Zeppelin off the stage in about '69 or '70. Tull was "fired" as the Opening Act after that night. Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, you fucking WANKERS! The first Jethro Tull recording I owned was "Stand Up," which was released in September of 1969, which was perfect. I was a Sophomore in High School. I was also: "Already Working In The Business," albeit, the low-rent-trailer-park-end of The Music Biz at that time. I would have seen Jethro Tull that year, to update my earlier foggy memory. You know what they say about the 60's, right? "If you remember the 60's, you weren't there." Right on, Far Out and Groovy, Baby!
Some groovy Tull, MSG, 1978:
Mudhead: "What are YOU going to do when you graduate, Porgy?"
Porgy: "I'm going to cut the soles off of my shoes, sit in a tree and learn to play the flute."
Love and a 12" Crescent Wrench,
-Doc
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Arch Nemeses, Wars and "Causes"
If you're a San Francisco Giants Fan, which I am, you hate the L.A. Dodgers. We are just coming off a good series with the Cincy Reds, away. 20 runs in 3 games? Yea, that's pretty good. Posey just whacked one over Rollins, LA's short stop, for a ice-breaker run in the 3rd inning with two on. The bases become loaded and Hunter Pence can't handle Frias' Cutter. Oh well, lots of ball left to play. Then two more games, at home.
My Primary Physician's Brother is the Head Camera Man for the Giants. I've bugged her to try and get me a Kruk and Kuip Autographed Ball. K&K are, if you don't know already, the hometown announcers for the Giants. I won't listen to any other guys call the games. There's always the radio AND TV.
But, this here thang ain't about Baseball, as much of a RABID FAN as I am, I'll actually "try" to keep baseball out of it as much as I can. It won't work.
What a bunch of weird shit in the News this past couple of days. Biker Wars, REAL WARS, rumors of wars, hypothetical wars. WE oughta' just outlaw wars, altogether. I like Kurt Vonnegut's statement about wars. He was in one. Got the crap bombed out of himself in Dresden. With Memorial Day coming up, I tend to start thinking about stuff like this.
"One thing I will tell you, Babies, is: You've got to be KIND." -K.V.
I come from a multi-generational Military Family. War Heroes, Dead Guys, Regular Folks, Sharpshooters, Pilots, Musicians, you name it. We lost a Kid in the Family in Afghanistan. Tragic. Happened while he and his guys were trying to rescue some other guys that had become cut off from their unit. My Uncle, Mom's Older Brother, was a P-47d pilot in WW2. Base Commander, Full Colonel in the Air Force. My Brothers were either in "Regular" or "Reserve" Units. Most of my friends are Veterans.
Hal's P-47d:
I didn't serve in the military. I was 1-A and #012 in 1973. Viet Nam wasn't over yet. Nixon cancelled the Draft three weeks before my 19th birthday. Whew. I REALLY didn't want to be in the Army. I would have ignored THAT LETTER and joined the Navy to become a photographer or darkroom technician, which I was already trained in.
Kurt also said: "We could have saved the Planet but, we were just too damned lazy."
Instead of serving My Country in the Military, I chose to serve The World as a fundraiser for environmental conservation, social action and civil rights organizations. All The Usual Suspects. WWF, NRDC, Cousteau Society, Sierra Club, Defenders Of Wildlife, Greenpeace, Sea Shepherd, SPLC, Simon Wiesenthal Center, etc., etc.. We had about 40 different clients where I worked. Yes, I was a Pro. Yes, I got paid. Allot. I was good at it. I raised MILLIONS of dollars. Worked in a Natural Foods Cafe' during the day and did five hours a night raising money for the guys above.
Here's a demotivational environmental photo for you regarding a trainload of Canada Crude going up in flames, in case you needed a kick start to action. ANY action will do.
Nice, huh? Hauling oil by train tanker is a swell idea, eh? No clue "who done it or where it is" but it does illustrate a point. "Yea, that used to be a really nice lake there, Bob." "Well said, Doug. Pass me a Labatt's. Maybe some already cooked trout will head our way." I'm not saying that a pipeline or ocean tanker is any different or "better" either.
So. Baseball. Wars. Saving The World. I think I've covered the bases. Oops. Baseball terminology...
Top of the 7th. Still 1-0, Giants. COLD in The City tonight. People wearing Parkas and such. Sam Clemmons once said: "The coldest Winter I ever spent was a Summer in San Francisco."
Wild pitch, man on third goes in the bottom of the 8th. 2-0, Giants. Casilla in to pitch the 9th for the Giants. "And THAT's the ballgame!"
Enjoy Every Sandwich,
-Doc
My Primary Physician's Brother is the Head Camera Man for the Giants. I've bugged her to try and get me a Kruk and Kuip Autographed Ball. K&K are, if you don't know already, the hometown announcers for the Giants. I won't listen to any other guys call the games. There's always the radio AND TV.
But, this here thang ain't about Baseball, as much of a RABID FAN as I am, I'll actually "try" to keep baseball out of it as much as I can. It won't work.
What a bunch of weird shit in the News this past couple of days. Biker Wars, REAL WARS, rumors of wars, hypothetical wars. WE oughta' just outlaw wars, altogether. I like Kurt Vonnegut's statement about wars. He was in one. Got the crap bombed out of himself in Dresden. With Memorial Day coming up, I tend to start thinking about stuff like this.
"One thing I will tell you, Babies, is: You've got to be KIND." -K.V.
I come from a multi-generational Military Family. War Heroes, Dead Guys, Regular Folks, Sharpshooters, Pilots, Musicians, you name it. We lost a Kid in the Family in Afghanistan. Tragic. Happened while he and his guys were trying to rescue some other guys that had become cut off from their unit. My Uncle, Mom's Older Brother, was a P-47d pilot in WW2. Base Commander, Full Colonel in the Air Force. My Brothers were either in "Regular" or "Reserve" Units. Most of my friends are Veterans.
Hal's P-47d:
I didn't serve in the military. I was 1-A and #012 in 1973. Viet Nam wasn't over yet. Nixon cancelled the Draft three weeks before my 19th birthday. Whew. I REALLY didn't want to be in the Army. I would have ignored THAT LETTER and joined the Navy to become a photographer or darkroom technician, which I was already trained in.
Kurt also said: "We could have saved the Planet but, we were just too damned lazy."
Instead of serving My Country in the Military, I chose to serve The World as a fundraiser for environmental conservation, social action and civil rights organizations. All The Usual Suspects. WWF, NRDC, Cousteau Society, Sierra Club, Defenders Of Wildlife, Greenpeace, Sea Shepherd, SPLC, Simon Wiesenthal Center, etc., etc.. We had about 40 different clients where I worked. Yes, I was a Pro. Yes, I got paid. Allot. I was good at it. I raised MILLIONS of dollars. Worked in a Natural Foods Cafe' during the day and did five hours a night raising money for the guys above.
Here's a demotivational environmental photo for you regarding a trainload of Canada Crude going up in flames, in case you needed a kick start to action. ANY action will do.
Nice, huh? Hauling oil by train tanker is a swell idea, eh? No clue "who done it or where it is" but it does illustrate a point. "Yea, that used to be a really nice lake there, Bob." "Well said, Doug. Pass me a Labatt's. Maybe some already cooked trout will head our way." I'm not saying that a pipeline or ocean tanker is any different or "better" either.
So. Baseball. Wars. Saving The World. I think I've covered the bases. Oops. Baseball terminology...
Top of the 7th. Still 1-0, Giants. COLD in The City tonight. People wearing Parkas and such. Sam Clemmons once said: "The coldest Winter I ever spent was a Summer in San Francisco."
Wild pitch, man on third goes in the bottom of the 8th. 2-0, Giants. Casilla in to pitch the 9th for the Giants. "And THAT's the ballgame!"
Enjoy Every Sandwich,
-Doc
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Spring Cleaning, Volume 2
I "started" Spring Cleaning about a month ago. Now, I'm digging into the marrow of the matter. The actual, physical act of "throwing things away" that I either: "Haven't used and/or touched" in six months. The brain, heart and penis stay though. The hands, too. Eyes, etc., you get the picture.
Today's mission is to attack the bedroom closet with fervor and zest. I have, for too long, used it as a catch-all for dying or dead electronics, clothes I haven't worn in years, luggage (which I'm keeping) and various items of fishing gear, camping gear, old shoes, some 100 year old Redwood that I salvaged from a shack behind a Mexican Restaurant in a harbor, many years ago and continue to make shelving and such from (and needs to be in my storage unit), about a mile of electronic cables that may or may not be useful to myself or somebody else and probably a few "surprises" that I've completely forgotten about. You get the idea. Some of that crap needs to play a Contestant on: "Meet The Dumpster." In the case of electronics, it needs to be responsibly recycled/re-purposed. There are some "boxes" from purchases I have made and had shipped. They can go to the storage cubby as well. There may or not be a dead computer monitor and CPU in there, too. I'd like to build a set of shelves in the old door frame between my apartment and the one next door, as an afterthought. "Why" there is still a door frame in the closet, I have no idea. We'll find out today, at any rate, what stays and what goes.
When it's all done, I get to vacuum. Yay! I'm sure I will find some things that have been unexpected and make even more work for myself in this process. Boxing up stuff, etc..
My Pal, let's call him: "Jim," is going to be in town today for his Daughter's J.C. Graduation. Two year Dental Assistant Certificate and perhaps on to a four year school. He's excited and wants to work in a visit to Uncle Doc's Rubber Room along the way. We were neighbors about 14 years ago and talk on the phone often, I watched his kids grow up, all that Happy Crap. It'll be nice to see the guy.
I should get down to where he lives and hang out for a weekend or something. Visit the Old Digs while I'm at it, catch up on the local "color" there and see what's changed and what's stayed the same. Being the old, burnt out, Fishing and Lumber Town that it is and given that the New Economy is now Tourism and Retirement Real Estate, lots of things have "changed." I moved when I saw all the former "coming." I also simply "outgrew" the Town. I'm a City Kid at heart and when I get bored I find "all the wrong distractions." Use your imagination. I'm in the process of "outgrowing" this little 'burgh as well. My next move will be to go back Up North. Away from the hustle and bustle, haste and noise, towards a good fishing hole and the Pastoral Life of "Country Living," again. I would like to face the fact that I'm 60 years old and it's time to: Slow The Fuck Down. Find some new passions and do some serious work. Instead of wanking into a keyboard to keep myself amused. I "know how to write" and haven't been doing it. This is a Journal, a Diary, a Communications Tool and a device with which I commit memory to print. Nothing more. It's not making me any money, either. They're just "Stories" and "Musings."
So it goes,
-Doc
Down The Road+:
Today's mission is to attack the bedroom closet with fervor and zest. I have, for too long, used it as a catch-all for dying or dead electronics, clothes I haven't worn in years, luggage (which I'm keeping) and various items of fishing gear, camping gear, old shoes, some 100 year old Redwood that I salvaged from a shack behind a Mexican Restaurant in a harbor, many years ago and continue to make shelving and such from (and needs to be in my storage unit), about a mile of electronic cables that may or may not be useful to myself or somebody else and probably a few "surprises" that I've completely forgotten about. You get the idea. Some of that crap needs to play a Contestant on: "Meet The Dumpster." In the case of electronics, it needs to be responsibly recycled/re-purposed. There are some "boxes" from purchases I have made and had shipped. They can go to the storage cubby as well. There may or not be a dead computer monitor and CPU in there, too. I'd like to build a set of shelves in the old door frame between my apartment and the one next door, as an afterthought. "Why" there is still a door frame in the closet, I have no idea. We'll find out today, at any rate, what stays and what goes.
When it's all done, I get to vacuum. Yay! I'm sure I will find some things that have been unexpected and make even more work for myself in this process. Boxing up stuff, etc..
My Pal, let's call him: "Jim," is going to be in town today for his Daughter's J.C. Graduation. Two year Dental Assistant Certificate and perhaps on to a four year school. He's excited and wants to work in a visit to Uncle Doc's Rubber Room along the way. We were neighbors about 14 years ago and talk on the phone often, I watched his kids grow up, all that Happy Crap. It'll be nice to see the guy.
I should get down to where he lives and hang out for a weekend or something. Visit the Old Digs while I'm at it, catch up on the local "color" there and see what's changed and what's stayed the same. Being the old, burnt out, Fishing and Lumber Town that it is and given that the New Economy is now Tourism and Retirement Real Estate, lots of things have "changed." I moved when I saw all the former "coming." I also simply "outgrew" the Town. I'm a City Kid at heart and when I get bored I find "all the wrong distractions." Use your imagination. I'm in the process of "outgrowing" this little 'burgh as well. My next move will be to go back Up North. Away from the hustle and bustle, haste and noise, towards a good fishing hole and the Pastoral Life of "Country Living," again. I would like to face the fact that I'm 60 years old and it's time to: Slow The Fuck Down. Find some new passions and do some serious work. Instead of wanking into a keyboard to keep myself amused. I "know how to write" and haven't been doing it. This is a Journal, a Diary, a Communications Tool and a device with which I commit memory to print. Nothing more. It's not making me any money, either. They're just "Stories" and "Musings."
So it goes,
-Doc
Down The Road+:
Friday, May 15, 2015
Fishing With Doc
I am The Easiest Guy In The World to go fishing with. Why?
1. I don't "care" whether or not I catch any fish. I "want" to catch fish but, I don't get "pissed off" if I get skunked or lose all my tackle. A Wise Man once said: "Fishing ain't about 'catching fish' and that's why they don't call it 'Catching', meine freunde."
2. I bring good music, a good boom box or two Walkmans, with extra batteries.
3. There is always good beer hanging off of the side of the boat or at creekside in a mesh bag. Or, if we're in warm water, it's in the cooler. If it's freezing the snot in your nose, there's always Knob Creek Bourbon or some such. Codeine and/or Valium for The Brave or Suicidal.
4. I always pack explosives. (O.K., I'm kidding.) Fishing with explosives is like hunting Elk with a Sherman Tank. In desperate times however, either does work. If you can get a good Head Shot.
5. I know at least 5 good jokes. All my good friends have already heard them but, they're polite and let me tell them again anyway.
6. I may or not do: "Something really interesting" with a fish. Like: Stick one down my pants and pretend that it's got a death grip on Mister Happy. Or: Bring doll clothes and dress up a Salmon in Barbie's' Beach Ensemble complete with light up nippples and Trailer Park Queen makeup. "The Stacey Keatch Look-Alike Contest" is always a big hit, too. Simple rules...Ram the fishes' mouths into whatever's handy to give it a really nice cleft palate look. Yes, photographs will be taken and framed later for winners. Losers just get an ugly fish. Note: There is NOTHING funnier than a fish in a Tuxedo, smoking a cigar.
7. I will save you if you get drunk and fall into whatever kind of water we're in. I may or may not actually jump into the water to get you but you will get back out and onto the boat or back to shore. Unless there's a waterfall 50' downstream. In which case: "You're Fucked."
8. I will dress for the occasion. I will NOT wear a Mini Skirt, wig, dressy gloves or nylon stockings though. And, fishing in stiletto heels is totally out of the question. Clown costumes are encouraged. No John Wayne Gacy shit though. It creeps out the fish.
9. YOU will have a good time. It is a priority to make sure that one's Guest has a well entertained outing. An interesting scar or two may be incurred. I have been known to make the odd "bad cast" and hook someone's ear, or pants zipper, ass, you name it.
10. Fish WILL die. So, scratch citation #1. At least 1 fish will make it no farther away from the water than a frying pan or whatever cooking device is available. Creekside campfires are ALWAYS a good idea. It also doesn't matter if "cooking" means wrapping Mister or Ms. Fish in aluminium foil and packing it with butter, lemon and garlic before placing the "Tin Burrito" on the boat's exhaust manifold and catching said vessel on fire, sinking us both, losing the catch and dying. It's ALWAYS "A Good day To Die" on the water, salt, fresh, cold, warm, whatever.
O.K., so. Who wants to "go fishing?"
Listening to Maggie Bell, a delightful Scottish Blues Torch Songstress that I have had the pleasure of working with a couple of times, back in the early 70's. She was smokin' hot. She always brought a kick ass band and belted out Blues like Janis Joplin on cocaine and whiskey. Which, was probably the case, anyway. If you were in The Music Business in the early 70's, you were high on cocaine. Extra points for remembering the show. I have done some of my best work while completely out of my fucking mind on this or that recreational substance. I have eaten the Special Mashed Potatoes by mistake and had to work while tripping balls on Owsley's Finest. You just invent an Imaginary Assistant and let him do all the work while you're looking around muttering, "Wow! Huh?" Nowadays, the whole Lighting Routine is on a "card" and the "Guy" is just there in case the automated shit goes haywire and the L.D. has to actually "do" something. "Hey! Why is this Marmot gnawing on my shin and does it really matter? Just keep it away from my new pair of Chuck's. Go away, I'm busy.
Now, if you really want to hear this Gal sing, listen to some of her live recordings, most of which were done while she was living in Germany. Her rendition of J.J. Cale's "Goin' Down" is an ass kicker.
Since posting this yesterday, Maggie Bell's "stuff" has been removed from YouTube due to some sort of Copyright Infringement issue, which I completely understand. Just go to YouTube and search "Maggie Bell." Listen to her music. Buy an album, CD or tape or three. I own LOTS of vinyl. Paid good money for all of it. If there's an "issue," I don't want a chunk of it. For my part, I was simply illustrating a point and providing some quality entertainment, free of any personal monetary gain.
Doc makes NO MONEY from this blog, whatsoever. I merely pass on good stuff to anyone that wants to read this crap. If there's an "issue" with Copyrights, I will back out of the situation like a Jackrabbit with his eyebrows on fire.
Kisses and a Big Ole' Zaphod Beeblebrox Hug, ("Hey, don't go changin', Babe.")
"So long and thanks for all the fish!" (Douglas Adams)
-Doc
1. I don't "care" whether or not I catch any fish. I "want" to catch fish but, I don't get "pissed off" if I get skunked or lose all my tackle. A Wise Man once said: "Fishing ain't about 'catching fish' and that's why they don't call it 'Catching', meine freunde."
2. I bring good music, a good boom box or two Walkmans, with extra batteries.
3. There is always good beer hanging off of the side of the boat or at creekside in a mesh bag. Or, if we're in warm water, it's in the cooler. If it's freezing the snot in your nose, there's always Knob Creek Bourbon or some such. Codeine and/or Valium for The Brave or Suicidal.
4. I always pack explosives. (O.K., I'm kidding.) Fishing with explosives is like hunting Elk with a Sherman Tank. In desperate times however, either does work. If you can get a good Head Shot.
5. I know at least 5 good jokes. All my good friends have already heard them but, they're polite and let me tell them again anyway.
6. I may or not do: "Something really interesting" with a fish. Like: Stick one down my pants and pretend that it's got a death grip on Mister Happy. Or: Bring doll clothes and dress up a Salmon in Barbie's' Beach Ensemble complete with light up nippples and Trailer Park Queen makeup. "The Stacey Keatch Look-Alike Contest" is always a big hit, too. Simple rules...Ram the fishes' mouths into whatever's handy to give it a really nice cleft palate look. Yes, photographs will be taken and framed later for winners. Losers just get an ugly fish. Note: There is NOTHING funnier than a fish in a Tuxedo, smoking a cigar.
7. I will save you if you get drunk and fall into whatever kind of water we're in. I may or may not actually jump into the water to get you but you will get back out and onto the boat or back to shore. Unless there's a waterfall 50' downstream. In which case: "You're Fucked."
8. I will dress for the occasion. I will NOT wear a Mini Skirt, wig, dressy gloves or nylon stockings though. And, fishing in stiletto heels is totally out of the question. Clown costumes are encouraged. No John Wayne Gacy shit though. It creeps out the fish.
9. YOU will have a good time. It is a priority to make sure that one's Guest has a well entertained outing. An interesting scar or two may be incurred. I have been known to make the odd "bad cast" and hook someone's ear, or pants zipper, ass, you name it.
10. Fish WILL die. So, scratch citation #1. At least 1 fish will make it no farther away from the water than a frying pan or whatever cooking device is available. Creekside campfires are ALWAYS a good idea. It also doesn't matter if "cooking" means wrapping Mister or Ms. Fish in aluminium foil and packing it with butter, lemon and garlic before placing the "Tin Burrito" on the boat's exhaust manifold and catching said vessel on fire, sinking us both, losing the catch and dying. It's ALWAYS "A Good day To Die" on the water, salt, fresh, cold, warm, whatever.
O.K., so. Who wants to "go fishing?"
Listening to Maggie Bell, a delightful Scottish Blues Torch Songstress that I have had the pleasure of working with a couple of times, back in the early 70's. She was smokin' hot. She always brought a kick ass band and belted out Blues like Janis Joplin on cocaine and whiskey. Which, was probably the case, anyway. If you were in The Music Business in the early 70's, you were high on cocaine. Extra points for remembering the show. I have done some of my best work while completely out of my fucking mind on this or that recreational substance. I have eaten the Special Mashed Potatoes by mistake and had to work while tripping balls on Owsley's Finest. You just invent an Imaginary Assistant and let him do all the work while you're looking around muttering, "Wow! Huh?" Nowadays, the whole Lighting Routine is on a "card" and the "Guy" is just there in case the automated shit goes haywire and the L.D. has to actually "do" something. "Hey! Why is this Marmot gnawing on my shin and does it really matter? Just keep it away from my new pair of Chuck's. Go away, I'm busy.
Now, if you really want to hear this Gal sing, listen to some of her live recordings, most of which were done while she was living in Germany. Her rendition of J.J. Cale's "Goin' Down" is an ass kicker.
Since posting this yesterday, Maggie Bell's "stuff" has been removed from YouTube due to some sort of Copyright Infringement issue, which I completely understand. Just go to YouTube and search "Maggie Bell." Listen to her music. Buy an album, CD or tape or three. I own LOTS of vinyl. Paid good money for all of it. If there's an "issue," I don't want a chunk of it. For my part, I was simply illustrating a point and providing some quality entertainment, free of any personal monetary gain.
Doc makes NO MONEY from this blog, whatsoever. I merely pass on good stuff to anyone that wants to read this crap. If there's an "issue" with Copyrights, I will back out of the situation like a Jackrabbit with his eyebrows on fire.
"So long and thanks for all the fish!" (Douglas Adams)
-Doc
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Little Hexie, Little Doc and Early Listening Habits
Yea, it all "sort of" ties together. My wonderfully semi-Bohemian Grandmother used to call my equally wonderful Mother: "Hexie" when she was a kid. It's colloquial Low German for "Little Witch." As I have mentioned, her/our Familische iss Bavarian. Yesterday, when I called Mom, I asked how "Little Hexie" was today. She giggled for a few seconds and then we began our usual repartee of current affairs. Family yarns, "Wampeters, Granfalloons et Foma." (Thanks, Kurt!) Tactfully avoiding our own political leanings. She the staunch Conservative (Career Military Wife) and myself, the decidedly more Liberal and by degrees, somewhat Bohemian, type of Fella'. We butt heads when we discuss politics so, we usually just avoid the subject and speak our hearts rather than our heads. It always works out better when we approach our conversations that way.
I found myself reminiscing about being a Nipper in San Francisco in the 50's and during certain Summers, in the 60's. The Important Summers. '65, '66 and '67. Saw my first Grateful Dead Show with Gramma', although, at the time I had no idea what I was watching/listening to. One of those Free Concert affairs in Golden Gate Park, where you were pretty much guaranteed to be taking a ride on Albert Hoffman's Train if you ate or drank anything offered to you. Grams said not to. It was strictly verboten. I just nodded my compliance. That could wait for later. And, Boy-o, did it ever. Sugar cubes never tasted so good by the time I was about 16 or 17. I mean, come on...We had our own Professional Grade Light Show to play with and a really LOUD STEREO in the pole barn. Not to mention, very little Adult Supervision. Acid Test, my ass. It wasn't a "test," it was an entire Curriculum for a couple years.
I digress. One or three of my very early musical turn-ons were The Doors, Jefferson Airplane and The Rolling Stones, James Brown and a bunch of shit I no longer remember. The usual suspects. I have a very firm memory of laying on the floor in my Uncle's house, with the cheesy stereo speakers pressed against my ears like headphones, listening to "Chrystal Ship," "Love Street," "Take It As It Comes," "Spanish Caravan" and "Break On Through" over and over. I convinced my Grandma to take me to Haight Ashbury in my home-made Hippie Costume. (Probably part of our usual romp through Golden Gate Park on Any Given Sunday. I loved the Japanese Tea Gardens, The Steinhart Aquarium [gone now] and watching the Old Italian Guys playing Bocce. Still do.) A pair of vertically striped bellbottoms, a French cut T-Shirt, an old pair of Cowboy boots and a horsehide high altitude flight jacket with the sleeves cut off to form a "vest." I must have looked truly ridiculous in my short hair and bright eyes aglow at all of the cool shit that was going on down there. I was a Beach Kid, 46th Ave. @ Vicente. Down by the S.F. Zoo. "Kid Heaven" as I remember it now. Playland Of The Pacific, The Zoo, Ocean Beach... Too many fond memories to mention.
Enter The Reality Of Haight/Ashbury 1966 or '67:
As Grams and I were walking down Haight St. somewhere, a Big Scary Biker Dude stepped off of a Victorian House's porch and asked me: "Was I was 'flying colors' on my vest?" I had No Idea what the Hell he was taking about. He said: "If you're not 'patched' you're gonna' have ta' gimme' that vest, Kid." Gramma's City Radar activated and she came rushing up, socked the Slovenly Beast in the guts with her purse and yelled: "STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM MY GRANDSON, YOU HAIRY APE!" The Guy's Buddies fell all over themselves at the top of the stairs and Grams and I continued on our Hippie Tourist Excursion. I'm sure I got some kind of "lecture" but, I don't remember it. This is one of my all-time favorite memories of my Grandmother. I'm sure The Guy's Buddies all called him "You, Hairy Ape" for a couple of weeks. Poor fucker. NEVER mess with a City School Teacher.
She (and my Mother, too, of course) was the light of my young life and I am allot like her, in various ways. I kind of look like her Brothers and Cousins. She's pretty much single-handedly responsible for my love of second hand stores, for instance. My appreciation of nature comes from her as well. She (her name is/was Juanita, which is weird since we're Bavarian) was a San Francisco City Schools, Elementary School Teacher, after my Grandfather died. Gramps wouldn't hear of his Wife working. He worked for Dow Chemical, as a Salesman in the fruit and vegetable/fish cannery end of things. Gramps was a Chemist, Pharmacist and Parfumier, among various other "hats" he wore, including being a Stateside Army Medic/Apprentice Pharmacist during WW1. A regular Renaissance Man kind of Guy. He passed away when I was very young.
Somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked into Avant Garde Rock and Roll and Experimental Music. All the Really Weird stuff that none of my "friends" at High School would listen to. Enter Frank Zappa, Iggy and The Stooges, The Velvet Underground, Kim Fowley, Arthur Brown, The MC-5, Alice Cooper, etc., etc..
More digression...I Loved The Monkees' "Last Train To Clarksville." Was it a Michael Nesmith tune? "Joanne" certainly was. "LSTC" was probably just another Boyce and Hart Bubble Gum sing-along. B&H wrote most of the crap that Davy Jones was allowed to sing and that Nesmith actually got to play guitar on. Make no mistake about it, Mike Nesmith can PLAY GUITAR (and, write songs very well). I would meet him, many years after The Monkees, in Park City, Utah, during the Sundance Film Festival, at the restaurant where I waited tables for a couple of years in the mid-80's. Mike's a real nice guy. I met a few of my teenage music idols working there. Don't even get me started on all of the actors, directors, etc.. Bob Redford picked me up hitchhiking once. He's allot shorter, in person.
This morning, I thought I'd take a stroll down memory Lane and listen to The Doors for breakfast. It's "comforting, somehow." The first two albums, especially. I'll do Jefferson Hairpie and whatnot some other day.
My Dear Departed Friend, Michael Hanley, worked for "The Jeffersons" as he liked to call them. Mostly Starship, I think. Mike worked for more bands than most people I have known. He got fired about every two or three weeks for some social infraction of Standard Hippie Rules and Regulations. Punching somebody in the balls or whatever...He was a U.S. Marine, before his music career, after all.
Anyway, The Doors:
I have to say that L.A. Woman has become my favorite Doors' recording in "Adult Life." (Watch the volume. This is on YouTube LOUD!)
And now, a word from somebody/some product that I couldn't care less about:
Peace, Love and Monkey Wrenches,
-Doc
I found myself reminiscing about being a Nipper in San Francisco in the 50's and during certain Summers, in the 60's. The Important Summers. '65, '66 and '67. Saw my first Grateful Dead Show with Gramma', although, at the time I had no idea what I was watching/listening to. One of those Free Concert affairs in Golden Gate Park, where you were pretty much guaranteed to be taking a ride on Albert Hoffman's Train if you ate or drank anything offered to you. Grams said not to. It was strictly verboten. I just nodded my compliance. That could wait for later. And, Boy-o, did it ever. Sugar cubes never tasted so good by the time I was about 16 or 17. I mean, come on...We had our own Professional Grade Light Show to play with and a really LOUD STEREO in the pole barn. Not to mention, very little Adult Supervision. Acid Test, my ass. It wasn't a "test," it was an entire Curriculum for a couple years.
I digress. One or three of my very early musical turn-ons were The Doors, Jefferson Airplane and The Rolling Stones, James Brown and a bunch of shit I no longer remember. The usual suspects. I have a very firm memory of laying on the floor in my Uncle's house, with the cheesy stereo speakers pressed against my ears like headphones, listening to "Chrystal Ship," "Love Street," "Take It As It Comes," "Spanish Caravan" and "Break On Through" over and over. I convinced my Grandma to take me to Haight Ashbury in my home-made Hippie Costume. (Probably part of our usual romp through Golden Gate Park on Any Given Sunday. I loved the Japanese Tea Gardens, The Steinhart Aquarium [gone now] and watching the Old Italian Guys playing Bocce. Still do.) A pair of vertically striped bellbottoms, a French cut T-Shirt, an old pair of Cowboy boots and a horsehide high altitude flight jacket with the sleeves cut off to form a "vest." I must have looked truly ridiculous in my short hair and bright eyes aglow at all of the cool shit that was going on down there. I was a Beach Kid, 46th Ave. @ Vicente. Down by the S.F. Zoo. "Kid Heaven" as I remember it now. Playland Of The Pacific, The Zoo, Ocean Beach... Too many fond memories to mention.
Enter The Reality Of Haight/Ashbury 1966 or '67:
As Grams and I were walking down Haight St. somewhere, a Big Scary Biker Dude stepped off of a Victorian House's porch and asked me: "Was I was 'flying colors' on my vest?" I had No Idea what the Hell he was taking about. He said: "If you're not 'patched' you're gonna' have ta' gimme' that vest, Kid." Gramma's City Radar activated and she came rushing up, socked the Slovenly Beast in the guts with her purse and yelled: "STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM MY GRANDSON, YOU HAIRY APE!" The Guy's Buddies fell all over themselves at the top of the stairs and Grams and I continued on our Hippie Tourist Excursion. I'm sure I got some kind of "lecture" but, I don't remember it. This is one of my all-time favorite memories of my Grandmother. I'm sure The Guy's Buddies all called him "You, Hairy Ape" for a couple of weeks. Poor fucker. NEVER mess with a City School Teacher.
She (and my Mother, too, of course) was the light of my young life and I am allot like her, in various ways. I kind of look like her Brothers and Cousins. She's pretty much single-handedly responsible for my love of second hand stores, for instance. My appreciation of nature comes from her as well. She (her name is/was Juanita, which is weird since we're Bavarian) was a San Francisco City Schools, Elementary School Teacher, after my Grandfather died. Gramps wouldn't hear of his Wife working. He worked for Dow Chemical, as a Salesman in the fruit and vegetable/fish cannery end of things. Gramps was a Chemist, Pharmacist and Parfumier, among various other "hats" he wore, including being a Stateside Army Medic/Apprentice Pharmacist during WW1. A regular Renaissance Man kind of Guy. He passed away when I was very young.
Somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked into Avant Garde Rock and Roll and Experimental Music. All the Really Weird stuff that none of my "friends" at High School would listen to. Enter Frank Zappa, Iggy and The Stooges, The Velvet Underground, Kim Fowley, Arthur Brown, The MC-5, Alice Cooper, etc., etc..
More digression...I Loved The Monkees' "Last Train To Clarksville." Was it a Michael Nesmith tune? "Joanne" certainly was. "LSTC" was probably just another Boyce and Hart Bubble Gum sing-along. B&H wrote most of the crap that Davy Jones was allowed to sing and that Nesmith actually got to play guitar on. Make no mistake about it, Mike Nesmith can PLAY GUITAR (and, write songs very well). I would meet him, many years after The Monkees, in Park City, Utah, during the Sundance Film Festival, at the restaurant where I waited tables for a couple of years in the mid-80's. Mike's a real nice guy. I met a few of my teenage music idols working there. Don't even get me started on all of the actors, directors, etc.. Bob Redford picked me up hitchhiking once. He's allot shorter, in person.
This morning, I thought I'd take a stroll down memory Lane and listen to The Doors for breakfast. It's "comforting, somehow." The first two albums, especially. I'll do Jefferson Hairpie and whatnot some other day.
My Dear Departed Friend, Michael Hanley, worked for "The Jeffersons" as he liked to call them. Mostly Starship, I think. Mike worked for more bands than most people I have known. He got fired about every two or three weeks for some social infraction of Standard Hippie Rules and Regulations. Punching somebody in the balls or whatever...He was a U.S. Marine, before his music career, after all.
Anyway, The Doors:
I have to say that L.A. Woman has become my favorite Doors' recording in "Adult Life." (Watch the volume. This is on YouTube LOUD!)
And now, a word from somebody/some product that I couldn't care less about:
Peace, Love and Monkey Wrenches,
-Doc
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Why I Truly Want To Kill Ugly Radio
Early this morning, I checked out the U.S. Top 50 Charts (from Billboard) today while logging onto Spotify. I had to go all the way down to #43 to find anything that I would even bother listening to. "Believe" by Mumford and Sons. The next song was some really horrible shit with the tag line: "All Day Nigger." I killed it and went running for my "Big Assed Mix." Stuff that I do really enjoy listening to. Hot Tuna's "Angel Of Darkness" starts the mix, so that kind of tells you: "Where I'm coming from." I truly HATE radio music.
Frank Zappa was right. Thanks to him, I haven't listened to mainstream radio in 30+ years. The last thing in the World I want is some fucking berserk, coked-up, idiot, screaming at me that: "Crazy Eddie is Having Another Going Out Of Business Fire Sale!" in between thumping Mega Bass "Songs." (Songs? Not.) I abhor commercials. I mute them on television as well. I already KNOW what I want to buy and where I'm buying it, Homeslice.
The last "Rap" Artiste I truly enjoyed was Gil Scott Heron. Now, THAT was some serious shit.
This is "how out-of-touch with the mainstream 'culture' of today's Mod-Au-Go-Go United States" El Doctor de Pescados Anchovies truly is. If this is what passes for "culture," count me out, color me gone.
"Where the Hell is Sista' Arbulah, when ya' need her?" Paraphrasing Frank Zappa, from: "Thingfish." She'd slap some sense into the Boyz.
Fucking incredible. This "society" is turning into an uneducated, posse of marble-mouthed, jive-assed, no-thinkin', Salad-Tossers, that can't even speak their own damned language. Or balance a checkbook, read anything more complex than a comic book but: "They's sho' can stack 'dem sum papah, Yo."
I have a sordid, candid, admission here too: I WAS a White Punk On Dope. We just didn't live in Hollywood although, my Dad did go to Hollywood High School. In the late 40's. I guess that "doesn't really count." I did work part of the Tubes' GIGANTIC Stage Show in the mid 70's. Five costume changes, dancing girls, Fee in 2' high platform soles, etc., etc.. You know the deal. HUGE lighting rig. 5 follow spots. I led that part of The Crew. The Tour In Question follows. Note: I was not on this lighting Crew. We didn't do any S.F. Shows. Skip forward to about 43:00 for the Quay Lude Costume Part(s). Warning: There was nudity and general debauchery at this show. Hey, it was Winterland and The Tubes are a Hometown Favorite.
Now, for a commercial break:
Once, while in the parking lot of a grocery store of a local supermarket here in my backwater Northern California Town, I witnessed a horrifying sight. It even had a (somewhat intelligible) soundtrack. Two lower class (bad teeth, cheap haircuts, mouth breathers) Wonder Bread Kidz inna' Hood were "low riding" through the lot, blasting some truly offensive shit out of their beat-up old p.o.s. Buick, or whatever it used to be before they totally fucked it up by heating the coil springs so the asshole of the thing drug the ground and high-centered on speed bumps. Anyway, there's this "Nigga', Ah'm Gunna' Git Mah Gat An' Blow Yo' Ass Away" crap rattling the screws out of the license plate mounts and the kids are so slouched down in their seats that the driver is, literally, looking through the steering wheel to see where he's going and if they're impressing any Ho's. I look next to me and there's this guy, about my age and we're both giggling to ourselves at the Wonder Bread-Mobile and The Kidz. He turns to me and says: "I'm really glad there was someone else around to witness that spectacle." I just put my tongue in my cheek and shook my head in disbelief of said "spectacle." We both walked away, laughing.
Now, don't get me wrong here...I am not a Racist. Nor a Countercultureophobe. I likes me some really weird shit. It just isn't THAT shit. To justify both of those statements: I worked as a professional fundraiser for years. One of the accounts I really enjoyed working for was the Southern Poverty Law Center. Morris Dees and his wrecking crew of lawyers that pretty much single-handedly brought down the KKK. I have a framed "Certificate Of Appreciation", hand signed from Morris, on my living room wall, thanking me for the work I did for them. It's pretty close to a photo of J. Edgar Hoover with a telephone in his hand. Just to remind me that I: "Love my country but, fear my government." Secondly, I am currently listening to The Melvins with Jello Biafra. If THAT isn't Counter Culture, nothing is.
Furthermore, I was absolutely THE Weirdest Kid At My High School. No shit. I could tell you a few stories but, they don't serve any purpose here. You'll just have to "take it on faith." As if.
Now, "Shut the fuck up, move around and pretend you're 'dancing' or something." Spaz on, Homies!
We be bumpin'o'sumpin' now, Sho' 'Nuff,
-Doc (A Crabby, Old Person, sometimes)
Another side of my preferred listening habits:
Frank Zappa was right. Thanks to him, I haven't listened to mainstream radio in 30+ years. The last thing in the World I want is some fucking berserk, coked-up, idiot, screaming at me that: "Crazy Eddie is Having Another Going Out Of Business Fire Sale!" in between thumping Mega Bass "Songs." (Songs? Not.) I abhor commercials. I mute them on television as well. I already KNOW what I want to buy and where I'm buying it, Homeslice.
The last "Rap" Artiste I truly enjoyed was Gil Scott Heron. Now, THAT was some serious shit.
This is "how out-of-touch with the mainstream 'culture' of today's Mod-Au-Go-Go United States" El Doctor de Pescados Anchovies truly is. If this is what passes for "culture," count me out, color me gone.
"Where the Hell is Sista' Arbulah, when ya' need her?" Paraphrasing Frank Zappa, from: "Thingfish." She'd slap some sense into the Boyz.
Fucking incredible. This "society" is turning into an uneducated, posse of marble-mouthed, jive-assed, no-thinkin', Salad-Tossers, that can't even speak their own damned language. Or balance a checkbook, read anything more complex than a comic book but: "They's sho' can stack 'dem sum papah, Yo."
I have a sordid, candid, admission here too: I WAS a White Punk On Dope. We just didn't live in Hollywood although, my Dad did go to Hollywood High School. In the late 40's. I guess that "doesn't really count." I did work part of the Tubes' GIGANTIC Stage Show in the mid 70's. Five costume changes, dancing girls, Fee in 2' high platform soles, etc., etc.. You know the deal. HUGE lighting rig. 5 follow spots. I led that part of The Crew. The Tour In Question follows. Note: I was not on this lighting Crew. We didn't do any S.F. Shows. Skip forward to about 43:00 for the Quay Lude Costume Part(s). Warning: There was nudity and general debauchery at this show. Hey, it was Winterland and The Tubes are a Hometown Favorite.
Now, for a commercial break:
Once, while in the parking lot of a grocery store of a local supermarket here in my backwater Northern California Town, I witnessed a horrifying sight. It even had a (somewhat intelligible) soundtrack. Two lower class (bad teeth, cheap haircuts, mouth breathers) Wonder Bread Kidz inna' Hood were "low riding" through the lot, blasting some truly offensive shit out of their beat-up old p.o.s. Buick, or whatever it used to be before they totally fucked it up by heating the coil springs so the asshole of the thing drug the ground and high-centered on speed bumps. Anyway, there's this "Nigga', Ah'm Gunna' Git Mah Gat An' Blow Yo' Ass Away" crap rattling the screws out of the license plate mounts and the kids are so slouched down in their seats that the driver is, literally, looking through the steering wheel to see where he's going and if they're impressing any Ho's. I look next to me and there's this guy, about my age and we're both giggling to ourselves at the Wonder Bread-Mobile and The Kidz. He turns to me and says: "I'm really glad there was someone else around to witness that spectacle." I just put my tongue in my cheek and shook my head in disbelief of said "spectacle." We both walked away, laughing.
Now, don't get me wrong here...I am not a Racist. Nor a Countercultureophobe. I likes me some really weird shit. It just isn't THAT shit. To justify both of those statements: I worked as a professional fundraiser for years. One of the accounts I really enjoyed working for was the Southern Poverty Law Center. Morris Dees and his wrecking crew of lawyers that pretty much single-handedly brought down the KKK. I have a framed "Certificate Of Appreciation", hand signed from Morris, on my living room wall, thanking me for the work I did for them. It's pretty close to a photo of J. Edgar Hoover with a telephone in his hand. Just to remind me that I: "Love my country but, fear my government." Secondly, I am currently listening to The Melvins with Jello Biafra. If THAT isn't Counter Culture, nothing is.
Furthermore, I was absolutely THE Weirdest Kid At My High School. No shit. I could tell you a few stories but, they don't serve any purpose here. You'll just have to "take it on faith." As if.
Now, "Shut the fuck up, move around and pretend you're 'dancing' or something." Spaz on, Homies!
We be bumpin'o'sumpin' now, Sho' 'Nuff,
-Doc (A Crabby, Old Person, sometimes)
Another side of my preferred listening habits:
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
It Is (was) Supposed To Rain Today
Personally, I don't see it happening. At least, not around my part of town. I'll go out later and water the New Landlord's Hydrangea plants and whatnot. Then, clean up around the house and putter around until nap time. I got up at about 01:00 after falling asleep way too early. So, now I'm sitting around drinking coffee and watching whatever shit comes on TV. This time of the morning it's usually some bad movie or The Nazi Channel (AHC). I ate a big bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Kinda' sorta' listening to Jerry Joseph and Wally Ingram in the background. Found a couple of coolish live Jerry Joseph and The Jackmormons shows from the early 1990's to listen to on ReListen, a great little Jammy sort of music service. Hey, it's free. Lots of stuff that's already on www.archive.org and what have ya'. There's a good representation of Jerry's stuff on Spotify as well. The only thing(s) missing is Little Women. Must be a "who owns the copyright" issue. I spent the night in Jerry's basement after driving with a drummer from Salt Lake City, Jim Bone. I left the next day to meet my boat in Ballard, Wa. and settled into life aboard the P/V Bering Star for the next 6 months.
Another BIG earthquake in Nepal. Like they needed that one. This was a 7.4 pointer. It's got to be a fucking mess over there. There's a "missing" USMC Helo somewhere over there, too.
Kim Jong "Gangnam Style" Un supposedly test-launched an intercontinental ballistic missile from a submarine the other day. What a Rodeo Clown that guy would be, if he weren't so plain stupid/scary.
So. It is being kicked around that he'll be able to blow up California in about 5 years. (Not to mention "outsource the nuclear technology" to a few few tasty Rogue Nations here and there) Could you please make it East Los Angeles that you blow up, Mister Un? Or just Orange County or something? Maybe Disneyland? Dodger Stadium would be okay too. Canada, here I come...
Maybe I'll just go back to bed now instead of later. The World Blows Dead Bears. Again.
-Doc
Add addendum: Now it's almost Noon. I've been "up" a few hours. Currently listening to Pete Townshend's "Scoop 3" (while drinking more, fresh, coffee) which, I think, is a wonderful recording. There's a beautiful piano and voice cut of Eminence Front on it. I've always loved that song. Just the way it syncopates and is so rhythm driven. All in all, I like Pete's solo stuff better than I like The Who. Which is not to say that I don't like The Who, by any means. Anybody that doesn't like The Who is a head-up-his-or-her-ass Poindexter, Bear Fellatio, Artiste. One of the most important Rock bands, ever.
Listening to Pete sing in German is really nice. "Parvardigar." I wasn't aware he spoke German until I first heard this recording, years ago. Seine Aussprache sehr gutt.
Gutes zuhoren!
Now, to the housework...
-Doc
Kinda' sorta' listening to Jerry Joseph and Wally Ingram in the background. Found a couple of coolish live Jerry Joseph and The Jackmormons shows from the early 1990's to listen to on ReListen, a great little Jammy sort of music service. Hey, it's free. Lots of stuff that's already on www.archive.org and what have ya'. There's a good representation of Jerry's stuff on Spotify as well. The only thing(s) missing is Little Women. Must be a "who owns the copyright" issue. I spent the night in Jerry's basement after driving with a drummer from Salt Lake City, Jim Bone. I left the next day to meet my boat in Ballard, Wa. and settled into life aboard the P/V Bering Star for the next 6 months.
Another BIG earthquake in Nepal. Like they needed that one. This was a 7.4 pointer. It's got to be a fucking mess over there. There's a "missing" USMC Helo somewhere over there, too.
Kim Jong "Gangnam Style" Un supposedly test-launched an intercontinental ballistic missile from a submarine the other day. What a Rodeo Clown that guy would be, if he weren't so plain stupid/scary.
So. It is being kicked around that he'll be able to blow up California in about 5 years. (Not to mention "outsource the nuclear technology" to a few few tasty Rogue Nations here and there) Could you please make it East Los Angeles that you blow up, Mister Un? Or just Orange County or something? Maybe Disneyland? Dodger Stadium would be okay too. Canada, here I come...
Maybe I'll just go back to bed now instead of later. The World Blows Dead Bears. Again.
-Doc
Add addendum: Now it's almost Noon. I've been "up" a few hours. Currently listening to Pete Townshend's "Scoop 3" (while drinking more, fresh, coffee) which, I think, is a wonderful recording. There's a beautiful piano and voice cut of Eminence Front on it. I've always loved that song. Just the way it syncopates and is so rhythm driven. All in all, I like Pete's solo stuff better than I like The Who. Which is not to say that I don't like The Who, by any means. Anybody that doesn't like The Who is a head-up-his-or-her-ass Poindexter, Bear Fellatio, Artiste. One of the most important Rock bands, ever.
Listening to Pete sing in German is really nice. "Parvardigar." I wasn't aware he spoke German until I first heard this recording, years ago. Seine Aussprache sehr gutt.
Gutes zuhoren!
Now, to the housework...
-Doc
Monday, May 11, 2015
Doc's Doc Sez:
The short form of the conversation went something like: "Doc, your liver enzymes are elevated." "Yea, Doc, I figured that." Years of too much drinking and living the Rock and Roll lifestyle of burgers and burritos reheated on truck exhaust manifolds, bad chafing dish fare backstage, David Lindley's Favorite: "Cat Food Sandwiches," the usual rodeo of recreational substances of the 60's and 70's and WAY too much coffee. It was The Nature Of The Beast back then and probably still is, to a large extent. At least I didn't rot my nose off, O.D., crash a truck, car or anything. Things do get a bit surreal after staying up for three days straight, working your (my) ass off. Then you go home, take some Valium and sleep for 24 hours. Sound like a fun life to you? I'm glad I got out when I did, except for the odd "help-out" gig when needed as late as the 90's.
Anyway, it's probably as good a time as any to start being a nicer custodian of my body. I'm kind of a binge drinker kind of guy. Writing my ass off and reading depressing British authors. I can do about three or four days straight, mostly beer and then I start feeling like shit and I know what kind of misery is coming next. The most-of-two-days-hangover. Zero fun. The "Smart Money" is probably: "all things in moderation." I may/will still enjoy drinking some (red wine or some Poofter shit) but, it needs to have the reigns pulled in on it.
I don't subscribe to the "Addiction" or "Disease-Models." That shit was written in the 30's and there are newer ways of thinking about it. Rather, I tend to think of the thing as a set of learned behaviors, sanctioned by various lifestyles, the times I and my friends grew up in and the feeling of becoming Comfortably Numb in a World Gone Mad. A way of escaping the craziness of Society At Large rather than "doing" anything about it. Yea, it's The Easy Way Out. Ultimately, it'll cost ya' y'er health though and you'll probably die a whole lot sooner than later. Or blow your brains out and have somebody else clean up the mess and launch your ashes out of a cannon or some such horse shit. That's what Hunter S. Thompson did. Not that my own abuse to my body has been anything like his was. The guy was a walking Pharmacy. His ashes were probably "high" when they shot him out into the sky.
The "Good News" is that the Liver, like some Brain Cells, regenerate. It's true. Unless the organ(s) are shot full of holes and have fallen into dry rot and such. Mine's nowhere near that and my nose doesn't look like a pickle or anything. I remember the Old Guys that would show up at the bar I managed back East @ 06:00 for their shot(s) of bad whiskey and a short beer chaser. Usually with their Buddy holding onto their hand to steady it enough that they wouldn't miss their mouth with the first choked down whiskey. After that one, it's all Buddy-Buddy and "Gimme' another, Lad." I'm sure all those Fuckers are dead by now.
Had an interesting "Scam Call" the other day. My own phone number came up on the Caller I.D.. I looked at it, laughed and let it hit the machine, as I will everytime it happens, forever. No message, of course. Every so often, I think about changing my phone number but, they'd just find that one too. I used to work on the phone, raising funds for conservation and social/political action organizations and pretty much know all the tricks. My work was legitimate, these hacks that call me now probably learned English from watching Gilligan's Island re-runs or something. They're actually kind of funny when you turn the tables on them, assuming you even answer the phone. I'll usually come up with something like asking them to pop by and pick up their Mother's Smelly Knickers when they get done with their little spiel about the millions of dollars I could get if I send them $2,000.00 to help them recover their Sudanese inheritance or some similar shit. Like I said though, I just don't answer the calls to begin with. No live bodies here, Pal.
So. My shit's a bit fucked up but, nothing that can't be fixed with some Super Glue, eating better and Duct Tape.
Another good one:
Both published posthumously. It wasn't really the booze and dope that killed Warren though. It was Mesothelioma. His Dad worked in an automobile plant when he wasn't whacking guys on the side. Detroit was chock full of Asbestos.
Love and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner's Liver,
-Doc
Anyway, it's probably as good a time as any to start being a nicer custodian of my body. I'm kind of a binge drinker kind of guy. Writing my ass off and reading depressing British authors. I can do about three or four days straight, mostly beer and then I start feeling like shit and I know what kind of misery is coming next. The most-of-two-days-hangover. Zero fun. The "Smart Money" is probably: "all things in moderation." I may/will still enjoy drinking some (red wine or some Poofter shit) but, it needs to have the reigns pulled in on it.
I don't subscribe to the "Addiction" or "Disease-Models." That shit was written in the 30's and there are newer ways of thinking about it. Rather, I tend to think of the thing as a set of learned behaviors, sanctioned by various lifestyles, the times I and my friends grew up in and the feeling of becoming Comfortably Numb in a World Gone Mad. A way of escaping the craziness of Society At Large rather than "doing" anything about it. Yea, it's The Easy Way Out. Ultimately, it'll cost ya' y'er health though and you'll probably die a whole lot sooner than later. Or blow your brains out and have somebody else clean up the mess and launch your ashes out of a cannon or some such horse shit. That's what Hunter S. Thompson did. Not that my own abuse to my body has been anything like his was. The guy was a walking Pharmacy. His ashes were probably "high" when they shot him out into the sky.
The "Good News" is that the Liver, like some Brain Cells, regenerate. It's true. Unless the organ(s) are shot full of holes and have fallen into dry rot and such. Mine's nowhere near that and my nose doesn't look like a pickle or anything. I remember the Old Guys that would show up at the bar I managed back East @ 06:00 for their shot(s) of bad whiskey and a short beer chaser. Usually with their Buddy holding onto their hand to steady it enough that they wouldn't miss their mouth with the first choked down whiskey. After that one, it's all Buddy-Buddy and "Gimme' another, Lad." I'm sure all those Fuckers are dead by now.
Had an interesting "Scam Call" the other day. My own phone number came up on the Caller I.D.. I looked at it, laughed and let it hit the machine, as I will everytime it happens, forever. No message, of course. Every so often, I think about changing my phone number but, they'd just find that one too. I used to work on the phone, raising funds for conservation and social/political action organizations and pretty much know all the tricks. My work was legitimate, these hacks that call me now probably learned English from watching Gilligan's Island re-runs or something. They're actually kind of funny when you turn the tables on them, assuming you even answer the phone. I'll usually come up with something like asking them to pop by and pick up their Mother's Smelly Knickers when they get done with their little spiel about the millions of dollars I could get if I send them $2,000.00 to help them recover their Sudanese inheritance or some similar shit. Like I said though, I just don't answer the calls to begin with. No live bodies here, Pal.
So. My shit's a bit fucked up but, nothing that can't be fixed with some Super Glue, eating better and Duct Tape.
Another good one:
Both published posthumously. It wasn't really the booze and dope that killed Warren though. It was Mesothelioma. His Dad worked in an automobile plant when he wasn't whacking guys on the side. Detroit was chock full of Asbestos.
Love and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner's Liver,
-Doc
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Cinco De Drink-O y Pinko
"Amatuer Hour" in other words. Some drunk always whacks a power pole in my neighborhood, knocking out the juice (electricity kind) and leaving the 'hood in the dark with nothing but batteries and candles. Fine with me. I need a quick trip to the 19th Century every so often. I conjure up my cabin outside of Homer, Ak. and Huge, the dog. We had electricity but, when not needed, I'd use oil lamps and the wood stove. Even had a Hillbilly Hot Tub out in the yard. With a cinder block base to build a wood fire underneath. Plenty of candles and batteries around here. No Huge to discuss Philosophy or take a moonlight stroll with though. His philosophical outlook on life was simple: "Woof!" I had a firm faith in his sentience.
Windy/blustery/Blowin' In The Wind kinda' day out there today. The Ides of May? Makes it hard to keep water on the dirt where new flowers live. My new Landlord has me charged with keeping H20 on the Rhododendrons and Hydrangeas he just planted. They're being well looked after. We (I) like them. The Rhody's, that is. Hydrangea? Eh. There certainly are allot of them around town. The Rhody's, we're a close second to Portland, when it comes to their population. The flowers, not the humans. I found some that bear a similarity to an orchid, in their blossom color scheme. A variegated purple, yellow, pink and cream color. Very pretty. All flowers that I pick go to the neighbor that just had her foot operated on. My hunch is that it lets her know "someone's thinking about her." My Mom got a Rhody T-shirt and a denomination of cash to go buy herself a good quality Chardonnay with for Mother's Day. I can't stand the stuff but, ce la vie. On My Planet, the only palatable use of white wine is to marinate fish in for smoking. I'm going to smoke some chicken this weekend. I'll use fruit juice, a bit of Chardonnay, salsa, Kosher salt, Rosemary and cilantro for that.
"Oh Well." The Leo Kottke version w/Mike Gordon from Phish:
-Doc Around The Block
Windy/blustery/Blowin' In The Wind kinda' day out there today. The Ides of May? Makes it hard to keep water on the dirt where new flowers live. My new Landlord has me charged with keeping H20 on the Rhododendrons and Hydrangeas he just planted. They're being well looked after. We (I) like them. The Rhody's, that is. Hydrangea? Eh. There certainly are allot of them around town. The Rhody's, we're a close second to Portland, when it comes to their population. The flowers, not the humans. I found some that bear a similarity to an orchid, in their blossom color scheme. A variegated purple, yellow, pink and cream color. Very pretty. All flowers that I pick go to the neighbor that just had her foot operated on. My hunch is that it lets her know "someone's thinking about her." My Mom got a Rhody T-shirt and a denomination of cash to go buy herself a good quality Chardonnay with for Mother's Day. I can't stand the stuff but, ce la vie. On My Planet, the only palatable use of white wine is to marinate fish in for smoking. I'm going to smoke some chicken this weekend. I'll use fruit juice, a bit of Chardonnay, salsa, Kosher salt, Rosemary and cilantro for that.
"Oh Well." The Leo Kottke version w/Mike Gordon from Phish:
The Bob Welch version: (Which I like better than the original Fleetwood take, even with Green and Kirwain)
-Doc Around The Block
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Freddy's Dead
The National Guard is "standing down." The curfew has been lifted but: "Freddy's Dead."
And, THESE guys are NUTZ. Ya' gotta' love Fishbone though. I'm sure the folks at Soul Train were second-guessing their choice. I don't think they were ready for this shit. Fishbone got to come back. All was well in: "wherever they film that show." Hollywood High School-mates. My Dad went to Hollywood High.
-Doc
Add Addendum, from Mister Sonny:
And, THESE guys are NUTZ. Ya' gotta' love Fishbone though. I'm sure the folks at Soul Train were second-guessing their choice. I don't think they were ready for this shit. Fishbone got to come back. All was well in: "wherever they film that show." Hollywood High School-mates. My Dad went to Hollywood High.
-Doc
Add Addendum, from Mister Sonny:
"From The Reach" w/Eric Clapton, Mark Knopfler, etc.:
Might as well. So long as the entire Planet is going crazy and there's hamburger all over the Highway in Mystic, Conn.... That one gets chalked up to Firesign Theatre. "He's so good with the servants, Fred." Stop calling me Fred, My name is Adolf. Use your entrenching tool, Son. It's in the Rumble Seat. Right next to Y'er Best Buddy, (And Bottles' Pal,) Mudhead's School Spirit Nuclear Waste Encrusted Groat-Clusters."
I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to take a 5 mile walk at 22:00. No explanations on that. Ice cream, cookies, popsicles and cilantro for some stuff I'll be cooking tomorrow. Go figure. I'm crazy, too. Just don't call me Adolf. It's Porgy, or Mudhead, beatch. Anything but Mister Tirebiter. Or, "Bottles."
Saturday, May 2, 2015
On Being A "Townie"
The good news is that it isn't a City. The downside is that it IS a town. During the school year, there are probably 75,00 or so people around here. Summers and Spring Break, we shrink back to "normal," what ever that means. More like 35,000 people or some such. Add in the Cheap Hanger's On and you boost the total to something around 100k folks. Morons from the Midwest (or wherever they come from) looking to cash in on the Marijuana-Bago scene. A motor home for crosseyed drivers...
I only go to "bars" during the day. I guess that means I'm "Old." The upside of that is that is: "I won't have to put up with this nonsense as long as the people I don't drink with." I read people 5X5. It takes me about 10 minutes to know whether or not I want to continue a conversation with anyone. I do make mistakes, sometimes. It's usually "worth the price of admission."
It's akin to doing the Set and Focus Drill when you're lighting a stage. Or, ascending a mountain. You're going to need two pairs of socks and Long John's if it's cold, either way.
Or, a good ZZ Top song to get y'er ass in gear.
Or:
It's Saturday. Boogie Woogie Woogie, 'til your socks fall off.
-Doc
I only go to "bars" during the day. I guess that means I'm "Old." The upside of that is that is: "I won't have to put up with this nonsense as long as the people I don't drink with." I read people 5X5. It takes me about 10 minutes to know whether or not I want to continue a conversation with anyone. I do make mistakes, sometimes. It's usually "worth the price of admission."
It's akin to doing the Set and Focus Drill when you're lighting a stage. Or, ascending a mountain. You're going to need two pairs of socks and Long John's if it's cold, either way.
Or, a good ZZ Top song to get y'er ass in gear.
It's Saturday. Boogie Woogie Woogie, 'til your socks fall off.
-Doc
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