When I was a Kid, I got constipated at some point. One time in particular that has been committed to Family Folklore and fond memory between myself and my Mom, I exclaimed after taking one of those "Bunny Poop" shits and called my Mom into the loo to examine my handiwork: "Look, Mom! I made Rabbits!" I must have been four years old or so, hadn't been hipped to the fact that rabbit babies only came from Rabbit Women and that it wasn't via anal delivery. My Mom still thinks it's "cute." I still think it's weird. I don't seem to have any sort of Adult Anal Fixation or anything so, it's cool. Walt Disney can keep his title belt.
I am Galaxies closer to my Mom than I ever was to either of my two Stepfathers. They were both Career United States Navy Musicians and were "gone" most of the time. Either off simply "working" or off on some Asian or Mediterranean Cruise, sitting in the Gulf of Tonkin on a Carrier, doing AFR Shows via radio, or whatever. My first Stepfather was the REAL Musician of the two, a Reed Player that was "good enough" to have been asked ("rewarded" is more like it.) to join the Navy National Band and be invited to spend a couple of years at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. He was also "good enough" to play dance music at the Biltmore Hotel in Colorado Springs (A pretty schmaltzy joint) later in life. He really liked Dixieland Jazz/Big Band Music and probably dreamed in musical notes.
I dream music all the time and I'm not even very good with my chosen instruments: Electric 6 string guitar and Lap Steel. I do "interesting things" with them but am Nobody's Pro. My Mom still wonders "why" I never turned Pro. I KNOW why I didn't. There was always Some Kid out there that could play better and faster. I'm not all that "competitive" when it comes to Art. That part has always seemed like some kind of Dick Measuring Contest where the prize is a bad hamburger or something. I just like making musical notes and compressed air do my Evil Bidding.
I currently own two instruments that actually play and one: "Ostensible Project Instrument."
A 1958/59 Magnatone Lap Steel Guitar (in Deep Emerald Green Pearloid) and an Epiphone Custom Shop 1957 Les Paul Junior (in TV Yellow finish and with a P-100 p.u.). The Magnatone was made in Los Angeles and the Epiphone in Korea. You don't want a Chinese Epiphone, by the way. The Chinese can fuck up an electric guitar like nobody's business. Even the Koreans have problems reading assembly schematics left to right. I had to have the ground on the pick up rewired after buying my LPJ. It "buzzed" in 60Hz Splendor every-time I lifted my hands out of contact with any metal on the guitar. My third instrument is a 1940's Magnatone/Dickenson Lap Steel that is a butt ugly slab of Redwood and a single "set in epoxy, twin magnet" pick up. I had to swap out the original turning machines for faux Grovers so it would actually stay in tune but, it has serious BALLS for days. I also have the heavily stickered Original Case for it. It was my Student Instrument. Purchased in a thrift store for $10.00. They didn't even know "what it was." "Some kind of weird guitar," they said. I knew exactly what it was and carrying it home, I was already writing a song in my head. It has needed a complete rewiring and electronics cleaning now for about five years. It might happen. Or, it will become: "Wall Art."
Like many Artists, I "work backwards" from a solution to the process of "Making Art." I think most Artists do. The act of creation is the tricky part, making IT look/sound/feel like the dream of the completed project.
It's a Mad Scientist Trick and, I assure you, is all done with "smoke and mirrors." Artists, of any kind, are the World's Best Charlatans and Pick Pockets. "Making Rabbits Out Of Shit From A Four Year Old's Ass (Preferably your own)." Start young and stick with it, Junior. Don't forget to wipe your ass when you're done. Make sure your Benefactor sees your handiwork, too.
As usual, I have no idea who won last night's Baseball Game because, I fell asleep during the contest. I dreamt the Hamburger First Prize for the San Francisco Giants. "Snot Rocket" Bumgarner was pitching. Having just checked the Giants' Stats Page, I see that we lost to Sandy Eggo, 4-5. That sucks. We can't afford to lose any games and not have an "E" (for "eliminated') next to the Team Name at this point. Last night's loss may have been the needle that broke the haystack. S.F. did play well though and that's The Main Thing. That and WINNING! Three World's Series Wins in 10 years? Not too shabby.
I'm up at my usual, insanely quiet hour, drinking coffee from one of my Favorite Coffee Cups, smoking German cigarettes and watching some show on the National Geographic Channel about China's development. I've seen it two or three times before but, I don't care. It's better than Infomercials. I'll also, as per usual, go back to sleep after taking my morning meds and having coffee. Coffee doesn't "keep me awake" like it does most people. (Besides, being Retired, I don't "care" about time anymore. If you believe Einstein, like I do: "It's all relative.") I've simply drunk too much of the stuff in my 61 years. It does cause me to "Make Rabbits" though. Yes, you can expect allot of "Too Much Information" on this here blog thang. Something else I: "don't care about." It's MY Movie.
Everybody ought to have a Favorite Coffee Cup. I have a whole collection of them. Today's choice is a Boy Scouts Of America, "Redwoods Empire Council" cup. It's jet black, fits my hand and keeps coffee hot for awhile. I could drink good coffee out of an old boot and wouldn't care... So long as it was served in a nice atmosphere. It's kind of "muggy" feeling this early morning. The barometer says: "Cloudy."
I got the first of three Hepatitis A/B immunizations yesterday and I have a slight low grade fever (1-1.5 degrees higher than normal) and feel just a 10th of a bubble off of center. All I'm betting out of the deal is weird dreams. My regular body temperature is a full degree lower than most people's. Codeine and Amlodipine for breakfast, again. I also "hyper-extended" my left elbow yesterday, which is uncomfortable.
Love and Near Misses,
-Doc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8iYiwAVUOc
Friday, September 25, 2015
Thursday, September 24, 2015
IT AIN'T THE END OF THE WORLD...
...But, you can see it from here. Sometimes, living where I do, at the most Westerly Point on the Pacific Coast, feels like: "Living At The End Of The World." Everything has to be trucked in, options for entertainment are limited and the people that live around here are, to say the least: "A Half Bubble Off Dead Center." My kind of place, my kind of people. Every so often, a booger slips into the porridge but, mostly, it's an interesting place to hang one's hat or "whatever."
Most of the "Boogers" are human. People that either aren't ready for the kind of life that living here necessitates. Or, just City Folk that decide to import their own brand of Drama and Avarice. I have a couple of shitty "neighbors" that are like that. They'll never "belong" here and that pisses them off. So, they walk around being mean and bring their own personal dark cloud wherever they go.
I "used to be" a City Person but, that was a very long time ago. I haven't lived in a town of more than about 25,000 people for 30+ years.You have to prepare for Winter, not run out of stuff and call for help, learn to plan for the unexpected, etc.. One of the first things I advise Noobs to do as Winter approaches is to: "Have candles, a Hurricane Lamp, flashlights and batteries, books or magazines you haven't read, a World Band Radio, A Walkman and lots of tapes (or iPod Thingy) a "Stupid Phone" (which run on the nominal current in the phone lines when the power is out) and some food that doesn't need cooking stored away. A white gas, LP or Regular Unleaded Gasoline cook stove/camp stove comes in real handy (I have two) and a bunch of sleeping bags and/or blankets. Good rain gear is mandatory. I've seen the power go down for seven days on this coast in the past. Years back, Safeway had a BIG "Town Barbeque" to make sure that all of their meat wouldn't go to waste with their refrigeration "down." That was in Fort Bragg, Ca.. It was fun. The whole town, literally: "Came out, had fun and socialized" during what would have otherwise have been a miserable circumstance.
I've said it before: "You have to import your own fun." It's true. Small towns make that a given. A hobby, a passion, a Significant Other, a job, a pet, some kind of service work (if you're "retired") or just a positive attitude about big, empty spaces. I did my Small Town Bootcamp in Alaska. Homer, Alaska, to be exact. Winter in Homer was going to be: "Me, a dog, a Woman that came by whenever she felt like it and a small cabin outside of town." (And "was" for awhile) Then, two "Friends" from Utah showed up and ruined the whole thing. Fuckers. We all ended up in Hawai'i at the same time. Even worse. I moved out of the house we lived in there and went "Holo-holo." "Walkabout," in Hawai'ian. A really good tent costs about 1 month's rent and lasts about a year in The Tropics. I enjoied my time alone there and actually got out and made Friends with the Locals, saw some incredible things and stayed the fuck out of the Towns for about a year. Then, I had to: "get a job and live somewhere."
Hawai'i sucks now. I wouldn't go back there for any reason. I'm a White Guy. Tom Robbins once quipped: "Hawai'i, where White Boys go to die." He was right, in most cases. I had a different experience.
Anyway, "It Ain't The End Of The World..."
I learned to really appreciate John Hiatt while living in Hawai'i, as I had a Roommate that also really liked the guy. The Roommate was another Crazy Artist Type from San Francisco with a taste for the bizarre and absurd. "Marty, seek Mental Health Treatment, Immediately!" He was: "Certifiable." (In a mostly "good" way.)
Winter is: "on the way." It was 44 degrees on my front porch yesterday morning, six hours North of San Francisco. It's not even October.
Aloha Nui Loa,
-Doc
Most of the "Boogers" are human. People that either aren't ready for the kind of life that living here necessitates. Or, just City Folk that decide to import their own brand of Drama and Avarice. I have a couple of shitty "neighbors" that are like that. They'll never "belong" here and that pisses them off. So, they walk around being mean and bring their own personal dark cloud wherever they go.
I "used to be" a City Person but, that was a very long time ago. I haven't lived in a town of more than about 25,000 people for 30+ years.You have to prepare for Winter, not run out of stuff and call for help, learn to plan for the unexpected, etc.. One of the first things I advise Noobs to do as Winter approaches is to: "Have candles, a Hurricane Lamp, flashlights and batteries, books or magazines you haven't read, a World Band Radio, A Walkman and lots of tapes (or iPod Thingy) a "Stupid Phone" (which run on the nominal current in the phone lines when the power is out) and some food that doesn't need cooking stored away. A white gas, LP or Regular Unleaded Gasoline cook stove/camp stove comes in real handy (I have two) and a bunch of sleeping bags and/or blankets. Good rain gear is mandatory. I've seen the power go down for seven days on this coast in the past. Years back, Safeway had a BIG "Town Barbeque" to make sure that all of their meat wouldn't go to waste with their refrigeration "down." That was in Fort Bragg, Ca.. It was fun. The whole town, literally: "Came out, had fun and socialized" during what would have otherwise have been a miserable circumstance.
I've said it before: "You have to import your own fun." It's true. Small towns make that a given. A hobby, a passion, a Significant Other, a job, a pet, some kind of service work (if you're "retired") or just a positive attitude about big, empty spaces. I did my Small Town Bootcamp in Alaska. Homer, Alaska, to be exact. Winter in Homer was going to be: "Me, a dog, a Woman that came by whenever she felt like it and a small cabin outside of town." (And "was" for awhile) Then, two "Friends" from Utah showed up and ruined the whole thing. Fuckers. We all ended up in Hawai'i at the same time. Even worse. I moved out of the house we lived in there and went "Holo-holo." "Walkabout," in Hawai'ian. A really good tent costs about 1 month's rent and lasts about a year in The Tropics. I enjoied my time alone there and actually got out and made Friends with the Locals, saw some incredible things and stayed the fuck out of the Towns for about a year. Then, I had to: "get a job and live somewhere."
Hawai'i sucks now. I wouldn't go back there for any reason. I'm a White Guy. Tom Robbins once quipped: "Hawai'i, where White Boys go to die." He was right, in most cases. I had a different experience.
Anyway, "It Ain't The End Of The World..."
I learned to really appreciate John Hiatt while living in Hawai'i, as I had a Roommate that also really liked the guy. The Roommate was another Crazy Artist Type from San Francisco with a taste for the bizarre and absurd. "Marty, seek Mental Health Treatment, Immediately!" He was: "Certifiable." (In a mostly "good" way.)
Winter is: "on the way." It was 44 degrees on my front porch yesterday morning, six hours North of San Francisco. It's not even October.
Aloha Nui Loa,
-Doc
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
LAST DAY OF SUMMER
Finally. I was getting really tired of women in tank tops and shorts. Not. They could all be wearing Grunden's Deck Gear and I'd still be In Love with the Gals with piercing eyes and a sly smile.
I am one of those Kooks that will wear shorts with good hiking boots and a thermal top (with a rain jacket tucked into my day pack) until my body hurts from the cold. Around here, Fall and Spring are the two nicest parts of the year. Winter ain't bad, either. It's Summer that sucks. Why? Temperature and pressure inversions between the coast and points inland. When it's 100 degrees 50 miles East of us, we get the Marine Layer of fog sucked on top of us. Where I live, about 5 miles from the Ocean, it's in the buffer zone between the inversion and warmer weather. Exactly on the cusp. It can go either way and usually does.
Recently, my Friend (Of another Friend, mostly) Mark and I have been talking about "which parts of San Francisco were/are tolerable in icky/cold/fogged-out weather. I vote for my native neighborhood of the Outer Sunset and he goes for The Haight, North Beach and The Mission. Of course, neither of us live in San Francisco anymore. Who the fuck can afford to? A closet with a mattress in it is, like, $1,000 a month. I exaggerate. It IS almost that bad though. I can't even imagine what my Grandparents' modest house on 46th Avenue might cost these days. It was built and first sold for somewhere in the $16-18k range back in the early 1940's. It was a great place to be a kid (The beach was six blocks away and the S.F. Zoo, Fleishhacker Pool, the World's Largest Outdoor, Saltwater, Heated Pool were at the end of the block at Sloat Blvd.) and I don't "look back" with regret of much. 90% of those memories are good ones and I wouldn't toss a monkey wrench in there for anything.
The house on 46th:
The one in the center, of course. Last time I saw it, it was sporting a fresh coat of paint. It used to be a drab Salmon kind of color when I was a kid. There used to be a tiny strip of grass in front but, that's gone. The last time I spent any time in S.F., I stayed at: "The First Motel West Of The Rockies" The Ocean Park Motel. Built in 1938, the same year the Golden Gate Bridge opened, it still retains allot of its' Post Moderne a'la Semi-Nautical charm. The Daughter of the original owners and her Husband own and run it. Yay! "Something that hasn't changed."
I stayed there with a Gal from Iowa a few years back for nine days. It was somewhere between Babysitting and Tour Guiding. Ioway just wasn't ready for San Francisco. On her own, she would have ended up robbed, naked and floating in the Bay. I showed her the front steps of the Hotel she and her Daughter wanted to stay in right in the middle of Chinatown. I pointed out a large brownish stain on the sidewalk and asked: "You know what that is?" She didn't. I said: "It's blood. Blood that they've tried to bleach off of the sidewalk. Someone probably died right there." Iowa thanked me for taking her to the Ocean Park instead. I just smiled and said: "Let's go get some lunch" and proceeded to introduce her to a nice Plate Lunch Joint on California Street.
We only had one strange encounter during our stay. Down by Mission Dolores. A wrecked little Speed Freak walked up to me, grabbed ahold of the sleeves of my flight jacket and started sobbing: "You've got to help me, Man..." I explained to him that not only did I not "have to help him but, that if didn't take his hands off of me, I would hurt him." I thought that was pretty restrained. Had I felt threatened by him, he would have been instantly on the ground and "I'm Nobody's Badass." Just y'er Regular Issue City Kid. The Kid wandered off, sobbing some more, looking for his next Maybe A Tourist Mark. We were on our way to the Big Goodwill Store in The Mission. I bought a nice cassette deck and a Jerry Garcia necktie.
She wanted to see The Castro and I told her: "You can go there by yourself, if you want." I just don't have any interest in the place. I remember it being too much different as a younger man. Allot of places like that for me in The City. MY City. The one that has taken over by Crack Smoking Kooks From Gawd Knows Where. The reasons: "why I don't live there anymore."
The Ocean Park:
A very cool place to stay. I almost feel like a traitor to my neighborhood letting this dusty gem see the light of Cyberspace. $100.00 a night, double occupancy "in season." A bit less off peak. If you grew up on the block, well...that's a secret.
Anyway, I fell asleep really early and woke up at the crack of Midnight, which is fine because: I, being a Retired Old Fart, have nothing pressing to do tomorrow and just don't give a shit. I did have a rocking case of heartburn from the Mexican meal I made myself last evening. Baking soda in water, a good belch or three and viola', El Estomago Fixo. Now, I'm "up" drinking good Russian tea, took some "prescribed medication" (nothing "good") and just felt like writing something. I'll go back to sleep in a couple of hours. Or not. I like it: "when my building is asleep and there are no distractions." Desiderata, all that... (Go placidly amongst the noise and haste...)
Maybe the "Mark" I was talking about, maybe not:
Actually, The One Thing I do have to do tomorrow ("Today"), weather permitting, is: Take some photo's of an old Grateful Dead poster (SDS Union Hall, University of Utah, 04.12.1969) I own and some shots of a "reprint" next to it for comparison to send to an Art Dealer on the East Coast. Just to get a rough estimate of what that Joker might be willing to pay for one of the reprints. I would then, turn him onto my source and make further commission on future sales. The "Art Business." Ugh. What a cluster fuck.
Said Poster: (Mine are signed by the Artist, Richard Winn Taylor II, a swell Guy. We're both Old Lighting Guys. He went on to become a CGI Artist and to work for EA Games, worked on both Tron movies, etc., etc..) More of Richard's "stuff" at the addy to follow: (Be impressed. I am.) http://richardtaylordesign.com/
A.O.R.4.156 (2) Second Printing, run of 1,000 prints from original plates. 1st printing was 300 units.
Over and out,
-Doc
I am one of those Kooks that will wear shorts with good hiking boots and a thermal top (with a rain jacket tucked into my day pack) until my body hurts from the cold. Around here, Fall and Spring are the two nicest parts of the year. Winter ain't bad, either. It's Summer that sucks. Why? Temperature and pressure inversions between the coast and points inland. When it's 100 degrees 50 miles East of us, we get the Marine Layer of fog sucked on top of us. Where I live, about 5 miles from the Ocean, it's in the buffer zone between the inversion and warmer weather. Exactly on the cusp. It can go either way and usually does.
Recently, my Friend (Of another Friend, mostly) Mark and I have been talking about "which parts of San Francisco were/are tolerable in icky/cold/fogged-out weather. I vote for my native neighborhood of the Outer Sunset and he goes for The Haight, North Beach and The Mission. Of course, neither of us live in San Francisco anymore. Who the fuck can afford to? A closet with a mattress in it is, like, $1,000 a month. I exaggerate. It IS almost that bad though. I can't even imagine what my Grandparents' modest house on 46th Avenue might cost these days. It was built and first sold for somewhere in the $16-18k range back in the early 1940's. It was a great place to be a kid (The beach was six blocks away and the S.F. Zoo, Fleishhacker Pool, the World's Largest Outdoor, Saltwater, Heated Pool were at the end of the block at Sloat Blvd.) and I don't "look back" with regret of much. 90% of those memories are good ones and I wouldn't toss a monkey wrench in there for anything.
The house on 46th:
The one in the center, of course. Last time I saw it, it was sporting a fresh coat of paint. It used to be a drab Salmon kind of color when I was a kid. There used to be a tiny strip of grass in front but, that's gone. The last time I spent any time in S.F., I stayed at: "The First Motel West Of The Rockies" The Ocean Park Motel. Built in 1938, the same year the Golden Gate Bridge opened, it still retains allot of its' Post Moderne a'la Semi-Nautical charm. The Daughter of the original owners and her Husband own and run it. Yay! "Something that hasn't changed."
I stayed there with a Gal from Iowa a few years back for nine days. It was somewhere between Babysitting and Tour Guiding. Ioway just wasn't ready for San Francisco. On her own, she would have ended up robbed, naked and floating in the Bay. I showed her the front steps of the Hotel she and her Daughter wanted to stay in right in the middle of Chinatown. I pointed out a large brownish stain on the sidewalk and asked: "You know what that is?" She didn't. I said: "It's blood. Blood that they've tried to bleach off of the sidewalk. Someone probably died right there." Iowa thanked me for taking her to the Ocean Park instead. I just smiled and said: "Let's go get some lunch" and proceeded to introduce her to a nice Plate Lunch Joint on California Street.
We only had one strange encounter during our stay. Down by Mission Dolores. A wrecked little Speed Freak walked up to me, grabbed ahold of the sleeves of my flight jacket and started sobbing: "You've got to help me, Man..." I explained to him that not only did I not "have to help him but, that if didn't take his hands off of me, I would hurt him." I thought that was pretty restrained. Had I felt threatened by him, he would have been instantly on the ground and "I'm Nobody's Badass." Just y'er Regular Issue City Kid. The Kid wandered off, sobbing some more, looking for his next Maybe A Tourist Mark. We were on our way to the Big Goodwill Store in The Mission. I bought a nice cassette deck and a Jerry Garcia necktie.
She wanted to see The Castro and I told her: "You can go there by yourself, if you want." I just don't have any interest in the place. I remember it being too much different as a younger man. Allot of places like that for me in The City. MY City. The one that has taken over by Crack Smoking Kooks From Gawd Knows Where. The reasons: "why I don't live there anymore."
The Ocean Park:
A very cool place to stay. I almost feel like a traitor to my neighborhood letting this dusty gem see the light of Cyberspace. $100.00 a night, double occupancy "in season." A bit less off peak. If you grew up on the block, well...that's a secret.
Anyway, I fell asleep really early and woke up at the crack of Midnight, which is fine because: I, being a Retired Old Fart, have nothing pressing to do tomorrow and just don't give a shit. I did have a rocking case of heartburn from the Mexican meal I made myself last evening. Baking soda in water, a good belch or three and viola', El Estomago Fixo. Now, I'm "up" drinking good Russian tea, took some "prescribed medication" (nothing "good") and just felt like writing something. I'll go back to sleep in a couple of hours. Or not. I like it: "when my building is asleep and there are no distractions." Desiderata, all that... (Go placidly amongst the noise and haste...)
Maybe the "Mark" I was talking about, maybe not:
Actually, The One Thing I do have to do tomorrow ("Today"), weather permitting, is: Take some photo's of an old Grateful Dead poster (SDS Union Hall, University of Utah, 04.12.1969) I own and some shots of a "reprint" next to it for comparison to send to an Art Dealer on the East Coast. Just to get a rough estimate of what that Joker might be willing to pay for one of the reprints. I would then, turn him onto my source and make further commission on future sales. The "Art Business." Ugh. What a cluster fuck.
Said Poster: (Mine are signed by the Artist, Richard Winn Taylor II, a swell Guy. We're both Old Lighting Guys. He went on to become a CGI Artist and to work for EA Games, worked on both Tron movies, etc., etc..) More of Richard's "stuff" at the addy to follow: (Be impressed. I am.) http://richardtaylordesign.com/
A.O.R.4.156 (2) Second Printing, run of 1,000 prints from original plates. 1st printing was 300 units.
Over and out,
-Doc
Saturday, September 19, 2015
YOU LOVE YOUR GUITAR MORE THAN ME
My first "serious" Girlfriend, Nancy, once mumbled that accusation at me. Probably because we'd just had sex and then I went and picked up my guitar. Or, maybe it was the other way around... It doesn't matter. Her way of saying: "Goodbye" was to visit, out of the Great Blue Beyond and give me a horrible case of The Clap. My nuts swolled up so badly that the Doctors had to hit me up with a couple million units of Penicillin and then place my Squirrel Num-Nums in what's called a "suspensory." Kind of like a support hosiery looking thang for one's Jubblies. A Tommy Copper "Balls Only" Jockstrap? So I didn't end up looking like this:
I know... "Ow, Ow, Ow! Motherfucker!" Use your imagination. What's the rest of your "life" going to look like if you're carrying your Winter Food Stash around in a wheel barrow? YOU WILL NOT BE GETTING LAID! Of that, I am sure. Unless some VERY weird Fetishist comes along with a very large bottle of lotion.
I digress. REALLY digress.
Nancy, Gawd bless her rotten little soul and its' Young Ann Margret looking skin cover, was hanging around with me way before there was Buckethead.
Now, that Fucker is seriously IN LOVE with his guitar/his music/making records/Etc.. Talk about a "Prolific Artist." The guy releases about one album per month. The only other guy I can think of that works as much as Buckethead is Bill Laswell. Even he's a distant "Second Place." Bill at least "comes up for air" once in awhile. Maybe goes out and has a pizza or a beer or something. Buckethead, on the other hand has both his signature KFC Container and guitar(s) surgically affixed to his body. He: "walks, talks, eats, dreams and shits music." Music, in fact, may also be surgically attached to him, in some weird configuration...
Now, don't get me wrong here... I LOVE listening to this guy's music. I simply worry for his mental health. If there ever was any to be had to begin with. Frank Zappa would have liked Buckethead. Both for his eccentricity and some of the music he doles out like candy from his pocket. I just added his most recent three or four releases to my Spotify Songlists. They're kind of like all the other stuff he does, with different notes. Some people might find that "boring" but I, being the "collector of guitar tones and inflections" that I truly am, LOVE the shit out of it.
So. That's 03.15 here at the Anchovy Ranch. Coffee, cigarettes and Brand New Buckethead. And memories of a morbid fear of having to carry my nuts around in a dump truck for the rest of my days. And Nancy. I could have stayed in bed and ordered room service for the rest of my life with her. So long as there was a Les Paul and a Marshall double stack, a nice effects rack and a good quality recording device of any kind in the next room. Maybe a Tech Guy that showed up once a month to clean cables and fix shit that had melted into the carpet. Just stay the fuck out of the Bedroom, Dude.
Props to TheFanBoy6 for his YouTubeage. When you watch the above shite, you may then proceed to FanBoy's "Channel" and save me the agony of having this set of songs deleted because he throws a fit about me "stealing his setlist" after he's purloined it from Buckethead. Did he PAY Buckethead? I doubt it. Does FanBoy6 make money from the YouTube list? Probably. Go figure. Cyberspace is a confusing connundrum of fetid catshit for an Old Fart At Play, like myself.
Who Loves Ya', Baby?
-Doc
I digress. REALLY digress.
Nancy, Gawd bless her rotten little soul and its' Young Ann Margret looking skin cover, was hanging around with me way before there was Buckethead.
Now, that Fucker is seriously IN LOVE with his guitar/his music/making records/Etc.. Talk about a "Prolific Artist." The guy releases about one album per month. The only other guy I can think of that works as much as Buckethead is Bill Laswell. Even he's a distant "Second Place." Bill at least "comes up for air" once in awhile. Maybe goes out and has a pizza or a beer or something. Buckethead, on the other hand has both his signature KFC Container and guitar(s) surgically affixed to his body. He: "walks, talks, eats, dreams and shits music." Music, in fact, may also be surgically attached to him, in some weird configuration...
Now, don't get me wrong here... I LOVE listening to this guy's music. I simply worry for his mental health. If there ever was any to be had to begin with. Frank Zappa would have liked Buckethead. Both for his eccentricity and some of the music he doles out like candy from his pocket. I just added his most recent three or four releases to my Spotify Songlists. They're kind of like all the other stuff he does, with different notes. Some people might find that "boring" but I, being the "collector of guitar tones and inflections" that I truly am, LOVE the shit out of it.
So. That's 03.15 here at the Anchovy Ranch. Coffee, cigarettes and Brand New Buckethead. And memories of a morbid fear of having to carry my nuts around in a dump truck for the rest of my days. And Nancy. I could have stayed in bed and ordered room service for the rest of my life with her. So long as there was a Les Paul and a Marshall double stack, a nice effects rack and a good quality recording device of any kind in the next room. Maybe a Tech Guy that showed up once a month to clean cables and fix shit that had melted into the carpet. Just stay the fuck out of the Bedroom, Dude.
Props to TheFanBoy6 for his YouTubeage. When you watch the above shite, you may then proceed to FanBoy's "Channel" and save me the agony of having this set of songs deleted because he throws a fit about me "stealing his setlist" after he's purloined it from Buckethead. Did he PAY Buckethead? I doubt it. Does FanBoy6 make money from the YouTube list? Probably. Go figure. Cyberspace is a confusing connundrum of fetid catshit for an Old Fart At Play, like myself.
Who Loves Ya', Baby?
-Doc
Friday, September 18, 2015
THE WORST SHOW I EVER HAD TO WORK
Back in what now seems to be some weird alternate Universe, I was a "Lighting Designer." 1969-1975, full-time and then "here and there" after that, with some "Roadie" and "Set Crew" work thrown in at various times. Every so often, we would be called upon to do some kind of "Benevolent Act" and work for free, to ostensibly fulfill our obligation to some yet-to-be-defined Higher Purpose and uphold our Hip-ness and sworn oath to peanut butter and granola, fringed Neil Young Leather Vests, Jesus Sandals and Long Hair. All that shit that we "kind of" believed in before we actually "grew up" and realized that it was all about The Benjamins. Or, as I tend to like to refer to it: The Enlightenment Of Greed and Avarice." (Not really, Silly)
This is some photo-documentation of one of those events. A Free Concert in a park behind Los Angeles' Dodger Stadium, "Elysian Park." It had been the scene of a few "Love Ins" and whatnot over the 60's and had a certain mystique about it, I suppose. It was also: "Right over the hill from the Los Angeles Police Academy." Swell place to have a Free Concert with all of its' chemically induced merriment and loud music, festively painted VW Microbusses full of half naked Savages From The Counter Culture, etc., right? Um, Not So Much...
LAPD decided to send in some "Undercover Hippies" (Employing what I have to assume were Hollywood's WORST costume designers, EVER to design wardrobes and fake facial and head hair) to try and buy drugs or just keep a handle on exactly what sort(s) of debauchery and brewing MAYHEM! or SUBVERSIVE BEHAVIORS! might just be going on inside the park.
Anyway, a "Cop" got into a "Hassle" with a prospective "Dealer" and was hit with a "bottle or can or flower or something," drew his service weapon (probably NOT the best part of his new "Uniform") and fired into the crowd (One person of the Hippie Persuasion was actually grazed in the neck) and THIS is what happened:
I was caught up in the STAMPEDE FOR THE EXIT to the park and had to run, along with my friend, Brett, all the way to Grand Central Amtrak Station on the other side of Dodger Stadium, to call my Mom and ask her to call in two train tickets so we could get back to San Diego. She had to drive all the way to the Sandy Eggo Amtrak Station, buy the tickets and have them "wired" to us in Smell-A. To this very day, I, unlike Randy Newman, HATE L.A..
That Little Old Hippie/Punk/Capitalist Pig,
-Doc
A song from The Times. My Buddy, Michael Hanley, HATED this song. Michael had been a Drums, Keyboards and Monitors Techie for various permutations of Jefferson Airplane, Starship, etc., and had to endure more performances of this little ditty than should be inflicted upon any Prisoner Of War or the like. Poor guy... If he heard the first two notes of Jack Casady's bassline intro, anywhere, he'd either tackle the jukebox or scream at the person playing the song to: "Turn That Fucking Garbage OFF!" Any song that one has to endure, night after countless nights will eventually turn a Techie into a Homicidal Psychopath. Trust me. I speak from experience.
Grace was, however, drop-dead gorgeous back in those days, huh? Not that many people know that she'd been a High End Fashion Model before joining up with "The Jefferson's", as Michael often referred to them, collectively. I used to like to imagine Sherman Hemsley (from the TV show) in drag, as Grace Slick, which totally did not work...
And "Yes," I realize this is a hack cut and paste job. Deal with it.
And "Yes," I realize this is a hack cut and paste job. Deal with it.
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