This past weekend, BA, myself and the Kids spent the weekend under the perfect Vermont sun listening to great music and sipping various cool drinks. It was a great weekend ; one to remember for sure.
This was the 10th Annual "Jeezum Crow Music Festival" in Jay, Vermont. It was my 3rd time and now I am looking forward to my 4th in a year.
The 3 festivals could not be more different from each other. My recollection of my first festival is hazy, but seems it was a bluegrass, blues, folksie event well attended by the aging hippie set sprinkled liberally with up and comer new age hippies holding onto a new brood all wearing noise limiting headphones. Charlie Parr was there and I became a fan of Sicard Hollow more because of a misunderstood name on my part. But I remember an overall Country Bluegrass Blues feel.
Last year, my 2nd visit was a definitely Blues and Bluegrass and of course my man, Charlie Parr was there and better than ever. They had stepped up with a much better sound system.
This year we were able to catch all 9 acts, not just most of the ones on Saturday like we did previous years. This year was different seeming to spotlight a more cover band list of acts.
The highlights for me were:
Friday night -Mihali -Reggaeish, Ska; They had a horn or two. Upbeat music. Loved it.
On Saturday - Taj Farrant, a 16 year old blues player who is very, very good. The kid plays way above what his age should have let him. There is a maturity in his play that some Blues players never attain. Awesome set once the excellent Stevie Ray covers were over. He also writes music that points to his older soul.
And then of course Charlie Parr. No one picks or sings quite like Charlie. I cannot think of a musician less interested in being famous than Charlie. I am pretty sure the clothes he had on this past weekend are the same ones he had on last year and the year before that. He drives to his shows by himself in a beater car; sleeps in it, plays his set and leaves. In between he knocks my socks off with his songs and the occasional funny story. "Cheap Wine" still makes me puddle up.
This was our first time staying the weekend. It was the best decision of all. No pressure to leave early for home and we could catch Friday night's acts. I won't miss them next year.
This year we went whole hog. Rented a Vrbo lodge that was perfect. Not fancy and well worn. But it was clean, had plenty of towels, plenty of room and a great kitchen sink. Fell in love with the sink. And we were able to take the pooches. Maggie had a chance to romp and find the good smells.
All in all, a great weekend of music with my favorite people in the World.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................................
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It's gonna be a three fer today.
First up is Mahali - and his song, "Free Ride". I test drove many of his songs. Not a one of them was bad. Enjoy!
Next up is 16 year old Taj Farrant and an awesome cover of "Parisienne Walkways".
This image grabbed my attention. A perfect 1000 word picture. It says so much without so much as a single word describing it other than two words, "The Future".
These are the kind of meme's and online art being created today. This particular image is very telling as it tips its hat to the movie, "Schindler's List" and the little Jewish girl who was in and out of many scenes to finally end up as a victim represented by a scene showing her coat on a pile of clothing after a gas session in the concentration camp.
It is a blatant comparison of a past horror the meme maker sees coming in our future. No one can say this is our future. No one can really say it is not our future. Given the activities of the current administration, this future is more plausible than ever.
A spittle drooling supporter of Trump created a meme on a political Facebook group page I am a member of:
That is how I feel. I am not fearful of what might attack us from outside our borders. We seem to, at the moment, have decent deterrence in place to protect us from foreign invasion. What we don't have in my opinion, is any real effort to stop the threats from within our our borders and from my fellow citizens who support the current despot, wannabe dictator, pretend Hitler, legend in his own mind tyrant.
The USA seems to be tooling up to take our hatred of ourselves to that next level. That is what I am afraid of; afraid of what a neighbor, an out of control cop, a rabid judge,.... In other words I am afraid of my own countrymen and now , my government also.
I never in a million years even considered I would feel this way.
It has been a somber 4th here in southern Maine. Any fanfare and celebration has definitely been understated and not as publicized as usual. My neighbor behind me did not even fire off any fireworks last night, as has been his tradition since he moved in. The only people celebrating seem to be celebrating things like the grand opening of our newest concentration camp down in Florida or celebrating the Big Bucket Of Blubber Bill that punishes those who have little and have no defense from a government that has been exploiting them forever, only now not just exploiting them , they want to punish them for offering resistance by using the rights they still have.
All of America should all hang our heads in shame for what we have allowed to happen.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ....... Especially now.
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I hate our National Anthem. I hate that its lyrics embrace the notion of nobility in War. I really fuckin hate that. War creates a lot of things. It creates heroes that shouldn't have had to be heroes. It creates false feelings of superiority through defeating an enemy. But most of all, it creates dead people. Where's the Nobility in that.
My favorite America tune has always been "America the Beautiful"; a song that celebrates the good and special of what America should be. No one sings or sang it better than Ray Charles.
Here, in all its glory, the best version ever of "America the Beautiful", by Ray Charles. It always makes me tear up......Always. Even when I was a kid.
Well, it is July 3rd, 2025. What is there to say about July 3rd, 2025?
There must be plenty of positives about July 3rd. The problem I am having is trying to remove it from the shadow of it's bigger brother, July 4th.
Independence Day looms large over America at this time of the year. At no time in my lifetime has it seemed larger and more looming than it does this year of the New America, the Corporatist State.
Excepting the Civil War, at no time in our history has this country drifted this far from its roots. The fear of many is that this is just the beginning. I share that fear.
The accumulation of too many self inflicted negatives over the last 50-60 years have come together to form a perfect storm that will alter this country for the foreseeable future and beyond. And while History has shown us that this was a possibility anywhere, anytime and involving anyone, it matters little now. It appears that drastic, life altering changes are on our mutual horizons.
I would love to point to positive changes on our doorstep, but the few that are there will surely be overtaken by the overwhelming ugliness that has seeped into every facet of our lives. Ambivalence has now created Malevolence. Complacency has replaced Protest. Ignorance has replaced Common Sense. Combine all these together under the leadership of an evil sociopath and what you end up with is Donald J. Trump.
So go ahead America and fool yourselves tomorrow that we are still the "Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave". We did this to ourselves and we deserve the result.
Later Gators .............................
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This song "Red", is by my new favorite political songwriter, name of Jesse Welles. His delivery and lyrics remind me of the acoustic Bob Dylan before Bob went electric. Anyway, here's a two-fer today. "Red" is very current about Trump and the shit storm he's created.
A large hand grabbed Angers' shoulder and turned
him around. "Pastor Angers, I have a question for you."
Pastor Jacob Angers looked up. He frowned. He had
been minding his own business, waiting in line to cash out and this
ass....
"Uh oh", he thought, “Its Fred Jenkins, from
the other night at the Tradin Post.”
He felt his face getting warmer as the embarrassment
he had suffered flooded back in, reminding him what a fool
he had been the other night. But Pastor Angers had 12 years of pastoring under
his belt. If he felt shame, it was only fleeting. A man of God should never
feel shame. He squared his shoulders and …..
“Son, if this is about the other night, the
checkout line here at Hannaford's is not the place to discuss it.”
Fred Jenkins’ blank stare told Angers whatever the question was; it wasn’t about the other night.
“No Sir. It’s not about the other night. I
have a Bible / God kinda question. And you being a man of God and all, I thought you
might straighten me out.”
The Pastor’s sarcastic reply died before he
could utter it.
Was this the beginning of a serious conversation with one of
the Fallen? Was this a chance to do what he did best, bring one of Satan's flock into the fold of God's embrace? Pastor Angers hoped so, but he had learned not to trust a heathen.
They were notorious for having fun at anyone’s expense; at his expense anyway. He decided to
hear Fred’s question.
“Son, like I said, the checkout line is no place
for a conversation like this.”
He looked Jenkins up and down trying to size
up his mood.
“Follow me out to my car.”
As soon as the two of them were outside, Fred
Jenkins started in:
“Well, you see sir, I am confused about the
notion of “Free Will” set against the notion of “God’s Will”. Now add in the "Infallibility of
God" and well sir, it don’t make no sense; no sense at all.”
Fred’s question stopped Pastor Angers dead in
his tracks. He turned around and glared at Fred. The glare was all he had as
Fred’s combining 3 basic tenet’s of Christianity into a single question caught
him off guard. They rarely came up in the same conversation.
He continued to glare at Jenkins until finally, Fred Jenkins spoke up:
“ Uh, Pastor, are you alright?” Did I say
something to piss you off?
The good pastor’s eyes softened. He looked
down at the ground.
“Son, I just don’t know the answer to your
questions right off. The way you put them together like they were in opposition
to each other, does seem to allow for some confusion on the part of the un-baptized.
I will look into…….”
“ Oh, I have been baptized. Don’t remember it
though. Mom felt it was a good idea. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to have the
blessing of a god even if it weren’t real. She called it “Gilding the Lily. Whatever
that meant, I have no clue.”
The pastor’s mouth had been hanging open. He
closed it and contemplated what he had just heard.
“Your mother called a baptism, “Gilding the
Lily?”
Angers slapped his forehead, tossed a dark
look at Fred, then continued his trek to his car. Without another word, he opened the
driver side door, turned again to look back at Fred. Shaking his head, he
slammed the car door, fired up the ignition and burned rubber leaving the
parking lot.
Fred stood watching him disappear down Main Street.
A small grin slowly formed as the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. He wasn’t
done with the good pastor just yet.
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Okay. The uncanny abilities of the algorithm magic to know what I want before I know I want it is beginning to creep me out.
I had just pumped up my YouTube page and without any input from me, right in the middle of the screen, staring right at me, was a long haired hippy dude in a nice clean shirt, standing in the pucker under a power line. He was holding a Dobro guitar. Over the Image, "The Great Caucasian God" jumped out at me.
Was it a sign from God, letting me know he knows what I know before I know it and he's just dropping a hint I may be in for a lightening strike or two before this story is through?
Or is it AI?
But then if I am to believe God controls everything, AI is just another tool from God's quiver he will use in our future to continue to fuck with our minds.
Anyway, here is a tune by a musician previously undiscovered by me. Here is Jesse Wells and his musical opinion of "The Great Caucasian God".
I wrote a flash fiction piece back in July of 2011. I later re-edited it and reposted in 2022. Since then I have added 2 new parts, sections, chapters? I now realize this story is just unfolding. I have plans to expand it over time.
Buddy and the Pastor- Part 2 - "The Boys in the Door"
( started 7/28/2022 - Finished but not published until today)
The raucous laughter of the local boys crowding the front door at the Tradin Post brought Pastor Angers back to his senses. He began walking back to the store and considered those unshaven toothless faces hanging out of the front door.
He was reminded why he had come here to the Tradin Post on a Friday evening in the first place. He never saw these clowns in church. He felt he needed to face these evil blaspheming heretics and agents of Satan on their own turf. What better way to do that than at the only beer store in town.
He stopped short of the roof overhanging the door. He again placed fists on his hip, took off his glasses and glared at the yokel crew crowding the door. The hard rain running off of him combined with a flickering outdoor light, set the scene with an appropriate amount of foreboding. Pastor Angers spoke in his best condemnation voice.
"You are all fornicators, men of low morals and ungodly ways. If you don't find God soon, you will be lost in the depths of Hell. You suck down the demon rum, shoot drugs into your arms. ........ And I assume some of you sleep with other men."
The boys in the door stopped laughing as if on cue. Their faces went blank. A moment passed. Finally Fred Jenkins spoke up.
"Preacher man, I ain't no fudge packer and I do not appreciate the insinuation. But if you have any sheep I might like to meet......................."
Again, as if on cue, the gang busted out laughing. Fred leaned out too far, tripped and fell out of the door and onto his back.
Even in the chilling rain, Pastor Angers' face heated up. The tips of his ears seemed to catch fire. Clenching his fists, he turned and began the mile hike back to his rectory. All the way home he conjured up possible repercussions God might engage to smite down these hedonist louts and slack jawed never faithful minions of Satan. He was sure they would suffer once God actually got around to firing up the Rapture.
He envisioned drawn and quartered headless bodies dangling from steeples coast to coast while all God's Children waited patiently for God to transport them away from this planet filled with evil doers, sodomites and fornicators.
Yes, by the time he threw open his front door, Pastor Angers had recharged his batteries and holstered enough fire and brimstone to satisfy a month's worth of Bible thumpin sermons. Rejuvenated and feeling frisky once again when he came into the kitchen, he slapped his wife on the butt a couple of times, kicked the dog and pinched his daughter so hard on her cheek, a classmate would ask tomorrow who had she pissed off. And then he gave his plump wife the horny eye.
"Hallelujah, Hallelujah ....... Hallelujah devoted family. Pass the biscuits and pour me some wine. If we love God, God will love us!"
His wife and daughter barely noticed his grand entrance. His wife Ruth placed some food in front of him.
She noted, " Well, you surely are in a good mood tonight Honey Bun. Been after them Blasphemers again?"
His daughter stopped rubbing her cheek. "Yeah Pa, did you do some righteous smiting today?"
His wife and daughter rolled their eyes at each other, grinned and sat down for supper. (568)
( Part 3 - tomorrow)
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In an effort to retain some kind of connection to the sheep references, here is "Sheep", from Pink Floyd's 1977 album, "Animals".
So, BA and I went out to eat at Willy's Ale Room, a scant 2 minute drive over on Rte 109. A client had given her a gift certificate and tonight was the night. I actually put a shirt with a collar on and dragged a brush through my hair.
Willy's has been an Acton fixture for I guess about 20 years now. Good food, solid service and the crowd is a mix of jovial locals and recreating lake folks from away. They have 2 Wing Nights a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have never partook. Not a fan of wings. If there was a way to breed out wings on chickens I would be all over it.
They are a waste of time cooking them and eating them as they are nothing but a delivery device for the numerous sauces each restaurant decides goes with chicken wings. Might as well just dip chips instead. Most sauces I have tasted are about heat or are obscenely sweet. I gave up on Wings 50 years ago at least. I tried to like them, but no; just couldn't keep up the charade. Not enough reward for the effort and mess involved.
Our meal was excellent as usual. But what set off the meal was I tried my first Willy's craft beer. The small brewery is at one one end of the restaurant. I chose "7 Lakes Summer Ale". Coming in at a respectable 5.3% alcohol content, it was tasty and a perfect example of a summer ale. I had 2 and now I am buzzing quite nicely. I will be ordering it again until they stop brewing it for the season.
It is nice to see a local business do so well. Willy's has become a destination stop for many people, not just the local towns. They have a great location overlooking an apple orchard and yes, there are 7 lakes ringed with camps in the immediate area.
While I am thinking of it, that beer I drank at Willy's was so tasty, when I got home, I finally opened that 18 pack of Pabst and put 3 cans in the fridge. I wonder if they are cold yet ..............
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................................
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I googled "Music about Beer". I tasted a couple of tunes. I came away so unimpressed, I almost switched gears and tried to consider other choices. Then I noticed a song by Mac Davis form 1982. It is appropriately called, "The Beer Drinking Song".
As soon as I played it, I knew it was today's choice. It is so much more than a beer drinking song. I never figured Mac Davis for being political. Yet, he wrote a song that offered a solution to all the hate and discontent that swirls around us.
"Why don't we all just get stoned" - Damn good advice in my opinion.
Today is Alan Turing's birthday. If he had not been shamed to death in 1954, he would be 113 years old today. Even though he only lived to be 41 years old, the man did remarkable things during his brief tortured life. Some might even say that without his contribution to the war effort during WWll, the war would most assuredly have lasted longer and some might contend, the outcome might have been different. He was a hero of epic proportions who no one knew existed until recent years.
During WWll, British Intelligence was desperate to find a way to break the Nazi code used in their "Enigma" code machine. They were at wits end when along came Alan with his remarkable mind. He had been brought in as part of the team tasked with finding the answer. Turing proved his worth as a scientist and at the same time, pissed off almost everyone he had contact with. When he was called on his inability to play well with others, he proclaimed the whole program was doomed to fail; they would never find the answer, and it was a tremendous waste of his time.
He contended that if the project was handed over to him, he would find the answer. He, and the small group he headed, "Hut 8", finally created a code breaking machine that could decipher the supposedly impossible to break Nazi codes the Germans used to pass marching orders out to their military.
From many accounts of those who knew or worked with him, he was a difficult man to get along with. He suffered no fools. He had no filters. Whatever he was focused on was all there was. He had no time for the civil interactions of the English culture he found himself in. He had no tolerance of the mere mortals who surrounded him. He was not just an asshole, he was a very very gifted asshole, who most likely was the smartest man in any room he entered..
Not given any recognition in his lifetime, Turing is now considered by many as the the father of Computer Science as we know it. He was integral in creating the first working algorithms while also creating the machine that used those algorithms to break the German code.
His efforts remained largely unknown until 2009 when the British government finally admitted to his efforts. Their claim was he remained anonymous for years because of the government's "war secrets act". But many, including myself, think the government was embarrassed by him. He was after all, a homosexual; not just any run of the mill homosexual, but an arrested, tried and convicted homosexual. In June of 1954 Alan Turing either killed himself, accidentally killed himself, or.......... ?
How much more could have Alan Turing helped mankind if he had not had to live in a culture that punished people for things they had no control over. The accomplishments he contributed to Computer Science would have just been a drop in the bucket of Human knowledge if he had not been ostracized and thrown under the bus of the social hypocrisy of that time.
Alan Turing ....... You Rock dude. Sorry for the way you were treated.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ............................
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Found a nice tune that sings the praises of Alan Turing. It's a catchy, kinda techno tune. Enjoy.
The Dachaus, the Belsens, the Buchenwalds, the Auschwitzes - all of them. They must remain standing because they are a monument to a moment in time when some men decided to turn the earth into a graveyard, into it they shoveled all of their reason, their logic, their knowledge, but worst of all their conscience. And the moment we forget this, the moment we cease to be haunted by its remembrance. Then we become the grave diggers."
~Rod Serling, from "Death's Head
Revisited" (1961)
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"Then we become the grave diggers."
Neither Israel nor my country, the USA, has any right to the moral high ground anymore. Like so many countries to come before them, Truth is lost in the delusions of grandeur and righteousness they created in their minds to replace any guilt for what they have done or are about to. They cloak their forced intrusions into other countries on specious patriotic claims like "National Security" or "Just defending an Ally"' or worst excuse ever, "We know better than you how you should run your country; Let us help you".
It's all Bullshit.
And one more time, because we lack the intestinal fortitude and willingness to compromise to find peaceful answers. We fool ourselves that lasting Peace can only be achieved at the point of a spear. Sure, we might win the battlefield, but we will never win the real Peace that comes from patient negotiations, thoughtful concerns and a willingness on both sides to reach a consensus. It is ever so much easier to blow each other up than do the hard work staring at each other across large tables and finding mutually beneficial conclusions. Lives are cheaper that talk. Fruitful conversations only seem to happen when one side has the other side on their knees.
I am no fan of the Israeli government, nor at the moment, my own government. Both are led by wannabe Dictators wearing cheap suits and long ties. Allowing these assholes to start another war is the most idiotic maneuver since, well, President Bush, the Lesser, got the USA involved in Iraq and Afghanistan. Just six weeks into that particular party Dubya Bush declared the operation, "Mission Accomplished". He was wrong. Twenty years and over 400,000 deaths later, we finally extracted ourselves from that historical snake pit of hate and discontent. And now we are back at it again. WTF!
It seems we just can't help ourselves. When the polls show a dip for the current asshole in charge, nothing deflects public focus like a military action of some kind somewhere else where only "Furriners" feel the pain.
We have become inured to media images and stories of the horrors of war. There is no real price to pay until a relative, a friend, or a friend's son or daughter comes home in a box or maybe worse, crippled and horribly disfigured for the rest of their lives. And even then, unless the pain is close, we sit back flipping channels and declare;
"That'll teach them Sum Bitches, Yeah that's right, you damn furriners, I ain't gonna be ruled by no Muslim, ...... Christianity is the only real religion and it is my guide. We'll use whatever means we have to make that point...... Oh would you pass me the dip, I gots a potato chip in dire need of some lubrication."
Both Israel and the USA are using contrived and dubious pretexts to justify attacking other countries. Yes, Iran is a bad actor. But how bad of an actor would they be if we had just let them run their country the way they wanted at the get go, back in 1979.
No better examples exist than Israel, the United States and Iran. Three countries whose respective populations are allowing this kind of shit to continue. In this new era of outrageously contrived situations, nobody ever really wins in the long run.
Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ....................................
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Only one song came to mind for this post. "War Pigs" was written and recorded by Black Sabbath in 1970 on their album, "Paranoid" Along with classic Metal tunes like the title track, "Paranoid" and "Iron Man", Black Sabbath established themselves early as the Gods of Heavy Metal.
I first heard this song coming from Ray Raley's room in West Hall, Towson College that same year. In 1977 and then again in 1978, I would haul their equipment on 2 tours. They always opened with "Iron Man". Got sick of it. But I never lost my respect for "War Pigs". One of the greatest anti war songs ever.
This meme popped up on a Facebook Hippy group page I joined awhile back. Similar memes have passed by over the last so many years. It seems my generation and others, my parents, my kid's and her friend's kids seem to believe that "their music" was the best ever. There is no, nor ever will be, any better music out there.
Bullshit.
Bob Seeger was wrong when he wrote this and he is still wrong.
I responded with:
Yeah, I used to think that Music of today did not have the same soul as what I listened to with younger ears. The reason was not because there is no new music out there with soul. It is because for too long, I stopped looking for it.
Don't let your rose colored glasses stop you from looking for new joy like you had "back in the day".
Don't get me wrong. The music of my youth will always be my favorite. The songs I grew up with, the songs I nervously danced to with nervous girls at teen clubs and the music I hauled for several years all over North America, ..........
Well, that was then, this is now. Now I am still searching and still finding music that moves me like it did before.
So, in line with Music having soul or not, I would like to offer up these two You Tube videos. Both are covers of the music many of us still hold close to our hearts. Both are performed by youngsters still wet behind their years. Hope you enjoy them.
First up are The Graystones with the their cover of "The Logical Song", recorded in 1978 or was it 1979 by Supertramp. These kids punch way over their weight class, especially the sax player.
The second tune is from a family band, Missioned Souls and their cover of "Highway Star, by Deep Purple". Enjoy.
All this points out that "Soul" never dies. It never leaves. If we do things right, we pass it on.
Keep it tween the ditches ...................................
I have my marching orders now. I have been tasked with locating various materials that will be used in an effort to drive home some salient points regarding my wife's and my anger with what the Right is doing to our country.
Tomorrow we protest. Tomorrow we park our asses on US Route 1 in Wells, Maine. We will have signs and cowbells. We won't be there long, but there we will be.
Hopefully our token participation will add to the overall disgust a majority of Americans seem to have for Trump, the GOP Congress, and all the slithering slimy little weasels who make up his Administration. It is sad to see them take so much pleasure in their efforts to destroy what took so many years to create.
My job today is to cut up some cardboard for the signs, locate and fabricate sign holders, and find the spray adhesive I used for something awhile back.
We debated for a few weeks about whether we should go or not; both of us in different conversations vacillated from yea to nay and back again. Well, this morning BA came in the kitchen and told me she was going. Was I coming also?
45 years of marriage has created a pecking order, a quiver of intractable tendencies, points of view and most of all, a variety of looks and stares that tell both of us, no discussion is needed because discussion will not happen.
I wanted to be snarky and say out loud, "Yes Dear", with an appropriate snarky look pasted on my face. Her look warned me not to. This was serious..... She is right; it is nothing to make light of. Still, it is damn hard to go against my nature.
"Okay, how big do you want the cardboard, and do we want sticks or are we going commando?"
Our local protest here in southern Maine is only set up for a hour or so. It has a perfect location; a location filled with a slow moving captive audience.... the annual summer log jam on Route 1in Maine. Tomorrow, the punishment the folks from away will have to endure will be intensified as they travel anywhere on Route 1. There are protests spread all along Route 1, north and south.
Of course I have also been ordered to consider what we might put on the signs; Maybe show support for the recent "No Kings" series of protests going down across the country. I suggested, "DHS - The New Gestapo". Not sure how BA took it. That usually means no, she was not a fan.
So, tomorrow my wife and I join millions of people across this country to show our anger and ask for some sanity from Trump and his newly formed Gestapo, the DHS. My big hope is that the protests will be so massive, so spread out, that no lying sycophant's can ignore the fact that no, the idiots are not in charge. They just think they are.
I hope the apathetic rise up and at least pay attention and maybe decide to join the fight with the unthinkable stupidity that has our nation by its short hairs.
Anyway, BA and I will be in Wells in the early afternoon tomorrow with signs and ringing cowbells.
No matter how useless resistance may feel, besides our vote, it is all we have.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
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The logical and ever so pertinent song to include here was not going to be my choice. It was too predictable. "For What It's Worth" was recorded by Buffalo Springfield in the 1960s to bring more awareness to the civil upheavel that was so prevalent back then. It is a great, great song. Powerful without preaching.
So as I began to rationalize why I did not want to include it, I realize I had to. I remember playing this song often when a protest was coming up in DC or on campus in the early 1970s. Traditions don't mean much to me. But this one does.
It's dark thirty in the morning. The leg cramps I have been dealing with since trying to sleep for the last 4 or 5 hours finally beat me down. Okay, Okay, I'm up for chrissakes. But what to do?
After so many years on the planet, I still have trouble paying attention to some Life Lessons. Hydration is one of them. I try to be good and keep pounding down the water, but sometimes like yesterday, I totally ignored water and all it could do for me if I just took a drink once in awhile.
But that's what cramps are for I guess; to remind me in an instant of agonizing wakefulness of how repetitively stupid I was.
"You dumb ass, you did not drink enough water yesterday and now look at your sorry ass self; your face all twisted up, your legs locked, toes locked, and what's worse you had been enjoying a really really cool dream."
My brain snorted derisively and finished, "Might as well get up asshole, you ain't sleeping comfortable anymore this night."
I rush to the kitchen knowing that sucking down water now will have no immediate effect on the cramps. This evil cycle will have to play itself out. "But definitely take a drink dimwit, the water will eventually ease your pain.... sometime tomorrow". I could hear my mind chortling in the background.
I had to chuckle as I re-read this. Some nights were not meant to sleep through I guess, fun dreams or not.
You may return to your regularly scheduled program now...................................
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What kind of music would dovetail with the whiny little rant above?
I opened up YouTube Premium and there was a suggested tune for me. It was Anita Hardcok's Banned 1940s song, "It Isn't Gonna Eat Itself". Reading the words "Banned", I was curious how low the bar was for a tune from the 1940s to be struck from the airwaves. So I played it.
Let's just say, if one of those 1990s Parental Advisory tags were available in the 1940s, this song would most likely have more than one. It's Crude. It's Rude. And I love it. Maybe the Good Ole Days really were the Good Ole Days after all.
The eighth grade me would have loved this song. Hell, the 73 year old me agrees.
I had some Cortisone injections in the 1990s for issues I was having with my right elbow. Overuse and abuse caused it. The cortisone shots were extremely painful and in the end did not do squat for the pain. I decided Cortisone was way overrated, deciding I wouldn't go through that ever again.
Flash forward to my burgeoning Old Fart career in the present. I have enjoyed overwhelming pain in my knees for at least the last 5 years. At first I thought I could tough it out. After all, toughing it out had a damn good track record. Ignore it and eventually it will go away.
That was before I had accepted being an old man who now realizes that any new pains are likely to move in for the duration and if I am really lucky , they will drag along some of their distant pain relatives to move in also. I accept now, there is pain and discomfort that is most likely payment extracted by my body for taking it for granted for so many years.
I was called into my doctor's office a couple of weeks ago. He was concerned about a blood test I had just had. I went in for the meet. He told I had tested positive for Hepatitis B. He quizzed me hard. Had I been engaging in dangerous behaviors with drugs or , Gasp, sexually? I assured him I had not. But being a smart ass, I said something to effect of , "Well, I saw a monkey the other day that I knew wanted me. And I almost caved. But no Doc, we did not hook up. My wife frowns on that behavior. I always come home with banana breath."
The look on his face was hard to read. He ignored my pitiful play for some humor and said, "Well, it must be a false positive then, The only way to tell is to order up another blood test, but a test specific to Hepatitis, and not a general wider range generic blood test."
I said okay and then asked, "Are we Done?" His only interest at that point seemed to see me out the door. Then he asked, " Any other issue, complaints, questions?"
It was a generic covering bases kind of question. I looked at him. "Yeah , my knees. They are driving me bonkers. I don't walk anymore if I can sit and even sitting hurts".
The Doc asked me to walk down the hall, turn around and return. I did my best, but it was more of a gimpy limp than a walk. He reckoned it was finally time for me to see an orthopedist and why hadn't I taken his advice the first time he mentioned it 2 years ago? I had no good answer. I just glared at him and mumbled, "Yeah I was a bonehead, but if all he wants to do is cut into me, I'm outta there."
Doctor A didn't say anything. He looked at my chart on his computer screen. He then told me he had not even brought up knee replacement, he just wanted me to see an orthopedist, nothing else. He followed up with, "It looks like you may have bone on bone arthritis. Cortisone shots might help. If nothing else, I am scheduling X-rays and once that is done, someone will contact you. ...... Now, get out of my office.
He smiled. I smiled. I left.
On the way home, my attention was taken up by the positive result for Hep B blood test. I stopped thinking of x-rays and bone doctors. A day or so later, I received a text setting up the X-rays for my knees. I soon had an appointment on the following Friday with an Orthopedist over to Saco, about an hour away.
The next Friday, I found the Orthopedic offices in a industrial park behind a scrape yard in Saco, Maine. Not the usual medical office set up. When I went in, there was no one in the waiting room. I signed in, sat down, and cursed myself because I had not brought my phone in ....Before I could finish chastising myself, a nurse type woman dressed in appropriate nurse type garb asked me to follow her.
I had spoken with the Orthopedist as he poked my knees and looked at my X-rays. He agreed with Dr. A's diagnosis and asked what I wanted to do. It was indeed bone on bone arthritis. He advised cortisone shots in the beginning with some Physical Therapy. He never mentioned knee replacement. I nodded and said let's try it. His assistant already had 2 syringes ready and waiting. Bing Bang Boom, before I could catch my breath he was finishing applying the 2nd band aid. He shook my hand and left the room. The whole visit lasted less than 10 minutes when I found myself outside walking , not gimping back to my car.
What just happened?
The shots were not painful, not really. I barely noticed them. This happened last Friday. I have been almost totally pain free since. I have gone for a walk, worked in the yard, and shook my money maker to a Youtube playlist while I cleaned up the kitchen.
Just when I have decided the Medical Industry is only good for picking my pocket, something comes along that makes me eat crow.
Maybe now I can stay ahead of the pain by not being so sedentary. Maybe even attempt riding my bikes. Nothing would make me happier.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................
* AND a BIG BTW - the original positive test for Hep B was indeed a False Positive. Hallelujah !
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I figured the song I danced to in the kitchen would be an appropriate symbol of how much better my knees feel now.
Here is Gangsta Grass, a group who really can't be pigeonholed cleanly. Please enjoy "Nickel and Dime Blues". Play it loud and don't try to ignore the urge to tap your feet or even better, do some shit kicking, heels up dancing wherever you might happen to be.
It was the summer of 1970. I had just graduated from Charlotte Hall Military Academy. Growing up in a household that encouraged early deployment from the nest, I was already free to pursue anything I wanted as long as I showed up ready for college in September. Rather than spend the summer at home in Maine as I had before, I chose to deal with the dysfunction of Snake's family rather than the dysfunction of mine. I stayed in Bethesda, Maryland and crashed on the couch in his family's basement.
As it turned out, a prediction my English teacher wrote in my junior year yearbook came home to roost during those warm days that summer. Degeneration came, but I was too busy to notice. I thought I was having fun:
These are critical Times
Degeneration is around the corner
Watch!
M D Stremba
In retrospect, it would have probably been a smarter move to leave for Maine and miss the madness I allowed myself to get into. I had a Helluva time, but well, along with the fun, there was the un-fun that came along for the ride.
Snake and I abused drugs; lots of drugs; lots of different kinds of drugs; drugs that we shot into our arms; drugs that made us see the world melt and people turn into beings from Outer Space. We also worked 5 days a week, weather permitting. We were part of Snake's Grandfather's painting crew. We worked hard and we were paid shit.
We decided to invest in larger quantities of drugs so we could not just get high for free, but make a little cash on the side. Our plan was to buy a quarter pound of pot and a quantity of LSD. Along with 3 or 4 cases of beer we'd buy on the way, our goal was to set up a small retail concern down at Rock Creek Park in Washington DC on the weekends.
P Street Beach at Rock Creek was a happening spot in the summer. Hippies and random groups of straight folks gathered in droves. They enjoyed picnics, played softball, tossed Frisbees, jammed with Guitars, Banjos Harmonicas and Bongo drums.
These hard charging partiers were gonna get thirsty. And many folks would seek to feed their heads. It was Snake's and my goal to help them facilitate that vision and quench that thirst. It was the 2nd weekend we set up shop at the fringes of the ball fields, I realized it wasn't just Hippies and freaks who wanted pot and LSD.
We sold a bunch of Purple Micro Dots to a suburban housewife who had two kids on leashes. I had never seen kids on leashes before. Seeing this while high on Acid caused some confusion in my brain at the time. Did she really have her kids on leashes? Were there two kids or only one. After she left, I wondered if maybe they were indeed dogs and and my mind was making up the whole thing? The next weekend, she came back without the kids /dogs on leashes and bought some joints. Nice lady. She'd pass for a Soccer Mom today.
We sold joints for a $1, ice cold cans of Papst and Schlitz beer for a $1, and LSD for $1 a hit or 3 hits for $2. The problem we ran into was, we did not know shit about selling drugs. We only knew how to abuse them. It took awhile and learning some restraint before we started to make any profit. But profit we did. Not much maybe, but there was always more cash in our pockets when we left at end of the day than when we came in with that morning.
Meanwhile we did all this high on one drug or another. The weekends became a blur of LSD trails, melting faces, or chest heaving Meth binges. I didn't come down until the end of July.
At some point in late July I became depressed. Having too much fun had some side affects. I woke up one morning after a 36 hour Meth binge. My mouth was dry and cracked. I had to pry my eye lids open, and even then, the gooey haze that had built up over the previous 36 hours took its sweet ass time dissipating. Once my vision improved, I remember I looked over at Snake passed out next to the coffee table which was cluttered with half empty beer cans, Pot roaches, and a couple sets of works laying in the ashtray full of cigarette butts.
I grabbed one of the beer cans and gently shook it. Good, Still some beer in it. I had a desperate case of desert mouth. I tipped up the can and drained it into my mouth. Several cigarette butts hitched a ride with the stale beer. I retched, spit out the butts, the beer and whatever else had been deposited in that can. I have never sucked down a stale can of beer since that day. Just writing about it makes my stomach flip.
That was when I made a decision that changed my life. I began gathering what things I had or remembered I had. I found my duffel bag and stuffed everything in it. I found Snakes and my stash of drugs, split what was left of the pot and the Acid in as close to half as I could and stuffed it deep down in the duffel also. I left the Meth. I was done with Meth.
Without saying goodbye to anyone, I went out to Old Georgetown Rd, stuck out my thumb and hitchhiked back to Maine. Took me a day and a half, but man was I ever happy to see my old room in the attic, the same attic that is above me right now as I pound out this tale.
I said hey to my parents. They briefly quizzed me about my reason for coming home. I lied and as soon as possible, I went up to my attic bedroom, fell on my bed and slept for 24 hours or so. For the next week as I detoxed, I only came down to eat, shit and piss. After that first week was up, my father decided I wasn't going to lay about being useless. He hated useless. He dragged my sorry ass out of bed at the crack of dawn one morning and put me to work in the yard. I will always be grateful he did that. With clearer eyes, I was now ready for my next chapter.
Neither my dad nor my mom ever mentioned my experience again. They must have understood I had been through some kind of emotional stress. They treated me like an adult and respected my silence on the matter.
I know that I was my own savior that summer. I removed myself from the junkie lifestyle we were all slipping into. I ran into Snake the next Fall at a protest march in in Washington, DC. He had fallen deeper into the junkie lifestyle while I had escaped it. Our friendship only lasted another year or so.
______________________
I had no problem deciding what song to dovetail into this post. It is a song Snake and I considered one of our anthems that summer. Playing it over and over let us delude ourselves we were real players in the world of drug dealers. Yeah, we were legends in our own minds alright.
It was a mistake. ........... Maybe calling it a mistake is a tad strong. Call what happened as unforeseen, unpredicted; just something I found while looking for something else.
It matters little how I got here. It wasn't the trip, it's where I ended up. But I guess I need to share.
This is a backwards post today. My normal blogging process, flipped upside down. First, I found the tune. Next, I am creating a post that might only work as a background or sidekick, or maybe just end up something I added for no apparent or coherent reason.
I really fucked with my process. Before I had written a word, I found a selfie I considered pertinent and messed with it, giving that image a point, a focus, a reason for being included.
To top it all off, I apparently decided to make little sense with as many words as I could muster. I'm over fifty words into today's nonsense, and the words have not offered even a small clue what this post is about.
The images might help. They might even do the job I came to do without any need to punish anyone with words. So, I am debating if I should just let the images and the tune make my point; use the words as background decorations, black and white noise that can be read with no need to be understood. Or do I toss them out completely?
......................
Bullying is, or should I say, was a complex issue for me as a youngster. Depending on the new environment I constantly found myself in, bullying was either a top comcern out of the gate or it wasn't. The more insular communities I moved to always had the worst bullies; bullies who often ruled the playground or the walk home with real force, not just mamby - pamby push and shove contests.
I developed many defensive tactics against the bullying and the struggle to fit in as fast as possible. Being athletic opened the doors sooner. Standing up to the biggest bully in school often worked. But being smart and a library nerd was not the path to acceptance without taunts. I hated running into classmates at the libraries I often spent time in. News of my fall from grace always made it to the one asshole I didn't want to deal with. I even wrote a fictional piece about my run ins at libraries. It is called "My Oubliette". It was a flash fiction piece written as part of a weekly writing challenge.
For a very brief period I decided that being a bully was the way to find popularity. I was never a good bully. I just didn't have the nasty temperament needed to pull it off. I felt more comfortable fighting the bullies, embarrassing them and sometimes, when confronted by more than one, running.
It wasn't until I went to Charlotte Hall Military Academy that I embraced the bully life style. Hazing (the PC name for Bullying)...
Bullying was an integral part of the life at the school. Everyone was bullied at some point, usually in their first year. Those K-dets who didn't smarten up and join in the fun often became targets as long as they were there.
I put up with it my first year. I had no choice. My junior year though was a different matter. I occasionally joined in on the Hazing/Bullying, but more often than not I stepped around it and concentrated on defending myself from the residual taunting from my first year. A few fights and I had moved up the Apex ladder. I was mostly left alone from then on. But I would be lying if I claimed I never bullied anyone. And I won't argue the point that because hazing was everywhere, it was okay.
Bullying is never okay.
Keep it tween the ditches .................................
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Like I mentioned at the start of this post, I found the song for it before I had even considered what to write. I felt this song deserved my attention. I had never heard of Gaz Brookfield. "Be a Bigger Man", a song about bullying is excellent. I experienced both sides of Bullying. I have no shame, just regrets that for that short period I became that which I detested.
I must have come by my rabid, frothing at the mouth interest in all things political early on in my childhood. The careful political nurturing I received later by my parents cemented my addiction to what our country should stand for, how our country should work, and why, after all these years, we are still collectively and continuously screwing up this wonderful country we have.
Like many rug rats, I was read to by parents and my older brothers. I grew up surrounded by books, child and adult. The two books I remember the most from those early years was The Little Engine that Could and Yertle the Turtle, by Dr. Seuss. The Cat in the Hat was right up there also, but not like "Little Engine" or "Yertle the Turtle".
My mom told me when I picked the bedtime story as a little tacker who had yet to read on his own, it was usually "Little Engine" or "Yertle". It seems odd that now, some 70 years later, I notice that both books emphasize two of my most deeply embedded character pluses or minuses. The Little Engine That Could was about tenacity and never giving up. Yertle the Turtle was about power and how it corrupts.
The book was banned in several panty bunching locales for being "too Political".
"Yertle the Turtle, a children's story by Dr. Seuss, is more than just a whimsical tale. It's a potent allegory exploring themes of power, ambition, and the dangers of unchecked authority."
As I remember the story, Yertle was a big turtle in a small pond. He ruled over a kingdom as far as he could see. Everything was going well when Yertle got the idea that if he was ruling over everything he could see; he thought, "Why don't I find some high ground so I can see more and rule a bigger kingdom.
The problem his underlings pointed out was they lived in a pond. There was no high ground in a pond. Other than a swamp, a pond was about as low as one could go.
"Hmm", Yertle thought, "I wonder?"
He scratched his pebbly turtle chin. "How can I get higher?" None of his underlings or sycophants had an answer.
Yertle set to pondering this question of ruling all that he surveyed. One morning, after his breakfast of algae bloom sprinkled liberally with tadpoles and water bugs, he summoned his assistant.
"If I am to rule over all that I survey, I need to be higher so I will know how big my kingdom is. It has to be bigger than this small pond."
Yertle then demanded that several turtles from his flock stand on each other's backs. After quite a few had successfully scrambled onto each other's back, Yertle slowly climbed to the highest turtle and took a lay of the land.
The view pleased him immensely, but something was not right. He knew immediately what was wrong. He had not gained enough height. Surely there was more to his kingdom than this paltry pond and swamp. Yertle demanded that more and more of his citizens stack themselves up.
When there was a turtle stack that became lost in the distance heights, Yertle slowly climbed up the turtle stack until he found the top. He was just beginning to understand how big his kingdom was, when one of the slackers he had ordered to be part of the stack shifted. The tower of turtles began to sway this way and then sway that way, like a snake climbing a tree trunk. The sway, at first mild and almost hypnotic. began to sway in a faster and more extreme way. It was out of control. Every turtle on it clawed frantically for a grip on the turtle beneath them ..........
The stack of turtles fell and fell hard. Yertle ended up in the swamp at the end of the pond with mud in his eye and a reed stuck up his ass. That is where you will find him today; ruling over a couple of dead beat frogs and a hostile dragonfly.
Just so you know, I re-capped the story from memories of many bedtime readings of the tale. So cut me some slack if it is not perfectly correct. I covered the high notes at least.
I heard some scuttlebutt about Trump loving this tale once he was able to understand it in the 8th grade. My source went on to contend, Donnie always wished he had written it as it was the game plan he knew he was destined to follow. ......... And don't believe him when he often claims that he actually wrote the story and that sleaze bag Seuss plagiarized it from him.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................
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I was sure there would be problems locating a tune to go with this post that wasn't something from "Romper Room". I was wrong. I found a tune I had not heard yet. Here is "Yertle the Turtle", by the Red Hot Chili Peppers .......... Turn it up to WOW. It's the Chili Peppers dude.
