Licking the Spoon

Ever since smoking my first joint in the 1960s, I have always enjoyed ingesting Pot, Hooch, the Doob, in all of its various choices and manifestations. 

Smoking Pot in pipes, hookas, bongs, waterpipes, rolled joints, rolled blunts and eating it all have their individual appeals. Each delivery system seems to bring with it a differing kind of high. 

The majority of the time, I smoke joints or blunts. Only over the last five years have I begun to eat it on a semi regular basis.

Very rarely over the last 60 years or so, have I turned my back on an opportunity to get high. A chance encounter with an old friend, spark up a doob dude. Some stranger passes you a joint, take a pull and pass it on. That has been the pot experience I have tried to maintain these past many years. 

My first experience eating  cannabis was not the pleasant experience I had imagined it would be. All the hip Freaks said the best highs came from eating it. Brownies were the popular vehicle to use. In 1970-71, I shared rented townhouse off Perring Parkway in Towson, Maryland. My roommates, Bean, Bebop and I decided it was time to try marijuana brownies.

We sifted out all the seeds we had accumulated from the few pounds of pot we had bought over the previous months and ground the stems up. With each grind, we removed as much of the fur and chaff as possible. When we had the pile of pot powder to a point we thought might be edible, we took all of it and mixed it into 2 or 3 store bought brownie mixes.

By that time in our college lives, we were all decent cooks and the brownies came out perfect. After they had cooled, Bean cut them up into squares. I will always remember the shock of biting into that first brownie. I looked at Bean and Bebop and their faces looked like I felt. These were the worst brownies I had ever eaten. They were sweet and all, but it was like eating small hay bales. The three of us, with some serious help from milk out of the fridge, managed to eat that first one. 

Before we ate any more, we discussed just how many we thought we would need to eat to get a buzz. At this point I am sure none of us wanted to eat many more. Bean and Bebop decided they could handle one more and then wait to see what happened. Because I was always the smartest one of the trio, I decided it would take more than two, so I ate two more for a running total of three.

A half an hour later, we still had not felt the buzz we were sure was coming. BeBop said he was done and he went upstairs. Bean decided he could handle one more. Again, because I was the smartest one, I ate two more for a total of 5. After an hour, neither Bean nor I thought we were feeling any buzz. Bean said he was done and rolled a joint. I ate one more because well, I was the smartest one of the three of us.

Okay. More minutes pass. Bean says he thinks he is feeling the pot, but because he smoked part of a joint, he is not sure if it was the brownies or the joint. I am sure I am not getting off, but the thought of another mini hay bale in my mouth was too much. I told Bean to pass the joint. Just as I finished exhaling that first toke, the brownies kicked in.

I do not remember anything of substance from that moment until about 30 hours later when I woke up on my bed with no clothes on except my shoes and suffering the worse case of desert mouth I can remember ever having. My stoned condition continued into the next day, but at least I could function. Bean said I had slept for over 24 hours.

I never ate Pot brownies again until I began baking them for my wife in 2017 when she was going through chemotherapy. This time I did it right. I extracted Hash oil out of some of my bud and came up with a recipe that has no obnoxious taste and is easy to properly dose as I cut the brownies into 10 gram pieces. BA uses one or one and a half to help her sleep. Me, because I still ingest Pot for fun, I eat four to get a good bake on and still have an ability to function. Any more than 4 and it is a crap shoot whether I can function or become a mumbling fool.

Which brings me to the crap shoot that is licking the bowl and spoon after putting the two batches of brownies in the oven. There are no conveniently separated 10 gram pieces to pick just the right number for a predictable result. No, licking the bowl means my day from that point on may or may not be mine to control. 

I actually started this post while the brownies baked and just after licking the bowl. I left entirely too much mix in the bowl. Mistake? Hmm...... Maybe, maybe not. All I know is I lost the rest of the day. Instead of tying up various loose ends, I created new ones to confuse my next day with. 

No worries. Retirement is all about being free to do nothing and being happy with the result. 

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

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I have been waiting for an excuse to use this song for a post. "California Sober" by Billy Strings and Willie Nelson. The song has it all, great pickin, great grinnin and the harmony is something special. Play it loud and stomp your feet.

It's Pluto Day

For you folks who have more than a passing interest in our solar system, it was 95 years ago today that Pluto was discovered and became a card carrying member in good standing in the planetary circle we call our solar system.

I am not sure what Pluto did to fall out of favor, but it must have done something that pissed off the IAU (International Astronomical Union). After 74 years of faithful and loyal service, in 2006, Pluto was unceremoniously demoted and kicked out of the cool planet club. 

A probable scenario might have been about a mealy mouthed astronomer from the ghettoes of Berkeley, Stanford or maybe Harvard who wanted attention. He or she took it out on poor Pluto at some hi falutin hoe down the IAU threw every year. The claim was "... it didn't meet the definition of a planet".  

...... Right..... Yesterday it was a planet. Today it isn't?

 So technically I guess, there was a ceremony of sorts, one meant to drive home the shame and embarrassment of being told you are not cool enough anymore to still hang with the Big Kids. But hey, you still get to sit close by . 

There was another birth in 1930. 1930 was the year Walt Disney introduced the world to Pluto, his ever lovable and loyal fuck up of a dog. I thought at first, one was named for the other. Apparently it was a coincidence. The IAU claimed they wanted to continue the time honored tradition of using Ancient Roman Gods and named the new planet Pluto, god of the Underworld.

Walt explained his choice of Pluto goes back to when he was young spending time on a farm. There were farm dogs everywhere. His favorite dog was named Pluto.

Hmm.  ............... Yeah, ..Hmm.............. Just a coincidence they say? Nah, don't buy it.

I cannot recollect who said it, but I am almost sure it has been said at the least a few times at the least.  

"There are no consequences, it's all of the plan."  

Somewhere, somewhen, some future, this will or is already part of a very dark conspiracy made up so someone can feel worse than they did before they read it the first time. 

I call it feeding their Goth.

Later .................................................

__________________________

I figured a Goth tune might be on target here. I checked some out and decided on a hybrid Goth song. Originally written and recorded by Nine Inch Nails, here is "Hurt" with Johnny Cash covering it better than the original. This song became his Eulogy. It was recorded months before he passed.

Germantown, Pennsylvania

Some years ago I became interested in my family history. Like so many new interests for me, it ran its course and I moved on. I had researched what early times I could locate for both sides of my family. There was more to find regarding my father's side than Mom's. Then I found a pocket dictionary published in 1904 that belonged to my great grandmother, Mrs. E.T. Roberts. The dictionary was one of many pocket dictionaries that her husband, my great grandfather bought to hand out to customers of his feed, seed, flour and coal store. The front cover was an ad, the back cover was an ad, and inside the back cover, another ad. He wanted to make sure they knew where they got this free dictionary.

The history of my father's side I traced back to the mid 1600's when the first Roberts hooked up with William Penn and took the Quaker craze from England to Pennsylvania. The first Roberts was land granted huge tracts of land to the west of Philadelphia. 

Harsh times befell many of the Quakers before and during the Revolutionary war because of their no violence, we are peace freaks, and will not join you war types. My great, great, great grandfather was hanged for supposed treasonous collusion with the Red Coats. It was odd though. About fifteen years later the Feds gave back some of the seized properties and a annual pension to his widow with a letter apologizing for the mistake. You can read about it Here, and then again Here.. Two differing versions. The fog of war always hides the real truth.

The history I could find on Mom's side started in New England around 1840 or so when a great great grandfather hurriedly left the area under a suspicious cloud of some kind. He ended up in San Francisco and became one of the original "49ers", the nickname given to the early settlers out in the San Francisco area. He became a ship's chandler and ships carver. I have a table carved by him . A ship figurehead he carved that I thought was in the San Francisco Maritime Museum, actually ended up gracing a garden in New Jersey.( Read about that here)

So, it appears that I have long established roots in Pennsylvania; the Germantown area being Ground Zero. I would love to swing by before I croak to check out what still remains of any family connections. I know a house owned by a great, great grandfather is still standing and there are various family graves scattered over southern Pennsylvania. Maybe it is time to actually lay eyes on them.

And it is possible that I am related to the asshole who sold my father the house I live in now. His last name was Lovejoy. My great great grandfather Lovejoy was chased out of this part of New England back in Mid 19th century. I do not care if I am related to the Lovejoy who sold my family this house in the mid - 1960s. He was a class A jerk.

So there it is, another effort to demystify my ancestral past. I do not have proof of much of it, but with the proof I do have, the assumptions made cannot be too far off.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................

____________________________

After another frustrating search for an appropriate tune, at the last moment before I just picked a song from my favorites, I stumbled on "Family Tree", by the Crisptones. I have never heard of the Crisptones. It seems I have never heard of many bands. The tune and voice reminds me of James Taylor. Very nice song. Volume? Well for once, loud would be too much I think. Moderate to soft; it's that kind of song.

Anti - History

During the last two weeks of October, I was overwhelmed by a horde of the tiny, no see um kind of ticks. They were so small, the only way to spot them was by careful scrutiny. I could not feel them crawling around. I ended up with 3 bites that became ugly for a time. It is February now and  thankfully, I do not appear to have suffered any long term effects; this time anyway.

I hate ticks. I am not scared of them, I just fucking hate them. Twice now in the last decade, I have had to deal with two tick borne illnesses. The repercussions had a major impact on my overall health for, oh, I guess the last 7 years. Combined with having had Covid, I am just now beginning to feel better. Other than the chronic fatigue that still lingers, and the fact I am an Old Fart, I am beginning to feel like my old self.

Well, "feeling like my old self" is relative I guess. Maybe it is more of a situation that I imagine I am "feeling like my old self". And that is all that matters. If I learned anything this last election cycle, it is if you repeat a lies long enough, they are liable too become accepted facts.

I originally sat down intent on writing about History. Not the actual content of our History, rather the manipulation of History by a wide variety of people and special interests who want to create the future they hope for by altering perceptions of present tense events as they unfold. It seems it is easier to twist the Reality of the Present than adjust it later.

Today, History is being written by a hodge podge of Lunatics, Conspiracists, Political Partisans, and a growing number of AI contributors. Even past history is being re-written by the new idiots and nincompoops with an eye to the new twists about the future they have wet dreams over. It is nothing new, but today, it is not just tiresome, it is completely out of control.

Since the Gilded Age of the 1870's, 1880's and 1890's when America's first real oligarchs became the power behind the politics, the manipulations of facts and truths have never been more egregious until now. It's interesting that the Gilded Age and the Age of Trump are both occurring during huge populist movements. The Rockefellers, the Mellon's, the JP Morgan's had the power and used the media they owned to convince their wage slave Americans how well off they were.

Manipulating History has been around since we humans began flocking together. With the advent of the Internet, controlling history, past and present, has never been more insidious and damaging as it is now. And it has never been easier to accomplish. It is a huge mistake and naïve to continue to rely on history to honestly cover just the basics of an event.  I am now calling what passes for History on the Internet, "Anti-History".

It was the introduction of "Alternative Facts" during the Orange Felon's first term that kicked the "Anti-History" trend of today into overdrive. That "Anti-History" is now again cruising at warp speed is no coincidence. The unadulterated facts of the events that got us to the here and now are being lost, tossed, changed or ignored purposefully to affect the short term goals of some really evil people.

This purposeful elimination of facts from our mutual historical and present day records seems to have staying power. The Internet has given the lazy, greedy smallminded sociopaths of the world, the chance to make up their own historical record that personifies and satisfies their emotional self serving view of the world. We have begun to not only construct our own realities. We are believing our twists on reality as true just because we believe in them. Facts no longer matter.

It boggles my mind how stupid the collective "we" have become because of the technology we have embraced.

There is hope I guess. Maybe when we are tired of creating a doomsday future in our minds, we will find a way to appreciate what we have instead of inventing the nightmare world we fantasized about.

Keep the skiff upright ...............................

_________________________

Lately I have been creating playlists on YouTube. It has been very easy and seamless to create random lists while also creating specific lists of groups or genres. Yesterday and today, I have been collecting tunes by "Ferocious Dog", a folk punk(?) group from across the Big Pond. They mix a punk attitude into an engaging Celtic / Sea Shanty style. Lots of violin, guitars, and some Scottish pipes. These guys have definitely found a way to re-introduce really old genres with fresh messaging for today. They are extremely political. Here is a two-Fer , "American Dream" and "Fake News".

Playing it loud is recommended for full effect. But it is up to you.

The Blue Diner

No one except Mike remembers when George first stopped by the Blue Diner on East Avenue. It was over a year ago when Mike was just gearing up to start his day. He noticed a bearded man wearing a tattered Red Sox cap who seemed to be waiting for the doors to open. Mike opened the door.

"You're a brave man wearing that cap in this town bub."

George smiled.

 "Yeah I guess so.....You got Internet hook up?" 

Every week day from then until last week, George would show up at 5:30 AM and park his butt at the same table facing East Avenue. While Mike fetched his coffee and a Danish, George would reach into the tired messenger bag he always carried and either pull out a laptop or the Daily News. George would nurse the coffee and sometimes eat the Danish.

George wasn't much for conversation. His name and the fact he came from somewhere near Boston originally was about all Mike learned about him those first few weeks. He did not ask questions. If George wanted to share, he would share.

Winnie, Mike's wife and nosy waitress, could not stand it. She had to know everything about the regulars. George had been coming in awhile now. It was time to stop the indifferent treatment the walk-ins received.  One morning she was re-filling his coffee cup. George was paying her no mind. His fingers were busy on the keyboard of his laptop. 

She finished filling his cup. Instead of moving on, she stood with the coffee pot in one hand, the other hand parked insolently on her hip, and stared over her glasses at him. Her intimidating presence finally broke George's concentration and he looked up at her. 

"So George, what is it you do here in New York?"

She sat down in the seat across the table from him. George straightened, adjusted his glasses and looked across the table at Winnie.

"I'm a staff reporter over at the Journal." 

Winnie leans in. “Been there long?” 

“Well no. Just started a couple of months ago.” 

“What does a staff reporter at the Journal do?” 

George's brows furrowed. He is not sure if he should answer; not sure whether it’s any of her business. Just then Mike tunes up. 

“Oh don’t mind her George. If she’s poking in your business, it means she likes you. Tell her to pound sand.” 

Winnie shoots Mike the look. He grins, and goes back to stacking coffee cups. Flinging Mike a final dark look, Winnie stops the interrogation, gets up to continue her round of coffee refills.

Some minutes later, George stands. At the register he pays his bill. He turns to leave and stops. Turning back around, he says to Winnie, “A staff reporter writes the crap no one else wants to.” And he walks out the door. 

Winnie turns to Mike, sticks out her tongue and flips him the bird.

Days turn into weeks, weeks into months. George became a fixture at the Blue Diner. His background began to come to light through short conversations and casual remarks. An ex-reporter for the Boston Globe, he came to New York City after an ugly divorce. He had lost the house, his boat and worst of all, his ex, out of spite, took his dog. By all indications though, George was happier now. Or so he claimed.

Last week George sat at his usual table. Mike was sitting on a stool at the counter watching the city go to work. A woman walked by and stopped in front of George’s table. She knocked on the window to catch his attention. They looked at each other through the glass. She hurried inside and sat down at his table. A tense, hushed discussion followed. After she left, George quickly stood and headed to the register. Winnie asked who she was.

" My ex. She finally found me. I'm fucked now."

"What do you mean George?"

George stared at his change and mumbled, "Never mind. See ya later."

Winnie was suspicious. Just how acrimonious was their divorce? She decided to drop the dime before his ex did. She didn't care what Mike thought.

George left that morning and was never seen in the Blue Diner again. 

A few days later Mike was refilling sugar jars and watching the early morning news. George had been found floating in the East River. He had been beaten severely and garroted. The news story went on to say that speculation was he had been tracked down and killed for a series of articles he wrote in the Boston Globe about Mob activities in Rhode Island. Police were investigating.

Mike turned to Winnie.

"I thought we agreed to not make that call." 

She looked at Mike. 

"We need a vacation. Now we can afford one." 

Mike frowned, shrugged and thought:

"Damn women. When they're right, they're right."

___________________________

"George" - Flash Fiction / Changed the title to "The Blue Diner"

• Originally written in the 1st person on 3/12/2010 
• Re-write - changed it to 3rd person

____________________________________

What music goes with betrayal. Apparently too many tunes to count. Now to sift through some .......... Shit. After too many tastes, I gave up on the betrayal association. I chose "songs about diners" and finally.........

I found or is it I remembered a tune by Tom Waits about a diner. Here is Tom Waits with "Eggs and Sausage", off his album,  "Nighthawks at the Diner".

Surviving the No Write Zone

If I want to write more often, I need to find a solution when nothing to write about comes to mind ...... my mind can become a crippled blank and no amount of doob, alcohol, or other stimulants will bring me out of my funk.

It it pisses me off that when neither pen, paper, nor computer are nearby, I can think of a hundreds topics as I move through my day. Then I sit down determined to write, I stare at the blank screen, which I guess is akin to contemplating one's navel, sitting pool side in a lounge chair. A mushy void develops between the ears and numbness clogs the synapses.

The other time I think of topics is in the middle of writing the topic I came to write at the moment. I used to shine them on. I would often remember them, but only after I had left the computer and was doing something else.

Now when I sit down to write, if another topic or twist on the topic comes to mind, I write a few hints on another page to re-inspire me when nothing seems all I have. I just started the new page a week ago and there are already 20 -30 prompts saved to it. I may never expand on all of them, but it's nice to know they are there when I find myself stranded in the black hole I call, the "No Write Zone".

Later .............................

______________________________________

I chose Soundgarden's " Black Hole Sun", not because its lyrics are relevant, but because they are not. When I am stuck reving my engines and going nowhere, nothing I think of seems relevant. I often feel I have fallen into an empty black hole.

Enjoy.

Aunty Internet

I ran across the meme below on Facebook the other day. My opinion is it's Bullshit. From what I can tell, the Internet has not raised the collective intelligence or awareness of the population. Instead of asking Aunt Linda, now they ask Aunty Internet where a much higher quantity of misinformation exists than in old Aunt Linda's brain.. After a career of selling and fixing bicycles, It is obvious to me now many youngsters don't want information. They want to be entertained. Facts and Truth are no longer relevant in many lives of the young.

Anyone who allowed themselves to constantly be misinformed into adulthood, is most likely going to be that same person today. The same reason for self inflicted Dumassery back in the day still rings true today. ....... Lazy intellects enabled by older lazy intellects.

If I asked my parents a question they felt I could have found the answer for myself, they would say something like, "What are all these dictionaries, atlases, almanacs and encyclopedias for? Look it up."

The meme is a poorly thought out assumption; an unfair generalization from a one dimensional digital mind passing judgement on the analog minds that came before. If anything, Aunty Internet has caused a measurable drop in Humanity's overall IQ. Aunty Internet has made us dumber.

I would like to see the generations of children and adults raised with Aunty Internet function without her. I guarantee I could do without her if I had to. I still know how to open a book, tell time on a windup analog clock , and which end of a shovel to put in my hands without watching a video.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................

____________________________

Today's tune has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do the subject of the post. I completely forgot, lost touch, lost track of this great Steely Dan tune. It is off their "Pretzel Logic" album. Here is "East St. Louis Toodle oo".

Roadhouse Blues

My good friend K is not a fan of the Doors. He had some mealy mouthed excuse I don't remember. That's okay. I don't particularly care for some of the bands he likes. It's the way of the world.

We were heading to the Kingdom Trails in Vermont; must have been over a decade ago at least. We were going to ride trails til we gave out or the trails did. "Roadhouse Blues" came on the radio. I reached over and cranked it up to WOW. Before K could turn the volume down, I had a big fat doob pulled out and was firing it up. He looked at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I said:

"It's a long ago rule cast in stone, that if "Roadhouse Blues" comes on, a joint is found if one is around to be found and the highest volume available is cranked."

He went back to watching out where we were going. He was driving after all. I took a huge hit and tried to pass it to him.

K looked back at me and waved the joint off. He didn't try to turn the music down; he went back to watching the highway. I shrugged and took another monster hit and rocked out. 

I guess it was after my 3rd or 4th hit, K turned. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. He reached for the joint with his index finger signaling it was his turn with the doob. I handed it over. We both were rocking now. We rocked hard until the song ended. K handed me what was left of the joint. It was nothing but a roach. I had forgotten "Roadhouse Blues" was 4 minutes long. 

Smoking Pot and Mountain Biking are inextricably entwined. The origins of the current sport of Mountain Biking can be traced to California in the 1970s. A group known as the Lakespur Canyon Gang began regular rides on Mt. Tamalpais (Mt Tam) in the Lakespur and Baltimore Canyon in Marin County, north of San Francisco. A bunch of stoners looking for some fun while they baked themselves into oblivion is how I heard it from some folks who actually were at least on the fringes of that original crew. 

I met Tom Ritchey, owner of Ritchey Bikes at a bike expo in Philly in 1989 I think it was, I asked him about the pot smoking. He didn't know me so he just smiled and admitted there were some guys who smoked pot. I met another one of the originals, Charlie Cunningham and shared beers at the same expo. He agreed, Pot was an integral part of the fun for sure. 

Charlie went on to be a partner with Steve Potts and Mark Slate in creating WTB (Wilderness Trail Bikes) in 1980. They started out making components and eventually began to produce frames. I still have a brand new WTB "Phoenix" frame with a very rare one off special Charlie Cunningham designed rear brake on it. I do not know what it is worth, but I am guessing some significant dollars for sure. They had a very limited run of frames with the correct bosses for those brakes.

I bought my first mountain bike in 1986. I entered my first race in 1987. I became a full time bicycle mechanic at "The Spokesperson" that same year, and in 1988 I became a partner. But it was in the summer of 1971, the rule about the song was created. I was packed into a VW Bug with 4 other stoners (We called ourselves "Freaks" back then) We were on the Washington, DC beltway weaving in and out of traffic without a care in the world and the song came on. The rest is history.

Just another case of how the Hell did we not kill ourselves back then, I will never know.

Later Gators ........................................

______________________________

After all that writing, at least the tune has been well determined. Here is "Roadhouse Blues", by the Doors. Be sure to spark one up if one is available and crank the volume to WOW!

Slippin Into Darkness

When this meme crossed my Facebook path, I immediately thought of the song, "Slippin Into Darkness", a song by the band, WAR. WAR was an under appreciated band from the late 1960s and 1970s who put out music that has stayed relevant these many years. They were political, very political. From the tales co-workers at SHOWCO told, they definitely carried big chips on their shoulders. Many main acts could be tough to work with, what with the huge egos that often accompany the rise to fame and fortune.

I did not mean to take a fork so early here. Back on topic now.

Carl Sagan was originally a super talented astronomer and planetary scientist. As his plain speak explanations of science gained popularity, it became obvious Carl was so much more than an astronomer and planetary scientist. His total immersion into studying the heavens opened his mind to question not just the stars , but the why's and what's of our relationship to the Universe in general. His speeches, essays, and books transcended the nuts and bolts of scientific notions. Carl was able to tell us how insignificant and small we were in comparison to the Universe we existed in without any hint of condescension. He told us how it was according to the best science at the time.

I did not know it, but Carl wrote the hard Sci/Fi novel, "Contact" in 1985. It was the basis for the excellent movie of the same name that premiered in 1997. I have seen the movie more than a few times now. Every time I catch something I missed in previous viewings. Excellent movie that brings up, not just possible scientific concerns, but also some of the spiritual, philosophical and yeah, even religious possibilities.

I guess it was about the same time the movie came out that I began to consider the nuances in Carl's essays and speeches. I did not read many, but I decided he was now a "Futurist", a concept I was first made aware of in Isaac Asimov's Sci/Fi "Foundation" novels and Frank Herbert's, "Dune" novels. In both, the idea of manipulating the present to achieve a historical reality in a far future were at the center of both.

Of course the top dog of prognostication of the Western World would be Nostradamus. He came the closest I guess to foreseeing where we have ended up. Of course his writings are so cryptic, a lot of the results depend on the interpretations. Not so much with Sagan's suggestions of the future. And at least in the short term since he passed, he has been quite often right on the mark.

I looked up the above quote to see if it was incomplete, abridged, messed with. Yes, it was. I understand why. The complete quote would not fit well into the 30 second minds we have been taken over by. The complete quote is so much more profound and pertinent to the here and now. I will include it now:

“I have a foreboding of an America in my children's or grandchildren's time -- when the United States is a service and information economy; when nearly all the manufacturing industries have slipped away to other countries; when awesome technological powers are in the hands of a very few, and no one representing the public interest can even grasp the issues; when the people have lost the ability to set their own agendas or knowledgeably question those in authority; when, clutching our crystals and nervously consulting our horoscopes, our critical faculties in decline, unable to distinguish between what feels good and what's true, we slide, almost without noticing, back into superstition and darkness...

The dumbing down of America is most evident in the slow decay of substantive content in the enormously influential media, the 30 second sound bites (now down to 10 seconds or less), lowest common denominator programming, credulous presentations on pseudoscience and superstition, but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance”

( Excerpt from Carl's book, "Demon-Haunted World" - published 1995)

"... but especially a kind of celebration of ignorance"

30 years later, that is 2025 in a nutshell.

Do your best  Keepin it 'tween the Ditches .........................................

_________________________

This post's song was chosen before I even started writing it. The mangled quote at the top made me think of WAR's, "Slippin Into Darkness" from the 1970s. A reconfigured WAR is still around after 50 plus years. producing great music. Here is a version of "Slippin Into Darkness" they recorded in a bus I think in 2018.

Enjoy.

The Casandra Adams

One of my great great grandfathers was a ship's carver and ship chandler in San Francisco in the mid to late 1800's. He took wood carving commissions while working his main job of outfitting ships with supplies and such. I had been told that one of his figureheads was located in a museum in San Francisco. Years ago I tried to locate where. As it turned out, the figurehead ended up in New Jersey. 

This particular great great grandfather was named Edward B. Lovejoy, who left Maine under suspicious circumstances in the early1840's. He made his way to San Francisco and became an original "49er" just prior to the Gold Rush. He set up a ship chandlery shop and as a sideline, carved wood on commission. I have a table carved by him. It's tad beat but still beautiful. He was a master craftsman.

A local shipping magnate, a Mr. Adams, commissioned my grandfather to carve the figurehead in the likeness of his daughter, Cassandra. It would ride loud and proud on the bow sprit of his newly built  bark (barque), the Cassandra Adams. When Mr. Adams saw the finished product, he was aghast, mortified; really pissed off I imagine. His daughter's likeness was clothed in a dress that stopped above her knees. 

The righteous indignation must have been awesome to behold. Proper ladies did not show their knees to anyone back then, especially on the bow sprit of a ship. Adams refused the figurehead and commissioned another one, more in line with the moral spirit of the day; fully clothed and not dressed as a harlot, thank you very much.

The shunned figurehead sat gathering dust in my great great grandfather Lovejoy's shop until a visitor from New Jersey stopped in. Probably doing a tourist run through the docks of San Francisco at the time. He was so taken with the figurehead, he bought it and had it shipped back to New Jersey, where it supposedly resides in someone's garden today.

It is a very rare figurehead, as most of them did end up on ships. Working wooden ships from the 1800's did not usually last long. They sank or ran aground quite often as did the Cassandra Adams on its way to Tacoma, Washington in 1888.

How I stumbled onto this story all started with a promotional pocket dictionary from an other great grandfather's feed, seed, and coal store  in Germantown, Pennsylvania around 1904, the year before my father was born. But that's another tale.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................

NOTE - The Cassandra part of the story comes from the Facebook page of "The San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park".

NOTE 2 - I just found out there is a watercolor painting of the Cassandra figurehead at the National Gallery of Art. It is currently not on display, but hey I'm getting some vicarious pleasure from being related to this master carver, my great great grandfather Lovejoy.

_______________________________

Now, what to pick for music? This musical add on is becoming harder to come up with than the posts. I'll shelve this for the night and revisit it tomorrow when I am ...........

I tried to remember a specific sea shanty we sang in music class in grade school. I really liked that tune and even now, I occasionally find myself humming it. Of course when I want to dig it up from the memory banks, it is nowhere to be found.

Instead, here is a very well done version of "Wellerman", by Nathan Evans.

Can't Take It Anymore

Okay I just can't take it anymore. I have been biting my tongue and resisting political rants since I came back from that two month vacation I took from the social media jungle after the last election. I have to make some comments or I'll explode. The political me is just entirely too powerful for me to keep a total lid on it any longer.

In my attempt to keep politics at bay, I stopped reading, watching or listening to the news for the most part. That isn't working either. We have the biggest accident unfolding in my lifetime and I am telling myself to drive by it without looking? Not a chance. Not an option. For better or worse and fuck my sanity, I have to involve my mind again and not the paltry flirtations I have been using lately. I will however, do my best to not let it get out of hand like it did in the run up to the November 5 election last year.

So where and how do I start and still maintain control?

Finding that sweet spot is my quest. Reaching a balance between my version of personal peace and my version of over the top mania is going to be a tough job. For most of my life I have been struggling with mild form of Manic Depression. I really enjoy the mania usually, but always hate the depression.

To help temper my bad attitude about the current state of affairs the USA finds itself in, I offer up this funny meme from the past. It won't change anything. It might just make us laugh every time we use one of these very creative nicknames the Scots created for our pleasure. Pick one, pick them all, but be my guest, use them at all times. My favorite is "shit-spackled muppet fart"..... It kinda rolls off the tongue.

Regardless, I have an itch I have been trying to ignore for several months. Can't do it any longer. Holding it in is no longer an option.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................

____________________________

I googled "Anti-Trump Songs" and tasted roughly 30 of the ones offered. The videos were sometimes professional productions and many were just Grandma or Grandpa singing a first song on the Internet. The genres were everything from Hip Hop/Rap, Punk, Country, Metal, Rock and Folk.

I settled on a Rap tune from a 16 year old kid who recorded this 8 years ago during the first Trump Occupation, Here is The Real Red Wolf rapping his first video. Damn good effort.  

Clean Up On Aisle 9

"Mike, I saw the solar panel meme you posted on the Facebook."

Mike turned. It was Wally from over on the H Road.

" Waz up Wally? Had your sled out yet this winter?"

"Forget the sled, I wanna know why you spread lies like that meme is full of."

Immediately Mike realized a possible reason some folks post under a pseudonym. He stared at Wally:

"Damn Wally, what meme you talking 'bout? I ain't been on Facebook for awhile now."

"You know, the meme about the solar panels in space and how you claim they work just fine when you know damn well or should know it's too fuckin cold in space for them to work at all."

Mike was still struggling to remember the meme. He posted so many, it was impossible to remember one unless it was yesterday or maybe the day before. But to keep Wally happy, he put on his concerned contemplative look, stroked his beard like he was really trying to remember. He stopped mid stroke:

"No..... No. Wally, I just ain't remembering. Don't matter though. We're both grocery shopping here.  I just want to get it done and head home. How about you? "

"Well, I ain't here to shop for groceries. I followed you in cuz  I am just sick and tired of you Liberals trying to tear this country down and turn it Commie is all."

Mike stepped back and his eyes widened. Oh no, Wally slammed down the "Commie" card. "Here we go", he thought.

"You been chewing on this awhile ain't ya? ................ I don't mean no disrespect Wally, but Market Basket ain't really the place for this kind of conversation.  Wouldn't you agree?"

Wally shifted his weight from one foot to the the other and looked at the floor. He clenched his fists a couple of times, took a big breath, then looked Mike in the eye.

"Don't matter where we are. You're a liar and I want you to admit it."

"I ain't admittin nothin you dumb fuckin redneck."

Mike was pissed now. He knew if Wally opened his mouth one more time, there were probably going to be police involved. He grabbed his cart and reversed direction.

Wally was having none of it. He quickly moved around Mike and jumped in front of the cart . Wally did not anticipate how hard Mike was pushing that cart. Wally went down hard and the cart fell over spilling and breaking the bottle of capers in the cart. Mike threw up his hands and looked ay Wally splayed out on the deck. He flipped Wally the bird, abandoned the cart, retreating in the other direction.

Walking down the aisle, he noticed several shoppers and one very surprised store employ watching him walk toward them. As he passed the guy in the apron, he said as calm as could be:

"Clean up on Aisle 9".

_______________________

Not sure now where this came from. I just wanted to to fiddle with some dialog fiction. It is certainly tied to the hard feelings floating around the various social media sites. America is angry, afraid, and totally off  center. I imagine confrontations like this between friends, relatives, and strangers are unfolding every day somewhere in this country. 

_____________________

I dubbed around taste testing various songs. Songs about the grocery store, songs about confrontation. I traveled through so many genres, my brain became addled and locked up. ......... I took a break, then hit the music from my collection of burned CD's. ...... Didn't help.

Out of the smoke came a song from my past, the first song I ever heard while standing behind the speaker stacks at a concert that I was working for. To say I was floating 10 feet in the air that day would indeed be an understatement. My first tour with SHOWCO was the last leg of the Who's, North American "By the Numbers "Tour. I would drive many miles and back my rig in at many venues for SHOWCO. But no tour had the impact on me like that first tour. 

I wrote about the 2 day gig in Oakland here

Please enjoy the WHO and the song they opened with at every concert that tour. Here is "Won't Get Fooled Again". Sadly America has been fooled again. Hope for better days.

Ashamed of My Gender

Maybe back when I was young and numb I bought the lie that men were entitled to run this planet because they were, well, superior examples of the species over women. Luckily, my mom slapped that nonsense right out of my head early on. She was intelligent, definitely a match or foil, if you will, to the genius intellect my father was packing. 

Between the two of them I came into adulthood knowing women were men's equals and maybe even had an edge on them. Yeah, male chauvinistic behavior was rare in our house. It was often parodied, made fun of, etc. Never was serious male chauvinism passed on that gave me the impression women were inferior.

Admittedly, when hanging with the gnarly dudes, the rednecks, the bad boys, I tended to keep my mouth shut and sadly, sometimes even laughed at their degrading jokes and taunts. Then I got married. And its odd, and please don't tell my wife this, but in some respects I married my mom. Not the judgmental snobbish mom, but the intelligent, never suffer fools kindly mom. They are two peas uncomfortably existing in a different kinda pod. And I mean really, comparing Mom to my wife will not be taken kindly. My life might be in danger, .... SHH. Okay?

Over the decades that have made up my life, I have watched women make wonderful strides in bridging that gulf of subjugation and begin to take their rightful place next to, and not behind men. Progress was slow, but it was somewhat steady. As women made gains, the the chest pounding men became increasingly nervous. Now, in this new century, too many of them have turned into total assholes and are doing their best to undo years of efforts to bring women up to equal status with them.

I have been upfront about my feelings regarding women and how they have been treated for the last 40-45 years at least. I never really was able to put into words just how I felt in a clean, brief, to the point way.

Yesterday, I came across the Neil deGrasse Tyson meme above on Facebook. Yesterday, I responded and nailed down how I felt about the lopsided advantage men have over women:

There you have it. An in your face traitorous denial of the feelings too many men still harbor about women. I am just sick of backing assholes who still consider women chattel. They are not. At this point in time, they are better than men. It is men who need to rise to their level, not the other around.

Keep  it 'tween the ditches ......................................

___________________________

I sifted through  more than a few songs, looking for one that at least gave me a feeling it supported where my head was at when I wrote the post. I found it. It is simply called "The Journey to Women's Rights", by Shivani & Reedhi. The tune is catchy and the lyrics salient. The message is on target. Too bad it will most likely Fall on deaf ears. ...... Enjoy !

Led Zeppelin 1977 North American Tour ~ San Diego - Part ll Tattoos, Scooters, Avocados & Tequila

Part One - Here

Led Zeppelin's 1977 North American Tour landed in San Diego a few days ahead of the scheduled June 19th show. Having made the run from Madison Square Garden in impressive time, the first two trucks took only a little over 51 hours to drive the 2770 plus miles. The other four trucks were all accounted for by the next day. 

That left more than enough time for the truck drivers to find trouble if they were so inclined. The old saying "Idle Hands..." was never truer than during those couple of days before the San Diego show. The Devil got busy when we hit San Diego.

Usually tour schedules did not allow as much free time as the drivers enjoyed during the 1977 Zep tour. With an extra driver assigned to each truck combined with longer drive time allowances, the tour became a vacation compared to any other tour I had been on. Higher hotel bar charges resulted as bad ideas and troublemaking plans began forming in earnest. The tour from start to finish had seen madness unfold, some of it self inflicted, most it seemed at the behest of the "what can go wrong gods". San Diego was following the rhythm track laid down back in the beginning of the tour.

After that first night of non moving sleep, I was full of piss and vinegar the next morning and ready for some downtime with no trucks, no roadies, no drivers; just me, myself and I. As the day played itself out, I was glad I had detoured down that fork in the road I had in mind. 

Most of the drivers decided on starting out "tourist mode". Cabs were called and small groups set off to various ports of call around the city. The crew I was with headed to the seedy, where all the sailors flocked, part of the Mission Bay district. All kinds of fun could be found at reasonable cut throat prices. Women, Tattoos, Tittie Bars, and Greasy Spoons all in one convenient location competing for the coins in our pockets.

By mid morning I was half in the bag from drinking 3 or 4 Bloody Mary's with breakfast. Our first stop after was Tattoo Alley. Some of us wanted to get tattoos. Others were just along for support. I had planned to support, but I left the parlor sporting a 3 inch caterpillar Huffing on a Hookah. 

The image is not even a close approximation of the tattoo I walked out with. I had chosen a tattoo from the bargain list; one color and cheap. If memory serves, I might have paid as little as ten bucks for it. I had the guy etch the tat on my back so I wouldn't have to regret it in the morning.  One of the drivers from Texas commented as we left the place, "I've seen better tattoos in Jail." 

That was alright. I had succeeded in satisfying one of my early kid bucket wishes. I had lusted after tattoos since seeing the tats on the crusty old non-coms at the several Air Force Bases where I spent my early years. When they rolled up their sleeves, the tattoos let you know these were real men, manly men. I was determined to own at least one. It was Pirates and Veins in my teeth stuff Dude. Who wouldn't want a tattoo?

We began our aimless shuffling after leaving the tattoo parlor looking for that next adventure. Someone suggested renting motor scooters at a rental place down the street. I remember thinking this might not turn out well as I was halfway to shitfaced at that point. It was early afternoon, and having an accident on a scooter did not seem like a fun way to finish what was turning out to be a wonderful day. I opted out, called a cab and bailed as catcalls of , "You're a pussy, You have no balls"  followed me into the cab..

The cab dropped me at the Mission Bay Hilton.  Two young women approached me. The conversation may have gone like this:

"So, are you with the Zeppelin Tour?"

I would like to think my response was as cool as I felt in my SHOWCO Zep shirt and aviator sunglasses, but I probably mumbled something like:

"Uh, yeah. ....I drive a truck on the tour..... Why?"

One of the girls said:

"Well cowboy, we want to take you out."

Just like that, I found myself with a joint in my mouth and I was seated between the two of them in a beat up mid 1960s Chevy pickup with Kansas plates. On an 8-track player behind the seat, Zep's first album rocked us out as we  headed north on Interstate 5 a ways before splitting off  onto Hwy 101 south to head back towards Mission Bay and the hotel. 

The women did all the talking. Denise was driving. Her side kick butt dancing at shotgun was named Ellie. They were from Topeka and they had time to kill. They figured they'd try to stay ahead of the West Coast leg of the tour. I was their first victim. 

The rest of my day became a fantasy unforeseen.  I never imagined a day like this would ever actually land in my existence. I was with good looking women my age who wanted to have a good time. I hoped I was up to it. 

We drove south on Rte. 101 for awhile smoking the joint. At a stoplight, a kid in a straw hat was walking up and down the shoulder selling avocados by the dozen. Ellie waved a  five dollar bill: 

"Will this cover it?"

He smiled, took the five and handed her a bag with a dozen Avocados in it; then tried to give her some change.

"Keep it", and we sped off.

When we were back in the Mission Bay area, Denise  pulled into a drive through liquor store. 

"So, what goes with Avocados anyway."

Ellie spoke right up.

"Fish tacos and Tequila". She pointed across the highway to a food truck sporting a huge sign that informed all motorists this was the spot to find fish tacos.

I spoke up. "Never had fish tacos. They any good?"

Ellie said, "I haven't a clue. We're from Topeka ferchrisakes. Let's try them out."

Denise ordered a bottle of Cuervo Gold tequila. We crossed the highway and parked near the food truck. With our tacos, tequila and avocados, we set ourselves up on a picnic table nearby. 

I don't know about most fish tacos, but the ones we set our teeth into that evening were awesome. The sauce they used on their tacos set off a gastronomical pleasure party in my mouth. I could tell the girls were in heaven also. I opened the bag of avocados, pulled out my pocket knife and opened one up.

A conversation began between myself and the women about whether Avocados tasted better than they looked up close and personal. It took some convincing, but Denise finally took a small piece from me and reluctantly put it in her mouth. Immediately her hand came back wiggling her fingers. She wanted more.

"Damn cowboy, these are great....... How come you know avocados but not fish tacos."

"My mom. Wherever we moved when I was a kid, she found a way to get avocados."

I think we were at "Dog Beach", a beach set up for the pooches to run, cavort, and be the loose dogs they were meant to be. There were certainly a lot people out with their mutts while we watched and consumed our fish tacos, avocados and shots of Cuervo Gold Tequila.

By the time we had eaten the tacos and half of the avocados, the shots of tequila began to have their way with us. The sun was setting. I wanted to lay down; I was suddenly struck with a case of the whirlies. Too much alcohol, too much pot and on top of a full stomach, well, I was going to be in trouble if I didn’t lay down. So I did under the lone palm near the picnic table.

Denise and Ellie followed me over fussing about my condition. Did I feel okay? Was I going to puke or something? One of them left us for a moment and came back with two huge blankets. They spread the blankets out and both of them plopped their butts down all the while trying to entice me into joining them. Laying in the sand had to be uncomfortable they reckoned. For my part, I was feeling no pain. All I could think of was I needed to hold it together. 

It took a few moments, but I recovered enough to join the girls on the blankets The sun was still peeking over the horizon. Ellie handed me a shot and we all toasted being in San Diego and being young and numb. There were no cares considered that night. We were gloriously drunk and stoned. Life was never better. We sat on those blankets and eventually passed out, sleeping the night away only to be awakened by the beach raking guy the next morning. 

The girls dropped me at the hotel. I told them they could pick up back stage passes later. They waved and Denise hollered,  "We got your room number now. We'll be back later."

MEANWHILE

After I had bailed from the crew the day before, events got really out of hand. Apparently, the drivers decided it was a good idea to do some bar hopping with the scooters. I do not know how many bars they hit, but it was definitely more than one too many. 

While I was sitting at a concrete picnic table with two good looking women, tossing back shots of tequila and watching the Sun disappear into the Pacific Ocean, the scooter crew were being corralled by the cops and hauled off to jail. They had cut a swath of minor damages and close calls throughout downtown San Diego, the area around Broadway in particular.

Their scooter mania cost them plenty. Thankfully, it was only folding money they had to pay. But it could have cost them so much more had they not been hooked up to the Zep Tour. The hit and run charges were dropped. Any DUI charges were overlooked. They hadn't really taken anything or anyone out with the scooters. Most the damage was of a side swipe careening damage. The powers that be just wanted the tour out of town with as little negative publicity as possible. The drivers involved had some costs, some fines for damages and such. They were all back at the hotel when I came in after my night of tequila and avocados.  Some were even back in the hotel bar getting tuned up again for another loud night in San Diego.

I often think of that time in San Diego with the Zeppelin Tour. A magical night of drunken companionship kept me out of jail. I would run into the girls again up in Los Angeles. Our relationship changed dramatically then. 

Later ...............................

______________________________

The morning after our night on the beach, Ellie, who was charged with taking care of the music, put on an 8-track with the Eagles 1973 album "Desperado". When "Tequila Sunrise" came on, the terrible voices of a very hung over trio belted out the tune. Damn, that was funny. I think I actually stayed in tune better than the two women did. 

Anyway, here is "Tequila Sunrise, by the Eagles.