I have always admired the ability to think up riddles. My dad had that ability. He used to twist my brain every chance he had with the latest one he had thought up or one he had discovered that he thought was worthy.
I can only remember besting him once as a kid. I was grade school age, maybe 7 or 8 when he asked me:
"What is supposed to arrive, but never does?"
My brother just recently reminded me that this is how I first heard this question. He was at the dinner table that night when Dad asked it. All this time I remembered it not initially as a riddle, but something he just declared. My brother remembers because he couldn't guess the answer either.
After too many moments leaving us hanging, Dad said:
"Tomorrow never arrives. By the time it is Tomorrow, it is Today."
We all chuckled or more likely groaned. I wasn't able to shake the point; it bothered me. I knew damn well Tomorrow arrived. It was one of the certain truths I had filed away early in my life. Anything that was supposed to happen always started out as a statement regarding the future, which in my mind meant tomorrow.
I kept straining my brain to figure out how to prove that riddle wrong. It took quite awhile. We had moved and I was in another school , so at least 6 or 7 months. I finally had my Eureka moment and confronted my father with my conclusion that disproved the conclusion of the riddle, that "Tomorrow never Arrives".
"Tomorrow does arrive. Today is Yesterday's Tomorrow"
He was dutifully impressed. Though I think he might have been more impressed with my tenacious attitude of trying to one up him than the answer I came up with.
I only bring up this exchange with my father because of my life long love/hate relationship with riddles. I have solved a few, but most of the time it seems I was unable or unwilling to waste the band width in my brain solving them.
Then this morning as I filled water jugs, a riddle came to me that I think may be my one and only original riddle.
I have 6 empty jugs. I filled all 6, yet 5 remain empty. How is that possible?
It's a light weight riddle I am sure. But I have to start somewhere........ Right?
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I am constantly surprised how many songs the are under the Sun for every damn thing under the Sun. Here is "The Riddle" by Five for Fighting, another previously unknown group to me. Excellent piano. I always like good piano.
The message is right for my current state of mind. Maybe it contains messages we should all have in mind:
There are secrets that we still have left to find
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time
Yeah, that's me stylin in my white tube socks and skin tight cycling shorts. I was on a round the lake, 3 day mountain bike excursion up country Maine. I went there with my good friend J. There are many beautiful places in the world. Flagstaff Lake and the Bigelow area around the lake is certainly one of them.
But I didn't come here to replay a camping trip from 30 years ago. I have no plans to discuss my ability to disregard fashion with such laughter inducing flare. No, I came here to write about socks. Not just any socks, but all socks, which include my favorite for years, the ambidextrous tube sock. Cheap, dependable, and no other sock on the planet can hold a candle to the tube sock when it comes time to choose a sock to use as a sock puppet for that darling little rug muncher wearing the stinky diapers who is trying to let you know she's in need of a change, but instead, you make her a sock puppet.
Like most Western World inhabitants, socks, or sox, if you'd like, are an almost obligatory, there is no other acceptable option, article of clothing. Yeah, they have their uses for sure. They keep our feet warm, sometimes keep them dry, and if you have dogs, they often will entertain your pet for hours with one you thought you lost in the laundry. But the most insidious and evil use of socks is as a gift under the Christmas tree or in the Stocking hanging on the mantle.
I did not accept socks as a child, nor shoes for that matter. Up until the idea of shoes and socks had finally been forcibly infused into my soul at around age 6, I tended to lose one, the other, or both of them on a regular basis. It was first grade on Hickam Air Force Base , Hawaii, the final straw had broken that poor camel's back. I was sent home to either retrieve or find some footwear to wear at school. I do believe that was the first time I was ever in trouble at school....... Uh no, wait. .... The first time was in Kindergarten in Japan when I accidentally set off the fire alarm. Boy, did that create a fracas. I was not sent home, but I was detained until my mom came to get me.
Uh, sorry 'bout that. Got a tad off the trail I was trying to beat.....
So I have laid the groundwork for my love , but mostly hate relationship with footwear. Of course after I had finally given up open resistance to footwear, I joined the rest of the world I knew and fell into line. I began to look forward to new shoes and socks, especially ones I wanted, not ones my parents wanted.
Wanting specific styles of socks and shoes began in earnest when I was hard into puberty and trying to fit in and meet girls. The cool kids at Mark Twain Junior High sported the "Click look"; Shirts with button down collars, khaki pants, Penny loafers and most important of all, Adler wool socks that matched the day's shirt color. Yeah, we knew hip like it was part of our DNA.
Then came my period of uninspired footwear. I took to wearing shoes and socks for utilitarian purpose. I wore dress shoes for those dress up moments, work boots for those work moments, and no shoes or socks if I chose when I was on my own time. Tube socks became my default sock. I went through them like corn through a goose.
Life moved on until I discovered that Mountain Biking had finally come out of it's Hill Billy purpose oriented clothing and some style finally found it. It was the advent of the statement sock; socks that shared something about you to the world. From whimsical to outrageous clashes that hurt the eyes. Socks became a pallet upon which one could flaunt their disregard for propriety. For me it was my lizard socks. Still have them safely out of eyesight in a sock drawer.
I am in my 70's now. Over 6 years ago I made what is, I am pretty sure, an almost positive decision on my choices in foot wear for the rest of my time in this world. Socks are out. Totally out. I have not worn a sock in a shoe for over 6 years. The reason is not political, not belligerent, it is a decision made because it is just too fuckin hard and painful to put the damn things on anymore.
Yet, with the advent of chronic gout as part of my life now, I accept that shoes will be needed more than ever. I wear shoes, but no socks. I thought at first I would miss them. Seems I don't, But every so often I still hanker for a fresh new pair of tube socks.
Catch Ya'll on the Flip Side ...........................
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I know it is not Christmas, but this song about socks was the best I could do on such short notice. Here is "Socks", by JD McPherson. A clever little jazz number that made me smile. I always hated getting clothing for Christmas except the sweaters my aunt used to knit for me.
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.
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 .................................................
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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.
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 ..............................
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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.
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 ...............................
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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.
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."
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"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
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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".
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 .............................
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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.
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 ...........................................
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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".
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 ........................................
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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!
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 .........................................
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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.
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 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.
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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.
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 .................................
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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.
