When I was young, my dreams were vivid. Maybe I remember those early dreams as being vivid because I actually remembered the dreams, some of them I still hold onto. During my productive professional life, whatever it was, the dreams became memories of having them, not the specifics.What I was usually left with, were feelings of a kind of pleasure or waking unsettled and ill at ease.
Once retirement came, I had less to worry about when I was sleeping. The many problems of my day to day existence cut to a minimum, left more room in my mind to wander wherever it might while I was asleep.
I began remembering dreams again. I am not sure if remembering dreams again comes with becoming an old fart or not. I only know that having them back is one of the few perks of me being old.
Last night, I woke up laughing, the words "Self Scratching Testicles", the first words I uttered. As I floundered around looking for my glasses, I could not stop chuckling. My funny bone was off and running. As I type this, an intermittent chuckle or snort will erupt, breaking a train of thought or snap me back to the task at hand.
Seriously though, While I am not a chronic nut scratcher, I do do it. Any guy who claims they don't well, they're lying. The sac needs attention from time to time. We guys are lucky we have hands, or the occasional serious case of Jock Itch might create a sharp uptick in men doing themselves in.
Before I started this post, I considered the crassness of discussing anything related to our naughty bits. Why is today the day I even considered the notion of crassness? I had very rarely ever considered it unless it was crudely pointed out. I decided it was more important to bring attention to a problem the Genetics and Cloning folk might be interested in. By highlighting this chronic Human problem that has been around since the beginning of Humanity, it might lead to a cure if the right people were made aware of the problem. Those science geeks just love solving the unsolvable.
It might take a few generations, but I bet some genes could be manipulated, some genetic code re-written, so that eventually, guys would never have to use their hands to tend to their balls. Little fibrous growths attached directly to the nerves controlling the itch impulse in the brain, would automaticallly engage and attack the offending area. Men would no longer need to worry about being caught scratching their crotch. The Ladies would be spared the embarrassment of being seen with the ball scratching idiots who asked them out, but did not indicate their fondness for scratching in their bios they posted online.
Just another idea to help the species progress; put further distance between us and the rest of the animal kingdom.. The only thing is, could this human created change in our DNA be subverted and manipulated to design longer fibrous tentacles so that sexu .......... Uh, Nevermind.
Keep it 'tween the Ditches ..........................................................
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What tune could possibly dovetail cleanly into a post about Itching Testicles? Hmm....... I will get back to you. ...........
Well, that was easy. Googling "Tune about nuts", I scrolled down maybe 5 or 6 suggestions, when an old Roger Miller tune caught my attention. I do not remember "I'm a Nut". My guess, it was a B-side offering on a single with the hit on the A-side. There is no doubting it's Roger; his voice and tendency to include silly vocal sounds made it obvious. Most people will remember him for, "King of the Road", which I will also include today.
And here is his most famous hit, "King of the Road". I loved this song as a kid. Still do. It reminded me of being on the move all the time, which was my existence from the day I was born until I finally settled here in Acton, 30 years later.
I wrote my first memoir when I was 10 or 11. I can't remember if it was 4th or 5th grade. Regardless, the assignment was exactly that, "Write a memory from your past". Of course there was much discussion and silliness that ensued. None of the kids in the class, including me, could get our heads around the idea of "the Past". Yeah, we had heard of it, but it was something only old people talked about around the dinner table at dinner. My mom and dad often told stories of their younger days to fill in dinner conversations when the topics became too toxic or just ran out of steam.
The assignment of course was much more than telling a story from the earlier days when we were younger. It was an exercise in penmanship, thought construction and punctuation. There was no word limit to meet; It just had to be as neat as possible, with the periods, commas and spelling laid down as cleanly and correctly as possible. I cannot remember my grade, nor do I remember it being highlighted in any way by the teacher in front of the class.
I do remember the subject however. I wrote about the time I set off a fire alarm in kindergarten when I lived in Japan. The whole school emptied, I freaked and ran to the teacher outside and immediately admitted I did it. I didn't however snitch on the older kids who kinda teased me into it.
The type of fire alarms we had in that school had small thin glass windows designed to be punched inward with something thin, like a pencil or maybe even a finger. Some big kids, they must have been at least 2nd graders, spotted me looking at the fire alarm. They encouraged me to break the little glass window without setting off the alarm. They insisted that they did it all the time.
"Go ahead kid, I dare you", or something along those lines caused me to step up to the alarm and use a pencil to punch the glass. Instant Chaos erupted. The big kids looked at each other with huge eyes, turned and disappeared into the depths of the school. I remember a panic I had never felt before. I probably spun a few circles and who knows, I might have peed my pants. If I did, I buried that part of the memory deep enough to not really remember if I did or didn't.
I remember writing about it because in my young life at the time, it was a memory I had still not really gotten over. Seeing all the kids in school standing in lines out on the playground, looking at me as I had been marooned and condemned to stand next to the principal; well, I never forgot that.
The magical moment came later at home where I had been cooling my heels in my room for several hours. My dad came home and immediately came into my room; in full uniform no less, his tie still tight and his cover still on. He sat down on the bed next to me. I fgured it was spanking time. I was not a stranger to spanking; seemed the natural "next step". Instead, my father talked to me, well, he sort of grilled me. I ended up snitching on the big kids. He looked at me and chastised me for allowing anyone to influence my decisions. He stood up and left. No spanking, no yelling, just a lecture on not allowing people undo influence on my actions. And even cooler, he didn't tell the school there were others involved. He allowed me to take the blame.
Of course, my short essay in 4th or 5th grade about that incident in kindergarten was nowhere near as deep of a dive as this post is. I just remembered now that the essay was the first memoir I ever wrote. It might have also been the first essay I ever attempted also.
To me, it seems logical that as an adult, I would follow up with over 200,000 words in 280 blog posts about shit I did in my Past.
I will add this one to the post count and move on.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................
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This past weekend, my wife and I joined our daughter and her husband at another Rustic Overtones concert. It was held at Tuckerman Brewery in Conway, New Hampshire.A day sitting in comfortable chairs, swilling excellent craft beer and listening live to the band I have seen more than any other band ever. My first concert of their's was also my daughter's first concert of her life. It was held at the worst music venue in New England, the Portland Expo, a very, very large quonset hut tunnel. The reverberations in the hall made it impossible for me to enjoy the music. Lis loved it. She loved Rustic Overtones.
Almost 30 years later, we still go see them play. I guess I have seen them 20 times; Lis , many, many more. They are an old favorite.
When I saw the video of Billy Strings, a favorite guitarist of mine, hit in the head with an object at a concert in Indiana, I was reminded of my own incident of be being hit in the head while on a stage in June, 1977
A quick replay:
Led Zeppelin's last US tour, June 3, 1977...... The gig was at Tampa Stadium (the old stadium). 70,000 plus fans had been waiting for several hours in the hot Florida sun to hear one of their favorite bands. 15 minutes into the first set, a classic Summertime Florida thunder storm blew through, dumping many many gallons of water on the venue.
The awning over the stage was holding thousands of gallons of water over the stage where many thick cables handled massive amps and voltage of electricity. The local Fire marshall called the governor of Florida. The governor officially closed the concert down.
Upon hearing that the concert had been canceled, many of the fans had been waiting for hours, became an angry crowd. They tossed aside the "full proof security fence" and rushed the stage. By that time I had been volunteered to help the security guys defend what was now a mostly empty stage except for the stacks of speakers that were to be loaded on my trailer.
The scene was madness. 3,000 to 4,000 people were still hanging out near the stage. They were not happy. I looked out at them and their risng anger. It was obvious what was going to happen. The rest of the 70,000 fans had already left. Security guys in black Tee shirts, SHOWCO roadies and drivers stood nervously waiting for the crowd to breach that "Impregnable" wall.
Over a thousand hands got busy and finally destroyed the integrity of the wall. Stoned and drunk fans climbed onto the stage. There were not many, maybe fifty or so. But, they were rabid. The loose crew of security types, myself included were expected to keep them back. Some of the crew were holding mic stands and were very enthusiastic with using them to keep the fans at bay. I carried no blunt instruments. I have thought about that day from time to time and today, I still don't know why I joined them onstage to defend an empty space. Young and still numb is all I can come up with.
Along with the breach, many glass bottles, parts of the wall , etc. ended up onstage. Something hit me in the back of the head. I got pissed I guess. I ran across the stage to help one of the drivers who had created his own fight by being too quick to use his mic stand on someone larger and obviouly out of it. The madness only lasted 5 minutes or so when suddenly it was over as Tampa cops poured into the field and took care of the out of control mob and the remaining hanger ons..
I cannot say for sure what hit me in the back of my head. It was thrown with enough force to draw blood and raise a good sized bump. I walked around the stage looking for what it might have been. I found the hash pipe you see in the image. While it may not have been what hit me in the head, it was on the stage when everything was over, so I grabbed it and have used it off and on since then. Next year will be 50 years since I picked up that pipe. I guess I should be grateful I found it. It has been a dependable go to cannabis consumption device when I was tired of rolling joints. And it was one of the few pipes I managed to not lose over the last 50 years.
Morons throwing stuff at the stage is sadly, a time honored tradition. Negative responses by the artists are often the result. At a concert at the Wheaton Youth Center in Wheaton, Maryland in the early 1970's, Snake tossed a lit joint at Dr John. Dr John swung his micrphone and hit Snake right in the head and glared at me like I was who he was aiming at. Geez, I told Snake not to throw it; we'd never get it back and it was our last joint.
As always, please keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................
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I'm feeling like a Two Fer musical choice for this post. First up is Billy Strings in cahoots with Willy Nelson on a tune about geeting too old to party like they did back in their good ole days. Here is 'Claifornia Sober". Enjoy.
This next video is "Good Times, Bad Times". It is from Led Zeppelin's first album, ironically titled "Led Zeppelin". It was another one of my infamous record store van purchases at Clark's Tank n Tummy filling station in the foothills of the White Mountains in New Hampshire. That was the summer of 1969. The record store guy pulled it out of one of his boxes in the back of his van, handed it to me and said, "Here, you are gonna love this album."..................... He was right of course.
However, the biggest plus of this album was its impact on my father. My dad was quite the audiophile. He had started constructing his own sound systems starting the late 1950s. He built ociiloscopes to track the sound waves. He built huge speakers and the huge amps to power them.
At the time everything going through those speakers was Mono (only one channel). He had read of stereo being the next big thing. He called Heathkit and latched onto one of their first stereo amp DYI kits. He put it together and was immediately disappointed in the music that amp delivered. He went back to his stupidly huge mono amp and that was that.
About 7 years later I had built up my own stereo system. It waas much smaller than what he had built, but it kicked ass. 20 amps per channel with some good quality 10 inch speakers i put in homemade barrel halves. When I pulugged in my headphones, it was just awesome. I figured out that the RocknRoll setero music world was way ahead of the curve over the more classic audio world.
After I bought this album and had run through it umpteen times, I decided I had to get my dad into some headphones. I made him come up to my attic bedroom and put those headphones on. I did not want to scare him, so I started with the volume on low. I waited for him to respond. He gave me a thumb's up, "Louder". I cranked it. He started to yank the headphones off, but suddenly stopped and just listened. I watched the his lightbulb go off. He smiled. He had seen the light. From that day forward, he was a Stereo Man.
Afterwards. his system building madness grow three or four fold. He started with those huge 20" inch woofers; added 8 or 10 smaller speakers and built a 200 watt stereo amplifier. When My mom wasn't home, he'd fired that system up and rattle every window in the house. I could hear it clear as a bell from Dunc's place about 100 yards down Sam Page Road; especially when he fired up his sound effects record; Trains, planes, whistles and artillery blasts.
Here is Led Zeppelin's, "Good Times, Bad Times"; the song that turned my father into the audiophile beast that was his destiny. Funny though, he would often play this song as a judge of how good the stereo recordings of his favorite music were.
Definitely best enjoyed with the volume turned up to WOW!
I originally wrote this post on March 11, 2011, over 15 years ago. I was obviously wound up more than usual. Maybe it was the current political scene that affected me or the trials of owning a main street bikeshop. Or maybe it was just time for one the many re-adjustments forced on me or I forced on myself over the years in order to stay grounded.
Of course, events that have unfolded since 2011 have become more intense and more grave than anything that happened in 2011. Those times are looking like the "Good Ole Days" now. When I found this post languishing in the "Back in the Day" files, I told myself I needed to come up with another bit of writing that would help me regain some perspective again. Writing has usually helped my state of mind, especially when my thoughts are scattered because I was upset.
But why think up a new twist when this old Twist still represents how I want to feel about my life and its relationship with the rest of the World. Re-reading it certainly smacked some perspective back into me that I did not appreciate was missing again.
Yeah, times are tough. Just how tough is better understood when we try to walk in another's shoes.
Moving along now. Here is the post from 2011.
< ~~ >
Life gets in the way of the things I want to do. I try to convince myself that what I want to do is what Life should be focusing on. But no. Life has its own damn agenda and it more often than not, only includes me as so much excess baggage. I get swept along by events unforeseen and not prepared for. And suddenly the comfortable little rut I had constructed for myself has become a minefield.
I sidestep as many mines, pitfalls, and incidents that promise ugly outcomes as I can. I cannot avoid them all...................................................... And then I notice that while I have become totally wrapped up in my own puny problems, elsewhere on the planet, folks are dealing with problems of the Life and Death kind.
Suddenly I feel foolish. Suddenly I realize that for all the little irritations I have to deal with, there are people right now whose home washed away and their family is missing, or they are on a desert road with their life's belongings on their back and hoping for food and water when they finally stop for the day. As bad as I would like to pretend my life gets from time to time, I am fairly sure a sizable portion of the planet's population would love to switch places with me.
Owing more money than is coming in is a laugher when held up and compared to say, being buried up to your neck and watching the village line up next to the rock pile. Water in my basement seems a minor league distraction when watching a tsunami take out a town of 17,000. Scowling and cussing under my breath when another ATV/Snowmobile screams by disturbing my peace seems so petty when somewhere over the desert of northern Africa, fighter jets are screaming by and strafing lines of people whose only crime is trying to get away.
Being a typical American human, focusing on my problems first rather than anyone else's is predictable if not understandable. Average dimwits such as myself tend to do this. But then we really have to focus on what's in front of us. It's all we have and for the most part all we can do. We rise to occasions as needed and fall back to normality when the fires have been doused. Dealing with the mundane is what keeps everything afloat. Dealing with disaster is what we do to try and get everyone back on the boat so the focus can again be directed to the routine problems of keeping a society cohesive and moving in a good direction.
Anyway, just some early Tuesday morning thoughts after watching our latest calamities once again visit some fellow humans. Sadness settles in with that second cup of coffee and I sit stunned. My only consolation is my gratitude for the relatively peaceful existence I have been blessed with. No matter how bad we think our lives are unfolding, there is always someone else carrying a burden we wouldn't wish on our worst enemy.
Keep it 'tween the ditches..............................................
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I thought I might try a tune that dovetailed nicely with the post. Then I scrolled into a song I had not heard for over 50 years; a song from an album I bought out of the back of the record truck at Clark's Tank and Tummy, Sanbornville New Hamshire in 1969. I liked the image on the cover. The record guy said it was a Blues band from across the big pond.
I had already fallen in love with an early Fleetwood Mac album with Peter Green playing lead guitar. Blues was a new experience for me back then. I jumped on it. Sadly, all my early Fleetwood Mac albums and the ClimaxBlues Band album were among the stolen record collection I lost when someone broke into my room a week before I graduated from Charlotte Hall Military Academy in the Spring of 1970.
A two fer today. First up, "So many Roads" from the "Climax Blues Band Plays On" album. Recorded and released in 1969.
Now a cover of a Robert Johnson classic, "Dust My Broom" by Fleewood Mac with Peter green playing lead guitar. It's odd how I had to discover the Blues through the music of wankers from across the pond. The original recording was released in 1968.
When The USA celebrated America's 200th birthday in 1976, I will admit I did not pay the attention to it I am paying to its 250th birthday in 2026. 50 years created a different approach from me regarding one over the other.
In the summer of 1976, I was pounding the highways of the Eastern Seaboard moving people's furnishings and lives from one place to another. I worked hard that summer. I had little time to pay attention to any birthday. I was making money I had never made before. Call it my first capital improvement period. I do remember a heightened sense of nationwide excitement from the many flags I passed and the numerous depictions of fireworks that were found in every print ad and TV commercials at the time.
In 2026, I am hard into my decapitilization period. That is, I am not actively chasing the bucks, I am living off my previous efforts at chasing the bucks. They call it retirement. I certainly wish it had come first instead of work, but then I never had a silver spoon in my mouth or even contemplated one. I probably would not have liked that either.
Back then I could put in 16 hour days, go out and party til 4 in the morning and still make it to work by 8. It seemed I had no problem having fun and working hard at the same time. Today, a night out past midnight ruins me for a couple of days.
Being retired for this year's celebration has allowed me time to investigate different aspects, reasons, and other pertinent shit regarding our country's march into the future. My first burning question was what chunk of time exactly is 250 years in the counting of time. It seems there are several words / terms that are okay when labeling 250 years. The most popular by far is "Semiquincentennial".
(I just wrote that from memory without looking it up. I will now look it up to see if I got it right. Lots letters in that one......... and more...... DAMN! I nailed it. Picture me now doing a jig, or rather, a sad slow imitation of one.)
At least now, after writng and now reading it, I know how to pronounce it. Other than that, I hate the word because it is entirely too burdensome to write or speak out loud. "250 Year Celebration" works best for me.
So, I let the Hoopla and Flag Waving pass me by in 1976. My excuse is I was numb and dumb and way too busy making the first serious cash of my life. My excuse for this birthday, 50 years later, is I am not that enthusiastic about a national birthday that has been hijacked by a slimy clown who is using it for his own self agrandizement. Trump has taken any celebration I may have considerd and shit all over it with his "Everything is about Me, Me,Me.....Me".
So please understand if I refuse to fly a flag this year. Please understnad that until Trump and the movement he created out of his ass is defeated, I will not be celebrating anything that pretends to show America as a great country. I fear we have lost that battle; and if not Lost, we are in serious danger of losing it, should the movemnt he created continues after he is laid to rest in the closest swamp available.
There is still greatness in this country. But it is a greatness that is currently under attack by some of its own citizens. Why? That's the problem. I cannot for the life of me understand why they hate our country so much, that they would want to marginalize everyone outside their narrow-minded crew's view of the world. Talk about biting off one's nose to spite their face...... Geez.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .......................
( Post note - The two children in the top picture are my niece and nephew. I had yet to even consider marriage, children, or mortgages. )
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I sat on this post overnight. Not sure why. Maybe it was because it is so flippin hot. Maine is not supposed to be this hot. If I was a Republican, I would blame Biden or maybe Obama. But I am a card carrying Libtard who votes with Democrats at the moment. I say at the moment because the Democrats are really beginning to piss me off ..... again. I don't know what they are thinking sometimes. They have a president who is self destructing before our eyes and the Democrats are still pushing their often silly Woke policies over the bread and butter issues all of America wants to hear at the moment. Table the overly progressive crap for when you fools might again have the power to institute some of them.
Regardless, this section of a post for me is to inject a musical moment to hopefully offset any panty bunching commentary I may have inadvertantly used in the main body of said post. ........ Okay.
Small town America used to personify the heart of America. Those small towns, those fields of grain and pastures stuffed with cattle were symbols of America's wide expanses and also the open hearts Americans offered everyone who was here, who came here, who wanted to come here.
Today on the Eve of the 4th of July and the 250th birthday of the country I love, America is not the shiny love is in the air country it used to portray itself. Our citizens are at each other's throats. Our citizens have become two Americas; one group wants an America that is moving forward with all of us. The other group wants to return to a past that never existed then but exists large in their minds now. You know, the America that was controlled by White folks, peckerwoods like me.
I decided that John Mellencamp recorded two songs that encapsulate the mystery that is America. So today, we have a two-fer. Up first is "Small Town", an ode to the rural small town America the World learned to love from afar.
The second song, "Pink Houses", looks behind the "Life is beautiful" America and points to some of the ugly truths America has that also plaque, in varying degrees, every country on the planet.
Last night, an 84 year old man stepped out onto the stage at the Bank NH Pavilion on the shores of Lake Winnepesaukee, Gilford, New Hampshire. The capacity crowd of 9000 or so dutifully greeted him with a standing ovation.
The man began to speak. He outlined what the audience could expect in the way of a show. It would be a two part show. The first part would be his latest music from his latest album, "Seven Psalms". He was specific, the first act would be 33 minutes long. There would be a short intermission. The second act he promised, would consist of many hits from his earlier years. The crowd roared their approval.
I cannot speak for the audience, but my initial impression of his first set was shock. I am not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this old man who was one of my musical heroes from the time I first heard "Sounds of Silence" in the1960s. He was a frail man. His tired voice sang songs wrapped in religious questions and faith. I was not disappointed. I was reminded that even Heroes grow old; Time makes no concessions for anyone.
I felt sad during that first set; selfishly sad I guess. Paul was onstage singing his heart out and I thought of my own situation. The crowd was polite. It was possibly from shock similar to mine. We offered luke warm claps after each song.
Intermission
The first set had given me a chance to accept that Paul had lost a step or two. I adjusted my expectations after the intermission.
The concert had started right on time at 8:30 PM. With the 20 minute or so intermission, Paul and the excellent 9 or 11 musicians ( Lis and I weren't sure ) who had his back played for a total of 2 1/2 hours I guess. Paul found his stride, his voice grew stronger, and his renditions of older hits created a new appreciation for the greatness of the music this man created over his 60 plus years as a giant in the American music scene during the second half of the 20th Century.
His songs humbled me, caused some tears, and left me awestruck. Paul is still plying the trade he adopted so long ago. I came away with a one word summation of what I thought of the concert...... Bittersweet.
I had no problem deciding what group or artist to highlight for this post. But which rendition do I pick? The period when Paul was part of the duo, Simon and Garfunkel, or the Solo Paul who continued to pump out meaningful and lyrical music for many years after?
There were so many songs I love from both phases of his career. After some thought, I picked a song from his time with Art Garfunkel. If I had to pick a favorite, it could easily be "The Boxer". That he performed it last night cinched it. Enjoy.
From the mouth of a caddy, the legend of Trump in Donald's own mind is justified and reinforced while Donnie and Gary Player were between golf holes recently. Gary's caddy and mock historian approached Trump with his opinion regarding just how awesome Trump was and his place in the history books.
The Donald liked the slip shod conclusions of the Caddy so much, he asked the caddy to forward his essay to the White House.
Once in the White House and Donald had time to focus at least one good eye on it, the historically hysterical comedy the caddy wrote quickly became a defintive essay from a notable historian or so it was claimed by Mob Boss Don and his ever so incompetent administration.
I heard this story watching an interview with two reporters who have written Regime Change - Inside the Imperial Presidency of Donald Trump. It is the latest book about all things Trump. Maggie Haberman and Jonathan Swan sat down with Mika and Coffee Man Joe this morning on MS Now. This book is so recent, that today, 6/23/2026, is the official releaase date.
The two authors are reporters with credentials from years in the News business. They spent the last year investigating along with thousands of interviews to come up with a book that will hopefully hold my attention until I find the last page. I just ordered it from Thriftbooks.
The story of the caddy came right out of Trump's mouth when they interviewed him. Apparently the caddy contended in his hysterical historical piece that Donald Trump was the most powerful leader the World has ever known. No leader before him comes close. Not Alexander the Great, not Caesar, not William the Conqueror, not Napolean, and certainly not Hitler, Stalin or Mao.
He bases his poorly contrived conclusion on the fact that all the others were just local yokels who did not have the "reach" Donald has; what with the awesome destructive power at his command and the Internet at his fingertips. No leader before him has had that.
I am guessing the Donald considered this latest idolatry as just another confirmation he owns the planet, his will be done. At least in his mind this is the Reality he has built over years and years of deluding himself.
I have not read the book yet or this caddy's conclusions and if he has anything more than "Reach" to justify the conclusion I do know. All I have at the moment is the interview with the authors this morning on MS NOW and the prejudiced from experience that anything Trumps believes or claims is probably Bullshit.
One thing is abundantly clear, the caddy seems to be a classic MAGA sycophant and a lazy historical researcher to boot. The leaders he compares Trump to may not have had the worldwide "reach" Donald has; but in the times they existed, they had more impact on their world than the pitiful clown who now squats in the White House.
I should be used to it after over a decade of Trump nonsense. I am again baffled by how any president of the United States would love being compared to Hitler, Stalin, Mao or any other tyrant from our past. Yet, Trump has more than once stated his admiration for the worst assholes on the planet, past or present.
Of course, we are not rid of Donald yet. Definitive histories have yet to be written. The next few generations will decide where in the hysterical record, Trumplestilt Dum will reside.
If the movement he created gains power after he is dead, we could be looking at the beginning of the end of America as we know it. Of course, hysterics now when contemplating future upheval and chaos we are witnessing daily now, is definitely not helping the doomsday frame of minds Trump has created. It's a daily struggle to remain calm in the face of so much evil stupidity.
TDS exists....... Maybe more of us should be suffering from it. History is chock full of dumbass citizens who got what they deserved because they did not pay attention. As my favorite high school teacher wrote in my yearbook in the spring of 1969:
These are Critical Times. Degeneration is around the corner.
Watch !
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
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How to pick music after pumping up my anger so much is often a real struggle. Many times, even a toke or two does not help. Let's see if a pull on the pot pipe will this time. ............. Hmm. So far .... No it hasn't.
It didn't take as long as I expected. I remembered a song recorded by Tracy Chapman on her 2005 album "Where You Live". I may have used this song on previous posts in the past. It certainly is worth repeating.
Please enjoy "America" and the video Dwane Chandler created to go with it.
This stained glass portraiture was purchased during the early days of our marriage. It is without a doubt, my favorite art piece in the house. We purchased it at a craft fair in the1980s. My wife was a basketmaker then. She went to countless craft fairs. I went to many with her.
Our family economy then was a week to week existence. I drove trucks. BA made baskets. As I look back now, that period of my life was as good as it ever had been. Domestic life suited me. Constant concerns over money though, definitely created a hitch in the life fulfilling appreciation of the time. Money was tight. Thankfully we depended on my wife's bookkeeping skills to keep us straight. I was okay handling money. She was and still is a genius.
It was my habit to wander around the crafts booths to check out the various offerings; what other basket makers were there, etc. etc. I spotted this portrait and immediately wanted it. I do not remember the asking price. I do know though, the asking price made my butt pucker. If memory serves here today, I entusiastically petitioned BA to let us take it home. I said it was so special, she needed to take a break from her booth and check it out before someone else bought it. I volunteered to watch her booth; something I was not a fan of doing. We ended up taking it home with us. It has been hanging in our front living room window the last 40 or so years. If you look closely, you might notice the mullions behind the piece.
I like to take credit for finding this portrait. It may or may not be true. Siince I am writing this story, I will make me the hero. All of us, or least some of us,; well maybe it's just me ..... okay, okay . A few of us at least have in us, traits that Trump has in spades. Hell, someone has to support our egos and it should start with ourselves. Of course Trump's exaggerated dependence on the figments in his own mind are the ultimate extreme of a militarized Ego. My case of it is certainly more in the normal range I am sure...... Oops ....wandering off the trail again.
I notice now, I titled this post "Baskets". Not sure why I did. The image of the lady at the top was what triggered me to sit and write. I had just removed a screensaver image and replaced it with this image. Thnking of this portrait took me to thinking of the 12 years my wife spent weaving baskets and ruining her hands. Next, I thought of the craft fair culture that was ingained in our lives at that time. Memories often come back to me indirectly rather than by specific intent. In order to continue to fool myself I am indeed normal, I will assume this tendency falls with normal parameters of human behavior.I wandered around the house looking for some of the baskets my wife had made. I found three that were still performing the duties they were woven for; holding junk that should have been somewhere more appropriate. I pulled out bits and pieces of 40 years of accumulations. They were dusty and the color was faded on the one. One is a hurried basket she made over 40 years ago for the cats to lay in. It is still functional. It still holds the occasional cat.
The other two were bread and butter baskets. BA made many of them. I am guessing she could make them in her sleep. In retrospect, the price BA paid for those 12 years of manual labor was higher than it should have been. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome and artritus as she aged damaged her hands and wrists horrenduously. Becoming an accountant was the smart shift in careers.
I am so thankful for BA allowing me to share her life. She has definitely been the rock upon which our relationship started and been able to last these past 45 years. ....... 45 years; Damn. Thats a huge chunk of my life. I wouldn't change it for anything.
Keep it 'tween the Ditches ............................
____________________
I picked "Basket Case", recorded and released in 1994 by Green Day. My wife was still weaving baskets. Every time I played or listened to it, I thought of her. I still do.
Here is a live version they performed at their induction to the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame in 2015.
"You never truly appreciate anything until it is gone"
I have had this truth shoved in my face many times over the last 74 years. You might think I would get used to it. You might consider I would not be so surprised every time it popped up. Now, many years later, I am appreciating the fact that I allowed so many constants in my life go unappreciated.
Nothing lasts except Assholes and the infinite ways they bring assholery into my life. I include those moments of my own assholery of course, because , well, I am not Donald Trump whose infallibilty in all things pertaining to everything in the Universe is beyond Truth, Justice and the American way. Hail to the Head Honcho, the Man, the Grifter in Chief.
He is leading us down the path we chose for ourselves. Through a combination of willfull admission and willfull omission over the last forty years, America finally has found what it was looking for, what it was headed for, what it deserves.
There's still time to fight back. Being smarter with your vote this next time would be a good start.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................
____________________
The tune today, I found by typing "Song about Don". The track below is what popped up first in line. I tasted it and then finished it. Perfect song. Throughout it, the visuals made me think of Trump and the possible reality he lives with in his mind. Glitzy sets, Luscious Bimbos of the exotic kind while our stud hero is dashing smoothly throughout the video and wowing all the girls. He knows he is cool.
If Trump has a hero, this must be the guy.
I actually like this tune. Well produced, slick, everything is perfect in this Bollywood Classic. The subtitles help immensely😏. I defy anyone to not tap their feet at some point in this song.
It has become much easier and more predictable of me to have a chronic case of Opthoneurorectitis. For those you who have never heard of the condition:
Opthoneurorectitus is an inflamation of a nerve that runs from the eyeballs to the asshole; resulting in a shitty outlook on Life
Come on now, there is not really much in the news lately that lifts smiles and doesn't create frowns. The news offerings from the multitude of media machines around the the world seem focused on bad news first, any other news is accidental and comes in a very very distant second place.. It has always been the tendency of the many news outlets to concentratie on the sensational. Sensational and bad together can turn into a long term focal point of negativity. In a nutshell, that is what Trump's existence in our reality has done.
When it comes to what might be good turn of events under his leadership, well, I cannot see one major policy, executive order, or Royal dictate that ended up a plus for America. The only good that happens now is when Trump fails.
I long ago stopped even wondering and or hoping Trump would change his narcisstic criminal ways. I know longer want to debate anyone over the various failures of character Donald has used to enhance his position personally. He has never cared one iota about this country. His only concern is much more mercenary and self enriching for him. The whole world to him is a landscape populated by chumps just waiting for him to pick their pockets or any other resource he thinks that might make his pockets bulge or self image balloon in his own mind. I cannot think of any leader in history who has created a bigger legend in his own mind than Donald Trump.
With such an amoral scumbag like Trump having the world by the shorthairs, I think it's understandable to take on an opthoneurorectal view of the world around me. Tump works hard to create a shitty existence for those around him. He will literally throw anyone, loyalists and enemies alike under the first bus he finds when one of them displeases him. He demands loyalty, but fails to reciprocate in kind.There are absolutely no redeeming qualities in this swamp dwelling scum sucker of a President.
Hmm ............... I thought I would feel better firing off a rant of one kind or another. I was hoping to purge some of the recent Trump Stupidity pressure. Didn't work. .... Well maybe, just a tad.
Later Gators .....................................
________________
I have been busy multi-tasking. I forgot to even think about music until I typed the word on the screen.
The song I have today, "White Freightliner Blues" has always been a favorite song. I spent a lot of miles in a White Freightliner. The one on the left was my first one. I drove two other ones. Dependable and fast enough to get the job done.
If we were on a Crunch Time run, we'd often use visegrips to pinch off the fuel return lines. That forced more diesel fuel through the injectors. I could squeeze out on the flat, another 10 to 15 MPH out of that 290 Cummins. The only faster way was Okie Overdrive on the steepest and longest hill in the area. I only did that once. Once was more than enough.
It was a bit tricky getting that visegrip to have the right amount of squeeze. Too little and it was a useless exercise. Too much and damage to the injectors and other parts could result. The best way to hook it up was at night so I could monitor the glow of the exhaust as it came out of the stacks at a high RPM. A nice warm red glow not too high was perfect.
"White Freightliner Blues" was first recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973. It has been a favorite country song to cover by many bands. Please enjoy this collaboration cover by Molly Tuttle and Tommy Emmanuel. Awesome guitars. Both of them can really pick.
Just to juxtapose some, here is the original tune as recorded by Townes Van Zandt in 1973:
Carol, a client of my wife the accountant, owns and operates a local weekly ad circular. Carol has been a booster and supporter of the Ogunquit Playhouse in Ogunquit, Maine for years. Because of her good relations with my wife, we have had the opportunity to see more than a few productions gratis.
The playhouse is one of the premier summer playhouses in America. Since 1933, hundreds, if not thousands of actors and performers have played there. Many played there before they were famous, many played there after they became famous. The list of the celebrated stars is huge. 100,000 people take in performances every summer.
My first experience with the playhouse was in the summer of 1961 I think. I was in Maine spending some time with my aunt and uncle. They took me to a children's matinee production, the name of which, I cannot remember. Since then, I have had the pleasure of seeing many shows there.
Last night, we experienced a musical biopic of "The Temptations", a rythm and blues (Soul) group from the 1960s and 1970s.The Temptations, along with "The Supremes" often owned AM radio as their music crossed over racial lines and helped our culture heal some wounds between the races from the nasty legacy of Slavery and later, the Jim Crow era in the South.
I never owned a Temptations album, but I knew their songs. Their music popped up everywhere; Teen Club nights in the North Bethesda Jr. High gym and teen clubs across the nation. I can remember "My Girl" as one of those early "our songs". For the life of me, I cannot remember the girl's name who shared "Our Song" with me.
"Ain't too proud" was a real treat. 31 songs woven into a narrative as told by Otis Williams, their leader for years. It followed the trajectory of this super group's rise and fall. The voices of the players were amazing, the band that played the score was true to the music of the group. Overall, another excellent presentaation at this iconic playhouse.
One section of the perfomance caught me up and I could feel my eyes moisten. It was their journey through the Jim Crow South around the time Rev King was assassinated. For a few moments I was back in Tallahassee, Florida as a 12 year old watching white peckerwoods with bats and sticks descend on black protestors as the cops turned their backs or just looked away. I had gone to the protest, defying my parents orders to not go. I never told them until I was an adult.
That moment still haunts me 63 years later.The reality of Jim Crow came full circle for me. I really had no experience with racism until my years in Florida. It was a rude, in my face come to Jesus experience that insured I would never be comfortable around racism. It was maybe my first hint that white folk were no better than anyone else, contrary to the image they painted of themselves.
The biopic last night was not only a great musical treat, the way the narrative of the Temptations became an integral and seamless part of the story made for some fine theater. I had a wonderful time. The set was sparse. But a minute into it, I knew they were not going the rely on the set to prop them up. It was the narrative and the music. The music was fantastic. The outfits were perfect and the doos right on target.
I would have never thought all those years when I was dragged to this concert, that theatrical production; that it would all rub off on me so that now that I am an old fart, I can appreciate that which I did not as a child. Again another full circle has been completed.
Keep it tween the ditches .............................
_______________________
Of course I am going to use the Temptations hit, "Ain't tToo Proud to Beg" for this post. I also have to include the first and maybe the only "Our Song" I ever shared with a girl. "My Girl" is a song that has stood the passage of time. Finally, my favorite Temptations tune, "Ball of Confusion". Not just a political song, more importantly, they stepped outside of their comfortable "Pop Music, Motown" sound.
I first saw "Cool Hand Luke" in the theaters when it first came out in 1967. It was so great I sat through it a second time. To say it is a long time favorite of mine would be a serious understatement. Paul Newman at his best. He should have won an Oscar, but well, he didn't mesh well with the politics of Hollywood back in the day.
I watched again for the umpteenth time a few nights ago. The movie is chock full of wonderful cinematic moments and acting, but the one moment that stands out and the scene I think of first was when the prison captain of the work camp says:
"What We've Got Here Is Failure to Communicate"
He is justifying beating Luke for being an uncooperative prisoner. Definitely a cinema nugget that has been immortalized as one of the great ones.
There were so many iconic moments in my quiver of iconic cinema moments, I could write about them ad nauseam. But I won't. Here is two more.
The the image of King Kong on top of the Empire State building in the original 1933 film is the iconic moment most people mention. The scene in the film I remember though is when King Kong kills the Tyrannosaurus Rex he is battling by prying his jaws apart. Still gives me the willies when I think about it.
It was the first and only movie that ever gave me nightmares that I remember. I was age seven or so and living on Augusta Street in Bethesda, Maryland. My parents told me it was the last time I asked to sleep in their bed. The only reason they ever brought it up was because they refused my request. It was one of those forced "grow up moments". I returned to my bed and laid wide awake for quite awhile. That I still remember it now 67 years later tells me that night was a tough one to get through.
Another cinema nugget I remember regularly is from the film, "Schindler's List". Being shot in Black and White makes the horror of the Holocaust stand out so much more vividly than shooting it in color would have.
The point is driven home and singled out as a little Jewish girl shows up in quite a few scenes wearing a red coat; the only color in the whole film. Understanding the point of the red jacket puzzeled me at first, until towards the end of the film. As the Ghetto is emptied by Hitler's troops and the Jews are processed to be shipped to the concentration camps, a handcart carrying bodies enters the scene. One of the bodies is wearing a red coat. That scene is on the loop of cinema memories I carry around to this day.
I have many other cinema moments. These three are ones that came to mind when I decided to write about the power of the arts. I have similar memories from books I have read, art I have looked at and music I have listened to. The Arts should always be free to expose the good and bad of Humanity. To censor any of it is to cut out parts of our souls.
Take care and please, Beware. .............................
_____________________________
I googled "music from Cool Hand Luke and found Paul's version of "Plastic Jesus".
I did the same for King Kong and found this. It is called "Main Page". I call it an overture.
And finally,from Schindler's List, this wonderful piece performed by Itzhak Perlman and conducted by John Williams.
I spotted a recent issue of "Cigar Aficionado" sitting at the kitchen table this morning while savoring my second cup of coffee. The name on the label was my wife's accounting business in Springvale, but with our home address under the name. How she came to have a subscription to "Cigar Aficionado" delivered to our house is one of the many modern mysteries directly associated to our new high tech existence.
It appears that the publisher decided to reach out to accountants. Reach out? Why would a magazine devoted to smoking cigars reach out to an lady accountant in Maine? My wife claims she does not smoke cigars. I have no memory of ever seeing her chewing on the butt of a 50 cent cigar. I will have to take her word on that.
It must have been through gee whiz computer wizardry, the cigar market analysts discovered there are millions of accountants out there. It would follow, that most accountants must be men, what with crunching numbers being only slighlty less macho than ropin steers out on the Range. Accountants are most likely not poor. And because they wear suits, they are probably not fans of Chawin Tobacca.
Accountants often have offices with waiting areas. What do we find in most waiting areas besides chairs and small tables? Magazines. Clients who need accountants on a regular basis usually have deeper pockets. While the clients sit waiting, they might just pick up the "Cigar Aficionado" and be sucked into the world of cigars, bitches in bikinis, and guys wearing pork pie hats with names like Longshot Louie.
Using these assumptions, they must have thought they had a chance of landing more fans. There is a reasonable chance there are enough stogie smoking accountants to support the expense of sending them gratis, an obviously expensive to publish magazine. I am also guessing that a manly mag that supports the cigar smoking culture would be ecstatic to win over some these awesome examples of maledom who roll up their sleeves and fight the good fight, using nothing but their large brains and a calculator.
As I pondered all this and sipped that second cup of coffee, I noticed that the person on the cover was none other than one of my favorite Wingers to hate, Ronald Dion DeSantis, lame duck governor of Florida, the Sunshine State. And lying next to "Cigar Aficionado" was a black sharpie.
Old men, no matter how old, never really grow up. Well, I know I haven't. I can think like an 8th grader in a heartbeat. Matter of fact, the older I get, the more fun it is for me to remember the silly fun and stupid games I created at that age; not really out of childhood and not exactly a teenager yet either.
I picked up that sharpie and my awesome artistic talent took over. While I drew my masterpiece, I remembered how much fun it was sometimes to be a boneheaded 8th grader.
I looked at what I had done and laughed and laughed.
Ya'll keep it 'tween the ditches..Hear?
___________________
I promise. I had a tune picked out not 1/2 hour ago. Just right now at this moment, I have misplaced that thought. It is understandable, given how much garbage I have shoved into my brain over the years. There's not a lot of room anymore for any more garbage. And because I am a hoarder of things physical, apparently my afliction includes stashing my thought waves also. Instead of a garbage in, garbage out scenario, in my case it's garbage in, nothing out. And before I know it, my short term memory quiver is so full, it makes the 3000 emails I have ignored look like chump change.
I have never heard of Steve Earl . He is a musician I am not familar with. I was caught by his tune, "City of Immigrants". It is excellent. A real foot tapper with great lyrics. One play and I am hooked.
Not sure how I missed Steve Earle. He was born in 1955. He began his career as a songwriter in Nashville, Tennessee. His first abum debuted in 1986. He didn't look back I am sure. As of 2026, he has recorded or been part of 21 studio albums. He plays Country, rock, folk and most likely a slew of other genre's. The man is a talent. I can't wait to taste all of his music.
My mom was sure women were smarter than men. My father never contradicted her unless he was drunk. Not just drunk, but stupid drunk. As a functional alcoholic his whole adult life, he crossed the line into the stupid drunk zone quite often. When he was sober or just at the functioning drunk peak while drinking, he was usually the smartest person in any room he walked into.
So, I was raised to accept that women were smarter than men, if only to get along better with them. My father never really believed women were smarter. He did believe however they were sneakier and much better than men at laying evil plans. Of course, his record of three marriages would indicate they were smarter. At least the ones he married were. Each marriage cost him an arm and a leg that meant his General officer paygrade only elicited the pay rate of a First Lieutenant after the alimony had been paid.
My mom also thought that while women were considered second class citizens by men, she felt the effort to lift them up should have been done with better planning. Her favorite example was that living with low expectaions actually made women more powerful. She was sure women and their higher IQ's, and men's tendency to think with their genitals made manipulating men easy peasy. Coming at them like they were equals did not often work out; where "yes dearing" them often kept their men on the path they wanted their men on. Too many great men had wives who made them greater. Mom had little sympathy for the women in her circles who did not use their superior intellect to get what they wanted out of the relationship.
I love and admire my mom. But I hated her ability to twist me and my father around her little finger. My dad was a genius. But my mom? Well, my mom was an evil genius.
Which brings me to my point; a point I reached many many years ago. Women are smarter and tougher than men. Men are fighting a losing battle trying to get them back in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. If we men were smart ( it is apparent we are not); If we were smart, we'd hand over the keys to the Kingdom to women. The male species has proven that under the Male ego guidance, Humanity's growth has been hit or miss. We have survived in spite of the patriarchy's hamfisted way of running things.
Later Gators ...............................
_________________
This post is the result of my wanting some words written to accompany a song I was humming in my head when I woke up this morning. Here is a cover of "Man Smart. Woman Smarter", by the Grateful Dead. Harry Belafonte made this Calypso tune and many others famous back in the 1950s. I always liked Harry's versions, but then I remembered the Dead performed it quite often. The number of their renditions on Youtube is impressive.
I actually checked emails the other morning. Near the top of the piled up spam was an email from John, a fellow cadet from back in high school. John seems to be the self assigned historian of all there is to know about Charlotte Hall Military Academy. John's email was about past cadets who became famous statewide, nationally, and even worldwide. An institution that lasted 200 years is bound to have a sizable celebrity bucket.
I looked through the list. In a school that never had more than 200 students in any given year, I was impressed by the number of eventual movers and shakers who would make headlines later in life.
There was one ex-student who was conspicuous by his absence. Owsley Stanley was a student for one year at Charlotte Hall. He was expelled for supplying enough alcohol to intoxicate a large charge of the student body. Owsley would continue his manic way through life, upsetting conventional apple carts wherever he went. Eventually he would stock the nation with enough LSD so millions of Americans could:
"Turn On, Tune Out, Drop Out"
Owsley never graduated from high school, yet he was accepted into college. That lasted one year and he was off on his own road again, landing out west where he took a job as an engineer at some high end defense contractor. It was around this time in the early 1960s, he discovered LSD 25. He learned how to brew it up in his homeade lab and the rest of his influence on the planet became legend.
Owsley Stanley became the largest manufacturer of LSD on the planet. There is no way to know how many hits of LSD he made and distributed, but in the mid to late 1960s and early 1970s, nobody made more. I was told the Orange Barrels LSD I ate on my first trip in 1969, was Owsley Acid.
Owsley Stanley was not content to just flood the West Coast with LSD. He sponsored and gave out free acid during many Acid Test hoe downs the Merry Pranksters took on the road. The Acid Tests was where he hooked up with the Grateful Dead. They were the local band that played at most of the Acid Tests in the west.
LSD was but one part of Owsley's life. It is however, what he is most famous for. Many people consider him one of the pioneers of the modern audio world. He took a job at some point during the Acid Test Days as the sound man for the Grateful Dead. From his LSD profits, he paid for, designed and built the band's famous "Wall of Sound". It was the sound system they hauled around for awhile so the huge crowds that attended their concerts could hear them, up to a 1/4 mile away. The system had over 500 individual speakers and ran on 28,000 watts of power.
Sadly, the system's reliance on antiquated tech created so many gliches, they abandoned it after only a few years of use. But it set the bar high. The sound company I would drive for a couple of years later, owe Owsley some credit for showing what was possible.
A wonderful biography by Robert Greenfield gets right into the weeds with his book, "Bear: The Life and Times of Augustus Owsley Stanley III".
Regardless how anyone feels about Owsley's influences on the American landscape back in the Hippy days, he was a giant in the roles he chose to pursue. His nickname was "Bear" which he got while going to Charlotte Hall. I find it interesting he ended up at Charlotte Hall for the same reasons I did. He was deemed unmanageable in the public schools. Montgomery County did the exact same thing to me. I was a punk, that is for sure. My time at Charlotte Hall came at a perfect time in my life. I enjoyed the three years I went there.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...............................
________________________
What to play?
After some consideration, "In Da Gadda Da Vida", by Iron Butterfly, is the only song that could fit.
Spring 1969, someone asked me if I wanted to Trip. I was still at Charlotte Hall Military Academy at the time. I knew I wanted to. But where? We were stuck on campus for that weekend. The fellow who had the LSD lived in the New Barracks on the side that bordered woods. He told us there was a small clearing just a few feet into the woods. We would start there. "Start there?" What they fuck was he talking about? Where were we going?
I found out. He put this 17 minute long version of "In Da Gadda of Diva" on his record player and set it to repeat. For the next I don't know how many hours. this song blared out through his open window while we played in the woods. He said that if we got lost, follow the sound. It would take us home. I remember my anxiety level jumped a little more. Lost?... Follow the sound? Shit, what was I getting into?
He told us the LSD we had just ingested was called "Orange Barrels". It was made by Owsley. Okay. Yeah, so what? I would find out during the many LSD trips I took over the next few years, Owsley LSD was far and away the best of the best. Chemically so pure, I never had the uglier side effects of pre trip cramps and coming down was always gentle. I might wake up exhausted, but I was ready for whatever came next.
While the other guys eventually wandered off into the woods, I settled down in a prone position and watched an ant hill for what seemed like forever. Iron Butterfly's song washed over me, time and time again, raising the hair on my body and causing laughter inducing rushes to rage back to back. I never left the clearing physically, but mano - man, my brain left the planet. I was in that anthill, man... in that anthill.
I understand if one might not want to listen to the whole song. Yes, It is long, But it kept me calm in the face otf what could have been something else. Or so I thought at the time. Apparently, I was one of those people who never allowed LSD to completly take over. I certainly gave it plenty of chances.
And today, as I write this ode to Owsley Stanley, I feel a circle of sorts has been completed, or was completed on that day when I first ate LSD. The man who provided the way to a different approach to Life, had come back to reap some revenge on the power structure that had always tried to keep him down. Owsley was never tamed.
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