Here is how I see it: The GOP had eight years, eight years(!) to prepare for this. And what do we get? Donald Trump. Reality show host, real estate mogul, WWE stooge and daddy’s little boy. Principles and personalities aside, I have to think that someone’s very first elected office should not be, should never be, can not possibly be President of the United States. Defies tradition, logic and any other sensibility you want to include. His opponent, Mrs.Clinton? I truly have never been much of a fan. Her star is dimming, it seems, by the hour. Your rival spoon feeds you a “nasty” Internet meme and you lose ground(?) I am no political tactician, but it may be pretty basic stuff that you do not want your name mentioned in the same paragraph as Anthony Weiner ten days before the election. This guy makes Billy Bush look like Rob Petrie for crying out loud. Her biggest asset? That she is not him, which is not saying much.

So it is a mess. Hot, cold or room temperature. I feel we deserve better as a voting public. Most eligible citizens will not bother to vote, and there is a small part of me that does not blame them even a little. Ideally one would be informed on the local level, read up on ballot questions and referendums in your municipality, know and understand the players. But the top of the ballot it's such an unctuous disaster (and I mean that as bigly as I can) that people may stay away in droves. And that would be . . . “Wrong!” But it may be the most intelligent decision you can make.

Three Little Words

First of all – there is no winner and loser declared here. Neither candidate is going anywhere, both camps are claiming victory and the Undecideds do not have rallies or press conferences. So we can not really measure.

     But there were two separate points, late in the debate where Trump’s choice of words left me uneasy. (Now ‘bigly’ left me very uneasy because it is not a word, but maybe I misheard.) 

     First - Trump’s use of the word stamina was a huge look into his makeup, his identity. That is one of those masculine sounding descriptives that has been used to keep women down, to keep them employed at seventy cents on the dollar for generations. In Trump’s universe (and this goes for a cadre of like-thinkers) women are not equal to men. They are lacking, incomplete, less than. In this example, they lack stamina. How he would be so certain about her stamina levels is beyond me. Oddly enough her handlers had her prepared – her comeback was spot on and got a rare (Holt forbid) applause point.

     Second – when ‘your president’ rolled of his tongue so easily, I cringed. (Worth noting that he seemed preoccupied with President Obama and former President Clinton from the get go, to his disadvantage.) But to aver that Obama was her (and certainly not his) president shows a lack of both intelligence and patriotism. That is simply not how this electoral process works. Two parties select one candidate apiece and both candidates compete and vie for our support. It can get ugly, that is what we do. Votes are counted, a winner is declared and he, or maybe even she, becomes our President. Our. President. Reagan was my president. Bush and Bush II were my presidents. Nixon was (I just got a little chest pain, maybe gas . . .) my president. Get over it – it has been eight freaking years! You lost. You have almost singlehandedly guaranteed another eight years of the same. (You had help, I get that . . .)

He was woefully unprepared, carried himself like the mean-spirited bully that he is and did little, in my opinion, to further his cause.

1/31/1997

     My father was admitted to the hospital last night. Emergency Room, then room 4B20. And now he lies here with me. Vannessa has gone home to pick up some things and call his older brother Tom and his younger brother Jim. The last journal entry concerned the death (or at least my notification of the death) of Jerome Garcia. Named for Jerome Kern, American songwriter. Now - the impending death of Charles Carroll Carr, named for Charles Carroll, American patriot, looms large.

     Will I only write about death, dying, and the notification of same(?) Good question. At least I have the urge to put pen to paper and he would be proud. Is proud - too early for the past tense. 

     The journal began in an idyllic, innocent fashion - on vacation, the Stephen Taber, remember? Kept it up for a week after, then nothing. Jerry passed and my life changed in ways that now I can appreciate. They were family too me - The Dead, Deadheads. Family I lacked. Now a genuine family member, my Dad (remember?) lies here with me. Again I feel like writing.

     Cancer - radiation treatments that enclosed the holidays in an unusual gloom. They would end soon, he would get better - right? Wrong.

     If anything, they were the beginning of the end. (This is the end - right?) We endured, together, a forced cheerfulness, yet at least together. A routine evolved: pick up, park the car, treatment, breakfast and drop off. Talk of Jazz, politics and young James - his other son, my half-brother. (God - what an awkward term!)

     Once finished, my involvement anyway, (James was home, able to help) we drifted slightly apart. Christmas Day we spent together, the first one in a long time. The last I remember him being him (you know - My Dad).

     Then quickly, way too quickly, a downward spiral that landed us, together again, here. Punctuated, News Of The World style, by ominous bulletins - he was disoriented, he fell, six times, he fell into the English Muffin display at the supermarket. (Thomas’s? I didn’t ask . . .) Vannessa, poor Vannessa, let’s do something.

     She did, and here we are.

[Fragment of a Journal I can only vaguely remember. Typed verbatim 7/25/2016. Attempts to locate the Stephen Taber entries proceed.]

Third in a Series of Three.

Breathing Exercises: week three

Perils, pitfalls, distractions. Any conversation I have had regarding the difficulty, lack of success, frustration (pick one) with this practice has contained some variation on the following: “I can’t stop thinking!” So – what is up with that? A quick review of any basic instructions will reveal one thing – we were never asked to stop thinking. The mind thinks, that is what it does. The ears hear, the eyes see, the skin feels, and so on. What, then, do we do with these thoughts? First, realize that it is common to get sidetracked, lost in thought. Notice the thought, acknowledge the thought, try not to follow the thought with the story that it seems to create. We can acknowledge the thought by giving it a name. A “planning thought”, a “remembering thought”, a “future thought”. (The last two come complete with entire scenarios! What I should have done, what she should have done. What I am going to do or say.) And then – let the thought go. If it helps, you can say something like “busy, busy mind”. What will not help is to become judgmental of your efforts. “I can’t do this!” Return at once to your breathing. “In. I am breathing in. Out. I am breathing out.” Or, if you prefer, you can count your breaths: in is one, out is two and so on. Stop at ten and return to one. We can then pick up where we left off whenever we release a thought.

No matter how we have sequestered ourselves, the outside world can and does intrude. Accept the interruption and resume your practice. Once we have completed our breathing exercise, our meditation, our mindfulness practice – try and make a gradual transition back into your day. Be congratulatory! If you set out to sit for seven minutes or thirty minutes and you accomplished just that – be nice to yourself.

Hopefully these three short posts will engage and encourage. What is working? What is not working? 

Thank you.

Phase Two in which Doris gets her oats!

Breathing Exercises: week two, sort of!

Greetings – I introduced some basic practices in my last post. They were intentionally easy. Easy to begin, easy to continue. My goal was to throw an air of success over the whole activity. To move from “I can’t ______” to somewhere closer to “I can”!

Where we want to head next is to increase frequency with an eye to increasing the duration of the sit. Initially, in a given week, we want to be engaged in our practice more days that we miss. So set your sights on four days. If you miss some consecutive days, if you miss a week – just start over at your most recent level. For example – you sit for five minutes on Wednesday and then forget about the whole thing for a week. Can you start over? Absolutely – simply sit for another five minutes and commit to beginning again.

Some suggestions: consider adopting the same time of day and the same place as your time, your space. You can create a meditation/breathing spot in your home. Simply walking by will remind you of your commitment to this. Also, let family and friends in on what is happening. It may reinforce your practice once we announce our intention(s).  Of course a partner is even better! Even if you do not practice side by side, knowing someone else is in on this with you is a great source of encouragement.

So, for this week and next – sitting more often than not sitting and gradually extended the time of your practice.

My next post will talk about thoughts, distractions, and other common pitfalls.

Thanks.

Breathing Exercises: week one

(some stuff I put together for a Spirit of Mentoring group I am a part of at work)


Sit comfortably, a chair is fine – there is no one way to sit . I keep my hips higher than my knees, my shoulders over my hips and my ears over my shoulders. Arrange your hands comfortably in your lap.
Start with some deep breaths – take a deep breath through your nose and let it out through the mouth. Try three of these. Slowly let your eyes close and begin to find the rhythm of your breathing. Your attention is on the breath. Say to yourself “In. I am breathing in. Out. I am breathing out.” When thoughts come up, simply acknowledge the thought and gently re-direct your attention to the breath.
You can use a timer to measure the amount of time that you sit. Your phone or any kitchen timer is useful. Make the length of this exercise ridiculously easy to attain. One minute. Three minutes. Get comfortable with the process. You can gradually lengthen the duration.
Some tips: try and practice this exercise at the same time and in the same place every day. This will become your time and your space. I use the morning, before anyone else is up and before my day gets away from me. I began by setting my alarm slightly earlier. Plus you leave the house with a small feeling of accomplishment. There is no wrong way to do this! Keep a beginners mind and attitude. Remember learning to ride a bike?  

So - Here's what's gonna happen. Might happen. All of the photos associated with previous posts will be gone. Lost. Maybe.
Here's why: I have a crazy family member (I hope no one ever holds that against me . . .). Made even crazier by the prospect of a large inheritance (which he was/is not entitled to) and by the selective remembrances, unabashed distortion, and a seeming unending willingness to rewrite history and pillorize those with both a better than average memory and a strong desire to make things right.
Which is a long winded (believe you me it could have been exponentially longer) and slightly cathartic attempt to say: I have to change my email address.
I created a new account, and am still in the process of moving things over. With an unappreciated tenacity, Google has made the unscrambling of email, YouTube subscription and, yes, Blogger (dare I say it) Byzantine, at best! God bless them though - there must be good reason for all this . . .
Changing the authorship of the blog was perhaps the easiest. But I will lose all the photos associated with earlier posts, when and if I delete the other account. Although I had to manually cut and paste my Reading List, paring it down to a manageable seven blogs which I am 'following' (although 'reading' only one). YouTube? I will probably have to ditto Michael de Miranda (bongos), Minute Physics (what it says), Watercourseway1 (Zen, Watts) and TED Talks . . .
So, to my two devoted followers and anyone else lost here for a moment - that's what's up!
Further on up the road . . .

Jazz Fest 2012

New Orleans is . . .

John Boutte' Singing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah at dba (with us singing the chorus . . .)

Singing along with Bruce all day Sunday at the Fairgrounds. "New Orleans loves Clarence!" Something You've Got.



But first:


Zara's Market. Hubig's Pies. The Saint Charles Avenue Streetcar.


Mass at Saint Augustine's in Treme' – eyes filled up during the homily, ears filled up during the rest. Later, thinking: "I heard a great drummer on Sunday. Where? Ten o'clock mass . . ."

The Trolley Stop on St. Charles.

Earth Day in Bayou Saint John. Taxi drivers (too many to mention): "look for me on season three!" will do . . .


Getting my 14 year coin at a 7:15 AM meeting in the Lower Garden District.

Red beans and rice, jazz on Frenchmen Street.

Otis at Faubourg Art and Books. World Book Night – giving away The Stand (half a dozen) at Felix's Oyster Bar.


Breakfast at The Camellia Grill!

The Rink: Iced coffee at Still Perkin'. Garden District Book Shop. Butterfly in the Typewriter. The new Offbeat!


Seeing Big Sam at Café Reconcile, only telling him half of what I wanted to and then getting a second chance that night at Lafayette Square! Looking up to see him on stage with Tab Benoit.


Elizabeth's "Real Food Done Real Good."

Armstrong Park. Congo Square. Where it all started (?) It sure felt like it . . . Leo Nocentelli sits in.

Walking in the Garden District, holding hands, to Juan's Flying Burrito on Magazine.

Jazz Fest! (Got the tickets?!?)

Semolian Warriors Mardi Gras Indians, brass and blues . . .


Ya Ka May, crackling's, Boudin Balls, Strawberry Lemonade, Muffalettas! (vegetarian and otherwise), iced Café au Lait. MANGO FREEZE!


(NORTA rocks -- $2.50 round trip to the Fairgrounds each day. (FYI: Festival Express -- $18.00 for the same trip and you got to ride a pre-Katrina yellow school bus to boot!) Taking the 91 to Rampart Street, taking the 5 to the Bywater [driver gets out at Harrah's to use the ladies room, leaves the bus running . . . ]Hopping on and off the Streetcar!)


Having honest, intimate conversations with perfect strangers.



AMB stays put in the Jazz Tent, gets misted all day, and gets the best end of the deal . . . although she does miss Men of Class Social Aid and Pleasure Club and Paulin Brothers Brass Band.

101 Runners! Let’s go get 'em . . . .

Hopping out of a cab at on Frenchman and bumping into John Boutte'.

Susan at dba, our new best friend. Sharing the bar with the chief from Treme'.

Western swing at Checkpoint Charlie's (booze, grub, a pool table, paperback books and a fully functional Laundromat!)


Mark, an intern (mechanical engineering) our waiter at Café du Monde. (Where the only engineering required is how to get half a pound of confectioner's sugar on 3 beignets).

Back at he Fairgrounds . . . Trombone Shorty mails it in and I still can't get enough: "ooh, ah . . . ooh . . . ah, ah, ah!"

The good Doctor nails it – twice!

"From shotgun shack to the Super Dome . . . wherever this flag is flown. We take care of our own." And we did!

People hilariously intoxicated . . . dude knocks a lens out of his own shades, doesn't even notice, and apologizes to me when I point this out to him . . . oblivious!

Free Sangria on Gentilly (set me back about a sawbuck for the three days . . .) $1 Lemonade through the fence on Lopez.



And then . . . .

Blue Monday.



Shopping spree (that'll help!!): Southern Candy Company for pralines, Louisiana Music Factory for CD's and vibe, Beckham's Books for Black Cherry Blues and lunch at the Ruby Slipper (There's no place like . . .)



Bellman  at the Marriott convinces me to cut it close and go back to LMF to see Jon Cleary do a live in-store. But first, sees my shirt and tells me about the Grateful Dead playing at The Warehouse in 1970 ("busted down on Bourbon Street . . ."). Says it was "the most uncomfortable place in the world to see music" (he went both nights). Tells me about tailgating at the Jazz Fest in Congo Square in those same years . . .

In-store starts on time! Cleary rocks: When You Get Back, Toussaint and Professor Longhair! (do I hafta go?!?)


Heading home, planning my next trip on the cab ride to the airport -- "Do you know what it means . . ."

3,000 hit club

Wow! What a week. Excitement palpable in the tri-state area as Derek Jeter closes in and then masterfully surpasses the 3,000 hit plateau. A great honor for a great ballplayer, a great teammate, a great Yankee and, presumably, a really great guy. Takes me back to the night that Ron Swoboda crushed number 3,000! It was drizzly, as I remember, some late September chilly weather keeping most of the crowd at home. I went to the game with my neighbor George, his boy Elroy and we lounged in the comfort of the Spacely Sprockets luxury box. More remarkable than the rarified air of numbers with commas and all that was the fact that it took 'Rocky' almost 45 full seasons in the bigs to reach this milestone! Averaging almost 70 hits a season and a victim of the pre-bionic platoon system Swoboda, much of his upper body now replaced by robotics, seemed calm and collected during batting practice. "I think I can play a lot longer" the burly right-fielder quipped during a pre-game interview with Lindsey Nelson III. The game lumbered on and in the bottom of the seventh, Swoboda disconnected himself from the dugout charger, took a few tentative swings, and strode to the plate, a green LED flashing barely visible beneath the snow white home uniform. The Rawlings-MacGregor Pitch It machine silently delivered pitch after pitch. The crowd grew quiet, the only audible sound the whirring of the despised mechanical contraption located in the center of the diamond. The machine seemed to hitch and shudder. "Bring back human hurlers!" bellowed one of the faithful. "Yeah, and then we'll be back to counting pitches all night" I muttered underneath my breath while she studied the lines on my face. I must admit I looked a little uneasy when the 'pitcher' finally delivered. Swoboda glared, the spheroid flew, and with a resounding "pop" of polycarbonate bat meeting naugahyde ball -- history was made.

Congratulations Derek! Welcome aboard!

Older than that now

Older than that now. Older then than now.

I just watched "No One Gets Out Alive" on Ovation. (They are going pop music-crazy this week – right now I am recording Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, a documentary that promises to put the concert in "its historical perspective" which mean what I do not know.) "Alive" is a one hour tribute to Jim Morrison replete with the necrophiliogical ramblings of Ray Manzarek who has made a cottage industry out of semi-inept keyboard playing alongside a died-too-soon rock legend.

So here is the deal – why is it that departed rock stars, some departed rock stars, have a certain age impinged on them. Meaning they never look their true age. Morrison should, through my eyes, look like the twenty something punk that he was. Janis too – should look all of her twenty two years. Pigpen – a young man drinking himself to death. But they don't, they just don't. They look older, not wiser, older.

True, some of this could be due to the ravages of the excesses that bought them an early seat in Rock and Roll Heaven. Much like the coroner who examined Charlie "Yardbird" Parker and determined the thirty-four year old to between fifty and sixty.

Lennon – older than the above, to be sure, less ravaged too, but he will always appear to me to be my elder. Cobain – there's the rub, there's the 'some'. To me he does look like a twenty seven year old. Is it because I never wore Nirvana Boots or sported a Nirvana Haircut? So is it my infatuation that colors my perception?

A twenty-two year old ordering a caramel whatchamcallit looks like . . . well, whatever she looks like it is nothing like the woman belting "Piece of My Heart" at Monterey.

The exact moment I became my parent(s).

I thought I had done pretty good, you know? Rap, Hip-hop, Lady Gaga . . . all good, just not for me. But last night, the inevitable -- air guitar from the gold medal podium?!? Thank you Shaun White, I am an old fart! Friends and family probably became aware of this long before me, but here I sit.
And . . . medals that don't look like medals, flowers that don't look like flowers, sports that don't look like sports?!? Maybe that's it: an Olympics that doesn't want to look like an Olympics.
See -- just because something is difficult and (reasonably) fun to watch, that doesn't make it a sport. And if it does sneak around back and become a sport, that doesn't make it an Olympic sport -- dig?
At Duffy's Tavern we had a very simple, albeit workable definition of a 'sport' -- can I bet on it?
Yes = sport, no = attraction, event, whatever.
So caveat emptor, if you will: what time someone's wife would call / show up / cruise by and abscond with the car and when, precisely, China Hogan would slide off his barstool -- while all wagerable events, are by no means sports (although Hogan possessed a style and elan that even Shaun would admire!)
So there you have it: An Old Fart Enjoys (somewhat) Vancouver 2010.

Richie Havens 11/28/09

Had the pleasure of hearing a true folk legend and an icon of perhaps what used to be this past Saturday. Had mixed feelings about attending another ‘legends’ show being hugely disappointed in Dan Hicks and his Mail-it-in Licks. But, in the midst of the hoopla surrounding Woodstock 40 years gone and what this might mean to me, the interviews with Havens were always brisk, coherent (Slick, Crosby, Kornfield . . . take note!), and humorous. So, I went.
First, the venue -- Sanctuary Concerts (sanctuaryconcerts.org) are held, by and large, at a wonderful church in Chatham, NJ. They have been bounced around a bit, but have settled in nicely here. The evenings are down home (donated baked goods, coffee and tea at the breaks), comfortable and well staffed by volunteers who respect both the music and the site.
Richie’s guitarist Walter Parks, a worthy talent in his own right, opened and did a kind of dreamy, almost ethereal half hour of tunes. A guitarist’s guitarist to be sure, he had chops but the set lacked focus and could have been a touch livelier. We were all still in late stage tryptophan withdrawal. Parks has some swamp/roots/boogie leanings and more of that would have been on point. That or Mr. Coffee’s at the head of each pew. His band Swamp Cabbage is worth checking out.
Havens set was a pure delight. As close to magical as I am willing to concede. Opened with All Along the Watchtower and that was preceded by a wonderful shaggy dog story of a first meeting with Mr. Zimmerman as well as his difficulty committing the lyrics to memory. Havens called it “100 different movies”. Some originals from the new disc (the eerily titled “No One Left to Crown”) and beyond were handled superbly. It was here that Parks genius was the most disarming, backing up the Havens open tuning chord forms with non-stop fills, trills and accents.
Watching Havens mix story and song, both audience and performer being well aware of who had who, was like hearing old family stories recounted after a robustly satisfying meal. Heard a few before? Sure enough, but I would go back tonight for a second helping. The Village folk scene, Van Ronk, Odetta, Seeger, stickball in Brooklyn and even the Man of Steel were all on the menu. Havens led the audience through the Superman opening: “Look, up in the sky . . .” riffed on the disengagement going from DC to TV versions of Superman (“Why wasn’t his hair blue?”) and the not so apparently flawed “Truth, Justice, and the American Way.” (Shouldn’t the third principle be already self-contained in the first two?) Richie smiled slyly, letting that incongruous fact sink in.
Huge time pay off with the encore. After finishing the set with a little ditty entitled “Freedom” (he might find a niche with this one), followed by a big time karate kick (dude is close to 70, no?) Richie launched into a medley of Maggie’s Farm and Won’t Get Fooled Again. Emotionally charged, thematically similar, doing exactly what an encore is supposed to do they were both well played, lifting the crowd up in more ways than one.
Would you wait almost an hour to get a CD signed? We did (Christmas gifts) and had a wonderful visit with a legend in his own time. (Everyone signs CD’s right? Only mine says “friends forever” . . . I was totally blissed.) Havens had spoke of the New York City Board of Ed owing him perhaps thousands in confiscated comics over the years, I laughingly told him I would do what I could with my current employer, offering him 10 cents on the dollar, for now. He laughed long and loud at the prospect. We took a picture and off into the night.

Bloomberg cracks down on aimless walking and "strolling" in NYC.

Citing numerous productivity losses and noticing a distinct lack of sidewalk space, Mayor Bloomberg issued the following edicts:-- all pedestrians must have at least two of the following: water/coffee (any spillable liquid), cell phone or approved electronics, yoga mat, ethnic food item, dog(s) or baby carriage-- if unable, unwilling or simply uninterested in yoga, you must at least carry the purple mat or a note from a physician citing what the heck is wrong with you-- likewise coffee and water – walking police (WP’s) can not assume an enlarged prostate given your gender or age, you must carry documentation!-- baby or pet carriages: must have a ‘street’ value of at least $1500, an unpronounceable, vaguely Scandinavian name and be equipped with the requisite cup holders-- someone texting always has the right of way-- someone blue-toothing may or may not ‘be talking to you’ – Be Alert!-- those simply ‘going for a walk’ or ‘taking some air' will need a note from a licensed therapist.Speaking either to reporters or someone on the phone the mayor continued: "While we are extremely proud to host the New York City Marathon, we can not and will not condone a reckless and aimless use of our thoroughfares and sidewalks by a few meanderers."

The Emperor Has No Clothes Tour
The Dead -- 2009


. . . Or the “Our 401k’s Tanked Too Tour” (rather unwieldy but a great merch tie in!) “Stanford Costs A Lot More than I Thought Tour”. It’s dizzying, the possibilities. So this is it, the end of the line. The five stages of grief took fourteen years to play out but here we are – acceptance. The Grateful Dead is over, done. Gone but certainly not forgotten. First, a disclaimer – I don’t review concerts or shows or bands for a living or even for a laugh. Second, I have seen the Grateful Dead well over 200 times, seen many (most) of their post-Jerry line ups and heard them all from the original Phil Lesh and Friends through The Other Ones, The Dead, Ratdog and even Dark Star Orchestra (whose only affiliation is that they blow all the aforementioned away in terms of recreating a Grateful Dead-like experience – you have to get around the Weir/simulacrum guy however, his stage presence is too dead-on, tics intended).

This latest incarnation is an abomination from the word go. For me it started with the ticket prices – an otherworldly figure of $115 for a show – one Dead show! I saw this deal for a mere $50 (along with the Allman Brothers) at an Obama fund-raiser in Penn State back in the fall. Shoulda quit while I was ahead. That was fun. Low key, no frills and fewer expectations. A stripped down stage, primitive lighting, no merchandise and general admission seating all brought me back to the college bound tours of the 1970’s. Any way – fast forward to now. The Dead Reunion Tour (can anyone photo-shop three sleeping ‘dancing bears’ or maybe a yawning Steal Your Face?) I missed the Taxi Tour ’09 (you had to get to 3 separate venues in Manhattan – get it?) probably due to the fact that I don’t visit Dead.net 3 times a day. But I did hear it and I chalked it up to a kind of open rehearsal thing. The ensuing tour has had more musical low spots and more questionable song selection than I care to deal with.

First, the line up, Warren Haynes is no Jack Kennedy or whatever the cliché du jour is. He is a formidable guitar player who has found a wonderful niche in Government Mule (if you’re looking for four and a half hours of inventive covers, high decibel rock and roll, cool set lists and mind numbing guitar work, check them out.) But fellows – he just don’t work in this line up. At best he is a one trick pony, way guilty of overexposure and shackled here by some monumental expectations. Phil and Bobby (how long do we continue to call a 60 year old ‘Bobby’?) – Shame on you. Write a freaking song and stop turning this into a 60’s cover band. For a hundred bucks I can’t get a new tune?!? I love Lesh – been there, got the sticker, but he just can not sing! Evocative, emotion laden – maybe, but spare me this experience on a regular basis. Weir singing Bird Song, Ramble On Rose and on and on is quite possibly criminal.

I was at the Continental Izod Men’s Warehouse Arena the other night and I must admit I lost control of my expectations. Branford Marsalis had played the night before (he was sound checking Crazy Fingers when we arrived). That was the only imprimatur that I needed. Good enough for Branford, good enough for me. People were raving about the night before, top ten Branford show or something – comparing it to 9/10/91. When people rave about this band and begin to rank the shows I think of that clever t-shirt that lists songs, venues and concerts -- 2300 or so . . . So the best show by any band since 1995 would have to be 2300 + 1 or some such. You can, by now, see where I am going with this. The first set was . . . excruciating. I can think of no better word. The Crazy Fingers was inspired and lofty but the rest: slow, slower, slowest. Days Between? There are days indeed; Touch of Grey and Casey Jones for those greatest hits aficionados among us; Deal (see above.) The second set fared no better although someone on Dead.net called it ‘magnificent’. Now by whose standards I am not quite sure. The ‘mini-reviews’ are located between the download link (should you want to actually own one of these gems) and the merchandise. You can amazingly get a link to Nightfall of Diamonds on the same page; an official 1989 release from the same venue, nineteen bucks and around eight for postage – hmmm, so I coulda bought five 10/16/89’s for the price of one 4/29/09 -- you do the math.

You know, I really didn’t want to do this. Trash the band I love and its surviving members. Tear apart the last thing (hopefully) that they might bring to the table musically. But I do feel that someone has to tell ya the truth, as I see it. The emperor is old and naked – anyone got a tie dyed sheet?

Allen Toussaint at Joe's Pub -- 2/15/09

Wonderful show at a wonderful venue! Prolific songwriter, roots New Orleans piano, soulful vocals, engaging, witty, humble . . . all that in a charming setting. (claustrophobics need not apply). A gentleman and New Orleans ambassador of music, Mr. Toussaint basically laid it down for all to see. Toussaint remarked that it was a “blessing of Katrina” that got him on the road and back in New York City for this weekly series (2 shows remain: 2/22 & 3/1). An hour and forty five minutes of song, story, recollections, “mister, throw me something” and an up close look at his new Grammy! Mid-way through the show he unveiled his prize possession much to the delight of an already appreciative crowd. Joe's Pub is a small, distinctively New York hideaway – better than expected food, great service and an abiding respect for the music are all hallmarks of Joe Papp’s club. He started off with an instrumental warm up that may indeed have had over 50 references, homage’s and teases. He explained that he would be performing songs he wrote, songs he didn’t but wished he had, and, songs he didn’t and was glad of. In the first two categories lay the high points. The only song, to my recollection not penned by Toussaint was a poignant rendition of Marty Robbins’ El Paso. Musical incongruities aside – it was probably the biggest reach of the afternoon, and it worked. He followed that with a little story about a musicologist’s opinion that “Get out My Life Woman” was perhaps his most recorded song, not to let it go at that, Toussaint opined that his favorite version was by “Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead”.
I would like to tell you that that brought down the house, but perhaps it was only my small table . . . I thanked him afterwards for the wonderful El Paso, and the props for Jerry, mentioning that I was a huge fan – and it seemed that he was too. He said he’s see us at Jazz Fest, and whether we meet again or not – for an afternoon in New York City I was charmed and enthralled by both a musical giant and a gentleman of the people.

Bill Graham, a ghoul and (maybe) the best Dark Star ever!

New York, nEW yORK -- February 197013th & 14thFillmore East (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fillmore_East)
Hosted by Zacherele( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Zacherle) longtime WPIX staple, and Phiily native -- now what's a ghoul got to do with a Valentine's Day gig I am not quite sure. Actually four shows (!) early and late Friday (the 13th, just like today) and early and late Saturday, Valentine's Day (http://www.deadlists.com/). Stream it (http://www.archive.org/details/gd1970-02-13.early.sbd.gans.2208.sbeok.shn), download it, buy it "Bears Choice Volume 1" Dick's Picks 4 but give this a listen this weekend . . . may restore your faith in all things good and natural and most especially . . . Good Ole Grateful Dead

And so, indeed it is . . .

Nobel Prize for Pete Seeger!

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND


This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York Island
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me.

As I went walking that ribbon of highway
I saw above me that endless skyway
I saw below me that golden valley
This land was made for you and me.

I roamed and I rambled and I followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
While all around me a voice was sounding
Saying this land was made for you and me.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
A voice was chanting, As the fog was lifting,
This land was made for you and me.

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me;
Sign was painted, it said private property;
But on the back side it didn't say nothing;
That side was made for you and me.

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

This land is your land, this land is my land
From California to the New York Island
From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters
This land was made for you and me.

Pass the Donuts!

"Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, Inc. is honoring American's sense of pride and freedom of choice on Inauguration Day, by offering a free doughnut of choice to every customer on this historic day, Jan. 20. By doing so, participating Krispy Kreme stores nationwide are making an oath to tasty goodies -- just another reminder of how oh-so-sweet 'free' can be."

Well, The American Life League noticed the liberal use of the word choice and decided to blast the chain bakery for producing abortion doughnuts."The unfortunate reality of a post-Roe v. Wade America is that 'choice' is synonymous with abortion access, and celebration of 'freedom of choice' is a tacit endorsement of abortion rights on demand," the group's president, Judie Brown said in a statement.

New York City Unveils Water-less Urinals!

(my first choice was 'debuts' but the assonance was too tempting to pass up, although I hope I haven't opened a keg of nails with assonance, for the places to put one's assonance are on the opposite wall behind a series of well thought out partitions)

Can it be? The future is indeed now. Not too sure how high the priority of saving water is that we can't even properly flush our liquid waste into the waste stream. Perhaps if we (us, the U.S., could come to terms with gray water and black water and the like . . .) But more than the incredibility of the idea is the location -- the Port Authority Bus Terminal!

Flushed with pride as I am as both a New Yorker and a commuter, I have to question the wisdom of the attempt to try these things out here. Long synonymous with the underbelly of New York (while cognisant of certain attempts to reverse that trend) this is not exactly the home of the gentleman restroom user. Far from it!

Notice the lack of any valveage or handles or motion detectors of any sort. Gone too is the pleasant enough urinal 'cake' enclosed these days in a little plastic mesh apparatus. You can imagine the commotion I caused just trying to snap this picture. (The attendant on duty asked if I was from 'the TV'.) While I regrettably informed the happy employee that I was taking this picture for personal use only I wondered why this had not hit the main . . . (um) . . . stream media. Perhaps already splashed across the pages of trade journals, I bring it to you here. (Salon and Huffington, please take note.)

Let's call it what it really is.

OK -- So I (we) are going back to New Orleans. Third trip, first Jazz Fest. Nom de plume of Uptown Rulah. Looking forward to the food and the music and the city and the whole package. We did some work in the Ninth Ward and I would love to pass by and see those folks. Going to head over to Algiers, again -- this time maybe walk around a bit. We took a jitney and saw Mardi Gras World as well as William S. Burrough's house (historical plaque and all!). Never enough time to do the deal but some small part of me wishes I had all of my time down there. "You either get it or you don't" says my intrepid tour guide and music maven. So -- we got it, hands down.