What is Bluegrass Anyway

This is Texino. Sometimes I post to a List-serve at the University of Kentucky that is meant to be entirely devoted to bluegrass music. I title my posts "Looking through the F Holes." Every year about now a discussion flares up in regard to the International Bluegrass Music Association or IBMA because they hold a convention in September where awards are given for best this and that. Well the balloting is presently underway and things are heating up to the point where people can not agree what bluegrass music is. The following is a bit I wrote in an effort to explain what bluegrass is or might be.  I'm putting it here because I am too lazy to write another article today and also because there are a couple of people who drop by this blog who are into music.  I quote myself:  Some people have asked how I can see from "The F Holes"? Good question. The answer is, I'm inside of a big bass fiddle*. That's right. A German model from 1939 with a trap door in the back. Instruments can be used as hiding places both in real life as well as metaphorically.
Today, I sense a bit of panic within the community because people who love and live Bluegrass are suddenly hard pressed to define it. Well, as we all learned in our youth, the answer to any question is ,"Look it up." My dictionary says Bluegrass is: " a kind of country music influenced by jazz and blues and characterized by virtuosic playing of banjos and guitars and high-pitched, close-harmony vocals." Another definition is "... grown for fodder." While the first definition would satisfy most people , I believe the second might serve our group better. Why? Because one use of the word fodder means food, another is to feed and still another one is an excess of the expendable, i.e. "cannon fodder. Although I like to think we use our fodder as grist for the mill of discussion, others may seize a clump and fire it off in defense of a position and some people just eat as much as they can but can never get enough. Then we have this. A long time friend and some time band mate tells a humorous story which ends with a man saying "David, Bluegrass is a hard, driving music." Through the years when one of us might be a bit off track, the other could just drop that line out of the blue and all would be better. It got to the point where almost anything, from angry words to hurt feelings or even an awful showing on stage, could be set aside by someone striking mock serious and quoting that old saw. Didn't even have to have a Dave present; just the words would do it. The music has that power.
So there, Bluegrass is a hard, driving music that you can live, eat and use as a weapon. The IBMA shindig? Well that's like the flu season, or a Texino broadcast; you know it's coming, but you can't really judge how deadly it was until it's over. My advice ? Sea por favor tranquil mis amigos and smile when you see a big German Bass.

*note  I don't know if this instrument is real or as a French person might say, " de de la tête"

It does exist in a story I have where the "double bass" is used to hide a small child or move other things around wartime Europe, and I have been inside and all through the instrument in such detail, I might as well have made the thing in real life.

Texino

texino@gmail.com

www.bozotexino.com

Do I Voo Doo?

I was disipointed recently because an essay I had been asked to submit in support of a broarder piece was cut out altogether. I did feel compelled to send a letter to the editor letting him know that, as a Latino, I was insulted and would have my satisfaction even if I had to use Voo Doo to get it. In fact, I included a photo of a Root Doctor and a Zombie.(That is the Zombie right there folks)  I think I made it clear that my retribution was more symbolic than anything else and he could easily escape with a simple, " Im sorry," however; I do have a copy of a book written by this fellow and, therefore, have all the connection I need to reach him using the old ways. Rather than Zombify him, however;  I am more likely to have my Root Doctor cause a brief tummy ache where the only relief would come from the release of gas in the form noisy "farts."  These would be unique in that they would sound out various effects such as a trumpet doing a horses whinny or the deep tones of an Ocean liner's steam whistle. Imagine being at a formal dinner when, suddenly, the familiar oboe that heralds the dawn in Rossini's Overture emanates from beneath the table or perhaps an embarrassed man striding through a lobby trailing the sound of song birds in his wake. Of course such flatulence would be rendered odorless so as not to detract from sound quality.  We have the power to act, right here in the jungle. I don't know what I'll do because I'm still pretty sore about this and must not act out of haste. These things do take timing and a slip up might land me in hot water.  I think I better send the story to Ms. Moon just to be sure it doesn't really suck.  On the other hand, if I do get in trouble for using Voo Doo, I'm going to say "I did it for kicks, Man." or "To get my name in the paper."

The Last Sunday

I have a friend who is a Mom.  Well, lets say Momma because it's bigger and Mommy just doesn't fit.  My friend is not a Big Momma and she will never pick up that appellation because a big momma is a southern thing that is very easily understood, and one look at my friend Mary would settle the big momma question then and there.  No I have a feeling that, even should she acquire 50 grandchildren, she will still be Momma.  OK?  Fine, because we are talking about something else entirely.  I've known Mary for a long time, too long maybe, because we don't see one another as often as we once did.  I wouldn't say our friendship is stale, it's more on the level the box being pretty full, that is to say, from writing a million words, we know a bit much about what is in the other's mind and face to face contact brings little in the way of "What's new?"  See what I mean? Good, because we're still not to the point.  The point is the children.  Mary would not be much of a Momma without some of those and she has four.  We  call them Jim, June, Lilac and Lacy.

Mary would call them something else but I'm protecting innocents here.  Actually, there was another woman/child who desperately needed a Momma and Mary took her in until she could stand up and walk out.  I don't recall any eye blinking in the decision either, she just did it. It needed doing..  Mary, Mother, Mary Momma.  OK?  Fine because we are getting close to the point. When I first met Mary, it was to aid her with a computer matter, She seemed happy that someone would take the time and for my part I was happy to help.   A friend of a friend.  The friend was a girl and Mary was a girl too and I just like girls.  My hero;  The legendary piano man Big Al Williams had a bell mounted on his instrument and was famous for ringing it then yelling, " Calling all girls! Lets have a high ball!"  I like women that much if not more, so if a female needs a hand Texino is bound to respond favorably and fast.  Well computers got fixed and Mary and I soon discovered that we both took reading and writing  to a serious level and seemed to able appreciate each other in the comfortable manner that allows those of opposite sex but similar passions to fall in step and keep marching to that tune without messing with romance.    So we wrote and we read what we had written and when we didn't have any thing to read we talked about life which for Mary centered on her job as Momma.  When we met, Jim was grown and out and about. June was at home but close to college and Lilac and Lacy were just cute little girls in the elementary grades.  Well as hard as Mary was at living her life and being a good wife and mother, she still maintained the Momma persona by going to the school house and assisting with this class or that one.  We know she wanted to make sure things were getting done the correct way, and God knows how much momma she let loose to the masses.   Perhaps God does know, but the numbers are beyond me.  I know they were enough to put the yoke on Mary for she's a small gal. Small in stature maybe, but strong in her belief  that while mothers get a break Momma is always there and aware.  It seemed the girls were always in school.  If there were vacations, Momma never took them  and after years of reading the words of Mary's week,  I began to notice Sunday.  Yeah Sunday was the day when things seemed bad; the day when a costume needed sewing or a forgotten science  project would surface and poster board, tempera paints and construction paper would meld along with the proper tables  and rumble off just in time to make the grade.  Also Sunday could bring on  the symptoms of "Duck Fever"  a 24 hour illness that followed the Mary family into 3 different homes.  I always felt that Duck Fever resulted from someone missing a dose of Momma during the previous week and the lack of it would manifest during the the Sunday preschool countdown.  If the disease was confirmed, then the victim would remain at home wrapped in a comforter known as The Duck and receive Momma Ju Ju for the balance of the day and be fine by morning.  Duck Fever withstanding, I can't remember any of the kids from Jim though Lacy ever getting really sick and there is a pretty fair space of time covered.  Yup, Sundays were tough on my pal, but in these 12 or so years, she never missed one.  When you think about that, well its hard to think about. Because outside of being a Momma there were serious Mother and Wife things to deal with.  People died, or went away mad; old wounds would open and close at will because too much self healing magic had been lent the Momma bank, and those debts always default at the worst time.  I've watched my pal go through a month of Sundays 144 times and though she may have stalked each sabbath with a black cloud looking to find a crack in her even temper, it never happened or at least the word didn't reach us here at the know it all center.  OK?  Well it better be because, by my clock the youngest of the kids, the one left, baring a case of Duck Fever, will be stepping off  to college monday morning.   The Sundays?  It might take a while to see they are just a day before monday, maybe a bit heavy with memory but that will level out over time.  Kids grow and then they have to move around a little and sometimes they even go away, however; the children in this story wont do that; cant do it because  Momma wouldn't allow no sorry-ass separation.  It's a Southern thing you see, but it could happen anywhere.

Mary's kids are all good people.  I know they love their Momma and their Poppa as well.  Do they  know how lucky they are to have been cared for in such a special way?  And do they know how every fiber of their mother's heart and soul has stretched to hold them steady when things get bumpy?  I hope so because, there is simply no better definition of true love, and I am happy to point it out.

I might be different

I am not myself right now.  Well as Texino, I am not really myself, but this is different.  I don't know if it has to do with laser shots to the brain or a sudden compulsion to study the Dorian mode, but I do know these items are not found in the day planner of your average almost 60 year old man.  I've done a little checking and, no you won't find them.  Oh yeah, there is this other thing.  Lately, I have been stopping my car a little bit into the cross walk when I pause at a red light.  Well, I did it again yesterday, except there was a red car already there and I hit it.  Not hard mind you, but the fellow driving the red car noticed and he got out to talk.  There was no damage and the man was very nice about it.  He could have said something mean, but he didn't.  We were both transporting French Poodles, and that may have helped.  On the other hand, he could have been riding a motor bike and the story would have ended differently.  Well it did end there and fortunately, nothing was said in regard to my age.  Like "maybe it's time to call it a day gramps."  Or "The light doesn't get any redder in St Johns Provence, daddy-o"  Oh yeah, I was not high on reefer or booze.  I felt badly to the maximum and decided to go see my doctor and ask a question.  For some reason I started crying when when the Doctor came to examine me.  He was concerned as Texinos just don't do that unless they are happy.  He sent me to have  test for a brain bleeding event.  Since it wasn't, they said Texino you could just be losing your marbles few at a time, so its time for us to count them.  So if you happen to spot some loose cats eyes or steelies  rolling around in the, gutter please pick them up and put them in  safe spot until I can get someone over to get them.  Thanks.  

While I am writing about crazy, I might as well confess the possibility of a new ghost.  I've written about the drag-leg ghost before-the one almost scared my hair white, back in 1963.

Well this morning I went to to finish up this post and there were a lot of Es at the end of the last sentence because I had gone to sleep typing and my finger had rested on the key.

I erased all of the E letters and looked at what I had put down and it made some sense, so I went and hit the spell check.  Now the spell check busted me for trying to make a compound word of too +Lorraine.  OK?  Well not fine because I did not write "Lorraine" anywhere in the post and if I had it would have been totally out of context.  In fact, the only Lorraine I know is the lady who sold me poodles.  I did, however, have a  next door neighbor by that name, but she died many years ago.  Funny thing is, when she was dying she said she hoped to live long enough to smell my jasmine in bloom once more.  She did and then died.  She was very warm and gracious woman and I miss her.  Sometimes when I am out in the night airs, I will pick up the sent of Ligustram.  Lorraine had a hedge of it and the smell was strong.  After she died, her husband tore it up.  Then he moved away.  He is about 90 and he didn't have any trouble finding a new babe either.  John's a real good dancer and the gals left by from those dancing days, will go Boffo for a man who is smooth.  I miss Loraine a lot,  for she was ever so nice.  Thing is, John never had a service for her.  He just burnt her up and the paper said "service at a later date."  So poor Lorraine is on my mind especially when I catch the smell of Ligustram where there isn't any, or whenever my Jasmine comes out  Now today, I find her name mysteriously hanging around my word processor and would like to know if she is here for a visit or I just wrote it while drifting.  I put a few questions to the computer and when I come back from the eye doctor I'll see if she was here.  I think you night want the answers too.  As the Bard once had Hamlet say;  "There are more things in heaven and earth, Texino, than are dreamt of in your philosophy"

The Motherless Baby Home

Hi.  Today I received an odd email from a gentleman in Africa.  This fellow, who we will call Mike, wrote to tell me about the unfortunate death of a Mr. Finklestein.  He then went on the say that Finklestein, who had no kin, had left some 15.5 million bucks in the bank where Mike works and, if no one claimed it, the money would revert to the bank's general fund. Well that's the news from Africa. NOT!  No way, because Mike has chosen me to pose as Finklestein's heir and for this little charade, I will get 40% of the money and Mike and "his partner" get 40% and the "other 10%" will be donated to the Motherless Baby Home. You say "err Texino 40 + 40 + 10 is not 100" Yeah, I noticed that as well, but I was more taken with the idea of a motherless baby to worry about that "new math" stuff.  I mean, Mike doesn't say "orphaned children" he says "Motherless Baby" and I say that's a neat trick.

Of course, we have all gotten these letters and they are part of the well known 419 or "Nigerian Scam"   Now I do not see how anyone, even a motherless baby, could fall for this.  Someone must, however, because I see no slacking in these appeals.   How do they do it?  Well, they ask for all your banking data and, if you give that up, they will simply take all your money out of the bank.  If, say, you start a separate account for your cut, you will be asked for what seems like trivial amounts needed to get a document stamp or power of attorney.  Then everything will be set up but at the last minute someone will need $1000 bucks for someone will require hush money.  People fall for this?  It would seem so.  I guess it plays upon greed and once you put a little money in, it's hard to convince yourself that you are a complete idiot.  Powerful psychology is at work too.  If, like me, you read these letters for laughs  you will notice that the author uses a mixture of big words and poor grammar and you may easily assume you are dealing with a fool.  Not necessarily. It seems that quite a few people feel that they will outsmart the con.  Try that and you could be the big loser.  When I was active on the web site "Quatloos" (a respected clearing house for Tax related scams, but others are discussed as well) I helped investigate a fellow from Canada called Jim Norman.  Jim had started this "Project" where women working for him would use all sorts of bogus paper to convince investors that Jim's "Espavo" foundation had this portfolio worth 77 million bucks but it was tied up by the world court and world bank due to some 9/11/01 deal.

Anyway Jim needed these piddling amounts of money to pry it lose and in exchange for say a 2k loan, he would issue a promissory note to pay back the money in two weeks at something like 700% interest.  Well that's a lot of dough for 2 grand and people signed up big time.  Of course Norman never paid a dime and still hasn't.  Interesting point though; in going over some purloined emails from a mole in the organization, it would seem that Norman himself had been taken in by one of these scams and seemed to believe he was going to hit it very big.  When last I checked, Jim was still at it but with more of a new age angle. Some place on his web site Jimnorman.com or something close, he claims to have tested at some incredible score which shows him to be near super human.  Thing is, the "score sheet" he posts is obviously

a "charge sheet" from a dentist visit which shows billing codes in the left margin and corresponding items to the right.  Of course Jim says these are "chemical values" and some arcane dental products may seem to bear this out, but things like "motrin" and the paper the dentist uses to check that your crown is the right hight are dead give a ways.  To anyone who has worked around medicine or looked at a discharge bill from the ER or Dr.'s office, the issue of a billing code for every single possible thing that can be charged is no secret.  Never the less, Jim the con just goes ballistic if questioned.  A google search would likely show some of this stuff.  Yet even with this huge amount of negative evidence, people have recently given money to the Norman scheme. Some have been highly paid professionals who can laugh off a couple of grand for the outside chance that this might be real.  What doesn't come to lite that often are seniors who have bet their retirement savings.  Why the hell would they do that?

The next time you go round a lottery sales location, please notice who is buying the weekly dream.  It's likely to be the elderly.  You might say, "Damn that person is 80, what the hell would they do with 50 million?  Well, the sad thing about our society is a lot of us "don't make it" and it is scary to be on a fixed income and have to worry about the cost of medicine and being taxed out of your home, or the stigma of being "broke".  It is an entirely different American Dream that motivates these folks.  How would I know? Well being Texino, I just know stuff. Meanwhile Mike and Jim and Barrister Princewell and all manner of other happy schemers are out there looking to nail your last dollar.  Oh yeah, the Motherless Baby Home.  What really caught my eye there was the reminder of an old blues tune; the type they call a moan, that tells us. "Motherless children have a hard time when their mother is dead."  As I grow older, the song makes far more sense than the overstated title did back in the day when I had little to lose.   Purposeful bring down here?  No, not really.  I see something, get an idea for one thing and then maybe something else comes out.  It's just a thing.  Keep your eyes open, porcupines abound.

Friendly Staff forced to punt

Howdy, Texino here.  After reading a recent entry where Ms. Moon, in conflict with an optical shop, takes the subject of rude staff to the word woodshed for a thrashing, I thought about some recent contacts with my own care givers.  By thrilling coincidence, my latest go round was also driven by a visit to an optical center.  In fact, I was looking for new glasses myself.  Life seems to seek these little parallels, doesn't it? That or we are just plodding the same boring road copping each others riffs.

Oh well, it is crazy thinking like that which propels me into this story.  Lets start right here with a statement of fact.  I have Glaucoma, a disease of the eye that causes the ambient pressure inside the eyeball to rise.  For the most part, it is asymptotic and if not diagnosed and treated it will rob your sight. Now even though I know this and I know the treatment, I became non compliant-meaning I stopped taking the medicine and quit getting my pressure monitored. How come?  Well let's just say a little voice in my head said it was OK.  Of course that was craziness at work. I know that now, you know it and the folks at the eye place know it too.  There lies the nut of the problem.  The eye people treat me like I am an idiot, at least the ones who know about my madness do, while the ones who don't know are often brusk to the point of rudeness because I often cannot follow their instructions.  I don't like going there one iota, however; I had to go there recently because my progressive bifocal lenses were driving me, well I guess I can say "crazy" and you will get the point.  Now before they would hand over different glasses, I had to go through an exam.  The person who gave the first part was "clued in" and seemed to feel the proper approach  to employ when dealing with the insane was to reassure me that the machines would not hurt me.  Now, I'm sure you all have had this done to you before, right?  I mean the color blind test and the how many dots test and so on and it's all about looking into some device and trying see something.  Hardly intimidating even to the most feeble minded among us.  I mean it's like looking into a telescope; something you may not do every day (or night) but hardly a threat.  Oh well, I don't think they cover giving eye tests to madmen in optical assistant school.  They may, however, go over some geriatric issues and I think this lady was improvising along that route.  Next we have the eye doctor, a very nice man for an Android.  I swear this man is programed to perform  complex fiddling of various machinery, All the while speaking some eyeball jive in a sing-song voice and answering "Yes, of course." in response anything you might say. Usually harmless and very predictable, so I was quite taken aback when he suddenly dismissed his robotic persona and said, "Hmmm, something serious here, Ill be setting up an appointment for you with the eye surgeon," then walked out.  As I was led to the desk where "all business must be concluded before leaving", I heard the doc's voice singing its song to the next patient.  Too weird in that by finding some new event beyond their ken, the whole complex shut down on me and went into reset mode for the next patient.  Well true to their word, they sent me to The Eye Surgeon.  Still, I find the lack of a real explanation or consultation or discussion about which eye surgeon; the stuff that happens when normal people need to be referred for advanced treatment, I find it, well, missing and am left with the feeling I should have brought a parent or what ever the equivalent for a 59  year old child would be.  Oh, by the way, I got my new glasses with no argument at all from what is usually the most contentious sector of the staff.  Now in case you think I am imagining being treated like an idiot,  I offer you this;

When I went to my appointment at the eye surgery complex, my initial exam was done by a woman who obviously did not suffer fools gladly.   "Do you know why you are here?" She demanded. I said that I did. She then fixed me with the look usually reserved for inspecting some questionable item on one's dinner plate and said, "Well, why don't you tell me what you think you are here for?"  I wanted to put her eye out.  Being a disabled person can cause great frustration. Even more so when you know that your disability is partly due to mental illness and it is not a secret.  A touch of the old lunacy may even do you a favor in the studio or at your desk, but when you go outside of the nest you have to be very careful of how you act or what you have to say , for the part of the world that responds in direct reaction to you is seldom understanding and rarely, if ever, charmed by your antics.  The folks in this story helped me retain a great deal of my sight and though I am very grateful, I must admit, that in my minds eye, things don't make for such a happy picture.  How can I be so selfish; so self centered?  Well that is just the way we crazy people are.  Please take my word for this and don't try it at home.

Texino

Don't call me Tex

Panama

The next time you need help, call a ...

  Do you remember that bumper sticker? "If you hate the cops..." Then it tells you to call whomever it is that has a beef with law enforcement.  Used to be that the police were at least on the side of the solid citizen and they spent some time offering assistance to that bunch.  If you were counter culture, it was best to just keep moving outside of their personal space. Now the police are undergoing some disturbing changes.  How do I know this?  Well not too long ago, I was doing some lecturing at a college, a community college, where they had included an actual Law Enforcement Academy in the curriculum of study.  Now in my comings and goings it was common to see the student police practicing various types of field training outside of the classroom environment.

It was not long before several things struck me as odd.  First it was the uniform or I should say uniforms.  The students, or "recruits" as they prefer, attended class in a uniform of khaki shirt and trousers and shiny black shoes. For physical training, they donned olive drab combat fatigue pants, combat boots, a bright red t-shirt, and would form up in military fashion complete with a Guidon (a small pennant on a stick) Then they would march off to the exercise area in parade fashion or else that odd double shuffle popular with South African troops and Black College Marching Bands.  Of course you can't march without timing and since they did not have a brass band, they relied on tried and true cadence call and response rhymes.  After rigorous exercise the trainees hit the showers and would appear in either the classroom Khaki or else ominous black battle dress called BDUs.  BDUs meant serious training like kicking in doors and shooting shotguns plus all manner of urban warfare.  All this stuff was done with a deadly serious attitude and reminded me very much of my army training except even more combat oriented and the combat seemed directed to a population rather than an "enemy"  As my time continued, I began to notice the recruits becoming not only more paramilitary in attitude and dress, they also to a man, though not a woman, started shaving their heads in an exaggerated version of the high and tight or "white wall" haircuts favored by elite units of The Armed Forces.  Before long the "Basic Law Enforcement" class started applying military base procedure to the whole campus by raising and lowering the Flag at certain times and even attempting a retreat each afternoon.  A retreat is when the Flag is lowered while a bugle plays and on a military reservation certain rules are followed.  Well a college is not Fort Bragg and traffic will not come to a halt nor will persons afoot stop and face in the direction of the main post flag and salute it till it's down.  I can tell you this did not go over well with the jr. cops and they even attempted to stop traffic by posting class members in bright orange vests right in the roadway.  Well that idea was scotched by admin and the cops were allowed to take their flag hijinks over to the "Fire Grounds" where they maintained a shooting range and had pretend battles in the "burn buildings" used for training Firefighters.  Trouble ensued with the firemen and some embryonic coppers got their pants dirty.  This episode caused me to investigate and in interviewing the police cadets I discovered the disturbing prevalence of an us vs them mentality ingrained to the point where I, as an instructor from outside the law enforcement section was not treated with the respect I would as a rule get from clean cut and well disciplined students.  This bothered me greatly, not because I'm some martinet, no what troubled me was with all the emphasis that the Law Enforcement Community places on "respect for the badge=respect for The Law" it was obvious that the new "Police" are being programed to by-pass respect for the "solid citizen" and this can be seen in countless episodes where the cops have terrorized, and I do not use the term lightly, yes terrorized innocent families in their own homes because someone made a mistake. Even, if no mistake is made then what has happened to the presumption of innocence?  More and more the police approach every arrest as a tactical exercise.  Heavy boots at 4 AM. Your door explodes inward and like as not some noise making pyrotechnic is set off.  Masked men made bigger by black Darth Vader armor burst into your home screaming the vilest obscenities for you to get on the floor and are held there with a gun to your head while your home is literally torn to pieces in search of ANYTHING incriminating; even if your offense is over due parking fines.  If you want to use that old saw, "law breakers get what they deserve" you better get it through your thick head the "The Patriot Act" in defense of the "Homeland" makes you a criminal by thought, action, dress, association and just about anything else someone wants AND you are guilty as charged from the get go.  An article in the Roanoke, VA Times stresses this very point reporting how cars going to a Bluegrass event were being stopped by federal park police and searched under the auspices of The Patriot Act.  An editor for the paper was threatened with arrest under the sam "Law" for trying to photograph an incident from a safe distance.  This stuff is happening.  I am the last one to envolve myself in some nutty conspiracy but, goddamn it, this stuff is happening and the police are being trained to do it.  The cops stop you, don't even think of telling them you know your rights because,  you don't.  The next time you need a cop?  I'd advise calling a lawyer first.

The little search engine that could....

A couple of things if I may ask and add.  OK? Fine.  First let me inform you that should your fortunes change in some way, the chance of this news reaching you by email is nil.  This not to say that a faraway friend can't give you news in advance of a card or call. i.e. "The baby looks exactly like you!"  Whether this is good  or bad news is left to the recipient to ponder.  Still it is only part of keeping your bases covered. To that end, when someone tells me that he or she is expecting a critical email or even go so far as to say it is a life or death issue, I will wager it is a ploy to get me to repair their computer ahead of someone else's.    Why would somebody expect me to fall for this?  I suppose that people become used to emails ability to let them plot a conversation while seeming to be spontaneous chit chat.  People forget that email is nothing but an electronic letter that, unlike the traditional variety, is very easy manipulate or edit to their advantage up until the moment it is sent.  So anyone who allows that such a missive is of world altering importance, is just plain crazy.  No matter how often you exchange email with a person, you must always complete your business or "thread" with a telephone call or face to face meeting

Lets think about email some more.  The fact that you probably get several varieties daily is telling in that for most spam is generated by something you did, or even something an acquaintance did and in doing it let your address loose because they ccd their entire mailing list while forwarding their latest lawyer joke or vicious political lie. i.e. Senator Obama is a space alien terror jockey bent on destroying our land of perfection because all liberals hate freedom.  Hey folks, I'm just reporting the news.  Anyhow, the cc option on your buddies email header is there for anyone who wants some email addresses.  So spammers my know that you are interested in a product your friend told you about  and they release your address by selling it to other spammers and you keep getting spam forever.  Well that's a fact Jack and a bitter pill Jill, but there's  a fix Dick and you can look it up, Chuck.  Ah! there is the rub.  Look it up.  Where do you do that?  Da da da da! Blow a bugle for Google!  What a wonderful fountain of stuff!  It's like having a smarter brother or big Sis right there with you.  Unsure of an idea or fact? Need a picture of an eyeball?  Just plunk the magic twanger and the goods are there.  How can something so good be free?  How can it be so damn nice?  Well like most thinks that taste good, there is a bad side to this.  The best way to see it is to get a Gmail account.  It's free but you do need an invite.  I can fix that for you.  OK, here is what you get.  A web mail account which is  bit like Hotmail or Yahoo except, it is very easy to use and comes with 2 GB of storage. That is 2,000 MB and considering a 40 MB hard drive used to go for about $1000 bucks 15 years ago you will see that tech has gotten real big and real cheap very very fast.

OK the point of the Google 2GB mail account is, you need not erase a thing because you could put about a billion words in 2GB and you will not write that much in your life. So Google has all your mail.  Fine, now is when things get goofy.  If you have Gmail, go a head and start writing a letter.  You will notice that Google has little text adds off to the right margin.  You hardly even notice them, however; if you do you might be surprised to see that as you write, the adds change content to mirror what you are saying.  Type "fucking" and some clickable text on that subject will show up.  Type boat, plane, diesel engine or happy birthday Mom and the clickable adds will keep right with you.  Scary?  Well yeah.  If you know anything about software, make that Hell Yeah!  Because even though Google says they don't keep the information on file or share it.  They could.  Google is now a big and very rich corporation.  They trade stock.  Just take a minute to and think about some other big outfits who do that.  They may have screwed you over; you know sent their tech support where folks don't understand you.  They speak English in that they are able to read a script, but they don't understand the nuances that would make them really helpful.  They may have screwed you or someone you know by taking his, her or your job and making it vanish.  They may have bankrupted the retirement fund of someone you know. (one reason why you might see old guys working as bag boys over at the market) They may have jacked your credit cards up to loan shark rates so you will just keep paying the "vig" for ever and can't touch the principal without re mortgaging your home. Banks mortgage homes as well as issue credit cards.  So you see, a big corporation is very apt to do something really harmful just to benefit the bottom line for it's investors.  While you can be an investor your self, the corporation is interested in people with great big piles of wealth and those are the people it will serve. Not you, Sue.  Oh yeah, it is just business. I'm not trying to start a scare, I'm just saying if I can start with a comment about simple electronic messages and build to a climax where a search engine might have a complete profile of what you write plus copies of what you have written, it will be well to take note, for as a corporation will blindly serve the bottom line a corporate computer will gladly take aim on whomever is chosen and spit a bothersome line of data in the direction desired.  Now that would be a serious email indeed.   Texino

Texino wrote this right off the top of his head and, other than spell check, did not use sneaky email editing.

Ms. Moon

Today is the birthday of my friend and loyal commenter "Ms. Moon" a grown woman in some respects,  yet immortal in others.  I'll talk about the others.

You see that picture of the mermaid?  Well the mermaid is an immortal and it is no accident that it is also Ms Moon's Totem, Tiki, Trademark or Familiar.  Take your choice for they all work the same in the light of The Goddess who has decided to shine on M.M.  No, she did not choose, she was chosen and being chosen does not necessarily guarantee you an easy swim.  No it does not promise that at all. 

 I picture M.M. as her Mer Maid, larking about under the sea in weightless abandon; flicking here floating there just inspecting a universe of pretty this and lovely that. It is what she does.  She also makes golden sprays  and spirals with a twirl of her finger, or with a wave of her hand, a rainbow wake trails her path and it settles  so slowly that you can trace it far back in time.  Far a way as one would go.

 

 A fair sight, but a dream that must end because, on the surface of the world, where it is drier only by degrees of humid air, people are floundering.  You see, babies have lost their small oceans and need help navigating the sudden shallows. Young people are trying to gain on the knowledge that is always a step away while older ones need to stop running and learn from what they have.  Someone has to be there. Not only there but deeper. Down into the ditch that runs in parallel to the life road; a dark place where you can only sense the need and reach blindly in hope that something worth saving will take your helping hand, even if that something reflects as your own eyes. 

 Yes, someone must be there to see that those struggles pass and through great fortune someone always is.

Not much rest for the immortal mermaid is there?  Good reason to hate a day that just keeps coming back.  You can take a break, but sooner or later they'll be at it again and again...

  

Honored to know you Ms. Moon.

T

Animals on the job.

Howdy, T. Texino here with another episode of "Animals on The Job" the exciting series where we discuss the contributions to society made by your common place everyday animal on the street.  Today's subject?  The Sentinel Chicken!

Now a chicken ain't nothing but a bird and birds have been used for sentinel duty for many years.  You have sentinel canaries  in the deep coal mines, birds who would alert the miners to the presence of invisible and deadly levels of CO2 or other gasses by falling off of there perches.  I'm not totally sure these lovely songsters perished  or if they could be revived.  I do know, however, many human lives were spared and since canaries cant dig coal, the trade off was a plus for mankind and any other animals who had the benefit of a warm and bright place to weather the elements.  Then we have sentinel geese.  These boisterous flocks were turned out at night to alert the small hamlet or farm if a stranger might appear i.e. a chicken thief.  That gray honker, the barnyard goose, is perfect for the job while a duck would be too small and your Canadian Goose proper don't march around in flocks or have the reputation for meanness necessary for this gig.  I've heard that swans can be right nasty too, but I think a slick crook could tie the bunch up by the neck and effectively put them out of commission.  So the Sentinel Chicken?  Well her job is unique in that she just hangs about waiting for a skeeter to bite.  That's it and she doesn't have to kick up a ruckus about it either.  Nope, she just goes n about her business of scratching and pecking, laying and even brooding.  Then every so often a person will come along and take a blood sample and they check that out for signs of various insect born disease.  Like what? Well, West Nile Virus and St. Louis Encephalitis and Western Equine Encephalitis are three big time diseases that can lay humans down and if the chickens are bitten by mosquito carriers their blood will show anti bodies and that will cause the local health department to take action.  Such as?  OK, they might step up mosquito control and maybe get some airplane spraying going, that sort of thing.  And the chickens?  The sentinel chickens are an important part of disease prevention and control and as such are treated very well.  They are happy hens hardly ever harvested for the human hearth.  Sentinel chickens!  Animals on the job salutes you and hopes that you fare well.   

Texino

Reporter

Panama                                                                                                    

What the Hell is this? Porcupine attack?

Everything is gonzo! Porcupines are on the march!   I figure a porky and a beaver to be similar animals.  Look at the pictures please. So I have hired a platoon of the latter to make a stand.  Now why would I be concerned about some pesky rodents in the neighborhood when I have bears, Zombies, a boogeyman, a big foot and some failed Scottish cannibals in my corner?  Well, like many other countries, Panama goes on vacation around this time of year.  Infrastructure must be maintained, so they have a skeleton-crew on the canal and everyone else takes off for New Orleans.  Well I don't and it's a good thing too, because no sooner had the last bus left than I here the unmistakable scratching of hundreds maybe thousands of porky coming down the road and heading, as always, for the "colon free zone"!  Now I can't say much about the free zone except colon free does not mean no colons.  It's just a huge free port shopping area and right now when it's closed, like everything else is, it is flat irresistible to porcupine. Don't know what they want, don't want to find out!  So we got the beavers and the porky gang.  Well, as everyone knows even though science has denied it for ever, is this; a porcupine CAN and WILL shoot his quills.  It's the female or "Sissy" who cannot do this.  The male or "Bard" can.  It is the only way to tell them apart.  Why worry about this in battle? Couple of reasons.   A Sis can reload a Bard and when she does and is temporarily without quills, that is when they have sex.  So the old joke about porcupines having sex "very carefully" is just a joke.  What happens is this: A Bard is out of ammo so he finds a Sis with ripe quills (a sign of sexual maturity) He stands up on his hind legs and she stets her quills an angle.  When Sis is ready she makes a sound that goes "ah ah ah ah ah ah-toc toc  (and then a whistle)"  The Bard will then settle back on her quill rack and squirm around like a dog scratching its back in order to get a good set and compression for powerful shots.  Once he is satisfied with the set he will give a couple of sharp barks and the Sis will release her quills all at once.  Then they "do it" and the Sis goes on home, grows new quills and, in about eight weeks, has three babies.   Two females one male.  Porcupines are pretty hard to fight without the right personnel.  I'd say if you got a good seasoned platoon of skeletons backed up by about 100 solid beaver from up north, you are good to go.  Get your skellys out front and the Bards will start slinging quill.  Of course that won't bug a skeleton and if a Bard can't reload he'll go rolly polly and that's when you got him.  Your Skells just need to bowl the curled up Bards back toward their own lines and leave it to the beavers to send them flying with  good swat of the tail.  Beavers are also good at catching a load of quill with their tails and firing them right back.  If their timing is right they will catch a Bard and a Sis in a pre-coital reload and that really puts a monkey wrench to it.  Do that enough and the porkys will go home and stay for a good spell.  Damn good those Beavers.  Well I got the beaver and the skeleton crew from the canal, so I'm not worried.    This is not the first time I've saved this country and probably wont be the last.

Texino

Reporter

Panama                                    

Be Seeing you, maybe.

Hi it's Texino and I am in possession of some news.  It you seem that through the same hereditary aspects which make me attractive to all the sexes as well as an artist nonpareil, I have contracted yet another bizarre disease which would sideline me, this time by robbing me of my sight.  Oddly, I had a vision of this many years ago, while riding a city bus.  I noticed a sign which showed a man in a burglar's outfit and read that the disease Glaucoma can steal your sight, like "a thief in the night"  For those who do not know, a burglar wears a horizontal striped jersey with long sleeves, corresponding black trousers, a workman's cap, crepe souled shoes and a little goggle-like mask around his eyes.  This may be why he moves about at night. At any rate, when I saw that advertisement, my mind said "That's for me."  Now, so many years later, it has come to pass.  Of course time has not stood still and clever science may have just the trick for this particular sort of Glaucoma.  Sadly, treatment is not free of charge, but it is one of those things where I might have insurance for fixing it.  We will see.  (suddenly, things which were not puns are puns; must be a word for that. Note to self: If  not, make one up) So the thing is, if I do happen to lose my vision, it's not like I have not spent time preparing for the possibility.  One good thing is this; quite a few blind people work as musicians and since I am still one of those albeit half-assed at the moment, I could probably get a gig singing the blues. (If you want to hear me do that then go here, www.myspace.com/hoodoodads and choose "red rooster" from the available titles) I even have an animal pal who can act as my guide and I have made up a funny joke about that to put my audience at ease with my handicap.  Here is how it goes.  I come on stage with my dog and introduce him and then make a comment about how the German Shepard is the greatest of guide dogs and so on.  Now what makes this funny is that my dog, Cosmo, is a great big yellow French Poodle.  So you see the audience would think that I think I have this big macho dog and I don't know that I have a giant poodle because I'm blind!  See, I like to think ahead, just incase.  Of course I am really  concerned about this issue, but it's better that I put on a brave face.  Being blind would be terrible if only because Icaa f foucj yod <––––– that's supposed to say "I can't touch type."  In fact, I have a hard time typing at all because I cannot always remember where the letters are, even though they are right in front of me.  It has something to do with another disease and is one of the reasons I am disabled.  I don't want people to feel too sorry for me though because #1 I feel sorry enough for myself and #2, I'm pretty certain I am getting what's coming to me because I have done some terrible things in my life.  Please note, however, that I said "too" sorry and that means it is OK with me if people want to hug me and tell me I'm getting a bad break.  It would be especially convenient if someone, perhaps a woman with her own money, would feel a duty to take me on as a project.  I mean you hear about this sort of thing all the time where somebody takes up with a convicted murderer over at the The Pen.  Texino is nothing like that!  Now, before you get all indignant and say "Hey what about Mrs. Texino?" I suggest you refer to item #2 above.  Well, that's my news.  Sometimes I forget that my blog is called damed lies, but that is supposed to represent the futile nature of the internet.

Ok, I have come up with a word to describe an etiological shift––like when words suddenly become puns.  The word is "Circumfraction "  Look it up in the dictionary.  You won't find it.

So, how do I get away with that?  Simple, I have a poetic license.

Comp -101 (as in negative)

 I  have to write and I tend to let an idea go where it leads me, rather than track its source and build a solid piece from there. (the proper method)   Chasing something that way can cause you to stumble into all sorts of ambuscade but, if you are able to write your way out of a trap at the same pace you wrote yourself in to it, therein lies a certain groove that feels good.   Basically I am saying modify your subject on the fly if you have to, but see if you can end up in tune with the idea that first got your attention. It is a risky but jazzy style of creative writing.  When it works it's cool and when it doesn't?  Well you lose the power and dimension of the whole thing and it will read like the over dub of a Godzilla film.  You may have noticed.

 

Lets all or at least two Dance

OK! What's going on here?  Looks like some Cats, Chicks, Guys, Dolls, Sweet Poppas and Big Mammas, Brown Sugar and White Bread action is sweeping the Blog like a mighty wind.  Well, will the wind be so mighty as to lay low my bad attitude dude? No, it will not be quite so mighty as all that. Still these pictures are begging for comment gent, so let's jam it Janet.


Now in the opinion of this Texino, which is what matters, couple number one is the big winner, although "Mr Twister" might get to be Mr. Lucky providing he don't get skewed by those "points" the lady in the red skirt aiming his way.  You know whenever I see a woman done up in the manner of that foxy brunette  I got to wonder, #1 what she looks like all wet and #2 if those two are going to make out, it must be one of those situations where the lady has to go "slip into something more comfortable" if they are going to get serious.  I mean take couple #1.  Hell those two people could  be having some kind of sex right there, while couple #2, well it almost looks as though that guy is using his partner as a weapon in some bizarre martial art.  I even have a name for it, but I can't use it on the air because it's dirty.  You might be saying "the hell you say Texino-you talk dirty all the time!"  Well, that is true.  Still, I might need help from some women one day and in a scientific poll done by the folks at El mas excelente de la farmacologia (desde 1903!) just about 99% or more women really hate this word and would never use it unless, well you know how sometimes people might say something in the heat of a moment and then at some other time tell you how much they hate that word? Well if you do, then you know it would be impolitic to remind the person that they sure didn't have any trouble with some word and hollering out a bunch of nutty instructions while, well in the heat of a moment.  OK? Fine.  Still it does look to me like that Jack snatched that Jill from some very large holster and is fending off a couple of G-men and doing a fine job keeping them at bey.  For all that, one of those Feds could pull a heater and sort of "cut in" if you follow me.  Why do I feel those two acrobats in #2 are not just cutting the latest rug?  Look at those shoes

"suspenders" is sporting.  Heck, he's got crook written all over him.  That pic was shot back in '46 and I'd say that sport probably spent the war on the Left Bank, the old Reve Gauche.  I mean where else but France could a guy learn how to handle a woman like that.  Spain perhaps, but I think they were in the war. And France?  Well France was a bit short on men seeing that just about all of them were killed in the first war. Still another reason for that Jasper to be hanging lose in Gay Paris.  So the trophy does indeed belong with couple #1.  They are obviously having fun and the guy doesn't seem to care in the least that his date's got a few hundred lb on him.  You can bet it's a Saturday night too because back in those days all Black people ( at the time I don't think they actually had a name for themselves other than People) anyway those folks what happened to be black all had to work on Saturday.  That means Saturday night was the time to let it go.  It's right there in a zillion tunes written by and about colored people.  Not only is the Saturday night issue addressed , but more than a few tunes  address a fondness for Big Fat Women.  Can you imagine some white person making a song about such a thing? I can't and I can imagine just about anything that goes on in the world and figure out the reason it does.  Having that sort of imagination is not very pleasant and may explain why  I am often walking around with tears near.  So there.  I can have my Blog and show pictures off of people having fun and people who might think they are and still more people doing who knows what.  I heard a man from Harvard's University on the radio today and he was saying that when you read something that affects you in one way or another, you need to take a quick look at who says so.  What he was getting at was, is the writer an expert or someone with an agenda he or she needs to get out.  Now since I don't have an agenda then I guess you know where to come if you want the lowdown, dirty or otherwise.  What a joke that must seem until you realize I mean it.   

Now we remembe bigger deaths of larger people than you.

Hi, it is Texino.  I don't write on the Bluegrass List much these days, because my stuff tends to get outside the small world which, after all, is necessary to maintain the purity of the genre.  What I am writing here is a bit like something I posted over there in response to folks talking about the long ago deaths of some great players and speculating about how it seems many greats in the guitar music world have met with death early on and , therefore, may not have reached full potential.  That guy over there for instance.  His name is Clarence White and he was known as the preeminent acoustic flat picker of his time until his life was cut short when he was hit by a car while unloading equipment outside a club.  I was a fan of Clarence White and I remember that I was playing a club in Newport, R.I. when this happened.  As a point of interest, I had been a little cross because White had recently joined up with the Byrds or The Flying Burrito Brothers, one, and in doing that, not only had he taken up the Electric Guitar, but also made some changes to the instrument allowing it to pedal its strings like a steel guitar and do it by yanking on the strap.  In retrospect it seems the boy was getting about as far away from acoustic flat picking as a man could get, leaving one to wonder would he have been remembered for that particular talent at all, had he lived.  Well he died before most of the people outside that immediate circle realized what he was up to, so each year the list bemoans his loss.  Now as much as I would, and to some extent do, love to push the buttons to point out some kind of cosmic governing device may be keeping the talent pool level by whacking the random guitar genius just as he or she seems to be making the grade.  I really have to hold the hand of logic as I go, and this helps me to see how, in a lot of cases, lifestyle choices have led these folks into some reckless behavior, the sort of which kills lots of young people every year music prodigy or not.  Also, some people who seem amazingly adept at one thing may be slap dog crazy in all other aspects of life; those people just do not stay around too long at all.  Then and maybe most overlooked there is the fact that quite a few of these wondrous talents have survived and, reaching a level of un paralleled virtuosity, seem to grow introspective and then become able to teach or at least imply the fact that the bar has risen and then watch as a whole new crop comes up.  Farm that funky talent as it were.  Of course, and this is the fun part, logic does not always carry the whole day.  So in the twilight we can celebrate the lives of our beloved players; even watch them on Youtube and get as close to knowing them as you could have in their day, and while we will never cheat nor totally confound death, I think it's OK to  tweak his nose a bit, though for safety's sake an assumed name is advised.

Little Deaths

Yes, that's a Zombie.  His name is Andrew Wythe Obi and he lives in the Texino Compound in the Jungle portion of Panama.  Andrew was dead but he was reanimated by secret jungle Ju Ju and other stuff you wouldn't understand because, if you did, you would probably have  one or two Zombies of your own.

Anyway Andrew is just here to illustrate one aftermath of big death.  I want to talk about little deaths and how can sort of zombie your way around them.

OK.  Lets start with your head. (I bet you wish I'd get those eyes off the page)

Anyway your eyes are subject to small death and if you are over forty years of age, your eyes are probably dead enough that you have zombified them with some sort of seeing device.  I use eye glasses my self.  Your innate desire for drum music (we all have it) has more than likely been killing off your ears.  My advice  is do not succumb to the hearing aid device.  No, instead you may have to learn some hearing Ju Ju.  I say check with a harmless Yogi or one of those less is more doctors.  While most of what they say is BS, they may put you in enough of a Ju Ju state where you will keep your ears longer.  You may pray to the Saint Babalu Aye for help as well.  Just stay away from the hearing aid folks.  They are criminals with absolutely no Zombie points in their empty Karmic carpet bags.  Ok, now is your hair.  If it's color is becoming drab, you may paint it or, if you got a tad of Ju Ju in your bag just think it back to life.  That's what I do.  I may be white in my beard but that's a wisdom thing, my head hair is really still pretty dark and certainly baffles hair professionals who don't follow the Ju Ju way.  Skin death.  Boy that's hard to fight but if you have  decent hide, you should be able to keep it going, just lay off the soap unless you got some soap magic going.  Now many people are bothered by these small deaths of the mind.  All I can say there is that your brain is very big and certainly large enough for several full personalities to hold sway.  So if you start to loose a  bit of sense or talent you can try to borrow from one of your resting personalities.  These folks can be extremely nice and generous but getting their attention is difficult for most people who do not subscribe to heavy Voo doo and Sanataria.  All I can safely suggest is to try to dream yourself into a better state of mind and hope that your waking body can cop some lost talents from the alter personalities who people your dream scape.  It's possible to do this just don't expect too much at once and for God sake keep it to your self.  Speaking of God, I think it is best to think of that whole ideal as a kind of portal where you can get your mind in a state of readiness to hook up with this other stuff I'm on about.  I hope you get that, so you don't go wasting time doing the Jesus wave and all that Christian BS that's so big with the politicians right now.  You may notice that these fundamentalist are losing ground big time.  They are just a bunch of whacked out white people and should be deeply discounted at every opportunity.  Well there you have a start on Texino's dealings with the little deaths that can plague you into bigger trouble.  I'm not saying that this stuff will make you a success, but it may keep you vital longer and allow you to enjoy what you may be lucky enough to have going for you, like family, money, friends or a home. That stuff can be of true and lasting value to you and yours, and it is not some bogus code word like "Family Values" which translates to fat white people getting away with all manner of activity of no real value what so ever.  Me?  Well I just put the stuff out for your benefit.  I'll be lucky to end up like Andrew just sitting on a bench undead but not truly alive. Someone gives those Zombies simple work.  They do it and then go sit down.  Zombies will last a good long time if you maintain them.  Those ones you see depicted in films mostly work for Greek freight forwarders and those Greeks just don't keep their shit in order.  That's where you get your idea of Zombies in torn clothes and all stinking rotten.  It is just a matter of maintaining things like you would any sort of fleet.  My Z's hang out forever and aside from that thing with the eyes and a very limited vocal skills, they are no bother.  If you ever decide to do the Zombie thing, remember these people add a new meaning to the term dead or alive, so it's best you keep them from some place where they might run in to family or friends.  I mean, you want Zombies in Delaware, get them in Cape Verde or some place like that.  It's the way it's done and you don't mess with success.   OK? Fine.

Trout fishing in Watermelon Sugar

It's possible that that man in the picture may have had something to do with why "Fly Fishing" is so damn popular.

Damn his eyes.  I hate fly fishing.  That man in the picture is Richard Brautigan. He became a popular writer and poet in the San Francisco bay area back in 1968 when it was much cooler to be a musician and  not a very good musician at that.

The Bay Area was full of awful music.  I know. I was there.  Conversely, it was full of good poets and writers, but that Brautigan guy was really more of the "Art Community" that held people like Grace Slick and Janis Joplin in high regard, while somehow guys like Ferlenghetti and Keroac were held at bey, so to speak.  I don't know why,  but it was so. At the time, Richard had two popular books with story lines and a popular book of poetry.

His books were called "In Watermelon Sugar" and "Trout Fishing in America."  The poetry book was called "The Pill vs. The Spring Hill Mining Disaster."  "Trout fishing in America"

was a pretty clever book, although it did borrow heavily n the work of Nelson Algren. The Watermelon book was silly hippy stuff, just like a lot of the music of the area and I don't think the poetry held up very well.  In fact the title poem of the work is just an observation about how when a particular woman takes here birth control pill it reminds Richard of a mining disaster because of the life lost.  Well I am not real sure that Richard had his anatomy and pharmacology straight because I just don't think birth control pills work like cave-ins or methane explosions.  A better analogy might be taking a pill would be more like one of those huge weddings put on my The Rev. Moon and having all the brides not show up, but hey I'm not the poet on trial here.  Anyway, Richard was also in the Rolling Stone back when it was a pretty local news print job and in his by-line photo he wore a worse looking hat than the one in the picture.  Let's talk about the picture, OK? Fine.  First, I think that is Columbus Circle in San Francisco.  People in that city take Columbus Day very seriously, which to me at least, is odd as the Admiral of the Ocean Sea never visited.  In fact he came ashore pretty close to where I write this blog and aside from archeologists and such digging here and there, you would not know much about it.  There are however, quite a number of Italians in the area and that must have something to do with it.  Another thing in that picture is the woman.  Now I always wondered if she was the "Pill girl" and back in the day it was harder to imagine because not being, at the time, the considerer of women that I have become, I found that girl to be rather homely.  Oh well, I was very young.

And now the fly fishing riff.  Brautigan knew far more on the subject of trout fishing than he did about most anything else he wrote and everyone knows you got to be an ace fly caster to catch trout. In fact fly casting has spread to all areas of fishing, even sailfish and that sort of thing.  Still fresh running water for trout and broad shallow saltwater flats for bone fish make for the pinnacle of the sport.  They do fly fish for giant Tarpon too.  When it all comes down to wanting a fish however, there are quick and dirty ways of getting any of those species.  I'm not going to tell you how.  I just want to point out for all his popularity; for a while he was better known than Keroac.  Richard seemed to loose his spin and after having a conversation on 9/14/84 he was found dead by a private eye about a month later.  He had shot himself in the head. Keroac, who died in 1969 had by that time become very popular.  Of Brautigan's work poet Ferlengthetti said he had been waiting for "Richard's writing to grow up"  You know this writing business can do a person in.  Sometimes I feel "in"  You?  Well, if you want to know about "in" write something serious or make up some music and let it out.  It's the only way.

A gift

Hi, it's the blog boy.   I don't think that people like me very much. 

I have felt that way for a very long time and even when people have seemed to think I was worth their time, I figured they would catch on to me soon enough.  How come I feel that way? I can't really tell you.  Well now someone, two, actually have done something so incredibly nice that I am at a loss.  See that wood over there?  It's my mandolin. It's not finished of course but it is more complete than it seems.  The top part, on the left, has been cut from a very nice piece of spruce.  It started out quite a bit thicker than it is right now, but in the process it has been carved with all manner of skill by just one man with a few sharp tools wielded with such incredible ability.  He could be called "Mr Chisel Hands" and here's why.  He is carving the top of the mandolin with such skill that it already has music in it.  Thats right, you can pick up that wood and strike it like a drum and a note will sound a woody baritone.  The top is done but it still has some ornamental scroll work to be finished and some holes will be cut to let the sound out of the mixing box.  Now that box is to be made, as is the neck from that striped maple you can see.  The sides and back are cut and the neck will be shaped from the hefty club in front.  OK.  The skill of the construction cannot be minimized. Mr. Chisel Hands cannot make a mistake and he just won't because he is an artist and he knows when the time is right to work.  Now I said two people the other person is Ms. Sharp eyes and she searches out the very best of the wood and then in consultation with the builder she gets it, and all the other parts which are needed to make the instrument go.  Now back to the mandolin.  There is absolutely not a better collection of tone woods available; there are precious few people in the world who are able to give "life" to such a combination of  dormant organics.  My builder is one.  

Now, why me? I was never a great player and I've lost nearly all my skills to illness.  The single builder shop of Williamson Mandolins could easily make my order out of some very fine tone woods and it would be a lively instrument indeed.  But no. Ms. sharp eyes of impeccable taste and Mr. Chisel hands of supernatural skill are pouring the true gold into this instrument because, well because they are my friends and they are not the kind who forget the bond that forges these feelings.  There are few people like that these days.  I am fortunately blessed, and for once in my life, I have no doubt that someone really does hold me in regard.  Years ago an actress was so overcome by an award that she said "You really like me!"  People made fun of her naiveté.  Not me; I know exactly how she felt. 

Upping the ante-bellum

Hi,  Texino here with a word on animal safety.  To help me illustrate some do's and don'ts, I have placed a picture up in the left hand corner and I want you to study it by closing your eyes and then opening them for a few seconds.  Now close them again quickly and think about what you saw.  I hope that you noticed that a bear has somehow insinuated itself into a group of guys who seem to be sharing a little quality time with a dog and a cat.  What's even more frightening is that the bruin is wearing a muzzle and the gent standing next to him is fixing to take it off.  What do you think might happen next?  Oh hell, I can't fool you. That's just some sort of allegory about former Negro Slaves testing their status as citizens of the United States of America.  That or else the guy in the foreground is fixing to get the nickname "Lefty."  Now now, I know that it's dangerous to talk about the group of people who are the descendants of those men in the picture.  Shouldn't be but it is, and that is leading us into a possible horrific situation come the next Presidential Election.  What I am about here is the fact that the Democratic Political Party is considering running a fellow for the office of President who although he seems to be eminently qualified and not the least bit of a criminal, or insane binge drinker is, and I'm not making this up, a "Nigger." Now Shut up!  I don't give a damn how terrible and hurtful that word may be.  It is how an "African American" is perceived by the men in power throughout a huge portion of the USA.  Now say; "Texino, you are a racist and full of shit." say "Those days are gone and blah blah"  Well, I'm terribly sorry but outside of maybe N. California, the country is run by an "Old Boy Network" who are steeped in the principal of keeping Black People down.  Why would they do that? It allows them to control the  ignorant white people, the salt of the earth who season them so they can remain palatable in the power structure.  Maybe you don't remember the real 60's.  There was very little love. (all that stuff came later in the 70s)  No the 60s were  time when the US Federal Government finally tried to free the slaves.  What did they get?  Well they broke down some  barriers but at a tremendous cost; A President, possibly The Next President and the greatest leader the Blacks had.  Do you think that those days are history?  They are not.

The South may have some leaders who are black, but the majority are still poor and still intimidated and tossed off as "an undisciplined minority with an unrealistic sense of entitlement."  The leaders who were sacrificed for the cause?  JFK? revisionists have gutted him, RFK? same same. MLK? A man who should be respected on par with Ghandi.  Hell, they can't even honor him suitably.  I'll wager that nutty old Ronald Reagan is more respected than Dr. King.  Why?  Because this country stinks of a system that is rotten beyond the core and  its people must awake to the fact of the matter and rip out the corruption and rebuild the whole concept.  As it stands now, too few have too much, but an uncomfortably large amount of idiots have enough and that doesn't bode well for a revolution or a Black President.  Someone would kill the poor man on the mistaken premise that he would reinstitute "The Reconstruction."

You may think that this little bit has just been an excuse to use the naughty "N" Word.  Well you are wrong.  It makes me tearfully sad that Mr. Obama can't be our president.  I know that's not the best way to put it, but I've just used a really bad word and I am not happy about it.  I'm keeping it in here thought because it is truly the way Senator Obama will be discussed in some mighty high and terribly influential precincts where words like "Heritage" and "Glorious Cause" are  oaths as binding as anything sworn to in the (now) not so secret societies that exist in the power factories of The Ivy League.   Damn, wasn't all this stuff  supposed to be cleaned up by a "Hard Rain"   Are we rolling Bob?   Little help here...brother.

You're special. I'm different

Yes, that's right, I am different from you. I have been a cook, a car parker, a motorcycle gangster, soldier,mental patient, a widower, musician, fireman, coxswain, sea captain, fisherman, drug dealer, palm tree surgeon, poet, magazine columnist and ambulance driver. I have been bad, good, sick, well and I quit smoking.  You can read all about it, and more too.  That is, if I write  book.  I probably wont get around to it, so I may as well put up some parts of my story here.  Will they be damned lies?  Well yes and no.  (WTF you mean "yes and no" Texino?)  Well I mean my stories are true, but you can't know that   No, you'll just have to believe what I say or just read for the enjoyment of seeing someone admit to some major fuck ups.  OK? Fine, but first look at that chart.  It's a chart that shows how to play chords on the Hawaiian Ukulele.  You can put those shapes together in a cyclic progression and sing a well known song.  It seems the better known pieces use the fewest and more simplistic positions while a grand tune which may be familiar to you but not the sort of ditty you sing round the camp fire will necessitate the use of the more complex shapes and more of them played closer together.  That's an analogy I use for writing words for stories.  You got to keep it simple enough to be enjoyable but if you don't toss in a few complex thoughts, you will lose the readers you want.  Now that could be explained by using an analogy of fishing for the tastier types in the sea.  I guess everything is analogous.  It's like those chords. Each note relates to the other in some way some are pleasant and harmonious while others are complex and hard to take.  It's kind of like fish, some taste better than others and so on.  I'll be seeing you.