Birthday Greetings

It's the birthday of Samuel Langhorne Clemens (listed in Omaha's Union Pacific Museum as Longhorne), in Florida, Missouri (1835), who wrote Life on the Mississippi (1883), The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), and his own favorite, The Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc (1891). He was cynical and irreverent, but he had a tender spot for cats. There were always kittens in the house, and he gave them names like "Sin" and "Sour Mash." "Mamma has morals," said his daughter Suzy, "and Papa has cats." He swore constantly and without shame. His streams of profanity broke his wife's heart on a daily basis. One day he cut himself shaving, and she heard a string of oaths from the bathroom. She resolved to move him to repentance, and she repeated back to him all the bad words he had just said. He smiled at her and shook his head. "You have the words, Livy," he said, "but you'll never learn the tune." After he published The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, he found himself awash in cash, which he invested in a typesetting machine that was very complicated and very ingenious and demanded more and more investment and in the end would not work. He had to declare bankruptcy, and he decided to go on a worldwide lecture tour, the proceeds of which he would use to pay back all of his creditors. His visits to Africa and Asia convinced him that a God who allowed Christians to believe that they were better than savages was a God he wanted no part of. He was a funny man and is remembered for his humorous sayings. He said, "It is better to keep you mouth shut and appear stupid than to open it and remove all doubt." He also said, "Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life."

Gobbleobbleobble

It's been a great week.

Molzer Dolzer came back from the dark side Tuesday night, was picked up from the airport by her sister.  Their mother was in Vancouver, so acting in her stead I demanded that SB apprise me when "the package" was in hand.

Somewhat later in the evening than expected, came the call.  "I got her.  She's here." 

Hmmmm - something wrong? I axed of the normally loquacious one.  "Nothing wrong.  Everything's fine.  Gotta go."  Only trifecta of two-word sentences ever from that one.  And even more suspicious, Molzer didn't get on the phone.  SB disturbingly sotto voce.  Those two are up to something.  My long dormant parenting antennae shot up.

Sho nuff.  The reason SB was using her "I did too go to school today" voice and sentence structure was that the two little knuckleheads went out and got tattoos.  A star on each ankle for Shaween, on one ankle for MDolzer.

Not swastikas on their necks or anything, but still. (The son-in-law, awakened from his well earned slumber to view the carnage, says to his wifey, "Now you'll always look like you're wearing Converse.")

And the best part - when their mother calls the next morning, finally, and I express my shock, my outrage at the perfidity of the fruit of her loins, there's this pause, and then in a level voice she says, "How would you feel if I got a tattoo, too?" 

sigh

Thursday, rather than the twenty to thirty peeps we're accustomed to having over, we had just the kids and grandkids. Played bocce ball and tag and threw the football until I roughhoused too much with the Gabe and whacked his head on the ground and his mother got into my face and I felt bad and that evening we all went to Zoo Lights, for which I broke out my annual holiday channeling of Boo Radley.

Friday the wimmens went out for the 4 a.m. kick-off, from which they returned heavy laden.  Joe and the grandkids came over for some marathon Mario Party Seven, and I think we all had one of the best thanksgiving weekends ever.

Terra Incognita

I remember where I was and with whom the first time I heard Sgt Peppers.  I remember how cold it was in my basement dorm room at Sioux Falls College the first time I heard Sympathy For The Devil.  The first time I heard a cut from Chris Whitley's "Living With The Law' in the early nineties was another one of those transforming musical experiences I'll always remember.  The lush, slow chords backing Chris's reedy, threatening voice that was always threatening to jump into falsetto.  The scary hallucinogenic allusions to religion, prison, death, redemption, love.  Every cut on the album astonishing.  In the right mood, I still listen start to finish, amazed.

K and I saw Chris Whitley in person twice, both times with Ernie and Mo, and both times in small venues where we could have  stepped up and slapped the cigarette out of his chain-smoking mouth.  It wouldn't have stopped him.  I thought it was mostly showmanship when he would stroke a huge power chord and then light up, mid song, take two or three deeeeep drags, and continue.  Now I think he couldn't help it.

The second time we saw him was at the Rhythm Room, which usually has a no-smoking policy.  I'm guessing CW wouldn't (or couldn't) play under such a restriction, because everyone who wanted to was smoking.  A burly, bald, heavily tattooed giant stood right next to K during the opening act, inhaling one after the other until she asked him to step away.  He courteously did before joining Whitley on stage as his drummer.  It got so bad in there, our eyes and throats burning, that we left before the first set was over.  That was the last time we or anybody else in Phoenix will see him.  Billboard.com reports that he has died at age 45 after - wait for it - "a long battle with lung cancer."

Among Other Notable Events This Date

It was on this day in 1978 that Jim Jones, leader of the Peoples Temple, ordered more than 900 of his followers to drink cyanide-poisoned punch.

It was on this day in 1928 that Mickey Mouse was born. Walt Disney's "Steamboat Willie," premiered in New York at the Colony Theater. It was the first sound-synchronized cartoon to attract widespread public attention. Along with Mickey Mouse, the black and white cartoon featured Minnie Mouse and Pegleg Pete.

I was sung to by my wife, my daughters, my grandchildren and my brother.  Saw a terrific little movie, The Shop Girl.  Had a nap, wings from Vito's, fresh baked chocolate cake made by my daughter, great golf gifts.  A damn fine day.  Let's do it all again next year.

Seller's Remorse

Seven years and six weeks.  It was a good run.  Uphill and down.  Really cold weather and really hot.  Really REALLY fast, and closer to the speed limit.  Not even thirty two thousand miles, hardly broke in, in the world of Goldwings.  Sigh

Ran the ad in the cycle trader and had a few calls.  One guy from Yuma called three times, last to say he was coming to town with cash money.  Had him Mapquest my address, and he and his buddy got to within about a mile before they had to call.  I rode the 'wing down to guide them in, and as I came around the corner of the lot in which they were standing, I saw the shorter one jump into the air and pump his fist.  As I pulled up to them they exchanged high fives.  I realized there wouldn't be any attempt at price negotiations. 

Gave him a ride, demonstrated the breathtaking acceleration and the gut wrenching brakes.  The cb, the 4-speaker stereo/cassette, the cruise control, how to use reverse gear.  Gave him all four helmets, two rain suits, the shop manual, and a Ray Charles tape for the ride back to Yuma.  Don't know that I ever really understood what the word "wistful" meant til now.

Blackbird - by CK Williams

There was nothing I could have done—
a flurry of blackbirds burst
from the weeds at the edge of a field
and one veered out into my wheel
and went under. I had a moment
to hope he'd emerge as sometimes
they will from beneath the back
of the car and fly off,
but I saw him behind on the roadbed,
the shadowless sail of a wing
lifted vainly from the clumsy
bundle of matter he'd become.

There was nothing I could have done,
though perhaps I was distracted:
I'd been listening to news of the war,
hearing that what we'd suspected
were lies had proved to be lies,
that many were dying for those lies,
but as usual now, it wouldn't matter.
I'd been thinking of Lincoln's,
". . .You can't fool all of the people
all of the time. . ." how I once
took comfort from the hope and trust
it implied, but no longer.

I had to slow down now,
a tractor hauling a load of hay
was approaching on the narrow lane.
The farmer and I gave way and waved:
the high-piled bales swayed
menacingly over my head but held.
Out in the newly harvested fields,
already harrowed and raw,
more blackbirds, uncountable
clouds of them, rose, held
for an instant, then broke,
scattered as though by a gale.

Happy Birthday Kinkster!

It's the birthday of the singer, songwriter, and novelist Kinky Friedman, (books by this author) born Richard Friedman, in Chicago (1944). He grew up Jewish in Texas and went on to become one of the few successful Jewish country singers with his band the Texas Jewboys. He developed a cult following, writing humorous country ballads such as "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed," and "They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore" about a fight in a bar between a Jewish man and an anti-Semite.

Then in the mid-1980's Friedman was walking down the street in New York City when he saw a woman being attacked by a mugger at an ATM machine. Friedman grabbed the man and held him until police arrived, and the next day the New York Post ran his picture on the front page with the headline, "COUNTRY SINGER PLUCKS VICTIM FROM MUGGER." The experience of crime fighting inspired Friedman to start writing mystery novels about a former country music singer named Kinky Friedman who lives with his cat and solves crimes in his spare time. His books include Elvis, Jesus and Coca-Cola (1993), and The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover (1996).