iPhone 15 Cobra Lightning

He said, "What is the price of tea in China."

The instant response in the center of his forehead

Was, "Thirty cents an ounce."

"Response One of Three Hundred and Fifty Five Million - give or take."

He said, "Two." 

Instantly he heard; "An old expression

Associated with a dismissive sentence as in,

"What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?

Often thought of as a smart ass remark.

"Response Two of Three Hundred and Fifty Five Million - more or less."

No one thought twice of the man wandering around

Seemingly talking to himself.

Everyone did it.

"I hear voices." took on a literal and perfectly normal meaning.

People learned to ignore the chattering cacophony

That occurred in all public places.

The tiny monitors in his ears

Drove voice recognition software

Long tuned to every nuance of his.

They wirelessly transmitted to the

iPhone 15 Cobra Lightening

Attached to his belt.

The iPhone, in turn, drew from the

Powers of Google,

The powers of all man's knowledge.

He literally knew everything.

It was just a matter of sorting it.

Luckily he had programmed it to include a sense of humor.

Thine Eyes

Thine eyes
Oft blight

Strike the piercing glare

That cast my eyes to the ground

Then rise to blink away tears

Fix the sound to its direction

Shift thine eyes to meet the coming

Mark with bold stare

Amuse your muse

Any one of nine

Spread your cloak to cover

Shelter your students from the chill stare

Protect your pupil's pupils

Quickly set the look

Of thine eyes

Let the glare beware

(Nope... Absolutely no idea what this means... even though my fingers struck the keys to set it in story.)

Ayn Rand Redux

I've read a lot of books.

Watched a lot of television.

Seen a lot of movies.

Heard a lot of conversations.

In my life.

But I have never seen or heard anything that even closely approximates the dialog I have been reading in Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead".

I have only a couple of hundred pages left in the opus and I am already feeling bad about the end of this remarkable late discovery of mine.

"Ine Baby" nailed the development of two extraordinary literary characters in her lifetime, John Galt of "Atlas Shrugged"' and Howard Roark of "The Fountainhead." If I would have read these books carefully in my formative years I might have been a different person; that's how profound they are.

I think I will be doing a wrap up post on the book when I have finished but I already know I will never be able to do it justice.

Also, there is another gifted (though unpublished) writer I have been reading the past couple of years. Her name is Meri Sender and her brief observations on life and self are an absolute delight. Her wonderful work is at: http://waitingforthebiggiant.blogspot.com/.  Only problem is, she hasn't written an entry since 2010!  C'mon Meri, you can do it!

Nope. I am not getting paid for this plug... by either of these remarkable authors! Although I should be right?!

Woodstock

I was wrong about Country Joe of Country Joe and the Fish.

Over the years, when I have been up against a stressful appearance of some kind, I have often taken comfort in the memory of Country Joe facing several hundred thousand people at Woodstock and saying, "Hey Man! I'm scared shitless!" or something like that. In fact, I have often told the story to sooth friends and family who find themselves coming up against something similar.

Here we are, some forty years later and I am watching a YouTube video of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young during Woodstock. Sure enough, it turns out that it was Stephen Stills who said it! It figures as CSN&Y had only one public session together before that performance and it was the largest crowd they would ever see.

I like it when we are referred to as the "Woodstock Generation"... that rings a lot better with me than "Baby Boomer". But then, our generation has stubbed it's toe pretty well on some pretty big deals... such as Iraq and such as the Recession...so I am not sure either moniker will go down in history as ringing well with anyone. Anyway, in setting aside those monumental muck ups for minute I can enjoy what the sounds of Woodstock meant to us and still means to this day.

Peace, love, understanding, tolerance and thoughtfulness are just a few of the attributes displayed en masse at that event. So, when you get a chance, pause for a moment to reflect on the pure joy of Woodstock. Check out the amazing video by Santana and note the great performance of his drummer, Michael Shrieve. Michael was only 19 at the time. Michael lives up in the Seattle area now and his band appears every Monday night in the Fremont district. What a dream for him and those who listened on that day! The video is available on YouTube.  Hunt for it.  You'll be glad you did.

Rock The House

July 30th and 31st, 2010

Location: Robbinsdale Lounge, Rapid City South Dakota

Two bands, with the same members, and a great venue with 16'x20' stage, large dance floor, and seating with tables for at least half the crowd.

Son Tyler's bands, Arden Park Roots (http://www.myspace.com/aproots) and The Livin's Easy (http://www.myspace.com/thelivinseasyband) would be playing both nights.

I am in town for two of the worlds' best reasons, to hear the bands perform and to take part in the Mother Of All Bike Rallies, Sturgis.

First night: Butch (Tyler's Uncle and my fellow Harley riding buddy) and I pull into the parking lot around 20 minutes before show time. The lot is packed with cars and we have to pull around way in back. When we get in, we have to scrounge seats from the gambling area of the lounge as everything else is already taken.

275 show that night. We are tagged with wristbands at the door and I don't know why until I find out they are tracking capacity as they have to make sure they don't go over 300. The first set is "Arden Park Roots - Award Winning Band from Sacramento" and, as they are unfamiliar with the music, the crowd mostly listens at first but there is unanimous applause. As they get more comfortable toward the end of the hour and a half session they take to the dance floor and get gradually louder. When the second set kicks in, they are recognizing Sublime songs from the first couple of notes played. They really get into it then, packing the floor and singing back the lyrics they have memorized long ago. At the end of the night, the band plays two encores and Ty finishes up with four acoustic Sublime solos. "By The Rivers Of Babylon" has them swaying like they are hearing a modern day "Kumbaya".

Second night: The word is apparently out that these bands are good... really good. The place is packed to capacity a half hour before showtime and we are glad we have arrived early. I get there an hour before to set aside a table for our group and do okay but don't get my choice. I later notice that there is a steady line of one to two dozen waiting outside for others to leave so they can get in. We have an idea we are in for something special that night and it is.

The crowd warms slowly, as they did the night before. (Tyler attributes some of this to the crowd's level of intoxication... I think this partly true... that they play off each other.) During the first set, Tyler coaxes the crowd to shout "APR!, APR!..." after the band's initials and records it with his iPhone - this is the recording:

When they hit the second set, around 11Pm, the crowd is fired up in anticipation and, according to Ty's prediction, the booze has released any inhibitions they may have had. As the first 2-4 notes of the first Sublime song are played, 50 or so rush to the floor. They remain there for the rest of the show, again with two encores. With the combined sets the band plays for 3 and a half hours - a feat of endurance that is Springsteenesque in it's length.

The crowd is mostly 20 and 30 somethings, largely due to the emergence of Sublime as a world-wide famous reggae/ska/punk band in the mid'90s. Their lead singer/songwriter Brad Nowell wrote around 40 songs and in 1996, died of a drug overdose just before the release of their most famous album. Since his death, a cult has grown around the music and hundreds of thousands have memorized the lyrics.

There are a few exceptions to the ages that night though. In the crowd there are some senior groupies including me and most noteworthy; Ty's Grandmother and Great Aunt. The two are close friends and excited about seeing Ty perform. To my great surprise, both stay until the final song has ended sometime after 1AM. During the show, Ty's Grandmother carefully removes one of the poster-sized show advertisements from the venue, rolls it up and brings it back to our table... a keepsake for the event. I am duly impressed. Grandmother Groupie swiped a poster!

I am also impressed with the music and during their play of one of my favorite Sublime songs, "Pawn Shop". I make my way to the dance floor and move through the seething masses to dance, a couple of rows deep from the stage. It was fun seeing the look of shock on Tyler's face when he noticed the old grey hair there, boogieing.

Yes, I have become perhaps one of their oldest fans. I have always been a fan of Ty's voice and music compositions and now I am a fan of Sublime. I may not agree with some of the themes of Brad's music but I believe he was a brilliant composer and I love the variations in his repertoire.

A few songs into the second set we see that Tyler has been lifted hand-over-hand through the crowd, out about ten feet and then back to the stage during an interlude. I think that demonstrates the gravity of the night for all of us.

Black As Night

"I wanna see it painted, painted black

Black as night, black as coal

I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black"

(Rolling Stones, 1966)

It was two months before the 7/11 birth of Tyler Thomas Campbell.

Mid-May of 1980. A beautiful weekend day on the South Hill of Spokane, Washington.

It was an old area of town, covered with small custom homes... something you might imagine pictured in Good Housekeeping.

A few friends were gathering for a neighborhood picnic.They were momentarily positioned between two homes, laden with food supplies and heading for one of the back yards. The western sky was at their back when they noticed the light dimming.

They circled the home to face the sky and saw what appeared to be a black wall carried by the prevailing wind and heading straight in their direction. Picnic plans were immediately cancelled and all returned to their homes to switch on their televisions and see if there was news of the event.

Within minutes it went from sunny spring day to black as night. During those moments absolutely everything that was exposed to the sky was covered with a half-inch or so of battleship grey material that seemed like talcum power in it's consistency.

News reports were quick and effective."Mt St. Helens has erupted. Stay calm. Stay inside. The storm is volcanic ash. We don't know how harmful it may be."

The next morning, they peered out their windows and wondered at the surreal landscape. Homes, autos, yards and roads were totally draped in a mask of grey. He opened the door slightly and their Old English Sheepdog, Gypsy bolted out into the yard. With her mix of white and grey hair it was as if someone had deliberately color matched her with her surroundings.

As he ran to catch her, she ran onto the empty street. Each time one of her paws touched down a cloud of ash would erupt. It was a spectacular and totally unearthly sight.

Another day passed and news came that it might be okay to go outside "but wear face masks just in case the ash is toxic". Water hoses came out all over the neighborhood and people began rinsing the ash off things.

He snapped a photo (I will post it as soon as I locate it) of 7-months pregnant Julieann Marie Campbell while she was outside hosing down the ash. It was quite a site... a little round person with a hat and mask and a hose.

They would later learn that a couple of their neighbor friends, both geologists, had been on an aerial single-engine plane tour of the mountain when it erupted and they had narrowly escaped being caught in it. (He had given his wife the tour as a birthday present.) Dorothy and Keith Stoffel snapped a lot of photos and later included them in a book, "Volcanic Eruptionsof Mount St. Helens, the First 100 Days".

It would go down as the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic eruption in the history of the United States.

Sometimes life is just bigger than, well, life itself...

Bentley

So I am at the gas station.

I notice a new Bentley.

Pulled in to refuel.

Out pops this gorgeous blonde.

With a perfect figure.

I'm thinking, "Daughter Samantha! You redid your hair!"

But then noticed it was not her.

I then thought, "Son Tyler's future wife?

Mother of my future grandchildren?!"

I guess I can accept that...

The End... Is Near

This is a delicate story.

It's about preparing to 

Say goodbye to a dear old friend.

In a way it is also about 

Saying hello to a new one.

This morning, at 4:22 AM 

I heard the familiar "thud"...

Of our newspaper hitting our front porch.

Our bedroom is close to our front door.

It is not an annoying sound.

It just wakes me up more often than not.

And almost just as often I am ready to get up.

The "Thud" used to be louder.

You see, the pages were of heavier weight.

The pages were also larger.

Finally, the paper was also 

Thicker with news and, mostly ads.

With all those changes 

The "thuds" have become quieter.

This seems a crossroads in history 

When 150 year old papers...

Are closing their doors.

We are in transition to news on demand.

It's becoming instantaneous... 

With all the knee-jerk speculation 

And sensational wrong turns that might imply.

It's becoming the web

It's Google that knows everything

It's the Huffington Post

The Wall Street Journal of Damn Fine Watch ads on-line

And others of course

A good two-thirds of the annual days here in Sacramento find us enjoying great morning weather.

On those days, and in anticipation, I grab that first cup of coffee, the ever thinning paper and dog Molly.

We all go outside where I enjoy the paper while the morning light turns brighter and Molly takes care of business.

This is the way it is supposed to be

But my time on the patio is getting shorter

Because there is less paper

And there is less substance in the paper

Less substance in the news and in the simple handling of the object

It has become almost as delicate as tissue paper

Susceptible to the slightest Delta breeze

Difficult at times to manipulate

On the other hand

This gets me back into the home office quicker

And on the Internet to catch up on all the morning emails

And Facebook, and MySpace, and my Blogs

And on-line news articles that are so fresh... 

Printed papers cannot possibly keep up.

I am having great fun with it all, but I am taking in less glory in the morning.

Does that make sense?

Blacklick

Now humor me for a moment if you will...

Say this reeeaaalll slow,

Maybe three times.

Blacklick.

Blacklick.

Blacklick.

It rolls off the tongue really nice doesn't it?!

Black...lick.

Someone from Blacklick Ohio visited this blog today.

That person has made me think of other names that have a ring to them.

Buzzard's Breath, Wyoming

Tombstone, Arizona

Hell, Michigan

Intercourse, Pennsylvania

Boring, Oregon

Yup, I think it is worthy of that group.

So here's his story:

They said he was from Blacklick, Ohio

That he handled a whip better than Lash Larue ever dreamed.

(If you don't remember Lash, just Google him, Wickipedia will make you a fast expert)

In fact, he could well have been the inspiration for the famous movie character.

His name was (you fill this in)...

He first came to notoriety when he captured a vicious murderer named (you fill this in)

Word had it that the two battled all night with whips first, then knives, then fists until

(you fill in the name) had prevailed midst the broken furniture and flying blood.

Then he realized he had to travel the country, reach out from Blacklick

to rid the land of blackhearted (yeah, I know a little redundant) bandits

who robbed, pillaged and rode Harleys (yeah, I am pretending they had Harleys back in the day).

So he strode forth, and when he had his horse he rode forth, into the near wilderness that was known as, "Cincinnati" (okay, so he didn't have a Harley).

He knew he could help there as "Cincinnati" wasn't near as mean sounding as "Blacklick"

It was in fact, real easy.

So much so that he thought of it as a proverbial "walk in the park".

Even though they hadn't invented the phrase back then.

After that he retired to Blacklick and stayed there.

In his fertile yet pitiful mind, there were no challenges that remained.

So, (and I am asking you to say this reeeaaalll slow... with emphasis on the consonants, sorta like John Wayne style)

He Parked his Black Boots on a Porch in Blacklick and Leashed his Black horse by Bridle and Bit to the Last Black Lamp post along with his Last Black Lash... because he didn't think he needed that stuff anymore.

I may have to do a video news report on this to do it justice....

"Ine" Baby!

Yes, I'm back at it.

I am digging into another of Ayn Rand's works.

This time, its "The Fountainhead"

First published in 1943, it preceded "Atlas Shrugged" by fourteen years.

So here's the deal, I'm about a hundred pages into this mini-opus.

The main character, Roark, is an architect of sorts.

This guy is no namby pamby... no Sir!

He is a bad-ass of the first degree.

I just saw that Cooper played him in a movie of the same name.

I will have to check it out but yea, the "Coop" could probably pull it off.

Through the first hundred pages,

I have to say I have been immersed in the finest dialogue I have ever read.

"Ine" hit this one out of the park...

To think she did it almost sixty years ago!

I wish she was still alive and writing today.

We would all be on pins and needles awaiting her next magnificent work.

It won't be long, you will be able to find it in large boxes in the book section...

for sale at Costco for $15.79 - mark my words on this.

Peanut Butter and Jelly

My wife of forty years left me.
Two nights ago.

She went to a party.
Where friends invite other friends.

As true friends are wont, they sell things to each other.
You know, like Tupperware.

I was home alone.
Left to my own devices.

So I cooked up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
On fresh wheat bread... the jelly was strawberry.

Copious amounts of each ingredient.
Backed by a pile of salty, greasy Lays wavy chips.

I had a large glass of damn fine Syrah to wash it all down.
I was in heaven.

The sandwich reminded me of my brother.
When he was little, he called them "whowho, jehjeh, petabutter".

That is exactly what I had.
Two nights ago.
When my wife left me.

It would be nice if she left me once a week.
Of course I would have to stock up.
On Whowho, jehjeh, petabutter.

When she reads this I'm a Dead Man Walking.