Hehe. Seems I already finished this blog back in Joon, (Lord God that was an eon ago!) and I finished it again away up there in Jew-lie, so now there are parralel versions of this blog, which means you can't read them both at the same time or they will be like matter and anti-matter and change the course of history.)
hehe. That's funny stuff, right there. I kinda like the original--which is this one. Seems I'm kinda harsh on the old-timers up in that other one. Also I made an errow in my use of footnotes.
That's gonna cost me some serious academic leverage right there.
Oh, well. Read and enjoy!
t's been raining here for 40 days and 40 nights. Those would be dog days and nights, but still. The water is a little excessive, me thinkses.
the tribe has survived the twists and turns of outrageous fortune, we are all deposited where we were meant to be, and life as a "normal, routine" thing begins again. Let's see how long this round lasts before we get a stiff upper-cut to the psyhic jaw, eh?
In the meantime, it is back to business as usual for this lad and the Ramblers. OATS is this weekend, and perhaps I will crash that thingumie wit bud Neil, just for a hoot and the chance to play some mandolin.
In the meantime, back at work-a-day world, I got a call from a nice fella from up in Layton, NJ, who wants to work with the PB&FS* on a project that involves a folk icon whose name I cannot even type on account it would get me in trouble with the law. But the guy is really really good, a huge stage presence, and well-known to all who are worthly of the name "Bud."
Or, as the Dutchies around here prefer, "Chooney."
We got to talking about how it all might work, because to this guy, music is music and if it's good, why wouldn't in belong on the same stage?
Well, some folk say that opera is pretty good, and then some folk say that the rip-rap stuff is fly. Or whatever. I'm pretty sure that those two don't belong anywhere near each other--it'd be like matter and anti-matter, or vinegar and baking soda (what the hell does that "soda" word really mean, anyway?), or even like
Blue states and Red states.
ohhhhhhhh!
However, when it comes to bluegrass and folk music, you just landed on the oil and vinegar or the blood and water or the fat and lean of the music world. As a lad schooled in both of the traditions, I could write a book about all this crap, but this is the way it seems to me.
Bluegrassers are Red staters all the way. They got the pick-up truck, the gun-rack, prolly don't mind NASCAR much, they wear boots and they call girls "babe" if they are guys, or if they are girls they call the guys "babe", which is some kind of strange equality, I suppose. They favor meat, beer and whiskey, stay true to their school and never dis their mother. They go hunting and fishing, smoke Marlboros, join the service and sometimes they die from excessive activities of one sort or another.
Now your average folkie, on the other hand, is more likley to be found sipping a nice Piniot gregio while wearing berkenstokers er whatever, eating granola and slapping "Save the Whales" stickers on everything that doesn't move, even if they are surronded by twelve tons of whale-shit that is just stinking up the place, like that whale they blowed up on spike TV where it rained rancid stinky piles of blubber for like ten minutes and everyone within a mile wondered what the (*^*( they was thinking about watching somebody blast a dead whale with a half ton of TNT.
Bet they was wishing, initially, that they had a small tactical nuke.***
Well, that was what they call balanced journalism right there, where you mention both sides and then you let the reader figure out which music form is better, one that is more like AMERICAN football or one that is more like some kinda OTHER football.
And they say it's so hard being balanced. Sheesh. Just sit down and let you Buds do the rest!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Bluegrass Rain
It's been raining here for 40 days and 40 nights. Those would be dog days and nights, but still. The water is a little excessive, me thinkses.
the tribe has survived the twists and turns of outrageous fortune, we are all deposited where we were meant to be, and life as a "normal, routine" thing begins again. Let's see how long this round lasts before we get a stiff upper-cut to the psyhic jaw, eh?
In the meantime, it is back to business as usual for this lad and the Ramblers. OATS is this weekend, and perhaps I will crash that thingumie wit bud Neil, just for a hoot and the chance to play some mandolin.
Back at the work-a-day world, I got a call from a nice fella from up in Layton, NJ, who wants to work with the PB&FS* on a project that involves a folk icon whose name I cannot even type on account it would get me in trouble with the law. But the guy is really really good, a huge stage presence, and well-known to all who are worthly of the name "Bud."
Or, as the Dutchies around here prefer, "Chooney."
We got to talking about how it all might work, because to this guy, music is music and if it's good, why wouldn't in belong on the same stage?
Well, some folk say that opera is pretty good, and then some folk say that the rip-rap stuff is fly. Or whatever. I'm pretty sure that those two don't belong anywhere near each other--it'd be like matter and anti-matter, or vinegar and baking soda (what the hell does that "soda" word really mean, anyway?)
Fact is, the folks that like old-timey music tend to dress like they were still away back there in 1969, granny glasses and peasant dresses and ponytails. And the women dress odd too, never shave their legs and whatnot. And musically, there is just a world of difference between the old-timey and bluegrass ways. Old-timey folk just chime right in there with their notes and whatnots, all at the same time, not like the bluegrassers that each wait their turn politely. *
There are other subtle differences between bluegrass and old-timey fans. First of all, it's usually called the bluegrass. Now you ever hear of somebody calling it the old-timey? Of course not. And bluegrass fans wear boots, not berkin-whatsis-es. Old-timey folk sing about this land is your land, this land is my land and all that, but bluegrassers sing about this land is my land, end of story, and get yer ass off it.
Bluegrassers are for the armed forces, the flag, guns, and heavy drinking (songs). Old-timey folks sing about murder, but them guns scare the bejesus out of 'em, usually. Bluegrassers drive pick-ups or buses, old-timey folks drive them SUV yuppie vans and stuff.
So you might consider the bluegrassers like the "red" states and the old-timey, kitten-hugging, granola-eating, banjo-slammin' old-timey folks to be the blue states, and I'm not sure the bluegrass crowd would know what to make of, say, Taj Mahal or somebody like that.
I personally love Taj.. I got my version of "Fishin' Blues" from him. SO maybe I do like kittens. A little. And granola, if there's cold milk.
I'm still not sure we could have a folk/bluegrass festival without some serious words, and maybe even some birkin-whatsis marks on our butts. ALmost makes me want to try it!
*later they get nasty,about what you played. But they let you play it. You have no one to thank but yo'self!**
**sorry there's not more footnotes. I been writing scholarly crap all day and just felt the need to ffffffffffflow hehe.
the tribe has survived the twists and turns of outrageous fortune, we are all deposited where we were meant to be, and life as a "normal, routine" thing begins again. Let's see how long this round lasts before we get a stiff upper-cut to the psyhic jaw, eh?
In the meantime, it is back to business as usual for this lad and the Ramblers. OATS is this weekend, and perhaps I will crash that thingumie wit bud Neil, just for a hoot and the chance to play some mandolin.
Back at the work-a-day world, I got a call from a nice fella from up in Layton, NJ, who wants to work with the PB&FS* on a project that involves a folk icon whose name I cannot even type on account it would get me in trouble with the law. But the guy is really really good, a huge stage presence, and well-known to all who are worthly of the name "Bud."
Or, as the Dutchies around here prefer, "Chooney."
We got to talking about how it all might work, because to this guy, music is music and if it's good, why wouldn't in belong on the same stage?
Well, some folk say that opera is pretty good, and then some folk say that the rip-rap stuff is fly. Or whatever. I'm pretty sure that those two don't belong anywhere near each other--it'd be like matter and anti-matter, or vinegar and baking soda (what the hell does that "soda" word really mean, anyway?)
Fact is, the folks that like old-timey music tend to dress like they were still away back there in 1969, granny glasses and peasant dresses and ponytails. And the women dress odd too, never shave their legs and whatnot. And musically, there is just a world of difference between the old-timey and bluegrass ways. Old-timey folk just chime right in there with their notes and whatnots, all at the same time, not like the bluegrassers that each wait their turn politely. *
There are other subtle differences between bluegrass and old-timey fans. First of all, it's usually called the bluegrass. Now you ever hear of somebody calling it the old-timey? Of course not. And bluegrass fans wear boots, not berkin-whatsis-es. Old-timey folk sing about this land is your land, this land is my land and all that, but bluegrassers sing about this land is my land, end of story, and get yer ass off it.
Bluegrassers are for the armed forces, the flag, guns, and heavy drinking (songs). Old-timey folks sing about murder, but them guns scare the bejesus out of 'em, usually. Bluegrassers drive pick-ups or buses, old-timey folks drive them SUV yuppie vans and stuff.
So you might consider the bluegrassers like the "red" states and the old-timey, kitten-hugging, granola-eating, banjo-slammin' old-timey folks to be the blue states, and I'm not sure the bluegrass crowd would know what to make of, say, Taj Mahal or somebody like that.
I personally love Taj.. I got my version of "Fishin' Blues" from him. SO maybe I do like kittens. A little. And granola, if there's cold milk.
I'm still not sure we could have a folk/bluegrass festival without some serious words, and maybe even some birkin-whatsis marks on our butts. ALmost makes me want to try it!
*later they get nasty,about what you played. But they let you play it. You have no one to thank but yo'self!**
**sorry there's not more footnotes. I been writing scholarly crap all day and just felt the need to ffffffffffflow hehe.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Circumnavigational Bluegrass/Sea Oats
Well, I am recovered almost from my circumnatigation around the Cheasepeake, which, like Columbus, I really didn't mean to do, but which actually occurred over 16 grrrrrrrrruuling hours last Saturday. Pete had to be deposited at Annopolis, where apparently they have many boats and an Academy, and which also apparently wasn't really six hours away from Hatteras.
Somehow I forgot to notice on the last trip how far away Hatteras really is for a poor boy in NE PA. It, unlike many things in life, turns out to be really as far south as it appears.
I was hard-put to get that boy there, I can tell you. They had more traffic down around DC in more different kind of ways than that couch-boy there, Rain-man's brother, has moves on a futon.
Anyway, I got Pete there at 4 oclock, which is my low point, according to both my circadian and crepulcular rhythm's, respectively.
Not that they don't argue which should be first. That's perfectly natural. But being subverbal entities, I didn't need to worry about it so much, because, in my code, the "squid was on the beach."* However, I soon did grow worried when I looked down on the map and I realized that it would be twice as quick to go home than it would to go back down to Hatteras.
I was sad. I couldn't go back the way I now realized I should go, I was awe by myself, and I had no tunes. So I did what any good bluegrasser does, and I stopped at a "Royal something-or-other" place and got some really pretty good chicken and some cold ones and I had one of then cold ones and about twenty-seven chicken legs, which are the preferred road food of this Rambler**, as you can flip those legs out the window as slick as snot on a doorknob, and then I stopped at another place and I bought me a new CD player, since my old one which costed me 33 bucks crapped out and I was stuck listening to a choice between Garrison Kieler and some static-y cuts of "Bennie and the Jets."
That's when I discovered that I left my CD case back in Hatteras, thinking no doubt that I would wile away the time with the picking and the grinning.
Alas, it was not to me. Curse you Garrison, for having me say things like that to you, as your programs are entertaining and, some might argue, enlightening. Mostly curse the NPR for not shaking down the big money body parts people who dominate the air-ways so we could all get more air.
They're gonna be so surprised, them big-wigs, when someday we don't have any more air. I bet they're gonna get all p*#@+!! off and ask for some studies or fines or something.
I'd like to be around then, and see what they have to say. Yeah!
But anyway, I went all the way around the Cheasepeake in 17 hours, drank 36 cups of coffee, the smell of which kinda turns my stomach right about now, and I am glad and grateful that all the many travellers I have known and met these past two weeks--hundreds of them!--have been reunited, each with their own.
Sweeter than that, I took the final for my law course and I am certain I did not fail. If I did, I will cite Madison vs. Marlpole, Tinker vs. Repressive School District, and of course Liston Vs. Clay as my witnesses, if any indeed are still alive.
Well, after my nautical adventure, all I can say is what Walter Winchell said," Goodnight America, and all you ships at sea."
*Yeah. It's amazing the way I can just pull out the monikers like that. It's a curse, as "Mr. Handsome" would say.
**God help me if they invent steaming hot and crispy scrapple sammiches. I'll weigh like seventeen hundred pounds.
Somehow I forgot to notice on the last trip how far away Hatteras really is for a poor boy in NE PA. It, unlike many things in life, turns out to be really as far south as it appears.
I was hard-put to get that boy there, I can tell you. They had more traffic down around DC in more different kind of ways than that couch-boy there, Rain-man's brother, has moves on a futon.
Anyway, I got Pete there at 4 oclock, which is my low point, according to both my circadian and crepulcular rhythm's, respectively.
Not that they don't argue which should be first. That's perfectly natural. But being subverbal entities, I didn't need to worry about it so much, because, in my code, the "squid was on the beach."* However, I soon did grow worried when I looked down on the map and I realized that it would be twice as quick to go home than it would to go back down to Hatteras.
I was sad. I couldn't go back the way I now realized I should go, I was awe by myself, and I had no tunes. So I did what any good bluegrasser does, and I stopped at a "Royal something-or-other" place and got some really pretty good chicken and some cold ones and I had one of then cold ones and about twenty-seven chicken legs, which are the preferred road food of this Rambler**, as you can flip those legs out the window as slick as snot on a doorknob, and then I stopped at another place and I bought me a new CD player, since my old one which costed me 33 bucks crapped out and I was stuck listening to a choice between Garrison Kieler and some static-y cuts of "Bennie and the Jets."
That's when I discovered that I left my CD case back in Hatteras, thinking no doubt that I would wile away the time with the picking and the grinning.
Alas, it was not to me. Curse you Garrison, for having me say things like that to you, as your programs are entertaining and, some might argue, enlightening. Mostly curse the NPR for not shaking down the big money body parts people who dominate the air-ways so we could all get more air.
They're gonna be so surprised, them big-wigs, when someday we don't have any more air. I bet they're gonna get all p*#@+!! off and ask for some studies or fines or something.
I'd like to be around then, and see what they have to say. Yeah!
But anyway, I went all the way around the Cheasepeake in 17 hours, drank 36 cups of coffee, the smell of which kinda turns my stomach right about now, and I am glad and grateful that all the many travellers I have known and met these past two weeks--hundreds of them!--have been reunited, each with their own.
Sweeter than that, I took the final for my law course and I am certain I did not fail. If I did, I will cite Madison vs. Marlpole, Tinker vs. Repressive School District, and of course Liston Vs. Clay as my witnesses, if any indeed are still alive.
Well, after my nautical adventure, all I can say is what Walter Winchell said," Goodnight America, and all you ships at sea."
*Yeah. It's amazing the way I can just pull out the monikers like that. It's a curse, as "Mr. Handsome" would say.
**God help me if they invent steaming hot and crispy scrapple sammiches. I'll weigh like seventeen hundred pounds.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Outer Banks Bluegrass
Well, we survived a bazillion miles with a U-haul on the back of the van on account of this reporter measured the van from the floor to the ceiling and not the size of the tailgate, making transportation of Chris and Jen's entertainment center an exciting adventure in and of itself.
Turns out the sucker would not fit on it's side, although it rode pretty nice on it's back. But that left me only 2 seats, and I had two kids to transport, so, with my sainted wife Lynn already gone with Alex and his buddy, I thought perhaps I could dump Aaron off in Bethlehem on the way down and let him catch a ride with brother Frank.
That would have meant letting Pete drive while I sat in a lawn chair inside the entertainment center, which in the bluegrass world is perfectly normal proceedure, but that would have only been to "Bed-lem", only about 35 miles.
That's fine,said the wife. How areyou gonna get all five of you from statesville to the beach?
that stumped me right there, then I thought I could strap the seats on the roof, also an accepted bluegrass practice.
Long story short, Igot me a trailor and became the official wedding present deliverer, dropped the entertainment center off in Durham,Chris's new home and came on down to the shore.
I'll write more when I leave Buxton in afew mintunes. Seems my car's CV joint is bad and tomorrow's trip up to Anapolis warrented me finding a good mechanic down here. I think Jarvis is just the man for it. I don't know his last name yet, but I will before I leave.
I'll close this rant by describing Darrel,a guy they call "the singing cowboy." He rides a bike around Buxton singing songs with lyrics he makes up on the spot, and deserves his own entry, but suffice it to say here that he mixes C&W, biblical and situational references into a stream-0f concsciousness song that's pretty nuts.
I learned he's been that way since his brother was murdered here in Buxton a couple years ago.
"Yep. Kid hid in the bushes and when he came home, he shot him. Then he runned him over."
That's the word from Jarvis on Darrell.
I'll write more in the Ac bar up in Avon--seems my car is done and I am outties.
Beautiful day!
Turns out the sucker would not fit on it's side, although it rode pretty nice on it's back. But that left me only 2 seats, and I had two kids to transport, so, with my sainted wife Lynn already gone with Alex and his buddy, I thought perhaps I could dump Aaron off in Bethlehem on the way down and let him catch a ride with brother Frank.
That would have meant letting Pete drive while I sat in a lawn chair inside the entertainment center, which in the bluegrass world is perfectly normal proceedure, but that would have only been to "Bed-lem", only about 35 miles.
That's fine,said the wife. How areyou gonna get all five of you from statesville to the beach?
that stumped me right there, then I thought I could strap the seats on the roof, also an accepted bluegrass practice.
Long story short, Igot me a trailor and became the official wedding present deliverer, dropped the entertainment center off in Durham,Chris's new home and came on down to the shore.
I'll write more when I leave Buxton in afew mintunes. Seems my car's CV joint is bad and tomorrow's trip up to Anapolis warrented me finding a good mechanic down here. I think Jarvis is just the man for it. I don't know his last name yet, but I will before I leave.
I'll close this rant by describing Darrel,a guy they call "the singing cowboy." He rides a bike around Buxton singing songs with lyrics he makes up on the spot, and deserves his own entry, but suffice it to say here that he mixes C&W, biblical and situational references into a stream-0f concsciousness song that's pretty nuts.
I learned he's been that way since his brother was murdered here in Buxton a couple years ago.
"Yep. Kid hid in the bushes and when he came home, he shot him. Then he runned him over."
That's the word from Jarvis on Darrell.
I'll write more in the Ac bar up in Avon--seems my car is done and I am outties.
Beautiful day!
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Statesville Bluegrass
Blissful is the seat I sit upon and the seat seated on the seat hehe. My seniors have fled the nest, most convincingly, and it is with great pulcritude (1) that I bid them all adieaux (2) and Godspeed...
*sniff*
yeah. So I'm gonna miss those guys and I definitely am sorry that I will not be able to watch them march. I'Ll tell you a story about the last year's graduation, though. It was a hot one, and threatening storm, so the event was inside, simulcast to the overflow crowd in the old auditorium because the new one was not opened yet. So we strolled in all serious, all us teachers, and we filed into our seats, which faced the basketball court sort of like they were bleachers. Out on the floor of the stadium, the kid's chairs were arranged in tidy rows, and even the kids that had been such pains in the elbow (3) all year long were being so charming and handsome and beautiful and sweet. I was so proud of all of them for behaving so well and glad to see them take that big step.
Their parents, friends, and family, on the other hand, should have volunteered for organ donor statis, they were so rude and ignorant. Let's face it, who hasn't been at a choral concert or a band concert, to name two, where somebody's cell doesn't go off, or somebody is elbowing you in the face so he can use his videocam or his digital cam or his freakin' x-ray-I-can-see-you-naked-under-that-dress cam. Or how about the fat jerk that always jumps up shouting his or her kid's name out like he or she was at a Yankee's game.(4) I"ve seen kids cry, they were so embarressed by their parents. Hey, that is a teenager's thing, being embarressed by the 'rents, as we used to call 'em back in the day.
But last year, our seniors were cool. They were beyond cool. So when some fat lady with too-black hair and too-red lips came lumbering out of the stands with her balck spandex pants, the crowd was agog. And when she started hollaring her kid's name, the teachers and all the student's started looking at each other and almost laughing, this lady was so out of the box (5)
But when she shanked her way onto the floor of graduation and shimmied right in front of my face, some of the girls I had taught just rolled their eyes in disbelief. I swear, if I had a can of orange marking paint, I'da tagged that b*76%(* right there, her butt was so close to my face---like four freakin' away.
I swear. Where do these people come from anyway? Nevermind. I think I know.
Anyhow, I will not be at graduation as I will be in my adopted state seeing my eldest getting married, and so I will end the way I began, to say how blessed I am to have a loving wife, handsome, kind and wonderfully talented children, a job that gives me more joy than heartache, and my small gifts as well.
I will add footnotes later, as the Ramblers will be having an Irish session at the lovely and talented Miss Barbie McMahon's abode, or actually at Dean's garage (6), in just a few minutes.
hehe.
too much fun!
Caoi~! (er however them eye-ties say that word)
*sniff*
yeah. So I'm gonna miss those guys and I definitely am sorry that I will not be able to watch them march. I'Ll tell you a story about the last year's graduation, though. It was a hot one, and threatening storm, so the event was inside, simulcast to the overflow crowd in the old auditorium because the new one was not opened yet. So we strolled in all serious, all us teachers, and we filed into our seats, which faced the basketball court sort of like they were bleachers. Out on the floor of the stadium, the kid's chairs were arranged in tidy rows, and even the kids that had been such pains in the elbow (3) all year long were being so charming and handsome and beautiful and sweet. I was so proud of all of them for behaving so well and glad to see them take that big step.
Their parents, friends, and family, on the other hand, should have volunteered for organ donor statis, they were so rude and ignorant. Let's face it, who hasn't been at a choral concert or a band concert, to name two, where somebody's cell doesn't go off, or somebody is elbowing you in the face so he can use his videocam or his digital cam or his freakin' x-ray-I-can-see-you-naked-under-that-dress cam. Or how about the fat jerk that always jumps up shouting his or her kid's name out like he or she was at a Yankee's game.(4) I"ve seen kids cry, they were so embarressed by their parents. Hey, that is a teenager's thing, being embarressed by the 'rents, as we used to call 'em back in the day.
But last year, our seniors were cool. They were beyond cool. So when some fat lady with too-black hair and too-red lips came lumbering out of the stands with her balck spandex pants, the crowd was agog. And when she started hollaring her kid's name, the teachers and all the student's started looking at each other and almost laughing, this lady was so out of the box (5)
But when she shanked her way onto the floor of graduation and shimmied right in front of my face, some of the girls I had taught just rolled their eyes in disbelief. I swear, if I had a can of orange marking paint, I'da tagged that b*76%(* right there, her butt was so close to my face---like four freakin' away.
I swear. Where do these people come from anyway? Nevermind. I think I know.
Anyhow, I will not be at graduation as I will be in my adopted state seeing my eldest getting married, and so I will end the way I began, to say how blessed I am to have a loving wife, handsome, kind and wonderfully talented children, a job that gives me more joy than heartache, and my small gifts as well.
I will add footnotes later, as the Ramblers will be having an Irish session at the lovely and talented Miss Barbie McMahon's abode, or actually at Dean's garage (6), in just a few minutes.
hehe.
too much fun!
Caoi~! (er however them eye-ties say that word)
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