Thursday, July 31, 2008
Define irony.
A former exterminator was lost in the Australian outback and facing dehydration and starvation, he resorted to eating termites. After 4 days, Aboriginals came upon him and rescued him. "Termites don't taste too bad," he said.
A former exterminator was lost in the Australian outback and facing dehydration and starvation, he resorted to eating termites. After 4 days, Aboriginals came upon him and rescued him. "Termites don't taste too bad," he said.
You might have noticed I have perhaps an excessive love of music.
We didn't have an abundance of records at my house when I was a kid, but what we did have was of impeccable quality. I remember specifically "Early Orbison" as well as an LP of James Bond tunes (no, I won't sing Underneath the Mango Tree for you , even though I could) and precious few others.
What I do most keenly remember is an album of songs by Jim Reeves who is forever cemented in my heart as one of the great voices of the 20th century.
Gentleman Jim.
Isn't it sad that no current entertainment icon really fits the bill to be called "gentleman" these days? Amusements abound, but true refinement is unfortunately a rarity.
It would be glorious if some velvet voiced baritone [catch me, I'm swooning!] stepped up to the hero plate on some massive scale, but instead, we'll suffice to admire the myriad acts of gentility carried out by all the lovely regular guys who surround us on a daily basis. That, of course, is enough, but it's so nice to hear a performer whose talents seem to be an extension of some great personal strength of character, rather than the happy accident of a dna crapshoot.
Jim Reeves is the embodiment of what is best about 20th century American music. Here was a honeyed voice, undemanding and yet undeniable, assertively melodic and utterly masculine. Jim Reeves is one of the greatest musicians of the entire epoch of recorded music.
44 years ago today, Jim Reeves piloted his craft from Batesville, Arkansas, a town I've traveled through every trip on the way to and from to visit my grandfolk every trip for nearly 30 years. Flying into a violent storm, Reeves died when he crashed the plane on its way to Nashville.
It's so odd to think about this marvelous talent who speaks to me even having been dead before my birth. It's incredible to think that someone long gone could so strike their imprint upon your entire perception of life, but that's not a new thing, either. We all need heroes, and as heroes go, I think Jim Reeves must have been an exceptional man.
You know that spacecraft that was shot into space mebbe 30 or so years ago with recordings of famous human events contained therein to communicate our worthiness(or lack thereof) to possible alien species out in the cosmic boonies?
Well, they probably included clips of The Captain and Tenille, but they should have included samples of Jim Reeves. I think he cast us all in a more favourable light.
Bless him.
Stand At Your Window by Jim Reeves
What's funny is this is SUCH a stalker song, and yet guided by Jim Reeves, it seems a lovely and wistful soft country song. Good stuff. Enjoy!
We didn't have an abundance of records at my house when I was a kid, but what we did have was of impeccable quality. I remember specifically "Early Orbison" as well as an LP of James Bond tunes (no, I won't sing Underneath the Mango Tree for you , even though I could) and precious few others.
What I do most keenly remember is an album of songs by Jim Reeves who is forever cemented in my heart as one of the great voices of the 20th century.
Gentleman Jim.
Isn't it sad that no current entertainment icon really fits the bill to be called "gentleman" these days? Amusements abound, but true refinement is unfortunately a rarity.
It would be glorious if some velvet voiced baritone [catch me, I'm swooning!] stepped up to the hero plate on some massive scale, but instead, we'll suffice to admire the myriad acts of gentility carried out by all the lovely regular guys who surround us on a daily basis. That, of course, is enough, but it's so nice to hear a performer whose talents seem to be an extension of some great personal strength of character, rather than the happy accident of a dna crapshoot.
Jim Reeves is the embodiment of what is best about 20th century American music. Here was a honeyed voice, undemanding and yet undeniable, assertively melodic and utterly masculine. Jim Reeves is one of the greatest musicians of the entire epoch of recorded music.
44 years ago today, Jim Reeves piloted his craft from Batesville, Arkansas, a town I've traveled through every trip on the way to and from to visit my grandfolk every trip for nearly 30 years. Flying into a violent storm, Reeves died when he crashed the plane on its way to Nashville.
It's so odd to think about this marvelous talent who speaks to me even having been dead before my birth. It's incredible to think that someone long gone could so strike their imprint upon your entire perception of life, but that's not a new thing, either. We all need heroes, and as heroes go, I think Jim Reeves must have been an exceptional man.
You know that spacecraft that was shot into space mebbe 30 or so years ago with recordings of famous human events contained therein to communicate our worthiness(or lack thereof) to possible alien species out in the cosmic boonies?
Well, they probably included clips of The Captain and Tenille, but they should have included samples of Jim Reeves. I think he cast us all in a more favourable light.
Bless him.
Stand At Your Window by Jim Reeves
What's funny is this is SUCH a stalker song, and yet guided by Jim Reeves, it seems a lovely and wistful soft country song. Good stuff. Enjoy!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Auntie Hols gets some puppy breath therapy 7/25/08
Teh puppeh is fine as frog hair. She is 8 pounds of cute in a 2.3 pound bag. (ha, schnoobie!)
A neighbor stopped me yesterday and told me his girlfriend wants to abduct my puppeh. I said she'd have a fight on her hands.
Took Praline to the vet on Monday for her second round of shots. Dr. Parker came by the desk as we were checking in, and said "oh, that puppy is going to get some very unattractive spots, I can tell it's going to be an ugly dog. You'd better leave it with us," and he grinned, besotted. Says I "you think you may be able to find a home for her, one that would overlook her deficiencies?" He said "I do."
She proceeded to do the little charmer routine with all the people in the waiting room--even the cat people. Everyone just grinned like a bunch of loonies at her. She's just like that, my doggie is.
In the exam room, they took her temperature and she did protest much, howling like they were skinning her alive. Poor baby. The shot wasn't much better. Thank goodness they trimmed her little needle claws before the other indignities. She was figuring out about them. Various assistants kept coming into the room to coo and giggle over her. They all had to hold her. Most brought treats.
Time for the doctor to come in, and the two vets drew straws to see which would get to examine my puppy. She sat demurely, patiently as she was examined, primly crossing her front paws at the ankle as she lowered to her belly on the table. She's got great style.
As of today we can go to the dogpark and meet other doggies. YAYS!
Breda linked a Nellie McKay song earlier this week, and she has the best dog song ever. It fits.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Friday afternoon I got a call from a vendor I deal with on a weekly basis asking if I'd like to go to the Bryan Adams/Foreigner concert on Saturday night. I wouldn't have sought those tickets, but thought it might be fun. Holly had just come by my office to meet my puplet, and we picked up the tickets on the way to dinner at House Of Blues. I axt Hols if she wanted to come to the concert with me. Lo and behold, if they weren't VIP tickets, including VIP parking and the whole ball of wax.
I did like a few Bryan Adams songs, but only really became aware of him after high school. On the other hand, for me Foreigner was ever evocative of kids my age or slightly older who were getting up to mischief-- the kids who were drinking and smoking pot, both of which I had no use for. For some reason, the idea of teenagers getting polluted was particularly seedy and sad to me, and not my cup of tea. Even with that association, there were a few Foreigner songs I really liked, and the vocalist was quite good. I would generally take pains to avoid any nostalgia-oriented concert, but this seemed like a lark. Why not?
Saturday evening Hols and I went for the yummy chile rellenos at Matt's Rancho Martinez, and then moseyed over to the Superpages Center and arrived just in time for the show. Walking in, I saw a lot of people reliving their heyday. I looked around and thought "Damn! These people got old." Not me man. No way. No how. Not much, anyhoo.
Our box seats were super-comfortable. Unfortunately, a 6'12" man in the row in front of the box stood for nearly the first half of Bryan Adams' set. Good for him-- I'd hate his short ass to miss out on anything. Anyway, BA sounded great. The problem was rather than losing myself in the collective revisionism of "those were the best days of my life" songs from the glory days, the music made me feel a little sad. I've never felt like what was on the radio was reflective of my life, and although I know the hit music of my lifetime is in some way branded on my psyche and might be recognized by an outsider, I just don't see it as being a part of who I am or was at any moment in my life. When everyone was foaming at the mouth over Janet Jackson, I was eagerly awaiting new offerings by Love & Rockets and Cocteau Twins. Sundry hairgod bands came and went and I wondered if Killing Joke would ever come to town (they did, finally in 1991). I eschewed big arena pop and rock concerts in favor of the small venue peopled by a devoted and more cerebral following. This was the expression of where I was at the moment. [Yeah, Butthole Surfers' Hairway to Steven is super-brainy stuff! the editor]
Anyhoo, to hear Bryan Adams singing "baby you're all I want when you're lying here in my arms," I felt really wistful because everyone seemed swept along a cresting wave of bliss, and it just wasn't there for me. Yeah, he's a fantastic musician, and that song is beautifully written, but that sappy, gooey sort of love song extols a kind of feeling I suppose I've never really believed existed. Maybe that's my problem - I'm too cynical for pop fluff love songs. Anyway, it made me sad to sit there and think that the manufacturer left out my romance chip. What does that feel like? Aw, heck. Screw it. Ironically, I think Foreigner neglected to sing "I want to know what love is." Or maybe I was running my mouth when they did that number and missed it utterly. Wouldn't surprise me.
At the end of BA's set, he did two more songs for an encore with just his harmonica and guitar. That was the best part of the show, in my opinion. Holly and I hastened to the VIP bar with its (glory the day of our deliverance) air conditioner and air conditioned bathrooms. It was, like, 102 degrees that day, y'all. We went into the bathroom and I was finishing up at the sink, washing my hands, when a stall door flew open behind me. It was a pretty-ish sort of woman, obviously deee-runk to the gills, and sitting on the terlit with her drawers around her knees. She said "I'm so glad y'all are still here with me!" I don't know if she'd confused us with other companions, but she'd obviously heard me and Holly talking. She finally said "I'm so drunk!" Really? We didn't notice. *blink* *blink* That was colorful. We left the loo and I said "dibs on blogging that" and Holly said "you can have it. You were the one talking to her" in an accusatory tone. I felt taken aback, as if I'd just been told that I was asking for it. What can I say? I'm a weirdo magnet.
Back to the bar, we bought a couple ghastly expensive drinks so we could sit in the A/C a little longer. Furriner took the stage about 10pm, and we stayed and watched the show on the big screens in the bar. We giggled about the strange men who were harrassing the barkeep. We think guys with bad toupees shouldn't pick fights, for they are vulnerable in very obvious ways. You'll have to see Holly's blog - I'm sure her take on the event will make for better reading.
We went back into the arena for some of the Foreigner set, and drumgod Jason Bonham was actually quite impressive. The best moment of the show was when Juke Box Hero morphed into the vamp from Whole Lotta Love and the singer launched into "you need foolin." Okay, that part was actually fantastic. But otherwise, it was a trip down someone else's memory lane.
The people watching was priceless, though. These days, rather than beers and lighters, audience members hoist aloft bottled water and sherbet-colored frozen fruit drinks in oddly shaped plastic vessels. Riches to be mined, the veins of fashion emergency fodder were more vast than their matrices. *shudder* Holly looked amazing in a white linen dress, and I wore something I'd wear to a movie. Yeah, I looked like I work in an office-- so what? At least I didn't pour my 2008 ass into my 1985 jeans with a "Frankie Say" t-shirt. One guy looked like he was channeling the singer from Loverboy with the bandanna and everything. I got out my celica foam and googled "hanky code" but we never figured out what message he was trying to convey.
Anyway, it was fun, even with the not so exultant moments, and I'm glad we went. Times out with Holly are always a blast, and we each seem perpetually to be inducing one another to snort beverage out our noses. Irreverent women-- ya gotta love us.
I dunno, though: thinking back to the times when all these songs came out-- those weren't the best days of my life. Maybe these are? Somehow, though, I don't think I'll ever get there-- feeling like one moment excelled all others. I think a balanced life features a sobering mixture of the good and the bad, and if you are riding high and feeling untouchable/unbeatable/unstoppable, you are due for a major tumble. Maybe it's just best not to take any of it for granted.
Then again, maybe that is the ultimate function of nostalgia - to feel that everything happens in its time and place, and that even with bittersweet perspectives on what has been, you have ended up where you ought to be.
Who knows?
Ask me again in 30 years.
I did like a few Bryan Adams songs, but only really became aware of him after high school. On the other hand, for me Foreigner was ever evocative of kids my age or slightly older who were getting up to mischief-- the kids who were drinking and smoking pot, both of which I had no use for. For some reason, the idea of teenagers getting polluted was particularly seedy and sad to me, and not my cup of tea. Even with that association, there were a few Foreigner songs I really liked, and the vocalist was quite good. I would generally take pains to avoid any nostalgia-oriented concert, but this seemed like a lark. Why not?
Saturday evening Hols and I went for the yummy chile rellenos at Matt's Rancho Martinez, and then moseyed over to the Superpages Center and arrived just in time for the show. Walking in, I saw a lot of people reliving their heyday. I looked around and thought "Damn! These people got old." Not me man. No way. No how. Not much, anyhoo.
Our box seats were super-comfortable. Unfortunately, a 6'12" man in the row in front of the box stood for nearly the first half of Bryan Adams' set. Good for him-- I'd hate his short ass to miss out on anything. Anyway, BA sounded great. The problem was rather than losing myself in the collective revisionism of "those were the best days of my life" songs from the glory days, the music made me feel a little sad. I've never felt like what was on the radio was reflective of my life, and although I know the hit music of my lifetime is in some way branded on my psyche and might be recognized by an outsider, I just don't see it as being a part of who I am or was at any moment in my life. When everyone was foaming at the mouth over Janet Jackson, I was eagerly awaiting new offerings by Love & Rockets and Cocteau Twins. Sundry hairgod bands came and went and I wondered if Killing Joke would ever come to town (they did, finally in 1991). I eschewed big arena pop and rock concerts in favor of the small venue peopled by a devoted and more cerebral following. This was the expression of where I was at the moment. [Yeah, Butthole Surfers' Hairway to Steven is super-brainy stuff! the editor]
Anyhoo, to hear Bryan Adams singing "baby you're all I want when you're lying here in my arms," I felt really wistful because everyone seemed swept along a cresting wave of bliss, and it just wasn't there for me. Yeah, he's a fantastic musician, and that song is beautifully written, but that sappy, gooey sort of love song extols a kind of feeling I suppose I've never really believed existed. Maybe that's my problem - I'm too cynical for pop fluff love songs. Anyway, it made me sad to sit there and think that the manufacturer left out my romance chip. What does that feel like? Aw, heck. Screw it. Ironically, I think Foreigner neglected to sing "I want to know what love is." Or maybe I was running my mouth when they did that number and missed it utterly. Wouldn't surprise me.
At the end of BA's set, he did two more songs for an encore with just his harmonica and guitar. That was the best part of the show, in my opinion. Holly and I hastened to the VIP bar with its (glory the day of our deliverance) air conditioner and air conditioned bathrooms. It was, like, 102 degrees that day, y'all. We went into the bathroom and I was finishing up at the sink, washing my hands, when a stall door flew open behind me. It was a pretty-ish sort of woman, obviously deee-runk to the gills, and sitting on the terlit with her drawers around her knees. She said "I'm so glad y'all are still here with me!" I don't know if she'd confused us with other companions, but she'd obviously heard me and Holly talking. She finally said "I'm so drunk!" Really? We didn't notice. *blink* *blink* That was colorful. We left the loo and I said "dibs on blogging that" and Holly said "you can have it. You were the one talking to her" in an accusatory tone. I felt taken aback, as if I'd just been told that I was asking for it. What can I say? I'm a weirdo magnet.
Back to the bar, we bought a couple ghastly expensive drinks so we could sit in the A/C a little longer. Furriner took the stage about 10pm, and we stayed and watched the show on the big screens in the bar. We giggled about the strange men who were harrassing the barkeep. We think guys with bad toupees shouldn't pick fights, for they are vulnerable in very obvious ways. You'll have to see Holly's blog - I'm sure her take on the event will make for better reading.
We went back into the arena for some of the Foreigner set, and drumgod Jason Bonham was actually quite impressive. The best moment of the show was when Juke Box Hero morphed into the vamp from Whole Lotta Love and the singer launched into "you need foolin." Okay, that part was actually fantastic. But otherwise, it was a trip down someone else's memory lane.
The people watching was priceless, though. These days, rather than beers and lighters, audience members hoist aloft bottled water and sherbet-colored frozen fruit drinks in oddly shaped plastic vessels. Riches to be mined, the veins of fashion emergency fodder were more vast than their matrices. *shudder* Holly looked amazing in a white linen dress, and I wore something I'd wear to a movie. Yeah, I looked like I work in an office-- so what? At least I didn't pour my 2008 ass into my 1985 jeans with a "Frankie Say" t-shirt. One guy looked like he was channeling the singer from Loverboy with the bandanna and everything. I got out my celica foam and googled "hanky code" but we never figured out what message he was trying to convey.
Anyway, it was fun, even with the not so exultant moments, and I'm glad we went. Times out with Holly are always a blast, and we each seem perpetually to be inducing one another to snort beverage out our noses. Irreverent women-- ya gotta love us.
I dunno, though: thinking back to the times when all these songs came out-- those weren't the best days of my life. Maybe these are? Somehow, though, I don't think I'll ever get there-- feeling like one moment excelled all others. I think a balanced life features a sobering mixture of the good and the bad, and if you are riding high and feeling untouchable/unbeatable/unstoppable, you are due for a major tumble. Maybe it's just best not to take any of it for granted.
Then again, maybe that is the ultimate function of nostalgia - to feel that everything happens in its time and place, and that even with bittersweet perspectives on what has been, you have ended up where you ought to be.
Who knows?
Ask me again in 30 years.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Niftyness!
It looks like I'm going to be singing at a charity event with a big band and everything early next year. I'm soooooo excited! I won't be the only singer (or even featured) and it's probably best that way, but it'll be fun. I'll be singing some standards and most especially the Peter Gunn theme, which is super-vampy and oober-cool.
WOOHOO!
Now, I'll have to find the perfect pair of shoes...
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Old Knives' Tales?
This is funny to me, but until last week, it was something I'd only seen in a movie.
I told a friend I got my dad a nice pocket knife for his birthday, and she said I'd have to tell him to give me a coin. I asked why, and she said because if he didn't give me a coin in exchange for the knife, then the knife would cut the relationship.
I am not a superstitious person. In fact, I wish I could be a little more superstitious than I am, but there it is.
Have you heard of this coin exchange custom, or is this just an old knives' tale? Am I being a poopy-headed spoil sport for not playing along?
This is funny to me, but until last week, it was something I'd only seen in a movie.I told a friend I got my dad a nice pocket knife for his birthday, and she said I'd have to tell him to give me a coin. I asked why, and she said because if he didn't give me a coin in exchange for the knife, then the knife would cut the relationship.
I am not a superstitious person. In fact, I wish I could be a little more superstitious than I am, but there it is.
Have you heard of this coin exchange custom, or is this just an old knives' tale? Am I being a poopy-headed spoil sport for not playing along?
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
One more mystery of the cosmos unrrrrrraveled: (roll your rrrrrrs, darrrrrlinks*!)
Aurora borealis not just another bunch of pretty lights, but am, in fact, aurora psoriasis, or stellar dandruff.
Thanks for flaking out on us, Sun. Way to go!
It's true. I didn't make any** of it up.
*channeling Eva Gabor
**mostly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)