God, Republicans are saps. They think that they’re running against some academic liberal who wouldn’t wear flag pins on his lapel, whose wife isn’t proud of America and who went to some liberationist church where the pastor damned his own country. They think they’re running against some naïve university-town dreamer, the second coming of Adlai Stevenson.
But as recent weeks have made clear, Barack Obama is the most split-personality politician in the country today. On the one hand, there is Dr. Barack, the high-minded, Niebuhr-quoting speechifier who spent this past winter thrilling the Scarlett Johansson set and feeling the fierce urgency of now. But then on the other side, there’s Fast Eddie Obama, the promise-breaking, tough-minded Chicago pol who’d throw you under the truck for votes.
This guy is the whole Chicago package: an idealistic, lakefront liberal fronting a sharp-elbowed machine operator. He’s the only politician of our lifetime who is underestimated because he’s too intelligent. He speaks so calmly and polysyllabically that people fail to appreciate the Machiavellian ambition inside.
But he’s been giving us an education, for anybody who cares to pay attention. Just try to imagine Mister Rogers playing the agent Ari in “Entourage” and it all falls into place.
Back when he was in the Illinois State Senate, Dr. Barack could have taken positions on politically uncomfortable issues. But Fast Eddie Obama voted “present” nearly 130 times. From time to time, he threw his voting power under the truck.
Dr. Barack said he could no more disown the Rev. Jeremiah Wright than disown his own grandmother. Then the political costs of Rev. Wright escalated and Fast Eddie Obama threw Wright under the truck.
Dr. Barack could have been a workhorse senator. But primary candidates don’t do tough votes, so Fast Eddie Obama threw the workhorse duties under the truck.
Dr. Barack could have changed the way presidential campaigning works. John McCain offered to have a series of extended town-hall meetings around the country. But favored candidates don’t go in for unscripted free-range conversations. Fast Eddie Obama threw the new-politics mantra under the truck.
And then on Thursday, Fast Eddie Obama had his finest hour. Barack Obama has worked on political reform more than any other issue. He aspires to be to political reform what Bono is to fighting disease in Africa. He’s spent much of his career talking about how much he believes in public financing. In January 2007, he told Larry King that the public-financing system works. In February 2007, he challenged Republicans to limit their spending and vowed to do so along with them if he were the nominee. In February 2008, he said he would aggressively pursue spending limits. He answered a Midwest Democracy Network questionnaire by reminding everyone that he has been a longtime advocate of the public-financing system.
But Thursday, at the first breath of political inconvenience, Fast Eddie Obama threw public financing under the truck. In so doing, he probably dealt a death-blow to the cause of campaign-finance reform. And the only thing that changed between Thursday and when he lauded the system is that Obama’s got more money now.
And Fast Eddie Obama didn’t just sell out the primary cause of his life. He did it with style. He did it with a video so risibly insincere that somewhere down in the shadow world, Lee Atwater is gaping and applauding. Obama blamed the (so far marginal) Republican 527s. He claimed that private donations are really public financing. He made a cut-throat political calculation seem like Mother Teresa’s final steps to sainthood.
The media and the activists won’t care (they were only interested in campaign-finance reform only when the Republicans had more money). Meanwhile, Obama’s money is forever. He’s got an army of small donors and a phalanx of big money bundlers, including, according to The Washington Post, Kenneth Griffin of the Citadel Investment Group; Kirk Wager, a Florida trial lawyer; James Crown, a director of General Dynamics; and Neil Bluhm, a hotel, office and casino developer.
I have to admit, I’m ambivalent watching all this. On the one hand, Obama did sell out the primary cause of his professional life, all for a tiny political advantage. If he’ll sell that out, what won’t he sell out? On the other hand, global affairs ain’t beanbag. If we’re going to have a president who is going to go toe to toe with the likes of Vladimir Putin, maybe it is better that he should have a ruthlessly opportunist Fast Eddie Obama lurking inside.
All I know for sure is that this guy is no liberal goo-goo. Republicans keep calling him naïve. But naïve is the last word I’d use to describe Barack Obama. He’s the most effectively political creature we’ve seen in decades. Even Bill Clinton wasn’t smart enough to succeed in politics by pretending to renounce politics.
Was it you? John McCain, Barack Obama. Me? I think it was McCain. And I think it was a sub-specie of a Navy specialty, the plaintive 'songbird'. Among the ranks of the most silent but deadliest SBD's. Or it could have been a "Carrier" where an intense burst is necessary to get the thing aloft. Or maybe even, in honor of his forefathers, an "Admiral". Like a canon and capable of great destruction to life and property. Of course, it could have been Obama. Producing perhaps a succession of soft peddle SBD's that work best in a comfortably sturdy leather chair or airline cabin seat. The persuasive, yet alluring, "is there a female in the room" squeaker burst. Or, considering he is a smoker and correspondingly a cougher, the wild and uncontrollable "cigarette fart", sometimes masked by the din of the cough.
Maybe it was just the dog (and I don't mean Hillary).
The Vodka Chronicles By MAUREEN DOWD John McCain’s saucy mother says her boy was always a scamp and a hell-raiser. And one of the senator’s great charms is that he wore those appellations proudly. So it was quite disheartening to see a McCain spokeswoman telling The Associated Press, in a story about how Cindy McCain helped her husband’s political career bloom with her multimillion-dollar fortune from the family beer business, that the senator is a virtual teetotaler. “Senator McCain rarely, if ever, drinks alcohol,” Jill Hazelbaker averred. McCain’s pals know him as a man who enjoys libations of vodka with little green cocktail olives. Over the years, at dinners with reporters, [...] he had the habit of ordering one double vodka and sipping it slowly. And there was that famous Hillary-McCain Estonian drink-off in 2004, when Hillary instigated a vodka shot contest and McCain agreed with alacrity (even though he later offered a sketchy denial). Maybe now that he’s the presumptive Republican nominee, his campaign wants to put his vices in a vise and sanitize the wild side of the man whose nicknames in high school were “Punk,” “Nasty” and “McNasty.” Next they’ll deny he likes to gamble in Vegas (“I’ll put $50,000 on Bomb Iran, with 3-to-1 odds”), socialize with liberals and lash out at people who annoy him. (As a toddler, he had “tiny” rages. “I would go off in a mad frenzy and then, suddenly, crash to the floor unconscious,” he wrote. His parents would drop him into a bathtub of icy water.) If his campaign is bowdlerizing, let’s hope it stops before he’s a bland McNice. Americans, after all, don’t trust candidates without any vices. They got turned off by the picture-perfect Mitt Romney, whose khakis were never wrinkled and whose hair stayed eerily in place even while he was jogging in a campaign commercial. Do we really need McCain obfuscating on drinking, and Obama putting up a smoke screen on smoking?Ever since Chicago reporters followed the up-and-coming Obama and saw him flicking his ashes and butts out the windows of moving vehicles, the senator has had a testy relationship with the press about his addictions to cigarettes and littering. (Obama, wrote one reporter on his blog, was “one of those reprehensible nicotine addicts who seems to believe that the world is his ashtray.”) When Chris Matthews tried to pin down Obama on when he’d had his last cigarette, he radiated guilt, even though he dryly noted that “having your wife say on ‘60 Minutes’ that if you see Barack with a cigarette, let me know’ was a heck of a deterrent. “I fell off the wagon a couple times during the course of it and then was able to get back on,” the candidate admitted. “But it is a struggle like everything else.” In his book and last week’s bio-tour, McCain painted himself as a cool bad boy. He was a girl-loving, authority-defying, plane-crashing Top Gun. In his memoir, Obama played up his vices to depict himself as a cool bad boy, too, recalling that he had smoked pot and done “a little blow.”
But now the two men are sticking to the straight and narrow. Everyone may imagine that Obama and his press corps spend all their time quaffing Champagne and celebrating the astonishment of his very being. But the candidate is boringly abstemious — and reporters traveling with him find him aloof. On a 2005 trip to Russia, he priggishly requested that his vodka shot glass be filled with water.
So our choice is between a boozer or a pothead. Not really a difficult decision. As Hootenanny Editor in Chief, I'll take one of each.
I haven't had a cigarette since November 2007 or a bong hit since January 2008 but I'm about to score some Mexican so I have something to do on evenings and weekends now that gasoline has hit $4.00 a gallon. This shit-storm is out of hand. Does it really matter who the next President is? Can't see it. Pull the troops out of Iraq and leave Iran alone. No effect. We're screwed. Get used to it. She's lost control. Go to the links on your right, check out Joy Division. Think I'll go get some Panda Express. It's within walking distance. Which is now about 5 miles ...
As the price of gasoline and diesel continue their stratospheric rise rural Rosebudians revolt and attack US Government Predator Drone overflights. Subsisting on wild potatoes and cattail roots, skin colored with chokecherries and river mud, overflight pictures capture an attack in progress by three Rosebud natives in South Dakota on Thursday, May 29. Long deprived of their traditional libations of Budweiser and Thunderbird Fortified White Port, Rosebud natives are brewing a powerful concoction based on prairie cactus and alkali. The resulting substance is a psychotropic stimulant with hallucinogenic properties. The body paint seems to be a bizarre response to subtle aftereffects of the "drug". Gasoline and diesel prices are the primary catalyst, reports Gibson Parker, US Department of Agriculture spokesman.
"Before, when gas was reasonably priced, many of these folk traveled by auto to nearby markets in Martin and Kadoka. Now, with prices nearing all time highs, many can't afford either groceries or liquor, including discount beers like Keystone and Busch. Many have reverted to pre-alcohol and high fat, high carb diets to uncultivated dirt crops like wild potatoes, turnips and bush berries. This diet seems to have led to a 'Lord of the Flies' approach to community interaction."
The apparent outbreak of ineffective violence has lead Democratic Candidate Barack Obama to cancel a Sunday campaign event in Martin. The Clinton campaign insists a reservation visit will go forward and former President Bill Clinton has pledged his intention to don full body paint and loincloth and to entertain the advances of any tribal leader offering relations with female tribal members, painted black or red. Candidate Hilary Clinton will remain in Rapid City during the ordeal. Federal officials, it has been noted, will continue overflights. Lieutenant General Ron Facemeyer, USAF, has pledged to avoid unnecessary bombing or firing on painted natives until after the South Dakota primary. "Then, all bets are off." Facemeyer stated.
I rolled into Laveen Thursday night with Noel, Raoul and a nameless Nicarauguan chick who smiled a lot and got my toilets so clean your could have made Gazpacho in them and eaten it straight off the floor. But they had already packed the spoons. And I was low on peppers. Today, I made a quick check of the Gila River Indian Reservation. Clearly, they ain't gettin' no casino money and trash pickup seems to have been left to the wind and elements. The roads are littered with couches and old washing machines but once you get down to the Gila River and PIR (Phoenix International Raceway) things pick up quite nicely with some incredible adobe houses tucked back into the foothills. Little later tonight I think I'll head up 51 and grab me a Mexican watermelon and some home-made tamales. Then head down to the Spur Lounge on Baseline to check on the local fillies. It just got hot today, so I expect I'll see a tank-top or two. Maybe bring one of them pork rinds home with me and cavort a bit.
Why Mother's Day? By Garrison Keillor The last time I witnessed a woman becoming a mother, it wasn't anything like the frilly sentiments of Mother's Day. She lay on her back, perspiring heavily and yelling, "Oh my God, why did you do this to me? I'll never forgive you in a hundred years. I hope you hurt like this someday. Give me another epidural, you sadists. And get this thing out of me!" and looking up at me as if she were burning at the stake and I had lit the fire. And when the Infant appeared and was placed on the Madonna's chest, she said, "What in the world am I supposed to do with that?" It begins in innocence. Music is playing, the night smells of lilacs, she asks if he would like to come in for a minute, and he does, and little does she know what cataclysm awaits her inside: the loss of individuality as she joins the Holy Order of Maternity. Mothers were, at one time, young women with Possibilities who might have taken a different route and become glamorous and powerful figures in Size 2 dresses and instead found themselves cleaning up excrement and jiggling colicky babies to get them to stop screaming. They hardly ever get to London anymore or have time to read James Joyce. They sit down to dinner with adults and feel brain-dead. A bouquet of flowers hardly seems compensation enough. How about a million dollars and a house in the south of France? My mother appears in a photograph of five young women in white summer dresses walking hand-in-hand, grinning, on a country lane near Cottage Grove, Minn., in 1932 when she was 17, not long before she met my father, and they all look so fresh and happy, as if in a careless paradise all their own. She is willowy, shy and beautiful and she might've modeled evening gowns at Dayton's Sky Room and maybe been spotted by a Hollywood scout and wound up in pictures, playing the village girl who charms the world-weary tycoon stranded in Littleville by the blizzard. Instead, she became a suburban pioneer, making a home in a muddy cornfield, putting up the stewed tomatoes and canned beans every fall, raising six children, slogging through bouts of mumps and flu, whomping up big Christmases, fishing the laundry out of the washing machine and putting it through the wringer and hanging it on the line. Is that what the smiling girl of 1932 had in mind? The cruel injustice of motherhood is that, out of devotion to her brood, she sacrifices so much of her own life that her children grow up to find her a little boring in comparison to the maiden aunt who is a little rebellious and more fun to be around, whereas Mom is just the lady who runs the vacuum. As Erma Bombeck said, the kids walk in and ask her, "Is anybody home?" But she loves you. You could come home with snakes tattooed on your face and she still would see the good in you. Most great men were mama's boys. She encouraged them long before anybody else could see any talent there. Your mother is on top of the situation. Your father has a hard time remembering your birthday or even your Christian name, but your mother knows you by scent, thanks to years of doing your laundry. She knows when you're in trouble. And you will get into deep trouble someday. Count on it. Someone will file a lawsuit against you and subpoena your e-mail and it will all come flooding out, your dark secrets, your nefarious dealings, and your friends will cross the street to avoid you and your brothers and sisters will fade into the woodwork, but your mother will still love you. Like an old lioness, she'll come running even if you're 2,000 miles away. That is why you pay homage to the old lady on Mother's Day. You entered this cold world causing her more pain than she thought possible and now she won't ever give up on you. Those old ladies you see being wheeled onto airliners are the mothers of children facing imminent indictment for terrible things. Mama will be in the courtroom for you, baby. She will look the jury in the eye and her look may get you acquitted. Buy her something nice, like a set of gold ingots. Or a black car with a chauffeur. She's your mama. At least you could write her a note.
The Raccoon Dog is a member of the canid group (which is Latin for Doggus Fakeus or “fake dog” or "fuckin' dog" family in the US which includes dogs, some wolves, metro-coyotes, rabies-free foxes and edible tree squirrels) and is indigenous to east Asia, the Dolomines and the US central west. It is not a true dog. It will not come when it’s called. The raccoon dog is named for its superficial resemblance to the raccoon. When they live in the arctic their fur changes color to white so it can blend in with its surroundings. US dwellers develop a distinct “mossy oak” camouflage coat. Or appear to be wearing Carhartt gear. The rest of the time, they resemble raccoons. Raccoon Dogs are native or have been introduced to Korea, Malaysia Japan and southwestern South Dakota and a small ranch near Valentine NE. Average adult head and body length is about 2 ft and weight ranges from 9 to 22 lbs. Average litters are large, up to 15 or more pups. Longevity is 3–4 years in the wild and up to 11 years in captivity. They are found in both plains and mountainous regions and are especially common in woodlands and peasant villages in the northeast quadrant of Pennington County in South Dakota. Native raccoon dog populations have declined in recent years due to hunting, fur trade and fur trapping, urbanization, an increase of animals associated with human civilization such as bars and laundromats, and diseases that may be transmitted between them like cirrhosis and AIDS. Like many other canids, they are omnivorous. However, their diets are atypically diverse, consisting of invertebrates, Big Mac cheeseburgers, spotted lake frogs, lizards, rodents and birds along with steamed kale, black eyed peas with seeds, berries and California cherrie tomatoes and fast-food salads with bacon bits and "Paul Newman's Own" salad dressing. Those living near the ocean will also eat crabs and scavenged marine life. Those living near stockponds relish turtles and bullheads. Rare Pennington County raccoon dogs subsist almost entire on beer, French fries and peanut butter (chunky style). Raccoon dogs are not generally known as heavy drinkers though the Baltic dogs often indulge in their favorite grain or potato-based vodka. Their binges are community based and quite insular often relegated to a small island, peninsula or gorge. US raccoon dogs are more public. Their drinking, often not much more than beer, often results in either a riot, a gradual realization of tomorrow's tasks or the harmless slaughter of other small animals with a high powered center-fire rifle and spotlight. Raccoon Dogs are secretive (Masons) and not very aggressive (Mormons); like Masons they prefer to hide or scream rather than fight, and play dead to avoid animals that will eat them. Like Mormons they become physically and sexually mature after one year and live in "compounds". Both groups will eat food from your fridge. Neither will ever clean your bathroom. The Raccoon Dog is the only fake dog to go into torpor through the cold months. This is thought to be a result of the annual Canadian "skunk" harvest. Canadian skunk has replaced Thai as the weed of choiceand even Asian raccoon dogs are sensing the trend. On another note, the raccoon dog is also unusual in that its curved claws enable it to climb trees; the only other canid with this ability is the gray fox. It does not bark and it turns its tail into an inverted U to express dominance. The Raccoon Dog's teeth are small for a canid but can kill a child or a cat just like that.
This music arrived unexpectedly as the result of an experiment. The rules were as follows: 10 weeks, no clear agenda, no overthinking, everything driven by impulse. Whatever happens during that time gets released as... something.
The team: Atticus Ross, Alan Moulder and myself with some help from Alessandro Cortini, Adrian Belew and Brian Viglione. Rob Sheridan collaborated with Artist in Residence (A+R) to create the accompanying visual and physical aesthetic.
We began improvising and let the music decide the direction. Eyes were closed, hands played instruments and it began. Within a matter of days it became clear we were on to something, and a lot of material began appearing. What we thought could be a five song EP became much more. I invited some friends over to join in and we all enjoyed the process of collaborating on this.
The end result is a wildly varied body of music that we're able to present to the world in ways the confines of a major record label would never have allowed - from a 100% DRM-free, high-quality download, to the most luxurious physical package we've ever created.
Picked up this new-fangled work out bike from the Gilbert Sports Authority. It's got a built in neck brace. There are two more at the store so if you want one I can get you one and ship it to you. Let me know.
Travel dispatches. I didn't know it until I got the first email, but elder brother is in China. He has been writing via a wireless device. Here are the results:
Friday, April 4, 2008. This is cool! I am standing on the Great Wall of China, built over a thousand and more years up through the 1600s. In a break from meetings in Beijing, Frank and I have escaped the city for a couple of hours to come see the part of the Wall at Badaling. It is amazingly steep, with steps that vary between an inch and twenty inches in height; I have no idea how I am going to get back down.
We arrived yesterday afternoon at the new international terminal built for the 2008 Olympics; it just opened last week. Once you get through immigration, you have to take a train to reach baggage claim, which seems like it is 2 or 3 miles away. Otherwise it was easy to navigate. Our taxi driver did not know how to get to the hotel; fortunately, I had the telephone number and he called to find out we were literally a block away.
After a short rest at the hotel, we met one of our contacts and were taken to dinner at a restaurant serving Szechuan food. It was VERY spicy. Frank had to order rice to cool his mouth down. I drank LOTS of beer. But the food was incredibly delicious. We started with a tea-smoked deep fried fish, woodear mushrooms stewed with Szechuan chilis and a silken poached chicken with a burning hot chili sauce. The others were impressed with my ability to use chopsticks (being the only "foreigner" at the table).
After the "cold" (actually, they were room temperature) dishes, we moved on to a crispy shredded beef dish with shredded chilis and scallions, a thinly sliced beef and chili dish cooked in a chili oil by dropping heated stones into the oil and a fish dish cooked the same way with Szechuan peppercorns. We also had a superb dish of tofu in a minced pork and chili sauce. We topped it all off with a bowl of dan dan noodles, noodles served in a chili and sesame sauce. I don't know how Frank managed to eat rice with all that. Ricardo and & Celeste will remember the extra spicy minced chicken dish we had at Telephone Thai a couple of weeks ago and understand when I say that none of the dishes we had were less spicy than that chicken dish at Telephone Thai. My mouth was burning last night, but all I can think of today is how I would like to repeat that dinner tonight.
Well, more to come later. I've got to figure out how to climb back down steps that are 20 inches high, without falling down the mountainside. If you'd rather not hear about my wandering about, let me know and I'll leave you off further emails.
Best regards, Mark Saturday, April 5, 2008 And the whole story at the Great Wall involves a camel: Should Have Been Obvious principle #1 - riding a camel is not a good idea. SHBO principle #2 - even a two-humped camel (and possibly, especially a two-humped camel). SHBO principle #3 - especially if you don't really fit between the humps. SHBO principle #4 - and don't even think how you're going to get off the creature. Well, at least I gathered a small crowd and they all thought it was pretty funny, even if I was having a pretty hard time seeing the humor of it. Facts to pay attention to: camels are taller than they seem; humps are not solid; a stepladder is an unwieldy and somewhat impractical means to get on and off a camel. I thought they knelt down for you, but apparently not this fellow. Pictures were taken but whether I'll show them to anybody has yet to be decided. At least I made it down those steep steps of the Great Wall before tackling the Camel and the Stepladder. Later that day: Well, one of them, at least (there are a number of them). I made it down those steps at the Great Wall in good enough time that we had time to stop at the Yongle emperor's tomb on our way back to Beijing.
On a side note, I am not sure I will survive the traffic here. I have yet to see any rules being followed. You just creep your way across an intersection with traffic coming at you from all directions. Everybody honks and nobody stops for anything. Thank God we have a driver or I would have been dead long ago. I see police everywhere but they don't seem to have much impact. It's exciting and frightening at the same time to see a huge bus come within an inch of your window, honking continuously, trying to force your driver to give him the right of way.
Back to the tomb of the Yongle emperor. The buildings are magnificent and situated in quiet parkland at the foot of a mountain. All quiet, no honking, no exhaust fumes. The smog is unbelievable here; the only difference I remember in Mexico City where it was awful is that it was blackish brown there, while it is a ghostly gray here. But it is everywhere like a smelly fog; it will be hard to complain about Houston.
But now, back to Beijing and more business, with another dinner tonight. Blair, you gave me your cold AGAIN. I will remember this! Thank goodness I brought cold medication with me.
Best regards, Mark
Another fantastic dinner, this one of small dishes in a restaurant with the menu entirely and only in Chinese, even the numbers. Thank goodness it was on neither my shoulders nor Frank's either to order or to decipher the payment required.
We went with a charming gentleman and his beautiful wife, who speaks good English and is head of the technical division of a state-owned company that sells drilling rigs all over the world. They were a delight to be with and decided to take us to a small restaurant on Houhai lake in the Yangfang hutong district where the Chinese leadership lives. Hutongs are the walled courtyard homes of old Beijing where the princes and other relatives of the emperor lived along winding alleyways and of course this district on the lakeside is one of the more popular, with courtyard homes selling in the tens of millions of dollars.
The taxi let us out at the opposite end of the lake so we had an interesting walk along the lakeside, which is fronted by one neonlit bar after another, each with its touts standing I'm front making every effort to get you to stop at their establishment. One even had a sign out front that began in English, "Hey, handsome boy and beautiful girl . . . ". That was all I could read as we passed by. It was a beautiful night with all of the lights around the lake, and the walk was pleasant, but I had definitely worked up an appetite by the time we finally reached the restaurant 45 minutes after the cab dropped us off.
Well, I must prepare for my next engagement, so will continue later.
Third Base Mavis cooked the school lunch in the old High School. She came from out east, maybe Ohio or Indiana and she knew her slap-dash beef and macaroni and tomato soup from a can. 3B Mavis pioneered the art of of white flour buns and honey-butter. She'd barter milk prices and pick and can the corn for her tamale pie. She was called Third Base Mavis or 3B for short on account of the high school boys who frequented her shingled shack in Hillcrest. Ole 3B kept Dingel's Corn Whiskey on hand. After a few, she was willin' to let the boys get to third. Try a home run and you'd meet 3B's nickel plated 38.
Scott Pippert wrote a song for Mavis or a poem, if that'd be best for your recall:
Old Third Base Mavis was a son of a gun, Made her livin' off a honey bun. A three cent milk and a can of pears, tattoos, hairnets and fightin' scars.
Ol' Mavis made goulash, beef with tomato, And a rough piece of work she called Deadwood potato. She drank beer at the Badlands, whiskey down in Scenic, and gasoline in Pine Ridge, and dreamed of living in Phoenix.
She never made it there, her money was not willin'. She stayed in Wall and screwed em' all. 'cause that was most fulfillin'.
As the years passed by and Mavis aged. a legend began to form. Of all the local gentlemen, Mavis had performed.
There was Scott and Lee, there was Bill and Shorty Schuler, Rusty, Rocky and Casey and the entire crew of the custom harvesting team of Skip and (Kansas Boy) Buehler. There was Jim Doyle, his dad and the Richters. Stan and Stuart Mettler, who, as father and son stayed true to their fetish for "lunch-lady" toes.
3B Mavis is gone now. Dead and buried. We buried her up on Hell's Half Acre which gets smaller every year due to natural erosion. Eventually, Mavis will re-enter this world. Mostly bones but maybe part carcass. Human jerky.
PS: Word is the 38 is missing. By this post, I'm asking who has it?
someone actually commented on this post. i can never tell who will find something interesting. this is not quinn. it has nothing to do with quinn. it is a blue house in louisiana or mississippi or somewhere nearby. living in quinn is a state of mind that has nothing to do with history so don't send me the history of quinn. i won't post it. if you want that crap online, start your own webpage.
The National Rifle Association, or NRA, is a non-profit group for the promotion of firearm ownership rights, marksmanship, firearm safety, and the protection of hunting and self-defense in the United States, established in New York in 1871 as the American Rifle Association. It sponsors firearm safety training courses, as well as marksmanship events featuring shooting skills and sports. The NRA is sometimes said to be the single most powerful non-profit organization in the United States. It bases its political activity on the principle that gun ownership is a civil liberty protected by the Second Amendment of the Bill of Rights, and claims to be the oldest continuously operating civil liberties organization in the United States. According to its website, the NRA has "more than four million members.
When I'm eating corn, I often opt for some pig as well. Most of you call it pork, others call it "the other white meat". I just call it pig. That speaks well and fairly of the entire carcass. Pink skin, bristles. Tripe. Tail soup. Fried ears. Pulled. Fried. Grilled. Served with rice and beans Cuban style. It's all good. And guess what? Chewy pig snout sandwiches are out there standing in the wings, waiting to take the stage. Our field correspondent, Tina Haney, writes:
This [sandwich] is tasty in a VERY disturbing way. You bite in, you taste the bread, the sauce and then CRUNCH--you are crunching the cartilage. It's incredibly crunchy: like biting through a bunch of twigs, only pig nose twigs. At the same time, there was something pleasing about it: like gnawing on a chicken bone or like eating a shrimp with the shell still on ... I loved my pig snout sandwich, ... I'm really glad I tried it.
Dang. I want one. Think I'll head over to Hap's BBQ (owned and founded by South Dakotans of the Rapid City ilk - KC/Texas pit-sweet BBQ styles practiced) on Washington Ave tomorrow and request a menu addition. A side of barn beans and vinegar corn cabbage with a bottle of real Root Beer and a sour dough flake biscuit with sweet cream butter churned out back in Queen Creek. Just like heaven. And while we're on the subject, here's a quick and easy recipe for making pickled pig's feet right in your own kitchen. Don't never say you didn't get any value from this website ...
An item available in about every bar when I was growing up was pickled pigs feet. You could buy them individually. They were great with a cold beer. Here is a quick and easy recipe for you to fix your own:
Ingredients:
4 pigs' feet (split in half) 3 cups cider vinegar 1 onion (sliced) 1 tsp crushed red pepper 3 whole cloves 1 bay leaf
Wash the pigs feet thoroughly. Place in a pot with cold water along with the vinegar. Bring to a boil and skim off the foam. Add other ingredients and cook over medium heat until thoroughly done (approximately 2 1/2 hours).
Store in a container along with the liquid. If you have too much liquid, remove the cooked pigs feet and boil it down a little. Refrigerate. Serve cold.
Corn. We all like it. So do our cows and pigs and chickens and everyone from Iowa and Nebraska in general. But, we are at risk of losing our corn as we meet the dual challenge of ethanol and genetic manipulation. Taking food from the mouths of babies and the poor to fuel unnecessarily offensive gas guzzling vehicles and seed companies that patent genetic strains that are designed to respond to chemical treatments of herbicides and pesticides that they make and peddle along with the seed. Use the seed without attribution and risk copyright and patent violations. Both can and have lead to civil damage awards in US courts. One was prosecuted on the criminal side of the judicial ball. When I was in college, I had a friend who lived in a mobile home on the edge of a field of sweet corn. We used to "borrow" an ear or two when we grilled. It was the best corn I've ever had. Now I pump it into my vehicle and drive to the store. Something got all fucked up along the way ... When you vote next fall, keep corn in your headlights. As the farmers make up for years of distress due to increased demand and the new trucks line main-street in Moeville, IA, and tractors till from fence-line to ditch and drought ravages range cattle production and food costs shoot through the roof - be ready. Dig a bunker and stock it with canned goods. Clean and oil your guns and buy more ammo. Keep a close eye on your neighbors and the patterns of migrating birds. Stop going to church. Focus on the corn crop. It's our only hope. Well, excepting potatoes, that is ...
The last, lone rhinoceros left Gilbert at 10:10 PM MST Friday, February 29 on a flight bound for Minneapolis-St. Paul where he'll catch a Greyhound Bus to his final destination in Morris, Minnesota. In Morris, the last rhinoceros will turn himself into campus police at the University of Minnesota-Morris for incarceration and tests and an attempt to reproduce with chickens to bear progeny extending his particular line of rhinoceros. Success is questionable and a freak of nature probable. But, if failure is the result, it doesn't mean you should give up chicken. Some chickens are still bred, born and slaughtered in the old fashioned way with an axe, boiling cauldron of water and propane torch. The free range chicken of yesteryear still pecks away in the barnyard of your uncles and cousins, is stowed away in your freezer or canned in large mason jars. All to good effect. Soups are made; casseroles and stews competing for attention. Chicken is good food for the most part. Pieces and parts provide great variety. Beaks and feet are sold to Asian markets where chickens are ubiquitous, though beakless. Plentiful like the duck, but with less risk of bird flu. In Ulan Bator, I once sampled chicken cake; a light, frothy affair with a chicken broth meringue. In Thailand, I tasted toasted chicken beaks. Crunchy, acrid and sweet, like burnt toast and honey. In the deep south of America, I feasted on a buttery chicken feet stew with okra and a poke salad. In the Philippines, I learned that unborn chicken balut is better than duck balut. I like to steam my balut with mixed vegetables and rice in my rice cooker. Crunchy, chewey, putridly savory just like you mom's balut with canned tomatoes and watermelon pickles. But this all goes without saying if the lone rhinoceros is extinct, we have little choice but to stick with chicken and the chicken manufacturers will be congratulated for their persistence and faith. Chik-Fil-A's will continue to prosper and we'll get the chicken we want without regard to the rhinoceros.
Cheese is a food made from the milk of cows, goats, sheep and other mammals, by coagulating the milk. This is accomplished by first acidifying it with a bacterial culture and then employing the enzyme rennet (or rennet substitutes) to coagulate the milk to "curds and whey." The precise bacteria and processing of the curds play a role in defining the texture and flavor of most cheeses. Some cheeses also feature molds, either on the outer rind or throughout. There are hundreds of types of cheese produced all over the world. Different styles and flavors of cheese are the result of using milk from various mammals or with different butterfat contents, employing particular species of bacteria and molds, and varying the length of aging and other processing treatments. Other factors include animal diet and the addition of flavoring agents such as herbs, spices, or wood smoke. Whether the milk is pasteurized may also affect the flavor. The yellow to red coloring of many cheeses is a result of adding annatto. Cheeses are eaten both on their own and cooked as part of various dishes; most cheeses melt when heated. For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Most cheeses, however, are acidified to a lesser degree by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, followed by the addition of rennet to complete the curdling. Rennet is an enzyme mixture traditionally obtained from the stomach lining of young cattle, but now also laboratory produced. Vegetarian alternatives to rennet are available; most are produced by fermentation of the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. Cheese has served as a hedge against famine and is a good travel food. It is valuable for its portability, long life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is a more compact form of nutrition and has a longer shelf life than the milk from which it is made. Cheesemakers can place themselves near the center of a dairy region and benefit from fresher milk, lower milk prices, and lower shipping costs. The substantial storage life of cheese lets a cheesemaker sell when prices are high or when money is needed.
You are invited. The Kurdistan Workers Party will be held this year at Champions Sports Bar (formerly the Copper Penny) in downtown Gilbert, Arizona. (We'll be in the left back bar area away from the TV's where the Gilbert Road and Boating Club will be gathering to watch the Daytona 500.) Show up early for the falafel and spanikopita. Grape leaves, plumb tomatoes, vinegar rice balls, pork and lamb souvlaki, broiled gyros meat and olives on Syrian soft flatbread will also be served. At 3:00 PM, we'll be holding the 'Tatziki Tasting' with prizes for best base yogurt (cow, oxen and sheep), garlic and cucumber. At 4:00 PM, we'll hold the the crowning event, Baklava and the Art of Phyllo. Last year's winner, Maria Rasz-Birkeryat, we'll return with her Sumerian Cottonseed Honey and Almond concoction. This year's K.P.P. (Kurdistan Workers Party) holds great promise for the best Valley ethno-nationalistic diaspora party of the year. You'll have the opportunity to meet Sulman Bayekir, the former Mayor of Erzurum. Ali Farke Toure will be spinning the vinyl with his Indo-African beats from 1:00 PM until party's end. Belly dancing is encouraged and since the Renaissance Fair is in full swing down in Gold Canyon, a few may be in the area. We hope to see you there and, of course, bring almonds!
I am pre-approved for an auto loan on a 2008 Toyota Tundra. It worked. I have an appointment for a test drive Friday. I particularly like the Double Cab with 5.7 Liter V8 (pictured above with optional fender-monkey). This is wrong, but after driving a Camry for a few months I feel like my testicles have lost weight and I'm sporting bigger man-boobs. I need a gas-guzzling road giant to make things right again. It's like HGH for the man-guy in all of us.
Percy Morell Fenstrome was a Boy Scout Master of the highest order. Though relegated to the annals of history at an early age due to a malformation of the kidney, Percy commanded Troop 117, Bear Lodge Creek Chapter with a sharp wit and a strong boot. Canvas tents were kept immaculately clean, hatchet blades sharp and felt wool hats were blocked and pumiced nightly. At 36, a galloping kidney got the best of Percy. A galloping kidney is a malformation of the kidney that is both rare and deadly. The galloping kidney moves about the lower peritoneal cavity with alacrity, engaging other organs in a a game of tag, so to speak. It is a genetic condition. It is not contagious but appears more frequently in native Malaysians and the Ghurkas of Istanbul, Turkey. There is no known cure. Percy's kidney developed galloping tendencies around age 28 and by his early 30's, it had tagged nearly every other organ in Percy's abdominal cavity. Then, late one fall day in 1936, the kidney made an all out attempt to escape and began migrating upward through Percy's alimentary canal. Percy died three days later. RIP Percy Morell Fenstrome.
Gonna go to Laughlin. Gonna get on a ship. Gonna watch a wedding. Gonna party on the strip. It's gonna be a good time. Gonna be lots a fun. Gonna get a cheezburger. At the point of a gun.
Well that nonsense is about a trip to Laughlin in March. My best friend's daughter is getting married. On a boat. On the Colorado River. In Nevada. I'll be there, wouldn't miss it. M marries M to become M&M.
Enis Richter 1932-2008 Enis Richter passed away peacefully at the Phillip Old Folks Home just this past Wednesday while playing cards with Willie Wilburn and Norman Schuler. Lunch that day was served a la carte and included shredded chicken and pork BBQ, white beans, lime jello and cornbread. Enis passed shortly after lunch, peacefully and holding a pair of Jacks which, had he not passed, would have taken Schuler's pair of eights and 17 matchsticks to boot. Enis is survived by sisters Bernice Chappadoor of Bay City, WI, Patricia (Poot) Schulze of Bismark, ND and brother Sam. Services will be held Monday, February 11, 2008 at the Wall Methodist Church where Enis was a devoted if infrequent supplicant. Betty Willeuwite and Sandy Simpendorfer are baking pies for the affair but you are encouraged to bring your own. Flowers by Ann. Join us for donuts before the service at Wall Drug.
No. It's not what you think. Pervert. The title line is about a dude from Kansas who founded a Church based on the concepts of Intelligent Design (but not really and after the fact), which is an argument that we should teach children science and religion at the same time. If the argument was based on the simple premise of efficiency (the ancient Greek two birds with one stone hypothesis, for example), I would be more than inclined to agree. But unfortunately, it is not. Alas, the Designer's got there first. Laws were passed. The teaching of Creationism was mandated under the scientific mantle of Intelligent Design. That theory basically states that only someone really smart could have created the Universe and he/she/it looks and thinks like us. And us is us, who else would it be? I can't quite follow this logic. I drifted. And then I met a Pastafarian waitress at Hooters in Scottsdale. She was an adherent of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. And, at that magical moment, I became one too. An adherent, that is.
Wait, what was I talking about? Lost my train of thought. Oh yeah, Hooters. Great place.
When I first moved to the Valley of the Sun and landed in Gilbert, a southeastern suburb of Phoenix, I was told that I had moved to "little Scottsdale". Upscale. The article copied below is about McDonald's. You ought to see our Denny's! What a fucking parody of the "high life". I am ROFL!
Gilbert McDonald's features plasma TVs, leather chairs
David van den Berg The Arizona Republic Jan. 31, 2008 01:10 PM
A McDonald's restaurant opening in Gilbert Friday will be one the first to follow the company's new design strategy. Interior features include plasma screen televisions, wireless internet access, leather chairs, a play area designed specifically for toddlers and booths with high leather backs. "This is a symbol of what people want," said Keenan Strand, a part owner and director of operations of the restaurant and eight others around the Valley. Maintenance costs aren't likely to be a problem, Strand said. "I don't know that maintenance is going to be any greater than any other store," he said. The restaurant's exterior got a facelift too. The new design incorporates glass and metal, striped awnings, and a double-lane drive-through ordering system. Customers in the drive-through lane will be able to look through a window into the kitchen before reaching the pick-up window. The restaurant is near the intersection of Val Vista Drive and Pecos Road, close to the five-story Rome Towers retail and office building. It is expected to serve between 1,200 and 1,500 customers a day, Strand said.
(drive-by truckers) As I run through the jobs and projects with my current company a reoccurring theme is the south. Ocala, Mobile, Montgomery, Baton Rouge, Columbia, Asheville, Southaven, Nashville, Memphis, Kansas City and St. Louis. Not to mention Houston, Dallas, San Antonio, Albuequerque, Phoenix, Salt Lake City, Riverside and to the north Sacramento and Bakersfield. I get as far north as Denver and Billings. Lakefield and Marshfield. Ankeny and Cleveland. If we were to extend the south all the way up to Anchorage, it would still be south to me. And that's a good thing because with my recent promotion, the south now includes Alaska. Now sit back and listen to some southern music ...
Vernice and I get back to Hillcrest every couple years or so. We don't have a timetable. We don't pick the season. We just up and go. The sign is still there from when the Highway ran by this part of town. Before it moved south spawning competing gas stations with conveniences. Now the former thoroughfare is called the Wall Dump Road. You can't even get to Quinn on it anymore. Not that a lot of folks need to get to Quinn so much as past it these days. The Hillcrest Motel survives, barely. It's the same as it ever was. Home to itinerants and the local poor. A few tourists in the summer. They don't typically stay more than one night. Maybe it's the abandoned vehicles or the boarded up buildings. At one time an area of industry and commerce, now in disrepair and decrepit. The weeds grow unchecked. The town's people complain, but the owners live far away and could care less. Vernice and I don't care either. Hillcrest is where we started our life together. We raised a toddler in the shotgun duplex across the lot from the 'showers'. The 'showers' was a place for truckers and others on their way someplace else stopping just long enough to wash the dust off. See, this was a dusty road before cars had air conditioning. The biggest fortunes in town would be made on the cooling principle. Vernice and I made do with swamp cooler and a propane gas stove. The swamp cooler was the size of a refrigerator and moistened but hardly cooled the air. The gas stove had to be re-lit each time it was used and this could be a dangerous endeavor.
In the summer of that year, we got ourselves a dog. You can just make him out in this old picture. With a baby on the way and the 'showers' full of travelers, the dog beat out a gun in Vernice's thinking. I got my way part-way by naming the dog 'Shotgun". He became a true son of a gun just to spite me. Shotgun was a well-named dog if only for his outhouse habits. Perfecting a well-timed scatter-gun approach to all things offensive, eaten or expelled, Shotgun was moved to a corner of the duplex that had once served as the home of an alcoholic octogenarian who finally wandered into the Badlands and fell into the sewer pond.While it was of course a tragedy, it did free up some room for an equally vile and unhealthy dog. The dog's propensities as well as his love for Vernice and hate for me nearly led me to kill him with a coal shovel one late winter's evening. But I missed my first shot and Vernice caught me mid-swat on the second. It was a long cold winter punctuated with weekly dog-poo-removal exercises while a beagle-sized canine barks incessantly in my ear.
But the good times outshine these trivial incidents. Vernice blooms into a young mother and I get a job with Boeing building Minuteman Missile Silos.
Hey kids! You too can learn to speak Lakota with the new "How Kola Glove" from Hasbro! Lingualism meets space-age technology! The glove works by sending a small stream of electricity through the wearer's arm at a modulation that affects only the pitch of the users vocal chords. Just slip the glove over your left hand, activate the patented lead-cadmium, battery-belt pack and raise the glove in greeting to friends, family and intelligent pets (try a talking bird, for example, or even a monkey). Developed by Venezuelan activist and son of dictator Hugo Chavez, Tito (The Glove) Chavez, early versions of "How Kola Glove" were used primarily by Venezuelan oil company Citgo to deliver oil and gas subsidies to US reservations in North and South Dakota. But Tito Chavez had bigger dreams. A mass market for lingual gloves. So he retrofitted the glove to say hello in Navaho, Iroquois and Assiniboine and when equipped with the patented American Negro 'ghetto chip-set', can say things like, "Hey bro, you holdin?", "Hey boss, can a brother get a quarter for a pack of chips?" and "Now and den, I likes a little gravy on my biskit." or helpful bathroom banter like, "Wanna buy dis here cologne?" A sure cure for stage-fright and other awkward moments! There's no mistaking the usefulness of these pre-programmed ghetto phrases and they're applicable year round! So why be the last in your neighborhood to own this versatile lingual tool? Easter is coming. Prime your parents now! Just say it. Mom, Dad. I want the "How Kola Glove" in my basket!
I'm checking this list to see if you're still on it. I'm using a special phone to check all electronic connections. It's hands free. Most of you have gone. Some, and only the best I expect, to the space travel programs. Others, I suppose, to the kitchen or the cellar. All are valid means of escape from rising gas prices, global warming and the downturn in the breakfast cereal market. Before long, we will be out of domestically produced yogurt and our reliance on the Mongolians will increase proportionally. I personally have already placed an advance order with Eddie Bauer for an "American Yurt". The Yurt/Home/Circular Asian Yak-Skin Hut of the future.
No truer words as I return to Hootenanny after a long, much needed hiatus. Sorry to have left you, but the good thing is that so many have lost the habit of reading this weblog, I'm back to ground zero so to speak and can do whatever I want when I want without regard to what I might think you want. That's key. I hate to sound really selfish but I do this as a hobby, for me and my amusement. Everything else is secondary. As it should be. I guess. Regarding the last post. We got our birds. Wasn't very hard and took under an hour total if I recall correctly. The boss went home with some stories and I kept the birds. Got three left. One went to a friend across the street and one each to a couple of North Dakotans living nearby. I took the bird to Peter on a Sunday. It was a warm day and the door was open. Still, I knocked and Peter's wife Bobbie came to the door and ushered me in. Peter was conducting a religious service and there were folks there I had never seen before. I didn't stay, being a bit leery about such things especially on a Sunday when I was watching NFL Football and drinking or about to begin drinking beer. Giving a bird to Jim was a lot easier. He lives next door and was the first, along with his wife Tammy, to welcome me to the neighborhood. He's downed a few birds along the way and was happy to have one for the fridge. Also, he has a big-ass boat he pulls with a Chevy Sierra. Jim is alright. The third bird was a hen the dog found in the field. Wing-shot but still a good runner. I gave it to my assistant at work. She can't decide whether she's from ND or Minnesota. She has attributes of both. Most of all just a mother hen. Mean but very protective of her brood. Keeps the troops in order but has the May butchering season coming. Well. Here we are. Send your comments as I rearrange the site. I've looked into some alternatives but haven't located a keeper so this'll do just fine. And hey, if you make it to RC say HI to Bobbie and Pat.
We got up before dawn while it was cool and the air still sweetly humid. We ate some Cheerios, fresh cantaloupe and Italian coffee with half and half. We loaded the guns and ammo and hit the road for Coolidge, Arizona, 60 miles south of Phoenix. Located halfway between Phoenix and Tucson, the City of Coolidge is the commercial center of the Arizona's cotton industry. Coolidge extends to the Casa Grande Ruins and provides an opportunity to witness the amazing accomplishments of the Hohokam. The natural setting provides an excellent introduction to the native Sonoran Desert. Coolidge also boasts a large dairy farm and as a result, thousands of acres of irrigated alfalfa. Chinese Ringneck Pheasants and Chukar Partridge have moved into the alfalfa from neighboring game farms and hence the reason for our day trip to Coolidge and surrounding environs. We cut across the desert on SR287 until we hit the dirt road that ran along the canal. We veered north to the lodge to meet up with the dog handler then headed back west to the clover.
This deserves front stage treatment. A fantastic cover of Dire Straits' Romeo and Juliette by Las Vegas' band The Killers. I caught this on MOJO HDTV but just found it on the 'tube. Here for your listening pleasure ... Romeo and Juliette.
Howard Duane Allman (November 20, 1946 – October 29, 1971) was an American lead guitarist and noted session musician. Allman was born in Nashville, Tennessee. When he was three years old, his family was living near Norfolk, Virginia. His father, Willis, a United States Army sergeant, was murdered on December 26 in a robbery by a veteran he had befriended that day. Geraldine "Mama A" Allman and the boys moved back to Nashville. In 1957 they moved to Daytona Beach, Florida. As a teenager in 1960, Allman was motivated to take up the guitar by the example of his younger brother, Gregg, who had obtained a guitar after hearing a neighbor playing country music standards on an acoustic guitar. Gregg later said that after Duane started playing, "he ... passed me up like I was standing still." Another important event occurred in 1959 when the boys were in Nashville visiting family. They attended a rock 'n' roll show in which blues artist B. B. King performed, and both promptly fell under the spell of the music. Brother Gregg reports that Allman turned to him in the middle of the show and said, "We got to get into this. The Allman boys started playing publicly in 1961, joining or forming a number of small, local groups. Shortly thereafter Allman quit high school to stay home during the day and focus on his guitar playing. Their band the Escorts eventually became the Allman Joys. After Gregg graduated from Seabreeze High School in 1965, the Allman Joys went on the road, performing throughout the Southeast and eventually being based in Nashville and St. Louis. The Allman Joys morphed into another not-completely-successful band, The Hour Glass, which moved to Los Angeles in early 1967. There the Hour Glass did manage to produce two albums which left the band unsatisfied. Liberty, their record company, tried to market them as a pop band, completely ignoring the band's desire to play more blues-oriented material. The Hour Glass songs that are on the first and second Duane Allman Anthologies, as well as the Allman Brothers' anthology Dreams are so radically different from the Liberty releases that they might as well be two different bands. Allman's guitar playing, buried in the 1960s albums, takes on the commanding presence that he later displayed with the Allman Brothers. At this point Allman added electric slide guitar to his repertoire, after hearing Taj Mahal perform the Willie McTell classic "Statesboro Blues", the group featuring Jesse Ed Davis on slide; this was later a signature tune for the Allman Brothers Band. Allman used an empty glass Coricidin medicine bottle, which he wore over his ring finger, as a slide; this was later picked up by other slide guitarists such as Rory Gallagher, Derek Trucks and Gary Rossington of Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Hour Glass broke up in early 1968, and Duane and Gregg Allman went back to Florida, where they played on demo sessions with the 31st of February, a folk rock outfit whose drummer was Butch Trucks. Gregg returned to California to fulfill Hour Glass obligations, while Duane jammed around Florida for months but didn't get another band going. Allman's playing on the two Hour Glass albums and an Hour Glass session in early 1968 at FAME Studios in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, had caught the ear of Rick Hall, owner of FAME. In November 1968 Hall hired Allman to play on an album with Wilson Pickett. Allman's work on that album, Hey Jude (1968), got him hired as a full-time session musician at Muscle Shoals and brought him to the attention of a number of other musicians, such as guitar great Eric Clapton, who later said, "I remember hearing Wilson Pickett's 'Hey Jude' and just being astounded by the lead break at the end. ... I had to know who that was immediately - right now." Allman's performance on "Hey Jude" blew away Atlantic Records producer and executive Jerry Wexler when Hall played it over the phone for him. Wexler immediately bought Allman's recording contract from Hall and wanted to use him on sessions with all sorts of Atlantic R&B artists. While at Muscle Shoals, Allman was featured on releases by a number of artists, including Clarence Carter, King Curtis, Aretha Franklin, Otis Rush, Percy Sledge, Johnny Jenkins, Boz Scaggs, Delaney & Bonnie and jazz flautist Herbie Mann. Shortly after he recorded his lead break in "Hey Jude," he recorded all of the lead guitar in Boz Scaggs' "Loan Me A Dime." His soloing in the song is noted as some of the best he ever laid down on record. For his first Aretha sessions, Allman traveled to New York, where in January 1969 he went as an audience member to the Fillmore East to see Johnny Winter and prophetically told fellow Shoals guitarist Jimmy Johnson that in a year he'd be on that stage; the Allman Brothers Band indeed played the Fillmore that December. The limits of full-time session playing frustrated Allman. The few months in Muscle Shoals were by no means a waste, however, because besides meeting the great artists and other industry professionals he was working with, Allman had rented a small, secluded cabin on a lake and spent many solitary hours there refining his playing. Perhaps most significantly, at F.A.M.E. Allman got together with R&B and jazz drummer Jaimoe Johanson, who came there to meet Allman at the urging of the late Otis Redding's manager, Phil Walden, who by now was managing Allman and wanted to build a three-piece band around him. Allman and Jaimoe got Chicago-born bassist Berry Oakley to come up from Florida and jam as a trio, but Berry was committed to his rock band with guitarist Dickey Betts, the Second Coming, and returned south. Getting fed up with Muscle Shoals, in March Allman took Jaimoe with him back to Jacksonville, Florida, where they moved in with Butch Trucks. Soon a jam session of these three plus Betts, Oakley, and Reese Wynans took place and forged what all present recognized as a natural, or even magical, bond. With the addition of brother Gregg, called back from Los Angeles to sing and replace Wynans on keyboards, at the end of March 1969, the Allman Brothers Band was formed. (Wynans became well known over a decade later as organist with Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble.) After a bit of rehearsing and gigging, the sextet moved up to Macon, Georgia, in April to be near Walden and his Capricorn Sound Studios. While living in Macon, Allman met a woman named Donna, who bore his only child, Galadrielle. Despite their child, the relationship quickly ended. The Allman Brothers Band went on to become one of the most influential rock groups of the 1970s, described by Rolling Stone's George Kimball in 1971 as "the best damn rock and roll band this country has produced in the past five years".[4] After months of nonstop rehearsing and gigging, including fondly remembered free shows in Macon's Central City Park and Atlanta's Piedmont Park, the band was ready to settle on the band name we know and to record. Their debut album, The Allman Brothers Band, was recorded in New York in September 1969 and released a couple months later. In the midst of intense touring, work began in Macon and Miami (Atlantic South - Criteria Studios), and a little bit in New York, on the ABB's second album, Idlewild South. Produced mostly by Tom Dowd, Idlewild South was released in August 1970 and broke ground for the ABB by quickly hitting the Billboard charts.
A group date in Miami, also that August, gave Allman the chance to participate in Eric Clapton's Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs. Clapton had long wanted to meet Allman; when he heard that the Allman Brothers were due to play in Miami, where he had just started work on Layla with producer Tom Dowd, he insisted on going to see their concert, where he met Allman. After the show the two bands—the Allman Brothers Band and Derek and the Dominos—returned to Criteria, where Allman and Clapton quickly formed a deep rapport during an all-night jam session.[5] At one point, Allman cautiously asked Clapton if he could come by the studio to watch. Clapton refused, telling Allman to bring his guitar because, "you got to play." Allman wound up participating on most of the album's tracks, contributing some of his best-known work. Allman never left the Allman Brothers Band, though, despite being offered a permanent position with Clapton. Allman never toured with Derek and the Dominos, but he did make two appearances with them on December 1, 1970 at the Curtis Hixon Hall and the following day at Onondaga County War Memorial.
In an interview, Duane told listeners how to tell who played what: Eric played the Fender parts and Duane played the Gibson parts. He continued by noting that the Fender had a sparklier sound, while the Gibson produced more of a "full-tilt screech".
The Allman Brothers went on to record At Fillmore East, one of the classic live albums of rock and roll, in March, 1971. Meanwhile, Allman continued contributing session work to other artists' albums whenever he could. According to Skydog: the Duane Allman Story, Allman was in the habit of spontaneously dropping in at recording sessions and contributing to whatever was being taped that day. He received cash payments but no recording credits, making it virtually impossible to compile a complete discography of his works.
Duane Allman was killed in a motorcycle accident only a few months after the summer release and great initial success of At Fillmore East. While in Macon on October 29, during a band break from touring and recording, Allman was riding toward an oncoming truck that was turning well in front of him but then stopped in mid-intersection. He lost control of his Harley while trying to swing left, possibly striking the back of the truck or its crane ball. He flew from his bike, which landed on and skidded with him, crushing internal organs; he died a few hours later, less than one month shy of his 25th birthday. [edit]
I was watching this video online and I noticed a spliced resemblance to my best friends Marty and Todd from Wall, SD. Marty has Jerry's good looks and charisma. His hair shakes, women want him. Todd, his technical ability. His fingers touch the right keys at the right time, women want him. It's cool having friends like Marty (1) and Todd (2). Peace brothers.
U.S. Customs and Border Protection Office of Field Operations Freedom of Information Act/Privacy Act, Room 5.5-C 1300 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW Washington, D.C. 20229
Dear FOIA Officer, This letter constitutes a Privacy Act request under the Privacy Act, 5 U.S.C. §552a. I request copies of all information relating to myself contained in the system of records established for the Automated Targeting System (“ATS”). Notice of this system of records (“SORN”) was made in the Federal Register on November 2, 2006 (Volume 71, Number 212, pages 64543-64546). This request letter is accompanied by a completed Request for Records/Privacy Act Release Form. My request is for all information relating to myself referenced in the Categories of Records in the System section of the SORN. Specifically, I am asking for any PNR information obtained from commercial air carriers, any records relating to any risk assessments, the rules used for determining the assessments, any pointer or reference to the underlying records from other systems that resulted in the assessments, any APIS information, and any secondary inspection records. I am requesting these records as is my right under 5 U.S.C. § 552a(d)(1). (See also OMB Guidelines (40 Fed. Reg. 28948, 28957) as well as a 2004 U.S. Department of Justice overview of the Privacy Act, “a requestor need not state his reason for seeking access to records under the Privacy Act …” ) Should CBP provide less than a complete copy of all records relating to myself contained in this system of records, I request a detailed explanation as to the reasons for denying or not fully complying with my request. My full name is: My current address is: My date of birth is: My place of birth is: I promise to pay reasonable fees incurred in the copying of these documents up to the amount of $25. If the estimated fees will be greater than that amount, please contact me before such expenses are incurred. If you deny all or any part of this request, please cite each specific exemption that forms the basis of your refusal to release the information and notify me of the appeal procedures available under the law. I have traveled to and/or from the United States by at least one of the following modes of commercial travel: air, rail, marine vessel, and /or bus carrier and/or by making a land border crossing either by foot or by automobile. Should CBP need my travel information to locate the requested records, please contact me and specify the information you require. Pursuant to 28 USCS §1726, and in compliance with 6 CFR 5.21(d), I declare (certify, verify, or state) under penalty of perjury that the foregoing is true and correct. Executed on this date:
At the bottom of this post is a song by Bob Dylan. It's called Moonshiner. I've titled the post "lagoon" because it represents a place we sometimes reach without our permission.
There's more than one way to kill a cat, break off a relationship or lose a job. I've accomplished all three and the first was the hardest. Cats don't die easy. Relationships can be ended with a simple argument and a job can be lost due to drinking, fighting or cussing in the workplace. Let's talk about the cat. Long, long time ago me and Scott Morgan set a simple trap next to a hole in the wall of a badlands plateau. We didn't even bait it. To our surprise when we returned to check the trap, we'd caught a feral cat. We wanted to set it loose, but you couldn't even get near it without risk of massive and life threatening injury. We decided we would "pacify" it with a well placed blow to the head and once unconscious, release it. The dang cat would not cooperate. It would not pass out. So we ended up killing it to get our trap back. Makes me sick to think about it to this day. Next time, I'll bring a gun. The relationship. I was dating a raven-haired Wall Drug gal from Georgia, but I'd recently been at the Wall Drug pool and met Jeanine. She was tall blond from Fond du Lac Wisconsin and thin with a rack like a ... well, a nice rack. I, like the typical male idiot, decided that the bird in the bush was better than the bird in hand. So, with this in mind, I provoked the raven-haired lass into an argument that I used (cleverly, I thought at the time) to suggest we were incompatible. About two weeks later the blond dumped me for what was in fact, a pencil necked geek from Iowa. Ouch. Karma is real. Losing a job. I had a manager in Minneapolis who was also a personal friend. We played high intensity racquetball once or twice a week. He had a mean serve that I just couldn't get to so I told him if served it at me again, I was going to aim the return at his head. He tried it again, I caught the edge and as he looked back to check my return, the little blue ball hit him, took off his eye protection leaving a black eye. He didn't fire me. He got a better job, kept giving me a hand when I needed it and I served as his best man at his wedding to a beautiful lady. Moral of the story. Killing cats is wrong, arguing with chicks is futile and fighting with your boss on the court of competition is the true path to success. Check it.
after almost two weeks of back and forth banter between the principal partners in this endeavor and an obviously though thoroughly delayed communique to the troops in the field we are bringing the site back to currency in an enhanced format by that we mean an all black and white website we're not going to pull anything down, the archives are yours to treasure instead, we're moving forward by going back enjoy
