Another trip around the sun - it's what my older brother always asks for on his birthday. That also means that the Christmas season is now officially upon us, since sundown on his birthday begins the holiday countdown. That is why I pause and reflect on this day of all days, upon the gifts that he has given me.
I got my first Pink Floyd album from him. He gave me "Wish You Were Here." I credit him with going past the simple, go-to of "Dark Side of the Moon." He opened my ears to a world of music that existed just beyond the three-minute pop song. Many years later, when I got my first CD player, he gave me the CD and I listened to it on repeat through my headphones as I fell asleep on Christmas eve.
I have many more musical memories of my older brother. I learned the bass lines of every Beatles song ever recorded by hearing them through the floor of my room, that was just above his in the basement. When "Yellow Submarine" was released in 1969, we burned up the phone lines to KIMN, requesting it to be played even more than the hourly turnaround it was getting. Later I was the lucky recipient of a number of his Apple recordings - which I subsequently surrendered in a fit of hormonal angst to my high-school sweetheart.
And I dropped the Toyota pickup he gave me into an Aspen grove at the top of Magnolia Road. I wasn't always careful with the gifts I received, alas. I didn't always realize what I was getting until I had used it up. I was younger, and I'm afraid, I didn't always appear grateful. He plowed the way through school ahead of me, alerting me of trouble and possibilities. He broke my parents in, making my way considerably easier. He gave up his room in the basement for me, where I played all those Beatles albums myself.
Happy birthday, and here's to another trip around the sun.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Good Night, David Lee Roth, Wherever You Are
We were driving to Alameda this evening to take advantage of the Back To School sale at Mervyn's (that ended up taking advantage of us, as is usually the case), when I spotted a sign in a storefront: "Happy Trails - Unique Gifts." I had an immediate visceral memory from my freshman year in college. In Colorado Springs, stumbling distance from our freshman dorm, there was a head shop called "Happy Trails." When I got home, I did a quick search of Al Gore's Internet to see if I could find a listing for "Happy Trails" in Alameda or Colorado Springs.
Alas, there was no listing for the Springs, but Alameda popped up immediately. From their site: "The store began as an old furniture and collectibles store which quickly grew into northern CaliforniaÂ’s favorite place to buy American pop culture gifts, novelties and memorabilia."
Well, that's mighty quaint, but what if I want to buy unique gifts and, ahem, "smoking accessories?" Back in the early eighties, if you wanted to buy a Led Zeppelin tapestry, a black light, and a mighty-pistol-grip-death bong, you hitched your wagon and headed for Happy Trails. "Rock and roll your own with a wide variety of skins" we were urged by their radio ad. There were times that it seemed like they were the only advertisers on KILO-FM (subtle reference, no?).
I remember the smell, or the variety of odors available, beginning at the doorway with a wave of patchouli. This was no doubt a ploy to throw off the drug-sniffing dogs who would have been better served listening to the radio ads. There was hemp. There was the scent of freshly silk-screened Rush T-shirts. Clouds of assorted incense wafted through the aisles. There was plenty of "fresh air" being pushed through the air conditioning, primarily to compensate for the claustrophobic feeling of the shop itself. And over all of this hung the aroma of burning weeds. I never saw anybody smoke anything on the premises, but that must have been only because I didn't hang around long enough.
Years later, when I moved back to Boulder to further my education, I wandered into The Pipefitter, across the street from the University of Colorado. Grateful Dead shirts held sway, but theparaphenaliaa was there for all to see and examine. This was another time.
But no matter - back to Happy Trails: Maybe the same fate awaited the Colorado Springs store that came upon a shop in Phoenix, Arizona. In 1976, Roy Rogers caught wind of a string of stores using the name of his theme song to sell "pipes and other items looking suspiciously like drug paraphernalia." Roy threatened to shut them down, but succeeded in cutting their name in half, becoming "Trails" overnight.
And so I have my patchouli-scented memories of an age that has passed.
Who cares about the clouds when we're together?
Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.
Happy trails to you, 'till we meet again.
Good night, David Lee Roth, wherever you are.
Alas, there was no listing for the Springs, but Alameda popped up immediately. From their site: "The store began as an old furniture and collectibles store which quickly grew into northern CaliforniaÂ’s favorite place to buy American pop culture gifts, novelties and memorabilia."
Well, that's mighty quaint, but what if I want to buy unique gifts and, ahem, "smoking accessories?" Back in the early eighties, if you wanted to buy a Led Zeppelin tapestry, a black light, and a mighty-pistol-grip-death bong, you hitched your wagon and headed for Happy Trails. "Rock and roll your own with a wide variety of skins" we were urged by their radio ad. There were times that it seemed like they were the only advertisers on KILO-FM (subtle reference, no?).
I remember the smell, or the variety of odors available, beginning at the doorway with a wave of patchouli. This was no doubt a ploy to throw off the drug-sniffing dogs who would have been better served listening to the radio ads. There was hemp. There was the scent of freshly silk-screened Rush T-shirts. Clouds of assorted incense wafted through the aisles. There was plenty of "fresh air" being pushed through the air conditioning, primarily to compensate for the claustrophobic feeling of the shop itself. And over all of this hung the aroma of burning weeds. I never saw anybody smoke anything on the premises, but that must have been only because I didn't hang around long enough.
Years later, when I moved back to Boulder to further my education, I wandered into The Pipefitter, across the street from the University of Colorado. Grateful Dead shirts held sway, but theparaphenaliaa was there for all to see and examine. This was another time.
But no matter - back to Happy Trails: Maybe the same fate awaited the Colorado Springs store that came upon a shop in Phoenix, Arizona. In 1976, Roy Rogers caught wind of a string of stores using the name of his theme song to sell "pipes and other items looking suspiciously like drug paraphernalia." Roy threatened to shut them down, but succeeded in cutting their name in half, becoming "Trails" overnight.
And so I have my patchouli-scented memories of an age that has passed.
Who cares about the clouds when we're together?
Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.
Happy trails to you, 'till we meet again.
Good night, David Lee Roth, wherever you are.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
And Of Course, There Will Be Scandal
The FBI is investigating "Painter of Light" Thomas Kinkade. Maybe you'd expect some sort of art forgery scam, or maybe a scheme to move sensitive, confidential government secrets hidden on the backs of colorfully painted canvases. Who doesn't love a messy scandal involving artist types? Men in berets, women in outrageous hats and enormous sunglasses - it could be so interesting. According to reports, the FBI is looking into claims that Kinkade "exploited his Christianity to persuade people to invest in the galleries, which sell only Kinkade's work."
Exploited his Christianity? "These dealers became investors primarily because they were believers in faith, love, family and God, and the paintings reflect those values," said Joseph Ejbeh, a Rochester Hills, Michigan-based attorney. Poor business planning and operations forced the galleries to fail, and the thought was that this was Kinkade's way of devaluing his own company so that he could buy it "on the cheap."
Have you ever seen a Thomas Kinkade painting? Look if you must, but here's a sample of the master's own description of his piece, "Sunrise Chapel: "I've employed my most dramatic color scheme in years to suggest the radiance of God's love. Wispy clouds illuminated by the barely visible sun reflect in the silvery mirror of the brilliant lake waters, announcing the dawn of a new day filled with discovery, hope, and beauty." Ten million American homes have a Thomas Kinkade painting in them. Dewy, sun-dappled, Bible-verse inspired paintings by the truckload.
It all puts me in mind of the commercials I remember from my youth: "Starving artists' sale - Sofa-sized paintings - Prices slashed! Everything must go!" Then I drift lazily to the work of the late, great Bob Ross, he of the "happy little clouds" on PBS's "Joy of Painting" - a sort of Doug Henning for the oil and easel set. Finally, I settle on the images of my earliest memory of oil painting: Morris Katz. We had two of Morris' paintings in our house as I was growing up. They were thick pieces. He may have worked fast, but you got your money by the pound. I was inspired, briefly, to emulate his pallet knife technique in a series of paintings when I was about twelve years old. I went through a few tubes of cadmium yellow trying to get the fires of Hell just right. Maybe I just wasn't exploiting my Christianity.
Exploited his Christianity? "These dealers became investors primarily because they were believers in faith, love, family and God, and the paintings reflect those values," said Joseph Ejbeh, a Rochester Hills, Michigan-based attorney. Poor business planning and operations forced the galleries to fail, and the thought was that this was Kinkade's way of devaluing his own company so that he could buy it "on the cheap."
Have you ever seen a Thomas Kinkade painting? Look if you must, but here's a sample of the master's own description of his piece, "Sunrise Chapel: "I've employed my most dramatic color scheme in years to suggest the radiance of God's love. Wispy clouds illuminated by the barely visible sun reflect in the silvery mirror of the brilliant lake waters, announcing the dawn of a new day filled with discovery, hope, and beauty." Ten million American homes have a Thomas Kinkade painting in them. Dewy, sun-dappled, Bible-verse inspired paintings by the truckload.
It all puts me in mind of the commercials I remember from my youth: "Starving artists' sale - Sofa-sized paintings - Prices slashed! Everything must go!" Then I drift lazily to the work of the late, great Bob Ross, he of the "happy little clouds" on PBS's "Joy of Painting" - a sort of Doug Henning for the oil and easel set. Finally, I settle on the images of my earliest memory of oil painting: Morris Katz. We had two of Morris' paintings in our house as I was growing up. They were thick pieces. He may have worked fast, but you got your money by the pound. I was inspired, briefly, to emulate his pallet knife technique in a series of paintings when I was about twelve years old. I went through a few tubes of cadmium yellow trying to get the fires of Hell just right. Maybe I just wasn't exploiting my Christianity.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Putting a Finger in the Dike
President Pinhead said Monday the huge job of rebuilding from Hurricane Katrina was just beginning a year after the massive storm but expressed hope that the $110 billion of help sent from Washington would be enough. He issued this proclamation from Biloxi, Mississippi - the place where he got his first-hand photo-op exposure to the devastation left in the wake of last year's biggest natural and political disasters. Of the $110 billion in hurricane aid approved by Congress, just $44 billion has been spent. Overall, the administration has released $77 billion to the states, reserving the rest for future needs.
The line for taking pot-shots at FEMA, Pinhead, and the rest of the inept machine that allowed so much suffering forms to the right. Homeowners who are living in government supplied trailers on or near their own property are asked to make way for those individuals who have yet to receive their "deluxe" accommodations from the government. Those who lost loved ones in the week that it took to get medical aid and supplies to those most in need are also given first whack.
And if you don't believe me, tune in tomorrow, when Pinhead Once lands in Louisiana and the folks there get their shot. House Democrats on Monday toured devastated areas of New Orleans and decried the slow pace of recovery. "I think the American public is going to be very, very surprised to know this recovery is way, way behind what their expectations would have been," Rep. James Clyburn of South Carolina said after a tour that took more than a dozen Democratic members of Congress through the heavily hit Ninth Ward. "It's hard to believe this is the United States," said Rep. Elijah Cummings of Maryland.
Amen.
The line for taking pot-shots at FEMA, Pinhead, and the rest of the inept machine that allowed so much suffering forms to the right. Homeowners who are living in government supplied trailers on or near their own property are asked to make way for those individuals who have yet to receive their "deluxe" accommodations from the government. Those who lost loved ones in the week that it took to get medical aid and supplies to those most in need are also given first whack.
And if you don't believe me, tune in tomorrow, when Pinhead Once lands in Louisiana and the folks there get their shot. House Democrats on Monday toured devastated areas of New Orleans and decried the slow pace of recovery. "I think the American public is going to be very, very surprised to know this recovery is way, way behind what their expectations would have been," Rep. James Clyburn of South Carolina said after a tour that took more than a dozen Democratic members of Congress through the heavily hit Ninth Ward. "It's hard to believe this is the United States," said Rep. Elijah Cummings of Maryland.
Amen.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
A Blue Note
Maynard Ferguson passed away this week. For some this name will ring a bell instantly, the bell of a trumpet. For those of you who may not have had the opportunity, Maynard (real name Walter) was a musician and band leader of world-wide renown. He had several nicknames, "Iron Lip," and ironically for me, "The Boss."
My fascination with Maynard Ferguson began years before my infatuation with Bruce Springsteen. As a member of the band in my junior high school, I was always looking for a role model in my chosen section: low brass. My older brother had caught the MF fever ahead of me, and I was introduced to the roar of his horn from a mix tape that included a version of "MacArthur Park" recorded for the "M.F. Horn" album. Then came "Paligacci" from "Primal Scream, " for which we sang along "No more Rice Krispies - there will be no more Rice Krispies."
And "Chameleon." And "Gospel John." This guy played trumpet like a rock star. We flinched a little at his commercial success with "Gonna Fly Now (Theme From Rocky)," but this was still a musician, not a pop idol.
He came to the Boulder High School while my brother was there to do a benefit for the music program. Maynard Ferguson in the same auditorium my brother played his concerts - the same auditorium I would someday play mine. I thought the roof might come off the place. I remember seeing the "Superbone" in person: a hybrid of trumpet and trombone. It was a revelation of sorts for me. It brought those triple-C's of the Iron Lip down to a place where the low brass could swing with it. Years later, as leader of the Boulder High Pep Band, I perfected my own "screech tuba" technique.
Goodnight, Maynard. Your chops have earned a rest.
My fascination with Maynard Ferguson began years before my infatuation with Bruce Springsteen. As a member of the band in my junior high school, I was always looking for a role model in my chosen section: low brass. My older brother had caught the MF fever ahead of me, and I was introduced to the roar of his horn from a mix tape that included a version of "MacArthur Park" recorded for the "M.F. Horn" album. Then came "Paligacci" from "Primal Scream, " for which we sang along "No more Rice Krispies - there will be no more Rice Krispies."
And "Chameleon." And "Gospel John." This guy played trumpet like a rock star. We flinched a little at his commercial success with "Gonna Fly Now (Theme From Rocky)," but this was still a musician, not a pop idol.
He came to the Boulder High School while my brother was there to do a benefit for the music program. Maynard Ferguson in the same auditorium my brother played his concerts - the same auditorium I would someday play mine. I thought the roof might come off the place. I remember seeing the "Superbone" in person: a hybrid of trumpet and trombone. It was a revelation of sorts for me. It brought those triple-C's of the Iron Lip down to a place where the low brass could swing with it. Years later, as leader of the Boulder High Pep Band, I perfected my own "screech tuba" technique.
Goodnight, Maynard. Your chops have earned a rest.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Intellectual Property
My wife is in the other room, watching "The Ron Clark Story." It tells the inspirational tale of a teacher who chooses to go to Harlem to be heartwarming.
Okay, okay - there's more to it than that, and I confess that I watched a few minutes and was amused by a few scenes. There was a moment when Mr. Clark was attempting to get his students' attention for a grammar lesson, and he told them that he would drink a carton of chocolate milk every fifteen seconds if they were quiet and listened to the lesson. "You might learn something, and I might throw up."
It made me think of all the things that I have stolen from other teachers over the years. Not things like staplers and three-hole punchers (though I think I still have a couple of those in my desk). I'm talking about the good ideas that make a classroom work. Little things like "1, 2, 3, eyes on me," or big things like a monetary system for my students. My students get a dollar for showing up to school on time, and another for completing their daily homework. These dollars won't buy them an X-Box, but they will pay for such indiscretions as an extra trip to the bathroom, or chewing gum. Saying "shut up" costs two dollars.
And there's still so much left to learn. This year hasn't even started, and I'm already planning responses to parents I haven't met yet. I'm anticipating interactions with kids who only know of me, they don't know me yet. And I don't know them. This will all happen soon enough, but for now, I think I'm going to watch a movie about firemen, or circus performers, or farm animals. The first day of school is coming - soon.
Okay, okay - there's more to it than that, and I confess that I watched a few minutes and was amused by a few scenes. There was a moment when Mr. Clark was attempting to get his students' attention for a grammar lesson, and he told them that he would drink a carton of chocolate milk every fifteen seconds if they were quiet and listened to the lesson. "You might learn something, and I might throw up."
It made me think of all the things that I have stolen from other teachers over the years. Not things like staplers and three-hole punchers (though I think I still have a couple of those in my desk). I'm talking about the good ideas that make a classroom work. Little things like "1, 2, 3, eyes on me," or big things like a monetary system for my students. My students get a dollar for showing up to school on time, and another for completing their daily homework. These dollars won't buy them an X-Box, but they will pay for such indiscretions as an extra trip to the bathroom, or chewing gum. Saying "shut up" costs two dollars.
And there's still so much left to learn. This year hasn't even started, and I'm already planning responses to parents I haven't met yet. I'm anticipating interactions with kids who only know of me, they don't know me yet. And I don't know them. This will all happen soon enough, but for now, I think I'm going to watch a movie about firemen, or circus performers, or farm animals. The first day of school is coming - soon.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Dance Just Like A Casanova
I've had my head so buried in classroom preparation this past week that a certain news item slipped past my careful notice. As a result, I was confounded by the question I received as I went into work this morning about "Mister Family Man." At first, I tried to make some connection to Fox's animated TV show, but that didn't seem right, since that's "Family Guy" not "Mister Family Man."
I must have been standing there for a little too long with my jaw slack, because all was suddenly made plain for me: "The Boss is getting a divorce." Show biz marriage on the rocks, I know it well - but Bruce Springsteen? As a member of the rabid fan base that attempts to account for the Bruce's every move, I didn't see this coming. Or maybe I chose not to see it coming.
A few months back, I was getting my Springsteen mojo on as I looked forward to the Seeger Sessions show for which I felt lucky to have tickets. I ignored the Internet jabber about the relative lameness of this particular tour ("Gee, I can't wait to hear 'Froggie Went A'Courtin' live..."). Then I got an e-mail from a friend - a friend who has been telling me for fifteen years that Bruce has "lost his edge." She suggested in her message that the Boss might be taking Botox. I looked at the photo she enclosed and dismissed the wrinkle-free forehead as a show of the fierce intensity that we have all come to treasure at sold-out show after sold-out show.
The Seeger Session Show wasn't sold out. People were walking up to the box office the night of the show to get seats - good ones. A lot of people didn't go to that show, including Mrs. Springsteen, Patti Scialfa. "She's probably getting the kids ready for another year at school. They're so lucky to have such a functional relationship in the midst of all this fame."
Or not. So, we keep waiting for some proof. John Michael Karr may be a murderer or a media slut. Floyd Landis might be an inspirational story of triumph over adversity or another steroid case in a yellow jersey. We don't have proof. Does that mean that I'll be any less chagrined if it turns out that Bruce Springsteen is a philanderer? We got "Tunnel of Love" out of the last divorce, maybe he's just looking for some fresh tunes. Like the man said, "It's so hard to be a saint in the city."
I must have been standing there for a little too long with my jaw slack, because all was suddenly made plain for me: "The Boss is getting a divorce." Show biz marriage on the rocks, I know it well - but Bruce Springsteen? As a member of the rabid fan base that attempts to account for the Bruce's every move, I didn't see this coming. Or maybe I chose not to see it coming.
A few months back, I was getting my Springsteen mojo on as I looked forward to the Seeger Sessions show for which I felt lucky to have tickets. I ignored the Internet jabber about the relative lameness of this particular tour ("Gee, I can't wait to hear 'Froggie Went A'Courtin' live..."). Then I got an e-mail from a friend - a friend who has been telling me for fifteen years that Bruce has "lost his edge." She suggested in her message that the Boss might be taking Botox. I looked at the photo she enclosed and dismissed the wrinkle-free forehead as a show of the fierce intensity that we have all come to treasure at sold-out show after sold-out show.
The Seeger Session Show wasn't sold out. People were walking up to the box office the night of the show to get seats - good ones. A lot of people didn't go to that show, including Mrs. Springsteen, Patti Scialfa. "She's probably getting the kids ready for another year at school. They're so lucky to have such a functional relationship in the midst of all this fame."
Or not. So, we keep waiting for some proof. John Michael Karr may be a murderer or a media slut. Floyd Landis might be an inspirational story of triumph over adversity or another steroid case in a yellow jersey. We don't have proof. Does that mean that I'll be any less chagrined if it turns out that Bruce Springsteen is a philanderer? We got "Tunnel of Love" out of the last divorce, maybe he's just looking for some fresh tunes. Like the man said, "It's so hard to be a saint in the city."
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