Leap Motion Controller - Review

So, my latest Kickstarter perk got here, a new piece of hardware, the Leap Motion Controller.  I kicked in a few bucks six or eight months back and got a reduced price.

In theory, it's a really cool idea. It picks up the movement of your hand over it, can separate and recognize individual fingers, and there is a program that will allow it to do pretty much what a smart mouse will do. It's about the size of a pack of gum, connected  to your computer via USB.

There are some visual toys and games you can get for free.

It's mostly 1.0 on the available software; you probably know what that means, and I expect that a lot more stuff will eventually be programmed for it, art, CAD, like that.

The hardware works okay. I had a bitch of a time getting into the site to download the software; it didn't like my email and password, and I wound up changing the latter five times before it worked. You log into their Airspace site, click on the software you want, and it installs it automatically.

I got a couple of the basic programs and some of the pretty art things, and got it working, but I am sad to to say, it's not ready for prime time. Rather like the ultra-light-pressure keyboard I once had that was so sensitive that if a drop of water fell onto it, it would type a letter, this device requires a most steady hand. Getting the skill so that you can reliably open and close windows, click or double-click the mouse, scroll, drop-and-drag is going to need more practice than I'm willing to do. You have to have a precision that is akin to stacking greased BB's. Want to tap the red close-window button or highlight text? Open menus? I can't manage it consistently. Even with my arm propped on the chair support and everything steady, restricted to small finger motions, it's iffy.

I'm thinking it will need hours of dedicated training. And I'm sure there are folks who will manage this and love it, but not me.

If you have a tremor? Won't happen as it is now.

Maybe the next gen software will add some kind of steadi-cam or smart-ID hot button functions. As it stands, it's a fun toy to play with, but it isn't ready to replace my track pad.
Not even close.

Too bad. I had hopes for this one.

Gig

L. to R: 

Meredith, Daryl, Steve, Mary, Jim, Dan, Harold, Anna.

Off to stage right, Steve C., on the hot pink ukulele

So Saturday, another gig. A little more nerve-wracking than playing at the assisted living place, because most of the audience this time consisted of real musicians ... 

This was an annual backyard party thrown by a musician and teacher. A man who plays like eleven instruments. He invites other musicians to come and play, some of whom are really good. Food, beer, a stage he built. First-class.

We didn't want to follow anybody, since we figured they were all way better than we were. They had us up third, we had four songs prepped and a couple of alternates, and we did five:

1. Sloop John B

2. Way Down in the Hole

3. I Can't Help Falling in Love With You

4. House of the Risin' Sun.

5. Midnight Special

Folk music, gospel, rock, and blues. 

Nine of us, singing and alternately playing: A kazoo, a banjo, banjolele, three guitars, two ukuleles, a gut-bucket bass, harmonica, a bell. And even bongos ...

Fortunately, we had Steve C show up, and since he is also a Real Musician™, he made us sound better. Rode like fifteen miles on his bike to get there, uke strapped to the back fender.

We goofed on only one song, adding in an extra verse, but nobody seemed to notice; nobody booed or threw beer, and they asked us back next year, so we considered that a major victory ...

Happy Music of the Day

This is a Chapman Stick, an electronic stringed instrument that is played with both hands working the fretboard. I have a guy who plays one in an upcoming book, thought this would be fun to share ...

Oh, and this guy:

The Muscle Pass

Came across this by accident, thought it would be fun to re-post. The classic coin manipulation called "The Muscle Pass." Done with a Canadian silver dollar.

Drove me half crazy trying to figure this out first time I saw it done.

Perils of the Pit

The river that was Guru's yard has been diverted, and it has been dry enough this summer for us to reëstablish the sand pit for silat training.

Not so much a pit, actually, as a big pile of sand spread out for a gelanggang–a circular workout area. It tends to creep down the slope toward the chicken yard and needs be shoveled back uphill, but it makes for a nice slow-your-feet-down training surface. 

Churning in ankle-deep sand is not the same as moving on dry ground or a nice concrete garage floor. If you need lightning foot-speed to make a technique work, you need a workaround, 'cause it isn't happening there.

Of course, falling onto sand is somewhat softer than the concrete. Then again, dropping onto a knee repeatedly to practice shoots for single- or double-leg takedowns, and then being tossed by the defender hither and yon for continued groundwork does involve some abrasive action to one's bare skin.

Note to self: Don't wear shorts to class in the sand. Those sand burns take longer to scab over and heal than they used to take ...

Jockery

The gym where I lift is not what you'd call hardcore; Park & Recs took over a middle school and tricked out an aerobics room and weight room, plus they teach yoga and guitar and dance and crochet and like that in the classrooms up and down the hall. Not a sexy place, and most of the folks who use the iron there aren't dressed to be seen.

Even so, there are the usual machines, a few thousand pounds of plates and dumbbells, and certainly sufficient gear for anybody who wants to do so to get a good workout.

Though it isn't hardcore, there are some things that amuse me no end. We have our share of pencil-necks who make a whole lot of noise, grunting and groaning and dropping their weights, to the end of moving very little poundage.

You know, the guy who goes to the squat rack and proceeds to do curls with the empty bar? Or does a set of dumbbell flyes with fifteen pounds and drops  them from a foot up? 

Usually these are young fellows, and if they think all that huffing and puffing and clanking impresses anybody other than unfavorably, they are sadly mistaken. 

Two really funny things happened recently during my workout. For those of you who sometimes go to public gyms, let me see can I amuse you:

Pencil Neck was doing squats in the rack with what looked like 160. Blowing out a lot of air, rattling the bar when he locked out. So, okay, I can't say anything because I don't do squats any more, it's incline leg press for me, but still. 

Big beefy guy I'd never seen before, ragged shorts and cut-off sleeves sweatshirt moves over to watch. The squatter finishes, clangs the bar into the slot, walks off breathing hard.

Beefy smiles, steps in, and proceeds to do curls with the barbell. Six reps, 160. Now, that's not  a steroid monster's numbers, but still, it's a lot stronger than I am. Brzycki Formula says that guy might be able to do a one-rep max of 186. 

The Pencil Neck who'd been squatting was surely impressed. 

At that moment, I decided that sometimes a guy doing curls in the squat rack is okay. 

Second event:

A couple of teenage boys, maybe twenty-ish, are doing chin-ups on the bar. (Pull-ups, the palms face away from you; chins, the palms face toward you.)* First one guts out four. Second one laughs and manages five, beating his buddy by a rep. Calls him a pussy.

They move over to the triceps press-down station, same machine, and load a small amount of weight onto the stack.

A small woman in shorts and a a T-shirt moves to the chin bar, jumps up, grabs it in a palms-forward chin grip (chins are harder than pull-ups, in my experience.)

She proceeds to do six reps in good form.

I wished I had a camera so I could have gotten the expressions on their faces.

Pussy, huh?



* Pointed out to me by folks who know better–thanks to Mich and Coach–that I got the chins/pullups designation wrong: It's the opposite, and pull-ups can be remembered by using the anatomical position "pronated," to remember this: P=P. Mea culpa. I fixed it, and thanks for the correction.

Quigley Down Under

Okay, the usual excuses–the light was bad, my arm was sore–plus I'm only five months into ukes in general and but one month into this particular instrument ...

Originally, I went to find the sheet music or tab for Quigley's Theme, but it wasn't to be had, Basil Poledouris having up and died shortly after the movie came out,  so I did it myself. Not what you'd call majorly impressive, but since it is my first tab/arrangement, I am not displeased with the results.

For the gearheads, this is via a Samson USB mono-mike directly into QuickTime. I added credits fore and aft using iMovie, but the sound isn't tweaked or sweetened.

I'll come back when I can do "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," and "Something in the Way She Moves ..."

RIPD

My son and I saw RIPD day before yesterday. I don't know why it's getting so much flak; it's a summer movie, and yeah, there aren't any surprises in the plot, but it has the EFX and action and if you can channel your inner ten-year-old, you'll have a fine time.

It's kind of a mash-up of Ghostbusters and Men in Black. And it's worth seeing for the song by Jeff Bridges and T-Bone Burnett alone, sung over the final credits, "Be the Better Man." I'm gonna learn that one. 

Bridges, as you may recall, starred as the mostly-washed-up country singer in Crazy Heart. He did his own singing there, and it was T-Bone who scored that one, as he has more than a few others movies and TV shows. Bridges performance here is more akin to Rooster Cogburn and delightfully hammy, in a Wild Bill kind of way. Mary Louise Parker is droll as the go-go boot wearing Proctor; Ryan Reynolds is okay as the born-again-dead-cop; and Kevin Bacon is, well, Kevin Bacon, and he steals every scene he is in. 

Got to love James Hong and Marissa Miller as Reynolds and Bridges' avatars, and they steal every scene they are in, too. I was at HBO, I'd listen to a pitch for a dramady series starring these two as buddy cops. Seriously.

This the best movie you will see this year? Nah. And the 3D version, for which I accidentally bought tickets, won't make you forget Avatar. But there are worse ways to spend a Sunday evening ...

CQ, CQ ... ?

In the sorting out process that follows a death in the family, bits and pieces float up. Sometimes they are funny, sometimes sad. How and when they strike can be triggered by almost anything.

My father was an amateur (ham) radio operator. The "ham" is a pejorative term going back to "ham-handed," applied to bad telegraph operators. 

For those of you not old enough to remember a time when there weren't desk-top computers and the internet, amateur radio was the Facebook of its day. People would crank up the wireless in the evening and send messages in Morse code; later, the ability to send and receive voice came along, and they did that. They'd twirl the dials through the frequencies, sending out a "CQ," signal, looking for other radio buffs. 

When long distance telephone calls cost an arm and a leg for three minutes, ham radio operators would cobble together phone patches, and somebody in Louisiana could talk to somebody in India for free, as long as the connection lasted. For years, Daddy ran the Old China Hands phone patch.

"Cee Que," came from a French word, sécurité French being the official language of radio operators back in the day. It was basically a "Hello, anybody there?" invitation to talk. Eventually, the FCC decided you weren't supposed to do that, just cast around for listeners, but the older guys still did it. 

Ham radio was sometimes very powerful, depending on the hit-or-miss atmospheric conditions; one could connect to somebody halfway around the world–but not the next state over. You never knew until you tried.

My father switched to the 2-meter band some years back, erected a seventy-foot tall rotating antenna, and talked to people from all points on the globe. 

His call letters were W5LVX, and he had a map on his office wall showing people to whom he had talked. Every continent, including Antarctica.  

Until his dementia got bad, there was always a radio shack at our house. Many operators had them in their cars–not talking CB, citizens band–and sometime would play games wherein one of them would go somewhere in town and hide, and the others would hunt the rabbit by triangulation and field strength to see who could find him first.

My mother told me that when Daddy got bad, he used to talk in his sleep, and sometimes, he would be on the radio:

"CQ, CQ, this is W5LVX, anybody there? I need somebody to come and help me leave this institution and get home! CQ? Anybody?"

He lived in that house for fifty-two years, but in this case, "home" meant my great-parents farm in Leonard, Oklahoma, a few miles south of Tulsa. I saw the place only once, when I was small, and in what had been my father's room, there was a crystal radio set he'd built, inset into the wall next to his bed. He would have laid there with earphones on in the early 1930's, listening to whatever radio stations he could pick up late at night. The house didn't have electricity in those days, so to boost the signal, he would have had to use a small dry cell battery.

 We have come a long way in communications since then, but W5LVX has signed off, and is, as they say in ham radio circles, silent key ...

Musashi Reincarnated ...

Matador, original art by Michael Lamanna

So, it turns out, that when Ace reverted the rights to the Matador novels, one got lost in the shuffle. Since the most recent one, The Musashi Flex was still up as an ebook, I assumed that meant it was technically "in print," and that Ace would keep it on Amazon.com and such places. Well, no, it turned out, they didn't, and they didn't tell me. The e-version was taken down, and I found out when  fan who wanted it in that format asked where he could get it. 

Outside of borrowing it from an e-library or a pirate site, it wasn't available.

So, I figured, once I got caught up with books that are due and in the pipe, I would stick the electronic version back up. Have to have a new cover, but it just so happened that I came across this lovely piece of art, above, that would be perfect. So I contacted the artist, a most reasonable fellow, who was willing to allow me to use it for a modest honorarium. And I saw that tiny bit of red in the painting, and came up with this design, which I like.

I'm talking to Dan Moran at Fat Sam books, who is my e-publisher of choice, a terrific space opera writer, and a helluva nice guy, despite the fact he is a stone Lakers fan, about possibly putting it up on his site, and then eventually I'd port to other ebook stores. 

Yeah, yeah, I know, the other Matador books I promised, I haven't forgotten 'em, it's just that life keeps getting in the way ...

Once I get the current WIP done for Ace, I'll address this. I'll put up a note here and on other social media and all like that, so completist collectors can get a copy.

Thank You, Mr. Toto

A short and amusing tale, if you would ...

The new toilets we had installed recently were by a Japanese-American company, Toto. They came with slow-closing seats and lids. What this means, if you haven't experienced such, is that there is built into them a spring or hydraulic device or maybe an elf, that, when you tip them toward the bowl, cause the seat and lid to fall in slowmo.

The seat settles softly in silence.

We didn't ask for this, it came standard, and at first glance, I was not impressed, Really? Who cares?

But: One gets used to the things, and there is a kind of ... I dunno, something amusing about tapping the seat and watching it fall s-l-o-w-l-y ...

So at my mother's house, after finishing a whiz, I reached up and tapped the seat toward the bowl, and it slammed down really fast, BAM!

No slow-close lids there.

Oops. That was worth a laugh out loud at my own expense ...

In Joke

During the flight from PDX to BTR last Friday, my son and I had a layover at DFW. Enough time to grab a bite to eat, so we found a Tex-Mex place, Pappacito's, which was pretty good. 

No silverware on the table, because it was inside the security gate, but you don't need a lot of instruments to eat a burrito. They did bring us each a fork with the meal.

Son decided he had to get a picture of me looking at the reproductions of the paintings on the wall, and it took a second for me to realize why.

Oh. Yeah. That ...

Scenes From a Funeral

George Perry 

1925-2013

Fourth of July, six a.m., my cell phone rang. I couldn't get awake enough to answer before it stopped, but I saw who the call was from–my niece back in Louisiana–so I knew what it meant. The question was, which of my parents was it about?

I called back, got my brother-in-law:

Daddy had passed.

I knew the call was coming eventually, but it was still unexpected. He had late-stage Alzheimer's; his COPD was apt to be ultimately fatal, but neither of those are sudden, you usually see them coming, you have time to prepare. 

What happened? Daddy fell, cracked his hip. In the hospital and stable, they discovered he had a kidney infection, so they were working on that before surgery to fix the hip. Figured he would be good to go by Monday.

He seemed relatively fine. My sister and the family were on vacation at the Gulf coast, save for my brother-in-law, who was going to stay at the hospital. Go join your family, they told him, he's doing okay, come back Monday. They hadn't put out the word, were waiting for the surgery to be scheduled before they called distant family.

So my brother-in-law left. A couple hours later, the nurses gave Daddy his meds, his vitals were fine; thirty minutes past that, they checked and he was not breathing. 

Still warm by the time my mother and the live-in caregiver got to the hospital, but moved on.

Cause of death? Could have been a stroke, heart-attack, pulmonary embolus, those are the fast ones. His breathing was shallow and morphine slows the rate, maybe he just decided to go and quit breathing. At this point, it doesn't really matter. Post-surgery, in a wheelchair, unable to do rehab, mental state bad and growing worse by the day? It was unexpected, a jolt, but a blessing.

If you have been around a patient with advanced Alzheimer's, you understand why it is a blessing.

Sudden death throws a family into turmoil and overdrive. Planes to catch, services to arrange. I called my sister, but it went straight to the message box. There was a reason for that, I'll get back to it in a minute. So I called her husband, got updates. Sent notes to the west coast relatives. Got a call from my son, who wanted to go. 

Not the best time to pass away, a major holiday. Lot of people are off work. We got flights, packed, left early the next morning.

A nephew picked us up. We arrived to a house full of family, with neighbors bringing food, because that's what you do. Used to be casseroles, now it seems to be platters; and pound cakes, of course. Enough to feed a small army.

We couldn't locate my brother. He was supposedly living in Alabama. None of the phone numbers we had were good. My brother-in-law put in a call to the local police in my brother's town, they went to deliver the message, but apparently he didn't live there any more. 

My sister had a number for my brother's wife in her cell phone, but she had just lost the phone. Well, actually, she had been mowing my mother's lawn and her phone had fallen onto the ground and she ran over with with the riding lawnmower. And when I say that, I don't mean she rolled one of those fat little tires over it and cracked the case, she hit it with the blade and spewed a sleet of bits every which way. Sim card was recovered, but the numbers weren't stored on it.

This created some distress, not being able to find my brother. And some resentment: Your parents are in their late-eighties, not in the best of health, wouldn't you consider leaving a forwarding address or a number where you could be reached, just in case?

We went early to the memorial center. Family only, then the public viewing of the open casket. A good turnout, family, friends, old and young. 

I noticed that the memorial center had its own branded water bottles. 

Funeral home water, imagine.

My sister and her daughter and the great-grandchildren were the closest to Daddy, and they took it the hardest. Mama, still mostly in her wheelchair after her stroke, had a complicated relationship with Daddy, and I won't dwell on it; but when I pushed her to the casket and she stood, she said, "Oh, they combed his hair wrong." and she reached down to finger-comb it into place.

That undid me. 

My niece wrote the obituary, she found old photos and framed them, there was a slide show on a big monitor, lot of pictures from my son's archives he'd scanned in.

My middle sister, with whom there has been more than a little family discord, came to the funeral, but that wasn't a healing experience for anybody.

The Baptist minister at my mother's church, a pleasant man, conducted the service. He didn't really know Daddy all that well, but he did his best. Although he used a metaphor about stains that had my son and me wondering what he could have possibly been thinking.

Stains?

My pre-teen grand-niece got up and read a letter she had written to Paw-Paw. She had to stand on a chair to top the podium. Those of us who could hear her, there wasn't a dry eye when she was done. I got up to speak. My relationship with my father was complex and often contentious, but I told one funny story to illustrate how hard-headed he was, and allowed that I was just as hard-headed. Not to place to air grievances, speaking at a funeral, and that was all done now, wasn't it?

Looking at somebody in the box puts things into perspective.

The pallbearers were grandsons and sons-in-law. There were a couple of Navy ratings who stood at attention at the family plot and folded the draped flag to give to my mother. It was hot, damp, and the threatening thundershowers held off.

We went home, we visited, told stories. One thing you need to understand if you aren't from the south is that almost everybody there can tell a good story.

People dropped round. More stories. Some about folks I knew, some about people who knew people I knew, or were distantly related. Some went on about how so-and-so, who was kin to so-and-so had died. 

My son and I stayed over for a few days. Went and visited my other in-laws, my wife's side. Had long conversations with Mama, and waited for the thunderstorms to come and wash away the heat. It did rain a little a few times, not enough to cool things down. The big boomers slipped by to the east and west and echoed but distantly. I would have preferred the lightning and thunder and pouring rain. The drama would have been appropriate.

And so home again. 

Whatever your relationship with your parents, once they die, that stops any further conversations. My father was well past any meaningful dialog, he hadn't known who I was for at least a couple of years, so I'd said my good-byes, knowing this would be the way of things. As a reminder of mortality, you know that once your parents go, you are next in line. 

My wife has a view I'll share. If you are at odds with somebody, imagine looking down on them in their casket. Consider how that might inform your actions.

How I got to be who I am was affected by many things, and certainly my father was a major figure in that, for good and bad. 

Bye, Daddy. Rest in peace. 

Bravery

Had to put this one up, I couldn't resist. (I once had a character known as "Ferret" in a novel ...) This baby ferret takes on a stuff toy ten times his size ...

Jim Kelly

Jim Kelly 1946-2013

Apparently Jim Kelly just passed. Man.

No details yet, but he was only 67.

Back in the day when I was a green belt at Gordon Doversola's Okinawa-te school on Sunset, Kelly would come by now and again to train, and we used to spar. 

Adios, Jim.

Internet Fail

Back in 1990, Tom Selleck and Alan Rickman starred on a western, set in Australia in the mid-1800s, The movie was Quigley Down Under. It was memorable for two things: Quigley's Sharps rifle and the music.

The score was by Basil Poledouris, who did a slew of other movie scores, and had that Magnificent Seven, Big Country tone and twang. I thought it would sound good on a guitar, but I couldn't find the music anywhere, so I filed it away.

Fast forward a few years; I happened to catch the movie on TV, and I still liked the music. Might be fun to do on the uke ...

According to the Internet, it still isn't available, that music. Poledouris passed away, and it doesn't look like he ever put the sheet music on the market.

I have the CD of the soundtrack, but, according to Goggle and Bing and several dedicated music search engines, there is no score to be had, for love nor money.

Some guy did a short version on a guitar on YouTube, but didn't show his fretting hand, nor post a tab. A pianist worked out a different section, but not the main theme.

So, if I want to learn how to play this, I have to do it the old-fashioned way: I need to listen to it, then  pick out the melody, then figure out where to embellish with chords and double-stops and fingerpicking. Which includes melding a clarinet, guitar, tuba, banjo, and a full orchestra together, on a tenor uke.

Well, a man's reach should exceed his grasp, right?

Top of the Mountain - Ukulele & Guitar Porn

New Carruth ukulele, above.

Rosette detail.

With the Woodley White Pu'uwai koa (top.)

White, left, and Carruth.

Back of Carruth.

Cameraman reflected

Two Carruths, the classical guitar and uke, Osage Orange.

Carruths - back view.

Side view.

Okay, save for some updates now and then on my playing progress, which will include some sound-samples, this should be the last got-a-new-uke post. Anything is possible, but I really do feel done now.

The new Carruth arrived yesterday, and it is, like its bigger brother, a cannon. Loud and clean. 

Alan allowed that how he came to uke-ery was through a student of his who left plans for one for him. When he looked at them, the instrument seemed over-built, and it was Dave Hurd's book on building ukulele's that indicated a uke was like a small classical guitar that informed Alan's build. He's pleased with the result and so am I.

The saddle and nut are both compensated to get proper intonation up and down the neck, which means the little white bits on the front of the lower bout and just under the headstock have been carved and sanded for each string's height. Twelve frets to the body, which is usual for classical guitars, but not ukes, which tend to have fourteen. 

It's not a perfect match for the guitar, which has a cedar top as opposed to the spruce, but backs and sides look remarkably similar.

Hurray! 

Sound check:

Editorial update P.S.

One can get into things like fate and destiny and all and argue for or against them, but it is sometimes interesting how you start down one road and look up of a moment to realize you are on another, and unexpected path. 

When I started into uke-ery, I did it reasonably. I found a good, cheap, entry-level instrument. That way, if I didn't like it, I could sell it, and even if I couldn't sell it, I wouldn't be out much.

But, of course, I did like it, so I immediately started looking for a way to upgrade, to get the perfect uke at a price that wouldn't break the bank. I found a couple of local luthiers who, upon examination, seemed to have good reputations and well-liked instruments at a reasonable price. That was the way to go, I figured. Support the local folk and get a good deal, what's not to like?

I tried to contact 'em.

First guy didn't respond to email or paper mail at all. The second guy did respond, but wasn't particularly interested in hearing what I had to say. I asked about features, mentioned some tone woods, and he allowed as how they weren't going down some roads, and I could almost see him shrug. Eh. 

Generally when given a take-it-or-leave-it attitude that demonstrates somebody doesn't really care what I think? I leave it. If you are going to order something custom-made, you should at least get a chance to tell them what and why you want it. If they want to explain why what you want is a bad idea, that's fine, but ...

So I smiled and nodded, and went looking elsewhere. I won't bore you with a repetition of how I came to own the Woodley White 'ukulele, nor the Carruth, but what I wound up were two instruments that reflect years of building classical guitars. Both of them have qualities I love–sound, set-up, playability. I thought the White in koa had a far and away better tone than some I tried that cost a lot more. The Carruth is the other end of the spectrum, but now I have both of those covered, and I can't imagine I could find anything nearly as good for what I paid, which, in both cases, were bargains. 

In neither case did I expect to find myself buying these, but sometimes, you go with the flow, and where it takes you is a joy.

The Way of the Dodo

So, the word out from The Oregonian, our local newspaper, is that they just fired almost a hundred people and will cut home distribution to four days a week–Wednesday, Friday, Saturdays and Sunday, filling in the other days with a digital version for subscribers. You can still trundle on over the newsstand (read: Safeway, there being no newsstand around here) and buy copies on the other three days.

Like watching the old films of the Hindenburg as it burns and crashes: O the humanity! Cue the theme from The Titanic ...

End of an era. Move over, dinosaurs. Hello, Mr. Dodo!

Digital papers make money, print ones tend not to so much, although it sounds as if the Big O was actually still making a nice profit when they decided to toss out the staff and piss off the readers. One of the first to go was the only liberal columnist they had.  (I find it telling that they will still deliver to some places, including some nursing homes. Says a lot about the readership, doesn't it?)

For years, my daily routine included getting up, pouring a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper, maybe even tackling the crossword puzzles. 

I've slipped into the digital age, I read a lot on my computer and iPad–magazines, books–but the experience of reading a newspaper spread out on the table isn't going to be replicated by anything electronic, unless we get a computer table and they lay out the e-version differently than the one the Big O is currently fielding. Which is one of the most difficult documents to access you can imagine.

More than a couple times, I've seen something in the paper that I wanted to show to somebody. Finding it in the e-version is like looking for a particular grain of sand on the beach. Searches you'd expect to locate it don't. I know it's there, know where it should be, but it isn't. Intuitive, it ain't.

Reading a paper online doesn't let you scan and skip the way it does with newsprint scattered hither and yon. And there are a lot of places to get e-news that are laid out better than The Oregonian does it. Comcast/Infinity's splash page is fine for headlines. And anything of substance shows up on FaceBook with links ...

I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but they may be losing a long-time customer. I'm waiting to see what they tell me when the paper stops showing up.

Got to go. I can't find my buggy whip. Maybe it's behind the typewriter in the closet ...

Winter is Taking Its Time Getting Here ...

Came across a listing at AbeBooks, showing that George R.R. Martin's first volume of the never-ending Fire and Ice series (A Game of Thrones)  is worth more than I paid for it.

Considerably more.   

When the novel came out, I was doing frequent reviews for the local paper, and I convinced them they should let me do an interview with George, who was touring to support the book. This was in 1996. Which, if you do the math, was seventeen years ago, and how close are we to the end? The monsters haven't even come over the Wall yet ...

Um. Anyhow, I went to the signing, bought a copy of the book, had George sign it to me. We chatted, he allowed he was doing the trilogy, and maybe, maybe a fourth book, no more, and he gave his fans permission to shoot him if he did more volumes ... 

I wrote the review/interview, and went along my way. 

I liked it:

"Martin has created a rich and colorful novel, laced with courtly intrigue, defeated rivals, barbarian hordes and magical Others. Herein are all the elements of a great fantasy novel, melded with action, politics, coming-of-age, duty, honor and human frailties.

"You would be hard-pressed to find a contemporary writer who does it better, and you need not wait for the next installment to enjoy this book, for while it is part of a series, it stands alone enough to satisfy by itself."

You heard it here first ...



Fast forward to 2013. My copy, read once and stuck into the autographed rack of the shelf, is not in mint condition. The edges of the dust-jacket are a little wrinkled, there is some dusting on the page edges, so it's in whatever condition that makes it, and I can't tell what "extra-fine," or "fine," or "not awful" means. The better the condition, the more it's worth, and the 1st editions, signed, apparently can pull in $1500 and some. I'd guess mine is probably worth $800-1000, given what is being offered.

So I'm thinking maybe it goes into the gun safe in a plastic bag ...

Rhymes With Orange: Once More into the Uke ...

Classical guitar

Cedar-top, Osage Orange back and sides, by Alan Carruth, September, 2006

Okay, I know, I know, but his is too good a tale of serendipity to let pass. First some background:

I've owned guitars since I was sixteen, but didn't get to seriously trying to learn how  to play until around 2001. I had a cheap and not-very-good classical guitar, circa 1965,  parked next to the file cabinet, and quickly realized it wasn't going to do what I wanted, so I got a slightly better one and started saving my money. 

Along the way, I bought and sold a couple, got a good one, but, you know, I was looking for the Grail ...

In the summer of 2005, I connected with New England luthier Alan Carruth, and we chatted about a custom-made instrument. We went back and forth.  He was experimenting with the wood Osage Orange, which, he said, was a drop-in replacement for rosewood,  sounding halfway between Indian and Brazilian in tone when used in the back and sides. The main drawback, he said, was that it was a bright pumpkin color when fresh, though it would eventually darken to a rich brown. Not traditional, and a lot of classical guitarists are very much that, they want rosewood, so he wasn't getting much interest in using it.

Those of you who don't know, Brazilian Rosewood is a hardwood traditionally featured in high-end classical guitar bodies, it's rich, reddish-brown, sometimes figured, and is now endangered, on the CITES list, and you can only get it from tree stumps, old furniture and doors, or if you have a stock old enough to pre-date the listing. A top-grade set of Braz adds a thousand bucks to the cost of a classical guitar up front. And it's called rosewood because that's what it smells like when freshly cut: roses.

There are some countries around the world where, if you try to take your Braz guitar across the border, they will confiscate it if you don't have the correct paperwork showing the wood's provenance. That would ruin your whole day.

Osage Orange is a trash-tree, used for wind-breaks and fence posts and sometimes, long bows, and not the least bit endangered. Produces a fruit that look kind of like a green brain.

Back to Carruth: Alan is a master maker, flat-, arch-top, harp guitars, violins, violas, harps, dulcimers, and so on. He has a reputation as one of the leading experts in the field of  stringed instrument acoustics, when he talks about sound, people stop and listen. 

Go for it, I said. I don't mind freaking out classical guitarists who might see my axe. His prices were beyond reasonable, (and have since gone up) but I got a kinfolk deal and was thrilled. There was a waiting list, little over a year, and I got on it.

So, fast forward fourteen months, and there it was, the Carruth guitar. Beautiful, exquisite tone, way beyond my ability and never going to be what was holding me back. So, I went into the light, top of that mountain, done buying guitars, and I've kept to that.

Seven years later, it's 2013, and I found myself becoming enamored of the jumping flea, the 'ukulele. Bought some, traded 'em, got more, found two that were terrific, and that's it. Said so, right here I did. Two, my limit, no more, finito, all done!

I was mistaken. But it really wasn't my fault, because of what happened next:

It occurred to me that Mr. Carruth could probably produce one hell of a uke, if he had a mind to do so, but there weren't any shown on his site, and googling failed to come up with any. Too bad. But, just for fun, I dropped him a note and asked him if he'd ever made any ukes, or had considered it. I was picturing in my mind what an Osage Orange uke would look and sound like, and how other 'ukulele players might react to seeing one.

Hey, wow, what kind of wood is that? 

Even if he would consider it, his lead time has probably gone out further, so it would be a year and some away, but, hey, it was a nice fantasy, and fantasy is what I do ...

Got a note back: Well, coincidentally, Alan said, had just made a couple tenor ukes, one of which was in Osage Orange, and the customer who was interested had decided to buy a house and that discretionary income was gone. It was available, no waiting. Would I like to see a picture of it?

Would I?! Yes, yes, yes-yes-yes! Send the picture, send the picture, send it now!  

And it was, of course, gorgeous. A mini-version of my guitar. And I knew the quality of his work, so the only question then was, could I afford it?

And guess what? It turned out I could ...

Behold ... (Not my images, these are from Alan.)

It's got an Engelmann-spruce top, Osage Orange back and sides, and most of the dark wood is walnut, though the fingerboard is apple with a walnut stain. The white wood in the trim is Maple, and there's a bit of Bloodwood and Pink Ivory in the rosette. The tuners are open-back Waverlys. 

More pictures and a sound-check when I actually get it ...

Okay. I'm at the top of that mountain, too. Now I'm done buying ukes ...