Ashokan Sort of Farewell

I've been working on learning "Ashokan Farewell," by Jay Unger, as a solo instrumental on the ukulele. 

Haven't gotten there yet, but I am making progress, albeit slowly so. So I figured to spur myself on, I'd post the only vid I could manage of it that wasn't a complete wreck.

Even so, the sound is crappy, there are squeaks and squeals, and all like that. Usual excuses here.

I used to could play this piece on the guitar, after a fashion, and I thought I'd try to bring it across. It was from El McMeen's transcription in his book on Dropped-D guitar, so to keep the fingering anywhere close, I had to change the key to G. Then figure out how to lose the two bass guitar strings and still have some bottom. I think I mostly have the arrangement down, now it's just a matter of actually learning how to play the sucker. And to get past red-light fever when the camera goes on, which is always cause for immediate flubbery and a fast ride to clam-city ...

Statistic

I started this blog eight years ago, plus about three days. The intent, was, as much as anything, to have a convenient place to work on a journal, and to eventually start mining whatever got laid down and to use it for books and whatnot.

That's worked out; I have several non-fiction eBooks that have mostly come from these page, to various degrees of success. And a lot of other material I can access for research or odd bits hither and yon ...

I'm not making entries lately as often as I did a year or two back. Other things have arisen, but I'm still here.

Never figured it would set the world on fire, but sometime in the next few days, the hits will top a million.

Actually, it already passed that, since I didn't keep a counter on the thing for a while, then I had to switch to a different one, and the counters used different criteria, but hey, there you go ...

Tejano Conflict Cover

Got the cover art for the final book in the Cutter's Wars series. That's Gunny.

Book is due out, I think, in January, 2015.

Milestone/Millstone ...

Only one letter is different in the two words in the title, but it makes them significantly unlike.

The millstone was a large and heavy thing used for crushing grain into meal or flour.

A milestone is a marker at that distance from another point, often another such stone.

In the case of the former, it has sometimes come to mean a thing that drags one down, the proverbial weight hung around one's neck, say.

Milestones metaphorically show accomplishment. Passed another one along the road of life, which could be good or bad, depending.

Getting rid of one might help you reach another ...

Did that yesterday. Got up at the electric blues jam at The Lehrer, stood in front of the mike, and led a couple songs. Never played the uke standing in public before. Hadn't intended to, was just going to drop round and listen, but I took the uke along, just in case. Got coaxed into it, and while I skipped a verse in one song, there were enough instrumental breaks nobody missed it. Voice was okay, even managed to get that blues rasp when I wanted it.

Another long-carried millstone put down and a milestone reached. At this rate, Carnegie Hall won't take more than another fifty or sixty years ...

Party On, Garth

Party for an old friend, me playing the original song  "Mold ..."


I

I used to be so young and free, hard to believe I know/
                   
Now I can’t get it up, and it’s harder yet to go (to the bathroom)
   
My hair is gray, my faced is lined, my arches they are shot/
                                       
My hearing’s gone, my brain is dead, my belly’s gone to pot.

CHORUS:

God, I’m old / Sit down in my wheelchair and get rolled/

Wrap me in a blanket ‘cause I’m cold / 

spray me down, I’m all covered up with mold.

II

I used to party all night long, and labor all next day/

Now I’m sleeping while I work, and sleeping while I play/

The women all would smile at me whenever I would pass/

Now the women look at me and all they do is laugh (at my figure)


(CHORUS)

III

I used to eat my meat half raw, and chew it all to bits/

Now I’m droolin’ in my soup, and it gives me the fits/

My back is tired, my butt is tired, my pecker, it’s tired too/

My options are all running out, there’s one thing left to do 

(euthanasia)


(CHORUS)

Graduation Day

Zach

Oldest grandson graduated from high school today. Yay!

Bouncy, Bouncy

Youngest grandson's birthday upcoming, and his party, mostly family and a friend from school, was held early at one of those trampoline centers. If you haven't seen these, it's a big warehouse with assorted kiosks containing like twenty small trampolines, bounded by more trampolines angled up around the perimeter, pads between them. The kids can, literally, bounce off the walls. 

It has been awhile since I bounced on a trampoline, and it was, um, harder than I remembered.

Yeah, yeah, part of this is because, well, it's been a while, and I am not used to sproinging up and down for an hour. Part of it is because is actually is harder. The bedroom-sized trampolines upon which I played as a teen were more efficient; they had better (and more) springs. Back in the day, these were rubber, and they would allow for much more height.

The trampolines at the indoor center have been dialed down, so as to keep the kids from  going over the retaining walls and into low orbit. Or maybe to keep grampaw from saying, "Hey, I used to do this all the time! Watch this!" and throwing that long-gone double-back and landing on his head ...

Down the ramp from the arena in which we hopped like demented kangaroos was a large fan, blasting away. After an hour, my legs exhausted and heat coming off me as if I were a barbecue grill, I understood why the fan was there as I stood in front of it ...

There were also rope swings that let you fly and fall into a pit full of big foam blocks, and, of course, video games. You could get a drink and junk food up front, and I had a fine ole time, albeit I am passing sore two days later.

What was really fun was to see my grandchildren, only one of whom is any kind of outdoor-sports oriented, actually exercising and enjoying it. 

Six kids, with adult helpers, and a special rate, twenty bucks for all of us. Such a deal. 

Musical Milestone

Went to an acoustic jam at The Lehrer. I had decided I was going to step up and do a song. I picked an old Sam Cooke number, "Bring It on Home," an easy three-chord blues. Practiced all week, felt pretty comfortable, but, you know, I've never sung a solo with my uke in a public house before, and I was thinking it would be kind of a big step ...

So my wife and I went. People started to drift in, the guy who ran it (a harmonica player) was there, there were four guitarists, a keyboard player, a flutist and a bassist. Came the time to get started, but the fellow who'd led most of the songs the previous time hadn't made it yet; another leader had car problems, and the harp player said, "Anybody sing? Can lead?"

I'd had part of a stout ale, so I said, "Uh, well, um ... I can. I got one ..."

I hadn't planned to go first, but what the hell ...

So, I wrote the chords down on the white board, did a little intro, and rolled into it. I sang a couple of verses, played chords for everybody who wanted to take a solo, then did the last couple of verses, and tagged it.

It went well. I was inordinately pleased.

A guitarist got up, led another song, but the real singers hadn't made it yet.

Harp player said to me, "Got another one?"

"Well, I can do 'St. James Infirmary.' How would that be?"

It would be great ...

Eventually, the real singers started to arrive, but meanwhile, I did two more: "House of the Risin' Sun," and "Woke Up Dead Blues," and I didn't screw up any of them.

Funny. That big step I was worried about for, like years? 

Nothing to it. It just blew right past, no sweat.

How about that?

Game of Thrones (SPOILER)

Those of you who watch the TV series but haven't read the books have had some nasty surprises along the way, and I am here to tell you, more are coming.

But a brief note to address one such surprise that aired recently. If you haven't seen the series and don't want to know, stop reading now ...

There comes a battle of champions sequence, wherein two fighters representing others undergo a trial by combat, thus allowing the gods to decide who is guilty or innocent. Makes little sense, but there you go.

The two men stride into the arena. Whereupon one of the two demonstrates a flashy form with his weapon, demonstrating how very skilled he is.

This trips Martial Arts Movie Truism #5: The fighter who offers a flashy martial arts dance to impress the crowd with how good he is always loses. The serious fighter doesn't screw around with such things, but concentrates on the upcoming match.

If you have seen a lot of such movies, as I confess that I have, there are some memes that offer clues to How Fights are Going to Go. If you haven't read the novels, such memes will help you prepare for what is to come ...

Down at the Courthouse

I spent all day in court today, and it was a fascinating experience.

 No, I wasn't on trial, I was on a jury.

Night before, I called the recording, to see if the trial whose juror pool I was in had been cancelled. Half the time, that happens.

Not this time. Come on down!

 I got there and found there were seventeen of us who showed up, for a jury of six. Pretty good odds I wouldn't get picked. But, to my surprise, after the questions from the judge and the litigants, I found myself in a juror's chair, impaneled for a criminal trial.

(I am not mentioning names here, to protect the innocent and the guilty, but it was so interesting I needed to share it.)

The DA was a lawyer, one presumes, but the defendant elected to serve as his own counsel. His right, of course, but perhaps not the best notion, since he didn't seem to have any grasp of the concept of law as I understand it.

Not that I was impressed with the DA, an obvious newbie who fumbled and spent a lot of time looking for things in a stack on notes without finding 'em. I kept thinking, You should ask about this. Or why aren't you objecting to to that?

I think the judge must have had similar thoughts, though he had a pretty good poker face. At one point, the judge looked at the DA: "Do you have an objection?"

"Uh ... Yeah?"

"On what grounds?"

"Uh ... Relevance?"

"Sustained."

The crimes at issue were DUII, failure to produce a license, and resisting arrest. What happened was, one fine midnight last summer, a patrol cop saw a funny-looking license plate on a car in our town. Not a state plate, but one, it turned out, that had been privately produced

Here the concept of "sovereignty" arises; the driver was apparently one of those folk who believe that state and local laws don't apply to him. He kept demanding that the judge dismiss all charges since he had no jurisdiction; he was not driving, by his definition; and he wouldn't even acknowledge his name. Also, he allowed, the judge was committing treason.

It kind of went downhill from there ...

Meanwhile, back at the traffic stop: The officer lit his lights and pulled the car over. He approached, smelled alcohol, and found what he thought was an intoxicated and non-cooperative driver, with a female passenger.

The driver slurred his words and appeared to be swacked. The officer was sporting a recorder, and had cams going in his unit. We saw the vid, heard the recording, and while we couldn't see inside the car, we heard the conversation and saw the arrival of back-up officers, the suspect was arrested, and one of the officers found two opened bottles of whiskey in the car. Heard the officer say, "You are intoxicated, sir," and heard the defendant agree.

Among a lot of other stuff I'll skip over. ...

 The defendant said some fairly odd things in his opening statement, going to his interpretation of the Constitution, along with some admissions of past transgressions I wouldn't have brought up, including arrests and stints in solitary. And why he didn't show up for previous arraignments, because he was afraid of being killed.

I know clothes don't matter, but the defendant wore a baggy T-shirt and shorts and Nike sneakers. Even in Oregon, that seems a tad underdressed, but, we weren't trying his wardrobe.

The law says, the state has to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, no matter how odd the defendant seems, so we sat back and listened and watched as they did just that. It wasn't a slam dunk, we had legitimate questions, but there was a lot of evidence.

The defendant had nothing, he blew a lot of smoke, and tried to impeach the city, state, and justice system. He asked that the entire population of Oregon be called as his witness.

 The judge denied that one, too.

 He put his girlfriend on the stand and asked her if the stop violated her (and his) constitutional rights. In her opinion, yes, it had.

The judge was good, more patient than I would have been, and at times, doing his job, and both litigants' jobs, too. He had to, since they weren't doing much with them ...

Eventually both sides rested, gave their closing statements, and we were instructed by the judge as to the law and our obligations.

We went off to deliberate. It didn't take long; we elected a foreman, we discussed a couple of technical points, but came to a unanimous conclusion, told the clerk, and went back to the court.

Gave our verdicts: guilty on all three charges.

We were thanked, and dismissed. Since the sentence was about to be delivered, most of hung around to hear it.  The DA offered recommendations, based on the defendant's record, which wasn't spotless, and the time was a few days in jail on each count, fines, and probation.

The judge started, but the defendant began reading a prepared statement/manifesto that indicated  the whole proceeding was naught but a sham. Judge told him to be quiet. He wouldn't shut up. The judge had officers come and stand the guy, handcuff him, and hold him. Again, the judge started to offer the sentence, whereupon the defendant collapsed to the floor as if he'd been pole axed.

Juror next to me leaned over and said, "He's faking!"

My exact thought.

The police called for paramedics. The judge allowed as how he would postpone sentencing until Monday, whereupon the supposedly-unconscious defendant sprawled on the courtroom floor said "I object!"

I left then, just as the FD's EMT's arrived in their truck ...

Never a dull moment ...

Sax and Violins ...

Another gun control debate popped up on a site that I frequent, and I decided not to engage, save for a passing reference to crazy people running amok. 

I think I'll amplify that here, though. I'm not the first to address this aspect of it, won't be the last, but my take on it ...

Guns are an effect, not the cause. Yes, undoubtedly if all boomware just ... went away tomorrow, there would be a lot fewer of us slaughtered, in war, or on the streets and in the bedrooms, no question. 

We are a violent species, and in America, more so than most "civilized" nations. Violence is the first tool a lot of us reach for when a problem arises. If we are ever to get past our primal natures and pointed teeth, we have to deal with who and what we are. Tribal, violent, not far from the killer apes, driven by prehistoric urges and old, old hardwiring. There's no quick fix for this.

We kill each other because that is our nature. Guns are more efficient tools for doing what we do.

Take away guns, and I guarantee you that people will still kill each other. It will be harder, because offing somebody with a knife means you have be close enough to get blood on yourself, but killing won't stop until the urge to slay goes away, or somehow gets re-channeled. 

Take away a would-be killer's gun, you take his ability to do it wholesale with little training. If he really wants to do it, he has a plethora of weapons, from blades to automobiles to Molotov cocktails. To pressure cookers.

The site I mentioned is mostly full of liberals, many of whom with hearts that bleed even more than mine. (They think, some of them, that I am a jackbooted right wing thug.) 

During another discussion, somebody started a list of desert island movies–those you'd take along if you could pick a dozen. 

Some great movies among 'em, some less so, but I checked about a hundred of them at random, and you know what? Almost all of them are dripping with violence, and much of that killing violence, necessary to resolve the story. 

I heard Harlan Ellison give a talk once about the original Star Trek, back in the early seventies. How many of the episodes are resolved without violence? How many have no physical violence in them at all?

There are a handful of comedies or coming-0f-age or loves stories in the favorite movies lists in which somebody getting bashed, or shot, or threatened with either (or both) aren't part of them.

What does that say about liberals? What we find entertaining? From Zulu to Star Wars to Casablanca, people being bashed or shot are front and center.

Kind of like saying you love animals while you chow down on bacon-wrapped sirloin steak. Different kind of "love ..."

I'm not claiming any purity there, what I write features a lot of fisticuffs and firearms, I am not holding myself up as the example of anything  ... well, save somebody who's noticed that such is the way of things, and is hereby pointing it out ...

Inadvertent Accident Prevention

Walked over the local Safeway for something out of which we ran. The intersection of Murray and Allen is a good way to die, so I always wait for the crosswalk sign, and even then, it's risky.

Standing there, and a guy with a red-tipped white cane comes up next to me. Got some sight, I can tell, but he's checking for the curb. 

I pushed the crosswalk button. Waited.

Light turned red, we got the walk sign, I started to step off, then saw that the woman barreling down Allen wasn't going to stop. I pointed my finger at her, and pissed off, yelled "Whoa!" rather loudly.

I am talking, wake-people-up-from-a-coma loud. Scare-away-the-werewolves loud.

She looked at me–made eye contact–and blew right through the light, never slowing.

Those are the times when you wish you had a zap ray that would freeze a car's engine into a block of dry ice. Along with the driver ...

The somewhat-blind guy next to me said something, and I realized that if I hadn't yelled, he probably would have stepped in front of the car.

Just another day in Paradise ...

Down at the Pub ...

Went yesterday to an open blues/rock jam at a pub on the West Slope, twixt Beaverton and Portland, off Canyon Road, place called The Lehrer. Probably fifteen players, mostly guitars, but there was a sax, harmonica, keyboard, a cello, and a soprano uke to go with my tenor.

The venue features live music most nights, and business is apparently not all that good, but it's a nice-sized place, pool tables, pizza, burgers, like that. You are in the neighborhood, drop by and support them ...

Good selection of songs, ranging from "Nobody Knows You When You Are down and Out," to "All Along the Watchtower." Couple of little kids with their father, a teenage girl who had a terrific voice, and players older and younger than I.

Somebody would offer to lead a song. They'd write the chords on a whiteboard, and then we were off. Had to figure out when to switch chords on your own, and you either knew the words or not, but the group was surprisingly tight. 
I didn't take a solo, nor did I get up and lead a song at the mike, but I strummed away pretty good, put a couple of scratches on the uke, wabi-sabi ...  

Aside: Wabi-sabi, a Japanese concept about aesthetics, is fascinating. Three basic tenets: Nothing is perfect, nothing is finished, nothing lasts ...  

Next time, I'll try a solo break, and maybe even offer to get up and lead a song. Hubba, hubba ...

Acoustic, in that most of us weren't plugged in save the keyboard and a bass player, but the song leader had mikes for vox and whatever instrument s/he played.

Fine time, good dark beer, three hours. My beautiful spouse sat at a table nearby, nursed a beer, and crocheted ...

Consensus

Our jam group, the Closet Musicians–and no, the name doesn't mean we came out of the closet, that's where most of us kept our instruments for years before dusting them off–is doing another gig in a couple weeks.

In an attempt to be ... something, we decided that maybe it was a good idea to get T-shirts with our band's logo on them.

The logo, though it's hard to tell, is a cabinet door, i.e., the "closet door ..."

The problem is, while everybody thought the idea of a T-shirt was fun, agreement on anything else was ... well, there wasn't any agreement. First, was deciding what the logo should be. Then, some of us wanted the shirts in different styles, because we range in size from toothpick-thin to extra-hefty. Some of us wanted the logo big and centered on the front, some liked the idea of a pocket logo, some wanted it down the side or on the back. And leave us not even get into colors.

When, at one point, I allowed as how the logo ought not be be as low on the front as somebody suggested because when you tucked in your shirt, that would hide part of it, I was told that nobody tucked in their shirt except me ...

So, to the end of trying to satisfy everybody, I bought a couple boxes of T-shirt transfers. Here's the deal, I said. I'll send everybody the .jpg of the logo. You print it out, and iron it onto whatever style or color of shirt you want, and wherever you think appropriate. We will be the rainbow coalition ...

Not exactly Solomon, but hey, we try ...

Fellow Travelers

At the World Horror Con in Portland this weekend, I finally met a woman writer with whom I have been corresponding for like, fourteen years. She had a boyfriend and I had a buddy, and they were the same, which is how we met online, way back when. Shortly thereafter, she and he went their separate ways, and while I hung on for a longer time, I came to sympathize with her position pretty quickly as I found myself  headed toward the same place. Took me longer to get there.

I'm not mentioning names here, in a thinly-disguised attempt to protect the guilty. 

We met up at the con, had lunch, and spent much of it trashing our old ex-friend, who was, when you got right down to it, no two ways about it, a self-centered dick. We continued to be amazed at ourselves, that it took us so long to realize that's who he really was ...

As I have learned more than a couple times, the truth waits for eyes unclouded by longing.

Or, a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest. 

And the same thing said a little differently: None so blind as those who will not see ...

What I tell you three times must be true.

That projection one does of the characteristics we want  in somebody can be a very thick, self-generated fog. Hey, he's really a nice guy, people don't know him as well as I do, they miss his good points. 

Or, as it sometimes happens, not having a horse in that race to root for, they view it more objectively, and they do see something you have elected to overlook ...

He's really a nice guy? Naw, he's a self-centered dick ...

Anyway, what it does when you finally have the Come to Realize Moment is make you wonder why the hell you didn't see it a long time ago? Makes you feel stupid ...

Ah, well. Water. Bridges. Lots of the former under the latter ...

It was great to finally see her in the flesh. The only disconnect was, that after years of email hither and yon, her voice wasn't quite what I expected. Since I hadn't heard her speak but once, on the telephone, a dozen years and some back, and then only for a few moments, having an expectation of her voice was based entirely on seeing her words in print. You miss the cadence, the tone, the inflection, the funny accents. 

I liked her before, and more so now. 

And our opinion of our ex-boyfriend, ex-buddy? Still a self-centered dick, as far as we are concerned ...

Marylhurst Hand Made Instrument Show 2014

We did our annual visit to Marylhurst this past weekend, always a delight. There were the usual instruments: Classical, acoustic, harp- and electric guitars; violins and violas; mandolins; flutes, banjos, harps, ours  and even a guy making harpsichords. There were some vintage instruments on display, old resonator guitars and a uke, even a pedal-steel from long ago. People selling instrument wood, inlay material, tuner buttons, shop gear.

And a few ukulele makers.

Talked to a few makers, admiring their art and craft. Had a fascinating conversation with the harpsichord maker. Touched base with Woodley White, who not only remembered that I bought a uke from him last year, but who wondered if I was still playing it in Low-G.

Typically, my wife and I make a couple passes through the showroom, then head over to the music venue, in the hall next door. This year, the old chapel had been redone, new floors and carpets and chairs, even new glass doors. The acoustics stayed great.

We listened to three of the fifteen-minute mini-concerts: Peter Zisa and Doug Smith playing classical and steel-string acoustic guitars by John Mello; then Travis Stine and Dane Lum Ho showcasing guitars and ukuleles by Kerry Char and Mark Roberts. Terrific players, all, and SRO to sit and listen. Maybe ... seventy-five, eighty people listening quietly.

Travis and Dane, who play in a local group, Dope Kine, did standards, jazz, and Hawaiian stuff, and were most impressive. Travis is our local version of Jake, and most adept. He rotated through instruments by Char and Roberts, three tenor ukes and a baritone, and they all sounded great under his fingers.

A few images ...

Above, Lute, by Ken and Emrys McWryn

Sunday Concert List

Harpsichord in progree, Byron Will

Ukes, by Kenneth Senn

Dragon, koa uke, by Woodley White

(Image is wood-burned in)

Koa uke, Kerry Char

Old Pro

Got invited to the WHC, to do a workshop. I thought they made a mistake: You want my daughter, I said, she's the horror writer.

No, she's already coming, we did mean you.

Huh.

Well, when I first started, I did dabble, wrote a few shorts with horror motifs, but nobody remembers those. 

How about Aliens and Predators? 

Yeah, okay, science fiction, but an element of horror. 

What about Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead? Wasn't that about, you know, zombies?

Um, yeah ...

Maybe I will get that T-shirt ...

Uke Book Goes Live ...

I just listed the uke book at Amazon.com, should be live in twelve hours, so they say. Also going to be on Smashwords, which will, in theory, allow it to be on iBooks. (Though Smashwords is so anally-retentive that they kick back files and refuse to list them in their premium catalog if there is a crooked comma. Generally, I give that a couple shots and then give up. I don't sell that many books there anyhow, and Amazon.com is a lot easier to deal with.)

About 37,000 words, a short memoir, full of my usual blather and odd bits of this 'n' that. I don't expect it will set the world on fire, but the spew helped me ease the obsession a little.

Something on your mind and you are a writer? Lay it out, that's the best way to exorcise it ...

I tried a new format on the upload, be interesting to see how that comes across. 

Now, back to fiction ...

Uke Camp - Couple Pictures

Above: BeBop Band - Paul Hemming, back row, right.

Below:

C.U. - look at the guy in the gray T-shirt, laughing like a baboon ...)

Above: Old Time - Canote Brothers, front row, left. Jere with the uke, Greg with the fiddle 

Photos by Laura Deming, Flickr

Movin' On

Draft is done on the uke book and is out to several readers with more knowledge about the subject than I. Once I get their input, I'll do the rewrite, and then stick it up on Amazon.com. I'll charge the minimum Amazon will allow to get the premium status, which is, I think, $2.99. I don't expect to sell a lot of copies, since the target audience is essentially somebody just like me, but you never know ...