If I Were A Blues Musician...

If I were a blues musician I'd have a great nickname. Because all blues musicians have great nicknames, like Blind Lemon Jefferson, T-Bone Walker, or Lightnin' Hopkins. If you have a cool nickname people treat you better, they move aside when you pass by, they hold doors open for you. Mostly, though, you get that cool nickname on your tombstone so people 100 years from now can pass by your grave and wonder how cool that guy was to get a nickname like 'Jelly Roll.'
   So I decided to cut out the middleman - and, coincidentally, all the tragedy and pathos of being an actual blues musician - and come up with my own blues nickname. I tried to think of things that define me, or at least that others might think define me.

   Scratchin' Don H.
Needs a Shave Hartshorn
   Junk Food Hartshorn
Don 'Cut the Damn Grass' Hartshorn
   Knee Poppin' Don
Old Man Groan Hartshorn
   Don 'Too Much Mayonnaise' Hartshorn
The Bellybutton Lint Kid
   White Guy Rhythm Hartshorn
Bad Haircut Don
   Don 'Pays Bills On Time' Hartshorn
Sullen Resentment Hartshorn
   Inappropriate Mutterin' Don

   One of those just has to fit. I'll go to local jazz clubs and get the emcee to announce me over the microphone, see which one has the right reverb.

I Need A Theme Song

I was watching Guys and Dolls last night, the movie version with Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando. Yes, I own a copy, you got a problem with that? I didn't think so...
   Anyway... Sinatra sings most every song in the movie, EXCEPT for the one he's probably most recognized for. In the movie Brando sings 'Luck Be A Lady' not Sinatra. Yes, Brando sings, and evidently he really did, they say that's his voice on the soundtrack. But, aside from 'New York, New York' that song, 'Luck Be A Lady' is what most people know Sinatra for, especially with the Baise orchestra backing him. It's kind of his theme song. Whenever I think of this song I think of Sinatra, and whenever I think of Sinatra I think of this song.
   I need a musical score like that. You know, something iconic, something that ties me to it and it to me down through the ages. Something that could accompany me as I make my rounds in the salons, imparting my bon mots to a mildly amused intelligentsia.
   So I thought it through and came up with a few suggestions. I went through a few iterations before I found the perfect one.

Some Kind of Wonderful, Grand Funk Railroad.
   Hold on, this is about a girl... maybe not. Besides, who remembers the Railroad except hippie burnouts? Well, and me.

Been Caught Stealing, Jane's Addiction
   Except I haven't been caught. Not that I steal. That any of you people know of. Don't need to call attention to that. So that one's out.

Free For All, Ted Nugent
   Uh... while I might be The Nuge where it counts, deep inside - and the tune is definitely catchy - I think people might get the wrong idea if they heard this whenever I was around. Or maybe too much of the right idea. Keep looking.

Nobody Home, Pink Floyd
   Quite possibly my favorite Floyd tune. But it's about a guy slowly going crazy as his wife cheats on him. Mebbe not just yet for this one.

Sex Machine, James Brown
   Nah, hits too close to home and sounds more like an advertisement or testimonial. Or bragging. Try again.

If I Should Fall From Grace With God, The Pogues
   And... we have a winner. A jaunty Irish tune that's filled with macabre imagery sung by a man who got kicked out of an Irish band for drinking too much. Yup, that's right. He was too drunk for an Irish band.

So now you can all imagine that song following me wherever I go. The grocery store, the gas station, the gym, the office. You know, everywhere a reel performed by an inveterate lush is appropriate.

I Can Do What I Want

The other day I was sitting at this computer and letting my iTunes playlist entertain me while I did some tedious but necessary paperwork. I got thirsty. I went into the kitchen to get a glass of iced tea and I could still hear my music playing even though my office is in a bedroom at the front of the house. So I thought to myself, ‘self, that music’s kind of loud,’ and hurried back to turn it down. I stopped by the couch, though, as a sudden thought took me.
   I don’t live in an apartment any more. The music that I can hear in the kitchen doesn’t pass the walls of my rental house. I can be as loud as I damn well please.
   I have to admit I was a bit taken aback by this. For years now, far too many years, I’ve been an apartment dweller. I’ve had to consider what I do and when I do it very carefully, since I don’t want to be a bother to anyone else. I really do try to live the golden rule; if I wouldn’t want someone taking a shower at three in the morning then it’s not something I want to subject others to.
   But now… I live in a house. A detached, two-car garage house with solid walls and a tile roof and a thick front door. The closest neighbors are ten yards away, on the other side of a brick wall and past their own garage. The neighbors on the other side are twenty yards away, and over a fence.
   I can make lots and lots and lots and lots of noise now and I won’t be disturbing anyone. I can walk as heavily as I dare on my own floors , I can run the dishwasher at midnight, I can crank up Tom Jones as loud as I can stand it and no one is going to come knocking on my front door in a stained bathrobe to wag an admonishing finger at me.
   I’m free.
   Now… what can I do with my newfound liberty? Midnight smoothie party? Twenty-four hours of darts? Line dancing in the living room? Yodeling competition? Man, the sky’s the limit.

What A Feelin'

She's a steel-town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life, in the real-time world no one sees her at all, they all think she's crazy.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!!!

The lyrics for 'Maniac' have been running through my head for hours now, and I have no idea why. And just when I think it's over the lyrics for 'Flashdance' begin.
   At first when there's nothing but a slow-moving dream that your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind....

AAAAAAAGHHHHH!!

I saw part of 'Flashdance' only once, thirty years ago, and I put the 80's behind me back in 1985. Because I'm an overachiever. I haven't heard these songs on the truck radio lately, or in the gym, or on iTunes. As far as I can remember I haven't heard either of these songs all the way through in a decade or more.
   But damn me to Hell and back, I remember almost every word. And it's INSIDE MY HEAD, so I can't even get sweet release by puncturing my eardrums.

I understand now. This is what makes street people crazy. They're all hearing early 80's pop songs non-stop in their brains and it's driven them around the bend. If this keeps up much longer I'm going to join them.

I hear Target has the best shopping carts, but it's really difficult to get them off the property. And where's my tin foil? I need to make a hat.

Learning The Banjo

I've been trying to think of a new career direction, considering my almost complete lack of interest in working for another corporation. While I may have to take another office gig, I need to find a new passion. I was working on a few edits for one of my books today when it hit me: I need to learn how to play the banjo. And why would I need to have that skill? you might ask.
   I'm gonna start a jug band.
   Yup. Right here in SoCal. I'm gonna find me some barely-literate fellows, guys who have trouble reading street signs but who have innate rhythm and know the words to hymns by heart. We'll have a big fat guy - no, not me - and a thin, weaselly guy, and one with a wild mountain-man beard. And then me. None of us will wear shirts unless it's cold outside or we're playing a wedding or something. No shoes either, 'cause I want to keep it real. The big fat guy will play the washboard, the weaselly guy will play the one-string washtub bass, the mountain man will play the moonshine jug with 'xxx' on it, and I'll play the banjo. As the only one of our quartet with his own teeth, I'll also be the lead singer and de facto chick magnet.
   Now that iTunes has provided a platform for emerging artists I know we'll break big, if for no other reason than to provide an alternative to Lady Gaga. Although I wouldn't put it past her to steal our shtick and start her own jug band... I should nip that competition in the bud and record a duet with her right away. And I gotta start growing my mullet out right now.

Yeah... this is really looking up. I can't see the flaw in this plan at all.

Better Than I Remember

A while back I wrote about something that was not nearly as good as I remember. Visits to things from your past are sometimes dangerous journeys onto wind-tossed shoals of memory, where one wrong move can drive your fond recollections onto the sharp rocks of reality. But not everything you remember fondly from your past is doomed to turn out poorly in the present. Today, for example, I was pleasantly surprised.
   I'd just finished fencing and was driving home in the hot rod when some Jethro Tull came on the radio. Even though Tull was a regular part of my youth, it's been quite a while since I've listened to any of my old favorites. Sure, the songs are on my iTunes list, but the last time I was really into Tull I had to listen on a cassette tape.* And that's quite a while ago.
   Gotta say, I remember why I liked them all those years ago. I was jamming out on the highway to 'Aqualung,' which is about a 6 minute song, so I got pretty far down the 134 with Tull blaring, almost like when I used to pop the cassette into the player in my '72 Chevelle on my way to pick up my friends for a night of mischief. Good times, good times.

So not everything I liked when I was a kid is crap. It's a good thing I thought parachute pants were stupid back in the day, or I might have more to regret than Heavy Metal the Movie.


* Kids, cassette tapes replaced 8-track cartridges in the national zeitgeist and were co-existent with vinyl LPs, which themselves were like big, fragile, black CDs. CDs are what your older brothers and sisters used to buy back before iTunes.
** also, Jethro Tull was a real person a few centuries ago. Sounds like a Dickens character.

Giving Hope

Since I'm still 'between assignments' I've been trying to think outside the box, career-wise. Trying to get out of the rut I've been in that clearly hasn't worked thus far and probably won't any time in the near future. After some consideration I think I've hit on a solution.
   I'm going to become a singer.
   Just to be clear, I cannot carry a tune, not even if you gave me a bucket and showed me how. I bring a bad name to 'tin ear' and 'tone deaf.' Dogs howl when I start humming and babies halfway around the world weep when I sing along to Skynyrd. Every man should know his limitations and one of mine is singing. Just can't do it. Which isn't going to stop me from making it my next career.
   See, I figure if I can make a go of it, if I can become the next Susan Boyle, then other people around the world will look at my accomplishment and say 'well, jeez, if that guy can be a singer, then I can < insert impossible task here >.' I'll be the low-bar that other people can aspire to leap. I'll be the black-sheep cousin who inexplicably made good and now shames all the other seemingly more-apt cousins. I'll be the guy that makes real singers, people with actual talent for that, tear their hair out and curse the heavens for the injustice of it all.
   Yeah... I'm all about the humanitarian stuff.

I'm With The Band

I've been hitting the job boards the last few weeks, trying to find a new gig. Not that I'm all that enthusiastic about another corporate job, but I do need somewhere to sit from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. But as I was filling out yet another online profile for a job no one is ever going to call me for, a solution to my dilemma hit me like a bolt from the blue.
   I'll start a boy band.
   And I don't mean I'll be the Svengali-like behind the scenes maestro, like that creepy tax evader guy from the 90's. No, I'll be out in front, singing the songs and dancing the dances. The fact that I can't sing is in no way a hindrance to my plans. I'll be just one of five out-of-work old dudes in this new boy band. But which archetype should I follow?
   The Cute One - you might think he's gay, but he gets more ladies than all the others combined.
   The Shy One - his shyness is less a function of his own personality and more a function of the others' overbearing 'look-at-me-now' personalities.
   The Funny One - funny is such a relative term. He's funny in comparison to the other four, and in comparison to, say, bubonic plague.
   The Dangerous One - he's dangerous in a non-threatening way. Mostly this is expressed with tattoos (real or temporary), pierced ears, and greasy hair.
   The Smart One - he's smart because he knows what a book is, and he's pretty certain what one does, or at least what other have told him a book does.

I think I want to be the dangerous one, but I'm probably more suited to being the shy one.
   Now I just need a name for the group, and the good ones are already taken: Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Air Supply...

Sa Prize

Life rolls on, it's inevitable. But that doesn't mean certain developments can't smack you in the face and leave you shaking your head in wonderment.
   Yesterday I saw Dr. Dre pitching Dr. Pepper on TV.
   It wasn't that long ago that I asked whether a 17-year-old kid who'd never known N.W.A. should be allowed to wear an 'Eazy Duz It' t-shirt. I guess I have my answer. If the founder of Death Row records can become a pitch man for Dr. Pepper, all bets are off, anything goes, and the world can devolve into chaos.
   Dre, I know you have bills to pay like everybody else, and I know you've been working steadily as a producer since N.W.A., but come on... Dr. Pepper? What happened to Straight Outta Compton? What happened to the anger and the energy of those days? Has it turned into a house in Brentwood and private school for the kids? If it has, good for you, but bad for the rest of us.
   To tell you the truth, we expected this kind of thing from Ice Cube - what with 'Three Kings' and 'Barber Shop,' and 'Are We There Yet' - but you got to it first. For soda pop. For God's sake, even Billy D managed to shill Colt 45.
   So long, N.W.A., it really is all over now.
      Shootin' everything in sight, tonight's the night to get hyped
      and fight for what's wrong, f**k what's right...
      but before you do, why not have a cool, refreshing Dr. Pepper?

Bacon Is Magic

It's a culinary axiom: Bacon is magic.
   And I'm not talking the metaphorical kind of magic, either, not the kind of 'magic' behind a home run or a the 'magic' of children's laughter or the 'magic' of a Van Halen reunion with David Lee Roth. No, bacon is real magic, like a Van Halen reunion with Sammy Hagar.
   Here's the proof - there is nothing savory that can't be made better by adding bacon.
   I'm not talking sweet. Bacon and ice cream? Probably not the best. Bacon and cheesecake? Pass
   But - bacon and pizza? Mmmmm... Bacon and fillet mignon? Mmmmm... Bacon-wrapped shrimp? Well, I hate shrimp, but people tell me it's good. Bacon and macaroni and cheese, or mashed potatoes or cous cous or spaghetti... I tell you, the list is endless.
   I will go out on a limb here and say that no one can find a savory food that isn't made better by the addition of bacon. Prove me wrong.

Lebowski Fest - Part 2

Let's back up a moment, and pretend that the show hasn't started yet, that I'm still standing at the corner of Wilshire and Western waiting for my friend. What might that street scene look like?
   There would probably be an awful lot of traffic, cars going every which way. And there were. But there might also be a surprising amount of foot traffic. Not only is this because the Los Angeles Metro 'Purple Line' terminates at that intersection (used to be part of the Red Line if you've never heard of the Purple Line) and because of the many LA Metro bus stops, but it's also because people in that part of LA tend to be pedestrians, surprisingly enough. So what might one have seen on a Thursday afternoon, anything of note?
   How about two Mormon guys who looked about 14 years old, complete in their short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, carrying their bicycle helmets, and looking as out of place as... well, as Mormon missionaries at Wilshire and Western. Even better, how about the heavily tattooed pregnant woman who crossed the street with them, chatting on her phone? Or the Mexican ice cream vendor with his homemade cart and barely-audible tinkling bell?
   It's a pageant of humanity, I tell you.
   To complete the Lebowski Fest story, after the killer set by the little 9-year-old Japanese guitar god (he did, like six or seven songs, didn't miss a note as far as I could tell... I'm still flabbergasted), and a taped fake-satellite appearance by Jeff Bridges, they finally - FINALLY - started the movie. As I mentioned before, there were surprisingly few people dressed in costume. But there were many, many people who could quote the movie line for line. And they did. And quite a few of them snuck out from time to time to indulge in a little herbage, if you know what I mean. Smelled like the art teachers' lounge in high school. Which is why they have the time to spend on a Thursday night going to Lebowski Fest. It was, actually, very fun to have people recite the best lines with the film.
   On the way out, the panoply of humanity continued. What might you have seen? Glad you asked. You might have seen a very enterprising young immigrant woman who didn't speak a lot of English but knew enough to set up her hot dog stand on the sidewalk right outside the theater exit. Stoned moviegoers can eat a lot of hot dogs, I saw it with my own eyes. You might also have seen another entrepreneur who dressed in a tattered hospital gown and held a pitifully hand-printed sign advising that 'they dropped me off from the syke ward' (yes, he misspelled 'psych' ward). This is actually a problem in LA, but about three miles East, in Skid Row downtown, so the guy would have been better off selling hot dogs. Or, perhaps, putting on a bright blue sombrero and playing the trumpet. Badly. As the guy hanging out by the parking garage did.
   Lebowski Fest hasn't been in LA for three years, and this was very fun. Aside from the attendees mostly being men 'of a certain age' - as old as I am, and who had probably seen the movie in theaters originally - it was a great time. I'd do it again, as long as that little Japanese kid was going to play again.

Lebowski Fest - Part 1

I went to the LA Lebowski Fest last night, and it was AWESOME! Much better than I thought it would be. But there's more to the tale...
   First, as with any LA story, is the trip there. The Lebowski Fest was held at the Wiltern Theater, which is at the corner of Wilshire and Western (duh), deep in the heart of Koreatown. Unless you live or work within a few miles of it, there's no easy way to get to this part of LA from any other part. Especially at 5:30 PM. So I knew what I was getting into. At least I thought I did.
   It took 45 minutes to go fourteen miles or so, but that's pretty much par for the course in LA, not unusual. However, as I traveled down Western, I saw some examples of the worst driving LA has to offer, and that's saying something. People driving the wrong way down the street just to make a left turn into the parking lot for a pizza place (must be good pie), buses plowing through red lights at top speed, one gentleman walking down the center stripe - he wasn't begging for money, just trying to get somewhere with his rolling luggage and thought the double-yellow was a good place to do that. An amazing display of impatience, incompetence, and rudeness, even for LA.
   After I got the tickets, my friend and I had Korean BBQ - naturally - a few blocks down Wilshire. After the security purse-screening we got in the theater and she got a White Russian (see the movie if you don't get it); it's a real theater, not a movie theater, they serve booze. We expected more people dressed as the Dude or Walter or Jesus than we saw.
   There were a few introductions of bit players, people from the movie who had 5 lines or less, and the inspiration for the Dude, Jeff Dowd, who was, honestly, kind of incoherent.
   But then, ah... but then... they introduced 9-year-old Yuto Miazawa. He's a little kid from Japan, who totally, completely shreds a rock guitar. Unbelieveable. He ROCKS!!! His set consisted of great guitar-melting old-school American rock like 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, 'Crazy Train' by Ozzy, 'National Anthem' by Jimi Hendrix (the kid did it right), and even 'Freebird' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Funny/tragic note: one of the LA 20-somethings actually leaned over and asked me - during the opening riffs - 'is this Freebird?' Douchebag. The best part of it all was listening to this amazing guitar virtuosity, backed by a 9-year-old Japanese kid's voice. Like listening to Pikachu rock out with his... you know what I'm saying. You have to listen to this kid play.
   More about the screening and after the show in another post.

Lessons Through Music

Everything I need to know I learned from Prince
I guess I should have known by the way you parked your car sideways that it wouldn't last. See, you're the kind of person that believes in making out once; love 'em and leave 'em fast. I guess I must be dumb 'cause you had a pocket full of horses, Trojan and some of them used. But it was Saturday night - I guess that makes it all right - and you say what have I got to lose?
lesson learned
   no matter how hot they are, chicks still can't parallel park