Smoke Gets in Your Brain

I have no idea why this occurred to me, but . . .

Some years ago I was playing in a now-defunct bar called "Olde Grads." The band was positioned on a stage behind the bar. Looking past the backs of the bartenders, you saw shapes in a haze moving, dancing, drinking. The smoke was so thick in the place that the stage lights created solid curtains of color when they flashed.

One night, I was feeling particularly (and literally) sick of the smoke. As the drummer, I was farthest back, up against the wall. I saw a switch. Wondering what it would do, I flipped it. Immediately, the smoke cleared from the bar. It was an exhaust fan. The bartender (a guy who, I am sure, had left a few horse-heads in the beds of transgressors) whipped around with a crazed look on his face. As he searched for the cause of the clear air, he smoothed back his gray hair, chewed furiously on his soggy cigar and uttered the most unspeakable profanities. "Who the ____ turned on that  _____ fan?"

More Hats, More Rabbits

The front cover . . .

Dear Readers,

Will you indulge me for a bit? I've been torn as to how to do this. I have mentioned before that I have been working on a CD of original songs, also called Hats & Rabbits. (Actually, this site was named after the CD which was already in progress when I started blogging.) The album took me almost three years to make. The CD is in the mastering stage and will be available next month, online -- or from me, personally, if you prefer. Instructions to come . . .

I find myself in this place of wanting you to know about it but not wanting to turn my blog into a sales pitch forum. But the fact is, I made this CD not in hopes of becoming rich or famous (fat chance), but of sharing my ideas and emotions with those around me. My first thought was of sharing with friends -- of showing them that I am who they have, in their kindness, believed that I am: a capable musician and composer. But, ever since starting this blog, my goals have broadened a little. I have gathered a consistent, insightful audience of readers and on-line friends from around the world. So, I want you all to know about this so that I can share my thoughts and ideas on the CD with you, as well.

Splashes of Ignorance

That's me near the back, red vest, black sleeves.
The blue in the foam is a fallen brother.
Lars sits, composed and calm, on the back.

Ever fall out of a boat? I have. On a whitewater rafting trip I had no business being on, in a river so wild people really didn't have any business being on it, I fell a out few times. There are many stories from that trip, but not nearly enough room for all of them in one post. I learned a lot on the Upper Gauley river that weekend, about my friends and myself, but the most important thing I learned is how to get back in a boat when you fall out.

If you fall into the water, you tend to grab the edge of the boat, instinctually. Most people then try lift themselves out with their arms, kicking their feet as if trying to swim upward. If you do this, you will never get back into the boat, probably not even with help.

We were taught the proper technique by our guide, the gloriously surfer-dudish, blonde-locked Lars. What you do is, you make yourself as horizontal as possible. Instead of trying to swim/climb into the boat, upward, you flatten yourself in the water and pull forward, using the water to glide up and over the boat's edge.

No Small Talk

I just had my first haircut. That is, my first haircut in a barber shop. (They wouldn't give me a damned lollipop, though.) See, my mom, a hairdresser, by necessities of old (i.e. she is a musician just like the rest of my family), always cuts my hair, but she just had to have surgery to correct the damage of those necessities.

So, I walked in to the barber shop and had no idea what I wanted. (Cut it like my mommy does?) The long and short of it is, I finally worked it out and the haircut is pretty good and they even slapped hot towels on my face afterward. (I'm not sure why -- there was no shave forthcoming, but it felt pretty good. Scared the hell out of me, though.)

The Gardener and His Wife (A Parable)

The old man bent, sadly, over the two vegetable plants. One was dead and the other had grown fat, strong and tall. He rubbed his chin with a thumb and forefinger.

"I don't understand," he said to his wife, who stood behind him. "I raised them just the same. I fed them the same food. I kept them in the same sunny garden patch. I pulled away their dead leaves and talked to them each day."

Birds chirped and a wind moved the green trees.

"Are they the same?" said the old woman.

"No," said the old man. "They are two slightly different vegetables."

"Then, perhaps," she said, "what was nurturing to one was cruelty the another."