30 years and not counting...

link to the story of the Christmas Potato:

http://cartmonkey.blogspot.com/2010/11/spud.html

Here's the deal. 30 years ago we threw the very first version of the Christmas Potato. It wasn't even a potato. Actually, the first attempt to thanks folks for Christmas light displays involved driving around and jotting addresses down and mailing post cards. Maybe a couple dozen cards got mailed. Later that December I typed up a little note about the lights and used the first Christmas card I drew at age 6 to illustrate my thank you notes.

The big dilemma was how to deliver the notes. That year the method of delivery involved wrapping the notes around sticks of kindling purchased in bulk at a 24-hour Skaggs Alpha Beta. This is back when it was still chilly at Christmas even as far south as Austin. We bundled up, and motored about with the windows down, thanking folks in our own unique way.

Still, I thought there must be a better method of delivery.  Very honestly the notion of a potato hit me out of the clear blue the next year as I drove home from work at the ole Sound Warehouse and saw the first lights of the season.

Over the years we've tried different ways to attach notes to potatoes with varying degrees of success. Tossers around the country have contributed their own special touches to the tradition. Rumor has it that the Crescent City will receive holiday spuds for the first time in the Big Easy's nearly 3 centuries of existence during the coming weeks. How cool is that?


Looking back over the last 3 decades I can vouch for at least at a minimum of 300 lbs, but in reality I'm sure there have been many more.

It doesn't matter if you throw spuds or not. It is a load of fun and a nice way to take in the lights of the season. The tradition evolved out of the most important essential lessons ever taught to me by my mom. Always remember to say thank you. I won't go into the teaching of the lesson. I will say it involved a slap up the side of the head and the shame of knowing I embarrassed my mother in front of one of her dear friends. Late in her life my mom told me that the, "potato thing," actually finally made her proud of me. Great gal, tough room. ( an interesting aside, the location of the lesson learning was the site of a brutal murder several years later)

In closing, throw spuds if you want, but always remember to say, "Thank you."

Labor Day

WHAT WOULDA WOODY WROTE IF WOODY WOULDA WROTE TODAY...

Even if I've always felt a special kinship to the boy from Oklahoma for reasons I've never figured out, today I got hit with a notion and when I stopped tapping the keys this was what showed up. I'll openly admit that what spewed forth was greatly influenced by reading, "Bound for Glory" and "Seeds of Man" over 30 some years ago. Here it is for what it's worth.

"Labor Day, the first Monday in September, is a creation of the labor movement and is dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers. It constitutes a yearly national tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country."

That's the skinny from the grub'ment of the U-S of A. Right, out there in the ether fur ever one of us to see. That's what them in the know call O-fishy-al, the straight truth, the real deal, just how it is. Not much in the way o' history or background, purt near  the bare basics, enough to pass on the general idea.

Whut, whut, whut? you might say. How can somethin' so dang important be reduced, boiled down, render in da  3 dozen and a dime of words and not much more impressive if ya do out the a-rith-mo-tic and figur up the letters.

I have heard jingles with more words and we know  how important they are. As the off spring of  sons and daughters of hard livin' and the grandson of a hardworkin' grocer and a man with barely 8 years a schoolin' who supported his family of 5 by walkin' the pipeline up toward Bowie one week and out near Ranger the next I have always thought I knew the value of hard work, nose to the grindstone and all such as that.

They may a not been Union folks but they sure as hell wurnt scabs neither. My own in-tie-lect-ual mother taught me early that folks what did the work deserved equal and fair  pay. She often wondered out loud if our society needs both doctors and garbagemen to survive maybe the notion of a little less difference in the do-ray-me they each take to home at the end o' the day might not otter be such a gi-huge-ic difference. Might just be something to it. I knowed in my life I seen the trash man go without a doctor lots longer than I ever seen a doctor go without someone to a haul off his garbage which he can barely stand to admit he is responsible for.

Sadly, when you look around they's lots more have-nots these days than haves and ain't no way in H-E double hockey sticks is you goint to convince me and most other hard workers that those haves done more or worked harder for what they got, that I just barely have.

My point ends up being that there is many of us that works more and takes home less than any kind a people around. Ain't splittin'  it up 99% to 1% I  am just sayin' don't take a rocket scientist to figger out just who is doing the real work. Those that work mostly make for those with the coin.

If we had no workers, tradesman, teachers, public workers, your fireman, your law, soldiers (LABORERS) wouldn't nuthin' much would git done and when the bankers and politicians had to dump there own trash cans and chamber pots they might just do some figgering and see IT  TAKES ALL OF US TO MAKE THIS THE BEST OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS AND TO GET THE JOB DONE.

So, a tip a the hat to anybody does an honest daze work, no matter how, nor where, be they banker, boot maker, baker, bar keep or preacher, The worker makes the world go round and round.

Let's sing a song of celebration and here is one of them links to a place with some good songs for the workers of the world......

the list might just be a relic in the days of instant news( compiled last year ) but it is a better list a songs that my tired brain coulda come up with.

http://www.cliffviewpilot.com/good-life/55-in-tune/2756-top-20-labor-day-songs

Yes, there are days...

I never knew this guy. Never met him. I don't idolize him. I wouldn't follow his lead and do heroin, but I'd follow around if he were still playing. The guy had some faults. From what I've read maybe some wicked ones. Then again...

I didn't know him. At the end of the movie, My Favorite Year, Benji says of Alan Swann, the larger than life actor he has come to despise and love all in the span of one week,  "With Swann, you learn to forgive a lot."

What I do know is that Jerry Garcia meant a great deal to many people. His music had a major impact on my life. The Dead are one of the bands that factor and loom large in the soundtrack of my life. In another post I called Skull & Roses, a comfort record. The Dead's music is like that for me. I don't even try to explain it. Some bands just work that way for me.
The Dead
Doug Sahm
The Clash
The Band
Stephen Bennett
Al
The Stones
to name just seven
and Justin, sweet, sweet, dear young sweet prince(I'm joking already, kinda like getting Rick-rolled, you've been Beebed)

 I only saw them play about 20 times, far fewer than many deadheads or most of my friends. But on those occasions I was lucky enough to listen I shared with huge crowds and my friends a magical time distilled into a memory of those days.

It was 17 years ago today that Garcia finally gave it up. He was only 53. The heart just played out. For my money that seems far too young for someone to die. Flesher used to say we only have so many heartbeats, don't waste them. Probably true. The other great piece of advice I got from Don that has served me well the last 35 years....never make decisions based out of fear.

It wasn't until last week that it even dawned on me that I'd outlived Garcia. For some 17 is a magical number. The most common random number they say. For me 17 has always held magical memories. I know it was rough on Janis Ian and I mean no respect when I say my thoughts of that time were much happier even if I wasn't "all that" either at that age.

17-girls, women, females, at 17 they all are beautiful. I think it is because at 17 a young man finally has(or had in my case) semi put 1 and 1 together and gotten 2.  It is a time when I started thinking about girls and the possibility of relationships that would be developmentally important to me. Even though it isn't likely, by 17 you are aware  that you just might fall pretty dang hard.

At 17, I was allowed freedom in my choice of movies. Finally an "R"  rated movie didn't mean I'd need to jump through hoops to get in the door. My first post 17 "R" was a Woody Allen movie which seems fitting in my life too. So many doors opened for me both positive and negative. At 17,  I had a circle of friends I still have today. Sure, I remember all of the pure-D-crud of being 17(like geez, how many ways and how many excuses and girls come up with to turn you down, still just laughing is the worst, but what I hold onto are thoughts of youthful freedom.

So 17 years ago Garcia died. I was getting computers ready for the next school year. I heard the news and went home and dug out a photo a friend took of Jerry dwarfed by the wall of sound in '74. I guess for me it just seems like a special number as well. Sort of like listening to someone explain the time a certain Dead song was sung at a certain instant because the listener and the band were sharing a connected moon beam and the song request was sent telepathically to Jerry who bounced it  off Phil and Bob as Micky and Bill concurred and somebody let whoever the keyboard player in on it too. Don't laugh, I think that stuff happened. Memorial Hall October of sometime it was as if every song I wished for came up next. Strange but quite pleasant.

So in memory of Jerry and all the memories here's a seldom heard treat, well, the lyrics anyway.

You can stream the audio and listen to a couple of versions at this link:

http://archive.org/details/gd93-02-10.rehearsal.Samaritano.17435.sbeok.shnf

Days Between :

There were days
and there were days
and there were days between
Summer flies and August dies
the world grows dark and mean
Comes the shimmer of the moon
on black infested trees
the singing man is at his song
the holy on their knees
The reckless are out wrecking
The timid plead their pleas
No one knows much more of this
than anyone can see anyone can see
There were days
and there were days
and there were days besides
when phantom ships with phantom sails
set to sea on phantom tides
Comes the lightning of the sun
on bright unfocused eyes
the blue of yet another day
a springtime wet with sighs
a hopeful candle lingers
in the land of lullabies
where headless horsemen vanish
with wild and lonely cries lonely cries
There were days
and there were days
and there were days I know
when all we ever wanted
was to learn and love and grow
Once we grew into our shoes
we told them where to go
Walked halfway around the world
on promise of the glow
Stood upon a mountain top
Walked barefoot in the snow
Gave the best we had to give
How much we'll never know we'll never know
There were days
and there were days
and there were days between
polished like a golden bowl
The finest ever seen
Hearts of Summer held in trust
still tender, young and green
left on shelves collecting dust
not knowing what they mean
Valentines of flesh and blood
as soft as velveteen
hoping love would not forsake
the days that lie between lie between

Moved Brightly...

Excuse me while I ramble.

I've always believed in the healing power of music. Never being able to master any musical instrument, having the vocal skills of a manatee(which hasn't improved since the rasp developed due to all my COPD & emphysema meds) and the inability to keep time which hampers hopes of something as simple as bongos I focused my energy toward becoming a world class listener. In 57 years I've gotten pretty good. I hear some amazing stuff.

I remember listening to a Keith Secola CD that I basically knew by heart in Houston once when I heard more things than I 'd ever dreamed possible. Of course the doctors at the Houston Medical Center were worried I'd had a heart attack during a procedure to inflate a stent into place and by gosh they'd popped me with more morphine that I thought possible. I felt no pain and my ears worked good. I mention that in passing only to prove my extreme listening skills. If the XGames had a listening event I'd be the equivalent of those kids on BMX bikes that fly through the air to nail the perfect purple twisty ridge walk into a modified quad buckle duplex ending in a red dew bull mondo-sizzle.

In my life I've had the extreme fortune to listen to same amazing music.
I met Johnny Cash.
I saw Willie Nelson on a flat bed trailer in the garage of a Ford dealership with Jimmy Day on steel.
Sat on a hill in the rain at the Ozark Mountain Folk Faire watching folks like John Lee Hooker, Mance Lipscomb, Manson Proffit and others
The all night tribute to Earl Scruggs at K-State
I've met Doug Sahm and seen him in some of best long gone dives in Austin
Was revived by Boss at Memorial Hall on a hot June night with Markle less than a week after youthful indiscretion nearly cost us one of our own
Traveled miles and miles through ice, snow, heat, darkness to see the Dead about 20 times(which isn't a lot, but each time was a treat)
Been to Winfield once or twice

Starts to get pointless trying to list it all, but I've seen lots of great music, listened to more on records, and have found comfort in seeing friends become semi-big deals doing what they dream of doing with a living playing music...

Which brings me to this week.

The last week was just one big burnt donkey(insert profanity or scatological term of your choice here)sandwich with a massive side serving of Oh, f____ with extra WTF sauce. Not to go into all the details or rehash dookie that happened but won't change anything with the recounting, let's just say I was professionally embarrassed,  mistreated, and whizzed on which left me puzzled, depressed, bummed, confused, etc, and on and on and on. It is what it was and it left me struggling to find a path through it and move on. I'm no idiot and during all of it I never even considered bridge burning or stomping off or having a tantrum or cashing in.

However,  I was in a daze. It was one of those funk filled places that make it hard to breathe and your eyes sting. If you drink it is the place that makes you drink more then wake up needing to have been at work several hours ago. It is that hole you find yourself where you are happy for that little girl in the well in Midland or miners trapped a mile down 'cause their situation will only get better.

Get the picture?

In the last 15 years since the infamous "Smack Down Mania of '97" I've gone through a change or two. Not only was I allowed extra time that I wouldn't have gotten if I'd been born in an earlier time, but I had the time for reflection, study, and the gift of learning that has gotten me in touch with notions of peace I hadn't known before.

Like the laughing dude teaches all of everything is interconnected, your best teachers arrive when least expected, because of that this, and don't take yourself too seriously. In times of difficultly, death, and depression the lessons and truths you can see on a clear day are obscured by your fog of confusion. No matter how you try there are days when reality defeats all of your best intentions and the quicksand of your demons keep sucking you deeper into the quagmire.

...and now Friday.

Hotter than hell. Impossible to breathe. At work I fought with the webpage to update a volleyball schedule and when I left at the end of the day suddenly I found I'd lost several hours of work but I've got no idea how.

For the last few weeks our internet connection has been sporadic at best. Some days even checking email has been impossible. I was looking forward to a weekend without access to all my blogs and funny stuff I depend on to keep laughing. I was bummed and tried to take a nap knowing Carson would have a bunch of her friends over to spend the night for her birthday which always leads to a lots of screaming, screeching, laughter, and nerve racking running in the house and barking. (not the little girls, they're teenagers, but the dogs that yap non-stop when the Emilys, she-Riley, and Pamela visit. My theory is they get excited because the girls all make 5 or 6 "costume changes" which confuses the dogs' tiny brains making them think there are dozens of different girls here.)

Around 7 PM Haidee tells me that AT&T says we have line problems beyond us and they did some kind of maintenance and bottom line we have internet back. I log on to check mail and I have my daily email from Rolling Stone Magazine. I have a life-time subscription I paid 40 bucks for 10 years ago. On paper it is until October 2055 when I turn 100 but at that time I have the option to renew for free. I'm reading it and there is something about click here for information for Deadheads. I click.

The Dead...I first heard of them in late '67 and knew they were a San Francisco band. Danny Bryan's big brother had records by the Dead, Quicksilver, the Airplane, Steve Miller, and the Doors. I didn't really become a fan then because I was totally enamored with, "People are Strange" which I thought was the most incredible song I'd ever heard. At 12, obviously  I didn't get all of its message but I related to folks not understanding me. I probably didn't pay much to the Dead again until the fall of my junior year. It was great fall for music.

The year before I'd made the friendships that are still important today. I began hanging out with folks that I am still in touch with today. I was a year older than most of my classmates  in school due to starting kindergarten when I was almost six. When we lived in Graford most Texas  small schools didn't have kindergarten. It pissed me off. Before with left Aberdeen I was already scheduled to start school in the fall of '60. Not getting too was just one reason as much as I loved living in Graford I felt cheated at the same time.

My sophomore year I started hanging out with Lafond who was in my homeroom, who lived around the corner from Goodell who was in my theater class(and introduced me to National Lampoon)David was  friends with neighbor Jay Wilson and they were friends with Stratton and Henson(who I never connected with our principal, Dr. Owen Henson, until one fall evening hanging by the fence at the Hayden football field watching another friend, Larry Zarker play football) and to this day we all stay in touch. That core has supported me for 40 years. When we are together even if we haven't seen each others in ages we might as well have been together the week before. As many as possible gather for the annual FreeState InterFaith Council conclave in Winfield at Simplicity Base.

By the fall of '72 I knew how to take care of records. I'd started listening to  a late night show on the FM station out of Lawrence called TBA. It exposed me to much new music. One of the bands was the Dead. I was open to listening to almost anything. Tom had what I considered a great record collection. He very kindly allowed me to tape some of his records so I could listen to them. Once of those records was Skull & Roses.

Even today that is one of my comfort records. Bummed out, pull out some Dead. Other than Doug Sahm the Dead and all the guys in the band make up a massive share of the music I listen to. Because the music of the Dead is so easily obtained for no cost and is available everywhere due to the bands hippie attitude about not owning the music once they play it...well, what do you expect.

At the website I find out about a streaming tribute on Friday, August 3, starting at 8:30. I have an hour until it starts. Honestly I didn't expect the stream to work. After 3 weeks of junky internet I couldn't convince myself it was actually fixed. Couple that with my luck the rest of the week and my expectations weren't very high.

I got online, first with one computer, but the sound wasn't very good. I got hold of a different lap top and put my high dollar head phones in and cranked it. To begin I had some difficulty so I missed a little of the documentary and settled in and was ready for what I figured  would a two hour special. I figure in my haste I missed that it was previously recorded. Obviously the Lukas Nelson section was pre-taped.  Then it switched into the show from the studio.

Well....about all I can say is DAMNNNNNN!

The sound was awesome the mix was great. The cameras focused on the players and I had it loud.

Most of my life I've believed in the serendipity of life. Stuff works out. Everything is interconnected. Music heals. I know that. Music can be trans-formative and often is. Existence can be magical. When it happens all you can do is smile and let that joy flood over you. I think  enlightenment is possible. There are those moments when everything is aligned. When as, Thich Nhat Hanh says, manifestation occurs when all conditions exist. Musically I've known it listening to Bruce, Al, Willie, and possibly most notably once listening to Stephen Bennett.

Friday night and at what point I couldn't tell you, I got the cosmic smack up the side of my head. I found myself thinking about the many times music has touched me. I thought about everyone of my friends I've ever shared music with, I was overwhelmed by thoughts of family, Haidee & the kids, the joy of music, those that are gone, old girlfriends, lovers, and so much more. I reviewed times of incredible happiness and the worst of despair. I let the music carry me wherever it wanted. I thought of the late Dr. Lee Lispenthal who inspired me and shared his love of rock & roll with me and I recommitted myself to enjoying every sandwich. It was crazy wild.

As part of working through being passed over for a promotion I knew at some point I needed to let go and acknowledge how hurt and angry I was. I guess you could say I hadn't grieved. With all my health junk I try to keep my chin up. It isn't denial exactly but a way to cope, flawed as it might be.
I looked at Lesh and I thought, dang, he is 72. I remember once as a kid watching a Grand Ole Opry package show in the 60's seeing these old honky tonk  guys that were old men but still able to come out and sing a handful of hits and I thought what will happen when folks like the Beatles and Stones are senior citizens. Well....Lesh held up okay and so have lots of others.

Listening to the show was so much fun and I was having such a good time I barely noticed I was crying. Darned if I wasn't. I focused on how good it felt and I smiled thought, shit, the stuff I'd focused on that pissed me off so bad, didn't matter for squat jack dookie.

I settled in and grooved on the music, played air drums, sang along(I knew the words to every song) and because of the camera work it felt like you were right there. You felt like a witness to the joy the players were feeling. It was a thing of beauty.

Then next thing I know it is 5 hours later, 1:30 a.m. and I'm buzzed as I've ever been. Trust me in my life I've known buzzed. I had my focus back on what mattered. I was filled with the buzz that music is supposed to give you. I was wide awake and didn't go to sleep until after four. If it had been possible I would've hit Por'e Richard's when I got back in town and had about 4 cups of coffee and watched the sun come up, crashing only when I finally slowed down later in the afternoon and slept for 24 hours.

Thank god for music, friends, family, loved ones, transformation, the Dead, and Jerry. By golly I was moved as much and as brightly and I couldn't be more happy.

I warned you I'd ramble.

I can't wait for the audio to show up so I can download and listen over and over obsessively.

What I wouldn't give for some of my mom's fried chicken...

I'm not quite sure what mask I ought to be wearing today as I type this. I've got lots on my mind. Much of it positive in nature. Some of it sadly negative. Other things just confuse and befuddle me as much as being ordered to play the good parts of "Helter Skelter" on bag pipes. I'll not go into any detail on that just know it is times like these that make me believe now more than ever that it is just like Ken Kesey said(I paraphrase) It's damn sure a wiggly world and damn it to hell because it won't stand still anyway.

Like the chubby kid from the neighborhood tells Edmund Gween in the locker room at Macy's, "Ain't it da truth, ain't it da truth."

I choose to view today and most of this week as a test that I know I will pass. It is what it is and am what it am. I could cogitate for hours on just why and how it all happened but that will not change the reality of the situation. I'm reminded of the old Buddhist lesson, just one of several I'm calling on today, about an injury caused by an arrow shot by another person. When this happens first we tend to the arrow lodged in our body rather than speculating on who made the arrow, why were those feathers used, how far was the arrow drawn back to give its flight enough energy to fly true, did the bowman eat a breakfast of grains or animal products? Not that these questions don't deserve to be meditated upon, but our first job should be to attend to the effect of the cause that was the arrow.

As I sit here on my lunch break I'm doing just that. I spied this today on FB(which I'm slowly giving up on) from Pema Chodron:

"A question that has intrigued me for years is this: how can we start exactly where we are, with all our entanglements, and still develop unconditional acceptance of ourselves instead of guilt and depression? One of the most helpful methods I’ve found is the practice of compassionate abiding. The next time you realize that you’re hooked, you could experiment with this approach.

Contacting the experience of being hooked, you breathe in, allowing the feeling completely and opening to it. The in-breath can be deep and relaxed—anything that helps you to let the feeling be there, anything that helps you not push it away. Then, still abiding with the urge and edginess of the feeling, as you breathe out you relax and give the feeling space. The out-breath is not a way of sending the discomfort away but of ventilating it, of loosening the tension around it, of becoming aware of the space in which the discomfort is

occurring."
(Taking The Leap)

It was just what I needed today and I'm thankful to a world that allows these realities to manifest themselves. Just one of the aspects of life that make it so special and to sound corny, just so darn neato.

Not wanting to bore others, just know, that by in the morning after seeing and being with Haidee, Carson & Isaac, listening to some music, reading a little, sitting and breathing a bunch, followed by the true pleasure of nocturnal freedom through dreaming, I will wake up having passed this test to a wonderful breakfast of soy milk, Wheaties, and fruit and I will be as happy as a clam.

Background info from the internet:

Why would clams be happy? It has been suggested that open clams give the appearance of smiling. The derivation is more likely to come from the fuller version of the phrase, now rarely heard - 'as happy as a clam at high water'. Hide tide is when clams are free from the attentions of predators; surely the happiest of times in the bivalve mollusc world.  http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/as-happy-as-a-clam.html

Okay, so now I want to gripe a  little. Lots of folks have been referencing the stand of Chik-fil-A in regards to same sex marriage etc. My FB is filled with folks pointing out that they are eating there and others just as forcibly saying they never will again.

To put in perspective in the USA we have a long history and tradition of expressing our opinions with our purse strings. Boycotts fueled by indignation are as common folks unwilling to look at both sides of an issue or same sex couples/families strolling through Disneyland or Wal-Mart. For my purposes I'm not going to argue the issue although anyone that knows me probably can guess where I stand. I won't eat at Chik-Fil-A but that's based on being a vegetarian and even when I wasn't, just not liking how the food tasted. I have an old friend, intelligent as can be who has been around the world but will only eat chicken prepared at that franchise and it isn't just so he can drink a peach malt with it.

Look back at the Family Decency folks not watching ABC or Tipper not buying rap music or youth groups not reading Harry Potter or Caesar not eating lettuce or grapes and all those heroes that  ate at the lunch counters and wouldn't head to the back of the bus. There are just as many liberal causes that boycott to show others where they stand.

So riddle me this, Batman. Scroll down and tell me if you would eat at this chain of diners if they were known to have the very best chicken in the land. How would you feel if some folks weren't welcome there, but dang that chickens good. Or what if the money behind the business supports armed insurrection against all the blue states or gave all hippies free pudding for dessert. What would you do? I'm just asking and really wish folks would leave some sane polite comments. Is it wrong to deny funding to an entity that provides medical testing, family planing and a small percentage of the services are legal yet some think think they are immoral? Would you support a political action group that advocated rounding up all citizens that "look like" followers of one of the several branches of Islam? What if all members of religions that believed in, I'm not sure of the term, "retro Baptism" or maybe all the folks that don't dunk or sprinkle or don't play instruments or sing with an organ or let women provide the lesson or don't let blacks in the pulpit or handle snakes and drink poison. I mention those last two, not out of criticism of anybody's faith, but only because to quote one of the great wandering theologists from the streets of Austin, the curbs of the Guadalupe, "I got me a word for nat, I call nat f^&#ing crazy, nat what I call nat. Scare me hecka me. You seen Rayger?" 

Please scroll down and let me know what you'd do for good chicken.

http://depts.washington.edu/civilr/coon_chicken.htm      Some background about the historic franchise

Book Challenge

A week doesn't go by that I don't see a book or record or movie challenge posted on social networking sites. There's a lengthy list of items and the challenge is to see how many of choices you've read or watched etc.  


I always wonder who made the list. Sometimes they seem to make sense and other times I wonder who the heck picked these things. It never seems like I've read or watched any of the titles. I decided I might as well make a list of books I think are important. The only criteria is that I think they should be read. I stuck with fiction except for two fine examples of non-fiction novels. In the future I might add more. I put the list together quickly so I know I'm missing books I will slap myself in the forehead about when I realize I forgot them.


Here's the challenge...how many of these have you read?


Leave a comment with the number you've read. If you want, mention which one is most important to you.


Out of this list I'd note, Sometimes a Great Notion, by Ken Kesey.

The Incomplete List of Important Books as of June 2012

LOLITA by Vladimir Nabokov

THE SOUND AND THE FURY by William Faulkner

CATCH-22 by Joseph Heller

THE GRAPES OF WRATH by John Steinbeck

THE HEART IS A LONELY HUNTER by Carson McCullers

SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE by Kurt Vonnegut

INVISIBLE MAN by Ralph Ellison

NATIVE SON by Richard Wright

WINESBURG, OHIO by Sherwood Anderson

AS I LAY DYING by William Faulkner

ALL THE KING’S MEN by Robert Penn Warren

DELIVERANCE by James Dickey

PORTNOY’S COMPLAINT by Philip Roth

LIGHT IN AUGUST by William Faulkner

ON THE ROAD by Jack Kerouac

THE MALTESE FALCON by Dashiell Hammett

THE MOVIEGOER by Walker Percy

DEATH COMES FOR THE ARCHBISHOP by Willa Cather

THE CATCHER IN THE RYE by J.D. Salinger

RAGTIME by E.L. Doctorow

SOPHIE’S CHOICE by William Styron
A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY by John Irving

ABSALOM, ABSALOM! by William Faulkner

WISE BLOOD by Flannery O’Connor

THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP by John Irving

NAKED LUNCH by William S. Burroughs

ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST by Ken Kesey

MY ANTONIA by Willa Cather

ILLUSIONS by Richard Bach

Zoli by Colum McCann

The Chosen by Chaim Potok

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier

The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall

Red Light at Morning by Richard Bradford

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

No Great Mischief, A Novel by Alistair MacLeod

Forever by Pete Hamil

The Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer

The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols

The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenedes

A Distant Trumpet Paul Horgan

Leaving Cheyenne by Larrry McMurtry

Crooked River Burning by Mark Winegardner

Masters of Atlantis by Charles Portis

Cloudsplitter by Russell Banks

The Yiddish Policemen’s Union by Michael Chabon

The Mammoth Cheese by Sheri Holman

Twilight by William Gay

Woe to Live On by Daniel Woodrell

Remember Ben Clayton by Stephen Harrigan

The Lords of Discipline by Pat Conroy

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver

The Master Butchers Singing Club by Louise Erdrich

Bucking the Sun by Ivan Doig

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Feast Day of Fools by James Lee Burke

Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson

America, America by Ethan Canin

The Gay Place by Billy Lee Bramer

Strange Peaches by Bud Shrake
The Road by Cormac McCarthy

No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy

Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving

Cider House Rules by John Irving

Diezmo by Rich Bass

The Heartsong of Charging Elk by James Welch

Peace Like a River by Lief Enger

Shoeless Joe by W. P. Kinsella

Montana 1948 by James Welch

The Propheteers by Max Apple

The Fool’s Progress, an Honest Novel by Edward Abbey

SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION by Ken Kesey

A Moment in the Sun by John Sayles

Geronimo Rex by Barry Hannah

The Time it Never Rained by Elmer Kelton

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Slaughter-House Five by Kurt Vonnegut

the ramblings of a nut

Reading as much as I do and taking in all the different and varying opinions I'm exposed to over the years I've never been able to bring myself to writing my own obituary ahead of time. I'm not afraid of death it just seemed sort of creepy. I think a part of me thought that if I went ahead an wrote it out then the cosmic forces being what they were might just decide, "He's ready. Let's pull that plug!"

I submit there is a difference between being ready and desiring something to happen now, right this minute. As I sit and type I'm ready for the next time they decide to cut me open, stop my heart, and stitch in some veins they grabbed out of my leg(left, this time as they've already harvested from the right and just what did they do with the extra that was left over. I never saw a credit on my bill where it showed what they got for those inches of good vein) and glued me shut after replacing the baling wire they used to pull the sternum back together. Do I want that to happen latter today?  Nope! Would I like them to wait as long as possible? You bet! Even with that said, I'm ready. I wasn't the first time, but now I think of it sort of like having a to do list or my own special version of a bucket list.

I'm not a big fan of bucket lists. My focus is more on just doing as much stuff as I can. I don't want to check off items on a list and then say, okey dokey let's blow this pop stand we call life.

I love life.

I've always seen an obit as a celebration although some of them certainly aren't written that way. I don't want a traditional one and I don't want a traditional service either. I want to be cremated and have my ashes spread at a designated place I've already told my wife and kids.

But before they do that....I want a big bang, the service/gathering to be at a time when as many friends as relatives as possible can be there. I want to give folks plenty of travel time 'cause I know folks all over. I want there to be lots of food, a pot luck, lots of desserts and beverages and if possible a pot-latch of some kind where folks can bring good stuff to pass around. It would give my wife and kids a good chance to go through all my stuff that they constantly tell me I have too much of  and re-purpose or just  get rid of it. Honestly I think they should try to sell the first editions and collectible stuff but to be real honest I don't plan on needing any of it after I'm gone.

The cremation thing, not all my ashes need to end up where I've told them about. If anybody wanted to take a scoop and do whatever they wanted, fine by me. Mix me with some adobe bricks or toss me up at Winfield or fashion a pendant from glass made from me. I don't care. Be creative.

Back to the gathering. It should be fun. Maybe a bocce or Frisbee golf tournament or a kite flying festival. I like those ideas. I'd like a bonfire at some point, but really more a big campfire to sit around and tell stories, sing songs, or come up with some way to celebrate life and/or do some good for somebody else. In the end everybody would head home not grieving but in a better mood with jokes to tell, songs to sing, and melodies to hum.

That's what I want to happen. When that time comes if H_____ and the kids don't want that, well.....don't do it. Do whatever will help you guys. I think it might be a good idea to hang on to some souvenirs that were important to me, the good luck box, bracelets, stuff I liked, theme shirts, whatever,  because when the monks show up dragging a little kid to look over items spread out on a blanket, if he picks my stuff you will know he isn't an important lama, he has good taste, and/or the resurrected James Dean lives on.

So here it is. I've redacted anything that I thought might jinx me. I'd hate to be as cursed as Joe Btfsplk.

 My all time favorite photo. If it is used in the obit folks will feel sorry for the little kid and just might stick around to read the rest of it if they aren't to ticked off to find out I'm really an old guy.

I've redacted much identifying data but not all.

 

Here’s the thing. R#### D## C##### who was born October #, 1955(his uncle D##  M#####'s ##th birthday) in Aberdeen, South Dakota, to Dr. J### “B###”  C#####, USDA-APHIS-VS  and S#### M##### C#####, journalist, has punched the time clock for the last time. He was ____  in your Earth Humonnn years. What happens next, well that is pretty much determined by what you believe. R#### figured he was finally done jacking around with all that, “heart and lung b.s.” that had plagued him the last ___years. He is survived in spite of all efforts to the contrary by his wife, H##### L## C#####, son I#### M#####, and daughter C##### L#####. R#### leaves behind a bunch of friends and relatives that are really too numerous to mention but in keeping with his wishes these few will be, brother C_____, sister C_____,  and the executive steering committee of the FreeState InterFaith Council including but not limited to, #____, #__, and #___. 

Throughout life R#### was very aware of the impact others had on his life and he wanted to mention as many as possible including relatives, teachers, friends, old girlfriends, mentors and enemies, however now that this notice is actually being written it just doesn’t quite seem to be so fitting.

Lots of stuff happened to R#### during his life. He had lots of jobs and he liked some of them. Often he expressed that these aspects of his life be mentioned at the time of his passing.

How proud he was of his wife and kids.

He made the film documentary, Los Matavacas, which told the story of the joint efforts of  Mexico and the U.S. to contain the foot and mouth epidemic that threatened the livestock industries of both countries during the late 1940’s and early ‘50’s.

Riley read the complete works of William Faulkner for “fun”

He wrote or co-wrote with his brother and actually completed many non produced feature length screenplays including, Bundies, 100 Pieces, & What did you expect...a bubble bath?

He once owned a house in G______, Texas.

He worked for nearly five years in his grandfather’s grocery store, M_____ Grocery.

He gave us the Christmas potato.

He lived to see both his children graduate from High School and college.

He loved the Big Bend region of West Texas and would have liked to end up there.

Near the end he wanted to communicate these bits of wisdom to the world.

1. Read lots of books, watch lots of movies, listen to lots of music and krunklle as many glicknods as you can(obscure references to actions and items that haven't even been thought up at the time of this writing and yes, they will exist as surely as we will become a nation dependent on all natural weasel power.)
2. Hug your family whenever you get the chance.
3. Sing everyday.
4. Use profanity responsibly.
5. Say thank you.
6. Remember, the finger pointing at the moon is not the moon.
7. Because of that, this.
8. Don’t slag the other kids’ music, because sometimes a kid’s music is the only flag he has to wave.
9. Kids are the coolest deal and there’s no place like home.
10. A-P-O-T-P

and thus it was written....

Wise lessons from our elders..

and thus preach our elders...

A friend of mine was having a stressful week at work. Luckily, the words of my late father came to me and I was able to offer my friend the following sagely & timeless advice:

Try to remember, don't let the donkey behinds know they are winning. (for the sake of demonstration and discussion I will use the term donkey to refer also to the mule, a popular mixed breed offspring of a male donkey and female horse which results in a genetic quandary luckily nearly always sterile) When they get stubborn bite their ear or use an old trick Dad taught me.

When a donkey won't move insert a length of well oiled(Dad always said use that grease you pack ball bearings with)garden hose in their back side, Most donkey behinds relish the sensation. Then get a big funnel, insert into free end of hose, and pour in  2 quarts to a gallon of diesel or regular gasoline. The fragrance is very intoxicating to the animal as well. Light a candle and very carefully move it to a position within a foot or two of the donkey's tail end.

Here's the tough part, quietly approach from behind, he said a lot of times they'd get one guy in front to distract them usually by humming or whistling quietly a regional folk tune or popular ballad, while the donkey is diverted gently massage and or tickle the area just behind the residence of the donkey's non-fertile cascarones(very literally confetti filled eggs although the donkey's seem empty of any colorful bits of paper).

Usually in less than 5 minutes the donkey begins exhaling force-ably, snorting, followed by a full body violent shudder, Immediately following the shuddering the donkey's eyes will roll back in the sockets and the donkey will break wind quite violently. When that occurs one of two things can happen.

1. The open flame will ignite the octane enriched methane causing the donkey to blow up into millions of minute pieces of bloody donkey flesh.
or
2. If on the off chance that somehow the donkey survives the explosion, miraculously in more or less one piece, well...you'd just better do whatever he tells you and hope he doesn't find out it was you who blew gasoline up his......

on second thought...

At first I had no thought of posting the following. It was written for my son and wife so they would know that I understood a tough decision Isaac had to make. Lots of parents go through similar experiences with their kids. By posting it here I am making my support for my son even more clear.

At the gloaming of my son's high school career...

Today is a sad day for me. My son has decided to quit his school's one act play. I've talked with him at length about his decision. After honestly listening to him, even though it might not be the decision I'd make( no matter how empathetic, one can never  know completely another person's subjective position)I think he is making the only decision he can make. Hearkening back to my "consequentialist" days I know he has done the prerequisite meditation to qualify this as the "right" choice. I applaud his resolve even though it fills me with sadness.

To comprehend the seriousness of his decision you have to understand that for most of the last four years his extracurricular school life has centered around the theater program. He has participated at all levels with dedication and persistence. He's won acting awards and gained skills as he learned more and more of the craft. Last December a student directed production he was in caused me to laugh out loud and seemed to me the most honest production I've seen at his school in many years. As a senior he was an officer in their Thespian Troupe and accepted a small role in this year's one act play. This spring he was scheduled to direct a student production.

Isaac stayed with the program even after what I'd think of as the worst experience of a student actor's life. During his sophomore year he was cast as the lead in the one act play. It was an admitted gamble on the director's part and Isaac was up to the challenge. Reality suggested that it wasn't going to work and weeks into the production Isaac was replaced. To Isaac's credit he took a small chorus member's role and gambled onward through the fog.

It would be pointless to recount everything that contributed to Isaac deciding in the last week to leave the show. My point isn't to argue the merits of his decision, one he made more or less on the day he reached the age of majority. Possibly he felt that with his new found voice in world affairs it was time he expressed how he felt about the theater program. I've always tried to encourage my kids to express themselves, advocate for themselves, and stand up for what they think is right. Admittedly I get frustrated when I think my kids aren't standing up for themselves. Both of them have been blessed with the ability to think and express themselves. I wish they would use those gifts and skills to do the right thing.

I've given all of this more than just a little bit of thought. It isn't my battle. I don't want Isaac to stay in theater because I want him to. I want him to do what he knows that he must.

I've slept since all of this started.

In English there is no exact equivalent  for  the term "Dukkha." Take your pick of these approximations, "intolerable", "unsustainable", "difficult to endure",  "imperfect", and "unsatisfying", all of which describe that state of being all of us will find ourselves in at sometime. That reality is often referred to as one of the four noble truths. I think in regard to the one act play Isaac found himself in a state of dukkha. Luckily there is a solution for that reality.(yet another noble truth)

Non-attachment, removing oneself from the situation, severing yourself from expectations about how things "ought" to be can all be steps to finding peace. Isaac is doing what he is able to at this point in his life to deal with a situation he has thought about with much effort. In his own way he is setting an example. When a situation is toxic beyond repair sometimes it is best to remove yourself. There are plenty of adults that can't do that. He isn't trying to start a revolution, but he is  giving up something that once gave him a sense of identity, that was very important to him, that he will miss, because he saw it has the only solution to a problem at this time.

Sure, some will say he gave up. Nobody would say that if had heard him explain things or if they'd watched as he explained the same thing to an authority figure in a position of power over students. Isaac rationally explained directly to  a person others have said they were afraid to discuss similar issues with. Isaac stood his ground. His story never wavered. It took courage.

I'm sad. Not just for Isaac, but for a system that would allow dominoes to fall in the pattern that would allow this reality to exist. Something isn't right when Isaac knows that the only thing he can do to achieve peace is to sacrifice something that had been so important to him. It bothers me others don't see that.

I'm also extremely proud of my son. I hope that other well thought out decisions he makes in the future will not be so painful for him.