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