Ghosty as Zombies

It's the end of June, the perfect Time Of The Season for another Ghosty tribute night. This time they are the 60s British group, The Zombies. I'm all but Goin' Out Of My Head with excitement for Friday night's performance at the Taproom, which will feature openers The Jake Blanton band. I strongly recommend you come out and see these guys play. They Are Friends Of Mine. They Are Friends of Mine. And they've got something that's so hard to find.

See you Friday. And if you've got other plans, I Don't Want To Know.

photo courtesy of The Zombies. Top photo by Jenn and Dave.

ornithology

In response to last week's post about carrying an owl to Athens (and Lawrence), one reader asked if I had personally seen any owls when I went to Athens. I must say that I did not, though after looking at my picture-cards, I realized that I did see a number of other birds during my travels through Hellas.

Firstly, my new friend Jake and I located a variety of birds in a zoo-like section of a public park in the centre of the city. There were no zookeepers in sight, but the animals were clearly fed and kept in a series of bird fences and cages. The most irascible of these fowl was this baby ostrich.


Jake and I were still delirious from the overnight ferry ride, and we just stood and looked at this bird and talked back to it, saying "aassstrich" repeatedly and giggling. I must have taken 20 pictures of the thing. It was so cute, yet so dirty.

There was also a flock of ducks running in circles, crazily. This might be one of my favorite pictures I took the whole trip.



On an excursion to Delphi, I saw these mythical ostriches in the museum.



As you can see, birds in a Greece are a tough, hard-to-tame bunch that don't take shit off of anybody. They will, however, take a shit on just about anybody, as this unfortunate fellow found out near Athens' Bathhouse of the Winds.


I'd hate to end this field report on such a sordid note, so here's a sweet song by the Beach Boys called "Little Bird."

Also, if there are any birds of prey reading this right now, it would be a huge help if you could swoop in my window and take care of that pesky mouse I saw in my apartment yesterday. Thanks a bunch!

summer

It's officially summer now, the perfect time to go on a wild one. Actually, this picture is from last Bastille Day (I've grown 6 inches and put on 45 lbs of muscle since then) but you might find me in a similar position before Sunday's kickball game. Blue Collar 4 eva.

Last night I went to a bonfire kindled by some friends of mine north of Lawrence. There were a lot of babies, some bluegrass and a dog that was as large as a horse.

Tonight I'm going to see the farewell performance by The Fairer Sex. Zach is moving to Texas, Ed to Morocco. Life goes on. I will let you know when their album is available, because I know for a fact that it is a winner. I even contributed 54 seconds of banjo.

love,

LW

German Jazz Funeral

The open book market in Bonn had some interesting books, including an old collection of blues tunes and spirituals translated by Guenter Grass himself (unless it's a different guy by the same name). Accompanying the lyrics and music are stained-glass resembling illustrations of John Brown, Louie Armstrong, a buffalo hunt and other scenes from jazz history and the American West. I've learned a few of these songs in translation, such as this version of "When The Saints Go Marching In." Eventually it would be fun to do this with a full jazz band, but for now it's just voice and guitar. Look for a fully electrified, punk-rock version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" (Komm herab, suesse Kusche) in the near future. For now, here's this.

intimacy, blogging, guns

I still don't know exactly what the fuss is about blogging. I went back and looked at Wil Wheaton's blog, which I'm told is one of the most popular ones out there. I also randomly came across the blog of some housewife (there are more of these than you might think) complaining that people were stealing her ideas without giving credit, which hurts her feelings because she spends all of her "precious-kids-are-sleeping-time" blogging (and this is the thanks she gets!)

The popularity of blogs baffle me, but from what I can tell, the more personally revealing the content, the more fanatic the response.

With this in mind, I'd like to go out on a limb tonight and let you in on some things I've kept hidden from everyone for the past couple of years -- hidden from even myself.

The following is a list of things that I just recovered from under the cushions and crevices of my living room couch:

- a drumstick (for playing drums, not the kind you eat)
- a stick of "silk & shine" lip gloss
- a strawberry Capri Sun (empty, flattened)
- a broken pencil
- a pink Crayola "glitter" crayon
- a ticket stub from the KC Symphony's performance of Mozart's Requiem
- a matchbook from Neurolux, a nightclub in Boise, Idaho with a "pleasant atmosphere" (weird because I've never been to Boise)
- the remote control for my CD player
- a graphic pin of "Dashboard Confessional" (who I swear I've never listened to)
- a bunch of lint
- John Cale's "Vintage Violence" CD (strange because I had the song "Big White Cloud" in my head all day)
- enough change to get two Tacos at Taco John's (but only on Tuesdays)
- a 9-chamber LeMat revolver left over from the Civil War (not true, but wouldn't that be neat)

Actually, I shouldn't joke about guns popping up in unlikely places. When brother Dave returned James's Jeep after borrowing it for a few months, he called to have me check and make sure he hadn't left something specific behind. I didn't find what he was asking about, but I did find $120 in an envelope maked "Ghosty." Also, when I reached under the driver's seat, I felt a cold, heavy object that I removed to take a closer look at.

A handgun.

I was a bit frightened for a moment until I realized it was one of those air gun things that shoots tiny yellow plastic balls. James had lost it a year before, but we'd always assumed our Mom had confiscated it because she hated how it looked and felt like the real thing, especially since James had painted over the orange tip to make it look more like a real firearm. Apparently it had been under the seat for the entire time Dave had the car.

Fortunately, Dave hadn't been pulled over at any point and had the car searched. That could have been disasterous. They probably would have taken him for an armed gangster named "Ghosty."

I'll be back to post more photos, news and KC-related stories soon, but I'm glad I could share these intimate details with you today. Thank you for reading -- it means so much. I wish I could respond to all of you personally, but as you can see the comments have been pouring in and I just don't have the time. A blogger's work is never done!

Everything was better when you were 12

According to Tom The Dancing Bug.

I Carry An Owl To Lawrence

One evening a year ago, I stood on the Acropolis and, with a sense of deep fulfillment, I released an owl that I had carried to Athens.

My decision to do so had taken shape one night when I couldn't sleep. In such dark hours, I make decisions that I then immediately carry out, circumstances at all permitting. This new and so far perhaps boldest decision could not be put into effect all that easily, but its realization could be prepared right away. I dressed and went off to see my bird dealer. His shop is closed at night, needless to say; regular patrons use a concealed night bell. I rang and was soon standing among cloth-draped cages in the nocturnal dimness of the bird shop. The owner asked me what I would like.

"An owl, please," I said.

"Aha," he said, winking, as if relishing the shrewd expertise of his client. "You're a connoisseur. Most customers make the mistake of selecting an owl in daylight. Should I gift-wrap it?"

"No. It's not for me. I'd like to carry it to Athens."

-- excerpt from "I Carry An Owl To Athens" by Wolfgang Hildesheimer, translated by Joachim Neugroschel.

This story, which like all of Hildescheimer's short works is quite hilarious, follows one man's quest to complete an act which was historically considered to be the epitome of superfluousness (on account of there already being so many owls in Athens, since owls are Athene's spirit animal and Athens is Athene's city).

As you can see from the above photo, I completed a similar mission by carrying an owl all the way to Lawrence, Kansas. Which is also quite superfluous, although perhaps for different reasons.

If you'd like to read more of Hildesheimer's stories, you can read the complete text of the owl story in German here. Or you can pick up a used copy of his translated story collection on Amazon for super-cheap. Or find it at Watson Library. Or borrow mine.

The picture, I must add, comes from the freshly posted series of outtakes from the Urban Photo Safari Jennifer and I undertook this weekend. Usually the event takes place in Kansas City, but they moved it to Lawrence this year to shake things up. Come Friday, you can see the selections of 20 or so weekend photographers on the Urban Photo Safari site.



For a view of what I'm looking out at from my perch in the top photo, here's a picture I took myself back in 2005.

never too young to rock

Wakarusa Fest has come and gone, though many colorful buskers and drifter-types will tarry on in Larrytown indefinitely. And why not? There's a nice downtown, a river and flavored ice of many colors available at Tad's Tropical Snow (on the NW corner of Ninth & Iowa Streets). Yes, a carefree festivalgoer in this part of the world has much to be happy about.

Myself, however... I still get out to shows, but I don't always feel the same enthusiasm as the kids. Still, the nice thing about taking a chance on catching a band live is that once in a while something will blow you away, sometimes when (and where) you least expect it.

Last Sunday evening, while driving north on New York Street, I saw a group of adults standing in a front yard, smiling and facing the house as if it were a stage. I didn't see anyone on the porch, though. Until I got closer.

There were indeed someones on the porch, which had been transformed into a stage by four young children playing a full-out rock show, complete with keyboard, drums and an electric guitar with a mini-amplifier. I had no choice but to pull over and watch.

When I walked up, the parents and neighbors welcomed me, but warned that I might become a captive audience. Their warnings arrived too late. I was already fascinated as I watched a song with a solid rhythm and actual melody break down into youthful rebellion.

The song I walked up to was apparently to be their last, but as shouts of "encore" rang out from the crowd, the lead singer/guitarist, a boy with long blond hair and a Superman t-shirt, picked his guitar up, hesitated for a moment, and yelled "They want one more? We'll give 'em one more!"

The crowd didn't just want an instrumental, though. They shouted for a boy named Henry to sing. When Henry -- who must have been about 5 -- screamed his disapproval, his parents only encouraged him further, shouting "Just like that!" Henry, however, was not having it, and he responded by swinging his microphone (which was either a toy or a plastic gardening tool) at his bandmates.

The drummer had barely struck up a beat on the makeshift floor toms when Henry's mic stand came down on his left hand, knocking out one of his drumsticks. The drummer, a kind of Keith Moon for the very young, retrieved it with his left hand while fending Henry off with his right foot.

Inspired by this outburst, the guitarist/singer shouted "I know! We'll call this song The Fight!" and then launched into a fast-paced riff.

The keyboardist, the only female member of the group, played on as if unaware of the chaos her bandmates were caught up in. She played melodic -- at times almost atonal -- lines that recalled the keyboards on "Sister Ray," and both her capable playing and distinguished posture held the band together nicely.

The rhythm section soon brought the encore to a shambolic halt, which was met by passionate applause and whistling from the crowd. The band members may have been short in stature, but this was punk rock on a grand scale.

As I walked away and bid farewell to the parents who had welcomed me, I marveled at what a fun set it had been. Even if I'd only seen one song, it might have been the best show I've ever been to.

(the above photo was not taken at this show, but is from the set Jenn took for the Only Children's feature on Spin.com)

A Perpetual Mixtape

As budding library scientist BWB once famously stated, "Everybody's DJing a Podcast somewhere, Wetzel." Meaning that, just because you put somebody's songs up on the net, that doesn't autmatically make you "cool beans."

Nonetheless, when you hear music you really like, you want to share it. And if you've ever been a DJ of any kind, disseminating tunes can become almost a compulsion.

This is the story of the lukebox, a perpetual mixtape that I just uploaded a bunch of songs to today. This custom-made jukebox requires no quarters, just clicks of the mouse. You'll find a nice variety of artists represented, including the Dutch group pictured above. Enjoy.

UPDATE: You can now listen to thelukebox in iTunes. Just go to www.thelukebox.libsyn.com and find the orange RSS feed icon in the lower left sidebar. Drag that icon into your iTunes podcast folder and it should come up with an arrow that leads to all the songs I've posted so far. They'll start out in grey, but all you have to do is click "get" and wait a few moments to hear the song you select. Perfect for those of you who are at work and want to sample a variety of songs and artists.

KC celebrity sightings, part 1

Last month, while dining at one of the sidewalk tables of Chipotle on 39th Street, a guy approached Jenn and I and asked us for a few dollars for cab fare. While that isn't too unusual, the guy's appearance (clean-cut, white, collared shirt) were a bit atypical for a Midtown panhandler. He said his car broke down and he needed to catch a cab back to Overland Park. We didn't have any cash, and while the guy's story didn't sound too far-fetched, the broke-down car story always sounds suspect. He said thanks anyway and walked on to try his luck at Starbucks.

About 15 minutes later, he walked back by. "Any luck?" I asked. Not yet, he said. He said he'd been at KU Med Center earlier visiting a friend and the limo hadn't waited for him. "So your car isn't broken down?" we asked, somewhat rhetorically. He shook his head and told us a few unsolicited details about his situation. He was 44-years-old, had gone to Rockhurst and was just in town to visit his Mom. He had left Starbucks just then because some people had recognized him from working for the Royals and he was worried that something might get into the paper. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things they printed in New York, he said.

"You worked for the Royals?" I asked

"Yeah, well...I was a pitcher."

"Really? What's your name?"

"David," he said. Then a pause. "Do you follow baseball?" he asked.

I was pretty sure who it was, but for some reason I went ahead and asked his last name. Sure enough, it was D. Cone, one of the top pitchers in the MLB for a decade and a three-time World Series Champ. Why he was asking us for money was anyone's guess, but I think it might have had something to do with alcohol. He'd had a great night at the Plaza the night before, he said. But tonight was not going quite as well.

After giving the appearance that we had no idea who he was, things were kind of awkward, so he said goodbye and walked off. Jenn remembers him saying, "Look it up, the stats are there," but I don't remember that part.

As soon as we got home, we looked up old Dave on the net. From the first photo we saw, it was unmistakably the same guy.


Pitcher D. Cone rejoices with teammates after receiving enough change from strangers to pay for cab fare to Overland Park.

And the stats were indeed there, from the Cy Young Award to All-Star selections to being only the 16th pitcher to ever throw a perfect game. There were also some more colorful stats, however, such as the New York Post headlines reading "Weird Sex Act in Bullpen." I could list a few of the other stories/rumors we uncovered, both positive and negative, but this piece from the Village Voice probably does it best. As talented and well-spoken as he may be, my boss's description of Cone as "a troubled soul" struck me as particularly apt.

But it is not for this blog to pass judgment on a fellow Kansas Citian. Rockhurst guys don't always make a great first impression, but they are usually good people at heart. I just hope the next millionaire I meet at Chipotle is handing out cash instead of looking for a handout.


Fans go crazy after Cone scores enough cash to buy a burrito to eat while riding home in stranger-sponsored cab to Johnson County.

Ode To Mark Trail

To kick off what should be an exciting summer of exploring the ancient art of the blog, I am going to hit you all today with a requested "Ode To Mark Trail." This lyrical celebration of one of King Features' finest archaic-looking comic strips was originally performed at the 2000 KU Scholarship Hall spring "Coffee House," which was basically a talent show for kids living in the schol halls.

My dramatic reading of the piece was accompanied by renowned multi-instrumentalist Charlie Rose on banjo. No recordings exist, but if you find some banjo music and read the piece out loud, you'll get the idea. Following the piece are a few links to some other comics-related humor, but for now, please take a deep breath and join me in honoring one of America's finest protectors of wildlife, Sir Marcus Trail:

Ode to Mark Trail

Oh great woodsman
gentle naturalist
fearless ranger of our land
it was many years before my birth
when Jack Elrod first breathed life
into your two-dimensional frame
He created you
But since then you've taken on your own life
a life of putting out forest fires
preserving our national parks
and securing streams for biological experimentation
Eternally 32, your wife's name is Cherry
and you have a dog named Andy
Your adopted son Rusty is the top student
in his bible class
You're a great man, Mr. Trail
The ghost of John Muir smiles down upon your brow
from his perch in the great Sequoia tree
You spend your days hunting, fishing
and pursuing the simple pleasures
Smoky's your teddy bear
and Sam's your favorite uncle
Jesus is just all right with you
In fact, he is more than all right
But all too often, your
woodland paradise is threatened
That, Mr. Trail, is when you
spring into action
If a wealthy rancher has cattle
on damaged soil, you won't
hesitate in telling him to move.
If careless backpackers trample the
fragile tundra,
You'll steer them back on the proper path
Not just any joker can kill deer in your woods
Only a joker with a hunting license
You preserve the dwindling wetlands
and combat the crass commercialism
that creeps into even the most remote forests
You keep America's greatest natural
treasures free from thugs,
gangsters, and sometimes even, goons
I remember one colorful Sunday
you told your readers all about
rare and fragile species of sea turtles
You told us about Stumpy, the
Chinese Box Turtle who spent 8
miserable years cooped up in a tank
with nothing to eat but raw steak meat
We also heard about Kymberly,
the desert tortoise whose
shell barely covered her pathetic little body
She was so undernourished that,
while her body grew, her shell did not
These stories you tell are often heartbreaking
But your efforts to help animals are
nothing short of miraculous
No ruthless corporation or
reckless redneck can slow you down
they might as well reverse
the orbit of the earth
or stop an oncoming truck with
their bare hands.
Decency, thy name is Trail
There will be no drug use in the Appalachians
No public urination in Yellowstone,
No indecent sex in Rocky Mountain National Park
so long as Trail wears his badge
To that, I say thank you, Mr. Trail
Thank you

For more Mark Trail-related humor, try out this guide for Trailheads. For some brilliant critical studies of other Funny Page institutions, visit the Comic Strip Doctor. And for a daily dose of cynical comics commentary, I recommend the Comics Curmudgeon.

Until next time, which I swear will be soon.