Ice Cream Gets On Your Face

Life lately has been a veritable McFlurry of activity. Maybe you have heard the old jazz standard, "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes," (used as a theme song for early generation smoking ban proponents). Well the modern-day version of this chart for my friends is "McFlurry Gets On Your Face." Hey, did you know you can now rent movies at McDonald's? Yes, it only costs one dollar (per night). And you can drop them off at McDonald's anywhere, including Albany, Missouri. The catch is that McDonalds employees, especially in rural areas such as Albany where the locals are not familiar with DVDs, have had a hard time incorporating digital video disc technology into their customer service. This has resulted in several hilarious but deadly scenarios including people being served DVD on a Big Mac bun and shards of disc in their french fries. Even more alarming, some people have even reported opening up their drive-thru bag only to find their double cheeseburger pressed between the bulging covers of a plastic DVD case. McDonalds has shown their willingness to be technologically innovative, but no one said it would be easy...

At the McDonalds yesterday, kids were still lighting off fireworks, and the playpen reeked of gunpowder while country kids smoked cigarettes. This gave us the idea to market a brand of cigarette called "Black Cat Lights." You could smoke it and at some point it would detonate, mildly. This would allow people to play high-risk party games such as "Russian Roulette Cigarette."

The McDonalds yesterday was also in a state of emergency, as they were plumb out of lots of essentials until the truck arrived that night.



This blog is kind of in the same shape. Many of you have expressed amazement at the breadth of topics covered on this amateur Web page, but surely none of you are naive enough to think it's all entirely original material. No, sir, to keep this site going at the rate of at least one post per week I must hire barely trained English undergrads in community colleges across the nation to ghostwrite my material. But given the floods, Jackson County street violence and hostile takeover of K-Dot turnpike shacks by vultures, the material does not always make it through in a timely manner. For this I apologize.

There is indeed much to ketchup on here in mcbloggyville. The Fourth of July always brings a wave of musings on what it means to be an American, what it means to be free. I promise to serve up a nice cold 44oz rhapsoda once the smoke clears.


thanks to cate for top foto

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.

thursday tracks: maurice sendak meets carole king

There once was a boy named Pierre, who only would say "I don't care". From Maurice Sendak's 1975 TV special, with the "Nutshell Library" stories set to music by Carole King. View it here.

Mountain View

A few months ago, an editor I work with told me about Mountain View, Arkansas, a town nestled deep in the Ozarks where people sit around an old courthouse square and play folk and bluegrass music into the wee hours of the morning. Last week, after attending a wedding in Springfield, Missouri, Jennifer and I decided to go there.

Rather than take the quickest roads, we chose a winding path through the rolling hills of Mark Twain national forest. On the way we saw a bunch of lovely old buildings, like the defunct Ledbetter filling station, the Hercules church and a rundown dance club called "Faye's Place." Faye, however, appeared to have hung up her dancing shoes, judging by the failing condition of her little blue building. A man sat idling in a pick-up truck while we took photos, and we wondered if maybe he was a jilted dance partner who parked there each day with the hopes that one day Faye would return.




Welcome to Mountain View

We made it to Mountain View with enough time to check out some flea markets, instrument stores and courtsquare itself. I got to try out an autoharp, and Jennifer tried out a rocking chair that was big enough for bigfoot. There were lots of people milling around, and already a few bluegrass jams and hootenannies were in session.

If you're planning to go to Mountain View, there are a few things you should know. First of all, it might as well be the 1950s there, based on the look and feel of the town. A sign on the way into town said "Mountain View: 3 miles ahead and 50 years behind." That seemed pretty accurate to me, but not at all a bad thing. Prices were low, people were friendly, and the chocolote phosphates and coke floats at the soda-fountain were mixed just right.

Secondly, Mountain View is located in a dry county, so you need to bring your own hooch. Dry though it is, Stone County does not necessarily equal stone sober. We saw plenty of people walking around with cups that might have contained beer or liquor, but the only thing getting hammered on the courthouse square that night was a dulcimer.

It's also not the most diverse place. You can buy confederate flags at a nearby general store, and you might see one sewn onto a leather jacket here and there. The people we met were very friendly, so I don't want to portray them as otherwise, but I'm not sure how welcome I would feel there if I weren't white.

Mirror Lake and the Old Mill

Before settling into the evening's jamborees, we took a short drive up to the Ozark National Forest and hiked around to a lake and springs. We followed another path below the waterfall until we saw a stone building that looked like it was the ruins of an old church. We climbed around the window openings and used them to frame a series of photographs.




Once we picked up the trail again, a sign overlooking the building we'd been climbing in said it was an old mill that had been partially deconstructed during World War II. The window ledge we'd been taking pictures on was where the water wheel used to be.

Just Pickin'

The most notable feature of Mountain View, of course, is the music. Everywhere you look, there's several groups of musicians gathered in a circle and picking on some tune or another. I heard Hank Williams songs, country standards, and one rather large woman with an American flag bandana belted out a whiskey-themed song with the refrain, "And I won't go home with a wild turkey like you."


The most pleasant and intimate session we watched took place in a gazebo in a small park off the main square. About four or five guys held the session together, with a few coming and going as the night went on.

My favorite individual song was an original by one of these men, a guitarist who sang a slow number about how he's tired of chasing rainbows, because rainbows are so hard to find. Jenn's favorite was the violinist, an elderly man who treated us to the sweetest and saddest melodies we'd hear all weekend. After about 11:30, while the rest of them strummed on, he quietly packed up his fiddle and walked off into the shadows with a quiet wave.

Bean Fest

The Mountain View residents were met were very welcoming, and one lady told us about all the area's special attractions, including the Folk Festival, the comedy shows, and the most interesting event of all: Bean Fest.

Bean Fest, she explained, is a giant baked bean and cornbread cookoff that draws people from all over the region to Courthouse Square. Giant tents are set up, people start baking beans that morning, and at noon a bell rings and everyone has a big baked bean feast.

The cookoff and awards for best baked beans are followed up by the annual Parade of Outhouses. Different businesses sponsor teams who build decorated or thematic outhouses, and then they line up these "people-powered potties" and have a race just south of the square. First place is awarded with the coveted golden toilet seat.

Parting Shots

Traveling through the Ozarks and walking through Mountain View was a refreshing experience. We heard a lot of great music, and none of the players came across as flashy or competitive. The people we met extended a folksy warmth and humor, like the guy at the general store who said his wife told him, "the only good years we have are the ones on our truck."

On the way back, the roads were full of church billboards with messages like, "His blood washes away what no soap can," and more pointed queries like, "Are you prepared to meet Jesus?" Dear Lord, I thought, not yet -- at least not between here and Yellville.


We did stop once at the Buffalo river, and after a half-hour I succeeded in skipping a rock all the way across (it's farther across than it looks). We also stopped in Springfield to visit Jess, Dave and Oliver The Ferret.

The apocalyptic church signs were complemented by the smoke from pasture fires, and by the time we reached the big city, the sky was all the way dark. I don't know when I'll get back to Mountain View, but I'm sure I'll go back there sometime. I should very much like to see a Parade of Outhouses before I die.

photos by Jennifer Brothers. To see more from this trip, click here.
for more information about Mountain View, go to ozarkgetaways.com

the world's smallest man

To tide you over until I get around to posting some new stuff, here's a video of dance sequences performed by Nelson de la Rosa, the recently deceased Dominican gentleman who stood all of 54 centimeters. Thanks to Brett for including this clip years ago on a VHS copy of Tenacious D and a live Weather Report performance.

restructuring

I've finally figured out a few things about how the new blogger works. Over the next day or two I will be making a number of changes, including adding categories of my own posts and links to other people's Web sites, music and comics. Check back in a day or two and I promise you'll find a more user-friendly page.

tunes for walpurgisnacht

It's Walpurgisnacht, and what better way to celebrate than with some Black Sabbath, Andrew Hill, The High Strung and even a personal favorite by Friedrich Chopin. Have a nice holiday and a big shout out to all of you atop the Brocken.







BLOG SABBATH


A month or so ago Mr. Coates posted a comment lauding the awesomeness of the Black Sabbath song, "A National Acrobaut." Later that day, I dug my first guitar out of my parents' basement and joined brother James for an impromptu performance of that same tune. It was amazing how easily it came back to me. It's also amazing just how much Black Sabbath you hear these days in coffee shops and bars like the Replay Lounge in Lawrence.

As absent as Sabbath has been from my playlist the past few years, that original fondness for it never goes away. Ever since my friend Peter gave me the "Paranoid" album for my ice-skating/basketball-themed 7th grade birthday party, I've been a big fan. I liked how their song "War Pigs" was paired with the instrumental freak out, "Luke's Wall." I liked the Halloweeny cover art of the first album, and I marveled at what a fine sample "The Wizard" made for Cypress Hill's, "When The Shit Goes Down" (You Better Be Ready).

Most bizarre regarding Black Sabbath was the appearance of frontman Ozzy Osbourne at Bush's White House correspondent's dinner a few years ago, where the President hailed Osbourne for making such recordings as "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath," "Face in Hell," and "Bloodbath in Paradise." Now I'm not the biggest Ozzy enthusiast out there, but these don't seem like the obvious songs to praise him for. Probably some rock consultant-speechwriter is to blame for the selection, but what would be even weirder is if those songs were really the president's personal favorites.

Regardless, the video I am here to present today is a fine one. I was going to include it last month to mark the 4-year anniversary of the Iraq War, but it's no less relevant (unfortunately) or enjoyable a month later. Regardless of how you feel about the war, it's hard to protest the pentatonic scale.

THE HIGH STRUNG


Last Monday we saw the High Strung carry on their Library Tour on the rooftop patio of the downtown Kansas City Library. There were snacks, including brownies, chex mix, coffee and apple juice. The crowd ranged from little tykes to grandparents.

The High Strung is a great band with good songs and a sweet color scheme. What's even more exciting to me is how they're inspiring kids to go out and do something cool, too.

After their regular set, the band brought the audience together to write a song on the spot. A library volunteer passed out books, instructing everyone to pick one line from each book that would then be used to make up the lyrics to an entirely spontaneous song. Percussion instruments were handed out to young and old before the song's performance, and a teenage girl from the crowd joined in on lead vocals.

To hear more about them, listen to this story about them on "This American Life" or check out their Web site. And thanks to the High Strung for letting me sing along on an impromptu cover of Pink Floyd's "The Gnome." That was so very kind of them.

DINU, FREE OF SORROW


If someone asked me my state of mind last week I would have had to play them a Polish Mazurka. Recent rainy days have whisked me back to my wanderings along the Eppendorfer Moor, a time when my iPod all but got stuck on a particular version of Chopin's Mazurka in A-minor Opera 17, Number 4. I've since listened to 30 second samples of 37 recordings of this song, but have not yet been able to identify who performs this specific version. The closest recordings I can find in tone and sound quality are those by the Romanian pianist Dinu Lipatti, who was regarded by his contemporaries as "the manifestation of the spiritual world, immune from all pain and sorrow." Listen to his version of a different Mazurka, and perhaps you'll feel the same way, at least for 3 minutes and 44 seconds.

POINT OF DEPARTURE


Virtuoso jazz pianist and composer Andrew Hill died this past week. I'll remember him for "Passing Ships," his 1968 recording that was not released on any format until 2003, but mostly for a night a year later when BWB and I stayed up and listened to no less than five of his albums in a row. For those of you interested in a similar experience, I've uploaded "Passing Ships" to rapidshare to give you a jump start. You'll need a winrar extractor, which you can find online for free.

LAST AND LEAST...

Today I dreamed that Nirvana released a censored version of "Rape Me," only the title and lyrics were changed to "Rape Seed." If Kurt were around now, at age 40, he might get a kick out of that!

Guest post by Fred Hölderlin (1770 - 1843)

TO THE YOUNG POETS

Quite soon, dear brothers, perhaps our art,
So long in youth-like ferment, will now mature
To beauty's plenitude, to stillness;
Only be pious, like the Greeks!

Of mortal men think kindly, but love the gods!
Loathe drunkenness like frost! Don't describe or teach!
And if you fear your master's bluntness,
Go to great Nature, let her advise you!

translated by Keith Hoeller


asking great nature for advice -- photo by natalya

This post goes out to everyone, especially two of you with April birthdays. For those of you who are at work and/or not in a position to seek advice from great nature and must instead seek idle amusement on the Internet, you might enjoy this story about a drunk man parking his horse in the foyer of a Sparkasse.

A nod to nerds

A week after the shootings, classes are back in session at Virginia Tech, and so I too thought I would return to blogging normalcy. Like some of you, I considered writing a post about the tragedy, but I didn't want to give any more attention to what was essentially a murderous publicity stunt for a some hate-filled video log.

Instead, I thought I'd stick to my strengths and write about more light-hearted fare. Though this site has been referred to in many prominent blogger periodicals as a "triumph of triviality," I prefer to think of it as a celebration of the small things. And it doesn't get much smaller than that most cult-favorited of candies, Nerds.

The particular Nerds sampling I would like to review today is a box of Apple-Coated Watermelon slash Lemonade-Coated Wild Cherry nerds of the "double-dipped" variety. I purchased the Nerds at the Ninth Street Presto! gas station in Lawrence (the one where the gas leak took place a year or two ago). The sun-faded yellow and red box suggested a long shelf life, but the taste was anything but stale.

The red Nerds were at once tart and sweet, and small enough to qualify as crunchy. The much larger yellow Nerds felt like eating boulders by comparison, though they were no less sweet to the taste.

As sweet as the experience of eating these Nerds was, the art on the box was even more spectacular. The image, a colorful illustration of young Nerds frolicking lakeside, recalled 19th century frescoes of the gay bathhouses of France, in spirit as well as form.

In short, the double-dipped experience supports the theory that -- culinary, spiritually and sociologically -- Nerds have more fun.


In other exciting Nerds news, Nerds Ropes are now 2 for a dollar at the Apple Market on 47th Street in Westwood, Kansas. What is a Nerds Rope? It is a licorice-ish sticky candy rope thing with a bunch of multicolored Nerds stuck to it. A bizarre but beautiful piece of candy, Nerds Ropes resemble an Everlasting Gobstopper in texture and color. Unfortunately, they don't last forever, but neither does anything truly good in this world.

At one point I thought it would be funny to write a story about a kid who hung himself with a Nerds Rope, but that actually seems kind of morbid, and besides Nerds Ropes aren't long or sturdy enough to play hopscotch with, much less form into a noose. I guess the story could end on a happy note, though. The kid could always just eat his way through it. Which is exactly what I recommend doing when the going gets rough or the news gets depressing. Nerds, Dweebs, Tart'n'Tinys, you name it. That Wonka stuff works wonders.

until soon,

LHW

Loft apartment lullaby

In my frequent weekend visits to the San Francisco Towers, I've spent untold hours gazing out at the Western Auto building, a structure I've admired since I was a boy. Inspired by the building itself, as well as songs like Toby's "Kansas City," I decided I'd write a little ballad about falling asleep on top of the building.

I've got $18.95 worth of credit left at Sweatlodge Studios, Lawrence that I aim to record this song with. But before I do, I wanted to open up the floor to lyrical and musical suggestions, ideas for new verses, or even entirely new compositions about this cosiest of cowtowns. (Snakin, Red, Coates, Cali G...I know you're out there). In the meantime, here are the lyrics. I hope you enjoy.

Let Me Sleep On The Western Auto Lofts

I want to sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

If New York's the town that don't sleep
are we the downtown that doesn't wake up?
I think there's still lots going on
but the pace is just not so abrupt

There's shopping and dining
ballparks and parades
rock concerts and artwalks
pools and cold lemonade

So let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
lay me down a top
of the lofts on a bed made of straw

Should I grow up or sleep in
or go to the zoo?
or just walk down to Keno's
catch a Tivoli feature or two

For now I'll just relax
have a drink in the shade
once I make my bed on top
of the lofts, I'll have it made

so let me sleep on the top
of the Western Auto Lofts
right under the giant neon light
on a bed made of straw

We can wade in the fountains
by the old cabarets
and place our bets on boats
that never go no place

Life's as lazy as you make it
and this town's the same way
so let me sleep on top of the lofts
on a futon of hay

When the sign's lights go out
I'll close my eyes too
and fall asleep on the Western Auto lofts
and dream about you

photo credit: kspsylo

bike wreck

the hunt is on...

The entries in this year's lukaswetzel.blogspot.com Kids' Easter Comic Contest were a bit darker than usual. Probably because it is colder outside than it should be. Or perhaps it's that pesky war. Whatever the case, I wish you all a pleasant Easter. If you want a closer look at this year's winning drawing, click here.

Also, big shout out to bunnyman.