I Dig The Huffington Post

Do You read Huffington Post? You know I had my cable cut the year I wrote my first book. Not being a great TV fan anyway, ( OK, except for Extreme Homes on HGTV, old movies on TNT, and The Weather Channel), I didn't miss it. So I never bothered to have it hooked back up when I was finished with the book.

I'm unplugged and proud of it. You might try it sometime. Just turn the TV off for a month. Then, if you really want to turn it back on, go ahead. After a month without it you might realize how much you don't miss it.

Even someone who doesn't fall for prime time needs a little news now and then and I get mine from Huffington Post. They have interesting opinions from people who would not get published by main stream papers- like Deepak Chopra on the health care crisis.

They have the news you get anywhere, plus the news that gets censored everywhere. You might find a different twist on current events in the pages of Huffington Post.

Speaking of censored, have you heard about the contaminated flu shots? I thought not. How about one peep on the situation in China and her captive Tibet on the 50th anniversary of the Chinese Invasion and the Dalai Lama's flight for his life to India? Nothing? Not a word about the thousands of troops stationed around the remaining monasteries? Hum, that's strange. News like that should make the papers...

They also have really cool stuff like this link to Neil Youngs new video:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/neil-young/huffpost-video-premiere-n_b_173714.html

Did you know Neil has a car that gets 100 miles a gallon? Did you know it's a 50's caddy that probably weighs as much as a steam engine? (Why doesn't everyone have cars that get 100 mpg? Well, let's see, why would not benefit from cars that got 100 mpg?)

While you are there, check out the link to the late night roundup, the best jokes from the late shows presented for all of us unplugged people, and the link to Comedy Central, home of the best political commentators in recent years. And we thought the name meant it was a comedy channel. Thank goodness for that link, which gave me the Colbert Report, one of those TV gems that I had been missing with out even knowing it.

I Have a Confession to Make...

I always thought Jimmie was a better guitar player than Stevie.

Stevie had something special though, that really attracted people to him, maybe it was that hang dog look he had, or his crinkled nose, maybe it was his showmanship. And yes, of course it was his playing, and yes he was fantastic. I adored him. From the first time I saw him play at 25 cent tequila night at that place out near the lake, (what the heck was the name of that place?) to his regular Tuesday night at Steamboat on 6th street, I was in the crowd almost every week. I met him a few times and he was a little shy I thought, but always nice.

Honestly though,I always thought Jimmie was a better player, and I still do.

Here's a photo of Jimmie and Lou Ann Barton from 1984- All photos, by the way are from the book "Picture The Blues", a collection of photographs taken at Antone's, in Austin Texas. This one, it seems was taken by Susan Antone.



I saw Jimmie and Lou Ann Sunday night and I have to tell you, they looked great and sounded even better. Some things just age well, and they have.

And honestly, I think Jimmie is still the best guitar player on the planet.

Now here is a photo I've always thought was one of the best I've ever seen of those Vaughan brothers


Now in Texas they say Bob Wills is still the king, but I bet these boys would be known as the princes.

Kathi sent me this a while back, isn't it great?

If you don't know, it's Stevie Ray Vaughan, circa 1985 and is that Albert Collins? yes, I think it is.
I happened to have this photo out because I was at a blues festival last night and met a Stevie Ray fan. Any Fan of Stevie's is a friend of mine and I thought I would scan this photo in and send it to my new friend. Then I thought, why not share it with everyone?

Last night I saw the Fabulous Thunderbirds, who, I hate to say, are just not fabulous anymore. They were good, but not Fabulous. Sorry Kim. I'm still Fabulous and danced all night, just like I did when I used to go see the really Fab T-birds way back when in Austin. Tonight Jimmie Vaughan and Lou Ann Barton are headlining, I'll let ya know how it goes. Party On.

Marshall Tucker, Pooped Shrimp, and a Lot of Fine Wine.

I recently attended our local food festival. There is no doubt this town loves to eat, we have very high obesity rates here. People try to blame it on the winter weather but I know that’s just a load of crap. Come on people, just say no to eating like hogs and leave the weather out of it. These festivals are springing up all over the country, apparently we are not really obese enough as a nation, we have to add some more food. The object of the festival is to stand out in the sun, drink beer and wine, rub elbows with lots of strangers and eat, eat, eat.

I’ve been to such events in the past, and I hadn’t planned on attending this year, until I saw the entertainment line up- 37 vineyards represented in the wine tent and The Marshall Tucker Band headlining the stage events.

I called a friend and suggested we slide on down to catch Marshall Tucker, and try our luck at finding a local wine we had not already discovered. She agreed that after thirty years it might be interesting to see what Marshall Tucker was up to these days, and she enthusiastically agreed that the local vineyards could benefit from our expert opinions on their products.

We got there, found parking (Thank You God!) and found the event three times larger than it had been the last year. Besides twice as many food booths, a whole new section had been added. Vendors. Tents of hats and clothes and sunglasses and jewelry. Apparently when you are over eating and guzzling beer in the hot sun, you want to look good. It was a food festival for heaven’s sake, do we always have to be multi tasking? Do we have to shop too? Can’t we just eat?

We made our way to the wine tent and dug in because of course, we have our priorities straight. The lines were long, but a little polite elbowing and pushing and we managed to circle a few times drinking 237 thimble size samples of wine. We were soon one sheet short of three sheets to the wind. We tried white wines and red wines, sweet wines and dry wines, and even wines made of strange things like honey and raspberries. We finally made a landing at one winery that had some really fine semi-sweet whites and a few sweet grapy reds. We shelled out the big bucks for a couple of glasses of our favorites and wandered over to the food alley.

The food alley was packed. I mean sardine like packed. I was shocked, it was already after eight and nobody in this town eats after six, so I figured we were a shoe in for a short wait in any line we liked. But no-the whole town was on a carbohydrate bender. I searched high and low for any food that I could get in the next five minutes, (the wine made me hungry!) and finally settled on Polish food, which I guess, has a terrible reputation, because there was no line! It suited me just fine, I love good kraut and they had some tasty potato and egg pierogies that were not only vegetarian, but one of the few foods in sight that was not deep fried or barbecued black.

Meanwhile my friend, determined to get something called popped shrimp, (or was it pooped shrimp?) was being crushed in the swell of humanity floundering around in front of the shrimp booth. Apparently those shrimp are a popular item because there was a near riot when one of the booth’s employees hung a sign saying “sorry, no more popped (or was it pooped?) shrimp”. The Outrage! My poor friend and her 534 good friends in line had to settle for something a little more tame, just plain shrimp.

While my friend was still in line, still waiting for a few crumbs of what ever they had left, I began to take a closer survey of our surroundings. The wine tent stood where it had for the last few years, the food alley looked the same, only longer. I realized the main stage was not in sight. What the heck! Then I noticed the normal every- year-in- the- same- place line of porta potties was missing as well. Something was just not right here. This called for some investigation. I looked at the guy standing to my right in the crowd, shrimp in one hand, beer in the other, quickly alternating left, right, left, right, left right to his mouth. Sauce dribbled down his chin. I asked what the hell they did with the stage. He nodded up the street and continued his wolfing and guzzling.

My friend finally made her way back through the crowd. She looked like she had been front and center stage at a Van Halen concert. Believe me, I know, I’ve been there. Her hair was a mess, her clothing rumpled, her sunglasses crooked, her face flushed from the lack of oxygen. She was hunched over her little boat of shrimp, just trying to get someplace with enough elbow room to get shrimp from boat to mouth. Luckily she had left her wine glass with me when she entered the fray, I stood on the sidelines and managed not to spill a drop in spite of the pushing and shoving going on around me.

While she consumed her catch, I watched the crowd. I immediately noticed the lack of lipstick. At first I thought it was a fluke, maybe everyone had eaten so much their lips were faded. Then I looked closer, no, no that wasn’t it. Some of these ladies had no lipstick on, but many of them had lipstick the color of their lips. I was standing there wondering if I stood out like a lighthouse on a foggy coast, me with my bright red lipstick. Even the hookers were not wearing colorful lipstick. They were, however, wearing some really bright shoes, short skirts and miniaturized shirts. I came to the conclusion that this lack of lip color must be some odd cultural phenomena that I was uniquely unaware of.

Fed and watered, my friend informed me it was time to take our rightful place at the stage so we wandered through the crowd in the general direction of the afore nodded to new stage location. I informed my friend that the porta potties were missing. This brought an unexpected yelp of dismay and a string of cussing. Apparently she was in need. We agreed they had to be there somewhere, and began to diligently search in every nook and cranny of the crowded street. We tried the side streets, we tried behind the trucks, we tried behind the stage- oh! We found the stage! We wandered to and fro in vain and finally agreed, the porta potties were missing. Now normally, this would not have been a dire emergency, however, after consuming about a gallon of wine each, nature was calling.

We figured an emergency like this required expert help so we finally found a group of police officers standing around, hand on belts, scanning the crowd looking for purse snatchers, staggering drunks and all sorts of seedy characters. I approached and got their attention by yelling “I need help” in a high, off key, whiny, legs crossed voice. They snapped to attention, hands grabbing nightsticks and guns and handcuffs. “The porta potties, I yelled, someone has stolen the porta potties!”

Honestly, I was relieved by their bewildered looks. I knew if there had been a porta potty heist, they would have been informed already. They looked at each other, bewilderment turning to grins. I was visibly shaken and they seemed to find that funny, as they all, in perfect synchronization, pointed down the one street, off to the side, we had not checked. Right there, not a block where we all stood, was a row of porta potties so long it seemed to disappear into the night.

For the first time that evening, lady luck was with us. There were no lines. We finished our business and headed back to the stage area, threading ourselves through the crowd as far as we could go. It appeared that the food booths must have closed because every one of the estimated thirty thousand in the crowd was now right in front of the stage. Mt friend, who is on the short side, had a brilliant idea and suggested we go stand behind the lighting platform. There was a wide swath of open pavement there because the platform stood at about the height of the normal adult human.

Which I am. Which she is not. She was just the right height to stand tall and look under the platform which gave her a full, un-obscured view of the stage. About that time the band came on and I thought, what the heck, if I remember correctly, I’m gonna be dancing anyway. And dance I did. Those Marshall Tucker boys, even at their advanced ages, still had what it takes to get the crowd moving. They played a few old favorites, then they got down to some really fine jammin’.

They were tight, tuned and on the spot fantastic. If you get a chance to go see them this summer, go.

If you are old enough to remember when they were famous you will remember the pied piper flute playing that winds its way through many of their tunes and has the ability to take your mind away. My friend and I both fondly remembered times long ago, LP’s spinning, kicking back, sparking the LC, ( as I’m told is the current vernacular) and wasting away the afternoon listening to those Gainesville guys.

At one point I noticed a woman dancing in the crowd, tie died T-shirt, gray hair, granny glasses and Birkenstocks. She had to be 70. She had that far away look in her eyes of someone who never quit sparking the LC. She probably listened to them before they were famous. I watched a small group of hip-hopping gang bangers come up behind her and start dancing around, making fun of her. But ya know, it wasn’t long before they were caught up by the pied piper and in stead of making fun, they were just dancing away down the same path as that old woman.

The pied piper isn’t picky though; anyone with an open ear can hear the path and follow it off. The kids had to be all of 15 to 17 years old, and I bet they had never even heard of The Marshall Tucker Band before. I bet they didn’t know the band was named after a high school gym teacher the band members all disliked, although they might have appreciated that. I’m pretty sure they would have appreciated all the sparkin’ the LC that has occurred everywhere the pied piper has played.

That was my favorite scene from the whole day. I stood and watched as really good music made a bridge between two worlds.

The band quit way too early, on account of the town having a curfew for loud music. I was appalled that the curfew would apply to an event like this. Apparently it’s OK to be a glutton, drink in the streets, and shop ‘till you drop, but none of this dancing and listening to a loud band past 10 pm. We headed off to find our obscure parking spot as the crowd headed back to the food booths for one last piece of this or serving of that. The ice cream, donut, cupcake and pie booths were swamped. No wonder we have such high rates of obesity.

Three Days of Peace and Music

while I was meandering to NYC to see the Pope, I figured why not take a side trip and make another pilgrimage to another inspirational spot? The site of Woodstock is now a performing arts center with lots of parking, restrooms, and a visitors center. It's still a beautiful natural amphitheater surrounded by farmland and woods, and I swear it still carries "the vibe" of August 1969 when 3 days of peace and music birthed a new nation.

For My Cousin, Richard

Hey, look, I found this cool image of Mr. Cooper, your guru and noted radio personality. I was listening to his show last night and you know, I think you are right- the guy is brilliant.
I don't know what your stock holders would think if they knew your guiding light was the billion dollar baby man, probably the same thing the board thinks when you are setting at the head of a big conference table, you roll up your sleeves to get down to the business of business, and they see all those tattoos. But hey, considering our genetics,the proper response is "who cares", right? You still rock cousin!
http://nightswithalicecooper.com/
888-99-Alice

Need I Say More?

A Goose, a Gander, and Some Real Fine Meandering

If you are a regular fan of my blog, you know that I recently spent a night out with some friends. We visited 18 Irish pubs and called it a early evening.

We gathered round my kitchen table with plates of potatoes, cabbage and lamb. ( OK, that sounded very Irish-y, but none of us would eat a lamb, so in truth we had the usual snack assortment). We cracked a few more bottles of Ale (finally! The designated driver gets another Guinness!) and I began dive into the deep philosophical psyche of my pseudo-Irish, under-the-influence friends.

At first it’s just a rambling, meandering, fast paced reel of things like- remember those fruit loops and sugar smacks in the little boxes you could cut open and pour the milk in, and don’t keep me outta the loop, I wanna know the poop, and why do they call it bat guano?

The conversation slows a bit as another round is opened and a jig replaces the reel, still on a jaunty note and meandering from this to that- I wanted a horse just like Mr. Ed and an uncle like My Favorite Martian, my yoga teacher beat the heck out of us this morning- wanna see the new move I learned? ( ankle behind neck, arms reaching for the ceiling), what the heck was my cat thinking when he sat in my windowsill pots of kitchen herbs, and have you been in that new gift shop up the street?

Then it turns into a slow Aire, full of emotion and expression of courageous deeds and times long past - remember the time we skipped high school to see the Grateful Dead? The school called our moms and although we arrived home at exactly the time we would have if we had taken the late bus and walked from up the block, they knew . What about that night we drove home in a blizzard, went off the road and didn’t freeze to death because, thank the lord, your mom left the porch light on and we were able to find the house once we got close.

Over time the conversation slows and burrows deeper. We are meandering into the realm of the very origin of Irish music, the single vocalist signing A Capella- a song from the roots of their being. One of my friends finds a lull in the conversation and announces-

“I’ve been thinking about this whole goose and gander thing”.
“What goose and gander thing?” I ask. (did I mention my friends tend to meander?)
“You know, the goose and gander thing. Did you know the female of the species is the goose?”

Now, I figure I can handle this, seeing how my friend has had 20 pints of Guinness and I’ve had but 2, and, as I really am of Irish descent, genetically I’m able to process Guinness faster than the average human and it doesn’t cause my mental capacity to be diminished by one iota.

“OK- yes, that’s interesting isn’t it?”
“The male of the species”, she continues,” is called the gander”.
“Hum, yes I think I have heard that", I say as I cautiously inch away taking my pint with me.
“So that old saying”, she proceeds between sips “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander?”

With a shrug and a roll of the eyes at my other friends, I tip toe onward, “Yes, that’s the saying as I remember it as well.”

“Some people”, she said, taking another sip, “some people, well they might think it means if the goose gets a pair of Manolo Blahnik or some Jimmy Choos, then the gander should have new shoes as well".

I’m trying to picture a big goose running around the yard in some Manolos. I may need another Guinness.

“And some might”, she continued “wonder why for so long, women resigned themselves to the idea that what was good for the gander, was good enough for the goose”.

Now I’m picturing a goose burning her bra. Definitely need another Guinness.

“I’ve been thinking about this and I believe I have found the true meaning to that old statement”, my friend says with a flourish as she waves her hand high.

Now she has everyone’s rapt attention. We all set our pints down and listen intently.

“It must mean that what ever the woman, judging with her heart, decides would make her happy, if the guy would just help her achieve it, well, her happiness would be so infectious that he would be happy as well.”

There is a long moment of silence, just as called for after a meandering A Capella performance. Everyone seems to be thinking deeply as the last note fades.

Hum, I never really thought about it before. “Yes, I believe you may be right with that fresh insight to an age old question!”, I proclaim as I lift my glass for a toast and we all clink, clink, and clink. There is laughter and applause and a whistle or two.

Then I realize I’ve found just the person to fill in for me when I’m on vacation and would like someone to meander on in my place.
“Talk about meandering!” I exclaim, “That was as classic a meander as I’ve ever heard! Can you be my blog ghost writer when I’m on vacation?”
“Ok” my friend replies” but first, mind if a take a little snooze on your couch?”
“Be my guest” I say as she settles onto the couch and falls asleep.

Beyond the Pale

This town has more Irish bars than Boston and Chicago combined. There is one on every corner. It’s the kinda town that has Guinness and Smithwick’s on tap all year around. It’s one of those places that you can get a shamrock on your Guinness even if it isn’t St. Patrick’s Day.

Around here it’s very fashionable to be Irish. Ya know how on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish? Going round with “kiss me I’m Irish” buttons and those goofy green hats- well in this town, any day of the year you can ask someone’s name and have them reply- “me name is Paddy O’Martinez”, or “herself is Mary O’ Kczywinski”, or “I’tis Brendan O’Dusendorf”.

So a few nights ago I was out with a few friends. Our target was an Irish Bar that was hosting a fiddler’s weekend, and had a band from Canada playing. Now, you may not know this but Canada has some pretty fine traditional Irish bands. Canada also has some pretty fine non-traditional Irish Bands, techno-Irish bands, punk-Irish bands, modern rock-Irish bands, blue grass-Irish bands, classic rock-Irish bands and a few Rap-meets-Disco-Irish bands to boot.

So we get to the bar early thinking to stake out a good spot. But -by the saints- the place is already packed. It’s shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, knee to knee and toe to toe. After cooing to a couple of “old dudes” who make room for us to get close enough to yell an order and stick a fist full of cash through the mass of humanity adhered to the bar, we are rewarded with three tall glasses of Guinness.

In the time it takes to drink them we are pushed and shoved and stepped on and elbowed and accosted by any number of roving Irish wanna-bes. Our ears are on the verge of bleeding the din is so loud, and the band hasn’t even started yet. The fire marshal(who’s probably Irish too) must be out of town because there are 654 more people in the place than there were when we ordered our Guinness, and that makes a total of 3278 people in a bar that the fire marshal’s sign says can hold 200.

Now, one of my friends starts getting a bit edgy. She’s not Irish. She’s not used to the amount of closeness among the Irish evident in the situation. She tries getting her back against the bar, but that is impossible. Next she tries to find a wall to back up to, but the wall space is taken. She hides in the rest room for a while, but even that is crowded. She ends up jumping up on the stage which is empty because the band still hasn’t arrived and it’s an hour past the time they were going to start. Pretty soon the whole lot of us are up on the stage and the crowd, apparently never having seen the real band before, thinks we are a Girl-Power-Retro-Glam-Irish Band.

The crowd is like a school of fish. The tip of the crowd near the stage decides we must be the band and the entire school of 3278 liquored up O’Bollingers and O’D’Adarios moves as one right up to the stage expectant and relieved that the band is finally starting. They whistle and clap and jostle around to get a better spot.

Then they seem to realize, in one large awakening moment, that we are not holding instruments. No, there’s nary a Uillean Pipe nor a fiddle in sight. What we are holding is almost empty Guinness glasses. A collective light bulb goes on over the crowd. They are not the band someone murmurs, and the murmur grows like wildfire as it spreads from O’Dingindorf to O’ Castillo and on around the bar.

Unfortunately, this incident of mistaken identity just served to alert the 3278 liquored-up- almost-Irish-previously-unaware ( gimme another Guinness) spectators to the fact that the band was not in the house and it was now an hour and a half past show time. The murmurs accelerate and changed into something like “where the *%*!#@%! is the %*&!^% ing band”. We figured this was the ideal time to exit stage left, which was just a few elbowed steps from the building exit.

Being early yet, we agreed to head towards the car, but on the way, pop into any pubs we passed, just to take a peek and have a quick Guinness. I was happy to be the designated driver because it turned out there were 17 Irish pubs along the 2 block walk back to the car. My pseudo-Irish party friends were three sheets to the wind by the time I delivered them safely to my front door where the “everybody’s-to-mature-to-take-unnecessary risks-and-try-to-drive-home” impromptu pajama party was about to begin. After all, the wee ones were tucked away with their Aunties and Nannas, the wolf hounds were fed, and the wind was howling across the bog. No need to go beyond the pale.

TGIT?

I don't know about ya'll, but I'm having a long week. I woke up this morning wondering what day it was and felt a tiny bit of relief that it was only a couple days 'till the weekend.

This is pretty unusual for me, generally I don't even think about things like when do I get to sleep late and lay on the couch with a good book for a couple hours, but hey, like I said I'm having a long week.

Now, I know everybody has a long week now and then. And so do entrepreneurs. Contrary to popular belief, we actually do work and we have challenges at our jobs just like some one who punches a clock. Unfortunately (or fortunately- it's hard to tell sometimes) we have absolutely no one to blame it on except ourselves. I can't whine about the boss who asks for to much, or the enormous amount of overtime I'm putting in or the nasally co-worker who keeps interrupting me or the fact that the network isn't cooperating. Nope. It's just me. And when I'm having a long week, it's because I am asking myself to achieve more than normal in a 4 day work week. ( yes, I said 4 day- see why I was saying earlier unfortunately or fortunately- it's hard to tell sometimes).

Anyway, when I woke up and was wondering what day it was I had this picture in my head of splashing around in shark infested, choppy seas and coming upon a life preserver. I grabbed that life preserver and started tugging on the line and as I did I pulled myself right up to the weekend- and I flung myself off the life preserver and onto a sandy beach. Palm trees and gentle waves and sunshine and all that. whew! Made it.

That made me think of this song "Some Beach". I found the video for ya, just in case you are having a long week too, you can take a tiny break and enjoy this:

http://www.cmt.com/videos/blake-shelton/33798/some-beach.jhtml

there, don't you feel better now?

OK, enjoy the rest of your week and I still am working on that "next post" about my brush with death, so check back in a day or two.