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02.21.17 THE MAN WITH KALEIDOSCOPE EYES ALAN ALDRIDGE 1943-2017 In 2008 I wrote the following piece for the dust jacket of Alan’s extraordinarily beautiful and concise biographical retrospective: - “In the mid-seventies Alan and I were inseparable friends. It was a curious collaboration of eccentricity and dangerous curves taken at an ever-increasing speed and joyous abandon.

During this time I truly felt that I was rubbing shoulders with such an enlightened and extraordinary talent it would be beneficial to my own lesser scribble. His vision was, is and always will be a cherished fragment of time. He’s a brilliant soul, bountiful creator and a man of other worlds and time.

I’m thankful he allowed me access to his eyes, his beautiful vision and inspired madness. It remains with me and I benefit from it all to this day.” I am truly saddened by Alan’s passing.

For such a long time he was intertwined with us on a truly magical journey. Before his most endearing collaboration with us, the iconic artwork for 1973’s Captain Fantastic & the Brown Dirt Cowboy, he illustrated the cover and edited (along with Mike Dempsey) my first collection of complete lyrics The One Who Writes The Words. His pedigree was flawless, and his history was indelibly intertwined with the fantastical and the psychedelic. Before Alan’s airbrushes colored the horizon, the landscape of England was decidedly black and white. If there was a Piper at the Gates of Dawn, an imp in the inkwell, and a madcap architect of Swinging London, it was most assuredly Alan Aldridge and his colorful and cosmic creations.

He broke the mold, pushed the envelope, and turned a buttoned up world upside down with his topsy-turvy, down the rabbit hole view of the absurd. I’m still not entirely convinced he’s received the credit he deserves. Sure I’m biased, but get your hands on a copy of the aforementioned book THE MAN WITH KALEIDOSCOPE EYES - get lost in it and tell me I’m lying. He was also as they say in the East End of London a diamond geezer. My Dad loved him, and he loved my Dad, and believe me my dad was a tough nut. They bonded over cheese, good red wine and my father’s proclivity to be politically incorrect. With Alan’s passing, the sushi bar incident will now have only myself as the last remaining eye witness.

Like A Portrait of Dorian Grey, I have stashed away out of sight an illustration Alan drew of me at a time in my life when I had a hellhound on my trail and a habit I was having trouble handling. It’s a terrifying piece of cautionary art, a reminder of what lies ahead when one is running off the rails. It’s also so skillfully executed and beautiful in its horrific detail that just pulling it out of mothballs would remind me of how it scared me straight.

If you are not familiar with Alan Aldridge, I beseech you to investigate his life and learn more, you will be dazzled by his body of work and his telling of tales. He was once challenged to a drawing duel by Salvador Dali in a airport bar, invented the Hard Rock Hotel logo and rode on the back of a motorcycle driven by a disheveled Steve McQueen at alarming speed through the canyons of Beverly Hills. They are all true, or at least I can confirm that those including yours truly are.

Crazy and comedic, full of vim, vinegar and hot peppered sass, episodes of honesty and candor shot through the kaleidoscopic eyes of one of the most talented men I’ve ever known. 12.21.16 LEONARD & LEON: AN APPRECIATION I haven’t been immediate in my response to the passing of Leonard Cohen and Leon Russell because I preferred a little time to let the initial waves roll in and give myself time to assess their impact on my life. In the fledgling years of my career when my partner and I were grasping at straws and navigating our creative maze, both of these artists (in radically different ways) brought us solace and inspiration freshening our outlook and washing us clean in the glorious rain of their individual storms. Those who know me know that I am visibly uncomfortable when people refer to me as a poet or my lyrical work as poetry. Let me make something abundantly clear: in my opinion, there has been only one songwriter whose lyrical work can be regarded as both impressionistic and narrative poetry and that is Leonard Cohen. Some will cite Dylan and there they have an argument.

Certainly much of Dylan’s early work, especially his rambling esoteric electric phase, had a Ginsberg inspired Dada-esque quality to it that was symbolic of free form yet rhythmic poetry. However, what set Leonard Cohen apart from anyone and everyone else was his knack (a far too lightweight word) for encapsulating both the obvious and the obscure in a framework of extraordinary phrases and beautiful couplets. 'There’s a crack in everything/ that’s where the light gets in' Where Dylan was/is for the most part vague and full of metaphors (as I too am often guilty of) with Leonard you knew exactly what he was talking about. It’s just that he did it with such breathtaking literacy and expressive artistry that his lines could make you fall to your knees and beg for that kind of wisdom. 'I’m guided by a signal in the heavens/ I’m guided by this birthmark on my skin'. On his final album in the title track “You Want It Darker” Cohen contemplated his final journey and quotes in Hebrew and English from “The Binding of Isaac” with the words “Hineni Hineni I’m ready my Lord”. Spiritual references and biblical imagery ran rampant through his work from “The Story of Isaac” to “Joan of Arc.” Although for many he appeared a man in a constant tug of war with faith, this seems incongruous given that he was an ordained Buddhist monk with strong conventional religious beliefs.

It certainly seems apparent that he was fully prepared to meet his God, especially if you read this verse from “Almost Like The Blues” with what I gather to be its thinly veiled reference to Stephen Hawking. I’ll miss his human persona but his music will forever occupy a space in my heart. Critics and punters alike while revering him often thought of him as pessimistic, cryptic, and somber. Much of this I believe has to do with the simplicity of his melodies, the minor keys and the timber of his voice. I don’t know we all take away what we will and revel in it with whatever emotion we feel suits us best. As for me, Leonard Cohen’s songs were and will remain a comforting blanket of ethereal beauty, a prayer-like presence to inhabit when the uglier aspects of the world weigh us down.

He took us under his wing and our fear of him subsided to a minor degree. We supported him and later co-headlined while retaining a serf-like allegiance.

He commanded the stage, all eyes pulled as if by magnetic force into his orbit. Witness “The Concert For Bangladesh” and try to take your eyes off him.

Even George Harrison in a white suit can’t drag you away. And the best of his songs are classics, love songs shot from an M-16 through a barbed wire fence, doused in southern sweat and chaotic metaphor. Then there was aching simplicity, bare bones songs accompanied by the greatest piano player next to Jerry Lee Lewis that Elton John said he’d ever heard. But he returned with a little help from his friends, albeit older, aching and not terribly mobile. The years had not been kind, but in his hands, his heart and his mind the lion still roared, and we went to work to rectify a loss with a new beginning.

A labor of love, a joyful collaborative celebration, and a union bound several decades earlier and forged in our collective musical heritage. He loved food and we spent many hours dining together, he impressed and inquisitive of my culinary knowledge. With his Okie drawl, he found it impossible to pronounce my name. I had to settle for “Barney” for which he apologized in the album’s sleeve notes.

I’m happy we got him back in the top 10. I’m thrilled we lost our fear of him and were able to level the playing field. He was a lion heart in his heyday and a lion in winter later on. His records still sound fresh and exciting as they take me back to a colorful and glorious fragment of time when we felt invincible, virile and victorious.

He was and always will be one of our fondest memories, one of our mentors, and most of all, the master of space and time. 08.02.16 UNO, DOS, TRES UNO First things first, let’s put this whole Elvis thing to bed and get on with our lives although according to one aggravated Presley fan I need to get one before I get on with it. Yes, as expected the reaction to my previous blog had the desired effect in eliciting compliments, critiques and scorn. For the most part, the incoming were (when not in total agreement) critical in the way they should be when debating an essay such as it was. Correspondence was lively, rational, thoughtful and at times enlightening. I learned that Jerry Reed, like Dolly Parton, did not kowtow to the Presley publishing hijack.

Kudos to Jerry as his songs were the best of Presley’s mid career resurgence, and it’s this era that most of the mailbag took me to task for. *** Many of you cited Presley’s ‘68 to ‘70 comeback as a period of rejuvenation. Not so much his TV special (which I covered in my blog,) but his work with the highly regarded and recently deceased record producer Chips Moman. Again, this is all down to each individual’s personal taste and point of view. Once again for me while there were indeed some decent sides cut “Suspicious Minds” “Kentucky Rain” and “Burning Love” among them, there were also (sorry, folks) more stinkers than there were commend-ables. I never bought into the seemingly fake sincerity of “In The Ghetto” and “Don’t Cry Daddy” or the overwrought massacre of Mickey Newbury’s subtly beautiful “American Trilogy” and as for “If I Can Dream,” well.the less said the better. So let me pose a question before you call in the lynching party.

Honestly, wouldn’t you have preferred to hear most of this material with a more stripped down musical ensemble as opposed to the “throw-everything-but-the-kitchen-sink –on-it” approach? There is so much going on on most of these tracks that it appears Elvis is unwittingly being forced into full “American Idol” mode and for me, this only robs the listener of any genuine emotional entity. OK I’m aware that much of the paying public loves their bombastic, Mariah Carey-type vocal gymnastics, over the top Andrew Lloyd Webberishness and ten year olds with a five octave range singing “Ava Maria,” but come on man, this is Elvis whose greatest and most convincing vocals were created with a three piece band and a “less is more” attitude. Lastly, an equal number of you cited Presley’s influence on rock’s next generation saying, and I’ll generalize, “Ask Dylan, The Beatles, Stones, Zeppelin and Bruce about Elvis’s influence and see what they have to say.” Well, I’m not sure I have all their numbers in my book, but here’s my take on it.

*** I believe that Col. Tom Parker’s attempts to extort a percentage of the publishing rights from songwriters in Presley’s later life fell on stony ground and that with Elvis’s withering persona, it appeared no one cared if he recorded their songs or not and the practice was quietly rescinded. Can’t imagine Lennon & McCartney or Paul Simon giving up any publishing on “Hey Jude” or “Bridge Over Troubled Water” both of which in the hands of Elvis were turned into tremulous, indistinguishable Jell-O. DOS Here’s an observation. At one time or another in the popular press (more often in the murkier tabloids) rock musicians and singers who rose to fame in the 60s and early 70s and whose age is around or above those same numbers are frequently referred to as “Ageing Rocker(s)” or “Wrinkled Rocker(s).” The recipients of this form of maligning range between singularly genuine veterans including Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Steven Tyler types to collective wholes such as Black Sabbath and Deep Purple, or any and all rock and metal acts of a certain vintage. On one hand, it’s called making a living and on the other it’s because the creativity that was instilled in you at the get go doesn’t mean there’s a shelf life involved.

Even if your best work is behind you that doesn’t mean to say that the desire to create has ceased to burn within. It’s what we do. You don’t lay down your guitar like a hammer. Composition and live performance, creation and adulation are a narcotic called adrenalin that never ceases to course through your veins even at an age when most are happy to grab their gold watch and go gently into the good night. The negativity associated with and attached to these artists seems genuinely unfair if you consider this. No one ever called Muddy Waters or John Lee Hooker “ageing or wrinkled bluesmen.” Is that because the accepted perception of most punters is that bluesmen are “supposed to be old?” Eighty-five year old Ornette Coleman was blowin’ sax pretty much up to the day he died and Sonny Rollins and Kenny Burrell both in their mid-eighties are still out there doing it.

I don’t hear anyone degrading them with nebulous octogenarian taunts with jazz apparently being the domain of mature urbane sophisticates. The same could be said for the late Merle Haggard, and the very much alive Willie Nelson, a couple of elder statesmen whose combined facial lines were and are a veritable road map, as weathered as the miles they’ve traveled. Disparage either one of them and be prepared for a shotgun supper! They’re respected with the same reverence afforded the nation’s beloved Mount Rushmore. Is it perhaps blues, jazz, and country offer a more charitable conception toward age? They are not aged but seasoned, classic characters whose advancing years play more into the stereotype of hard living and earthier musical pedigrees.

Rock is the bastard son of these genres, and thus is treated accordingly, easier to mock in its positioning as a mainstay of popular culture, cheaper and simply a more high profile target to pit against today’s diminishing returns. There’s a reason thousands of people of every age group still flock to concerts by these “aged and wrinkly” rockers. Because the music is still relevant, the performances are more thrilling and the musicianship better than 80% of what’s out there today. Say what you want about Mick Jagger, but show me one 73-year-old retiree who can sing live, dance his ass off, and run around a stadium stage for three hours before jetting home to his 27-year old hottie and make babies.

Perhaps all those sad hacks who are so hell bent on creating salacious copy for their puerile rags are jealous, overweight, balding out of shape forty-something’s who couldn’t run around the block without going into cardiac arrest. Maybe, maybe not, it’s just the times we live in; a society where negativity rules over the positive and such behavior is gleefully accepted. TRES At one time or another I’ve been asked if there is any one of the over half a dozen Elton bios out there that I would recommend. My immediate answer would most likely be “no,” but I guess that would be unfair without some brief explanation. Have I read them all?

Of course not, not a one, I’m not about to waste my time reading about what I’ve already livednot a chance. That would be like me sitting alone at home listening to all our old albums, pretty sad. No, my down time is going to be spent with books that inform, educate and amuse me in subject matter that does not include yours truly. However I’ll admit to skimming, a process I’ve mastered that allows me to evaluate without having to recline and ingest the whole thing, thus giving me a chance to see which of the same old talking heads they’ve pulled out of the woodwork. For the most part, the majority are either poorly written or cobbled together from prior sources, newspaper articles and hearsay. Some are overly zealous, written by well meaning fans whose enthusiasm for the subject matter ultimately robs them of objectivity. Crazy Taxi Pc Full Game Torrent here.

If there is one that stands above the others it would have to be Philip Norman’s 1992 Elton John (republished recently as Sir Elton.) Norman, a well-respected biographer who has chronicled several famous lives including a number of books on both the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, certainly has the credentials and puts them to good use. However, the book now seems outdated and incomplete.

Some may argue that it’s a toss up between the latter bio and the only other contender David Buckley’s ’09 Elton: The Biography. Unfortunately, while I’m sure his intentions were good, Buckley relies too much on referencing Norman’s book and suffers from a relatively weak set of collaborators. And there in lies the problem with most of these books. Their tendency is to depend on peripheral characters that have made a second career out of presenting themselves as first hand witnesses. Time and again I’ve rolled my eyes as presumptive spectators assumed to know what I was thinking and why I did the things I did at the time they were done.

It’s color commentary without expertise and psychiatric evaluation by way of gophers and 15-minute famers. One book that was sent to me recently (yes, they do have a tendency of winding up in my possession whether I want them or not) is the second of two books written by a gentleman who claims to have been Roger Pope’s manager. (OKlet’s stop there for a moment. Roger Pope, rest his soul, was a great drummer and an admirable part of our musical history, but I find it odd that (and maybe I’m missing something here) he would be in need of managerial services.) Anyway, putting that aside, this book is the poster child for what I’m referring to when I say “peripheral characters” run amok.

There is so much nonsense and rewriting of history that it appears the author is more interested in writing about the way he would like for things to have been rather than the way they really were. For instance (fact checking apparently not being available to him) he still sticks to the old fable that “Tiny Dancer” was written about my first wife when it was merely dedicated to her. It was our graphic designer David Larkham’s wife, Janice, who was the seamstress for the band (she embroidered the Madman Across the Water cover) and the dancer of the title simply refers to a collective not a singular person. The first Mrs.Taupin was many things; a dancer was not one of them.

Perhaps one day there will be the definitive bio that I can happily endorse. That being said I’m not sure if I could bring myself to contribute as at this point in my life my enthusiasm for recollection is just about tapped out. Would I write something myself? Yes, but it wouldn’t be traditional in biographical terms, rather it would consist of random stories and memorable vignettes.

A series of one act plays chronicling wonderful encounters with both extraordinary as well as undesirable people. Everyone who’s interested has heard the textbook saga of my amigo and me but not the unrecorded blanks in-between the major moments and over-documented brouhaha.

This is my blog folkstake it as you find it. It’s one place where I can be honest, and it’s here I’m allowed to express myself in full frontal mode without being censored or edited by the media. Yes, if things bother me I’m going to bitch and moan in the same way as I’ll praise things that inspire and move me. If I upset people in the course of these informal rambles, especially those who feel their best intentions are being represented, I apologize. I value all opinions and welcome each and every verbal slingshot of a chastising or agreeable nature. Until next time, via con Dios. 06.20.16 ELVIS WAS NOT GREAT For those who tuned into my now dormant radio show () it may have appeared puzzling to you that I did on occasion question the validity of Elvis Presley’s right to be included alongside the all time greats.

In fact in one episode, much to the chagrin of many devotees I imagine (it even elicited a disbelieving exhalation of breath from my co-host Paca) I excluded him in my picks of the five most influential American entertainers of the 20th century. In retrospect this may have come across as tendentious to some and just plain unfair to others, but before the flaming torches and pitchforks are at my door, let me explain. To begin, let me say that Elvis was a lightning bolt, a meteoric freak of nature who appeared as if he were the manifestation of some cool alien planet. It’s hard to imagine what the inhabitants of his sleepy southern birthplace made of this smoldering embodiment of teenage angst swathed in hot pink and magenta, that trigger-like quiff greased, jet black and swinging above his overtly sensuous mouth. With his pelvic thrust and pneumatic voice, he was quite rightly for a brief moment in time the Tupelo Mississippi Flash. Elvis certainly didn’t invent rock ‘n rollthat was done in the decade before his emergence by the likes of Louis Jordon, Wynonie Harris and Roy Brown, but he did elevate it and sell it to a young white generation hungry for change. Under the guidance of Sam Philips at Sun Records, he cut some of the rawest and most uncompromising music of that or any other era.

On the back of flat bed trucks and on the archaic stages of rural state fairs he pumped out adrenalin-fueled hillbilly rock in all its primal parent-threatening glory - then he signed up with Col. Tom Parker and RCA records!

I’m not saying that that’s when it all went south, but it was the beginning of a slow and soon to be rapid decline. With his switch to the cooperate world of a major label, the records began to show signs of a polish that had not been present on the Sun recordings. Initial releases were still admirable and it’s hard to find fault in bona fide classics like “Heartbreak Hotel” “Jailhouse Rock” “All Shook Up” and “Hound Dog” although the latter in the hands of Big Mama Thornton is the perfect example of how Elvis didn’t always improve on the original. Her “Hound Dog” is an exercise in visceral menace, and while Elvis is simply reprimanding, Thornton is threatening bodily harm.

At the same time that RCA was pumping out these and other noteworthy singles like “Hard Headed Woman” “Teddy Bear” (“You’re So Square) Baby I Don’t Care” among them, Elvis was paralleling his music with a budding and initially promising movie career. While his debut feature Love Me Tender is a forgettable piece of B-grade fodder, his sophomore film “Loving You” and its follow-up “Jailhouse Rock” are splendidly entertaining and showed great potential and dynamic musical performances. What followed next should and could have been his introduction to the big league. In King Creole (an adaptation of Harold Robbins’ (A Stone For Danny Fisher) Elvis had it all, a great director Michael Curtiz (Casablanca) cinematographer Russell Harlan (To Kill A Mockingbird, Red River) and stellar cast mates (Walter Matthau, Carolyn Jones and Dean Jagger.) Elvis is excellent in it, credible and assured, the kind of role that could have been the launch pad to a serious and prolific movie career - then he joined the army! “Are You Lonesome Tonight” with its overwrought vocal and cod spoken passage, and “It’s Now Or Never” an equally abysmal song sung in a cringe-worthy quasi-operatic baritone are just two examples that aided and abetted the dampening of his hillbilly fire. And what was the first movie he made on his return? Blues a tepid piece of fluff padded with puerile songs (“Wooden Heart” and “Frankfurt Special” anyone?) made to cash in on his homecoming.

As for a serious movie career it was dead in the water. All that had seemed so possible and potentially gratifying after the triumph of King Creole was lost.

Blues on Elvis went on to sleepwalk through 26 more movies each one worse than the one before. Movies so bad that for the most part they almost defy description: trite, cheap and riddled with diabolically bad songs (the possible exception being “Viva Las Vegas” which may have had more to do with Ann Margaret, an angora sweater, and black tights) each was a testament of complacency - It would appear Elvis just didn’t care. Hard to put a finger on when Elvis lost his humility. The kid who had seemed so genuine at the beginning was retreating behind a shield of sycophants and enablers. Frank Sinatra had his boys club, but Frank lived life to the hilt. Frank went to concerts, nightclubs and sporting events.

Frank loved restaurants, traveling and (putting it mildly) female company. Frank lived large. Elvis just became large. Elvis simply faded into a dark netherworld that didn’t include living in the real one. He never appeared to have any desire for culture of any kind, no desire to see the world and no desire to explore gastronomic genres unless it was deep-fried. And speaking of Sinatra, Frank respected songwriters above all else. Elvis just abused and cheated them.

In Colonel Tom’s contractual demands any song submitted and accepted had to forfeit a portion of the publishing rights to the coffers of the king. This unsavory tactic, to the best of my knowledge, was rarely challenged until Dolly Parton told him to kiss her white country ass when he attempted a cover of “I Will Always Love You.” Elvis continued to coast through the 60’s releasing slick and soulless pseudo-pop rock like “Return To Sender” “She’s Not You” and “Good Luck Charm” until the singles became a blur of non-entities (“Do The Clam” and “Spinout”) and The Beatles rendered him irrelevant. There are those that would say it was The Beatles that were the reason Elvis dyed his hair, dropped some weight and crawled into a skintight black leather outfit for what was touted as his renaissance the ’68 Comeback Special. Yes, he looked pretty damn good, but have you watched it lately?

While it had its moments it also features some terrible variety show shtick along with a segment that kind of proves a point I made earlier. When Elvis sits around jamming and singing with his good ‘ol boys there is without a doubt an edgy, nervous vibe among the musicians that makes the viewing experience slightly uncomfortable. There is a forced jocularity as the participants hang on the boss’s every word, laughter without spontaneity as he recalls, “The only thang I could move was ma lil’ finger.” Oh yea, and Elvis wasn’t really very funny either.

From here on out it was pretty much as you remember: the great fashion faux pas that turned Elvis into a parody of wellElvis. The cape, the gold rimmed shades and the garish studded jump suits held together with buckles the size of barn doors, a kitsch ensemble that launched a million impersonators*. Sadly for many this is the only Elvis people remember, a slowly ballooning cartoon character striking karate poses while blue haired matrons screamed through his gradually diminishing performances. The dye trickled from his hair, his girth expanded, and the image of what once was morphed into a cash cow called Graceland the tacky palace where he lived and died of a heart attack on the toilet at the age of 42 bloated and full of more prescription pills than a Walgreens pharmacy. Linn Basik Lv V Tonearm Manually. So you can, if you will, disregard all of the above and say even with all of this he still deserves his place among the exalted top five if only for the lightning in a bottle he once was. But “with all of this” is my point. Still I maybe wrong.

He did indeed inspire a generation, but think about it for a minute. He squandered greatness. He allowed his entire career to careen into mediocrity at the hands of a Carney who preyed on his inability to think for himself. For goodness sake he never toured the world thus depriving his universal fan base of the respect they deserved for loyalty and support - not to mention the millions of dollars they generated for his pocketbook. The aforementioned Carney wouldn’t allow it. Due to his illegal status Stateside, had he left he may never have been allowed to return. It was this same Stetsoned Svengali who orchestrated his ruinous movie career when all the boy had to do was stand up to him and say, “I deserve better.” Of course he couldn’t remain the Tupelo Mississippi Flash forever since everyone develops his or her style and does their best to improve, experiment and branch out.

Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra and Muddy Waters remained relevant and inspiring their entire lives and Bob Dylan is still actively doing so. Elvis didn’t and for that I blame Elvis. Through his own ineptitude to look at the big picture and a seemingly (for the most part) passionless and passive regard for material, he became the manipulated puppet of those who told him he was still the king long after his reign was over.

It boils down to one thing: for all his martial-arts posturing and TV-blasting gunplay, Elvis was basically weak-willed and complacent, happy to feel like he was in charge when he knew very well he wasn’t. Like I said, maybe he does still deserve to rank alongside the greats, but as for me, I’ll pass. 05/01/16 SAME SHED NEW TOOLS Occasionally you see or hear something that can inspire you to a new beginning, a revised way of thinking and a well-engineered overhaul of your general outlook. It may be familiar but its reemergence instills a palpitation of delight, a nostalgic nudge in the direction of better things. For example, listening to Duke Ellington’s tenor sax titan Paul Gonsalves blow 27 straight choruses, thus turning “Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue” from the 1956 Live at Newport into one of the most riveting and exciting jazz tracks ever recorded. It can be as simple as a 10-year-old girl riding her horse bareback, watching a hooded oriole dance in an orange tree or the one you love framed by the early morning light. Why do I say this?

Well, to put it mildly it’s been an odd year so far. No actually, let me rephrase that: it’s been downright depressing, tragic and insane for a multitude of reasons, which is why the first paragraph needs to resonate. As we prepare to hold our noses and vote for a new Commander in Chief let’s consider what’s available.

As of this writing the choices will most likely be an inarticulate, megalomaniacal orange-tinted buffoon and a frumpy pathological liar. I’m imagining by the time you read this the old guy who looks like a cross between Dave from “Wendy’s” and a demented TV weatherman will be toast. It’s up to you of course, your decision. Is it to be a reality show host who talks in a litany of facile adjectives, or a pant-suited matron who claims she “tries to tell the truth.” We have millions of disenfranchised refugees with little shelter, home or hope who, through no fault of their own,will be deprived of any Promised Land. An aggressive powder keg in the Middle East, a miniature Stalin in the Kremlin and a pudgy nutball with a pudding bowl haircut playing Dr.

Evil in North Korea. The polar caps are melting, our shorelines are eroding, and women across the globe are being treated in ways that if it wasn’t true could only be conjured up in the most sadistic and misogynistic of minds. Natural wildlife and beautiful creatures are heading for extinction, cruelty and apathy are on the rise and social media has turned the mundane into an art form. So how’s that hooded oriole looking to you right now? Point being of course is that we need to find the positive, the silver lining in this black cloud of indifference, danger and despair, no matter how simple, how insignificant it may seem to others.

Don’t be afraid to be a child again. Read “Treasure Island” and watch “Pinocchio.” Lay on a freshly mown lawn and watch the vapor trails of planes. Reinvestigate your happiest memories. Indulge yourself in things that bring color back to a darker outlook. I’m not suggesting for a minute that we hide our heads in the sand and pretend it’s not happening, and I’m not saying don’t get involved. In fact, I would encourage all to do so taking into consideration that ultimately it’s the people who have the power.

My point is simply don’t forget to be stimulated by what is still good. In the stagnation and mire of modern society and on the corroding stage of world affairs there is still music, art and architecture. Listen to Merle Haggard. Visit MOMA, Light a candle in St.

Patrick’s Cathedral. Read Huckleberry Finn.

Right before our eyes there remain natural wonders made both by God and man. Rolling hills, rippling and roaring waters, giant redwoods and majestic elephants. Drive the Natchez Trace Walk through an orange grove Hug your dog and drink good red wine.

Stunned was the emotion felt in this household, an artist who defined the word “iconic,” and a multi-talented genius who leaves an irreplaceable void. Short in stature, but a colossus of style, compassion and savvy artistry, certainly one of the single most dynamic and exciting performers I’ve ever seen onstage, and believe me, I’ve seen ‘em all. I don’t wish to wallow in morbidity by listing a string of bright lights lost long before their due date, so I’ll just presume that you know to whom I’m referring. Of course I’ll contradict myself immediately by saying that it would be criminal not to mention master songwriter and Eagles founder Glenn Frey. The reason for this is that I knew Glenn, and in many ways his and Don Henley’s careers ran parallel to that of Elton and me. The first act we saw in LA on the first night we arrived was Longbranch Pennywhistle, the country/rock duo consisting of Glenn Frey and John David Souther. From that night on all my encounters with Glenn were never anything but laid-back and fun.

His personality was continually upbeat, his conversation always intelligent and enlightening. I know that over the years he and Don butted heads and their relationship was to say the least acrimonious at times, but it didn’t stop them from forging an immense and incredible body of work. The last time I saw him was at a mutual friend’s wedding and he was as always his charming and witty self. I knew nothing of his medical problems, which I’m sure, was the way he wanted it, but sadly only made it harder on us all when we got the news.

Well, I think that’s it for now. Nice to reconnect, and hopefully I can keep getting back to you on a regular basis. As you can see, we have kept a section on the revamped site titled “blog archives.” These are there simply as a way of seeing the transitional arc of my (at times cantankerous) thinking. Sifting through them you’ll notice they invariably contain much that is yesterday’s news. To my mind this might make them all the more amusing in that you can assess for yourself just how easily I can be driven to my soapbox by the banality and insanity that constitutes current events. Hope you enjoy the new set up and hey gotta send out a big thanks to my amigo Paca Thomas (co-host of my “American Roots Radio” show) for constructing and managing this new arrangement. It’s in good hands believe me.

Keep the emails coming; yes, I read them all providing they remain within the parameter of the rules posted. Oh, and by the way, contrary to what many assume, no, I don’t have scores of secretaries and assistants aiding and abetting my day-to-day activities, not a one, my friends this is a family operation. Now I lie in the heart of the fat, black soil Like the seed of a prairie thistle; It has washed my bones with honey and oil And picked them clean as a whistle. And my youth returns like the rains of Spring, And my sons like the wild-geese flying; And I lie and hear the meadow-lark sing And have much content in my dying. Go play with the towns you have built of blocks, The towns where you would have bound me! I sleep in my earth like a tired fox, And my buffalo have found me. The Ballad Of William Sycamore by Stephen Vincent Benet.

THE BOTTOM OF THE WELL I thought I’d said all there was to say regarding things of this nature but the insanity of which I often speak has prevailed to a point of absurdity that I had to confirm it’s validity for me to believe it. PleasePlease save us! Rescue us from these guardian watchdogs and insufferable moderators of overt political correctness, social narcissism and mental policing.

It’s almost as if a form of acceptable contemporary fascism is spreading through our schools and educational system like some cancerous overload. It may be a thing of benign concern, a minor news item finding little ink in our here today / gone tomorrow world, but when a Tennessee high school student gets suspended for saying “Bless you” to a sneezing classmate because it’s on her teachers list of banned language “We’re not having godly speaking in my class,” (Is that even proper English?) you know the bucket’s hit the bottom of the well. What are we going to do next?

Burn our children at the stake for a simple common courtesy? Look out, kids! Watch every syllable you utter in class because some miserable po-faced atheist imposer is going to be hovering close. Just think, next thing you know your kids could be expelled for any number of celestially invoked blunders “GOOD LORD I didn’t know Riga was the capital of Latvia” or “HEAVEN FORBID we ever have to see the resurgence of the National Socialist Party” (Well, actually we have.

He or she could be teaching your class!) I can only assume that “Oh my God” and “Jesus f-ing Christ” are acceptable because of their negative value to Christians. When did teachers become dictators?

When did it become acceptable practice, better yet, when did it even become legal to bring your personal beliefs into the classroom and enforce them on our children, teachers who can’t even engage our kids in a civilized discussion but just shout them down and banish them for invoking their right to freedom of speech? Believe me, this has got nothing to do with any religious beliefs of my own it’s just that I don’t like bullies and it just appears to me that these days the playing field isn’t as level as it should be. I’m reminded of a line from Steve Coogan’s “Alan Partridge” movie in which the vain and inept radio host admonishes his engineer for making an on air joke about Muslims “Never, never criticize Muslims, only Christians and Jews a little bit.” That about sums it up. Fair and balanced? There are many dedicated and wonderfully engaging teachers, so don’t imagine I’m out to tar all educators with the same brush, but as it is in everything, a rotten apple or two can put a bruise on the whole bunch.

It’s a little like a beleaguered African American family having that race baiting, self-promoting ambulance chaser Al Sharpton force himself upon them. I’m just waiting for the day when a family tells Sharpton, “You know what? Could you just not come around here, please?” OK that’s itoutside of my observation of the day. When is someone going to design a baseball cap with no bill given that no one wears them the right way around anyway? Am I OK with that? MY WINTER OF DISCONTENT* Sometimes it only takes a word to inspire the inclination to comment. One manipulatively reengineered utterance to awaken slumbering perplexity.

Considering it in retrospect now, it’s a word that seems as if it was tailor made for political stonewalling. The word in question: misspoke!

President Obama claims he misspoke about people being able to keep their health insurance plans under the Affordable Care Act (they can’t) and Hillary Clinton misspoke when she was met with a hail of bullets on her arrival in Sarajevo (she wasn’t.) Misspoke. A government approved word to obtain absolution as in, “I misspoke when I issued that order for a nuclear strike.” We’re used to elected officials never giving a straight answer (an attribute I grudgingly have great admiration for considering the difficulty in convincing a nation that your thoughtful and nuanced reply is actually nothing more than smoke and mirrors with a side of flim-flam) but with misspoke they have created just another weapon in their arsenal of BS to Teflon coat their ever increasing inadequacies. It’s easy to blame yourselves as the key word in “elected officials” is “elected” so I guess we get what we vote for, right? But it trickles down to a lesser degree when you consider the bureaucratic make-up of our nation. I don’t want to say that as the moral fiber of our country disintegrates etc. Because I’d be opening a can of worms that is difficult to dissect into personal points of view.

And besides, I’d be sure to offend someone - and believe me we’re all so easily offended these days. Anyway - one thing at a time.

Yes, we elect, but these days it seems that what we are promised is increasingly non apparent on every level imaginable. Lying has become a national past time and, to a certain extent, totally acceptable. The fact that campaign spending is relentlessly out of control can give you some indication of what we’re dealing with. That any two politicians up for the presidency can imagine (with a straight face and no sense of irony attached) that their sense of entitlement is worth $2 billion is not only surreal but also humanely obscene, it not only fails democratically speaking but fails a nation that was built on the principle of taking care of its own. While we as a people become lesser in the equation and our incentive to further ourselves is stifled by government (why follow your dreams when they just chop you off at the knees?) they as a collective become examples by which we can gauge obscenity and incompetence, their financial rewards are bountiful when ours are gutted.

How many more ass-grabbing, crack-smoking mayors and toilet-trading, sexting, penis taking congressmen selfies must we indulge before we realize that something is awfully wrong here? The traditional image of the straight talking stump speaker has been vaporized. It’s just lie after lie and denial, denial, no remorse, no sense of human failure and no belief that anything they’ve done is wrong. In a word, so contemporary! I’m not assuming that everyone has to be Jimmy Stewart, and sure the image of politicians has always been slightly shady, but there have been a few good apples on either side of the political divide.

Now sadly it seems we’ve traded in apples for nuts and raisins. On a lesser level, city councils are infiltrated by thieves and carpet baggers while our courts are overseen by judges whose decisions depend on how their eggs were cooked for breakfast that morning. Lawyers hover like predatory birds circling the carcasses of the unfortunate, building mountains from grains of sand, padding bills and sucking clients dry.

Government services want to neuter education and tell us how to raise our children, invade our space and presume to know better than us. Possibly among the red tape the good eggs exist, but the cream seems to have curdled on the top, and job qualifications appear to have sunk to the Mo, Larry and Curly level. Hardly surprising then that this would have an abject affect on our culture, a culture where we’ve elevated the lowest common denominator to the status of cultural icon. Witness the rise of hillbilly chic. The red neck is in vogue and the trailer park is prime real estate.

TV channels that once brought us educational documentaries and natural history shows are now fighting to see who can attain maximum exposure for the basest human flotsam. Toothless gator hunters and greasy pawnbrokers along with deranged families and freakish children battle for ratings along with the old standby of vacuous IQ deprived housewives and B list celebrities. Incidentally note one ongoing theme, they're all white heterosexual bozos. Apparently, it’s perfectly acceptable in modern society to humiliate and lampoon this demographic, yet if the networks were to feature a rural black or a low income Latino family in the same stereotypical style they’d be handed their heads on a plate. What can we expect next?

“Porn Stars of Studio City” a fun romp with the girls who make the San Fernando Valley sizzle. Or perhaps Bill Maher presents “Return to Rome” a laugh a minute chuckle as real Christians are thrown to the lions. By the way, I love satirists. I don’t care which way they lean as long as it’s done with a deft touch and a sense of humor that’s original and intelligent. I happen to think Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and Dennis Miller have exceptional minds where as Bill Maher, who I dislike intensely, is simply smug, mean-spirited and wears more make-up than Bill O’Reilly or as a letter in “Vanity Fair” succinctly states: No, we may no longer be the greatest country in the world, and to some degree it is because of self-righteous, pompous, and callous individuals like Maher, who somehow judge themselves to be superior human beings.

Oh, just one quick question in regards to television, commercials?! When did fast food commercials start catering to stoner/gamers, and for that matter slackers in general? It seems that the social media has created not only a generation addicted to instant gratification, bad diction and indecipherable spelling, but one that is now being courted as a bona fide social groupvery inspiring. Having said this, the above might not be quite as terrifying as this moment, every parents’ worst nightmare.

The moment your growing child turns to you during a game day commercial, and utters those four words that can turn a grown man’s blood to ice water “Daddy, what’s erectile dysfunction?” And seeing that I’ve nothing to lose here, let me weigh in on one more issue that has a high visibility rating of late, the 50th anniversary of the assignation of JFK and the myth of Camelot. Now before everybody starts going “Whoa, don’t go there,” just bear with me as I think there’s a relative thread here to some of my earlier observations. Don’t get me wrong, Kennedy came along at the right time, revitalized a nation, made some groovy speeches and did some cool stuff. Can’t argue with the handling of the Cuban missile crisis and “Ask not what your country can do for you.” War hero, too, and a pretty nifty writer in the Churchill style, but saint and savior of the nation? The Kennedy legacy has been coated with such a veneer of positive propaganda that the dark underbelly of Camelot has been emulsified. If Kennedy were in office today he’d either be one of two things: impeached or fitting right in with the current climate.

After all he was a serial adulterer, profane and bought into office by his father Joe Kennedy one of the most despicable and corrupt men in American history. However JFK wasn’t the only tarnished Kennedy, the entire sanctified clan was and have been a Shakespearean consortium of reckless and tainted hellions. According to Gore Vidal who wrote speeches for him, RFK couldn’t string two words together without an expletive in-between, and as for Edward, well he got into office and got away with murder. As for the rest, take your pick of all the above and add some, they were a bonnie lot mark my words.

Rose must have been proud. Obviously I’ll have many of you shaking your heads and I’m sure I’ll get the usual emails agreeing, disagreeing, chastising and chiding. Many will surely chalk it up to my curmudgeonly nature or try to piece the individual here with the individual they know as the artist in residence. Still, I write it as it comes to me, it’s what I perceive in my everyday life, it’s what I view through the telescope, up ahead and heading towards us fast. By the way, a continued thanks for the emails. I read them all. There are many that are quirky, some that are simply complementary and those that touch me deeply, especially some of the more recent ones concerning “The Diving Board” and in particular the song “Oceans Away.” Stay true to what you believe in and avoid any film advertised as “The feel good movie of the year.” *I remain as always politically neutral.

A THEORY ON NOTHING I’m seriously contemplating a blog about nothing considering the current status of my contemplative state is exactly that, nothing! Is it possible? Larry David created “Seinfeld” a situation comedy supposedly about nothing so why not a simple blog about nothing. What constitutes nothing, what are the parameters?

When somebody enquires of someone else “What are you thinking about?” and they say “Oh nothing” is that in fact the truth or is it really one of two things, first, they don’t want to share what they're actually thinking about or second what they're thinking is in fact so innocuous that they’ve forgotten what it is by the time the initial question was asked, however a thought misplaced is still something. At the same time when you look out a friend's window and ask “What’s over that hill to the left?” and they say “The Heaven’s Gate Orchid Plantation” and you say “And what’s over there to the right” and they say “Oh that’s nothing” how is that possible, wouldn’t the nothing over to the right if it was really nothing be just a grey void of dead space and not in fact “The Bongatolla Tar Pits” which are actually something, but out of a sort of visual embarrassment have become incorrectly regarded as nothing. If you have nothing to say do you also have nowhere to go? Billy Preston famously sang, “Nothing from nothing is nothing” which if my math, which is iffy at best, serves me correctly is one example of the conclusion being spot-on and only goes to prove that one can actually sing about nothing, figuratively! Yet songs where the singer claims, “Nothin’s goin’ on” in regards to infidelity and sneaky sexual liaisons are quintessentially protesting with a lie even if their morals are buttoned up and intact. Listen ~ they may indeed not be doing the mattress dance in the local Motel 8 with the wife’s best friend but they’re most certainly doing something if it’s only gassing up the car or coaching little league.

Outside of song, narrative poetry and literature are simply teeming with heroes and heroines convinced they have nothing left to live for when indeed they have everything to live for - considering most of them are drop-dead gorgeous, have pots of money and talk like Romeo & Juliet. They may not have been Tristan & Isolde but even Sid Vicious weeping “I got nuffin’ left” over the body of Nancy Spungen still had a bloody knife and a syringe. “Ring ring” “Hello” “Hi it’s Sylvia what are ya’ doin’?” “Agh nothin’” well yea you are, you’re talking to Sylvia!

I went to Tupelo, Mississippi once and remarked that it seemed like a place frozen in time to which someone replied “Yea nothing ever changes ‘round here.” How can that be? “Frozen in time” and “nothing ever changes” are miles apart, different assumptions, one logical the other illogical. “Frozen in time” speaks for itself: it’s an analogy. “Nothing ever changes” assumes the sun doesn’t go up and down, the mayor doesn’t get reelected and David Allan Coe doesn’t come and play Tipitina’s once a year. And then of course there are the kids! “What are you up to out there?” “Nothing.” When of course they are in fact putting a saddle on the dog, creating a mural on the new stucco wall and making fondue out of mud and worms. Of course in the minds of children the concept of nothing seems far more reasonable considering that they are not that far removed from a time when they were in an embryonic state floating on a warm wave of fuzzy tummy fluid.

And with that being said I have nothing more to say other than I guess it is possible to write about nothing. COMMON SENSE TAKES A VACATION Allow me to once again weigh in with several of the old chestnuts that somehow continually reemerge and manage to tamper with my understanding of the modern mind. Believe me, once in awhile I’d like to get derailed from these issues, but if people weren’t so bogged down in pettiness and ensnared by verbosity, were they not so radioactively liberal or right wing as a lynch noose, I’d be blogging on bee keeping and the best recipe for beef stroganoff.

Sure, I’d like to put in my 10 cents on the current climate of the NFL, the less than stellar job of commissioner Roger Goodell or the inability of my Raiders to get the ball in the end zone. Yea, I’d like to see Tebow take the reins and reboot the Jets as much as I’d like to see John Gruden ditch the Chucky hairdo and get a style overhaul. I’m thrilled the Gators took down LSU and are back on track and I’m as fascinated as the next man (or woman) to see how Peyton progresses at Denver - knowing full well as football fans nationwide are that a great quarterback is only as good as his offense.

All this stuff and more I’d love to stretch out on, but it’s those darn articles that pop up on a regular basis between the ink drenched pages of our daily news and national magazines that just seem to magnetically draw me in to the lurid world of those who invariably speak without thinking, speak while butchering the English language or think with that which resides in their pants and not in their heads. Several issues at hand and several individuals to bring center stage for a slap on the wrist and a quick spin in the spotlight as we cite three instances where there is, I believe, no excuse for stupidity from relatively intelligent people.

Having said that, the first one up might not completely fit the bill when it comes to great intellects of the 20th century. I’m referring to Hank Williams, Jr. Who recently on stage and in interviews has said that Barack Obama is “A Muslim President who hates the military, hates farmers and hates the USA” and also described a golf game between Obama and House Speaker John Boehner as “Hitler playing golf with Netanyahu.” Quite honestly I was impressed, not only did he know who Netanyahu was, he could actually pronounce his name.

Still, given these pearls of wisdom it’s hardly surprising that he was unceremoniously dumped from his long-standing gig introducing Monday Night Football. Personally I think they were just looking for any excuse Hank Jr not exactly being a recognizable commodity these days and besides, those good ole boy muttonchops got nothin’ on Faith Hill’s micro-mini! As a footnote to the previous paragraph, it does make one think!

The Dixie Chicks said they were ashamed to come from Texas because of George W. Bush and they became complete pariahs. Radio stations quit playing their records, their albums were burned in organized bonfires and people threatened them bodily harm. So how come old Hank disses the Pres and doesn’t get smoked by the country music set? Well, I don’t think it’s a stretch to figure that one out so I’ll just say that had old Bocephus called Mitt Romney a “Mormon dirtbag” he’d have been burned in effigy from the Big Muddy to the Texas Panhandle.

Again, I might add the Chicks voiced an opinion (albeit unnecessary) whereas Williams just spewed a litany of lies and exaggerated vitriol that any decent conservative would be embarrassed. Let’s move on across the great divide, that chasm of division that has seen the polarization of the nations inhabitants moving steadily more distant from each other, a swathe cut by differing opinions growing ever nastier since its inception in the days of Tricky Dick. And if that seems like an exaggeration bear with me and read this excerpt from an interview with legendary guitarist and recording artist Ry Cooder who, unlike Hank Williams Jr., I would have expected more rational thinking, this is truly perplexing coming from a man who is I believed (or once believed) to be not only sane but smart to boot - not anymore! Question: How will you be voting in November, Ry? Answer: “Democrat, always have. As Gore Vidal said, The Republicans aren’t a party any more; it’s a Hitler Youth mindset.

If the Republicans take over the Presidency as well as the House of Representatives, the United States is finished. I don’t want to see drones overhead in Los Angeles, immigrants shot down at the border, the poor thrown onto the streets, the defunding of Medicare and social security, new lynch laws and the return of Jim Crow.

The foundations of society since FDR are being dismantled before our very eyes, bought about by four years of think tank fascism funded by the Koch brothers, who in my song “Brother Is Gone” made a deal at the crossroads with Satan-there’s no other explanation! You’ve never had this many billionaires, maniacs who should be locked up-guillotined, which I think I’m in favor of! That would send a signal.” OK. Hitler youth mindset, drones over Los Angeles, shooting immigrants at the border, lynch laws, Jim Crow, deals with Satan and guillotining billionaires??!!!! Really, I mean really.Hank’s rant might have been knee jerk nutso, but come on, MAN! This stuff is just barking mad, in fact it just defies any sort of intelligent response and goes to prove how deeply paranoia and electronic manipulation has affected our common sense. In fact, common sense seems to have taken a long leaping jump into the void only to be swallowed up by a Babelesque black hole.

Yea the noose is tightening on common sense and a here’s one further example of “Get a Life.” In Southwest Texas cheerleaders who choose to emblazon their banners with Bible scripture are being taken to court by the Freedom From Religion Foundation who would rather they not do so. Simple this one: why not?? What earthly harm can it possibly do? People have been waving those little placards with biblical chapter and verse at professional football games for as long as I can remember without anyone being offended or oppressed. Just who are these people anyway? Freedom From Religion Foundation, American Atheists Association, got too much spare time on their hands associations if you ask me. What do they actually do?

Sit around just seeing how high they can set the bar for mean-spiritedness. These are teenagers just rooting for a football team for goodness sake; let them be, leave them alone. People are permitted to walk down the streets of our cities waving banners that declare the most hateful things and Muslim clerics like Abu Hamza al-Masri are permitted to preach death to all non Muslims in British mosques yet a group of children unfurling words that come from the Bible are targeted as inciting some twisted configuration of church and state laws.

These are the same dystopian clones that would rip the grave markers from Arlington and neuter our war memorials and mountain monuments. Common sense, common sense where is our common sense and decency? Our small town humility is sadly being suffocated and replaced by acrimonious little dictators with laptops and a reinvented sense of history, enough already. Speaking of hateful things, you may recall my recent blog attesting to the fact that I have a particular distaste for the word “hate” and its far too frequent usage especially in reference to things that do not warrant its excessive meaning.

So for the third individual today who gets a thumbs down for dumb things by relatively intelligent people, I give you the petulant and seemingly ever glum English pop star Morrissey who was recently photographed on stage with his arms around 2 teenage boys wearing “WE HATE WILLIAM AND KATE” tee shirts, the shirts also featuring a photo of the recently wed royal couple in full royal duds. Let me get something straight off the bat. My interest in the royal family and anything to do with them is non-existent. I don’t think about them, I don’t read about them, I don’t watch their weddings and could care less what they get up to but I do feel that to make them the butt of unnecessary malice for no good reason other than hip vitriol shows an incredible lack of class and good taste and comes across simply as churlish and par for the course when it comes to the dreary history of this “I’m such a working class bloke.”. OF DEVILS, ANGELS & BAD DIRECTION Once again I apologize for the lapse in time between checking in, but as usual on one hand it’s a case of dedicating some allotted time and on the other it’s simply feeling motivated. Before anything else I feel I must take issue with an email I received sometime in the last couple of months that inquired, “When did you get so hateful?” Normally, I’d simply ignore something like this as I’m more than used to misconceptions and those who presume too readily, however in response I stand for my own defense. I ask you pray point out one instance of hatred in any blog I have ever written?

Hate is a word I abhor; a word my children understand is unacceptable in our house, a word that should be reserved for genocidal maniacs and pedophiles. I can only assume that someone here is taking issue with an opinion, which may or may not hint of cynicism and comes etched with a touch of sarcasm in a word that someone’s taking sides and it obviously isn’t mine. For the most part, my observations are buffed with humor.

Although on occasion they are arguably combative and heartfelt, I assure you there has never been an instance when hatred has come into the equation. As this person failed to point out exactly what it was that they regarded as hateful, I’ll just presume it was something overwhelmingly detrimental to their way of thinking and not just a minor infraction or slight moral hiccup.

Last time I checked we live in a democracy that, for the most part, encourages lively debate and stands up for the soapbox orator. So having said that I’ll suggest we save our hatred for the likes of Bashar Assadmay he rot in hell. **** Talking of bad news bears, the big bear himself, Russia’s premiere bully Vladimir Putin has decided to get tough in the playground and rough up three little girls who don’t agree with him.

Shameful is putting it mildly, but not unexpected. After all this is a man who in order to maintain a stranglehold on his country appears to be channeling the Soviet Unions uber villain, Joseph Stalin. Putin has dismantled the media, robbed from and imprisoned the entrepreneurial class, falsified the electoral process, crushed any mechanism of democracy and hounded the voices of opposition into the grave. Now in front page photographs we have a trio of children incarcerated in a large steel aquarium surrounded by a phalanx of heavily armed goons.

Way to go Vlad, you must be real proud. So for a dumb little stunt that wouldn’t warrant much ink elsewhere, the political punk band Pussy Riot gets two years in the slammer for invoking the Virgin Mary to extradite your sorry ass to Siberia. Make your voices heard folks and support not just these young women but the millions of Russians whose tongues have been silenced for fear of losing them all together. **** I was recently driving west on Sunset Blvd along that curving ill-maintained stretch that sweeps past Brentwood and Bel Air when in a moment of distraction my car hit a deep nasty pothole. With two tires severely damaged, I limped into a side street to ponder my fate, one tire is a doable change, two tires is another matter. After unsuccessfully trying to work things out with the disembodied voice at the other end of that little button above the rear view mirror that promises to solve all ills, I extracted myself from my crippled auto and commenced to sweat. Perspiring and pacing, I proceeded to determine my location while simultaneously cursing AT&T’s failure to provide me with enough little bars to cry for help.

It was in this moment of crisis that I was afforded manna from Heaven in the form of two equally overheated yet far more convivial individuals who ran toward me from a sloping bank of fine green lawn across the street. A duo of thoroughly charming gardeners (one Asian and one Latino) came bounding over and, with rather excellent gesticulations due to our shared language barrier, offered to change my tire without any pre-determined bartering of financial reward. Naturally my appreciation was evident as any task at that moment that involved rubber, wing nuts and a crankable jack would have left me stinky, stained and unpresentable for civil interaction.

Within minutes my two Samaritans had whipped off the worst of the damaged tires and replaced it with that strange little spare that immediately relegates the most luxurious auto to clown car status. On completion of the task the boys stood up, stepped back and assessed their handy work with satisfied smiles before picking up the tattered original and stashing it neatly in the trunk. As this last action was unfolding, I was temporarily scrabbling around in the back seat trying to locate phone numbers in order to reschedule appointments. By the time I had extracted myself from the car my rescuers were already retreating back from whence they came without (as to my shame, I assumed they might) hanging around for a handout. Temporarily stunned by this totally selfless act of generosity in these times of financial insecurity, I almost missed my opportunity to not only thank them but also beg them to accept that which they had not requested.

With the worst of my situation temporarily band-aided I was able to granny crawl to the local dealer, and after two hours and a hefty bill, get mobile again. I always imagine angels come in various guises; some hold out their hand on the side of the road and some are sent to your aid in times of need. This time around I was the recipient of the latter, which only reconfirms my insistence of assisting the former. One out of six families in this country struggle to put sufficient food on the table everyday while the combined total of campaign funding is currently at a staggering $330 million. When two grown men need obscene amounts of money to wage their infantile pissing contests in the name of good government I can only shake my head in dismay. Give it up for the good of the country, boys, and duke it out in the debates, a couple of chairs and straight talk costs nothing.

**** Totally got caught up in Olympic fever, had my must watch events and got couch rooted most evenings for a couple of weeks catching up with the highlights. For my money the women ruled, and while the men mined a sizeable chunk of the hardware, it was the girls in my opinion who radiated good grace, broad smiles and winning charm. Not to be moved by Gabby Douglas would take a heart of stone and how could even the most sport allergic not be thrilled by the combined forces of nature that were Misty May & Kerri Walsh playing bad ass ball in bikinis on a beach next to Buckingham Palace. Missed the opening ceremonies but not the slight irony in certain aspects of the closing ones. I’ll finish today with a tap on the shoulder to whoever directed the over the top but slightly underwhelming finale. Forget the atrocious sound quality and parade of less than stellar b-list British talent most of which anyone outside the UK would be hard pressed to recognize, The Kaiser Chiefs, Jessie J & Beady Eye, huh? Director, perhaps you should listen to the lyrics of the songs you’re presenting in correlation to the action on stage.

LEVON HELM 1940-2012 The first time I heard Levon Helm’s voice was in a small record shop on Berwick Street in Soho London sometime around 1969. What was it like? Paul on the road to Damascus! Oh, I guess I just want to say all these things about the earth and granite of his being, the raw Appalachian timber of his voice and the powerful sway of his backbeat. The throb of his tom-toms the first time I heard “Tears Of Rage” and that wicked, knowing smile recounting tales of Carney barkers and backwater medicine shows. I’m thinking about him behind that economical kit, the way he hunched his shoulders and turned into the mike like a coiled spring when he sang. He was one of three great singers in The Band, three of the greatest singers in any band, and the last of those three to leave us.

What other band under God’s great Heaven gave us a trio of such eloquent and awesome sonic tools? Richard Manuel had an otherworldly voice, ethereal and legitimately spooky in the best way possible. Rick Danko, with whom I spent some questionably manic moments and cerebral hours and whom I loved dearly, sang like an unfettered young buck, all tremulous beauty and with poignant longing. Anyone doubting this just listen to his vocal on “It Makes No Difference” from the “The Last Waltz” soundtrack, one of the best live vocal performances I’ve ever heard.

Then there was Levon: a voice that seemed as it was birthed from the land from which he sprung. Rich as Arkansas soil and raw as a plug of tobacco, gnarly as knotted pine and so expressive it seemed like he was chewing on the words before they left his mouth. Now he’s gone and our anemic musical horizon has one less icon to cling to and one more legacy to embrace. SKY HIGH AND CHANGING TIDES Cruising in my truck recently my ears fell on the thin monotone of Mitt Romney being interviewed on a generic news show. This apples and oranges exchange made me think as so much does these days how the application of passion is becoming irrelevant as we become increasingly dependent on information that is received from the ether rather than touched by the human hand. Don’t misunderstand me I actually have nothing against Mitt Romney in fact I’m sure he’s most likely a very decent man whose views you either do or don’t agree with - that’s not the point.

It’s just that I’d be hard pressed to come up with a recent politician or President (left, right or in the middle) that makes my patriotic heart pound or, simply put, believe in anything they have to say. Let’s face it not one of them is convincing, can give a straight answer to a direct question or deliver a speech without reeking of insincerity. Even Barack Obama with his nuanced gift for oration can’t convince me that anything he says isn’t written by P.T. All the clipped syllables and rounded vowels aren’t going to convince me of his conviction leastwise not until he the other assorted automatons puts believability into the mix and taps the passion card for real. I remember when they had Gore Vidal writing speeches; now it sounds like they’ve got Ron Popeil.

Mind you I’m not expecting “Four score and seven years ago.” I mean that was from a time when Presidents could actually speak for themselves and compose literary bending epics on the backs of napkins. Check out the speeches of Thomas Jefferson, James Garfield and Theodore Roosevelt and bare witness to passion with a capitol P. Even JFK with a little help managed “Ask not what your country can do for you” and even Ronald Regan limped in with an admirable “Tear down that wall, Mr.

Gorbachev” but today everything comes out the back room hammered out willy-nilly on ipads by a bunch of faceless drones. In the modern age if passionate presentation and spellbinding speech writing was a ticket to the White House Martin Luther King should have made it to the Oval Office before the current occupant. This really didn’t all start from listening to Mitt Romney piling on rhetoric like it was a Canter’s corned beef sandwich, no the switch has been flipped for awhile. Can you figure it out?

Just when did everybody get so angry, uncooperative and mean? Goodness knows the sturm and drang drags on regardless; it’s always been there in one form or another effecting individuals collectively or singularly since our forefathers put quill to parchment. When did we cross the line into just plain downright nastiness? Maybe when we all decided to move faster than we need to, depend on technology for human action and eradicate the familiarity of inanimate objects from or lives. We flail at the air, everything is “UP THERE” we live in a world called Cyberspace where everything is summoned from the clouds by a click and stored in a cold receptacle that is not remotely similar to our hearts.

Of course it’s not just politics but it’s a start. When both sides of the house stop behaving like a bunch of 3rd graders and decide that there’s something to be said for cooperative banter and common decency there might be some light to behold. In this current atmosphere if Newt Gingrich discovered a cure for cancer the Democrats would say it was a bad idea and if Hillary Clinton negotiated world peace the Republicans would say that it was just asking for trouble. What none of them seems to grasp is that we are all living in the same country, a country that has come together to fight wars and expel oppressors. The American people stood shoulder to shoulder united through the Depression and have dragged themselves up through the mire of adversity at every turn. Even in the darkest time of Southern and Northern animosity the two half’s that should have been a whole were fed by passionate figureheads devoted to their causes as misguided as part of the equation might have been.

The point is they had leaders with a fire in their belly and an oratorical zeal that makes Joe Biden, Rick Santorum and Ron Paul sound like Moe, Larry and Curly! Sometimes you have to do things that marginalize your principles in order to maximize them.

If you were asked to double date with Michael Bolton and Nicolette Sheridan (ghastly as the thought may be) wouldn’t you accept if it meant you could understand the futility of bad music and appalling acting? OK maybe I slipped that in to make an erroneous point, but the fact is a unified front always prevails. We have radio talk show hosts uttering the most diabolically stupid things, the ethics of the press are in the gutter and the nightly local news exhibits tissue thin virtue, condescending compassion and presenters in more make-up than Little Richard. I want desperately to care but when those with their hands on the driving wheel seem to be aimlessly unaware of their direction and visually apathetic it’s easy to lose interest and depend on your own initiative which isn’t altogether a bad thing unless you start subscribing to the belief that a Bruce Springsteen album will set you free. What’s that NRA bumper sticker about guns? “You can have it when you pry it from my cold dead hands.” Well that’s pretty much how I feel about books another passion that advanced technology has decided can be served better by scrolling them up infinitum on a rectangular slab. A Personal View for more on this.) I just re read “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” come on!

It should be illegal to read that any other way than a dog-eared old paperback or musty hard cover hand-me-down. How on earth do you embrace the Mississippi, smell the magnolia and relive glorious memories of your childhood through the artificial glow of a Kindle? I used to adore the 1959 “Twilight Zone” episode with Burgess Meredith as an avid bookworm and lone survivor in a post apocalyptic world who surrounded by mountains of books looks forward to living out his days reading in peace. As he settles in his glasses slip from his face and are crushed underfoot. This scenario sadly has disturbing parallels with current trends that prove to me the importance of hoarding and Lasik surgery. So there we go - all my passions are now available to me via the Internet without a one of them ever having to pass through my hands. Just double click and I can download Charles Dickens, Nina Simone and Sam Peckinpah in a flash.

Literature, music and movies all without the botheration of dust jackets, album covers or picturesque poster art. Nothing to touch, nothing to feel, nothing to clutter up my coffee table and sully my precious digits. Who needs the warmth and comfort of precious items?

Collectables to cherish be damned, outmoded relics of the past every one of them. Oh and that crisp newspaper, the one with the familiar hint of printers ink, the one you snapped open so gingerly over the breakfast table, going, going, gone. No more mess, no more endless folding and unfolding no sir just scroll on up to cloud 9 and prop your pad up alongside your Wheaties. Oh and here’s one I just thought of! In these uber days of 3-D, Blu-ray and digital why is that “Singing In The Rain” still looks better than “Avatar”? Er now let me think, oh yea BECAUSE IT WAS SHOT ON FILM!

There’ an old Graham Parker album track from the 70’s called “Passion Is No Ordinary Word” soon it will all be less than an ordinary word in fact it may not even be a word at all. *These are just scattergun observations off the top of my head not deeply researched subject matter intended for a college thesis or Newsweek please read responsibly. QUICK THANK YOU NOTE As much as I would love to stay here and get into some things, I’m afraid my schedule presently makes it impossible to chow down and mince it up.

The term “burning the candle at both ends” comes to mind as the business as usual that was mentioned in the news section continues to eat up the majority of my spare time. The main reason I’m posting this is to wish all of you that come visit a happy and prosperous 2012 and to sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart for the tremendous amount of email that you’ve been sending my way. Please understand that (even though several still preface their communications with “You’ll probably never read this”) I do indeed read everything that is sent unless it is of an overtly solicitous nature.

Also it’s simply impossible for me to answer all requests as I’ve previously explained, for varying reasons. Such a thing would be overwhelming not to mention time consuming. Just know it is all appreciated, including the chiding I’ve received lately for some of my ruminations. To those folks let me say that much of what I ponder on in these observations is for the most part tongue in cheek and merely batted about in order to stimulate.

Having said that, like ‘em or not at least the Tea Party clean up after themselves. You won’t find a candy wrapper after those Crackers leave a rally. I can’t help myself. If time allows in the next few weeks I’ll get back in the ring with you and rustle up a topic or two that might be getting in my craw or blowing my skirt up. But for now duty calls so I’ll leave you with one quick thought. Do you ever hear a line in a movie and think 'Wow!

That’s really profound' only to think about it later and realize it isn’t remotely so? Try this on for size.

RUMINATING ON A RAINY FRIDAY I’m seriously considering joining the “Occupy” movement. This week alone I’ve recruited at least myself and my mother-in-law to “Occupy The Local Market” in order to complain about the overall inadequacy of the produce department. In fact if all goes well we may branch out and “Occupy The Deli” which come to think of it is sadly uninspired. James Garfield didn’t wear shoes until he was 4 years old and he became President of the United States. Nowadays the President suggests that anyone over a certain income level give their shoes away.

I pose a question. How many of the people who are screaming, “Share The Wealth” do you think would be prepared to share their wealth if they were wealthy? And one might add that the vast majority of America’s wealthiest are self-made, coming up from nothing and achieving everything through a combination of perseverance, street smarts and blood sweat and tears. Another question.

In the tent cities of the “Occupy Movement” what percentage of the inhabitants do you think actually know why they’re there? In several “Occupy” encampments the environmentally and socially concerned inhabitants are doing their part by spraying public buildings with graffiti, harassing innocent shopkeepers and throwing rocks at the police, all very noble indeed. The “Occupy Movement” is a rudderless ship. At least they have one thing in common with the government. Share the wealth, level the playing field and stifle the will to prosper. I remember the Khmer Rouge too.

Is it just me or does anyone else remember when “application” meant gluing stuff? The best bumper sticker I ever saw said “I BRAKE FOR BRIAN WILSON.” There’s a sitcom on television now called “Mike & Molly” about an overweight couple which appears to be designed to make over weight people feel warm and fuzzy about obesity. Simon Cowell not content with spreading the slick oily skid mark that is “American Idol” has now infected the airwaves with an identical show on another channel. He is indeed Satan. On a New York Street some Neanderthal punched a 4ft 11inc woman into a coma over a parking space and you think people are going to worry about a polar bear stranded on a 6ft chunk of Arctic ice. Is it Coldplay’s intention to be U2 when they grow up?

Like many my entertainment news comes solely from the supermarket checkout stand. Things I’ve learned this week: * Who Kim Kardashian is. * Demi Moore & Ashton Kutcher are getting divorced. They were married?

* Larry Hagman has only weeks to live. I thought he died 3 years ago! * Kim Kardashian’s marriage has lasted only 72 days. After Googling her it’s hardly surprising. While on subjects of this matter has anyone seen that commercial with Jennifer Lopez getting back to her roots in a clown car?

First off anyone buying into the premise of Jennifer Lopez getting down with her homeys might also be interested in the Brooklyn Bridge. Secondly, they didn’t show the other 50 cars containing her entourage.

We live in a world where technology is continually finding new ways to enable us to do as little as possible with our initiative. Apparently the great advantage of tweeting is to allow people to know what you had for breakfast. I wish they could have cloned Teddy Roosevelt.

Does Donald Trump have a name for that thing on his head? So let me get this right. You just have to look at a woman sideways these days and your political campaign is in the toilet. John F Kennedy however arguably one of the most idolized and revered Presidents in American history turned impropriety into an Olympic sport. Perhaps Gloria Allred and the Rev.

Al Sharpton should join forces and start a company called “Ambulance Chasers Inc” Could Ben Roethlisberger be the most unattractive white man alive? Then: Indira Gandhi, Sally Ride, Louisa May Alcott, Amelia Earhart, Maya Angelou and Katherine Hepburn. Now: Snooki Polizzi, Sarah Palin, Lindsay Lohan, Kate Moss, Paris Hilton and Bratz Dolls. Oh it stopped raining, see ya! NOT QUITE YOUR BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY Somebody once said “I don’t understand all the fuss about Chekhov, nothing ever happens, they’re just stories about old Russian peasants watching ducks fly south to Moscow.” I have to agree, adding that James Joyce could be tarred with the same brush.

Have you honestly ever met anyone whose actually read “Ulysses” and understood it, I mean honestly? Sure he’s canonized in the pubs of Dublin and a national treasure to the Irish who regard his prose as the lyrical backbone of the nation, but some old coot in a flat cap reciting passages of “Finnegan’s Wake” to tourists doesn’t mean he has any more of a clue than I do. I can only think that Guinness creates credibility and let’s you imagine you’ve read and understood what you really haven’t. I came to the conclusion at a relatively young age that there were certain rules you had to adhere to in order to be accepted into bohemian intelligentsia. A sort of checklist existed of poets, authors and artists that it was necessary to admire and idolize in order to be regarded as, for lack of a more profound word, cool. In my teens I trudged through Gurdjieff, Carl Jung and other impenetrable mystics and shaman because somebody older than me (but as I soon deduced not necessarily wiser) spoke of them in hushed and reverential tones.

When I read “Moby Dick” I didn’t even skip what seemed like the hundred pages or so on scrimshaw. In retrospect I have come to admire “Moby Dick” albeit the scrimshaw bits.

I also realized that depravity, or in some cases wickedly depressive mood swings, were a key ingredient to elevated status in the mindset of the oh-so-hip. Short of taking absinthe and reading “To The Lighthouse” I was indoctrinated into a cornucopia of characters that could have made up Lord Rochester’s dream team. I suppose if I’d really been serious about subscribing to pseudo-grooviness and exhibiting my elitist credentials, I could have achieved the desired effect by standing in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel chain-smoking Gauloises and talking loudly about William Burroughs and Arthur Rimbaud. Because you see the Chelsea Hotel was and possibly still is ground zero for literary hipsters, artistic muses and existentialists. Although come to think of it, Sid Vicious lived and killed there and I’m pretty sure he didn’t read much Kierkegaard.

Patty Smith recently wrote in Vanity Fair about William Burroughs pissing into an open umbrella in a hotel lobby of the aforementioned Chelsea Hotel as if it was the coolest thing on earth. So that’s it I guess - urinating into receptacles other than those designed for it is a serious plus.

With my naivety on the run I soon came to the conclusion that not one of these people was very nice. William Burroughs, come to think of it, always looked like one of those old guys who flashed joggers in Central park much in the same way that Charles Bukowski looked like a poster child for domestic violence. Nd while we’re at it let’s put a pin in that whole romantic Rimbaud and Verlaine crap. Sure Arthur Rimbaud wrote some magnificent poetry, but hell, he was only artistically active for a couple of years.

Outside of that he was a thoroughly nasty, foul-mouthed and equally foul smelling little toad. How this whole blousy romanticism surrounding him came to be embraced beats me. I guess the notion that to live the life of a debauched and unwashed libertine adds credibility to your curriculum vitae is one that’s far more appealing than say a Graham Greene whose life was adventurous, romantic and intriguing without his having to take copious amounts of laudanum, beat up his wife or sleep with farm animals. Look at Mark Twain, what a guy, what a career, what a nice white suit. He had wit; he had charm, he didn’t piss in umbrellas. None of those Beats back in the day said “Read Mark Twain his work is some of the most fantastically potent storytelling in American literature.” No they were too busy wasting my curiosity on Lobsang Rampa and “Catcher in the Rye” which incidentally has one of the most obnoxious principal characters ever created. In a nutshell, I had to discover the good stuff for myself.

Steinbeck, Faulkner Dickens and of course Shakespeare (who could be categorized as a bit boring in an Elizabethan 9 to 5 sort of way but come on what language, what machinations and what staying power!) Even W. Somerset Maugham, in the closet as he was, living a life of staid grumpiness managed to churn out some of the most stirring and beautifully written stories imaginable. He definitely wouldn’t have made the cut unless he’d taken his guarded homosexuality to a torturous and twisted Francis Bacon level. Jean Genet he was not.

So that’s it. I guess I was never going to earn my beret and black turtleneck. Had the musical hue of the hipster palette been afforded me way back then, I might have entered via a different route. Had I been enlightened to that area back when my world was younger and I was a sponge, I could have been easily seduced and indoctrinated into it. Be-bop and jazz mainstays of reefer culture and smoky cellars was something I never had any problem with, Ornette Coleman, Mingus, Coltrane, Bill Evans and of course Miles Davis the Lord Hipster of all would have had me at hello.

Still, I’m glad I discovered them for myself and not via some shaggy despot of Cooldom. Besides, I hate berets. THE ELOCUTION LESSON I imagine there’s some repetition to things that get under my skin and one that rears its ugly head on a fairly regular basis is ignorance, ignorance and the disintegration of literacy, etiquette and simple good manners. Literacy is failing by token of the Internet, no secret there. No one writes letters anymore everyone emails and texts in cryptic abbreviation and at times indecipherable language invented by alien-like teens who’ve read a shit load of manuals but have apparently never seen a dictionary. What made me scramble back in the ring on this? In a recent LA Times article the singer Rihanna had taken to Twitter to defend her latest video after several parental organizations and watchdog groups had complained as to the nature of its content.

OK, first I don’t know Rihanna from Shinola and secondly it’s not the nature of her video or any of the ensuing fallout that concerns me. Although having said that on further investigation a video that allegedly shows the singer blowing away some guy and leaving him in a pool of blood seems a little excessive. I’m not sure something similar featuring Diddy 'cappin’ a ho” would make Bill Cosby’s day.

No, it was Rihanna’s twitter that had me scratching my head. Now I understand this is a young woman who wishes to adopt an “edge” and would rather stick needles in her eyes than be a role model but does part of that image include writing like a 5 year old?

I’m told that according to a recent cover story in “Rolling Stone” Rihanna’s into bondage. Well thanks for sharing dear but you should keep that little rubber ball in your mouth until you’ve learned to articulate. I mean is life that short that we can’t take the time to spell correctly?

What is “wuz” and “cuz” and “What’s up with that?” It’s like rappers who adopt silly names and then can’t even spell them properly, if you must call yourself 50 Cent say Fifty not Fiddy! These guys aren’t doing the inner city any favors here folks. Apparently Ludacris wanting to set a good example to his kids not only spelt his moniker incorrectly he also forgot to see the irony in his choice of a name, while Black Eyed Pea Will.i.am confused the issue even more with some pretentious period rearrangement that left him sounding like a character from Dr Seuss. You know it’s not like Rihanna should be taking the brunt of this, it’s just that, well, that’s what caught my eye and set me off down this path. I can just imagine the grammatical minefield that must be the day-to-day tweeting (or is that twittering) of those that feel it necessary to share their breakfast and bowel movements with the entire world. In essence if you think about it the whole process should in fact encourage people to think before their digits do them a disservice. After all isn’t there some sort of spell check on these things that corrects inaccurate language or is our machinery so corrupted now that when you type in “was” it corrects it to “wuz”?

When texting started, I get that people truncated their messages in an effort to save some shekel but that simply goes to prove that technology was always the rotten egg in the nest. I know the world is changing and that we’re reading books on titanium slabs, we don’t send postcards anymore and that it takes 12 SUV’s to pick up Lil’ Wayne from jail but really, are we going to stand by and watch our language get flushed down the crapper.

Listen, perhaps I’m being excessive. Hey I used to get irritated when Paul McCartney consistently referred to being vegetarian as “Go veggie”. What are you an infant?

Veggie is what toddlers in high chairs say. You’re over 60 for crying out loud say vegetarian. See what I mean?

In part the argument is made that it’s a cultural thing when it comes to what I guess is termed as ghetto speak. Well sorry I “ain’t down with that.” Quite honestly that’s a crock; Paul Robeson had one of the most glorious speaking voices I’ve ever heard because he decided that the beauty of language was a powerful weapon with which to confuse racist mentality and whip bigotry.

Speaking of wondrous voices, did Martin Luther King have to revert to street slang to get his message across? He didn’t “ease on up to that there mountain”. AND THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME (PART 2) Sorry time’s a little tight these days but I feel the need to wrap up what I started in my last blog. By the way I really dislike that word – blog - what does that mean exactly? Is it an abbreviation of something or just another Net geek bastardization? Anyway, like I said, I’m pulling myself away from the studio for a couple of hours so I can hammer out a continuation of grumbling about the unnecessary while simultaneously genuflecting out of gratification at the change in the incoming weather. By this I mean that it would appear the posting of our rules and regulations proclamation has proved not only informational but has attracted some inspirational and wonderfully thoughtful email.

Some of the things that I was going to grind out regarding do’s and don'ts might seem redundant now as we appear to have quelled the tide of requests that are impossible for me to handle. So at the risk of coming across like white noise let’s just assume like George W. That it’s “Mission accomplished” only in my case the irony of that statement has yet to bite me in the ass. Most of the folks who listen to and seem to enjoy our little homemade show “American Roots Radio” visit our Facebook page to post their praise and send us kudos for a job well done. These notes of goodwill mean more to us than you can imagine and I’m aware that Paca makes a point of responding diligently. Knowing that the hard work and hours that we put into the production of every episode is appreciated and enjoyed is a reward that Paca and I do not take lightly.

However some of the praise and complimentary words find their way directly here at home base and there are a couple whose words have been both touching and delightful and whose efforts should be acknowledged. Of South Bend, Indiana. Flattered by your gracious note and kind words. Bob, whose Aunt Ola Belle Reed was featured on our very first show and wrote most eloquently about life in her presence, delightful. My only question -Dr. Bob is what took you so long?

And let’s seeoh yea Buck, who said nice things about our playlists, thanks Buck. Among the dozens of emails I’ve received over the last several months, and yes I must stress once again I do see them all providing they do not contain data that I’m legally bound not to accept, there are many I’m obliged to tip my hat to. Thanks for your acceptance of my naturalized status; I too bleed red, white and blue. Regarding your affiliations “across the board” I think if you read my blogs you will deduce that my butt is planted pretty firmly on the fence. Oh and sadly, no, I never met Marty Robbins although like yourself his image is indelibly stamped in my mind black on red, cat-like crouched and ready to slap leather. Out in Fort Worth, Texas.

Eric, I rode that Will Rogers Arena dirt and drove my truck back and forth down I-10 for years so, sir, I know your town. You’re right “The Searchers” wasn’t in my list and deserves a lot better than the short shot I gave the Duke. He just rubbed me up the wrong way so I guess I dissed undeservedly although I don’t believe I ragged on the movie - just him. As for defending our faith, no sweat, without faith in something we’re nothing. FYI Eric “Josey Wales” was on my list. In no particular order: Mary D.

Thanks for the appreciation of good grammar and keeping Dee’s flame alive; he was a good man and a hell of a bass player. Sarit in Israel, mazel tov. Aussie Damian M., only 19 and knows who I am! On the bayou, politics never, I’d need to adopt a scandal first. Jason the music teacher. Thanks and I believe you can find “The Devil at High Noon” in the online store.

Keith in Florida and Garance in NY. Garance you’ve got some imagination and a lot of spare time apparently! The little Jack Russell was my soul mate Roundup who passed away at only 6 years, I still miss her.

A Lestat blog one day perhaps and for info on any of my art work including “ABC” see the art contact email on the contact page. South African Barry, Lance B., Justin C. And Angela B. Cindy O., always happy to acknowledge a restaurant owner. John, the reason you didn’t see much of me in Cameron’s documentary was because I requested to be excluded, I just don’t do that stuff. Love Cameron though. Billy there are no lyrics at the end of “Curtains” James C.

“Mandalay Again” was a majority decision however my votes with you. Thanks for taking the time it wasn’t wasted; I read every word. Sorry you don’t get the radio show my friend, if I had my way it would be streamed across the universe. See, I did read it, don’t doubt so. Aliza who’s 13 (younger than Aussie Damian) your note was absolutely wonderful. Fight for your right Aliza, not every day I get the edge out Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson. Rob I don’t horde my own work in fact I rarely listen to it once we’ve recorded and released it, the 8 tracks are nice though!

Knows a good place when he sees one and Kim O. If you pass through again thanks from the shadows. And finally Dean T., the reason you can’t find that song is because it’s called “Citizen Jane” not “Citizen Kane” and it’s on the “Tribe” album. Also I’ll forgive the guys from Germany and India who wrote in requesting autographs, as it would appear that on closer scrutiny you can’t read English. That’s as many as I can get to right now folks, besides I’m getting slightly light headed which is either the altitude of my chair or the threat of an NFL strike.

Glad I managed to fulfill this quest and seal the deal on this whole email thing. For now I’m going to get back to brush and canvas as I’ve a lot of work to do before the autumn exhibitions get rolling through Vegas, Texas and Florida. Details on these shows will be forthcoming on my agency link or my own news section, so keep your eyes peeled. Besides that I’m working on ARR playlists, making notes and conferring with my amigo Paca on what’s shaking with shows in the pipeline.

Yes and I’m also preparing for potential recording in the New Year with you know who. We’ve got something brewing and I’m deep in thought as to how to approach it. We know what we’re doing we’re just not sure how we’re doing it and for the time being I’m it.

One for the road before I press send. I’ve been contacted recently by a gentleman who represents a writer who has just published a book entitled “The Invention of Dusty Springfield – Scenes from a BritPop Icon.” The author’s name is P. Hyett Butler and if I’m correct the book is constructed as a present day narrative that mirrors Dusty’s past in a biographical sense. I may be wrong in my description and if so, I apologize.

Sounds interesting though, and as a Dusty fan I suggest you check it out, hopefully I’m not mistaken in critiquing what I haven’t yet seen. For the record I once spent 45 minutes in a limo on the way to the Hollywood Bowl while Dusty emptied an entire 32-ounce can of hair spray into her infamous trademark.

Had I inhaled, it might have been the best “Spinal Tap” death ever. AND THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME (PART 1) As I have a moment here I’d just like to express once again my delight at the incoming volume of complimentary emails. At the same time however, it’s apparent that many of those dialing in haven’t taken the time to check out my most recent blog laying out some basic ground rules. While it is totally the prerogative of the individual concerned to send whatever type of communication they care to, it is also mine to let you know that there are certain requests that I am unable to acquiesce to. First and foremost, please do not send me unsolicited material.

By this I mean self-penned songs or lyrics to garner opinion. Try to understand that although you might think me to be some lyrical guru, the fact is I haven’t the faintest idea how to respond to these kinds of things. Bear in mind that taste is overwhelmingly diverse and what you might imagine as appealing to one person might just as easily have no affect on another, which is why it’s essential that you follow your own way of thinking and not be the pawn of someone else’s imagination. If you want to write songs, go for it. If you are simply someone who likes to noodle away at the occasional lyric fine, but if you’re serious, find a musical partner, hook up and get busy - don’t look for benediction from the likes of me.

Ultimately it’s not going to mean diddly what I think, it’s what you think that matters. Popular music has been robbed of originality and reduced to a wasteland by shows like “American Idol” a program that encourages impressionable kids to inhabit the personas of established stars and regurgitate catalogue material, in a word imitators. I’m not in that business. I don’t aspire to be some self-adulating judge on the panel of a bad TV show doling out patronizing kudos with condescending insincerity. It’s no secret that I don’t care for pop music very much (or what currently passes itself of as such) so I’m really not the go to guy for an opinion.

If it is indeed that kind of songwriting you are currently pursuing I’m most definitely the wrong place to look for a pat on the head. Like I said, think for yourself, enjoy it and if you’re truly dedicated, form alliances that concur with your dreams.

Be original, be yourself, just don’t sell your soul to the middle of the road. I’ve spent time there and it’s a joyless place to inhabit. Luckily there are countless hundreds of kids out there who have picked up the tools of our musical heritage and forged a new grass roots movement. They’ve taken tradition and put a new spin on it, weaving roots rock and mountain soul into a refreshing blend that washes away the bad taste of insipid pop. I’m happy about this, it gives me hope. Just the fact that music that isn’t formulaic is breaking through and being heard is a blessing. This is what you guys out there who are looking to catch a break should aspire to and take solace in.

Perhaps a revival is imminent, a spirit of the sixties kind of deal where all genres of music can co-exist on the same playing field. Thank the Lord for satellite radio, now if only the commercial airwaves could put on their big boy pants. Oh and as for you older dudes just dabbling in the occasional lyric to celebrate a wedding or birth, keep it simple and keep it to yourself, it’s better that way. I’ll be back. ADDRESSING THE EMAIL ISSUE I wanted to grab a few minutes here and explain the whole email deal.

Recently my “American Roots Radio” co-anchor Paca set up an address on the contact page of this web site that is filtered through him and passed on to me. Obviously as you can understand to post my own personal email address would have been irrational so it was decided to set something up separately that catered exclusively to those visiting my Internet pad.

I guess a lot of you guys come by for a visit considering the amount of mail we’ve been receiving which is why I feel the need to straighten out a few ground rules, address a couple of questions and just say thanks for the compliments and kind words. Please believe me as someone who’s been around a spell you might think that the compliment thing has gotten old? I will always be eternally grateful that my work has touched lives, inspired and healed people in dark times. So to each of you that has written in and simply reached out to say thanks, thank you back - I’m hearing every one of you. Since it’s impossible for me to respond to the many requests for me to do so, I thought I’d try and address some of the issues and questions that surface more frequently than others. First off the bat is a touchy subject, but one that I feel should be gotten out of the way and dealt with immediately. This contact was not set up as a means to request autographs or get memorabilia signed.

This is not an office and I don’t have a staff. I like my isolation too much to have hired hands running around doing my bidding.

My web site is an office of one, a personal spot where I’m happy to share with you my thoughts, my art gallery, current projects and, of course, my beloved radio show. I guess in essence what I’m saying is this is not a fan club run by a mass marketing business with a mail room and a bunch of old ladies forging signatures on 8x10’s. If you notice the merchandise section of this web site is a separate entity entirely plus I will admit I get pretty prickly when my home space is invaded. When and if I’m out and about I’m fair game but my home is sacrosanct, no trespassing.

OK, next are a few things that we can also get out of the way as I have addressed these topics on my blog. Just covered that one on my last posting.

A couple of folks have asked about the “Tribe” album. Check out my blog of 12. (Frankincense & Blues) I believe there’s a paragraph or two on it in there. Oh, and to folks from my past who have reconnected with me through this medium, hi good to hear from you, don’t recall every name mentioned but to them and you, thanks for the memories.

Lastly, under the heading of “already covered” is the question of interview requests and media related inquiries. In respect to this I’d point you in the direction of my introductory blog of 05. I think that explains my position on this matter. So onto some other reoccurring questions.

Many cries for help in the “Any tips on how to become a songwriter, how do I improve my game and how do I break into different fields of the entertainment industry” department? Dear boys and girls, if I knew the answer to that one I’d be floating around on my 150-foot yacht off the Amalfi coast drinking Crystal Rose and checking out my villa through a pair of Leica’s.

The music industry has become so impersonal and corporate in the last decade that breaking in through those doors is all but impossible. The monolithic headquarters of modern day record companies don’t want their sanitized offices and corridors clogged up and contaminated with shaggy, raggedy guitar slingers hawking their demos. Real A&R men are a thing of the past and the most creative and conventional way of getting noticed nowadays is through the Internet. Believe me the modern A&R man is more than likely trolling youtube for the next Nirvana rather than circumventing the globe with perseverance and integrity.

Hit the road and play as much as you can. Record in your living room, press your own CD’s and sell ‘em out of the trunk of your car. If you’re the real thing, and I mean the real thing, someone will find you - believe me.

No real tips here I’m afraid. There are those that might disagree but you may teach yourself or be taught to write songs, but a genuine gift for it is inherent or inherited, a natural trait that you’ve just got or you ain’t. Again if there’s something there, a real sense of melody, original ideas, passionate storytelling and personal commitment then pound the streets in the places that matter, a great song will eventually find a receptive ear. Just remember Kris Kristofferson was a janitor in Nashville until he rented a helicopter and landed in Johnny Cash’s backyard with a sackfull of tunes and a lot of balls. No I’m not going to do a sequel to “A Cradle of Haloes”.

My memory of my childhood is much better than that of my 20’s and beyond plus between you me and the lamppost I’ve no desire to regurgitate that part of my past as it’s been done to death by people far more interested in it than me. There are many out there in Internet land that seem obsessed with details of our early years, people who knew us and those that didn’t. Each one seems to have their own version of how things happened, endless blogs of detail that chronicle very little other than inaccuracy and a chance to elevate their status to knowledgeable insider or cog- in-wheel. Someone sweetly said that they thought I was one of the most underrated songwriters of the modern rock era! Thanks, but I’m pretty happy with our ranking on most of the blogs and lists out there these days.

I am not complaining. In fact, I’m quite grateful. Last time I checked the books, in terms of longevity and success, Elton and I are on the same page as Lennon & McCartney, Bacharach & David and Holland, Dozier & Holland (check out news item of 06. 10.) If that’s underrated, Vanilla Ice was the Eminem of the 80’s.

Explaining the meaning behind certain songs. Someone once came to the conclusion that “Madman Across the Water” was about Richard Nixon. How do you top that? Which is exactly why I prefer not to. Other people’s theories are much more interesting and exactly the reason why it should be left to individuals to use their imagination and make something cryptic their own. Who cares what I was thinking?

Having folks create their own scenarios for a song’s meaning is immensely gratifying, it’s half the reason I like this gig. I’ll be honestwith my shoddy memory a lot of those old songs are a fog when it comes to recalling their genesis. I could tell you one story today and a different one tomorrow and either one could be true.

No, if you’ve got a theory about “Levon” or “Take Me to the Pilot” that’s what it is and that’s how it should be. Once it’s out there it’s open season and I’m good with that. Still it’s not like everything I’ve written is a riddle or some kind of weird parable. I have written you’ll agree much that is pretty straightforward so you’ll understand that I’m somewhat perplexed when I’m asked what “Sacrifice” is about and what’s the story behind “Funeral for a Friend”? Just checked the lyric on the former and it’s pretty obviously about infidelity and the latter?

Well the last time I checked it was an instrumental! Oh and yea, yea I know I did those voice over deals on the lyric page, so before you go saying I’m contradicting myself, just remember I might have made them up. That has to be a separate blog it’s way too complex. Although one thing I will throw out to the guy who loved the San Francisco production, hated it in New York and then proceeded to rag on Rob Roth. Tit-bit of info, San Francisco was Rob’s vision and New York’s was in fact Jonny Butterell’s. Yea I’ll get back to you on this one. Sorry don’t know if there are any plans for a remastered “Blue Moves” and no the “Friends” soundtrack is sadly not available on CD.

Out of my hands folks. I’ve had several people sending notes and requests for me to forward things on to some guy called Elton. Please, guys, EJ has his own web site where I’m sure there is some place to post email. Let’s be reasonable - I’m not his P.O. Box and besides, he doesn’t do email. In fact the last time I checked he doesn’t have a computer or own a cell phone. PAYING TRIBUTE AND TALK OF DOGS Joe Willie “Pinetop” Perkins and Ralph Mooney passed away recently and with them another fragment of our musical heritage crumbles.

Perkins, one of the last of the original Mississippi delta bluesmen (Ralph “Honeyboy” Edwards remains the last soul survivor) was arguably the greatest boogie-woogie blues pianist of this or any generation. Mooney likewise was the preeminent steel guitarist of the past fifty years and a legend to those who value pure country music. In today’s fast paced white bread disposable consumer society, the passing of a 97-year-old black piano player and an 82-year old white Okie country boy from a bygone age is going to garner little ink outside of the hipper music press and credible daily newspapers. Even in many of these periodicals their names seem only relevant as a statistic and before you know it they’re old news and we’re back to Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan. Sadly, we value these architects of our musical heritage with such condescending triviality and grant them but a speck in the sandstorm we afford the muck that clogs up our media cesspool.

I’m not going to elaborate on the careers of these two extraordinary American icons; needless to say they had dual lifetimes of magnificent collaborations and monumental musical creativity. They forged indelible history and invented genre styles that today we take for granted as something that is simply there and not to be questioned as to its inception.

Hopefully I won’t be alone in attempting to keep their music alive, stay tuned to “American Roots Radio” and know there are others out there that cherish what they created and will do their part in preserving their legacy. If there’s a juke joint and honky-tonk in Heaven the Lord knows he just bagged himself a couple of crowd pleasers. I’m often asked these days as to the status of Farm Dogs and if there might at all be any possibility of their resurrection in the future. The answer would be no, Farm Dogs was a precious moment in my life that produced some fine music and provided the participants with some fun times. We were a gang as much as we were a band and of an age were it seemed appropriate to kick up some dust and assume the position that to be entirely politically incorrect was still feasible. Our motto if you recall was “Growing Old Disgracefully” and our logo was a martini glass with a dog bone in it.

That image that we created for ourselves was an important component of the music and was in itself an absolute reality; we complied with our byline and lived it to the hilt simply for the love of our music and the pleasure of each other’s company. There are those that perceived Farm Dogs as a wealthy musicians plaything and his sideshow away from the Big Top. Nothing however could be further from the truth. We recorded home style in Spartan conditions; we traveled coach, slept cheap and didn’t make a dime.

We played street festivals, church basements, in the back rooms of restaurants and every dingy cramped rock club imaginable. There were nights there were less people in the audience than there were on stage but damn we had fun, but I’ve done it and I’d never do it again. We were good, we wrote some cool tunes and we loved to play. It didn’t matter to us if there were a handful or a hundred out front. Also, as in all things, there was one smaller equation that prevented this band from perhaps ever going further than it did and sealed the chance of it ever happening again. Groups for the most part are built on a code of democracy or in our situation I had always proposed it be so. A noble gesture I guess, considering I had formed the group and that it’s notoriety stemmed for the most part from my association with it.

Basically what press and media coverage we received was always guaranteed providing I was there. Being democratic for a while is one thing but as I’m sure you will have noticed in the grand tradition of rock bands eventually the cream rises to the top. That’s not to say I saw myself as superior it’s just that in reality I was the creative driving force, the inception of all things started with me and for a time I allowed everyone else concerned to be an equal part of the whole. IRKED AGAIN Normally I let these things slide, I give myself a couple of days and more often than not the flames dissipate and I let it go. But for some reason I’m still irked and interestingly enough it happens to be more of the same that’s doing the irking.

In a recent article in “Rolling Stone” there was a particularly kiss ass piece on Bill Maher, not sure what he contributed to be treated with such sycophantic respect but I was bewildered not only by it’s irresponsible tone but also it’s factual hiccups. The one line that truly amazed me was one that had it been written by some asinine Twinkie tweaked blogger shacked up in his Mom’s basement I’d have expected it, but from a relevant journalist working for a highly respected albeit politically skewed publication I was dumfounded and I quote: “Bill Maher still hates religion and loves drugs” Wow!

That’s profound. Now I’m not going to enter into any banter on the religious thing here as far as Bill Maher’s concerned, for that you can check out my blog of there’s more than enough of it there. What appalls me is the correlation of the two being comparable. The way I see it, what this is saying is I’m way cooler smacked up and whacked out of my gourd than going to church. That’s pretty irresponsible if you ask me.

Personally I don’t give a dam what your religious bent is but let’s be reasonable drugs are for losers; faith no matter how you juggle it is a better alternative. Oh and as a footnote the aforementioned article also incorrectly lauded Maher’s Documentary saying that “Religulous” was well reviewed and received. Really, where? To the best of my recollection it was pretty much panned universally for simply focusing on the crackpot fringe element of religion and taking cheap shots.

In general a movie that even atheists were embarrassed. YEAR OUT AND INTO THE UNKNOWN Have you heard 'Prozak for Lovers?' If not it's an album of bona fide rock classics reduced to excruciating muzak. Tracks like 'London Calling' (Don't Fear) The Reaper' and 'Proud Mary' done ultra lounge. Beyond soft rock this is an elevator soundtrack made with obvious humorous intent yet with dark overtones of what can happen when good things get into the wrong hands.

In other words it’s a little bit how I feel about last year. Don’t worry I’m not about to squander my blog on the political landscape other than to perhaps draw attention to the distinctly uncivil war raging across our great nation. People it would appear don’t like each other very much, do they? I suppose one could call attention to the radical 60s when young and old drew battle lines and hurled barbs across the generational divide as being similarly unpleasant. However, that was all a bit rock n’ roll and, in retrospect, while the young meant well and the old just grumbled about hair, the general consensus was outside of a nasty war in South East Asia (which is not to be taken lightly) the whole thing was rather fun.

Now it just seems as if the battle lines have been erased and everyone’s just rolling and tumbling around shrieking gibberish and calling each other names like a bunch of 6-year olds on a tilt-a-whirl. We’ve got Tea Partiers who dress in silly costumes then wonder why nobody takes what they say seriously. Democrats who just buzz around like that wind up monkey that makes a lot of noise, bumps into walls and basically doesn’t do anything.

Republicans who are either too busy making friends in toilets or supplying the contents of their trousers to girls called Candy, and Hollywood liberals whose overall superiority simply makes them right because, well, they’re cooler than the rest of us. We have a president who looks like he’s not quite sure where he lives and needs Bill Clinton to show him. An Alaskan hausfrau who outside of being kind of hot in a sort of ‘shag the high school French teacher kind of way’ is as mad as a sack of hammers. Nancy Pelosi, the Democratic Bride of Frankenstein, who presided over the House of Representatives with a wooden gavel, a wooden head and the poise of a cartoon vulture. Glenn Beck a political pundit and closet Nazi who bathes in the sweat of George Lincoln Rockwell and talks like the Fuller Brush man. And who else? Oh yeah Jerry Brown, he’s back with less hair but just as many of the same crack pot ideas that left us gasping for air the first time around, can you say Gray Davis?

The political divide has gone from a fordable stream to a gaping chasm. It’s vitriolic out there, boys and girls. I don’t normally get into this kind of thing at the cost of being pigeonholed but seeing that I’m not playing favorites and have pretty much annexed myself from the madness I decided to introduce a little levity into my overall opinion. When did Michael Vick become Mike Vick? Football commentators have covertly switched to this edited version of the quarterbacks’ Christian name in order it would seem to relegate his past and with the reduction of several syllables create a warmer and fuzzier version.

This obvious alliance between the networks and the NFL to go ostrich-like into the sand in favor of ratings and receipts is a Faustian pact plain and simple, a trio of devils dancing to the old Lefty Frizzell tune “If You’ve Got the Money I’ve Got the Time.” It would seem that Michael Vick is the evil twin who has recently entered the Witness Protection Program while his sainted sibling is reclaiming family honor. In Michael Vick’s case Christian name is an oxymoron.

Oh, and by the way, while I’m on this topic it has often been referred to on various TV sports forums how former Colts coach and color commentator Tony Dungy had mentored and aided Vick behind bars. What’s ironic is that Dungy’s angle was from a wholly Christian standpoint (he is a devout Christian) a fact that our overtly PC media is so gun shy to admit or broadcast for fear of admonishment by holy loathing watchdogs who do everything in their power to exorcise any celestial compassion from the airwaves. Why, oh why, does everything these days have to be sterilized to accommodate these hysterical cults? When did decency born of Christian faith have to be censored for a bunch of sanctimonious nimrods?

Get a life, sad times indeed. Book stuff James Kaplan’s Sinatra bio Frank: The Voice is undoubtedly my book of the year. Like Peter Guralnick’s Elvis epics Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love it’s the definitive work, no need to look further. Hopefully like Guralnick, Kaplan will furnish us with a sequel late next year as this one wraps up with Sinatra rising from the ashes of his downward spiral with an Academy nod for From Here to Eternity. Compulsive reading that’s addictive and absolutely engrossing it’s been a long time since a biography has transported me into the shadow of someone’s life. It’s fair, balanced and neither judgmental nor pandering dealing comprehensively with a complex man who was equal parts holy terror and genuinely compassionate while remaining 100 percent pure genius. You’ll feel you were there every step of the way, wickedly good stuff.

Other notables. Noah Andre Trudeau’s Southern Storm: Sherman’s March to the Sea –a gripping account of the Union’s strategy to break the back not only of the Confederate army but the entire structure of southern society. A truly gripping narrative that brings to life a moment in history that resonates today. In many sectors of the south Sherman’s name remains anathema even now. Linthead Stomp: the Creation of Country Music in the Piedmont South by Patrick Huber.

I’ve raved about this book several times on my radio show that I believe I’ve said enough. Read it and find out where the real roots of country music came from, just fascinating. Peter Ackroyd’s novel The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein is a great twist on Mary Shelly’s doomed scientist while A Bright and Guilty Place by Richard Rayner set in a pre-noir 20’s L.A. Weaves a compelling true story into great narrative nonfiction. Gangsters, greed, sex, murder and corruption it’s all here and it’s all true.

Also Hampton Sides one of my favorite writers working today gave us the excellent Hellhound on his Trail: the Stalking of Martin Luther King Jr. And the International Hunt for his Assassin Just great detective work by a master of historical reenactment. Revisit a classic! Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast while not one of his better known works, it is certainly one of his most enjoyable and satisfying.

Movies I don’t go to the movies anymore, haven’t for years and for several reasons. When you’ve got a perfectly good system at home why bother, plus new releases are out of the theater and on the street before you can say, “Steven Seagal is not of this world”. Believe me I can wait, besides no line, nice wine, peace and quiet and a pause button. Lining up around the block on a Friday night to claim bragging rights for catching the premier showing of the latest James Cameron “up-my-own-butt” movie is not for this puppy.

Shuffling along behind groups of sci-fi geeks discussing the correct way to pronounce kumquat in Klingon is only slightly less annoying than sitting behind anyone who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to conduct an assessment of the movie in a decibel level marginally less than the average Who concert. Those acting outside the bounds of acceptable movie viewing etiquette by foraging like heifers in jumbo tubs of popcorn while advising Jamie Lee Curtis to “Get da hell outta der bitch” are the reason I ain’t goin’ no more. Oh and now we’ve got 3D to amp up the ooohing and ahhing factor. More effects less substance. Just when you thought it was safe to go to the theater again it’s at the expense of solid storytelling and character development, just make people wear silly glasses and throw things at them - they’ll like that better.

Will the real filmmakers succumb, will every movie be reduced to an effect would “Saving Private Ryan” have been better in 3D if Omaha Beach was in your lap? The thought of entire families walking around their homes sporting matching shades is indescribably creepy. People used to put these things on to view A-bomb testing not “Pete’s Dragon.” Truly we have become the nuclear family.

True Grit is so good I’m at a loss to add anything that hasn’t already been said in the unanimously glowing reviews it’s received. The language is glorious, the vistas beautiful, the heroes flawed and Hailee Steinfeld should be given her Oscar now. See it again and again; it just gets better. Ben Affleck’s The Town is engrossing and exciting filmmaking. Affleck who scored big time with his directorial outing Gone, Baby Gone is fast on his way to being a major talent behind the camera. His casts are exceptional, his settings authentic and his own contributions on every level are first rate. I’m also a huge fan of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy featuring the formidable Noomi Rapace as the girl with the dragon tattoo.

All three of these films are foreign filmmaking at its best, a sort of Bourne trilogy without the Hollywood gloss, gritty and thrilling along with being sexy in a weird, gothic, Scandinavian sort of way. Please American directors stop making US versions of great foreign movies. Leave them alone; they make them better than we do. Get your own ideas.

Oh - and none of these are in 3D. A couple of observations Does anyone over the age of 30 really like going out on New Years Eve? I personally don’t ever recall embracing the occasion even when I was younger.

Can’t say I remember anyone of them being particularly memorable even though according to the hedonistic “if you can remember them then they can’t have been that good anyway!” It always seems a little bit desperate, that forced enthusiasm for something that really isn’t that special unless of course the decade’s changing or it’s the new millennium. Plus, at mass celebrations of an impersonal nature it would appear you’re expected to hug a lot of people that you wouldn’t normally give your business card to. Oh, I like it OK.

I just like it at home with friends and family. A nice glass of wine, a good meal and a hug from someone I like. Is it just me or has anyone else noticed that in any TV or print commercial that depicts a home invasion, car theft, purse snatching or other random crime the perpetrator is always Caucasian? Isn’t that a wee bit like the reality of racially integrated street gangs in old 70’s movies when in truth the whole concept of street gangs is to be ethnically collective? If these adds showed only African American, only Latino or only Asian criminals all hell would break loose and the wrath of Al Sharpton would rain down on us all. However in these walk-on-tippy-toe times, apparently it’s just fine to create a fairy tale world where only white people steal cars and break into houses.

Thank you modern society your spleen and balls removal is complete. Over and out my friends, have a great year and see you ‘round the bend. HOW THE WEST WAS DONE My only excuse this time is that I have no excuse other than blaming the newly launched “American Roots Radio” (that’s the only time you’ll hear it mentioned here, let it not be greedy it’s got its own page) some tinkering on the final phase of “The Union” (go to “Latest News” for that one) and a recommitment to large empty canvases. So at the expense of being redundant, yes I indeed have an excuse. Still three months is a bit sad isn’t it but allow me to defend my actions by admitting to a serious dry spell in the area of rants, ruminations and general raconteuring (I know there’s no such word but it sounds like there should be.) In a nutshell the muse has been absent as much as the media has been abundant with the same old rubbish and individuals I’ve already ragged on habitually so I’m throwing caution to wind and accepting the gentle prodding of those who would have me expound on a topic dear to my heart, the western movie. Obviously through my lifelong fascination and immersion into American history of the 1800’s, so developed hand in hand a love of the American western genre. Sadly, so few of the catalysts for this fixation still register in the best of category.

I of course, like all young boys, began with the serial cowboys and B feature pistoleros, all shiny guns, rhinestones and big hats. Hoppy, Roy, Gene and The Lone Ranger, oh and my personnel fave the underappreciated king of the bullwhip Lash LaRue. I moved on of course and embraced the stamp of approval classics starting with “Shane” and moving through and inhabiting in the realm of my own imagination the likes of “High Noon” “My Darling Clementine” and “She Wore A Yellow Ribbon” culminating in 1960 with the still entertaining yet stylistically flawed “Magnificent Seven.” Really what was it with all those fitted shirts and tailored pants, didn’t costume designers back then do their research? And so we grow up, we learn of reality, we leave innocence somewhere in dust, a dust that I soon came to learn didn’t appear to be altogether real in the west of these movies. When guns were fired adversaries clutched their bloodless chests and fell stiffly and with stagey intent. The bad guys grabbed their wrists and winced with less then credible pain when their six-shooters were blown neatly from their hands with nary a shattered bone or missing digit. As true history seeped it’s way into my curious and veracious brain the unnecessary distortion of fact in these Hollywood horse operas became glaring.

Take for instance the aforementioned “My Darling Clementine.” Sure, a nice understated performance by Henry Fonda, but a movie playing hard and fast with the truth. It appears the gunfight at the OK corral in this movie took place in a parallel universe. Incorrect numbers, incorrect participants and incorrect outcome.

The real gunfight for those who care didn’t even take place in the OK corral but across the street. Oh and the less said about Victor Mature’s robustly healthy Doc Holliday the better. A man supposedly racked with tuberculosis whose only acknowledgement of this slow hacking death is to occasionally cough politely into a small lace hanky. Let’s get something of the bat straight away, I do not subscribe to the pseudo mantra of film geekdom that if it’s old it’s better. Old is not always better and certainly not when it comes to westerns.

Well that’s another matter but we’ll leave that one alone right now. Hell I like old movies I own hundreds of them but when it comes to westerns I like a little grit in my celluloid. Sorry, but if you worship at the altar of John Ford read no further - it’s not pretty. Yea, you can start shaking your heads and tutt-tutting all you like. I’ve heard it all, the visual poetry, the heroic machismo, the grand panorama and the breathtaking scope of manifest destiny. Well that’s as maybe and if you’ve a penchant for viewing history through rose colored glasses then for sure Ford’s the guy for you. A lot of course has to do with your own personal take on his leading man.

Him, the Duke, big John Wayne, same hat, same slow drawl, same old lopsided ambling gait. Jeez it’s like he just walked out of one picture into the next stopping only to change his shirt. Lord if this guy was any more wooden they could have made a tea chest out of him. Sacrilege you say, he’s an American icon.

Well yea I guess if you like your iconic patriots bigoted, racist and drunk then by all means put him on your float, personally I’ll ride alongside Will Rogers or Paul Robeson on my 4th of July. Plus folks, talking earlier as we did of distorted facts this is the man who made the single most inaccurate film in cinematic history when he chose as his vanity project to totally reinvent the battle of the Alamo. Yea come to think of it, next to this fiasco “Clementine” is a relatively accurate account of things.

Wayne should have stayed alive to read Philip Thomas Tucker’s “Exodus From The Alamo” he’d have had a cow. What more can I say? I mean, Ford movies, man even when they were dusty these guys didn’t look dirty just eternally stoic. Yea, we had to wait on Peckinpah to make ‘em look like they smelt bad. Just Wayne like a big cardboard cut-out surrounded by stereotypical frontier types “Agh Shucksing” and beating each other senseless because, well that’s what grown men on lonely outposts did for fun back then, usually Gabby Hayes and Victor McLaglen in these roles respectively.

Oh and the less said about Native American portrayals in these movies the better. Apache, Blackfoot and Comanche played by men called Dennis and Edward in glossy raven wigs and enough bronzer to make Dallas Raines weep. Central casting I gather back then was not an equal opportunity employer. So what do I like? Dare I suggest a dozen satisfying examples, my personal picks.

Oh dear that would be a list and that can be a dangerous and presumptuous thing. Lists can be conceited, pompous, and more often than not easy to pick apart, sneer at and rip to shreds with caustic commentary. Luckily those lists are usually of a musical nature and I’ll freely admit I’m the first to start bitching and squawking. As is my want I’ll careen off the main topic here and give two recent examples of pure madness. A recent edition of the UK pop mag “Q” apparently named the simian like lead singer of the underwhelming British band Oasis (sorry his name escapes me) as the greatest front man of all time.

Yes they did, I’m not kidding. In front of James Brown, Prince, Bruce Springsteen, Mick Jagger, Otis Redding and Elvis. I’m told after further investigation that this individual doesn’t even move on stage but stands immobile with his hands clasped behind his back while singing up to an elevated mike thus avoiding eye contact with the crowd. Brilliant and all this from a band that quite frankly aren’t even popular in most parts of the world. To top it all off the guy at number seven was someone I’d never even heard of period. While this latter travesty is either a case of all out boneheaded stupidity or simply an embrace of elitist pretensions the second example is simply ignorant omission.

Instead of advertising your list as “The Greatest Guitarists Of All Time” why not call it “The Greatest Guitarists Of The Modern Rock Era” that way you’d save face and a heap of ridicule. How about Steve Jones, Johnny Ramone and Ron Ashton on a list that doesn’t even mention Charlie Christian, Hubert Sumlin, Wes Montgomery or Lonnie Johnson, pioneers every one. That was sadly another UK rock mag, which one I don’t recall however I’ll have to admit that on closer scrutiny the “LA Times” did publish a close to credible list albeit placing, are you ready for this? Tom Morello above Django Reinhardt and Andre Segovia. Film choices seem to be a little less threatening and find the eye of the beholder a little more forgiving.

With this in mind here in no particular order of preference, other than “The Wild Bunch” which reigns supreme I humbly present my indispensable dozen. ”The Wild Bunch” Not only the greatest western ever made, but also one of the finest American movies of all time. Please refer to my blog from titled “Sam Peckinpah” for my full-blown fan rant. “The Assignation Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford” This screen version of Ron Hansen’s 1983 classic is both hypnotic and irresistibly beautiful in its depiction of fact and credible storytelling. There is a prevailing melancholy that inhabits the cinematography giving this tale of 19th century celebrity stalking a resolved sadness and weary believability. Both Brad Pitt and Casey Affleck excel in the lead roles while Sam Rockwell as Charley Ford is a revelation. “Unforgiven” Clint Eastwood’s finest hour as both director and leading man.

This parable of redemption and one of the few movies to deal realistically with what it means to kill a man is so simple in its premise and so deep in character that you feel beaten by the wind and worn by the ride by the time it’s over. Classic scene. Watching as the killer instinct slowly returns to Edward Mooney’s face after learning of the murder of his best friend Ned (Morgan Freeman.) Eastwood’s facial performance as his anger simmers to a boil while methodically slugging from a whisky bottle after years of abstinence is understated and visceral. “Tombstone” Just to prove that a western can be both immensely entertaining and factually on the money we have “Tombstone.” Successful in theaters even as the western was pronounced dead this colorful retelling of the Earp’s relocation to the town of the title and their ensuing clash with “The Cowboys” is simply an addictive viewing pleasure.

Culminating in the OK Corral gunfight, (the most truthful depiction yet to date) and the ensuing Wyatt Earp vendetta this movie puts actual historical dialogue into the mouths of the participants and drags real life minor characters into the light of day. Johnny Tyler, Billy Bob Thornton’s faro dealer with a bad attitude was the real thing folks and while there may be arguments made regarding certain incidents and omissions (the Earp murder trial is ignored) this is as close as we’re going to get with the knowledge we have. Of course any talk of “Tombstone” without a tip of the Stetson to Val Kilmer’s glorious portrayal of Doc Holliday would be unforgivable. Pale, dying and dangerous he is the embodiment of spectral decadence. With so many quotable lines “You’ll be a daisy if you do” his eastern eloquence and dry wit is the stuff legends are made of. “Open Range” He may have screwed up with “Wyatt Earp” but he redeemed himself with both barrels on this one. The relationship between Charley Waite (Costner) and Boss Spearman (Duvall) is beautifully underplayed.

These seasoned cattle drovers speak only when it’s necessary and even then it’s with weary resolve. This is a movie about doing the right thing plain and simple, nothing contrived or grandiose about it. It’s a breed apart from desert sweat and shimmering border towns, these are the Great Plains, rolling greenery for as far as the eye can see, a place where cattle is king.

The pair’s decision to do what has to be done and the way it is formulated without discussion is utterly original and only solidifies how these two can read each other without question. The scene in the general store before the showdown is genuinely touching as Boss purchases a chocolate bar “All the way from Paris, France” and Charley orders a tea set from a mail order catalogue. “Once Upon A Time In The West” Before the credits even role on this Leone epic there is a twenty-minute opening sequence that could warrant as a movie classic in its own right.

It takes place in a desolate wind blown train station in the middle of God knows where as three roughshod killers await the arrival of Harmonica (Charles Bronson) the film's mysterious stranger. This scene is so drawn out and laconic silent only for the wind, a water wheel creaks, a fly is trapped and buzzes in the barrel of a six-gun and the rowels of spurs scrape against dry sagging timbers. It’s easy to feel agitated even annoyed and that’s the point, time moves slowly where civilization has not yet embraced. The train finally arrives, Harmonica departs dialogue ensues. “Where’s my horse?” “We only got three horses.” “Then you bought two too many.” You can figure out the rest. The rest of the movie? More of that slow burning fuse that this director invented.

It might suffer from bad dubbing but if you can get past that you’ll be sucked into a crazy netherworld of early land grabbing, capitalist greed and lingering vengeance. Henry Fonda almost turned down the chance of a lifetime to play the psychopathic blue-eyed killer hired by the railroad to exterminate anyone owning acreage in the way of the iron horse.

It’s almost hard to recognize this American film icon that embodied so much good in his previous roles as a heartless child killer. Most chilling of all is that for the first time he is rivetingly sexual. “The Long Riders” Walter Hill loves the genre but has misfired on occasion (“Wild Bill” “Geronimo”) but with “The Long Riders” he hit on the novel idea of depicting historical outlaw siblings with acting ones and ran with it.

This well executed tale of the James and Younger gangs exploits culminating in the disastrous Northfield Minnesota bank raid and its aftermath is another example of entertainment with a capitol E. It may stray occasionally from the truth, but it’s got enough fact going for it to let these minor fibs slide. The matching grey dusters were a nice touch and indescribably cool but I’m convinced these were not the type of men to be wardrobe coordinated. The overall movie has a nice muted southern feel and the Missouri setting is complemented beautifully by Ry Cooder’s haunting soundtrack. All the principles seem very much at home in the saddle and David Carradine is a standout as Cole Younger. Nice Civil War references too “He’s a damned liar Shelby weren’t at Cold Harbor”.

“The Outlaw Josey Wales” “You a Bounty Hunter?” “Man’s gotta make a living” “Dyin’ ain’t much of a way of makin’ a livin’” Clint Eastwood’s third appearance here and his second as a director, “Josey Wales” was his best western character until “Unforgiven’s” Edward Mooney. After his family is slaughtered by Federal Redlegs Wales takes up with a Southern Guerilla outfit and hones his considerable survival skills. With the war's conclusion and amnesty forthcoming, his outfit finds itself betrayed and brutally slaughtered. Escaping with one survivor Wales becomes a fugitive and a will o’ the wisp avenger. As the movie unfolds Josey’s legend spreads like smallpox among the occupying forces and every carpetbagger and bounty hunter in the south. It seems everyone wants a piece of him but for every sucker that thinks they’ve reeled in the big fish there’s a pay off that leaves them dead or dying. With the exception of Sondra Locke (nepotism, she was Clint’s girlfriend) the peripheral characters are wonderful, Timothy Bottoms puts in a good turn as a belligerent and confused rebel youngster while Chief Dan George is just great as a wily old Indian.

Simply entertaining and a certified guilty pleasure. “Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid” It might have considerable faults and Kris Kristofferson good as he is may be a million miles from resembling the gawky and scrawny Kid but the restored cut of this film still makes it in.

Butchered in its original release we pick up the story of Billy in the aftermath of the Lincoln County war as he wages a cat and mouse game with his old amigo Pat Garrett (James Coburn.) In truth they were not acquainted, not that is until Garrett was hired to hunt him down. Still why quibble, like “The Wild Bunch” Peckinpah pours his tequila soaked magic all over this gritty fable of the itinerant legend in the brutal and unforgiving New Mexico territory of the late eighteen hundreds. Atmospheric and teeming with all the greatest of go to character actors this is still worth spending time with. Oh yea and there’s “Knockin’ On Heavens Door” too. Honorable Mentions “Tom Horn” Serenely beautiful, Steve McQueen’s portrayal of a man whose word is as good as his guns is both wistful and sad. A true story well told. “The Culpepper Cattle Co” Realistic depiction of what a cattle drive was really like, uncomfortable, filthy and no fun whatsoever.

Good stuff but you’ll want to shower after. “High Plains Drifter” Great fun watching Clint paint the town that done him wrong red and renaming it Hell. “Appaloosa” This could have been a genre classic until Rene Zellweger shows up and ruins everything.

Avoid These Two “Wyatt Earp” Long, dull and way to pleased with itself. Stick with “Tombstone,” it has the same facts and it’s way more fun. “3-10 to Yuma” This 2007 remake has so little in common with the original that one wonders why they bothered and didn’t just call it “Christian Bale makes a bunch of really stupid decisions.” It also didn’t help that Bale boasted to the press about how the film was totally authentic.

Yea, I guess that’s why the wardrobe department outfitted half of the cast in clothing that wasn’t designed until the turn of the century. That leather suit on the bad guy, are you kidding! Well that’s it, as Austin Powers said “I’m spent.”. A FREE STORY AT 60 May is incoming and with it descends the mantle of a landmark age. I am about to reach that double-digit status that as teenagers we regarded as one step short of the grave, property of the grim reaper and why bother anymore 'It's all over now Baby Blue.' Drop ‘em in the kill zone, “Logan’s Run” for geriatrics.

40 was tragic, 50 was ancient but 60 was as turgid, humorless and incomprehensible as Wagnerian opera. Naturally I no longer subscribe to this view albeit the Wagner reference which still stands. I once begged on hand and knee to be released from suffering through the second half of “Tristan & Isolde.” 4 hours of depressing Germanic oafs endlessly repeating how they’ll die without each other is neither stimulating nor fun. What’s sadder however is that none of them seem to die soon enough. Don’t misunderstand me I love my opera but not when it comes imbedded with constant misery in grim damp netherworlds inhabited by unsettling characters many who perform with headgear better suited to “Spongebob Squarepants.” Right, sort of drifted off track there so back to 60.

Well it’s great, love it. Sure there are a few areas where the engine isn’t blasting you down the centerfield all-limber and panther like. The gazelle is not nearly as forthcoming in terms of well-oiled machinery and granted there are a few creaky bits developing in places well hammered over the years by devotion to the saddle. But all in all the mental side of things is celebrating a rejuvenation of sorts, a constant wonderment in all things inspirational and spiritual that was sorely lacking in my youth. Where the body slows down the mind picks up the slack and creates the ability to ingest more worthwhile information.

To put it simply without getting personal, life is just so much more fun now on every level. I used to believe that contentment was a sign of giving up. I’ve since reconfigured that thought and attached an amendment. Contentment is a state of mind that can be enjoyed irregardless of retirement or redundant behavior.

It can be experienced while witnessing your greatest artistic rebirth, adventure in every sense of the word and learning that comfort is in the eye of the beholder. Without hope we cannot dream. So as I attain this mythical age where it was once presumed to be all down hill I’d like to throw a little something your way that cannot be found anyplace else.

A couple of years back I was approached to contribute to a volume of short stories, the idea of which was to set them around or to be inspired by a song of your choosing. I accepted but preferred to write the story first and see what song it resembled on completion feeling that any out side influence might be constricting. Sadly as is so with many things the book never materialized, a shame as I was in fine company with the likes of Joyce Carol Oats and others of her ilk.

So as a reverse birthday gift of sorts to those who check in and check me out I would like to offer it up here rather then see it languish in some publishing Gulag. I present it with all humility, it’s not Angela Carter but it’s simply what tumbled from my otherworldly and weird dome. Oh, what song did I decide to attach to it? David Bowie’s “Cha-cha-cha-cha-changes,” believe me it was all I could think of. Enjoy and see you up around the bend.

IN SEARCH OF INTELLIGENT LIFE ON EARTH A recent article in the LA Times lamented the premier of yet another reality TV show featuring the hedonistic offspring of some vacuous ex Playmate as being one step closer to the end of western civilization as we know it. How sadly true! Where does one begin to retaliate, who’s to blame and where might we direct Perseus to slay these matriarchal Medusa’s and their Gorgon broods.

How many more lanky cannibalistic socialites with their cocked heads and doe eyed “No ones home” poses can we endure. One photo featured in the above-mentioned article shows two somnambulistic clothes horses exiting their mother’s obscenely expensive car cradling aloft their cell phones as if balancing trays of chilled champagne. Texting it would appear is their lives albeit in cryptic non-decipherable teen speak, spelling and grammar having been relegated to the Dark Ages along with manners, humility, compassion and intelligence. Beware we inhabit toxic space with manicured harpies who can tell you who styles Lindsay Lohan’s hair but not where the President lives.

It’s obvious that a great deal of blame for these trawling dreadnoughts lays with those within whose wombs they were conceived and by he who did the seed work. However one look at those responsible and one can only shake their head and utter “They never stood a chance” All we have is simply older versions of the by product, magnets themselves drawn to the exposure and unconscious humiliation they are subjected to at the hands of equally repugnant direction. The mothers faded wanna-bees; goldiggers who struck gold but whose sheens have tarnished with the years leaving them breast enlarged, botoxed and divorced. The fathers ballless, gone and uninterested, slick, well dressed and narcissistic they stand by clueless as redeemable carrots are dangled before their estranged mistakes. And less must be said for the voyeuristic public who like those drawn to train wrecks and public executions must be held accountable for allowing such witless, and degrading entertainment to exist.