That Sound, That Sound!

In August I spent several days in the mountains (as if you didn’t know). I had a new $19 cell phone to let my loved ones know I was still alive when I emerged (Did they care? I pretended they did.). I charged it in the Valley and kept it turned off during my Mountain walk to save the battery. It wouldn’t have worked anyway. Luckily, there are places where ‘back to nature’ means no phone service. Places where if a tree falls on you in the forest no one will have to hear the crack of your skull. Or film it for the seven o’clock news.

So this dumb little phone sat in my pack waiting its turn. I made it to Quincy and turned it on. We have power. Then I realized I had no one’s number with me and none in my head. I hadn’t saved them in the new phone; I’d never called anyone. I thought I knew one number but was only unsure of a couple ciphers. Good job, Odd Job.

Days earlier, I would sit by a babbling brook in measured bliss and recognize in the water sound something mistakable for a cell phone ring. As I reached a paved road, cars would whiz by (nobody picked me up) and the engine could make a slightly ring-ish tone. I got closer to town and the sprinklers on the lawns did the same. A radio in the distance. Little bells to keep away the birds.

Then I really got into town and there really were cell phones. They were ringing all around me, or was it the ice-cream truck, or was it the traffic light signal for the blind, or the electric beeper when you enter a place of commerce, or somebody practicing the hurdy-gurdy? It wasn’t my phone, it wasn’t even turned on, I checked a couple times.

And even when the ring wasn’t the same as my phone, which I didn’t know, I’d hear one ring and pull mine out of my pocket, like a quick-draw artist. I did this for many days wherever I went. The washing machine can make a similar sound occasionally. Better check. Or there’s a mystery chord on the guitar that sounds phone-ringing-ish. Checked.

No one could have called me as no one had my number. But a couple people texted me anyway with odd messages about sleazy encounters. Did I get a dead man’s number? Did I get a death row convict’s number he wouldn’t need again? I don’t want these calls. I don’t want any calls. Later, I slightly changed my stance on that, but just out of the solitude of the high elevations I really couldn’t stand that ding-a-ling.

The shopping centers, supermarkets, airports, when you get back to earth in the hot little tram waiting to chug down the runway and everyone’s cells go off at once like an electronic conspiracy. And the worst, by far the worst, wanna guess? is television. When phones are ringing all over every hour on every channel, but they’re not in the room, they’re fictional. Better check your own phone just in case.

In case of what? How many really important calls do you get? I don’t get any. The last one I didn’t answer, then he called back. Calls from relatives of the old and sick. But life-changing joy-producing business over the phone? What we’re all waiting for, but does it ever come? “Hello this is the Publishers Clearing House, congratulations …” That never happens. Isn’t it more like, “Wanna do lunch?” “Can’t. I’m meeting my other mistress.” “’Kay, seeya.”

Take my blood pressure and heart rate and see the earthquake jumps every time a real, imagined, fictional, or flowing mountain stream phone rings. So I ask why and I get an answer I don’t like. DO NOT ASK FOR WHOM THE PHONE RINGS, IT RINGS FOR YOU.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt:  Are you stressed out too?

Jeff:  Not me, I’m a man of leisure.
Mutt:  I’m a man of Topeka.
Jeff:  Want to hear a good joke?
Mutt:  No, I want to hear yours.
Jeff: One day a Czechoslovakian came to visit his friend in New York. When asked what he wanted to see, the Czechoslovakian replied, "I would like to see one of the zoos in America." To his delight, the New Yorker took him to the zoo. While they were touring the zoo, and standing in front of the gorilla cage, one of the gorillas busted out of the cage and swallowed the Czech whole. Shocked, his friend from New York quickly called over the zoo keeper. He explained the situation and asked the zoo keeper what he planned to do. The zoo keeper got an axe and asked the man, "Okay, which gorilla did it, was it the male or the female." Pointing out the female as the culprit, the zoo keeper quickly split the female gorilla open and found nothing of the Czech. With which the man from New York shrugged and said, "Guess the Czech's in the male."
Mutt:  Oowah.
Jeff:  Another?
Mutt:  To get the bad taste out?
Jeff:  Recently a guy in Paris nearly got away with stealing several paintings from the Louvre. However, after planning the crime, getting in and out past security, he was captured only two blocks away when his lorry ran out of gas. When asked how he could mastermind such a crime and then make such an obvious error, he replied: I had no Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh.
Mutt:  Abba dabba, abba dabba, that’s all folks.

What Goes On In The Squaw Valley?

You drive on roads that split the granite mountains. You pass through a stone railroad bridge tunnel. Very suspicious. You follow a non-visible river then turn right off the main road, past the sign advertising an event in 1960. There you enter the Valley. It all seems normal enough. The people riding bicycles are smiling. Why am I so edgy?

On your way to the far end of the Valley, you pass luxury golf-n-ski resorts, luxury in middle-class terms, that is. You pass summer homes designed by architects and a few older ones built by the folks who discovered the Valley generations ago. The original Squaws? Is this thin air safe to breathe?

I walked inside the big hall, took a second to get my bearings, this long-hair comes up to me and, grinning, asks: Did you find yourself yet? Okay, so that’s the way this thing is going to begin. He meant did I find my information packet. Oh, not a philosophical question. Well, yes, that too. I already doubted everything anyone said as possibly metaphorical, double-meanings would be everywhere this week.

Soon the calliope started to play and the mirrors spun right, colored lights flashed, and everyone jumped on a horse and the carousel moved us all forward towards somewhere no one knows. I'm not sure we were truly going in circles. Some folks rode unicorns, which should be imaginary animals, but in Squaw Valley are real. Some grabbed at the rings; I never got that part figured out. Maybe I was on the wrong horse. In fact, it wasn’t a horse at all, or a sea monster, but a darling deer. Highly symbolic.

Just so nobody tries to take my clothes off and pour bourbon down my throat. Wow, I’m dizzy anyway, where's the blur? And as the week progresses a few people start floating off into gravity-less space like the words spinning off in all directions. The big words. Lovely language goes sailing away into the air like eagles, like freed elevators sail in space. Pictures seen with closed eyes fly dangerously outwards too to, presumably, ricochet against the Valley walls.

The merry-go-round is so thrilling, so electrifying that we all laugh for a week. We join hands to dance the hokey pokey while we twirl. And there are voices amidst the circus music. Voices of words you read back inside and outside of Pleasure Island, where we all have come to become proud donkeys. We all bray, but still hear the voices. Familiar as mothers, reading fairy books aloud, putting us to bed, thank you, sleep tight.

I hated leaving the Squaw, the Valley, the Cradle, the Nest. I never wanted off that ride. The voices will always echo in my head and grow like sunflowers up from the words (Ron’s, Karen’s, Gerry’s, Brett’s, Amy’s, Alex’s, all the others). And we can always be donkeys together, I guess, because we put on our disguises when we left the Valley, covered our long ears, noses, tucked in our tails, but we all know each other’s secrets now. That's what it was all about, I think.

You might suspect the lemonade was spiked in order to subject a group of eager scribblers to a giant mind-bending experiment, but you’d be wrong. We brought our own bentness. We subjected ourselves. And it was glorious.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Okay. Here’s the best joke I ever heard.

Jeff: Shoot.
Mutt: A woman goes to the zoo and is completely taken by the beauty and power of the gorilla. She cannot take her eyes off him. He is sleeping against the bars of the cage, and even though a sign says not to, she reaches her hand in to stroke him. Instantly, he awakes and goes berserk, tearing the bars of the cage open to get at her, mauling her to within an inch of her life. Finally, the zoo personnel manage to hit him with the tranquilizer darts. The woman is taken to an ICU, barely alive, but slowly, slowly she pulls through. After four days she is finally allowed visitors. Her best friend arrives. The woman can barely open her eyes. “God, you look like you’re in a lot of pain,” the friend says, and the woman sighs. “Pain,” she says. “You don’t know pain. He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write …”
Jeff: You stole that from Anne Lamott, didn’t you?
Mutt: Word for word, buddy, word for word.

Report Card, Summer Aught Eleven

I’m back, back, back on the streets again. (Sounds like I just got out of jail … no, sounds like Tower … of … Power) Whatever it sounds like, truth is I spent the summer in Californ-i-a, and I heard some live music, studied some more and even made a little. Not always sweet music, it was a hard summer personally, but the savage beast was tamed on several occasions.

            Ditty Bops: the girls were adorable, cute almost to a fault, but the songs they sang in such a happy style were often sad love songs. Something amiss with this duo of married women? They were funny and coy, delightful to the end. Then it happened. They skipped off-stage and the crowd went wild for an encore. But they never came out. They didn’t even come out to sign CDs later. Very bad form. Left a sour taste.

            Neko Case: free concert in Stern Grove (the park in the Parkside District, I grew up a couple blocks from there). Last year we were thrilled to see Jovanotti there. Great venue but get there early. Well I knew they didn’t open the park until two hours early so I was there, but I must have missed the memo that said they’d open much earlier this time. The whole place was packed with thousands of fans, so we had to sit so far up on the hill that we couldn’t see or hear anything. I think it was a good concert and that she’s a good singer/songwriter, but I wouldn’t know for sure.

            Sourdough Slim: we drove up in the hills to Fiddletown, not really believing that a Fiddletown existed or that we’d hear fiddles there. At Scofield Ranch we walked into a Western movie set complete with cowboys and cowgirls chatting us up, sitting us down and welcoming us to the best barbecue chuck what am. Then the fun continued with the great Sourdough Slim, relaxed, funny, nostalgic, expert singer and musician, funny, warm and wise. I know I said funny twice, he’s that good. I bought his latest CD and we talked until he had to go back on stage for more. A thrilling evening of joy, even for us not-cowboys.

            Eddie Vedder: I thought Eddie Vedder was a pro. But he was having such a good time in Oakland at the Paramount that he wouldn’t shut up. Not that anyone wanted him to. He played on and on; we almost missed the last Bart train. Ukulele songs, Into the Wild, Pearl Jam, other stuff, it was incredible music against all the rules. One guy, acoustic, even a song without the mikes (chills), warm and fun, the Surfer did an encore that lasted an hour. I told you he just wouldn’t stop. Hope he never does.

            The Producers: this was by far the best musical I ever saw. And I write the things. But only Mel Brooks could put this many laughs in one show. What impressed me even more was the direction at the Music Circus and the acting, which was outstanding. Some people I overheard weeks later were raving about it, saying Sacramento better than Broadway. The unknown protagonists better than the New York stars. I agree. Great. Unforgettable. If I had any mystery disease going in, I laughed it away in there. A shot of good health.

            42^nd Street: this was a local Stockton show, amateurish and barely worth the effort. The tap-dancing was weak, the acting, the direction, the playback music, even the theater ain’t nothing special. The protagonist was great however, she was the only star in the sky. Danced, sang and acted like a pro. UOP student, of course.

            Billy Elliot: I was psyched, then what happened? This was the big San Francisco hit of the season. Maybe I was hyped. It didn’t thrill me, even though the dancing and singing was fantastic. No talent show stuff here, these were top professionals displaying their skills. Maybe I couldn’t get into the story, English miners on strike, or maybe I was bothered that the kid, who was a brilliant dancer and perfect singer, was an Asian boy from Los Angeles with a spot-on North English accent. Yes, that did bother me. He’s acting a part, okay, but you don’t get Denzel Washington to play John Kennedy. It stuck out. I didn’t want my money back, it was a pleasant evening, but I felt perplexed.

            Dan Hicks: finally, the moment I waited all summer for. The Hot Licks, the Lickettes, the Lick Men (deal with it, he says). Great band, weird songs, but the star is Dan the Man, droll as a rock in Death Valley, dry as the funniest man on earth alone on a rock in Death Valley. Dan Hicks is so good, such a charming wit, that you could only not laugh if you didn’t speak English (like my seat-mate). I was rolling in hysterics for two hours. I love this whatever-it-is music, but my face ached afterwards from my smile cracking (some people think I am incapable of smiling, they’re wrong). Thank you Dan Hicks. I’ll put you in a book sometime. Oh, already did. Never mind.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: A Polar bear walks into an English 'fish and chip' shop and says to the person taking the order, "I'll have a Cola and ............................................................................... large fish and chips ." The order taker asks, "What's with the big pause?" The bear says, "I dunno, I've always had them."

Jeff: Did you subscribe to Boy’s Life as a child?
Mutt: No, but I do now.
Jeff: Let me tell ya, if you want to make money as a comedian you gotta have the cents of humor.
Mutt: I don’t get it.
Jeff: Read.
Mutt: Once there was a mad scientist who worked by himself in his laboratory. Stop me if you’ve heard this.
Jeff: Get on with it.
Mutt: He was so lonely that one day he decided to clone himself. Everything worked perfectly except that the clone had a very foul mouth. The scientist worked with the clone, but alas, he could not make the clone clean up his language. He got so tired of the clone's language that one day he pushed him off the edge of a cliff. A policeman rushed up to him, and yelled, "You are under arrest! You are under arrest!"
"What for?" the mad scientist asked.
And the answer was …
Jeff: I can see it coming.
Mutt: For making an obscene clone fall.
Jeff: Okay, got one, and it’s a true story.
Mutt: Oh goody, I love true stories.
Jeff: It seems there were three monks who enjoyed raising plants and were trying to keep a flower shop running, selling unique and exotic plant life. One day some children were playing behind the shop and were eaten whole by an extremely rare man-eating plant. The parents, needless to say, were outraged and demanded that the friars get rid of the dangerous plant. The friars refused, so the parents and the people of the town tried several ways to get the friars to consent, but finally they had to ask Hugh, the town blacksmith (undoubtedly the strongest man around), to run the friars out of town.
Mutt: Hmmm.
Jeff: The Moral of the Story, my friend, is : "Hugh, and only Hugh, can prevent florist friars!"
Mutt: Good night, David.
Jeff: Good night, Chet.

Walk Away Towards

Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Camp out among the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature's darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. As age comes on, one source of enjoyment after another is closed, but nature's sources never fail.  John Muir

I took a tiny music player on my PCT section hike this summer. Very few people were on the trail. I went several days without seeing another human, which was nice. I’d just spent a week at a big meeting (more later). The other hikers I met were friendly and spaced out on what we were doing and where. No one had much to say. One thru-hiker guy, giddy after his first 30-miler, just spread his arms, “Isn’t all this just … the greatest?!”

Why would you want to be anywhere else? When I got back to Tracy, I had no phone, no television, no computer, no radio, and I was alone in the house for several days. It wasn’t the liberating solitude but claustrophobic and weird: reading books, eating ice cream and checking the clock; it was okay but wrong. I wanted to be back up there in the higher altitudes.

My feet needed a break, but my spirit was still flying. I was proud of myself, something that doesn’t happen all the time. I liked myself, something I wish would happen more often.

You want ecstasy? I know where you can get some. Hard work but huge rewards that last. Not so hard that I should see only a handful of people in 10 days. Where were you?

Here are two of the songs that I listened to over and over, walking tunes. At the beginning of the trip, I was more into the long bluesy tone of the Dylan song, but as days went by the Greg Brown elation took over as the dominant feeling, the yahoo off the mountaintop. Anyhow, two great songs from Further In and Modern Times. Listen.

Two Little Feet  Greg Brown

Two little feet to get me 'cross the mountain

Two little feet to carry me away into the woods

Two little feet, big mountain, and a

Cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down.

I hear the voice of the ancient ones

Chanting magic words from a different time

Well there is no time, there is only this rain

There is no time, that's why I missed my plane.

John Muir walked away into the mountains

In his old overcoat a crust of bread in his pocket

We have no knowledge and so we have stuff and

Stuff with no knowledge is never enough to get you there

It just won't get you there.

A culture exploded into knickknacks and memories

Eagle and Bear trinkets, I don't think it's good

Old man what am I trying to say it's a

It's a messed up world but I love it anyway.

Two little feet to get me 'cross the city

My little hand to knock upon your door

My little thing for your little thing

And a big love to lift us up once more to the mountain

Lift us up.

Tumble us like scree let us holler out our freedom like a

Like a wolf across a valley like a kid lost in a game

No time no name gonna miss that plane again

And I'm gonna stay here with you baby and kiss you to a good dream

I'm goin' kiss you

Kiss you like you like it.

I got two little feet to get me across the mountain

Two little feet to carry me away into the woods

Two little feet big mountain and a

Cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down.

Ain't Talkin'  Bob Dylan

As I walked out tonight in the mystic garden
The wounded flowers were dangling from the vine
I was passing by yon cool crystal fountain
Someone hit me from behind.

Ain't talking, just walking
Through this weary world of woe
Heart burning, still yearning
No one on earth would ever know.

They say prayer has the power to heal
So pray for me, mother
In the human heart an evil spirit can dwell
I am trying to love my neighbor and do good unto others
But oh, mother, things ain't going well.

Ain't talking, just walking
I'll burn that bridge before you can cross
Heart burning, still yearning
There'll be no mercy for you once you've lost.

Now I'm all worn down by weeping
My eyes are filled with tears, my lips are dry
If I catch my opponents ever sleeping
I'll just slaughter them where they lie.

Ain't talking, just walking
Through the world mysterious and vague
Heart burning, still yearning
Walking through the cities of the plague.

Well, the whole world is filled with speculation
The whole wide world which people say is round
They will tear your mind away from contemplation
They will jump on your misfortune when you're down.

Ain't talking, just walking
Eating hog eyed grease in a hog eyed town.
Heart burning, still yearning
Some day you'll be glad to have me around.

They will crush you with wealth and power
Every waking moment you could crack
I'll make the most of one last extra hour
I'll revenge my father's death then I'll step back.

Ain't talking, just walking
Hand me down my walking cane.
Heart burning, still yearning
Got to get you out of my miserable brain.

All my loyal and my much-loved companions
They approve of me and share my code
I practice a faith that's been long abandoned
Ain't no altars on this long and lonesome road.

Ain't talking, just walking
My mule is sick, my horse is blind.
Heart burning, still yearning
Thinking about that girl I left behind.

Well, it's bright in the heavens and the wheels are flying
Fame and honor never seem to fade
The fire gone out but the light is never dying
Who says I can't get heavenly aid?

Ain't talking, just walking
Carrying a dead man's shield
Heart burning, still yearning
Walking with a toothache in my heel.

The suffering is unending
Every nook and cranny has its tears
I'm not playing, I'm not pretending
I'm not nursing any superfluous fears.

Ain't talking, just walking
Walking ever since the other night.
Heart burning, still yearning
Walking until I'm clean out of sight.

As I walked out in the mystic garden
On a hot summer day, a hot summer lawn
Excuse me, ma'am, I beg your pardon
There's no one here, the gardener is gone.

Ain't talking, just walking
Up the road, around the bend.
Heart burning, still yearning
In the last outback at the world's end.

“It’s a messed up world, but I love it anyway.”

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt:  Pressure’s on after a season off.

Jeff:  You mean we have to be funny again?

Mutt:  Again?

Jeff:  Okay, remember the time we were at the theme park. It was an extremely windy day, and the area sweeper (you know, the person with the small dustpan and broom you see in parks sweeping up the litter) was that small woman, Mary Lou (4'10", 90 pounds), who joked that she would have to put rocks in her shoes when she went outside to work.

Mutt:  Yeah, she used to say, “Now I weigh me down to sweep.”

Jeff:  Was that the same pert and perceptive young lady whose boyfriend is currently prospecting for oil somewhere in the Middle East?

Mutt:  The very same.

Jeff:  I heard she sent him a 'Get Well' card.

Mutt: And did you hear about the constipated composer?

Jeff:  Yeah. He couldn't finish the last movement.

Mutt:  Question: If you dream in vivid colors, is that a pigment of your imagination?

Jeff:  So what happens when you play country music backwards?

Mutt:  I know this, I know this. You get your wife back, you get your house back, you get your job back, you get your car back, etc.

Jeff:  Did you hear about the optometrist who fell into a lens grinder and made a spectacle of himself?

Mutt:  You know, my friend, I’m exhausted from doing nothing.

Jeff:  Me too. I get enough exercise just by pushing my luck.

Night Journey by Theodore Roethke

Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons jerk and shove,
I stay up half the night.
To see the land I love.

Happy summer trials, Martin

Neal’s Protest March

A small blond girl named Sandy was in one of Neal’s classes at State. He dug her. She barely even looked at him. One night at the end of the semester, Neal hatched a plan: invite Sandy out. The details were not very clear to him, that is, what he would say after “Hi,” but it was a good plan nonetheless.

As the teacher was explaining the format of the final exam, Neal leaned toward Sandy. It wasn’t the right moment perhaps, but his courage (or lack of) did not allow him to choose—now or never.

“Uh, Sandy?”

“Shhh.”
“You wanna, like, um, you know …”
“Quiet!”

Oh no, he’d blown it, his one big chance at happiness. Neal was a disaster, he’d picked the wrong moment, the wrong girl, the wrong strategy. Everything he did was a mess. His life was ruined.

As he sat slumped in his seat, rejected and dejected, the bell rang. Rush off to your next class everyone. That was it. He’d missed the bus.

But then Sandy came up to Neal with a surprise. She handed him a pamphlet with a smile, a knowing, winning, sexy smile like she wanted to eat him. He just said, “thanks.” And she was gone like a zephyr.

The pamphlet said: March for Indian Rights! and had a date and place. Neal got there early because Sandy had given him a date at last. As the march started and colorful people chanted and drums and musical instruments played and megaphones shouted, angry people around him loudly protested, Neal was searching everywhere for Sandy. He pushed to the front of the long crowd, he wove his way against the flow to the back, he cut down the side to get ahead again. The whole day Neal spent in a demonstration of thousands of passionate folks looking for his lost love, never to find her.

When he went home and lay in bed that night, Neal wondered. Had Sandy stood him up? Had she been unable to attend because of an accident, a death in the family, or was she in bed with some guy on the football team? Would he ever get what he deserved? And one final question especially perturbed Neal’s sleep:

Was that a march for Asian Indians or American Indians?

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: "Doctor, doctor! Birds keep building nests in my horses' manes! What should I do?" "Sprinkle yeast on them and call me in the morning." "But why?" "Yeast is yeast and nest is nest and never the mane shall tweet!"

Jeff: You’ve got to be kidding.
Mutt: "Doctor, doctor! Some days I think I'm a teepee, others I think I'm a wigwam! What do I do?" "Relax, you're two tents."
Jeff: Rerun.
Mutt: Have you got bills to pay?
Jeff: Yep.
Mutt: If you do, please give it back. He looks silly bald. Ha, ha.
Jeff: P.U.
Mutt: A male snake charmer married a female undertaker. Their bath towels read "Hiss" and "Hearse".
Jeff: I’m warning you …
Mutt: A man hit another on the head with a pop bottle, killing him. In court, he claimed he was influenced by the song "Let's Get Fizzy-Kill".
Jeff: That does it. I’m calling the cops.

Who's On First?

From memory:

Orlando Cepeda is on first
Chuck Hiller at second
José Pagàn shortstop
Jim Davenport at third
Felipe Alou in right
Willie Mays in center
Harvey Kuenn in left
Willie McCovey, Matty Alou, Manny Mota, Ernie Bowman reserves
Tom Haller catching
Juan Marichal pitching
or Gaylord Perry
or Mike McCormick
or Don Larsen
Alvin Dark in the dugout managing.

I left some out or got some wrong, but remembering the 1962 Giants lineup (when I can't remember last night's film) is very self-impressive. This is when my love of baseball started. These were my guys. And baseball must be good for you because many of them are still alive. Alvin Dark's around 90. So I post this in memory, from memory, to the memory of my favorite shortstop, José Pagàn, who died yesterday.

Happy trials, Martin

Happy What?

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.  (from “Desiderata,” Max Ehrmann)

My first hero, along with Captain Kangaroo, before Willie Mays, was Roy Rogers. He would shoot the guns out of the badguys’ hands, then do some trick-riding on his best friend Trigger, then sing a duet with his perfect wife, Dale. Roy Rogers always knew the right thing, did it, and won. We need a role model like that, don’t we?

When, in high school, I became a letter-writer (guess I liked my friends (especially female) at postal delivery arm’s length, less threatening, you know). And I ended all my witty epistles with Roy’s salute (and ‘60’s hippie expression): Happy Trails! I even learned the song on my ukulele.

Then I turned world-traveler, hiker and hitchhiker, and it meant all the more to me. Happy Trails. Then I aged. Several of my friends died (car wreck, cancer, drink, cancer, car wreck, AIDS), my first marriage died, my career died, my professional music experiment died … some of my dreams, a bit of my health, a lot of innocent people in the world, enlightened principles, the good earth – it seemed like all humanity slid downhill … AVALANCHE!!!!!

Kids too scared to go outside to play, people afraid to talk to Arabs, fear of food, phones, travel, ill health, being alone, fear of losing a house, a job, a family, a love. Fear of bad stuff that hasn't even happened yet. As they say, the worst thirst is when your well’s NOT dry.

My slogan became “Happy Trials.” Okay, trials, tough luck, bitterness, got it, but why happy? Because in these hard times (in any times) it’s way too easy to be a pessimist! I want a challenge, something difficult– not to have a mindless smiley face, but a conscious, conscientious attitude of hope, a balance to achieve.

If I believe this is it, we get one go-round, then I don’t want to spend my 70-year allotment with a scowling heart.

Natalie Merchant said, in her masterpiece, “Life is Sweet”:

It's a pity
It's a crying shame
Who pulled you down again?
How painful it must be
To bruise so easily inside

It's a pity
It's a downright crime
But it happens all the time
You wanna stay little daddy's girl
Wanna hide from the vicious world outside

But don't cry
Know the tears'll do no good
So dry your eyes

They told you life is hard
It's misery from the start
It's dull and slow and painful

I tell you life is sweet
In spite of the misery
There's so much more
Be grateful

They told you life is long
Be thankful when it's done
Don't ask for more
You should be grateful

But I tell you life is short
Be thankful because before you know
It will be over

Cause life is sweet
And life is also very short
Your life is sweet.

Can I do it? Can I look on the sunny side? Will I live it like Roy Rogers?

No, I’m not succeeding yet in seeing the silver lining (rather than the dark cloud) in this world surely full of love, joy and beauty but teetering on the brink of disaster, immeasurable pain and violent despair, HOWEVER (as McMurphy said) at least I’m trying.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Get it? The man said, “happy trials.”

Jeff: Happy isles, happy crocodiles.
Mutt: Happy smiles, happy argyles.
Jeff: Happy juveniles, happy exiles.
Mutt: Happy miles, happy gentiles.
Jeff: Boy, that was fun.
Mutt: Really?
Jeff: Two cows are standing next to each other in a field. Daisy says to Dolly, "I was artificially inseminated this morning." "I don't believe you," says Dolly. "It's true, no bull!" exclaims Daisy.
Mutt: If lawyers are disbarred and priests defrocked, doesn't it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, models deposed, tree surgeons debarked, and dry cleaners depressed? (Teachers, of course, would be declassified!)
Jeff: English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race (which, of course, isn't a race at all). That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. And why, when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this joke, I end it.
Mutt: Thank you.

Nobel Prize for Bob Dylan

I’ve thought about this. Only one living American deserves the Nobel Prize for Literature: Bob Dylan. If you think of the protest singer cliché proposed by superficial media (the 20-year-old Times are a-Changin’ guy) you miss the point: Bob Dylan is an exceptional writer. His production is mammoth in quantity and consistent quality. Don’t get sucked into dividing his work in periods (Folk, Electric, Gospel, etc.), and don’t, of course, react either way to his other skills: guitar, harmonica and keyboard playing, singing, music writer, producer, his rock star personality and general mystique—forget all that. Lastly, don’t be influenced by the songs that are famous hits because they got more radio play. Read the lyrics.

Read the songs as songs. Songs are songs with their own rules. Dylan has respected and violated them all. Songs are cousins to poems but are not poems. Bob Dylan is not a poet. Sharon Olds is a poet. Dylan is a writer, a song writer. [Actually the texts can't be divorced from the music and performance, but I'm making a point here.] He creates literature more enduring and significant than most. He’s affected the lives of millions. I dare say no American writer ever has had the raw impact of Bob Dylan. Who? Twain, Whitman, Dickinson, James, Hemingway, Who? Dr. Suess? Matt Groening? Who? Hundreds of thousands of boys, for example, are named Dylan in honor of this literary/musical giant. Lives changed. The whole world changed. And his imitative effect on other song-writers …

In high school, Dylan dreamed of being Elvis. They both made musical history (and beautiful music, if you like it), but Dylan also made literary history. From Freewheelin’ to Together Through Life, Bob Dylan has consistently written fine literary lyrics. “Like a Rolling Stone,” “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall,” “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” “Just Like a Woman,” “Love Sick,” “All Along the Watchtower,” “Shelter from the Storm,” “Not Dark Yet,” “Forever Young,” “Hurricane,” “Blind Willie McTell,” “Gotta Serve Somebody,” “Working Man Blues,” etcetera. Hundreds of ‘em.

Get all the forty-some records of original material and listen to them all (you masochists). Instead of the highs and lows that everyone talks about, I hear a master at work throughout (which doesn't make every work a masterpiece). I hear writing so hard it seems easy. I hear a child making nonsense rhymes in the playpen combined with Grandpa giving precious advice on living. Contemporary rock 'n roll (teenage fans filling stadiums for a 70-year-old?) combined with ageless tradition, rich oral-musical-literary tradition. Bob Dylan knows his stuff (music and lit.): listen to his fantastic radio show (Theme Time Radio Hour on XM Satellite Radio), you’ll see.

So to celebrate Dylan’s seventieth birthday, May 24, 2011, I officially propose he be given the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature. Sweden, are you listening?

Plus, a student of mine told me today that her favorite song is “Bowling in the Wind.”

My three favorite Dylan records (you tell me yours):

1. Oh Mercy

2. Modern Times

3. Time Out of Mind

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: How nice to see you again, my friend.

Jeff: How nice to be seen at all.

Mutt: Got a story.

Jeff: Can I stop you?

Mutt: A frog enters a bank looking for a loan. He approaches the loan officer, Patty Black, and makes his request known. Taken somewhat aback, she tells him the bank doesn't normally make loans to frogs.

"But please," says the frog, "I really need this loan."

"Do you have any collateral?" asks Ms. Black.

"Only this," he says. And with that, the frog pulls from his pocket an object and hands it to Ms. Black. Not knowing what it is, but being too embarrassed to say so, she takes the object to the bank manager and explains about the frog and his request for a loan.

"Sir, I don't even know what this is, but it's all he has for collateral," she tells him.

The manager takes the objects, looks at it for a moment, hands it back and tells her, "Why, it's a nick-knack, Patty Black, give the frog a loan!"

Jeff: A musical funny?

Mutt: Yeah, in honor of His Bob-ness. This old man is rolling home.

Jeff: Whatever.

Baseball Canto by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (posted in celebration of Willie Mays' 80th Birthday)

Baseball Canto

Watching baseball

sitting in the sun

eating popcorn

reading Ezra Pound

and wishing Juan Marichal

would hit a hole right through

the Anglo-Saxon tradition

in the First Canto

and demolish the barbarian invaders

When the San Francisco Giants take the field

and everybody stands up to the National Anthem

with some Irish tenor’s voice

piped over the loudspeakers

with all the players struck dead in their places

and the white umpires like Irish cops

in their black suits and little black caps

pressed over their hearts

standing straight and still

like at some funeral of a blarney bartender

and all facing East

as if expecting some Great White Hope

or the Founding Fathers

to appear on the horizon

like 1066 or 1776 or all that

But Willie Mays appears instead

in the bottom of the first

and a roar goes up

as he clouts the first one into the sun

          and takes off

like a footrunner from Thebes

The ball is lost in the sun

                           and maidens wail after him

but he keeps running

    through the Anglo-Saxon epic

And Tito Fuentes comes up

looking like a bullfighter

in his tight pants and small pointed shoes

And the rightfield bleachers go mad

with chicanos & blacks & Brooklyn beerdrinkers

         “Sweet Tito! Sock it to heem, Sweet Tito!”

And Sweet Tito puts his foot in the bucket

and smacks one that don’t come back at all

and flees around the bases

like he’s escaping from the United Fruit Company

    as the gringo dollar beats out the Pound

and Sweet Tito beats it out

like he’s beating out usury

not to mention fascism and anti-semitism

And Juan Marichal comes up

   and the chicano bleachers go loco again

as Juan belts the first fast ball

out of sight

and rounds first and keeps going

and rounds second and rounds third

and keeps going

and hits pay-dirt

to the roars of the grungy populace

As some nut presses the backstage panic button

for the tape-recorded National Anthem again

to save the situation

but it don’t stop nobody this time

in their revolution round the loaded white bases

in this last of the great Anglo-Saxon epics

in the Territorio Libre of baseball

Lawrence Ferlinghetti  (age 92)

Mother Earth’s Say Hey Day

“Hey Old Man, do you really remember the first Earth Day?”

“‘Course, I was in high school. Most people thought it was stupid, we didn’t have ‘days’ for just about everything back then—mother’s day, father’s day and groundhog’s day, that’s about it. And when the whackos who proposed it said it was to help the ecology, we had no clue what that was. Our biology teacher said that  meant nature. Okay, you mean like farms? Like not using pesticides. I read Rachel Carson. And John Muir and Aldo Leopold and Thoreau and Heyerdahl. I joined the WWF. Later I read Edward Abbey and E.F. Schumacher, Whole Earth Catalog and Ralph Nader. I joined Greenpeace. Then I fought the nukes and the nukes won (but I’ve already told that one).”

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch. The Hole in the Ozone Layer (which, they say, is coming back). Global Warming, Ice-cap Melting. Fossil fuels, Greenhouse gases, Endangered species and extinction, Biodiversity, Renewable energy, Habitat destruction, Overfishing, Deforestation, Air & Water quality, Genetic pollution, Desertification, Overpopulation, Urban sprawl, Soil loss and contamination, Noise pollution, Light pollution, Nuclear waste management, Water and food shortages, Acid rain, Oil spills, Dead fish & birds, Smog, Over-consumption, Mining, Nuclear accidents, Human-provoked natural disasters, Toxins, Garbage management, and now, in Japan, traces of iodine in mother's milk. HAVEN’T WE DONE ENOUGH DAMAGE ALREADY???

But if our brilliant technology is responsible for this mess, it can also get us out of it, right? Green living in a green world (isn’t that a Tepco slogan?). Well, whatever faith I had in the science of solutions went up in radioactive clouds from Fukushima Dai-ichi. Plus, we’re never going to solve the above problems (think decades or centuries of global effort to reverse negative trends) if we’re busy auto-eroticizing with our hand-held devises. Heads in the sand, wake me when it’s over, overwhelmed by our own self-destruction, "is Dancing with the Stars on yet?"

“So Ma, got any suggestions?”

“Yeah, I desperately need a break. Remember the lemmings? If you all made that small step for a man (off the cliff), I could make a giant leap back to natural balance. I know it’s a final solution, but what’s hurting me is you, my child. Either quit right now or get lost!”

We humans are the new kids on the block. Gotta show some r.e.s.p.e.c.t. for everyone and thing that was here before us. Instead, we’re just wrecking, plundering, raping. We’re killing our mother (and feeling surprisingly little guilt). And we have the gall to celebrate Earth Day one day a year. She spits on our rock concerts and pamphleting.

“You mean we have to radically change our lives and our entire world? Rebuild our societies and minds? Isn’t changing light bulbs enough? I don’t wanna go back to the Stone Age. Mommy! Help me!”

“No kid, I’m tired. You help me for a change.”

That photo above is the Pedersen Glacier near Seward Alaska, named after my great-grandfather Louis. He took the picture on the bottom in 1920. When my namesake is gone, what will I lose?

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: The usual loose-screw extremist.

Jeff: Is he dangerous?

Mutt: Nah, nobody ever listens to him anyway.

Jeff: Oh good. I was worried.

Mutt: Did you hear about Tom Finn, the scientist?

Jeff: No. Enlighten me.

Mutt: Well, Mr. Finn, a noted biologist, was stumped. He had spent months studying the little green frogs in the Keefo swamp. Despite all efforts at predator control, the population was declining at an alarming rate. Finn finally went to the chemistry department at his college to see if anyone there might be able to help. They looked into the problem and came up with a solution. The little frogs had succumbed to a chemical change in the swamp's water and simply couldn't stay coupled long enough to reproduce. The chemists brewed up a new adhesive, made from a dash of this, a zoss of that and, most critically, one part sodium.

Jeff: You mean...?

Mutt: Yes. The frogs needed a mono-sodium glue to mate!

Neal’s Orange Juice Splash

Neal sat in economy class, in the very last row, on the left aisle, flying to South Africa. It was a long tiring trip with several connections and hours of waiting around. The extremely friendly African stewardesses made Neal fall in love over and over. He asked them unnecessary questions, grinned a lot, and probably made them roll their eyes. Eventually, he collapsed over Tanzania.

Neal snores very loudly, which normally is not a problem since he lives alone. But on board the SAA jet his snoring could be heard by all 157 passengers, the crew and the pilots. Each time he sputtered or whistled or roared through the nose, someone cracked up. It was a source of constant delight for all. People would walk to the back of the plane just to marvel at the hi-fi snoring machine. Neal, of course, knew nothing of his fame.

The small black man next to Neal practiced Zen patience; the little old lady sitting in front of him focused on her novel. When the stewardess decided it was time to serve a drink, Neal’s fellow passengers were thankful that Neal would be awakened and quieted down.

The airlines in Africa are very elegant. They serve drinks in nice wine glasses, real glass. They give you real silverware with your food (well, not real silver). Excellent fresh food, I might add. The women and men are dressed more fashionably than in Europe or North America. They seem much more pleased with their jobs too. You’d almost want to spend your life flying over the Motherland.

Neal was dreaming. In his dream, he was thirsty. He dreamed of a lovely woman offering him a drink. Ahhh.

So when the cutest stewardess on the flight, Amara, came to Neal and said, “Sir, excuse me, sir, would you like a drink, would you like to wake up? We have orange juice.” Neal confused his blissful reverie with what was happening in the eyes-open world. The passengers only knew they were grateful the noise machine was turned off.

“Would you like some orange juice, sir?”

“Huh?”

“Sir, would you like some fresh orange juice?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure. Uh, what? Oh, orange juice. Yeah, my favorite.”

Amara leaned the clear glass tray with the nice tall glasses of orange juice over Neal’s lap about chest high. She was leaning forward and smiling. Neal was still half-asleep but also smiling. His brain was cob-webby, not quite connecting yet. You know, when you’re in a deep overdue traveling sleep and someone wakes you and offers you something, it’s weird, you know?

So Neal looked at the twenty tall glasses full of orange juice near his nose on the clear-glass tray, and looked at Amara, grinned, and reached up from his lap … and tried to grab a glass from under the tray! This was a violation of all the laws of physics.

Neal’s hand pushed the entire tray up and up and higher into the air over his head as he jerked his arm upwards, and the whole array of glasses and juice went flying. Flying, splashing all over Amara, all over the little old lady and her book in the seat in front, all over the guy in the seat in front of her, all over Neal and his seatmate, in the aisle, on everyone’s shoes. Glasses broke, people screamed, Neal jumped a couple feet and cried out like a girl. It was a mess; it took to Johannesburg just to clean it all up.

Neal’s mouth started saying: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to do it!”

Amara would not let Neal help to clean up or wash off the little old lady whose hair was ruined by orange juice shampoo, and she was visibly angry with him, as were all the other passengers and crew. One big African steward came back as if to beat someone up, but Neal just repeated: “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

Of course, in reality, it was all the stewardess’s fault for holding a glass-bottomed tray of thin-stemmed top-heavy glasses in front of the nose of a sleeping man, waking him with a jolt (from or to a sweet dream), and challenging him to grab a glass without spilling a drop, much less sending all twenty glasses flying several rows forward. Her fault. I could testify to that in court.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: You know, Jeffery, my first job was working in an orange juice factory, but I got canned because I couldn't concentrate.
Jeff: Oowah. You don’t say. My first job was in a gym. I tried to make the plump ladies see the error of their weighs.

Mutt: Later, I thought of becoming a candle maker, but I wasn't sure wick end was up.
Jeff: I’m sorry to hear that. You know, doctors tell us there are over seven million people who are overweight. These, of course, are only round figures.
Mutt: You’re a mint of information, my friend. Like a boiled egg in the morning.

Jeff: Come again?

Mutt: Hard to beat.

Jeff: Can I tell you a musical story?

Mutt: For the love of Mike, YES!

Jeff: Many years ago there was a small town that had several bakeries. One of these was run by the aunts of a man named Penn. He and his aunts baked the best pies in the state. Not only that, but they were also the least expensive. Now the other bakers could make equally delicious pies, but Penn always sold more, for no one could beat ... the 'pie rates of Penn's aunts'.

Mutt: Y'know, Sullivan, that may be the worst story I’ve ever heard. No, I take that back. I’ve heard worse.

Jeff: You’ve told worse, Gilbert.

Mutt: G’night, David.

Jeff: G’night, Chet.