A poem inspired by something I spotted on the bus the other evening. This is not a Valentine's Day poem.
THE REMINDER
In blue ink he wrote a reminder on his hand.
Not on his palm, where he might keep it concealed.
Not on the plump part below the thumb
where the ink would flow as if on vellum.
He wrote it on the top
( You might call it the back).
where the pen would have humped
over tendons and bones.
On the part of the hand where a tattoo would hurt.
He wrote: Rent Car.
Now he is riding the bus home
where he will look at his hand as he turns the key
where he will brace for her greeting:
Did you remember to rent the car?
A Christmas Carol Adaptation (Stave 2)
On this Christmas day, I give you one more of the recently discovered playlets of Barnaby McScrivener. (If you are new to this blog, you may learn more about Mr. McScrivener and read the first of his Christmas carol adaptations here). Appended to the original script was a letter from one of Berlin’s leading theatrical producers, Mannheim Von Sturmroller, who wrote: “I regret that while your playlet is immensely entertaining, it cannot possibly be produced in its present form. Have you considered an adaptation of Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!? I am confident it would be quite the success in Bohemia next season.”
JINGLING ON THE HEATH
Personae Dramatis:
Percival P. Peckingwood III: A fancy man of means, dressed in the latest London fashion.
Miss Fanny Eloise Toppenham-Bacon Bright: A handsome young lady of middling birth.
Others as available.
The scene opens in the ballroom of a fine manor house, aglow with festive candles and a finely decorated holiday tree (at least 20 feet high). Two score of actors of diverse ages and amplitude are seen dancing and gamboling merrily, while a chamber orchestra plays a jaunty tune of the day. Another lively group plays a game of “Pope in the Pulpit,” while a gaggle of young children cavorts through a rousing round of “That’s My Frigate!” A particolored Greyhound (an Irish Wolfhound or Moldavian Lurcher are acceptable substitutes) adorned with deer antlers crosses the stage, to the amusement of the party-goers. In the corner of the ballroom, a dwarf from the Isle of Borneo demonstrates the mystic art of Tam-Tam. The aroma of figgy pudding wafts over the audience.
The scene having been set, the entire set rotates slowly on an immense turntable until we find ourselves, miraculously, on the exterior of the country estate. The party continues, now seen only in glimpses behind fogged windows. We hear muted sounds of merriment. Snow begins to fall, gradually becoming heavier as the action proceeds throughout the play (ultimately reaching a depth of no less than two hands). A dozen carolers enter, singing joyously. The front door is opened by a footman wearing a Welsh wig who invites the carolers to join the party. They enter, accompanied by great cheers and huzzahs. After the carolers have entered, our two protagonists emerge, dressed in Victorian finery, bundled against the bitter cold. The play begins.
Percival:
[pointing off stage]
It’s just over there, waiting for us. Let us not tarry. If you are quite ready, milady, we shall climb aboard and begin the merriment.
Fanny:
[joyously clapping her hands]
Oh, what delightful fun! I’ve never done this before.
Percival:
It certainly will be jolly. Methinks you’ll be laughing all the way.
Fanny:
[Suddenly concerned]
Oh my! Where in heaven is the other horse?
Percival:
[Confused]
Whatsoever do you mean?
Fanny:
I see only one horse. Don’t sleighs usually require two horses?
Percival:
No. I don’t believe so. I’ve always used just one.
Fanny:
[Gesturing broadly in the direction of unseen fields]
Pray tell, what about the fields?
Percival:
Yes, the fields. Now, what about them?
Fanny:
We will be traipsing across fields, is that not so?
Percival:
[A little annoyed]
Well, of course there will be fields to cross. That’s really the entire point.
Fanny:
But will we not need two horses to pull us across these fields? What I mean is, to pull us at a reasonable pace. A dashing pace? It seems to me that one horse will be fine for favorable conditions, but crossing fields?
Percival:
Ho, ho! Now I understand! I am such a silly ass. I see that you wish to move at a brisk pace. Yes, of course. A dashing pace it shall be!
Fanny:
Dear sir, there is no need for you to apologize. It is I who was being obtuse!
Percival:
You are far too gracious. Let me explain: You see, this sleigh is especially designed for just one horse.
Fanny:
Yes, I do see that now.
Percival:
You will also note that this horse is both lean and lank. These are adequate attributes for a speedy jaunt through the snow.
Fanny:
[looks closer]
Oh my! What about its tail?
Percival:
Tail?
Fanny:
He doesn’t seem to have one.
Percival:
Not a long one, no.
Fanny:
That seems dreadfully odd.
Percival:
It’s a question of fashion, my dear. His tail has been bobbed, you see. Moreover, I’ve bestowed bells upon it. Such is the rage in London. I find the style raises my spirits quite high. I expect you will find the same.
Fanny:
I am ever so sorry to doubt you, sweet Percival. It’s just…
Percival:
Yes, dear?
Fanny:
It’s just … oh dear … I fear the poor beast will …
Percival:
Will what?
Fanny:
Well, that misfortune will be his lot. What with the bobbed tail and the silly bells.
Percival;
My dear Miss Bright, what possible harm could befall us?
Fanny:
My greatest fear is that we will become entrapped in a bank of snow. I shudder to imagine an even more dismal outcome!
Percival:
And what might that be?
Fanny:
That our conveyance will be upsot, and we shall be tos’t upon the icy drifts. Moreover, that I shall never wed a proper gentleman.
Percival:
Oh, you supercilious little scamp! T’is not the season for such imagined concerns. Let’s be away. The faster we journey, the quicker we will again be snug and cozy near the welcoming hearth. I have been led to understand that we will be partaking in a wee bit of wassailing upon our return.
Fanny:
[Sighing, resigned]
Away then.
Across the fields.
I shall endeavor to laugh the entire way.
Percival:
That’s my girl.
END OF PLAY
A Christmas Carol Adaptation
Alas, no theater company in Portland has mounted a production of the Charles Dickens holiday chestnut, A Christmas Carol, this year. Nor is any company producing an evening of playlets written by Mr. Dickens' contemporary, Barnaby McScrivener (pictured at right). Indeed, no theater company has ever produced a play by Mr. McScrivener, despite his having been at the cutting-edge of his generation's carol-based stage adaptation movement.Recently, I was delighted to discover a rich trove (is there any other kind of trove?) of Mr. McScrivener's wee theatrical gems tucked away in a moldering trunk for over a century. These dramatic arts niblets tell simple stories--nay, morality tales--drawn from popular holiday carols.
So, without further ado, I invite you to gather the family by a crackling fire, fill your nog mugs, and enjoy one of Mr. McScrivener's Christmas Carol playlets. Better yet, host a staged reading for all your friends. (Please silence your cell phones now.)
Christmastime: It’s Coming
Personae Dramatis:
Abelard McChuffery II: A portly fellow with muttonchops.
Milton Harcourt Fishpicket, Esq: A thin, reedy, elderly man with common features.
Note to Directors: Do not rush the conversation. Pauses should carry as much dramatic freight as the very words themselves.
Setting:
A country road. Snowdrifts. We hear the whistling of the wind and the occasional honking of geese. It is evening and bitter cold. The drear light should fade gradually through the course of the play.
The lights rise on two men wearing ratty overcoats, heavy work boots, and fur hats. They are cold. One of them, Milton, is staring off stage. He leans forward, squinting toward a distant spot.
MILTON:
Do you see that?
ABELARD:
What?
MILTON:
The geese.
Over there.
Look at them.
ABELARD:
Yeah.
Canadian Geese.
What about them?
MILTON:
Canada Geese.
ABELARD:
What?
MILTON:
They’re Canada Geese, not Canadian.
ABELARD:
No kidding?
That doesn’t sound right.
MILTON:
It is.
You can look it up.
Canada Geese.
ABELARD:
I will.
What about them?
MILTON:
Fat.
Can’t you see that?
[looks again, and points]
You can see that, can’t you?
ABELARD:
What are you talking about?
MILTON:
[pointing insistently]
The geese… over there.
ABELARD:
I hadn’t noticed.
What about them?
MILTON:
They’re getting’ fat.
[He looks more closely]
Fatter.
Yeah, they’re fatter than they used to be.
ABELARD:
You’re right.
They are getting fat.
Fatter.
MILTON:
You’ve seen them before?
ABELARD:
Sure I have.
But never that fat.
They really are quite fat ... for geese.
You know what that means don't you?
MILTON:
No. What?
ABELARD:
Christmastime is coming.
MILTON:
What’s that got to do with it?
ABELARD:
You said the geese are getting fat. And they are. That’s what.
MILTON:
Yeah?
ABELARD:
They get ...
They get fatter.
Geese do.
MILTON:
Geese? When?
ABELARD:
You know, when Christmas is coming.
When it’s Christmastime.
When Christmastime is...well...when it’s coming.
MILTON:
That makes no sense.
You’d think they would be getting thinner.
All that flying.
Migrating.
All that migrating.
[turning to Abelard]
Hey, how did you know about the fat thing?
ABELARD:
[shrugs]
I don’t know.
It’s just something I heard.
Something I heard about geese.
MILTON:
I guess.
I just think it’s weird.
I don’t like it.
I don't like it at all.
ABELARD:
I get that.
Nobody likes fat Canadian geese.
MILTON:
Canada Geese.
ABELARD:
You sure?
[Milton shrugs. They stand in silence for a full minute, getting colder--stamping feet, rubbing their arms and hands, etc. The sound of honking geese recedes in the distance while they continue to look offstage]
ABELARD:
Say, Milton, have you got a penny?
MILTON:
What?
ABELARD:
A penny.
MILTON:
I thought you said something else.
ABELARD:
No. I said "penny."
Do you have one?
[he gets no response]
Milton?
MILTON:
[annoyed]
Why? Why do you want…
What was it again?
A penny?
ABELARD:
I’ve always wanted one.
More would be nice, but one is what I need.
Have you got one?
MILTON:
[He starts to check his pockets]
I might. Just a second.
[He searches quite a while]
ABELARD:
No hurry.
[Milton keeps searching, pulling diverse items from his pockets. A parasol, a live dove, and an anvil should be among the items retrieved. Eventually Milton collects a handful of coins, which he examines carefully.]
MILTON:
Sorry, I don’t have one after all.
[He puts the coins back in his pockets]
Will anything else do?
[He pulls a banana from his coat pocket and shows it to Abelard]
Fresh fruit?
ABELARD:
[Thinks about it]
A ha’penny?
MILTON:
What’s that?
ABELARD:
I think it’s half a penny.
MILTON:
There’s no such thing.
ABELARD:
Just look.
Humor me.
[Milton searches his pockets until he has a handful of coins again. He sorts through them one-by-one]
MILTON:
Quarter…quarter…nickel…dime…peso…another quarter…Canada dime…
[surprised]
Hey, what ho?
[Milton holds up a small coin, then searches frantically through his pockets until he finds a jeweler’s loupe, which he uses to examine the coin.]
I’ll be damned!
It says half penny.
I thought it would be like…you know…
like cut in half or something.
But it's not.
Do you still want it?
ABELARD:
It’ll do.
If you don’t have a whole penny, that is.
MILTON:
Okay then. It's yours.
ABELARD:
[removes his hat and holds it open, shaking it at Milton].
Put it in the hat.
MILTON:
What?
ABELARD:
I think you’re supposed to put the ha’penny in the hat.
MILTON:
In that hat?
Okay, old man.
[He tosses the coin in the hat. We hear it striking several coins already in the hat.]
ABELARD:
God bless you.
MILTON:
Is that all?
ABELARD:
I think so.
It’s getting dark.
MILTON:
You're right.
It is getting dark.
Hey, Abelard?
ABLELARD:
What, Milton?
MILTON:
I lied.
ABELARD:
About what?
MILTON:
The penny.
I lied about the penny.
I had one.
ABELARD:
I know.
MILTON:
You knew?
ABELARD:
I knew.
MILTON:
Do you mind saying it again anyway?
ABELARD:
What?
MILTON:
That thing you said.
ABELARD:
God bless you?
MILTON:
That's it.
You too.
God bless you.
[He looks out into the field again]
Canada Geese?
[shakes his head, chuckling]
No kidding.
[Fade to dark]
END OF PLAY
NEXT UP: The Jingle Caper
Let's Travel Awhile
About a year ago, National Geographic Traveler published a profile of our city under the clever (by which I mean, "vapid") title, “Portland Reigns”.
The article was one of many paeans to Portland peppering the national press lately. The breathless pace and gushy tone spurred me to write a parody of bad travel writing. I tried to follow a few simple rules:
• If one adjective helps, two or three are even better.
• Stereotypes and generalizations are always a good choice.
• When in doubt, grasp onto a cliché as if your life depends on it.
• Keep your thesaurus handy...ermm…accessibly situated.
My parody kept getting longer and longer, until it was so ridiculously long (for a blog post) that I lost track of where I was going or how to bring it to a merciful end. I toyed with cutting or serializing it. Then I decided to just publish it. Now it’s in your hands. Savor.
East Chesterburg:
An Old-World City Perched on Tomorrow’s Rim
This resplendent metropolis gets just about everything right: From the friendly natives to the homebrewed deliciousness that embraces every visitor.
Here in the self-proclaimed “City that Can,” restaurants pride themselves in serving locally-prepared meals, and every barkeep is quick with a jovial anecdote that will, one day, become a part of your own tribal lore. Local crafts and an innovative commitment to “green” living are worn like a comfortable flannel suit in autumn, and are as reassuring as a bowl of warm applesauce. What’s more, this is a city that does not hesitate to flaunt its funky charms, just as its residents feel no qualms in sporting billed caps, no matter the weather. Add a flair for the ubiquitous and verdant, and you’ve got a vacation-in-the-making for all but the most hard-hearted of hard-core adventurers.
East Chesterburg isn’t the first place you’ll compare to Paris, but it’s not likely to be the last either--and that says a lot. It’s among a handful of American towns that has managed to pair civic engagement with a soupcon of down-home bonhomie that will have you saying both “oui!” and “whee!” From its trendy downtown nightlife scene to the downscale bohemian haunts that typify the North Gulch Arts District, this is a town that welcomes everyone with the warmth of a Golden Retriever’s tongue.
Starting on the Right Foot
We launch our East Chesterburg adventure with a hearty breakfast at Tiny Harpo’s—a charming diner occupying a prime spot in the heart of the town’s bustling business arrondissement. Before entering this petite boîte, be sure to pause for a moment to listen to the autoharp player on the corner. Sing along if you must. You’ll be delighted to leave a small tip in his open case.
As we wipe the steam from our glasses, we’re greeted by a proprietor who can only be described as brobdingnagian. Nobody personifies the character of an East Chesterburgian restaurateur better than the bistro’s namesake. With his trademark, “Halloo!,” and belying his 400-pound girth, he sweeps us dexterously to a cozy booth by the window, then deals a handful of menus with the speed of a Las Vegas blackjack dealer jacked up on diet pills. In short order, our winsome server fills our water glasses and makes sure we all have napkins. Keeping her promise to return with hot coffee, she takes our orders with a vivacious professionalism that feels as comfortable as a pair of broken-in huaraches. I choose the “Tiny’s Special” – an adventuresome mélange of scrambled eggs and la saucisse de Francfort topped with a tangy hollandaise sauce. You will be well served by selecting the same, or perhaps you’ll opt for a simpler fare from a bygone era. On any given morning, many of Tiny’s patrons can be witnessed enjoying a light repast of toasted bread squares while perched on angular chairs, perfectly resplendent in parti-colored smocks, knit leggings and the customary cap tilted rakishly.
The article was one of many paeans to Portland peppering the national press lately. The breathless pace and gushy tone spurred me to write a parody of bad travel writing. I tried to follow a few simple rules:
• If one adjective helps, two or three are even better.
• Stereotypes and generalizations are always a good choice.
• When in doubt, grasp onto a cliché as if your life depends on it.
• Keep your thesaurus handy...ermm…accessibly situated.
My parody kept getting longer and longer, until it was so ridiculously long (for a blog post) that I lost track of where I was going or how to bring it to a merciful end. I toyed with cutting or serializing it. Then I decided to just publish it. Now it’s in your hands. Savor.
East Chesterburg:
An Old-World City Perched on Tomorrow’s Rim
This resplendent metropolis gets just about everything right: From the friendly natives to the homebrewed deliciousness that embraces every visitor.
Here in the self-proclaimed “City that Can,” restaurants pride themselves in serving locally-prepared meals, and every barkeep is quick with a jovial anecdote that will, one day, become a part of your own tribal lore. Local crafts and an innovative commitment to “green” living are worn like a comfortable flannel suit in autumn, and are as reassuring as a bowl of warm applesauce. What’s more, this is a city that does not hesitate to flaunt its funky charms, just as its residents feel no qualms in sporting billed caps, no matter the weather. Add a flair for the ubiquitous and verdant, and you’ve got a vacation-in-the-making for all but the most hard-hearted of hard-core adventurers. East Chesterburg isn’t the first place you’ll compare to Paris, but it’s not likely to be the last either--and that says a lot. It’s among a handful of American towns that has managed to pair civic engagement with a soupcon of down-home bonhomie that will have you saying both “oui!” and “whee!” From its trendy downtown nightlife scene to the downscale bohemian haunts that typify the North Gulch Arts District, this is a town that welcomes everyone with the warmth of a Golden Retriever’s tongue.
Starting on the Right Foot
We launch our East Chesterburg adventure with a hearty breakfast at Tiny Harpo’s—a charming diner occupying a prime spot in the heart of the town’s bustling business arrondissement. Before entering this petite boîte, be sure to pause for a moment to listen to the autoharp player on the corner. Sing along if you must. You’ll be delighted to leave a small tip in his open case.
As we wipe the steam from our glasses, we’re greeted by a proprietor who can only be described as brobdingnagian. Nobody personifies the character of an East Chesterburgian restaurateur better than the bistro’s namesake. With his trademark, “Halloo!,” and belying his 400-pound girth, he sweeps us dexterously to a cozy booth by the window, then deals a handful of menus with the speed of a Las Vegas blackjack dealer jacked up on diet pills. In short order, our winsome server fills our water glasses and makes sure we all have napkins. Keeping her promise to return with hot coffee, she takes our orders with a vivacious professionalism that feels as comfortable as a pair of broken-in huaraches. I choose the “Tiny’s Special” – an adventuresome mélange of scrambled eggs and la saucisse de Francfort topped with a tangy hollandaise sauce. You will be well served by selecting the same, or perhaps you’ll opt for a simpler fare from a bygone era. On any given morning, many of Tiny’s patrons can be witnessed enjoying a light repast of toasted bread squares while perched on angular chairs, perfectly resplendent in parti-colored smocks, knit leggings and the customary cap tilted rakishly.
With a satisfied belch and a neighborly handshake, we emerge from Tiny’s into the rays of a sun that radiates its beams on East Chesterburg many days of the year. When you visit, you’ll want to chat with Tiffany and Amber, animated purveyors of Girl Scout Cookies outside of the Thrift & Save just around the corner. I choose a box of Thin Mints, but you would not be wrong to pick otherwise. Don’t forget to pet the puppies for sale in the box over by the shopping carts.
A Place of the Present with a Forward-Thinking History
East Chesterburg is all about sustainable, low-impact living. As a matter of both public policy and personal ethos, visitors and residents adopt organic, people-powered modes of transportation, including walking and bicycling. People here stride with a confident bounce as if effervescently buoyed, stepping with the crisp snap of a sugar pea from one of the farmer’s markets that thrive, year-round, on every vacant lot. They ride their handcrafted two-wheelers attuned to a personal soundtrack best described as a gumbo of free jazz and proto-bluegrass. Don’t be surprised to see pedallers cruising the neighborhood lanes three abreast, each snapping thumb and finger in a syncopated rhythm that brings to mind a fringed surrey frozen in time by the flash of a daguerreotype camera wielded by Matthew Brady himself.
My first post-repast stop of the day is the East Chesterburg Municipal Museum, housed in a former civic building marked with a postmodern slash of architectural frippery. Entering the museum is like stepping back in time while looking into the future through a kaleidoscope of wonder. Time your visit just right and you’ll miss the rainstorm that will pass through town just a few hours before the city rolls up its sleeves for lunch.
Lovingly curated, this museum is chockablock with refreshing artifacts that reveal more about each visitor’s character than that of those who crafted them. You’ll want to linger at each exhibit to revel in the intrinsic knowledge and inspiring message it imparts. The old-world docent dozing in the corner is Mort, and he’s been manning his station for longer than anyone cares to remember. If Mort tells you to not touch something, it’s a memory you’ll cherish for the rest of your visit. A stop at the gift shop will leave your pockets full of postcards and informative brochures. Edna, the gift shop clerk, will give you $1.55 in change and a whimsical smile that says more than you think.
Stridently Moving Forward
East Chesterburg is so thoroughly trendy these days that at times it seems past retro and outside of outré. An uncounted number of people here live in town or in the suburbs, often in houses or apartments, many with driveways and garages. No taller than most people, East Chesterburgians are not often described as diminutive, though they might be if viewed from the proper distance. A formation of Canada Geese migrating overhead might be fooled into believing that the town itself is smaller than many cities, yet it is larger than others—something not every city can claim. One could live here for a hundred years and not meet every resident at least once, though you will feel as if you have, and you will.
Already hungry for lunch, I follow the recommendation of long-time resident, Herb Vouchsafe, and borrow a red bicycle which I ride to the outskirts of town to visit a rural eatery universally beloved by local omnivores. My handlebars glint in the sunshine, eliciting appreciative waves from townsfolk picking fretless banjos and crocheting socks on rickety front stoops. A quick tinkle of the bell engenders peals of laughter from the youngsters jumping rope in each schoolyard I pass.
As often happens in this city, I find the place to which I was headed exactly where it should be. Mo’s Pig House is redolent of grease and the briny elixir of a seaside fishing shack, reminding me of the winter I hitchhiked from Amsterdam to Antwerp on a foggy morning, laden with a sodden backpack, a perplexing itch and a head full of Baudelaire. You will feel exactly the same as you peruse the written synopsis of food items and pricing that serves as a menu at Mo’s. I choose a beer-battered cheeseburger with a side of crispy sweet potato fries and tart kimchee, but you may want to try the “Pig House Sampler” – a veritable pupu platter of pork pies. The water at Mo’s is free, but a word of warning: You’ll have to remember to ask.
The rain is just returning as I finish my dainty banquet and settle the bill. Swaddled in a bee-yellow poncho, I mount my two-wheeled steed and steer northeasterly to East Chesterburg’s charmingly-named “Labor Town” – a gentrified neighborhood once home to the city’s blue collar community, now a burgeoning village where artists, musicians and writers bump elbows and trade coffee-roasting tips with retired pipefitters.
Before arriving in the district, I veer to the right for a quick visit to a local used bookstore, The Wormy Book, to meet up with the city’s leading naysayer-cum-raconteur. “I realized East Chesterburg was going to be my home within 20 minutes of first arriving at the bus depot.” says Bud Skullnick, the bookstore’s Sales Team Guide. (“We don’t use hierarchical titles here,” he explains). “It had something going on that is indescribable. I guess I couldn’t imagine myself going anywhere else,” he explains while scratching the long white beard of his personal attendant, an elderly man of Asian descent. “Moreover,” he continues, fiddling a straw boater that I soon learn is his signature look, “I decided that if I was going to live here until I die, I was determined to spend every single day agitating for something to happen.” After only one day in town, I understand the sentiment, though I would be hard-pressed to explain it.
I'm introduced to another form of East Chesterburg’s agitation when I visit Stuff Mart, a cavernous repository of purposeful materials of every imaginable description. The exterior of this emporium will delight you with its medley of whimsical objects crafted from other objects, but inside it's a $5-million-a-year business overseen by a wizened man who can only be described as avuncular. Put this shop on your bucket list because it’s a sight no visitor should miss, both for its astounding variety and because it embodies the “East Chesterburg Way.”
"We move eight tons of product a day,” reports owner, William Sherwin, burning with conviction in a vintage Motorhead T-shirt and paint-splattered carpenter pants with worn knees. "The idea is to take what some people don’t want and turn it around to sell to people who want it. If we do it right, everybody’s happy. It’s the East Chesterburg Way.”
His goal, he says, "is to create a business model that can be given away to other places." One outcome is that Stuff Mart has become a popular stopover and photo opportunity for visiting dignitaries who hope to emulate East Chesterburg’s economic success, the 16% unemployment rate and junk bond rating notwithstanding. Some weeks, Mayor Sam “Slappy” Simperson is here so often you may find him catching a little shut-eye between official visits by curling up in a quiet vestibule on the premises. When you visit, he’s sure to tell you, “People all over the world want to see this. We let them watch and learn.” He will then tweet a message to his 1,480 followers: “Just told a visitor the East Chesterburg story. Awesome!”
On the Fringe
Local business boosters have been doing their best to promote East Chesterburg with a campaign that defines the town as “The New Edgy.” Gurf Franklin, creative director of a internationally renowned ad agency, Spank Spank (formerly InterModalMedia LLC), gives me a synopsis of the multimedia presentation that sold the city leaders on the campaign. “My partner, Jambo Fripp, came up with the concept of edge-seeking,” explained Franklin as a raincloud scuttered past the multi-paned windows of the former rope factory that is the firm’s creative cauldron, known affectionately by locals as “The Old Rope Factory”. Over the course of the next two-and-a-half hours, he hammers home the concept that “humankind instinctively and continuously seeks the edge … the boundary…the outer limits… the border… the outside of the envelope… terra incognito … did I mention the border?” He grasps a saltine and snaps it in half to illustrate a point that leaves me, oddly, more curious than indifferent.
The hallmark of this boosterism is the annual East Chesterburg Alternative Fringe Festival for Transgressive and Movement/Audio-Based Arts (popularly dubbed “the Alt-Trans-Fest”), which hosts 4,287 events over 13 days, ranging from macramé workshops to community pig roasts and pet swaps. Contemporary dance companies compete with dressage enthusiasts for top honors in the “So You Think You Can Prance” extravaganza at the Veterans Exposition Hall and Natatorium, while close to 2,000 local indie bands plug in at virtually every bar, diner, bowling alley, rooftop, subterranean grotto, Masonic Lodge and tented parking lot within a fourteen mile radius of downtown East Chesterburg. You’ll be hard pressed to find a single local under the age of 40 who doesn’t clamber for the coveted all-access wristband for the Alt-Trans-Fest. These “young moderns”--a common reference to members of East Chesterburg’s flamboyant youth culture--enjoy nothing more than loud music, alternative transportation, social media, distilled or fermented beverages, and tam o’shanters. When they’re not blogging and tweeting about their experiences, they open themselves to experiential learning like breaded abalone simmering in a sizzling fry pan of garlic butter.
Red-bearded, energetic, and wearing shoes that squeak when he walks, the director of an emerging social media aggregator, Parlay Jones, likes to call young East Chesterburgians “the next generation of generational change agents.” Himself an owner of 14 recumbent bicycles (one of which is a functional whiskey still), Jones loves nothing more than donning a distinctive hat and joining his youthful compatriots at any one of the hundreds of ubiquitous rolling food carts that crop up at every intersection in East Chesterburg, waiting to serve dripping slabs of deep-fried cuisine to a hungry workforce of cultural creatives.
"The food carts are all about choice,” Jones likes to say. “Every single generation but my own had no choice over what they ate—or even when they ate. Now we like to mix things up and live in the freedom of the moment, eating on the sidewalk because we can, even in the rain. It’s what puts us on the cutting edge of the food empowerment movement. Honestly, it’s what makes us better than every other city in the world. That, and our tam o-shanters.” Sitting on the curb eating fried potatoes topped with chorizo-hummus and siracha sauce is a rite of passage for every young person in town, and you’ll not want to not be one of them.
Adventures in Wayfinding
To navigate East Chesterburg, whether by bike or otherwise, you’ll have to master some basic geography. First, imagine the Toohoioliatte River (pronounce it “TOO-late” unless you want to be laughed at) smartly cleaving the city, east to west, with the north sector (home of the city's downtown) on one side, and the south (home of the city’s tree-lined neighborhoods) on the other. In the northwest quadrant, you’ll find the upscale Upland Heights and the trendy and fashionable Nebbish Hill neighborhoods. The southeast is divided by Clifford’s Gulch into the gritty Lower Southeast and plucky Upper Southeast boroughs. The northeast itself is divided by Sully Swale, which cuts diagonally from southeast to northwest, and is further divided by Little Creek running northeast to southwest, and Littler Creek meandering in such as way to strategically disrupt the entire street grid throughout what locals call “The Lost District.” Curiously, while Little Creek is descriptively named, Littler Creek is named after an early settler, Jacob Littler, and is, in fact, quite wide.
The north-west dividing line, which extends to both sides of the river, is the verdant Boulevard Park, a 700-acre urban retreat that stretches for 15 miles and widens to no more than 25 feet. Paralleled by Park Boulevard, Boulevard Park is a narrow expanse of East Chesterburg’s wildest, most deeply green aspects. Built single-handedly in 1895 by Charles Percy McFitts, an amateur landscape designer with spare time and a 25-foot-wide horse-drawn scraper, Boulevard Park originally served as le grande allée leading to an outer greenbelt that straddles one of the region’s many bifurcated divisions. Nearly doomed to death by bulldozer to accommodate what city planners hailed as “The Freeway to the Future,” Boulevard Park has been placed on the local registry as a “Regional Place of Significance and Meaning.”
Thanks to former mayor Burt Patsy’s acclaimed anti-encroachment campaign, East Chesterburg is now widely recognized as a breeding ground for innovative creativity in the green sector. It was Mayor Patsy who challenged all citizens of East Chesterburg to limit their propensity to expand, saying opaquely, “You have to crawl before you sprawl,” often adding his signature salute as he peddled away on a customized unicycle.
Nowadays, in new East Chesterburg developments, shops are built at street level to provide ease of pedestrian access, while charming lofts harken back to an era falling squarely between the industrial revolution and post-modern Scandinavia. Simply put, East Chesterburg’s social fabric is woven integrally with the warp and woof of a modern Valhalla perched on the precipice of a new tomorrow. There is simply no other way to describe it.
Of all the city's uber-green spaces, your favorite will be the East Chesterburg Sunken Gardens, found on the edge of the Northeast Outskirts district. The Sunken Garden provides a transformative descent into the intricacies of the spiritual landscape. "What makes a good sunken garden is the sense of sinkage it provides,” says Roxy Delacorte, the garden's Curator of Culture, Art and User Interfaces.
Delacorte and I walk, step-by-step, from the Squat Garden—one of five blending seamlessly, this one populated by colorful koi finning under the Moon Bridge—to the Splay Garden, a wondrously realistic simulacrum mimicking a representation of the hanging gardens of Pompeii as envisioned by an untrained and marginally sane artist. The gardens are known to engender quiet contemplation and repose in everyone who pauses to look. Quite literally, you will want to lie down on one of the graveled paths and take a short nap. The East Chesterburg Sunken Garden manages to accommodate hundreds of thousands of visitors a year without losing its air of solitude amidst the jostling of elbows and vigorous snapping from the Snapping Turtle Eco-Pond.
A World of Art and Culture
Becoming tiresome, I trade the tranquil Garden for the bustling streets of "The Gulch," epicenter of East Chesterburg’s thriving arts scene. This former mill district is now peppered with outlets of urban gastronomy and cultural brio, brimming with fine restaurants, jazz joints, cafés, and upscale handcraft knit boutiques. East Chesterburg’s legendary jelly and jam purveyor, Progesteron, occupies an entire city block at the vortex of the district—so large that a local ordinance mandates that each customer be issued a portable rescue beacon to be activated if lost. (You’ll want to devote an entire weekend to the world-famous Marmalade Room, but don’t miss the easily-overlooked Jellied-Seafood Annex).
On the second Wednesday of alternating months, a crush of art lovers moves at a measured pace from gallery to gallery, stopping only to pause at each waystation to absorb the ambiance and eat unpasteurized cheese. Wear black, or risk standing out as a tourist. Cross Street is noted for its edgy, post-modern electronica such as the interactive art exhibited at NERVE: A GALLERY! Press the blue button on artist Lurv Speckle’s anthropomorphic sculpture, "Deity", and prepare to be surprised to hear a loud “squonk” while being squirted in the eye with what you will hope is lemon juice. The local arts college attracts the most creative of creatives, and the streets and alleyways are rife with crafts of all sorts, from cast bronze gamelan gongs to spatulas made from repurposed motorcycle fenders. Don’t miss the display of papier mache sculptures filled with sugar-laden sweets that art-lovers attempt to burst open with decorated batons while giggling like schoolchildren at a Mexican hat dance.
My local tour guide, Webb Masterson, informs me that “the creative arts in the region explicate and inform people about specific landscapes and their transformation onto a higher plane of communal consideration." He goes on to say, “When East Chesterburg’s bootstrap industry collapsed, the community had a hard time picking itself up. In the end, it was the arts that did the picking up. It was the arts that made all the difference, not the tax on cigarettes, beer and paper napkins, though some disagree.” You’ll want to disagree, but remember: You’re just passing through.
Many of the gawkers on the Second Wednesday Art Promenade live in expensive lofts overlooking Corner Square, a comely plaza featuring a wading pool that ebbs in tidal reflux, but others come from highly individualistic neighborhoods in other sectors of the city connected to the center by a web of transportation options. Streamlined Bauhaus-inspired trolleys trundle over parallel steel rails in a mode of travel harkening to Jules Verne’s steam-age, while bus service delivers throngs of fun-seekers both willy and nilly. After your visit, you will remember being part of this “scene” for the rest of your life, and will look forward to the day when you can tell your great-grandchildren about it.
A Burgeoning Cultural Ecosystem at Work
Later that evening, I arrive at the northern edge of an unnamed neighborhood to take an upholstered seat in East Chesterburg’s newly renovated Barnhouse Theatre for a smidgeon of entertainment and culture. While named for local philanthropist, Philo T. Barnhouse, I am surprised to learn that the venue is, in fact, a former goat barn. You’ll be surprised to learn that too, after picking up a brochure that was handcrafted from a mid-century mimeograph press.
As the house lights dims, we hear a sharp intake of breath from the audience, signaling the start of a rousing rendition of the company’s long-running, runaway hit, “Hungry, Hungry, Housewives” –an unbridled musical homage to an era of laissez-faire sexual mores. When we stumble out, eyes a-glaze, we are drenched with sweat and chocolate sauce, satiated by the show’s innovative amalgam of ribald shtick and aerial ballet, accompanied by an 18-member cello orchestra and a lone flugelhorn, artfully blown. The audience at every show is fashionably eclectic—spiffy grunge to quasi-professorial—but mostly warmly predisposed to intimidation. At intermission, the crowd makes a beeline for the state-of-the-art soda dispenser for a frothy serving of a cucumber-raspberry infused vodka and cane-sugar daquirito. Like me, you’ll be glad you asked for artisan-harvested sea salt on the rim of your glass.
While enjoying the respite of intermission, we are captivated by a series of interactive monitors telling the history of East Chesterburg’s cultural renaissance. Jim Beevey, the theater's Manager of Community Engulfment notes, “We’re the only venue in town with a fully-functional wifi uplink to a cutting edge server that integrates each audience member’s feed to their personally-tailored, multi-layered choice of social media mode. It’s what the next generation of audience members crave, driven as they are to co-curate a communal cultural experience.” Beevey, a multitalented chap with a striped t-shirt peeking out from his unbuttoned charcoal jumpsuit, also produces the popular “East Chesterburg Happy Hour and Gallery Guide,” and plays jazz glockenspiel with a combo of like-minded devotees. Be sure to accept his invitation to an early morning of skeet shooting.
After the play, we retreat to a beguiling bistro in a narrow zone straddling two of East Chesterburg’s more piquant neighborhoods, Greek Town and Turk City. The Thanatos Café is famed for it’s aioli-smothered soutzoukakia, crisp flash-fried hakanakaloxia, fire-roasted phipholococcyxolitis, and blackened-xxyzysosakakia in red sauce. (The latter surprised me with its subtle blush of disomos, reminding me of the keftedes found on the island of Skiathos). After serving our food with a flamboyant flourish, our waiter leaps onto the table wielding an earthen, Mycaean stirrup jar from which issues a stream of ouzo to be caught directly in our open mouths. We laugh with abandon, then smash our soiled plates while shouting “Opa!” The savvy traveler will note that Dmitros does not work on Tuesdays.
An Animated Night of Repose
After a day bursting with urban-exploration and personal discovery, I am grateful to stumble to my lodging at the trendy DeLouche Hotel and Swim Club. The desk clerk stops the dance music long enough to offer me a complimentary nightcap of codeine-infused, boutique-distilled gin. I’m also given a choice of either a cruller filled with foamed bacon-grease (topped with shaved-beeswax curls), or a dollop of aerated whiskey-whip cream squirted from a vintage seltzer bottle onto a pewter teething spoon. I opt for the latter, but you may choose differently. The party in the lobby this evening is a gathering of East Chesterburg’s boho-riche supraclass, and won’t end until the bruise of dawn stretches across the surrounding plains like milk spilled on a granite countertop. Like me, you’ll be too tempted to join in the festivities, but you’ll resist.
Finally ensconced in my cozy room, I curl up under a yak skin throw rug emblazoned with custom-beaded Walt Whitman quotes, choose a magazine from a stack of vintage erotica stocked in each room, and watch the Sonny Liston/Cassius Clay fight playing in a continuous loop on a mid-century black-and-white television with no off button. I sleep like a baby, reminded only periodically that the DeLouche is built above the central distribution hub of East Chesterburg’s main post office, right next door to the All-Night Metalsmithing Collective and the Acme Bakery Supply Company. An old-school vending machine in the lobby offers noise-cancelling headphones for rent.
Sad Farewells and Fond Memories
Next day, I arise early and soon have my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of craft-roasted, artisan-brewed coffee at Caffe Assange, the dawn watering hole for East Chesterburg’s burgeoning community of life-style oriented creatives. We’re seated at a communal table sharing a bowl of deep-fried challah balls dusted with confectioner's sugar and porchetta crumbles (the café’s signature petite appétit dejeuner du jour), engaged in a lively debate about vegan cheeses, when founder and gastro-preneur Garth Feybart, announces that the café will be closing at noon—not just for the day, but forever. We gnash our teeth and trade email addresses with our fellow diners, vowing to meet again in other cities. When you visit East Chesterburg, you will be disappointed to find that Caffe Assange has already been replaced with something not quite as cool.
Too soon it is time for my visit to everybody’s new favorite city to come to a close. My cabbie, Herb “Toots” Thimpkin, bleets his horn to signal that I must take my bow. While all the world may be a stage, it is time for the curtain to fall on this play, and it does so with little drama. I’m not ashamed to report that I feel a tug of emotion as I say goodbye to the City that Rarely Dozes. As he drops me at the train station, Toots sums up my experience in a quietly reflective manner: "East Chesterburg revolves around things in ways we don’t understand. We throw our doors open and hope for the best. At heart, we’re just local people trying to be responsible and caring. You might want to bend at the knees when you lift that bag.”
NEXT STOP: West Chesterburg
Editor's Notes:
1) East Chesterburg is not a real town, nor is it meant to stand in for Portland, Oregon.
2) Astute readers and transcontinental pilots will note that the photograph at the top of this post is actually Lincoln, Nebraska.
3) The line about "colorful koi finning under the Moon Bridge," is directly plagiarized from the National Geographic article, where it was used in a description of Portland's Lan Su Garden. We apologize.
4) Some Portland natives do carry umbrellas. Travel writers who say otherwise are perpetuating a canard.
5) A canard is also a duck.
Long Time No See.
Erstwhile friend and prolific blogger, Miss Laura of Art Scatter fame (that's not her in the picture), has chided and inveigled, nagged and cajoled about this site's lack of ...dismal record of...paucity of... that we haven't been posting anything lately.
"But blogging is so 2009!" I scream in response. "Twitter is the medium of the moment for cutting-edge provocateurs such as me. If it can't be said in 140 characters or less, you're saying too much."
But she's right. More than three months have passed without a peep out of me. So get off my back already. Here's something new:
November is National Novel Writing Month (popularly referred to as “NaNoWriMo”). If you’re so inclined, you can join thousands of other writers hellbent on cranking out at least 50,000 words over the span of thirty days. That works out to an average of 1,667 words per day...assuming you start on November 1st, which many diehards do at the stroke of midnight. If you procrastinate for the first ten days, you will have to average 2,500 words daily. So what's an extra 800+ words? On the other hand, if you wait until November 29th, you'll have to do 25,000 a day. Good luck with that.
Here’s what I’ve written so far:
CHAPTER 1
Marlowe Teablick entered the bookstore with a purposeful stride. An electronic chime sounded and the clerk looked up at him. Marlowe walked to the counter without stopping to browse at the display tables. He was full of purpose.
“Can I help you find something?” the clerk asked.
“I’m looking for something to read. What do you suggest?”
“Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Fiction. I’m planning to write a novel and I need inspiration,” explained Marlowe.
“Jonathan Franzen’s new novel is quite popular. Oprah endorsed it.” The clerk handed him a copy. “This one is autographed.”
Marlowe read the back cover and flipped through the book quickly. “These chapters are too long,” he said, handing the book back to the clerk. “I like short chapters so I can reach a stopping place when I get sleepy.”
“I understand,” said the clerk. “Perhaps you would enjoy a thriller.”
“That sounds good,” Marlowe answered. “I liked that DaVinci Code book and how Dan Brown ended each chapter with a cliffhanger. It made me want to keep reading.”
“Then I think you’ll really like this!” shouted the clerk as he pulled out a gleaming, 9mm Glock 17 and pointed it at Marlowe's head.
CHAPTER 2
Marlowe woke up in a bathtub full of ice...
“Can I help you find something?” the clerk asked.
“I’m looking for something to read. What do you suggest?”
“Fiction or non-fiction?”
“Fiction. I’m planning to write a novel and I need inspiration,” explained Marlowe.
“Jonathan Franzen’s new novel is quite popular. Oprah endorsed it.” The clerk handed him a copy. “This one is autographed.”
Marlowe read the back cover and flipped through the book quickly. “These chapters are too long,” he said, handing the book back to the clerk. “I like short chapters so I can reach a stopping place when I get sleepy.”
“I understand,” said the clerk. “Perhaps you would enjoy a thriller.”
“That sounds good,” Marlowe answered. “I liked that DaVinci Code book and how Dan Brown ended each chapter with a cliffhanger. It made me want to keep reading.”
“Then I think you’ll really like this!” shouted the clerk as he pulled out a gleaming, 9mm Glock 17 and pointed it at Marlowe's head.
CHAPTER 2
Marlowe woke up in a bathtub full of ice...
Now, if you'll excuse me, I better get busy with the rest of it.
Notes:
1) You will find me on Twitter: @mightytoycannon
2) The second photo isn't Miss Laura either.
Notes on a Protest Song.
The other day, I was directed to a ridiculous song protesting the proposed mosque near Ground Zero. The song is so over-the-top, I wondered if it was a parody written by the creators of South Park and "Team America." No, it was written by musician, songwriter and producer, Trade Martin, who has lots of real credits to his name, including a Grammy for producing albums for BB King. You can watch it here, then read my open letter to Mr. Martin.
An Open Letter to Trade Martin,
Dear Mr. Martin:
I watched a video of your song, WE'VE GOT TO STOP THE MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO. It made me laugh, but I don’t think that was your goal. It also reminded that there are bigots like you in the world. But let’s set aside your jingoistic politics for a moment and talk about songwriting.
You open with these lines:
We’ve got freedom of religion, I understand,
But Ground Zero is one location where a mosque shouldn’t stand.
(1) The phrase “I understand” is both weak and misleading. Right away we know that a “but” is coming. What you’re saying is, “I accept that some of you care about freedom of religion, but too bad.” I don’t think you really understand anything about it at all. Be bold, Trade. Say what you mean. Like this:
Your freedom of religion is getting’ in my way.
A Mosque at Ground Zero will totally ruin my day.
(2) In my book, rhyming “understand” with “stand” is cheating. If you’re locked into “I understand,” perhaps the second line can read, “A mosque at Ground Zero is something that should be banned.” (Better yet: “shit canned”).
(3) The phrase “but Ground Zero is one location” is awkward. You’ve twisted the sentence around just to get the right number of beats and a rhyme at the end. Keep it simple: “A mosque shouldn’t stand at Ground Zero.” I suggest "hero" as the rhyme for "zero."
Enough of that couplet. Let’s look at some more lines from your song:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred place and that’s a cold hard fact.
(1) Did you forget that non-Americans died in the attack too? That may not be important to you.
(2) You do realize that “attack” and “fact” don’t rhyme, right? I’m sensing a pattern here. I suggest you try a little harder.
(3) “Cold hard fact” is a cliché. I suspect that you have a weakness for clichés.
We can fix both of those problems with a few changes. May I suggest the following?
Thousands of innocents were viciously attacked.
Now it’s time for all of us to fight the bastards back.
Did you like the addition of “viciously” and “bastards.” I thought you would. By the way, if you ever decide to protest street vendors selling hot dogs near Ground Zero, you could use this:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred location, not a place to get a snack.
Moving on, let’s look at another set of lines:
It’s a painful memory in our minds.
Our hearts keep breaking when we envision that tragic time.
(1) Is it necessary to give our painful memories a location? Where else would our memories be, if not in our minds? Oh. Muscle memory. Never mind.
(2) I hate to be a broken record, but rhyming “minds” with “time” is a stretch. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going to win on this point.
(3) Kudos for having the listener “envision” that terrible time. So much classier than just remembering it or thinking about it.
Moving on:
God help us retain the honor and trust,
For all the families that have suffered so damn much.
(1) I said I’d stop complaining about the weak rhymes, but “trust” and “much”? You can do better, Trade.
(2) Your church-going listeners might be troubled by “damn much” showing up so close to families, especially suffering families. Watch the salty language.
(3) A few alternatives to consider:
God help us retain the honor and trust
As we go out and find some heads to bust.
God help us retain the trust and honor
Of all of those Americans who are now goners.
God help us, the trust and honor to retain
For all the families who’ve got suffering in their brains.
(That last one might need some tweaking).
Final section, then I’ll let you get back to your songwriting:
If we let them build it, can’t you see,
They’ll turn 9/11 into a mockery.
(1) Moving the “can’t you see” to the end of the line is an old songwriting trick to get to the easy rhyme, but it sounds unnatural. It’s like saying, “I love you so much, don’t you know?” Or “You are my sweetheart, I do declare.”
(2) Bravo on rhyming “can’t you see” with “mockery.” You might get the hang of this yet.
(3) I might have gone with something like this:
Can’t you see, we can’t let them build it.
'Cause there’s hole at Ground Zero and we haven’t yet filled it.
One last thing: After the song ends and the credits show, we hear a recording of George W. Bush shouting in the megaphone with his infamous taunt, “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you.”
The video editor repeats the final “hears you” over and over until it starts to sound like Bush is saying “air Jew, air Jew, air Jew.” Is there a hidden message there?
An Open Letter to Trade Martin,
Dear Mr. Martin:
I watched a video of your song, WE'VE GOT TO STOP THE MOSQUE AT GROUND ZERO. It made me laugh, but I don’t think that was your goal. It also reminded that there are bigots like you in the world. But let’s set aside your jingoistic politics for a moment and talk about songwriting.
You open with these lines:
We’ve got freedom of religion, I understand,
But Ground Zero is one location where a mosque shouldn’t stand.
(1) The phrase “I understand” is both weak and misleading. Right away we know that a “but” is coming. What you’re saying is, “I accept that some of you care about freedom of religion, but too bad.” I don’t think you really understand anything about it at all. Be bold, Trade. Say what you mean. Like this:
Your freedom of religion is getting’ in my way.
A Mosque at Ground Zero will totally ruin my day.
(2) In my book, rhyming “understand” with “stand” is cheating. If you’re locked into “I understand,” perhaps the second line can read, “A mosque at Ground Zero is something that should be banned.” (Better yet: “shit canned”).
(3) The phrase “but Ground Zero is one location” is awkward. You’ve twisted the sentence around just to get the right number of beats and a rhyme at the end. Keep it simple: “A mosque shouldn’t stand at Ground Zero.” I suggest "hero" as the rhyme for "zero."
Enough of that couplet. Let’s look at some more lines from your song:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred place and that’s a cold hard fact.
(1) Did you forget that non-Americans died in the attack too? That may not be important to you.
(2) You do realize that “attack” and “fact” don’t rhyme, right? I’m sensing a pattern here. I suggest you try a little harder.
(3) “Cold hard fact” is a cliché. I suspect that you have a weakness for clichés.
We can fix both of those problems with a few changes. May I suggest the following?
Thousands of innocents were viciously attacked.
Now it’s time for all of us to fight the bastards back.
Did you like the addition of “viciously” and “bastards.” I thought you would. By the way, if you ever decide to protest street vendors selling hot dogs near Ground Zero, you could use this:
Thousands of Americans died in the attack.
It’s a sacred location, not a place to get a snack.
Moving on, let’s look at another set of lines:
It’s a painful memory in our minds.
Our hearts keep breaking when we envision that tragic time.
(1) Is it necessary to give our painful memories a location? Where else would our memories be, if not in our minds? Oh. Muscle memory. Never mind.
(2) I hate to be a broken record, but rhyming “minds” with “time” is a stretch. Forget it. I give up. I’m not going to win on this point.
(3) Kudos for having the listener “envision” that terrible time. So much classier than just remembering it or thinking about it.
Moving on:
God help us retain the honor and trust,
For all the families that have suffered so damn much.
(1) I said I’d stop complaining about the weak rhymes, but “trust” and “much”? You can do better, Trade.
(2) Your church-going listeners might be troubled by “damn much” showing up so close to families, especially suffering families. Watch the salty language.
(3) A few alternatives to consider:
God help us retain the honor and trust
As we go out and find some heads to bust.
God help us retain the trust and honor
Of all of those Americans who are now goners.
God help us, the trust and honor to retain
For all the families who’ve got suffering in their brains.
(That last one might need some tweaking).
Final section, then I’ll let you get back to your songwriting:
If we let them build it, can’t you see,
They’ll turn 9/11 into a mockery.
(1) Moving the “can’t you see” to the end of the line is an old songwriting trick to get to the easy rhyme, but it sounds unnatural. It’s like saying, “I love you so much, don’t you know?” Or “You are my sweetheart, I do declare.”
(2) Bravo on rhyming “can’t you see” with “mockery.” You might get the hang of this yet.
(3) I might have gone with something like this:
Can’t you see, we can’t let them build it.
'Cause there’s hole at Ground Zero and we haven’t yet filled it.
One last thing: After the song ends and the credits show, we hear a recording of George W. Bush shouting in the megaphone with his infamous taunt, “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you.”
The video editor repeats the final “hears you” over and over until it starts to sound like Bush is saying “air Jew, air Jew, air Jew.” Is there a hidden message there?
For God's Sake! Let's talk about arts education.
Two things I try to avoid in my blog posts:1) Serious stuff.
2) God stuff.
Allow me to deviate briefly from this policy.
In the latest edition of her weekly e-mail message, the Executive Director of the Theatre Communications Group, Teresa Eyring, raised questions about President Obama’s educational reform programs, noting growing concern about the Administration’s narrow focus on math, science, testing and accountability.
Ms. Eyring’s post included a link to a letter that the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA sent to the President. (The group claims to represent 36 Christian communions with a combined membership of 45 million persons in more than 100,000 congregations across the nation; i.e., a lot of Christians).
The letter began by stating the group's common conviction “that the church is called to speak for justice in public education.” It went on to affirm “that our society’s provision of public education—publicly funded, universally available, and accountable to the public—while imperfect, is essential for ensuring that all children are served.”
Despite the prevailing theological tone, these folks make damned good sense. God bless 'em. You can read the entire letter if you want, or you can save time by letting me excerpt the important sections. The first statement is what caught my attention and had me saying, "Yeah! Right on!"
We reject the language of business for discussing public education.
Not only has the language of the marketplace entered discussions of school governance and management, but we also notice that the language of business accountability is used to talk about education, a human endeavor of caring...We worry that our society has come to view what is good as what can be measured and compared... The relentless focus on testing basic skills has diminished our attention to the humanities, the social studies, the arts, and child and adolescent development.
We value public school educators.
Our biblical heritage and our theology teach us that we live in community, not solely in the marketplace. As we strive to move our imperfect world closer to the realm of God, we recognize that we are all responsible for making sure that public schools, as primary civic institutions, embody our love for one another. We are called to create institutions that serve families and children with hospitality. We are called to work as citizens for the resources that will support a climate of trust and community within each public school. We are also called to value those whose vocation is teaching... Wholesale scapegoating of public school teachers is an ugly and unfortunate development in federal policy.
Full Disclosure: I am the product of the public education system. I am also the product of parents who were educators in public schools. Also, my grandmother was an educator. My sister too. Oh, friends as well.
Independence Day Reloaded (And Recycled)
One year ago, Sarah Palin quit her post as Governor of Alaska. Her inane resignation speech inspired me to adopt her voice in a rewrite of the Declaration of Independence. I republish the results here for your holiday amusement:Don’t you know that sometimes we the people have got to do what we got to do. We can't keep playing the politics as usual game by stickin’ with each other just because that's the way the big powers want it to be. Sometimes you have to strike out on your own, listening to your heart and praying for guidance.
But, yes, you need to explain to the people so they understand why you’re doing that and all. Though--this is funny--my mother has a sign in her scullery that says, "Don’t bother explaining yourself. Your friends don’t need it, and King George won’t listen!" Now that's what I call a self-evident truth! {wink}
Anyhoo, here’s what I’m thinking and being guided by the good Lord to say. First thing: Everybody, even the little guy from a real town or farm is just as equal as a big-time Philadelphian or Londoner. Even Bartholomew the Ironmonger has got to have rights like Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. And Energy! People have a right to energy independence too.
To hold on to these rights as tightly as I'm holding my beautiful son Trig, you sometimes have to let government take care of things. But that doesn’t mean you have to accept politics as usual. And you need the people that you’re governing to agree to that and all. Because that's what this is really about. The people. And that’s not government interference they want! No sir.
But, you know -- and I want to say this straight to my fellow colonists and not have it filtered by the towncrier and those broadside printers. (And Lord knows that Benjamin Franklin guy with his sayings and his 'gotcha games'). So let it be said, when government gets big and corrupt, sometimes you need to pass the ball and play a different kind of game by standing up. I choose to stand up. I'm not wired to sit down and hit my head against the wall.
Life is too short to plod along and listen to the people who say, "Just quiet down and pay your excise taxes" or tell you to just "go with the flow." Nah, only dead fish go with the flow. I choose to fight. I fight for you so we can build up! National security and small government. Saying no to the big interests and standing up for freedom and our troops. We need to support our troops and all that they have ultimately sacrificed with their blood. We need to say "No more tyranny!" to King George so we can progress this nation along the path that Jesus wants us to progress it on.
Thomas Jefferson wrote a few things about this same thing and is doing that politics thing of getting other powerful interests to sign it. You just know, don't you, that he's going to use that fancy way of talking like they do in Virginia. That kind of talk is all just words and everything. I wanted to tell you straight, without all the sugar coating and the “whereas” and “wherefores” which get in the way of telling you what people need to hear.
So there, I’ve said it. Some of you will question the timing of my declaration. Sure, I could have waited until summer was over, but jiminy-cricket, it’s the Fourth of July people! This is the day God intended us to declare our independence. So now Todd and my wonderful family are going to roast some meats and put on a Chinese gunpowder display. Thank you.
Bang! Boom! Bang!
The Fourth of July will be here in five days. That means it's time time for fireworks to start erupting prematurely. I imagine this conversation has already started:
"Dude! I just drove to Vancouver and spent $200 on fireworks!"
"Cool. I can't wait until the Fourth of July is here."
"Me neither. I suppose we could light off a few tonight."
"Righteous! Let's do it!"
"I mean after it's dark and everything."
"That's cool. I can wait until dark."
"Well, just a few right now wouldn't hurt. I got plenty. Maybe just the loud ones. I'm gonna save the sparkly ones for nighttime."
"All right! Got a lighter?"
"Yeah. Hand me a beer first."
Today's Oregonian was graced by a full page ad for fireworks placed by an outfit named "The Bomber Brothers."
At the top of the ad is this warning:
"Dude! I just drove to Vancouver and spent $200 on fireworks!"
"Cool. I can't wait until the Fourth of July is here."
"Me neither. I suppose we could light off a few tonight."
"Righteous! Let's do it!"
"I mean after it's dark and everything."
"That's cool. I can wait until dark."
"Well, just a few right now wouldn't hurt. I got plenty. Maybe just the loud ones. I'm gonna save the sparkly ones for nighttime."
"All right! Got a lighter?"
"Yeah. Hand me a beer first."
Today's Oregonian was graced by a full page ad for fireworks placed by an outfit named "The Bomber Brothers."
At the top of the ad is this warning:
Products in this ad are for sale and use in Washington only."
In the middle of the ad is this reminder:
No July 5th sales this year. Don't forget to stock up!
Let that be a warning to you.
In honor of Independence Day, I’ve taken the liberty (get it?) of categorizing the various product names from this morning’s ad. I only made up one of them.
JINGOISTIC:
American Rhythm
American Intensity
The Whole Empire
Wave with Pride
SOCIOPATHIC:
Fear No Evil
Utter Chaos
Loyal to None
Gangster
MENTAL HEALTH RELATED:
Mr. Happy
Crazy Excited on Steroids
Hopped Up
Cuckoo
Impossible Dream
NATURE RELATED:
Lady Bugs
Small Bees
Killer Bees
Yellow Jackets
Green Hornets
Ground Bloom Flowers
Magic Crystal
MILITARY THEMED:
Attack Vehicle
Black Hawk Helicopter
Victory Celebration
Parachute Battalion
Secret Weapon
Buzz Bomb
FONT RELATED
Arial (sic) Assault
DESCRIPTIVE (in order of intensity):
Flicker
Kaleidoscope
Pop Goes the Fountain
Fireworks Fiesta
Fast & Furious
Big Finish
One Bad Mother
One Bad Mother-in-Law
Holy @%&$, It’s LOUD!
IMPRESSIONISTIC:
Blue Stars
Desert at Night
Garden in Spring
Rouen Cathedral, Symphony in Grey and Rose
Aborted Blog Posts: Edition #1
This long-form blogging is hard compared to the wham-bam world of Twitter with its 140 character constraints. It's easy to start a blog post. Finishing one is a different colored horse.
As I've been cleaning out my cluttered computer recently, I've been finding document files with cryptic titles. Upon opening some, I've rediscovered the beginnings of blog posts that I never finished. Ideas that never cohered. Writing prompts that prompted nothing. Drafts that eventually bored me. I have decided to post some of these without further editing or explanation. Here's the first one:
I probably started than on my last birthday. I don't remember where I planned to go with it. I suspect that I was sidetracked while looking for a YouTube clip of Walter Brennan, like this one from the fabulous Howard Hawks film "To Have and Have Not" starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall:
Or maybe this fun compilation from "Rio Bravo" with John Wayne:
As I've been cleaning out my cluttered computer recently, I've been finding document files with cryptic titles. Upon opening some, I've rediscovered the beginnings of blog posts that I never finished. Ideas that never cohered. Writing prompts that prompted nothing. Drafts that eventually bored me. I have decided to post some of these without further editing or explanation. Here's the first one:
Despite an outward air of youthful sprightliness, and discounting the elan with which I embrace modern ways, I’m getting old. I’m reminded of this fact when I lumber down the stairs in the morning in a cruel parody of Walter Brennan. The reference to Walter Brennan confirms my condition.
I probably started than on my last birthday. I don't remember where I planned to go with it. I suspect that I was sidetracked while looking for a YouTube clip of Walter Brennan, like this one from the fabulous Howard Hawks film "To Have and Have Not" starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall:
Or maybe this fun compilation from "Rio Bravo" with John Wayne:
The Oregon Telephone Herald Co.-- It's Information, Inspiration and Amusement
Recent research indicates that the proliferation of cell phone signals may be causing bee populations to dwindle (also known as “Colony Collapse Disorder”).What? Man-made activity wreaking environmental havoc? In this modern age of technological wonder and universal high-mindedness? I don't want to believe it.
Is a dying bee colony the new version of the canary in the coal mine? Could our modern communication demands be creating unintended consequences?
This could be a serious problem:
No Bees = No Pollination = No Food = We All Die.
Okay, so that would be bad. But wouldn’t it be worse if we couldn’t use our cell phones and wireless connections to tell each other how we’re feeling about it?
We’ve grown accustomed to technology connecting us with our world by providing a fat pipeline of information, entertainment and, increasingly, social interaction. But at what cost?
Two years ago, in an article in The Atlantic titled, "Is Google Making Us Stupid," Nicholas Carr questioned whether the internet was not only changing our habits, but actually rewiring our brains. He starts the story this way:
Over the past few years I’ve had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain, remapping the neural circuitry, reprogramming the memory. My mind isn’t going—so far as I can tell—but it’s changing. I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle.
Full disclosure: I didn't read the whole article because it was in The Atlantic and I just don't have that kind of attention span.
Carr expands on the article in a newly published book, "The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to our Brains." In his review of Carr's book for the New York Times, Jonah Lehrer put our anxiety about techonology into historical context:
Socrates started what may have been the first technology scare. In the 'Phaedrus,' he lamented the invention of books, which 'create forgetfulness' in the soul. Instead of remembering for themselves, Socrates warned, new readers were blindly trusting in 'external written characters.' The library was ruining the mind."
Which brings me to what I really wanted to do with this blog post. Several months ago, while surfing the interwebs, serendipity led me to a fascinating bit of Portland history involving early forms of media and communication.
Nearly a century ago, the Oregon Telephone Herald Company sought to deliver news and entertainment to subscribers via dedicated telephone lines. The advertisements promised to deliver, “Music, Songs, Parts of Play from Theatres, and our own special artists every Evening from 6 to 12 P.M., also the World’s and local news as it happens 8 A.M. to Midnight.”
“Demonstration parlors,” at which prospective subscribers could listen to transmissions, were set up in Portland, including one at the Hotel Multnomah and another in the 7th floor restroom at Meier & Frank, of all places.
The first practical system of telephone-based news and entertainment had been established in Budapest, Hungary in the 1893. Two years later, an article in Harper’s Weekly was critical, arguing that the city, “must be the finest place for illiterate, blind, bedridden, and incurably lazy people in the world. It would not appear, however, that a telephone newspaper is of value as time-saving device, or that it is any less devastating to the faculties than a modern journal which distributes its news in the ordinary way.”
A story titled, "The Pleasure Telephone," in the September 1898 issue of The Strand painted a rosier picture: “It will make millions merry who have never been merry before, and will democratize, if we may so write, many of the social luxuries of the rich. Those who object to the environment of the stage will be able to enjoy the theatre at home, and the fashionable concert will be looked forward to as eagerly by the poor as by their wealthy neighbours. The humblest cottage will be in immediate contact with the city, and the ‘private wire’ will make all classes kin."
(My favorite line: "Those who object to the environment of the stage will be able to enjoy the theatre at home...").
The entrepreneurs who tried to bring this new form of media to Portland failed. That failure could be blamed on technological limitations; amplifiers to boost the signal high enough to transmit by wire over distances had not been invented yet. Perhaps they were simply unable to bring the idea "to scale" with enough subscribers to cover the costs of building the infrastructure needed. A decade or so later, radios were in common use and the mega-media moguls were beginning to lick their lips and rub their hands together rapaciously.
Here we are, just a century later, tucking magical, miniature marvels of mass media into our pockets so we can be in touch at every possible moment. What's next?
Hat Tip to: earlyradiohistory.us for the background and advertisements for the Oregon Telephone Herald Co.
Make is Now
Spotted this morning taped to light poles in downtown Portland:
Dear Portland,
Thank you for saving the Made in Oregon sign. We heard you want to put your name on it. Before you do, consider an option that changes only one letter.
Make in Oregon.
Oregon is for makers. From food and beverages to bikes and clothing to art and music, Oregon makes. Oregon makes wool and cheese and berries and memories.
The sign should be a symbol of who we are, not just where we are. By changing its tense, we put Portland in the present while highlighting Oregon as the state that makes things.
Made is past. Make is now.
makeinoregon.com
This is how it might look:
Whaddya think? Is it better than the hideous neon rose that Commissioner Randy Leonard insisted be planted on top of the Oregon Visitor Center on the Waterfront?
I stole that photo from the Portland Mercury, but they won't care because they like all the attention.
Dear Portland,
Thank you for saving the Made in Oregon sign. We heard you want to put your name on it. Before you do, consider an option that changes only one letter.
Make in Oregon.
Oregon is for makers. From food and beverages to bikes and clothing to art and music, Oregon makes. Oregon makes wool and cheese and berries and memories.
The sign should be a symbol of who we are, not just where we are. By changing its tense, we put Portland in the present while highlighting Oregon as the state that makes things.
Made is past. Make is now.
makeinoregon.com
This is how it might look:
Whaddya think? Is it better than the hideous neon rose that Commissioner Randy Leonard insisted be planted on top of the Oregon Visitor Center on the Waterfront?
I stole that photo from the Portland Mercury, but they won't care because they like all the attention.
Bourbon Jockey: The Documentary Proof
Last week, I participated in a form of collaborative creative engagement that contributed to building cultural community. In lay terms: I played music with a band in a bar for beer.
My fellow music-makers and I (a.k.a. Bourbon Jockey) appeared at Roots Organic Brewing Company in Southeast Portland. We were the evening headliners, as evidenced by our name written prominently on the chalkboard by the door.
We had fun. We helped the establishment move some beer. The people who left when we started to play were planning to leave anyway, and good riddance to them. We kept the volume to a level that allowed amiable conversation by those who were willing to shout at each other. Friends, family and strangers mixed. No fights broke out.
In addition to myself (intrepid front man), Matthew Jones (on upright bass) and Alan Cole (on other guitar), we were accompanied by a young fellow we call “Conga Dave” on account of not knowing his full name. When we last played at Roots, Alan left the stage in the middle of a tune, announcing “I’m going to see if they have a conga drum somewhere.” He rooted around a storage closet and retrieved said drum, then called one of his Lewis & Clark students up on stage to join us. With that simple act, Bourbon Jockey acquired a drummer. We invited Conga Dave to play along last week, though we neglected to confirm whether the closet at Roots still contained a conga drum. It didn’t, so Dave improvised with a few buckets, a shaker and a tambourine played with his foot. In the parlance of musicologists, he employed idiophones rather than a membranophone, but we don't need to get technical about it.
I pulled some video from the bar's security cameras for the benefit and edification of fans who were too stove up to make it out on Thursday night.
1) This first one is a Tom Waits song from whence we derived our name: “Jockey Full of Bourbon.” Sorry about my massive cabeza filling the frame.
2) This next one captures the Bourbon Jockey spirit. While we were playing, we noticed a lone fellow in the corner playing along on a concertina. He was also dressed as a pirate. We coaxed him out front to join us in an impromptu rendition of the Hank Williams classic, “Jambalaya.”
3) A little blues and testifying, with our version of the T-Bone Walker tune, "Stormy Monday" in which I blow on a harmonica and yell.
4) You're still here? Well then here's our take on "Route 66."
If you're hankering for more (and who wouldn't be?) you can find a few more videos on YouTube. Search for "Bourbon Jockey Roots Brewing" to find them. Or not.
We'll be back sometime in June, so put a hold on your entire calendar for the month. I'll keep you posted.
My fellow music-makers and I (a.k.a. Bourbon Jockey) appeared at Roots Organic Brewing Company in Southeast Portland. We were the evening headliners, as evidenced by our name written prominently on the chalkboard by the door.
We had fun. We helped the establishment move some beer. The people who left when we started to play were planning to leave anyway, and good riddance to them. We kept the volume to a level that allowed amiable conversation by those who were willing to shout at each other. Friends, family and strangers mixed. No fights broke out.
In addition to myself (intrepid front man), Matthew Jones (on upright bass) and Alan Cole (on other guitar), we were accompanied by a young fellow we call “Conga Dave” on account of not knowing his full name. When we last played at Roots, Alan left the stage in the middle of a tune, announcing “I’m going to see if they have a conga drum somewhere.” He rooted around a storage closet and retrieved said drum, then called one of his Lewis & Clark students up on stage to join us. With that simple act, Bourbon Jockey acquired a drummer. We invited Conga Dave to play along last week, though we neglected to confirm whether the closet at Roots still contained a conga drum. It didn’t, so Dave improvised with a few buckets, a shaker and a tambourine played with his foot. In the parlance of musicologists, he employed idiophones rather than a membranophone, but we don't need to get technical about it.
I pulled some video from the bar's security cameras for the benefit and edification of fans who were too stove up to make it out on Thursday night.
1) This first one is a Tom Waits song from whence we derived our name: “Jockey Full of Bourbon.” Sorry about my massive cabeza filling the frame.
2) This next one captures the Bourbon Jockey spirit. While we were playing, we noticed a lone fellow in the corner playing along on a concertina. He was also dressed as a pirate. We coaxed him out front to join us in an impromptu rendition of the Hank Williams classic, “Jambalaya.”
3) A little blues and testifying, with our version of the T-Bone Walker tune, "Stormy Monday" in which I blow on a harmonica and yell.
4) You're still here? Well then here's our take on "Route 66."
If you're hankering for more (and who wouldn't be?) you can find a few more videos on YouTube. Search for "Bourbon Jockey Roots Brewing" to find them. Or not.
We'll be back sometime in June, so put a hold on your entire calendar for the month. I'll keep you posted.
Bourbon Jockey Live!
Did I mention that the amateur musical ensemble with which I make joyous music will be performing at Roots Organic Brewing Company on Thursday, May 20, 2010? You are invited to join the festivities anytime from 8:00 to 11:00 or so. This won't be a "concert," so don't worry about arriving on time, staying through the whole set, or even paying much attention to what we're doing. Consider our music to be a soundtrack to drinking beer and hanging out with friends.
We'll be wailing and caterwauling through an ever-growing list of songs from the Great American Honky Tonk Song Book. In honor of flooding and oil spills, we'll be singing tunes from Nashville and New Orleans. We'll cover everything from Hank Williams to Tom Waits, from Fats Domino to Fats Waller. We might even let you sing along. All are invited to become Bourbonites by joining our fan club, The Bourbon Dynasty. It'll be fun.
I usually don cowboy boots and hat for these gigs, but I'm thinking of showing up in this getup:
We'll be wailing and caterwauling through an ever-growing list of songs from the Great American Honky Tonk Song Book. In honor of flooding and oil spills, we'll be singing tunes from Nashville and New Orleans. We'll cover everything from Hank Williams to Tom Waits, from Fats Domino to Fats Waller. We might even let you sing along. All are invited to become Bourbonites by joining our fan club, The Bourbon Dynasty. It'll be fun.
I usually don cowboy boots and hat for these gigs, but I'm thinking of showing up in this getup:
In case you can't read the small print, here's the oh-so-sexy ad copy:
One easy piece.
Because one is enough, when it’s you. Show where you’re headed in the ultimate fashion climax.
Fits so tight it shows all you’ve got …you’re a walking turn-on. And treats your body as well as she does.
Easy on, easy off, quick as a flick of her tongue. Sexy cool crinkle cloth for those hot nights to come. Designed with your desires in mind …she’ll eat you alive in it.
The Big Zip in 50% polyester/50% cotton. Long-sleeved in rust, blue or black. Short-sleeved in natural, blue or camel.
Are you man enough to fill it?
$45
Of Your Assistance I Implore
Dearest fellow,
I humbly seek your most urgent attention for a matter of most import. To my attention has come news that a musical group of note by which is known as “Bourbon Jockey” will be performing at your city at the soonest Thursday night from this date. It has been my dream of my lifetime to enjoy such musical pleasure in the city of Portland Orgon.
My late-uncle, who was most fortunate to be Minister of Foreign Culture in the nation of Nigeria before his recent death, wished me to have this absurd pleasure. Having wished that for me and to assure such would take place, he placed a sum of $3,000,000 million US dollars in a secret account. This sum to be used to travel me to listen to your Bourbon Jockey, of which I am biggest fan, on May 20, 2010 at Roots Organic Brewing Company.
Having demised unfortunately of an accident, my uncle failed to leave instructions regarding the sending of this money to my account for the purpose of hearing Bourbon Jockey. My remaining relatives which are of evil intention have made to block me from my due right to this sum. More so, I am locked in a closet and prevented from all person contact except by the internets.
Of favor to me and in interest of your enjoyment of fine music, I am implore you to visit the Bourbon Jockey performance on May 20, 2010. It is of my knowledge that Bourbon Jockey makes western music of roots variety for the enjoyment of the people and the drinking of the beer.
I ask of your assistance to please attend this most important event for to write to me describing its wonders after its completion. This way I will have enjoyment too. Also, it would be of true assistance to also send me your bank account number and all codes which are necessary for making it of access to me.
For learning more, one may read of the famous Bourbon Jockey in this writing of blog from many months ago.
For learning more, one may read of the famous Bourbon Jockey in this writing of blog from many months ago.
Sincerely and with honest hope,
Mrs. Martha Kwesi Ubunde
WHO: BOURBON JOCKEY featuring Mighty Toy Cannon
WHEN: Thursday, May 20, 2010. From 8:00-ish to Whenever-ish
WHERE: Roots Organic Brewing Co., 1530 SE 7th, Portland OR
HOW: By the plucking of stringed instruments, vocalization and blowing of reeds.
WHY: Why not? You know you want to.
WHO, EXACTLY, IS BOURBON JOCKEY?
Ross McKeen (aka Mighty Toy Cannon): Vocal, Guitar, Harmonica
Matthew Jones (aka Mr. Jones): Bass
Alan Jones (aka The Perfesser): Guitar and harmony vocals
+ Mystery Guest Percussionist known only as Conga Dave
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