I’m gonna needa huge-r pillow. (Thatsa lying from “So I married an Ax Murderer” — Mike Myers, anybody?) I called my/our son a coupla/three weaks back and when he answered (uh, a later Thursday afternoon) I right away asked “is … Continue reading
Tag Archives: Cavalcade Fruita
THE END OF TIME WILL BE MARKED BY ACTS OF UNFATHOMABLE COMPASSION
(original post title): no diss intended, but the thrill is gone … we’ll get to that.
Below: Venus & the Moon. Not too long ago.
The End of Time? hey! I needed a good post title, which I’ll try to bend and tweak and twist to make this latest chapter in the history of the Man Without a History … contiguous with the heading. (Yeah … right.)
Where did that (the title) come from?
— I used to read. A lot more than these past few years. And … not only did I read Brothers Karamazov (and many other ponderous tomes) I also read lots of light-weight tomes. Almost everything by Kurt Vonnegut. And, one of the two books by Mr. V’s son, Mark.
In The Eden Express (an autobiographical chronicle of his experiences with schizophrenia) Mark describes an imagined (hallucinated) conversation with Dad. They banter over the silliness, the un-profoundness of Kurt’s works, and Kurt suggests that Mark open the book he’s reading (Bros K-mazov) to any page, and read just any sentence. Mark holds the Dostoyevsky by the cover, the book flips open, a sentence part-way down an exposed page stands out. Hence the title of this essay. I don’t remember it from Bros K but have always remembered it from The Eden Express. I used that sentence, and attributed it (erroneously, though I didn’t know it at the time) to Dostoyevsky, as the introduction to a short story I wrote, Respite.
A few years ago, shortly after I penned Respite, I received an email from someone researching Kurt Vonnegut. The “someone” was, I think, writing a paper which tried to make a connection between KV and Dostoyevsky. After a few email exchanges, the other party and I concluded that the sentence was not in B K, and somehow materialized (“of it’s own accord”) in Mark V’s book. My co-correspondent may have been Donald M. Fiene. But then again, probably not. He (or whoever (s)he was) approached me initially due to a ‘hit’ from an internet-search for that phrase.
Every year, not only do Betty and I engage in playing music, we go to see other musicians. This (so far) hasn’t been much of an active year in regards listening to others — friends and acquaintances (and ourselves) at a club in Fruita (Colorado) — the Cavalcade (or Cavalcade Fruita); Big Head Todd & the Monsters; Poke Squid; the Grand Junction Symphony Orchestra; the Indigo Girls; and B B King.
The Girls were the bestest tightest intertwined interesting music we heard (so far) in 2014. BB King was not.
As a fellow hockey enthusiast also in attendance at the local BB King ‘concert’ summarized: “the thrill IS gone.”
This is not to say BB King is a (still, barely) living legend, but he should have retired already. Last year. Probably before that. On the one hand, if we had an opportunity for tickets to “meet and greet” Mr. King, with or without the guise or proximity of any music, that’d be one thing. But for an event to be billed as a musical performance? That, in my humble opinion, was mostly untrue.
I conducted an internet search of recent reviews and discussions of BB King concerts, and contributed to one:
having seen BBK in Grand Junxion (Aug 18) i agree with all the negative reviews, and stopped to let the positives affect me too. yeah, you’re right: not too many blues legends are “still alive” — but on the other hand it was like a hall full of people there to merely meet&greet. i left early because i did not want to be there when he keeled over and died, which seemed more than remotely possible, particularly when he almost strangled himself trying to get the guitar strap over his head.
There were people present of the same opinion as myself, but also many of which were apparently the hazy-eyed “blues afficionadoes” who shouted WE LUV YEW and applauded everything and maybe this particular evening was the (never-ending) zenith of their existence. you know, objectivity is probably over-rated. anyhow, a friend of mine had a 4-word summary: the thrill is gone. my summary: the emperor has no clothes.
he should have retired long before this, and according to prior reviews, maybe 10+ years ago. yes, it was “cute” seeing him bask in attention and beam and be charismatic, but we weren’t there for “cute”, were we? The charisma was un-mistakable but most of us thought we were going to A CONCERT! not so.
BB should show up first thing in the show, talk (hopefully less than a 15 minute banter), introduce the band, leave, and let them rip!
and what certainly didn’t help at this occasion was a somewhat surly lout in a baseball cap outside the doors to the venue. People were not exactly leaving in droves, but the early departures were increasing in frequency. Betty and I were at the top of the stairs heading down to the parking lot. This fellow was inquiring loudly to anyone nearby “what did you think? why are you leaving? Didn’t you enjoy the show?”
I knew better than to talk with him, but Betty apparently thought he wanted to engage in reasoned discourse. We can only presume that he was a “roadie”, someone employed by the band, and not at all capable of objectivity and lacking in P R skills as well. Trying to talk with such a person does nothing to undo whatever tarnish the evening’s experience already had. I can only hope that if he is, indeed, affiliated with “the outfit,” they either let him go or give him a good talking to.
I mean and meant no “diss” to a living legend. Remember him as he was …
The forest-fire haze shroud over Mt. Garfield and the Bookcliffs, as seen from much higher up, Land’s End on the Grand Mesa — about a month ago.
While i/we’re on the subject of politikill un/in-corerectnous, i heard on the ray-dee-oh recently that NYC had more heroin overdose deaths last year than in several prior years. Which brings me to a solution to a problem …. We’ve also been subjected to several media accounts and hand-wringing about Executions by Lethal Injection gone awry this year. Wouldn’t you suppose that many (or most) police evidence and storage rooms have lots of heroin (and other fun stuff) seized from criminals? More than enough to over-dose a lot of people? Instead of trying to calculate just how much of whatever it is, and attempting precise combinations and mixtures of the former not-too-reliable killing potion — why not just a big old whallop of heroin?
Below, the view to the west across the northwest rim of The Mesa, with
and without a dog in the foreground.
another potential death march run, this one in the mountain lion’s territory –>
there were two (‘death march runs’): one in an area which (many years ago) i had the only mtn-lyin-siting i’ve ever had. i ran a trail on the north side of the Uncompahgre Plateau, adjoining Unaweep Canyon, and with two dogs scoutin’ the trees as we ran/stumbled along, i thought about the big cat(s), and
A few weeks back I ran along north Fravert Rim. no, no mountain lyin’s, just millions of years of colorawdough river geologic history, peeled away beneath. Like many (most?) runners — it’s something we do: do the workout, but frequently go someplace where you can ponder whatcher runnin’ thru’. Geology, in this case. I could see across the Colorado River Valley, ten, a dozen miles perhaps, down to the ‘Wivver perhaps 600 or 700 feet below – many millions of years of cutting and swathing and bending and flooding and oxbows and back-and-forth, going ever deeper. Heck: a half-billion years or so, THIS will be THE Grand Canyawn.
Betty has a problem with the NO FIREWERX. “Let’s get lit up and RIDE”, she sez. We’re near Waterdog Reservoirs, the Grand Mesa.
and, stop reading now while you can, a poem …
when tedium might set up and entrench,
i still find time to be amazed.
Might? it does. the layer of overlying tedium over the AY-MAY’ZD thickens. but …
maybe i’ve seen it all before, but i don’t remember, and if that’s so, it still looks new.
the sun shines through a hole in what seems an impermeable wall of clouds, brightly illuminating just a patch of hillside to the west. there’s a cloud-bank within a cloud-bank of cumulus just over the horizon which has an off-white/grey/creamy color which at first is barely discernible from the rest but on a second look stands out.
what does that mean?
i do have to remember, that the body is separate from … the mind. the dharma. the continuum. if there really. is. a continuum. “it” (whuddever ‘it’ is) could itself be an illusion. it’s just now. continual now.
and thinkin’ about gittin’ older
oh yeah, that’s cheery, at my age, iddn’t it?
and the dawg pharts, a good solid full-bodied one, in answe(a)r.
we/i/you continue fillin’ in the spaces, between the
(Whining)The State of the Entropy
The State of the Entropy
or … the continuing Entropy of the State. And whining about it.
Whining? the usual: i complain, no-one listens, gettin’ more and more tired (whuddelse izz gnu?). In part due to THE HEAT. i don’t know about you, but when the temps hit 80, then 90 (today) i fade. doin’ the yard chores at a pace which varies between a zombie-shuffle to the occasional medium-shuffle.
i’ll spiffify this happy post with CAT PIXURES, and when Betty flew away two daze ago to be GrandMa in Portland, she lamented she might miss her flowers bloomin’. so the cat pixures will be interspersed with flower-pictures.
and a pict. of a kitten (well, heez a BIG kitten, small kitty now) with harmonicas.
seriously (really!) i had set the two instruments of destruxion out to photograff, and “kitten” decided he’d get in there, and
yeah, i “auditioned” tonite at a club in Fruita (check http://www.cavalcadefruita.com)
with the gist (or izzit speld “jist”?) of my plan of attack being
ROSCO BUTCHERS THE CLASSICS
and they said “you’re on” for the next monthly show.
and that’s not all …
Betty and our “old band” is also playin’ Cavalcade “talent”! and someone wants to re-start up the banned! our ‘musical life’ temporarily looks optimistic. don’t worry, it’ll pass …
the annual José Puede Ver? occurred last weekend, with Friday being one of my worst performances and Satyrday i ratcheted it up and think i performed ‘somewhat above average’. (“José Puede Ver” is what i call my annual playing of the National Anthem with blooz intro and some banter at the W. Colorado H.S. Track (& Field) Championships.)
betty’s complaints, my fault: her flight to Portland was delayed, twice. THAT was, somehow, my fault, for purchasing those particular plane tickets. and when she got there, her cell-phone wouldn’t work. That too, was my fault. ’til her daughter TURNED THE PHONE OFF, and when it turned on, the phone knew where it was and calls have been coming and going.
bein’ granMaw, with grandson, Eddie
Ah, the Whining: sometimes i think i ‘pen’ something which WerdPress might “take notice” of. profile. push to front and center (they call it “Fresh Pressed”). deafeningly not this!, but … i figgerd “tormented souls”?? — my previous post, which was the first serious not-totally-off-the-cuff post inna while. by that i mean i axually THOUGHT about it. edited it intensely. yeah, you probably can’t tell …
and, how about FICTION CATEGORY: they didn’t pick up ERIK/DYLAN snow cave camp? or Cry Kwakiutl? ? or Uggedda Buggetta??? Seminal short stories, people!
and Japhy ryder? — an intradimensional epic!
Perhaps WerdPress ought-a have ANOTHER, ‘renegade’ category, Pressedly-Frest, with the symbol being, oh, a bl(e)ak hole — or some weird outdoor demented rock sculpture, for categories hitherto unthinkable. un-label-able. just plain outside of definition.
You know, it somewhat recently SNOWED here, and now we’re in the 90-degree temps …
and T Pynchon (“Against when the sun is out”) (w)rang a chord recently:
Heading once more over the bridge, into the smoky orange sunset, he felt the sadness peculiar to the contemplation of recent time unrecapturable. Anything earlier, childhood, adolescence, they were done with, he could get by without any of that — what he wanted back was last week, the week before.
Hmmm… and i thought that was so significant when i read it a coupla daze back. Oh, well …
B ‘n me are entered into the local (low key?) Triathlon in a few weeks, as a team! She will swim, and i will split personas, one to ride, and (Rosco, i think) will run. The distance is such that i could easily have done the whole thing some 20 years ago. A mere 16-mile ride, followed by 3.5 mile CC. Heck, about 20 years ago i briefly held the (w)record for the local Duathlon (Citizen category), which was smusht the following year by REAL athletes.
The main race had departed, and all whom remained was us citizens. One fellow in particular, swaggeringly clad in lycra (there was a time when THAT was somewhat unusual) came up to me and asked what i’d do the 5k run in (the CIT du was a 5k run, 30k ride).
“Oh, i’ll try for 20-some.” That sounded good to him and he announced he’d hang with me, then take off.
I ran the 20-some, finishing in the first 5 or so of our race-within-a-race. Mr. Lycra was maybe a minute back, but overtook me at mile 5 or so during the bike. Seeing his aero helmet, disk wheels, tri-bar, I (mentally) conceded immediately. (I didn’t have those then, nor ever have, since).
Much to my surprise I saw him again at about mile 16. Unbeknownst to me, I also passed the leader in the ‘team’ category. I couldn’t tell as we were moving up through the slowest riders in the “real athlete” category. They’d have to run another 5k, whereas when i finished the ride, i was done. And won.
THAT GUY to the right … LOOKS TOUGH? — okay, don’t laugh, too much. Rosco with his son-in-law and grandson in-&-out of law
This year we hope to finish with enough energy to stay alive enough to go to the Cavalcade that night and be rock stars. Wottaday, for old weigh-overTheHill folks, huh?