Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Vinyl Frontier

Throughout history mankind has left traces of his culture embedded in a variety of medium. As he walked across the mudflats of Africa he left his footprint to dry in the day’s hot sun. He marked cave walls with primitive images of animal hunts. He discarded pieces of pottery, jewelry, bits of clothing. Whether accidentally or intentionally, each whisper left held his legacy, a story, a simple means of recording who he was, what he did, what was important and how he survived. As he walked his path he became more sophisticated with his breadcrumbs. Stone tablets, papyrus, books. They told of his life, his thoughts, his ideas, his longings. They contained his dreams, his music.

But what he didn’t leave behind was his sound, at least not until two Frenchmen Leon Scott and Charles Cros photoengraved smoke traces onto metal. It resulted in the replay of sound. A few months later in the same year, 1877, Thomas Alva Edison discovered a method of recording and replaying sound having followed a somewhat different line of research. In less than thirty years, recorded sound began to emerge as entertainment.

Last night I was invited as a guest into the studios of WDXV, Knoxville for The Vinyl Frontier a radio show which recaptures the sounds of an era lost. The sounds of needle on vinyl eking out the scratches, pings and tings of music recorded on flat black disks spun on turntables. The sound captured was that of artists famous and obscure during a time when music in the south stretched its wings after WWII.

The show is hosted by Bradley and Louisa Reeves, a team of archivists who spend time preserving old music, some never released to the public. They scour the landscape hunting for old recordings in hot attics, musty basements, along country road sides at flea markets or in the back bins of second hand stores. If they can’t find the artist they hunt down family members, and friends who relate stories of the men and women whose voices or musical instruments were etched on the acetate disks. This was often done in the home of the musician, not in fancy soundproof recording studios. Bradley and Louisa uncover some sad stories of musicians who lost their dreams to others who preyed on their talents.

I have to admit I am a music dummy. This is illustrated when I was asked to bring a favorite CD to the studio. I like Josh Rouse, but can’t tell you the name of his albums or the title to any of his songs despite the fact that I listened to them endlessly when I was in the Peace Corps. So last night was quite an experience. I listened in awe to the backgrounds, connections and history spun by Brad and Louisa about the musicians who once ruled the streets of Knoxville’s music scene. I knew Elvis.

The two hours flew by. We laughed about some of the cheesy stuff, listened in rapture to some of the talent clearly ahead of its time, and lamented the fact that some of these never were contenders despite their gifts. At one point I danced, doing the twist and then inventing a dance called UT. But I had to admit when a group called Zebra from the 70’s came up on the play list, I felt a little old. This was my generation.

Today without much effort I can get a video out on YouTube, leaving my mark on the pages of humankind’s journal. It should have been that easy for some of the artists of the past. Fortunately, we have people like the Reeves who recapture lost bits of music history. Catch them on WDVX.com Monday nights at 9 PM Eastern Time. You’ll be in for a real treat.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Crap-py Attitude

In our culture we generally avoid going around stinking to high heavens. So we bath, use deodorant, brush our teeth, run a comb through our hair and try to keep the grime from collecting under our finger nails. And generally we don’t run around with bare feet. It is a matter of politeness and there is an assumption that we are personally responsibility for our own hygiene so that we don’t offend others. Or be a total embarrassment to ourselves.

I also believe we have a personal responsibility not to put our moods on others. Like bad body odor we should not offend others with a stinky attitude. We are obligated to act happy, even if we are not.

At 5 am I reported for duty at the track. I actually looked forward to a day of being outside, watching the horses at the St Clement’s Horse Show and shooting the bull with other guards. Easy money compared to swinging a sledge hammer and hauling concrete. Under the glorious mist filled sunrise over the Oklahoma Track, I listened to the crows squawk as they zeroed in on bread crumbs and French fries tossed to them by the nighttime guard.

The nighttime guard warned me about the on coming guard’s toxic behavior. His reputation preceded him. I didn’t know his name, but I had witnessed his actions at Belmont. There he called a group of Asians chinks when they moved a few picnic tables around, he threw a chair when he “lost” a confiscated case of Heinekens and he strutted around the park muttering complaints about the crowd’s stupidity, NYRA’s incompetency and the bullshit of life in general. I immediately figured out who he was. I was going to have the pleasure of working with him for six hours. Maybe four if we both got breaks.

When he showed up at 7 am he immediately rearranged the signs posted at the gate. The speed limit and the posting to show your credentials were not in the “right place.” They worked fine for the previous two hours. Each of the three parking cones was then re-positioned. Next, the two chairs in the security hut switched and I couldn’t figure out why he wanted to sit on the one with the broken back.

When a horse van pulled in, the driver had to wait for him to complete the required paperwork because he insisted it was his job to check credentials and wave cars through the gate after removing the cones. I wasn’t doing anything at the time because there were no oncoming horses to hold traffic for. But as soon as I walked over to the gate and reached for a cone he barked, “That’s my job.” I feigned no intentions of touching his cone then watched the inefficiency of his strutting back and forth from hut to gate while keeping everyone waiting. It would have been humorous if he wasn’t muttering profanities every step of the way and pretending to be so put out by the inconveniences of everyone else one, who were all stupid idiots of questionable lineage.

Not once during the shift did he make eye contact with me, or acknowledge my existence, but once in his flurry to open the gate he nearly ran me over. No apologies and I'm sure at the moment I was a stupid b*. He kept his newspaper on the other stool. He made sure that he returned it there whenever I got up and left to hold traffic for the horses. Upon my return I removed his papers and sat back down.

I had been offered a cup of coffee by the night shift guard and was told that my day shift partner would attempt to throw it away. He didn’t but complained about the possibility of spillage on his paperwork, even though he had a large hot tea. I had no intentions of drinking the 3 AM coffee, but occasionally took a sip to hold my right to have it in the shack.

About mid-shift a horse owner came by and stopped to talk to the guard. By then I had positioned myself across the street no longer able to take his under the breath rants and cusses. I paid little attention to their conversation. When the owner drove off, my buddy had a muffin and a hundred dollar bill, gifts from the owner. “It’s a f’ing bran muffin,” he griped wiping the crumbs away from his mouth. He tossed the remainder into the trash and he showed me the Ben Franklin.

What could he possibly complain about? He took another hundred from his wallet and held it up to the sunshine. Squinting into the sunshine, he flipped it over. Then he took the gifted one hundred and did the same thing. “Just making sure it’s not a g---damned counterfeit,” he said. About that time I wanted one of the crows to shit in his eye.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

Seedling

At the water’s edge I rolled my pant legs to my knees. I watched hemlock needles dance in the shadows of an eddy. Four days of rain had swollen the shallow creek that carried twigs and leaves from upstream. As I crossed, my bare shuffled on the smooth shale rock bed. It felt like a sheet of ice.

I smelled summer at the edge of the woods where the brown pine carpet gave way to a thick underbrush. The sun warmed the air that lifted the scent of rich earth decay. The aroma lingered where the forest fought to recover from the scars of logging that had raped the north side of the streambed. In this place the smell was full of mid-season memories, of play of excertions and expeditions to these woods. But it is too early for plump red berries, the sweetness of local corn or warm tomatoes taken directly from the garden’s vine. The smell seemed out of place.

I came to rob the earth again of what it struggled to claim. Last year I found the seedling near the rotted stumps and discarded cider blocks. A tulip tree at the beginning of its journey. Here I could find no mother tree, no sire to claim the sapling as its own. The closest kin was two miles away, a tall straight and solid tree, not common to the area sitting in my parents’ yard.

Taking note that no one else was in the little preserve, I dug a large ring around the tree and a neighboring beech that grew three inches away. Their roots too tangled to separate, I put both in my backpack and carried them to the Jeep. Theft completed.

At the house, I dug a hole, chopping through old roots from the elms that were lost to a bark bettle. Three trees have been removed from the area between the house and old schoolhouse in the last three years. Two were over 70 years old.

I won’t see the tulip get that old, but I hope that someone will find enjoyment in the tree’s journey toward the sky.

Working the Summer

Diablo ate my birthday cookies. They were a present from the lady whose bathrooms will have my tile signature all over them. The result of the cookie theft was a severe case of diarrhea. Coconut is not good on kittie stomachs. She’s bouncing around on the prowl for Phoenix right now so she is no worse for it. I had left them on the table when I got home from work. I took a shower and went back into town, completely forgetting about them. Dad said he found nothing but crumbs scattered on the dining room floor.

I’m surviving the physical demands of the job. Swollen knees from crouching and kneeling all day concern me as I trot up and down the stairs to the wet saw where I cut the measured and marked pieces of tile. Work isn’t hard. Well, too hard. Most of the stuff I can figure out, but since I am working on someone else’s clock my time is now someone else’s money. When I’m projecting around my apartments as wasted day trying to figure out something is just another day.

Other ailments are the usual blisters, nicks, cuts, scrapes, bruises. And an occassional hand cramp. Killers.

My boss is a pretty good guy. His name is Steve which of course I wish it wasn’t, but I’m getting over that. He’s just a couple of years younger than me so there are times when we both are grunting and groaning after we manage to contort ourselves back into upright positions. I told him he really needed to hire a twenty one year old, but he said his girlfriend would not like that. I meant a twenty-one year old guy.

Steve is ex-navy and hires women with military backgrounds. “They are neater and more reliable.” Our only disagreement is the radio. I like to listen to talk and he prefers classic rock. The radio is mine, but he is the boss. Since more and more I am working alone, it is not a problem. The house does however have an Obama yard sign in the garage.

Summer seems to be disappearing. I’ll wrap up bathroom 1 this week and we will dive right into bathroom 2 at the same house. I’m dreading the part where I get to haul it downstairs. We really need to just throw it out the window.

Yesterday Steve asked what I was doing this summer. “Working at the track.” Steve has two more bathrooms in the Albany area. The money is one third as much and no taxes, but the drive adds two hours to any day. Plus gas. Hopefully a good portion of one bath can be done in July. That still leaves August and the track. But the next thing I know...there’s my summer.

Thank goodness I live in Hawaii.

As far as writing….forget about it.

I paid my taxes today. OUCH. But that's it.

Monday, June 08, 2009

It's My Birthday



At Belmont, I had these guys play Happy Birthday to me. FYI=55

Sunday, June 07, 2009

Documentary

I am creating a documentary of where my feet go this summer. You can catch clips of my feet's exploits on faceBook. Become a fan.

Day of The Bird

In the Park at Belmont Racetrack, where the highly intoxicated cooler-toting spectators watched the closed circuit monitors an omen had already been cast. If the alcohol hadn’t flowed so heavily more might have taken note when a decapitated bird fell out of the sky moments before the start of the race.

It nearly struck a woman who had passed out inches from the pathway, beer in hand. Her awkwardly strewn body caught the eye of every passerby who looked at her then at me, standing five feet away and guarding the mutual bay doors which as much credible authority as the Big Bad Wolf would give the front door of the Three Little Pig’s house.

They don’t pay me enough to pick up dead birds dropped by a hawk. Perched in a tree it must have lost its grip when the partying fans let out a roar for an encore to a departing band. Those who were taking note of the passed out victim saw the bird drop within inches of her face. Those taking video which I am sure must be on YouTube stepped back. On cue the crowd let out an "ewwww" as loud as the little girls in the movie Lilo and Stitch after Lilo showed them her deformed dollie.

Moments later in the grandstand, the crowd rose to its feet as Mind That Bird pulled into the lead. Dunkirk battled to stay in the lead. Cheers filled the stands when Borel seemed to have done it once again, gone from last to first. It looked like he was to become the first Triple Crown Jockey done onboard two different horses. But the anticipation was short lived when Summer Bird also sired by Birdstone drew up and passed the contenders to take the third leg of the Triple Crown. An upset, once again at Belmont.

Dead bird disposed of and the passed out women rousted from her repose by friends, it had been a long day. Starting with a bus ride to Belmont. It was 2:30 AM when I reported in at the guard house in Saratoga. Thirteen races in the bag and time to sweep the yard of straggling racing fans who had no desire to leave the track. Wishing them a safe journey home was the most diplomatic way of saying, “Get the hell out of here, I want to go home.” Arrived home 24 hours later. How much money did I make?

Honestly, for all the Belmont horror stories I had heard, its unruly crowds, its dirty facilities and ungrateful staff I found none of this the case. The local staff I worked with were professional, the crowds despite their tipsiness were pleasant and the grounds where no more trashier than Saratoga’s after the end of any racing day. In fact I thought the ground’s keeping crews were far more professional and did a better job at keeping the trash in check.

I was good to see those I had not seen in a year. I reminded myself, "These are your primary colors. Blend them."

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Tax Vomit

Two months ago I decided I wasn’t going to play the game. I contacted my financial planner and we decided where to take $51,000 out of my portfolio. Not that it really makes a hill of beans. Finally the checks arrive and because I am slaving away on bath remodel, I asked dad I get the checks into the bank so they can clear as soon as possible. My plan was to write the check for the balance and get this mess behind me.

Since I need to know exactly what the interest and penalties are I called the IRS. Mistake.

In April the agent I spoke with outlined the interest as $285.82 and penalties as $510.00 for a 60 day extension (which by the way is merely a formality and I never received any paper work on this.) Since it is a few days less than 60 days, I thought the amount would be slightly less.

The first agent I spoke with could not process my request because she wasn’t authorized to handle this large amount. Suddenly I felt I was in the company of John Kenny and Tim Giethner. Big rollers.

Once transferred to the “non-stream line” department, I was told that my 2008 filing had not completed processing. Two months?

Last year when I owed $420 and was due a $420 "stimulus check" the IRS notified me two weeks after April 15th that my taxes were overdue and I owed an additional $7. They were not overdue. They misplaced my checked. Or more accurately they had my check but didn’t know what to do with it. And despite not knowing what to do with it they cashed it. Once the IRS figured out what they were doing, the seven dollars was dismissed and a couple months later I got my $420 stimulus check. Yahoo.

Today, the agent representing the IRS apologized, but he couldn't tell me how much I owed. Funny, how come the agent two months could tell me? He didn’t know. He suggested I send an extra $4000 when I said I would like to stop incurring additional interest and penalties. Like money grows on trees? Or better, I got my own printing department? Or I can get this from China?

There was a point when he got a little smart assed. “Well you should have paid your taxes to avoid the interest and penalties.”

“That is what I am trying to do and you can’t tell me what I owe. Yet, you keep hitting with with interest and penalties”

So I’m going to send them a check for the amount I was first told in April. Anyone want to bet this is the end?