Category: wayback machine

Did you get healed?

Recently, driving around in the Jeep looking for something good to listen to on the radio, I began to think about a CD I own.

By thinking, I mean, wondering where it is. When The Good Man and I moved in together several years ago, I boxed up a lot of stuff and stored it away.

Over the years, occasionally I’ll remember something that I want or need and it’s a hell of a rodeo to find it.

So I put the thought out of mind. Whatever. It’s just a CD. I can probably find it on iTunes or at the library or something.

I tried to dismiss it.

But this thought came with a long strip of Velcro, and wouldn’t let go.

A voice in my mind kept asking, “Where is that CD? You need to listen to it.”

When you get a voice that adamant, it’s kind of hard to ignore.

But I tried.

And tried.

And failed.

Resigned to satisfying that damn voice so it would shut up, I suited up. Our storage is under the place we rent, and that happened to be a very cold and very rainy day.

Determined, under the house I went, poking around in boxes and bags, knocking stuff over and getting lost on that long winding lane called Memory.

Finally, I did find a very heavy box that had a bunch of CD’s, and also most of my VHS movies, that I’d packed away.

I heaved, grunted and lurched the box upstairs and started picking through it.

A lot of heavy memory stuff burbled to the top, clamoring for my attention, which I gave.

But nothing quieted the voice. I kept digging and finally, yes, I found the CD I was looking for.

Best of the Blues, Vol. 1

Yeah. A “best of” compilation. Forgive me ye Gods of the Blues.

I bought this CD back in 1997. I’d just moved to the Bay Area and some good friends (also New Mexico transplants) had introduced me to the thriving blues scene in San Francisco.

I only tangentially knew the music. I’d listened to some B.B. King, some Muddy Waters and some John Lee Hooker in my time. The popular stuff. The stuff everyone knows.

But back then, San Francisco was steeped in the old ways.

During the course of the next decade, I received what can only be called a Blues Education.

I watched some of the not only best blues musicians, but best musicians period, play in craptastic bars like the old Grant & Green (the remodel took the soul out of it) and of course The Saloon, the oldest continually operating bar in the beautiful City of San Francisco. It dates back to the 1861, which means it survived both the ‘quake of 1906 and Prohibition.

There were nights it was too cramped and too hot (and back then, too smoky) in The Saloon for my tastes, so I would step outside the front door. I was dating a musician at the time, so the dyspeptic doorman had to be nice to me. He would let me sit on his stool by the front door where he collected the cover charge.

I’d take his chivalrous gesture and lean back against the battered wood door. I could feel the driving beat in my spine, and I’d watch the fog roll over the tops of the buildings in North Beach.

I learned about the three Kings (B.B., Freddy and Albert).

I learned about Chicago blues, Delta blues and the just plain blues blues.

I heard a thousand different versions of “Matchbox” and “Shotgun” and I watched guys try to be both Stevie Ray Vaughan and Albert King. I began to understand why some songs grab you by the gut and sometimes a song that should grab your gut doesn’t (hint: it has a lot to do with the drummer).

Today, I’m a suburban girl with a quiet, happy life. No regrets here. But sometimes I miss the family I made back then who took me in, protected me and helped me learn the old ways.

You know, they call it stormy Monday…but Tuesday’s just as bad.

This one musician, a hell of guitar player, used to tear it up for four hours, and at the end of the night, he’d ask the frenzied crowd, “Did you get healed?”

And he’d get crazy, drunken, full-throated hollers in return. The music mattered. It got us on a cellular level. We got healed.

I may need to see about a Saturday in North Beach soon, because something feels amiss. It may be time to go back and find if it’s possible to get healed.

Until then, I’ll take the ministrations from that ol’ CD found at the bottom of a moving box.

Image of Ron Hacker, arguably the best slide guitar man in SF and maybe even the world, onstage at The Saloon. (No, he’s not the guy I dated, I’m just a massive fan.)

Photo by Scott Palmer

Ok, so go with me on this…

You ever have those moments where your monkey brain isn’t working on anything in particular, and when given free rein, it jumps around from topic to topic? There it hops along and suddenly you end up in some crazy neighborhood in your mind, and you are unsure how you got there.

And at that point, it’s best to just back out sloooowly.

Yeah. This happened to me the other night.

I was really, really tired. I hadn’t been sleeping well and my fatigued brain wasn’t making coherent thoughts. I oh so needed to get some work done at home, but couldn’t get my head into the game.

Instead, I lay down in my bed figuring hell, I’ll just sleep. Things will look better in the morning.

As I lay there trying to get to the REM’s, I thought “man, wouldn’t it be great to have one of those oxygen tents like Michael Jackson? I understand that a boost of oxygen can help you be more alert and think more clearly. That would be so rad.”

So *then*, my untethered mind, thinking of oxygen tents, remembered that episode of Seinfeld where George and The Bubble Boy got into a big fight.

And so of course I laughed.

But THEN, The Bubble Boy reference made me think of that TOTAL made-for-TV movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble which oh yes I totally watched after school.

Which then made me think to myself, damn, who was that actor who played the boy in the bubble? Dark hair, kind of cute.

So then the other side of my brain hollered in response, “Robby Benson!”

And ta daaa! My brain was now stuck on, “So whatever happened to that guy?”

So there I am, trying to sleep but instead thinking about Robby Benson. You know, circa “Ice Castles” and “Ode To Billy Joe“?

Young, cute, all soft focused and baby faced? Quiet voice and acting chops suited for made-for-TV?

Yeah! That guy! Where the hell is he now?

And that’s how I went to sleep.

Only trouble is…in the light of day, I realized. The Boy in the Plastic Bubble wasn’t Robby Benson, it was John Travolta. You know, circa “Welcome Back, Kotter” and right before “Saturday Night Fever.”

So I spent all that time pondering Robby when I should have been pondering John.

Damn. What a brain. Ain’t worth the price of headcheese with mayo on marble rye from Molinari (a deli in North Beach, for my out of town friends).

I really gotta learn how to do Sudoku or something…..

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Evaporation!

Everywhere you turn….

Ok, I suppose some things are hard coded into my system. Cellular level and all.

Today promises to be a very warm day where I live. I woke up this morning and it was already getting hot, and so my mind thought, “hmm, wonder if it is too early to think about getting the swamp cooler set up.”

And then I remembered…I don’t live in the desert anymore.

Oh and by the way, evaporative cooling doesn’t work worth a damn where it’s humid.

Oh yeah. Whoops.

This all reminded me of when I looked for my first apartment in Northern California.

In Albuquerque I’d lived in a very large one-bedroom apartment up on the east end of Menaul. I was on the fourth floor and had a rocking view of the Sandias. Many of my utilities were taken care of, and I paid $550.

I was now looking at spending $1200 a month on a teeny tiny dark apartment in a crap neighborhood. And pay for it out of a salary that was only $5k more than I was making in Albuquerque.

Yeah. That was bad. But what I remember most was touring a pretty nice place that was in my price range (less than $1000 a month). It was clean, smallish, but suitable. It was a warm day down in the South Bay, and I inquired, “where is the air conditioner?”

The landlord responded that there wasn’t one.

NO AIR CONDITIONER!?!?! WHAT!?!?!?

I mean, to a girl from New Mexico, this is certain death! You don’t NOT have an air conditioner!!!

The landlord further explained that really, it’s not necessary. The really hot days are few and the wind off the Bay and the ocean keeps it cool.

I was skeptical.

Thirteen years later, I’ve still never lived in a place that had an air conditioner. Admittedly, there have been some still, hot days where I yearned for the simple beauty of a swamp cooler. On those days, I stay longer at work to soak up their climate control.

So while my home is a/c free, my car does have cooling. I won’t own a car that doesn’t, though I have friends who saved a few bucks by leaving that off. No way.

I have a vague feeling this is going to be a long, hot summer in the Bay Area where the tunnel of fans The Good Man sets up won’t quite be enough.

But then, when it gets that hot, the next day the fog rolls in over the hills and dampens the whole day and you freeze your tukhus off.

Ah…summer in the Bay Area. Swamp Coolers not required.

Making Our Own List

Recently, while flipping around my no-cable-havin’ television choices, I landed on the “Tavis Smiley Show.”

I’ve watched his show a couple times before, but what stopped me this time was his guest, Rosanne Cash, a talented singer songwriter. I’m a big fan.

It was a fun interview. Rosanne was feeling a bit more expansive than usual, which was nice. The central theme for the interview was Rosanne’s new album called “The List.”

The story goes something like this: When Rosanne was just out of high school, she went on the road with her dad, Johnny Cash. While on the road, all the various musicians she toured with taught her how to play guitar.

At one point, her father noted her deep lack of musical knowledge, and sat down with a pad of yellow paper and wrote up a list of songs that she should learn and know.

It was a gift of a father’s deep love and respect for musical history that he wrote out line by line on that page.

Over the years, Rosanne kept that sheet of paper, and learned most of the songs.

Well, finally, after having surgery on a benign tumor in her brain and coming through the recovery, she and her husband decided to make an album of songs that were included on the original list.

Over the years, Rosanne has been reluctant to show people the actual list, and keeps it tucked away somewhere safe. Her album gives you a taste of the songs that Johnny felt were key to his own daughter’s musical education.

This whole concept intrigued me, so I ran out and got the CD. I’m not on board with every arrangement on the album (call me a purist…or something), but deeply I respect the new interpretation of these classic songs.

So I got another copy and sent it to my best friend, mother of my two goddaughters. She and her husband are doing an excellent job in passing along a musical education to their children.

But for my best friend and me, music is everything. It’s the stitches that hold tight the tapestry of our lives, our memories and our friendship.

So included in the package with the CD, I sent a letter with my idea: Our own list.

I feel that we need to make a list of our own musical legacy for her kids just as Johnny did for Rosanne.

Well, my friend took to this idea with gusto, and our list making began.

I began jotting songs as they came to me in my notebook and it quickly grew to four pages front and back. I realized…this is going to be a really long list, so I began to think of how we could sort it out to make it easier to take in.

Over this past weekend, she arrived for a fun visit, and came toting a CD she’d burned of her own first volume of The List (and two bags of roasted green chile in her suitcase).

Her idea for sorting the songs is by category. Her first volume is “Songs You Wanna Dance To.”

There will be a “Songs You Wanna Drink Beer and Cry To.”

There will probably be a “Songs You Wanna Get Frisky To.”

And then, perhaps just a, “If You’re Gonna Be My Kid, You’d Better Know These Songs” CD as well.

We’re still working on the categories, but work is underway.

Over the weekend, The Good Man and I were both pleased and honored to have yet another friend from back in my college days visiting, too.

Friday night the four of us got together at my place. My best friend made rellenos and Spanish rice. I whipped up a batch of green chile chicken enchiladas and a pot of savory pinto beans.

There were margaritas, guacamole and a LOT of conversation about the list. Our friend, an Edgewood boy now living in Oklahoma, is like a long lost brother to me. He brought many excellent suggestions for the list to the table.

We cussed. We discussed. And together we’re creating something meaningful for my two godkids. In this music they will know their mom, and their godmom, our families, our history and our love.

Ooops, hold on a sec…just thought of another song I need to jot down…

Talking About That Little Lady

Stepping into the wayback machine, I recall a trip I took with my parents when I was twenty-one.

It was their birthday present to me, a trip to Las Vegas (all of us kids got such a trip when we became of legal age.)

While there, we paid a visit to my aunt and uncle who live in a small town outside of Las Vegas.

My grandmother was staying with the aunt and uncle, so it was a smallish family reunion.

As we all bedded down for the night, being the youngest, I took up my place on the pull out bed in the living room. This gave me a ringside seat for the show that lay ahead.

In less than 20 minutes, I began to hear the distinct sound of my grandmother snoring. Oh, she was a world-class snorer.

Soon enough, I could also hear the recognizable sound of my dad sawing up some logs.

Mom joined him quickly, singing harmony in this snore chorus.

From the other direction of the house came sound new to me, but easy to identify. My uncle, also snoring. More quietly but surely there, my model beautiful aunt also found her nasal instrument.

Great. Five adults, all sawing the logs. I didn’t get much sleep that night.

I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t become a snorer, no matter how much age and genetic heritage may dictate it would be so.

Plus, I am a very light sleeper, I reasoned, so I’d wake myself up if I started down the road of my destiny.

A good plan. That hasn’t really worked.

Time passed, as it will, and wouldn’t you know it, my nose and soft palette have found their tuning. I’ve managed to become a snorer.

Not massively so, as attested to by The Good Man, but yes, I do snore.

And yes, I do usually manage to wake myself up when I do.

Like, oh, about half hour ago when for some reason a sound much akin to an angry hippo issued from my nostrils.

Gah!

Ladies don’t snore! They don’t! Damnit! I’m a lady!

Ladies also don’t sweat, so I am unable to account for the pool of moisture around my neck upon waking up this morning.

Gah!

A couple years ago, The Good Man and I joined another couple for dinner and drinks at one of the yacht clubs in San Francisco. The Good Man’s best friend is a member.

After a fine meal, the four of us retired to the bar where, with drinks in hand, we engaged in a rousing game of liar’s dice.

Well, just as things get rolling, as it were, an Admiral of the club, a huffing old Caucasian man with a bulbous nose and wearing a rumpled navy blue jacket bustled over to us. He leaned over the bar and blurted, “Ladies do NOT shake dice in bars!”

harrumph harrumph

Remember when you were a kid in the front seat when your mom was driving? When she would hit the brakes, that strong mom arm would come out to protectively keep you from flying through the windshield?

The Good Man and his best friend did something akin to that, keeping both of their lovely wives from rocketing up off of their bar stools and becoming real unladylike in a hurry.

So let’s see…let’s recount my offenses. Shaking dice in a bar. Sweating. Snoring.

Oh fine. When the old definitions don’t fit anymore, it’s time to edit the dictionary!

A lady can indeed shake dice in a bar! And also, I suppose, snore. Ladies can also drink whiskey, shout at sporting matches, drive too fast, belch, curse and gamble.

There. That oughta cover me.

At least for this week, anyway.

:cue Tom Jones: