The Illustrated Mind

Upon hearing of the passing of Ray Bradbury, I was immediately transported back to my youth, reading of the dystopian anti-literary world of Guy Montag and the Sultry September evenings lounging with a mysterious tattooed man. As I spent my day inundated with emails and clients requests, my mind wandered back to Bradbury - his wonderful ice cream suit and his dreams of marionettes and virtual realities. By the time I left the office, headed for home, I had convinced myself that I owed it to the author to revisit some of his work that had left such an impact on me in my youth.

A Life Well Lived

Michael "Flathead" Blanchard
1944 - 2012

Michael "Flathead" Blanchard

A Celebration of the life of Michael "Flathead" Blanchard will be held on April 14th, 3 pm 8160 Rosemary St, Commerce City. Weary of reading obituaries noting someone's courageous battle with death, Mike wanted it known that he died as a result of being stubborn, refusing to follow doctors' orders and raising hell for more than six decades. He enjoyed booze, guns, cars and younger women until the day he died.
Mike was born July 1944 in Colorado to Clyde and Ethel Blanchard. A community activist, he is noted for saving the Dr. Justina Ford house from demolition and defending those who could not defend themselves. He was a Republican delegate, life member of the NRA, founder and President of the Dead Cats MC. He loved music.
 
Mike was preceded in death by Clyde and Ethel Blanchard, survived by his beloved sons Mike and Chopper, former wife Jane Transue, brother Stephen Blanchard (Susan), Uncle Don and Aunt Cynthia Blanchard(his favorite); Uncle Dill and Aunt Dot, cousins and nephews, Baba Yaga can kiss his butt. So many of his childhood friends that weren't killed in Vietnam went on to become criminals, prostitutes and/or Democrats. He asks that you stop by and re-tell the stories he can no longer tell. As the Celebration will contain Adult material we respectfully ask that no children under 18 attend.

- The Denver Post, April 12, 2012

Remembering a life, Immortalizing a Man

Earlier this week, a friend, fraternal brother, and greatly respected man died while bicycling across Taiwan. The outpouring of love, tribute, and sorrow has been both agonizing and beautiful to witness, and is a testament to the awesome impact that Andrew Kuebrick had on so many people. I've struggled to form words that would be adequate in expressing my emotions at the passing of a person who so obviously had the potential to indelibly affect the world in ways none of us could even imagine. The facebook tributes from friends and family have all encapsulated my emotions, though not quite embodied them. So instead of attempting to weakly piece together imperfect sentences on Andrew's greatness, I have decided to approach the event from a different perspective.

All Souls Day - Remembering a Few Impactful Souls

Yesterday, November 2nd, is celebrated in many faith traditions as All Souls Day, a day to commemorate the members of our community who have passed on. It offers a time of respectful reflection on the lives of those who've impacted our own in positive ways.

Here are a few Renaissance men and women whom I would like to pay homage to today:

When Life Throws You a 16-wheeler...

Nine years ago on this day, I experienced a series of traumatic events that would forever change the way I approach life and metal detectors.

Many of you know this as "the bear attack".

Others may know it as the Chicago knife-fight.

Others still know of an incident with a shark. Or an alligator. Or a deranged hobo.

Some of you may have even heard a story about a car accident. Believe what you will, there is probably some truth in whatever story you've heard.

Whatever the tale, please know that I am grateful for all the love, support, & fruit baskets that everyone has offered over the last 9 years.

In my mind, a renaissance man faced with adversity should take it on the chin, learn from the experience, and have fun with what the world hands you.

So sometime today, raise a glass of whiskey in honor of my bionic limbs, eventual arthritis, & the hours of entertainment that this trauma has provided. As a wise man once said,

"When life throws you a 16-wheeler, make lemonade."

In Sickness and In Health

My wife is sick.

It may have come from the 20+ degree fluctuations in temperature this last week. I blame El Nino for the bi-polar weather that has dumped close to two feet of snow on our heads, then jumps to a balmy 40^o Fahrenheit, inspiring shorts and flip-flops to fly out of drawers and everyone to think we're living in the Bahamas.

It may have come from extended contact with any of her 30 cousins over the Christmas holiday. Lord knows what bacterial, viral, or homicidal specimens creepy-crawled their way from those cute little elementary school hands into my wife's ears, nose, or throat.

Regardless of the source, she is officially sick. The doctors have deemed it,

“SINUSITIS”

Evidently she's been infected by sinuses. I hope I don't catch the little buggers. I've gone my whole life without a single sinus, and I don't plan on catching one now.

Nursemaid to the Stars

I don't know if you realize this, but as a husband, it is your duty to care for your ailing wife in times of suffering. The clause “In sickness and in health” includes sinusitis.

It all began with a tickle, located somewhere in the back of her throat. Annie's voice sounded a little raspy, but we chocked it up to talking over the ravenous din of ecstatic cousins and exuberant aunts. But then, the aches and pains started. The soreness led to an all out whine of despair that bore a striking resemblance to Randy from A Christmas Story. Instead of,

“I can't put my arms down!”, her wails of despair were saying,

“My whole body hurts!”.

After a healthy regimen of over the counter pharmacological cocktails, cold washcloths, and love, it was obvious that I was losing the war against this vehement virus. I admitted defeat and she went to the doctor. She waited two hours for five minutes of face time with a physician who didn't have time for bedside niceties. A few routine pokes and prods and the verdict was in: SINUSITIS.

Pharmacists Don't Smile

Out the door she went, sinusitis in one lobe, prescription in the other. I got a phone call about an hour later.

“They said I have to wait 25 minutes for the prescription. Will you pick it up for me?”

“Of course. Go home and rest. I'll bring it by in a bit.”

A half an hour later, I head to the pharmacy. The lady at the counter retrieves my white bag from the sea of bins behind her.

“There's a five dollar charge for flavoring.”

“She got flavoring? What kind of flavoring?”

“Watermelon. It's out of season, so there's a five dollar charge. Is that OK?”

“Well, you can't remove the flavoring now, can you?” I joked. Anything to help get this Codeine infused swill down.

“Have you ever taken these medicines before?” she responded with deathly seriousness.

“They're not for me...My wife – I'm not Ann, I'm Chris.”

“Have you taken them or not?” Her tone was tinged with an irritation you might find in someone surrounded by sick people all day.

“No. No ma'am.”

“I'll have a pharmacist explain them to you. CONSULTATION!” she bellowed into the shelves behind her. I didn't think such a small woman could contain such a deafening roar. Soon a pharmacist was before me, rattling off the specificity of each elixir and pill.

“Quaff one teaspoon every 4 hours...

...Two pills the first day, one the next four, unless your a Capricorn on Thursday...

...Don't take if you are operating a forklift...

...Don't forklift if you are operating a tank...

...And that is all there is to it. I hope you feel better Mrs. Jasper!”

Bewildered, I proceeded to the exit and delivered the narcotics to my withering wife. I tried my best to impart the instructions to her and, in a semi-conscious state, she understood fairly well. We administered the first dose of antibiotics without a hitch. Attempting to deliver the Codeine proved more difficult.

The top was not only childproofed, it was adult proofed and possibly bear proofed as well. After a solid three minutes of prying, twisting, and biting, I successfully loosed the cap from it's mooring.

“Is it flavored? I asked them to add a flavor.”

“For five dollars, it better taste like prime rib.” I muttered. “It smells kind of spicy...”

An unsteady hand wielding a teaspoon of medicinal magic was soon in route for my wife's mouth. A squeamish face greeted the utensil and swallowed the medicine with reluctant force.

“Eeeeuuuggghhhhh!!!!! Get me some water!” Evidently the spicy watermelon didn't help much. So much for that investment.

I Feel My Temperature Rising

When I got home from work, It didn't seem as though Annie had moved more than a few inches from the spot I'd left her in.

“I threw up.” She greeted me with a dilapidated groan.

“So you're feeling better! Swell.” I changed out of my work clothes and tried to assess the situation. She was very warm, so I got her a cool washcloth and laid it on her head.

The rest of the evening, we had the thermostat set at a balmy 55^o. As we went to bed, Annie was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. I cloaked myself in a hoodie, sweatpants, socks, and mittens. About four hours later, all that was about to change.

I woke up at 2:30am in a pool of sweat. My mittens were strewn across the bed, the blankets were no where to be found, and I had no clue what was going on. But it was hot. Annie was barely awake and, upon hearing my rouse, she asked,

“I'm freezing. Can you turn up the heat?”

I begrudgingly obliged, peeling off layers as I stumbled through the house. I got back to bed, laid back, and heard,

“Can you get the thermometer? I think I have a fever.”

Another blind stumble to the bathroom found me back at the bed, thermometer in hand. A few moments later, the digital read out stated,

“99.4^o”

“Great. I'm glad we solved that mystery.” I returned to bed, pulled up the covers, and was met with a meek,

“Can you get me a box Kleenex?”

At 3am I was finally reunited with my REM cycle. The next morning was a slow one, but I made it to work. Annie had borrowed my car for the day, and about 11:30, she shows up at my office, bearing SUBWAY.

“This is for taking such good care of me. Thank you.”

And that makes it all worth it. I love my wife, even when she's feeling like death, and just as fun to be around.

About five minutes later, I get a text from the woman of my dreams:

“I almost just barfed in your car.”

That's what love is all about.

Skating, Unscathed

My wife is the eldest of thirty cousins. They range in age from 26 (my wife) to 10 months old – 10 boys, 20 girls. The day after Christmas, as a gift to both the cousins and their parents, the older cousins took all the rug-rats rollerskating. Five of us above the age of 20, corralling upwards of 25 pipsqueaks on wheels. If this sounds like the recipe for disaster, you're probably right. But if you've ever met my wife, you know she's crazy enough to handle it.

As we entered the sheet metaled warehouse that was the roller rink, I was bombarded by early 90's decor – space scenes muraled across the walls, jagged graffiti-esque lines scralling around the rink with chasing lights causing seizures among the faint of heart. An overwhelming odor of shoe spray and floor wax flooded my nostrils. The din of children laughing, wheels rolling on hard wood, and teen pop Bieber trash overwhelmed my ear drums. As my senses adjusted to this new reality, I began to acclimate myself to the new surroundings. I laced up my tan skates, tottered to the edge of the rink like an unsteady child on newly discovered legs, and circumnavigated a few tentative laps.

As I gained confidence in my wheeled abilities, I began to notice the other skaters around me. Although I hadn't seen these people before, I realized that at every roller skating event I'd been to in the last decade, I'd seen the same archetypal skating entities:

Roller Derby Girl

Jet black skates with canary yellow wheels. Striped stockings that end just below the knee, covering her muscular calves. Black hot pants that read,

“SLAMMAHGIRL”. Black jersey and matching wrist-guards. Braided brown hair tied neatly behind her head, and a determined grimace that makes my nervous to be skating on the same hemisphere as the determined amazon.

She skates with a force that commands any novice roller to be wary of he elbows and hip checks.

Grandpa Glider

Do you remember the days when a teenaged couple would go out for sodas at the local diner after a rousing skate at the local rink? White-walled tires and Brilcreem were the standard in the 50's and, for some, it hasn't changed. There is something endearing about the 60 year old couples who are still using the skates from their courting days.

Besides the gray hair and arthritic hands, you can spot these soda shop skaters by their classic skating style. They dreamily glide 'round the rink, kicking their heels back while neatly tucking one hand behind their back. An heir of propriety exudes from a geriatric skater – evidence that they were taught to skate in an age when skating was an art form akin to dancing a waltz or a polka, and it is their sole duty to perpetuate this graceful sport with all their might.


Hockey Star

This guy is the masculine foil to the Roller derby Girl. He's in workout pants and a hoodie, brought his own roller blades, and means business. If the rink would let him, he would bring his hockey stick on the floor to let everyone know he means business.

Although this Gretzky skater is more comfortable on the ice, he can skill cream any amateur on wheels that dares to stumble in his path. As rink rules frown on the practice of flattening children during an open skate, he generally prefers to leap over fallen munchkins, which is preferable, although still frightening for all parties involved.

The speed skate is Mr. NHL's forte. He barrels round the wood floor with the tenacity of a bull, trying desperately to prove the masculinity of his wheels against the more effeminate skaters who might defame his blades.

Homo-Erotic Inline Speed Skaters

As a bi-annual, recreational skater, you are bound to get lapped. It is just something to come to terms with. When you are passed by a skater, you think little of it. But when you are passed by two skaters, crouched for speed and wind resistance, the latter awkwardly grasping the gluteus of the former, you cannot help but feel emasculated.

Completely in-sync, these men share the intense love of skating with the Hockey Star and Roller Derby Girl, but do so in a more graceful manner. Each is in-tune with the movements of the other, arms and legs swinging in unison, focused on navigating the screaming teens and ancient lovers to beat their last time trial. Even their breathing is in-sync as they stream through the masses with balletic grace.

They are so focused on their craft that not even the scathing disdain that comes from the Hockey hooligans can break their composure.

Solo Skater Savant

His custom skates are freshly polished. His wrist-guards are monogrammed. He skates to the beat of a very different drum.

Objectively this man is an incredibly talented skater. Throughout the skate he practices tricks and gyrations that would make figure skaters cringe, seemingly for his own amusement. I would dare say that he was completely unaware of any other presence on the wood that day.

Contorting your legs into bizarre, cartoonish poses while on wheels may be a sign of virility and Casanova-ism in some cultures, but I do not believe that is the case in my own. It was sometimes painful to watch this character groove, slightly off-tempo, to the top 40 musical stylings that blared throughout the rink. I can only imagine that this was a cardio regimen prescribed by some new aged yogi, as he at times resembled Shiva the Destroyer, his arms and legs undulating in a meditative fury.

Passive-Aggressive Teen Bieber Freaks

One of these teenie boppers was having a birthday and, to her chagrin, her mom picked Orbitz Skating Emporium as the destination for her party. Mortified, she refuses to show that she is having fun. With her cadre of screaming airheads, she screams the immortal lyrics of Ke$ha and Justin Bieber at the top of her off-key lungs.

The unfortunate side affect of these squealing ladies, beyond my loss of hearing, was that, in the throes of musical ecstasy, they lost all ability to navigate. These pre-teens morphed from shrill 90 pound drama factories to a herd of moaning water buffalo, incapable of breaking away from the pop-drunk group think that drove them around the rink with ferocious blindness. Woe to the unaware skater who happens in front of this all-consuming ball of prepubescent power.


Uber-Serious Skate Ref

Every sport has rules. Every rule needs enforced. Every enforcer needs a weapon. Give a 22 year old a whistle, striped shirt, and a pair of used skates, and watch them turn from Playstation addict to keystone cop in two seconds flat.

It doesn't matter if you are wearing plastic Playskool skates or professional skate stars, you will receive equal wrath from these skating sheriffs. Do not stop. Do not push. Do not have fun on this roller rink.

There is a certain level of animosity that exudes from these enforcers towards any of the more proficient skaters in the rink. It is as if the ref's are once great remnants of Derby teams, Hockey squads, or speed skating duo's that, due to injury, have become washed up and are forced to relive their glory days as haggard sentries of the rink. They look down their noses at those of us who just skate for fun, and envy the wheeler who can still stand among the pro's. They are trapped in a purgatory of failure and disdain, bearing the scarlet letter of a referee's stripe. The whistle is a badge of honor. Their wheels will forever spin to serve.

Skate On, Sundance

I left that roller rink shorter, sorer, and more aware of a bizarre niche of American culture: the 21^st century roller rink. I will still enjoy a good skate now-and-again, but will exercise caution the next time I venture onto that wooden floor. It's a vicious world that shows no mercy on the faint of heart.

Skate with caution.

25 is the New Dead

I'm getting old.

Now before you laugh, roll your eyes, or otherwise scoff at this admission, read those words again. Do not associate any sort of subjective tone, judgment, or analysis to the phrase.

It's true, isn't it?

I've recently become aware of a curious phenomenon. For over 25 years now, I've been getting older. While I was busy running, jumping, and playing, I was getting older. Cruising in my hand-me-down jalopy, I was changing. During that four year edification stint at Monmouth College, time was silently wreaking havoc on me; and now, through quantitative analysis, I've come to the conclusion that I have in fact been aging this whole time.

In the Eye of the Beholder

If she's a couch potato, does that make her a "Russet" Hound?

The realization came a few nights ago. Annie had turned in for the night, Ellie had given up on me and curled into a little ball beside me as I toiled away, recording a new piece of music. After a few hours of editing, I had finished the work and played it back for review.

As I listened to the music play back, I closed my eyes and rested my head in my hands. I allowed my body to disconnect from the world as my mind honed in on the details of the music, scanning for errors and discrepancies. As the song finished, I awoke from my physical dormancy. I blinked away the spots of light, my eyes struggling to adjust to the computer screen.

As I stared, my eyes refused to hone in on the information before me. I blinked, telescoping my head closer to the screen, then back out again. Eventually my vision returned to a semblance of its former accuracy, but even the next morning, my eyes were ever so slightly out of focus. I own a pair of low prescription reading glasses and have been wearing them with much greater regularity since.

I wish this case of macular degeneration was the only evidence I had of my own impending mortality, but as I look back at the last few years, there is more data supporting this hypothesis.

Back to the Future

This quarter century carapace of mine has long since departed from the posh life. It's been drug through more than its fair share of auto accidents, camping trips, sleepless nights, and chronic illnesses. Until recently, I can honestly say that my body has bounced back from everything it's been dealt; but since I've graduated college, something has changed.

My back hurts. I'm going to admit right up front that after long hours building theater sets, working out, or heavy lifting, I can feel it in my back. During the month of October, I was in a musical where I had to do some fairly strenuous gyration in stiletto heels (don't ask) and, about halfway through the production's five week run, my back was on fire. It was not only physically painful, it was also hard on my ego as I limped around like a senior citizen at bingo night.

Good Night Sweetheart

The nail in the coffin of my youth and vitality is the fact that the age of all-nighters has come and gone. In college, I could remain alert and youthful into the wee hours of the morning, for work or for play. Anymore, my body bids the world adieu after 11pm, whether I agree or not. The term “Hitting a brick wall” has never been as apt a description as when I am trying to work on a project and I pass that demarcation zone. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, where I'm at, but I am ready to be horizontal and unconscious.

In college, I once spent almost 60 consecutive hours awake, lucid, and producing meaningful content that resulted in A's and B's in multiple courses. I remember social occasions ending with a few friends fervently discussing nothing in particular while the sun rose over our cigars and whatever beer remained in the cases at our feet. I remember sitting up all night at Boy Scout camp, watching over Honor Society candidates, with nothing but a crackling fire to keep me company as I communed with the trees around me.

Once, a few hours of sleep could fuel me for days. Now, I contemplate sleeping over my lunch break.

25 is the New Dead

I am not complaining. I am not interested in hearing any “Just wait til you're my age...” remarks, so save them for your grandkids.

Everyone expects to hear groans and complaints about aches, pains, indigestion, and incontinence from those who have reached the venerable middle ages. It's as if you are deemed an invalid if you mention a hangnail before reaching 40. But as I've transitioned into adulthood, I've seen a large number of people in similar situations, lamenting the sudden lost virility of their youth.

Am I saying that I need a walker? By no means. Ask my wife – I have been claiming that I'll live to see my 125^th birthday for a while now. I have every intention of reaching that destination, with all my wits about me, pants unsoiled.

What I am saying is that I've learned how I need to pace myself. I believe I can do anything I put my mind to, but I cannot do everything at once. When I worked at my grandfathers baler implement, there was a phrase we used for an old piece of machinery that had been poorly cared for:

“Rode hard and put away wet.”

The key to becoming a renaissance man may be to master one thing before moving on to the next. For the betterment of myself, as well as the longevity of my carcass.

Easier said than done.

Seasonal Affect

It's cold. For those of you who are not in in the Midwest, take my word for it.

My car thermometer read a balmy one degree Fahrenheit this morning as I mad my way out of the parking lot. I backed into the alley and, as I shifted into drive to begin my commute, continued to slide backwards. No matter how much my tires protested the backwards motion, I continued to move in reverse. After a few failed attempts to gain yardage, I opted to work with the forces of physics. As I backed down the alley, I hoped no one would come out of their garages and see me creeping down the lane in reverse. Once I reached the street, I was able to continue my journey facing the proper direction.

I've spoken to many people over the last month who've all made similar claims about this inclement iciness.

“The weather puts me in a foul mood.”

“I'm tired of being cold all the time!”

“It gets too dark too early.”

“I can't feel my fingers.”

My father, a born and bred Iowan, even left last week for the warmer climes of Houston Texas. This ardent opposition to winter got me thinking about seasonal affect disorder, a psychological disorder that has come to my attention in the last few years. Here is what the Mayo Clinic has to say about SAD:

“Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody. Less often, seasonal affective disorder causes depression in the spring or early summer.”

Definition taken from www.Mayoclinic.com

From this idea, I started creating a person that not only experienced mood swings or lethargy during the winter months, but was so brought down by the drabness of the snow and slush, that he actually detached from reality. The only thing that kept him attached to some semblance of this world was a woman he loved. I don't know if her love was reciprocated, or if she even knew of his existence, but his belief in her attachment is what keeps him tethered to reality, if ever so slightly.

As our disconnected character wanders through life, he gets lost in the monochromatic gray, misplacing the horizon and falling off the sidewalk, into the ashen ether. He is brought back to earth by a prescription, but whether that medicinal solution in actually a productive addition to his life is questionable.

I don't know where this character goes from here. The story may continue with another song, or essay, or some other medium. But for now, it's just seasonal affect.

Seasonal Affect

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Drive around the town I don't know where to go

Stare at twinkling lights, amid the falling snow

I don't know

Lets run away

I don't know

Let's run away

Together

Frustrated with all this madness

Curtsy the world insincere gladness

I don't know who

Lets get away

I don't know who

Let's get away

Together

The land the sea the sky they fade to gray

Unsure of where to step, of what's terrain

I don't know who this life is for

Let's float away

I don't know who I am any more

Let's float away

Together

The frozen ground it falls away beneath my feet

Barren tree tops they shrink away in this retreat

I don't know anything for sure

Let's fly away

I don't know where to find the floor

Let's fly away

Together

The pastel doctors reign me in prescribing rope

Tie me to a lamppost in the park force-feed me hope

I don't what to do any more

Let's break away

I don't what I'm fighting for

Let's break away

Together

Greeting cards wish peace on earth good will towards men

speak to me in foreign tongues and unfamiliar pen

I don't know who you are anymore

Let's fade away

I don't know how I've come so far

Let's fade away

Together

Dearest Annabelle

Christmas music is in full force. On the radio, in department stores, and in my head. I have a confession to make.

I love Christmas music.

I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.

So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.

Football on Christmas, 1914

The impetus behind Dearest Annabelle came to me when I heard someone talking about the unofficial truce's that happened during World War I between the British and German soldiers on and around Christmas. The details vary by incident, but the gist is that the soldiers stopped fighting, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and in at least one case, played a pickup football game. This ability to step outside of themselves and find some human decency amidst such a horrific conflict is something from which we can all take some pointers.



Dearest Annabelle

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Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.

How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue

Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield

Though so many men have died 
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you

Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
 
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you

Through the crispness of this 
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true

Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit

Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht

As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new

Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on 
turn into dew

Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land

Stille nacht

Heilige nacht


Tell your friends! Tweet it, Facebook it, spread it around like the flu virus!

Traffic Patterns & Non Conformists

Standing outside the Harrison Hilltop Theatre tonight, I saw as entertaining a performance from the traffic that passed by on the busy one way street as I did at the production of which I'd just walked out.

We were milling about after the show, discussing politics as they related to the farce on the evenings playbill, The Complete History of America, Abridged. During our conversation a car cruised down the street, pulled out into the intersection, and realizing that he was halfway through the red light, froze, not sure whether to back up into oncoming traffic, or run the light.

I attempted to help him with that decision by beckoning him to simply drive on. At that point, he'd already violated the cease and desist order that the overhead signal had commanded. He shrugged and took my advice. We chuckled and then went back to our conversation.

A few moments later, a peculiar looking car came by. It was bedecked in what appeared to be Post-it-notes. As the car fluttered by, we all did a double take, then agreed that, yes, it must have been Post-its. It should be noted that we cannot verify that they were Post-it-notes, but if they were, that man will never forget where he's going.

We resumed our conversation.

Three minutes later, at the same stoplight, another car pulled into the intersection, then suffered an attack of indecision. Again, I waved the befuddled driver on, and they slowly rolled through the intersection, relieved to make it through unscathed and unarrested. We comment on how odd the traffic has been. Little did we know, it was about to get worse.

Not five minutes later, a woman turns onto Harrison from a side street, and commences to careen up the four lanes of the one way street, against the impending traffic. She must have reached 30 M.P.H before realizing that the massive flood of headlights bearing down on her was an indicator of the grave mistake she'd made. She veered off the by-way, but having no side street to relieve her, she instead opted for the grassy lawn of an elementary school. She sat there for a while, waiting for traffic to slow so she could integrate herself into the proper flow of cars and trucks. A few moments later, a police car pulled up along side her vehicle and blocked traffic, allowing her to sheepishly crawl back into traffic – this time traveling downstream.

This is where the story could have ended, if these two characters hadn't gotten stuck at the now infamous traffic signal directly north of our vantage point. As the woman and the police officer sat at the red light, we stood there and blatantly stared at the two parties. Was the officer going to pull her over for her inability to determine the flow of traffic? Was he going to let her off with the shame of her own malfeasance? The red light stretched on for hours as we discussed the possibilities, not trying to hide our vicarious engagement in this precarious event.

Finally the light changed and the woman timidly wheeled past us and attempted to turn off the main thoroughfare. Her eyes were locked on the road, arguably to avoid eye contact with the group of gawking on-lookers. She crawled onto the side street, careful not to make even the tiniest of mistakes.

Two seconds after she had passed, the officer meandered through the intersection in lukewarm pursuit. He glanced as us and, with a nod and a grin, flipped his lights on and rounded the corner, stopping the woman dead in her tracks.

The roar of laughter from our small contingency rivaled the guffaws of the show, but were so much heartier because the source of the humor was so real. It was so asinine, you can't make this stuff up.

So if you're ever on the corner of 16^th street and Harrison street, and are looking for something to do, just look at the traffic. Countless hours of entertainment, and you'll never want to drive down Harrison Street again.

The Only Thing to Fear...

Annie and I helped pass out candy at a friends house this Halloween. This family has one of the most elaborate front yard horror displays of any I've seen. A graveyard with an unearthed coffin, a butcher shop resplendent with various dismembered appendages, A body hanging from a noose that, when activated, will jerk and kick for its lack of life. It is thorough, to say the least. I agreed to play a part in their terror filled production, along with a few of their other friends. One man was the butcher, carving up arms, legs, and heads. There were people portraying all the horror favorites – Jason, Freddie Krueger, and Michael Myers. I was given a generic goblin mask and told to mill about, jumping out when candy grabbers passed my way. I begrudgingly tried this for a while, but after feeling very awkward and completely not scary, I eventually opted for a more subtle approach. I sat myself down against a hay bale and did my best dummy impersonation. Sitting as motionless as possible, I waited for a group of ghouls to pass my way, then I slowly turned my head, following them with my rubbery eyes. I didn't make a sound. I didn't move any other muscle. I just watched. What I saw was very interesting.

Pre-teens resembling rejects from the Insane Clown Posse came up to the display and shouted,

“Hey! Gimme some candy!”

Sitting next to the candy cauldron, I turned to the terse carnies and clarified,

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

“You heard me. Gimme some candy man!”

I was having some trouble wrapping my brain around the brazenness of the young mans demand. I pushed him for a more appropriate request,

“I would argue that you've known what to say in this situation since you were old enough to form full sentences. You make the proper request, and I'll give you some candy. That's the way it works.”

The punk shifted his weight, obviously annoyed. He finally muttered those three key words, and I graced him with a packet of sweet tarts and a sucker. As he swaggered down the driveway, I contemplated chucking a jawbreaker at the upstarts head. Maybe the candy would live up to its name. I restrained myself.

A little later, A man bedecked in a white dress shirt, tall socks and a kilt came by with his son who, in a miniature ninja suit, could not have been over two years old. They stopped at the bottom of the driveway and the dad gave his son a nudge toward the house. The karate kid took one look at the labyrinth of horror that lay between him and the candy at the top of the hill and became petrified. At first, he simply turned and began to move on to the next house. When his father insisted he make this trek, alone, he began a more adamant denial. As he begged his dad to let him pass this house by, the father finally proposed a compromise – they would go up together. The virile Scotsman took his sons hand and began the ascent. But the son was not interested, even with his father at his side. He dug his heels into the driveway and began wailing his disapproval. That is when I grabbed some candy and started down the driveway. My intent was to give this poor child the candy he deserved after all the trepidation he was experiencing. As I approached, his face turned from discomfort to sheer terror. Realizing my misstep, I quickly removed my mask and crouched down to assure him that there was nothing for him to fear. I gave him the chocolate peace offering and bid the nervous ninja farewell.

A while later, a mother and her daughter came by. The girl was dressed as a nondescript witch, and the woman was masquerading as a worn out mother. This child was probably around eight years old, and at the sight of the butcher shop, she was very nervous. When Freddie stepped out of the shadows, she jumped and clung to her mothers leg. But she successfully reached the candy cauldron, treated, and began her way back down the driveway. She was still uneasy as she navigated the frights, but when her mother commented on the scariness of the house, the little girl just turned to her mother and reassured her,

“It's not REAL, Mom!”

After the trick-or-treating was over, we all went inside for an amazing smorgasbord of chili, cornbread, pumpkin seeds, popcorn, and cake. The inside of the house was almost as meticulously decorated as the front yard. Garlands, little Halloween cityscapes, candles, and rubber bats. In the corner was an old witch in a rocking chair which, if you got too close, would start rocking on its own. The witch would cackle, her eyes would glow, and finally her head would lift up from her shoulders. One of our friends' brothers was at the party with his two eighteen month old twins. These two children were incredibly inquisitive, unafraid to talk to any of the other party goers, and as rambunctious as can be. Toward the end of the night, the father decided he should get a picture of the two children on the lap of the hideous animatronic witch. As he sat the little boy on her lap, the child began wailing and squirming for his life. He gave up on his son and attempted to get the little girl into the witches maws. Same result. They quickly retired the photo opportunity and released the children back into the fray of the other kids. Watching this exchange left me with some thoughts.

Are we afraid of goblins and ghouls from inception? Is there something inherently scary about the mask that Michael Myers wears, or the Freddie Krueger ensemble? Why were the twins so afraid of the witch? At less than two years of age, had they been exposed to enough to identify a witch, let alone correlate one with fear? When does a child learn to step back and separate the fiction from the fact, and say,

“It's not REAL, Mom!”

And when is it fair to expect your child to strike out on their own and face their fears? When can we expect a healthy amount of rationale to guide us through life? I would argue that it never fully works for some, afraid to face any amount of uncertainty or risk. And for others, the fear reaction is still dormant, causing uninhibited carousing and risk taking, almost to a fault. I think that the majority of us fall somewhere in between. Hopefully we can help guide the next generations through the labyrinths of their own fears, shaping them into cautious, yet bold individuals.

The Ballad of Three Chilean Hearts

This song was born out of a story I heard during coverage of the Chilean mining incident earlier this year. Upon hearing of the mine collapse, locals came in droves to hold vigil for their trapped countrymen. Friends, co-workers, children, wives, and even mistresses. That is where the story gets interesting.

Miner Celebrating Rescue

One of the miners had both a bride and a mistress, and the subterranean catastrophe brought them together in a way no one had anticipated. I can only imagine the conversation they must have had while waiting for their shared love to return. That is where the song picks up.

The Ballad of Three Chilean Hearts

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I came to work today like any other day

Digging coal to earn my bread, turning dirt into my pay

But then the walls came crashing down

Trapping me a mile under ground

Tell me wife I'm doing fine

Stuck down here in this mine

Send food and send some wine

Until then I'll bide my time

I lay these flowers down for my man underground

Our lady pray for us, bring him home safe and sound

Oh god bring my husband back to me

Back to the surface where he's s'posed to be

Tell my husband that I'm here

Tell him there's nothing to fear

I will hold this vigil dear

I will not leave till he's appeared

My love so soft and sweet again when shall we meet

I miss your loving touch In that soft and sweet retreat

My darling soon I'll be above

Hold on tight and do not fret my dove

The darkness of this cave

The secret love we made

Your scarlet passion of saves

Gives me strength and keeps me brave

I heard the new's today my lovers trapped down there

In mourning I will wait until he's in my care

Who are you waiting for my dear

Why does that picture look familiar

My man's been at your door

Senorita tell me more

although you are a whore

Right now I hate him more

Show me the light of day endlessly I fervent pray

Unite me with the one I love and above ground I'll always stay

Is that the rescue team up there

Tell my flower God will soon answer her prayer

As we ascend this hell

My good fortune will tell

Dios me you've served me well

I avoid the death toll bell

Upon the blinding light here I meet a frightening sight

One I'm wed and one I might on a desperate lust filled night

Never were the twain supposed to meet

Suddenly the cavern seems a sweet retreat

Both of you I can explain

No need to be profane

Oh god they wish me pain

Deliver me just once again

Feel free to share your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. Please realize that this is an extremely rough cut of this piece – an early draft. stay tuned for harmonization, as well as the possible addition of some accordion accompaniment.
 

On the Greyhound

Note: This is a weekly element of the MUSINGS where I share music I've been working on, as well as other original works or interpretations by musicians who submit things to me at chris.walljasper@gmail.com. 

The purpose of this segment is to get feedback from viewers on the work that is presented. Please offer respectful ideas and/or criticism, with the intention of improving the music presented. I hope you enjoy.

I was talking to my friend Brian earlier this summer, and he told me this story about two brothers who owned a grocery store in his hometown in central Illinois. It was a locally owned grocery, the type you don't see around much any more. The store wasn't a warehouse of pristine florescent light and overwhelming options. It was dimly lit, sparse, and dingy. Scores of students had worked in this little shop over the years, earning cash to be spent on a sultry Saturday night, put down towards a beat up old car, or tucked away for a college dream. They bagged, checked, swept, and stocked their way to a meager check at the end of each month.

The owners were well known in the community. Not necessarily well respected, but everyone knew the brothers. They were a little eccentric, but nothing that made people leery. They weren't the type of guys you'd see on the City Council, but neither were they considered low life's. The high school guys who worked at the store were privy to a stash of dirty magazines that one owner kept in the back room. It was rumored that one of the owners carried a gun while taking the deposit into the bank.

Then one day, the two brothers got into an argument. They began yelling in the store, stormed outside, where the altercation escalated to physical violence. Some say it was about money, but no one knows for sure. The only thing that is for certain is that at the end of the day, one brother lay dead in the parking lot, gunned down by his own flesh and blood. The rain fell intermittently as the investigators assessed the situation.

The day the incident happened, a friend of ours was on a bus in a near by town. The bus driver received a call and, upon hearing of the tragedy, pulled the vehicle over and began sobbing uncontrollably. The event literally brought this little town to a standstill.

This story has a sepia-toned, reminiscent imagery about it, at least for me. It feels like the small town in which I grew up, where everyone knows everyone's business, and news travels faster than the afternoon papers can report. The scandal, the horror, the foundation shaking magnitude of this event makes everyone question what they've known to be real in their own lives.

So out of that story, a song was born. Brian and I discussed how this story was so human. We could relate to it because we've all been at our wits end with someone close to us. But most of us don't take it to such a drastic level. We curse, we scream, we punch, but do we ever think of actually ending that persons existence? In this song, I attempted to convey the idea that this could have just as easily been any one of us. Who knows what any of us all capable of.

On the Greyhound

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Times are hard for everyman

To each his own doing the best that we can

As for me, I'm just traveling through

finding work and doing the best I can do

Middle America, late July

Hot enough to make the Devil cry

Greyhound bus grinds to a halt

Ain't going no further tonight on the old asphalt

Tensions rise in the July sun

when your 'gainst the wall there's nowhere to run

Behind the counter's more than tobacco and gin

Blood runs thick from your next of kin

Money turns a man's soul black

Jealousy cannot bring it back

One man dead, one man in chains

A family torn 'tween prison and the grave

Sometimes I think about those times

When everything was yours and mine

In the end there's no way to share

and now there is no one. There is no where.

Tensions rise in the July sun

when your 'gainst the wall there's nowhere to run

Behind the counter's more than tobacco and gin

Blood runs thick from your next of kin

On the greyhound no one knows your name

fade away everyone's the same

If you have any ideas or comments, please post below. Feel free to offer suggestions on style, technique, recording methods, instrumentation, lyrics, or anything else. Again, the purpose of these entries is to spur dialogue that will improve the level of this piece.

It's October, so If you've been working on a piece of music that is morose, sinister, or downright scary, send it to me at chris.walljasper@gmail.com, along with the back story and lyrics and I'll post it. It doesn't have to be polished or well produced, just an original composition or interpretation. I'll be posting one song each week.