Happy birthday

Landslide - Fleetwood Mac

Occupy the Microphone on hiatus

As some of you may have figured out by now, our radio show is currently on extended hiatus.

This has been a depressing development, but necessary.






The Occupy the Microphone crew is currently regrouping and trying to figure out what to do next. We are thinking about a group-oriented show (modeled on some of our very successful shows with Traci Fant) ... or maybe just concentrate on delivering a regular podcast? Over the past two and a half years, our show has been broadcast at three different time-slots on three different local radio stations. We need to step back and figure out what we want to do and the most economical way to get it done.

It's great to broadcast the news that no one else here in South Carolina will cover. We pride ourselves on having done that, but we also know that talk-radio tends to be a right-wing medium. We knew that our nationally-oriented shows were downloaded most often on the internet (as podcasts), and were far more popular than our local broadcasts. By contrast, our regionally-oriented shows got us a lot of local attention but didn't get the internet downloads that the big national-stories did. After awhile, we didn't know if we were (basically) a national or local show? Should we lead with one or the other type of story first? We dithered, argued, worried ... and unlike rich Republicans, we don't have marketing analysts and suchlike, to definitively tell us what to do. (sigh)

If we go back on local radio, it is likely we will need a flurry of advertising to keep us afloat this time.

Our hiatus is also due to a variety of other factors, in addition to our ongoing collective dithering over radio-show goals. These factors include my untimely and unnerving car accident, as well as the loss of a major advertiser ... but most important: Our producer, Gregg Jocoy, is dealing with his mother-in-law's extended illness. She is near death and is dying at home, not in a hospital. Gregg's family has the help of professional caregivers and hospice care, but caring for a terminally-ill person is still an enormous, overwhelming task. (Our last show talked about how most people die in hospitals now and not at home, and asked: Has this been good or bad for our culture as a whole?) Such work is emotionally draining as well as physically trying. Our best wishes are with Gregg and his family.

Meetings are scheduled, things are being cussed and discussed (as my grandmother used to say), and I will surely keep you updated.

Stay tuned, sports fans.

DEFENSE OF MARRIAGE ACT ruled unconstitutional by SCOTUS

As we say here in Carolina, HAIL YEAH!!!


From NBC NEWS:

Supreme Court strikes down Defense of Marriage Act, paves way for gay marriage to resume in California
By Pete Williams and Erin McClam, NBC News

In a landmark ruling for gay rights, the Supreme Court on Wednesday struck down the Defense of Marriage Act, the 1996 law blocking federal recognition of same-sex marriages.

The decision was 5-4, written by Justice Anthony Kennedy. It said that the law amounted to the “deprivation of the equal liberty of persons that is protected by the Fifth Amendment.” In a separate case, the court ruled that it could not take up a challenge to Proposition 8, the California law that banned gay marriage in that state. That decision means that gay marriage will once again be legal in California.

That decision was also 5-4, written by Chief Justice John Roberts.

The ruling on the Defense of Marriage Act means that the federal government must recognize the gay marriages deemed legal by the states — 12 plus the District of Columbia, before the California case was decided. The law helps determine who is covered by more than 1,100 federal laws, programs and benefits, including Social Security survivor benefits, immigration rights and family leave.

“DOMA instructs all federal officials, and indeed all persons with whom same-sex couples interact, including their own children, that their marriage is less worthy than the marriages of others,” the ruling said. It added that the law was invalid because there was no legitimate purpose for disparaging those whom states “sought to protect in personhood and dignity.”

President Barack Obama, in a post on Twitter, said that the ruling was a “historic step forward for #MarriageEquality.”

Kennedy was joined in the majority by the four members of the court’s liberal wing, Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Stephen Breyer, Sonia Sotomayor and Elena Kagan. Dissenting were Roberts and Justices Antonin Scalia, Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito.

Scalia, in his dissent, wrote: “We have no power to decide this case. And even if we did, we have no power under the Constitution to invalidate this democratically adopted legislation. The Court’s errors on both points spring forth from the same diseased root: an exalted conception of the role of this institution in America.”

Cheers went up outside the Supreme Court, where supporters of gay marriage waved signs, rainbow banners and flags with equality symbols.
The ruling comes as states are authorizing gay marriage with increasing speed and with public opinion having turned narrowly in favor of gay marriage. Under the law, gay couples who are legally married in their states were not considered married in the eyes of the federal government, and were ineligible for the federal benefits that come with marriage.

The case before the Supreme Court, U.S. v. Windsor, concerned Edith Windsor and Thea Spyer, a lesbian couple who lived together in New York for 44 years and married in Canada in 2007. When Spyer died in 2009, Windsor was hit with $363,000 in federal estate taxes. Had the couple been considered by the federal government to be married, Windsor would not have incurred those taxes. Kennedy, in the ruling, said that New York’s decision to authorize gay marriage was a proper exercise of its authority, and reflected “the community’s considered perspective on the historical roots of the institution of marriage and its evolving understanding of the meaning of equality.”

President Bill Clinton signed the act into law in September 1996. A court ruling in Hawaii had raised the prospect that that state might become the first to authorize gay marriage.

At the time, some members of Congress believed that the Defense of Marriage Act might be a compromise that would take the air out of a movement to amend the Constitution to block gay marriage.

LOLGOP just Tweeted: "Life would be so much better if Antonin Scalia just had a blog."

Ain't it the truth. Today, however, he just has to stand aside and DEAL WITH IT. Let the preachers all go cover themselves in ashes and sackcloth and REPENT--because their grandchildren will be as ashamed of them as southern white kids are now ashamed of their racist segregationist grandparents.

We will be covering this on our radio show today, so stay tuned.

Wordless Wednesday: pick your favorite!

Okay, today we have a sweet, sleeping baby grandson (held by my son-in-law), and my daughter's new tattoo.

Merry Christmas from the Family

FOR THE FIFTH YEAR IN A ROW, I hereby present our official Dead Air Christmas tradition of the ages, Robert Earl Keen!

Enjoy, and Feliz Navidad!

The Real Daisy

... was my grandmother. I have no idea when or where this photo was taken, but it was probably in Pittsburgh.

Her eyes were so black, you couldn't even see the pupils. Her hair was likewise very black, naturally curly and silky.

My grandmother was Melungeon, which I have always intended to blog about, but there is so little known about them, I don't know exactly what to write. Suffice to say, they were very WEIRD backwoods people with all kinds of BIZARRE traditions you never heard of. (I later understood this is why my family was so odd and never fit in with the other nice, Midwestern families on the block.) Her youngest brother (who never left the backwoods) had an indescribable, hard-to-place accent that was nearly indecipherable, as did both of her parents. It went beyond mere Appalachian accents, and it was nice to finally learn the reason why.

When the Melungeons were asked questions by census takers, they told them all kinds of creative stories, claiming to be Portuguese, Arabs, Jews, and whatever else they thought the census-taker wanted to hear. That's why nobody knew for sure what race/ethnicity they were, and historians are still arguing over it. Much has finally been sorted out through DNA: Melungeons were "tri-racial isolates" -- Native American indigenous people (and refugees from colonial encroachment) and free African-Americans, intermarried with white colonists who decided to go off and live in the wilderness for whatever reasons. This accounts for their deep secrecy and suspicion of strangers (and especially the government).

When white colonists eventually migrated to the Cumberland Gap and the New River (where my grandmother was born), they found these strange folks already living there.

I am interested in learning more, as it becomes known. In studying the Melungeons, it is fascinating to note how some people don't mind being one of the first Americans, but twist themselves in knots to deny the African ancestors. My grandmother told me that as a child, she always knew there were Africans in her family tree... but that is not the rude terminology she used, which I will not repeat here. (What is interesting is that she found this amusing and never denied it. In all honesty, she seemed to find the idea of being related to Cherokee more disturbing.) When people snootily remarked that she looked like Lena Horne, she was obviously too thrilled to get mad about the racial thing.

Second photo is of my grandmother and my mother, Betty, on the right. I estimate their ages to be 37 and 21, respectively. (1955 - Parkersburg, WV)

















Third photo is my mother and me, ages 38 and 15. (1973 - Columbus, OH)
Yes, before you ask, I think that IS real fur. She thought fake fur was low class.

I miss them a lot during this time of year.

And now, your turn. Who do you miss?

Why I hate Newt: It's personal

At left: January 2000 cover of Atlanta Magazine, courtesy of Rebecca Burns and her great memory.




Going to suburban Atlanta for the holiday, later in the week. Now that Newtie is back in the news, I will be hearing all about him from my father-in-law (again), who considers him the most dishonest of the most dishonest politicians. I remember the 90s as one long anti-Newt screed, over various Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. It was a nice vacation for my nerves when Newt retired from government to take $1.5 million from Freddie Mac, leaving the good citizens of Georgia alone. (Although lots of 90s survivors have never trusted him, for a variety of reasons.)

And now he's back and noisily running for President, with his famous cost-cutting measures, such as staying in the SC Governor's mansion on my dime. And he instructs us dirty Occupiers to take a bath and get a job! This has brought out some nasty tweets in response:

You know #Newt, some in #OWS may not bathe as often as you, but I'd bet most of them wouldn't divorce their spouses who are dying of cancer.

Direct hit!

Yes, its hard to swallow self-righteous moralism from serial monogamists who owe Tiffany's a half million dollars, and expect to be taken seriously. But there are Newt signs all over my neighborhood and across from St Mary Magdalene in Simpsonville, so I guess he is making important political inroads in the Palmetto State.

He is an awful, resentful, arrogant, duplicitous, dishonest man. And not just in his personal life, but in every single thing he does and every single thing he touches.

This tells us so much about the Republican Party, that this common shyster is what they are left with.

And besides that, he is going to ruin ANOTHER Thanksgiving for me as I listen to a catalog of his sins. Dyspepsia awaits, and plenty of it.

(burp)

Tuesday Tunes: Stolen gravestones and other musings

Some Tuesday tunes to bum you out and then pick you back up again.

If you are already bummed out, you can jump to the last two.

~*~

Listen to how these gee-tars all sound like whips. Bloody incredible... especially around the 3:50 mark. This kind of otherworldly guitar-playing inspired people to do bizarre things, like steal Duane Allman's graveyard monuments and headstones in Macon, Georgia.

WHERE would you put such a thing? In your house?

Glad to see that they have replaced them! (see link) I've heard the gravestones were stolen multiple times. For some reason, that strikes me as very southern... it also puts me in mind of the psychology behind Catholic relics, i.e. if you steal the gravestone, maybe you will one day play like that, too? (I own lots of relics, as you probably know, and I won't get rid of them, just in case.)

This is a great song for drinking in excess, so be careful. Especially if incidents in your life are shaping up like the incidents in the song... and believe me, I know what I am talking about!

And pay attention to Berry Oakley's fabulous rumbly bass line that begins the song... in live performances, people would start screaming and hollering even before the killer-whip-riffs start... the rumbly bass signaled the beginning of a southern-drinking-man's symphony...

Allman Brothers Band - Whipping Post



~*~

This song is for my stepfather, Elliott Horn, full name George Elliott Horn, a multi-talented guitarist and singer (also played mandolin, steel guitar, banjo, bass). Born in Logan, West Virginia to Cherokee parents, Arminda and George, July 1933. Death in Canton, Ohio, 1968. (leaving this info for the genealogists among you!)

He was once a lover of Jackie DeShannon, which made my mother mad. We were not allowed to mention her name or play her records. (But when she came on the radio or TV, my mother would always listen to/watch her carefully.) He was also briefly in Billy Joe Royal's band, called The Royal Crowns. That riff you hear on "Down in the Boondocks" which makes the whole song? Is my stepfather. Interestingly, hearing the song always comforts me and brings me Elliott's presence, whereas the following song is difficult for me to get through, at least on most occasions. Luckily it is now somewhat obscure, although there is also a lyrical reference to it in my favorite movie, Taxi Driver.

I loved Elliott very much; far, far more than my biological father.

This song is about him.

So much so, I can only listen to it maybe twice a year, and this is one of those days.

Kris Kristofferson - The Pilgrim, Chapter 33



~*~

Okay, who knew that Tommy Boyce committed suicide? I just wrote (up there) that you should jump to the last two songs, but that was before I checked Wikipedia. Well, damn, another rock and roll suicide (deliberate David Bowie reference). That is sad. :(

How could anybody who writes happy songs for the Monkees get depressed? That seems to go against the fundamental laws of the universe or something.

Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart wrote over 300 songs; their songs sold over 42 million records.

I just wrote about my stepfather who died in 1968, which was the year of this tune, which is why I thought of it. The song and the duo were also featured on an old episode of "I Dream of Jeannie" for some inexplicable reason. (If I hadn't seen it, more than once, I wouldn't believe it either.)

I am a big sucker for the Hup Hup! (or whatever he is hiccuping there, at about 1:28 and 2:13) right before they sing the chorus, which I think made the upcoming-chorus somehow more exciting. Pop music genius!

Rest in Peace, Tommy.

Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart - I wonder what she's doing tonight



~*~

I love the Perry-Masonish horn arrangement in this song, which made it sound like a melodramatic 50s drive-in B-Movie. It is actually the theme to an A-movie with Kirk Douglas, surprisingly enough. (1961)

It comes on LOUD, so turn it down a wee bit first.

Town Without Pity - Gene Pitney



~*~

Perry Mason?--say the kids... huh?

Yes, this is one of the best noir numbers you will EVER hear... I associate it with very early, almost unconscious childhood. The brassy blast at the end of "Town Without Pity" makes me think of the brassy blast at the end of this TV theme song.

I watched the dopey reruns for years, just so I could hear the music. I also love the late 50s/early 60s aesthetic of the show: gigantic Buicks and coffee-tables, and men wearing hats during the day. (The clothes were the GREATEST, as regular readers know, I love that era of fashion.)

Raymond Burr was gay, which as a world-class scandalmonger, I already knew... but who else did? What would my grandmother have said, if she'd known? She worshiped Erle Stanley Gardner, and by extension, Raymond Burr.

I could only find a short clip, which apparently is from German TV...there is a longer version of this that closed the show--it ran more than a minute. Can't find that one. Poo! :( This will have to do.

Old Perry Mason TV theme



~*~

Speaking of the south (which I mentioned way up there)... only someone living here could have written this. I've been thinking of it a LOT lately.

For my friends in the Occupy movement!

These bastards stole their power from the victims of the Us v. Them years,
Wrecking all things virtuous and true
The undermining social democratic downhill slide into abysmal
Lost lamb off the precipice into the trickle down runoff pool
They hypnotised the summer, 1979
Marched into the capital brooding duplicitous, wicked and able, media-ready,
Heartless, and labeled
Super US citizen, super achiever,
Mega ultra power doesn't relax.
Defense, defense, defense, defense. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
Yeah, yeah, yeah

The information nation took their clues from all the sound-bite gluttons
1980, 84, 88, 92 too, too
How to be what you can be, junk, damn junk in your energy
How to walk in dignity with throw up on your shoes
They amplified the autumn, 1979
Calculate the capital, up the republic my skinny ass
TV tells a million lies
The paper's terrified to report
Anything that isn't handed on a presidential spoon,
I'm just profoundly frustrated by all this.
So, fuck you, man (fuck 'em)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
If they wasn't there we would have created them
Maybe, it's true,
But I'm resentful all the same
Someone's got to take the blame
I know that this is vitriol
No solution, spleen venting,
But I feel better having screamed--don't you?
They desecrate the winter, 1979
Capital collateral

Brooding duplicitous, wicked and able, media-ready,
Heartless, and labeled
Super US citizen, super achiever,
Mega ultra power doesn't relax.
Defense, defense, defense, defense. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland
Yeah, yeah, yeah, ignoreland. Yeah, yeah, yeah

I did not do the revolution
Thank you

I know exactly what he means.

R.E.M. - Ignoreland

Grandma Daisy's: "We don't dial 911"

I see Renegade Evolution's existential question... and I raise her one! At left, photo reads: Grandma Daisy's: "We don't dial 911" and is punctuated with a nice old-school firearm. (This is an antique store in Fredericksburg, Texas, and of course, I could not resist taking the photo for my blog!)

Not coincidentally, various folks over the years have joked to your humble narrator, that I probably didn't need 911, and they are probably right about that. ;)

Speaking of which: Suitably adorable Grandma photos of my trip, for anyone interested. I loved seeing my grandbabies! (I worried that photos of me and Barbie would ruin my feminist cred, but hey, I think that was already compromised a long time ago!)

~*~

A sort of all-purpose post, as I create links for the Daisy Deadhead show tomorrow. (Commercial: LIKE US ON FACEBOOK!) I suppose I could bring my laptop to the radio station (WFIS, tomorrow, 9-10am), but trying to fiddle with the keyboard and talk, at the same time? Sounds risky to me. I am NOT Wolfman Jack. Maybe when I get a little more proficient at this stuff.

First up, will be the illuminating story in the Austin Statesman, Personal ties key to Rick Perry's wealth:

Gov. Rick Perry might like for people to believe he made more than $1 million while holding elective office in Texas through shrewd business decisions, but in almost every case he was steered to his investments.

From his father-in-law renting space in a building Perry owned back home in Haskell to a high school buddy from Future Farmers of America helping him make a million in a Horseshoe Bay land deal, Perry has been more than just lucky or shrewd. He has been a man with friends.

The question of whether Perry's real estate windfalls have been a result of friends helping friends or are evidence of some sort of corruption has been fodder for some of his past campaign opponents.

"From abusing his power over appointments to getting sweetheart real estate deals from supporters, he's a regular get-rich-quick icon," U.S. Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison's campaign manager said of Perry before last year's gubernatorial primary.

During the general election campaign last year, Democratic opponent Bill White said of one deal, "Perry's investment was enhanced by a series of professional courtesies and personal favors."

Over the course of about 18 years , Perry and his wife, Anita, grew from struggling to make ends meet in Haskell County to having a comfortable retirement nest egg built primarily from real estate deals Perry made while he was a statewide elected official.

And rest assured, there is plenty more dirt where THAT came from. Tune in for my personal assessment of Rick Perry's business acumen! NOTE: I DO have my all-purpose, FCC-approved, NO CUSSING sign, as I mentioned HERE, so I am required to keep my anti-Perry commentary squeaky clean. (It's a challenge, but I am up to it.)

On the local front, we will be peeling and digesting State Senator David Thomas (R-of course), who opposes "government spending"--except when the spending is on David Thomas. Another faker, like Governor Haley.

He carefully voted himself a cushy pension for working only A SCANT FEW YEARS:

At age 55, South Carolina state Sen. David Thomas began collecting a pension for his legislative service without leaving office.

Most workers must retire from their jobs before getting retirement benefits. But Thomas used a one-sentence law that he and his colleagues passed in 2002 to let legislators receive a taxpayer-funded pension instead of a salary after serving for 30 years.

Thomas' $32,390 annual retirement benefit — paid for the rest of his life — is more than triple the $10,400 salary he gave up. His pension exceeds the salary because of another perk: Lawmakers voted to count their expenses in the salary used to calculate their pensions.

No other South Carolina state workers get those perks.

Since January 2005, Thomas, a Republican, has made $148,435 more than a legislative salary would have paid, his financial-disclosure records show. At least four other South Carolina lawmakers are getting pensions instead of salaries, netting an extra $292,000 since 2005, records show.

And finally, I will try to include Anna's comments at Mills River Progressive, which came courtesy of Onyx Lynx. (THANK YOU!)

It just seems so obvious, but sometimes, people have to spell out the obvious:

All the Politicos Yapping About "Creating Jobs" Avoid the REAL Solution

Which is to stop sending the jobs overseas. Duh. That would be the logical course of action, if the U.S. Congress actually worked on behalf of the citizenry. Obviously they don't, and therefore none of them will propose the only lasting solutions to our massive unemployment. End our destructive trade policies, restore fair trade policies and practices, invest in new sustainable industries on the domestic front (other than weapons), and sweet pygmy Jeebus STOP REWARDING CORPORATIONS THAT SEND JOBS OVERSEAS!

There. That's not too difficult, is it? It's not rocket science. And it's well within the realm of the possible. But *they* won't do it. They won't discuss it. Almost no one will mention it on the floor of Congress. Why? Why won't the people who supposedly represent our interests do the things that will lead to a reversal of our crumbling fortunes and dismal futures? Because their handlers - their actual bosses, the financial elite, the investor class, the 1% - don't want that.

The reality is that our lives are of no importance to them. In fact, we're obsolete. They make enormous amounts of money by sending our industries, our (former) work to the third world. They're profiting like never before; why on earth would they want to return to the bad old days, when profits were hampered by trade policy, by benefit packages, by paying a middle-class wage?

I will try to quote the whole thing, if there is time. We hope to be hearing directly via telephone from Green Party members who are currently occupying Wall Street. YEAH!

I will also slip in a mention of Duke Energy's intention to raise our utility-rates, and the necessary information about the local public hearings. The print on the teeny-tiny postcard recently mailed out by Duke Energy is nearly microscopic, and very difficult to read.

I'm sure that's only a coincidence. They wouldn't try to dissuade people from coming to the hearings, now would they?

If Disney did a horror movie, might look like this

Left: Victoria's birthday party; she is the one in yellow who looks just like me.







My granddaughter turned six on September 11. I certainly DO wish her birthday was NOT a national day of mourning. To my daughter's credit (that's her in the photo), she has always tried to make her birthdays happy. I don't think Victoria will become self-conscious about the date until she is older, and maybe not even then.

As one commenter on a blog recently said to me: If we let them take our happiness, they have indeed been successful in totally destroying the day. I agree.

Meanwhile, my granddaughter is SIX whole years old! I will be seeing them next week for the first time in over a year, and I am very excited.

And don't these partiers look a little scary? ;)

Let's swim to the moon

At left: Ben Hall, at Bohemian Cafe on Saturday.



One of those things about age that makes me profoundly uncomfortable: I get sentimental very quickly.

Like, really sentimental.

It overtakes me suddenly, and there I am, shedding tears over seemingly peculiar, unrelated or odd events. Such as Ben Hall and his guitar playing. Which was just like my late stepfather's. (Note: although the outdated link claims Ben is 18, he has now reached the ripe old age of 22.)

Until I was sitting there listening to Ben, whom I hadn't heard before, I didn't realize I had unconsciously avoided the music of Chet Atkins for a reason... I was suddenly aware that the "thumb-picking" guitar-style of Ben's, was the same as my stepfather's. I have avoided it for many years, flipped radio channels and such, because it made me so emotional. And as Ben described his style of playing, I thought, oh no... because I probably would have avoided his fabulous guitar playing if I had known.

I listened, and promptly got all teary-eyed and emotional. It is so embarrassing, reminding me of a line from Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now: "I cried like some grandmother." Yeah, I guess he means me. I have arrived!

Does any music do that to you?

Here is Ben's playing, the signature thumb-pickin style.

Cannonball Rag - Ben Hall



~*~

This song is as old as I am, seriously... careful, its about death, and way before the Doors made drowning at night sound sexy and existential.

I can hardly believe its taken me this long to post it!

Endless Sleep - Jody Reynolds



~*~

And speaking of the Doors, here is the 60s version of drowning for fun:

Moonlight Drive - The Doors



Let's swim to the moon
Let's climb through the tide
Penetrate the evening that the
City sleeps to hide
Let's swim out tonight, love
It's our turn to try
Parked beside the ocean
On our moonlight drive

Let's swim to the moon
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side

Nothing left open
And no time to decide
We've stepped into a river
On our moonlight drive

~*~

Sorry so morbid, but its been a rather morbid week in America, yes? ;)

Places I've lived - a Google street view tour

At left: I am born. (First place I lived, according to my birth certificate. There were 5-7 other people living there too, but not certain of the exact number. It's the house in the middle.)



I have finally learned how to make photos of screen shots. Unfortunately, I have not figured out how to crop the picture in Microsoft Paint. If you goof up, makes a big HOLE on the screen! Aiyee!

To celebrate my newfound, hard-won knowledge (took all day!) -- here are some screen shots of places I've lived, lifted wholesale from the redoubtable Google Street View. You could DIE from all the excitement.

I initially did these as a test, and then when I saw the finished result, decided to post them here. I apologize in advance for the rather blah nature of these locales; I'm sorry my life hasn't been lived in particularly picturesque spots. Instead, you get the complete working class tour of OHIO. All of these locations are in Columbus, except for the paper mill. (I guess Massillon, Ohio, is not big enough to get the full Google Street View treatment yet?) I lived in all of these places before the age of 25... my family didn't like to stay in one place. In pre-digital days, it was much harder (if not impossible) for bill collectors to find you if you moved around all the time.

I admit the houses and apartments look rather boring, but my family livened up the block, let me assure you.

I did not attempt to put these in chronological order, since I am not even 100% sure what the order IS, and I know I'd get it messed up. But I did manage to put the schools last, which is saying something!

PS: You can click to enlarge, I just discovered.

Below:

1) This apartment building is currently being torn down or already has been; HERE is a relatively current Facebook photo mid-demolition. (I am not sure if that link will show up or not, some Facebook photos link acceptably and some don't; not sure of the rhyme or reason for that.)

There wasn't any message from God on the building while I lived there, though.

2) I think we were 3rd flat from the end on the right. This is the first place my baby ever lived!

3) This is where I had my first drug overdose as a teenager. Ah, memories. We lived in the apartment furthest from the road, Apt. D.

I really liked it here, despite some accidental mucking around with mama's pills. (Hey, nobody's perfect.)

4) The layout of the apartment in #3, reminded me of this one, where I lived when I started kindergarten. (See, this is why I told you it could never be chronological. Are you kidding?)

5) Ogden Avenue on the Hilltop, the last place I lived before moving south. I loved this old house, which my grandmother was buying on "land contract"--which I never understood. They foreclosed on it anyway.

It did not have that awful white screen on the porch--but I will admit that the ugly green color is the same... mercifully it has faded a bit over time.

6) My mother's house (also on the Hilltop), which was not blue and would never be blue if my mother was still alive. :( She will haunt those poor people for painting it that color!

Although it's 10 rooms, with full attic, garage and basement, the age and location of the house made it a hard-sell... I did not try to stop the foreclosure, but it broke my heart. My mother owned this house since the mid-70s.

7) Duplex with red doors, we lived on the right side. This is where my child was conceived! (more than you really wanted to know)

8) This used to be the Rustic Tavern on West Broad Street, owned by my aunt Ruth. It looked very different then. My mother sang in the country-and-western house-band there, and we lived upstairs.

This is where I first heard Last Date, since I could hear it through the ceiling, and knew this meant they were closing up for the night. I could be sound asleep and still wake up on the first notes of Last Date. (note: evillll YouTube yanked the song in that link, so try this one.)

9) When my mother and stepfather broke up, my mother left me here (age 9) with relatives and promptly disappeared for months. Thus, I didn't like the house.

I do remember that this was where I discovered the Monkees. :)

10) We lived on the right side of this duplex; the tan house on the far left was the home of Mickey Mantle's cousin, also surnamed Mantle, who used to drink (in earnest) with my grandfather. I don't remember his first name since of course, in those days, we called adults "Mr"--thus I recall his name was "Mr Mantle"...

11) Left side of duplex this time! I think the couch on the curb really makes the photo.

12) Isn't that chain-link fence awful?! My grandmother would have totally flipped out. Needless to say, it wasn't there when we lived there.

13) This was a drug store when I lived above it. One of the businesses on the ground floor was the first place I ever smoked weed--an R & B/funk record store called Jim's House of Soul.

It sure was!

14) This old building was the paper mill my stepfather worked in, located in Massillon Ohio. The sidewalk in front is where he walked the picket line during the strike.

There was a huge, musty old room of discarded books, magazines and comics, ready to be recycled into pulp... my stepfather brought me paper bags full of great stuff to read almost every day. THIS is where I learned to LOVE to read, and began reading for pleasure and enjoyment. They were old and sometimes (maddeningly!) had pages missing, but I loved them all. This was where I first learned to love comics, especially. Also, ancient movie magazines... where I first saw my beloved ELIZABETH!

The recycle-room of the paper mill was a magical place to me.

15) Lindbergh Elementary School, where we had to learn to spell CHARLES LINDBERGH correctly on spelling tests. I'll bet you never had to do that.

The iconic "Charlie Brown Christmas" piano music always makes me think of this school; candy canes and cutting out paper snowflakes.

16) Deshler Elementary School, where we were dismissed early after the assasination of JFK.

17) Hilltonia Middle School, which was called JUNIOR HIGH when I attended. I still think JUNIOR HIGH sounds better; who decided to name them all MIDDLE? Yech.

It was NOT a two-toned building when I attended... yech to that too.

18) West High School, my um, alma mater. ((((screams))))

Looks exactly the same.

~*~

Hope you enjoyed your tour!

Stone

This has been a week for the record books. Been down so long, looks like up to me. Born under a bad sign. Hellhound on my trail. Etc. When blues songs define your life, well, that pretty much says it all.

I saw some movies yesterday, and that helped. Yay, escapism!

~*~

Even if it is rather slow and ponderous, I highly recommend STONE, if you want a deeply spiritual character study, highlighting the immediate problems with Christianity. If you already know what the problems are, you'll get it. If you don't, this will put it in stark relief for you, but in a non-confrontational manner. I identified heavily with the protagonist, a convict played by Edward Norton.

Norton is a marvel, possibly the greatest actor of our era. He is psychoanalyzed, sorta kinda, by Robert DeNiro, the greatest actor of HIS era. Watching these two play off each other is the great strength of the movie. It becomes real, right before your eyes, and you totally forget you are watching two well-known movie stars.

I loved it, but certainly, the film is not for everybody. A rather tepid ending, when the dramatic tension between the two leads causes you to expect fireworks. Then you realize, there WERE fireworks, but they were all interior.

Check it out, for something different.

~*~

I also saw BLACK SWAN at last. Natalie Portman says she was inspired by Repulsion, and you can tell. Great inspiration, and the scene in which the nail-clippers jab her is right out of the original.

I was astounded by her thinness (realistic for ballerinas; I'm not criticizing) and hope she's gained some weight for her pregnancy.

Mr Daisy was disappointed by the ending. He wanted her to turn into a giant black swan and fly out into the audience and eat people.

You shouldn't let fan-boys watch this stuff.

~*~

If you pray, pray for me. Whatever you do, please do it. It is not pleasant to lose a parent and a job in one week. The first loss, however, has eclipsed the second one easily. I am pretty numb; I simply didn't know how to write about it until now.

But it's soooo quiet here. I can smell the honeysuckle outside, as the southern spring air drifts in from the woods. And I like not having to dash out the door for a change. (Translation: I think this might be one of those blessings in disguise, but right now, sure doesn't feel that way.)

I love you, my blogger buddies. If you have never commented here (or rarely comment anywhere), how about you leave one and let me know you're out there? It really would help.

More to come. Always.

Gone, when you find that there's no one sleeping

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Columbine shootings, and I meant to link my old post titled Me and Columbine. Sorry about that... posting one day late (and a dollar short). As I wrote in the post, it is also something of a spiritual anniversary of mine.

My thoughts and prayers are with you, Wayne Harris, Katherine Ann Poole, Thomas Klebold, Susan Yassenoff... as so many pray for the victims, I know they often forget to pray for you too, but I don't.

I wish you had your boys back, and I am so sorry.

(The song below is also in the original post.)

~*~

Gone, when you wake in the morning
Gone, when you find that there's no one sleeping
Gone, pretty Penny was her name
She was loved and we all will miss her

Pretty Penny - Stone Temple Pilots

SC dog is smartest in the world!

At left: Chaser the wonder dog, photo by Ken Osburn of The Greenville News.


Mr Daisy's late Uncle Cecil had the ability to train dogs to do all kinds of tricks. He liked to hunt, so he preferred hounds, especially beagles. One beagle had been his favorite, the smartest dog in the world, he said. There was a large painted portrait of the late beagle on his wall. "I loved that dog," he would say wistfully, showing the picture to visitors.

The best trick the dog did (I regret I can't remember the pooch's name) was pick up lettered blocks BY LETTER. Uncle Cecil would keep the blocks in a little bag, and then spread them out on the floor as the dog sat obediently and waited. He would scatter and arrange the lettered wooden blocks, and then, tell the dog to pick up the letter....B!

And the dog did.

Everyone was amazed.

Uncle Cecil would gather up the blocks in the bag and do it over and over, spilling the blocks onto the floor as the dog watched. He would spread the blocks out carefully again, then...F! (He changed the letter each time, which was the really incredible thing.)

And the dog picked up F.

There was never any rhyme or reason to the letters chosen; it was never the same letter every time. People couldn't believe a dog was so smart. They came from miles around to see Uncle Cecil's ultra-smart dog.

Can you guess the trick?

I thought of Uncle Cecil's dog when I heard about Chaser, the smartest dog in upstate South Carolina, maybe the world. He will be profiled on the PBS show NOVA (on February 9th), since he has learned 1000+ words, more than any dog on record. He has over 1000 toys, all with different names, and when he is asked to fetch them by name, he does.

Okay, Uncle Cecil made me skeptical, so I will have to watch NOVA and see if this is for real.

From the GREENVILLE NEWS:

It’s a scientific record.

Chaser is top dog in the current issue of the scientific journal “Behavioural Processes,” as noted in the Christmas Day edition of “The New Scientist,” and will be featured in a Feb. 9 NOVA documentary on PBS television.

Soon after [retired Wofford College psychology professor John] Pilley brought Chaser home as an 8-week-old puppy, he read an article by German researchers about a border collie that could understand 200 words. Pilley took that as a challenge.

“Border collies, because of their history of listening to the master and keeping their eyes simultaneously on the herd, may be especially prepared to learn language,” Pilley said.

Pilley and Alliston Reid, a Wofford psychology professor, with the help of some students, began three years of research to gain new insight into the intellect of border collies.

“These dogs can understand,” Reid said. “If you own a dog, you know the dog has emotions and is an intelligent being.”

In controlled experiments, Chaser demonstrated that she could remember each of her 1,022 toys by name. With that number, the two psychologists — who had to write the name on each toy to remember them all — decided there probably was no upper limit to what Chaser could learn.

~*~

Here is the trick:

Uncle Cecil had no reason to put the blocks in a bag. Also, he would do the trick over and over, but only after putting the blocks in a bag and repeating the whole ritual. He never asked the dog to pick up two lettered blocks IN A ROW. Even so, no one ever guessed his secret.

He would carefully spread the blocks on the floor... and it was always the last block he touched.

Sometimes, Uncle Cecil would touch one just at the last second, almost as an "afterthought" to try and fool him, but the dog always did the trick correctly. He always knew which block he was supposed to pick up, but waited to be "told". Uncle Cecil would tell him to pick up the last one he touched (A! P! M!)--and only then, would he pick up the correct wooden block. The dog greatly enjoyed all the laughter, applause and attention, wagging his tail enthusiastically; he loved doing the blocks trick!

Nobody ever figured it out. Uncle Cecil did not tell the secret until after his beloved canine friend had passed on.

He said he could not bear to teach the trick to another dog.

Merry Christmas from the Family

I've been so profoundly exhausted from another holiday retail season, I almost neglected the fourth year in a row of our Dead Air holiday tradition. I hereby present Robert Earl Keen's MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE FAMILY!

As always, non-rednecks and/or yankees are certainly free to sit this one out.

Have a great Christmas everyone! Feliz Navidad!

~*~

Merry Christmas from the Family - Robert Earl Keen

The Borders by Sharon Olds

My mother died in July of 2006, but I could not get back up to Ohio until the second week of August, near the Feast of the Assumption (which is tomorrow, the 15th).

And on that day, I scattered her ashes into the Tuscarawas River, in Massillon, Ohio, a few scant feet from where my stepfather (her beloved) had been employed during our 3-year residence there. It was in this location, she said, that she had been the happiest in her lifetime. It was in this location that she was markedly different; she was finally in a country-and-western band that respected her and valued her input. She lived with the man she loved and during the days, briefly attempted the fantasy-sitcom stay-at-home mom role, so valued by the middle-class. She made curtains, she drew sketches in pencil, she put bouquets of flowers on the table. She practiced endlessly, leaving the identifiable bass-lines of various 60s pop-songs in my head forever. She smiled at me.

She was herself there, more than she was anywhere else... before or after.

In the tumultuous years that followed, I often thought of my "Massillon mama"--and wanted her back.

So, I returned her there.

~*~

The Borders

To say that she came into me,
from another world, is not true.
Nothing comes into the universe
and nothing leaves it.
My mother—I mean my daughter did not
enter me. She began to exist
inside me—she appeared within me.
And my mother did not enter me.
When she lay down, to pray, on me,
she was always ferociously courteous,
fastidious with Puritan fastidiousness,
but the barrier of my skin failed, the barrier of my
body fell, the barrier of my spirit.
She aroused and magnetized my skin, I wanted
ardently to please her, I would say to her
what she wanted to hear, as if I were hers.
I served her willingly, and then
became very much like her, fiercely
out for myself.
When my daughter was in me, I felt I had
a soul in me. But it was born with her.
But when she cried, one night, such pure crying,
I said I will take care of you, I will
put you first. I will not ever
have a daughter the way she had me,
I will not ever swim in you
the way my mother swam in me and I
felt myself swum in. I will never know anyone
again the way I knew my mother,
the gates of the human fallen.

--Sharon Olds

Please don't be long, or I may be asleep

Now if you ask of psychology just how and why aims that were peripheral become at a certain moment central, psychology has to reply that she is unable to account accurately for all the single forces at work.

--William James, Varieties of Religious Experience


I have always tried to be honest when it comes to spiritually-based matters. Even when it makes me look crazed or stupid. This time, however, has been especially difficult.

It seems I don't have the right words, the proper references, the easy approach. On some level, I find Westerners who claim Eastern religions to be pretentious and silly; tourists of the soul. And yet... I wrote about my beloved George Harrison for a reason. I made the case for him and people like him.

Of course, I realized I was also talking about myself. I knew this could all apply to me at some later date.

The date and time arrived, without any preparation, rather like an old rusty sundial that nobody pays much attention to. Time's up. The clock struck the hour, and as the book of Matthew tells us, no man knows the day or the hour, not even the angels in heaven.

I hesitate to call it a conversion. But I am stuck with Western words--words with their roots in Christianity. As I said in the George Harrison post: they don't do it like that, we do it like that. But then, I am talking about ME, right?

I do it like that.

~*~

My study of Buddhism has grown extensive. And just like those numerous TV detectives (or Greg House), I was in the middle of something else entirely when it happened. In a series of realizations, everything coalesced, made sense, lined up. I tried to fight it, because I knew what it meant. (I briefly wrote about that here.) I am frankly terrified at the idea of "leaving" the Church, even psychologically. (Physically, I have no trouble staying away for months at a time.) A creator God is an idea I can't overcome and can't shake; an idea that seems etched somewhere on my cerebellum. In addition, my deep love for the saints and the Blessed Mother is a palpable and real phenomena in my life. I don't want to change, I protested inwardly, I don't want to.

Then why are you reading all of this stuff? Why have you steadily prayed for compassion?

It was the graveyard. I asked the spirits of the dead to speak to me, and tell me what they know.

~*~

I decided to take photos of the German graveyard in Fredericksburg, Texas. These immigrants are the people my grandchildren descend from, my son-in-law's family. They came thousands and thousands of miles, to these hills that must have seemed so hot, so inhospitable, so strange. They left the "old country" and arrived in the land of coyotes and cactus. I thought of what it was like, never hugging one's parents again, crossing a huge ocean and knowing that you will never again see the place you came from, the land that nurtured you and formed your imagination.

I saw the gravestones, some of them the graves of babies. The whooping cough, polio and other diseases these babies likely died from, have been largely eradicated in the West. And yet, our pain, our suffering, does not diminish. We have all kinds of modern conveniences that these Germans would have found incredible, the answer to any number of daily problems; even a telephone would have been an amazing innovation in their very primitive, pioneer way of life. But what does the modern proliferation of phones bring us? I thought of the woman seated behind me on the plane, arguing on her cell phone in controlled tones... arguing with who? I tried to figure it out and could not: Husband? Boyfriend? Best friend?

I thought of the juxtaposition of the arguing passenger, and the German immigrant (lying here in this cemetery?) of the last century, who would have been so overjoyed to hear that her husband was merely late, not hurt or harmed on his long, muddy trek home by horse-drawn wagon. Telephones were once used only in similar emergencies, to notify Atticus Finch there was a rabid dog outside, and other scary stuff like that. But now we all carry one, like talismans to ward off the problems of modern life that materialize seemingly out of nowhere. And as a result, omnipresent telephones have also helped to multiply our distress.

I thought about my newborn grandson, my nearly-five-year-old granddaughter, and the pain I have experienced, not being able to see them as often as I want to. I know they will not die of these old diseases, causing me great pain, but I do feel the intense pain of separation, the same crushing pain these German immigrants felt. In that sense, nothing has changed. Our common humanity is the same, and we feel the same, even after the passing of a hundred years.

We have improved our lot, we are living longer, I thought, but we are still sad.

And tellingly, graveyards have not changed. We have not changed the fact of death, the end of our earthly existence.

~*~

I entered that area of the cemetery in which the names have worn off the stones. Who are these people?--I thought. Please talk to me. There were gothic-appearing cages surrounding the oldest stones, some very rusty. To keep the grave-robbers out? Frightening. (One might also say, to keep the dead people from escaping, if one were sufficiently spookable.)

I could always get through the first two Noble Truths pretty easily. I mean, come on, who can argue?

The Nature of Suffering (or Dukkha):
"This is the noble truth of suffering: birth is suffering, aging is suffering, illness is suffering, death is suffering; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief and despair are suffering; union with what is displeasing is suffering; separation from what is pleasing is suffering; not to get what one wants is suffering; in brief, the five aggregates subject to clinging are suffering."

Suffering's Origin (Dukkha Samudaya):
"This is the noble truth of the origin of suffering: it is this craving which leads to renewed existence, accompanied by delight and lust, seeking delight here and there, that is, craving for sensual pleasures, craving for existence, craving for extermination."

I would even agree with the third one, but I just wasn't sure it was for an amateur like me:

Suffering's Cessation (Dukkha Nirodha):
"This is the noble truth of the cessation of suffering: it is the remainderless fading away and cessation of that same craving, the giving up and relinquishing of it, freedom from it, nonreliance on it."

And finally, the fourth, the stumbling block. Aye, this is the rub.

The Path (Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada Magga) Leading to the Cessation of Suffering:
"This is the noble truth of the way leading to the cessation of suffering: it is the Noble Eightfold Path; that is, right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness and right concentration."

Yes, it folded in on me, very simply and honestly.

This is The Truth, and I have found it, after much seeking. I am now ready to accept it.

And there it was, one of the most intense moments of my life, strikingly similar to my two other conversion experiences, which have brought me to this point. (I love trinities; these kindsa things should happen in threes.) I then saw the gravestone that said "Our darling" (photo at left)--and that was it. I started to cry, right there in the old German graveyard, for the suffering of all beings. And I wanted so much, with every fiber of my being, to end it.

I reached out and touched the words: Our darling. I felt the keening, the tears, of the mother who asked for those words on the gravestone. I am so sorry, I sobbed, I am so sorry.

~*~

I promise not to turn this into a Buddhist blog. I wouldn't know how to begin, in any case. I am merely reporting the incident and the shift in my sensibility. My sense of peace and new sense of mission, has not abated in the slightest, and has only increased. I know this means I have to go further. It will be my task to correlate my old beliefs with the new ones, and to figure out what I need to do to fulfill these new convictions in my everyday life. This is called dharma, a word I don't use easily. As I said, the feeling that I am some kind of religious tourist, or worse, a cultural imperialist, is overwhelming, probably fallout from too much leftism. Still, I hope this feeling will keep me honest. And as I seek out a path for myself, I hope my spiritual reticence will prevent me from bloviating nonsense!

In the short run, the change in my life has been enormous. The truth shall set you free!

As always: Stay tuned, sports fans. :)

~*~

Notes:

:: I loved Kloncke's recent posts as Feministe, and highly recommend her blog.

:: And as we speak so honestly of suffering: While I was gone, a sometime blog-reader and good friend passed away. He was one of those very generous, sweet-tempered Christians who embody the Word, and would gladly give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Rest in Peace, generous and loving soul, Gregg James Farrier 1947-2010. The fierce and beautiful kindnesses you left on the earth, stay behind to remind of us of what we are capable of becoming, if we try.

:: Non-Beatles fans might wonder: blog post title is from George Harrison's Blue Jay Way.

After all of these years, I finally understood the phrase.

Daisy's New Grandson!

...born June 18th. Ain't he just so handsome?!?

I will soon be leaving for the Texas Hill Country to be with my daughter's family. Thus, officially announcing my extended internet break--in case anyone noticed! (In addition to my blog, I'm trying to take a hiatus from Facebook, Twitter, HuffPo, Politico and everything in between. EEeeeep! Rough stuff, indeed. ADDICTION IS SUCH A SORDID BUSINESS!!!!)

Yall be nice and play fair. As the governor of California once said, I'll be back.

Dead Air Church: Uncle Pen

At left, the grave of Uncle Pen in Rosine, Kentucky.




In this post, I talked about how our deeds may outlast us in ways we don't expect. And today, I salute Bill Monroe's Uncle Pendleton Vandiver, known as the legendary Uncle Pen.

When Uncle Pen instructed his nephew in his traditional, old-world ways, who knew that he would change the whole direction of American music and that someday, even New Yorkers and Europeans would know his name? I often wonder what the modest Kentucky mountain man would have said about that.

He probably taught his nephew simply because he enjoyed playing with him. He could never have known the far-reaching legacy of his teaching.

In the 60s, America-at-large was introduced to bluegrass music through Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs and their famous TV-theme for The Beverly Hillbillies, as well as their boldly shit-kickin rendition of "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" (used nicely in the film Bonnie and Clyde).

I can still remember what it was like, as a child, when my family heard the TV-theme. Everyone went quiet, in hushed amazement: They are playing bluegrass on TV! (I imagine it was quite similar for African-Americans when they saw one of their own on TV back then, which hardly ever happened.) It felt strange to have remnants of my culture unexpectedly thrust into the mainstream, particularly regarding a type of music that we kept "to ourselves"--as bluegrass was then considered country music's poor, rural, barefoot cousin, almost an embarrassment. And there it was on prime time!

We were very ambivalent, since of course, The Beverly Hillbillies made us all look pretty stupid. Nonetheless, there we were. And suddenly, kids asked me if my stepfather (well-known country musician in the neighborhood) could play the banjo, too? I took some of my classmates home, and he played bluegrass-style banjo for them. This was way before bluegrass was widely available on records, and they were thoroughly bedazzled to hear the mysterious Flatt/Scruggs music, right in front of them. (You could hear it talk/you could hear it sing.)

And so, on this Feast of St Francis of Assisi, DEAD AIR remembers the important, pioneering work of Uncle Pen. Thank you for teaching your nephew the music of our people. The world was made so much richer by your presence.

~*~

Oh the people would come from far away
They'd dance all night till the break of day
When the caller hollered "do-se-do"
You knew Uncle Pen was ready to go

Late in the evening about sundown
High on the hill and above the town
Uncle Pen played the fiddle
Lord, how it would ring
You could hear it talk
You could hear it sing

He played an old piece he called "Soldier's Joy"
And the one called "The Boston Boy"
The greatest of all was "Jenny Lynn"
To me that's where the fiddle begins

I'll never forget that mournful day
When Uncle Pen was called away
They hung up his fiddle, they hung up his bow
They knew it was time for him to go

~*~

Uncle Pen - Bill Monroe and His Bluegrass Boys (1956)