Moment

...a very brief period in time.


Moments form hours which form days which form years. Years link into the protracted chain of time. The chain lengthens...a temporal scorekeeper against which we measure our peregrinations. What does it all mean?

I have spent much of my life pondering that question. When I believe I have the answer, its will-o-the-wisp verity dissipates into the miasma of melancholy. Does an answer's elusiveness denote its unattainableness?

I am now 129 days from six decades on this plane, an impetus for reflection. I view my life as a repository of moments.

I am about six years old. My father rushes into my room because he heard me retching violently.  I had decided to be a sword swallower and was attempting to swallow a wooden dowel. I'll never forget his reaction when I told him what I was doing.

My father putting stitches in my head. This is an amalgamation memory as most of my youth was spent either getting head injuries, my father sewing up same, or removing said stitches. 

The Saturday morning I took the SAT test for college admissions. A girl across from me gives me the stink-eye for humming the Final Jeopardy tune a little too loudly. 

Walking around Siena College in an altered state. Several figures in cloaks with cowls over their heads walk towards the private golf course adjacent to the college. I follow them. They meet others of the same ilk, form a circle and begin chanting. I'm not sure how long I watched. Time was amorphous. Eventually I  wander back to campus. To this day I don't know if it was real or an hallucination.

Hitchhiking at an on ramp to the New York Thruway outside of Buffalo, NY in a hellacious snowstorm. A state trooper pulls up to inform me that the Thruway is closed from there to Rochester. I wander into a diner and nurse a cup of coffee wondering where to go.

Bringing home Hans, the Great Dane, and my mother's face when she realized Great Danes weren't those cute little wiener dogs. Mom never was good at identifying breeds.

Crisp fall predawn hours sitting on the boardwalk in Atlantic City waiting for sunrise.  Sharing a bottle of champagne with a friend as we discussed mortality and roulette.

Sitting at Max's Taphouse during Snowmaggedon 2010, watching the snow fall in the Square. A figure in a parka, boots and shorts carries a guitar towards Leadbetters.

 Playing guitar in a friend's aerie-like apartment in Fells Point. It's almost dawn, I'm tired, inebriated and hoarse from singing.  I should stop, but cannot. Camaraderie begs me to continue.

William Butler Yeats proposed a theory of cyclical history as
overlapping gyres. To me it's more kaleidoscopic. My life's vision is moments meshing and morphing into mandalas of remembrance. That could be the result of the numerous childhood head traumas, or too many hallucinogens.  As ever BB


"Faeries, come take me out of this dull world, 
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the disheveled tide, 
And dance upon the mountains like a flame." - William Butler Yeats

MCMLXIV

The other night I watched the American Experience about the year 1964. Those pivotal 365 days affected everything from human rights, to the counter culture, to political activism.  I turned 10 that year. Because of my penchant for the history of that period, I know much of what the show described.  But, it got me thinking. How aware was I of those momentous events at that time?

LBJ signs Civil Rights Act of 1964

Not much, really. Television's cathode ray tube was my lodestone. The program aired two of LBJ's televised addresses to the nation. I remember them both vividly. Not because of their historic importance, but because they interrupted my favorite shows. I don't specifically remember which ones, but the disappointment kindled my dislike of politics. In later years, that dislike was exacerbated by dishonesty and demagoguery, but I diametrically digress.


What a year it was for TV. Bewitched, Jonny Quest, The Addam's Family, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C. and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea debuted. Just to name a few. It was also the first year for Jeopardy. My love of the program grew from antics of Art Fleming to the current Alex Trebek iteration. Daytime Jeopardy ran through 1975. During my first attempt at college, I made sure the class schedule allowed me to watch it every day.

Two memories of 1964 are as lucid as if they happened last week - one joyous and one despairing. That year, the World's Fair opened in New York City.  Just 90 miles from my hometown, I visited it twice. Once with the entire family, the other was a trip with Christ the King's altar boys. What I remember most was the Unisphere, the brand new Mustang, and entering my birthday into a computer at the NCR pavilion. In a minute, a list of other events that occurred on that day in history printed. I can still feel the sense of wonder I experienced at the magnitude of the World's Fair.

Something personally significant occurred during that year. While I didn't not become aware of this event until years later, it had a profound effect on my psyche. On my birthday, June 17, 1964, Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters boarded the bus, Further, in La Honda, California on an epic journey East. Their explorations of inner space and the concept of your life as your art affect me to this day.

My most anguished memory of 1964 taught me the pitfalls of being a Philadelphia sports fan. The Phillies had a great team that year. With only 12 games left in the season, the Phillies had a 6 and a half game lead and were virtually assured a spot in the World Series. There was no litany of playoffs in those days. My Dad promised to take me to a World Series game; the tickets had already been printed. My 10-year-old heart soared with the anticipation of going to Connie Mack Stadium and seeing my team in the championship.

The Phillies lost 10 out of those 12 games and the St. Louis Cardinals went to the big dance. I was disconsolate. I don't remember how long I cried, but cry I did. That disappointment branded my soul with the mark of a true Philadelphia fan. No matter how good they look, or play, a Philadelphia team can snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

That stigma lasts to the present. The day after the season opener in 2012, I went to the Italian Market in South Philly. The Phillies had won the game 1-0 against the Pirates. Walking along the produce vendors, I overheard two talking. One said, "We won the opener; they say we have a shot at another World Series." The other said, "We beat Pittsburgh by one lousy run. That's it, the season is over!"

With 161 games left, it was already written in the stars. I knew then and there that there would be no joy in Mudville for the Phils. The San Francisco Giants knocked the Phillies out of the playoffs and went on to win the championship. The engram of 1964 blazed in my brain once again. As ever - BB

"The 60s aren't over; they won't be over until the Fat Lady gets high." - Ken Kesey

For the Sake of Old Times

The title of this post is an idiomatic translation of the last line of the chorus of Robbie Burns' Auld Lange Syne. Tomorrow is the last day of the year according to the Gregorian calendar. My apologies to those readers who adhere to the Julian, Jewish, Aztec or Marie calendars.

The year's end imparts the opportunity to reflect on the past and envisage the future. The Buddhist in me has a problem with this. As Ram Dass opined, "live here now." The past is but a memory and the future but a dream. Be that as it may, our species feels impelled to ponder both past and future at this time of year.

Aside from personal introspection, this season affords us the time to celebrate the good times and commiserate the rough times with friends. I availed myself of such an opportunity last night at the Cat's Eye Pub.

Blue guitar maestro, Jimmy Adler, played at the Cat's Eye for the first time. The event brought out many friends. Being a Sunday night, the crowd was smaller giving space for dancing and jovial camaraderie.

I may not have the chance to see all of you soon, so I take this time to wish you all a very Happy New Year. Thank you all for your support and friendship over the year. My sincere apologies for any transgressions. May the new year find us all happier and wiser. As ever - BB

“Hope
Smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering 'it will be happier'...” - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/w/williamsha394960.html#JUODjPIUZqrFDp2D.99

Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Read more at http://quotes.dictionary.com/come_gentlemen_i_hope_we_shall_drink_down#Qfxe7zy6gmKY5OwR.99

"Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness." - William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor

Left Out

Usually l reserve my rants about that sinister minority, Lefties, for August 13. Why? I'm tired of explaining everything...look it up yourself.

But, today I was sent a link by a "friend" about interesting lefthand facts. Knowing me as most of you do, I wasn't expecting any revelations. But, these facts were much more sinister than the usual fodder.

My first use of sinister, now considered archaic by Merriam/Webster, means "towards the left." The second is the more common usage - something harmful or evil. Both from the Latin for left. The Latin for right is dexter from which comes dexterous - manually or mentally adroit.

Oh sure, there's no bias against we southpaws, or as the nuns called us, "children of the devil." The nuns also told me that lefthanders would never find a decent job. Okay, they were right about that. Ending up like Fredo Corleone, I learned the casino business.

According to most studies, lefties are more likely to suffer psychoses, especially schizophrenia. Our life span is nine years shorter than the right-handed. We are more prone to alcoholism, drug abuse and dyslexia. Two out of three ain't dab!

I believe the impetus for all of these traits is surviving in a right-handed world. At best it leads us to drink; at worst it makes us crazy. For just one day, I would like the entire world magically switched to leftcentric. You'd quickly realize the day-to-day things that confound we of the other hand.

Research also shows that we experience more fear than the other side. Of course we do! The mere thought of scissors, ladles, three-ring binders, felt tip pens,  or measuring cups fills me with foreboding.

Measuring cups you ask? What could be the problem with them? Pick up one with your left hand. What do you see? The metric measurements!!! How many milliliters in a half-a-cup?  I can feel the bile rising as I type. The metric system, really? It's like watching soccer, the metric system of sports, and a waste of my finite time on this plane of existence.

One interesting theory is that lefties had a vanishing twin in the womb. Discovered in the 80s, when ultrasound treatment became commonplace for pregnant women, a vanishing twin is a multi-gestation pregnancy in which one twin dies in utero and then is partially or completely reabsorbed by the other. Now that is weird.

How this results in the survivor being left-handed is not explained. But this would give justification to that evil twin who occasionally emerges and orders shots. You know of whom I speak...as ever BB

"After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor." - John Huston

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#HpGRovAyefzidek7.99

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#k7TgKErOATCphmKC.99

After all, crime is only a left-handed form of human endeavor.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/johnhuston160571.html#k7TgKErOATCphmKC.99

Neighborhood Merrymaking

In 1965, highway planners proposed linking I-95 to I-83. The original plan would have destroyed much of Fells Point and separated the upper part of the neighborhood from the waterfront. A grass roots effort saved the area from that fate. Locals held a large block party to celebrate, and that began the Fells Point Fun Festival. Over ensuing decades, the revel grew.

In February 1997, a career change brought me to Baltimore. Despite growing up only 100 miles away, I knew little of my future hometown. I asked where I should look to find a place to live. I was told Fells Point and have lived here ever since.

From my first festival on, I've enjoyed the good time all-the-while hearing how much more fun it was back in the day. That is nothing new for Fells Point. In the last 16 years, a week has not gone by without some old-timer regaling me on how much better the neighborhood used to be. To quote the Merry Pranksters, "Nothing Lasts." To quote Ram Dass, "Be Here Now."

One often bemoaned aspect of past festivals was the fact that you could drink in the streets. I have never experienced that as it ended about 20 years ago. This year, revelers will be able to carry their libations through the streets just like those halcyon days.

That brings up one of the innate dichotomies of the Fun Festival. It wants to cater to families with children's areas, puppet shows and wholesome fun. Depending on how you measure the confines of Fells Point, the neighborhood has 64 to 120 drinking establishments. Add to that the two beer gardens the Festival hosts, and a drunken bacchanalia transpires. Mostly these two opposing poles coexist. Though a certain group of party goers refer to themselves as the Fells Point Stroller Kicker's Club (several are regular readers of this blog - you know who you are). Before you let the bile of outrage rise in your esophagus, they lean to the platonic not the practical.

Personally, the Festival has a special significance. Twas at this event that I met my muse and partner. Since then, we have celebrated together. At times the imbibing has gotten the better of us. One year we attempted to enjoy in moderation and made a pact. When one felt the approach of drunkenness, he/she would utter a "code word" to alert the other of impending inebriation. The word was SHOTS. Probably not the best choice.

This year we will attempt that again. My list of possible watchwords includes "Chartreuse" and the phrase "Jitney to Jagertown." Maybe I'm not the one to come up with the code word. As ever - BB

“Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another.”   - Anais Nin

Crystal Cat Whisker

At the dawn of radio, people discovered that by using household items, they could build a simple radio receiver to pick up news, weather, farm reports and other broadcasts at very little expense. No power source was needed as the radio waves picked up by a long wire antenna provided the induction. A crystal acted as the diode and a thin wire which touched the crystal bestowed the feline sobriquet which provided this post's title. They became very popular in the 20s & 30s.

I remember my Dad telling me the story of building one with his Boy Scout troop. He fondly looked back on nights listening to faraway transmissions. Imagination spurred me into action. With my "life savings", I purchased an old transmitter at an Army/Navy surplus store, ran a wire from my third floor bedroom window across the backyard to the garage roof. The crusty ol'coot who owned the surplus store had fashioned an AC plug out of an extension cord which gave the receiver power.


Looking out the kitchen window, Mom saw me precariously perched on the eave of the garage. Upon completion, she sat me down to await Dad's wrath for my recklessness. He came home, Mom explained the situation and up to my room we went. I expected chastisement until I saw his smile. Nodding his head, he examined the receiver and my rigged antenna. After dinner, we went up to my room, turned on the power and spent the rest of the evening tuning in Radio Free Europe, and other foreign broadcasts. Mom was less than thrilled with the outcome.


During the day, on Philly AM radio, I'd listen to Joe "The Rockin Bird" Niagara, Hi Lit and Jerry "The Geator with the Heater" Blavat. This was the early 60s before FM and AOR formats. In the evenings, I could tune in R&B and Blues stations from Chicago, Memphis and New Orleans. Music's nefarious influence began weaving it's magic spell on me.

The naivete of nostalgia produces rose-colored memories. My rambling recollections have extended this blog's brief intro into a mess of meandering, multi-paragraph musings.

The blurred focus of this missive was to be Internet radio. Webcast, streaming, whatever buzzword you wish to use, is taking the radio format to new frontiers. Wresting the airways from commercial hands, anyone with some digital savvy can now broadcast worldwide.

A good friend and blogbenefactor, Dave Custy, launched Baltimore Internet Radio this week. BIR will be Baltimore's global gateway. The programs will explore business, tourism, history, and shows of local interest including the music scene.  
****Shameless Self Promotion Warning****  My band, Without a Net, is the first interview on the Music Scene segment.

Here's the link:  http://baltimoreinternetradio.com/    Check it out! You wont be disappointed and won't have to climb onto a garage roof to listen. Though that would be cool. As ever - BB

"...my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio..." - Bob Dylan

Prognostication Woolgathering

In the summer of 1972, Springfield Creamery, owned by Chuck Kesey (brother of author, Ken) and his wife, almost lost the business due a competitor's heavy-handed tactics. The Grateful Dead came to the rescue with a concert. Bootlegs have emerged over the years, but this past Tuesday, the official DVD and CD were released.
 
In true "Musings & Doggerel" form, this blog does not concern itself with that.

Searching for a solution to their predicament, the Keseys turned to the Merry Pranksters who turned to the I Ching. This is considered one of the most ancient Chinese texts dating back several millennia. The I Ching does not foretell the future, but gauges the yin-yang of a situation to guide decisions.

During my mind-expanding past, I often referred to the Book of Changes. Tossing the three coins six times reveals hexagrams which refer to descriptions that you contemplate. I cannot say whether I received any true inspiration from the I Ching, but I did find the text thought provoking and heartening.

I also dabbled with the Tarot. Curiously, the card that emerged most frequently in my readings was the Fool. (Insert obvious joke/dig here)

Many would think these soothsaying shenanigans foolish. But the Fool is also a seeker of crazy wisdom, in Buddhist terms yeshe chölwa. This translates as "wisdom gone wild" - think Aristotle, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and Foucault dressed in Hawaiian shirts drinking Jagerbombs with topless women in Cancun. 

During my first college sortie,  I studied metaphysics, epistemology, and ontology. That was followed by my "lost" period, but the search continued in the aforementioned unconventional areas.


Eventually the responsibilities and demands of the "real world" squelched my cerebral curiosity. I'm still not sure if that was maturity or cowardice. Regardless, it's now water washed under the bridge of time. 


Several years ago, I read an article in the Smithsonian. The author, a statistician, compared the success rate of modern prognosticators (weather and financial markets) to ancient prophecies like the Oracle of Delphi. Their track records were virtually identical. 


Perhaps my augury experimentation was not in vain. With that in mind, this morning I read dove entrails and the signs portend an auspicious outcome. As ever - BB


"Try another approach." - the I Ching