Mummer from Mars

A new year approaches and with New Year's Day comes the Philadelphia tradition of the Mummers' Parade. It's rich history goes back to the Middle Ages and the mummer plays. (laic celebrations not to be confused with the religious mystery plays of the same period)

The first semblance of mummers in Philly came in the late 17th century with the original Swedish settlers. On December 26, they would dress as clowns and shoot their guns in the air.

Through the 18th century, the tradition continued. In 1778, the mummers regaled  occupying British troops. Major Andre (later infamous for his involvement with Benedict Arnold's treason) described Philadelphia's new year antics as "a gay and glorious spectacle."

The 19th century brought two important additions from the southern states. The Negro spiritual "Oh Dem Golden Slippers (the Mummers' theme song) and the cake walk known in Philly as the Mummers Strut. The parade goers began to organize and the Mummers Parade  became an official event by 1901. It continues today though in 2009, it was shortened from 11 hours to 6.5 hours. I really miss those 4.5 hours!

In 1968, jazz key board player/composer, Sun Ra moved from New York City to the Germantown section of Philadelphia. I always wondered if the Mummers' outfits had an affect on the costumes worn by Sun Ra and his Arkestra. Born Herman Blount in Alabama in 1914, Ra performed all jazz genres, from ragtime, to swing, to bebop to free jazz.

Sometime between 1936-37, while in what he calls a religious concentration, Herman Blount experienced a blinding light and then was teleported to Saturn. There an alien race informed him that  he as not a human, but one of them. His mission on earth was to create music which would transform the world. Sun Ra became aware of his true form.

Over the years, his Arkestra has played across the world spreading his philosophy and his music to us earthlings. In this new year, listen to the music of the cosmos as interpreted by Sun Ra - truly a Mummer from Mars. As ever - BB

When told by a fellow musician that Sun Ra's music was just too far out, Thelonious Monk said: "Yeah, but it swings!"

Oh, a wise guy!

I cannot think of the term wise guy without hearing Curly Howard's voice intoning that phrase. During this season, images of the three wise men adorn churches and homes. In my youth, I'd hear the Christmas carol and wonder where Orientar was, and why it needed three kings.

Learning the correct lyrics, I began researching these wise guys, aka the Magi. To me the Orient was China and Japan. The root of the word was Latin, oriri, meaning to rise. Orient literally means from the rising sun. Their origin was east of Bethlehem.

So, where does the term magi come, and how does it relate to the nativity?  Even as a kid, I noticed the word's similarity to magic. Were they sorcerers? Off to that etymological treasure trove, the Oxford English Dictionary. The Haddonfield library had a large version on a pedestal with a magnifying glass attached to see the minuscule print. At that age, I needed to stand on a chair to read it. 

Magi, the plural form of magnus, was used by the ancient Greeks as a name for  the priestly caste of Persia who followed Zoroaster. This name reminded me of my favorite caped/masked hero who made the sign of the Z.  My study transformed into a Russian nesting doll. Each answer uncovered another question. I was confused, yet fascinated.


After hours of perusing the library, I found out the Magi, known for their knowledge of astronomy (which made sense "following yonder star") were wise, learned men who presented royal gifts to the prince of peace. Feeling fulfilled, I went on with my life as an 11-year-old.


Years later I discovered that I had not delved far enough into that nesting doll of knowledge. In his gospel, Matthew never mentioned the number of Magi. Three was deduced from the number of gifts. So the trio was pure conjecture. Theories abound. They came from as close as Syria, or a far as China, if they existed at all.


A later translation calls them kings to stress the divinity of Jesus alluding to a psalm which says that even kings would kneel before the messiah. This is also the tract that led to the Roman Catholic aerobics of bobbing up and down on our knees during mass. The magic-magi connection comes from the prejudice that those with different beliefs must be evil practitioners of sorcery and witchcraft. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition! 


A suspicious, cynical kernel began pollinating in my psyche which continues growing to this day.


At 17, I read Thus Spake Zarathustra by Nietzche. (Zoroaster being the English translation of his Avestan name) An obtuse and difficult read, the book exposed ideas counter to much of my religious training. I had an epiphany and grasped the Shakespearian quote, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."


What's all this have to do with carols and Christmas? I have no idea. Muddled musings and discombobulated doggerel indeed. Happy Holidays - as ever BB


"One must have chaos within oneself, to give birth to a dancing star." - Friedrich Nietzche from Thus Spake Zarathustra

What's the Password?

Sometimes when trying to remember a password, I feel like I'm trapped in a Marx Brothers skit.

Passwords - I have them for this blog, for my work computer, my home computer, my phone, work alarm, home alarm, facebook, ebay, zappos, gmail...the list is endless.

In the late 50s, my father joined the Knights of Columbus to network and help expand his medical practice. He did not remain a member long. Years later I asked him why. He said, "You needed a password to get into one door, then another, then another. I couldn't keep them straight and got tired of that childish foolishness."


I don't know why they just didn't use a simple hand gesture like the He-Man Woman Hater's Club. Dad would not want to cope in our digital world. And I'd understand his dissent. My gag reflex triggers every time I struggle to remember my plethora of passwords.

Not to mention the security concerns. Don't use birthdays or other important dates, don't use your name or nickname, use some uppercase letters, use some numbers, but none of those previously mentioned.

To help me in this morass of minutia, I've created a password formula. I take the latitude of the geographic location of the device requiring the password as the exponent. Then I create a logarithm using the number of ingredients of my guacamole recipe as the base to create a number. Next, I use the alpha equivalent of each odd number and alternate upper and lower case of the aforementioned letters. I turn this into a mnemonic so it's easy to remember.

As a public service, I have shared this formula to assist you with this problematic password predicament. - as ever BB

"A four-year-old could understand this report. Run out and find me a four-year-old. I can't make heads nor tails out of it." - Groucho Marx in Duck Soup

Movies Of Christmas Past

Containers of leftovers stacked in the fridge mark Thanksgiving's passing and the approach of Christmas's apoplectic apex. Tis the season for the celebratory cinephile to emerge. Everyone has their favorite holiday movie, but my taste goes to the more bizarre. less popular films. Imagine that?


Here are my bizarro Top Five:
1. Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964) - Odd, but I remember being 10 and watching this at the Westmont Theater on a rainy weekend afternoon just before Christmas. That would have been 1964. Could this have gone right to kids' matinee fodder? Probably, it's a very bad film. So bad, I just have to see it whenever it airs, usually on Mystery Science Theater. Great trivia - an 8-year-old Pia Zadora plays the Martian girl


2. Go (1999) - A strange film with three intertwined story lines jumping between LA and Las Vegas involving a drug deal. Now that says Christmas! Timothy Olyphant plays a santa-hat wearing drug dealer who kidnaps Katie Holmes - Mondo Outre.


3. A Christmas Wish (also released as The Great Rupert - 1950) - This movie gives bad a bad name. However it has two redeeming factors. The first is the film's hero, Rupert, a trained squirrel. Rupert is done in stop motion animation. The second is a scene in which Jimmy Durante performs his classic Inka Dinka Doo. Good night Mrs. Calabash, where ever you are! The film was produced by the great George Pal known for such sci-fi classics as The Time Machine and The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao. 

4. The Ref (1994) A black comedy with Denis Leary, Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey that always tickles my funny bone. My favorite scene is when burglar/intruder, Leary, has Spacey and Davis tied up in their bedroom. They are still bickering about what the family needs. Leary says, "You know what this family needs? A f**kin' mute!"






5. We're No Angels (1955) This is my favorite Christmas movie of all time. Humphrey Bogart, Aldo Ray, and Peter Ustinov, prisoners on Devil's Island, stumble into the village's general store during their escape attempt. They end up befriending the hapless shopkeeper (Leo G. Carroll) and his family. Luckily villainous Uncle Andre (Basil Rathbone) shows up as the focus of their murderous larceny.


I present these for your edification and the chance to experience something deliciously different this holiday season, . As ever - BB




"We came here to rob them and that's what we're gonna do - beat their heads in, gouge their eyes out, slash their throats. Soon as we wash the dishes." - Humphrey Bogart as Joseph in We're No Angels

Giving Thanks

As we approach Thanksgiving Day, my musing turns to giving thanks. Past blogs concerning this holiday have focused on arcane trivia and myths. This year I will reflect on that for which I am grateful. Of course, I must include some arcana. What did you expect...rubber biscuit?

What constitutes the first Thanksgiving on this continent blurs in the mist of time. In 1565, Spanish gave thanks for their settlement in St. Augustine, FLA. In 1578, Martin Frobisher, held a formal Thanksgiving after he and his crew survived a perilous journey from England to the northern Canadian coastline searching for the Northwest passage. Another was staged in 1607 in Jamestown, Va. and there again in 1619. In 1620, the Pilgrims gave thanks for landing safely in Novus Orbis. Many looking for a fresh start in this land gave thanks after their arduous adventure.

These were not celebrations, but religious services. They thanked the Lord for success in uncertain lands with dangerous risks. What we call the first Thanksgiving, held in the Plymouth Plantation in 1621, was more a Harvest Home festival. Rather than fasting and prayers, it involved feasting and merrymaking.

In the 390 years since that event, Americans have done what we do best. We have adapted, absorbed and morphed other traditions into a unique amalgamation - the American Thanksgiving. We have also done what we do worst - commercialized and corrupted it into a pre-Christmas, ubercapitalistic sell-a-thon. But thy focus begets thy vision. I will endeavor to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative and won't mess with Mr. InBetween.

Giving thanks is the keynote of the season. It have much to be thankful for, but will abridge my list to the most important.  First on that list is my muse, Kristin. Next is family and friends. Without your mirth, love and joi de vivre, life would be just existence. So thank you all - as ever BB

"Rejoicing in our joy, not suffering over our suffering, makes someone a friend." - Friedrich Nietzsche


PS - on a more selfish note, I would not have been fortunate enough to experience the exhilaration and satisfaction of performing in front of an audience without the support of my friends and my muse. A special thank you for that - this is a photo of my gig at Leadbetters this past Saturday.

Homage

From Old English, via French,  homage was originally a feudal oath of fealty. Contemporarily, it can mean a tribute to a person or style. One obvious example can be seen in  Spielberg's salute to the cliff-hanger serials of the 30's and 40's, Raiders of the Lost Ark.


A less obvious tribute is The Coen brothers, The Big Lebowski.  This cult classic makes obeisance to the 1946 film, The Big Sleep, based on Raymond Chandler's novel . I came across this while researching my guise for last weekend's Americanized celebration of Samhain. Upon reflection, the similarities became apparent. My dismay at not realizing this on my own still haunts me.


Both concern the blackmail situation of a wheelchair-bound millionaire involving two of his household's alluring, yet iniquitous females (both daughters in Sleep, a daughter and trophy wife in Lebowski). My favorite cinematic twist involves the protagonists - Philip Marlowe, the street-wise, clever private dick and the Dude,  the stoner slacker.


In Chandler's book, Geiger, the used-book seller, who becomes an early murder victim, is involved in pornography. The 1946 movie ignored this to avoid running afoul of the industry's Hays commission. The Coen brothers allude to this with pornographer Jackie Strayhorn. As for the nihilists, what story isn't embellished with negation of one or more putatively meaningful aspects of life. To quote the Dude, that must be exhausting.


Other small nods to Sleep exist in Lebowski. One of my favorites, is the PI who tails the protagonist. In the 1946 film, this character is played by Elisha Cook, Jr. In the 1998 film, Jon Polito plays the part. He refers to the Dude as a brother shamus. This 20's slang of unknown origin for a private eye is used several times by Bogie.


As a street-wise, clever stoner slacker, I appreciate how these similarities tie the films together - kind of like a nice rug - as ever BB


"If my books had been any worse, I should not have been invited to Hollywood, and if they had been any better, I should not have come." - Raymond Chandler

Back in the Saddle Again

Ah, Gene Autry! That singing cowboy made a big impression on me. Rainy Saturdays sitting at home, watching his old movies on UHF channel 17. Goldtown Ghost Riders, Gaucho Serenade, Guns & Guitars - These movies stirred the soul of this impressionable youth. Cowboys, six-guns, guitars and those great shirts...what's not to love?

Then I discovered his 1935 serial, The Phantom Empire. A bizarre mixture of Western and science fiction featured an alien race living underground and desperadoes thwarted by Gene with help from the Junior Thunder Riders. I was hooked. For weeks I'd wear a beat-up old cowboy hat, cowboy boots and a toy six-gun trying to learn chords on a guitar found in the attic.

Even as a kid, I was an avid reader and loved the library. I'd leave the house (Mom would never let me parade around town in my boots and hat, so I kept them in the garage putting them on surreptitiously) to research the singing cowboy. This led me to John Lomax's 1910 Cowboy Songs & Other Frontier Ballads. 


Cowboy music started on the cattle drives. Longhorns were skittish, so vaqueros would sing softly to them at night avoiding a deadly stampede. It started with standard ballads, then some cowpoke would add cattle-specific phrases which led to original songs. This era was short-lived, but these anachronistic cavaliers left their brand on the American psyche.

Western music has ebbed and flowed in popularity, but will always stir fondness in this ol'buckeroo. I have two Scully shirts (Western wear company started in 1906 who made shirts for Autry, Roy Rogers & others), a worn-in pair of Tony Lama boots and finally figured out some chords on the guitar. Never could get that yodel down, though - as ever BB

"He's the last of the singin' cowboys/Singin' songs of inspiration and joy/Yippie Yi Yo, Yippie Ay Aye/
He took a break, just to chug him down a beer/C'mon folks holler out the songs you'd like to hear" - Last of the Singing Cowboys - Marshall Tucker Band

Electric Junkies

That's what we have become. While Hurricane Irene spared Baltimore storm surge and extensive flooding, the saturated ground and high winds caused massive tree damage. This resulted in power outages throwing over 700,00 Marylanders back to a pre-electricity age.

While our home was not affected, many friends struggled with day-to-day living without electricity's life's blood flowing through their veins. Besides the luxuries we now take as essential like TV and Internet, they lacked refrigeration and running water -21st century necessities. This got me thinking about life during the millennia prior to our addiction to the electromagnetic interaction of subatomic particles.

Before electricity, Sol Invictus rode his quadriga across the skies ruling our lives. We rose at sunrise and most activities ended at sunset. Yes, first tallow, then candles, then gas lights shed some nocturnal illumination. But until Edison's incandescent invention, darkness dominated half our day.

In this hectic world, many yearn for simpler times when life seemed uncomplicated and guileless. If only we could return to those innocent days, we'd have more time for myface, twitbook, catching up on our DVR recordings of Jersey Shore and reading my blog - as ever BB

"Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile..." - Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost

Quid Me Anxius Sum?

Latin for “What Me Worry?” – the motto of Mad magazine’s impish mascot, Alfred E. Neuman. Translations can often be tricky. The Latin literally translates as “What am I worried?”  This illustrates the problem of translating idioms.


Each of our 50 states has a motto. Twenty of them are in Latin, twenty-four are English and the remaining six include: Chinook (Washington), Greek (California), Hawaiian (duh, Hawaii), French (Minnesota), Spanish (Montana) and Italian (Maryland). South Carolina and Kentucky have two. For the curious readers, both of South Carolina’s are Latin; Kentucky has one Latin and one English.

Maryland’s Italian motto is Fatti mashii, Parole femine. This archaic form of Italian comes from the Calvert family crest. While this idiom means “Strong deeds, Gentle words,” it literally translates as "Manly deeds, Womanly words." 

The state I grew up in, New Jersey, has the motto,  Liberty and Prosperity. Over the years, the Garden State has had several slogans. In 2005, the state wanted a new one. An ad agency was hired, but to no avail. They then looked to the citizens of NJ for ideas. The winner was a conglomerate of submitted ideas. “New Jersey, Come See For Yourself” An example of how lame marketing by committee can be. 

I submitted my own: “New Jersey, Here’s Your F@*#in’ Garden”. Graphically the spokesperson, traditionally the governor, would cup his/her genitalia as he/she intoned this "Jersey as you can get" slogan. 

I described an entire campaign -  a group of hikers in the Kittatinny Mountains, life guards on a beach, Revolutionary War reenactors on the battlefield in Monmouth, farmers in the blueberry patches in Hammonton, a group of Giants and Jets at the Meadowlands, Bruce and Little Steven on the stage at the Stone Pony - all grabbing their crotches yelling “New Jersey, Here’s Your F@$#in’ Garden.” 


The campaign would have generated international attention. The state would have achieved tons of free publicity - news articles, commentaries, editorials, late-night talk show fodder... but nooooo! Once again  I had cast intellectual pearls before cretinous swine. Or maybe they just thought this New Jersey idiom wouldn't translate well out of state? – as ever BB  

“Ridicule is the tribute paid to the genius by the mediocrities.” - Oscar Wilde

Apology for Musings and Doggerel*

* Actually started this over a year ago as the introductory blog for this discourse. I forgot about it, then stumbled on it earlier this week. Better late than never as Chaucer coined. A mind is a terrible thing when wasted. - BB

From the Greek “apologia” in the manner of Plato, Augustine of Hippo and Thomas Aquinas, I write this to give insight to my frame of mind. Be afraid, be very afraid.

1954… the Lone Ranger’s last radio episode aired, the H-Bomb was tested on Bikini Atoll, Bill Haley & the Comets recorded “Rock Around the Clock". America was in transition. World War II morphed into the Korean War that morphed into the Cold War. Amid this melee, I was born.

The bosom of the 50s nurtured me. The golden age of television’s glowing cathode ray was my lodestar. Nascent rock n’ roll was my lullaby.  “May you live in interesting times,” is said to be an ancient Chinese curse. Actually written by a Victorian-era British writer, it is apocryphal, yet apropos.

A brief list of events that occurred while I aged from 5 to 10:

1959 – Revolution in Cuba led by Fidel Castro

1960 – U2 pilot Gary Powers shot down over Russia  - war possible

1961 – Berlin wall erected – war possible

1962 – Cuban Missile Crisis – war imminent

1963 – President John F. Kennedy assassinated

1964 – Troops, not just advisers, sent to Vietnam.

Those are just the highlights of what occurred during my first 10 years on this planet. Mixing that with the normal twists and turns of childhood produced a strange potting soil to germinate the sprouting seeds of my consciousness.

Theories on personality development abound - Psychoanalytic, Humanist, Behaviorist, and Biopsychological to name a few. Whatever witch's brew of genetics, societal factors and husbandry produced the psyche that types these words is inconsequential. I have no idea what will incite my interest and give impetus to my doggerel. 

My father was once asked why I acted as I did. Dad shrugged his shoulders and said, "All I can tell you is when he was a kid, I put more stitches in his head than I can count." - as ever - BB
“I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about.” -Oscar Wilde 

Sinister

Adjective - 1. giving the impression something harmful or evil is happening, or will happen 2. wicked or criminal - from Latin sinister - left

This Saturday, August 13, is Left-Handers Day. Lefties have rights too.


As one of 10% of the earth's population who is left-handed, I have suffered slings and arrows from the dexterous world. (From the Latin dexter - on the right)



Since ancient times, those using the left hand have been deemed instruments of the devil. What makes one left-handed? Theories abound. Researchers have discovered specific alleles of at least one of three single-nucleotide polymorphisms linked to left-handedness. I still prefer Flip Wilson's Geraldine postulate, "The Devil made me do it!" 

Growing up, the world seemed full of devices designed to disturb my disposition: scissors, spiral-bound notebooks, ladles, can-openers, corkscrews, et. al. The right side of the brain controls lefties. We are imaginative and creative; ergo, we survive well in a right dominated environment. 


So they say. I think the anguish of sinistromanuality explains why the left-handed lifespan is 9 years less than that of our right-handed brethren. 


Despite all of this, I enjoy being left-handed. I relish in being different. All my life, I've had a distaste for following the crowd. Am I a lefty because of my contrariness? Or is being contrary symptomatic of my left-handness? Causa latet, vis est notissima - Ovid (The cause is hidden, but the result is well known.)


I have one idiosyncratic lefty dysfunction which upsets me - the inability to use a fountain pen. One with a gold nib will form to your hand so that only you can write correctly with it. However, I have yet to find an ink that dries quickly enough. The drag of my left hand over the written words smudge out any possibility of using this stylish stylus. 


Left-handers excel in fencing. 44% of the world's top rated fencers are lefties. Alas, the pen may be mightier than the sword, but lefties make better swordsmen than scribes - As ever BB


"I am not afraid of the pen, or the scaffold, or the sword. I will tell the truth wherever I please." Mary Harris "Mother"  Jones 

Smell as Sweet

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet" - William Shakespeare 

My topic is not a late 16th century play based on an Italian love story, but a 1957 film noir classic, The Sweet Smell of Success. The alluded aroma is not the fragrance of a rose, but the stench of entertainment's underworld of gossip columnists, press agents and mendacity.


The film did poorly in the box office. From the title, moviegoers expected to see Tony Curtis in a light-hearted comedy. Burt Lancaster fans expected a hero role. The film disappointed the audience. It's definative film noir full of unsavory characters, collusion and New York City neon juxtaposed against gritty street scenes. 


Martin Milner of Route 66 and Adam-12 portrays a jazz guitar player. He maintains his integrity while being unjustly smeared as a "marijuana smoking communist." West Coast jazz combo, the Chico Hamilton Quintet acts the part of the band.  Milner replaces John Pisano, who's left hand was used in the movie. This only adds to my personal fondness for the film. 


The pièce de résistance for me is the language. (A piece of Baltimore trivia associated with the film is the character in Barry Levinson's Diner who speaks only in quotes from this movie) Here are some of my favorite bon mots:
Steve (Milner) to J.J. (Lancaster): "You've got more twists than a barrel of pretzels." 
Steve to Sidney (Curtis) after Sidney feeds him some press agent fast talking: "That's fish four days old; I won't buy it."
J.J. to Sidney: "I'd hate to take a bite out of you. You're a cookie full of arsenic."
Sidney to J.J. - "The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river."


I watched this film again Sunday afternoon and you can expect to hear these phrases added to my pathetic patois soon - as ever BB


"A lot of musicians aren't proud; they'll do other work, just to be able to play music. I guess that's the way it's always going to be - musicians will have to suffer to a certain degree in order to obtain their outlet. " - Chico Hamilton

Procrastination Strikes Again!

Edward Bulwer-Lytton, one of 19th century Britain's most popular novelists, coined such memorable phrases as "the great unwashed" and "the pen is mightier than the sword." His plays and novels did not survive the test of time.


However, the opening phrase of his 1830 novel, Paul Clifford (famous for being used by Snoopy) has become a literary icon. Or should I say a literary laughingstock. "It was a dark and stormy night..." Those seven words have become synonymous with wooden writing.


They are just the beginning of his 58-word opening sentence, and the impetus for San Jose State University's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Since 1982, the contest has attracted writers from across the country. Wordsmiths have strove to concoct the worst, most convoluted and verbose opening lines. Over the years, prizes in crime fiction, romance novels, purple prose and other sub-categories have developed.


This year's winner was Sue Fondrie:  "Cheryl’s mind turned like the vanes of a wind-powered turbine, chopping her sparrow-like thoughts into bloody pieces that fell onto a growing pile of forgotten memories."


My favorite nugget came from Mike Pedersen, the Purple Prose winner: "As his small boat scudded before a brisk breeze under a sapphire sky dappled with cerulean clouds with indigo bases, through cobalt seas that deepened to navy nearer the boat and faded to azure at the horizon, Ian was at a loss as to why he felt blue." A periphrastic locution worthy of Thesaurus Girl herself.


Every year with the contest winners' announcement, I vow to submit an entry for the upcoming year. Alas, my penchant for procrastination prevails, and I have yet to plunge into that prose pool. A love of film noir, pot-boilers and Runyanesque slang impels me to the crime fiction category:


I figured her for a good egg, not a banana, but I guess my judgement took a powder at the sight of those never-ending gams, so she cheesed me and now I'm on the lam with just a gatt, a sawbuck and a vacant expanse of empty where my heart used to beat. As ever- BB


"I've been as bad an influence on American Literature as anyone I can think of." - Dashiell Hammett

Nostalgia

For my birthday, a good friend gave me a 3-CD set of the Grateful Dead performing at the Big Rock Pow Wow in May 1969. They were at their psychedelic peak. Songs like Dark Star, St. Stephen and The Eleven mixed with bluesy jams behind Pig Pen's vocals.

Three months earlier, I had my first Dead experience at the original Electric Factory in Philly. At 14, it not only changed my idea of music, but my outlook on life. I realized a different lifestyle than the one I had grown up with existed. Years later Garcia put it into words. He explained the concept he had learned from Neal Cassady, "Living your life as your art."

Listening to those songs again transported me back. Nostalgia has no hold on me, but I found myself awash in waves of it. My mind contemplated the yin/yang of  the sixties' final year- man walked on the moon, Woodstock, the Manson Family murders, Altamont...war, children, it's just a shot away.

It wasn't the momentous events that fueled the reminisces. My wistfulness sprang from lost innocence. Remembering the simple things - mastering changes between the G, C and that damned F chord. Riding my bike in the crisp morning air. Lying under a tree watching the light dapple through the leaves with absolutely nothing on my mind. The naive belief that the new generation, of which I was becoming a part, could build a bridge of positive change for the future.

The river of time has ravaged the trestles of that bridge leaving the detritus of cynicism and Weltschmerz in its wake.  Hearing the live muisc of what one critic of the time called "that band of hirsute simians" stirred embers of optimism in the bonfire of my soul. As ever - BB

"...how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet." - Robert Browning

Guys

Last night, I beat the heat lounging in a cool tub reading Life by Keith Richards. In 1979, he was living in New York City, hanging in tough neighborhoods in Brooklyn and the Bronx, visiting West Indian restaurants and record stores. He alluded to his friends at that time as "this group of assholes." A blog was born.

Referring to your closest friends as assholes is a guy thing. We do it in a humorous, tongue-in-cheek fashion with affection, even pride. Over the years, I've been blessed with a congregation of kindred spirits. Guys who are there when you need them. In the same breath, they can be satirical, sardonic, and at times, downright mean-spirited. Assholes indeed.

While the opposite sex perplexes me, guys I get. Growing up with three brothers gave the house a locker room atmosphere...much to the chagrin of my sister and mother. I'm sure dad relished in our boisterous brotherhood.  At 13, I entered  the all-boy, Bishop Eustace Prep School. This strengthened the male-bonding aspect of my psyche. Showing affection through insults and jibes, substituting lewd innuendos for compliments, throwing punches and wrestling as physical signs of friendship. Basically acting like assholes.

I used to attribute this aspect of my personality to heavy doses of Hemingway, John Wayne movies and sports at an impressionable age. Grace under pressure, a stoic attitude to pain and heartache, a man has to do what a man has to do. As I get older, I understand that we act this way as a manifestation of our inner man. Something in the Y chromosome's nucleotides trigger the asshole tendency.

So, with pride, affection and esprit de corp, I express a deep appreciation to my "group of assholes". You know who you are - as ever  BB

“It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea” - Dylan Thomas