tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87593577713827345192024-02-19T23:25:10.017-08:00HumdiddyAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-23922384591264226822012-03-03T14:35:00.001-08:002012-03-03T14:35:45.085-08:00Bon Tempe - Profiles in Cacophony: This Has Really Always Been About ME!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Obviously. I mean don't you think it's about time we just laid the bare naked truth out on the table for once? Sure, Bon Tempe has had some very special moments, especially when you consider that most of the guys are seriously disabled in some fashion on another. If you hang around musicians long enough you'll eventually come to the conclusion that most of them suffer some sort of debilitating disability that renders them unfit for most civilized social environments. That's why, when I started the Bon Tempe band back in grammar school, (it was originally to be called Jeb and The Bon Tempes but seeing that I wrote and sang all the songs, plus showed the other guys how to play their instruments, I had to give something up. Turned out to be a smart thing to do, I'm sure you agree. It worked for Robbie Robertson!) I set out to find the weirdest kids I could find. It's really not hard to do in the 4th grade - you know any boy with a clarinet case is likely to either be a science nerd or a pre-fag. Not that I was looking for clarinet players, but even when I was 9 I knew that a horn section was a must-have. The Beatles and The Stones were great and of course I loved 'em just like the next kid, but Jame Brown? How many white kids in Kentfield in 1964 knew that when Jame Brown sang about having a brand new bag he wasn't talking about his<i> lunch </i>bag, and he wasn't talking about any Beatles lunch pail either (else it might have been called "Papa's Got a Brand New Pail"). I knew the science nerd with the inch-thick glasses and the clarinet case would someday get contact lenses and that licorice stick was going to turn into a shiny brass saxophone, and when it did that sucker would be under contract...with me!<br />
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Ultimately it's the business savvy that separates the men from the boys - or in this case the slightly disabled from the severely disabled - in the music industry. By age 10 I had a pretty good handle on this, having created the persona of a streetwise jive-talkin' womanizing black man in the body of a pre-pubescent white kid from what was soon to be one the nation's most lily white, exclusive bedroom communities (keep in mind that Marin was still more or less a backwater in the sixties - the big money was still nestled safely on the Peninsula, and Cyra Mcfadden had yet to write "The Serial"). By seventh grade I was officially nicknamed "Soul Brother" by my fellow classmates, to the dismay of the Kent School janitor - I would have to look him up in The Falcon to get his name - who wasn't quite sure how to react when he heard kids shouting "hey soul brother!" or "how you feelin' today soul brother?" (the proper response was "I feel good"...). Although the janitor never did invite me over to meet his real soul brothers and sisters, we did have sort of a special bond in that he probably want to wring my white nappity ass neck.<br />
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Which leads me to the hair. Great hair is critical to the success of dynamic entertainers like myself. When I was picking the lineup for Bon Tempe back in the mid-sixties, I was extra careful not to have anybody else in the band with a blonde afro. In other words if there was going to be a soul brother in the band it was going to be me! And as the great marketing minds know, differentiation is the key, and I knew that besides Art Garfunkle, Harry Chapin and Link from The Mod Squad there were not a whole lot of blonde afros that I would have to contend with. (Phoebe Snow gave me a bit of a start later on, but by then Bon Tempe was well established with at least 50 fans if not more, and most of the time it was relatively obvious that Phoebe was a woman, may she rest in peace!) There was a short period of time in Marin where I was worried I might be mistaken for Angela Davis, who had one world-class fro when she shot up the Civic Center. This was another of the few times I was thankful not to be a woman.<br />
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Of course recognizing the characteristics of male-pattern baldness at age 15 was not something that came naturally to most kids, but for obvious reasons it was important for me because, as I looked down the road to the many grammy awards, SXSW conferences, NAMM (not NAMBLA) shows where Bon Tempe would be honored, I wanted to be certain that I was the only one left standing that had any real hair to speak of. As you can tell from recent pictures of the band I have only been partially successful on this front, but, lucky for me, the only hirsute band members besides yours truly are the horn players: Albondigas and Aches. So, am I worried about anybody stealing my soul brother thunder? I don't think so!<br />
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So what about all these great songs I wrote? Of course this has always been a delicate topic with my employees (aka my bandmates) because as any good manager knows it's important to give the individuals on the team a sense of ownership of the product. In this case, it's been a matter of letting the other guys think that they actually had a hand in writing the songs by gently guiding their brainwaves such that they become a medium through which the true genius can channel his ideas. Take Lothlorien, the Tolkein-inspired jazz homage to those crazy, sex-addled elves astral traveling through woods shooting their psychedelic-laced arrows at anything the moved sending everybody on a week-long acid trip. What about that swingin' number, with it's dynamic movements and jaunty bounces? Well Albondigas had been on a particularly self-destructive opiate binge involving gooey brown heroin suppositories and an oxycontin catheter and I felt he needed a little move to the positive so I substituted a little peyote in the suppositories and hid the catheter, and the next thing we know Albondigas is putting music to The Lord of The Rings. Of course pretty much all he could do was say what a great idea it was, so I gave Nellie a little melody and he ran with it, all the while Alby thinking that he was writing a song when in reality he was scratching his balls! This the way it works when dealing with the disabled musician.<br />
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Well loyal fans, the hour of the show draws near. These days you never know which show will be the last, at least with this configuration. And time tends to have the effect of making an exercise that had become painfully tedious appear appealing from a distance. But that's one of the great things about naming your band after a lake. For generations to come, people will gaze upon the lake and get an inexplicable creeping feeling of discomfort in the large intestine as a large bubble of fetid gas forms - and they'll think: Albondigas! (That would certainly be a logical conclusion). The intestinal discomfort is followed by a nagging itching sensation in the armpits and perspiration on the upper lip. You hear a faint mantra "hey hey gotta cook tonight no Chicken Delight" and you wonder WTF is Chicken Delight anyway? Clearly you are now experiencing a Nellie visitation and suffering from the curse of the Nood, which is short for Noodle. You realize that Bill Nelson once wrote a song about his wiener: "Niles Nood" and now you're feeling really sick, despite the beautiful lake shimmering before you. The aches, well that goes without saying now doesn't it? It starts with a dreadful ringing in the ears as if an alto saxophone has taken up residence in your head and is blowing a relentless trilling vibrato on high C . You ache all over, thanks to none other than Aches, Bob Akers who has been content these many years to leave the songwriting to me and my channelers. But, as you sit there by beautiful Bon Tempe reservoir you do have reason to be thankful, even though you might be feeling like you're gonna die, and that's because Scott, The Corn Nibbler, and Sleepy Hacienda aren't there to beat you senseless with their drumsticks. <br />
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Just when you think you've had all the pain you can take, your heart starts to thump loudly in your chest to the irregular rhythm of Hot Cellums and a thin, reedy voice comes bleating like a tortured sheep through the smooth and graceful Madrones, imploring you to "get yourself down with your bad self", which is not only redundant but is clearly the ranting of some white kid who at one time wanted to believe he was a "soul brother". And as the pain begins to subside you realize you've had another Bon Tempe moment, have not suffered any permanent disability and have, once again, lived to tell about it.<br />
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If you're lucky you'll get the chance to pass the test of another Bon Tempe moment tonight! And if you're even luckier it will be the last! (But don't count on it :)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-19020707041691245832012-02-27T15:59:00.001-08:002012-02-27T16:02:57.858-08:00Bon Tempe - Profiles in Cacophony: Funky Drummers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMThS7iO89tcESrfN_nBLdg4KhEuDPiWEpSY8QsPHlJQXtGRMXvxGPnBeSZn1ZXSj5M50_LGS67AQLLEllLUYhA70V-kFh4x1rgGMKOuOLCjbm4E1rx4uhDJKoU4J7fqZHx2_V-xUnCcU/s1600/scott+on+the+kit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiMThS7iO89tcESrfN_nBLdg4KhEuDPiWEpSY8QsPHlJQXtGRMXvxGPnBeSZn1ZXSj5M50_LGS67AQLLEllLUYhA70V-kFh4x1rgGMKOuOLCjbm4E1rx4uhDJKoU4J7fqZHx2_V-xUnCcU/s320/scott+on+the+kit.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scott gets Hot</td></tr>
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<span id="goog_989269742"></span><span id="goog_989269743"></span>Ever since Spinal Tap created the self-combusting drummer, it's largely been expected that a band will forever cycle through drummers like so many vacuum cleaner bags. Truth is that this perfidious behavior was SOP long before Spinal Tap made it terminal. For Bon Tempe, there's never been any obvious firing/hiring activity where the band gave one drummer his walking papers, (or in more extreme cases vodka laced with gasoline followed by a particularly sparky joint) while sending a new one in for drug screening tests. I guess you could say, true to form for the times, drummer changes happened as organically and naturally as a hippie taking his monthly bath.<br />
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The original Bon Tempe drummer was The Corn Nibbler, aka Nibs (legally Ken Corsiglia). Imagine for a second that people called you The Corn Nibbler, so when you walked into a room people would say "Hey, here comes The Corn Nibbler". Would you get the urge to go nibble on some corn? Or you were hailed with the short version, as in "hey Nibs, pass that bottle over here". Do you think such a nickname would have been assigned to anybody named Corsiglia? Perhaps we should Google Corsiglia, call a few of the results and ask them "has anybody ever called you The Corn Nibbler, or Nibs for short?" Doubtful we would get a positive response. In other words, anybody who gets a nickname like that has got to be a nut to begin with, and it was Nib's nuttiness that earned him his crazy names. He was nutty on the traps too, and had a huge impact on the Bon Tempe sound when we got started. While I don't think any of us had heard of Spike Jones when we were 17, Nibs had Spike Jones in his DNA and hence a signature sound that was fun, inventive, perky. But as best I can remember it he was a very busy, popular, party kind-of-guy and had better things to do than music. Then there was Nellie pestilence that irked Corn Nibbler who just had no interest in the level of seriousness about the music that the rest of the band intended to pursue so we parted company.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Corn Nibbler</td></tr>
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Next came Scott Kohler, who played on the sole Bon Tempe album and will be playing at 19 Broadway on Mar. 3. and has played on most of our "raw onion" gigs since 2004. Scott was indeed the serious jazz drummer Nellie, Alby and I were looking for (nobody was quite sure what Aches was looking for); a big fan of Elvin Jones, Tony Williams, and Art Blakey as well as the funk masters Dave Garibaldi, Steve Gadd, Bernard Purdy, Clyde Stubblefield etc. Biggest problem with Scott was, and still is...NO NICKNAME! So frankly I don't know how we're gonna talk about Scott which is probably ok 'cuz Scott has always had this aura of scariness about him like he would rather be bashing you on the head with those drumsticks instead of the snare drum. I mean, really. Check it out: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uw_baHe81gcNqK4-sCAJvUUBwhlNpxOIhZdmamjPt3ggwYohGkpWWqzawZiMt1Tj6J8aSAwrPmlJ9lKd1rS3T21hfdVrR21r8vAYHd4nBj3yKpHVHQ-DPAzNx6k4G-I9cxOsCbNFkYeN/s1600/scott+mean+mutha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uw_baHe81gcNqK4-sCAJvUUBwhlNpxOIhZdmamjPt3ggwYohGkpWWqzawZiMt1Tj6J8aSAwrPmlJ9lKd1rS3T21hfdVrR21r8vAYHd4nBj3yKpHVHQ-DPAzNx6k4G-I9cxOsCbNFkYeN/s1600/scott+mean+mutha.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badass Honey Drummer</td></tr>
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Finally, there was the fabulous Sleepy Hacienda, who actually did not earn that moniker until much later while with Call Me Bwana, my "signature" band who's antics are sure to be chronicled in another blog where we get closer to releasing our Best O' Bwana compilation some time later this year and gearing up for the obligatory Bay Area tour. I will have my novel Hack out by that time too so the blogwaves are sure to be humming with bullshit from your favorite renaissance dork. But meanwhile we have Bon Tempe to stick a fork in, and Sleepy Hacienda, aka Dave Casini, (who was also known as Dog Weenie thanks to Walt Dickson and the Sky Blue Band) probably played more Bon Tempe gigs than Nibs or Scott.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72UY8YzkoSGHf4S-O9ofqVr5Htqp98V71-PpKAXl2jYJF6AdnMcKhiaqva_RiXfIR7ubAZCEu_HvI0C4d21jWWFjvywI9iY2IWFGcayDHr-w7sFSTWfJsIAvzA7DLh-crVUON-zcGgZgo/s1600/slee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72UY8YzkoSGHf4S-O9ofqVr5Htqp98V71-PpKAXl2jYJF6AdnMcKhiaqva_RiXfIR7ubAZCEu_HvI0C4d21jWWFjvywI9iY2IWFGcayDHr-w7sFSTWfJsIAvzA7DLh-crVUON-zcGgZgo/s1600/slee.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleepy Hacienda at a Call Me Bwana photoshoot</td></tr>
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But I am going to save the legend of Sleepy Hacienda, as well as the stories of all the various iterations of Bon Tempe that our man Nellie kept throwin' out there to see if they stuck, for tonight I am too downhearted after going another year without winning an Oscar. Damn.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-7282917036022965852012-02-19T18:37:00.000-08:002012-02-19T18:37:11.715-08:00Humdiddy: Bon Tempe - Profiles in Cacophony: Albondigas<a href="http://humdiddy.blogspot.com/2012/02/bon-tempe-profiles-in-cacophony.html?spref=bl">Humdiddy: Bon Tempe - Profiles in Cacophony: Albondigas</a>: "Horning" at a Redwood High, 1972/73 Albondigas plays the tenor and soprano sax and periodically bangs a cowbell or tambourine, ...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-88459992032283075432012-02-19T18:05:00.000-08:002012-02-19T22:37:11.559-08:00Bon Tempe - Profiles in Cacophony: Albondigas<ul class="commentList">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Horning" at a Redwood High, 1972/73</td></tr>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78" target="_blank">Albondigas</a> plays the tenor and soprano sax and periodically bangs a cowbell or tambourine, usually at completely random moments, kinda in the style of <a href="http://www.airto.com/airtooldsite/frames1/wildframeset.htm" target="_blank">Airtube </a>on "Bitches Brew".While you can get the basic facts about Alby from his FB page, it's mostly a pack o' lies. The truth lies below:</div>
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Meathead, as he is also affectionately known, was born in a one room shack that straddled the railroad tracks in Winnemucca, Nevada. Although the shack was only one room, it was a big room because it had to accommodate trains going right through the middle of it. It was convenient though cuz when the Alby family wanted to go someplace they could just hop on the train as it went ripping through their living room. And that's what they did one day, arriving in Richmond when little Meathead was just a tiny meatball in a big plate of spaghetti. The family came over to Marin but they forgot Alby who moved in with a family in Richmond and learned to play the saxophone. Eventually the nice family in Richmond realized they had made a dreadful mistake and decided to rid themselves of the little sax-blowing nuisance, so they drove him over to Marin and dropped him off in the parking lot at Kent School, where his family was sure to pick him up after school one day.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0vHrI_P7hnVCfMreDQGW2qSPQNTCiddBc2Dvym4XYWpWVfw_U-NXg6MnXwvWqVVhtDsR4qaTa3G5Z6SkwIxWdnpSky1gWpYE3OcEvEftEH8uYOXGm2oFn5PacmaJIE-o9s8UrLt0UqAw/s1600/albs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0vHrI_P7hnVCfMreDQGW2qSPQNTCiddBc2Dvym4XYWpWVfw_U-NXg6MnXwvWqVVhtDsR4qaTa3G5Z6SkwIxWdnpSky1gWpYE3OcEvEftEH8uYOXGm2oFn5PacmaJIE-o9s8UrLt0UqAw/s1600/albs.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh back from his debut for "Night of The Living Dead'</td></tr>
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And that's exactly what Grace and Elmer, Meathead's long suffering Mom and Dad, did, taking the little boy home and giving him his first bath and feeding him something besides fried chicken and spaghetti for the first time in his meaty little life! Yes things were a lot different for the mini-meatball in Kent Woodlands. Before long he had joined the Cub Scouts, and mother Grace, being a dedicated hobbyist and grammar school activist, was Den Mother for the stinky cubs, which meant junior All Meat could boss everybody around. And so began his career as a Great Leader, Noisy Iconoclast and consistently Embarrassing Friend. It was Albs who would point out that the word "embarrassing" was actually etymologically derived from "to become bare assed", which, as Albondigas would explain, was probably the original, biblical source of "embarrassment". When one is "em-bare-assed", as in suddenly exposing their pink and flaccid butt cheeks, they feel shame and profound self-loathing. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHwkndIubQC9bz0XgWS8zrmRcqYkF4p_k296zykK10z_kDZYlqfj0v0K560RXNt-OxuiY2ChVCQpnsi61IUJP-HMxY6ZjmTDvknIUU9a11UprzamOmSFA21ewJ6Q9DrfjHABnEaD2r06A/s1600/All+meat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHwkndIubQC9bz0XgWS8zrmRcqYkF4p_k296zykK10z_kDZYlqfj0v0K560RXNt-OxuiY2ChVCQpnsi61IUJP-HMxY6ZjmTDvknIUU9a11UprzamOmSFA21ewJ6Q9DrfjHABnEaD2r06A/s1600/All+meat.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Explaining the origin of "embarrassing" to a confused, angry and nonplussed audience</td></tr>
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And so Meathead's (some females preferred to call him Shithead) reputation as a Great Leader was spread far and wide, to the point where many people assumed that Albondigas was the leader of Bon Tempe. The truth is that he probably is. Who would deny that the infectious, indefatigable blaring of his tenor sax would eventually turn even the strongest men into wilted, simpering worms wriggling with discomfort and hiding their slimy heads in the dirt. That, my friends, is power. The power that only Albondigas can wield with such kind, just authority. Alby not only brings that awesome, powerful Horning (the act of blowing the saxophone) to the front line of Bon Tempe, but to his business as well. As PRESIDENT of the J. S. ALBRITTON COMPANY, Meathead consistently sells a TON of SHIT! And for this everyone he touches loves him dearly, even his wife and daughter. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpiO2Jjkdg0t2Bcz7NmzoFLvEFChigLxjjuEDZsosdofAcryesNUF557K5xvNSnaW3Hnyf35ne9NA5DCBPownFq3-OS6_Hn3XT3GLiMuK5G-RD9ySZ6CxpBd9T8maWN8PC_u7zDGE-Wsj/s1600/alby.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpiO2Jjkdg0t2Bcz7NmzoFLvEFChigLxjjuEDZsosdofAcryesNUF557K5xvNSnaW3Hnyf35ne9NA5DCBPownFq3-OS6_Hn3XT3GLiMuK5G-RD9ySZ6CxpBd9T8maWN8PC_u7zDGE-Wsj/s320/alby.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hi my name's Meathead but you can call me Meatballs if you like, sweetheart!"</td></tr>
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Alby is not only famous for Horning. Yes, he is a kickass blower, pushin' a shitload of notes high and low, soft and loud (mostly loud), long glissades, short blasts, twitting birds and flappy, juicy farts through those metal contraptions. The soprano is better suited to the birds, and the tenor to the farts. And then there is Albs the MC, the one-man Master of Disaster on the microphone, which, being set up for saxophone means that the mic is about crotch high. And though Albondigas is the quintet-essential Winnemucca Fucka cum Ross Valley dude, he hasn't lived here in ages, preferring the balmy ocean breezes, floods, fires and earthquakes that it seems Mother Nature heaps upon the lustful sinners of the Southland with alarming frequency. That's Bondee Gas (long oh me oh my oh). Former PRESIDENT of Cal Berkeley's infamous co-ed frarority of the seventies, the "Deek" House, where the booze, balls n' booze flowed freely and one member went on to be the PRESIDENT of the North American Man-Boy Love Association (aka NAMBLA - I believe the Prez is still doing time in Soledad). Bon Tempe was, of course, the "house" band ("house" music had yet to be invented, as did the personal computer). </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zpbUrWx7NG3tgtmjNcMPXoREtsb2spDQWRsX_Fi62_xzfJy54pV77FHcrg4M65pCmqeF8QrKHFb4nOTVSn3JwFhivVfIDI3ZdtX6Zbt7Rq7cU3-_5i5Ig9PCNZraP1hJ73k57iA0Hii7/s1600/bondedgrip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zpbUrWx7NG3tgtmjNcMPXoREtsb2spDQWRsX_Fi62_xzfJy54pV77FHcrg4M65pCmqeF8QrKHFb4nOTVSn3JwFhivVfIDI3ZdtX6Zbt7Rq7cU3-_5i5Ig9PCNZraP1hJ73k57iA0Hii7/s1600/bondedgrip.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Horning" at the Sleepy Hollow Clubhouse, 2004</td></tr>
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When you come to the show on Saturday March 3 at 19 Broadway, you'll want to request a few songs in particular: "All Meat's Whole Wheat", "That's a Meaty Mouthful Mama", "Soft/Firm" and "Moonlight Feels Right". These songs will embolden Albondigas to play with a fierce abandon, squawking and honking like a flock of geese taunting a lonely and confused coyote. But...Alby loves that coyote just like he loves those geese, and they love him. For with out Albondigas, the meatiest of Meatheads there is no Bon Tempe. (I'll let you think about that and check back later...)</div>
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Oh and just FYI, his name is John. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9at5BEgjVeyapRntT1b3p1jFtGHdYlndwabSnKfLENziH6MxbzZfyMEUnARMtbbQeT6k6X-OREP_bAvUYPJcV4GoFZBYgiP8UT3DafFZHhF6nb7iGM_cf17lMQ0ngP92smmmDHv5U4w_n/s1600/Bondi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9at5BEgjVeyapRntT1b3p1jFtGHdYlndwabSnKfLENziH6MxbzZfyMEUnARMtbbQeT6k6X-OREP_bAvUYPJcV4GoFZBYgiP8UT3DafFZHhF6nb7iGM_cf17lMQ0ngP92smmmDHv5U4w_n/s1600/Bondi.jpg" /></a></div>
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Here are some of Albondigas' recollections regarding the rise of the Ross Valley's answer to Loosening Up Naturally:</div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1100778060" href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78">John Albritton</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"></span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_4f409521568063d67165826">
<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">If
I missed the first rehearsal it wouldn't be the first rehearsal I
missed...er uh, maybe it would be the first rehearsal I missed. I can't
seem to add a comment to your blog, so...I don't remember rehearsing
with Peter Horton, but I remem<span class="text_exposed_show">ber many
rehearsals at your folks and my folks house! Also recall first gig at a
house in Belvedere with Ann on flute. Also remember my first gig as a
vocalist and sax player at the Co-op market next to Redwood with Tom
Brimmekamp on drums and Jim Marchant on keyboards...and I sang
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida and Born on the Bayou...we rehearsed at Marchant's,
can't remember the name of the band?</span></span></div>
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<abbr class="timestamp livetimestamp" data-utime="1329608836" title="Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 3:47pm">8 hours ago</abbr> · <span class="comment_like_3297971 fsm fwn fcg" data-ft="{"type":36}"><button class="stat_elem as_link cmnt_like_link" name="like_comment_id[3297971]" title="Like this comment" type="submit" value="3297971"><span class="default_message">Like</span></button></span></div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=749850336" href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=749850336">Belle Marko</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">Haha! I see my ol' alma matter in the backgorund! not much has changed it still looks like a prison</span><br />
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<abbr class="timestamp livetimestamp" data-utime="1329608942" title="Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 3:49pm">8 hours ago</abbr> · <span class="comment_like_3297974 fsm fwn fcg" data-ft="{"type":36}"><button class="stat_elem as_link cmnt_like_link" name="like_comment_id[3297974]" title="Like this comment" type="submit" value="3297974"><span class="default_message">Like</span></button> · <a class="comment_like_button" data-hover="tooltip" href="https://www.facebook.com/browse/likes/?id=299894986731320" rel="dialog" title=""><img alt="" class="cmt_like_icon" src="https://s-static.ak.facebook.com/rsrc.php/v1/yw/r/drP8vlvSl_8.gif" /> 1</a></span></div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1100778060" href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78">John Albritton</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"></span><br />
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<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">I
remember you playing in a battle of the bands at Kent School...also the
time you did a whole rehearsal from inside the bass closet and Von
Kriedt never even noticed...there's some more stories..like the time
Sifford lit off a smoke bomb <span class="text_exposed_show">in class or
Von Kriedt made us all pit down our instruments and asked us if any of
us knew the musician who came by in a van and who his daughter ran off
with last night...here he is asking a bunch of 1 year olds if we knew
anything about where his daughter was...</span></span></div>
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<abbr class="timestamp livetimestamp" data-utime="1329609160" title="Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 3:52pm">8 hours ago</abbr> · <span class="comment_like_3297979 fsm fwn fcg" data-ft="{"type":36}"><button class="stat_elem as_link cmnt_like_link" name="like_comment_id[3297979]" title="Like this comment" type="submit" value="3297979"><span class="default_message">Like</span></button></span></div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1100778060" href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78">John Albritton</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">That
was supposed to be 13 year olds, but then again...also remember you
playing flamenco Classical Gas for our Spanish class in 7th grade. I
think Nancarrow gave you an A (but not me, not in Spanish) hoy, para
hoy! ay dios mio. (Auto correct wants me to say Dino's moo)</span><br />
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<abbr class="timestamp livetimestamp" data-utime="1329609484" title="Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 3:58pm">8 hours ago</abbr> · <span class="comment_like_3297986 fsm fwn fcg" data-ft="{"type":36}"><button class="stat_elem as_link cmnt_like_link" name="like_comment_id[3297986]" title="Like this comment" type="submit" value="3297986"><span class="default_message">Like</span></button></span></div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1100778060" href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78">John Albritton</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">McCartney Lennon....Harrison Nelson</span><br />
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<abbr class="timestamp livetimestamp" data-utime="1329609651" title="Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 4:00pm">7 hours ago</abbr> · <span class="comment_like_3297989 fsm fwn fcg" data-ft="{"type":36}"><button class="stat_elem as_link cmnt_like_link" name="like_comment_id[3297989]" title="Like this comment" type="submit" value="3297989"><span class="default_message">Like</span></button></span></div>
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<a class="actorName" data-ft="{"type":35}" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=1100778060" href="https://www.facebook.com/JohnAlbrittonCal78">John Albritton</a> <span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"></span><br />
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<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text">I
don't think we were Bon Tempe yet at that first gig (and remember doing
jazz but not original stuff yet?)...I remember us all in music theory
together Senior year and Akes and I in the jazz band at o-dark thirty
every morning...I think ou<span class="text_exposed_show">r first
rehearsal where we started on original stuff was at your house
downstairs. Also remember going over band names down there but don't
remember any other names we thought of...</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><span class="text_exposed_show">PLEASE BE SURE TO FOLLOW "HUMDIDDY" IN THE UPPER RIGHT CORNER! THEN LOG INTO WWW.JEBHARRISON.COM AND FOLLOW THERE FOR MORE MEATY MORSELS! </span></span></div>
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<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-45233094571385526312012-02-18T14:03:00.000-08:002012-02-18T14:03:30.266-08:00Humdiddy: Bon Tempe 101: Warm Ups<a href="http://humdiddy.blogspot.com/2012/02/bon-tempe-101-warm-ups.html?spref=bl">Humdiddy: Bon Tempe 101: Warm Ups</a>: "Hey, shut up and play the intro!" BonTempe was, is, and always will be the quintet-essential unknown Ross Valley cult band, and m...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-8530480326727440692012-02-18T13:50:00.000-08:002012-02-19T22:34:36.475-08:00Bon Tempe 101: Warm Ups<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKjEG4Q31ZpTPQNcGv3cpseJcb0X-bgurbMRo-mhyphenhyphencmqAlFiEG73oguRJOzqfIlqbHbUzT9K3ncVb0d4bd2oORirPOZLS3YbkAX2oreiT6-g9IoZ2l_GyrlHGdOwJ_gH3i23JyPCnM-jZ/s1600/Bill++Jeb+Fall+1971%25C2%25BF.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhKjEG4Q31ZpTPQNcGv3cpseJcb0X-bgurbMRo-mhyphenhyphencmqAlFiEG73oguRJOzqfIlqbHbUzT9K3ncVb0d4bd2oORirPOZLS3YbkAX2oreiT6-g9IoZ2l_GyrlHGdOwJ_gH3i23JyPCnM-jZ/s320/Bill++Jeb+Fall+1971%25C2%25BF.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: blue; text-align: center;">
<b><u>"Hey, shut up and play the intro!"</u></b></div>
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<b><u><br /></u></b></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext;"><a href="http://www.myspace.com/bontempe" target="_blank">BonTempe</a> was, is, and always will be the quintet-essential unknown Ross Valley
cult band, and many believe there's a good reason it should stay that way. More accurately, Bon Tempe was the Redwood
High School seventies
cult band. You could say Bon Tempe is a testimony to the old credo “don’t
spread yourself too thin”. Bon Tempe generally didn’t do any spreading at all,
save for perhaps one gig at a military base in the valley (no, not the San
Geronimo Valley). BT never made it over the GG Bridge save for one Halloween
quartet event, and never made it north of Novato.
Nonetheless if you asked some hippies in Mendocino if they ever heard of Bon
Tempe chances are they have. I don’t know how that works. </span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext;">If
you asked 8 or so musicians that have been in Bon Tempe in some shape or form
you would get 8 different stories. There was also a period from 1973-78 when I
was in college and I missed all those gigs each of which has a story of its
own. So this is far from any kind of authorized biography of the band rather
it’s just me and my porous memory telling portions of the story bit by bit from
my perspective, thinking that it could give some of the March 3, 19 Broadway
gig-goers a little hysterical perspective (which I apologize to this point has
been remarkably unhysterical!). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: windowtext;">I
guess another attribute that plops the band and it’s music into the heart of
the Ross Valley and the surrounding watershed is
that we named ourselves after one of the 5 reservoirs in the MMWD. One
interesting fact about the name: the reservoir was named after the brothers that
ran cattle in the valley and around the creek that was eventually dammed up to
form Lagunitas, Bon Tempe, Alpine and Kent Lake.
The brothers Buontemps (I know this isn’t the correct spelling but I can’t find
my source materials right now) sold the land to the water district who named
the reservoir after them. So while the name may mean “good time” or “good
weather” or “good tempo” (my definition!) it’s really just a bastardization of
this Swiss-Italian immigrant’s name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: windowtext;">I’ll
save some of the window dressing around the whole Bon Tempe reservoir
experience during our high school days. Suffice to say it was prime real estate
for recreational activities of all kinds, and when I think back I’m amazed at
how many of those recreational activities took place at night! You gotta love
the woods at night. Still there was no special meaning behind the band name,
other than it was a great place for high schoolers to hang and do the things
that high schoolers in the early seventies did. If I got into any kind of
detailed description of those activities I’m positive some band members would take
issue, since it’s pretty easy for our kids (and yours too!) to stumble upon
this little story and, though I would argue that what a bunch of southern and
central Marin teenagers generally did in the early seventies is common
knowledge, that doesn’t mean we have to broadcast it. Or so some of our extended
Bon Tempe family might say.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: windowtext;">I’m
pretty sure <a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1335669022" target="_blank">Bill Nelson</a> and I started the band, though <a href="http://www.johnalbritton.com/about_albritton_co.html" target="_blank">Albritton</a> and perhaps
the Corn Nibbler (<a href="http://www.spokeo.com/search?q=Kenneth+Corsiglia,+Greenbrae,+CA&s2=t11#:3556820141" target="_blank">Ken Corsiglia</a>) might disagree. Nelson might remember exactly how
it was that we got together with Nibs (not the crunchy roasted kind, I’m
afraid) and Albritton. I’m not 100% sure since events around that time are, for
me, extremely clouded for some reason (WTF?). But I’ll hazard
a guess anyway and say it was the result of
jam sessions we were having at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Horton" target="_blank">Peter Horton</a>’s house on West Shore Rd. I was
already playing in a band with Nelson, <a href="http://harrypiano.com/" target="_blank">Harry Likas</a> and Graham Shieks that was
called Goodywuffo, and then Hot Goodies. I don’t know that we ever played any
gigs though we did audition for a dance at Kent School.
Unfortunately Graham had the flu that day,
and when we went to pick him up for the audition he was puking his
brains out and could barely walk. We loaded him and his drums in the car, set
them up at Kent School, walked him in there, and tried
to play Hendrix’s “Fire” and Graham was on another planet. I do have VERY vivid
memories of that experience, and Graham’s basement where we rehearsed, plus a song
that we played over and over and over: “Lookin’ In” by <a href="http://www.savoybrown.com/" target="_blank">Savoy Brown</a>. Nelson will
remember all the other songs. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: windowtext;">Anyway
Horton was dating my sister. I don’t remember how I knew that Kenny played
drums, but we gathered in Horton’s family room and played <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBscTIX-3Os" target="_blank">“The Ghetto”</a> with
Horton on piano and Nelson on guitar. Horton’s sister Annie was a
singer/songwriter and we put together a little band to play Annie’s songs and
shit like “Popsicle Toes”. I think we were introduced to Albritton via Mike
Jackson (or Pete, perhaps), an older guy with an old Ferrari that we would race
around Belvedere Island. I don’t know if the first time
Ken, Nelson and I first played with Albritton was at Horton’s house. Somehow
Anne Dransfield, a flutist, got added to the mix – we might have played a lunch
time gig at the CEA - but she wasn’t around for long before Albritton brought
in <a href="http://www.jazzforalloccasions.com/content/?p=11" target="_blank">Bob Akers</a> and the first iteration of Bon Tempe was formed. Imagine how Bon
Tempe might have been if we had stuck with the chick flute player! No
references to female genitalia in songs about vegetables, that’s for sure!</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: windowtext;">That’s
my take on the pre-Bon Tempe
gyrations that eventually led to version 1. I’m gonna leave it up to Nelson to
fill in the blanks with comments. If you follow the blog you’ll be alerted when
Nelson’s comments and you’ll get the facts straight vs. my fuzzy recollections.
Hopefully we will get some guest bloggers to help round out the picture. Should
be en-chinalya!</span></div>
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<span style="color: windowtext;">Next
up: The first set lists, the first parties, the first original songs, the “album”…and
“What’s <a href="http://www.sonsofchamplin.com/" target="_blank">The Sons</a> Got To Do With It?”</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-6299198584842777582012-02-06T21:59:00.000-08:002012-02-06T21:59:11.783-08:00Trombonefish on the Trinity<br />
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Trombonefish?? Ludicrous, you say! Oh dear, here he goes again with some dumbass crunchy roasted nibs dancing sock monkey silliness. And you would be absolutely right. I've started this blog twice, with the first attempt mercifully lost in a system crash and the second being so crushingly cerebral that when I read it this morning it triggered such a powerful gag reflex that I had to call my nurse, Betty. Or Sweaty Betty as she is known locally.<br />
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<br />
It's good to have a nurse when you are up here in Tweaker's Paradise stalking the elusive, wily, sexy and wise
Trombonefish. First, at it's most mundane, it is way too fucking cold to be
fishing. The water temperature alone, despite layers upon layers underneath my
new waders, and neoprene booties covering ultrathick wool $25 fishing socks, is
such that you don't want it to come in contact with bare skin. Or, perhaps
better put, you don't want to wade past crotch depth lest there be irreversible
shrinkage. The air temperature in the shade hovers around 40 all day long, even
when the temps in the sun might be in the mid-fifties. The Trombonefish
generally avoid hanging out in sunny water, so you freeze unless you're
standing in a sunny spot and casting into a shady spot. I did this for several
hours on Saturday, knowing that chances of hooking a sleek, silvery and
shiny Trombonefish were slim but profoundly enjoying the warmth of the sun and
the meditative routine of roll casting, mending, drifting, stripping and
retrieving over and over and over. After such a stressful day standing in the
frigid waters wondering what happened to the feeling in the extremities,
having a nurse like Sweaty Betty to lovingly tend to my bodily needs is a
blessing indeed. <br />
<br />
There are much more important reasons to have a nurse nearby when on the
trail of the tricky Trombonefish. Probably more important than extremity
warming is basic psychotherapy, and I am thankful that this is the kind of shrinkage Sweaty Betty excels in. Many people believe that the object of fishing is to catch
fish.These would be the same people that argue that the object of playing golf
is to shoot a low score, or to best your opponent's score, whether it be in
aggregate or hole-by-hole. I guess if you equate "catching fish" with
"winning", which would be the expected perception in our culture,
then a day spent on the river simply casting and, in the case of Trombonefish, rarely seeing a fish much less hooking one, would be classified as "losing". Others might say that many, many hours of losing are required before one can expect to start winning, which is probably more true of flyfishing than other fishing techniques. Still others like to comfort the inveterate loser with such platitudes as "there's a reason it's called fishing and not catching", which a pretty empty comfort when the guy sitting next to you in the drift boat fishing with the exact same rig is yanking Trombonefish out of the water by the dozen while you can't even get one to holler "fuck you, loser!"<br />
<br />
Betty says that, as with golf, the career losing fisherman either quits or lowers his sights. I have walked off the river at the end of the day many, many times calling it quits, maybe almost as many times as I have walked off the golf course with the same sentiments. And, as with golf, the fickle and cruel Gods of Sport don't like quitters. So during most rounds of golf, and during most days on the river, a glimmer of hope is served up like a carrot on the stick and The Gods know you will be back. With golf it may be a wickedly straight and long drive on the 18th hole that whispers the elusive "whoosh click". On the river it could be anything from a slight tug to a full blown grab that gives you just enough of that "fish on" mojo that you simply can't wait to get out there and give it another try. Betty knows this all too well and frequently warns me about the seductive powers that fleeting delusions of grandeur may wield over the weak and tremulous mind of the career loser. Or in another way of saying, hope springs eternal regardless of how ill-informed or irrational such springing may be. <br />
<br />
Fortunately I have Sweaty Betty to remind me of these simple yet powerful truths after posting another goose egg to the fisherman's scoreboard, or a "1" followed by a couple of goose eggs on the golf scorecard. In golf, the loser frequently reminds himself, as Shivas Irons so eloquently pointed out in "Golf in the Kingdom", that "it's all in the walk". Which is just another way of saying that walking around the golf course is ultimately what the game is all about. Jim Harrison, novelist and great believer in the healing power of walking, would likely agree though I doubt the great writer has ever picked up a golf club except perhaps to decapitate a rattlesnake. The other Harrison often writes of the purifying power of small stream fishing, which by definition requires a healthy bit of walking.<br />
<br />
If walking is the tonic that makes the game of golf bearable for the loser, then casting is most likely to be the fisherman's mantra, for, like meditation, if requires doing the same exact thing over and over and over again. Others might say that casting is more like the golf swing itself, which if successfully executed is so repetitive that golfer's ultimately transcend thinking about the motion and enter "the zone", where the body goes on autopilot and the mind is as empty as a bag of wind (not to be confused with a windbag which may be equally empty of meaning but is full of noise nonetheless). If there are no fish to interrupt the casting process then it takes on the mantra-like quality of hitting practice balls on the driving range. Combine with this the hypnotic sound of river water gurgling over rocks and whooshing down riffles, and flyfishing in a river for several hours can have the same therapeutic cleansing qualities as sitting on a pillow at Spirit Rock and as boring as this blog has become. But then again both would be an accurate reflection of my most recent quest for the stealthy and surreptitious Trombonefish. Were it not for the tender ministrations of Sweaty Betty, former left tackle for the Weaverville professional women's flag football team, we might as well be talking about something as inherently meaningless as crunchy roasted nibs (yeah!). <br />
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Next up: the funny blog about Trombonefish that I intended to write tonight before I got all philosophical and shit. <br />
<br />
<br /><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-70462255440296217912011-12-11T20:22:00.001-08:002011-12-12T19:11:05.664-08:00Me and Angela MerkelWhen I learned that Angela Merkel, the Chancellor of Germany, and me, Downtrodden Middle-Aged Family Man, were close enough in age to have dated in high school, I practically had a cow.* How could it be possible? I can understand that the President of the US is younger, looks younger, probably feels younger (hard to say - I've never touched him) because the US is a young country. The people may be old, or more accurately the bulk of the population may be getting old, but the country relatively speaking is just a baby. Actually I can understand why many countries, regardless of their age, would have leaders younger than me. Given my diminished mental capacity, shrinking vocabulary, lack of the most basic arithmetical skills including the completely forgotten multiplication tables, begrudging acceptance of virtualization along with the fact that personal computers did not exist when I went to college (for you younger folks that would mean smart phones, iPods, GPS, video games - well just about everything we now rely on to manage our existence), and declining physical condition, the details of which we need not delve into at the moment...it makes perfect sense that electorates the world over are choosing younger candidates. Except in Germany.<br />
<br />
But to imagine that had I been a German, or more specifically a West German, I could have at some point in my younger days had relations with Angela Merkel - that is a sobering, depressing thought.<br />
<br />
As I cogitate on the possibilities there is a creeping anxiety that perhaps, just perhaps, I did have relations with Angela Merkel.<br />
<br />
Jesus could it have been her?<br />
<br />
The bossy, sweaty little porker that was always telling the rest of us what to do in that all-too-familiar "Sound of Music" German accent? <br />
<br />
It was 1978 and I was "studying abroad", pretending to teach English to little brown bunnies in Jalapa, the capital of the state of Veracruz, nestled in the mountains between that coastal city and the megalopolis of Mexico (which is how Mexicans refer to the city: not Mexico City, just Mexico.) About 3 weeks before I was to return to Boulder for graduation, I decided to see the sights. I headed straight for the island of Isla Mujeres off the coast of the Yucatan, where it was said college kids, mostly girls, from around the world gathered to snorkel, drink, dance and have relations. (Had I known a gangly American kid with a blonde Jewfro didn't stand a chance next to the French, Italian, British, Dutch, Swedish, Norwegian, Australian, West German and all the other fellas not behind the "Iron Curtain", I would have just toured the Mayan Ruins and gone home.) But there was one night, Cinco de Mayo festival it must have been because the party lasted all night long, night after night, for about a week, when a pudgy little German with a cute little Page Boy hairdo got so drunk that all I had to do was figure out how to roll her into my sleeping bag. Of course she had yet to take on the appearance of a seasoned yet perennially tired head of state. No. She was in fact rather perky, even when she was barfing all over her German touring sandals (if she had only taken those black socks off!). And smart as a whip, when I could make out what she was saying, which was hard enough not speaking German and damn near impossible when the German became unintelligible. But I can recall that even on all fours I could tell she had a future in politics, just by the way she grunted and squealed. Or course I can't remember her name but Angela would have been just as good as any.<br />
<br />
Oh lord tell me it couldn't have been her. Tell me we couldn't possibly be the same age, that I am far more youthful, vital, and refreshing than the Chancellor of Germany. Tell me before I go to sleep tonight, if I can go to sleep tonight, that the Euro Debt Crisis is not my wife's problem to solve (man that would put her is such a baaaad mood). Even if it's inevitable that Angela and I are almost the same age - just one measly year apart (she is older - yay!), tell me lord that it wasn't her in the fleabag Mexican hotel with cucaraches the size of a Luftwaffe bomber. <br />
<br />
If the good lord can't grant me a reprieve then I ask you, gentle reader, to at least understand my reaction to the very thought of being the same age as Angela Merkel. Seriously. Who wouldn't have a cow?<br />
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<br />
<br />
*Is "having a cow" considered cliche? Maybe it was in the sixties, but I would venture to say that very few people are still having cows, though it may feel like it to them. Of course the idea of a human giving birth to a cow is outrageous, which is perhaps why the phrase still has such appeal to cultural hicks like myself. When my children get upset, even now in their 20s, I love to tell them "well don't have a cow about it!", which invariably shuts them up. For obvious reasons.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8759357771382734519.post-50461294160458854552011-04-17T20:44:00.000-07:002011-12-10T20:04:46.900-08:00Crunchy Roasted NibsGreetings and Welcome to "Humdiddy", where you can revel in uninformed opinions, half-baked epiphanies, insensitive observations, inaccurate reports, boring proclamations, and bombastic pontification on whatever is yanking my chain, getting my goat, bunching my panties, frosting my balls, getting my dander up, wrong-treeing my bark, or hummin' my diddy. Unlike my other blog, <a href="http://jsharrison22855.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">"Various and Sundry"</a>, where I tell stories both real and imagined but always in equally poor taste, the only fiction you'll find in "Hummin' the Diddy" is when my brain gets abducted by aliens in the middle of blogging (which I've always thought sounded like a dirty, perhaps even scatological activity).<br />
<br />
So to help you decide whether "Humdiddy" is a blog you mistakenly might want to follow, let's just start bloggin'. All together now: Do a little blog, make a little blog, get blogged tonight, get blogged tonight! (See I told you this would be bad.)<br />
<br />
Some of you may have stumbled across a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10150455590123584" target="_blank">little video</a> I made with my good buddy Sock Monkey last week, where the monkster sings the praises of "crunchy roasted nibs". This was inspired by the label on a Bolivian <a href="http://www.altereco-usa.com/main.php" target="_blank">"Alter-Eco" </a>dark chocolate bar" Dark Chocolate Cacao with Crunchy Roasted Nibs". On that day my brain must have been seeking relief from the mind-numbing drudgery, dark seriousness, and shameless ass-kissing that comprises my corporate gig with Big Fucking Company (BFC in my 2nd novel, "American Corporate"). To counter the relentless pressure to quickly perform senseless administrivia, my brain will latch onto a phrase like "crunchy roasted nibs" and turn it into a melodic mantra, (aka "brain worm" Thanks DeeDee). Then, with desperate desire to do something at least nominally creative, and with Sock Monkey sitting not two feet from the computer where I live, we (sock monkey and I) decided to skip the next conference call and make a video for Facebook. Regardless of how shitty, stupid, and silly it came out, we were going to post this thing and see if we could get a few laughs. (Now I realize that it may have been the chemicals unlocked by crunching on those roasted nibs that inspired this manic silliness). The idea to suggest that the painting, or a painting like it, might make a good holiday gift, was entirely Sock Monkey's idea. He felt that just singing the little song, which he made up on the spot, lacked purpose. "What good is it to just sing a song about crunchy roasted nibs?" he complained.<br />
<br />
"Yes, but if you throw a plug for the paintings in there you will lose the pure existentialism of the experience!" I countered. <br />
<br />
"Horseshit!" shouted Sock Monkey. And that was that, because as soon as Sock Monkey starts talking about shit you run the risk of having it all over the place. He is, after all, a monkey. <br />
<br />
I must admit I was a little disappointed by the general lack of an intelligent reaction to "Crunchy Roasted Nibs" by the audience, the media and the blogosphere in general. Here was a breathtakingly original, raw, primitive and uncontrived film promoting the benefits of fair-trade Bolivian chocolate. Indeed, there are few if any Bolivian food products out there promising to make the consumer "get down and get funky", at least not in English. My suspicion is that most Americans do not understand the significance, or the mental health benefits of crunchy roasted nibs. <br />
<br />
So let's pause and consider the spiritual significance and possible mental health benefits of crunchy roasted nibs. Let me suggest that the secret lies not in the nibs themselves, nor in their roasted crunchiness, but rather in the rhythmic, drone-like quality of the phrase itself: "crunchy roasted nibs". It is the creation of the sonic waveform in the brain that in turn, through auto-suggestion, produces the profoundly deep meditative state. I bet that if you sat in some sort of yogic position in a temple high in the Himalayas with several hundred scarlet-robed, shaved-headed Tibetan monks chanting "crunchy roasted nibs" in their famous throbbing hum, you would experience the ecstasy of nirvana. Or you would get so hungry thinking about the chocolatey crunch of a roasted nib you might bite one of the monks (as some of them are similar in color).<br />
<br />
So now you know why I made that stupid, irritating, silly little video, holding Sock Monkey in my left hand (he still hasn't learned how to walk on his own) and my iPhone in my right. First there was the trigger: the compelling yearning of the brain to break free of it's corporate shackles to dwell in the abstract chaos of the unfettered mind (and get down and funky in the process). And then the realization that our purpose was not simply to create a childlike, sophomoric diversion but to actually share this simple yet powerful mantra with as many suffering souls as possible in the interest of individual enlightenment and ultimately world peace.<br />
<br />
So let's try it one more time. Repeat after me:<br />
Crunchy roasted nibs (yay!)<br />
Crunchy roasted nibs (yay!)<br />
Get down and get funky with some<br />
Crunchy roasted nibs (yaaaaaay!) <br />
<br />
Ahhhhhhh. Ommmmmmm. See?<br />
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Just goes to show ya: it's not what you say, it's how (and how often) you say it!<br />
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Amen! <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18163161161628701784noreply@blogger.com0