We Own A Blender!

There are things you buy in a lifetime that serve purpose or disappear from sight. There are a few that observe you in plain view you rarely see – thus me and the discovery of our gorgeous Braun blender.

I can’t say how many years the Braun has hibernated in the corner of the kitchen counter without recognition from me until two days ago.

 My early twenties I became a blender addict. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t stuff down it’s throat then marvel at the churn and grind and final soup.

I was way ahead of the smoothie curve. If it was fruit, I filled the jar - churn and consume. I then moved on to vegetables. I stopped after a while when I couldn’t get the reds stand out over the greens - and that taste. The fridge was packed with my concoctions.

The best was the papaya vomit. I had a few other health freak pals who would  sample whatever was in our fridge. Living on organic Gothic Avenue, brown rice saluting wheat fields was on our community flag. So, a few potential victims would drop in here and there and I’d pull something exotic from fridge and we’d bust open.

I had a few pals who looked curiously at the papaya lava and asked to try. Honestly, I couldn’t lift my snozz above; it was totally repugnant. It was also unanimous – necks would spin, that gagging serenades and then the up chuck. For me – just another moment of BK comedy.

Come along son Jesse.

Kris and I wanted our baby eat the best - most healthy food possible – thus home doctor blended action. I made up these health stews with all good earth products. The carrots, peas, corn, … all melted down to gravy for the bottle.

Jesse downed the orange and strawberry stuff but had no means of defending against the carrots and squash smoothies.

A few weeks go by and Kris says; “Doesn’t Jesse look a bit orange.” I take a closer look and realize it’s not Man Tan. So we run him to the family doctor who then tells us Jesse has had a dozen or so to many carrots and may one day morph into a stalking vegetable. We stopped.

From my early days in Hollywood – the blender and smoothy were my tool and fuel to play seven days a week basketball and piano.

During my latter years it was raw fruits until the past year when Starbucks moved into the neighborhood. Now, it’s hot chocolate and muffin. So wrong!

Three days back I had an epiphany – bring back the smoothy. I ask Kris whatever happened to our old blender – the one that sounded like a John Deere tractor. She tells me that one died back in the early nineties and there’s a nice one on the kitchen counter. I have such a man’s keen eye – that means I only see what I  choose to see and if not identified – I’m totally blind. There before resides a gorgeous five speed Braun that’s been eluding me the past six years. I stood and quizzed the me- WTF?- where have you been old friend.

I can’t express my excitement. Off to Fiesta Farms and back with strawberries, oranges, yogurt, bananas, peaches, blueberries and into blender bowl. Churn, churn, churn, churn. Pop the lid, down the hatch and welcome back the seventies. Dammit, it still tastes the same; all slimy and loaded with fruit gravel. Hmmmm .. what about an onion, garlic, red pepper and pumpkin chaser or maybe a Cronut burger/ fried Mars bar smoothie.

Oh Canada, thou are not Syria.

The rain washed away the dry and parched bestowing this morning freshness not witnessed in many areas of the world. Opposite side of the planet, war ravaged Syria is saturated in fractured rubble, toxic dust - the scent of death and the pristine morning and calm we share is only a distant dream.

We get the glorious privilege of waking from sleep to walk into the kitchen, plug in the tea kettle, let the dogs out and collect the morning paper absent an artillery shell or savage attack.

I look at that region of the world wound so tight in grievances and religion and hatred and wonder how they ever came about. How did great societies emerge from such dissonance?

There was a time people viewed Canada as remote and flyover – not anymore!

We have serious economic and equality issues but none that can’t be solved through dialogue, cooperation and fairness – things for us that are not impossible tasks.

No so far side of the world.

This final week of August leading to Labor Day is most likely the most laid back of the year. Most everyone turns invisible except for us Facebook squawkers. There’s a quiet about life – even traffic pretends to be subdued. The week ahead is idyllic for cottage living and just doing nothing.

The hard rains of June and July irrigated backyard gardens and everyone is delighting in the size and weight of their organic conceptions. The markets are colored ripe from end to end.

Today, I will once again tour the streets on my bike – look at the rows of houses, front yards covered in green, hear the summer’s end laughter of children who have not yet concerned themselves about returning to school and smile a smile of true individual freedom.

I will also mourn those places in the world where even a word spoken out of place can lead to sudden death and know we have chosen wisely. The months and years to come thousands and thousands will follow in our footsteps.

Oh Canada!

The Disconnect Between Hollywood and Music..

I get the Bob Lefsetz letter and read it like most industry folks and enjoy the whining and pining and the serious advice concerning really making it in music; mostly in Bob’s world.

Last night’s VMA awards pretty much summed up what’s to be achieved in the cartoon setting now referred to as the height of music accomplishment in Hollywood.

Gone are the Phil Spectors, Brian Wilsons, the Byrds .. enter the dancing zoo clowns.

The Miley Cyrus performance with bears and WTF was more evidence the best place to be is a far distance and just enjoy music for what it truly is – a communal conversation. Why would anyone subject themselves to such humiliating stage play?

Rhianna, Selena Gomez, Nikki Minaj – hilarious! The guys – not funny enough.

Honestly, two minutes of scratchy blues man Robert Johnson smokes these musically illiterate shams.

The say all politics is local – same goes for music.

The three ring circus comes to town a few times a year – you drop a few coins – watch the dancing bare all – laugh, get dazzled by the glitter and strobes and back to the flat screen.

All other days it’s home grown. The bands you know, the players you trust. No big shine or ass in face just folks doing what they’ve been doing since instruments were shaped – playing and picking, talking music. The fun stuff!

Cyrus act has nothing to do with child fantasy vs. adulthood. Young Elvis was marketed by a shrewd manipulator but he had big talent and staying power. Cyrus is just trying to get seen and compete with others in the same messy territory. She will die a quick populous death like Millie Vanilli. Nothing radical about what she did - it's been around decades as they remind us in dancehalls of Jamaica. It's just that Cyrus has no rhythm or charm or skill to pull it off. If she did - she wouldn't be the big laugh today.

Let Them Smoke Pot..

It’s pretty obvious Trudeau is mining for young votes an untapped source and getting ahead of a mouthy cohort who had just publicly mentioned weed being slung around over dinner.

It truly is about time we legalize and savor the profits from the forbidden plant. Sucking families dry through gambling to me seems downright evil yet governments rely heavily on the faith of the weak and underpaid to fill the coffers.

People smoke everywhere – who hasn’t. Hardly a day passes when I don’t recognize the sweet pungent smell of herb – it’s in and around. In fact, I see more people smoking freely on main streets.

I miss lighting up in cinemas. Oh, the follies of youth!

We went to see a ‘Reefer Madness’ midnight showing in the early seventies and the whole room was passing joints - talk about side splitting laughter.

Still the best was the afternoon premier of Woody Allen’s ‘Sleeper’ at the demolished Uptown Cinema.

My buddy Kenny and I rolled a couple, centered ourselves and lit up having no idea what the film was about other than we laughed our asses off watching, “Take the Money and Run.”

There were possibly ten people in the room counting ushers. The next hour plus all you heard was two howling crazies rolling in the aisles.  Of course the weed was mixed with tobacco to camouflage. I don’t think it worked that well – we were warned a couple times.

Politicians are such slime ball wanks. They’ve mostly been to college and survived in frat houses where beer and pot are nutrient staples. They didn’t just causally smoke they death bonged. None of that pass the thin joint and share with friends – but that coma thing for which I’ve never understood. I’ve never been in that state of mind and avoided as much as entering a frat house. I preferred a pack of Twinkies and an empty couch.

Alcohol is much more potent and lethal. The numbers don’t lie. There are too many deaths to count from highway accidents and inebriated murderous spouses to lose this argument. Then there’s just the plain mean drunks.

I’ve never met an angry pot smoker unless they mixed the two.

Pills kill and ruin lives. We live in a medicine cabinet drug culture. I truly hate that shit. I avoid taking pain killers. It’s where the head goes. I live for a clear cold glass of spring water and brain in the same mint condition.

Millions have done time in jail; billions wasted trying to keep them there – lives and reputations destroyed over nothing. Legalize drugs, diminish the profits to be made and encourage counselling and treatment. The dollars to be made with pot could pave the way to a more economic sound future. Let people barter with each other and make a few extra dollars which will surface in our economy. The only reason we haven’t moved that direction is big corporate interests must be served first – and that’s figuring out a way of screwing the average Joe out of making a few dollars that would never flow from a government ordained source.

It’s always about who owns the oil, the resources now water – where the game is played.

Could come a time when all pot is birthed from Monsanto seeds thus the evil ways of seductive Mary Jane will all be forgiven.

Scratch my back – light my fire!

Why Can't Singers Remember Lyrics?

I was just looking at photographer Richard Conde’s photo of Natalie Cole at Newport 2013 and saw big lettering dripping from the music stand and thought about the number of times I’m on the bandstand and the singer has big scripted lyrics; bold-typed book - wide open.

When I photographed Tony Bennett a few years back at Montreal Jazz the stage was like an airport runway – nothing – empty – band set way back. Tony strolls end to end eyes glistening in the bright lights singing to perfection. Wow!

I know Barbara Streisand hid from stage 27 years fearing word block until giant teleprompters solved anxiety.

I get it – I can’t remember lyrics then again I’ve never considered myself a singer just a guy howling at the moon.

Phil Collins used to paper the stage end to end – Cher had teleprompters sporting lyrics large enough that could be witnessed from space.

Molly Johnson never goes without the “book of faith and moral support” - neither do most of the current crop of jazz singers I know.

For me the hands down best was Sophie Berkal-Sarbit. Sophie never forgot a word a song or ever in need of propping up. I’d say how about this song we did three years ago and she’d look back in deadpan expression “OK.”

I’m thinking OK what – you’re going to pause and search iPhone? No – just start playing.

I’d sit and think, Bill boy you can’t even remember a repeat line from a common blues and this young starlet stores volumes in her head.

I truly think memorizing lyrics is about clearing the head and concentrating. As I said, I find this to much for me – yet it’s never a stress issue. Some people have big memory and can look at a full page and retain. I look at a page and I see the binder clamps.

Lately, I’ve gotten really pissed at myself for relying on music and just listen and play along, over and over and find I retain so much easier.

Another practice is reading the lyrics by themselves and really getting a true understanding of what’s being expressed. Next, go slowly with words and notes to hear the match-up.

When I was fifteen I memorized Beethoven’s Sonata in Bb major – some twenty-eight pages – Clair De Lune and a Bach chorale for recital at the Louisville Academy of Music. I had six months preparation. I must say I’ve never been more terrified. About three pages into sonata all I could think about was screwing up. It never happened - my hands got angry with this brain and kept signaling – shut the fuck up.

From a photographer’s viewfinder music stands obscure singers and is so unprofessional. You don’t look like a singer – more like someone uncomfortable delivering a speech.

I have small lyric books programmed in order for performance. I rarely sing these days especially with profound talent like Gavin Hope, Stacey Kay and Selena Evangeline in the neighborhood, so those crutch tools are gathering basement lint.

Highly paid pop artists have giant word screens and voice tracks. You can’t compete with that. It’s all about the visuals.

Really bad bands can memorize and hop around like wounded turkeys and give a passable performance. Really super ones can sit with pages of notes and sing their bottoms off and leave the audience in a state of indifference. I wonder how much this affects the over-all quality and audience interest. Does that note book and music stand say to these folks you aren’t serious?

Darn that Dream..

Do you ever get the feeling you were birthed in a dream? You were created in someone’s imagination then popped in a server’s belly.

The action in dreams is much like watching summer movie fare – the absurd, the impossible – the unpredictable.

My favourite is one that lasted most of a night a few years back.

I floated around the ocean’s seaways on a carpet  fingers dangling a few inches below waterline. I wasn’t fearful just amused. The water was warm – the sky perfect. Nothing happened - other than an easy cruise; then I woke up.

These are the kinds of dreams you want to revisit and add a few scenes but never get the opportunity.

The other night I’m back on ocean this time dogging a rhino tusk. Why it was spear fishing in big water is beyond me.

Last night I’m in some upscale restaurant undergoing a downward transformation waiting to be served. As I bide time I notice the building aging and turning uninhabitable. Then two young boys out of a Dickens novel arrive to show me an exit route which leads between two worlds – one; the decaying building the other a fence covered in chicken wire. We begin climbing and escape – then I wake up.

When you are very young you fly above trees. Loved those nights – the only time I had a good look at the neighborhood and activity above treeline. Of course there was the gremlin living in the closet that looked right out of a Jules Verne novel.

Octopus are scary bedroom creatures. They slink around just after you doze off and eat all the toys and food crumbs.

My epic encounter reaches back forty years. I find myself on the plains in Australia and this giant object is running towards me. The closer it gets I can make out the figure of a rabbit. This is one big sucker – my size. It stops a few inches in front of me and stares back with runny eyes. We both inspect and ponder .. and try to make sense of each other. This goes on for hours. Sir rabbit says nothing only reflects my image back it me - it then turns and limps away. I had gone a long time absent dreaming and Mr. Rabbit brought the cure.

I have no idea what dreams mean other than possibly after our time on earth we return to dream state. We dream we were here once, had families, argued, loved, worked, traveled and exhausted ourselves and when the eternal dream returns we’ll rest, imagine and start again.

I Am Not a Zoomer!

Every time I see a photo of someone considered a card carrying member of this new sect of aging limpoids, I cringe as if aching bodies are being stuffed and polished with unspecified Mosanto preservatives.

Who has teeth at sixty-five that look like those of baby otters?

Zoomers smile as if pain and dry skin are comforting. They ride bicycles through countryside waving at sunflowers and beavers – all with a big crisp grin and mother-nature handshake.

Let’s get the facts straight. If you are past sixty – you are zooming nowhere. You rarely bend down to pick up anything. Instead you ask the youngest person in the room pick up. If that doesn't work – you ignore.

You sleep a dozen positions at night. You rustle about just as back ache or unwanted numbness takes up residency then shift about for relief. You move like the real Jagger just after B12 shot wears off.

These magazine Zoomers take multiple vitamins with soil - only the finest from virgin forests where sweet nocturnal creatures stuff capsules.

You will likely pass a hundred and thirty because Zoomers repel death. If you are authentic zooming you are traveling in a smile bubble protected by  big pharmaceuticals. 

You are thin, finely crafted for your age, energetic, have tickets to every film festival showing, opera, fundraiser for typhus, Glee rehearsals, cross country treks, and AGO opening.You drive something that gets ninety-eight miles to a gallon, listen incessantly to Paul Anka hoping for a spiritual message and  you rarely doze without a sleep aide.

Other Zoomers worship you and look on with envy. They see your glow, the new expensive kayak on the front lawn and witness that get up and get going in you that never ceases until last rites.

Let’s face the facts – corporations are chasing us as fast as we can run. Nobody gets away. A rare few oldies have big money - good portion are sect members - Zoomers.

Boomers are diseased. Too many flirted with excess or worked jobs cooking with Agent Orange.

So if you want to hold on to your rebellious teens or contemptuous twenties then – buy some pot from street vendors and freak their asses out! Get back to your roots; brownies, baggies and quarter ounces. Is it still $40?