Question? Answer.

Step into my personal Wayback Machine.  Year: 1981  Month: June

FRIDAY, 2:30 PM 
"What would you like to write about?"  The editor, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Anything, really.  What do you want me to write about?"  Me, eyeing suspiciously back.
"Well, we do get just about everybody playing here, you know.  Either the tour is on their way to Cali and has to stop in Colorado.  Or coming from the left coast.  A logistics thing, you know.  And everybody loves playing here.  But you know that."  He's now glancing at my resume.
I want to tell him 'No, I really don't know.  I have no clue.'  But I didn't offer that information.  I had just landed in The Rockies a few months back and answered an ad for an entertainment writer.  I wanted to be a music critic, whatever that consisted of.  I shift my weight uneasily from one foot to the other, standing awkwardly in the middle of a noisy, congested newsroom.
"I see you come from Minnesota.  Pretty crappy weather.  But the Twin Cities attract considerable talent."  He still glances at my resume, flipping to my portfolio.
"I've only done freelance work for my local newspaper and a few music rags.  Pretty much on a volunteer basis.  Get a pass to the show, write up the review.  You know."  I'm trying to sound like him now.  I hope he knows what a freelancer goes through.  A mere pittance is tossed your way if your story is published.  If it fits into the publications' objective.  If it doesn't require too much editing.  If it's interesting.  If it's factual.  A boatload of 'ifs'.
"And you're from high binge Minnesota?  Where's that?"
"Hib. Een.  Northern Minnesota."
"Oh, Dylan country."  A rosy glow now illuminates his pasty pate.  "How is he these days?"
"I, I really don't know."  Wince.  "I haven't seen him lately."  A weak grin splashes my face.  I shift back onto the other foot.
The editor, Sam, looks at me in a totally different light, as if this connection will assure quality writing and profound insights into the musical world.
"Rock.  Roll.  Jazz.  Blues.  Folk.  We try to cover it all here in Boulder."  He neatly tucks my resume and published stories back into its folder.  "Audience Magazine has been informing the Front Range for over ten years now, you know."  He looks at me with brown, beady eyes.  "Tim Weisberg is playing our Boulder Theater this Saturday."  Today is Friday.  "We'll comp you one ticket.  We need a concise review, no more than 750 words and no less than 400.  Do you shoot?"
"Not really.  My camera is a little old," I lied.  I didn't even own one.
"No biggie.  We all know what Tim looks like.  We might even have a recent file pic, you know."  He eyes me again.  "Deadline is Monday.  Noon.  See you then."
I then hear myself ask "Should I get an interview?"  "You're on your own on that one."  Sam extends his hand and I clasp this soft, pudgy appendage with my bony, now-clammy one.  I then hear me say "Thanks.  I appreciate it."

SATURDAY, 1:30 PM
Mr. Weisberg was somewhat of a musical black hole to me.  I did remember his LP with Dan Fogelberg, "Twin Sons of Different Mothers" ('78), a tepid and limp recording with the hit single "The Power of Gold".  That track wasn't too bad but the rest was a snooze fest.  The late-night TV test pattern was more invigorating.  But surely, he had more to give.  I went to a local record store and started nosing around the pop/rock/light/airy/dreamy/sappy section.  Jackson Browne.  Loggins and Messina.  Bread.  America.  I asked the proprietor if he knew of any Weisberg's livelier albums and he gave me a stunned look.  "Ya, I think he jammed with The Raspberries.  Very eclectic."  Big Ha Ha.
And then it hit me like a sack of Strawberry Alarm Clocks.  I need to interview him to cover up for the boring show he's about to flay me with.  Yes, a very deep, profound and revealing insight to a true troubadour of our times.  An iconic and sincere instrumentalist with his, ah, what does he play, oh ya, the flute.  His endearing melodies melt the hearts of maidens and brings ogres to their knees.  Or something like that.

SATURDAY, 7:30 - 10 PM
But, this part you won't believe because I didn't believe it either:  He totally destroyed the place.  Set Boulder on fire with a set of unbridled power and musicianship.  The songs I knew nothing of.  His band, the same.  What album(s) he played from, ditto.  He pranced and danced and sulked and swayed across the stage effortlessly with a gleaming flute in his hands.  And he rocked.  He made his amped and reverbed flute snarl and bite.  Then he had two (two?) at once, a small one and a larger one.  Then he stomped down on an effects pedal, squalling with wah-wah and distortion.  Yowza.  All wireless.  He made Ian Anderson (Tull) sound tame.  At least for this night.

So, I had to immediately change my storyline.  He wasn't this softee.  He wasn't a bore.  He was a wild man.  And I suddenly had my story.  And I still needed to interview him.  Ask him who the hell is he, really.  What is his next LP.  Who's in the band.  What's the tour like.  But I had to get that interview.  I sprang into action with no credentials nor experience nor skill nor idea of what I was doing.  I found myself talking to a big dude by the side of the stage, telling him "I'm a writer for Audience Magazine.  I need an interview with Weisberg."  Him motioning me to another big dude.  Him telling me that nothing backstage but maybe tomorrow I can come to his hotel and interview, what was that mag, Audience, sure, tomorrow.  Noonish.

Yes.  I'm in.

SUNDAY, 11:00 AM
Tomorrow came quicker than I anticipated.  I made the 50-minute drive from Littleton to Boulder with some interview questions and imaginary responses keeping me company.  I arrived at the historic Boulderado Hotel with an air of excitement and trepidation.  As I approached the front desk, there was some commotion in the hallway.  A tall, lanky man with cutoffs and sweat-soaked tank top, hair wet, tennis shoes scuffed.  I immediately recognized him as his entourage escorted him up the stairs.  Weisberg.  I almost thought of going after him with pen and paper in hand, yelling questions that I needed answering.  But they were gone.  Sheepishly, I hung out.  Walking around the lobby, wondering how I could introduce myself without being a nuisance.  After 45 minutes, I asked the stodgy front desk guy if that was indeed Tim Weisberg.  "Tim Iceberg?  Who's that?"

SUNDAY, NOON
I rambled around the Pearl Street Mall, a hip, outdoor, four block, pedestrian retail center, on a crazy, sun-soaked day, thinking about my next move.  Walking past posters of bands and events attached to light poles, I just happened to see one for a celebrity/charity volleyball tournament.  And who was one of the celebs?  You guessed it: Weisberg.  It was running until two today just outside the flatirons of Boulder.  I could lurk around the hotel and spring out of the bushes.  Naw, that wouldn't be cool to get thrown in jail.  I had a story to write.  I had an interview to land, somehow.  And I had to pretend to be professional about this.  I saw a display of Audience Mag, my mag rag, and grabbed one.  This was my calling card, my badge of honor, my employer.  And I was back at the Boulderado confronting a younger, less-stodgy fellow.  Laying the paper in front of him, I told him I write for this particular piece of informative entertainment and I would like to talk with a certain Tim Weisberg.  For a very important story.  Firm.  Direct.  Professional.  "Who?  Tim Iceberg?"

SUNDAY, 2:30 PM
Sitting in the bar, waiting for Iceberg, uh, Weisberg, I felt like a writer.  Wasn't I supposed to get drunk and churn out magnificent renderings of life?  Wasn't I supposed to demand a stronger drink and then storm out, cursing everybody in my path?  I twirled the cubes of my Coke with a red plastic sword, Maraschino cherry impaled.  Yes, I might have to say 'darn' a few times and demand another cherry.  I might scowl a bit.  I drizzled back to the front desk, where, could you believe it, who was there?  Weisberg.  I almost tripped at him (too much caffeine and sugar), regained my composure and presented myself.  Sunburned, hair sagging, sand attached to his ears, he invited me up to his room.  We could talk for just a few minutes as he showered and changed for a dinner engagement.  I froze.  My cherry quivered inside my stomach.  That's OK, I said, I could talk to you later.  No time, he said.  So,  I followed him up the old, quaint, mildewed carpeted stairs, trying to squeeze in as many questions as I could.  He couldn't (or didn't want to) hear me.  Too much ear sand, I guess.  Once inside his room, he immediately shed his shirt and started with his cutoffs, when, I, temples throbbing (way too much caffeine), legs wobbling (not enough food), decided I had to put money in the parking meter and I would be back in a flash, maybe after you showered. 

By the time I had collected myself, it was too late.  Weisberg was gone.  Drats.  Doggone it.  Darn.  I even said the F word: fiddlesticks.  I was downtrodden and defeated.  Why hadn't I hung around and got some quotes?  Just a couple.  Like "My wife of 22 years is.........." or "My three kids love........"  or "I play the flute because..........."  I admit, I was scared.  My first big opportunity, lost.  But wait.  I had another braindrizzle.  How about a phone interview?  Huh?  Sounds good to me.

SUNDAY, 8:30 PM
"Tim here."
 "Hey, Mr. Weisberg.  It's Mark from Audience Magazine.  Sorry about earlier today.  I left you a message at the front desk.  Oh, you didn't get it?  I had an emergency.  Ya, my mom.  Thanks, she's OK now.  I was just wondering, with your busy schedule and my, my emergencies and all, how about answering some questions over the phone.  Oh, you're ready to leave for the airport.  Oh, we could maybe talk at the airport?  Uh huh.  You'll have some time, OK.  You just have to change out of your tux, where?  At the airport?  Uh huh.  In the airport bathroom?  I see.  Not enough time to talk anywhere else.  OK.  I'll see you then."

I sank back into my couch and poured another Coke.  I'm out of cherries.  Maybe they'll have some at the airport.

HAIR: Chapter One

Over the past weekend, along with other glazed, glassy-eyed consumers, I wandered the aisles of a department store, perusing this knack-knick, this coat, this candle, when I happened upon a display of DVDs, hundreds, perhaps thousands, but more realistically, dozens, scattered, with no discernible system of order, all at a bargain, and if you know anything about me, that I am somewhat frugal, thrifty, some say cheap, but I just love a deal, whatever that is, CDs, DVDs, SUVs, RVs, WMDs, ASAPs, RSVPs or bananas, the thrill of paying less than MSRP, has always been a kick, a joy of finding something of value at a ridiculously low price, almost euphoric in the knowledge of saving money, of scoring, which I know is borderline psychotic, but hey, that's who I am and I'm not changing now, as I crouch down, because the DVDs are towards the bottom of a chintzy metal rack, bulging under the weight of savings, knees creaking, hamstrings stretching, I, childlike, poke through a plethora of movie titles, bunches of Christmas movies destined for the garage sale, like "Elf" (Will Ferrell), "Sesame Street Does the Holidays" (Kermit, Big Bird), "Four Christmases" (Vince Vaughn, Reese Witherspoon), all varieties of religious flicks and whoa and behold, some actual movies I'd like to have in my collection, such as the director's cut of "Blade Runner" (Harrison Ford, Rutger Hauer), "House of Flying Daggers" (Ziyi Zhang, Andy Lau) and, drum roll please, "Hair" (Treat Williams, John Savage), at prices to die for, at least to this cheapskate, I mean savvy buyer, the one that leaped out, caught my eyeballs, transformed my day of bargain-hunting, chilled my spine was this musical "Hair".

Now I know I'm being a bit dramatic and downright possessed, but I needed this movie.  I'll probably watch it a couple of times in my lifetime, but boy, what a steal.  Also over this particular weekend, The Wife, Ren and myself took in the movie "Tangled", a tweaking of Rapunzel.  Thoroughly enjoyed it.  Though not at a bargain price.  [Insert grumbling noise here]  The show was about hair.  And some other heart-warming message of love, kidnapping, boy-meets-girl, yadda yadda.  But really it was about hair.  Lots of it.  And then, same weekend, quite busy I may add, I read an article about the selling of Russian hair.  In a "poverty-ridden town", "log cabins and fallow fields", Mosal'sk, in central Russia, has one precious commodity: human hair.  Much of it is naturally blond.  Because of the hair extension rage, blond hair is easier to dye to match a woman's hair color.  Really though, do blonds have more fun playing with someone else's hair?  This prized commodity, "the blond harvest", has helped poor towns in Russia become a hair-raising community.  Hair-brained idea?  A 16-inch blond braid gets $50.  I guess, hair with split ends gets double?  Just a guess.

This story, however, is about My Hair.

The very personal history of My Hair began when I was cast out into a cold, unforgiving, dry world, with nothing but long, flowing, golden locks wrapped around my trembling body, protecting me, shielding my pink and blue and slimy and bloody pudgy, squishy self, from latexed hands, glaring lights, deep, scary voices and rear-end abuse.  The shears were immediately brought out.  Shiny.  Cold.  My first haircut was about to begin.  And me, a few scant seconds old.  Talk about cruel, anti-hair, masked, gowned giants taking advantage of a mere, helpless hairy baby.  That horrible sound still resonates within me today.  The slicing, slick metallic SssNip.  The final clip.  Matter spewing out of these long tendrils of tresses.  Everything went blank.  I was told later, much later, that nary a hair on my wee person was harmed.  That I was pronounced healthy.  And that shearing, disrespectful, awful sound was the cutting of the umbilical cord and not the  downy-soft, slightly wavy, shimmering of My Hair.  I was relieved.  But that horrendous experience left me forever leery of sharpened prongs of metal.  Leery of that nauseating, clipping sound.  Leery of latex.

Soon, I was the talk of the town, as there wasn't much to talk about besides the weather, Mrs. Lundquist's boil, the lancing of said boil and Doc Hansen receiving a face full of boiled puss.  My spongy limbs, my miniscule appendages (please, don't get dirty on me), my great big head lolling about.  But that head, My Head, was not swiveling fro and to like a bobblehead because of weak and undeveloped neck muscles.  Nay.  It was but the sheer (if shear, insert winces here) magnitude and weight of My glowing, splendid, bulk of Hair.  My Hair.  Down to the dimples in my buttocks was this mane of incredible magic.  This "Ah, look at His Hair" or this "My gosh, His Hair is beautiful" or this "What is he?  Some kinda freak?"  That last quote was from my Uncle Joe, he of baldness at age 16.

For the most part life was grand.  Lovingly and tenderly, Mom would brush my hair, count the strokes (thus, getting me started on counting) and sing.  Yes, sing.  About My Hair.  About how radiant, like the sun.  About how the angels delivered a miracle.

And then, disaster struck.  I remember it was warm out, this being May and the snow had finally melted.  Spring was springing up everywhere.  I think it also encouraged My Locks to spring forth and create joy in the house.  Joy in the streets.  Just another day in the bassinet.  Just another warm bath with bubbles of soap popping or was that me?  Whatever, it was so relaxing.  And then the brush.  Once.  Twice.  Thrice and so on.  I closed my eyes, reveling in security and peacefulness.  And then horror.  I open my eyes, as I felt something foreign floating, caressing my still-spongy arm.  I glanced over.  And there.  And there.  Everywhere.  Here there.  Aft and stern.  Front and back.  My Hair.  Swirling.  Clinging to my body.  Strings of gold fastened to my neck and shoulders.  I looked up at Mom.  Hoping a metallic, shiny instrument was not in her hands.  Hoping she hadn't brushed too many numbers that I was learning.  Hoping it was just a daymare.  "Oh my, all your hair.  Look Marco Polo, your hair."  She held up her dripping hands.  Hair.  My Hair.  Draped around her hands like some recently skinned mammal was hair.  My Hair.  Everything went blank.  Again. 

This really isn't me and My Hair.  This was the cheapest model I could find.

Wanna Play?

Controversial.  Annoying.  Quirky.  Creepy.  Sleazy.  Corny.  Whatever you may (or may not) think of Paul Rubenfeld, aka Paul Reubens, aka Pee-wee Herman, one thing is certain: either you love him or you hate him.  Either his brand of kid/adult humor is humorless or his brand of kitsch/classic comedy is hilarious.  You have to admit that he has caught our attention.  He has been involved in a couple of less-than-flattering incidents which took its toll on him personally, professionally but not creatively.  Now, Reubens is poised to take his playhouse to Broadway, November 11, '10.  I, for one, am thrilled that he's back performing as one of the most original, entertaining and weird characters to come around for some time.  But that's just me.

Originally designed as comedy for adults, Reubens turned Pee-wee into an ambassador for racial diversity and focused on children's entertainment.  He wanted to be a positive role model and present a moral show, reminding adults of past comedies, like Howdy Doody and H. R. Pufnstuf.  Pee-wee's Playhouse, Saturday mornings (CBS) from '86-'90, was a total bizarre half-hour.  From characters real (Lawrence Fishburne as Cowboy Curtis), puppet (Randy, freckled bad-boy) or almost semi-real (Jambi, mysterious genie in-a-box with no body), this was a strange romp through themes of forgiveness, gratitude, friendship and sharing.

  A lifelong thespian, Reubens had performance in his blood early.  He loved the circus.  He loved "I Love Lucy".  Performing improv comedy with The Groundlings (Will Ferrell, Lorraine Newman, Jon Lovitz, Conan O'Brien) in the '70s, Pee-wee was invented and expanded in '81 for HBO as The Pee-wee Herman Show.  It was a big hit.  Performing on small stages across the states, he gathered momentum for the '85 movie "Pee-wee's Big Adventure".  Picked up for TV, Playhouse settled in, with kids and parents having some laughs.  I often wondered, had I been a kid watching, would I be laughing.  Often, it was outlandish.  The King of Cartoons would introduce old cartoons.  And I mean old.  Vintage stuff like Mickey Mouse's first feature.  A puppet globe with geographic facts.  A pterodactyl that is timid with real feelings.  And the ringleader, Pee-wee, introducing friends into his colorful house with man/child mannerisms.  A mystical, mythical Puppetland exists outside the playhouse where characters come and go, but the viewer never does.  Is it not safe out there?  It seems safe and friendly inside, as if the outside world is a scary place.  Maybe, Pee-wee was a little leery of that real world.  As, maybe, Reubens was leery of his real world.

Reubens has had some memorable, small roles in Cheech and Chong's "Next Movie ('80), "The Blues Brothers" ('80), as Spleen in "Mystery Men" ('99) and a pivotal role in "Blow"('01). Voice-overs, late night TV appearances and even "Murphy Brown", he has been consistently with us since those early years in improv.  His talent can't be denied.  Whether you agree with his past, he is in the present and future.  Hopefully, people will be entertained by a true comedian.  "I feel that it's full circle in that I can come back around to a really good place where I was.  As opposed to having my career end on this really sour note."  Overall, an entertainer exists only in his/her ability to engage us.  To make us believe in that character.  Pee-wee Herman is back.  Paul Reubens has never left.

 

-- Recent Listens --

In the digital age, sometimes we only listen to snippets of songs and base our purchases on that.  Unfortunately, we miss a lot of good stuff.  I still listen to CDs top to bottom, just like LPs.  Call me an Olde School Fool.

Manfred Mann
The Manfred Mann Album ('64)
My Little Red Book of Winners ('65)
Throw away their '64 hit single, "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" (which just plain sucks) and this double CD of their 1st and 3rd releases gives us early pop with some unexpected punch.  With an exceptional vocalist/harmonica man in Paul Jones and Mann's take on keys, these tunes are more sophisto than expected.

B.B. King
In London ('71)
Underrated.  Stalwart supporting cast.  Every song sounded as if they cut the track off.  I demand more than 38 minutes.  Where is the full show?  Until that happens, this disc is fulfilling.

Faces
A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse ('71)
Pre-Stones Ron Wood shines.  Post-Beck Rod Stewart swings.  Rollicking piano from Ian McLagen.  Only four total LPs.  This is #3.

Argent
Ring of Hands ('71)
Rod Argent (Zombies) has written a couple of classy hits: "Time of the Season" and "She's Not There".  Though no standouts, this album releases some uplifting prog and psychedelic rock.  Leading up to another Argent crack track: "Hold Your Head Up".

The Guess Who
Live At The Paramount ('72)
Seventeen minutes of "American Woman" is pure crotch rock.  This whole disc is great.  Cummings never sounded better.  Other flav-o-rites are "Pain Train"  and "Truckin' Off Across The Sky". 

Jaco Pastorius
Jaco Patorius ('76)
Weather Report.  Herbie Hancock.  Lenny White.  Jaco was the best bassist on the planet and left too early ('87).  Fretless electric.  Magnificent.

Ian Gillan Band
Scarabus ('77)
Defined as a jazz/rock band?  Though a bit eclectic with jittery rhythms and tight arrangements, Gillan summons his demons with patented screams and rockisms.  The extra live track, "My Baby Loves Me", is a trip.

Thin Lizzy
Black Rose: A Rock Legend ('79)
9th studio for Lynott.  Gary Moore has his 6-string signature stamped throughout.  Last great TL LP.  Too bad Phil and Rory Gallagher couldn't cook up for some Irish stew.

Frank Zappa
You Are What You Is ('81)
And not what you eat?  Songs like "Harder Than Your Husband" and "Dumb All Over" pretty much sum up FZ's take on American society: Modern Americans behave as if intelligence were some sort of hideous deformity.  Quote/Unquote.

Robin Trower
20th Century Blues ('94)
#14 for rotating Trower Band.  Still methinks the trio format works best for Procol Harum guitarmeister.  Explodes on most songs with sopping fuzz and curdling wah-wah. 

Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire
The Swimming Hour ('01)
Very cool and refreshing, especially after a dip.  Blending of several musical styles.  Bird was trained in the Suzuki Method.  Not Toyota.  Sounds of Donovan with violin and guitar edges, making this a bit complicated.  But fun.

Sex Mob
Dime Grind Palace ('03)
Slide trumpet from standout (and monster) Steven Bernstein.  Crazy.  Avant garde.  Jazz.  Own them all, your ears will never be the same.  Oh, and their name kinda gets you excited.

Stephen Stills
Man Alive! ('05)
Why did it take 14 years for SS to make this?  Vocals still intact.  Crushing and/or heartfelt guitars.  A little gospel.  A little reggae.  And a lotta great, intelligent music.  

Chuck Prophet
Let Freedom Ring ('09)
A knockout should end things.  "Sonny Liston's Blues" opens up for another frenzied/visceral/smooth/ragged adventure from CP.  # 11 from a performer I have witnessed 3X.  And hope to see again.
 
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Mojo ('10)
One hour of TP doesn't sound like a great situation to be in.  However, this blues drenched rocker kicks it.  Though sometimes falls back into "Damn The Torpedoes" era, this is refreshing.  Vocals, as usual, are the tough part.  Mike Campbell (guitar) totally steals the shoo.

There you have it.  Music journalists (of which I'm not) tend to scrutinize and analyze a bit much.  By being concise, I hope I didn't bore you with profound statements and insightful perspectives.  I usually don't have many of those anyway.

   

 

                                    

Opinion : California and Prop 19

Everybody has an opinion, like we all have a brain.  So, mine is of little significance or relevance except to myself.  But I shall share my viewpoints with you anyway.

Proposition 19 Proposes:

1)     Adults (21+) can carry up to an ounce of their own pot and related paraphernalia without fear of arrest by state and local authorities.

My Humble Opinion:  How about the feds?  I know they have more to worry about, but a few high-profile cases that they can broadcast will make the public even more fearful to display their goods.  And define 'related paraphernalia'.  Does that include a hookah or three-foot bong?  Or just a roach clip?

2)     The ability to tend a home garden up to 25 sq. feet and consume its grow in a 'nonpublic place', but not in parks, near schools or on the street.

My Humble Opinion:  Once again, define 'nonpublic place'.  Doesn't that mean 'private'?  So, parks, schools and the street are out.  I definitely think the school part is important, especially if it's grade and middle schools.  But if anybody with a decent sense of smell has walked even near a high school can attest, the smell is of tobacco.  Maybe masking pot?  Both are harmful to young lungs.  I think it will be extremely hard to enforce the size and quantity of gardens.  Neighborhood watch groups?  Isn't it the seeds that are required to start a garden?  And where are these seeds purchased?

3)      Leave it up to local governments to license businesses that want to allow onsite pot use by its patrons.

My Humble Opinion:  Another quagmire of rules, licensing transactions and bureaucratic BS.  Just like tobacco, smoke is smoke.  Vaporizers?  Edibles?  It is, of course, up to the individual to frequent these establishments or not.  Contact highs should also be addressed. 


4)     To authorize commercial cultivation and retail sales.
5)     To reap revenues through taxes and fees.

My Humble Opinion:  The last three items are all aimed at making money.  But will the local/state municipalities use it wisely?  How can these funds be used competently?  Education at all levels, job creation, etc.  Once again, how to divvy up the money will be tricky.


The current decriminalization of pot (in many states) is already in place.  I think that this is the level that it should stay at.  It seems more and more police are turning a blind eye on public usage, if no harm is being done to the citizens in general.  The safety of the public is essential in determining if pot use is OK.  All the medical pot laws are in disarray and need tightening up.  Passing Prop. 19 will only muddle this issue.  I don't know what it will take to make pot as easy to purchase as liquor.  It should, at some time become legal.  At this time, however, I am very skeptical as to its validity.  I would vote NO on Prop. 19.

NaCl or not NaCl? That is the Question

Himalayan Pink

As any normal (or abnormal) high school attendee can attest to, the Periodic Table of Elements was a thing of beauty, complexity, frustration, indifference, fatigue, anxiety, fun, pain or just plain annoying.  So we all (norms and abbys) should know the symbols Na and Cl, right?  In my case, I would think Na was part of ShaNaNa and Cl was cluster.  So, obviously (obvious as the hair in my nose) it means to cluster (a small group or bunch of something with Bowzer in it) the members of Sha Na Na and demand a new album.  "Not so fast," I'm told by a lurking smarty-pants named Laura.  "That's not what it means.  I really hope you aren't serious."  Serious as a heart attack, Miss-I-know-science-and-you-don't.  OK, it sounded stupid.  I'll take another stab at it.  As soon as you-know-who leaves the room.  I google NaCl.  Hmmm.  The combo of sodium and chloride forms salt.  Ah yes, it all comes crashing back to me.  The reason why I flunked Chemistry.  All those letters hodge-podged together with no real meaning.

So, on we go to the real story: salt.  No, not that crummy Angelina Jolie as Jane Bond spy movie that left a bitter, acidic flavor in my mouth with a hint of anchovy that required countless goblets of purified, desalinated spring water.  No, not that Salt.  But the food enhancer.  The Laurel to pepper's Hardy.  Edible salt is produced by evaporation of seawater or brine from sources like brine wells, salt lakes or sweaty glands (I made that last one up).  The history of salt is quite a long grinding story beginning, supposedly, in 6050 BC.  As in Chemistry, I had a hard time with History.  How on Earth (Geography) can we figure out how old the process of briquetage was, used first by the Neolithic people of the Precucutani culture (Social Studies), unearthed at an archeological site in Romania?  This process was extracting salt from salty spring water and the Cucu thrived because of it.  Why?  They needed something to put on their fries (Home Economics).  This was a dangerous alliance and after a spike in population (Statistics), the demise of these poor Cucus was imminent.  All they had was salty water.  And salty fries.  Here is my outrageous but worthy theory as to why these people died off:  their arteries hardened like the Bonneville Salt Flats. 

The religious aspects of salt are quite intriguing also.  Did you know:  In some ceremonies, bringing salt to a housewarming or wedding is essential.  I presume that most foods are tasteless and rice is too expensive.  Did you know:  In Japan, the Shinto religion uses salt as a ritual purification for Sumo wrestlers.  That must be where throwing salt over your shoulder for good luck comes from.  And a little salt in your opponent's eyes never hurts.  Did you know:  For the Wiccans, salt is their symbol of the element Earth and it's used to cleanse areas of harmful or negative energies.  I don't know about you fellow non-Wiccans, but the areas I clean usually don't require salt.  And the biggie:  Jesus, in the New Testament, referred to his followers as "salt of the Earth".  The Apostle Paul encouraged Christians to "let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt (Colossians 4:6).  Poor pepper was not even mentioned.

Designer salt, as I call it, has been the rage in fancy-shmancy restaurants for sometime now.  Oooh, should I have Murray River Flake from Australia with my wallaby?  How about Aderwood Smoked Salt (Pacific Coast) on my smoked salmon?  Or Black Lava Kai (Hawaii) on my black bean and pineapple burrito?  This stuff sounds pricey, too.  Probably coming to a black market street corner near you.  "Yo babe.  I seez ya got some chicken in your shopping bag.  Youse need some Red Alae Kai to accent its flavor.  And it got some of dat iron oxide youse gals need.  Or how about some moist Fumee De Sel here.  It's a real bargain."

Recently, salt has been making some noise in the health arena.  High blood pressure.  Ulcers.  Cardiovascular disease.  We've heard it before and we'll probably hear it again.  The culprit is the processed foods and the high levels of sodium.  Even too much of designer salt isn't good for you.  What sounds better, though?  Hardening of the arteries from Morton's iodized table salt or Fleur De Sel sea salt?

"Salt is the only mineral we eat in its direct mineral form", says Mark Bitterman, author of  "Salted: A Manifesto On The World's Most Essential Mineral."  He is also a selmelier or salt master.  For me, it's back to the salt mine.  I'll be waiting for that new Sha Na Na album.

Global Salt Output 2005

A September To Remember

Three superb and illustrious guitarists came slinging through this dusty cowtown in the month of September with a cumulative life span of 189 years, which averages to be 63 per axeman.  [NOTE: I did this higher math problem so you didn't have to, you're welcome]    If you're in the advanced age group (I am) or the electric guitar appreciation group (I am) or just a music nut in general group (we should all be), you would have been freaked over for this trio.

Dave Mason (age: 64)
Sept. 4, '10
Taste of Colorado

Every year during the Labor Day weekend, The Taste of Colorado celebrates local/regional/national cuisine and free music.  To heck with the buffalo chips and falafel bites, let's hear some open-air jams.  Of course, the food circuit with music has much to be desired.  This year it was Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, contemporary swing of the 40s and 50s (sorry, didn't go); Bret Michaels, singer of Poison (sorry, wouldn't go if you paid me); The Four Tops, R&B writers/performers of "I Can't Help Myself" and "Reach Out, I'll Be There" (barely heard two songs, not so hot, Sugar Pie) and Dave Mason, British guitarist and writer of "Feelin' Alright" and "Only You Know and I Know" (ZOIKS!  Had to see him).


The name Dave Mason conjured up a fragmented trip down memory lane.  I knew he had helped form Traffic ('67), played acoustic guitar with Hendrix on "All Along The Watchtower" ('68), played on George Harrison's "All Things Must Pass" LP ('70) and formed his own band ('70).  What I didn't know:  DM played on the Stones' "Beggars Banquet" ('68), toured with Delaney and Bonnie ('69-'70), released an LP with Cass Elliot ('71) and was set to be the second guitarist for Derek and the Dominos, instead of Duane Allman.  Talk about rock royalty.  The Dave Mason Band put out some classic tunes on 10 releases until '87 and, other than playing on Fleetwood Mac's "Time", not much material besides live stuff starting in '99.  After six years in the making, the '08 "26 Letters-12 Notes" was a great comeback disc and put DM back on the musical map.  And he is ready to release another one this year, hopefully.

At the Taste, he stormed through some tight grooves off this much anticipated disc and it sounded like he didn't miss a beat.  His voice was still as distinctive as his solo days and the few stray Traffic tracks.  But it was his guitar that sung like a veteran.  Wielding a green Strat, sunburst Les Paul and 12-string Ovation, crisp, precise leads rang out to proclaim that he is way under the rock radar but maybe, just maybe, he wants a little more attention.  He said he had been asked by a fan on this tour to "play that Joe Cocker song.  And then I realized that I actually wrote that song".  He blasted into "Feelin' Alright" and the sparse, toothless, stringy gray-haired crowd rocked along.  This sun-shiny afternoon gig highlighted all the lowlights of this scary crowd, but everybody was quite peaceful.  A lot of them should have been in bed, though.  And his encore?  A searing, euphoric "All Along The Watchtower" that left little doubt that DM still can rock and roll.  One had to wonder:  Mason might be driving his way into a Traffic jam.

Jimmie Vaughan (age: 59)
Sept. 16. '10
Soiled Dove Underground

A couple of weeks prior to this show, I jokingly was saying Jimmie Ray Vaughan.  I know, not so funny.  But you know what?  JV's guitar playing wasn't a joke, either.  Sure, he's the bro of Stevie.  Sure, he's not a virtuoso player/performer.  Sure, he hasn't shook the rock/blues world.  But JV awarded the capacity crowd of 400 with a strong sense of who he is and what he can do with his white Strat.

I didn't care much for The Fabulous Thunderbirds (Tuff 'Enuff?).  Nor did I consider him worthy of paying attention to.  I think I shouldn't be so quick on turning my nose up at somebody who is, according to other world-renowned guitarists, an accomplished and outstanding string-man.  I hadn't even given him a chance.  Though his catalog is rather spare, I listened to some of his earlier blues tunes, "Strange Pleasure" ('94), "Out There" ('98) and "Do You Get The Blues? ('01) and I was impressed.  Not 'Oh my, I'm blown away' but rather 'Hey, that's tasty'.  JV is touring in support of his newest, "Plays Blues, Ballads and Favorites" and in this low-ceiling, half-moon club, with two saxes, bass and drums accompanying him on upbeat shuffles, his set was hot and sweaty.  Aside from a few tunes that slowed the night down when a "who's that old lady?" singer came out, he was all rock and blues.  Some of my friends didn't want to see him because, in their minds, he was riding on Stevie's coat tails.  Their loss.  JV squeezed every ounce of his guitar journey out on stage and even showed some cockiness by playing a two-minute lead with guitar behind his head.  A smile on his face the whole set meant his legacy is still alive and we were all fortunate to catch him.  He knows what this crazy world can do to you and your family at any moment.  He is making the most of it right here, right now.  Go see JV.  He's not SRV.  He's not Jimmie Ray.  He's just a skilled musician doing what he does best.  And that's no joke.


Johnny Winter (age: 66)
Sept. 30, '10
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom

What can I say about the #9 pick on my personal list of top electric guitarists?  For a living stringbender (yes, JW is still alive and well), he is #6, behind Beck, Clapton, Page, Blackmore and Santana.  And you know what?  If Page doesn't have the licks (he admits he doesn't), if Blackmore isn't willing to resurrect Purple (calling Hughes, Lord, Paice) and Santana continues to put out unoriginal stuff (at least in comparison to "Abraxas") , JW would be my #3 of living legends.  On this particular night, in a room that normally could contain 1,700 patrons, a mere 400+/- showed and that was just plain wrong.  Here was, in the flesh, the best, white blues specialist in any world.  And he did not disappoint.

To be honest, the songs weren't even the event.  JW was.  With black cowboy hat pulled just above his piercing eyes, black sleeveless "T" showing just how skinny his tatoo'd arms are, black jeans, black boots and black Lazer guitar, you would have thought of a very white Black Bart.  With a pigmentation problem.  But before we get to him, let me mention the opening song, before JW took the stage.  A snarling, biting guitarist of unknown origin, completely strafed the crowd with an explosion so raw, so menacing, it left my jaw hurting.  This monster's name is Paul Nelson, rhythm guitarist.  And savior.  He helped JW recover from first: his long-time swindling manager, second: his painkiller addiction, third: a 2005 carpal tunnel surgery on his left wrist and fourth: a 2006 broken hip.  Not only can Nelson blast paint off a plane with his riffs, he can be a nice guy.  His sonic opening song paved the way for JW to shuffle to center stage, take his seat, nod to his friend and then totally tear up the place with "Red House".  

This was strictly a blues show.  I had read that JW is only playing the blues and very little rock.  It didn't matter.  Each song and solo were crystal clear and relentless.  He attacked all six strings with ten long, lean, manicured fingers.  And having a thumb pick, strumming down and plucking up with bare fingers, meant a constant melange of activity.  Old songs like "Apple Tree" and "Used To Love Her, It's All Over Now" were spun into the Wintersphere.  Songs by Sonny Boy, Muddy, Albert Collins.  And JW.  Amidst the show, I tried to remember what songs were being played, but all I could do is watch, listen and feel.    


I was pleasantly surprised at the number of youngsters that crowded to the front, as the older farts sat (yawn) at tables behind us.  I got close enough to smell his breath, though fortunately other smells prevailed.  One gripe I did have was with all the cell phone and digital cameras going off in his face.  It was one flash/glow/light after another.  But it didn't have any affect on JW, his unwavering stare, his gruff-less vocals or his guitar slicing.  And when he pulled out the Gibson Firebird and slid off the last two songs and was then accompanied off the stage, then and only then did I take a breath.  "I'll be playing blues on the open road till the day I die."  White.  Hot.  Blue.

Overall, these two Texans and one Brit, in one month alone, satisfied my greed and hunger for guitar.  Don't ask these fellas for their AARP cards.  They are in the prime of their lives.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Trivial Question:  What Do These People Have In Common?

• Sidney Lumet (film director)
• Andre Previn (pianist, composer)
• Polly Bergen (actress)
• Henry Luce (magazine publisher of "Time", "Look" and "Fortune")
• Aldous Huxley (writer)
• Esther Williams (swimmer, actress)
• Archibald Leach (actor) 

Other than the entertainment business (too easy) or multiple marriages (too obvious), the answer is Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, street name 'acid'.  Maybe I'm the only one alive on this planet to hear, until recently, that many Hollywoodites in the late '50s participated and lovingly embraced psychotherapy by dropping LSD.  By some estimates, this numbered in the 100s.  Timothy Leary's famous mantra, 'Turn on, tune in, drop out' had not even been imagined yet.  In '60, Leary had only first experienced 'magic mushrooms', so he was not as hip as say, Mr. Leach (stage name Cary Grant).  This experiment with psychedelics was administered in a very private clinic in Beverly Hills, appropriately named Psychiatric Institute of Beverly Hills.

The Hollywood of the '50s is a world apart from today's model.  Back then, celebrities conducted themselves privately and without public drama.  Entertainment-industry people led traditional social lives.  Privacy, money and emotional insecurities were not discussed and their need to look normal worked for awhile.  But LSD-25 came around and changed many performer's thoughts and actions, mostly in a positive and creative way.  At this time, acid was legal in medical usage but also was being used by the CIA, US Army and the Canadian government in developing a truth serum or chemical warfare.  Between 1950 and 1965, a reported 40,000 people worldwide would be tested or treated with LSD.  Can you imagine if we had invaded Afghanistan and their poppy fields, armed with acid and not guns, what would have happened?  "Uh, Sarge, it looks like they have several elephants charging us.  What's our next move?"  "Soldier, drop and give me 100.  Blotter hits, that is.  We'll out hallucinate them."  As the LSD craze hit the streets and started the counterculture, cultivated by Leary and Hendrix and Jefferson Airplane, it also spread rampant abuse and deaths.  It was criminalized in '66.  So what began in '38 as an experiment to produce a stimulant for the central nervous system by Swiss chemist, Albert Hofmann, became an unruly and somewhat out of control uncontrolled substance.

Mr. Grant loved it.  His dysfunctional self-portrait and huge ego, were soothed while on LSD.  He found depth in his personal life and came to grips with his personality.  He profoundly told 'Look' magazine in '59 that he did acid weekly and it helped him cope with his celebrity status.  "I know that all my life, I've been going around in a fog.  You're just a bunch of molecules until you know who you are."  And others followed, as I stated above.  Esther Williams imagined that she had a penis.  Yikes.  That could scar a woman for life.  It made her realize what the death of her brother had meant to her family.  That he lived on in her body.  Or Aldous Huxley, writer of  'Brave New World'.  On his deathbed, Huxley requested and received intramuscular acid from his wife.  Go out on a vacation.  Or Polly Bergen.  Oops.  Her flashbacks weren't much fun.  And the doctor administering it was "high, stoned, completely gone".  And the fun had to end sometime as Mr. Luce's wife, Clare Booth stated:  "We wouldn't want everyone doing too much of a good thing."

Another quote from Mr. Grant, whilst on the couch, high: "I'm unscrewing myself.  That's why people use the phrase 'all screwed up'."  Maybe 'screw you' has more to its meaning than we know.  My personal favorite comedic role from Grant was in "Arsenic and Old Lace".  Done in '44, presumedly before his head trips, this movie quote is quite funny.  "Insanity runs in my family, practically gallops."  By coincidence (or not), Grant made his last movie in, yup, you guessed it, 1966.              

I wish Grant had made one final appearance before he passed.  He would have multiple roles in "Apocalypse Now".  Imagine Grant in his typical, Mid-Atlantic/ British accent as Willard (Sheen): "Each time I looked around, the walls moved in a little tighter."  As Kilgore (Duvall): "I love the smell of napalm in the morning".  As the unnamed freelance photographer (Hopper): "The man's enlarged my mind."  And finally as Kurtz (Brando): "The horror, the horror."  He could've been tripping throughout the entire shoot to make it seem more realistic.  I mean, who would want to actually be put through the rigors of Coppola's manic direction without a drug?  This second rated male actor of all time (Bogart was voted #1), did films in '59 ("North by Northwest") and '63 ("Charade").  Was he tripping? 

 So, there it is.  LSD was useful for a number of people.  And harmful to others.  As Leary always said though, that psychedelic substances, used at proper dosages and under stable settings, alter behavior in beneficial ways.  We shall soon find out if LSD makes a comeback.  It is back in the labs, being tested.  Grab your Wayback Machine and hold on.  It might get interesting.

                                                                                         

SpinFlashBack

The Groundhogs
'Scratching The Surface'
1968, BGO records


The Groundhogs.  Doesn't exactly illicit much Rock and Roll oomph, does it?  But oomph they have.  Led by Tony McPhee (guitarist/vocalist/composer), the 'hogs were under the American radar as far as the British Blues Boom of the '60s goes.  In the U.K., however, their future acceptance included a #9 on the U.K. charts ('70, "Thank Christ for the Bomb"), #5 ('71, "Split") and #8 ('72, "Who Will Save the World?").  Hardly a ripple over here.  Except for a single American bluesman by the name of John Lee Hooker.  An early gathering of future 'hogs, The Dollarbills, found themselves opening for Hooker in '64 and quickly changed their lame name to John Lee's Groundhogs.  This was in homage to Hooker's '60 track, "Ground Hog Blues", which eventually lead to their second release, "Hooker and the Hogs" ('68).  Also in '64, though, there were some questions to be answered.  ONE: Would McPhee join John Mayall and his Bluesbreakers to replace Eric Clapton?  Two: Would McPhee join Peter Green and newly formed Fleetwood Mac?  Not many musicians would turn those offers down but he stuck to his vision.  Judge for yourselves.  His 'hogs catalog is waiting to be heard.

Their first, "Scratching the Surface" ('68), is their rawest, most unrefined and unashamedly blues release and, as its credits state: Entire album recorded live (no overdubs).  This loosey-goosey focus is what a lot of Brit Invaders tried to do.  Replicating and reinventing the blues, to much American chagrin, was a testament to their love and respect of this art form.  Many traditional loyalists of the blues were turned off as the guitars and amps were turned on.  I think more than a few Americans in the mid/late '60s were hoping that this was just a fad.  Something that would rise for awhile and then go down in flames.  Like a lead balloon. 

Starting with a nice, unadorned lead on the first track, "Rocking Chair", McPhee immediately sets himself apart.  "Walkin' Blues", with blistering guitar and sweet, laid back vocals.  "Married Men", more straight forward blues.  Chuggin' and churnin' with "No More Doggin'".  "Man Trouble" and its heavy bass/drums rumble that satisfies all 6+ minutes.  A theme of man and woman, from a British perspective, comes through loud and proud.  A raucous complement to McPhee's snarling axe and steady vocals is astounding harmonica gymnastics by one Steve Rye.  This is his only 'hog appearance as he trades fierce and armor-piercing blows with McPhee, almost upstaging him on all of the tracks.  McPhee had to work hard to be the dominant alpha-dog and this CD is much better for it.  Rye's original, "Early in the Morning", sneaks up and envelops us with his nasty harp and rock vocals.  His interpretation of the much-recorded and tweaked "You Don't Love Me", again with solid vox and solo-showmanship, made McPhee prove as to who the leader of this band was.  Sadly, Rye, who should be on everybody's list for harp God, died in '92.  He never proved himself as he fell prey to substances.  He is a virtual non-existent player that could have achieved superstardom. 

Most of these tracks resemble the blues/rock shuffle of "Sittin' On Top of the World", a '30 song by The Mississippi Sheiks and "Come On In My Kitchen", '36 by Robert Johnson.  These songs are linked because the melody of "Kitchen" is based on "Sittin'".  I guess we could compare/contrast far worse songs with than these classics.  So, today I'm proclaiming it to be Groundhogs Day.  Take that Punxsutawney Phil.

Have You Been Concussed Lately?

One late night a few years ago, I was channel surfing, finding nothing inspiring as usual, 150 channels with nothing to watch.  After about four revolutions through, I was ready to be put to sleep, thumb aching, eyeballs glazed, brain flat lining, except when I got to C-SPAN, I stopped.  This is a great channel to catch exciting Capitol Hill, White House and other political drivel.  But something compelled me to keep watching.  Standing, talking is a youngish man with a gray sport coat, light-blue shirt and a white undershirt.  Hmmm, looks like a geek.  Huge forehead.  Smooth features.  Medium skin tone.  And a slightly feminine voice.  But what really caught my glazed eye was his Harpo Marx-like hair.  Many Brillo pads.  Brown curly-cues with no particular order.  Afro, man.  I had to turn it up when I noticed the feed was from C-SPAN2's  BookTV.  My interest piqued a little more because I rarely seek out talks from authors.  How boring.  And C-SPAN?  Come on.  I must have really been out of it.  But there was something very different and appealing about this person.  He spoke about his soon-to-be-published-book, "Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking".

I learned a lot about Malcolm Gladwell after that intro six years ago.  An amazing, concise, intelligent and witty writer.  A social scientist with journalistic chops.  He had written for a couple of conservative magazines and The Washington Post as a business writer.  He is currently writing for The New Yorker, which is one of my favorite mags.  He has just published his fourth book.

Let me back up though, if I may.  Around a month ago, I had a chance to golf for the first time in four years.  With my patented right-left-tree-dub-fairway technique, I was actually doing OK.  Approaching the 16th green, as passenger in the cart (too lazy and old to walk), I got whacked with an errant tee shot.  The offending golfer was only about twenty yards away.  I was lucky.  It could have shattered my big nose, biffed my eye, busted my bad ear.  Instead it got a hard head.  My golf buddy thought it had hit a tree from the sound.  Thanks Mr. N.

I thought about this incident when the prospect of a concussion was introduced.  Is your vision bleary?  Did you lose consciousness?  Can you stand?  Can you walk?  Can you finish the rest of the 18 holes?  Are you going to finish that hot dog?  Let's see.  No. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Nah, you can have it.  I was fine except for a slight cut and another knot on my melon.  I was going to correlate this incident with the ever-expanding coverage and recent concerns of concussions in sports.  I didn't really think that the bonk on my head was a concussion.  I have seen X-rays of a boxer's head before and after a match.  And it was frightening.  The brain was clearly pressed up against the back of the skull and somewhat misshapen after the fight.  I recently read where doctors think Lou Gehrig's Disease (ALS) was caused by his numerous concussions.  Playing football as a kid and baseball as a pro.  And we've all heard the stories of past NFL'ers who have health problems.  Not just physical health but mental also.  As for me, I was fine.  Or was I?

Here's where we get back to Mr. Gladwell.  He has written an article for The New Yorker titled "Offensive Play: How different are dogfighting and football?"  Huh?  I had to scratch my head.  And then I started bleeding again from picking the scab off.  Damn you, Gladwell.  After a damp towelette, change from white shirt (now a bit red) to a red shirt (ha, what do you think of that head wound?), a couple of Advil, a drink of water, a short nap, a bite to eat, another nap.... Now where did I put that magazine?  Who would put it there?  Ahem.  Where was I?  Ya, the article.  Basically, Mr. G. writes about CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), 'a progressive neurological disorder found in people who have suffered some kind of brain trauma.'  It can mimic Alzheimer's with 'behavioral and personality changes, followed by disinhibition and irritability, before moving on to dementia.'  Also in the mix is Lou Gehrig's disease.  Sounds plausible.  I mean, getting hit repeatedly on the dome would cause most of us to say "Stop it. That hurts".  And that's where the dogfighting part comes in.  The dog will fight to the death for its master.  That's his only lot in life.  Please the master.  And when the football player, be it Pop Warner league, high school or pro, is told to "Do it for the team", is he not trying to please somebody?  His dad?  His coach?  His team?

So, a lot of little hits accumulate.  A lineman averages 1,000 head hits in a season.  If he plays 10 years in the pros, add high school and college, the total is around 18,000 hits to the head.  Talk about a subconcussive trauma headache.  Mr. Gladwell feels that football, at all levels, should take a good, hard look at itself and try not to be that dog owner that just looks at the bottom line: win at all costs.  And try to minimize the amount of times one person gets hit.  And let that person get his head back.  Doctors have recommended that after a concussion, the person should have his head examined.  I know, bad joke.  But most pro footballers will not come out due to their training and their love of the game.  Are they being used?  Former Bronco wide receiver Brandon Stokley, he of at least six concussions, said he knows the potential of future health problems.  But he would not change a thing.

I think Mr. G. took a huge leap from dogfighting to football.  I also think he has made a wicked point.  We know football is violent and is a choice.  We know dogfights are morally wrong and the dogs don't have a choice.  Are we, the fans, the coaches, the owners, the TV stations, are we morally wrong for letting men (and women) hurt themselves for our pleasure?  New technology for safety goes only so far.  Rules to protect keep expanding.  But still. 

Taken from Gladwell's article:  "There is nothing else to be done, not so long as fans stand and cheer.  We are in  love with football players, with their courage and grit, and nothing else - neither considerations of science nor those of morality - can compete with the destructive power of that love."

And if you go to the golf course and see somebody with a football helmet on ..................

Alto's All-Time All -Viking Team

Assembling my all-time Viking lineup was more daunting than I had expected.  So many great players have come through this franchise that I didn't know who to include and who not to.  Players like Joe Kapp, Hugh McElhenny, Stu Voight, Sammy White, Lonnie Warwick, Adrian Peterson.  The list is pretty impressive.

What really didn't impress me was my memory.  I thought I could name every player at every position by sheer recall.  Without much research.  Man, was I wrong.  Looking up the past rosters was way cool and brought vivid memories back that I had forgotten.  Which was a lot.  Football is not individualistic, but in recent years it has become just that.  My team is 98% from the Super Bowl teams.  Most of them played together for most of those years and had deep chemistry.  I loved Chuck Foreman but I couldn't name his blocking back that opened up the holes.  But Bill Brown and Dave Osborn.  Now that was a backfield. 

I have picked obvious choices that all Viking fans would probably agree with.  I also picked one team - one year that was the complete package that shoulda/coulda won a champeenship.  So, here is a slight stroll down memory lane.

Coach- Bud Grant

OFFENSE

Quarterback- Fran Tarkenton

Running Backs- Dave Osborn and Bill Brown

Wide Receivers- Gene Washington and Paul Flatley
Tight End- John Beasley

Offensive Line : Grady Alderman, Ron Yary, Milt Sunde, Randall McDaniel and Mick Tinglehoff


Kicker- Fred Cox
Punter- Bob Lee




DEFENSE

Defensive Line : Alan Page

                              Carl Eller

                            Jim Marshall

                           Gary Larsen

Linebackers : Wally Hilgenberg, Roy Winston, Dale Hackbart

Secondary : Karl Kassulke, Earsell Mackbee, Paul Krause, Nate Wright


My pick for the most powerful team that probably should have had at least a chance to win the Super Bowl was the '98 team.  They went 15-1.  Players: Randall Cunningham, Robert Smith, Cris Carter, Jake Reed, Randy Moss, Todd Steussie, Korey Stringer on offense and John Randle, Dwayne Rudd, Ed McDaniel, Jerry Ball and Corey Fuller on defense, Gary Anderson, placekicker and Dennis Green, coach.  As a team, at least for one year, they crushed teams and, on the first FG miss all season from Anderson and an overtime loss (sound familiar?), didn't quite make that game against Elway and the Broncos.  As they say, the rest is hysteria.

 

A Timeline of a Lifetime of Pro Football

This is a chronological rendering of my life in relation to the team that I grew up with, cheered for, cursed at, loved, hated, disdained, abstained, wept for, laughed at and still follow: The Minnesota Vikings.  It hasn't been easy.  Nor should it be.  Being of strong, noble, stubborn heritage, as the moniker is identified with, I also wish to conquer and vanquish all who stand in the way.  Of course, every pro football fan feels the same way as each season begins.  But this year is different, isn't it?

1955-1960
The first few years were a barren time for football.  I rarely stood up at first but as I arose and took small steps, it became apparent : What the hell is football?  I had no clue, or for that matter, why I crap my white thingies.  As I matured, I knew that the word 'ball' combined with the word 'catch' hurt my head.  Maybe my first concussion.  At age five, I think I was introduced to a football.  Not quite sure of the bizarre shape and the way it bounces crazy.  Kinda fun till you fall on it.  Maybe my first spleen injury.

1961
A banner year.  Minnesota has a pro football team.  Yahoo.  We go 3-11 but win our first game as some guy with a women's name pulls off the upset.  Don't really know what is happening, though.  Probably better that way.  Where's my Corn Flakes?

1962
A crazy season for the home team.  We go 2-11-1.  Still not quite sure what that means but I remember hearing Dad mumble something about bums.  Not sure what that meant, either.

1963-1967
Ok, things start heating up.  I'm beginning to understand all the running, throwing, grunts, groans and crunching noises.  But what's with those obnoxious whistles?  I'm grasping what it means to cheer.  And boo.  Age nine: Cheering becomes quite fun.  Going 8-5-1, I think, meant we won more than we lost.  But isn't a tie worse than kissing your sister?  Yuck.  Age ten: Sundays aren't just for church anymore.  But now my newly born sister interrupts the game frequently.  Shouldn't she be sleeping?  Give her a bottle already.

1968
Only seven seasons of life and our Vikings win their division.  I begin to hate the Bears, Lions and Packers.  "Hate is not a nice word", Mom would say.  "And booing is unsportsmanlike conduct.  Fifteen yards."  Ya, Mom is a crack-up.  It's only ten.  The Purple People Eaters arise.

1969
This year was a serious ride.  The Super Bowl?  Are you kiddin' me?  The Vikes are rolling and the 'Almost Football League' (AFL), represented by the Kansas City Chefs, er, the Chiefs, will be a cherry turnover.  Halftime: I am upstairs, in my room, door locked, doing homework.  "You come down here and watch the rest of this game", Dad yelled.  "What kind of sport are you?"  What's with all the good sport references?  We got whupped.  Can't I swear?  Can't I throw shit?  I sit and watch calmly, after which I go and pummel anything red.

1970-1972
Much pouting.  The Stupor Bowl loss still hurts.  Who cares?  The North Stars are more fun.

1973-1976
Three out of four years the Vikes go to the Bowl.  Nothin' to show for it except losses to Miami (I still hate, yes Mom, HATE you Greasy), Pittsburgh (ditto Bradshit) and Oakland (everybody hates, yes hates, the Raiders).  The term 'ViQueens' becomes popular.  My attention is turning towards girls.  That doesn't turn out much better.

1977-Present
Aside from a boatload of division titles, playoff appearances and playoff wins, Minnesota has not been back to the Super Bowl.  That might be a blessing in da skies.  I really don't want to be associated with the only team to go 0-5.  In 1981, I found myself in new football territory: Denver Broncoland.  Here was a chance to start fresh.  But the Norse Gods followed me and I had to experience three more Bowl whuppins by the Giants, Redskins and 49'ers.  So now, as of the '97 season, I am a combined 0-7 in Super Bowls.  How does that feel?  I almost got excommunicated to Detroit or Cleveland.  But wait sports fans.  The cloud was lifted as the Broncos won two consecutive championships in the '97 and '98 seasons.  Don't get me wrong.  I am still a Viking fan first and a Bronco fan second.  This year marks my 30th season as an alien (legal) football fan. 

So, here we go for another stab at a hopeful Viking season with Brat Favre, Adrian (what, me fumble?) Peterson, a high octane offense and a stout 'D'.  Our head coach, Brad 'Egghead' Childress, just may find a way, in spite of himself and his horrendous coaching decisions, to finally win one for The Land of 10,00 Lakes.  I wouldn't put too much money on it, though.  As Marlon Brando once said, "I coulda been a contenda".  Or is that pretenda?

PS  If the Vikes win a Super Bowl, I vowed to (gulp) get the above tatoo.  I guess I'll take some pain for the team.  Not that they haven't given me enough already.