Something In The Air Tonight

The Rocky Mountain Power Jam
Friday,June 25, 2010
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom
Denver, Co.

Colorado, specifically Denver, has been embroiled in an ever-evolving, ever-pretentious and quite entertaining world of medical marijuana laws.  I'm not going to make a case for total legalization (of any illegal substance) or the further decriminalization of maryjane (not to be confused with the ski resort) or the sudden onslaught of "medicinal" shops selling meds.  I'll leave that to the legal system and voters, which means it'll be an issue til h-e-double hockey sticks freezes the puck.  Laws, by-laws, previous initiatives, present interpretations and the mumbo-jumbo of legalese all contribute to this controversy.  I believe that people with legitimate illnesses should be able to acquire, acquire and not distribute, distribute medicines of all flavors.  I also believe that the natural means of treating these people is a good thing.  But say that to a pharmaceutical giant, such as Pfizer.  Being on manufactured drugs is designed to keep a pained patient comfortably numb, but as an innocent bystander with but one script, my opinion is only that.  An opinion.

In the last two years or so,  Denver has been in the eye of the storm concerning medicinal pot.  A sudden surge of pot shops, caregivers and doctoral prescriptions of questionable origin have all contributed to the confusion surrounding past laws and future laws.  Legal or illegal?  The people who are caught in this vortex of legislation are the legitimately afflicted.

With that being said, my wife and I went to the 7th Annual Rocky Mountain Jam which consisted of a conglomeration of talented bands.  Saxophone giant, but small in stature, Karl Denson (he of Karl Denson's Tiny Universe), keyboard/vocalist Ivan Neville ( he of Dumpstaphunk and family member of the renowned Neville's), members of Lettuce (Eric Krasno,guitarist of Soulive, one of the best jazz/funk/jam bands according to me) and a supporting cast that just blew me away.  In this cynical age of new bands and new music, these guys (and one gal) proved that the old-school of James Brown, Sly Stone and Parliament is still around and being interpreted and updated.  This posse of musician's musicians blasted the funk that stunk.  Stunk in a great way.  The show started at 12:00 am.  As in midnight.  We had to pace ourselves with naps, a  protein-fueled meal and coffee.  We arrived an hour early to see what was happening and maybe nab a good table.  A DJ was dj-ing us with James Brown, Earth, Wind and Fire and Michael Jackson.  Why the late start?  This was an after-show of Widespread Panic at Red Rocks.  Busloads of fans from The Rock arrived and proceeded to dance the night away.  We were part of this party and we didn't stop phunking till it was over at 3:00 am.  With a permanent gigundo mirror ball taking us back to the '80s with a '00s vibe, sweaty 20-somethings mixed several intriguing odors.  Axe body wash, patchouli perfume and skunk.  Lotta skunk.  Thick waves of skunk.  Stinky skunk.  Everywhere.  Lighters lighting.  Burning.  Everywhere.  Unabashedly and blatant.

I have been to a couple of concerts in my life and, of course, experienced the skunk.  But I never, never, ever was so inundated, so enveloped by the full, rich skunk as I was this night.  And I am thankful it's not cig smoke anymore.  A long, strange trip indeed.  Spliffs, pipes and green script bottles were passed around as if candy.  Eye-popping and eye-watering.  I don't know if you, the bloggee, has smelt, felt, seen or indulged in med herb, but the contact high alone was, well, uplifting.  Constant foot-shifting, whirling and twirling dervishes of skirts and shorts and constant inhalation/exhalation.  And the band played on.  Crunch funk, tight crushing grooves of blasting drums and bass, guitar solos and keyboard with wah-wah and various tricks, kept the tunes flowing.  Quite a display from musician's musicians.

My ears are still ringing today.  My mind is a bit cloudy (nothing new there).  My musical fix sedated.  My dream last night was a strange one.  Musket (he of Good Earth Records, see my post 'Get me to the show ontime') was smiling at me and unveiling a CD case full of music and presented it to me proudly.  "These are for you, Alto."  I thanked him and he vanished in a thick fog of a, smoke machine?  And how appropo was Taylor Hicks ( yes, American Idol!) absolutely killing (in a raving, rocking and grand, guttural way) a funk/rock cover of 'Medicated Goo'?  Medicated.  Yes, very.

I Just Want To Celebrate

"Celebrate celebrate
Dance to the music"

This past Father's Day, it hit me.  Every living, breathing organism on our planet, and hopefully on others, has a mother and a father.  Sure, there are those species that have both sexes (that must be quite the party) and some that don't have a sex at all (so sad), but I shall concentrate on the Homo Sapien, as that is the one I'm somewhat familiar with.

There are the cynics amongst us that feel some of the celebratory days are just a way to promote commercialism.  And I agree, some are.  But keep it to yourself because plenty of people enjoy these days.  Don't piss on their fun.  So with that being said, I have compiled some obviously silly "Special Days".

Caffeine-free Week
This one might require non-caffeinated friends and family (is there anybody over the age of six like that?  Really?) to have their phones on speed-dial for 911.  Without caffeine, they are way too slow.  Originally I thought a one-day celebration.  Nah, too easy.  Then a two-day.  That should be a piece of cake (just say no to coffee cake).  How about a whole week?  I nervously reached for my coffee cup and kept thinking.  But why, Mark, a whole week?  Then it dawned on me.  The whole commercialism thing.  Another chug.  From a devout caffeine creature, I knew, this would be hard.  But the rewards.  The outrageous cost of coffee these days is staggering, especially to an 8-10 cup-a-day drinker.  And the tossing and turning at night when you just had to have that eensy, teensy cup at 7:30 pm.  And not to mention what Starbucks charges.  And the jitters.  The rewards are plentiful, my fellow addict.  Chug.  Of course, it shan't be easy.  Be strong.  The headache that will inevitably come will feel like an aneurysm on steroids.  The ringing in your ears, your temples exploding repeatedly and those strange visions of Juan Valdez.  Sip.  The next six days will be a lot easier.  It's all psychological, anyway, right?  Mind games, yes?  We really don't need caffeine, do we?  Beat it back.  And, oh, the celebration at the end of the week.  A parade will be organized and quickly.  Chug. Sip.  Hopefully, not a rabid crowd clamoring for a latte, but a laid-back party of celebrants who came together for a single cause : just to say we can.  The parade should end up at a Caribou or Starbucks with the masses taking over, free espresso, make mine a triple, out of my way old man, chug, that frap is mine, I need more whole milk, damn my coffee's too weak, where's that triple espresso I ordered 30 seconds ago?  And choosing the week for this celebration?  I'll think about that after I grind some beans.  Sip.

Nothing Special Day
Celebrate the mundaneness of life.  Again. 

Colonoscopy Day
Party on this occasion for the people who get to go back in 10 years, starting with 10 candles and working down.  Just so you remember.  If you are unfortunate enough to get this procedure done more often, eat the high fiber cake.  And that cake should have pictures of this memorable day in chocolate.

No BM Day
Of course, this will probably follow the above "Special Day". 

Greeting Card Day
Sponsored by Hallmark.  That's all I can say.

Rest Your Right Eye Day
Think about your eyes for a moment.  They are always on.  Even while sleeping, they dance the REM.  Take a break.  Depth perception is compromised, but are you a professional baseball player?  I didn't think so.

Just Say No Day
No.

PMS Week
Oh wait, it's called hell week.

Talk Like a Pirate Day
There already is one?  AAARRRGGGGHHH.

Make up your own "Special Day".  And enforce it.  Remember, people love to celebrate no matter what it is.

 

And That's The Way It Was

Growing up somewhat sheltered geographically, actually really sheltered, and in a simpler time, finding something to do was somewhat of a challenge.  So, we did some harmless stuff, mainly to ourselves.  Every small town (and I've been in quite a few) is like an enclave of cliques and small, social networks.  Some were renowned for the dastardly stuff and others were pretty tame.  Guess which group I was in?  Now, I have been called a Pollyanna, by some unmentionables, for my writing on this blog.  And I admit, I do write PG rated stuff (fluff?).  I have been lucky by not being in the wrong place at the wrong time very often when I was growing up.  However, some crazy/dark moments have occurred.  That strange, dark side is on my new blog entitled 'The Dark Side and Underbelly of Alto'.  Catchy, huh?  It's still in the preparation stage.  Until then, on with the mostly PG fluff stuff.

Did you ever get to go to a Sadie Hawkin's dance in high school?  This was designed by some female, I would guess, so that the girl who never gets asked to a dance, gets to do the asking.  How original and uncomfortable.  The boy usually says yes to a complete anti-babe just to be nice, then drops her off immediately after the dance (the scoundrel), proceeds to meet with a friend (another scoundrel), party until light after drinking a ton, driving up on sidewalks, getting stuck in somebody's front yard, knocking over a few mailboxes and generally making up for a terribly annoying dance.  Shame on you, Joe A. for making me so rowdy.  I guess I had a little to do with that, but remember, I am Pollyanna.

Before we had our driver's license, we needed to stash our booze (purchased for us by an older scoundrel) for a later, more opportune time.  Surrounding Lincoln School was a nice secluded patch of woods that we called, The Woods, or something like that.  There were so many of us, that finding your personal stash was totally by accident.  If you didn't, then whatever you found was yours.  Being chased by some irate, PBR-loving, misfits was pretty invigorating and stomach-jogging.  This was the first place that I experienced The Puke, or something like that.  Wines ( I use the term loosely) such as Annie Green Springs, Tyrolia, Boone's Farm and the nefarious Mogen David 20-20 were within my price range : very cheap.  If you haven't experienced MD 20-20, this fine-dining wine, I highly suggest it.  It came in a couple of enticing flavors.  Puke Grape or Golden Apple Puke.  Both totally appealing to the rot-gut in us all.  We had a very intricate process for drinking this crap and it seemed to work.  The quart held about four large glasses, so the first was the most important.  It was the most foul-tasting, bowel-wasting, butt-basting liquid invented by some scoundrel.  After that, you were home free because you couldn't taste the next three glasses.  Your taste buds were totally annihilated as the rest of your body would shortly be.  MD 20-20 made your eyesight 0-0.  Since those early drinking days, I have found only one other drink equally nauseating.  Half shot of Jaggermeister.  Half shot of Goldschlager.  Voila!  You have Black Gold.  Just thinking about it gives me a headache, hangover and the strange need to vomit.  Damn, those Germans are good.

Cruising had to be popular wherever there was a patch of asphalt.  And over-hormonal boys.  With wheels.  With booze.  And loose girls.  Howard Street and 1st Avenue formed an 'L' in our downtown, which used to be a part of the interstate highway system.  After the 'Beltway' was built, which diverted traffic around the downtown like a belt holding together the ever-expanding girth of our fair village, this 'L' was about 20 blocks of department stores (Feldman's and Monkey Wards), theaters (State and Libba), pizza joints (Sammy's), gas stations/auto body shops (John's), all-purpose (Woolworth's and Five-and-Ten Cent) and a whole slew of dive bars (Corner, Coachmen).  Gas being around 35 cents (gasp), driving up and down for hours on end wasn't a big deal, even with the gas-chugging muscle cars.  Showing off these cars, showing off girls in these cars and the relentless pursuit of instant gratification, was the thing to do.  "Hey, party at McCarthy's Beach."  "Bimbo's at midnight".  Even in the harsh winters, "Dupont Lake.  Bring the Ski-doo and a case of Hamms."  This was some of the most carefree times a kid could have.  And driving drunk?  Most, not all, are here to tell you about it.  I do have to mention a bittersweet memory, one of the few.  Driving or cruising the drag was sometimes void of exhaust and cars and friends and chicks and mayhem.  Where is everybody?  Am I missing something?  Did I forget about a kegger somewhere?  Is everybody dead?  And where the hell is Terry G. with my MD 20-20?

I wasn't into drag-racing (being a Pollyanna and all), but our town was overrun with gear-heads.  One casual friend ( weren't we all?) had a yellow Dodge Dart with a thick, black-belt painted vertically around the rear panel or trunk area.  See?  I can't even describe it in a studly way.  It looked like a bumble-bee.  Is that better?  This wrenchie said the engine was factory, but even a powder-puff like me knew, after the first rev, that this was huge.  He had a running bet.  Anyone able to reach out and grab a $20 bill taped to his dash while going through the quarter-mile, they could keep it.  If not, you owed him the $20.  Bold.  Cocky.  He let me try it for free.  You know, wimpy and all.  When he tromped on the gas, other than the startling, jet-sounds that deafened me and the fuel smell, my head and body were pressed into the seat with a snap.  I reached out.  Chirping second gear drove me back.  A beer can wrapped around my ankle.  I tried again.  Third gear and now eyelashes quivering and tears (?) running, I reached.  The $20 was just laying there, fluttering, asking to be ripped off the dash.  Fourth gear and rubber-fumes or something else burning (was that hair?)  The quarter-mile was over.  A backfire sounded.  Then braking.  I looked over at my friend and he had this look that I'll never forget.  One of pride.  One of confidence.  One of a bullshitter.

I'll have to say, and coming from a crotchety old Iron Ranger, you can take this any way you want to, those times I hold dear to my heart.  Ones you never want to let go of.  They were filled with pure, childish joy, wild imaginations, smells, sounds and feelings of something that has passed.  But is still there.  To hear.  To smell.  To feel.  It was great to be alive then and there and it sure is great to be alive here and now.  Without the memories (or the forgetfuls) we have nothing to base ourselves on.  Wherever you grew up, however you were raised, whenever it was, do not forget.  Remember.  This is coming from a Pollyanna.

-- Recent Listens --

Them Crooked Vultures
Them Crooked Vultures, 2009

Josh Homme (gtr, vox)  [ Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age ]
Dave Grohl (drums)  [ Nirvana, Foo Fighters ]
John Paul Jones (bass)  [guess]
Scathing rock.  We need more of this.

Jeff Beck
Emotion & Commotion, 2010
J.B. - why so long?

Robben Ford
Blue Moon, 2002
Typical Ford.  No wasted notes from premiere and unheralded guitarist/singer/songwriter.

Merl Saunders and Friends
Keepers, '71-'75 (redone in '97)
Saunders on keys, gigantic sounds as fresh now as then.  Though not a Dead fan, Jerry Garcia wins me over  with his wild abandon.  Not enough of legendary Mike Bloomfield but still a nice funky, blues disc.

Harry Nilsson
Pussycats, 1974
Nilsson ( Schmilsson, Son of ) is one of my favorites.  Gets together with John Lennon, who is partying whilst on hiatus from Yoko.  Some tight, fun and serious songs.

Ween
12 Golden Country Greats, 1996
Whacked-out with great musicianship.  Songs such as 'Piss Up A Rope', 'Help Me Scrape The Mucus Off My Brain' and 'Japanese Cowboy' give you indication of what this is all about.  Have fun with all their stuff, though not for everyone.

Rolling Stones
A Bigger Bang, 2005
Screw the critics (I'm not one).  This stripped down bluesy release has Jagger doing more than vocals (guitar, harmonica, bass) and Richards trading licks with Woods (or Mick?).  Raunchy, as usual, this is actually better than expected.  Screw the critics (I'm still not one).

Get Me To The Show Ontime (circa around 1979)

9:15 am     I get a call from Rocker letting me know the show is at 7:30 tonight at the Duluth Auditorium.  I confirm this.  Back to sleep.

10:45 am   Bud calls and wakes me up from one of my vivid dreams.  Led Zeppelin is ready to play at our high school (ya, right) and Robert Plant can't sing.  They ask me if I could fill in (hey, it's my dream).  I say, "You're bloody well right I'll sing" or something like that.  Then, the phone rings.  I slam the phone down.  So close to being a star.

10:46 am    Bud calls back.  I ask what the hell is his problem.  He mumbles something (he's a certified mumbler) and I think he says thickets for the hugfest in foo-foo.  What?  Oh, the concert.  Ya, got it.  Why?  Bud says the show might be sold out.

10:48 am    The phone is left dangling as I vaguely hear some mumbling.  I'm high-tailin' it to my '69 Ford Custom 500 and drivin' crazy- fast.  For all of  five blocks.  I hope Mrs. Adams isn't takin' her morning slow-walk next door.  She just might have to fast-jump out of the way.

10:54 am     I brake and jump and roll.  Not really, but it sounded good.  I dash into Good Earth Records and look for Jerry.  It's a landmark store in our little town which sells albums, tapes, posters, smokin' apparatuses.  And concert tickets.  In this bygone era, you had to purchase them at a store or order them and wait for the mail.  There was no waitin' here.  Jerry is not around.  Only a dimwitted worker bee, Jimbo.  He hadn't seen Musket (nickname for Jerry) in awhile.  He didn't know when he'll be back.  'LA Woman' is blaring on the stereo which disrupted my thinkin'.  I was thinkin', "Shit, I better get four tickets or I'm dead."  I promised Bumbler, Rocker and, the most important one, our driver, Jonesy.  If only I had woken up earlier.  Preferably yesterday.  "Calm down.  Musket will be back.  It's his store and looking at Jimbo, I'd say he had better hurry."  Jimbo was air-drumming on top of the cash register.

11:23 am     Ok, the whole album of 'LA Woman' is now over.  No Musket.  No tickets.  No way.  Where the hell is, wait, here he comes.  With a smile as big as a double-wide and eyes as red as a baboon's butt.  Oh oh.  Pushing his glasses back on his nose, as they always slid down, he looked at me.  "Hey Alto.  What's up?"  "I need four tickets for the concert tonight."  "What concert?"  "You know, the Slade and Brownsville Station one.  In Duluth."  Jessica Sampson saunters by and Musket's attention is not on me anymore.  The Boss is now screaming.  Internally, so am I.

11:42 am     Watching Jerry run his store was a thing of beauty.  He started Good Earth on his own and had a vision of what a record store should be like.  And he nailed it.  Not only was the selection diverse but it was a cool place to hang out and talk music.  And he knew his music.  And was passionate about it.  He could talk for, literally, hours on why John Lennon should've killed Yoko Ono.  Or what Jim Morrison meant on an obscure poem he wrote.  But this was getting ridiculous.  He was ringing up some Billy Squier and a button (the Rolling Stones logo) and was deep in conversation about Elvis Costello with some high schooler who should take a freakin' bath (not many showers in those days).  I nervously flipped through the G-H album section keeping my eye on him.

12:12 pm     My patience is exhausted.  Jerry was now out the back to get a shipment of albums and cassettes.  Man, can he move fast when he has to.  I caught up to him and asked if I could help.  "Oh hey, Alto.  What's up?"  "Any tickets?  Jerry?"  He was already gone to the back.

12:25 pm     Jerry comes back.  Finally.  "Oh hey, Alto.  How long you been here?"  "Musket, the tickets.  I need four tickets.  Remember?"  "Oh ya.  I think that show sold out."
 
12:26 pm     Plan B.  "Are you sure?  Could you check?"  "Ya, I can call Freddy over in Chisholm.  He might have some."  "Oh man, that's be great."  He was gone in a flash.  Jimbo can't figure how to ring up a blank cassette.  Jerry rings it up and then goes into a rant about how bad the Stones are these days.

12:36 pm     Jerry is gone again.  How does he move so fast?  I look at Jimbo.  He just shrugs.  Now I'm starvin' marvin'.  Figuring Musket will be back soon (fingers are crossed), I go next door to grab a burger.  The best in town.  Except the half-pounder with fries has gone up.  Geez, now $2.99?  I've lost all my patience and my money.

1:02 pm      I reenter Good Earth full and ready to keep up with Musket.  If he tries to escape again, I'll have to tackle him.  He's bigger than me but I'm desperate.  It'll take us at least an hour and a half to drive to Duluth.  I still have to shower (one of the lucky families) and get prepared for the show.  That takes a lot of time and effort.  I'll stay calm and see what's in the bargain bin.

1: freakin' 52 pm    Guess who decides to show up?  Yup, Musket.  With a pizza and beer.  "Hey Alto.  Want some 'zza?"  "Jerry."  "Hey man, you look a little stressed.  How 'bout a beer?"  "Thanks but no thanks.  How about those tickets?"  "What tickets?"  Deep breath.  "THE CONCERT TICKETS FOR TONIGHT."  "Oh those.  I have to go get 'em.  I'll be back in about an hour."  Now I don't know about you but one hour really means two, maybe three.  Exhausted, I gave in.

5: oh my God 38 pm    A knock at my door.  I answer in full concert mode.  My hair combed just right, an old Black Oak Arkansas t-shirt and my fav-o-rite blue jeans, a little torn.  "Hey Alto.  Sorry 'bout that.  We got to talkin' and well, here they are.  You can pay me whenever.  I don't know why you needed them so fast.  They don't play till tomorrow."

5: is that me sobbing? 45 pm   I am back asleep.  With the phone off the hook.
                 

-- Recent Reads --

The Corrections
Jonathan Franzen, 2001
A dysfunctional, quirky and very real family story that displays harmony, personal anguish, humor and an ending that left me weeping.  But also upbeat.  Yes, you can have it both ways.  An emotional, taut and excellent read.  Franzen is somebody to follow.

The Enchantress of Florence
Salman Rushdie, 2009
Yes, that Salman Rushdie.  He who had a fatwa on his head for years after writing 'The Satanic Verses' in '88.  He is a vivid and colorful storyteller but peculiar in style.  I felt as if he was talking down to me.  Oh well, off with his head.  This will challenge you in an intellectual way but still very entertaining.

Benjamin Franklin : An American Life
Walter Isaacson, 2003
By no means boring, this biography by Isaacson tells us stuff about Ben that you didn't get in high school.  But what else is new?  This is one man who shaped America, possibly more than any single person.  Tons more interesting than the John Adams book, not the cable presentation.  I will read Einstein's bio by this author as soon as I can.  Supposed to be scary good.

Childhood's End
Arthur C. Clarke, 1953
Everybody knows Clarke as the author of  '2001: A Space Odyssey' in '68.  But this overlooked gem by one of the top five sci-fi writers ( in my humble opinion), will have you guessing and wondering long after you've finished reading it.  Discussions about 2012 collide in this fast-paced, 200+ page novel.

Riven Rock
TC Boyle,1998
If you haven't read any TC, get out your reading glasses and read.  He transforms this simple nonfiction story (with maybe some fiction?) about the mental state of one powerful 1800's tycoon into a humorous romp.  Anything Boyle writes, please read.

American Goliath
Harvey Jacobs, 1997
The Cardiff Giant.  General Tom Thumb.  P.T. Barnum.  Another possible bending and blending of a real story into a sometimes uneven read.  However, fun as hell and compelling.  Jacobs hasn't done much but his '09 book, 'Side Effects' sounds enticing.

Winter VS. Summer : HUNTING

When men find out I'm from Minnesota, they glance at me hopefully. 

"Pretty good hunting up there, right?"  Visions of venison, bear rugs and goose-down pillows.
"Ya, I guess."
"And fishing."  Stuffed otters and coonskin caps.
"Ya."
"I remember when I was on a hunting trip .."
"Excuse me, but I don't hunt."
"Huh?"
"Maybe a little fishing."
"What the?"
"I mean, I tried.  I really did."

So, I explain in brief how terrible I am at hunting and the fish stay away from my line as if the lure has rabies on it.  I wonder what a rabid walleye would look like.
The man is now very suspicious and shakes his head.  

Winter
We are off to track down and hunt the wily, tricky and foxy rabbit.  First of all, calling out  'Kill the wabbit!' didn't exactly help in my instructional part of  hunting this noble creature.  Sheesh, hunters have no sense of humor. I guess, when you have a rifle in your hands, this is no time to crack jokes.  This is serious.  The snowshoe hare (lepus americanus) or varying hare, is our prey.  This reminds me of the cult movie, only-meant-to-be-played-at-all-drive-ins, 'Night of the Lepus'.  Does anybody remember that gem?  Huge rabbits pounce and destroy a poor town, that, I suspect, have had one too many rabbit hunts.  Of course, with modern technology at that time, the gigantic bunnies were normal sized and the town was plastic.  You could actually see the shadows on the background.  Movies used to be so real back then.  I couldn't quite get that image out of my head, so I kept looking above me.  Just in case these varying hares did vary in size. In winter, we have snow.  In winter, the rabbit is white as snow.  So, shooting at white while walking in and through white might seem a tad difficult to distinguish snow-covered, white fur from something, say, a snow-covered mound of dirt.  As my instructions from fellow hunting friends were ( in the near future not-so-friendly), shoot at anything that hops, bounds, scrambles, scampers, zigs or zags.  I immediately grasped the situation firmly.  And another important lesson : don't shoot in the vicinity of another hunter if you see darting movements.  I didn't know my peripheral vision was that good.  My fellow hunters dropped to the back of me and for good reason.  I was the brave leader who will get first shot at our future rabbit stew.

The first 50 yards of trudging through a field of bright, shining, blinding ice crystals was peaceful and invigorating.  I was going to kill and eat the flesh of a fluffy, furry and flop-eared rabbit.  Sounds really manly.  The serenity was shattered as I stepped in a white hole ( damn, probably a rabbit hole) and  let out a shriek not unlike that of a hungry, five-month old baby girl.  As I fell, I lost grip of my rifle (damn, my hands were already frozen) and it went off.  That was the second thing I shouldn't have done.  In less than an hour I had two hunting strikes against me.  But, as fate would have it (others call it beginner's blind luck) I was vindicated.  My shot blasted into a pile of snow about 20 feet away and out sprang a white and red (?) rabbit.  He kind of looked at me, well, he would've looked if he had had a head, and fell over.  It looked like that solid white-chocolate bunny I had for Easter when I was young.  After I had bit its head off.

The rabbit stew was tasty.  I don't eat Easter bunnies anymore.  At least not the snow-covered ones.


Summer
We are off to track down and hunt the wily, tricky and foxy partridge.  Now, I know we don't have pear trees in the Land of 10 Trillion Lakes.  So I didn't quite get it.  I let my hunting buddies (no longer friends, numbers dwindling) give me the tips for shooting something that goes airborne.  The first tip : don't be alarmed when they take flight.  This graceful bird appeared in Greek mythology when Daedalus threw his nephew, Perdix, off a roof in a jealous rage.  The partridge or perdix stays amongst groundcover and avoids high places like trees.  Poor guy.  He has wings but is paranoid of falling.  Kind of like a fish (gilly) scared of swimming.  You have to hand it to those Greeks.  They sure know their mythological ornithology.


Walking down a dirt road, thick foliage (are those pear trees?) on both sides of us, the graceless, scared-of-heights partridge and his/her pals will suddenly and noisily crash through the trees, out to the open road and fly.  They come out of the trees low and they fly even lower if that's possible.  This is the time to fire before they get too much, uh, air.  Ok.  Check.  As our crunching Red Wings crunched, various birds other than partridges were singing a song.  Was that The 12 Days of Christmas?  Suddenly, swiftly and urgently. without warning, a clatter shattered the bird chatter.  As I almost swallowed my tongue, I instinctively reacted.  By not swallowing my tongue.  I also pulled up the rifle and shot.  The sound of the blast was like AC DC's 'For Those About To Rock' cannons.  We looked down the road in front of us and, laying in a clump of feathers, was a bird.  My bird.  My headless bird.  Another head-shot.  Partridge is tasty but always needs a pear.

After those two mind-blasting shots, I couldn't hit the ground if I was tossed off a roof.  I tried duck.  I tried goose.  Is that the same as duck-duck-goose (duck-duck-gray goose, in Minnesota)?  I have heard that the rare skeet is easier to get or the cool coot.  I may try.  Or I might just stick to music hunting and gathering.

Oh, and when women find out I'm from Minnesota, they ask about The Mall of America.  Go ahead and ask me about those pillows and caps.