Away In the Manger......That I Helped Build....

{Editorial Note: This piece was originally published on MySpace 12-25-2007, but bears re-running for the Season, if not becoming an all-out annual trdition.}  

Of all the many, many wonderful things about the Christmas Season, you just can't beat going back to the "source material" as it were, for the absolute best in the warm-fuzzy department.  {Well, DUH - that's what it's supposed to be all about, innit?}

Welcome, one and all, to my first-ever Christmas Blog.  Today's tale is about my most cherished of all Christmas memories; helping my Father build -  from scratch - a full-on Manger / Nativity Scene {small diorama, in reality}.

I was eighteen at the time; freshly graduated from "high screwel," and four months into my professional musical career.  In the late spring of that year, Dad began drawing up preliminary sketches for a new "project" he wanted to try.  My Dad, an architect by profession, was also a journeyman scholar of both the Bible and ancient architecture.  As a youth, I remember him always complaining about how our original Manger looked {it was an "A-Frame" design}.  He'd always grumble "It looks like a Swiss ski chalet, not a Manger!!!"

After many years of this, he apparently got fed up enough to sit down and design "a Manger that looks like a Manger" himself.  He worked on the plans for about two months, then just after graduation he collared me and said "Chris, we're going to have a great Christmas this year - you're going to help me build our new Manger!"  I was a bit reluctant at first - I was then at a three regular gig-per-week mark for the very first time in my life, but I'd already spent plenty of "quality time" with Dad as we built our model railroad together {along with my brother, until he moved out on his own}, so I soon warmed up to the idea.

Once I saw Dad's full plans, I was stunned - he wanted a near-museum quality diorama, instead of the simple building I was expecting to see plans for.  I vividly remember Dad explaining his ideas in detail; what materials we could use, basic construction techniques, how we could light it, etc.  Our years working on the model railroad together had bonded us pretty tight, and Dad was already wise in how to get me excited early on, which always inspired bursts of creativity on my part, which he got quite a kick out of . Even though I wasn't "following in his footsteps" by vocation, he knew that I got my creativity from him anyway, and he was content to let me have free reign, which I'll alwys deeply respect and Love him for.

In reality, Dad knew that if he let me run amok as was/is my wont, some pretty good ideas would emerge.  We got the basic construction finished fairly quickly - a simple plywood design {base and building}.  Even less time was spent on wiring it for lights - two days, as I recall.  Our greatest time was spent in the details - covering the basic structure with it's "proto-Adobe" finish; Dad hand-carving AND "aging" each individual fence post and rail, finding the best looking places for the "boulders" and sparse vegetation; carefully putting hoof prints in the sand, using the actual camels in the scene to "make" the prints for authenticity, etc.

My main contribution came in the Manger's covering and final finish.  Dad wanted a contrasting look betwen the sand-impregnated mud of the building, and the naturally sandy ground.  We tried all kinds of different sand mixtures, using every size we could find, but nothing looked right to either of us.  One evening Dad accidentally dropped a used Mr. Coffee filter on the counter, spilling it's still-wet contents all over.  When I heard him swearing like the Sailor he was in WWII, I went to look, and was startled by what I saw.

"Dad, if we dried out the coffee grounds, and mixed them with the sand, would that give the Manger 'the' look?"  He slowly turned to stare at me, slack-jawed.  "Where in the Hell did you get THAT brilliant idea from?"

"Oh, a certain KLUTZ I know........."

Both Dad and I were blown away by how good the coffee-sand mixture looked - Dad even approved of my painting efforts.  I painted it in differing shades all over, working from darkest to lightest, in separate layers, thus "aging" it gradually, just as Nature does.  Dad was quick to spot my two "in-jokes" right off - tiny spots that I deliberately avoided painting, letting the natural coffee ground color show clearly.

Once the building and landscaping were done, the next problem arose - hay for the interior {well, a manger IS nothing more than a barn/stable, in reality}.   My notion was instant - "Grass, Dad - dried grass." {No, no, no - not THAT type of grass......}  I had just cut our lawn, so I went out in the front yard, and picked up a handful of fresh thatch.  Dad looked at it and said, "No, that won't work, that's Bluegrass - blade's way too wide.  The Baby Jesus will look like he's lying on a bed of palm fronds!  Try the back yard, Chris."

I did, and Dad was happy - "That's more like it - Fescue is just the ticket!  Good job!"  As we neared the finish line, Dad and I both started getting pretty excited; the project looked good from all angles, and when my brother's beautifully hand-painted figures arrived in the mail, we had a small "Christmas in late August" ceremony for the official unveiling.  We patiently waited until it got dark, then we plugged our new Manger in.

My Mom, Dad and I all gasped in unison - it looked SO pretty.  We marvelled at how Dad's simple, but incredibly effective lighting {using only a single bulb, BTW} washed the scene in a way that enhanced textures, color, and ambience alike.  Dad wasn't totally happy, though.  "It's too bright - who ever saw a Manger lit up like a 1950's diner?"  The tone in his voice triggered what I can only describe as a truly "miraculous" inspiration in my head.

"Dad, what about an orange bulb, would that work?"  Again slack-jawed {but smiling ear-to-ear}, Dad went to the storeroom, found the Christmas lights, and shortly the Manger was bathed in the warm glow you see here.  The effect was as dazzling as before, just tastefully muted, somewhat.  NOW it looked like the Nativity Dad had envisioned from the start.

We did indeed have a Magical Christmas that year; despite all the hassles we faced {and overcame} during construction, my Dad and I set the Adult Seal on our mutal bond that summer - and it only got better with age.  The Nativity itself has been in regular use since then.  Now that Dad's gone, it has become my most precious link to him, a symbol of both the Love for the Season in general, the Love for Jesus in particular - and my own specific Love for my Dad.

On this Day, two Millenia-plus odd back, a small Boy was born in a barn, and they Loved Him.  Nineteen hundred and eighty-six years later, that same Boy was re-born in a custom-designed and totally hand-made environment - by another not-quite-so-small Boy and his Dad, who also Loved Him {and each other}.

What finer Gift For a King, eh?

I'm sure that when Dad sees this post, he'll too be smiling..................................................

Just like a kid on Christmas Morning, dig?!!!!!

Merriest of Christmases, and the Happiest of New Years', my Friends - I  Love you all too, y'know..............

Infamy

Seventy years ago today, America stood strong in the face of incredible adversity, and never once blinked.  Socialism and Fascism were wreaking havoc all across Europe and near-East Asia, but it was Imperial Japan's deadly sneak-attack on Pearl Harbor on this date in 1941 that brought us fully into World War II.  Some 2400+ were killed in the dastardly attacks, but American Resolve had been awakened, and would ultimately pass this test with flying colors.  


Just over three and a half years later, we repaid Japan's aggression 100 times over, when the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki brought the war to a speedy end.


Myself, I can't imagine the horror my parents and grandparents must have felt that Sunday morning so long ago.  Well, perhaps I can, what with the 9/11 attacks ten years ago.  Although American Resolve was awakened once again, the aftermath of 9/11 is to this day too bitterly entangled with left-wing politics to merit much comparison with the fallout from Pearl.

And of course it's a far different world today than it was 70 years ago.  Today, if the Muslim Brotherhood was able to mount a threat on a par with Nazi Germany, or the Imperial Empire of Japan, I rather doubt we could respond with the same alacrity and might the Greatest Generation was able to muster.  For one thing, we don't have half the manufacturing capability they had in 1941, any more.  For another, our national finances are in shambles, thanks to the Congressional / Wall Street money-orgies of the last 20 years.

About the only thing that aligns the two times on the same plane is our Resolve - which comes directly from the staunch service provided by our Military.  It's a pity that left-wing politics and "social engineering" has even permeated the Military, but such is our Brave New World.  Ironically, this was foreseen by two of the greatest Generals of WWII - Patton and Eisenhower.  


Patton saw how rotten politics would allow the Communists to run rampant, which they did for 40 years {there would have been no Korean or Vietnamese wars, Cuba's rise to prominence, or much of the Middle Eastern conflicts post-1947, had anyone paid attention}.  Eisenhower warned against a huge military-industrial complex, or the "commercialization" of warfare - which has made it easy for even the most tin-horn of terrorists to make jihad, or whatever, thanks to the bloated worldwide supplies of ordnance and associated materiel.  Both men felt that politics should be ceremonial only, after the fact of war; not during, or because of it.  


And history has proven both right, time and time again in the last 60 years.


However, all of this was still in the future on that awful Sabbath three-score and ten years ago today, when the Arizona pictured above met its' tragic end on the floor of that rather pretty harbor on Oahu.  The War that ensued touched virtually all of our family's lives one way or another, and the aftereffects are still being felt to this day.  My Dad and four Uncles all served, covering both Theaters, and every branch of the Military.  Only one Uncle was in service prior to Pearl - and he was fortunate to be on a carrier that day, instead of his customary battleship.  He never forgot that small quirk of Fate, nor did the rest of the family.

As for the rest of us though, we should never forget 12/7/1941, either.  It's still affecting all of us.

And it's still the Day of INFAMY.

Armistice / Veteran's Day

God Bless each and every one of our Veterans!!!!!!

Comes the Crash

Six years since the first psychic artillery shell found its' target.
And six years later, not too much has changed.  I'm really dreading the next several weeks; although forward progress has resumed again, it's mainly just a rote, doing-it-by-the-numbers type of existence.  Much of what I have lost remains quite out of reach, and damned if I know "how to go about getting it" {back},  either.

I'll be glad indeed to be done with 2011 - it's added more than it's share of scars to my collection, and I am heartsick of the ongoing pains of it all.  But knowing my luck, 2012 will make this year look like a bloody school picnic.  Fool that I truly am, I'll keep shambling along as best I can in the vain hope of better days ahead - Susan Boyle's Impossible Dream, dig?

Lay back and groove for a while, Boys and Girls - this ride's going on autopilot for the foreseeable future.  Or a reasonable facsimilie thereof....................

How 'Bout Them BIRDS???

Deja-Vu; 2006 All Over Again?

Here we go again!

Much as they did five years ago, my hometown Cardinals are providing some fall excitement, as I begin the latest new chapter of my life.  Hopefully history will continue repeating itself, and the Redbirds will claim another set of World Series rings.  And hopefully this newest personal chapter will bear fruit in short order, with even more healing ramifications.  Time will tell; should be an active fall right into winter.

In the meantime, there's one immediate focus:

More shortly............

Blogging, Six Years On

True to form, I missed a rather interesting milestone by a couple days.  It's been six years {on 5 October} now since I started blogging, and to paraphrase that famous song, what a trip it has been.


The mundane stats are: six offshoots {including my small YouTube channel}; a few hundred-odd posts; perhaps 45,000 collective views or "hits."  Modest and humble figures, all - but only part of the story.  The last six years have also seen some pretty significant sea-changes, both for me personally, and for the wider world in general.  Not all for the better, true; but still pretty evenly balanced, good vs. bad.  Which is more or less par for the course, all things considered.

In the last half-decade-plus, I've travelled; moved; been published several times; notched another hundred-odd musical performances under my belt; been stalked by the Grim Reaper; Loved, and then lost Love.  I've been through one tornado, two severe ice-storms, half-a-dozen potent blizzards, and the remnants of one hurricane; plus heatwaves, lightning strikes, a 100-year flood, and three minor earthquakes.

My world around me has been violently battered by terrorism, political and economic strife unknown to this country until recently, countless other natural and unnatural disasters, and a general feeling of constant uneasiness we haven't had in close to 40 years.  MySpace, YouTube and Google were just becoming powerhouses {Facebook didn't exist yet} six years ago, and they all have done their share in shaping our environment since, for good and ill. 


Pretty much thanks to them in particular, and this Interwide Web-thingy in general,  I've been able to befriend my third and last Drum Mentor of my original 4, as well as befriending several other famously-accomplished people.  I value each of those friendships as much as my "regular" ones - famous people are still just  people after all, and most enjoy being simply treated as such.  All of this - and lots more - happening just within the last six years; and the bulk of it documented or at least mentioned on my various humble pages, including this one.

Of course, I'm also six years older, with corresponding experience and whatever wisdom goes along with it.  My youthful passions have become middle-age passions, for the most part.  Everything else has long since settled into the long distance-mode, as my journey continues.  Looking back, the last six years are a good chunk of time, and for the most part I've enjoyed sharing several of my thoughts about the ride on this and the other pages.  While some of my blogging-itch has been thoroughly scratched, I don't feel I'm done by a long shot.  There will be plenty more grist for this humble little mill, rest assured.


So that's it, in a nutshell.  Blogging is a small part of my life that has acquired true merit the good old-fashioned hard way; through the proverbial blood, sweat, and tears.  I'm proud of where I've been and what I've survived and written about; and I'm genuinely looking forward to the next six years' worth of blogs, God willing.  Y'all who've been with me as Regular Readers are more than welcome to keep doing the hang here.  I dig you lot to death, in case I haven't told anyone directly.  As for the rest of the audience, please stick around and get comfortable.  Sooner or later I'll do something amusing, and your patience will be rewarded.

No good deed goes unpunished, dig?

More shortly - pop that giggle-water now, if ya like............

Deepest Blues: Immortally Bereft

An even score of years fighting in the front line trenches of the music wars had left surprisingly few scars, even though life-ending peril was all around him - and in some instances was virtually staring him in the face. He was quick, clever, and always ahead of the brunt; the worst impacts fell to one side, or to the rear - and he would actually ride the ensuing shockwaves ever deeper into the heart of the ongoing conflict. To his way of thinking, this is what drummers did if they wanted to survive, and the notion served him well enough for many years. Then, during one of his infrequent respites from the perennial fracas, he chanced to stumble upon the very thing that had been driving him along the whole time; the very thing he hadn't known he had actually been searching for, until it popped up suddenly right in front of him.


He had found his One Love - but he didn't realize this until she told him so; such was his battle-hardened demeanor, so narrowly sharp was his focus, so single-minded the pursuit of his passion and true calling.


After that, his entire welkin had brightened. He resumed his duties on the front line with a greatly enhanced sense of purpose - suddenly, someone else knew why he was fighting, understood what he was fighting for, and best of all, they professed to Love him and the fruits of his musical labors!! The carnage, chaotic living conditions, constant worry about what the next skirmish might bring, and just a general lack of any kind of personal sense of security all warriors have to deal with suddenly seemed much less important than they had before. Love had made even the worst sacrifice or brutal hardship seem almost tolerable. Love really was what he was fighting for, and having it returned was his wildest dream come true - almost. He wafted along, buoyed by the Love they shared; the next two years passed in a state of bliss neither of them had experienced before - and in his case, would never experience again.


The first blast that finally found him was devastating enough; it came suddenly, without warning, and threatened his very existence, so powerfully damaging was the impact. It literally rocked his entire world. 


And worse still, it threatened to take away his One Love. 


Without his One Love, he was as good as dead. Although emotionally he was severely maimed by the detonation, he heroically struggled to rejoin the fight; if the wars had led him to his One Love, then he would damn well resume active duty again, and reclaim what had been taken from him. It took time and a painfully difficult effort, but he somehow finally managed to tag a small piece of another shockwave, and began to ride again with a vengence, in earnest search of what he'd lost. At odd times he thought he could hear the dim, faint echoes of his One Love, encouraging him along with the promise of Reunion; and once together, time to heal from all of the wounds - the first ones he'd ever been totally aware of, or truly felt.


Time passed, but he scarcely noticed. He was still laboring to recover from the first devastating blast nearly a year before, which had shattered his world, lacerated his mind, and nearly claimed his life before he regained a semblance of balance. Oh, there had been many other shocks and wounds since then, but such was the impact of that original concussion that its' force over-rode the constant barrage that followed. Barely registering the barrage at all, it was as if he had been killed, but somehow had refused to lay down and accept his fate. He was on a Quest for Love, and dogged determination drove him ever onward through the maelstrom - keening heart grudgingly acknowleged, shocks ignored, wounds be damned.


He understood why, of course - much as any victim of sudden catastrophic trauma understands that their body or mind is being shredded and pulped, whilst detached from actually feeling the pain. As the blows kept coming, and he kept barely feeling them, a sort of crazed acceptance began to dawn in the back of his overtaxed brain - they couldn't kill him,because he was already dead!!! He could still function almost like he had before, he could once again easily throw off the worst of the ancillary attacks, he could still feel something - and maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to recover the one thing that he had lost to that horribly vicious original impact. The one thing that he had been fighting his whole life in search of, the one thing that was Precious to him above all else - his One Love.


His ragged journey kept its' stumbling, fitful pace until the final blow caught him unawares three days into the eleventh month of that long, Hell-spawned, wretchedly nightmarish year following the original impact. As with the first detonation, he had no indication that this one was coming, and he was also unaware of the diabolically simple and unassuming form it would take. Worst of all, while the first impact shook his world in general, this blast was targeted and aimed directly at him, and him alone.


A mere ninety words, one and all of them transmitted electronically - each and every one packing a trillion times the percussive force of one of his wildest drum rhythms. In an instant, everything in his mind went suddenly blank, hollow, numb, completely quiet; the gargantuan amplifier stacks totally, shockingly silent under the incredible weight of this out-of-the-blue psychic assault. A moment of this and then he began to ponder about the message, to make sure that there was no mistake or cryptic hidden clues, to be absolutely certain that it meant exactly what it said. 






And with a gut-twistingly sick, piercingly horrible realization thudding suddenly in the very pit of his stomach, he knew that it did.






Because this message was from his One Love ~ to him, for him, because of him.






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Can the dead be killed again?


Yes..


Oh God - YES!!!


He could almost see, smell, and taste, as well as feel the screeching banshee-wail of pain that geysered explosively up and out in all directions from his savagely punctured heart. A needle-sharp, gnawingly personal pain; a terrible iciness that spread and seeped and dripped insidiously into blood and guts and marrow alike; a numbingly soul-chilling pain, the kind of pain that comes only when someone to whom you have never done any harm, to whom you have given your heart and soul, turns on you suddenly and says "Goodbye now, goodbye forever" without any rhyme or reason for doing it. No warning. No hint. No "Thanks for your blood, sweat, and tears." No remorse or regret. No "I'm so sorry." 


No rhyme or reason at all.


What had he done to warrant this? He wasn't to blame for any of the trouble that was happening, yet the final curtain was closing around him, forcing him back inside the womb; the coffin lid welded shut. He desperately wanted to fight or deny the meaning and terrible understanding that was now ferociously exploding and rupturing all over his mind, ripping and slashing and laying waste to all the fragile, tentative healing that he had strained so long and hard to initiate and encourage - but he knew he couldn't. The very core of his essence writhed and thrashed in mortal agony while the shock slowly gave way to understanding - and resignation, as those ninety simple, yet innocuously lethal words penetrated deep into his soul and destroyed him far more effectively and far more efficiently than any accident, booze, drug, blade, bullet, rope, fumes, or high-explosive ever could. All the while, in his churning and reeling mind he could hear her lovely musical voice saying to him:


 "Farewell, don't bother us, don't come back to life, the dead should remain dead and we are quite finished with you."


But why?


He had hurt no one. He had taken great pains to give their Love as much care and consideration as he possibly could. He was an emotional handful at times, Lord knows this was true, but he hadn't intentionally become so. He wasn't a thief or a liar or a letch or a murderer. He was a man, a guy with wants and needs and hopes and dreams like everybody else. He was just a drummer who had gone off to the music wars; who'd found Love, been badly hurt, and now was trying to escape from his lonely prison to feel fresh cool air on his skin, to see the fall colors and perhaps listen to the rain's promise of winter storms to come, and most of all, to breathe in the fragrance of his One Love; hear her giggle, lose himself in the liquid beauty of her eyes, and hold her in his weary, longing arms in person. That was all he truly desired. He only wanted to try to come fully back to life again. 


In one hideous moment his situation came sharply crystal-clear. His One Love wanted only to forget him. He was a heavy, guilty weight upon the conscience, so abandoning him was the only way. He was instantly and completely forsaken. His One Love was the only entity in the world who could help him, could heal him. His One Love was THE final court of appeal for him. He might rant and rave and howl against the verdict but it would do him no good whatsoever. His fate had been decided, and his doom sealed. Nothing could change this. He was completely at the mercy of his One Love - and his One Love had no mercy. For him there was no hope. He might just as well accept the fact that this really was where it all would end; his unwaveringly devout faith in their Love finally rewarded - with denial, rejection, and abject condemnation.


Every second of his life since he had awakened into that terrifyingly empty, silent, and ceaselessly excruciating abyss that was the Loss of his One Love; every moment of it he had kept his focus well centered upon the time - some day, some year, when he would break through the emptiness of that awful void. Now that void had been breached - by his One Love. She had finally broken through - and promptly denied him. Betrayed him. Renounced him. Before, even in his absolutely bleakest moments, there had been a vague hope that kept him from going completely stark raving nuts. It had prevented him from simply letting go and dying altogether; it had shined like a lighthouse beacon in the distance toward which he never stopped moving. Now that beckoning beacon was gone, blithely extinguished by his One Love - and there was nothing left. There was no reason for him to kid himself about it any longer. His One Love did not want him. Did not need him. Did not Love him. Wanted to be rid of him. Wanted to forget him. Wanted to pretend he had never even existed at all.


Darkness, desertion, loneliness, silence, horror - unending unremitting unmerciful horror - this was the promise of his life's future from now on, without one solitary ray of hope to lighten or soothe or ease the suffering and inconceivably absolute desolation of his wracked-and-ruined heart, mind, and soul. 


Pain always, and despair forever - condemned eternally. 


This was his ultimate destiny.


THIS was his wildest dream come cruelly, horribly true - all at the whim of his One Love. His most supremely primal Cry of Love - pennanced out, through his perpetual suffering, to an immune, aloof, and totally oblivious audience. Now he truly was dead while still alive, his condition terminally chronic.


Small comfort that his fighting days were finally over - because now there was nothing left to fight for. War is Hell after all, and he had been a fairly competent practitioner of the sport - but he was never to reap any reward from what he had sown for so long - either before, or after. For him who had fought the good fight so long, so well, and so honorably - while hurting nobody, the unspeakably ghastly truth delivered by those words and reiterated by the musical, lilting memory-voice of his One and only Love pronounced final sentence over and over and over in his anguished mind, and would remain the sole soundtrack to accompany the rest of his spirit-crushing, inescapably barren and love-starved existence for all Eternity: 


"Goodnight, farewell, please stay where you are, don't give us any trouble. You are beyond life, you are beyond death, you are beyond notice, you are even beyond hope. You are lost, you are beyond the beyond forever. 


You are a dead tree-branch, Luv.


D - e - a - d. 


Dead.


Goodnight ~ and Goodbye, Dear Boy. ~x~"








© 9/17/2006, renewed 9/17/2011, BC Enterprises. All Rights Reserved.

Bell Bottom Blues: The Thrill Is Gone {A Tribute to BB King}

Here's my ultimate e-card, made for one of the all-time greats. Y'all can share in the fun too, simply by viewing and sharing this video as many times as possible.

More shortly.....................

Ten Years After..........

An instant in history that literally shook the world.

Just like 12/7/41, or 11/22/63, practically everybody over the age of fifteen remembers exactly where they were, and what they were doing on 9/11/2001, when the USA suffered three horrible terrorist attacks within the space of four hours.  The attacks on the World Trade Center were the most successful; the Pentagon only partially, and the third - presumably intended to target the White House - was ultimately thwarted and failed {fatally} over southwestern Pennsylvania.  Nearly three thousand people were killed in the attacks, with tens of thousands of other lives affected by the "collateral damage."

Like most of us in this country, and around the world, I was absolutely gobsmacked by the naked horror that unfolded right before my eyes on live TV.  I had just got home from work, when my then-wife called me into the bedroom.  I walked in one minute before United Flight 175 struck the south Tower.  Immediately afterwards, we both looked at each other and said in unison "Is this some kind of bad movie plot?"  We were in stunned disbelief for the next hour - until the tragic collapse of first the south, then the north Tower shocked us back into grim reality.  We spent the rest of the day glued to the news, gradually learning of the other attacks, the scrambling of our government and military, and the security clampdowns nation {and later world} - wide.

That long, nightmarishly awful day was culminated near dusk.  I was out in the back yard with our three dogs, letting them do their nightly business before we settled in for the evening.  It was dead quiet; no air traffic to speak of, not even the usual sounds from the highway a couple miles down the road from us.  All of a sudden, a complete wing of Stealth bombers and fighters {there were at least a dozen planes, all told} literally materialized right over our heads, on their way north to patrol the East Coast before embarking on their first run over Afghanistan.  They flew tight and low - roughly 600-750 feet altitude - and freaked the living daylights out of both the dogs, and myself.

Thus began our War on Terror, less than twelve hours after the Twin Towers had fallen.

In the decade since the 9/11 Attacks, the whole world has changed, and not necessarily for the better.  The WOT has become bitterly ensnared by politics of the very worst sort.  Save for the first eighteen months, it has not been properly conducted at all.  Hussein and Bin Laden might both be dead, yes, but both could have - and more importantly, should have - been taken out within the first year of our involvement.  Politics, and politics alone are what kept both alive longer than necessary; and politics are what's prolonging the WOT, and blurring the objectives for success and conclusion.  

Hell, politics brought about the attacks in the first place.  It doesn't matter who you believe was "really" behind the Attacks - whether Al Qaeda, our own Government, the "black helicopter cult," the Osmonds, or whoever - the victims are still just as dead, and the damage is still just as deep and widespread as it always was.  At this late date, who gives a monkey's about who "really" did it?  Isn't our world troubled enough by the general fallout from that hideous Monday, without having a scapegoat to blame?  Those who still shout "Conspiracy!" and "I'm a 9/11 Truther!" at every opportunity only earn mild scorn and derision from me, these days; I guess every generation needs would-be Don Quixotes, if only for comic relief.  Our 9/11 Dead will still be dead, and the damage will still be done, no matter what may or may not be proven in the future.

Ten years is however, more than ample time for some healing to happen, which it has.  The Ground Zero site of the worst of the Attacks in New York is about 65% reconstituted, at the time of this writing.  The Freedom Tower, when finished, will be a fitting crown jewel in the completed site, and also a rather fitting finger in the eye of those who wish us ill {or worse}.  Likewise, the amphibious transport USS New York - constructed with steel salvaged from the Twin Towers - serves as an active reminder to the world that We Will Never Forget, nor will we be Broken by Cowards.

Yes, an awful lot has changed since that bright, clear, cool early-fall day a decade ago, when Death rained from the skies without warning.  I shall never be the same - nor will I ever, ever Forget.  May God Bless and Keep all those who perished on that day, or because of that day.  And may He also have Mercy on the rest of us, as well.

9/11.  Let's roll.............

The Winds of Change

There most definitely is an extra little snap in the air these days; and not all of it is weather-related, either.

Since I'm about 550 miles north of my old stomping grounds, I'm adapting to the more immediate presence of cooler {Canadian} air masses - we could very well have SNOW on the ground within 3 weeks, here.  A bit jarring, considering a lot of other parts of the country are still baking in triple-digit heat {as we were this past week}, but all the indicators are in place, nonetheless.  I'm ready for it - cold weather always triggers some good creativity, and this time I'm actually a bit ahead in the game, as I'll explain.

As has been hinted here already, I've got a few creative projects in the can, ready to go.  This will be my first concentrated burst since 2008, and things will kick off this Sunday with a special 9/11 blog.  The latter part of next week will see the bulk of the material come out in quick succession; there will be a little something for everyone to enjoy {hopefully} before all is said and done.  Being able to do something like this once again is a sort of personal triumph; the Rise after the Fall, if you will.

2011 so far has been a real learning experience, and hopefully my "education" will bear fruit in the very near future.  Looking back to the days immediately pre-Malaise, I've often wondered if I'd ever get back to that level of activity, or general frame-of-mind.  The level of activity is indeed possible; the frame of mind simply isn't.  I'm not the same man I was back then, by any stretch of the imagination.  Older and wiser, yes - but also a great deal more cynical, and wary {or world-weary, take your pick}.  I still have the same likes, loves, and passions, but I'm beginning to see the wisdom in looking after ones' own personal well-being  first, last, and foremost.

The next several weeks and months here will reflect all this, and likely a lot more, so be ready for just about anything at any time, Boys and Girls.  There may well be Great Joy and Happiness down the road apace - but I'll have to get there when I get there.  I'm too tired and scarred to plunge ahead in my old "foxhound on two scents at once" manner.  Oh, I'll keep moving forwards, don't worry.  I'm just not going to kill myself on the journey, for once.  I owe myself a little respect, and now's the time to take advantage of it.

In the interim, just lay back and groove, Fellow Babies.  If nothing else, the seasonal Winds of Change will be blowing for you all too, soon.  The Holidays are looming as well,  proving that Time indeed Waits for No Man - not even a Slowly Reviving Drummer.  


Lots more to follow, Shortly. 

Faces of Death

Yeah I know, I know - not exactly a subject that's easy to get comfortable with.  But, it is a fact of life - the final one, actually - and we all deal with it as best we can, painful as it is.  I've had a good dose of dealing with it so far this year, and therein lies the tale of this installment.

Thanatos barely let 2011 be a week old, before making the first dread appearance - to claim my own Mother this past January.  Whilst it was terribly painful for my family and me, it was neither unexpected, nor "messy."  Mom passed quietly in her sleep, with all of us around her to see her off, hard as it was.  There was the usual pain of loss, and the noticeable gap in all my family's lives due to her departure of course, but at least we all knew that her passing was as calm and low-key as we could ask.  Her loss is still keenly felt, but she remains in all our hearts, and will remain so until we all can join her on the other side.


Little did I know that Thanatos had another visit on his schedule - this time, to me.


Flash forward to, of all dates, D-Day, June 6.  I was on my way home from work, a little before 11 pm.  Per routine, I was rolling down the quiet 2-lane blacktop, looking forward to my bed and rest.  Nearing the junction about a mile away from home, I spotted the lights of what I took to be a tractor-trailer, likely one of the corn or grain rigs common in this neck of the woods.  I didn't give it much thought, but I did reflexively hug the white line on my side, to try and minimize the slipstream from his trailer when we passed.  And I began braking, as the junction was just ahead. 

As we closed and began the pass, I instantly knew something was amiss, as the silhouette of the passing vehicle resolved itself into a rather LARGE John Deere, pretty similar to this: 




 


And if that wasn't enough, I got at best a 2-second glimpse of what looked like a good-sized telephone pole, coming straight at me, perhaps hood or windshield height from the ground.  Little did I know that the tractor was towing part of a field-planter behind it, and the hydraulics had failed, placing fatal danger directly in my path.  No time to brake hard; no time to brace for impact; no time to even holler "Oh, SH*T!!" before the end came.  Mortis was literally right in my lap, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.


The tractor was travelling roughly 20 mph; I was rolling at 55, for a combined impact speed of 75 mph.  Now, I was driving my brother's tool truck; an ex-AT&T rig with a Chevy Cheyenne cab and short-wheelbase chassis, crowned with the heavy utility box in the back.  The impact started just above the driver's side headlight, buckled the hood and rode the fenderline to the cab, sliced through both the windshield posts and the B-pillars at the rear of the cab, before finally striking the top of the utility box, and snapping off.  The elbow joint sliced all the sheetmetal on the driver's side about 2 feet lower than the bar proper, before it too was sheared off by the tool box.  The motor in the truck was shoved back about half a foot; when it was all over, I had the dashboard and steering column pinning my legs to the seat.


Aside from a severely bruised knee, and some windshield glass lacerations, I walked away from the wreck.  How that bar missed me - at that speed - I'll probably never know.  By rights, I should have been decapitated, at the very least.  When the first-responders arrived on the scene {including my oldest nephew, who's a proud Volunteer Firefighter}, one and all instantly thought "Fatality."  I did too, when I saw the wreck remains at the salvage yard a couple days later.  God spared me for a reason, quite obviously.  Nevertheless, I was still badly shaken by the experience - but Thanatos wasn't done working me over, just yet.

Exactly one week later came a cruel shock, when my dear Blues-Cat Pushy unexpectedly expired from a puncture-wound.  





Near as we could figure, Pushy was making his daily rounds, and hurt himself on some building rubble in the vacant lot across the street.  My niece spotted him lying in the neighbor's driveway, screaming in agony.  We went and fetched him home, but the poor little guy passed away literally in my arms about ten minutes later.  We found one neat puncture on his chest near his heart; it had been obscured by his long fur.  Pushy likely lost his footing, and landed square on a small piece of rebar, impaling himself.  He managed to drag himself to the neighbor's drive before collapsing for good.  Pushy was only 5, and had plenty of life left ahead of him.  I won't be the same without him.

This sudden, shocking, and senseless tragedy freaked me out good and proper, let me tell you.  I really felt like I was living an awful variation of the "Final Destination" series of films.  The whole "Cheat Death, and Death will come gunning for you again" mess.  Even now, a good 2-1/2 months later, I'm still carrying a sense of deep foreboding inside.  Time will likely ease this, of course - but then again, one never knows.  About all I can do is keep the affairs right-and-tight, and enjoy my time as thoroughly as I possibly can.  We all live under these circumstances to one degree or the other {thanks to random chance, like what's described here}, but my recent intense brushes with that dread Cloak have impacted me deeply, to grossly understate things.


As such, the pace is likely to pick up a bit here, as we get ready to transition into the fall and winter.  I'm going to maximize what time I might have left, with strong determination, and a clear purpose.  I figure that's the best way to put a brave face on a grim, but inevitable, reality.  It's a part of life, after all.  I'm {cautiously} diggin' it, myself.


More shortly.

Do What You Like

After a rather busy week, time to decompress!!  Although it's been rather chaotic, I can look back over the last couple months with a certain amount of satisfaction.  Forward progress continues, my immediate situation is reasonably stable, and I got a much-needed morale boost from an unlikely source.  It came a just the right time, too.


If y'all are familiar with either my Facebook page or my MySpace blog, this chap will need no introduction:

This is of course the great Ginger Baker, one of my Drum Mentors and good Facebook friend {as are his kids Nettie, Leda, and Kofi}.  Ginger turned 72 yesterday - right in the middle of his European tour.  See, last year Ginger was strongly advised by his doctor to retire for good, due to some health issues I won't get into here.  On both his official website and his Facebook pages, Ginger admitted to being a bit at sea about the prospect.


I was fortunate enough to talk with him about it a little bit, and I offered up some modest advice by quoting the title of one of the songs he wrote when he was in Blind Faith.  As intended, it got a laugh out of him, and we dropped the matter there.  Well, it seems that Ginger took my sly teasing to heart - he's out on tour, doing what he loves instead of "moldering away his golden years" as he remarked to me in our conversation.  What with the daily grind, I only found out about it a couple weeks back, but like I said earlier the news was a real shot in the arm for me.  If Ginger can keep fighting the Good Fight despite his obstacles, well then so can I.

This neat little epiphany coincides with some ongoing dialogue between myself and good old Uncle Buffalo.  We got to talking about some of our respective musical experiences, and he reminded me of some of the sheer fun we used to have together a few years ago:

That's my buddy Doc Sweetwood blowing harp on the left, as I groove hard behind him.  For practically all of 2008, I was a Regular at the various weekly jam-sessions Uncle Buffalo sponsored; the above was a Tuesday night at the Delmar Lounge in St. Louis.  Loads of great plays preceded and followed this particular one, and the momentum rubbed off on my regular band gigs that year, to boot.  So much so, that I had a full CD's worth of material ready to record, and a string of regular work lined up for 2009.

Of course, the damn d'horse obliterated almost everything, and I've been scrambling like mad ever since to get back up on that plateau again.  Of all the things lost, time is the clear front-runner as my biggest nemesis.  It takes time to come back from being wiped out; time for wounds to heal; time to stabilize the "three hots and a cot" situation; etc., etc.  There have been days - sometimes weeks and even the odd month or two - when I feel I can't keep going through the daily slog.  But now all I have to do is look at the above pic, or think about Ginger Baker to be reminded that my goal is a worthy one, and much brighter days will eventually come again, if I can just somehow see it all through.

That song I mentioned to Ginger {the title of this very post} says it all, and is exactly what I'm aiming for.

More shortly.