We’ve begun the countdown to the end of the world, also known as The Doritos Great American Eclipse of 2017. I’ll keep posting right up until the last possible moment. Hope you survive; hope to see you on the other side.
In many ways, this reminds me of the other times the world has ended during my lifetime. One, of course, was when the Beatles broke up. Another, of less significance, but highly important, was when Coke launched New Coke. Our taste buds were thrown into a fizzy tizzy. What a nightmare.
Third on my list must be Y2K. It was such a disaster. We didn’t even have an official sponsor, or a good website. Despite knowing about it for years ahead of time, when it finally happened, it was soul-crushing and chilling. We went for days hunkered in our homes, watching television and old movies, eating junk food and microwaved pizza while awaiting the all-clear.
You know, when that all-clear was finally sounded, and we stopped out of the television’s glow and into daylight, we went right out and got a real pizza, and celebrated.
I want to reassure you all that if we survived those events, you can survive this eclipse. To keep you from getting too hopeful, I’ll play a little ditty that’s sure to depress you. From nineteen sixty-five, here is Barry McGuire, with “Eve of Destruction.”
* That’s not true. Doritos has nothing to do with the eclipse. It’s fake news that I made up.
This was an interesting oddity that I found on the net.
Thirteen years old, I was just getting into groups like Cream. Cream was Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker, and Jack Bruce. I knew who Glen Campbell was, of course; being in America in nineteen sixty nine, Campbell was difficult to avoid. He was well-accomplished, with well-known hit songs like “Gentle On My Mind,” “By the Time I Get To Phoenix,” and “Wichita Lineman.” By sixty-nine, he was hosting television shows.
This video is of Glen Campbell hosting a show and introducing Cream in nineteen sixty-nine. I never saw this video before today, and it’s definitely a ride on the wayback machine. Cream, so accustomed to playing stadiums with deafening levels of sound, seem strangely muted here. The contrast between their long-haired hippie appearance and Glen Campbell’s look is striking, and can easily be a metaphor for the difference in the America that was, and the America that was coming. Look at the set’s simple production, as well. It’s a far cry from “American Idol.”
Take a look to moderately far back in modern America, to nineteen sixty-nine, with Glen Campbell, and Cream.
I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t see how a man would do it, and I didn’t understand the attraction. I later learned the man was drunk, and thought the sex was a female.
That’s the thing with picking fruit: you have time to think.
Information was exchanged yesterday that the blackberries were looking good, and there were a lot. We were welcome to come and pick. We took up the offer this morning, driving the short distance to the property on the border between Talent and Phoenix.
As mornings go, it was normal, and glorious with sunshine, blue skies, and budding clouds. Summer’s heat had withdrawn to re-organize and energize, so the air was a comfortable seventy degrees. Most of the area’s wildfire smoke had hitched a ride out of the valley on the wind.
I’d heard about the sex with the chain-link fence on the radio during the drive. Neighbors had it on video. Seeing the video isn’t on my bucket list.
Starting out your berry picking is about looking around to find a ripe offering, sampling them to confirm your visual assessment, and then embracing the mechanics. Like blueberries, the key is color, and its easy release. If the berry is ready to be picked there’s no effort. Just a slight tug, and it rolls off the bush and into your hand. If they don’t come off like this, the product is likely to be sour.
Differences arise between blackberries and blueberries. While I enjoy their sweet juiciness, the largest difference from a picking point of view is that blackberries are in thorny brambles. There are many gorgeous gems hanging there, but getting to them is challenging without sacrificing some blood. Unlike my wife, I’m not a person willing to reach for a berry too far. That’s probably why she’s a better picker than me, collecting about one hundred and fifty percent of the produce that I acquire in the same period.
I’m not jealous; she’s just a better picker. Besides, once we get home, they belong to us, and are shared.
Shouting, “You’ll never take me alive, picking man,” the blackberries sometimes leap to freedom as I approached. The blueberries do it the same, so I don’t take it personally.
Unfortunately, some strange streams empty into this vacant space of thoughts. We had three television stations in southern West Virginia, where I went to high school for my final three years. All three stations featured a show called “Hee Haw.” It may be my imagination, but “Hee Haw” seemed to be on thirty hours a day.
“Hee Haw” was a syndicated variety show that featured country and western music, buxom women, and corny puns and jokes. Roy Clark and Buck Owens were the show’s hosts. One segment was called, “Pickin’ and Grinnin’.” Naturally, out there, my mind invited the segment in: “I’m a pickin’,” Roy or Buck would say, and the other would reply, “And I’m a grinnin’.” Then they’d play some music, stopping for a joke before resuming. They’d do this three or four times.
My mind mercifully cut the stream off after a while. Thereafter, I turned resources toward scenes I was contemplating, character development, and pacing and plotting.
It was a short pick, about an hour. We ended up with twelve pints. Of course, it was the year’s second pick, so we’ll freeze them, and be set for at least a few months.
Joni Mitchell wrote it, and sang it, but I remember the cover by CSN&Y.
The year of nineteen sixty-nine found me a budding thirteen year old rocking hippie wannabe living in a suburb of Pittsburgh, PA. My pants were bell-bottoms, and my thick hair was shoulder-length. My mustache and goatee were coming in without any prodding (Mom thought my face was dirty), and I was drifting toward the counter-culture.
I had some problems, though; can you be counter-culture and madly love cars like the Corvette, Jaguar XK-E, Ford GT, and Cobra, or the Porsche 917s and Ferrari 512s racing at LeMans, and the Can-Am and Formula 1 racers? That seems counter-counter-culture, as does being a Pirates fan and idolizing Roberto Clemente. But then, isn’t what what thirteen is all about, expanding your thoughts about where you’re at, what you’re learning, and where you’re heading?
Besides being my thirteenth year, nineteen sixty-nine is more frequently remembered in America for the Vietnam War, protests against it, President Nixon, the moon landing, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” “Midnight Cowboy,” “Easy Rider,” “True Grit,” the Miracle Mets, and Woodstock, as in the Woodstock Music & Art Fair. I wasn’t there (at the fair), but I heard a helluva lot about it afterwards. Part of that was because of Joni’s song, so I offer it here to you, to remember or learn of that festival that began on August 15, forty-eight years ago.
Going with a simple, memorable song today, “Imagine,” by John Lennon. As a fiction writer, I enjoy imagining characters, settings, places, et cetera, along with a better existence for all of us.
Hope you’re familiar with the song. If not, listen and hear something new. Being sentimental, I decided to go with Chris Cornell‘s acoustic version, recording in twenty fifteen. His suicide this year was something I never imagined.
I awoke with, “Hey mister tambourine man, play a song for me,” streaming through my head. It’s a mellow classic, innit? Yeah, and much too mellow for me that morning. I’ve not really been a mellow music man. I prefer something harder, with screaming vocals, slashing guitars, and a hailstorm of drumming.
Ah, what better than “Highway Star,” by Deep Purple, from the “Made In Japan” live album. It’s not soulful, but elemental, and probably in the top five on my fave list of live rock albums, due to the sentimentality of who I was when I first heard it. I had it on eight track, and wore that mutha out. It became first, comical, and then, irritating, as the eight track slowly lost its fidelity and developed lots of warble, wow and flutter. It was, like, woof. Eventually, I quit listening to it, but once CDs came out over a decade later, I hunted down a remastered copy.
Listening to it, I’m back in high school, with the lights off and the music up, riding a sonic wave.
Today’s song was a staple of our neighborhood air group. Energetic, enthusiastic, and easy to learn – important for nine-year-old air musicians – we loved getting up on our chairs in a basement with our air-guitars and air-mics, beating our air-drums, and performing “Good Lovin’.” I struggled with the group’s name; I always wanted to call them the Little Rascals, but that was a different group.
Here’s the Young Rascal’s recording of “Good Lovin’,” from nineteen sixty-five. Wow, fifty-two years ago. It aged well, don’t you think?
As I’ve aged and semi-matured, I’ve developed fondness for certain performers. (Semi-matured; sounds like an adjective for a wine or cheese.) For example, when I used to hear Dame Judi Dench’s or Helen Mirren’s name attached to something, it automatically dialed up my interest level. I thought they were sensational actresses, and I thought they were more adept at selecting scripts and projects. Same with books and music.
In music, Billy Preston was one of those names for me. No matter the venue or music genre, I always enjoyed Preston’s performances. He had several high-charting songs, including this one, “Will It Go Round in Circles.” He has co-writer credit on the song with Bruce Fisher. Bruce and Billy also co-wrote, “You Are So Beautiful,” and “Nothing From Nothing.” A talented guy, but he seemed to deliver an energy to his music, and I admired that.
For your Monday listening pleasure, streaming from a television appearance recorded in nineteen seventy-three, Billy Preston.
Life is but a roller coaster, you know? One hour you’re up, the next hour finds you on the ground. We flutter from ecstasy to frustration, coping with drugs, alcohol and other escapes.
Love, wow, love can be the wildest roller coaster. The Ohio Players covered it in song, “Love Rollercoaster,” in nineteen seventy-five. I enjoyed the song when it came out, along with a few other million people. It became one of those ubiquitous songs, played in clubs and on the radio twenty-four/seven.
Besides being one of the anthems of nineteen seventies America, “Love Rollercoaster” is burdened with an urban myth. Not too long into the song is a scream. I never thought much about the scream, considering it part of their presentation, but others assigned serious reasons behind the scream, like people or animals being killed or injured. After explaining what caused the scream (one of the singers – surprise!), the Ohio Players embraced a vow of silence about the song, refusing to talk about the scream.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers later covered it. I enjoy their version, but, being a traditionalist, I stayed with the Ohio Players.
The song came out in nineteen seventy-three, which was the spring of my adulthood. Seventeen, I was living in West Virginia with my father. He was newly retired from the U.S. Air Force. Then entering my senior year of high school, I was finding love and thinking about the future beyond classes. Nothing was working out as planned, so I was winging it, the process by which I’d end up living my life: just wing that mutha.
“Ballroom Blitz,” by Sweet, nicely captures and conveys the chaos and pathos of that period as hormones and emotions took over, and I impatiently pursued life.
Michael Seidel, writer 