bodega train

Welcome to the ledge

2012-02-03T07:11:00.000-08:00

The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Flashing skeletons are plugged in and doing what they do.
Calm. Unlike a couple of days ago is this feeling of calm. Ever felt anxiety for no particularly good reason? No? Allow me then please to put forth some description of said feeling.
I generally work evening hours. That is a good thing as I tend to sleep better during the day than I do at night. Long story there that I will go into another time.
Anyway, I awakened the other day around the middle of the day and prepared for myself a nice breakfast of eggs and toast and fresh fruit. Funny how the human mind works. You are picturing eggs either scrambled or fried over easy. Perhaps poached. You are picturing fresh fruit as cantaloupe possibly, or bananas and strawberries. Maybe an orange or a grapefruit. It matters not. The breakfast was good.
I then made for myself a quick shopping list. Store bound.
On my list were several staples I like to keep around such as cheese, bacon, bread, produce for salads, etc.
No work that night, so may as well try and get some sleep in. Freshly laundered sheets and Pajamas on, I laid my head and body down for a pleasant night of nothingness.
Ah, but then it began. Shortness of breath and a pounding heart. Sweat. What the hell was wrong? Everything bad that had ever happened to me went racing by, but with terrifying clarity. Even things that could have gone wrong but turned out okay seemed to be thoughts of the scary variety.
Then it hit me. I mentally relived the day and could not remember putting the block of cheddar cheese into he refrigerator. I know I picked he cheese up in the store. Perhaps I had left it in the car. That’s it! Maybe it somehow fell out of the grocery sack and came to rest somewhere on the passenger side floor.
Got dressed and ran down the stairs and out to the car. No cheese.
Okay. Panic time. Into the kitchen and into the trash. Bags - so many bags to root through. However, in one of the bags I found the receipt. Aha! No cheese listed. No time to sleep now. Fortunately, the store the other items came from is open 24 hours a day.
Got dressed and broke the speed limit racing back to the store. Heart pounding even harder now. Retrace. Retrace every step I had taken in that store earlier in the day. Try and take a deep breath. Yeah, good luck with that!
Is it my imagination, or do people in the grocery store after midnight carry about their faces a sort of sickly, green tinted glow?
I had pocketed my list and walked the aisles that carried each item on my precious list. Up, down, stop, go.
Eureka! The produce section! There, on top of a pile of sad avocados, was perched the block of cheese. It may not say a lot for store maintenance, but a deep and relaxing breath finally made its way in and then out of my panic-stricken lungs.
I felt tall. The purchase of the cheese was made and I calmly drove home, put the cheese in the refrigerator and proceeded to sleep like the dead.
####

An animal rights activist's guide to the bullfights

2012-01-22T09:18:00.000-08:00

An Animal Rights Activist’s Guide to the Bullfights

By David Daniel

(Originally appeared in El Independiente - 1996)

“ Who is he to play God?” my poet friend asked me as he seated himself across from me in the gold-flecked booth we had so often shared at Fred’s Café.

“What?” was the only reply I could come up with at the moment.

“Who is a matador to play the part of God?” my friend further interrogated.

“I hear you are going to the bullfights again. I must admit that I do not understand the fascination with such a cruel sport.”

“First of all, bullfighting is not a sport. It is an art,” I retorted. “Furthermore, it is the only art that does not merely imitate life. It happens. It is life and death swirling across the sand like a desert hurricane. Incredible.”

I pondered my friends question a while longer. If it is deathless bullfighting he desires, he can find it in Costa Rica or Portugal. He can watch a rodeo in Fort Worth. Nothing wrong with that.

Then again, those bulls wind up with the same fate. I imagine it would be a bit on the difficult side to wear or eat something that is still alive.

I, for one, respect the finality and seriousness of a full-fledged bloodletting. Someone is going to die. Life and death. Black and white. Crimson sand. Suit of lights. Raw courage. Beautiful.

I reasoned with my friend. “Look, if it were not for the bullfight, the bull would probably never have been born. Would you prefer to see them enter the realm of extinction? These animals are bred for this moment. This is their time. This is how they make their grand exit.

“Also, I could not help but notice that you have just ordered a cheeseburger. You are wearing leather boots and probably a leather belt as well.

The bulls I see give their lives at least have a chance to exact some revenge. I do not know the numbers, but I would imagine that there are not are many matadors that die of old age. And the poor beasts that you both eat and wear are over-fed, slammed over the head and rarely know freedom in any sense.”

I could not resist diving into the story about the first time I ever took my wife to a bullfight. I promised her that if she could not handle the situation that we would leave immediately. (She hates it when I tell this story, but I swear on her passion carpet of skin that it is true.)

Okay, most of the time these events are disappointing, but this was an exception. The matador, the very first one, ( There are generally three facing two bulls a piece.) waited until the perfect moment. A moment when he knew he had the bull under his control. He tossed his cape to one side and his sword to the other. He then opened his vest and leered into the face of the magnificent animal that was only inches away. On his knees no less. My wife’s response? She placed her hand over her heart and said “Oh. Oh my.” I would have placed an exclamation mark there, but the voice was far too sultry for that. Think soft and sort of under the breath.

She denies that she said that, but I was there sitting right next to her. I do not know that she ever missed one after that.

The Fred burgers arrived and we stayed quiet for a while. The fries were prepared to a level approaching perfection. Then, the conversation resumed itself over a second round of cold beer. The beer was prepared to a level approaching perfection as well.

If there is one thing I miss about no longer living in Fort Worth, Fred’s would have to be the main subject. Okay, maybe KTCU also. Good station.

My friend persisted, “You still have not answered my question. Who is a matador to play God. He is choosing the time, place, and manner of death for a fellow creature.”

I’d had enough of this conversation. I answered. “Are you religious?”

A little spiritual, perhaps,” he replied.

“Okay. Who is a matador to play God? Who is God to play God? He chooses the time, place, and means of our demise. We fight death daily all our lives until we finally buckle under the strain. The pressure. Then we die. Not often a pretty sight.

I thought a moment longer.

“God is a matador.”

A quiet smile

2011-10-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

I smile a quiet smile. Heavy, delicious fog and I like it and it reminds me of the mornings on the bay. No fog horns, but the lonely groans of the trains are present to offer up their version of melancholy good morningness. Some breakfast is in order and a slow read of the newspaper with a hunch that I’ll hit the sports page first. Good morning, everyone.

####

Bridging the Gap

2011-09-05T23:28:00.000-07:00

I think I originally heard this story in a church when I was all of 12 years old or so. For whatever reason, it has stuck with me…

A minister was walking across a bridge one wintry night on his way home. Off to his right, in the shadows, he could just make out the image of a man who had climbed on the railing. Upon getting closer, he could see that the man was wearing a disturbed expression across his face and looked as though he might be thinking of jumping into the frigid sea awaiting quite some distance below.

The minister spoke to the man. “What are you doing, sir? Perhaps I can be of some help.”

The man spoke back. “I’m gonna jump! Don’t waste your time trying to stop me!”

The minister sighed and gathered his thoughts for a brief moment.

“Tell you what, good man. Don’t jump just yet. All I ask is ten minutes of your time. Just walk around the block with me and we’ll talk. If you still feel the same way when we get back here, I’ll not do a thing to stop you from jumping. Do we have a deal?”

The man silently climbed down from the railing and looked the minister in the eye. “Alright. I’ll give you ten minutes. Let’s go."

So, the two of them walked around the block and spoke with one another. Ten minutes later, they arrived back at the bridge and both jumped off.

####

Walking the grassy plank

2011-08-31T12:36:00.000-07:00

The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. The temperature outside has not changed in well over two months. A hundred and this or a hundred and that degree Fahrenheit. Hot, hot heat. Baked people on a cracker piece of the earth. Cars, broken down, litter the highways and the access roads that run aside them.

I need to venture out and check on my mailbox. The mailbox is not in any danger, it’s just that I have not checked for letters or bills in a couple of days. Warmer than warm days.

The mailbox is approximately 220 steps from my front door. An apartment complex. The mailboxes are right near what used to be a small, kidney shaped swimming pool. Management had the pool filled in a few years ago due to stray children sneaking across the fence in the late night hours for a joy dip. Fear of lawsuits filled the pool with dirt. The grass on the dirt is a bit overgrown and greenish-brown due to the extreme heat. A grassy and flat memory of the pool is all that exists there now, except of course for the mailboxes and a couple of tiles embedded in the concrete that mutely announce the depth at which one is entering the extinct pool.

This apartment complex has been described to me by a friend as bearing, from a distance, the appearance of large sugar cubes. I took a long walk one night down by the train tracks and looked up from the valley where I stood and decided that my friend was right. The apartments do sort of look like sugar cubes.

They are all only one story tall and are white. Sweetly hidden on a hill. Hidden, yet in plain sight.

No one ever notices this place, unless of course you live here or are paying a visit to somebody who does.

I walk out my door and head past three rows of sugar cube-looking dwellings. The laundry room is being loaded up with new washers and dryers. The appliances are white and resemble what could be taken for offspring of the cubic apartments. I look forward to my next load of laundry and am at the same time happy that I did some of it yesterday as a sendoff to the old machines. Not on purpose, it just happened to turn out that way.

Sunglasses. I grab my keys and head toward the mailboxes. They do not resemble sugar cubes at all. They look more like flat, silver and gray shingles on a post. Anyone who has ever used these things will know what I am talking about.

One, two, three rows of apartments float past me on my way out. 176 steps I count when I happen upon the greenish-brown kidney that used to be the swimming pool.

Oh that that were to be a pool again. Just a few minutes of cool wetness. Perhaps the ground remembers. The…..the sprouting and at the same time dying blades of grassy foliage surely bears some recollection of what once was.

What the hell? I sit down and take my shoes off. Okay, I know I have not described my shoes, so just use your imagination. Other than the shoes I am in a white, or what was once pure white but now sort of grayish T-shirt. The shirt is not tucked in and resides just above a pair of worn jeans.

Shoes and socks are now a thing of the temporary past.

I step into the kidney and imagine the little white cells of reflections that usually go along with the surface of a pool. A primal drum beat gently stirs about in my head. By gentle. I mean slightly quiet.

The memory of the pool embraces my feet. Still, even my imagination cannot turn the thermostat down. Tepid at best.

The memory of the pool is carries the feel of bath water. Stand here long enough and my toes are bound to wrinkle. Wrinkly feet. I am sure there are worse fates to encounter in this world, but why complicate matters.

I wipe my furrowed brow and step back onto the concrete which displays a temper of not even being close to tepid, but rather a mood of scorching hot.

Socks first of course. Slip the shoes on and tie the laces. Time to wander back to my air conditioned apartment.

I pad slowly past the three rows of sugar cube dwellings. If I am not mistaken, I left the radio on. Maybe some cheerful tune will greet me upon my return. Hope so.

I open he door and let the cool air guzzle me in, oddly with the same sensation of comfort a thick blanket might offer on a cold, wintry night. Wishful thinking. Still, the air feels good in here and I smile at the absence of the unfortunately omnipresent sun. Nothing against the sun whatsoever, but Jesus! I pray for the next rain, be it gentle or torrential. Anything for a relief . As for now, the air conditioner is a friendly machine.

I plop myself upon the carpet and untie my shoes. Slowly. One at a time. The socks come off next and I wiggle my newly cooled off and liberated toes. I smile. Life can be a grand experience if one just allows it to be so.

Shit! I forgot to get the mail!

####

Stilted

2011-08-13T08:47:00.001-07:00

I ran into my ex-wife the other day outside a store. We stared at each other a moment almost as if we were sizing each other up. She struck me as a little nervous.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“How ya been?”

“Good. You?”

“It’s so hot this summer.”

“Yeah, It’s hot.”

“Really hot.”

“Looks like no relief in sight. It’s hot.”

“Well, see ya.”

“Bye.”

It has been something like a year since the divorce. First time we had spoken with one another in quite some time.

I still ponder with amazement, slight though it may be, at how stilted the conversation was.

We are two people that spent practically every waking, or sleeping moment with one another for over 12 years. We shared bodily fluids. We shared childhood memories. We created our own memories. We traveled across the U.S. together as well as most of Mexico. Hell, we lived together in Mexico for several years. Bullfights, cooking, driving, talking and laughing.

The other day it was though we were separated by a locked screen door. We could see each other and hear each other, but could not touch. Could not feel.

I am reminded of one of my favorite movie lines of all time. It comes from Blade Runner just as Rutger Hauer’s character is about to pass away:

“All these moments will be lost in time … like tears…in rain. Time to die.”

I ran into my ex-wife the other day. We talked about the weather.

####

A bad Day For Billy

2011-07-01T17:50:00.001-07:00

A BAD DAY FOR BILLY

A shot rang out and the crowd cheered…

The taxi ride seemed to take forever. Traffic had been bad even though the sun had only begun to rise. His luggage had not arrived with him. Billy tried in vain to call his wife, but his cellular phone would not work.

He stuffed the phone in his pocket in frustration. Still, he was wearing a smile. The memory of last week’s rendezvous with a young flight attendant perfumed his mind with articulate clarity. In his mind, he could still feel every kiss and each long caress. He was in his forties and balding. The affection of such a young and lovely mistress made his mind spin.

Then he saw the billboard. It was one of those kind where the messages were pop-in letters and could be changed daily. The sign read:

WELCOME HOME BILLY

YOU SWINE!

This also sent his mind to spinning.

Billy winced and pulled out his wallet to make sure he had not miscounted. Three dollars. In the front pocket of his pants, there was the occasional jingle of some loose change.

He asked the driver to please stop by the nearest automatic money machine and explained that he had spent the last of his cash on bourbon while in flight. This was not a necessary explanation as the driver had rolled the window down in an attempt to escape the fumes emanating from Billy’s coat. There had been spillage during some slight turbulence. Billy was not too terribly pleased with the situation either as this was a brand new suit. Now, it was a brand new suit with a stain.

The driver pulled into the first parking lot of a convenience store that displayed an ATM sign. Billy stepped out of the car and entered the store.

He walked to the money machine and extracted a credit card from his wallet, punched in his ID number and waited for his cash to come popping out. What he received instead was a digital message that he had insufficient funds for the transaction. He grumbled to himself and tried another card. Same result. He tried a third card and the machine printed out the same message and made a sound that, to Billy, sounded like mocking laughter.

The frail voice behind him asked him to please hurry. He turned around and found himself looking down into the face a short, elderly woman.

She stared at him for a moment and then asked, “Isn’t your name Billy? You’re Joan’s husband, are you not? My daughter works with her.”

Billy managed a half smile and acknowledged that he was indeed Joan’s husband. The woman edged her way past Billy and inserted her card. The machine popped several bills into the slot, where she grabbed them and put them in her purse.

“Look, I don’t know you, but since you seem to know my wife, I’d like to ask a favor of you. Could I please borrow a hundred dollars or so? I’ll send Joan with it to your daughter in the morning.”

The woman smiled and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Billy paced back and forth between the machine and the entrance, or exit depending upon one’s direction. Then he gave a slight jump, startled as he was by the shriek let out behind him. He spun and WHAM! The woman slammed a bag of flour into his face. “ Take that you filthy, fornicating philanderer!” she screamed as loud as she could manage with her frail voice.

Stunned, Billy fell by the door. He had never considered the possibility of a bag of flour being used as a weapon. He was a now a convert of such a tactic.

Blood had spurted from his nose and mixed with the flour to form a pinkish paste across the lapels of his coat. He regained his senses somewhat and glanced up at the woman. “Hey lady,” he groaned. “This happens to be a brand new suit.”

He helplessly watched as she walked out the door and handed his taxi driver a wad of money, then climbed into the back seat. The tires of the cab screeched as it sped off.

Billy managed a monosyllabic utterance of, “Shit!” Then he realized that he was sitting in something wet. Someone must have spilled a drink of some sort at the exact spot where he fell.

“Sir? Do you need to call the police or something?” the clerk inquired, while obviously trying to contain a laughter that probably would have sounded like a slightly more hysterical version of the sound that the money machine had previously made.

Billy said nothing. He managed to get to his feet and walk out the door. The bank he used was only a couple of blocks away, his office only a few blocks farther.

Upon rounding the back of the store, Billy encountered the large brown dog. It was a mutt, but a large one. The dog snarled and growled. Its teeth were bared. Billy, not particularly fond of dogs in the first place, decided to run for a tree. The dog pursued.

Billy reached the tree at just about the same time as the dog did. He did manage to jump high enough to grab hold of a branch. The branch was large and strong and bore his weight well. The dog did, however, possess a great ability to leap. It took no more than a half of a second for it to snag a portion of the right leg of Billy’s pants. The dog then ran off as though it had discovered a trove of bones left behind by pirates.

“This is a new suit, you stupid beast!” Billy cried.

After ascertaining that the dog was gone, Billy dropped himself from the branch. Unfortunately, he landed on a rock at an awkward angle and twisted his ankle. To make matters worse, his right hand struck a broken bottle.

He cursed silently to himself as he picked the fragments of glass out of his bleeding palm. “Shit!” he screamed at the heavens. He thought about going back into the store and asking for a paper towel, but decided instead to tear off a portion of his shirt and wrap it around the wounded appendage.

The limping gait to the bank did not take as long as he would have thought, but was arduous, none the less. He filled out a withdrawal form and handed it to a teller.

“I’m sorry, Billy, but you have no funds here anymore.”

Billy thought for a second about this situation and said, “Please let me speak with Bob. There must be some mistake here.”

Bob was the president of the bank and made his appearance shortly after the teller phoned him. “Jesus! Billy, you look like bloody hell!”

“Thanks, Bob. Look. I need some money. I’m having a rather difficult day.”

“I’m sorry, Billy. But your wife has transferred all assets. She does act as your accountant, does she not?”

Billy grabbed Bob by his coat and screamed, “I need some money, you jackass!”

“Don’t make me call the police, Billy.”

He had never experienced vagrancy before. Maybe this was some sort of joke, he thought. A prank.

Limping toward his office, he did spot a dime on the sidewalk and picked it up. The dime became part of the family of loose change in Billy’s pocket.

The key did not fit right. The lock to the office had been changed. Al, the security guard came to the door and warned Billy that he was about to call the police if necessary.

“Embezzlement,” Al explained, was not taken lightly by the firm.

It was midday by the time Billy made it to his house. The clock read exactly 12:03 p.m.

The wall was, to his horror, adorned with photos of he and the flight attendant. Every sexual position imaginable was given the most graphic detail.

“I knew I should have shut the damned curtains,” he softly spoke.

“Hi Daddy,” a voice with a dark and cheerful tone sounded.

“Mom left this for me. She explained that this is what you wore on your ‘bowling nights.’”

Billy glanced at the coffee table and on it lay a white robe and a cone-shaped hat. Busted.

“This is my fiancée. His name is Solomon. Solomon Reese. Mom has known about this for a time and said she would forge your signature if necessary. I realize that I am only 17, but, oh Daddy, how could you?”

Solomon only glared. He felt like punching Billy in the gut, but realized that not much positive would be attained by such an action. He and Billy’s daughter merely arose and made their exit.

Billy then heard the thumping of footsteps on the stairs. His son appeared, carrying his guitar. “Jesus, Dad. You look like shit. You were supposed to announce my band at the church benefit later this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry son. I forgot. What are you called again? The Crusaders?”

“Never mind, Dad. We changed the name of the band and replaced all of the posters. Wanna see one?”

THROBBING ERECTION.

“What are you thinking, son? I can’t announce something like that! I’m a respected man in this community!”

“I don’t know that that’s the case anymore, Dad. I need to go now. We’ll announce ourselves. By the way, I’m moving in with Mom. Also, oh God you look like shit! Don’t bother finding more clothes. Mom burned them all. It took her three days, but she managed to get the job done. Gotta go!” The door closed with defiant clarity. Billy lowered his head and sobbed.

He walked up the stairs and, as he was warned, there was nothing in the closet but space. A space void even of stars or comets or clothes or whatever else space can contain. Just space.

The bed had been removed. His mind was filled with many thoughts. What was happening? He had always insisted that his children attend church every Sunday. He tried to keep his suburban neighborhood free of undesirables. Being a member of the KKK simply seemed like the right thing to do. Everyone did it, did they not? A sort of clandestine insurance policy.

Billy walked into the kitchen, thinking that maybe there would be some leftovers or perhaps something to drink. The refrigerator was every bit as empty as the closet. It was when he turned around that he noticed the noose. The rope was dangling from a rafter. He was surprised that he had not seen it upon walking in. A chair had been conveniently placed underneath. A Post-It note was attached to the bottom of the noose:

Knock yourself out, Billy!

He climbed upon the chair and ran his hands across the coarse fiber coils. Imagining the way the thing would feel when tightening around his neck gave him goose bumps and a feverish chill.

The doorbell rang. Billy climbed back down from the chair and went to answer. When he opened the door, he was standing eye to eye with Ed, the neighbor.

“We need to talk, Billy.” Ed’s voice was low and held a grim tone. “Listen. Your daughter has been seen coming here with, well, you know, someone a little different than what this neighborhood has in mind for – well, you know. Billy, we had a meeting and you were not invited so that this situation could be calmly discussed.”

Billy closed the door without saying a word. What would or could he say? He limped back to the kitchen and stared at the noose. The doorbell rang twice more, then all became mercifully quiet.

At this point, the back door seemed a better option than the front. His limp had become almost a stagger, but he made to the back gate. The alley seemed a comforting place. He sat on a large rock and rested for a few minutes. Then, he made up his mind and began walking in the direction of the highway. It took him almost two hours to get there, but he did succeed.

He stuck out his thumb. The makeshift bandage on his hand had become crusty and brown like an old grocery bag.

In spite of his raggedy-man appearance, a pickup truck pulled over and offered a ride. Billy climbed into the back and found himself surrounded by several Mexicans. They did not speak English and merely stared at him. He felt ashamed of feeling so grateful, but grateful he was. He began to realize that he was at the mercy of the world. A lack of control was never anything he had thought about before.

“I’m not some sort of freak,” he spoke to nobody in particular. “I mean, this is a brand new suit.”

Billy raised his head and screamed, “This is a brand new suit!”

It was then that he spotted the convenience store and the circus tent. He leaned forward and pounded on the rear window. The truck stopped and Billy flopped over the side and fell face down into the gravel. He managed to pull himself to his feet and hand the driver a dollar. The driver handed the bill back, grinned, and sped off.

The small store was just off the highway. The circus tent was a hundred yards or so behind it.

Billy wanted a beer. He bought two. Now he was flat broke, but at least he had a couple of beers and a plan. It was a desperate plan, but at least it was something for him that was mentally tangible.

He opened a beer and studied the circus tent. The store clerk walked outside and told him that it was illegal to drink on the premises. Billy asked, “Where might be the end of the premises?”

“The other side of that green dumpster, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Billy drank the two beers in less than ten minutes. He then pissed on the side of the dumpster. It was time to head for the tent.

He tried to straighten his tie as he (still badly limping) headed toward the tent. The absurdity of this endeavor was not lost on him.

“Who’s the person in charge here?” Billy inquired to a midget mounted upon a white horse.

“That would be him over there. That’s Mr. Gruffman. The guy with the cigar.”

Mr. Gruffman had a slight growth of beard and a large belly that was barely tucked away in a sleeveless T-shirt. His voice was the perfect companion for his name.

“Yeah, so how’s can I help ya? No offense, pal, but you look like you’ve been shot from a cannon.”

Billy breathed deep for a few seconds before speaking. He closed his eyes and felt a modicum of comfort in the darkness that only closed eyes can offer.

“Sir? I need a job. I mean, the rug has sort of been pulled out from under…”

“Mr. Gruffman was tapping his foot and finally said, “Look pal, I’m busy. What is it that you think you can do?”

Billy opened his eyes and replied. “This is a brand new suit. I now know what it feels like. That is to say, I have a pretty good idea of what it feels like to be shot from a cannon.”

Mr. Gruffman took a puff from his cigar. “And?”

“I figure I might as well get paid for it.”

####

Judgment Day (part 2)

2011-05-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

An e or not an e? I recently penned a blog titled Judgement Day and received an anonymous comment informing me that there was no 'e' in 'judgment. I looked over to a handy Webster's and looked it up to find both spellings listed. However, each time I have since seen the word, there is not an 'e' there. So, I consulted my faithful Funk and Wagnalls. No 'e' there either and that is how I will henceforth lean. This sort of reminds me of the spelling of 'desert' as it pertains to "getting just deserts." Ususally, a good rule to remember is that you aways want 2 helpings of dessert, therefore there are 2 s's. A desert is a desolate landscape of sand and only gets a singular s. "Just deserts," seems to fly in the face of that logic, but there you go. Who am I to pass judgment?

Vickery trains

2011-04-09T08:52:00.000-07:00

I stood on a wall last night for time not even kept up with watching the trains down the hill. They just glide all the while groaning and hissing and being all Kerouac and I gotta get into this place like. Late into the night it was.

####

Fly

2011-03-22T16:17:00.001-07:00

there once was a spider

that turned into a fly

this metamorphosis

was not wise

got caught in a web

and to his surprise

his mom came along

and ate him alive

this metamorphosis

was not wise

####

Life, By Keith Richards ( book review)

2011-03-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

Life, the autobiography of Keith Richards is good. Put simply, that’s the long and short of it. Written with James Fox, Life provides surprisingly eloquent insight regarding the Keith Richards take on the world around him.

The notion of taking on existence and going along for the ride simultaneously seems the common theme throughout. An unexpected tenderness shares the stage, so to speak, with the given bravado.

Whether or not one will find Life a worthwhile read if not interested in rock and roll, the Rolling Stones or for that matter Keith Richards is hard to say. Objectivity will be left to the reader here.

Slow perusing is recommended in either case in order to pick up on some of the subtleties that are laid out regarding relationships both within the band and otherwise. Subtle in this case is not to be confused with mild as no punches are pulled when discussing perceived shortcomings or praise.

We are afforded a glimpse of what day to day consciousness can be like on the road with the “world’s greatest rock and roll band.” There are obvious times of stress not only between the band members themselves, but with the press and the way the most seemingly minute comments can be taken wildly out of context.

As far as the anticipated revealing sections of the relationship shared between Richards and Jagger, Keith is just as much complimentary as he is critical. While practically disdaining the star factor of Jagger and attributing the singer’s sometimes difficult workability to what he calls ,“lead vocalist syndrome,” or “LVS,” he is quick to point out what a brilliant lyricist he is and the ease with which he pens words.

Any animosity comes off much like that of a grumpy and irritated spouse. That’s not to say it is not interesting. Far from it. Just the term “LVS” is bound to produce a laugh.

Brian Jones does not receive much attention save for being a sad, if not tragic figure in the early days of the Stones’ career. The same goes for Mick Taylor except for being credited with performing on some of the best material recorded.

There are chronicled, of course, numerous drug busts and close calls to that effect. Luck plays a large role throughout the book from an uncanny ability to dodge serious jail time, to cheating death and to the incredibly sudden success of the band.

The entire text reads like a long, candid interview presented in narrative context. Numerous quotes are placed with relevance as to where Richards’ mind might be lurking at the time.

“Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones.” Since when?

Of particular intrigue are the revelations discovered musically while experimenting with open tuning and hanging with Rastafarians. On a humorous side it is noted how funny it is to watch a band try to play songs like Start Me Up using regular tuning. Any guitarist who has ever tried this will surely find this tidbit true as well as enlightening.

Love life and child rearing perspective also play their part in attempting to define a delicate balance on an unstable beam.

If all the above sounds somewhat self indulgent, hey, it’s a memoir and makes no bones about it being just that. Ample credit is thrown the way of the Beatles and the likes of Roy Orbison and Gram Parsons. Introspection and candid observation are the keys to making this book a must read. Especially for those who are inclined to harbor an interest in rock and roll, the Rolling Stones, and yes - Keith Richards.

Bodega Train says check it out.

####

The insect's breath

2011-03-16T11:47:00.000-07:00

there was no scene

of the accident

there was no known

cause of death

the only clue was

a handwritten note:

“beware the insect’s breath”

####

A Parlor 13 mystery

2011-03-11T00:21:00.000-08:00

She could have gone anywhere
She could not be seen
The call of the damned
From Parlor 13
It was easy to find
The signage was green
A party of one
Food fit for a queen
The junk in her lied
O' cold and hidden scream
Twisting in the night
In service of a fiend
The jackals baying
This is no dream
The cadaver's eyes spark
Gutted and cleaned
God knows what happened
In Parlor 13
####

One Who Listened (and a brief introduction to the La Lola Minds)

2011-03-08T00:41:00.000-08:00

The La Lola Minds would gather each afternoon. Numerous topics would be discussed over several rounds of Mexican beer. I had to leave early one day to meet with an interview subject for some story about
Hollywood people who had spent time in San Miguel de Allende.
The interviewee never showed, so the rest of the afternoon was spent hammering out a story that wound up being a story about a story not ever being written.
I know, but it sounded like a clever idea at the time. I mean, what would the other “members” of the La Lola Minds do? There was actually a far less flattering nickname for that bunch, but let’s just leave it the way it is written here.
The piece was supposed to run in the next issue of El Independiente, an English friendly publication based in San Miguel. A second reading betrayed brevity that bordered on laziness, so an addendum seemed a good idea.
The view from the window where I was perched held a great view of downtown. Still, I felt more like the dark comfort of the bar would suit me better. That is, it would be more fitting an environment for my mood at the time.
There was a glass paned door to my immediate right. Upon one of the wood slats rested a wasp.
The bar could wait. And besides, my friends had probably all left by then, headed home to rest up before returning for the second shift, so to speak. That’s when the pool tables would come into play and the discussion would mainly concern who had the advantage after the break.
But back to the wasp. He crawled slowly from the door to the window and just sat there staring at me.
“What?”
No answer of course. I began to randomly type and the following poem happened. One of the fellow LL Minds, a good friend living in Canada now will probably recognize it, though he will not have seen it for what must be close to a decade and a half.
The story about not being able to be written never saw the light of day, but the poem wound up in El Independiente displayed in rather prominent fashion across almost an entire page. Go figure.
Too much time has passed for accuracy in describing what might have been discussed that afternoon at the bar, but this should shed a little light on the pliable frame of mind that would often occupy my skull just after those meetings. Sort of playfully dark, a favorite phrase of mine to this day. An homage to the calm reverence of solitude.

one who listened

I spoke to a wasp the other day
at least he looked like a wasp
could have been a bee
flew in my open door
and landed in front of me
he stared, defiant yet afraid
after all , I am bigger
and so I said
do not sting me and
I will not squash you
agreed?

a wise choice
he must have thought
for he simply stayed
stretching his wings
enjoying the rays of the sun
heat through my window
I was typing at the time
creating, if you will
and that old wasp
I could tell he was old
by wasp standards

he sat there and listened
as I read to him my story
he preened his tentacles
I thought perhaps he was bored
still polite
and tentacles looking sharp
no effort was made
on his part
to leave his perch
in the dust on the sill
the ledge, if you will

my tale concluded
still there he remained
rapt with attention
like a child
lost within a fairy tale
that old wasp
not ready to leave
obviously wanting to hear more
I obliged
and I told him
all about me

I told him of music
of resonance and rhythm
and how at the age of three
I wanted to be
just like Hank Williams
crooning into the night
guitar in hand
searching out the next rhyme
of future assured of troubles
of drinking and gambling
how it all seemed so right

ah, then came talk of pain
unrequited love
blood mixed with acid rain
torn apart and shaken
and I wondered
while I was ranting
if wasps fell in love
or if they mated
on instinct alone
had this wasp a family?
or was he merely a drone

I spoke of being quite young
and not understanding
watching real war on TV
of hostages taken
in the name of God
while Jesus wept and
Buddha moaned
of growing older
being continually perplexed
of all the horror
destined for history text

so in concluding these musings
I clasped my hands behind my head
and that old wasp
he understood
for off he flew
to his waspy friends
bearing lore
all about the poet he met
who sits by the door
and I found in my heart I hoped
he would return someday, to listen some more
####

The hybrid monk

2011-03-06T09:36:00.000-08:00

the hybrid monk

that corkscrew stare
the changing of a flat tire
passing motorists
in wedding attire
or maybe a funeral
hard to tell with the heat waves
concrete submission and
sublime impertinence
the distant scream the dance
his shoes are falling apart

nomads barking like vessels
on an unknown journey into
the wilderness of the hybrid monk
and more screaming
or possibly a loud river
hard to tell with the heat waves
a distant cloud the séance
candles glowing green
the unseen influence
the unseen fiend

and a mongrel it seems
has made his way
into the barn
and buried in the hay
the hybrid monk sleeps loudly
he snores all day
the loud river chants and
earthworms grimace in pain
hard to tell with the heat waves
the hybrid monk – is insane
####

Landscape - with stick figures (review)

2011-03-05T22:59:00.000-08:00

Stark. A dark topic with a script that somehow comes off as mournful as it does menacing. Not an easy feat to pull off, but the SceneShop crew did an admirable job of dealing not with answers, but rather the lack of them.

To say that ‘Landscape with stick figures’ is not a comedy would be an understatement akin to pointing out that sunburn is not as fun as sex. Fortunately, that’s the way it was supposed to be.

Not usually one to jump on the bandwagon of read plays, Bodega Train found being immediately drawn into this tale a smooth excursion from the get go.

The story launches immediately into the grief by a mother torn between loving her son and coping with the reality that he has mercilessly gunned people down, several of them fatally.

Instead of simply heading in a linear direction, the dialogue skips effortlessly from one time frame to another knitting the events together in a relative way that keeps one guessing even though knowing the details of the crime upfront.

The stage setting fit the mood perfectly. Absolute simplicity. A black stage fronting a white wall and a couple of black cubes serving as seating and podium props. The actors, when not seated to the side, floated about wearing black shirts and black trousers.

It was hard to tell if those were real tears in the eyes of Ethan Salisbury, convincingly portrayed by Peter Bowden, but the effect was powerful.

Again, no answers are offered here. In fact, the most defining properties on display are the imaginary lines drawn within the boundaries of accountability. The attorneys on both sides of the court case seem almost as concerned with high profile image as they are with the fate of the defendant, who is either a heartless monster or a victim of his surroundings depending on one’s point of view.

Directed by Steven Alan McGaw, Landscape provided an evening of entertainment that leaves the audience curious for what is to come next from SceneShop.

Oh, on a side note, that peculiar music starting and ending the second act turns out to have been a piece of Television’s Marquee Moon as performed by The Kronos Quintet.

Appropriately stark.

####

Judgement day

2011-03-05T09:51:00.000-08:00

Okay. Thought it might be time to write about something other than - well, not even going to mention that other thing.
How's about Charlie Sheen? Certainly not nearly enough of him in the news these days. Here we go. Now, Bodega Train cannot prove the following statement, however - - - - It is highly likely that a good portion of those who take it upon themselves to make fun of or otherwise bash Sheen are the very same people that place the likes of Jim Morrison on an immortal pedestal. Could be wrong here and perhaps that is an unfair comparison. Just a thought and many iconic names could be substituted. It should be added that the famous few are wide open to ridicule and should not be surprised when it comes their way.
####

God

2011-02-20T08:53:00.000-08:00

I do not lay claim to being an atheist.
I simply refuse absolute submission to a god of another man’s making.

Go Belgium!

2011-02-19T21:41:00.000-08:00

You gotta hand it to the good people over there in the Belgium part of the world. The two major languages apparently are Dutch and French which for whatever reason has prevented an actual governing body to successfully form or take shape or happen or whatever one calls it when a government is born.
Well over 200 days into a non-governmental existence and what to the Belgians do? Throw aside their differences and throw a party for the occasion.
Gotta respect that.
####

The big day off

2011-02-07T22:51:00.000-08:00

Waking up at 8:00 this morning did not take. It came about like a bad religion and I promptly put it away and went back to sleep. 10:45 made more sense.
24 x 90 = 2,160.
Imagine that.
I dreamed in the night about learning a game. The game was a puzzle of sorts. One would select random numbers and write the numbers in little rectangles. Each time the numbers were added together, the resulting total would come out different. That is, it would come out different unless you knew the trick.
I almost had it figured out I think, but woke up before getting it down just right. 8:00 was too soon.
8:45 was no better, so I just rolled over.
There is a little store down the street that sells liquor. On the door is a sign that reads - HELP WANTED.
The sign hangs like a badge of desperation. A man near the Hulen bridge held a similar sign in trembling hands the other night.
I slowed the car down and rolled down the window. Then pulled 50 cents from my pocket and handed it to the man.
The man smiled as he extended his hand to accept the donation. The wind was cold. I smiled upon rolling the window back up.
I will drive to the little store tomorrow and offer to help. Hopefully, they will smile and accept my offer.
It has been a long day. Perhaps I will dream tonight of figuring out how to make all the numbers add up the same way twice.
The weather people are saying there is more snow to come soon. Others will be like me. Welcome the big day off.
####

Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter

2011-02-04T11:14:00.000-08:00

One has to have at least a modicum of respect for midnight movies sometimes presented on network TV. Last night’s feature was the 1966 classic - Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter. An irresistible title indeed.
Many subplots ensue throughout this thriller, but here is the gist: Dr. Frankenstein, I do not recall her first name lives in an incongruous gothic abode with her inept, bumbling brother who unlike his sister, does not care at all for evil experimentation, which is an unfortunate trait carried on for centuries by mad scientists.
The nearest town is Shelby which is comprised of the outside of a saloon and the inside of a jail house.
Most of the people of the town have fled due to a series of strange deaths which are either attributed to the will of God or the goings on of the new folks down the road who call themselves Frankenstein. It seems that nobody in town has a last name except for Jesse James, Frankenstein and the sheriff, who has no first name.
James is on the run from the law and has been squeezing out a living by pitting his faithful sidekick Hank, portrayed by Brian Bosworth (at least a reasonable facsimile) against other town strongmen. We know that James is a wanted man as he keeps informing seemingly anyone within earshot that he is indeed an outlaw and must stay on the run.
Enter Juanita, hot tamale of a peasant girl who takes an instant shining to James and a maternal sensibility toward big lug Hank.
Back to the daughter. It turns out she is not the daughter of the well known Frankenstein, but of sort of a mad scientist wannabe. She is actually the granddaughter of Peter Cushing. Okay, the better known Frankenstein.
She has been unsuccessfully trying to reanimate brain transplanted peasants for reasons not entirely explained except for the fact that she is evil.
The plot thickens. Brian Bosworth gets shot by one of James’s own henchmen who is after reward money.
This happens during an ambush arranged between the henchman and the sheriff, who looks like Fess Parker.
James and Hank get away and stumble upon an unnecessary camp where Juanita and her parents are hanging around a small fire.
Obviously in need of a doctor, it is mutually agreed upon for Juanita to lead a trek over to the Frankenstein’s as they are the only medical game in town except for the pharmacist, who does not have a name.
Miss Dr. Frankenstein takes an instant shining to James but her advances are rebuffed and he politely explains to her that he is an outlaw and must remain on the run. This angers her and she sends him into Shelby on a false concoction run. This is achieved by handing him a folded note announcing his already known identity so the pharmacist can read it and alert Fess Parker.
Turns out the only guy at the jail hose is the turncoat henchman who decides to do in James on his own.
Needless to say, he does not live much longer than the next scene, a quick gun battle in the pharmacy.
Juanita decides to turn James in to the sheriff as she would rather see him dead than to have his brain removed. We find this out later during a tearful and heartfelt soliloquy.
Poor Hank goes under the knife and winds up with a new, artificial brain. He now has a scar around his head that resembles one of those wreath things that ancient Romans wore. The reanimation is achieved with a couple of painted army helmets and some neon. Too much detail for full description here.
His name is changed to Igor and he is able to comprehend English fluently, but is only able to speak two words. Jua-ni-tuh and K I L L.
The Frankenstein brother tries to inject Igor with some poison. We know this is poison as it is extracted from a bottle clearly labeled POISON with a skull and crossbones under it. He gets caught and Igor strangles him.
Enter the sheriff. Juanita has led him to Frankenstein’s lair. After a brief struggle, he is either rendered unconscious or dies, we never really find out.
Enter Juanita. Igor is commanded to kill her, but amazingly remembers her even though he has a new and artificial brain.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of all this, James gets conked on the head and strapped to a gurney where his brain can be removed, or some such malady.
Enter the climaxing conflict.
Igor/Hank must stand around shirtless, flexing and trying to figure out where his loyalty falls. Is it with his creator, Dr. Frankenstein’s daughter/granddaughter? His friend Jesse James? Or is it with the voluptuous and caring Jua-ni-tuh?
James manages to get loose and inexplicably still has his gun in his holster. Igor keeps flexing, Juanita makes scared faces, yet to her credit,
never screams, and the mad doctor barks kill orders.
Bodega Train will not spoil the outcome here, but rest assured that you will definitely know Jesse James is an outlaw on the run, Juanita and Lady Frankenstein both have the hots for him and Brian Bosworth likes to show off without a shirt.
####

Of it all

2011-02-01T14:04:00.000-08:00

A morning filled with flashes of light from the sky. A morning filled with thunder and sleet. Now the sun is out and sharing the heavens with delicate snowfall. The shape of darkness soon to follow.
Well this winter day just really has it all.
New York City sung a similar way.
San Miguel de Allende. Perhaps a big blue and reflecting bay.
Sing of it all.
There are are those fortunate enough to catch the magic of it all, roll it in a ball, and coldy let it fall before they wash their hands.
Cry for them for it is they who embraced that magic until dancing the fantastically wild and madlove nature of it all. There is no real control. Only imagined.
The ripcord is ripped while only having seen the beginning of it all. Bailing out only to land. Only to land with their head in the sand. The passion of passions abandoned.
And that is the very sad truth of it all.
####

The silent hour

2011-01-29T01:16:00.000-08:00

The sounds of night this night are soft. Feathery, if you will.
There is no mist in the air, but there is word of rain coming this way soon.
It seems as though there should be some mournful saxaphone music resonating in the distance. Not too far a distance but just enough to give it that echoey, mournful glow. Notes that shine. Sometimes they hesitate, then suddenly and smoothly move on again into the soul of the night.
These are the glowtrippers. Trip on that awhile friends. It does not end there. At least that is what has been said.
Not tonight though. Everything is still. Imagine the kind of stillness that only happens when sleep is aware of it. Such is the somber feeling of this hour.
Such is the glowtripper's moment of silence.
Sshhhhh...

Solitude and space

2011-01-28T00:20:00.000-08:00

This is where I belong. Alone here in my blog. Some weird shit was playing on the radio, but I have replaced that with the sound of my box fan.
Sleep will actually come easy tonight. A rarity and I use the word night loosely. The clock says 2:00 AM.
I used to go for long walks at this time of night.
Not so long ago, really.
I will most likely take that practice up again when the weather starts becoming warm on a consistent basis.
I do like it in here.
It is private, though anyone is welcome.
I received a message earlier from a good friend. It is always good to hear from friends.
I know people in Spain, New York, California, San Miguel de Allende, Corpus Christi and of course all over the metroplex.

The bay still pops into my mind often.

I remember when a friend used to be excited about seeing a dolphin, or sometimes a hummingbird. A friend lost that.
The jellyfish were always open to whatever was on my mind. For all I know they waited for me to get there and talk to them in the wee hours.
Perhaps they had little jellyfish conversations of their own after I left. They're bound to have some sort of communication.

The bay still pops into my mind now and then.

The apartment I'm in now is very nice. I very much feel like I am at home when I walk through the door. That's the way one should feel I think. I mean when walking through their own door.
It has been almost three months since my most recent beer and I have to say that I do not miss it much. Sometimes it sounds good, just not good enough to drink.
I am unemployed and while all the time in the world is nice, I am in debt that is only sure to become deeper. When I ponder too much about such matters is when a cold frosty beer begins to sound like it would hit the spot.
Not to worry. My supply of sparkling water is doing the trick. Sort of like a liquid understudy.
This is where I belong. Softly surfing the neon waters of solitude and space.
####

Hiding From the Frost

2011-01-20T22:16:00.000-08:00

The morning begins. It's cold outside and as I glance at the frost on the window, I feel thankful to be on this side of the glass. Relaxation. No money and no job yet a twinge of euphoria.
Only just shortly after midnight.The medication taken a couple of hours ago induces itching and lethargy. There is no bay outside, but some nice trees provide privacy as well as some aesthetic appeal to the area. The trees are tall and they stay green all the time.
Perhaps a murderer lurks somewhere near. A murderer waiting for one of the train noises to give him a slight chance of killer's anonymity. The trains at night move slowly and methodically, as does the killer's mind.
There is no audible traffic. So quiet a night is it that the candle flames hiss like new born snakes. Surely the noise of a train will come soon. It has been said that a watched pot never boils. An anticipated train never arrives?
Who might the possible victim be? Male or female? Probably female. Young and a little too eager to hop into a car with a stranger.
The stranger probably wears a hat and strangler's gloves, though at the moment the function of the gloves is to stave off the bitter cold.
I wonder what might be on TV, but am slightly too lethargic to click it on and see. There was a time when one had to walk all the way across the room to turn a TV on or off, or even just to change the channel.
What color is the murderer's coat? Black maybe? Probably nothing florescent. Unless of course he has knocked out one of the railroad crewmen and taken his bright yellow vest to use as a disguise. Sometimes they work into the early morning hours.
Wait! There it is. The squealing of brakes. Metal against metal. If there was a foul deed to be done, it probably just happened. I am thankful to be on this side of the glass.
####

Edgar Allan Poe

2011-01-19T12:08:00.000-08:00

Today is the birthday of a dear old friend.

"Quoth the Raven, Nevermore."
R.I.P. Edgar Allan Poe
(1809 - 1849)

To What Remains

2011-01-19T02:17:00.000-08:00

The darkness will give way soon
But to what remains
Is not clear in the sense
Of giving or the sense of smell
A sense of showing
Show and tell
Feel the restraint and
Feel the pain
The darkness will give way soon
But to what remains
####

2011-01-13T22:00:00.000-08:00

Hello sweeties. Yeah, I’m back again. Been awhile, huh. Much has happened over the past few months. Some of it good and some of it not so good. I would imagine that sounds like a pretty generic description for a space of time. I shall endeavor to be more consistent in the future.
I swear though that this has been a year beyond weirdness.
We are talking of wild alcohol withdrawal, a surprise divorce, a little time in the psychiatric ward, giving up the bottle and actually meeting some good friends from a very unlikely group of candidates.
That's not to mention a close family member hanging in ICU for a few weeks, then making splendid progress with regard to recovery.
Existence and what to make of it.
Oh man. I actually broke down and joined the uncharted waters of Facebook this morning. Jesus! I swear I had no idea that I know so many people. Weird. Interesting. I fear I may not be quite sociable enough to do the site justice. Only one way to find out.
Really. What a year it has been. Tragic? Depends upon one’s perspective. Unexpected joy and gratitude? No question about it. Illness and recovery. Light the candles to a higher power and burn the incense for good measure. Flashing skeletons and a cup of coffee and all within the cozy warmth of my truly neato apartment.
Simplicity. I smile.
Some more You Tube? Have not given it a whole lotta thought. A couple of good people have asked about those old posts. Just have to see.
It is cold outside. A beautiful night and perhaps tomorrow will follow suite.
Thinking thoughts, dancing dancers and noodling noodles. That’s the way the good earth spins things.
Why should it be any other way?
####

Central Market Fun

2010-06-22T07:18:00.000-07:00

Hi there everybody,
The Icicle and the Kid Trio will be performing at Central Market on Thursday, June 24th. Also on the bill is a band worth watching and hearing called Webbed.
I will probably be a bit warm so dress lightly. The food there is quite good, however.
Webbed takes the stage at approximatly 6:00 and The Icicle and the Kid Trio will hop on at sometime around 7:15 or 7:30. Something like that.
Magazines and submarines. Somewhere someone understands. The story starts to unfold. The plot thickens like one thin dime and a wild moon is sure to shine. Oh,and handling the drums like the champ he is will be the one true Bob.
Adios por ahora,
Kid

April 3d at The Aardvark

2010-03-25T13:53:00.000-07:00

Welllll – Hello everybody!
I knowIknowIknow – It’s been a while since my last post. Sorry about that. Then again, I never really know if anyone bothers with this site.
That being said, I just thought I would let any interested parties know that Icicle & the kid will be performing at The Aardvark April 3d. That would be located at 2905 W. Berry St. in scenic Fort Worth, Texas.
Four bands will be playing that night. Icicle & the Kid, Webbed, Meander and The Forgeries.
Cover is $10.00 per person. Not bad for a Saturday night featuring four bands.

Sometimes a cup of tea is to a walrus eating a bowl of dragonfly soup like a happy mule reading a comic book penned by a reticent wood bore.
Hope to see you good people at the show.

PS- Please check out kiddaniel ramble on youtube.

The Cavern

2010-01-27T09:02:00.000-08:00

Come one, come all,
Icicle & the Kid will be taking the stage at The Cavern on February 27th. Joining them will be the splendid band that goes by the name of Webbed.
The address for The Cavern is as follows:
1914 Greenville Ave.
Dallas, Texas
I have no idea what the zip code is over there , so you're on your own as far as that goes.
The phone number is 1-214-828-1914.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
Yes, the rumor is actually true that Kid Daniel actually broke down and made the purchase of a fuzz box.
Bzzzzzzzz!
Adios por ahora,
Bodega Train

Doin' the Aardvark

2010-01-14T08:24:00.000-08:00

Another gig with the Telefones as well as Webbed. Oh, and also Icicle and the Kid. Should be a guaranteed night of rockin’ good fun. Be there if you dare. Show starts sometime around 9:00. That would be 9 at night. The location is the Aardvark which sits at 2905 W. Berry in Fort Worth.
All good boys do fine. Girls are great and beautiful. Fish are scaly.
If you’ve been waiting all year for a night like this – This will have to do.
See you good people there on Saturday, January 16th. A little detail I forgot to mention earlier was the date. There you go.
Adios por ahora,
Bodega Train
####

The Fones & Cats and a Bag

2009-12-31T11:54:00.000-08:00

Hi there,
Lakewood Bar and Grill: January 2nd. That would be this coming Saturday evening. This venue will be formally hosting three bands. Those aforementioned bands go by the name of The Telefones, The Fort Worth Cats and Bag-O-Wire.
The phone number is as follows. 214-826-3888. The address is 6430 Gaston Ave. in Dallas.
Should be a heck of a show. You know the kind I’m talkin’ about. Think about goose bumps just on the way to the club. Hope you all come out and have a blast. If nothing else, as usual, it at least will probably be loud.
Adios por ahora,
Kid

Icicle & the Kid with the Telefones

2009-11-20T07:51:00.000-08:00

Well, hello everybody. The day begins with candles, incense and a cold beer. Tomorrow. Keep tomorrow in the fore of your mind if you please. November 21st at Lola’s Stockyards will feature Icicle&the Kid as well as the ever spectacular Telefones. Show starts sometime shortly after 9:00 PM. The address is 105 W. Exchange. It’s easy to find. It’s cozy and rockin’ all at the same time. Like spending a thin dime and writing a rhyme. The night will be filled with loudness as well as future memories. The night will be filled with coolness and girls and boys and, well the night itself. Come one, come all, have a blast and join the ball.
Adios por ahora,
Kid

Thanks From Kid

2009-10-28T12:59:00.000-07:00

Howdy, howdy, howdy,
A special thanks to everyone that showed up for the Fort Worth Cats show at the Aardvark last Saturday night. Hank Hankshaw showed his mettle, The Fort Worth Cats were their same old selves and My Three Sons (AKA the Digbees) came off as probably the slickest band of the night. Also, thanks to the Aarvark for their hospitality and professionalism.
Adios por ahora,
Kid

Sort of Fixed

2009-09-14T06:23:00.000-07:00

The You Tube thing is sort of fixed. My eyes are shot. New glasses do seem to help a bit at night. Peanut got hitched. The day begins and the rain sends its message. Just Listen. Feel it. Look at it. Put your hand on your hip and whisper the first thing that comes to mind. Open a door and close a window. Then do the exact thing in reverse order. Order? This was meant to read pastrami. The day begins. Icicle and the Kid will appear at Lola's Stockyard venue October 10th. Beware the Fort Worth Cats. They lurk still with dark passion and will share that ride soon.
Adios por ahora,
Kid

Oh, The Frustration! (missing you tube)

2009-08-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

Frustration. That seems to be about the apt word that fits. Technical problems from this end with trying to post shows on my You Tube channel. Been almost 2 months now since a show was shown, hence, or seen. Not to worry. I will be back.
Upon casting my weary gaze across the previous paragraph, it strikes me as a bit dramatic. Fixing the problem may be something simple I am overlooking. I assure each and every one of you that I am on the case. Political sounding there?
No, really, I will be back as soon as possible.
There was a time that I was, at least within the lexicon of the walls surrounding my living room, at the top of the You Tube world. Call me insane if you must. Call me a mere fool.
The uneven and gravelly road we all must travel can, can be…
Did I say dramatic?
Adios por ahora.

Lola's North Side Oh Yeah!

2009-08-20T11:30:00.000-07:00

Giddyup!
Icicle and the Kid (Featuring Brian Oblivion) will be performing or presenting or whatever one wants to call it at Lola’s – 121 W. Exchange Ave on September 5th.
On a side note, rumor has it that the , yes THE FORT WORTH CATS will show up in public sometime in October. Different venue. To be announced at a later date.
Oh man! Tough to write with these new prescription glasses. My head is tilted way back.
The toe ends where it meets the wild street. Every one timid glass greets the sink the way an orphan sees a new sibling or a freshly chopped grapefruit. Adios por ahora,
Kid

Texas Time Belt

2009-08-05T14:03:00.000-07:00

Well. Here we are. We’re back in Panther City after a month of frolicking along the beach ala Puff the Magic dragon. Much seafood.
Srange. We arrive in Corpus Christi to a drought and record heat. Then we read the Fort Worth was enjoying record lows. Now we get back just in time 100 degree crap. Once before, something similar happened. We were living in Corpus Christi and decided to visit Fort Worth for the holidays. It was fairly warm here. It snowed in Corpus Christi. Doubt that will happen again this century. Oh well. Sometimes timing just ain’t my forte.
Adios por ahora

X-Ray Pie

2009-06-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

Hi there. Sorry to have been away for so long. Well, sorry at least if there is anyone out there. In there? I’m afraid that I have become a hummus head. So good. Supposedly healthy as well. The stuff is easy to make, but I usually just grab a tub from the store.
For the few that do take the time to visit this site, please check out my you tube channel. Just go to www.youtube.com and find the tag that says video, then type in Kid Daniel Ramble. That should get you there. It’s mainly just me playing with a digital camera that my adorable wife managed to come up with. Heck, I didn’t even know it made movies until very recently. So, since I am generally the only one around while making these little clips, I simply decided to place a TV tray in front of a mirror and do my thing. Ac crude set to be sure, but I like it and that is the main objective. There are a few recipes you can find in there if you look around enough. I need to do some more of those. Occasionally there is a request for a certain topic. I intend to address one of those tonight or tomorrow. It concerns the English language and its usage. Okay, I know that does not sound terribly exciting, but I’ll just have to see what I can do.
Sometimes you just have to get on the horse and ride like a red see-saw. Never cared much for horses. They have that sideways look that is somewhat disconcerting if not down right creepy.
Down the pike. Down the hatch. Down the hall and grab a batch of whatever it was you were after in the first place. Reading glasses? The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side. Adios por ahora.

####

Icicle and the Kid at Lola's on the 6th

2009-06-01T14:46:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here we go. Icicle and the Kid will be playing at Lola’s 6th Street June 6th. That would be this Saturday. Mark it down on a calendar and kiss it into reality.
The hill of beans, proverbially speaking, is really made of honey and no one ever seems to notice the lettuce that surrounds it.
No reservation needed. The thing is that we will be happy and within the loop of biscuits.
Grand eyes. The day begins. Good thoughts and three steps. One four five and all that jive. Surf’s up. Punk rockers are unleashed while humming the theme song to their favorite movie. Dig it and bite softly.

My Friend Steve Kelso

2009-05-04T19:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Steve Kelso,
I am sort of at a loss of words here, but will do the best I can. I think it was 1995, okay, maybe 96 when we met. You were seated at a table for two at this joint in San Miguel de Allende that happened to have satellite TV and the Dallas Cowboys were playing. The place was crowded beyond belief, and recognizing my sense of dismay, you offered me a seat.
We were the best of friends within the time span of 5 minutes while eating chili with cheese and crackers and sipping (or gulping depending on one’s perspective) good, cold beer.
When I read your letter about your sickness, I thought that, hey, if I go first, you can have my liver. Then I thought again and realized an offer like that might send someone into nightmarish cardiac arrest.
If this sounds a bit light, that’s because it is. I seriously doubt that you would want all of us crying and mourning or, Lord forbid, putting on a suit and tie for an occasion celebrating your grand existence.
You gave me advice on the game of playing pool. You accepted my girlfriend who I later married as a friend and without any prejudice whatsoever. You had an influence on someone’s life. I happened to be that fortunate someone. There was a perpetual and genuine smile on your face that I will never forget.
You once called me and asked if you could stay for the night at our place in Fort Worth. Of course we agreed and you still have a place with us always. Now it just happens to be in our hearts.
Sincerely,
David Daniel y Beth Getchell

Words For the Jellyfish

2009-04-16T01:33:00.000-07:00

Well, several Melatonins and several beers later and still no sleep. I go through phases of this sometimes. All the time as a child.
Much calm exists in the air this morning. I no longer really care about upgrading to new Blogger. Or at least it does not matter as much. Sometimes I get an idea in my head, no matter how insignificant, and get, well, for lack of a better word, a little obsessive about it. I’ll figure it out when I am meant to figure it out. Turns out I can post pics in here. Could be interesting.
When my insomnia would kick in in Corpus Christi, I would walk down to the bay and talk to the jellyfish, all translucent and iridescent. They did not seem to mind.
It’s no wonder I did so crappy in high school. Mr. so and so would be speaking in algebraic tongue that was way over my head anyway and it was all I could do to keep from snoring myself out of my desk.
Funny thing, it always seems like I wound up in classes full of the kind of students that were seemingly thrilled to receive 40 pages of homework. Hmmm. They are probably all lawyers now. Serves’em right.
Oh well. I’m off to give my lids one last chance at closing before the paper gets here.
Adios por ahora.

The Stash Dauber and shrimp

2009-04-16T00:48:00.000-07:00

Just read friend Stashdauber’s post about tempura shrimp and must admit to salivating a bit. We must have similar sleeping habits. Tried to leave a comment, but for whatever reason his site never lets me in. Anyway, it reminds me of when my wife and I, not all that long ago, lived in Corpus Christi and our neighbor (Downtown Bill) would bring us bowls of shrimp fresh out of the bay. Sometimes they’d still be wigglin’ around a bit. Had to pop the heads off and clean’em, but it was well worth the effort. I sometimes get wistful about living on the water.

pulling my hair out

2009-04-15T21:16:00.000-07:00

The night begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side. I knew I should have upgraded from old Blogger to new Blogger way back when given the option. At the time, though, I felt no need for video and soon forgot about it. Now, of course, images seem like a pretty cool idea at times. Ughh! Unfortunately I have been sitting here for hours trying to figure out how to make the switch. There is not much information out there as far as I can tell. I’m kind of a step-by-step tutorial kind of guy when it comes to anything computer. If anyone stumbles across this post, any advice would be appreciated. Good thing I have a lot of hair, graying as it may be. Adios por ahora.

Joey Ramone

2009-04-15T18:12:00.000-07:00

Well, it was on this date in 2001 that Joey ramone checked out and headed o to history. R.I.P. Oh man, what an influence he had on my life. First saw The Ramones play when I was still in high school and this boy's musical direction never really was never quite the same. So on a personal letter type note - Thank you, Joey Ramone. For what it's worth, I also really liked your solo version of What a Wonderful World.
Sincerely,
Kid Daniel

Two Words

2009-04-03T08:13:00.000-07:00

Two Words

Fog on a Clear Day

2009-04-01T01:22:00.000-07:00

The wind was wet and the sky was barking like a dog chasing after a car or a cat. Take your choice. Windows needed to be closed. The rain was making a wet attempt to enter this domain. Train whistles thrive at this time of night, though I truly miss the fog horns that make their presence known along the coast.
Turtles do not fear the sea. You see? Slow and easy.
####

The Fingers of Grapes

2009-03-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

There are peanuts scattered across the cutting board in the kitchen. The peanuts are still in their shells. On the side of the cutting board reside two tomatoes. The tomatoes are in the process of drying after having been rinsed. Rinsing is a good thing.
Pencils are good things as are bagels with cream cheese. Then again, that is a subjective topic.
Music is a good thing. Most of it is anyway. It just depends upon the mood you are in when you hear it. Ratatatatat.
Rinsing is a good thing and so is singing in the shower. Keep that under your hat or you might find yourself putting on the wet performance of a jeep with brakes that are in need of repair.
Go find a comfortable wall and lean on it. Let your mind loose. Breathe deep. Breathe like the ocean waves to the sunset.
####

The Missing Link

2009-03-27T01:59:00.000-07:00

The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side. I try and try and try to figure out a digital camera. Okay, I can use the thing, but uploading it to a site turns out to be quite the drill.
Another cold spell approaches like a frog lost in the desert. Spring is supposed to have sprung, but that does not seem to be the case just yet.
####

Sunglasses On A Rainy Night

2009-03-24T23:33:00.000-07:00

The day begins. Actually it’s the middle of night. Kind of hard to tell since my watch needs a new battery. Man! I’ve needed that for months now. Goes to show how motivated I am when living in the valley of yippers. Actually, the weather was perfect today. I guess that depends on one’s perspective of perfect.
Windy. A plant keeps blowing over outside. It’s some sort of palm we got while living on the bay.
Tacos are like creatures that eat their own vegetables. Onions are a little more cerebral in that you can just keep going, seemingly endlessly to get to the middle. Come to think of it, artichokes are sort of the same way. The highway would welcome them both with the same kind of truck. Jalepeño peppers are just as important and often even tastier, but require a nearby beverage. A small sacrifice.
Look up! A new day is approaching. A smiling giraffe might just be coming today to take you away. Where? Maybe to meet his hippo friends that live just around the bend.
Ever try bending a guitar string to just hit that exact note you wanted to dance with? Nothing much better than that unless you put sex into the equation.
We just got a new light device to go with the others. The others being a neon guitar and one of those globes that shine little lights that change direction upon contact with your finger.
This new thing is a light with sort of a plastic glove-looking thing that gives the illusion of being a flame. Actually pretty cool. Is that a pun I’m sinning?
####

The Safety of an Invisble Blanket

2009-03-17T01:13:00.000-07:00

The word could be out. The word could be in. Like it or not, the next word is ten. Once upon a nickel there was a strange little tickle. Go figure. Why not a dime which is a far easier rhyme? The thing is that things are things that sometimes fatigue us. They have their own logic it seems. Confusion? Maybe a ceiling fan and a deck of cards.
The weirdness of madness is that it never happens when you are clear-headed. A fence just will not go away on its own, so perhaps it has to be jumped. Then, there you are, in a completely different place.
The cold beer of silence can throw you for a proverbial loop. Flashing skeletons.
Candles burning on just one end. Candles burning a message to send.
What about all the rays? I mean, where do they all end up? Under somebody’s bed like a monster? Or do they wind up in a bad song?
Winding and twisting and taking care of all the listings can be an exhausting experience. The world keeps spinning on its mysterious axis and some people still snore at night. Some even grind their teeth. There, there, there. No reason to panic just yet. Get a good sleep and sleep on the good sleep and wake up looking forward to a good sleep.
There are no curtains in this apartment. Just blinds. The sun probably blinds if stared at for too long a period of time. That’s a thought eclipsed by a recent purchase of reading glasses.
It seems like glasses should be vessels from which we drink. Maybe baby it is just the plain fact that pencil spelled backwards is licnep.

Green Acres

2009-03-17T00:05:00.000-07:00

“Green Acres is the place for me…” Oh, come on. We all know the words to that song. My sweet one and I recently viewed several episodes of this classic show via Netflix, but I would imagine the episodes would be available in any video store.
I remember watching it as a child and just laughing at the cast of characters. After watching anew, I fully see the psychedelic edge to the thing. Trust me here. Pay attention to the dialogue and you will see what I mean.
Remember that Alvy Moore (Hank Kimble) went on to script and produce a movie called A Boy And His Dog. (Highly recommended by Bodega Train)
Just rent a few episodes of green Acres and you will see what I mean. This was a truly magnificent tribute to the strange world in which we all exist and how it can be made likeable if we just let it be so.
####

The Crawling Tingler From Outer Space

2009-02-27T01:53:00.000-08:00

Way out. This planet has seen me walk its surface for 48 years now as of a couple of days ago. Hard to believe. My good buddy Icicle dropped by the night before and we watched Beast From 20,000 Fathoms. Those old sci-fi monsters movies are always good entertainment. The animation in that particular one is fantastic. I highly recommend it.
Just the week before, I treated my sweet and lovely wife to Earth Versus Flying Saucers. Before that, we viewed The Crawling Hand. There’s a great scene in that flick where a guy who has become possessed by the evil hand and strangles a kindly malt shop owner. While they begin to wrestle with one another, the jukebox gets bumped and turns on. The song that starts playing is an old version of Surfin’ Bird. All these crazy lights are flashing on and off. Great scene indeed.
There seems to be a pattern forming here as I think that The Blob may be next on the list. The original, of course. Then, maybe The Tingler.
Yeehahahaha!

After the Sound of the Train

2009-02-10T13:03:00.000-08:00

There is always, it seems, a squirrel outside my office window. Sometimes a cardinal. Sometimes a time. That’s how the ball bounces and how the wind blows. That’s how the trees bend and how the bread smells when in the oven for just the right amount of time. Like a card trick, sort of.

Lux Interior - You rocked

2009-02-06T15:27:00.000-08:00

I think the year was 1980. Actually, I know it was 1980. I had gone over to Johnny Icicle’s house to pick him up and drive to a Fort Worth Cats rehearsal.
“Hey kid,’ he said. “Wanna hear something cool?” Five minutes later I was a diehard and lifelong fan of a band that went by the name of THE CRAMPS.
Their singer and front man was a skinny, and quite frankly scary (okay, maybe not scary, but uniquely interesting) looking guy who went by the moniker of Lux Interior. This guy exuded coolness and audacity.
While I have in my possession several of their albums, I am sorry to say that I never got to witness their live show except for video clips. Guess that is better than not seeing them at all.
One of the albums I have includes a song called Human Fly. One of the finest punk tunes ever penned.
“I’m a human fly and I don’t know why.”
The above line is what makes the tune so clever. He’s a human fly and there is no explanation for it. He just is.
Any fan of rock’n’roll who also appreciates horror and sci-fi movies has no choice but to be fascinated by Lux Interior and the Cramps. And yeah, I know his birth name, but bet that he would want to be remembered by the one mentioned in this piece.
For those not familiar, click on to www.stashdauber.blogspot.com. Scroll down until you see the post R.I.P. Lux Interior. The stashdauber was kind enough to share some classic live performances by the Cramps.
Ah. There one can observe what the true meaning of stage presence is. Writhing energy.
Adios Lux Interior. May your existence in death be as totally and outrageously cool as your existence in life among the rest of us. Outstanding and influential would be two good adjectives to place here.
Okay, time to dive into my LP collection and blare a little Psychedelic Jungle.
####

so much for predictions...

2009-02-02T07:58:00.001-08:00

Oh well. I really did think the Cardinals would take that game just from the perspective of momentum. Have to give credit to the stellar Steelers for coming through at the end. Both teams should be commended for affording us with a heckuva game.
Some of the penalties were a bit questionable, but that’s part of the game. The half time show could have been scaled down a bit. Springsteen somehow did not seem to be so much himself as an imitation. Just a humble opinion.
####

Super Bowl prediction

2009-02-01T09:34:00.001-08:00

Hard to believe I am writing about football again, but hey, it is Super Bowl Sunday. There was once a TV announcer, I do not remember which one, that defined the game as special as it is watched world wide and in the end, nothing of grave importance has happened.
That being said, here is the Bodega Train Super Bowl prediction:

Cardinals 21 Steelers 10
####

NCAA Football Top 5

2009-01-14T12:27:00.000-08:00

Well, it has indeed been a while since digging around in here. Had to do this though. I’m really not that big a sport’s fan, but hey, someone has to watch, right?
There has to be a college playoff system put in place. That will be another post.
As it is, here are the top 5 teams in the nation as declared by Bodega Train:

1) Utah – Nobody can dispute an undefeated team. Their dominance over a very good Alabama squad proved a point.

2) Florida – A bit of a boring game, but they at least did their job against a vastly overrated Oklahoma bunch. Wonder if Tim Tebow may declare for the NFL draft.

3) Texas – Colt McCoy showed his mettle in a close contest against Ohio State. They will be a strong presence next year. Coach Mac Brown, however, should have shown some spine and voted his team number 1 in the coaches poll. Only one second of the season cost them a spot the title game.

4) TCU – This may sound to be a bit of a stretch, but so what? Coach Gary Patterson has put together quite a program. Think about it, they barely lost to Utah. (See number 1 above)

5) Oklahoma – They may be overrated, but that does not mean they do not have talent. The problem lies with a coach that chokes in big games. Just check their bowl record.

There you go.

thanksgiving

2008-11-27T11:19:00.000-08:00

PRAYER 11:27

Perhaps there really is a divine spirit watching over our scene. Perhaps the universe, as a whole, is in charge, directing to each of us a path, a road leading to the place in our heart where resides the divine spirit.
We give thanks on this special day for friends and family. We give thanks for the sky above us and for the ground below. We give thanks for the tears we shed, for they are of the sea.
We give thanks for our mere, humble existence. And we give thanks for our health.
In the name of all that is good,
Amen

3:00 AM

2008-11-12T06:45:00.000-08:00

Man! There's some weird shit on TV in the middle of the night.

none of the above

2008-10-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

A funny and sad thing happened the other night at a social gathering. I actually backed down from a political argument. Why? The only reason was that I was at a friend’s home and did not wish to stir up a debate that would be more appropriately held in a neighborhood bar.
A guy within earshot was talking about voting Libertarian in the upcoming national elections. I could not resist meandering over and introducing myself as the former county chair for the Libertarian Party of Tarrant County, albeit many years ago.
He nodded his approval and went on to state that the newest candidate was what the party needed as he sort of stands middle ground. I tried my hardest not to frown and politely excused myself to go and retrieve another beer. I never returned for conversation on the topic.
I mean, why the fuck vote Libertarian if all they can offer is middle ground? Might as well vote for a Republican or Democrat, henceforth referred to as Demopublicans. Face it, folks, Dems and Reps are pretty much the same story over and over. Hey, just take a quick peek at their respective platforms. The candidates may differ slightly, but the message is the same. Give them your money and they will take care of you. Right.
Let’s take a look at the choices in the forthcoming election. Might as well start with Bob Barr, the Demopublican in Libertarian clothing. He voted in favor of the war in Iraq.
That alone is enough to cross him off the list. He has since apologized, but, you know what? Ted Bundy may well have apologized for the women he took from this world in violent fashion, but that does not make those women any less dead now does it?
The VP candidate, Wayne Root says a withdrawal of troops from Iraq anytime soon is unrealistic.
What does he think will happen? Violence might break out after centuries of previous bloodshed in the name of (pick a god here).
Now that brings us to Demopublican nominee John McCain. Good grief, Charlie Brown. Is anyone else out there sick of hearing these two words, and they are always spoken as if they have a question mark after them – “ My friends?”
This man not only voted in favor of the war in Iraq, but does nor care one wit how long it lingers on. Please define winning, sir.
The proverbial icing on the cupcake here is this man’s choice of a VP. All right, so she’s cute. So she can see Russia from Alaska. So she also speaks like a powder-puff Nazi.
As far as views concerning abortion go, hey, I am a middle aged male and doubt that I will ever become pregnant, therefore I have nothing to say on the subject. Sarah Palin can have 29 kids as far as anyone else is concerned. Who cares? That’s her choice and she is entitled to it. Leave everyone else alone with their own direction to follow.
Ah, this brings us to Barak “We can end a war.” Obama. How did Joe Biden vote on the issue of a war in Iraq?
Barak Obama clearly carries the star quality of this campaign season. He has the looks and he has the scripted answers. He claims to want to end the war in Iraq. That is all well and good. The thing is that many people confuse that with bringing troops home. He has not that intention nearly as much as relocating them into equally dangerous territories such as Pakistan and Afghanistan.
He has even been quoted as saying that he was not against war, just the one in Iraq. I personally have counted at least three times that this guy has threatened Pakistan.
No votes for Demopublicans this year. At least not from where I sit. All sarcasm aside, or at least part of it, I wish nobody would vote. Now - that would send a message.
Try and remember, dear readers, just a few years ago when George W. Bush lost an election, yet was appointed president. It makes one feel sorry for the millions of voters that will line up at the polls this year thinking that their vote might actually make a difference. I wish them luck. I, for one, choose not to participate. At least not this year.
I think the most important decision I will make on November 4th is whether to start off the day by listening to T- Rex or possibly the Derailers. That’s about the only decision that will affect my life one way or other.

####

Like Waiting for Santa

2008-09-01T21:38:00.000-07:00

Where is the newspaper? The day begins. Candles are lit and, oh shit, out of incense. Oh well. Cold beer at my side. Broken foot somewhat on the mend. At least I can walk down the stairs now instead of doing the inverted crab crawl.
Being an insomniac can produce wiggly and isolated thoughts in the wee hours of the morning.
Where is the paper guy? It used to be a girl, but she was just as sneaky. They know when you are sleeping and know when you’re awake. They might even know if you’ve been bad or good – who knows for goodness sake?
It never fails. I think I have the delivery time figured out, but the paper is not on the stoop.
I go back inside and grab another beer or perhaps a nice hot tea. It is still dark out. I go back down the stairs in order to turn the porch light on, you know, just out of politeness.
Lo! The paper is there, all wrapped up nice and neat like a present.
A black cat crosses the street. I turn off the porch light, climb back up the stairs and plop mice elf on the sofa. The day begins. A nap is on the mind as I become informed about the inside of the outside world.
####

the moon is round

2008-08-31T21:45:00.000-07:00

Hmmhmm - The moon is round. It has two eyes, a nose and a mouth. The moon is round.

an evening with icicle and the kid

2008-08-21T13:20:00.000-07:00

Nonetheless explains the lightning and rain forever entombed with the distinction of rational confusion upon which the lakes cry. The seemingly endless line of clowns has been pretty much narrowed to two, too. Barkness and treeness and jumping beanness can collaborate in ways that maybe only the lonely forest can hear or comprehend. And like a smoking gun – situation is in hand.

ICICLE & THE KID
(featuring “the one true Bob”)

@

Sarah's Place
5223 Camp Bowie Bld.

Friday, August 22nd

NO COVER

The show usually starts between 9:30 and 10;00

away from the bay and back in the hay

2008-08-19T13:15:00.000-07:00

Well. Back in town after a month at the big blue and green bay. My adorable wife and I got to go through a hurricane threat and shark week as well. We only got to experience the far end of hurricane Dolly, but it was nice and rainy and windy. A few roofs were damaged, but that was about it. As we were on the bay, it was nice to see all the whitecaps crashing against the piers and the sea wall.
The shark bit was fun as the Discovery Channel played documentaries about the sea creatures all day for the entire week. Good stuff to watch before going to the beach. I’m not kidding or being sarcastic. They even showed Jaws. Had to watch as it seemed ever so appropriate. Anyway, here we are again, still with a broken foot and a mischievous grin. Back to the places we know for they are where we have been.
Adios por ahora.

t-shirt wind and a limping walk to the store

2008-06-26T16:21:00.000-07:00

The time grows within us all. Someplace there is a lemon or a lime or a first bicycle or even a first old VW awaiting. While picturing that VW, you may be thinking 69 Beetle. Then again, maybe an old rusted bus ready to take into the depths of American highways. Perhaps even a trip south of the border would cross your mind. Too bad seatbelt laws were ever enacted. The road has no room for restriction. The worry of being pulled over for riding without being tied down takes a little away from the romantic notion of cruising the highway. Don’t even get me started on the open container law. Kerouac cries and the sea bleeds. A border fence offends. Totalitarian states require fear. Fear requires a perceived threat, be it real or imagined. Either grilled shrimp or fajitas are the most important decision for this day.
Adios por ahora.

sarah's on a friday 13th

2008-06-13T09:23:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while, but:

Okay. Where were we? Elastic thoughts and realistic plots as I recall. The Plot Thickens played in San Bernardo the other night at a club called Gumby’s and they brought the house down. Sometimes life provides a glass of juice just when your throat thinks it cannot possibly become any more like a dryer than a washing machine. Then again, it’s okay to drive on the beaches in the coastal bend. Good news indeed. The hurricane season is upon us and let us all just cross our fingers and stick them into some divine pie. An obscure band called the Timeflies also rock loud and good. Saw amovie the other night called Control. A must see for any Joy Division fans that might still be out there. Living in the ice age must have been a thoroughly fenced proposition. One out of every ten people will become one of ten. Glass. Glass is connected to the beach. The beach is connected to the shore. The foot bone blahblahblah. Does anyone remember 8 track tapes and the way that songs would fade out and come back in again when the track would change? The best invention, possibly ever, is the stamp that does not have to be licked.
Self adhesive. Ocean Drive. Now that would be a good name for a surf band. Go on. Admit it. Submit. Should stealing hearts be considered a crime or a Godsend. Blood goes on. Pump-pump-pump. The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. The stapler is being ignored as is the pencil sharpener. Keyboardist at work. A calculated risk which hums along at no speed whatsoever. Places and faces and poker-faced aces. The body of Christ awaits. I’ve seen it before. Lore. Tell me more. Salt and the water that holds it can be a gentle kiss. Comfort. A blanket in the cold. A cold frosty on a summer day in Texas. Live records involving a stylus. #23 on the Loteria card. That’s the mouse pad here. A cold frosty on a summer day in Texas. Live records involving a stylus. #23 on the Loteria card. That’s the mouse pad here. Yeah! La Luna. Right next to a pig with a big pink snout. Calculator. There’s that word again, or was it calculated? The blinds are closed. The sun is out. Sometimes the skies can become cloudy when you least expect it. Flashing skeletons and the tonic note. Blue walls that resonate a somber mood surround all who enter this room. Is a straw mask any less important than one which is made of clay or glass? Glass. A glass of juice or a bottle of beer please. There is no one else in this castle of random stuff. The dogs in the neighborhood go ruff-ruff-ruff. Rough. The feel of a cats tongue. That’s another story, for now we have reached the bottom rung. Time to dive in.

Icicle and the Kid
Sarah's Place
5223 Camp Bowie Blvd.
817-731-7337

Show starts before 10:00

random thoughts #61

2008-04-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Well. Just when I really thought nobody ever read this thing, I get a response from phaedra999. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out who you are. I am fairly confident now that I know and I have to say that it is nice to hear from you. Hope all is well in the far west.
Avery Johnson was fired today and that is probably a good thing. Not that he is entirely to blame, but sometimes change for changes’ sake is the outcome of whatever the hell it is that happened.
Windy.
The gig at Sarah’s Place was the most fun in a long while. I still had to wear a foot brace, but there you go. It was a nice experience. The gig, not the boot.
It sure would be a perfect day to take a walk along the beach. Alas, that is a long way away these days.
On an entirely different note, taking troops out of Iraq and positioning someplace else is not the same thing as bringing them home.
I’m out of breath.
Adios por ahora.
####

Icicle and the Kid at Sarah's Place - March 28th

2008-03-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

With patches of paper, sort of like similar patches of fog, the day has become what it will be. Sometimes a change can occur, but what would a day be if it always resembled the previous plate set before it? Does the day then forfeit its own unique identity? What would there be to be gained? Was the Rev. Johnny Icicle right with his hypothesis that it is truly the insistence placed upon bliss that drives this race? Enough with the questions and there may not be any definitive answers. No more so than the bird flies south because it happens to be warmer there than it is during the winter months. Warmer than what? They are instinctive. Instincts seem to apply at many levels and do not sustain a grilling with regard to scrutiny without a level of disdain. Fortune is a nomad without prejudice. The sun follows the moon in an effort to break the insomnia brightly infiltrating the path to breakfast. Go ahead. Clip out today’s skin of the weather forecast and match it with tomorrow’s. The discrepancy fails to be denied unless hanging ten on the surf. Ah, the beloved surf, with the waves furiously blistering out a tune to be mimicked by guitarists too many to be named. Life exists on an island. Seagulls are the perfect pet. They fly in and accept food and then go about their merry way. Mary Brown used to show weird movies in English class and those students will have memories of those flicks in the auditorium. The auditorium – a dark and peaceful place where tales would be told and stories would unfold. The cloudy skies outside left as sentries for the tide of events only the future pretended to know. And could it be short changed? Really. Compact discs have a shelf life too. Symbols. They even have their own screen. The end is near and the end is far and when you wish upon a star the machines take notice. Power is the driving force behind the administration of torque. While we are sleeping, if that is even ever possible anymore, that, that’s when a mighty thought might replace a permanent dwelling. Escape is possible. Like the devil, escape can be caught, but not kept. Fleeting might be a good word. There are many good words out there and that can probably be reduced to simply being a subjective process. Language. There are, as everybody is aware, the existence of hummingbirds dwelling within the lexicon of the air that surrounds this planet. It could be added that they do so with eloquent precision. Some men hum while they work as do some women, but the hum is not placed as a prefix. Imagine. Do not stop there and with little care the garden will grow. It just needs a little bit of weeding out from time to time. Time. There are timing devices known as watches and portions of time that are referred to as watches. Walls have been constructed to contain both space and time. Continue to pay attention to the details and remember to pay the gas attendant that left with the uniform given to identify the extinct species. Light a wick and wax can become poetic. Same goes for a stylus. The space here is growing limited, or was it that way in the first place? Elastic thought, man. Elastic thought. Let’s just get on with the show.

Sarah's Place
5223 Camp Bowie Blvd.
Ft. Worth Tx. 76107

817 - 731 - 7337

the three stooges

2008-03-05T13:18:00.000-08:00

And then there were three. A Clinton, a McCain and an Obama. Two Dems and a Rep, or more easily recognized as Demopublicans. What to do, what to do?
How’s about a casting call? The Three Stooges? The show begins.

Starring:

As Moe – This was a tough one. McCain has the menacing look, but is a little soft on the issue of torture, so the roll goes to Hillary. She’s definitely not above pretending to be in charge and could probably be easily prodded to slap the noses of either opponent. ( She would probably refer to them as subordinates.) Not to mention the occasional poke in the eyes. She also dons a perfect smile dedicated to sarcasm and facetious innuendo. She more than likely is the one wearing the pants in the family, or at least manages to keep them up. Moe.

As Larry – A good fit for John McCain. Larry was probably the brightest of all the stooges, but lacked the confidence to really take charge and made up for this deficiency by simply blowing with the proverbial wind. Mac might need a wig to truly pull this bit off, but can always blame the younger generation for this minor flaw. Larry.

As Shemp – Unfortunately, with the withdrawal of Huckabee, there is no clear cut nominee for Curly. That means we have to rely on the savvy of Shemp. Who could argue with the choice of Obama to fill this particular roll? Ever notice the slight, yet sudden tilt of the head when he is making an attempt to make a point? Shemp was a master at taking credit for saving the day when he just happened to be at the right place at the right time. (Mememememememememe!) Shemp.

There you go. Vaudeville still holds its place in the world.

roll over, moses

2008-02-29T11:49:00.000-08:00

I do not quite know why I found this so funny, but I did. There was a column in this morning’s Star Telegram penned by a James H. Fowler that mentioned the benefits for politicians willing to appear on the Colbert Report, exposure being one of them.
The humorous part comes when the possible downside is brought to light. It seems that GOP Rep. Lynn A. Westmoreland has pushed to have the Ten Commandments placed somewhere along the walls of Congress.
Look, if you are going to appear on a show like Colbert’s, be prepared. Apparently, Westmoreland could only name three of the commandments.
I must admit that I showed the column to my wife and we decided to try and name them. We only managed about 7, but then again, we are not advocating their placement anywhere.
Besides, haven’t those things already been etched in stone someplace?
####

sceneshop: out of the loop

2008-02-27T12:19:00.000-08:00

Wondering what to do with your Saturday night? Think about calling 817-784-9378. That'll getcha Stage West and you can make reservations for the newest sceneshop
creation. $12.00 buys an evening of live theater with a little live music thrown into the mix as well.
Thanks to writer/actor Steven Alan Mcgaw for passing along the following info:

This coming Saturday, March 1, SceneShop premieres its entry in this year’s Out of the Loop Festival with a one-night show in the Lobby of Stage West’s spacious new facilities just south of downtown Fort Worth.“The ability to host SceneShop is another prime example of why we are glad to have our own home again ,” says Dana Schultes, Stage West’s Director of Development; “Opening our doors to other arts groups has always been what Stage West is about.”

For the ‘Shop, it’s both a return to tradition, and a new space. From 1996 to 2002, each edition of SceneShop included a performance at Stage West’s then-home on University Drive. Although this is the fourth year SceneShop has participated in WaterTower Theatre’s well-regarded Out of the Loop festival in Addison, 2008 marks the first time the ‘Shop has included a hometown performance in its Loop itinerary.

“It just seemed like a great idea,” says Melodee Halbach, SceneShop’s Executive Dirfector, “we’ve got a show up and running; we ought to do it once in Fort Worth.”

Loop performances typically run about 70 minutes, so SceneShop has added a fourth scene and a live band to flesh out the evening. The individual pieces in “Stories We Can Tell” are as follows:
“Watch Your Head” Actress, playwright and educator Lynda Rodriguez recounts her struggle back from the effects of a stroke, suffered in New Mexico a few years back. With Rodriguez’ characteristic acerbic wit, this is no episode of “ER.” Amy Brown, who’s performed with Hip Pocket and in several locally produced independent films, performs the piece.
“Finding Your Inner Timberwolf” Natalie Gaupp wrote this piece especially for the March 1 Stage West show and performers Debbie Dacus and Steve McGaw. The clever piece takes a look behind the boozy banter and forced high spirits of a high school reunion.
“In BUtterfield 8…” Adam Whittington, in his third outing with SceneShop, bravely takes the reins of this piece by Natalie Gaupp in which a transsexual- on the eve of irreversible surgery- refutes those who object to her decision.
“Hugh and Betty”Peggy Bott Kirby and Gary Payne are squabbling spouses in this piece by Steven Alan McGaw. But there’s more to their rancor than first meets the eye…

DATES & TIMES:
Saturday, March 1, 8:00 pm Lobby, Stage West Theatre, 821 W. Vickery
at the Out of the Loop Festival, March 6-16 Saturday, March 8 at 5:00 pm, Sunday, March 9 at 2:00 PM Saturday, March 15 at 8:00 pm, Sunday, March 16 at 5:00 pm the Stone Cottage at WaterTower Theatre, 15650 Addison Rd.

of tortillas and toothpicks

2008-02-20T10:56:00.000-08:00

Simplicity. There are certain minor tricks to keeping life easy that some of us learn later in life and wonder why we never thought of such obvious solutions before.
Some are learned earlier. Either way, they are certainly meant to be shared.
As a child, I had a propensity for eating tacos by starting in the middle and then moving on to the other halves. This was not the least messy of eating style choices. While I no longer engage in such a tactic, a crispy taco can still present the challenge of a cracked shell.
My step-grandmother, who is of Mexican descent, taught me to simply take a warm corn tortilla and wrap it around the hard shell. Simple enough, but I rarely see other people participating in this practice.
Now, often enough, I just prepare soft tacos, but there are times when the Tex-Mex crunchy cravings take place. Tortillas can be fried easily enough, but a nice timesaver (and far less splattery) is to simply buy some hard shells at the grocery store.
These, of course, are heated in the oven in order to enjoy the optimum taco experience. The only problem is, the open side of the shells have a tendency to slightly collapse, making it difficult to stuff them without cracking the shells before even getting to the point of biting in to them.
Credit my incredibly creative mother-in-law for this small tidbit of advice. Let’s say you have two shells. Take a toothpick and break it in half. Gently place each half a toothpick vertically in a shell so as to hold it open. Voila! An easily stuffed shell.
Simplicity.

the end of the football season shape of things

2008-02-09T17:13:00.000-08:00

Well, football season is essentially over. Although I did just see a TV ad for next year’s Super Bowl, a game which will apparently air on NBC. I’m not kidding.
That reminds of something. Anybody remember Duane Thomas? Rookie of the year who’s career than took a nosedive due to altercations with Tom Landry, (personality issues) and the local police who frowned upon illegal drug use.
Whatever. Thomas did deliver quite a memorable quote once: “If the Super Bowl is the ultimate game, why do they play it again next year?” Gotta admit he had a point of sorts there.
It looks as though the U.S. government is once again trying to ram its under-performing nose into allegations of cheating in the sports world. Seems the Patriots may have secretly videotaped a walk through by the St. Louis Rams prior to Super Bowl Roman numeral whichever.
I have brought this up before, and call me naïve if you will, but can anybody explain to me just what exactly the feds have to do with this. Just the other day, Bill Belichick got his just desserts and paid the piper via an embarrassing loss and an obviously recognizable lack of character.
Christ! Teams have been trying to rip off other’s signals since the days that Neanderthals wandered the earth. Hmmm. Interesting and rather humorous comparison there. Whatever – that’s why teams try to hide their signals in the first place.
In other thoughts, perhaps in this off season, a receiver such as Limas Sweed out of U.T. could fall in the draft for the Dallas Cowboys to snag him. Isaiah Stanback would be good to give a test ride to as well. As least he is already on the roster and probably hungry for playing time. Either or both would provide a speedy compliment to T.O. on the other side.
By the way, I was as surprised as anyone this season by the switcheroo in Owens’
demeanor. Perhaps he either stopped taking, or then again, started taking mood altering drugs. Maybe he just got laid more often. Could it be something as simple that a change in coaching staff provided enough different direction that certain players would perform and behave in a more positive spirit?
Speaking of which, it has been suggested by some members of the media that Roy Williams would be better suited to play linebacker rather than safety. It’s a thought. At least he might take part in some head-on collisions rather than helplessly running after an opposing receiver sprinting toward the end zone.
A major mistake the Cowboys committed in their unnecessary loss to the Giants was to start Marion Barber ahead of Julius Jones. Not that Barber is not the better runner, but why change a scheme that had been so wildly successful all season. There is an old saying: “Dance with the one that brung ya.”
That’s about all there is to say on the subject for now. At least it should be, but one can never trust the stupidity of a useless senate probe.
####

super, super bowl

2008-02-04T11:01:00.000-08:00

Waddaya know? Bodega Train might have missed the exact score and was off by a point concerning the spread, but the Giants did indeed pull off a cool upset. Looks like the ’72 Dolphins can pop their champagne corks for years to come. And again, Dallas players, coaches and fans can at least sleep knowing that they were not the only favorite to be embarrassed. Credit has to be given to the Giants’ players for not being trapped into a mental funk. They won that game, not only in an exciting way, but with passion. The only question about Eli Manning now is how he will perform on Saturday Night Live. The writer's strike. much like the Patriot's winning streak, cannot go on forever.
####

Super Bowl Prediction?

2008-02-02T19:13:00.000-08:00

Okay. Forget the big names. Super Bowl game victories have often been decided by what might be described as the more plebian non-suspects.
Prediction in short: If the Giants hold a 4 point lead and have the ball with less than 3 minutes to go, they will spoil the Patriots’ hopes of doing it all like no one before. If not, there you go.
Here says Bodega Train: Giants 31 – Patriots 27.
####

LOST: a new season

2008-01-31T08:54:00.000-08:00

I really cannot remember ever getting to terribly excited about the new season of a television program. LOST is an exception as it is an exceptionally written show.
Both my wife and I had merely thought it to be some faddish hit until being enlightened by a reliable source that compared the program as sort of a modern version of the old British series called The Prisoner.
While that description strikes me as a bit of a stretch, the advice at least got us to start watching it via DVD episodes of the first couple of seasons until we became caught up with the story. Or perhaps I should rephrase that as being caught up within the story.
There was a rather bizarre (surprise, surprise) review of events that had taken place so far that aired last night. This presentation was clever in that it came with subtitles explaining some of the more subtle nuances that exist within certain scenes.
One such hard-to-notice little slice of humor was the name of the funeral home that Jack visits in last season’s finale which turns out to be fast forward spelled backwards. Even funnier was that when crossing the street, he accidentally steps in front of a car that has to slam on its brakes. A slangish, “Careful, Jack!” eminates from the car window. That would have been nothing more than mindless filler had the guy crossing the street not been named Jack.We are also not told who is in the coffin within the funeral home, just that nobody showed up for the service.
Actually, the Star Telegram has a pretty decent recap of events up until now in today’s issue. It includes a short profile of the characters as well.
On a final note, one thing interesting as well as entertaining about the writing on this show is that there is no guarantee on any given episode which character might be killed off. There have indeed been some surprises.
As mentioned earlier, previous episodes are available on DVD for those wanting to become acquainted with the story thus far. There is definitely far more than meets the eye as far as plot goes than a simple story of plane crash victims stranded on an island.
####

dallas cowboys: a straw to grasp

2008-01-26T10:08:00.000-08:00

My poet friend lit another cigarette and looked at me in a thoughtful manner between wispy rings of smoke. He then moved his queen to a position that would prove to be the final move in one our several soul-searching hangover remedy games of chess. Check-mate. No hope left.
Putting the pieces away, I could not help but relate to the situation the Dallas Cowboys had put themselves in after that embarrassing loss a mere couple of weeks ago. All hope lost as the clock ticked down. 13 – 3 down the proverbial drain. They may as well have had the same record as the 1 - 15 Miami Dolphins.
The nice thing about football, one has to admit, is that at the end of a game, no matter who wins or loses, the earth will still rotate in the same direction as it orbits the same sun. Still, what could have been did not happen. As my poet friend often reminds me, should and is are two separate entities.
He did make an interesting comment regarding what should be the Cowboys’ frame of mind at the moment. “They should, as should their fans, root like mad for the New York Giants to win.
“I’m not one to embark upon clichés, but what happened happened and it’s all water under the bridge and it’s no good to cry over spilled milk and there’s no sense in flogging a dead horse. This may sound like grasping at straws, but there is a straw to wrap their fingers around here. If nothing else, a viable excuse. Think about it.”
I thought about it. He was right in his logic, as he can sometimes be. The Cowboy’s players, coaches and fans really should be pulling in the Giant’s favor.
The Patriots should win. All signs point that way, but again, should and is, etc.
Bill Belichick has put master QB Tom Brady in charge of a fire-breathing, defense-demolishing, dragon. A well oiled machine of a dragon at that.
Tom Coughlin has entrusted the reigns of his workhorse of a team to Eli Manning. Yes, Eli, not the other one who will be sitting and watching just like the rest of us. They do indeed have a mean front four on defense, but that group is backed up by a fairly banged-up secondary.
Then again, what if they manage to pull it off? Does anybody remember the press actually feeling sorry for Muhammad Ali for having to face the sledgehammer fists of George Foreman? Does anyone remember who won that fight? And let’s face it, if the football world collided with the music industry, the Patriots would be to Barry Manilow as the Giants would be to the Ramones. Who’s the tougher dog there? No Michael Vick pun intended there.
But I digress. Back to the Cowboys and why they should be hoping for Meadowland mayhem.
Wade Phillips, in particular, should be crossing his fingers on this one. He could hold a conference in which he apologizes for stating that the better team lost in that bitter tasting playoff game at – at Texas Stadium no less. The team with heart was the appropriate check-mate server.
What better straw to grasp than the sinking-on-the same-ship theory? Hey, it was not just the team from Dallas that was humbled. Every other team in the NFL can watch the ticker tape parade through the streets of New York just like us. Right?
Whatever happens will happen, but in three weeks it will all be water under the bridge and why cry over spilled milk? Go ahead and grasp at straws. The one perfect straw that might wreck an otherwise perfect season for New England could prove to be a beacon of sorts for better days to come in Big D.
####

salsa verde (green picante sauce)

2008-01-23T09:49:00.000-08:00

This is a recipe that we posted a year or so ago and was recently requested. Here you go:

salsa verde de bodega train

1 lb fresh tomatillos (the little green tomatoes)
¼ small white onion
2 med cloves fresh garlic
juice from ½ lime
2 or 3 serrano peppers (depending on how spicy you want it)
a fistful (enough to fill your palm) of fresh cilantro

Remove husks and rinse tomatillos thoroughly. Quarter them for easier blending. Yes, you will need a blender for this stuff. Puree until smooth, but still slightly chunky. Chop onion and add to puree. Squeeze in lime juice and add garlic. Put in 2 serrano peppers and puree again until mixture is smooth. Taste for hotness. Add another Serrano if deemed necessary. Last, add the cilantro and blend until the leaves look more like specks. This really makes the color of the salsa stand out. Hey, aesthetics are important, not to mention the added flavor the cilantro brings to the mix.
A pinch of salt can be added if so desired. Also, a ½ teaspoon olive oil with a ¼ teaspoon vinegar can add to the life of the salsa, but it never lasts long enough around here to worry about. Enjoy.
####

Roy Cushman: A Smile File

2008-01-19T08:05:00.000-08:00

Roy Cushman, a kind soul who will be missed by all who know and love him, died Saturday, December 22nd, 2007.
That is the beginning line of his obituary. Roy will truly be missed. He is one of those rare people absolutely liked by all. One has to marvel at his unique sense of interaction with fellow humans as well as canines and as far as I know, any other creature roaming the planet fortunate enough to cross paths with him.
It probably goes without saying that most people having ever associated with Roy have fond memories concerning both his wit and friendliness. Ask anyone who ever met the guy and the first words out of their mouth will be, “He’s funny.” He really was one of the funnier people around. He also happened to be an accomplished artist ( He did a fantastic watercolor of me and good buddy Rocco taken from a photo outside the door of Zero’s on closing night.) as well as an avid cyclist.
Roy had a knack for being able to balance a life of work, recreation, time with family, time with friends and time with self as well as time for making new friends. Again, a unique interaction.
I have referred recently to his sense of humor as being slightly twisted, but more accurate terms might be esoteric or just plain Royish.
One example, and I have quoted this statement to friends over the years. The FW Cats had recently performed in Nacogdoches (this being in the early 80s) and the temperature out there must have been in the teens.
The band stayed at a lady’s house in the country and all of us were shivering throughout the night. I explained the scenario to Roy by saying, “ Man, Roy. It was freezing in there and I was under at least six blankets.” Roy looked at me with a straight face and said, “Hey pal, nobody MADE you get under all those blankets.”
Then again, on the twisted side, any body who has ever been on the receiving end of the gag shock box disguised as a dinner-to-go at Fred’s Café can thank Roy V. Cushman for that joyous jolt.
The sweet side would always turn out around Christmas, when he would don a Santa Suit and make rounds to all the houses of his friends that had children. Oddly, just knowing Roy with his mannerisms and high pitched voice, he came across as a pretty convincing Santa. To us adults, he was just Roy in a Santa suit, but to the kids, he was the real deal.
Mexico. Roy showed up to visit Beth and I in San Miguel de Allende a few years back. He stumbled off the bus with a ridiculously gargantuan bulk of luggage and tray of bottled water that would probably last anybody a few months in the Sahara. “For some reason, guys, I’ve just never learned to travel light.” We all had a good laugh about that and he checked himself into the first apartment we showed him.
He moved about a week later into a place on the opposite end of town, but had found the new place through some of his new friends. I swear, I had only introduced him to about two people.
Bear in mind that my wife and I had lived there for several years. Within two weeks, and I am not exaggerating, Roy had more acquaintances than either one of us.
“Hey Roy, you ever seen that lady that dresses her chihuahua in the same outfit as she wears? Bizarre.”
“Hey, Dave. They really are nice people once you get to know them. They’ve invited me to dinner sometime soon.”
He also, due to being neighbors with them, befriended a group of college students down there that quickly started referring to him as “Uncle Roy” as he somehow got the point across to them that not all middle aged people are uncool.
On the other hand, he could be funny without the intention of being so. One night, at a watering hole in San Miguel, Roy kept ordering drinks for me, or himself or Beth. He would speak loudly and with confidence to the bartender –“Basura!”
Basura, translated, means garbage. When I asked him why he kept saying that, he blinked and asked, “That’s not the way you say thank you?”
Another non-intentional moment of funniness occurred at the Alborada, which is a fireworks display that begins at exactly 4:00 AM and lasts for an hour. Fireworks are shot over, around and into the crowd. We explained this to Roy as he stayed up with us all night before heading into town to witness the event.
Just after 4:00, when the show was kicking into gear, Roy turned to me and said, “Dave? They don’t really shoot the rockets into the cro..” Blam! A bottle rocket the size of a small shampoo bottle blew up against his back. At that point, we were all deaf and he lobbied by means of gesturing that perhaps we should move under a nearby awning.
As far as being kind to canines goes, there are all sorts of stray dogs running about day and night in San Miguel. I remember many times meeting Roy at the town square and seeing him with a baggy in hand full of dog treats. There would seemingly always be some scraggly mutt that he would be feeding and telling it what a good dog it was.
Anyway, so as not to go on rambling too long, that Mexico trip was one of the last times I really spent any time with Roy. There are obviously many other stories and perhaps they can be told at another time.
Just before boarding the bus that would take him back stateside, he thanked us for “everything.” He thanked us? Hey, I think it’s probably the other way around if not at the very least mutual. Adios, Roy.
####

Dallas Cowboys (the staggered swagger)

2008-01-14T19:04:00.000-08:00

The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side. All the media, local and otherwise, spell out the horrid details all about the derailing of the Dallas Cowboys at the merciless hands of the New York Giants.
How could this have happened? Superior talent should trump naïve enthusiasm – right?
Fingers will be pointed in many directions. Patrick Crayton dropped the ball (literally) when trying to live up to his talk. Tony Romo looked oh so so-so under pressure. That leads to the offensive line’s woes. Needless to say, the defense was thinking about resting up in the locker room while Mr. Eli took it to them in the form of a perfect scoring drive just before the half.
How could this have happened? Coach Phillips assured us all that everything was alright. A 13 – 3 season cannot be a lie.
Perplexed, I phoned my poet friend to get his take on the situation. While seemingly a tad irritated by the early morning call and claiming not to be much of a football fan, he did manage to apply some perspective.
“Look. Think in terms of music. Think about live rock’n’roll bands. A good band can put on a decent show in front of two or three hundred people. A really good band can put forth the same energy for a crowd of three people. “
He then excused himself from the phone as he was apparently preparing breakfast tacos for some friends visiting from New York. It had something to do with a bet he had made concerning the game.
Anyway, I considered his comments for the better part of the morning and decided he was right, even if in a round about way. His logic transfers us from the most recent and terrible defeat to a couple of weeks ago.
The Washington Redskins were foe of the day and the talk shows were full of football pundits debating the logic of resting starters for a so-called meaningless game, or going all out for the win. A win would have meant a franchise record in that category.
The Cowboys, we were told by many, had nothing to play for. They had already secured the division title, a bye week and home field advantage throughout the playoffs. Why not take it easy?
Now, the Giants were sort of in the same situation, although not quite as lofty. While they had made the playoffs, their games would be on the road. Still, their final game, against the mighty Patriots no less, did not mean anything as far as their post season aspirations were concerned.
They came out and played every able body as if this were the last game in which they would ever participate. To their credit, so did the Patriots, who were and still are, as of this writing, undefeated. What resulted was an entertaining game within the lexicon of what lesser teams would consider meaningless.
Okay. That brings us right back around to the Cowboys.
They cared not whether or not they won the game against Washington and it showed in an ugly way. Injured players are excused in this instance, but why not treat the game as though it matters. There are fans who pay ridiculous amounts of their earned money to see a contest rather than a yawnfest.
To play a game as though it does not matter is a slap in the face to whatever integrity any sport lays claim. The playoff game loss to the Giants is merely a reflection of what it takes to not be a championship caliber team.
The boys from Dallas were clearly dreaming of next week. Why the sudden conservative play calling? Could it have come from fear of a team that was truly hungry and appropriately aggressive?
Until the Dallas Cowboys learn to treat each game as though it were a championship, next week will always be an ever vanishing mirage.
####

daytime tv

2008-01-09T14:10:00.000-08:00

Well, sitting around useless with a broken foot that is seemingly in no hurry to heal, one would think that I would be at this screen blogging constantly, writing short stories (my favorite ), or preparing queries to send off. I have been working on a couple of tunes, but even that at more than just a leisurely pace.
One excuse is that it is hard to keep a leg propped while typing. At least it is for me.
Ah, but one culprit easily blamed here is the curse of, does it even need to be mentioned? – Daytime TV. Ughh.
It started innocently enough. Having already read the paper, I was really in no hurry to do anything else, so the remote somehow made its way into my hand and the clicking began.
Now, this is not such a problem on weekends as one can stare mindlessly at football hours on end. As you are well aware, millions of people do this without even having the excuse of an injury.
During the week can be a different story. Immediately ruling out any of the ridiculous soaps, I began the other mindless venture of surfing channels. Not having watched any daytime TV in years, this would if nothing else, prove to be an education of sorts.
There is a positive side. Both The Daily Show and The Colbert Report have early showings starting at 10:00. I skip The 700 Club.
The Oxygen channel has an array of listings, often incorrect. Bad Girls Club seems to get the most airplay and is worth watching for ten minutes or so just to see how low the good taste quotient has become. This thing usually runs several times a day, sometimes back to back. Not only are these girls not bad, but simply brats, as far as party people go, I’m talking pure lightweights here.
Then there are the judge shows. One features celebrities as jurors. At least that’s what it looks like they are doing. I have not watched enough of it to figure it out. Other judge shows are probably typical of small claims courts. I’ll give decent grades to both Judge Mathis and Maria Lopez. The latter recently referred to a plainiff as not having the brains that God gave a billy goat. One has to chuckle.
Finally, there is a show that can easily suck you in if you’re not careful called Snapped. This is a reality based show based on various murders and the ways in which police detectives solve them. The stories, more often than not, surround a mistress or a greedy wife out after a husbands wealth.
If nothing else, one is exposed to the fact that it is not easy to commit a high profile murder. Then again, it is. It’s just hard to do it without getting caught. I’ll avoid making any Cullen Davis remarks.
That’s it for daytime adventure today. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.
####

christmas music/therapy

2007-12-17T20:29:00.000-08:00

I am a creature of habit. That being said, the year was 1980. The sun had already bid adieu and there was a chill in the air. The date? December 24th. John Lennon had been gunned down a mere 16 days prior.
Christmas generally strikes me as a melancholy time of year and I wanted nothing more than to just be left alone, so I lied to my family and claimed to have a gig that night.
Not so much of a stretch as I had performed at DJs in Dallas the previous Christmas eve.
To this day, oddly, that stands as my favorite show ever. The club was packed and I realized that so many people must seem out of touch once the holiday season rolls around and they have nothing much to do.
That, however, is another story.
I lived in an apartment complex in Hurst that was situated on the westbound access road off the airport freeway. On the other side of the highway existed a gas station with a lot next to it that was selling off Christmas trees at a very reasonable discount. It was, after all, the last time they would be open for business. Or at least until another year would pass.
For whatever reason, there were some old decorations in the back of the closet, so I walked over to the place and purchased a small tree. I figured it could fill space for about a week and would come down on New Year’s Day.
The desire to go to the store for groceries did not sound at all appealing, so I merely whipped up a batch of Hamburger Helper stroganoff. I really can cook, but hey, the stuff was in the pantry. Plus, I had plenty of Carlo Rossi wine and a 12er of beer, so I was pretty much set. (For those too young to remember, 18 used to be the legal age to buy alcoholic beverages.)
Now all that was left to add to the ambiance was some mood music to share with the tiny tree as it was being decorated. Now, these three records I am about to mention really have nothing to do with Christmas per se. They did, however, bring a sense of the world being an accepting place on a lonely night.
I would imagine not everybody would choose the same three, but they worked for me. With the exception of living outside the country and not having access to them, I play these same albums every year sometime around the eve of the big day. Sort of a self-hibernation, if you will.
Curious? Here we go. I shall list the selection in the order I played them that night as I created a tree shrine as an ode to solitude:

1) ‘End Of The Century’– The Ramones
This is far from their best recording effort, but does have sort of a sadness about it that the others do not. Also a bit different is that it was produced by Phil Spector. This would probably explain why the best track on the thing is a remake of Baby I Love You. Joey Ramone outdoes himself on this one. It’s the first song on side two. I always start with that side.

2) ‘drums and wires’- XTC
Okay, think of early Beatles if they had been really excited about their new material, so excited in fact that they decided to take downers before recording it.
One of my favorite records of all time. It got me all the way to the hanging of the icicles on my tiny , yet now colorful tree.

3) ‘For Your Pleasure’- Roxy Music
Hanging icicles on a tree is a slow and delicate procedure. They need to be patiently placed, one at a time, like the rhythm of waves gently splashing on a welcoming shore.
For Your Pleasure is the second Roxy Music LP and will take you right there.

Okay. That’s it. Just wanted to share. Perhaps you can find your own collection of make-peace-with the holidays music. These just happen to be my choices left over from another time that refuses to be forgotten.
####

foul ball

2007-12-14T16:24:00.000-08:00

Call me naïve. Call me out of the loop of logical thinking. Call me Moses, but I have what I think is a fairly understandable question.
Can somebody please tell me what in the grand scheme of the universe does the federal government possibly have to do with the steroid scandal in sports?
Do they not have more important matters with which to attend?
Now, I do not know all the exact details as to what steroids do exactly, but I can tell you that I am pretty confident I could consume a steady diet of the stuff and never even hit one home run, much less several hundred.
That being said, if major league baseball feels it has a problem, then why do they not deal with it internally? Hey, if some of those guys want to turn themselves into freakish hulks, that’s their business. If, however, it is against the rules set forth, then there can always be fines, bans, suspensions, etc.
Actually, without going into further detail, I can sum up the current baseball scandal in four words:
WHO GIVES A SHIT?
####

no country for old men

2007-12-12T16:33:00.000-08:00

Most frequent movie goers have probably already seen No Country For Old men. For those who have not, click on the following link for an interview/review via the publication FYI
http://fyicorpuschristi.com/2007/11/no-country-for-old-men/

the big break

2007-12-12T14:48:00.000-08:00

Well, hello everybody. I am sure there are millions of Bodega Train fans out there in the blogosphere who have lost sleep as well as appetite from lack of reading posts from this site.
Sorry, been preoccupied with other projects.
The quotient of printed words on this page will probably grow at least a little bit these days if for no other reason than I have a broken foot.
Oh well, at least I now possess a brand new shiny set of crutches.
It’s amazing how many small tasks one performs every day and never even thinks about it. Even going to the refrigerator for a beer can be an adventure. I have that figured out now, but the first day on the crutches, I went to the kitchen and opened a cold beer, salivating. Then started to take it back to the living room, looked down upon both my hands, one on each crutch and just said, “Shit!”
What was I going to do to get from point A to point B. My adorable and brilliant wife laughed, reached under the counter and handed to me a plastic grocery bag. With said bag, I can drop the bottle in and hold the loop with my fingers as I glide back to the sofa. Actually it’s even easier now that the weather has finally acted in a wintry fashion.
I simply wear my robe and slip the beer into a pocket.
Not to sneak in a plug, but Icicle and the kid will be performing at Sarah’s place this Friday night. That would be the 14th of December.
I have not played sitting down since way back in the early 80s due to a faulty appendix. How embarrassing. Hmmm, drummers get to do that all the time. Might as well take my turn.
Wow. This is actually kind of fun. I’ve been dealing with editors the past few few weeks and in here, I can just go kahgng;erhg’nkgirng and nobody cares.
Anyway, I’m going to go and do my beer trick and think of crap to post in here. Just have to see how my mood flows.
Adios por ahora,
Me

cry for a town without bulls

2007-08-16T15:10:00.000-07:00

So the running of the bulls, also known as the Pamplonada, or more recently the Sanmiguelada has been canceled. What a sad day for not only San Miguel de Allende, but for all of Mexico.
Ostensibly, this has to do with trying to reduce that ever-so-annoying debauchery that takes place during the weekend long festivities. One weekend out of the year. Look at what you get the rest of the time. There is plenty of tranquility to last a lifetime, even with the perpetual fireworks.
Also, the “powers that be” are vying for San Miguel to enter the privileged lexicon of world heritage sites. Whatever that means, it depends on the approval of UNESCO (United nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization) who apparently disapprove of such an event.
Personally, if I were the mayor, I would tell UNESCO to take a hike. They can either accept San Miguel for the town that it is or go about their merry way.
Debauchery? Mayor Jesus Correa has obviously never heard of Mardi Gras or Super Bowl weekend.
Okay, I am aware that there was a shooting last year.
I am also aware that two women were recently raped and murdered. One of these unfortunate and tragic incidents took place in Parque Juarez. Is the mayor going to declare the park to be closed?
Mayor Correa’s analogy comparing the running of the bulls with a wayward child is more than a little off base. Does a parent with a wayward child dispose of said child, or do they find a way to deal with the situation?
Why not make a few changes? How about this?
Take some tips from Pamplona. Instead of letting the bulls loose in the topsy-turvy fashion it is done these days, route them to the Plaza de Los Toros.
There are several routes that would work. Let them out in front of the Ignacio Allende museum and run them east toward San Francisco where they would have to turn right and head toward whatever the name of the street is that El Pegaso is on. They then could gallop down Correo until reaching Recreo when they could then make a straight sprint to the ring.
This could happen a time or two each day over a period of, oh, let’s say three days with a corrida scheduled for each afternoon. There. Is that so difficult?
By canceling this event, San Miguel de Allende, at least this year, has lost an integral piece of its charm and history.

####

Alice Cooper: Golf Monster - 12 steps to becoming a golf addict

2007-08-14T13:43:00.000-07:00

Being the insomniac that I am, the other night found me pacing the living room and wondering exactly how many steps it takes to walk over to the beer store. I did not bother with this endeavor as it was too late to buy beer, at least legally.
On one of my carpeted laps I spied the stack of books my wife had picked up from the library earlier in the day.
I lifted it and gazed for a few seconds at the cover which consists of Alice Cooper holding up a blood dripping golf club. The title of the book?
Alice Cooper: Golf Monster. 12 steps to becoming a golf addict.
This struck me as a tad humorous, so why not give it a try? I mean, I have always been an Alice Cooper fan. (Who really deep down could not be?) Heck, that was one of the first concerts I ever witnessed way back in the mid 70s. I definitely remember the guillotine
routine.
Now, golf does not interest me as much as it, what’s the right word? Bores me. I can appreciate it and all, but do not care to watch it and do not possess the patience or skill to play it.
Opening the front page with some trepidation, I began reading. Then kept reading and then read even more. Surprise! This thing is fascinating. Very well written and very easy to read.
Cooper manages to intertwine the horrors of severe alcoholism, the life of a rock’n’roll star and the peace one can find if they can manage to trade in a deadly addiction for a healthy one. If nothing else, golf can be used by the reader as a metaphor.
However, if you happen to be into golf, you will find tips on swings, grips and course etiquette. He also lets us into his head a little in order to explain just exactly why he finds the game so appealing.
The people he’s hung out with over the years range from the ones you would expect such as Iggy Pop and Led Zeppelin as well as some surprises. The one that comes to mind there is Groucho Marx.
Also revealed are little tidbits of history such as how and why the name Alice Cooper came about.
So in closing, what we have here is a unique combination of an autobiography, a rock’n’roll history lesson, and an insider’s view into the game of golf.
An interesting read indeed. Open and enjoy.
####

the dog -eat-dog world of michael vick

2007-08-13T22:03:00.000-07:00

The following is not a moral indictment, but rather one of observation. Hmmm. Let me start by giving an example. Years upon years ago, I went to see with some friends a movie called THE ROAD WARRIOR. Actually a very well made action thriller staring Mel Gibson, and cast of unknowns (I guess, unless maybe known if you lived in Australia at the time), but I digress.
The movie, while enjoyable, was quite violent. There was much death and mutilation. Now, one of these unknowns happened to be a dog that belonged to the protagonist.
There was also much humor in the flick. But to get to the point, people either giggled in some parts or simply remained quiet. There was silence in the theater through human suffering galore. Then came the scene in which the dog was harpooned to death.
A collective groan from the audience ensued. You can probably see where I am going here. Take any story and kill off as many people you care to, but abuse a dog and you will be met with rage.
Trust me. I once wrote an article for a publication extolling the virtues of bullfighting that generated weeks of hate mail referring to me with just about every legally printable skewering.
I admit to being fascinated by the bullfights and have actually covered them for a bilingual publication in Mexico. Now, there is a vast difference between the bullfights and the dogfights. First of all, the term “bullfight” does not translate very well into English. The Spanish term is ‘corrida.,” which roughly translates into “run.” For those unfamiliar with the concept, it is more like a death ritual in the form of a spontaneous ballet.
While I have never attended a dogfight, there is nothing to translate. These are animals bred to do exactly what they are doing. Whether it is morally right or wrong is not the point I am about to make.
If one is seated at a bullfight, they can pretty much be sure that they are in a Latin country where the practice is accepted. On the other hand, if attending a dogfight in the USA, one can be assured of being ostracized and cast into the nearest clinker. It is not socially accepted or anywhere near being legal.
Michael Vick, if found guilty, had better be prepared to spend a vast quantity of his football fortune on of group of lawyers that are a guaranteed victory in court, if such an entity exits. A group of sympathetic jurors will be a few and far between proposition.
More than the actual fighting events, it will probably be the horrendous methods of executing the animals that performed poorly that will be the proverbial last straw in the public mind.
If Vick is found guilty, he had better drop to his knees and beg forgiveness with tears in his eyes. If found innocent, he had better drop to his knees with tears in his eyes and scream thanks at the top of his lungs.
If found innocent, his main crime will been associating with the wrong people and being at the wrong place at the wrong time with an addendum of a lapse in personal judgment.
If guilty, his main crime will have been stupidity.
If he serves time, he will probably get to know first hand the meaning of dog-eat-dog.
####

SceneShop: Lost and Found

2007-08-07T19:22:00.000-07:00

The day begins. Candles are lighted and incense is burning. Cold beer at my side. I glance over at the program for SceneShop’s Lost and Found. Now I remember the resplendent evening spent at Arts 5th Avenue last Saturday night.
Lost and Found is a three-skit, two-part play that delivers a humorous view of life situations in a way that does not really hit you until the next day when it forces its way into the memory bank of your mind.
That is not to say that it is not very, very entertaining at the moment. It’s just the syndrome of waking up the next day and then thinking about it.
It is hard to break down the premise of this collaboration without giving away any of the intoxicating surprises that flow all around and about.
The first piece in Act 1 is titled “You Get What You Pray For,” which is a brilliant reminder to all of us that we have all been either teenagers or parents or dysfunctional families or all of the above.
The next piece is titled “The Hundred Dollar Hug,” and is probably my favorite entry into this show as it exposes the paranoia we as humans all have as far as motives and rewards.
At this time comes an intermission with music provided by the band known as Corneal Abrasion. By the way, just to save you from having to read an “If –You-Go,” they play a set before the show begins and the number to call to get reservations is as follows: 817-923-9500.
The address is 1628 5th Avenue, Fort Worth, Tx, 76104.
Okay. Act II is written and directed by Steven Alan McGaw and is not to be missed. The title for that thing is “How I Lost That Job,” and is worth seeing if not for the mispronunciation of the main character’s name and a verbal proclamation that I have actually repeated a few times after seeing the show, but just for the joy of knowing that you are not alone out there.
Bodegatrain says check it out. You’ll be glad you did.
####

Departure: Corpus Christi / Arrival: Fort Worth

2007-08-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are, back in the panther city again. The relatively cool weather felt more than just a little merciful upon our arrival. Then again, it was almost impossible to see the highway due to the torrential rains encountered upon entering this county known as Tarrant.
I must admit to being fortunate to have arrived at all as the load in the gigantic rental truck I was driving shifted and had me weaving all across the road for a few horrifying seconds. My wife was following me and it damn near scared her speechless. It was not exactly a positive experience as far as blood pressure goes on my part either.
But, as I earlier stated, here we are.
I must admit that I will miss watching the shrimp boats head out to bay in the wee hours of the morning. I shall also miss feeding my gull friends and talking to the jellyfish. Okay, I know that last part seems a bit strange, but they listened and did not seem to mind my taking of their generous time. They are somewhat iridescent and being somewhat of an insomniac, they made for good company.
Okay, enough of that. First thing I did after getting somewhat settled was to call my years-long buddy Icicle and talk him into noodling around a bit on some songs we may not remember all that well. Hmmm. That was after I happened into a local bar called Sarah’s Place that features live music on Friday evenings. I booked Icicle and the Kid for a gig that will take place on October 5th. Van Eric Martin: AKA-Brian Oblivion will be drumming his heart out as usual.
Hopefully, I can land a last gig at the Wreck Room before the doors close for the last time. By the way, it is nice to be back in the land of really good Mexican food. One would think that Corpus Christi would be overrun with good joints as such. Alas, that is not the case.
New home. New computer. Old town and old friends. Good feeling and an old warm beer that needs to be replaced with a new cold one.
Adios por ahora.

anniversary # 5 and # 9 too

2007-05-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

Nine years ago, almost to the day, I was nursing a cold beer at a place called the Wreck Room in Fort Worth, Texas. Scribbling in a notebook with what a friend once referred to as a stub-assed pencil, my thoughts were interrupted by an acquaintance I had not seen in quite some time.
We engaged in some small talk, which eventually led to the question of whether or not I was seeing anybody. The answer to the inquiry was to the negative and she told me that there was someone I should probably meet. “She’s really pretty and about your same age.”
Needless to say, I forgot about the conversation altogether.
A couple of nights later, Icicle and the Kid (my band whenever I am in FW) played a benefit for the Hip Pocket Theater at the White Elephant Saloon.
The girl I should meet walked in and I wondered why my friend kept smiling and pointing at her. Then I remembered the night at the Wreck Room. I am generally shy, but had consumed enough liquid bread that I gathered up the nerve to introduce myself.
Fantastic eyes, I thought to myself.
She was an absolute delight to speak with. I even called my friend the next day and told her how much I enjoyed the experience of meeting this woman.
It was only about two or three nights later that I was sitting in the Wreck Room again, furiously writing nonsense and sucking down a few cold ones.
In she walked. She said hi and I asked her if she might want to play some pool.
She cocked her head slightly sideways. “Do you think there is an open table?”
“I shall will there to be one,” I replied with unusual arrogance.
I must admit that I am surprised she did not walk away with a frown at that very moment. But no, there was an open table and we were living together approximately three months later, if not sooner than that.
Four years later, we had moved to Mexico and wed ourselves in San Miguel de Allende in a small chapel in the botanic gardens there. No priest. No Judge. No witnesses. Just ourselves and two rings and our vows to one another.
I smile.
####

bobby soxx

2007-05-17T11:03:00.000-07:00

Having read the name of Bobby Soxx recently via the Stash Dauber, I figured I had to offer a little input as well as insight. I always considered the late Señor Soxx a friend as well as a genuine madman with talent to boot.
Everyone who ever knew the man has at least one good story to tell. Here are a few memories to share:
I suppose I should start with the first time I ever met Bobby. I was playing in a band called The Visitors at a club called DJs over in Dallas. I do believe the year to have been 1979 and we were opening, if memory serves correct, for The Fort Worth Cats. A half year later would see me join that band, but that’s another story.
Anyway, I was sitting with fellow band members sipping on a cold beer and noticed a spike-haired, tattoo-covered guy wearing glasses that resembled the type worn by Elvis Costello. He seemed a bit on the hyper side and was walking around talking to anyone who would listen or not listen. He cared not one way or other.
Having emptied my beer mug, I strolled to the bar and ordered another. After paying, I turned around and fear gripped me as I saw that my seat had been taken by this guy. DJ’s was a tiny place and there was no place else to sit, so I thought I would just wander back over there and stand until he left to go about his business. Keep in mind the year here and realize that Bobby stood out with considerable authority. For that matter, he would probably still stand out today even with the proliferation of the tattoo generation.
Walking to just the side of him, I took a drink and tried to casually gaze around as the music on stage steadily gained volume.
Bobby leapt to his feet, grinned a Bobbyish grin and put his arm around my shoulder. “Oh man! I didn’t mean to take your seat! Here! Sit your ass back down! You rock on that bass man!”
Talk about a relief. Some of that relief came in retrospect as I began to hear more tales of his manic nature and as I grew to know him better.

A couple of months later at the same cub, which was a place, by the way, where one never knew who might show up. I encountered the likes of Dee Dee Ramone, David Byrne and Devo.
This particular night it was just us lowly locals and Bobby was fronting a band known as The Teenage Queers which was actually a concoction of a couple of the
Telephones and some other guy who’s name I do not recall.
We had just played and during a break in the music, Me, my singer and Bobby were out on the front stoop drinking bottled beer. I mention bottles because they were not cans and that seems more important in just a few seconds.
Now, Bobby had shaved his head in strips that ran lengthwise on his skull. He was wearing nothing but a blue and white striped raincoat. I was just in jeans and a T-shirt and my singer donned bright white pants that were soon to be bloodied. I think he had on some sort of bowler’s shirt, but do not really remember.
While we were enjoying some light conversation, a small green car pulled up to the corner. I think it was a Gremlin or a Pacer or some such vehicle of the times.
“Fuck all you fucking punk rockers!” one of the guys (there were three or four of them in the car) screamed form the window.
Bobby’s eyes lit up and he screamed, “Eat death, scum!” He then proceeded to smash his bottle against the corner of the wall, cutting his hand, thus splattering blood all across the sidewalk as well as my singer’s nice white pants.
At this point Bobby took off at a full run toward the car and I swear I have never seen the look of terror before like I saw in the eyes of the passengers as well as the driver of that car. Vroom? Vrooom? Vroooooom? Off they drove as fast as that piece of shit car could take them, but not before having the remnants of a beer bottle crash across their rear windshield. I never could tell if that broke or not. They never came back.
I was laughing hard. All my singer could was laugh too until he looked down.
“Goddammit! Look what he did to these brand new pants!”

This next story is one I heard second hand. The Stranglers were playing at the Hot Club in Dallas and Bobby somehow managed to make his way upstairs to the dressing room. The band told him to leave and he refused, telling them they would have to throw him out. So they grabbed him and threw him out the door and down the stairs.
Pissed off at this point, Bobby went out to the parking lot and slashed the tires on their tour bus. I was not there, but the story is probably somewhat, if not all the way accurate.

Wow! This is getting lengthier than I thought it would. I will close out with the story of what has to be the longest back bend by any band member anywhere. I used to do that a lot during leads or just bridges of songs. I would keep playing, but would bend backward in ridiculous fashion until I had to sing again or just got tired of it and wanted to move on.
I did this at some club one night. I do not remember where, but Bobby, an avid Cats fan was in the crowd and on the dance floor. This might have been at Zero’s over on Lancaster in Fort Worth.
Bending back, I saw Bobby stop hopping around and quickly walk to the front of the stage. He then proceeded to grab the end of my bass and began performing simulated oral sex on the thing. Christ! I was afraid of accidentally knocking out a few of his teeth.
Eventually, I was able to reach my right hand out far enough to give him a light slap to the side of his head. He just laughed and went back to hopping and gyrating all across the dance floor.

I am not sure exactly when Bobby died. Probably, I was in Mexico at the time. I do, however, remember the last time I ever saw him.
There was a reunion gig of several bands performing at the Major Theater in Dallas. We were all allowed about three or four songs.
I think we played three of our tunes and then invited Bobby Soxx up to sing Holidays in the Sun. He looked over at me and grinned, then glared at the crowd with a snarl that only he was truly capable of snarling.
####

carl and the passions (so tough)

2007-05-08T14:12:00.000-07:00

I might not have the largest collection of LPs in the state of Texas, but there are a few hundred here stacked in old Sound Warehouse crates and many of them worth listening to now and again. By the way, I never have bought into the argument that CDs sound any better than LPs. They just sound different. Try looking at it, or hearing as it were, like the difference between videotape and film.
Sunday mornings in this humble apartment by the bay usually consist of cooking a nice light breakfast while gently sipping on a cold beer and putting the turntable to good use with the likes of the Velvet Underground or perhaps an occasional movie soundtrack.
All my records are pretty much in alphabetical order and last Sunday found me perusing near the front of the alphabet and coming across something almost forgotten.
Forgotten probably by me as well as most anybody on the planet. And that factor would depend upon how many people have even ever heard the thing. I put it on and let it go for a blissful Sunday morning spin.
The album is titled “So Tough” and was recorded by a little known band that called themselves Carl and the Passions. If you are fortunate enough to be able to find this jewel, by all means snag it. Then light some candles and incense and play it while doing whatever it is you are doing with anyone you happen to be with or if alone.
There are no hits on this record. No. This is just a good solid collection of very easy-to-listen-to tunes. There exists a plodding beauty within each song and they blend into one another like various hues offered by a cloudy sunrise.
Think along the lines of a cross between The Band and Leon Russell. The lead vocals are a bit rough, but with a tender touch. The background vocals are sung sweet and to perfection and there is a reason for this as will be revealed in just a second.
Pop soul is not a regular if ever used term, but this is what we are speaking of here.
Okay, the way I came across “So Tough” was by being lucky enough to visit some friends who were having a sort of garage sale of old records. The record in question, by the way, was released in 1972 on Warner Bros.
It is part of a double LP set with another, more well known record that goes by the title of “Pet Sounds.’
Yep! Turns out that Carl and the Passions have a pseudonym. That other name would be The Beach Boys. Go figure.
####

vanishing point

2007-05-05T14:03:00.000-07:00

I had not seen Vanishing Point in years. After watching Grindhouse and the obvious homage to the film in the Death Proof , (The Tarentino segment), I decided to rent it. Netflix actually had a copy, so why not a good night of a really long car chase.
Barry Newman stars in this flick about a guy named James Kowalski (a speed freak in at least two senses of the word) who transports cars and makes a bet that he can deliver a 1970 Dodge Charger from Colorado to California in 15 hours.
He manages to outrun and outsmart motorcycle cops, cruiser cops and helicopter cops. He meets gay robber hitchhikers, a nude woman on a motorcycle and is communicated to by a blind DJ brilliantly portrayed by Cleavon Little. You might remember him as the sheriff in Blazing Saddles.
The tension mounts in clever fashion with the use of various flashbacks that offer slight insight into what makes the speeder who he is.
While on the surface, this movie can seem like just another 70s action flick, there is a dark and brooding spirit about it that makes for a sometimes uncomfortable yet thrilling ride.
Bodega Train says check it out if you can find it. A unique adventure indeed.
####

iggy pop

2007-04-24T11:29:00.000-07:00

So Iggy Pop recently turned 60 years of age. Good for you, Iggy. That ranks as amazing as the fact that Keith Richards is still roaming the planet.
Am I the only one that finds it hilarious that there is a cruise line using as a jingle Lust For Life? It is of course edited more than just a little mildly.
Remember the opening lines to that tune? Here’s a quick refresher:
Here comes Johnny yen again
With the liquor and drugs
And the flesh machine
He’s gonna do another striptease
Hey, man where’d you get that lotion
I been hurting
Since I bought the gimmick
About something called love

I somehow doubt most cruise passengers are extremely familiar with Iggy songs, but who knows? Far be it from me to underestimate anyone’s musical preference. Still, the humor of that particular song being used as a jingle smacks me with a strong sense of irony.
While on the subject, I can strongly suggest that anyone familiar with the David Bowie tune known as China Girl listen to Iggy Pop’s version. He did, after all, write the lyrics and his soulful, yet manic wailing is beyond comparison. That track is found on an LP known as “The Idiot.” I would imagine a CD exits by now either as the original or as part of a compilation.
####

Grindhouse (A Must See B)

2007-04-11T04:40:00.000-07:00

Okay. Who remembers going to drive-in theaters? For those who answer in the affirmative, make haste in going to see Grindhouse. You will need to have three or so hours to spare, but the small price of time is well worth it.
This is actually two movies tied together by some pretty funny, false trailers.
The first entry is by Robert Rodriguez and is not much more than a gory remake of Night of the Living Dead with a few twists thrown in.
The second feature stars Kurt Russell and is definitely a celebration of pointless B-grade movies. It seems slow at the start, but toward the latter part exhibits the best car chase since the original Bullet. Women, by the way, will appreciate the premise which will not be given away here.

Bodega Train currently does not have a formal rating system, so let’s just give Grindhouse a fun*fun*fun*!

LOST, WKRP and Gilligan's Island

2007-03-28T14:24:00.000-07:00

Okay. The connection between Lost. Gilligan’s Island and WKRP is actually a bit shallow, but holds water nonetheless.
This is really quite simple. Take the idea of being stranded. The first two afore mentioned shows involve an island and the third involves a nowhere job.
I have to admit here that guys will recognize the scenario right off the bat, but women may scratch their heads for a second or two.
There exists a timeless debate involving men on being stranded with beautiful women. I am the first to admit that if one has to be stranded anywhere, the women on Lost pretty much fill the bill as far as desirability.
But I digress. The question that comes to mind is this: Are you a Ginger guy or a Mary Ann guy? My personal choice would go to Mary Ann. Now fast forward to WKRP. Are you a Jennifer guy or a Bailey guy? My choice there has to go in Bailey’s direction. Now there is LOST and I confess to being a “Freckles” guy, while my brother-in-law prefers Claire.
Just in case she’s reading this, I do indeed prefer the charms of my wife to any of the above fictional choices.
Anyway, there you go. The LOST connection.
Adios por ahora.
####

LOST (within the span of about 2 weeks)

2007-02-28T12:03:00.000-08:00

I have never been a big fan of network TV. Not much of any kind of TV for that matter save for movies that can be purchased or rented. Okay. I do admit that I, at one point in life, cherished the hour of 5:30 PM when I would partake upon a vodka martini and watch reruns of WKRP.
To get to the point, I am a newcomer to the show known as LOST. I had read reviews, but one always has to take those rantings with a grain of salt, or in this case salt water. But then came the advice from my wife’s sister that no episode of LOST should be missed. Usually, this woman has sound advice, but perhaps, I thought to myself, she slipped a bit in her discriminatory taste.
She then began to compare it to an old British show called The Prisoner. That comparison got my attention.
So off my sweetie and I went to the video store and rented the first few episodes of the first season. Everyone by now knows the premise of the show. A plane crashes on an island and things are not at all as one would expect. As in, why are there white bears running around loose in the jungle and who are the “others” supposed to be?
Can’t get into much more detail here without revealing a little too much plot, but the show, Bodega Train has to admit, works to an astounding perfection. There may be the occasional cliché line here and there, but it usually ties in with something that has either just happened or is a vague foreshadowing.
The characters are all intriguing and we as the audience are treated to glimpses of their past which gives insight regarding the unique personalities of each stranded victim.
The best thing is that no one is safe from being killed off on any given episode. Surprises abound.
Tonight will be the first of the show that we have actually watched on the network (ABC) as opposed to renting the DVD. We ran through the first two seasons in, literally, about two weeks.
The vodka is in the freezer, vermouth on a tray and a lemon ready for peeling. Martini time indeed. Looks like a new WKRP finally rode into town.
{ By the way, there is a connection of sorts between WKRP, LOST and Gilligan’s Island, but that can be saved for another time.)
####