October 31, 2010
GUEST COMMENTARY BY THE GREAT SUGAR BLUE: NOW YOU GET MAD?
Editor's Note: Sugar Blue, born James Whiting and a son of Harlem, NYC, is an accomplished harmonica player, singer and songwriter. Most people are familiar with his unforgettable harmonica work on the Rolling Stones' song "Miss You," with his melodic and passionate harp work propelling and defining that classic song. A favorite of music critics and blues afficionados, Sugar's music can be heard and purchased at sugar-blue.com. These insightful observations on the Tea Party movement and the conservative cry to "take back America" are taken intact from his Facebook Page.
You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.
You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed Energy company officials to dictate Energy policy and push us to invade Iraq.
You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed. You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.
You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.
You didn't get mad when we spent over 800 billion (and counting) on said illegal war.
You didn't get mad when Bush borrowed more money from foreign sources than the previous 42 Presidents combined.
You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars in cash just disappeared in Iraq.
You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.
You didn't get mad when Bush embraced trade and outsourcing policies that shipped 6 million American jobs out of the country.
You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.
You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.
You didn't get mad when Bush rang up 10 trillion dollars in combined budget and current account deficits.
You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed. You didn't get mad when we let a major US city, New Orleans, drown.
You didn't get mad when we gave people who had more money than they could spend, the filthy rich, over a trillion dollars in tax breaks.
You didn't get mad with the worst 8 years of job creations in several decades.
You didn't get mad when over 200,000 US Citizens lost their lives because they had no health insurance.
You didn't get mad when lack of oversight and regulations from the Bush Administration caused US Citizens to lose 12 trillion dollars in investments, retirement, and home values.
You finally got mad when a black man was elected President and decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.
Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, job losses by the millions, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, and the worst economic disaster since 1929 are all okay with you, but helping fellow Americans who are sick...Oh, No Way!!!!
You didn't get mad when the Supreme Court stopped a legal recount and appointed a President.
You didn't get mad when Cheney allowed Energy company officials to dictate Energy policy and push us to invade Iraq.
You didn't get mad when a covert CIA operative got outed. You didn't get mad when the Patriot Act got passed.
You didn't get mad when we illegally invaded a country that posed no threat to us.
You didn't get mad when we spent over 800 billion (and counting) on said illegal war.
You didn't get mad when Bush borrowed more money from foreign sources than the previous 42 Presidents combined.
You didn't get mad when over 10 billion dollars in cash just disappeared in Iraq.
You didn't get mad when you found out we were torturing people.
You didn't get mad when Bush embraced trade and outsourcing policies that shipped 6 million American jobs out of the country.
You didn't get mad when the government was illegally wiretapping Americans.
You didn't get mad when we didn't catch Bin Laden.
You didn't get mad when Bush rang up 10 trillion dollars in combined budget and current account deficits.
You didn't get mad when you saw the horrible conditions at Walter Reed. You didn't get mad when we let a major US city, New Orleans, drown.
You didn't get mad when we gave people who had more money than they could spend, the filthy rich, over a trillion dollars in tax breaks.
You didn't get mad with the worst 8 years of job creations in several decades.
You didn't get mad when over 200,000 US Citizens lost their lives because they had no health insurance.
You didn't get mad when lack of oversight and regulations from the Bush Administration caused US Citizens to lose 12 trillion dollars in investments, retirement, and home values.
You finally got mad when a black man was elected President and decided that people in America deserved the right to see a doctor if they are sick.
Yes, illegal wars, lies, corruption, torture, job losses by the millions, stealing your tax dollars to make the rich richer, and the worst economic disaster since 1929 are all okay with you, but helping fellow Americans who are sick...Oh, No Way!!!!
October 30, 2010
LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 748
Religion is a lame reason to hate anybody, especially when there are so very many good and juicy reasons to hate someone's friggin' guts.
IT'S CLEAR: AMERICA NEEDS BOB CRESPO IN 2012 FOR VICE PRESIDENT!
The polls are looking grim for the Democrats this election. What many thought was a ridiculous notion just might come to pass this Tuesday; that the Republicans will gain a majority in the House of Representatives, only 2 years removed from their 8 year-long attempted homicide of America as we knew it.
The Young Turks in the Republican Party, not happy with how friggin' nuts and incompetent the Republicans were under Papa Doc Cheney, have gone Rove and Company one better with a bizarre combination of extreme religion, corporate partnership and good old fashioned McCarthyism.
Crazier political wannabes never foamed at the mouth. These people are running the stupidest counter culture since the hippies back in the 60's, who at last had the excuse that they were stoned. These Tea Party people are just dumb, scary stupid.
And yet, a lot of people are still so pissed off at the damage the Republicans did to this country that they're taking it out on Obama, who's 22 months in office has mostly been spent trying to plug the thousand leaks that the Cheney Administration left in the ship of state.
As little sense as it makes to vote for the party that created this mess, it just might happen. The new Republicorp Party and their wholly-owned subsidiary, the Tea Party, Inc., have once again proved P.T. Barnum's genius by persuading millions of people to cast votes guaranteed to directly damage their own lives.
Like rubes at the County Fair buying Dr. Feelgood's Magic Elixir, they are enchanted by the outrageous claims of carnival barkers and hand over their hard-earned for a bottle of absurd dreams. Only too late do they realize they've been screwed yet again.
Thanks to these Young Turks, fear, illusion, slander and lies are gaining the edge over sanity in American politics, and the only public figure to try and stem the insanity is a comedian! Apparently a lot people think it's okay that so many supremely ridiculous people will now have jobs in The United States Congress, people even more ridiculous than some of the wackos already in Congress.
What can President Obama do to recoup these losses in 2012 and hang onto the presidency? Simple, dump Joe Biden and hire me as Vice President! Biden's part of the problem, not the solution! The solution? Simple: Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012!
Nobody wants some earnest old windbag as Vice President, a guy who has a whole bunch of "ideas "and "policies" of his own! That's the friggin' president's job, the guy the people actually voted for!
I have no such baggage and could guarantee President Obama that I won't put in my 2¢ worth at any cabinet meetings. Hell, I won't even show up to the damned things, they're for people who actually run the government, not Vice Presidents.
I suffer no illusions that I can do a better job than the president, and won't have one bit of advice to offer except to just do your very best. And you can bet your ass that I won't take over the country either, like that douchebag Cheney did.
As for the VP job itself, well, what's not to love? I'll have a large staff of assistants and eager young interns to help me do jack shit, a bunch of cool bodyguards with blacks sunglasses, a mansion with a pool, my own damned jumbo jet to go anywhere I feel like, and a huge expense account. The salary is pretty sweet too, 227 grand, a lot of dough for very little effort, and a major boost in my lifestyle.
I'll even have a "Chief of Staff," some guy who actually knows what's going on but isn't quite smart enough to work for the president. Fine by me, I'll keep him busy writing reports that no one will read while I keep my staff in tip-top shape at the Vice Presidential pool. I'll be on call 24/7.
When I'm not entertaining some minor foreign bigshot unworthy of the presidential ear, I'll be flying to the the Riviera or Rio de Janeiro on "fact-finding" missions. In other words, I'll stay out of the way and let the professionals earn their keep.
In my Vice Presidential capacity as President Pro Tem of the Senate, the only time I'll show up there will be to cast a tie-breaking vote in favor of my boss. When questioned on the president's policies, I'll answer "What he said." Unlike most vice presidents, I won't say and do stupid things that embarrass the boss.
No president needs another headache making excuses for his jackass vice president. Hiring me for the job ensures the nation more of the president's time devoted to his job and not to spin control to explain away the blatherings of some loose-lipped political hack.
On the campaign trail, I'll go wherever he asks, and say whatever he tells me to say. I look good in a suit, speak the English language fluently, get along well with almost everybody, and that's about all you want in a vice president
I'm also not afraid to do the dirty work when the job calls for it. For example, I can use the traditional cluelessness of American vice-presidents to the boss' political advantage if he likes, like bringing up rumors about the opposition leaders, wondering out loud about their loyalty to America, illegal campaign contributions, or alleged episodes of bestiality and cross dressing.
Nothing that can be nailed down, of course, just good old fashioned smear politics, guilt by suggestion, tearing a page out of Rove's Swift Boat handbook. While that's below a president, Vice President Bob Crespo would be glad to stoop to conquer.
My eye will remain firmly on the prize: 4 years getting paid for living in a mansion with a pool and a bunch of secretaries and a jet and the best tables at every restaurant on earth and very little to do.
I swear to uphold the finest traditions of the Vice Presidency and be a man you will not remember and who's political accomplishments escape you. Like the great, anonymous mediocrities that have come before me into this (hardly) august office, I will simply be there, and that's about it. America needs a traditional Vice President, not another distraction.
Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012: Dare not to do!
The Young Turks in the Republican Party, not happy with how friggin' nuts and incompetent the Republicans were under Papa Doc Cheney, have gone Rove and Company one better with a bizarre combination of extreme religion, corporate partnership and good old fashioned McCarthyism.
Crazier political wannabes never foamed at the mouth. These people are running the stupidest counter culture since the hippies back in the 60's, who at last had the excuse that they were stoned. These Tea Party people are just dumb, scary stupid.
And yet, a lot of people are still so pissed off at the damage the Republicans did to this country that they're taking it out on Obama, who's 22 months in office has mostly been spent trying to plug the thousand leaks that the Cheney Administration left in the ship of state.
As little sense as it makes to vote for the party that created this mess, it just might happen. The new Republicorp Party and their wholly-owned subsidiary, the Tea Party, Inc., have once again proved P.T. Barnum's genius by persuading millions of people to cast votes guaranteed to directly damage their own lives.
Like rubes at the County Fair buying Dr. Feelgood's Magic Elixir, they are enchanted by the outrageous claims of carnival barkers and hand over their hard-earned for a bottle of absurd dreams. Only too late do they realize they've been screwed yet again.
Thanks to these Young Turks, fear, illusion, slander and lies are gaining the edge over sanity in American politics, and the only public figure to try and stem the insanity is a comedian! Apparently a lot people think it's okay that so many supremely ridiculous people will now have jobs in The United States Congress, people even more ridiculous than some of the wackos already in Congress.
What can President Obama do to recoup these losses in 2012 and hang onto the presidency? Simple, dump Joe Biden and hire me as Vice President! Biden's part of the problem, not the solution! The solution? Simple: Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012!
Nobody wants some earnest old windbag as Vice President, a guy who has a whole bunch of "ideas "and "policies" of his own! That's the friggin' president's job, the guy the people actually voted for!
I have no such baggage and could guarantee President Obama that I won't put in my 2¢ worth at any cabinet meetings. Hell, I won't even show up to the damned things, they're for people who actually run the government, not Vice Presidents.
I suffer no illusions that I can do a better job than the president, and won't have one bit of advice to offer except to just do your very best. And you can bet your ass that I won't take over the country either, like that douchebag Cheney did.
As for the VP job itself, well, what's not to love? I'll have a large staff of assistants and eager young interns to help me do jack shit, a bunch of cool bodyguards with blacks sunglasses, a mansion with a pool, my own damned jumbo jet to go anywhere I feel like, and a huge expense account. The salary is pretty sweet too, 227 grand, a lot of dough for very little effort, and a major boost in my lifestyle.
I'll even have a "Chief of Staff," some guy who actually knows what's going on but isn't quite smart enough to work for the president. Fine by me, I'll keep him busy writing reports that no one will read while I keep my staff in tip-top shape at the Vice Presidential pool. I'll be on call 24/7.
When I'm not entertaining some minor foreign bigshot unworthy of the presidential ear, I'll be flying to the the Riviera or Rio de Janeiro on "fact-finding" missions. In other words, I'll stay out of the way and let the professionals earn their keep.
In my Vice Presidential capacity as President Pro Tem of the Senate, the only time I'll show up there will be to cast a tie-breaking vote in favor of my boss. When questioned on the president's policies, I'll answer "What he said." Unlike most vice presidents, I won't say and do stupid things that embarrass the boss.
No president needs another headache making excuses for his jackass vice president. Hiring me for the job ensures the nation more of the president's time devoted to his job and not to spin control to explain away the blatherings of some loose-lipped political hack.
On the campaign trail, I'll go wherever he asks, and say whatever he tells me to say. I look good in a suit, speak the English language fluently, get along well with almost everybody, and that's about all you want in a vice president
I'm also not afraid to do the dirty work when the job calls for it. For example, I can use the traditional cluelessness of American vice-presidents to the boss' political advantage if he likes, like bringing up rumors about the opposition leaders, wondering out loud about their loyalty to America, illegal campaign contributions, or alleged episodes of bestiality and cross dressing.
Nothing that can be nailed down, of course, just good old fashioned smear politics, guilt by suggestion, tearing a page out of Rove's Swift Boat handbook. While that's below a president, Vice President Bob Crespo would be glad to stoop to conquer.
My eye will remain firmly on the prize: 4 years getting paid for living in a mansion with a pool and a bunch of secretaries and a jet and the best tables at every restaurant on earth and very little to do.
I swear to uphold the finest traditions of the Vice Presidency and be a man you will not remember and who's political accomplishments escape you. Like the great, anonymous mediocrities that have come before me into this (hardly) august office, I will simply be there, and that's about it. America needs a traditional Vice President, not another distraction.
Bob Crespo For Vice President in 2012: Dare not to do!
October 29, 2010
October 21, 2010
October 19, 2010
LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 745
Of the many notable events of the 20th century, by far the coolest was landing a man on the moon. Nothing else even comes close.
THE JACK DANIELS FACTORY: FROM THE TALES OF THE TASH BROTHERS BAND, TRUE AND OTHERWISE (THIS ONE'S THE GOD'S HONEST!)
Editors note: Today's entry is a (mostly) true short story with no plot, not much character development, no moral and not much point at all other than describing a fun few days in Tennessee with a good friend:
Bobby Dee's big sister Sue (the late, great Susan D'Alessandro) tells him she's got to use up a bunch of bonus air miles before they expire but she can't possibly fly all over the place at the moment so she tells him " Here, go somewhere. Take Crespo."
So that was that and we were off to Nashville. Not because we're musicians and songwriters, which we are, but because we had a friend who lived there, a guy named Trey who was our drinking buddy in Captain Walter's in Sheepshead Bay for a few years.
Coast Guard guy, stationed on a cool patrol boat with gigantic engines and machine guns on it in Roxbury, just over the Gil Hodges Bridge in Rockaway. Mid 80s maybe. Who remembers dates? It was a long time ago anyway, pre-internet and cell phone times.
Captain Walter's was headquarters in those days for me and Bobby and Tony Burdo, the 3 ring leaders of The Tash Brothers Band, a fine saloon on Emmons Avenue. Trey and a few of his Coast Guard buddies were regulars, mostly Southern boys and pretty good people, lots of fun.
He had been discharged and back home in Tennessee for 5 years or so, married with a kid and working a salesman job, so it would be a good reunion.
Trey had a nice little house with a stream in the backyard, a pretty little wife and a cute 3 year old boy named Crosby Alonzo James IV, which is how I found out that Trey's name was Crosby Alonzo James III. Trey had always been plenty good enough for me.
His kid liked the two Brooklyn guys named Bob visiting, and settled things by calling us Crespo and Bobby Dee, like most other people did. Beautiful child, reminded me of my own two guys before they morphed into teenaged pains in the ass.
His wife was a sweet young girl of maybe 22, old fashioned, very mannerly and a bit of a holy roller. She called Trey Daddy, and he called her Mama. She treated her guests like princes, mentioned Jesus a lot, and promised to remember us in her bedside prayers.
A lovely, gentle and genuine soul, not an ounce of mean in her. This was a new kind of person to me and Bobby. Our world was different.
We had planned to stay with them for a day or two and then get a hotel in town where we could raise proper hell, but they wouldn't hear of it and insisted we spend the whole 5 days with them. We couldn't say no to Little Mama, as we called her.
They were only 20 minutes from downtown Nashville and on the weekend we took the kid, they called him Skip, to an amusement park called Dolly Parton Land, which was loaded with great music shows and huge fiberglass sculptures of Dolly's ample breasts as well as the regular rides and whatnot. We all had a blast, especially little Skip.
Then there was Nashville at night, highly recommended. Went to a lot of great clubs, saw some awesome musicians, and there seemed to be a virtuoso player doing his thing on every street corner: guitars, fiddles, mandolins, banjos, both solo and in every imaginable combination. Wicked, wicked players.
Great town. Our only disappointment was that both The Ryman Auditorium, which houses The Grand Ole Oprey, and Conway Twitty City were temporarily closed for renovations. I had never heard of Conway Twitty City before we drove by it and to this day wonder what the hell it was all about.
Then Bobby had the brainstorm to go to the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. In those days Jack Daniels was our favorite beverage. The Tash Brothers were all skilled and enthusiastic drinkers. Not that this is a wonderful virtue, mind you, but that's how things stood then.
Bobby says we're in Tennessee and who knows when we'll be here again so let's go to the source, or words to that effect. Bobby Dee, who at this point in his life, somewhere in our early 30s, had never held a steady job, was a master at finding interesting stuff to do in the daytime back in New York.
His partner in idleness was Tony, while I worked a day job, so I usually didn't do those things like visiting the Jack Daniels Factory. But I figured I'm on vacation in Tennessee, what the hell, and off we went on a scenic two hour drive to the tiny hamlet of Lynchburg, Tennessee, population around 2,000, give or take.
And quite the tour it was, from the barrel yard where they charred the oak whiskey barrels by burning only selected hickory inside them to the huge stainless steel vats of ice cold rotting corn mash that seared your nostrils with a sugary ammonia sting to the machines that applied labels and swept the bottles up and down and around corners on tracks until they arrived at the whiskey spigots, where they were filled in an eyeblink, then wrapped by robot arms a dozen at a time in open-topped black and white cardboard boxes.
The open boxes then rolled down to a platform where the only hands-on work on the whole assembly line was done by a platoon of hairnetted, white-clad ladies with incredibly limber fingers who screwed the caps on each bottle by hand in no time at all. Odd. From there the boxes roll into a machine which wraps the caps with tax stamps and seals the cases and the hour-long tour is over.
Pretty impressive, you're thinking, now to taste the product itself! So the tour guide ushers you into the reception room where you are offered complimentary drinks, all you could consume in the 15 allotted minutes. Hot damn, you're thinking, glad I'm not driving! I still had the taste in my mouth from sniffing the giant vat and looked forward to putting myself outside of a decent amount of smooth Tennessee sipping whiskey.
Only thing is, the drink they offer in unlimited quantities is lemonade. Lynchburg, Tennessee, it seems, is a dry town in a dry county. Small wonder only 2,000 people live there. No alcoholic beverages may be sold or served within county limits, so we settled for buying some Jack Daniels caps and T-shirts for our fellow corn whisky enthusiasts (drunks) back home.
There wasn't anything for me to buy for my kids there, so we chugged a lemonade apiece (not bad) and ambled out. We found out later that it was general knowledge that Jack Daniels was manufactured in a dry county and served only lemonade, but that bit of trivia never reached me or Bobby Dee until presented with the harsh reality, and it would be a lie to say this wasn't a sizable let down.
So, the three of us, (Little Mama didn't want to visit a place that made whiskey, something she never touched herself but didn't mind if the menfolk did in due moderation) Trey, Bobby and I got in the car and headed home, figuring we'd take some back roads, see what this part of the world looked like.
And sweet it was, a beautiful slice of America. We didn't get far before we crossed the Moore County Line, and there we encountered a whole bunch of scenic wonders of the American South; roadhouses, every one of them doing a brisk trade in whiskey with disappointed visitors to the Jack Daniels Factory. These friendly outposts line every road leading out of Lynchburg, Tennessee.
This was apparently the unofficial (and best) part of the Jack Daniels tour and we had quite an enjoyable afternoon. I dig the hell out of ladies with a Southern drawl and they get a kick out of our Brooklyn accents, so a fine time was had by all in some joint with a funny name I can't recall, only that it had a killer juke box and was filled with a lot of friendly souls.
Trey figured we didn't want to meet any Tennessee State Troopers under adverse circumstances and get a poor impression of southern hospitality on our last day in Tennessee, so he insisted we eat something and swallow lots of coffee before heading out. Sound advice.
Southern cooking is fabulous and the funny-named joint with the great music was no exception so we didn't mind at all, sharing a table with some interesting people from Georgia and eating barbecue, biscuits smothered in honey, grits and po'boys, which I thought were a New Orleans thing but are a Southern thing.
Whatever, the food down south rocks and we made a long, lazy feast of it. Little Mama wasn't so happy that we rolled home around 10 at night from a day trip, but was happy enough once she saw we weren't plastered or anything, just old friends saying a fond farewell (Of course we didn't mention the high-test reefer we had been smoking on the long drive. In those days you could carry marijuana on a plane with little or no risk as long as you didn't light up on board.).
She was a girl who made you wish you were a better person, like Melanie in "Gone With The wind," but real, and so you tried to be on your best behavior around her. Trey's a lucky man and he knew it. Good for him.
Bobby and I left the next morning, flying from Nashville to Chicago before switching planes to New York, the reverse order of our trip down south. Seems that when you fly free on unused bonus miles you get to take some pretty convoluted detours.
In Chicago there was a huge rainstorm which caused us to wander around gigantic O'Hare Airport for three hours and then to sit in the second plane on the runway for another two hours, dying for a cigarette or a drink, which they don't serve before you're airborne.
Any thought of sneaking a smoke in the restroom went poof when a Rastafarian guy with long dreds from Brooklyn that we had met in an airport bar an hour or so earlier was dragged off the plane by police after his reefer blunt set off a smoke alarm, so we sat and waited while it rained a new Lake Michigan on the O'Hare runways.
Bobby had the window seat, and was fairly appalled when the plane started moving in the middle of what looked like a monsoon. He said he hoped we were only moving to another parking spot to wait out the storm or hopefully disembarking us for the duration so we could light up.
Then the captain announced that some storm front or other had lifted and that it was now perfectly safe to take off, although we should expect to experience "some significant turbulence" while we flew around the storm, so please keep your seat belts fastened until further notice. Off we shot down the runway, just as fast as jets do on perfectly dry runways.
I heard Bobby mutter an "Uh,oh" and an "Oh, shit" just as the plane lifted off, but I was feeling okay. I was the one with a fear of flying, not him, but for some strange reason, I had no worries on this flight, while he had plenty.
On the way to Nashville I had gotten drunk before flying, my usual M.O., and spent most of the flight not quite passed out enough to avoid the fear and sweating that you know damned well is completely unreasonable but can't help having anyway. Stubborn things, phobias. Not on the way home, though.
Some flight it was, too. The plane bent, shivered, twisted and swayed as it flew through a hellacious storm, making a pretty impressive array of moans and groans and some ominous I'm-about-to-come-apart-at-the-seams metallic screams while numerous lighting bolts giving us terrifying peeks at the torrential rain blowing sideways.
A lot of barf bags got used on that flight, and some people openly wailed in fright when the plane shook like a towel that had been snapped by some giant hand. From my aisle seat I could see the floor of the plane undulating, writhing and twisting like that same hand was trying to wring the water out of the towel.
The plane held up just fine and eventually we were in glaring sunlight with an unbroken floor of clouds below us as far as the eye could see. Pretty fine piece of engineering, those old 707s. Almost everyone was audibly relieved but very shaken, and more than a few prayers of thanks could be heard.
Even Bobby Dee was a little queasy, and didn't order any whiskey when the stewardess offered some once we were safely stable above the clouds. He was white as a ghost and uncharacteristically quiet.
Not me. I felt fine, and on the worst airplane flight I've ever experienced, my fear of flying left me completely. At least so far. No sense claiming otherwise with irrational fears, they could come back next time I board a plane. I say never say never. Actually, I never really say never say never, but think it from time to time.
Be that as it may, Bobby said that just proved how friggin' crazy I am to be so happy-go-lucky on a flight that had everyone else on the plane making promises to God if He just let them live (presumably while the rest of us suffered a fiery death). But, to the best of my recollection, that's exactly what happened on the way home from a fine old time in Tennessee with some very fine people.
I still think about southern girls who can turn the name Bob into a little three syllable song. Thanks for the miles, Sue. Came in handy in more ways than one.
If I was still a drinking man, this is the part of the program where I'd be hoisting a stiff glass of Jack Daniels to Sue Dee, Little Mama, Trey, Crosby Alonzo James IV and the State of Tennessee. Oh, and also to good old 9-toes Bobby Dee (another story for another time). Cheers, y'all.
Bobby Dee's big sister Sue (the late, great Susan D'Alessandro) tells him she's got to use up a bunch of bonus air miles before they expire but she can't possibly fly all over the place at the moment so she tells him " Here, go somewhere. Take Crespo."
So that was that and we were off to Nashville. Not because we're musicians and songwriters, which we are, but because we had a friend who lived there, a guy named Trey who was our drinking buddy in Captain Walter's in Sheepshead Bay for a few years.
Coast Guard guy, stationed on a cool patrol boat with gigantic engines and machine guns on it in Roxbury, just over the Gil Hodges Bridge in Rockaway. Mid 80s maybe. Who remembers dates? It was a long time ago anyway, pre-internet and cell phone times.
Captain Walter's was headquarters in those days for me and Bobby and Tony Burdo, the 3 ring leaders of The Tash Brothers Band, a fine saloon on Emmons Avenue. Trey and a few of his Coast Guard buddies were regulars, mostly Southern boys and pretty good people, lots of fun.
He had been discharged and back home in Tennessee for 5 years or so, married with a kid and working a salesman job, so it would be a good reunion.
Trey had a nice little house with a stream in the backyard, a pretty little wife and a cute 3 year old boy named Crosby Alonzo James IV, which is how I found out that Trey's name was Crosby Alonzo James III. Trey had always been plenty good enough for me.
His kid liked the two Brooklyn guys named Bob visiting, and settled things by calling us Crespo and Bobby Dee, like most other people did. Beautiful child, reminded me of my own two guys before they morphed into teenaged pains in the ass.
His wife was a sweet young girl of maybe 22, old fashioned, very mannerly and a bit of a holy roller. She called Trey Daddy, and he called her Mama. She treated her guests like princes, mentioned Jesus a lot, and promised to remember us in her bedside prayers.
A lovely, gentle and genuine soul, not an ounce of mean in her. This was a new kind of person to me and Bobby. Our world was different.
We had planned to stay with them for a day or two and then get a hotel in town where we could raise proper hell, but they wouldn't hear of it and insisted we spend the whole 5 days with them. We couldn't say no to Little Mama, as we called her.
They were only 20 minutes from downtown Nashville and on the weekend we took the kid, they called him Skip, to an amusement park called Dolly Parton Land, which was loaded with great music shows and huge fiberglass sculptures of Dolly's ample breasts as well as the regular rides and whatnot. We all had a blast, especially little Skip.
Then there was Nashville at night, highly recommended. Went to a lot of great clubs, saw some awesome musicians, and there seemed to be a virtuoso player doing his thing on every street corner: guitars, fiddles, mandolins, banjos, both solo and in every imaginable combination. Wicked, wicked players.
Great town. Our only disappointment was that both The Ryman Auditorium, which houses The Grand Ole Oprey, and Conway Twitty City were temporarily closed for renovations. I had never heard of Conway Twitty City before we drove by it and to this day wonder what the hell it was all about.
Then Bobby had the brainstorm to go to the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg, Tennessee. In those days Jack Daniels was our favorite beverage. The Tash Brothers were all skilled and enthusiastic drinkers. Not that this is a wonderful virtue, mind you, but that's how things stood then.
Bobby says we're in Tennessee and who knows when we'll be here again so let's go to the source, or words to that effect. Bobby Dee, who at this point in his life, somewhere in our early 30s, had never held a steady job, was a master at finding interesting stuff to do in the daytime back in New York.
His partner in idleness was Tony, while I worked a day job, so I usually didn't do those things like visiting the Jack Daniels Factory. But I figured I'm on vacation in Tennessee, what the hell, and off we went on a scenic two hour drive to the tiny hamlet of Lynchburg, Tennessee, population around 2,000, give or take.
And quite the tour it was, from the barrel yard where they charred the oak whiskey barrels by burning only selected hickory inside them to the huge stainless steel vats of ice cold rotting corn mash that seared your nostrils with a sugary ammonia sting to the machines that applied labels and swept the bottles up and down and around corners on tracks until they arrived at the whiskey spigots, where they were filled in an eyeblink, then wrapped by robot arms a dozen at a time in open-topped black and white cardboard boxes.
The open boxes then rolled down to a platform where the only hands-on work on the whole assembly line was done by a platoon of hairnetted, white-clad ladies with incredibly limber fingers who screwed the caps on each bottle by hand in no time at all. Odd. From there the boxes roll into a machine which wraps the caps with tax stamps and seals the cases and the hour-long tour is over.
Pretty impressive, you're thinking, now to taste the product itself! So the tour guide ushers you into the reception room where you are offered complimentary drinks, all you could consume in the 15 allotted minutes. Hot damn, you're thinking, glad I'm not driving! I still had the taste in my mouth from sniffing the giant vat and looked forward to putting myself outside of a decent amount of smooth Tennessee sipping whiskey.
Only thing is, the drink they offer in unlimited quantities is lemonade. Lynchburg, Tennessee, it seems, is a dry town in a dry county. Small wonder only 2,000 people live there. No alcoholic beverages may be sold or served within county limits, so we settled for buying some Jack Daniels caps and T-shirts for our fellow corn whisky enthusiasts (drunks) back home.
There wasn't anything for me to buy for my kids there, so we chugged a lemonade apiece (not bad) and ambled out. We found out later that it was general knowledge that Jack Daniels was manufactured in a dry county and served only lemonade, but that bit of trivia never reached me or Bobby Dee until presented with the harsh reality, and it would be a lie to say this wasn't a sizable let down.
So, the three of us, (Little Mama didn't want to visit a place that made whiskey, something she never touched herself but didn't mind if the menfolk did in due moderation) Trey, Bobby and I got in the car and headed home, figuring we'd take some back roads, see what this part of the world looked like.
And sweet it was, a beautiful slice of America. We didn't get far before we crossed the Moore County Line, and there we encountered a whole bunch of scenic wonders of the American South; roadhouses, every one of them doing a brisk trade in whiskey with disappointed visitors to the Jack Daniels Factory. These friendly outposts line every road leading out of Lynchburg, Tennessee.
This was apparently the unofficial (and best) part of the Jack Daniels tour and we had quite an enjoyable afternoon. I dig the hell out of ladies with a Southern drawl and they get a kick out of our Brooklyn accents, so a fine time was had by all in some joint with a funny name I can't recall, only that it had a killer juke box and was filled with a lot of friendly souls.
Trey figured we didn't want to meet any Tennessee State Troopers under adverse circumstances and get a poor impression of southern hospitality on our last day in Tennessee, so he insisted we eat something and swallow lots of coffee before heading out. Sound advice.
Southern cooking is fabulous and the funny-named joint with the great music was no exception so we didn't mind at all, sharing a table with some interesting people from Georgia and eating barbecue, biscuits smothered in honey, grits and po'boys, which I thought were a New Orleans thing but are a Southern thing.
Whatever, the food down south rocks and we made a long, lazy feast of it. Little Mama wasn't so happy that we rolled home around 10 at night from a day trip, but was happy enough once she saw we weren't plastered or anything, just old friends saying a fond farewell (Of course we didn't mention the high-test reefer we had been smoking on the long drive. In those days you could carry marijuana on a plane with little or no risk as long as you didn't light up on board.).
She was a girl who made you wish you were a better person, like Melanie in "Gone With The wind," but real, and so you tried to be on your best behavior around her. Trey's a lucky man and he knew it. Good for him.
Bobby and I left the next morning, flying from Nashville to Chicago before switching planes to New York, the reverse order of our trip down south. Seems that when you fly free on unused bonus miles you get to take some pretty convoluted detours.
In Chicago there was a huge rainstorm which caused us to wander around gigantic O'Hare Airport for three hours and then to sit in the second plane on the runway for another two hours, dying for a cigarette or a drink, which they don't serve before you're airborne.
Any thought of sneaking a smoke in the restroom went poof when a Rastafarian guy with long dreds from Brooklyn that we had met in an airport bar an hour or so earlier was dragged off the plane by police after his reefer blunt set off a smoke alarm, so we sat and waited while it rained a new Lake Michigan on the O'Hare runways.
Bobby had the window seat, and was fairly appalled when the plane started moving in the middle of what looked like a monsoon. He said he hoped we were only moving to another parking spot to wait out the storm or hopefully disembarking us for the duration so we could light up.
Then the captain announced that some storm front or other had lifted and that it was now perfectly safe to take off, although we should expect to experience "some significant turbulence" while we flew around the storm, so please keep your seat belts fastened until further notice. Off we shot down the runway, just as fast as jets do on perfectly dry runways.
I heard Bobby mutter an "Uh,oh" and an "Oh, shit" just as the plane lifted off, but I was feeling okay. I was the one with a fear of flying, not him, but for some strange reason, I had no worries on this flight, while he had plenty.
On the way to Nashville I had gotten drunk before flying, my usual M.O., and spent most of the flight not quite passed out enough to avoid the fear and sweating that you know damned well is completely unreasonable but can't help having anyway. Stubborn things, phobias. Not on the way home, though.
Some flight it was, too. The plane bent, shivered, twisted and swayed as it flew through a hellacious storm, making a pretty impressive array of moans and groans and some ominous I'm-about-to-come-apart-at-the-seams metallic screams while numerous lighting bolts giving us terrifying peeks at the torrential rain blowing sideways.
A lot of barf bags got used on that flight, and some people openly wailed in fright when the plane shook like a towel that had been snapped by some giant hand. From my aisle seat I could see the floor of the plane undulating, writhing and twisting like that same hand was trying to wring the water out of the towel.
The plane held up just fine and eventually we were in glaring sunlight with an unbroken floor of clouds below us as far as the eye could see. Pretty fine piece of engineering, those old 707s. Almost everyone was audibly relieved but very shaken, and more than a few prayers of thanks could be heard.
Even Bobby Dee was a little queasy, and didn't order any whiskey when the stewardess offered some once we were safely stable above the clouds. He was white as a ghost and uncharacteristically quiet.
Not me. I felt fine, and on the worst airplane flight I've ever experienced, my fear of flying left me completely. At least so far. No sense claiming otherwise with irrational fears, they could come back next time I board a plane. I say never say never. Actually, I never really say never say never, but think it from time to time.
Be that as it may, Bobby said that just proved how friggin' crazy I am to be so happy-go-lucky on a flight that had everyone else on the plane making promises to God if He just let them live (presumably while the rest of us suffered a fiery death). But, to the best of my recollection, that's exactly what happened on the way home from a fine old time in Tennessee with some very fine people.
I still think about southern girls who can turn the name Bob into a little three syllable song. Thanks for the miles, Sue. Came in handy in more ways than one.
If I was still a drinking man, this is the part of the program where I'd be hoisting a stiff glass of Jack Daniels to Sue Dee, Little Mama, Trey, Crosby Alonzo James IV and the State of Tennessee. Oh, and also to good old 9-toes Bobby Dee (another story for another time). Cheers, y'all.
October 18, 2010
LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 744
Life is good, the world is a fine place and the vast majority of people are good eggs doing their best. It's those few evil pains-in-the-ass that make all the trouble. Don't encourage them.
BOB CRESPO RUNS AGAIN... FOR VICE PRESIDENT!
This election season brings this correspondent both sweet and bitter memories of the last big election campaign, 2008. Sweet was that my man won the job, and being a black guy and all, he made history before he even sat down at his desk. America, and the world, changed that day.
The bitter memories of '08? That would be my failed attempt to secure the Vice Presidency. Long and hard I tried to sell myself to Mr. Obama as the perfect running mate, the one guy he could pick to be his Vice President who doesn't think he could do the job better.
The problem with Vice Presidents for the last 70 years or so is that they are always guys who came close to being the Presidential Candidate themselves, and thus potentially the President, and have just spent almost a year on the campaign trail ridiculing the ideas of the guy who won. They get picked to be VP because they can deliver votes and not outshine their boss. In other word, the dullest of the losers.
Their historical uniform drabness, unfotunately, never stopped one of them from being convinced they could do way better than the boss, and they get to be huge pains in the ass, forcing Presidents to take time out of their busy schedules to appoint them to head all sorts of important-sounding committees and councils in order to keep them out of the way of the people who actually matter.
Being a discreet guy in a do-nothing job is what the Vice Presidency used to be all about, before mass media switched from being the observers and recorders of presidential elections to the driving force, a voracious entertainment machine that demanded photogenic stars for presidential wannabes. Policy debates and discussing real issues have become as rare as an ugly president.
A guy who looked like Abe Lincoln wouldn't stand a chance against today's glib hunks with expensive haircuts and Armani suits, and he'd get ripped to shreds by their sound byte-savvy campaign gurus with their attack ads that imply that anyone even thinking about voting for Honest Abe was guilty of treason, immorality, criminality, or all three.
Generally, the president looks like the handsome older guy model in clothing catalogues or a soap opera actor who plays an important man, while the Vice President always seems to look like a thousand other people with more ambition than brains, not especially memorable but eager to make a difference and desperate to get some face time on TV and blow hot air, more often than not becoming a major thorn in the side of the president.
Joe Biden, bless his soul, is the latest VP who didn't get the memo that the country voted for his boss, not him, and nobody gives a rat's ass what he thinks. Joe's an amiable enough dope, but he'll be pushing 70 in 2012 and was a Senator since he was in high school and ran for president a bunch of times himself, and as a result takes himself far too seriously. Clearly it's time for new blood in the #2 seat.
That's where I come in, the perfect choice for President Obama. I can guarantee him I'll never bother him with my opinion on important matters of state, or pop off to the press with some embarrassing statement. I'll just sort of hang around the Vice Presidential Mansion and stay out of everybody's way, the only proper way for a Vice President to behave.
I'd be handy to fly around the world on Air Force 2 to deliver messages, attend the funerals of bloodthirsty dictators who were nominally our allies but were nightmares instead, and break any tie votes in the Senate in the president's favor. I promise not to come up with any brainstorms about changing the world or make a nuisance of myself by taking up a "Cause."
I'll just sort of be there, but not be there, and will not overtax my staff with memos and meetings. When asked about public policy and presidential decisions, my stock answer will be: "What he said." And I sure as hell won't go all Shotgun Dick Cheney on the president and take over the government. Who needs that headache?
President Obama could call on me anytime he wants to fly to Scandinavia to see how their women's volley ball program stacks up against ours, to go on "fact-finding" tours of the waterfront in Brazil to investigate global beach erosion or some other nonsense, entertain minor foreign dignitaries and to get interviewed by bland magazines like Reader's Digest and Lady's Home Journal.
In order to keep myself and my staff fit and ready to do very little, I will hang around the Vice Presidential swimming pool with my secretaries, swimming and getting some "cardio," which will guarantee that I am a genial, happy camper who can be counted on to be the picture of contentment and joviality, pretty much all the American people want in a Vice President.
I can tell a decent story, charm the pants off old ladies (who vote in every election), trade insults with blowhard Cable TV dunces, and praise the president as the best thing since chocolate chips. I look good in a suit, have complete command of the English language and am very comfortable doing next to nothing, which all adds up to the Perfect Vice President.
President Obama works hard and deserves a proper Vice President; one who doesn't work very much at all. It's never too early to start campaigning these days, so let's call this the opening salvo in my fight for the #2 job. Bob Crespo for Vice President in 2012! I VOW NOT TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE! BOB CRESPO FOR #2!
The bitter memories of '08? That would be my failed attempt to secure the Vice Presidency. Long and hard I tried to sell myself to Mr. Obama as the perfect running mate, the one guy he could pick to be his Vice President who doesn't think he could do the job better.
The problem with Vice Presidents for the last 70 years or so is that they are always guys who came close to being the Presidential Candidate themselves, and thus potentially the President, and have just spent almost a year on the campaign trail ridiculing the ideas of the guy who won. They get picked to be VP because they can deliver votes and not outshine their boss. In other word, the dullest of the losers.
Their historical uniform drabness, unfotunately, never stopped one of them from being convinced they could do way better than the boss, and they get to be huge pains in the ass, forcing Presidents to take time out of their busy schedules to appoint them to head all sorts of important-sounding committees and councils in order to keep them out of the way of the people who actually matter.
Being a discreet guy in a do-nothing job is what the Vice Presidency used to be all about, before mass media switched from being the observers and recorders of presidential elections to the driving force, a voracious entertainment machine that demanded photogenic stars for presidential wannabes. Policy debates and discussing real issues have become as rare as an ugly president.
A guy who looked like Abe Lincoln wouldn't stand a chance against today's glib hunks with expensive haircuts and Armani suits, and he'd get ripped to shreds by their sound byte-savvy campaign gurus with their attack ads that imply that anyone even thinking about voting for Honest Abe was guilty of treason, immorality, criminality, or all three.
Generally, the president looks like the handsome older guy model in clothing catalogues or a soap opera actor who plays an important man, while the Vice President always seems to look like a thousand other people with more ambition than brains, not especially memorable but eager to make a difference and desperate to get some face time on TV and blow hot air, more often than not becoming a major thorn in the side of the president.
Joe Biden, bless his soul, is the latest VP who didn't get the memo that the country voted for his boss, not him, and nobody gives a rat's ass what he thinks. Joe's an amiable enough dope, but he'll be pushing 70 in 2012 and was a Senator since he was in high school and ran for president a bunch of times himself, and as a result takes himself far too seriously. Clearly it's time for new blood in the #2 seat.
That's where I come in, the perfect choice for President Obama. I can guarantee him I'll never bother him with my opinion on important matters of state, or pop off to the press with some embarrassing statement. I'll just sort of hang around the Vice Presidential Mansion and stay out of everybody's way, the only proper way for a Vice President to behave.
I'd be handy to fly around the world on Air Force 2 to deliver messages, attend the funerals of bloodthirsty dictators who were nominally our allies but were nightmares instead, and break any tie votes in the Senate in the president's favor. I promise not to come up with any brainstorms about changing the world or make a nuisance of myself by taking up a "Cause."
I'll just sort of be there, but not be there, and will not overtax my staff with memos and meetings. When asked about public policy and presidential decisions, my stock answer will be: "What he said." And I sure as hell won't go all Shotgun Dick Cheney on the president and take over the government. Who needs that headache?
President Obama could call on me anytime he wants to fly to Scandinavia to see how their women's volley ball program stacks up against ours, to go on "fact-finding" tours of the waterfront in Brazil to investigate global beach erosion or some other nonsense, entertain minor foreign dignitaries and to get interviewed by bland magazines like Reader's Digest and Lady's Home Journal.
In order to keep myself and my staff fit and ready to do very little, I will hang around the Vice Presidential swimming pool with my secretaries, swimming and getting some "cardio," which will guarantee that I am a genial, happy camper who can be counted on to be the picture of contentment and joviality, pretty much all the American people want in a Vice President.
I can tell a decent story, charm the pants off old ladies (who vote in every election), trade insults with blowhard Cable TV dunces, and praise the president as the best thing since chocolate chips. I look good in a suit, have complete command of the English language and am very comfortable doing next to nothing, which all adds up to the Perfect Vice President.
President Obama works hard and deserves a proper Vice President; one who doesn't work very much at all. It's never too early to start campaigning these days, so let's call this the opening salvo in my fight for the #2 job. Bob Crespo for Vice President in 2012! I VOW NOT TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE! BOB CRESPO FOR #2!
October 15, 2010
LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 743
If you hate the poor and love war, odds are you've been manipulated by those earning vast fortunes from human misery. Open your eyes. No sense keeping your head buried in your ass forever.
GET OUT AND VOTE... FOR SOMEONE WHO ISN'T OUT OF THEIR FUCKING MIND!
It's election time again and, as usual, this one is being touted as the most important election ever. Ever? Sounds a bit dramatic, especially coming hot on the heels of the 2008 history-making election of a black man to the Presidency of The United States. Now, that was friggin' dramatic, a political, social and spiritual earthquake of global proportions, a real game-changer in world history, and one hell of a tough act to follow.
Which is not to say that these 2010 midterm elections are not important, far from it. All elections are vitally important and everyone eligible to vote should do so every time, if only because you can. Not every nation gets to do that. In 2008, the country not only voted for a black president, but for his plans to take the country in a different direction, sort of like Ronald Reagan, only not really old and dopey.
And as always when a president gets swept in with a new broom, the midterm elections are filled with voices of those getting cold feet about the new direction they voted for 2 years ago. These things happen, and the political party that finds itself on the outside looking in after one of these sea changes always works overtime to undermine the party in power.
That's adversarial democracy at work, and the greater the president, the more vociferous the opposition. No president had more volatile critics than Franklin Roosevelt or Abraham Lincoln, two men who took this nation in new directions in a very big way. Those comfortable with the status quo, no matter how awful, are terrified by new directions and the talented people who want to lead us there.
And fair is fair, everyone gets to speak their mind around here, and no president is infallible, or immune from vigorous criticism. Only trouble is, this time around, too many of the people opposing President Obama's agenda are idiots who are also completely out of their fucking minds.
Having purged the Republican Party of the sane and the reasonable, the right wing went so crazy after being voted out of power in 2008 that not even daft old Ronald Reagan could be a Republican today. Even he wasn't that crazy. Now, we've got people running for office either because they're angry or because God himself told them to. Beyond their rage or zealotry, they've got nothing, no plan, not even a clue.
Hell, plenty of people are angry, or religious nut jobs, or both. No reason to elect them to anything either. There's something awfully fishy about bellowing dunces all of a sudden amassing millions of dollars in campaign funds. From who? Did somebody somewhere decide that government needs to be a source of entertainment?
Is this the idea: Democracy would be really great if only we could get a bunch spiteful lunatics elected to high office? Hardly seems reasonable. Especially in a nation where there's an amazingly broad variety of entertainment available at our fingertips every minute of every day.
Or maybe these dimwits are fronts for someone else with lots of money who wants to buy political power, like Bush The Younger was for Shotgun Dick Cheney. That would have been as funny as our comedians seemed to think it was if it wasn't for all the catastrophic policies of the Cheney Administration.
Entertainers have their place, and so do dopey people. That place just doesn't happen to be in the halls of power. We already tried the elect-the-buffoon strategy, and they screwed up the richest, smoothest running country the world has even seen in their 8 years in power. Having a stammering dunce for a president wasn't all that funny after all.
The joke was on us, and now these assholes want us to fall for it again. Get out and vote this November. Whatever the race, whatever the state, whatever the office at stake, the choice is clear: vote for the sane person. There's serious work to be done in America. Send the ridiculous people back to wherever it is they came from, and let the grownups get to work.
Which is not to say that these 2010 midterm elections are not important, far from it. All elections are vitally important and everyone eligible to vote should do so every time, if only because you can. Not every nation gets to do that. In 2008, the country not only voted for a black president, but for his plans to take the country in a different direction, sort of like Ronald Reagan, only not really old and dopey.
And as always when a president gets swept in with a new broom, the midterm elections are filled with voices of those getting cold feet about the new direction they voted for 2 years ago. These things happen, and the political party that finds itself on the outside looking in after one of these sea changes always works overtime to undermine the party in power.
That's adversarial democracy at work, and the greater the president, the more vociferous the opposition. No president had more volatile critics than Franklin Roosevelt or Abraham Lincoln, two men who took this nation in new directions in a very big way. Those comfortable with the status quo, no matter how awful, are terrified by new directions and the talented people who want to lead us there.
And fair is fair, everyone gets to speak their mind around here, and no president is infallible, or immune from vigorous criticism. Only trouble is, this time around, too many of the people opposing President Obama's agenda are idiots who are also completely out of their fucking minds.
Having purged the Republican Party of the sane and the reasonable, the right wing went so crazy after being voted out of power in 2008 that not even daft old Ronald Reagan could be a Republican today. Even he wasn't that crazy. Now, we've got people running for office either because they're angry or because God himself told them to. Beyond their rage or zealotry, they've got nothing, no plan, not even a clue.
Hell, plenty of people are angry, or religious nut jobs, or both. No reason to elect them to anything either. There's something awfully fishy about bellowing dunces all of a sudden amassing millions of dollars in campaign funds. From who? Did somebody somewhere decide that government needs to be a source of entertainment?
Is this the idea: Democracy would be really great if only we could get a bunch spiteful lunatics elected to high office? Hardly seems reasonable. Especially in a nation where there's an amazingly broad variety of entertainment available at our fingertips every minute of every day.
Or maybe these dimwits are fronts for someone else with lots of money who wants to buy political power, like Bush The Younger was for Shotgun Dick Cheney. That would have been as funny as our comedians seemed to think it was if it wasn't for all the catastrophic policies of the Cheney Administration.
Entertainers have their place, and so do dopey people. That place just doesn't happen to be in the halls of power. We already tried the elect-the-buffoon strategy, and they screwed up the richest, smoothest running country the world has even seen in their 8 years in power. Having a stammering dunce for a president wasn't all that funny after all.
The joke was on us, and now these assholes want us to fall for it again. Get out and vote this November. Whatever the race, whatever the state, whatever the office at stake, the choice is clear: vote for the sane person. There's serious work to be done in America. Send the ridiculous people back to wherever it is they came from, and let the grownups get to work.
October 6, 2010
WHAT I DID LAST SUMMER: 3 NEW SONGS AND A COUPLE OF DATES
Here's that homework essay you always had to write for your new teacher on the first week back in grammar school. As usual, I'm late with mine, for many legitimate reasons, the main one being that I'm Bob Crespo. These things happen. At least this time around, I'm not making stuff up the midnight before it's due. This stuff actually happened. Mostly.
As a little boy, who knows what you did all summer? How many ways can you say "messed around?" Who remembered to keep a record of doing jack-shit for 3 months? Not that the teacher gave a rat's ass what you did or didn't do with your so-called life, she just wanted to see if any of her newbies could put two coherent sentences together, or was this going to be yet another long fourth grade term.
After a few years in grade school it dawns on you that this essay will define your student/teacher relationship for the coming year, so the wise youngster throws together a disjointed and barely legible pack of lies that guarantees that you won't be laboring under the heavy burden of high expectations. This thoughtful act also spares your teacher one more crushing disappointment.
When your favorite thing mentioned in your history text book is The Diet of Worms, just for the laugh value, odds are you won't be a candidate for a full scholarship anywhere other than the penitentiary, and it's best for both of you that the teacher knows this upfront.
Boys are born for summer, not grade school, so the clever boy lets his teacher know right off the bat that his mind will be otherwise engaged for the next 9 months, so mindless repetition is pretty much their only shot of getting us to remember anything about new math, the capital of Bulgaria or the War of the Roses.
Never let them know you've got the fatal flaw of potential, that's a ticket to more work and less messing around, and an even bigger disappointment than life inevitably hands to the very young. If the teacher thinks you're a little dull, you'll get better marks for your shoddy work than you would if she thought you could do better. Don't go there.
Which brings us to today's report, which finds me still messing around; writing, composing songs, playing music and going to the recording studio. Not exactly life on Easy Street, but it's not breaking rocks for a living. This past summer was actually a very productive one, with 3 new songs recorded and loaded onto THE SECOND BEST WEBSITE EVER: http://www.bobcrespo.com. Go there to hear these new songs.
For the past year and a half, my main partner in musical crime has been Dave Forman, chief cook and bottle washer at Footprint Studio in Brooklyn. Not only is he a superb engineer and producer, but this lifelong master drummer also plays bass, keys and guitar and can really sing. When I bring Dave a song and an idea, what I wind up with is a song with a whole bunch of fresh ideas, and a better record.
There are other fine musicians on the sessions for these 3 songs, Peter Mancuso, banjo on "Waltz For Louise," A.J. Burdo, piano and organ on "Underneath A Yellow Moon" and "Waltz For Louise," his father Tony Burdo on bass for "Underneath A Yellow Moon" and Natasha Kozak plays the violins on "Let Me In." A.J. and Natasha are both members of Tony's band, The Tash Brothers Band, which was my band too for about 25 years and with whom I still appear occasionally. Speaking of which:
MARK THESE DATES:
Friday, October 29, 8 PM: Bob Crespo plays the Coffee House at Bay Ridge United Church Fellowship, 636 Bay Ridge Parkway (75th St) between 6th and 7th Avenues. Donation - $5. Doors open at 7:30, performance between 8 and 11PM. I'll be playing around 9:30 or 10. This is an intimate showcase kind of setting where you will get to hear a number of talented performers.
On Sunday, November 7th, 10AM, 88th Street & 4th Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, the Tash Brothers Band plays our 20th consecutive New York City Marathon. A fun and unforgettable NYC thing to do on the first Sunday of every November, the Tash Brothers Band and Special Guests provides high-octane rock & roll for 40,000 maniacs in speedos. Each year the crowd gets bigger and so does the fun and excitement. Come out on November 7th for one hell of a spectacle and some great music!
As a little boy, who knows what you did all summer? How many ways can you say "messed around?" Who remembered to keep a record of doing jack-shit for 3 months? Not that the teacher gave a rat's ass what you did or didn't do with your so-called life, she just wanted to see if any of her newbies could put two coherent sentences together, or was this going to be yet another long fourth grade term.
After a few years in grade school it dawns on you that this essay will define your student/teacher relationship for the coming year, so the wise youngster throws together a disjointed and barely legible pack of lies that guarantees that you won't be laboring under the heavy burden of high expectations. This thoughtful act also spares your teacher one more crushing disappointment.
When your favorite thing mentioned in your history text book is The Diet of Worms, just for the laugh value, odds are you won't be a candidate for a full scholarship anywhere other than the penitentiary, and it's best for both of you that the teacher knows this upfront.
Boys are born for summer, not grade school, so the clever boy lets his teacher know right off the bat that his mind will be otherwise engaged for the next 9 months, so mindless repetition is pretty much their only shot of getting us to remember anything about new math, the capital of Bulgaria or the War of the Roses.
Never let them know you've got the fatal flaw of potential, that's a ticket to more work and less messing around, and an even bigger disappointment than life inevitably hands to the very young. If the teacher thinks you're a little dull, you'll get better marks for your shoddy work than you would if she thought you could do better. Don't go there.
Which brings us to today's report, which finds me still messing around; writing, composing songs, playing music and going to the recording studio. Not exactly life on Easy Street, but it's not breaking rocks for a living. This past summer was actually a very productive one, with 3 new songs recorded and loaded onto THE SECOND BEST WEBSITE EVER: http://www.bobcrespo.com. Go there to hear these new songs.
For the past year and a half, my main partner in musical crime has been Dave Forman, chief cook and bottle washer at Footprint Studio in Brooklyn. Not only is he a superb engineer and producer, but this lifelong master drummer also plays bass, keys and guitar and can really sing. When I bring Dave a song and an idea, what I wind up with is a song with a whole bunch of fresh ideas, and a better record.
There are other fine musicians on the sessions for these 3 songs, Peter Mancuso, banjo on "Waltz For Louise," A.J. Burdo, piano and organ on "Underneath A Yellow Moon" and "Waltz For Louise," his father Tony Burdo on bass for "Underneath A Yellow Moon" and Natasha Kozak plays the violins on "Let Me In." A.J. and Natasha are both members of Tony's band, The Tash Brothers Band, which was my band too for about 25 years and with whom I still appear occasionally. Speaking of which:
MARK THESE DATES:
Friday, October 29, 8 PM: Bob Crespo plays the Coffee House at Bay Ridge United Church Fellowship, 636 Bay Ridge Parkway (75th St) between 6th and 7th Avenues. Donation - $5. Doors open at 7:30, performance between 8 and 11PM. I'll be playing around 9:30 or 10. This is an intimate showcase kind of setting where you will get to hear a number of talented performers.
On Sunday, November 7th, 10AM, 88th Street & 4th Avenue in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, the Tash Brothers Band plays our 20th consecutive New York City Marathon. A fun and unforgettable NYC thing to do on the first Sunday of every November, the Tash Brothers Band and Special Guests provides high-octane rock & roll for 40,000 maniacs in speedos. Each year the crowd gets bigger and so does the fun and excitement. Come out on November 7th for one hell of a spectacle and some great music!
October 2, 2010
LIFE EXPLAINED, PART 741
There's a secret planning commission that makes sure that when you master a new technology, it becomes obsolete the next day. They know who you are and where you live.
DOPOTO REPORTS: SCIENCE CONFIRMS THE OBVIOUS - TEENAGERS MAKE LOUSY DECISIONS
The Department Of Pointing Out the Obvious (DOPOTO) welcomes human behavioral scientists into the fold. In a study of adolescent brains, it has been discovered that human teenagers' brains are not fully developed, thus impairing their judgement. For which the Department is tempted to nominate these brainiacs for our coveted Golden "Duh!" Award.
While scientists are generally asked to tell us things we don't know, sometimes it's rewarding for the average Jane and Joe to get Official Scientific Confirmation of their findings based on exhaustive field studies of their own brain-dead teenagers.
Many experts feel that the research is incomplete, ignoring the almost universal loss of IQ points during "the regressive years" from 13 to 19. Close observation supports the assertion that teenagers' brains actually shrink noticeably after puberty, robbing them of skills for which they were highly praised in kindergarten, things like "pays attention," "plays well with others" and "has good communication skills."
Children who had formerly mastered an extensive vocabulary and exhibited good manners and judgment suddenly act as if they have been lobotomized. Apathetic grunts replace conversation, sullen glares decorate formerly smiling faces, little bundles of energy become drowsy idlers, and an almost autistic emotional isolation from their families develops in almost every case.
Researchers and Senior Analysts here at The Department have been studying teenagers for many years and our findings overwhelmingly support the "shrinking brain" theory of human adolescence. The evidence is staring us in the face. Literally.
Can teenagers be explained any better than the fact that not one in a hundred of them ever needs more than the 140-character limit of Twitter messages to express what's on their minds? To their shrunken brains, 140 characters is a novel, more than 4 consecutive syllables a soliloquy, and excelling at some dumbass video game is considered high achievement.
Unpleasant intrusions like school and other people are barely tolerated. Groans, sighs and gestures, often accompanied by dramatic eye rolling and aggressive posturing, is their main form of communication. In other words, pretty much the intellectual and social equals of Lowland Gorillas.
Many analysts here at DOPOTO are convinced that this is a genetic response designed to "thin the herd" of the unfit, so that those specimens who survive all the binge drinking, riding on the hood of speeding vehicles, multiple body piercing and tattoos, and the powerful impulse of normal human beings to strangle them, and only> those get to reach adulthood and reproduce, at which point their brains begin to function properly once again.
The field studies are in, the evidence irrefutable; teenagers are annoying and make dumb decisions. The Department challenges Science to explain why.
This was a report from The Department Of Pointing Out The Obvious.
While scientists are generally asked to tell us things we don't know, sometimes it's rewarding for the average Jane and Joe to get Official Scientific Confirmation of their findings based on exhaustive field studies of their own brain-dead teenagers.
Many experts feel that the research is incomplete, ignoring the almost universal loss of IQ points during "the regressive years" from 13 to 19. Close observation supports the assertion that teenagers' brains actually shrink noticeably after puberty, robbing them of skills for which they were highly praised in kindergarten, things like "pays attention," "plays well with others" and "has good communication skills."
Children who had formerly mastered an extensive vocabulary and exhibited good manners and judgment suddenly act as if they have been lobotomized. Apathetic grunts replace conversation, sullen glares decorate formerly smiling faces, little bundles of energy become drowsy idlers, and an almost autistic emotional isolation from their families develops in almost every case.
Researchers and Senior Analysts here at The Department have been studying teenagers for many years and our findings overwhelmingly support the "shrinking brain" theory of human adolescence. The evidence is staring us in the face. Literally.
Can teenagers be explained any better than the fact that not one in a hundred of them ever needs more than the 140-character limit of Twitter messages to express what's on their minds? To their shrunken brains, 140 characters is a novel, more than 4 consecutive syllables a soliloquy, and excelling at some dumbass video game is considered high achievement.
Unpleasant intrusions like school and other people are barely tolerated. Groans, sighs and gestures, often accompanied by dramatic eye rolling and aggressive posturing, is their main form of communication. In other words, pretty much the intellectual and social equals of Lowland Gorillas.
Many analysts here at DOPOTO are convinced that this is a genetic response designed to "thin the herd" of the unfit, so that those specimens who survive all the binge drinking, riding on the hood of speeding vehicles, multiple body piercing and tattoos, and the powerful impulse of normal human beings to strangle them, and only> those get to reach adulthood and reproduce, at which point their brains begin to function properly once again.
The field studies are in, the evidence irrefutable; teenagers are annoying and make dumb decisions. The Department challenges Science to explain why.
This was a report from The Department Of Pointing Out The Obvious.
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