My brother Malcolm gave me the 40th Anniversary Legacy Edition of Miles Davis' "Bitches Brew" for Christmas. The third disc of the set is a DVD of a show from Copenhagen in 1969 featuring Miles, Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea, Dave Holland and Jack DeJohnette. I just kept forgetting to watch the damned thing. I enjoyed both discs of the record (though cynically observing, "So THAT'S where Chick Corea's entire career came from!) but just never got around to watching the DVD.
Until last night. Holy moly! Great googly moogly! That was quite the show. Seventy minutes go by in what seems like about 5. Mr. Davis is highly engaged, and for once leaves his %#@#$% mute in the case. Mr. Shorter does a lovely job, including soprano work that will help you forget Kenny G. Mr. Corea demonstrates that he can play very fast. And well. Whether Dianetics was helping with this at this early date, I do not know.
Mr. DeJohnette, though, dominates the proceedings. I'll probably get in trouble with the hipsters, but I probably could have gone for a 70-minute Jack DeJohnette solo. Not that anyone played poorly at any time (with one possible exception mentioned below), but DeJohnette was so awesome as to be unbelievable.
Mr. Holland was undermiked; I could see him playing unbelievably well, but could barely hear him. Until near the end when he got an unfortunate bowed solo. Kids: I can make noise using musical instruments. What we want you to do is make MUSIC using musical instruments. That would be the hard thing. (This is also my reaction when people make traffic noises using wind instruments. Yes, fellows, that was very avant garde in... 1948. In 2011, not so much.)
Regardless, what a band, what a show. If you can get a hold of the DVD, see it. You will reel in awe. And if you don't, Miles' Explosion At The Crayola Factory outfit ought to hold your interest anyway.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Par-tay!
Yesterday, we held the dual 90th birthday party for my dad (whose birthday, as I mention below, was a bit over a week ago) and his fiancee Margaret (whose birthday is next week). I say "we," but Margaret actually footed the bill as a present to my dad. It was a catered affair held at the gym of Southside Baptist Church here in Olympia (adjacent to Columbia, SC, if I haven't mentioned). Easily 50 people showed up. We were joyously surprised that my mother's brother Eugene made it, with his second wife my aunt Sharon and his daughter Joanne. (His first wife, Joanne's mother my aunt Loretta actually lives with Joanne in Irmo and would have liked to come but thought it might be uncomfortable.)
Shining her own light was my aunt Jackie, my mother's sister-in-law, also up from Charleston. My father's secretary at DHEC for 25 years, Charline Brandt came, and brought her amazing scrapbook of my dad's career; we were totally bowled over. Margaret's entire wonderful family came. Special kudos to daughters Bunny and Linda for supervising, with extra plaudits to Bunny for brilliant cake management. Margaret's new great-great granddaughter Braiden captured every heart just by sleeping.
Dr. DuBose (I'm all but sure his first name is Hugh, but don't want to go out on a limb), who went to med school with my dad and roomed with him briefly, shared some delightful stories about the good old days. Some of the lovely people with whom Dad and Margaret went dancing at the Senior Center in days of greater mobility introduced themselves. One thing about looking almost exactly like my dad: it makes it easier for strangers to pick you out as a family member, which was rather a delight.
After we had folded up and cleared away all the furniture, we all went outside and each of us took a balloon. We released them on the count of three, letting them symbolize our hopes that we would all be back in ten years for a dual 100th birthday celebration.
Pix are up at Facebook, though I suspect that anyone who might be reading this knows that already.
Shining her own light was my aunt Jackie, my mother's sister-in-law, also up from Charleston. My father's secretary at DHEC for 25 years, Charline Brandt came, and brought her amazing scrapbook of my dad's career; we were totally bowled over. Margaret's entire wonderful family came. Special kudos to daughters Bunny and Linda for supervising, with extra plaudits to Bunny for brilliant cake management. Margaret's new great-great granddaughter Braiden captured every heart just by sleeping.
Dr. DuBose (I'm all but sure his first name is Hugh, but don't want to go out on a limb), who went to med school with my dad and roomed with him briefly, shared some delightful stories about the good old days. Some of the lovely people with whom Dad and Margaret went dancing at the Senior Center in days of greater mobility introduced themselves. One thing about looking almost exactly like my dad: it makes it easier for strangers to pick you out as a family member, which was rather a delight.
After we had folded up and cleared away all the furniture, we all went outside and each of us took a balloon. We released them on the count of three, letting them symbolize our hopes that we would all be back in ten years for a dual 100th birthday celebration.
Pix are up at Facebook, though I suspect that anyone who might be reading this knows that already.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
A Thousand Words
So, for her birthday, the people at the nursing home gave my mom a balloon and took a birthday picture, among the saddest and loveliest pictures I've seen. Kind of crazy, though, since my dad visited every day. They could have waited until he was there; you'd think somebody would have known that she had a daily visitor. (I visited pretty often myself, but nothing like Dad.) This is a poem I wrote late last November; only took 8 years. This is for Anne Salmonsen Dantzler, June 18, 1923 - July 1, 2003.
1,000 Words
Sympathetic hunting magic
A picture, pictures
covering cave walls
The sweep of history, prehistory
trying to help us find our way
to help us in the hunt
for thoughts
ideas
anything at all.
Daughter, sister, wife, mother
loving and beloved
giving joy
and fake Ralph Kramden punches
and teaching tolerance
every day.
A photograph
the picture worth a thousand words
of a lady in a chair
and a balloon.
The balloon to celebrate
her birthday,
the 79th one.
She with an empty smile
in an empty face
with what ideas that might remain
locked in the prison
of her skull.
1,000 Words
Sympathetic hunting magic
A picture, pictures
covering cave walls
The sweep of history, prehistory
trying to help us find our way
to help us in the hunt
for thoughts
ideas
anything at all.
Daughter, sister, wife, mother
loving and beloved
giving joy
and fake Ralph Kramden punches
and teaching tolerance
every day.
A photograph
the picture worth a thousand words
of a lady in a chair
and a balloon.
The balloon to celebrate
her birthday,
the 79th one.
She with an empty smile
in an empty face
with what ideas that might remain
locked in the prison
of her skull.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Now that I've invented potato and kale flatbread, what do I do with it?
I wasn't trying to invent potato and kale flatbread, of course. I was trying to invent potato and kale chips. However, I couldn't find any recipes for how to make potato chips out of mashed potatoes and I couldn't think of any way to mix in the kale without mashing the potatoes first. (Why kale? I'm still off of dairy so I need the calcium. And my last bunch of kale was starting to yellow, so I needed to use it up anyway.)
Not to bury the lead any more than I have already, it was really, really good. Well, it was RR good while it was hot. It was fair to pleasant once it was cool. But I bet it would reheat well, too. (I'm the boy who has no microwave, so I can't be too sure.)
It was easy to make, though it took a long time since I had no idea what I was doing. I took a largish baking potato, punched holes in it on all sides with a fork and wrapped it in aluminum foil and tossed it in a 350 degree oven. I let it bake at least an hour, took it out, unwrapped it, peeled it and tried to mash it with a fork. No go. So I cut it up, drizzled some extra virgin olive oil on it, rewrapped it, and gave it about another hour. I don't know why it took so long; it wasn't that big a potato. Maybe I needed to punch more holes, or deeper ones. Dunno; perhaps a potato baking expert can comment.
As to the kale, you want to steam it a long time. If you are from England or Charleston SC, this can mean anything from two weeks to a year. If you're from anywhere else, however, 10 or 20 minutes ought to be sufficient. When the kale is sufficiently steamed, tear it into the tiniest pieces you can. A food chopper or a food processor could help a lot here. I have the former and it did a good job.
When your potato is mashable and your kale is tore up, mix them up and mash the heck out of your potato with a fork. Add more olive oil and salt and pepper to taste, or until your arm gets tired. I then put a sheet of aluminum foil on a pizza pan and spread out the potato mixture on it with my hands like pizza dough. I cooked it for a half hour at 300 degrees. As I said, expecting a gigantic potato chip, I wound up with potato flatbread. The middle was kind of wet but the edges were fairly browned. I flipped the whole thing (OK, I tried to; in fact I flipped a lot of big pieces) onto the pizza pan, turned off the oven and left the flatbread in there for another half hour to firm up a bit. Result? Wonderful!
So we return to the question: what do you do with potato/kale flatbread? I mean besides eat it all up in a minute.
Edit: Upon further reflection, it occurs to me that this might be a primitive manifestation of twice-baked potato. Probably a good deal healthier than the usual approach, though. Maybe I'm weird or maybe I'm Irish, but I crazy-mad love potatoes per se, and don't really need all that gick anyway.
Not to bury the lead any more than I have already, it was really, really good. Well, it was RR good while it was hot. It was fair to pleasant once it was cool. But I bet it would reheat well, too. (I'm the boy who has no microwave, so I can't be too sure.)
It was easy to make, though it took a long time since I had no idea what I was doing. I took a largish baking potato, punched holes in it on all sides with a fork and wrapped it in aluminum foil and tossed it in a 350 degree oven. I let it bake at least an hour, took it out, unwrapped it, peeled it and tried to mash it with a fork. No go. So I cut it up, drizzled some extra virgin olive oil on it, rewrapped it, and gave it about another hour. I don't know why it took so long; it wasn't that big a potato. Maybe I needed to punch more holes, or deeper ones. Dunno; perhaps a potato baking expert can comment.
As to the kale, you want to steam it a long time. If you are from England or Charleston SC, this can mean anything from two weeks to a year. If you're from anywhere else, however, 10 or 20 minutes ought to be sufficient. When the kale is sufficiently steamed, tear it into the tiniest pieces you can. A food chopper or a food processor could help a lot here. I have the former and it did a good job.
When your potato is mashable and your kale is tore up, mix them up and mash the heck out of your potato with a fork. Add more olive oil and salt and pepper to taste, or until your arm gets tired. I then put a sheet of aluminum foil on a pizza pan and spread out the potato mixture on it with my hands like pizza dough. I cooked it for a half hour at 300 degrees. As I said, expecting a gigantic potato chip, I wound up with potato flatbread. The middle was kind of wet but the edges were fairly browned. I flipped the whole thing (OK, I tried to; in fact I flipped a lot of big pieces) onto the pizza pan, turned off the oven and left the flatbread in there for another half hour to firm up a bit. Result? Wonderful!
So we return to the question: what do you do with potato/kale flatbread? I mean besides eat it all up in a minute.
Edit: Upon further reflection, it occurs to me that this might be a primitive manifestation of twice-baked potato. Probably a good deal healthier than the usual approach, though. Maybe I'm weird or maybe I'm Irish, but I crazy-mad love potatoes per se, and don't really need all that gick anyway.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Moron invasion
The passage of years is not improving my tolerance for morons. At Congaree National Park yesterday, a couple of women took their couple of dogs up on the boardwalk. Congaree NP has a very nice and clearly defined dog trail, and very clear signs saying no dogs on the boardwalk. While there is no explanatory text, it's a fair bet that this rule is due to the fact that if a dog poops on the boardwalk and somebody steps on and slips in it, it's going to be a fairly bad day at Congaree National Park.
Regardless, I tried to explain to the women that dogs aren't allowed on the boardwalk and that there's a special trail for dogwalking. They said that they got on the trail and it took them out to the road, so they were taking the boardwalk instead. I don't even know how to cope with this level of unthinking. ("If you get on a trail and it doesn't go in the direction you want it to go, try the other direction" doesn't strike me as a difficult concept to get.)
Short of tackling them, there wasn't a lot I could do about it. I could have shouted to a ranger about 100 feet away, but she already had a large group to handle. I wish my communication skills were better; "Those signs saying 'no dogs on the boardwalk' probably mean no dogs on the boardwalk," wasn't a brilliant conversational gambit. "They won't do nothin'," wasn't a really brilliant rejoinder either. I didn't let the situation spoil a gorgeous day for a walk, but it sucked a significant portion of the fun from it.
Speaking of morons (this time me): I'm closing in on the source of my dehydration problem. I finally sorted through all the electrolytes I could be missing and settled on magnesium. I started eating a handful of pistachios (which are magnesium-rich) at random moments and suddenly the cramps in my calves disappeared without resort to coconut water. So there you are: if you're dehydrated, go nuts.
Regardless, I tried to explain to the women that dogs aren't allowed on the boardwalk and that there's a special trail for dogwalking. They said that they got on the trail and it took them out to the road, so they were taking the boardwalk instead. I don't even know how to cope with this level of unthinking. ("If you get on a trail and it doesn't go in the direction you want it to go, try the other direction" doesn't strike me as a difficult concept to get.)
Short of tackling them, there wasn't a lot I could do about it. I could have shouted to a ranger about 100 feet away, but she already had a large group to handle. I wish my communication skills were better; "Those signs saying 'no dogs on the boardwalk' probably mean no dogs on the boardwalk," wasn't a brilliant conversational gambit. "They won't do nothin'," wasn't a really brilliant rejoinder either. I didn't let the situation spoil a gorgeous day for a walk, but it sucked a significant portion of the fun from it.
Speaking of morons (this time me): I'm closing in on the source of my dehydration problem. I finally sorted through all the electrolytes I could be missing and settled on magnesium. I started eating a handful of pistachios (which are magnesium-rich) at random moments and suddenly the cramps in my calves disappeared without resort to coconut water. So there you are: if you're dehydrated, go nuts.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
St. Valentine’s Dance
This is a poem I wrote just before Valentine's Day. Figured I ought to put it up while it's still February. I already put it up on Facebook; of course, the only person who read it there is also the only person reading it here, but at least you can see it all without clicking More, Rob. This would be a an eight-bar waltz if I were a more skilled prosodist or a more dedicated technician. But I kind of liked the way it came out, and so left it imperfect.
Valentine pioneered fame for its own sake
Nobody knows what he did, who he was
He could have given Kardashians lessons
Left them a relic on Bruce Jenner’s
toast
Joyously, blessedly, tearfully, blearily
Digging it, grooving it, doing it, faking it.
Loving and lusting together forever
In the beginning the deed; the end is the
word
Valentine pioneered fame for its own sake
Nobody knows what he did, who he was
He could have given Kardashians lessons
Left them a relic on Bruce Jenner’s
toast
Joyously, blessedly, tearfully, blearily
Digging it, grooving it, doing it, faking it.
Loving and lusting together forever
In the beginning the deed; the end is the
word
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
It came to me in a dream
I dreamed or dreamt that my brother gave me a gigantic wallet, which contained several hundred dollars and several certificates from a computer game called "I Carried $1,000,000,000." The certificates featured rather childish graphics, but then, so does my mind's eye. I guess in real life such a game would be called something punchier like "I Smuggled A Billion," but my subconscious mind doesn't employ any marketing consultants, fortunately or unfortunately. The scenario in the dream was that if you won the game, you also won $1,000 in real life, hence the hundreds of dollars in the wallet. I think this could work in a real game as well. If you play through once without any restarts and win, you could win your score, which would be up to $1,000. Of course I'm not a programmer, but I don't think this ought to be a strain on 21st century technology.
It comes down to a writing problem. To wit, where are you smuggling and who are you smuggling for? If it's an international border, the player will assume you're (rather he's) working for either drug runners or terrorists and this would be (one hopes) a major turnoff. I guess the only solution is to resort to vagueness. You're working for bad guys (unspecified) asking you to take a billion dollars from point A to point B (unspecified). You're so far under the radar that no cops are involved; the only people trying to stop you are other bad guys. (One likes to think that fighting or killing cops would also be a major turnoff. Anyway it is to me.) You have no idea who your employers are or what they do, but the representative you meet is cultured, well-spoken and friendly. Who has a billion dollars to smuggle anyway? Maybe it's Exxon Mobil wanting to underwrite Limbaugh for another 20 years in a fairly hush-hush manner. Who knows? I want to write it. Hell, I want to play it!
Since the Monkey loves going up the chimney so much, should I rename her Santa Claudia? Or Santa Claws?
It comes down to a writing problem. To wit, where are you smuggling and who are you smuggling for? If it's an international border, the player will assume you're (rather he's) working for either drug runners or terrorists and this would be (one hopes) a major turnoff. I guess the only solution is to resort to vagueness. You're working for bad guys (unspecified) asking you to take a billion dollars from point A to point B (unspecified). You're so far under the radar that no cops are involved; the only people trying to stop you are other bad guys. (One likes to think that fighting or killing cops would also be a major turnoff. Anyway it is to me.) You have no idea who your employers are or what they do, but the representative you meet is cultured, well-spoken and friendly. Who has a billion dollars to smuggle anyway? Maybe it's Exxon Mobil wanting to underwrite Limbaugh for another 20 years in a fairly hush-hush manner. Who knows? I want to write it. Hell, I want to play it!
Since the Monkey loves going up the chimney so much, should I rename her Santa Claudia? Or Santa Claws?
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