Bah, humbug...indeed.

 Charles Dickens opens his novella, A Christmas Carol, on a cold and bleary Christmas Eve. Our protagonist, Ebenezer Scrooge, is a miser who hates Christmas. So much so, he refuses two men's entreaty for a donation to provide food and heating for the poor. 

I was reminded of this when the United States Congress passed a bill that would give $600 to every man, woman, and child in the country as a balm to ease the economic strain of the Covid pandemic of 2020. At least, Scrooge had enough backbone to stick to his belief and tell the two appealers that he wouldn't be giving. On the other hand, Congress threw those people suffering just enough to be insufficient to do the job.  Merry Christmas, indeed.

But doesn't this non-action reflect the Christmas Season of 2020? There seems to be no excitement or joy this holiday. During troubling times of the past, those troubles appeared to ease when Jack Frost was nipping at your nose. I remember stories that during battles of the war, enemies would cease hostilities on Christmas.

But this year, it seems that the Christmas Spirit is obligatory. Like people are forcing themselves, by sheer will, to have some semblance of Christmases past. A Christmas that is a mist in their memories. Christmas like it used to be. Unfortunately, it appears to not be successful in the collective public persona.

Christmas is, of course, for children. Anyone lucky enough to be in close contact with kids has the opportunity to enjoy the holiday through their wide-eyed enjoyment. Every aspect of Christmas generates childlike wonder that we adults then enjoy vicariously. Kids spark the spirits of our own holiday remembrances. 

To me, Christmas 2020 seems a bit less joyful, a bit less warm. Are people going through the motions because they have to? Or are people clinging to a thread of Christmas past because they want to? I hope it's the latter.

But nowhere is the former better personified than the Congress's disingenuous stimulus offering. $600 will not pay your rent, health insurance, or a grocery bill for an average family. Bah, humbug indeed.

We can only hope that Marley's Ghost visits each and every one of those stingy buggers.

Try to have a merry Christmas.

“I'd tell you all you want and more, if the sounds I made could be what you hear” ― David Foster Wallace

I am resurrecting this blog after a hibernation of three years. An upheaval in my Force has put me on my own resources, so there is no longer any pressure not to write exactly what I feel like writing. At least that's the excuse that I gave myself over the last decade or so.

I've always written long, descriptive letters that the receivers always told me they enjoyed. So, given an opportunity, I said I'd like to be a writer. Visions of successful essayists would dance in my head as I saw myself becoming a literati member—sort of the toast of the intellectual prose posse.

Unfortunately for my readers, instead of hanging on every word or turn of phrase, what they got was indecipherable gibberish at best and lazy efforts at worst. It seems that writing is not unlike any exercise; you have to do it religiously to get results. 

In the past, by sheer luck, I was able to get involved with some small success in the golf and travel line of work. I published, along with Peter Corden, a photographer friend, a coffee table book about golf courses in Sweden. That led to a small output of work for golf magazines in Sweden. It was all fun for the time. I traveled to many nice places to play golf. I met many wonderful people, famous and not so, and attended many important golf events. Too bad I was unable to relate my adventures to the blank page. I was so busy enjoying the ride that I never found the snapshot, the essence, of the experience I was having. I couldn't capture the excitement that the reader could relate to. I was there, but my readers were not.

The #1 ability that any writer needs is getting the reader to take a personal interest in reading the story. Without that ability, you're just wasting the reader's time.

So, now I am on my own, without any pressure to write anything but what interests me. Of course, I understand that my little blog will remain unseen and unread by 99.9% of any bloc of readers. And I think I think that 0.1% is too high. But that's okay as I can be a writer, if only in my own mind.

Until next time,

Gene

Maybe, Sometimes, You Can Go Home Again

“You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love,' back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermuda, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time--back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”
-Thomas Wolfe, "You Can't Go Home Again"

For most of us, especially those of us who are separated from family and friends, we conjure up our past remembrances and cling to them as they are real. You can believe me when I say that I have conjured up my own reality many, too many, times. Through all my disappointments at trying to synch the storied past with the bland present. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Memories have a way of taking their own form, creating their own realities in our minds. We would hate to think that the joys and victories of our youth have become no more exciting than the time clock on your old VCR just blinking, blinking 12:00 over and over. Too inconsequential to bother with. Like this trip, when I visited Cannon Beach with Haystack Rock at low tide. In the past, always a delight to visit no matter the weather. Now it sits as a window dressing to the houses and condos that have clogged the horizon since I was there last.

I've been fortunate to play golf around the world. From Marrakech to Malmo and from above the Arctic Circle to Florida I have played golf courses famous, unknown, public and ultra-private. However, Tokatee is my favorite, the one I think of often with pleasure. I've played Tokatee many times in my daydreams. Each shot perfectly placed for the next, Pars fall one after another, a perfect par game every time. Even though it is my mind's eye, I still realize that i shouldn't be greedy. Par is wonderful, even in my imagination.

Forever linked with Tokatee will be the Toke'n'Tee. I can't think of one without the other. The memories are vivid but dusty. Like most of my stoner era past there needs to be a bit of fine tuning, like when I need to wear glasses typing this page. I remembered pulling in the gate but were those sentry evergreens there last time? Maybe they were too young to remember three decades later? The tree in the middle of the road is gone. I was reminded by the split in the road. There's a parking space for RVs. I did remember when we parked the Winnebago we drove down from Seattle whereever there was room to pull it over. There's a new clubhouse, I thought, but the visible greens, driving range and the Sisters were just as I remebered.

Horse Creek was further off the road than I recalled, but the spaces were still marked off. Just emptier than thirty years ago. Like I said, my memories need some specs but for the life of me if Peter wasn't there i wouldn't have recognized anybody. It seems that besides the trees growing, time has passed on the gang camping out. Motel rooms have taken the place of tents and restaurants have retired the grills.

However, the Toke'n'Tee spirit remained. The tribal gathering for the pairings, the Coolies and beer have now been joined by martinis. That was different. Sophisticated drinks like martinis because, if my memory serves, sophistication was not one of our strong suits at the humble beginnings of this turnout. The golf was friendly and, for me, so satisfying. Whether rejoicing or despairing about a personal game the winner is applauded and the weekend appreciated. I do remember this. Three days is never enough.

Yes, the spirit of the Toke'n'Tee remains. For me, there were spirits felt but friends departed. Many of my old Tokatee friends are gone now. I have a hard time dealing with the fact that they're just not there to talk to. I can't call them up for a golf game anymore. Old friends die on you, and they're irreplaceable. You become reliant. In my case, reliant on memory.

My memory will have to do. It's all that I have left of the friends who have gone on before me. As Cicero said, "The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." For us, the living, and for my peace of mind, the souls of the faithfully departed are always at the prime of our life together. Back when all we were concerned with was how long will it be until the next Toke'n'Tee at Tokatee.

On St. Patrick's Day Everybody's Irish

Día de San Patrico

Under Covers

I don't think that I am alone when I say that covers, songs done by other artists than the originals, can be hit or miss. There doesn't seem to be a middle ground as if the cover is only OK, it certainly won't make much of an impression to the listener.

I won't spend any time on the poorly attempted. We all know there are a lot of those. For now, here are a couple that I think are pretty good.

The first is by a group from Brooklyn, which seems to be a place that anybody playing country outside of Nashville come from. This is a live cover of John Prine's best known song, "Angel  from Montgomery." If anybody knows who Lucky LaRue is, I'd like to know.

The second is from a great guitar player, another of they're so good nobody remembers them crowd. He played with David Cassidy, Poco and gave John Mellencamp a #1 song and album. If you haven't guessed as yet, he is best known for his collaborations with David Bowie and Ian Hunter.

In 1973, Mick Ronson was named the #2 Guitar Player by the readers of Creem Magazine, sitting between Page and Clapton. Here he is, ripping through "Hey, Grandma." I'm sure the Grapes don't mind a bit.

What are your suggestions for great covers? Send them to the comments section and we'll feature them in another "Covers" post

Who Knew...

...that Mathew McConaughey was a Cheap Trick fan?

"Money Chant" from the Wolf of Wall Street

"Low Life in High Heels" from Special One

Mean Old World

Over the holidays I was listening to anything but seasonal music when the shuffle brought up Little Walter, "Mean Old World." I'm sure there are a ton of covers, from Eric Clapton to Ian McLagen, but there are three I prefer over some others. Down the road...who knows? Another rendition will be suggested and I'll have to re-arrange the list. Suggestions are welcome.

From Wikipedia: Mean Old World" is a blues song recorded by American blues electric guitar pioneer T-Bone Walker in 1942. It has been described (along with the single's B-side) as "the first important blues recordings on the electric guitar".

While T-Bone might have wrote it, Little Walter does it justice. It's the harp that gives it that Chicago sound:

To show some flexibility to the song, Stan Webb, the leader of the British Blues Band, Chicken Shack had the band record the song for their second LP, "OK, Ken". He put a twist on the standard by having band member, Christine Perfect, sing the vocal. Yes, it is Christine McVie of Fleetwood Mac.

Finally a version by the man who, IMHO, brought Rock'n'Roll to the suburbs, Chuck Berry. We don't get to see Berry play as the bluesman he was. We paid too much attention to the duck walk. This is from a BBC TV special broadcast with a local back up, backed by Rockin' Horse. The band consisted of Mike Snow on piano, Jimmy Campbell on guitar, Billy Kinsley on bass and Dave Harrison on drums. Chuck is completely into this one. Watch him trying to get drummer Harrison to get more animated.

Thanks to the artists and thanks to T-Bone.