lesson in patience

Yesterday I found myself sweating and tugging at a small teeny genie lowrey organ moments after seeing it on the curbside and slamming on the brakes to purloin it for my own. I made my way home with giddy anticipation for what sounds I could coax from it and how inspiring it will be to perform and record with an instrument of no cost found by serendipity. much to my chagrin, on plugging it in I was greeted by a blast of white noise that only subsided when I yanked the plug loose from the wall again. I peeked into the little downtown city of circuit boards and wiring and transistors and resistors only to find that someone had run amok with a knife or scissors or what-have-you and randomly and without remorse for the poor little organ.....cut whatever wire came across the wrath of the blades.

There must have been fifty little capillary wires severed in all, and no reason in the choosing of which to snip. Either a vicious little grandson, or an vindictive owner who had held by the credo... if I'm not going to have it, no one else will. Needless to say, on seeing the devastation, I was a bit daunted and figured, if the old boy is to be set out with the garbage, at least he'd had a stroll round town before he went. And off I went to bed.

The next day I had off work. I woke late, had a pot of tea, and made my way into the front room where I'd forgotten the little organ still sat. I gave a sigh, and decided to have one more look in back for giggles sake. Here, I noticed that, although there was much destruction as far as cut wires, there was no wires pulled directly from the board or missing for that matter. They were simply cut. So, I went about seeing if I could match ends. Fifteen minutes later I had them all matched and stripped and found myself searching out my soldering iron from the back rooms with energy and motivation from where I knew not. I was grim with determination. Once prepared, I set on the wires like a mad scientist surgeon. One by one the little nerve endings of my new orphan friend were met, and I could sense life coming into the being of this forgotten little organ. Halfway through, I plugged it in, and was energized to see that several lights that were inoperative on the last test had winked on and were switching on and off when commanded to. Encouraging to say the least. Now ever more driven I soldered and cursed and wiped sweat from my brow determined to be playing melodies before lunch.

The job done, I collapsed backwards and finally let my muscles relax, but only for a moment. You see, I have no tolerance for tedium, and no patience for work that requires steady hands on micro components. But here I was at the precipice of satisfaction. Will this have paid off, or did I waste precious time that could have been spent catching up on Jools Holland reruns? My hand wavered as I inserted the plug into the wall outlet. The familiar pop of audio equipment being turned on sounded, but the horrible white noise had been replaced by blissful ..... silence.

I stood, and ever so calmly pressed my index finger onto middle C.

Nothing happened.

Then of course I realized no instrument was selected. I pressed down the "vibrophone" key and tried again, and the most beautiful, musical, "PING" came through the speaker, validating my tedious two hour arthritis giving ordeal.

The lesson for myself here is that I shouldn't simply give up as much as I find myself doing. The fact of the matter is, that you can find these on ebay and craigslist for less than a hundred bucks, and for that matter, if you were so inclined you could drive around the blocks surrounding your house the night before trash day and find that they've popped out of the tree-lawns like mushrooms. But I love this thing a million-fold more than if I'd simply bought it or found it as I did, but working perfectly. I brought this ailing instrument back form the dark side. I performed analog CPR and breathed new life into this victim of jack the ripper style mutilation. And because of that, it means more to me than if it had been delivered new, free of charge and with a complimentary keg of guinness.

EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!

I'm quite pleased with myself today. As I mentioned in a previous blog, I'm a big fan of Polynesian pop, largely owing to the drinks, but also to the history of the movement in the States, because it just happened to occur during the best period (in my opinion) of American style. So today I engaged in a bit of urban archeology and went to my personal bar to tinker and resurrect, or quite possibly, mix for the first time in the history of ever, the exotic known as......"EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!"
In the 1949 movie "On the Town", Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra and Jules Munshin are three sailors on leave for 24 hours in New York City. They tour the city, meet three shockingly easy women and hijinks ensue. Everyone gets arrested. Implausibly enough, there's a happy ending. Somewhere in between, they visit several nightclubs, one of which designated as The SambaCabana Club. They get a table, and Frank asks the waiter (Hans Conried in an amusing turn as an easily bribe-able french maitre'd) the ingredients of a couple drinks on the menu.

Frank: What's in this one, "Explodo Bomberino"?
Maitre'd: Four kinds of rum, brandy, grenadine, lime juice, papaya juice, the white of one duck egg..........only twelve per customer.

Very funny. I actually think the intent was to make fun of the drinks of the day, because they end up rolling their eyes and ordering a round of beers. Undaunted, I decided to take it from fiction to highly intoxicating fact. And here, are the results:

EXPLODO BOMBERINO!!!

2 oz. Rhum Barbancourt
1 1/2 oz. Gold Jamaican rum
1 oz. gold Puerto Rican rum
1/2 oz. 151 Puerto Rican rum
1/2 oz. Brandy
3/4 oz. Grenadine
1 oz. fresh lime juice
1 1/2 oz. Papaya nectar
1/2 oz. egg white

Blend everything except the 151 with a cup of ice. Pour into a Collins glass, add ice to fill, then float the 151 on top. Ignite, if you dare with a long match from a safe distance. Or, stick a plain white straw in the middle of the ice to make the drink resemble a stick of dynamite. Find a comfortable place to pass out and then drink the drink.


Enjoy, and don't blame me.

Reality v. Idealism

Keepin' it real.  Real.
WHAT is so great about the truth. The truth is an ugly, complicated, cloyingly bitter baggage that should be dismissed or at least altered whenever possible. So, rum.
But what I'm talking about here is history. I think about my Dad. There are many examples of me slowly becoming my father in my post youth. Some more disturbing than others, but I have this neat little tableau of what my Pop IS, that is probably about ... 40% inaccurate and about 20% absolute bunk. I've made this quasi memory out of the snips of fact and skewed recollections I have half consciously recorded over the years. Who knows how much of it is actually true. I think sometimes that I'm actually blessed with such a Swiss cheese memory. I'm able to fill the holes with whatever I please.

Joe Banks and George Bailey Syndrome

There's a life list I have. Places I desire and plan on seeing before I go in the box. Places that top the list are relatively simple. The UK, Hawaii, Paris. Europe in general, really. But I'll have to really pick and struggle and suffer over where I actually manage to get to by hook or crook. I'm not poor, but obligations I have created many. Written out, the list would be exhaustive and impossible to satisfy. I want, and this is a fact, to go....everywhere. I want to see it all, do it all and come back with the music still in my ears and the taste of curry, limes or salted rotting fish (Really. Norway. Look it up) still on my taste buds. I am endlessly curious about this blue earth of ours and I have a railroad soul. That, is a problem. Get to about 7, maybe 8 on the list and the probability of actually crossing it off gets increasingly small. I really let this get me down. I want to know, and I can't understand how everyone doesn't want to know, what everywhere looks, smells, tastes and sounds like, but even with a kings ransom, I'll never see it all. I'll never even get close. I'll never make it to Australia, or Fiji, or Romania. There's too many places that will exhaust the time and money I have long before I get the chance. I'm a big fan of armchair travel, but this hardly satisfies a true traveller. Even a Go-zillionaire couldn't see and do the World completely with the pitiful 80 years we have. I mentally exhaust myself longing and brooding over travel folders and websites. I suppose I should have gone to college and became a photojournalist.

Quality

I've been wanting another ukulele. It's the funniest thing, but I've seen the phenomenon. It's all giggles and/or wry sneers till you actually play one. Then it sets in. This new tick grips you and you can't shake it. Must. Buy. Ukulele. So. Fun. Happens to the best of us. You play one, you want one.
So, I bought another uke to celebrate the onset of spring and the promise of summer. This time I picked a nice pineapple shaped soprano and began the 3 to 5 day insanely anxious wait for the man in the little brown truck. My uke arrived at the end of one of the worst work-life days in recent memory and instantly salved the wounds. (Seriously, try it. Ukulele. Better than Vicodin) Like a Christmas morning kid all jacked up on sugar coated chocolate bombs I set at the wrapping, sending a steady stream of torn paper to the heavens. I pulled out of the wrapping, however, a little wooden piece of crap. Now, ok...made in China. But come ON. I've seen the birds nest, people. It's not like it's impossible for china to make something worthwhile. My guitar was made in China, and the binding rivals that of a Larrivee. Great craftsmanship. I wouldn't have minded if this was a twenty dollar toy, but this thing took a big, wet bite out of seventy bucks. I played it for a bit trying to like it, and failing this put it down and went off to a corner to grouse, arms akimbo. A few days passed and I'd as good as given up trying to accept it as a real uke when something occurred to me. This things finish looks like it was finger painted by my 3 year old son, but its solid wood. The action is horrible but the nut and bridge are made of Nubone. The name on the headstock and sound hole rosette are decals, but removable. I can fix this thing myself. I got out the toolbox and started to work late at night. Sand. File. Sand. Tweak. I took the finish down to the wood with the intention of re-staining it myself, but halfway done, decided it looked pretty good all antiqued. I filed down the nut and bridge and filed in the intonation. Within an hour the thing was not only perfectly tweaked, playing like a dream but the wood looked great and actually sounded more full. This got me really frustrated, because if I could whip this thing into shape in less than an hour, why didn't the company that makes it do it in the first place. I mean, I'm in LOVE with this thing now, and I was pretty much ready to throw it out. There's so many companies out there that go the full 6 or 7. Hire some designers and some quality control people, people. Good investment.
I saw a bumper sticker once that said: "if you can't find it, design it." And I've always loved that phrase. So i guess I'll have to apply it to, if it's crap, fix it yourself.

Rimbaud and Inconsistency

There's no conclusion I can come to in my life that satisfyingly explains why I have no consistency in anything. I'm not even talking about the important things like paying bills or brushing teeth. It manifests itself in the most peculiar ways and the most finite and spectacularly boring examples. I can't even manage to hand write in the same fist twice in a row. But what really bothers me lately is my violin. On a guitar, a G chord will always be a G chord. Place fingers, press, strum. G. Every time. The mighty C major chord on the piano. Press, enjoy. Every time it will be the eternal C major. On my violin however, in fact, on any violin each note requires skill and precision of surgical proportions. Now, your average violin student picks up his/her violin day one and begins the process of castrating cats for the next six months at least. Slowly but surely they dial in the fingers and center themselves learning to frame their hand and position by position they get their notes. Boo ya, you're a violinist. This seemed far too time consuming to me. I got my violin and from the first day, I'm proud and egotistical to say, I was playing melodies. I've grown, and learned more, doing my own brand of polishing, but herein lies the rub. There will be days that i will come home from work, grab my fiddle and play brilliantly. Final two note chord, brief silence.....applause. (thank you, thank you...too kind) The next day, sometimes even later that evening I will play again, and completely lose the frame. Can't buy a note. Not even for ready money. Its been that way since the beginning and continues today. I was under the impression that practice makes perfect. My day to day practice however forms a bicycle chain whose links consist of good, good, brilliant, shit, great, scum, wow, bella, civet, shit, well done. Rinse and repeat. Very, very frustrating. To get to Carnegie Hall I will need the J bus, not practice. This theme follows in pretty much every aspect of my life. (This blog has no meat to justify the Rimbaud theme, it was just title candy. Gotcha, bitch) I try and try, honestly I try. The path to mediocrity, it seems is paved with my good intentions. I am never able to routinely get results. I make an effort and derail. It's not a horrible percentage of failure, but it's a definite crap shoot. I have vague plans to work on this problem but I'm having trouble remembering to keep it in the fore-front of my mind. And, shit. I think I forgot to pay the phone bill.

I love scotch, I have many leather-bound books, and my new den smells of rich mahogany...

Its been awhile since my last log, but since I'm to assume no one reads, I will then follow by assuming no one will be bothered. I've settled into our little house quite nicely like so many little legos, and I now have a full-blown man-den/office/whisky drinking retreat room to hide in while reading/playing violin and or drinking various glasses of various adult drinks. Its heaven. I'm fully ready to tuck into a nice warm winter making pots of tea and reading good and long books, playing music and building my first mandolin in my workshop in the basement.