I have tried and tried to embrace our new administration. It is particularly hard for me to interact with the people I have the most contact with who are mostly musicians and artists or one sort or another regarding our political situation. I just am not seeing it. There has been little change, which doesn't surprise me in the least, except that we have spent more non-existent money in the last six months than we have in many years past total.

We are still fighting a bunch of useless wars, killing many people and it doesn't seem to be for anything at all. We aren't even getting oil out of the deal, we aren't getting opium, and we aren't gaining any kind of benefit, and we're spending more than we were before the new hacks got in charge.

And it seems the biggest emphasis is now on health care. Obama has done a superb job of side-stepping the issues that got him elected, (war, deficit, and economy) and has deflected the public to this health care talking point and what I see as a complete boondoggle. Government run health care. Government does not run anything, never has, and never will, at least as our government stands for the last 50 or 60 years.

Here's what the government efforts to run things has produced:
1. War in Korea, never finished, spent millions, killed thousands
2. War in Vietnam, can't even begin to tell the atrocities and mis-management we caused and defended for 15 years or more
3. $460 toilet bolts
4. Military hospitals
5. Our current health care programs, yeah, you know the ones that require emergency room intervention for hang-nails for poor people.
7. Budgets
8. Taxes
9. Deficits
10. Cash for Clunkers. This is the stupidest program to ever come out of Washington, and guess what? Most dealers have not gotten a single penny for all the turds they took in trade, they can't sell them, they can't move them, they have to store them, and they are out hundreds of thousands of dollars in operating capital. Car dealers are required to pay the license and taxes when they sell a car, and they have to pay for the cars they buy to sell to the people trading the clunkers in, so every time they sell a car they go $45oo in the hole at the bank. They have to pay the people to work there, and their bills. I know one dealer in Sac that is almost half a million dollars in the whole now.That's insane, it's only been 3 weeks.

And it has destroyed the cheap used car market. You can forget about buying a car for $2000, no one has one. I realize that many cars don't qualify fior the program, like a 15 year old Honda, but they rarely sell for $2000, they alway bring more. So in essence this program has made bus riders out of poor people or people that lost their houses because of foreclosure, they can't even buy a car. So who exactly is the government helping? Oh yeah its the big banks that finance cars with money we gave them, and the big auto manufacturers we had to bail out because they couldn't manage their business.


And yet the majority of my friends are all gung ho for this health care shit they have devised which, if you were to read it from cover to cover, you would have to agree it is stooooopid. And will cost us tons and there is no need to do what they have in mind.

Right now 47 million people have no health care. That is an estimate and there are quite a few of those that don't want it or could afford to purchase it if they wanted it. So lets get help for the ones that need it, we don't need to do anything else. Everyone's all up in arms to kill the big, bad insurance companies. We just bailed the mother fuckers out!! WTF?!!! Now we want to put them out of business. Which fucking moron was in charge of that idea?

If you read the bill they have proposed, you will see the criteria to qualify and the regulations that go with it. You will have to be covered, period, so if I don't want health care I will break the law in not getting it. We will have to pay for it, and there will be numerous surcharges. If you are 200 per cent of the "poverty level" or less you will have to be covered by state funded programs such as medi-cal and medi-care. Those programs now are only available to those who are below the poverty income line. So, state costs for health care will likely triple.

The bill also provides for a whole brand new government bureaucracy, new office buildings, new computers, new jobs, more waste, and another huge behemoth that no one can control or even understand, and no way to get out of it, if and when it fails.

And small business with over 10 employees, will have to pay exorbitant prices for health care for their employees, it will make many go out of business. And corps like Wal-Mart will be able to skip out of paying a lot because most of their employees are part-time, and their costs will be negligible and the state health care will kick in, so again we lose, and Wal-Mart makes out like bandits.

And this is not even important in the scheme of things. I think the wars, employment, and our out of control government spending would be the best place to institute all this fucking change they keep talking about.

I think we should change too, and get rid of any politician that uses a D or R after their name. They are all politicians, and that is their job. They don't care about me, you, or anybody, only getting elected, and then getting re-elected.

Vote for something really new like a Green Party candidate, a Libertarian, or even a communist candidate. America has been barely mediocre for too long. Its always the lesser of two evils, or "well, he's better than what we had for the last eight years". And I'm not sure it is better, and that's sad, because we aren't a very well run enterprise and haven't been for years, at least since I was aware of anything when I was a little kid, and that's been a while.

We have, bar-none, the brightest people on the planet, great learning institutions, and a wealth of natural resources most other countries don't. And we let clowns tell us we need to fix everything and, in the process, make them invincible super goobers, that couldn't even keep a job in the real world. They need to all go away

Talk About Torture

This is beginning to piss me off. Americans voted for the illusion of change once again, and the only changes I see are the size of the dollar signs. The bullshit is home today, and its filling up the living room as I write this, flowing in a steady stream of manure right through the front door, directly from Washington D.C.

Swine Flu, or as it has been ordered named by Washington, 2009 H1N1, has affected a hand-ful of people in the US, and the hype has been enough to close schools in numerous states where no cases have even been detected yet. And so far the virus isn't even particularly deadly. Just wondering what the smoke screen is fogging.

Here's what I know is going on:
1. We are still fighting in Iraq, and our emphasis has shifted, maybe causing new escalations of hostilities

2. We are escalating the war in Afghanistan, because apparently we didn't win that one either.

3. We have manufactured tens, oops hundreds, of billions of fake dollars to bail out banks, that are losing their asses because they were greedy, were lending money to people who were greedy because a real estate media/government complex said owning property is the surest and most effective way to get rich in America, and were accepting fraudulent loan apps from realtors and mortgage bankers who were also getting rich.
And now we, (government) will not let the banks that are not in trouble, never were in trouble, and who are in fact doing pretty well, pay the so-called loans back, because they aren't making loans. They aren't making loans because the media/government has convinced America, and maybe even the world, that times are hard, its time to button up and huddle, the calamity has fallen and we are the chickens. And every one knows chickens can't borrow money, so no one is buying anything of any consequence, hence no laons are being made. Duh!

4. We have bailed out the auto industry, (now Ford will want money too, watch and see) that will eventually fail anyway, now with my grand-childrens' money as a going away present. This is an even bigger fiasco than the banks, not now, but soon. The government has taken the swine flu approach here too. They don't want the companies to fail, so they have even guaranteed the warranties on GM and Chrysler products. Now when Joey Lunchbucket's piece of shit Chev Malibu or his Cummins Diesel Dodge PU breaks because they were built with the service/repair/replace badge instead of the badge of quality, you and I will pay to fix it.
They have even talked about government guarantees for resale value so that people will buy the damn cars and trucks with investment dreams in mind. The problem is the cars will be even further devalued then. The way that will work; no matter the real value of a car, the government will use our tax dollars to prop the value up, so in reality they will only lessen the value of the cars, that had little value before anyway. All with our money, so Auto manufacturers can continue to operate at a loss.

The administration has also taxed us and given that money directly to a lobby group, the UAW, which will come out of this with a 55% piece of Chrysler. Fiat gets the rest. All for nothing, not a penny. This was a corporation that was purchased just a few years ago for less than the 8 Billion dollars we have already given them to spend to keep operating for the last 3 months. When Mercedes couldn't make Chrysler go, they sold off to another company, Cerberus. Now Cerberus will come out of this deal with very little loss, UAW will get control of one of the largest companies in America, that now we could never let fail now that we have invested all this money in, and worst, we will be sending money to a foreign company, Fiat, and they are taking no risk at all. They just get to own another company. Didn't Obama run on the platform to not send our jobs overseas. Now we just gave away a State funded business to a foreign company. So now we are sending our tax dollars to a foreign corporation. Whew, this is fuckin stoopid.

And hes calling the Chrysler investors, greedy, un-patriotic, and morally bankrupt. A friend of mine had a good portion of his retirement in secured, (note that word) bonds with Chrysler. They have stripped all of those bonds and their security, and instead of letting a court determine the security of that money, made them accept virtually nothing for the bonds. That's not how secured loans work. If they don't pay you get the security, that's how a secured loan works. The banks are taking home-owners homes because they defaulted; because that was their "security." Now they have to live with the deflated value, just as my friend would have had to. But now he gets nothing; his retirement, along with millions of others retirements are gone. But guess what??? He still has to pay taxes, thereby paying for his own demise. I'm thinking this is truly fucked up

The change we have seen in 100 days is, as a matter of fact, pretty damn immense. We have gone from a failing country with some wars all over the world and no friends, to a disaster with more wars all over the world, and with friends we have bought with our tax dollars. Talk about torture!!!

Outlaw Cellphones and Only Outlaws Will Call

Shut Up and Drive

Bernie drives 40 miles to, and then from work through bumper-to-bumper traffic five or sometimes six days a week. He is able to make up for time lost to driving by conducting business talking on his cell phone while he drives to and from work. Sometimes he spends 36 hours in a week commuting, and it is a hardship, as it is for many in this world of freeways, traffic jams, and bluegrass music jams, and has become a serious detriment to Bernie’s career advancement and overall LSQ (Life Satisfaction Quotient). The cell phone has released Bernie, he can work his normal 50 hours a week, plus another 36 getting to and from work, as it can now be productive. And Bernie is very productive. He sells cell phone systems to businesses, so he is easily able to use his experience and success when he gives his sales pitch to prospective buyers. Bernie is very successful, drives a nice new Honda Accord, and lives thirty miles outside of the city, in a development of new upper range homes called Camelot Country Acres. But that’s only thanks to the cell phone he uses to conduct his most successful sales summations, all while driving.

Two weeks ago Bernie was involved in a minor fender-bender traffic accident. Bernie was traveling along I1113 in Poshie County, following the line of cars traveling into the city, nose-to-tail snaking along at a steady 35 miles per hour. When Bernie slowed and stopped as the cars in front had done before, he was struck by a mini-van packed with eight unruly 12 and 13-year-old boys, and driven by a harried soccer mom. Bernie did not panic stop, he was fully aware of the slowing traffic. Mrs. Mini Van, though, resorted to a tried, true, and extremely effective stopping system; she hit the back of Bernie’s Honda, stopping her with no problem. When his car was struck Bernie almost swallowed his Bokia phone when his head hit the headrest. The phone did remove an eyetooth that Bernie was sure to have dental problems with later in life, so the results were not all bad, but he bit his tongue, teeth snapping with the force of a pit bull, releasing a torrent of red crimson blood, gushing into the mouthpiece of the Bokia, shorting out some tiny circuit inside, and terminating the sales call he was engaged with. He had been talking to a client in Japan that was ready to order a system of phones for his worldwide corporation. Bernie had been soliciting this gentleman for over two years and had finally been able to establish a sort of dialog, making use of Bokia’s fine, hand-held, translator phone.

The lady and the kids? They were fine, only a bit banged up, a few cuts, a bruise or three, though the van did lose some teeth in its grill much like Bernie. None of the van fares suffered, and their lives continued as always. Bernie though, lost a tooth, an account, a company phone, as well as a thirty-five hundred dollar bill directed to his insurance company for rear end damage to his Accord. He even lost ten C/Ds in the trunk mounted C/D player that was damaged and could not be opened, swallowing Bernie’s collection of classic sixties rock that he had studiously downloaded on Napster and transferred to C/D.

But Bernie got a ticket for the accident. You see, driving while wrestling with 12-year-old boys is lawful, but selling cell phones while steering is not in New York beginning this year. And Bernie freely admitted, “Yes I was.” That being an answer to the question asked by concerened State Trooper Jeeves, “Were you talking on the phone?”

You see the great state of New York, in their vast wisdom, gained after days of polls and surveys, has outlawed the use of phones while operating a motor vehicle. Brian Kolb, a dissenting Assemblyman in the New York State Assembly said when queried, “We seem to be reacting to polls more than relying on scientific evidence.” But Brian was being interviewed while on his cell phone, and he had yet to experience cell phone induced wrecks.

Another report of entirely dubious origin, tells of a man who is associated with the Friends of Liberty, a grassroots offshoot of the Earth First Gun Owners Association, saying, “If you outlaw phones, then only criminals will call.” The message is clear, but now the government is looking into cell phone records to determine if its citizens are dialing and driving, now known as DAD.

When awakened by reporters, the National Association of Governor’s Highway Safety Representatives cleared their collective throats and replied, “misguided.” The NAGHSR (naygazer) denies any involvement in rational thought, and declines to amend their collective statement.

Bernie sued Mrs. Mini Van, and evidence was procured that said she was surfing the Internet, reading the grocery ads in the newspaper, and pulling on her jeans, all while driving the boys to their soccer match.

Another Assemblyman, Patrick Mannington, said to reporters with his tongue firmly in his mouth,” It’s still legal to use a laptop, read a newspaper, and change pants while driving.” As he turned away from reporters Mr. Mannington failed to negotiate the stairs and tumbled down to the lobby, landing on a news rack at the bottom of the staircase, scattering quarters all over the tiled marble floor.

But there may indeed be good reason for alarm. “Surveys indicate 85 percent of wireless phone owners use them while driving.” And it is common knowledge that 85 percent of anything leaves 15 percent from a solid 100 percent, bringing us to my contention; Americans will answer any poll, and they will dial and drive to their destruction.

Getting to studies, as opposed to the surveys mentioned in the last paragraph, the New England Journal of Medicine says that cell phones are many times used by surviving car accident victims to report accidents, and subsequently response times are quicker in getting emergency crews to accident scenes. They do not, however report survey results for non-surviving accident victim’s calls.

It is said by technology proponents that phones are no more distracting than listening to the radio, eating food, or even gazing at your face in the vanity mirror, and the biggest problem is created when a DAD is fined for cell phone use, and can’t pay his cell phone bill.

The debate rages, aided with fuel brought to he negotiations by press and media hype, the justice system, and other various soothsayers of ill-repute, and it promises to last deep into the night until the proponents, participants, and components fall asleep, closing their collective eyes.

Hope they Do It BetterT

In my high school years between 1969 and 1972, I was known as a hippie or a freak, those being the opposite of a redneck. In Mississippi you were one or the other. Unless you were black, (now re-named African Americans as if re-naming a race could make up for terrorizing a race for centuries). Freaks had long hair, smoked pot, wrote poetry, befriended blacks, and protested the war in Vietnam. The rednecks, drank beer, played football, drove fast cars, and beat up blacks and hippies.
We hippies, being the new wave revolution, could see that life on Earth was becoming a threat to life on Earth. We were killing people in Nam, on the highways, and at the gallows so to speak, and we were tearing up the land and all of the Earth’s resources. I remember being saddened by the loss of anything in this world, a tree, a bush, or a life. And we stood to be included in the movement of the time to revolutionize America again, and revert to the wise and better ways our American forefathers had envisioned in the eighteenth century.
The freaks talked about revolution and we sided with the militant black groups, the war protesters, and any offbeat group or movement we heard about. In Mississippi we were a decided minority then, and many of us wanted to move to California where the movement was huge and the people were so much more tolerant of our views. We thought.
Mostly I remember talking about the war, and I had a reason to hate it. I would turn eighteen in 1972, and the draft was still in effect. I had known people who had been drafted, and left to fight that war, some coming home, and some not, some without legs or some gone blind. I never admitted it but my main problem with the war was not the killing of people and the destruction of that country, but the fear of my being killed in it someday, or even worse coming back a cripple.
Our revolution didn’t turn out like we envisioned it. There was no armed uprising. We all grew up. Our voices did light a fire for Americans, and the country sickened by the ever-lasting “Police Action” in Southeast Asia, finally forced America to abandon its futile effort to make those citizens of the “Nam” free like us.
We did enjoy some success. Our world began to be more concerned about the planet, the people, and our world. We closed the war in S E Asia. But seems human propensity to destroy is beyond our ability to save, and we are arguably in worse shape than ever.
When did we sell out? Was it when we got our first real jobs and started saving money, buying cars, houses, and gas and food? Were we afraid that we couldn’t continue our fight to be better people because we might have to give up some of the things we had grown accustomed to? Could we have been mistaken in our ideals in the first place? I know we all say we want to save the world, but are we willing to sacrifice so that we may? In 1972 we had been more than willing. We fought on the campuses and at the rallies, speaking our indignant minds, and railing for freedom.
Today the heroes of my generation run businesses, live in expensive homes, burn outrageous amounts of precious fuel in SUVs, and save for retirement. We don’t gather for protests, in fact most of us side on the other side today against those that protest. We don’t expand our minds with poetry, art and abstract ideas. We listen to the music that we have sold ourselves, we watch the news that we make, and we live in the comfort we have designed and marketed. We have conquered so many things, and we have begun to rest on our laurels, not half way to the ends we dreamed of.
Kids today look at us like we looked at our parents, and like our parents looked at theirs; they protest our way of running this world, and they should. We haven’t done so well in many respects.
We were aghast to learn that a president could stoop so low as to break laws and cover his tracks when Nixon resigned the Presidency in 1972, but now we don’t do more than write blogs or rants on Craigslist about the incredibly stupid things we do while we shape and run our world
Those avante garde heroes of the sixties are now Senators and Congressmen, as well as doctors, lawyers, and chiefs of industry and commerce. We run the world, and we live among our best efforts, just trying to stay afloat in a world gone crazy with possessions and comfort. And the few that still stir the muck about the injustices of our world are decidedly outcasts, called, derisively, tree-huggers by the very ones that protested excesses back when we were kids. The best we offer, as the leaders of the world, is an opportunity to vote for, (for the most part), either a so-called liberal Democrat, or a so-called, conservative Republican, neither of which is interested much in the betterment of our world, only the betterment of their personal lives. And in many cases we don’t even vote. And there might even be a strong case for not voting, what difference does it make?
We had high hopes and dreams 40 and 50 years ago, just as our children do now. Hope they do better

So, What is your name?

Its an identifier linking me or mine to the other parts of the world. At least mine is. Your's, I don't know. But it can be as complicated and as simple as that. It's a name.

I suppose you've noticed that groups have names too. Some are initials; PG & E, IBM, ARSE, and others, some are full-blown-off-the-charts long names; Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, and they are also MADD, and Women Escaping a Violent Environment, (WEAVE), and after you tack on a dot com at the end, wow, that's a lotta name.

Bands have names too, and that's what this little blog is all about. Band names. Think about this; Scorpions...that's fucked-up! Beatles, the "A" means what...seven legs? And, Beach Boys, was it just for the aliteration? But, go ahead, you come up with a band name! See, it's not easy, and what is a "spring chicken," anyway? Oops, kinda got lost, that's for another blog.
Now there's a name. Blog. See all it takes is a word or two artfully placed on paper, or these little TV screens everybody has to show names, and a band name is reality. The Blog. Now it even has some punch. Just adding a little thought at the beginning or the end can change the whole feel of the name. Blog. The Blog. See?

There's another part of the name thing. After-naming is what we will call it. At first the new name sounds strange coming off you lips; "Thank-you, we are the Trelisses." But, after a period of, say, about 66 years, it becomes easier to say aloud, without stumble or bitter shame. Don't get me wrong though, some names just work. "Men at Work." Now there's name with a very low after-naming-ridicule quotient, short, to the point, and definitely bold.

There is a specific reason for this blog. Naming the Amee Chapman Band. There are those that are aware of a mad-dash frenzy of e-mails and in person dialog in recent years to name another band I was in. The Holly Holt Band. Paul Fitzjarrald and I traded names for days!. The only one we agreed on was Holly's Tits. It never, though, became too big with the band-leader.

But, to truly do this right, the band, it's leader, all the personnel, and even type of music needs to be taken in to account for naming purposes. So we are fucked! We thought of the Historics, but we aren't all and Ancients won't work for the same reason. The Halos, now that fits... somewhere. Frequents. That might work. I mean we are overall. Frequent. But, how do you draw that on a poster?

Amee likes Big Finish, I changed that to Big Danish, which got turned into Big Donut, which ended that brain-storming session. It always ends with food. So, why not, Amee Chapman and Oatmeal?

Or, we could take a slightly locale point of view. We're from Sacramento, more or less, so...Oh I know...Amee Chapman and the Ahnulds. It's consise, but groping, pronouncable to Eastern Europeans, and when you say it you can make it sound like a sneeze, so the embarrassment factor is lessened.

Putting all the pieces of a band together is a challenge. You have to first, get a mandolin player. And it pretty much goes downhill from there. And then you have to name it. Turd is not appropriate.

I even had a contest for name for a one-time gig I did with some bluegrass picking buddies. Richard March, taking advantage of a full bullshit brain quadrant,won hands down with Bastards of Bluegrass. B.O.B. No bobdown jokes now. Actually that name lives on. Ken And B.O.B on myspace. I have a picture of Roberta and me there. So, if you were wondering, Berta, why people keep shouting Bob at you...there you have it.

But, it goes on. We can land a man on a moon, we can moon a man on land, a we can commonly catch a cold, but naming the band is just hard! Hope we can be finally finished someday.

Democracy in Action

For an election a 57% voter turn-out is pretty damn good, and that is what the first indicators from the Iraqi elections yesterday show for that war-torn country. Those folks have never had the opportunity to do exactly what they did. What a feeling that must be. Another feeling they may be dealing with is some of the Dunce Cap Brigade from the American Democratic Party; namely Ted Kennedy. This moron has been whining for days about pulling our troops from Iraq, and apparently has not uttered a single congratulation for the feat the Iraqi people have achieved. This dunce should have stayed in the lake with his concubine.

I am not a George Bush fan to any particular degree, I believe he is very good as a manager, and I think he has assembled very competent people. I would prefer an administration that would pay more attention to financial affairs; ie taxes and government spending, but as far as fixing problems that cause death of Americans, I think they have done an admirable job. And so, apparently, do a lot of other people, as the results of our election indicate.

I have heard of numerous complaints today voiced by the losing national political party, from thier self-annointed leaders, Ted Kennedy and Barbara Boxer. And I'm not surprised; these imbeciles, protest every election they see, regardless in what country the supposed election frauds took place.

Dumbocraps, if they ever want to win another national election, need to pull their collective heads out of their proverbial asses and listen to what is going on in the world, and maybe in their bathroom too. That sound may be the toilet flushing and not the sound made by a fountain of glory. Stop trying to find fault with everything, and instead offer up some productive ideas.

I, until my sanity was threatened by moronicus antiparthoid nervous disease, partook in a discussion group of left wing folks. I finally left when I heard the same damn thing one too many times. Though some posters actually had ideas, the vast majority whinned about how bad this administration is and never offered one coherent thought. I tried for three months to partake in their discussions, and came to the conclusion that there was not a single redeeming feature I could not live without, so I quit and took my name off of the list.

The sad thing is, I met some good people there that listened to what I have to say, told me their beliefs, and we treated each other as friends. Many have my e-mail address, and they all have links to me web-site, not a one has contacted me, even to tell me to get fucked. The right-wing groups I am a member of always offer one or two friends that do contact me if I haven't posted for a while. They are true friends, though their political beliefs are opposed a lot to mine, and they care.

My belief here is that the conclusion that could be drawn here would not be accurate, at least I hope not. Because the evidence here says that liberals are assholes, and that seems a great generalization, but also seems true.

What the hell is a Blivet!

Like I said on the title page of this here blog, a blivet is ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag, or an impossible thing, which that would be I guess. But there is more to the story, and that story would best be worked backwards from the now to the before now. Before now all the way back to the time of humankind standing up on our legs and walking. The first instance of a blivet comes from that time, maybe a million years ago or so.

I know this because Random House Dictionary, while it does define the word, did not define the actual object the word derives from. That's right! The blivet is an object, or, really it is one of three objects all the same and all called blivets. I have one of those three objects, and as far as I can determine I have the only one to be found. My dad found this one.

Because the blivet is so obscure and it's existence is widely unknown, I don't live in fear that I will be conked over the head so that someone else may possess it and learn it's vast secrets. And I have learned a lot from it already, at least enough to know I will continue to derive knowledge from it even if it should again become lost to me and even to humankind. In the million or so years of the blivet's existence on Earth only a handful of people have actually held this remarkable object, and my family has been it's keeper for the last forty years.

What I know of the blivet I have learned from the object itself. Now, the blivet is remarkably only a wood-like cylinder, that is actually two cylinders stuck together, one atop the other, one smaller in circumference and one fatter but shorter. And it looks like wood, but has a perpetual shine, is eerily translucent, and is so hard it has weathered volcanic explosions, nuclear detonations, and burial in the ocean for millenia at a time. It is not of this world.

I have first-hand information of the blivet's existence for the last forty years, and in this particular chapter of the blivet story I will tell that, the chapters that come later will be told from the insights I have learned from the blivet itself. Now as strange as it may seem, this object is truly an impossible thing as the definition describes, but the definition leaves much to the imagination, and your imagination would not comprehend it all, as mine doesn't. This object has told me a story and has imparted knowledge to me from other worlds. I have been reluctant to offer it to the world before for obvious reasons. You might question my sanity, but here in the midst of my life I have decided I can no longer keep this to myself, and I must share what I know and what I am still learning from the blivet. Suffice to say, the creatures who built the blivet were light years ahead of we humans, the technology employed with this object unknown to humans, and far beyond our capabilities even now, and the blivet has been in existence for at least one million years.

On to the first chapter.

My dad was a career NCO in the US Air Force, and as such made my childhood diverse to say the least. We moved a lot. Japan when I was four, five, and six, Denver CO for the next few years, Taiwan in my early teens, then to Mississippi to graduate High School. And we also had yearly or bi-yearly visits to uncles, aunts, and cousins in Central Valley California. The uncles were Jim, Bill, and Bob, and they and my dad, when we visited, would engage in debate on a nightly basis. Theses debates were fueled by the bottle, Jim Beam, I believe, and were and still are the talk of the family. They solved nearly every earthly problem ever identified and even some that were not of Earth.

I could never stay up late enough to listen to the whole thing, and couldn't properly assist with their work anyway, (they wouldn't let me drink). But I have heard this tale of the blivet for years told and re-told, over and over. No one seems to remember who first brought up the blivet in conversation, and only two of the participants in those Earth-shaking debates are still living, but my dad, though his views on blivets were regarded by the others as suspect, did at that time commence a search for proof of what he knew tro be true. Blivets are real, impossible, but real.

And he found it! In Taiwan. Across the sea, in a forest while he was out taking pictures of the countryside. That's where we wound up for a two year stay toward the end of my dad's Air Force career. He had not been actively searching for the blivet when he found it, but the debate had stayed in his head, and he was always on the lookout for it. What is curious, and maybe even a little bit scary is the way he found it.

He told me he was traipsing through the Central Taiwan mountains while on a three day trip he had taken to another Air Base on the island. His work took him to many places all over the world, but he said he felt drawn to the mountains just outside of CCK Air Force Base. As he was wont to do often, he took a day to go take photos of the beautiful country one day while he was on temporary duty there.

While walking along a narrow path through dense forest, (he said the hill was steep and the trail made switchbacks quite often, and he had to bend over frequently to dodge errant tree limbs), he slipped and fell. He started sliding down the path opn his butt, holding his camera in one hand with his camera bag hooked over his head and shoulder on the other arm. He reached out with his loose hand trying to get purchase of something to stop his glide, grasping and missing, and finally grabbing tree branch that held and stopped his descent. He had been moving pretty fast, and when he grabbed the tree limb it swung him around off the trail and into the dense brush alongside.

As he sat there inspecting his scrapes and taking inventory of his camera equipment, he felt a sharp edge slicing slicing into his butt. Now, he was pretty far off the beaten path, this was a small trail that surely didn't get much human traffic, more a game trail than anything, so it seemed an odd site as he looked at what was paining him, and saw an obviously unnatural object half buried in the ground that was the object of his posterior pain. The object looked like a turned piece of wood, but was polished to a very high sheen, and was so translucent he could see through it almost. And it had a glow, he called it a rose tint glow, which was not strong but very visible in the dark jungle floor where he was sitting.

He knew almost at once what the object was. This was the blivet. He had heard, like a lot of people have heard over the years, of the blivet, but my dad, unlike most people, had over the course of his life, developed a quite remarkable amount of knowledge about what most people through the ages had thought was old wives tales and legend. He said it called to him in an almost unheard whisper, "blivet."

He dug the blivet out of the ground and brought it home. It has been in my family since that time almost forty years ago. The next year we were in California on our way to Mississippi to finish out my dad's last station, and he presented the blivet at the first nightly uncle's debate of our visit. He had composed a speech that he asked for everyone's complete undivided attention. He explained what he had learned of the blivet before finding it, which over-all was not much, then imparted the hints he said came from the blivet itself. What he knew, and others couldn't really believe, was the blivet is an object sent here by an ancient other-worldly civilization from a far distant planet. It, along with two other identical objects, were programmed with all the knowledge this far-flung civilization had acquired in its vast history.

My dad was known for his glib tongue, and weird sense of humor, so the story he told was taken as a Billy Burnett Spoof. They all had a great drunken time talking of the blivet. A family tradition was born that night and it was decided that each family in our fairly sizable brood would be allowed to keep the blivet for one year at a time, the intention to glean whatever wisdom it had to impart. At the end of the year it was to be sent or given to another of our family, along with a story, or essay, or something to marks its visit with that family.

It made the rounds for many years, and some of the stories and projects form those individuals that did write with the experience of the blivet are quite remarkable. But, my father was the only one who truly believed this was actually an alien attemt to help humans survive this universe and spread the ancient knowledge it contains. He finally retired from his hoboing, world-traveling days in the early eighties, and eventually told me of all the wonders the blivet had introduced to him. When he died, the family passed the blivet to me for safekeeping until I too cross that shining ocean.

That's how the blivet came to me. How it has passed its knowledge to me, I don't really know. but I know what I am certain are facts about its existence, its long trip to earth, and the history it has recorded since it first landed in a fiery volcano in what would be roughly Northern Europe over one million years ago. Now that's a long story, but it has some parts and parcels that need to be told, and before I do get on my one-way-ship across the sea, I will do my best to relay that story.

Fastest Mandolin in the West

Actually the title is a bit misleading, because some mandolins have gone faster, I'm sure. Sometimes folks take them on airplanes to go somewhere, and those mandolins are definitely faster than my seventy mile and hour one. But my mandolin was going seventy or so when it hit the pavement of Interstate 580, northbound just coming out of Hayward, CA. Unbeknownst to me or to Roberta, who rode by my side, in her car after a gig we played in Hayward the trunk was not closed securely and my new mandolin had departed the confines of said trunk.

One hundred miles later, crossing the Causeway into Sacramento, Roberta chirped. "Oh Shit! I think the trunk is open!" It was, and when she got back in the car after inspecting, searching, and closing the trunk, her face told me what I feared most; the mandolin was gone.

We backtracked a few miles hoping the open trunk was a recent occurence in this trip, and found no sign that any mandolin had ever been dropped on that part of the freeway. I was devastated. I am a professional musician, and that mandolin was my grip on a career involving playing it. And that grip was lost on a busy Interstate at two o-clock in the morning.

The next day, a career change had developed in my mind by the time I arose from a sleepless night. I would borrow a mandolin to finish up a few gigs I could not bow out of, and I would begin a new career, telemarketing or something that would not involve heart-wrenching disasters such as losing a mandolin.

At practice that next evening, I got a call on my cell phone. I had alerted authorities at various agencies like the California Highway Patrol, and a few Bay Area Music stores, of the loss of my mando, so on the slight chance that someone had news, I answered the phone. It was a friend of mine who happened to be playing at the Fox and Goose, a local pub that I play at frequently. She said that the bartender had received a call from someone professing to have my lost mandolin. Now news does travel fast in this world today, but for the life of me I could not identify any connection that would have included the Fox and Goose in my mandolin story, but I dutifully spoke with the bartender who is a friend of mine also, and he had a telephone number for a man named Mike, who said he had found the mando on the freeway in Hayward.

Mike, it seems is a highway construction worker and had bee on a crew obn I580 the night before. he told me he saw cars dodging soemthing in the middle lane, and he went out and rescued what turned out to be my mandolin. As he was telling me this story, I remembered the entrance to the freeway where we had gotten on after our gig, had sported obligatory cones and signs and detours of the overnight construction zones of the California freeway system.

It dawned on me then that this story was a once in a life time happening. What odds that my music would depart this earth at the very spot where someone would be working on a road that has continual speeding traffic, and he would be in a spot and have the wherewithal to run out on to a busy four laner to retrieve what must have been unrecognizable as anything in particular. The story grew ebven more amazing in the telling.

At the exact time he began telling me how he came to find me, I realized there was nothing in the case that identified me as the proud owner of the little stringed lute; I had never, to my knowledge, put one of my business cards in it, and it being only a month or so old, I was still being careful not to let the case fill up with any detrius. How did he find me!

Mike said there was a picture of a gray-haired, gray-bearded guy, standing in front of the Fox and Goose. I remembered the picture; a friend had taken it some time before and had justgiven it to me, and I had put it in the case just a day or two before. I also remebered that Roberta and I had looked at it at our aforementioned gig, and I had remarked something to the effect that I should get it out of my virgin case. i'm glad I procrastinated that one. Mike had no clue where the Fox and Goose was, but he did have a keen interest in finding it, for he told me that he knew looking at my fine mandolin that somebody was sorely missing that little jewel, and he also said later, when I picked the mando up at his house, that he would have spent a fortune on lessons for himself or one of his kids to learn to play it.

The picture is of me standing in front of the front door of the Fox and Goose with exactly that on a sign that was right behind me. It could have been anybody, anywhere in the world. Mike started calling informatiobns in the Bay Area, and after getting a California directory assistance from Nextel, located the pub, called them, described the picture to the bartender, who told him it must be me.

After I hung up with instructions to Mike's house, and an agreed time to go pick up the mando from him the next day, I wiped the tears from my eyes and relayed the story to my bandmates. i don't eer remeber being as stunned nor as elated as I was right then.

It is a little over one hundred miles from my house to Mike's, and driving there the next day, allowed me to fully appreciate the gravity of the story I'm relating here. What an amazing tale! i couldn't believe my good luck and came to truly believe that this Weber mandolin was blessed by some diety somewhere, somehow. I had gone from throwing in the towel and never playing music again, to a place of divine intervention, a new regard for the world, and its inhabitants, and a renewed vigor for my chosen life.

Mike is a construction worker. He works nights, has a nice little house in a small town by a river, is married to a very nice woman,and has two little kids, probably three and five or so. When I got there the only payment Mike wanted was for me to sing Happy Birthday to one of his sons. When I opened the case and pulled the mando out of its case, I noticed it was not harmed at all, though the case sports some serious road rash, it was even still in tune. I gladly sang, though it was hard to sing through the huge lump in my throat, and even harder to see through the tears that filled my eyes.

I'm sure Mike is a fine human being, and I'm also quite certain he is normal, suffers pain when he hurts, laughs with joy when life is good, bumps his elbow on the occasional door jamb, and loves his life in the bits and pieces we all get to play as we wind through our time here, but I'm also equally sure that when the tickets are taken and the bills are marked, his will be paid in full, and then some.