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.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Monday, December 20, 2004
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 been on a crew on I580 the night before. He told me he saw cars dodging something 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 even 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 detritus. 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 just given it to me, and I had put it in the case just a day or two before. I also remembered 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 information 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 band mates. I don't ever remember 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 deity 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.
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 been on a crew on I580 the night before. He told me he saw cars dodging something 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 even 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 detritus. 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 just given it to me, and I had put it in the case just a day or two before. I also remembered 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 information 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 band mates. I don't ever remember 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 deity 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.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Chris-a Thon
The first annual Chris-a-thon at the Fox and Goose happened last night. Bob Woods said it was the first which indicates a willingness, at least for him, to continue the tradition in future years. That may be a great idea, if we can figure out how to make them all as good as this one was. Of course, I'm hoping Chris won't need the event as he did this one.
I am continually impressed by the willingness of the Sacramento music scene and it's inhabitants to step up to the plate and come to the aid of those in need of help. I have seen, over the numerous year I have been involved in the human race, many people in times of trial, hurt, and pain, and I have witnessed how those trials are treated by the folks that are affected, and this is the only really continually proactive group of people I know of. I am proud to be a part of the scene here!
Chris Ivey has been playing music here in Sacramento and beyond for a lot of years. He is a great steel guitar player, has played with so many, I'm sure the memries are vague at best, and has been a friend and music mate of mine for a couple years. I always love to play a set with him, even if it's out in front of the Fox and Goose on open mic night. And as we all will sooner or later, he has stumbled into new territory of the reaalizattion and aquisition of our mortality. I can only hope he will weather his malady well and sticks around to play many more sets. A malady, they all are the same; cancer, heart disease, aids, the malaise of fatal addiction, all end at one destiny where all people are the same. And Chris plays on, to the delight of many, I'm sure.
That is what the Chris-a-thon was about this year, and I hope next year it will be about all of us continuing along the paths we have taken, and the notes we play, and I can only hope it is half as successful as this year's version.
As for the show itself, I will try to do it justice here, though bear with me, I am always in tune with the music, and my critique abilities are displaced by my love for the tunes and the players.
I started the show, playing three of my bluegrass monstropieces with my favorite guitar picker Brian Burke, the ever beautiful Holly Holt, Paul Fitzjarrald bass player extraordinaire and soon to be back permanently from LA, and Chris Ivey on Dobro. Roberta Chevrette and John Belizia joined me for three Roberta tunes. I have been blessed with numerous great friends and band mates, and am so pleased that I get to take part in the music we make, and the first thirty minutes of this show opened a evening, that would finally end at around 1AM, that may have been one of the great shows in our town.
Next up was Kalli, a crowd favorite always, and another good friend of mine. I have noticed what others seem to tell me; I sure love all of the women I know, and Kalli is no exception. What could be better than playing music with beautiful women and getting, hugs and kisses from them. What a life!
Holly Holt and Will, (sorry Will your last name escaped me) joined Sal Valentino for a couple of tunes, then Brian Burke and I came up and did a rockin two tunes. What else can be said about Sal Valentino? He is a legend here and there is a reason. My newest woman band mate and friend, Amee Chapman, said he "had it," and she had no idea who he was until I told her.
Star Dust Cowboys were up next. What a band! I don't know these people, except Bob Woods and Paul Fitzjarrald, but the music was fabulous swingin' country. Chris joined them as did Dave Wren on steel guitars. Dueling steels! They blew me away.
Vikki Lee's band, Mr. Ivey's regular gig, did a fabulous country rock set. More good stuff! Bob Woods played with them, did some singing, string bending, and added his train fetishes with his normal flash. Bob was on stage for like sixteen hours, and spent the rest of the show hawkng spare car parts.
Jackie Green couldn't make the show, he was sick, and I was disappointe because Jackie is one of our great ones, but the music was so good, I don't think it was a deal breaker for the audience. get better Jackie!
We ended with Billy Harper and the Band of Country Derelicts, Bob Woods guitar, Chris Ivey steel, James Finch Jr stand-up bass, drum professor Steve Price, and me on mando. What a great band! I am honored to be included in Sacramento's all-star band!
Best of all? The crowd! Yeah! I haven't seen that many people in the Fox and Goose. I've heard it used to be that way years ago, but I know how memries are, and they always seem to grow by bleeps and nouns. Everyone seemed to have a great time, they listened to the music, which is a good thing, and they were the reason we played. As it should be. Without some to hear it, did it happen? Thank-you all!
And thanks are in order for the staff at Fox and Goose. Mike and all of the others worked their collective asses off making the night a success. Fox and Goose has been a godsend to me. It is where i met most of the great musicians I know and play with, and I can always go there to see a friendly smiling face, and they were very instrumental in saving my music career, (another blog) helping me get my mando back from the clutches of Interstate 580.
I am continually impressed by the willingness of the Sacramento music scene and it's inhabitants to step up to the plate and come to the aid of those in need of help. I have seen, over the numerous year I have been involved in the human race, many people in times of trial, hurt, and pain, and I have witnessed how those trials are treated by the folks that are affected, and this is the only really continually proactive group of people I know of. I am proud to be a part of the scene here!
Chris Ivey has been playing music here in Sacramento and beyond for a lot of years. He is a great steel guitar player, has played with so many, I'm sure the memries are vague at best, and has been a friend and music mate of mine for a couple years. I always love to play a set with him, even if it's out in front of the Fox and Goose on open mic night. And as we all will sooner or later, he has stumbled into new territory of the reaalizattion and aquisition of our mortality. I can only hope he will weather his malady well and sticks around to play many more sets. A malady, they all are the same; cancer, heart disease, aids, the malaise of fatal addiction, all end at one destiny where all people are the same. And Chris plays on, to the delight of many, I'm sure.
That is what the Chris-a-thon was about this year, and I hope next year it will be about all of us continuing along the paths we have taken, and the notes we play, and I can only hope it is half as successful as this year's version.
As for the show itself, I will try to do it justice here, though bear with me, I am always in tune with the music, and my critique abilities are displaced by my love for the tunes and the players.
I started the show, playing three of my bluegrass monstropieces with my favorite guitar picker Brian Burke, the ever beautiful Holly Holt, Paul Fitzjarrald bass player extraordinaire and soon to be back permanently from LA, and Chris Ivey on Dobro. Roberta Chevrette and John Belizia joined me for three Roberta tunes. I have been blessed with numerous great friends and band mates, and am so pleased that I get to take part in the music we make, and the first thirty minutes of this show opened a evening, that would finally end at around 1AM, that may have been one of the great shows in our town.
Next up was Kalli, a crowd favorite always, and another good friend of mine. I have noticed what others seem to tell me; I sure love all of the women I know, and Kalli is no exception. What could be better than playing music with beautiful women and getting, hugs and kisses from them. What a life!
Holly Holt and Will, (sorry Will your last name escaped me) joined Sal Valentino for a couple of tunes, then Brian Burke and I came up and did a rockin two tunes. What else can be said about Sal Valentino? He is a legend here and there is a reason. My newest woman band mate and friend, Amee Chapman, said he "had it," and she had no idea who he was until I told her.
Star Dust Cowboys were up next. What a band! I don't know these people, except Bob Woods and Paul Fitzjarrald, but the music was fabulous swingin' country. Chris joined them as did Dave Wren on steel guitars. Dueling steels! They blew me away.
Vikki Lee's band, Mr. Ivey's regular gig, did a fabulous country rock set. More good stuff! Bob Woods played with them, did some singing, string bending, and added his train fetishes with his normal flash. Bob was on stage for like sixteen hours, and spent the rest of the show hawkng spare car parts.
Jackie Green couldn't make the show, he was sick, and I was disappointe because Jackie is one of our great ones, but the music was so good, I don't think it was a deal breaker for the audience. get better Jackie!
We ended with Billy Harper and the Band of Country Derelicts, Bob Woods guitar, Chris Ivey steel, James Finch Jr stand-up bass, drum professor Steve Price, and me on mando. What a great band! I am honored to be included in Sacramento's all-star band!
Best of all? The crowd! Yeah! I haven't seen that many people in the Fox and Goose. I've heard it used to be that way years ago, but I know how memries are, and they always seem to grow by bleeps and nouns. Everyone seemed to have a great time, they listened to the music, which is a good thing, and they were the reason we played. As it should be. Without some to hear it, did it happen? Thank-you all!
And thanks are in order for the staff at Fox and Goose. Mike and all of the others worked their collective asses off making the night a success. Fox and Goose has been a godsend to me. It is where i met most of the great musicians I know and play with, and I can always go there to see a friendly smiling face, and they were very instrumental in saving my music career, (another blog) helping me get my mando back from the clutches of Interstate 580.
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