As many of you know, our good friends Clay and Allene Blaker now make their home in ....Bocas Del Toro.., ..Panama.....  You may not know, however, that Allene is Editor at Large of the local newspaper The Bocas Breeze.  Allene published an article where the timeless question of a falling tree making noise was raised.  I responded and a fruitful and hearty discourse ensued which ended up being published in a subsequent issue.  Enjoy: 

If a tree falls in the forest, Part 2....
Dear Editor,
I enjoyed your story about the trees. My take on the matter is that a falling tree simply makes sound waves. If someone or something is there, those sound waves then move through the ear stimulating nerves which send signals to the brain which then interprets them as sound. If there is no ear, nerve, or brain to complete the process, the sound waves simply remain sound waves which are, of course, energy but not necessarily sound.
Regards,
Dub Miller....

Thanks for writing, Dub.
It's not clear to me yet. If there is a tape recorder around, and it has no brain or nerve or ear to complete the process, will it pick up the sound of the tree falling or not? Do tape recorders even exist anymore? And what if we attach it on the wrong side of the falling tree? Maybe we should use two of them? And hope the falling tree doesn't fall on the other?
Allene Blaker....

Dear Allene, editor at large and dutiful reporter, observer, and pointer-outer of all things Bocas and Breezy,
You pose a very interesting question. For the sake of argument, let us disregard the practical and/or pragmatic realities regarding the availability of necessary equipment. As for the tree and the forest, these are still readily available at least as long as such forests resist clear cutting so that we may have expensive furniture and cheap beef. As for the tape recorder, I suggest the Teac Tascam Series 144 4-track cassette recorder. If it is good enough for The Boss, it should be good enough for us. In fact, let’s use four of them on each side so that we have a greater probability of at least one of the recorders surviving the general wreckage that can occur in the event of a falling tree.
Now, you astutely point out that a tape recorder has no brain, nerve, or ear to complete the process I spoke of before. I must admit that this is true. I do not, however, see how this negates my original premise. A tree falls, thereby making sound waves. A tape recorder then takes magnetic tape and records a fluctuating signal by moving the tape across a tape head that polarizes the magnetic domains in the tape in proportion to the audio signal (sound waves). All we have really done by introducing a tape recorder to the scenario is give us the ability to play back these sound waves at a later date. Some kind of person or animal with the ability to hear is still necessary for the recorded audio signal to be interpreted as sound.
Also, you will have to forgive my ignorance in all things computer but I understand that there is such a thing as artificial intelligence and recognize that someday the argument may be made that some machine or robot or some other freak of technology or nature could actually “hear”. While this may be true, I choose to ignore such a thing and leave it in the capable hands of quasi-religious cults and Star Trek nerds.
I thank you for your reply. A hearty and public discourse is valuable and necessary for a healthy and free society. No matter how frivolous it may be.
Regards,
Dub Miller....

Thanks for writing again, Dub,
It’s all making perfect sense now.
I feel vindicated though. From what you said, I don’t think tape recorders are needed at all. As long as there is “some kind of person or animal with the ability to hear” then the audio signal from the falling tree can be interpreted as sound.
According to the animal presence per square foot facts for Central American tropical rainforests, there are approximately 642 faunal species per square foot on my property at all times, usually inside my house, with the ability to see, hear, communicate, do logarithms, predict solar eclipses, and know how to get the hell out of the way when a tree falls. As far as I know, these animals didn’t take any philosophy classes and that’s why I usually don’t take a flyswatter to them but cordially escort them out by other means, such as a ride on the bottom of my shoe.
But the fact remains that these entities CAN hear, and DO hear. And as long as they continue to occupy the jungle or my home – which they will, long after I am gone – falling trees WILL be heard.
I think.
Allene Blaker....

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Billy Applegate is dying.  There's no getting around that.  There is no understanding why.  God kills moms and dogs everyday because he has to.  It is not for us to understand.  Such is the nature of faith.  I believe that there is a heaven and that Billy will be there soon.  I weep not for Billy, but for those of us whose lives will be robbed of a pure and singular, uninterrupted beauty.   A whale of a heart so strong and noble, its absence will leave us all without one very large touchstone with which to reach for in the night.  I prefer, however, not to think of Billy's death, but his life. 

I first became friends with Billy as fellow residents of what came to be called "The Compound".  It was the summer of '01 or '02… those years are pretty hazy.  The River Road Icehouse was just opening up and Ken Jenkines and Mel Polk allowed us to… well… I don't think they realized exactly what we were going to do, but they put up with us.  What we did was circle the wagons so to speak.  In this case, wagons were 4 RVs of various shapes and sizes grouped to form a square with a real live adult musician's playground at its heart.  A very musical place to be sure. 

I lived in the western most camper.  To the south, Grant Tracy, who you may know as the bass player for The Stragglers, lived in the "Aqua Penis". To the east was Doug Moreland who, of course, is the grand impresario of RVing and had the largest, fanciest, and most expensive camper.  And to the north lived one Billy Applegate… the ambassador of the compound.  Together we wrote songs, played music, hosted jams, and told so many jokes, lies, and stories, I can no longer distinguish one from the other… I doubt I ever could.  And we laughed… we laughed a lot. 

Moreland and Billy were buddies back in Levelland, played in a couple of bands together, and enjoyed much success as itinerant chainsaw artists.  Billy was carving out in east ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Tennessee when Doug convinced him to move back to Texas as he felt we were all on to something; musically speaking.  Billy came on down, moved on in, and instantly became one of us. 

I remember one time Billy went back to Tennessee, and ran into some money trouble before he could get back.  The air fare was one price, the bus fare was another price… and the sort of purple Pontiac Bonneville was the cheapest of all.  Billy bought the car and to seal the deal, whatever sort of "Appalachian American" he was dealing with threw a case of moonshine in the trunk to seal the deal.  Billy shows up in New Braunfels with a new/old car and a case of shine…. and a smile of course… always a smile.  We woke up with headaches the rest of the summer. 

Being a touring musician at the time, I had my weekdays mostly off and have many fond memories of trading both songs and stories with Billy.  He was one hell of a conversationalist.  In fact, he knows more about Billy the Kid than maybe anyone in the world.  Many people did not know this, but Billy was just a few hours short of a Master's degree in history from Texas Tech.  The old west was his specialty and anyone who ever got to take advantage of the great wealth of knowledge he had to bestow was blessed.  I would be sitting there reading some Larry McMurtry book and he would just sit down beside me and start rattling on about who the characters were based on and and how and why and the actual history behind it all.  I learned a lot from the man and repeated a lot of this knowledge without giving him credit. 

Another area where Billy has not gotten enough credit is his songwriting.  Billy Applegate is a gifted lyricist with a profound country sensibility and a keen eye for the hook.  Anyone familiar with Doug Moreland or Kevin Fowler's catalog can be sure that Billy's influence is in there somewhere.  Billy was also a very prolific songwriter and will leave behind him stacks and stacks of songs.  If something is not done with these, it will surely be a travesty.  Billy had a deep, rich, baritone voice and had something bottomlessly sad in the delivery.  In a world of trite beer anthems, Billy Applegate was a sad, sad, country song. 

Most of all, Billy was a friend.  I dare you to find somebody with an ill word to say about the man.  I wrote of that heart earlier.  What a heart… what a huge, big, bear of a heart.  Billy was a demonstrative man.  He was a hugger, and a kisser, and a baby picker-upper.  He is that friend you have that after a few beers won't quit hugging you and telling you how much he loves you. I love you to Billy… I love you to. 

The Compound eventually met its demise… nothing gold can stay, Ponyboy, nothing gold can stay…   but Billy and I were to be neighbors once again.  Roommates this time actually.  When Marci and I separated I had no where to go, so I started bunking with Billy at Mel's hotel.  I was not a good roommate.  I was a depressed, deflated, completely destroyed, emotional wreck.   I would have driven most people completely insane inside of 2 hours.  I stayed in that room with Billy for 2 months.  That's when I truly discovered how much wisdom was in that big heart.

Being the veteran of 3 divorces, Billy had more insight, advice, council, encouragement, and genuine old fashioned brotherly love to give than I could ever ask for or even deserve.  God put Billy in my path.  Billy, for what seemed like a long, dismal, time, was my angel.  A big, burly, hairy, old, scruffy, west Texas cowboy looking angel, but an angel all the same.  I would be laying there on my bed just staring at the ceiling feeling sorry for myself and in would come Billy.  Invariably, he would have a sonic cheeseburger and a foot-long coney… that or fried chicken.  He would get us a couple beers from the little dorm fridge we had in there and just start talking.  Telling stories about what all he had gone through.  Talk about feeling humbled… I felt like a pussy.  His stories are his business, but I can tell you that the man has seen his share of heartache.  And he knew exactly how to be there for me. 

He started having headaches.  That was the start of it.  Migraines he thought.  Billy is a tough old goat and like most of his kind did not favor doctors.  Finally the completely debilitating pain drove him to make an appointment and that is when the word cancer was first spoken.  I saw Billy the next day and he was joking and jocular about the whole ordeal; trying to put everyone else at ease.  "Oh I don't know" he said, "First they're going to open up my head and check and see if I have a brain first, then maybe if I do, they'll look for the brain cancer".  Funny. 

I don't see how writing of the details of his decline serve Billy or his memory so I'll just say that once it started, it came on fast.  He eventually just grew weaker and more tired. He could be found most mornings in the lobby of the Gruene Outpost River Lodge drinking coffee.  We went to breakfast a couple of times.  He talked about finishing his Master's degree; maybe teach junior college history somewhere.  Always smiling.  Always joking.  Always trying to make me feel better. 

I don't want to start thinking about all the things I should have done for this good man.  My soul is wounded with his loss.  Anyone who ever knew Billy Applegate can attest to the sincerity, integrity, and virtue of his character.  I am proud to count him among my friends.  I'm gonna miss you Billy… I'm gonna miss you a lot.  Love ya man… 

Of all that is written I love only that which is written with blood.  Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit. 

It is not easy to understand the blood of another:  I hate the reading idler.

He who knows the reader does nothing further for the reader.  Another century of readers – and spirit itself will stink.

That everyone is allowed to learn to read will in the long run ruin not only writing but thinking, too.

Once spirit was God, then it became man, and now it is even becoming mob.  

He who writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, he wants to be learned by heart.

In the mountains the shortest route is from peak to peak:  but for that you must have long legs.  Aphorisms should be peaks:  and those to whom they are addressed should be big and tall of stature. 

The air thin and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful wickedness:  these things go well together.

I want hobgoblins around me, for I am courageous.  Courage which scares away phantoms creates hobgoblins for itself – courage wants to laugh.

I no longer feel as you do:  this cloud which I see under me, this blackness and heaviness I laugh at – precisely this is your thundercloud.

You look up when you desire to be exalted.  And I look down because I am exalted.

Who of you can at once laugh and be exalted?

He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.

Courageous, untroubled, mocking, violent – that is what wisdom wants us to be:  wisdom is a woman and loves only a warrior…

-  Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra, originally published in 1883.  Just something I thought yall might want to chew on. 

Dub Miller was raised on a ranch in Pontotoc, Texas where he had very little contact with other children until he began kindergarten in Llano, Texas.  As one might expect, he developed more of his imagination than his social skills which contributed to his introspective, if somewhat socially retarded nature.  He also became very good at shooting things as a .22 was his primary companion through his formative years.  The other companions of his youth were largely made up of a certain class of Mexican immigrant who would commonly seek work in and around the farms and ranches of the Texas Hill Country.  As a result, he is sympathetic to their plight.  He has also had a couple of good horses, and worked lots of mixed cattle and angora goats.  He hates chickens.   

He attended Llano High School where the suffered 5 broken arms and played drums in a regional but quite groundbreaking heavy metal band called The Zone.  He had a double bass pedal and lots of toms of which he took the bottom heads off.  He thought Lars Ulrich hung the moon.  After graduating from High School, he ran off from the ranch to achieve fame and riches as an FM disc jockey in Amarillo, Texas. He quickly figured out that people in radio achieve very little fame and almost no riches.  He applied to and subsequently attended Texas A&M University where he joined the Corps and pretty much majored in playing 42 at the Dixie Chicken.  Between domino games he managed to form a band, record a CD, and develop the misguided impression that a career in music would be fun, lucrative, and easy. 

Having already developed the habit of running off to the far corners of Texas no matter how dismal they may be; he found himself at the acclaimed country & bluegrass program at South Plains College.  Unfortunately, he also found himself in Levelland, Texas.  See James McMurtry for an accurate description.  Having nothing better to do, he drank lots of beer, played even more guitar, and met his brothers.  Namely Matt Skinner and Adam Odor who presently enjoy the fame and riches Dub so longed for during his stint as the king of panhandle classic rock.  Along with others including but not limited to Jeremy Watkins, Les Lawless, Calib Bruce, Josh Hamilton, a couple of chicks who lived with the band for a while and one dead rattlesnake they moved to San Marcos to seek the previously mentioned but still elusive fame and riches.  Shortly thereafter, Dub met Doug Moreland and Brady Black and still wonders why he makes friends with fiddle players. 

From 1997 to 2004, Dub Miller and the Highway 6 Band helped to blaze the trail that others would follow and is generally accepted and one of the architects of what has become the "Texas Country/Red Dirt" scene as it is known today.  His debut album "American Troubadour" is considered by many to be a Texas Country classic.  After banging it out in the clubs and beer joints all those years he achieved a modicum of fame, almost no riches, and began to long for a domestic lifestyle.  Wife, children, family, that sort of thing.  Also, he didn't particularly care for fame as he found it difficult to make small talk with strangers.  See the previously mentioned upbringing for insight on this matter. 

In 2004 he applied to and subsequently attended The South Texas College of Law in downtown Houston, Texas.  After completing two years of law school, he decided that being a lawyer was going to be a drag and just as subsequently dropped out.  So he loaded up a flat bed trailer and moved his life and plans for the future to New Braunfels, Texas where Dub joined the Dickson Productions team as Operations Manager and general manipulator of the chaos.  The Music Fest at Steamboat Colorado is among the biggest of chaos's he has manipitulated.  At present, he is awaiting his imminent departure to Bocas Del Toro, Panama where he will write books, songs, and play so much guitar his ass will hurt.  Meanwhile, he can usually be found on the banks of the Guadalupe.  Probably hungover.

Every now and then he will go out and play a gig here and there.  The Highway 6 Band has an annual reunion at the aforementioned Steamboat MusicFest and a big time is had by all.  He blames law school for the annoying tendency to use words like "aforementioned."  He has been telling people for years that he is going to make a new record any day now.  He keeps writing new songs, and as a result, keeps wanting to finish one more before he actually makes the record.  He did, however, manage to record two full length albums and hopes that you will be swayed at this oddly peculiar bio to buy one of them.  He still hates chickens. 

Memorial Day.  It is supposed to be a solemn day of mourning and a sacred day of remembrance to honor those who paid the ultimate price for our freedoms. I very much wish it were still that.  I suppose it is still that, somewhat, to many.  It is exactly that to some.  To most, however, it is a three day weekend.  In my part of the world, it signals opening season on the Guadalupe River.  Most of you reading this will know exactly what that implies.  To those of you outside the warm confines of the former Republic of Texas, and/or those of you in close enough proximity that you may frequent the particular body of water of which I write, there is a phenomenon called "toobing." 

Toobing consists of inflating an inter-tube that may or may not have a plastic bottom strapped to it and floating in it down the river.  This is commonly done in groups ranging from 2 to 20 or more where the common denominator is heavy drinking.  Beer is the drink of choice, followed closely by "Jell-O shots."  If you don't know what a Jell-O shot is (never mind that this should be self evident) I am not going to tell you as I have a sincere loathing for the things for many reasons and do not wish to further spread their use.  There also may be the odd filled-up plastic bottle of liquor.  A sub-phenomenon of toobing is the fact that these people can drink beer for 5 hours or more without ever having to pee.  Now that I write this, I can't help but think that I am not the first person to make this observation.  Kristofferson once said "amateurs borrow but professionals steal"  I refer to Kris in the event that I am not completely original. 

Toobing is, of course, for tourists.  For those fortunate souls who are not only local, but affiliated with the odd and peculiar cast of characters to be found up River Road, various sizes of inflatable raft like watercraft are the norm.  (The Comal River being the notable exception.)  What goes on the river… leaves on Sunday morning as the saying goes; only in this case Monday would be the morn of the mass exodus.  Having the river to ourselves once again, the various spoon-benders, mind-benders, shirt-menders, and cash-spenders meet on the beach of the Lone Star Floathouse for the annual Memorial Day float.  This is neither an annual nor scheduled event.  It is simply something that seems to happen entirely on its own.  Sometimes you're there and sometimes you're not.  No one will call you.  Even the very participants will not know until it is actually happening until we are already on the water.  It is true spontaneity at its finest and is always fun. 

I was glad to be present for the combustion this Memorial Day as the preceding weekend was spent working my preverbal ass off.  As you may or may not know, I make my living these days as a concert promoter.  I also more or less run an independent record label about to release a double-live Robert Earl Keen tribute album featuring the aforementioned Mr. Keen.  That, however, is not pertinent to this discussion.  This Memorial Day weekend, I was humbled, helped, and owe my greatest gratitude to Kristi Bigley and Luke Archer without whom two big shows at the River Road Icehouse would have never happened in an orderly fashion or otherwise even happened.  Cross Canadian Ragweed and Roger Creager respectively.  I believe in leading from the front and as a result am usually the first in and the last out.  The sound crews are the notable exception as they have lots of equipment to load up after the show.  (Funny that there almost is always a notable exception… death being the notable exception to that.)  Both nights were great as the bands were fantastic and the shows were well attended.  As I left the Icehouse around 3:30 Monday morning, I was ready for a well deserved beer. 

I am a bit of a vampire by nature and tend to develop friendships with the same sort.  A welcome result of this is that I encountered several friends with which to share that wee-hour beer with.  We ended scattered along the river bank, the cabs of pick-ups, and one '72 Cadillac painted up like the Texas flag.  Eventually dawn turned to morning and the Texas sun slowly brought around the rise of the living dead and the sudden awareness of impending hangovers.  Some split; some stayed.  I stayed.  (Really, I went to go have breakfast in the '72 Cadillac, but I came right back)  Boots and jeans were traded for shorts and sandals and fortified by the famous and glorious jalapeño cheese burger from the Lone Star Floathouse, I joyously began my day.  Before we knew it, we were on the river and going strong.  It wasn't until someone pointed it out, that I realized a third of the way into the trip, that this was the Memorial Day float.  The inaugural float of the summer.  Good friends, good times, and great oldies. 

Ahhh… to be in the Texas hill country.  (Even if it is in the eastern, urban, part of it.) 

Suck it up people from Houston. 

So I was asked to write an article for the Steamboat Music Fest Magazine.  Whatever did I do to deserve such an honor?  An early start, that's what.  Apparently I have played the Music Fest more times than anyone except Roger Creager.  I understand that he has been asked to write a companion piece to this very article.  It seems that the Steamboat Music Fest is one of the last vestiges of society where tenure counts.  The early bird gets the worm as they say.  The slow mouse gets the cheese as Willie Nelson says.  Willie, of course, says a lot of things that are full of wisdom and wit.  He also tells a lot of dirty jokes.  What he hasn't done, however, is play Steamboat for a stinkin' decade.  Since I have, I will continue bravely along with the article and hope that you, my dear reader, will join me.  A frivolous endeavor perhaps but you're the one sitting around reading a damn magazine now aren't you? 

My first experience with the Steamboat Music Fest was not as a performing musician, but as a God-fearing, ticket-buying, beer-drinking, hell-raising, no-skiing, college student from College Station.  A group was being put together within the Aggie Band of which I was a proud member, for a Christmas break ski trip.  Not being one to miss out on even the most trivial of adventures, I bummed 300 bucks from my mama, sold all the plasma I could, and announced my intentions to gallantly participate in the great invasion of the North.  I returned home dehydrated but alive with a bad knee and a mixed set of hazy memories that continues to get better with each successive telling.  Much like General MacArthur on the shores of the Philippines that fateful day in '42; I vowed to return.  I now submit this article to the world as proof that, like MacArthur, I made good on my pledge. 

I returned two years later with a guitar as my weapon, a band as my army, and the fate of country music as my cause.  The Music Fest, as one might imagine, was not the grand spectacle that one will find today.  The twelve ring circus of outlaws, in-laws, wheelers, dealers, book-binders, spoon-benders, crop-dusters, snake-charmers, old obligations and too little time was yet to come.  What you got for your money then was Creager, Moreland and I at the Bear River, every day at 4:00.  Let me reiterate, my band played, Doug Moreland did his one-man extravaganza as it existed then, and Roger Creager's band played.  Every day.  Four o'clock sharp.  I realize that under the cold, pale, unforgiving light of retrospect, particularly given the phenomenon that is Music Fest '08, that that doesn't sound like much.  Let me assure you, it was a FUCKING BLAST!  I have no doubt whatsoever that anyone who was there will readily back me up.  That was, by all accounts, a remarkable time and place. 

You see, the "Texas country" scene, for lack of a better term, didn't exist then as it exists now.  This was the late '90s and it was hard out there for a pimp.  We were just coming out of the mighty era of the Macarena and there were not many venues willing to roll the dice on live music.  The ones that did subsisted largely on cover bands.  You remember the ones; they could cover Brooks & Dunn's "Neon Moon" or Cameo's "Word Up" with equal vigor.  Fortunately for all of us, some guy named Dickson had a vision.  I believe his exact words were:  "what this town could use is a good five dollar dance."  So began the Outlaw Thursday's music series and, what I believe, the genesis of the scene.  As it turns out, that Dickson guy was on to something.  The true believers, like locusts from a biblical plague, turned out in numbers and started on the march. 

We were the people who grew up with country music.  We learned to two-step at 4-H camp while George sang "Cowboy Rides Away."  We snuck beer our of our Uncle's ice chest to the ringing chorus of "Louisiana Saturday Night".  We drove with our friends out to the river singing along to an old worn out cassette of Willie's greatest hits.  We agreed almost reluctantly that the first Clint Black record was great.  Our hero's were Willie, Waylon, Kris, Cash, anyone with Earl(e) in their name and all manner of Hanks.  We also loved our copies of "Back in Black" and "Appetite for Destruction" but the state and/or demise of rock 'n roll was not our concern.  It was apparent that Garth Brooks held the lease on the airwaves of country radio and what little he couldn't occupy he sub-let to Shania Twain.  It seemed, at least for a time, that all hope was lost.  Then we found each other.  In each other, we found solidarity for a purpose… for a sound… for a group of like minded individuals to gather and enjoy music that was not disposable, but actually meant something. 

It was these people that gathered at that first Music Fest that we played.  Don't get me wrong, it is still these same people that gather today.  Only now there are more… lots more.  In time we found out that, although isolated from each other, that the same thing was happening all over the nation.  I can still recall the surprise and joy I felt the first time I went up to play Stillwater, Oklahoma. (And all that that implies.)  I found an eccentric group of almost-hippies in cowboy boots who more or less viewed the musical landscape the same way I did.  Here, there, and everywhere, people were rising up and lending their support to an un-proven genre of music that was basically being written and performed by rank amateurs.  There was no market analysis or focus groups.  There was only music.  Glorious music.    

So there we were.  Long before we knew all that other stuff was going on.  The room was small.  The stage was small.  The show was in the afternoon. Hell, I was just hoping we would get some sort of after slopes crowd.  (I think the appropriate term is après-ski, but I refuse to use that term on the same principle that goads me to pronounce gondola wrong.)  None of us really knew what to expect, but hey, we're out here in Colorado with nothing to do but ski and play a little guitar; how bad do you want things to be?  Then a funny thing happened.  Those Texans rolled into that little bar like Mexican soldiers coming over the walls of the Alamo.  They filled every table, chair and space and when they could no longer fit there, they moved the tables and chairs out.  The bar staff didn't know what the hell had just hit them.  They were calling out for reinforcements like they really were in the Alamo and the Texans just kept coming back for more.  The band was playing, the crowd was singing, boots were stomping, toes were tapping, girls were dancing, men were shouting, and jubilance, merriment, and mirth filled the air in a way that would give Christmas morning at 8 years old a run for its money. 

I would love nothing more than to leave you with the impression that all of this occurred because we played so great, but it would be a damn lie.  The truth is that it was a celebration.  We were celebrating not only the music, but each other.  In a time when we had felt isolated and alone we came up to the mountains to find camaraderie and fellowship.  It was unexpected and it was bad ass.  I promise you it was a party. 

Then and now, it is a different kind of cat that will travel hundreds of miles to go see bands that they can easily see at home.  What goes on at Music Fest transcends a particular artist or genre or event.  It is a gathering.  It is a loose confederation of the truly hard-core and questionably insane that lasts for days and takes no pity on the weak or meek.  In the last decade I have seen the Steamboat Music Fest grow from… I almost wrote humble beginnings but that wouldn't be right; I assure you there was nothing humble about it.  I have seen it grow from 3 good 'ole boys throwing an afternoon jam to the indescribable monstrosity we attend today.  (20+ bands in several venues performing over 40 concerts; you do the math) 

The amazing thing to me is not the growth of the festival; I always believed in the inevitability of that particular outcome.  The amazing thing is that, for all its growth and size, the Music Fest still retains that sense of community that we shared those afternoons at Bear River.  I think that says more about the people who are into the music than the music itself.  One hand washes the other I suppose.  I have seen it attributed to Willie that "I never gave up on country music because I knew what I was doing was not that bad."  Perhaps it is that simple.  We have all found something here and we know it is not that bad.  That Dickson guy's first name is John, by the way.  If you go to Steamboat and see him, hit him up for a beer.  I've been bumming beer and ski trips from him for almost 10 years now.     

Greetings from behind yuppie lines.  Thats right sports fans, Im in a Starbucks.  How did I come to such a fate?  Two words:  wireless internet.  I need it, theyve got it.  I used to get it in the library at the law school, but that place is more unpleasant than a Starbucks that is inside an Ikea, that only plays John Mayer, and only serves some kind of tangerine thing that the young, fit, well dressed Asian man with the good hair ordered earlier.  Well, maybe not that bad, but one grows tired of florescent lighting and the stench of fear. 

So I walk in.  Nervous is not quite the word, but I definitely feel out of place.  Girl at the counter is friendly.  Big smile.  What can I get for you today?  She assumes I know what I am doing.  Dont panic.  They dont use large and small here, its something else.  Do they even call it coffee?  Marci usually has some kind of carmel-lowfat-coffeechino-psuedo-coffee type thing.  I scan the menu on the wall but get lost in the Asia/Pacific, Africa/Arabia, Multi-Region blend, etc.  Do I really have to decide where the damn beans were grown?  Big friendly smile is waiting.  Wait.  Stop.  They are the saturated, trendy, chain-store coffee shop, not me.  Fuckem.  Medium coffee I say.  Big friendly smile didnt skip a beat.  She turned and happily translated my order to the older but energetic lady who actually pours the coffee.  I forget exactly what she said, el grande enchrito or something like that, but the older, yet equally friendly lady handed me what appeared to be a medium coffee. 

I have to admit two things.  First:  the coffee is good.  Its not easy to admit that.  Ive made a great deal of sport of manlier men than myself for holding similar sentiments.  I believe in truck stop coffee.  Strong.  Black.  No sugar.  No cream.  If it will help you take paint off of your drive way, all the better.  It should be served in a white porcelain cup by an older woman with a history and a story.  It matters little whether she is friendly.  She doesnt have to be; she is interesting.  These sorts of places are usually not much to look at, but it doesnt matter the people are.  One can see a lot of life hanging out in a place that may or may not pass the health code. 

Starbucks on the other hand is,  well,  pleasant.  This, of course is my second admission.  Along with the tables and hard chairs are various shapes and sizes of stuffed, modular, living room furniture. There is a steady stream of polite, folk-oriented, pop music at a reasonable volume.  If Jewel were a dude she would sound like whatever I am listening to now.  As I am here to use my computer, I need a table.  I choose one in the back, near the restrooms.  A message painted on the corner of the table diplomatically instructs me to please offer the table to our disabled customers.  Is this the trendy coffee shop equivalent of parking in the handicap spot?  I am unfamiliar with the social mores and general etiquette of hanging out in Starbucks.  The other table is taken by a white dude in his early 30s who looks eerily like Stephen King.  As it is the only table that does not currently have a latte sipping computer user, I take it with a promise to offer it to the first handicapped caffeine junkie that rolls in.  They would definitely spice the place up; the rest of the joint looks like an ad for the Gap.    

My coffee cup has a message on it.  It is numbered #119 so there must be at least 118 others.  (collect the whole set!)  This message is attributed to a Dr. David Baltimore who wants me to think about all the science behind the processing and roasting of the coffee.  Then, it says, think of the science all around me, in my cell phone, in my computer, even in my food.  Rein it up there Dr. Dave, your blowing my mind.  My first thought is whether this particular coffee came from Asia/Pacific, Africa/Arabia, Constantinople or Timbuktu.  I am compelled to put a face to the hardy little indigenous worker who picked the beans.  Science?  Now Ive got Albert Einstein, Juan Valdez, and a black and white Gene Wilder from Young Frankenstein side by side, happily picking my coffee.  Not sure what that has to do with my phone or computer, but my coffee cup appeared to be serious and I felt obligated to oblige. 

Ive been sitting here a while now.  Again, not sure about the trendy coffee shop etiquette.  I suppose I should wrap this up.  Shall I browse the CD rack before I go?  Eww, Rascal Flatts, never mind.  Stephen King has been replaced by a young Indian man who is, lets countem, surfing the internet on his computer, listening to his ipod, talking on his cell phone, and drinking something that apparently requires a straw, all at the same time.  Ill give it that its a very multi-cultural experience.  You won't see this  much diversity drinking your coffee at the Hungry Hunter in Llano.  In fact, the only common denominator seems to be hair gel.  I wonder if he is contemplating the science behind his various activities?  OK, Im out of here; the handicapped person my roll in any minute.      

I spend a lot of my time wasting it. Particularly when I know I’m supposed to be doing something else. Some menial chore that is necessary and productive but not necessarily enjoyable. Relative to my current experience, studying is a good example, but there are any number of good reasons to waste time. Some of you are probably doing it at work right now. I’m not talking about the “I ain’t got shit to today, so I’m not gonna do shit today and I’m not gonna feel bad about it” kind of wasting time. That time is a reward, a re-charge, a conscious decision to spend your free time any damn way you please. I’m talking about when you have plenty to do, but you waste time anyway.

If you know what I’m talking about, welcome home. You are in good company. We are not cheetos munching couch potatoes in two day old underwear flipping through to find the least objectionable programming while alternating hits on the honey bear bong. (Although each of us is about a broken heart away from such a state). We are, in fact, productive members of our god fearing capitalistic society and when properly motivated are capable steely-eyed determination and fierce competition. Just imagine what we could accomplish if we didn’t waste so much damn time.

It is ironic that we spend the most important time, that is, the time we should be spending doing whatever it is that needs to be done, doing things that are not particularly enjoyable. The chief quality of this arbitrary activity is that it is not whatever we are supposed to be doing. If you truly had that free time at your disposal, there is no way you would choose that particular activity. Yet we spend our most precious minutes doing just that. “My closet must be rearranged now!” “It is important that I go through these old photos.” “Just one more game of solitaire.” I have looked up stuff on the internet with an intensity that would confound a doctorial candidate. …and if it somehow requires a trip to Wal-Mart, all the better.

Meanwhile, the constantly nagging pull of our charge is tap-tap-tapping the inside of our skulls, just below and behind the left ear. You know the feeling. It is a distant, wimpy cousin of the guy who holds the lease on the pit of your stomach. Perhaps this is why we choose the time wasting activities that we do. “I can’t go and do anything that is actually fun, I’ve got too much to do.” We can, however, spend two hours polishing the assorted metal parts of the sleeper sofa to a high military sheen. We somehow feel less guilty if the time wasting activity is not our preferable first choice. The catholic in me wants to identify it as some sort of penance. “You have sinned by not doing your work. Do two solitaries, a vacuum, and an act of contrition, and all will be forgiven.”

The upside to all of this is the feeling of satisfaction we get after a job well done. Have you ever gone too long without a shower? It is an unparalleled feeling of refreshment when you finally take one. Perhaps this is a phenomenon known only to railroad hobos and touring country musicians, but some of you may know what I mean. It is a similar feeling when we take the reigns, spur the horse, and tackle the job. I’m not saying we rarely get things done, actually quite the opposite. I’m saying that when we actually immerse ourselves in our driven purpose, the wound-up, uptight, type-A had better pull over and let the freight train roll on by. Too bad trains get such crappy gas mileage.

I’d love to say more, but I’m afraid I’ve guilted myself in getting back to work.

Destiny and circumstance,
Dub