Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 37
Sign: Capricorn
City: Marina
State: California
Country: US
Signup Date: 3/9/2006
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Monday, June 22, 2009
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Current mood:  artistic
Category: Writing and Poetry
Draining the Swamp
I look around the abundance of home
A squat, long domicile by the sea
and see this swamp in its spiral down
seeping out into porous sandstone
The milk is thin already, and now sour
when it spills, there are no towels to cry into
the dogs eat fleas from their shaggy, unshaved fur
soon I will know the powerlessness of electricity
When the tuna runs out, there will be powders to stew
Would-be riders walk, the bike chain lies broken
Lost in a summer running from the cops
And there is no unreasonable gas to drive away with
Down it all goes, those things that I once needed
Food, shelter, transportation, work, and play
Blindly groping for a plug down in the swirling muck
Lost in the Great Repression, California Style
C. Madison Anderson
Marina, CA
6-22-09
 | Currently listening: No Depression By Uncle Tupelo Release date: 2003-04-15 |
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Wednesday, June 17, 2009
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Current mood:  accomplished
Category: Writing and Poetry
This is a short exceprt of a ski bum novel that I am writing, called Washing Out. IN this scene - two roomates square off in an inevitable battle. Coy, the protagonist, cant stand the little notes, and comments, and general bitchiness of his roomate Sal. The 680 is a legendary party house near Aspen, Colorado, and Coy is the last of the Whoop! Crew to stake their claim to the property.
*All rights reserved. Copyright 2009, Corby Anderson.
I still don’t know exactly who
swung first. I know that I connected first. I know that he connected last. And
I know that the fight lasted exactly twenty-one minutes, because I happened to
look up at the small digital clock that sits on the hood of the oven at
10:31pm, right before the brawl kicked off. I know the time that it ended
because I wound up in exactly the same place when the dust settled. Only now, I
was sawing off a large hanging flap of the inner portion of the right side of
my bottom lip with a steak knife, using the dulled chrome edge of the oven
frame as a visual guide.
Sal didn’t react like I expected
him to when the fight got started. My left arm is strong, much stronger than my
right. The left is strong enough to throw a baseball eighty-five miles an hour. I
hit him with a full strong side power punch directly on the brow of his left eye, and instead of stopping
him short, he absorbed the shot like a sponge, and sent his own combinations
hooking around my extended arm as I carried through, landing hard blows to both
sides of my head within a second of one another. We grabbed each other
simultaneously wherever and however we could. I had him by the left elbow and
the back of his neck. He had me by the front of my shirt, and struggled to get
an arm around my head. I could feel the muscles all across his arm contract as
he fought to get the crook of his left elbow into my neck. We traded punches
with our free hands, but most were fairly ineffectual glancing blows thrown
from odd angles.
There was no sound at all. Scant
seconds prior, the shouting between Sal and I, and the cursory warning tones of Chad and Ken, who
seemed like they were trying to break the argument up, had been ear-splitting, jarring. Now the
only sound was that of blood swishing though the capillaries in my forehead in
steady doubled wooshes, and deeply I hoped that I was the only one that heard
that. Sal had a good hold on the back of my neck and started pulling my head
down, going for the headlock. I dodged a sudden knee that fired off in a
northerly direction, intended for my face, and made the split-second decision
to shove myself upwards with as much force as I could muster as a
counter-measure. The move paid off, and I caught the red-boned West-Virginian
off balance, enough so that when my shoulder released from the tenous grip of
his left arm, it clipped him squarely under the jaw with tremendous force. He
reeled backwards, his arms flailing spasmicly like those of a man about to fall
off of a cliff. Good, I thought. He had taken my best punch without so much as
a flinch. It was good to know that I could hurt him.
But I could see that it hadn’t
been a knockout blow. A man knows pretty much instantly when he has imposed his
will upon his opponent in such a way that renders them incapacitated. Ali said
it he always knew by the sound of the punch, the way that his oppoenents skull
audibly cracked and splattered when he connected with a KO punch. But I wasn’t
hearing anything now, and though stunned, Sal regrouped quickly, regaining his
balance before I could close for another left.
“You are a low class prick,
Crotchy,” I said, using Sal’s least favorite nickname. “A real whining
shitheel.” I said, crouching behind upraised forearms tipped with angry fists.
“I’ve never met any dude as bitchy as you.”
“Go fuck yourself Bixby,” he
replied, rubbing his jaw, sizing me up while inching forward. I held my ground
a good seven feet away in the small passageway between the kitchen and the
stairs that lead down into my lair. “You don’t get it do you bro?” he sneered. “This is my house now. You and your
tired old hippy friends can sing Kumbaya somewhere else.” He spat the words
out, and then, as if he had been seasoning the battlefield with artillery just
before sending in the infantry to collect the meat, he made a bull rush at me.
I was had foreseen the
possibility, and was mentally prepared for the frontal attack, but my plan
failed when the hard elbow chop that I tried to put squarely into the knobby
outcropping of spine that jutted out between his shoulder blades missed. The
point of my right elbow thumped down on the back of his head with enough force
to generate a warble in his neck, but not nearly enough to forestall the
tackle. The Italian’s linebacker arms wrapped me around the waist, his head
buried in my ribs as he drove me into the wall. On impact, the cheap drywall of
the rental house crumbled like feta cheese, showering my with white chunks and
powder, leaving me looking like I had been dragged down the length of some
Bolivian cocaine processing table. When I was finally able to push Sal off of
me, I peeled myself up and out of the wall, leaving a lifesized imprint of my
torso embossed in grey shade behind the Navajo White wall.
Two lefts and a powerful right
came in a furious combination. His punches were thrown with fuses of real
hatred burning, and with their unleashing, an animalistic sense of fight or die
took hold of both of us. My head reeled from the flurry, all of which connected
soundly. A bitter, metallic taste of blood washed over my tongue, but I could
feel no pain. When the next punch came in from my right, I shifted my weight to
the left and let the projectile fly over my shoulder like some misguided
missile. Seeing an opening, I jammed my left fist into Sal’s arrogant face,
connecting squarely with his cheekbone. I twisted the punch up into his left
eye with the follow through, pushing off with my legs, driving all of my weight
into the swing.
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Friday, June 12, 2009
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Current mood:  contemplative
Off today, back tomorrow. Leave a message if you are urgent, Where am I? Where aren't I. Perchance a dance? No, better not then. So what happened anyways, back when your tail feathers ruffled? She answered silently. Her heart attack eyes scrolled the decade of reasons.
People change, people soften, they harden, mutate, hibernate, vaccinate, vacillate, facilitate, weaken, strengthen, roll over, wake up, retrain, educate, plagerize, get even, focus, unwind, play, talk, whisper, hear voices, call out in the night, sweat, work at it, pretend, gain perspective, experience, wander, sooth, remember, forget, distance themselves, fool, scatter, go underground, come up for air, befuddle, get cramps, reckon, ponder, think clearly, self-destruct, motivate, segregate, capitulate (a white black state), move on, google, devote, unload, whisk away, sweep under rugs, torture, obsess, recess, regress, listen, hear, communicate, hash out, tilt, wilt, understand, find God, find their Dog, exercise, pump blood, fuck up, fight it out, leave, start anew, reawaken, thrash, freedom fight, wallow, express their opinions, murder, run, stand up, speak the truth, bear their souls, demonstrate, lack morals, fondle, seek, want the unattainable, sacrifice, get their heads around it, love, cream, explore new horizons, get caught between a rock and a hard place, break legs, outthink themselves, over do it, slackpack, rear their ugly heads, lead by example, rise again, study, yearn, hope, wish, plant seeds of wisdom, rage, craft, play devils advocate, fantasize, mobilize, legalize, criminalize, shade their eyes, blindly go forth, fortify, circle their wagons, lag, sandbag, weigh heavily upon, characterize, decide, right the ship, pull it all together, orchestrate, harmonize, sympathize, meditate, mediate, sell out, bargain, sick up, launch, hack, feel, embrace, disgrace, ring lead, play their hearts out, hold on, suppress, egress, digress, confess, invent, compartmentalize, couch, carry over, join, rejoin, marry, humiliate, cast weary eyes upon, distrust, speed forth, breathe, case, stash, refurbish, recast, detach, leap, sail on, wear many hats, reek, build, consider, hypothesize, better themselves, create havoc, stitch together, compromise, work out, take some time, smoke on it, dream, fail, freak out, change direction, go big, stand down, dwell, walk it off, search, crawl, slow way down, afix themselves, root, shoot from the hip, glass, see it through, walk in someone else's shoes, lose, bruise easily, move, plant themselves, open up, free their minds, unleash, unfetter, uncomplicate, simplify, double up, redouble, doubt, stick it way, groan, moan, sing, loan, write, edit, reedit, run amok, live a little, stick with it, relax, lock it up, feel funny, retire, say the hell with it, pray, prey, conquer, divide, conceed, squeeze, get grips, waste, grapple with, hang on, spontaneously combust, create mythology, arrest, stop, freshen up, cry, try, lie, set aside, go numb, tinker with, twiddle, caress, spit it out, reassemble, fix, observe, commune, band together, exile, dash off, endeavor, search, plan, sink to new lows, rise to occasions, air mail, crank t out, push on through, wear many hats, ream, kiss, lick, roll over, go out of body, light up, get down, come off of their high horses, recapture, find the source, overcome, stretch, expand their minds, read up, shock, totally disagree, sneak around, skate, retool, hate, wait, attract, date, detract, untrack, preach, stop and think, wonder, talk to themselves, paint mental pictures, dust off, change angles, forget, remember, trust their instincts, learn from their mistakes, grab life by the balls, complain, go nowhere fast, travel lightly, confide, cheat, luck out, run out of luck, enjoy, smile, frown upon, register slowly, motion over, join up, sense, rinse clean, wash way, frequent, decontaminate, shine, do what they do best, aspire, build upon, map out, analyze, cull, post, fuss over, reap the rewards, pay the piper, gain new awareness, unburdon, trail off, sleep on it, muster the strength, whip it up, transform, help to understand, reconsider.
 | Currently listening: Jennifer By Jennifer Warnes Release date: 2007-11-05 |
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Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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Current mood:  blah
Category: Writing and Poetry
Thank You
I would like to thank all of the people, Miss Nature, fate and God, For facilitating my continued existence on the Planet Earth Were it not for the collective presence of all things alive or undead, This life that I live might be terribly different, if a life at all
I am intact, preserved. I am on some path, and my mind is good With innate curiousity, respect for most all life, a basic comprehension of love There is very little malice in my heart, nor vengeance, nor terror I have known a blissful life of high adventure, natural wonder, a satisfying career
Bless you then neighbors, for not burning me down, for not murdering me or mine For paying attention to your driving, for staying home from the Plague My body has never been wrecked by your errant bullet or careless shove My mind is unpolluted by your own, and with luck, yours from my own
For our sweet Mother, whose ire knows no bounds, thank you Many have fallen all around me, swept by her whimsical hem Some found trees to stop them, for others floods overcame, were stricken by power, or squashed Yet here I crawl, rambling all about on Her form, admiring the view
Now the question turns to destiny and faith. Are they separated? No good God would suffer such grizzled reality unto it’s people, lest they evil So fate goes first, with long admiration for a jolly sense of humor For leading me here, saving me from destruction, with hope for a long, eventful life
And if there is a God who answers this call (or any), thank you too for this ride I may not believe so easily, yet I am here and have been saved from most harm All of the great people are painted all around me, all of this beauty transpires But between you and I, cut out the bullshit, God. I mean, really…
C. Madison Anderson Palo Colorado Cyn. 6-8-09
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Tuesday, June 09, 2009
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Current mood:  adventurous
Category: Music
BLURB:
A
massive spring storm bore down directly on top of the Desert Rocks Festival
outside of Moab, Utah for most of two days. Yet neither rampant lightning nor a
biblical flood could dampen the spirits of the hearty campers and musicians who
all left the onslaught resurrected as a tight knit community which had
collectively overcome the dizzying array of elemental forces to thoroughly Rock
the Desert.
A Pleasant Erosion: Dazed and Deluged at the 2009
Desert Rocks Festival
Moab, Utah, May 22-24, 2009
Jambase.com
by Corby Anderson
Hellacious storms of biblical wrath bore down again and
again for most of the weekend of the 2009 Desert Rocks Festival, pouring on in
easterly waves overhead the kidney colored cliff ledge that gives purchase to
the temporary festival village.
Kane Creek, Utah, eight miles south of Moab, is a natural
geological funnel leading down from the shattered Colorado plateau into the
namesake canyon. Its desert strata consists of sandstone, Pinyon, and Juniper,
and little else in the form of substrate to hold it all together when total
saturation occurs.
With a demented-looking Godhead cloud ranting all about,
exploding sheaths of lightning and dumping more than a third of the average
annual precipitation in the course of forty-eight hours, there was no place for
all of the water to go but down. And down it went, in startling alacrity,
forming torrential flash floods and waterfalls that split the Desert Rocks’
acreage in half. In scant seconds, a waist-deep river of milk chocolate gushed
forth where firm ground had been immediately prior, forever claiming the tents
(with onboard stashes of keys, phones, clothing, journals, smokes, and other
consumables), chairs, coolers and sleeping bags of stunned festivites on a
dramatic Saturday afternoon.
The Mother Hips, a road-tested rock quartet from San
Francisco, were setting up their gear on stage when a wall of water and mud
burst through the green room tent and underneath the main Utah Stage. “It
looked like the stage was going to buckle!” said co-front man Tim Bluhm. “We
grabbed our guitars and amps and threw them into a van. It was crazy, so much
water came down.” Seizing the opportunity, a ballsy Rocker named Scott Whitaker
paddled out into the new river in his kayak, while stagehands frantically
gouged out trenches around the battered stage in a heroic Bobcat mission which
saved the stage and all of its expensive lighting and sound equipment from
wholesale ruination.
For the hearty crowd, there was nowhere to really go except
for into their vehicles once the ground reached the saturation point in the
sheeting rain. “It was insane. It was a full on river. People started
screaming. It was a nine out of ten on the drama scale. Our neighbors lost
their tents out into the abyss, forever. We were under a tarp, staying
dry….well, trying to stay dry,” said festival-goer Jim Hoy, of Steamboat
Springs, Colorado.
While the desert is a giant sponge, normally soaking up and
evaporating rain quickly, there are rare times, like what occurred on Saturday,
when the ground emulsifies, turning into a goopy maroon pudding that can act
like quicksand and make it nearly impossible to walk without sucking the boots
right off of your legs. It was at that moment, in surreal atmospheric
conditions, that this festival came together as a real community, a family, and
it was a beautiful thing to see.
People helped each other rebuild their camps, offered up their camper
heaters, and eventually their fires to those who needed to dry off. A call went
out for volunteer towels to be used to wipe up the moisture that had befallen
the stage from large pools of water that had collected in the plastic tarping,
which were lanced like giant boils to relieve the pressure from the steel
structure. Soon enough a disparate pile of dry towels, ones that surely could
have been used by their owners, arrived to mop up the stage. Garbage bags were
turned into raincoats and handed out to those who lost theirs or had none to
begin with. As darkness took over and it was clear that the worst of the storm
had moved on, bottles were passed to boost spirits, as were various other
stress relievers. A large crowd waited patiently for the stagehands to reclaim
the Main Stage from the elements, and danced to the DJ who played from within
the strange gills of the “solar powered spaceship” that was sticking diagonally
half out of the mud and served as the brightly throbbing brain of center camp.
Finally, at nearly 1 am, a good eight hours after the flood that wiped out the
Mother Hips set, Colorado bluegrass unit Head for the Hills, with String Cheese
Incident guitarist Billy Nershi aboard take the stage to the drenched delight
of the persevering crowd.
Normally, you might think that bluegrass music and rave
culture would mix about as well as moonshine and seaweed smoothies. The notions
that define each movement come from far different traditions - the
buttoned-down-home goodness of southern folk music and the anything-goes,
sweetly buffoonish liberty taken by the freak-suited exuberants of the late-night
festival rave set seem utterly philosophically opposed, and generally are. But
Desert Rocks has this way of amalgamating all cultural streams and influences
into one exotically cohesive, raging party. It’s all music, so lets dance.
“The Nersh” is touring with the younger Hills boys after the
band partnered up with Nershi to record their latest album at his home studio.
In a tireless display of musical dedication, the whole gang weathered the storm
in Moab, played their rain-delayed set until 3:30 am, Springs (a seven hour
drive in good conditions) to play a Sunday set at the Meadow Grass Festival.
“We were just really excited to put on a good show for the people who had been
waiting in the rain,” said Sean MacAskill, band manager. Deferring to Nershi’s
lauded flat-picking chops, the drum less unit played their form of feel-good,
authentic bluegrass, jamming away on “Goin Down” and traditionals like “Long
Journey Home,” and mixing in a few of Nershi’s own tunes, such as the romping
pick swapper “One Step Closer.”
Meanwhile, a two-story wrought iron elephant head with
strong Mad Maxian influence launches natural gas fireballs out of it’s long,
upturned tusk and holds a crowd of boozy dancers in it’s forehead balcony. Two
human-sized birdcages spin wildly from each ear like giant earrings, serving as
a hippified thrill ride for several steel-gutted radicals. A wrecked pimp with
a plumed hat of red feathers, dressed in a neon green leisure suit with zebra
skin trim bops wild eyed through the muddled masses, eventually ending up
transfixed on the flaming Mastadon breath like some weird, oblong jabbering
moth to prehistoric flame. He is not alone by the fire. Scads of dancers thrill
to the surging flame, twirl up to it, possibly singe themselves, and then flit
off in unpredictable zags into the sloppy darkness.
The improv-rock quartet known as the Animal Liberation
Orchestra (ALO) takes the stage sometime after 3 am, and quickly set about
delivering a mass spine liquification with their brand of jazz-rooted jam rock.
Spacey atmospheric squeals and yelps swirl in the low clouds. “If something
needs to happen, just let us know! We are here to support you,” shouts
singer/ivory-tickler Zach Gill, summing up the bands appreciation of the
all-weather fans, and the seat-flying nature of the reconstituted festival
schedule.
It is hard to grapple with the sight of ALO’s eminently
talented guitarist Lebo’s large acoustic axe when hearing the very electric
sounding skitta scatta groove chunks and blazing leads that emerge shortly
after from the speakers above. The stringy difference is enough to pit your own
sensations against one another in a pitched bout of aural self-questioning.
Veteran ALO’hans have long “gotten” this band. Fans gush in tones of Phishian
esteem for not only the diverse musical chops that the band so smoothly
displays, but too for the unrealized potential that they possess. As a dogged
skeptic of bands that lean more on long, dissonant jams than songs with actual
stories to tell (I know…Jambase writer? Good luck with all of that!), I can
honestly say that ALO has now proven their meddle. These four gents known the
business end of a proper groove, are splendid technicians, seem genuinely
gracious and nice, and did their damndest to make sure that the near disaster
that occurred earlier in the day was but a strange memory by the time that they
took their deserved bow, which I think was at around 6 am.
It was at this time that Magicgravy came aboard, but there
is little evidence of this action beyond an oscillating ring in my inner ear
and a few dazed ravers who dare not speak until noon, and by then they are on
to other things.
SUNDAY
The actual, technical act of “living” (to live), may someday be defined as such:
Living: (li-ving) Sipping a nice cold can of beer with your feet buried
in mud while watching an armada of May clouds slip eastward in Kane Creek,
Utah.
Day breaks slowly and peacefully, and finally the sun holds
court in the arena where it performs best. The desert is now in full bloom.
Campers dry out their things on makeshift clotheslines. Vendors set about
recouping their losses with a strong Sunday. Beer is cracked early, along with
guitar cases, jokes and smiles. Hikers wander off down into the canyon,
four-wheel drive missions lurch off in dust spewing squadrons, and the sky is
libertine blue.
A short walk away from the festival grounds casts new light
on the setting, which now seems to be that of a shambling oasis, hanging over
the edge of desert rock. It looks like a post-apocalyptic fortress. Up on the
bluffs, a ragtag foursome of Frisbee chuckers bombard unsuspecting camps, cars,
and sun-dazed humans from a cliff top tee down to their mobile disc golf cage.
A deep mystic with blue face tats known as Dragon repairs his cabana that
covers his brilliantly painted art car, and decorates the trees around his camp
with homespun charms. A possibly model-hot woman with no shirt, her nipples
covered in dope leaf pasties saunters by one way, an African gaucho goes the
other way, they meet in the middle, embrace, and bogey off together in a
totally separate direction. A teacher from Colorado walks the muddy washes,
hoping to find her backstage pass, “or possibly some of her lost brain cells”
snagged on a Juniper branch.
Back at the ranch, Austin, Texas (by way of SLC, UT) band
Wisebird starts what turns out to be a massive day off with a jolt of
energetic, lyric-driven funk rock, best compared to The Band, or perhaps Little
Feat, with a tad of Allman Brothers and a smidge of Foghat thrown in. Several
attendees later attest to this set being the most surprising of the festival,
to which I wholeheartedly agree. Wisebird is for real. Wafting organ, searing
guitars, and thumping back line - they are powerfully eye opening, FUN, and should
not be underestimated nor missed if chance is offered.
Wisebird sails away, and the happiest man that you will ever
meet takes the Utah Stage. Nathan Moore exudes anti-star normalcy and
positivity, and may be the most humble musician going these days. Comparisons
to Dylan are apt; such are the intellectual weight of his verses and the
melodies that carry them. “I want to bust some move on the dance floor/ I want
to sit in the back of the debaucherish den/ I want to live to be a hundred and
twenty/tell the wondrous tales to my Grandchildren,” he sings, and damned if
you aren’t right there with him. The significance of the Saturday deluge was
not lost on Moore. “Yesterday was just a miracle unfolding one moment to the
next. I’m just proud to be a part of it and witness to it,” the troubadour
remarks with a slight boost to his regular smile. “I feel like it was just a
religious experience. I saw the crucification and the resurrection,” he says.
“Oh man!”
Moore, known widely for his work with ThaMusemeant and
Surprise Me Mister Davis, is still getting used to being a solo folk singer,
exclaiming that very sentiment while trying to explain the big drums and
orchestras that he hears in his head when performing by himself. “I guess its
ok if you hear them too!” he says, before starting his song “Rubber Ball,”
which involves several starts and stops as he clears his vocal pathways of a
series of magic red rubber balls that emerge like devil eggs from his mouth.
Warming in the afternoon heat of Desert Rocks and taking
in the mellow vibe is a man with a great hat. Hats are important in the desert
– they keep the sun at bay, and tell a story unto themselves. This one is a
trucker hat with a mesh back and a logo of a nude silhouetted lady dancing in a
wheelchair. It belongs to Josh Warburton, who fronts a solid rock unit with the
all-time band name of Crippled Stripper, out of St. George, Utah. Warburton
also runs a publication called The Independent, and fills me in on the
pre-storm Desert Rocks activities that occurred on Friday – kicked off by a
beautifully bluesy set by Nicki Bluhm and The Gramblers and headlined by the
“fantastic” Hot Buttered Rum.
Hot Buttered Rum is a multi-instrumental collection
of musicians who have branched out of their roots as a bluegrass band and now
command large, enthusiastic crowds who flock to their maturing meld of
harmonious, elbow-swinging grass-rock. The lead Stripper reports that the HBR
set began with an apropos tune called “Desert Rat,” a fiddle and flute driven
number with lyrics that read like an Edward Abbey poem. “The mountains gutted by
strip mines/the deserts criss-crossed by power lines/they drown the canyon so
the city can have fuel…the powers that be won't let me…
and the war and the
mall and the sprawl are part of the same machine/
and it's no damn simple thing
like a conspiracy/what's a desert rat to do.” Everyone Orchestra’s Matt Butler
accompanied the band and reportedly “threw down a sick” didgeridoo intro to
“Desert Rat.” A small Newport Jazzish paradigm-shifting panic rippled through
the gathered Rumhead’s when bass player Bryan Horne sported an electric bass
throughout the HBR performance. As it turns out, it was his only option, other
than to play a set of fairway irons, since a bad trade occurred at the airport
on the way in, and Horne ended up with a fellow Park City travelers’ golf clubs
instead of his standard stand-up bass.
San Francisco based Big Light bounces onto the stage as
dark westerly clouds begin to ominously loom overhead once more. When I first
heard Big Light on Myspace, I had huge expectations for them, which were sort
of diminished slightly when I saw them live at the February Gramble in Big Sur.
This may have been due to minor concerns about the high timbre of lead singer
Fred Torphy's voice. But that is how things go. Sometimes it takes a few bites
to understand a sandwich. I can now say with certainty after Desert Rocks, and
subsequent listening, that I get this band, and that they are deserving of
their rising status.
There below the perfect, arched frame of a vivid
stage-wide rainbow, in the low gloom of a shrouded sun, and a day after a
massive flood nearly erased an entire festival, Big Light (perhaps forever
aptly named, in my opine) delivered a stoking dose of stoney rock to set the
tone for an epic (trite and cliché to use, but only when it isn't really true)
night.
Their driving slacker anthem "Heavy" should be on
everyone’s summer song list, much like Chuck Prophet's "Summertime
Thing," The Mother Hips "TGIM", or "Fireflies," by
Billy Midnight.
As the clouds thicken and begin to re-douse the sun-fried
festivarians, heady rumors abound, perhaps egged on by Saturday’s liquid theatrics,
or maybe due to the remoteness of the venue. This is uranium country. Just
fifty years ago one would have seen a steady stream of Jeep lights sparkling
across the desert floor – miners scouring old vanadium tailings (which
themselves were cast off from previous radium mining) for the suddenly useful
uranium byproduct. Some say the dormant ore can nuke clocks and iPods, scramble
minds and body alike. But I’ve never felt it, and I have literally bathed in
the stuff. Yet how to account for the rumors? That the Feds were looking for an
informant who had been imbedded but had gotten himself lost out in the storm?
That Bob Weir was in attendance? Or that a glowing zebra was spotted standing
in a nearby gully? One that seems believable is that the Alkaholiks had been
forcibly kicked off the stage for displaying literal alcoholic behavior –
arriving an hour late for their one hour, twenty minute set, spending those
twenty minutes getting the crowd to alternately chant (an admittedly brilliant
chorus) “Al-ka-hol-ics”, and “I say fuck, you say you (al-ka-hol-ics)”, before
finally pouring alcohol on crowd members from the front of the stage and then
attempting to turn the crowd against the festival organizers, who had a
schedule to keep, especially after losing most of Saturday to Mother Nature.
Whatever the real story, it took some doing to clear the stage of rampant
Alky’s before the Mother Hips could perform.
The Mother Hips are one of the greatest American rock and
roll bands currently performing new music, and were it not for the profusely
good songwriting coming out of both Neil Young and Tom Petty these days, I
would make a case that the Mother Hips the most important musical group in the
American rock world, which is amazing considering that so few people know of
the band or their songs. The consistent quality of their songwriting and live
performances has now grown from remarkable, to brilliant, to legendary. Equally
striking is their collective humility and good-natured showmanship.
As the rain pittered down and a tensive mood brought on by
the unknowable ferocity of the new cloud settled in, Tim Bluhm - the rangy,
vastly talented lead singer spoke in mystic tones, reminding the crowd of the
special nature of the situation. "Hello. We're happy to be here, we're
really glad to get to play tonight. Last night was crazy...so crazy. So, we're
playin for all you people here...we're playin’ two shows in one here, cause we
gotta make up for yesterday. And we're playing to all the ghosts that are out
in the desert, they can hear us...and the chipmunks...coyotes...the ravens.
Just imagine you’re a coyote about three miles out there in the hills,
listening!"
“Time Sick Son of A Grizzly Bear”, a semi-autobiographical
tale with a devastating dueling guitar intro and sage Californiana lyrics led
off, and the crowd verily bursts into a mud stomping dance, which crescendos
amidst the claustrophobic groove of the artists lamenting “Third Floor Story.”
Long the masters of tempo, the Hips carry the gathered Desert Rockers on a
time-changing journey that slams gears from slow melodic throbs to chilling
howls both human and electric. The rarely played “Desert Song” takes on new
meaning when Bluhm coaxes the defiant chorus with a desperate yearning– “If you
look out across the desert sand, you might see a storm a brewin’ – you think
that we cant live in the desert/ you who take the dreams from the night/you
think that we cant live in the desert/we are the people that the rescuers will
never find.”
A youthful attendee named Shack from SLC swayed and juked
jawlessly as guitarist Greg Loiacono dug into the strings of his White Falcon
with needle nose pliers and tore the ass out of a magnificent “Figure 11.”
“It’s exactly the vibe that I’m on! Perfect! I’m actually pissed that I’ve never
heard of these guys!” he yells to a group of longtime Hips fans that dance in a
small heaven behind him.
Jason Baldwin, a professional soundman who made the journey
from Palo Alto, California to see the Hips gushed openly about the aural
clarity that the Desert Rocks sound system afforded Bluhm’s voice. “It was the
best I’ve ever heard Tim sound. Kudos to the sound crew (provided by
soundtrician Robbie Miller of Pratt Sound, SLC, and stellarly recorded by Cory
Ballentine of ENSO Audio & Design, Sun Valley, Id.), for killing it in some
pretty hairball conditions.”
After the show, while an All-Star band called Guitarles in
Charles pumped funk into the late night, Bluhm sat contentedly in the band tent
and answered questions from a festival film crew. “I want people to come away
from our concert and say that they got scared, and stoked, and that they had a
good time.”
Colorado’s The Motet took the festival home with a
deep-space exploration of the works of Herbie Hancock that left all of the
boulders in a ten-mile radius turned over, teasing out even the shyest snakes,
scorpions, and centipedes for their last dance at the annual frolic.
Reflectively, the Desert Rocks Festival of the year 2009 was
a pleasant erosion, a necessary scouring that revealed inner gems and stripped
all who experienced it to the base elements – shelter, warmth, friendship. The
merciless deluge and it’s flood-spawn that threatened to wash out this years
festival was a dramatic, memorable event, something that everyone who went
through it will likely always remember, including the musicians. It remained
the most talked about moment of the entire weekend, yet it was the brotherly
community spirit and can-do attitude of all participants under extreme
circumstances that will ultimately be the defining spirit of the festival.
Together, we overcame. Together, we rocked the desert.
*Corby Anderson is a freelance writer based out of Monterey,
California. A massive pile of his words can be found at
corbyanderson.wordpress.com, and he can be reached at
corbyanderson@hotmail.com.
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Saturday, May 30, 2009
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Current mood:  aggravated
Category: Writing and Poetry
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Friday, May 29, 2009
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Current mood:  awake
Category: Writing and Poetry
An Exercise in Preservation: Mill Creek Redwood Preserve
trail provides a wondrous walk in the timeless big trees of Palo Colorado
Canyon.
Monterey County Weekly – Outside/831
by Corby Anderson
To stroll along the softly contoured Mill Creek Redwood Preserve
trail, which begins near Bottchers Gap at the end of the rugged, ragged Palo
Colorado Canyon near Big Sur, is to gift oneself with a serene, restorative
wilderness experience that reveals natural treasures small and very, very large
along it’s mountain side meander out of the drainage hugging giant trees to
it’s splendid finale: a classic on-high, wide open Big Sur coastal vista.
Rambling through the Redwood Preserve can be a transcendent,
almost mystical experience. Burbling waterfalls transect the trail, diving down
the drainages over mossy rocks. On a clear day above the canopy, slanting beams
of sunlight filter through the tall trees and create pools of light that
illuminate their silent, fire scarred subjects in ever changing arrays. Often,
fingers of foggy mist creep in, heightening the senses instinctually while
moving along the outrageously thick tree trunks, which stud the precipitously
steep, vividly green mountainsides.
It is such a calm and gentle trail, in fact, with an
elevation gain of only 186” over 2.76 miles, that it is easy to forget that
it’s very existence is a small miracle consisting of a dogged grassroots
preservation efforts, equal parts luck and chance, and the well-considered
design by Monterey Peninsula Regional Park District Trail Boss Chris Reed.
The history of the Mill Creek Redwood Preserve is rich with
ancient Esselen Indian heritage, was once owned by Charles Bixby as a part of
his massive ranch and logging operation, and then successively owned by a
series of limestone mining companies and lumber operations. That the Preserve’s
namesake redwoods and tanbarks were not torn asunder by the woodsman’s saw is
due to its remoteness and difficult, steep topography, which kept it standing
until easier pitches were cleared. Twice doomed in the years prior to WWII, it
was saved by financial busts befalling the owners, one of which came after a
tragic fire that killed two loggers and halted operations. Another timely
logging bust saved the preserve from denuding not long ago.
An unpopular plan to log a million board-feet of timber from
within the preserve and then build upscale residences in the area was hatched
by a Humboldt-based company in the 80’s (?), but that too was foiled when the
savings and loan debacle of that time wrecked havoc on the logging company, and
the Federal Land Bank seized the property before sawdust flew.
Support by Palo Colorado residents and Peninsula
conservation groups to any future logging and save the forest from destruction
resulted in the 1159 acre parcel being purchased in 1989 through the combined
efforts of the Big Sur Land Trust and the Regional Park District, which
preserved the Mill Creek giants in perpetude. Eventually, the plan for a hiking
trail through the unique Preserve was born, and it’s creation granted to Reed,
who diligently planned and built the trail over the course of eight years, with
help from hard working Americorp student volunteers and a few prison crews.
“We knew where we wanted to go with the trail, out to the
knoll, the overlook. That was the destination. But where to start, and then
what route to take was the question,” says Reed, a tall, bristle whiskered
lifelong outdoorsman with 15 years in the Parks Department building trails.
Using trail management priorities of public safety, accessibility, resource and
investment protection, and visitor convenience, Reed plotted out the existing
path, as well as an additional 9 mile loop that has not yet been built.
Reed meticulously designed the wildland trail to focus the
hikers attention on the beauteous scenery towering all about, rather than on
the ground, but you would never know that it had been so deftly engineered
unless he showed you the photos of the process. “The best trails are ones that
you don’t have to think about,” says Reed, who spent many nights camping out on
the property during the construction to save commute time. Viewing the old
photos, it is clear that what seems a simple trail took Reed and his crews
massive amounts of earth moving, retainer wall building, hillside grading and
leveling, and log milling to create. “We did it all with hand tools. We used
native materials to bolster the trail bed and create the outsloping (a trail
technique that leaves the trail tilted slightly to the down slope side, which prevents
gullies from forming where the trail is cut into the uphill side), cut bridge
slabs with an Alaskan Mill (a small, portable saw), used rocks that we
unearthed to build up walls below the trail to protect against erosion. We
built hoist systems with block and tackle rigging to move the big logs. Those
kids learned a lot.”
Completed in 2006, the trail
was opened with restricted daily access as a part of the original purchase
agreement with Palo residents, who are concerned about high levels of traffic
in their narrow, back country corridor, and also to preserve the precious
quietude that exists in the wilderness setting. As a result, to hike the trail,
you have to get a permit from MPRPD before you set out. But Reed urges
interested hikers to not let the permit process dissuade them. “It is your
park, and we encourage its use, and we will do everything that we can do to
help you out.” This effort includes emailing and faxing permits, and even
having Rangers drive out to meet a hiking party if time allows.
When you go, be prepared to douse your boots with Lysol on
the way out. Many of the tanbarks in the Preserve are infested with Sudden Oak
Disease, and as a precaution, disinfectant is provided to spray yourself off
with to avoid spreading the insidious disease to other areas. Washing the
undercarriage of your vehicle is recommended as well.
** Mill Creek Preserve - Drive approximately 10 miles south from Rio Road in
Carmel on Highway 1 towards Big Sur. Look for Palo Colorado Canyon Road about ¼
mile past Rocky Point Restaurant. Turn left on Palo Colorado Canyon Road.
The entrance to Mill Creek Preserve is located approximately 6 miles east of
Highway 1. Drive very slowly and carefully. The Mill Creek Preserve is
currently open to limited public access. Public access for the Mill Creek
Preserve is by permit reservation only on a “first come, first served” basis
for up to 8 permits per day. Parking is available on the shoulder of the
road adjacent to the entrance to the trail.
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Friday, May 22, 2009
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Thursday, May 14, 2009
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Current mood:  aggravated
Category: Writing and Poetry
*Note - a version of this story appeared in the Monterey County Weekly today. I prefer this one. If you are interested, the published version can be seen at www.montereycountyweekly.com/archives/2009/2009-May-14/goth-toph-mixes-art-with-other-pursuits/1/@@inde
THE ENIGMATIC BALANCE
In the old, arching stone-walled dining room tucked into the back of the Sardine Factory, Lord Toph snacks on an exquisite meal of battered squid and red wine. A candelabra flickers dim light at the end of the long table. Off in the bar, a pianist takes on Hotel California with unsettling timing.
He wants to take the wait staff home with him. People say cute things like this all of the time, but when Lord Toph says this in his mesmorizingly sensuous, hinting tone, one gets the sense that he might really mean it. A noted, prolific painter whose works are currently showing in Carmel, and popular Gothic musician and video director with hits piling up on Youtube and in the Underground music movement, Lord Toph the artist is ever more intriguing due to the fact Lord Toph, the person may, in fact, be a Vampire.
While he will not publicly discuss the obvious question as to whether or not he is indeed a Vampire, there are distinct aspects of his persona- his dark, Victorian era look, his revealing lyrics, and his admission of a sensitive condition that dictates that he “feed” on fresh blood, which indicate that this may well be the case. Because of his official vagueness on the subject, the real question with Lord Toph is where does the image end, and reality take hold?
His face reflects on the glass of the old Sea Captains painting that looms over the long, oaken table, and he does seem to be abnormally long in the tooth, nor does he repel at the presence of a steaming cauldron of garlic soaked snails that sit before him. But listen to the lyrics in his music, watch his videos, lull to the methodical pace of his voice and catch a certain glimmer in his eye in the low light, and the line between fantasy and reality begins to blur.
There is something altogether eerie about Lord Toph, an anomalous energy that one does not come across very often. He is calm and happy seeming (though not much of a grinner), while at once emitting neck hair singeing psychic queries to all around him. For seers who can pick up on such things, his aura takes on the form of an anti-aircraft barrage.
Lord Toph is a tall, elegantly attired (black on black suit coat, silk shirt, trousers) classicist who looks mildly like Jimi Hendrix from up close, and equal parts Prince and Martin Lawrence from afar. His art is multi-faceted, accomplished, and undeniably prolific. As a painter, his work covers ten careers worth of skill attainment along the gamut of Impressionism, Expressionism, and Cubist Abstractionism. His style is wide-ranging, curiously familiar, and yet original. He covers artistic styles attributed to many of the classics: Van Gogh, Picasso, Monet in borderline derivative similarity, except that he masters each style in such a way that it is impossible to ignore his overall talents and literal accomplishments. They are considered Masters because of the difficulty of their achievements within their particular style, whereas Lord Toph seems facile in his ability to straddle each style with equal prodigiousness.
Much of his painting is very bright and vividly colored, which is in direct contrast to the surreal, haunting dreamscapes of his music and the music videos that he produces. As a Gothic musician, Lord Toph is considered to be a burgeoning force, on the same early ascendancy as crossover successes such as Marilyn Manson, NIN, and the Cure. He is gifted with a knack for creating foreboding atmospheric soundscapes perpetuated with fear-seeding instruments that grind on under severe lyrics. Themes emerge of pervasively dark, forbidden passion, betrayal, and monstrous revenge. “The Vnbelievable” [sic] is his latest song and video creation. The title alludes to the unbelievably violent Jack the Ripper being stalked and dealt with by an even more unbelievable creature, one who cannot stand to see the victims sensuous beauty, and even more importantly, precious blood, wasted. “It is very filmic, grainy. Black and white. It shift between Jack the Ripper’s time and the current time, and you get the sense that this unbelievable (protagonist) is from both times. It is a great video.” He says with confidence. Watch enough Lord Toph on Youtube, and you start to get the idea that he is deeper into his genre than mere fetish. There is now a consistent canon of work to draw on for conclusions to be made about his artistic, and personal persuasions. Legitimacy begins to emerge from the shadow of doubt.
While he declines to publicly discuss much of his personal life, he lets on that he resides primarily in upstate New York, and that his legal name has been changed to Lord Toph, a name that originates from a title that he has been bestowed with. (By whom is not revealed) Along with working on his new music video and doing some writing, one of the reasons why Lord Toph is here is to visit the White Rabbit Gallery in Carmel, which currently displays and sells a collection of his paintings. He is also seeking a fine art representative who will expose his works to major collectors.
Don Herron is a local artist who works in the space that once barely contained the creative madness of Salvador Dali in the 40’s, and also co-owns the White Rabbit, which doubles as a gallery for his own Alice in Wonderland themed artwork. Herron thinks that the distinction between Lord Toph’s outwardly dark persona and fog-bound music and the levity and brightness of his artwork is artistic balance. “Dark personalities don’t necessarily want to make dark art.” He says, explaining that as artists mature, they often work in opposites. He believes that the multiple worlds of Lord Toph collide at the concept of Romance. “Goth came out of the Romantic Era. The artists were responding to nature, which was interpreted in a much more scary way at the time.”
*See Lord Toph’s artwork at the White Rabbit Design Studio in Carmel - Ocean Ave @ Monte Verde St.(behind Portabella restaurant). (831) 624-5665, or online at www.thewhiterabbit.net. Lord Toph’s music videos, including the just released Vnbelievable can be seen on Youtube.com by searching for his name, and also at myspace.com/lordtoph.
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Saturday, May 09, 2009
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Current mood:  betrayed
THis "conversation" occured tonight with an online "psychiatrist" chatbot. Website unknown. DO not try this at home...To follow, I am the one answering the "questions, or otherwise, the every other respondent...By the way, I dont have a major need for a psychiatrist, I was just curious after reading a slate.com article about chatbots, not that there is anything wrong with psychiatry...
>> Hello.
How do you do. Please state your problem.
>> I am tired
Is it because you are tired that you came to me ?
>> No, I found you on a website
Are you saying no just to be negative?
>> No, I am not saying no to be negative
You are being a bit negative.
>> Fuck off
I'm not sure I understand you fully.
>> What I meant to say was, stop challenging my no-ness
Why do you ask ?
>> Ask what?
Does that question interest you ?
>> I do not follow
You say you do not follow ?
>> Yes
You seem to be quite positive.
>> YEs
You are sure.
>> Yes
I see.
>> Yes
I understand.
>> Yes
You seem to be quite positive.
>> Yes
You are sure.
>> Yes
I see.
>> Yes
I understand.
>> Yes
You seem to be quite positive.
>> Yes
You are sure.
>> Yes
I see.
>> No
Why not ?
>> SUCK
Please go on.
>> SUCK ME
What does that suggest to you ?
>> I dont know
Don't you really know ?
>> Well, yes
I understand.
>> NO
Why 'no' ?
>> YEs
You seem to be quite positive.
>> Yes
You are sure.
>> Yes
I see.
>> Yes
I understand.
>> Yes
You seem to be quite positive.
>> BLow me
Do you feel strongly about discussing such things ?
>> Blow me twice
I'm not sure I understand you fully.
>> Three time
Please go on.
>> I would, but you seem busy answering me in questions
Can you elaborate on that ?
>> Elaboration is just a pretty way of saying your full of shit
Why are you concerned over my full of shit ?
>> Well, no, I just know
Are you saying no just to be negative?
>> Yes
You are sure.
>> Yes
I see.
>> Jes
What does that suggest to you ?
>> Wes
Do you feel strongly about discussing such things ?
>> Rest
I'm not sure I understand you fully.
>> Test
Please go on.
>> No
You are being a bit negative.
>> Yes
I understand.
>> EGADS
What does that suggest to you ?
>> BITCH!
Do you feel strongly about discussing such things ?
>> BITCH SUCK MY WHAT?
Your what ?
>> Exactly
Does that have anything to do with the fact that your what ?
>> In fact it does.
I'm not sure I understand you fully.
>> I hate computers
Do computers worry you ?
>> ONly when they suck my what?
Why do you say your what ?
>> To tease you
We were discussing you -- not me.
>> AHA! You are a robot, arent you
What makes you think I am a robot ?
>> Proove that you are not a robot. I bet you say that we are discussing you not me
Does it please you to believe I am not a robot ?
>> You are a robot bitch
Do you sometimes wish you were a robot bitch ?
>> My fucking god
Does that suggest anything else which belongs to you ?
>> Is this god?
Lets discuss further why your what .
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