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Corby Anderson


Last Updated: 11/26/2009

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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 

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
Wednesday, June 17, 2009 

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. 
Currently listening:
Licensed to Ill
By Beastie Boys
Release date: 1995-03-28
Friday, June 12, 2009 

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
Wednesday, June 10, 2009 

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
Currently reading:
Infinite Jest
By David Foster Wallace
Tuesday, June 09, 2009 

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.
 
 
 
 
 
Currently listening:
In His Own Worlds
By Nathan Moore
Release date: 2007-06-27
Saturday, May 30, 2009 

Current mood:  aggravated
Category: Writing and Poetry
Corby Anderson Wolverine sighting= Mutant Rambo channelling the Outlaw Josey Wales is already indestructible, but is tricked into further indestructibility by "Col. Stryker." Who has Him restrained in a Frankensteinian Han Solo bath but whose plan to kill him involves shooting him with an "Adamantian" bullet, which Stryker freely admits will actually only make Logan lose his memory. What, no Flockoseagullian bullets were available?
9:52pm · Comment · 
Deren Ney
 Deren Ney
And Stryker decides to use the only bullets that will kill Wolverine AFTER Wolverine has already killed the X-Man whose sole power is apparently...shooting guns really well. "Oh, Gun Guy couldn't kill him with normal bullets? That makes sense, since we JUST FINISHED MAKING WOLVERINE THAT WAY TEN MINUTES AGO. I guess now that Gun Guy is dead it is the right time to send out far less qualified shooters with the only bullets that can kill Wolverine. Hey wait...maybe next time we get a gun-specialist X-Man....give HIM the bullets BEFORE he fails with normal ones and is killed by Wolverine!" "Genius, Jennings!""

Between that and the naked waterfall leap I have no time for Wolverine. It seemed like a Tug Speedman movie trailer from the beginning of Tropic Thunder. And while I liked Star Trek quit a bit, don't get me started on the honestly stunning plotholes.
Corby Anderson
 Corby Anderson
Ney, man. Exactly what I'm sayin...Dont forget the three separate occasions that we see Wolverlogan flexing his neck tendons into profuse beams of orgasmic posture while low growling towards the retreating sky-cam. One of which is followed by the faux-scared looking, scant-clad & bed-headed female character, who should have been Evangeline Lilly, says "we're gonna need new sheets!" Why was I the only one laughing? And why was it so easy to escape from a top secret (and waterfall-topping) gov't installation? And just what hell was Will.I.AM doing there when brother monkey was "hunting down the rest of the team," and why do morally conflicted super heroes ALWAYS let the obviously evil guys - the guys who try repeatedly to have them KILLED, and kill their ladies, and families, and innocent old Deadheads, and threaten Mutanical genocide - walk away after holding a gun/club/hangnail to their pupils in a threatening manner, only to roll over on their backs and cover their bloody faces....
Currently listening:
They Can't All Be Zingers
By Primus
Release date: 2006-10-17
Friday, May 29, 2009 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Currently listening:
Superelative Sciencefictional Soundmachine
By Labcoat
Release date: 2009-04-28
Friday, May 22, 2009 
Thursday, May 14, 2009 

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. 

Saturday, May 09, 2009 

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 .

Currently listening:
Ghost In The Machine [Digipak]
By The Police
Release date: 2003-03-04