Big Sky, Small World

Things that make you go "Hm".

2011-10-28T16:49:00.000-07:00

As my wife and I walked towards downtown Saint Paul in the afternoon sun, we turned the corner of St Paul Cathedral, National Shrine of the apostle Paul, overlooking the city from its perch at the end of Summit Avenue. The Cathedral is a testament to Archbishop John Ireland's determination in 1904 to provide a "mother church" for the community, and standing 306 ft with walls of solid granite and local stone from Mankato MN, it looms large on the city skyline.
It was in the shadow of this magnificent structure, and after a short lull in the conversation that my wife idly inquires " Have you ever seen a squirrel poop?".
I had to say I haven't.
"And" she continued, "do they poop on the ground or in the trees?" .
Once again I was stumped, and the implied threat of the latter question was not lost on me. I felt a quiet sense of gratitude that the skies in these parts were mostly populated by sparrows.
Back to the burning question though- anyone out there seen a squirrel poop? let me know, and no fibbers.

A Maine Event

2011-10-28T16:20:00.000-07:00

In Carthage, western Maine, the woods grow thick with Oak, Beech, Ash and Pine. As I looked out over a late September morning, from my hilltop lodging, I saw the faint hint of crimson and yellow begin to bleed ever so slightly into the dappled greens that spread to the horizon, where it met a cloudless blue sky.

One way up to my lodging - the Skye Theater and Arts Center - was a dirt road that was laid in the early eighteen hundreds by settlers who farmed the surrounding land and founded the community of Carthage .
From the road, this sparsely populated woodland reveals a few barren cemeteries that stand like ruins, shaded by the towering forest, and serve as the only evidence of a once busy and bustling thoroughfare, now mostly used by logging trucks and a few remaining families on the hillside.

Come breakfast time, Phil, a longtime resident of the hillside, and active community member, pointed us in the direction of The Front Porch Cafe in East Dixwell, and his recommendation did not go amiss.

The Front Porch Cafe, an old rambling colonial style house, has been converted on the inside into a carpeted, wood-lined dining room that butts right up to the kitchen, the aroma of blueberry flapjacks held me for ransom almost as soon as I walked in.
Now normally I'm an eggs n hashbrowns kind of fella, having learned a long time ago that my eyes grow much larger than my belly, but those blueberry flapjacks are singing my song and staring up at me from the menu. I know I'm gonna get crushed under a 3-stack of dish-diameter 'jacks, but I go for it anyway.
The coffee was great , and here , if I may, a word -

I like coffee. I like good coffee and I'm even happy to suffer the "other stuff" if need be, the stuff that looks like coffee, smells like coffee. but man it ain't coffee. But that "other stuff", to my mind, does also have a rightful place; namely that place that glares at you through the midnight dark from the side of the highway, all garishly colored neon shouting " roadside diner" - the greasy spoon - home of the hangover breakfast . I expect the "other stuff" in that environment and I oddly look forward to it's role in completing the scene- greasy cafe/ diner and a cup of the other stuff to wash down whatever the hash slinger slings my way. In fact, when I am served good coffee in that environment I'm oddly disappointed, sorely tempted to hail the waitress saying " Take this back - this is excellent!" but I never do of course.

This cafe though, although serving hashbrowns and eggs-a-plenty, was no "other stuff"- serving diner. The deep bean coffee aroma filled the homely dining area, and wafted outside into the chilly morning , beckoning passers by like comely sirens from shore. Ok that's a slight exaggeration, but it was pretty durn good, and served in tall chunky ceramic mugs made locally, and before I knew it, I had washed down the whole 3 flapjacks, covered in maple syrup. I felt like a real man- an overstuffed, bloated fat real man that needed to take a nap pretty quick.
Before that could happen though, there was a surprise in store;
As we filed out of this established, full and feeling it, the owner followed us outside saying" Hey - you guys met Murphy yet?"
With that, she faces the garage that was kitty-corner to the cafe shouting " Murphy!! Murphy!! C'mere, boy!" And with that , Murphy, a black n white dappled mutt, came scampering over the roof of the garage, greeting all he surveyed with an excited bark or two. The garage roof is clearly his domain; he was happy to stand , not budging and just happy to greet his audience from on high.
As our host said "Murphy, will you sing for us? " for a moment, Murphy looked almost as confused as we did, but as she launched into the opening strains of The Monster Mash, Murphy howled right along; a good two verses of harmonizing, entertaining us with a unique rendition of a Halloween classic before we finally had to take our leave. Thanks Murphy. Now about that nap......

Brooklyn NY

2011-06-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

Marine Park

Between avenue U and Fillmore, on a small corner of Marine Park's green space is an oak shaded loop-walk for strolling, jogging, cycling or , as was my intention, just whiling away a hot June afternoon. At one corner, a Bocce Ball court (see above) keeps a handful of older men engaged in their game and a little conversation, or maybe a lot of conversation and a little of the game.
In the middle of the loop, bating cages are scattered throughout for future A-Rods and Jeter's to hone their skills, and what park benches were shaded by those grandiose oaks never found themselves alone for too long. Although the hiss of traffic is omnipresent, the space remains quite peaceful, and it's surprisingly easy to find oneself unwinding steadily among the dog walkers and sun worshippers.

After a stroll around the loop, I decided to grab the next available bench and watch the squirrels, who in turn watched the starlings as they also foraged in the grass, both seemingly unaware of the frisbees skimming right above them.

Amongst the joggers, baby strollers, and cellphone huggers, I saw a small disheveled sandy colored dog moving e-v-e-r s-o s-l-o-w-l-y in my general direction, idly sniffing at the base of each oak before moving in a slow, gentle movement that almost looked like a kind of dog- Tai Chi. Directly behind him was his master, an elderly gentleman with glasses, in a white t shirt and wearing a baseball cap.

"Good seat" he said, stopping to look in my direction. "Yup - not bad" I said. " I can feel the breeze on my back." he offered. " Feels good I'll bet". "Oh yeah. I've lived here my whole life, just beyond those trees" he said, pointing. "Oh?". "Born 1931. That's a long time. The mayor back then told my mom not to sell the house - they're going up in value, he said." "He was right". I said.
He pointed in the opposite direction ; "I used to swim over there. We used to swim and fish, and even then, there was a sign saying 'water polluted' " . "Hm" I grinned. "Yup. Take care my friend, C'mon Rusty", and with that, the two old timers shuffled on. I took one more stroll around the loop, stopped and looked at a squirrel for a minute or two, and moved on. I hadn't expected to feel so relaxed in the heart of Brooklyn, but there I was, happy to have stumbled upon an oasis of sorts not realizing that just the next morning I'd find another one......

The Oasis Diner

The Oasis Diner, on Quentin Rd and Flatbush Ave is a family run Greek diner that was calling my name as soon as I saw it one morning with breakfast on my mind. This place hit the spot- the server pointed me to a booth and handed me a coffee and a menu. I took my time perusimg the many options as around me a steady stream of neighborhood faces filed up and down the aisle and filled the room with their familiar exchanges like " Hey George, how's the wife?" and "'zat your car out front ? she's a beauty.."

After I ordered I sat for a while, continuing my people-watching as three guys at the register discussed the Yankee's chances this season. An older woman picking up an order blessed us all as she left, and my plate landed in front of me with a "there y'go, hun. Enjoy." from a waitress who was a blur most of the time.

The cheese omelette was great , the home fries were among the best I've had, and the coffee kept coming. I took my time over breakfast , savoring the atmosphere as much as the food, and as I payed at the register, I mentioned to the young guy taking the check that I'd be back again. With a faint smile he said " Oh good - I'm happy." Me too , I thought.

One day in Dublin , Ireland......

2011-05-10T15:08:00.000-07:00

This is Pat Ingoldsby, a poet, and a Dublin icon. He was siting on Westmoreland Street, surrounded by his books and busy finishing a poem in his notebook when I approached. The self made sign above his head read "Dublin Poet - anywhere else I'd be a god."

"Howrya Pat", I said " I want to buy a book from you". " Ah, howrya", he said, "and I've just finished one - can I read it to you? Tell me if you can relate".

He proceeded to recite a poem recounting his difficulty with math and his love of words as a young boy. When he was done he looked up at me and inquired earnestly; " well - can you relate to that?". Indeed I could and I told him so, and after he had lamented the presence of letters in mathematical equation, I suggested that perhaps it's just the words trying to invade and overthrow the math world. He liked this idea and a warm smile spread broadly from under his hat.

Pat is at once whimsical, sincere, biting and curious in his observations of the world he sees around him.His poems reflect the people he meets as he sits peddling his literary wares on the streets of Dublin, as well as reflections on the natural world as he sees it from the strand in Howth where he lives. In his life he has known both fame and obscurity and I would hazard a guess that he has little time for either.

As we chatted, he picked up a book and signed it to my wife and I in a large, looping deliberate hand that , when he had finished, read "thanks Patsy and Heather for saving my day". before we parted he recited one more poem that came to him; a few lines pondering whether the pursuit of wealth is as valid as the value of natural beauty.

And with that , we said our goodbyes - warm handshakes, broad waves and smiles and a mutual wish to enjoy the rest of the day.

"What the world needs now is love, sweet love". Burt Bacharach wrote that.

" - and a few more Pat Ingoldsbys". I wrote that.

Good morning

2011-03-05T08:30:00.000-08:00

In Dallas TX, The Cafe Brazil offers a spinach omelette with Rosemary potatoes and grilled thick sliced white bread that sets a body up for the day. The help-yourself coffee bar is music to this guy's ears, and the lady beside me at the counter offers me the morning paper with a smile. I thank her, thinking to myself that this is a good start to a new day in a strange town .
I come across an article on a border control snafu in Brownsville, south Texas, where US citizens are finding themselves at odds with the new fence - rivers bend, but it would seem that fences don't, and residents are left with questions about what land is theirs and and what the government owns.

Baseball season approacheth, and as I wash down the omelette with my umpteenth bottomless cup, I read news of a scuffle in the Cubs dugout, and the Twin's Joe Nathan "feeling fine" after surgery.
The wind picks up a little outside, and it's time for my 3 block walk alongside the highway buzz back to the hotel. The Cafe Brazil offers an antidote of coffee aroma, great food, and all the color, rattle and hum that human traffic has to offer . remembering Oscar Wilde's line about being able to resist everything except temptation, I grab a coffee to go.

Columbia SC

2011-02-25T12:12:00.001-08:00

What's Columbia got to do with Egypt?

I know - what kind of dumb question is that, right?. I hear you , but there I was , strolling along a meandering country road on the outskirts of Columbia South Carolina, taking in the afternoon sun, and hearing the sounds of the far off State Fair wafting across the September breeze, when I follow the road around the tree-lined bend only to be met with a 20 foot fresco of the ancient Pharaoh Rameses, or someone who looks just like him, peering down from his throne, and surrounded by heiroglyphs of due respect, his face weatherd away by the elements. I was left with only one thought - "What the....?"
Maybe I had some preconceived notions about what traveling in the Carolinas might be like, and maybe it's my own fault for not being open minded, but Pharaohs?
The image is painted on a concrete slab which is clearly the remaining wall of some considerably less ancient structure than a pyramid or catacomb, but has a few seating benches and tables set at its base for the casual wanderer to sit and enjoy their diet coke and fritos, safe in the knowledge that the ancient gods of Egypt are watching out for them.
The jarring visual stimuli didn't stop there.Carrying on my stroll and slowly recovering from my impromptu date with a Pharaoh, I was soon met with a white two story building that boasted the painted image of the Incredible Hulk (sure, why not?) punching his way through the wall and snarling at me. Over his left shoulder near the corner of the building , was the word 'GROW' in grey letters and groovy script.

At the green super hero's feet, a small table soaked up the sun, with an arrangement of blackened and burned engine parts resting on top, and beneath, between it's legs and in the shade, a burned out bird cage. You heard me. Wondering if maybe I had wandered into a Terry Gilliam movie, I dedided to head back to base, and quiz my host - a Columbia native - about these odd sightings.
My host, Davey, at the Redbird School of Irish Music, assured me that I wasn't losing it just yet, and that the white two story building was an artist's collective, once known as the Grow Cafe - a coffeehouse and venue/artist space, now just a studio , although still it would seem very much inhabited by the ghosts of it's former glory.
As for the Pharaoh, Davey could shed no light.......hmmmm...

The Mississippi Mud House

2011-02-24T20:57:00.000-08:00

The above picture is just to get your attention and has nothing to do with the following post - just something spotted in O'Fallon MO.
Speaking of MO....

The Mississippi Mud House

....in St Louis MO, on Cherokee and Illinois, is one of the coolest coffeehouses in the mid west : great menu (check out the Portabello Rueben) , great coffee (duh) and a very hip ambience. The salad greens are grown out back, for the most part, and the emphasis is on local produce.

A back wall houses books for sale while surrounding brownstone walls are adorned with local art and retro advertising, and it's WAY easy just to sit back, put it all off 'til tomorrow, and just while away the hours with a hot coffee or three, watching the local Cherokee Street traffic as they stop in for lunch, meet a few buddies, chat with staff, or just sit back and watch you watch the local.....well you get what I mean.

Oh yeah, the French Toast is also top notch.

I first wandered in there with my buddy Kevin after a hard morning recording. Two coffees and a lunch hour later, we found ourselves wandering back to the studio saying, " wow, cool place". We dont say that too often. When I was back in town about a year later, I headed down for breakfast, and ordered the aforementioned French toast. Hot syrup. Bananas. Hot coffee. Mmm.
Me and Kevin headed in for lunch after a morning gig , and man, they did it again . I reacquainted myself with the Portabello Rueben ( we're an item now) while Kevin inhaled the Club Sandwich with emphatic nods of approval.
I'm telling you. You should go. Really cool place.

Knoxville TN

2010-11-06T12:19:00.000-07:00

Knoxville stood there waiting for us to have lunch somewhere in it's quiet clean downtown while we wasted time just soaking up the sun and stretching our legs along Gay St ( insert obvious jokes here ). We sauntered as far as the river, and back onto market square where we finally decided on a place to satiate our growing appetites.

Cafe 4, we figured was as good as any , feeling a little o erwhelmed by the array of choices the square spread before us - pub grub, Thai and strictly vegetarian being among the many options. Sensing a slight chill in the air, but still enjoying the cloudless sky, we opted for outside seating with a hearty grilled cheese and tomato bisque, refered to on the menu as The Grilled Cheese Dip and dip we did. Mmmm. Also, the fried green tomatoes with goat cheese and balsamic reduction ( dont know what that means) pretty much rocked our world. Service was super friendly and the hanging out stretched long until we finally decided it was time we explored some more.
Ok, Knoxville, what you got?
The Sunsphere (above), to give it it's proper title ( more respectful than my own description of "big goldy thingumee" ) was designed and built by a local architectural firm for the 1982 worlds fair, and offers a 360 degree view of the city and provides the skyline with something unique and instantly recognizable to the approaching tourist, incoming college kids And conference goers, all of which dominate knoxvilles human traffic .

Old city seems to be on the cusp of a Renaissance , with new bars and cafes nestled into the turn-of-the-century buildings, with an eye firmly on the college demographic; coffee shops, vintage clothing stores pepper this growing area, and somewhere we found ourselves popping into The Crown and Goose for refreshment. Finding the place virtually empty, we sat at the bar and tried their own house IPA, brewed for them by the smoky mountain Brewing Company.
The IPA was light and refreshing , and with a spring in our step , it was time to mooch on......hmm, we thought, so far so good. I'll bet the student area is SUPER- cool... Right?

Well, not really. The strip through campus where we expected to find the head shops , hookah bars , vintage clothing and killer vinyl was actually populated by all the major franchises and peddlers of plastic food and shaky tables. They were all here in a line, so if that's your thing, you just roll out of your dorm and into a bucket o' chicken for just SOMETHING 99!!! YEAH!!
underwhelmed by the over abundance of colorfully packaged nothing, we headed back into downtown for a stroll through it's oak lined streets and maybe half an idea to come back and say hi again sometime soon. Not least of all , to check out the Blue Plate Special. - a free concert from local and touring acts at the visitors center, hosted and broadcast every afternoon by WDVX . If acoustic music is your thing, check this one out, preferably live, but you can always catch it online.

From here we headed west through the Smoky Mountains to ......

Asheville NC

This, my second trip to Asheville, luckily allowed me a little more time to soak up the atmosphere and charms of this mountain town which has become synonymous with the arts and local artisans, as well as touring artists eager to put Asheville on their schedule.
As such, Asheville feels like a very mellow sleeping Gulliver, unphased by us langouring Lilliputians running along it's limbs, admiring the galleries , browsing the bookstores and slurping from the coffee houses along it's winding streets.
Actually , Asheville has an embarrassment of coffee houses, enough to inspire my wife to utter the words " man, if you can't find a coffeehouse here , there's something wrong with you." So true. I guess in such a throng of choices it pays to stand out , and arguably the most memorable coffeehouse is The Big Bus, the appropriately monickered London Double Decker forever parked and catering to all your caffeination needs on the first level, with ample seating on the top deck, just a thin spiral staircase away. "How long have you been here?" I asked the Barista, to which she replied "'Me, or the bus?", clearly a comedian. Once I'd sewn my sides back together she informed me that they'd been in business since 1996. Not bad,
And the coffee is pretty durn good.

After a leisurely noodle around the "Downtown Books and News" Bookstore - one of the best we've ever seen, we thought we should hook up with my bandmates; The HiBs. Hannah Flanagans sounded like a good spot, situated as it is close to downtown.
Once again , we walk into an empty bar, so with elbows on bar , we inquire of the barman, what's local and what's good? He points us at what is , in his opinion , the best IPA on the east coast , the Highland IPA from the Highland Brewing Co. Taking him at his word , I had to sample , and indeed found it to be most tasty. I wondered if our friendly barkeeper recommended everything this highly , as some might do in the name of dedicated salesmanship, but my suspicions were swiflty quashed when a girl came inquiring about a particular beer available on tap. " How is it?" she inquired. " it's crap." replied our dedicated bartender, without blinking an eye.
We basked in the honesty, quoffing at a leisurely pace, me on my Highland IPA, my wife on another local brew ; Pisgah Pale Ale, completely organic - even their trucks run on vegetable oil, a factoid I believe wholeheartedly as I heard it from - you got it - our honest barman.
It would be impossible to leave the subject of Asheville without mentioning some of it's many eateries . Every bit as numerous as the coffee houses , the streets fill with a variety of aromas from around the globe . Caribbean , Indian, Thai, and in a town populated by so many hippies, artists and loveable leftys of every stripe , a fine array of vegetarian options.

We grabbed a late breakfast at The Early Girl Eatery, who use all local produce and, man - the banana walnut pancakes blew my mind. Great food In a great atmosphere.

The next day , lunch at The Laughing Seed, a completely vegetarian restaurant served me a veggie Sloppy Joe that, according to my carnivorous buddies, beat the 'real thing' hands down.
Sometime after lunch , it was time to hit the road......

DEADWOOD SD

2010-06-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

It was August 11th. We rolled into Deadwood on the way east from a gig in Montana, and in that neck of the woods at that time of year the road is heavy with swarms of Harley Davidson owners heading to or coming from Sturgis; Harley Mecca, whose summer festival draws Harley owners in the hundreds of thousands.
Deadwood sounded like a good place to brush some road off just like so many ranchers, pioneers and gunslingers of the old west had done before.
The horses had been replaced by minivans and bikes, but the roadside pastimes of drinking and gambling are still intact, albeit in a more generic form ; the gut rot that once passed for whiskey has thankfully been replaced by a cold beer, and the sometimes violent poker games the like of which brought Wild Bill Hickock to meet his maker in this very town are only reproduced in museums. If you want to lose or win money here, your options are slot machines in the bars, slot machines in the hotels or , across the street, slot machines in the.......ummm......slot machine......place.
The town itself is laid out on old cow paths, lending a relaxed, ramshackle feel as you mooch around the winding streets of historic buildings, shop fronts of western memorabilia, and bars boasting exhibits and some or other claim to various snippets of Wild West legend: "here's where Wild Bill was shot" , "Here's where the guy that shot him got shot", "Here's where he had his last drink".

Although that might be a little too hokey for some, for anyone with even a passing interest in the lore of the Wilds West, there are plenty of opportunities as you browse the crumbling photographs and artifacts to revert to the wide-eyed days of childhood, when The Lone Ranger not only saved the day, but rode the coolest horse ever.

It was a hot summer night, and after a cold beer to ease the saddle sores, me 'n' my pardner tipped our hats to Wild Bill and the town of Deadwood, and hit the trail........

New York Mills, MN

2010-02-10T20:38:00.000-08:00

New York Mills in North MN is small, quiet and interesting - a truly blink-and-you'll-miss-it, kind of place, it is the home of the ANNUAL GREAT AMERICAN THINK-OFF. Now in it's seventeenth year, the Think-Off ooccupies one summer night to pose one question for debate to three rounds of debaters. The audience chooses the winner. The 2009 Question: "Is it ever wrong to do the right thing?"

The Think Off is the brain child of the New york MIlls Cultural Center , and more specifically it's founder John Davis. The center is responsible fror bringing touring musical acts into the community as well as art exhibits and crafts from the surrounding area, and acts as a sort of Arts Oasis in this heavily agricultural town with vast expanses of corn fields in every direction, and at the time of my visit in October, huddled groups of deer hunters in flatbed trucks were either hitting the town's one bar for a beer on the way out to the woods, or hitting the town's one bar for a beer on their way back in. We watched them come and go from our bar-side perch, and as the cheap beer flowed and the loud '80s hair metal blaired from the jukebox it was hard to imagine that just around the corner on the main street stood the home of the GREAT AMERICAN THINK-OFF, but there it is. The competition logo is Rodin's "Thinker" sitting atop a tractor. It's motto:
"bringing philosophy from the ivory towers of academia into the lives of thinking americans."

I enjoy a place like New York Mills for the peace and quiet and the pace of life, where the main street is quieter than my back yard, and given that the town has one bar , two coffee houses and a bowling alley, with little else protruding from the landscape, not to mention a place to hear music and absorb art and craft, i'm guessing the locals enjoy it for pretty much the same reasons.

Old Faithful

2009-11-09T17:35:00.000-08:00

As North American National Parks go, Yellowstone is pretty high in the popularity stakes - everyone has heard of it, so everyone comes - the hard-travelling, long hiking nature advocate rubs shoulders with the clueless nose picker who's only here 'cos they followed the dog into the car.
I fall somewhere betrween those two : to be surrounded by the uninterupted grace and serenity of nature is pretty much my favorite place to be. On the other hand, I'm only here because I'm on my way back from a gig in Montana.

Within Yellowstone, Old Faithful is the star performer, delivering to sell out crowds numerous times a day for about a century.

We sat waiting for the next appearance by the volcanic phenomenon, along with 250 or so nature enthusiast, nose pickers and their families and significant others.
About twenty minutes into our wait, from our place in the circled seating, we heard and saw from the circle's center the first gurglings from beneath the earth.
I have to admit, after spending about a day and a half in Yellowstone I had started to feel like this place was my own and that the droves of people were eating into the solitude and quiet that I value in these natural oases; "How dare they," the devil on my shoulder would whisper "don't they know you need your space?" .
My selfish surliness, however, was soon quashed as Old Faithful steadily rose into a shimmering plume of water and vapor, over a hundred feet into the air, flanked on all sides by open blue prairie sky, distant mountains and proud, towering pines. In an abstract way, the most famous geyser in the world does resemble a stage performer, like Lily Langtry in a shimmering gown of pearly white sequins, shoulders broad and held high as she sways seductively. And there I sat - her Judge Roy Bean, slack jawed and bug-eyed like a foolish school boy, transfixed by her unadorned beauty.
After about 5 minutes, she slowly brought the show to a close , retreating to her underground dressing room. No encores, and the kids, dogs, families and loners dispersed, making room for the next audience, and finding the occasional pearly white sequin in their hair.

Incidentally, if you are planning a trip to Yellowstone, pack a lunch - the food available within the park is over priced and terrible. Pity, but the stunning diversity of the scenery and wildlife more than makes up for it, and although a lot of folks focus on the volcanic splendor of the parks west side , do not leave without experiencing the north east corridor - wide open grassland that the bison call home.

Badlands

2009-08-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

Interior, South Dakota - a frontier town on the edge of the Pine Ridge Sioux reservation, and less than a mile from the Badlands National Park, was going to be home for a few days. Larry, the ranch and campground owner, checked us in and warned us of the 105 degree forecast for the day. Warning duly noted, we headed for the desert.
The stillness here is intoxicating, and it's a tonic for body and soul just to immerse oneself in the quiet barren tranquility. Peach cactus sprung at our feet, kingbirds seemed to guide us, perching a few yards ahead, then fluttering on only to be found further down the trail, and swallows made there homes in the baked desert mounds.
The temperature did climb as predicted, and after a few hours in the sun and constant hot breeze, the idea of an ice cold beer in the shade started to sound pretty good - time for a stroll to the Wagon Wheel , downtown Interior , where a few of the locals along with some passing bikers, sat in the quiet one-room bar shooting the breeze, while the friendly barmaid swatted flies. A crock pot full of burgers , along with some fixings were set on the pool table with a handwritten sign that said "all u can eat, $8.00".
The bikers were just a few of literally hundreds of thousands that were heading to Sturgis that week for the annual Harley Davidson Rally, and the road west would soon turn into a long stream of chrome and beard from morning to night and as far as the eye could see into the horizon.
The locals were just a handful of Interior's population, which totals at 67.

After washing the dust down, it was back to the Campground for "Cowboy Stew", and here a word of warning for the vegetarian. If you are heading this direction, and I recommend you do - be prepared; options are slim, and in some cases, non-existent.
I keep to a vegetarian diet , but come dinner time, I found myself with a choice; stew or no stew, and after a few miles hiking in the desert heat, I knew that my road-food stash of nuts and berries just wouldn't cut it, so with a shrug of my shoulders and a belly that just needed filling, i grabbed a plate.
The stew was cooked slow over 8 hours- steak chunks and nine vegetables. Hearty stuff. Uncomplicated and delicious. Barb, the quiet spoken woman of the house, made sure the plate was full until I said stop.

Laying in the tent in the growing dark, I listened to the constant wind across the barren land and drifted off with images of ancient peoples with their ancient songs and stories shimmering in my mind's eye.

In the mornings, the sourdough pancakes and coffee formed the foundation for a good days hiking, and a sign in the kitchen proclaimed that the sourdough starter for the pancakes was used on a frontier wagon train over a hundred years ago. I'm glad they left the recipe here. Barb was once again at the ready with coffee pot and watchful eye for any empty plates and cups that needed filling, while in the background the matriarch, a small slight grey haired woman, hovered at the stove with a pitcher of pancake batter.
Bleary eyed bikers and fellow road trippers filed in from the morning sun, and we ate our fill before heading out to explore.

Jeremiah Smith , in 1823, gazed upon the badlands for the first time and was the first white man to do so.
One hundred and eighty six years later I looked out onto that eery moonlike landscaoe for the first time, but how strange it must have been for Jeremiah. I at least had heard and read about the badlands and so had an incling as to what I could expect, but for Jeremiah, he may well have wondered if he'd somehow slipped into another world.
It is at once prairie and desert, submerged and elevated; canyons formed by ancient rivers long dried up, and hills eroded over centuries of inexhaustable winds, blindly taking everything but the hardest substances with it. Jeremiah could have been forgiven for turning and running.

This was a hunting ground of the Lakota, who had named it "White HIlls"- a neighbor to the Black HIlls further West. French trappers referred to it as "les mauvaises terres a traverse" or "bad lands to cross". The name " Bad Lands" stuck. So much so that the Lakota began to use the term, due to the new trading relationships that were cultivated with the trappers.

Once again while laying in a tent in the shadow of the main ridge later that night, my mind wandered to the bare feet, moccasins and bison hoof that had trod right where my head lay , now part of a working ranch with a campground attached. How many had woken as I had that morning to a sunrise over an open grassland, the distant landscape eroded over aeons; the quiet , eery mounds pressing into the sky above ? And over how many centuries? Once again, the constant, gentle wind lulled me to sleep.

The wind seems to own the land here; 20 million years of it rushing across the sandstone and prairie had created it's unique moonlike character, and I 'm guessing it must be a force that man and beast has to reckon with every day out here - the flat landscape lending itself to snowdrifts in the winter, and rapidly changing conditions in general, but of course these are the very things that bring us here - the unique serenity, the bejeweled night sky unlike anything a city dweller can possibly see, and the wide open window to another time.

Snowshoe Country Lodge

2009-07-08T13:22:00.000-07:00

Up in the north woods of Minnesota, about an hour from Two Harbors on the north shore of Lake Superior, is he Snowshoe Country lodge and log cabin building school.

We headed there from Lake Itasca and met some friends for the weekend. The plan was to build a fire, hang out , grill food and enjoy the cabins.
The cabins had electricity and the water was hand drawn from a well nearby.
Outhouses were also close by, as were the ever-present mosquitoes, who seemed to have a particular liking for my chosen brand of bug spray. We had all arrived there about 3 ish, and it was early evening, after some napping and quiet time, before the silence of the woods had really soaked in.

We lit a fire. The sun was beginning to set and the bugs all came out of the pines to feast on our juicy city skin, so we figured the smoke might keep them at bay.

We had finished a dinner of corn on the cob, potato salad and asparagus grilled on a barbeque pit outside one of our log cabins.As we sat around the fire , frogs began their evening chorus, and the wolves' call and response floated in and out of the deep blue sky around us. it seemed that they were talking to each other from miles apart, and that we were somewhere between, like accidental eavesdroppers.

We put the fire out and headed for bed. Outside the window, the frogs' lazy chirping began to fade and the occasional wolf howl would break the growing silence inside, a bug or two had found their way in, ready for seconds. Some of em got lucky. Some of em didn't.

Lake Itasca

2009-07-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

Lake Itasca, where the mighty MIssissippi takes it's first trickling steps on it's two and a half thousand mile journey south, has surrounding it some stunning Jack Pine forest and wildlife and, thanks to the State Park and Department of Natural Resources,some fine family camping and outdoor facilities a the ready - pontoons and bicycles are ready for renting and the trails are breathtaking.

The headwaters of the Mississippi, flowing from Lake Itasca, are a great attraction, partly because it's one part of that great river that can be crossed on a few stepping stones before it gradually reaches it's massive girth many miles south.

The lake was given it's name by Henry Schoolcraft, who took the latin words "verITAS" (meaning "true")and "CAput" (meaning "head") to form Itasca - there had been many previous claims of the headwaters' discovery from many sources, including the Spaniards in the 16th century and many others, but the true head was found when Mr Schoolcraft employed an Ojibwe native as his guide - of course the Ojibwe knew where it was all along, but no one bothered to ask. Henry, however, had been a long time friend of the native peoples:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Schoolcraft

Also found in abundance along Elk Lake are Minnesota's State Flower ; Lady Slippers:

Thanks

2009-07-07T09:21:00.000-07:00

From across the sunny street, I heard "'Scuse me, sir?". She was pretty - late 20's/early 30's maybe, blond with blue eyes, and a tanned, weather-worn complexion in old dirty clothes; an over-sized yellow sweater and raggedy jeans.
"Would you have fifty cents for the bus?" she asked as she crossed the street towards me.

As I fished in my wallet I asked "Where you headed?". "Grand and Fairview - my sister's".

I handed her a dollar; "There you go". She said "Thanks." and walked on.

The Taste of Minnesota- St Paul July 4th

2009-07-05T21:31:00.000-07:00

The grounds of Harriet Island were packed with kids and families enjoying festival food and celebrating the birth of their nation in the warm evening sun - the choices of fatty goodies were endless, and the varieties of fairground staples like bouncy castles and cuddly toy booths went on and on.

But what brought me here was the promise of an Elvis Costello show in the open air, so after my buddy Rob and I enjoyed some fries and funnel cake, we started to gravitate along with the other music lovers towards the main stage, although I did stop along the way for a root beer float made with 1919 Rootbeer. Yum.

Elvis Costello and the Impostors

Elvis took to the stage around 8pm . With the city curfew set at 10, that gave him 2 hours to do his thing, and given the amount of "thing"s Elvis has to chose from, I wondered which one he'd bring with him tonight , being a man that wears as many musical hats as he does.

Of course , being the professional that he is, he brought the hat that fits best - not the astute, eloquent razor sharp troubador that sang to and with the Bob Dylan audience I last saw him perform to, but rather the high energy balls to the wall rock band fronman that makes the funnel cake go sown easy and lets the kids stay up late.

This lady, along with many others , enjoyed Elvis very much.

Elvis and the Impostors played through an hour and a half of Costello classics like "Watching the Detectives" and the occasional cover. The Impostors swung like a big Swingy thing on the planet Swingy, and being a rock show , they indulged in a little extended noodlings on their respective instruments.

Elvis himself was cheerful and upbeat with the crowd, and by the end of the show, I was left with a feeling that I've always experienced at a Costello show, and that is that the dynamic of one large group of people watching four people make a noise had disappeared, and that we were really just all standing in a field together, and four of us were playing some kick ass rock n roll.

The band encored with "what's so funny about peace, love and understanding' which segued gracefully into "the tracks of my tears" and "suspicious minds".

At the top of the show, St Paul's mayor, Chris Coleman, offered: "It's the Fourth of July -what could be better than having Elvis Costello play at your birthday party?"

As Rob and I headed homeward under a canopy of red. white and blue fireworks over the MIssissippi. I had to concur.

America celebrated her 233rd birthday with Elvis Costello, and on July 5th , at 233 and one day, she celebrated in St Paul with..........

The Bret MIcheals Rock of Love Bus Tour!!!!!!!

i got there a little early - I wanted to check out...

Adler's Appetite

- the band built around Guns 'n' Roses drummer Steve Adler. I missed the start of their set, and got their in time to here the singer's last chorus of "So Fuckin' EEEZZAYY!! " come to it's crashing finale. Unfortunately I nissed out on what it was he was having such "EEEZE!" with . If it's that easy, I thought, maybe I should have a go. I'd been toying with the idea of planting a victory garden. Maybe that's what he was referring to.

I watched a few numbers, waiting for the pounding RRAWWWKK rhythms to re-awaken the obnoxious 14 year old metal head that I was sure still slumbered within, but it wasn't to be. I headed back to the root beer float stand, ordered a double, and, thinking I'd be sharing it with the 14 year old within, was left with the 38 year old without, wondering if Heavy Metal was ever what it used to be, and where had I left my early AC/DC records?

I faced into the crowd once more - a crowd made up mostly of teenagers and their parents. The lady in front of me was rather excited about her purchase of some Sham WOW!s ( hey- it's the best shammy in the world ok?)

"MINN'SOTA _ YOU RAAAAWWWWWKK!!!!"

Steve Adler and his Appetites were leaving the stage. It was about 7ish and the crowd was starting to thicken; some of the more serious punters were doing there damnedest to get as close as they could to the barrier that kept us all about a hundred yards from the stage. Anything inside the barrier was 50 bucks .

Bret's stage needed a little more set-up time of course; the mic stand needed red white and blue scarves hangng from it, and of course they had their own back line of speakers , all emblazoned with BMB (Bret Micheals Band? Bret Micheals' Babes? Bret Micheals' Bus? Bret Micheals is Bald?), and then came the inevitable hanging around, at least for the crowd.
All told, the band weren't ready to hit the stage 'til just after 9. But wait- curfew's at 10. Dang. Y'think they didn't know?

"Awesome awesomeness. Awseome Pawrdy. Y'guyz're awesome..."

BMB tore though a bunch of Poison hits. The band were full on, and Bret is the consummate front man. The crowd was eating out of his hand and by the time he got 'em singing with him on "wunna my fav'rit sawngs", namely "Sweet Home Alabama", he could do no wrong, and he only had about 35 minutes left not to do it in. Sweet gig.

Time for me to wander around the fairground..........

- pretty much says it all.

- guess she's fresh out......

"Cmaan...it'sa Titanic...'s fun..."

Corrales, NM

2009-04-23T11:36:00.000-07:00

Rolling into Corrales on a sun-baked spring morning, the quiet, rural landscape quickly put all thoughts of airports, bag-checks and shuttles completely out of our minds. So intoxicating is the gentle beauty of this place that it's hard to imagine being any place else while walking the winding roads; we walked the short distance from the venue to our director's house, who treated us to a lunch from the Flying Star, and the best Veggie Burger I have EVER tasted. The digestion of said burger was greatly enhanced by a short sit by the pool with Rosie, the chocolate Lab who hung out with me for a little bit. NIce girl. Kinda quiet.

We played at The old San Ysidro Church, no longer functioning as a church but a venue, it dates back to the 1800's, and was restored to it's present adobe and hardwood grandeur in the 80s. With fabulous natural acoustics and an idyllic setting the program of events here draws folks from all over, and we played to an audience that spilled out the doors into the afternoon sunshine .
The arts community here is rock solid and over the years has cultivated an eclectic schedule of musical events. I shared a beer or two with opera nuts, multilinguists , folkies, jazzers, wine aficianados, very friendly dogs and folks who were just plain ol' nice.
Quite a diverse crowd for a town of only 7,000 or so.

As I relaxed in the evening with some locals, I spotted the mountain range that sat in the distance, noticeable at once for the fact that it sits on an otherwise flat landscape, and inquired to know more. "Oh" came the reply, 'the Sandias". When I asked what that meant, I expected something grand and devotional, evoking the romance of early Spanish culture.

"Watermelon", came the response. Maybe it was the beer, or the altitude(same as Denver) or both, but I could have sworn they said "Watermelon", which indeed they had. My new friends must have sensed my confusion because they quickly offered an explanation; at a certain time in the evening, for no more than a minute during sundown, the mountain turns a shade of pink, reminiscent of the meat in a watermelon . The locals refer to this as the "pink moment" . "Pink" for obvious reasons, and "moment" because it really is that fleeting. Apparently, I just missed it. No matter, the beer was good. Our post-gig-reception host, John , kept a good cellar, and was adamant that I try the Northern Cap Winter. I'm glad he made me do it.
My other beer discovery of the evening was the Marble Brewing Company's IPA, and the two adjectives that come to mind are the same that were once used to describe a punk rock band I was in many many years ago - weird but good . It was like no other IPA I 've tasted. the hoppy bite was met in the middle by the citrus tang, and they jostled for first place while i sat back and enjoyed the show that was going on in my taste buds

A short hop from there was our lodgings for the night. Judith and George Newby run the stellar Sandhill Crane B and B in the community. I stayed in The Cowboy Room, a testament to the Western Art indigenous to the area, and also home to a Red Ryder BB Gun as seen in the movie " A Christmas Story ", carefully mounted over a portrait of Red Ryder himself in later life, and not surprisingly to anybody that knows me, that's all it took to send me reelng in childish reverie, re-running in my mind's eye boyhood stories of masked adventures and cowboy hereoes of the ol' west. Hi Ho, Patsy - Wake Up.

Speaking of wake up, breakfast started with a hot cup of eye-opener, followed by a poached pear, fresh muffins, scrambled eggs, locally grown arugula and roasted asparagus, all cooked by Judith's deft hand as we chatted about whatever- everything from baseball ( we're both Cubs fans) to the roadrunner that appeared on the garden wall as we ate .

This wouldn't be the first time, and probably won't be the last time that I wished I had more time to hang around in a place before the airport beckoned, but suffice to say that although I might not make it back as soon as I'd like to , you , dear reader, should pack a bag as soon as you can. You won't regret it.

Ojai, CA

2009-04-23T11:31:00.000-07:00

Sitting in an orange grove in the april sun, the scents of lilac, honeysuckle and lavender danced around each other in the morning air. Woodpeckers nested with their young high over head, and the air seemed to teem with life - bees dashed from blossom to blossom. Ladybugs rested on their spot. A butterfly wafted by as lizards(geckos? salamanders? lizardry is not my area) chased each other playfully around the tree trunks.

This was my morning off in Ojai, CA, a couple of hours north of L.A. . "Ojai" is a Native American word fro "nest", and, breathing in all that it has to offer, the logic of the name is clear - with the rolling hills of the Los Padres National Forest keeping a watchful eye, it seems that all life abounds in the valley below.

Some years before, while playing in the Napa Valley region of California, also known for it's natural beauty, a local I befriended made the comment; " Y'know if the pilgrims had landed here in the west, they wouldn'ta bothered goin' East". Again, the logic was clear, and I couldn't help but be reminded of that comment as i strolled around the sun-soaked community of adobe-style, shops, restaurants and coffeehouses that cater to a population of around 8,000 or so, made up of retirees, locals and the extremely well-to-do.

Just before last night's gig in the area, I asked our host if this balmy cloudless weather was a typical spring day in these parts. "Oh yes", he nodded, and predicting my next question he added, " and a typical winter one too."

Yup, it's pretty easy to see why some would come here and make it their business never to leave - it became a haven for those who heard the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti in the first half of the 20th century, who had a retreat here and was visited by the then creme de la creme of the social scene; Charlie Chaplin, Greta Garbo, Aldous Huxley, Jackson Pollock, The Beatles, to name a few.
But as both Mr. Krishnamurti knew well and George Harrison wrote about, all things must pass
and soon we too would leave. With our songs sung and our mission accomplished and an outbound flight itinerary in hand, it was time for us to pass through airport security, bringing the memory of the place with us . I reckon Mr Harrison probably liked it here.

Airports

2009-03-23T18:00:00.000-07:00

I'm catching a red eye out of Newark NJ. In my ears I have some field recordings of Son House , Willy Brown and Leroy Williams - a soundtrack of such raw and brutal honesty that it has the effect of making every body in the strip-lit forced air of the terminal look naked.

A friend of mine once voiced the opinion that if God had meant us to fly, he would have provided more legroom. Havng clocked up a considerable pile of airmiles since then, I would have to offer the addendum that he would also have made airports enjoyable, but that's just me being grumpy, sitting as I am with a growing flu, jetlag, and a missing guitar, thanks to my expert airt travel providers who shall remain nameless. Althought the idea of a missing guitar might seem to warrant some alarm as a professional guitarist, I'm feeling eerily calm, due mainly to the fact that this isn't the first or indeed the second time this has happened.

On one occasion, a reluctant delivery guy who's job it was to re unite me with the main tool of my trade, suggested that I wait til the morning - "How will I recognise you?" he offered as a reason to go home early rather than deliver. "I'll be the one onstage without the guitar" I suggested. "How" he queried "will you recognise me?" "Won't you be the one holding my guitar?" I politely offered, to which my worthy opponent succumbed. and shortly after arrived at the venue where, like a silver screen romance, our eyes met and we knew at once we had found each other. He should never have doubted our bond. Kiss me, you fool.

I've always felt that the word 'Terminal' should never be used in any association with an airport, serving as it does only to reinforce the purgatorial aspect of the waiting experience, and one can only wonder if purgatory offers little battery powered sudoku games, bags of over priced trail mix and a wide variety of inflatable neck rests to browse through as the minutes turn to hours.

But we are incredibly adaptable creatures, and there are always games of our own invention- like guessing if the airline representative's visage is a study in consummate professionalism, or they are genuinely interested in helping . Bless 'em - their task is not an easy one, and many times have I watched the hapless traveler , unable to curb their ire, burn mercilessly at the hands of the all powerful flight attendant who , with a well practiced "we'll re-route you, sir", dooms the poor unwitting victim to an extra leg on their journey, who then slowly loses energy and succumbs, like an insect gradually drowning in the deadly ooze of a venus fly trap, struggling in vain to free it's legs and quietly wondering to themselves "wha' happened?"

Primarily of course , airports are not as much about the arriving as the leaving, which may well be what lends them a sort of character-less-ness (?), and the waiting does make for some great people watching, and even the delays serve to bring us all to one common level - the delayed. Oil man, fireman, musician, kid, drunk, mom, monk, gambler; we can all be late, lose our luggage, or find ourselves in a hotel we thought we'd never see. I'm going to sign off because it appears my flight's on time. I guess you never can tell.

Tacoma WA

2009-03-07T14:36:00.001-08:00

This may seem odd, but having spent a few days in Tacoma's climate, it makes sense that there's a glass museum here. Bear with me. The weather here is changeable, with varying degrees of cloud cover in any stretch of daylight hours, so the light here offers an ever-changing hue from the streets, and presumably,a kaleidoscopic spectrum of refraction in in what I'm told is a bewildering array of glass sculptures in the afore mentioned Museum of Glass.

I say "presumably" because my schedule didn't allow for the leisurely perusal that i hoped for, but I did get a chance to take in the town.

Built on the Puyallup Valley, Tacoma's architecture is an interesting mish mash of turn-of-the-century grandeur, and working waterfront practicality. The theater we played, The Rialto, was originally built as a silent movie theater with full pipe organ,and has some of the best natural acoustics I've ever heard .

Just a few blocks down to the Puyallup River, tamed gradually over the last century by engineers, and you stand in the heart of a working dock, and all of it happening under the watchful gaze of Mt. Rainier (above), the most prominent peak among four others around the valley.
The five peaks are the focus of legend among the native Puyallup tribe , who tell of five sisters who were turned into peaks, one of which, mt. Rainier, was told by the gods to "be grandmother" to the valley below, which she did, via the high rising Puyallup River, providing the fundamentals for life to flourish in the valley below.

This was my first sojourn to the Pacific Northwest, and to make a completely subjective obsevation, I couldn't help but notice how 'mid-western" it felt, rather than "coastal". In short, as I sat in Alfred's cafe, with a calzone and a pint of Manny's Pale Ale, it felt more Chicago than San Francisco. Friendly folks, used bookstores and , as one expects in this state, very good coffee at every hands turn, as indicated by the tiny bathroom size drive-thru espresso cabins perched in every Mall parking lot. That's jut my take, but if you have anything to add, let me know.

Havre MT

2009-03-07T10:26:00.000-08:00

Rolling into Havre (pronounced "Hav -er") is something that prospectors and pioneers have done since the birth of this nation, and we may have been the first Irish band to do so.
We didn't get funny looks from behind curtained windows, or the canned music didn't come to a scratchy halt when we entered the hotel lobby, but if it had, we wouldn't have been too surprised.

The town still has the feel of a western frontier, perched up in the high lonesome plains about 2 hours from the Canadian border , and the noon day sun was steadily melting muddy snow from the quiet streets.

Between soundcheck and gig , I had time for a quick walk around the town, which presented me with the occasional bar/casino, closed down cafes and stores, and in the thawing afternoon, a train yard which , for the enthusiast, evokes all the wide-eyed romance so many of us little boys-on-the-inside enjoy , with a statue of James J. Hill, founder of the Northern Line, and resident of St Paul MN ( one of my favorite towns) front and center outside the station. Yeah, I spent a little time.

Casinos and motels dot the main drag, which is also padded with some of the more modern and ubiquitous fast food chain peddling burger or "chicken"

The gig came and went, the sun rose above the snow-flecked town, and our time in this little patch of our great planet was coming to a close. Plus, I was hungry.......

I opted for "4B's", the 24 hour diner across the street with a casino attached, and grabbed a booth . In the corner , four R.O.M.E.O.s ( Retired Old Men Eating Out), chatted over coffee, until one of them explained he'd better go "or she'll wonder where I am".

a smiling young local girl served me coffee and eggs, breezing around the fading decor making sure we all had enough of everything, and about a half hour and eight bucks later, it was time for the road again . Pulling away I wondered what it must be like to live here. I'm guessing I'll never know.

Fort Benton MT

2009-03-06T10:30:00.001-08:00

Recognised as Montana's oldest town, locals will proudly tell you that this is where Montana started - much to the chagrin of our Butte-born driver. Situated as it is high up on the Missouri River, fur trappers and hunters quickly established Fort Benton as a trading hub, and today still draws hordes of outdoors enthusiasts as well as history buffs eager to follow the tracks of Lewis and Clark on their pioneering journey westward to the Pacific, which was pretty much where the band was heading after this stop, and we griped that although Lewis and Clark didn't have the relative luxury of air travel, neither did they have to check instruments, or go through security - it's all relative.

With a population of around 1500, Fort Benton is a pretty tight knit community where agriculture and rail along with tourism keep everything ticking over, and the streets stay quiet as the river rolls by, where , as the girl in the diner put it, "not a lot happens, and that's just fine."

Arguably, Fort Benton's most famous citizen was a border collie named Shep, who lived in the 1930s and , after his master's death and removal by train to his final resting place, waited patiently on every inbound train thereafter for his master's return, digging out a home for himself underneath the station platform, and living on scraps from the station agents and employees that came to adopt him; a small town story that perfectly befits this small town.

Where possible, I like to leave the last word to the town itself.......

Billings MT

2009-03-06T10:26:00.000-08:00

Landing on a snowy night in Billings Montana, I wondered if the Montana of memory would be waiting for me in the cold light of day, or if I had just made the whole thing up over time. Tomorrow would tell, and by the time I had checked in to my hotel and pulled my boots off, I found myself taking a 12 story look at a sleeping town, feeling far from home and missing the warm smile that for the next 11 days would have to be imagined at the other end of a telephone. Bill Withers was right, I thought; ain't no sunshine when she's gone.

The hotel was a stone's throw from the town's birthplace - the Billings Stockyard, established by Frederick Billings, then president of the Northern Pacific Railroad, and as I drifted off into a well overdue sleep, my last memory was of a lonesome whistle riding the frigid dark, and the low rumble of boxcars past my window.

Morning, and somewhere on these snow covered streets, i figured there must be a place to eat. Seeing as this was new terrain for me, I decided to take the scenic route, and soak up what I could. One thing came back to me from my previous Montana experience - the friendly locals. People say hello on the street with a natural ease. I had grown up in a small own where this was once the norm, but seems to have vanished with the new breed, but here in Montana, it's still part of a person's day.

Eventually I found myself in Mc Cormick's cafe, chowing down on an omelette made with the freshest ingredients I think I've ever tasted, in a relaxed and friendly atmosphere of locals and travelers. I was reminded of William Least Heat Moon's observation that a diner can be gauged by the amount of calendars hanging on the wall - a good one having upwards of four, a bad one only one if that.

But in the thirty years since he made that observation, I guess a lot has changed, and although there wasn't a calendar in sight, I couldn't have asked for a better respite from the blowing snow.

Montana knows what it is and is completely comfortable in it's own skin. I felt no sense of striving - just doing. It seems, to me at least, that people tend to their work, and say hi to each other along the way - maybe a testament to the state's rural and ranching past or not. I don't know .

Before the show, I waited in my hotel, and scanned from my window the now thawing streets, and saw that Billings is a flat grid surrounded on all sides by steep bluffs, an industrial town with the outskirts dotted with generic chain stores, and downtown supporting local businesses old and new. After leaving Billings in the rear view mirror, I'm left with the confidence that wherever I am when I think of Billings, Billings is just working ahead, and ready to say hi whenever I get back.

NYC

2009-02-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

There's not a lot you can say about the big apple that hasn't been said - the only thing that comes to mind is that everything you've heard is probably true, and I'm sure someone's beaten me to the punch on that one.

New York feels and acts like one symbiotic whole. I get why some people love it and never leave, and i get why some can't stand the place, and why native New Yorkers just don't get that.

Ironically, in a town that holds some of the country's most iconic attractions - the Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty et al - the real attraction is the city itself. My advice to the casual visitor is to save the admission fees and just start walking, and walking aimlessly - take a left here, turn right on 5th, check out that store.......

New York moves comfortably fast; two words you don't hear together very often, but it's part of the towns character, which is what this place is all about .
There's plenty movies that owe New York an Oscar for a supporting role, and not just Woody Allen movies.

It was a cold January afternoon when the percussionist and I decided to take a stroll. Central Park was white, and the bare branches stretched into the cold grey sky.

Mickey Mantle's restaurant was buzzing with lunchers, and horses waited with their buggies for willing tourists and love-struck couples with a penchant for sub-zero horse rides.

We nosed around a few music stores on 48h street, relaxed with coffee and cheesecake at a busy greek deli on 5th, and after watching the world go by for a while, it was time to head back to he gig. All together, time well spent in the city that never sleeps.

New York's a city that happens in the corners of your eyes. It's a city of sights, sounds and smells, and that myth about New Yorkers being unfriendly? Quite the contrary - they just get to the point quicker.
So the thing to do is to just show up. Walk around. If you have a destination, ask a local for directions. You'll get a quick answer.

Fall

2008-11-09T15:09:00.000-08:00

Just off the highway, the traffic hum was soft - it was a while before rush hour traffic.

The air was still, like surface water waiting to freeze. Above, the grey clouds were translucent in the afternoon light, reflecting on the bright crimson trees below that lined the cathedral walkway.
From beside me , I heard the suggestion "let's throw some leaves in the air - you can take a picture!".
The idea was like the last breath of summer , letting itself go out in style as Fall died too, and before i knew it, the leaves danced downward, like the snow that we already felt in the air, and i was reminded of a line I heard a long time ago;
on a clear day, you can see forever.

Matthew Sweet

2008-11-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

Mathew who?

Well, up to recently, I didn't know , but now I know - Matthew Sweet had a lot of buzz in the US back in my college days, but since I spent my college days neither in the US or college, he was a mystery to me.

Here at First Avenue, Minneapolis' leading rock venue, all the ex-college crowd were out in force, hell bent on some of that sweet sweet, erm, Sweet.

And lemme tell ya, that guy has the voice of an angel and belted out a barrage of strong pop songs that defy category. I know that may be a little cliched, but it's true. But more of that in a little while; "howabouta hand f'r de op'nin' act..."

The Bridge, a largely blond young Alabama band were treading the boards pushing their new album which was produced by Mr. Sweet. An all female frontline sang super harmonies over well written eclectic pop/rock/retro numbers, driven from behind by a skinny young drummer that was totally engaged and engaging - think Levon Helm as a skinny young guy in a t shirt.

They finished their set to a well impressed audience, and made way for Mr. Sweet and his band, who looked like they could have fathered most of the opening act, or maybe just rolled 'em and smoked 'em . The drummer was lost under a hair-filled trilby hat and beard. Somewhere in there was a man.
The first guitar player was every inch the Jimmy Page- style rocker with some great RAAaaaawwwkkk! licks.

All together, they made a sweet (sorry) sound and drove each song out of the park, and amongst the many fans were an inordinate number who sang every note as if it would be their last act on this earth. A testament to Sweet's songs, and/or the fan's drunkenness/loyalty, but I'll vouch for the songs - i only had a few bottles of Grain Belt Premium (when in Rome...), and had they not all been new songs to me, I'm sure I would've been in the thick of the horde, singing amongst the many like I was singing in the shower.
Mr. Sweet, I like you a lot.

2008-11-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

CAM-PAIN

Vote.

Ocean city NJ

2008-08-28T16:04:00.001-07:00

Awesome. One word. No meaning. At least, not here in the United States, where it's bandied about willy nilly to describe everything from the size of the known universe to a cheeseburger . However, it's a word that kept reverberating as I walked around this most american of cities.
Ocean City. New Jersey with it's Cotton Candy, Ferris Wheel, shooting galleries, hot dogs, pinball, boardwalk, beach front, family-run motels, gelato and surreys. Awesome. Freakin' awesome.

The sun shone steadily, and the Atlantic was an inviting temperature for the first morning arrivals to the beach, staking their claim with parasols, coolers and towels.
The beach front stores had already woken up . Books, beach clothes and bad food were all there for the taking, along with every garishly colored chotchke imaginable, and before I could drag myself back to the motel, I already had three books, a souvenir lighter for a friend, and a hankering for some early morning ice cream. Time to go.

The motel, The Trade Winds, is a family-run, accidentally retro affair, given it's age. Everything clean and simple. Everything works, including the pool in the parking lot.

It felt a lot like the beach town setting for "Jaws", but without the blood or the shark, and as a dry town , it keeps the "Family" in "Family Holiday", and clearly, families have been flocking here for a long time -the boardwalk boasts businesses that were established in 1888 , and by necessity, it has been divided into lanes for joggers. walkers, bikes, and surreys. Indeed by mid afternoon, just crossing from the beach to the street demanded rapid neck movement, or maybe eyes in the back of your head

So if for just one day (or longer) you want to forget the job, the diet and the heavy traffic, I think I know a place where the gelato, the pizza slice and the lungful of fresh atlantic air will knock 'em all right out of your head.
Ocean City, NJ, you rock (dude).

Denver CO

2008-08-28T15:44:00.001-07:00

Durn it. It seems that this blog entry on Denver has less to do with the city and more to do with the ups and downs of the touring musicians life. The festival schedule allowed little time for sight seeing, and with the glory of the Rocky mountains dominating the horizon and the sun shining from a clear blue sky, it was all i could do not to fire myself and just head for the hills. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen up there in the Mile High City, but it wouldn't have taken much to send me over the edge and looking at real estate.

The rigors of life on the road were summed up very succinctly by the band leader, Cathie when I said I'd be staying with a friend instead of the hotel; "Awww", she whined " you get to sleep in a house..." . It's the little things.....

I did manage to get into town for breakfast at a neat little place called "Dozen's". "Hm, odd name" I thought, until I opened the menu- -the theme is eggs and the menu is splattered with pictures of chickens and deliberate misspellings like " eggsactly" and "eggseptional" - the kind of thing that computer word processing software hates, as is being made very clear to me right now.

After that , it was time for a stroll, passing the colossal Denver Art Museum, I say passing and alas, not entering - the little window of time was closing fast.

Drun thing doesn't even fit on the screen.............

The stroll was nice, though, with the streets in Sunday mode - mellow and slow moving around the pedestrianized mall area, and i got the impression that even on a busy week day, the pace would remain pretty relaxed. This city is a world away from it's coastal peers, with a character all it's own.

Back to the festival grounds for the final performance, then eating, drinking a beer and hanging with the other bands and the hardworking volunteers, then back to the hotel for a few hours sleep and from there to the airport, where I am right now, New Jersey - bound for the next gig, the glorious Rockies watching each one of us get in line, take off our shoes, find our gate, wait for seat assignment etc etc etc etc . When I grow up, I want to be them.

Albequerque, NM

2008-07-18T16:53:00.000-07:00

Albequerque. Even the airport is comfortable. We had an all to brief stay in Old Town for 2 days for a show at the zoo. yes, the zoo. The kind with animals.
As memorable as it was to play with the sound of roaring lions, seals, ducks and peacocks in the background, the downtime hanging around Old Town in all it's historic, touristy glory also left a lasting impression.

Where we played

After the , for me, almost inevitable flight delays and missed connections, decided to fight the temptation to rest my weary bones as soon as I checked in, and instead went for a ramble - time was short, and this place is cool. Anyways, I was kinda hungry.

The mexican food in the old town plaza, is cheap and cheerful. After spending a relaxing hour walking around the various chochke stores and soaking up the easy pace, I decided it was time for a bite, and a cold cerveza on a hot day. Chile Rellenos washed down with a cold one? I think so, and with the help of outside seating, no need to miss any of the streets' atmosphere. As vibrant as it was, the whole place shut down at 9pm. Not a sound to be heard on the same streets that held droves of tourists just a few hours earlier. I took the hint.

San Felipe de Neri. It's been standing since 1706

The desert sun came a-knockin' nice and early, and before i knew it , I was eating breakfast at the Church Street inn - huevos rancheros - with smilin' Brian Mellick , our percussionist who got in late the night before, and, just like the tourists milling around us, we snapped shots of the adobe architecture, cactii, dogs etc.

Smilin' Brian

Mona, who joined us for breakfast

And of course we bought souvenirs. A plastic medicine man in a wooden booth told me I had good fortune ahead and that each day is something to be grateful for. Not bad for a dollar.

As I said, the time was short, but that just makes me all the more determined to return, although I think I might be saying that after every trip down here, no matter how long i stay.

Wichita, KA

2008-07-18T16:27:00.000-07:00

There's something odd about playing on a christmas tree farm on the fourth of July, but here we were. I'd never been to Wichita, and were it not for my have-guitar-will-travel lifestyle, I'm not sure it would ever have been on my radar.

We had three days in one place - for a touring band, that's like an oasis in a desert, so I took the opportunity to walk and explore, situated as we were right on the river.
After a night in a comfortable bed , and with a little time to wash the airport off, I headed downstairs, out on to the river and turned right. It was as good a plan as any. The Arkansas River is flanked by well kept pathways with ample room for walking, jogging and biking, and seems to support plenty local wildlife.

About a half mile down, at the confluence of the Big Arkansas and the Little Arkansas rivers, stands The Keeper of the Plains , a weathered steel sculpture of a Native American warrior paying homage to the morning, his horn raised to the rising sun. The Sculpture was give to the city by it's creator, Blackbear Boisin, and has become a symbol of the city and a reminder of the roots of this prairie cowtown.

For a guy who grew up on cowboy movies and TV shows, this town evoked some boyish excitement, exposed as i was to pictures and photos of Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and their peers gazing down from shop windows eager to remind the casual passer-by of the local history, and occasionally , the remnants of those gunslingin' days of yore made themselves very clear :

Breakfast at the Beacon, a downtown Diner with plenty down-home character and walls covered with oodles of paintings of light houses. Yes; light houses. In Kansas. The omelets were handsome, and did the trick.

The Beacon is in the OLd Town area - what was once clearly an industrial area, with a train station and factory buildings has now been transformed into a restaurant that was once a train station and bars and shops that were once factory buildings, the whole area having a very hip and cool ambience, with something for everyone I'm sure:

On the way back to the hotel, Douglas Street boasts a number of life-size, and extremely lifelike bronze sculptures by Georgia Gerber, ranging in size from a frog, to a busy diner bar. Eye-catching , and worthy of a click or two....

The band try to sell a few CDs

The gig site itself, the afore-mentioned Christmas tree farm, was resplendent in it's summer glory, not to mention an innovative music venue; a converted barn (affectionately known as "Barnegie Hall") the inside designed for chamber music , with the performance being fed to a big screen for those outside in the garden.

The Garden

All in all, Wichita served up more than I expected, and the friendly folk we met made it clear that we were welcome back anytime. I might just take 'em up on that.

(Ba)rock 'n' roll in St Paul

2008-06-04T12:41:00.000-07:00

It's 10.30 pm. Less than an hour ago, I left the Xcel Energy Center in Downtown St Paul MN.
Over 5 hours ago, I took my spot on the sidewalk, waiting in line to get into the Xcel center to hear Barack Obama deliver his final primary speech.
My girlfriend and i were one of the 20,000 lucky ones to get in. Luckily for the 15,000 left outside, the giant screens outside delivered the words of the big O.in dazzling technisupercolor.

We took our place in line around 4ish, and crowd management was in full swing. With the amount of merchandise vendors and teenagers, I had what was to be my first flashback from my rock festival-going days, and not my last suspicion that politics might be the new (Ba)rock 'n' roll.

We stood, read, watched the helicopters, listened to some pretty imaginative t-shirt sales pitches ("Buy one now while i have your size") until at 6pm, with the line stretching 8 to 10 blocks, the doors open and we started to move slowly forward..

As we approached the door,we were advised what we were allowed and not allowed to bring in; cameras and phones no problem. no flags or banners.
No flags or banners? How come I always see 'em on TV? Guess I'm just naive.

Finally, we're in, and one word springs to mind; Truck - O - Saurus!!!!!!!!

I guess a hockey stadium is a hockey stadium is a hockey stadium, and this one was filling up steadily, feeling just like a stadium event . The last time I was in a stadium was to see the Police, and that wasn't a capacity crowd. Mind you, Stewart Copeland is the son of God.

Before we took our seats, after standing outside for about 3 hours, a bathroom break was called for. On my way, a loud cheer rose from the stadium floor, sending hundreds running to see what the commotion was. Of course, as any rock festival devotee knows, it was nothing more than a TV camera sweeping the crowd.
I was still having trouble adjusting ; political rally! political rally! No two-fingered salutes. No air-guitar. Keep it together, Pats.

Finally sitting , with a good view of all there was to survey. directly above the podium, a bank of multi-directional screens and lights hung from the ceiling, keeping us informed with TV news feeds. As the news showed snippets of the days oratorial action from around the nation and its prospecive candidates, the assembling hordes here in St Paul reacted accordingly; cheering their man, and hissing at the bad guy. Summer, the season of the Punch and Judy show, was finally here.

at 7.31, the news tells us that Barack Obama is just nine delegates away from clinching. An hour and a half to the gig, i mean... the...well what would YOU call it? Anyway, plenty time to scan the terrain.

in the seats directly behind the podium and directly in camera shot, the flag wavers were being rehearsed by the flag-waving guy. ( wait a minute- flags? What sorcery is this?)

" 'kay so it's.....left, right....left, right....."

" Waddya think, Bawb, a bit more wavy, maybe? Huh? Ah c'n make it more wavy lookin'..."

Once the news was over, the screen could then devote itself entirely to heightening the Obama-love. First up was the song "Yes We Can", a song whose lyrical bones are made up of Barack Obama's speeches, the bones of which were in turn made up of Martin Luther King jr.'s speeches and were now being sung with studied emotion by such rock icons as John Legend and ...er...Scarlet Johannsen, and a host of other airbrushed celebs practicing their screenshots. The only one I recognized as having actually earned iconic status was Herbie Hancock ; the other son of God. Presumably different mothers.

"BANNERS, GET Y'BANNERS...."

Time was rolling on and the excitement wqs palpable. No mater how you sliced it, we were all present on a historic night, no matter what happened. At this point none of us knew the exact delegate count.

At 8 o' clock it said this.

At boiling point it said this.....

Of course the crowd here was loving it, being carried on a wave of optimism and hope. Could it be that Rock 'n' Roll could make a difference? Clearly, not on it's own; it would need Barack Obama for that. Mind you, given that Rock 'n' Roll would seem these days to hold the same place in youth consciousness as a candy bar, that's hardly surprising.

"Waddya mean, no beer tent?"

But cynicism is easy, and with a quick scan of the unfolding proceedings, effortlessly squashed.
20,000 people had gathered with faith that the future's looking good, that there is real hope for an improved country and that this guy will light the way.

of course this is common to any political rally, but unlike the concert atmosphere, the common bond goes far beyond fan - adoration. most of the 20,000 people here, along with the 15,000 people outside have at some point sat down and thought " This guy could help us all improve the country we live in." - a far more powerful unifying thought than " Dude, I have all their albums."

Finally, the time had come. At 9.11pm , Barack and Michelle Obama took to the stand. The cheers were long and deafening. Michelle left the stage and Barack took his place.

"Can you tape Law & Order? I'll be home in an hour ..."

5 hours earlier, I had begun my wait. As a friend of mine once said to Dave Van Ronk, "This better be good...." . Once the hysteria had faded a little, he spoke.

Each sentence was concise and to the point, and the man delivered each point with clarity and confidence exuding graciousness, strength and calm, respectful to his opponents, eager to meet the challenges ahead, and in a calm steady voice he declared " Because of you I can stand here and say that I will be the Democratic nominee for the President of the United States of America". In a sea of ecstatic support, incessant chanting, and teenage girls losing their shit, he presented himself as a rock, a beacon in the maelstrom, and I was left thinking," Barack, if you can walk it like you talk it, there's some fine days ahead."

He spoke for exactly one half hour and said goodbye, which was met with the chant "YES WE CAN!" rising from the arena. As an immigrant without full citizenship, I feel my sole chant of "NO I CAN"T" was probably a little lost.

Volunteering in Lima, Peru

2008-05-28T13:53:00.000-07:00

Friday May 18 2007

Stayed in Barranco last night, a reasonably affluent neighbourhood with a strong sense of the past; many of the larger streets are dotted with crumbling facades in the Spanish colonial style. Their architectural beauty still shines through although if they don't receive extensive restoration work their days are most definitely numbered.

Although the area has many bars and restaurants and picturesque promenades to attract the tourist, one is well advised to be aware of pick-pockets and crooks - we found only one currency exchange that we trusted not to offer forgeries. It's all too common for the unwitting tourist to receive counterfeit soles. On trying to spend the forgeries, the shopkeeper will call the police, who will in turn demand "payment" from the unhappy traveler to sort everything out - a handy, largely untraceable scam.

Saturday May 19

We are driven to Ate (At-ay) where we will work and live for the week.

According to the 2005 census by the INEI, the district has 419,663 inhabitants and a population density of 5,399.7 persons/km². In 2005, there were 105,190 households in the district. It is the 13th most populated district in Lima.
It's about a half hour from Barranco. From the windows of our combi van, as the cityscape slowly disappeared, we could see from the highway, dusty barren hills with scattered one- or two-room square flat-roofed structures. Most were made of brick. Some of wood, some roofless. They lined the road in a haphazard way and sprawled back and up into the hills until they were no more than specks on the dull brown earth.
"We must be getting close" I thought. I was wrong.

As the road narowed, the neighborhood closed in around us. Small, delapidated corner stores were almost near enough to touch, as were the rickshaw repair shops and the oddly out-of-place looking internet 'cafe".
children, dogs and chickens roamed freely and at times in seemingly equal number, and the smell of urine and faeces intermittently peppered the air, which was becoming increasingly thicker with dust and pollutants.
"This must be it" I thought. Once again I was wrong.

The asphalt, potholed uneven road we had been traveling disappeared and we found ourselves traveling a rough dirt road that belched dust in our wake and greeted us with rocks, holes and and impromptu rubbish piles of bags, animal carcasses and waste - there's no running water here and precious few toilet facilities.

The homes were just feet away from us now and the humble living conditions were within full view.

For the most part, we saw homes of four walls built from brick and mortar, somewhere between 15 to 20 ft square, with a flat roof. Slate is expensive, and many of the roofs are slipshod affairs, some made of reed frames overlapping each other, some of cardboard, plastic sacking or scrap wood.

The area is spreading up into the hills, filling with newcomers from rural areas in search of a better life. These new homes are wooden shacks that straddle a new road flattened from the granite rock. The road is essential if the residents want water which is delivered by truck. The large tank empties via hosepipe to individual 30 gallon barrels outside the homes. 1 sole - about 30 cents, fills the barrel.

As the area spreads, the road needs to be continued. Where this needs to happen, the new residents get together with iron bars, picks and sledgehammers and do this by hand. When we arrived, about two dozen residents, men and women ranging in age from about 15 to fifty, were busy hammering at the granite in the evening sun.

We were met with warm smiles and open arms by the locals, who are glad to see these tall gringos (peruvians are generally smaller than the average westerner) who had come to help out. These people don't actively seek charity. Rather than expect us to do anything for them, it seems they understand that we're here to work by their side and share their workload.

Sunday May 20th

Our main contact in the Ate region was a guy called Dave Costello. Dave is a Catholic priest who is much respected in the area, which is made up of almost 100% devout catholics. Having worked beside Dave, though, it becomes apparent that his main motivation is not so much in the conversion of heathens but more the improvement of living conditions and the furnishing of basic amenities for all, regardless of religious afiliatioon.

We lived with Dave because, frankly , it was safer. This, like many impoverished communities around the world, suffers from it's fair share of street crimes, drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, rape and incest. We never walked anywhere alone. Going to the tiny corner store was always done in packs. The store, like all in the area, sold cigarettes singly for 30 centimos - about 10 cents. The gringo who can afford a whole pack of twenty - unthinkable to most residents - is an obvious target for the less scrupulous, not to mention the desperate. Think what else we must have -leather wallets, cell phones, watches, passports ( a huge black market value). We were relatively safe at Dave's house, considerably safer than if we had stayed with local families.

Sunday morning came early, with Dave celebrating mass in the open air in the heart of the district at 7.30 am. For the devout in our group, it was a chance to share mass with the local community. For the rest of us, it was a simple act of solidarity -we were in this together for a short period of time to get some things done. This feeling ws mutual, which became apparent as soon as mass ended; the teenagers who had sang and played guitars during the mass made it clear they wanted the musical ones in our group to play with them and dance while some of the kids gave us home made chocolate which was delicious.

At that time of the morning, a fellow volunteer and I grabbed guitars and delivered a fairly bleary-eyed version of Stand By Me and a few other things, and then danced with some of our new friends. We proved no match for their energy at that time of the morning, and were glad of the invite back to one of the local women's home to sit and enjoy coffee.

When we got there, we sat on long wooden benches at a table in the center of here one-room home under a roof of plastic sack and cardboard. The home quickly filled up with 12 gringos and at least as many locals eager to interact with us. We were served sweet coffee in paper cups, bread rolls with goats cheese, and a sweet pastry i couldn't quite recognise, we were acutely aware that although this was a modest presentation by our standards, it was far more food than any of these folks could afford comfortably, we accepted graciously , eager not to offend. We each introduced ourselves in broken Spanish and English, and after about an hour, headed off in the wake of much hugging and expressions of thanks on both sides.We gringos were moved and uplifted by the warmth and open-heartedness of our hosts.

We later learned that the woman of the house had only borrowed the table for our visit, and returned it after we had left.

MOnday 21st

At 8.30, we went to the building site to work on the new church/community center. We spent five days with the bricklayers and the foreman/conractor, Sulka.

Sulka is a middle aged, good humored father of two with an eagerness to please his employer, and a keen curiosity for the english language. In fact between us, the main entertainment between us all was the swapping of spanish and english words and phrases.

Emir, at 29, is the youngest on site and worked with speed and accuracy and enjoyed sharing a joke. Also a phenomenal soccer player.

Santiago, or "machucha" as he was introduced to me, is by far the oldest at 59 ( the average life expectancy in this region is in around 55) and worked harder than most men I've ever seen, only lifting his head from his job in response to a question from Sulka, or a break for water -
always much welcome in the 80 degree heat with a throat full of dust. I learned later that "Machucha" meant something like "old man"

More than once did Machucha see me struggle with a 50 kilo bag of mortar mix only to lift it out of my hands with apparent ease and deliver it to it's destination without breaking a sweat, and return to his wall, putting the next brick in place. Everyday he started a half hour before me and finished a half hour after I left in the evening.

These skilled laborers were earning 40 soles a day, about 13 USD or 10 EUR.

Byy the end of the week we had raise the walls to roof level, at which point the Peruvian contingent took making the structure earthquake-proof using steel rods and concrete/gravel mix.

At the end of the week , we all ate dinner at a newly finished soup kitchen that a previous group of volunteers worked on earlier in the previous year.

A representative from each group said a few words before parting. We thanked the guys we'd worked with for the camaraderie, the little bit of Spanish we picked up and for welcoming us with such openness. They thanked us in turn, but before they did, they thanked God for the work.

East Coast Tour in March

2008-05-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

New London

New London, NH hadn't seen this much snow since 1876. It also hadn't seen the band i was in town with ( the Cathie Ryan Band). It was my first time there also, so we were all just getting to know each other; 3 musicians, about 5 feet of snow and nearly 1,000 students and faculty members n historic New London.

The Colby Sawyer College made sure we were fed and housed for a couple of nights, and we spent most of our time off ooh-ing and aaah-ing at the picture -postcard scenery.
It's a small town with one "tavern" and store fronts that are really modified colonials or brownstone houses. Norman Rockwell comes to mind, as does, on this particular visit, the urgent need for ear-muffs. The wind harassed every physical protrusion into submission, and sunk the temperatures to any number you can think of as long as it's preceded by a minus sign.

The gig was good, with a strong number of the 1,000 strong student body and faculty listening attentively as the wind outside was no doubt skinning some unwitting mammal to the bone.

As cold as it was though I was glad I had been outside earlier to see the turquoise of the mid-day sky slowly deepen as the day grew longer, and watch the sun slowly disappear behind virgin snow.

As with most of New England, you're never too far from history, especially in communities of this size - it's hard for an outsider to deduce which came first, the town or the college.
In small towns like this one, it feels as if the pilgrims are not quite a thing of the past, but that they had just popped out for a minute, and rather than hear anybody say "The British are coming", one might be more likely to hear "The british are over there, turn left at the coffee house - you can't miss 'em".
Although the word "quaint" doesn't quite cut it here, the town does have a life outside of it's picture-postcard quality .......

( oh but it's so cuuuute....)

In season it attracts skiers, and so needs a hotel, an Inn, a coffee house, and a ski supply store, all of which are housed in colonial style houses, thus maintaining New London's old-world feel.

All in all, New London may not be a destination in itself unless you're a skier, or just of a curious nature, but definitely worthy of a leg-stretching break in a long drive and a few good lungfuls of mountain air.

Newark, New Jersey

It was late and wet when we arrived at the Robert Treat Hotel in Newark. The lobby was a hive of activity; from the bar, dance music pumped it's hypnotic beat for the drunken revelers. The reception area was non-stop, with a small swarm of new check-ins eager to get to their beds.
While waiting in line, I couldn't help but notice a certain "vibe". Many young men were either over dressed or under-wearing what looked like low-brow high-end suits and hats, while maintaining slightly shifty demeanors. Maybe I'm a little over-imaginative, but I got the impression that any one of them would know how to use a baseball bat in a less than sportsman-like fashion.

Room key in hand, i took the elevator to floor 12. The room was small and comfortable with ambient noise bleeding in from the hallway; running, some garrulous laughter, arguing.
Next door, a high whistling sound that oscillated in pitch, emanated from behind the wall periodically through the night, leading me to conclude that my neighbor was either a shortwave radio enthusiast or a dolphin.

Next morning before soundcheck i took a 12th floor look over Newark. The weather - grey and rainy - gave the place a kind of Dickensian feel, and somehow, it fit the mood of the place; a work-a-day place with a rainbow of characters braving the elements, and a beautiful symphony hall, just around the corner from the hotel- if you ever find yourself in the area and in the mood for a show, check out this venue in all it's finery.

Not quite Dickensian but old-school none the less are the pump attendants at the gas stations in the Garden state. No card-swiping action here; just like the old days you get to say things like 'fill 'er up' or "just gimme twennie bucks". You won't find THAT in the brochures I tells ya....

Washington DC

Far more informed accounts of the various historic sites of DC are available to the curious reader, so i'll stick to my personal experience and not even try to compete with those most learned tomes.
I had a few days off on my east coast tour, and decided to hit the nation's capital for a look-see

Between the monuments and museums, there was way too much ground to cover in the 2 and a half days until my next gig, but keeping in mind that fortune favors the brave, I just started at one end and covered what I could.

Not knowing my way around town, I picked a train stop downtown and went in search of breakfast to fuel the first half of my 2 and a half day culture-sprint. The sunny March morning streamed down through the office buildings, and the many many suits moved fast and deliberately - the denim jeans could be counted on one hand. I settled for a sandwich from a chain sandwich place and watched the suits feeding - it was about lunch time. As one of the the few denim wearers in the area, i felt like I should be in a camouflaged tent with binoculars lest I disturb the button-down wildlife, but the place was comfortable so I just sat and wondered at the fast-paced uniformity parading before me.

Onward to the Monuments, and the second most noticeable sight on the horizon was the seemingly never ending stream of school groups and families, and just like me , they wandered with a slightly upward gaze, in awe of the impeccable craftsmanship that towered above us, drawing each one of us in - one hand clutching a camera, one finger poised on the shutter button.
The monuments themselves are awe inspiring in stature,and for reasons mentioned earlier, i'm not about to catalogue them here. But.....

Suffice to say that the Washington monument is both awesome and interesting in the story of it's development which was stunted about halfway due to the war, and also the financial contribution of a Catholic organsation - something the protestant monument developers took umbrage with. The Lincoln monument, especially the Colorado marble seated statue of the man himself seems to project a quiet, noble serenity, and the 7 acre FDR memorial provides much food for thought, peppered as it is with quotes from his speeches.

So ended day 1

As a a starting point the next morning, the Smithsonian, in all it's glory, was an obvious starting point - from the castle information center and it's serene flower gardens, it's a short jaunt to the air and space museum. On the way there, though, I couldn't resist a quick detour into the Hirshhorn museum of Modern art - a beautiful cylindrical building with an eclectic collection of artists over three floors.
The building itself is an experience - literally walking in circles past paintings and sculptures and video installations draws the viewer ever inward the work of Louise Nevelson spring into memory.

Onward , speedily, to the aforementioned Air and Space Museum , the most visited museum in the world, where hordes of teens and exasperated teachers and parents milled around in ordered chaos between sattelites, military aircraft and impressively large models of unimaginably large planets.

Because the American History Museum is under renovation, a small microcosm of it's contents are housed in one corner of the Air and Space Museum.
I'm not sure that I'm fully tuned in to the subtler nuances of American culture through the ages, so maybe it will always escape me me how President Lincoln's hat and a baseball signed by Babe Ruth shares space with Jerry Seinfeld's puffy shirt and a laptop used by Sarah Jessica Parker's character in Sex and the City.

All this learning is hungry work, so it came time to feed the ol' noodle.
The food court consisted of three major Mcfranchises laid out in a "pay here- pickup there"/communist russia style arrangement, maximising the easy flow of burger-chomping school kids with matching school sweaters.
It didn't warrant sticking around too long, so with a burger and fries gone and already forgotten , it was time to head back out there.....

The amount of information available here, from the wright brothers, through the world wars and into the universe and man's exploration of the heavens, is almost overwhelming, and a hell of a lot of fun and definitely worthy of spending one whole day, should you have the mind to. My mind was fried by the time I got to something to do with comets, so before a complete meltdown occurred, I decided to hit the Museum of African Art, located on the Smithsonian Castle grounds.

A small building with a bright, spacious, modern interior, it includes tribal art from mostly eastern and central africa, ranging from the slightly disturbing (masks made of skin), to the incredibly beautiful, displaying a breathtaking level of craftsmanship (ivory bracelets carved with the minutest detail). As well as that, the schoolkid-free environment served as a great way to decompress after the hectic Air and Space experience.
with weary limbs and feet that were begging for mercy, I decided to call it a day.

For the last day, I figured I'd split it in half; in the morning, the natural history museum, in the afternoon, the Holocaust Museum.

Once more, the most prominent display at the natural history museum were the hordes of fledgling bipeds with their matching school sweaters and cacophonous social rituals. Navigating through the swarm, the ground floor serves as a walk through the earth's pre-history with it's plant and animal fossils, and on into the world of todays mammals - an enlightening stroll with plenty of interactive exhibits aimed mainly at the aforementioned bipeds, but distracting enough for the hopelessly immature.

Upstairs, the minerals and gemstones on display are breathtaking, and the explanation of how they were formed is educational and fascinating without being overly technical.\

Altogether, an educational celebration of the earth's rich cornucopia of life and it's delicate balance.

A few blacks away, the holocaust museum.

Having left the museum, about a block away, I spotted a headline at a news stall declaring that Willie Nelson suggested in a recent radio interview that maybe the attacks on the World Trade Center were an inside job. "Oh c'mon Willie", I thought, " that's unthinkable..."

Alexandria VA

Alexandria VA, a satellite town of the capital, has it's morning and evening migration of suits, and once that's done with , seems to get on with the business of being a picturesque, historic downtown with quaint shop fronts and eateries, and a pretty laid back feel.

We played one night there, and for my days off, it was easier just to hang in a hotel there and avail of the easy commute into the capital.

The first of the many eateries to catch my eye was Eamonn's - " A Dublin Chipper" the logo proclaimed. I snorted a cynical snort, but rebuked myself immediately, and decided to sample some of the fare on offer.

The small comfortable interior is reminiscent of a Dublin pub; hardwood floors and wooden paneling, and the similarity didn't stop there; one lone Guiness tap stood by the register. hmmmm........

I ordered fish and chips and a pint of the old country's most famous brew.

The battered cod and chips ( what the rest of the world calls french fries) were cooked to perfection and came complete with malt vinegar, salt and pepper, and the Guinness was excellent - cool ,smooth and creamy, and for a fish and chip shop to get it right is no mean feat, given that so many bars get it wrong.
My earlier cynicism was sent yelping for the door with it's tail between it's legs and a look of hard-earned humility, and once out of he way I was left to chow down with little else to distract me from the humble yet mighty feast before me.

The following night , it was time to explore something a little more exotic.
La Tascas , across the street, is a large luxurious Tapas bar with exceedingly friendly staff and a broad menu. one menu item springs to mind; the sauted spinach with pine nuts and raisins, yummy. Probably some others would spring to mind if the sangria hadn't been so good. 'Guess I'll just have to go back....

Damn you. sweet liquor....

A few blocks away, one of Aexandria's more historic eateries occupies a quiet corner just off of the main drag; The Gadsby Tavern boasts from it's sandwich board that " George Washington ate here". It did not clarify, however, if George enjoyed the experience or not, and there was more town to see.
The main downtown area is a pleasure to walk around, soaking up the quiet pedestrian pace, browsing the shop fronts and side streets, and were it not for the siren-like call of the capital's many museums, I could easily have indulged in long lazy days exploring the sights and sounds of this historic harbor town. Maybe next time.

Milwaukee

Er....me?

Aah... Milwaukee. For some reason , these two words (is the first one a word?) seem to go together. Although I've only ever set foot in it twice, I feel as though we've known each other a long long time.
The first trip saw me almost completely confined to the festival grounds, and were it not for a good friend and Milwaukee native hatching an escape plan, I might never have sampled some of the older, hipper neighborhoods with the cool coffeehouses and old factory buildings now boasting prime studio and loft space. Milwaukee's industrial roots are no distant memory, making it's atmosphere old-world but in no way romanticized. It's charm is real and gritty. It's people, at least the ones I met, down-to-earth and plain old friendly.

On my second trip, the first night was spent at the Old Towne Inn, right down town , lending an opportunity for some real exploring. The weather was bitter cold, naturally, it being early March. but having just flown from DC, something of a rude awakening for the extremities of a weary traveler.

Brrrrrr......

The Inn is a modest and friendly a affair with a basement bar called The Speakeasy that oozed with unassuming character(s), but more on that later. Once checked in to the room, it was time to check out the town. As eager we were to explore , we were also eager not to freeze to death, so we swung around the first available corner to find, luckily enough, the Rockbottom Brewing Co.

It's big and it's got beer in it

A fine array of crafted beers in a fine old building with a large restaurant leading to a comfortable bar. A friendly, knowledgeable bar tender gave us the grand tour of there homebrewed beverages and left us to our devices.

Later that evening , we found Buck Bradley's, for the carnivore, great Brats and hot dogs in the dining area, and afterwards, a digestif at the longest bar in the city, or so we are led to believe.

That's pretty long.....

After a leisurely stroll around the downtown to take in the night air, it was time for a nightcap at the hotel's "Speakeasy" bar before bed. There we found the perfect people-watching experience to end the evening; the friendly barman nodded a heavily dreadlocked hello. We ordered a drink at the bar and wondered if we were blending in with the loosely scattered clientele, a melange of budget traveler, savvy local and nighthawk. Although the name "Speakeasy" can only be a cosmetic in this day and age, I was hard pressed to think of a more fitting alternative. Maybe it was the basement setting or the late hour, but I had a sneaking feeling that I was getting away with something............

Ah.....St Paul, Minnesota....

2008-04-19T12:22:00.001-07:00

Saint Paul MN

A sporadically updated account of a city and it's stuff

So here I am,

It's lunch time and I'm in the Ginkgo Coffee House on Snelling and Minnehaha.
I've played solo shows here in the past and, between many of us lone guitar-slinger/troubador types, Ginkgo's is "on the map" as one of the better places to play.

As I sit, the salsa wrap stares up at me from beside my tea, and as soon as I'm done with letting you good folk know about this place, their destiny will indeed manifest.

Local radio spills from behind the counter with it's eclectic mix of acoustic and jazz sounds. The baristas groove along, and the patrons relax in an altogether 'lunch time at Ginkgo's" kind of a way.

Ok, I need to eat, so I'll sign off. You should come here. It's good. Heck, I'll even give you directions, just holler.

A Saint Paul Moment

I was in a bank, taking care of bussiness.i handed my driver's licence to the clerk and saw a thin smile I knew well. I awaited some variation on a remark i was all too familiar with; "Patrick O'Brien? Don't tell me - you're Irish.' or something to that effect.
However, the blond blue-eyed 20-something in front of me looked up and said with a smile " Patrick O'Brien? I know how you feel - my name is Bjorn Iverson".

And sometimes indeed, Scandinavian myth and lore did not seem so far away:
One Saturday motning I found myself in a mall needing change, so i hit an early saturday morning popcorn store to break a twenty. I approached the counter, where a long, spotty kid with dark hair made himself busy with a loose array of cookies, candies and popcorn. Rustling sounds came from some back room - the sound of stacking boxes and plastic wrap. I approached the first kid.
"How much are the cookies?" I inquire. The kid stares at the cookies for a second, then turns to the rustling noises;
"Hey Thor, how much for the cookies?"

Thor? Really? C'mon.....really?
Thor did indeed appear from the back room, a lot thinner than I expected, and without any evidence of Sturm, Drang, anvil or hammer, he says "cookies are one seventy three." and returned to stacking boxes.

A little more about St Paul

Walking around downtown st paul is a bit like looking at someone with a really interesting face - someone on a train you just can't figure out " maybe he's a doctor. A sailor maybe? lion tamer?monk?". A face as enigmatic as a ghost and as rooted in the earth as an oak tree.

Walking east on Kellog boulevard, The ultra modern science center- all concrete and polished steel, boasts an imax screen and cutting edge traveling exhibits and overlooks the mighty MIssissippi.

Immediatetly across the street , the St Paul public library stands grand and proud, funded by James J Hill, railroad mogul who made his fortune in the days of the pioneer, and whose mansion is now open to the public on Summit Avenue.

Kellog Boulevard is clean and broad and all together modern, but right below, running along the banks of the river, is Shpehard Road and it's accompanying rail line, leading cargo trains right through town clanging their arrival and chuffing their way westward like steel horses from another time.

That's the kind of juxtaposition that happens a lot in this city; buildings that stand serenely as testament to another time, house ultra modern stores and clubs and restaurants - products of the modern world encased in architecture evoking the roaring '20s.

A dip into the RNC

I was suffering from a bad case of Ballneck - that unfortunate affliction that arises when a beard left neglected tends to curl at the edges, thereby resembling pubic hair.

But Ballneck or not, it was summer in Saint Paul and therefore practically a public violation to be indoors when you could be outside, not to mention that it was the day of the Democratic protest march from the State Capitol to the site of the RNC Convention. This was people-watchin ground zero, so the beard would have to wait.

I gotta admit a weakness here; i'm prone to cynicism, especially at any kind of formally organised event; weddings, funerals, protest marches, so I tried to remain ongaurd and nip any derisory comments in the bud as soon as I felt 'em germinating. It wasn't always easy, and I thought I was doomed right out of the gate when my first encounter was with a clutch of young-hip "where's the revolt?"teen-rebels ; ("I'm not scared of mace - I've been maced before", she said hopefuly.)
They did have the hippest chants, though, so they added a refreshing respite from the old "Wadda we want? - When do we wannit?" routine.

Fashionistas

At the gathering point, the State Capitol, police presence was low key, and the atmosphere was calm - hardly anyone saw the armed security on the opposite roof and most of the fun was on the stage where outraged democrats delivered outraged speeches to a crowd of outraged democrats.

"What he said...."

By the time we all got moving, I had seen as much as i could of the interesting banners in the 15,000- strong crowd ( mainstream media estimated 10,000. democrat march organizers said 30, 000. 15's about right).
We started to move and tv cameras were switched on and headed straight for the young anarchists with their flags and bandanas and acne -almost sorta threatening-lookin', and great network news fodder. Ooops! Didn't I say something about cynicicsm? Sorry. I'll be good.

The whole thing went off without a hitch. Police on horseback, police in riot gear and police on bicycles populated every intersection, watching the river of angst-ridden teens, disillusioned voters and seasoned " just-happy-to-represent" democrats followed the designated route through the downtown area .

" 'Scuse me, d'you see a riot come through here?

Later that evening it was time to take a load off in the shadow of the cathedral, where TrueBluemInnesota.com had set up a Jumbotron screen that displayed messages on social and political awareness.

Bob Parker

This is Bob. Bob's a larger than life kinda guy, although Bob doesn't see it like that. Bob is a bit like the city of St Paul itself.

St Paul doesn't meet you off the bus, and smile an exagerrated smile, swingin' it's jazz hands telling you how much you'll love it here, like Times Square or Disneyland. It'll just shake your hand, say hi, and if you find yourself loving the place, great, glad to have you.

Bob is a super- talented chef, bartender and host par excellence. although he'd never tell you. I've been lucky enough to experience all of the above first hand, which is the only way I was going to find out.

Bob likes to do things right, and then make it better. If he wanted to communicate with the dead, he wouldn't get a medium - he'd get a large. When he cooks a tenderloin, it doesn't melt in your mouth, it evaporates.

So when he told me he made the best Martini in the world, I didn't question his ability, but I did wonder at the unadorned boast. So i had to push it a little bit and ask him how he had come to his conclusion.

"Well," he said as we sat on a stoop, watching the neighborhood kids on their bikes, " I've made it in Beijing, Hong Kong, Istanbul, Seattle, London, Paris, New York....", and continued to name every major European and American capital he had worked in "...and every time , the customer has said "that's the best Martini I've ever tasted." I can't argue with that. The content of the boast was staggering, but more memorable was the shrugging delivery - humble to a fault - that just lent weight to the story.

Bob was taught to make the martini by Dick Foehrenbacher, who worked at the Algonquin Hotel, New York City, and was the Martini maker of choice for Dorothy Parker in her venomous heyday.

I've watched Bob prepare the martini, and quite a ritual it was to behold - the tilting of glasses, the igniting of lemon zest - the detail I expect from Bob, and an intrinsic part of the fun, and darned if it wasn't the best martini i'd ever tasted, but like I had to admit to Bob, I'm no connoisseur. What do I know?
What do I know indeed? Well, as a friend of mine defines a good wine with a non chalant " If you like it. it's good.", I'm still left with " It's the best martini I've ever tasted."
Next time you're in St Paul, you won't have to take my word for it.

2008-03-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Morning in Glacier

We headed north from Helena at about 11.30pm, after my show. We figured we'd get to glacier at around 4am in plenty time for sunrise.

Once we were off the interstate, we found ourselves winding through little towns that could be described as sleepy at anytime, but right now were literally asleep. Not even a teen reveler in search of fast food - which would have proved fruitless anyway - could be sen on the deserted sidewalks, and crafts stores boasting "authentic native americana" were barely visible in the dark, their neon signs sleeping in grey slumber.

We made it to St Mary Lake in plenty time, but not knowing exactly what time the sun would rise, we erred on the side of caution, and made it out onto our eastward overlook of the lake for 5.30 am, pitch dark and perfectly still. As we stood facing the Eastern horizon, we were aware somehow of the silent majestic mountains behind us, spreading around us and the lake in a loose embrace, sloping down to the banks with tall pines tat waited like us for the approaching sun, which at this point had sent up a thin band of gold across the edge of the horizon, slowly (very slowly) bleeding into the inky black, which slowly surrendered to azure.

Behind us, the quiet mountains were wearing tips of gold, as they've done on countless mornings, and the lake was beginning to stir; a cold breeze rippled the surface, and a family of ducks began their day, appearing from the bank and cutting their V formation into the water.

The tall pines stood like us, watching the slow procession of color rise from the horizon, and flanked each side of the lake like a silent choir bearing witness to the silent proclamation for the day ahead. The morning was upon us, and cold and tired , we hit the hay,and drifted into sleep, with shades of gold and blue behind our eyes, and the sound of breezes running through the pines.

The Hidden Lake Trail

HIdden Lake, the shortest and and easiest trail in the park, does not skrimp on spectacular views.
I guess it's called Hidden Lake because reaching the lake itself involves descending a soft gradient, allowing the mountains to surround you on every side.
Before reaching the lake, though, the partially board walked flat and grassy path into the mountain range is enough to banish any thoughts of the modern world from recent memory, at least mine; band mates and tour itineraries seemed to belong to some alter ego, and he was welcome to 'em. I was busy making new friends........

I met these two on a grassy bank, as did everybody else, about five minutes into the trail. Mom seemed to be shielding junior from a persistent breeze that blew over the rise, and as a steady stream of us t-shirt wearing bi-peds stopped to click a photo, exclaiming a cutesy "Aww" or two, Mom and junior sat completely non-plussed, with an exprssion that could have been described as boredom were it not for their quiet serenity. "Yes , they will gawp" they seemed to be thinking ' and they will click, "aaaw", and "ooh", and then they will pass. So be it."

Sure enough that's exactly what we all did, with a fresh batch of us slightly awkwad looking camera pointers coming up the rear.....

Heading onward in the afternoon sun, the fresh breeze fills the senses with the scent of wildflowers and the faint sounds of shallow brooks feeding the lake below, and as we walked surrounded by the grazing goats, swaying grasses and foraging marmots, we very naturally slipped into a slower, easier gait. Each step became a little more care free, and as one step led into another, the HIdden Lake came into view.......

The slightly hazy view was due to the forest fires that raged in other parts of the state, and we were left to imagine what kind of views a crystal clear atmosphere might have offered.

We headed down for a closer look, and the babbling brook we had heard earlier seemed like a good spot to take a load off, soak up he sights and sounds and forage in our backpacks for nuts and berries.
We ate to the sound of whispering pines, laughing, paddling children, exasperated parents, and birdsong, and for dessert, a long slow stretch across the warm rocks.

WE re-traced our steps back to the trail head, this time with the pre-lunch downward gradient turned on it's head and laughing at our burning thigh muscles. More than once on the climb didi i think of the bee in the jelly jar, and the valiant explorer of the downward trek was beginning to feel pretty whooped, and ready to run along home for milk and cookies.

On the way home we were treated to a lesson in love.......

Stage right , three males fight for the right to hold a tender hoof in theirs. Stage left, a wily pugilist lets 'em tire themselves out - looks like he's seen all this before.....

The whole trail is only 3 miles in total, and with very little gradient issues (none, if you choose not to descend to the lake shore), an easy stroll that does the heart and the soul good.

Grinnell Glacier Trail

Feeling a little emboldened by the relative ease with which we completed the Hidden Lake Trail, and after night's sleep so deep i think I left a permanent indentation on the mattress, I was ready for bigger things; the Grinnell Glacier Trail.
In any case, it's Glacier National Park, so where better to go see a glacier. The Park Ranger informed us that if we don't check one out now, we only have ten years before Glacier National Park would be more appropriately called Meltwater Park.
The Grinnell Trail is 12 miles around with a strong gradient in places and after teh first mile is constant.

As we came to the end of that first flat mile on a a narrow wooded path, we stepped out into the morning sun and a lakeside clearing , the blue of the rippling lake to our left, the slow incline to Grinnell Glacier to our right
The sunlit blue of the lake was not the only thing to or left:

There he was, about 20 feet from us, and the valiant explorer of yesterday's lake descent froze, clenching everything that could be clenched, with a million questions racing forward, screaming for attention like a class room of 10 year olds that all needing the bathroom at once:
"Does he see us?", "will he attack?", "What do we do?","Is he alone?" "Is my underwear clean?", "Is there anything behind us?","should we run?",""Which way should we run?"," Is my underwear still clean?", " "Is it too late to run?"

The bear seemed far more concerned with whatever he could find in the long grass to be bothered with us. As a matter of fact, he had a similar demeanor to the goats of yesterday; "more of these odd t-shirt types, must be that time of year" he seemed to be thinking, so we quietly and swiftly walked past with one eye over our shoulder and our pulse rates slowly relaxing.

The views on the steady incline became more and more spectacular, and somewhere up ahead within the next six miles, Grinnell Glacier itself. About half way up, we started to run into some early birds who were already on their way down, their faces red and sweating. "keep going" they panted heavily, "it's worth it."

What do they mean; "keep going" ? Of course we'll keep going. It's not Kilimanjaro we're climbing here. But , with each half mile, it started to sink in; this incline is not going away, and to our tired legs, it seemed to be getting steeper, and each mile seemed to be getting longer as we struggled in the midday sun.
The last half mile was tantalizing indeed. With each twist and turn , we expected the next corner turned to reveal panoramic views of the mighty glacier, complete with orchestral score blaring from the heavens, but instead , for what seemed an eternity, we were met with more rock and sheep droppings - i was starting to feel like a cross between Grizzly Adams and Franz Kafka.

Finally, our tired and parched bodies passed over a rocky ridge, and we were met with a welcome cold breeze from below. The glacier,or rather, what remains of it, hung below us in it's own meltwater, serene and beautiful, translucent and smooth as glass, sheltered as it was by the mountains on each side.

We stretched out on the flat slabs, warm from the sun, that ran down to the waters edge. I swung my water bottle into the freezing cold water, and no sooner was it full to the brim than i had it to my lips, dead bugs, bits of trees and all - i was parched, and to hell with the consequences ( don't try this at home.)
Luckily for me there were no consequences, save for the nagging suspicion at the back of my mind that at some point later in the day, i would be lying in the fetal position halfway down a mountain, screaming in agony and surrounded by strangers wondering why this strange Irish chap seemed to be having labor pains.

Thankfully, the descent from the glacier was uneventful and pleasant , and we found that we had evolved into the panting hikers, who said to others on the trail "Keep going. It's worth it."
Towards the end of the trail, we heard more tales of bear sightings from awkward, nervous t-shirt types like me, and at the end of the day, i had made some assumptions:

Most of us are nervous around bears, and rightly so.
Bears are not scared of us, and if anything, bemused by us, just like the goats.
The glaciers are nearly gone through no fault of the bears or the goats.
- as are polar bears, elephants, tigers....the list goes on.
Maybe our lasting legacy on this earth will be a complete absence of hundreds of previously thriving species, and an abundance of t-shirts.

2008-02-10T22:35:00.000-08:00

An Alternative Pub Crawl of Dublin

Quiet please....

This is by no means intended to be a comprehensive list - the ideal watering hole is far too elusive and subjective a thing for that.

My intention here is to highlight a few of those fine imbiberies that exist from day to day --and have done so for years - untroubled by the glaring spotlight of tourist trade magazines, unphased by the fickle and ever-shifting tastes of the hungry trend followers, simply serving good beer in a comfortable, unpretentious environment.

If your tastes lean to the quiet solitary pint of fresh Guinness, taken at your leisure and without the least inclination to look at your watch or to consider, even playfully, a possible plan of action following the inevitable draining of the oh so inviting glass before you, then you'll find a few imbiberies here for you.

If on the other hand you enjoy the lively, eclectic, late night banter so often engaged in by those fine men and women who "reach contentment before capacity", and, loosened somewhat from the tethers of social etiquette, soar in their newly-donned garb of behavioral and verbal eloquence, then you may find a port of call to raise your interest.

This list includes some of Dublin's finest pubs that you won't find in the in-flight magazines.

I call it a "Pub Crawl" because I've tried to map out a convenient walking route between each drinking emporium where possible. it has to be said, though, that as the list grew, it became clear that to complete the full route in a day would involve a "Pub Sprint" and to have an alcoholic beverage in each port of call would certainly have to invite the title "Pub-icide".

So, without any further blathering, the list ( a work in progress).

Slattery's - Rathmines Rd

Although a little bit outside the metropolitan area, Slattery's is smack dab in the heart of renter's mecca, and as such is a haven for students. The atmosphere reflects a hip young city without any trappings of self conciousness. Large bright windows look out onto the busy street while dark secluded corners invite the hopelessly romantic as well as the leglessly drunk. Good people watching for the lone explorer, or if you're in company, a comfortable place for a chat and a pint.

I can vouch for it as a good early evening and night time bar.

An Poc Fada ( pronounced "On Puck Fodda")

Again a good night time bar in my experience, attracting a fairly eclectic mix of students, young professionals, old amateurs, musicians, soccer fans and a little bit of everything in between.

A pretty busy bar, nice to drop in on a night out.

JJ Smyth's

JJ's, for me, is at the other end of the spectrum, although not exclusively.

Suffice to say that sitting at the bar or at one of the modest tables and watching the grey daylight lazily stretching through frosted glass windows and lightly touching the nicotine yellow ceiling, with only one's own thoughts and a full-bodied, cool pint of Stout to bear witness, well...it'll do things to you.

On the rare occasion when I stopped in at night, it was lively and friendly with an older crowd of regulars. All in all, very pleasant.

The Long Haul

A picture of quiet, dignified elegance on the busy congested thoroughfare that is George's St, The Long Haul boasts an outer facade from a different time, and on entering, it becomes clear that the implied promise of elegance is no idle boast - a luxuriantly long mahogany bar meets you at your right and draws your eye through a corridor of red leather seats and deep persian-style carpet, reaching almost to the far wall. The bar staff are pleasant and professional, and the beer is the icing on the cake.

It's no wonder that such a place would attract an eclectic crowd of talkers, listeners, thinkers, drinkers, curious people and people that are curious, and on any given night there's a fair chance you might fall in love, get in an argument, meet your new best friend, lose your wallet, take up smoking, give up smoking, find your wallet or forget to call a cab.

Whelan's

Whelans is mostly recognised as a music venue, but the front bar, seperate from the stage area, has a nice relaxed feel with low lighting and wooden benches and a decent lunch menu.

Check back here for more fine dublin bars to be added.....

Christmas in St Louis

2008-02-10T18:21:00.000-08:00

Barb's shower could take the head off a chicken, but it was welcome after an hour of yoga, especially on a body that was hitherto only used to the elbow yoga of my beer-fuelled youth.

I was that chicken

But it was the day after christmas ,and time to herald in a new year - "out with the old , in with the new" and all that kind of thing, although i would prefer if the phrase went " try a few things and if you like one , good."

The Barb in question is my girlfriend's mother. I was spending the holidays with her family in St Louis, Missouri because some work commitments held me in the United States. Otherwise I would probably be at home with my parents in Ireland in my hometown.
But more of that later....

St. Louis

St Louis is one of those towns that doesn’t offer itself up too easily- if you come to town just to follow your nose and see what you find, you’ll probably just find your nose.

St Louis treasures are hidden, mostly by random stretches of highway that supposedly link the places you can’t find. But if you get talking to the locals and you feel like asking their opinion on what’s cool to do in this ‘burg, you may well find yourself struggling with what to do first, what to leave til tomorrow, when to find time to sleep.

St Louis boast two extremely obvious landmarks; the St Louis Arch (see above) and Busch Stadium, both almost side by side, and both worth a look.
The Arch is arguably one of the most aesthetically pleasing city landmarks on the map.
Although I have been known to mockingly refer to St Louis as “The only city with a handle”, I gotta say the arch warrants respect, a masterpiece of design that instantly identifies the St Louis skyline.

As for the stadium, well, I’ve heard the city described by locals as ‘a drinking town with a baseball problem”, and Busch stadium is the coliseum where st louis pride begins battle every april.

Oooooohh.....

So there's the big two, but if you're going, check out Blueberry Hill, the bars and eateries of the Soulard neighborhood (check out McGurk's), the Fox Theater, the St Louis Philharmonic Orchestra, Moolah, the butterfly house..... the list is endless, and a far cry from my hometown and the Chrsitmas i missed.......

(drunk in) Mitchelstown

Mitchelstown, the site of my aforementioned beer-fuelled youth, and had i spent Christmas there instead of St Louis, I would probably have spent it probably reliving some of the advanced elbow-yoga moves that I and my friends perfected during those formative years, the training ground for such moves being any one of 30 bars within spitting distance of each other.

With a town population of 5,000, that works out at 166 and two thirds of a citizen to each bar. By the end of any given weekend night , the citizen comprised of only two thirds was clearly visible. With none of the tedious trappings of sobriety to inhibit their behavioral nuances, they easily earned the title from other revelers as being "not all there".

The females amongst the "not all there", generally looked like baby giraffes learning how to walk, while the males roughly resembled baby elephants, determinedly marching forward, depending mostly on their own body weight leaning forward with each step, while occasionally tripping on there own trunks.
One other peculiarity of the male is that their earlier attraction to the opposite sex has been replaced by a burning desire for baby giraffes that are learning to walk.

A town not with out it's charms and points of interest (check out the Caves), nestled as it is in the foothills of the Galtee Mountain,and surrounded by some the richest pasture lands in Ireland.

See?

......not to mention being recognsed as one of Ireland's best planned towns....

.....turn left at the church , walk fifty yards and you're at my house.

Click here for more info about the ol' homestead

Butte MT

2008-01-21T14:11:00.000-08:00

In the middle of August I landed into Butte MT, collecting my guitar in the second smallest airport I've ever been in. A driver met me there and the short drive into town was as I had expected after what friends had told me - a leisurely 35 mph roll with friendly chit chat and the occasional incredulous gawp out the window at tiny pre-fab style houses boasting oversized flashing neon displays with the word CASINO and/or SALOON, like sirens on the shore, luring the would-be high roller with their hypnotic juggling of fortune, poverty and, possibly, claustrophobia.

Our first stop, at the driver's suggestion was The Butte Depot, an old railway depot turned bar and music venue. One train that stops there runs between Butte and Anaconda, and incorporates a tour of the area highlighting it's mining history, it's effect on the land and economy, and by all accounts, makes for a most enjoyable train ride for those of us who take pleasure in that most under-appreciated mode of travel.

We were unfortunate enough to miss the train's scheduled run, so we had to satisfy ourselves with a couple of cold beers and some more of that friendly chit chat. Dang! The chit chat was becoming more informative, covering such topics as the lack of an open container law in the town of Butte - you can legally walk anywhere in town with a beer - to the visit of Irish President Mary Mc Aleese to Butte the previous year - a point of some pride to the large Irish-American community in Butte.

The cold beer was remaining more friendly than informative as I stuck to old familiars for now; a Sierra Nevada IPA followed by The Belgian Brewing Co.'s Fat Tire. Yummy.

Heather, my drinking buddy, outside the Butte Depot.

From there, it was time for the hotel check in, where even more pleasant surprises awaited.

As someone who does his state-hopping as a gun-for-hire guitar player, I generally expect to find myself checking into any one of the all too numerous economy franchises that dot the highways promising free wireless, HBO, maybe breakfast, but sometimes seem to fall short on things like hot water, peace and quiet and, unfortunately, character. So when I heard I would be staying at THe Finlen, I figured it was just some localised chain I was yet to become cynical about.

I was about as wrong as a travel weary cynic could be. The Finlen was built in the twenties and named after a local mining millionaire and modeled on the scaled down plans of New York's Astor Hotel, and at the time of check in, the only comparison my then slightly groggy sleep deprived brain could muster was to the hotel Jack Nicholson's character booked into in The Shining, not in it's physical dimension or indeed, thankfully , are there any supernatural or demonic parallels. It's more in the old-school feel, and in the echoes of past grandeur.*

That night was the festival musician's "meet 'n' greet", a term that would send the weaker or less jet-lagged among us running for the door. However, once the awkward hellos and even more awkward excuses to leave were over and done with, a small and hardy handful of us retreated to the resident's bar, a small, plush, retro affair which has forever burned it's place in my memory as The Place I Discovered Bachelor's Bitter - a dark, rich, full-bodied bitter that seemed to get better and better as the night meandered lazily in a general forward direction, a direction that inevitably led to my room, in a comfortable bed 2 floors up overlooking Broadway, with it's fading art deco signs and period brownstones from a different time, one where a booming mountain town saw copper and silver in every hill, and American presidents were frequent callers. Right now, though, the streets are quiet, as they are most of the time.

Buttians(?) are very proud of their towns history, with a plethora of walking tours, mansion tours and the like to provide ample info-tainment for the curious tourist, bringing valuable revenue to this sleepy little community, something the powers that be are clearly aware of, as the town hosts a number of annual festivals including an Irish Music Festival, Folk Festival and a festival in honor of Butte's most famous son, Evel Knievel.

Oh come on... it's kinda cool...

If, during your stay in Butte, the friendly people, the history, and the old-world charm still leave you wanting more, maybe you could top off your stay like I did: a leisurely pub crawl in the summer breeze, taking in some great beer and great food along the way.

If that's the kind of thing that tickles your bits, then let me outline the route that eventually led to a culinary highlight;

Right downtown, The M+M is a 24 hour bar with burgers 'n' fries/diner food and diner decor, plus a handful of slot machines/poker machines for the undiscerning drinker. A shifting crowd in this round-the-clock funhouse saw us 30-somethings migrate further uptown as the semi-drunk and giggly college kids filed in. "Bless 'em, their lovely at that age." we remarked as we headed for Pablo's, a newly opened pizza and beer joint about two blocks away.

Pablo's boasts a refreshingly different beer and pizza menu. Proud of their local and Northwestern breweries, and rightly so, their beers include such titles as Moose Drool and Trout Slayer from the Big Sky Brewing Co., and a Huckleberry Wheat that got the thumbs up all 'round.

Pizza toppings included bbq wing sauce and a wide variety of chillis, heat and spiciness being a running theme. In a nutshell, Pablo's served us up a nice laid back, comfortable vibe with good pizza and great beer. Oh, and the beer battered fries! Man, I nearly forgot about the beer battered fries. Holy Crap! Lemme tellya...if you want to die happy, this is the heart attack in a basket that'll have St Peter or whoever you meet first wondering what you been up to and where they can get some- a full pound of thick cut fries battered in - you guessed it - beer. Eat deep of the basket, my friend, and I'll see you up there.

Pablo's left us with such a warm glow and feelings of good will to all, not to mention such a mild but persistant hankering for the soporific effects of bad television, that we decided to postpone the remainder of the intended crawl til the following day, and adjourn to the seasoned bosom of The Finlen.

Night Falls in Big Sky country.

....................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz......................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..........................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.........................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....................

Next morning, after breakfast at the friendly and quirky Gamer's Cafe, a restored turn-of-the century gaming house, half of which still functions as a casino (yes, they're everywhere), and a mocha at local-artist-driven coffeehouse Venus Rising, we decided on a stroll circumnavigating the town, and taking in a local bakery that made and sold what has long been a part of the Buttian's diet; the Cornish Pasty.

Originating in Cornwall, England, the pasty resembles an apple turnover in appearance, but the filling is one of beef and potato.
While munching on this most filling of on-the-hoof delicacies, we followed ever decreasing circles back into the heart of town, where, as we had come to expect, not a lot was going on. To refer to Butte as "sleepy" or "laid back" would be like referring to rush hour in downtown Manhattan as "rather busy". Although some might regard this as a fault, we took great pleasure in soaking up the mountain air, and effortlessly adopted the easy gait and demeanor of the local population. If this doesn't sound like your kind of thing, try downtown Manhattan in rush hour. It's rather busy.Once we'd mastered the easy gait, it was time to resume that pub crawl.

Our starting point, about a block from the hotel , was Moloney's, one of Butte's many Irish bars - a result of a huge influx of Irish immigrant families to work in the once numerous copper mines. Moloney's is small, friendly, with the biggest moose head I've ever seen hanging on the wall. About half way through our second beer, after engaging in enough idle banter with the bartender, we decided to revel in the aforementioned absence of an open container law, and take our half finished beers with us as we sought out our next watering hole.

At the Butte Depot, my first stop on arriving in Butte, we found ourselves sitting at the bar and being served by Nikki, who makes a mean Bloody Mary, and immediately made us feel like we'd all known each other for years - a rare and enviable quality that she effortlessly exuded. As she handed me my Bloody Mary, she explained that if her "cock 'n' balls" arrangement of the asparagus stalk and olives made me a little uneasy, I was welcome to re-arrange it.
Over the course of our long and friendly chat. she guided us through some more local and local-ish beers, and here I have to admit, I tasted a turkey, if you get what i mean. The beer in question shall remain nameless. Suffice to to say that as soon as I tasted it, a local guy occupying the neighboring barstool enquired as to how i liked it. When I remarked politely that it wasn't "for me", he smiled knowingly, saying "Yep, it pretty much isn't for anybody."

Enjoying an open container....

We said our goodbyes to Nikki and the other patrons - all two of 'em, and headed to Fred's Mesquite Steak house for a pint of Widmer's wheat beer. "What?" I hear you gasp "-no steak?". Well, we had done the steak, and the fish and chips earlier that weekend, and anyway, we were on a mission. However , the food is well worth a mention. The fish batter was light and flavorful, and the fries were roughly chopped potato's "skins 'n' all" . Yummy. The steak sandwich needed no adornments of any kind, dripping with flavor, juicy and succulent. But tonight, food was deferred until later, across town in one of Butte's most historically interesting restaurants.
We finished our Widmer's and headed for the next port of call - The Silver Dollar.

Walking in the door of The Silver Dollar, we handed a scraggy student-type four bucks each for the live band ("....dude")and headed inside to an old bar, comfortably overburdened with chochkeys, coasters, college age cool and the occasional hip local. The retro jukebox was made even more cool by the fact that it didn't work, and the tattooed barmaid was made even more cool by the fact that she headed straight for us despite a busy chatter of beer swillers that she juggled singlehandedly with an easy smile and a word for everyone. The band were tight but loose, and the beer was Beltian White - light with a bite, and refreshing on a hot summer night. There's no good reason not to go to The Silver Dollar, we concluded, unless you're allergic to having the kind of harmless fun that a chilled out atmosphere with a bunch of friendly strangers can inspire.
Neither could we find any good reason to leave The Silver Dollar except for one - right next door is that most historic of restaurants mentioned earlier, and we were getting hungry.

Saying goodnight to the scraggy guy taking the money, we headed for The Pekin Chop Suey House, a Chinese restaurant that's been open since the turn of the twentieth century, when the area was a full-on Chinatown, and the adjoining building was a whorehouse. We climbed the stairs and found ourselves staring down a narrow hallway lined on either side by wooden paneling painted bright pink, which housed booths concealed by pink curtains. I privately entertained the notion that we had somehow stepped back in time, missed our entrance and were actually standing in the whorehouse, when a friendly Chinese woman with very little english appeared as if from nowhere, and before I could apologise and go looking for that glitch in the space/time continuum that found me in a turn-of-the-century House of Sin and wondering if my mother might ever get wind of this, she guided us to a booth, sat us down and headed off to get us some waters, pulling the curtain behind her. After a brief moment or two admiring our almost completely pink surroundings, our friendly Chinese lady returned and we ordered.

We figured we'd keep it simple - sweet and sour chicken and a plate of Chop Suey - if it was in the restaurant's name, they must be proud of it, we reckoned. We waited for the food sipping on a Tsingtao beer, which reminded us somewhat of our server: pleasant, inoffensive and efficiently doing just what's expected. Nothing more, nothing less.

With a quiet swish of the pink curtain, the food arrived, and here is where my loquatiousness escapes me, perspicacity becomes no more than a word, and my penchant for wanton verbosity runs for cover, terrified that i demand more of it than it can handle. The food, dear reader, can only be described thusly; UNBELIEVABLE!!! I assure you I mean no discredit in such a short description. We were left speechless by the understated, clearly defined aromatic flavors, and at one point we both exclaimed "Now THAT'S what sweet and sour sauce is S'POSED to taste like". Nothing short of dazzling, dear reader, and if you are or regard yourself a true chowhound, then for you, this restaurant alone is worth a trip to Butte MT. Enough said.
At this point, we were a hair's breadth from barricading ourselves in the restaurant and holding the chef hostage to do our bidding, and indeed it might have come to that were it not for the relaxed atmosphere, and the disarming smile of the friendly Chinese woman. We decided instead, to finish up and head back to the hotel, satisfied that the night had reached it's zenith, and that any further attempt to reach new heights would have been foolish. We slipped into sleep with thoughts of the road ahead in the morning, the occasional sweet and sour belch, and the quiet street whispering tales of a mountain town's glory days. Butte, may you live forever.

Irish for a day in Butte MT.

* The night after writing this , I found myself staying the night in The Biltmore, downtown LA, where 50 years earlier, stars of the silver screen would swan between banquet hall and ballroom, shimmering in their mid-twentieth century elegance in a flood of flashbulbs and fanfare.

From the walls - row upon monochrome row of tuxedoed bigwigs and movie icons, Fonda, Stewart and Bogart among 'em, smiled up from their dinner table, their diamond encrusted ladies by their sides, at the hotel photographer, hired to record one more night of glitz and glamour on the crest of a hollywood wave. Such pictures hang from almost every wall in the lobby, and they bear a striking resemblance to a certain photograph featured in a movie called - wait a minute - The Shining?. It seems that somewhere between Butte MT, and LA, CA, I had found the circle within the straight line, and being a rather pathetic part-time movie buff, i was back to thinking about demonic and supernatural paralells.