Billy the Fisherman/Perfection in a Bowl...

 

Perfection is the goal; balance is the key. Everything seeks balance: the moon and stars, opposing magnetic poles, heat sufficient to melt mountains squaring off with a deadly frigidity of space, the salinity of our oceans and our cells, a swirling interplay among all ingredients of our lives stirred up in a bowl.

Our physical and psychological well-being teetering on a balance beam.

Perfect moments can reveal themselves in the unfolding dawn of a new Spring Day…as the retreating chill of night cooled breezes are banished by sunbeams that stab eyes and recharge exposed skin.

I look for balance, perfection, somewhere in every moment I’m given, if for no other reason than the reassurance that it’s out there.

Then along comes Billy the Fisherman with his generous gift, a container of his much-acclaimed fish chowder.

An all too rare example of perfect gastronomic balance.

Much more than just a bowl of warm soup. The pyromaniac sun rising in the East lights scarlet fires in the hair of a distant tree line as I break my fast among the gods of balance… with perfection itself steaming promise up to me from an oversized ceramic mug.

Many thanks to Billy the Fisherman for reminding me once again, that perfection wears many faces, all most welcome.

 

 

Dental Sadism...

 

3 hours in the chair, using a drill bit on loan from a defunct mining company in Oklahoma...go deep... just to see if we can make the pulp scream.

Conjures bad memories from kid-hood.

That long-ago dentist trained under Dr. Mengele. He hurt me on a regular basis. I believe he enjoyed it.

When I asked him about Novocain, he said: “that's fine for the little ladies”.

I made a mental note to wear a skirt next time.  

Some kind of gender shaming going on there. It's like when Carla and I go to a steak place and they ask me if I want the King cut or the Queen?  What the heck do they expect most men to say…even if they secretly want the smaller portion? Manly men huff up and act like for them, the King is the only possibility.

Not falling for it, I ask: “Is there a petite queen cut? Something cute?”

Yes, I would like to have a steak, but it doesn’t matter. I’m only drinking my meals today anyway.

Where’s Danny Akroyd’s Bass-O-Matic when I could really use one… to make a nice grilled sirloin smoothie?

Swingers...

 

A small, brown web-spinner swings ever so slightly on her trapeze, dangling in midair under my toothbrush holder, a resident there since we moved into this house, some 16 years ago. Today’s performer I assume to be a great, great, great of the one I spotted way back then. Still in the same place, swinging.

There’s a growing pile of tiny exoskeletons on the pink Formica surface beneath her…ant, silverfish, mosquito, gnat…all sucked dry like a flattened juice pack, but I still wanted to be assured that she was well fed.

Plugging in a night light adjacent to her trapeze did the trick. A beacon in the dark, it attracts the gnats and other miniscule, winged roast beef sandwiches and leg of lamb dinners she thrives on.

That was two weeks ago.

Now there are three little brown web-spinners hanging from the toothbrush holder, doing their ariel dances, trying to outperform each other, and only coming down from their high wires to suck on a still struggling juice pack or two.

In the morning, I check in, say “hello” to the girls, brush my teeth and leave, noting that as I turn off the bathroom light, the night light turns on simultaneously.  It becomes the marquee, for an all-night diner, illuminating a dark road, calling in weary travelers who don’t realize until it’s too late, that they themselves are what’s for dinner.

Doggie Daze...

 

That big mound they're lying on is actually a human stomach, their faces about 4 inches from mine.

Bored with my questions, but listening intently for keywords,
I ask: OK girls, who wants a bath? (No response)
How about a nice breakfast of fresh lettuce with mushrooms? (Blank)
Want to watch me read a book? (A what?)
Talk politics? (Who has ticks?)

As far as food goes though, you both look like you're full and wouldn't be interested in having a TREAT...

DING DING DING…

"He said the word! TREAT!" they scream in unison, as both launch themselves off of my stomach down to the floor and into the kitchen, to sit at attention under the cabinet that holds the bag of “Beggin Strips”.

Thirty seconds of frenzied excitement. Now only 14 hours of staring at me before bedtime. 

The Amazing David Lindley

 

A lifelong aversion to crowds trumped my desire see many favorite artists back in the day, but a handful still managed to get me out. Gordon Lightfoot, Eric Clapton, Leon Russell, and my main man, Jackson Browne. All in their prime when I saw them. But as great as he is, Jackson Brown wasn’t Jackson Browne without the amazing David Lindley. His lap steel channeled an angel choir in perfect harmony. Beauty so pure it can only be experienced, words fail.

Meriweather Post Pavilion in 1977 was one of those nights for me. Jackson was recording live for his “Running on Empty” album. He had been breathing new life into the Maurice Williams classic “Stay” and when it came time for the famous “Oh won’t you stay…” high vocal, everyone assumed the voice coming from the stage to be that of Rosemary Butler, Jackson’s blond powerhouse background singer at the time.

But it wasn’t.

It took a few seconds for the crowd to realize that the incredible falsetto was coming from the little gnome with hair down to his knees, now front and center…the incomparable David Lindley.

Cheers and applause came with appreciative cries of “It’s David Lindley! Yea David!” We all knew and loved his musicianship, but this singing gig was out of left field. Of course, he aced it.

It gave me a rare, indelible peak moment that many people who actually go to concerts must be familiar with but felt familiar, something of a flashback. I remembered the scene from the “Little Rascals” take on Romeo and Juliet. Alfalfa called up to the balcony, “Juliet, my Juliet, wherefor art thou?” Darla was expected to show up but she had refused the scene because Alfalfa had been eating onions. So up popped Buckwheat with “Here I is!” After a delayed double take the crowd went crazy, yelling and pointing “It’s Buckwheat! Hooray for Buckwheat!”

That's how it was with David.

I wrote a little story about it, sending it to David Lindley’s e-mail address. Within a few days, David’s wife, Joan, sent me back a note letting me know that she had read my story to the entire band when they were all gathered around her large kitchen table. Much appreciated, she said everyone laughed and applauded.

Made my day.

RIP to my favorite musician, who worked with many of my favorite artists, people like Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, Ry Cooder, Bonnie Raitt, Warren Zevon, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Crosby, Nash, James Taylor, Dolly Parton…

Still alive and well in the cloud, I’m listening to David’s music this morning. "For Everyman", "Late for the Sky", "Running on Empty," and one of the best albums on the planet if you want to kick it up a notch or 12, David Lindley El Rayo-X.

I am forever grateful for his brilliance.