Don't Knock the Boogie

Last night we saw Mike Campbell and The Dirty Knobs play at the Independent, San Francisco, and it was noteworthy (or blog-worthy) for a number of reasons.

First off, it marked a long-awaited to return to live music for Leslie and me. Our tickets for this show were originally dated April of 2020. Then, when the world shut down three weeks ahead of the show, it was changed to October 2020. Then changed again. And again. For two long years, we've been waiting to see if it would ever happen before buying any more concert tickets that would just be sitting and waiting. And now, the wait is over.

The entire night was magic, beginning with getting into the City and parking. 

Okay, maybe some folks don't get why that's worth mentioning, but those of you who have driven (and parked) around SF know what I'm talking about. We sailed right in and found a free, legal, street parking space just two blocks from the venue without even circling the block. Amazing.

We checked out the theater, and there were only a dozen or so people in line, so we had time for a great dinner at Nopa, snagging one of the last available sidewalk tables without a reservation. Then back to the Independent, where we were now about 30 people back in line. Kudos to the Independent for going through the line to check vaccination cards, IDs, and tickets, and stamping our hands efficiently while out front to get us through the doors quickly when they eventually did open.

The doors opened, and we encamped about the front right corner of the stage (the venue is standing only, with limited ADA seating on the sides). Opening act was Sammy Brue, a brilliant, young singer-songwriter who put in a short, but vibrant set.

And then the moment we'd been waiting for for two long years. Mike Campbell and the Dirty Knobs. Was it worth the wait? I wish it hadn't have been so long, but yeah. If any band was worth the wait, and if any show could break the pandemic frame of mind, this was it.

From the opening bars of Lightning Boogie through the final crashing cords of You Wreck Me (the final encore two hours and ten minutes later) the show was pure rock and roll perfection. Even if there had been seats, we wouldn't have used them once Mike and the guys came out on stage.

This is the first time we've seen Mike as the lead-man for a whole show. He's certainly stepped out front and shown his stuff as a member of the Heartbreakers or Mudcrutch, but he was always supporting his friend, Tom, in those roles. 

Now it's up to Mike to carry the whole show, and he does it with ease. He's as generous a front-man as TP was, letting Jason "Ape" Sinay trade off guitar solos, and letting the rhythm section shine too. The band was tight and rehearsed and having as much fun as the audience was.

Mike leads with grace as well, with the soft-spoken and self-deprecating southern charm we've come to know so well from his home-bound videos shared to Facebook over the two long years of pandemic-related tour delays. 

Mike is generous with the audience with audience too. During one song Mike asked somebody up front if she was shooting video (yes) and was she going to post it to Instagram (yes). Mike then got down on his knees in front of her and sang directly into her iPhone giving her a shot for the ages. He then asked for his guitar tech to grab his own iPhone and get behind the drums to get some video of the band with the audience for Mike's Instragram account. All this without missing a note of the song they were in.

The set (2+ hours) mostly consisted of material off the two Dirty Knobs albums (Wreckless Abandon and External Combustion), plus six Heartbreakers' songs, a cover of Route 66, and an un-recorded Dirty Knobs song called Shake These Blues.

While some of this might be the same each night of the tour, there was definitely a lot that's left to chance and Mike's mood. At one point he referenced making a set list, "but that's no use to us now," and a couple of times he thanked his band members for keeping up with him because, "they never know what I'm gonna want to play next."

I loved all the Knobs material (Sugar and Southern Boy stand out), but have to admit that the highlights were a few of the Heartbreakers songs.

Southern Accents was especially moving with the subtle change of two words, "mother" to "brother" and "she" to "he," transforming the song from a memory of Tom's childhood, to Mike's elegy for Tom.

Before that could bring down the mood of the evening, however, the band immediately launched into a rocking rendition of Fooled Again (I Don't Like It), a gem from the first Heartbreakers' album.

You Got Lucky was never my favorite Heartbreakers song, but last night's extended nine minute jam on it was an amazing tour of Mike's mind and his influences as he inserted solos and licks in tribute to Neil Young, Eric Clapton, Carlos Santana, and others.

Altogether, an excellent show with no off moments or songs that didn't belong. The Dirty Knobs started as a side project for Mike between Heartbreakers LPs/tours more than ten years ago, so the band is tight and professional and doesn't miss a note. This is not a Heartbreakers show, but it's probably the best rock show you'll see this year, and maybe this decade.

Was it worth waiting two years for? Oh, hell yeah. But I'm so glad the wait is over.

Don't knock the boogie. It will set you free. It'll work for you. Last night it worked for me.

Set-List:

1. Lightning Boogie
   
2. External Combustion
   
3. Pistol Packin' Momma 
4. Route 66
5. Between Two Worlds
   
6. Anna Lee
   
7. Loaded Gun
   
8. Fuck that Guy
   
9. Refugee 
10. Rat City
    
11. In This Lifetime
    
12. Sugar
13. Southern Accents
    
14. Fooled Again (I Don't Like It)
    
15. Don't Knock the Boogie
16. Southern Boy
    

Encores:

1. Shake These Blues
2. You Got Lucky (extended jam)
3. You Wreck Me 

Gear Notes:

Mike relied on just three guitars from his massive collection: two different but nearly identical white Gibson Firebirds (one with Johnny Winter's autograph prominently on it) and a white Duesenberg Starplayer.  

"Ape" mostly relied on a standard Stratocaster, with a few switch-outs to a Les Paul, another white Firebird, and what looked like a Clapton "Blackie" model Stratocaster with a Telecaster neck.

 

Stand With Ukraine

Do I feel a connection to the Ukraine, and the troubles happening there today? Well, it's complicated.

Two of my grandparents were born in Ukraine. My father's father, born in 1898, emigrated to Canada in 1904 (then to the US in 1923), and my mother's mother, born approximately 1905, emigrated to the US in 1911.

Each family branch left Ukraine not simply to find a better life in America, but to escape the violence of anti-Semitic pogroms, and increasing regulation of Jewish lives in the Pale of Settlement. (This also goes for the branches of our family tree from Belarus and, to a slightly lesser extent, Lithuania.)

I don't think either ever thought of themselves as "Ukrainian." On census and other forms they were often identified as "Russian" because Russia was "administering" Ukraine at that time. But they certainly never thought of themselves as "Russian." They thought of themselves as Jews, and indeed, there are a few forms where I see their ethnicity/race listed as "Hebrew."

Of my grandfather's family that remained in Ukraine, at least two of his uncles (my great-grand-uncles), and several of their children (my grandfather's cousins, my 1st cousins 2x removed) all perished in 1941 following the Nazi invasion.

So my history with the Ukraine is troubled, to say the least. And yet, I feel a connection still. And, with the election of President Zelenskyy, a Ukrainian Jew, it seemed possible that I might someday be able to travel there and learn more about my family's origins. 

While the Ukrainians of 120 years ago were certainly no great friends of my ancestors, the Russians were far worse. The entire point of the "Pale of Settlement" (roughly Lithuania, Latvia, Belarus, Ukraine, Moldova, parts of Poland) was to keep Jews out of Mother Russia. It was a dumping ground for the Tzar's undesirables, and a buffer zone between the "real" Russians and Europe. Russian domination there was never anything more than imperialistic resource consumption and defensive strategy. 

It's no different today. Putin is just plain wrong, and we cannot accept his arguments and excuses. To do so would set a dangerous precedent that would endanger all of eastern Europe, and many regions beyond.

I Was Bob Dole's Wingman - In Memory of Bob Dole

 "Senator Robert Joseph Dole died early this morning in his sleep. At his death, at age 98, he had served the United States of America faithfully for 79 years," according to a statement from his family.

I hated Bob Dole. I loved Bob Dole. A staunch conservative, he defended the criminal Nixon till the end. He fought for the people of Kansas, including the farmers and the hungry, as a good liberal should. He was uncompromising, and he knew when to compromise. None of these are contradictions. Bob Dole was a great American.

I had the honor of meeting Senator Dole in about 1997 or '98, not too long after his final run for president in '96. I was in Washington, DC, at a conference for nonprofit folks working on issues of hunger and food insecurity. After the first long day of sessions, there was an evening reception and into the midst of it all walked a familiar face, as casually as anybody else in attendance.

Others came up to greet him and awkwardly tried to reach out with their right hands for a proper handshake and failed to understand when he responded with this left (good) hand. When it was my turn, I somehow had the presence of mind to reach out with my left. I think he appreciated that, because I was swept along with him into the next conversation.

Bob and I were then in a group of several of college interns, mostly female, who were working the conference. Rather than talk about food policy, Bob wanted to know what universities everybody attended, and how were their football teams doing. I guess I was still fresh enough out of college (grad school, at least) to participate and chat with the young women and my new best bud, Bob. If neither of us were married, we might have gotten lucky.

Before too long, however, Bob went home to his wife, Elizabeth, and I went up to my room (alone) to call my wife, Leslie, and tell her who I'd been hanging out with.

There was a time in America, not all that long ago it seems, when political opponents weren't seen as the enemy. We could disagree, grumble, and fight, and still find common ground to stand on. There was a time when somebody with a different position than ours could still earn our respect for standing up for what they believed was right. Not every difference was considered proof of evil intent, and it rarely was.

Senator Bob Dole died early this morning. May his memory be for a blessing.

In Memory of J.D. Chandler

My good old friend, John, known professionally as J.D. Chandler, passed yesterday, while in the hospital following his fifth heart attack.

We met in Jr. High School, 1975. John and Crazy Tom were budding film-makers, and they asked Dave and I, future rock stars, to create a soundtrack for their upcoming epic of the Spanish Civil War, The Unknown Soldier. It would take me several more years to catch the Hemingway reference there.

John and Tom would come by my house where Dave and I would set up in the garage and play our latest addition to the soundtrack. We'd ask how the script was coming, and if there were any pages we could see so we'd know what kind of a groove we were looking for. "Any day now," was always the answer. "Any day now."

At one of these garage sessions, my brother Miles stopped in to listen. After everybody had gone home, Miles asked who that older kid with the full beard was, somebody's older brother? No, just our friend John, fourteen like the rest of us.

After Dave moved out of town I joined with John and Tom in the film making and we created Ogilvy Cinema Productions. A Quiet Place to Live was the first major production under John's direction, and filming commenced in a room at the Vagabond Hotel rented for the project. The star was Shelly, who would be the star of nearly all of Ogilvy's productions, and my on-and-off sometime girlfriend through much of High School. But we met in a room at the Vagabond on Ventura Boulevard.

Other Ogilvy films directed by John in that period included Dismembered - a ripped from the headlines story of a jilted wife who dismembers her wayward husband, stuffs him into a trash bag or two, and takes him for a cross-country road trip - and Today is Friday - from Ernest Hemingway's one act play of the crucifixion (I played 1st Roman Soldier). 

Our final major Ogilvy effort, co-directed by John, Tom, and I, was Road Time - a documentary about the Small World Band, a San Diego group ready to burst out of the local scene and hit the big time (and, coincidentally, my brother, Steve's band). Our vision was to make a film that would book-end nicely with Martin Scorsese's Last Waltz, about the Band giving up the road and going their separate ways.

For John's eighteenth birthday we arranged to see eighteen films. We started with some early matinees of current releases, cheated a bit with a mid-day showing of that year's Oscar Nominated Shorts at the Nuart just to boost our numbers, and finished with the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Tiffany on Sunset. It was a fairly typical Saturday for us in those days.

Not to even begin to talk about all the concerts: The Kinks, Warren Zevon, The Kinks, Arlo Guthrie, The Kinks, Tim Curry, The Kinks, Flo and Eddie, The Kinks...

Then, just like that, our teenage years were over, some were off to college, others to work, John entered the Army, and Tom was in protective state custody. 

Not that the good times ended, they just slowed down a bit.

There was the time that we were all gathered at Bill's place just outside the Cal Poly SLO campus for a bout of heavy drinking, but were disturbed by the noise of traffic outside with horns blaring and people screaming. John, always one to take control of a situation, went out and, though he was barely able to stand, somehow got on top of a mail box or a trash can and began directing traffic and cleared up the situation in no time.

There's the story of the Morro Four (John, Dave, Bill, and I) and our arrest and trial for endangering the Peregrine Falcons nesting on Morro Rock while on our way to visit Tom (in protective state custody).

There was the time that John was stationed at DLI (Defense Language Institute) but on leave down in L.A. At the end of the visit he said it was time for me to drop him at the Greyhound bus station. I refused. He said it was either that or take him to DLI. I weighed the options: 20 minutes to North Hollywood or seven hours to Monterey? The answer was clear: one never turns down the opportunity for a road trip. We kidnapped Dave and Bill from their respective dorms along the way.

Visits back and forth slowed down as life and all the complications it brings came upon us, but we were never out of touch for very long.

The Morro Four held a reunion many years later in Reno, with a horseback ride along the Truckee River and visits to Virginia City (where you can see Mark Twain's commode) and some of the locations from The Misfits.

In 2010, John and I made a trip together to Hawaii to visit Pearl Harbor on December 7 (and go back on the 8th), crash every beach-side hotel bar in Honolulu, and still get up for the free Ukulele lessons each morning.

My wife, Leslie, and I visited John in Portland probably three or four times in the last decade and enjoyed his walking tours of Portland's most notorious murders, burials, and hauntings (view my videos of John's Portland tours here...).

John had succeeded as a writer, finding his niche in the lesser known - some might say seedy - history of the Portland area, publishing several books on the subject. Like me, he also continued the film bug with occasional short videos to YouTube, and he did a bit with Podcasts and blogging as well. He'd just recently picked up a guitar and was finally starting to learn that as well. I was looking forward to jamming with him on my next trip up.

And then, earlier this week, he posted to Facebook that he was in the hospital following his fifth heart attack. Last night his sister-in-law posted that he had passed that morning.

Of course, it had to be in a week when I was re-reading the short stories of Ernest Hemingway, and right in the middle of The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

Farewell J.D. Chandler. He loved my Nana's knishes. May your memory be for a blessing.

Swizzle Stick Inheritance

So, I've created a new website to share photos of my swizzle stick collection. Except that it's not my collection; it's my late parents' collection. Yes, the swizzle sticks were my inheritance. That was my choice.

After my parents had each passed, it was time to start cleaning out the house. My brothers and our wives gathered to start dividing things up, and one of the first things I said was, "I need the swizzle sticks."

I remember, as a small child, being fascinated by the designs and colors and shapes, and how these little pieces of plastic were somehow representative of memories of places and activities of past years. And they were just fun to play with.

Now, looking through them, it brings back those memories, but also keeps alive the memories of where my parents traveled, where they ate (and drank), and the lives they lived. It keeps their memories fresh and alive. And they're good for stirring my drinks.

Enough already with the introduction. Here's the links you need:

• The Collection (part one)
• The Collection (part two)
• What's a Swizzle?
• Meet the Collectors (my folks)
• What's my Signature Cocktail?
  

Why I Unfriended You on Facebook

This afternoon I was called out for un-friending somebody over a Facebook post I found to be racist in a gas lighting, passive-aggressive sort of way.

Just to be clear: I do not un-friend for differences of opinion. I value hearing different points of view. I enjoy a debate. Racism is not debatable. Both sides do not have equally valid points to consider. There’s good and there’s evil, and this is one place I draw the line. If you support racism I will assume you are a racist and out you go.

Here’s the response I sent to the person in question:

If your post were simply to honor Officer Anthony Dia, who was killed in Toledo on July 4, I would have wept with you. But your post didn’t even mention his name. Did you even bother to find out his name?

A meme honoring Officer Dia would tell his name and his story without the passive aggressive references to street memorials, protests, NBA/NFL stars, etc. Honoring Officer Dia was clearly not the point here.

The point of the meme (whether your intended point or not) is to make a comparison between this awful murder and the Black Lives Matter movement, and shame anybody who doesn’t share this meme as a means of defending and/or denying the systemic racist violence that makes BLM necessary.

But the worst part: your chosen words in sharing this meme were, “All lives matter.” At one time, this phrase could have been taken as a positive one, and your meaning would have been appreciated. But it’s popularity these last few years has been in response to BLM, as a means of silencing protesters, and demeaning their message.

You’ve not been living under a rock. You surely know this. You’re a smart person. You surely know that “Black lives matter” doesn’t mean “only Black lives.” It means that a large portion of our citizenry has been told over and over that their lives don’t matter, and they’re standing up to that (and many of us are standing with them).

Responding to cries of Black Lives Matter with “all lives matter” or “blue lives matter” is a repudiation. It’s saying Black lives really don’t matter. It’s simply telling Black people, “Shut up and get back in your place.” It's saying that those murdered by official police violence deserved what they got.

Denying racism in the face of overwhelming evidence and testimony is itself racism.

Responding to racism with “we’ve all got problems” is to support a racist system, and is also racism.

I didn’t “condemn every cop” as you claim. I said nothing about Officer Dia (frankly, you didn’t say anything about him either).

I unfriended you because I’m tired and depressed and I thought it would be easier to say “goodbye” than to have to explain your racist post to you. I guess I was wrong.

 - - - - - - - - - -

For the record, here's Officer Dia’s story: Fallen officer's letter: 'I hope I died with bravery' - Please read it and take a moment to honor him properly. May his memory be a blessing.

Reflections on a Week of Action in a Life of Action

I've never been one to shy away from a good protest. I've been going to protests and rallies and marches and sit-ins and vigils and celebrations for a very long time. I've walked, I've shouted, I've sat silently holding a candle, I've signed petitions, I've passed petitions, I've written letters, I've written blogs, I've made phone calls, I've knocked on doors.

In High School, in the late '70s, it was mostly anti-Nuke and No War in Central America. Then No War for Oil, No More Wars for Oil, Not Yet Another War for Oil... Clean Air & Water, Gay Pride, No On 8, Occupy, Overturn Citizens United, Women's Rights, Memorial for the Pulse, Memorial for the Tree of Life, No Kids in Cages. I'm sure I've missed a few here, even from just the last few years.

This last week has felt a bit different. How do you protest in a pandemic? How do you go out when you're supposed to stay in? How do you shout when you're winded from the non-stop horrors? But then again, how do you not? How do you remain silent following the murders of George Floyd, Brionna Taylor, and Auhmaud Arbery (and so many more), and just say, "I'm doing the pandemic now. I'll get with you later"?

I took my cues this week from the Movement for Black Lives "Week of Action" website. Each day had a demand, and suggested actions for each day broken down by Safe (yes, you can do it from home, during a pandemic), Medium, or High Risk. I've taken actions each day - some private (such as donations, petitions), some public (social media), and some truly public: yesterday, I did join a rally and march with hundreds of my neighbors.

Today (Saturday)'s theme is Making Meaning from Crisis. This reflections blog is part of my action for the day.

Now I've written this part before, but let me say it again: My life has been probably 98% privilege. I've had my share of incidents with anti-Semites - a lost job (or maybe two), a bloody nose (or maybe three) - but these are rare. In school days, long ago, my preference for longer hair and lack of skill or interest in sports led to a certain amount of anti-gay bullying (despite my not being gay).

But overall, my life has been one of middle-class, white privilege. I've driven away from traffic stops with only a warning and never thought "this is how I die" when I was being pulled over. When shop owners have kept an extra close eye on me I've had the luxury of thinking "what a paranoid ass" instead of "what a racist."

But I also know that justice cannot exist, that all lives will not matter, until we all stand shoulder to shoulder with our neighbors - even in a damned pandemic - and say loudly Black Lives Matter! And say their names: George Floyd, Brionna Taylor, Auhmaud Arbery...

Memorial Day 2020

Here we are, once again, at our annual day of memory for America's fallen soldiers, the men and women who never made it home, having given the last full measure of devotion for our country.

Memorial Day honors the dead, but its placement in mid-spring, and as a symbolic signal of the coming summer, is also about life. Most any veteran will tell you that we remember those who passed to be grateful for what they have given us: for the freedom to live our lives as we see fit.

Which brings us to 2020, and the uncertainty and despair that so many are feeling now, as our country, and the world, are in the grips of the Coronavirus pandemic.

What has a pandemic to do with a war memorial? It was the President himself who called the fight against Coronavirus "Our big war" back in March. And now, the American death toll from that war is likely to pass 100,000 by the end of this sacred day.

So, this Memorial Day, these 100,000, who perished due to COVID-19, are the "soldiers" I want to honor, and keep in my heart and mind.

Like the dead from any war, we can -- and will -- argue now and into the future whether they died for a noble cause or were the victims of the hubris and folly of inept leadership. But not for today.

For today, I ask that we just remember these 100,000, remain hopeful for the coming summer, and pray that we don't soon lose 100,000 more.

Schadenfreude is Dead

Yet another casualty of the Trump administration, schadenfreude has died in its sleep. There will be no pleasure taken from its passing. Schadenfreude will be buried next to irony in a private ceremony.

Since the start of the Coronavirus pandemic, I've struggled to not be political in my postings and sharings on Facebook and elsewhere.

Partly because I'm trying to survive and remain positive.

Partly because I'm tired. I've been blogging and shouting and warning here since 2001, including a multi-year "Carnival of the Decline of American Democracy." I've also been ranting on Facebook and Twitter and YouTube off-and-on since before any of them became popular. In 1996 I ran as a protest candidate for Mayor of Sacramento. I've attended hundreds - maybe thousands - of marches, sit-ins, rallies, and whatever else you've got since the 1970s. Making noise about politics is what I do. Or did. I'm tired.

Partly because of the noise. Once everybody else started blogging and vlogging and tweeting and sharing every meme they could get their cursor on, it was no longer necessary. I didn't have to nudge people to be active, the "Like" system did it for me. At least, it did for a while, except:

Partly because of the gaslighting. I'm tired of fighting against an algorithm that says one person's off-the-cuff, illogical opinion is equal to another person's well-reasoned, factually proven information. (Or greater than it, if it gets enough Likes.)

And, to a large part, as much as I loathe Donald Trump, I actually wanted, and hoped for, the moment to make the man, and to witness some actual leadership from the White House. I so wanted, and as an American citizen, needed to be proven wrong about Trump.

But these last few days made me give up on that as well.

A couple of days ago, the "good" Trump dutifully read off the notes that he supported the individual state Governors in their decision of when to remove restrictions and shelter-in-place orders, and gave a set of criteria to help them in their decisions (an abridged version of the guidelines issued by California Governor Gavin Newsom days earlier).

Then, hours later, the real Trump got on Twitter and told his followers to LIBERATE Michigan, Minnesota, and Virginia. And the LIBERATE! message spread, and armed protestors violated the social distancing protocols and have taken to the streets in cities nationwide, in close proximity to each other, to demand an end to the state trying to save their lives. Because: fuck science. Because their president told them to.

Yes, there are some on "my side" who are posting things like, "Good, it'll kill off the morons, and leave the smart folks alone." But they're missing a bit of the science as well. COVID-19 just looks for a host to travel with. It doesn't care where it lands or who they voted for.

These LIBERATORS will bring it to the market. They'll bring it to their families. They'll bring it to their neighbors. And they'll bring it to our over-crowded hospitals. And people will die who did not go to LIBERATE their state capital.

So, no. I cannot take pleasure in their risking their health or their life. And not just because it risks my own. But because I don't want any unneccessary deaths. Even these stupid, ridiculous assholes.

I don't need them to die just to prove me right.

Logic is dead. Irony is dead. And now schadenfreude is dead. All casualties of Trump's assault on science, facts, and the American people. Isn't that enough?

Anyway, I made a little meme of my own:

30 Days In

One month ago, on Monday, March 16, 2020, six counties in the Bay Area, covering 6.7 million people in the cities of San Jose, San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley, San Mateo, etc., jointly issued the nation's first official "Shelter-in-Place" order dealing with the Coronavirus/COVID-19 pandemic, to be effective through April 7 (unless "extended, rescinded, superseded, or amended in writing by the Health Officer").

A few hours later Santa Cruz county joined the Bay Area group, and by mid-week Governor Newsom laid down the law for all of California. Within two weeks from that, nearly every state was under some sort of official restrictions. Currently, the order is through May 3, but likely to be extended at least a few more weeks before restrictions start easing up.

Frankly, we knew this was coming, and we (my wife and I) were pretty well prepared to shelter in place starting with the weekend. Still, we went out Saturday night to see my wife's cousin who was passing through town. We were the only customers in the restaurant for much of the meal, but got great service and lots of attention from the staff. A "good" but eerie experience.

Then on Sunday we considered cancelling our plans, but went out because how often does a friend have a 90th birthday party? Hard to imagine at the time that it would be our last "social event" for (perhaps) several months. That was in San Francisco, and coming back down an empty Van Ness Avenue felt like a scene from the Omega Man.

On that Monday, one month ago, we were already hiding out when the official order came. Since then we've only been out for occasional trips to a market, and for near daily walks. We have bandanas we wear around our faces as masks on walks, and a limited supply of disposable medical masks for the market.

By the third day, I'd started doing a daily "Quarantine Hootenanny," quickly recording and posting to Facebook a song on guitar or ukulele. A couple of days into that, I started posting the daily songs to YouTube, and cleaned up my channel that I'd been neglecting for several year. In these thirty days I've already posted 28 Quarantunes and four old-stlye vlogs.

Other original vloggers from way back in 2006 also came back and started posting at about the same time, and for the same sheltering-in-place reasons, and it's been something of a fun reunion.

Other activities: board games (Scrabble, Monopoly), puzzles, cooking, eating, washing dishes...

Work-wise, there's not much. A board I'm on, to start up a new nonprofit in Santa Cruz, has moved our meetings online, and changed from weekly to semi-weekly, as things have slowed to an uncertain crawl in our launch plans. But enrollments in my on-line course have surged, as people with time on their hands are looking for something to do.

Perhaps I'll do a separate blog about the political aspects of this, and how perilously close this country is to completely abandoning any pretense of democracy and accepting a Trump dictatorship, but my point here is just to document my personal journey of trying to remain sane and keep our spirits up.

The Lily Pond - A parable within a riddle?

For those of you who still think this coronavirus stuff "is just media madness" (or liberal hoax), here's an old riddle for you:

In a lake, there is a patch of lily pads. This patch doubles in size every day. It completely covers the pond in 48 days. On what day will it cover half the pond?

Many people will guess that it's day 24, and they'd be wrong.

Half the pond will be covered on day 47.

And on day 40? You'd still barely notice that the lily pads might be a problem, unless you'd been counting them every day (or listening to the folks who count them).

Right now, the rate of coronavirus infection in the US is doubling every few days. Those numbers are "small enough" - a few here, a couple hundred there - that it's easy to think it has nothing to do with you.

But at this rate of growth (doubling every few days), it will reach all 320 million of us in the USA by mid-May. With a death rate of (at least) 1.5-2%, that's five or six million deaths by summer.

You don't think this is serious problem now because the lily pads are over on the other side of the pond. If nobody was raising the alarm, you'd hardly notice the difference between this year and previous springs in the pond. Please listen to the people counting the lily pads.

Wrong guesses on riddles are no big deal. Wrong guesses on pandemics kill millions.

(NOTE: I first posted this on Facebook a few days ago, but thought I'd re-post here for wider sharing. Also, in this time of social distancing and sheltering-in-place, I'm looking at re-starting some of my broader social media venues.)

James Bond and the Color Line

I haven't blogged for a while, so let's get re-started with a truly controversial topic... Should (or could) the next James Bond be black?

My favorite James Bond is still the Bond of my youth: Sean Connery. The best Bond movie ever is still Goldfinger. Don't argue with me; that's simply a fact. I was pissed off when Roger Moore took over, 'cause it just wasn't right!

And yet, back when I was a toddler and Sean Connery was hired to play Bond, there was outrage. Hadn't the producers read the books?

James Bond is clearly, deliberately, and proudly Welsh! His background, history, education, and stature are all laid out in the books in such a way that a Scott could never accurately portray.
Yes, they were serious: Connery, from Edinburgh, was entirely unfit to play Bond, from Wales. Bond is a certain kind of gentleman, that Connery certainly is not, was the general feeling. *

But Albert "Cubby" Broccoli was on to something. Bond was bigger than the books. Bond was more worldly than Welsh. Bond was more timeless than the era in which he was created.

The movie Bonds have always been contemporary, and have refused aging with the post WWII generation that spawned the character. I miss the Aston Martin, but Bond can drive a BMW, and that's just fine.

What are the requirements to play the modern movie Bond? Bond must be loyal to the Queen, and Bond must be cooler than cool. Race (and gender) are inconsequential.

The question to the current franchise owners/producers is how to make the Bond fresh and relevant again? Questioning whether he "needs" to be played by a white actor is certainly part of that. But - for me at least, just IMHO - that also means stepping back from the effects and gadgetry a bit and coming up with a story that's relevant to the world today, and finding the very best actors to perform it.

Hiring a black Bond just because it's "trendy" and will get some extra PR... I don't object, but that's not enough to get me to the theater. Hiring a black Bond because it contributes to the story and says something about our changing world (and then casting the best person)... That's something I'll shell out to see.

Now... on to Superman... What makes you think Superman has to be white? He's not even human!

* After Connery was hired, Ian Flemming wrote in the added back story that Bond's father was Scottish, and that, although raised in Wales, Bond was educated in partly Edinburgh. I'm pretty sure that Timothy Dalton has been the only Welshman to play Bond to date. For more on all this, please see JB & Wales.

Ray Thomas is Dead. No, He's Outside, Looking In

In October of 1972, at the age of eleven, my brothers and I rode the MTA to Boston Garden for what would be my first real rock concert; The Moody Blues. (If memory serves, we did not ride the MTA home, but our father picked us up at an appointed time and place.)

Our seats (courtesy of Dad, who worked for the Moody's distributor, London Records), were third row, slightly to the left of center, right in front of flautist/singer, Ray Thomas. At one point, while introducing a song, Ray paused, asking "What album was this on?" I shouted the answer up at him (probably the catalog number too). Ray looked down, surprised that the answer came from probably the youngest person in the crowd, then realized I was right, and finished up the intro.

Over the years I saw the classic Moody's perform several times in Boston, then again in the come-back tours in Los Angeles (and, most recently, Justin Hayward solo in Napa).

While I don't necessarily still listen to their music as often as other favorites from over the years, all of their albums continue to hold memories and meaning. Justin's songwriting won me over as a devoted fan forever, but it was Ray's songs, like Dear Diary and Legend of a Mind, that first pulled me in as a child.

And today, at the age of 76, Ray Thomas has died, "suddenly at his home in Surrey, England. No cause of death was announced."

Ray Thomas is dead
No, no, no, no
He's outside
Looking in

The Moody Blues, on tour, 1970

Damn the Torpedoes

Sometimes I get discouraged,
Sometimes I feel so down,
Sometimes I get so worried,
And I don't know what about.
But it works out in the long run,
It always goes away,
I've come now to accept it
As a reoccurring phase.
Why worry 'bout the rain?
Why worry 'bout the thunder?
Century City's got everything covered.

I remember, sometime in late 1976, hearing Breakdown for the first time on the radio and thinking there was something there that set this new kid apart from everything else we'd been hearing. There was the validation of the viewpoint when Roger McGuinn covered American Girl on his Thunderbyrd LP.

By the end of 1979, I had just graduated High School, and I recall being in line at Tower Records, Sunset Blvd, to pick up "Damn the Torpedoes" on the day it was released. I'd already heard much of it on the radio - Refugee for sure, maybe Here Comes My Girl or Even the Losers - but nothing that could have prepared me for Louisiana Rain.

Today that rain is falling just like tears, running down my face, washing out the years, soaking through my shoes. I will never be the same since that album played through. It may only be 36 minutes and 38 seconds, but it opened up the possibilities of what a rock and roll record could be. Now it's just the normal noises in here.

I can't say I remember which was the first time I saw Tom Petty and Heartbreakers play live, but there were many shows, from Hollywood's Universal Amphitheater to Sacramento's Arco Arena.

One of my best concerts ever: Bob Dylan, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers all together (1985?). Three hours of nonstop music. Tom & the band - Tom, Bob, & the band - Tom & Bob acoustic - Bob and the band - just the Heartbreakers - everybody all together.

My other favorite show was maybe the last time I saw Tom Petty. It was the Mudcrutch reunion tour a few years ago, and they played the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium. It was great to see Tom having fun with his old buddies, back in a smaller venue outside of the areneas, not needing to be the lead man on every song.

We missed the final tour this past few months. Tickets were already sold out at 10:01 am, one minute after going on sale. He'd announced it would be the last "Big Tour" and that was fine with me. I hoped it would lead to more Mudcrutch type shows: intimate affairs with the long-time fans, where we'd all rock together. I didn't imagine that could really be the final tour.

Tom Petty was taken from us last night way too early, following an afternoon of rumors and premature headlines.

Today my thoughts are with his kids, and young grand-kids, and with the guys in the band. Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench have been the rock Tom rolled against from the start, and they form the basis of the most under-rated back-up band ever. Mike, Benmont, and the rest are all incredible musicians in their own right, and I hope I have not seen or heard the last from them.

How about a cheer for all those bad girls
And the boys who play that rock and roll
They love it, like you love Jesus
It does the same thing to their souls

Oops, I Did it Again!

Yesterday, I posted offensive material to Facebook, and lost a few friends over it. Again.

What was my offense? A photo (included below) and a short video of my participation in an anti-Fascist protest in San Francisco.

Following the events in Charlottesville, VA, where one woman was killed and 30 more injured while counter-protesting a rally filled with Klansmen and Nazis shouting their hate-filled rhetoric, similar "alt-Right" events were planned for the Bay Area.

Rather than attend their hate rally and confront them head-on (potentially leading to more violence), counter-rallies were scheduled for various places away from the epicenter of hate.

We were invited by friends to take part in the Ukulele Resistance Brigade, and attend the rally planned for the Castro district, then a march up Mission Street to Civic Center. We would sing satiric anti-Nazi songs and be accompanied by two electric magical unicorns. Harmless stuff.

The Ukulele Resistance Brigade, riding Mission Pony Unicorns, singing anti-Nazi songs at the intersection of Mission and Castro, San Francisco, CA, August 26, 2017

Harmless, perhaps, and yet, "friends" were so offended that I chose to say that I'm against Fascism by singing sarcastic songs while walking along Mission Street in San Francisco that they un-freinded me today.

Silly as our protest may seem, the cumulative effect of all these counter-protests worked: the leaders of the pro-Nazi rally kept changing the location and size of their event, until all that anybody saw were a few lost and lonely individuals with alt-Right slogans on their shirts stopping off at Starbucks.

I believe that those who un-friended me have two general misconceptions:
1 - That I'm using the word "Nazi" too loosely to describe those I merely disagree with, and
2 - That this protest means we leftists/progressives/whatever are against free speech.

First, no, I do not throw around "Nazi" as an all-purpose putdown for anybody with views even slightly more conservative than my own. I reserve that word for people who literally espouse the views and symbols of Hitler's Germany.

The "Unite the Right" protesters were not simply calling for conservative policies, like "tax cuts for job creators" or the right of people to die from easily preventable diseases if they're not clever enough to get a job that includes health care benefits.

They went to Charlottesville carrying semi-automatic weapons (their right), flags of the (defeated) confederacy, flags of the (defeated) Nazi Germany, raising their hand in imitation of the Nazi solute, and chanting such Nazi slogans as "blood and soil" while carrying signs reading "Jews will not replace us."

This is not rhetoric or hyperbole. I'm not saying that they're "like Nazis." They are literal Nazis.

And this is what they said they had in store for us in San Francisco. Nazi propaganda that includes calls for my erasure from America. Making clear that however much we assimilate, Jews will never be white enough for them.

That we chose ukuleles, unicorns, and satire (on the other side of town) as our weapons, rather than baseball bats, large rocks, and direct confrontation, is pretty much a testament to our tolerance for "opposing viewpoints."

But what about Free Speech!?

Yes, the Ukulele Resistance Brigade's big hit (captured in the short video post) was this:

If you're a Nazi and you're fired, it's your fault (clap, clap)
If you're a Nazi and you're fired, it's your fault (clap, clap)
Your were spotted in a mob, now you lost your fucking job
If you're a Nazi and you're fired, it's your fault (clap, clap)

What that refers to, of course, is that following Charlottesville, several of the people who figured prominently in the photos, carrying torches and screaming hateful rhetoric, were recognized by their employers and fired. No company wants to be represented by Nazis. That's a good thing. That's their right.

Yes, you have the right to say hateful things. But that doesn't mean there are no consequences.

There have always been limits to free speech. You cannot shout "Fire" in a crowded theater. You may not incite a riot. Threatening peoples lives or suggesting that someone else "needs to die" are bad things to say.

The propaganda shouted in Charlottesville went beyond hateful. Whether or not it fell within the legal of definition of inciteful, I'll leave up to the courts.

I know that when I saw those signs, I felt threatened. And when the organizers said they were coming to my region, that I'd be complicit in normalizing that speech if I did not go out and protest it. I have a right to be heard too.

No, I do not support firing someone for basic political differences that have nothing to do with the employer-employee relationship. But I know full well that if I make a public statement that goes against my employer's mission or damages my employer's image (such as suggesting a group of citizens is somehow less human than I am), I will be fired.

Check the fine print of your employee agreement or handbook: you probably already agreed to the same. I'll bet that each of the individuals who've been fired since publicly exposing themselves as Nazis agreed to such a policy. No way their employers would have fired them if their legal council hadn't made sure it would hold up in court.

Again: free speech doesn't mean no consequences.

If standing up and declaring I'm against Fascism is "too political" for you, then you're a collaborator.

And if you're thinking that their saying I have no right to exist is somehow equal to my saying I do, I do not mourn the loss of your friendship.

Nachum Khannina, Refugee

Nachum Khannina

On April 23, 1891, the Jews of Moscow were expelled from that city and forced to move west, into a region knows as "the Pale of Settlement." The Pale, roughly the region between Imperial Russia and Austria-Hungary, was first created by Catherine the Great in 1791 to remove Jews from Russia entirely, unless they converted to Russian Orthodoxy, the state religion.

Forty-four days later, on June 6, 1891, my Great-Grandfather, Nachum Khannina*, journeyman tailor, paid 85 Kopecks to the Russian authorities of Vitebsk Gubernia (in the Pale, in what is now Belarus) for permission to travel to complete his training and receive certification as a master tailor.

Paperwork of "Jew Nofush Hofushov Hanin"

His travel permit says, "By order of His Majesty, the Emperor Alexander Alexandrovich, the autocrat of all Russia... Jew Nofush Hofushov Hanin,"* is authorized to travel for study. It is also specific that if he does not return to Vitebsk (and the Pale of Settlement) at the end of six months, he will suffer penalties under the law.

We are unsure of the route he took, but by 1894 he was known as Nathan Channen, of Boston, Massachusetts, and his family was with him. Also not known is if he had any paperwork or authorization to come to America before he arrived on his temporary travel-study permit.

The Channens: An American Family

We also don't know if Nachum/Nathan was new to being a refugee when he left Vitebsk in 1891. Did multiple generations of Khanninas make their home in the region? Or did they arrive there by way of evictions from deeper in Russia over the previous century, or just the previous four months?

What we do know is that he violated Russian law in traveling as far as he did, with no intention of returning. Nathan Channen and his family were refugees, as were each of my Great-Grandparents and Grandparents, who all came to America to escape Imperial Russian Pogroms, anti-Semitism, and the Pale of Settlement between 1890 and 1905.

They were all refugees. When I stand and march for refugees, it's for them, and the sacrifices they made, so that I could be a spoiled, privileged, American citizen. And I won't deny that opportunity to anybody else, regardless of race, religion, or country of origin.

The five daughters of Nathan and Sophia Channen. On the right is my Grandmother, Ruth Channen Goldstein. May their memories be a blessing

 * Nachum Khannina or Nofush Hofushov Hanin? One his Yiddish name, the other Russian, both approximate transliterations.

"Looking uncomfortably to the world we inherit"

The quote that serves as the title for this post is from Tom Hayden, who passed away last October 23, shortly before the presidential election.

Many people today hardly remember the name. To some he was a mild-mannered, liberal state legislator, representing Santa Monica in the California Assembly and State Senate for a couple of decades. To some he was "that commie rabble rouser" - one of the Chicago Seven, who consorted with the enemy during the Vietnam War and caused riots here at home. To others he was just Jane Fonda's husband (between Roger Vadim and Ted Turner).

(Disclosure: Around 1983 or so, I went to work for Tom's organization, Campaign California, on 3rd Street in Santa Monica, as a political canvasser. We were working on clean air issues, and each afternoon we canvassers would get loaded into cars and taken to different areas around Los Angeles to go door-to-door, collecting signatures and checks to get Tom's work done.)

Since the election, and particularly since the inauguration of P45 (I can't quite bring myself to say his name), I've been thinking about Hayden, and that quote, "Looking uncomfortably to the world we inherit" ...

At my age now, it's not the world we are to inherit that bothers me; it's the world we are to bequeath. A few weeks ago we had a small family gathering, and looking at the youngest, my two-year-old grand-niece, I couldn't help but to apologize to her for the mess the world - and our country - is in.

It is for her sake (and others of her generation) that I cannot give in to depression over the situation, or allow myself to be overwhelmed by the avalanche of insanity that is coming out of the White House. I will continue going to protests and speaking out in any way I can.

I may not make it to every rally. I won't be able to change my Facebook icon to go along with every challenge to democracy. There won't be time to blog, or even tweet, about each new outrage. But I will do all I can, and I will not sit idly by while the rights and lives of anybody are threatened - whether they are my friend, family, ally, or not.

They want to overwhelm us. They want to divide us. They want to make us choose whether we're going to defend the rights of immigrants, or women, or LGBTQ, or Muslims, or... just give up and watch the Constitution get trampled. I will not pick and choose. We all stand together or we perish together.

At the close of the Chicago Seven trial, each defendant was given a chance to make a statement. Tom Hayden said, "We would hardly have been notorious characters if they left us alone on the streets of Chicago," but instead "we became the architects, the masterminds, and the geniuses of a conspiracy to overthrow the government; we were invented."

The new administration is good at inventing enemies. A free press, doing its job of asking tough questions, is referred to as "the opposition party." A Judge - a conservative Judge, appointed by George W. Bush -  is referred to as a "so-called Judge" for ruling to uphold the rule of law.

So fine, I'm an enemy of this President, and I encourage you to be an enemy too.

As long as I'm writing about the Chicago Seven Conspiracy trial, let's talk about Hayden's partner, Abbie Hoffman. A nice, college educated, Jewish boy from Massachusetts. I can relate. In Hoffman's final words to the court, he said:

"I always wanted to change my plea. I had just a great urge to confess; say, 'I am guilty,' because I felt what the State was calling me was an enemy of the State and I am an enemy of the State ... [B]efore, you [Judge Hoffman, no relation] said, '... you could have had a nice position in the system, you could have had a job in the firm.' ... We don't want a job there, in that system. We say to young people, 'There is a brilliant future for you in the revolution. Become an enemy of the State. A great future. You will save your soul.'"

Save your soul, and possibly democracy and America: Resist.

This is not 2000; Jill Stein is not Ralph Nader

The short version: 

1. I'm a former Democrat, former Green, now unaligned, left-of-center, independent. 
2. It was Bill Clinton's first term that chased me out of the Democratic Party. 
3. I proudly supported Ralph Nader's Green Party candidacy in both 1996 and 2000, and have no regrets (Gore lost all by himself, get over it). 
4. I have been a fan of Bernie Sanders since he became Mayor of Burlington, VT 35 years ago and was thrilled to be able to give him my vote for President earlier this year. 
5. I have had serious reservations about Hillary Clinton (and have taken heat about expressing these opinions on Daily Kos). 
6. Nevertheless, I believe that a vote for Jill Stein (or Gary Johnson) is a foolish, unproductive, and dangerous act, and I urge all Greens and left-leaning independents to join me in supporting Hillary Clinton.

The long version: 

I don't need to get into much detail on #1 and #2 above; I've told the story many times before. With the election of Bill Clinton, the "third way" of the Democratic Leadership Council had officially replaced the progressive liberalism of the Democratic Party I grew up in. That, and the arrogance of my local Democratic State Assembly member, telling me he didn't care what I think because "Who else are you going to vote for?" made me realize that I did have other choices to explore.

For me, Ralph Nader entered the Presidential electoral arena at just the right time. Here was somebody who I had considered a hero since my 1960's childhood. In '96 I volunteered for the campaign. Going to hear him speak when he visited Sacramento (where we lived at the time) was an experience unlike any other political event I've ever been to. Here was truly one of the most intelligent and thoughtful people to ever seek office, speaking for hours without a single sentence that could be considered pandering for votes.

(Read the rest at Daily Kos)

I Got Them Old #DemExit Blues

I'm no stranger to political disappointment.

My first presidential election cycle (at 19) was in 1980. I voted for Ted Kennedy in the primary. Come November, as I was driving from work to my poling place, a little before 7 PM, Pacific Time, President Carter conceded the election to Ronald Reagan. I went in and voted for Carter anyway, just for the hell of it, even though the election was technically over.

In 1984 I became an early fan of Gary Hart and he was my primary choice. He was way in the back of the Democratic field that year (when the time came, I got behind the Mondale-Ferraro ticket, like any good little Democrat would), but for the next four years I read all I could by and about Hart, and was ready for him in '88.

Although an early leader in 1988, the Hart campaign went down in flaming hubris. Talk about disappointment: I'd just spent four years promoting the jerk who dared the press to follow him and "accidentally" discover him with his mistress. My second choice, Jesse Jackson, got my primary vote. Jackson didn't get the nomination either. I voted for third choice, third-rate, Mike Dukakis, in the 1988 general election. He didn't win.

In 1992 I distrusted Bill Clinton and the whole Democratic Leadership Council gang, but once my primary choice, Jerry Brown, was out of the race, I watched the Democratic Convention, drew a deep breath, and volunteered to help elect Bill. After a dozen years of voting, I finally backed a winner!

... Read the rest of my saga (and my thoughts for 2016) at DailyKos ...

Mellencamp & Carter: New Concert, Old Memories

John Mellencamp & Carlene Carter
Paramount Theater, Oakland, CA
July 25, 2015

John Mellencamp gets no respect. I know because I'm as guilty as anybody when it comes to under-estimating this rock icon. I want to review the concert of his that I saw last night, but first I need to go back 33 years or so and issue an apology.

In 1982 I was a manager for the Music Plus chain of record stores. One fine day I was at the home office attending one of our regular managers meetings when they rolled out a TV, dimmed the lights, and played us a video of a new song we would be promoting.

We thought it was a joke. We recognized the artist from his prior poor-selling albums, but this little ditty about teenagers sucking down chili dogs behind Tastee Freezes in the heartland (among other things) did not impress us. I get it now, but back then I was just too cool to relate. We laughed through it and made rude jokes about his height and how Pat Benatar's cover his previous single, "I Need A Lover," had outsold his.

The lights came up and the bosses said, "And now we'd like you to meet Mr. Cougar..." When the song had started he had apparently slipped into the room and was seated right behind us. Oops. If he overheard anything he didn't let on and very kindly spoke with each of us and signed all our copies of American Fool.

In the decades since I've slowly come to respect him more and more. While I've never been a super fan, I have bought a couple of CDs, and appreciated him as a thoughtful person, and a dedicated musician. Still, when the Mrs. suggested we see him in concert I was slow to jump on it, until she told me the opening act would be Carlene Carter.

By the time of my Johnny Cougar faux pas, Carlene Carter had already become my secret country crush. Back around 1979 I'd slip on Musical Shapes or Two Sides to Every Woman between the Ramones, Who, Deep Purple, and Kinks records that were my norm. I've followed her career off and on since then, but never had a chance to meet her or even see her live until last night.

Her performance was worth the 35 year wait. Just her and her guitar (and occasional piano) was enough to fill the hall with raw country emotion and rock 'n' roll power. Her new CD, Carter Girl, is a tribute to her family, so the show was full of stories of learning to play guitar from grandma, Maybelle Carter, getting songwriting advice from her mother, June, and watching them perform with the rest of the Carter Family. She shared how her life changed when her mom married "Big John" (Cash), growing the family, but keeping the roots close to home and their music.

Most of the Mellencamp audience may not have known who that Carter Girl was when she stepped out on stage, but by the time she was done they were cheering every song, laughing at all her stories, and singing along with (her great uncle) A.P. Carter's version of "Can the Circle Be Unbroken (By and By)."

After her set she took a table in the lobby, signing pictures and CDs, talking with the fans, and smiling for pictures with every one of us. Getting that hug from her will stand as one of my favorite "brush with greatness" stories for many years to come.

That would have been enough for the night, but the lights were dimming in the theater, and Mr. Mellencamp was taking the stage, so we re-took our seats.

Did I mention that John Mellencamp gets no respect? I mean, I knew he'd put on a good show. I didn't know he'd put on a great one. The man, and his six-piece band, are professional rockers. They are note perfect, powerful, and play off each others' strengths like a well-oiled machine. And why shouldn't they be tight? Guitarist Mike Wanchic has been with Mellencamp for 40 years! Violinist Miriam Sturm for over 20.

There were (most of) the hits you'd expect (or demand) to hear - after all these years you kind of forget just how many he's had - and plenty of new songs too in the nearly two hour set. While most of them were played seriously, even he's now laughing at "Jack and Diane," doing it solo acoustic, while the rest of the band took a quick break.

"I don't know why I even play this thing anymore, other than that you expect it," was part of the intro. He then let the audience do most of the work, laughing and correcting them when they launched into the chorus after the first verse. "No, the chorus doesn't come until after the second verse! If I'd known then that you wanted to go right to the chorus I could have saved a lot of time and trouble coming up with that second verse."

Miss Carter came back on to join the band on a couple of numbers from Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, a musical that Mr. Mellencamp wrote with Stephen King (yes, that Stephen King). Rumor is that once the tour is over, Mellencamp and Carter will be recording a duets album together.

The show continued and rocked some more. I thought it was coming to a crescendo when the Walls Came a-Tumblin' Down, but it just continued to build from there. The entire audience were on their feet screaming along with the last several numbers. He Fought Authority, and I swear this time he won.

Bottom line: It was a thrill to hear and meet Carlene Carter after all these years, and John Mellencamp deserves our respect as one of the hardest working rockers we've got. John, I'm sorry for making fun of your video. And your name. And your height. You rock, sir. Thank you.