Just Some Cutesy Photos

I just scanned some photos that Jen and I took over the last several months with our 35mm using black-and-white film. Some were taken at Adirondack Animal Land in Broadalbin.

Curiouser and Curiouser

 

I've been doing some research and thinking about a paper due this week for my Literature and Empire course, and today I stumbled upon something interesting: A hidden layer of meaning in the Curious George stories.

 I used to love those books when I was a kid, and I still have my Curious George doll, though he's in rough shape, buttons for eyes and barely held together with patches. Liam has a newer version of the same doll, whom he calls "Monkey George."

What follows is an excerpt from a 1996 lecture on Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" by Candice Bradley, an anthropology professor at Lawrence University in Wisconsin:

I am going to begin my discussion of Heart of Darkness with Curious George. As you all know, Curious George was a little monkey who was found  in the jungle by the man with the yellow hat, and brought to America where he had many adventures. Curious George, we are told, is "a good little monkey." He is a good little monkey with no tail who walks upright and rides bicycles. Those of you who have taken paleoanthropology, however, already know that Curious George is no monkey. He does not have a tail. Maybe he is a chimp -- except chimps walk on their knuckles and generally don't deliver papers, paint walls, and make phone calls.
As we all know, George has a problem. He is a good little monkey, but he is "too curious." He is so curious that he causes problems for the man in the yellow hat. The man in the yellow hat dresses like a colonial officer, wearing a bright yellow safari suit.
In Curious George Takes a Job, George is in the zoo. He steals the keys to the cages from the zookeeper, and frees all the African animals. George, now newly liberated himself, takes a series of menial jobs. At one point, George breaks into an apartment and paints African animals all over the walls. At the end of the story he stars in a Hollywood movie.
Curious George is a two layered story. On one level it's a dumb but beloved children's story. On another, it is a postcolonial parable in which George stands for Africa, and the zookeeper and man with the yellow hat for benevolent colonizers. George stealing the keys and liberating the animals is a parable for the decolonization of Africa. From the middle of this century onward, the African took the keys fromthe white manand let himself out of the cage.
One day I read some of Curious George Takes a Job to my students. One student, an African woman raised biculturally, was shocked. "My parents read me this story," she said. "This is horrible! Did the author know what he was doing? Was he a racist? Or did he write this postcolonial plot into the book with full consciousness?" Unfortunately there is little written about the author, so I cannot tell you whether he was an enlightened man who hid the symbolism in there on purpose, or if he did it unconsciously.

Wild stuff, eh? Anyone interested in reading the rest of the lecture on "Heart of Darkness" is invited to follow this link: AFRICA  AND  AFRICANS  IN CONRAD´S  HEART  OF  DARKNESS

Wailing at Warren Street

Today, Liam and I went to entertain the first-graders at Warren Street School. Most of the songs went over pretty well, especially the song I call "The Greenberry Tree," which I learned from a Pete Seeger recording, and my own tune "Stinky Feet Blues." One of these days I'll record that one and put it on the blog. I played "Turkey in the Straw" and "Keep on the Sunnyside" on the mandolin, which was challenging because Liam decided to help me by "tuning" it before I played. He only tweaked one string; I figure 7 out of 8 is close enough for first-graders.

It's funny that the school district's Web site identifies Liam and me as a "father-son guitar and vocalist team." All Liam had to do was sit there and look cute! Here's the link to the district's slide show of Fall Festival photos.

Toddler Time

Liam, our 3-year-old, has been making a lot of progress in some key areas lately, especially speech and using the potty. I'm sure the two skills are closely linked on some Freudian level.

At any rate, fans of one of my first posts, The Scottish Pornographers, will appreciate this one. Liam was up at Jen's folks' house one night this week and watched the classic boy-and-his-horse movie Black Beauty. His early attempts to pronounce the name of the film were somewhat comic in their political incorrectness.

Click here to hear the clip

   

Hokey Pokey update

A follow-up to yesterday's Hokey Pokey post:

All I have for ya on this subject is the following link, which explains more than you ever wanted to know about this song.

HOKEY POKEY

Train Songs, a Head Wound and The Old Spanish Tavern

Here's my latest bit of narrative non-fiction, as promised. Keep in mind this is a draft ... (For information on John Fahey, visit http://www.johnfahey.com/)

   The first time I sat down to carefully listen to a John Fahey album, I made sure the lights were low and the door to my room was locked. I didn't want any distractions.
I lit a pipe of sweet, dark Virginia tobacco, let a few puffs fill the room with a blue haze, and pressed PLAY on the stereo. A good smoke did not distract from my listening experience; in fact it was a positive requirement for the commencement of my quasi-meditative Sunday-night relaxation ritual. Relaxation was the thing I did best that winter term of my fourth year of college, which was my second junior year or my first senior year, depending on how to look at it.
   I kicked back in a natty green recliner that had graced that room in my fraternity house for at least two decades. It was sturdy, smelly, and quite comfortable. From the first track, "Frisco Leaving Birmingham," I knew I was going to enjoy that evening's musical selection. The disc was "Railroad," an album of ten train-themed acoustic guitar instrumentals produced on the Shanachie record label. Although John Fahey enjoys legendary status among fingerstyle guitar aficionados, he isn't exactly a household name for the general population, and "Railroad" is one of his hard-to-find, out-of-print albums. One of the guys in the fraternity house who shared my obsession with acoustic music recommended I check out Fahey, whose name I'd heard in the context of Leo Kottke and Stefan Grossman – two other players who have rivaled (or, arguably, exceeded) his achievements. But Fahey was the pioneer. In the late 1950s, he started composing and recording fingerstyle instrumental pieces on steel-stringed flat-tops, paving the way for a generation of solo guitar virtuosos. His original pieces and arrangements of traditional tunes have a spooky vibe, a distillation of the old-time country and blues, jazz, spirituals and Indian ragas that were his main influences.
   Fahey had released at least 30 albums by the time I heard "Railroad" in 1995, but that CD was my first exposure to his music and it remains my favorite. His ability to wordlessly evoke the essence of the train song is uncanny. A thumb thumps away on the bass strings, echoing the rumble-rattle of a freight train, while fingers pluck out the melody of a steam whistle's wail or the dissonant screech of air brakes on a white-knuckle mountain grade. The titles of the tunes are as rich and intricate as their sounds: "Enigmas and Perplexities of the Norfolk and Western," "Delta Dog Through the Book of Revelation," "Steve Talbot on the Keddie Wye."
   I noted these titles on the back of the CD case, squinting to make out the words by the light of a single votive candle and the orange glow of the stereo display. I saw the second track was "Oneonta." I thought, "Oneonta? I've been there. A few times. Why would he name a tune after a rundown college town like Oneonta?" I paused to let a drag of warm pipe smoke stream out my nostrils before I cracked open the jewel case to look over the liner notes. They're simple, a paragraph of expository material on each track, written by Fahey. Here's what he wrote about "Oneonta:" 

There's a railroad yard there. It's part of the Delaware and Hudson R.R. Corp. I saw this line in 1948 as I was leaving Secret Caverns at Howe's Cave, New York, I love the D & H logo, and there's something eerie about that valley it runs through along the Susquehanna from Albany to Binghamton. Valley of desolation. Something frightening about that road. The sunsets around there are pure pantheism. Grandma Moses, Hudson River School and books by William Kennedy. I go through there every summer. I have to.

   I've always felt more at ease in dim light. More relaxed. With fewer visual distractions, I am freer to think more clearly. I certainly felt a rare kind of clarity that evening ten years ago in the solitude of my candlelit room as I listened to John Fahey play "Oneonta" and read his odd, unsettling remarks on the place.
   Many have written about the powerful emotional connection between memory and the sense of smell. Poets write about it, scientists have studied it. It occurs to me now, thinking back to my first listening of that striking album of railroad dirges, that memory can be stirred by stimuli of many varieties. Sometimes a single stimulus (be it olfactory, musical or geographical) can unleash a chain of memories. To this day, a few bars of John Fahey or a whiff of a certain blend of Virginia pipe tobaccocan bring me backto Oneonta. 
  
   - - -

   John Fahey was a troubled guy. He was overweight, a heavy smoker, and he had serious issues with women and whiskey, true to the "Blind Joe Death" bluesman archetype his early works referenced. For all his genius as a composer and guitar player, he was a challenging personality, not an easy person to like. I've read that he once gave an interview while relieving himself, insisting the reporter join him in a toilet stall at a concert venue. And once in the mid-1970s, he put down his guitar in the middle of a performance, lit up a cigarette and told the audience all about his "dissolute, horrible, disgusting" life, and suggested, "Let's all go out back and commit suicide. Every one of us." Then he finished his smoke and went back to playing the guitar.

- - -

   I made my second visit to Oneonta in the company of the Union College Rugby Football Club. We were scheduled to play Hartwick, which was one of just a few clubs in upstate NewYork whose record was worse than ours that season. It was spring 1996, and I had been listening to that John Fahey album over and over for three months. Not compulsively or exclusively, mind you, but enough for it to have made an impression. Riding in the van to the match that Saturday morning, my teammates discussed scrum and line-out strategies and traded stories about the previous night's party hi-jinks. I was half asleep and not in the mood for talk. I stared out the window of the van with the clanging riffs of "Railroad" in my head, expecting glimpses of D & H logos and Grandma Moses scenery. Something frightening about that road. Valley of desolation.
   Our team had a poor showing that day. We were only able to field 15players, which meant we'd have no substitutes available in the event of injuries or disqualifications. Hartwick's situation was worse. With only 14 experienced players, the club had to press into service a football player who had never before set foot on a rugby pitch. Hartwick was seriously outmatched, and Union was having a rare good day. Plays that had never worked before started coming together, our normally timid outside center started making bone-crunching tackles, and by the start of the second half, we had racked up a respectable lead of several tries and goals. We were drunk with the exhilaration of the winning team in a landslide when I suffered an injury that is still talked about at alumni reunion events. The football player, who was clearly frustrated and only guessing at the rules of rugby, zeroed in on me as I ran the ball upfield in his direction. I braced for a standard wrapping tackle around the waist, but he hit me with an illegal NFL-style block, elbows up. That sort of thing is to be expected on the gridiron, where players enjoy the protection of helmets and copious padding. In proper rugby football, however, such moves result in serious bodily harm. His right elbow connected with the top of my skull. I fell to the ground, a little stunned, but in a few seconds I was on my feet and ready to proceed. I could tell something was wrong because the play had stopped, and everyone on the pitch and along the sidelines was looking at me. All eyes (and a few mouths) were open wide. I suddenly became aware of a hot, wet sensation, and my vision took on a ruddy tint.
   The offending elbow had ripped a two-inch gash in my scalp, and it was quite a spectacle, according to accounts shared later over cold beverages. The Hartwick captain described "gouts" of blood visible from fifty yards away. The "crimson fountain" even rated a mention in the following week's edition of the Union newspaper.
   Now, a gushing head wound will generally disqualify a player from continuing, but our stalwart coach knew a technique for staunching the flow long enough to let me back into the match. I did not want to sit on the sidelines without a substitute player available, so the coach doused my head with ice water, blotted up the blood, sweat and ice chips with a towel, and sealed the gash with a liberal handful of Vaseline. I'm not sure why the referee found it acceptable – I was grotesque, like a freshly reanimated zombie – but I was able to continue and scored a try in the final minutes of play.
   On the way out of town after the match, we stopped at a convenience store for refreshments. I walked up to the counter with a Foster's oil can, a bag of pretzels and a bag of ice, and the clerk wasn't sure what to make of me. Does one ask to see the ID of a dirty, disheveled customer with a well-lubricated head wound? He rang up the purchase, and as he handed me my change, he asked:
   "Are you all right?"
   "Yeah, I'm fine."
   "You sure?"
   "Probably not."
   "OK."
   "Yeah, thanks."
   I left Oneonta with mutilated head held high. As we drove back toward Schenectady through that valley of desolation, I basked in the rustic majesty of the Grandma Moses scenery, and I felt pretty good, considering.

---

To hear a sample of "Oneonta," click here: ONEONTA CLIP

Hokey Pokey Funeral: Fact or Fiction?

This from my uncle Pete:

With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person, which almost went unnoticed last week. Larry LaPrise, the man who wrote "The Hokey Pokey," died peacefully at age of 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin.

They put his left leg in. And then the trouble started ...

Funny stuff, but I started wondering whether there really was such a dude and whether he really did write that song. I think I remember reading somewhere that "The Hokey Pokey" is actually an ancient play-party song motif that goes back at least to medieval England. The excellent urban legends debunkers at Snopes seem to think it's purely made up... I'll check it out and follow up this post later.

If you have any inside information on this, leave a comment and illuminate us.

A new gig lined up

Just an announcement: I will be playing at the Moon & River Cafe, 115 S. Ferry St., Schenectady (in the Stockade), at 8 p.m. on Thursday, Dec. 29. I figure it will be a good warm-up for the First Night gig that Saturday here in Johnstown. The tip jar will be on the counter awaiting the pecuniary manifestations of your kind patronage.

I've been taking a break from gigging as I get sucked deeper and deeper into the vortex of this semster's academic work. Stay tuned for an upcoming blog post on the interconnectedness of memory, geography, a John Fahey guitar instrumental, a gushing head wound and a visit to the Novelty Lounge in Oneonta, N.Y.

 

Back from the Bright, Sunny South

We're back from visiting Jen's sister in Florida. The weather was hot and sunny all week, which seemed even sweeter because we kept hearing about the nonstop cold and rain in the Northeast. We took a lot of photos.

For best viewing results, click on "View Larger" at left, and then select "View As Guest." Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

Musical non-sequitur: The whole time we were down there, I had two songs in alternating rotation in my head.  They were "St. Petersburg, Fla., Blues" by Ray Charles and "Goin' Back to Tampa" by Roy Bookbinder. (Who needs an i-Pod when you've got blues on the brain?)

One Thousand Glorious Hits, Ha-Ha-Ha!

This humble slice of the blogosphere just recorded its 1,000th hit ... and there was much rejoicing.

 

(Thanks for reading.)

 

Hey, Joe, where you goin' with that pen in your hand?

A flier came in the mail today announcing the upcoming release of a poetry collection called The Book of Faces by Joseph Campana, who has apparently ascended from humble origins in Johnstown to the rarified realms of the literary elite.

 Back in high school, Joe and I traveled in the same misfit circles, contributing to such noble enterprises as The Bugle newspaper (which I understand is sadly no longer being published), the International Club (Je me souviens les fromages de Quebec!) and the dramatic tour-de-farce "The Happiest Days of Our Lives." If I remember correctly, Joe was also one of the conspirators in the great FUBC-scandal-censorship-protest movement of June 1989. (Although he did not do time in detention for his involvement, unlike yours truly and another blogger who shall remain nameless.)

Jen asked if I'm jealous of his having published, and of course the answer is yes. It's an impressive accomplishment, and I look forward to reading the autographed copy I will demand from him in exchange for not posting here a photo of him circa his freshman year of high school.

Worth A Few Chuckles

I've started reading Dave Barry's Blog pretty regularly. He doesn't do so much writing as linking to amusing corners of the Web. And readers of my blog will appreciate that he is also perpetually seeking out new and better band names.

My latest great name for a rock band: The Hardly Mums. (Inspired by my wife's frost-resistant flowers on the back porch.)