BTB's Face Melting Music Blog

Coventry: Face Melting Not So Much

2011-06-25T15:28:00.002-04:00

Check out that dorky dude in the Green "nuggets" shirt - cool lobstah necklace broseph

I Don't Care if the Pavilion Explodes

2011-06-16T08:36:00.001-04:00

Face Melting Photos: 1994

2011-05-19T23:40:00.003-04:00

JEDI

Group Face Meltage: Summer Jam 1973

2011-05-15T00:06:00.007-04:00

The Soundcheck Set

July 27, 1973

Set 1

The Promised Land
Sugaree
Mexicali Blues
Bird Song
Big River
Tennessee Jed

Set 2

Mississippi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo
Me And My Uncle
Jam ->
Wharf Rat
Around And Around

July 28, 1973

Set 1

Bertha
Beat It On Down The Line
Brown Eyed Women
Mexicali Blues
Box Of Rain
Here Comes Sunshine
Looks Like Rain
Row Jimmy
Jack Straw
Deal
Playing In The Band

Set 2

Around And Around
Loose Lucy
Big River
He's Gone ->
Truckin' ->
Nobody's Fault But Mine Jam ->
El Paso
China Cat Sunflower ->
I Know You Rider
Stella Blue
Eyes Of The World
Sugar Magnolia

Encore
Sing Me Back Home
Not Fade Away
Mountain Jam
Johnny B. Goode

600,132 people listening to "Me & My Uncle"...wonder if there was any talking amongst the peanut gallery?

10 points to the GD for conducting facemelting in front of 600,000 people

2 points for playing Bird Song

Pink Floyd Reunion: My Face is Gone

2011-05-14T01:15:00.003-04:00

So someday we'll catch up on how Pink Floyd changed my life. From a historical stand point, there is no band that sounds like Pink Floyd, and simply, they cannot be replicated. Roger Waters, no doubt a complete prick, is a genius. He deserves the credit for PF's work. That being said, I'm a Gilmour guy. Either way, tonight was great for all PF fans.

How about that Wall melting? Wow!

Facemelting Driving Directions: How to Enter Blossom Music Center Like a Facemelting Pro

2011-05-10T22:24:00.002-04:00

Face Melting Americana: Osama Bin Laden is Fucking Dead

2011-05-02T23:18:00.008-04:00

I might actually drink a Budweiser tonight

The Presidents reaction when they interrupted "Celebrity Apprentice." In all seriousness, you will see this picture again during the 2012 presidential election. It might be the most significant photograph of his presidency.

Live From Darly's House: Carlos Boozer Stops By LFDH to Jam

2011-04-28T01:17:00.009-04:00

Skip to 1:47 of the clip if you're short on time - humor follows.

I had no idea Carlos Boozer could rip up the talk box like that! Love the jam at the end - bringing the heat!

Let's see what Darly's fans have to say about this video...

"I get chills when P-Thugg comes in on the talk box"
NickNapalm 1 year ago

"You are so dang cool!! Amazingly talented and you restore old houses! Wow....so, so , so awesome!!"
Wivanunu 3 months ago

"Where can I buy this DVD?"
MrJas1991 1 month ago

"NOW THIS IS MUSIC!!!!"
TheOninnino

"That's what I love, play the song,throw in the kitchen sink, tasty no long solos and get out..... A masterpiece!!!!! Love it"
backintimeband

"WOW!!!"
mouseboy71

"FOR -MI-DA-BLE"
BabsTen 2 months ago

"Epic jam. Love it!"
fly049 2 months ago

"I have been watching youtube for a few years off and on and LiveFromDarylsHouse is the BEST thing on this site. Great channel!"
01godkiller 6 months ago

"Kick ass song. Kick ass video."
digitalmkii 7 months ago

BTB's 2 cents

"This is definitely the funniest musical attempt I've seen in a little bit. Keep up the quality lulz"
brianthomasbuckeye 31 minutes ago

The Encore!

BTB Fest FAQ: The FAQ'ing Awesome Edition

2011-04-14T23:22:00.019-04:00

What's the theme this year?

"Whatever you do, take care of your booze"

What should I bring?

Tent, water, chicken salad sandwiches, baby wipes, George Gershwin records, liquor-cycles, shirts that say "Just the Tip?", your favorite reggae mix, an Inn-n-Out burger, and a VI pack of some tremendous local/home brew.

What not to bring?

Oxy Pads, Wampon, Molly Ringwald, Hula hoops, Kenney Chesney CD's, Acid reflux medication, malnourished wo0k dogs, Jeggings, Cops, Nitrous Baloney, Honey Brown "Lager", and extra kidneys.

Will camera's be allowed?

Nope.

Can I camp in my car?

You can camp where you want to...You can leave your friends behind!

Will this event kind of be like Telluride?

Ummmm....not really.

May I make a campfire or use a stove to cook?

There will be a massive bonfire. A toy Tonka truck will be available to move hot coals to a safe locale where you may construct a make-shift grill to toast up your veg burger.

How much does this shindig cost?

Freetabulous.

I heard there was a beer tasting? Is this BS or what BTB?

There will be a beer tasting around 2-3pm on Saturday June 5th. We will be sampling the beers everyone brings as well as a stockade I have been saving. This will be official shit. Bring a clipboard.

Can we park wherever we want and move our cars once we are in?

You will park where the Oompha Loompahs tell you to park.

How big is each individual camp site?

10 paces by 3,000 millimeters.

Can I set up a Banana Stand?

Based on last years sales, Chicken Salad Stand is probably the way to go.

What's the nugget situation looking like?

Good.

If I have "BTB Close Camping" can I still go into the General Admission Camping to visit my friends?

Nope.

Will single day tickets be available?

No. Crickets keep me up at night.

Will there be a "Family/Quiet" Camping or "Sober" camping area?

Yes. Please refer to the sleeping in your car question above.

Will there be payphones?

Yes.

Will there be wi-fi?

I'm looking into having a cyber cafe. Wait, no I'm not. Sike!

What is the security going to be like?

Mounted horses shall keep the peace. Volunteer shoveler's needed shitshovelingexpertsneeded@gmail.com

All the time I've spent leading...should I have been following instead?

I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.

Please contact me with any questions, comments, concerns, digressions, quips, remarks, thoughts, feelings, epiphany's, or restaurant recommendations you may have.

BTB Fest: Site Map Leak

2011-04-06T09:28:00.004-04:00

Top secret plans leaked on Festilinks!

Taj Mahal: Corrina

2011-03-08T22:52:00.001-05:00

Got a rainbow round my shoulder, shine like silver, baby look like klondike gold

They just don't write music like this any more

BTB Fest 2011: Part Deux

2011-03-05T23:07:00.003-05:00

Click for larger pic

Face Melting Stares: One Look Says It All

2011-02-15T23:14:00.001-05:00

Face Melting Music Oppression: The History of MANTECA

2011-02-03T22:19:00.013-05:00

Listen to Dizzy Gillespie's Manteca

Manteca was co-written by Dizzy Gillespie and Chano Pozo in 1947. It was one of the first examples of world music and Afro-Cuban influences being incorporated into mainstream jazz. The piece referred to racist tensions in America when Dizzy Gillespie is heard singing, "I'll never go back to Georgia" (Wikipedia). Ever since, a cloud of mystery and oppression has plagued the song and all who dare attempt to play it's infectious toe-tapping groove. As such, the tune remains the only Face Melting song with it's own Police Force and is kept far out of reach of today's pop music listening simpleton by sheer police intimidation.

Of course, the most historic image of Manteca oppression is the infamous 1962 picture of Elvis being whipped by a member of the Manteca Police after performing the afro-cuban hit live during the heat of Cuban Missile Crisis.

For these reasons, artists for decades have avoided playing the tune live. Even today, the 'man-teh-cu', is often found hidden by the band with balls big enough to play it in a Tweezer or Stash sandwich to avoid being noticed by authorities. Through the years the song has faced enthusiastic requests from Phanners, yet, the tune has only been played 11 times since 1990.

Check out this scorching version from the University of Central Florida Arena, Orlando, FL 11/14/1995 back in the day when the band apparently had two drummers and before everyone in Central Florida got hooked on meth. Proof

One last thing...

Dizzy Gillepsie practiced the Bahá'í Faith, which was created by this guy:

Tell me he doesn't look like a pretty h3tty fellow who loves him some Manteca jam?

BTB's Egyptian Thought of the Day

2011-02-03T21:21:00.005-05:00

This is why we can't have nice things

Face Melting Festival Announcements: Watkins Glen

2011-02-02T01:01:00.008-05:00

Wo0Ky Bobby's coming to your town

He'll help you party down

Face Melting Beer of the Month: Bell's Hopslam Ale

2011-01-28T12:45:00.002-05:00

Get some - trust me

The State of the Phreunion

2011-01-26T13:22:00.006-05:00

Madam Speaker Skelton, Vice President Marshall, fellow Phanners, distinguished Newbs, and fellow Americans:

Approximately 196 sets ago, Jon, Page, Mike and I returned to the stage amid two wars, an economy rocked by a severe recession, a financial system on the verge of collapse, and right on the heels of vocalist Steven Page leaving the Barenaked Ladies. Experts from across the musical spectrum warned that if we did not act, we might face a prolonged hiatus that would be insurmountable to return from ...so we acted -- immediately and aggressively – with a hair-raising Fluffhead opener. For those of you who made it to Hampton, we’d like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts -- those mug shots were priceless. We now find ourselves two years removed, the worst of the whale jams have passed, but the devastation remains.

Today, Phans still run the risk of getting TTE’d. One in ten Phisheads still cannot find work. Liquid Time is still on the bench. Many lot grilled cheese operations have shuttered. Drum circles have declined. In this time of struggle, let us not forget about the suburban white kids in the Pacific Northwest who have been hit especially hard this go around as the touring recovery has left them high and dry - for those who'd already known hiatus in this region, life has become that much harder. Even TAB passed you up. Twice.

This recession has also compounded the burdens that Phishead’s friends and families have been dealing with for over a decade -- the burden of shorter tours and longer travels for less jams; of being unable to save enough to buy a new snowboard or help your brah’s access quality buds during harvest.

So I know the anxieties that are out there right now. They're not new. These struggles are the reason I started doing oxy in the first place. These struggles are what I've witnessed for years in places like Noblesville, Indiana; Bonner Springs, Kansas. I hear about them in the letters I receive and the PT posts that I read each night. The toughest to read are those written by disenfranchised, deep forest Wooks -- asking why they have to fly to Colorado so much or why the dirty south got the Harpua.

For these Phisheads and so many others, jams have not come fast enough for you. Some are frustrated; some are angry. They don't understand why it seems like bad behavior on the lot is rewarded, but hard work at the Pizza Hut isn't; or why Burlington has been unable or unwilling to solve any of our problems. They're tired of the partisanship ‘WSP Sux’ attitude…the shouting and the pettiness. They know we can't afford it. Not now. Not with this many crunchy grooves at stake.

So we face big and difficult challenges. And what the Phans hope -- what they deserve -- is for all of us to work through our differences; to overcome the numbing weight of our endless best-version-ever discussions. For the Phan base has different backgrounds, different stories, different beliefs, the anxieties they face are the same. Their aspirations to achieve IT are shared: a good hookup that pays the bills; a chance to get ahead; most of all, the ability to give their children a better life.

You know what else they share? They share a stubborn resilience in the face of a Friday encore – a tragedy we dare not repeat. After 2009, arguably one of the most difficult years in our history, they remain busy traveling often long distances in rusted out cars, slanging hetty t-shirt merch, chasing the fluff, sharing hotels with their neighbors and even going back to Yonder shows or talking with old Clown Posse friends. One woman wrote to me and said, "We are strong, but hopeful, struggling but encouraged that the epic jams will once again return."

Deep down inside, the spirit of Karissa is with us all. It's because of this spirit -- this great decency and great strength -- that I have never been more hopeful about Phish’s future than I am tonight. And I can assure you we will keep Golden Age in the rotation (Applause). Despite our hardships, our phreunion is strong. We do not give up on Halloween. We do not quit during the last show of the New Years run. We do not allow naked-streaker-dude fear or setlist anxiety to break our spirit. In this new decade, it's time the Phans get a Phish that matches their decency; that embodies their strength, and can remember what key Curtain is played in. (Applause).

And tonight I'd like to mention about how together we can deliver on that promise.

It begins with a rusty, yet enthusiastic, 4 night stint at Hampton on Memorial Day weekend, a warm-up tour through the northeast in early summer, culminating with a police infested festi in Watkins Glenn, NY.

Yes we can.

Later,

Ray Anastasio

Happy January: Face Melting Chart of the Month

2011-01-17T15:05:00.004-05:00

As you can clearly see:

1) Happiness inequality has narrowed since 1980;

2) The most happy have become less happy; and

3) The least happy have become happier.

Figure shows estimated percentiles in the happiness distribution implied by running a generalized ordered probit regression in which both the mean and variance of happiness are a linear function of year fixed effects.

From this we can derive the following*:

1) Inequality nowhere near what it was in 1928;

2) Likely that inequality nowhere near what it was in late 1800s.

*
Statistics don't lie unless they're impossible to figure out or have no relevance.

Face Melting Video Dubs: Time Turns Fantastic

2010-10-15T15:31:00.002-04:00

This had to be somebody from PT - please step up and claim your prize

I'm a submarine

Lionel Richie Month: Hello

2010-10-15T02:09:00.003-04:00

Good thing this doesn't come across as slight creepy in any way

The last 30 seconds of this video is great....HELLO!!!

Face Melting Children: Lil' Vic Wooten

2010-10-15T01:11:00.002-04:00

Mama is so proud!

Face Melting Auto-Tune News Parodies: Hide Your Kids, Hide Your Wife

2010-10-14T08:46:00.004-04:00

"We gon' find you" - Antoine Dodson

Face Melting Artist of the Month: Lionel Richie

2010-10-12T00:30:00.012-04:00

Is it October already?! BTB's Face Melting Music Blog presents a fallaciously awesome appreciation to our favorite R&B singer!

Is John Legend the illegitimate son of Lionel Richie? I don't know, but Sr. Legend listened to a lot of Lionel Richie in his day whether that was a result of sperm or not remains a mystery. Also, you can start every thing this guy says with the phrase "according to Legend" - that's pretty dope so I put a picture of him on my blog broseph.

The Lionel Richie Story according to Wikiipedia-kinda:

Lionel Brockman Richie, or "B-rock", was born June 20, 1949 and is a famous American singer-songwriter and record producer who has sold (solo or as group member) more than 150 billion records.

As a student in Tuskegee, Richie formed a succession of R&B groups in the mid-1960s. In 1968 he became a singer and saxophonist with the Commodores. They signed a recording contract with Atlantic Records in 1968 for one record before moving on to Motown Records initially as a support act to The Jackson 5. Richie soon became the most well known African American in history after Harriet Tubman and before Oprah Winfrey.

By the late 1970s, he had begun to accept songwriting commissions from other artists. He composed "Lady" for Kenny Rogers, which hit #1 in 1980, and produced Rogers's album Share Your Love the following year. Richie and Rogers maintained a strong friendship in later years before their eventual falling out after a drunken Richie punched Kenny Rogers for not sharing the spices in Kenny Rogers secret chicken recipe. Rogers was quoted as saying, "Lionel punches like a girl...what do you expect from a guy named Lionel."

Later in 2004, he also appeared on the British motoring television series Top Gear in the "Star in a Reasonably Priced Car" segment where he was interviewed by host Jeremy Clarkson. During his lap, the Suzuki he was driving lost a wheel due to hard cornering.

In recent years, Richie has become a phenomenon in various Arab states, and has performed in Morocco, Dubai, Qatar and Libya.

As ABC News reports:

Grown Iraqi men get misty-eyed by the mere mention of his name. "I love Lionel Richie," they say. They can sing an entire Lionel Richie song. He has performed in Morocco, Dubai, Qatar and Libya. There is obviously something up there. The more we talked, the more he theorized as to the reasons his music might be so popular here. He thinks it is because of the simple message in his music: Love.[12]

According to Richie, he was told that Iraqi civilians were playing "All Night Long" the night that U.S. tanks invaded Baghdad. Richie was against the war, but says he could see a day when he would come and perform in Baghdad. "I would love to be here for that."[12]

Other than that, not much happened other than his daughter does a lot of yak and has a little dog. A Sampling of Lionel's Work can be seen in the clips below. Let the good times roll!

Once, twice...

Endless...

I have a reoccurring dream very similar to this...

We all know this is impossible - must be magic!

Face Melting Audio Advances in Live Concert Streaming: HoodStream, the Early Years

2010-10-11T22:48:00.004-04:00

During the great recession, it was not uncommon for concert goers to stream crude "speakeasy" audio and video recordings to hundreds, if not thousands, of people around the globe. These early "streams", pioneered by iPhone technology (before the iBrain was invented), were the only hope for working or economically challenged concert goers, or "couch tourers."

It's even cooler than it looks

Face Melting Backstage Access: Seif's Austin City Limits Covert-Op

2010-10-11T10:43:00.006-04:00

Thank Seif for this. I'm assuming these are the songs in the "rotation" - the covers are on the far right hand side.

Fuck Your Face is apparently "an option" - look how far we've come.

Note: No Secret Smile* or Face Melting Sparkle**

*fan favourite
** never been played

iWo0k Tour App

2010-10-01T04:34:00.005-04:00

A new logo...untz untz untz

And just a few minor adjustments...

Face Melting Ticket Stubs: Telluride Town Park

2010-07-27T08:39:00.001-04:00

WE DEMAND TWO (2) TICKETS TO PHISH CONCERT IN TELLURIDE TOWN PARK - YOU WILL BE CONTACTED - NO POLICE

Face Melting Head Explosions: Wo0k Blazer Edition

2010-07-19T21:15:00.005-04:00

Our Stinky, yet loveable, wo0k blazer friend finally met his match in Limestone, Maine. The IT Festival 'waves' jam done blew off his head.

In loving memory we remember our friend. Who I'm sure still owed most of us some money. Palmer, you get his million year old sea shell, he'd want you to have it. Whole Tour - to you go-ith the malnourished wo0k dog. And to you Sir Willowed, you dark night, the Wo0k Blazer would want you to have his last schwill of wine.

And now a haiku:

Dude, I found a dread,

Attached to a piece of head,

Think that Wo0k is dead?

A remembrance of great wo0k Blazer quotes:

"It's not what planet your from, it's what planet your currently on, brah"

"I'll getcha back man"

"Whose got my headies?"

"Woah, what a crunchy jam"

Thank you Mr. Palmer

Face Melting Greek Gods: Dionysus Knows How to Party

2010-07-09T10:41:00.002-04:00

For those of you 'making it to the Greek'. Get your East Coast Whale on, brosephysus

Face Melting Tour Shirts: "The Chiefs"

2010-07-06T10:21:00.004-04:00

Cedric and I wearing "the Chiefs" shirts on July 4th. Thanks to Justin for taking the pic!

Face Melting Decisions: Get Fucking Pumped

2010-06-29T08:09:00.002-04:00

Or not...

Face Melting Cars: BTB Fest Collaborative Art Project

2010-06-21T15:16:00.002-04:00

Going to the scrap yard!!

Face Melting Phish: Backwards Down the Number Line 6.12.2010

2010-06-16T15:20:00.002-04:00

Phish - 6/12/10 "Backwards Down The Number Line" from Phish on Vimeo.

This jam was pretty sick

BTB's 2 cents

Free Whally

2010-06-16T14:39:00.000-04:00

Somebody had to do it...

Anniversary Run and IT Fest Posters

2010-06-03T23:07:00.002-04:00

Can't read the name - Dilley?

also can't read name...

The Face Melting 1980s: Hall and Oates

2010-05-27T00:03:00.006-04:00

Daryl Hall (born Daryl Franklin Hohl on October 11, 1946) and John Oates (born John William Oates on April 7, 1949) first met each other at the Adelphi Ballroom in Philadelphia in 1967. At the time they met, each was heading his own musical group, Hall with The Temptones and Oates with The Masters. They were there for a band competition when gunfire rang out between two rival gangs, and in trying to escape, they ran to the same service elevator. Because of their similar musical tastes and close proximity inside the elevator, they quickly became acquainted. - Wikipedia

"So...What kind of music do you like?"

::gun fire::

"Soul"

"Yeah, me too"

If it wasn't for being trapped in an elevator amongst the cross hairs of philly gang violence, "You Make My Dreams Come True" may very well have never been written.

Who didn't have this hanging above their bed?

Critics Stephen Thomas Erlewine and J. Scott McClintock write,[1] "at their best, [Hall & Oates'] songs were filled with strong hooks and melodies that adhered to soul traditions without being a slave to them by incorporating elements of new wave and hard rock." - Wikipedia

Guitarist Robert Fripp, who collaborated with Hall in the late 1970s and early '80s, has written, "Daryl's pipes were a wonder. I have never worked with a more able singer." - Wikipedia

"I wanted to yell cab driver you know...ooo...oooou.....ahhhhhhhhh" - Daryl Hall

The lyrics of "Elevator" are just as impressive as "Cab Driver"

Ele - vator

Take me up (oh oh)

Ele - vator

Cause I miss my floor (oh yeah)

Got to get back to my floor (real soon)

Push the button again

Take me up (oh oh)

Ele - vator

Take me up (oh yeah)

I had no idea Daryl Hall was Buddy Christ

BTB Fest

2010-05-25T11:54:00.003-04:00

page 1

Page 2

Face Melting Blues Solos: Trey Anastasio "Crossroads"

2010-05-24T10:49:00.002-04:00

Around the 3:44 mark of this clip you might as well collect the dripping flesh that's falling off your face into a bowl and offer your freshly melted face to your neighbors with some tortilla chips. Nice to see a face melting version coming from a guy who "doesn't play the blues"

Face Melting Lights: Chris Kuroda

2010-05-18T22:10:00.004-04:00

Help, my lips are singed and I can't feel my extremities!

...

Face Melting Cover Songs: Stevie Ray Vaughan

2010-05-02T16:44:00.004-04:00

One of the best that ever lived. Don't even bother picking your face up off the floor, your face belongs to SRV now.

2 points for face melting while wearing a goofy hat. 5 points for face melting with one hand technique.

Face Melting Children: Sungha Jung

2010-04-29T16:00:00.003-04:00

No Woman No Cry. Please, I would tear this kid to shreds. Put down the guitar and go play with some barbie dolls kid, you've got no shot.

Enjoy

Face Melting Children: Derek Trucks

2010-04-29T15:44:00.001-04:00

He really sucks. I could have done way better at 13. Just saying.

Enjoy.

The Life and Times of Ray Anastasio

2010-04-28T22:57:00.015-04:00

Click on the images for full screen...

I think one of the artists took his prints down, so the "Ray Tesh" and the "16th Fret Langeurock" links wont work.

Hot off the presses! Ray w/ Will Ferrell on drums - $875 USD

NEW POST - "Wilsonstache" $1,750 USD

#1 - "Orgasm Ray" $175,000 USD

#2 - "Touch of Ray" $18,000 USD

#3 - "Ray for Dinner" $1,500,000 CDN

#4 - "Raytard" $87,000 USD

#5 - "Ray with Ed Pacino and Ike Gordon" $50,000 USD

#7 - "Punch You in the Nuts" $ 75,000 USD

#8 - "Ray in Wonderland" $ 3,000,000 USD

#9 - "Ray Marker" $ 6 USD

#10 - "Blind Ray" $ 5,000,000 USD
(personal favorite!)

#11 - "Ray Anastasio: Live at the Rodeo" $ 15 USD

#12 - "Four Finger Discount: Limited Edition 'Hosed' Print" $ 5,000 USD

#13 - "Ray are you Trey?" $ 10,000,000,000 USD

#14 - "Big Red, Little Head" $ 8,000 USD

#15 - "Ray: Very Bright Lights to my Left" $ 95,000 USD

#16 - "Geigh Ray" $ 50,000 USD

#17 - "Ray Features" $ 45 USD

#18 - "Ray the Cartoonist" $ 1 USD

#19 - "When I'm Tired, I Ray on the Ground" $25,000 USD

#20 - "Ray's 16 Fret Languerock Guitar" $67,000 USD

#21 - "Rayozhart" $3,000,000 USD

#22 - "Raytrippin420's Jambase Profile Pic" $ Free

#23 - "Really Windy Ray & Friends" $ 50,000

#24 - "Post Modern Ray" $ 200,000,000 USD

#25 - "Oxy Ray" $ 8 USD

#26 - "Limited Edition: Barbra Walters Interview Print" $ 500,000 USD

#27 - "Rayosaur" $1,000,000 USD

#28 - "Raydon, Raydon Go Boom" $30,000 USD

#29 - "Ray Tesh" $45,000 USD

#30 - "Raynimation" $700,000 USD

#31 - "Untitled'd" $10,000,000 USD

#32 - "Ray Blazer!" $ 180 USD (for real, this is on sale on ebay)

There you have it...an inside look at the life and times of rock legend Trey Anastasio's brother Ray Anastasio...

Tada!

Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k Handbook

2010-04-26T17:47:00.018-04:00

Oldfields, Columbus, OH.

A rare species these days, the Ohio Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k (Cedus Wo0kus Amongus)can be found bumming menthol cigarettes at gas stations in the Stubenville, Ohio geographic region.

Spring Hookaville 2007

Ohio Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k Colloquial:

"Fuckin' Sweeney, man" - this is NOT a sexual request or advance. The phrase is a native eastern Ohio Wo0k call emphasizing admiration for the bands guitarist, Steve Sweeney.

"Fuckin' Katz, man" also sounds like an erotic advance in reference to having sex with kittens, but it is just a reference to the bands piano player, Dave Katz.

"Ledges brah" - reference to the site of many epic Ekoostik Hookah shows at Nelson Ledges Quarry Park. Also used in conjunction with the phrase, "Allegedly" as a combined word, "A - Ledges - Ly - Brah" to cast doubt on the epicness of said Hookah show at the NLQP.

The Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k may become enraged if you laugh at his insistence that Steve Sweeney was 2nd in line for the Allman Brothers guitarist opening. Also, it is important to remember the strong ties between Hookah fans and the Grateful Dead. When some of you jumped on face melting Phish Tour in 1995 after Jerry's death, others laughed and went straight for Hookah Tour (classified as dive bars and fields in Illinois, West Virginia, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Kentucky and Indiana). "Phish Destroys America Tour" in 1997 pales in comparison to what Hookah was throwing down on a semi-monthly basis during their "Midwest Mojito's and Munchies" Tour.

The Ekoostik Hookah Wo0ks order of face melting rock guitarist allegiances is as follows: (1) Jerry Garcia, (2) Steve Sweeney, and (3)Gregg Allman.

Notable Wo0k hangouts include: Nelson Ledges Quarry Park, Hookahville, his Mom's house and Stubenville gas stations.

Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k's are commonly spotted by way of patchwork pants with little backward e's on them with mushroom prints on the side. If Wo0k identification is still uncertain, offer him or her a "purple dinosaur" and if they show interest in the proposal, Ekoostik Hookah Wo0k status is confirmed'd.

Get yourself some coffee brah!

me too...

Blossom Music Center: Cuyahoga National Park

2010-04-14T09:04:00.005-04:00

The Trek 550 rocking my favorite Patagonia Sticker

Toe Path Bike Trail. The old Erie Canal Lock system turned National Scenic Trail.

Blossom Music Center sits on the other side of that hill. Above 700 ft up from the river.

The Lot. Overlooks a vineyard and art gallery across the way. BTB Fest Drop Point?!?!

The sign at the entrance.

This was the 1st nice weekend of spring about a month ago. All of these pics were taken within 2 miles of the venue. The Cuyahoga River (now surprisingly clean)runs through the National Park; Blossom is located on a hill / plateau at the top of the river basin.

BTB Fest

2010-04-12T13:20:00.005-04:00

Here it is...

Details to follow...

Mike Gordon's Bass Rig

2010-04-08T17:09:00.003-04:00

"But it isn't nearly dynamic enough for you..."

Wook Vision: PHISH 3D

2010-03-12T17:09:00.006-05:00

Sun Ra: Possibly the opening to an episode of Miami Vice?

2010-02-11T00:01:00.002-05:00

Relax...just melt...

Ween: Hair on fire, teeth grinding meltage

2010-02-10T23:06:00.003-05:00

Instruments used in 5th grade music class...

Melt...

TOUR DATES: Jon Fishman April Tour

2010-02-08T22:13:00.010-05:00

Henrietta hits the road in April for a day-long tour featuring himself.

A limited number of tickets for all shows will be available through a real-time ticket presale directly through Fishman's online ticketing system at http://fishman.tickets.rlc.net. Tix are $6, $7 DOS. The presale begins tomorrow, February 9th at 10am ET and will end Thursday, February 14th at 5:00pm ET. Tickets will go on sale to the public beginning Thursday, March 110th at 10:00am ET. For complete ticketing information, please visit the Tour page.

THIS MONTH IN FISHMAN HISTORY

3/27/2008 Delfest

Who could forget this memorable night on the Maryland buyou? A 30 hour car ride from ole' El Paso, TX didn't stop this Fishead from catching some wicked snare hits. Note: This was a benefit show for 50 year old men who wear turquoise shirts and white visors.

IS YOUR FACE ON FIRE? Stop, Drop + Roll!

Set up my reel-to-reel deck next to the soundboard for max AUD quality = crunchy center stage loss less heady AUD! Who DAT!

Jon Fishman, Del Fest. Set II: "Jungle Boogie"

SET I: Intro > Drum Solo > Lengthwise* > Drum Solo, Faht, Bike*, Hello My Baby* (1:26)

SET II: Space > 2001# > Space > Theme from Three's Company# > Highway to Hell$ > Space > Drum Solo > A Self-Teaching Guide to Drumming in Retrospect (1:58)

E: Jungle Boogie%

* A Capella
# Performed on a Flute
$ With Toby Keith on guitar
% Performed on Piano

Blossom Music Center: "Here We Come"

2010-02-04T23:49:00.015-05:00

"TELA! TELA! ...TELA! TELA!"

"TELA! TELA! ...TELA! TELA!"

"TELA! TELA! ...TELA! TELA!"

"TELA! TELA! ...TELA! TELA! ...Dude, have you seen my dog?"

Face Melting Politicians: John Ashcroft

2010-01-20T00:05:00.020-05:00

Got to hand it to you John, the front row never saw that that kind of performance coming. Who could have foreseen the Attorney General of the United States melting the makeup off church-goers from rocky coast to rocky coast with his own American classic.

Adding to the meltage, was the eagle soaring news coverage which became an instant classic with young and old both sharing in the moment.

FACE MELTING CHURCH FLASH BACK!

Abridged Lyrics:

This eagle's place is in the sky.
She's still got a lot of flying to do.
You can see it in her eye,
Though she's cried a bit
For what we've put her though.

'Only God, no other kings.'
Let the mighty eagle soar.

I can say without a doubt my favorite line is the last. It really ties the room together, no? Amazing he was able to use God, Kings and Eagles in two phrases and make it work that well. Bravo, sir, on a job well done under pressure! Let the Eagle Soar is definitely going to replace God Bless America as my go to smashing-bud-cans patriotic song of choice.

In the FWIW category, my fact finding research on the phrase 'only God, no other kings' turned up this gem from a reverend for the Christian Coalition. Check out Reverend Austin Mile's Blog in which he manages to use the phrases "poop-bombing" and "Chicken Friendly City" - Awesome, rev! I will never make the mistake of challenging a member of the Christian Coalition to a game of Scattergories ever again. Be a fan!

Jaco Pastorius Melts Himself

2010-01-18T22:32:00.014-05:00

At first I thought this clip of Jaco Pastorius was going to melt me, however, it became apparent that Jaco started to melt himself around the 3:25 mark (Note: 1st self ownage of the blog). A couple slaps to the frets and Jaco slows down time. The trick though, is for all the mustacho's in the band to play faster. Later on, the keyboardist says, "Oh, what the heck" and starts whacking a drum. Not to be outdone, Jaco starts whacking his bass. BOOM! MELTAGE!

Let's analyze the meltage, shall we? When you just start whacking your instrument with reckless abandon and your technique is so good it works, your face is definitely on fire. How that drummer didn't have a "time to make the donuts" meltdown I have no idea, but for the rest of us, just another snapshot into Jaco's insane abilities.

Interesting point they make: why the hell would musicians want to get on stage and try to improvise? Don't they know nobody listens to that crap?

I'M PAYING FOR YOU TO PLAY IT LIKE ITS CUT ON THE CD SO MY WIFE DOESN'T GET BORED A-HOLE!!!! Sorry, your wife is probably going to leave around the 6 minute mark.

Anywho, this classic recording sets a new gold standard for any young inspiring mustached musicians trying to play complicated jazz. Jaco Pastorius, the man, the myth, the chart

Looks like Alcohol is a 1.4 in harm and nearly a deuce in dependence. All the good ones...

Bryan Adams: The Canadian Sensation

2010-01-18T15:06:00.037-05:00

Bryan Adams ("BA")- King of Rock or Rock King?

Doesn't matter what you call him, all he does is continually melt faces all over northern north America. Is there such a thing as too much intensity at a live show? As far as I'm concerned, no living musician today can match the kind of tonsil exploding face meltage this Canadian commander has crushed over the years. Think you know how to party in the Plain States, eh? Try getting BA'd by some heart wrenching acoustic vibrations for gosh sake...

Bryan Adams Festival?

Fire up the Gravitron and helicopters! Bryan Adams is coming to your town to throw it down. How did I miss this festi? Jambase concert alert fail of epic proportions.

Nonetheless, I'm super pumped for the Fargo, ND show. Just hoping I don't get those crummy seats like last time.

Miami Herald Interview - Bryan Adams can play jazz? -

Of course not, but...

'Everything I do'... STILL KICKS SERIOUS ASS

Look into my eyes - you will see
What you mean to me
Search your heart - search your soul
And when you find me there you'll search no more

Don't tell me it's not worth tryin' for
You can't tell me it's not worth dyin' for
You know it's true
Everything I do - I do it for you

Look into your heart - you will find
There's nothin' there to hide
Take me as I am - take my life
I would give it all - I would sacrifice

Don't tell me it's not worth fightin' for
I can't help it - there's nothin' I want more
Ya know it's true
Everything I do - I do it for you

There's no love - like your love
And no other - could give more love
There's nowhere - unless you're there
All the time - all the way

Oh - you can't tell me it's not worth tryin' for
I can't help it - there's nothin' I want more
I would fight for you - I'd lie for you
Walk the wire for you - ya I'd die for you

Ya know it's true
Everything I do - I do it for you

Particularly moving is the 5th stanza in which the Canadian Sensation states:

"There's no love - like your love
And no other - could give more love
There's nowhere - unless you're there
All the time - all the way"

Passages from 'Tao Te Ching' or an 8th graders diary? You be the judge.

This tragic love void can only mean one thing - the sickest whammy bar guitar solo of all time and the infamous "hold a guitar like a dangerous snake" D-Chord trickery only BA can pull off.

Prince: While My Guitar Gently Melts Your Face

2010-01-18T12:04:00.020-05:00

Face Meltage commences at the 3:20 mark in this clip. This guitar solo rocks, nothing funny about that. Seriously, Prince is the man.

For those of you who thought you would spend your Saturday evening nestled on the couch with your loved one casually flipping through the tube...

WHAM! STRUT! WHAM!

The funny looking little man in the red top hat turns out to be Prince and he proceeds to melt your f-ing face off.

Wo0K w/ Trey Blazer

2010-01-13T23:44:00.007-05:00

Trey must have finally realized most 45 year old men don't wear Marvin the Martian or Pepe Le Pew t-shirts.

100% Wasted Wook
100% Worsted Wool

Boogielope - "Set the gear shift to the Stevie Wonder of your soul"

2010-01-11T11:13:00.003-05:00

Face Melting Sparkle - "FMS"

2009-11-28T16:17:00.006-05:00

2009-11-17T14:13:00.000-05:00

The Yellow Rubber Ducky Dub...

Euclid Tavern

2009-04-16T14:16:00.013-04:00

I have to explain this one. A poet friend and I traded off rapid fire spontaneous creative writing responses while downing a few Burning Rivers at the Tavern across from the Cleveland Institute of Art one evening. None of this has been edited except for two choice words I excluded - so there are some mistakes, naturally. Sudhir Kade joined us later on and added some intuition. Essentially, you get 1 or 2 minutes and you have to write a sentence. It can be about anything. She writes poetry, I write prose. It's not hard to decipher who wrote what if you think about it. I think she started, but I had a few multi-sentence runs and so did she. I might end up using some of these at some point, but mostly this was just for fun.

The bricks hold the history and echo the present moment

Self-correction in periods of excess tend to ??????????????

Melt the moment into a memory by being mindful of your own delusions

Chickens could do this, surely so could he

Illuminate the night by embracing the union of a burning river

The Jonathan Club was Los Angeles most prestigious mens club, there was no unnecessary talking aloud.

The black and white borders surrounded the red square that spoke of the silence that leads to violence.

The Chocolate cake couldn’t keep up and so it slid itself into the trash as if to say you’re too good for me

The gaggle cut the ribbon as the dame slipped out of her sweaty flip flops and firmly held her ground.

“A gaggle refers to two ducks or more and I said “narcos” not “nachos" listen up you twit.

The essence of life is water and it has six points.

This period started with a moon that consisted of thirteen phases, but everything natural is cursed.

Jakarta, just a dive bar in a world full of five star hotels.

Vibrations that synchronize with chaos collide with life in its essence but avoid language.

He scowled like a neanderthal who was disappointed in how his ice sculpture turned out.

“The neanderthals art had been preserved , they are either buried in snow or they melted, they were fond of the ice sculpture.”

And that is how you skin a cat.

“Definitely, only next time, tell me before you take your pants off, a suttle warning is all I ask – something as simple as ‘I’m going to take my pants off’ would suffice.”

I am all the days that you choose to ignore, remember my footprints

He had a calendar from 1988, but no toothpaste

The eye watching you is just a faded memory of bad breath before the hurricane struck home

The monkey jumped up into the window from which it had entered, looked both ways, and made off with the banana loot.

Despite being cozy with big business your XXXXXX is bleeding like a virgin killed on her wedding day

Her XXXXX dripped like butter rolling down a hot biscuit.

Look at me with spite in a large hat and I will only see the shadows of the sun that once pierced my eyes.

The floor had two inches of water covering it from wall-to-wall and the dog wondered who overfilled his water bowl.

Mistake my laughter as rolling thunder and you misunderstand the tears that fell with colorful leaves.

She wished someone loved her like a teddy bear with a missing button.

He was one more smooch away from becoming the Bob Barker of old-lady-cheek-action.

Gamble with money, Gamble with love, but don’t gamble with a man and his gun.

He had the whit of Mark Twain and the humbleness of Samuel Clemmons.

I am glad that all your personalities don’t have names.

Powdered wigs are what separate the gay from the extraordinarily gay elite.

The knot is apart of the collective confusion

He tapped his hand on the top of the podium, as if playing just one note on a church organ.

You had a bloody glove in your back pocket when they arrested you, that doesn’t strike me as a “winnable case”

The free and just trial ended the moment you walked into my kitchen looking over your shoulder with a smile covered in every woman's lipstick that you have brushed past

why can’t we just hot air balloon our trash away. Oh, we had it hot air ballooned - Problem solved.

Nothing more, nothing less than every mediocre moment swallowed into a hot air balloon and carried into the next town for a soft landing

He pulled the string like a hot air balloon conductor.

Boredom pounded into her fist as it held her head in a permanent position of attention

Courage was futile at this point, he didn’t need it, either poor the gasoline on yourself or go home.

Fire is the most important element to have on your person when leaving home.

Light up Nevada and crawl back to the bad company that continues to walk towards death valley

He flexed his soft pretzel arms and winked at her like he weighed a million pounds - laughter poured form her mouth, she always fell for the charming dope.

Wrapping his arms around her like a soft pretzel they both filled themselves with the wheat of the land during the full the moon.

Grab that beer and chug like your going to jail in 5 minutes.

Jail is an illusion felt by the insecure

He tied some bedsheets together and got the hell out of there. He’d never been humped by a mental patient before.

In the 1920’s women were sent to the mental institutes for speaking, acting, and being the revolution that was always brewing within the womb of society.

A dumpy meatball plopped on his plate, she didn’t want hers, and thus is the burden of a ball of meat which no one wants.

The meatball=industrial complex that takes creativity and Individualization away from every community that it pollutes

He had juxtaposed and jabberwocky’d enough for one evening, sometime you have to know when to fold’em and so he left the wine bar – prior planning prevents poor performance, he always followed the five p postulate, especially when indulging himself in spirits and jazz.

Never again would circles feel lonely, they had dashes a plenty.

6! = 720

6X5X4X3X2=720

His origami was confusing, but something told her that goose had flair.

Interesting Saturday night, welcome to my world, penguins walk faster when it gets cold outside.

THAT WAS THE END OF THE SESSION. A ROCKIN BLUES BAND BROKE DOWN THEIR LAST SONG. THE POET, ME and SUDHIR SANG ALONG TO THE PIANO MAN WHO PLAYED US SOME STEVIE WONDER "Lean on me....when you're not strong..." CLASSIC

SASKATOON

2009-04-08T13:13:00.007-04:00

With a surgeons touch, Morton adjusted his glasses and gazed into the old mans forehead which resembled that of a manatees’. Preoccupied by the trajectory of his sloping dome, he had difficulty concentrating on the conversation. Morton wondered if this man was good at chess, while simultaneously, he became inappropriately tempted to pet his checkerboard sized brow. He watched with content the mans renegade eyebrow hairs that twitched with the speed of a shotguns recoil. The isolated black and white whiskers were completely on their own in this world. He came to attention and zoned-in to the end of the mans fleeting speech.

“So this is where you can help us young man. Would you like to assist our voyage?” A voyage, I thought my job was to fetch your car. The patrons would create small talk with Morton from time to time. Often he was treated like a simpleton who had just been born. It is quite deflating when the people you provide a service to just assume you are a dope. Morton believed a uniform must be avoided at all costs, however, the back of his jacket read MVP VALET.

Morton responded with the closest phrase we have in the English language to Chinese, “How so?” he spoke it with a perfect Mandarin dialect. “I don’t really know anything about sailing, sir. Are you looking for some type of first mate? Or something of the sort?” Morton didn’t have much experience speaking with the elderly or boating colloquial for that matter, however, something told him the phrase ‘first mate’ was appropriate. At first thought, Morton had no interest in helping a group of grouchy old folks sail across the ocean. He was not a patient person. The idea of answering to the demands of the elderly and being treated like a tether-ball was not all that tempting to him.

“Well, you’d have to help with that too, I suppose, but we’d be more than happy to provide you with a cabin if you would be willing to paint our portraits as we make our way along the trip. The bartender told us you are quite the painter! We’re not interested in photos. We’d like something more nostalgic, something with meaning. We need an artists eye – just a few works in total. I think it might work out for both of us.”

“Ok, I see,” the conversation changed tempo and Morton uttered a phrase with a harmonious ring, “So I’d be responsible for capturing the moment as it were?”

“Yes, it would be a rather worth-while experience don’t you think?”

Morton imagined grandness - the pearly white marble floor kind of grandness. The vision of a paycheck and a crystal tip-jar embedded in his head. The rent was due on his apartment. Morton worked everyday of his life walking on cement, yet when faced with an important life decision, he starred at that very same cement beneath his feet for wisdom. What does a postman do on his day off - goes for a walk. Give him the answer concrete. Lend him your strength. The manatee head came back into focus.

“We would compensate you for your time. No problem, as lets keep this a secret between you, me, and the wall. I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your boss.”

“I might be interested in such a proposal. The people who exited before you, are those the people who will be on the ship? If you don’t mind me asking?” he was too enthused to act manly about it – he didn’t care who the people were, as he asked out of politeness, speaking with the tooting prowess of an eighteenth-century fife.

“Yes, it was the most interesting of dinner chats! That is the hope and if you’d agree it would be a pleasure to have you.”

Grandness. The sun, the wind, he could feel it before he saw it. He wouldn’t trade this gig for the world. This was his chance to hit the three at the buzzer. Walk on the moon. Deep sea dive. Jump from a plane. The type of special you get only every so often as you age. He envisioned his very own corner of the deck with a paintbrush in his palm. He would passionately paint their wrinkles all the way to London.

“We know you might have to take some time and we’d be willing to take care of you, of course.”

Splendid. Morton T. Smiley figuratively rendered a beautiful blossom from the tippy-top of his prickly cactus head. He clutched to the note with the mans phone number, “We will be in touch,” and he slid the paper into his pocket. Morton gave the old man a quasi-serious two-finger salute as he drove away. An opportunity had arisen to leave his current life behind. This was exactly how the artist wanted advertisement in the paper should have read. The more he thought about it, he might just never come back. The rules had changed and Morton was excited. He would cast away his z’s and trade them for s’s. That was his first step toward becoming European. He had to get organised.

We are a species which collects, and often we rationalize keeping items which have little or no value because of the fear of not having at all. A disease that gets worse with age; parting is such sweet sorrow forty-year old arm chair. Morton was not comfortable having an estate sale and exposing his neighbors to his trinkets. That night, Morton T. Smiley threw his possessions in the dumpster behind his apartment. The only witness to his madness was a streetlight.

Arevaderche toaster. Adios couch. Sayonara silverware. Like moving day on a college campus, Morton just permanently lightened his load. He would keep his clothes, and of course his supplies and finished works. Half-heartedly, he kept a picture of Lena, but everything else would go. This was the destruction derby of cleaning house scenarios. He flung his possessions into the street, onto the curb and into the trash; he tossed them high in the air and watched them crash. With each thump and bang Morton reclaimed his liberty and the kings armada could not stop him. He grasped the hand-me-down lime green vacuum cleaner in one hand, gritted his teeth, and three-six teed himself to reach maximum centripetal power. He smashed the vacuum into the side of the dumpster and then tomahawked the remains into the bowels of the container. Enjoy your stay in Saskatoon.

He had left his things behind, but their journey would continue. All of our physical possessions have an afterlife. Nothing disappears for good. Machines can crush and presses can compact, water falls from the sky only to condense and return as fog, but essentially everything just idles in the meantime and waits to alter further, completely indifferent on the path of transformation. Energy was created from a fingertip long ago with the wisdom to know it would never have to work again. A gentle push into eternity, a truly altruistic gesture - give the discarded a fighting chance. We think it ends, but it does not. Wipe the tears away and sleep well tonight sweet darling, for the only thing on this planet which begins and ends is consciousness.

When Morton was finished, he crossed his arms and looked at the stuff in the living room which he had spared from death. He needed a place to store these items of meaning. Morton would call his friend in the morning. Tyler, who at the time was living in a barn in Vermont, was the post-flood Noah’s Ark equivalent of available storage space. Morton should have been able to scrape some sort of car together by this period in his life, however, he could never afford to fix his own check engine light, nor a cars for that matter. Lena would never let him drive the pick-up truck (probably a good decision). He was a long brisk walk away from the rent-a-car center. Morton would take the bus instead. After he rode his bike, to catch a bus, and drove his rented car back to his apartment, he realized he had entered into unchartered territory in commuting efforts and was still over three hours from Warren Vermont.

His car was packed with his belongings and the accelerator pedal awaited his right foot. Before Morton closed the red door to his apartment for the last time, he gave the space inside one last look and thought about all that had happened inside those walls. It was sad, but something told him it needed to happen. It was one of the best periods of his life – Morton T. Smiley wouldn’t have traded it for anything. He knew what it meant and he knew what it did not. As the door shut behind him, so had an era of his life that he loved. Like a swans neck, it had become slippery and steep at the end, but he was hopeful. He permanently left his key on the counter and put his faith in a new one. A rented key which might leave him destitute and spackled with failure, a collector of dead-end maps, and possibly homeless, but ultimately he felt he needed to take that risk. Grandness. Elvis had left the building.

The old mans forehead which resembled that of a manatees

He permanently left his key on the counter and put his faith in a new one. A rented key which might leave him destitute and spackled with failure, a collector of dead-end maps, and possibly homeless, but ultimately he felt he needed to take that risk. Grandness.

MARLILYN WHITMORE

2009-04-01T13:40:00.001-04:00

Off a muddy road on a slab of widdled down Appalachian granite, Mary’s seven bedroom colonial had seen it all. The house would talk to you with every step, mimicking with creeks of pain. There is something to be appreciated about a century home on the side of mountain that had survived that many Vermont winters. Its life would continue until that old house gave up and decided to finally slide down the mountain. A future pile of ruble in the front yard -- two-hundred years in the making, something tells me that house knew it was going to have the last laugh.

Morton, with tissues stuffed into his nasal cavities, tried to concentrate on the conversation of the parties in the kitchen, but was fixated on the grandfather clock in the dining room adjacent to him. Tyler rambled on about this and that, apparently having enough in common with a sixty year old women and her husband to handle it all by himself. The chili-pepper lights of the kitchen dangled above their heads tinting the room with a red haze. The wine is red, the room is red and my nose is red. Bud told war stories about his time in Portugal sculpting his life away. Morton fixated at the clock and wondered when he’d get his chance to exit and fall asleep. He drove up from Boston that afternoon and had killed enough time between helping Tyler build the fireplace at the Temple, eating, drinking wine, and festivities with the Vermonters at Mary’s house to drowsy even the most caffeinated mongoose. He excused himself and walked up the stairs to the second floor, the old colonial talked to him along the way.

Morton slid his hand along the polished handrail that guided him up the spiral staircase. Upon reaching the top of the stairs he was greeted by an old wooden children’s school desk, the kind with the hinged surface that opened vertically to display the hidden space where a six year old once stashed his paper and pencil. Morton opened the desk and filed through the brown air-stained papers inside. Letters and scribbling, postcards in cursive, he shuffled through them and raised a small photo the size of a few postage stamps. Marilyn Whitmore, April 7th, 1906. The stern face of what appeared to be a female in her early twenties starred back at him. He focused on her eyes and studied her. A face of porcelain took him back to a time when you might have very well have had to be wealthy to have a picture taken. It was a serious task, to be matched with a serious face, more than likely the result of a serious life. A roar of laughter wafted up the staircase from the shiny-eyed participants below. Morton placed the portrait in his pocket. He reasoned that Marilyn had spent enough time in that desk and that was not a worthy mausoleum for a life of such virtue. Poor thing probably had twelve children. He’d take her with him, she was small, no need to fold her.

The second floor continued the country nick-knack antique store ornamentation. Tiny twin rocking chairs addressed the sitting room which lead to four bedrooms and another stair case to the attic. On the hallway to the bedrooms hung a drawing of a jolly English man in a nineteenth century suit hoisting luggage into a stage coach. He was in a hurry, presumably on business, tossing his luggage to the concierge. Wonder how long it took him to get to London? The bedroom, where Tyler lived a few months before, sparkled will dullness; a perfectly tucked floral bed spread. The bed posts rose to the heavens and had a linen drape that stood to enclose the mattress landscape if so desired. A cherry dresser with rounded corners was the only piece of furniture. Morton made a mental note to ask Tyler in the morning how living in a little house on the prairie treated him. Morton placed Marilyn’s photo on the dresser, undressed and slumbered. He would dream the irrational, on the surface of the sun, dancing with quick feet, pointing the barrel of a gun.

Marilyn Whitmore

LENA

2009-03-23T15:43:00.000-04:00

Lena stood with her back to the fire, her hands perched in the comfort of her hooded jackets front pocket. Gazing out over the vastness of the mountain skyline, she hummed the tune that bellowed from the speakers of the pickup truck. The tin cup at her feet had been the vessel that kept the wine cold, but had also been the originator which stirred feelings from the summer before. She nodded her head to the music and gave a deep sigh, turning her torso back and forth, she eventually dropped her head back and stared directly up into the night. Her peripheral vision displayed a circle of jagged mountain tops, tipped with a silver glow from the shine of the slivered moon. The conifers in the valley in which she stood casted a thousand tiny points of darkness that were too numerous to count; nor could she number the shimmering half- truths that fluttered in the sky beyond her reach. The banjo plucked a somber tune she was all too familiar with.

The lonesome sound of the train goin' by

Jack stood up and stretched. He walked up next to Lena and placed his arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead. Lena uttered a small moan and her heart sank even deeper. The memories, they lived in her, and would never allow her to forget. Music can encompass just about every emotion we have. Combining place and time, it weaves together our past. Like your childhood school house, once you walk back through those doors everything is viewed through your child’s eye. Oh, the smell of the floors. The soul is a recorder of moments, a conscious memoir that, when revisited, will surface to some as they lay waiting to die and to others who review such as a matter of habit. Decisions shape us and inevitably steer the route in which we sail, but we move forward. We write our story. Lena felt the warm manifestation of guilt rise from her stomach and warm her face. In the morning she would be gone.

She was two days from the campfire now. A ranchers daughter, returning to the scene which had once been her life.

Memories of the city lights penetrated her thoughts in second by second flashes. She couldn’t focus on the road. The hills of Pennsylvania stretched for what seemed like forever to Lena. She rolled her truck into a quiet county stop where she would fill the tank and nothing more. There was no impetus to eat and a map wouldn’t be needed. She knew where she was going. A trout headed up stream; she remembered exactly how to get to Boston. A red door awaited her and a young mans face which she hadn’t seen since a rainstorm last summer. Lena slumped her shoulders and raised her chin. She shuttered at the thought of the words she screamed which played over and over in her head. Another hill.

Lena last left the high plains of the Rocky Mountains when she was nineteen. There wasn't much she hadn’t done in her home state. She wanted to move somewhere new, a place to start her own, just like her father had done a generation before. His land was beautiful and provided natural simplicities only found forty miles from Denver. She loved the ranch and all it had taught her; a simple life. A life of pickup trucks and barbecues, hands and the soil. Nonetheless, she chose to begin a new, and in doing so, removed herself from everything she had known. Even at her young age she knew that the blessings and tragedies of life have little to do with location, but she told her father and so it was. With her fathers blessing, Lena would move to the city and there, during her last semester of college on a cold winter night, she met Morton T. Smiley. It was love; the artist and the ranchers daughter.

There were no wide open spaces in Boston, no chores in the early morning, and the church's were made of stone. Lena would stay after finishing college. Morton was seemingly convinced that if he kept working the circles and concentrating on his work that he would get his break. He tirelessly tried to reinvent himself. Lena always imagined she would move back to the mountains after school, but she stayed. Hopelessly tied to a man that she secretly wished would give up on his dream. She never could tell him. Lena was restless, always hearing about how things were picking up and about all the possibilities. The showings and the networking. Never any calls back or positive reviews. She hated to admit it, but love wasn't enough. Her inner biology wanted to have children. She wanted to get married. She wanted a house. She wanted a different life. It crippled her. Not in this city, no more one bedroom apartments, no more possibilities, no more stupid paintings. Lena wanted security. She wanted to move back to the high plains by the mountains she grew up next to as a child.

It shouldn’t have happened like it did. It wasn’t what she envisioned, but when emotions are hidden for as long as Lena’s, she couldn’t help it. Seemingly possessed, she exploded in anger at Morton for all his foolish dreams and about the family she wanted to have. She left it all in the kitchen of the one bedroom apartment on the south side of town. Everything that bothered her about their life together. Morton didn't really say much at all. He stood motionless and listened to the person who he loved tell him that he was a failure. No more promises Morton. You cant just sit in this apartment and daydream. You have to wake up. She cried and pounded on that kitchen table. The same kitchen table that presided over their first home cooked dinner date after all the boxes had been unpacked. I work two jobs and what do you do? I’ll tell you what you do, you drink coffee and talk your talk about how deep and riveting your work is. That’s not work Morton, you’ve never worked a day in your whole life! The son of a doctor, Morton never wanted to be one himself. I can't live this life, walking these sidewalks everyday. Face it Morton, it’s not going to happen. You’re not going to have a gallery… the Fort Point Morton? What a laugh! What are we doing? How are we going to get ahead and raise a family? Morton moved to Boston to study art with no particular zen mantra as to why.It just never ends with this, we can't do anything fun, we’re too broke to do anything with our friends and my father…this isn't what he imagined for his daughter. You’re just pretending...

The mountains winded down. The lights of the pickup truck illuminated the road ahead.

Memories of the city lights penetrated her thoughts in second by second flashes.

MORTON T. SMILEY numeral one

2009-03-22T12:40:00.010-04:00

Morton’s eyes combed over the classified ads. Every other minute or so he was forced to push his circle rimmed glasses back into their proper place. Nothing. They must keep forgetting to run the artist wanted section. He threw the paper on the floor with the others.

The apartment was lifeless. Part of the charm Morton brought with him without much effort these days. He thought about tackling Mt. Dishuvious, but decided to procrastinate once more. Morton had precious few moments of ambition and now wasn’t the time to act with haste. There was a career search to continue, a man to rebuild, a space shuttle of hope to launch! Morton laid back down on the couch. Ah, you never let me down popcorn. Your cheap, no hassle, no mess. The perfect pop. Morton launched a kernel of yesterdays dinner into his mouth. Leftovers, a salty victory.

Morton glanced at the clock. He still had time before his shift started. New to the valet business, he preferred it to waiting tables. In Morton’s mind it was much easier to wait on cars. Fewer words and you get to test drive the customer. He’d be a jumbled mess trying to organize plates of food at a chain restaurant; the lifestyle of an artist is not always conducive to remembering to refill a child’s apple juice. There was much that could go wrong retrieving cars as well. Morton rationalized it as a yellow-flagged Grand Prix event. He liked cars, but didn’t love them. He needed the money. Fortunately, this was only temporary for our friend. He'd find that dream gig soon enough.

From time to time Morton imagined himself taking off in a flashy car and testing the thresholds of mayhem. Where would he go? Ha, try and find me in Montreal! Just look at the landscape! There’s eight rivers, forty highways and the Canadians are always clueless! Grand theft was not on Morton's agenda any time soon, till this point, Morton returned the cars and accepted a cash bribe to do so.

DINDOOR

2009-03-20T21:04:00.036-04:00

The Temple of Dindoor - an architects layer. Spawn of a hipsters wand; castle amongst Green Mountain barns; a transcendental monument to a distant cave.

The Temple of Dindoor was forever illuminated by the souls who watched over it. Worked on throughout the years by a rotating community of students who harnessed its shelter in the winter and replenished its spirit come summer. Mostly comprised of Dr. Sellers understudy’s, occupants from all creeds of northeastern heritage caressed the structure and added value where they saw fit – usually in the most visual ways. Students of physical design need something to play with. There it stood, a happy ton of wood. An ivy-league yankee liberal, David Sellers could have called it whatever he damn pleased. However, it had a name before it was built. A past event, from his younger years, when topographic maps lead him astray. There was no question what he would name his barn.

Located just a stones throw from the overgrown railroad tracks on the edge of Warren, Sellers would find the holiest of hidden caverns. A tiny nameless river twisted beneath a crack in the side of a hill. Sellers ventured deep into the underground of the earth. He soon waded knee deep in the lifeblood of a hidden society. Three miles sideways, he traversed through the reminiscence of once hot mineral goo. Dormancy - a dark infinity. Caves are the places we aren’t supposed to see. He had found a hollowed amphitheater deep in the earth, after the river had toiled him at every turn, he had found it.

Young Sellers stood in a wading pool and shined his beam of light up into the ceiling as if searching for hieroglyphics. Unlike the other elevated vaults along his journey, this room with its sheer size and volume, was baffling. There was no exit, only an entrance. Sellers had reached the end of the river and its summit was most impressive.

He would spend the better half of a week inside the dome. A dungeon of darkness, and oxygen, he sat on a ledge without moving, eyes open, the crushing vacuum of nothing; the same sight we all have before we exist. He would move and repeat without using his light. Concentrating, only to unwind and become lost in the opaque - he did not know where he was and did not speak. Power came over him; he was no longer confined by walls but engulfed in a never ending axiom. His mind had no color. He embraced the forgotten and discarded vibrations that seismically withered down from the living above. The rushing water of the aquifer moved in a circular motion all around him. The orchestral flow of dripping liquid deafened him, but he was the conductor. He became the ruler of the cave. This was his temple.

David Sellers Journal: March, 1968

If you wonder down pass,
the correct crevasse.
The traveler will find,
blind creatures inside.
The cave will sing!
A magical ring,
when you stir her sea,
with the light that you bring.

And when you retrace,

from the cooled wombs core,

you will forever carry with you,

the power of Dindoor.

Tyler Kobich sat on a stump outside the Temple. He enjoyed a break from the sun and a cheese & cracker combination tiboot. His flannel shirt pocket unbottoned, it held a half-tucked-in sweaty bandanna. He had been chopping wood. It was still very cool for early summer.

There are three things a Vermonter can do during stick season: one, go for a walk; two, chop wood; and three, count your sticks.

he sat on a ledge without moving, eyes open, the crushing vacuum of nothing; the same sight we all have before we exist

WOULD BE ATTACKERS numeral two

2009-03-19T20:34:00.014-04:00

A beautiful drowsy sunset fell upon the city that evening. Horizontal streaks of light and shade cropped the streets in orange and shadow as passerby’s leisured along the pier. Extending into suburbia, the youthful enjoyed the waning moments of the last few home run attempts before dusk. Even the feverishly laboring beavers stopped building their dams and let water pass unscathed by their mighty sticks.

Buried in the depths of a concrete parking garage, Morton had missed the sunset. He opened the red door to his apartment and placed his key on the counter. A single key is not uncommon for those who own nothing to their name. The key provided Morton access to the world, yet everyday he walked a lonely walk back to the door from which he came. There are situations we all face in life that acquire adjustment. Morton had offhandedly hung in life’s hammock, unaware that it was a rug which could be swepted from under him.

There was no emotional attachment to the city for Morton. He could stay or move any time he wished, but without a destination in mind he squandered that notion. He had heard they were giving away houses in Detroit for the creative to rebuild and gentrify. Putting talent to work, that a boy! He would dismiss the idea as life threatening. The Peace Corps young man! Not his thing. He confided in doubt.

The next morning Morton awoke and stretched his chubby frame, drank a glass of water and wondered onto the street wearing the clothes he slept in. His usual workout routine of walking aimlessly around the city in his pajamas. A true Olympian, rarely would he awake early enough to catch the commuters who jammed the streets. However, this morning was an exception. They aligned themselves in moving boxes armed with steaming bean juice to sip, all headed towards the epicenter of commerce. He watched their faces with casual intent and would look away if a stranger noticed his gaze. They were busy doing busy people things. A lifestyle Morton didn’t understand and would not want, but he liked to watch them in the morning when he could.

Dawn is an interesting time for those who freelance in life. Signaling more the end of the day than the beginning of the next. Morton would stay up late dabbling in frivolities, a lackadaisical bodyguard armed with knowledge taught to him by the kung fu movie Gods. A lot of people are scared of clowns, Morton T. Smiley was scared of would-be-attackers. At even the faintest unwanted jiggle of a lock, he would not hesitate to hide in a kitchen cabinet with fingers crossed masked intruders wouldn't be scavenging for cookware.

Even the feverishly laboring beavers stopped building their dams and let water pass unscathed by their mighty sticks

THE HECTOR

2009-03-14T12:48:00.013-04:00

Morton picked up his salt-water- ruined sea cocktail painting and walked beside Tyler down the busy street, his stomach, having been thrown a curve ball, swished papusa gruel. Honestly, our friend Morton couldn’t have looked or felt more foolish. A shambled artist with a hole in his heart, dreadful painting/raft board in hand, half-cooked by the acute gleam of the relentless tropical sun, caked in salt , coated in dust, without a hay-penny to his name and fresh off his first double murder. All that was left on Morton’s agenda for the day was a parking ticket, molar extraction and death of beloved childhood pet. Morton was a couple more luckless weeks away from spending the remainder of his days as an El Salvadorian sharecropper. The tandem bantered back and forth.

“Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Relax, we’re pals,” Tyler tried not to laugh, “I’ll just say you were swallowed by a whale…exiled from the belly of a sea beast… Ok, our little secret. I promise,” and so he promised – a whore’s oath. “I’ve arranged somebody for you to meet, we got to sell some paintings before-”

Morton stopped in his tracks and cut Tyler off, “I can’t meet anybody looking like this!”

“Don’t worry, you’re fine.”

“Who is it? Wait, I don’t even have any paintings,” An image of a shoe horn and throwing 'Sunny the peach smuggler' into the ocean flashed through Morton’s brain, “What kind of art collector did you find in this God-forsaken place anyway?”

“This cat, I’m not sure what he does exactly, but he’s got class and cash.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“At the village, he’s funding the entire clinic project, I just drive into town every once and a while and he gives me all the money to buy the materials and pay mi trabajadors. No questions asked. No checks, no nothing. All cash! I even get to keep the car for a little bit too! Got a heart of gold!” Tyler threw his hands in the air and rubbed his fingers together, “Philanthropic sugar daddy!”

“Why, did you suggest my work?”

“I know you’re broke, it’s Ok Mort, happens to the best of them. I know Lena was supporting that rats nest up there in Boston.”

“Thanks, for the brisk reminder.”

“Don’t worry this guy is good for it. Likes making deals. Squeaky wheel gets the grease.”

“I don’t even have anything to show.”

“Make something for him custom, you know, a portrait of his daughter or something. Trust me , I talked you up good and I got something planned. We’re in.”

“How much cash are we talking here?”

“I told him they go for fifty-a-pop,” Tyler cut his hand through the air like a trowel.

“Dollars?”

Tyler peered at Morton out of the corner of his eye. “Ha, fifty-thousand brother. I sort of told him you’re famous.”

Morton exploded, “What! Famous? Famous where? Where am I famous!”

Tyler’s voice inflected in a high pitch, as if Morton should have assumed, “Famous in the states,” he continued, “Mort, relax pal. It’s just a little white lie. I got this taken care of,” patting Morton on the back.

“You fool, what if he finds out I’m not! A simple internet search blows a hole in your grand plan Kimosabe!”

“Internet” Tyler was astounded, “Do you know where you are? Get with the times - impossible. Your stuff can totally pass. Besides, this is my guy, we got a thing. Just draw some triangles or whatever it is you do. How about a giant cigar?” he walked with arms stretched wide, a human clothes-line, “ All suit -types love cigars. Work the room a bit and catch a drift on this guy. All right! That’s the place, we’ll talk it over inside.” Morton mumbled under his breath they have internet, probably got a whole bunch of internets.

The punching rhythm of drum and bass could be heard upon the opening of the door to the El Ranchito. Dark and drowned out, this was the perfect location for Morton. An attractive hostess approached. Tyler pointed at her, “Hector,” she turned and proceeded to walk. Morton and Tyler followed her past a long row of booths until they reached a table in the corner of the Ranchito by the end of the bar. There was nobody in the entire place, yet the music thumped like a prozacked Jamaican sprinter in tap shoes. “This place reeks Manhattan,” Morton breathed like a seal, “Is this where you and Hector plot to save the world or plot to to save the high class escorts?”

The Hector was tall for an El Salvadorian. He and his benevolent, black three-piece suit pursued a slow tango out from behind the bar. He grinned, his gold tooth glimmering with merriment. A leisurely stroll, acting casual, the Hector removed his sunglasses and ran his hands through his heapish hairdo. Morton fixated his gaze upon the Hector’s stunning hairocaust. You could build a nest in there. “Gentleman,” almost perfect English, “Mr. Kobich, always a pleasure. Are we making progress for the children?”

“Absolutely, sir. You know me!” Watching Tyler accept a mister in front of his name and his chummy whit puzzled Morton. The Hector crossed his legs and leaned back, “And you’re my El Greco,” Morton was able to flash through his mind to his introduction to art history class and decipher the El Greco reference. “ I try,” he replied. “Mr. Kobich has told me a lot about you, how was your show in London?”

Morton froze. A fully compressed whole note of awkwardness. My show in London. What did that clown tell him? The rubber has met the road. Thrown to the lions, Morton made the biggest leap into the unknown in his ten thousand days of existence. “ I’d say it was well received,” There was something in that moment that gave him the confidence to lie. The confidence to be somebody else. If you’ve convinced yourself, you’ve convinced the most important person in the room. Lena’s words echoed in his head. There was no better place to pretend. It felt good. He smiled and pretend he did. “The way I handle these, whatever you want to call them , I never sell a painting at a show. I like to give the collector time to absorb my work. Only then, do we dance.” Tyler was the devil on Morton’s shoulder - he was proud.

The hostess placed drinks in front of them, a gift to any man trying to embellish a story. Modelo, it was especial. He immediately tore in. The Hector proceeded while starring directly at the hostess, “Aha, yes, reflection is the key to evaluation. There are many things in life we don’t fully appreciate until they have gotten away.”

“Precisely,” Tyler interjected. The music in the Ranchito fell into the background for the participants. “There are so many exponential crayons in the box, so many insights and inputs into this heterogeneous society…” Oh, here we go. Exponential Crayon Theory. “Think about how many get away? And then you see something, produced by someone with a vision of a specific insight, expressed, in front of your eye. Perhaps, the expression of the creator, can enlighten a past vision once cognitive within yourself and that former flickering glimpse you envisioned, is sitting right in front of you. The work is completely genuine… it’s been there the whole time, waiting for you to discover … and you have to have it.” Morton was lost and had no idea what Tyler was talking about.

The Hector nodded and whispered something to the hostess, then redirected his vision to the table and spoke very deliberately, “I’ve never looked at it quite like that before. So you imply, that there is a timeless connection between the creator and the collector. Interesting, it is not so one sided as it appears. Every piece of art begins with a blank canvas ,piece of paper, or whatever and then out of that is created one man’s trash, which is really linked to someone else’s thoughts, this visionary as you describe. The collector is not a judge, but more or less on a mission to find his suppressed cognitive visions.” Morton was still trying to decode what Dr. Tyler was trying to convey, but the Hector was apparently repeating the theory verbatim. The Hector keep right on going, “When brought together, however it may be, the other individual or other half, finds it, and as you conclude, must have it.” The three sat pondering for a moment. The Hector continued his thought, “So, Mr. Smiley, this creates something of an intriguing question. Have you produced something that has captured one of my previous visions, that I, must have? I see you brought something with you, would you mind showing it to me?”

Next to Morton’s leg rested his most meaningless painting. Battered by the ocean and dour to begin with. He should have just thrown it in the garbage upon reaching land, but he didn’t, and now he was being asked to explain his hapless painting. It would have been easier for Morton to explain the second law of thermodynamics at this juncture, but Morton collected himself and began to talk. “Well, you see, I don’t exactly have anything with me worth presenting. Unfortunately, I shipped my works back to the US. As a result, I just have this experimental piece, which I soaked in salt water, or, rather, I should probably provide some background to it’s origination. See, I soaked myself in salt water with the painting - to flesh that out, ha, it was an exercise in absurdity that I drafted from an ancient baptism ritual performed by your El Salvadorian ancestors. It’s quite an irrational practice today of course, for it’s a quack I’m certain, probably derived by an all-knowing Witchdoctor to protect the child from dooming calamities later on in life. You know, the usual. I am, of course, referencing to native El Salvadorians, not the guys on the boat who were of course, Catholic?” Morton had no idea how El Salvador was settled, and thus, his speech began to figuratively tip toe, “From this ritual, which I won’t go into for the sake of brevity, I took a slight variation of that practice and used it for my artistic purposes. I was hopped up on a lot of orange juice, but in general, that ancient practice has gone the way of the dodo bird and so I tried a resurrection of sorts this morning. Spiritual, yes. Artistic achievement, probably not. The piece is obviously a disaster, but Tyler wanted to see it and so I obliged. It’s just an experimental piece of gibberish.”

The Hector rose from his seated position and took the battered painting in hand. He carried it over and placed it on top of the bar. As he examined, Morton’s heart raced. Heads turned, the two Americans watched as he evaluated the painting. Morton scratched the back of his neck like a rabid dog. The Hector returned to the table, leaving the sea cocktail painting laying on top of the bar. “Well, that explains why you look like you went swimming in your clothes, and yes, to be honest I agree, that is a most unsuccessful work. However, I tell you something, I will give you a chance. You are daring, let us test Mr. Kobich’s thesis, shall we?” The Hector tapped his finger on the table, “ It’s a little game were going to play, ha. Take our friend Mr. Smiley back to the village and provide for him. It was a pleasure meeting you, I have some business to attend to, but please stay and enjoy. You can take a car back to the village Mr. Kobich, it is yours as long as your friend is with us.” With that the Hector handed Tyler an envelope and walked back behind the bar and disappeared.

“You heard the man, we’re in!” Tyler shouted under his breath. Speaking aloud and starring at the ceiling, “So, I have to create an image… of a mans suppressed cognitive vision…that I know nothing about….such is the prompt?” Morton followed with his best boat skipper impression, “Sorry doc, birds took down the plane – all me hard work in the ocean now! Better come up with something cause I sure ain’t got nothing ‘in the states’,” he mocked Tyler, placed his elbows on the table and used his hands to cover his ears. He awakened from his depressed posture and pounced at Tyler, “And where’d you pull that bullshit from?”

“What bullshit?” Tyler elevated his tone to match Morton’s.

“All that happy-nonsense about ‘envisioning’ and the ‘cognitive crayon box’. What was that all about?! Fill me in, I’m perplexed!”

“That’s a legit theory, totally legit!” Tyler rebutted and scoffed at the notion that his theoretical insight was merely verbal direarra, “Hope I didn’t get too deep, I tried to condense it. On a side note, I’ve learned that using words like verisimilitude make me sound condescending. I had to abridge some parts,” Tyler continued, “We had to sell that guy and sell we did!” Morton didn’t look impressed, although he unconsciously crossed sharecropping off the list of things to look into. Tyler layered it on, “ Maybe I should have come up with something along the lines of your ancient sea baptism experience! Of course, that was probably the best you could have come up with considering both you and your painting look deranged! It’s a good thing you didn’t escape a rogue, burning-at-the-stake encounter, or you would’ve had to explain to Hector how you sizzled yourself while sacrificing your painting to the volcano Gods! Yeah, I’m full of it!”

The humorous thing was, the truth was just as strange. The Modelo was down to a measly fraction of the bottle, the hostess brought two more. The Americans moved from the table to the bar. They were still the only people inside the Ranchito. “What kind of car do we have?” zipped Morton. “There’s a bunch out back, we’ll take whichever, although, I’m partial to the Buick Roadmaster. It commands respect and can seat six comfortably; a grandpa’s car with the engine of a corvette.”

“What about the boy with the donkey, Jesus,” Morton pronounced Jesus like hey Zeus, Mocking Tyler’s long hair and apostolistic appearance, “Don’t you and the little peasant boy have to go turn water into wine and feed the five-thousand this afternoon?” Morton couldn’t help it. Tyler really did look like the big white guy trying to save the world. He respected him for it, but couldn’t possibly not pull his chain every now and again.

“The Roadmaster has the power of a thousand donkey’s. Plus, it’s big enough for you to sleep in. You didn’t think you were staying with me and my ladies did you?”

Morton washed down another swig of Modelo with a brave reply, "The Roadmaster it is."

The Hector

THE AH-ME-GO

2009-03-14T11:35:00.004-04:00

A new leaf had fallen, an inflated whim danced in Morton’s head of a possible excursion to a small and volatile speck on a map suggested by Mr. Kobich. There were options to weigh concerning a descent back across the pond with Portuguese smugglers, but nothing drew more anxiety than the thought of how stupid it was to follow a trek sponsored by his most erroneous friend Mr. Kobich. There were a thousand questions. His poised and pudgy body, which at the moment stood ferociously impotent at the demise of the pier, a sigh, he boarded the ship.

One step, two step, up one more time and his feet embraced the barren wooden planks of the AH-ME-GO. Not only were they smugglers, but they had a sense of humor. What the hell am I doing? He stood there as sheepish as a blushing panda bear. Everything was covered in grey, the mist rolled in off the Atlantic. With nothing more than the clothes on his back, his sea cocktail painting, a bit of British currency and an agenda to meet a friend in the land of Salvador. If he’s not were he says he is, I’m screwed.

A Portuguese man with creases of sin stretched across his face whispered to Morton, "Sit-down in de bhack, tortuga (turtle)," his voice faded out from what appeared to be years of abusing tobacco, liquor and a possible huffing rubber cement addiction. I've seen scarecrows with nicer wardrobes. Morton wondered how the man knew he was slow, but he obliged and walked like a tortuga to the back of the boat.

As Morton approached the rear of the ship an old skinny man appeared before him on a bench with a shirt so bright it made the sun look goth. Let me guess your name is Sunny and you smuggle peaches. With the precision of a blind matador Morton bent down to touch the deck of the ship as he tried to delay the greeting exchange that the old man silently, inertly demanded. Morton felt the damp grains of the prickly wood and returned to his standing position and examined his hand, wet with the moisture of grainy silt.

"This must be your first time on a boat young man," the old Portuguese man interrupted Morton's dumbfoundedness. He continued, "I remember my first time on de boat, I was five years. I too found the floor confusing!" He laughed at Morton and stomped his cane on the deck, "Ha, I only joke, I see you meet my son," Morton nodded his head, "He ain't worth a damn to a woman, the lying sack, but he be de good man that take dis ship where we go."

Morton stepped closer to the old man and took off his hat and asked the man if he could sit next to him. "Si senior, it's either you or de seagulls, so you might as well sit."

FICTITIOUS RHINO

2009-03-14T10:52:00.019-04:00

"It's kind of a far drive, nothing a fifth of Tanqueray can't accommodate," the sullen shadow of the flask hid itself within the center console. "Abrasive," Tyler grabbed the swigger within a second of landing his lanky neck inside the van and continued to ramble, "No time to catch up mate, I'm afraid a matter has come to rise."

"Oh well hey, spill the beans."

"Seems to me there's a chance to eradicate ourselves from the states."

“Yeah, well I am actually-"

"Sip this," Tyler demanded while poking Morton in the ribs.

"We're driving!"

"It's Vermont mate, not much you can’t do in the hills. Plus, it’s stick season, ain’t much going on. Check this out though, my partner, my boy David from the internship team, needs to kill a Rhino!"

"What?"

"Get this, had a dream one night and apparently got killed by a rhino. Mother slaughtered him and now he thinks his life agenda is to kill the son of a bitch," Tyler gave Morton the big grin with the eye wrinkle squint included at no extra charge, "Says he needs to go to Africa, walk around the scorched earth and get this pal, shoot a rhinoceros with a gun!"

"Wow, that's really weird, why would-"

"This isn't shooting squirrels with a bb-gun, kid wants to shoot a rhino!"

Morton reluctantly took a sip from Tyler's green glass flask. Morton held up the slim container. Is this hand blow glass? Who drinks straight gin in the afternoon? An old man. Morton replied, "It seems quite irrational to have a vendetta against a fictitious rhino."

It is important to note that as the Kobich Mobile meandered down the side of Sugarbush Mountain, it occasionally scrapped the ground sending sparks flying like the 4th of July. Tyler, oblivious to this fact, kept rambling as he hand rolled his window down.

"F-ing nuts, kill a rhino? That’s the closest thing we got to a dinosaur isn’t it?" He pressed his hand in the shape of a gun and shot wildly at the medallions that swung from the rear view mirror.

"That's crazy, but have you noticed that we keep bottoming out? Maybe you should slow down."

"I know mate, these are the original struts. They wanted eight-hundred dollars, can you believe that? I wouldn't put eight-hundred monopoly dollars in this baby, yet alone, real money."

"Why don't you take some of this stuff out of the van?"

"I need that stuff for work," Tyler defended his pile of garbage in the back of the van. Morton turned his head and re-evaluated the clutter. He decided it was best to not start an argument.

He gulped another brisk naked cocktail and tried to speak again, "So, my news is I am-"

"Ahhhh, F-ing rhino!!" Tyler blurted in again with an exaggerated squint, "Guy wants to go to A-F-R-I-C-A," pronounced brightly and elongated like a rainbow, "And shoot a rhino with a gun!"

"Yeah, I get it! But I'm going to Europe in a few days."

"Really, fuck all!"

"What?"

"That's what they say up there on those north coasts."

"Fuck, all?" Morton asked.

"Yeah, it means, well I'm not sure what it means, but trust me (gulp gulp), my Irish hostile buddy from Peru taught me that one. Damn, could that filthy leprechaun drink whiskey. Everything was 'fuck all' this and 'fuck all' that. After a while I just picked it up. Killer colloquial - I'm not sure what it means, but its a hoot to say! What did you say about Europe?" Morton rolled his eyes, grabbed the flask, took a deep breath and counted to three.

Meanwhile, Tyler, driving erratically as usual, was about to miss his turn onto Port Street. He slammed on the breaks of the box van. When they arrived at the house of Mary and Bud, the first thing offered to Morton were paper towels to soak the blood that gushed from his nose where it had slammed into the glove box of the Kobich Mobile.

"It seems quite irrational to have a vendetta against a fictitious rhino"

El ATLACATL RESTAURANT

2009-03-13T16:49:00.013-04:00

Morton clutched to the only possession he had left to his name, the salt -water- ruined sea cocktails painting which he had just spent the early morning floating on into the La Libertad Bay, a distinct voice could be heard shouting his name. I swear to God…

Tyler Kobich approached the phone booth Morton was sitting next to. He was riding on a donkey with a small local El Salvadorian boy at the reigns. Tyler jumped off the donkey like Mary Lou Retton at an all female bike rally and proceeded to smack the donkey’s rear. “Hey man, how come you’re all wet?”

The blood in Morton’s veins came to a riotous boil. “Hey…You Ok?” Tyler asked as he suddenly became aware that Morton was in disarray. “You…good?” Morton jumped up to his feet. The dust swirling in the air around him clung to his clothes. “Yeah, I’m stellar!" Morton continued on his rant, “What’s with the little El Salvadorian boy on the donkey? Can’t you ever just have a normal mode of transportation or does everything have to be an esoteric disaster? I’m shocked you didn’t have Juan Valdez from the coffee can pick me up on his way back from the mountains, don’t you know him too! Aren’t you guys, you know, hookah buddies or something!” Tyler motioned to the El Salvadorian boy to tie up the ass.

“C’mon Mort, lets just calm down and get some food in you. So what happened?” Tyler insisted on getting some pupusa’s from a sit down restaurant located just around the corner. As they walked away, the El Salvadorian boy tied up the ass and said a prayer by the loin cloth phone booth.

[El Atlacatl RESTAURANT]

“So let me get this straight,” the waitress poured tea into the cups in front of them. “They thought you were an art thief?” Morton shook his head and answered the inquiry, “Apparently, they assumed that since I was traveling alone with paintings and was looking for an underground route to a small country that I had to have been a thief,” Morton clasped the tea cup to warm his hands even though it was 87 degrees in the restaurant. “I guess they thought my paintings were priceless works of art, go figure.” “How’d you get away?” Tyler, growing impatient, signaled to the waitress in an unholy way that this American was hungry and she damn better well take there order.

“I heard them shouting after a long night of drinking and cards. They began to whisper and then I heard the captain’s machete shrill out of its holster. I’d spent enough days with these brutes to reach the epiphany right then-and-there what was happening. As the footsteps got closer I grabbed the only thing I could find, a shoe horn that I had noticed earlier in the day. Funny, it crossed my mind as I picked it up ‘what were these smugglers doing with a shoe horn’, but anyway, I hid behind the door and got real silent. They drunkenly came down the steps yelling and swung the door open. I waited till they took a few steps and then I smashed the captain in the back of the head with the shoe horn and kicked the old man in the stomach. The old man was unarmed so I let him lie. Then I finished the captain.” Morton stopped his story and looked away from Tyler.

The waitress approached, “Wait, you killed a man - I’ll have four pupusa’s and a diet coke, my buddy here will have the same,” Tyler finished his sentence, “So you killed him? With the shoe horn or with your hands? I can't imagine a shoe horn could do the trick” A meek look came over Morton’s face, “Yup, I killed him. I killed him with a couple stomps to the head,” He looked down and humbly took a sip of his tea.

Tyler’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You killed a Pirate!! Ah-ha!! Of all the things man, of all the things in the whole world (laughing), that's what this is all about! You executed a Pirate! ARRRRR!!!! What about the old man?”

“What’s so funny, they almost killed me! I could have been dead, don’t you get it you dummy!”

Tyler shot back, “How’d you kill the old man? How’d you do it? I have to know! Did you crack his neck? Karate Chop!!" Tyler slammed the table, rattling the silverware, "Or did you shove the shoe horn down his throat?!! What’d you do?!” Morton was not amused by Tyler’s enthusiasm. “If you must know, I just threw him off the ship into the ocean. I threw the captain overboard as well.”

The two different attitudes of the men at the table were a glacier apart. If you happened to have been fortunate enough to overhear this conversation you’d be just as tempted to laugh as you would have been to call the police. It was like listening to Tony Soprano explain how he killed the rabbit to Elmer Fudd.

Yes, A loin Cloth Phone Booth