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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 26, 2016 - 05:06pm PT
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These little babies are hard to grow from seeds you find on the ground.
After about 18 attempts, got one going. There are now more than 1 billion and 1 trees in California. Oh yeah, Jacaranda(h).
I'm told that this one (not mine) is less than one year old.
There seems to be some difference of opinion as to how much dead treez contribute to wildfires ... and it may be 4 billion not 1 billion. I'll get back to ya.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2016 - 05:29pm PT
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It looks very like a fern, but that's the bi-pennate nature of the leaves on the stems.
Those are some Princely flowers, color-wise.
Abra-jaca-dabra and a ptt-ptt-ptt...*
Voila!Those trees were all over in San Fernando the last time I went there.
I wanted to see Abba, but they were sold out at the Bowl.
I did get to catch Prince there back when he was a mere prince-ling.
* See above.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 26, 2016 - 06:33pm PT
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^We're trying to work ourselves up into a purple haze.
Prince of darkness, darkness of Prince. Wasn't Michael Jackson "King". Some pretty sorry stuff is leaking out into the news media concerning that boy.
Don't want to annoy the sheeit outa anyone, but "Baby" Cortez is the B3 player who brought the organ to Rock 'n Roll.
Could Dave or Booker dunk? I think only Booker.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2016 - 06:55pm PT
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I contact.
A mini-photo essay relying on outsourcing.
I took out the trash, don't have much spending cash.
I went out barefootin' at one o'clock and the sidewalk and pavement made me wish I'd worn my tennies.
The zoris I've had for over a year blew apart the other day.
A minor tragedy, because I prefer them over tennies, which promote bromidrosis.
Danzenwalken.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 26, 2016 - 06:59pm PT
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But then, along came Jones, took out the trash
Party on Garth.
Relaxing at WindanSea. "You guys shoulda been here this morning - infinite tubes" (as told to T.S. Eliot).
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2016 - 07:03pm PT
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"Hey, stfu before I punch ya!"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
"Again, and again, and again, and again."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 26, 2016 - 07:17pm PT
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Outdoors philosophy discussion in the meadow one morning.
Everything is relative, Chongo.
Well, I'll be a monkey sending, Mouse. I never realized.[Click to View YouTube Video]A perfection of means and a confusion of aims is the problem, right?
Sounds good.
Got a smoke?
Yeah. Got a light?
Yeah. And I got this nifty can-opener from zBrown.
Cool tool!
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 26, 2016 - 07:33pm PT
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Regarding that BOTTLE Opener, do I still have your current address?
You should have one because I have one, even though you said the No-Worriers would win in 7.
According to my new found buddy, Roger, the CAVs took the series due to a phenomenal block ... er ... shot by Mr. Irving.
Kind of mind-boggling to find out his dad drove at Bonneville. You might not know me from Adam, but please don't drive J-47.
Some hodad from National City (Sonny Angel) is rumoured to have driven this puppy at "The Flats".
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Wasn't mine, but I did ride it.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 06:34am PT
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You should have one because I have one
I presume you are talking about addresses, not openers.
I don't qualify to have an opener just because you have one, that's sure.
I don't understand...the twist top bottle is here. Why keep capping bottles when there is an easier method?
Gotta keep the can/bottle opener guys on the job, else they'll be on the dole, what?
And that's bad for business and the USA is all about business--the NBA is a perfect example, none better.
Howeer, I'd like to point out that it sure took the Cleveland Cavalry enough time to get down to bidness during the playoff final series.
I figure that The Bron owes me some serious fingernail payback.
But that's stoopid, as Herr Braun would observe. They grow back.
I said, when I made the bet, that (yes, my address is the same as it ever was for fifteen years) it could be a gentleman's bet.
But here we are, trembling with palsy over the prospect of having to deal with the Wrath of James, wanting a beer, not having funds to buy beer, and having a not very good opener to help us drink the beer, should we have access to it in the first place.
A new week, same as the last week. M-F + 2. Enjoy!
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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Jun 27, 2016 - 07:00am PT
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The Blues Brothers 2000, skid friendly classic !, shared with my kiddos from a very young age.
what is high ball?
It is nice when the big holds Are at the top
or one can 'snivel off' to a side exit
i know it when I see it
]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 07:06am PT
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http://www.supertopo.com/routesearch.php?o=ASC&s=ratings&v=1&cur=0&ftr=positively+fourth+Street
Positively Fourth Street, where Sierra Designs was located in Berkeley, and an official Yowsemite Rock Climb.
FA by Millis and the Rev.
As to Triumph motorbikes, I never owned a bike, but Jack Meade, one of the founders of the NSRA (submarine racing, remember?), drove one to deliver the SF Chronicle around town in HS days, and to go visit Miss Sadie out in Snelly Town.
And I'm not dead certain Richard Farina, famously dead on a motorcycle the day his bride, Mimi, turned 21, was riding a Triumph like Dylan's. There is nothing I've found to corroborate that. RIP, Dick, regardless.
We've been down since we found out about your death, you Pale Marauder.
Tombstone Blues
(book review)
POSITIVELY 4TH STREET: The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Farina and Richard Farina By David Hajdu; Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 328 pp., $25
Richard Farina died in a motorcycle accident near Carmel on April 30, 1966, just following a party celebrating the publication of his first novel, "Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me." A musician, songwriter, singer, and fabulist as well as a novelist, he seduced many people in life, and many in death. David Hajdu, author of the well-received biography of Billy Strayhorn, the Duke Ellington collaborator, is one of the latter.
"Who reveled in the act of living more than this man who tried to make every meal a banquet, every task a mission, every conversation a play, every gathering a party?" Hajdu asks. "Being with Dick was a feeling," a Carmel friend said. "It wasn't something outside of you that you looked at or saw. It was something that went through you." Thomas Pynchon, friend from college and ever after, worshiped him. Women could not resist. Did Farina truly carry out secret missions for the IRA, as he claimed? We will never know.
A little of this goes a long way. Hajdu bets that a life unlived--cut short--a life unsullied by failure, decline or betrayal, can overshadow lives that were lived, that went on past the golden moment when all things seemed possible, i.e., the world of American folk music from the late 1950s to the mid-1960s.
In this story, the Cambridge folk singer Joan Baez, who from the time of the release of her first album in 1960 was for many the embodiment of a moral purity that could not be found in American society as it advertised itself, and her younger sister, guitarist Mimi Baez, Farina's second wife, function as confused, manipulated, lovesick women caught between two powerful men.
On the side of life there is Farina, from Brooklyn, handsome, exotic (his father Cuban, his mother Irish), a deep male friend, a capricious lover, dedicated to laughter and to his art. On the side of death there is singer and songwriter Bob Dylan, "a Jewish kid from the suburbs."
He is profoundly talented, but principally as a thief; he is able to ride the times as if they were a horse, even to become the voice of a generation, without ever truly engaging with the times, his eye always on the way out. As a person he is distant, less a comrade in the folk milieu than a spy; he is sour, "pallid and soft ... childlike, almost feminine,"
"a little spastic gnome"
--"that little toad," as Baez describes him to Hajdu. And without Farina--who, a friend recalls, conceived the idea of merging folk with rock ("Dick said, 'We should start a whole new genre. Poetry set to music, but not chamber music or beatnik jazz, man--music with a beat. Poetry you can dance to. Boogie poetry!'")--Dylan would have had no career: not even the idea of carrying around a notebook in which to write down ideas, "as Richard Farina had been doing since college."
"Farina gave Bob this lecture," folk singer Fred Neil tells Hajdu, as Farina told others: "'If you want to be a songwriter, man, you'd better find yourself a singer.' You see," Neil says, "Bob and me, we were both writing, but I knew how to sing. Farina told him straight, 'Man, what you need to do, man, is hook up with Joan Baez. She is so square, she isn't in this century. She needs you to bring her into the twentieth century, and you need somebody like her to do your songs. She's your ticket, man. All you need to do, man, is start screwing Joan Baez."'
It was 1961, in New York; by 1963, it would be true. They sang together; they slept together. And of course it was a freak show: "As soloists, each of them had always had a public image that was elementally desexualized and androgynous--Joan the virgin enchantress, Bob the boy poet," Hajdu writes. "The idea of either of them sexually engaged was not so much titillating as it was startling and puzzling: How will this work?"
Stop Leg Cramps in 1 Min.
But perhaps one can draw a deep breath, wipe the sweat from one's brow and leave Hajdu's career-and-relationships reconstructions; his utter credulousness when it comes to anyone who, having been left behind, might resent the fact that Bob Dylan, having entered history, still writes and sings songs people want to hear; his coups of research (the unpublished or unexpurgated 1960s interviews by the late Dylan biographer Robert Shelton with Dylan and others now archived at the Experience Music Project in Seattle); his ability to get people to speak in ways that hardly cast themselves in a favorable light ("When I started, I used a lot from Debbie's act," Baez says of the Cambridge singer and guitarist Debbie Green. "She was modestly talented, but not ambitious. I was going someplace, she wasn't. I didn't hurt her. I only helped myself"), and his inability to dramatize, which is ultimately his inability to convey any sense of why his story is of any import at all, and listen again to how, for the country at large, the story took shape.
"Fair young maid, all in the garden," begins the probably 17th century English ballad "John Riley" as it appears on the 1960 album "Joan Baez." It's the quieting of the tale as Baez moves it on, a little melodic pattern on her guitar flitting by like a small bird as a hushed bass progression follows it like a cat, even more than the voice--the voice of someone already dead, but walking the Earth to warn the living--that told the listener then, and can tell a listener now, that he or she has stumbled into a different country. It was like waking up as an adult, or nearly so, to discover that all the fairy tales of one's childhood were true--and that, if you wished, you could, instead of the career or the war awaiting you, live them out. In a few old songs, making a drama of hiding and escape, material defeat and spiritual conquest, investing that drama with the passion of her voice and the physical presence of the body that held it, she beckoned you toward a crack in the invisible wall around your city. What would it mean, people all across the country asked the music they were hearing, as the music asked them, to feel anything so deeply?
Bob Dylan, whose fellows in the northern Minnesota town of Hibbing would have been unable to say just what it was a suburb of, appeared on "Bob Dylan," in 1962, as a tramp. That is: as someone who had slept in hobo jungles, seen men go mad from drinking Sterno and forgotten the names of people who, one night, seemed like the best friends anyone could ever have. Though in Hajdu's book there is not a hint that Dylan ever evinced humor beyond a private joke, many of the songs are funny ("I been around this whole country," he says of the place name that in 1962 was a folk talisman, "but I never yet found Fennario"), but shadowed. All in all, the album is a collection of old songs about death. They dare the singer--can you sing me?--and he dares them--can you deny me what is mine? It was a time when almost everyone assumed that nuclear war would take place, somewhere, sometime, if not everywhere for all time; it was a time when black Americans risked their lives, and sometimes had them taken, whenever they raised their voices, or took a step outside of the country into which they had been born and into a new one, the country they and everyone else had been promised. Death is real, the 20-year-old singing on "Bob Dylan" said; knocking on a door perhaps built especially for that purpose, the sound Dylan made was not ridiculous because he was right.
This is the public drama that, in Hajdu's book, is only a figment of private life, and, as its players followed that drama over the next years, Farina added nothing to it. Fulsome accounts of the 1965 Farinas albums "Celebrations for a Gray Day" and "Reflections in a Crystal Wind" cannot hide the fact that Mimi Farina could not sing, or that with the exception of "Reno Nevada," Farina's most noticeable compositions were stiff, shallow imitations of "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" and other Dylan songs. Because the case for Farina as a cultural innovator cannot be made--his novel, despite its blazing encomium from Pynchon, is a '60s curio--Hajdu spends far more time on Farina as a movable feast, as a boundless spirit, as the man who already was what, in the better world Baez and Dylan seemed to be singing about, everyone would be. Hajdu quotes a letter from married Farina to teenage Mimi: "Things is, Mishka mine, I'm weary of hopping around the cities of this tired world & not knowing what was happening 'fore I got there. For me alone I guess it's all right but I'm not me alone anymore .... Take my hand a little, baby, and squeeze it some."
Why are we reading this? Because Mimi Farina gave the letter to David Hajdu? It's creepy, and not just because the posing style of 1963 doesn't travel well, but because you are violating someone's privacy by reading other people's embarrassing letters, and when you do that, you are made to violate your own privacy. But because Farina did not live long enough to prove the truth or lie of his life, that is what Hajdu is left with.
"Richard never started the next book he planned to write," Hajdu says. "It was to be a memoir of his experiences with Mimi, Joan Baez, and Bob Dylan." Those are the last words of Hajdu's book. Farina's torch has been passed, one is to understand, but the music and the writing that remain, Baez's, Dylan's and Farina's, give the lie to the notion that it was ever really lit.
--Greil Marcus
http://articles.latimes.com/2001/may/20/books/bk-142
http://fastfilm1.blogspot.com/2014/01/tragic-but-productive-young-couple-mimi.html
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 07:36am PT
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Booblocker's ideel?
Capp was a shittstirring right-wing old SOB, huh?
http://www.americanthinker.com/blog/2009/05/joan_baez_free_speech_for_me_b.html
Hippie-Drug-Fiends
by L. Cappy
I wanted to write a thing.
It was a thing about a nowhere man, man.
And it would have raised the fist in the face of the man, dig?
And righteous clamor would have rattled the windows and walls of the powerful.
But Gilbert and Frank dropped by with one of Fat Freddie's bomber doobs, man.
And I thought a bit on the poem and decided that it was a bummer.
I realized I am just as big a creep as the next guy.
I just have less of an interest in BEING RIGHT.
The truth is what it is and nobody can change that.
So I bagged that idea and wrote this instead.
Feed yer head.
Peace.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Jun 27, 2016 - 08:23am PT
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I am told by "craft" brewers, of which there are many in SD, that twistos are considered gauche, not unlike the Santa Barbara Basketball team (this even though I know two who played there).
Anyway, the point is that it is a very exclusive club (i.e. The Bottle Cappers, not The Gauchos).
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 05:55pm PT
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Deep Thinking.
Guest editorial by Jack Candy.
WTF is up with the word deep?
It is gaining wide usage in our language.
I suppose it's supposed to gather an audience.
Deep penetration is more satisfying sexually (supposedly). so, it it's true, then it must be that partial reality is unacceptable to the modern brain, steeped in constant cultural reference to the dirty deed from the youngest of us to the gaffers and gammers of our species.
We want Around the World or it's not worth the effort. Complete satisfaction is the goal. How we fall short! It's laughable.
It's a sell-job by someone.
And the Deep Craze is their latest campaign, possibly, I suppose.
Next time you skim the bytes on your monitor, keep a watch on phrases using deep. The writers are stroking you, making you believe you are a deep thinker, a deep person, possibly even a mindful (and deep) seeker.
We are all seekers. We don't need to be told. The urgency with which we seek truth is telling. Some go placidly amid the noise and haste and have true inner desires to be cool. The rest are lost and just tryin' to keep up or too interested in sex, drugs, and various forms of musical expression, though Rock N. Roll ultimately rules.
[This is about as far as Mr. Candy's effort went. He heard that the Surf is UP! Way up. The water's gettin' deep.}
Posting a rock song with very deep lyric content and no subliminal messaging, but that was back when they didn't dare include such. The record producers learned, eventually, I suppose.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
"Deep wheels deep on turning. I hope Neil Young will remember."-Lynyrd Skynyrd
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Next guest editorial: Derp Thinking by Burch.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 06:03pm PT
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Four little bunheads sitting in a row.
Pardon me, a semi-circle.
Deeply involved in discussing Despicable Me, specifically Gru's penchant for evil and the role his non-supportive mom played in his youth.
I'm just supposing, of course.
Fine shot from this last weekend at Shuteye by Brook of a brook.
Scrubby the jay, deep in thought.
In case you're wondering, El Blobbo was apprehended and is in detention now, thanks to the photo I'd posted here earlier of him. Some one snitched him off. I've taken the photo out and replaced it with more frivolous stuff.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 27, 2016 - 07:38pm PT
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From the ST Sidebar Follies, the Bad Idea T-Shirt ad...I clicked on it and found all kinds of messages.You'll find one to meet your needs, quite possibly.
food
shelter
clothing with a logo or cool message
all ya need to survive in the modern world
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feralfae
Boulder climber
in the midst of a metaphysical mystery
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Jun 27, 2016 - 10:56pm PT
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Around the World in Eighty Three Years Sir Bushman,
You've done it again.
A story filled with life and drama,
Pulling me up on a weather balloon into thinnest icy air,
And down into an elegant enigma.
Oh, sir, Bravo!!!
Thank you.
feralfae
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feralfae
Boulder climber
in the midst of a metaphysical mystery
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Jun 27, 2016 - 11:23pm PT
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And Mouse?
"Unplug me and plug me back in"? well, if I had taken that sip of tea I was considering, my screen would now have little dainty droplets of tea all over.
Fair Hall, Fairbanks AK
It is still raining up here. "They" said that with global warming, we'd have wetter summers. "They" said that when temperatures fell within a shorter bell curve during the annual fluctuations, the highs and lows would gradually diminish up here above 60N. "They" gave us a good forecast. "They" said that up here, we will have warmer winters (we are) and cooler summers (we are) and more moisture in the summer. So, of course, that is why it is still raining up here. I've been fixing downspouts and checking gutters and stuff like that. Tomorrow I am running some environmental tests in the house.
The wild blue iris are in bloom all over Fairbanks. The fireweed is in flower. Baby eared grebes are swimming on their own, but still making occasional rides on Mom and Dad when the wind picks up. The Peat Ponds are busy and buzzing with all sorts of waterfowl and a glorious wild squadron of iridescent dragonflies patrols above the peat ponds. Wild raspberries and strawberries are blooming all around here, and the yard is filled with little strawberry blossoms. You can drive a few miles out of Fairbanks and be back in the Wild. Another slash pile is growing. So is the annual mosquito population.
Thank you for all the beautiful images. They delight my eyes. The Flames has the best jokes and images—and the photography is just elegant most of the time. Thank you. So, even if I can't stop to chat most days, I do enjoy the messages.
I saw a fellow on high stilts today. He was dressed as Uncle Sam in a very flashy and colorful outfit. The Fourth of July is in full-dress stage rehearsal up here already.
Happy Fourth a few days early.
ff
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Jun 28, 2016 - 06:55am PT
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Happy Independence Day, as well, feralfae, to you; and to the new arrivals--the iris, the strawberries and the other bloomers--welcome, also.
I wish you FLOWERS could stick around longer but the world is round and so it keeps spinning and either teasing arctic life with long, long days or punishing them with long, long nights. And life seems cheap elsewhere in comparison.
What we do here...I include everyone who posts here or has posted here...is not important in the overall scheme of the Game of Life and Past Life. But is is important SOMEHOW; if only to bring a little ray of sun to a person like yourself, ff, stuck in "WET MODE," or stewing over finances, or bummed because his semi won't start, or worst of all, stuck in his bed.
HIYA, SKULLY! We know you been lurking, so come say hi yourself.
Thanks for the splendid encomium, Far North Lady.
It helps make it worthwhile to have feedback. We constantly try to raise standards, encourage dispellers of gloom, dispensers of wisdom, and purveyors of poetry and the arts.
I'd say "Call me Cosimouse de Medicheese," but that's too much like Cosmici.
Uno speciale "ciaotout" a Quello Tie-dyed. Take it easy today, Dwain. Don't rush and know we all care IMMENSELY, HUGELY about you.
GOOD MORNING, CHULA VISTA!!!!!
Listen to the Commander. His truck won't start.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imCo7RDkCLY
"Well, I haul my rig outta San Jose.
Gotta be in Cincinatti Monday morning 'fore I draw my pay."
If ya just can't or won't go out and face the day, then I got this for ya. as you sit inside and take it, though in a moping and resentful manner, the rain coming down and draining the brightness from your life, such as there may be, keeping you from the important things like climbing. Or weeding. Or painting outdoors a pleine aire. Maybe a bottle of wine in the bag with the water.
Things'll be fine
You won't miss the climb
Roll yer own.
Commander Cody - Roll Yer Own
https//www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgCAlXHoF0Eoll
Or you may like to uncork that bottle in the backpack, but there's no corkscrew, just this bottle opener.
NO! No te dije! WTF do I need to do to get a break, here?
Commander Cody - Wine Do Your Stuff
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVTnrO-9jgs
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