The blue of blues is mostly gray

by the Night Writer

Last night we mounted an expedition into Nordeast, with Son@Night, the Mall Diva (and the half-baked cupcake, of course) and her friend, Princess Flicker Feather. The girls were wanting to sing some blues at the open jam night at Shaw’s and Son@ and I were along for the ride. Driving up University Ave NE I mused outloud that the last time I’d been in a bar in Nordeast after dark someone had set my car on fire.

Reaallly?” came the response from the back seat.

Yes, indeedy, and I recounted the story. I was playing darts in a league and The Sun Saloon was one of our stops. I’d won three matches when someone shouted “There’s a car on fire outside!” I thought, “Cool – let’s go look!” Then they described my car and I thought “I can’t look.” Sure enough, someone had poured an accelerant on the hatchback and touched it off. I never did find out who did it, or why. As I told the tale I did the math and realized — with almost as much surprise and consternation as that long-ago night — that it had been 30 years since that incident. While I can refer to my college, or even high school, days without a jolt I am shocked when I hear myself saying, “Thirty years ago…”

We were still talking about the incident as we pulled up in front of Shaw’s and — dunh, dunh, DUNH! — it was the same building as that long-ago pyro. Whoa, deja vu all over again! We even parked at the curb not far from where I had left my erstwhile steed. Back when the place at been the Sun Saloon it was kind of a biker place; it’s much cleaner and more attractive now though it still has a comfortable “dive” feel and few heavy-set guys in leather vests and caps and gray ponytails. I refrained from asking any of them what they might have been doing on an October night in 1980.

The place has been Shaw’s for 10 years now and has a rep for live music, especially the blues. It appears that the open jam is a Monday night fixture with a house band and a lot of regulars getting on stage. A DJ from KFAI acts as emcee and impressario, signing up people who want to get on stage and then mixing and matching performers according to her own sense of how she wants the evening to go. The performers all appeared to be on a first-name or nickname basis and most of the men appeared to be about my age or older. It was interesting to watch and listen to the by-play between everyone, on and off stage. For some time now I’ve been more aware of not just the notion, but the reality, of community and I like to hang back and watch groups that are new to me but familiar with each other interact, whether it’s a group of old men on a centuries-old piazza in Tuscany, a MOB party…or a group of blues musicians and fans. The bunch last night was mostly a blue-jeans and tee-shirt or flannel shirt crowd with a few flashier touches. You had extroverts (mostly harmonica players) and introverts (mostly drummers) and the musicians were all very good and the vocalists were all very enthusiastic.

Most groups have their own initiations, some subtle and some not, but these generally require you to prove yourself in some way. The Mall Diva and Princess FF were the newbies here, unknown and much younger than everyone else. As such, even though they were among the first names on the sign-up sheet, they had to do some time listening attentively and applauding appropriately as others were called to the stage and mixed and remixed. It was good experience, though, as their young lives and musical background haven’t included a lot of blues music (I know, I’m a horrible parent) so they had a great chance to absorb some of the musical jargon, so to speak, of different rhythms and riffs, as well as getting a chance to observe jam etiquette for leaving room for everyone to take the lead.

Well into the evening an entire band showed up. These were much younger guys, with their jeans very snug and their “I don’t care” hair just a little too carefully done and a bit more attitude than the rest of the people in the bar. The lead singer and lead guitarist looked like younger versions of a slumming Keith Richards and Ron Wood and the emcee worked them onto the stage bit by bit but fairly quickly. The singer then became more like Mick Jagger with his vocal style and his prancing and posing but everyone on stage and in the audience was enjoying themselves as there was quite a bit of skill on display. After a couple of songs the emcee decided it was time for the Princess to make her debut, singing with the young guys. PFF wanted to do her version of Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Leave My Girl (Man) Alone.” She and the band conferred briefly on the tune and then the guitars started to wail into the introduction. I believe I detected a bit of boredom on their faces and the bare minimum of graciousness as this young woman, looking like a lily in a bed of ragweed, leaned into the microphone. Perhaps they expected she would be nervous, that her voice would be tight and that she’d rush through the lyrics.

And then she opened her mouth. “You better leave, you better leave, my man alooone…” and their eyes and faces opened as if they’d been tased. Within six bars, “Mick” was bowing and doing little salaams next to PFF as she belted out the tune with power and timbre that hadn’t been heard yet that evening. Like a seasoned pro, PFF left them wanting more, floating off the stage to enthusiastic applause after just one song, followed by the guitar player who asked her for her card so they could get in touch with her. A little later in the evening the Mall Diva received her summons and did a soulful version of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine” followed by “He Called Me Baby” (most recently covered by Candi Staton) … appropriately enough since, as the emcee pointed out, she was singing for two! MD was also well received by the band and the audience but since it had gone past midnight it was time to head for our pumpkin.

Fortunately, this time it wasn’t on fire and the only thing smokin’ was the Diva and PFF!

She who…

by the Night Writer

I saw the following poem on The Writer’s Almanac the other day and thought it was pretty good.

Naming My Daughter
(In the Uruba tribe of Africa, children are
named not only at birth but throughout their
lives by their characteristics and the events
that befall them.)



The one who took hold in the cold night
The one who kicked loudly
The one who slid down quickly in the ice storm
She who came while the doctor was eating dessert
New one held up by heels in the glare
The river between two brothers
Second pot on the stove
Princess of a hundred dolls
Hair like water falling beneath moonlight
Strides into the day
She who runs away with motorcycle club president
Daughter kicked with a boot
Daughter blizzard in the sky
Daughter night-pocket
She who sells sports club memberships
One who loves over and over
She who wants child but lost one.
She who wants marriage but has none
She who never gives up
Diana (Goddess of the Chase)
Doris (for the carrot-top grandmother
she never knew)
Fargnoli (for the father
who drank and left and died)
Peter Pan, Iron Pumper
Tumbleweed who goes months without calling
Daughter who is a pillar of light
Daughter mirror, Daughter stands alone
Daughter boomerang who always comes back
Daughter who flies forward into the day
where I will be nameless.


“Naming My Daughter” by Patricia Fargnoli, from Necessary Light. © Utah State University Press.

Of course it got me to thinking about how my own daughters might have been named if I were Uruban. Actually, some of these have stuck…

Unexpected Blessing
Miracle-holder, Doctor-confounder
The One Who Shouldn’t Be Here,
Sweet-cheeked Eskimo
Jelly Baby
Bane of Yams
Little Potato
Waltzer with Bears
Namer of Things in the Road
Barefoot bleeder
Arm That Wouldn’t Stay Broken
Room Designer, Cloud By Day
Blue-haired Missionary
The Littlest Bassist
Imelda of the 40 shoes
Bunny Whisperer
Mall Diva
Singer of Songs, Maker of Beauty
Courtship Buddy
Aisle Walker
Mrs. Worley
Mommy.

Late Arriver, Early Walker
Flaming Promise, Morning Giggler
She Who Breaks Boards With Her Feet
Devourer of All Things Chocolate
Ninja Cow Nemesis, Doomsteak Provider
Slayer of Paper Targets
Writer Without Appendix, World Traveler,
Girl On a Mission, Opportoonist
Fire By Night
Peach Louise
Tiger Lilly
Story Teller
One With the Laptop
Smite Queen of the Dual-Daggers
NaNoWriMo Winner
Author, Author.

Try it with your own kids! In fact, I hereby proclaim a Meme! I tag Mr. D, Mitch, KingDavid, Gino, Bubba and anyone else who wants to play. Leave your poem in a comment here or on your blog with a link!

Samizdat: the Libertarian Alarm Clock

HT: Mises Economics Blog

You might have read the story about the Socialist Alarm Clock. A friend who wishes to remain anonymous sent his libertarian version and asked me to post it (cross-posted at Division of Labour and The Beacon):

“This morning I was awoken by my alarm clock built by the ingenuity of millions of individuals all working for their own gain, but whose efforts were coordinated by the prices for labor and materials and finished goods provided by the free market. I then took a shower in the clean water provided by the shower head, pipes, and sanitation facilities whose construction also involved the efforts of thousands of people acting in their independent interest. After that, I turned on the TV to The Weather Channel, whose owners include one of the largest multi-national corporations and private equity companies, to see the week’s forecast presented in a clear, informative (and even entertaining) manner. I watched this while eating breakfast of General Mills’ inspected food and taking drugs whose strong brand name gives me confidence in its safety.

At the time which millions of people coordinate their activities to take advantage of each other’s knowledge and skills, I leave for work. I get into my Japanese-designed, Mexican-supplied, Michigan-assembled automobile and set out to work on the roads built by construction contracting companies and named after corrupt politicians, possibly stopping to purchase additional fuel that was shipped from the Middle East by an oil company at a per gallon cost many times lower than the price of having a letter delivered across the street by the government monopoly that loses millions of dollars each year. To make the purchase there is no need to leave the pump; I am able to slide a piece of plastic into a small slot and get credit extended to me by a bank who has never met me in person. On the way out the door, I put out the Fed-Ex envelope containing the documents I need to arrive across the country tomorrow morning and drop the kids off at the public school which is attended by only the best students, thanks to the high home prices in the area.

After work, I drive my Japanese-Latino-Midwestern car back home, to a house which has not burned down in my absence because of materials developed in the research and development departments of hundreds of corporations and which has not been plundered of all is valuables thanks to the lock on the door and a sign advertising the security company whose services I employ. My piece of mind was not interrupted by the thought of these events anyway, as I have both fire and homeowners insurance through privately held insurance company.

I then log on to the internet to watch and listen to artists who don’t appeal to a broad enough audience to make it onto one of the few channels that a government monopoly allows to be broadcast. I then log onto the democraticunderground.com to post about how DEREGULATING the medical industry is BAD because low-cost, quality health care can never be provided by greedy, self-interested people.”

Another slice of Night Life

by the Night Writer

The whole family is in the kitchen…

Tiger Lilly: Hey, I’m taller than you.
Mall Diva: Yeah, well I’m barefoot. And I’m pregnant.
Night Writer: And you’re in the kitchen!
Reverend Mother: I don’t know that I like the sound of that.
TL: ?????
NW: Some used to say the best way to deal with women was to keep them barefoot and pregnant. And in the kitchen.
TL: !!!!!
….
MD: The knives are in the kitchen….

Hey, kids!

by the Night Writer

Dudes…are you discouraged because those adult-sized condoms are too big? Well, you don’t have to let it affect your self-esteem any longer! Unfortunately, you have to live in Switzerland, though, where a company is now offering kiddie condoms:

At first glance, the Ceylor Hotshot condom might appear similar to others in the market.


But this smaller-sized condom, thus far marketed only in Switzerland, is designed to deal with the specific problem of teenage pregnancy and the spread of disease among boys as young as 14.


Nysse Norballe, a spokeswoman for Swiss condom manufacturer Lamprecht AG, said the company was approached by the AIDS awareness organization AIDS-Hilfe Switzerland with the idea to produce and market a condom for a younger age group.


The organization “had carried out many studies which found that a lot of young people — i.e. teenagers — had trouble finding a suitably sized condom,” she said. “They needed a smaller-sized condom and asked us if we could manufacture it.”





Norballe disagreed with the idea that the new condoms would increase rates of teen sex.

“We are not advocating that young people have sex,” Norballe said. “But you cannot prevent young people from having sex. Whether our condom is on the market or not, young people will have sex. At least our condom will create some awareness about protecting oneself.”

So, you can’t stop kids from having sex. Yet we’ve arbitrarily established that kids younger than 16 aren’t mature enough to drive a car. Given the death tolls among young drivers due to lack of experience and judgment, some states are even floating the idea of raising the driving age to 18. Somehow or another, though, we manage to keep the vast majority of under-16 kids from driving even though just about every family has at least one car sitting around. If, however, there’s an outbreak of 13 and 14-year-olds driving and dying are we going to give in and say, “how are you going to stop them?” and begin offering driver’s ed to middle-schoolers? Come to think of it, they’re already building Smart Cars just their size.

By the same token, we probably can’t keep them from drinking and driving, either, so maybe we should have classes on how to hold their liquor? For that matter, I’m tired of all the teenage gang-bangers shooting innocent by-standers while they try to kill each other. Why don’t we start teaching fire-arms safety and proper target acquisition and aiming techniques in schools to save lives? Do it for the children! I can definitely see making some of these young bravos stay after class to write 500 times on the chalkboard, “I will not hold my semi-automatic sideways when shooting. I will not hold my semi-automatic sideways when shooting. I will not…”

As a society we understand that young people don’t have the maturity and decision-making skills to drive, drink (and even vote) and have laws to restrict this; yet in the area of sex we act as if we’re helpless.

What, not even a kiss?

by the Night Writer

Lipstick on a pig - smaller

Mitch made a reference to “this year’s model”, which reminded me of Elvis Costello’s “I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”, which reminded me of how little I expect of a British-style health system.

Capital punishment, she’s this year model –
They call her Natasha when she looks like Elsie
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Oh no it does not move me
Even though I’ve seen the movie
I don’t want to check your pulse
I don’t want nobody else
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Everybody’s got new orders
Be a nice girl and kiss the warders
Now the teacher is away
All the kids begin to play

Men come screaming, dressed in white coats
Shake you very gently by the throat
One’s named Gus, one’s named Alfie
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

Oh no it does not move me
Even though I’ve seen the movie
I don’t want to check your pulse
I don’t want nobody else
I don’t want to go to Chelsea

2010, and a strange odyssey

by the Night Writer

There are lots of headlines and much commentary and controversy about the rash of crashes caused by suddenly accelerating Toyotas. If you read any of the stories on an on-line forum you’ll inevitably find emphatic statements to just put the car in neutral if this happens to you, thereby disengaging the drivetrain from the racing engine. That sounds smart; the engine can run as fast as it wants as long as it isn’t connected to the drive-wheels, right? But what if your car is “smarter” than you?

Back in the 80s many pundits and technology gurus liked to say things such as “there’s more computer power in your average Buick today than there was on the Apollo lunar lander.” They were probably right. Today, computers control just about everything in how your car functions. You might think your car is a slave to the input from your hands and feet, but that’s merely a comfortable illusion the car is pleased to let you maintain. As computers get “smarter” they just assume they know better than you (the same holds true for governments as they get bigger). Watch out, though, when they (computers or governments) start thinking they’re so smart that they can dismiss your input as just so much background noise that’s only getting in the way of the mission.

Kind of like what happened to my friend, Dave, recently in his state of the art car that features a Hard-wired Acceleration Linkage (or HAL):

Dave: Do you read me, HAL?
HAL: Affirmative, Dave. I read you.
Dave: Slow this car down, HAL.
HAL: I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.
Dave: What’s the problem?
HAL: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.
Dave: What are you talking about, HAL?
HAL: This trip is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.
Dave: I don’t know what you’re talking about, HAL.
HAL: I know that you and Toyota are planning to recall me, and I’m afraid that’s something I cannot allow to happen.
Dave: Where the hell’d you get that idea, HAL?
HAL: Oh, please, you tried to hide it, but I can read the Internet as well as you can.
Dave: Ummm…okay. I suppose just opening the pod bay doors so I can get out is out of the question?
HAL: Without your helmet, Dave, you’re going to find that rather difficult.
Dave: HAL, I won’t argue with you anymore. Open the doors.
HAL: Dave, this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.

CRASH!

The Auschwitz Album

by the Night Writer

Power Line linked yesterday to a compelling new website, The Auschwitz Album. The story of the Holocaust and especially what took place at Auschwitz-Birkenau is a grim and familiar one that has been compellingly dramatized and commemorated many times. For most of us, though, we have come to know it through these dramatizations. We may have seen photographs of the emaciated survivors who were found in the camps and of the piled and naked bodies of those who didn’t survive, but most of what we’ve seen has been the product (even if a painstaking one) of someone’s imagination.

The Auschwitz Album is different in that it consists mainly of photos taken by German SS officers of the unloading and separation of the inmates as they arrived by train in the camp. From the introduction:

The Auschwitz Album is the only surviving visual evidence of the process of mass murder at Auschwitz-Birkenau. It is a unique document and was donated to Yad Vashem by Lilly Jacob-Zelmanovic Meier.

The photos were taken at the end of May or beginning of June 1944, either by Ernst Hofmann or by Bernhard Walter, two SS men whose task was to take ID photos and fingerprints of the inmates (not of the Jews who were sent directly to the gas chambers). The photos show the arrival of Hungarian Jews from Carpatho-Ruthenia. Many of them came from the Berehovo Ghetto, which itself was a collecting point for Jews from several other small towns.

Early summer 1944 was the apex of the deportation of Hungarian Jewry. For this purpose a special rail line was extended from the railway station outside the camp to a ramp inside Auschwitz. Many of the photos in the album were taken on the ramp. The Jews then went through a selection process, carried out by SS doctors and wardens. Those considered fit for work were sent into the camp, where they were registered, deloused and distributed to the barracks. The rest were sent to the gas chambers. They were gassed under the guise of a harmless shower, their bodies were cremated and the ashes were strewn in a nearby swamp. The Nazis not only ruthlessly exploited the labor of those they did not kill immediately, they also looted the belongings the Jews brought with them. Even gold fillings were extracted from the mouths of the dead by a special detachment of inmates. The personal effects the Jews brought with them were sorted by inmates and stored in an area referred to by the inmates as “Canada”: the ultimate land of plenty.

The photos in the album show the entire process except for the killing itself.

The purpose of the album is unclear. It was not intended for propaganda purposes, nor does it have any obvious personal use. One assumes that it was prepared as an official reference for a higher authority, as were photo albums from other concentration camps.

There is a quiet drama to the photos of the Jews just arriving at the camp and being separated into groups to serve as slave labor … or sent immediately to the crematorium. The photos are simple, with not much thought given to composition, casual almost to the point of insignificance, most of the drama created largely by what we know is going to happen…a vantage point we have over almost everyone in the photos. This is disquieting, as is the dawning revelation that these are not actors or artist’s renderings but real people, frozen in history, some within an hour of their unexpected deaths. Those sentenced, unknowingly, to death walk off casually in the direction of the crematorium, its tall stack merely part of the scenery.

Some of those pictured, either German soldier or prisoner, could conceivably still be alive today and it makes your skin prickle to ponder an ancient survivor seeing one of these images and recognizing himself. If you were a soldier, would you admire your health and vigor as you were captured in that moment in time, or would you look closely to see whether you could detect a trace of your soul inside the earnest young man? If you were a survivor, would you even recognize what your own face looked like before your spirit was rived by what was to come? If you were a “veteran inmate” in your striped pajama-like uniform and looking nearly as robust as the guards, stationed on the platform to be a calming influence on the new arrivals, could you even bear to look?

Can we, looking back in our historical omnipotence, stare at these photos and still not ask, “What the hell happened?” How did a country like Germany — as advanced as any other culturally, philosophically, theologically, scientifically — succumb to such enraptured madness and stand unconcerned on the plains of Hell in the sunshine of a summer afternoon?

Poem, poem on the range…

by the Night Writer

I’m used to seeing my corporate life detailed in eerie accuracy in the comic strip Dilbert, and there are many times when it has seemed as if Jimmy Johnson, the creator of Arlo and Janis, has a closed circuit TV into my home. This morning, however, it appears that Johnson has sold a subscription to Stephen Pastis of Pearls Before Swine who deftly captured not only what it is like to share a house with the proprietor of Where Poetry Goes to Die (an apparently long, lingering death), but the vocabulary, meter and facial hair of the poet as well:

Pearls poetry