12 01 02 - Takoma Park, MD
This month's headline: Anne and I are planning West Coast tour in January and February and a Florida trip in March. See the end of this little missive for details!
Hey Everybody, It's that time of the month again. And not only that, it's that time of the year again: where we all get a little spiritual with the upcoming holidays. Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Vurahmujjakki, Solstice, Ramadan, Liberace's birthday. Whatever it is for you. Happy ____________ to all of you who have helped us sooo much this year - and what a year it has been!
So a holiday toast to all of you who read this little newspaper. Cheers to all of you who have put us up, hosted a house concert, let us turn around in your driveway. Salut to those of you who have brought your friends out to shows, forwarded the news letter on to your friends, and requested us on your local radio station. Salud to those of you who have helped fix the car, given us a ride, directions and filled our coffee cup. And here's to the rest of you out there who cross our paths or allow us to cross yours!
Driving through Needmore, PA - trying to escape Pennsylvania - the last thing I figured I needed was more Pennsylvania. I noticed they had a Needmore Christian School - but no Needmore Art Museum, No Needmore local tavern - but there was a Needmore Penitentiary.
A sign outside the Needmore Baptist Church with interchangeable marquee-style letters read, "Count Your Blessings."
I was thinking: I can't count my blessings.
Now, I know this sounds hokey, but a hokey sign requires a hokey thought. Perhaps it is the only way to defeat such banality - since negative times negative equals positive, I just have to say it, hokey or not: "My blessings are infinite! I cannot count them all. Therefore, I say, "Stop counting your damned blessings and enjoy them!" There is not enough time to both count and appreciate your blessings.
And what is this "your blessings" and my "blessings" stuff, anyway? Shouldn't it be "our blessings"?
Now, I am bringing this up largely because it is December - ya know, the time when many of us tend to get a little spiritual, if not downright religious.
Well, allow me to proselytize just a second here. But first, I feel a need to say in advance that this is meant as a holiday well-wish. It is not an attack on Christianity - liberals do that often enough. No, quite the contrary. Isn't that novel?
Ya see, I was raised a Christian. I particularly like the first three or four books of the New Testament - ya know, the direct quotes. (Jesus, why didn't somebody give that guy a pencil?) As for the Paul stuff... well... I mean, ya gotta wonder about a guy who would denounce homosexuality from inside a prison. But I digress... Where was I? Needmore penitentiaries? Infinity? No, it was... Oh yeah...
Now, aside from all the really cool stuff Christ said - it seems the most quoted bit is John 3:16, which, depending on your preferred translation, reads: "Whosoever believeth in me shall not perish but have everlasting life."
I never really liked that bit - seemed rather "I, Me, My" for a guy known as the messiah and all...
So, I was thinking: Somebody on down the line must have gotten the translation wrong and by "me" it really meant "my teachings," or more, simply, "forgiveness"?
And what if the "whosoever" had nothing to do with 'you' and 'your' paltry sins and your pathetic 230-pounds-of-Haagen-Das-bloated-body-that-needs-a-special-electric-footrest-on-your-La-Z-Boy-to-hoist-your-fat-ankles-up-in-the-air-so-that-they-do-not-get-gangrene-while-you-watch-the-Anna Nicole show 'you?'
What if the "whosoever" was... well... mankind itself?
"If Christ died for my paltry sins... I figure he overreacted." (Chandler/Rockstroh, from "Mulch," 1990)
Really.
And most important: What if "everlasting life" was really about the survival of the species - not the individual?
Perhaps Christ was not talking about joining your grandparents, Robert E Lee, Dale Earnhardt and your old dog Butkus at a giant Tupperware party in the sky - where no one needs nametags, the potato salad never goes bad and nothing but Coors Lite is served.
What if the translation was something like:
"If mankind embraced forgiveness, then mankind could live on the Earth forever." John 3:16.
Even though if that were printed on a bumper sticker it would likely PISS-OFF some folks - you'd likely end up with your tires slashed or your brake lines cut I'd like you to:
At least think about it while you have a happy holiday.
Hang with da folks... Have some food... propose a toast. And stop counting your damned blessings - just be glad you have them!
###
(Time magazine says: "This little news letter may put us out of business.") (The New York Times says: "Chris Chandler is a liar."*) (*Not really)
October 30, 2002 St. Louis, Missouri
I have spent most of the month in the D.C. area - mostly in Maryland, wary of my casual trespasses from bodega to liquor store to apartment complex amidst all of the sniper reports. The ordeal was happening all around me.
First we were told to be on the lookout for a white box truck... . As fate would have it, I found myself driving a white box truck for a small theater company. Yes, I got pulled over for this infringement... .
"Boy, I see you have a Florida driver's license."
"Ummm... Yes, sir, I do."
"And whose truck is this?"
OK, I admit, even though it was the first time in my life I was actually thankful for being pulled over, I did indeed blow it. The truth is, I did not know whose truck it was.
"Ummm... I dunno... Ummm... Sir, it belongs to a theater company in Bethesda... I was, well... I, uh... No, sir I don't now the name of... Yes, I am bald... ."
"So, do you live in Florida?"
"Well, ya see... I don't, uh, really live in... "
"And where DO you live?"
"Well, ya see, it's like this... ."
After about half an hour of this, they let me go.
Then the news reports the next day said to be on the lookout for a white van with a ladder rack.
Well, guess what the theater company had me driving next?
Practice did not get me any better... . I was pulled over yet again...
"I do not know where I live... . I have no job... . I am unsure of who owns this van. It has something to do with a theater company. I am doing the friend of a friend a favor and... In the case? That's a guitar... . No, really, it is... . Open it... ."
Well, it was a guitar, and again they let me go. Thank God, they did not ask me to play it.
I admit: I did not mind the roadblocks - and was in fact thankful for them - but on the other hand I am genuinely thankful that we live in land that is free enough to have the possibility of a sniper.
Yes, I was thankful that such a horrible thing could exist. Freedom itself is dangerous. I hope it stays that way. What we really need is "Protection from all this... safety."
The whole experience, combined with all of the reports of people no longer going outside, changing their lives, voluntarily relinquishing their freedom, led me to write this list of platitudes... . I think we can all agree that Freedom is anything but free. Sometimes it is rather expensive.
If you would like to contribute to this list, please reply. You who read this newsletter are a wildly creative lot. I genuinely look forward to your response.
Freedom is:
... being able to take flying lessons when you are of Arab descent.
She is a roadside diner -- open all night.
... a full tank of gas.
... a blank yellow legal pad sitting on the driver's-side seat of a $250 pickup truck, sold as is.
She is driving a white van with a ladder rack with a box of long-stem roses the sitting on the dash.
She is coffee black when on the run, with cream and sugar at sunset.
... the ability to glance in the mirror and not notice yourself.
She is recognizing the wanton glint in a stranger's eye -- and not pursuing it, because you don't have to.
Freedom is dancing alone. She dances with strangers. Freedom is dancing with your lover, ... dancing with your mother, ... dancing with your ex.
On a cold day, Freedom is getting your tongue stuck on the frozen metal while giving a blowjob to a bronze statue of the city's fathers - just because they need one so.
Freedom is using the word "blowjob" so that your list of platitudes will not wind up printed on a poster hanging in the bathroom of an insurance salesman living in the suburbs of a minor American city.
Freedom is free from want... ... a slave to want.
She causes premature reincarnation.
She is making eye contact with the blind.
She is drawing underarm hair on advertisements hanging in the subway - then writing a letter to the ad company thanking them for printing the ads that way.
... giving your hat to a total stranger just because she looks good in it.
... tipping well when you can't afford it.
She is waxing your moustache into a Salvador Dali just to let small children play with the curlicues.
Freedom is obeying stoplights you see on TV.
She is knowing that every morning is the morning after.
She is gathering a group of pedestrians for a rousing chorus of "No More Chanting!"
Freedom is thanking a god you don't believe in.
She is knowing that the world could be no more imperfect than if it were absolutely flawless.
She is losing a contest, shaking the hand of the winner, looking him in the eye, and saying, "No hard feelings."
Freedom is having hard feelings.
She is taking those hard feelings and tying them to a stick so that they can be used as a hammer to build a cathedral for the one who made you feel that way.
... winning that same contest and spending all of the prize money on the runners-up.
She is giving credit to the space as one of the letters in the alphabet.
Freedom is a delicacy, a goal, laughter, a truth -- she is a weakness, a vice, a virtue.
She is burning your journals.
She is finding four pages ten days later lying unburned beneath the pile of still-smoldering ashes and considering it a sign to NEVER do that again.
She is the memories that the smell of bubblegum calls forth.
... smoking cigarettes when you don't smoke, and not smoking when you do.
... buying a raffle ticket and filling it out with the name of the woman who sold it to you.
Freedom is being congratulatory when she wins.
Freedom is filling your gas tank in Silver Spring, Maryland, when there is a white van with a ladder rack parked across the street.
Freedom is filling ten pages in the yellow legal pad found on the driver's-side seat of a $250 pickup truck.
Freedom is finishing the Muse and Whirled Retort.
###
Yes Folks it's the third anniversary of the Muse and Whirled Retort
That would make this Volume IV Issue I (hooray!) current subscription: 2500
Washington, DC October first, year of our (well, some people's) lord: two thousand and two.
Hey everybody,
It's that time of the month again. There is a lot going on, so let's get started.... It's only 1600 words... get comfortable... Here in our nation's capitol listening to the war drums beat louder. There's been a very odd rhythm created here lately. The hawks beat their drums while the doves march in the streets beating theirs. It ain't exactly music. Thousands dressed in black with helmets and shields marching past thousands dressed in black with helmets and shields. The main way you could tell them apart was the ones standing on the side were armed and the ones marching had better rhythm.
In Farragut Square, about 2,500 people gathered - Admiral Farragut standing in the middle. Some anarchist climbed up and placed a peace flag in Farragut's outstretched hand. The man who said, "Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead," was waving the peace flag, pointing the protestors toward the line of heavily armed cops. "Full speed a head" David Rovics (http://www.davidrovics.com/) For those of you playing along at home: a former bandmate and the voice and guitar on my Convenience Store Troubadours album (http://www.primecd.com/cctroubadour.htm )had climbed aboard a pickup truck with a sound system and was singing to an enthralled crowd. Anne and I performed a number to close out the concert and rally the group to march on to the World Bank. (http://www.ibewwebmasters.com/dc28.htm)
I loved the local news coverage asking penetrating questions like: "How have the protestors affected your morning commute?"
But they DID show our friend Jim Page (http://www.jimpage.net/) singing a parody of "This land" in which he comes full circle to say let's take this song back and finally sings the Woody chorus. Of coarse the news showed him singing the familiar chorus as an example of how tired the movement is. No, what is tired is lousy coveragelike that. What is tired is interviewing a drug addict banging on a plastic jug as the voice of the movement.
Would they ever go inside the World Bank and ask the janitor his opinion on debt relief and then present it as the future of the International Monetary Fund?
Let's see... This month saw the anniversary of September 11th, and as I watched the "must-see" commemorative specials, I found myself emembering where I was and what I was doing a year ago....
...And there I was thinkin' that the 20th century was never going to leave! He'd been hangin' round my house--sleepin' on my couch, puttering 'round my living room in his socks like Ozzie Osbourne (http://www.covenantnews.com/baldwin020412.htm), nothin' to say, burnt out, still an oil junkie, relivin' his past glory--aging chunky trophy wife, worthless irritating brats running around, small dogs soiling the carpet...
But then the 21st century flew aboard four airplanes right into my living room....
The pundits claimed his arrival united us all, and for a brief moment I believed them—because for a brief moment we were united. The 20th century had indeed left the house--I remember the moment well....
It was that split second right after the second plane hit...because up until then we'd all been clinging to the hope that the first plane had been some freak accident. But then, when the second plane hit we did indeed all unite--because for once we Americans collectively gasped, " What the hell is going on?"
All the pundits claimed that we had changed--but I want to know just how is it that we have changed? I mean besides the fact that you can no longer fly on an airplane with a pair of nail clippers....
Remember when all the pundits said we Americans would never go back to our reality-show lives, that the endless imagery of the Twin Towers falling would make us think reality itself was a good enough show--and that Survivor would not survive--and there would be an end to shows like American Idol, Real World, and Who Wants to Marry a Republican?
But we have NOT changed. Even the American flags that once flew tattered on the antennae of gas-guzzlers have finally blown threadbare. New ones are consigned to the half-off bin at Wal-Mart, and so-called reality shows that depict a reality that I couldn't hallucinate (even during my drug days) are more popular than an Ecstasy-and-Viagra cocktail in a techno club.
But there was that moment that we all keep reliving: when the 20th century had indeed left the house. And in that moment, as the door shut behind him, I believed that the phoenix that we all knew would arise from the ashes of the 20th century might turn out to be a dove.
Then we saw Li'l W on the white house lawn, spatula in hand, wearing an apron that reads "United We Stand." Standin' in front of a giant George Foreman grill, big "We love to see you smile" smile on his face...serving up filet of dove and dove McNuggets. Made with his father's famous Texas Ranger bar-B-Q sauce.
And in that moment, I knew the 20th century hadn't left for good--No, Ozzie had just stepped out for a pack of cigarettes, and he was back in my living room! On a fresh oil jag, wearin' a T shirt with a picture of Saddam Hussein and a caption that reads, "This one's for my daddy."
And he plopped down on the couch, flipped on the war, like on NFL game day, bowl of chips in his lap, George still grilling dove in the yard-which is great, because Ozzie Osbourne's only claim to fame before starring in the most popular series on cable television was having bitten the head off a dove. Nows can you imagine being some Third World civilian, shaking in his bare feet that his country might be next... watching us watching a guy famous for biting the head off a dove? Trying to figure it out? It's as if Donald Rumsfeld had bitten it off himself... "Why do they hate us?"
Anyway...
...Ozzie, back on my couch, put on a red-white-and-blue Patriots jersey, slammed an oil can down on the coffee table, and shouted, "USA! USA! USA!" as the bombs began to fall.
As they fall, I think back to 9-11 and the pundits asking for that moment of silence. Every time I see the bombs falling--every time I hear those chants of "USA! USA!"--I wish SOMEONE would ask for another moment of silence, a year of silence, a millennium of silence.
But no one does.
And I realize that what they were really asking for with their moments of silence was for ME to be... well... silent.
And I was--well, as silent as I could be... as we bombed mud huts into the Stone Age. Giving birth to ten thousand more terrorists with each bomb that we dropped.
And now, the 21st century, who arrived with such a bang, now just sits there, laptop outta batteries, cell phone outta range. With all his instant communication, he fails to utter a word--`cept for some strained mumbles about an Indie Media Center, which go largely unheard. Perhaps the 21st century, too, misunderstood what was meant by a "moment" of silence.
While the 20th is up to his same old tricks...
"We'll prove Iraq has the bomb if we have to plant it on them ourselves."
"No, we can't find Osama--so Saddam will have to do."
Oh, what was it that P.T. Barnum said, "There is an American born every minute"?
I envision a new reality show, one much more wholesome. Perhaps it should be shot in black-and-white. It features George Senior, not Ozzie Osbourne, puttering around the summer house in Kennebunkport like Fred MacMurray. George Senior wearing a cardigan muttering to himself what to do about those pesky kids: Neal and Jeb and Li'l George. We'll call it "My Three Sons."
Barbara, baking cookies in a Martha Stewart apron. Still feeling arrogant because she got HER picture on the one-dollar bill.
Millie is doing her doodie on rug.
Neal drops by to pick up his allowance. "Now, don't use all that on bail money again." She parries.
Jeb calls up and asks, "Daddy, if we introduce democracy into Iraq, does that mean Florida might be next?"
Li'l George comes over for his geography lesson. Dad tries to show him the difference between the Persian Gulf and the Persian cat.
And George looks at the globe as his father points. He sees the very place that civilization began--and something inside him stirs.
Something makes his tiny heart swell--just a little bit.
He points to Mesopotamia. Since he's the president, he gets one of those expensive globes—you know, the topographical kind....
He begins to caress the ridges with the curiosity of a child. His fingers follow the jagged ridges, gently petting the earth. He begins to stroke the Zagros mountains, his index finger nuzzling across to the apex of Mount Sinai itself--and then traces the rugged seams formed by shifting tectonic plates, down to the fertile land between the Tigris and Euphrates--the cradle of civilization--to where man first became fruitful and multiplied, where God first gave man dominion over the fish of the sea, over the fowl of the air and beasts of the field and over every creepy thing that creepeth over the earth.
He gets a lump in his throat. He realizes the implications and announces, "That's where the bombing begins!"
Civilization ends in the very place that it began....
Sometimes listening to George Bush is like reading the first chapter of Genesis (http://www.thebible.com) in reverse. I mean, I know he has dyslexia and all...
"And in the end, the world was a shapeless chaotic mass."
"No, No, No, George, It's `In the beginning'--George, `the beginning!' Get it right!"
"And God said, `Let there be light.' And there was light...."
So George says, "We'll fix that!"
Is it any wonder why, in that region, as civilization was in its infancy, human beings wandering aimlessly through the desert found their liberation, their salvation, their hope, in a burning... Bush? > ###
The Muse and Whirled Retort September, 2002
Hey everybody. It's that time of the month again...
Well, it's been a great month for me. Anne and I had been on the road constantly since mid-April, but this month I took off... Anne was away in Sweden tying the knot, so I went back to Stone Mountain, GA, to do a few solo shows and visit the folks. It was a nice coincidence that it happened to be my high-school reunion.
The notion of how we never change from high school has been written about interminably. I suppose it is for a reason. At my reunion, I found myself with an urge to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom. The reunion was not in Stone Mountain. No, Stone Mountain is apparently not a place one should be proud of coming from. Ya see, since I grew up there she has gone from being the backwoods confederate memorial and home of the Ku Klux Klan -- Martin Luther King said in his "I had a dream" speach: "Let freedom ring from the Stone Mountain of Georgia." -- to being a black middle-class suburb of Atlanta. The town recently elected a black mayor. So my high school's response? Pretend we came from somewhere else... They decided to have the reunion in a rich white section of Atlanta known as Dunwoody. Oh, say, 20 miles from where I grew up. The food was bad and the drinks were expensive.
I had gone to the trouble of putting together a little photo album of pictures from the crowd I ran with. Not only were none of them at the reunion, no one who was there even recognized the people in photographs. Now, granted, most of the people I ran with are most likely in jail now or otherwise unreachable. But, all the popular people, the football players and cheerleaders of yore, were there clamoring for fresh awards. "Least Changed," and "Most Successful" were among the possibilities. Twenty years later, these people were still stabbing each other in the back to get meaningless awards.
Needless to say, conversations about growing up in the late '60s and early '70s in Stone Mountain, GA, with all of its history were going to be impossible. I felt like an alien. Come to think of it, I did back in high school, too. Yes, the notion of how we never change from high school has been written about interminably. I suppose it is for a reason.
The next day, I looked up an old buddy Larry -- whom I had not seen in years and who had not been at the reunion -- and drove out to see him at his place in the suburbs. We went down to his posh finished basement for cocktails and perhaps a dangerous stroll down that blind alley known as memory lane. He reminded me of a few incidents I had forgotten like my debate with "student government types" in which I suggested that they pave the football field to ease the parking problem in the neighborhood. Or the time we stole boxes of candy bars from the cheerleaders and sold them, like they did, under the guise of doing something for the school. Only our idea was to build a shelter over the smoking area (Yes, in Georgia we had smoking permits.) We never did build the shelter but it made for good controversy.
We talked about the "manager" of the football team (BTW, "manager" is a fancy word for "waterboy" which is a fancy word for "ass-kisser") who hated us for these antics. Billy Blythewood was a senior. We were eighth-graders or "sub freshmen" "subbies,"if you will. This guy was not only the waterboy but also the hall monitor and local fink. He prided himself in having turned in eleven students on charges ranging from cutting class to smoking cigarettes. Early in my eighth-grade year, this guy actually locked me in the equipment cage after I talked back to him. Later, when I was discovered by several of the football players, I had a bucket of water poured on my head and then got covered with the powdered Gatorade mix. (Is it any wonder I attended five different high schools and actually graduated from a school for dropouts called Stone Mountain Adult? But I digress)
Eventually, we discovered the best way to deal with Billy Blythewood was to ignore him--to not recognize his authority. We just walked past him when he asked us for a hall pass or told us to come with him to see the real security guard.... Another method was to sing a little song we wrote about him. Neither one of us remembered much more than: "Billy Blythewood is the manager for the varsity football squad. He wears a letter jacket, but we know that he is a fraud." We sang it whenever he confronted us. This had the effect of a stun gun. He would stand there immobilized, trembling. Then he would raise one finger and try to explain what an important job being the manager was while we walked off.
Anyway, enough about him. Back at my friend Larry's place, the night wore on. After a six-pack or so had passed, we managed to run out of anecdotes and found we had very little in common anymore.
He began waxing poetic about becoming prematurely middle-aged lamenting his subdivided life. His wife (also a classmate of mine) had left him a year earlier for a younger guy. We began talking about life hinging on the future rather than the past, AND THEN decided to take a stroll through his suburban neighborhood in the middle of the night. Along the freshly paved roads of Manor Oaks we walked, each dangling from our fingers the remains of a six-pack by its plastic rings. We wondered round cul-de-sacs, and past tasteful lawn statuary, snoozing SUVs, and mailboxes made to look like bird houses, past rolling trash cans lined neatly on the curb and bright blue recycling containers piled neatly with empty cans of Coors Lite.
We talked about the security of a security system and contrasted the insecurity of life on the road. Both choices have their chains, we concluded. Both chains can only be broken by understanding the alternative.
About the time we both began coming to some sort off an epiphany, we saw coming form behind us: the familiar blue lights of the DeKalb County Police Department. I suppose it is illegal to wander through the streets of the suburbs in the middle of the night contemplating your own life and what it might become. Jeeze, ya might reach some conclusions that violate the Homeland Security Act. You might just find yourself with a desire to let the grass in your lawn grow past the required 2-and-3/4 inches. And God knows where that might lead.
The spotlight from the patrol car blinded us in our tracks. "I've seen the light" I thought. "And I'm going to jail."
A staticky voice pealed out between whirls of blue light. "Put your hands on top of your head." Larry and I looked to each other, stunned by both the overreaction and the familiarity of the situation, and began to do as we were told. Then it hit me: Ignore it... Just like Billy Blythewood. I took another sip from my beer. The cop repeated his demand. Then I realized why it had hit me.
"Does that voice sound familiar to you?" I asked. "Is that... " The officer adamantly repeated his demand as he stepped authoritatively from the patrol car.
"I think it is." Larry said as the officer stepped into the light.
Yes! Yes it was! It was indeed... none other than Billy Blythewood. "The manager for the varsity football squad."
We both just started laughing - uncontrollably. "What's so funny?" he demanded in his best Clint Eastwood. It was clear he did not recognize us. Then as if cued by the Gods of Memory, we started singing his little song.
"He tries to impress the girls but we know they don't care at all The closest he'll come is the hole he drilled in the locker room wall."
His badge no longer seemed to matter. He became immediately powerless. As if by rote, he raised one finger up in the air.... The stun-gun still worked.
Larry and I looked at each other, shrugged and walked on down the road back to his house, listening in the distance to how being the manager really was an important job. From Larry's window, we could still see the blue lights twirling in the twilight. Billy Blythewood may still be standing in that same spot for all I know.
Such was my high school reunion. Now, it's back to work.
I am in Indiana at the moment we just participated in a Labor Day Parade. Yes, Anne is back in the States, and we are having a big party for her and her new Swedish husband, Julie, on the 7th of September. Then we have a few dates in the Baltimore area and Philadelphia. In October, look for us in the Midwest we would like to play Cincinnati, St Louis, and the Louisville area. If any of you have some ideas on places to play, please let us know. Also coming up is New England in November.
See you out there on the thin highways of fat America.
###
Pittsburgh, PA 7-31-02
Hey everybody, It's that time of the month again. I am down the street at my little neighborhood bar here in my new-est hometown of Pittsburgh. Actually, I have spent more nights at Kerrville, TX's Quiet Valley Ranch than I have in Pittsburgh. I guess now that I think about it, Kerrville's "Camp Stupid" would be more like my neighborhood bar than the "Pub in the Park." But the pub is two blocks from Anne's house and on those rare nights we have had off ¨C I walk over here. Though I have only been here about 5 times in 2002 I feel like a regular. Business must be off¡- the bartender just called ME by name.
Jeez, just since last month it has been - Calgary, Hamilton, Pittsburgh, Washington, DC, Santa Cruz, Seattle, Portland, Eugene, the Oregon Country Fair, Tacoma, Port Townsend, Bellingham, the Vancouver Folk Fest, the Island's Folk Fest and just yesterday we arrived back here to ¡®da ¡®burgh' on what was apparently Vanguard' s last flight. Tomorrow, I fly to Lawrence, Kansas.
And if all that is not enough insanity, Anne is both getting audited by the IRS and married - to a Swede! What I am trying to say i ¡- up the street the paperwork is flying. The heat is unbearable and the complex array of ceiling and window fans spray official documents around the house like Lance Armstrong's welcome home tickertape parade. We're talking immigration files, marriage license applications, phone bills, and a receipt to some place in Copenhagen called Havenjaakk's Haus of Sin (which I am sure is deductible.) Needless to say, I felt it would be a good time to head for the Pub in the Park.
It is no real surprise to me that Anne is being audited. I mean who can decipher the infrastructure that companies like World Com, AOL/Time Warner and Enron are built on. And if you start dismantling that house of cards - the whole economy would collapse, we'd count the cards and have tangible proof that the deck was stacked all along. The only solution is¡- audit folk singers.
Auditing a folk singer? That's like panhandling in a homeless shelter. I am sure the auditor's annual salary is greater than all of the taxes owed by the entire roster of the American Federation of Musician's Local 1000 for the fiscal year of 2002. But I guess it is what they have to do.
Otherwise we would have to endure months of George W Bush's whiny rhetoric. "We will see to it that these corporate criminals will hear the words 'significant jail time'" (note: once Bush has uttered that phrase, the corporate criminals have indeed heard the words...) Forest W. Gump is better at Clintonspeak than Clinton. When you translate his "tough talk on corporate duplicity speech" he basically says, "As long as the crime was not committed before they became an official cabinet member these crooks will see the inside of a jail cell!"
Hmmm... SEE the inside of a jail cell... Now, I mentioned earlier in the letter, I was in Washington, DC this month and I noted a series of tours through a federal prison with shuttle busses leaving daily from key locations in and around the executive branch office buildings. I wonder if it is a coincidence.
Audit a Folk Singer¡- Perhaps their thinking is Arthur Andersen's accountants are better than ours - we need to go after people who produce numbers we can understand. let's see here - you performed at the Nameless Coffeehouse for thirty seven dollars and eighty four cents in tips. You spent $15 at the copy cat photocopy service and drove 316 miles to get there - that means you made.. $243 in profit and owe us $3643.97 in taxes.
Perhaps the laid off Arthur Andersen employees have become desperate enough to work for us now and we could say - well I made $37.84 at the Nameless Coffee House but due to a 14% investment in the copy cat photo copy service and the rest in the gas station hot dog division of marathon petroleum - we show a profit and should consider going public. So, we began offering shares in the flying poetry circus at $47 and after a successful run at the The Neutral Ground, The Common Grounds, the The Shaky Grounds and the Grounds for Divorce, shares have now stabilized at a more reasonable $689. It is time for the CEOs to get out - but not before stealing the tip jars from every barrista that ever worked at the "Burial Grounds." Then we would never get audited for it would be clear what a house of cards folk music is built on.
Me, I'd be happy to pay an income tax. I'd also be happy to pay a luxury tax. I'd be happy to pay an inheritance tax. I would love for my offspring to pay an estate tax. But you do have to have an estate, inheritance, luxury and yes, an income to pay taxes on it. Hell I would have insurance if there was something worth insuring. Personally I¡®ve always believed that before State Farm Insurance there were... Good Neighbors. (I have to add here as I sit in the pub in the park that "Entertainment Tonight" is running a woeful piece on the financial troubles of Michael Jackson.) But, in the mean time, I have no credit...'cept maybe the kind that matters... "Barkeep, could ya put this next one on my tab? I am a regular after all."
**** Now that festival season is over we are slowing down a bit. In the big picture we are looking for something that could get us to Texas before the year is out ¨C if any of you have any ideas please let us know ¨C Also, we are thinking bout New England in November ¨C we have a date in Northampton November 9 that we want to build from.
**** Anne gets married August 10th in Sweden they are now registered at Arthur Andersen.
###
(Anne insisted that we celebrate her birthday where it's a national holiday.)
Hey Everybody,
It's that time of the month again. We're here in Calgary having our morning coffee - fixing to drive out to Lake Louise. I don't know if you've ever been here but the Canadian Rockies make the American Rockies look like those landfills in Florida. Seeing the Canadian Rockies is the only time in recent history when I have been wholly awe-struck. This will be a well-deserved respite after a long month fraught with lots of hard travel, more fulfilling work than one can afford, and two major breakdowns (totaling $3400 US or $143,000 Canadian.) Roget's Thesaurus equates "fulfilling" with: "does not pay." This would be OK except that even after all the anti-globalization protests, seminars and workshops we've been to this month it still takes money to live. Damn it - there I was thinking we were doing a good job.
Anne and I have been here in Calgary protesting the G-8 Summit. Well, the summit wasn't actually in Calgary. It was in a remote compound 60 miles away called Kananaskis. There was more money spent on security for the G-8 than the combined gross national products of the bottom 8 (or B8 if you will.) Upon arrival, the leaders of the G-8 were presented with fine Stetson Cowboy hats. (Calgary is the home of the internationally acclaimed "Stampede" after all.) The cost of the hat, combined with the first-class round trip airfare to Cowtown is greater than the average annual per capata income of an entire family in Bangladesh, Somalia or Haiti (all members of the B-8.) After 400 million dollars spent on security they did finally make one arrest - the 400 Million Dollar Man. Yes folks, the B8s are going to have to learn to tighten their belts again, but at least Murray Vanbumsickle has been incarcerated for the crime of spray painting, "Make love not money!" on the side of an ATM.
So there was no violence, tear gas, or pepper spray. Therefore, DO NOT believe the rumors that the new hole in the face of Anne's guitar came from a barrage of rubber bullets. No, it happened in a song circle at the OM Fest when an overzealous festival-goer tossed a jug of water to another, and missed. Not nearly as romantic I know, but still just as tragic. (her guitar is a 1968 Martin D-28 which she got for her 18th birthday - she is the original owner, and it is the only guitar she has ever owned. To view the damage visit www.annefeeney.com - it should be posted soon)
The papers are calling Kananaskis the model for future summits: Meet in a secure compound - significantly outside a major accessible city - as opposed to Qatar, Siberia or the space shuttle - (to create some kind of playpen for the protestors so they can feel as if they are exercising their rights) infiltrate them with undercover cops dressed in black bandanas (how come we can't dress as cops and go to their meetings?) then pat the protestors on the head by printing a couple of papier mache puppets on the front page of the newspaper and no one gets hurt (or heard.) The Oiligarchy reigns supreme.
So look forward to this plan at future G-8 meetings as well as the IMF, GATT, WEF, NATO, OPEC, the UN, the SPCA, and the PTA ... hell if they could just get the NFL to meet in some secure compound surrounded by barbed wire, a no fly zone and four check points to get in the protected sanctuary... Oh wait... they do... it's called the Super Bowl. (Did you see it this year? They wheeled out a very old man masquerading as Paul McCartney to sing about "Freedom" flanked by a papier mache statue of the Iwo Jima monument and the World Trade Center Fire Fighters while the audience was being frisked. I only bring this up because football season starts this month.)
Here, Anne and I were expecting to get embroiled in direct action and flew out to Calgary to roll up our sleeves. However, the best direct action from this tour was back in Peterborough, ON. There, we had a rally in front of City Hall for affordable housing. We then wheeled a mock public housing Project onto the front lawn of City Hall. The group will proceed to live in that house until they are heard. You should have seen this house rolling down the street being pulled by a dozen pierced 20-somethings chanting "The people... United... Will never be defeated." Unfortunately, I misunderstood their Canadian accents and thought they were shouting: "The pizza... uneaten... will never be reheated."
Truthfully, the Calgary protests were peaceful, kinder and gentler. We got to do shows with Bruce Cockburn, the Raging Grannies, Bread and Puppet Theatre and even met Jello Biafra in a punk club.
Marches, Meetings, Mantras, Minutiae, Mache. The front line of demonstrators were papier mache puppets, which made sense since the dignitaries at the summit were also papier mache puppets (protected by 60 miles of tanks, jet fighters and very nervous 20-somethings armed with M-16s.) However, the front line of "protection" in Calgary was led by very photogenic, media friendly bicycle cops. Kinder Gentler Riot Gear, or maybe urban couriers gone bad. I envision the oil-thirsty big shots looking puzzled at the pictures of the cops on bicycles saying, "What are those things? Do they run on regular or unleaded?" I am sure they saw the footage of the protestors marching and singing folk songs. I know this because we gave them ideas. They were photographed sitting around a globe divvying up the world's resources among themselves while singing Woody Guthrie: "This land is my Land, (here, I'll take Sri Lanka) This land is your land... " (OK, you take Bangladesh.)
The newspaper called the protestors "self-absorbed" in that the protestors were armed with more cameras than tofu hotdogs. I found that notion kind of ironic since if the newspapers would actually report what is happening we wouldn't feel a need to create our own Indie Media Centers.
I somehow picture these Multi-Media Magnates complaining "Hey! How come we spent all this money to consolidate all the news sources if these people are just going to go out and start their own."
Speaking of such - thank you all for the correspondence during the tenure of this little newsletter - an alternative news source of sorts. We look forward to a series of dates coming up on the west coast!!!
###
May 02, 2002 Brooklyn, NY
Hey everybody, It's that time of the month again... .
The day after May Day finds me in a little bar in Brooklyn drinking an afternoon Red Stripe - a good non-potent daytime beer....
The scale of New York seems impossible to capture - it can only be witnessed. Just as those 8"x10" calendars hanging from magnets on the refrigerators of dilettantes cannot compare to seeing the actual brushstrokes of Marc Chagall hanging at the Met (and the Met is free, whereas the calendars will set you back $12.95... ). In our first hours here, Anne and I made an excursion to Ground Zero. Again, it is scale. There is no big-screen TV big enough to capture the view of devastation from God's own home entertainment system.
I remember seeing the World Trade Center in person back in 1998. For years I had thought the two buildings looked like the boxes that the Chrysler and Empire State buildings came in. Nothing better to do, I lay on one of the sidewalks between them - as close to the center as I could surmise - and looked up. From that vantage point, the two vanishing points nearly merged until only a thin ribbon of heaven was visible between them. At that time, there was a sculpture between them dedicated to world peace. I remember thinking it was ironic that a tribute to world peace would be placed so squarely at the center of world trade.
The sculpture itself was an abstraction of the globe. Looking as if Mother Earth herself had had molten gold poured upon her from atop the twin towers, like the Sherwin-Williams Paint logo (you know, with the can of paint raining down on the globe). It was a gilded Earth. As if an earth paved in gold was the multinational conglomerates' view of world peace. Or, it was as if there were medireview warriors atop the towers who had seen the Earth herself about to breach the castle walls and so poured molten gold atop her to keep her from storming the ramparts protecting world trade. The Anti-Globalization movement will not be stopped by such antediluvian tactics. See you in Kananaskis.
We all know the events that have unfolded in our recent past. We all know how the center of world trade has fallen to the force of a perverted faith-based initiative. Newsweek magazine even tells us it is now passe to discuss them.
The sculpture somehow survived and now stands battered in Battery Park, its meaning altered. It seems to be asking, "What have we learned?"
The abstraction of the Earth stands beaten - huge holes blown in her side. Her abstruse golden armor was no protection from the force of devastation - a testament that greed and avarice will be brought down. And if we do not begin to do so voluntarily, the weight of her collapse will kill more innocents. There is a way to stop it. Far too many people died in the rubble at Ground Zero. May their deaths not be in vain. May we all see the symbolism of the monument at Battery Park for the wake-up call that it is. May the message not be cheapened by Teddy bears and aluminum-foil heart-shaped helium balloons.
So much has gone down this month - I have imbibed such a variety of protest it leaves me confused and enthused. For example, May Day at Union Square Park: Fifty old communists sitting on folding wooden chairs with oxygen tanks and walkers - surrounded by a multinational conglomerate construction zone - using much of the strength they have left to hold their fists in the air as "The Internationale" is sung. "Arise, ye prisoners of starvation!" There is a smattering of folding tables covered with tired photocopies of "The Little Red Song Book" held down by chunks of concrete. A band of businessmen, unaware that it is May Day, sit on the wall eating Thai food with plastic forks from Styrofoam containers. One or two young anarchists circulate flyers and otherwise look uninterested.
The wind is howling - scattering the park with leaflets and song lyrics. But still "The Internationale" hangs in the air like stale smoke. The gas-powered generator runs out of gas mid-song, causing the sound system to sputter silent. Fifty elderly voices warble, "Arise! ye wretched of the earth!" - and somehow cut through the sound of jackhammers erecting a new Office Depot. The soundman dodders across the front of the stage toting a red plastic gas can. Another handful of young anarchists dressed in black wander up and clumsily thumb through sheets of photocopied lyrics that are flying in the breeze. They too begin to sing: "Justice thunders condemnation!" The voices mix. The sound system sputters back on. The stale smoke dissipates and is superseded by sweet African incense. "A better world's in birth!" In the fleeting few moments of the third and final chorus, it feels as if we could actually win. It's a fine old conflict. Exuberance emerges.
*** Anne and I look forward to seeing y'all out there this month. California, Cincinnati, St Louis,Kansas City, Dallas, Bandera, Kerrville begins. If you don't live in one of those cities but know folks nearby, please let them know!
*** Also, for those of you playing along at home: "Praise HA!" the film I have been working on for over a year is rounding the corner to completion - if you would like to have a glimpse of the trailer, check out: http://www.pythonaquarius.com/praiseha.html. Our fundraiser at the Knitting Factory last month was a big success! Though we are still and will always be in need of funds. There is info on how to donate at the site.
*** Brad Willis in North Carolina has started an "Anti Folk" site. It can connect you to all kinds of great acts you may not know about and has info about several of my older releases that are not available at the Prime CD site. Thanks Brad! Good luck with your site! Check out: http://www.antifolk.homestead.com
*** And finally, under the topic of playing along at home - I am at 15 years now of doing this. I have released 7 CDs, 11 tapes, 3 books, and 2 videos. I am considering putting out a CD called "If I Had Any Hits, These Would Be the Greatest." I am looking for suggestions on which pieces to include. I would love to hear from you.
Thanks, Chris and Anne
###
Hey Everybody, It's that time of the month again. Yes, today is April Fool's Day and I was thinking of writing a nice gag letter about how Anne and I had landed major label record deal and were about to go out on tour supporting a large Arthur Andersen bale out. But instead I find myself in Northampton, MA in not much of a mood to be funny. Ya ever get that way?
Well, when I do - I figure the best thing to do is to spare those around me the forced jokes and phony candor and just raise my glass to say, "Here's to Voltaire and Comedia Del Arte. Here's to Mencken, Fields, and Twain - to Michael Moore and Mae West, to The Marx Brothers (all four of them) and to The Three Stooges (all four of them), to Charlie Chaplin, Steve Martin and Clarence Thomas all for making me laugh when I'm not in such a good mood.
As a registered Florida voter, I really would like to thank Clarence and his buddies in The US Supreme Court for upholding the Oakland California Zero Tolerance case which kicked an elderly woman out of public housing because her retarded granddaughter was caught using crack. I mean Jeb Bush's daughter was convicted on drug charges - and hey - the governor's mansion, as far as I can define it, is public housing. Now, if we could just get zero tolerance for underage drinking perhaps we could get Jeb's Brother out of the public housing system in Washington, DC.
Last month's little note got bunches of feedback from others who had seen a shuttle launch - in fact one person actually had a friend who was one of the astronauts on board and she E mailed it to him. Can I now say I have played outer space? How's that for the resume, huh? "Chris Chandler's work has been read in a variety of settings from the front line of the gas pumps at Aunt Tom's Truck Stop and Wheel Alignment, Manhattan Kansas - to aboard the space shuttle."
Speaking of the space shuttle - I hear that soon, for a fee, you or I can take a ride in it - assuming we have the spare $250,000 to do it. Remember when they raised such a fuss about billionaire Lawrence Tito giving the Russians 20 million dollars to take a joy ride up to the international space station. We Americans seemed to have changed our tune. I knew his money was poorly spent - he should have given it to the Republican Party, They would have seen to it that he had a wet bar and a Jacuzzi when he got up there. Oh, I forget, we've got campaign finance reform now. - scratch that earlier comment.
Anyway, the space shuttle was last month and this month's missive is sent on April Fool's Day - and I find myself sad - on the day of the fool. Even-though, the fool glides across the strip mall parking lot of my soul riding an egg beater. He tight ropes the telephone lines and juggles the honest laughter of children, the condescension of the aristocracy, and all after work comradery of everyone that ever worked on something they enjoyed. On his nose he balances a wine bottle housing a genie who is reading Shakespeare aloud. The words gurgle to the surface of a red wine sea as I stand on the pavement looking up, the rising sun in my eyes, realizing that in both joy and sorrow - life really is good. Thanks, fool. Sometimes it takes a touch of adversity to realize it.
"People who have suffered together have tighter connections that people who are most content." - Sam Shepard/Bob Dylan
So, I am not going to makeup some hippie platitude -- inspired my sniffing too much massage oil -- about how thankful we should all be for the anguish in the world. No, it is just a coincidence that life really is great even though in contains so much distress. All this from the guy who once said, "People who think life is great simply have nothing to compare it to."
I think, I had better just end it here before I dig myself in (farther than I already have) by saying thanks for all the correspondence. That makes me happy.
Anne an I have a calendar full of upcoming dates and a box of new material on its way. That makes me happy.
Living out road maps makes me happy.
Old Ladies on Porches with too many cats make me happy.
Finishing this news letter makes me happy.
###
Canaveral, Florida March, 1st 2002
Hey Everybody, Chandler here & It's that time of the month again. This morning, the infinite has become smaller somehow. The roosters said it best. They were confused this morning - they began crowing but the dawn was not yet upon us. However, the whole horizon bloomed at once. No sunrise. A misty blue light filled our lungs as the horizon hurled yellow rage across the water's edge. Thousands of miles an hour - a blue grey ribbon suddenly streaked toward the open arms of heaven. The air rumbles. Canada Geese honk across the water confused. A long trail of god's own cigar smoke is all that remains. The universe is smaller somehow.
It seems the Hubbell Telescope is again in need of repair. Our pictures of the universe are blurry. The space shuttle is making a house call this morning. Three astronauts with a bottle of Windex have been deployed to clean her mirrors. The infinite is smaller somehow.
Anne is on a cell phone as I write this. Someone has just instant messaged me. "Message" is a verb. This letter is shorter somehow. Here is what is going on... please feel free to correspond. We're looking forward to the final eight gigs of our Florida tour... . if you have friends and relations in the Sunshine State, send them our way ...
###
Hey everybody, It's that time of the month again... .
OK so it's 02 02 02 - really it is. How bout that? "To," "too," "two." Anne and I decided this called for special costume. I returned from the thrift store with tasteful purple tights, leotard and crinoline for Anne, but when she handed me the long robe, bishop's mitre and can of black shoe polish I balked (she's says "Just keep saying 'abolish apartheid!' with your best South African accent... everyone will get it... ") OK, that was bad... I digress...
I wanted to start this letter with a little warning that this month's whirled retort contains the word "fuck."
OK - it does...
Now, I don't use this word often (at least in newsletters) because I know some you have underage children that occasionally break into your e mail account and read this particular missive. I understand.
I, for one, hate it when people say "fuck" around K - I - D - S ...
... Besides there is the FCC thang... and it might be the ONLY word you can't say on TV...
I don't like to use these kinds of words because such words are the sign of...
a...
umm..
a poor... umm...
... what's the word?
... vocabulary.
But sometimes it is the correct word - not to express the magnitude of some extreme situation - no, those occasions give the word too much weight. Sometimes it is merely because the word is so common in the vernacular - in fact, it is used more often than words like: "the," "an," and "high speed internet connection" or even... "God bless America... "
... Just wondering, how come we never see "God Bless Uruguay" or "God Bless Lower Volta"? But speaking of a higher deity blessing a random chunk of land whose borders have been decided upon after lots of mayhem, killing and outright thievery in violation of that same deity's very own commandments...
Here in Vancouver (where we are right now) we've seen lots of Canadian cars sporting "God Bless America!" bumper stickers. But, here it feels different - not like in the USA-not at all - at home it feels like it means: "God bless me!" Here it feels almost quaint.. like ya know when your great Aunt Mathilda dies and you find yourself saying... "Poor old Mathilda, God bless her."
But I am totally digressing here - how I meant to start this month's letter was by saying...
... Stockholm; Washington, DC; Frankfurt (Germany not Kentucky,) Atlanta (my former home), Winston-Salem, NC; Pittsburgh; San Francisco; Santa Cruz; Berkeley; Garberville, CA; Coos Bay, OR; Eugene, OR; Portland; Olympia, WA; Seattle, WA, a kiosk conveniently located right on the 49th parallel between Washington state and the Province of British Columbia and now... Vancouver, BC. These are the places that January has brought us... "Goin down the road feeling bad."
For almost a year now, Anne and I have had a running rivalry over who can land us the best digs - well Anne has gone over the top on this one... in more ways than one... where does she meet such fabulous people? Her friends Joey and Jim have far outdone themselves...
Ya see, I am writing you this note from (I am not making this up) the Savoy Carlton in beautiful "City in the Park, British Columbia." We find ourselves with a panoramic view from a glorious 24 stories above the most beautiful city in the United States. [sic] Our view is hampered a bit by the construction site for two more high rises. I love watching people work - like maybe one day I'd like to try that.
Soon this will be a view of the 24th floor of several other buildings. But, we do have a hot tub, gym, cable and a high speed internet connection ... and how does that song go?... "Goin down the road feelin bad... " (where are my flip flops? I'm off to the sauna ... ) "Yea, I'm goin down the road... " how's that go again?
Anne told me somebody-or-other said "Nothing's too good for the working class" so we're trying not to feel too decadent... but this seems like a good time to say thank you to all of you out there who have opened up your homes and made us feel so welcome. You have - and we could not be doing this with out you!
You have no idea how much better this arrangement with Anne is than when the dog, Amanda and I would sleep in the truck and beg strangers for table scraps and an outlet that we could plug the thrift store electric heater in...
Speaking of thrift stores - we have had some handsome scores on this trip... we flew into San Francisco and rented a car - really we did... but the point of this is that, due to heightened airport security and baggage limits, we decided not to pack any clothes for the tour. we opted to buy a new wardrobe (and nail clippers) at the Santa Cruz thrift store ... which is what we did... I spent $4.47 and we plan to drop off those clothes at a thrift store at the end of the tour in Seattle... unless you come to our grateful bread show - (near the last on this tour) We will be doing a clothes give away. (If you've ever coveted a bishop's miter, this is a great opportunity for you Seattle-ites ... but I look too good in the purple tights & tutu ... )
Anyway, the thing I can't figure out about the rental car is that we got it in San Francisco, but it has (I am not making this up) Broward County plates (my former home) --but the thing is - it has too few miles on it to have been driven from Florida to San Francisco Hmmmm... is Jeb Bush and his statewide environmental policy at work here? Surely Alamo wouldn't buy their cars in a state with no emissions standards and then truck them to... no they wouldn't do that. Here in Vancouver (my former home)... We are busy getting used to the subtleties in Canadian culture. For instance, Wendy's® uses a maple leaf in place of the apostrophe in its logo, not to mention there is a maple leaf right on the golden arches®. I hear (though I have not witnessed this myself) that not only do they have the little packets of ketchup for your fries - but you can get little packets of gravy as well. Those Canadians! Col Sanders is wearing a toque.
The beer is better, the people nicer - I only wish they would stop apologizing... "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." But I have a theory about that. It's like in New York when some one says "Fuck you!" they really mean "Have a nice day." But in LA, when they say, "Have a nice day," they really mean: "Fuck you."
So here, when they say "I'm sorry," I think they really mean, "You're a rude impatient American... it must suck to be you." Though this is only a theory. I come to this theory because after a stressful but otherwise uneventful border crossing we arrived in BC to find - not only are these Canadians stealing our fast food but they are trying to steal our health care system too. In fact, we're on our way out the door to a huge rally to try to head off the latest round of cutbacks in their healthcare system. Seems like the War on Terrorism - (wait, no, it's not a war, 'cause then it would be wrong to keep our 'illegal combatants' in cages) the ummm... - the uh response to Bin Laden's faith based initiative has led even this kinder gentler nation to our north to tighten security, boost military spending, and finance it all by lowering the minimum wage.
But if you really want to sample Canadian culture, the best place to do it is Hollywood, Florida (my former home) - which is where we are heading next... according to the Census Bureau ®, in February there are more Canadians in Florida than there are here. So we are going to visit them... If any of you have any ideas where we can stay/play while we are there drop us a line ... after Florida it's Philly, NYC and Boston (my former home)... and then Pittsburgh-Kerrville and back...
Everything,
Chris and Anne.
###
Hey Everybody, Chandler here - back in Pittsburgh. Anne is in Sweden but she's due in tomorrow afternoon. Day after that we fly to the west coast for a string of dates that would make the most well traveled ask for a second cup of coffee. Speaking of coffee I have some Klekolo coffee brewing right this second - and boy do I need it. It has been in the freezer since our last trip to New England. See, neither Anne nor I have been home much since then.
It feels like a year has passed since I sent out the December newsletter - well actually I guess it has. Hope y’all all had an outstanding new year. Me - I was in Winston Salem, NC at a very large prosaic beer slinging bar which chose to present (no hyperbole) eighties night. Ya see, I went to school in Winston Salem in the eighties and... well... never mind... don’t ask how I wound up there I just did... The bar was packed full of college students drinking Jagermiester. When the New year came wound around the band toasted the bombs falling in Afghanistan to the tune of Rock the Casbah. Chants of USA USA USA drown out the amplifiers. I thought it was a bit ironic being eighties night and all - an evening celebrating the time when we were supplying the Afghanis with the very same weapons we are now fighting against. Brings to mind that David Rovic's line "arm the other side so we can counterattack." So much for students being at the forefront of the peace movement. But then again it was Wake Forest (ya know, home of the Deamon Deakins... I have always loved that name.) and it was me that chose to be there.
Anyway... didn't mean to go off on that little tangent - as you can imagine - with Anne out of the Country and me just getting back to da burgh I've got tons to get done getting ready for the West Coast and then Florida. As for me - I am trying to get my act together for this west coast trip - I've been away so much it is hard to call this home but it is. Let me run or I’ll never get it all done. Please feel free to drop me a line and let me know what y’all are up to - there are far too few of us not to stay in touch!
See you out there.
Everything, Chris Chandler