Musical Month: Bon Jovi, Poison Cherry, and Steve Earle

My blogging has become worse than sporadic . . . after producing material at a fairly regular (albeit irregular) pace I have fallen into posting almost monthly, which isn't going to cut it.  If we ever plan to make this blog our ticket to a career as an elite husband-and-wife duo on the Travel Channel (I will take recommendations for the name of our show), I better start blogging more regularly . . . and about more than just trips to flea markets, even if they are markets of apocalyptic proportions.

 

Last month was a very musical month for us.  First, my father-in-law kicked of his career as a blogger by opening a fascinating blog about the blues that I highly recommend visiting (www.bushdogblues.blogspot.com).  Perhaps inspired by his content, I decided it was time for a music post here as well. 

 

We kicked off the month with Bon Jovi, live and in concert.  Our expectations were mixed--I assumed it would be entertaining, and Megan could not quite remember what Bon Jovi sang (of course she knew the songs, but they weren't permanently fixed with the man himself).  The concert exceeded expectations as I became embarrassingly excited as the words "Shot through the heart . . . " echoed across the American Airlines Center.  The show had plenty of cheesy stage antics (my favorite was Bon Jovi's gestures which suggested that Bon Jovi was somehow directing the ethereal rock pouring from Richie Sambora's ax).  Megan seemed disappointed at Bon Jovi's conservative attire as the show began, but he quickly ditched the leather jacket to reveal a low-cut leather vest.  Later, he donned a black leather jacket featuring the name of his new album on the back--"Lost Highway."  A friend who attended with us noted that the words looked more like "Love Machine," and we decided that would have been more appropriate anyway.  We left quite pleased, but not as pleased as the drunken middle-aged lady to our left who moaned, "That's my song," as each verse began.  I am pretty sure she had a better time.

 

Not willing to release the 80s, we later found ourselves at the Lakewood Bar & Grill to watch Poison Cherry perform.  Poison Cherry is a big-haired, immaculately-costumed band that seems to exist in some strange bend in space and time, the 80s living, loud, and quite healthy today.  Such is the force of their time warp, that many of the bar's patrons also seemed to have stepped foot into the concert directly from another era.  None of that really mattered, though, because Poison Cherry simply rocks in the most grandiose and obnoxious ways possible.  The guitarist sported red tights with tiger stripes, and not to be outshown by his righteous garb, he managed to strum the guitar with his tongue shortly before smashing it to the stage.  Once again, we found ourselves rocking to Bon Jovi but in a more intimate and somehow much more exciting way.  We were baffled upon entering the bar to see the number of diehard Poison Cherry fans, and, as I watched Megan shouting the lyrics to "Bad Medicine," I realized Poison Cherry had won two more.

 

Finally, we wrapped up the month with a Steve Earle concert at Lakewood Theater.  The show began wonderfully with Steve playing acoustic guitar and harmonica to some of his great songs.  And then a DJ walked out on stage and approached a turntable.  I wasn't sure what to expect at this point, but, needless to say, the show just got weird from there.  The DJ was spinning beats to Steve Earle's tunes, and the compositions seemed disjointed and cacophonous.  He broke up the set with a great performance of "Galway Girl" on mandolin, but then the DJ returned and the strangeness continued.  As he left the stage, I felt terribly disappointed and confused.

 

Fortunately, his encore salvaged the entire experience.  He walked out and began playing the tune to "Rex's Blues" while telling stories of his times with Townes Van Zandt.  That alone would have been worth the ticket price for me.  Then he launched into "Rex's Blues" followed by "Fort Worth Blues," and I have never heard those songs the way I heard them that evening.  I never got the chance to see Townes Van Zandt in concert, but Steve Earle managed to connect us to that experience, if only a little bit, that night.

 

The live music will continue.  We are now a bit over a month away from the Bonnaroo Music Festival.  While my college friends are now veterans of the festival, Megan and I look forward to our first experience.  And maybe, just maybe, I'll manage to craft an entry or two between now and then.

Canton Revisited: Story in Photos

I am assuming that my last post about Canton Trade Days was a huge hit and widely read by most of the world's webgoers. Tipped off to the threat of imminent apocalypse, the kind ladies from the First Baptist Church appeared to monitor the situation . . . this woman seemed vigilant.

The last post captured the feeling of the place in words, but this time I decided to carry the camera along. This allowed me to capture the piles of random post-consumerist litter that will constitute our economy should the folks from the First Baptist Church fail to stave off total economic destruction. Without further delay, bring on the fiesta-ware, duck decoys, and strange bear head . . .













We also found plenty of colorful options for food and beverage . . .







In my last post, I mentioned the odd assemblage of vehicles, automotive homes from a bygone era.





The favorite vehicle was the psychedelic creation below. I took a number of photos before being noticed by the van's owner. He approached me, and I commented on the beauty of the work. He replied, "Yeah, I painted all of this, and I smoke the chronic." I was taken aback and looked at his face for a clue on how to react--his expression suggested that he had just shared the secret of his artistic skill. He pointed out each detail and what variety of marijuana he had smoked before painting it. The mural on the back (the second photo below) was modeled after "that painting that was stolen with the screaming guy . . . except the chronic suggested to me that I should add a cactus and a palm tree . . . you can only do this sort of work with the help of the chronic." So in case the reader wonders at how to achieve this level of artistic genius, apparently it can be nurtured with an "illegal smile," to quote John Prine.





While we were fascinated by all of this visual excitement, the vendors seemed bored . . . just another weekend at the flea market.





We headed back to the car content from our day's wanderings. We left Canton the proud owners of a firepit while Megan's folks found a part of a windmill to take home. Not a bad haul . . . would have been a bit better if Megan's brother had purchased these stylish spectacles, but there is always next month.

Canton Trade Days: Life After the Apocalypse

I've long been fascinated by visionary works that glimpse into a dark and distant future. Orwell's 1984, Huxley's A Brave New World, Cormac McCarthy's The Road, and of course, the best trilogy of movies ever made, Mad Max, Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior, and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (it is basically inevitable that Tina Turner will play a critical role in some sort of future world after society collapses).

 

While these highly creative works of fiction give a taste of life after some sort of apocalyptic event or major societal readjustment, Megan and I were able to visit our post-apocalyptic future by attending the Canton First Monday Trade Days in Canton, Texas.

 

Megan and I drove out to the event not quite knowing what to expect. I guess we mainly expected to finds lots of stuff and various assortments of things, and we assumed this stuff would be cheaper than the stuff available for purchase here in Dallas. We also expected funnel cake.

 

We pulled up on a warm Sunday with a hard wind blowing from the northwest. The sky was grey with fast-moving clouds overhead. We wore shorts, but it would snow the next afternoon . . . the weather itself seemed to reflect a world turned on its head. 

 

We parked in a pasture and walked up to what appeared to be a refugee village. The area was covered with a scattering of tables and random pieces of furniture. The vendors stood outside ramshackle RVs and worn-out vans. Many sat back from the merchandise, just staring into space while petting mangy dogs. The tables were covered with dusty objects from the past--old pieces of furniture, rusted hammers, random bits of china, odd-looking art, mismatched wooden boxes, spooky dolls that might have slithered off a horror movie set, faded paperbacks, the occasional firearm, gas lamps, vintage soda machines, and really just about anything else that might come to mind.

 

The place was fascinating.  I've never seen such a wide variety of objects in one location. At the same time, it gave us a spooky feeling. When society ends, I imagine that this will be how it reinvents itself. The survivors will salvage the useful remnants from the bygone era and peddle that detritus in a proto-economy marked chiefly by its mobility (this market would not exist in just a couple more days before reappearing a month later). Cash was the only currency here, but I imagine that barter would have worked just fine if Megan and I had brought something more useful than our windbreakers and ballcaps.

 

Eventually we walked out of this eerie glimpse into a bleak future and into the covered pavilions, which took us to the next stage of life after the apocalypse. This area felt more permanent with such pleasant features as a concrete floor and metal roof. The vendors peddled recently manufactured wares and clever inventions (like footlong, folding fishing poles that apparently work as well as a regular length pole). Here society regained a sense of permanence despite its portability (the RVs were just better hidden over here). The next step in development would be the shopping mall, and, when shopping malls return, I suppose human life will have come full circle and recovered.

 

Eventually the wind began to carry bits of rain that mixed with the blowing dust, and we decided to depart. One could not leave this place empty-handed, so we carried back to the car an assemblage of objects as random as the day itself: a wooden bench for our porch, a cowboy hat, a few pounds of corn meal, and a religious triptych. We'll be back there again next month . . . this time with a bigger vehicle and perhaps something to barter.

The Caucus

Well, we survived. There was plenty of chaos, lots of angry shouting, and a few shetchy moments. All in all, the event made me wonder if we are the best example of democracy. At the same time, I could not have asked for better entertainment this evening.

The Obama Rally: Obamania In Texas

It's the eve of the primary to potentially (but probably not) end all primaries, and Dallas is experiencing serious election fervor. My drive to work carried me past a crowd of Hillary supporters waving signs in a cold rain, and our local news is now updating polls on a daily basis. In honor of all of this, the time has come to blog about the excitement and give the official Knapp Adventure Blog endorsement (which I assume will eventually be featured on one of the campaign ads being shown with regularity rivaling the pharmaceutical industry).

Our best taste of the intensity of the election came two weeks ago when Megan and I decided we'd head down to Reunion Arena to attend a rally by Barack Obama, the candidate now Officially Endorsed by the Knapp Adventure Blog. The event was scheduled to start around noon, so we planned to arrive when doors opened at 10:30. This was just naive.

Obama has reached rock star status, and the crowd was something one would expect for the Rolling Stones. I took the DART train from the office and quickly realized that the packed train was already full of folks attending the rally. I found Megan somewhere near the stadium, and we noted the hordes before attempting to find the end of the line.

So we walked and walked. The line wrapped around the arena and then a block away to a parking garage entrance. Then the line snaked through the first level of the parking garage and up four more levels. After 20 minutes of walking we reached the end of the line.

To quote the great thinker, Eric Cartman, "Lines, lines--I hate lines!" But something was different here. First, the weather was cool, so terrible memories of sweating in line at various theme parks did not arise. Second, everyone was happy to be there. I expected grumpy faces, impatient huffing, sarcastic commentary, and a general state of agitation. The crowd seemed thrilled to be standing in a parking garage. Most of us opined that the line stretched far too long for us to possibly make it into the arena and actually hear the speech, but that didn't matter. We waited, and we waited happily. Then the third observation, this had to be the most diverse crowd I had ever joined. It was like a quintessentially American version of It's A Small World (another time I stood in lines, lines, lines!). I saw all races, ages, shapes and sizes, hipsters and punks and goths, corporate types and retired folk, hetero homo trans and metrosexuals. I could not conceive of a demographic that was not represented in that line. And that's when I knew that Obama was really onto something.

And so, one big happy family of Texans, we waited and waited. After a half hour or so the line began creeping forward ever so slowly. A few steps at time, we walked over a mile through that garage, snaking down toward the rally. But time kept passing, and, as noon arrived, we were nowhere near the entrance to the arena. The motorcade flew by the garage, and we wondered whether that would be our closest encounter with the candidate.

Megan looked up to me, "Should we go get some barbeque and go back to work?"

"No, Megan, we have to have the audacity to hope."

Eyes were rolled, eavesdroppers chuckled, and we kept on waiting. And soon enough, we were moving quickly and then more quickly. Eventually campaign volunteers were encouraging us to hurry "but not run," so we picked up the pace, passing people who had spent most of their energy just standing. We rushed toward the prize, which, in this case, turned out to be two seats in the lower earth orbit but still barely within Reunion Arena. We had made it, and the rally could continue.

We watched former Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk give a rousing introduction followed by Emmit Smith, who gave a more exciting introduction. Finally, Barack himself arrived on stage, and we were all quite impressed despite his headcold. Alas, the wait was worthwhile.

Now a number of folks have asked me why I support Obama--whether it is the result of whether I love hoping for hope to change the lack of hope and then receive more hope. I have few skeptics offer anything more tangible than these superficial criticisms, but occasionally folks come up with something more substantial.

More recently I was given an exact dollar total of what Obama's policies would cost me in immediately higher taxes. The purveyor of this information then asked me how, oh how!, could I possibly support this fellow knowing an exact and gargantuan amount of cash that would be ripped from my pockets.

Here is the way we think about it at the Knapp Adventure Blog. I think we look at the world with a drastically different notion of time and self-interest. The policies of the past decades, from both sides of the aisle, focus pretty carefully on the short term. It is short-term thinking that gave us a plan to pay everyone in the country roughly $300, an unnecessary fit of deficit spending with likely no net economic benefit. It is short-term thinking that prompted us to invade Iraq with no real prospect for stabilizing the country. It is short-term thinking that has caused widespread environmental devastation with untold future harms.

And we do pay for this type of thinking. Of course, my taxes may be lower, but I pay more in health insurance to compensate for uninsured people who are forced to eek out some semblance of health care through emergency room visits. Someday I will pay a huge sum to educate my children. I will pay throughout the years, stashing away money to care for my health and my living when I can no longer work. I will pay in unimaginable ways for our misguided environmental policies (global warming aside, I'm concerned about our water resources, especially if ethanol becomes our future).

Obama cannot solve all of these problems. Actually, he supports ethanol production (but at least he addresses CAFOs in his policy, something Hillary ignores). He does not have a plan for universal college education, and his health care plan will not create some sort of Scandinavian utopia in this country.

But his policies take us closer, even if just a little. Unlike Hillary, a divisive figure and continuation of this absurd American Aristocracy (two families ruling for 24 to 28 years?), I believe he can accomplish his goals, and, in exchange for a surrender of tax dollars, he offers to end the war, to make sure my money is headed toward the greater societal good instead of some great global futility. The mindset of the short-term assumes individuals can better manage resources than the government. For many individuals, this is certainly true, but everybody pays somehow for the rest of society's failings in various, less obvious ways. It's time we come up with a better fix that leaves us all a bit better off. Obama won't accomplish much of this, but he's the best start in that direction.

So there is the endorsement. If he loses the nomination, our backup option is Ron Paul (anti-war and delightfully anti-ethanol . . . after that it gets a bit strange). If he can't get the nomination, then we'll find ourselves facing yet another November walking toward the ballot box wondering why we're choosing between two jokers. Let's hope we'll be getting to vote for Obama. That'd definitely be worth waiting in line.

Congratulations

A loyal reader of the Knapp Adventure Blog is now engaged to an amazing gal.  In a display of enviable smoothness, he took his lass to the top of a promontory overlooking a snowy mountain valley in Montana.  He asked the question, she answered affirmatively, and, to quote Monty Python, there was much rejoicing.

 

Well done, amigo, and our best to both of you.

 

Congratulations!

My Swiss Didgeridoo

Recently it has come to my attention that some folks are confused by the fact that I have a didgeridoo that I made by hand during a stay in Interlaken, Switzerland. Despite all signs pointing to complete globalization, people still expect certain products to come exclusively from certain corners of the world. My didgeridoo should have come from Australia, preferably from an aboriginal community. But, the fact is, it did not. While I suppose it originally came from Australia in some sense, it more directly came from a youth hostel in the Swiss Alps.

 

My introduction to Interlaken came from my grandparents who visited the charming mountain town quite frequently. They spoke of enjoying glorious views and taking trains and gondolas into quaint mountain towns. Since I was already studying in Milan, a trip up to this quiet mountain village seemed appropriate. More importantly, my roommate in Milan, inspired by a homesickness only curable by hot wings, discovered that the nearest Hooters to Milan happened to be in Interlaken--so the trip was set.

 

Upon arriving in town, I discovered that Interlaken was a tourist town catering to two distinct clientele. First, folks like my grandparents enjoyed beautiful, lake-front hotels with picture window views of the mountains. The second group, which included myself, shacked up in crowded youth hostels while spending the day bleeding cash toward adventure sports. During this initial stay, we crashed at Balmer's Youth Hostel, more frat house and anything else, and enjoyed local delights such as beer and rosti (essentially skillet potatoes with various delectable toppings). This first trip passed far too quickly--we ate wings with a Miss Switzerland runner-up as a waitress, we watched hang-gliders sail around town, and we scurried onto Zurich to try to see more of the country. I knew I'd be back.

 

Return

 

When I returned to Interlaken, I intended to stay a while. I also intended to ditch the frat-scene at Balmer's and unwind with a more laid back crowd at The Funny Farm. I checked into the hostel, claimed a top bunk in a room that slept sixteen, booked myself on an ice climbing trip, and surveyed my surroundings.

 

First, I noticed the mountains looming overhead. Then I noticed marijuana plants looming overhead as well and was soon informed that the herb had been decriminalized in Switzerland. Not one to partake, I quickly realized why the Funny Farm crowd was so relaxed. Later that night I went to shower and realized that my evening shower would have to take place under black lights and to the tunes of Widespread Panic. Fair enough.

 

The next days allowed me to enjoy the outdoors. I went ice climbing in a glacier with a gang from Cancun who had never seen glaciers before--they provided lots of laughs and greatly expanding my knowledge of Spanish epithets ("putissima madre," being my new favorite). The next day I discarded my mildewed sneakers and bought some Solomon hiking boots to set out on a long trek that took me from Grindewald to the foot of the Eiger and down to Lautebrunnen. The hiking was glorious, and I returned to the Funny Farm that evening with plans of hitting more trails the next day.

 

And then the rain came. At first I welcomed the moisture as a chance to explore the town, rest my legs, and plan new routes. The rain continued a second day. I filled this day by playing chess. Chess offered fantastic entertainment. Being the only clear-headed person in a hostel full of smokers, I absolutely dominated. I felt like a Russian grand-master doing battle against toddlers who could not decide whether to stare at the pieces and wait for them to move or just to stare at the pieces. 

 

Dominating chess offered two days fun and then I needed something new to do as the deluge continued. Finally, I asked the New Zealander who tended the bar if he had any brilliant ideas, to which he responded, "You need to make a didgeridoo, mate." Obviously.

 

Didg

 

It turns out that the Kiwi was himself a talented player, and he happened to have stashed away a massive pile of hollowed out eucalyptus just for this purpose. For extra cash, he made some to sell at the front desk of the hostel, but he also allowed bored guys like me to select a piece of wood and get to work. With some coaching, I began shaping the raw hunk of wood into something resembling a shiny raw hunk of wood. 

 

As the afternoon approached, all I lacked was applying varnish and crafting a beeswax mouthpiece. But, as this step rolled around, my mentor went missing. I searched the Funny Farm from the TV room where stoners had fused with the couches while watching some sort of Hungarian pornographic film to the front desk where students accepted rainchecks for cancelled bungee jumps and hang gliding trips. Alas, my Kiwi teacher was lost.

 

I retreated to the biergarten whether my didgeridoo awaited its chemical coating. Finally, the bartender wandered back, his eyes full of tears, the tears perhaps 9% alcohol. He was hammered. Ever the dutiful instructor, he tossed a bucket of varnish next to me along with a brush and told me to apply it evenly. He then stumbled away, and I began to grow concerned, not just about my musical project, but about the guy himself. 

 

I asked one of the Kiwi's compatriots why the drunken tears. Turns out the guy went home for a quick sandwich while I continued to haplessly craft my didg. He realized something was amiss when he stumbled upon a pile of clothing. His concerns only grew as he realized that the pile of clothing previously housed his girlfriend and one of his best friends. To make matters worse, the duo had apparently undressed together and were now engaged in activities similar to those documented in the Hungarian film being viewed at that very moment in the TV room of the Funny Farm.

 

Dejected, the didg-maker retreated into a bottle of something strong and returned to work where he handed me varnish and helped me hone a mouthpiece from beeswax. Later that night, he invited me to a concert where he would be playing the didg alongside a reggae band in an underground night club (not that it was criminal in any way--given the strict noise ordinances, most clubs were literally underground). He played beautifully, I rejected the advances of a sallow Swiss teenager, and I awoke the next morning, as usual, to the sound of Cake's "The Distance," blasting from the direction of the biergarten. 

 

So, this is how I ended up with a Swiss didgeridoo. As the rain continued and the ultimate rainy day entertainment complete, I decided to hop a train toward Belgium to work my way to my study abroad program in London. My Kiwi instructor stayed in Interlaken and just maybe learned how to get the didgeridoo to play some blues.