Found a POW

Which in this case means "passenger of the world."

At 5 Hours to Seoul

The seat back display. 

Korean Clouds

 

Outside it's Perpetual Dusk

(Thanks for reading. If you're doing so on Facebook, I'd encourage you to read instead on the blog of origin, www.minglefreely.com. Might display better.) 

Maybe it's perpetual dawn, rather than dusk. I see now why the flight crew designates a pull-down-the-shades-and-dim-the-lights enforced night time, even though it's daytime out the window. Flying 500 miles an hour to the West isn't a natural thing to do. I guess we're chasing the sun across the Pacific Ocean... and maybe winning? That's the part I'm unclear about. Anyway -- outside it's like this for hours now.

Just had another phenomenal meal. "Best airplane meal of my life so far," I'd have to say. Dinner, I guess, but maybe breakfast . Hard to say. My phone says 9:29. The BEYOND entertainment system on my seat back says it's 13:31 (1pm?) And claims we'll reach Seoul at 16:57, 2400 miles from now, in about 5 hours. That same BEYOND system also fetatures this incredible live view: 

In that background you can see our dazzling attendent bringin 'round the latest meal, which I'd interpret as: fish and rice (the most perfect sticky rice since the last most perfect sticky rice, some hard-to-determine number of hours ago), with baby bok Choy, carrots, some sublime mushroom medley; a cold sweet potato salad; some warm bread and butter; and a heavenly chocolate mousse of some sort. Actual metal flatware and green tea served afterwards. So amazing that it seems impossible. What I'm secretly hoping is that it is, in fact, possible .... one more time before we land in Seoul. Because I've practically licked everything clean. These people are gods at 36,000 feet.

The Selling of the Booze

Chilled Red airplane wine. Listed in the crazy on-screen display as "Celebration Wine for A380 (our plane model) Bottega Ripasso." Delicious. In an actual glass. A cool glass, even. I'm not sure how you get more booze, but I'd like some. After free pouring comp wine (including refills), the focus changed to hawking duty-free bottles of $$$ scotches and brandies to deplane with — NOT for in-flight drinking.  

This was serious business, with all flight attendants drafted into pushing around carts of pretty, gift-boxed bottles and ringing people up, left and right. I guess, upon arrival, it's nice to walk in the door with a fancy fifth of Balantine's or Royal Salute for the wife or business associate? These people do not dick around with their whisky. And not a single bourbon among the options. I don't know about that, but I love how ardent the flight attendents are in this sales and distribution (with a dozen hours left in the flight, it should be noted). As long as the Korea Air flight attendants are doing anything, anything at all, I can't take my eyes off of them.

Now that the booze has been sold, it's apparently customary (obligatory?) to pull the shades and dim the lights. It's still screaming daylight outside, just to be clear. But apparently it's now sleepy time. ALL the shades have been pulled as if by some unspoken agreement. The Vietnamese woman sitting in front of me, cheerfully and cordially indicated for me to pull mine down, too. 

No problem. 

I am — blissfully, willingly — a stranger in a strange land. 

(above: teamwork to close one of the colossal overhead bins.)

15 Hours

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So now we're gonna fly from Atlanta across the United States and then KEEP flying across the Pacific Ocean until we get to Asia. Hoo-Kay, science and technology: lets do this! 

Korean Air OMG

How have I missed the magical charm, poise, and cool of Korean travelers my whole life?... Can't take my eyes off every interaction between the flight crew and the passengers. It's like a movie or a dream. When I tried to stow my big stinky black boots in the GIANT overhead (in order to put on the complimentary slippers that accompanied a blanket, pillow, headphones, and water, in my seat, as you can see), this dazzling flight attendent rushed up with a smile and … a plastic bag. Everyone is better off this way, there's no doubt. Dear Korean travelers: I feel like I've been under a damned rock my whole life or something. I live to see you smile. Especially for the next 15 hours in the air. 

Abstract Cabin

At least it seems like that, after pulling an all-nighter getting ready to jet. Leaving home was teary, I confess. I'm excited — so excited! — for this adventure, but leaving my girls for the entirety of the holidays stung a bit more than I thought it would. Last night, when I was putting Libby Lee to bed and reiterating my impending departure, she said "but you'll give me a hug and a kiss." This AM, at dark-thirty, I kissed my wonderful, supportive, funny, smart wife, and when I went in to tearfully pat LL, she stirred and said "but can you lay with me for a minute?" And after I did, she sat up, half-asleep and murmured "now give me a kiss," before tumbling back into slumber. And so, as I head literally halfway around the world, to quote my friend Mel: "Best day of my life so far." 

the rig

Logan helped me design this pragmatic yet mildly obsessive ukulele-to-headphone rig for the flight. Bet I don't use it but it's still cool as fuck. 

T-minus…

Leaving for Vietnam in 18 hours. Thanks to Robyn for helping me square this bit of tech: auto-cross-posting from Blogger to Facebook. TESTING. Libby Lee took this, her first "directed" photo ("Here take my picture. Hold on, hold on — point the camera UP more. No, UP. Up!") of me and my intended SOLE bag. Not pictured: Ukulele.

Vietnam Lead-up

Man, it's zooming up: On Tuesday, I get on a plane and 22 hours later, I'll be in Hanoi, Vietnam, meeting my baby brother (age 47) Chris.

I hope for a grand return to blogging here during my three weeks in Vietnam. I'm filled with anticipation, some anxiety, and certainly excitement.

More — much more — to come!

On Teaching Ukulele

(Recent Letter to my Ukulele Champion)

Miss Heidi —

Yesterday, I was feeling rather uncertain. Paradoxically, it was from a Baby Duck’s awe of your Mama Duck experience, your expertise, charm and charisma. Let’s just say our chat gave me lots things to go “huh” about.

BUT, then …

After wrestling particularly with two things I gleaned from our Skype — the circle activities and students playing w/o music (both of which kind of terrified me in some way that’s hard to explain) — I took a breath and made a plan for my Middle Schoolers and we met yesterday.

And it was my favorite class I’ve thus far had.

Oh, Heidi — it was so GREAT. First we played my staple warmup, the Lime in the Coconut as a "strum-tap” exercise, and then I paused melodramatically and proclaimed “this is getting too easy for you guys. Let’s get in a circle.” And you know what? They were … excited! I didn’t expect that. It was a small group, 5 kids, and we were knee-to-knee. Then I had everybody pass their ukuleles one person to the left and we did the reach-over strum-tap, and they LOVED IT. And we were close to each other and I felt like we were a group for the first time. THEN I had them do Surfin USA the same way. THEN we did the counterpoint vocal (“inside-outside USA”) “normally” but staying in the circle, knee-to-knee. Then I made them do both vocal parts AND do the reach-over strum (hilarious). Then we did some of “Psycho Killer.” And no music was involved. I’d warmed up the projector, but it was simply forgotten. By me and them. 

And as a crescendo, I taught them to play the main riff of Kashmir w/o music, which I’ve been threatening/promising/fantasizing about doing. And they DID it and they just looooved it. I’m including a handout I made for them to take home, for you to enjoy.

THANK YOU, Heidi. Everytime, thank you.

Today I have my grade school kids, who are my biggest challenge. I’ve got 15 of them. I want to do some circle things with them, probably easier things… maybe Some kind of thing centered around She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain or Jump Down, Turn Around. 

Hope you’re great and this makes you feel ever better about the magic you inspire. :-)

Mick

New Alchemy

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At the opening of "New Alchemy," the Lexington Camera Club's first group show in 43 years. The original "club" produced several internationally famous art photographers, most notably Ralph Eugene Meatyard, as well as Robert May and Van Deren Coke. Meatyard's death in 1973 effectively cast a pall over further activities, leading to a long dormancy. I helped Guy Mendes (my friend, extraordinary photographer, writer, and all-around person, as well as the principal surviving alum of that original incarnation) "restart" the LCC two years ago. And we're 30 strong now. The show is at the Wilson Fine Art Gallery at Georgetown College for the coming month and is an official part of the Louisville Photo Biennial, which is just icing on the cake. 

I'm pretty proud — it's the first time my photography has ever hung in a proper gallery, to say nothing the awesome talents with whom I'm sharing the walls. It's a remarkable show if you're looking for some amazing photography in a beautiful gallery.

Ukulele Day

Today is the day. After months of preparation, and endless mentoring and encouragement by so many champions, today I begin a new chapter in my life that's kind of a dream come true: Today I begin work as a part-time instructor at The Lexington School, teaching Ukulele to classes of 3-5 & 6-8 graders (as well as private lessons and a plucky group of very adept teachers and administrators).

I've been honored to work as a graphic designer, writer, and photographer for TLS for over a decade and am thrilled and full of anticipation to continue and expand my affiliation with this amazing school, and to bring the joy of ukulele (and the joy of music creation, by sneaky association) to young minds and hands and ears.

Thank you, Universe, for this opportunity, and particular thanks to those many generous souls who have helped me get to Today. "Put me in, Coach — I'm ready to play."

Dazzling Daylilies

Here's a video I shot and produced for the Western Kentucky Botanical Garden

Love & Mercy

Wow, The Beach Boys​' Brian Wilson​ finally lauded, cared for, and treasured in movie form. Love & Mercy​ is what some fans (ME) have been waiting for: a completely gripping testament to one pop music's greatest and most troubled geniuses. It's at the The Kentucky Theater​  through Tuesday only. REALLY REALLY GOOD, for anybody. For music nerds and Wilson fans — ok, again, ME, at least: totally mesmerizing. The detail, the references… the love and care, I guess. SO GLAD. I feel like, if you love Brian Wilson, you've patiently waited for somebody (including HIM) to "get it right." Love & Mercy gets it right.



Love & Mercy web site.

Ukulele World Congress VII Changed My Life, I'm Pretty Sure.

I come home from Ukulele World Congress with a feeling of glow inside, such a remarkable thing it was. I haven't experienced that vivid strain of friendliness outside of Burning Man.

We camped. We won. This was a comeback, since Lucy and I tried camping, oh, about 9 years ago. (And that's how well it went: It was nine years ago.) Thanks to a village of loaners, we had the kind of fun we wanted to have camping or "glamping" as some like to say. For our family of 3, I took 4 air mattresses. We used three of them. (Couldn't afford to screw up the sleeping arrangements.)

My girls, drinking in the night-time vibes.
(photo by Paul Curry)

It's okay to feel like you don't know how to camp if you're in the company of those with a zeal for it. That's always been my preference and this trip was a grateful return to that: Paul with his fried corn, his endless generosity, his impossibly friendly ease; Jonathan with his punch, his impish selection in songs — we're brothers in both ways; Tracey and that goat cheese, her stories — a more game girl there surely has never been; Plum and her boys and that tent — always funny somehow without saying a word, funny by gesture, by implication. Jeff, who traveled three hours to play "Hooked on a Feeling" and who is skyrocketing up through the ranks of Libby Lee's favorite play buddies.

We made new friends — real friends like Brenna — and lots of new acquaintances who will likely become real friends. We played in creeks. We didn't wear shoes. Libby Lee stayed up until 1am or later and then would simply knock off, without any kind of protest or storm. Just… Lights out. Seeing her joy at tromping around those adjacent grassy fields, leading the way, saying "let's find Harrison," or "let's go see the people playing ukuleles." I'm pretty sure she came back making up more songs than ever before. To arrange for her to see gifted players and singers — on stage or from one foot away — is essential fathering. Mission accomplished. If I can infect her with a love of music and the seed that she can play and sing, then mission fucking accomplished.

UWC was that incredible balance.

A celebratory passion for not just ukulele, but the playing of music by normal folks. Yes, there were mesmerizing singers, voices that reminded me that some people have awe-inspiring natural gifts that others of us will never have. But just as importantly, there was the spirit — the insistence — that you, too, can sing and play. We can ALL sing. And that I treasure probably more. I think now about the verb "to play" where music is concerned, and how I saw this weekend, that it means the same thing as it does when Libby Lee says "Do you want to play?" It's the same. And when I got on stage by myself or with my Lexingtones friends (and hopefully next year with friends who possibly I met minutes earlier — I'm already cooking up ideas. Watch out, Laura Lindahl and Jennifer Lane), we're playing — we're all playing. Including the audience. Ukuleles and voices and ears are just the mediums. We are, all of us, playing. It's kind of all I want in this world. It's the only thing that really feels right and isn't confusing or complicated.

Friday Night, 2:30am: Miley Cyrus, comin' right up! (Photo by Bob Colladay)

My Ukulele World Congress VII performances

FRIDAY: My first time on stage is with the UWC line-up of my home group, The Lexingtones. We play Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" and "We're Gonna Be Friends" by the White Stripes. There's lots of harmony singing, which I think I enjoy even more than playing ukulele. Singing feels so good. It feels so physically good. And this line-up seems to do pretty well with improvised harmony. Or at least that's how I choose to hear it. The audience gives us hearty applause, at least because everybody gets hearty applause at UWC (and maybe because we're awesome). It's part of the culture and it feels good. Everybody should be applauded. We'd all feel better as humans, I think. (I went to something once where anybody could stand and ask for a round of applause. I can't remember the occasion, but it's a great idea.) Now we move forward several hours into the witching hour. Many go to bed. Not me.

Because, very late, I realize that I'm unexpectedly, serendipitously, deliriously the Main Stage CLOSING ACT at 2:30am. I feel wildly excited about this because I know that — despite having shaken some hands and met some people — I'm basically unknown here. And potential of this thrills the performer in me.

After an hour of strolling around alone, and strumming in the darkness, trying to choose the perfect songs, I think I've got it: First, a party song — Miley Cyrus's "We Can't Stop" and then a pretty song, Lou Reed's "Satellite of Love," because it's a beautiful starry night, and the full moon is rising above the trees. It's breathtakingly beautiful out here on this night.

Soon, I'm introduced and get on stage and throw out a few friendly barbs ("You people… you're exactly who I was expecting to find here.") Then I play Miley — "It's our party, we can do what we want! It's our party, we can say what we want!" — and people go nuts, singing, dancing, delirious in the night. After that, they're mine.

"I got ta boogie…"

After this reception, I know I have to toss out "Satellite." I don't have the enchanted pipes that some have here and right now they don't want "pretty," they want "party." So I go into Alicia Bridges' 70s hit "I Love The Nightlife (Disco 'Round)," and it slays. As I leave the stage, several UWC mainstays grab me, with playful incredulousness (and inebriation) and lovingly scream in my face:

"Who ARE you?!!!!" 

Which was exactly the reception I was dreaming of. 

That I was lucky enough to get to deliver this kind of shot to these people — many of my new and future friends, I have no doubt — fills me with a buzz of intense gratitude. I get hugs, backslaps, handshakes on the way to my camp to collapse in the tent, next to my slumbering wife and daughter, who I'm pretty sure have had a great day. They came here either having never camped (my daughter) or having had a not-so-great time in the distant past (Lucy).

Hard to top this for solo debut at UWC. Will FOREVER be a treasured memory. For the rest of the Congress, I've got new friends everywhere. I thought only a handful of people were in front of the stage, but over and over people grab me and say: "you were great last night! You're a natural entertainer." I cannot overstate how great this makes me feel. I try to say thank you and mean it every time anybody compliments me. It's good for the soul to say "thank you."

SATURDAY: The Lexingtones play The Ronettes' "Be My Baby," (my group arrangement, in which the participants have kindly allowed me to assign them parts and generally boss them through a couple of rehearsals) and "Hooked On A Feeling," the cultish 70s hit that gets a resurgence every so often, and to which Paul Curry (KY's real true ambassador to UWC, let's note) has loved and dedicated himself (and us) to. The big, all-ages early evening audience enjoys "Be My Baby" and SaraBeth belts it out like Ronnie. The rest of us try to keep up with harmony and backup vocals. Some people play my alternate voicings, and Jeff slaps out the percussion part on his ukulele (with his signature "flip move," expertly flipping the ukulele after each iteration of the percussion cadence. Love you, Jeff – I have this purist strain in me that loves the prospect of just ukuleles when arranging).

Then when we start "Hooked On A Feeling" with the signature chant of "Ooga-Cha-Ka! Ooga-Ooga!" people go bananas, and close in on the front of the stage so they can sing and dance along. When we're finished, they cheer — no less than cheer. Immediately after we play, it's time for the hilarious challenging-to-orchestrate group photo, and while adept photog Colin attempts to maneuver the happy hundreds into a camera frame, many in the group start spontaneously chanting "Ooga-Cha-Ka! Ooga-Ooga!" Looks like we played a hit.

The Swiftest.

And then, much later, I've got one more trick to pull out of the KY sleeve — and I cannot BELIEVE that I haven't been beaten to the punch on this. After rehearsing it in a variety of combinations and ultimately deciding it would be "overplayed" at UWC, we revive the intent to play "Shake It Off" which is a pop diamond as far as I'm concerned. On stage, I announce to the audience how ukulele has helped me "get in touch with my inner teenage girl, and how I've found at least two other middle-aged paunchy white guys who share this sentiment." Then Jonathan Piercy, Paul Curry and I take the stage as The Taylor Swifters (or The Taylor Swiffers. Or The Taylor Swiftests — I couldn't make up my mind) and blast through "Shake It Off," complete with an acapella singalong and, well, it slays. Why, here's a video of us!

The next day, I'm again praised around UWC for such inspired silliness, again told I'm a natural performer (and a tiny voice inside me whispers "no you're not" but I tell that voice to STFU). I'm even asked for a command performance of Shake It Off at a camp I happen to be bopping by. Libby Lee just sits down on the ground, and watches as more singing and dancing ensue and Matty Daniels jumps in to duet. Beautiful, delirious, delightful. I love it here. 

I could go on. And on. Dozens of new friends and hundreds of inspirations later, I've found a new family wing. We'll leave it there, for now. ❤️🎸❤️🎸

We Camped. Everybody Like It.

Regarding Ray Boy

A recollection by my Aunt Sharlot on my maternal grandfather, Ray Walton: 

"Taking a shower this A.M. I was thinking about going to Ryan's final HS sporting event tonite.  He pole vaults at EVV Central in Regionals.  I've never been to Central ever but it was my dad's HS.  He was an outstanding football player there. That made me think of other things he did that I have never shared with you kids.

He was 5'9", weighed 150 lbs. He swam, played baseball, bowled, fished, hunted, boated, water skied, gardened (loved his flowers), played cards, sang, and whistled like NObody else. 

Above all else he was the kindest and most gentle man you could ever want to meet.  I wish you had had a chance to meet him.

With a family history of heart disease,  his 2nd heart attack took him at age 50....while water skiing on the Ohio on the 4th of July!!!

❤ My love to you all.  😔

Seaside 2015

Pretty great week at Seaside, especially in light of the Wintry weather in KY. Here's an album on Flickr documenting the frolics. Also? It was Bill's birthday!

Seaside 2015

A Review/Rebuttal for Cabaret

A REVIEW OF Kentucky Conservatory Theatre's Production of CABARET!

Monday night I saw a really remarkable production of Cabaret! and I spent the next day thinking and reveling about it… and then puzzling and scowling over a misguided pan of it by the Herald-Leader’s contributing theater critic Tedrin Blair Lindsey.

I’ve seen Cabaret before, on stage and screen. It’s a masterpiece — a charming, gender-bending, song-and-dance-filled, poignant, shocking, provocative, horrifying masterpiece. Moreover — seeing Kentucky Conservatory Theatre’s production premiere is precisely what reminded me of these things because despite what Mr. Lindsey claims, the cast, crew, dancers and musicians absolutely owned it.

Which is why I’m left scratching my head over Tedrin Blair Lindsey’s misguided review of the show, which I think was the same show I saw, but I took away none — zero — of his complaints, digs or claims. In fact, I was absolutely captivated by the production, and the rest of the room seemed pretty captivated, too. We’re all entitled to our opinions, so … “Put down the knitting, the book and the broom,” here’s an audience member review to at least provide an alternate perspective to Mr. Lindsey’s sour take on it.

I’m not going to beef (too much) directly with the reviewer, and instead let me tell you why it was not “flawed,” as he said, but rather: GREAT.

First things first: I don’t know the producer. I don’t know the choreographer. I know one person in the cast. I might say I have no stake in this, but I DO — in the sense that I treasure Lexington as a creative community and as the chosen home for many gifted individuals and organizations. So, with that out of the way: What I saw on opening night was a triumph of space, movement, technology, voice — in short, it was great theater, which is exactly what I plunked down $35 to see. And community theater at that.

Because of KCT’s production, I’ve been thinking about Cabaret all day, both as a play (a “musical” if you must), a choreography (most famously in the movie version by Bob Fosse, which Mr. Lindsey seems kind of inappropriately concerned with, considering that KCT is neither making a movie nor trying to recreate one) and a repertory piece that towers high in the American stage canon. The reason I was thinking about Cabaret all day, not surprisingly is because Kentucky Conservatory Theatre (and their creative partners Blackbird Dance Theatre, let’s certainly not forget) did such an astounding job of presenting the dazzling, lacerating shards and facets contained in Cabaret, from first laugh to final stupefied silence … or tears, in many eyes, mine included.

As far as I’m concerned, talking about Cabaret as a venerable work of American theater and talking about the KCT’s production of it are the same thing, because that’s how much KCT got it and that’s how much they passed it on to the audience, at least at my table. And I didn’t see any less rapt faces when I looked around the room throughout the evening. It was riveting. It was funny, provocative, and exhilarating, and then it was sad, tragic and finally horrifying. It was all these things together because it was Cabaret, through and through.

Mr. Lindsey suggested that “Director Wesley Nelson and choreographer Jenny Fitzpatrick … have boldly re-imagined this familiar show.” That’s a brutal, backhanded compliment in a deeply demeaning review, and I couldn’t disagree more. This isn’t Broadway, and it’s not Bob Fosse’s movie. It’s Cabaret, the play, which takes place in a nightclub. Which we, the audience, are in. Having dinner, in fact (a tasty German-themed meal, kudos on that, too, to the Grand Reserve wait staff). So, “re-imagined?” Bah. The staging of Cabaret is simple and obvious. A play that revolves around a nightclub that is staged … in a nightclub. And Nelson and Fitzpatrick staged their production brilliantly but in a completely “familiar” way. Kudos for economy and creativity to them both.

I don’t think Cabaret is easy to pull off but I think that KCT succeeds not just adequately but astoundingly, and that’s where I must take enormous issue with Mr. Lindsey and his claim of it being “deeply flawed.”

It’s gender bending and it’s tawdry and it’s so much fun. Ms. Fitzpatrick’s turn as Sally Bowles displayed the famous character as maybe the original “hot mess,” (as the kids are wont to say, almost 50 years later). It’s about human connection and that is plainly seen by the performances turned in by Rick Wayman and Jesse V. Coffey as Herr Schultz and Fraulein Schneider, as their September romance moves from sweet and strangely innocent to star-crossed and doomed. Coffey’s rendition of “What Would You Do?” had me crying in my gin. How could anybody not see that as great? This is why I keep saying “misguided.”

And misguided in the extreme is Mr. Lindsey’s beef with the gender of the Emcee. How could somebody presuming to critique (community) theatre not understand that the emcee of Cabaret can be a male or a female — that the very murkiness of gender is what makes the emcee the soul and conscience of the story? To be distracted because Robbie Morgan (who slays in the role, btw) isn’t Joel Gray is inexplicably shortsighted. To claim that Morgan wasn’t captivating makes me wonder if we saw the same show.

To become hung up on the dialects of Germans and Brits … why? I can’t think of anything less significant to the core of Cabaret. What a waste of time to point that out. It was certainly nothing I noticed. It's like saying Bob Dylan is a bad singer.

Why not talk, instead about the commendable job that KCT’s Cabaret so incredibly tickled and jiggled (fondled, even) the audience into accepting that we’re all just people — people trying to be happy and to live with the madness of the world. And then once that’s accomplished in act one, the second act comes along to stomp and burn it all down. And why do I think this? Because, again, KCT did such a spectacular job of helping my brain and heart along to see this dichotomy, the charm, the horror. By choosing to stage Cabaret. By brilliantly transforming a party rental hall into a seedy dark-cornered nightclub.

To dis KCT’s production of Cabaret is to not really understand Cabaret, I think. Because KCT knocked it out of the park, from the first jaunty horn riff to the final stage door (the stark antithesis of the one in The Sound of Music). I was delighted by the evening that KCT made for me last night. And that’s why I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

If you’re looking to laugh and love life — and very possibly cry, I can’t recommend Kentucky Conservatory Theater’s production of Cabaret highly enough. As the Emcee says — “In here, life is beautiful. The girls are beautiful. Even the orchestra is beautiful!” (At least, in the first act)

My final note to Mr. Lindsey: Take it easy on community theater. This isn’t New York, but maybe you’d like to review Broadway shows with the kind of sharp pen you used to lacerate Cabaret. If so, I wish you luck getting that gig. You’ll likely be at the end of a long line, possibly filled with more observant — and kinder — critics than yourself.

Until you land that big city gig, I’d ask that you keep scale in proportion please, sir. These are people with day jobs and a passion — people who work hard to support that passion; and we get to share it for a precious couple of hours. They may not always be great at it, but, from the table where I sat, the cast and crew of Kentucky Conservatory Theater’s Cabaret also happened to be pretty damned GREAT at it. Maybe you were seated behind a column. I can find no other explanation for your misguided words.

Oh My Mighty Strawberry Head

The closest thing I've ever had to a viral video hit. Over 1100 views on Facebook and counting.

monsters

Birthday pumpkins

Pick your favorite punkin! I vote Libby Lee. Good times on my birthday with My girls. 

Dixie Belle

Dixie Belle near High Bridge, Kentucky River. Lucy's birthday cruise. 

Mirror, Mirror

Grassroots Radio Conference

A wonderful trip to Ames, Iowa with these fine friends, as we rev up our new baby WLXL Lexington Community Radio. Look out Lex! Low-Power FM is coming!

For James Freeman, in memoriam.

Libby Lee and Freeman consider one another.
July 2013.

We called him Freeman, never actually knowing that his name was “James.” Freeman was such a perfect name for a great and jovial guy. It suited him just fine.

Freeman may be the first person that I have my daughter, Libby Lee, to thank for knowing. He sat across the street, a jovial sentinel, usually positioned in a plastic lawn chair to the right of the front door.

He was one of the first people that Libby Lee became fond of (even though she would feign shyness if we actually walked across the street to say 'hi').

She knew Freeman from his laugh and his smile. From across the street would come that rich baritone: “Libby Lee!” followed by a laugh that was part Santa Claus, but all Freeman. More melodic than Santa, completely benign and expecting nothing. When Freeman rang out with “Libby Lee!” it was an acknowledgement to our 2 year old daughter; no action was required – like passing on the street with a friendly greeting. Whenever Freeman called out “Libby Lee!” it reminded me of an Owensboro restaurateur from my childhood named Gabe Fiorella, whose legacy was greeting diners on Sunday at the door, shaking hands and saying “Hi neighbor! It’s a wonderful world!”

That was Freeman to my daughter — to my whole family. But it was my daughter who really introduced us to him, before she could even talk.

One special day, when not being shy.
July 2013

It was his gold tooth that won her over. Before she could form words, we’d sit across the street on our side porch — in a house that Freeman himself had spent many hours in during his younger days, I learned — and Libby Lee would point across the street, towards the Black’s porch, looking impishly at me, making cooing noises … and pointing at her mouth. I laughed so hard when I realized that she was telling me about Freeman’s gold front tooth.

Libby Lee was always keeping track of Freeman, began recognizing his always spotless, shiny black Chrysler 500 as a two-year old. Every day, she would look for him. She would ask with some of her earliest words: “Where Freeman?” Libby Lee’s fondness for Freeman grew OUR fondness for him, to the point where I would regularly impersonate him, on a daily basis, bellowing out my best, most friendly “Libby Lee! Ho-ho-ho-ho!” which always made her smile and giggle.

And of course we would come and visit, not often enough, I now see in retrospect. Libby Lee would ask to cross the street to see that gold-toothed man with the giant, loving smile and laugh. That man who offered “knuckles” and “fives” — usually while she clung tenaciously to my hip and buried her face in my neck (all the while on the verge of giggling). When her face would peak out, there would be a giant smile across it. 

And it was a smile for one very special guy named Freeman. We will so miss you, James. Thanks for the love you shared with our family.

In Memoriam for James Freeman
A Wake and Service is Saturday, July 12, 2014 at 10am
at New Day Community Church. Click here for more information.

Tesla, Right?

write the tesla story

HONK! TX 2014 Ukulele and Sousaphone Choir

One of my finest, silliest turns in quite a while (and that's saying a lot).

A Gallon of Scofflaw

When faced with a thirsty crowd, I've often turned to Jeffrey Morganthaler's amazing A Gallon of Margaritas by the Gallon recipe online. It's also inspired me to bust out some other gallon recipes, but I find that, every time, I have to sit with a pencil and scribble and — you know — do math.

This post is an attempt to alleviate that, at least for one of my favorite drinks: The Scofflaw.

For a single cocktail, my recipe is this:

• 1 oz. of bourbon or rye whiskey
• 0.5 oz. of sweet vermouth
• 0.5 oz. of dry vermouth
• 0.5 oz. of lemon juice
• 0.5 oz. of homemade grenadine (again, I love Morganthaler's recipe and I'm lazy so I use POM)
• dash of orange bitters

So what happens when you do the math? It's just basic math, but I'm tired of losing the scrap of paper that I do it on, so here it is. For a gallon of scofflaws, we have to get a basic volume for one drink, right?

128 oz = a gallon

one cocktail = 3 oz. or 4 oz.

So, wait — how much is a single cocktail? There's two ways to approach this. If you simply add up the ounces, you get 3, but really if you mix and shake a cocktail, you get an additional very important component of melted ice water. Whether or not you account for this depends on your dispensing method. If you're going to serve fancy, then include the water, and chill the fuck out of the mixed gallon, and then dole out in 4 oz. servings, in chilled cocktail glasses. Voila!

But what if you're slaking the thirst of a party crowd with plastic cups out of a gallon plastic jug? Like on a party bus? Or at a pool party? Here's my philosophy: Still add the water component but do NOT chill it, because your friendly booze hounds will be drinking it over ice in giant portions (owing simply to the size of party cups). So try to help people not get too hammered but still have them enjoy a classic cocktail by adding the discrete amount of added water, is what I do. They'll love it and may have you to thank for less of a headache the next morning.

So — We're rolling with: one cocktail = 4 oz.

So here's the math:

128 oz. / 4 = 32 drinks per gallon

Thus, the quantities for a gallon of scofflaws:

• 32 oz. of bourbon or rye
• 16 oz. each of sweet vermouth, dry vermouth, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and homemade grenadine. (gotta be homemade!)
• 32 dashes of orange bitters (use your own judgement!)
• Top off with 32 oz. of clean filtered water (or nearly, if you're mixing in a gallon jug).

I'd do it in this order, or at least, I'd add the water last, since it may come in slightly under measurement. Mine often does, I don't now if that's a heavy hand on my part or what, but better to short the gallon of cocktails on water than on one of the flavor ingredients, right?

Then, don't refrigerate it, and let your party people glug-glug it into their Solo cups over ice and get a little less hammered than they would if you mixed the batch in the 3:1 ratio. 

And celebrate the deliciousness!

On Estrangement.

Letter to my brother, attempting to process a dream about our estranged dad, who neither of us (or any of his blood relatives) have seen or talked to for maybe 20 years.

Hi Chris:

I want you to know that I'm sorry for the delay in your request for action items and timelines on the Julie Project. It is, once again, right at the top of my priority list, behind the care of a 2 year old and the insane entanglements of that, even when others are caring for her.

I've had a rough couple of days. This morning I had very emotional dream. I was at some kind of roadside restaurant and I needed to travel far but wasn't sure how I was going to do it. Some kind of road trip. 

Dad walked in. 

He was happy and he said to me, with a smile: "I'm here with my dad!" I was going to get a lift from him, and I was walking behind him out to the parking lot, wondering aloud to him, saying "I guess I need to get to Indianapolis, to the bus station," thinking (hoping) he could drop me there. 

Then I was overcome with emotion. I hugged him from the side and sobbed "It's good to see you, Dad. I've missed you so much."

I don't have them often, but these kinds of dreams take a heavy toll on me, because while I'm not really much more than a "secular humanist," occasionally I have dreams that seem powerfully symbolic to me of Death. This was one of them. He said: "I'm here with my Dad." And that really just rocked me. 

And also — following him. I woke up and realized the security of following a parent, the reassuring automatic faith that they know where they're going — and that therefore, you know where YOU'RE going. You don't have to know; you know that THEY know. I don't know if that makes sense, but it's a feeling for me of deep unshakeable security. Even if it's imagined, which it is. 

You can just follow. 

And in the dream, I felt that, walking behind my dad, and I realized that I do miss him — or at least: I feel the loss of him, the absence of him — in a way that … I'll never really probably ever understand. I miss A dad — my dad — even though Bill has been a great one for me, and for us.

And the prospect, for me, of him dying — or receiving some kind of message (real or imagined) that he has died triggers something deep in me. I guess I still think he's alive, until I have dreams like this. I had one about maybe 10 years ago, but this one was more rattling.

Who Hates Sunsets? Nobody, that's who.

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"who hates #sunsets ? nobody, that's who. #sowal #seasidefl " 

the pyramid

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"#truehappiness take two #libbylee "
(taken at The Pyramid)

Ruskin Sunset

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"Tonight. Lucy & #libbylee & sky … and sand."
(taken at West Ruskin pavilion)

Remembering Oscar, The Finest of Doggies • 1999-2014

Oscar Charges Around the Yard, Dec. 2005

We lost Oscar today. There have been many tears. It's so hard to see someone you love faltering, and I confess that I chose not to see it — would make that choice again, even. Oscar was a frisky puppy for about 14 years and fragile old dog for maybe one year. I used to marvel — to the point of regular irritation — at his boundless energy, his unquenchable cheerfulness, his steadfast guardianship of our manor.

Man, did he know the sound of the mailman's truck.…

I would have battles of will with him over it. Once that truck drove down the street, Oscar would growl — grouse, really— over it. He knew I hated it. He didn't want to growl, because he knew that I was possibly going to explode out of my office and shame him into stopping. But he had his sacred mission. And that mission was to save us all from the mailman, a personage who had the gall to return to our doorstep day after day.

I can't think of anything that bothered Oscar quite so much. In fact, I can't think of anything else that bothered Oscar at all.

Half Golden Retriever, half Chow (with a black tongue to prove it), he was a lover, not a fighter. In fact, he could run backwards faster than any animal I've ever seen. That was his strategy with other doggies who came to play and took too much interest in his hindquarters — he'd stay nose-to-nose with them and run backwards, impossibly matching their speed and they struggled to get behind him.

When we lost Oscar today — when I sobbed over him at the vet's office and Lucy and I hugged him a few more times, stroked the whisps under his ears, dug our fingers into his plush neck fur — I thought: I've known Oscar for as long as I've known my beloved wife, Lucy. Because Lucy was Oscar's savior. Before we even met, she'd rescued him from a dark night, in the middle of a highway. And even though I was the one that Lucy married, I know that Lucy was Oscar's girlfriend. He cheerfully begrudged me — not just my presence, but my gradual Alpha incursion, banishing him from the bedroom, from the kitchen… he accepted these strictures like everything else: casually, with a constant smile, and perky ears. Oscar was a joy to train, he was easy to train. We've still got remnants of masking tape on the floor that we used to teach him to stay out of the kitchen (even, let me point out, when we moved the kitchen to a different room). He never begrudged these strictures, and if he maybe did some poking around in the twilight hours, well, what was the harm? Leave no trace, must have been his motto because I could never tell.

Oscar welcomes a very special new friend in Sept. 2011.

We lost Oscar today. There have been many tears. And just like losing anybody you love — man or beast — I know those tears are selfish. They're for me, because I wasn't done with our time. I wasn't ready for it to end. But he was a good boy. He was a good boy. He knew when Lucy had cancer. No fucking shit. He knew. I don't know how, but he knew. That alone puts him in the Good Boy Hall of Fame.

Putting up with me is another thing. I was never comfortable with the level of LOVE that Oscar emanated. Early in mine and Lucy's cohabitation, when I worked at home and it was me and the dog, we had to work through me being engrossed in a computer screen (or anything) and looking up to realized that Oscar was eyeball-lasering me, giant grin, perky ears. And grouchy me insisting over and over: "Go DO something! Git! You cannot sit there staring at me!" It's true: I need space. I could be embarrassed but what's the point? It's just who I am. Oscar loved me anyway. 

If you've never had a dog, you may not know this: Dogs love you anyway. No matter what particular kind of asshole you may be, they love you anyway. And that's special. It can be irritating, I'm the first to admit; but there's nothing like it. Nothing that approaches the love of a dog. A good dog.

Oscar was a good dog, a fine fellow. A lover. Ever cheerful. Eternally seeking the attention of his girlfriend. Playmate of Mr. Mustard, a cat-dog combination unnatural to many minds. Disciple of biscuits.

Oscar: you will be so missed. Thank you for being my friend, for your boundless love.

Oscar Points Dog • 1999 - 2014

Here are some photos I made of Oscar over our years together.

snow, sledding and Shambhu

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"Sledding, or claiming to, with #libbylee Photo by @jshambhu "
(taken at Shriners Hospitals for Children)

For Susan. LASC

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"#libbylee for Susan. #lasc"
(taken at The Living Arts & Science Center)

Xmas for the GP's… Don't Tell!

Libby Lee by | Make Your Own Book

autumn serenade

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"autumn "
(taken at The Living Arts & Science Center)

winter freeze

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"drive-about!"
(taken at The Midway School Bakery)

buh bye to Wrightsville Beach 2014 Winter

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"buh-bye. :-("
(taken at Wrightsville Beach Access 41)

#justlike Wrightsville Beach

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"#justlike #lexingtontattooproject"
(taken at Wrightsville Beach Access 41)

Today, up in the sky

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"today, up in the sky. #sharethelex "
(taken at Lexington, KY)

WV Lichen

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"lichen #wv #littlebeaver #hdr #cobalt" 

Cousins of Jeffries

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"100% Cousin Hike! #jeffriesdescendentsftw"
(taken at Little Beaver State Park)