Sunday, September 09, 2007


Visit from a friend (you know who you are) French dip Sandwich and a Guinness at the Whistle stop. later Birthday celebration at Romeos restaurant in Lynwood.
A chance to see sister, nephew, other nephew's wife (niece-in -law?) and the cutest kid in the world, Ruby. The name of that relational connection escapes me.
celebration marred by the lack of Ruby's dad, and others whom it would have been nice to see.
The real blemish on the evening was the news that my brother-in-law was in the hospital with a malfunctioning artery. Thanks to rapid response by the 911 crew, he will be alright. Probably recovering from minor surgery as we speak.
Poor sister seemed very tired from dealing with the incident, hope she caught up on her sleep last night.

So, my bicycle exploits seem even more minor than usual.
I have solved one of the major annoyances by remounting the front sprocket on the outside of the drive hub where it is now back in line with the derailleur.
After years of having only five speeds, I now have ten again.

What to answer when I am asked "what kind of music do you write" is still a dilemma.

From Marc Geelhoed's Deceptively Simple

In response, the League of American Orchestras (ASOL), decided that classical music is heretofore to be known as "Ancient Music," and Early Music America prefers "Music on Parchment" to "early music." Also to be thrown out are Baroque, Romantic (who makes out to that stuff, anyway?), and Modern. "Chamber music" was issued a stay of execution, since it describes a place and not a prescribed era. It's only a matter of time before that's dumped, since so few new homes are constructed with chambers. They have rooms.

I guess, at the moment, I'm writing "room music".


Blogger butch said...

Christ, life throws us a curve every time we twitch and turn around.

Thanks for the movie tickets. I used one of them on Sunday to run off and see SHOOT 'EM UP, which is outrageous, and quite well done, with Clive Owens doing his SIN CITY schtick, and Paul Giamatti having the time of his life. The body count was up around 100.

It is sterling to now know what THE WHISTLE STOP is actually like. I will never forget the lemonade with the jalapeno juice in it. You were a brave soul to drain the glass. I hope it did not give you indigestion.

Did your brother-in-law have a history of heart problems? 911 responses can vary certainly, so it was indeed fortunate that he was taken to the hospital post haste. When Melva got dystentary and the flu last spring, and I called 911, they were there in 5 minutes. It was almost uncanny. Send Janet my best. Hell of a way to celebrate a birthday.

It was also a rare treat to feast my peepers on Fidelio, and to catch a glimpse of your workshop where you make musical instruments and wooden puppets who might some day become real little boys. The line up of your many automobiles is still a sight to behold, clogging up your long driveway, cascading into the backyard. I loved your new tile. It really does brighten up the kitchen, just as you implied. And when the kitchen cabinets finally find their way to the kitchen, you will be able to reclaim the dining room, or was that the living room?
And so that is how you spell "derailleur"?

One of my wife's girlfriends is named Ruby. The only one I ever knew, and she is quite the lady. Had to fight breast cancer while still in her 40's, and beat it. She and her husband, Jim, like to sit up all night and play pinochle with Melva and I.

We all look forward to reams more of that ROOM MUSIC that Doug Palmer will create, out of thin air, arcing the synapses of some mysterious part of his cortex, and spinning a muscial web of magic.

I still think that this site could use a KORNY KULTURE KORNER, in which you could serialize your plays, short stories, and poetry. You are so coy and humble with that work, referring to it as "junk", and I would strongly disagree, sir. You have always had a flair for the written word. I would suggest that you lead off the series with JAMES JOYCE'S WAKE by FINNEGAN, and follow that with the Marx Brothers mayhem of WHAT HE DESERVED, or NOTES FROM THE NUTHOUSE, or THE BURGLER'S LAMENT.


6:59 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hallo, Lane, from the "Lovely Librarian" and me!
We both enjoyed meeting your smart, talented Sis and her Mann and your nice niece-in-law and and her Mann und Kind on 4 July!!!!
So, we both hope (and wish) a VERY speedy recovery for your Bro-in-Law ("Schwager" auf deutsch)!!!!
And please give our regards to all-of-the-above + Meredith + Keth.

2:29 AM  
Blogger butch said...

Speaking of birthdays, gosh, we all are having them sooner than we expected. Mine transpire every 7 months it feels like. Odd how time is compressed as we age, as our vessel wears out, as our engine sputters, and our computer between our ears malfunctions.

Dearest Janet, sister to Dougie, you have joined the old fart's club, and yet it only seems like a few Saturdays ago when you accompanied me with my whole family on a picnic over along the Cle Elum River, just over the iron bridge outside Easton, and the edge of Lake Easton. My mother was still alive then. I think it was like 1960. We were sophmores in high school. Because Doug (Mercer) was my new best friend, it only seemed "natural" that I go out with his sister. We had several spectacularly innane dates, and then you decided I was too silly for you, or too intense, or too something. But remember that your mother always liked me. She had good taste.

On that trip with 4 automobiles, with aunts, uncles, and grandparents in the caravan, we stood in that parking lot, near those ancient tall pines, and my grandfather, Pop, Earl Carpenter, who would have been about 62 at the time (a year younger than I am now) decided to climb one of the tall trees. We watched him for 20 minutes between bites of cold watermelon, and my mother's great potato salad, and he made it 70 feet to the top, swaying back and forth and howling like a great ape. 20 years later he was 80 years old and he had another birthday, and I wrote him a poem to commemorate the event:


When Charlie Russell was an old man,
you were an infant
sitting in swadling clothes
beneath great cat's eyes
and cougar fangs,
with death's fetid breath
on your child's brow.

That mountain lion
could have swooped you up
and rushed into the timber
with your head
in its mouth,
and it could have had
your tender young flesh
for breakfast;
but that was not to be.
Your mother turned
and leaped upon the lion
like a she-bear;
death fled,
and you were spared.

You have fallen off buildings
and trains,
been soaked in gasoline
and totally aflame,
been shot at,
harassed, fired, demeaned,
and discriminated against;
yet the green kid
that rode the cowcatcher for fun
is now the man
who stands perched
over eight decades
like a Colossus of the Columbia.

these days
when the path behind
seems longer than the road ahead,
and you feel that sometimes
you could reach out and actually touch
the horizon;
when you sit brooding
in your garage studio searching
for your next vision,
please remember
the feel of a fast horse
beneath you,
Eunis that ran like the wind
only for you;
the complete comradeship of a collie,
listening attentively
to your dreams and aspirations,
during those long summer evenings
on your dad's ranch;
that old wood stove
that was worshiped in winter,
and the peppery smell of pitch and pulp
as you chopped the firewood;
the six miles to town
that you often ran on foot,
pumping your arms,
as a preliminary
for the 200 mile trek
along the Salmon River,
that you loped over like a stag,
your lips chiseled out of rock,
your muscles like wang-leather,
your eyes clear as an owl's,
pausing only
to eat fish,
kill a charging black bear,
steal a chicken
and a can of peaches;
the buckboard rides with your dad
into town,
the wagon overflowing
with ripe watermelons;
those nine kinds of apples
that you grafted and grew
on one tree;
all there in your heart
and mind,
in many colors, tastes, and smells.

Remember also
the first time you saw an Indian,
a car, a plane;
your first gun,
your first kill,
your first kiss;
those initial tentative talented scribblings
and crude cartoons
on scraps of paper,
in the sand,
and on trees,
making your teacher angry,
that metamorphed into paintings,
and prophesy;
those 20,000,000 brush strokes
on the sides
of thousands of buildings,
gas stations, towers, and bridges;
that made a living,
and fed your family,
helping to pass the years
it took for you to transition
from rancher, farmer, timberjack, sign painter,
and dreamer,
to become the undesputed
Master of the Skies.

You are an artist,
and so much more.
You create images and perceptions
that embrace life,
and capture it,
in paint.

Your paintings illustrate both the rose
and its thorns,
sharing with those
who can not smell
and can not feel;
for a simpleton can stand in the forest
and love a tree,
but only a select priviledged few
can recreate that tree
and that forest
on a canvas,
so realistically
one can bite the bark,
hear the wind in the needles,
and drink in a deep whiff
of sweet grass and wildflowers.

grandfather of mine,
banish discord and sadness
from your heart,
you have no time for it.
you are in the winter of your life,
and although
you often feel the dampness and cold
of the season you inhabit,
what you manage to do for the rest of us
is paint
the summers and springs
that you fondly remember,
and we lovingly bathe in the warmth
of your memory.

Your art will outlive you,
so please contine to paint
for all of us
soft-bellied, plastic, and poisoned people,
who will undoubtedly some day
have to dig out old copies
of Arizona Highways,
and yellowed prints of Sky Carpenter paintings,
to remind us what
a tree,
a cloud,
a sky,
a fencepost,
simplicity, vision, and harmony
was all about.

Glenn "Butch" Buttkus 1977

We celebrated Lane's birthday in March ( I think) and mine in June. Ain't this a gas?


3:14 PM  
Blogger Lane Savant said...

Actually, due to a misaligned rear gearset, I only have 8 speeds.
I's an improvement.

3:24 PM  

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