If you have to live in Portland, I suppose having an establishment that calls itself a “chocolate cafe” could be worthwhile fringe benefit…
#portland #pdx #oregon #coffee #chocolate #blog
I’ve always been reluctant to fly Southwest, because I don’t like to go near an airplane unless I can get an aisle seat and Southwest doesn’t allow seat selection.
But now that I may be flying back and forth to Portland OR a lot, I’m starting to work their system. I’ve got the “Rapid Rewards” credit card, and with their “Early Bird” boarding pass feature – which only adds $15 to each route – I’m pretty well guaranteed that aisle seat.
So: @SouthwestAir. The fares are lower, the frequent flyer program more generous and reasonable, and they don’t charge extra for checked luggage – so there is no scrum for overhead space. This one was nearly empty.
… but when has that ever stopped me?
File this one under the hashtag: #OnlyInNashville:
I went to the Ryman Auditorium last night for the “Guy Clark Celebration” – a tribute concert for one of Nashville’s most revered songwriters, who went on to the great writing room in the sky back in May.
The tone for the evening was set early on by host Vince Gill, who promised “three hours of music an no shitty songs.”
And no shitty singers, either. I’ve been going to stellar shows in Nashville for more than 20 years now, but this was a lineup like you’ll never see again.
How’s this for name dropping: Jerry Jeff Walker, Vince Gill, Terry Allen, Shawn Camp, Verlon Thompson, Sam Bush, Bobby Bare, Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings, Joe Ely, Steve Earle, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Robert Earl Keen, Ricky Skaggs and Sharon White, Chris and Morgane Stapleton, Rodney Crowell, Lyle Lovett, Gary Nicholson, Delbert McClinton, Radney Foster and Bill Lloyd.. (thanks to Jim Moran for posting the cast of characters on Facebook).
You really can’t see ’em, but that’s who all is in the photo at the top of the post.
As I posted myself last night “I don’t need to go to any more concerts this year, I’ve already seen everybody…”
The Ryman was insistent throughout the evening that there were to be absolutely no photos of the show. Every time somebody in the audience pulled out a cell phone, an usher showed up to point an admonishing finger at them.
But when that stellar ensemble gathered on the stage for the last two songs, there was no way I was not gonna record that moment.
I got out of my seat (near the back of the upper deck, aka “The Confederate Gallery”) and went to the very back of the venue, got my iPhone out, discretely got it ready, and then brought it up to eye level and grabbed the ONE shot above.
Then the photo-Nazi usher ran up to me and said “No photos!”
And I said, “OK…” and went back to my seat.
If you were not fortunate enough to be present for last night’s tribute concert, consider going over to iTunes and investing in the tribute album that Tamara Saviano put together back in 2011, “This One’s For Him: A Tribute to Guy Clark” – which includes performances by a lot of the artists who appeared last night. Or if you still believe in plastic delivery, you can get the CD at Amazon (it does not appear that the collection is available thru Spotify).
Then listen to it and give yourself a master class in songwriting.
The Oracle of Facebookistan has reminded me that this week is Woodstock Anniversary Week. It’s some odd anniversary, like 47.
I have already composed and posted my recollections and reflections on the subject.
This is an excerpt from a book (or maybe it’s a one-man show?) that I was working on earlier this year. I kinda hit a wall with it, and then life happened. I’ll get back to it one of these days…
That’s the first of three installments, just follow the links at the bottom of each to get to the next.
As I mentioned yesterday on Facebook, I’ve been chasing the Perseid Meteor Shower since 1973.
That was the summer I drove across the country, after getting a diploma (I would use the term ‘graduated,’ but only loosely…) from Antioch College (I’d attended made-up classes at a branch campus in Columbia, MD. Remember, 1973 was still the 60s…).
I’d thrown a few things into the back of my 1966 VW Squareback (affectionately named “Duck” and sporting a Daffy Duck decal on the front fenders) and headed off to seek my fortune in Hollywood. I’d done some “guerrilla video” in college and figured it was time to see how real TeeVee was made, so off I went, taking three weeks to get from the east coast to the west.
Along the way I stopped at the Vagabond Ranch outside of Granby, Colorado, at the edge of the Rocky Mountain National Park. I’d spent two summers there when I was 14 and 15 years old. Those might have been the best summers of my life. Vagabond wasn’t a “dude” ranch, but it was run as a Western-themed summer camp by a couple from Connecticut, Charlie and Ronnie Pavek.
Not very many people nowadays remember “Spin & Marty” – a short movie series that Walt Disney ran as part of “The Mickey Mouse Club” in the 50s; It was about a city kid (Marty) who got sent to a western ranch where he got to ride horses and friend up with a cowboy kid named “Spin.” That’s about as much as I remember about the series, but it was always my frame of reference; I still tell people that I spent two summers in the mountains of Colorado, “acting out my ‘Spin & Marty’ fantasies.
For the four summers before Vagabond, my parents sent me for two months at a time to a ‘sleep over’ camp in Maine called Kennebec – a sports driven, competitive environment inhabited mostly by affluent Jewish kids from the Northeast. That’s where I spent the summer of 1962 being tormented by an 11-year-old monster named Jeffrey Katzenberg (the name might be familiar?). But that’s a story for another time.
I never exactly excelled at sports; I could hold my own at tennis and I was an OK sailor, but the first time another kid threw a hardball at my head (he wasn’t aiming at me, he was just 11 years old and it’s not like he had any control…) I knew I was never gonna be a baseball player.
Basically, sports suck when you suck at sports.
Vagabond was the exact opposite of Kennebec. There were almost NO sports. Instead, I spent the summers mostly riding horses in the mountains. Unlike Camp Kennebec, I have nothing but fond memories of Vagabond Ranch. I even recall with some distant fondness the night I spent shivering under a tarp in the rain at 11,000 feet; and my favorite horse, a red mare named “Strawberry.” She could be tough to catch in the coral, but once saddled Strawberry was a soft and responsive ride.
So that summer of 1973, I made my way across the country, alone in my little VW – Niagara Falls, the The Great Northern Plains, The Badlands, The Black Hills, The Crazy Horse Monument – I stopped at the Vagabond Ranch and said hello to the Pavek’s.
I must have gotten there the night of August 11 –because that night all the campers were taken out to a meadow to lie on their sleeping bags and watch the Perseid Meteor Shower. I’d never heard of the Perseids before that. But once I saw them – probably 2 or 3 shooting stars every minute – I was hooked. I’ve tried to see the Perseids almost every year since.
Probably the best I ever saw the Perseids was from a few miles off shore from Lahaina, Maui, in the summers of between 1981 and 1992.
From Lahaina, you start out 70-some nautical miles from Honolulu, the nearest big city; once you get a few miles offshore there’s little impact from the lights of Maui. The sky is ink black and there are stars by the bazillions. The years we went out on the boat, we probably did see 60-100 shooting stars every hour (but not every minute!)
In the summer of 1999, I went back to Vagabond Ranch with my then-future-and-still-second-wife Ann. The Ranch was no longer owned by the Pavek’s (who were no longer living) but was owned the family of Richard Kelly, the owners of – how’s this for irony?– a large hotel chain in Hawaii. Since the Kellys only visited the Ranch occasionally, the caretakers of the property, Mark and Jane Bujanovich, welcomed us to stay a few nights and we watched the Perseids with them. I’d forgotten how cold even a mid-August night can get at 8,000 feet…
It has been harder to see the Perseids since I’ve been living in Nashville, but almost every year when there’s been a waning or new moon, we’ve tried. Last year we went out to Bell’s Bend. This year I went out to the Natchez Trace and set up my camera with my photo-buddy Ken Gray.
So this is how you shoot a shooting star: you drive as far away from the city as possible. The Natchez Trace Parkway outside of Franklin, TN is only one order of magnitude-of-light-polution less than Nashville and its environs, but it’s a decent night sky.
You start at about 11 PM. You set your camera on a tripod with a remote control shutter release. You aim the camera at a dark corner of the sky with the widest-angle lens in your bag (in my case a 14mm equivalent) to cover as much of the sky as possible, and set the shutter to open for 15-30 seconds with the aperture wide open at a fairly high ISO, like 1600. The 15-30 seconds is long enough to get an exposure from the star field, and you hope that the high-ISO is enough to capture the fleeting light of a hot grain of cosmic dust as it streaks across the frame.
After that, it’s entirely random. So you open a folding camp chair, sit down, and just start releasing the shutter, over and over again, until something streaks across the sky while the shutter is open,
And then you apply the one tool that you will not find in any camera bag: abundant patience. A little luck helps, too.
In this case, I shot about 100 frames, between roughly 11PM and 2 AM.
This was yet another year when the coming of the Perseids was touted as going to be the most dazzling display in memory. That’s what they say every year. But every year… enh. Not so much.
I exposed frame after frame after frame, but for more than two hours, nothing happened in the frame. Once exposed, the camera takes as long to save the file as the shutter was open – 15 or 30 seconds. Several times, that’s when something blazed across the frame. But for as long as I was out there, it was less like 2 or 3 every minute and more like 1 every two or three minutes.
As 2:AM approached… I finally got one. After that, it’s like fishing. You get one… you want another. It did seem like the activity was picking up a little, an so I kept releasing the shutter. Slightly after 2AM, I got one more, a little better than the first. That’s the one at the top of the post.
And then I drove home.
So that’s how you shoot a shooting star. You go out in the wee hours of the morning. And you wait. And then you wait some more. And when you’re finally ready to give up… you get one.
Forty-plus years I’ve been chasing the Perseids. That’s the first I ever got a picture of one.
But regardless of the actual number, every Perseid Meteor or see is filled with the memories of a lifetime of shooting stars.
This is a story about how being a jerk can actually pay off.
I went to the Container Store in the Green Hills Mall yesterday because it is Nashville’s only retail source for Moleskine notebooks. While I generally avoid having/doing anything quite so trendy, I had decided Moleskines are as good a bound journal as any, so I went to get one.
I walked into the Container Store and my first impulse was to find an employee and ask “where are the Molekines?”
Good luck with that…
There was not an employee anywhere to be found in the vicinity of the entrance, or on the whole upper floor. I could tell just by looking around the first floor (which is relatively small area compared to the rest of the store which is the floor below) that the Moleskine display was not going to be on that floor, so I took the escalator down to the main floor.
The escalator opens to a large open area in the center of the main floor. There are cashier counters in the center of area. But, again, there was not a sole to be found – except for some other customers who seemed equally baffled at their inability to find any personnel to help them.
I felt like I’d stepped into some television show where only the employees had been swept up in the Rapture. I figured the next scene would be customers helping themselves and just walking out of the store…
Just in case I was wrong about that, and being the incorrigibly obnoxious person that I often default to, I just shouted, quite loudly and to nobody in particular,
“DOES ANYBODY WORK HERE?!?!”
And of course, at just that instant a young man appeared from amid the the aisles and stacks in a regulation black t-shirt – rather shocked that anybody would actually conduct themselves that way, and equally embarrassed that a customer had found it so difficult to get help that he seemingly had no recourse but to ask for it at the top of his lungs.
Quickly and efficiently, the young man asked what I needed and directed to the Moleskine display. After a few minutes of deliberation I decided which notebook I was going to buy. The task was made slightly more difficult than it needed to be because all of the products on display were hermetically sealed in plastic wrap, making it impossible to see what the pages inside actually looked like. But I managed to figure it out.
Ah, retail… This is why I buy almost everything except groceries from Amazon.
I made my selection and rode the escalator back to the upper floor to the only cashier that was open and waited my turn in line (another one of my least favorite features of bricks-and-mortar shopping). The couple I’d seen downstairs that was as perplexed for help as I was in front of me. They paid for their stuff – a variety of big plastic containers – and then it was my turn.
I put the Moleskine down on the counter and reached for my wallet. I had my credit card out and was all set to pay my $20 for the notebook…
…when the young man who had magically appeared downstairs when I started yelling like a crazy person magically appeared again, behind the counter. He waved off the cashier, then picked the Moleskine off the counter and handed it to me and said “we’re good…” – in other words, giving me the notebook and not charging me for it.
I certainly didn’t see that coming.
I was sufficiently surprised that I did not fully register what else he said. He might have said “I hope you have a better experience the next time you’re in the store.”
Or he might have said “Please don’t ever come back…”
In some kind of bemused shock, I ambled out of the Container Store with a free Moleskine notebook, wondering how exactly being such a jerk had produced such a seemingly worthwhile result.
And figuring that I would tell the story and end it with the hashtag