Bob Thomas/Sam White

Here is a poem I published in Cold Eye years ago. It will be included in the Cold Eye anthology I have recently started to assemble, after some procrastination, never mind the distraction of the Internet radio business.

Sometimes I merely sit in one place and dream of greatness rather than attempting it. Heh!

Sam White is the pen name of Bob Thomas, whom I've written about in my recently published memoir, A Marvelous Paranoia. Bob lives in Ashland, Oregon, where we met at Southern Oregon College in 1969.

A great Dodgers fan, Sam White integrates baseball and his love of poetry into a fine comparison of two difficult tasks--writing well and bunting.

Untitled

green

dark green

almost blue

grass by

a dried

riverbed

LORCA

RIMBAUD

WHITMAN

SPICER

walked each

side

the middle of

the cracked bed

the cracked bed

the poet

leaves his words

visions to

flow

Lorca drew his sword

Rimbaud drew his sword

Whitman drew his sword

Spicer drew his bat

hit the cycle

and his last time

up

laid down

poetry's perfect bunt

resting on the

the thirdbase chalk line

motionless

real______________O___

Sam White

TS

The Hunter

Being a little retarded on my upkeep and planning for the third installment of the Round Bend Hour for Sunday.

I don't have a CD or record collection (or iPod), so I've been reliant on what I uncover at the library. I sold a good jazz collection years ago to pay the rent one jobless summer (I've had a few of those). I like browsing the central library's music shelves anyway, so I take it as it comes, a pleasurable aspect of research.

I want some Bob Dylan. I know the guy has been played to death, but the young Bob Dylan was extraordinary. I can never get enough of it.

My listeners preferences? Wait, do I have any listeners? I haven't heard much feedback on that account. I invite anyone reading this to listen to the show and chat me up online from the House of Sound website. Throw your suggestions at me. You might become my savior. I might learn something.

Anyway, I plan to hit the music shelves hard later today. My third show will be cleaner than the previous two, this I promise.


TS

Michael Moore

I've found through the years that many people detest Michael Moore, find him bombastic, hypocritical, naive, etc. Well, I like the guy.

In this piece he references Eisenhower's farewell speech, perhaps the most honest muttering ever spoken by a former U.S. President. For this rhetoric alone Eisenhower would not be welcomed in today's Republican Party, and the lonely ex-warrior would have few Democrats as friends, either.

Eisenhower warned us of the nascent power of the military industrial complex, of course, in 1961. Now the power of the generals is firmly entrenched on the U.S. economic/political landscape. It is somewhat emblematic that the last decent Republican to reside in the White House was a general. That he was as forthcoming as he was in the revved up Cold War era is really a remarkable aspect of our history.

It is time to dress down the idolatry, fatuousness and insane trust Americans keep for their military heroes. It is time to overthrow the militaristic mindset that keeps the U.S. economy tethered like a nation of slaves to the savagery of occupation, robbery and murder across the globe.

If you do not believe the powerful want our present wars, and many more to follow, to keep their mansions and billions afloat, you are the naive one.

Michael Moore, as rich as he is, has every good intention in saying militarism is fucked.


TS

from Harlot of the Tub

Act 2
Scene 7:
Time: the present

Uriah's funeral procession comprised of soldiers and bureaucrats. Bathsheba in false mourning, veiled in black. Full military honors, flag draped casket. Joab in full-dress uniform, medals shining, comforting the widow. David and Amnon, heads bowed, walk slowly behind the casket. The procession stops in front of a dais and microphone. Joab steps forward, clears his throat to speak:

Joab: Ladies and gentlemen, friends, associates, fellow warriors, Bathsheba--we are gathered here today to pay our final respect to a brave man who gave his life for his country. A man whose love of these United States was an inspiration to all who had the pleasure to live and work beside him. I have known soldiers--it is my business to know them--and I can state unequivocally that no finer soldier than was Captain Uriah exists in the United States' military, nor has ever existed.

(Joab clears his throat, drinks water, wipes his brow with a handkerchief)

As we prepare to lay Uriah in his final resting place here in Washington, I ask only that you contemplate for a time this dutiful man's record. It speaks volumes.

(a projection screen unrolls above the dais; a series of grainy 1970s sports highlights play as Joab continues)

Third in his class at West Point. First at Annapolis and second at the Air Force Academy. Football star who rushed for 300 yards in one game for Army, averaged 25 points per game and 15 rebounds for Navy. Impressive numbers for a sophomore, but they pale in comparison to is junior season, when he rushed for 400 yards in one game for Navy and averaged 30 points and 20 rebounds a game for Army.

(the mourners are impressed; a murmur filters through the crowd)

At the Air Force Academy he was the coxswain of the NCAA champion rowing crew, winner of the prestigious science gold medal, and a rhetorician of the highest caliber.

(nodding and enthused recognition in the crowed; slight applause)

A Navy pilot, he distinguished himself at three consecutive Tail Hook Conventions by refusing to participate in any overtly sexist scandals, such as the running of the gauntlet or drunken displays of sexuality. A virtuous man, he refused to drink alone or have what is commonly referred to as a dark day.

(another smattering of applause)

He wore a beatific smile at all times and rubbed the heads of street waifs around the globe. He gave generously of his time to the FBI and CIA.

(louder applause)

He recorded seven kills in Panama while inflicting minimal collateral damage upon our great friends the Panamanians. He recorded three kills in Grenada and too many to count in Desert Storm. He fought along side the rebels in Afghanistan and, later, advised the Russians. Later still, he fought along side the Afghanistan Army and cut off the head of the Taliban. He was a friend of Osama bin Laden before he was the enemy of Barack Obama! History bears witness!

(uproarious applause)

A friend of the stars, he turned down the leads in the Hollywood version of "A Broadway Life," and the Broadway version of "A Life in Hollywood." Why? To concentrate on his divinity studies at the New York Theological Conservatory. I laud this man, you are correct, and never was a man more deserving...

(pause as Joab is breaking down; hushed silence)

I ask you to bear with me. I loved this man. As I dry these tears I remember Uriah's quick wit, his engaging intelligence, his love of family, his gentleness...

(Bathsheba pretends to faint, falling back into the arms of David and Amnon; they help her sit down in a chair, kneeling beside her. The crowd mutters concern)

Offered a job playing trombone in NBC's house band, he refused, saying he hadn't time. He was, after all, the director of the All Navy Big Band.

(crowd refocuses on Joab and applauds)

The word my friends, warriors, Bathsheba--is loyalty. Uriah breathed it as others breathe air. It filled his lungs and permeated his soul. L-o-y-a-l-t-y, ladies and gentlemen! You know how to spell it. I can only pray you know what it means...

(As Joab is winding down, spelling loyalty, Absalom and his entourage of whores join the crowd of mourners; the mourners are aghast and shout expletives at them. Absalom raises a bottle of whiskey over the whores' heads and pours as the women drink as much as they can. He drinks himself and waits for the crowd to quiet down. He finally speaks to Joab.

Absalom: What a show this is! What great theater! General, you are a star!

(the mourners boo Absalom, who seizes the microphone)

General, all of you--you bray like a-s-s-e-s!



TS

Economics

The USA has long loved dictators that benefit its corporate interests around the world. Often, these men are used until their purpose expires. They are then discarded in favor of newer and better puppets, i.e., the old puppet either wears out or he becomes so embarrassingly corrupt he must be discarded in the face of international scrutiny.

A shortage of would-be dictators doesn't exist, so it is always easy to find a replacement.

It is important to remember that since the colonization of North America by Europeans hundreds of years ago, the purpose of engaging tyrants on the side of Christendom and burgeoning capitalism has been to steal resources (minerals, oil, gas, waterways, land, etc.) from the poor. The rich then hoard the resources and make everybody else buy theirs, insuring exorbitant profits.

Over the years many thieves have conspired to maintain the system, which aligns friendly dictators with US economic policy.

Fascinating, isn't it?

Refresh your memory here.


TS

Miles Davis

The music listening I've been involved with in recent weeks has been very good for me. Like many things over the years, the experience of music has opened and closed, sometimes imperceptibly, as my life has taken its twists and turns. I'm now finding that I enjoy music more than at any other time in my life.

I grew up a trumpet player, starting at age 10. Over the years I learned to noodle out some faux piano and guitar figures as well and more or less left it at that. I always had the appreciation, but at times I let other things get in the way of my experiences with music.

I think I have a good ear. Not so much in the playing realm, but in knowing good music when I hear it, having the sudden recognition, usually within a few bars, that something interesting or accomplished is happening in a tune. Music has wonderful properties that play hide and seek with the senses. Often extra subtle and inhibited aural meaning emerges with each listening of a particular song, but something has to grab hold of you first, even appropriately placed silence.

I started listening to jazz after high school. That put rock and what little classical music I'd heard growing up on the back burner for many years. Why was I drawn to the trumpet? I used to ask myself the question. I was unaware of jazz to begin with, but something in the sound of the horn caught me, swept me away. As odd as it may seem, I think I heard jazz before I knew jazz. I may have heard Miles before I discovered him.

So much mysticism? I think not.

Playing a typical brass march, which likely contained the first post "Mary Had a Little Lamb" phrases I learned on the horn, didn't stop me from hearing other stuff in my head. I can recall playing improvisations on the horn before reluctantly stopping long enough to learn a piece I had to learn for band competitions. Call it instinctive jazz.

Maybe that is why I finally stopped playing. School band bored me, finally. This was a long time before jazz education infiltrated the school system in Oregon, believe me. I am describing the history of another well-documented failure of our educational system, which hasn't enough good, imaginative teachers and is top-heavy with conforming, careful, and ultimately harmful fools.

Miles Davis was no conformist, of course. He played what he heard in his head, then he took it to the clubs, starting at 15, and put it out there. Be damned if you didn't like it because his hero, Charlie Parker, did. And Miles knew Charlie understood.

After treatment for heroin addiction and staying out of the clubs for a number of years, Miles founded one of the greatest quintets to every bless New York City. In featuring Paul Chambers, Philly Joe Jones, Red Garland and John Coltrane, Miles Davis hit his stride as a band leader and created some of his most important and dynamic work.

I played the quintet in the last hour of my show yesterday and had my brain blasted again.

Damn, Miles, you were my favorite. And I know you can hear me.


TS

Round Bend Hour #2

I feel my Internet radio show took a quantum leap for the better Sunday, though I may be dreaming. Like my Oregon Ducks, I know there is room for improvement. I played it relatively cool and straight, mixing some blues with jazz and even a few rock 'n' roll grooves (like that word?).

Okay, so I'm decidedly unhip. But I played what I wanted to play, including a Smithsonian Folkways Classic blues collection, a touch of Frishberg and Miles, a few others. I had more than enough music in my bag (I'm sorry, I'm starting to sound like a sixties-era DJ) to cover my two hours. I was digging (jeez, what has gotten into me?) my playlist so hard that I didn't switch up as often as I initially planned. I played fifties-era Miles. His genius phase without a doubt.

I liked the sound of the show. I like what I did, despite a few word jumbles, mumbles and bumbles. I hope the mic situation is getting better. I'm gonna find the right radio voice for me real soon, you listen.

When I was in high school thinking about my future I once had a Career Academy rep visit my home to discuss the academy's broadcasting department. It was too expensive, of course, and I don't know how reputable the organization was at the time, and I didn't opt for that in the end. Probably a good thing, though any broadcast training would be better than nothing. Sort of like any technical schooling, you have to start with the basics.

I guess it boils down to this. If you want to be a philosopher go to Stanford and read the classics. If you want to be a broadcaster get behind the mic and start talking.

So, I now have two shows archived at House of Sound.

I'm planning a show dedicated to the late Roger Blakely. I have to dig up some cello music and some of his other favorites for that. Sometime in Oct., just not sure which date yet.

Cool!

TS

Results

Here it is Monday morning and I have a list of apologies to dish out. First, to the handful of UCLA fans I know--I underestimated the Bruins. They strolled into Austin like bullies walking into a school dance and handed the Texas Longhorns a thrashing. Impressive.

To Stanford's fans: your team is exceptionally good. Saturday in Eugene could be an early, early indication of who wins the PAC. I don't know if anybody comes out of the league unscathed, though. Highly doubtful.

I was surprised by the low-scoring affair between Cal and Arizona. Where did Cal get a defense all of a sudden? Nevada rocked them just days ago. Jeez. Arizona won though, so I got that one right, despite expecting an Arizona blowout. How good is the Nevada QB? Put him at the top of the Heisman watch.

Speaking of defense. What happened to Oregon's? Against talented foes, defense become a chess match. Unable to overpower the Sun Devils, Oregon had to revert to schemes and blitz packages. They looked disorganized and silly at times.

ASU, picked to finish 9th by the "experts," slapped Oregon's offensive line silly, only to see their quarterback give the game away. Oregon was very lucky to win the game. If they play like that against Stanford on Saturday they lose.

Entertaining game of the day: Alabama and Arkansas.

Great weekend of college ball, wasn't it?

TS

Playlist

Been working up my music selections for Round Bend Hour program #2 on Sunday afternoon.

Here's the partial list:

Dave Frishberg

Garland Jeffreys

Mississippi John Hurt

Patricia Barber

Miles

Classic Blues (Smithsonian Folkways Recordings)

Midnight Oil

The Doors

A few of each and whatever I bring as an afterthought.

I'm looking forward to a mind blowing show--so sit down, shut up, turn up the volume, roll a joint and relax.

Sunday at 2 p.m. here: http://houseofsound.org/.

TS

Week 4 (college football)

Now comes the big test for the Mighty Oregon Ducks as we get to see how good they are and can possibly be as the season progresses. They play ASU Sat. night.

The game will accentuate speed. I thing the always big and lumbering Wisconsin Badgers had a dose of that last week when ASU went to Madison and nearly (shoulda) beat the big cheese heads. WU has a monstrous offensive line and ASU countered with fast, aggressive linebacking play. Thus a low-scoring standoff that hinged on a couple of special teams errors.

ASU is good, make no mistake about it. ASU coach Dennis Erickson knows what he's doing, even if he did jump on the spread option bandwagon a tad late. He has the professional loyalty of your average heroin dealer, but what the heck.

I like Oregon, maybe short of the spread, which is 10.5. But I ain't bettin' it.

Other game winners and losers:

Arizona wins, but Cal plays better than it did at Nevada.

USC wins because WSU is inept.

OSU loses because Boise is very good.

Stanford loses in an upset to Jesus U.

UCLA cannot beat Texas in Austin.

If you have any questions phone Dooley's Betting Parlor and ask for Mo.

TS

APB on Dooley (photo by Kelley)

I expect things to go better this Sunday at the House of Sound when I present my second Round Bend Hour program. Had a few tech issues last Sunday, including a non-functioning CD compilation that I wanted to play over the first 90 mins.

That little debacle altered my plan, of course. I rolled and improvised from there, and I learned a few lessons.

Expect some roughness for the first few shows as I acclimate to the process, boost my skills, and turn a lemon into a nice, tasty cocktail.

Thy will be toasted

in the house of sound.

http://houseofsound.org/

The pic is of Buddy Dooley; if you see him on the street tell him TS is looking for him. Buddy was a no show at his first Internet radio gig. Lord knows I needed his help. What an ass.

TS

Time and Again

Man, your equilibrium is destroyed when you hear bad news like I received on Sunday. Is this Thursday already? Where has the week gone?

A very good friend of mine has been dead for six months. Before I heard about it on Sunday after the Round Bend Hour, I had assumed he was in LA where he lived with his family for most of the past 3 years. When he was straight and working on his academics he seldom wrote to me, but last year he started school at Humboldt State and started writing to me again. Then he started drinking again.

He said he was coming up from Arcata to see me and some of his other friends. When he didn't show up we thought, hell that's just Roger being flaky. He's probably in LA.

Tragedy struck in Albany, about 60 miles south of Portland, on March 22 at 9 p.m. A car hit him on I-5 and he died at the scene. He was travelling to Portland as he had promised.

Roger was funny and often brilliant. But he could be a drag when he drank heavily--like many folks, including myself. He was 41 and studying environmental engineering at HSU before dropping out after one semester.

People who knew Roger--really knew him--loved the man. He was often disparaged by his inferiors; those folks simply could not put up with him. Seems to be a common enough occurrence in life, doesn't it?

It is too bad. He was so much smarter than his critics. In this town he had plenty of those.

On a lighter note, look at this scene from CD's movie-in-progress. Funny, funny stuff.


TS

Questions Along the Road

was the road

dark and wet?

shouldn't you have

taken shelter amid a

stand of tall pine?

were you crossing the

road to go home to your

kind god or

were you thirsty for

your medicine swill?

tell us please

were you writing

a poem in your head

as the headlights flashed

on your dumb skull?

and how did you come so

far only to greet this

lull in good sense?

furthermore

why were you there

rather than in the drunk tank

you loved so well?

smile or blink to these and

stay still

or rise

up and tell us;

was this your

final will?



TS

Podcast Up (Round Bend Hour)

The Round Bend hour did not go swimmingly yesterday. My compilation disc stopped playing on the house deck after 10 songs, and I have no idea why. It works fine in the computer I used to create it.

I tried several times to make it work by skipping tracks and thought, well, I'd better just play from iTunes, the DJ compilation in studio. Not all of that was the Round Bend Hour "sound," that is for certain. A massive compilation, much of which I was ignorant of, I simply let it play through. Heard some nice stuff and some other tunes I wouldn't have bothered with. So it goes.

The other problem I had--my mic level. I must have a very soft voice, which I wouldn't have believed the way I shout out "Beer here, bartender!" when I'm on a roll.

Next week's program will be much better, I know. I learned a lot yesterday, not the least of which was the board. Next project will be handling the dual turntables.

It'll come,
It'll come.

I had fun yesterday and I'm already looking forward to next week's show. Though the first one was rough, things will only get better.

Here's a link to the archive: Round Bend Hour.

BTW, Buddy Dooley didn't show up. The bastard!


TS

Final Words

From: Roger Blakely
To: TERRY simons
Sent: Wed, March 10, 2010 9:19:22 PM
Subject: Re: Doomsday

Terry,

I should be there sooner than I had hoped.
I just got a three (count 'em 3) day notice on the door to pay, or be out on the fourth day.
I was expecting a 30 day notice. Motherfuckers.

No wonder the news is filled with stories of people just going ballistic.

If I can get up there I will be there by Sunday.
Otherwise, I will be here on the streets.
Which is a bit of an unpleasant thought, being that I have a terrible cold that has settled in my lungs.

Anyway, I will either be saying hello to you, or Michael Marantic, later in the week.

Preparing for Doomsday,

Rog


Roger W. Blakely III did not make it to Portland. My good friend died crossing I-5 near Albany, Oregon, likely hitchhiking, March 22nd. I just found out yesterday.

Michael Marantic was another friend of Roger's who had died the previous month.

This is a very troubling day, friends. Here is one of Roger's final poems:

Untitled

I've been having those feelings
that life was better with music, mystery,
empty bottles, and early morning
poetry festivals from the bottom
of the drunk tank floor.

I do reserve the right to be lost at any time.
So that I never need to be frightened,
I carry at all times
on my person
a small unseaworthy sailboat,
vast uncharted waters,
the prayers of past generations,
and a category five hurricane.

I tell you, I miss the late night air.

Roger W. Blakely III

Roger was raised in SoCal. He died trying to make it home to Oregon. R.I.P

TS