April Fools

Sun's up. A morning breeze cools the french roast in my hand with doves, jays and sparrows taking their usual breakfast places underneath the plum tree. The dog trots on patrol from one side of the yard to the other letting out various low sounds of growl indicating a feline intruder wandered the grounds recently. The morning commute echos in the air, forming the usual wall-of-sound din that serves as the sonic background to my urban lifestyle. My big cat inside the house peers through the french-door windows with a look of disgust at his imprisonment. I walk inside with the dog to cheer him up. It's not my endearments, but the offering of dried salmon which rescues the awkward reality. The lady inmate cats appear quickly to receive their usual ration of dried fish, which always must follow the big guy's preferred bribe.

The cracks in the stucco need a patch and quick touch of paint. I retrieve my tools and arm myself with latex gloves. I cover the spider web lines of separation at a corner and underneath a few of the windows. I complete the fill in the back of the house where a broom handle marks the final area of wear. A fast brush after getting the paint put back together with a quick stir ends the project.

Several kids move up and down the street with ipod cords bouncing in rhythm to their steps. I see a lot of kids out and about throughout the town everyday. Apparently school schedules must be on flex time these days.

NPR buzzes with Sam Donaldson. Sam serves up some memories of Nixon, and actually praises Oliver Stone's film of the same name. Sam tells a funny story about questioning Ronald Reagan amid his popularity slide in the early eighties when the economy was about as bad today. Reagan, as Obama does today, had a habit of always reminding the nation that the previous office holder and party created the mess. Sam's question was when would Ronald Reagan accept responsibility for some of this financial crisis. Reagan's response was funny. He acknowledged that, yes, he had once been a Democrat.

I need some tunes on to calm the critters before heading out the door. I put on a collection of oldies the Nixon chronicles had tweaked into my brain. Arthur Lee exclaims, "I just got out my little red book the minute you said goodbye......................... There's just no getting over you."

Desperate Man Blues

Desperate Man's Blues tells quite an American tale in its offbeat fashion and subject matter. This film on DVD from Cube Media explores personal quests, passion of subject matter and the love of music, although this love confines itself to a finite recorded period of music. The film spreads joy in an unpretentious manner as we follow Joe Bussard, American musicologist and record collector, through his daily routine at home and on the road.

Joe hates rock 'n roll. He voices strong opinions from the time we join him and the film crew recording the events and his turns on a marvelous 78rpm turntable. Joe finds the stuff of 45s, LPs and CDs inauthentic. He lets us know homogeneous America offers little real culture of value.

Real culture was tucked away in defined small neighborhoods blanketed behind twisted unique roads. These roads led to places where honesty and individuality was personified and recorded on old shellac records of the 1920s and early 1930s.

I spent a goodly portion of my life on the road travelling throughout America. By the 1980s much of what differentiated regions had been swept away. Lost accents and peculiarly beautiful architecture bulldozed under by big Caterpillars of development crazed speculators looking for quick bucks. As Malvina Reynolds so aptly noted fifty years ago, a nation of "ticky-tacky and they all look just the same." If Malvina were alive today I doubt that she'd be surprised at what America has become. She would enjoy talking to a kindred individualist like Joe Bussard.