Experiment in video

It takes a While

The title line on that last post didn't even make sense to me. But, serene in the knowledge that all things have a beginning (at least in the mind of the observer), I started reading the line over in a number of different ways, voices, and ages. Finally, it surfaced.

Gene Wilder did an underrated "innocent abroad" film several years ago, titled "the Frisco Kid". In it, he is explaining to Chief Gray Cloud (played by Val Bisoglio) that G-d doesn't make rain (or do much of anything) on cue. Wilder, as Rabbi Avram, talks about alll the gifts we get from G-d without even asking for them, and ends with "but He doesn't make it rain." There is a clap of thunder offstage, the unmistakable sound of rain, and Avram, with that strange smile of Wilder's when confronted by something beyond his experience, say "but sometimes.....just like that....."

So that's where it came from. It still doesn't make a lot of sense, but it's nice to know.

And sometimes......just like that.....

Over the last couple of months, I have been trying to get what is sometimes called an Irish Bouzouki by way of EBay. Had a couple of very good bargains, but got clobbered in the last minute or less. My Internet connectivity is a medium-speed DSL, so that's not too unexpected, but two of the instruments truly looked possible. So just another set of learning experiences in reduced expectations? Maybe not. I had been asked to explain the difference between the various kinds of bouzouki/mandolin instruments, so I started checking a couple of sites to ensure my definitions were reasonably within standard.

On a couple of sites, there was mention of the tenor guitar. I remembered the things from the Great Sixties Folk Scare, and they did seem like something I could use, but my paradigm basically stopped and ended with "a guitar without bass strings," and I can miss the bass strings on my other guitars, so why bother? But it started to float into my elderly brain that this made little sense. The main use I had for the 1960's contribution to "Celtic" music was as a rhythm instrument, tuned to open D or G. That, I could do with a tenor guitar. The other instrument had doubled or octivated strings, but technique should work around that.

So, sometime in the next few months, I'll start getting serious on finding a tenor guitar. There are a number of older instruments on EBay and similar sources, and the price is better (it seems the things are out of style), so the fit seems to work. We'll see as the time goes on.

Another learning experience .... blecch

The other day, while discussing how to get the workshop into at least semi-functional condition, someone brought up the need to add sound samples of some kind to the new web site. So this sounds reasonable, and that's where the topic flows. There is a distinct divide between the "hire a professional" school of thought and the opposing "so how hard could it be?" approach.

Long story compressed (see? I can do that) and it's about 0330 this morning. I try playing at the web cam and trying to see how it might sound. Not bad, but the sound's not great. So I find the digital camera that looks like a video camera, put it on a tripod, and try that. Small problems, such as a seven minute discusssion on harp scales where all that's visible is the top of my head. Since any expenditures over and above zero are contraindicated at this point, I'll keep puttering along.

Or mammash I'll just stick to describing how these things work, and let it go at that.

Then again, if I get a better sound/video package, it would cost less than the booth fee at any number of events and might reach more people.

I may or may not be losing my mind, but I bet there's a song here.

I am aware that people who read one of my blogs do not, as a rule, read the others. Not a problem. I wanted to divide things so that people who liked, let us say, music, would not have to suffer through political polemics. But sometimes, there is a thought or event that sneaks up on me and smites most aspects of my thought processes. Thus, I am going to post this in the three blogs in the hope of getting some of the good advice that several musings have generated.

As always, more background than I probably need to provide.

Back in the middle 1960's, I was part of the Great Folk Music Scare. Lacking the talent to go out as a solo act, I had accepted the help of my "cousin" (no real relationship, I had just moved in with his family so I could go to school in that area, and the bogus family titles helped explain things) as possibly the least talented sideman available. This helped me deal with my insecurity while ensuring I wasn't going to be accused of being the source of the worst of the off-notes. Granted, this was Folk, and we could always claim we were going for a more "ethnic" sound, but that was difficult to claim with a straight face. Michael, for such was his name, decided the whole music gig was a great way to meet girls, so he kept trying to recruit girl singers. At the same time, we added a part-time singer/guitarist who was far more talented that he knew, so I was able to get through rehearsals and performances without what had become the obligatory indigestion. It also didn't hurt that his sister sang as good as she looked, so I was able to keep that side of the dynamics steadier.

Throughout this time, there was a girl who had a voice like an angel, a killingly sharp wit, and a beauty that could make you start believing in Higher Powers. We were friends. We never made the leap into any deeper relationship, other than one night after I had returned from overseas planning to marry a girl who said she loved me beyond all reason. Problem was, she had found a reason, and had been dating him since two days after I left to go overseas. My friend and I spent the rest of my leave time together, and it became obvious (at least to me), that there was, and of a right ought to be, more to the relationship. When I got back to my duty station, I found a letter from a mutual friend suggesting I stay away from this young lady, since she was in a relationship with a good guy, and didn't want to tell me. I wouldn't have minded, I suppose. I knew the guy, he was a great person, and he had survived a major motorcycle accident a year or so before .... which in my social circle was only slightly less impressive than getting clobbered by a bull at Pamplona. So I let her alone, told the friend I only wanted her to be happy, and generally spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself.

Between 18 months and two years after that, my pseudo-cousin told my parents that my friend had died, in a car accident, with her new husband (the guy mentioned above). They didn't tell me for some months, since my wife was having major trouble adjusting to life in the States, and had developed a massive case of retroactive jealousy.


So here's part one of what I'm having trouble with. Not long before I had the news of her passing, I was sure I had spent an afternoon talking with her after classes at Spokane Falls Community College, Spokane, WA. At the time, it felt as we were playing roles that started with "if we pretend to be strangers, we can avoid the hurts of the past." Given that I felt (and feel) that I was a total jerk in letting a good relationship go, that seemed to be reasonable. But since I doubt I spent a cold afternoon standing in a wind-swept parking lot talking to a ghost, there must be another explanation. Reverting to a habit I hope I've left behind, I came up with a few reasons to put it out of my mind, and let the whole thing stay buried.


So part two is equally perplexing. Roughly three weeks ago, I saw the lady's name on a new alumni site. She's apparently married, happy, and living at the far side of the country. I made a token effort at sending her a Facebook "friend request," which was ignored. Now that makes sense. She's probably forgotten the whole episode. But the memory of that afternoon in Spokane still haunts me. Was it she? Was I letting my admittedly depressed mind hang a major experience on a chance resemblance of appearance, voice, and mannerism?


The smart part of my head says to let it all drop into the Great Well of Lost Chances (AKA the Slough of Denial), and keep it all in balance that way. The stupid, jerk-like portion of my head says I should come up with some witty way to ask "if you did not, indeed, die, what is the story behind the apparition I witnessed in Spokane?" And then there is The Middle Way. A very long time ago, on multiple occasions, I was unintentionally cruel to a person who deserved much better. Just about anything I do at this point runs the risk of causing further hurt. Given that, my path would seem to stay out of her life, while making the assumption that our conversation was some sort of necessary moment of closure. Any thoughts? Replies here or by e-mail would be good.