Lb4Lb#11 - The Trouble With Hippies

I was not a "child of the '60's" by any stretch of the imagination.

My exposure to the 1960s was solely through the filter of my very straight-laced parents and their record collection: Dean Martin, The Monkees, Glen Campbell, Cher, Peter, Paul and Mary, and... Leonard Nimoy. Yes. THAT Leonard Nimoy. The Way I Feel (you should find the LP some time and check it out). We had a couple of Beatles records, but as I later discovered, they fell out of favor after John Lennon's remark about being "bigger than Jesus" - and that copy of Rubber Soul was as close as I got to "counter-culture" until high school.
Thinking positivity
If you wanna be with me
I'll take you to the promised land
Come on baby take my hand
Stop Draggin AroundOf course, I did grow up in the 1980s, and nostalgia for "flower power" was all the rage. I missed a lot of that because our family lived out in the sticks, and we didn't have a VCR until 1989 - so while my friends were into the Vietnam-era war pics and Cheech & Chong, I was mostly sitting home, not a part of the whole scene.

Not that I wanted any part of it - that silly hippy-dippy drug culture stuff was for sinners. I was deep into my church and considered myself above all of that nonsense. I saw myself as above it all, and I resisted "temptation" like a good boy.
I've been lost in the name of love
And we kill our brothers daily in the name of god
We'd better chill before we take on some tribulation
And if we realized
Then we'd make a little love
now sing
What The Fuck Are We SayingPuberty changes things. That is an intentional understatement.

It was easy to dismiss the New Age philosophy and all of the political talk of the 1960s with the benefit of hindsight (and lots of coaching from Grandpa and my church family), but hormones bring home a truth that is hard to ignore. Feeling my body take over my mind in so many ways made me understand that "control" is not simply a matter of following rules. I began to recognize that the things people feel are real to them - and unless you've felt what they feel, you can't judge them.
My mama said
That it's good to be fruitful
But my mama said
Don't take more than a mouthful
And my mama said
That it's good to be natural
And my mama said
That it's good to be factual
Always On The RunAfter I started questioning my principles, I was freed to explore things that I had always disdained. Music was the most exciting area to explore, because it felt both defiant and safe; I could try out crazy ideas without necessarily DOING crazy things. I could listen to stories and feelings and see places and pieces of history that had passed me by while I was trying to fit the world inside my Bible.

Some things are easier to get into than others, though, and a lot of the really revolutionary, underground, and radical stuff from the Summer of Love and the early 1970s still shocked my sensibilities. I couldn't get into Lennon's politically charged anthems, I couldn't grasp Jimi's wild guitar work, and I really had no idea what to make of Zeppelin. There were singles that I liked, but there was so much out there - and much of it was so FAR out there - that I couldn't figure out where to start.

And there was another wrinkle to this musical blockage.

A white Southern Baptist kid never feels comfortable with certain things. What it is they are uncomfortable with will vary, but for me, it is Soul music. It's not that I don't like it, but rather that I become self-conciously hyper-aware while I am listening to it that I am an awkward white kid, and that something deeply sexual is happening that I should probably not be exposed to. Much of the Sixties vibe revolves around an exploration of Soul. Sometimes it's more Blues, sometimes it's covered up by the bombast of Rock; but underneath it all is the sexually charged subtext of black people and their freedom from the Puritanical roots that my ancestors instilled in their descendants.
So many tears I've cried
So much pain inside
Baby it ain't over 'til it's over
So many years we've tried
And kept our love alive
'Cause Baby it ain't over 'til it's over
It Ain't Over Til It's OverAll of which brings me to my point: why Mama Said is such an important album to me. With all of these many paragraphs of prologue, you might be expecting something deep, but like the counter-culture, and hippies, and free love and drugs, there's really not much beneath the surface.

There is an important thing inside all of us that sets limits. For people like me, those limits can sometimes be deeply ingrained, almost like a moat, and it takes something special to bridge the gap to the other side. Lenny's sophomore album made these things safe for me.

That was all I needed.
You say you can't trust me
Have you tried?
You say you don't love me
That's a lie
There are so many so many rainbows
That we were to climb
But baby baby why can't we survive?
We've got to get our heads untangled
And free our state of mind
The Difference Is WhyLenny's music is not deep - the lyrics border on vapid, and the rhymes are sometimes forced to the point of ridiculousness. The music has been widely criticized as being derivative of Hendrix and Zeppelin, and there's no doubt that this is true.

But.

For a white suburban Southern Baptist kid intimidated by his sexuality and the wide world he was facing, Mama Said gave me a place to relate and unwind. It didn't matter that this guy was singing - in falsetto! - about sex, because it was relatively harmless. (At least compared to Prince.) And it didn't matter that the guitars were only a little loud (courtesy of Slash), because these songs rocked! It felt to me like what it was for Lenny: a celebration of a lot of really good things.

The trouble with hippies is that they tend to be shallow and frivolous. But somehow, the magic of this album was that it didn't have to be deep or important. It wanders through Fields of Joy, and if you learn to relax, you will find that the limits you set for yourself don't have to be shattered to be softened. You don't have to destroy yourself to grow. You can just take it as it comes.

And there's really nothing wrong with that at all.

Lb4Lb#9: Yours, Mine, and the Truth

There's three sides to every story:
Yours
Mine
the Truth.
- Cupid's DeadSometimes we're just too clever for our own good.

Extreme is a band that has suffered from straddling a line between down-to-earth and over-the-top. They clearly had the chops and the musicianship needed to rule the earth, but they wanted something else. And what they wanted was something that you can't come right out and ask for: your fans have to figure it out on their own.

I'm a hapless romantic
St-t-tuttering p-poet
Just call me a Tragic Comic
'Cause I'm in love with you
- Tragic ComicI'm one of the many fans and critics who consider their best effort to have been the album entitled (somewhat ambiguously) III Sides To Every Story. It was their third, following up their breakout hits More Than Words and Hole Hearted. If the world was a fair place, then III Sides would have been the homerun the band needed to hit. It showcases one of the world's best guitarists without being a "guitar" album, and it blends thoughtfulness, spirituality, and humor in a wickedly funky metal confection.

The band tried to pull off something really difficult with their concept. After all these years, even a fan like me isn't entirely sure what the message was, or what it all really means. I know that there are parts that I really get, and others I don't. I'm never entirely sure I'm comfortable with what it says.

Mr. Goody Two
Do you really thing the world
Can be Black, White, and Jew?

...Mr. Music Man
Don't turn your back on me?
Cause I'm the one with the gun
- Peacemaker DieAt first glance, this bold and disturbing stance seems obvious. Clearly, since this is a concept album about politics and belief, and since the first "side" of the three - Yours - was not meant to reflect the band's own opinions and beliefs, you can't take this bravado and swagger at face value. For these songs, they ought to be painting a picture of the Other Guy - the one we're supposed to be against.

This world ain't big enough for two
And I've got my sights on you
- WarheadsOh, yeah - that guy is an aggressive jerk. That's YOUR side, alright. Not mine. I know people like him, so "Your" side is about him, right?

That works to a point. But then you see something of yourself in that Other guy:

"Make love/not war" sounds so absurd to me
We can't afford to take these words lightly
or else our world will truly Rest in Peace
- Rest In PeaceWait a minute - I hold to that sentiment myself. Even though the threat of Soviet-inflicted Armaggedon is even less likely now that it was in 1992, I know that we can't afford to neglect our own defense. Maybe these guys consider me to be that Other guy? And yet, I'm also far from the Warhead described in the opening track.

This second-guessing goes on throughout the whole album; what are these songs trying to tell me about the band? Or about myself?

Picture a world without any color
You couldn't tell one face from another
I can't understand why we fight with our brother
- Color Me BlindJust when you think you've got it figured out - which side is which - they throw in something that doesn't fit. Are they hippies? No, because why would hippies put Color Me Blind on "Your" side? Maybe they're trying to show that both "sides" have some balance? Maybe they're trying to show that there's common ground between the "sides"?

But then there are the chilling moments, where you see something horrific and alien in the Other side. I still get goosebumps from the sick feeling of being inside the mind of a violent extremist as the band plays a sample of Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech over the repeated leit-motif of "Peacemaker Die." I know exactly where the gunshot is, and I still jump when I hear it. If I identified with "Your" side up to this point, I would be suddenly forced to realize something horrible about the person that "Your" side describes.

All the world's
a masquerade
made up of fools
and philosophers
Were it to rain
on our charade,
all washes away,
except for our true colors
- Stop The WorldHow many listeners were put off by this inherent confusion, I wonder? And how many missed the larger point because they either took the lyric at face value as something the band really believes, or pushed away from what they took to be criticism of their own beliefs? Judging by the sales figures, a lot of people didn't get it.

Which is sad, because there is a lot of goodness here. I suspect the disappointment from the way this album was received led to the frustrating compromises the band made on their next release; a so-called "grunge" album that their more loyal fans saw as a "sell out" move. I'm just glad they had the courage to take this risk, and give us this album first. It must have been a real conflict to decide to do so.

And conflict is really what this whole thing is about. While the conflict on Your side is harsher and more threatening, Mine is more open and accessible. This side is the questioning, sentimental side.

If I had one wish
It wouldn't be hard to choose
Seven Sundays in a row
'cause that's the day that I spend with you
- Seven SundaysI think we can all recognize the hopefulness and futility that comes from trying to sort out our place in a world that seems downright crazy. We all think we're just good, average folks trying to make our way through; we all want to rely on someone stronger and smarter than us to pull us through; and we all want to escape from the glad-handing charlatans trying to take advantage of us.

But even here on what should be common ground we have a problem to sort out, because of all of this religious imagery and language. Seven Sundays could be a sweet song for your steady girl - or it could be about a relationship with God. And that duality gets more overt when you compare it to the aggressive R. Lee Ermey father that opened the album. Just what exactly are they trying to say about God?

Oh Daddy please
Take me with you, where you going
Oh Daddy please
Come find the time, come watch us growing
- Our FatherI used to only listen to the halfway point of this album - something which has changed, or I wouldn't rightly be able to call this a "pound for pound" album. I used to get mad or bored with the more religious and heavily orchestrated songs from Our Father on - but now I don't.

I would get mad because it sounded (in my younger days) as if the band were urging me toward some kind of religious answer. I would get bored (later on), just dismissing this section as an attempt to deal with Daddy issues. Now I see that, like the other sections, we have the same mix of conflicted points of view that we saw in the first half.

So I start off every day
Down on my knees I will pray
(for a change in any way)

But as the day goes by
I live through another lie
if it's any wonder why!

Am I ever gonna change?
If I say one thing then I do the other
It's the same old song that goes on forever
- Am I Ever Gonna Change?After years of listening, pondering, wondering, supposing, and rethinking, I still don't really have any answers. But I do think these guys were onto something 20 years ago. I think there is an important lesson here and that it still applies. I don't pray, but I recognize that prayer is an externalized form of meditation. We humans keep looking for answers outside of ourselves; we keep hoping to change others - whether their minds or just their behavior - as if that alone would make everything better.

But the world keeps spinning, and I keep getting sucked into the same arguments with the same kinds of people. Anger begets anger, frustration breeds contempt, and no one ever feels like their "side" is fairly represented.

Maybe the real solution to the puzzle is to let someone else have the last word.

Am I ever gonna change?
I'm the only one to blame
When I think I'm right, I wind up wrong
It's a futile fight that's gone on too long.

My Farewell

I said I would write something. Usually that means words, in some order, meant to evoke something. I guess in this case, it still does, just not in the form I expected.

This is rough, because I wrote and recorded it when I got home from work tonight. Emlyn called at work this afternoon to let me know that Karen passed away in her sleep last night without ever waking up. After 16 years, it is a kind of release for everyone - the kind we dread. It never feels right, whether the one being released is 102 or, like Karen, 37. But in her way, Karen has Always Been Free.

So that's what I wrote.


(For those who may miss it, the words "Always Been Free" are a link to a song.)

Reunions

The Class of 1989/90 Reunion was in February, but I guess I never hit "Publish Post" on this. 'Bout time!

I was pretty surprised that Michelle was willing to drive all the way out to my parents' house to practice our songs for the Reunion. Even in high school - that can't have been 20 years ago already, can it? - we lived pretty far off the beaten path, but after I left for the Air Force, mom and dad bought property even further out, nearly to Wickenburg, and added a good 25 miles to their already lengthy commutes.

But Michelle said she was used to driving all over the Valley of the Sun for her job, and didn't mind. So there we were, playing music and talking about old times and recent times, and about our apprehensions of the Reunion itself. Would we remember the people who showed up? Would they remember us? Fondly? Would our best friends be there, or would they be stuck in far-flung corners of the world?

We needn't have worried.

Even 10 years ago, documenting this would have been more difficult; putting memories down in a blog or sharing pictures on Facebook would have been either unheard of, or at least uncommon. But now, roaming through a hotel ballroom full of not-so-distant strangers is a matter of recognition more than anything; how much do they resemble their profile picture? And can you read their nametag in the dim light? Most of the ice-breaking has already happened online, after all.

So, for me at least, the evening was a stream of people who looked a lot like the parents of the kids I knew in high school, walking around, being happy to see each other. They seemed to enjoy our singing, even though the PA system we had wasn't quite up to the task of filling the room, and they seemed to appreciate our effort.

I'm still not very good at capturing details, of course. I can't tell you who all I talked to - I could try, but I would forget too many names at this point - and I can't tell you who we talked about and caught up on. I can tell you there were a few missing who are no longer with us, and a few I never would have expected to make it this far (and I'm glad you did!), and I can tell you that the overall impression I had was a joyful one.

In a lot of ways, we haven't changed. The patterns of who talked to whom, who got silly-drunk and who withdrew early, the inevitable comparisons of work/hobbies, family, successes and failures; that all stays the same. But because perspectives have shifted, I saw something reassuring in all of it. I saw a truth unfold at my 20 year high school reunion that I barely dared hope would be true all those years ago.

We really are "okay".

Lb4Lb#7: Wildflowers Are Petty Things

You probably don't think much about wildflowers. They're really just weeds, after all, and unless they're blooming, they don't have much to offer. But when they bloom...

In 1994, I already knew who Tom Petty was. The Traveling Wilburys and Full Moon Feverhad cemented him in a favored place near my tape deck, and even his Greatest Hitsalbum had impressed me. But I figured the Greatest Hits was an admission that he was done; Mr. Petty had decided to sit back on his laurels and take a well deserved basking.

Fast forward 15 years. I'm in the car with the iPod shuffling through my own greatest hits. I'm almost at the saturation point with most of the 600 or so songs on there. I've heard my recent favorites a million times, and the stuff I haven't heard before isn't making an impression as it floats by. I'm thinking, "It's time to wipe this thing and throw on something different."

Then I hear a simple strumming pattern. It's like the first drops of rain on a dusty windshield, when you're driving over to see your girlfriend at the end of a long week. It's like the first slug of beer after spending the day spreading gravel in Arizona. It's like seeing wildflowers blooming next to a field of scorched, brown grass.

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong in a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free
- WildflowersPetty has never been the strongest vocalist, or the deepest song-writer. He's not the "rockin-est" rocker, nor is he a very flashy guitarist. He's just that guy you know who breaks out the guitar at parties, and makes everyone feel good. He's that guy that girls don't think about dating because he's "just a good friend", but when they actually give him a chance, he turns out to be genuine and caring.

Wildflowers is built on that vibe. The title track is all about letting someone go where they want, while still hoping that means they'll want to go where you are. There's no pressure, but he lets you know what he wants out of the relationship. He wants to keep it simple, real, and easy.

Doing that, there's always the chance that she'll take you up on the offer and leave, but... why borrow trouble? Why worry that much? You only hurt yourself, after all.

I know your weakness, you've seen my dark side
The end of the rainbow is always a long ride
But don't be afraid anymore
It's only a broken heart
- Only a Broken HeartYeah, he knows the risks. And he's not immune to that urge to control, either. This could have been an album full of passive-aggressive manipulation. Tom certainly knows the temptation.

It's good to be king and have your own world
It helps to make friends, its good to meet girls
A sweet little queen, who can't run away
It's good to be king, whatever it pays
- It's Good to Be KingSo we'll sit back, break out the guitar, and sing together. We'll hang out, and make ourselves easy to be around. Sometimes, you can't be king enough to shape those things that are larger than you, so you have to give in. Be easy. And do what you have to do.

And hey, now baby, what can I do?
What am I goin' to do but trust you?
The rest of my nights, the rest of my days
What can I do but love you?
- House in the WoodsIn 1994, the music scene turned on its head. All of the over-the-top extremes of the 80's metal bands and the effete and introspective self-loathing of the bubbling "alternative" scene collided, and the resulting cloud of ash that we called grunge erupted. It was cathartic, it was redemptive, it was purgative... but it was harsh and unflinching. The music, like the lyrics, explored the dark corners we had all been ignoring, and it changed the way we wrote and heard music.

Everything was about how angry and hurt everyone was. Grunge gave depth to punk, and balls to alternative; it pissed on shallowness of metal, and gave advanced music theory lessons to folk. It was a force of its own, all about denying anyone the opportunity to get close to you, because you knew they just wanted to rip you off.

It affected everything; lyrics, song-writing, form, production, sales, advertising. The flames swept through the music business, and the ashes settled on every genre. No one could sell a record without something "grunge" related - a flannel shirt, a curled fist, an angry riff.

In the midst of all of that, one quiet album pushed something beautiful up through the ashes, and those of us who noticed felt a little lighter for the experience.

Its time to move on, time to get going
What lies ahead I have no way of knowing
But under my feet, baby, grass is growing
Its time to move on, it s time to get going
- Time To Move OnYou don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Petty knows his limits, and he knows not to expect too much. This makes his album a masterpiece of understatement, as well as an achievement. Not many people can pull off both.

Not many people can craft songs that still bring a smile to your face and joy to your heart when you recognize that simple strumming pattern. Especially not after hearing them for 15 years.

Lb4Lb#5: But We're Okay, We're Fine

I wanna clear my head,
I wanna drink that sun,
I'm gonna love you good and strong
While our love is good and young.
- Get Out The MapNormally, this "lb4lb" thing is about an album (or two) that particularly moved me in some way. Nothing is as frustrating as buying an entire CD that only has one or two tracks that you really like on it; and few things are as satisfying as finding a collection of songs that flow together and keep you coming back for the whole set.

But THIS time, I want to talk about a "lb4lb" career.

The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life, after all.
- Closer to fineFolk music doesn't get paid the respect it deserves, partly because folk fans pay it FAR too much respect. It's an art form based on intimacy, and the fandom associated with other genres simply spoils the effect.

Nothing kills the joy of listening to Peter Paul and Mary like hearing someone blather on about the symbolism of Puff The Magic Dragon. (I know it's a work of subtle genius, man, you don't need to explain why!) Nothing makes a noble Woody Guthrie protest song more boring than hearing about how noble and historic it is.

(That's not to say covering folk isn't a great idea. Billy Bragg and Wilco paid a fine tribute to Woody with Mermaid Avenue and Mermaid Avenue Vol. 2; and Bruce Springsteen didPete Seeger proud with We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions.)

Folk is at its best when it is left alone; a troubadour with an instrument. A guitar, three chords, and the Truth. And a little bit of history.

All the shiny little trinkets of temptation
(make new friends)
Something new instead of something old
(but keep the old)
All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface
(but remember what is gold)
And it's fools gold
- Power Of TwoThey've played with Michael Stipe of R.E.M. They toured with The B-52's bassist, Sara Lee. Stephen King set part of a novel around one of their concerts. They sell out tours around the world.

But, there is no reason on earth why the Indigo Girls should be so damned popular. They don't get airplay. They aren't "pretty". Their songs are arguably "all the same" (unless you're actually listening to them). If you're looking at surfaces, theirs is dusty, and someone has written, "Best Buy is that way" in the dust to help move you on.

Scratch beneath that surface, though... you see denim. You feel the calluses on your fingertips. You might smell some weed smoke. But you'll hear those voices. You'll look up to see two women with guitars, and you will swear they are angels giving you something that will change your life.

My friend tanner she says you know
Me and jesus were of the same heart
The only thing that keeps us distant
Is that I keep fuckin up
- Shame On YouI don't really know many facts about Amy Ray and Emily Saliers; I heard they were Christians, I heard they were lesbians. I heard they used to be a couple, and I heard...

I heard the music.

That's all that matters, in the end. There is nothing I can say as a fan that will matter, or make a difference to you. But if you listen to that music, those words.

It took a long time to
become the thing I am to you.
And you won't tear it apart
without a fight, without a heart.
- Become YouThey are tough, honest, beautiful. You won't care about every song on every album; at least, not at first. But they will speak to you, and you will feel something; and it will be like the realization that part of you was asleep. Something you didn't know was hurting will be soothed.

When we get a little distance some things get clearer
Give em the space our hearts grow nearer
I ran as hard as I could and still ended up here
but it's alright
- It's Alright

Nobody Sings Protest Songs Anymore

28 Mar 2008, 20:01 (edit | delete)

I hear this idea a lot. I hear it from people I know who sneer in general at peace protesters; from people who disagree with war, but don't want to appear "weak"; and from people who don't think, but feel that looking cynical is edgy and makes them seem smart. Sadly, I even hear it from people who actively protest; even they seem to feel that the outrage of the public is lacking in the face of the outrageous events of our day.

It's an insidious meme. The idea that our generation doesn't care enough to protest has crept across the media - the accusation ranges from Bill O'Reilly's assertions that "only stoned slackers" are watching The Daily Show, to stories on CNN about how many protest songs there used to be, and a widely repeated story by Jimmy Chang that accuses contemporary artists of burying their protests for the sake of sales.

But I say those characterizations are wrong. Dead wrong. As I said in my own blog, the Revolution is already in progress. It has also been described in an NPR story: "...the new generation is protesting in its own very modern way -- by recording protest-oriented music and posting it for downloading on Web sites, for free."

That was happening five years ago, when Lenny Kravitz released an online-only single recorded with Iraqi pop-star Kadim Al Sahir; you can still download "We Want Peace" orsee Lenny's clip discussing it on YouTube.

Protest is as strong as ever. Strong enough for Spinner to not only list the 20 important protest songs, but to come up with songs from each of the last four decades. Acts like Pearl Jam (World Wide Suicide) and Green Day (Minority and American Idiot) have always been vocal about their politics. Some have built their reputations on shouting their beliefs, like System of a Down with B.Y.O.B. (Explicit Album Version) and Serj Tankian's Empty Walls.

Some of the "elder statesmen" of rock have made protest their central theme, made even more significant by their artistic reactions to 9/11. Take Neil Young, who pulled no punches with the tribute to Flight 93, (Let's Roll), and has since release Living With War. Or Bruce Springsteen, who publicly mourned on The Rising and then championed the Kerry campaign in 2004. Maybe they haven't touched off the kind of popular reaction ofMarvin Gaye's classic What's Going On or become cultural touchstones like Bob Dylanand Joan Baez; but it is, after all, a different world.

Today's fires smolder under the upholstery.

Today's protest audience doesn't want platitudes; we have all the marching anthems we could want. John Lennon's Imagine and Give Peace a Chance, are all the slogan we need; Jimi Hendrix's wordless re-claiming of the Star Spangled Banner still strikes the same chord it has always struck.

These days, we know what the problem is; what we are hungry for is the solution. And this is where the modern protest song is hiding. Think of the subtle courage it takes forNada Surf to suggest to our world that we should Always Love. Consider the late Ofra Haza who sang about peace to Arabs and Israelis. And look at how hungry we are in America for someone like will.i.am to share with us a song about Hope.

A protest doesn't have to be fiery; John Mayer proves that by Waiting For The World To Change. A protest can be Fun and Games, thanks to the Barenaked Ladies. The Indigo Girls are a constant act of defiance, in their way, and their music reflects that hope for a more Perfect World.

And what about you? What if you do speak up, and they tell you to shut up? What if they tell you that you're just a stoned slacker who doesn't know what you're talking about... even if it's true... you have every right to reply:

Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.Because, thanks to our protesters - like Rage Against the Machine - defiance is still alive.

Roughing It Up

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a cuckoo bird,
Interrupting his cry...

Winter Camp; the main reason for joining Cub Scouts in the first place. I've been alternately dreading and looking forward to it for months. Looking forward to the parts that I know will be fun; hiking, games, good food, and playing some guitar with folks. Dreading, because despite my cheerful disposition, I'm still a cynic at heart, and I'm pretty sure I know what it will be like: a dozen or so increasingly cranky adults surrounded by increasingly smelly and insolent children. And do you know something? I really hate being cynical, sometimes. So, I brace myself, hold my nose, and dive in. We're going to have fun, kids.

They are out of school, they are sleep deprived, and they outnumber us. Behold - the Cuckoo Birds.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came an avalanche,
Interrupting his cry...

Trouble and woe seem to pile on all at once, sometimes. My lovely bride seemed to be coming down with something ominous; snow threatened to lay siege during the weekend; our car began flashing random lights -- but only out the corner of my eye. I did NOT want to cancel this trip, but there were rumblings and creakings. Then we were off, and we made it, and dove into the tumult of the cabin.

Behold -- the Avalanche; of boys, sleeping bags, and a cacophonous Friday night in the woods.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a grizzly bear,
Interrupting his cry...

I am here to make sure - as Cubmaster Terry keeps reminding us - that the Cub Scouts have fun, stay safe, and learn something. I'm not complaining about my lot; the group of adults in general is pretty good about keeping the kids out of trouble, making sure we are "two deep" (no adult is ever to be left alone with any number of children... even their own children), and making sure food-prep and clean up happens. If anything, I feel like I'm not completely pulling my weight. I keep showing up to the kitchen after everything is already cooked; I don't quite make it back from escorting a group to the bathroom in time to clear the tables; I don't know how to do most of the crafty stuff.

This leaves "playground monitor" as my fall-back duty - which, in its most common form, means bellowing at the kids who insist on pushing, shoving, and whacking each other with sticks to quit it. Behold, I am the Grizzly Bear. Grr, grr.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Saint Bernard,
Interrupting his cry...

We are all fortunate to have a real, honest to goodness, professional medic along. Saturday afternoon, the boys simply couldn't hold back on their more violent tendencies, and two had to be carried in within half an hour of each other. Nothing serious; a minor head wound and a twisted ankle. But it gave Fred a chance to break out his kit, and justify dragging it up to Northern Maryland for the weekend. Fortunately, it didn't take much more than that to get across to the kids the danger of not listening to the Grizzly Bears.

Butterfly bandages, an ice-pack, and a few developing colds means a job well done by the Saint Bernard. *pant, pant*

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a Jersey Cow,
Interrupting his cry...

One thing was not lacking in any way: the food. There was plenty, and it was good. Mr. Harvey, with the assistance of his son, Harvey Jr., has been the camp cook for 13 years. If what they say -- you shouldn't trust a skinny cook -- is true, then Mr. Harvey is one of the most trustworthy cooks I've ever run across. Everyone was full and content, with nary a case of food poisoning in the bunch.

Behold, the Great Provider of nourishment: the Jersey Cow. (Or, in our case, the Bull.)

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came a milking maid,
Interrupting his cry...

Among the scouts were a small group of siblings; mainly little sisters who were old enough to come along for the weekend. My own little princess came, and immediately found a soulmate of the same age to spend the weekend with. But what to do when all of the adults are spread amongst the other camp activities? Enter the sweet-sixteen-year-old daughter of the Committee Chairperson, young Katie. Someone to watch over the little ones, who were given their own room (no boys allowed), and to run interference (because a "No Boys Allowed" sign is like smearing honey around an ant hill) when the boys decided to storm the "castle".

Behold, the intrepid babysitting skills of our Milking Maid.

O, an Austrian went yodeling,
On a mountain so high,
When along came Her Father,
Interrupting his cry...

I confess, I was not looking forward to a second night on the floor, with only a thin layer of foam between my bulk and the concrete & linoleum floor. The symphonic snoring of the first night hadn't bothered me, once the boys around us had settled down and stopped trying to keep each other awake. It was comical, but almost soothing, in a snorty, bandsaw-on-metal sort of way. Very rhythmic, and tidal. But my back was acting up after Friday's relatively brief night, and I wasn't looking forward to the certain agony facing me Sunday. All I could do was try to stay loose, and tough it out. After all, I was committed to being the Entertainment at the Saturday night campfire.

The younger of my boys, the Tiger Cub, woke Saturday morning with a cough, and I tried to keep an eye on him throughout the day. Had to hold him in a chair by the fire and convince him to take a nap at one point. Grew too tired to use subjects in sentences.

When he woke up, he asked to go home, so I told him that we would after dinner and the campfire ceremony. I think in the end, Pain is the Vengeful Father's gift to us all... reminding us that there are consequences to every action.

It worked out well enough. My back protested the extra exertions as I loaded the car, but I kept telling it, "Better to do it tonight than wait until morning!" It grudgingly agreed. I was loading the car between acts; dinner, load sleeping bags; cleanup, load suitcase (yeah, suitcase... the duffel has the tent in it); perform, load guitar. I felt guilty about bugging out the night before and leaving the bulk of the cleaning duties for the Sunday morning survivors, so I did some extra sweeping up and took a couple of bags of trash out to the dumpster.

By the time I was called up to perform, I was more than a little nervous. I wasn't sure the crowd would respond to my silly song; they saw the guitar, and started calling out requests. "Pantera!" "Play some Brad Paisley!" "Don't you know any good songs?" I resisted doing a Pete Townsend on the 10-year-old heckler in the front row. But Harvey Jr. and Katie joined me as I started my main attraction...

Oooooooooohhhh.... an Austrian went yodeling....

...and they loved it! They were entranced! I was a HIT!

Alright, so that was all I had, but that was all I needed. They called for volunteers for jokes and stories, any other songs. We laughed, and sang, and it wasn't lame! What a relief.

Still, I needed to get the little ones home. There were some definite snuffles coming... maybe worse. But at least I went out with a...

Yodel-ee-yah, Kee-kee-yah,
Yodel-ee-yah cuckoo, cuckoo!
Swish,
Grrr,
*Pant, pant*
Squirt, squirt,
*smooch, smooch*
BANG!