Still my favorite band, and Clive Bunker my favorite drummer. Listen to him go wild on Dharma for one. It always seems like he’s about to go off the rails. Despite missing the skins on some hits, he stays on track, and keeps rising throughout his solo. What energy! My kinda guy.
Discovered the group in high school, and this album about a dozen years after it came out. Since it’s a mix of a ‘greatest hits’ plus live album, plus a couple originals, it was a fantastic primer for me to acquire a taste for the group. I went on to buy 15 of their albums, 10 of which I really liked, and continue to listen to to this day.
This is in response to a challenge from Alain Cournoyer of the Homebuddies to post 10 albums which marked my life in ten days.
The drumbeat on Urgent was so simple I thought I might be able to play it.
So my 12-year-old self got my dusty drum set out of the closet, where it had been put away since the Christmas I turned seven years old. I could always control my hands on the sticks pretty well and every once in a while keep the beat one with my right foot at the appropriate moment. But I could never get the hang of the left foot high hat while the three other limbs were doing their thing. I ran the cassette of Urgent over and over again while I played along.
After what seemed like an hour it all clicked, I was finally a drummer who could play with four limbs at once!
I took out the cassette and smashed it with my foot. I always hated Foreigner.
This is in response to a challenge from Alain Cournoyer of the Homebuddies to post 10 albums which marked my life in ten days.
This was blasted into my ears from the right rear speaker of my Mom’s cherry red BMW 320i on countless drives down highway 5 on family trips from SF to LA. Never grows old. Stewart Copeland was always one of my favorites, and I’m continually surprised at the lack of recognition for his playing. His ultra-tightened snare drum sound on this album is simply the best.
This is in response to a challenge from Alain Cournoyer of the Homebuddies to post 10 albums which marked my life in ten days.
The first album I ever owned which I played loudly on my new set from RadioShack. Although I was not a big fan of New Wave music, at least these guys played real instruments and chose a unique theme that was fun to go crazy on. Everybody at the time thought Japan was going to take over the world with their fuel-efficient cars and small electronics. Today everybody thinks China is going to take over. Why hasn’t anyone made a hit song about that? I persist in believing that the world will continue to find value in creativity, however silly.
This is in response to a challenge from Alain Cournoyer of the Homebuddies to post 10 albums which marked my life in ten days.
I received a challenge from Alain Cournoyer of the Homebuddies to post 10 albums which marked my life in ten days.
Rather than a greatest hits list, I chose to make this list personal. There are even albums here that I HATE. But they contributed to making me who I am. So, here goes…
Album #1: Supertramp Even In The Quietest Moments 1977
I grew up listening to my parents’ music, which I really liked, and the group I liked the best in my formative years was Supertramp. When Roger Hodgson sang, it seemed as if the words were coming out from my own lungs. It helped that we sang in the same high pitch at the time. Their songs of yearning, coming of age, questioning, and unashamed positivity really captured my pre-teen mood. They are still my feel-good treat today.
When I was a teenager I was either a jokester or surly and holier than thou, pointing out the foibles of the adults around me.
I was in the latter mood on a family trip to Hawaii when we sat down at the restaurant. The waitress brought the menus and introduced herself as Carol. When she came back with waters and took our orders I looked at her name tag and noticed it read Susan.
“I thought you said your name was Carol?” I said.
“No it’s Susan,“ she responded.
When she left, I turned to my family and kept talking about the switcheroo. “Carol and Susan sound nothing alike,” I explained. There’s no way I could be mistaken.
Nobody else recalled what her name was and wondered why I was making such a big deal about it. My dad gave me one of those looks as if to warn me this was not going to be another of my incidents to ruin a family outing. But I just wouldn’t drop it.
“Something fishy is going on and I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” I said. She can’t pull the wool over my eyes.“
I got up to go to the bathroom and wash my hands, but what I really wanted was a closer peek at that sneaky Carol/Susan. She was happily chatting with her colleagues behind the counter and looking at order slips and plates as if nothing untoward was going on.
“What could be the purpose of this chicanery?“ I asked myself alone in the washroom. I couldn’t think of any advantage besides fooling the tourists. Even though it wasn’t my money, it was the principle of the thing. You don’t mess with people who come a long way and spend a lot of cash, a good part of it going to your salary. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you in a restaurant.
I came back to the table to see that Carol/Susan was setting down our plates. When she came to me I made sure to look at her name tag. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Here I had caught her red-handed.
“Powtip!?” I exclaimed.
The waitress started cracking up.
“There’s no way your name was Powtip before! Just what are you trying to pull here?” It was the beginning of a tirade that aimed to be better than that of Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith goes to Washington.
But I stopped when I looked around and all of my family was laughing too. I was stunned and didn’t know why they were guffawing when we were the object of ridicule. It was then I learned the joke was on me.
“We asked the waitress to change her name tag,” my Mom chimed in.
“What, do you mean from the moment we entered the restaurant?“ I said. “But that doesn’t make sense…”
“No,” Mom said. “From the moment you made such a big deal of it. You misheard her name at the start, or you just weren’t paying attention, and then you wouldn’t shut up about it. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard!“
Upon leaving, my father set down double the usual tip for Powtip.
It’s turkey day in America, which means that most of us in France have to work.
However, we do get extra compensation in the office today in the form of belly laughs when our French colleagues wish us a happy Thanksgiving. They inevitably pronounce it as “apple sex giving,“ and who could refuse that invitation?
For added fun ask them to repeat this phrase back to you, “We want you to focus on Thanksgiving now.“ When you respond, remember it’s your duty to “give thanks.”
Today, I’m thankful we don’t all speak the same language in the same way. Vive la différence !
I lost my Grandma Barbara recently, who passed from this world at 95 years old. In her memory, I’d like to share an episode of our lives together. It’s entitled:
Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas
I’m going to break a rule here and reveal something that happened in Las Vegas.
Grandma Barbara was born on April Fools’ day, and me a day apart, in the same town, Van Nuys. This lent us a special affinity, and we would often call or see each other to celebrate together.
One day when I was 20, Grandma Barbara called a couple weeks before our birthdays to invite me to go to Las Vegas.
So we set off in her car, just the two of us. I think it was a burgundy Chrysler automatic sedan, and she let me drive. It was a road-trip weekend to remember! She knew just what I needed to do my 21st right: gambling, gin+tonics, girls… and grandma.
Raising exclusively boys, and coming of age in a man’s world, Grandma Barbara assumed all males had these vices, and had no problems with them. Who better to introduce me to the world of 21-year-old legal sin than grammy?
We checked into our room, then went downstairs to the main floor. Grammy always played the slots, and I fed the machine beside her for awhile while we drank bloody marys. She generously paid for everything.
I wanted a bit more variety and asked to play the roulette wheel. She agreed, dropping something like $200 on the table. She never complained when I lost it all, and it didn’t take long, either. We finished the day by gorging at the buffet table and getting a buzz on from more mixed drinks.
The next evening, Grammy had a surprise for me. She reserved a cosy table for two at… a girlie show. Picture a room with red velvet everywhere, arranged in half circles starting from and ending at a wide stage. Gram and I are in the middle. The table is so small, our knees and toes often touch. Needless to say, we’re the only couple of our kind there.
In my mind, I’m preparing how to react when the curtain goes up. I want to show my appreciation for her kind gesture, but don’t want to come off as a lecher gawking at the gals. I want to be non-chalant, demonstrating that I have actually seen a breast in the flesh before this day, two of them even, but never so many all at once in the same place, for which I’m very grateful. However, I anticipate a challenge in conversing with grammy openly about my powerful passion for the appendages.
The show starts and thankfully we’re far enough from the stage, and there are so many sparkles and feathers that I can’t even make out if there is also nakedness. Acts rotate through, all in much the same soft-core nature. I feel relieved. I just may survive the night without an embarrassing incident.
The grande finale begins with much pomp, when in the middle of the number, some of the girls descend the stage to walk among the tables. No wait, ALL of the girls descend to walk the concentric half-circles, and they’re coming our way! I’ve got bouncing breasts to my left and my right, only one foot away from my face in both directions! Feathers brush my cheeks, ears and neck. There’s no decent place to turn my gaze, so I look wide-eyed straight toward Grandma Barbara, who’s looking back at me!
I needn’t have worried. Grammy enjoyed the show’s artistic merits and was open to whatever reaction I might have. That’s one thing which made her so great, she just let you be yourself, and always showed she enjoyed your company.
Now, I know there are quite a few grandmothers out there reading this, and at least a couple grandsons who are not yet 21. Why not go on a very awkward trip together? I’m sure Grandma Barbara would approve.
What’s it like to go on The Chairfather tours? Here’s a taste, visiting Félix Faure at Père Lachaise in Paris.
Look at the old boy’s sculpture, laid out almost as if his body was found this way, minus the ‘banane’ or enormous grin he must’ve had on his face.
Before Bill and Monica, there was Félix and Marguerite, the President and the female admirer who went down… in history.
Desiring a reprieve from those pesky justice-seekers calling for clemency in the Dreyfus affair, President Félix Faure asked his mistress to come over at 5 o’clock. Marguerite Steinheil arrived in the ‘blue room’ at the Elysée palace in the afternoon. Faure dropped his drawers as she applied the presidential ‘pipe’ or enthusiastic fellatio. Marguerite did her job only too well, as moaning Félix reached climax, and in the same instant, stiffly dropped dead.
Their screams brought the rest of the house rushing immediately into the blue room, where Marguerite’s head was seen twisting near his manhood, struggling to remove his convulsed fingers clutching her hair. There were too many witnesses to hush the scandal, and soon all of Paris knew what the papers couldn’t print.
Rival politician Georges Clemenceau had a field day, joking of Faure, “He wanted to be César, he ended up being Pompé,” which used as a verb translates to ‘pumped.’ Marguerite was tagged with the nickname of ‘la Pompe Funèbre’ which is a double entendre with the act and a funeral ceremony.
That catty Félix showed us that you CAN have too much of a good thing!
It’s time to zip up our affairs, cross over to the other side of the Avenue Principale. Walk down six steps, then across the avenue and up the six steps on the other side and turn left. Counting from Le Bas column our next host is 7 down on the right.
I’ll guide you to 50 final resting places on my @VoiceMap tours of the Père Lachaise cemetery, and tell stories from the fascinating lives of painters, performers and pompous politicians!
See funny souvenir pictures and text from our picnic together in The Chairfather book.
The passed have never been more alive!
Book a lunch date with the fallen famous NOW!
Or later…
Really, it doesn’t matter. Their agendas are quite open.
What’s it like to go on The Chairfather tours? Here’s a taste, visiting Strogonoff at Père Lachaise in Paris.
Approach the gigantic structure at the top of the stairs, which houses only one overblown person.
Born a Russian baroness, Elizaveta Démidoff-Strogonoff became a countess by marriage, and then followed the count on a diplomatic mission to Paris. They were ardent supporters of Napoleon, which became inconvenient when the little Corsican decided to invade her homeland. She didn’t get along with the count, and returned by herself to live in Paris, where she apparently had a terrible fear of being alone. She died, on a date with three eights, which any internet source will tell you is proof that she was a vampire.
Far be it from me to repeat one whopper of an unfounded rumor.So, I’ll give you two.
Her will allegedly stipulates that the millions in her entire fortune would go to the person who stayed by her side in the crypt without leaving for an entire year.Apparently, nobody lasted longer than a night, getting creeped out and running away shrieking that the place is haunted.I’ll let you pause the tour now if you’d like to give it a shot.
On the other hand, if you’d like to continue…
Walk down all 64 stairs (I know, 66 would have been spookier, huh?). Make a left on the cobblestone road at the bottom.
I’ll guide you to 50 final resting places on my @VoiceMap tours of the Père Lachaise cemetery, and tell stories from the fascinating lives of painters, performers and pompous politicians!
See funny souvenir pictures and text from our picnic together in The Chairfather book.
The passed have never been more alive!
Book a lunch date with the fallen famous NOW!
Or later…
Really, it doesn’t matter. Their agendas are quite open.
