Pug

For George - but someone already drank the beer.

Evening Blues

Standin' barefoot in your kitchen door
Listenin' to the soft evenin' rain
Watchin' you dryin' off from your shower
You look at me like you don't know my name
Then you heat the coffee on the stove
Pull the cup down from the shelf
And slowly turn your back on me
As I sing a blues song to myself.

Yeah I wish that I could hold you baby
But you seem so far away
Yeah I wish that I could kiss you baby
But I've run out of sweet words to say
And I wish that I could hear
Yeah I wish that I could hear
The blues you sing to yourself.

Now all the makeup is washed off your face
And your hair is slicked back wet
You hung the dress up you wore last night
And changed the sheets on your bed
All the promises you whispered to me
I guess they're meant for someone else
Cause all I hear is the soft evenin' rain
And the blues that I sing to myself.

Yeah I wish that I could hold you baby
But you seem so far away
Yeah I wish that I could kiss you baby
But I've run out of sweet words to say
And I wish that I could hear
Oh I wish that I could hear
The blues you sing to yourself
The blues you sing to yourself.

Now would you care if I walked out this door
Baby I can't really tell
Our eyes meet but we just look away
And sing our blues to ourselves.
Yeah I wish that could hold you baby
But you seem so far away
Yeah I wish that I could kiss you baby
But I've run out of sweet words to say
And I wish that I could hear
Yeah I wish that I could hear
The blues you sing
The blues
The blues you sing to yourself.

Minneapolis

A cheery winter song. Bleak and dark.

A happy ending. She ended up marrying him on the stage of the First Avenue Bar ... in Minneapolis.



I've been waiting for you to come back
Since you left Minneapolis
Snow covers the streetlamps and the windowsills
The buildings and the brittle crooked trees
Dead leaves of December
Thin skinned and splintered
Never gotten used to this bitter winter

I've been wasted, angry and sad
Since you left Minneapolis
I wish my thoughts were pure like the driven snow
Like the heavens and the spring's virgin buds
But they strangle me with their sin
Fill me up with poison
Black clouds have covered up the sun again

I can always trace it back
To that night in Minneapolis
Here on the seventh floor in a room I can't call mine
Deadbolt on the door, do not disturb sign
Shaking and trembling
On the clean white linen
Slivers of starlight across the ceiling

A dozen yellow roses
All that's left in Minneapolis
I wish I'd never seen your face or heard your voice
You're a bad pain in my gut
I wanna spit you out
Open up this wound again
Let my blood flow red and thin
Into the glistening
Into the whiteness
Into the melting snow of Minneapolis

Architectural Digest and Elmore Leonard

I receive Rollingstone Magazine. I have not paid for it in years. Periodically they send me a notice informing me that it's my last chance to re-subscribe before delivery will be ceased. They lie. Obviously my potential consumer eyeballs are worth more than I am as a old reader and rocker.

Yesterday I also received a copy of Architectural Digest. It is an exorbitantly expensive magazine with advertisements for things I will never buy. It seems more at home on elegant side tables in upscale New York apartments than in my simple Midwestern cottage. I don't pay for. Like Rollingstone it shows up unsolicited in my the mailbox. Apparently I am on a list somewhere.

And now unto Elmore Leonard's 10 Rules of Writing. Bear with me here, I'll pull this back together eventually. In particular note his summation.

1. Never open a book with weather.
2. Avoid prologues.
3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said”…he admonished gravely.
5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.
6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose."
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things.
10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

"My most important rule is one that sums up the 10:  

 If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it."

I have regular online conversations with three other gentlemen. Mainly what we have in common are old bicycles, liberal politics, and an interest in art and design. A couple of them actually designed furniture for a living, whereas my design work was much more pedestrian. This would normally be part of one of our ongoing discussions. For some reason I am moved to throw this one out to the world. I want to make this quite clear. The following is not a value judgment, a right or wrong proclamation. It only applies to myself and my narrow opinion.

Now, let's get Elmore Leonard back into the fray. In furniture and interior design, I like nicely proportioned pieces, particularly Shaker and Craftsman, which feel at home here in the Midwest. But overall, I like an Elmore Leonard approach. I do not like furniture or rooms that look "designed". I think the furniture and rooms in Architectural Digest are ostentatious and just bloody awful.

    
         If it looks designed, start over.

Thank you for your time. Dan Lestrud built-up a beautiful set of wheels for my McLean (gray anodized Gentleman 81s laced to Campy SR hubs with DT Revolutions) and I need to get some rubber on them before the football game starts.

Stem for the Kvale

I received a package today from Vincent Dominguez. A long story. Too long for telling. It's hard to get good photos of chrome (actually nickel). I suppose I should have at least wiped off the fingerprints. I have a lot going on right now so I won't be able to get it on the bike for a month or more. After this long, what's another month?

Addendum: As I was cleaning off my fingerprints, I notice the inside of the clamp. A perfectly sized hole?  :-)

Summertime, 2 or 3 ?

For George, here's a repost of Nov 29, 2009. Personally, I like the much rawer version on this posting from Aug 11, 2011.




One of my favorite songs. I have an LP with a killer version by Vassar Clements. Of these three, I'm giving my vote to Ella and Satch. Hard call - so different.

Guy Forsyth

Regulars will remember that I used to post music every day. And I even wrote things. Well, things happen. Things come up. Life changes. somewhere along the way I swore on my departed mother's soul that I would never post music again. As is my way, I occasionally backslide, and I slip a tune in now and then. Rev Dick posted this on his blog about a week ago. I have been resisting it, but I cannot help myself. This is some really fine music of the Slightly Quirky genera.

The Growlery Ceiling

There are probably only half a dozen people that this will impact and two of them were there helping me put it up. Realistically, I was the helper. We got most of it done yesterday before we sat down for break and broke out the beer. Suddenly it was 7:00, there were a bunch of empty bottles and I reeked of cigar smoke. The only thing I had to do today was make a frame for the overhead lighting. Overall, it looks pretty good. At some point I have to make a decision on the finish, either to seal it or paint it white. It looks pretty good now, but pine will continue to darken. I'll probably look at it for a year or two and my path will be obvious.

Cerchio Ghisallo

The Passing of an Outlaw

Keith finally died. Normally one would not speak ill of the dead, but this one is too good, this was Keith. One of his shirttail relatives has a dossier on Keith which she has been saving for this day to write a book. The title of the book is to be 'It Takes a Community To Raise a Thief'. One could quibble with the title, but everyone knew how he lived. He didn't even fake a real job, everyone, particularly law enforcement, knew that he was a thief by trade, a real professional. He must have been good at it, because he was seldom jailed for any length of time, except for one time when he inadvertently committed a crime that turned out to be a federal offense and he did some prison time. He left behind a bunch of children with assorted women and a number of small buildings scattered around the county were he kept his "stuff". Yeah, he will be missed.

Memorial services for Keith Leslie Register, of Albert Lea, will be held at 2 p.m. Saturday at Bonnerup Funeral Service, Albert Lea. Friends may visit with family one hour before services at the funeral home. Interment will be in Alden Cemetery at a later date. Keith was born on July 10, 1929. He passed away peacefully at Parkview Care Center in Wells on Tuesday, Jan. 24, 2012. He was 82 years old. Keith enjoyed auctions, spending time with and receiving recent photos of his grandchildren, and he lived life to its fullest.

He is survived by his children: Dottie (Steve) Honsey, Kenn (Lori) Register, Gene (Jamie) Register, David (Kathy) Register, Gary Register and special friend, Carmen, Joni Cline, Gail (Daniel) Thorpe, Brian (Amy) Nielsen, Bruce (Jennie) Nielsen and Alan Nielsen and his special friend Tetyana; brothers: Alan (Louise) Peterson and Ross (Fran) Peterson; aunt, Mary Jean Pagenkopf; 23 grandchildren; 16 great-grandchildren; and many nieces and nephews.

He is preceded in death by his mother, Vivian Cadwell; brother, Richard Peterson; and sister-in-law, Denise.

He will be sadly missed by many friends.

The Hogkill Blues

Charlie Paar's from Austin, Minnesota, 20 miles up the road from Albert Lea. Both towns were historically meatpacking towns. Albert Lea's Wilson Packing is long gone, Austin still has Hormel. Both plants had bad strikes, and both towns had the National Guard. This is for Cheri Register and all the others who's fathers worked the kill.

Charlie Paar: One man, one Guitar, one foot in the grave. If you are around any of these places check him out.

The Book Exchange and Joe

When Lorna's relatives stop over, besides coffee, cookies and family gossip, there is often a book exchange. The photo above is the results. Because I don't generally read novels, I don't participate. Nevertheless, I really enjoy being part of a family of avid readers. So yesterday while the women exchanged books, Fritz and I adjourned to the Growlery, to talk smart and drink toasts to the late Joe Koevnig, a man that neither of us ever met. Fritz and I both only knew Joe through his widow, Maude, who lived next door until her passing. By reputation among the old Oakwooders who knew him, Joe was a little rough, but a likable and gregarious man who smoked and drank too much, and was most famous for his extremely foul language. He was also the owner of a couple of my fly rods, my willow creel and that fine hat that hangs on the peg in the Growlery corner. Everything I've ever heard about Joe has been good. So ... "Here's to Joe".