Tuesday, February 26, 2019
TO FLEET OR NOT TO FLEET or Season of the Witch Redux
The jury is still out among vintage rock lovers concerning Greta Van Fleet. Respected by some as carrying the torch for early 70's blues-based hard rock bands, one in particular. Reviled by others as a blatant rip-off guilty of cultural misappropriation, "who do these punk kids think they are messing with the Zoso formula?"
So how exactly does Mr. Dad Rock himself (or Mrs. Mom Rock herself, likewise) come to terms with this phenomenon of Greta Van Fleet? Well, first, if you have teenagers and they love Greta Van Fleet take a moment, find an empty closet, step inside and close the door behind you. Drop down to your knees, close your eyes and thank the good Lord in heaven they've inherited their musical taste from you and not the internet.
On the other hand, let's say you're one of those people who snarl their nose at the Kiszka brothers and their outlier drummer. What exactly is it about this quartet that refuses to allow you to accept it all at face value? Yeah, it's kind of awkward the way vocalist Josh Kiszka just sort of stands like a statue while belting out a castrato that indeed bears a passing resemblance to the high pitched horn-dog moaning of Robert Plant. Just enough, I suppose, to have pushed him over the line with critics who say he's consciously mimicking the style. Maybe he is, I don't know. I don't mind so much. It is an interesting, almost pleasant sound. Kid knows how to use it.
Yes, this is not news to anyone, they sound a lot like Led Zeppelin minus the added bonus of Plant's sexuality and lyrical brilliance, Page's virtuosity and air of mystery, Jones' flexibility and "the thunder of John Bonham's drums" (thanks, Mr. Kozelek). That's a pretty tall order to fill, though, and luckily I don't think it's what Greta Van Fleet are all about.
There is, however, one thing Greta Van Fleet have in common with Led Zeppelin which this gif snatched from an SNL performance proves beyond the shadow of a doubt, Greta Van Fleet have been influenced by Jimmy Page's interest in the occult, black magic and all things dark 'n' spooky. Pay close attention to the gif provided and behold that GVF singer Josh Kiszka has taken Page's curiosity into a full-blown obsession with necromancy, surpassing even Page in the ability to actually pull the shit off.
Of course there were no such things as gifs in the early 70s so there's no way to know if Jimmy Page was capable of similar mind and time bending feats that Kiszka has very obviously mastered. Once again, take a good long gander at all you see taking place in this gif. If it helps feel free to open it in another window on your PC so you can glance at it periodically to get a feel for what I'm about to explain to you. Those Zoso boys may have gone down in history for their Stairway to Heaven, the perceptive will note Greta Van Fleet's equally impressive dalliance with the deeds of demons and da debbil.
In the video we see Greta Van Fleet standing in the center of what appears to be a soundstage. His hair is a bit too long considering the natural curl. On a side note, my own hair was naturally curly, though nothing as impossibly unmanageable as young Josh's. I can tell you he most likely hates his hair. Perhaps this is why he attempts to distract the viewer from his pate to the ribbon-hanging travesty that is his shirt. I'm surprised this shirt has not become an internet meme yet. Anyway, he's saying something, albeit not into his microphone. This is because his words are not meant for the audience but to an invisible spirit dancing on front stage left. Some people believe he is shouting "Shout!" and this is a very good possibility. I am not willing to dial up the video on Hulu to verify so I'll concede that he may as well have been shouting "Shout!" but oh my god the redundancy. What I have learned from trusted sources and a couple who may not be quite as trusted as the others but generally give good information when plied with liquor and drugs is that Occultists, long since having grown bored with placing backwards masked subliminalisms into rock songs, have turned to the making of gifs for the purpose of manipulating language via pixel scrambling and other features that will not be available on consumer models for at least another 40 years. Which all boils down to how they've warped reality as we know it with this gif:
What Josh is spitting is actually "SIT DOWN!", accentuated by the sharp movement of his arm, a universally accepted semaphore signal for "sit-the-fuck-down". Those who have bought into the Greta Van Fleet occult obsession theory tell me that these words are directed to a small yet firey demon that was dancing in the corner of upper stage left. The demon, if sources can be believed, had materialized out of thin air and it's herky jerky dancing movements were distracting to the young Kiszka brother. Not only were he and his band debuting on Saturday Night Live, Josh was under a lot of pressure. This small but annoying dancing demon was threatening not only to ruin all of that but even more importantly the distraction was stealing too much thunder from the warping of time and space which was going on behind him.
Here is the key. Or the philosopher's stone if you prefer. Josh Kiszka stands in the center not only of a soundstage, but at the portal between two worlds. Notice the cymbal is magically crashed every time Kiszka's hand bats down his invisible gremlin. Without fail. Every time. Doomed in a gif to define eternity, or so he would have you believe. With the sound of the Zildjian crash a rollicking bass player, doing his best Chuck Berry duck walk, motivates himself right out of one world and into another. Another world that exists forever and yet the very same world that ceased to exist only a second ago.
It's only magic, you say. In response to which another of you rises with vitriol in his eyes and says, "It's only technology". And you are both right.
But Greta Van Fleet. I think even the haters, were they forced to listen to GVF's album Anthem of the Peaceful with blindfolds on their eyes, ignorant of who it is they're listening to...well, they're probably going to figure out it's Greta Van Fleet. There is a strong Led Zeppelin vibe throughout but I almost hear more Geddy Lee in Josh Kiszka's voice than Robert Plant's, albeit not quite so shrill and ear-damaging. There are a few blatant Zeppelin rip-offs, so obvious I could cite the references if I weren't so lazy. Listen and you won't need me to. There's no way you won't notice them.
On the other hand, it's true, Greta Van Fleet can get away with that because their audience is not the typical vintage rock lover who has heard every Zeppelin album so many times he can recite track listings, in order, with numerous other trivial tidbits. They are a group of young guys, I'm guessing just out of high school. They were doing this in high school so they come by it honestly. They adore Led Zeppelin and are infinitely more respectful of their legacy than the bulk of Zeppelin tribute bands playing tired covers on the circuit.
Plus, they're amazing necromancers. At least Josh is.
Saturday, February 9, 2019
Man Outside of Time - Chapter One
Mom's Minit Mart...with a name like that you just know it has to be a convenience store. Of course you'd be right, but not just any convenience store. Mom's was first convenience store that opened in my small hometown. Before the advent of Mom's you could count on everybody being closed on Sundays and every other inconvenience that gave purpose to the concept of a store that would serve to fill in the gaps, adequately to the point where calling it "convenience" would reap financial benefits.
Mom's, or simply The Minit Mart, as some preferred to call it, was located directly across the street from the High School. For a long time the students were allowed to walk to Mom's for a microwave burrito and coke in lieu of the tasteless cafeteria food they would otherwise be expected to eat. There was a safety issue, in that one had to cross what could sometimes be a busy road in getting to the store; since it was a round trip they were required to cross that road twice. Luckily no one had ever been hit by a car.
There were a lot of people who chose to get their lunch at the Minit Mart. So many that the manager of the store decided to put up a sign that read:
5 STUDENTS AT A TIME LIMIT, PLEASE
THANK YOU
A good idea when I think of it now. But at the time it seemed the greatest inconvenience, especially in colder weather, to have to wait outside until the next guy came out. He was limiting the number of students so that he'd have a measure of control and be able to keep his eye on as many as he could. He wasn't about to have some punk freshman find a sweet spot out of his view where he could stuff some merchandise down his baggy trousers.
Everyone's prep routine was basically the same. Pick a burrito out of the wall refrigerator, slam it into the microwave...and these were days before every home in America owned a microwave oven, these were the days when you could find them in stores like Mom's just before they began to be released to the public. They packed a lot more wattage than the typical home microwave model when they eventually flooded the market. I only bring that up to place into perspective just how searingly hot those microwaved burritos from Mom's Minit Mart were. The only kind of burrito they stocked was called a "red hot burrito" and it was legendary for it's slowburn. The heat of the food combined with the spices and peppers come together to exact mighty revenge upon your tongue and the inside of your cheeks and palate. No problem, simmer it down with a 150 ounce Dr. Pepper that's weighing down your right hand while your left burns with the unholy sensation caused by red hot chili peppers and the like.
Jerry didn't have a whole lot of friends. He lived in a very enviable position. He went to High School in that small town and was one of the noon throng who chose to get their grub at Mom's Minit Mart. As a bonus, his home was only a couple hundred yards south of Mom's. This meant that he would always have an excuse to stop at Mom's Minit Mart to...well, face it, he was loitering. But he liked to talk to the old lady behind the counter and grumpy old granny she was she nevertheless acted like she liked him a little bit. Jerry and Lola, for that was her name, enjoyed each other's company. He rarely bought anything during these stops.
Jerry would sit on a concrete block situated directly to the right of the entrance door. Coming home from school meant that it was natural for him to be carrying along a notebook and a school text or two. Lola surely presumed that's what they were for, he was a student, after all.
Next to Jerry and his concrete slab of a throne was the magazine rack. Jerry was extraordinarily fond of magazines. Most any kind. He'd read almost anything if it's in a magazine. So when Jerry was at Mom's he always enjoyed looking through all the new issues of practically every magazine on that rack as well as the new comic books that were on a separate wire rack.
If you knelt down in front of the magazine rack and looked underneath the upper level shelf you'll find a "hidden shelf" stocked from one end to the other with glossy magazines designed to titilate and facilitate the pubescent male. Jerry was the dictionary definition of the pubescent male, though he may not have thought of himself in this manner. Perhaps he did, it would not shed a negative light on his prior testimony. These periodicals performed their essential tasks through the use of excessive and completely gratuitius nudity, airbrushed and designed to reprogram the pubescent and adolescent brain to desire a very limited number of body types...like, maybe 2 if you're lucky...I've lost the thread of me issue.
Jerry didn't know one way or the other if Lola cared that he was bending down on one knee taking in an eyeful of the glorious magazine covers that teased him. "You have no right," he would think. "I can't stand this. I've been uber klepto before, I ain't lookin' to exceed any of those past glories, just to git wot I won't and want what I got to git."
He took in the rags' names, so many that had become familiar over the past couple of months. Playboy, of course, was a mainstay. Had to have that one, for the articles, you know? No kidding. I learnt how to read real real good from Hefner's stapled book. I read Joyce Carol Oates. I read John Updike. I think I read Kurt Vonnegut. Playboy Advisor, man, did I learn how to be an expert in all things sexual! Heady interviews, man, you can't deny that. Seriously, man, the Interview is worth the cost of the entire magazine, bro! This is the truth! Everything else is just the sweet, sweet bonus! Do with it as you will. You may want to keep it hidden between your mattresses or under a chest of drawers. Somewhere your parents can't find them. I made the mistake of being a bit too open with my penchant for "Adult magazines". I shoulda known they would disappear during the week I was at church camp. Mother...Father...how could you have betrayed me like this?
Mother...
Father...
How could you betray me like this? You hated each other before I was born. No love lost for the firstborn spawn. I grew up in a house and a yard with a tree in the front and a tree in the back. One year tornado came through and left that house as good as new but those trees, oh my Jesus, those trees had been uprooted, both of them, and laid down on their sides as pretty as you please.
Jerry...can you hear me? I'm starting to have doubts.
I understand. Keep pushin' on.
I got to tell you one more thing about that house. It's really about the tornado too. And this is the God's honest truth, if I'm lying I'm flying, I don't take this kind of thing lightly so I'd appreciate it if you'd do exactly as I do in those respet. But listen and behold, for gospel truth is about to be told...
My dad's bedroom faced the east. I'm not sure if there's any significance in that but there very well may be and if anyone who reads this knows anything about it I wish they'd contact me soon as they can...a day or two after the tornado and we were surveying the damage. It looked as if it was going to be mainly the trees. We'd been lucky. That season several twisters pestered Lincoln County, we spent an unnatural amount of time underneath the ground.
I saw something shining on the ground in the brush outside my dad's bedroom window. I bent down to pick it up. The most uncanny thing...a practically perfect circle of glass! It could only have come from one place...but no! How? How could it be that there was a circle the exact same size cut out of the window pane?!?! It fit beautifully.
To this day I can't suss out in my mind how that circle came to be cut from the glass pane. I've heard of many strange stories about the things left behind in the wake of Oklahoma tornadoes but this one, to my mind at least. is right up there with the most baffling of 'em.
Mom's, or simply The Minit Mart, as some preferred to call it, was located directly across the street from the High School. For a long time the students were allowed to walk to Mom's for a microwave burrito and coke in lieu of the tasteless cafeteria food they would otherwise be expected to eat. There was a safety issue, in that one had to cross what could sometimes be a busy road in getting to the store; since it was a round trip they were required to cross that road twice. Luckily no one had ever been hit by a car.
There were a lot of people who chose to get their lunch at the Minit Mart. So many that the manager of the store decided to put up a sign that read:
5 STUDENTS AT A TIME LIMIT, PLEASE
THANK YOU
A good idea when I think of it now. But at the time it seemed the greatest inconvenience, especially in colder weather, to have to wait outside until the next guy came out. He was limiting the number of students so that he'd have a measure of control and be able to keep his eye on as many as he could. He wasn't about to have some punk freshman find a sweet spot out of his view where he could stuff some merchandise down his baggy trousers.
Everyone's prep routine was basically the same. Pick a burrito out of the wall refrigerator, slam it into the microwave...and these were days before every home in America owned a microwave oven, these were the days when you could find them in stores like Mom's just before they began to be released to the public. They packed a lot more wattage than the typical home microwave model when they eventually flooded the market. I only bring that up to place into perspective just how searingly hot those microwaved burritos from Mom's Minit Mart were. The only kind of burrito they stocked was called a "red hot burrito" and it was legendary for it's slowburn. The heat of the food combined with the spices and peppers come together to exact mighty revenge upon your tongue and the inside of your cheeks and palate. No problem, simmer it down with a 150 ounce Dr. Pepper that's weighing down your right hand while your left burns with the unholy sensation caused by red hot chili peppers and the like.
Jerry didn't have a whole lot of friends. He lived in a very enviable position. He went to High School in that small town and was one of the noon throng who chose to get their grub at Mom's Minit Mart. As a bonus, his home was only a couple hundred yards south of Mom's. This meant that he would always have an excuse to stop at Mom's Minit Mart to...well, face it, he was loitering. But he liked to talk to the old lady behind the counter and grumpy old granny she was she nevertheless acted like she liked him a little bit. Jerry and Lola, for that was her name, enjoyed each other's company. He rarely bought anything during these stops.
Jerry would sit on a concrete block situated directly to the right of the entrance door. Coming home from school meant that it was natural for him to be carrying along a notebook and a school text or two. Lola surely presumed that's what they were for, he was a student, after all.
Next to Jerry and his concrete slab of a throne was the magazine rack. Jerry was extraordinarily fond of magazines. Most any kind. He'd read almost anything if it's in a magazine. So when Jerry was at Mom's he always enjoyed looking through all the new issues of practically every magazine on that rack as well as the new comic books that were on a separate wire rack.
If you knelt down in front of the magazine rack and looked underneath the upper level shelf you'll find a "hidden shelf" stocked from one end to the other with glossy magazines designed to titilate and facilitate the pubescent male. Jerry was the dictionary definition of the pubescent male, though he may not have thought of himself in this manner. Perhaps he did, it would not shed a negative light on his prior testimony. These periodicals performed their essential tasks through the use of excessive and completely gratuitius nudity, airbrushed and designed to reprogram the pubescent and adolescent brain to desire a very limited number of body types...like, maybe 2 if you're lucky...I've lost the thread of me issue.
Jerry didn't know one way or the other if Lola cared that he was bending down on one knee taking in an eyeful of the glorious magazine covers that teased him. "You have no right," he would think. "I can't stand this. I've been uber klepto before, I ain't lookin' to exceed any of those past glories, just to git wot I won't and want what I got to git."
He took in the rags' names, so many that had become familiar over the past couple of months. Playboy, of course, was a mainstay. Had to have that one, for the articles, you know? No kidding. I learnt how to read real real good from Hefner's stapled book. I read Joyce Carol Oates. I read John Updike. I think I read Kurt Vonnegut. Playboy Advisor, man, did I learn how to be an expert in all things sexual! Heady interviews, man, you can't deny that. Seriously, man, the Interview is worth the cost of the entire magazine, bro! This is the truth! Everything else is just the sweet, sweet bonus! Do with it as you will. You may want to keep it hidden between your mattresses or under a chest of drawers. Somewhere your parents can't find them. I made the mistake of being a bit too open with my penchant for "Adult magazines". I shoulda known they would disappear during the week I was at church camp. Mother...Father...how could you have betrayed me like this?
Mother...
Father...
How could you betray me like this? You hated each other before I was born. No love lost for the firstborn spawn. I grew up in a house and a yard with a tree in the front and a tree in the back. One year tornado came through and left that house as good as new but those trees, oh my Jesus, those trees had been uprooted, both of them, and laid down on their sides as pretty as you please.
Jerry...can you hear me? I'm starting to have doubts.
I understand. Keep pushin' on.
I got to tell you one more thing about that house. It's really about the tornado too. And this is the God's honest truth, if I'm lying I'm flying, I don't take this kind of thing lightly so I'd appreciate it if you'd do exactly as I do in those respet. But listen and behold, for gospel truth is about to be told...
My dad's bedroom faced the east. I'm not sure if there's any significance in that but there very well may be and if anyone who reads this knows anything about it I wish they'd contact me soon as they can...a day or two after the tornado and we were surveying the damage. It looked as if it was going to be mainly the trees. We'd been lucky. That season several twisters pestered Lincoln County, we spent an unnatural amount of time underneath the ground.
I saw something shining on the ground in the brush outside my dad's bedroom window. I bent down to pick it up. The most uncanny thing...a practically perfect circle of glass! It could only have come from one place...but no! How? How could it be that there was a circle the exact same size cut out of the window pane?!?! It fit beautifully.
To this day I can't suss out in my mind how that circle came to be cut from the glass pane. I've heard of many strange stories about the things left behind in the wake of Oklahoma tornadoes but this one, to my mind at least. is right up there with the most baffling of 'em.
Friday, February 8, 2019
Springsteen on Broadway
Alas, a few days ago I noticed, as if by divine providence, that our Netflix account was still active. Normally I wouldn't have cared but this turn of events proved to be an opportunity to see Springsteen on Broadway a couple of times. I knew when the show began it's run that I'd never be able to make the trip to New York or pony up the inflated prices at the box office at Walter Kerr Theatre where the intimate performance was slated to occur. As a defense mechanism against being too disappointed I made up my mind that I didn't want to see it anyway. I conjured a handful of excuses why I couldn't be bothered with caring about this particular event. Now, at the time I had no assurance that the production would be successful...for all I knew it could have flopped and vanished into the sinkhole of failed broadway one-man acts, it wasn't too hard not to care.
But it was a success. It was more successful than anyone imagined it could be and after several extended runs Springsteen on Broadway found itself becoming a fixture, selling out the venue every single time for over a year. The accolades poured in. This was a singular production and Bruce was, at the ripe age of 69, at the top of his game...
...but I didn't care. I couldn't afford to care. Why should I care? I'd never see it just like I'll probably never get to see a concert at Red Rocks or probably even walk along the beach of the Pacific or Atlantic. So big deal, right? To me, at least, no?Well, no, I suppose I did care after all. Evidenced by how excited I was when I pressed 'Play' on the Netflix app which will be uninstalled this time tomorrow. It was like fate. I was meant to see this Broadway show even if I'm 100% certain that Springsteen on Broadway is the ONLY broadway production I could ever give a rat's ass for. Expectations were inflated but not unrealistically. I know what Bruce Springsteen is capable of and if the show has been sold out with rave reviews for as long as it has that means it's a must-see. Now, thanks to Netflix and good timing I am given that early Christmas gift.
Imagine my surprise being disappointed by the first song. The theme of the show
is summed up in the song title "Growin' Up" so that would logically be the perfect opening number. The stories and commentaries were, as they remain throughout the production, a fascinating window into Springsteen's life and worldview. "Growin' Up" is one of his oldest songs so there's another reason why it makes sense as an introductory piece. But it's a pale, weak song compared to every single one to come, the product of an ambitious young man looking to impress a record label and a burgeoning fanbase. It's wordy...too wordy. Not only that, much of it is sung in a monotone that grates. Springsteen is a consummate folk singer with a rich, expressive baritone but "Growin' Up" from Springsteen on Broadway was hard for me to listen to. I don't blame it on his vocal ability...he's done it much better...but you can kind of tell he's weary of singing it five nights a week.
I gave "Growin' Up" this much attention because I want to let everyone who might hear it the way I do to know that it's the anomaly. Everything after that song is top shelf quality. Don't let it keep you from trudging on through what's left of the show's sprawling two hour running time. Still, it won't be the music that rivets you to the screen, good and essential as it is. What makes Springsteen on Broadway special are the monologues that bookend each song. Some of the material is lifted directly from the man's autobiography, Born to Run, and they contribute to the segments which focus on his upbringing, parents, and early history. The stories are fascinating, his delivery perfect...no, he's not an actor, these aren't lines in a script. I imagine at least 95% of the people in Walter Kerr are diehard Bruce Springsteen fans . Make no mistake, this is not "An Introduction to Bruce Springsteen". This is going out to all the guys with graying hair defending The Boss against charges of being "Dad Rock" (and if it is then all the better, Dad's deserve something this good). This is going out to everyone who subscribes to Sirius XM for the sole purpose of listening to E Street Radio AND NOTHING ELSE. This is going out to all the redditors on the Springsteen subreddit who have read all the biographies, seen him in concert multiple times and basically know everything there is to be known about Bruce Springsteen without actually knowing him. This is going out to the Springsteen freaks in California who made the road trip to New York City to witness Springsteen on Broadway in person. These are the hardcore fans who understand and have been on the journey...
Yet, just because one may not be "in the club" yet, Springsteen on Broadway reveals it's star to be personable and charismatic enough to fall head and heels in love with, despite whatever age difference there may be. New fans will likely be drawn into the fold via this Netflix release but it's the longtimers who are going to be most impacted with the deluge of personal observations that make up the rest of the program. Make no mistake, Bruce Springsteen is an intelligent, seasoned storyteller. His between songs stories during his concerts are part of his appeal but usually he limits those moments to stories about the glory days of Asbury Park. There are occasions, however, when he will make a political statement or offer some kind of message designed to motivate his audience to charitable deeds (he was plugging the Tulsa Food Bank when I saw him there). In Springsteen on Broadway he takes similar liberties, especially towards the end of the concert, to express the opinions that have made him the enemy of shortsighted right wingers who hate the man for those opinions and condemn his music as the work of a Lefty sympathizer...without hearing it, of course. Bruce tastefully condenses the current chaotic political climate and even pokes a jab (at Trump and his base) by highlighting a line in "Dancing in the Dark", "You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart"). I thought that was brilliant, finding that relevant line in the middle of the most non-political song ever written. The word "Trump" is never spoken (much to the relief and delight of the audience).
There were, as is standard in things like these, a few highlights that stood out. For me there were a couple. "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out" turned into a loving tribute to the Big Man, Clarence Clemons, who played saxophone in the E Street Band and passed away in 2011. Clarence was truly Bruce's right hand man and closer than any brother. The song itself is anything but elegiac but somehow he transformed it into a joyous tearjerker.
I mentioned the Bruce Springsteen subreddit on Reddit...I hope I didn't give the impression that the people there are the most perceptive or that they can necessarily spot talent when it's name isn't Bruce Springsteen...no, there are some who are so jealous and possessive that they actually hate Bruce's wife Patti Sciafla. She plays two songs with Bruce (nothing unexpected there), "Brilliant Disguise" and "Tougher Than The Rest". She only sang harmony vocals and not every one of those. But those Redditors, holy cow! "Her voice doesn't go well with Bruce's"... that's crap. They sound nothing alike, that's true (can you imagine hearing Patti Sciafla with Bruce Springsteen's voice? But I suppose that would have pleased these redditors). But together they really sound wonderful. Not just the voices but their phrasing is remarkably in sync, that's what impresses me most. Don't misunderstand, I don't like Patti Sciafla's singing voice, at all. Every single time I've heard her sing a track by herself I have not liked it. Her vibrato seems too affected and she's got that nasal twang that I only tolerate in my own singing voice. But here, on a soundstage in a Broadway theater harmonizing with her husband she sounds very good.
"Long Time Comin'" was probably the highlight for me musically. It fit so well with his monologue and he sang it with such passion...
The most powerful moment, in my heart at least, was (I think), during the last segment (before the encore) when Springsteen, sweating from 2 1/2 hours baring his soul with a guitar and piano, face caught in a tight close-up, eyes closed and the man, in the pindrop silence of the Walter Kerr Theatre in New York City, recited the Lord's Prayer after delivering his own thoughts on life in these United States under the helm of the inexperienced, fear-mongering, divisive...
My dearly beloved remarked that Bruce is "starting to show his age". She's not quite the Springsteen fan that I am and hasnt seen pictures or video footage of him lately. It's true, at 69 Bruce Springsteen is no spring chicken. But he has not lost his rugged handsome appearance and still looks like he's in shape to the point where he would have little difficulty kicking this big boy's ass. I've thought, as he's aged, that Springsteen favors, albeit slightly, Robert DeNiro. Ya can't see Robert DeNiro as "old" and you sure can't see Bruce Springsteen that way either. A Broadway thing like this, as intensely personal a career retrospective you will not see again soon, can be seen as a potential "goodbye". But the Boss is not ready to pack the guitars away just yet, rumor has it that he's already planning another tour with the E Street Band.
Neil Young sang "It's better to burn out than it is to rust".
Maybe.
Alternate title for Springsteen on Broadway: Rust-Proof.
Dad Rock at it's absolute best.
Oklahoma MMJ Perspectives 2/7/19
To my knowledge Oklahoma Roots, just west of the Blackhawk Casino, was the first MMJ dispensary to open it's doors in the Shawnee area. I'm almost certain they were among the first to actually have cannabis stock in-store to sell. I can also remember first seeing the sign on the Wolfe's Vapor Shop building, above a back door which led to an area set aside as a dispensary. The sign read "OK Roots, Medicinal Marijuana Dispensary", with a pretty green neon outline and an artistic representation from a map of our now great state, with a much-smaller-than-scale rendering of the great cannabis bud growing out of the center, the tip of it's stem likely stabbing the map drawing of a position somewhere between Paden and Prague on State Highway 62, a dividing line of sorts, a point of no return if you will, a line of demarcation, surely, as many forces east of where that stem rises are turned against the legal right to buy and use medical cannabis.But where was I? Oklahoma Roots. OK Roots. Plantin' roots, ain't we? Got the pioneering spirit, but who can blame us? We never fell for the prohibitionist crap. New frontiers, in so many ways...the final frontier? No such thing. This plant is like a gift from God, there are so many potential beneficent uses to be exploited from it. The fact that human beings have always had endocannabinoid systems that respond to cannabinoids (and more specifically, now, to THC & CBD) is telling. It will not be many generations down the road when the negative connotations about marijuana which still remain from prohibition days will be gone and forgotten, with good riddance, and by then we should really be beginning to see what bounty is still left in THC as medicine and as more than medicine.
But wait...Oklahoma Roots/OK Roots...such evocative appellations often make me get carried away, if I apologized every time it happened that's the bulk of what you'd be reading...but I only bring them up because I have patronized both of them. I do prefer one over the other when it comes to the quality of their bud but that's not for me to divulge here. For that matter it probably wasn't kosher for me to divulge the fact that I have a preference, I'd like to think there was a reason but if there was my short term memory has eaten it. I was going to say...the people who work in both of these Shawnee dispensaries are something that is hopefully being noticed as a trend among all of our Oklahoma MMJ dispensaries, the super friendly yet authentically friendly and most definitely genuinely friendly budtender. These people are the face of MMJ to the broader public and I hope the people on the outside are taking notice. This is the kind of person who uses marijuana (medicinally AND recreation-ally), these people are laying waste stereotypes that were disseminated by anti-cannabis extremists, lies such as "stoners are all stupid and lazy" and other such bs. I've rarely seen workers so motivated as the dudes at OK Roots. Same at Oklahoma Roots, where I've always felt very welcome, where they've worked with me when the occasion warranted it, you want to talk about motivation, just take a look at what they've done with their storefront. Inside out, everything about it is awesome.
All this space dust floats through my mind this afternoon as I contemplate the news that Oklahoma Roots is now in litigation with OK Roots in a dispute over the name. It's one of a few black eyes the OKMMJ community has ridden or is riding out in the last couple of weeks. But this one leaves me conflicted. OK Roots earned my patronage and they'll continue to be my go-to dispensary. But I really like Chance and his crew, the shopping experience at Oklahoma Roots is without equal. I will say that the first time I saw OK Roots sign, you remember the one with the green neon outlined OK state? The first time I saw it literally the first thought that came to mind was, "Aw, man, somebody is going to get sued!" My prophecy having come true I admit I have no idea who came up with what or when or how many trademarks and copyrights had been dutifully bought and paid for, for all we know the dude at OK Roots might have foreseen the situation with all the clarity in which I saw my vision. He could have registered that name a year ago and said, "Now just wait until somebody comes along and names their store Oklahoma Roots! They'll try to sue my ass and I'll bring 'em down with all the bad publicity!" Okay, so maybe that's not as realistic as it seems when written under the sway of Green Crack from Herb in Country, on the outskirts of the main city of Seminole... This is not an advertisement or a paid promotion. I wasn't even finished talking about the OK/Oklahoma Roots squabble.
Let's just say I hope it gets settled out of court with no hard feelings on either side. I can see a little bit of both side's logic on this one, I will say that it's about a 3 mile drive from Oklahoma Roots on the highway to OK Roots on Beard & Farrall, I don't see either one stealing the other's business on the basis of distance, although it is easy to conceive of a situation in which one might steal the other's business because their weed is superior (and may it be understood and known that often this measurement of weed's superiority is very subjective, one man's blah is another man's Ground Control to Major Tom). Oklahoma Roots, surely it must be conceded, is a great name for a MMJ dispensary, especially one that actually broke ground on getting the ball up and running in Shawnee. OK Roots, on the other hand, is a mediocre name and would be so even if the name 'Oklahoma Roots' did not exist. People see "OK Roots" they think, oh, they're just "okay". Nothing special, just okay...and man, oh man, would they be WRONG. It's not worth fighting for, and that's the stone truth. You guys (now addressing the imaginary OK Roots guys in my head), you guys are very creative people, you know you are and so does everyone who comes through your doors. You might even step up your game by brainstorming together a wild, funky, unforgettable name. Then maybe we can step up your game another notch or two by addressing your storefront's parking situation.
Yeah, I know. Complaints, complaints, complaints.
But listen to this...you saw I brought up Herb in Country, a relatively new dispensary in Seminole...y'see, I didn't mean to bring them up then, I wanted to wait and surprise you until now but you know me, I get on a roll and like butter I'm slippery. Or something almost as retarded.
Talk about retarded. The owner of Herb in Country is getting some unreasonable complaints. She has booked the American Legion building where the store (and it's annexes) will be hosting a patient/doctor recommendation drive. Apparently some guy became distressed that she was not offering veteran's discounts...not knowing, of course, that she herself is a veteran.
This is just my own opinion...it's very likely many will disagree...and I just want to know at want point do people EXPECT a discount FOR ANYTHING? It's a courtesy that is extended by SOME (not all) business owners as a promotion and service to a sector of their patronage. For every store that offers a discount there's likely another that doesn't and the requirements of each discount fluctuate as well. Senior discounts have been around since I can remember but these veterans discounts are fairly new. I can easily remember a time before they were the norm. The price the Herb in Country owner is asking actually IS the veterans discount where I had mine done, she's just passing it on to everyone, why would anyone have a problem with that?
I'll see you next time on
OKLAHOMA MMJ PERSPECTIVES
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