The Holiday Cheer Touchstyle Club

Weed, California November 2008: Hot on the heels of the Mobius Magnificent Layaway Plan ... comes the "Holiday Cheer" Touchstyle Club, with perhaps hundreds of dollars of savings for deserving little girls and- Oops, I meant to say dollars of savings for deserving musicians around the globe.

Yes, the Touchstyle Club, strange visitor from another planet, who came to Earth with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal man; and who, disguised as Kent Clark, mild-mannikin at the Daily Bungle, a grape necropolitan snoozepaper ...

As you can see, things are going downhill fast here at the on-site news center. That's because I stayed up late last night, and then woke up early with yet another set of bonus stuff for anybody wanting to save perhaps Hundreds of Dollars -- oh, did I say that already -- well, perhaps I did.

If you'll take a quick peek, you can see why I've become over-excited. Be sure to *read every word*, from top to bottom, and then let me know what you think, you good little boys and- I mean, you good musicians, you.

Here it is --

The Holiday Cheer Touchstyle Club.

To Maintain A Healthy Level Of Insanity

Ginette Degner's blog, November 2008: The Bloggard has completely stolen this list from Search Engine Diva, even the title, because it made me fall about. Maybe you'd like it, too.

1. At Lunch Time, Sit In Your Parked Car With Sunglasses on and point a Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.

2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom. Don’t Disguise Your Voice!

3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, ask If They Want Fries with that.

4. At the Office, put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks . Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.

5. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write ‘ For Marijuana.

6. Skip down the hall Rather Than Walk and see how many looks you get.

7. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.

8. Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is ‘To Go’.

9. Sing Along At The Opera.

10. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can’t Attend Their Party Because You have a headache.

11. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream ‘I Won! I Won!’

12. When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling ‘Run For Your Lives! They’re Loose!’

13. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, ‘Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go.’

14. Pick up a Box of Condoms at the Pharmacy, Go to the Counter, and Ask Where the Fitting Room is.

This Newfangled Daylight-Savings Time

Dallas, Texas, Spring 1966: Living in Dunia Bean's apartment on Gillespie street, I worked at the Cabana Hotel. The Cabana is a clone of Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas, complete with oversized statues of Venus, David, and the rest of the crew. Inside, a vast two-story lobby with greenish marble floor and a round sunken area with sofas enough for a football team.

Overlooking this magnificance, our front desk where I worked with Dick and Earl, dignified alcoholics. Dick taught me how to get big tips at crowded times, and Earl as a young actor fought swords with Errol Flynn in the movie Captain Blood. That was a while back.

But this was in the spring, and for the first time since the war, Texas was going to have Daylight Savings Time. We were all abuzz.

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How to Write

Weed, California, October 2008: Outside, it's Autumn for sure. The air is crisp and chill, and I feel grateful to be in my room, where the morning sunlight falls in stripes through the venetian blinds upon the white-painted wall, and my desk lamp is a warm color here where I work.

I just entered a contest online with a copywriting guru, with a question about writing, and I jotted down for him what I know, and then asked the biggest question that I know.

So I thought: Lots of people don't write, but it's easy and fun. Maybe not everybody knows how. And actually, writing information or a story (or anything) is not actually that difficult, though many people think so.

So here, plain and simple, is how to write.

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Captured by the Black Bart Gang

Henrietta, Texas, 1956 or 1957: I'm not sure of the date. In the terror of the memory, some parts are vague, unreal. It was when I attended Junior High, which at that time was in the old, two-story brick high school building near the center of town.

Life was exciting and new. My friends and I were in the big school, with the big, grown-up kids in high school, and some of them had cars. My home life was shaken up, for my mother had married Dr. Strickland, and we'd gone to live in the flat of rooms above his office. This was on the other side of downtown, across from the hospital, and right on the main road, Highway 287, which ran through the center of town.

I had a friend named Bobby Mitchell, I had been to their house, and so I knew his older brother, Mike Mitchell.

Mike generally ignored me, or treated me with disdain. He was at that age when teen boys begin to think themselves wild and dangerouos, and that's what started the trouble.

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Peeping and Hiding

Wichita Falls, Texas, 1971: In my apartment I played my stratocaster. I was thin and trim in those days, and I'd picked up a girlfriend for a week or two, by the name of Mary.

I don't recall how I met her, but she had a teeny-tiny little apartment some dozen blocks away from where I lived, and so who knows? Maybe I met her on the street. But I'd met her somewhere, and always an eager experimenter at that time, I'd fetched her to my place for a while.

I didn't think she was a truly pretty girl, but she was eager and earnest, and ... well ... those are good qualities, with the right timing.

And Mary was a devotee of something called Sloe Gin. It's a weird kind of sweetish alcohol beverage, and she'd been drinking quite a bit of it that day there in my apartment, and she came to sit on the carpet about a foot away from where I stood, playing my statocaster.

I was rocking out. I must have thought I was pretty cool, and I was having a good time.

And ignoring Mary, for she commenced to writhe around my legs.

For just a minute there I thought I was probably Keith Richards.

But then other thoughts intruded, and we shall now pass over later events of the day. In silence.

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Michael Murphy - North Texas Troubador

1308 1/2 W. Hickory Street, Denton Texas, Spring, 1963: The movie 'Hatari' was unmemorable, but the Henry Mancini song called 'Baby Elephant Walk' had been on the radio for weeks and weeks and weeks.

That warm day, an abundance of visitors from the HobNob to my miniscule apartment somehow drove us all to clamber up onto the flat roof. We also had beer. That may have been part of it.

On the front edge of the flat roof, with our feet dangling two stories above Hickory Street, we lined up to tell stories and watch the students and passers-by across the street on the campus.

Michael Murphy had brought his guitar.

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How to Write a Sales Script

San Francisco, Many Years Ago: Back in those days, I ran an answering service and later a voicemail company from an office on beautiful, scenic Geary Boulevard.

Fueled by a talk I heard at a trade convention, I began to experiment with 'scripted' sales presentations on the telephone. The lady giving the talk had claimed that a scripted sales presentation got more sales than just 'winging' it.

But first you got to write down the script!

How to do that?

Well ...

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The Golden Words, Opium, and my dog Charlie

The big vacant lot, Weed, California, July 4, 2008: I was walking with my dogs, and I got to talking to my dog Charlie, who is young and impulsive. He's a great listener. I can say any kind of nonsense and he's still interested.

But I was talking to Charlie and I asked him if he liked poetry. He didn't answer, being a dog, and I asked him if he like Samuel Taylor Coleridge. He didn't answer that either.

But it got me to musing about that story. Do you remember how Coleridge was an opium smoker?

Well, he was.

And there he was, high as a kite, and in his mind's eye he saw this really swell poem, and he went to write it down. It's really quite wonderful. Has several paragraphs, and the first one goes like this ...

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea."

But at that moment, a guy to whom Coleridge owed money came banging on the door! Interrupted our Samuel, and that was the end of the swell poem.

Bummer.

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Margaret's Lime

Henrietta, Texas circa 1970: Darrel Blain went to school with my brother, David Strickland, and sometimes rode his bike out to the farm near Hurnville to visit. Like any kid growing up in Henrietta, his mother bought his clothes at John's Drygoods, and the Library Rummage Sale was a big deal.

But he was enterprising, and he got a job at the 'Lo Boy, cooking burgers and making cokes.

Then one day, there was this lime.

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Accumulation

Nocona Texas, 1969: Bob Standley is my brother-in-law, because he married my sister Mary. But some time before they got married, when he was in high school, he had a Chevy Malibu.

He had a little job, I think it was at the boot factory, and he had to be very careful with his money. Each week on Saturday, he took $2, and he'd fill up the gas tank -- it was a long time ago -- and there was money left over to go to the drive-inn movie, and to buy a nasty little cigar called a Swisher Sweet.

Every week he followed this $2 routine, and so as to conserve his money, he drove his car only when he had to, so that the gas would last through the week.

But then one Saturday, something strange happened.

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Grass Blade Whistle

Weed, California June 18, 2008: Walking the dogs in the huge vacant lot toward the end of day, I plucked a thick blade from an uprising of wild grasses, and made a loud whistle. This both excited and alarmed the dogs. So we had a little game all the way back to the house. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Loud whistle. Leap and gyrate. Damn, we had fun!

And this reminded me that, back in September of 2007, Darrel Blane, another Henrietta Texas boy, took the time to capture this wondrous technology on his weblog of photos, drawings, and musings, called Daily Art Mas O Menos (Daily Art more or less). He drew the illustrations with ink, graphite, and a Derwent wash pencil.

With his permission, I here reprint "How to Make a Grass Blade Whistle." Something every boy ought to know.

HOW TO MAKE A GRASS BLADE WHISTLE

Let's suppose you need to make a loud noise to frighten off a large wild animal (assuming you've encountered a large wild animal that can actually be frightened), or suppose you become lost or injured while hiking and need to signal your whereabouts, or let's suppose you are eight years old hanging out with your cousins in a small town in Texas with not much to do, trying to make as much noise as possible.

In that case you can make a really loud whistle from a grass blade. Strictly speaking it's not a whistle but a single reed instrument. A whistle has a fixed surface; a reed instrument has a moving surface vibrating against a fixed surface.

Whatever, it still is ear-splittingly loud.

Here's how to do it.

Find yourself a grass blade, or leaf, or something similar, longer than your thumb. Not a wimpy grass blade from a suburban lawn, but a native grass or weed that's tough, with about a finger's width to it.

Hold it between thumb and forefinger so the grass more or less drapes along the length of your thumb.



After holding it between thumb and forefinger with one hand, so the grass more or less drapes along the length of your thumb, catch the bottom end of the blade with your middle finger.

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Fearless? Or Fear Less?

Weed, California, June 18, 2008: The other day I woke up thinking about the word 'fearless.'

Have you ever known anybody who was actually fearless?

I haven't. Pretty much any human, any mammal, has fear. And that makes sense, because if a creature didn't have any fear at all, sooner or later that creature would come a cropper. Adios muchacho.

And critters coming a cropper leave no progeny.

We are, therefore, the progeny of the timorous humans. Or at least of the humans with a healthy dose of fear. Oh we could call it 'prudence,' or something that sounds better.

But it's fear.

However, the other thought is that, over the years, things change.

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Word for Today: Synchronicity

Wikipedia, 6/14/2008: Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events which occur in a meaningful manner, but which are causally un-related. In order to be 'synchronistic', the events must be related to one another temporally, and the chance that they would occur together by random chance must be very small.

The idea of synchronicity is that the conceptual relationship of minds, defined by the relationship between ideas, is intricately structured in its own logical way and gives rise to relationships which have nothing to do with causal relationships in which a cause precedes an effect.

Instead, causal relationships are understood as simultaneous — that is, the cause and effect occur at the same time. [You're thinking of calling Suzie. You reach for the phone, but it rings. It's Suzie.]

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Where does dirt ... go?

Weed, California, Sunday June 8, 2008: About a week ago, Glenn the Magnificent and two of his beer-guzzling crew (Big Bob and Jesse the Bulldog) came and ran the water line into the shop.

They dug around in the yard until they found the water line, and then while I wasn't looking they somehow tapped into it, then dug a narrow trench across the yard and past the old rock walkway, and then connected it up with a line they'd put into the foundation last year.

But that's not my point. The point is this ...

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