A Slice of My Soul

This is the eleventh in a series of irrelevant articles from Reggae on the River, 2016, brought to you by Blogs R Us. Today’s post, unabridged and graphic in nature, is an unfortunate example of the questionable taste the author seems to embrace.

A Slice of My Soul

Backstage is a privilege I do not take lightly. Because I have this perk, I am able to view all of the artists from backstage, that is, the platform that runs along the righthand side as you are facing the main stage. There are thousands of festival-goers who do not have this access, so I recognize that I have it good. 

For me ROTR is about the music. You may ask, “Is that not the case for everyone?” The answer would emphatically be no. I know that because there are volunteers here, in camp, who have no particular affinity for reggae music.

They are here for the party.

Others are here for social reasons, it being one of the most iconic venues you can attend in NorCal. One of the dudes cleaning the bank of ten port-a-potties, cleverly concealed behind the Ambassador Lounge (I, of course, know the location of every port-in-a-storm at French’s Camp.) commented that there were twelve thousand of us here on-site.

In studying the lineup in advance, I had determined that one artist I could not afford to miss, was Fatoumata Diawara, who came on early Saturday evening, playing in front of a half-filled bowl. Having enjoyed somewhere in the neighborhood of sixteen hours watching music overall, this artist blew the doors off.

“Born in Cote d’Ivoire, raised in Mali, and now based in Paris, Diawara’s life covers a whole gamut of contemporary African experiences: fighting parental opposition to her artistic ambitions and the cultural prejudice faced by women throughout Africa, earning success as an actress in African and French film and theater, touring the world as both a dancer and a singer, and finally dedicating herself to music.” *

This artist was electrifying; there is no other way to describe her. I had already checked out her bio, I was expecting a grand show but I was not expecting her to steal the whole thing away. 

New Kingston took me by surprise, Protoje met my expectations, but Fatuomata transported me to a venue far away, and when I returned, I left a little part of my soul behind. She is that talented. 

She is an actress, a dancer, a singer and an entertainer, but most of all, she is a powerful woman. The blockades she has had to run, to get to where she is today, are many and complex. In a world in which women defer to men, and parents have rigid control over their children, Fatoumata asserted herself and established her credentials.

Just when I thought she could not elevate her game any higher, she ripped off a guitar solo, that would rival The Edge. I was forty feet from her when she was center stage, but I was ten feet from her when she danced down to my vaunted location.

I had to labor in the trenches for a total of five days in order take up residence in the rafters, metaphorically speaking, and it was worth every minute. In fact I still have at least one more day of volunteer work to go, breaking down the two kitchens. I did it last year and I will do it again next year, so as to be able gain the perks.

After the show I watched as Fatoumata danced down the ramp and out onto the grass behind the main stage. I have access to this area, so I drifted down the ramp (illegally, it turned out later) and ended up a dozen feet away.

I was trying to get the lay of this stage land. A woman who had been standing next to me the better part of the show, was having her photo taken beside Fatoumata. When the pic was recorded, they embraced. I wondered if they were friends.

It took several of these brief encounters to make me realize that Fatoumata was simply interacting with her fans.  It did not seem possible to me that one could watch her perform and not be a fan, but what do I know?

Then I realized, I was a fan too. If I could work up my courage, I too could talk to her. What does one say to a vibrant entertainer like this? “Gosh, I just LOVE your music. You are so AWESOME!”

Bet she’s never heard that before. As a performer, her stage presence encompassed everyone. We, over on the side stage, got our share of her attention. I was right at the rail, with no one between us, and I was taking pics in the beginning, and bouncing on my toes to the music afterwards. 

She could conceivably have gone the whole show without seeing the old hippie in the yellow Humboldt tank top, with the goofy foo. Maybe. I guess. Who knows?

But when all the other fans had departed, and I had built up my courage to approach her, having determined that security would not tackle me in the process, I would like to think that there was a shadow of recognition in her smiling visage.

Stepping up to her, but not close enough to invade her personal space, I said, “You are a powerful woman. The World needs powerful women.”

She broke out into a radiant smile and framed that smile with the palms of her hands and it was the perfect response.

I had no qualms leaving that slice of my soul behind; I think it’s in good hands.

Tomorrow: Camp culture

* I quoted this from the thirty-two-page newspaper that the Mattel Center published for the event, August4-7.

Parking Po Po

This is the bar we built in two hours.

This is the tenth serving of leftovers, from Reggae on the River, 2016. Main courses are being offered even as we speak, with the task of relaying those dishes on to you, left up to me, your resourceful and fearless correspondent. Hence, the leftovers. 

Parking Po Po

Our responsibilities are simple: Do whatever Mel and Eric need to have done in their two kitchens, respectively, and get it squared away most rickety-tic. In a clear case of be-careful-what-you-wish-for, Casey got a walkie-talkie on Thursday, which though an unmistakable status symbol, comes with strings attached.

Revelers in the crowd

Did I say strings? More like cables, or better still, boat anchor chains.

“Go for Bull,” is all fine and dandy, because then it is Bull who has to respond. Duh. “Go for Casey” is an entirely different matter because then, well, we have to jump. Considering we are camped on the opposite side of The 101 from the festival venue, it takes a minute or two to traverse the vast plains to get back to the kitchens.

There are multiple legs to the journey and several available means of transportation, walking being the fan favorite, not so much because the crew loves to walk, but because it requires no thinking. Well, neither does hiring one of the many rickshaws that operate as taxis, these ecologically-friendly, pedaled vehicles, criss-crossing the venue incessantly.

At night the spokes of the wheels of these mini-wagons, become whirling dervishes, their spiraling motion directing the bright lights attached to them in a continuous arc of beauty. The lines of color blur and blend together to form a dizzying rainbow of allure.

Saturday morning, long about nine, Bull got the first call of the day from a salty Melody, asking him to come over because she was out of propane. Well, that’s what we get paid the big bucks for. I had gone to bed at a most reasonable time, certainly before eleven, so I had been up since about three-thirty, my quota of four hours of sleep having been surpassed.

I was ready for action-ready for danger, ready for Mel.

Eric's kitchen

Bull had still been up when I surfaced, but he called it macaroni around four, and crashed. Casey had surfaced when the radio call came in, and he now eased his way out of his tent, careful to keep his head rigidly positioned so as not to awake the idling chainsaw therein.

His trademark smile was roadkill, his face slightly pasty, and if you know Farmer Casey, you know that is a doubly rare combination. I think he ran into a couple of bad apples but I decided discretion was the better part of valor and said nada.

He communicated with the Bull through the wall of the tent, telling him we had been summoned, and then spent a minute or two gathering the basics into his basket, and threading his way out through our little tent village.

I reflected for a moment on a conversation that had taken place in the camp just the day before. The gist was that people sometimes tend to forget when they go into a tent, that the walls are not soundproof. I know, how does that work?

I had it in my mind to stop at the hippie gas station and get a cup of the ambrosia of the gods, but then remembered my discovery of the vendor across from Melody’s kitchen. Shockingly, lattes were available for more-than-reasonable price of five dollars.

In order to get to Mel’s kitchen, we had to cross The 101, always heavily staffed by both volunteers and the CHP. I made it a point to acknowledge po po every time I passed by, wishing them Happy Reggae, and pausing several times to make with the palaver.

On one trip we just missed the signal and had a three-minute wait for  the next one. There were five officers in one spot so I approached the closest of the group, a black woman who seemed receptive to my inquiries. I asked, “So, how is this assignment for you? Is it a drag or is it different enough to make it palatable?”

She gave me a a sheepish grin and said, “Well, we all volunteered for it, so whatever happens, we don’t have anyone to blame but ourselves.”

Feeling as though she were more approachable than others had been, I pressed my luck and asked, “How do the revelers respond to your presence? Do they give you a hard time?”

She pondered the question for a moment or two, as though trying to think of the best way in which to phrase her response. “Pretty good,” she said, with just a fraction more emphasis on "pretty,” than may have been necessary.

My interpretation? “The vast majority of you are great; there are just a few a-holes who spoil it by giving us lip service…”

Now Casey and I arrived at the Tosh Lot, piled into his truck, and continued our journey to Melody’s kitchen. Upon arriving we went directly to the water heater to check the propane tank. It was a little five gallon number and it was full.

Okaaaaay. 

We asked a clarifying question of one of the kitchen staff and she told us that Melody had been there at 6:30, and had thrown a fit because the propane canister was empty. By seven o’clock the situation had been rectified, long after Mel had left the building.

Unfortunately, no one bothered to give us a call to let us in on the secret.

Later, when Dan from the kitchen came storming into the campsite, looking for Bull, I slowed him down long enough to ask what was up.

“Mel’s all salty and she wants me to talk to Bull,” he said, suddenly somewhat mollified.

“Bull’s napping,” I said. “What’s Mel’s issue?”

“She’s all stressed out.”

No shit, Sherlock. 

“Yes, that’s what you said. What’s her issue?” I repeated, but kept it at a low volume, as if to impress upon him how important it is for Bull to get his beauty sleep. If someone was going to wake him, it sure as ack was not going to be me.

Critically important

By now Dan was actually back-pedaling. “She’s stressing out because she wants to make sure you guys are going to be around.”

“Dude, Casey and I jumped all over that “issue” this morning with the propane.” It was my turn to place special emphasis on a word, and I chose “issue.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Hey, you guys are awesome.”

I wanted to say, “We are? Then why are you pulling Bull’s chain? When you mess with the Bull, we get the Horn.”

“So do you want me to go wake him up?” I thought not but waited for him to wave dismissively and stride away before I knew for sure.

“No, dude,” he said over his shoulder and just to make sure I got it, he repeated, “You guys are awesome.”

Lounging around the campsite

And that is as much as we had to do all day on Saturday, which contrasted with Friday, when we had been kept on the run for half of the day. At one point, after successfully orchestrating the rearrangement of vehicles just outside the “reefer” truck, Bull assigned me to play policeman and make sure no one snagged the lone remaining parking slot. 

While he and Casey went back over to the other kitchen for an earth-shatteringly important mission, I guarded the parking spot, while doing my best imitation of a parking po po.

Yep, that’s me, fighter of evil-doers who ply their reprehensible skills within the boundaries of my ever-sharp vision. 

By the way, you haven’t seen my glasses around anywhere, have you? 

Tomorrow: The Bull Pen

"Let's Go with the Blond"

This is the ninth chapter in the sordid saga of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2016. Reeling under the influence of music, cannabis and the good vibe, I have staggered back to the home base, to spew my scattered thoughts out across the screen. Here are the unfortunate results.

"Let's Go with the Blond"

“Happy Reggae!” we hear everywhere.

“Happy Reggae, right back at you!” I inevitably respond.

The words ring out through the air incessantly here at ROTR, 2016, no matter where you go. Casey and I were standing towards the side and back of the bowl, taking in the music and contemplating the universe, on Thursday night, the first day of the four day festival, when the subject of parched throats came up.

“I’m thinking about getting a cider,” Casey said. “Want one?”

I had not had a drop of alcohol at ROTR, 2015, and that had worked out well for me, so I decided to stick with the program.

“No, I’m good. I’ll wait right here.” There was so much to see and hear.

One cider, please.

Less than a minute later he was back. “I don’t have my I.D. I left it back in the truck. I guess I’ll pass.”

“Hey, no hay problema,” I came back. “No problem, I can get you your drink.”

Hell, yes. For once I can do something for Casey, instead of the reverse. Poor guy. “Did you draw the short straw?” I wanted to ask him. “Your turn to babysit the old man?”

I high-tailed it over to the drink-ticket line, having been directed there by Himself, and took up residence. When I got to the front, the gal asked how many tickets I wanted.

Instead of buying just the one drink, I sprang for three, figuring that he wasn’t going to go solo.

The gal took my twenty dollar bill, and handed me back two dollars in change, so the drinks were six dollars each. She meticulously explained the process, newly implemented this year, designed to cut down on trash.

When a customer went to buy his or her first beverage, he had to pony up for both the drink, and the metal cup into which it was poured. So your first drink was going to set you back twelve dollars, even if that was all you were going to consume.

Twelve bucks? For one drink?

Unfair? Stupid? At first glance it might seem so, but the intent was to cut down on trash. By eliminating plastic cups, and replacing them with an ROTR souvenir metal cup, complete with illustration and the event written on the side, it was a great success.

How did we know it was a success? Because as we looked around the bowl later on, there was virtually no trash. Because the plastic cups were not being strewn about, paper trash was also missing in action. It was such the ingenious solution-or at least the foundation for the solution.

Now, I heard the words the gal spoke. They were good words, vibrant words, even exciting words. She was smiling, she was effervescent, and she was sincere. The words sounded so convincing, and so doable. I understood every single word, English being the operative language, and I happen to have earned a Masters in said language. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a clue as to what she was saying.

Ambassador Lounge

It’s one of the perks of having a mood spectrum disorder: I cannot efficiently process information when it comes at me orally.

I listened to the gal carefully; nay, I hung on every word. I nodded at appropriate intervals and I was an avid participant in the exchange-at least as far as external appearances go. 

Mentally, I was in la-la land. It occurred to me at one point in time, that the earnest young woman, so animated, was actually trying to convey a specific message to me. 

Maybe it was of significance, maybe it was’t. More likely yes than no. It is of little import in the big picture. The net result is that I approached the booze line clutching my three tickets, and proceeded to order the designated beverage.

“Do you have a cup?” the vendor asked, obviously a formality since I was empty-handed.

“Not so’s you could notice,” I replied amiably. “Guess you’re going to have to hook me up.”

As eye rolls go, his was “Hall of Fame” material.

He said simply, and s l o w l y, “It will cost you one drink ticket for the cup and one drink ticket for your drink.” For emphasis, he then concluded to the former language arts teacher, “That will be a total of two tickets. One for the cup and one for the drink.”

I got it.

“I need a cup.”

Whew. Glad that’s over with.

“You want regular, or do you want the blond ale?” the barkeep inquired, which threw me for a loop. I didn’t know there was more than one.

“What’s the dealio?” I asked.

”Well, the blond has a stronger hops influence. Do you like hops?”

Damn, since I’m not the one drinking it, how am I supposed to know the answer? Wait a sec. Hops?

“Sure, I like hops. Let’s go with the blond.” 

Triumphantly I carted the foamy beverage back to Casey and placed it carefully in front of him, along with the third ticket. During my departure, Lito and Robin had joined Casey, and I greeted them.  

Casey glanced at the drink dubiously, looked hurriedly away, and then took another quick peak, obviously confused. 

“What’s with the foam?” he asked.

I had the facts right at my fingertips. “Ah, glad you asked. He wanted to know whether or not I liked the blond or not. Since I didn’t know which one I preferred, I told him sure, why not? Give me the blond.”

“Blond?” Casey looked blankly at me. Clearly there was a failure to communicate.

Lito had perked up at the exchange, and reached across to pick up the cup so that he could get a taste.

“This isn’t cider,” he declared. “It’s brew.”

“What? Are you kidding?” I asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

What was going on here?

“That’s OK,” Lito said, "I was ready for a beer."

“But that doesn’t explain what’s going on,” I persisted.

Casey headed off in the direction of the drink line, with the third drink ticket clutched in his hand, saying over his shoulder, “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be right back.”

WTF? What’s going on? I specifically walked over to that counter, and I ordered,,,what? A cider? After all, that’s what Casey wanted.

I ran the dialogue back through my mind, on the VCR that runs 24/7 in my little pea-brain, until I got to part where I ordered…an ale. It hit me like a joint laced with oil.

“Alzheimer’s Alert!” I blurted out, embarrassed as ack, but unwilling to deny the obvious. I had ordered the wrong drink without realizing it. Classic brain fart.

All I could do was laugh-out loud, uproariously-at myself. To do anything else was patently absurd. It was my bad all the way, and that was all there was to it.

I never get salty when I mess up because that’s a losing proposition, not to mention job security. All I do is try to see some humor in it all and chalk it up to old age. As I have always said, “You either get old or you die. Right now I’m enjoying the ride too much to call it quits.”

Tomorrow: Parking Po Po 

Sixty-three Going on Fourteen

A lot of love 

This is the eighth episode in the Reggae on the River, 2016, Chronicles, a vapid exercise in verbal flatulence, on the part of the delusional author. This scintillating account will leave yawning for more. Er, correction, yearning, that was “yearning” for more. 

Sixty-three Going on Fourteen

There must be something in the water, sorry Coleman Hell, to explain why I keep tripping over my tongue as of late. I’ve wracked my brain for some other explanation that makes any sense whatsoever, for how I could look right into the face of a former student I was immediately able to identify, and call her by the wrong name.

OK, granted I have only seen her once or twice in the past fifteen years, give or take a minute or two, but that should not make any difference at all, unless there actually is something in the water. Hell, even if I had managed to come up with a “Suzy” or a “Sally,” I could still have saved face, but no, I called her by her sister’s name. Arrrrrgggghhh!

HappyDays Farm delivers to the Ambassador Lounge.

“Dakota,” she gently corrected me, and I felt as though I were 63 going on fourteen. I was back in eighth grade again, trying to figure out after the fact, why my tongue goes out for a quick bong rip, every time I have to connect a face right in front of me, with a name.

The correct name, I should amend that to read. After all. if it were just any name, I would’t be feeling like such an idiot.

The best I could do was mumble something semi-coherent about at least now having a topic to write about in the morning. In adding that I found it healthy to poke fun at myself, I couldn’t help but note that I got a lot of practice.

Thursday night Reggae on the River rocked. If I said it once, I prattled on about it a half-dozen more times to make sure I had gotten my message across: It does not matter who is on stage here on the Eel River, the music is going to stir one’s soul. 

In my inaugural ROTR a year ago, I made no bones about the fact that I came to see Stephen Marley. I went so far as to assert that he-and he only-was the one single artist on the planet that could entice me to venture out into the Great Unknown.

It did not hurt last year’s cause to also be able to take in Stick Figure, Alborosie, Collie Budz, and many others. This year’s lineup, by contrast, has only two artists with whom I am familiar, and one of them presents special problems in trying to enjoy his talent, due to his controversial music.

It mattered not Thursday night, as I had suspected it wouldn’t. From Jah Sun to New Kingston (!) to Protoje wrapping up the show, the bowl filled with revelers, was hotter than the bowl of Sour OG/Sour Band I was nursing, its cherry glowing merrily in my glass SF Giants pipe.

Night life

In point of fact, there is nothing “controversial” about this artist’s music, because violence advocated against any person or group, is simply unacceptable. This particular artist, being of Jamaican extraction, dislikes gay and lesbian folks.

He is what we call in the vernacular, a hater.

No, the controversy does not lie with his music, it stems from this particular artist being invited to perform at the iconic ROTR in the first place. Are you out of your fire-trucking mind?

I might have thought that NorCal, generally considered a conscientious global community, had an enlightened enough mentality to be more selective in creating a lineup-much more selective. With the wealth of talented artists available, why invite a man who has a well-established track record of spewing hatred and bigotry?

There is too much love at ROTR to accommodate a platform of hatred. It's like trying to put a round peg into a square hole. It's like trying to fire up a doobster, after it gets dropped into the water.

The only possible value that I can see emerging from this situation, is that people are continuously striving to recognize when something is patently not right, and doing something about it. 

If it is “not right,” then it must be wrong; and if it’s wrong, then it’s up to us to correct it.

Tomorrow: Much respect

Joe Mama

This is the seventh in a series of posts covering Reggae on the River, 2016. Discretion is advised, due to the high degree of unsavory content. I apologize-profusely-in advance.  

Joe Mama

We are officially done setting up the two kitchens at Reggae on the River, 2016, after a furious last-minute push, Wednesday afternoon, in preparation for the opening of the festival on Thursday. I must admit that when Casey and I trucked up to French’s Camp, midmorning on the last day to get things together, I thought we would just be making a cameo appearance.

You know, sweep in wearing the HappyDay tees, knock them out of their socks, and ride off into the sunset to slaughter a wild boar or two and harvest a semi, filled to the brim with organic Heirloom tomatoes. 

No? OK. Would you believe butcher a rabbit and gather the makings for a salad? Whatever we had in mind for late Wednesday afternoon, it had to wait, as Go-for-Bull, our fearless on-site, kitchen-setup crew-leader, got salty enough to keep my popcorn in excellent supply for months to come.

“Where’s the rest of the f***ing crew?” was his cheery greeting as Casey and I pulled up in front of the humongous reefer-truck, as the refrigerated semi-trailer filled with dankness is affectionately named. It confused me for a minute or two for the first couple of days, as I was constantly on the lookout for a little something/something from the “reefer” truck.

The "reefer" truck

Imagine my disappointment to find out that the “pot” of gold to be found at the end of this particular rainbow, consisted of only a food-hoard for thousands in the form of boxes of fresh produce. Sigh. 

“I don’t know.” said Casey, “The only guy I’ve seen is Lito, and he’s taking care of a water crisis on-farm. Who is supposed to be here?”

“Everyone,” he snapped back. “There’s a shit-storm brewing. Here I’m off to a meeting in fifteen minutes, where I’m going to bat to get all of you guys properly credentialed, and you’re missing in action.”

As if to punctuate the words, his walkie-talkie squawked and he responded, thrusting the phone away from his ear as the voice lashed out at him.

Got it. Go-for-Bull was not, well, heaving the bull. My educated guess is that Eric, the head honcho for the Ambassador Lounge, was not as happy of a camper, as the rest of us.

“I’ll call Lito,” Casey managed to interject, “He said he could round up Sonny and Joey B for sure, and we’ll see about David.

The fire momentarily quenched, Bull returned to his usual carefree self. “Afterwards, grab my truck and meet me up behind the beer garden. We need to unload a truck.”

There were six of us strong-backed, weak-brained offshore men assigned to the task. It was mindless labor, but critically important to the mission. After all, if Anthony B decided that a bowl of freshly-picked blackberries was in order, the Ambassador Lounge would be able to accommodate him. 

I unloaded chilled boxes of avocados, pineapples, bananas, (not sure why spelling “bananas” causes me to launch into song…), limes, strawberries, and watermelons, to name a very few of the available delicacies.

I was personally relieved to see that the sturdy boxes of watermelons contained only three apiece. Tuesday I had unloaded still bigger cardboard boxes with FOUR melons each.

Mammoth melons, normally a term with a certain amount of ambiguity, but generally viewed as highly favorable, in this instance present a difficulty.

Regardless of whether or not melons can ever be actually too big, a matter for serious perusal in a different blog post, for THIS old hippie, it was a challenge. There is as much machismo in me as there is common decency in the Republican nominee for-gasp-President.

Nonetheless, in the heat of battle which constitutes my relationship with my creaky body, I feel I can handle eighty pounds of watermelons on a good day. Make no mistake, every day spent up at French’s Camp is a good day.

All was well and good until I got to the part where the price of ROTR tickets went way up.

Two? TWO boxes? They’re each taking two crates of four melons each? Gluttons for punishment.

Laugh [uproariously] Out Loud. 

We were working in a clockwise manner, the circle flowing smoothly enough as the food was transferred, until I drew up to the low platform, and the disperser prepared to similarly laden me with double what I had been lugging.

Are you out of your fucking mind? You get Joe Mama to take those two boxes…

“Sorry. You must be mistaking me for that version of myself who used to hang around about thirty years ago.” He got it. Though momentarily flummoxed, he managed to recover enough to go with the flow.

At 63 I can still haul that much weight but I cannot predict with any degree of accuracy, how well I will survive the task. I have not spent five days up here on-site, working, so I that can spend the next four days flat on my back…somewhere.

Been there-done that.

At three in the afternoon, Bull called a conference in the “Great Success Lounge,” and we were assigned tasks. I was part of a small group detailed to construct a bar. We were given two-by-fours, four-by-fours, several five-foot lengths of one-by-six redwood, and the implements of destruction, with which to work our magic.

Any thoughts I had that this might have been a job better assigned a week ago, were quashed because I had long since lost the ability to think with any sort of efficiency. I was exhausted.

“I am pleased as cannabis to be the sawyer, but I am not up to the task of thinking. So as soon as you shoot me some measurements, I’m on it like frost on Blue Dream buds.”

Lito had the facts right at his finger tips: "We need two 2-by-4’s at 75 inches and two at 25, but we need to cut them at 45 degrees, so they fit together perfectly. Bull wants this bar to look classy.”

“75 inches to the inside or outside of the angles?” was my only question. 

“Outside,” responded Lito, and I was ready. "And then you can cut the redwood to seventy-two inches."

“Great success!”

It went together as smoothly as those bombers I had rolled that morning, with me functioning only as an observer of life after the cuts were done. My ability to sift through the murky part of my brain, where any vestige of creative carpentry might still be lurking, was zilch. Nada. None.

It was therefore with a sense of growing awareness, that I realized that these guys did not need me to think. They had it well under control. Joey B had taken the lead in matters, and the drill in hand, and was working his magic.

Joey B and Sonny

Whatever convoluted procedure might have been whirling about in my mind, was shunted aside by the diabolical simplicity of what Joey had in mind. After the outer frame was in place, he said I should take a measurement of the inside of the completed frame, and cut four more 2-by-4’s at whatever that measurement turned out to be.

“22-and-an-eighth inches,” I said a moment later, and I cut the prescribed number of boards.

He explained that he wanted to inset those four shorties, spacing them out evenly inside the frame, and then shoot screws into the side of the frame to anchor the slats in place, five-eights of an inch below the surface of the frame.

The redwood one-by-one lengths then fit neatly into the existing casement, and when we ran our fingers across the top, it was glassy smooth, or would be as soon as they belt-sanded it for just a minute or two.

Casey swooped me at that moment and said he had to get to town to do his radio show. We have to leave? Another tragedy.

Before I staggered off after Casey, I took time to pause and say to Joey, “I am going to go straight home to my sweetest of Apple Blossoms, and I am going to tell her how impressed I was at your carpentry skills. You accomplished what I was incapable of doing. Great success!”

Annie has always maintained that Joey could build anything that needed to be built, or fix anything that was broken. It was nice to see that her confidence was justified.

Tomorrow: Are we having fun yet?

The Attack of the Killer Seatbelt

The Beast

This is the sixth segment of Reggae on the River, 2016, a blatantly transparent saga of drunkenness and debauchery, brought to you by someone once referred to by a close friend, as Winnie the Pooh.

The Attack of the Killer Seatbelt

Fine, describing Reggae on the River, 2016, in terms of “drunkenness and debauchery” may be stretching matters just a bit, simply because I avoid alcohol-religiously-when I am in this venue. Being more of a spiritual man, per se, I use the term “religiously” loosely. 

Alcohol is not my thing though Buddha knows, I enjoy a shot of Jameson over ice or a glass of anything red, now and again, especially if it is the very end of October and the Giants are in the Show.

October of 2014, was the last occasion I bought Jamie for personal consumption. I did buy a bottle of Jameson Reserved for a good friend, as the result of losing a bet. I was sure Brandon Belt was going to hit thirty home runs last season…

Backstage

No, anyone who knows me, knows that when picking my poison of choice, it will be cannabis. Ironically, that which makes others high, keeps me grounded. This is very helpful when we are talking about being at a venue with thousands of others, such as ROTR.

Were I to isolate one specific concern for me, and one that cannabis helps me combat, it would be the feeling of claustrophobia. For me it’s not being trapped in a small elevator, stuck between floors, it is more of a feeling of being trapped by either people or situations, and then blowing them out of proportion in my head.

At ROTR 2015, I experienced an acute sense of euphoria by merely being able to inch my way through the celebrating crowd, in front of the main stage. This mass of benevolent humanity, all bent on the single purpose of reveling in the music, has always presented the biggest challenge for me.

I can’t be in the midst of people without getting panicky.

I have long since lost the ability to attend ballgames at AT&T Park. Rather, I can attend them successfully enough-I have the mental tools-I just do not enjoy myself. Sitting in the middle of 41,000 plus fans is terrifying for me.

I expend no energy trying to figure out why. It isn’t important. All I do is listen to myself when I raise clarifying questions. Theoretically, it is OK to talk to yourself, until such time as you start to respond to that “other” you.

It tends to make people around you nervous.

So OK, at 3 in the AM, I am not looking "on fire..."

Therefore, I confine the discussions to within the boundaries of my razor-sharp, cheese brain, and they are quite one-sided. I listen to the side of my brain that went through the cognitive behavioral therapy, and let it take the lead.

Surprises do not work well for me; the unexpected is certain to plunge me into the Twilight Zone. The problem is that my communication skills go out the window but others don’t know that.

Take that killer seatbelt the other day, in the back seat of Lito’s hill-truck. 

[Oh, a hill truck? It’s one that looks and sounds as though it has been through a tour-of-duty in the Middle East-maybe two.] There was no malicious intent on the part of the seatbelt; no, it was quite methodical.

The setting itself, the backseat of a truck-cab, provided a classic venue for technical difficulties. There were one or two items of inconsequence that already occupied the region, so there was a competitive air present to begin with:

There were backpack(s), boxes, shoes (big ‘uns), lots more shoes, flip-flops, a pen, lots of clothes, coffee cups, hoodies, glass bottles, aluminum cans, plastic wrappers, sleeping bags, tv sets, electric fans, AND a kitchen sink.

OK, I exaggerate. There were no pens that I saw.

I'm not going to say that Lito lives out of his truck; I'm just going to say that those who are less well-versed in these matters, might make the mistake of leaping to that conclusion.

Robin graciously made the offer to sit in the back if I wanted to ride shotgun.

Do it! Do it! Take her up on the offer! It’s a jungle back there and you’re no Tarzan.

Another one-sided conversation, only it was the wrong side talking. 

Make Robin sit in the back? Dude, I can’t do that-it’s against my principles.

Uh oh, unclear on the concept here.

“You’re not making her-she offered…”

“No way! I’m good.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I heard someone say. “Women don’t ride in the backseat while men ride in the front while I’m around.”

Oh. That person was me, obviously high on the shit. The situation was patently deadly. Everything was piled everywhere but I managed to carve out a niche by using a small stick of dynamite to urge some of the detritus to take up residence behind the passenger seat.

Being behind the big guy left my legs about as much room as there is in a half-pint Mason jar, crammed with an ounce of flower in it. Everyone knows a half-pint jar is perfect for fifteen grams, not twenty-nine.

Was I able to articulate this? Something that was readily apparent to me? Emphatically not.

Let me make this disclaimer right now: Lito had no idea. He would never have allowed me to be in an uncomfortable position, ever. If you know him, then you know what I’m sayin’/talkin’ about.

It’s just that I’m not a big guy, I did not want to make a fuss and I sure did not want to make Robin ride in the back. Unfortunately, I rolled up something too big to smoke by myself, but I tried anyway.

 I could not deal with the close nature of the situation.

What if I get a cramp? It’s just a matter of time, you know…

I felt my right hamstring. That’s it. I felt it nudge me, as if to say, “Oh yeah. I’m here.”

Tell them this isn’t going to work!

It was at this moment that the seatbelt attacked me. Coming down toward the bottom of the Bell, and recognizing that I had still to deal with being properly cinched in place for the journey on The 101, I reached down to the right and fished around down under the seat for the locking mechanism to the seatbelt. 

Fishing in deep waters in Lito’s truck is decidedly dangerous work, but after a few scary moments, I was able to extract the desired component to my continued safety.

Triumphantly, I grabbed the belt itself with my left hand, and attempted to pull it out and across my chest to cinch it in place. It traveled smoothly enough outward to a certain point and then it abruptly stopped. Yes, I could easily fasten it but would there be ENOUGH?

You know the drill-you let it all the way back and start again, this time slower, as if to acknowledge at the outset of the battle, that you are at the mercy of a force far greater than you.

The inevitable result is that you lose some of your gain. Immediately, the law of diminishing returns sets in.

Do I feel lucky today? Should I stay where I am, or try and extract another bit of seatbelt from the deep confines of its den?

After two more attempts, and two more losses, I want to punt. I give up and simply shove the mofo into its socket, effectively pinning my neck against the back of the seat.

Ack! (Only maybe it was not really “ack”)

Aside from the fact that I can’t breathe, this is kind of uncomfortable. Get me the ack out of here!

It gets worse.

In attempting to rearrange myself into a less restricted position, I had found that trying to reach back down with my right arm to undo the belt, did not work due to my reconstructed right shoulder having its own say in the matter.

Unfortunately, it remained mute, preferring to let pain be its spokesperson.

Trapped in this preposterous manner, embarrassed to have to ask for help, Lito actually had to pull over and stop to rescue me. Dignified. That’s me.

Ever the vigilant Responder, Lito, was up for the task.

Now! Tell him you need to swap with Robin! Open your mouth or forever hold your peace. Otherwise, you’ll wish you had a “piece,” all right, of a .22 caliber nature, to end it all.

But no, I stuck it out. And had so much fun I signed up for a repeat ride on the return trip home. 

This time, I lasted no more than a minute before I got overwhelmed with the belief that I could never make it home with my legs compressed in front of me, so I decided to withdraw them one at a time, and just twist myself ninety degrees, so that I could stretch them out over the seat, parallel to the backrest.

In theory it was possible; all I had to do was extend my legs up over the Matterhorn, which refused to compress even an inch with me on top of it, in order to nap.

It should have worked out OK, and it did, except for having my glasses slip off and end up under me, twisted into a similar spaghetti-like pattern, that the ACL of my left knee resembled, when I blew it out in 1991.

Spectacles do not respond well to being crushed.

That was not the worst of it. In trying to retrieve my glasses, I experienced technical difficulties with cramping stomach muscles.

Can you say ice pick?

Fast-forward to the present.

Over the last couple of days, I had ample opportunity to recognize how I could have solved the whole thing. I’m sure you have never experienced the sensation that you had the perfect comeback, after the fact.

I explained all of this to both Lito and Robin before we went up Tuesday, to continue setting up for the show. It was easy, now that I had been able to sort through it all.

I laid my cards out on the table, requiring a full deck to accomplish the task. 

Just look at that innocent face...

They got it, and I know they got it because Robin rode in the backseat on the way up to French’s Camp on Tuesday. She was more than happy to, just as I’d known all along.

Older people have issues that are hard to explain, sometimes, because we don’t always understand them ourselves. But I’d rather find a way to poke fun at myself, than find a way to make people feel bad for me. As long as I can pull a muscle laughing, I’ll feel it’s still all worth it.

BTW, there’s a warrant out for that killer seatbelt.

Across the Table

Color and pageantry abound, as revelers celebrate.

This is the fifth episode in the ongoing saga of Reggae on the River, 2016, an unabashed account of the iconic music festival, as viewed through the adroit-if somewhat blurry-eyes of your intrepid inquirer. 

Across the Table

We are three days away from the opening of 2016’s Reggae on the River, the iconic music festival located at French’s Camp on the Eel River. I spent chunks of three different days last week, on-site with other volunteers, helping to set up two kitchens to handle the needs of thousands of revelers. I will spend at least two more days early this week.

I mean, how much hassle can the needs of thousands be, right?

One of the kitchens is a facility designed to feed the volunteers, of which there were three thousand last year. Of course, not all volunteers eat at this venue; I could have had all my meals here, but chose only to dine at breakfast. The food was tasty and professionally handled, no easy task for any crew, let alone a collection of diverse volunteers. 

Eric

I had brought with me an ice chest filled with goodness from the farm, so I dined within the cozy confines of the campsite most of the time. Let’s face it, “cozy” is euphemistic but “crammed together” sounds so uncouth, that I will continue with former.

Uncouth is so out-of-style.

The second kitchen is the VIP Lounge, for those who have the appropriate wristband. Obviously, in the VIP Lounge the price of poker is much higher, but it is still volunteers who run the show for the most part. I would imagine the head-honcho, Eric, gets a stipend for his expertise, but otherwise it is volunteer-power.

Great success!

Last year our kitchen setup crew was housed along Rasta Road, a subdivision of the main throng of campers. The majority of the throng were amassed on the west, or right-hand side, of the main artery into the venue, which paralleled the river. We had to walk maybe four football fields in length (ten minutes), to get from the main stage back to our campsite, sharing the road with many at times, and few at others. 

There was never a time when no one was up and about.

You had to walk close to five minutes away to get to the nearest bank of porta-potties from our campsite, but there was no waiting once you got there. The only place I ever saw people waiting, generally speaking, was at those port-a-potties which were adjacent to the main stage.

And then, only when the artists completed a show, and the masses were stampeding to the bathrooms at the same time, was there a delay. But anyone who has ever attended this type of show, has had to deal with it, so that’s what you do: You deal with it.

This year our crew will be camping across the highway from the festival. I have no idea why, but we have been assigned to a campsite on the west side of the 101, back behind the hippie gas station.

Our site is rumored to be flat, shady and to have running water with showers and toilets. There is also a little general store which presumably will stock the most important basics: ice and chocolate. It is a considerably longer stretch of the legs than it was last year, but we may have a vehicle to help with this logistical detail. Besides, I like to walk; plus I will have the option of chilling at the Great Success Lounge.

When all is said and done, though, what our campsite will have that no other will possess, is freedom from those very same masses. Without the crowds there is no event; with the crowds, however, there comes chaos: organized, celebratory and triumphant, but chaos just the same.

I find it exhilarating to have backstage access to the music.

I say triumphant because this year’s Reggae on the River takes on special significance due to the shift in the cannabis political perspective. Not only is this gentle giant of a plant no longer vilified as evil, it has been elevated to dizzying heights, as its role in fighting human misery, clearly justifies.

We have always indulged in the herb with impunity, while reveling on the river, but now we can do so with the knowledge that we are no longer outlaws. Vast, unlimited quantities of both time and energy have been devoted to the monumental task of ironing out the guidelines for regulation of the growing of medicinal cannabis. This work had to be done at both the state and local levels. 

For those dedicated to the cause, there have been incessant town meetings throughout the county, supervisor meetings in Ukiah and policy committee meetings in Sacramento. I could never have done this work at this point in my journey. 

I was nothing but an observer of life when it came to this process. I did not even chronicle it in my writing. There are just so many levels of complexity, it boggles my little pea-brain.

There have been in-house, local and state SNAFU’s that have had to be highlighted and ironed out, for the purpose of gaining clarity. And there has been friction, not unexpected considering some of these diverse factions were working together for the first time ever, across the table.

Huge strides forward in the entire mechanism have been taken. To think that we are loosening Corporate ’Merica’s death-grip on cannabis/hemp, so that it may once again become incorporated into the mainstream of our culture, is to have hope for those who are afflicted with illness.

To be able to place the need for medicine-for all-above the need of Corporate ‘Merica for money, is of paramount importance. No longer should people have to watch loved ones die in agony, so that the coffers of Big Pharma can be well-stocked.

That qualifies as an attribute of a jaded society, an entity which places greater emphasis on the frivolities of life than the necessities of life. We need medicine; we do not need seven-figure selfishness.

I need medicine and Annie needs medicine, so we are grateful to those who have fought the battle for so long. You are profoundly influencing the future with positivism, and infusing that optimism into the fabric of our culture. 

We gather together along the Eel River and we celebrate.