Uncle Bruce & The Raptors

Work has been quicksand and I've been sucked in like a two ton hippo.

Oh but today, ahhh today my friend, is different. I probably should be writing the Membership Guide or marketing for that never-ending Music Man but screw it. I want to sit here, sip on my Coke Zero, listen to Folk Alley and catch you up for a spell. It will do my heart good.

You are probably wondering about the title. Uncle Bruce and the Raptors. Good name for a band, don't'cha think?

Bruce was our goose when first we moved to the country. He came with the joint and his bestest livelong pal was Chuck the Duck. Like Laurel and Hardy, where Bruce waddled, there waddled Chuck.

Then a flock of Canadians flew in, and we all know how magnetic those strong silent pooping types from the north can be. Bruce got the goose pimples when he got a load of their charms and began to honk along with them, leaving behind the blindly faithful Chuck. When the Canadians had chicks, Bruce became the weird uncle Fester, doting on the young'uns. When they grew up and flew away, Bruce deserted Chuck and followed his newfound Canadian family.

This spring Bruce appeared again with a couple of Canadians, who in turn had two chicks. As the chicks matured, I found that when they ran, they looked a little prehistoric, like two legged dinosaurs, so I began to refer to the tribe as Uncle Bruce and the Raptors. As they gather in their musk ox protective circle position, all neck and stabbing beak, guess which one is Uncle Bruce.



A couple of weeks ago, I was supposed to photograph a parade and I spotted Pres. Lincoln hanging with some Johnny Rebs. I wandered up to the Pres. and a Reb and holding up my camera, asked if I could shoot them, quickly apologizing to Mr. Lincoln for my unfortunate choice of words. Once in the parade, Mr. Lincoln led the way with the Rebs close behind. While I was sweating my ass off running along the route, Elisabeth was watching the parade with some friends. When one asked her what she thought of Lincoln leading a bunch of Confederates, she replied that they were probably chasing him.

On July 4, I attended the Smithville Fiddler's Jamboree as part of the WCTE crew. Basically it is a competition for fiddlers, cloggers, square dancers and musicians of all shapes and sizes, with the country-gospel-bluegrass-kinda folky flavour.


There is always action on the mainstage and the station covers the two day event from the top of our remote production truck. Pictured on top of the truck is Becky Magura, my friend and the President of WCTE, along with a chap name of Steve Boots, who doesn't work for the station anymore but has co-hosted the Jamboree for years.

That's all fine and dandy. However, what really turned my crank was what was happening under the trees and lamp posts around the town square.

No, not that! Holy crap, clean it up folks! C'mon now, I'm talking music and jamming of the spontaneous variety. Behind the craft booths, plunking and playing away, were musicians of all shapes and sizes, from the wrinkly and smelly to the fresh faced and melodic.

Hypothesize, my dear friend, where on the scale of wrinkly and smelly this old fart fit. Did you guess "melodic?" He could barely croak out a "yeah, I guess" when I asked if I could take his picture. But after a few minutes of strumming his guitar, he came out with the prettiest rendition of "Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in Loooove." It was so unexpected, like the punchline of a good joke, that I almost laughed. Almost. Surprises like that are pure joy and he must have reckoned I was half crazy, grinning like an insane mule.

Just for the heck of it, here are a couple more of my favourite shots from the Jamboree .

The Music Man

It has been a while and I wanted to briefly touch base. Time has been a precious commodity. At PBS, we've been preparing for the Great TV Auction, our major fundraiser and now that the Auction is in full swing, I've been working long days, usually until around midnight.

I'm also involved in writing a grant proposal. By today's end, we'll have submitted one about stimulating the local agricultural economy by educating consumers and local growers on how to "Live Green and Prosper", both in health and wealth. And if you boldly guess that the slogan was inspired by Star Trek, your logic would be highly logical captain.

Since PBS pays weenie water, I've been wedging in work on the side. My biggest and brassiest marketing and design project is our local Drama Center's summer production of the Music Man. I had fun with the billboard, shooting the photos and coming up with a design.


With all of this nose to the grindstone, boy howdy, I'm dun tard, and I'm looking forward to slowing down the pace after the Auction is over. Maybe have a chat or two, catch up with youse guys.

But for now, on with the show...

Sgt. York, The Resortation & Tubas

What do WWI hero Sgt. Alvin York, a Restoration period play, and a documentary about tubas have in common? Alex, that would be "what are freelance projects I dabble in when I'm not working at my real job" for $500.00.

Hah, I wish! Sometimes there's a little money out there but mostly it's for trade. Tickets, meals, drinks, whatnot.

I'm not knocking it. These projects allow me to stretch my creative muscles and expose me to real characters that I may not have met otherwise. Maybe it will pay off financially. Maybe not. At least I'm having a little fun, taking away some stories and adding to the old portfolio.

In July, the Sgt. York Patriotic Society is holding it's first fancy dress ball at the Southern Hills Golf Course. They needed a "save the date" card (I didn't know what that was but apparently it is a postcard asking people to keep the date free for the event). When I created the postcard, I gave it a sepia tone, made it look like it had been packed in the attic since 1916.

The Backdoor Playhouse at the University is doing a Restoration Comedy called 'She Stoops To Conquer". The plot - a high society lady wants to win the attention of a certain young man, but that young man is shy and does not easily speak to true "ladies". His shyness disappears when he is speaking to commoners so she disguises herself as a bar wench and hangs out at his favorite hangout.

The illustration in this poster is a composite of two photos (three including the background) - one of the actress in high society garb and one of her as a bar wench.

On Monday night, Tuba U: Basso Profundo, a documentary about tubas and prejudice and dedication, is making it's world public premiere at a local venue. A free jazz tuba concert from the star of the show and his Tennessee Tech Tuba Ensemble will proceed it. The show will be broadcast nationally in the evening of April 26th on PBS. And while this poster is tied to my marketing efforts at PBS, it is also part of my freelance past. Before I worked at the TV station, I worked on the post-production of the DVD. If you squint really hard and watch the credit roll at the end of the show, you may see my name.

Living on the Edge of Tornado Alley

I was at work on Good Friday when I heard air raid sirens. Curious sod that I am, I stepped outside the front door to see what was happening. A young female colleague had also stepped out the front door, was distracted by her cell phone and reached behind her to close the door. As I was behind her, the knob she made contact with was not the door's.

(Let that be a warning to all you cell phone junkies - you talk and drive OR reach for knobs at your own peril dammit! And mine too!)

Once she and I partially recovered from the trauma, we stood in the glow of our red faces and watched the black and gray sky roll past while we listened to the eerie wail of the air raid sirens. Well, I listened. She nattered on her damn cell phone and shot me embarrassed looks. I felt all World War Two-ie, and pictured German bombers buzzing the city, ready to unleash their fury on us English dogs. But the destruction unleashed was not German inspired. The fury from the skies was simply a hazard of living on the edge of Tornado Alley.

We are no strangers to twisters in Canada. I can think of at least three killing tornadoes in the last twenty years. I've seen a couple touch down on the empty prairies. But man, around here, April showers bring more than flowers. Enjoy sniffing the petunias but watch the sky or your ass may end up in Oz.

That Good Friday wasn't good for everybody, About an hour away in a small city called Murfreesboro, just south and east of Nashville, a twister touched down and cut a 10 mile swath through populated area. It is hard not to find a populated area around here. Two confirmed dead (a mother and her nine-week-old baby), forty one treated for injuries, houses destroyed, millions in damages.

News From March 2009

The Escape

We escaped to a cabin in the Smoky Mountains for a couple of nights in March. Hot tub. Full kitchen and BBQ grill. Fireplace. Cable. The Little River burbling it’s way past our front door. Not exactly roughing it and by no means secluded – the park was dirty with tourists – but enjoyable in the illusion of seclusion. It was delightful to be forced to relax by not having phones and computers and stuff demanding attention. How bloody pleasant!

The Kidney Stone Kid

Four stones, count them, four. Two giganto ones, two pebbles. Like that family from my childhood that lived on the corner in their rundown ramshackle rumshack, the family you crossed the street to avoid because the kids were bullies and big and mean and the parents drank and swore a blue streak and didn’t give a damn. Yeah, like those guys.

Well, this time these bullies were all punching away at my left kidney. Last week, we blasted them to smithereenies. At least I hope they were blasted. You can never tell with a family like that. They’re just mean to the stone. But I took it like a man. Almost a man. As you can plainly see by the photo of me being wheeled in to my procedure.

Oh yes, there has been debris. Shards. I have proof in an old pill bottle. How did I acquire the proof? You really don’t want to know.

On April 1st, I have my follow up appointment. This is Chuck, my doctor. He used to be the mayor. How many people can say they have had the mayor put on his rubber glove and check their prostate. I take that back. Plenty of politicians have given their constituents the finger.

Anyhow, I am anxious to see if the mayor and I have given the bum's rush to that no-good family and it is my fondest wish that they have all pissed off. I cannot help but wonder though if a couple of them are still hiding a nook or cranny. After all, there are shadows and alleys a'plenty to conceal a dirty stinkin’ stone in this crazy place called Kidney Town.

Alberta Poem

My friend Jim Drinnan's butt is frozen to the Alberta tundra. He passed this on to me.

ALBERTA WINTER

IT'S WINTER IN ALBERTA
AND THE GENTLE BREEZES BLOW
SEVENTY MILES AN HOUR
AT THIRTY-FIVE BELOW
OH HOW I LOVE ALBERTA
WHEN THE SNOW'S UP TO YOUR BUTT
YOU TAKE A BREATH OF WINTER AIR
AND YOUR NOSE GETS FROZEN SHUT
YES, THE WEATHER HERE IS WONDERFUL
SO I GUESS I'LL HANG AROUND
I COULD NEVER LEAVE ALBERTA
CAUSE I'M FROZEN TO THE GROUND!!

Pang Addendum

"My panging was left hanging as I read about the minus 22 and drifting snow in Calgary tonight," he said as he looked out the window at the budding trees and blooming flowers. "I'll pang more when the frozen north thaws out. Until then, pass the iced tea and the funeral fan. It's warm down here."