Friday Random Ten

If it's Friday somebody should hit random while cooking (blueberry pies no less).

This Masquerade - - - Leon Russell
Happily Married Man - - - Duane Allman
Pancho and Lefty - - - Emmylou Harris (live bootleg)
For the Sake of the Rock and Roll - - - Doug Sahm
My Old Kentucky Home - - - Ry Cooder
Of Thee I Sing - - - Leon Russell
Bang on the Drum All Day - - - Todd Rundgren
Communique - - - Dire Straits
Close Up The Honky Tonks - - - Flying Burrito Brothers
Nice Girls Don't Stay for Breakfast - - - Julie London

Bonus:

Midnight on the Stormy Deep - - - Bill Monroe

Asking For Vision (Day 2, Rez Drums)

We were up and rolling in very good time. The drive up to the rez was gorgeous. We rolled up to my cousin's place, got the RV parked and leveled and hooked up, the horses stabled and the trailer's living quarters hooked up by the barn in short order.

My cousin and his long term partner were their usual charming selves. My new niece was absolutely entranced while being her natural entrancing self. We got Larry and his family settled in and introduced to the clan folks who were all there getting ready for the afternoon and evening's festivities.

When we gather for things like this the main focus is food. Lots. Of. Food. There were BBQ pits going with pig and game, the inside ovens (my cousin is as big a foodie as me and he has a kitchen that would make Gordon Ramsey hush up his rude ass mouth) were just beginning to turn out the loaves of corn and other breads. Cousin tells me that he is expecting Angel Cakes, I allow that this is not unreasonable and that I brought along some wonderful beans of Tahitian Vanilla to throw into them as an extra, added bit of subliminity (if that's not a word, it should be, and will be on this blog).

Larry's twins get involved with helping me make them and we have a great time, taking turns whipping up the egg whites by hand. I still have no scientific explanation, I even allow that my feeling might be completely psychological, but I still maintain that an angel food cake, or a soufflée whipped by hand is texturally superior to something whipped by a machine. (backgroung music to this paragraph should be Bruce Springsteen singing John Henry) I've said it enough times to make it something true by the Lewis Carrol or even to make it my own under AA traditions. When we have our cakes cooling on bottles on the counter we go outside to meet the folks just arriving and to wander around the various cooking stations, stealing the odd bite here and there. Lingering over the outside vat of oil where golden brown, light and puffy discs of fry bread are the subject of great debate and family honor. (first rule of fry bread: Grandma's is the best. Ever. It must, and will always be even better than Mom's)

We have picked up my new niece and wander over to a small fire where Silas is holding forth over a flat, shiny stone. He has a big bowl of blue corn slurry that he spreads over the heated rock for a few seconds and peels off a wafer thin translucent sheet of piki bread. He beams and fusses over the girls. They are totally entranced by his little ritual of making them. He always holds the bowl in both hands and gives it four swirls in each direction, then four stirs in each direction with a wooden spoon. Then he scoops up a perfectly measured handful and swipes it over the stone, sets down the bowl and wipes his hands on a cloth. He holds his hands over the cooking smear of piki and at just the right moment lifts off a beautiful, fragile little sheet which is stacked in wobbly towers all around him. He carefully hands a sheet of piki to each of the girls and we watch their faces as they take their first bites. As soon as piki hits your mouth it disintegrates, and just as instantly your mouth is filled with the delicate pure taste of blue corn meal, ground very fine by hand. Then, even before you can swallow your saliva has begun to turn the starches in the corn to sugars which leaves a slightly sweet, slightly salty aftertaste. It's magical stuff. All the time this is going on, he is telling the girls a story about Spider Woman's son Cornstalk, who taught the people how to grow the different types of corn, and how to use all the other plants. The little girls are mesmerized. The only way I can get them to leave is to ask them if they want to come feed the horses with me.

When we come back into the house I am totally jazzed to see that some of my old friends have brought over their instruments. Kirby has his electric piano set up, Rich has brought his bass, my 16 year old nephew brought two guitars and has been kind enough to set up two of mine. Joy, of joys, there are two drumsets. I know the double bass set up very well. It's my young friend Vincent. He's still very young, only 29, but, at my urging and through my contacts he was able to spend three years on the road with Ike Turner. Ike turned him from a very talented, very gifted young drummer into a professional powerhouse. I see Vince and note with pride that he is dressed for tonight's show like he was playing the Palace. Sharp. I tell him that I will be certain to change before we go on.

The rest of the evening is spent introducing our new family and clan addition around, gorging on what ever delectable food strikes our fancy, then, when there's a break in the sound from the band my mother, as is a mother's right, demands that I take a set.

I strap on my Variax, stomp a few settings onto the board and tell young Vincent "Give me the Bar-B-Que beat." Vince grins and lays down bump bump CHICK! bump bump CHICK! and we launch into Cadillac Ranch. Dancing and celebratory movements ensue out on the floor. The little girls are in a tight group of other little girls pogoing in and around the adults with gleeful abandon.

I go through a few requests from family who tell me that I don't show up on the rez nearly enough, and when I don't show I don't play enough. They're family, I can't dispute how they feel. I tell them they are right and I will try to do better. Then I grin at my nephew and Vince and tell him "Give me some Indin drums." The people know what's coming. From the singing of Keith Secola. . .

INDN Karz Forty Nine

I've been driving in my Indian Car
Hear the pound of the wheel drumming in my brain

My dash is dusty, my plates are expired
Please Mr. Officer, let me explain

(everybody shouts this chorus)

I got to make another Pow Wow tonight
I'll be singer 49, down by the riverside
Looking for a sugar, riding in my Indian Car

My car is dented, the radiator steams
One headlight don't work, but the radio screams

I got a sticker that says "I Brake For Pow-Wows"
I stuck it on my bumper
It's what holds my car together

I got to make another Pow Wow tonight
I'll be singer 49, down by the riverside
Looking for a sugar, riding in my Indian Car

We're on a circuit of an Indian dream
We don't get old, we just get younger
When we're flying down the highway
Riding in my Indian Car
Riding in my Indian Car
Riding in my Indian Car
Riding in my Indian Car

I wander off to grab a smoke and some quiet time when Silas tells me that it's time to go into the kiva.


3B's

Asking For Vision (Day 1)

We got out of California with a four car/van/RV wagon train. My sixteen year old niece was working her learner's permit on my RV, with me in the navigation seat. I told her the only difference between the bus and the car is that the bus is bigger. Other than that, driving doesn't change much. Especially when the road is pretty much a four lane interstate for the next 300 miles. I told her that when we reached the Papago rez I would take over because I can slide into the fueling bays easier, knowing where the intake nozzles are and stuff. She asked about the road music and I told her that the only rule in my bus about music is "No Complaint Rock." She looked puzzled and I said "You know, those I'm so young and full of pain jerks, like Stain'd. I told her that my iPod has a very eclectic mix and if you put it on random there's hardly ever more than four minutes of dreck to wade through. Luckily the very first track is Bessie Smith proving out her billing as "Empress of the Blues."

We rolled under the Desajunes Solos sign still in a group in good time. Waiting for us, with dinner prepared were Medskool Girl, The Boy, the Sgt. Major and his family, and the Pool Girls with their gorgeous daughter, Harper Jooni.

It's 28 December, my sister the nurse's birthday, and we finish up exchanging some christmas gifts along with the birthday hoopalah. We are about to start up a cutthroat family game of "Pictionary" when the phone rings. It's my cousin, the brilliant attorney calling from the rez. He tells me that all is ready for our naming and adoption celebration with one new wrinkle. He tells me that Silas, the haattaallii is there and that he wants to speak with me. Silas gets on the phone and says "Did you bring me truffles?" I tell him that I am not naive enough to expect him to love me for just being me and he laughs. He says "I look forward to my truffles every year. I like you fine, but your truffles are better. They're less trouble and don't whine so much."

He then tells me that he's also expecting the Sgt. Major and his family. I tell him that this is very short notice and I don't know if they will be able to attend. Silas just tells me to tell them about the invitation. I do, they accept without hesitation. That's how Silas works, you'd think I would have figured it out by now.

I tell Larry and his wife that they can take over the RV and that I can bunk in the horse trailer with ease. I ask The Son if the horses are ready for traveling and he gives me the "Jesus Dude, don't you think I know anything?" look and I tell him thank you. My new niece wants to go out and see the legendary horses. She is fascinated, it's the first time that she's been close enough to horses to touch them and learn their names. The Sgt. Major's twins are with her, telling her about each horse and showing her how to give them the treats they expect. I kick the lights in the round pen on and ask if anyone wants to take a short ride. Bareback pads are produced and we all are soon riding around the training pen in the crisp winter night air.

The Pool Girls and the beautiful girl say their goodbyes and Larry and I work out our coodination for the morning's trip up to the rez. I tell him that if his girls would like to make the trip in the bus we will be having a marathon "Old Maid" session happening, along with a continuous loop of movies on the TV. He smiles and says that he and his wife have a lot to talk about and would appreciate some alone time on the drive. I tell him we'll be serving country breakfast right about dawn and that they are always welcome to join in.

There has been a lot of excitement and new faces running at my little niece. She's wound tighter than a banjo string already, throw in the Dr. Pepper the Son sneaked past my sister's watchful eyes and bedtime looks to be a long way off. Medskool Girl keeps rolling her eyes over to the corner of the living room and I finally ask her "What's up with the faces darlin'?" She goes over to the corner and picks up my lap harp and says "I think it's getting close to bedtime, would you play for me a little while?" I tell her that she is very wise along with being brilliant and beautiful. She smiles and tells me that she had to grow up smart being around such a clueless old man.

PJ's are donned and quilts are snuggled. I strike a chord and begin to play

Báidín Fheidhlimidh d'imigh go Gabhla,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann
Báidín Fheidhlimidh d'imigh go Gabhla,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann

Chorus (curfa in gaelic)

Báidín bídeach, Báidín beosach,
Báidín bóidheach, Báidín Fheidhlimidh,
Báidín díreach, Báidín deontach,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann


Báidín Fheidhlimidh d'imigh go Toraigh,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann
Báidín Fheidhlimidh d'imigh go Toraigh,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann

Curfa

Báidín Fheidhlimidh briseadh id'Toraigh í,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann
Báidín Fheidhlimidh briseadh id'Toraigh í,
Báidín Fheidhlimidh 's Feidhlimidh ann

Curfa

(rough translation)

Feidhlim's little boat went to Gola,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it,
Feidhlim's little boat went to Gola,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it

Chorus:

A trim little boat, a lively little boat,
A silly little boat, Feidhlim's little boat,
A straight little boat, a brave little boat,
Feidhlim's little boat, and Feidhlim in it.

Feidhlim's little boat went to Tory,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it,
Feidhlim's little boat went to Tory,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it.

Feidhlim's little boat crashed on Tory,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it,
Feidhlim's little boat crashed on Tory,
Feidhlim's little boat and Feidhlim in it

3B's