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Rest in Peace Katherine Hepburn, here on Golden Pond the loons call out to say good bye. Unyielding creative talent, an actress of style and grace, you shall be remembered.

I caught a small bass and had some more interesting strikes. Lost two rapala's in one day - quite unusual and slightly debilitating as they are almost the only lures I use.

Nathanial Philbrick's - In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex proved to be a gripping historical recounting of the events which inspired Moby Dick. Somehow, he craftily infused suspense into a nonfiction account which identified the means of rescue, and most of the survivors within the first few pages. Philbrick wove an impressive tapestry, entwining perspective from two published narratives, and historical accounts of the events with discussion of similar castaway epics, other documented incidents of survivalist cannibalism, and modern scientific study. The prose struck at the heart with the humanity of the situation, while a bountiful plentitude of facts massaged the brain.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:09 PM

 
I'm a statistic.

Kate and I went to the Whites to do a little backpacking and we ended up entwined in a series of hilarious misadventures, quite contemplations, and waded in a mountain stream with darting brook trout. Our very steps over the last couple days didn't feel epic, weighty. Little did we know that there was a quilt, a myriad of experiences being sewn about us.

We set off with a bit of a late start, stopping at Nashua's The Bred Chef to pick up a San Francisco Sourdough to provide a starchy compliment to dinner. His shop was small, but the yeasty scent of bread baking was quite impressive.

The trip to the mountains was not without event. I purchased NH State tokens in Bedford, and fed them to the tolls in Concord before seeing a mass of brake lights seemingly inspired by the cop on the side of the road with a radar gun. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing on the road to give cause to slow down. The mustang in front of me darted right in front of the gang of 10-15 bikers heading to Laconia, a few weeks late for their festival. I thought little of it, except that the mustang must have a guilty conscience for doing whatever unlawful speed we had maintained past the officer. I blinked only to see another motivation. A broken office chair was sprawled across the I-93. With my split seconds I glanced left to the guardrail, right e to the bikers, and tried to steer as much to the left of this chair as possible. In excess of 65 mph, the seat cushion became sand paper and peeled paint from my front bumper. Thud the front wheels were over it, but it struck back with a vengeance denting the passengers side door and loosening some cable. Thud snap scrape, the rear wheel crushed it, driving it up into the air and towards the middle of the road. It took a bite out of the hubcap before leaving, but was now someone else’s problem. The law enforcement officer, with a clear view of the proceedings stayed with his radar gun. Perhaps he was laughing. Perhaps he was praying that this office chair wouldn't cause a massive accident. Could he have been calling for backup? Certainly, office furniture gets quite ornery after people run it over.

Fortunately, this minor accident left the car with only cosmetic wounds. Unfortunately, it would be a bit more sore when we returned from our hike.

I dislike hiking and backpacking in the summer; especially during the two to three weeks of stifling humidity that starts about this time of the year. The experience of being outdoors is always great, but this heat wave seems to amplify the apparent effort involved in hauling gear and moving one's body. Kate, who is typically cold, even felt the weight of the hot wet air straining her legs as she hiked ever upwards to a moist plateau, down to a valley and up a bank to Rocky Branch Shelter #2. We refilled our water supplies, switched Kate to a day pack and made a move for the summit. There was no success to be had there. Like some graffitist who once visited the shelter, we too were defeated by the untamed weather. To hot, to weary, to slow, we turned around to enjoy a dinner in daylight. My boy scout friends would be ashamed. They would also be surprised to read that we managed to boil water on a backpacking stove in less than an hour. It seemed but 5 minutes. Perhaps sunlight is the crucial, missing component of successful backcountry cooking.

The neighboring stream provided refreshingly cool water to cleans mud caked body, and rejuvenate the weary soul. The bodhisattva brook trout tend well to this oasis, ensuring with a sprite like activity, that it maintained its babbling energies in even the stillest pools.

I don't recall sleeping well in the shelter. I'm aging or wearying to the point of needing a ground pad to sleep on ill angled wood. I did see both Mars and Venus in the gray haze of a night sky, and spent the entire night to see a moose trudge down the path. In our travels we had seen many fresh moose signs - mostly droppings but some tell-tale foot prints. The environment seemed a lot more hospitable to moose than the Tripyramids, where we'd seen a moose on the trail last fall.

Day broke to a clearer, cooler morn, but we decided it would be best to head down to the car - for reasons far different than hindsight would suggest.

As we rounded the bend, expecting to see no worse than a parking ticket chiding me for being to lazy to drive to Pinkham and buy a pass - I expected a self-service booth in the lot - we saw yellowed observers on the ground and the rear drivers side door slightly ajar. Had overzealous bears started pulling Yellowstone tricks? We approached and saw shattered glass - the tell tale sign of a break in.

A pair of hikers about to begin their trek, seemed a bit surprised. "That's not your car is it." It was. They mentioned that a similar thing had happened to them in Miami. I'd seen it in Cleveland, but had really figured that outside of a few freak incidents trail crime was something that occurred in the south.

Apparently, Jackson's first trail-break-in of the season happened to coincide with Kate and my backpacking expedition. The thief, an embarrassing amateur, took the owners manual, Kate’s purse, my sony disc-man 12 cds (but not the separate but adjacent insert page for Live Phish 12), risk/castle risk, and our bags packed to spend a weekend in Maine. In the process of shattering the window in the door to the back seat on the passenger’s side, the thief cut himself on the glass. Apparently he's to dumb to find a rock in the granite state, but fancies himself capable of dominating the world in a game of risk. The thief bled all over the car, soiling some papers, staining some of the upholstery and some of the vinyl siding.

The very pleasant police officer, Jackson’s Chief, took the DNA evidence, dusted for prints and took the bottle of lotion that the their had discarded from Kate's purse. Maybe it would have some prints. Apparently, they tend to solve strings of break ins together, or not at all. I'm a bit amazed that they catch these guys at all. They do some stake-outs and the like. I guess that there isn't much else for the police in Jackson NH (barely a crossroads) to do. I don't veen think that there's a donut shop. Bad joke at the expense of these good people. I was very pleased with the attitude and support the officer provided. I will write him a thank you note. Its about all I can do. Maybe this jerk will be caught and prints or blood typing could link him to my car.

I know one thing. Dear Thief. If I see you with my Winter Tour Phish T-shirt and the most comfortable shorts I owned (with madison springs hut patch) I will tolcock you upside the gulliver. - The Owner of Much of the Stuff You Stole
P.S. - My wallet was also in the car. Right between the drivers seat and the door.

We cleaned out the car in Randolph, where their chief if police (who was working at the gas station we stopped at) mentioned that they hadn’t had a break in in years. Most of Randolph's trailheads are very visible from Rt. 2. The Rocky Branch Parking area only has a little window to NH 16 . It's a low traffic lot of almost exclusively overnighters on a less traveled road. Next time I do Isolation, I'll park at a nearby hotel or Pinkham and take the shuttle.

Kate and I are now in Maine, relaxing, and keeping mild contact with the internet. I've got to look for jobs, somehow.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 7:49 PM

 
Well, I've completed my entry for Phish's IT t-shirt contest. These horrifically reduced samples reflect the Phish t-shirt that, likely, never will be. I'm most fond of the Mary Poppins penguin.



Note that I'm really banking on IT being something related to the segways that Mike has been seen riding about. Now, the fact that Mike has been seen riding it on stage really indicates that it is a false lead, if a lead at all. That doesn't matter. The concept seemed funny enough.



From the aft we can see that this t-shirt makes a simple, bold, statement while remaining playful.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 11:33 AM

 
I just made my phantasy phish picks. That’s out of the way. The tour starts on the 7th, but I'll be heading out west on the fifth and didn't want to forget about phantasy phish on the first statistically interesting tour since the hiatus. Three weeks in the winter was almost long enough, but not quite. Besides, there wasn't much to go on to indicate where the Round Room tunes would end up in a typical phish set. It was a gambler's tour. I did poorly. Now I am ready.

Its been a very phishy day all around. I picked up Kate and my framed cinci posters from Get Framed. They look very nice.

It was also the day of a download crisis, as Live Phish changed their policies to limit downloads to 48 hours. Previously, you could pay once and download as much as you'd like. If your cds were eaten, you could replace them. Now you have to archive shns: my favorite activity. I can't blame phish. Bandwidth costs must account for at least half of the purchase price. Repeat downloaders hurt the project, let alone guys who've been abusing the system, hacking urls and giving their log-ins to buddies. You jerks have hurt us all.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:02 PM

 
Rumors that IT will have sets by phish side projects seem to becoming more substantial. Word on the street is that ALL will be there. My guess is that their all has a different definition than mine. It could be all that released records during the hiatus: Oysterhead, Trey Band, Vida Blue, Pork Tornado and Mike and Leo. Can Stewart play? I know that he hurt his hand and had to bow out of a Doors summer tour. Probably no Oysterhead. My guess is that there will be no more than four side projects, one for each band member. So no Grappa Boom, JMP, Bad Hat, 8 ft fluorescent tubes, Surrender to Air, Dude of Life, or Tenacious D (its a stretch).
posted by Ben at (0) comments 4:21 PM

 
My recent writings seem to be in some sort of stylistic, or informational funk. I'm not entirely certain of the cause, or the solution. I know that I will continue this exercise. Repetition will strengthen the muscles of the mind. Perhaps I should pull a Hunter S. Thompson, and type pages from The Great Gatsby until the finite subtleties of stylized prose sink into my subconscious; perhaps the answer lies within Thompson's own texts. Perhaps I should type pages from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; savoring each semi colon. Could this problem lie within my stubborn, Kerouac, refusal to revise wandering text as it creeps from one languid idea to the next?

These are not questions I am prepared to answer today. They are not even the focus of my thoughts. As I drifted between letting the cat in or out of doors, working on that insufferable mathcad program, and the tubules seductive Adam Sandler movie marathon, I began to contemplate politics. I am a Republican as much by the virtue of my capitalist convictions as I am because it seemed the most appropriate step durring my high school infatuation with Marxism. Like many, I was a misguided youth chasing women with no interest in me, with whom I should have no interest, seductive ideals and unreasoned theories. I wasn't especially fond of the law of conservation of mass, nor was I fond of the capitalist system that had resulted in a recession sapped my fathers job security. Years of reason and study have changed my view of those issues (although my belief in LCM is footnoted by that whole E=mc^2 thing). Yesterday, if my chemistry teacher had stopped her jeep, gripping a nub of chalk to toss at me, and inquired if I still distrusted her teachings I would have replied that while nothing had entered or left the pack on my shoulders that it was heavier now than when I packed it. Therefore, it must have accumulated mass. She would then toss the chalk of my longings and remark about my weariness while I held tight to the miniscule (and entirely insignificant) mass that it had gained, relative to its at-rest packed state, because I was moving.

As I have passed through life some notions have gained mass, or energy, and others have withered; deflated balloons pierced by darts of some apparent truth. I suppose that this is the process of growing up, and if the carnies give you enough darts or you develop really good aim eventually all of the false balloons will burst winning you the prize of enlightenment. Of course, it is a well documented fact that all carnies are cheats so it is likely that they will issue false darts that will result in embarrassing logical breaks at dinner parties, typographical errors in massive finite element programs, typographical errors in comparatively simple mathcad programs, and the science of abstract algebra. Maybe we can pin the blame on the carnies for such ideas as "universal health care" and "prescription drug price regulation".

Now as much as I believe that the democratic party is run by a group of carnies in a weathered circus tent, I must confess an incredible interest in the democratic primary race. Not only do I get to see if the democrats fail to select a viable candidate because they are crippled by their desire to atone for the neo-republicanism of Clinton/Gore, which inspired the whole Nader campaign and quite literally sank their ship in 2000; but I can also watch the democrats shape their platform and see the fundamental logic of their arguments. (If Naders 5000+ votes in Florida went Dem, Gore would be in office and no one would know what on earth a chadd is).

I caught the tale end of some sort of roundtable discussion on Cspan this afternoon, after miraculously avoiding watching a Sandler film. Much of my exposure to the campaign in New England print media has focused on John Kerry, Dick Gephardt, and a little Howard Dean. It was nice to see the whole spectrum of candidates. From what I saw today, I'd expect Gephardt or Kerry to receive the nomination, but I believe that Joe Lieberman is really the dem's best bet at winning. I think Gephardt is centrist enough to win but he seems a little too much like Al Gore. While I'd be fun to see fast talking, and eloquent veteran John Kerry debate George Bush with his sly wit, and already well practiced smear campaign, I think that Howard Dean would make the most interesting candidate.

Now this isn't just because if he was in office, I'd have relatively few degrees of separation from the president. Me - Vince Iwinski - Phil Lesh - Trey Anastasio - Howard Dean. I have that beat with the current administration Me - Marling - Marling's College Bud/ G-Dub's campaign manager - G-dubs.

What inspires me in Howard Dean is the unusual way that he thinks about issues. To address questions of the digital divide; instead of quoting statistics about communities of which he knew nothing, or talking in abstract terms like most of the other candidates, Dean spoke about how he's only able to reach a primarily white audience campaigning over the internet. In a minority community, his staff has to use phones to reach the people. I also admired his big idea about improving education - finding a way to get working parents more involved in school. He wants to get parents to teacher conferences, pta meetings and the like to demonstrate the importance of education to there children, and cited some statistics to support his claim that children of involved parents tend to succeed. Now Dean isn't the candidate that I most agree with, that's likely Joe Lieberman, he believes in crazy things like universal health care and affirmative action. Dean's also the type of guy who says that white Americans need affirmative action is important from white politicians. He's logically consistent, if nothing else.

I'll enjoy watching the developing politics. Of particular interest will be the democrats stated "speak no evil" policy of attacking only Bush and not other candidates. I'm not sure how long that will last. The policy was minted on Friday, and it seems that calls from Kerry, Kucinich, and Dean that the way to beat Bush is not with "Bush light" are already trying to marginalize the centrists. Thats certainly a notion that would aid those candidates who promote it, but it is probably not the best for the party. While a less centrist candidate could have won in 2000, the only way to defeat an incumbent Bush waving a bloody flag is to pull his platform out from under him. They must swing moderate republican votes by following Lieberman's proposed course. Stay in the ring with Bush where he is strong,: security and family values. Then win by striking him where he is weak: the economy. Of course, I see the economy as an unavoidable consequence of 8 years of Clinton's tinkering but Joe six pack may have difficulties seeing how 9/11 is still influencing the economy let alone consider its relatively slow response to federal stimulus.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 7:18 PM

 
My muscles ache, and these words take moments from my mind. I should be cranking away at the last loose end of my maters work, but procrastination seems to have become and occupation. And so I type, thoughts abound.

Yesterday, as part of my "training" for backpacking about Washington State, I loaded my pack and trekked about some of my towns hillier roads. It was a lengthy, experiential trip. I hadn't thought about how seeing the town on foot would change my perception of it, of distance, or of the people.

Could I have anticipated some ignorant youth screaming "hit him" from his friend's car as I knelt down along Derry Road to help some confused butterfly? Or, could I have imagined the strange backyard connection of watching little kids play as I stepped on by, biting into an apple I pulled from my pack. I suppose I could have expected to encounter some faces from my past durring my rucksack wandering, but I certainly hadn't day dreamed that it would be my High School Chemistry teacher and her husband that I saw driving by. I had hoped that my epic journey would inspire a chance encounter with some Alvirnian that I've lost touch with. Of course, that wasn't really a conscious goal as I selected my route. Up the hill -> Burns Hill ->Wason -> Bush Hill ->Greeley St. Old Derry Road -> Derry Road past Alvirne -> Central Street -> Lowell Road -> Burns Hill Road (possibly with 100 ft of Pelham I'm not clear on which street continues to Lowell from that Fork) -> Down the Hill. My plan for today involves some southern loop, but its a little wet outside and I'm lazy. I also need to do some work on that loose end, write thank you notes, and design my IT t-shirt. I need to find some way into an altered state for the t-shirt. Maybe I'll stay up late to work on it - but then I won't be able to listen to music.


That's why they invented headphones.

My headphones are crap.

Stereo is trippy. There was that post on RMP about stereo effects durring Wolfman's Brother on Hoist

Hmmm.

I could go for some ginger beer.

Why not Moxie? You know that Keith wants you to drink Moxie.

And the Devil wants me to eat donuts.

A bowl of cheerios isn't really breakfast. Its 9:30 and you're already hungry again.

Enough of this senselessness. Back to the task at hand. Finding some poetry, some insight, or at least coughing up some flawed expression that I'll want to delete in two hours describing the great mixing of joy, agony, and the perpetual flat of the return loop.

Perhaps the great surprise, and most stirring memory from the day involved my two contacts with strangers. Halfway up a hill on Wason, a fellow in a truck asked if I needed a lift anywhere. I thanked him and told him that I was just walking to walk. I suppose it's not everyday that someone in a frame pack walks around on Wason Road. It will; however, be an everyday occurrence for the next couple weeks.

In my travel I also encountered a fellow on a road bike in a Salsa jersey doing a very similar loop. I know this because I encountered him three times durring my travels. The second time we conversed about my training for the trip out west, his bike training to go out to Colorado, and his need to pack train to section hike part of the AT this summer. I can't imagine that he'll need too much strength or endurance training in addition to his biking, but some time wearing the pack is necessary to figure out what all of the straps do. I think that I'm just beginning to understand them again.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 9:39 AM

 
The cat woke me up this morning at 5 am. I'm not mad, it was kind of cute. Rocky was screaming a feline variant of out beyond my door, finally opened it and walked in navigating around my piles of stuff to my bed. He put his paws on the edge and lifted his head up to see that there was in fact a person in the house, and that he hadn't been abandoned inside. He started purring loudly and jumped up into the bed to be pet. After a bit of happiness, Rocky walked around my bed, jumped off, and still purring rubbed up against everything in my room that had a corner before making his way back onto the bed. I pet him again before he started his second lap around me. He paused occasionally to paw at my covers and was very pleased when I decided to wake up and walk him down stairs. He was so happy to see me that he didn't even go out the first time that I opened the door. He wanted to be pet some more. I love that cat.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 8:35 AM

 
W00T! My dad has signed up for adelphia powerlink. Soon I will be rid of this unbearable slowness of being. I also look forward to the digital cable with that nice menu feature. MMMM menu.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 4:17 PM

 
Setlists.... hmmm....

MMW - FleetBoston Pavillion 6/18/03 Courtesy of MMWsetlists.com

One Set Only: Improv > Rise Up > Beeah, Coconut Boogaloo*, Your Name Is Snake Anthony*, [unknown or new song]**, Pappy Check > Ten Dollar High%, Seven Deadlies%, Afro Blue%, Uninvisible
Encore: Swamp Road


* w/ John Scofield
% w/ Brahim Fribgane (percussion)
** possibly Lonely Avenue

I don't have the John Scofield Band opening setlist. I was there for Tikawsomething, Freakin' Disco, a cover, and I break for Monster Booty. Kate and I were at the Robert Randolph and the Family band show at Copley Square and missed part of Sco's set. We also missed the end of Randoph's set.

Wednesday's concerts were great. The free show in Copley square was intense. Robert Randolph played that pedal steel unlike anything I've ever heard. It was magical. I'd heard good things about him, but never checked out his shows before. I'd heard one track of his on the Bonaroo cd, and that was it. I was unprepared for his intense and moving performance. I think the first tune was Marching (or something lie that) it was a crowd request and segued into Sousa's When the Saints go Marching In. Randolph got the crowd doing his dance of love in the first song. He brought so much energy to the stage a bunch of rain soaked Bostonians were ready to get down after no more than 3 minutes. It was unreal. He played Hendrix's Voodoo Chile (slight return) and nailed the intensity and wild improv of this piece. Hendrix, himself, would have been pleased. Later in the show Randolph started playing the lick from Foxy Lady, but the band would have none of that. They started playing Purple Haze under that. Randolph laughed and went right into it. The other cover in the set that I recognized was Stevie Wonder's "I just Called to Say I love You". The show was not entirely covers; those are simply the pieces that I, the uneducated, recognized. It was intense gospel funk rock, which would appeal to jamband and nonjamband music lover alike.

At something like 7:30, we left Copley square to take the T to South Station, and catch a shuttle to the Fleet Boston Pavilion for the concerts that we actually paid for. We arrived at what seemed to be midway through Sco's set - just at the start of the looping of that weird afro beat tune. I saw Sco play most of these tunes in Cleveland but was amazed at how drastically different the improv around them was. Maybe it was the big tent, or the two months touring between the shows, but these versions were stronger groove explorations than the more free-form jazz exploits I had seen in April.

I was pleased to see Scofield's amp was only moved on stage, and not packed off of it as I had really hoped to see him sit in with MMW and catch them jamming together. The guys in MMW are so insanely talented, they can structure amazing music while allowing Scofield to just go so far off that he's on. You know.

The improv that started the MMW set seemed very structured (for MMW, whose compositions are insanely varied thematic and rhythmic explorations). Medeski started out on the piano playing some fat chords and the like, nothing to ambient or free. It was almost traditional jazz, while Billy Martin banged out poly-rhythms and Chris Wood glued it all together with some fabulous work on the upright. MMW stayed rather close to some sort of groove most of the night, at least in comparison to their show at the Agora in April. They were certainly exploratory, and there were lengthy bass and drum solos, but the music resembled more of a structure than the frenzied orgy of notes, punched pianos, bass slapping, exploding percussion that defined my first MMW show. Of course, Kate didn't think it was very structured at all. By the time MMW was on we were both pretty tired from getting up too early, and grooving too hard to Robert Randolph and the Family Band.

Scofield's sit in was easily the highlight of activity at the Fleet Boston Pavilion. He meshed right in with the bane, and they played with a newfound intensity and even more joy. Scofield took the leadership role, allowing the trio to focus on finding incredibly creative ways to accompany his solos, instead of their typical shared three headed quest to find pages of musical theory, crumple them up into a ten-dimensional astrophysics of sound.

I'm really looking forward to hearing the tapes of this show, but I will say that as the night went on, I started to feel the length of the MMW set. I was just too tired to process this longer than usual offering of mentally challenging music. By Billy Martin's drum solo in Afro Blue, I was ready to go home. We stuck it out though, and enjoyed the tunes with what I can only assume was a diminished appreciation for their craft. i will say, that it seems to be cheating if 2/3s of the band can take extended breaks and leave stage but the audience is given no such mental pause. Bands like MMW, who push boundaries, limits and ideas seem to be benefited by the 2 set show structure common to jambands. Sure, I hate that 45 minute break as much as anyone - but some sort of intermission is a necessary aid to the appreciation of this music. Especially, for people in side seats who have a nice view of the projected image and a strange view of the band.

I must say this. The guy running the cameras at the fleet Boston pavilion has no idea how to shoot jam or jazz bands. if the camera ever made its way to the soloist, it was rather late into the solo. He also tended to zoom in too closely on Billy Martin to really capture the dynamics of his playing, as he tends to reach halfway across his kit/toy table for accents at seemingly random times. I was also startled at the lack of shots containing two musicians at once. Despite the large stage, mmw still set up there equipment practically on top of each other. Fitting Medeski and Wood or Wood in Martin in one shot would not be a challenge. It could also reveal some of the eye contact, and intimacy of their performance a lot better than zooming in on Chris Woods right hand as he plucked a two note trance bass line.

posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:55 AM

 
I wrote this last night, but Blogger was crippled by some software error.

From Kate's PC in Brookline, MA. Sounds of some elevated immunological discussion is providing the arrhythmic background sound. It isn’t noise, but I can't call it music. I understand too many of the words, but not enough to develop some cohesive understanding of this dialogue.

Fortunately, I can tap tap tap away and document so me of my bizarre sidewalk thoughts. Although, I'd imagine that few of these thoughts occurred to me while I was oon the sidewalk, or sitting on a stoop observing that canvas of city life

I came to town today to attend a career fair, pick up MMW/Scofield tickets and see Kate. The career fair was at the MIT gym. It amazes me how much of the MIT campus I recall from my one day there in the seventh or eighth grade and the night time visit I made with some fraternity bros during our road-trip to Boston. I found the fair with little trouble. Parking was a trick, but I found some nice meters behind the Necco factory on Albany, two blocks from campus.

Supposedly, candidates attending the fair were required to have at least a year of industry experience in Biotech. Well, I have zero but got past the approval process anyway. Fortunately, this wasn't a problem. I think that I made a couple good contacts at Invensys, and AmGen. Hopefully something productive comes from this. I certainly don't feel that it was a waste.

The weather was fabulous today, and I was profoundly moved by the view of Boston from the Harvard bridge crossing the Charles from Cambridge. The sparkling panorama of sapphire water, ivory bridging, and glass and earthen structure stretched around in omnimax glory. After weeks of near constant rain the sensation of being in the sunlight at that place at that time reached deep into my soul, stroked my connections to New England and elicited a... GP-120. GP-120? I can't write listening to this. The poetry, the flow is disrupted, and I* bat out half completed metaphors that grope for some lost meaning.

I also enjoyed observing the city from Kate's neighborhood, and a lot of it from her stoop as I awaited her return from a Bio-something retreat. It’s amazing how much the city cycles. Brookline cops drive down the street and every other cop turns left or right onto Arlington or beacon. Bikers and joggers go around and around doing hill repeats, or some sort of laps. The dog walkers cycle, so did the lady with white the black vest and aviator sunglasses. I can't guess her story. The same cars were loved tapped by overzealous parallel parkers. Perhaps, I witnessed the circulatory system feeding this beating heart of a metropolis.

Of note; I sampled Harpoons' Vermont Draft Root Beer. The soft drink was brewed in the style of prohibition root beers and was a smooth drink with licorice, root, and mild beady flavors. I dug it, but it was more of a ginger beer day.

Meal two at Anna's Taqueria. It's no Que Tal, but the carnitas et bien.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 7:30 AM

 
I had my hair cut today. Good by shaggy mop top. Good bye dark non-conformist forest. Hello scalpal ventilation. It is really amazing how much more comfortable I am sitting about without the weight of my currently ample hair. Maybe good things can come from aging, and balding. Probably not, though....

I went to Sue's hairs styling for the first time. It's a part time thing she does out of her house, and seems to be fairly successful. It was the best hair cut that I've gotten since the Old Men packed up their playboys and retired. I'll miss those guys, their Cleveland institution - the University East Barbershop - the allegations of racism, sexism, and a tantalizing magazine rack that I never touched. They were old fashioned. It scared me half to death the first time one of them lathered me up and pulled a straight razor to touch up around my ears.

Sue pulled a straight razor, but didn't lather me up - loosing some of the effect. I have no real complaints, and laughed as she charged me a dollar extra for having too much hair. Oh well. It was a pleasant experience. The only problem is that her shop is so far removed from town that it is actually in Windham. Windham! Of course, those Windham people probably would argue that the shop is so far from anything interesting of theirs that it is actually in Hudson. C'est la vie.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:40 PM

 
It's difficult to define the simple, exhilarating joy of driving through Boston at Night. High speeds, and relatively light traffic set the perfect conditions to drive the shifting roads with amorphous lanes. Its city driving, with illuminated architecture, quick intersections and mad cabbies without the stresses of needing to change lanes quickly through a wall of frustrated commuters.

I love Storrow drive at night. Maybe its because I remember the hilarious misadventures of my fraternity road trip to Boston every time I'm in the street. We were so lost, but so found. There's also something enticing about the curves, the speed, and the river and the sunrise orange tunnels that dawn just around the bend.

Today's Storrow drive exploits were the pleasant end to a weekend in Maine with Kate and the family. Someone started a hand written journal at the lake. I just noticed it for the first time this weekend, but it's been operational for much of the season. Apparently, there was a journal at the Camp in the late 60s early 70s. It might be a funny read, if I can ever get my hands on it.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 12:21 AM

 
"Here, this is my favorite burrito joint, this is." - Ozzy Osborne on Chipotle

I caught this while channel surfing and thought that it was the funniest thing yet. Especially the long shot of Ozzy enthralled by the burrito rolling process. In all fairness, these burritos seemed larger than the ones at Chipotles in Cleveland.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 3:17 PM

 
My car is back from the shop and runs smoothly, almost silently. Apparently the tension pulley on the serpentine belt went bad and ruined the alternator. I'd wager that this was the pulley that AAMCO identified last summer but Washington and Lee refused to service. I wonder if it could also have caused troubles for the transmission. I'd imagine that if it confused the controller the tranny would start to wear.... Either way, this all stems from some fatal flaw in Cleveland auto repair.

For those keeping score at home. The speedometer and turn signals are still on the fritz. The turn signals are a little annoying but I couldn't care less about the speedometer. Thrice replaced, it has failed for the fourth and final time. Besides, do I really need to know how fast I'm driving?
posted by Ben at (0) comments 1:29 PM

 
Hesitation, creative lapse, and some mysterious exhibitory force draw me back to the e-journal. What thoughts will escape this spontaneously foaming fountain? What words have I locked up inside?

The marvel, to me, is the way my inner voice is shaped, quieted, and inspired by the texts that I am reading. Wide open stylized prose with a mind altering, rapid, rambling voice is rocket fuel for the brain while more pedestrian diction leaves the mind on an aimless stroll through a park, recounting memories, often struggling to forge, to craft some cohesive argument. Perhaps it fails. That’s neither my concern nor my interest. It is the spontaneous break-beat voice that captivates me. The celebration, and relief of writing comes from paragraphs that spring into existence in a fluid dance of fingers on keys, jumping like frogs between lilies. Do frogs really jump between lilies? Does this dance really create the paragraphs, or is it some metaphorical comment on creation. Is it shaped by the media, or is creation an experience irrespective of mode?

I have long intended to craft some entry on my travels to and through Wisconsin - to visit Kate's parents, and see some of the state's scenery. Yet I haven't been able to motivate myself to do so, finding sleep, work, pieces on Adam Sandler to be more inviting. Is this a statement of my thoughts, an indicator of some reluctance to discuss my travels, or perhaps a sign that I didn't enjoy the trip as much as I'd like to. I'm honestly not sure.

The certainty is that the idea of penning some Mark Twain travelogue with half the wit, and twice the boredom is not inspiring. The chains of linear continuity are not an exciting binding. I was not writing as I was living the experiences in Wisconsin, a play by play after the fact and analytical would be complex and convoluted. That's not to my taste. There was a purpose to my travel, not one that was planned or defined, but one that grew out of the experiences there.

Kate said that hers was to see the difference between things as seen from a child’s and an adult’s eyes. My purpose was less profound. It was a study of identity, of America, and of distance. It didn't lend itself to a neat thesis, or a five or seven paragraph form. In fact it posed more questions than answers, starting an interesting conversation which may, at some point inspire a more significant work. Of course the quest to define the American identity, or the American dream has provided a life’s work for many authors. What different insights will I bring to the table: scenes from a diner in some Midwest crossroads, so overrun with Germans that its French trapper genesis is almost forgotten? What is America? It is certainly not trapped by its history. There are dramas of interest and lessons of importance within that background, but it is not even a major influence on our culture. It is, at most, one of many side-dishes on the menu of our character. The decor of this dinner was timeless, cliche, and yet perfectly fitting its setting on a street corner near the end of the Main street. Shelves were adorned with tins, the artfully crafted containers for cereal, oats, soda and the like, some remnants from the 1950s and 60s, other pieces were obviously crafted recently to cash in on the kitsch of throwback packaging. There was a photo of one of Portage's sons, in Naval colors, shaking hands with George Bush Sr. Was the aging waitress also a decoration? She had some utility, but seemed to be almost as much of a fixture as the pass windows to the kitchen. What of the stories seated at tables around us, the old man enjoying his brunch at the same table he and his wife shared for much of her life. Was his longing for her as bitter as the coffee, or was he seated with memories? What was the story of the trio of adults and two children. Brother - Sister -Wife? The boy had a lizard and looked happy. There was joy in its twitching plastic tale, moving like a wooden Mexican toy but with a body - American synthetic. Can these fake plastic toys have the same soul as those crafted from wood? It brought the child as much joy as a more natural toy could have, and seemed alive with some symbiotic bond to that emotion. If plastic toys can have soul, there must be some tangible spirituality to even the most fortified bastion of plastic glass and steel. Could that soul be observed anywhere outside of a town that last saw profitable industry before Studabakers were a joke?

What was life like for the girl wearing too much pink, and her boyfriend who was eagerly hoping to find out if her underwear was as coordinated. Given the lines of her boutique, overly citified trendy, fashions half the restaurant knew the answer was yes. Was this young man, with highlighted spiked hair too much of a gentleman to notice, or was the teasing banner Victoria’s Secret an irresistible flame blinding him with mothlike sexuality? Perhaps he alraedy knew, and this was a mid-day lovers brunch and the Wisconsin river, a romantic Midwestern Ganges of exotic delights.

What of the family a few tables ahead with late teen daughter, 11 year-old sun, and a baby looking like both mother and daughter proudly seated in one of two isles and almost completely blocking the only entrance to the restroom areas.

There was poetry in these peoples and these walls, brutish American poetry which forsakes the limits and supposed conventions of expectations, sprawling loosely across tables forfeiting meter, scheme and structure for raw expression.

The verse in a Baraboo wine cafe with $5.00 slices of pie was a little different. Wall hangings were artfully framed newspaper praises or photos of the Devils lake geology. The patrons, a plentiful rainbow of middle aged folks, and a few younger couples dining to impress while overlooking a deserted town square. Bourgeois nostalgia perfumed the air surrounding 10 dollar burritos and a surprisingly diverse wine cellar. This corner shop seemed to be a converted ice cream parlor, with the semi-circular bar around the soda-fountain turned liquor well providing most of the houses empty seats.

The idea of Wisconsin upscale took further shape on the shores of Port Washington in an establishment which is one part brew pub, one part nice eatery, and one part night time party establishment. The cuisine is rich, yet attire varied. A table of ten or so seemed to be the only suits in a place where jeans and a golf shirt, or really anything with buttons counted as dressy. The fish was served planked, with mashed potatoes on top of a giant round plank of charcoaled wood. The smoked flavors of the well seasoned board colored the fish, drawn from both the lake and the sea with the taste of the land.

Wisconsin is a diverse state where the deviations from the stretching farms, phallic silos, and occasional grain elevator are dispersed but profound. Unglaciated pillars and sandstone cliffs occasionally rise up over the cows proclaiming a geological majesty. Amidst hills, which resembled those of central PA, a natural bridge of sandstone rose amidst the trees marking the site of one of the oldest known sites of Human habitation in North America. This earthen arch was an overgrown signpost for one of the oldest eateries in American. Given Millennia, the number of Arches has doubled, they've been painted gold, but we're still eating in the cavernous dwellings below.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 11:11 PM

 


My snapfish pictures from the hike with Kate and Johnny Cool came in the mail today. This is one of my favorites. It really says that all you need is a great day, great scenery, cool people, 400 speed film, and an obliging stranger and you too can have cool shots of your friends and yourself. This one is at the summit of Mt. Lafayette.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 5:49 PM

 
Adam Sandler was the keynote speaker at Manchester Central's graduation. http://www.nashuatelegraph.com/Main.asp?SectionID=25&SubSectionID=354&ArticleID=82325 Yes, Sandler attended the same high school as my grandmother and countless other less famous others. This was front page news here, and I'm not complaining. He's a hometown hero of sorts, and it’s always nice to see him come home and recognize his roots. When I was in High School we'd hear stories of how he'd occasionally go back to Central to make fun of teachers and chill with students, although he never did so in such a news worthy fashion.

Sandler's nephew was one of the three valedictorians, an accomplishment Sandler was proud of as he informed the assembled body that he was almost valedictorian " but was narrowly beaten by 622 other students".

What I found most touching was his advice to the students that they did, whatever their success, they should always go back and visit their families. Its sound, and sentimental, and resonated with me particularly after spending a week visiting Kate's family, and moving back in with my own. It’s difficult for me to define the essential importance of family. There's no simple equation, and everyone's relationships with their parents is differential - yet there is some fundamental bond of immeasurable value. Of course, there may also be some very frustrating back history, personal failings, or other complications inhibiting the appreciation of this bond. Like so many things in life, the relationship is what you make of it. Expending a little effort to shape new memories, uncover old, and reconnect to that bond certainly eases the harvest of its rewards.

Enough of this babbling. I should write Eric on the eve of his wedding with words of well wishing.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 1:25 PM

 
I was pleased with Phish's performance of the national anthem for game four of the NBA finals. They performed with a class that I didn't expect from Vermont's merry pranksters. I enjoyed the acappella arrangement, and was pleased that each of their voices were distinct. Mike's bass lines were enjoyable, as always.

Check out the video. http://www.realeyesdesign.com/phish/anthem.mpg
posted by Ben at (0) comments 9:36 AM

 
My spirited, but ailing, car entered the shop today for a double by-pass. Hopes are high that it will survive the surgery on its transmission and alternator. If we're lucky it may even have the turn signal and door lock problems solved. The wagon of death / phishmobile is a proud vehicle with many adventures ahead.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 12:41 PM

 
Kate and I just returned from Wisconsin. Have no fear; we did not contract Monkey Pox. In fact, we did not even see a prairie dog, or even a monkey. I'd be disappointed if it wasn't, otherwise, such a great time.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 5:47 PM

 
Often I pause, and become involved in deep senseless conversations with the dingy shop-keep of my mind.

Self: What does the world need now?
Shop-keep: More cowbell?
Self: Certainly, but I think there are a number of people pushing that issue forward?
Shop-keep: Could the movement have too much support? We are talking about more cowbell, aren't we?
Self: Yes. Yes. More cowbell is key, but is not a movement that should eclipse pressure on other bell lobbies. What of A Go Go bells? What of hand bells? What of seasonal bells? Could we quench the Oberon lobby?
Shop-keep: Well, if bells aren't the cause of and solution to all of the worlds problems, I'm not sure why you are here.
Self: I'm here for answers, or questions?
Shop-keep: : 10 cents on the dollar now.
Self: What the world needs now..
Shop-keep: Is another Frank Sinatra.... so I can get you in bed.
Self: Like I need a hole in my head.
Shop-keep: That would put me out of business.
Self: That's the point. You are behind on your rent payments anyway.
Shop-keep: Well if more cowbell isn't the answer, is it more horns? Who needs money when you could have five horns!
Self: Hmmmm.... Not just any horns. The world needs more Skerik horns.
Shop-keep: I see. Well then, you'll be pleased to know that Skerik's Syncopated Taint Septet will have a record out on June 24th.
Self: W00t!



posted by Ben at (0) comments 11:49 AM

 
"It's a fun rip-snortin' religious movie that thinks it's really smart, and even if it's pretty much undergraduate three-beers philosophizing, it makes for one cool movie. I had a great time, and I'll be in line to see the third movie this fall. " - Orson Scott Card on The Matrix: Reloaded.


After spending 4 years as an undergraduate, there's nothing that I want to be further away from than heavy handed beer philosophizing - unless of course its the philosophy of beer: 4 simple ingredients and an infinite palate of flavors. I could write for pages pondering the significance of that message. - You know, in many Native American cultures the number 4 was more sacred, mystical, and potent than the number 3 was in Europe.

posted by Ben at (0) comments 3:53 PM

 
This morning I caught a little bit of the pres conference with Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak and Pres. G. W. Bush. The broadcast that I watched, MSNBC - I think - did a complete overdub for Murbarak which was amusing as lips moved completely out of sync with the sound. While I was initially annoyed by the UN style voice over, it's really the only way to go.

A little snippet of speechwriting struck me as Profound, and someone should give kudos to who ever crafted this particular speech. Bush offered US support to those who make the "hard, heroic decisions" that would lead to peace. What a way to laud the true leaders, the people that will shape history by building a proud new future. Heroes. Of course its true, but it is a major step from the traditional use of the term - especially since Sept. 11. Its a very proud word. Nothing would please me more than to see heroes rise up and welcome a peace the whole world desperately needs. It will take courage to ignore the wishes and actions of angry, violent minorities but these steps must be taken. Terrorists cannot be allowed to continue to disrupt this peace process.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 3:35 PM

 
It seems that I support the FCC's deregulation of print media. http://www.blogcritics.org/archives/2003/06/03/100840.php Given my distaste for the propagation of blaze pop music that is perhaps too easily blamed on Clear Channel, this seems surprising. Although when you consider my love of the free market, and the differences between the limitations of radio and print medias it isn't a shocking revelation.

I think that I dig this blog critics site, although the word superior is pissing me off.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 12:09 PM

 
I completed reading McNally's Desolate Angel, a biography of Jack Kerouac which was inspirational, contemplational, and captured the vibrant spirit of some of Jack's best work. Not only did the text provide some great insight into Kerouac's texts (they were all semi-autobiographical) and techniques, but it also provided some significant insight into the decline and tragic death that claimed the author. I'm fascinated by Jack Kerouac: Tragic Figure, as much as I am Jack Kerouac: Mad Spontaneous Observer.

As I was reading through the book's last chapters, sitting on my back porch in a green plastic lawn chair, I began to wonder what the next step in literature should be. How can one build upon Jack's stylized creations and push literature forward. His "fiction" inspired the 60's New Journalism, and is essentially responsible for the more personal style of modern journalism. Kerouac's work literally applied the Hiesenberg uncertainty principal to literature, and journalism, but did not do so in a fashion of forcing physics principles to apply to obtuse situations. It was the natural result of the spontaneous literary binges which drew upon memory, journals, and Benzedrine to craft prose soaked with poetry, vision, and detail. Often, Kerouac tried to sketch a scene with words, capturing all of the detail that a painter would see and weaved these intensely potent images into tales of his adventures with beat luminaries, spiritual seekers, hobos, and starving hysterics. Despite the profound innovation and importance of Kerouac's style, it was limited by its need for past experience to provide a narrative. Kerouac only published two major pieces of independent fiction, The Town and the City - which pre-dated his spontaneous style and was still less fictionalized than Alcott's Little Women- and Pic, the somewhat lengthy story of Pictorial Review Jackson.

It's clear to me that the next step is to apply spontaneous techniques to fiction, in a way which does not obscure plot and character. The question is how?

As I pondered this, I gazed back into the trees of my backyard and wondered how one could set such a scene in words and capture the depth of the trees, adequately describing the spaces between trunks and the way branching produces a contoured surface at the forest-open space border. One particular cavity caught my attention. Would it be best described as some opened arboreal geode, with oak countless oak leaves catching sunlight while dancing with a cool spring breeze or would be better envisioned as Walt Whitman's eyes whilst he's standing at a turnstile, clasping crumbling LSD sugar cubes and lusting after Robert Frost. Perhaps it was like a giant vagina, pulsing with joyous possibility as it was illuminated and penetrated by this spring day. Of the pregnant possibilities of meandering prose, yet the limitations are clear. I cannot transmit the image of that particular pocket of forest without describing precise vector coordinates for each leaf, highlight, and shadow. Even then, I'd imagine that most readers would skim over the numbers and would be content with some image of a forest, likely near their home or a childhood home. I would be writing about their forest, and not my own. Of course, reader response theory is an awkward thing which leads to the logical conclusion of choose your own adventure books that approach literature, and probably ultimately deny choice. It seems to be a flawed conclusion. I pondered more, and read on.

Inspiration struck me later, as I was cleaning my room listening to the intro jam to Umphrey's McGee's 12/30/02 show. The next step from Kerouac's spontaneous bop prose, like a Charlie Parker solo of words and sounds flowing on top of the loosely defined structure of stream of consciousness memory, would be a spontaneous creation of structures which would either self assemble, or be assembled into a more intricate, seemingly deliberate composition. Much of Umphrey's McGee's improvisation tends to be directed towards creating new song structures. They tend not to degenerate to ambient space jams, or incessant solos over a simple progression. This particular jam shifted between a and b sections of duel guitar crescendos, and bass and key driven parts with plenty of little solos and minor variations. The jam played out in a structure a jazz standard when interpreted by a creative band, but with a sound drawing upon 30 years of rock and roll twisting the brain. In fact, UM often takes pieces from their "Jimmy Stewart" improvisations and uses them as legos to build new structured compositions.

It's interesting how inspirational music can be to writing, and writing to music. Kerouac had every one of Bird's records, and often cited them as inspiration. In the Playboy interview that I linked to some time ago, Trey mentioned reading as the most inspiring thing that he does. I think the synergy between these two distinct art forms arises from the fact that everyone wants to be the king of their own playground. Few writers compare their competence, or compete economically, with their favorite trumpeter. In fact, they could sit down and write out words and images to a Jimi Hendrix guitar solo, transposing the expression between media, without accusations of plagiarism.

The lightning strike spawned by this storm of thought was the idea of spontaneously generating legos of prose to structure a new piece of fiction. I'm not entirely sure of the differing mechanics between this method, Jack's spontaneous method, and the traditional quasi-chronological development of fiction. Perhaps that can soon be determined. If I ever stop fancying myself a writer and actually become one, I would strive to develop this technique and reap its fruit. To this end, I have created a private blog collecting legos, and I shall strive to make daily contributions to both electronic repositories.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 11:50 PM

 
Yesterday was spent moving Kate out of Vanderbuilt and into her new abode. I was never a Vanderbilt fan. The building lets its residents call it Vandy, like some child. Buildings should have strong character, and inspire robust nicknames of pride, or at least badges of some sort of hilarity. Buildings should be The Cock, the Tower, the CT, SHE MAN, or referred to by some acronym allowing a differentiation between countless Smith buildings. If the dorm room, or campus convention is not sufficient, look at the great architecture of our age. Does anyone call the Chrysler building Chrissie? I hope not. What building would let its people shame it so? What kind of structure would be so humbled? Could years of beratement from post-pre-meds have corroded it's foundations of pride? Did ethernet hardwiring steal Vanderbuilt's soul? Or does Boston's liberal ground water make the building ashamed to share its name with a railroad tycoon?

Regardless, Vanderbuilt is a fortress of the past. Now Kate resides in a charming 3-bedroom apartment off of Brookline's Coolidge Corner. This hip neighborhood has a burrito joint, less than a minutes walk from Kate's door and countless Thai, Asian, or otherwise interesting restaurants within range of a short walk. Some of the roadside architecture reminds me of stuff at the cement buildings of Cedar-Fairmont and Lee, the single floor, large window structures filled with restaurants or shops. It goes without saying that Boston's bounty, well exceeds that of Cleveland. It's just startling that the style is similar.

Moving is an act best appreciated by observing the end points, and hoping that it was a state function which described the path between the two. Lets think about the two points, and not care about how we got between them.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:48 PM

 
I just finished listening to Garage a Trois' new cd Emphasizer. I am still awestruck at the vibrant energy that these folks have captured on their studio debut. They cover material as diverse as a Monk standard, funk, syncopated Hunteresque pieces, to "weird percussion shit from Maui". It's an unreal jazz explosion. The collection of tracks is anchored by Stanton Moore's grasp of the beat, shifting between driving funk drumming to subtle accents which compliment and encourage the melodies. Skerik's saxophonics are knavishly lead, or counter improvisations. The artful, and innovative use of effects to color saxophone sound provides an essential contrast to Charlie Hunter's typically clean guitar tones, and the Mike Dillon's crisp vibes work.

The talented players of Garage a Trois have assembled a pithy ten track disc, with multimedia extras, which moves briskly through a variety of rhythms, melodies, and styles taking some time to improvise but not slowing the bands progress from one idea to the next. Emphasizer is an intense jazz record providing which simultaneously satisfies music lovers listening from rock and roll or jazz backgrounds. It is not fusion, but some energetic new booty-shaking hybrid.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 10:29 AM

 
This weekend has been chalk full of excitement. There was the unexpected call from Kate that she'd just seen the train from Boston to Lowell pull out of the station, and that the next one would arrive half an hour before the concert (which was at least an hour away) started. We conspired, and sent her chasing towards the great unknowns of Haverhill.

Haverhill is a nice town, a Merrimack mill town for sure, with all of that quaint industrial New England charm. I dug it. My favorite radio station in all of the world broadcasts from Haverhill, but I've never been there. I pulled into the commuter rail lot shortly before Kate's train arrived, picked her up, hopped back on 495, and sped onwards to Portsmouth, the Red Hook and Aaron Katz.

Since the Redhook folks are starting a summer concert series featuring big name acts with $20 tickets including OAR and Dark Star Orchestra, I figured that it would have a decent sized stage area. I was incorrect; it was a small restaurant bar with a stage and a very modest dance floor. At least, OAR is playing a crappy stage in New England. That makes sense to me. UM's gigs are at more appropriately sized venues.

Aaron opened up with an acoustic set, of which I recognized two tunes. I assume that most of the others were from the new album that he's been working on. They were interesting, but I'd imagine that I'll prefer the full band arrangements. After a quick set break, we were witness to the reunion of Vitamin C - now that some half naked chick on MTV stole the name - Csquared. I hadn't seen, or even heard anything from this band, but I heard numerous positive things about them when I was in High School and they were the kings of UNH campus bands. I can see why they were so popular, playing party funk grooves that could keep feet moving and still offered a little something for the brain, Csquared was enjoyable. They weren't a mind expanding, earth shattering band, but it was nice to see. Aaron's drumming seemed a bit bored, but after locking in with Percy Hill bassist John Lecesse, I'm sure that a lot of bassists would seem rhythmically limited.

After a crazed drive back from Portsmouth, we crashed to awake early and go hiking. Johnny Cool's roommate didn't show, but it was still a good time. Apparently, it was even Johnny Cools birthday. I'm glad that I called him, it would have been uncool to have the fraternity forget his birthday. Although, i was unaware of it at the time.

Yesterdays weather was the nicest since I arrived in new England. It had been fairly perpetual rain for at least a week. Fortunately, in the mountains the sun was shining, the trees were green, and everything was happy. We ascended the falling waters trail to the Franconia Ridge, then ridge walked to the summits of Little Haystack, Lincoln, and Lafayette. The views were spectacular, with the cliffs of Cannon on one side, and the contoured green expanse of the Pemigeuwasset wilderness on the other nature was inspirational. Unfortunately, the recent weather had prompted some massive hatch of high altitude insects with red legs attached to black wings and bodies. They didn't bite but were, quite litterally, everywhere.

It had been quite some time since I last hiked in the Whites Durring the warm weather months. The return was very refreshing, although somewhat sweaty. I missed the presence of my friend, the old man. His constant gaze over Franconia Notch was sometning that I had always taken for granted. He was the face of the mounatins, a character and an insppiration for New Hampshire as he looked over this spectacular creation. I suppose thatin his passing it is clear that it is now our turn to watch over and protect this crucible of New Hampshire's pride. Nature's harsh trials, and unpredictable nature no longer deters creeping industry from consuming the most inhospitable terrains. Now, I am an engineer - certainly not a man who stands against industry, but a man who supports a moderate disciplined efficient growth. There is no reason that cities should sprawl outward when their urban core is surrounded by a ring of decaying, unused warehouses. Industry does not need to shed its skin and relocate every time that it generates a more advanced structure. These old sites should be demolished and reused. If there is one thing that men must recycle, it is land.

Similar thoughts of progress and environmentalism entered my head as I saw the great plume of black smoke ascend from the cog railway on Mt. Washington up to the wet clouds above that peak. Never in my life have I seen anything spew forth such voluminous pollution. The coal-burning Cog is grand fathered from clean air legislation, as it is a historic relic, a marvel of engineering from its time, and probably one of the few coal burning trains left in America. I've seen its plumes of smoke before, and walked across the soot coated rocks below its tracks, filled with disgust and a hatred for a machine which violates the wilderness. Those were not my emotions yesterday. I was awestruck by how I'd never seen anything like it elsewhere, and how it must have been omnipresent in the mid to late 1800s, when railways were everywhere, even climbing the tallest mountain in the Northeast. Perhaps the cog should be preserved, not only for its value as testament to ingenuity and the technological drive of its period, but also as a testament to the success of the environmental movement. Air pollution is no longer a visible foe. Activists concern themselves with chemicals in with concentrations on the order of parts per million - well below the threshold of site and smell. Look out at the cog, and see the progress that we have made in lessening our impact on this environment. Look at that cloud of smog. Nothing comparable to even 1/100th of that smog spews forth from the vilest smokestack rising from Cleveland's most antiquated plant. The dread beast is slain.

Above the tree line the view inspired contemplation, and motivated tiring limbs to hike onward enjoying the lovely alpine zone, but as we descended the Old Bridal path, motivation waned and tiredness crept in. The clouds were also darkening. This uncharacteristic Pacific Northwest rain readied to return. Fortunately, we reached the car and were on the highway, heading back to Nashua and a birthday dinner at Lui Lui's, before the first drops fell.
posted by Ben at (0) comments 8:23 AM