I have edited these somewhat, as it was getting a little too long. If you want to be on my e-mail list, just contact me at bill@billgarvin.com. You may want to read these from the bottom to the top, as the more recent are more amusing (or disturbed). However, reading them in chronological order is something like observing someone's slow slide into dementia.
10/3/03
Hey, the almost legendary garvin here. Well, it's October already, and while it seems inconceivable, I'm still not famous. I've thought a little about this, and being old, fat and questionably talented can't have anything to do with it. It must be due to my lack of corporate tie-ins. So I have entered into heavy negotiations with Ace Hardware and Jimmy Dean's Pure Pork Sausage to bring you the "Hammers and Hot Links Tour," coming soon to a hardware store near you. Tour information will be posted at selected bus stops and bowling alleys.
11/12/03
Hey guys, garvin here. Last month I decided my path to well-deserved and long overdue superstardom lay in corporate sponsorship, and Ace Hardware and Jimmy Dean's Pure Pork Sausage were going to put on the "Hammers and Hot Links Tour."
Sadly the tour had to be scrapped. It seems that they were giving away free hot links with every purchase of a roofing hammer, and unfortunately the grease made the hammers impossible to hold on to, leading to a rash of personal injury lawsuits.
I look forward to securing another corporate sponsor or two. Pork products and the blues seem like such a natural, so maybe Spam or some pork rind company. Hey, I could set up my gear in the butcher shop in one of those 24 hour markets, and play for all those blues lovers dying to get some Spam at three in the morning.
1/4/04
The almost legendary garvin here with thrilling news from Apache Junction. I have almost decided to take under advisement the possibility of thinking about running for city council in Apache Junction.
I have a couple of platforms in mind: Vote For Me, I've Got Really Cool Hair For An Old Dude, or maybe, Garvin, Dragging Apache Junction Forward Into The 19th Century. A. J. really could be a beautiful place, but of course we need to continue to respect our traditions.
A friend relatively new to A. J. asked me about landscaping his yard. He was thinking about hauling in some rusted derelict cars to add the proper ambiance. I suggested old washers, dryers and refrigerators instead. They're lighter, easier to move, and if you have pesky neighbor children, the refrigerators make excellent traps.
Hey, don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like kids. I just really don't much like anybody (except maybe bartenders). Hey, that's a new campaign slogan: Garvin. He Won't Play Favorites. He Doesn't Like Anybody.
2/4/04
Hi guys, garvin here with February venues and an introduction. I'd like you to meet Katee Murphy from Peoria, AZ. Katee loves to sing karaoke (a little off-key, and with a nasal tone, since she is allergic to the family cat, Mr. Scruffs), and is responsible for the growing international trade deficit.
Here's how it works: Since Katee and her ilk love karaoke, bar owners across America no longer hire lousy garage bands, denying them the opportunity to become mediocre garage bands. Instead, we get Britney Spears lip-synching, and Clay Aiken. As a result, our number one export, American rock and roll, is no longer cool, and that affects all our products being sold overseas. Levis aren't even made in America anymore, mothers in Somalia are feeding their infants breast milk instead of Coca-Cola, our very way of life is being threatened.
Join the groundswell of support demanding that criminal penalties be imposed on karaoke singers, DJ's, and anybody generally considered to be uncool, save American rock and roll, and save America!
4/13/04
Hi guys, garvin here with a few thoughts. I haven't sent anything out lately because I'm too lazy to play anywhere but Capotto's, but there's an important issue that needs to be discussed. With America's new foreign policy of taking over countries (Afghanistan, Iraq), I'd like to point out that there is another country we should have done something about long ago. It has a history of widespread corruption, civil rights abuses, armed revolts, oil reserves, and best of all, miles and miles of beaches!
Of course I'm talking about Mexico. It's time for a regime change, because darn it, it's probably the only way you and I can get that beachfront property we so richly deserve. The only problem is, what do we do with all those pesky Mexicans? Maybe if we asked real nice, they would just leave. (Sorr-ree, we took over your country. Don't you have someplace you'd rather be? I hear Guatemala is nice this time of year!) So, write your Congressman, because I'm sure he'd like a beachfront casita too.
5/21/04
Hey folks, garvin the Amazing Rock God here with a few ideas. As you may or may not know, I've been considering running for city council, and here's an idea I might use as part of my platform. Since fire season is almost upon us, it brings to mind the controlled burns they do in the mountains, and how it could be applied here in Apache Junction.
Here's how it would work: identify a trashy neighborhood, bulldoze the perimeter, and burn it to the ground. Of course, public safety is my utmost concern, so we could put up signs way in advance (say, two or three hours) to let people shag ass out of there.
Yes, you might lose a voter or two and some household pets, but think of the advantages. We could finally build something worthwhile here (blues clubs that pay aging guitarists obscene amounts of money would be my first choice), and people in trashy neighborhoods might start cleaning them up for fear that they'll be next. Then you wouldn't need homeowners associations, saving precious taxpayer dollars. You could even get some heartwarming human interest stories, if Fluffy the poodle or Mr. Bubbles the goldfish manage to survive the inferno. Frankly, I don't see a downside.
6/16/04
Hey, folks, garvin here with my latest campaign ideas, and some changes at Cappotto's. Having played extensively in Scottsdale and other Valley cities, it has struck me that, while we certainly have attractive women in Apache Junction, they are generally, shall we say, less "enhanced" than the women in other cities. It seems that there, most of them have had a boob job, face lift or other work done. We probably have a little less disposable income here, and so there is a little less nipping, tucking, and strategic expanding than elsewhere. If we are to compete in this area, I feel that our residents could use a little help. Therefore, if elected to city council, I propose that we send out to each household a
PERSONAL PLASTIC SURGERY KIT
for implants
2 medium ziploc baggies (filled with saline solution)
1 exacto knife
10 feet of 10 pound test fishing line
for liposuction
1 turkey baster
for facelift
1 small roll duct tape (with instructions-pull face tight and tape in place)
for anesthesia
1 pint tequila
With the exception of the tequila, I think we can get this done for about $2.17 per household, money well spent for the beautification of
AJ.
9/23/04
Hi there, garvin (the amazing rock god) here with more thoughts on what can be done to improve life in Apache Junction. As you may or may not know, I have been promoting some innovative programs, such as controlled burns of trashy neighborhoods, and issuing do-it-yourself plastic surgery kits, to improve our image and way of life here in AJ.
My latest proposal is more of an economic recovery package. Growing up in rural California, I knew many people that would take cars that were no longer roadworthy and "part them out", dismantling the car and selling the parts. Now, looking around me here in AJ, I see a lot of you driving cars that certainly don't look roadworthy, and I know that you can use the extra money (for bail, child support, lawyers fees, etc.) , so I wonder what you are waiting for. With my new, innovative Part It Out NOW! program, you can drive your old heap while putting ready cash in your pockets!
Here's how it works: all you have to do is some clear thinking about what you really need out of a car. Do you really need a passenger and rear seat, considering that your wife and kids left you six months ago? Take 'em out and sell them! Your air conditioner hasn't worked for the past five years, so why do you need windows, or a windshield? SELL 'EM! It seldom rains in Arizona, and now you
don't have a windshield, so there go the wipers. How many lug nuts do you really need on your wheels? Isn't four or five overkill?
10/27/04
Now, my latest idea for improving life in Arizona. We have been in a drought for many years, and at the same time, something like 300,000 snowbirds come to Arizona from areas that have entirely too much water. They also have holding tanks in their RV's that hold anywhere from 30 to 60 gallons of water. I think we shouldn't let them into this state unless they can prove their holding tanks are full and ready to be dumped into an appropriate reservoir. Here's how it would work:
(Interstate 40, Stateline outside of Gallup, New Mexico)
Arizona State Trooper : "Afternoon, Ma'am. If you'll just show me your tanks, you can go on through"
Fern Hoffwilter, 74 year old retiree from Minnesota : "You'll never take me alive, Copper!"
(guns engine, running roadblock)
Arizona State Trooper (takes aim, tries for tires, inadvertently hits gas tank instead. Camera pans to trooper's mirrored sunglasses, showing orange fireball with background of glorious Arizona sunset) : "Kinda purty"
This could be made into a commercial to be shown in all the Midwestern states to insure compliance, and we can keep on watering our lawns and golf courses, even in the winter.
11/22/04
Hi guys, garvin here. Recently I broke a taboo and talked about politics. Many of you wrote back in support, and many of you I royally pissed off. In that spirit, now I will take on that other taboo, religion.
As most of you are probably unaware, I am the Revered Founder of the 1st Church of Unrepentant Hedonism, a nonaligned, and profoundly dis-organized religion. We accept all denominations: Christians, Muslims, Zoroastrians, tens and twenties. Services are usually held in my back yard, although sometimes at remote locations (also called "fishing" or even "sagebrush fishing" ) or at selected bars and restaurants.
Some of the more important rites and rituals are: The Sharing of the Fermented Grape, The Breaking of the Bread, The Slicing of the Cheese (and occasionally the cutting of the cheese ), and The Stumbling and Skinning of the Knee. As no religion seems to operate well without guilt, some of the members participate in the atonements: The Apologizing for Lewd Behavior, and The Swearing to Never Do It Again.
However, since this is supposed to be the un-repentant church, I fear we may be ripe for a schism. Arguments will ensue, and of course then armed conflicts are inevitable. So choose your sides now, repentant or unrepentant, and be sure to stock up on assault weapons while the ban is lifted.
12/20/04
Hey, garvin here. So there I was, in my comfy Fila (TM) shorts, by my PebbleTec (TM) pool, smearing Hawaiian Tropic (TM) lotion on my somewhat corpulent body, sipping a Jose Cuervo (TM) margarita, when I was handed the only thing missing in my life to that point needed to transport me directly to consumer nirvana.
Yes, of course I'm talking about the Racquet Zapper (TM). This device, shaped like a racquetball racquet, vaporizes flying insects with a somewhat frightening yet strangely satisfying KA-ZAP!! of electricity, gratifying primal urges both to hunt and to torture things smaller than you. Sadly, my bliss was short-lived. The packaging seemed to promise me that I could zap insects to my hearts content without leaving the comfort of my lounge chair.
But, alas, Arizona has very few flying bugs, which led to me stalking my backyard with murderous intent, which of course meant unwanted exercise. So I'm going to write to the manufacturer and suggest they market a flying bug breeder that releases them one at a time, like skeet for a shotgun. Maybe then I can achieve consumer nirvana again, however brief.
3/13/05
Hey, garvin, the amazing rock god, here, saying you better watch out. I don't know about where you live, but out here it's the height of snowbird season. There are gangs of them roving the streets, on foot with their attack dogs (usually Pekingese) or in their souped up electric golf carts.
When you pass them, they almost always flash you a gang sign, which consists of raising up a hand, palm first, and waggling it back and forth in what has to be a threatening manner. Then they bare their teeth in a snarl and say "How ya doin'?", which has to be slang for something.
I just know that if you checked, in with the golf clubs (yes, clubs!!) you would find cans of spray paint in the back of the carts, and any day I expect to see graffiti in my neighborhood, like "Lutheran's Rule!" or "Grey Power!" And then there will be a rash of break-ins, only they won't take anything, they'll probably leave a casserole and an invitation to an ice cream social. So just to be safe I snarl back, flash that gang sign at them and hope it's the right response. You might think I'm being paranoid, but I don't want to find gang of snowbirds waiting for me in the parking lot. A guy could get hurt by one of those walkers.
5/12/05
Being a musician, from time to time I think about alternate sources of income. I've thought about teaching tennis like I used to, which is pretty cool, 'cause you just stand there and make people run back and forth after the ball, telling them how lazy they are (Move your feet! Run! Now get this one!) and all the things they're doing wrong (You have to imagine the ball is a ripe mango, and you're trying to pick it. You're obviously thinking of a guava. Guavas grow much lower. Now, reach for that mango, reach, you idiot!), but there's no air-conditioning, and I might sweat, something I am profoundly opposed to.
So I stopped to think, what else do I know about. And it dawned on me. I can give drunk driving lessons! (Note: this does not condone this activity. Get a sense of humor, people.) Quite often, I have a drink or two and drive home, and have never been ticketed or even stopped, so I must have some expertise.
Once I was stopped at a sobriety checkpoint when I was completely tanked, but that's a long story and required skills not easily taught. So my student and I would get in an old junker in the middle of the desert, do five shots of Jaeger, and I could share the finer points: drive straight, closing one eye if necessary to eliminate double vision, not too fast or too slow, this being the one time when the speed limits in Arizona actually mean something to you, and avoid any place where there might be another car. This means that freeways, highways, city streets and most dirt roads are off limits.
Unfortunately, that pretty much just leaves your own property, and even then I would make sure your wife, kids, and household pets are somewhere safe.
6/15/05
This months topic: text messaging for men. I don't get it. I know I'm old, unhip, and grouchy, but a friend just told me his teenage son sent 700 text messages last month, saying such intensely pithy and important things as "Hi!". Why, he wondered, doesn't he just call the person and actually talk to them? Then, because it's cumbersome to text message, we have all the shorthand like LOL and emoticons.
I understand that in Japan, where the written language is almost impossible, teenage girls have phones that send various facial expressions showing a wide range of emotions, so they can easily send messages important to teenage girls, such as "how R U?" Reply: "I am partially happy, but with a trace of wistful disappointment and longing over shoes my mom won't buy me, and a twinge of irritable despair because Sachiro still hasn't replied to the text message I sent him over 30 seconds ago!"
Imagine, they do all this with emoticons! Of course, they need about 4,000 different symbols to express the wide range of female emotions.
Phones for men though, could be much simpler. Real men (insert appropriate deep grunting noise here) don't obsess about emotions, shoes, and what other people think about them, because they only have 4 needs: food, drink, sleep, and sex. So the only emoticons needed for men are Hungry :-0, Thirsty :-o, Sleepy | -), and Horny ;-), followed by a happy or sad face to show whether or not these needs are being met.
So here's a man's text message: "how R U?" Reply: (choose from the following 8 options) Hungry Happy (I'm eating), Thirsty Happy (I'm drinking a beer), Sleepy Happy (I'm taking a nap), Horny Happy (I'm having sex) or Hungry Sad, Thirsty Sad, Sleepy Sad, or Horny Sad. Come to think of it, you can eliminate 2 of them, because if I'm sleeping or having sex, I'm not answering the dang phone!
7/15/05
I want to alert you athletes out there to a little publicized health risk associated with sports drinks, and propose the logical alternative. We all know the importance of staying hydrated here in Arizona, particularly in the summer. What isn't talked about very often is the dark side, overhydration. It happens when people force themselves to drink too much.
Their kidneys can't keep up with processing the water, and can even result in death. (this is no joke). Which leads me to suggest my favorite sports drink, BEER! Yes, I think the reason I still play tennis after all these years is that I learned to play at a public park where we would get a case of beer and play doubles until we couldn't quite make contact with the ball.
But --- IMPORTANT MEDICAL FACT!!! --- it is impossible to get overhydrated drinking beer. If you drink too much beer, you fall down, or pass out, or puke, but you can not keep drinking. So, it only makes sense to me, in the interest of public safety, that at marathons from now on, volunteers should pass the runners cups of Bud Light instead of that seemingly innocent, yet insidiously evil beverage, water. Remember: Beer - It's Not Just For Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner Anymore. It's also the safest sports drink.
8/13/05
(Please Note: the following may be disagreeable to some. Don't take it too seriously, I'm just on new medication)
Hi guys, Bill Garvin here. Please take the time to answer this short quiz. It just may save your life.
1. Are you Caucasian (preferably Irish) ? Yes ___ No ___
2. Are you a US citizen? Yes ___ No ___
3. Are you heterosexual? Yes ___ No ___
4. Are you a member of the Church of Yes ___ No ___
Unrepentant Hedonism? (See my website,
www.billgarvin.com for details)
5. Are you a musician (preferably guitar) ? Yes ___ No ___
6. Are you considered to be slightly mentally
imbalanced by many? Yes ___ No ___
Here's the disturbing news: If you answered no to any of the above, you are not part of my clan, and I am genetically programmed to hunt you down and kill you. The only reason I don't is because of the thinnest veneer of civilization that overrides my lizard brain instincts. The lizard brain is that part of everyone's brain that controls things like instinctive response to fear, or anger, and the desire to watch American Idol.
This all started in the earliest dawn of prehistory (about 1950 ) when Early Man (and Elvis) would gather in small clans to forage, mostly for burgers and fries. If another clan showed up, they would be perceived as different, and a threat. This was important for the survival of the clan, since there were only so many burgers to go around. A conflict would arise, sometimes resulting in the losers being killed and even eaten. Many of our early rock icons, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and Elvis, were lost in this way, yes, victims of cannibalism every one.
Then came the sixties, and with the help of drugs, instead of being afraid of strangers, you had sex with them. They gave birth to the slacker generation, Generation X, who really can't be blamed for their lack of motivation, since the example they had to follow were parents who only cared if they had enough pot and Pepperidge Farm sugar cookies to get them through the week.
But now it seems we have plenty of clan behavior again. We have the Liberal Clan, the Conservative Clan, the Religious Right, Muslim Extremists, on and on. Each of them have no tolerance for anyone who thinks or acts differently than they do. The fact is, all of us are racist, and intolerant, because it was at one time a necessary survival instinct. It's how we act on those instincts that make the difference.
So if you come up to me and tell me I have to believe in your particular brand of politics or religion or whatever, and I start acting strange, it's because I'm afraid that if I disagree with you, you're going to want to eat me.
9/03/05
Hi, guys, garvin or A.R.G. here. I just found something I wrote down many years ago. I thought my slide into mental illness was a fairly recent phenomenon, but no, apparently I have been demented a long time. So here it is.
You know what I hate? I hate -
1. The shape of Italy. Just because their country is shaped like a boot, they think they can make us pay more for their shoes. And just when are they going to stop kicking Sicily around?
2. One out of ten eggplant. Could be more, I'm not sure, but at least one out of ten eggplant is guilty of doing nasty perverted things behind your back. I mean, just look at them. They're all smooth and purplish black, who knows what they're planning. I don't even want to think about it.
3. People who don't hate other people. They're weak and spineless, and they're destroying the moral fabric of this country. Take a stand, form an unshakable opinion based on facts that can never be proven, and then hate everybody that disagrees with you. That's what makes this country strong. If we just got rid of all the white, black, red, and yellow people this world would be a better place. Me, I'm not white, I'm freckled. Freckled people are O.K.
4. Buzzwords. In fact, I hate the word buzzword. It reminds me of the constant ringing in my ears. What you hear when you hold a seashell up to your ear isn't the ocean, it's all the buzzwords you've ever heard still bumping around in there. It gets worse when you get older.
10/13/05
Hi, folks, Bill Garvin, Amazing Rock God, here with October's venues and a brief message from the Bacon Advisory Board:
Recent scientific studies by such esteemed centers of learning as the Pork Products Institute and the College of Porcine Studies, who were in no way bribed by enormous grants from the Bacon Advisory Board, have independently confirmed that, yes, bacon is Nature's Miracle Food!
We all know that everything tastes better with bacon. Bacon and eggs, bacon lettuce and tomato, bacon on pizza, bacon and peanut butter sandwiches, bacon sorbet, bacon and chocolate, bacon and champagne spritzers, the list goes on and on. But who knew it was so good for you!
Yes, bacon is packed with protein, which of course builds muscle and has a slimming effect, but it also is loaded with EFA's (essential fatty acids) which gives you and your dog a glossy coat. In my case, the hair on my back has never been so shiny as since I have switched to a bacon intensive diet. I suppose this would also work for the hair on your head if you happen to have enough hair to notice.
Bacon is loaded with calories. And what are calories? Fuel! Bacon gives you the energy you need to get you through your stressful day.
Bacon has a very satisfying crunch. Trying to quit smoking? Try eating 12 pounds of bacon instead. You'll forget all about those nasty cigarettes!
Bacon also has a natural lubricating effect. Why spend money on costly laxatives when you can enjoy a nice meal of Bacon - Nature's Miracle Food! Good and good for you!
11/09/05
Like many of you, this time of year I get requests from those people who live in less fortunate climes to accommodate them for a visit. Unlike you, I welcome them warmly and with no second thoughts, because I have taken steps to ensure their visits will be brief.
My guest bedroom is equipped with what is known as a "trundle bed." This is a bed where one part stores under the other when not in use. When in use, the two parts don't mesh exactly, so it's kind of like sleeping on stairs. It's also exceedingly lumpy, and a little too short for most people.
To get to the bed, you have to pick your way through the excess speaker cabinets I have stored in there, the larger of which (oh, say 100 lb. or so) are unstable and in danger of falling.
Then step over the cat litter box, and the pile of dirty gym socks I have left there, and you can rest peacefully while contemplating the blinking neon Budweiser sign I so thoughtfully placed in the window.
My studio is conveniently located in the next room, and since I'm a bit of a night owl, you may hear some inexplicable thumping, followed by Van Halen-esque guitar at, say, 4 in the morning.
Have a nice visit!
Oh, and did I mention that the air-conditioning doesn't seem to work in here? Sorry!
1/04/06
Well, the holidays have come and gone, and I'm sure most of you participated in one or more of the regular holiday traditions, buying and trimming a Christmas tree, decorating the house with lights, etcetera, etcetera. I thought I would take a moment and share with you some of my special holiday traditions.
One of the first things I do is pick up the first available cold virus, usually from a passing stranger (as any cold virus will do), nurture it with poor diet and late nights in smoky bars until it becomes the Traditional Christmas Sinus Infection. What fun! This year my wife participated too.
Another special event is the Traditional Christmas Melting of Santa. We buy a Santa candle, and on Christmas Eve set him on fire so we can watch him slowly melt. Poor Santa! By the way, isn't it odd that if you change the placement of just one letter, Santa becomes Satan? That they both live in places of temperature extremes, dress in red, have supernatural powers, minions to do their bidding, and sit in judgment of us? Just wondering.
Also, here in Apache Junction we have some more events you can participate in, should you be so inclined, such as the Traditional Christmas Drinking Spree, which leads to the Traditional Christmas Domestic Disturbance call to the police, which can lead to the Traditional Christmas Restraining Order. Hey, you celebrate the holidays in your way and I'll celebrate them in mine. This is America, after all.
3/11/06
ARG here with a few thoughts on making some extra cash from items you probably just have lying around the house.
I've always been attracted to ultra-modern home furnishings, but the problem is you really can't have any newspapers, books, or old pizza boxes and empty wine bottles lying around without destroying the look. Not only that, but you yourself really should be elegantly slim and dressed completely in black (disdainful sneer is optional). Being somewhat overweight and usually dressed in shorts and flip flops, this really doesn't work for me.
But if you've been to a mall lately, so many of the clothes have been "pre-distressed," (jeans with rips, holes and patches, plaid shirts that look like they've been dipped in motor oil) that it occurs to me, many of us own furniture that would match these clothes perfectly, so why not market it that way. That plaid and walnut couch with the cigarette burns that was destined for the dump (or, in AJ, the front porch) is suddenly a hip conversation piece. The baby blue carpet with those stains from when your puppy had an "accident" can be reused as a throw rug in a posh Scottsdale foyer. The possibilities are endless. So instead of giving this stuff to Goodwill, lets create an interior design phenomena called "AJ Chic," and all those people who purposely dress like the homeless will finally blend in with their surroundings.
6/2/06
Hi, Bill Garvin here with June's schedule and a few thoughts. First of all, I get the impression that a lot of you think I hardly work at all, just a few hours here and there playing my guitar. Nothing could be closer to the truth.
No, really, I spent countless minutes telling my wife to change the strings on my guitars, and lots of time thinking about all the songs everybody always requests, that I'm never going to play, and coming up with new excuses for why I haven't learned any of them. "I'm too lazy" is my all time favorite. It's to the point, you can't argue with it, and I don't have to admit that I find your all time favorite song to be a revolting piece of trash. No, your song is quite wonderful, I'm just too lazy.
Being self-employed is perfect. If I want, I can spend a lot of time getting my guitar to make farting noises, or see if I can make it sound like various types of waterfowl. I can spend hours reading guitar magazines, and, as I suspect is true of most readers of these publications, bitch endlessly about the no-talent hacks they interview, and moan about why I haven't been "discovered". It's not all play and no work, however. After a five year hiatus, I recently started practicing the guitar again, playing scales, etc. This lasted for about four days. I'm back to waterfowl. But maybe I'll try some zoo animals.
10/2/06
Well, it happened again. There I was, at Canyon Lake, holding services for the Church of Unrepentant Hedonism, or as you nonmembers would call it, having a picnic, when despite the fact that there were miles of deserted shoreline to either side of me, a family of six, complete with toddler in pull-up diapers, decided to occupy a spot approximately two and a half feet from my chair.
While this crew was relatively polite, I felt that my religious freedoms were being interfered with, for as you know my ceremonies often include the Drinking of the Grape, the Cutting of the Cheese, the Stumbling, Falling Down and Scabbing of the Knees and other activities not generally suitable for small children.
At least they were better than a previous outing, when a rabble of preteen boys were throwing rocks right where I was fishing. This didn't bother me until a duck came along, and they started throwing rocks at it. When they finally hit it, they started howling with glee, and all of a sudden, I could see this turning into a Lord of the Flies moment. I could see them filing their teeth into points and devouring waterfowl raw, and then turning and eyeing my admittedly meaty leg with hunger. So I suggested to them loudly that they knock it off. One of them muttered to his buds, "Old people are mean."
So I have invented the Mean Old Person solution to this problem: the Picnic Party Porta-Barrier! Using an ordinary car battery, an ingenious series of step-up voltage transformers, strands of wire and stakes, you too can secure your picnic area with a usually non-lethal electrical fence, sure to keep out crawling babies, pesky kids and wet dogs. Just set it up according to the easy to follow instructions, and finally enjoy peace of mind.
11/12/06
I'm the world's best trout fisherman. I can say this with the same confidence as those idiots who wear hats or T-shirts with "World's Greatest Lover" on them. My secret? Catch and release. Not only is it admired among many fishermen as the proper thing to do, I can cruise around on my boat all day, catch nothing but a sunburn and bug bites, and still claim to have released untold mounds of trout.
Of course it's lying, but that is a time-honored tradition among fishermen. It's all in how you do it. If no one else has caught anything, when asked you say, "Oh, I caught a few." If everyone else (but you) has been catching fish, you talk in terms of pounds, not numbers. You, of course, are not satisfied with these little fish everyone else has been catching, and have been "Hog Huntin'."
Say it with a straight face, and show them some obscure lure available only out of state, colored green and pink with blue polka dots, and swear it's the only thing the fish will bite. Where's all the fish on your stringer? Why, you put them all back, of course. Soon you will be a legend.
12/24/06
Well, it's that time of year again, the holidays. There a lot I actually like about this time of year, the parties, the excessive drinking and eating, sparkly, garish decorations and lights, cute teenagers in skimpy elf costumes (whoops, how did my private fantasies sneak in here?!).
All of these things fit in quite well with the C.o.U. H. (Church of Unrepentant Hedonism) of which I am the proud founder and quite possibly the only member. My wife purports to be a member, but has been known to express regrets after a only few days of partying. This smacks of repentance, so I may have to excommunicate her, immediately cutting church membership in half. But I digress.
The only real problem with the season is the music. Nothing gets me in a foul mood faster than hearing some sappy Christmas music, whether it's sung by people, chipmunks or flatulent dogs. I mean come on, we've heard these same nursery rhyme tunes sung since we were kids, and hearing "The Twelve Days of Christmas" drone on and on for the eleventy-billionth time, sung by some gender-neutral white-bread clones, is supposed to make me cheerful?
Ask me to play some christmas song and I'm more likely to want to rum-pa-pa-pum on your ass. I am making an exception here and there, though. I'm doing a party for some good friends, who really, really, really want christmas songs. So I'm doing "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.
1/08/07
"WARNING: THE FOLLOWING MAY BE OFFENSIVE TO ANYONE WITH A SHRED OF HUMAN DECENCY LEFT.
But what else is new. OK, I want to talk about the guys who tried to climb Mt. Hood in December, with a big storm on its way. Unless you've been living in a cave, you've heard about them. I mean, I intentionally try to stay oblivious to things, and I've heard about them. And yes, it's a tragedy, and I feel sorry for those they left behind. But, come on, I've been at the Mt. Hood ski area, in the summertime. You're thinking, so what, a lot of ski areas are open in the summer, giving mountain bikers a lift so they can ride down the dusty ski trails. No. Mt Hood in the summer has five foot snow banks. The U.S. Olympic ski team trains there throughout the summer. To try to climb it in December is ............. you fill in the blanks.
I think if you're going to try something this stupid, you need to sign a waiver stating that you know search and rescue is not going to try to save your ass unless it is relatively safe to do so. On Mt. Hood, it would be safe when the snow melts, so that is, you guessed it, never. Otherwise, search and rescue is at risk, and they have to send more guys out to save the search and rescue guys, and you and I have to pay for it. ( It's kind of like Iraq.)
Besides, there are plenty of other good winter sports out there. I know from personal experience that Portland and Hood River have many excellent bars and breweries. They kind of have to, because it rains so much that if you spend any amount of time outdoors, you essentially turn into a large, mobile fungus. They offer a wide variety of pub sports, with varying amounts of danger involved. On the low end is the machine where you manipulate a claw to grab a stuffed animal, although I once saw some losers physically pick up the machine and shake out a plush toy. Do that, and you risk getting crushed by the machine. On the high end of risk, buy me a couple of drinks and challenge me to a game of darts. You may end up with some very interesting piercings. Another high risk pub sport is simply walking into any bar in Wyoming without a cowboy hat on.
Or another winter sport, Arizona Road Roulette, can be quite thrilling. This is where you put a migratory species, the Minnesota Snowbird, on the same roadway as the indigenous species, the Arizona Leadfoot. The Snowbird wants to travel at 10 miles an hour under the speed limit, while the Leadfoot wants to go 40 miles an hour over the speed limit. What fun! Watch the bird fingers fly!
Of course, I'm a perfect driver, as I'm sure all of you are. I never drive much more than 20 miles an hour over the speed limit, occasionally use my turn signals, and rarely crash into anybody with lethal consequences. So, enjoy the winter sport of your choice, but do your mountain climbing in the summer.
1/31/07
A few thoughts, because I can't help myself. A lot of my original music and arrangements fall into the category of smooth jazz and even new age music, which unfortunately puts me in the same category as those adventurous souls from Sedona who play such instruments as banana squash drums, flutes made from old hash pipes, and Ethiopian banjos strung with organically grown hemp.
"I was sojourning in Bolivia, communing with the spirits in the crystalline mountains, when I became so inspired by how close the natives live to the land, that now when I perform, I always wear Bolivian yak hair underwear", says Rajneesh M'Kumba Thundercloud (formerly Arnie Goldfarb of Hoboken)
O.K., I know there aren't any yaks in Bolivia, but it's a well known rule of comedy that hard consonants are funnier. You don't say "I ran over my mother-in-law with my Chevrolet," you say "I ran over my mother-in-law with a Buick." It's funnier. So you don't say llama hair underwear, you say yak hair underwear.
I know that what you call music is a very subjective thing, I mean, just look at all the mega-millionaire rappers, but all that chanting, humming, pounding on rocks, and playing of exotic instruments that are physically impossible to tune, well..... I like a drug-induced state of euphoria as much as the next person, but I do like to hear a melody in there once in a while. Call me crazy.
03/03/07
I just performed at Lost Dutchman Days, a combination rodeo, carnival and music festival here in beautiful Apache Junction. The setting really is beautiful, with the Superstitions looming in the background. My wife dragged me over to look at the rides, which were largely unused, because most of us are much too old to get anywhere near them.
Which got me to thinking, they need to look at their target market, design the rides accordingly, and have a Senior section. The Tilt-A-Whirl, you know, the thing that looks like giant spinning teacups, well, if they just made the dang thing sit still, and maybe serve tea, it would be all right. And maybe petit fours. It's been years since I had a good petit four. I'm not even sure what they are any more, but it sounds good.
Then they had this thing that flung you some fifty feet up in the air, upside down. UPSIDE DOWN?!! I get dizzy standing up! Maybe if they took you up real slow to fifty feet, let you look around, and then gently lowered you back down. You could call it something catchy, like The Glass Elevator. And pipe in some music by Yanni. I know they have a Ferris Wheel that's kind of like that, but I rode it last year, and kept seeing where they left bolts out of the structure. I mean, just look at carnies. Somehow I don't think they're the most diligent folks on earth.
Then there's bumper cars. I could do that, maybe get out some of the rage I feel about getting so dang old, but I've got a bad back that doesn't like being jarred. So maybe they could put us all in those inflatable Sumo wrestling suits first. Most of the kiddie rides would work, if they just made them bigger to accommodate our ample asses. One in particular had a lot of promise, choppers that went round and round, with machine guns in front and back. If the machine guns were operational, shooting rubber bullets to keep all those pesky kids at a tolerable distance.
Before any of you e-mail me back about this stuff, I'll be the first to admit I apparently need counseling.
04/10/07
Something has been bothering me for a long time. Here's an example. Recently, I saw an article about a singer from the UK who wasn't getting any recognition here. His solution to raise public awareness? He checked himself into rehab. Now everyone says how proud they are of him (I already forget his name), how brave he is to admit he has a problem, and how inspirational his story is.
I don't know about you, but I'm getting sick of this. I keep seeing columns written about up and coming actors and musicians, and it is almost a requirement that they have alcohol, substance abuse problems, or a criminal record that they have "bravely overcome." Why do we glorify people who lack even basic self-control? Just because the "pressures" of being famous and having people around you who won't say no to your slightest whim lead you to acts of monumental stupidity, the media and the public celebrate when you admit you screwed up?
"I knew I needed help when I shot those five people in the club, stole the keys from the limo driver and drove it off the bridge, then had to have my stomach pumped. Yeah, that was a real low point in my life, so I checked myself into Sunnyhill Meadows and got clean for a week." What courage!
So, of course I intend to jump on this bandwagon. I admit I have a problem. Ever since I was a child, I have struggled with CDCD. In some medical circles this is known as winchellomia. The street name for it is Dunkin's Disease. That's right, the dreaded Compulsive Doughnut Consumption Disorder.
I grew up in a rural area, and was often invited into the homes of the most insidious enablers, or, let's be honest, pushers, of doughnuts ever known, the Portuguese. They would make fresh doughnuts for breakfast!
I was only a kid. Innocent. Trusting. Sweet tooth. Low self-esteem. (Got to throw that in there, it's required.) This lasted into early adulthood, when I would often make an entire meal out of old-fashioned doughnuts and Coors beer. But through iron will, not outside help, I am now 218 days doughnut free.
Unless you count bear claws.
5/03/07
I have a gift. You know how some people always have to stay busy, involved in a home improvement project, or staying active with hiking or some similar useless pastime. Not me. I can remain inert, lizardlike, basking in the sun for hours and hours, and this is my favorite time of year for it.
It's a state approaching Nirvana, where you become a totally mindless, rubbery blob, at one with the sun, and demands a remarkable lack of concentration. Those easily distracted by the feeling that they should be doing something with their life can never hope to achieve this. A complete lack of ambition, combined with being totally irresponsible, are the bare minimum requirements.
It does come with a price, however. I call it the Reverse Flounder Tan. I can't seem to summon up the energy to turn over (besides which, it's harder to drink my margarita when I turn over), so I end up being brown in front while my back stays white, the reverse of a fish belly.
It may sound disgusting, but it's still way better than actually doing something constructive. Trust me.
5/31/07
Everything I read on marketing harps on finding your "target market". My mother is also an artist. She has been painting for years, and is finally having some success, gaining entree into some prestigious shows. Her secret? She's slowly going blind, especially color blind, and her painting are getting more vivid (and I assume, a little blurry). She can't distinguish between blue and green any more, so she uses a lot more reds. It turns out that all these years, my mom's target market was color blind art lovers.
So this gives me pause. I remember a ways back when I was playing some biker bar, and these gorgeous young girls kept asking us to turn up.
It turns out they were deaf, and needed to be pummeled with bass so they could feel the beat enough to dance. Maybe my target market is deaf music lovers. I'll put out a series of CDs that are real heavy on bass, and maybe get sponsorship from a sub-woofer company.
6/26/07
Shopping malls. Public parks. Restaurants, especially fast food joints. What do these places have in common? Hordes of restless toddlers, exploring everything, climbing anything within their grubby, sticky reach, like hyper-kinetic ants on a quest. Trying to follow and corral them, with no great degree of success, is a sleep deprived adult who has one tenth the energy, worn down past the point of caring what a spectacle they are making of themselves.
It makes me long for the day when my hearing gets bad enough for a hearing aid, just so I can turn it off.
Sure, the toddlers are cute. Much like the puppy who just chewed your best dress shoes until they resemble beef jerky is cute. But puppies can be trained fairly early, using a well placed swat here and there, rubbing their nose in their messes. You can train them to stay in the yard with a collar that gives them a shock at the perimeter.
So why not use this technology to train your kids? Put a shock collar on your adorable little tyke, and if he gets more than ten feet away from mom, he gets a little tingle. Twenty feet, and he gets rendered unconscious, but most importantly, quiet. He will quickly learn it's a very good thing to stay close to mom.
But, never mind. These days, swatting your kids will get you in serious trouble, no matter how richly they deserve it. So it seems that kids quite often can't be trained to be responsible until they are about twenty seven, and by that time, most of them are already have kids of their own. Their kids will finally be getting out of jail next week.
Until then, they are living with you.
Until they can get a place of their own.
Only they don't seem to be looking.
Maybe you should have used that collar after all.
09/07/07
While living in the mountains this summer, I have become very close to nature, and nature has become very close to me, primarily in the form
of grimy deposits on my skin. This has led in turn to a deeper appreciation of nature, such as appreciating the fact that some of this stuff will
never come off, without taking the skin with it.
While contemplating the forces of nature at work, I have noticed something that is very disturbing to me. I remember from my extensive and arduous
schooling that every lake is really just a meadow waiting to happen. They will all eventually be filled in with silt carried by the streams feeding
in to them. But this can take eons. (An eon is a really long time, longer than waiting for your
doctor's appointment, even longer than going shopping for curtains with your wife.)
Now comes the disturbing part. There is a sub-species of Man, which I will call Tiny Man, who when in proximity to water, feels the uncontrollable
urge to fling every rock in sight into the water. Tiny Man (who are not midgets, but seem to be simply a smaller, replacement version of Man) usually
starts with small, flat stones that skip across the surface, but this always rapidly deteriorates into a contest to see who can hurl the largest
objects in.
This is upsetting the delicate balance of nature. Think about it. How long it would take for a small rock to be reduced to dirt and then be carried
by a small stream into a lake? Longer than ten committee meetings. Longer than waiting outside a dressing room holding your wife's purse. Again, eons.
But this is accomplished in mere seconds with the flick of a grubby wrist. The filling in of lakes is being accellerated at a simply alarming rate
worldwide. (Of course, I am assuming this is a trait of Tiny Man everywhere.) Soon, there may be no lakes anywhere. Just muddy piles of rocks, with
Tiny Man grinning foolishly at their accomplishments.
I say, take a stand.
It ends here, Tiny Man.
11/03/07
Some thoughts this month on what I call
"fractured platitudes". These are some of my favorite sayings (and
yes, I've stolen most of them, but only from the best sources):
Every dark cloud has a silver lining ... and hundreds of people are struck by
lightning every year.
Always take time to stop and smell the roses ... and sooner or later you'll
inhale a bee.
It's always darkest just before the dawn ... so if you're going to steal the
neighbor's newspaper, that's the best time to do it.
It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown ... and fewer still to ignore
someone completely.
Always remember that you're unique ... just like everybody else.
If at first you don't succeed ... you're probably just a loser.
Ah, yes, inspirational words to live by. Or, as I am fond of saying:
"Life ... is a sucking, swirling eddy of despair ... filled with faint
glimmers of false hope. Why don't you just give up?"
With this mindset, is it any wonder that I like to play the blues? Come see me
and get your minimum monthly requirement of depression and melancholy.
12/07
Now for this month's philosophical question: Is there any such thing as too much
cheese?
I know this isn't one of the biggies, like:
What's the Meaning of Life? or,
If a man is standing in the middle of the forest speaking and there is no woman
around to hear him...is he still wrong?
But back to the cheese question. Take your favorite food with a cheese you like
(if you don't like cheese, I suspect your not human. You're probably
a cheese-hating alien from the planet Bzllfutz) and add more cheese to it. Can
you add too much cheese? Is it possible?
Take the humble cheeseburger, say with Swiss cheese. I'm not talking about a
bacon cheeseburger, that adds another variable, because of course
bacon is Nature's Miracle Food. (Go to www.billgarvin.com/archives for that
discussion) Take away the lettuce and tomato and add some more Swiss
cheese.
Isn't it a little better without a that so-called "healthy" stuff on
it?
Now, take away the burger and add a little more cheese, and you've got a grilled
cheese sandwich, one of my personal favorites.
Now, take away the bun, and you've got a nice block of cheese, and isn't that
what you really wanted in the first place?
So the next time someone tells you, like my wife sometimes does to me, that
you're putting too much cheese on something, do what I do:
Give them a puzzled and skeptical look that says:
"Are you kidding? You can't put too much cheese on anything! Wait a minute.
Did I marry a Bzllfutzian!!?"