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Bluegrass in Downtown Jacksonville

In Music on June 24, 2018 at 12:47 pm

Bluegrass Music Downtown!

Can you believe it? A Bluegrass music festival right here in downtown Jacksonville. In Hemming Plaza. I am going to ignore the obvious cheap shots about the heat, the humidity and the homeless and focus on what I love – Bluegrass Music.

Bluegrass Music. Pure. Clean. No electric instruments. No drums. One of the things I love most about Bluegrass is truly a mystery. It is a percussive music – but has no percussion instruments. The effect is created by skillful interplay between an acoustic upright bass fiddle giving a heavy down beat, and the mandolin (or whatever other instrument is not involved in a melody, harmony, solo, or any other maneuver that prohibits it from answering the bass) on the off-beat. The result is a sound very like a snare drum. This bass line and percussive timing lays the foundation to begin building the rhythms and melodies that are Bluegrass music.

Right on top of this bass-percussive effect comes the big, rumbly, rhythm sound of the dreadnaught guitar. This does two things. It reinforces the bass/percussion effect, by playing the alternating bass notes of the chord, while the strum of the chord provides the rhythm. Lester Flatt and a few other greats managed to do this flawlessly with a thumb pick and finger pick. The rest of us rely on a heavy flat pick. No matter the method, all of bluegrass music has come to rely on what is known today as the “Lester Flatt G-run.” There are also other runs, or transitions, that the guitar player uses to get from one chord to another. These will often suggest or echo the melody and reinforce the tempo. They will lead, or sometimes push, and are not superfluous decorations, but rather are the very nature of bluegrass guitar.

Bill Monroe, the undisputed founder of the genre, played the mandolin. He wove the tapestry of bluegrass music around his style of mandolin playing. The punch and the drive from his mandolin pushed all the other instruments to be what they are today in a typical bluegrass ensemble. That strong punch comes on the offbeat, creating the aforementioned percussive effect. Then out of the blue (grass) comes the tremolo driven melody that Monroe used to create his solos (we call them breaks in Bluegrass music.) But just as the great one developed his style, other artists picked up and started their own styles.

Then we have the heart of bluegrass music, the five-string banjo. In a 1960 interview with NBC News, Lester Flatt said, “If it don’t have a five-string banjo in it, it ain’t bluegrass.” What Bluegrass music did was take the banjo out of its role as a rhythm instrument and make it a lead instrument. Earl Scruggs did this by developing a system of three finger rolls that when executed upon the chord patterns of a song result in a barrage of notes from which the listener’s ear forms a melody. Using thumb and finger picks, Earl managed to get volume and brightness out of the banjo that had never before been anticipated. The Scruggs influence and innovation on the banjo cannot be overstated. But it was only the beginning. Not too long after Earl, other artists of the five-string banjo came along and the chains were off and the banjo would never be the same.

The fiddle, or fiddles if you are lucky, is another traditional instrument that figures big in bluegrass. Like the guitar, the fiddle is ubiquitous in the music world. How it is played in the bluegrass style is what matters. The average bluegrass fiddler draws influences from old-time music with the shuffles and bowing patterns. But also from classical structure in terms of stating a melody and answering it with a variation. And also from jazz when it states the melody, then a variation, then an improvisational rendition. And it draws from traditional country with long bow, whole-note melody lines. Listen to Paul Warren’s fiddle break on “Shucking the Corn.” It is certainly not the melody that Earl plays on the banjo. But it is so perfect, it could not be anything else. Words cannot help us here. Go listen to it. Sometimes you hit the jackpot and get a band with twin fiddles playing harmony. The only rule is that they can never be playing the same note at the same time!

The resonator guitar, which is often called a Dobro, (which leads to lawyers fidgeting because the D-word is a trade name, like Frigidaire or Kleenex,) is the latecomer to the genre. You find it in a lot of Bluegrass bands, and indeed when Flatt and Scruggs broke away from Monroe to form the Foggy Mountain Boys, they used the Resonator Guitar to distinguish their sound. And Josh Graves created the form of bluegrass dobro that we know today. The resonator guitar, like its kin the banjo, continues to plow virgin ground.

But my favorite thing about Bluegrass Music? The singing. The harmonies. The most important instrument in a Bluegrass Band? The voice-box. Duet harmonies, like Jim and Jesse. Three-part arrangements like the old Carter Family. Not Bluegrass, but certainly a part of the DNA. Quartets like the old gospel harmonies of Flatt and Scruggs. Or find the Country Gentlemen singing East Virginia Blues. Look at your arms. Those are goose-bumps. Don’t be embarrassed.

These are the reasons that I love bluegrass music. I would put your average Bluegrass Band on the same level as any chamber orchestra group in terms of musical skill. Maybe they can’t read the standard notation, but they know what each instrument does, and how the music should sound, and they deliver it. And to think all this will be right downtown in Hemming Plaza. I will dearly miss the campground jam sessions that usually go along with bluegrass festivals. But I will be proud to see and hear Bluegrass music right in downtown Jacksonville. Saturday, July 21st. I’ll be there listening to Bluegrass music!

What is Van Poole up to?

In Van Poole's Corner on February 15, 2015 at 1:53 pm

A lot of people are asking when the third Lambert Van Poole adventure will come out. It won’t be long. I have a little tidying up to do, then it goes into the editing process, in which I voluntarily ask people to demonstrate how they are so much smarter than I. It’s a little like volunteering for the dunking booth when there is no charitable beneficiary. People just really want to see you land in a tank of cold water.

But, enough of that; people want to know about Lambert, not me. Well, sometime between the second and third book, Lambert and Lily get married. I wanted it to happen between books so that I would not have to deal with it. And, Jacksonville gets a new police chief. Let’s face it, Chief Cooper was old, and even with some literary license, was not going to make it much longer. The new guy, a college educated military man, is somewhat gullible and a little out of his element. I don’t want to give away too much.

So for the third novel, we take a leap forward in time. (You see? Cooper would never have made it.) It is May, 1914, and the United Confederate Veterans are having their annual reunion in Jacksonville. This really happened, and you see a video highlights reel of it. Really. I don’t know how to do links and all that complicated stuff, but if you search for 1914 Confederate Veteran’s Reunion, you will find a video. It’s about 12 to 15 minutes long. I think you can find on the Jacksonville Historic Society website also. So Van Poole and the new chief are involved solving a murder, busting up a moonshine ring, and keeping conmen from relieving visitors to Jacksonville of all their earthly possessions. There is also a brothel, a pesky little juvenile delinquent and some civil war church looting thrown in as well.

It is hard to predict a time frame, but I would hope to have this out in the next four months or so. The working title is A Deadly Reunion. Don’t forget about One Fiddle Too Many and Swindler’s Paradise. Both books are still available at Amazon.com and probably at Chamblin’s Bookmine. If I were smart I would be able to put links right here so that you could buy them right from me. But, I’m not. If anybody wants to train me in how to do that, there is always the hope that I can still learn something new.

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Swindler’s Paradise: What the critics are saying

In Van Poole's Corner on November 4, 2014 at 3:38 pm

My second novel, Swindler’s Paradise has met with critical acclaim from several corners, primarily the corner of my dining room where several boxes of the book are stacked. One particular critic has chosen to go beyond the standard book review and has entered a critique of my entire volume of work. Arnaud du Potash who writes in the Footlick Literary Monitor in Snakeblood, South Missouri, has given me permission to use parts of his essay here and to respond as I deem necessary. (There is not really a state of South Missouri, but I chose not to point that out to him. For obvious reasons.)

Mr. du Potash posits: “Both of Mr. Logue’s stunning novels start out with a man on a train. This man will soon be pummeled to death by a blunt object to the head. I do hope that future books will find some combination other than a train ride and a bludgeon to introduce the heinous event. It almost appears that Mr. Logue is in league with the NRA to downplay the incidence of gun violence in this country by shifting the blame to more benign objects as weapons.”

Well, not to reveal too much or to disappoint Mr. du Potash, (I understand that the original spelling of his name was du Poutache, but he he chose to Americanize when an immigration official at the Canadian border called him Mr. Pow-take) but I must admit that the third book, which should be ready soon, also involves train travel. And yes, the unlucky commuter is then struck down by the ubiquitous blunt object. But it is not the opening of the story. I have moved it a few chapters in so that I could more skilfully develop several plot mechanisms.

Why trains and bludgeons? I try to write in historical context. In the early twentieth century train travel was quite popular and blunt instruments were commonly found laying about everywhere. Mr. du Potash would have no frame of reference to this historical feature of our society, as being an immigrant, he would not have the same appreciation for our history as do we. His family came to this country in a round about way from a long forgotten region of France called Woollen Knees, which until they were completely forgotten about were under the impression that King John still controlled their feudal estate. (They were sending men to fight the French right up until 1957.) When the east fork of the Iano tributary dried up completely, both of the permanent residents migrated to Canada where they could continue to live in the Franco-Anglo confusion to which they had become accustomed. When they lost their life savings buying ice futures and found themselves penniless, they moved to Snakeblood, South Missouri and applied for Social Security. This is when Mr. du Potash began his career as a literary critic to augment his earnings as a split-cane weaver. For whatever he reason he chose to weave cuspidors almost exclusively, and sales have not been as brisk as he had hoped.

So part of my response to Mr. du Potash is that in One Fiddle Too Many, there is a second murder which is committed by means of a gun. A small derringer concealed in a garter belt. In Swindler’s Paradise, a second murder is committed by jabbing an ice-pick into the eye. Admittedly, the ice-pick murder is part of the denouement (which he pronounced de-now-ment in his telephone interview with me) but nevertheless was a bludgeon-less murder. And, need I remind Mr. du Potash that the victim in Swindler’s Paradise had been poisoned prior to the head pummeling. I hope I’m not giving too much away if one of the very few who has not read it.

In spite of his obsession with the mode of travel and choice of weapon, Mu. du Potash gives both books very favorable reviews. Both earned four and a half pea-pods on a five pea-pod scale. When he mentioned the pea-pod scale, I understood why I could not find his podcasts anywhere on line. Apparently he is under the impression that seeding freshly tilled soil is called podcasting in this country.

At another point in his critique, he lamented the omission of a map. I have to agree that when I am reading a novel, I find a map to be an elucidating addition. Especially when the action unfolds in a specific and limited geographic space with which one may be unfamiliar. On the other hand, I have read novels without benefit of a map and have enjoyed them no less. Including a map is a challenge. First one must determine how and to whom tribute is given. I would need maps that are historically accurate, and most of those are in private collections. And people who have private collections of historical maps are usually, in my experience, shall we say, an eccentric bunch. Secondly, it creates technical issues with the actual process of printing, such as font recognition. The print process is challenging enough without this. All that being said, my third novel will most likely have a map, because it really needs one. It is tentatively titled A Deadly Reunion, and when it comes out, you will see that a map of the area is critical.

So, what do the Van Poolians of the world think? Is the train/bludgeon combo wearing thin? Is it done? Have I pummeled that head once too many times? Frankly, I think that a good bludgeoning about the head and shoulders, while no doubt an inelegant way to die, makes for a dandy murder investigation. I am an enthusiastic gun owner and gun lover. But what I don’t want the Van Poole novels to become is a bunch of technical analysis of calibers, grains of powder, and all the stuff you can find on television at any hour of the day. I want my murders to be about people. Motive. Love. Hate. Anger.

I always welcome constructive criticism from my readers, and from such high-born personages as Arnaud du Potash. It keeps me focused on my work, and that keeps me looking for new ways to entertain and inform. I will have much more from Mr. du Potash in my next posting.

Chapter 1 of “Swindler’s Paradise”

In Uncategorized, Van Poole's Corner on August 7, 2014 at 4:19 pm

Every Friday afternoon, the Suwannee Express chugged slowly out of the Jacksonville Union Depot at 3:20, spewing thick coal smoke, leaving a coat of black soot over everything in sight. This accommodated a 4:25 arrival in White Springs. Lucas Porter was aboard, just as he had been the second Friday of every month for several years. He sipped at a glass of pretty good whiskey and wondered again how soaking in ice-cold water which stinks of rotten egg could do anything for his rheumatic knees. This particular therapy had been recommended by his son-in-law, who ought to know, being a well-schooled druggist with his own line of products available at stores throughout the Southeast. It gave Lucas cause to wonder about the veracity of the medical establishment in general. Only one unanticipated aspect of the treatment kept him coming back – Colleen O’Bannon, the beautiful young Irish girl who worked as a treatment room attendant at the Sulfur Spring Spa.

Twenty-five years his junior, Colleen melted when the first thing Porter said to her was, “You’re the second most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes upon. The first, of course being my dear late wife.” Colleen suffered no shortage of fat old men in ill health flirting with her as she helped them hobble from their rooms at the hotel to the pools in the spa through which flowed the stinking, healing sulfur waters. Most of them were rich enough to be worth going after, too. The trip from the pool back to the changing room was even worse, as the old men bragged about how rejuvenated they felt from their soak and invariably sought to demonstrate their latent virility. But Porter’s sentiment was sincere; she could tell that. So she tended to him lovingly, massaging his knees and bringing him a pot of tea after his soak. She often asked him questions about his ailments, as though she were really concerned, and as though there might be some hope that the magic waters and her ministrations might help. After several visits, Porter started talking about his deceased wife, his daughter who had married and moved away, and how he was very happy with his life, had lots of friends, and even more money, but still suffered a void that could only be filled by a wife. Later that night, Colleen came to his room and filled the void. They spoke not a word all night. In the morning, she silently left. Thus was set the stage for his monthly visits for the next several years.
The Sheffield Hotel had its usual carriage there to meet him at the Suwannee River Depot. There were several luxury hotels in the town of White Springs, but the Sheffield was closest to the springs and offered special rates to patients who were visiting the Sulfur Spring Medical Spa which owned the spring house. The spring house, a three story structure built around the actual spring, had changing rooms, soaking pools and other amenities to make it easy to take advantage of the magical healing powers of the spring water. Porter checked in and was welcomed obsequiously by the general manager, Ernest, who assured him that his usual suite awaited him.
“Welcome back, Mr. Porter,” said Ernest effusively. “We are so happy to see you. You look well, sir. The treatments must be agreeing with you.”
“Well, I suppose they are. But I’ll bet that water is going to be uncomfortably cold this time of year. I can hardly see how sitting in freezing cold water can be good for you.”
“Now, now, Mr. Porter, I am sure this has been explained to you. Unlike the warm springs you will find in other places, the Sulfur Springs have long-term medical benefits more than just immediate relief from aching muscles. It’s the ‘mystery of the chemistry,’ as they say.” Although Porter had heard all this before from his son-in-law and others who swore by the therapeutic benefits of soaking in cold water, his knees still hurt. But he didn’t mind it so much as long as he was with Colleen. “Now, I see that Miss O’Bannon has prescribed a meatless meal for you tonight, which the kitchen has prepared. It will be served to you in the dining room whenever you wish, then she will see you for a pre-treatment consultation tonight at eight-thirty.” Ernest rang a bell and a young boy of about thirteen with very bad skin and worse teeth ran forward to take Lucas Porter’s bag, running on ahead to the assigned room.
Porter dropped his considerable bulk into an upholstered wing chair by the door to the balcony, and fished a nickel out of his pocket for the pitiful young fellow who carried his luggage. “Just put it there by the bed,” he barked. The boy obeyed and seemed indifferent to the nickel. Porter knew that Colleen would be along later to unpack his things and arrange them for him. For now, he was content to sit, stare out the window and think about the business he had to conduct in Tallahassee the following week. A man of his wealth and age has no reason to keep carrying on like this, helping friends build railroads, get streetcar franchises and the like. But Porter had always tried to help get good people into government and honest men into business and, to the extent possible, get them to work together. As a testament to his success, people kept coming back to him when they needed to navigate the murky halls of the state capitol. During the reconstruction and recovery years after the War of Secession, Porter managed to function as an intermediary between factions trying to control government and finance. In the quest to drive corruption out of government, civic leaders turned to creating boards of trustees for every imaginable situation. In order to have any effect, these trustees had to borrow money and have a source of revenue from which to repay the debt, so they all had to get a charter from the state legislature. Porter led delegations of concerned citizens to Tallahassee and gained a reputation among state officials as a competent leader. Though never actually elected to any office, he had controlled significant public resources by serving on the Board of Sanitary Trustees, empowered to borrow money to build sewer systems. Widow’s and orphan’s societies, Confederate Soldiers and Sailors homes, the hospital board – anything that bettered the community, Luke Porter had a hand in. He had also chaired the Jacksonville Street Rail Company, created to oversee the consolidation of the four near-bankrupt streetcar companies in Jacksonville. These things and many more, he did as a young man. Now on in years, he was still remembered by many people and treated with great respect.
He was so deep in thought about the railroad proposal he was to discuss in the coming days that Colleen came into the room without being noticed. She wanted to sneak up and surprise him, but he noticed her first, and reached an arm out and grabbed her, pulling her to him. She landed in his lap and they both laughed. “Is this how you treat your old feeble patients? Sneaking up and jumping on them?” he asked, jokingly.
“All part of the therapy,” She said as she kissed him on the forehead. “You go down to the dining room and eat the supper they’ve got fixed for you. I’ll unpack your things and we’ll go over your treatments later.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said sarcastically, as he hobbled out of the room and down the grand staircase to the lobby.
In the dining room, he was served a thick vegetable stew over rice with a small square of cornbread and a pot of tea brewed with the odiferous spring water. The dining room was beginning to fill up. Though White Springs did not attract the big winter crowds that Jacksonville did, it had long had a reputation as a place that one must visit if one is in Florida for the winter anyway. The perceived medical benefits of the waters of White Springs had made the town a destination for hypochondriacs. The Sulfur Springs Medical Spa that was attached to the Sheffield Hotel even had a medical staff of sorts. Andrew Orben, a retired Union Army doctor, had convinced rich Yankees of the curative properties of the sulfur water, using the phrase “the mystery of the chemistry.” He trained everyone affiliated with the hotel and the spa to use the phrase as often as possible. Even the driver of the carriage that picked people up at the depot said, “Come back for more of the mystery of the chemistry, eh?” And he trained young ladies as medical attendants at the spa to help the usually old and sometimes frail, but always wealthy, patients from their rooms to the private bathing quarters.
Porter finished the unexciting meal and returned to his room, and found Colleen there tending to all his things. She had taken her supper in the staff dining room, since fraternizing with the guests beyond what was necessary to help them bathe was frowned upon.
“Why was there no meat for supper?” asked Porter in a good-natured sort of grumble.
“A meatless meal now and then is no harm. Doctor Orben thinks your diet may be too high in proteins and that is contributing to your joint pain.”
“Well, a bit of ham for seasoning would not have been unkind. Now, what kind of rigors am I to be put through tomorrow?”
“Not rigorous at all. Why don’t you sleep as late as you like, and we’ll have some fresh fruit for breakfast. We’ll have your first soak at ten-thirty. After lunch, you can sit on your terrace in the warm sunshine, then another thirty-minute soak around four. But I really want you to try to bend your knees as much as possible tomorrow.” Colleen wrinkled her brow and formed her mouth into a devious smile. “Then we will continue with the other brand of treatments tomorrow night after another light meal. Two more soaks on Sunday, then you can take over and tell me what to do for a few days. I’ve never been to Tallahassee. What kind of business do you have there?”
“Trying to help a friend build a new rail-road.”
“Ooh, that sounds terribly important.” She spoke almost automatically as she continued to unpack his clothes. The staff had been trained to carry on conversations with patients even when they had no interest in the subject. “So does your friend live in Tallahassee?”
“No, child. The Florida Railroad Commission is in Tallahassee and I need to get their support or the Legislature may not let us build it.”
“It all sounds so terribly complicated, it does.”
“It is complicated, so never you mind about it. Besides, it will only take a part of Monday afternoon. You just come along and we’ll have a few days together. I have a friend with a large farmhouse out north of town. He is never there, and I keep a key to one of the servant’s cottages. Now, why torture me with all this knee-bending exercise and such and not even feed me anything worthy of comment?”
“Lucas Porter, if you live three more years, it will only be because of me and the torturous exercises I put you through. Whether you approve or not, I have fallen madly in love with you, and I intend to keep you healthy.” Colleen suddenly took a more serious tone.
“I didn’t mean to strike such a chord with you, dear. You know I love you, too. So much so that I dread exposing you to the calumny that will be heaped upon you should you make an appearance in Jacksonville on my arm. The scandal that the old widows would make of it is more than I can bear, frankly. I wish it were different, but it is not.”
“I can wait as long as it takes. I just want to make sure you are still there and healthy when I can proudly be escorted by you in public.”
“Colleen, my dear, I want that too, probably more than you. I’ve told you how I feel. But it may never be right. Regardless of what happens or when it happens, I want you to know that I am going to take care of you. That’s about all an old, rich, fat man can do, really. I want you to be able to live the way you deserve, whether it is here, or in Jacksonville or anywhere else. And I want you to know that my earthly riches are yours.”
“Now, Lucas Porter, you stop that kind of talk right now. When you are ready, you can introduce me to you friends in Jacksonville. Until then, I am quite content to look forward to the second weekend of every month to spend with you.”

Lucas Porter’s therapeutic weekends in White Springs ended on Sunday around four, when he ordinarily boarded the train back to Jacksonville. But, this time he stayed an extra night. Then on Monday morning, he and Colleen boarded the westbound Gulf & Atlantic train to Tallahassee. They arrived at the railroad depot in Tallahassee and Porter made arrangements for their luggage to be delivered to the King’s Arms Hotel. They got in an open horse-drawn carriage to be taken up a long, gentle hill, past enormous houses with wide front porches and skillfully tended gardens.
At the top of the hill was the state capitol, a massive, three-story frame structure with four hand-hewn columns across the facade. The Florida Railroad Commission occupied a small office in the back corner on the first floor of the building. He had sent a telegram ahead, arranging a meeting with his old friend Gerald Haughton, chairman of the commission. He intended to explain how his clients wanted to build a rail line to help get timber, turpentine, phosphate and other products more quickly delivered to the port of Jacksonville. The new railroad would have a very positive affect on the overall economy of the state of Florida. But it was not without risk. If he could get the railroad commission to sponsor the legislation granting a railroad charter, then the work was better than half-done.
“Gerald, certainly you can see my clients’ situation. These men are going to spend a lot of capital on very specialized rail equipment needed to haul these commodities. And then the prices of this stuff can start fluctuating wildly. The best way to protect against that is to give them the customary land grant for development and give them eminent domain to take what land they need for terminal operations and switching yards and such.”
There was silence as Haughton stared over his reading glasses across the desk at Porter.
“And I might hasten to add that these gentlemen are well-financed, community-minded folks. Very generous. They acknowledge that there are many costs of doing business, all of which they are prepared to meet before this project can go forward one bit.” After dropping as many oblique clues as possible, short of asking how much money the commissioner wanted, Porter noticed his old friend getting a strange look of nervous concern on his face.
“Your friends want a railroad, they can buy the land and take it up with the legislature. I’m in no position to offer more than that,” said the Commissioner. Porter was stunned to hear such abrupt language from his long time-friend.
“Gerald? If that is what you said to everybody wanting to build a railroad in this state, there wouldn’t be no railroads. You know how risky this business is. I thought that was the idea, that we would offer free land to men who would come in and build railroads. And I remember just a few years ago, you and me working to create this railroad commission so’s we can keep the politicians out of the business. Now, you want me to go to the legislature to charter a railroad? What kind of government has this become? Now let’s you and me talk about how beneficial this will be to the orderly growth and development of the state.”
“Luke, this ain’t the way it’s done no more. Why, they’re busting up rail combines all over the country, and trying to find the corruption that led to them getting so powerful. Just last month, a federal grand jury indicted the entire railroad commission of the state of Ohio. I don’t think we’ll be chartering any new railroads for quite a while, not in this office. Maybe if we get a new governor, things might change. Or maybe if we had some senators willing to stand for or agin’ something in Washington. You go tell your friend if he wants a railroad, take it up in the legislature. No one gets no quarter from me.”
“Gerald, did you hear everything I said? These men are going to invest their own money. They are going to take all the risk. All we have to do is reward them with a little land and I guarantee that they will develop it to the benefit of the state.”
“What good does that do me? It will be years before anything comes of this. And I will be long forgotten by then.”
“Gerald, my friends would never forget the man who helped them with the rigorous and demanding processes that good government calls for. They are willing to express their gratitude immediately.”
“I don’t see it happening, Luke. Not unless there is something else going on that makes it clear that a new railroad is needed or that the competition of a new railroad will help keep the tariffs in order.”
“What do you mean, Gerald?”
“I mean, we have put enough money into railroads. You remember when we said we would never grant two railroads within twenty-five miles of one another? Well, now we got crews bumping into each other building rail. People got too greedy, Luke. People right here in this office and upstairs in the Chambers, and in the governor’s office. It’s time for something to come along and start using up the capacity we got. You show me something like that, I’ll help you get a charter. Otherwise, go to the legislature.”
Porter left the office confused and somewhat dejected, this being the first time he had walked out of a government office without having achieved his precise objective. Having to deal with the legislature for a charter was not the end of the world. It was more expensive and unpredictable, but mostly it was just not what he expected. He and Colleen walked the two short blocks to the hotel where they would spend one night before retreating to his friend’s estate. He stopped at the Western-Union desk in the lobby and scribbled a brief telegram.
FAILED IN TALLAHASSEE TALK NEXT WEEK
That evening, they had a sumptuous meal of roast duck with oysters, collard greens and grits, then took a walk together through the beautiful downtown parks of Tallahassee. It was a challenge for Porter’s rheumatic knees, but Colleen did what she could to alleviate his discomfort. The next day, they traveled north by coach for two hours and spent the rest of the week at what Porter called his friend’s farm. It was actually an elegant country estate, formerly a cotton plantation the structures of which were miraculously saved from defacement by the Yankees during their occupation of the South.

Hip New Trend Starts in Jacksonville

In Current events, Eating on March 6, 2014 at 6:56 am

One of the most popular spectator events in Jacksonville is the annual (maybe more frequently) Monster Truck Jam. I hope I don’t have to explain the Monster Truck Jam. People who go to it know what it is, and people who don’t go make it a point to know what it is so that they can make fun of people who do. It’s kind of like Wal-Mart that way.

One of the most controversial issues in Jacksonville is food trucks. Now, this is just a guess, but my bet is that the majority of people who eat at food trucks do not hold in high esteem those people who go to Monster Truck Jams. But don’t you see the common denominator? TRUCKS! (Note that I have assiduously avoided ending that with the letter X.)

Here is Jacksonville’s chance to become a trend setter. Celebrate diversity. The next big thing starts right here, right now. Monster Food Trucks. (Again, I resisted the impulse to intentionally misspell a word. Good thing I don’t work for a non-profit trying to help “kidz.”) I don’t know of anything more important than trying to bring together Jacksonville’s disparate populations. Food truck aficionados and and Monster Truck fans rejoice. Jacksonville is no longer a town divided by it’s attitudes toward utilitarian transportation.

The leader in this trend is Mega-Death Burrito, also known as MDB, or just ‘the B’ to close friends and favorite customers. Mega-Death Burrito is an old postal van bought at a surplus auction for $109.14 and fitted out with a full kitchen. In this case a full kitchen is a Coleman camp stove, and Igloo cooler and a five gallon bucket of water.

The proprietor and driver of the B is Outie Wainwright, and you can guess how he got his nickname when you see him in his undershirt which is two sizes too small. The interior of the van is done in that flocked wall paper, so popular in dentist’s offices once, because of its soundproofing abilities. Outie plasters the left side interior wall with flour tortilla shells which stick to the wall paper by some velcro-type effect. Then he lays out hamburger meat, bologna, and all manner of condiments including sausage gravy along a counter against the right interior wall of the van. The oversize truck tires help provide the magic in the burrito assembly process. Outie starts running a series of clockwise 360 degree maneuvers looking for compact cars to run the two right wheels over. He does this up to four times, or until he runs out of compact cars that give proper resistance. This explains why he mostly caters to crowds in the suburban office parks, which have large parking lots and an ample supply of compact cars that frankly, no one would miss. After he completes enough spins around the parking lot everything that was on the counter has been flung across the van onto the tortilla shells that are stuck on the wall. Outie carefully peels them off the wall with the aid of a spatula or a Sears Crafstman putty knife. Then, wearing a hairnet of course, he rolls them up tightly and sells them for $8.75 each.

Another contender is a converted fuel oil delivery truck called the Bunnell Stew Grinder. Quincy Bloodworth fitted it out with a couple of 21 hp outboard motors, one at each end of the tank that was previously used to carry fuel oil #2 back in the dark days when people relied on actual combustion to heat their homes. Each morning, hours before sunup, he scouts the roads between Bunnell and Jacksonville for road kill, but will settle for road hurt if that is all there is, and puts whatever he finds in the tank. Then he swings by the farmers market for several bushels of corn, sacks of potatoes and baskets of tomatoes. Depending on the season, and Quincy’s mood, he might get some jalapeno peppers or something a little hotter. All this goes in the tank before he makes his final stop at a local craft brewery where he tops it all off with a mixture of water and thick liquid beer waste. He cranks up the two outboard motors and then twice around Jacksonville on I-295 renders a delicious Bunnell Stew, a thick creamy concoction with just enough solid lumps to get that contrast that foodies so covet. You can usually find him out along Blanding Boulevard selling it by the quart for $8.95 or $12.50 a gallon. Bring a large bucket because it comes of that 3″ diameter hose at a pretty good clip. Hint: you can probably dicker price with him because the meter on the discharge hose is not terribly accurate with anything of this consistency.

Lest you vegans are feeling slighted, you should know about The Wedge. Lettuce wedge that is. It’s an all vegan food truck that was converted from an old VW camper which was driven by authentic 1960’s hippies who may not have ever bathed, probably had sex in the van, and may or may not have been at Woodstock, but are pretty sure they probably were, because how else could you explain, well… never mind. The Wedge is driven by a person who has named herself Daisy Cornblossom Hudson Bay Peace Tree. Daisy, as you might guess, only serves vegetables. But she only serves vegetables that want to be served. Heads of lettuce, beets, carrots, and whatever else have to get into her rolling kitchen of their volition. “Look, I go into the market, I give them money. When I come back to the van, there are all these sacks of vegetables. I don’t know how they get there. These plants want to be eaten, but only so that they can give us energy to create art and poetry and fertilize other vegetables. These are noble plants, indeed.” says Daisy CHBPT.

She does no actual cooking herself. All the vegetables roll around in the back of the van, right on top of that “air-cooled” pancake engine, which as we all know can easily reach temperatures of 500 degrees. Daisy drives around town looking for a place where people are lined up for no discernible reason. She pulls up and starts serving roasted vegetables right out of the back of van. Once someone found the strap of a leather sandal in there amongst the sacred vegetables and complained to her about the loss of animal life and the vanity that drives a person to wear leather sandals when you can weave them out of happy palm fronds and bamboo leaves. Daisy assured them the cow died happily, eating vegetables and grains. Someone found the decaying carcass and only took what hide was left after the California condors said they were full. All was forgiven.

Of course the standard is truly set for Monster Food Trucks by Mel Spurgeon who rules the world from his Kweez-in-art Fender Blender. Jacked up twelve feet high, Mel can’t even see his customers. He expects them to deposit ten dollars each on the honor system into an ol’ friend tackle box. Mel and his wife Sally drive by once, dropping a variety of fish, crabs, pork parts, chicken wings and vegetables on the ground. Sally gets out and arranges them very strategically, then Mel backs up over everything. The secret is that the back tires are embedded with razor sharp discs that chop everything up. The front tires have barbed spikes that hold an assortment of breads such as pita, naan, corn cakes and whole wheat hoagie rolls. After Mel has driven back and forth a few times, you walk to the front wheels and pick a sandwich off a spike.

So, here we are Jacksonville on the cusp of the hottest, hippest new trend in the country. The city better hire someone with their wits about them to negotiate vendor contracts at Everbank Field for the next Monster Food Truck Jam. Foodies and Muddies together at last. Don’t blow this.

Music Review: Chris Henry – Making My Way to You

In Music on April 2, 2013 at 11:14 am

Chris Henry

Making My Way to You

This is another Chris Henry solo project. Jason Carter plays fiddle and Smith Curry plays pedal steel and resonator guitar. Sarah Sellari sings with Chris on “Robot Dreams” and “As Long as You Have Love.” Everything else is all Chris. All original material. You want a review? OK here it is. This is a great album. Buy it (or take it or whatever one does to get music these days) and listen to it. You will love it. There. That’s done. Now what this album really needs is not a review but an analysis.

Chris Henry is a skilled and talented multi-instrumentalist, but also a productive and prolific songwriter. This work adds a new dimension to Chris Henry – that of stylist. I guess producer is more the accepted term of art, but that word is somehow insufficient. Chris does a number of things with this album that demonstrate his maturity and a grasp of music as a nourishing commodity that most folks in the music industry might wish for but never fully develop. Fundamentally, Chris Henry is a skillful architect. Form follows function in his music as much as it does in anything Louis Sullivan ever built.

Here are just a few examples of what I am talking about. Bluegrass players will remember the ’70s and ’80s when every now and then the music industry would stick a banjo track into some piece of pop or mainstream country music. Think “Misty” “Rockford Files” “Eastbound and Down.” No matter what they did it ended up sounding like a novelty piece. This is the architectural equivalent of attaching a pointed arch to a steel and glass skyscraper. It serves no real purpose and does not fool anybody. It is mere decoration and out of place at that. Chris has succeeded where New York, L.A. and Nashville failed, not by shoving a banjo track where it does not belong, but by allowing electric and pedal steel guitar to contribute to his music on terms that add to the function rather than simply the form. I suppose that Jim and Jesse, The Louvin Brothers and The Osborne Brothers also excelled at this. But Chris Henry does it in a way that links form and function, the result of which is great music, not mismatched instruments forcing songs into keys in which they wither. Listen closely to “I Keep Dreaming of You” “Gone” “On This Mountain” and “Tears in My Eyes” and you will hear bold columns supporting graceful archways that define the enclosed space, rather than features that are merely stuck onto buildings as decoration.

Closely related to this notion of musical architectural is musical onomatopoeia in which the melodic structure suggests the lyrical theme. This is a trait that we often see in classical music, and one that I suppose a lot of artists attempt. But Chris Henry carries it to an extent that excludes all other possibilities. “Medicine Man” “Spirit Traveler” and “Incarceration” are simply incapable of conveying any other feeling other than that which is told by its story, musically and lyrically. Now, I know Chris’s family, and have to think that this may be partially a matter of DNA. Listen to some of his Dad’s (Red Henry) mandolin compositions and you will understand.

Chris can also be as whimsical and witty as anybody. In this, he tends to put things where we would least expect to find them. “Robot Dreams”  gives us as accurate an assessment of the state of artificial intelligence today as you are likely to read in any serious scientific journal, served up in a traditional and lively bluegrass manner with Sarah Sellari singing along with Chris.

But to get past all the intellectual bullcrap that I have just shoveled all over the place, this album gives us some of the best traditional country songwriting I have heard in a long time. I won’t say the Chris is channeling anybody. If he is, we’ll let him tell us that. But he is writing songs and playing them the way we all love to hear them. There is some stuff here that is so traditional country, it is hard to believe that anybody born in the last half of the last century even has the ability to recognize it, much less write, perform and produce it. Chris’s music is bold and daring. But skillful and sensitive architect (producer) that he is we are not assaulted with features that serve no purpose. On the other hand it is by no means sparse. It is everything it needs to be, with no waste and no superfluous decoration. What you get with a Chris Henry project is that rare combination of amazing talent and unbound work ethic. And great music.

Chris Henry is talented in many ways. “Making My Way to You” puts it all on display. Get the album. I guarantee that it will move to the top of your playlist.  Buy it here: http://www.christopherhenry.net

An Uncomplicated Approach to Affordable Care

In Current events on July 2, 2012 at 4:23 pm

There are so many things wrong with all this healthcare stuff, one hardly knows where to start. A good place might be to define some terms so that a common language and set of tools can be deployed in the discussion. This may seem fruitless as such terms are usually chucked out and replaced by political babble and catch phrases by people who are smart enough to know better, but are too morally adrift to resist the mass hysteria that inevitably comes from attempts to control other people’s lives. Make no mistake: The Affordable Care Act has nothing to do affordable care.

So, healthcare. Health and care. Take care of your health. There is a set of skill that an immature human being can learn from its parents, if it is careful to listen and not “dis” every notion of the previous generation. So healthcare is a personal responsibility, that you should have learned throughout childhood and adolescence. Wash your hands after you go the bathroom and before you eat. Exercise. Eat your vegetables. Don’t stay up too late. Lots of other rules, but you get it right? The things that our leaders are now making against the law because we would not listen to our mothers. Some people do not take personal responsibility for their health. That does not make it my responsibility.

Health insurance. Contrary to popular belief, health insurance is not a magic hall pass to the land of health and longevity. Health insurance is a contract. Under this contract, I pay some other people to protect my financial assets from devastation in case some disease befalls me and the cost of treatment exceeds my ability to pay. These other people agree to share in that risk with me, and they base the cost of that contract upon statistical and underwriting standards. I’ll pay the first thousand or five thousand dollars. Then we start splitting it up. I pay twenty percent, they pay eighty percent. Possessing a health insurance policy does not make me healthy. It makes me a responsible adult who understands the component parts of a financial plan. Obviously, these people who agree to share risk with me understand that the more I listened to and heeded my parents’ advice, the less of a risk I likely represent. Some people choose not to buy health insurance. This is not my problem. When they get sick, they can either pay for their care out of pocket (and why should that be illegal if someone can afford to do it?) or they can treat themselves at the drug store, or they can just live with the consequences of their actions or inactions. When it becomes mandatory to buy health insurance, all of the market factors that keep it affordable are eclipsed by government fiat. Care to guess where that will lead us?

Medical care, the biggest part of the whole debate and the one we hear the least about, is what I seek if, in spite of my best efforts in personal healthcare, I get sick. And by sick, I don’t mean a stomachache. Or sniffles. Or a headache. Or anything that is likely to go away in a couple of days if you give your body a chance to heal itself. So, I go to see a doctor and seek treatment. If an office visit, a prescription and maybe a follow-up can take care of it, great. I write the doctor a check for his services, go get my prescription filled and pay for it. Then I take special care to avoid whatever landed me with such malady in the first place. No insurance company or government agency need be involved. If it is something more than that, say appendicitis that requires surgery and recuperation, I contact my insurance company and begin the process of filing a claim, the mechanism by which I compel the insurance company to perform the contracted obligations.

Healthcare advocates (very few of which are medical professionals, but are rather involved in some financial aspect of the healthcare industry) are now suggesting that almost any symptom is probably an early sign of cancer and should be immediately and aggressively diagnosed and treated. Toe nail fungus may lead to heart disease. So don’t just go to a podiatrist and get your nails clipped, go instead to the cardiac center and get into a rehab program before the big one hits. If you have a headache, you should probably go and have a scan of some sort to rule out a brain tumor instead of taking a couple of aspirin. Anything, real or imagined could possibly be a sign of depression, tongue rot, lupus, fibro-hypo-tosis, mental illness, stroke, or tooth decay, and you probably need to be in a long term program in which you get dietary counseling, medication, and lots of pamphlets. Now they want to take these same behaviors, which have lead directly to healthcare costs spiraling out of control, and bring them to the millions of people who have thus far escaped their great deception.

Before you ask, the answer is no, I have not read the healthcare bill. There are several reasons for this. I know to well the environment in which this legislation was created. No good can come of this. Secondly, I reject the premise that healthcare reform is: a) necessary, and; b) the responsibility of the United States Government. As is almost always the case, when the government tries to solve a problem (which in this case it had to create and it did so effectively by hijacking the language, which I tried to clear up in the first few paragraphs) it almost always tries to fix the wrong thing, inevitably making things worse. Rather than forcing people to buy health insurance, which is not even health insurance anymore, why not create the environment in which people can succeed and prosper and grow. Then you will have a great many people demanding health insurance, driving the premium costs down. If you create a system of incentives and consequences people will figure it out. If you build a society that does not fear a set of human values (Honor your mother and father; Do not lie, kill and steal,) we may find ourselves a healthier, happier society spending much less on healthcare. My many liberal friends are rolling their eyes and tsk-tsking right now, but hey, why not try it? It just might work and won’t involve spending billions we don’t have on problems that can’t be clearly defined.

Meet the New Superintendent.

In Current events on March 8, 2012 at 11:01 am

The School Board has promised transparency in the selection of the next Duval County Schools Superintendent. Transparency has become one of those magic words, that if uttered enough times in the right context begins to confer credibility in and of itself. Like stakeholder. That one fooled and continues to fool people to this day. It gives putative leaders the opportunity to say, “All of the stakeholders were involved in a transparent process. Who am I to question their decisions?”

You want a transparent process? You want stakeholder involvement? I have the solution. Let’s elect our superintendents from now on. Now, I know the mental processes that this notion kicks off. If you are over fifty years old, you immediately think about the pre-Consolidation days before the city and county merged in 1968. The corruption, the indictments, the embarrassment of it all. The schools lost accreditation under an elected superintendent. If you are under fifty then you have been seduced by the modern progressivist movement and believe that only the properly educated, well trained academician with the right pedigree from the right institutions can be entrusted to lead the ignorant masses to salvation. And the only thing he or she has to do is convince (fool) four of the seven members of the school board.

I think that Jacksonville has progressed in many ways since 1968, and I believe that the voters of Jacksonville can elect their superintendent. He or she can hire the academician elites to help manage things. But the real benefit is this: The superintendent no longer works for the school board. He or she works for us. It restores that beautiful balance of powers in which the board sets policy, and the superintendent executes.

Think about this relationship. The superintendent is asked by the board to come up with a plan for something – student transportation, virtual textbooks, whatever. The superintendent need not fear for his or her job when presenting such plan should that plan not suit four of the seven members. In fact, the school board members must now deal with the fact the superintendent, having been elected county wide, has more of a political base than any of the members individually. The superintendent needs the member’s vote for his plan, and the member needs the superintendent’s political base and popularity either to get re-elected or just to feed his ego. Suddenly everybody is playing nicely.

Of course, it won’t always be a bed of roses. To put it into another context, think of the city. The council did not fire Mayor Peyton over the courthouse boondoggle. They do not have the power. But in a transparency like no other, every detail was played out in public with political players lining up on one side or another. If Jacksonville had an appointed city manager rather than an elected mayor, we would need a revolving door on the fourth floor of city hall to accommodate the traffic. Do you think a city manager would have come up with the Better Jacksonville Plan? With no political constituency outside of the body that hires and fires, such progress is stunted.

The school superintendent need not be a master educator. He must be a leader. He should not be hired because he subscribes to one theory of education (and therefore one group of vendors, possibly) over another. He should he elected because of his ability to communicate and lead and build coalitions that will attract the right people to positions of responsibility, and lead to success. He should not be someone who, upon achieving some metrics imposed by the board, marks that off his list of accomplishments and moves on to a higher paying, higher profile job somewhere else. His metrics are set in the marketplace of ideas that we call elections. If he does not meet them, he will not be re-elected.

With the transparent process of the school board selecting a superintendent, we are going to have out-of-towners flying in and out of Jacksonville on some headhunter’s dime, being driven to school board headquarters for their interview. Such transparency is self-limiting. I would rather have a school superintendent who was in Boy Scouts or Girl Scouts here. Or is a member of a local Rotary or Meninak Club. Whom I have seen at the grocery store for many years before he or she came to Jacksonville to deliver us from ignorance. Who doesn’t have to hunt for the right church to belong to, because he or she has been going to it all along. I want a superintendent who will go around the county to fish fries and barbecues telling groups of people who matter (voters) what they are going to do and how they will run the system.

Look at the transparency of the elective process. Haven’t we all received invitations to fund raisers or meet and greet receptions for political candidates? What is on the invitation, but the list of people supporting that candidate. The steering committee, the finance committee, local politicians and civic leaders. This gives you a great idea of the caliber of the person. I will submit that transparency might be improved in the campaign finance area. But in this age of the internet, what is to stop that? Each candidate should have a campaign finance website on which is immediately disclosed every contribution and from whom. If textbook publishers are a big contributor, and you think virtual textbooks are the future, you have some idea as the how that candidate will go on that issue, and you can govern yourself accordingly.

This is how we will get a strong leader. Let him face the people – all of the people. And when there is a dispute between the board and the superintendent, let’s let it play out. Instead of the superintendent updating his resume and contacting headhunters, let him update his debating skills and contact his political supporters. Let’s find out what these people are really made of.

Where did we eat tonight?

In Eating on November 18, 2011 at 8:53 pm

Well it started strangely enough with a trip to the library. You know when you go to the library and they have nothing you want to read? Well, for some reason we hit it late on a Friday afternoon and brought home a treasure trove of great books. Apparently folks of literary taste return all their books on Friday so that they have the weekend for non-literary endeavors such as Lindsey Lohan, Kim Kardashian, Tim Tebow, and other attention grabbers. So we thought, we are on a streak, lets keep it going. And we did. We had one of the best meals ever set before anyone, royalty or commoner.

For cocktails, we had  Manhattans and cosmos. (Manhattan is capitalized because it is a geographic designation; cosmo is not as of the last time I checked. Unless we have gotten to Occupy the Cosmos. I don’t know. I haven’t watched the news in several hours.) To accompany cocktails I told the Maitre’d to assemble something from the pantry, not on the menu. We were served a delightful plate of smoked oysters, radishes with olive oil and salt, and a block of sharp cheddar. These seemingly disparate things got along quite well on one plate.

Just as the alcohol did its duty of sharpening the senses, we were served a spinach salad with roasted baby red and golden beets, walnuts, and blue cheese drizzled with a rice wine vinegar. I have always secretly loved beets, but wow! This was really something. Then we had baby lamb chops in a pinot noir sauce with a potato and parsnip gratin. Lamb chops done perfectly — what can one say. We all know the perfect lamb chop right? Reddish-pink, juicy. Well when you put a pinot noir sauce with herbes de provence over the perfect lamb chop, you have something worthy of confession. Now the potatoes; an integral part of any meal right? A potato and parsnip puree is something we have done at home. But in a gratin? You know that sort of undefinable crisp sweetness that parsnips impart to any animal, vegetable or mineral with which they share intimate space? Well why would that not happen in a gratin? Hey, it does.

There was a little bit left over, which we now have at home. A lamb chop and some of the beets. In memory of my father, I will have breakfast tomorrow of a fried lamb chop and a roasted beet omelet. (Unless you grew up in the Logue household, you will not get the significance of this.) We passed on coffee and dessert, but that does not preclude me from a single malt scotch and pipe of English flake tobacco later.

Now, if you can guess what top rated dining establishment served us this meal, I will donate $1.00 to your favorite charity.

Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

In Smoke, Uncategorized on September 8, 2011 at 6:38 pm

Caution. This article is about the use of a legal, but politically incorrect product. Person with immature minds may be offended.

It’s hard to come by. One must be ever vigilant. The time to buy is when you see it. But don’t buy more than you can use in a reasonable amount of time – it will spoil. If you are of a nature to share things, this might change your mind. If you do share, think hard about which of your friends you share with. This stuff is not for just anybody. I am talking about a certain pipe tobacco: Penzance.

Penance is seriously good tobacco for serious pipe smokers. And if you are not a pipesmoker, Penzance may the stuff that converts you. This is not that bulk tobacco that you find in many fine tobacco shops. This is what is generally referred to as “flake” tobacco, or some people call it “cake” tobacco. It is a mixture of Virginia tobaccos, choice Turkish and Orientals, and some Cyprian Latakia, all hand blended together, then hard pressed and broad cut into thick flakes. I was recently able to procure some and opened it this afternoon in my smoking lounge which some people refer to as my “garage.” I separated two of the thick slices and crumbled them into my pipe bowl and packed it down lightly. Penzance lights easily but one must follow the credo of light thrice, tamp twice. It has a moisture that will cause it to go out if you do mot follow this stricture.

The smoke billows, then lingers, then dissipates, ever so slowly. It hangs there just the right amount of time so as to leave a pleasant memory. If only more people could do this.  The flavor and aroma of the burning penzance will transport you. Before long you are looking around for Winston, the service captain to appear through the clouds of smoke with your glass of brandy or single malt on a silver tray. There is no candy in this. No fruit, no rum, no male syrup. Things that are found on a salad bar and buffet at Shoney’s should not be blended with pipe tobacco.

Two slices filled my bowl nicely. Not clear to the top, but about three-quarters the way up. The smoke delivers a delicious tang at first, followed by a bold tobacco flavor, and then finishes with with an earthiness that is best described as dirt – clean dirt. If you smoke it properly and don’t try to conjure up smoke signals, it will burn delightfully cool. Properly packed you should get a good thirty minutes out of it. And you never get the feeling that a cat has been using your tongue as a scratching post.

But it can spoil!. Bulk tobaccos will dry out. That’s easily remedied. Dump it into a bowl, wet your hands and toss it like you are making a salad. I would not advise using an actual salad bowl though, lest someone find a bit of burley among their hearts of romaine. But penzance will go moldy on you. When I first started smoking it, I decided that it was so good that I did not deserve it on a regular basis, and saved it only for special occasions. (That’s the Catholic upbringing in me.) Three weeks after opening the tin, it started growing mold. Solution? Buy it; smoke it.

I can only hope that the CEO of the company that imports this stuff has never made a contribution to a Republican, or the stuff will end up being seized and stored as evidence alongside the rosewood fingerboards taken from the Gibson Guitar Company. I do hope the evidence locker is temperature and humidity controlled.

I’m going back to my smoking lounge now with my tobacco, and my Gibson Hummingbird Guitar. And I’m not going to share.