Updated spontaneously, here are the transient thoughts and odd occurrences in the serendipitous life of one soul (namely me) existing in the infinite universe yet focusing on the present moment and hoping to find the point of balance between the two - and boy, are my astral planes tired! In essence, what I'm doing here is learning - like the rest of the human race is supposed to be doing, even if it is 3:00 a.m. If you’re reading this, you’re probably me. I usually find other people’s journal/blog entries rather dull, so I don’t expect anyone to take the time to read mine, but I’ve found that if you can entertain and amuse yourself - which I do - there’s a good chance you might have that effect on someone else. If not, "no skin off my ass," as my father used to say. Be warned, I write what I feel, so if you can't handle viewpoints from a free thinking mind, you'd best get out of the car now. If you happen to be the adventurous sort and want to take the ride, strap yourself in, here we go...

Jazz And Jesus ~ Another True Story From The Unbelievable South

My mom-in-law is a sweet lady and a good musician to boot. She‘s the music director and keyboard player at a local Baptist church and each year she invites us to the Christmas program. We go to support her and all the hard work she puts in for them. She has her work cut out for her because while the participants might have their hearts in the right place, they have no musical talent. The singing is cringingly horrible and the church members are all hard core country fans with an old time Baptist twist- surprise - we’re in Tex-ass! As I said, our main reason for being there is for my mom-in-law, and it usually works out fine. However, I don’t think we’ll be attending next year and here’s an entertaining little story to illustrate why. I know you’ll get a big kick out of it!

After the Christmas cantata was "sung" (they say CAN-tata down here, as in a CAN of Campbell’s soup, which is the main ingredient of many a southern dish, along with a favorite "spice" called MSG - enough to dry your eyes to dust) a fellow named George treated us to a snappy one and a half chord country AND western ditty called "Happy Birthday, Jesus!" It was all I could do to contain myself from howling like a dog when I heard it. After the program someone told us that, "George wrote that song hisself!" What could I say but, "Oh yes, I could tell."

We were all invited for refreshments and fellowship (remember that word for later) in the church hall, so in we went. My mom-in-law introduced us to some of the church members and mentioned that we were musicians. One of the members asked what kind of music we played and Michael said, "Jazz" and immediately good ol’ one chord GE-ORGE proudly blurts out, "I don't like jah-zzzz!" To match his Dickey overalls and cowboy shirt, he wore an expression of, "I smell a pile of chicken shit" and he‘d stepped right in it. My outspoken husband then replied, "I'm glad to see you have an open mind." I had to ask, "Not even country swing, like Bob Wills?" Even more proudly Ge-orge replies, "NO-O! I don't!" I calmly asked, "why not?" and he said without hesitation, "Because I'm an AMERICAN!" (Now, how could I resist this!) I came back quick with, "Jazz is an original American music." To which he sneers and says, "No-o it's not! It comes from AFREEKA!" Ge-orge then got up to go get hisself some more pie to cram in his uncivilized pasty pie hole. I was half laughing, half shaking my head at this half cocked/assed fool. I figured I’d let this one go and follow my father’s wise advice, "Never argue with an ignorant person."

As we were leaving, someone sitting next to Ge-orge the pie-eating, jazz-hating, American" said, "Ya'all be sure to come back and see us!" to which my husband said, "No, I don't think people would like me here, because I don't like southern Baptist music." That shut everybody up nicely. I'm glad he said it, because too often I’m judged as a "brash Yankee" and it wouldn't have had half the impact if it wasn’t uttered by a native son.

Sadly but not surprisingly, this seems to be the "overall" attitude toward anything hip or evolved…there, I’ve gotten to the crux of it in one word. EVOLUTION. The prevailing, though cracked concept in the south is thus; to these folks jazz is just black music, and black folks are kin to apes, and only white folks were created by God, because Adam and Eve were created in God’s image, and God is an old white man. In one short paragraph I have explained the reason for most of the problems in the world.

Jazz and Jesus - more similarities than one would think.

Spirits Of Halloweens Past

Halloween was a big hairy deal around our house. When my mom brought the box of masks, costumes, and other assorted junk up from the basement it was official, candy time was near. In that tattered box there were musty cloth masks with glow in the dark scars painted on them, plastic masks with those tiny nose holes you could barely breathe out of; they’d always end up like a visor on top of your head because you couldn’t see out of the tiny eye holes any better than you could breathe out of the tiny nose holes. There were metal noisemakers painted witches, ghost, back cats and owls, and distorted paper mache pumpkins, my plastic pumpkin head - which never held enough candy, and matching flashlight - which never lasted very long. Most of the stuff was from the late 40s and early 50s and I’d bet the box is still in what we called "the fruit room" in the basement. I stopped making the traditional trek through the Halloween box many years ago. I suppose right around that awkward time that occurs when kids hit junior high, and they’re too old for trick or treating and too self-conscious to dress up. I still wanted to dress up, but there really wasn’t anywhere to go.

But oh the Halloweens past! My mom and dad would go all out on candy for the Trick or Treaters, "Tricks-n-treats" they’d call it. They’d buy little paper bags from Woolworth’s with "Happy Halloween!" hovering over a black haunted house with a waving witch or smiling ghost printed on them. They’d put a couple of candy bars, peanut butter kisses or Bit-O-Honey’s, Dubble Bubble gum, even some of that nasty candy corn in the shapes of pumpkins, ghosts, and black cats, and sometimes a Halloween pencil, or little plastic trinket. They’d make up the bags the night before and line them up in a couple of big trays. It was quite an operation because in those days there’d be a lot of kids coming to the door. I think we broke one hundred for a couple years. Those were the days where it seemed safer and kids would go out as soon as it got dark and wouldn’t stop until their bags were full or their legs gave out. My mom would take the first shift to pass out candy and my dad would take the second shift after he got home. We’d have the pumpkins lit and glowing on the porch, and a bunch of candles going in the windows, and the house would be dark. My dad’s shift was much scarier because he’d turn out all the lights and play this weird music from an album called "Jungle Echoes" Chaino. The cover is wild.

It was fairly frightening with the loud drums, primal screams, moaning, and mumbling, and that was just me begging for someone to take me back out to trick or treat. My brother or sister would be forced to take me out if my mom couldn’t, and they hated that. They were so much older than me and had a million other things that they’d rather be doing. They’d stand way down the sidewalk and say, "Well go! I can see you from here. Hurry up!" It was usually cold and sometimes snowing and there were many times when I’d have my winter coat and snow pants under my costume like a stuffed sausage. I remember looking back to see if my brother and sister were really waiting for me at the end of the sidewalk and I’d see their dark figures moving around trying to keep warm while they waited for me. Funny the things we remember.

Halloween was quite a business venture for me, I’d go out once, come home, do a costume change then go back out. We lived across the street from this big apartment buildings and you could make a good haul without getting rained or snowed on. The best places were the nursing homes; they’d have a lot of candy and the old folks would all sit in the lobby and make comments about the kid’s costumes. It was a sure bet and you could make half a pillowcase in less than a four blocks radius. It was all uphill from there though but you looked for the porch lights and new you had a live one. There was something kind of spooky and magical, almost forbidden, about being out in the dark, knocking on strangers doors, fortified with the disguise you hid under. When I got a little older my mom let me go out by myself, and then it was really eerie. I haven’t felt like that in a long, long time.

The most candy I ever made was two and half pillowcases. I went out 2 - 3 times and really paid my dues. I can still see that mountain of candy in front of me on the living room floor. Then like a miser with their gold or a pirate with their booty, I’d separate it into piles and count everything up, then decide what I’d eat first. The little candy bars were the best, and there were lots of saf-t-pops and those damned peanut butter kisses. There were pixie sticks - colored sugar in a straw - the cocaine of the sugar fiend. Though no one ever found anything dangerous in my candy, thought you know those legends were repeated every year with the razor blades in the apples and the needle holes in the wrappers. I looked, but not too hard. Who the hell wanted an apple anyway? I‘d usually hear, "Don’t eat too much and get sick!" about a half a dozen times. I don’t think I ever ate enough candy to get sick. I could eat it all day long and it was always gone long before Thanksgiving. Hey, I’ve always had a passion for life and the things I love! I’m still like that, only I can’t eat much candy, or anything else. I’m surprised I have any teeth left in my head, most of them are filled though, surprise! I didn’t think about it until now, but dressing up like a dentist for Halloween would probably have been one of the top ten scariest costumes. A battery powered drill? Forget it, you’d strike terror in every man, woman, and child., especially back then when Novacaine wasn’t common. That’s a whole other Dodge family story, folks.

I still tried to have fun on Halloween as a grown up. I’d carve pumpkins, bake cookies, pass out little bags of candy in honor of my parents, and I’d dress up and try to scare all the neighbor kids. I didn’t mean to, but I made a couple of them cry and one kid pissed his pants; I wasn’t really that scary, I think he had to go anyway. As the years passed the Trick and Treaters dwindled. Now you know what everyone says next, "What a shame that the world has gotten that crazy that a kid can’t go out and have fun anymore." It is a drag, and I feel sorry for kids today. They have so much more than we ever did, but they’ve missed out on just as much. They’ll survive, just like I did even though each generation seems scarier. I could’ve been kidnapped, maimed, raped, sacrificed, dragged into a cult, beaten into a pulp, skinned, and killed a thousand times over the way I wandered the streets alone when I was a kid, vulnerable and unprotected, yeah, come to think of it, I was a real daredevil. Though scarred from my stunts, I survived, but innocence lost. I guess that’s how you can tell you’re getting old, you think more about the past and how much fun it was. I miss a lot of things about being a kid, and if I would’ve had kids of my own I could’ve relived all of that. It’s easy to wallow in regret and melancholy around any holiday, and it’s good for you to do it for a little while, just until you get to that suicidal edge, boo! Did I scare you? But I don’t know about you, I still like to have fun and do little things that make me smile. I spend a lot of time just looking for things that I get a kick out of, writing is one of those things. Happy Halloween to us, in spite of it all.

Please Don't Tease The Monkey!

When I was a kid there was a Super Wal-mart type of store in my hometown called "Shopper's City" (yeah I know, say it 10 times fast). They had a pet section in the back of the store and I was always overly excited to go there because they had a little monkey. Anyone that knows me knows that I’ve always been fascinated by monkeys. I begged my parents for a pet monkey my entire childhood, but the stock reply was always the same, "They’re too wild, they’re not supposed to be pets, they throw shit, and they’ll scratch your face off!" One Christmas my dad got me a very life-like stuffed monkey with real glass eyes that looked real. The best part was that his tail was attached to its head and you could ask it any yes or no question and get a head nod, and believe me, I asked everyone every yes or no question I could think of. It’s sad to say, but nobody would buy the real live Shopper’s City monkey because he was too wild (so my dad was right). "DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN THE CAGE. PLEASE DON'T TEASE THE MONKEY!" the sign warned. I, for one, never hurled insults (or poo) at him, but I witnessed some that did tease him and I felt that sinking ache of pity for him as I put myself in his place, trapped and away from anything familiar. I would've catapulted poo too if was him (or is it ‘if I were he? ‘). I wouldn't blame him if he'd instigated some kind of digital maiming either, but this was back before law suits were all the rage and somehow he hadn't been convicted of whatever discrepancy that had taken place, even if he was on a kind of death row. Whatever the case, it didn't matter to me that this little monkey was branded a wild bastard, I liked him anyway. I'd sometimes stand there and watch him the whole time my mom shopped and I'd still protest when she'd come to get me to go home. The more time I spent observing that monkey the more fascinated I became, and in a way I think he kind of got used to me, he never threw anything at me, or screeched at me when I got too close to the cage. No, I didn’t put my fingers in the cage, but once his paw was grasping the bar and I gently touched it just for a second and he made eye contact with me just before he pulled his paw away and jumped back to his nervous perch. I often imagined that he knew and remembered me and was maybe even a little glad to see me. Yeah I know, "Is that a banana in your fur or are you just glad to see me…" Speaking of phallus-shaped objects, this monkey had an odd habit - well, odd to me, I was just a kid remember - of grabbing his own personal pink banana and pulling it so violently that it appeared to me that he was trying to rip it right off of his body. Something like spit would dribble out of the tiny pink limb and sometimes he’d take whatever that was and either eat it or whip it to the bottom of his cage. He repeated this procedure over and over again, and due to my naiveté I had no idea what he was doing and as ever, I was curious (not Curious George and the man and the yellow hat? Though I read every one of those books). I decided to ask my mom about this strange behavior and finally talked her into watching the monkey (as long as she didn’t tease him). She did, and afterwards I asked her what he was doing and what was that white stuff coming out of that leg in the middle? She calmly replied, "I think he has an infection. He’s sick." She grabbed my hand and we walked towards the doors, all the while I was looking back longingly at my poor little sick monkey. If only I could’ve brought him home with me and nursed him back to life (I know, it sounds like the premise for some kind of bestiality-based porn movie, but I was just a kid!). I continued to visit my sick monkey and he never got any better. The last times I saw him there were a couple of kids that teased him just a little too much, he had a monkey fit, screeched, and whipped the white substance he had in his hand at one of his antagonists. Whenever I watch the scene from "Silence Of The Lambs" where Clarice is in the high security prison meeting Hannibal for the first time and the inmate throws his "monkey pus" at her I think of my little sick monkey. Had I known that the "pus hurling" incident was going to be the last time I’d see my monkey I would’ve said a teary goodbye. I probably would’ve whiningly begged my mom one more time if we could buy him. I’ve thought about that monkey a lot over the years, it‘s often not a pleasant thought. I imagine his life ended tragically, I know now that he should’ve never been caught, caged, or subjected to teasing in the first place. After all, he wasn’t a criminal, he just had an "infection." However, I did learn a valuable life lesson that I’ve referred to again and again throughout my life, whatever you do, don’t tease the monkey!

The Crile Technique (the surefire Litmus test and scientific formula for detecting authentic singers)

Everybody has a knack for something, it could be carpentry, cooking, drawing, telling jokes, cleaning, juggling, gambling, water witching, shot putting, or nut cracking, but whatever it is, each one of us has some unique skill - maybe a few skills. The one I have is that I know great singers and musicians when I hear them. It’s an innate ability and my decisions are definitive whether anyone else agrees or not. I’m really not being braggadocios, I don’t think any one of us should hide their gifts under a bushel basket, especially if it could help the world in some way, and saving time weeding though bad singers is a significant contribution to civilization. Hey, I would take my word for it, if I were me, and I am. Some might mistake me for being presumptuous, but I’m not, I’m merely being frank (yes, he was a great singer - that was an easy one). I truly can listen to any vocalist past or present in any style, and in less than thirty seconds, not only tell you if they were great, but if they could swing, funk, had feel, and who some of their influences were. And if singing isn’t their strong point, I can tell you if they’re a genuine artist, a gifted songwriter, musician, or unique voice, or not. I can also tell you without more ado, if they’re spurious. But do not, repeat, do not ask me if you don’t want to hear the truth, and once I tell you the truth, I won’t argue about the unarguable. I’ve been doing this for 47 years now, and I do it every single day of my life. I’m not saying that I’m the only one in the world who has this skill, but I am saying that I’m ze best. That being said, though I myself am a vocalist, musician, and songwriter, I never claimed to be great, so please don’t put that kind of pressure on me, I already put enough pressure on myself, thank you.

Before I reveal the components of my scientific "crile" technique, let me explain both the stimulus and the reaction. The stimulus could be for instance, Sarah Vaughan (another easy one), and the reaction would be instantaneous; criling, pronounced cry-ling, is smiling and crying simultaneously and it’s undeniably the ultimate formula for recognizing great singers throughout the universe entire. Take for instance, when I hear Sarah Vaughan, a warm energy immediately starts to glow and expand in the core of my being, this glow then quickly rises from my solar plexus to my heart then to my face, where I’m already smiling and crying. It’s a joyous kind of crying, the way one cries at anything astonishingly beautiful, a Grand Canyon, Mount Everest, Sistine Chapel kind of stunning. The smiling is pure joy as well, it’s both a happiness and a thankfulness that there are such beautiful sounds possible on earth and that these sounds came from imperfect human beings. For me, it restores my faith in humans, music, art, and life. I also re-realize how wonderful God is to have invented all of these things. I’m merely blessed with the gift to distinguish absolute genius and pass this valuable information on to those who are better at other things.

I have detected many great singers (and musicians) in my lifetime, and one day I may publish the entire list, probably posthumously, because quite frankly, I don’t want to hear anyone’s complaints about it. Some things just are, and cannot be changed or contested. Another reason that I haven’t made my greats list public is that I’m a very cool and peaceable person who wants to live an uncomplicated life, and loves to love and be loved. Therefore, here I’ll reveal only the greats, none of the un-greats, because life is short and I only want to listen to great, don’t you? Though un-great is also good for laughs at times. Though I have a long list, here are my top five lists from past and present; they may be obvious choices to some, but we might ask ourselves, "Why doesn‘t everyone in the world know their names?" These two short lists are all I’m going to disclose for now, though I might privately tell those who can be trusted and who I‘ve known for at least a decade, a few more.

Sarah, Ella, Carmen, Anita O’Day, Mel Torme (sorry, Carmen)

Mark Murphy, Sheila Jordan, Nancy King, Bobby McFerrin, Jon Hendricks

Hairdos

I clearly remember standing half naked on a cold metal kitchen chair, bent over the sink, washing my hair. The hourglass-shaped bottle of green Prell with the plastic pearl dropped in it - to prove how thick and luxurious it was - in my hand, a palm-full made good suds, and I worked up that lather until it was as lush as a cartoon cloud, all the while wiping around my eyes - you know how those suds sting - and I started my parade of hairdos. First, the pylon point straight up in the air, I was the Bride of Frankenstein. Then I’d split it in half and guess who I am, ma?! I was Bozo the clown. Then I’d pull the points down and make dogs ears - that one was easy, and then Swedish buns on each side (this was long before Princess Laeh was around). For my grand finale I’d coil up my bodacious bouffant into an impressive Diary Queen swirl. My meringue beehive was the Everest of dos and I felt like a princess. I’d start all over again, mix them up for fun, and when my mom finally got tired of guessing who I was with my vague clues, I’d grab the hose with the black nozzle and become a little girl again. Now my mom is gone, and I can’t ask her to guess who I am. I haven’t washed my hair in the sink for years, and Prell isn’t the same anymore either. I still have imagination, but often it makes me sad after I rinse my head of it. Sometimes I wonder where things have gone; the joy and anticipation of holidays, looking forward to events and outings, my enthusiasm, my fearlessness, my childlike hope. I seemed more alive then, my mom and dad were alive - many of the things I’ve lost were still alive. Some say it’s not wise to live in the past, but I did live in the past. Others say it’s not wise to live in the future, but I’d like to live in the future. I remember times when I was a kid when I could barely get to sleep at night for all my excitement, now I can barely get out of bed some days for my lack of it. It’s impossible to pinpoint the time when it all began to dissolve for me, but when it started, it was like sprinkling salt on suds - it vanished before I knew it. There are times when I distinctly know that if I could go back and change that moment when salt hit suds, as easily as I changed my soapy hairdos, I would.

Ellery, not the Queen, the meter

Living in the woods, you can’t help but notice everyone who comes and goes, mainly because hardly anyone comes and goes out here in the woods. I’ve gotten acquainted with Thea the post woman, Will the UPS man, and Ellery the meter man. Each ones has a few interesting quirks I’ve noticed, Thea wears a mask to keep out the dust and fumes and won‘t get out of her truck because of our dogs, friendly as they may be, she honks the horn for me to come out and get the package from her, usually sometime around noon. Will plays guitar, loves cookies, writes a note on our packages when they’re small enough to leave in the mail box, and doesn‘t like coyotes any more than I do because a pack of them attacked his dog. Then there’s Ellery, he looks like Santa in farmer overalls, he has a white beard and usually wears red, though he doesn’t give the dogs treats like the old meter man did, and he was named after Ellery Queen the mystery writer, because I asked him once. The only thing that’s really mysterious about Elery is that I can’t understand anything he says. He’s got most of his teeth, and isn’t a tippler, so it’s not a physical impairment or a speech impediment. I’m the one who feels impaired and impeded because I can’t comprehend him. I’m fairly good at dialects and after living in the south for more than six years, I can almost get every word from every conversation, not so with Ellery, we’ve had more than a dozen ten minute conversations and I think I’ve understood about a half dozen words from each. I get that one word out of many and I’ll latch onto it like leech on a catfish and try to use it as a key to unlock the rest of the conversation. This doesn’t work very well, but it’s really the best I can do without an interpreter. This is what I know about Ellery thus far; he likes tulips, he has a son and a daughter than he taught to read the stars so they don’t get lost, his son is a hunter and is good at tracking animals, and the daughter is small in stature. That’s all I’ve gleaned in all these months. I have his cadence down but this doesn’t help me get any more out of our conversations. I nod a lot and say, "Oh, I see." a lot, even if I don’t know what it is that I’m seeing. It seems like he’s got such a strong drawn out drawl that it connects all the words together into one long roller coaster of indecipherable sound. If he was a Pentecostal I’d figure that he was speaking in tongues, but he doesn’t carry a snake and doesn’t seem like the overemotional type. Yet, I like Ellery; he seems like a nice guy. He usually laughs - that I can understand - and usually has a smile on his face. I guess that’s all that really counts, but still I wonder what wonderful tidbits of old country man knowledge that I’m missing along the way. One thing I do know, he certainly lives up to his mysterious namesake, only not so much a "Whodunnit," more of a "Whatdidyousay."

What Am I? Anyway?

If you'll ask me that question I'll certainly know the answer, but as for other folks you'll ask, they don't. People who hear my music think that I'm just the singer or the lyricist. They just don't get that I wrote the music and played the music. I'm not sure why this is too much to fathom, but I'm determined to find out. Is it because there are SO/TOO many female vocalists in the world, and SO/TOO many of them are mono-talented, if not monotonal and monotonous (hey, I don't care who you sleep with, lady!)? Granted I love a great vocal musician; Sarah, Carmen, Ella, Shirley Horn, Anita O'Day, Mark Murphy, Sheila Jordon, Nancy King, Nat Cole, and the like, of which there are damned few. There certainly are a lot of great female musicians that usually don't get their due (too many to list here, although I'm still telling people who Mary Lou Williams was), it's getting better but it's taken too long, and there's still a gender issue no matter how hidden. The people who know me as a songwriter can't quite believe that I play and sing my own songs as well as write songs for other artists. OK, Paul Williams and Burt Bacharach aren't very good singers, (who cares, they write good songs), but they do sing their own songs and they do write songs for other artists, is a songwriter who sings and plays really that uncommon? Stevie Wonder, Joni Mitchell, Shawn Colvin, Rickie Lee Jones, Todd Rundgren, Donald Fagen, Michael Ruff, Elvis Costello, Blossom Dearie, Mose Allison, etc. it's not that hard to perceive, right? As a written word writer I feel like I now have to convince people that I'm a musician, and hence, know what the hell I'm writing about when I write about music and artists. Who better to write about music than a musician or a songwriter about a songwriter? I know a lot of musicians who are eloquent writers, that shouldn't be so hard to believe. Then I get in trouble when I write poetry because I become just a lyricist again. When I record my own songs I become "the voice" and not the composer, the piano player, or arranger, or producer. So where does that leave me? It leaves me back at, what am I? Well, I'm all of the above and folks might as well get used to it, I‘ve had to. Though I may seem to be a rare bird, an oddball, a savant, a candidate for multiple personality disorder, or some kind of a Zelig, I think that after all these years on the earth - most of which have been in music - it's time to set the record straight. What am I? Tired! ;o)

All content (c) Marissa Dodge. All rights reserved.