What Kind Of Feather Is That?

SNOOTYPE_2

I wear a hat most days.
It looks pretty much like the avatar I use. An oddly crowned black cowboy type hat with a long straight feather in it. Nowadays the feather is usually a tail feather from a blue and gold Macaw.

It was not always thus.

I started wearing black cowboy hats when I was nineteen. I lived in Michigan at the time where I found summer work with a landscape architect. Lots of sun, lots of digging. The hat kept the sun out of my eyes, the rain off my glasses and gave me some protection from the dirt of the job. I didn’t adorn it with a feather in those early days however.

After that job went away so did the hat and it did not resurface until the seventies when I was working for Gelb Music. I had grown my beard and hair in the early seventies and liked the idea of wearing a hat again so I bought one of the “wire brim” varieties. I shaped the brim to taste letting the crown do what it wanted and over time it acquired its current slope.

I liked the hat. It became my trademark. I had an unfortunate incident where I sought to clean my hat de jour by putting it in a washing machine but that’s a story for another time. Needless to say, because I was due to play a show and my persona, my ‘act,’ called for The Hat I had to be creative. That day I learned how to steam a hat so I could shape a new one to look like the old ones. After that bit of business, people seldom noticed when I’d gotten a new hat because of this acquired-through-necessity skill. Around this time I graduated to better quality hats, ones without the wire brim, still shaping the new ones to look like the predecessors.

By the time I started working for Barney Steel’s I had been using a single feather. A “jive turkey” as a black musician once called it because it was one of those black-tipped faux eagle feathers made from dyed domestic turkey feathers.

One of the bartenders of the day…Leona, bought me a seventeen inch long pheasant feather at a Renaissance Pleasure Faire so I had to learn how to mount the feather straight up to keep it from getting caught in doors or slapping people walking behind me if I was on a barstool.

The long feather eventually got broken but other people had given me shorter pheasant feathers. People would give me feathers in the hope I would use them in my hat. So I mounted three feathers rotating them for variety. Still, pheasant feathers are fairly common hat gear and I always liked being a little different.

Enter, stage right, one Sue B.

Sue was a lovely girl. Blonde, pretty legs that seemed made for the short skirts she wore. She had nice blue eyes set in a sweet almost doll-like face.

She liked coming to Barney’s. Her husband would meet some of his motorcycle buddies at Barneys and Sue, as I found out her name was, would dance. She loved dancing. So did I, but it was plain she didn’t like contact dancing. In those days I was a swing dance fan. I didn’t enjoy ‘wiggle dancing’ as I called it. She and I may have tried dancing once but, if we did it would have been brief.

I would see her arrive but found she was remarkably shy. She would say ‘hi’ but couldn’t be drawn into conversation. As time passed, she was still shy and not talking but I noticed her looking at my hat intently from time to time.

One night she came up to me and actually spoke to me! A first! Actual conversation!

“I want to ask you something.” she said.
“Ask away,” said I.
“If I promise to provide you with feathers will you promise to only wear my feathers?”
This was such an odd request. I looked askance at her. “I dunno… whatcha got… what kind of feather are we talking about here?”

She held out a really long tail feather from a Blue and Gold Macaw. Blue on the outside, yellow on the inside.

A Macaw is a rather large Amazonian parrot. She had a Macaw aviary at home. She raised the birds for sale to pet stores and individuals.

Well, of course I struck the bargain and figured out how to mount the things. Not an easy trick by any means.

She kept her end of the bargain. The birds molt, twice a year I think, and she would bring me the best and longest two or three of the lot. The elements took their toll on the ones in the hat although they were a tough feather, withstanding weather handily.

All good things come to an end. She eventually divorced her husband causing her to shut down the aviary so my supply dried up. Luckily, I had taken care of the ones she gave me so I could maintain my hat’s image.

I saw her briefly a few times after Barney’s shut down. She was always shy but after her divorce we did get to where we talked when we saw each other. I kissed her once on a warm summer night, a sweet, chaste kiss, when we were walking down the street.

I haven’t seen her in years.

People love my hat. Every time I go out wearing it I always get compliments about it. Over the years I have found that it has opened far more doors than it closed. I usually come home knowing I made some people smile by wearing an outlandishly long blue and gold Macaw feather in my funky black cowboy hat. This is particularly true when I go to a medical appointment. Hospitals and clinics are full of people in private distress. To see them forget their troubles for an instant to smile at The Hat is quite warming. In grocery stores little kids think I’m an event. “Robin Hood” is the most common guess.

I decided to ‘stock up’ on feathers since Sue was no longer around in my world so I bought a Macaw tail molt from Ebay.

It’s just not the same.

People ask me what kind of feather it is and I tell them. Those who try to guess invariably suggest ‘peacock’ or ‘pheasant.’ They ask me where I get them I tell them EBay. The story goes deeper than that but is too long in the telling.

I still only wear one Blue and Gold Macaw tail feather.

I miss the having the pretty blonde girl bring me a couple of tail feathers twice a year.

>sigh<

Ronnie’s ‘Pie Story’

SNOOTYPE_2

Any time of the day is a good time for pie.”
__Fabienne in “Pulp Fiction”

A friend of mine died in 2005… Ron Nakamrua… a great guitarist, a man of unselfish generosity and humor…He and I went ‘way back’ as they say. He is featured in my ‘Reflections On The Garcia’ writing.

This bit of business was one of his favorite stories and he often begged me to recount it. For a time we even made it into a song like a talking blues… I got to thinking about him and that story so I thought I’d share it because I know he’d like me to tell it one more time…

Once upon a time Ronnie, I, Jimmie (Jimbo) Carmichael and Dan Swetlik (with occasional appearances by Ed Donnelan) were in a little almost-jug band called ‘Polecat’. We played Grateful Dead stuff, a little Eagles, things like that…

Ronnie played brilliant lead guitar on his marvelous Martin D-35, Jim handled most of the vocals and Dan played bass and sang harmony. I was playing Dobro for the group. We were several cuts above a garage band, making little gigs here and there and getting together for rehearsals, alternating between Dan or at Jimbo’s house. We had a nice little following.

We had a lot of stories to tell… One day I’ll tell about the time Jim lost the band truck in San Francisco but today I’ll tell you Ronnie’s Pie Story.

Now it happened that my thirty fifth birthday was drawing nigh and being born on April first as I am causes me to exercise a certain amount of caution on my natal anniversary. ‘Getting through a birthday’ has a little more meaning for me than it does for most mortals.

Little did I know my thirty-fifth would have a special ‘sweetness’ to it.

We had gathered at Jimmie’s on this occasion for a rehearsal and we were taking a break. It was about eight thirty or so… dark out.

Jim said “Anyone want to smoke one?” …the times being what they were, folks were known to take a little smoke of cannabis on occasion (only for the camaraderie, of course. It would be bad manners to refuse.)

I knew I was up for it but Jim said, “We have to do it outside so’s not to smell up the house.” I should have seen this as an omen, a portend, of mischief because this had never been a concern before. Still, it was a reasonable request because marijuana does have a pungent odor.

So we went outside on a moonless night illuminated only by the back porch light. We passed the doobie around in good fellowship.

Ron then asked me if I wanted to hear a joke. “Hail no!” I said.

Now folks…having Ron tell you a joke was a challenge to one’s comprehension because he would usually go into fits of laughter during the telling and be incapable of finishing the damn thing coherently. Often by the time he gasped out the punch line the joke will have lost its momentum and the punch line would go flat…

So, in spite of my protests, he starts this long rambling tale, commencing to crack up in the telling as usual.
At last he seemed to be bringing it to a merciful end. There he stands, laughing his head off, while I’m waiting for the punch line. Finally, I get impatient and say:

“Let me have it.”

Ronnie looks at me in mid laugh, almost unbelievingly, and says “What?”

“I said…Let me have it.!”

Okay!” said Ron with a grin of sheer delight…”You asked for it”…

And I saw, almost in stop motion, his hand come from behind his back holding a coconut cream pie which he plants firmly in my face.

There is no experience quite like it, folks… You can watch all the old slapstick movies you want that feature such shenanigans but there is no substitute for the real event.

I remember reacting with a stunned roar, momentarily immobile but not for long. I was looking over my glasses for someone to grab and punish when the next surprise was unloaded… a bucket of water splashed on my chest. Ice water…

Cold! That slowed me down and a second bucket of water at groin level pretty much stopped me gave the miscreants ample time to flee. I saw one scurry over a fence and Dan virtually flew over the rear gate.
I was half blind and wet and cold and about as disoriented as one could be.

After a beat or two, one of the guys asked if it was safe to approach me and I said it was because I was of two minds… outraged that such a thing had been done to my person and at the same time the realization had started to sink in that not many people had undergone such an experience. and I could see it was every bit as ludicrous in life as it seemed when done in the movies.

The boys had planned well. They had the setup planned weeks in advance, even to the point of having a dry jumpsuit set aside so I could shower and change (and cool off a bit) allowing us to all have a great laugh, not at my expense, but at the whole project and its brilliant execution. Ronnie had thoughtfully provided some ‘sip of the day’ (Peach Brandy) to assist in the warming up process…

That is the essence of ‘Ronnie’s Pie Tale’ and it achieved the status of near myth over the years.

It did have some negative footnotes however…

We were scheduled to play at a now defunct beer and wine joint called “The Rhinoceros’ that once existed across from the legendary Gelb Music store. It was early in the evening. The place was empty and the boys were back in the main showroom getting set up. I was in the bar drinking coffee.

Alan, one of the bartenders, brought in a familiar looking box… a pie box! I rose to my most threatening height and put on my War Face but Alan said… ”No, wait… we thought you should have a pie to eat for your birthday.”

Well, that was an altogether different matter so I picked up the pie and took it into the main showroom intending to show it to the boys but they all scattered like marbles dropped on a linoleum floor when they saw that pie in my hands. They didn’t want to share evidently.

About a week later we went to play a gather at a rented hall at the San Mateo YMCA, when the line between fun surprise and malice blurred and started to spoil the effect.

That very night someone mushed Ronnie with a chocolate cream pie. He didn’t take it well but the poor guy had no recourse to get it all off him until he got home. No shower and jumpsuit waiting for him. All he had was the facilities available in the rest room and we had a show to play. I’ll tell you from experience it takes a couple of showers to get the sugary-ness off. So the poor guy was gooey and grumbly about it for the rest of the night.

It became dangerous for anyone in our circle to have a birthday for a while after that. They tried to pie Dan the bass player, whose birthday was near mine by a couple of days but he avoided the pie assassins. Jimbo got blindsided at a joint called ‘The Rusty Pelican’. Ed Donnelan, a frequent band mate, told us that “…the ‘pie tradition’ that year, cost me a bloody nose and a loose tooth because the perpetrator’s of my ‘pieing’ neglected to fully thaw the frozen banana cream prior to “surprising” me with it.”

Finally one of our number from our fan base, Rick Chatfield, got slightly injured which should illustrate to the masses that your standard surprise party is a much safer and saner way of doing things. They know what they were talking about when they say ‘Kids, Don’t Try This At Home.’

So then the pie in the face routine faded into the realm of Legends Told…

The thing I remember most about it though, isn’t the pie in the face as much as it was listening to Ronnie laugh because he knew what was about to happen… he loved to laugh…

Here’s to you Ronnie…thanks for the memories… miss you terribly…

…an interesting email


My Grateful Dead write-up, (Reflections on The Garcia) originally written as a free flow learning exercise for learning MS Word, took on a life of its own once I finished it. I edited it three times and at this point I’m not that happy with it but I know enough to leave it alone.

It has been around the world and every once in a while I get a really special sounding email from total strangers.
This one is hard to top

From: Nicholas Meriwether
To: norm@Normspot.com;
Sent: Friday, September 20, 2013 9:07 AM
Subject: Greetings from the Grateful Dead Archive

Dear Norm,
I am the archivist in charge of the Grateful Dead Archive at UC Santa Cruz. I came across your very fine and eloquent essay on your time with Jerry and I wanted to email and thank you so much for writing and sharing it.
I edit a peer-reviewed academic journal devoted to the Dead and I am wondering if you might like to allow your fine essay to be published in the next issue. Your essay deserves as wide an audience as possible, I believe – – and while the journal doesn’t pay (me or anyone), it does let your work live in academic libraries and allow it to be consulted by good scholars, historians, and fans.
Please let me know if this might appeal to you, and regardless, should your travels bring you to Santa Cruz, I hope you’ll stop by the Library and let me introduce myself and give you a tour of the Archive exhibit.
With many thanks in advance for your time,

Sincerely,
Nicholas


Nicholas Meriwether
Grateful Dead Archivist
McHenry Library, UC Santa Cruz
1156 High St., Santa Cruz, CA 95064

… I accepted, of course…

The Lunch Break

Back in the seventies, shortly after Sidney Gelb sold his music store we three, Kevin Jarvis, Henry White and myself were caught up in the hirsuteness of the day. Kevin had longish hair and a mustache, I had long hair and a trimmed beard and Henry, he of the red locks, had a trimmed beard and longish hair too.
Kevin and I went to hair stylists which were legion back in those days but Henry used one of the razor combs you can get that allow you to trim your own hair.
We were truckin,’ as they say… up to date….in Style!

On this particular day, both Henry and Kevin decided to take lunch at the same time. Kevin had an errand to run and Henry wanted to go home and eat and had it in mind to give himself a trim while he was there. It was a quiet day so I didn’t mind.

I guess I was looking at a catalog or something when Henry came back from lunch and breezed through the door. I remember I didn’t even glance up and didn’t give a thought to him going behind the counter to stand behind me.
But his silence was off putting so I looked up…

He looked like a Parris Island boot! All of his beautifully maintained hair was Gone!

He stood there with an abashed grin on his face. I was momentarily speechless. But only momentarily…

“Don’t say a word,” I said, “Kevin will be back shortly and you can tell us both at once.”

Almost on cue, Kevin came in and he too was momentarily speechless. So then we heard the tale, which is now legend.

It turns out, what had happened was that when Henry went home he had decided to take a shower. While in the shower he decided to put his razor comb to use. This was something he normally did when his hair was dry.

Welllll…. instead of a trim the razor comb took a chunk of hair and, panicking, Henry tried to even it up by eye to no avail. Finally he went to a rescue barber he knew who took one look at him and shook his head. “Abandon all hope.” said he… And he gave Henry a burrcut that would have made any drill instructor proud.

All three of us taught guitar so poor Henry got the dubious pleasure of having to relate his tale of woe to maybe twenty wide eyed little guitar pickers…
He got his story down pat and stuck to it.

After that incident it was years before he let anything sharp touch a hair on his head.

From The Bar ~ The Large American Breasts

Another segment of a project The Rise and Fall of a Saloon in the Latter Part off The Twentieth Century. These excerpts are not chronological. In fact very little logic prevails…

We needed a waitress who had some flexibility. Time softens the memory but it seemed we needed a girl to work the day shift. This was always a tough spot to fill because of its odd hours, eleven a.m. to one p.m, then back at four p.m. to eight p.m. We might need her cover some night work, too. At the time, our regular daytime waitress was taking some days off…perhaps a vacation, or I was between day shift workers. It doesn’t matter. What mattered was that I needed a cocktail waitress that could work night or day as the job required.

The Bar was pretty popular at the time so I felt that finding a girl wouldn’t be difficult. I was getting asked if we had openings pretty often so I was pretty confident that someone would turn up without me having to revert to newspaper ads. Of course always up for question was whether the candidate would work out but that is an eternal issue with New Hires in any business. In hindsight it sometimes made for episodes worthy of any Hollywood comedy.

Sure enough, a fetching little gamine came in one day asking if I needed a cocktail waitress. She was petite, about 5’1” tall…not much over 100 pounds. She was a pretty girl, more cute than beautiful, barely twenty one, I think. We shall call her “Clarissa” for this telling.

She proudly announced, with a conspiratorial giggle, “I’m Puerto Rican but I also have Large American Breasts.” She made this anatomical announcement with a happy smile. Her pronouncement of having Large American Breasts was delivered with humor, not with suggestiveness. She always said it with a little laugh. Just for the record, her breasts were nicely shaped but were not distractingly large. Not small by any means, but certainly not outsized. She had a nicely turned, slender but well proportioned little figure.

She was one of those women who dyed her dark hair, aiming for blonde but not quite achieving true blonde tone. Still, she was a cutie with a fetching way of dressing and an ever-present smile. All this added up to a pleasing presentation.

When I explained The Job to her I discussed (as I always did) the dress code, such as it was. It was pretty simple…”Never wear jeans, wear what looks good on you.” but I had strictures about ‘exposure.’ One of these was to “Check your dip” before you went to work… meaning to be aware of your breasts and to guard against accidental exposure. Check your outfit by bending forward in front of a mirror if necessary (“checking your dip”). This was to ensure that no accidental boob-baring would occur.
The Rule was that the customer should Never see the color of the girl’s nipples. I liked the crew to look pretty as they wanted to look because I knew it usually meant more tips but I did not want them looking or behaving like tarts.

It was during this conversation that she confessed that she didn’t wear underwear. This gave me some pause. I didn’t mind if a woman chose to not wear a bra but there was a visual risk factor if she went about sans panties. The shorter women often used the square foot rail molding at the base of the bar to elevate themselves while they did their ordering. This could cause unexpected exposure when viewed from certain angles. With some reluctance I said, “Well, OK, just so long as the customers don’t become aware of this condition. No super short skirts. If I hear you’re flashing people, out you go!” She promised to comport herself as I asked and she signed on.

Now as it happened, the daytime bartender was confident in her own effect on men. She was like royalty. The Golden Queen. She had a steady and loyal following. She was a real beauty in the Farrah Fawcett mode and had a knack of making her male customers feel like she was especially attentive to each of them without having to actually get involved with them. This is a rare skill and this kind of bartender is a powerful draw in the saloon business.
Needless to say, she made excellent money.

Clarissa’s first day was, ah, ‘interesting.’ Clarissa had an almost elfin sexual appeal, enhanced by her chatty sense of humor and her extreme femininity in her manner of dress. She always wore dresses, very light and frilly, the kind that triggers fantasies in boys and men. She swept into the job and the sweep had quite an impact. The males, who before had been gazing at the Golden Queen so adoringly, suddenly were sitting on their stools with their backs to the bar watching Clarissa as she laughingly flitted from one table to another taking drink orders. The Boys were all quite infatuated with her even to the point of forgoing their incessant dice games for Carissa’s first few days.

Clarissa’s underwear (or lack of it) was a situation that caused me to send her to the ladies room with safety pins in hand for strategic rearrangement of various drapery openings several times and home to change at least once. The Bar had four good sized ceiling fans and each waitress station had one directly above where the trays were loaded. One hot summer morning the fans were already running when Clarissa came on duty and we got a lesson in aerodynamic physics in the matter of air and cloth.

This being that a fan blowing toward the floor creates a reflective updraft as the air hits the floor and is redirected upward. The effect on a particularly diaphanous dress Clarissa had chosen to wear that day was reminiscent of the scene in The Seven Year Itch. The one where Marilyn Monroe stands over a subway vent causing her skirts to billow upward. When Clarissa went to the waitress station, the fan’s secondary updraft lofted her dress skyward. The threat of exposure caused all sorts of rapid hand flurries as she tried to manage her dress, her money and her tray at the same time. It was really too hot and still to turn off the fan so I sent her home to change as a lesson in using more care in wardrobe selection in the future.

Clarissa would sometimes come in at night to mingle and party. Some bars discourage their crew from coming in off shift but we had no such restraint.
It turned out she was an excellent dancer. I was particularly skilled as a swing dancer. I had a girl I danced with regularly. We’d put in a lot of practice and we were an impressive pair on the dance floor. I took Clarissa for a turn and we jelled quickly. She was quite a bit shorter and lighter than my regular dance partner and she followed well which made her a joy to dance with. She was very petite which meant I could lift her higher easier than my favored partner. Clarissa’s lack of underwear caused some issues while dancing because it was a risk to lift her too high or to spin her too much. Spinning a dancer tends to make their skirts flare and flatten. This would have put exposure of her nether areas at risk. But we made it work and enjoyed our time on the dance floor.

All this caused major friction between my much loved dance mate and myself.

My regular dancer and I weren’t seeing each other romantically but she still felt extremely proprietary about me when it came to that dance floor. We were excellent when we danced together reflecting hours of practice. She didn’t mind me dancing with another woman from time to time because she knew it was good for business because she also knew that she and I were visually untouchable as a dance team. Therefore she was Not Pleased when Clarissa danced with me. She was even less pleased seeing that I was actually enjoying myself in the process. It took some doing for me to get her fur smoothed down. I can’t remember how I did it but I knew I had to avoid a donnybrook between the two. Or my certain assassination on my way home some night.

Clarissa was a fan of Long Island Iced Teas or Margaritas depending on her mood and while she didn’t drink on the job, (a taboo) drinking could cause issues when she was just hanging out… literally. Not so much with her deportment but with her “Large American Breasts.” On two separate occasions the outfits Clarissa wore lacked full containment capability and one or the other of her ‘Large American Breasts’ would come forth to greet the world. I have to admit they were lovely specimens, absolutely perfect in form and pink coloration of areola, but public boob display was not on the agenda for my crew on or off duty. “Tuck it in” had a whole new meaning on those “escape” nights.

When you really think about it, tending bar or cocktailing is a form of show business. The bar staff are actors, each playing their developed bartending or waitressing persona as they go along, always looking for ways to project their chosen ‘character’ role in such a ways as to generate more income in the form of tips.

All things considered, Clarissa was a fun waitress. She was able to flirt with the men (“You’re the Only One”) without getting into trouble with the men’s dates because they could tell it was just her act even when she cited her Large American Breasts. Clarissa was pretty, funny, vivacious and sexy…but there was a problem. When it came to the ‘show business’ she was good on “show” but not so much on the actual “business” part.

Clarissa was, alas, a terrible waitress. She couldn’t add and never got the hang of delivering a proper call order. The nighttime bartenders really didn’t like working with her because of this. Nighttime, particularly on a noisy, busy, Band Night made for too much pressure for speed to tolerate any incompetence at the critical point of ordering and paying for drinks.

She never really got the hang of it at the money point, the all important ordering and pricing, so I had to ease her out and find help elsewhere. That was part of my job. The transitory nature of saloon staff always had me looking for the next ‘star’.

Still, I think of Clarissa often and with great affection. True, she wasn’t a good waitress, but she had her own way of lighting up her shifts. Even after all these years, thinking of her makes me smile…

I hope she’s doing well… she was a sweetie…