John Prine

The guy in the picture is John Prine. There's a good chance you've never heard of him. He is arguably the greatest singer, songwriter, guitar picker never to make it into the mainstream. His lyrics are so incredibly true.

Here is a particularly captivating verse from Souvenirs, a song he co wrote with Steve Goodman.

All the snow has turned to water
Christmas days have come and gone
Broken toys and faded colors
Are all that's left to linger on
I hate graveyards and old pawn shops
For they always bring me tears
I can't forgive the way they rob me
Of my childhood souvenirs

By the way, Souvenirs is John Prine's mother's favorite song.

Click on this link if you'd like to see John Prine perform Souvenirs.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DYQe454YVs

Here is the chorus from Sam Stone, a haunting song about a drug addicted Vietnam vet.

There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Johnny Cash covered Sam Stone.

Click on this link if you'd like to see Sam Stone

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEa4qi6cYOQ&feature=related

The ticket you see above is mine. There's a story that goes along with this ticket. Friday afternoon one of the secretary's sent out an email offering six free John Prine tickets for the Friday night show. I raced to the secretary's desk and picked up one of the tickets. The business of seeing John Prine perform wasn't going to be easy. You see I was obligated to accompany a group of students to an academic competition across town. You never know with these competitions; they can end as early as seven o'clock or go on until eleven. The show started at eight but there was a warm up band. It was a proverbial crap shoot. The bus returned to our home school at 9:30. There was still a chance I could see John Prine sing. It would be worth the 45 minute drive to downtown Phoenix just to see him play one song.

As drove toward Phoenix I began to reevaluate the situation. I was pretty darned tired. And I had to get up at 5:30. Since there had been a warm up band, John Prine must have begun his performance at nine at the latest. It was ten o'clock . "The guy's got to be seventy." I thought. "A seventy year-old isn't going to play much longer than an hour." And I was pretty darned tired. I understood I would regret turning around and going home more than I would have regretted losing a little sleep as I pulled off the freeway and headed home.


And so I have this ticket.

Last night I came home, cracked a beer and watched a few John Prine songs on Youtube. It was nice. It had been a good day. I enjoyed being with my students at the competition. It's good to have a job from which I can drive home every day knowing I at least tried to do something good.

I was walking down the road, man
Just looking at my shoes
When God sent me an angel
Just to chase away my blues
Now everything is cool
Everything's okay
Everything is cool
Everything's okay

- Everything is Cool by Jon Prine



Steve McQueen did not see the John Prine show Friday night.

"A Potent Memory (1993)"

A Short Story from The Eight Fingered Criminal's Son
“A Potent Memory (1993)"
by W.Z Snyder
© 2006 William Snyder

A Potent Memory
East Valley Accommodation School
1993

It is passing period. I walk across the unkempt high school campus, surrounded by chain-smoking high school students. I must make my way through a long corridor between the library and the gymnasium. Walking briskly, I begin to detect the odor of marijuana. As I move deeper into the hallway, the odor becomes more pungent; I realize I have been breathing these powerful fumes and I have not yet made it half-way to the other side. It becomes apparent that I am somewhat high. Desperate, I attempt to hold my breath but it’s too late. In fact, the process of holding my breath only serves to intensify the effect. Looking around, I see dozens of students blazing up in small circles of four and five. Never in my life have I seen so many people openly smoking so much pot in one confined place. Finally, I reach the other side of the dark smoke filled corridor. My mind is a bit hazy – purple hazy, if you will. Garth, the chain smoking security guy is sitting on a brick wall enjoying a Marlborough.

“Garth,” I say.

My own voice sounds odd from inside my head, as if I am talking from the inside of an aluminum trash can. Oh yes, I am definitely high. Garth looks at me and takes a long pleasurable drag from his cigarette. Why is he staring at me? Does he know I’m high? Wait a minute; it’s not my fault that I’m high. It’s Garth’s fault. He’s the security guard.

“Garth,” I say.

I have already said Garth three times – or has it been four? He stands slowly. This is a start. Garth seldom actually stands up.

“What do you need Bill?”

There is condescension and irritation in his voice.

“I’m high.” I say.

“What?” Garth is smiling as smoke pours out from between his yellow tobacco stained teeth.

“I’m high.”

“Really? New coping mechanism Bill?”

“I’m high because there are 500 kids smoking pot in the hallway over there.”

“What are you talking about?”

The bell rings and the students begin disappearing into the classrooms.

“There are a bunch of kids getting high in the corridor between the gym and the library.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’re the security guy, Garth.”

“The bell rang, Bill.”

“Yeah?”

“You should probably tend to your little darlings.”

I look back to the hallway. It is empty but for lingering smoke. I look at Garth. He shoots me a vast goofy grin, drops his cigarette butt to the ground and grinds it with the sole of his shoe. Still smiling, he adroitly pops another cigarette into his mouth, sits down and fires it up. Our business is done. It is time for Garth to take a break.

I go back to my class. Only eleven of my 25 students have come to school today. Three of them are visibly high. No one seems to notice my condition. The effect wears off in about an hour. On the way home, I stop at Seven-11 and purchase a Big Gulp and a large bag of Cheetos.

Steve McQueen, a Pogo Stick and Washington Irving

Pogo Sticks

My daughters complained that they were bored. Being the genius that I am, I offered five bucks to the first girl to reach 100 pogo stick hops - in the back hard. They raced into the back yard and I paused to marvel at my brilliance before getting back to my coffee and morning paper.

Five minutes later they were back in the house wanting to renegotiate. I guess feeling like a genius for five minutes is better than never feeling like a genius at all.

The Devil and Tom Walker

My students recently read Washington Irving's The Devil and Tom Walker. It's one of my favorite short stories and I'm amazed at how the 150 year-old chronicle has maintained its relevance. Irving uses the story to absolutely shred slave traders, hypocritical Christians and money lenders. I don't run into many slave traders, these days but there doesn't seem to be any shortage of hypocritical Christians or unscrupulous bankers.

The Devil and Tom Walker is one of the funniest stories I've come across. Most of the humor was too subtle for my high school students to pick up. They did get a kick out of the situation when Irving explained that Tom Walker had no fear of the devil after putting up with a woman like Mrs. Walker.

As with the stories of Faust, Daniel Webster, Robert Johnson and Charlie Daniels' fiddle player, The Devil and Tom Walker centers on the devil's offer to make Tom Walker a rich man in exchange for his soul. He also asks Tom to be a usurer, that is a money lender, one of his own "peculiar people." The devil suggests that Tom charge two percent interest a month, that is 24 percent a year. Modern American banks rouinely charge their cusomers 24 percent or more today, don't they? As Tom Walker grows old he tries to cheat the devil by attending church, singing and praying louder than the rest and pointing out all of the townsfolk who break the rules of the church, all the while destroying lives, cashing in on his customers' misfortunes during the week. Of course, in the end, the devil takes Tom into the bowels of the earth where the hypocritical money lender will burn for all eternity.

In a day and age when Bankers seem to get away with such unspeakable behavior, Irving's classic tale is - comforting.

The Coolest Cat in History

You may be wondering why I included a photo of Steve McQueen from the set of The Magnificent Seven.

No reason.

The Arizona Justice League of Photographers Rides - the Train III

Thought I'd post a few photographs from the most recent Justice League photography shoot.

These pictures were taken by Eric the Photographer. As the handle implies, he actually takes pictures for a living. Eric is our Yoda, our Mr. Miagi, our Seargent Carter...

Got to tell you, I'm really digging this reflection image. From left to right, that's yours truly,Clif the Lawyer, Mario the Chef, and Eric the Photographer.

The streets of Phoenix were absolutely deserted.

Look, here's a shot of me talking on a cell phone next to a phone booth. Bet you don't see that everyday.

Then again, maybe you do. It could be that there's an old phone booth in front of your office and every stinking day some joker stands next to the booth, talking on his cell phone while shouting, "Hey look at me. I'm standing next to a phone booth talking on a cell phone. Bet you don't see that every day."

Here's the historic Luhrs Tower. Built in 1929, this building served as the backdrop for a scene in Hitcock's Psycho as Janet Leigh crossed the street with the bank deposit she was supposed to make for her boss.

These guys were singing:

I come from the land down under

Where beer does flow and men chunder

Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?

You better run you better take cover.

Weird, huh?

It's all about the clouds.

Here's Mario the Chef yucking it up with Marge and Hank at The Coney Island Grill.

The Arizona Justice League of Photographers shoot it out in downtown Phoenix.

Absolutely nothing happened to any of us while were standing in front of this building.

The Honest Scrap Blogger Award

Fellow blogger, Midlife Job Hunter at http://midlifejobhunter.blogspot.com/has seen fit to pass the Honest Scrap Blogger award along to me.

Here are the rules of the award:

1. “The Honest Scrap” award must be shared.

2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves that no one else knows.

3. The recipient has to pass along the award to 10 more bloggers.

4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.

5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

Here are ten things most people don’t know about yours truly.

1. I used to have an invisible friend by the name if Ishkabibble. He was animated in the style of a cartoon and looked and sounded a lot like the Frito Lay Frito Bandito. I had to give him up when I hit 30.

2. I grew up in the same town and on the same street as the Wilson brothers of Beach Boys fame.
3. My uncle, Ronnie Alison played little league baseball with Dennis Wilson. He was also the college roommate of Burt Ward of TV’s Batman show.

4. Hollywood actor, Gene Hackman once pushed me down when I was working as an usher at a Los Angeles Lakers game.

5. When I was 14, I was involved in a head on collision in which I was catapulted twenty feet into the middle of an intersection before walking away without a scratch.

6. I can sing the Scarecrow, Lion, and Tin Man songs from the Wizard of Oz on demand. Each time I sing one of these songs my wife says I should learn a new song.

7. Walter Cronkite once said hello to me.

8. My favorite Halloween candy is the 100,000 Dollar Bar.

9. It is my strong belief that the Russians, the Cubans, and elements of organized crime and the United States government were involved in the assassination of John F. Kennedy and the ensuing cover up of the conspiracy.

10. I once wrote a play called Bad Bar Plays #1. Sorry, I really had to reach for number ten.

I hereby pass the award onto the following blogs:

My Room
http://kavita-myroom.blogspot.com/
Blog author, Kavita provides amazing insight into the culture India. Very cool blog.

Nothing to Blog About
http://www.nothingtoblogabout.net/
Hailing from Michigan, USA, this unique blog blends photos and stories. Funny stuff.

W. M. Morell

http://quillfeather-blog.blogspot.com/

W.M. Morrell is an outstanding writing blog out of New Zealand.

Two Chiefs and One Indian

Last week I was asked to attend an American Lit meeting. The American literature department at my high school has five teachers. Two of the five teachers share the position of level lead. I was the only teacher to show up to the meeting who is not a level lead. There I was sitting in a desk, while the two level leads delivered their presentation to me. I sat in that desk and absolutely laughed my ass off. I couldn’t help it.

“What’s so funny, buddy?” asked one of the department leads who is a year younger than my oldest daughter and always calls me buddy.

“Am I the only one that sees the humor in this?” I asked in between snorts.

The two of them stared at me like I was dancing naked with my hair on fire.

“Humor?” the kid asked.

“Don’t you guys think it’s funny that it’s just me?”

Again, they hit me with the dancing naked with my hair on fire look.

“Don’t you guys think it’s funny that there are two level leads for a level that has just five people?”

The crickets were chirping and the forty percent of the level that were level leads continued to stare blankly.

“You guys really don’t see the humor in this?”

The woman looked like she was trying to catch flies while the kid cocked his head and said, “You remind me of my dad.”

The Technology Wars Continue

I guess you could say I’m effectively losing my ongoing war with technology. My desktop computer crashed and burned a couple of weeks ago and I’ve been trying to function on an old computer a thoughtful relative lent to the family. The borrowed Dell is incredibly slow. I’ve been told it has just 50 goats or rams or gigabytes or maybe it was flux capacitors. If you're one of my fellow bloggers and you’ve noticed I haven’t been leaving responses on your postings, it’s because it now takes me approximately seven hours to leave a response. Ok, it doesn’t really take seven hours but the bottom line is it takes a lot longer to do anything on this computer but I’m not bitter. Not e. Oh yeah, the m doesn’t always work on the keyboard.

So I’m dealing with the computer situation. But another technology snafu manifested itself this week. My cell phone stopped working a couple of days ago. Now my cell phone is a standard source of ridicule at the hands of friends, family and coworkers. It’s very a basic cell phone, no camera, no internet access, nothing slides out for texting, no snappy whistle, no secret decoder ring; it’s just a phone One of my students got a look at y phone and said to me, “Hey Mr. Snyder, the year 2000 called, they want their cell phone back.” I get it. The kid nailed me with a witty line. I’ll give him that. At any rate, it was a busy week and I didn’t get a chance to stop by the cell phone store. I mentioned that my cell phone was out to one of my classes. One of my more tech savvy students offered to take a look at it. I handed it over to him and the kid flipped it over and turned it on. I didn’t tell the kid that I didn’t realize the phone had been turned off. Yep, I didn’t think to check to see if the phone was turned on. Yep, I’m feeling like a complete technological moron about right now.

Clif the Lawyer has a Blog and Arizona Justice League of Photographers Rides - the Train II

I'd like to take this opportinity to blatantly plug fellow Arizona Justice Leaguer, Clif the Lawyer's new blog. Check him out at :

http://www.fatesensation.com/photoblog/

Clif the Lawyer is one of the smartest guys I've ever known. And he's got an unstoppable left handed hook shot.

Here are a few of my shots from the Arizoona Justice League's train shoot.

Artsy, huh?

It's alive.

At some point hanging out with talented photographers like Eric the actual professional photographer, Clif the Lawyer and Mario the Chef will start to rub off on me.

Or not.

Here is another of my failed attempts at a group shot.

I fully intend to post a few of Mario the Chef and Eric the Photographer's shots this week.

What did one hat say to the other?

You stay right here, I'll go on a head.

The Arizona Justice League of Photographers Rides... The Train

On Saturday, October 10th the Arizona Justice League of Photographers rode the light rail to downtown Phoenix. We purchased our all day passes for 3.50 and waited. The 10:15 train slowed down a bit ahead of the stop. As we jogged ahead to make the train the heartless bastard left us in the dust. Eric the Photographer noticed the driver giving us a hand signal that must have meant we were number one in his heart.

We caught the next train where I attempted to get a group photo. It’s not as easy as you’d think, not if you’re technological nincompoop like me.

As I was trying to get the shot, I mentioned to the guys, that I had made up a joke that had already been made up by someone else.

"Hey fellas." I said, "What did the governor of California say when he wanted to become a composer? I'll be Bach."

Clif the Lawyer (behind the camera) proceeded o ask, "What did the governor of California say when he wanted to become a chicken? I'll be bach, bach, bach, bach."

I should point out that he sounded very much like a chicken.

I might also point out that I laughed - very hard. It's inprtant that I include this kind of thing so you can get the real feel of an Arizona Justice League of Photographers shoot.

After 27 failed attempts, I was able to get a shot of all four of us. (left to right) That's Mario the Chef, Clif the Lawyer, Eic the Photographer and yours truly. By the way, no one checked our passes. We could have ridden for free - if we weren't the ethical types.

Downtown Phoenix was pretty much deserted.

There was an awful lot of construction going on. I thought everybody was broke.

Here's a shot of Mario the Chef trying to keep up with Eric the Photographer. It's not the Mario walks so slow, it's just that Eric is the fastestwalker I've ever seen.

Hungry from all of that fast walking we ducked into a joint called the Coney Island Grill.

This joint had some serious atmosphere. That's Marge and Hank and they run the place.

We spent a half hour or so enjoying hot dogs, burgers and sodas.

I don't remember hearing Hank speak. But Marge, she was the Energizer bunny, baby. She went on for 30 minutes without stopping.

Hank and Marge are from Chicago, but they've been in Phoeniz for 30 years. She's a former legal secretary and back in the day, she ran a tight ship. Marge told us stories about Phoenix power brokers like Phil Gordon, Fife Simington, and Janet Napolitano.

The food was good, but it was Marge that really made the experience.

If you're ever in downtown Phoenix you're missing out if you don't stop in to have hot dog with Marge and Hank ant the Coney Island Grill.

I like this shot. It was taken right after we left the Coney Island Grill. I forgot I was still holding half a cup of Diet Coke when I raised the camera to shoot this magnificent picture. Drenched myself. Anything to provide a little entertainment for my fellow Justice Leaguers.

This picture had to be taken. There's got to be a story behind the pink rose with a broken stem.

There are more photos to post and stories to tell. Eric sent me some beautiful photos. I just have to figure out how to load them up. Look for The Arizona Justice League of Photographers Rides - The Light Rail Part II later this week.

An Exerpt from The Spirit Guide Bar

An exerpt from The Spirit Guide Bar
“Surfer Girl"
by W.Z Snyder
© 2008 William Snyder

It is the summer of 1977. I am seventeen years old at the Manhattan Beach pier. A transistor radio radiates the words to the ultimate Beach Boys song:

I have watched you on the shore
Standing by the ocean’s roar
Do you love me, do you surfer girl
Surfer girl surfer girl…

Soaked with the salt water of the Pacific Ocean, I hold the battered surfboard I purchased from Donald Bailey for five bucks. There is something disingenuous about my five dollar surfboard. The truth is I couldn’t surf to save my life. The surfboard is merely a prop to make me appear more striking when I emerge from the pounding waves. It’s worth noting that I am reasonably competent at the fine art of paddling. The aromas of coconut flavored Coppertone sun tan lotion, salt and sea weed float upon the cool ocean breeze. Joe Alvarez hops along the hot sand in bare feet as he devours a square slice of Zeppy’s premium thick and cheesy pizza. The aroma is nothing short of intoxicating. Alvarez tears a bite loose, but the pizza remains connected to his mouth by a single tantalizing drooping string of perfect cheese. There is nothing quite like Zeppy’s pizza. Served in square slices, the pizza is so much more substantive, at the very least, quadrupling the amount of cheese allocated by other pizza stands. Oh my God, I would do just about anything for just one bite of Joe Alvarez’s slice of pizza.

Ingrid Mathis speaks and I forget about the pizza. She is stunning in her bright orange French cut bikini and her banana yellow ski glasses. Her soft golden brown skin is coated with moist coconut suntan lotion. Playful beads of sweat roll down the middle of her firm stomach and vanish into her tauntingly luscious belly button. This goddess is a member of the Hawthorne High School gymnastics team; she is well-formed, prodigiously curvaceous. I have had a crush on this glorious creature all year. We were in German class together. I’ve actually been to her house – to study for a German test.

Ingrid is first generation Yugoslavian; her parents escaped to America when the Russian tanks rolled through the streets their hometown. She taught me two phrases in Yugoslavian. The first is, “Stravo. Coco si?” meaning “Hello. How are you?” The second is “Yeti govno.” Loosely translated, it means “Eat doo doo”. She thinks I’m funny, laughing hysterically at even my lamest jokes. Ingrid told me she almost peed her pants when I parted my hair on the right side, placed the end of a black comb under my nose and imitated Adolf Hitler in German class. She is constantly talking about fixing me up with her friends. Of course, Ingrid doesn’t know that it’s not her friends I’m interested in, that I have a crush on her. And there is no reason to tell her. She is going out with Roberto Larios. Roberto is a bit of a local celebrity because his photograph appeared in the March issue of Surfer Magazine. Roberto drives what is popularly referred to as the bitchin’ yellow Camero and smokes Marlborough red, hard pack. I saw him in the parking lot earlier today. He was pulling out with his surfboard strapped to the top of his flawless bitchin Camero. He acknowledged me with a “hey dude” before executing three perfectly formed smoke rings and peeling out. Back to Ingrid. I am gawking, I mean talking to her when she offers me a Kool.

“Thanks Ingrid.” I say, neglecting to take into account the fact I have never smoked a cigarette.

Her hand softly brushes mine as I accept a cigarette. Her touch launches shivers down my spine, sending tingling reverberations through every portion of body. A wave of dizziness overcomes me. Could it possibly be that her seemingly accidental hand brush was some type of surreptitious indication that she prefers me over Mr. smoke ring blowing, Camero driving I’m on the cover of Surfer Magazine, Roberto Larios?

Ingrid fires up a Kool for herself and assists me in the light up process. This stunning example of feminine grace takes a long seductive pull on her Kool. She absolutely scintillates as she lets out a slight moan of pleasure. Oh my God, the moan excites me. Could this be another signal? I take a quick puff before quickly exhaling. The menthol is absolutely disgusting. This stinking cigarette could be the singular worst thing I have ever tasted.

“He’s not even smoking.” shouts some long haired kid leaning over the railing atop the pier.

Sheepishly, I steal a glance at Ingrid. She appears to be gazing back at me, the ends of her full lips curled up in a slight, playful smile. Could this said “gaze” be interpreted as actually gazing into my eyes? Oh man, does she look good in that orange bathing suit; all lathered up in coco butter, she’s a bona fide teenage goddess glistening in the hot California sunshine. Another exquisite bead of sweat dances tauntingly downward and into Ingrid’s perfect belly button, lighting me up with good vibrations. I don’t want to displease this superb Eastern Block beauty who has taught me to say “eat doo doo” in her ancestral tongue. So I throw caution to the wind and suck in an enormous puff of menthol smoke and swallow. Bad idea. Within a split second the combination of menthol and tobacco thrusts a throat full of vomit up to my mouth. Valiantly, I spring to the piling and unload while Ingrid and hundreds of sun tanned teenagers look on.

So I say from me to you
I will make your dreams come true
Do you love me do you surfer girl
Surfer girl my little surfer girl…