“One day, you’re working in a Pancake House. Fifty years later, they put your picture on a postage stamp. What a country!”—Anonymous
Disa And Data
They say that all good things must end and so it is with the long tale of 1962—Adolescence In Austin. The quadrilogy earned massive viewership and not only in Texas, where readers popped up from Uvalde to Bee Cave to relive their youth. The articles, in total, were read in 159 cities and 21 countries and generated a greater audience for four consecutive columns than ever before. Word totals, sequentially, were 2640, 3012, 3702 and a whopping 4018 for the Grand Finale for a column which typically runs between 1700 and 2000 words. The following weeks will seem like a vacation around here. So thanks to all who participated whether it was the always-helpful Harry Edwards, our very own Paul Revere (“The Pie Is Coming! The Pie Is Coming”); or copy editors like Wally Stopher and Gilbert Shelton, both of whom reminded me that John Clay mostly carried a banjo instead of a dobro guitar; or those of you who wrote to ask questions, praise the author or point out that unknown or not, they were also there. The 1962 columns have become like an old friend, tough to part with after such a long ride together. Alas, part we must. The annum ends and a new year awaits with its typical bright lights and promise. It will not be any 1962, of course, but what year is? Nonetheless, we march, carrying our banners. As Oat Willie reliably advocates: “Onward, Through The Fog!”
The Troubadour Moves On
Usually, this column is written on Thursdays. The last four have been so expansive, however, that we’ve taken two and three days to put them together. Last Wednesday, just as we were composing his exploits, our old pal, John Clay, packed up his weathered banjo, inserted it into a borrowed case and stepped onto the Astral Elevator. This Earth held him long enough, time to sprinkle a few tunes around Austin Heights. His updated address could present some problems for John, favoring songs of death and destruction as he does. After all, his new digs is pretty much famous for peace and harmony, and the noxious fumes of automobiles are verboten. Maybe he could share a few Lone Stars with Peter-At-the-Gate and pick up a couple tales of heavenly near-misses, characters headed for The Big Easy (North) only to trip over some last-minute speed bump.
So, if Janis Joplin, who spent barely a year there, is Austin’s Vocalist Laureate, what then is John Clay, who hung around for fifty of them and never missed a party? Fame has its merits, but Longevity is a tough competitor. Well, I’d call him an Essential Element, maybe even enough of a factor to lower the Austin Scene’s overall grade from A+ to a simple old A were there no such person. How many people can brighten up the house just by walking in the door? To how many songs does everybody in town know all the words, not to mention boldly bellow them out in a ragged public chorus a smidge short of recording-studio-ready? John Clay was the People’s Musician, a pied piper from the past, followed by his adoring flock from village to village, the likes of which neither Austin nor the rest of us are likely to experience again. So celebrate the fact we once upon a time had a John Clay, that his music still thrives in the hands of his tutees. And don’t worry, John saw it coming—for himself and all the rest of us—blazing around the turns, screaming down the straightaway, and he long ago knew there was really no hope. After all….
“A decent person ain’t got no chance against a reckless, speedin’ train!”
If This Is Thursday, It Must Be Christmas
In what is probably a Flying Pie first, Christmas has decided to show up on Thursday this year, same as Thanksgiving and, of course, New Year’s Day. Which turns this column into your dependable Holiday companion, no thanks necessary. After everyone has finally engaged in several of The Seven Deadly Sins, we will still be here, available for inspection, satisfied to be seventh or eighth in the line of importance, right after removing the clutter and throwing around the football.
Once again, Fairfield will fall victim to the dreaded Ellison Overload as Siobhan’s relatives, six of them at last count, will invade our tiny little 1200-square-foot bungalow for a couple of days, using it as a base camp and fortifying station for its annual Cruise To Nowhere. This is all a clever ruse by her brother Stuart, retired anaesthesiologist and newly-minted stock market baron, to get his far-flung family together for one more whoopdedo before they scatter forever to the four winds. Next year, Siobhan’s smartypants niece, Kathleen graduates from medical school at East Tennessee University and God only knows where the Doctor Gods will dispatch her. Probably not nearly as far as the State Department has pitched her beloved Yaniv—thrust off into the bowels of lovely Azerbaijan, wherever that is, and wondering what he did to deserve this. Whose ass do we have to kiss to get Paris next time? Bend over right now, please.
Meanwhile, the lovely and talented Ashleigh has returned from a stint in Germany where her now-husband, Flo, has graduated and moved on to some hoity-toity job At Carnegie-Mellon in Pittsburgh, of all places. Welcome to America, Flo—and, hey, no bitching—at least you’re not in Azerbaijan.
Stuart gets nervous when we write about him so we won’t say one single thing….after we tell you that earlier this year he drove all the way to Fresno (isn’t there a song of the same title?) (well, there should be) in his dubious sleeper-van to erect a telescope under suburban Fresno skies. You’ll be glad to know that people don’t do this sort of thing just for the hell of it. Stuart belongs to a group which shares in the maintenance of said telescope, which they utilize from the comforts of their various homes to study, chart or, in Stuart’s case, photograph the universe to make sure nothing is sneaking up on us. It’s a tough job but someone has to do it. And why Fresno instead of say, the much nicer Laguna Beach or Palm Desert? Well, it’s darker there, darker than a black hole, darker even than Rush Limbaugh’s soul. That dark. And darkness is the pheasant-under-glass, the cherries jubilee, on the menu of the stargazers, an odd and suspicious bunch which we plan to keep an eye on.
Next Christmas, I’m hoping that some nice friends will invite us to their country place in Northumberland so we can duck this unruly crowd. The chances are dim, however, that Siobhan would accept since she has recently installed—are you ready?—a twenty-four-hour goat camera, which you’ll be shocked to learn, some people actually watch. No, really, it’s true. Read on.
All Goats, All The Time
“There is a thin line between genius and insanity.”—Oscar Levant
Oscar claimed he had erased this line but subjectivity doesn’t count. Siobhan Ellison is primed to join him on that narrow ledge, having recently become infected with the dreaded curse of the Himalayas, Asian Goat Fever, a nefarious disease which causes its victims to roll up all their moneys into a big green ball and use it to build totems to the caprine gods. We are not making any of this up.
The illness begins slowly as the victim falls into denial. She first purchases a small number of goats, presenting a reasonable excuse such as “They’ll be perfect for land clearing.” Then, after the land has or has not been cleared, it will be impossible to sell them or give them away since future owners will be certain to ultimately sell them for gumbo. Eventually, of course, baby goats will be born and they’re way too cute to get rid of, even I can attest to that.
It will be then be necessary, at one time or another, to erect a Goat Temple in which these characters can prance about, get out of the cold, play canasta on rainy evenings. And don’t forget the front porch, so helpful on humid summer nights, a great spot to lead the singalongs.
So far, this is all perfectly acceptable behavior assuming the goat owner has sufficient funds to support her habit. I mean, we do live in an area where the keepers of equines expend far greater fortunes maintaining their flocks, though occasionally one or another of them does manage to send a check back home to swell the shrinking larders. We’ll even excuse the over-the-top purchases for rocking chairs and picnic tables since these goats seem to have a manic need to climb on things. So far, so good.
If two goats are good and ten goats are better, it stands to reason that goat visibility is crucial. And that being the case, why not install a camera or two so that they will be available to the owner at all times? Oh, and let’s not stop there! There must be other people, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands who will want to keep a steady eye on these animals as they butt and cavort and munch their afternoon asparagus. To that end, Siobhan has erected not one, but two vigilant cameras, the better to track their every move. Now, people around the country (soon, perhaps, the world) can observe the goats at play. Fine, right? Not fine. No, indeed! Because like all mechanical devices, these cameras are not perfect, far from it, especially Goatcam 2, which apparently was built by students from the Pascagoula Trade School and goes on the blink every single night, requiring the Minister of Publicity to go out and reset it.
Oh, you say, who will notice? Are you kidding? (Er, sorry about that.) You have no idea what fanatics these goat-watchers are. For instance, Torrey Johnson, in Boynton Beach, will log on at four in the morning to complain that his transmission has been interrupted and he has little else to watch at such an unsavory hour. Neighbor and fellow-goatherd, Greg Poe, is fiercely disappointed that Goatcam 2 is down at 5:30 a.m. and there will be nothing to view on his way to the bathroom. Debbie Stuart becomes absolutely apoplectic (and a little bit sulky, I might add) if goats are not coming in loud and clear, 24-7. These people are worse than General Hospital fans, who have been known to descend on Washington if their program is interrupted for anything short of a Black Friday sale at the Costco.
I’m not sure what happens next but I’m expecting a late Spring appearance by the Swiss Yodeling Association, complete with alphorns, so you might want to plan your visits then. Tickets are $40 or 35 Swiss Francs, and no complaining, please. We’ve got to pay for this mess somehow. Not to mention, the backup for Goatcam 2 is on the way and Goatcam 3 is on the drawing board. Oh, and don’t forget the trampoline….and the seesaw…. and the Giant Water Slide, and….
For the bored, the curious, the goat-lovers: http://pathogenes.com/GoatCam/View.html
That’s all, folks….
