Postcards From Morocco

As many of you are aware, I just flew over to Morocco to visit Darlin' Liz. It was a great trip, that much is for certain.


Many of you requested postcards. I have written them, however, I did not get a chance to mail them from outside of the U.S. Sorry. Ran out of time/money at the end, there. They are all purchased from various Moroccan cities (Sidi Ifni, Taroudant, Marrakesh) and written either in Sidi Ifni or on a train somewhere in Spain.

To My Family: I have written you each a little card with an observation.

To My Friends: I have done something else ENTIRELY. You may be looking at your postcard, wondering what the hell I was thinking as I wrote it. Not a complete thought, cut off in mid sentence... starts and ends with ellipses. WELL, that's because I basically just wrote one super long postcard that spanned many cards. 15, in fact.

So now, if you want the full story, the onus is on you to go around, collecting information from those who also received cards. Some of these folks you may never have talked to before, but I assure you they are all good people. You may notice a little number at the top of your card, that's to let you know where in the train you fall. It'd probably be easiest to get the information from those around you first and work out, or if some enterprising individual gets the whole story and wants to share it, that's also cool.

And if someone gets the whole story and sends me it, I'll post it here. I'm working on another blog to detail my trip, though, so it isn't 100% necessary.

I picked the addresses at random, so don't get your ego in a twist because of your number. Also, for some of you I'm just using email addresses I found on the net, if you want a different one there, lemme know.

1. Tristyn K Pease - tkpease[at]gmail[dot]com
2. Rob Wilber - rob_wilber[at]hotmail[dot]com
3. Abby Schmearer - psbika[at]gmail[dot]com
4. Jeremy Griffin - jeremygriffin[at]hotmail[dot]com
5. Max MacCoole - maxwell2885[at]hotmail[dot]com
6. Luke Pola - luke[at]unbalancedhumors[dot]com
7. Jada Fitch - jada[at]jadafitch[dot]com
8. Jason Jewett - jewett[dot]rock[at]gmail[dot]com
9. Tim Banach - chainsawhand[at]yahoo[dot]com
10. Larry & Heather O'Bryan - obryan13[at]hotmail[dot]com
11. Patrick McMahon - deadofnightfilms[at]gmail[dot]com
12. Rachel Sreebny - diplobrat[at]gmail[dot]com
13. Matt Lunt - mlunt57[at]yahoo[dot]com
14. Nick Poulin & Co. - a[dot]nickpoulin[at]gmail[dot]com
15. Eric Sawyer - eto[dot]keep[dot]smiling[at]gmail[dot]com

For Jessica

Clandestine liaisons
Forbidden little trysts
She dons her reddest lipstick
Perfumes her dainty wrists.

She steps down risers slowly,
Her hips a sultry slink.
Hands playful on the railing,
She winks a sly li'l wink.

Her red hair soft and flowing
And a neckline to her thighs
Her legs up to her shoulders
She leaves a trail of sighs.

It is her sex she's selling
But you won't get her 'tween the sheets
Your name she won't be yelling
You can't buy her on the streets

Her wardrobe ain't no promise
Her flirting's just a habit.
You can't have her for your own.
She's in love with a rabbit

I Am A Horrible, Horrible Man

The Eunice Kennedy Shriver funeral procession:



That is all.

Actually, that's not all. She was a wonderful woman. She did great things.

I just think this is funny.

Bad Advertising

One way to ensure I will never ever never ever ever ever even think about touching your product, or any within line of sight of it, is to put a Stripper Octopus in your adverts.



Well done, Orangina.

That word actually rhymes with "Turner, Tina" and not with "Vagina."

Balls of Steel And Blind Faith: Crossing Moroccan Streets

I am here now in Morocco, I'm sitting in a french styled cafe drinking black coffee (or café noir or kahua kahul, if you will). I've crossed probably ten or fifteen streets in getting here and each one was an experience.

I've also crossed an ocean, a sea, state lines and spent an hour and a half on the Moroccan Rail system.

My trip started at 12:50 PM in the United States. I had just finished lunch and jumped in Nick's car and he drove me to Concord Trailways where I boarded the Portland-to-Logan bus. It was a direct route and very convenient and comfortable, I can't recommend it enough. Plus, it was cheap! $44 round trip.

That got me to Boston Logan airport in plenty of time to check in and have a meal at my leisure. I also had (several) beers. I had the beers to quell my unease about flying.

OK, so here's the thing. Flying is really cool. It's a magical experience to board a plane and sit still for six hours and wind up on another continent across an ocean. It's easy. I don't get motion sickness and the seats are... well, they're not so good. But it's magical.

My problem is the physics of it. I don't like strapping myself into a metal tube that weighs hundreds of tons and being hurtled at 500+ miles an hour over a cold ocean filled with sharks and octopuses, aiming to hit the earth at more than a hundred miles an hour.

And we're aiming for a very small patch of earth 2500+ miles away. And we're aiming to hit the earth in a very specific way so we don't wind up an ugly stain on the pavement.

That said, I also know flying is just about the safest way to travel, statistically speaking.

But we did it, we landed at the post-modern Madrid-Barajas airport at 7:20 in the morning. 7:20 their time. It was 2:20 AM for me. Which means I'd been up for 14 hours. Not too bad. My only complaint is that my sinuses did not take kindly to the change in pressure as the plane landed. It sort of felt like they were trying to squeeze out my eyeball.

My next flight would leave Madrid at 1 PM. Airports are boring. Luckily, I managed to busy myself by getting lost in the Barajas airport and then taking a bus to my terminal, which seemed to be miles away. Fortunately, this afforded me a view of Madrid as the sun was rising. It's a gorgeous city. Snow capped peaks rim form a half circle around it and the rest of the landscape is pure spaghetti-western. And set against a sky that is half rich blue and half salmon red... it was lovely.

So I'm waiting in the terminal to catch my next plane. Nothing amazing happens. Just waiting. By the time I board the plane, though, at 12:30 I'm starting to drag. It's now 7 AM back home and my body is used to that.

So the flight to Casablanca was punctuated by knock-out microsleeps. One minute trying to focus on the words in the Moroccan guide book in front of me, the next picking my groggy face off the windows and wiping the drool off my chin.

I land and exit quickly - one of the beauties of fitting all your luggage into a carry-on - and hunt down Liz. Or she hunts me down. We were both hunting and we found each other.

And she was more beautiful than I remembered. We rushed for each other and embraced and Liz reminded me that the Arabic world is no place for excessive displays of affection. So we hugged for a bit and walked to the airport train stop and hopped a train that would carry us to Rabat, where she has an apartment and where her study is based.

On the train I got a solid twenty minutes of napping in. It was delightful.

We walked from the train station through the Medina, which is the old part of town built before French colonization. It's an open market area. Picture the streets from Aladdin but with more hustling and less Robin Williams.

On our way to The Medina I crossed my first Moroccan street. There are no crosswalks in Morocco, no lights to guide you and no clear system of telling you when it's OK to go. You just step into the street.

Well, don't just step into the street. Step onto the side of the street and look at oncoming traffic. Drivers know you're there now. Wait for a gap between two vehicles and step into that gap.

Moroccan city traffic isn't going that quickly, they'll brake when they see you in the road. But they won't stop. Step into the gap and keep walking. Good, you made it across one lane. Keep going now, you've almost made it to... the median.

Wait there. Look the other direction. Wait for the gap and... go!

Do not run across a Moroccan street. This will afford you no extra safety. Just walk sure and straightforward. This is your street, you own it.

Besides, the cars aren't going that fast. If they strike you it's a sprained ankle at the worst.

Do this at all street crossings, roundabouts and just in general walking through the Medina. There are no cars in the Medina, but there are hustling vendors and speeding scooters and bicyclists. They will take advantage of your hesitation.

Liz recommends a body guard. Find a local who is also crossing and walk next to him, downwind of his crossing.

I don't think Moroccan drivers want to hit you. I imagine even here the paperwork is too hefty to consider. But they don't like waiting. They'll honk. Do get out of their way, remember, they're in a car in the end and you're just a person.

Liz's apartment is down from the Medina, but the hunger in my gut was craven and would take no more time. We stopped in a little restaurant and ordered Paninis. Mine was made from chawara, that meat-on-a-spindle behind the counter. It was delicious. Moroccans put mayo on everything. It was off to the side on my plate.

So I ate.

Sated, we walked to her apartment. Right on the ocean. Looking out her kitchen window I saw a side of the Atlantic I'd never really seen before. Waves crashing up on the rocky shore give it a general stormy air, though the sky was blue.

Liz's apartment is small, neat and simple. A lot of light comes in through the many windows and the living room is surrounded by long couches, I think called "farra." But I'm not too sure.

But, after 28 hours of travel and time change, most importantly it had a bed and I slept. For twelve glorious hours I slept. I slept like the progeny of Sleeping Beauty and Rip Van Winkle.

It was delightful.

I awoke and ate breakfast (eggs and toast!) and Liz and I crossed more streets and she's now studying Arabic and I'm sitting in a café, drinking coffee and avoiding the water.

Later we'll go to a Mausoleum. Only practicing Muslims are allowed in Moroccan mosques. So well go to an old Mausoleum. Later in the week we plan on heading up the coast and visiting a sleepy coastal village and looking at some Roman ruins.

And we'll be crossing more streets.

Eve All Around

I've been struggling with this for a bit. I'm a little embarrassed to acknowledge my source for this anguish. But the source is irrelevant, the material is real, to paraphrase an intelligent bomb.

Half of you as you sit here reading this started off as an egg inside your mother. Your mother was born with every single egg she will ever have inside her. Those eggs all formed inside her ovaries while she was inside her mother, your grandmother. Your grandmother was born with every single egg she will ever have inside her. Those eggs all formed inside her ovaries while she was inside her mother, your great-grandmother.

And so on.

It's one non-stop chain all the way back to Eve. Further, even, if you're an evolution-believing monkeychild, as I am. This goes back hundreds of millions of years. Billions maybe even.

Your mother (perhaps even you, good reader) is a direct part of the most successful propagation of an organism on Earth.

Every woman represents an organic copy, a regenerated form of the Universal Mother. Men are ejecta, called upon to fill code. The genetic material that comes from men suffers for decades under environmental strains before being reintroduced to the Original Strain.

It sort of weirds me out, frankly. I mean... the implications of this revelation are so mind-bogglingly huge. Humans, apes, monkeys, furless mammals, cowering in branches, dinosaurs, reptiles, amphibians, fish, arthropods, multi- and single-celled organisms and that first rocky mutation that figured out the best way to propagate.

Ever grow crystals in water?

It's crazy.

So I guess it all comes back to my theory that the atoms in the universe aren't perfect. That they keep screwing up in some way or another that allows for little mutations to occur that feed life-as-we-know-it and evolution. That if you look deep enough inside an atom, beyond electrons and protons and neutrons and what not, you'll find this little part that's screwing everything up and keeping us all together at once.

There's a hunt on now for this "God Particle." I don't know if it has any answers, but I likes the sound of it.

ANYWAY... I know it's the early morning hours when I'm worrying about existence and whatnot.

I apologize.

But tell your mother I love her the next time you see her.

And I love you, Mom. You've always been my most dedicated reader.

[dog] and [pony]

Readers!

I invite y'all to accept the dog and pony challenge:
http://canusetcaballionis.blogspot.com/

It's not the website in full, but it's a blog to get us going until the website is up. And give an idea about what [dog] and [pony] is all about.

The band is Dead End Armory. They rock.

Enjoy.

Let me see those glasses

David Caruso, a monument to America's finest television actors, delivers a series of scalding one liners that no doubt lead to arrests, action, thrills, intrigue and excuses to put on glasses.

David Caruso wears his sunglasses indoors because his future is so bright.

Dan Auerbach - Keep It Hid

I was in Boston to see a show. Allow me to detail my day for you:

Wake up at noon horribly hung over. My friend had a seventies party the night before and I got trashed on Schlitz and PBR. Talked with my lovely girlfriend for an hour, went back to sleep because I was still miserable.

Wake up at three. Miserable. Try eating. Makes me nauseous. Dry heave while cursing my life, hoping I'm OK for the show.

Five o'clock. Get in the car. This is the latest we can leave to make doors at 8PM. Better, still headachey. Nausea replaced by cautious optimism.

Five Thirty: Interstate coffee, water and ibuprofen. Recovery is mine.

My roomer and I arrive and board the T at Oak Grove and ride into town. We make a couple switches and get to The Paradise right at 8. Those Darlings aren't playing yet. My roomer has a friend there we meet. Have a beer.

Go in for Those Darlings. Energetic dirty southern country rock. Three ladies playing guitars and bass and a dude on drums. Best served with chicken and whiskey. See their song about getting drunk and eating a whole chicken for further evidence. Watching them I got the strong impression they should be playing at a bar in a Rob Zombie movie. At the very moment I was saying that, a friend said "They should play at a bar in a Quentin Tarantino movie." Which of us is right? Only time will tell.

The blonde singer guitarist from Those Darlings really impressed me. She can solo and belt. I didn't think of it too much until she switched over to bass. I hadn't noticed the bass playing before, except that it had been a tiny little girl. Blonde lead took over and really filled out the sound.

The drummer has an interesting thing going on. I feel like he's working in an fairly unique way.

Overall, I give them a thumbs up.

Hacienda sets up. I hadn't seen them before and only heard snippets and that was months ago. So it was a fairly fresh experience for me and it blew my hat off.

If I had a hat, that is. I don't.

Bearded Dr. Who on guitar impressed me right off the top. He's got a pretty good sound coming out of that thing PLUS he seems to have chops. The Freddie Rodriguez looking bassist was superb. His doubled over, high-neck throbbing bass playing and enthused singing carried well across the room. I've never seen a bassist use the cutaway so much.

I love the sounds that organist makes. I don't know much about ivory-tickling, so I can't judge his skill. But those were some sweet sounding instruments.

The drummer was cool, I guess, I didn't really pay a whole lot of attention (during this set) except when he sang. Yes, Hacienda has a singing drummer. Has a singing everyone.

I was quite impressed. They seem to be skilled, music-loving guys. They're sound, while amplified, is organic and raw. At least live it is. The mic on Dr. Who could've been louder.

They finished, setup began for the headliner. One of the kids I was with knew the bartender. We indulged to the tune of several PBRs.

Dan Auerbach took the stage and I didn't stop grinning for the rest of the night.

He came out and started under a single light, Hacienda standing in the dark around him. Dr. Who's arms crossed over his guitar. Dan plays Trouble Weighs A Ton and silence falls over the crowd. For a bit, anyway. By and by, Dr. Who sings backup.

Hacienda changed their clothing from when they had played twenty minutes earlier. Dr. Who now looks more like a sailor.

Then they kicked off I Want Some More and lit up the room.

I'd like to point out that apart from being skilled musicians, Dan has a talented stage artist. Whoever programs lights for his shows does a bang up job of being engaging and working with the music while not being flashy and over the top. Very good at ferreting out the mood and amplifying it with different gels, footcandles, movement and light quality.

So of course I Want Some More was electric and amazing. And I was wondering if they were going to play everything in order. They didn't, but they did play everything off the album plus three covers.

I don't know what the last tune was. It was excellent. The covers all surprised me in their excellence. Money and Trouble was a particular favorite.

At some point, Freddie Rodriguez was so into the music he lost his hat. That was a highlight. When I Left The Room explained the song for me. It swells and explodes and contracts and holds with such precision and delicate ease.

After seeing the show I couldn't tell you which song on the album I hold above any other. Or below.

But here's what really amazed me about it, and maybe because it was their second day of playing and they weren't tired of the tour yet, but the energy, the love and the connection these guys had on stage was absolutely incredible. I felt a bit like an emotional vampire because the passion they were channeling into their instruments, through their amplifiers and drumskins was in turn energizing me. Even though I slept terrible drunk sleep and had been unhungover for all of four hours when they took the stage, I was re-energized. I was awakened. Every atom jangled with the joy of the music.

These guys were in tune with each other and they were loving every second of the music. Scanning the stage you're struck by six sets of glistening white teeth as the band members grinned through beat and note.

The sounds produced and the emotional depth and breadth of this set-up is absolutely staggering. I went in knowing I was going to love some parts, and those parts did not disappoint (The solos, for instance, in Streetwalking) but I was dumbstruck by how the entirety of the show floored me.

In the car ride home (more on that to come), my roommate pointed out something that's actually fairly depressing. He said he couldn't get that into it because he knew they weren't 'A band.' Everything about them resonates like a band, but the fact that the set-up was Dan Auerbach supported by Hacienda detracts, I guess, from their bandiness.

And while I didn't feel the same way, I did feel depressed. Because they aren't a 'band' in title, they could fall apart at any moment, I think. That would be a great disservice to the music world. These guys were so on their game and into it... it would be a shame to allow such a partnership to dissolve.

So I think they should do it. Jack White has his Raconteurs, Dan Auerbach should have his other project that is also extremely awesome.

So the concert had to end. And it did and I was left with my ears itching for more (an actual itch, too, I can still feel it).

The rest of my day went like this: Grab a bite to eat and a beer to drink at a nearby restaurant (The Sunset, maybe? Good burgers, lots of beer, many tequilas), leave only to find out the T is shut down. Take the longest, most expensive Taxi ride of my life out to Malden ($35 dollars!).

And then the drive from Malden to Portland. It's about 100 miles of interstate. Normally that part of it takes no more than two hours. But because of the snow, we were stuck going 40 MPH on I-95. Blinded by-and-by by roaring semis.

We got home at 04:00 AM. And it was worth every god damn penny. It was worth being hungover that day so I could go from being cripplingly miserable to profoundly ecstatic. It was worth paying $35 dollars and riding in the back of a taxi driven by a man who needs more practice on snow. It was worth white-knuckle driving as a snow-twister kicked up by a passing tractor-trailer truck envelopes the car in whiteout conditions. It was worth getting five hours of sleep because I got called in today.

The energy, the precision, the emotional range. The depth of the talent and love for that music on that stage should send everyone home happy.

I still can't decide if it's worth comparing to The Black Keys. Both are sublime, superlative, even. But it's not really the same style of music. It is a bit of an apples and oranges situation. The concert left me wondering if I prefer apples to oranges or vice versa, though.

Excellent concert. Truly inspiring.

Incomprehensible