NASA Image of the Day

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Taj Mahal - Corinna (1968)

The Korgis - Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime HD

In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel

Tuck & Patti Tears Of Joy

Mike Oldfield - Music of the Spheres (Full Album)

An Introduction to Palm Sunday, from ....THE REAL ...James Blake - Live at Electronic Beats Festival 2013 (Full Set)

Palm Sunday, The Rolling Stones, and Madame...Today's Lesson:Waiting On A Friend - OFFICIAL PROMOP

The Rolling Stones - Fool To Cry - OFFICIAL PROMO

Quincy Jones Wee B.DoinIt 1989

Quincy Jones the places you find love

Quincy Jones ~ Back On The Block

Quincy Jones-Jazz Corner Of The World/Birdland

I Want (Your Hands On Me) - Sinead O' Connor feat. MC Lyte

Sinéad O'Connor "Troy" (Lyrics in Description)

Messenjah - Can't root up this tree

The Best Songs Of 1997

The Best Songs Of 1978

1970s' Number Ones

Rock The Boat 1974 Hues Corporation

KC & The Sunshine Band - Keep It Comin' Love.vob

K.C. and Sunshine Band - Boogie Shoes(Long Version)

Saturday, March 28, 2015

KC and the Sunshine Band - Get Down Tonight (1975)

Hot Chocolate - You sexy thing 1975

▶ Earth Wind And Fire - Let's Groove - Vidéo Dailymotion

▶ Earth Wind And Fire - Let's Groove - Vidéo Dailymotion

Whistle Stop 1 - "Mr. Too-Tight and the Twenty Dollar Challenge, with Disco Mur and Avoido-forn."

Once upon a time in the early '80's, amidst residual disco overflow, and Richard Simmons' optimism, in Buffalo, New York there existed a disco dance club in the lobby of a nearby (unnamed) hotel, called "Club 747".

Its claim to fame, accordingly, was the fact that it was shaped exactly like a plane inside - complete with booths that looked like plane seats, a cleared space in the middle of the room, where the "passengers" gyrated wildly in disco abandon, and periodic announcements from the "Captain of Cantatas", using a microphone of about the same quality. The realism was in the actual announcement quality: like the plane messages from which they originated, no one was ever able to discern actual intelligible statements from these bursts of oratory, either - except for the ending, which always began....."AND NOW..."2 for 1 for the next 20 minutes!", and was followed by an immediate stampede to the bar, and frantically waving dancers at passing waitresses - who immediately ducked and covered their trays protectively, as they prepared, stealth-mode, for the end of the latest garbled message......crash landing style.


"This is your Captain speasdfjodhifdhja.....Mdpaghabvashuf;aehfpaenfeophfaoen;fhe......crackle....cpariepadndkladrfjpeai;joef....cccc..cccc...2-for 1....get em now! Moo cow!"

.....We heard the words, along with the music wafting out of the club windows, before we heard the sudden rumble of stampede which followed, and as we sauntered up to the door, the doorman, sighing, was shaking his head and making frantic airport signalman landing gestures at someone within. He turned, as we approached, resigned to a series of possible elbow collisions at the bar, some bruises, the possibility of some broken eyeglasses as heads banged into each other in the perky energy of herding, and the ensuing loss percentage in glass breakage, as the waitresses went into low crouch tiger - like Seal manoevres.

He was staring at Disco Mur's shoes, grunge numbers gleaned from many laps around the long-distance track and several walks through the lake. Complete with workboot laces hastily transferred so he could tie them into four secure running knots each, his toes were poking through the tops, revealing his newly- acquired gift of Zellers finest in men's dress McGregors, (from me) and the grey "I match everything" sheen that came from trying to remove gravel from running shoes, in an industrial washing machine, three times. The doorman, a product of Miami vice and Stayin' alive, raised an enquiring brow at Mur, crossed his buffed slip-on-dress-shoe-with-no- sock clad foot in front of him, crossed his arms, Chief-like, and raised an enquiring brow. Mur beamed, his eyes disappearing into Nordic slits of Santa happiness and good feelings, anticipating the night's Christmas jig workout. Worried he might hug the doorman, I cleared my throat. My heart sank, as the doorman began shaking his head, slowly. He was staring at Mur's shoes, back to Mur's beard, and then to me, coughing.

"Ah..." he began. Mur stopped, hug in midair.  

The doorman raised his right pointer finger, his eyes going wide at the idea of Mur entering the club in what appeared to be two appendages clothed in the day's trash collection. He coughed again, twice, saying no actual words, and then looked at my high heels and purple tights, his eyes narrowing. They really should have been pantyhose, but he was a kind man, after all....

I sighed, receiving the fashion rejection with suitable respect. It had only taken a moment to whip off my medical waitress lace-ups, recommended by Grandma, and making me appear disturbingly like her, despite the purple stockings, and it was with a kind of defiance that I jammed the tights-clad feet into the stilts with wild abandon, certain that they would stay firmly affixed, as a direct result of the bunched-up cloth wedging my toes into the furthest reaches of their pointed tips. I was breaking from the Amish, but for a night, in what I hoped would be wild and wicked flailing about. I could always pretend I was snake handling, or something, if I got caught.  Those freaky Appalachian cousins came in handy in a pinch.

"Your shoes, Mur. You need dress shoes, hon."

The doorman sighed appreciatively at my nonverbal translation skills.

"I AM dressed, Bunny,", said Mur, genially. That was his new nickname for me, after the latest Noel purchase of white slippers which resembled actual white rabbits, in which I walked strangely, actually finally resorting to hopping about, in order to avoid clubbing their ears together, and wearing them out too soon. I thought of them, momentarily, with a kind of gentle longing, and bit my lip, hiding my disappointment.

He beamed again, exuding Christmas warmth and a love of his fellow man. It always took a while to bridge cultural gaps. Mur figured he was clothed as long as no actual body part showed, no matter what the actual covering was. It was always a fun challenge.

The 250-pound doorman dropped his arms, in an almost gentle security plea stance, both palms facing upward, in a gesture of Christ-like understanding, and began to shake his head, slowly.

Mur, perplexed, turned to me for translation, still smiling, and said,

"Unh?" The doorman smiled. Tim Allen traditions were born in an instant that all men understand, instinctively.

 "We can't go in to the club because you don't have dress shoes, honey," I said, softly. Mur's smile faded. He looked at me, devastated.

"Aw, Daw...I'm sorry." I hadn't had a day off in months, and this was the first night in ages we had had time to actually go somewhere. The idea of ruining the whole thing made him furious at himself.

"C'mon", he said, brightly. "I'll go buy some."

"It's 10 pm, Mur. There's nothing open now, honey." Mur frowned at himself, trying to think of something. Suddenly his face brightened, as a new guest walked up to the hotel lobby walkway.

"C'mon Daw!" he said, ever the Scout optimist. "I've got an idea." He loped towards the entrance to the lobby. I strode after him, in a dignified, suitably stiff-legged, high heeled pace, intent on not breaking my ankle on the gravel.

I reached the concrete sidewalk leading up to the hotel lobby entrance, and sighed gratefully, reaching solid ground, and searching in the darkness for glass shards and danger zones of fallen objects. Mur, of course, would probably have cleared through them with the canvas tote rejects, ahead of me. His shoes were testament. My matching ones were at home, and I suddenly thought of them, instead of my haute couture second hand store three dollar gems. Both the heel tips had been worn in by someone who had apparently had bunions, giving me a slightly bowlegged, sailor-like gait. I knew it would not be mistaken for rickets.

I reached the front counter, where Mur was in deep, earnest conversation with the front desk clerk. The desk clerk was looking at Mur's feet, looking at himself, and shaking his head.

"His feet are too small", said Murray, gesticulating somewhere below the front desk in the area of the clerk's feet. The desk clerk looked sad. "Sorry, Ma'am", he said, genuinely.

"It's okay, buddy, don't worry about it," said Mur, kindly.

Just then, a man walked into the lobby, a shoe bag slung over his shoulder. Mur, sensing victory, waylaid him before he reached the desk. I briefly considered escaping to another part of the hotel, but stayed rooted to the spot, my cheeks warming dangerously.

The man, his hair sticking up in several directions, was looking at Mur intently, with the sleep-blurred gaze of a frequent business traveller, as Mur, determined and anxious, tried to negotiate the three-hour time block. The man looked at me, looked at Mur, looked at the desk clerk, who shrugged his shoulders, sheepishly - and whipped his shoe bag off his shoulder, He tried to balance his suitbag on his head, as it slipped dangerously towards the floor. Mur grabbed it, helpfully, and the man relented, smiling.

"Twenty bucks, eh?" said the man, eyeing me carefully, thinking of two full gas tanks and trying to judge our reliability. My face burned. "And then you have to go home?' he said to Mur, in a fatherly manner, gruffly clearing his throat. The desk clerk coughed, for what seemed a rather long stretch, and walked quickly into the back office.

I thought, suddenly, that there was no need to tell him we were living together. We slept mostly in shifts, anyway, between various part-time jobs, and ran across the street in dangerous blizzards to the Lancer Restaurant to get toasted BLT's wrapped in foil, when we felt guilty - which wasn't often, frankly. Wedged in between five intersections - Hakim Optical, Uniglobe Travel, Budget Renta Car, and St Paul' corinthian letter to Budget Renta Car notwithstanding, it presented a traffic nightmare worthy of OHARE airport on a neurotic traffic controller's list of personal fears. Not getting hit by a bus was a miracle, every time, but it cost two hundred bucks and fifteen bucks a month for hydro, and was still cheaper than living in residence, even with a meal plan. We were saving money, and even my Grandmother approved.

I smiled. My toe was asleep from the bunched up tights. I wiggled it, waiting.

Knight-like, the man suddenly held out his dress shoe bag like a bag of gold dust, his suitbag jammed under his arm, and reached for Mur's twenty with a wink. The desk clerk suddenly appeared from behind the desk again, with a small stool, and motioned Mur to sit upon it. I moved in quickly, dropping the running shoes into the plastic bag proferred by the desk clerk, who marked them, in large, black letters with the words - "HOLD FOR DANCERS PICKUP" on the front, and whisked them behind the desk with a flourish.

"You can hang them on my doorknob on your way out - Room 103", said the man, smiling broadly, now. He felt he had saved the day, by the look on my face.

Mur jammed the shoes on, laced up the plain black oxfords in record time, and whipped them into a double knot, just to be sure. Whipping the stool upside down and setting it on the counter, he grabbed my elbow, and steered me towards the door, in a rolling gait unusual for him, except after many beverages.

"Let's boogie, Bunny!" he said, as the thumping rhythm of "Let's Groove Tonight" thundered down the walkway.

Sauntering slightly awkwardly past the doorman, I whispered loudly to him, "Mur, are they okay?"

He looked at me, sighing and smiling.

"Half size too small, Bunny. Way too tight!"....

.............

Three hours later, we slipped in a little note with the bag of shoes.

"Best, most expensive blisters I ever got", it read. The ballerina in my heart, remembering the swollen feet, smiled.




















Spring 2015 - Introducing "Whistle Stop Excerpts" - Laughtracks (and sidetracks) down Memory Lane.

New for spring:

.....take a moment from your day to share laughter at a sidetrack, remembered.

Stay tuned for "regular recalls!"

Friday, March 6, 2015

For Raif and wife, and beloved Family. "Amnesty - Let there be Love".

ryros.leb.net/gibran/

May you all visit Disney together, holding hands, soon.

........and may the Envy that does not know your ardent love for each other, and its youthful exuberance - nor understand or respect it -  cease to make judgements about its exclusion of them within the moments, and years, and blessings, of its JOY. ....and may the joy of that understanding, knowledge - and forgiveness of the ignorance of the envy that would take it from you both, even now - sustain you.

God Bless.

Your Friend,

Ms. Dawn M. Nevills....

....(with a genuine prayer of Friendship for sanity, gentle silence in places of contemplation and thoughtfulness, and the courage to face Power and Control for its own sake with strength, vigour, courage, certitude, and the reality of Real Friendship, which, smiling, mysteriously crosses borders, religions, laws................and mourns too, the theft and loss of time spent with those we love.

Miigwetch. ....and Godspeed. I feel certain, in my heart, that the suddenness of shame will remember childhood laughter, being caught up in loving arms, and the gentle enclosure that is Family - and know when to step back, and be silent.