My recording studio.
For about ten years I owned and operated a recording studio. Recording almost anything from a girl laughing and up to a big band playing old standards. And of course, everything in between. Pop, country, rock, and jazz vocalist. Church choirs and rap groups. Harmonicas, multi-string Harp players, and harpsichordists. Clarinetists, saxophonist, flutists, trumpeters, and trombonists. Guitarists, slide guitarists, banjo players, mandolinists, violinists, fiddlests, cellists, bassists, electric guitars, electric bass, electric steel guitar, and all kinds of electric keyboards and pianos. Acoustic piano, acoustic drums and electric drums and drum machines. Jazz bands, old rock and roll bands, hard rock bands, pop bands, Mexican rock bands, Laotion bands, country bands, gospel bands, western swing bands, computerized bands, and a few undefined experimental bands. Recording Oldies, old standards, up to current rock and pop. Recorded narrations for audio and video production. Voice over for radio and TV ads Song writers needing demos with musicians and vocals. Recorded folk music and gospel music. R and B, blues, and Reggae. Many bands and musicians had no idea what it took to record a song with instruments and vocals. . Thinking they all could just come in and sit, pick, and sing. Then waa laa, all is done. No siree. It requires many takes and overdubbing and mixing down rhythm tracks. Many bands came in unprepared and unrehearsed. Expensive studio time is not a good place to rehearse. You should know your stuff before coming to the studio. Most bands just wanted a demo cassette tape with three or four of their best cover tunes. Demo tapes given to prospective music venues. Restaurants, bars, night clubs, small performance theaters, etc.
Now There was this one girl/ lady who wanted to form a band only to quickly lose the interests of musicians invited to participate in her new band. She had no idea what she was doing. Finally, it boiled down to just her. My opinion was she had no talent. I had to deliver the bad news. I told her she needs to go back to her day-job or go back to school. She was crushed. None the less, she was wasting hers and my time.
Fortunately, the studio morphed into a specialty advertising company. So, no more hopeful want-to-be country, pop, and rock superstars to deal with and disappoint. Recording production for marketing and advertising clients paid the best. Besides, I was too old to put up any more with crazy and unreliable dirt bands and it’s attending rowdy yahoos and nare-do-wells. I’ll take a short session with a voice over client any time. Okay, take two…
The Okie summer nectar.
What’s in that bucket pops?
Looking back over my Okie heritage, a summer had never passed without the turning-churning handle of the coveted ice cream maker. Possibly a wooden sided hand-cranked ‘White Mountain.’ And my Okie parents were in to this Heart and Soul. It was a big part of their Oklahoma heritage. A summer ritual pass time never to be delayed or ignored.
The sacred sacraments were: Vanilla, eggs milk, bananas, and the list goes on. “Carl go find the ice cream maker and will take it down to the church tonight” my mom would command with the ritual intent of a creamery High Priestess.
In order to prepare for the making of the “cream” was like Holy work was about to begin. First you have to get all your sacred ducks in a row. Eggs, sugar, whole milk, vanilla, and a few cooked ingredients I didn’t know much about.
But anyway, if you weren’t part of the liturgy then, you must stay out of the way. Elbows will certainly fly and feet will shuffle to-and-fro. Blenders will churn. And then, the Okie Ice Cream magic will begin.
To observe this from a distance, you would think The Arch Bishop of Haagen-Daz was coming to the creaming ceremony himself in full Good Humor regalia. Putting on the dog doesn’t hardly describe this High sacred Okie event. This is performed only by vested Okie ice cream handlers. Only the family creamery patriarchs can handle the revered liturgy. Ice cream maker. Crushed ice. And Rock Salt. It’s delicate and practiced work. Work only tribal Okie elders can do.So, here it comes. Delivered and handled as if in a silver chalice. A metallic vessel filled with the summer nectar. Taken by the elders and placed in an oaken bucket and buried in crystal shards of ice. Then anointed with small pellets of rock salt. Yes. It is that most hallowed time.
Gentlemen! Start your ice cream makers. Do it slow and steadily. Never stop. Crank it as long as you can without someone sitting atop the iced revolving stainless-steel bucket. But, when necessary, when the cream stiffens, find your sitting partner. Place him or her atop the hand-cranked contrivance and it will give you better cranking leverage. May the best man win. And, when he does, give me a bowl full. I prefer fresh banana ice cream thank you.
Back in my youthful days there were Oklahoma picknicks south in Lakewood or Long Beach. Dozens and dozens if not hundreds of Okies shuffling about with bowl and spoon. Enjoying reunions with other Oklahomans that migrated to California in the 1930s and 40s. Happy Okie picknick days y’all.
Non-stop gas pee and go.
Road trip.
Almost every summer our family made a road trip from Los Angeles all the way to Wilson, Oklahoma. Non-stop. Approximately 1500-miles. Usually during the month of August. The hottest month of the summer. August was the only time available for my dad’s vacation. He was low man on the seniority totem pole at his work. We made several trips starting back in 1948 each summer until 1964. My dad for the most part was the only driver. Yes, for approximately 24-hours straight he drove us to Oklahoma from L A. Wilson was my parents ‘motherland.’ They moved from there march of 1941 to southern California. Okie migrants looking for new and different opportunities. Yep, they found it.
These August road trips took us mostly southeast crossing the Colorado River at Yuma and followed a southern route along the lower routing of California, Arizona, New Mexico, and making a left turn north at Brownfield Texas headed northeast to Wichita Falls Texas then north over the narrow Red River bridge up into Wilson, Oklahoma.
Sounds easy? Seems routine? That’s a big Nope! First of all, there were six of us and sometimes seven in our little 1950 Ford four-door sedan. A car with absolutely no air conditioning. Just lots of open window time. We kids would be packed in amongst bags of food and jugs of water. A bit cramp. My older brother and sister would take possession of the window seats leaving my younger sister and myself to just make the best of it. Trying not to touch my older siblings or suffer loud complaint.
Next, there were NO Interstate highways back then. Mainly narrow two lane roads. Sometimes driving over gravel roads where they were constructing some wider Interstate highways. Slow driving and a bit dusty.
Did I mention driving the southern route? August was the month of monsoon rains. Heavy rains with lots of lightning. When it wasn’t raining there would often be dust storms. So dusty you couldn’t see two feet in front of the car. Cool huh?
Arizona and Texas must have generated toll revenue by issuing speeding tickets. I can remember my dad being pulled over on occasion by some state trooper claiming excessive speed. And once a ticket was issued the trooper said it had to be paid before leaving the county. Paid in cash none the less. So, we had to drive back into town to the
courthouse and pay the fine.
I mentioned these trips were non-stop. Right? So, the only stopping was at the gas station and just enough time to use the bathroom, my dad get another cup of coffee, myself quickly guzzle down a very fizzy Coke, jump back into the car, and begin to belch for the next mile or so.
Then there was this, my dad must had become a bit bored with the long trip himself. Out on a lonesome stretch of road he would say, “I wonder if this car would really get up to a hundred-MPH?” So off we went into Indy-500 mode. Then my mom would say, now Carl slow this thing down before you get another ticket. It would be two in the morning and we couldn’t see anything for twenty miles ahead.
But anyway, we would drive through the southern deserts of Arizona, through the southern mountains of New Mexico, and drive through the very humid cotton fields of west Texas. We never drove the northern route over the famed Route-66 because it took us too far north of our destination, Wilson, Oklahoma. Home of my grandmother and her terrific cooking and nearby Lake Murray. The visits to Lake Murray almost always included ample picknicks and a big ice-cold watermelon. So, Such were our summers.
Please water me green.
California has a water problem. A three-year drought. People are asked to cut back on water usage by about twenty percent. Leave the water off when brushing teeth. Don’t use the water hose to wash leaves and grass off the driveway. Take shorter showers. Water the lawn only twice a week for about thirty minutes per watering. Better yet remove the lawn from front yards and replace area with rock, cactus, and lizards. If I lived in Los Angeles, I would replace the front lawn with my favorite, concrete and paint in lines for a Pickleball court.
Now far east of Los Angeles in the hills near Whittier is a beautiful ramble of grass and chapels known as ‘Rose Hills.’ Identified from afar with Rose Hills spelled out with huge lighted letters. Big red letters larger than the ones in the hills of Hollywood. Acres and acres of Bermuda grass and landscaping. I think Rose Hills said they have about 1500-acres to be approximate. That’s lots of grass to keep green. Lots of water to keep the thirsty grass green. But basically, their business is mostly grass. Grass and flat headstones with a dozen or so chapels.
My mom and dad along with my aunt Elsie and older sister Peggy are interred there. Beneath the ample irrigated grass. Grass by the way watered by reclaimed water. Water processed from water run-off, from storm sewers, bath and basin waters. In other words, used water filtered and purified then returned to the city water system. Potable water safe to drink but tastes yucky. Tastes like water with a slight mix of soda or salt. Near by neighborhoods often subscribe to bottled water to drink.
But back to Rose Hills. The water reclamation plant is right next door to Rose Hills. Oh, so convenient. Other cemeteries and golf courses with vast acres are not so lucky. Possibly to the point of slightly brown grasses. Blending in with the smogy haze. In the meantime, L A is doing what it can do to capture more water run-off from the nearby mountain snows and occasional rain falls. Digging and building water reservoirs. Glad I live in Oklahoma with dozens of lakes nearby. Plenty of water to drink and hose down my driveway. Well, actually I have no driveway to hose. I live in a Cohousing community and I have no front lawn. Boy howdy, am I lucky.
Olivia Newton John remembered.
Years and years ago I went to the Mabee Center in Tulsa to see and hear Mac Davis and his country band. He was more of a song writer than country singer. However, his opening act was Olivia Newton John. She was in a long soft white flowing gown and was most lovely. A gentleman in the front row stepped up and handed her a long stem rose which she took and put her nose close to sniff the floral fragrance. Then she proceeded to wow the audience with her current hit songs. She was smiley, graceful, and the hit of the concert. Never mind Mac Davis was the headliner. I fell in love with Olivia.
A few years later we took our nine-year-old daughter to see the movie adaptation of the Broadway musical, ‘Grease.’ Starring Olivia Newton John and John Travolta. As we entered the theater our daughter ran down front to join other girls her age. Once the movie started and the songs began to be sung all the pre-teen girls in the theater began to sing along as a chorus. Witnessing this was a bit hilarious. Half the theater was engaged in the Grease music. It was fun to watch and listen to. Again, Olivia was just lovely and played a teen girl while actually being in her early thirties. The movie turned out to be the smash hit of the summer movie season.Unfortunately, breast cancer recently took her from us. God rest her soul.
He had magical mechanical healing powers.
My gearhead dad.
My dad had to quit school in the eighth-grade. He said he’d would rather have stayed in school and play baseball for the school team and continue his studies. But his family needed him to work the farm because His father was down in north Texas working on a drilling rig in order to support the family and help keep the farm going.
However, with my dad’s education cut short he made the best of it and seemed to possess a good learned knowledge of farming. With his youthful strength and acquired maturity managing the farm at age fifteen still wasn’t easy. He had about a half dozen siblings to supervise as well.
One attribute he had in his farming resume he developed a good mechanical sense. My dad later was Able to take apart and fix most things and to my utter amazement make them work. Case in point. Twice my dad asked my brother and I back in 1957 then again, a few years later to help pull out an engine from an old 1937 Ford that our older sister had abandoned. The old Ford had an old flat-head V8 motor. Then we would disassemble the engine block, the manifolds, carburetor, all it’s wires hoses tubes and linkage and overhauled the entire engine.
Including replacing gaskets, boring the cylinders, replacing rings, and draining the old dirty oil. The complete ‘taking apart’ first started with rigging up an engine hoist in our garage in order the pull the heavy thing up and out. We would have to reenforce the overhead 2×6 wood ceiling-joist with two-four by four vertical wooden supports. Then hang the hoist mechanism and push the car into place and remove its engine hood and removable side panels.
But honestly, I was not too sure how this car and engine overhaul would turn out. But after pulling the engine out, disassembling it, doing all the necessary boring buffing and grinding, we managed to reassemble the engine and lower it back into the engine compartment of the old Ford. Put in the key, flip the start switch, and pushed the starter button and it started. It ran. And again, to my amazement. How did my dad know how to do this Years ago, he had lived on a farm with no tractors of trucks. But with one exception. My dad and his brother had jointly bought an old ‘Model A’ flatbed Ford, fixed it up, and got it running. And one would have to ask, how did they do that? They had no repair manuals back then.
But in the case of my sisters old abandoned car my dad had access of some manuals at the auto parts store. But still, one must have some kind of mechanical sense or mental concept of motor physics. An innate ability to envision how things ran. But I had to surmise he was just an Okie gearhead. He came with An inborn understanding of how mechanical things work. But I would have to admit automobile engines back then were a bit simpler and easier to repair. In retrospect we should had inscribed on his head stone, “I alone can fix it.” Well, not really. LOL
Flying entertainment free.
Inflight entertainment.
Those of you who have flown recently have notice and perhaps used one of several seat-back entertainment devices. Video games, movies, music, audio books, and more. However, back in the 1970s you might remember inflight movies. Movies shown on three or four pull-down screens overhead of the center aisle. Screens about six or eight feet from an ole Bell and Howell 16 mm projector. What was unique about this multiple projector system was the 16 mm film spooled along a track assisted by several cogs starting from the rear projector on to another projector. So, one reel of film would traveled all along the overhead spooling pass and through the lighted projection lens from projector to the next interim projector. Ending up in the
First Class section. A good system when it worked. But it had many weaknesses. Just the film itself traveling from the rear of the aircraft all the way to the front of the plane could catch or break anywhere along the way. A good sixty-feet or so. If one projector broke down or its projection lamp blew, the whole operation would shut down. A sprocket or track could stick ending in a film jumbled wad. All the while each projector sent the audio to each viewing section. But when it all work, and I have witnessed this, a person from the rear of the plane could watch the same scene three or four times as the film progresses overhead from screen to screen. Inflight entertainment in itself. I viewed the original ‘Topgun’ on a flight to Honolulu from L A.
Now all that brings me to this recollection. A flight from Honolulu to Vancouver, BC back in 1973. It was going to be an overnight six-hour flight. Some call it a red-eye. Leave in the afternoon and arrive early the next morning. But let me mention this first. Wife and I were flying what they call non-rev. Space available for airline employees. We were flying on Canadian-Pacific airlines. When we fly non-rev, we must do our best to represent our airline, American Airlines. Which means we must dress in business attire. Sport coat, tie, and slacks for me and a nice dress for my wife. Our three-year-old daughter something appropriate for school wear. Shortly after going through all check points, we boarded the plane and sat together. My guess we were one of the last to board the plane. So, we sat down, buckled up, and stowed our carry-on under the seat in front of us. After we got comfortable in our seats, I thought it be nice to ask for either a complimentary magazine or newspaper. The nice flight attendant told us all reading material has been distributed and had neither mag or a paper left. But since we were basically flying for almost nothing we did not complain. Our daughter had a few play items brought with her. None the less, we just sat there in anticipation of leaving soon. I had noticed that air was not yet flowing from the overhead air nozzle. I twisted it but no air came. We sat for a few more moments and still no air flow. In the meantime, the air temperature in the main cabin began to rise. I began to perspire a bit around my shirt collar. So, I dare loosen my tie a bit and took off my sport jacket and put it in the overhead bin. It took a good hour to get air flowing the main cabin and we had not yet taxied to the tarmac. Just before backing out of our plane’s parking spot the air start to blow from the overhead air nozzle. All in all, it was about an hour and a half after we boarded and then took off. Once in the air at cruising altitude we became comfortable and the sun on the horizon began to set. What a view! It was mentioned by the way there would be no movie onboard.
Since it was not quite sleeping time for all I had ask the flight attendant for a pack of playing cards. Anything to do while waiting for sleeping time. She apologetically mentioned there was only one deck of cards on the plane and another family was using them. But would ask them when they finish to pass them on to us. About fifteen minutes elapsed and the kind attendant handed me the playing cards with this caveat to just use them for about fifteen or twenty minutes and she would pass them on to the next passengers. So, we all played a quick game of books. Drawing and matching numbers. A game our three years ole daughter could play. We played about fifteen minutes a handed the deck back to the attendant and we prepared for an overnight sleep. So much for inflight entertainment.
However, at about six AM the cabin crew was preparing breakfast and it was served. It was a magnificent Canadian breakfast; eggs, Canadian bacon, English muffin, coffee and juice. One of the best inflight meals I’ve ever had. Thank you, Canadian Pacific. We touched down in Vancouver about eight AM.
Twitter is mean to me.
I am crushed. Twitter has suspended my account. What for? Why? What did I say? I have never resorted to profane language nor threats or wish anyone harm. I never post questionable images or photos. No images at all. None. Nada. However,
on occasion I use cartoonish metaphors. For example, for the words meaning BS, I say Ooze from the boy cow’s rear. Or he is a donkey’s anus meaning that naughty word I won’t say.
So, with no explanation from the Twittermeisters my feelings are truly hurt. It’s like your mom coming to you with a switch off a peach tree and whacking you across the legs without offering reason why she is doing this. What recourse do I have? Can I appeal this? Is there a governing tribunal to beg before?
Perhaps I didn’t use the right punctuation or misspelled some crucial words. What? Why me?
Perhaps it was when I hoped Trump would be fitted for an orange jump suit. Was that it? How about when I thought Trump should sit in an electric chair. How about that? I know a few people who feel the same.
None the less, no explanation was given for my Twitter suspension. Guilty until proven innocent I suppose. Oh well, this too shall pass. I still have my Facebook account to bloviate on.
A man who gave the Dodgers a voice.
Now try to follow with me on this. Back in about 1958 something possessed my parents to buy a big blond stereo from Sears and put it in the Livingroom. A blond wood stereo with an array of different size speakers that a 14-year-old teen boy only could wish for. Previous we had only a clock-radio in the kitchen and an old mahogany single speaker AM radio/record player. Not really sure why they bought that old dark mahogany thing either.
But anyway, I discovered the FM side of the dial on this new stereo and started listening to jazz and big band. It was so cool and loud. High fidelity out the wah-zoo. You know what I mean huh?
Then about that same time the Brooklyn Dodgers moved to Los Angeles and while waiting for a new stadium to be built, the Dodgers started played in the L A Coliseum. A venue meant for football or track and field competition. A sporting place where the 1932 Olympics were held.
However, for a year or two, the Dodgers played major league baseball in the coliseum. A place a bit far to go and watch a NLB ball game. Then someone mentioned I should tune in my new big radio to KFI AM640 and listen to a Dodger ball game. So, I switched back to the AM dialed one afternoon and tuned in a Dodger game.
Hey, I thought, who is this guy announcing the play-by-play? Then I listened on and eventually he mentioned his name. Hello everybody, this is Vin Scully with Dodger baseball. I was intrigued with his smooth delivery and he was so knowledgeable as well. Mr. Sculley sounded like he was talking only to me. So, I listened on. His voice projected confidence along with a casual manner as if he came to our house to talk baseball. I continued to listen to many games into the future and enjoyed Vin’s colorful play by play. How did he get that soothing voice? What did he have to do to gain all that baseball knowledge? This may seem dumb but I could listen to Vin Scully all day and not tire of listening to him. Only if my teachers at school could sound like Vin Scully as well.
I could go on and on but my point here is this; Vin Scully died yesterday. He was 94. And as far as I am concerned, the world’s best sports caster and human being. God rest his soul. Amen.
Just a dollars worth and check my pressure.
1973 was the year full-service gas stations came to an abrupt end. It stopped ‘snap’ just like that! Swift without any means of restoration to full service. No one could reverse this sudden inconvenience. Gas stations or service stations flipped to a self-service or DIY service.
But first let me explain what full-service gas stations were to those of you who weren’t either paying attention back then or were born after1970 or later. Once upon a time an American motorist was able to easily drive his or her VW bug or Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud into most any corner gas station, drive over the bell-ringing trip hose, then immediately a gas station attendant would rush out to the driver’s side of the vehicle and offer his help. “Fill’er-up” driver might say. Then the attendant would commence to pick up the gasoline nozzle from the gas pump, stick in the gas tank cap opening, and fill your car with the gasoline dealer’s best petrol. All done without the driver ever getting out of the car. Then the attendant would ‘pop’ your car’s hood and check the oil level, radiator water level, and fill up your windshield washer water container. All for the price of a filling. If the oil dipstick indicated low oil, then the attendant could pour in additional oil into the oil cap intake for an additional cost. Usually about fifty-cents per quart back then. I might add when I started driving back in 1960, gasoline per gallon was about 15-cents. But anyway, all the dirty work of filling up and checking oil was done by the red rag carrying and brown uniformed station attendant. It kept our hands clean and the only thing we had to do is give the man cash or a credit card. Those were the days.
My favorite gas station to frequent when living in Honolulu was the station run by JC Penny Price per gallon of gas was about 25-cents at that time. Then on top of that the gas attendants were young high school boys and girls in cute shorts and Hawaiian print polo shirts. I must confess the girls could handle the job as well as the boys. Which to my way of thinking was preferable. Nothing like a cute teen girl with bubble gum breath at the driver’s window asking how she could help.
Then came like an unexpected air raid siren, the bad news. Here came an oil embargo from OPEC. Oil producing Exporting consortium or something like that. It was unabashedly an oil cartel of middle east oil producing nations. In other words, OPEC either cut off all oil exports or a significant percentage. If I recall, the middle east oil producing nations had some disagreement with the American government. Resulting in a man-made oil shortage that ended up in limited gasoline availability. America’s own oil production was limited at that time. Then it induced panic and long lines at gas stations. Cutting profits for big oil companies and their retailers. We consumers had to wait int long lines and sometimes for hours to get to the pump for a few gallons of gas. Some late evenings we had to drive down to our favorite gas station and park our car in line in order to fill it up the next morning. Riding a bicycle became an option. All this went on for many months. Then OPEC decided to lift the embargo. More gas became available but full service never came back. On top of that gas prices at that time doubled or some places tripled. Adding angst to oil anxiety. So goodbye full-service. Hello to inflated prices. But since that time gas prices have fluctuated up and down no matter who was the President in Washington. As a result of all the above, gasoline sales had shifted from the typical gas station over to mostly being sold at convenient stores at a reduced price. Four to six bucks per gallon is a reduced price? Give me a break. Where’s my electric car?
Chuck the Blogger Guy 