The Grandeur of Music Time

Music Time. It is the pillar of my Thursday night, and a fulfillment of my childhood dreams.

I get together every week with some buddies from work to participate in music time. As we enter my buddy's basement and don our drumsticks and guitars, we shed our mantles of husband, father, copywriter or designer, and transform into something else. Something with a purpose. We become King Rhino and the Halftones, poised and prepared to rock Del Rio Circle with an an hour and a half of pure, unadulterated, rock and roll.

Cab writes the songs and plays rhythm guitar. I provide the beat. Frew saturates the songs with intricate solos on his guitar. We are loud and fast. We are quiet and thoughtful. We are music time, and we love it.

Bass players can apply at jclarkgardner@gmail.com. Prior experience and bass guitar not necessary.

Salt of the Earth Filmmaking

Boy, the kids today. I just don’t know what we’re going to do with them. If they’re not typing away on their Google Pods and Text Phones, they’re off listening to the rap music, growing their hair too long, or—worst of all—going to the Super-Plex to watch some gosh-awful picture show.

I tell you, I don’t have any desire watching a “flick” about people I wouldn’t want to meet in real life. The square-jawed blokes and buxom blondes on the silver screen are always so fast-talking and busy, drinking booze at parties and jumping from one flaming building to another. Not the “salt-of-the-earth” folks I’d rather associate with.

Why can’t they make a movies about a single mom living in the projects, driving a rusty Corsica to her waitressing job and trying keeping her alcoholic mother out of prison? Where’s the “block-buster” about the bi-polar 50-something agoraphobic man that keeps rusty pop can tops in a margarine bucket? That’s more interesting to me.

But I guess they won’t make any movies about someone that doesn’t type away on a Hand Pilot or a Blue-Berry in the back of a SUV limousine. And I’ll just have to learn to live with that.