FRIDAY, April 11th - The Dog and The Bull Bow Down to The Ram!

The Dog and The Bull Bow Down to The Ram!

That's Downward Facing Dog and Old Bull. Two Topanga Bands with a Sprankle of Twang ah'twixt 'em! (...and 50 cent Haircut has just been added to begin the festivities)

In honor of our Blazing Bounty of Aries Henchfolk, we mark the day - FRIDAY, APRIL 11th, 2008 - as a celebration and chance to finally spank a lot of 'em.

THE GATHERING WILL COMMENCE about nine pee em at the TOPANGA ROADHOUSE - in the words of that old Twang Wrangler, his self, "the oldest and most happening party spot this side of the Mississippi."

Some observers preedickt a late set involving some kind of "BULLDOG" conglomeration. And others have gone on to say, "Everybody's gonna get wildt."

Contact members of either band if you need more information. Or solve the clue, "What if HAPPY TRAILS was not plural."

21 AND OVER

NO DOGS!!! EXCEPT DOWNWARD FACING ONES AND SEBASTIAN - THE UNEQUIVOCAL RULER OF THE REALM.

BYOB OR BOTTLE. THERE WILL PROBABLY BE SOME ROTGUT RYE AND DOMESTIC BEER AVAILABLE GRATIS - THOUGH YOU SHOULD TRY AND TIP THE BARTENDER. BUT IF YOU WANT TO DRINK SINGLE MALT OR FANCEE BEER ALL NIGHT, YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO BRING YOUR OWN. PLEASE REBMEMER TO DRANK RESONSIBLY.

FIVE $$$$$ GETS YOO IN

Happy New Year to All - Gregorian Calendar Leep Year Papal Decree and ALL

Yes, yes, it's a big odometer in the sky. But, hey, it's clicking over again. I understand many tribes celebrate the occasion. Cheers!

A War We Cannot Win - by John Le Carre' - The Nation magazine, November 19, 2001

Just a little look at recent historical analysis of another of our (yet again) undeclared little wars. Anyone remember this stuff?
Cheers,
Yonko

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A War We Cannot Win
by John Le Carre'
The Nation magazine, November 19, 2001


"The bombing begins," screams today's headline of the normally restrained Guardian. "Battle Joined" echoes the equally cautious Herald Tribune, quoting George W. Bush. But with whom is it joined? And how will it end? How about with Osama bin Laden in chains, looking more serene and Christ-like than ever, arranged before a tribune of his vanquishers with Johnnie Cochran to defend him? The fees won't be a problem, that's for sure.

Or how about with a bin Laden blown to smithereens by one of those clever bombs we keep reading about that kill terrorists in caves but don't break the crockery? Or is there a solution I haven't thought of that will prevent us from turning our archenemy into an arch-martyr in the eyes of those for whom he is already semi-divine?

Yet we must punish him. We must bring him to justice. Like any sane person, I see no other way. Send in the food and medicines, provide the aid, sweep up the starving refugees, maimed orphans and body parts sorry, "collateral damage"-but bin Laden and his awful men, we have no choice, must be hunted down.

But unfortunately what America longs for at this moment, even above retribution, is more friends and fewer enemies. And what America is storing up for herself, and so are we Brits, is yet more enemies; because after all the bribes, threats and promises that have patched together the rickety coalition, we cannot prevent another suicide bomber being born each time a misdirected missile wipes out an innocent village, and nobody can tell us how to dodge this devil's cycle of despair, hatred and-yet again-revenge.

The stylized television footage and photographs of bin Laden suggest a man of homoerotic narcissism, and maybe we can draw a grain of hope from that. Posing with a Kalashnikov, attending a wedding or consulting a sacred text, he radiates with every self-adoring gesture an actor's awareness of the lens. He has height, beauty, grace, intelligence and magnetism, all great attributes unless you're the world's hottest fugitive and on the run, in which case they're liabilities hard to disguise. But greater than all of them, to my jaded eye, is his barely confinable male vanity, his appetite for self-drama and his closet passion for the limelight. And just possibly this trait will be his downfall, seducing him into a final dramatic act of self-destruction, produced, directed, scripted and acted to death by Osama bin Laden himself.

By the accepted rules of terrorist engagement, of course, the war is long lost. By us. What victory can we possibly achieve that matches the defeats we have already suffered, let alone the defeats that lie ahead? Terror is theater, a soft-spoken Palestinian firebrand told me in Beirut in 1982. He was talking about the murder of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics, but he might as well have been talking about the twin towers and the Pentagon. The late Bakunin, evangelist of anarchism, liked to speak of the propaganda of the Act. It's hard to imagine more theatrical, more potent acts of propaganda than these.

Now Bakunin in his grave and bin Laden in his cave must be rubbing their hands in glee as we embark on the very process that terrorists of their stamp so relish: as we hastily double up our police and intelligence forces and award them greater powers, as we put basic civil rights on hold and curtail press freedom, impose news blackouts and secret censorship, spy on ourselves and, at our worst, violate mosques and hound luckless citizens in our streets because we are afraid of the color of their skin.

All the fears that we share-"Dare I fly?" "Ought I to tell the police about the weird couple upstairs?" "Would it be safer not to drive down Whitehall this morning?" "Is my child safely back from school?" "Have my life's savings plummeted?"-are precisely the fears our attackers want us to have.

Until September 11, the United States was only too happy to plug away at Vladimir Putin about his butchery in Chechnya. Russia's abuse of human rights in the North Caucasus, he was told-we are speaking of wholesale torture, and murder amounting to genocide, it was generally agreed-was an obstruction to closer relations with NATO and the United States. There were even voices-mine was one-that suggested Putin join Milosevic in The Hague; let's do them both together. Well, goodbye to all that. In the making of the great new coalition, Putin will look a saint by comparison with some of his bedfellows.

Does anyone remember anymore the outcry against the perceived economic colonialism of the G8? Against the plundering of the Third World by uncontrollable multinational companies? Prague, Seattle and Genoa presented us with disturbing scenes of broken heads, broken glass, mob violence and police brutality. Tony Blair was deeply shocked. Yet the debate was a valid one, until it was drowned in a wave of patriotic sentiment, deftly exploited by corporate America.

Drag up Kyoto these days and you risk the charge of being anti-American. It's as if we have entered a new, Orwellian world where our personal reliability as comrades in the struggle is measured by the degree to which we invoke the past to explain the present. Suggesting there is a historical context for the recent atrocities is by implication to make excuses for them. Anyone
who is with us doesn't do that. Anyone who does, is against us.

Ten years ago, I was making an idealistic bore of myself by telling anyone who would listen that, with the cold war behind us, we were missing a never-to-be-repeated chance to transform the global community. Where was the new Marshall Plan? I pleaded. Why weren't young men and women from the American Peace Corps, Voluntary Service Overseas and their Continental European equivalents pouring into the former Soviet Union in their thousands? Where was the world-class statesman and man of the hour with the voice and vision to define for us the real, if unglamorous, enemies of mankind: poverty, famine, slavery, tyranny, drugs, bush-fire wars, racial and religious intolerance, greed?

Now, overnight, thanks to bin Laden and his lieutenants, all our leaders are world-class statesmen, proclaiming their voices and visions in distant airports while they feather their electoral nests.

There has been unfortunate talk, and not only from Signor Berlusconi, of a crusade. Crusade, of course, implies a delicious ignorance of history. Was Berlusconi really proposing to set free the holy places of Christendom and smite the heathen? Was Bush? And am I out of order in recalling that we actually lost the Crusades? But all is well: Signor Berlusconi was misquoted and the presidential reference is no longer operative.

Meanwhile, Blair's new role as America's fearless spokesman continues apace. Blair speaks well because Bush speaks badly. Seen from abroad, Blair in this partnership is the inspired elder statesman with an unassailable domestic power base, whereas Bush-dare one say it these days?-was barely elected at all.

But what exactly does Blair, the elder statesman, represent?

Both men at this moment are riding high in their respective approval ratings, but both are aware, if they know their history books, that riding high on Day One of a perilous overseas military operation doesn't guarantee you victory on Election Day. How many American body bags can Bush sustain without losing popular support? After the horrors of the twin towers and the Pentagon, the American people may want revenge, but they're on a very short fuse about shedding more American blood.

Blair-with the whole Western world to tell him so, except for a few sour voices back home-is America's eloquent White Knight, the fearless, trusty champion of that ever-delicate child of the mid-Atlantic, the Special Relationship. Whether that will win Blair favor with his electorate is another matter, because he was elected to save the country from decay, and not from Osama bin Laden. The Britain he is leading to war is a monument to sixty years of administrative incompetence. Our health, education and transport systems are on the rocks. The fashionable phrase these days describes them as "Third World," but there are places in the Third World that are far better off than Britain.

The Britain Blair governs is blighted by institutionalized racism, white male dominance, chaotically administered police forces, a constipated judicial system, obscene private wealth and shameful and unnecessary public poverty. At the time of his re-election, which was characterized by a dismal turnout, Blair acknowledged these ills and humbly admitted that he was on notice to put them right. So when you catch the noble throb in his voice as he leads us reluctantly to war, and your heart lifts to his undoubted flourishes of rhetoric, it's worth remembering that he may also be warning you, sotto voce, that his mission to mankind is so important that you will have to wait another year for your urgent medical operation and a lot longer before you can ride in a safe and punctual train. I am not sure that this is the stuff of electoral victory three years from now. Watching Blair, and listening to him, I can't resist the impression that he is in a bit of a dream, walking his own dangerous plank.

Did I say war? Has either Blair or Bush, I wonder, ever seen a child blown to bits, or witnessed the effect of a single cluster bomb dropped on an unprotected refugee camp? It isn't necessarily a qualification for generalship to have seen such dreadful things, and I don't wish either of them the experience. But it scares me all the same when I watch uncut, political faces shining with the light of combat, and hear preppy political voices steeling my heart for battle.

And please, Mr. Bush-on my knees, Mr. Blair-keep God out of this. To imagine that God fights wars is to credit Him with the worst follies of mankind. God, if we know anything about Him, which I don't profess to, prefers effective food drops, dedicated medical teams, comfort and good tents for the homeless and bereaved, and, without strings, a decent acceptance of our past sins and a readiness to put them right. He prefers us less greedy, less arrogant, less evangelical and less dismissive of life's losers.

It's not a new world order, not yet, and it's not God's war. It's a horrible, necessary, humiliating police action to redress the failure of our intelligence services and our blind political stupidity in arming and exploiting Islamic fanatics to fight the Soviet invader, then abandoning them to a devastated, leaderless country. As a result, it's our miserable duty to seek out and punish a bunch of modern-medieval religious zealots who will gain mythic stature from the very death we propose to dish out to them.

And when it's over, it won't be over. The shadowy armies of bin Laden, in the emotional aftermath of his destruction, will gather numbers rather than wither away. So will the hinterland of silent sympathizers who provide them with logistical support. Cautiously, between the lines, we are being invited to believe that the conscience of the West has been reawakened to the dilemma of the poor and homeless of the earth. And possibly, out of fear, necessity and rhetoric, a new sort of political morality has indeed been born. But when the shooting dies and a seeming peace is achieved, will the United States and its allies stay at their posts or, as happened at the end of the cold war, hang up their boots and go home to their own backyards? Even if those backyards will never again be the safe havens they once were.

John le Carre' is the author of eighteen novels, including his most recent, The Constant Gardener (Scribners).

Happy Fat Tuesday!!!

...this article reposted here WITHOUT permission from www.wildmagnolias.net/ so, sorry gang, but all you all are probably havin' an even better time than me tonight! To make it up to you I'm gonna suggest people check out the contact info near the bottom and those that can give what 'cher able! OK! Here we go!

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Hands down, New Orleans is the world's most musical metropolis. What's more, the Big Easy can also tout itself as the most exotic, exuberant city on the planet. These sensual delights converge and compliment each other in the rich tradition of the Mardi Gras Indians. Between their irresistible folk-routed music and their stunning, ornate costumes, the Indians unleash a sensory barrage that epitomizes New Orleans’ “always for pleasure” aesthetic. And among New Orleans’ many tribes, none exceeded the talent, renown and flamboyance of the Wild Magnolias.

Many misconceptions surround the Mardi Gras Indians. First and foremost, they are not Native Americans. The Mardi Gras Indians were black working-class groups that are part secret and spiritual society and part neighborhood social club. Fifteen or so tribes parade on Mardi Gras Day, chanting, singing, and beating percussion instruments. They are costumed in elaborate, handmade outfits that fancifully recall the dress of Native Americans, complete with feathers, ornate beadwork, and enormous head dresses. The spy boys mentioned in Sugar Boy Crawford's song, Jock-A-Mo, are scouts who check out the route before a tribe advances; In decades past, this was a serious assignment, because of the possibility of violent, armed confrontations.

The origins of this tradition - which has striking parallels in the Caribbean, especially Trinidad - have yet to be conclusively documented. African, Creols, Indian, and Spanish roots have been suggested, and some synthesis of all these sources seems likely. This is also true of the meanings and the etymologies of the chants themselves. The original words and context are difficult to trace, but today the gut-level function is assertive peer-group bonding.

In recent years, some observers have theorized that New Orleans’ black community identified with Native Americans as fellow victims of oppression, and imitated them out of admiration. The Indian tradition is also cited as yet another instance of New Orleans’ status as the northern frontier of Caribbean culture. This dialogue is apt to continue, at times sparking heated debate. What’s indisputable, however, is the fact that the Mardi Gras Indian tradition is flourishing. New tribes such as the Guardians of the Flame have formed in recent years, and Indian gatherings are no longer limited to Mardi Gras Day. In addition, the tradition is influenceing other musical genres. One striking manifestation is the fact that progressive-country diva Emmylou Harris named her new band Spyboy, and now performs some Mardi Gras Indian material with help from her New Orleans-based rhythm section.

Big Chief Theodore Emile “Bo” Dollis was born in New Orleans. As a child he followed a tribe known as the White Eagles, and he began masking as a Mardi Gras Indian around 1960; as a member of the Golden Arrows. In 1964 Dollis became Big chief of the Wild Magnolias. In 1970, the Wild Magnolias recorded a single entitled Handa Wanda for the Crescent City label, with Jazz Fest impresario, Quint Davis producing; nearly 30 years later, Handa Wanda remains a local favorite and a perennial Mardi Gras Classic.

The Wild Magnolis’ international reputation was enhanced with two mid-70’s albums, The Wild Magnolias (featuring the hit Smoke my Peace Pipe which the group recorded a different version of for Life Is A Carnival) and They Call Us Wild which combined the tribe’s deep folkloric roots with New Orleans funk. Subsequent appearances on Rounder Records in the early ‘90s underscored The Wild Magnolias’ continuing importance in New Orleans’ cultural scene, as does their Metro Blue/Capital Records debut, Life Is A Carnival.

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Hurricane Katrina/New Orleans Disaster Update

We Thank all of you who've reached out to The Wild Magnolias. Everyone is safe and sound but have been forced to relocate in various cities throughout Louisiana. They really need your support and prayers. Most members have lost everything...they only left with their lives. Please send what you are moved to send; including Money, Notes of Support and Encouragement, and Wild Magnolias & New Orleans Music.

Even with their personal losses, the Wild Magnolias, Galactic, the Meters, Dave Matthews, Trey, Josh Stone, and others lent their talents to a major fundraiser at Radio City Music Hall in New York on September 20, 2005 to help rebuild New Orleans.

Mailing Address:

The Wild Magnolias
233 St. Pius Street
Houma, LA 70363

Hey Now Baby, Hey Now Honey Child
We hate to leave (New Orleans) but (right now) we have to say bye bye.
We're back for Mardi Gras 2006, with brand new suits!

Since y'all can't party in New Orleans with us, we'll be bringing our NOLA Mardi Party Tour starting next month featuring: the Wild Magnolias, Marva Wright and Big Sam's Funky Nation with stops all over the US. Since we don't have homes in New Orleans (for the time being) we hope that y'all will make us feel at home in your hometown. Keep your eyes on our website: www.wildmagnolias.net for updates. Please buy tickets to the shows we really need y'all now.

All in a um by way!

Musically Yours,
Big Chief Bo Dollis & The Wild Magnolias

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...Rev. Yonko here agin. One more thing. Go check out www.wwoz.org and LISTEN to the real sounds of New Orleans. They're all back from exile and doin' some real solid sendin' over the internet - Once Again! Praise Music!

Music Industry Newsletter - Bob Lefsetz

This guy writes about music - a LOT! and with capital letters just like THIS. He likes apple computers and classic rock - and his newsletter occasionaly posts replies from average joes and decorated music industry veterans. It can get pretty cool. Maybe you dig this?

www.lefsetz.com

If you would like to subscribe to the LefsetzLetter,
www.lefsetz.com/lists/

Prayer, Dreams, and the Divine

...peace, ease, safety, fun, prosperity, magic, love, delight, abundance, health, happiness, really hot sex, more money, and please help my mother and father as you wish.

The divine may communicate through any and every medium and source. I, for example, once had a unique religion based upon the personalized license plates I would see on cars in Los Angeles every day. This worked just fine, too. Spirit always got its message through to me.

In native american teaching, the role of every animal is significant. Each has its medicine for us. Each is an example and a teacher.

Today, for example, my divination shows the porcupine to be of significance. Playful, curious, and innocent, the porcupine treats each new encounter as a chance to play. The power of this medicine is that it can transform the gruff old bear into a happy playful cub once again!

As you think about your dreams, as you speak about them with others, think and look for the "Aha!" that might come into your mind. Others can only suggest what an interpretation might be. It is your inner conclusion which matters. Your lower mind is producing these images to communicate with your consciousness. When I say, "do you think it could mean this?", the test is your own reaction. Have faith in it! If you think, "No. No. That's not it", then that is not it. If you feel a sudden rush and a mental click, as of tumblers falling into place, and you exclaim, "Oh, my goodness! That would explain so much", then this is an indication that the nail has probably been hit on the head. It is true. For you.

All The Best,
Rev. Yonko

gin

So, everyone assured me, it's really not THAT uncommon for someone to wipe out and flip their kayak on a PERFECTLY calm lake on a still moonlit night. I'm sure that gin protected me and guided me back to shore - to the neighbor's house by mistake, where the nice lady HELPED me and remarked, "the only time I ever really flipped my kayak was once when I had had a glass of wine and, for some crazy reason, decided to disobey the safety rules and go out anyway."

This photo was taken the next day. That night, I had on my pajamas.

The DJ and The Reverend

My buddy's wife's brother, Don, and I.

I like to pick the music. Usually I try and play everybody all the stuff I've been listening to. Don does, too. But I haven't heard a lot of his stuff before. That Indian Rock song from the movie GhostWorld and Thee Detroit Cobras, for example, were standouts for me.

Unfortunately, "someone" screwed with the rudder on my kayak and I accidently poked someone's eyes out and they broke their neck.

Lake Charlevoix

Went up to Lake Charlevoix. Here's the view from the deck. That guy on the windsurfer took me to my first Dead show in 1981. It's fun to drink gin sometimes.