All posts by Dr. Ken

Ooo, shiny!

Chapter Eleven: The Sunshine State

Continued from Chapter 10: Alone No More

It is a curious fact that a graduate student can actually be at two different universities at the same time. Such was the case for me.

Although I had finished all my coursework in the spring semester of 1988 and passed the oral defense, I hadn’t yet completed the written thesis. This meant that I wouldn’t graduate until December, but wasn’t going to be drawing any stipend without registering for classes, so I had to get started on my next degree in the fall semester to keep paying the bills (and defer my student loans).

I mentioned in Chapter 10 that I’d opted to go to the University of Florida, but wasn’t immediately accepted. Graduate programs hedge their bets when selecting graduate students. In order to enter the PhD program, you have to pass a qualifying exam. If you don’t pass, the department can still give you a master’s degree…unless you already have one.

For the department, that means no degree, no positive metrics, no publishable research and a boatload of wasted resources.

I fell into the unfortunate category of already being ABD (All But Done) with my master’s degree, but never taking WVU’s qualifying exam (I had no intentions of pursuing a PhD there so couldn’t see the point of studying and taking an exam for nothing).

UF had no guarantee that I’d pass the qualifier and saw me as a risky prospect. Consequently, I had to wait until at least one of the graduating seniors who’d already been accepted…declined.

Another factoid about UF is that they had had so many prospective students ‘interview’ during spring break that they no longer paid travel expenses. That meant that my visit to the campus was on my own (very thin) dime. I flew down from Pittsburgh to Gainesville on the redeye from People’s Express (remember them) and slept on the living room floor of another graduate student’s apartment in a sleeping bag. I’d come to check out the “Center for Surface Science and Engineering”, but learned that it was a center in name only. There was no physical facility; just three labs on the fourth floor of the chemical engineering building.

The director of the program also happened to be the chairman of the department. He was an exceptionally enthusiastic and charismatic Indian named Dinesh Shah.

There was a period during that visit when I had a break between my meetings with the faculty and went back to the apartment to get something. I was running late and was walking as fast as I could. I remember having to stop at a corner to wait for the light to change and feeling light headed in the Florida heat. I had the conscious thought that I would either be late or not make it at all (faint). Forever after, there was always a particular moment in the spring when I would downshift from my northern, rushed pace into my adopted leisurely southern shuffle. This is how I learned to deal with the heat and humidity for my years in Florida.

There were no ‘red flags’ associated with the program and my host was more than accommodating (ever hear of “Gainesville Green”?) so when the offer finally came in the summer of 1988, I accepted.

Earlier that spring, I bought my first car. I had been driving my parents’ tired 1980 VW Rabbit in Morgantown and had made more bailing wire and adhesive tape repairs than I could count by then. Odd to think now that the car was only eight years old and had about 85,000 miles on it, but was, without a doubt, at the end of its useful life. It was impossible (for example) to change the turn signal or tail light bulbs because the only thing holding the lenses to the car was rust. Once disturbed, there was nothing to reattach them to. It looked a lot like this one:

White with blue vinyl interior
1980 VW Rabbit: white with blue vinyl interior

Donna and I talked about what I should get to replace the Rabbit. At the time, the VW Fox wagon was the obvious replacement for the Rabbit hatchback and was so similar to it that I almost forgot it was a demo while I was driving it. We decided, though, that it just didn’t carry enough and started looking at compact pickup trucks (I guess living in West Virginia had shaped my views of automotive utility).

Although I can’t recall the exact details, we liked the Jeep Comanche. It was the right combination of power train, features and price. Unfortunately, the blue, long bed, 4WD, fully-loaded one I tested at the Morgantown dealership was a wee bit out of my price range. We spoke with the dealer and he located one more consistent with our economic situation at another dealership and quoted me a price and offered to have the truck brought down to Morgantown for me.

In the meantime, my mother reminded me that I could use the Pace Warehouse Club program to identify a fleet vehicle and maybe I might get a better deal that way. I only had a day or two to check it out so I went to the designated dealer, spoke with the designated fleet manager, searched their regional inventory system and found a truck that had more options than the one from the WV dealer for a lot less money. The only problem was that it was at a dealership about forty miles away.

I was by myself on that rainy day when I went to that dealership to check it out. It was everything I’d been told it was and even had a few features I didn’t even know were available (and the program price was still the lowest I’d been shown).

Obviously, this was the truck I should buy so I struck the deal and waited for the truck to arrive at the local dealership and get prepped so I could pick it up.

In the meantime, I called the original WV dealer to tell him that I’d found a better truck for a lower price and that I appreciated his efforts and was sorry he had the more basic truck shipped up to Morgantown for nothing.

He was not only angry, but went off on an extended tirade about how he knew I wasn’t going to go through with the deal and that was why he never had the truck brought up and that I wasn’t an honest and trustworthy person (I’m paraphrasing, but you get the gist).

I was completely caught off-guard and could only say over-and-over again, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Late in the summer of 1988, I packed all my worldly possessions in the bed of my shiny, new Jeep Comanche pickup truck and headed down the interstate to Florida.

I started to look for an apartment as soon as I arrived, but the rental market in Gainesville was completely different than Morgantown. I was accustomed to older single family homes near the campus being renovated to appeal to the students, but in Gainesville, there were no old homes to rent, there were only apartment buildings. Apartment buildings of every description all over the city. But, it was far more expensive to live in Gainesville than it was to live in Morgantown.

One thing was the same though, finding an apartment was a competitive endeavor. There were no vacancies near the campus and I had to go pretty far afield to find a suitable apartment.

I ended up in a one-bedroom apartment in the northeast section of Gainesville (UF is in the southwest portion), but I had a reliable car to commute to campus so that was no big deal (scroll left to see the apartment complex-my apartment was in the far right, rear corner not visible from the street).

My first semester (Fall of 1988) was spent either on core courses or finishing my WVU thesis in the Mac Lab on the UF campus. I had been given a list of edits to the draft thesis following my oral defense, so the process was pretty straightforward. Still, it took me most of the fall semester to get it together and I just bared got it to WVU before the deadline.

The last hurdle was getting my advisor’s signature. This had been a thorny issue for my roommate (who had the same advisor) because he refused to sign the dissertation until my roommate changed the acknowledgments because he didn’t think it was sufficiently complimentary.

Armed with the knowledge that my advisor was at least as concerned about how he would be characterized in the acknowledgements as he was about the technical merits, I worded my acknowledgment very carefully. Those who know me immediately recognize the reference to “a truly unique learning experience” as tongue-in-cheek, but my advisor was not among the in-crowd.

Since I was in Gainesville and Donna was still in Morgantown, I mailed the package containing my thesis and all requisite paperwork to her so she could hand-carry it to my advisor’s office for his signature and, subsequently to the dean’s office to be finalized and recorded.

Donna received the package at the end of the week and was to deliver it to my advisor’s office the following Monday (which was the deadline for that semester). By a simple twist of fate, Donna and my advisor happened to meet at the shopping mall on Sunday.

Donna mentioned to my advisor that she would be stopping by his office the next day so he could sign my thesis. He said that he had no intention of signing it until he’d read it in its entirety.

Donna explained that there were no changes except those that he and the committee had requested at the oral defense, but he resolutely refused to sign until he’d read the whole thing.

Donna was understandably exasperated and (without thinking) called him an asshole…. Moments later, she called me in tears from a phone booth at the mall to tell me that she had just called my advisor an asshole.

I maintained my composure (although it wasn’t easy) and told her not to worry about it, but to drop it off at his office first thing in the morning and make sure that the acknowledgment page was on top. There is nothing more we can do, but hope for the best.

Donna dropped the thesis off at his office before he arrived as I suggested and set off to her own office across campus.

By the time she arrived at her office, there was a message from my advisor’s administrative assistant that she could come pick up the signed thesis (roughly 15 minutes had elapsed).

I don’t know whether he’d had a change of heart or if he was really so shallow that all he wanted to see was the acknowledgment page, but the rest of the process was completed in short order and I received my MSChE on time in December of 1988.

My first year at UF was a little frustrating because I had to repeat all of the core courses I had already taken at WVU, but their perspective on the physics was fundamentally different. Whereas WVU emphasized the macroscopic world where Newtonian physics applies, UF taught the same courses using quantum mechanics and statistical ensembles. It was as though I’d never taken the classes before because nothing I’d learned up to that point was applicable. It was like having a wrench when you really needed a screwdriver.

I was academically challenged that first year at UF, but I sure couldn’t complain about the weather. In fact, it remains one of my favorite places because it has pine trees, oak trees and palm trees all in the same place. In addition, it has the four seasons I’m accustomed to, but not in the same proportion. By that I mean; there is an autumn (my least favorite season) during which the oak leaves change color, but they don’t fall to the ground all at once so there’s no leafy mess. Winter in Gainesville (by my standards) is nearly ideal. It lasts about a month with about 10 days where the temperature gets below freezing and one day of actual snowfall (which is over almost as soon as it begins). Spring comes early and the days are warm and dry. Summer, well…summer in Gainesville isn’t for everyone, but I rarely minded it. It is what you would expect, I suppose: hot and humid with afternoon thunderstorms that are as intense as they are regular (usually between 2:00 and 2:15 in the afternoon). One is well-advised not to be caught outside after lunch, but any shelter will do and there’s little risk of having to engage in a long, awkward conversation with a fellow meteorological refugee. Oh, did I mention that Gainesville is THE place to go if you want to get struck by lightning?

During my first year at UF, Donna finished up her coursework at WVU and moved down to Gainesville with me. But the one-bedroom apartment I had wasn’t really big enough for two people, so Donna started looking for a two-bedroom apartment (that we could afford).

That’s how we ended up in the fine little town of Melrose about twenty miles east of Gainesville.

Melrose, FL: The Blue Spot in the Red State
Melrose, FL: The Blue Spot in the Red State

Melrose is an anomaly for a couple reasons: It straddles four different counties, so the laws and municipal services are anything, but clear. Also, it was (and still is twenty-five years later) very liberal which might not seem so odd were it closer to a major city or in any northern state. It is for the latter reason that I still refer to Melrose as “the blue spot in the red state”.

Donna and I rented a two-bedroom condominium in Melrose from 1989 to 1992 and in many ways, it was our first, real home/neighborhood/community (scroll left to see the little condo buliding-our unit was the second one from the right).

A curious fact; this was the first period in my life (since the age of fifteen) when I stopped writing music. (That’s why there aren’t any references to songs written in this period yet.) I didn’t complete a song from 1987 (when we were still in Morgantown) until I wrote “Waiting Its Turn” in 1990. Three years seemed like an eternity and I was quite conscious of the lack of desire to write music, so “Waiting Its Turn” was an equally conscious (deliberate) composition about what was going through my mind at the time.

The back story is that Donna and I had decided to go see Paul McCartney at Tampa Stadium in April of 1990 (probably for my twenty-sixth birthday). The tickets were over $100 each (!!) and I dragged my feet for a while, but in the end, we figured it was worth it.

I had never been to a concert that big before. We were in the upper tier of one end zone and the band was in the opposite end zone. We were in the venue, but about a quarter-mile from the band. Thank God Donna made me bring binoculars.

I will never forget the set up with the video screens and Paul’s piano on some sort of fork lift to lift him above and rotate him over the band. Oh, and the PA speakers at mid-field to help minimize the delay between what we could see and what we could hear. As much as I admire and respect Paul McCartney, that was a truly awful concert. But, as I was sitting there thinking ‘what an incredible rip-off’, the idea occurred to me that I hadn’t lost the ability to write music, I was only postponing it.

Anyone who knows me could be forgiven for assuming the reference to “Paul” singing his poem would be about Paul Simon, but it’s not; it’s about Paul McCartney.

With the ice broken (so to speak), I then wrote the instrumental “Twins” in honor of my mother and her identical twin. I don’t remember what the working title was, but the eventual name stuck because each movement in the song is exactly repeated.

The last song I wrote in 1990 was “Jesus Rides a Harley”. I don’t often reference spiritualism and when I do, it’s usually with tongue-in-cheek. So, the song is irreverent (sic) towards those with narrow concepts of faith in general and pretentious fundamental Christians in particular.

Much of the imagery in the song was real. I WAS at a motorcyclist’s funeral in Melrose that year just to show support for a local rider who had been killed. But I didn’t know him personally.

As I mentioned earlier in this chapter, I felt a sense of community in this town and Donna and I rode down to the cemetery to join about fifty or sixty other riders (suitably attired) for the internment.

The weather was also as ominous as the song suggests and I remember thinking ‘I wonder if we’re going to get home before this storm hits’.

That’s where the reality ends though. They were not close friends of mine and I wasn’t leaning on the ‘funeral tent pole’. I was at the back of the crowd and only knew one other person there. I do remember thinking though, ‘does everybody else know each other and, if so, are they wondering who the hell I am?’

That’s when I had my epiphany (sic) and the song pretty much wrote itself-with the following caveat: Donna is responsible for honing the final lyric when I was preparing to record it eight or nine years later. My original version was vague and suffered from ‘pronoun trouble’ that made the story too difficult to follow.

After this burst of three songs in 1990, I again went into a creator torpor that lasted long after I graduated and left Florida.

More about that in Chapter 12: Continental Ping Pong

Last Poem of the Year

SANDCASTLE

Dr. Ken © 2014

 

I am not strong, I do not bend,

My shell is paper-thin.

I look the same as you recall

But I’m not the same at all.

If I survive the day, I win.

I have all night to mend.

 

A million possibilities, like wet sand at water’s edge;

I can take any shape that fits.

But, like a kid’s castle built with pride,

It won’t last past high tide;

Washed away in a trillion bits

For tomorrow’s kid to dredge.

 

I am built again in the morning light

With unlimited potential.

But, these ramparts cannot be defended

Nor these crumbing walls mended.

The façade is ornamental;

Built and destroyed with equal delight

 

It’s true I collapse repeatedly

With no hope of permanency.

I shift, I waft, I rearrange

But, my essence doesn’t ever change

For not even the relentless pounding sea

Can break the grains that make up me.

7 O’Clock News/Silent Night 2014

Just a quick little studio project suggested by Donna. It hurts my heart that it was so easy to find headlines in today’s news to recreate this poignant, beautiful, but sad, sad concept piece from Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.

I can’t stress that enough: This is not an aggregate, these are all stories from one instant in time: Tuesday December 9th, 2014.

We can do better. We must do better. Be the light that shines.

The current social unrest in the US is not a new thing. Nor is our tendency to express outrage and frustration through humor. I was reminded of this classic Firesign Theatre piece about the systemic (and recurrent) subjugation of Native Americans released at the height of the Civil Rights Movement in January of 1968. To me, this is a reminder that the time we live in isn’t different from the past. Change does not occur according to a schedule, it is always preceded by a tipping point. (Can you feel it?)

If you’re not familiar with the recording, click the player below or listen to it here (Temporarily Humboldt County). Even if you think you remember it word-for-word, I suggest you also read along because it moves rather quickly (Script).

“Be excellent to each other and party on.”

Ooo, shiny!

I Come By It Honestly

My love for words didn’t just spring from thin air. To prove that, here’s a poem my father wrote a few days ago to honor Jimi Hendrix’ birthday. Note also that it’s in his favorite form: a series of limericks.

Happy Birthday Jimi Hendrix
by Ken Miller (the elder)

He was born in Seattle this day,
Where the Hawks and the Mariners play;
Where it rains quite a lot,
And Bill Gates sails his yacht ,
While he sips on a rare chardonnay.
In the army he served for a spell;
But things didn’t go very well.
So he left to pursue
What he wanted to do:
Playing songs in a club or hotel.
Jimi later moved east to New York
With no visible means of support.
He was fully rehearsed,
But he struggled at first.
All his efforts were coming up short.
But he didn’t give up on his dream.
And soon he was gathering steam.
And began making hay,
With the way he could play,
In the days of the Johnson regime
John Hammond saw Jimi perform,
And a star was summarily born.
His mettle was proved.
Soon to England he moved,
Where imbibing warm beer is the norm
The Experience later was founded
By Jimi, who soon was surrounded
By groupies galore
Who were shouting for more
From this man who amazed and astounded
For Monterrey Pop he returned
To the States, back when draft cards were burned
To annoy Uncle Sam
In the era of ‘Nam
Jimi’s talent was fully affirmed
At Woodstock he also appeared
On the musical path that he steered
He was seen as a god
Both at home and abroad
By his fans he was loved and revered
But there also were demons at play
Jimi’s brain cells were wasting away
From his substance abuse
Not unlike Lenny Bruce
In an era of moral decay
In his 28th year Jimi died
At the end of a magical ride
He expired too soon
Like his buddy, Keith Moon
With his girlfriend alone at his side
Jimi would have turned 72
On this day and be hoisting a few
But he’s resting in peace
Since his soul was released
And we bid him a tearful adieu

Bach to the Fugueture

Here’s a video of me playing “Bach to the Fugueture”. The sound quality is poor, so I put a link to the Studio Recording at the end of this post (different guitar/different key/way slower).

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I’ve been thinking a lot about Veteran’s Day and I can’t be more honest than to admit that I will never understand what our servicemen and women or their families experience or how it feels to have been through one or more tours of duty.

I can say, however, that I have seen, first-hand, the damage combat can do to people. I had one friend return from Desert Storm profoundly changed by his experience and so deeply disturbed that he genuinely frightened me. And then I have another friend who returned relatively unscathed.

The closest I ever came to military service was obediently submitting my Selective Service form when I turned eighteen. I felt no obligation to serve and was grateful that I never had to (although I likely would have if called).

So, what do I feel about this holiday? Well, I used to work in a VA hospital and I remember seeing lots of patients waiting for treatment in clinic after clinic as I walked through. I don’t believe we (as a country) fulfill the promises we make to our veterans. I am also embarrassed when I witness someone taking their frustration toward an administration’s policies out on the individuals who serve. We are all in this together!

No, I can never fully understand what it means to serve, but I do appreciate the difficult, vital and unique work our servicemen and women do to protect and preserve our way of life AND I AM GRATEFUL FOR YOUR SERVICE; NOT JUST TODAY, BUT EVERYDAY.

Did You Know I Had a YouTube Channel?

Some of you do and I want to thank you for tuning in.
I’ve rocketed past 1000 views this week.

OK, I know; not exactly going viral, but I still think it’s pretty cool.

If you didn’t know about my YouTube channel, you can check it out here: KenMillerMusic.

I’d love to hear what you think.

My Old School

OK, a couple generations may have passed, but this is still my high school and it’s STILL the home of some of the most talented kids on the planet.

Here is the official entry for the Trib Total Media Lip Dub Contest for 2014. Voting begins next Friday (11/14).  If your high school isn’t in the running for this contest, please vote for this video (Thomas Jefferson High School). Can I get a ‘whoop-whoop’?

The South of France (pt 10, The Search for Truffles)

We were at the end of our trip. The shortest one since we started attending the biennial conference in La Grande Motte, but we had one more item on our to do list.

Two years ago, Donna and I wandered into the town of Uzès to the north of Nimes and while wandering around the main square as tourists generally do we found (tucked in among the fabric, food and sourvenir shops) a store that specialized in everything truffle.

I’m not talking about chocolate truffles, I’m talking about the fungus that grows underground and produces a subterranean fruiting body that tastes so awesome that  you overlook the fact that it is the fruiting body of a subterranean fungus. These things aren’t cultivated, they are dug up and collected from the soil and leaf litter at the base of trees in the forest.

And they are expensive. Very expensive. Fortunately, a little goes a long way. If you’ve never had truffles, there’s no way to describe what you’re missing, but don’t deny yourself the opportunity when it presents itself. If you have tried them and don’t understand what all the fuss is about, you’ve either gotten a bad one or your biochemistry just isn’t calibrated to swoon over their flavor.

Donna and I were due to fly out of Marseilles the following day and Uzès was a solid three-hour ride down the expressway and an hour-and-a-half PAST Marseilles. Still, we wanted to replenish our truffle stash before leaving France.

We got up that morning and had breakfast at the Hotel Caravelle in Saint-Aygulf, took a selfie with our hosts Martine and Jean-Louis and set off for Uzès.

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The blast across southern France on the E80 is like any other toll road in the west. In fact, it feels more familiar than it actually should except for the fact that the toll booths don’t accept the old US-style credit cards with a magnetic stripe (and French drivers are just as impatient as US drivers when some clueless foreigner goes through the wrong toll booth). Anyway…we made our way up to Uzès and parked the car.

It was Saturday afternoon and the markets were winding down, but there was some sort of medieval festival in progress with people in period costumes as either peasants (many made up to look like they had bubonic plague) and others wearing (and selling) bold finery or toys. I have no idea what it was really all about, but it was interesting.

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True to our nature, we wandered around looking for a place to eat until there was only one place still open. The server told us what they were serving and asked if that was alright (although it was clear we had no choice). We nodded, ordered beer and wine and took in the view and the various activities going on around us.

As we sat in the café, bands started marching past. First, a bagpipe band featuring a guy in Buck Rogers sunglasses. DSC_0236_result_result

Pipers Video

And then a fife and drum group including this guy bringing up the rear while arguing with someone on his cellphone. Donna took the still photos while I took a movie with MY cellphone.

Guy Arguing on Cell

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Well, we got up from the table and resumed our quest for truffles. We looked up the address for the store we’d been to on our last trip, but it wasn’t there. We’d come all this way and were forced to retreat empty-handed.

In other words, the Maison de la Truffe c’est “poof”!

🙁

The rest of our trip was pretty mundane. We drove to Marseilles, checked into the Comfort Inn, returned our rental car, ate in the hotel restaurant and flew home the next morning.

Thanks for reading our story. I hope you enjoyed it.

Dr. Ken

The South of France (pt 9, St. Tropez Penninsula)

On our last day in the Saint Tropez area, we decided to wander around the peninsula and visit the inland villages while staying well away from the more metropolitan areas at its northern end.

We started off along the coast but broke inland just past Port Grimaud and drove up to Gassin for this vista of the Saint Tropez Gulf.

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Here are some pictures of Gassin itself.

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After wandering around Gassin for about twenty minutes, we got back in the car and continued southwest on the Chemin des Moulins de Paillas. As we climbed into the hills, I finally saw something I’d been looking for, but had not found: cork oaks. Not just a few, but thousands of them. I knew that they were a type of oak tree, but the leaves don’t look like typical oak leaves, but look at the bark of the tree and it’s immediately obvious that you are looking at cork on the hoof. Truly bizarre.

DSC_0025_result_result DSC_0024_result_resultDSC_0023_result_result DSC_0027_result_resultDSC_0028_result_result  Immediately below us was the town of Ramatuelle, but we didn’t stop there until later in the day.

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We continued southwest toward the coast looking for somewhere to get lunch. We saw a sign for a snack bar at a campground and detoured up the Route de L’Escalat, but it was closed. We continued past the campground to the village, but couldn’t find anything open so we turned around and headed back toward the beach road.

 

On our way back out, we stopped to take some photos of a vineyard and the men working it just as the weather turned sour.

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It was early in the season, cold and rainy, but we decided we still wanted to see what all the fuss about Saint Tropez beaches was about. We also figured we could get something to eat there. Well, we arrived, parked the car and started walking up past the private clubs and seaside restaurants, but ended up deciding we didn’t want to pay top dollar for crappy food again so I just took a single photo of Donna on the beach and one of the lighthouse and weather station (you can see it in the background of the first photo) to prove we’d been there and headed back the way we’d come.

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Back out on the road, we headed for the Phare de Camarat. Unfortunately, it was closed to the public at the time and all we could do was look at the lighthouse and adjacent weather station from outside the gate. We would have milled around longer, but we were getting seriously hungry at this point.

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We headed back to Ramatouelle, parked at the bottom of the hill and walked up into town in the rain hoping that we could still find a restaurant open so late in the afternoon. One thing we always seem to do when we are in France is take so long to decide where to have lunch, that the restaurants start closing and our choice is usually the only one that is still open. And so it was on this day…. We walked past three or four cafes that were all closed until the evening and found two open establishments at the top of the hill. The cafe was dry and out of the weather, but completely packed and not seating anymore customers. The little pizzeria next to it was also full except for the wet seats at the edge of the canopy, but we were welcome to those. Well, we were hungry, cold, thirsty and already wet, so…WTF. We sat down on the bench, ordered wine and two pizzas. It was the best (and cheapest) meal of the entire trip).

If you make your way up to Ramatouelle, I recommend you have lunch at La Cigalon, but pick a nice sunny day (odds are in your favor).

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Fueled by pizza and lubricated with wine, we finally took the time to look around this little town and take a few photos.

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Back on the road, we headed south toward the coast on the twistiest road I’ve seen in a very long time. Perhaps even more incredible, Donna was driving! We headed for La Croix- Valmer on the D93. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF  HEART!

We continued along the coast past La Croix-Valmer and on to Rayol-Canadel-sur-Mer where we headed north into the hills. This was the most insane and fun set of switchbacks, curves and vistas per mile I have ever seen (better than southwestern PA, better than the mountains of Arkansas, better than Vermont). Since I was in the co-pilot seat, I was free to take pictures with my phone to show just how twisty this bit of road was.

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Click here to play the video.  It’s hysterical. Driving Video

We stopped at a little natural area called Col du  Canadel (more cork oak trees). Again, thousands of cork oaks along this route and stunning vistas of the Mediterranean. The islands in the distance are (from left to right) Ile de Levant, Ile de Port-Cros and Ile de Bagaud.

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We  headed next for the little town of Cogolin where we found this cool statue with a musical theme.

 

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Our last stop of the day was the town of Grimaud with its ruined castle at the top of the hill in the center of the medieval village. We stopped outside of town at the bus stop because we were fascinated by the view juxtaposing the modern road system and the old castle of the village in the distance.

DSC_0152_result_result DSC_0155_result_resultDSC_0153_result_resultDSC_0159_result_result DSC_0157_result_result  Grimaud is a really cute town on a very steep hill and the climb to the top is further than it appears. (Trust me on this.)

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Just inside the old village wall is an amphitheater wired for modern use.

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But…we still had a ways to climb….

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Once at the top, the view was worth it even though the sun was going down.

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It seemed like we studied every inch of the castle, but eventually went back down into town to take some photos since we were in a rush to get to the top after we arrived.

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It had been a long, cold, rainy day and we were ready to head back to the hotel, so we headed back down toward the north coast with the intention of just driving the quickest way back to Saint-Aygulf.

But, once we got to the shore, we were treated to a wonderful double rainbow. The perfect end to a less-than-perfect day.

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One more installment to go (yeah, I thought I was done too). Next: The fruitless search for our favorite fungus and some Bubonic buffoonery.

This weekend I realized that I get to do stuff that not many other people get to do.

I serviced and road-tested six antique motorcycles in beautiful weather on some of the greatest roads in the world.

So, the next time I bitch about something, feel free to whack me up side the head.

Pardon our dust

I know I haven’t posted anything in a while and for those of you who have been following the South of France thread, there’s one more installment in the works that includes our drive around the Saint Tropez pennisula (talk about yer twisties!).

For those of you who have been following the autobiographical thread (The Latest Installment), I got stuck in the doldrum years after getting together with Donna and before I started writing and playing regularly again. (To me, it’s boring. But, I can’t explain where I am without telling you how I got here so I promise to write it down.)

The truth is, I’ve been busy with the more mundane activities of life (I’m sure  you understand) and have had to travel often and unexpectedly. That’s the reason I cancelled my last show and why I haven’t booked any others.

But…I have been playing and even writing a bit. I’ve got enough rough mixes of new material for about half an album and that’s WAY ahead of the pace of WORK IN PROGRESS (which took me about ten years to finish/surrender). Most of my practice time over the last month has been finger-picking (classical and some folk favorites) so I offer you this Simon & Garfunkel classic as a particular favorite of mine and a topic that has been on my mind as I crossed the half-century mark this spring.

“So…I continue to continue to pretend my life will never end and flowers never bend with the rainfall.”

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The South of France (pt 8, St. Tropez)

Our host at La Caravelle suggested we drive down to Ste. Maxime and take the ferry to St. Tropez rather than drive around the bay and park the rental car in the more crowded city.

I’m really glad we took her advice. On the morning of May 1st, we drove down, parked at the marina and boarded the ferry to St. Tropez. It was a 15-minute trip across the narrow mouth of the bay, but would have taken an hour to drive.

Although we’ve been all over most of Southern France, neither Donna nor I had ever been to St. Tropez before. Oddly enough, this city which is synonymous with deep tans actually faces north, so it’s not that easy to sunbathe there (now you know).

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And then a few more as we entered the posh San Tropez harbor.

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We love wandering through the markets in every town we visit and the fish market in San Tropez was especially awesome. I only wish we had a kitchen where we could prepare of this great looking fish!

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We picked up a city map at the tourist bureau and started on the self-guided tour, but it wasn’t long before we felt like we were walking in circles looking at things that weren’t as interesting as the map would suggest. Still, it’s a beautiful town.

We decided instead to walk back over to the town park and grabbed a couple seats (and drinks) at a café near the pétanque courts (Restaurant La Ponche).

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There was a tournament that day with 4 or 5 matches in progress and it seemed everybody on the street and in the cafés had their team shirts on. For the moment at least, we weren’t competing so fiercely with the tourists for ice cream, pastries and souvenirs.

The panorama Donna took while I sat at the table (above) captured the young woman in white with the yellow bag multiple times as she walked past us. You can see her in the final image on the right with her back to us and on the left as a composite image showing her face on and in profile at the same time. Freaky.

We decided that the most entertaining thing we could do in San Tropez was people-watching. (Although the car watching was pretty good too.)

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We took a few more pictures around town, but soon the heat got the better of us and we took up residence at an outdoor café right on the waterfront. It was expensive, but worth it to see the multi-national cast of characters pass by.

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Once we had our fill, we headed off again in search of new adventures. We were struck by the vivid colors of the produce stand much like we were at the fish market earlier. How wonderful it would be to have such wonderful food available on your doorstep every day.

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There was the requisite souvenir shopping of course, but to be brutally honest, the shops were so crowded, it was a real effort to shop there or even get some ice cream or a crêpe. We did make good on our goal of getting a San Tropez tarte (La Tarte Tropezienne: get one, it’s worth it).

And then, of course, there are all the flowers….

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After exploring what seemed like the whole city (I really thought it’d be bigger than it was), we headed back to catch the next ferry to Ste. Maxime, but we were too late and had to kill some more time at (you guessed it) another café.

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Since we were right at the marina, we boarded the ferry as soon as it docked, got seats up top in the fresh air and had plenty of time to take some more photos of San Tropez Port.

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One of the boats in port looked particularly stealthy. We never did figure out what this boat’s purpose was, but it certainly wasn’t like all the other fishing boats around it.

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Or the yachts.

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The ferry pulled away from the port just as the sun was setting. It was a full day in the sun and we were both ready to head back and relax on the terrace.

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Bye bye San Tropez!

 

I’ve been given a songwriting assignment. My task is to write a few songs about greyhounds (dogs, although references to busses and highway travel may figure into the mix too). I’d love to have your thoughts on this (particularly  those of you who have known the ‘joy’ of greyhound ownership).

I’m looking for sound bytes I can incorporate into lyrics. I’ll take anything from rhyming couplets, literary imagery, anecdotes, truisms, limericks, pictures, poems, memories…anything that will resonate with greyhound owners or dog people in general (melodic ‘roo-ing’ for example).

And if you already have a song, please share that with me. I’d love to hear it and with your permission, I’ll add it to my repertoire.

Funny…Frustrating…Maddening…Sad…Sweet: Help me convey all the dimensions of sharing our lives with these quirky, lovable creatures.

The ultimate goal is to put a show together for next year’s Dewey, DE Greyhounds Reach the Beach event in October. I promise you’ll know in advance if I’ve used your contribution. I’ll even share the copyrights with you.

Oh yeah…. And if you’re looking for a world-class companion, you really can’t do better than a retired greyhound. The smallest big dog you’ll ever love and the world’s only bonefide 40mph couch potato.

Thanks everybody!!