Wildman Fischer

I have a very rare record.  It is a 7 inch 331/3 disc that was recorded in 1968.  This small artifact would have no real value save for a few songs by one of the artists recorded.

Here's the story:  Early in 1968 I took interest in a new literary magazine being planned by some UCLA students.  I think it was an ad in The Daily Bruin newspaper that first sparked my interest.  I was writing a lot of poetry in those days and was looking for outlets to publish.  Since I had succeeded in applying for and then getting accepted to a poetry workshop course, I had the novel thought in my mind that what I was saying might be worthy of a larget audience.
As is often the case, when I met with a small group of the students behind the newspaper ad/call for submissions, I emerged as one of the "poetry editors" of the magazine.  To be sure, this was a fledgling effort, but the people involved had some solid ideas.  I liked them and their vision.
The magazine was to be called Laminas, and it would come in a box.  Aside from short stories, poetry, artwork, and creative non-fiction, there would be a recording.  Like the magazine itself, the recording would be eclectic.
The affiliation with UCLA in the late 60s was not lost on Laminas.  Much of the content reflected the sensibilities and issues of the day.  I recall a well-illustrated piece on Asian stereotypes that would stand the test of time and fit into any publication today.  As an editor, I could not promote my own work but did select some poetry that others submitted.  Another editor selected a couple of haiku poems that I submitted so no conflict of interest surfaced.  Being content to have at least something in the publication, I eagerly awaited its appearance.

I'm not sure if I paid for this substantial literary magazine or if I was given a complimentary copy, but I recall being very satisfied when at last I received it.  It was, in fact, a magazine in a box, complete with a record.
My interest in the record was clearly the fact that it had 2 tunes by Wildman Fischer.  At that time, Larry Fischer was a fixture on the UCLA campus.  He would "sell" tunes to passing students for small change.  His music was avant-garde at best, weird and repetitive at worst.  I'd heard Larry Fischer in the wild many times as I made my daily trek from the student union up to Royce Hall or Haines Hall.  I had two favorites,  Merry-go-round and Linda and Laurie.  Both appeared on the Laminas record.

In the years that followed, the students on campus graduated and went on to begin their lives in the real world.  Wildman Fischer evolved as well.  And then his musical career changed.  Frank Zappa, musical genius with a huge following, took Wildman Fischer under his wing.  He offered Larry a platform to perform and develop a larger following.  I don't know the particulars of their association, but I do know that Wildman Fischer once opened for Zappa in the Rose Bowl.  That venue holds about 3 times the UCLA student population.

My copy of Laminas unraveled over the 50 years that followed.  I used some of the graphics in ethnic studies classes I taught.  I'm not sure what happened to many of the pages in that little box, or the box itself, but I have always stored the record with a small collection of 45s I once used for teaching units that involved popular music of the 50s and 60s.

My recent attempt to find out if there is any interest in this recording tells me that Zappa fans are well aware of Wildman Fischer and many, in fact, have later recordings he made during his association with Zappa.  They do not, however, have his first recordings.   Hence, I have a very rare record.
If any Zappa fans or record collectors are curious, yes, this record is for sale?  It needs a new home.

Mask Up

The country has quarantine fatigue.  The weather, in most places, is goading the people to action.  They want more than extended walks, trips to the grocery store or gas station, essential forays into the dystopia.  They want their lives back.
In typical American fashion, many feel the need to demand their rights, quote the Constitution, and demonstrate their rage in public.  The government is, according to this view, not treating them as the adults they are and they are mad as hell and won't take it anymore.
They want nothing to do with spikes, new waves, or predictions of the "darkest winter" likely to come.  They need to go to the beach, the neighborhood bar, any restaurant, no matter what form that might take.  It's bad enough they can't attend a live sporting event, but at least some car, horse, and possibly human races will soon be held in silence.  There might even be basketball and some form of baseball.

They are Americans and demand their rights.
Yes, we are so divided as a nation that we can't go forward in the midst of a historic pandemic together.  So the American way will prevail.  The rugged individualism with equal parts of might and denial will accompany this nation into the second half of 2020.
I see today that some major league ballplayers will not accept a season that pays them only half their salary.  They're righteously pissed off and seem to have forgotten the current unemployment rate.  Not a good idea.  The optics are colored with greed as millions have no paycheck or prospects for one.  They couldn't even sell peanuts or soda/beer because all live sports will be henceforth seen at home on TV.
The biggest what-ifs at this point are all buried in the possibility of a second wave of the deadly virus.  If it emerges anytime before the November election then our current version of civil war or more properly, "un-civil war" could determine who wins the next election.

That crucial vote will be determined by voter turnout.  If 46% of those who could have voted last time pull that same stunt this time...nothing will change.  Mask up and vote.  You are an American and that is your right.

Plastic Derby Glasses

Yesterday was the first Saturday in May.  It might have been a traditional first Saturday if the Kentucky Derby had been run.  It wasn't.  For the first time in 75 years, the grandstand at Churchill Downs was empty.  Along with sports stadiums and large arenas, most race tracks have stopped.
The Derby is a real harbinger of Spring along with the leaves on trees, robins, and snowmelt that fills rivers and streams.  The birds are there and the streams are swollen, but we don't have Spring Training anymore.  Not this year.
All, however, is not doom and gloom.  Yesterday no Kentucky Derby but it has been rescheduled for the first Saturday in September.  The management at Oaklawn Park, in Hot Springs, Arkansas did take advantage of the date and offered in place of "the" Derby the 2020 version of the Arkansas Derby.  Oaklawn's Derby has traditionally been an important prep race for would-be Kentucky Derby aspirants.  That still goes.  Run in two divisions yesterday it yielded two promising 3-year-old colts, both trained by Bob Baffert, who are legitimate Triple Crown candidates.  So despite the loss of our Kentucky rite of passage, we got not what we wanted, but what we needed.  The two winning horses yesterday, Charlatan and Nadal will both need to stay healthy and run at least one more time before September 5th takes them down the Triple Crown trail.
So like thousands of others I grieved the loss of the real Derby yesterday.  I relived some memories and thought of my own time in Kentucky.

It was 1982.  There was no super horse on the horizon.  The Derby was wide open and I got the assignment to cover the big event for a fledgling thoroughbred magazine based in Northern California. With full press credentials, my trusty portable tape recorder, and a 35mm camera in tow, I headed to Louisville and emersed myself in the week-long fantasy world that encompasses each Derby.  An experienced Bay Area journalist showed me the ropes my first few days and I managed to take full advantage of everything my credentials would allow.  I  went to fancy parties.  I eavesdropped on famous journalists and their conversations.  I  snapped pictures and I interviewed the human participants of the '82 Derby.  I visited some of the horses in their stalls in the morning and watched the daily races at Churchill to monitor the track condition.
On the morning of the Derby, I arrived close to 5a.m. both to secure a parking place and to visit the backside (stable area) to see if there were any developments overnight.  By 6:30, with the morning workouts complete, I walked on the track from the backside to frontside, and then took the elevator to the press box.  The press, an international contingent, are treated very well.  My credentials were the ticket to meals and viewing privileges.  As a working journalist among hundreds, it was easy to blend in and go about my business without hindrance or question.  It was all a dream come true.
By late afternoon, with the crowds gone and the press conferences over, I rambled over to the stable area and found the winning trainer that year, Eddie Gregson (Gato del Soul, the horse) at his barn alone. He'd spent some time in Northern California as a young trainer and was most hospitable when I identified myself and a correspondent for The Northern California Thoroughbred magazine.  Eddie told me his story, his history the latest chapter of which had been written only a couple of hours

earlier.  About halfway through the interview, Eddie grabbed two plastic Kentucky Derby glasses and poured us each a glass of champagne.  Never, in my wildest fantasy would I have dreamed of sipping champagne with the winning trainer while his newly crowned champion munched alfalfa nearby.  Unforgettable.  Eddie fell on hard times in the years that followed.  He ultimately took his own life probably the result of some personal demons unknown to most.  But that day he hit the top of the mountain, even if for only a short time.  Every Derby day I look at that little plastic cup.  It's splintered now and the horse graphic is blurred.  But the memory, like the Derby, will survive.