old quarterly installments

FIRST INSTALLMENT:

My Favorite Bluegrass Sound Memories

This will be the first installment in my lifetime obligation to write quarterly “Humorous Anecdotes.” The idea to do this came about at a promotional/marketing meeting at Rounder Records, Inc., the first one such that I had ever attended. The plan was for Dry Branch Fire Squad to develop an email list of folks that the band would want to communicate with—for some reason which was clear to me at the time, but escapes me now. You can expect to receive as many as two or three of these per year.

This brings me to the words humorous anecdote. The last sentence of the first paragraph is the funniest thing I’ve ever written. I doubt that I’ll ever exceed it in pure humor. I tell you this so you don’t get your hopes up. Or mine.

In fact, I thought someone at the meeting had said, “Humorous Anticdote (and I think it was me, so I should know what I said—or, at least what I’m saying I said, since I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d have thought for a second that anyone of those professional marketers and promoters were going to take an idea of mine seriously). Ah, yes, Humorous Anticdote! Now that would have been something I could have gotten my teeth into.

Having propagated this misconception to trick almost everyone who will be receiving this into signing up for our list, I feel it’s only right to set the record straight. You may sometime in the future actually receive a humorous anecdote. You may also be receiving some humorous anticdotes. In addition I intend to try my hand at writing some serious anecdotes and even some serious anticdotes. I have always thought that serious humor is the best kind, if for no other reason than I never feel compelled to explain it to those who don’t get it. So just remember, if I write something in one of these quarterlies which you will only receive bi- or tri-annually, that’s the whole joke. And if you feel let down you can also take comfort in remembering that it was Nietzsche who said that the explanation of a joke is the death of an idea. (Can anyone even remember nowadays, with the possible exception of Eddie Stubbs, what band Nietzsche played in—and what instrument?)

Now I’m aware that I wrote something above which has already upset a few people. Those are the people who did not sign up to be on the list of folks who will receive this. They are probably wondering, “What did I ever do to………”

You see, the folks who signed up had some choice in the matter. I know they did it out of sympathy, and the whole band appreciates it. Rounder Records appreciates it. Of course, by now the folks whose sympathy got the best of them are already thinking, “Why did I do it?” “How do I get off of this list?” “Oh, delete button, don’t fail me now.” But the real joke is on Rounder Records, Inc.

Those poor folks expected this to be some sort of marketing tool. They expected me to make announcements of where the band will be playing (so you can buy our records), how to find the link on website to Rounder Records (so you can buy our records), even where DBFS eats, sleeps, plays, hangs out, and so on (so you can buy our records). I would have added practices to the list above, but who would have been fooled.

Now anyone who knows DBFS well enough to sign up for this thing, knows full well that we come down somewhere between Zen Marketing and Hardly At All Salesmanship. Folks who see us at festivals know we only keep our little table open for the bare minimum of time to move products. Some of you have even “hunted us down” to try to extract some records from us, while others have had to interrupt our high-pressure sales-talks with statements like, “Have you already put everything away?” and “Is it too late for me to get something, if I can tell you exactly what I want?”

So let me say right here and now that the folks at Rounder Records, Inc., have made some of the best recordings ever. You should really get some of their records. Many of the top artists in every “niche” field of music record for Rounder Records. The discs are well-made and have been through much fine quality control. The liner notes are the best in the world. The pictures on the covers are very attractive—especially considering that many of the pictures are of the actual performers who make the music on their products. Satisfaction is unavoidable. If you’re only going to buy one record this year (or in your life), make sure it is a Rounder Record. There.

And, if you can’t think of any particular Rounder Record right at the moment, but the above sales pitch has you sweating-at-the-jowls, frothing-at-the-mouth, and foaming-at-the-wallet to buy one, why, why not visit our website: www.drybranchfiresquad.com and see the wonderful random selection of Rounder Records there—available for your immediate purchase.

But I was talking about those poor souls who did not sign up to get this. Who are they? A few were selected from my very short list (big surprise) of long-time, trusted good friends. These are people I know will tell me where to “get off.” They are, in fact, well-practiced. A few others are people that I have been in the bluegrass business with. They can also perform the where-to-get-off service. Others still are people who are my friends and neighbors that I see frequently and that I would not wish to cause any discomfort or consternation, a few of which actually asked to be included on the list, and since I have so little space in which to carry information, I have been unable to remember which ones. Therefore, I have selected many, hoping not to miss the ones who made the request, without regard to the feelings of the others.

One person was selected for particular punishment. He is the person who gave me my first computer. You know the old saying: The first one’s free.

And one was selected because of what I like to think of as courage. (See what you think.) It is my erstwhile college professor of Satire from many years ago. Knowing, or at least suspecting, what’s coming, as I do; I put this selection in the same realm as going down one of those recently identified Double Black Diamonds. (Remember Nietzsche.)

Rest easy; I’m about done.

However, before I quit, I’d like to say what I hope will happen here.

I would like for these “musings” (shall we say?) to be somewhat interactive. I intend to write things for which it would be natural to have reactions, and I hope that if the spirit moves you, you will sign in with an opinion or a thought on our website Guest Book (see above). Having said that, let me beg, at least initially, for you to be merciful.

Another thing I hope to do is to answer some of the most frequently asked questions that I have been asked during my 41 years in professional bluegrass music. In fact, I’m going to begin to answer one at the end of this column. I told you that to tell you this: If you have a question or an idea for a small essay that you think would be good for me to address, please post it as such on our website. I’ve already gotten a few, and I enjoyed tackling some of those on the site itself. I hope this evolves some, and I hope that it eventually becomes interesting enough to be read. I do intend to save some of what I write here to be included in a future book, so you can save the cost of buying the book by figuring out which ones and just reading them here. And that way “the joke” (oh, no, not two in one column) will be on any fool who buys the thing at some future time when money probably won’t be worth anything anyhow—which, of course, is my marketing strategy.

The sixth most asked question that I’ve had over the years comes in different versions but can be boiled down to “What is your favorite bluegrass sound?”

I have always avoided answering because it takes a lot of thought, and the answer at any given time has not been the same. But then it dawned on me; I know exactly what it is, and it is not musical. It is spoken. It is the memory of the spoken words that I’ve heard over the years from folks like Ralph Stanley, Lester Flatt, Don Reno, Howard Aldridge, Bill Monroe, Hazel Dickens, Jack Casey, Frank Wakefield, Mary Tyler Doub, Curly Ray Cline, Martha Scanlon, Warren Hellman, Alice Gerrard, George Shuffler, Ken Irwin, Suzanne Thomas, Alison Krauss, John Duffey and many others. And if I’m able to stay “on task”, I intend to share some of my favorites with you in the next column.

One last thing: They told me these things would write themselves. I must have the wrong computer program.

Thanks for being a part of this.

Ron Thomason

SECOND INSTALLMENT:

Bluegrass Sound Memories: Column #2 (Column #1 is attached for those who have requested it. Both are equally deletable.)

As you can plainly see my goal of getting these things out quarterly is falling a little behind, but I think I can still catch up if I can just write one weekly for a while. And weakly is my specialty—so I’m full of hope hopefully.

First I would like to thank all the folks on this list who responded so positively to my first attempt at such writing as this. Your comments helped me do a lot of thinking; who would have thought? Thanks too to those who provided me with some helpful critical comments. The nature of those can pretty much be summed up with what one person said: “If he has something to say, I wish he would just go ahead and say it. That rambling style might work OK on stage, but it doesn’t work when he’s trying to write.” So for this second attempt I have attached at the end of this second “antidote” an abbreviated version of everything it contains, and those folks who would like to read just the essence can skip to it now and not miss a thing.

LONG VERSION:

I’m not a good salesman, and that’s a failing. Therefore, I would ask that you not treat what I am about to write as a pitch; it’s not. I would just like to recommend our two festivals to you because I believe in them so strongly, and I would like to get a chance to share them with you. We DBFSers are very proud of the two festivals we host. Many of you on this list will already know about them. If you don’t I would like to invite you to visit our website, www.drybranchfiresquad.com, and click on the links there to Grey Fox and High Mountain Hay Fever.

You might well ask: What makes these festivals special. To begin with there are many annual bluegrass and acoustic music festivals throughout the country scheduled at different times throughout the year which have their own special qualities. In fact, DBFS plays at many such festivals. In our dotage we have actually started limiting our performances to festivals and concerts which have qualities that we enjoy and support.

The two festivals which we host, Grey Fox (in Acramdale, NY) and High Mountain Hay Fever (in Westcliffe, CO) are two wonderful festivals, only moreso—the onliest that we can make them. First off, let me assure you that you will never see more spectacular settings for any event. Grey Fox has become famous for its site high in the Berkshires. The spectacular sunsets (and sunrises when you happen to creak out early enough to catch them) get greater applause than even the best acts that we have been able to present—and all the great ones have been there. And our new site for High Mountain Hay Fever on the bluff overlooking the Wet Mountain Valley at the foot of such 14,000 foot peaks as Humboldt, Mt. Kit Carson, and the Crestone Massif is every bit as spectacular (and about a mile higher) than the Grey Fox site. That said, I will only add that we personally strive to provide you with the best entertainers and performers, the best workshops, and the best hospitality that we’re capable of. Over the years we have come to think of our Grey Fox patrons as “family”, and I believe that many of those folks have come to feel the same about us. High Mountain Hay Fever is much newer, but I believe it is assuming much the same character. So this is your invitation; come be with us. And if you’re really hardy and a true, diehard can’t-get-enough-of-that-great-bluegrass-music individual; do what we do, start with us in Colorado on July 7, and follow us to New York to continue right along with even more on July 14. See what you’re really made of—and us too.

In my first installment I promised some quotes, and I think that statements such as these may appear in columns to follow. But I would like to share some now. I will attempt to put them in context to give them as accurate a character as I can. These are things which have been said that I believe can and should be interpreted not only on the literal level but also on the metaphorical and symbolic level. I think that certain ones of these may have a type of universal appeal (especially for fans of bluegrass music) as well as members of the “general public”, which we all know is considerably different.

My great friend Mary Doub (who was and is the heart and soul of Grey Fox as well as a leader in and a friend of the Bluegrass Music Industry) told me a while back a thing which “saved” my life and certainly buttressed my soul during a most difficult and trying time. I would like to pass it along to folks who find themselves under attack, being lied about, falsely accused, or on the receiving end of disrespect, rudeness, or misrepresentation: “Feeling unrelenting anger or hatred is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.”

This one from Bill Monroe: A few weeks after I had written an article about “Professionalism in Bluegrass” DBFS and The Bluegrass Boys were on the same venue. I had written at one point in the article that for a model of certain aspects of professionalism one need look no further than “the Father of Bluegrass Music.” Both bands were sitting in the green room when I heard Wayne Lewis (Monroe’s lead singer at the time) furtively whisper to Bill, “That’s the guy who wrote the article.” (Now keep in mind that Bill Monroe and I had known each other for a long time by this time; we had on occasion played twin mandolins together, and, in fact, he was one of the first people to not only higher DBFS but to offer us his support in the industry.) Bill, who was sitting across the room fixed me with a stare for some time, and then when the comfort level reached the “red line” got up, walked across the room, and keeping me fixed in his most intimidating gaze said, “You believe that don’t you?” Well, there it was; the bluegrass version of the famous Kierkegaard aphorism: “Faith, not virtue, is the opposite of sin.”

Hazel Dickens had this advice which I think can apply to more than just singing: “Don’t sing anything you don’t mean. You won’t fool anybody but yourself.”

That statement is closely related to one written by Joe Wilson of the National Council for Traditional Arts which I think gets at the heart of the nature of the appeal of Bluegrass Music: “The picking attracts, but the singing is what holds.”

I wish I could remember who first told me this, but all I can really do is think of all the folks I’ve known to whom it applies and for which fact makes them important people to me: “You can pretend to care, but you can’t pretend to be there.”

That one reminds me of one of (and there are many) of the wonderful things Ralph Stanley has told me over the years. Now Ralph is a man of few words, and he has that “cowboy” characteristic of hardly ever wasting words and never saying (or singing for that matter) anything that he doesn’t really mean. He shook my hand one day and said, “If you ever need me for anything, I’ll be there.” Everyone needs to hear that at times. I hope you all have.

I would also hope that everyone has gotten to hear this one at times in their lives (and even used for a Dolly Parton song title): “I will always love you.” Of course, it’s not always meant. And while that’s not a happy thought, this is: It is often meant by those who never (or never have to) say it. What a treasure.

SHORT VERSION:

Come to the festivals we host, Grey Fox and/or High Mountain Hay Fever—if you can spare the time.

People say things which are important to us. Remember them. Or put them on your palm pilot.

Ron Thomason

May, 2005

THIRD INSTALLMENT:

It would appear that there are fans of the band, or insidious mercenary “plants” contracted by traditional bluegrass music terrorists, who have decided not to take me literally when I say that I thought “a quarterly installment” meant “one every four years.” Anyways I’ve been reminded lately that I “owe you one.”

This one will be long, so get your finger on the DELETE button. It will cover such things as GOOD NEWS, BAD NEWS, ANGST, EXISTENTIAL ANGST, and NO, NO EXIT. Now, save yourself, push the button.

And, oh yes, my EXCUSES (forgot to mention that one): I’ve been typing in all the names for folks who have signed up for the DBFS email list while we’ve been out playing. When the folks at Rounder first mentioned that I compile such a list I thought that maybe in several years I’d have about 400—500 folks who would sign up. Now after just seven months, we’re approaching 2,000; and I type slower than I talk. So—to the excuse—I didn’t want to write something till I got all the names on the computer. Or I had typer’s block and won’t admit it. (To myself—first chance to guess which category above this fits.)

GOOD NEWS:

The two festivals which DBFS hosts, High Mountain Hay Fever in CO and Grey Fox in NY, were both just wonderful. There’s so much that can go wrong in the festival business and so much that may go right, that as my friend, Mary Doub (the Grey Fox engine), says, “It’s always a crap shoot.” Well, the dice fell right. HMHF changed its site to the stunning hill overlooking the Wet Mountain Valley and staring into the faces of the Sangre DeCristo mountains, and our crowd doubled. The purpose of the festival is to help support the community clinic and within hours of the music stopping we had given over $6K to the clinic and positioned ourselves to go on for another year. Every single person who commented said that the performances were stellar, and they were correct.

Grey Fox, on the other hand, is an established festival and has a reputation to uphold. Well, this past year, Grey Fox simply enhanced that rep. There were things that happened there that have already entered the area of “bluegrass myth.” Some of those things are related, as one would expect, to the dynamic, nearly impossibly good performances that the best artists in the world stretched themselves to do. Some are the grist of timeless gossip by those who witnessed a few of the most interesting sights and sounds ever in the history of bluegrass events. But I’m not telling; you had to be there.

For my own part I was thrilled that a bevy of my friends from CO made the trip east to see what all the excitement was about.

On another topic but still under this heading my friend, Joe Wolking, wrote a wonderful piece of music for the poem “Oh, Captain; My Captain” which was suggested to him by our mutual friend, Chris Derick, who must read. Now you know I don’t recommend much in the way of trying to get you spend your money. Occasionally I’ll say something like, “Get a recording by the Chestnut Grove Quartet if you want to hear how this stuff should sound” or “The way (this) really goes is the way Hazel Dickens does it”, but I’m telling you right now—if you want to hear powerful metaphor written about our greatest president but applicable to more folks and situations than you can count (I would suggest thinking Carter Stanley) and sung as well and played as powerfully as a metaphor can be, then get this recording: Westgrass by the Sons and Brothers. The “Captain” song should be required listening.

EXISTENTIAL ANGST:

It’s hard to listen to “Captain” (text by Walt Whitman) without thinking about the greatest conservative in our nation’s history, Abraham Lincoln. Here was a man who “conserved” the nation itself, and some times had to employ rather foul means to do it. Here was a man truly “up to the task.” His honesty is the thing of myth, but it was that great Honesty—the Trustworthiness—which made him the man to be trusted with the power he literally grabbed for the task at hand and then returned after it was used. He was a man of the people, and that final observation has led me (in these very troubled times of our nation to consider, although not postulate) that only a man of the people can be a great conservative; notice I avoided saying true conservative.

Here’s why this has bothered me: I’ve always considered myself to be very conservative (see letter below).

I used to joke on stage that “I had spent my whole life looking for a Republican who didn’t consider himself ‘better than other people’ and so I finally had to move to CO where there were more Republicans to have any chance of success.” (Come on, now; it’s a joke. I could make up just as many about “trying to find a Democrat who would consider it wrong to lie to his wife about his extracurricular sex-life, but that’s not the topic at hand here.) But then I realized that in the sense of real satire, my above joke was missing the mark. And that presented me with the opportunity to do some deep thinking (in so far as that is possible for a simple hillbilly road musician). And I was able to come up with another joke, but it is so near the mark that my fingers tremble as I type it. It’s only satire in the Swiftian sense—low on humor, high on invective. And it is this: “I’ve spent my whole life looking for a conservative Republican and……..well you know the rest.

This is important now because, for one thing, bluegrass music is political. In fact, Hazel Dickens (that’s Dr. Hazel Dickens) says that just playing bluegrass music is a political act. (see letter below) That oughta give you cause for thought.

I, like I’m sure a lot of you, just hate the Blame Game. Here’s who I think is at fault for the bad times (such as…fill in yourself) we are presently going through as a nation: Us (grammatically—We).

As citizens we have allowed ourselves to let entertainers do our thinking and influence us. Entertainers like Bill O’Reilly, Shawn Hannity, and Rush Limbaugh who are rude, abrasive, interruptive, and sanctimonious. If they were children (which they often act like) they would be (hopefully metaphorically) slapped. They would never be wanted in a social gathering. They entertain by showing us behavior as abominable as Jerry Springer’s, and hence as interesting—but, and here’s the tragedy—more influential. And these folks call themselves conservative.

And entertainers like Al Franken, Jon Stewart, and Al Sharpton who act nice and polite but who seethe with repressed anger that they use to attack with humor; namely, sarcasm and cynicism, forces which seem in the long run to be just beyond their ken—with Stewart being the possible exception in that category just as Springer would be above. (Now there’s some integral calculus-type thinking to try to follow.)

And entertainers like me.

I’ve come to the conclusion that now that we have let our news and our information and our impetus for thinking all come in the form of Entertainment that we have begun to “entertain” ourselves by playing roles in the big drama itself. And, of course, like all drama we must overstate, overact, (and react), speak louder than normally, and project more than would be natural. Could it be that what politics has become is a theater of the absurd where we allow people to assume and use power if, and only if, they satisfy us that they can play the part.

Why then would we even think or expect that when events of monumental proportions come up like terrorist attacks, floods and other natural disasters, economic turmoil, class struggles and disenfranchisement, and other things which need the attention of a real statesman (like, say, Abraham Lincoln) that the people we have put into positions of responsibility would be any more capable of getting the necessary jobs done than we would expect a person who plays a doctor on a soap opera to be able to perform surgery and save a life?

I wish I knew the answer. Heck I wish I knew the right question(s). All I know for sure is this: Humans like to think; that’s what they have big brains for, just as much as horses like to run and birds like to fly. It’s what we’re equipped for. If a horse (at least in the wild) quits running (and running well and fast and with sure feet), it will die. It will be killed and eaten. If we quit thinking for ourselves; if we fail to be swift and sure and well-informed in our thoughts; if we try to stifle free-thinking just because we disagree with the thoughts of our fellow citizens, then……………..

ANGST

As a citizen I am an entertainer. As an entertainer I am a citizen. I love my job. But, what would the job be if I couldn’t be both?

BAD NEWS

I never thought that I would experience the feeling of being disenfranchised, the victim of arbitrary discrimination. After all, I had the same trouble with relating to folks who are disenfranchised (and hence the victims of nearly constant arbitrary discrimination) that many of our political leaders have since their only contact with folks like us is to maybe run into one of us when we’re caddying or cleaning the pool. That is; I am a white, college educated, professional male.

What I failed to consider is that we all may have something about us that makes us unsavory to those who would be “better than us.” It could be something as simple as ugliness, an accent, or being a conservative Democrat who is progressive.

Here’s what happened: I was arbitrarily restricted from a public place and not even given a reason for the action.

Here’s what happened after that: I took legal action. My attorney consulted with, among others, the ACLU. I was glad that all the money I’d sent (not a great deal) over the years finally meant something personal to me and was not just the nebulous bleeding-heart affective identification that I had always felt that it was—and which, up until my rights were stepped on—thought was just plenty enough. Action was taken.

Aside: Here’s the surprise. What kind of people discriminate anyhow? Are they the guys we see on TV who are members of some fringe group like KKK? Are they folks missing teeth and taking too many drugs who own more guns than the Michigan militia? Are they the Idaho militia? No. (Well, at least, not always.) They are those who have an inflated sense of entitlement. Yes, they feel like they’re better than us. But it only works if we allow it.

GOOD NEWS

We didn’t. It worked out. Their lawyer sent mine a “recanting” and, get this (see if it sounds familiar) a denial that the action had been the doing of the person who took it.

ANGST

I am a Conservative in the sense that I think of Lincoln, Roosevelt, (both of ‘em), and, let’s give some credit, George H.W. Bush and Bill Clinton all being conservative. I believe the following things: Conservative and conservation have the same root word and have to go together. You can only cut spending by cutting spending—not by cutting taxes. You should not call for the Ten Commandments to be put in public places while you are refusing to live by them yourself. I am not wedded to a political belief in a way that I have to suffer Cognitive Dissonance if some other school of thought is better; that is, quite frankly part of being a Conservative is to be Progressive—maybe the most important part. Women’s Rights, Gay Rights, Minority Rights and Tolerance are all Human Rights and are thusly guaranteed by the Bill of Rights to all citizens of the U.S., which is the main thing that makes being a citizen of the U.S. special and different than being a citizen of any other country. I also believe that other sovereign nations have things which are special and worthwhile to their respective cultures and citizens and that many of those things are none of our business to meddle with unless (and then meddling becomes mandatory) those things threaten our things. I believe that to change the Constitution or to write a law which abridges an individual’s personal, sovereign rights simply to cater to the religious, political, moral, or financial whims of others—no matter how numerous—is not only wrong; it demeans those in the majority and will eventually cause those who do such a thing to be destroyed by the avenue they have used to discriminate against others—just as our founding fathers caused it to happen here—either through justice, if possible, or eventual revolution, if all else fails. I believe that this is the nature and heart of democracy.

But my most treasured belief is that I believe that I’m not necessarily right (in the sense of correct) about everything I think. I despise sanctimony. I love the free exchange of ideas. Truth be told, I love arguing with open-minded people. And patience. Which is what I know you have if you’ve made it this far.

I have shared this because I think it’s important to singing and playing. To me there’s a difference between listening to someone sing the blues who you can tell has had (has) the blues and a person who has to manufacture (like in acting) some sort of appreciation of “what the blues must be.” I know you can see how this applies to Bluegrass Music without being told if you signed up for this stuff.

This may be of interest. It is a letter which appeared in the CBA Newsletter:

Editor and BOD CBA,

The Father's Day Festival was yet another fabulous event including an impressive line-up of bands. We especially enjoyed the Del McCoury Band, Rhonda Vincent and Country Current bands for both their musical talents and their showmanship on stage. Thanks to the complimentary editions of the local paper at the gate to the stage area, we learned of the Growers Market held at the fairgrounds on Saturday mornings and enjoyed some fine produce from that market. The Blue Sun Cafe provided excellent organic food and from A Natural Massage and Spa Therapy we received an outstanding massage. We vote for a return of each of these bands and services and plan to partake more fully of each next year.

On the flip side, we were surprised and appalled at the derogatory comments made by Ron Thomason during the first appearance of the Dry Branch Fire Squad when referring to Pat Robertson as "spewing hate" and President Bush in such a derogatory manner. Such comments, in our opinion, were inappropriate especially for this venue as is any rationalization that these were merely humorous. We elected to avoid subsequent appearances of Dry Branch Fire Squad at this festival.

Our thanks are extended to the CBA board, staff and volunteers for your good work in making this annual festival such an enjoyable experience overall and one which has become for us an annual event.

Sincerely,

BJ and Pat Farnung #6898

Editor, California Bluegrass Association Newsletter

P.O. Box 9

Wilseyville, CA 95257

Dear Editor,

RE: a letter from BJ and Pat Farnung, the relevant part which read: On the flip side, we were surprised and appalled at the derogatory comments made by Ron Thomason during the first appearance of the Dry Branch Fire Squad when referring to Pat Robertson as "spewing hate" and President Bush in such a derogatory manner. Such comments, in our opinion, were inappropriate especially for this venue as is any rationalization that these were merely humorous. We elected to avoid subsequent appearances of Dry Branch Fire Squad at this festival.

I have received so many emails and heard so much controversy about this that I would like to respond.

Of course, this is not the first time that my highly conservative and very dear religious beliefs have gotten me into trouble. I have never made my conservatism, religion, or politics a secret. I believe that to do so would constitute being untrue to the music I play. Bluegrass music (and its predecessor, now called Old-Time Music) has always been political. Hazel Dickens has said it best: “Just playing Bluegrass Music is a political act.”

And so it is from this perspective that I compliment the Farnung’s on making a political statement. I am not only thankful to live in a country and a culture where one is free to do so, I believe it is an obligation that more folks should assume.

I also would like to compliment the CBA not only for printing the letter but even more for the fact that at no time has the CBA ever asked me to curtail, edit, regulate, or “downplay” comments which I might find appropriate for our show, or which I might “think” to be appropriate satire or commentary to introduce songs. CBA is certainly not to blame for anything I may have said or for any offense I may have committed. And in the event that I have actually offended an audience member, I do sincerely apologize; that was never my intent. I do try to give folks (myself included) some things to think about, and I try to do that with satire; and I’m certain that I fail as often as I miss licks on the mandolin. That doesn’t mean that I don’t try hard, and I wish I were better at it.

I have listened to the tapes that the station which was broadcasting the festival gave us of our shows, and I would like to mention a couple of things which they showed. I did make a satirical comment about Pat Robertson; it was (if it is to be quoted as above) “…preaching hate.” I know that a man like Pat Roberson has his adherents. They are difficult folks for me to understand, and I would always be interested in finding what they find redeeming about the man, because those points are not apparent to me. To wit: Just four days after The Reverend Robertson called for the assassination of the head of state of Venezuela (the first country, by the way, to offer the U.S. more oil and “other such aid as we can supply” after the Gulf Coast tragedy), he did a broadcast with his right hand on the Bible in which he prayed for “…something to happen to open another vacancy on the Supreme Court.” This was just six days before Justice William Rehnquist died. I suppose to some this would mean that Robertson has a direct tie to God. To me it just shows that God answers the prayers of the devil as well as the righteous, just as the Bible says. As a conservative I find Robertson’s rantings embarrassing to Christians and to our country. People might well ask: What is the difference between Robertson and the mullahs of Islam who pray for the death of our leaders. The answer is clear to me: the mullahs don’t lie about it and deny it later.

Unfortunately if I said anything about President Bush at the CBA concert, no one else can recall it, and it is not on the tapes. I do know that I did a song for my son who signed up for the military on 9/12 (2001), and who after basic training and before being deployed “in harm’s way” asked me if I would do that particular song “for all the service people until they could return home safely”, and I will continue to do that honorable request even though my son has now returned from service, mercifully safe. It’s not that I wouldn’t feel OK making a humorous comment about any leader, especially if it had a point that I thought was cogent. That, I believe, is the prerogative and even the responsibility of good citizens, like the Farnungs. I suppose they missed the song for our troops; it was on a later set.

In closing let me say that I have found it the habit of most folks who attend bluegrass festivals to “avoid” many of the sets. I know that I myself avoid many of the sets even at the festivals which I help produce. I just like some bands better than others, but often I could not tell you why. I guess I should feel good about giving at least one couple an actual, specific reason for not liking DBFS. But I don’t. The Farnungs are just the kind of folks that I most wished liked us. They are the ones with enough gumption to have an opinion, stand by it, and express it for everyone to see. Kinda like me.

Very truly yours,

Ron Thomason

And finally, at last, in conclusion:

Two of my best friends lost their home in the Gulf Coast disaster. We had a little get-together here in their absence and missed them mightily as they had gone back to the place where their home had been to do such things as one certainly must in such a situation. The conversation veered frequently during the evening to our friends and their misfortune. But what became more evident than ever before was the tremendous impact that these two wonderful (here great is really the right word) people had had on all of our lives. Bad things happen to good people, and they don’t deserve it. But good people happen to all of us. May we strive to be worthy.

FOURTH INSTALLMENT #4,

ANOTHER INSTALLMENT

I must say that you readers really responded to my last little effort. Much of the interchange on that one was most enjoyable for me. The give and take of ideas was a lot of fun. The only surprise came from one guy who decided, after I couldn’t be convinced to change my whole philosophy of life to be just like his, to call me a host of names. Here’s a sample of how vicious they were: Weenie.

Dry Branch hosts two big festivals every year. This is the place where I should invite you all to come to one or both. But the fact is that while invite sounds hospitable and polite it’s just so innocuous. I love these festivals, and I’m very driven to want to share them with as many of you as possible. I wish there were a host of folks who could make the trip we do—from one to the other; they are on succeeding weekends.

The first is High Mountain Hay Fever, which is held in Westcliffe, CO, on July 6 through the 9th. The music is pure grits. We plan it that way in order to offer something to Coloradans that they can’t get elsewhere in the area. The festival is run entirely by volunteers for the purpose of supporting our community clinic. Many of the entertainers give us nice breaks on their prices to show that they’re in the spirit of the event. The site for the festival beholds the highest pile of rock in the lower 48 and is awe inspiring to the point of spiritualism.

The second is the great (here the word probably just ain’t enough) Grey Fox festival. It has become such a wonderful and familiar part of my life that I have lost the ability to think of words to describe it. Much of our site staff there is composed of volunteers as well. It’s big. There are many stages; one each for dance, kids, teens, and workshops. And then there’s the main stage where for over a quarter of a century the greatest entertainers in the acoustic music field have played and sung as only such a place and such audiences can inspire ones to do—beyond their very best—not occasionally, but rather, frequently rising to levels never before or again obtained. The festival has its own legends now and only the real celestial sun in its antics (which must be seen to be believed) can rival.

Consult www.highmountainhayfever.org and www.greyfoxbluegrass.com for more details. And please, please come if you can.

This installment will contain parts of some stories which have circulated in the mountains near where I live. These are fragments. I’m going to give all the info I have on these fragments. I think there are metaphors there, but I assure you that the parts I will relate are true. I think there are some wonderful ballads that could be composed from these fragments. I hope someone will do just that. Of course, that will require “fictionalizing” a bit to bring the fragments together. I’m pretty sure that most, if not all ballads come into being just like that. Isn’t that why we learn from them, each in our own way, and yet why we would never treat them as “true facts” even though we know they contain “truth”?

All of the following events took place within hiking distance of my house, which is situated at an altitude of 7,650’ on the side of a mountain called Eagle Peak which soars to 13,805’. I have calculated on a topo map that the first time I climbed the peak the walk was 27 miles round trip. However, as the crow flies, if a crow ever wanted to go up there for anything, I expect the peak is only about 5 miles away.

Eagle is surrounded by a host of other high peaks named Cottonwood Peak, Wulston Baldy, Thirsty Peak, and Nipple Mountain. (I took more than a dozen tries to get to the top of Nipple from my house, and once in the time I was making these attempts, the rancher down the road told me, “You know, Ron, when you get it up there it’s just a big pile of rocks.” I told him I was gonna kiss it anyhow.) All of the lakes, meadows, mines, streams, and high pastures in these events are in that small area of real estate, most of it above 10,000’ in altitude.

The first “character” that I heard about which is in this narrative after I moved to CO was the “wild mare of the mountains.” I suppose the few who related this myth to me did so because I have horses, and anyone who has ever come around here can see that I love them as one loves soul mates—which to me they are. I never believed that the mare really existed. The few who had heard the story always prefaced any details about her with “….she hasn’t been seen for many years.” I also thought that it would be unlikely that a horse would choose to live alone at altitude when about half the people who live here keep horses, and it would be the nature of such a mare to come down and hang around with others of her species.

(In balance it is a historical fact that when the Spanish first came here there were no horses in the Americas. The horses that they brought chose to “walk away” from their owners [and the sustenance that they provided], and thrived so that only 75 years after the first horses had gone into the wilds there was a report from a Conquistador who had climbed a mountain in the Andes that he “had spotted several herds of horses in the plains below so large that at first he thought the very plains were moving.”)

The next character seemed to be known of by almost everyone who lived in the area. He was called by all Hermit Dave. The more people found out that I spent a lot of time up in the mountains the more I was told about Dave. I was frequently asked if I had seen or met him. He was reputed to be a deaf mute who worked a claim (often specified to be a “gold” claim) which was “somewhere near the Cloverdale Basin” (which is place that has more than a half dozen lakes in a long meadow that sits at about 11,000’ between Eagle Peak and Wulston Baldy). There is in fact a mine there called Cloverdale and a camp of people (families, it seems) who do the mining and maintain a very, very rough road in and out and live in cabins and have very, very few of what might be called the comforts of civilization.

It was, in fact, just below this camp where I first met Hermit Dave. I was coming down from a climb when I encountered a man using a log as a lever to try to firm up a rough log constructed bridge over a rushing stream. He was attempting to tow the oldest Dodge camper van I had ever seem up the mountain to (only God knows where) with an even older Dodge van. The last log of the “bridge” had given way.

I knew immediately who he was. As it turned out he was neither deal nor mute, but he did have a speech impediment which caused him to talk slow, and I mean slow. He made my speech which always sounds like it’s on a turntable that won’t get up to speed like it was 78rpm and his was 16 and a third. Straightway I figured, “Hey, I’m just the right guy to talk to this person.”

Also I could see he needed some help and I doubted that if the 7th Cavalry arrived it would be enough. (But eventually he and I got the timber back in place, and he got the vans over the stream.)

It was at this time and in future encounters with Dave when I learned of the “true” story of the Wild Mare of the Mountains.

We have mountain men in our community. My first encounter with two of them was in the local grocery in Westcliffe (20 miles away and the site of High Mountain Hay Fever). The fact is that I smelled them long before I saw them. ‘Nuff said.

But Dave was not of their ilk. You could tell he bathed, was educated, and took care of himself in all ways. (I found out recently that he has a family in Colorado Springs and only works his “claim” about eight months out of the year, and that he does that to keep the government from having some kind of priority right of reclaim if he should “abandon” the claim since [wherever it is—I haven’t found that out yet], it is on Wilderness land.)

So here’s where the two characters come together. This is a summary, as near as I have been able to interpret Dave, of events which should be sung:

One year winter came early, and it announced itself with a big snow. The high mountains turned cold overnight, and were covered by “several feet” of powder so light that it was nearly impossible to get through since it would not support snow shoes and required slogging where one would sink “to the chest.” So Dave figured he had “better get out of here” and was trying to keep to the trees in order to have “purchase.” However, there was an unavoidable “flat meadow” only “several hundred yards from” his “place” that he came to and had to transverse to get to “the road.”

He could see as he exited the woods a strange sight, which he soon discovered was where a battle had taken place. There was “much blood on the snow” which trailed off all around. And there were the tracks of horses (note the plural) and of a lion. Not far away Dave saw what he discovered upon examination to be “the mare lying dead, partially disemboweled, with teeth and claw wounds all over.”

At this point Dave got a far-off look in his eyes—what we might call lonesome in bluegrass idiom. “And quite close by lay the dead cat, trampled and broken.”

There were other horse tracks “which I decided to follow” , and Dave soon came upon a skittish, but rather exhausted foal with “two large gashes in its haunches” and seemingly no fear of the man who approached.

Here the story is filled with holes, most likely by my inability to fully understand Dave’s speech and the parts he tends to leave out (and tries to do with “signs”) when he gets excited. However, this much is clear: Dave decided immediately to try to help the foal which he judged to be “a little over half a year old” and “nearly three-fourths grown.” He had a “well-stocked” pack with him and a rope from which he must have fashioned some sort of halter, for the two of them made it back to his “place.” Dave tied up the horse, fed it “some vegetables”, and amazingly the horse let him “dress the wounds.” Then he “confined” the horse in “his shed” while he went off to get some feed (assumedly from folks he knew high up that kept animals—which I have assumed must have been the folks at the Cloverdale mining camp.)

I have neither asked for nor been privy to more details about how Dave and the horse survived until the melt a few weeks later, but they did. Then rather than abandon the horse, which by then he had named Sallie for “my salvation”; Dave collected “grasses” and drove to town for feed and a supply of hay. The two wintered high up, came down together in the spring, and Dave dropped Sallie off in a corral that he “found” until he could get back with the things he would need to be able to “keep” him.

Someone, probably a local rancher, must have taken care of the horse for an unspecified period of time, because Dave came back at some point and he and Sallie went back up to his “place.”

They did this for three summers until Dave decided that Sallie would be “better off with other horses” and gave him to a rancher in the Wet Mountain Valley who “made excellent hay.”

The one thing that will ever be impressed upon me was the way Dave recalled the site where the mare was found and how he struggled so to say the words as plainly as he could: “Such a battle; such love.”

Here are the fictions necessary to write the song and have it “resolve” as ballads seem to need to do: Did the lion attack the foal and the mare defend it? (I suspect so, since the foal was injured. It would be unlikely that the mare was attacked first.) From whence the stallion, the sire? (I have not been able to run down any story [or myth] that gives the slightest inkling.) Did Dave ever use (or ride) Sallie? (I think it’s probable that he did, but I haven’t seen him for nearly two years to ask, which I will when next our paths cross.) Why did a man of the mountains take in this injured horse, go back up at a time when his very life might have depended on getting down, and take on a task that any novice horseman would have known would have been impossible—and how did he succeed?)

All I know for sure is that there is no greater honor than to be the true friend of an individual of another species.

Ron Thomason, April ‘06

FIFTH INSTALLMENT:

Humorous Anecdotes: Fifth Installment

It’s been a while. I feel compelled by the fact that election day is exactly three weeks away. And that ain’t funny!

I know humor is supposed to be one component of satire. But lately I’ve been feeling bitter, which for a long time I mistakenly thought meant unfunny.

Then I thought of the great Greek satirist, Juvenal. I never could see any humor in anything he wrote. I kept that fact a secret thinking that I was “missing the joke” somehow (and now my old Satire prof will most likely read this and see the true level of my ignorance). I couldn’t see how anyone could call Juvenal a satirist at all. He just seemed bitter, ignorant, and wrong-headed to me. He was the most dedicated of misogynists, cruelly and hatefully so.

But finally it hit me. In his time that was funny. How could it be otherwise in a culture which was not only ruled by men, idolized the male form, and practically worshipped at the alter of warriors and (male) athletes. Of course, deriding women was not spiteful, nor small minded, nor lacking in class and knowledge; it was simply funny. I suppose that our modern version of that kind of humor would not be the kind that’s racist or sexist or culturist, it would be more like the kind that aims jokes at the handicapped, disenfranchised, hungry, lame, infected, or otherwise suffering—assuming that in this modern world we have an equivalent to Juvenal where the mere word woman could inspire laughter.

Well, I needed that. First it helped me understand my anger and bitterness, because as sure as I believe anything in this world it is that women are just plain better than men. And secondly because I have some words which I think are just plain funny in light of the world in which we live.

Contract with America. The terror level is orange. “I promise to uphold the Constitution of the United States…….” You are safer now. Moral majority. Mission accomplished. “They will greet us as liberators.” Oil will pay for this war. Fiscal conservative. Liberal media.

All my life I have believed that good people run for office. I thought that it took a “good” person to want to do public service. I have said from the stage before every national election that in every case I believe that two (or more) good people are vying for (an) office. That may still be true, but it is no longer enough.

I know that I write with a conservative bent. I’m so conservative that I’ve often been called liberal. I “liked” Ike. I voted for Goldwater. I almost voted for Bush, the first, but my gut told me that Clinton was even more conservative, and my gut turned out to be right. Bearing in mind that I admit to this hard-core, patriotic, and religious leaning; here’s what I’ve got to say about the upcoming election:

THROW THE BUMS OUT!!!!!

Our government has become dysfunctional. We are now governed entirely by people who call themselves conservative and in calling themselves that they lie. What have they conserved? I ask this not rhetorically; I ask because when I think of the question myself trying somehow to find some hope in the path our country is on, the answers always come to me in the negative. What have “they” conserved--they being: 1. the Congress which came to power on the promise of a “contract with America”—you remember the “conservative details”, 2. the Supreme Court—supposedly appointed by “conservatives” with assumptions like maintaining states rights and preserving individual rights, and 3. the President, who among other things having been attacked on 9/11 by 17 Saudis decided to attack Iraq, pretty much like if the cat scratched me I would kick the dog. Not the Fourth Amendment. Not the Geneva Convention. Not the budget surplus. Not our lands. Not the integrity of our borders. Not the first Amendment. Not the writ for which every American soldier in history has fought to defend, Habeas Corpus. Not our infrastructure. Not our long-time allies. Not the moral high ground (as we are now among the world’s torturers). Not our good credit. Not our national treasury or our Social Security. Not our even our less than admirable system of education.

We American citizens are not even permitted by our elected representatives to see on TV or in our newspapers or our magazines the flag-draped coffins of our dead service men and women. We are not even permitted to honor them with that small recognition for their great sacrifices. And that, more than anything, is our own fault. What should we have expected from those who never served and yet called those who did like Max Cleland and John Kerry cowards! How can we stand ourselves knowing that when our dead are brought back to our shores the parents, spouses, and loved ones of those fallen will see the flag-draped coffins alone? How can we not share their pain in so far as our poor power to do so exists? It is, I believe, intolerable.

Furthermore, I for one am sick and tired of being treated like a fool and a coward. Our own government has now admitted that the machines in airports can’t detect if we have explosives in our shoes. Yet every week when I fly out to jobs I dutifully walk bare footed through the “security” (oops, there’s another funny word) gate or else be denied access to the plane. I listen to the announcement which tells what “color” indicates the nature of our guardedness. But the most discouraging thing is that I watch on TV as countless, rude folks who call themselves conservative whine consistently about the “liberal media” and in the same breath report on the rape of our Bill of Rights, defend the fact that we finance tax cuts with loans from China, Saudi Arabia, Germany, and other countries as if we’re too cheap, or too poor, or too irresponsible to pay our own bills; and then they tell us that this is all for our own safety as if we’ve become a nation of cowards willing to sacrifice the principles and rights we have embraced and defended for over 200 years rather than accept the risks which go along with being “free” as we have always done before.

I blame no one but myself and others like me who have failed to CONSERVE our American beliefs, properties, rights, and tolerances. And I don’t know if it’s humor or not, but that does thrust a little chuckle up in my chest.

But when I want a belly laugh I just conjure up an image of our dysfunctional government which seems to have sunk to lows on a plain with that of the Civil War re-construction era. I try to think of them doing just one thing; that is, any one of the goobs doing just one thing—conducting one hearing, writing (or signing) one bill, rendering one decision that is not something that addresses a problem caused by their own incompetence, malfeasance, or criminality, and I can no longer envision that.

Try it.

The plain fact is, folks, that our military, our local constabulary, and a few of our state officials are the only government people getting us through right now. And for their part the service men and women on the front lines are doing it with targets on their backs, having been given no “rules of engagement” or even a definition of what “winning” means.

Yes, I say, “Throw the bums out” because the very image of the maladroit, ne’er-do-well, under-clod, nimnals tumbling down the hallowed steps with shocked looks on their bloated faces is the only funny thought I can conjure up.

There was a time when it could be safely said that a majority of Americans deplored bullies, self-righteousness, arrogance, cowardice, dissembling, prejudice, sanctimony, and lawlessness. Speaking of a good laugh, wouldn’t it be funny if someone years hence read that last sentence and thought that it was funny.

Ron Thomason

Oct. 17, ‘06

p.s. I supposed there’s a couple of places above where I should have inserted an IMHO. Copy this one—IMHO—and go wild. I meant to do it myself but I’m working on my absentee ballot.

(Ron Thomason’s Humorous Anecdotes)

SIXTH INSTALLMENT:

The Donut Diet: How to lose weight and get healthy by eating donuts and refusing to

show constraint with regards to “portion size” when ingesting comfort foods.

Recently there has been a lot of chat about “wellness programs” on a website which is only for a very select group of health nuts who have evidently banded together in an organization of like minded health extremists called IBMA. While it’s not clear to me or any of the other folks who, like me, enjoy practicing aggressive eating what the letters IBMA stand for, it is quite clear from the tenor of the chat that the members of this group are not only extremely dedicated to being health activists but that they also enjoy promoting bluegrass music through acts of patriotism and the subversion of representative democracy.

Much of the IBMA discussions have been directed toward substance abuse. I have seen pictures of the members as they caucus to decide what next their Board of Directors might do to increase the health of their proletariat, and it is apparent that the main substance being abused by some of the members is food. Since I am an expert on eating, have done it almost all of my life, and have raised the skill of eating (with much practice, dedication, and concentration) to something for which I believe I could win Olympic points; if not for form at least for prodigiousness, speed, power, and endurance; I feel compelled, even driven, to share some of the athletic secrets on eating that I have learned over the years so that folks who practice what I recommend will be able to eat without guilt or compunction to their heart’s content and still maintain their weight exactly where they prefer it. (Note: Faulkner has an 83 page sentence in The Bear.)

Let me mention as an aside that there have been many “diets”, “weight loss programs”, “medicines”, and (even worse) “exercise programs” presented to the public over the last few decades purportedly designed to “help” people who have what have been characterized as “eating problems.” The first step toward having a happy, productive Eating Program is to understand that all of these are pure bunk. They serve the same purpose that televangelism does and that is to get money out of your pocket and into the pockets of the people who are doing the preaching—whether the preaching is about your health or your soul. My program is different in that you can believe me. It is not different, however, in its financial goals. I want your money as much as those other gurus do. You may be suspicious at first since it will “seem” like what I am offering is the same as what those other “fakes” offer: eternal happiness. But notice, what I am offering is not that at all. It is, in fact, quite different; therefore, I have even decided to call it something different: Eternal Contentment.

The price is also different. You are not obligated to pay me anything for what you reap in the way of contentment and/or health from my DIET. Rather your contributions to me are voluntary. Here’s what the program will cost you: I would like for you to send me $10.00 for every pound that you lose on my DIET. In fact, I am so sure that my DIET works that I’ll even refund the cost of postage (if you request it to be refunded) when you send me your tenth payment of $10.00 or when you save up and send me $100.00 for the first ten pounds that you lose on my diet. Furthermore, once the number of people sending me $10.00 per pound lost on my DIET exceeds 5,000 I promise to invest a portion of the receipts into still further helpful research and to send out even more tips on how to maintain your weight loss and contentment for years to come—unless you start to backslide and listen to those other “fakes” who got you into the trouble you’re in now both with the devil and his compatriots, the Non-Donut-Eating angels of woe.

But before you get your money out and start sending it to the address on this website, let me digress from health issues for just a moment and explain another reason that has been overlooked in recent Fox News Broadcasts as to why America is the greatest country in the world. Fact: We have the best donuts.

Folks I have eaten donuts all over the world. I have sought out donuts in places where they’re really hard to find; like, Dacca, Agadir, Frankfort, Columbo, Cancun, London, Calgary, and Mill Valley—to mention but a few. But here’s a story that will warm your heart and give you hope no matter how desperate your donut quest may seem at first. It’s a true story. It takes place in a part of Kentucky called Cancun—a place mostly dedicated to taking tourists’ money not only for food that looks and tastes like it’s not even America but also for other things that no one would want; like, snorkeling in shark infested waters, looking at colorful birds, and lying on beaches where it’s nearly impossible to not get sand on yourself. I’m sure you can imagine how being in such a place could geometrically increase one’s need for junk food in general and donuts in particular more and more with each passing day as the date when, according to your airline ticket, you’ll be able to fly back to Breathitt County.

It was just such a food craving that had me in a funk so deep that I went for a walk with head drooping, alone, in a place where no one spoke Hillbilly. I walked and walked till I was far away from the beaches and the hotels and the hypocritical obsequious. I was blue and, of course, therefore hungry. (Ever wonder why fat women sing the blues?) But I have always been lucky, and on that walk I found proof of my abiding luck. Seemingly out of nowhere I saw a lighted neon sign that said simply, “Food Court” (in Ingles). My pace quickened. When I got to the establishment that was attached to the sign I found an arrow which pointed up a set of stairs. Up I went. And this should encourage everyone who ever finds themselves on a quest. At the top of the stairs I entered a large room which had in a semi-circle the following eateries each one right next to the other so that with almost no effort I could pick and choose from each: Burger King, Subway, Baskin Robbins, Long John Silver’s, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

Now this little story has a point: America has the best donuts in world. I have eaten them a lot of places. I have even managed to get donuts delivered to me in the middle of the night by U.S. Marines in Calcutta. But I can tell you this; if one is to go on the donut diet, there’s nowhere in the world better to do it than our great country.

There are, of course, many things to know about American donuts, and it is primarily that information along with how to use it for which you will be soon voluntarily sending me money. However, before I get to that, let me share with you an inspiring anecdote which involves a well-known American banjo player by the name of Tony Trishka.

But first I must tell you about Earl Scruggs. For most of the first several decades of my life I thought that Earl Scruggs was the best banjo player I had ever heard or would ever hear. I loved his timing, his organic approach to music, and I believed that no one ever had thought of or ever would think of more appropriate banjo licks and put them in better places than Earl Scruggs always seemed to do. So you can imagine the thrill which filled my heart when I awoke one morning in a Hillsdale, N.Y., motel during one of the first Winterhawk (now Grey Fox) festivals to hear Earl Scruggs playing just outside my window. He did all of his classics. It was the most wonderful playing I had ever heard. Every note was just as he had recorded it. It had the same feel; the same soul; the incomparably powerful attack that he had put down on records in bygone days. It was only missing the scratches from the records themselves—and he was unaccompanied. I could tell from what I was hearing that this music was being played by a man who truly loved the banjo and who was doing the music for no one other than himself. After almost an hour of selfishly indulging in such listening, I went outside to get an even closer listen to Earl’s playing. And under a tree on the side of the hill just above the motel playing the music I had been listening to sat Tony Trishka. Right then and there I decided that there sat the best banjo player I would ever get to hear and I have never changed my mind. And I say that with grateful, unabashed respect to Earl and Ralph and Sonny and the so many other banjoists whose music I have cherished nearly all my life.

And so I wish that for the sake of your health and my wealth I did not have to report to you about the day that Tony Trishka challenged me to a donut eating contest (and in so doing pretty much made me the man I am today). Please understand that I do not tell this story just because in my study of third grade literature I learned that every hero needs a “worthy opponent.” What I mean is, would we have an Achilles without a Hector, a Superman without a Lex Luthor, or a Woodrow Call or Augustus McCray without the 19th century American West? “Neigh” sayeth the great equine critic, Mr. Ed(ward). So I must say that Tony Trishka is (or was) a formidable competitor. I ‘m sure that he could beat almost any amateur and most pros. And my admiration for him as a man and a musician prevents me from bragging and giving all the details of how we selected the donuts to be eaten and how we each procured more than a dozen of our own choice to begin the competition. Let me just say that Tony had as much chance against me as I would against him in a banjo tuning contest or a punctuation meet with Kitsy Kuykendall. I mention this only so all of you dieters will know that what I tell you about donuts and eating them is stuff you can take to the bank.

So, to the Donut Diet:

As one might suspect the most important part of the Donut Diet is knowing how to select the proper donuts. As I have already posited, America has the best donuts, but that doesn’t mean that all the donuts in America are the best—or even “good” for that matter. Tragically most American donuts are terrible. The best general advice that I can give someone who is seriously interested in losing weight and toning up is to find a good, privately owned and operated (even if it’s part of a recognized chain) donut shop. Still finding such a place does not guarantee good donuts, but it does increase the chance that the donuts will be good. After finding such a shop one must sample the donuts to make sure they are of the highest quality. In order to do this, you must, of course, have a palate well-trained and schooled in the knowledge of what makes a good donut. There are two ways to go about this.

The easiest way is to go to an excellent donut shop, buy a couple of dozen donuts and eat them. There are a few of these in the U.S., and you would be well-advised when in the area of one to stop in a do exactly as the last sentence instructs. (Note: It’s perfectly all right, even recommended, that you do this with some good coffee or brand name cola which is best used to cleanse your palate between donuts and absolutely necessary if you are consuming more than one type of donut at the same sitting.)

The best donut shop in the country is in Somerset, PA, just off the turnpike. Ironically (because their consistency in quality is no longer assured as it was just a decade ago) this is a Dunkin’ Donuts. The service is not great and can even be somewhat testy. Don’t worry; that’s a strong indicator that the donuts are great. And in this particular donut shop they are. The first thing you’ll notice when sampling such high quality donuts is that they have not been allowed to “breathe” until after the cook has lavishly spent time allowing them to float in the cooking grease until they have not only been well cooked on the inside and become nicely crisp on the outside, but have also absorbed through the outer “skin” a generous portion of the tasty cooking grease into the what I like to call the endodermal layer of crust, which in such fine creations, lies a mere hair’s thickness below the nicely crisp epidermal, which performs the dual function of both holding in place the thick, uniformly applied glaze while at the same time forming a substantial exoskelatal structure for maintaining the constitution of the less desirable tripe (which some connoisseurs refer to as the bones or which might by “pedestrians”, the inards). It is worth noting here that when one finds a great donut one must exercise the proper eating method to fully appreciate its quality; that is, simply gnaw away at the outside and the “tenderloin” at the extreme inside of the hole itself and avoid consuming all of the inner parts (the tripe) which have neither glaze nor crispness and whose function is no more important to a donut than to give it “guts” much in the same way that the working organs of any animal are not the best for consumption unless one is looking for nutritive value, which, of course, one should never do while eating donuts in preparation for weight loss.

For those who never drive past Somerset, PA, though; all is not lost. People on both coasts have some opportunity to sample passably great donuts. On the west coast you will need to go to Berkeley, CA, where the King Pin donut shop fries their donuts at night, and people wait in line outside the shop all night long to get the freshly fried and glazed chocolate encrusted masterpieces. Here you will not only get to school your palate with very fine donuts but also hang out with hippies and liberals, intellectuals who pine for the days of Mario Savio as they drool with anticipation, and even the occasional, misplaced college athlete. On the east coast you’ll have to trek to Newburyport, MA, ostensibly for a whale watch or to see really, really quaint stuff and intellectuals of the highest order who look they are fresh off the casting lot for On Golden Pond. Stop one of them and ask for directions to “the donut shop in the back of the drug store.” Go there. Start with the chocolate, glazed twists (some times called bow ties). Sit at the counter. Pretend to read the newspaper which has been left there. But don’t. It will take your mind off your real reason for the trip: donuts.

There’s not much help for folks in the fly-over states. About the best you can do is go to your nearest Krispy Kreme factory or outlet. If you find yourself at a factory, get the donut holes. They will tell you if the owner is also the operator. There will be pride fried into holes; that is, they will be crisp and well glazed and hence have the tiniest of “bones.” If the holes are chewy; walk away. Then try the Krispy Kremes at a nearby gas station. At least these have usually had time to breathe, which means that the grease and the glaze have hardened. It’s worth taking the trouble to only eat the very outsides. The “bones” will be large; accept that with courage and good temperament; it is unavoidable. The trick to doing this is simply to remind yourself that losing weight costs money, and it’s worth every penny. If it were not, why would people who don’t even know about this wonderful diet go into the weight loss business? (Here’s a hint: For the same reason that people who don’t believe in God [or weight loss, for that matter, quite obviously] go into the TV preaching, moralizing, and judgment-of-others business.)

I have given away all of this information because it is very important on the Donut Diet to use the right donuts and to use them correctly. Here’s why. Even on this diet, donuts could cause the opposite of weight loss if they were used incorrectly or if they were not of the highest quality. Therefore, for those who will not or cannot have an opportunity to sample the very best, let me list a few “rules” on what to avoid in the donut trade that can always be used as a guide that will assure that you are able to avoid “bad” donuts.

1. Never buy a donut from a place who spells the word doughnut.

2. Never buy a donut from a place that bakes them.

3. Never buy a donut from a “bakery section” as one might find in, say, a grocery store.

4. Never buy a “packaged” donut (for use on the diet); these are designed only for emergency “donut attacks.”

5. Never buy a donut that has “whole” wheat in it.

6. Never buy a donut that looks like a half dozen of which might be enough.

Now we come to the crux of the Diet: How to properly use these donuts to lose weight. First here’s everything you ever have to know about losing weight; everything else you’ve ever been told about weight loss has been to enrich somebody who has so little respect for you that they think you can’t handle the truth. You will note that I do not feel that way. As proof I would point out that I have even put you on the honor system for sending me money when this valuable information which I have given you starts to work the wonders of weight loss. The key to weight loss is to use more energy than you consume. There it is folks; everything else is bogus, bad for your health, and in the long run will make it nearly impossible to sustain weight loss even if through some miracle you are able to lose any weight to start with.

Now I realize that you have been given, up till now, information which has caused you to think that donuts will cause you to gain weight. And under certain rare conditions (when use improperly or without attention to the entire program which I am describing) that could actually occur. It is necessary to follow the program closely, and donuts will not only help, they are a key ingredient.

Accept this: humans are not designed to get up off their duffs. They are rather designed to sit on them as long as they can. Given no outside interference a human might well not “want” to get up out of the lounger until it was time to move to the couch or bed to lie down from which that human would never move unless the refrigerator or toilet called. Until very recently (in geological time) humans never needed to be self-motivated. There was always something to do it for them. In fact, until not long ago it made sense and was very healthy for a human to sit or lie and rest until one of the following occurred: a lion or other hungry thing with big teeth and claws approached; a member of the tribe was threatened, hurt, lost, or mad; any of the following needed done: roots dug, prey killed, fire built, water found and/or carried, sex demanded or desired, shelter found, young cared for, weapons made, wolf walked, or sex just desired. But we have developed in modern times drones which do all these things for us and, even better, film themselves doing it so that we can watch them on TV from the comfort of our duffs. That’s where donuts come in.

Donuts have the wonderful attribute of providing humans whose organs are all working properly with a small window of time shortly after they are consumed of making the consuming human actually “want” even “need” to do something. This opportunity must be grabbed with gusto. In very short order it will be gone and the opposite will occur; the human will “crash” and want to rest or even sleep. That is a dangerous time; never let it occur. If the moment is not grabbed the donuts win. They will make you put all your energy into storing fat instead of burning it.

Here’s all you need to know about the math involved: On average moving your human body a mile burns about 135 calories and about 2,500 calories burned will result in a pound of fat lost. Eventually fat will be your enemy. But in the beginning of the Donut Diet fat is your friend. If you are hauling around a lot of fat when you start to move your human form several miles at the insistence of the donuts you just consumed, you will burn calories faster and more easily. However, as you start to lose weight two things will happen. As a result of moving your lard many miles you will start to gain more muscle, and tragically muscle weighs more than fat.

This is not all bad, though. For one thing you could start swimming when the donuts “hit” you. This will offset the energy consumption equation somewhat by virtue of the fact that muscle sinks while fat floats. (You may have noticed that world class swimmers are never “cut” like, say, sprinters—which is not to say that they look like Dennis Hastert, Ken Haggee, or Jabba, the Hut). Still another inconvenience rears its ugly head. On the Donut Diet there will come a time when the moving of your human form for many miles will finally have removed most of the fat from your body and only heavy muscle remains. Do not get discouraged. By that time a wonderful thing will have occurred. You will find that you truly love how you feel. You will be eating what you love—the best donuts you can find—and you will be habitually putting yourself first by being in the habit of moving your human form and find that you like the time you spend doing it better than the time you spend not doing it; like the time you spend at the computer or in front of the TV or searching for parking space closest to the McDonald’s entrance.

And brethren and sistern that’s when you’ll be so grateful and happy that you’ll be driven to send me money.