"F"

While you were doing whatever you normally do on Saturday mornings, I was driving a Lexus around a race track. Very fast. In West Virginia.

Which part of that paragraph makes you the most jealous?

For some odd reason, a friend of mine was invited to take part in a Lexus Performance Event. (Lexus uses a lot of capital letters to denote the fact that this is a Big Deal Event.) Apparently owners of eight-year-old Mitsubishi Galants are Lexus' next untapped target market, because somehow he got on the mailing list. He was allowed to bring two friends, and I was one of them.

The deal was this: spend two hours at Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia, auto crossing some of the sportier Lexus', do a couple of laps on the track following an experienced race car driver, then get one VERY high speed lap around the track as a passenger in a vehicle driven by one of said drivers. That one was in a Lexus IS F, with 416 horsepower on tap and brakes that would stop a train.

(As an aside, there was a chalk talk given by one of the drivers before we drove on the track, which also included the story of how the IS F came to be. The driver asked if any of us knew what the "F" stood for. It turned out that the "F" didn't stand for anything, but after we drove it a friend of mine offered this guess: "Fuck, this thing is fast.")

I'd never driven a Lexus before, or been invited to a Lexus event. (Unlike Mitsubishi Galant owners, Subaru Legacy owners apparently aren't one of Lexus' target markets.) It was class all the way, from the fresh fruit and fresh baked muffins we received upon arrival to the nice tote bag stuffed with a hat and, for some inexplicable reason, a cable to attach an mp3 player to a car stereo, we were given when we departed. And it was all free.

The drivers were all pretty big names in the sports car and drifting circuits, including an Andretti, and they couldn't have been nicer. And we did have theopportunity to wear real racing helmets while driving, which proved to be very handy when the race car driver took me for a hot lap and I repeatedly banged my head against the window during hard cornering.

I've been to other driving events, including GM's Autoshow in Motion (sadly, discontinued) and an event where a Mitsubishi stunt driver whipped a Galant through 180 and 360 degree turns and power slides while he casually chettedabout his career and I not so casually turned green. This was by far the best one ever.

Previously, I would have told you that there were two reasons I'd never consider a Lexus: they were well-built and luxurious, but not fun to drive, and I couldn't afford one.

This event wiped out excuse number one. And excuse number two? Well, I did stop and buy a lottery ticket on the way home.

Danny Boy

Any guitarist who was honest with himself (or herself) would give his (insert body part here) to be able to play like this. And Danny Gatton was like this on every song. A notorius perfectionist in the studio, his longtime engineer once said, "I've erased more great solos than any other engineer has ever recorded."

Oh, Baby

The funniest example of racism in action I ever saw was during the classes my wife and I took at the hospital where we were going to have the first (and, as it turned out, all) of our children.

It was a combined birthing and baby care class, designed to teach about both pregnancy and childbirth and how to care for the new baby during the first few weeks of life.

To say it was a room full of nervous people would be an understatement. During every sentence of the nurse who was teaching the class' description of labor and delivery, someone would gulp. The occasional moan or muttering was part of the soundtrack as well. But the nurse was confident, breezy and a very warm person, and she assured us that all would turn out fine.

Still, the atmosphere was pretty heavy for the first two sessions, which were about pregnancy and childbirth. But things got much better, at least for me, during the third session, which was devoted to infant care.

One of the other fathers-to-be in the class was a little older than me, probably around 40. (I was 36 at the time.) His shirt of choice was the wife beater, and his decoration of choice was the tattoo. His wife, a pretty, petite (except for the pregnancy part), much younger woman, was quiet, friendly and sweet, everything he was not. "Jerk" would have been too kind a description for him, but hey: I didn't have to live with him.

During the first couple of sessions, he had communicated two things continuously: 

he didn't want to be there and was only going as a favor to his wife (and no doubt demanded sexual favors in return as soon as they returned home after every class)

he was a racist.

At the third session, the nurse brought out a big box of soft baby dolls, so we could learn how to carry, diaper and care for a newborn. Most of the dolls were white, but there was one African American doll.

My respect for the nurse soared when she, while passing out the dolls, handed Mr. Racist the African American doll with a straight face. His expression was worth the price of the class.

As the rest of us cuddled, cradled, diapered and "fed" our dolls, Mr. Racist attempted to swap his doll with someone else's, tried to "accidentally" lose it, and treat it as if if had a bad smell. The nurse, again with a straight face, would gently admonish him: "Don't forget to always support your baby's back and head," she noted as he tried to carry the doll by the ankle as if he was about to toss it away. "Your baby won't be able to relax and drink from her bottle if you're rough with her," she observed when he was anything but gentle.

At the end of the class the nurse handed out an evaluation forms. "I got a lot more out of this class than I expected," I wrote.

I wasn't referring to information about childcare.

Persons Of Influence

You can tell a lot about a musician by the folks he/she cites as influences. If a metal band mentions Led Zeppelin, you know they'll huff and pound, with all of the volume and none of the style, of Led Zep. (None of them ever grasp the many dimensions Jimmy Page and company bought to the genre.) If a sax player mentions Charlie Parker, chances are he's a second-rate wanna be. Unfortunately, the same is often true for guitar players who call Jimi Hendrix their idol. (Yes, Frank Marino and Robin Trower, I'm talking to you.)

But if a bass player mentions James Jamerson, he might be pretty good. Because when Jaco Pastorius, considered by many the gold standard of electric bassists, terms himself a second-rate James Jamerson clone, Jaco wasn't being falsely modest. Yes, Jamerson was THAT good.

You may never have heard of him — in fact, you almost certainly haven't — but you've heard him. Hundreds of times. Jamerson was the bassist on almost every great Motown record, a musician so gifted that Stevie Wonder said, "Jamerson's bass playing made a certain fabric of my life visual."

If you're thinking that a bass player — a bass player! — can make a blind man see, then you have to figure he was something rare and special. He was. In an era where most bassists just played the root notes of a chord, Jamerson played complicated lines that pushed, pulled, skipped and slammed, never content to play a chorus the same way twice. He could soar with a jazz band, furiously spitting out a barrage of 16th notes, then anchor an R&B tune with such a deep bottom that you could smell the funk.

How deep was his sense of rhythm? In the studio, as a practical joke on his fellow musicians, he'd play his bass part in the song's 4/4 time while beating a completely different rhythm in 3/4 time, or even a more complicated time signature, with his feet. Any musician who listened to Jamerson's feet, rather than his bass, was in trouble. Luckily, his bass groove was normally so deep the other musicians could fall into it.

Jamerson took his rhythm from the way people walked and talked, or from the way a tree swayed in the breeze. Everything he saw and heard suggested music to him.

Sometimes, though, the music it suggested to him didn't always meet with approval. Motown evolved into a two-part system, where certain musicians were considered studio musicians and were almost chained to the studio, while others were touring players and went out on the road with the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, and the other Motown acts. Jamerson, being a master in the studio, was confined there. It wasn't a problem for him, but it was a problem for the bassists in the touring bands who had to duplicate his complicated bass lines on the road. Several of them complained often, asking Jamerson to make his lines simpler. (He never did.)

Sadly, his lifestyle was the often heard story of self destruction, substance abuse and money squandered. That lifestyle took its toll, and he died long before his talents were recognized by most of the world.

His 1962 Fender Precision bass was named The Funk Machine by both James and a number of his fellow Motown hitmakers. But the funk wasn't in the bass. It was in James Jamerson.

Float Like A Butterfly

I was reminded today of a great film I saw years ago, which I highly recommend: "When We Were Kings." It's a boxing film, sort of, but you don't have to have any interest in boxing to really enjoy it. (I'm not a boxing fan at all.)

Even the story of how the film was made, after the footage languished for years as lawsuits filled the air, is interesting. But the film itself, about the Muhammed Ali-George Foreman "Rumble in the Jungle" fight, is fascinating.

Here's the synopsis: Ali is, at 32, considered well past his prime as a fighter. Foreman is far from the smiling pitchman we see now: he's young, he's strong, he's angry and he's a ferocious fighter. But Don King, the boxing promoter, hasn't yet made a name for himself and is desperate to do so. The president/dictator of Zaire, Mobuto, is as well. He organizes a huge music festival built around the fight, to show off Zaire to the world, and puts up the money for the fight as well.

Ali, visiting villages and inviting folks to run and train with him, thoroughly charms the people of Zaire. Foreman, sullen, trains alone and keeps to himself.

On the day of the fight, every spectator in the place is screaming for Ali.In whatever language folks in Zaire speak, they're screaming themselves hoarse, "Ali, kill him! Ali, kill him."

In Ali's dressing room no one — no trainer, no corner man, no one — will even meet Ali's gaze. They know Ali is going to lose badly, humiliatingly. Ali could easily be the one killed, literally. Every spectator who knows nothing about boxing believes in Ali. Every member of Ali's team, who knows everything about boxing, doesn't.

But Ali knows something none of them do. And that something changes the fight and makes the movie close to incredible.

Trust me, it's worth the rental. Even though you have to suffer through George Plimpton. Lots of George Plimpton.

Chrome Dreams

Does everyone have some memorable cars in their lives, mostly memorable because of how odd or bad they were? I had a friend who had an old beater with a loose steering wheel. When taking a girl out on a first date he would (on a straight stretch of road) suddenly pull the steering wheel off the column, hand it to her and say, "Here, you drive for awhile." her reaction would often determine whether there was a second date.

Another friend had a Volkswagen Beetle — the original, air cooled version — and we really did once fix it with a paperclip. (A spark plug wire was falling apart and we temporarily bridged the gap with the paperclip. A wire hanger for a radio antenna? Did it more than once.)

My worst car was a 1966 Ford Fairlane 500, a big old bomb of a car that had a 302 cu. in V-8 and a nice rumble. It also had manual brakes which took both feet to push on the pedal when I was tired, and a curious electrical problem which caused it to stall whenever I drove through a puddle that was deep enough.

But the worst time ever driving it was when I was late and rushing to get to school (college). Just as I passed a police car the exhaust, already a bit rusted out, fell off the car with a giant clang and clatter. With no muffler, of course, the engine instantly became much louder.

The police officer looked over, shook his head, and kept driving. I guess he could see that my day was bad enough without having a ticket added to it.

I also once had a 1965 Mercedes Benz four door sedan, and each door was a slightly different color. (I bought it used in the 70s.) My girlfriend liked it because the passenger seat had an air conditioning event that blew straight up her dress if she sat with her legs spread.

I won't make the obvious joke. But you can if you wish.

Sam The Sham

No doubt you've read (though hopefully not experienced) all sorts of Internet scams and cheats involving real looking fake sites that entice you to give your credit card info, shill bidders on eBay, and foreign widows who want to give you the $60 million that their late husband stashed in a Swiss bank account. (And rich widows are in such short supply these days.)

But I've found the newest, and potentially cleverest, scam going: bunk beds.

I put a set of bunk beds on sale on Craigslist yesterday, and within an hour I had four people saying they were interested. Three wanted to come see them, but the fourth had a different idea.

Mark Edwards lamented that he was "interested in buying from you," but unfortunately, "I would love to come check it myself, but I just got married and am presently on a honeymoon trip to Hawaii with my wife."

So he wants to "come check it" — Isn't that what you do on a honeymoon? — but is in Hawaii and, when the endless hours of surfing, volcano climbing and sipping drinks on the beach begin to drag, he thinks about — no, he yearns for — bunk beds. I don't know about you, but my honeymoon didn't involve bunk beds, in thoughts or in reality.

But why let a honeymoon in Hawaii interrupt the purchase of bunk beds for you and your lovely bride? Mark Edwards is a resourceful man, and here's his idea. He'll have his secretary mail me a certified check for $200, which is $50 more than my asking price, and then his mover will come pick up the bed from us. (Since the bed was taken apart this morning, I think his secretary could come pick it up if she had an SUV or a minivan.)

All I have to do is give him my name, address and phone number, and take the "advert" — Mr. Edwards sounds little British — of the Web.

No doubt the mover and bed would be long gone when Mr. Edwards' "certified check" bounces sky high.

I'm afraid that if Mr. Edwards' lovely bride has her heart set on bunk beds, she'll have to look elsewhere. It is possible, I suppose, for someone who can afford to honeymoon in Hawaii to be able to afford brand new bunk beds from anyone of a number furniture stores, but maybe the price of coconuts has risen faster than I thought.

Still, Mr. Edwards' poignant ending does bring a little tear to the eye and a catch to the throat. "I would love," he writes, "a surprise change of furniture in our home on our return."

I would say that bunk beds, particularly from his new wife's point of view, certainly qualify.