Teabagging Tea Lovers

Just because I like Orange Pekoe, well, I am exotic anyway.  I've never been a brand snob.  Blue Ribbon. Red Rose. Lipton. Twinnings.  Just plane old tea. It is warm welcoming. My #NoName teabags are even okay, and my jumbo bag has lasted me a few years. This week I saw some Red Rose on sale: 144 bags for $7.99.  That seemed fair so through the till we went.

I don't make a full pot anymore.  Just one bag into my to-go cup, and I usually top it up after I've poured my first into a china cup so my subsequent sips are a bit weaker.  It is good!  Don't cringe!

Of course, it is 2020. I compost all my kitchen organic matter. Yesterday, two tea bags were draining in the corner of my sink, before I would plunk them into my compost.  I went to pick them up, and heard this strange crinkling sound.  I had never heard a teabag crinkle before.

My mind wandered to some eco-discussions about the Stash (and other) high end teabags that had been made from plastic, and yes indeed, we'd begun ingesting these micro plastics.  But no.  Not my lowly orange pekoe teabags with no string and no wrapper!  But what about that crinkly noise?

I picked them up and moved them around. I even recorded the sound (Play button is at the bottom of the story.) CrinkleCrinkle.  Yes.  These teabags looked like any teabag I'd seen since birth.  The Red Rose Tea Co. (a subsidiary of Unilever!) had duped me! Grrrr.  I was  using plastic teabags.  I yanked the one that was already in my compost out of the pail, to protect my rich soil-to-be.

Then I began freeing the rest of my orange pekoe from their plastic prisons.  Yes, all 144 prisons.  I do know that supposedly the tea we drink in these square bags is the dregs.  The sweepings from the tea-processing floor.  I already confessed though, I'm not a tea snob. I can buy tea pearls, sun dried green tea, organic and fair trade.  But this tea tastes like my life.  (btw - This box of tea boasted "Rain Forest Alliance Certified" - so there are some ethics, just not the plastic-free ethic.)  I set up a work station.  Scissors, Tea capture plate, plastic capture bin, and so began to de-package 418 grams of tea from those little white sachets.

Before my great tea release, I'd measured how much dry orange pekoe was in each bag.  For my next cup of tea, I measured that into a tweezer-style tea-ball that was seldom used.  It will be getting called into action much more frequently as these 418 grams get steeped into my morning pick-me-up.

Shame on the teabaggers for forcing me to use my tea-ball.  I doubt there will be a return to the paper tea bags that were safe for my compost. Are plastic tea bags a sign of progress or digress or egress or devolution?  

In my mind I can hear the VP of production and the VP of marketing and the VP of finance having the conversation. These bags are cheaper!  We'll have to revamp our whole production line!  Make them identical because we'll have to keep this change secret from our customers.  And I think they succeeded.  The petroleum bi-products industry found a whole new customer, or maybe they are made from recycled pop bottles.  Now, is that justification?

Time for some tea to ponder that circular thinking.

Listen to the Crinkly Teabags:

Conjuring the Ghost Plane

We have knitted in.

We have found ways to keep going forward without the big fat social obligations.

Practical things have happened to me.  I do my dishes more frequently, so that's good.

My physical self seems to be hanging on.  I am not as great a victim to my shopping behavior in the grocery market.  I do fall off my chips and cookies wagon every week or so, but that frequency has diminished.

Dreams though.  Well there is something else.  My diurnal clock has shifted.  Mornings are more welcoming than they used to be.  I resisted and resisted.  Time to get up.  Really?  It's 5:30.  I have succumbed to predawn alertness.  But, since I feel generally well, physically, what is the harm.  No harm.

Except for the dreams.  I think it is the dreams that are awakening me.

Every morning is different.  I am learning to take messages from them, and posting them in to my daily thoughts and reflections.  They bring curiosity there.

This morning was a case in point.

I ran into Bobby Dove. I asked her if she lived in  Oakburn and indeed she did.  Miraculously, so had I, in a previous iteration of my little life, and I asked her the address.  "Ten Matheson", she reluctantly reported. We were standing in a very run down version of pre-nineties Brandon and I had a marble-sized lump under the insole of my shoe, and my bunion was killing me.  But I was eager to share useless touristy information in an over-enthusiastic travelogue toward a place where she could share her art.  A gig.  We got to the place, an outdoor stage setting, albeit, messy and there we found Ainsley Friesen who was waiting. Bobby pulled out her lap steel and Ainsley was standing at a mic up high on a secondary platform.  Electronics were all in place and they started to sing.  My bunion was still sore, but I was pleased to see art begin.  They reached a crescendo and I added a loud wailing harmony to their voices.  I was filled with joy.  Instantly they both exuded guttural anger at me.  They yanked out their audio cables and stomped away, leaving me standing with my aching bunion, and wondering why they despised collaboration. 

I woke.  My bunion was killing me.  Wait.  I don't have a bunion!  Wait, does this really hurt?  I moved my big right toe in circles to check.  I could swear it still hurt.  I actually sat up and put my foot on the ground to check for pain.  I was still doubting.  No indeed.  I had no pain, but my mind had really made me believe in it.  I wondered if this was the nature of Ghost Pain that my uncle, a diabetic amputee had described.  

More important, though, was the reflection.  I had a the Phantom Pain of resentment resting just under my rib cage.  That was much more interesting than the physical pain.  Then I laughed.  No!  It is exactly the same.  The only difference is that physical pain can be real, but resentment is never real.  It is always only conjured.  I have, in this realm, only love for Bobby and Ainsley.  Of course, this says something about my reaction to disappointment.  Who among us has not had to face disappointment?  Who among us dwells on the resentment and who just lets it float, like a dream, beyond the now of a waking moment?

I give thanks to my Yoga Guru, Shell Andréa for gently bringing awareness to my thinking.  I am pleased that the lessons are arriving in my dreams. I am also grateful that I do not suffer from bunion pain and have great empathy for those who do.

No Invitation to the Pandemic Vinyl Party

Pandemic album covers are a thing.  I have been nostalgic, seeing everyone posting the most obscure collectible "favourite" albums that they have, or that have moved them, or that they think are cool.  Since I didn't get invited and since I don't feel like doing it for 10 days in a row, I decided to do it in one blast.  I only have half of my record collection with me here - so I might have to add a few later.  Carly Simon, No Secrets (1972) comes to mind as an important after thought. I do not know why I didn't bring my collection of her with me to this part of my life.  We Have No Secrets is a great song.  She influenced me as a singer.

Lastly, before I post the supposedly top 10, a couple of comments.  I honestly think my first love is soundtracks.  When I started my list Popeye  (by Harry Nilsson) (1980) and Lady Sings the Blues (1972) (featuring Diana Ross) screamed to be first in line.  Tommy (1975) and Phantom of the Paradise (1974) also received worn grooves over the years.
I didn't include any albums that I obtained on CD or Cassette or as digital files, either purchased or by pirating.  My total collection of vinyl comprises about 300 units. I will report the dates and the artist(s) and let the album covers speak for themselves.  The links in the captions are to the album.

Audience (1971)

JJ Cale (1972)

Todd Rundgren (1972)

Taj Mahal (1968)

Beach Boys (1973)

Stevie Wonder (1973)

Queen (1973)

Rory Gallagher (1973)

Faces (1973)

Boz Scaggs (1974)

Hall and Oates (1975)

Robert Palmer (1975)

The Other Pandemic

Okay, it was the blood that time.  This time it's the lungs.
I am old enough to remember that fear.  It was like missing your period when you did not want a pregnancy, only worse - the wondering, the panic.

I remember that isolation - sexual isolation.

I remember the shock when I heard about infected people who had not declared nor protected others!  It was a crime and people went to jail.

Yes.  People died then too.  Millions.

Interactive Map

I didn't live in Africa but in my own fears I sensed the dread and panic and eventually the matter-of-factness of grandmothers and children living in a world of a lost generation.  Not the old folks, that time.  Not usually, anyway.  And not always this time, either.

HIV, the virus can be kept secret.  No symptoms?  Shhhh. Nobody needed to know the truth.  Many people in  our midst died of "adrenal problems", or some strange "blood cancer" or "pneumonia".  Such a stigma that even through death, it was never acknowledged: AIDS: acquired immune deficiency syndrome.

So this time, it's just the breath.  It's not the blood.  There is less stigma but just as much denial.  Asymptomatic carriers - it is a thing.


Back then, there was no cure, no vaccination, no treatment.  For the first decade, tests were not reliable: the virus could linger, undetected, for months, some said. Prevention was to simply cover up!  Same as today.  Many did cover up.  To this day, many still do. A generation does, or so we hope. And back then, many abstained, with great difficulty, while today many are self isolating, with some inconvenience.  And there are more deniers this time.  #OhYeah.

Canadian Blood Services tried to pretend that virus didn't exist in their products.  Kind of Trumpish of them.  They denied until their backs were against the wall.  By then, people had died from tainted blood and today people are getting infected from lack of PPE.

We have been through this before.  This time, celebrities declared their infections, and we were chilled, but thought, "Thank you Hank, and Idris, and Charles," and we paid attention.  Back then, we were shocked when the celebrities faded and stepped forward in sorrow and the hope of education and research fundraising, so "Thank you Rock, and Magic, and Freddie."  Thank you Annie Lennox and Elizabeth Taylor.

The science catches up eventually.  Many people live with HIV now, and more survive AIDS.
That curve has been flattened.  AIDS is still with us, but education and science have made living with HIV in our midst, though still very real, but like in Africa, more matter-of-fact.  People are surviving AIDS (green), there are fewer infections (red) , and fewer deaths (blue) from those infections.  It still remains epidemc across countries in southern Africa.  And it is in every country on our planet.

Our job is to slow down the spread of COVID-19 so that it can run its natural course in a safe and treatable way, with as few casualties as possible.

It will not ever be gone.  We will always practice safe hygiene just as we now practice safe sex.

Profanity in Bridge

From Beavertown PrestoWorks - June 20, 2018

The president of the local duplicate bridge cartel in Minnedosa Manitoba has reported that after 24 years of regulated weekly tournament play, beginning in September theirs will be the first club in Canada to permit profanity during their Thursday afternoon gatherings.

The local duplicate group consists of up to seven tables, so 28 players, with the eldest, just passing her 102nd birthday in April.  

“It is true, but we're still just like any regulated bridge game in the world,” said Nelly Mills, the newest player to the group that meets weekly at the local Legion. “We have players who report their performance to the Bridge Gods and get their points or whatever, so la ti dah.” She reports that when she began with the group 18 months ago, she thought, “Fuck yeah!, Legion bridge, I can have my half-pint of draft while I'm the dummy, just like my Mom used to do!”.

But noooo, “We have to wait until all of the boards are played before we can head to the bar,” she lamented. “Yeah. I got used to that.”

Many of the local players reported that they grew up in families where their parents swore and hollered at each other for failing to use a convention they had invented.

“I thought drinking and arguing were just kinda part of the reality of bridge,” said Mills. “At least it was in my house. So when I finally decided to start back into the game, in my retirement here, well, frankly, I was put in my place!”

Mills researched the rules in detail and found no clauses that prohibited swearing.

“Shit, noshit, fuckballs, I mean we all forget what's been played sometimes, and you need to let it go, just like the curlers,” she said, “They swear all the time, and it fuckin' helps their game. Ask me. I know!”

Beavertown staffers followed up with duplicate bridge clubs in Vancouver and Orillia, and confirmed that there is no prohibition against using profanity, but that the hairy eyeball has been effective at keeping civility as the norm during weekly play.

Mose and Sue

Mose Allison

I began with sing-alongs.  I could belt'em.  I grew in Winnipeg's north end, and I did not realize until I was well grown and gone, that I had been nursed in blues. I thought it was all rock'n roll.  But no.  It is the blues... with a swig of jazz.

Today Bill Bourne posted a great article about one of my all-time blues and jazz heroes, the honourable Mr. Mose Allison.  It is a #mustRead for blues fans.  I cover three of his tunes: Your Mind is on Vacation,  and here's a Van Morrison cover of it; Hello There Universe, and Your Molecular Structure. I remember struggling with the cord changes and laughter when I demo'd my first version of Universe - crushing, but did not quit.

Sue Foley

Also this week, Ottawa's Sue Foley, another of my long-time blues heroes, fell into the lap of my blue screen with an announcement of her next album, The Ice Queen.  She released a pile of terrific short videos of her playing (this is a FB link) and talking, and a link to her interviews with her heroes - women of guitar.  I cover Walk in the Sun, but I like to call it "Fine for Awhile". Lyric poetic.

They both do.

Reading about the blues - how it is not simple.  it is not banal.  it is deep and rich.  it is a structure under which Mose makes us laugh and crafts his jazz.  it is a platform under which Sue relays history and displays her unique take - makes me hungry to play.

Both Mose and Sue have spent their blues in the clubs.  This is where the the blues is.  This is how the blues gets done.  It is hard work setting up and tearing down (Another FB link by Sue) so you can do it.  The Blues.  The basis of jazz.

I love these two.
Mose and Sue.
They made me play
Again today.

Dylan's Day

And the american poet from Duluth gets the prize.

The big kids in the neighbourhood listened to Dylan.  I learned the songs.  I wasn't obsessed.

I had a nice sound system, so to add to my record collection, I thought I'd better get one of Dylan's:
Planet Waves.

A specific line of poetry in one song from that album really got to me.  I identified with that line.  It was not a very positive assertion by this world class poet, but I guess it was a truthing.

Hazel

Dirty blonde hair

I wouldn't be ashamed to be seen with you anywhere

Poetry is meant to connect.  And this one did connect for me. Wholly!!  But what a bass-ackwards compliment.  I was always so grateful when someone paid a bit of attention to me.  Pitiful, I know.  The irony is, I learned and covered Hazel and perform it frequently.  I want folks to hear the slander in those lines.  Few do though.

Then a few years passed, and I had some money, so I thought, I'll get another Dylan record.  Slow Train Coming.  Gawd.. he was trying to convert me!  He was born again.  Just like so many people I've met over the years, Dylan fell into the born again pool and used his infamy to spread his perfect truth.  And I'm sure he was wealthy enough to pay his musicians well.  I doubted they were followers.  I still wonder if he fell off that wagon.  At least he keeps it private, either way.

But I did fall in love with  a version of one of his songs; arranged by John Lennon.  Performed by John and Harry Nilsson, it is  Subterrannean Homesick Blues  Pussy Cats.  Best ever version of of a Dylan song.

One good thing about the timing of this award is that folks are reminiscing about Dylan/Zimmerman today, and he is still among us.  At least it is not a funereal nor a memorial tribute.

So felicitations to all you Dylan fans.  Good on Cate for her portrayal in I'm Not There.

And finally, glad to see a poet hit the podium.  I can identify with a life-time of words fighting to escape and thoughts forming and evaporating.