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Show THE ZEPHYR/JUNE-JULY 2008 [“Ladies and gents, please inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. You are now ready for Act 3 of Nostalgia Theater] I used to be a picker and a grinner of sorts. Back in 1975, by some quirk of Universal weirdness, I was half of an act that managed to record an album (vinyl!) entitled The Truck Stop Opry. Seriously. Not being endowed with an overabundance of common sense, I took this accomplishment as a sign to continue my foray into the World of Twang. By the 21st Century I'd cobbled together something approximating 16 follow-ups to my (non)celebrated first stab at the limelight. I should’ve known that anything called the “music business” was a crock of dung; but youth has a way of obfuscating what otherwise might be called sanity. While most of my contemporaries were finding mates, investing in Holy Matrimony (some investment!), scrounging careers together, and popping kids out of the oven, I walked down a path so fraught with pot holes (“Ethel, is he using one of them double entendre things?”) that any two-bit Fortune Teller could’ve predicted the moment of my encounter with the Karmic Karmichael. Then again, it doesn’t take much to figure out that electric guitars were invented for adolescents on steroids. But, by gawd, making a joyful (loud!) noise is about as much fun as getting the preacher’s daughter naked in the back of dad’s station wagon and fogging the windows to the beat of the Iron Butterflies. Makes you want to say, “Glory!” doesn’t it? That's nostalgia, indeed. I reckon age has’a natural tendency to round off the edges of what passes as the memories of one’s wasted years of youth. Many a Boomer senses the slow burning realization that it’s all oldies from here on out. To which I am compelled to say, “Bullshit!” Living in the past is about as useful as sitting through the Rocky Horror Picture Show for the 200th time. Nostalgia or no nostalgia, the only moment that counts is right freaking now, amigos. And with that thought, I’m taking a break and heading to my biweekly kung fu class. As the old saying goes, “If you can’t beat em, practice your knee kick!” Alabaster Sculptures Navajo Rugs Hopi & Navajo Kachinas Pueblo Pottery Hopi, Navajo, Zami [Visualize yourself in suspended animation while I disappear for 28 hours] : J ewelry Navajo, Ute, Paiute Where was I? Ah, yes — the Ever Present; the Big Isness; the Singularity of Eternal Cool — the Here and Now. But first, let’s talk about kung fu. They say golfing is the way to ease into the Golden Years of adulthood, beneath the sky so blue, and atop the grass so green. But I never could stomach the game myself. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that, in the dark hallway of puberty, I took up golf for a tepid, lazy sum- & Papago Baskets mer. I think it was the day I hooked the ball off the tee, hitting a caddie in the back, that I began having second thoughts about what is obviously a sadistic and malicious pastime. And that, as they say, was that. Izods notwithstanding. Most of my friends have a hard time comprehending the idea that anybody in their mid-50s would give up being a lawyer in order to (poorly) imitate Jackie Chan. To these folks, I can only reply, “Pass the Advil.” If you value your (increasingly) creaky joints, have a problem wearing a funny looking Chinese costume, or get squeamish when asked to repeat a spine wrenching tiger claw punch until the sweat runs down your underwear — forget kung fu. Side Oey ae s Finest Selection 100S. MAIN STREET 259.8118 ‘Got Cyclist’s Jewelry ? | As for me, the notion that the ancient art of kung fu is a top-flight technological micro- scope into the human mind is several orders of magnitude cooler than smashing a Titleist down a heavily fertilized fairway at the local Kountry Klub. Who knows - maybe golfers bump into the Big Now on occasion, somewhere in between one hole or another. But I Amulets, doubt it. On the other hand, if catching a glimpse of that animal the Zen dudes call your Original Nature sounds interesting — without the stink of nostalgic nonsense — button up the frogs, Earrings Bracelets Rings bow to Ta-Mo, and get your ass in gear. EMAIL YOUR FEEDBACK TO THE ZEPHYR etc ... Send your comments to The Zephyr cezephyr@gmail.com jewelry for Cyclists, Boaters, Surfers, Yoginis ... or write to us P.O. Box 327, Moab, UT 84532 RELLY SIELTETR (CQ 435.260.8011 (H) 435.259.2339 kelly@moabproperties.com | hear the call of the Wild! Sas: REALTY. 150 EAST CENTER ST. MOAB, UT 84532 435.259.5693 FAX: 259.5930 www.moabproperties.com LADIES AND | hear THIS wild thing barking at the meter man. A VM Yi BW, \ } |\1, GENTLEMEN... iT iS SUMMERTIME! It’s time for a skinny dip and the time for us to find you the home of your dreams! 21 i A (C) 435.260.2374 anthony@moabproperties.com |