Almost Famous

the buddymollys or molly and the others or molly and the enders or ... 

It might be music that actually brought Jeremy and I together. Exactly one year prior to our wedding date, a random conversation went like this:

Me: I just wrote words to a song, but I don’t have any music yet.

Jeremy: That’s crazy, I just wrote a tune, but don’t have any words yet. Come over tonight, we’ll put them together.

I’ll spare you the details of how that never actually happened, (we made another kind of music that night - wink). In fact, the buddymollys moniker was more about our relationship than an actual band – but we still liked to rock the ukes at random talent shows, camp-outs, bbqs and ski trips.

It was the latter where we picked up Michael Kreis - a fellow uker - to complete our trifecta of mediocrity. (Note: he’s way better than us).

At the advice of a friendly restaurant owner in town, we sent in an audition tape for acceptance into the Weiden Traümt.

The Weiden Traümt is a yearly festival where the pedestrian zone of our little town is overrun with 15 or so musical performances, and even more stalls with food and drink. Stores stay open late and herds of people partake in the hoopla. It's a happening Friday night in downtown Weiden. 

Our band photo and “ukulelenmusik” description managed to make a few advertisement spreads in neighboring German newspapers, as well as the centerfold of the program.

Spaß!

We practiced for a few weeks leading up to the performance, and narrowed down our set to 18 songs, which we then played over and over again during our six-hour gig.

We had three ukes of varying degrees, me on the baritone, Mike on the bass uke and Jerome holding down tradition on his tenor.

We didn’t expect much, but managed to gather quite a crowd. At one point about 100 folks were standing around clapping offbeat to our jam, and two people even asked if we had cds. (We, of course, do not). The lady running the fest said we were one of her favorite acts. She used the word "pleasant" to describe us. Win. 

Now, I’m not being modest when I say we’re not that great. Because, really, we’re not. But we are somewhat of a novelty here in Germany. And we’ll take it because we really have so much fun playing together. 

It also doesn’t hurt that we have our own “Mel” of Flight of the Conchords fame in one Pat Kummerererererer. He is, no doubt, our most dedicated fan. And hearing him cheer “Way to go Molly!” after every song, never gets old. Ever.

Crowd shot with super fan Pat Kummererererer bottom right.  

It was Pat that coined the term “Molly and the Others” which is what we refer to ourselves at times. That also transitioned into “Molly and the Enders” because while the beginning and middle of our songs are just OK, we always end well. Always.

On that same note, our night ended just as well. We had 52 euros in tips lining our uke case as we yelled “Prost!” to random passersby and congratulated each other for managing to pull this night off.

As our glasses clinked together, Pat was in the background yelling “Way to go Molly!”

It never gets old. Ever.

Below are a few musical samplings (mixed with random german conversations) via video from the evening - 1. a bit of Patsy; 2. who doesn't love Elvis, even if sang poorly; 3. for those who aren't sick of Wagon Wheel.

Braving the biergartens once more

(Editor's note: We have some major catching up to do, so we’ll just dive right in and tell it like a Quentin Tarantino movie except without all the gore. Below begins the update in order particular no.)

I have been preparing for this past Saturday for several months. So much so, that the only thing listed on my calendar for the following day was “recover.” 

And for the past four years the premise has always been simple: Cull a handful of the best locales from “Larry Hawthorne’s Beer Drinker’s Guide to Munich,” and stitch together a cohesive route that is easy for people who are becoming progressively more drunk to follow throughout the day.

Pouring some out for our homies who couldn't make it ...

Having learned from past three years, I chose not only the most scenic biergartens, but also grouped them by proximity, and booked a hostel right in the middle. The results slurred for themselves.

but let's not be wasteful, folks. 

In several cases the pictures filmmaker R. Eric Davis captured provided evidence for events that few could recall. A few things are for certain though:

We were entertained and oogled by a barkeep named Baki,
and tried our luck playing homemade bocci.
We sipped and slaked till our hearts’ content,
but spent little time questioning where the day went.
We bounced between buses, S-bahns and trams, but never got lost (well, …)
And Lord Michael Kreis still reigns over Munich from atop the A&O hostel.

the pentagon

(i visited the pentagon last week and after a quick press brief, delivered this)

a lumbering beast with divers teets

stoops down to take a drink

and troglodytes on the surface wait to flood the alluvial plain

crying more to eat!

or at least a dedicated teet

as they suck the beast to sleep

leaving nothing to chance

it’s a delicate dance

between feast and

keeping food alive.

Soaking up the South

(Editor’s note: I’ve been taking a public affairs course at Fort Meade since mid-March and have been out of the loop, so here’s my stab at regaining some momentum, in reverse chronological order.)

Last weekend our class had Thursday and Friday off, so I took to the skies to visit some old friends (and recent newlyweds), Maria and Kyle, in HOT-lanta. (I only use this term only because it pisses off Atlanta residents, like ‘frisco for SF folks.)

What I didn’t realize was that weeks of pent-up stress would turn into an all-night booze-fest leading up to my 6:30 a.m. flight.

I can’t remember the last time I stayed up all night, but felt surprisingly alert as I shooed 5-6 people out of my room at 4:15 a.m. so I could pack and catch my ride to the airport in the next 15 minutes.

I made it to the departure gate and everything was fine – until it wasn’t.

Somehow I dozed off at the gate -- right in front of the flight attendants, mind you – and woke up just in time to watch my plane slowly backing away from the jet bridge. (I have now lost my ability to make fun of JR for doing the same thing. Damn.)

The flight attendants seemed nonplussed, though one said, “Oh, I saw you sleeping but didn’t think to wake you!” Really?

They put me on another flight and I only missed out on a few hours of ATL fun. The rest of the weekend was much smoother. 

I caught up with Maria & Kyle over beers and breakfast (at separate times, usually) on their porch; we feasted on a vegan smorgasbord around a backyard campfire, and I definitely got my southern barbecue fill.

On Saturday, we strolled through an Inman Park street fair and soaked up the 80-degree weather.

The day before, Kyle was interviewed for a documentary on his artwork for about 3 hours. (Check out some of his art here.)

Maria and I sat back with a few beers enjoying the show and occasionally asking questions of our own.

It was enlightening to hear Kyle talk about his life and reflect on the dialogue he's trying to establish between motorists and the street-style folk art he installs on the roadside. 

For one question about being a full-time artist, he responded off the cuff with " ... it's about taking a crazy obsession and turning into a life." 

I think anyone who loves what they do can identify with that. 

Haikus of an American tour

Colorado jaunt

higher than the mountain top

frostbite memories.

Relive what was once

evolution S.T.L.

my heart beats in time. 

a grand reunion

D.C. to blossom again 

home is where we are. 

the buddymollys

five years old still young, on the

verge of something great. 

have mermaid, will travel

Sending out a long-distance dedication to my lovely frau, mollsworth, on this our five-year anniversary. 

life is so much sweeter with you. 

The luxuries of a nomad

wandering. 

It was not without great effort that I found myself in the middle of the Sahara desert recently, skirting the Moroccan-Algerian border. The dunes waved under the sunlight and the clear sky was a pastel shade of blue.

One of two camel companions on the trek, who we lent the moniker Jazz, stooped down to pick up the orange peels I tossed on the ground moments before. Roger, camel number two, sauntered over to join in.

The journey had begun two days before with a hectic 12 hours in Marrakesh. Arriving late in the evening, we roamed the dizzying back streets as we located our riad and wandered through the chaos of the Jemaa el Fna, the town square. The Jemaa, famous for beheadings of the past, was now laden with drum circles, snake charmers, henna artists and orange juice vendors, all vying for the attention of potential customers.

Isa poses as Said fixes his shoes. 

The following 12 hours we journeyed over the Atlas Mountains by bus, with frequent stops in ramshackle villages in route to M’Hamid – an arid desert town in the deep south. A half bottle of Dramamine rested in our stomachs.

As I stared at the dunes, Jeremy walked over and patted Jazz on the nose. He replied in protest, which made Jeremy laugh.

A few meters away, our two desert guides, Isa and Said, set up the kitchen tent. They were both nomads of the Berber tribe in their early 20s. They knew the desert well.

“It is our home,” Isa explained.

With camels for transport, living off of the land, with more than a few carried amenities, was seamless.

Every morning they served up coffee and tea, hard-boiled eggs, fruits, bread and jam.

lunch.

Mint tea was made throughout the day and lunch was more fresh food than any two persons could ever eat.

Isa, a name that is an Arabic form of Jesus, told us that in the desert you always make more food than you need because you never know what other nomads you may encounter. The life in the desert is a life shared.

Isa spoke English relatively well, although he had never studied it, he said. He learned simply through conversation. He had met many tourists over the years and it was sense of pride to show them the desert as he saw it.

Our small caravan walked 20 kilometers a day, with both the weather and landscape changing rapidly.

Said, whose birth name means “happy” but often went by the nickname Sawadee, was more reserved and shy. He prayed several times everyday, sang songs of Allah and greeted us in the morning hours with “allahu akbar,” which means God is great.

the dunes. 

He knew a few words in English and although he wore a turban most of the time, when the cloth fell below is mouth, it revealed an infectious smile.

 

Jeremy and Roger. 

As he poured us tea one day, ceremoniously holding the pot a foot in the air above the cup to create bubbles (used to aerate and filter out both leaves and sand), in perfect English he said, “Tea without bubbles is like a nomad without a turban.”

Jeremy and I fell into desert life easily with our new companions. They shared their lives with us and we wished to do the same.

Isa tossed his shoes after the first day, saying they were too small and gave him blisters. He was the same size as me, so I gave him my tennis shoes and put on my Chacos.

He took the gift, nodded and said thank you, and continued to walk barefoot for the remaining two days.

On our final night together, Isa and Said sang Moroccan folks songs while beating on empty water containers; I serenaded them with a Bill Monroe tune. The full moon created a romantic backdrop for our intimate gathering.

the wind picked up on the third day. 

Dinner was walloping once again and we explained the colloquialism “fat and happy,” which Isa reiterated on our final day, adding more English to his lexicon gained from interactions with tourists.

As we parted, Isa said he hoped he had made us comfortable, happy and adequately shared life in the desert with us. We assured him he had.

“Good,” he smiled, adding “I wish to make you fat.”

He waved and walked back into the nomadic life he lives every day. Perhaps one day when Isa is walking, it’ll be in my shoes –I just hope he’s as comfortable as I was walking in his.