A PET PENGUIN IN JAPAN
You never have to drink alone again, because now you can drink with your cats. At least in Japan you can, because a Japanese company called B&H Lifes has begun selling wine made specifically for cats.
This special feline libation is called “Nyan Nyan Nouveau.” As Kotaku reports, “nyan nyan” is the Japanese equivalent of “meow meow.” (Oh hey, remember Nyan Cat?) This cat wine doesn’t really contain any alcohol, but it does contain juice made from Cabernet grapes, along with catnip. So just accept it. It’s wine. For cats.
Nyan Nyan Nouveau costs 399 yen (or $4) for a bottle, and the company is only producing a thousand of them, so you should probably act fast.
April 1, 2014 10:55 AM
Crazy Horse guitarist Frank “Poncho” Sampedro will never forget the group’s March 1976 tour of Japan. He’d only joined the band a few months earlier during the recording sessions for Zuma, and prior to boarding the plane to Japan his only live experience with Young came during a handful of California bar shows in December of 1975. He suddenly found himself playing to enormous, screaming crowds all over Japan. For someone who was merely a fan of Neil Young the previous year, the entire experience was beyond surreal.
Neil Young on Pono, His New Album and Using LPs as Roof Shingles
The sixth stop of the tour was at Tokyo’s Budokan Hall, and Young hired a film crew to tape the two-night stand. Nobody bothered to tell Poncho, and he dropped a bunch of acid before going onstage one of the nights. “I couldn’t even look up,” he told author Jimmy McDonough. “I was so high. I’d hit the strings of my guitar — they were like eight different colors — and they bounced off the floors and hit the ceiling.”
Here’s an incredible recording of “Cowgirl In The Sand” from one of the two Budokan shows. It’s unclear whether or not this is the LSD gig, but Poncho certainly sounds like he’s on his game. Most of this footage remains in the vault, though some of it surfaced in the 1997 Jim Jarmusch documentary Year of the Horse.
The 1976 Neil Young and Crazy Horse tour was supposed to hit America in the summer, but Young began playing with Stephen Stills when he returned home and decided the abandon The Horse in order to form the Stills-Young Band. They recorded an LP very quickly and hit the road, though after just eighteen dates Young decided he had enough. He couldn’t even face Stills to tell him the news. Instead, he wrote this now famous letter: “Dear Stephen, funny how some things that start spontaneously end that way. Eat a peach, Neil.”
He wrapped up the year by touring America with a very relieved Crazy Horse. It ended November 24th in Atlanta, Georgia. They played two marathon shows that night, and when it wrapped Young flew cross country so he could play with the Band at The Last Waltz in San Francisco. It’s no wonder he needed a little pick-me-up to get through the show, though Martin Scorsese was nice enough to remove the evidence from his nose during the editing process.
After the incredibly tumultuous year where he was virtually never home, Young took it very easy in 1977, only playing bar gigs around Santa Cruz with his short-lived band the Ducks.
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Read more: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/videos/flashback-neil-young-crazy-horse-rock-japan-in-1976-20140401#ixzz2yJbeqwAj
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RICHARD BRAUTIGAN -HIS LIFE-HIS BIOGRAPHY,A READING AND POEMS
The Brautigan PagesPosted by jen. Sponsor a Poet Page | Much of the information regarding Richard Brautigan’s life and death is uncertain. He was born in 1935 in Tacoma, Washington. His father left home before he was born, and his childhood was apparently a troubled one marked by poverty. He did not attend college. At some point in the mid-1950s, he left home for San Francisco, where he became involved in the Beat scene. In 1957, Brautigan married Virginia Dionne Adler, the mother of his only child, Ianthe. (They would divorce in 1970.) Although Brautigan, whose work largely defies classification, is not properly considered a Beat writer, he shared the Beats’ aversion to middle class values, commercialism, and conformity. Brautigan’s success as a poet was marginal. He published several slim volumes, all with small presses, but none of these received much recognition. It wasn’t until the publication of Trout Fishing in America (1967), which many consider his best novel, that Brautigan caught the public’s attention and was transformed into a cult hero. By 1970, Trout Fishing in America had become the namesake of a commune, a free school, and an underground newspaper. In 1972, Brautigan withdrew from the public eye and went to live on in a small home in Bolinas, California. In the eight years that followed, he only rarely accepted invitations to lecture and consistently declined to be interviewed. In 1976, he made his first trip to Japan, where he lived off-and-on until his death. There he met Akiko, whom he married in 1978; the marriage failed, and they were divorced two years later. During the year of 1982, Brautigan taught at Montana State University in Bozeman. He then withdrew again. In October of 1984, his body was discovered at his home; he had shot himself in the head some four or five weeks earlier. Richard Brautigan’s poetry collections include June 30th, June 30th (Delacorte, 1978), Loading Mercy with a Pitchfork (1975), Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt (1970), The San Francisco Weather Report (1969), and Please Plant This Book (eight poems printed on separate seed packet envelopes, 1968). His novels include The Tokyo-Montana Express (1980), Willard and his Bowling Trophies (1975), In Watermelon Sugar (1967), and A Confederate General from Big Sur (1964). Brautigan’s last novel was recently discovered and published posthumously, under the title An Unfortunate Woman (Rebel Inc., 2000). A Selected Bibliography Poetry June 30th, June 30th (1978) Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork (1976) Rommel Drives on Deep Into Egypt (1970) The Octopus Frontier (1960) The Return of the Rivers (1957) Prose Willard and His Bowling Trophies (1975) In Watermelon Sugar (1967) Trout Fishing in America (1967) A Confederate General From Big Sur (1964 – See more at: http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/678#sthash.CI1wcSPh.dpuf
RICHARD BRAUTIGAN INTERVIEW AND POETRY
Books of The Times
In Pursuit of Pleasure and Trout
Richard Brautigan Biography, ‘Jubilee Hitchhiker’
Vernon Merritt III/Time Life Pictures/Getty Images
By DWIGHT GARNER
Published: May 22, 2012
For a committed sensualist and prototypical hippie, a man who wore floppy hats, granny glasses, love beads and a droopy mustache that made him look like General Custer at an acid test, Richard Brautigan (1935-1984) had a potent work ethic.
The Life and Times of Richard Brautigan
By William Hjortsberg
Illustrated. 852 pages. Counterpoint. $42.50.
Alessandra Montalto/The New York Times
He wrote nearly every morning, regardless of keening hangovers. He spent the rest of the day, William Hjortsberg notes in “Jubilee Hitchhiker,” his sprawling and definitive new biography of this most offbeat of American writers, “in pursuit of happiness.” Happiness for Brautigan usually meant, to borrow the title of an undervalued W. M. Spackman novel, an armful of warm girl. In San Francisco, where he mostly lived, and elsewhere, he had groupies and would hit on “anything that wasn’t nailed down,” one friend commented. He put some of his favorite bohemian cuties on the front of his books. “Richard’s sexual archive,” another friend said, “is reflected on his book covers.” Happiness meant seeing plenty of movies. Once he began making money, in the early 1970s, it also meant good food (oysters, pork buns, the most expensive lobsters at The Palm steakhouse) and guns, which, when drunk, he would frequently discharge indoors. Brautigan and the film director Sam Peckinpah, a friend, once opened fire with a .357 Magnum and a .38 Colt at an alley cat through an open hotel room window.
Brautigan’s signal pleasure, though, from the time he was a young boy, growing up poor in a broken family in Tacoma, Wash., until the end of his life, was trout fishing. It was an obsession that fed his first and probably best novel, “Trout Fishing in America,” written in 1961 but not issued by a major publishing house until 1969.
Generations of anglers have picked up “Trout Fishing in America” based on its title alone, expecting a how-to volume. What they get instead is akin to a gentle tab of LSD: an eccentric and slyly profound novel, seemingly narrated by the ghost of trout fishing past and filled with surreal post-“Walden” visions like a dismembered trout stream for sale at a junkyard.
Brautigan wrote his best novels — “Trout Fishing in America,” “A Confederate General From Big Sur” (1964), “In Watermelon Sugar” (1968) and “The Abortion” (1971) — and books of poetry, notably “The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster” (1968) before fame swamped him in the early ’70s, when he was in his mid-to-late 30s.
He got rich suddenly and enjoyed himself vastly. His writing got woolier and worse, however, and the critics turned on him. He spent most of the money. His looks began to go. (One of his best-known poems is titled “My Nose Is Growing Old.”) Neurotic and increasingly in debt, he committed suicide with a handgun in 1984, at 49.
Critics have clashed over the merits of even his best stuff, many agreeing with Jonathan Yardley, who said that Brautigan was “the Love Generation’s answer to Charlie Schultz. Happiness is a warm hippie.” But the novelist Thomas McGuane, later to become a close friend, reviewed an omnibus edition of his early work with admiration in The New York Times Book Review. In a letter, the critic Malcolm Cowley called Brautigan’s poems, “pensées, like grasshoppers in flight.”
In this overly long but involving new biography, Mr. Hjortsberg, a novelist who was a friend and neighbor of Brautigan’s during his Montana years, nails the qualities that I’ve admired about Brautigan’s work, notably his “easy offhand voice, his concern for average working-class people, his matter-of-fact treatment of death, and his often startling juxtaposition of wildly disparate images.”
One of the merits of “Jubilee Hitchhiker” is that it not only tracks Brautigan’s life but also deftly flips open any number of worlds, from the Beat and counterculture scenes in San Francisco to gonzo times in Montana with writers like Mr. McGuane and Jim Harrison, and wildcats like Warren Zevon, Rip Torn, Jeff Bridges, Dennis Hopper and Harry Dean Stanton.
Brautigan was essentially a loner, but he had a Zelig-like quality and seemed to know everyone and go everywhere. He drank heavily in Western bars with the young Jimmy Buffett. He shot basketball and tore up money (a long story) with Jack Nicholson. He had an impromptu pasta sauce cook-off with Francis Ford Coppola. He drunkenly pointed a rifle at Wim Wenders, who had mildly criticized the translation in one of Brautigan’s German editions. Janis Joplin wanted him to name her new band.
Bored at a party one night, he hurled a brick through a window, a typical Brautigan performance. When the host screamed at him, he replied, “I don’t want things to be predictable.”
Brautigan and his three siblings grew up in and around Tacoma, Wash., (and later, Eugene, Ore.); his mother worked as a cashier, among other jobs. He never knew his father.He was a tall, shy, pale kid, a Boo Radley whom few at his high school paid attention to. He knew from a young age he wanted to write, but didn’t attend college.
When Brautigan was 20, sick with unrequited love for a girl named Linda, he wandered into a police station and asked to be arrested. To make sure he was, he threw a rock through a glass panel. He ended up in a mental institution, receiving electroshock therapy 12 times.
A year later, in 1956, Brautigan made his way to San Francisco, falling in with a scene that included the poets Jack Spicer, Robert Creeley and Gary Snyder. Allen Ginsberg didn’t like Brautigan, nicknaming him Frood. Brautigan was livid when the publicity material for his novel “A Confederate General From Big Sur” linked him with the Beats.
He slowly developed his literary style and cultivated his look. By the mid-’60s he was a San Francisco celebrity. He printed poems on seed packets and gave them away in a collection titled “Please Plant This Book.” He appeared regularly in Herb Caen’s popular San Francisco Chronicle newspaper column. In the late 1960s he published some two dozen short stories in his friend Jann Wenner’s new magazine, Rolling Stone.
Brautigan went national in 1969, when Delacorte Press published “Trout Fishing in America,” “The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster” and “In Watermelon Sugar” in one volume. Before long he dearly wished to shed his whimsical image.
He never could. When he got drunk and said something cruel about Mr. McGuane in public at a party, the author writes, Mr. McGuane spat back, “You’re nothing but a pet rock.” He then called Brautigan a “hula hoop” and concluded, “You should get down on your knees every day and thank God for creating hippies!”
Brautigan was a generous man who had a dark side. He was prone to anger and jealousy. He married twice but was never faithful for long. He was sexist, even for his time. He had a bondage fetish that spooked some women. He wrote a comic poem about venereal disease, but his own recurring bouts of herpes weren’t funny at all.
This jumbo-size biography is perhaps an odd tribute to a writer whose books were tiny, like small sachets of fragrant rice. It’s on the Robert Caro side of things. It’s total overkill. But it’s an enjoyable soak in American literary bohemia, and a cleareyed portrait of a man whom Mr. Hjortsberg aptly calls “a connoisseur of the perfect moment.” His book is full of them.
30 Cents, Two Transfers, Love
by Richard Brautigan
Thinking hard about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
that I was
The Beautiful Poem
by Richard Brautigan
I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
Pissing a few moments ago
I looked down at my penis
Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
January 15, 1967
by Richard Brautigan
This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard
Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco. The author is unknown.
By accident, you put
Your money in my
By accident, I put
My money in another
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
It was lonely.
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
by Richard Brautigan
It’s so nice to wake up in the morning all alone and not have to tell somebody you love them when you don’t love them any more.