jasongoldtrap

[jasongoldtrap]

Guess What? Things Are Improving

By Jason Goldtrap

October 11, 2022

I think most people do not know that the condition of humans worldwide continues to improve. It's easy to listen to the news and be afraid; but the stories they tell are, by definition, exceptions. The news networks promote bad news because it is confirmation bias for most people.

It is easy to think the worst of people. It is easy to turn on the TV, relax in your lazy-boy and think the sky is falling. Some people would rather just, "I told you so."

Some folks would like to opine for the days refected on "The Andy Griffith Show," but friends, Mayberry only existed in a movie studio in Culver City, California. Andy, Opie, Aunt Bee where paid to be nice. Writers wrote the happy endings. Now then, we can learn from those shows valuable life lessons but those places and those people exist only in reruns.

The truth is the lot of man is improving.

When I was born in 1968, 2/3 of the world lived under a Communist dictatorship. Today, only 5 nations practice Communism and even those are introducing economic mobility which leads to personal development and freedom.

There is much less starvation in the world because of economic reform, pesticides and easier food transportation.

56.7% of humans on Earth today will use the internet. This opens a whole world of education and enlightenment. The internet is making educational choices in unlimited fields free.

You don't see diseases ravaging continents like you used to.

Floods don't kill millions because of dams.

Hurricanes, though deadly, create much less destruction because of better construction and there are several days advanced notice. Because of improved economic conditions in nations such as the Philippines, India, Myanmar and Bangladesh, infrastructure is greatly improved so there is more time to evacuate to safety.

When I was a kid, a cancer diagnosis meant death in almost every circumstance. Today, surviving cancer is routine.

War, a constant in the human condition, occurs much less than it used to thanks to improved access to resources. 

Granted, there will always be problems. Disasters will occur. Nations will fight but no one has used an atomic weapon since 1945.

Worldwide things are getting better and we are leaving a better place for our children.

Christ is the only hope for the world.  The Kingdom of God is expanding rapidly all over the world. We must praise God for that wonderful news! Don't join in the choir of self righteous woe; praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Turn off the bad news box and go for a walk. The fresh air, bird songs and exhilaration is all free and much, much better for your overall health.

[jasongoldtrap]

Right Now....

by Jason Goldtrap

November 1, 2022

10 different people are making 10 different decisions in 10 different directions but lead to 1 outcome.

Consider.

1. a doctor, who swore to do no harm, is removing the healthy breasts of an 11 year old girl whose mother wanted a son.

2. a preacher is trying to convince listeners that Bible doesn't meam what it clearly says.

3. a man on Facebook is stirring up trouble because he is lonely and has no one to talk to.

4. a girl from a good home is trying cocaine for the first time.

5. he knows she's not going to tell anyone he hit her.

6. a married man is viewing pornography.

7. a woman who knows she needs to be baptized is distracted and drifting towards the center lane.

8. she's spending her rent money on lotto tickets.

9. a 23 year old man who was picked on all his life, couldn't find a job and never kissed a girl is loading an AK-47 and studying a map of a school.

10. she will do anything to make him say, "I love you."

...but it doesn't have to be that way.

Try it again.

1. the doctor is saying, "No," and turning his attention to sick people.

2. the preacher says, "I need a break."

3. he just got a message that said, "Jesus cares for you. Call me if you ever need to talk."

4. she's saying, "I don't need this garbage."

5. she realizes he has committed a crime and if she doesn't saying anything he will beat the next girl.

6. he is realizing that she wants to be touched and feel wanted.

7. she snaps back to attention and drives over to a friend's house who has a pool. She is baptized.

8. she is realizing that winning the lottery won't fix anything.

9. the phone rings. "I haven't heard from you in a while. Let me take you to lunch so we can talk."

10. she is starting to think that gangly Christian nerd may not be the coolest boy in school but he is always kind, respectful and he listens to her.

So break the mold.

Pray for wisdom.

Say the Word.

Rethink your situation.

And change the world.

Romans 12:2 Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.

It's never too late for a new beginning.

[jasongoldtrap]

25 posts!

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part 8

By Jason Goldtrap

March 9, 2022

Today's vignette into the history of Nashville is a memory from my childhood. Enjoy.

1981.

Inglewood , just north of downtown Nashville.

I am thirteen. Next year, I will be able to join the award winning marching band at Goodpasture Christian School in Madison.

It's Saturday afternoon and I am going through my drum fundamentals and I am utterly bored. I don't understand why.

In 1981, my sister Lynn who is five years older than me, was in high school. There were school projects, friends and dates. We weren't as close as we had been when we were kids.

My brother Jefre is eight years older than me. He was a sophomore at David Lipscomb College. He was only a few weeks from meeting his wife of forty years.

My brother Georgie is nine years older than me. He worked. So it was difficult for everyone including my mother and father to be under one roof at any given time.

We were a close knit family. Our families meals of six were precious. (Well, seven if you include our Siamese cat Hop-a-long who always had a seat.)

My father, brothers and I all loved each other but other than going to church we didn't have anything that united just us guys.

There were no hunting trips, no late nights around a fire or flipping fishing poles. Nothing that I could uniquely share with them to say, "This is us."

I love music.

When I was a two-year-old, at a pm Sunday song service at Orange River Boulevard Church of Christ in Fort Myers, Florida, I walked up to my father, a beloved preacher and song leader, tugged on his slacks and asked if I could lead a hymn.

"Absolutely." He reached down and held me close with his left arm.

I began singing, "Jesus Loves Me this I know."

The congregation swelled with joy. My father used his right hand to move my little arm and keep time.

According to my mother, when I was three, I used to regale the patrons of the local Big Star grocery store with "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head" and selections from the soundtrack of "West Side Story."

My father was in a noted Jazz band at David Lipscomb College. He had a talent for drumming. He played timpani for the Nashville High School band. He played drums in a marching band. When I was a little kid in Fort Myers, Florida, he had a Marimba in the living room and other entertained guests with double hammers and singing blocks. We listened to Buddy Rich albums.

My oldest brother, George III (Georgie) played drums for a rock and roll band named Merlin.

My brother Jefre had played bass drum for Friendship Christian School in Lebanon

So, I should play drums. But why was I not enjoying it?

I grew up in a musical family. My mother played piano. My sister sang in chorus at Stratford High School.

My parents had only one requirement for the path of education for their children; you must spend a year in music.

And there I was, contributing to the Goldtrap legacy, enlightening the world with music and totally indifferent to the drums.

I put down the snare drum and sticks and went downstairs to play basketball in the driveway.

After an hour of shooting hoops, my brother Georgie came outside. He played that snare drum with articulation, adding his own flair.

I listened for a couple of minutes and ran upstairs to the kitchen. I returned with a turkey broiler and a couple of plastic spoons. We had quite an exciting duet, Ringo and me!

A few minutes later, my brother Jefre stepped out of the garage with a plastic garbage can- instant bongos.

We were jamming.

Next, my father came home his chalk-toss weatherman job at WSM, a local NBC television affiliate. He leapt out of the car and began pounding away on roof like it was a kettle drum.

We four men had formed a drum circle. We happily connected to our inner savage as we complted a harmony of beats. For those precious moments, there were no brothers, no father, no age gap, no labels, no differences, just reverb bouncing off the house, the basketball goal, the treehouse and the '78 Impala.

I don't know how long it lasted. It felt like hours but probably just minutes. My brother Georgie performed a solo on the worn out snare, passed the beat to me where I played some flares before I passed the cue to Jefre for his own interpretation, who addressed the verse on to Dad who made that roof and hood explode with sound. After a two minute finale we quit because our arms were tired.

Hurray!

Yahoo!

Oh man, that was a gas!

There were hugs, pats on the back and any exchange of notes. We were sweaty, exhausted and powerful with the Prince of Rhythms.

We were Goldtrap men. We were one.

After decades have passed, wives, children, grandchildren we remain the dearest of friends.

The next grade I joined the band... playing saxophone! Meh, I just wanted to be different.

After supper that night, all four men went to the backyard basketball arena and played a game as equals and friends.

I shoot the ball over the goal.

Watch how it arches into the quilted sunset. It fades away; as it should.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part 7

By Jason Goldtrap

March 4, 2022.

In this series I am exploring the many sounds of Nashville. The following is a mixture of fact and fiction.

1963.

July 27.

Nashville, Tennessee. Present day Jefferson Street and I-40.

It is a sweltering, sticky night outside the Club Del Morroco. There are groups of African American men and women. The club has stiff competition with the nearby Club Baron, Maceo's and the New Era Club, but tonight they have the biggest crowd.

Many people are trying to get in, most but the front door remains; watched over by two large security guards. A paper sign slid into an aluminum slot next to the door reads, "Sold Out."

Many of the men are comparing cars, telling jokes, tossing dice or trying to talk to one of the young ladies. A few Whites mingle separately. Music brought them together but unfortunate cultural norms still apply. Some of them are interacting with each other.

On the second floor, the dining room is packed. They are cramming five in a booth of four. People are standing shoulder to shoulder against the wall. The hat rack is full. An old jukebox is unplugged.

Club owner Theodore Acklen, takes pride in his club. Everything is neat, clean and orderly. He opened the club while still a Sophomore at Tennessee Arts and Industry College- present day Tennessee State University.

Friends and fans call him "Lily" due to his generosity to the community.

The bar is running low on Pabst and Vermouth. Above the bar there are pictures of notable stars who have played the club: Little Richard, Ray Charles, Nat King Cole, Ethan James, Harry Belafonte Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughn and Dinah Washington.

The King Kasuals are playing tonight. They have earned their reputation as having a tight sound. The lead singer is handsome and has a strong timbre in his voice. He and the band are wearing matching gold jackets, pressed white shirts and charcoal black slacks.

Supporting the lead singer is a double bass, tenor sax, drummer, rhythm guitar and lead guitar. The band was founded by the lead guitarist and the bass player, Billy Cox.

Let's talk about the young man on lead guitar.

He's a south paw so his guitar neck angles up from his right instead of his left. He plays it cool but, on occasion, will include his own unique style.

He is twenty-three years old. He grew up in Seattle but after being caught driving a stolen car he has to choose between jail or joining the United States Army. He was assigned to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, as a paratrooper in the famed 101st Airborne. He earned a Screaming Eagles pin but on his twenty-sixth jump he broke his ankle. This along with passing bad checks and general indifference towards military culture got him kicked out.

This was fortunate for him. He moved to Clarksville and then Nashville to make a living doing the only thing he cared about: playing guitar. When not at work, he kept to himself reading science fiction short stories. He also likes to write songs. Sometimes the lyrics are ambiguous and just plain bizarre. While he enjoys playing in the clubs but he is destined for bigger things.

His song notes are kept scribbled on pieces of paper. Just bits of words. Over the next five years, he will tour and record with bigger bands. He does alright but inside he is developing his own thing. Later on, his unique lyrics, musings and sensual style, imitated by others, will be called "Psychedelic."

He would rent a recording studio for two hours and just play around with his guitar; making it "talk." After one long session, he looks through some notes and sees two words written down long ago: "Purple Haze."

During an appearance on a tour with Cat Stevens and Engelbert Humperdinck, and the headline act The Walker Brothers playing at Finsbury Park Astoria in London, for the first time, after a raucous performance. He placed his guitar flat on the stage, doused it with lighter fluid and lit a match. And so Jimi Hendrix became a worldwide sensation.

As the smoke billows the scene fades.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, Part 6

By Jason Goldtrap

March 4, 2022

The following is a blend of fact and fiction for the sake of storytelling. Enjoy.

1955.

April 15.

Belle Meade Theater, Nashville

Behind the magnificent palladium of the arts, a black '41 Hudson pulls in the parking lot behind the theater. Three college-age men exit and stretch their legs.

The drummer removes a snare drum from the backseat. A stand up bass player goes through some chords. A trumpet player is blowing his lips to ensure they are moist.

The stage door opens, "Are you ready to have some fun?" This young man is wearing a tan suit with a paisley tie,

pink carnation and white dress shoes. You'd never know it by his demeanor, but he's the Star.

He guides them down a hallway to the stage. The men place their instruments in their proper order.

The Star checks the placement of a microphone. Once it is suitable for his height, he turns to them and asks, "Will you join me in the Green Room?" They all follow him.

Inside the Green Room there is a table with various snacks: potato chips, cookies, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bottles of cola.

The drummer and the trumpeter haven't had dinner yet and they are glad to see the spread.

The Star sits on a folding chair while the trumpeter leans his back on the middle cushin of a couch. His companions soon join him.

The Star looked them over and asked,  "So, what's new with you guys?"

The drummer chuckles, "With us? Well, I'm chasing girls, playing Ping Pong, tutoring brings in a few bucks, that helps, oh, oh, I have a side business. I go to the music store downtown on 5th. I buy boxes of reeds for clarinets, saxophones, oboes, etc. so when a student breaks one I can replace it on the spot. The music shop charges a dime each. I sell for a quarter."

"Steep."

"Right but it eliminates a trip downtown in which you would by gas, find a parking space, a nickle for the meter and, of course, the time involved. That's why I can sell 'em like hotcakes for the David Lipscomb College band."

The Star clapped for him. "Well done, well done." He turned his attention to the trumpeter. "And you?"

"Well, I recently went on a trip to Atlanta to see... wait.... why aren't we talking about you?"

The Star guffawed, "Because I talk or am talked about 12 hours a day now. I have record producers, publicity agents, a publicist, an accountant, there's three men who constantly walk behind me carrying brief cases. I don't even know their names!"

His joking soon turned into a more sober visage.

"I love singing. Many of the industry fellas I've met are regular folks when the camera turns off... but the others bother me.

Every night after a show, I'm invited to clubs. Beautiful women ask if I want to come over to their apartment for a drink. Some have asked if I wanted a marijuana cigarette."

He waved his hands. "I shun all of that, of course. But still, I'm a man like any other who can be attracted to... to the wrong elements in life."

He paused.

"My wife is wondering when I can see her again. Every day, she plays Bridge with other women from the neighborhood. One of them reads those tawdry show-biz magazines and takes every word as gospel. I can't fathom what is swimming in her head when she sees my picture on the front cover."

He let out a heavy sigh. "I'm making more money than I can imagine but... but sometimes," he rubbed his eyes to find relief from a stress headache.

"Sometimes, I just want to throw these white shoes in the trash and be a high school English teacher."

They were all silent.

The drummer leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're more than 45s and Arthur Godfrey. You're more than a heart-throb for the Bobby Sox set."

The Star kept his head down.

The drummer continued, "You're Maggie and Archy's boy."

He looked up.

"You're Shirley's husband."

The Star shifted his eyes to the left and focused on the arm of a folding table.

The drummer enlightened him, "For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain

the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

The Star regained his composure. "Mark 8:36."

The drummer nodded.

There was a knock on the door, "Five minutes."

"Think of it this way," the drummer continued, "the only thing you own... is your character."

The Star was intrigued.

"All this," he motioned with his hands, "All this fame can end tomorrow."

He chose his words carefully, "You're money," he snapped his fingers. "Can vanish.

Your wife can walk out.

Your name can be sullied by the Press even when you've done nothing wrong.

Time will wear down your body.

Your mind will eventually fade."

He poked him. "But no one can ever take your character. That, and only that, is the only thing you will ever own. Maintain it through humility and gratitude to God and you'll be just fine."

The Star wiped away an errant tear. "You ought to be a preacher."

The drummer chucked to himself. "Maybe. What I really want to be is a magician!"

They heard a muffled commotion coming through the door and walls.

The trumpeter asked, "What on Earth is that?"

The Star stood up, "That, gentlemen, is the future."

They left the room and walked towards the stage. The drummer was confused as he passed a policeman, two nurses and a doctor.

The noise grew louder.

As soon as they reached the stage and the curtain was pulled up, the screams of a thousand teenage girls.

Two policeman stood in front of the stage keeping any interloper from running up on stage.

"Pat! Pat! Pat!"

The place seemed to be the setting of a riot.

The drummer yelled to the trumpeter, "I've lost the set list!"

Pat turned around, "Two Hearts, Two Kisses."

The bass player hollered, "In what key?"

The trumpeter retorted, "Does that even matter?"

The drummer directed the beat with his sticks. The bass and trumpeter followed suit.

Pat held the mic stand like passionately.

"One heart's not enough, baby

Two hearts make you feel crazy

One kiss makes you feel so nice

Two kisses put you in paradise

Two hearts, two kisses make one love."

A girl on the front row made eye contact with Pat. She fainted. A policeman signaled the doctor and his nurse.

"Two hearts beat as one, dear

Two arms make me know that you care

I have plenty of lovin'

Two kisses hotter than an oven

Two hearts, two kisses make one love."

A red headed teenage girl in a poodle dressed ran towards Pat on stage. Before she could tackle him he ducked and continued his song.

"Lovin' you, baby, is my desire

I know that you could set this world afire

A little spark is burnin' deep inside

Love should be made by two (hoop-de-doo-oo)."

The intruder was grabbed by her right wrist and led away. "I love you, Pat."

"One heart's not enough, baby

Two hearts make you feel crazy

One kiss makes you feel so nice

Two kisses put you in paradise

Two hearts, two kisses make one love."

The drummer shook his head. Amused and bewildered by the chaos.

"Lovin' you, baby, is my desire

I know that you could set this world afire

A little spark is burnin' deep inside

Love should be made by two (hoop-de-doo-oo)."

Another girl slipped through the gauntlet. Unable to reach Pat, she grabbed the bass player and kissed him.

"One heart's not enough, baby

Two hearts make you feel crazy

One kiss makes you feel so nice

Two kisses put you in paradise

Two hearts, two kisses make one love."

Pat was gobbling up the adoration.

"Two hearts, two kisses make one love."

The song came to an end.

The scene backs away from the stage and into the audience as he begins,

"You make

Me cry

When you said

'Goodbye'

Ain't that a shame."

Outside of the theater groups of young men are checking out the cars. Two more policemen. And a lone, elderly man holding a picket sign.

We can now see the marquee, "PAT BOONE."

As we ascend the shiny light tower, we focus on the shimmering lights of a spinning cap of the structure. A bulb buzzes until its out and we're ready for our next story.

By the way, the drummer was my father George Goldtrap.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part 5

By Jason Goldtrap

March 6, 2022

The following is a blending of fact and fiction. It is part of a series of articles telling the history of Nashville from different sides. Enjoy.

1945. December 29.

Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee.

A twenty-four year old man with black curly hair, wearing a cowboy outfit, sits on a bench in the empty temple to American music. He noodles his guitar, searching for inspiration. Except for a man sweeping the stage with a push broom and a woman washing benches with soapy water in a bucket, he's all alone.

He recalls his early life in the small farming community of Erick, Oklahoma. As soon as he was old enough, he was working on the family cattle ranch feeding chickens, cleaning horse barns and making sure the cows had plenty of water. This was his profession but not his dream.

When he was fifteen, he began strumming the guitar and singing with the "Plainview Melody Boys." Soon they became notable all over Beckham County playing barn dances, wedding receptions and had even performed on at a radio station in Elk City. Through persistence, skill and good old fashioned luck, he had been made a name for himself.

But now he is taking a new, bold step.

"Hey kid, we're ready."

He waved at the engineer and got up from the bench, walked down a long hallway and into a small room. WSM Studio C.

He reviewed his men.

Double bass. Fiddler. And a rhythm guitarist with with a half smoked cigar dangling from his mouth.

The engineer suggested,  "Ok. You bought an hour so you might want to..."

"I'm ready now," he retorted. "And I can do it in one take."

"What you're doing has never been done in this town. All the stars go up to New York. So, we're making history."

"I didn't bring my guitar to jabber all day, Mister." He sang an impromptu tune.

"Push the gizmos

And away we go."

The engineer chucked at his enthusiasm and naivety. He sat down at his consul and held up his right hand.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The young man started strumming his guitar and leaned into the ribbon microphone and sang,

"She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me.

She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

She's half Cherokee.

Oh, she don't drink liquor

But she sure likes beer

Ain't a sweeter woman livin' anywhere

Than my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me.

How I love my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me.

She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

She went back on me.

Well, I took her out to hear the Ragtime Band,

But she run away with a fiddlin' man.

She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me."

The young man turned to the fiddler, enjoying his solo. He bobbed his violin as he made silly faces.

The bass player kept time and enjoyed the show.

"I took my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Out on a little spree.

Oh, that Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

She made a fool out of me.

Well, I drink so much that I thought I'd pop.

But she kept a-drinkin' like a hog a-drinking slop.

She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me."

He rocked back and forth as he made his guitar to the rhythm.

"She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me.

She's my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

She's half Cherokee.

Oh, she don't drink liquor

But she sure likes beer

Ain't a sweeter woman livin' anywhere

Than my Oklahoma honky-tonk gal,

Me oh my oh me."

The engineer stood up and announced, "Sheb Wooley, you have become the first person in Nashville, Tennessee to make a record."

Everyone cheered.

"Although, you look like a scrawny, buck toothed jack rabbit, kid, you're gonna be a star."

Sheb laughed and acknowledged the compliment, "And you look like a one-eyed, one-horned, flying, purple people eater."

As the band and the engineer gathered outside in the parking lot on that cold night. They congratulated each other with handshakes and pats on the back.

Sheb pulled a cardboard tube out of the backseat of his car. "It's a whole new, boys, it's a whole new world."

And it was.

He lit the fuse with a match and stepped away from it.

BOOM!

A firework screamed into the night sky and exploded in a brilliant pink ball over the city. It sparkles for a few seconds and fades into the night so too does this scene.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part four

By Jason Goldtrap

March 2, 2022

Nashville was Music City long before there was a Ryman Auditorium or Bill. Monroe or the Grand Ole Opry. The Spirit of Music has thrived through all generations.

The following is a mixture of fiction and history for you to learn and enjoy.

1870. North Nashville.

The office of Adam K. Spence seems gloomy. He had followed his heart when he took the job. He knew there would be obstacles along the way. Even so, this situation seemed hopeless.

In 1866, things were improving for former slaves. Various charities had been charter in the North to help elevate the youth of all colors by higher education. But such tenderness had yet to be established in much of the South.

The accountant slams his ledger. He shakes his head and grumbles, "Impossible."

One floor down, outside, a dozen young men and women lounge about. They are all African Americans. They are all discouraged.

"Hopeless!" A young man wearing a white collared shirt and an emerald bolo barks. He flails his arms, "This whole stupid thing ain't been for nothin'."

"Terran, you should have said, 'It hasn't been worth the effort' rather than 'ain't been for nothin'.'" A young man in a white shirt and a rose colored tie stands up. "Your assessment of the situation is crude, inaccurate and employs poor grammar." He took off his glasses and breathed on them while cleaning them with a handkerchief. "And worst of all its depressing." He put his glasses back on. "And... and we don't need that right now."

Terran stands up to confront him, "Lyman, what are you jabbering on about?" He made a sweeping motion with his hands those students paying attention to him. "This whole idea was mute."

"Moot, Terran, moot; not the proposition couldn't talk."

He hummed and stammered. "I reckon that's right."

Lymanput a handon Terran's shoulder.  "This noble idea will succeed. As Marcus Aurelius stated, 'Be like the promotory against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.'"

Some of the young men and women agreed with him. Others were skeptical.

"A lotta good your quotes from Roman emperors are gonna due ya when you're sweeping up the cigarettes that the white men toss on the floor of the tavern. Seriously! Do you think they ever stop calling us..."

"Names cannot hurt me. Opinions cannot chain me. No man can take away my dignity. Additionally, if I ever step into a den of iniquity it will be to collect the rent because I OWN THE BUILDING."

All eyes were on Lyman.

Another young man stood up, "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me, saith the LORD."

"Isaiah 54:17," said a young lady.

Terran shook his head, "You telling me you're God's prophet?"

Lyman retorted, "No. I'm telling you that I am God's creation. As are you. As are the lovely ladies here. As are the bill collectors. As are the White men who spit on me. As is the poorest man. As is the President Grant. As is," His voice cracked, "As is the slave master that raped my mother and put a bullet between my Father's eyes! We!"

He shouted. "We all are God's creation and every day we choose to be God's servant or mere coals in the fires of Perdition." He wiped tears from his eyes. "And I choose goodness. I choose hope. I choose faith in my God, myself, my family and in the parchment that Thomas Jefferson applied with his quill,

'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'"

"Ain't nobody gonna care."

"Everybody is gonna care because the conclusion of this unequivocal truth will be impossible to deny."

The men began applauding. All the girls were in love with him.

Terran motioned for them to stop, "Then how is the school gonna pay it's bills?"

"A miracle!"

"So, so, so some angel is gonna come down and help us?"

Lyman put each fist to his waste and commanded, "Yes!"

Terran guffawed, "You're crazy! You're nuts! You're..." He blew his hips. "Man I'm not talking to you no more."

"Then stop talking, for once, Terran, and listen."

He cupped his right ear and made exaggerated, mocking gestures. "I hear crickets. An old crow. Birds. And my stomach growling." He shrugged, "But I don't hear no..."

"Roll, Jordan, roll!" Her sweet voice echoed off the campus buildings.

The other girls looked at Jamie, rather confused.

She pleaded, "Roll, Jordan, roll!"

Her two friends joined her.

"I want to go to Heaven when I die,

To hear Jordan roll."

All the students swelled in harmony.

"Roll, Jordan, roll.

Roll, Jordan, roll.

I want to go to Heaven when I die

To hear Jordan roll."

Students gathered from all over the the campus.

"O sinners, you ought to been there.

Yes, my Lord.

A sitting in the Kingdom,

To hear Jordan roll."

Dean Spence and the school's treasurer, went to the window.

"Roll, Jordan, roll.

Roll, Jordan, roll.

I want to go to Heaven when I die

To hear Jordan roll."

"It's not impossible, Charles." He pointed down to the impromptu musical. "That's how we pay the bills."

Next scene.

The young men and women turn around. Their tatter hand-me-downs have become the splendid finery of the day. They sang in front of a packed church building. A basket is being passed. It is full of money.

"O sinners, you ought to been there.

Yes, my Lord.

A sitting in the Kingdom,

To hear Jordan roll."

Next scene.

They perform on a big stage. Over them is a sign which reads, "Philadelphia welcomes the Fisk Jubilee Singers."

"Roll, Jordan, roll.

Roll, Jordan, roll.

I want to go to Heaven when I die

To hear Jordan roll."

The next scene.

It is a busy night in Manhattan. The bustling traffic is not enough to compete with the harmony inside the Winter Garden theater.

An eleven-year-old African American boy holds up two tickets. "The Fisk Jubilee Singers. I got two tickets. Come on, now. You wanna hear 'em or not?"

"How much?" Asks a man in a tuxedo, arm in arm with his wife who is dressed to the nines.

"Ten dollars."

"$10 for two tickets?"

He wore a big smile and comically shook his head. "No Mister. $10.... each."

The eyes of the businessman bulged. "That is outrageous. Lad, you are quite daft if you think anyone will pay..."

His wife nudges him. He looks to her. She pouts.

"O preacher, you ought to been there.

Yes, my Lord."

The man snarls as he reaches for his billfold.

"O sinners, you ought to been there.

Yes, my Lord.

A sitting in the Kingdom,

To hear Jordan roll."

Next scene.

A sophisticated looking assembly is watching the chorus in a large white hall of a mansion.

"Roll, Jordan, roll.

Roll, Jordan, roll.

I want to go to Heaven when I die."

First Lady Julia Grant leans to her husband and says, "You know who would really like to hear them?"

Next scene.

The stern face of an austier woman with chalky, caked in make-up appears. A hopeful sparkle has returned to her saddened eyes.

They finish the hymn: "To hear Jordan roll."

Queen Victoria stands and applauds. The Royal Court follows suit.

"Bravo! Bravo!" Shouts the crowd.  "Here-here."

Her royal highness asked, "From what city did you say you came?"

"Nashville, capitol of the great state of Tennessee."

"Are you enjoying the sights of London?"

"Yes, your majesty, we are having an amazing trip. We love London-town."

The queen was charmed, "And I love Music City."

Those assembled cheered and clapped.

As we focus on an old tapestry of a summer scene in Ireland, we angle to the blue sky and fade away until tomorrow.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part 3

By Jason Goldtrap

March 3, 2022

Nashville was a City of Music long before Roy Acuff, Johnny Cash and Opryland USA. Music has played a part in shaping the city. With these articles, blending fact and fiction, I hope you will gain a sharper insight and appreciation of our heritage.

1864. December 16. The site of present day Nissan Stadium.

The fighting men are exhausted. A few years ago, they were farmers, tailors, shopkeepers but now they were just fodder in an unstoppable reign of death.

Levi Hartman is a mild manner man from Bell Buckle. He owned a rather prosperous dairy; the finest one in Bedford County. The War of Northern Agression brought only misery. He lost a son at Shiloh, a brother at Champion Hill, and most of his ranch hands in the wave of antebellum fervor.

The terror in his wife's eyes the first time she coughed up blood was seared into his brain.

Now all he had was a ratty uniform, boots with holes, a riffle, a rusted bayonet and a wooden cross he had whittled away during a blessed lull between battles.

Though constantly surrounded by fellow soldiers, he often felt alone.

He had lost too many friends to count. He wasn't even sure which city he was defending but looking south reminded him. The capitol building of Tennessee was pretty but the city reeked. It's cosmopolitan essence pillaged by brutal necessity.

His life was a drone of deadly duty.

Shoot. Duck. Reload.

Shoot. Duck. Reload.

Shoot. Duck. Reload.

Shoot. Duck. Reload.

The days became a blur.

His riffle reloaded he popped back over the fence and froze. A skein of white ducks had landed in the middle of the battlefield.

He didn't shoot. He couldn't. No one else did either. Each man, after popping out of the hole decided not to shoot.

In that moment, the war didn't matter. The strategic battle skipped over that lone corner of the woods.

"Anyone hungry duck soup?" shouted a Union private.

"For dessert, I got some oranges from Florida!" Levi retorted.

Both sides laughed.

A young man beside him shouted, "Pretty, ain't they?"

"They sure are, Johnny Reb!"

Levi began to lift up his riffle.

Another man stood next to him. He grabbed the riffle; forcing his fellow private to easy back.

Levi kept a weary eye on the odd scene.

The Union man shouted. "I'm... I'm... sorry I called you that. I've just lost my manners over the last few years."

"We've all lost. There are no winners here. Oh, my name isn't Johnny Reb; it's Franklin Comstock from Chicago, Illinois."

"You're kidding me! I'm from Peoria. I was a clerk for the local bank."

"I was a student at Northwestern. In March of 1861, I journeyed to Mobile,  Alabama to meet a friend. And, well, one thing led to another. Some illiterate gunnery sergeant threw gray pants at me and, there I was, a soldier."

From the Union side came a taunt: "Hey college boy; what'd ya study?"

"Um... I... um... don't think it's relevant. Let's talk about our current situation..."

Both sides started to boo.

A Confederate yelled, "I study whiskey and women!"

Both sides laughed hysterically. Many howled like wolves and whistled.

"Answer the question, college boy. Give us an education."

He cleared his throat, "Art History."

Once more the woods roared with laughter. Even the ducks that waddled about cocked their heads, confused by the commotion.

Frank elaborated, "For me, the right of the independent states was a natural growth of our..."

"Nobody cares!"

The trees rattled with laughter.

A voice behind Franklin yelled, "Is anyone from Vermont?"

The men on both sides looked around and shrugged until one of them shouted, "Quincy, Massachusetts."

All eyes turned to him.

He stood up and shook his head, "Bless me, Lord, I feel like I've been fighting in this stupid war my whole life."

The men sighed and agreed with him through mumbled replies.

Levi said, "You know, take off this blue and gray and aren't we all just men?"

They boisterously agreed with his sentiment.

He twirled a finger and sang,

"Sitting by the roadside on a summer's day

Chatting with my mess-mates, passing time away

Lying in the shadows underneath the trees

Goodness, how delicious, eating goober peas."

Both sides sang along,

"Peas, peas, peas, peas

Eating goober peas

Goodness, how delicious,

Eating goober peas."

A Union soldier jumped out of his trench.

"When a horse-man passes, the soldiers have a rule

To cry out their loudest, "Mister, here's your mule!"

But another custom, enchanting-er than these

Is wearing out your grinders, eating goober peas."

The two men joined arms and danced around.

"Peas, peas, peas, peas

Eating goober peas

Goodness, how delicious,

Eating goober peas."

"Just before the battle, the General hears a row

He says "The Yanks are coming, I hear their rifles now."

He turns around in wonder, and what d'ya think he sees?

The Tennessee milita, eating goober peas."

More men joined the dance.

"Peas, peas, peas, peas

Eating goober peas

Goodness, how delicious,

Eating goober peas."

"I think my song has lasted almost long enough.

The subject's interesting, but the rhymes are mighty tough.

I wish the war was over, so free from rags and fleas.

We'd kiss our wives and sweethearts, and gobble goober peas."

Levi happily clapped along.

"Peas, peas, peas, peas

Eating goober peas

Goodness, how delicious,

Eating goober peas."

"Oh!"

"Peas, peas, peas, peas

Eating goober peas

Goodness, how delicious,

Eating...."

Shots rang out. The war had returned.

Levi Hartman dove back into the trench. Men began falling beside him. Some screamed for their mothers as they stumbled into eternity.

A sharp pain flicked his throat. He put his hand to his neck.

As the ducks flew away, leaving some of their group behind, they wondered why humans would do such a thing.

They flew away desperately seeking a pond in which they could rest.

There they go,

Into the blue.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, Part 2

By Jason Goldtrap

March 4, 2021

As previously introduced in my first piece, Nashville, Music City, was the center of harmony long before the Age of Acuff. In this series, I will celebrate its storied history by inviting you to observe the sounds that made Nashville, Tennessee. The following is historic fiction.

1779. Christmas Day.

James Robertson and his train of two hundred men, women and children reach Fort Nashboro. It's been quite a perilous journey from Kingsport in East Tennessee.

These pioneers, many immigrants from Europe seeking a better way of life, are elated to be here. There are hugs, tears and impromptu dancing.

Three men in the livery are looking after the horses. A young man named Moritz, from Austria is among them. The horses too are excited to be out of the snow and off the tedious trail. They are grateful for the water, fodder and warm blankets.

At a celebration inside the fort, a fiddler, accordion player and a woman with a lute have spontaneously formed a band. People are raucously dancing to the music.

One of the twirled is a beautiful, young lady. She catches Moritz's eye. She notices him too and beams a coy smile.

He works up his nerves and thinks of clever things to say, hoping to overcome his deficits with the English language. He boldly walks up to her, bows, and says, "Guten Abend." He pops his right hand over his mouth. "Good evening," he squeaks.

The young woman laughs. She touches his right cheek and reassures him, "Auch ich kämpfe mit Englisch." (I too struggle with English!)

He is relieved to find a young lady from the Rhine. Mila is from Goisem, a half days journey from his hometown.

Over several dances they get to know each other. Between songs, they sit and talk.

She is flattered by his awkward attempts at flirting.

Even though he spilled rum punch on her shoes, she enjoys every second of their conversation. After a joke she flips his hair and says, "Du bist so lustig." (You are soooo funny!)

Two elderly women, sisters from Charleston, slyly observe their sparks. While he steps out for a moment, they both signal her that she is on top of her game. She fans herself with her hand, indicating that she finds him most handsome.

He returns bearing a bowl of pecans. She applauds him and the game of hearts continues.

She laughs at another one of his jokes; and in a deliberate move, taps his upper arm and slides her hand down to his elbow, distracted by his hearty muscles.

One of the elderly sisters put her hands over her eyes while the other presses her lips together, blowing a kiss. Mila catches it a blows one to Moritz while he has his back turned.

Soon, Mila is aware that everyone in the room is focused on one of the doors. A new mother comes in the room carrying her son, only a few minutes old. The women quickly line up to meet the baby. The men gather around the father, shaking his hands and giving pats on the back.

Moritz walks towards the newest citizen of the outpost. Mila follows and grabs his hand.

The room is mostly quiet. A lone moon beam bathes the woman and the child in ethereal bliss.

Moritz recalls a hymn written by Joseph Mohr in his small hometown of Oberndorf, Austria.

"Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht."

Mila joins him, "All is calm, all is bright."

A man picks up his lute, "Entre sus astros que esparcen su luz."

Two other women harmonize with their husbands "Le mystère annoncé s'accomplit."

"Hij, der schepselen heer." Sings a settler who focuses on a portrait of his wife whom he lost along the way.

And the mighty choir swelled, "Christ the Savior is born. Christ the Savior is born."

Moritz and Mila step outside. As he points out Sirius, Rigel and Alpha Centauri. Frustrated, anxious overcome with yearning, she taps him on the shoulder. He spins around and she throws her arms around his neck. He is frozen by her beauty. She licks her lips and slightly angels her head. They kiss.

The stars turn into snowflakes and softly fall to the earth.

The scene is complete. All is right in the world.

[jasongoldtrap]

City of Music, part 1 By Jason Goldtrap March 3, 2022

Music City. Nashville has been the home of singers long before there was a Grand Ole Opry or mandolins or even English speaking citizens.

The next several pieces, blending fact and fiction to create a compelling story, will be a look into the core of the love Nashville has for music. Enjoy.

The year is 1132. April 17.

The Cumberland River.

An indigenous American man named Tsula is rowing his canoe. It is loaded with fish covered by three deer pelts. This has been a prosperous journey.

As he approaches his camp, his little four-year-old girl Salalai (squirrel) comes running out of the tent followed by his wife Woya (dove). They share a smile. She rubs her tummy, the new baby will arrive soon.

Woya is excited about the food. As he lands and steps out of the canoe they all share a big hug. Salalai is distracted by a rustling in the canoe; she goes to investigate. She moves aside a woven basket and out jumps a puppy.

She tears up with joy. The eight week old MacKenzie River Dog is excited to have a companion. He begins licking her smiling face.

She names him "Ahyoka" (she brought joy.) The dog will someday be a hunting dog for Tsula. He'll protect Woya and the children when Tsula is away.

Woya is charmed by the scene of two best friends. Tsula points to something in the distance. She turns but sees nothing. When she comes around he places a necklace made of flowers around her neck. Overcome with elation, she holds him and weeps on his on his muscular chest.

After a satisfying lunch, Tsula tells his daughter about his adventure. She sits on her mother's lap. He animates with exaggerated movements.

That night, Tsula is sitting at a camp fire. Little Salalai as asleep on his lap. Ahyoka is snipping at some fireflies.

As he gently strokes his daughter's hair he hums a lullaby he learned from his mother. Woya leans against him and softly sings,

"Na wi ano kahno joo lahno eka fana arah eno sha zi.

Goodbye warm sun so far away Fair Moon beam down a dream my way A shooting star skips through the night And I am at peace, I am at peace inside."

She kisses her husband's cheek for, at that moment, the world is in harmony.

Follow the ambers as they pop and fly away. They fade into the night.

The next scene is coming tomorrow.

[jasongoldtrap]

The Corkscrew

By Jason Goldtrap

March 9, 2021

When I was growing up in the 70s and 80s, my hometown, Nashville, Tennessee, had a musical theme park called Opryland USA. Aside from the standard thrill rides, the park was noted for dozens of shows featuring Country, Rock, Gospel, Bluegrass and Broadway. The king of the attractions was the Wabash Cannonball.

Named after the song popularized by Roy Acuff, the Wabash Cannonball was a corkscrew roller coaster. Ten models were built by Arrow Dynamics, the first one debuting at Knott's Berry Farm in Buena Park, California in 1975. Opryland USA opened their coaster that same year in the State Fair section.

My parents loved roller coasters, and still do though time has tempered active involvement in the subject. As a family we all loved going to the park. I would ride all the rides along with them except for one: the Wabash Cannonball.

From my perspective it was just too intimidating. Even today, I still get fearful around roller coasters which is part of their appeal. I pictured myself flying out of the seat and rocketing into the ground.

As a little kid, with mommy around, I had an excuse to sit this one out. That changed as I matured.

Thirteen-years-old, going to the park for the first time without parents. Lots of running, drinking far too much Orange Fanta, two cardboard containers of popcorn, playing video games that I could already play at the skate center and, well, bodily noises offered for amusement rather than necessity. We could ride the Flume Zoom as many times as we wanted. We'd rear-end antique cars on the guided track where you could press the hammer down with speeds up to 7 mph.

Inevitably though, someone would suggest my foil, the Wabash Cannonball. "Um.... I have to sit this one out." I would flood them with laughable excuses about not feeling well. And, eventually, they would give up coaxing me. I would sit on a bench beneath the second loop and try to wave. They would dart out of the station hyped up on adrenaline.

"Wanna ride again?"

"Yeah!"

I was silent.

They would race back to the station. I would people watch. Head to the petting zoo. Long for a square of Smoky Mountain cashew fudge which I could have eaten if I had not wasted $2 on Space Invaders and Pac-Man.  On the third go around, one of the fellows would feel a tinge of sympathy for me and we would move on to the bumper cars or the spinning swings.

It went on like this for weeks until one day when my band of brothers ran into a similar sized group ....of girls.

"Hey Joan!"

"Michael. What are you doing here?"

"Having fun. Who are your friends?"

"Well you know me and Betty from school. This is Rhonda who goes to my church and my neighbor Melissa."

We exchanged pleasantries. Awkward silence seeking cues for conversation.

Michael stated, "We're about to ride the Wabash Cannonball. You wanna come with?"

Joan smiled and nodded. She received a tug from behind. "One second." The girls clutched together to analyze the situation and discuss limits to potential affection. She turned around and spoke for the other hens. "Sounds like fun... except Rhonda here is too scared to ride it."

I got a slap on the back. "Jason will ride with her." Suddenly, the world grew dim as if I was suddenly thrust across time and space. Frozen. Confused. Before my mouth could utter the words, "Well I..." The boys and girls began to pair up.

"Are you afraid of coasters too?"

I confidently shook my head, "No. Rhonda. Absolutely not."

"Let's go!"

We walked the seemingly 2,000 mile long trek from Doo Wah Ditty City to the State Fair. Not much on conversation. Occasional, stolen glances. Evaluation. Rehearsed lines. Hoping my voice won't squeak.

During the 30 minute wait in the sweltering sunshine I actually opened up to her a little. She told me of her life. She liked horses and even once rode an elephant at the Knoxville Zoo. We discussed our mutual fondness for Gatlinburg, Star Wars, volleyball and watermelon. We relaxed and became new friends.

And then it was our turn at the ride. We were too busy talking to realize that we had seats on the front row! I snapped my head to Chris. Hers to Joan. Was this a prank? Did they realize the enormous pressure we had been voluntarily pushed in to? She tried to communicate her concerns via telepathy which is common to females, especially in mating season.

Undaunted, I slid past my self built brick wall of trepidation and took my seat in the front car. She gave a coy smile and gracefully sat by my side. The train lurched forward. Jerk. It connected with chain. During the ascent I imagined a cartoonist scene in which the 85 foot peak of steal and bolts made sport of me with each half a foot rotation.

I prayed. Nothing too elaborate. Just a plea to not throw-up on her. I began to silently whisper "amen" when I felt a hand being delicately intertwined in mine.

The car gently rounded an elevated curve. Before I could say something clever we both began screaming as the floor escaped us as we hurled down at 48 miles per hour. Up a little. Another sharp banked turn followed by a nose dive. The first loop lay ahead. I was too distracted by the gravity of the moment by the hand holding to notice that this acceleration was slugging me into the first swirl. I was upside down and then once more.

"Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh! Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha ha. That was fun!"

I had stepped aboard a child but now I was a man!

We all clapped and begged for one more go around from the teenage thrill engineer. Maybe there was a lightning bolt from Heaven or she was too busy chatting with a co-worker to notice that she forgot the breaking switch. Jerk. Chain connection. We were going for a coveted and rare second ride!

This time my heart was thrilled and somewhat disappointed that Rhonda removed her hand to clap. And, once complete, did not return to my velvet fingers. But, that was ok. I was having fun.

As we got off the ride the coed group took a break from each other. The girls needed conversation and play-by-play analysis while the guys just pushed each other around.

Rhonda, from a distance, turned my way with a flirtatious grin before her visage lowered as she was told the real story of Jason Goldtrap: the dork. She even looked at her hand and wiped it on her Capri pants. I could see her guffaw, "He picks his nose in public?"

Reunion. We rode a few more rides but that was it for me and Rhonda. I talked to the other girls a little but there was no connection.

The speakers echoed. "Opryland USA will close in thirty minutes."

We disbanded and walked separately to the long line of station wagons. We were three years far from automotive liberation. I lost her in the dark.

I never heard from Rhonda. I never even considered calling her or asking Joan about her. We were two ships that passed in the night... and sunk.

That day I conquered one fear and, for one minute and 28 seconds felt invincible. That is part of the magic of a theme park. Escape. Innocent, affordable fun. Acceptable thrills mixed with surprising spurts of physiological  growth.

In 1997, Opryland USA closed and replaced by a mall. I always feel sad for cities that lose their amusement parks. They are losing so much in the way of togetherness, family memories and funny and romantic tales to share with future grandchildren. You don't get that from a mall.

As far as I can tell, there is only one corkscrew roller coaster still in operation in America. It is named the Corkscrew and it's at Silverwood Theme Park in Athol, Idaho.

After the park closed the Wabash Cannonball was sold to Old Indiana Theme Park in Thorntown, Indiana but not reassembled. Sadly, it laid in an open field until it was finally scrapped in 2003.

Thanks to YouTube you can take one last ride. Enjoy.

https://youtu.be/OLtO06SC-Lc

[jasongoldtrap]

G. I. Joe and Me

By Jason Goldtrap 1.27.2021

I was such a nerd growing up. I once went to a friend's house to play G.I. Joe. But we ran out of action figures so I got Commander John Koenig from Space 1999. I put him in an Eagle spaceship and flew to the gathering Joes. Since the leader of the Alpha Moonbase was half the size of the Army heroes and because the timing was off (it was 1979 and I was playing a character from 20 years in the future) I couldn't join the others. So they made me a cook. Yes, a cook for G.I. Joe. I got some leaves and called them steaks, pebbles for baked potatoes, shards of grass for a salad and micro-shots of Sprite. I insisted the Joes get fed. Either way, I was proud of my work.

[jasongoldtrap]

I Love Bad Movies

What riff can watch over and over again and still enjoy? For me it's, "Boggy Creek II: And the Legend Continues."

It was a gray, chilly day at Cinema North in Goodlettsville, just north of Nashville, Tennessee. I was seventeen and didn't have many friends. No one wanted to see the movie with me so I was solo. I went in to the theater and discovered that not one seat was occupied. A minute later, I heard the door open and a stranger came in and sat in the back, middle row. It was just me and the stranger in the audience. A couple of trailers. An announcement that the exits were clear. The lights faded. On with the show.

The film broke about 15 minutes in. The manager walked in and said he didn't know how long it would take to fix. We could go see another movie with a complimentary ticket or just hang out until it was fixed. We hung out and talked for awhile.

The stranger was from Vietnam. He barely spoke English. He had no idea what the movie was about; he'd just paid $2 at the box office and pointed at the poster. He was a dishwasher at a Vietnamese restaurant and didn't have occasion to learn much English so this was a welcome relief. He hoped the movie would be good. We sat together in the lonely theater and enjoyed a sheer masterpiece of shoddy, inept, if not sincere, low budget filmmaking. The movie ended and we said our goodbyes.

I'll never know what happened to him. Shortly thereafter, I forgot about the movie until May 9, 1999 when it was shown on the Sci-Fi Channel's hit show "Mystery Science Theatre 3000."

I wonder if my movie theater friend from fourteen years ago saw it too and enjoyed the stinging wit reeled by series host Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett and Kevin Murphy. I wonder if the film's director Charles B. Pierce had fun with it too. The stars of the film who, sadly, never achieved fortune or fame from their craft, probably heard "Uncle Chuck is on television!" Or, maybe they caught a glimpse of their younger selves traipsing along the sweltering, muddy wilderness of southwestern Arkansas running from a stunt man in a poorly made Bigfoot costume. Either way, the artist achieved his goal and everyone had good, clean, goofy good time.

Always create. Someday your legacy might be a gleaming, alabaster skyscraper or a piece of art that is so terrible it's brilliant. Life is for the living and bad movies hold a special place in my heart.

-Jason Goldtrap

[jasongoldtrap]

To Firmly Grasp Destiny

By Jason Goldtrap Jan 3, 2020

Flying Cars have been associated with the ideal future since sci-fi began. Today, 20 years in to the future it remains as attainable as an unfocused picture of Sasquatch. The problem is no one is truly inventing a flying car; instead what they are inventing are airplanes and helicopters; technologies which all ready exist. Cars exist as the majority choice for transportation because they are easy to use, affordable and safe in any kind of weather. Planes, by their very nature, are difficult to master, expensive to operate and maintain and limited by weather.

You can't put fuzzy dice on the rear view mirror of a Cessna 150 and declare it a car no more than you can put a wig on a man and declare him a woman.

I wholeheartedly believe that flying cars are possible if inventors look beyond 20th century technology. Only a proper, four dimensional understanding of gravity will achieve both. In my lifetime, hypersonic jets will fly without the fuselage heating to 400 degrees; they will look like regular planes and be surrounded by a gravity dip in front of the plane which pushes away atmosphere leaving the plane flying in a bubble of refined mass free from the constraints of atmosphere.

A flying car will not be achieved by re-inventing the aeroplane but will be achieved by hence unimaginable thought. The flying car of tomorrow won't look like a car at all. It will look like a sugar cube and will be just as cheap. The passenger will pick up this miniaturized flying platform and state the destination. The skiff, communicating instantly with a network of other skiffs as well as local computers, will unfold into a floating platform about the size of a dinning room table. A small white gate will pop up as it unfolds. It will open to allow the rider onboard and take off. It will travel guided by invisible lasers relaying all necessary information to provide quick and safe travel. Once arrived, skip will unfold and fly back to its owner or maybe a simple container where other skiffs will rest until they are needed. There will be no need to learn to fly. No license. Nothing to purchase.

These things will happen once we think with positive creativity and understand this one factor: Time is the effect of matter in space. All existence happens because of this reality. It is necessary for the maturity of humanity to see beyond expedience and firmly grasp destiny.

[jasongoldtrap]

To Firmly Grasp Destiny

By Jason Goldtrap Jan 3, 2020

Flying Cars have been associated with the ideal future since sci-fi began. Today, 20 years in to the future it remains as attainable as an unfocused picture of Sasquatch. The problem is no one is truly inventing a flying car; instead what they are inventing are airplanes and helicopters; technologies which all ready exist. Cars exist as the majority choice for transportation because they are easy to use, affordable and safe in any kind of weather. Planes, by their very nature, are difficult to master, expensive to operate and maintain and limited by weather.

You can't put fuzzy dice on the rear view mirror of a Cessna 150 and declare it a car no more than you can put a wig on a man and declare him a woman.

I wholeheartedly believe that flying cars are possible if inventors look beyond 20th century technology. Only a proper, four dimensional understanding of gravity will achieve both. In my lifetime, hypersonic jets will fly without the fuselage heating to 400 degrees; they will look like regular planes and be surrounded by a gravity dip in front of the plane which pushes away atmosphere leaving the plane flying in a bubble of refined mass free from the constraints of atmosphere.

A flying car will not be achieved by re-inventing the aeroplane but will be achieved by hence unimaginable thought. The flying car of tomorrow won't look like a car at all. It will look like a sugar cube and will be just as cheap. The passenger will pick up this miniaturized flying platform and state the destination. The skiff, communicating instantly with a network of other skiffs as well as local computers, will unfold into a floating platform about the size of a dinning room table. A small white gate will pop up as it unfolds. It will open to allow the rider onboard and take off. It will travel guided by invisible lasers relaying all necessary information to provide quick and safe travel. Once arrived, skip will unfold and fly back to its owner or maybe a simple container where other skiffs will rest until they are needed. There will be no need to learn to fly. No license. Nothing to purchase.

These things will happen once we think with positive creativity and understand this one factor: Time is the effect of matter in space. All existence happens because of this reality. It is necessary for the maturity of humanity to see beyond expedience and firmly grasp destiny.

[jasongoldtrap]

Rivergate Mall: Story Bear

By Jason Goldtrap 2003

Be vigilant this Yuletide season for an enormous, fury ogre I first encountered at Rivergate Mall in Nashville, Tennessee, 1991. I was a clerk at a jewelry stand; ready for my 9am to 9pm shift.  It was a frosty November morning in Music City. Retirees were strolling past the Cheese Barn. Good–natured, tattooed men with criminal records were emptying the trash. All the world was at peace when what to my wandering eyes did appear but an 18 foot tall, gray furred Story Bear.

He loomed over the fountain squared court in front of the JC Penny’s, wearing a green bow tie and a red Santa’s cap, complete with chromium blue eyes that eerily followed you in a mishmash of Charles Dickens and George Orwell.  And then its voice blared from a dozen wreath laden speakers: “Hello, I’m Story Bear”. He spoke in a warbling, Barney Fife-esque vocalization. “Would you like to hear a story? One time, I saw Santa Claus.” He began singing “Up on the roof top” in an  off key tenor with a slow, plodding beat-  reminiscent of a cow dying from a bowel obstruction.

The most hypnotic aspect of Story Bear was that both his mouth and eyelids were wildly out of sync. At no point, not even by accident, did they match. Even between the blessed but brief pauses between songs, the robot’s jaw just continued opening and closing.

“Can I be your friend? I like having friends. Feliz Navidad”- an attempt to make sure the audio water-boarding was multicultural.

After a seemingly endless abomination of the “12 Days of Christmas” the show abruptly ended. For 60 seconds, there is serenity and employees of The Gap or the Great American Cookie Company could breathe easy, until the nightmarish nineteen minute show started again, meaning, they were treated to this musical, sugar plum homicide twenty-seven times a day.  Each second, the clock would tick tock closer to that magical New Year’s morning, when the evil ursine  is disassembled and crated back to Perdition from whence it came.

In conclusion, if you see Story Bear at your local mall be afraid, be very, very afraid.