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August 23, 2009 - Sunday 2:34 PM

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES Day 5 Sprinkles Edible Art Olympia
by Matty Stone

Deserted Deserts

I remember the first time I went to the Tate Gallery in London as a child. In a desperately misguided moment, perhaps in a nutritionally starved haze, I took a big bite out of a Cezanne. I actually believed I was eating an apple; the damned thing just looked so delicious and was there for the taking. Within seconds, masked, armed security descended upon me. They had me surrounded. The business ends of semi-automatic weapons were pointed at my face as elite guards yelled for me to hit the deck as if I had just broken into Buckingham Palace and peed on the Queen as she slept.

Oh, come on! It was a painting for Christ’s sake; what’s the biggie? The Tate’s lawyers would have been happy to send me to a slave labor camp where I would likely have been forced to wile away my childhood smashing rocks while welded to a chain gang singing songs about their sweetheart "way down in Alabammy." My team of lawyers countered the prosecution's claims that I destroyed a priceless national treasure with a “Where was the toxic warning on the painting? Our client has mental damage from the poisonous paint,” countersuit.
But I digress.

It was with great anticipation that we headed off to Olympia, home of “Sprinkles Edible Art” for the last show on the tour. I promised The Cupcakes that my penchant for gobbling priceless objets d’art was as worn out as the “Fuji # 4120” sticker now covering my childhood dental impressions.

Sprinkles is run by a couple of folks named Michelle and Sam who had a dream. That dream was to create an environment that allowed people to make their own cupcake art. Customers would buy the cupcakes and then decorate them, allowing their artistic expression to run amok. The space would also feature live bands who performed on a stage in the corner of the store to a room full of sugar-fuelled kids and cupcake crazy grown ups.

This was the last show on “The Cupcake Diaries Tour,” and with that knowledge, a chocolaty-vanilla batter of mixed feelings lurched in my tummy. I was going to miss this: traveling to cities I’d never seen, listening to wonderful music every night, and I was especially going to miss being a fly on the wall observing the special bond between two talented musical artists trying to make a go of it during a rough economic time.

AntonetteG started the show. It was a decent crowd for a Sunday, considering that the spot that was a few blocks off of the beaten path. Antonette may have been suffering from the same melancholy that affected my mood as she lost a little of the momentum that had steered her through the best set of the tour the night before. While watching this woman perform, it is hard not to be completely endeared by her charm, stage presence, and most of all her songs, even when (by her own admission) she was not on the top of her game. Perhaps she was influenced by the pervading sadness that hung over the room like a rainy cloud in an old Pink Panther cartoon—more about that in a bit.

Jordan O’Jordan was the creamy sweet filling between The Cupcakes as the sun bid its adieu for the day. Jordan is either waving around a clever stage name or was victim to parental naming cruelty when he sprung forth from his mother. Unless Jordan is actually from the country of Jordan, in which case his name makes complete sense. Regardless, banjo-toting Jo’ o’ J was a strumming storyteller with a sweet sensibility, that once again despite the mood in the room, made the listener feel good.

This is the fourth Tippy Canoe tour that I have been on; I’ve always enjoyed watching the in-between song banter as much as the songs because Tippy’s stage persona is so disarming and funny. However, as much as Tippy has honed her skills in making her audience laugh and feel comfortable, they are ultimately in attendance to hear her songs, and this tour provided some of the best live performances that I have seen in five years of watching the ukulele slinging songbird.

Tippy Canoe was the last musician to perform at “Sprinkles Edible Art” in Olympia (and I really mean that.) The previously mentioned sadness that filled the room was because (in this incarnation,) Michelle and Sam’s cupcake art dream was finished. A week before we flew into Seattle, Michelle contacted Tippy to tell her that she had to cancel the show last minute as she could no longer afford to keep the venue open. The Cupcake Diaries Tour had lost its reason to exist, and in effect cancelled out the relevance of the tour’s name.

Remembering that they still had the space until the end of the month, Sam and Michelle offered to reopen Sprinkles for one last musical and baked goods hurrah. The evening was bittersweet, (which is the saddest kind of sweet.) I saw jars and jars of colorful sprinkles in the display cases just sitting there, waiting to be dropped onto a colorful, desert treat masterpiece created by a 3 year-old baking prodigy.

Michelle and Sam will move on from Sprinkles, and we wish them the best, especially because they succeeded for a while in living their dream. During their run at the cupcake store they gave the people of Olympia alternative sweet treats and provided a little fun and entertainment for folks along the way. And ultimately, that was what the Cupcakes Diaries Tour was all about as well.

After the show, The Cupcakes and I searched for a late-night dinner spot in Olympia, where we would talk of all the great and fun experiences we had been through in the last week. I for one was sorry to see the last crumbs of the cupcake licked off of the plate, but as Tippy, Antonette, Sam, and Michelle will tell you, after every great cupcake adventure, there is a bigger, sweeter, more colorful cupcake escapade lurking not far behind.

--- Matty Stone, Writer, Cartoonist, and Official Tippy Canoe Blogeographer, August 2009

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August 19, 2009 - Wednesday 11:33 PM

The Cupcakes Diaries Tour: Day 4 Eugene OR
by Matty Stone, Official Blogeographer


It’s Orange and Red and Looks Good on a Hippie?
---"What is Fire?" Alex.

Much like all the cities on The Cupcakes Tour, I’d never been to Eugene, Oregon. I had mixed feelings about going to a place that I was told was a “Hippie Town.” (Even by Oregonian standards.) And so when we hit up William Shatner for a place to crash for the night, I was thrilled when the Priceline Negotiator scored a deal for us at the luxurious Hippie-free Eugene Hilton Hotel.

The Cupcakemobile rolled into town, and much as I expected the predictable stank of patchouli punctuated the air with its invasive aroma. As we drew closer to the sounds of the beating drum circle, I knew that I was in for a long day. We passed slowly through the town square a few blocks from our Hippie-free refuge. I saw an overweight 15-year old boy wearing a tie-dye t-shirt holding a sign offering “Free Hugs.” Yeah, I’ll be getting right in on that, let me go and put on my patented world-famous porcupine suit first.

We landed at the Hilton and found ourselves on the fifth floor with a view of downtown Eugene. I slid open the window and could still hear the incessant beating of the native’s drums. While The Cupcakes relaxed before putting on their stage icing and sprinkles, I headed downstairs to the bar with my laptop and began to work on the tour diaries, wishing that I actually got paid for this.

The venue for the show in Eugene was another pizza place (sweet) called “Cozmic Pizza.” Hey, man, like…far out. Cozmic Pizza has a strange policy regarding their entry fee. They advertise that the cost is $8 at the door, not unusual, but then don’t provide a door person to enforce that. When asked about this policy the employees leapt into “uber-defensive” mode as if this is an issue that they have to deal with every night.

The venue is large and impressive, and to expect touring bands to provide a door person to enforce their admission requirements is unheard of, and quite possibly illegal. After all, let’s say, hypothetically, that I offered to work the door and take the money. I make my little sign informing the guests the price of admission. Then every single person that comes through the door hems and haws about paying $8. So, I start to get a bit irritated. Let’s say the 15-year old in the tie-dye shirt is all hugged out and approaches me and my little sign with his Birkenstock-wearing parents. Papa Hippie says, “Oh, man, I don’t have 8 bucks, you should just let us in, man. Music should be free.” And I say something like, “Three musical acts have traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles to entertain you. And I’m not just talking about sitting around slapping your tambourine every 3 seconds completely out of time with any other person in your little circle-jerk-love-fest. Actual talented people who do this for a living.”

Then Mama Hippie takes umbrage at my tone and remembering her days in college as the captain of the Republican Debate Team forgets her mellow and says something offensive to me (this is all hypothetical now, remember.) I say something back, Papa Hippie shoves me. I shove back. Next thing you know there’s a brouhaha. The teenager falls in the scuffle, breaks his wrist and next thing you know “Cozmic Pizza” are on the receiving end of an angry lawsuit led by Jacoby & Douchebag, injury lawyer specialists. Like I said, all hypothetical.

The show itself was excellent; Cozmic Pizza had a winning combination going: a crowd eager to listen, and a room with a good sound man and great acoustics. The folks enjoyed Tippy Canoe and those that were initially reluctant to pay the admission would surely have felt they got their money’s worth from her performance alone. She also managed to get the audience to sing along on the chorus of “Sleep, Sleep My Dear.” It's a treat to watch a group of people that have never heard a song before, sing along perfectly and with passion.

AntonetteG filled the middle slot for this show and was also spot-on, providing Eugene with her best show of the tour so far. Smiling and beaming like a proud teenager after every finishing every delightful song.

Closing the show: the incredibly impressive Fishtank Ensemble, a band comprised of Europeans and Americans that not only create life-enriching music that conjure images of life in the Mediterranean, but also have the versatility to do Mozart and even a bluesy rendition of “Fever.” The stand up bass player is in another band called Head Cat with Stray Cat, Slim Jim Phantom and Motorhead’s Lemmy. (More my cup of tea, I suspect) At the end of their set Fishtank Ensemble received a standing ovation. It is likely something that happens a lot as they seemed unfazed by the (by now) generous crowd.

So everyone left happy and we returned to our 4-star sanctuary. The jungle beating drums now replaced by the 2 a.m. drunken howlings of armies of white collegiate Twenty-Somethings desperate to let visitors to Eugene know that loud monosyllabic shrieking can be just as obnoxious as anything that the Hippies have to throw at them.

---Matty Stone, Writer, Cartoonist, and Official Tippy Canoe Blogeographer

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August 19, 2009 - Wednesday 10:53 PM

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES TOUR: Day 2 Seattle WA
by Matty Stone, Official Blogeographer

Sweet Sweet Love

I’ve always found the rain comforting. It makes me want to turn up the heat and curl up like a cat and stare vacantly out of the window. Even without a view of anything in particular, I can watch the raindrops race each other down the window pane and be entertained for ages. I delight in watching the umbrella-less scurry from shelter to shelter like confused piles of wet laundry. I like the restaurants, cafes, and all night check cashing places whose storefront neon reflections bounce off of the wet sidewalk. I like the sound of the rain, it’s soothing. And when it’s raining outside there’s no pressure to do a thing--nothing at all...that is unless you happen to be the “Cupcake Diary Tour” personal assistant to Tippy Canoe and Antonette G. in which case you very quickly discover that in the rain, the previously anonymous hole in your shoe has desires to see your once cozy sock make squelching sounds every three seconds. After a few minutes I succumbed and had no issue walking the rainy Emerald City streets. Getting rained on in Seattle is kind of like drinking Guinness in Ireland, its just better.

After the show in Bellingham “The Cupcakes” next show was in Seattle. Tippy and I ate breakfast in Bellingham at a cool diner/shack called “Diamond Jim's” and then stopped off at a store dedicated to everything “Wonderbread.” It was a never-ever-ever going to expire sweet treat wonderland. Row upon row of colorfully presented tooth-rotting goodness.

“Wonderbread World” the whitest place on Earth.

I saw cupcakes and Twinkies and Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos and everything you could want for your fiber-free white trash diet. I started snapping pictures as anyone would when suddenly finding themselves in a theme park dedicated to the pursuit of diabetes. I snapped shots of polka-dot wrapped loafs of bread comprised almost entirely of air and gazed in awe at the boxed mini-donut aisle. The sole employee of Wonderbread World, a middle aged woman who shuffled along the aisles restocking the plastic wrapped packets of high fructose corn syrupy magic, occasionally glanced up at me with an expression that read: “Why are you taking pictures in here?” I thought about explaining my joy at the “egregious use of primary colors in the store” or pointing out that the store was just “too kitschy to go undocumented” in my effort to explain my desire to capture the sugary snack haven on film. Just as I decided against it, a couple of mustachioed John Deere baseball cap wearing, beer-bellied construction workers walked into Wonderbread World in search of some donuts. I smiled at them nervously and slid my camera in my pocket. I hurried Tippy along towards the exit. The stickers on their truck indicated a pro-killing-anti-liberal stance, but I survived without incident.

We arrived in Seattle and met Antonette’s lovely friends Andrea and Laurent who live in an amazing house perched on a hill with sweeping views of Lake Washington. A place as beautiful and tranquil as any since Tippy, Uni, and I stayed with Alethea and Mars in their home in Williamstown Massachuetts on the “Golden Parasols Tour” in June ’08.

We landed at the venue: Conor Byrne in Ballard: a cool neighborhood in Seattle. Conor Byrne is an Irish pub. Having been to the occasional Irish pub or two in my time (ahem) I recognized that the formula for the “American” Irish Pub is always the same no matter what U.S. state you happen to be drinking in: Guinness on draft--naturally, a traditional Irish saying on the wall, and of course the obligatory huge painting of James Joyce hanging on the wall. (As my friend Michelle points out, it’s always the same one of him wearing the cap.)

The turnout at Conor Byrne was small, but it was a fun night in spite of this. “The Native Guerillas,” a trio of musically talented local young men headlined the show and were great, and so it was surprising that there weren’t more “bottoms on seats.” The Native Guerillas play old-timey and roots and in my humble and often worthless opinion, I think a name change wouldn’t be amiss, as their band didn’t fit their stage personalities or the musical styles which they encompass.

The next morning, Andrea upped the sugar-level ante by coming back from an early morning excursion with a huge box of amazing and colorful donuts from a place called “Top Pot.” Homer Simpson would have had an orgasm in his tight blue pants while drooling and mumbling incomprehensively at the sweet, sweet sugary goodness. The Cupcakes and I sat around the kitchen table high on coffee and donuts listening to our generous hosts tell incredible stories. My favorite was the one about Andrea’s father who while making a cash deposit at the bank, single-handedly thwarted an armed robber in Seattle recently. Apparently the bank’s cameras captured it all on tape. Now that’s badass.

On Day 1 of our tour, we were 10 miles outside of Bellingham coming in from Seattle when we saw flashing blue and red lights zooming up behind us. Ugh, let the stomach churning begin. The 70 mph sign had just changed to 60 and we had been doing 73. Oh, snap! Oh, and we happened to be flashing Oregon plates on our Cupcakemobile,. Although I’m so totally sure that the Washington State Trooper wouldn’t have taken that into consideration as he issued the ticket. “$144 please, suckers!” Fearing that we might once again become victim to an over-zealous highway patrol officer, we were thankful that Andrea and Laurent gave us the large box of donuts that we couldn’t finish as leverage in case we got pulled over again.

“License and registration, please.”
“Why certainly, officer. Oh, my, there appears to be a giant maple bear claw just sitting right here on my paperwork.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Call it what you will.”
“I could arrest you for that.”
“Oh, just eat the damned thing, fatty! We both know you want it. Besides, even without a couple of extra sweet ‘Cupcakes’ prettying up your state, there’s plenty of sugary baked snack goods for everyone, and then some.”

Coming next: What happens when a couple of “Cupcakes” meet a diabetic cat named Nigel in Portland. Stay tuned.

---Matty Stone, Writer, Cartoonist, and Official Tippy Canoe Blogeographer, August 2009

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August 19, 2009 - Wednesday 10:33 PM

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES TOUR: DAY 1, pt. 2
by Matt Stone, Official Blogeographer

Bellingham WA- Froggies, Doggies and Fabric-ated Moggies

The Cupcake Diaries monster baked goods truck rolled into Bellingham early Wednesday afternoon among a flurry of icing sugar and multi-colored sprinkles so sweet that your taste buds dare not send an approval to digest. (Lest serious injuries to the pancreas--your sugar/insulin balancing organ--are incurred.)

After relaxing in our room for a little, I ventured to the hotel bar while “The Cupcakes” AntonetteG and Tippy Canoe, slept in their little papery wrinkled beds. I don’t nap; I can’t. I’ve never have been able to. Maybe it has something to do with my inability to randomly drool on my pillow at 2 pm (an involuntary salivation which I understand is a pre-requisite of the afternoon nap.) If I miss sleep the night before, I just play catchup the following night. So, while the talent slept and dreamed of conquering the North Western states, I acquainted myself with the hotel bartender. I sat at the bar and surveyed my beery options. Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner! Blue Moooon, I saw you standing alone…and so I had to drink you.

I rejoined the rejuvenated cupcakes and after sampling the complimentary wine and cheese in the lobby we headed to the venue. As we walked into “The Green Frog” I wondered why they didn’t choose a color for the frog that was a little less predictable, like: “The Mauve Frog” or an adjective that surprised or even shocked a little: “The Gangrenous Amphibian” or maybe something like: “The Legless Parisian Lillypad Dweller That Died of Ennui.” Anything had to be better than “The Green Frog”

After a few steps into the bar I realized I was treading on a texture that could be best described as crunchy. I was momentarily distracted by a large black dog that almost bowled me over: a friend of the house I assumed. I looked down to investigate the source of the crunching sounds and expected to see cockroaches scurrying for their lives, as the giant be-booted monster wiped out a civilization of allegedly indestructible insects. The light constant crunch underfoot made me nauseated. .

Much to my relief, I had been walking on peanut shells, which is great unless you have the kind of nut allergy that just hearing a rumor about a peanut being in the same room might kill you. Although I don’t like peanuts, my nut affliction isn’t so extreme. It did however lead me to wonder if the floor was ever cleaned, and if so, how that might happen. Perhaps they have one of those Flintstones baby elephant vaccuum cleaners that sucks up some shells and then breaks the fourth wall by looking at you and saying something like “And you think your job sucks nuts!” Waaap-waaap-waaap-waaaap waaah!!

I can only assume that they have a team of janitors who Dry-Vac the shells up and then by hand sift out the broken glass, wilted beer coasters, particles of pizza puke, rodent feces, guitar picks, rotting teeth lost after a bar room brawl, dehydrated contact lenses, missing I.D.‘s, and doggy doo. The alternative is that the shells remain there in perpetuity, a thought too disgusting to over-contemplate.

The show started out with the wonderful Jasmine Riley who is understandably a local favorite in Bellingham. Her voice had a little bit of a country twang thrown in with a little bit of Carole King (both in voice and writing style). She played guitar and was joined onstage by a violinist/fiddler named Kat Bula. As appetizers go Jasmine Riley and Kat were closer to an entrée. Be sure to save some room kids because there’s much more to come.

Up next, AntonetteG, a guitar wielding songbird whose songs and voice are both vulnerable and powerful. Antonette weaves complex harmonies within her songs which arc from the plight of a soldier’s mother to the flightful fancy and scathing wordplay of political evildoing in a tune disguised as a medieval fairy tale. Others, like the whimsical “My Horseshoe” (a love song written by a mom for her children) will put a lump in your throat.

Tippy Canoe, who needs about 1. 3 seconds to introduce herself to any random canine milling around a crowded bar, was up next. Rasputin was his name and when not chasing balls and absconding with the official tour and tip mascot, simply known as “The Kitty,” Rasputin offered his own brand of caterwauling on backing vocals.

Uke-slinging Tippy, who has been known to welcome dogs as honorary Paddlemen, couldn’t have been happier. Tippy played all the one-hit wonders on her debut album “Parasols & Pekingese” (sense the doggy-love here?) It was everything that a man and his best friend could want.

The highlight of my trip to Bellingham was meeting up with two of my dearest friends: Ryan and Michelle Hayes. I also finally got to meet their baby boy Liam who is still in the observing and taking-it-all-in phase which, based on his dad, will probably never end. Ryan told me that I needed to have a “Mac & Jacks” (as it was his new favorite beer.) Since Ryan and I have consumed many a malty beverage together, I trust his judgment and will try my first Mac & Jacks when we hit Seattle tomorrow afternoon.

Speaking of which, Seattle, I expect you to be the perfect stereotype of yourself: lots of coffee shops, copious rainfall, and Nirvana 24/7 blaring from the car radio. If I don’t get all these things, I’m going to leap from my Virgin Airlines fight from Seattle shortly after takeoff and commit seppuku by impaling myself on your Space Needle: a monument I’m told was erected especially to commemorate your high rate of heroin-related overdoses and suicides.

---Matty Stone, Writer, Cartoonist, and Official Tippy Canoe Blogeographer, August 2009

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August 19, 2009 - Wednesday 10:05 PM

THE CUPCAKE DIARIES TOUR DAY 1
by Matt Stone, Official Blogeographer

Rave On, Buddy, Rave On

One of the things I love about New York City nightclubs is that once you’re inside the joint you are probably in the safest square footage of the entire city. That is, after you get past the metal detectors, the thorough ID check, and past the bouncer who is sneering at you because you kinda look like that guy who once said something about his mother. Nothing says “come on in and have fun” like a heavy-handed patdown from a man with shaved bear paws where his hands should be. The guy even made me take off my boots. I guess to make sure I wasn’t carrying a blade. These things I put up with in the knowledge that if they’re checking me out so carefully, then they’ve definitely got their eyes out for the psycho armed with the fourteen inch bayonet who might have an unscheduled moment of insanity and start skewering revelers three at a time like a shish kebab.

After being given the go ahead to enter the club, I felt a rush of excitement in anticipation at what the night was about to throw at us. With intrepid clubsters Tippy Canoe and AntonetteG in tow, I headed to the lobby where most of the other patdown survivors stood and joined their growing line. Their necks craned at odd angles to see if they could see what or who was up ahead. I only tagged myself at the end of the line because I figured that this was the first step in the chain to get an over-priced “hand-crafted” cocktail. The line shuffled slowly towards the main room and I saw what appeared to be the glow of a black light ahead. As I drew closer, I realized the light was being emitted from neon purple strips which lined the ceilings, Cocktail lounge acid jazz slithered mellifluously through the room and the heads in line began to bob with the beats.

Every now and again a smooth female DJ with a voice like honey interrupted us from our trances with announcements about safety protocols and emergency exits, (in case there was an emergency situation in the club.) Okaaaaay, that‘s a bit strange, maybe it‘s a fire code thing. Things became more bizarre when the DJ told us what the weather was like in Seattle. What do I care about that? I’m about to get down with a fruity iridescent blue martini at New York’s hottest new nightclub right? Besides, let me guess--it’s raining? When the DJ said something about fastening seatbelts, it slowly dawned on me that we weren’t in a club, not in New York, and it wasn’t even night. It was 6 in the morning! But where are we? Everything that just happened (the security, the lines, the music, the lighting, the buzz) it all felt so real; I knew I hadn’t imagined it.
I double-checked my surroundings to make sure I wasn’t losing my marbles, and was suddenly awoken from my walking coma by the sound of an airplane taking off nearby. Oh my God, I’m at an airport, on a frikkin’ plane…and not just any metal bird: a super-hip, Virgin Atlantic 747 fueled by money made from The Rolling Stones, Roy Orbison, and MC Skat Kat. Well that explains EVERYTHING! Sex, drugs, and Rock and Roll at 35,000 feet baby! Virgin Atlantic Airlines. Not your mother’s airline!

Oh, yeah, that’s right I’m going on tour with Tippy Canoe and AntonetteG. The three of us flying to Seattle to bounce around and make merry. They’ll strum and sing and I’ll tap out some drivel on my keyboard trying to tie it all together. I remember this.

With the right blend of passengers, Virgin Atlantic Airlines Flight 740 from San Francisco to Seattle could have been the craziest party flight ever. (A rave to end all raves-- if you’re into that sort of thing.) Man, this is like my kind of airline! I reached my hand up to adjust the air pressure and suddenly felt a wave of euphoria. Hello, Euphoria, I’ve missed you. I usually find you moments after a series of transactions with the airport bartender, or after swallowing a valium to soothe my pre-flight nerves regarding the impending “in your face” we were about to wave in front of the laws of physics.

I came to. What was that sudden rush all about? Why it was an oxygen/pheromone cocktail wafting in my ol’ factories courtesy of the Virgin Airlines Pleasure Control Center or as other airlines call it “cockpit.”

I’m not a big fan of flying, my imagination gets the better of me. As the plane is about to take off, I start thinking of stupid last words that people said to each other before they boarded their doomed flight. The night Buddy Holly died, Waylon Jennings joked to his friend, “I hope that plane of yours crashes, Buddy.”

What was the last stupid thing someone said to me before I got on this death-rave with wings? Who knows? I looked at the cocktails on offer from the menu of choices. I suppose dawn is too early to be drinking, right? Hell no it ain’t. Not if this sucker’s going down it’s not. Well I could get a Miller Lite for $6…this gets more and more like a Manhattan club by the minute. What the hell? A Mojito? They actually make a Mojito? but they call their rum-based beverage a “Mile-High Mojito!” Clever, huh?

“Hey, Captain Peterson, can you check the altitude co-ordinates and fight patterns later? The guy in Seat 3B actually ordered one of those Mojitos and you’re the only one here that knows how to make it.”

R.I.P. Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and 16 year old Ritchie Valens. Yep, just three touring musicians forever linked in history. They say that bad weather was likely the cause of the crash that day in ’59, but maybe the pilot got distracted while mixing up some minty concoctions for Holly and the Big Bopper. Maybe The Bopper spat out the drink and yelled, “You call this a fuckin’ Mojito!” Maybe those were his last words.

2009 is the fiftieth anniversary of Buddy Holly’s plane crash. As I looked around at the various superficial distractions in the giant doomed deathtrap I was sitting in, I thought, What would Buddy Holly have made of this?

---Matty Stone, Writer, Cartoonist, and Official Tippy Canoe Blogeographer, August 2009

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August 19, 2009 - Wednesday 9:40 AM

Tippy Canoe and a tour too -Interview with The Olympian - Olympia, Washington

http://www.theolympian.com/living/story/ 938277.htmlwww.theolympian.com/living/story/ 938277.html

Tippy Canoe and a tour too - Living - The Olympian - Olympia, Washington
Tippy chats with writer Molly Gilmore and blames it all on a famous 70's actress.

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June 17, 2009 - Wednesday 3:35 PM

Tippy Canoe - The Timeless Romantic (San Francisco Chronicle/"Off the Record", June, 2009)

"Michele Kappel is Tippy Canoe. Her vocal range and sound could teleport your mind to a smokey bar in Paris. Your love interest left you for another. She told you in French.

She told you on a bench at Luxembourg Gardens. You flicked your cigarette and walked away. Without a goodbye. Without an au revoir. You were cool.

Then, at the smoky bar in Paris, you're on the third drink and another cigarette. Tippy Canoe strums her ukulele and sings her heart out. Tears well up in your eyes."

--- Tony DuShane

Read it in full at: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/offtherecord/detail?entry_id=41464