Mining, brining and shining.

Yeah, it's bad for your body. But, if you've ever cracked the spine of Tim Kurlansky's "Salt", you know it's pretty good for your imagination.

For instance, who knew Roman Soldiers, after a long day of crucifying, pillaging or merely enforcing the decrees of the emperor, got their wages in salt? From whence comes the root of our 'salary', 'soldier' and the fact that you're totally worth your salt. That was news to me, too. And let's not even get into Lot's wife. What a way to go.

I suspect that Kurlansky moved on from his other great book, the amazing 'Cod', to salt from the fact that the fish was salted for preservation. Maybe not, but that's the way I'd move from one subject to the next: "Okay, I'm done with Cod. So what do I do next? Cod was pretty successful, so maybe I should do something cod-related. Hmm...cod...cod...salt cod...that's it! Salt."

Anyway, as it happens, there are three ways to get your salt. You can mine it. So you spend another day in the salt mines to earn your salary. You can get it from brine, usually by boiling. Or you can do it my favourite way. Just let some sea water dry in the bright mediterranean sunshine. Nice work if you can get it.

Gandhi did his Dandi March to the sea, a protest against the inflated taxes the colonial British we're levying for salt. Kind of a non-violent Kerala Salt Party. He defied the `British Salt Law' by going to the Arabian Sea, basically drying some water and 'making salt'. And that's how that got started. Indian emancipation, I mean.

I love the fact that we can speak salaciously with our salty tongues. That ol' Crusty Mcgee, who sailed the seven seas is an 'Old Salt'. Oh, and if, like me, you loves you some Aerosmith, a little time with 'Uncle Salty, from 'Toys in the Attic' will treat you rrrright.

NaCl - it rocks. It's edible rock. But don't eat too much, or you'll keel. And then, like the Egyptians, you might even by corpsed in the stuff, only to be grimly, but elatedly, dug up by future archaeologists.

Clap. Clap-clap.

Ron Asheton, 2nd from R

Sad to hear about Ron Asheton's passing. The original wizard of motor-city-heavy rawk noize passed away earlier this week at age 60.

I was just listening to 'Tight Pants' by the Stooges. Their signature clap sound - one clap then two in quick succession- splashing out of the mix, surfing the chaos of the band's bang-klang, Iggy's sexually frustrated howls careening off R's buzzsaw fret torture perfectly. It reminded me of the primal power of three chords, and the fact that this was probably done in the late sixties as utopias were crashing down in places like Altamont, the Spahn Ranch and Vietnam. A decade was dying and the Stooges wouldn't let it go gently. But rather rage, rage, rage.

There isn't a kid with a loud guitar out there who doesn't owe Mr. Asheton something.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

RPS. The sport of, if not kings, then everyone else. A game of simple probabilities (33 1/3 - more on that later) that needs less equipment than soccer. The game that even a triple amputee - provided one hand remains - can play. And win. It's a dispute settlement mechanism: "I saw the gold first." "No, I did."

So you throw a set. Or the best two of three.

Rocks beat scissors. Scissors cut paper. Paper smothers rock. The elegance of it is breathtaking.

And yet, there's strategy. Within the simple construct, myriad variables exist: like gender, speed or...PSYCHE!s. It's universal (I think it's called "One, two, three" in Southeast Asia).

It's the active genius of play.

One, two, three, THROW!