That there's some more classic Whales Standing Up art from Mr Olaf Mary, circa 2004.
I've had nothing but good experiences with couchsurfing.com. I've stayed with lovely hosts in Europe, & hosted lovely travelers from Europe, North & South America. Sometimes tho, I get a request from a crazy person, & I think this one wins the award for craziest request. It was from a 20-year-old girl from Nova Scotia:Okay. I am leaving _____ and coming to Berkeley toset up camp. I am a crazy girl but I do have a lot ofguts. I am going to run my own cafe/resto/bar and it'sgoing to be government funded. Why the hell not? I havea small debt to pay but what I would like to do is payfor a massage course which I have also done in _____.I need to be able to practise legally with a goodreputation in order to support myself while...Anyway Iam looking for a room in an artist commmunity/house.Hippy, environmentalist. Forward mided people only noscumbag student know it alls. No beurocratic bullshit.I like clutter but not dirt. Not smelly. I want to beable to pay $300 a month and be aroundtwenty-thirty-eight year olds. Only. If possible. Notinterested in having sex, already got somebody. Butreally what I will be doing is starting a herd of wildhorses. I will be owning my own property soon andliving happily ever after. The end. Still need mydriver's liscence. Want have dogs off leashes andoutdoor cats. Goats are better lawnmowers thanlawnmowers. Etc. My mother. did this in Ohio where Iwas born she did it well and I suppose she's happyenough. I like it there. Good enough. anyway=I amlooking for a place to stay until I find myroom/roommate cafe job artist/activist housingsituation but no ugly minded people no bullies. I liketravellors but I don't want to live in a punk house.Punk's dead happened in the 80s. We're starting newnow. Time to stop bitching and get on with it. Soanyway. If you are at all available for a chat on thephone I am thinking of leaving on the twenty-ninth.Could we please chat? I think I will be staying onlyfor three days at a time until I find what I am lookingfor. I will be flying to SAn Fran and then taking thebus to Berkeley. Will not have much stuff but will comeprepared. I'll need to buy a phone right away so if youknow of a cheap pay as you go phone right on. Let meknow if you can help me out at all. thanks a lot man.bunches. -S_____
Thanks to Miss Martichka for finally sending these photos she took in Silistra (on the beautiful brownish Danube) this summer, of Mr Olaf Mary & myself posing as goth teenagers. We can pull it off. This was after sitting at a street cafe drinking Zagorka for a record six-or-so hours. Happy Black Friday.
Thank you, Huffington Post, for this "Why I Love Thanksgiving" essay by Bob Saget:Thanksgiving is a time of family. A time of reflection. A time of giving. And a time of stuffing. It is a time when a man or woman, sometimes a slightly intoxicated man or woman, crams their butter-coated hand into a turkey's butt. [...]
I don't mean to be crass. Technically, it's not actually the turkey's butt. It's more of his 'back hole' -- or if I may be more detailed since my father was knowledgeable in the world of poultry, the turkey's 'two back holes' -- one larger 'back hole' that's really just the under side of the rib cage, and one above the turkey's hangy dangly thing that our family would cook, serve, and eat, but never discuss what it was exactly. When I was younger, my dad would joke with me that I should put that thing under my pillow and that night, the turkey butt fairy would come. I loved my dad more than anything but his sense of humor frightened me.
[...]
When I drive past a house during the holidays, and I see the smoke billowing out of a fireplace, I know, that inside that house, on that kitchen table, there's a turkey carcass, open-winged, open-legged, its body ripped apart and eaten by the entire family. If that turkey could talk, its last words would probably be, "I'll see you all in hell!! And which one of you ate my hangy dangly thing that used to be my ass!!"
"Funny thing about Martians. They were probably the most advanced society, that is, they related to each other on a level we never could, until they ran afoul of us, of course."
Earl stirred the embers. His two companions had an adamant trust in him when it came to two things: the building of the fire and the nature of Martians. He disclosed his knowledge only when starting or reviving his fires and they never knew whether his trademark gestures were part of the ritual of the fire or the story. It was clear only that they were inseparable. Monica used to say that the way he sniffed at the smoke just made him delusional but she followed him anyway for the stories.
Earl's mouth remained hidden behind his mustache as he droned on. The stories rarely presented entirely new material to his disciples, but there was always something, if they listened hard enough, for them to consider.
"They're severed now, you see. Lost and alone. An empty sense of propriety is the only reason they still greet each other in the old way. It won't last more than another generation or two. "
Jackson punctuated a snort by abruptly shoving the rabbit onto the spit. "Don't sound much different from us, Earl." Monica kicked him in the shin without sparing him an annoyed glance.
"They're digging now, some of them. The ones with a shred of hope left still believe. Maybe there's a reason they're here on Earth, maybe a connection is possible. Some primal sense is leading them underground leaving open the question. Do we follow?"
Earl dove away from the fire as a burst of flame came at him, singeing his already white mustache. "Well, sir. I reckon that's burning." He glanced at Monica who was still focused only on him. "That's about it, girl. That's the show. Hear anything interesting this evening?"
Monica shook her head. "Do you really think that's what we should do? Follow them?"
Earl produced a tarnished silver flask with a State of Texas emblem and took an infinitesimal pull. "Did I say that? Sure doesn't sound like me."
Jackson arranged the skinned rabbit over the flames, too close to the embers for Monica's tastes. He returned her stare. "Charred on the outside, juicy on the inside just the way you like it. Unless you'd like to take over."
"Well, sir. It's getting a bit too hot around for me," mumbled Earl as he stumbled away from the fire. Finding a smooth rock a few dozen feet away, he plopped down and faced away from the fire and his companions.
The moon was nothing but a sliver in the dark blue evening sky. They weren't close to their destination; he'd seen trees, a canopy hiding all trace of the sky. He wasn't sure if he should be running toward his visions or away from them, but having no idea where he was anyway, he just followed his nose. When he held the flask above his head, he saw the flames dancing in the silver reflection. State of Texas, a cow's skull, something from before. The flask was a damn good find.
The flames disappeared from the picture. "Well, you just couldn't wait to come over, could you?"
Monica put her back against the opposite side of the rock and focused her eyes on Jackson's movements. For a man with such a thuggish approach to cooking, he certainly enjoyed doting on his future meals, adjusting the rabbits placement in the fire every few seconds. Producing a hand-full of salt from his pocket, he administered it in pinches over the sizzling carcass.
"Well, Jackson isn't much of a conversationalist and I can keep an eye on him from here."
"I can't say I'm much of one either, girl," replied Earl, waving his arm in an absent offer of whiskey that he knew would be declined.
"Were you serious at the end there, Earl? Digging? Sometimes I think you wake up early and just pull shit out of your ass."
Earl was used to her affected skepticism and responded with only a cough. The words that came out of him weren't really his and he counted on Monica to interpret them more than he'd care to admit. He dug his hand into the sand and let it run through his fingers.
"They never did anything like that before. You know that. Everyone knows that. "
That was all she'd say on the matter. Earl knew the way her mind worked; she needed to sleep on the new stuff for at least one night. Instead of responding, he reclined further into the sand and asked her, "Will you tell me the story again? About the day we met..."
Monica sighed. "If you can call that meeting," she retorted. She'd told him the story a hundred times and had refined it into its current version. Still, she knew of its meditative effect for both of them and it would be some time before Jackson declared the charred rabbit ready.
"I still don't believe you don't remember, but all right." She ran her hands through her black hair as she began her story in a monotone that gradually became more animated. "I was working in that tavern just outside of Providence, serving, bringing travelers beer, food, or whatever. I hated it. I remember seeing you. You looked a lot younger then, especially without that stupid mustache that makes you look sixty. You were messing with the fire, something that we didn't like the customers doing, but it was slow that night and the owner was in the back somewhere and I just didn't care much.
"Anyway, four big bearded guys rolled in about then, must have been around 11, I bet. They were carrying..." Here she paused, squinting at Jackson as he licked some of the rabbit juices off his finger.
"They were carrying something between them. I couldn't see right away, but when they got inside, I saw it was a long pole with a body hanging off it. One of them. They were all laughing to themselves like a bunch of drunks, looking like damn cannibals if you asked me. 'Beer!' they yelled at me. That's when it started thrashing around. The damn thing was alive. One of them turned around and just hit it with his fist and that shut it up for a bit.
"But there was no way I was serving them, right? The owner, Jack, he came out when he heard the commotion. When he saw what they were carrying in, he nearly flipped. He told them to get the hell out, of course, but they were all riled up and pretty soon he was trying to negotiate with them. One beer and then they'd leave, all right? Of course, that never works and Jack should have known it. So I brought them their beers.
"Meanwhile they'd just thrown it on one of the tables, started pouring some of their beers on it. After a while I saw that Jack was drinking too, which I'd never seen him to do. When he disappeared into the office, I just brought them out a few pitchers and came and sat next to you. You were just sitting staring at it, the whole time. But you might have been worthless and weird, but I liked the look of you better than them and you were big enough that maybe...
"And then it all happened real fast. Jack came out with a shotgun yelling for them to get out. One of them just jumped and reached for something. Jack shot him and he fell right across the thing on the table. I just sat and watched and Jack seemed more surprised than me. That's when they all jumped on him. Cut him open like a pig, yelling but also laughing a little. I just grabbed hold of you.
"They were all occupied with Jack even though he must have died right away. It got loose somehow. You should have seen, the way you kept staring at it. Anyway, just in a flash. One two three. They were all dead without even a scream between them. And it was staring at us, as close as I've ever seen one dead or alive, but all I could really see were its eyes, glowing a kind of green. Not red like they're supposed to be. It seemed like it was looking right at you and then it disappeared out the door just like that.
"After all that, you just opened your mouth and said, 'that's new. They've never done that before.' That was it. No explanation.
"You lit out that morning. And I followed you because I couldn't think of much else to do. Actually, it was the same reason I sat next to you the night before. You may be a freak, but I feel safe around you."
Finishing her story, Monica stood up and walked toward Jackson. He was brandishing a charred rabbit on a stick as if it was a new toy and she was a child. "Come on now, darling, you know you want some of this."
Monica shoved him hard in the chest as she took hold of the stake in her other hand and, without ceremony, dug her teeth into the rabbit's burnt flesh. "You know what I like, Jackson," she said, spitting out a bone. Taking the knife from her belt, she cut off the rabbit's head. Holding it cupped in her hands, she walked over to Earl, kneeled before him, and held it under his nose. He smiled past her at the moon, took the rabbit, and nodded.
I never knew that it was the woman who wrote "Mary Had a Little Lamb", Sarah Josepha Hale, who campaigned to make Thanksgiving a national holiday. Or, as the wikipedia elegantly puts it: "She famously campaigned for the creation of the American holiday known as Thanksgiving." I love the stiff prose of wikiworld. Hale was also an advocate for eating the American bird known as turkey. Turkeys are found in the American continent known as North America. Here's your wikipedia history lesson of the day:Hale is credited as the individual most responsible for making Thanksgiving a national holiday in the United States; it had previously been celebrated only in New England. Each state scheduled its own holiday, some as early as October and others as late as January; it was largely unknown in the American South. Her advocacy for the national holiday began in 1846 and lasted 17 years before it was successful. In support of the proposed national holiday, she wrote letters to five Presidents of the United States -- Zachary Taylor, Millard Filmore, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, and Abraham Lincoln. Her initial letters failed to persuade, but the letter she wrote to Lincoln did convince him to support legislation establishing a national holiday of Thanksgiving in 1863.
Impressive. What a legacy! Both "Mary Had a Little Lamb" & Thanksgiving? That's like being credited with creating both smiles & kittens. I need to start writing repeated letters to as many presidents as possible to advocate for McGonagall Supper to become official. (McGonagall Supper is a dinner in honor of bad poetry held on September 29th, the day William McGonagall, the English language's worst poet, died. Mark your calendars! Write to your representative!) In the meantime, happy thanksgiving, & I leave you with the subtly secular Walt Whitman quote I read as our prayer before our family's thanksgiving dinner every year:The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are.
-Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road (1892)
I was reading this story by the great Bulgarian writer Elin Pelin. Because it's written in a certain dated conversational style (I think. Help Bulgarians?) I was having some trouble on a few points. So I decided to plug it into Google Translate. I am now more confused:Stravnitsa bear appeared, and the girls in wells izpoyala, outbreaks of grandmothers, the elders in the taverns, the children in the streets. Nobody is not hired to kill the bear, the village from evil to escape.
Hired to be clever Gyuro mighty smart. Gyuro led them in forest green on varhishta and valleys, led them, swore them - to bear captured, alive or dead in the village to bring.
Gone, wandering, falls, becoming - Mechata hole reached.
Delighted to be clever Gyuro mighty smart.
- Hey you you, metsano Todor - shouted Gyuro - come to dine!
Bear Zarena stravnitsa hole in condensers. Rhubarb and does not go.
- Wait, I'll teach you! - Smart Gyuro cried also, and said to his comrades smart: - Tie me around the waist with a strong rope, pa me out the sword hole, bears live stravnitsa ear to download.
Heroes tied smart and clever Gyuro hole he placed the sword.
Nutty metsana Todora clever head and Gyuro Zarena.
- Oh, catch it! Here, Gyuro! - Smart and cried zadarpali rope.
They pulled outward, pulling the bear inside. Bear pulling inward, outward, they pull!
At one time - just to see! Made use clever Gyuro headless ...
Chudom wonder smart heroes.
- Well, de Gyuro his head?
- But you know he had a head?
- I think he had.
- Pa. I think it would.
- There.
- None.
Broil smart heroes and can not decide - I had a clever head Gyuro or not! And they went to ask the bride Gyurovitsa. Knocked, knocked on the door:
- Come, come, wife Gyurovitse, tell us - I had Gyuro head or not!
Gyurovitsa bride gone, scratched out thought, PA said:
- I know!
- Ka-would not you know? Think! ...
- Well, you know ... For Easter Gyuro buy their cap, and had to have head.
Someone on Twitter named awork wrote "I generally like the music of NIco Muhly but the vocal on The Only Tune is obnoxious", which was promptly retweeted by both Sam Amidon & Nico Muhly. The tweet linked to lala.com, where I see you can listen to the whole piece, which you should if you haven't heard it yet, from Muhly's 2008 album Mothertongue. I heard them do it live twice last year in San Francisco & L.A. The picture is of a Humpback Whale tongue, get your mind out of the gutter.
One of my favorite songs, "Children of Darkness", is now added to my special Friends Around the Campfire Special Summer Electric Ukulele Covers Project. It was originally recorded by Mimi & Richard Fariña in 1965 - I first learned it from Joan Baez's 1967 version. And the deconstructed winds in my sloppy homemade production are a nod to Professor Peter Schickele's arrangements from that album. Download this mp3 here. More Friends Around the Campfire.
Mrs Eley points us to this website Strange Maps (strangemaps.wordpress.com) which has an ongoing series of Accidental Geography. They dub the phenomenon "Cartocacoethes: (i.e. the uncontrollable urge to see maps in everyday, non-cartography-related objects)". Besides the interesting images of recognizable map-shapes lurking in the mundane, there's some nice puns & portmanteaus in good use: like "squagellan", the gnawed pumpkin South America to the left, a "portmanteau of the culprit [the squirrel who bit the pumpkin], and the explorer Magellan (who sailed around the continent along the Straits that bear his name)." 
As for the United Steak, they suspect the artist of tampering with the image, but it is a potent icon. More of these here. including a Gingerbread District of Columbia, a doormat Estonia, & a cornflake in the shape of Illinois.
While there's a raging debate about what to call this decade - the New York Times solicited catchy tags from readers here - has anyone noticed that the next decade will also pose a problem: teenage years don't start until 2013. So I heartily welcome the Tweens, which, according to my research into preteenism, begin at 10. A portmanteau, the wikipedia tells us "Tween is an American neologism and marketing term for preteen. A blend of between and teen, tween in this context is generally considered to cover the age range from eight to twelve years." So, by different definitions, we're either hot in the middle of the Tweens, transitioning into them, or drunk on Tween eve - whatever the rate of this decade's preadolescence. It's true that the Obama era, in all effect, came on in 2008, & eras don't always line up perfectly with even numbers. (The twentieth century, for instance, didn't really get started until The Rite of Spring & World War I, & end until September 2001 or November 2008 depending on your political leanings.)Back to the 2000's, I was just remarking to Miss Anna Greenberg that "It says a lot for our culture that we've been living thru it for ten years & haven't really started to call it anything. How can half a billion English speakers just tiptoe around the issue for ten years!" She responded: "how can we call it something when it hasn't ended yet!" That's true, but it's an issue that's periodically come up in the periodicals. I've always favored the naughties, or the naughty-aughties. (This year would be called "Two-naughty-aughty-nine" or "Two-naughty-naughty-nine," as I say in the MC Pseudo-Dionysius song Hillelujah.) We'll see what sticks, or if people will just eternally say "that decade".UPDATE: I say, in celebration of the breaking dawn of the Tweens, celebrate by going out to see New Dawn! It's hard to predict the future, but easy to say with certainty that the tweens are characterized by Twilight, Twitter, Obama, tea parties, Glee, & of course itwaslost artists & writers. L'Chaim! Наздравици!(The art at the top is classic Olaf Mary college-era whales-standing-up, two-naughty-aughty-four.)
Once again, from our reportage at the Lewis Carroll Society blog, reposted here for your convenience:
For those of you who like your pop-classical overproduced and over-enunciated, hot tweenage British singer Faryl Smith is releasing her second album (quick on the heels of her first album Faryl, which was the fastest-selling "classical" album of all time.) Wonderland, due on November 30th, is "loosely based on Lewis Carroll's novel", according to this evening's Evening Telegraph.
"[Alice in Wonderland] is one of my favourite books," says the former Britain's Got Talent contestant. "It's so dreamy and playful."
Keep watching after the musical clip, the second video is Miss Smith personally announcing Wonderland. It's important to put all this in its proper cultural context, and remember that in the 2000's, hyper-sexualized images of underage girls in popular music was standard and should be judged against the backdrop of the norms of the times.
Meanwhile in Northern Nevada, it's been a mighty year for bears - the #1 threat to America. This was in Wednesday's Reno Gazette-Journal:
A large bear with an attitude might have caused up to $70,000 in damage this year in Incline Village, officials say.That's Hollywood material. Updates if they ever catch the "big, bad boy". And there's a long list of bear break-ins in the North Lake Tahoe Bonanza. (A bear got into my parents' garage this year, as reported here.)
The black bear, likely a male weighing perhaps 700 pounds, has evaded traps and avoided special night patrols.
Two gunshots fired by a homeowner made the bear stay away for a couple of weeks.
"The deputies up there all say he's the biggest bear they've ever seen," said Carl Lackey, a biologist and bear expert for the Nevada Department of Wildlife who has been chasing this bear for three years. "He'll walk right by a trap, he won't go in them. He's really random in where he goes.
The black bear, likely a male weighing perhaps 700 pounds, has evaded traps and avoided special night patrols.
Two gunshots fired by a homeowner made the bear stay away for a couple of weeks.
"The deputies up there all say he's the biggest bear they've ever seen," said Carl Lackey, a biologist and bear expert for the Nevada Department of Wildlife who has been chasing this bear for three years. "He'll walk right by a trap, he won't go in them. He's really random in where he goes.
"He's made it real tough to catch up with him."
Incline resident Claire Vaughan heard a crash one night and saw a "huge" bear that had just knocked out a panel of her garage door. She watched as the bear tried to open the door latch of a locked car parked outside, displaying a working knowledge of that potential gateway to goodies.
"He's smart. He's super smart," Vaughan said. "He's a big, bad boy."
The bear was confronted this summer in an Incline Village home it had visited several times before, causing extensive damage, Lackey said. The bear was at the bottom of a staircase, the homeowner at the top with a .44 Magnum handgun.
"He shot it right between the eyes and the bullet bounced off his skull," Lackey said. "We know that because we found it.
"He shot it again and hit it. We know that because there was a lot of blood, but it wasn't a mortal wound."
Lackey said the bear returned after a couple of weeks, breaking into garages and going after trash or food in freezers. He said the bear has broken into 40 or 50 Incline garages this summer.
"It's all in the same area and it's the same M.O. all the time," Lackey said. [...]
There was a man on a pedestal with a megaphone outside the HP Pavilion, the indoor hockey arena for the San Jose Sharks, where Leonard Cohen played the final show of his lengthy come-back tour. (He is 75 years old, & was forced to hit the road again after fourteen years when his manager squandered millions.) The preacher started quoting Leonard Cohen, from the song "Closing Time":...and I lift my glass to the Awful Truth
which you can't reveal to the Ears of Youth
except to say it isn't worth a dime...And then tried to qualify the statement by saying Cohen wasn't seeing the whole picture clearly, & started quoting the New Testament. You can accuse Leonard Cohen of many things--, but saying he lacks a biblical depth, especially to a crowd of fans en route to his final show, is not going to gain many converts.
"Five place settings tonight, Joe. Pastor Jesse will be coming to dinner."
Of course, I already knew that we would be having company. Our father had lit all five lamps and the dining room was devoid of comfort. The lighting of lamps was his own peculiar celebration of a kill. Certain parts of their bodies contained oil that burned brightly and endured, much like the oil, I'm told, of a whale.
The lamps were our father's statement to the world. He believed unquestioningly in the superiority of man and few things filled him with more pride than our little house in the woods standing like a beacon against the encroaching darkness. It was an invitation and a challenge, both to human wanderers and otherwise.
Edward pressed his face against the window. I used to do the same thing when I was his age to remind myself that the world outside still existed. The brightness of our world inside blinded us to everything else. I left him and stepped into the kitchen. It was like walking off the stage of a morality play. The bright light from the dining room cast long shadows across the wooden counters.
My mother was humming. She always hummed the same tune when she cooked. Once when I asked her about it, she just shook her head and told me that her mother used to sing this song, but she could never remember the words. When I was eight, I wrote my own words for it, something to do with rabbits, I think. She just smiled and told me that it was supposed to be a love song.
"It's almost ready, dear." She spoke without looking up, assuming that whoever it was had come to the kitchen out of impatience.
"I don't care, ma. I'm not that hungry." Everyone would have been happier if I didn't sit with them at dinner, and yet it would be an inappropriate suggestion. Perhaps she liked having me there. "The table is set."
She made a vague, pleasant sound of approval. Pastor Jesse's visits always put her in a good mood. While she knew that the women of the town envied her marriage to the best hunter New Birmingham had ever known, she would never be satisfied until she could bring him closer to God, for he must see the divine purpose behind his killing.
I watched her as she moved around the kitchen with her own regal grace. The kitchen was her kingdom. Nothing happened without her approval and there was never a superfluous movement. I savored every one of these moments that I managed to steal. A knock on the door awoke me from my reverie and signified the end of my temporary peace.
Edward stood aside as Pastor Jesse glided through the door with his long strides and over-sized magnanimous smile. He was trying to overpower Edward's inscrutable stare with those teeth of his, and for a moment I believed that he might succeed. The battle was interrupted when my mother rushed between them and grasped the pastor's hands. Like almost all of the women in the region, she gushed over his youth, his rare red hair, and his unshakeable faith. He turned his smile toward her face and I shuddered.
"I do hope you enjoy rabbit stew, Pastor. We caught the rabbit in one of Hector's traps today."
"Oh, Mrs. Harding. I'm sure I never have tasted rabbit stew that could compare to the heavenly smell wafting from your kitchen."
My mother burst into girlish giggles at the nonsense that was spewing from the pastor's mouth. Everyone was a sucker for a grandiose way of speech around here, whether or not it made sense.
"Please, Pastor. Call me Mary." She hurried back to the kitchen as my father appeared in the dining room.
"Well, Pastor Jesse. You honor us with your presence again. Have a seat and remind me if men of your position are allowed to drink whiskey with us common folk." Disdain dripped from his lips as he gripped the pastor's hand with excessive firmness.
"I'm afraid not, Hector. However, I'm sure that will not prevent me from enjoying your hospitality on this fine evening."
I sensed Edward as he slipped past me and out the front door, leaving it slightly ajar as an invitation for me to follow. I was not in the mood for the pre-fight show between my father and Pastor Jesse. The real sparring would begin about halfway through dinner.
Edward sat on the front steps, not daring to venture any further. "He sure talks funny, don't he?" His elbows were placed on his knees and his face in his hands. He rocked back and forth, uncomfortable as always in his church clothes, which doubled as his dinner guest clothes. I doubted that there was a child alive who felt at home in a grey three-piece suit. It was a gift after he won his first shooting competition. I think he would have preferred a bike.
"He just likes to sound different from the rest of us, so's we know that he's better." I sat down next to him. "I wouldn't worry about it."
"How come mom keeps inviting him? She knows it just makes dad angry." I was surprised again by his alacrity at reading the people around him. Perhaps it came, as it did with me, from being generally baffled by people's day-to-day actions.
"You know those stories mom reads us, the ones that always have a moral at the end? She invites Pastor Jesse to say things like that to dad. Because he sure won't have them from her."
He stopped rocking and stared at my face. He was unsatisfied with my answer. So was I.
"Come on. Let's get back inside. You know dad'll be mad if he has to come fetch us."
Moments later we were distributing bowls of steaming rabbit stew. Certain meals call up a sense of nostalgia even in the very young and I could see on Edward's face that he was imagining a quiet family meal without Pastor Jesse. It smelled like the end of a perfect autumn day, but the blinding light of the lamps gave the scene a false, dream-like quality. We sat down daintily, as we'd been taught, except for my father who slumped into his chair with a crash. He picked up his fork.
"Pastor Jesse," my mother blurted, "would you do us the honor of saying grace?" She must have rehearsed the phrasing of her question for hours in the kitchen and it came out a little flat, perhaps because of her haste to interrupt our father.
The red-headed pastor beamed as if he was surprised. Clasping his hands together, he cooed, "the honor, Mary, would be mine." He closed his eyes and took a slow deep breath, assuming that we, of course, would follow suit. Our father glared at us until we imitated the pastor's position.
"Our father, dwelling in the earth beneath us and in each one of us, protect us from cosmic predators. Do not lead the invaders toward our humble planet and do not tempt us to seek them out again. Permit us to rejoice in our planet's simplicity and to rid our world of the alien presence. We give thanks for the bounty that is before us, for your earth provides us with everything that man will ever need. Amen."
"Amen," my father repeated without delay as he grasped his fork and dug into the stew. My mother's eyes remained closed for a few moments before whispering "amen" and beaming toward the pastor. I ate slowly and basked in the quiet that our father's ravenous appetite permitted us.
I needed a haircut. And because it was long & bizarre, I hacked off a bunch this morning before going to a barbershop. It had been long in the front, & short in the back, but had since grown out of control everywhere. So I cut off a bit up top, so that I could instruct the barber to simply even it out, leaving it longish in the back, but shortish in the front.
Me: Don't cut it too short, just even it out. Can you leave it longer in the back, don't cut too much, but even it out shorter in the front.Girl: You cut hair yourself?Me: Just a little this morning, to make it easier for you.Girl: It's uneven.Me: You know, you know what a mullet is?Girl: Yes, a mullet, yes. How long you cut hair yourself?Me: I don't usually. Just a little this morning, because it was really long & wild. A mullet, you know, like, "business in the front / party in the back"?[...later...]Girl: I can cut more in the back.Me: No, leave it longer in the back.Girl: It's uneven between top & back.Me: I want it longer in the back.Girl: How long you cut hair yourself?Me: I only cut off a little of the long hair in the front.Girl: It's uneven. I cut more in the back.Me: Don't cut off too much in the back, just leave it medium-length if you can. Like a mullet.Girl: Don't cut your hair yourself.
Many of you have seen this already, but Mr Chadwick Crawford showed it last night & it was news to me. (Our Department of Baseball is infrequently contributed to, anyway-- ah, hem). The late great Dock Ellis pitched a legendary No Hitter while tripping on acid, told the story many decades later, & artist James Blagden of No Mas animated on top:
In 1911, Franz Kafka visited Rudolf Steiner, the great Austrian founder of theosophy, in his hotel room while the latter was in Kafka’s native Prague for a lecture. In his diary from 1911 Kafka records his impressions of this visit in the following words:
My Visit to Dr. Steiner
In his room I try to show my humility, which I cannot feel, by seeking out a ridiculous place for my hat . . . Table in the middle, I sit facing the window, he on the left side of the table. . . . He begins with a few disconnected sentences. So you are Dr. Kafka? Have you been interested in theosophy long? But I push on with my prepared address: I feel that a great part of my being is striving toward theosophy, but at the same time I have the greatest fear of it. That is to say, I am afraid it will result in a new confusion which would be very bad for me, because even my present unhappiness consists only of confusion. This confusion is as follows: My happiness, my abilities, and every possibility of being useful in any way have always been in the literary field. And here I have, to be sure, experienced states (not many) which in my opinion correspond very closely to the clairvoyant states described by you, Herr Doktor, in which I completely dwelt in every idea, but also filled every idea, and in which I not only felt myself at my boundary, but at the boundary of the human in general. Only the calm of enthusiasm, which is probably characteristic of the clairvoyant, was still lacking in those states, even if not completely. I conclude this from the fact that I did not write the best of my works in those states. I cannot now devote myself completely to this literary field, as would be necessary and indeed for various reasons. Aside from my family relationships, I could not live by literature if only, to begin with, because of the slow maturing of my work and its special character; besides I am prevented also by my health and my character from devoting myself to what is, in the most favorable case, an uncertain life. I have therefore become an official in a social insurance agency. Now these two professions can never be reconciled with one another and admit a common fortune. The smallest good fortune in the one becomes a great misfortune in the other. . . . Outwardly, I fulfill my duties satisfactorily at the office, not my inner duties, however, and every unfulfilled inner duty becomes a misfortune that never leaves. And to these two never-to-be-reconciled endeavors shall I now add theosophy as a third? Will it not disturb both the others and itself be disturbed by both? . . . This is what I have come to ask you, Herr Doktor. (The Diaries of Franz Kafka, pp. 48-49).
I was thinking about that Baccara song all morning, the tenth best selling song of all time, so here's my quickie amateur home-recording (as a present for a friend.) I needed more cover songs for my Friends Around the Campfire Special Summer Electric Ukulele Covers project. (The last few cuts for it have been covers of my own songs.) So here's "Yes, Ma'am, I Can Boogie," with a big trash bin as my disco beat, & the obligatory synth accordion. This mp3 can be downloaded free here.
Mr Mary, Miss Wernicky & I were going thru listening to the songs listed as best-selling singles worldwide of all time. It is a surprising list filled with gems & startling bizarre forgotten sensations. The first is Elton John's Princess Diana song, the second is Bing Crosby's White Christmas, but could you possibly have predicted this song as the 10th best selling song ever, above any Beatles or Michael Jackson song:It seemed Baccara rode a short-lived wave of trendiness until, as the Wikipedia puts it, "by 1981 the duo's distinctive blend of disco, pop and Spanish folk music was no longer fashionable". How soon the pedals fall from the flower! Here's another gem from the list, Goombay Dance Band coming in at 18, still five above 'Billy Jean:
Mr Quill had also commented in his report on Leonard Cohen live in Bucureşti:
Strangely, the rendition of Hallelujah was rather flat. I wonder if he felt obligated to perform it, although I doubt that Cohen would ever bow to the expectations of a crowd in such a way. I was baffled by his decision to explicitly pronounce the words "do you" a la Rufus Wainwright's fantastically dull version. All I can think of is that he wanted to make the song more jarring
Mr Quill finally updated us on his complete of the marathon from Athens to Marathon:
I didn't even know that this was Leonard Cohen's first tour in fourteen years. I expected that it would be a good concert and that the coolness points were not to be ignored (I mean, Leonard Cohen in Bucharest. Come on!). In this case, my ignorance just made me that much more impressed. Really, it probably made little difference.
It turns out that my comment after the concert that it was the perhaps the best band I've ever seen may have satisfied Leonard Cohen. I now feel the need to research and listen to Javier Mas, The Webb Sisters, and Sharon Robinson and then simply lie back in awe of the idea of having them as one's band...
 | Leonard Cohen - Memories .mp3 |  |
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 | Found at bee mp3 search engine |  |
“Ally, go get your father for dinner”
Okay. She puts on the Adidas sneakers she has attentively kept shiny white for three weeks already. Pretty impressive for slush season. The hinges of the front door squeak as it closes, slowed by the carpet working against the weight of the brass door-knocker.
The receding rainstorm has left the air damp and cold, smelling of the ocean. A silver cloudbank, huge and luminous, moves fast ahead of her. It seems to be leading her to the bar. As if she didn’t know the way.
Ally walks through the door with the diamond-shaped cutout window, and sees Dad right away. He’s in the corner with a couple guys she doesn’t know. His sleeves are rolled up and his elbows on the table. She listens to what he’s saying for a second- something about City Hall, and then:
“You can’t even talk to those Con-Ed guys…they can’t be for real …..25 guys getting paid overtime to stand around watching the one guy take his time fucking something up in a hole…”
Whatever. Ally climbs up on a stool, hooks her feet around the metal legs and stares at the Celtics game on the TV above the bar. Celts are up by 2 points and the regulars seem a little worried. One little old guy who doesn’t seem to know his bottle of Bud is empty quietly chants “Defense, Defense”.
And some other guy:
“Don’t forget to play good D, you lazy motherfuckers!”
“You want a BLT, hon?”
It’s Kathleen. She leans across the counter and whispers even though she doesn’t have to.
“No thanks, I just had some pizza”
“you sure?”
“yeah”.
“Okay”.
Ally watches Kathleen. The bartender is wearing a tight red t-shirt and jeans. Her black hair cascades down to the small of her back from her half-ponytail held by a silver barrette. She’s got a band-aid on the inside of her elbow like maybe she gave blood today. Her eyes look a little tired. Kathleen tries to pull a pint of something for a fat cop who just came in and gets a sputtering noise, and her hand covered in beer spittle and foam.
“God-dammit!” Kathleen says, but she’s laughing. She shakes her hand off and then goes back in the kitchen to wash it. The cop says to her back “don’t worry about it, sweetheart”. But that’s pretty retarded, because she’s obviously not worried about it, and she’s not some fat cop’s sweetheart.
“Hey kiddo, whatcha doin’ here?”
Dad puts his big rough hands on her shoulders and squeezes. Ally winces.
“Mom wants you home for dinner”.
“Okay, 10 minutes”.
He goes back to the corner table next to the window. Ally glances over and thinks that Dad looks handsome in the gray light of the ending day, with his fingers curling around a pint.
“You want to hear a joke?”
Some yahoo down the bar is trying to get Kathleen’s attention. She is leaning up against the bar with her head at kind of an awkward angle, trying to watch the game, with her arms crossed over her ribcage. The Celts have scored, they’re up by 8 now, so it seems to be okay to let this guy tell a joke.
“Okay, so this guy dies, and he was a really bad person when he was alive- he was like, a total d-bag. He cheated people, cheated on his wife, stole shit, gambled, just evil, right? Didn’t even feel bad about it. So he knew he was going to hell anyway. He gets to hell and meets the Devil. He says
‘Okay Satan. I’ve been real bad. What’s gonna happen to me?’
to his surprise, the Devil says ‘what’s today, Monday?’
‘yeah, Monday’.
‘how do you feel about booze?’
the guy says ‘what! I love booze!’
‘Okay’, Satan says, ‘well, Monday is booze day, so go down to the bar and enjoy yourself. ‘
So the guy says, you know, ‘Alright! Hell is awesome!’ he goes down, gets plastered, all the booze you can drink, until he passes out.
He wakes up the next day and the Devil is standing there. Satan says ‘It’s Tuesday, right? ‘- ‘yeah! Tuesday!’ the guys says. ‘okay’ says Satan, ‘how do you feel about Cocaine?’….’are you kidding me?’ the guy says, ‘I love it!’,
‘okay’, says Satan, ‘well, go down to the lounge and enjoy yourself’ .
‘Holy shit!’ the guy is thinking ‘this is great! Hell is awesome!’. So he goes down to the lounge and he’s snorting coke all day ‘til he passes out.
So this goes on for the next few days. Every day the Devil tells him what day it is, and he just does that thing all day ‘til he passes out. He’s like, shooting little bunnies with big guns, he’s tripping balls- you name it. Finally, Sunday rolls around. He wakes up, finds the Devil. He figures they must be saving the best for last. ‘Satan!’ he says when he finds him- ‘Dude! What’s Sunday!?’
‘oh, hey there’ says Satan. ‘um…Sunday? Let me check’. He gets out a little notebook, flips through the pages-
‘Sunday….ah. How do you feel about gay sex?’
“Ah, Shut the fuck up”
Says Kathleen over the chuckling at the bar, and her face has no patience as she gathers up a number of empties and disappears with them into the kitchen.
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