August 31, 2007

E-mails: Chip Monks & High Land

Date: Thu, 30 Aug 2007 14:22:34 -0700
From:"John Welsch" <_______@att.net>
To:"James Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>, Send an Instant Message "Sue Welsch" <_______@yahoo.com>, "Uncle Tom" <_______@gmail.com>
Subject: Chip Monk

All,

Definition: chip monk, n., a devout integrated circuit lover.

Definition: chipmunk, n., the common name for any small squirrel-like
rodent
species of the genus Tamias in the family Sciuridae.

We all need to learn to spell it. John

_____________________________________________________________________

Date: Thu, 30 Aug 2007 10:40:43 -0700 (PDT)
From:Send an Instant Message "Liam Joseph Olaf Worland Mary Golden" <_____@yahoo.com>
Subject: HIGH-LAND GAY _ MES
To:"James Henry Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>
CC:Send an Instant Message "Virtue" <______@yahoo.com>

its true, america's largest scottish games this weekend in Pleasanton - EAst BAy - the 1st and 2nd
includes:
  • scottish people
  • log tossing
  • sheep dog's kilted foot races
  • beer
  • haggis
  • scottish people
  • fiddlers
  • bagpipers
  • drummers
  • historical re-enactments
  • highland cattle
  • clydesdales
  • scottish people
lets fuckin go!... alaine - you must call in sick if you do not have the 1dt or 2nd off - i am serious www.caledonian.org/games/gamesmain.html

____________________________________________________________

Date: Fri, 31 Aug 2007 14:21:11 -0500
From:"Claire Willis" <______@gmail.com>
To:"James Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>
Subject: fi!

Dear James,

You have cursed me with this damn Harry Potter book, #3 Prisoner of
Azkaban. My reasons for distain are perhaps quite different than those
of the fundemental Baptists. Since picking it up last night at
midnight, I have not spent a waking moment (before now) without my
nose in that kiddy-crack, heroin dose of a book. I am almost finished
with it, but my life is passing me by. Where has my day gone??? Why
isn't the laundry done, and the house getting cleaner?

Please send antidote!

Until then, I only have this book to blame for all my troubles.

The-Soon-To-Be-Blind,
But-Never-The-Less-Still-Adoring,
Claire Cursing

August 30, 2007

The Seven Deaths of Mrs Hallam's Seven Sons

My dog rolled over on his other ear when an infant yell shook up the night,
And ambulance sirens, a roller coaster,
Or was it the Cosa Noster?
Michael was scheming vengeance gainst the professor who rusticated him for plagiarism.
The men in the hummer understood
That usually it was a pretty safe neighborhood.
What the devils thought was God defenestrating a bastard baby was just a meteorite.
Luckily, Mr Hallam was able to return to work six weeks after his New Age Aneurysm.

The girl in brown who walked into the coffee shop on Thursday Morning had the eyes of an octogenarian.
In memoriam, it was her royal belief
That nature & nonsense could console grief.
She sat way over in the fifth corner & wrote hurriedly a novel about shiteater bunnies & testicles.
Robert's rhymed dissertation was tit-for-tat,
So why do the gay young men have to dress like that?
A father of such potency should have, quintessentially, been a Mormon, not a hippy, you know,
For every December there had to be screaming arguments about iconography & revolution & tinsel icicles.

Governor Schwarzenegger was sitting across the aisle at the afternoon baseball game;
Henry had brought his antique Daguerreotype,
But overexposed the governor amid the hype,
And a question materialized from the tainted folds about the longevity of ancient mammals.
When the tumor squeezed the trigger,
Where in hell was this sad figure?
Ah, Mrs Hallam, your late nights in the confessional have become the vicar's nostalgic shame:
Henry's Roman nose was among his final thoughts when he cast off their earthly shackles.

In the basement bathroom, she blew him like desert dust.
Joseph's immortal ill will be
Never finishing his Third "Lost" Symphony.
He was reanimated like Erasmus Darwin's electric rocks on the steps of city hall.
And the newt's tail in her cauldron
She might never feed to her great-grandchildren.
The judge was a welder of finite proportions, preserved as a marble bust,
But I cannot be expected to remember the details of an artistic perjury trial that pitiful.

I hear George hearing a megaphone announcing Mr Hallam missing in the circle of Willis.
I never meant to be mean,
But I ended that relationship in the Oligocene
When six ton ground sloths swatted down magnolia trees like horseflies.
A naked newborn problem
Is no reason for a pogrom!
His youngest sister Phyllis had diatribed seven reasons not to kill us.
You see, George has waited his whole life to find the woman with the largest sagging breasts to demonize.

There were no towels left in the closet in Autumn 2006 when Mrs Hallam finished taking her last shower,
That moment the twelve-part crowing of Chanticleer
Marked the beginning of the getting filthier.
Is it unprofitable to put her in your bonds & use her remaining labor?
James has eaten elephant slugs & slumber slugs
And wallaroo slugs & cucumber slugs.
And the fallen leaves know more about higher powers than any higher power.
Chastise me, heretics! for the watchers grasp the invisible agony of the Stellar's Jay roar.

It was James who mistook his brother Daniel for a tasty underground network of mycelium,
A brigade of saviors will balloon us
Out of a lifetime of boredom in Khan Yunis.
Overpopulation & underpopulation are twin issues to be discussed at next year's global summit.
Daniel has become allergic
To the mosquitoes bred in the oil slick.
His antepenultimate act of indecency was attacking his mother with an Ego Paintball Gun loaded with Berkelium.
So they chose art & science over procreation, they all sold off the family stock before it was going to plummet.


August 28, 2007

E-mails: We Are People

Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2007 23:36:54 +0000 (GMT)
From:Send an Instant Message "Rachel Eley" <________@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Re: En-thrilled
To:"S. Sandrigon" <_@itwaslost.org>

Sandy,

I'm excited too. Or a least I will be after I hand my dissertation in on Thursday. At the moment it is taking up all spare emotional energy including "excitement about the future" and "delight in the new day".

The wedding will just be the legal bit, no ceremony. Hopefully Nick's Dad will do it on a hill somewhere. The "real" wedding will be next year in my village with my aunts in hats. It will be a big party with a cake and a vicar and flowers and everything. Would you like to come? I want there to be a kind of open mic session going on all evening. Steve will be the MC.

A bit too tired for real email writing tonight. Later I will communicate more on the subject of plans and singing and sleeping places, for now I will fill the rest of this missive with a list I have been making of things I am going to do after the essay is done. I hope you like it.

What I am going to do

climb the monument
eat lots of sushi
wash the windows, inside and out
write a cryptic crossword
walk from Vauxhaul to Tower Bridge at low tide with someone who wants to too
read a novel about zombies
do my tax return
meet all my friends who have real jobs for lunch and get them drunk
visit my family
tune the banjolele
consider my future
soak my feet in hot water and lavender salts
reclaim the garden from the chickens
go out for icecream
see the global cities exhibition at the Tate properly this time
go to the theatre
go to church
bake a whole brie in white wine, garlic and cranberries
make golden-fried camembert with hot apricot and ginger dipping sauce
learn to play CC Rider
give Nick a haircut
change out of my jeans

See you soon.
Love, Rachel

____________________________________________________

Date: Mon, 27 Aug 2007 22:02:22 -0700 (PDT)
From:"S. Sandrigon" <_@itwaslost.org>
Subject: Inflexus
To:Send an Instant Message "Rachel Eley" <_________@yahoo.co.uk>

Miss Eley,

That all sounds lovely. But, in case you're still perswadable, I've heard the pastor at the Chapel of the Bells has a lisp...

I've been daydreaming about a trip to Scotland in 2009 for Burns Day - also five days after 1.20.09, so I reckon Europe will be generally celebratory. But I'll do my darndest to be in Muggington when you tell me to. Oh! By the way, if you have any groovy maps of Derbyshire or somewhere interesting, bring them for my hallway.

I cooked up some fish last Friday with Fiona Willis, who doesn't eat fish. My friends Virtue & Leni came over, also not big fans of fish, but it still went well, dinner party well. It ended up at a Very Loud Experimental Band.

Let's see what else has been happening? I served at Dr Toad Williams' memorial service two days ago - he's a wine-maker who was Robin William's older half-brother, Robin gave a first-rate eulogy, which included comments like (French waiter voice) "would like a Tiny Cock with your Frog Fuck?", in front of children & old ladies... but, not often you get paid to wear a tux to a Robin Williams stand up in a vineyard in Napa Valley.

Best of Wishes for Now Till Thursday! I'm about to watch the Sopranos, Season Three, Disk Three!

Love & Hyphy,
Sandy


_______________________________________________________


Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 11:15:21 -0700 (PDT)
From:Send an Instant Message "Liam Joseph Olaf Worland Mary Golden" <___@yahoo.com>
Subject: we are
To:"James Henry Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>

O,
I hope your sonomiac weekende was beautiful
as mine was beautiful.
Yesterday,
the head cheese, my boss, said these wise words:
"We're people more than we're anything else."
Yours truly,
Mary

_______________________________________________________

Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2007 14:32:46 -0700 (PDT)
From:"James Henry Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>
Subject: Get Alaine Along
To:Send an Instant Message "Liam Joseph Olaf Worland Mary Golden" <_____@yahoo.com>, Send an Instant Message "Virtue" <______@yahoo.com>,

Dear We're People Here,

Weekend Nice - Yes. Robin Williams was at that there catering. He gave a eulogy for his half-brother. Jenny's back. Other things are going well as well. Jerusalem has been builded on this green & pleasant land.

Tonight, I'm meeting Miss Ava M______ at the 21 Grand in Oakland (416 25th St) at 7:45 for some live electronic music - it's not far from the 19th St BART. All y'all are welcome. Virtue, is it your Friday Night?

Also, there is a pool party at Ashley E_____'s place this coming Sunday at 7. This might be a good time. I'm probably working Saturday. Also, there's free Three Muskateers in the park in Berkeley at 4 on Sunday - may go before the party, arrive good & drinked.

What's happening in fair San Francisco this week?

Vis-à-vis "We are people," Rodney King actually said "Can we get along here? Can we all get along?"

Obediently,
O at the Itwaslost Organization

August 24, 2007

Photos from Harold Ave

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

August 22, 2007

Alternate Lyrics;

Or, Alternate Lyrics to the National Epic


What is music without duration or velocity?
Whatever it is, I'm not going to squander it,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
He has bamboozled the college into electing a corrupt mediocrity,
And only one radio host refuses to ponder it,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
I've been given oversight of the gates of the house, with ancient wine in a brown paper bag as my inner-sentinel.

This is good news, the toxic stream in the lowlands
Has been rerouted thru the oligarch's estate,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
I remember my mother on the playground humming showtunes,
Oh, but she was really ruminating about that first televised debate,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Where has the bandstand fallen, where have the blue veins of our county been pecked open by the eagle!

I had previously attempted to be promoted in the Entertainment Industry,
But Orson Welles was impressed by talents more gastronomic than mine,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
These policies on the horizon of mercy - what does that mean again? - are key
To unlocking our anxieties about locust plagues & famine & 21st Century moonshine,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
Welles had drunk a pint of the stuff a day around the last turn of the millennium, & my song barely sharpens the pencil.

Do you recall the year when I experimented pretty seriously with delphinic fetishes?
I've long given that up, my liver just couldn't stomach the bickering,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Love has paved our highways with seasonal salads & typical Thai dishes,
More war-car-bar-jars have left the furthest stars flickering,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
The border of Alaska creeped North to Jerusalem thru the Evil Empire, & compassed the corner of the sea southward.

A flurry of civic conflict ignites the nights!
I shan't be discouraged! He knows he can find me singing at the corner pub,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Fireworks & confetti bring grandmothers to the streets
Every Sunday to celebrate the Revolution - there's the rub,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
The despot was campaigning in Vegas, & the paparazzi found him curled up twixt grimy poker sheets with a mini-hermaphroditic mouth-whore.

Iowa is desolate, only corn can grow there;
Fennel & Caesar's Amanita are running rampant up Henry Miller's coast,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
My younger sister has always had a crush on the Rev. Marxie Joe Caulahausawatapare,
Yes, ole Marxie doesn't know what he's missing, he will die a loveless piece of burnt toast,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
What will you do in that solemn day, America, when we are rejoicing our slow food feast, & you are still starving for more?

A green electrical storm at the end of fog,
Hailing bastards, & birds flying a teleologic circle,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Out of this myth steps a leader named Kellogg,
Even I have eaten a few silly diets in the days of turquoise & opal,
Now I'm going to go see my Lord.
The politics of waste management, amongst other side ventures of the municipality, are clogging the sewers! Please abandon non-vital projects!

I composed a lullaby for the godfather in my books,
There was no audience at the opera house to listen to no Forró Orchester,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
They say that the poet watches movies while the chef cooks,
But All-In-One's bard lifted half his wit from "The Walrus & the Carpenter",
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
An angry tenor bears a letter full of mischief & cross-dressing, it would make good theater if any playwrights remained who could rhyme dialects.

That virgin sister of mine remembers when I tried to fall to my knees & prostrate,
She kicked me when I was down, & I kissed her face &, thanking her,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Most readers think it's the devil who's around every corner, but wait!
The line forms on the right, & if she's the devil then who's spanking her?
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Down into the coal mine your second grade teacher descends with her martini in one hand & the Brady Bill in her other, where are the students she protects?

I have sired a son in Fifty-Seven of California's Counties, all except Stockton,
They wouldn't let me in, they saw I had no talents,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
This sacred soil remains breathless & the migrant workers have not been clocked in,
Let us eat lettuces & pontificate, every cinema is ultimately in balance,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
Wind the golden string onto its ball, Ye Episcopalians of the World, your synthetic harp has struck my favorite chord.

The volcanoes have been silenced, & Friedrich Weyerhäuser
Has clear-cut the forests around my heart,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Beware the spherical library: its every word is poison lard!
I've sent a press release to the U.N., with enlightenment & nirvana on a pie chart,
Now I'm going to go see my Lord.
No, honey, you can't keep the socks you find by the side of the onramp, middle management's team building workshop was just far too horrid.

Awake! Throw off the pillows of dementia!
I hit my ten thousandth homerun, in Lightyear Shrew's park,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Plato's bats resound the Batsongs of the Spheres, the Music of Minutia!
Unbuckle your whipping belts! Extinguish your Florescent Blacklight Spark!
I'm going to go see my Lord.
And I will repose upon the couches of Jesus Christ our Lord Savior, a grail of dandelion wine in the right hand of God Almighty My Lord,
And the peaceniks will reign, where gold once did.


E-mail: Rodent Relocation Regimen

Date: Wed, 22 Aug 2007 10:26:06 -0700
From:"John Welsch" <_______@att.net>
To:"James Welsch" <_@itwaslost.org>
CC:Send an Instant Message "Sue Welsch" <________@yahoo.com>, "Lee Welsch" <______@earjuice.com>
Subject: the three R's


James,

I never found your hamster trap, so I bought another ($30).
I
put it in the kitchen last night with a peanut butter cracker,
but caught
nothing. Sue was dressing in our bedroom after breakfast
and saw the chip monk run
across the window sill. I moved the trap
there, and about an hour later, he/she
became a member of our Rodent
Relocation Regimen. I walked to the ant tree
(really, they were
termites), where I sent him on his way toward the water fall.


Dad

August 15, 2007

Shakespeare & Local Terrorism

The local media was closely following the assassination of the editor of the Oakland Post, by some zealous bakers at a place called "Your Black Muslim Bakery" on San Pablo. They have been apprehended for other crimes, & the bakery was shut down for "sanitary" reasons. I think this guy's commentary in the Berkeley Daily Planet well grasps the scope of issues (both 21st Century & classical) in this public drama. Truly the stuff of a poetic five act play, with cookies - sort of "Merchant of Venice" meets "Chocolat".

Commentary: Your Black Muslim Bakery (Or What’s Left Of It)
By David Nebenzahl (08-14-07)

You’re gone now, it looks like for good. That’s a shame, at least for me personally. Let me explain.

For the past five years or so, my breakfast has invariably consisted of a single cup of strong coffee, home-brewed, and one of your sweet rolls. The same thing every day for five years. Actually longer: When I lived on the Peninsula in the 1990s, I used to buy these same rolls from the now-departed Palo Alto Co-op. Back then they seemed somewhat exotic, coming from a place called “Your Black Muslim Bakery” and labeled “A Taste of the Hereafter.”

In any case, they were damn good sweet rolls. I also treated myself to your excellent fish sandwiches from time to time.

So even though I will definitely not miss the actions of the thugs who were part of your organization—the terrorizing of small liquor store owners, the Carrie Nation-like smashing of refrigerated cases, the over-the-top, racist ideology, the ersatz pseudo-religious mish-mash of Islam, fundamentalist Christianity and black nationalism—even though I found myself stepping into your shop with a lot of trepidation of late—I will miss your bakery and its products (and even its historic San Pablo storefront).

I hasten to add that even though I witnessed your black-suited thugs smashing their way through local businesses on the TV news, and read about the criminal activities of your organization, I was always treated courteously in the bakery. The young people who worked there were very businesslike and treated their customers respectfully, no matter what color they were, and they all seemed genuinely concerned with running a neighborhood business properly. That, too, will be missed.

(I leave speculating about the cause and implications of the demise of your organization to others, as will be unavoidable in the weeks to come. To me, it appears to be yet another case of a well-meaning group of people, struggling against injustice, who fall victim to the usual human shortcomings—greed, hubris, religious mania and messianic visions, and plain old corruption—in a spectacular, Shakespearean drama, leading to a final implosion. You’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.)

So let me ask some of you, perhaps naively: Is it possible that you might be able to regroup yourselves, shake off the dust of this scandal and reopen your bakery? Preferably in, or somewhere near, the old location (I say selfishly). If you could somehow shed the ideological aspects of the operation, and just concentrate on producing sweet rolls, fish sandwiches, bean pies, cookies, cakes, and all the other good stuff you used to make, I think a lot of people would appreciate it. I know I would.

And if running a bakery just happened to advance the cause of black economic empowerment in a depressed, predominantly black neighborhood, that would only be further to your credit.

David Nebenzahl is an Oakland resident.

August 11, 2007

Three Lamer Doggerels

It's a shady Saturday, & I'm looking thru an old notebook before heading to a wedding reception. I found one old poem scratched next to a picture of a cowboy entirely of beard & hair, below bumpy onboard reflections of Futureman's MIDI percussion playing from the 90's (The "Synthax Drumitar").


Two men use their talents:
One buries his money,

The rich get richer,

but bees make honey,

& ain't that funny

if you're a bunny,
sonny?



I think I really solved some of life's mysteries with those rhymes. The second poem I collaborated with Mr Hadar Hart on a walk up to see a 70's b-movie about smart killer bees ("Phase IV" by Saul Bass), after discussing how it's too bad the Homeless Newspapers don't have creative writing:


Haiku About Homelessness & Heartlessness

Home's where the heart is,
Homes is where the heart is where,
Therefore, I'm heartless.



Kind of Gertrude Stein meets Wayne & Garth. This last doggerel is a fragment - instead of blabbing on about Orson Welles & the thinning of themes, as Christopher Hitchens did today in his review of Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows, I just wrote a short poem thanking our beloved author:


Thank You to J.K. Rowling

Thank you, J.K. Rowling, you've made the Bush years more bearable,
You've made 800-page novels more carryable,
You've made wizard cloaks more wearable,
And you've made Hollywood more Harry-able.