Monthly Archives: July 2008

Word-play, Fore-play, Child’s-play. Oh, and a Pelican.

“So.. could you do it with a pelican?”
An encouraging question, rather like at a job interview, when you sense that they’re actually starting to fantasize about… um..You, as An Employee.
And to tell the truth, by this point, I was okay with ‘doin it’ even with a flock, no, a bevy or a horde of Vultures watching overhead, all of ’em certain of an impending feast.
    Outside, through her kitchen window, it was getting dark, possibly something to do with the setting sun, or maybe just another rain-event in theNorthwest.
She undid a button, maybe two, in her blouse; A millisecond, a deliberate act; I try not to be caught noticing these things. They know, though.
PELICAN‘? Of course, Eli. Child’s play.” I announced, trying to radiate a confidence in my powers, and not entirely without backing.
“Although they do have a rather large bill, no?” I added, knowing she would jump on the pun.
   “We can pay ‘after’..” Eli laughed. “..or yearly..” Two more buttons. I averted my gaze, but in the wrong direction, unintentionally eyeing the short path to her bedroom. No pelicans in there, at least from my vantage point.
“Hmm..” I needed a quick reaction-plan. “Yearly? That would be a FISCAL PELICAN year. Or depending on the amount, a HI FISCAL PELICAN bill. We’d need a HI-FI SCALPEL just to cut the check.
“No, guy, They don’t charge that much just to watch..” Eli did something I wasn’t allowed to notice with her attire. SCALPELICANS are a dime a dozen where I come from..”
   “That’d be ‘heaven‘, right?” I was proud of that little aside. She took one of those short troubled breaths I always wished I knew more about, and then:
S-CAL PELICANS. Southern Cal, um…duh”

“Yeah, like I said, ‘Heaven‘” I smiled. California, despite TV footage of Watts, LA traffic jams, and the collapsed Oakland freeway is for me forever frozen in the ’60s: Hendrix at Monterey, Disneyland..ok, even the ‘Bleach Boys’. Eli knew a different scene entirely, but sweetly decided not to correct me.
“…So we won’t need a HI-FI S-CAL PELICAN TRAP to catch one?” I offered, as if relieved. I had already ‘bought’ the assumption that we’d be needing a pelican, there in the room, watching enviously as we dizzily explored each other’s…um..’pelicans’. Yes dizziness. Heights will do that to you.
“I can SCALPEL.” I told her, not really knowing why. These complex fowl are as tricky to judge as landing a high-wing aircraft in a thirty-knot crosswind. I looked at her breasts, slyly visible now, and prayed that my dumb “SCALPEL” wouldn’t remind her too much of some bio-lab disection episode…

“..But not while I’m doing anything else.” I covered my tracks. “You know, like, IF I SCALPEL, I CAN’T RAP.”
She liked it.. Her hair in my face all of a sudden. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, my fingers on the small of her back as I breathed out slowly.
In my ear, almost a whisper, she asked, “But can you RAPPEL?”
“If you hold the ropes, Eli..” I whispered, as we walked or fell toward the bed. And with the few remaining corpuscles left in the, like, ‘brain’ part of my body, I grasped where she was going..
I CAN I said, “..and then we get another free PELICAN.”
“Good…for tomorrow morning.” Eli seemed relieved to get to ‘the good part’, and was busily tossing unnecessary apparel onto the floor.
“We need to write this down?” I laughed, as if I had any intention of being a stenographer, there, with the setting sun and the new smells to explore.
“Nah, ‘sounds mechanical’.” She answered, the perfect Bugs Bunny accent. “Plus, I’ll remember. ‘Child’s play’, didn’t you call it? HIFISCALPELICANTRAPPELICAN.”
    Something was missing though. Even in our euphoria I could still count heads.
“The bird! Wait, where’s the bird?” I asked Eli, as seriously as I could manage.
“She’ll be here at eleven, she’s got a key. Somehow I’d thought it would take longer to get you where I need you. You and your dumb letters..” She closed her eyes in the dim light and showed me where, precisely, she needed me.

Hope no one minds these little adventures. This didn’t really happen, of course. It was an ALBATROSS. Hmm..

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Go Ye, and Read BayouBoy

Geez, this bible-translation work is frying my brain.
     Anyway, I’ve been meaning for weeks now to whole-heartedly recommend to all my above-average readers that they sample the pure joy of Bayou-boy’s posts.
    A long time ago, I played a wedding gig in Nazereth, just up the road from me. Back before you needed an armed escort and a bullet-proof vest (with matching hat?) to stay alive in the crossfire between Moslems and Christians up there. Seems like poor Jesus’ “…better to give than to receive” didn’t translate too well, over the centuries. “Be fruity and multiply” did somehow make the cut, though, and Bayou’s latest gorgeously-expressed short piece discusses the Pope’s recent re-pooh-poohing of efforts to allow birth control. His final statement “Maybe six-and-a-half billion ‘miracles of birth’ are enough already..” (-my trans.-) alone justifies a click on the link . I’d love to say that, were I to actually get serious about issues here, I could write as well. Love to say it, if only it were true. And while you’re there, do like I done and keep clicking “Back” and reading on. The pleasure just never seems to end, except when the sun comes up, and you gotta go to work. But of course, “There’s always tomorrow” Wait, did Jesus say that? Let me go check

Malaysia for the Malaise-ians.

I am not alone, I suspect. Ninety-five percent of my ‘footprints’ are from Malaysia, where mixing a metaphor unlawfully gets you fifty lashes, and in public, too. I only hope Israel has no extradition treaty with the place. They’re licking every square centimeter of my site, checking my non-existent ‘Pulse’ listening/ not-listening to all my songs on “Audio”.
“..Was beloved by web-crawlers and ‘bots..” that’ll be the lead in my obit, if I don’t survive the flogging.
Meanwhile, Bite This, Thought Police:


My work as a Biblical translator is progressing fairly well. I got an ’85’ on my mid-term project, looks like I might finish the semester with a 3.2 GPA after all. Anyway, here is what the Psalmist actually wrote, according to my esteemed prosthesis. (I include the ‘dated’ “original” (below) for comparison. Someday I’ll be famous-er than King James.. and the Beatles.

The Lord’s ‘My Gourd’, (Rings a bell, no doubt?) Hell,
Even my sheep heard about Him

He maketh me a lowdown, ‘take no crap’ guy
(I get presents from mine enemies!)

So Him, ‘n Rod and his staff protect me
We’re singin’ ‘Down in the Valley’; I’m the
‘Shadow of Death’.

Yea Team! though we walk (if the car don’t start)
‘He ain’t heavy… He’s my brother’.

He buyeth me beer, (besides distilled water for my
battery,) RESTORES my TSORES.
Mercy mercy, just follow me, ’cause, these days
I’m staying at his crib. (Cue the Chorus:)

 The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
 He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil;
my cup runneth over.
 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
         and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever

Translator’s note:

I did have a bit of a quandry with the “oil annoints mine head” portion. Went and bought shampoo “For Oily Hair” and sure enough, it did make my hair oily, but in the end, I just left the line out. Who needs ambiguity in Holy Writ?

 

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Lucid, Schmucid, where’s my mom?

Memorable dreams fill my sleep lately.

I was back on the farm, the whole extended family absent on some kind of a vacation. I passed the time trying to get a dinosaur-era computer to sign-on to the ‘net through a particularly recalcitrant “eh-bach-sheid-ich” ISP. Remembering that I needed to go buy some decent clothes for.. a funeral? a wedding? (it didn’t seem to make much difference), I glanced up at the wall. The clock read 7:30 PM. ‘Hmm, 19:30 already?‘ Oh well, tomorrow morning I can still hit K-mart. At that point the relatives all came back, covered in red mud, having visited some primeval tourist-trap? A giant mud-covered dragonfly escaped from someone’s bag, and went flying back toward the cornfields. My older son was trying to keep one of the cousins from knocking my pitiful laundry off the clothes-line with his swing, A brother-in law told me he’s just discovered that web-sites build a profile of surfers, I thought that kinda innocent of him. An unrecognized child in my path, naked, crawling on all fours; I patted him on the back and he started to cry. Up behind the barn, my father was with several other kin-folks. None of them had names or distinct personalities, but all were sweet and supportive. I realized that I’d be leaving the next morning, and considered cancelling the internet service, thinking that at most, I’d owe them ‘about a dollar’. Then: It occured to me to ask my dad where my mom was; I hadn’t seen her around. He looked at me as if avoiding a subject. To my lucid credit, I realized within the dream that she was…um.. ‘dead’, and said nothing. ‘We shall just have to survive by our own devices’, I thought quietly. Proud of my clarity, I awoke… only to realize that yes, my father has also been absent from this earth for four months already. Appearantly it takes time to internalize one’s status as an orphan.

Johnny comments:

 I knew it: If I wrote something  personal, (like other xanga-mortals seem to be entitled to), I’d get… um..silence. It’s OK, though. Yeah, my mom and dad are both dead; Stuff like that happens, esp. after 90 or so years of happiness together and mega-tons of agricultural production. My universal point is that a dream in which you interact with someone who is, sadly, no longer ‘on our plane’ is a dream you should try to think about and maybe learn something from. I’ll suggest this as a Featured Question, just you watch: “349 comments” “Yeah, I dreamed I wuz playin’ wid my little dog, Checkers, then suddenly I remembered “Mistah Chequer, he daid!” ‘Course, so wuz I’. www.xanga.con/tricky_dick

‘All the link-letters I could afford’ (or-“Yids Say the Darndest Things”

As befits an entity with negative net worth, when expressed in shekels, I am making (again?) Soup Surprise this evening. Tonight’s mystery ingredients: A can of tuna thrown into the ‘Just add water Minestrone’ soup. Mmmm.. Sitting on my meagre cot, I rehearsed today’s story, so that I could type it more quickly, in Notepad, thus saving another penny or two on electricity. I do have ‘Poor Folks’ brand Corn Flakes, but no milk. If I ride to the super on the bicycle, it will spoil before I get it home, or at least shortly thereafter, since my refrigerator is now, according to the digital thermometer I rescued from a dumpster, ‘cooling’ its innards to approximately 60 degrees Fahrenheit. 14 Centigrade sounds cooler, but who am I kidding? And if I go instead to the corner store, the self-righteous little religious bastard will torture me to pay my bill from this week; money I don’t currently have available. Such is My Awful Life



   Anyway, since I gave my stereo to charity, and don’t feel like asking for it back, I found a crude, hand-scrawled notice on the tattered Community Bulletin Board offering “Ma’a’re’khet Le’ma’ki’rah be’zol, bein ha’sha’ar. Te’va’kesh Rivka. Jabotinsky 17”
A lot hides in those simple words. Loosely translated: “‘System’ for sale, ‘among other things'(!), Ask for Rivka”, and the address, 17 Jabotinsky Street, over in the poor-souls’ district, three-story concrete tombs giving the impression of having been built by the Soviets in order to make Khazakstan look like a Frank Lloyd Wright show-piece by comparison.
      I’m there in ten minutes on my bicycle, including the daily tire-pumping ritual.
Well, “there-ish”. We don’t believe in house-numbers here; wouldn’t want to leak information to the enemy now, would we? I wander the neighborhood a few minutes, a spy trying to interpolate my target from poor intelligence.
“Mah ‘tah me’kha’pes?” (‘What are you looking for’) A Moroccan-looking local asks me. He looks like a bouncer looking for someone to bounce. His buddy answers him, “Betach Rivkale, ha’zo’na ha’zot’i” (‘Probably Rivka, that whore’) and spits on the sidewalk. This one looks like he could bounce bouncers. But I’m both innocent and, as usual, inexplicably cocky. Maybe I count on my abject loathing and abhorrence of these types to save me in a fight, who knows?
Two more unemployed ‘bouncers’, probably un-employable for psychological reasons, decide to ‘help’ me out in my quest.
“Sham’mah” (‘That way’)the first over-sized dirtball grunts, in that typical Israeli style of appearing to point somewhere but none-the-less contributing less-then-zero information of value.
“Ha mah’a’rek’het, nachon?” (‘The stereo, right?’) his beastly-buddy asks me.
“Ken… bein ha’sha’ar..” (‘Yeah…….’among other stuff’) I answer, quoting the ambiguous phrase in the ad.
“W’allah, zeh af’i’lu lo sh’la” (‘Hell, it’s not even hers’) I hear from amid the assembled flesh-pile on the sidewalk. This was from Number five, an actually normal-looking goon, large, but capable of swallowing his own spit, in my estimation.   Right then I heard a thin voice scream from a second floor balcony…
“Ta’aleh l’malah”, (‘Come up’) he was pointing at me, and I gave the gang of sad-sacks an undeserved little salute, as if they’d saved me valuable investigative work.
‘Chico’ was at the door when I got to the top of the steps.Something about how he looked, for the life of me like a tense young Puerto Rican messed with my linguistic reflexes, and I started to say something in Spanish, to which he immediately replied, as is customary, “You can speak English”
Ha” I thought, “I’ll probably never find the right time and place  to say what I’m always dying to in these situations.. ‘Yes, I can, but can you?”
I decided to be…um.. economical, and slowly said to him:
“HI. FIVE HE-MEN TOLD ME: ‘NOT HER HI-FI’. VEHEMENT OLD MEN…. OTHER STUFF?”
Chico stood a minute comtemplating the ‘Secret Code’. I had, to my credit re-cycled the letters fairly well, I thought, but neither ‘Becky’ nor her hot stereo system emerged from the darkened interior of the flat, and my platonic, or is it socratic curiousity about what the ‘other stuff’ could have been wilted, especially when I remembered my bike down on the street. My bike! I gave Chico a quick obligatory salute and ran down the steps. ‘I can do letter-play in my head, walking home, worst case’, I told myself. “Who needs a bloody’mah’a’rek’het?”

A Paean to the peons..

In the Days of Yore
No one confused
their “They’re” and “There”
Or “Your” and “You’re”

Ah, the Daze of Yore
Way back, B-4
PPL LOL-ed
Rolling on the floor

Its a (sic.) sick phase
(I just corned a phrase)
Is it “It’s” or “Its”?
Who gives two shits?

Yeah the Meek inherited
tons of earth
now they bury syntax
“for all there worth”

No more Days of Yore
Only dust and bones.
‘Hail the Xangan hordes
on they’re xanglo-phones’

..for elgan, who writes (and sings) like a nightingale. We should all be so precise and in-tune.


Oh, and welcome to the newcomers who lately seem to be visiting my site on a jump from Carlotta or Tjordam. I do my best to post material worth reading. If you don’t immediately find it, scroll down till you do.. or not, but in any case, Thanks for the read.

“Dog? What dog?” –GOD

When the Rapture comes, and Jesus/God/Whateva cuts a ‘sunroof’ in my 84 Ford Fiesta, pulls me sky-ward by the hair, up through the stratosphere to where I’ll link up with the hapless Australians after their painful mid-course-correction thingy, all of us flying up and up until we get to choose a seat near the Rubber-chicken Tasting-booth, at the right hand of god/what’s his name, just rows and rows of Kresge’s paper table-cloths and potato salad with, WTF?, pineapple-chunks! (For this I died a virgin?) Ok, my question is of course: What’s up with my little dog ‘Checkers’?  He’ll be there too, right?
I just asked Tomorrow’s Featured Question. You can ask one too
. Check out the Jesus-of-Xanga Cartel  on the front page, in case you really want to meet millions of creatures who take this shit  very seriously.