Monthly Archives: February 2010

“When all U got is email, everything starts to look like an ‘Add Contact’

Mark Twain ™ might’ve  said that. (I always assume I’m writing here for ‘minimum-intellectual-standards’ folks who’ve heard of Twain/Clemens’ ‘When all you got’s a hammer…” quote.) Probably 95% of the ‘merkin’ sludge on Xanga hasn’t, bless their forigivably know-nothing hearts. My own 18 yr-old son/soldier, typical of most
self-respecting Israelis, is of course familiar with the phrase in three(3)  languages. (And you people wonder why we aren’t all waiting, nose-frozen-against-the-glass, to join the ranks of American Mall-drones at the Piercing-Pagoda.)
    Sorry, now back to the topic-at hand.  Seven hours ‘ahead’ of America is probably the worst-case time-zone disaster conceivable. My 2:00 PM is your 7:00 AM. My 6:00 AM is your 11:00 PM. (East Coast) In both instances one or both of us is either asleep or busily working on Issues of Life-or-Death. I daily awaken at 5:30 AM in order to to drunkenly read sweet comments from U.S. Readers. Xanga-replies worthy of my un-compromising hi-style typically must await a few hours at least of shekel-acqusition (read: a job) here in the Israeli blood-bath we pretend to call ‘Real Life.
I query my Bank, via their boasting ‘Site-Secure Email’ about my chagrin at watching a couple hundred
dollars disappear without any explainable  trace, and expect an answer, oh, within a month or so, not including down-time for Jesus’ birthday, His participation in the Nazereth H.S school play, or his hushed-up marriage rites to Mary the Magdalene. Ok, I should talk! Here we shut down an entire country for a week (at Pesach/passover) and sit idly eating matzah w/o beer to honour Moses, who probably never existed. Have I ever mentioned how much I despise religion?
Once agin, my apologies: Having titled this entry I now have a Xan-gabulation to readers to at least discuss
the Announced Topic. . So call this: “Johnny’s ‘Je accuse’ about the roundness of the planet Earth. Time zones, Ugh. ‘Relaxed’ standards of Reply to missives. I’m just assuming that no one else has this problem. Except maybe in Australia. Of course there it pales in comparison to their need to hang themselves from the ceiling fan just to stand up straight,  over there down unda. Sorry, Sydney. I had an entirely different plan for Gonawandaland, but let’s let bygones be bygones. (Oops, now I’m asking Dan the fake-theologian to have heard of Pangea. and/or plate techtonics. ) Stupid me. Anything not on Fox-TV is over his populist little head.)
Sooo… End with a Question: How long do folks traditionally expect to wait for an e-mail reply; 3 hours, 3 days, 3 weeks? I’ve got letters in my ‘Sent’ folder from 3 Years ago, quietly awaiting a speedy response. And someone called snails lethargic…?

Someone asked how long posts should be milked?

     And of course the smart answer is: “Same as short ones, duh.”You put the old DeLaval®, or if you’re real old-school, Surge™, on all four teats, then check the fuel-gauge on the udder every few minutes. Ok, sometimes the cow herself reminds you with a glare:  “Who do you think I am, Johnny, Niagara mother-humping Falls? Genug!”
     But of course our subject here is not the dairy bizness. We’re talking here about The Diary-biz; the Xanga racket, and specifically, how long to leave a post current before tramping it down into the undeserved oblivion of ‘Previous Posts.
I rarely get any comments or reads on a post more than a few days old. Sadness. Still, no one can argue that a discussion of the American Civil War for example, topical as all get-out on a Tuesday, is probably hopelessly passe and ‘so, like, yesterday’ by Thursday morning. In today’s modern world in which we live today.
    I can write infantile ‘Grown-ups with throw-up worth Gobbling-up’ dumb-stuff about as fast as a mangy dog loses his hair, not to stretch that metaphor. My desktop is littered with holy wholly wooley acts of god, which even Win XP’s exective software itself sucks out of my short-term memory and hides, often forever. Safe inside the ‘Queue’ folder, 903 Megabytes of .txt files sit waiting for their 15 minutes of fame like Woody Allen’s cinematic sperms. ‘All dressed up and not a fertilizable Egg in sight’.
   We’re supposed to end with a Question. Ok, and also put ‘Xanga’ in the title. I’ve tried that. Dunna wanna work. The mouth-breathing overseers up at Xanga Internationale don’t seem to have a clue what I’m striving for here. Mebbe it’d help if I bitched about what I had for breakfast? (Nothing, by the way.) File under ‘I Luvz Food-ish. Or ‘Anorexic Xangans whose gaily-married uncles are atheists.” There ya go.

Ok, I left my discretely mis-identifiedSignificant Princess w/rainbow‘ photo-essay up for four days, I think, mainly just to gawk at her likeable likeness. ‘St. Vowelstein’s Day’, in all its splendiforous cupidity was the current Queen-4-a-Day™, until just now….
But seriously and morosely, I’m profoundly depressed by the ephemeral nature of on-line blogs. ‘Every Day we are Born Anew!’, looks peachy as a cross-stitch on the refrigerator door, (empty, did I mention that?) yet I’d give my right nut for a jiffy widget which at a glance displays the depth and breadth of an arbitrary blogger’s cyber-gravitas.
     And I can’t leave this arena without expressing my profound distaste and revulsion for the self-important Deluded-Ones who insist on re-stamping their entries every half-hour. One needeth  not be a brain-surgeon to see the obvious parallel with the flat-lined idiots who stand up in the front row of a sit-down concert, thus condemning the entire lot of paying customers to also stand up for the whole performance. I’ve been known, famously even, for refusing to continue our stage-show until the bastards sit down, or better yet, are escorted to the parking lot by Security.
    But that aside aside, my Question is, um…:
“How long posts should be milked? Two hours? Two days? two weeks? Your wish is my command.”
No smart answers now, kewl? Ok, moderately smart answers accepted.

St. Vowelenstein’s Day: My Favorite Jewish Holiday

     Seems that readers are somewhat interested in what maketh us tic.( besides Tourette’s). A wise move, oddly, this interest in our 1/500th of the world’s population, considering how if we somehow disappeared, (don’t get any ideas…), the billion or so  Muslims might be left without much to do anymore. Ok, maybe they’d keep on bitching, this time about the weather, but I fear that the whole religion, bereft of jihad pop-up targets, could quickly deflate like a frigid hot-air balloon.
So anyway, here are two Jewish holidays you probably never felt comfortable asking about. Ain’t I sweet to anticipate and all… We’ll get to the title presently, but first:
‘Tall Saint’s Day’: On this day, the second Wednesday after a full moon in Weptember, we celebrate the celibate icons of Catholicism, congratulating them on their wisdom in not bearing progeny and…


Wu: Stop right there!
Me: Oy, I was just getting hot.
Wu: ‘Wept-ember’, For crying out loud?  I smell another spoof…
Me: No-sir-ee bob, this is straight from the pony’s mouth. I’m submitting it to Wiki soon as I finish. And the re-name: ‘Weptember’ is symbolic, to our peoples, of the seasonal Truth that ‘sometimes ‘S’ AIN’T ‘S’.
It’s contained within the very gematria of the word: ‘SAINTS’, duh. You are truly young and green behind the ears in your pursuit of higher insights, Wu. Nu,show some respect for a People whose patriarchs named the dinosaurs over 5000 years ago…
Wu: Gotta pee, Johnny, be right back…
Me: Whew. CYA.


Ok, so while prostate-breath there spends a half-hour trying to push on a rope, let’s continue, shall we:
   Only Saints over 5′ 10″ are commemorated, I should point out. Otherwise it’d be a two- or three-day
festivity, not that we  have a problem with that, in principle. Pesach and Hannukhah are both a week long, you may recall. But I’m sure y’all are wondering now how tall Pope Pious© was, since the current Holy ‘C’, ‘Arnold Benedict’ whatever, is spending lots of quality time considering elevating the guy to saint-hood. A sticky widget, this whole subject. To his credit, Pious did finesse  ‘sins of omission’ during WWII to new lows, and worked tirelessly, driving around on the rims even, to help the faux-uber-menschen  rid the world of…um.. Us. Yet luckily his stature (5′ -6 1/2″ even with sensible shoes) nicely exempts him from needing to appear among the paper-mache manequins behind the speaker’s podium on our annual Tall-Saint’s Day Kick-off Events here in Tel Aviv. So bottom Line: ‘Go ahead, Benny, saint the sucka, we care?’

    Ok now,  possibly more interesting is the second of my two favorite Jewish Holidays, St.Vowelenstein’s Day..
On this august occasion, celebrated on either February 14th or July 4th depending upon local wars or rumors there-of, we pay sincere homage to, you guessed right, ‘die guildene medina’, i.e. America-the-Beautiful©. And why?
Precisely out of a realization that, while our primal but pitiful resucitated Hebrew language, yes, the tired and tied-tongue of the over-vaunted ‘People of the Book without Vowels’™, seems to be capable, on a good day, of making just one (1) word from the ‘S’-‘L’ consonant pair: ‘Sal’, (a hebrew noun meaning “any kind of, like,  basket-looking thingie”, English, the battle-hymnal of the home of the brave and the land of the free( plus tax) on the other hand, can effortlessly create this 30 second poem (below) without breaking out in a sweat. I raise my yarmulka in tribute, every July 4th.
   Oh, and fruitlessly try to arrange 51 stars into some kind of an asthetic flag-layout. Haiti’d make 52 though; that’s 4 rows of 13. Awesome + evocative. And… we could share tips on building shit that falls down. Happy Holidays./js. tel aviv.


We sail, me ‘n Sal
Seal the deal,  save the files
Sell shiploads of celery
to the huddled exiles

It’s grown on a window-sill,
watered with soul
A solemn endeavour,
My sisters’ true goal

Yes, Sue’ll be waiting
when we return to our Home,
un-sullied by Levantine
basket-case loam

-from The Ballad of Uncle Sammy and Aunts Susie and Sally‘, (author unknown), 1931, Jingo Jingles.®

Ok, nobody here catches the patronizing or xenophobic undertones, but that’s all to the good; the Holiday is mainly a ‘si’bah le’me’si’bah’ (Heb: ” a reason to party”) for most of us local natives after all, swarthy
or not. We also choose to ignore the the prophetic 3rd verse, rarely sung:

I pledge my legions to the Flag
I’ve read the writing on the bag:
Says here: “This bag is not a hat!”‘
Oh no, my country ’tis of that?


Wu: I’m back, what did I miss?
Me: Oh, nothing, really, Wu. Ok, ‘Mace’, mass, Edwin Mease, a mess, mice, miss, Kate Moss, a moose, and mussed-up’ hair.
Wu: What, no long ‘O’?
Me: Ha, you little devil, Wu. You were listening through the door. I just knew it….

You can count on numbers; (At least en español…)

1 Uno‘s the one that ‘U’ know, let’s just say

2 Dos is ten milligrams, two times a day

3 Tres is a line that you draw on the floor

4 Quatro‘s just four, but we don’t know what for

5) Cinquo‘s the place where the dishes are piled

6) Sies is good news, ‘least in poker, Jacks wild

7) Siete, yes,she did, thanks; but she still looks too lean

8) Ocho
was hurting till ‘U’ left the scene

9) Nuevo was popular, long time ago

10) Dies is dee pilot who brings down the foe

11) Once’s eleven, both here and in Heaven, and

12) Doce‘s a dozen. Add egg-whites and leaven
 
OK now let’s review:

1) ooh no/ You know
2) Dose
3) Trace
4) Quatro
5) Sink-o
6) See Ace
7) ‘C’ ate, eh?
8) Ouch, oh!
9) New wave, oh
10) ‘De Ace’
11) On’say
12) Dough say

La mayoría de la gente odia mi poesía.Por qué? Yo nunca entiendo ‘por qué’. Probablemente piensaque los versos son infantiles. Ja, das ist ‘la verdad’.Está escrito: “Cuando yo era niño, hablaba como un niño.” Supongo quenunca creció.

Most people hate my poetry. I never understood why. They probably think the verses are childish.They’re right. It’s written: “When I was a child, I spake as a child.” Guess I never grew up.
(IMPROVED TRANSLATION WELCOME: IN EITHER DIRECTION)

‘Grand Theft Auto’ or ‘Stealing Steel’ (fiberglass?)

. Nothing too cerebral here; in fact, most of the night we were using mainly the auto-nomic’ nervous system. Now what wuz the name of dat car again?

Last night they stole my sad Chevette™
($250 or best offer)
It was parked outside my humble home;
(Ok, ‘Home of the Whopper™’)

So we jumped in Robert’s red-Ford, spent the
night in dark Virginia.
Hot on the case, in Chevy Chase
“We’ll catch you, then we’ll  skin ya!”

And all the while I’m diddling with dear
Bobby’s ‘tunez’ collection
Fritz Kreisler, Jean Luc Pontiac, you know,
stuff in that direction…

But the more we wasted gas and time the
tougher it became..
To I-D ‘little boxes’;
loser-wheelz all look the same

“That’s a Hyundai or a Schmundai, Bob? Don’t
tell me, let me guess.”
I’d given the guy two options, but he
only answered ‘Yes’

A partial plate: ‘XX-08’,
a good half-hour we chased…but then:
“An Opel made in Bhopal from re-
cycled toxic waste!”

So we scutinized the parking lots
of nine(9) Econo-Lodges®
Watched scheme-ers spoon in Beamers
Oh, and codgers dodging Dodges™

It was almost light: “That’s close enough!” I
pointed off to the right
A banged-up Fiat Uno on the
berm, almost out of sight

I drove her home, then wrote this poem with
Bobby right behind me
“Hey, a car’s a car; forget Chevette; she’s a
dog, now don’t remind me.”

ADD: (sad to say)

But no sooner did the ink dry on our
wild Walpurgis Nacht,
than two Men-in-Blue came into view. Bob
whispered: “Man, we’s focked!”

They handed me the keys to my Che-
vette, with professional pride…
“Not every night we manage to re-
turn a victim’s ride.”

So I traded for the Uno, even up, what could I do?
At least I got this doggerell,
and a dog, metallic blue.


The End (or is it only just the Beginning?
Nope, it’s the end.


Wu: Um… you’re aware of course that…
Me: Yeah yeah, but ‘Maryland’ don’t rhyme with ‘skin ya‘, now, do it?
Wu: So what, you moved the town?(!)
Me: It weren’t easy, but anything for Art ©.
Wu: I’m sure one of your subs can find a substitution.
Me: No way! Just when all the Chevy Chase residents are getting used to the new culture…
Wu: You never get used to Virginia. Place inspires fear even among the brave.
Me: I’m not afraid of Virginia…
Wu: Wolves. There’s wolves there, Johnny
Me: I know that. But I dressed ’em up in sheep’s clothing before I ordered the moving vans.
Wu: Damn, you think of everything.

“Less is more”? Lester thinks so at least

I turned this in to stupid Professor Lester Morehead for AP Creative writing. You can see what he thought of it.!
So I revised it. Almost wrote at the bottom: ‘Hope you learned your lesson, moron, more or less!’   but that’d probably be way over his little pointy head.
God I hate school! Fifty-fourth grade and I still have to stand in line for the sliding board at recess.
ADD: He just gave me an A+ on the revision!! I don’t f*cking beleive it. (Oops, ‘eyes before ease ‘cept after seize.) Mebbe I need do a tutor?


Ruth tacked the list on the wall: “Take care to use only sound fruit”.
“Good point”, she thought. Making jelly at home was the point of taking a day off her job.
“Guy’ll be a help,” she remembered, as she cut and cored the apples. “Wonder if he’d mind if I call?”
“You’re in luck.” she spoke into the phone.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you’re at the top of my list. Can you bring some jell? I got all the rest.”
“Be right there, you can count on me. I’m all heart, Ruth. Just don’t harm your self till I get there.”
“Harm?”
“Yeah, like if you cut your neck on an apple, ha,”
“Don’t be silly.” she laughed. “But if I do it’ll be all your fault. CYA, Guy”

MY Revision:


Ruthless tactless the listless on the wallace: “Take careless to useless only soundless fruitless.”Good pointless, she thoughtless. Making jelly atlas homeless was the pointless of taking a day off her jobless.
“Guileless be a helpless, she remembered, as she cutlass and cordless the apples. Wonder if heedless mindless if I call?”
“You’re in luckless.” she spokeless into the phone,
“Meaningless?”
“Meaningless you’re atlas the topless of my listless. Can you bring some jealous? I got all the restless.”
“Be right there, you can countless on me. I’m all heartless, Ruthless. Just don’t harmless your selfless till I get there.”
“Harmless?”
“Yeah, like if you cutlass your necklace on an apple, ha,”
“Don’t be silly.” she laughed. “But if I do it’ll be all your faultless. CYA, Guy”