Monthly Archives: May 2017

Accusatory Spam: It’s “the new abnormal”!

Breaking news from my net-scatology labs (the study of on-line shit-types):
An interestingly-novel genre of un-wanted junk mail has these past few weeks erupted into a full-blown SPAM-SPASM.
Not content to waste humanity’s valuable band-with hawking fake products I neither want nor need, sending transparently-bogus ‘warnings, and (70%) asking that I come over tonight for a hot time with ‘Candy Babe’, the bearded mouth-breathing Idi Amin clones are lately passing themselves off as aggrieved ‘stalkees’ Here’s one example:

je accuse

And almost a third of my “unrequited love-letters” now (I get 40 a day or so) are this new breed of sickness.

je accuse too
They all, of course, go directly to G-mails excellent Spam Folder. But I need to check it in case someone real has been un-fairly flagged.
Note: I used to get one spam a week, something like that. Until ten minutes after I signed up for a one-week trial of a charlatan ‘people-finder’ site. They sold my full name, e-mail address, and US street address to these filth-mongers, and within seconds.
I did find one post on Google where a poor fellow got the same f*ck-you text, but I’m wondering if this ‘trend’, like so many other signs of decay in the sickening age of Drumpf,… trending.
Not that I encourage others to pore through scat like I do. It’s temporary, I promise.


Quantum Lettuce: (or ‘Help, I’m being gas-lighted by Salad-loving Aliens!’ (updated)

In 65 years of active plant-raising I’ve never seen anything like this morning’s Great Disappearance.
Fact: Exactly ten days ago I lovingly transplanted 17 lettuce seedlings, then about 5 ” tall, raised from seed, into a row. 30 centimeter spacing, drip-irrigation, compost pre mixed into the bed.
They were doing fine last evening at 6:13 PM.
And this morning ten of them. every plant starting from the left end of the row, WERE GONE!
Now, with 29 kinds of birds, snakes, mon-geese, foxes, weasels, and jackals, I know what you’re thinking. “Weasels ripped yer flesh!’ so to speak. And to tell the truth, I’d be happy for that prosaic explanation. I have a hundred more lettuces waiting as replacements, and shit happens.
Yet this is not Ordinary Shit’.
Listen, when a plant is eaten by someone/something there are traces. They are either eaten in place, leaving chewed remnants, or pulled out of the soil (crows, parrots)
But that is not what happened to my lettuces.

Examining with my best reading-glasses, and as carefully as one un-rolls a goddamned  Dead Sea Scroll, I clearly see… um.. nothing. No trace that a plant was ever there!!   No disturbed ‘hole’ in the ground. no cut-off stem, and not even any surviving roots in the potting-soil 2″ cube they came with.
Now Quantum Mechanics proves that nothing is Impossible, just that ‘evaporation’ of a macroscopic entity is absurdly Improbable. Even a flea, or a single-celled microbe will not disappear even once in the expected lifetime of the Galaxy. You can look it up.
And  an even stranger point, which just now occurred to me:
In principle, dis-allowed disappearance, such as happened to me this morning, is no less improbable than its inverse: Disallowed Appearance. (Cue eerie violins and Rod Serling from behind the pomegranate bushes.)
As such, I should be no less shocked to see lettuce where yesterday there was none, than to awaken to find ten healthy innocent plants whose wave-functions suddenly collapsed and slouched toward Andromeda overnight.
Yes, I wish I had pictures to show. I do have witnesses, as if that helps me in Court.
And anyway, documenting ‘Nothing’ reminds me of the famous oil-painting titled ‘Cow eating grass’ A blank canvass; the viewer asks ‘Where’s the grass? A: ‘The cow ate it. Then: ‘So where’s the cow? A: Why should she hang around after the grass was all gone?’
Meanwhile, I’ve been in actual shock since this happened. Kinda destroyed my faith in humanity. Lettuce. Whatever. Not believing in anything anymore, I guess I’m off to law school. If the building is still there at the listed address when I get off the bus.
Oh, I forgot the ‘gaslighted by Aliens’ part:
If you haven’t encountered this currently en-vogue new verb, apt in the fake age of Drumpf, I’ll just advise checking WIKI. From a film many years ago. I will add that ‘Whom the aliens seek to destroy, first they drive crazy’.
And somehow the Andromedaries behind this caper will feel more cosmically ethical if they can convince me that, no, I never really planted that lettuce; that it was only a dream. Aha, they forgot my high-functioning habit of writing everything down; dates, amounts, etc.
And all I can do is vow never to do anything like this dirty trick to any exo-race, even from the Crab Nebula.
That’s about it. Suggestions?

Ok, 5 of the 10 replacements I transplanted yesterday at 3PM were crudely eaten or carried away sometime between 11PM and 6AM this morning. The enemy sent their sad-sack ”D’ league new-hires this time, it appears. No attempt to cover tracks. Broke every rule in my Mossad Training Manual.
I’m fabricating a quick screen over their little lettuce heads. The mesh is 3 cm. X 6 cm. So if it’s birds what done this, I’ll be gunning for ‘small-bodied’ f*ckers. Wrens, sparrows, and our endemic iridescent-blue humming-bird species. Thinking I heard it takes ‘4 and 20’ to bake into a pie. Assuming blackbirds. Bon apetit.
Hey, I’ll go down to 40 micron mesh if that’s what it takes. For the An-dromedaries, you know… More news as it happens

Waiting to Vomit: An extended political Metaphor

Extended too far?/ IDK,
I’m thinking almost anyone is familiar with the feeling: The stomach sending serious signals that not all is peachy in Denmark. (Gallop polls). You stand, and later sit there, pondering the development. (Wash Post/ NYT)
Yes the Office Party. (elections) The pizza!
Somehow the Commitee decided to ‘vote’ on the choice of caterer. Bless their hearts; too much Civics 101 without a helmet. One vote for each know-nuttin, not counting the ‘over-ride‘ from Billy, the wanna-be CEO. And so, the deal is struck with ‘Pizza, Great Again. Inc’.
You’d expressed your reservations, even warned that ‘great again‘ sounds suspiciously like warming up un-eaten slices from 3 days ago, stored, (if that’s the word for ‘piled in the backroom at room temperature’?)
At any rate, bowing to peer pressure (Inauguration Day/ the party) you agree to try a few slices.
Pepperoni: (bye-bye political correct-ness, niggers are once again niggers) Anchovies (why should the slant-eyed Chinese steal ‘our’ fish?’ ) Mushrooms (every atavistic impulse that grew in the dark, and can now be displayed in public)
Tell the truth, it was tasty ‘at the time’.
I’m so tempted to steal a joke from Dick Cavett(?):
“Should have known better; ate Chinese-German food… and an hour later I was hungry again… for power.”
At any rate, ‘puke-ness’ approaches rapidly. (special prosecutor). Truly mixed emotions, since vomiting publically is, like, an admission of error(?)    One does every dance-step he knows; sit, stand, deep-breathing. But in the End, it’s inevitable:
Out to the lawn; an instant Jackson Pollack; all the colors cats, birds, and flies could wish for. Wash the taste out of the mouth with the garden hose, feel better, but only physically..

 “How could I have made this horrid mistake?” dominates your thoughts.
You look up and down the street; two neighbors who were also at the party are suspiciously ‘indoors’. Misery in company? All that’s left to await is the grey and black NIH vans. Fresh-scrubbed new-hires canvassing the ‘cohort-group‘ (“You had the pizza; May 14th. 2017?”)
Exit Metaphor:
What we are waiting for, obviously, is a ‘vomiting-out’ of the poisoned-from-birth spoiled-child president. I hardly care whether the gag-reflex exit is through impeachment, Article 25 of the US Constitution, or, somehow, out the anus.
 The USA, for whose honor and principles too many fought and died, shouldn’t have to spend any more of 2017 deciding where to throw-up. The toilet, the lawn, and/or when? This is who we are?

Nixon Returns.. as Farce

 I take seriously the commandment: ‘All that is necessary for Democracy to fail is for decent men to remain silent’
And here I am, fiddling, while any concept of the American governance we always knew and loved.. burns!
Some comfort, personally, watching anyone who has a conscience, a sense of history, and a feeling of responsibility issuing statements daily.
Today’s line-up, from my Google news-feed, includes Stephen King, the author, characterizing Drumpf as “a remarkable combination of unhinged and dumb as dirt.” , and calling for impeachment.
I could write the same thing here, or worse, but of course have no illusions of being quoted in the world’s media, described as ‘Solberg, the prize-winning, gifted song-writer, and performer’ and continuing: “… said today: ‘OMG Gevalt! What a failed stinking piece of dog-shit someone dragged into the White House, stuck to his K-mart shoes!”
Of course, I personally know only one ‘sucker’; she went to his rallies in PA, presumably did the ‘Heil Hitler’ in the audience, and voted for this personification of the evil of banality.  (Hannah Arendt)
Loving friend as I am, I keep in touch with her. Surely at some point she will realize her error and tearfully admit it: I’ll be there with a consoling hug. Ain’t I grand?!
By the way, “I knew Dick Nixon. Nixon was a friend of mine; and frankly, fuck-head, you ain’t even another Richard Nixon!”
That is to say, (all parodies of the Quayle put-down aside), that at least, in his defense, Nixon, wrong-headed on many issues, was ‘eine mensch’; an actual career politician who’d done his homework.
And finally, as the post’s title suggests, Nixon’s tragedy is now foisted upon the next generation, as a classic FARCE.
With twat-storms, cheap plastic Chinese-made hats, transparent and un-ashamed use of the office for profit, the once-at-least respectable GOP busy proving their utter spine-less-ness…
There ought to be Clowns. But who’s in a mood to laugh.

So there, I did my part: ‘Impeach the fucker… yesterday!‘ says Solberg, the respected song-smith and grower of organic sweet-corn. Oughta mean something..

Cowboy Song ‘Blazing Lassos’

 Short version:
Clifford‘ returns from El Paso un-sure of the authenticity of his souvenir purchase.
A quick back-yard test confirms, at least, its efficacy
He convinces his BFF, Gifford, to accompany him on a road-trip to Fame
Disputes over background music may or may not have contributed to an unfortunate early demise of the pair.
A musical interlude respects their memory.. until
They emerge, somehow un-scathed and un-deterred, and fulfill their dream in Norman, Oklahoma.

Add: I’ll simply encourage anyone visiting that town to endeavor to support their act. Tell ’em ‘Johnny sent us!‘ and get a dime off on admission.
(Oh, and Haile Selassie was the President of Ethiopia from 1930 to 1974; he was never known to have roped a calf)


Verse One

I’m back from El Paso: Is this a real lasso?
It looks Ethiopian (What do I know?)
It’s ropy and classy
An’ highly silas-y
To the lawn, I’ll give it a throw
To the lawn now we’ll give it a throw

Verse Two:

I can snag my old bicycle three out of four
We’re off to the rodeo, what do you know?
With the radio playing my favorite tune
We’ll be stereophonic rangoons
We’ll be stereophonic baboons

We’ll go Um-pah-pah’
We’re gpnna be in rodeo
(Sounds Ethiopian

Verse Three:

Clifford and Gifford, two peas in a pod
But on one point they differed: Scheherazade (!)
Gifford’s fer salsa
but a mile out of Tulsa
They ran off the road and got daid(!)
No, they ran off the road and got daid… (The End?)

-Paste-in Solberg Requiem-

Verse Four Happy ending

No, a clown trying to peddle electrolye beer
Gave the wanna-be showmen
a ride into Norman
Where the pair now appear in a poor-man’s wild-west show
with slick pyrotechnic appeal
They got slick pyrotechnic appeal

Song: ‘Nobody but angels believes me’

Short version: A song about a guy who sees UFOs; has trouble with the ‘credibility thing’.
In depth:
This is a piece I put together for my Best (guy) Friend, about ten years ago.
Now not everyone has a best friend; me personally, I’d only ever heard about ’em, as if on Nat’l Geographic, till I lucked out and met one in the wild. Thirty years, and he’s still very much alive and well.
This fellow, ‘Danny J’ is blessed/ plagued by more unbelievable coincidences than anyone deserves. The phrase ‘He could write a book’ doesn’t even start to do him justice.
We first met in ’78, me in a strange new land and escaping the US horror show after tragic events; he, only a few years out of the army, with blood-curdling tales of commando life-or-death operations available upon request. Two small children. From him I learned at once that my hope of living a scientist/thinker’s life in Israel was indeed a possibility. With help from a friend.
And when I arrived here for good (for better or for worse?) in ’94 , this town just off the coast between Haifa and Tel Aviv, was solidly in the thralls of an almost daily ‘visitation’ by unexplained (even to this day) ‘parties’

You only need to see one giant circle of mashed-down weeds, smeared with red cadmium juice , singed orange trees in all directions on the periphery, and weird rocks (more later) in the center of the ‘landing site’ in order to risk becoming, as the song says ‘a true believer’.

We worked on the phenomenon, separately and in tandem: witnesses, photo-analysis, plots of aberrant magnetism, etc. The rocks yielded, via the chief scientist at a quasi-gov’t lab, an off-scale list of ridiculous elemental make-up. Like at the UN, every atomic number save Oxygen had one vote. Ruthenium, Rubidium…. all the Lanthanides… I have a sample here on the desk to this date.
At any rate, claiming that you’ve met alien life has its down-side. Only Angels believe you. Hence the song.
I obviously have a lot to say on this subject, but for now, ‘Enjoy’.

Verse One:

I was standing right here when it happened.
There was nobody on the scene
Why don’t nobody believe me?
I smelled the gasoline..

Yeah, they’ll start their own ‘vestigation
Run that merry-go-round
They spend the night at the station
Doing the Lost and Found

Nobody believes me
I was alone on that hill
They say ‘Someday you’ll learn’
But I never will
Don’t believe me
I saw too far; caught that star

Verse Two:

I’ll go riding, just like Friday
They’ll be nobody else around
When did I turn into a true-believer?
I map the holy ground

Work the Static Collector
Don’t light a match; don’t make a sound!
It’s just like Mason and Dixon
I’ve got to write this down!

Nobody believes me
I’m alone on that hill
I don’t care what they say anymore
Nobody believes me
I flew too far; caught that star


Nobody but Angel believes me..

Song: ‘Like you said on the Valentine’

Ok, this simpleton mebbe ate too much grade-school candy-heart printed-message (USDA Dye #104) expressions of Love, and
without a helmet.

Long-term damage: at age 45, his doomed emotional grasp still included fantasies written on confectionery-sugar in the ’50s
Still, if you are choosing a ‘hero’ in the psycho-drama, your heart goes out to the ‘fairy-tailed’ fellow, who, to his
credit, stead-fastly upholds his part in the deal: once you give an “I’m Yours” to a chick, it’s, like …4-evah.
The ‘Angel’ little stone mentioned here, found on the beach and lovingly inked ‘I’m yours’, was luckily written in non-
colour-fast script. Such that, after having been dumbly run through a laundry cycle and found by interested-parties, its
inscription was by then illegible. Details, not needed for enjoyment of the tune…


You’ll say ‘It’s Over’
And I’ll say ‘I’m yours, and you’ll always B mine!’
Just like you wrote on the Valentine

My Guardian Angel
I kiss your hand; take your little stone
And walk out that door.. to the cold unknown

Stand in the corner;
Turn out the lights and I hope to die
Just like I said when we kissed goodbye

Let’s talk this over
Roll down that hill, just another day
We’ll sleep on the beach, at the hideaway
You say it’s over?
I say ‘I’m yours, and you’ll always B Mine’
Just like you wrote on the Valentine

‘I’ve got to hand it to ‘Nobody’

Another song using a play on words. A triple: hey no one else to play with..
So, if you like the tune, well, I gotta hand it to ya! (Thanks, roughly)
And if you want a copy, we’ll meet, there on the road to nowhere, and I’ll hand-deliver a copy.
Meanwhile, I’m not exactly drowning in acclaim and purchases. I’d write better songs.. if I thought it would do any good.
Meanwhile, Enjoy:

Spoken intro: “Folks, here’s an old song from the first album. Sure you remember, that’s the one that sold about seven copies.
If you count the one I gave to my Mom. ‘Course she gave it back…
Anyway, it’s called ‘Nobody buys my Record’
We just wanted to prove we learned a little something since then
Put two and two together; Figgered out reason nobody buys ’em cuz ain’t nobody’d got a record player anymore
So we’re working with these little-bitty records..’CDs’
Little easier to work with
Anyway we got sick of staying up all night melting down doll-heads for the wax.
Tryin’ to save a little money on production
Anyway; works out pretty good, you can play ’em without a needle…
Well.. some of the songs sound a little better if you do use a needle.. but. Here we go:”

Verse One:

Nobody buys my record
Nobody spins my tune
Nobody buys my record
Not even the Man-in-the-Moon

Nobody sends me a dollar
Nobody knows I’m alive
Knocked down to a dollar ninety-five
Nobody buys my record:
I’ve got to hand it to Nobody


Well my single’s dying;
Live album’s dead
I got to keep on tryin’
Musta been something I said?
I’m on the road to nowhere
Nobody’s gonna meet me there
Nobody’s watching my detectives
Even they don’t seem to care

I’m just crazy about Nobody’
Nobody’s wild about me
Nobody buy my record:
I’ve got to hand it to Nobody

-“I’m just gonna play a little here”- Instru- keys
-“Blow, Junior! Nobody’s listening’- Instru sax-

Nobody buys my record
Nobody spins my tune
Nobody buys my record
Not even the Man-in-the-Moon
Nobody sends me a dollar
Nobody knows I’m alive
Knocked down to a dollar-ninety-five
Nobody buys my record
I’ve got to hand it to Nobody

Talk amongst yourselves… while we wait for the ‘Goldfish Variations’.

‘Goldfish Variations in C# Opus 1001’ is an oft-discussed work by the well-known mid-20th-century composer.
It begins vocally with an octave-doubled motif intended to evoke the recurrent technical horrors of a low-budget TV station.
After the initial exposition, violas and bassoons (baboons?) introduce the main theme, based on either an Abovdanese folk tune, or, as Scott Largo in his comprehensive ‘Vienna Musicology’ series argues persuasively, ‘more typical of the Belowdanese tradition, with which the composer was likely more familiar.’
Written in 1976, the piece mentions arcane TV-tech-fiasco tidbits and most notably, describes knowingly the ‘background-graphic: the classic photo of the Hindenburg air-ship disaster used by WITF-TV behind their ‘We are experiencing technical difficulties: Please stand by…’ slide-show
And as Duncan/ SWH kindly explained to me recently, the text might just as well have been, as per the post title (and his recent intriguing song by that name) ‘Talk amongst yourselves, meanwhile’.

Trouble in the studio
Nothing on the screen!
Somebody kill the anchor
Load the magazine

Follow the Director
He’s standing in the clear
‘It’s not in the connector’
This is coming from the engineer

We’re queing up the clip of the sinking ship:
The ‘Burning of The Hindenburg’
Then we’re gonna cut to the stationary camera on the Goldfish Bowl.. again!

We’re just waiting for the goldfish music
waiting for the goldfish music
Run and tell the master
We’re coming up on camera three
We got to sync the raster
Take the ‘super’ off the chroma-key
We’re queing up the clip of the sinking ship:
The ‘Burning of The Hindenburg’

Then we’re gonna cut to the stationary camera on the goldfish bowl.. again!

We’re just waiting for the goldfish music
waiting for the goldfish music -repeat-