Monthly Archives: July 2017

Instrumental Song: ‘Broken Wing’

Apologies for the blank screen on this now-lost video: a soundtrack I did for a ’70s PBS documentary about inner-city kids putting their lives back together.
Yes, there were lots of children: muscled shades of beige, brown and black on playground swings, riding the damn things   higher and higher until they realize that the only limits to their dreams and success in life are…
Um, …the length of the support chains and the height of the playground infra-structure (!).
Sorry, broke the wonderfully-supportive PBS mood!

I include it here for posterity. The rights to the original version, recorded laboriously on now-dinosaur TEAC 4-tracks, were long-since sold to Turner, Sony, or whoever. Doubt they’ll lose sleep over seeing this remake on my lonely WP site.

Song: ‘Missing you…Not!’

Unless you’re one of the stone faces on Rushmore, dear Reader, you must certainly be familiar with the ‘un-announced onset of moments of passion and memories’
But as someone once advised about deciding to suddenly go jogging, the best wisdom is to ‘find something else to do until the feeling  subsides.’
Memory is well-known as a selective, tunnel-vision experience.
Here, in this song, the conclusion is that ‘we only remember the good times… times two.’ (Or “too”- also.)
The human brain does that; otherwise you’d lie awake at night thinking about what an asshole you are.

Of course some folks (women, ok?) are frustratingly  incapable of even putting the ‘times’ on the table for perusal and/or reflection. Need to Google what the professional call ’em.
My advice, though: Don’t call ’em. No matter how teared-up you you feel drunk-dialing, take it from me: Go jogging instead, brother.

Lyrics:
Verse One

I was blind
But now I see
I thought I was missing you
But now I know that we
Only remember the Good, times 2

Verse Two:
I bought you flowers:
You said I paid too much!
You think I never cry?
That I don’t need your touch, girl,
Only remember the good times 2

-Break-
It’s just like you left it, Baby
Nothing is changed
Once in a while I just let myself cry
Guess you know how much I

Tried to belong to you
Tried to be strong for you
Write every song for you
Oh baby.. right or wrong

Verse Three:

I read your letter:
Sounds so tough
I thought I was good enough
Seems like you can’t find the time to remember
the good, times 2

Instr-

Verse Four

We watched the sun rise
For all it’s worth
No spooks, no evil eyes
The lowest place on earth
Girl, just remember the good times two

-break and finish-

You got what you wanted, Baby
Nothing at all…
Once in a while you can let yourself try
I don’t know, let’s call it…
-undecipherable-end-call…

 

Help! Mexican Rapist Cats are eating all my sweet corn!

Not all of my problems have solutions,  and I knew I was out of luck when the only search-results on Google for “prevent cats from eating my corn” were cute-kitty YouTube videos, or articles addressing whether gobbling my carefully-planted livelihood, already barely worth the investment, might harm their precious health.

Yup, the next cat I catch going down a row and taking a destructive bite out of every other ear… she’ll have some ‘health problems’, trust me!

Trying not to blame Trump for this, although I spent 66 happy years never seeing either his ugly face or a cat eating sweet corn. It’s become a huuuge problem since the ill-fated election of 2016.
‘I’ll build a great, great fence around our nation’s corn-fields, attach solar panels… and ‘the cats will pay for it!’,  I caught myself thinking.

Just like the folly of spending 25 billion dollars to ‘prevent’ a couple dozen documented cases of injury caused by illegal aliens, (it’s statistically more likely that your dish-washer’s door will malfunction, open prematurely, and suck you into a fatal spin-cycle!) , I’d be smarter to build a temporary ‘detention-center’ for the perverted cats who’ve developed a taste for Johnny’s homegrown organic corn.
My hope, at first, was to overwhelm them with ‘human-wave, massively-parallel’ tactics. I planted at least 2000 corn-babies. And I still hold onto a dream that that the later-planted ‘Great Yellow Hope‘ Upper field will remain, as at present, ‘Terra Incognita’ to the furry plague until I can harvest and sell its crop.
But, like Trump, I’m also feeling that even a chance victory up there, and one not based on ‘alpha-human’ domination, will be essentially ‘un-twat-worthy’. No, I need proof, for my voters, that I grabbed the felines by the pussy, bent them to my will, and made my garden ‘great again’.

I shall treat this post as a ‘real-time’ report on the fuzzy cat-immigration issue: Readers deserve no less; photos of the horror might be convincing. And having dealt with way-ward cattle for decades with electric fences, the solar-panel route may actually have some virtue.
Meanwhile no one on the forums dares to take my side in the battle. ‘Animal rights’ apparently include ‘innate and un-fettered access to the fruits of the Earth’.
Yes… when seeds, water, fertilizer, and labor are free… More later/JS

My Lorenz-Fitz-gerald-Minkowski Deposit Box.

Q’adima/Israel, Thursday early AM:

I’d watched the little Lucite box set into my ceiling for a couple hours, as the clock neared 6 AM.
With an access door on the top, and then ‘my’ little door on the bottom, I can only ever see vague movement inside it; shadows.
And so I was watching when I heard the sounds of footsteps on the tin roof, heard the upper latch release, and saw, only for a second, a moving hand toss something into it. Oddly, the moment the door opened the box became almost black inside for the few seconds.
But I’m used to ‘odd’ by now.

Grabbing my stepladder and setting it up under the box, I hastily un-did the little latch on my door, Now lit-up inside from the approaching dawn here, I reached in and retrieved the $1000. Ten crisp hundreds, cool to the touch, and even ‘cooler’ to a fellow who’s been frightfully broke for much too long.
Thank God for the Box. If it weren’t for the ‘fail-safe’ mechanism preventing both doors being opened at once, I would have reached in and shaken my trusted tenant’s hand, somewhere ‘over’ (‘up’? ‘down’?) there… wherever he is/ was.

Lancaster County PA,  USA: 11PM Wednesday:

 It’d taken Rob till almost midnight to finish work, stop by the bank, fight traffic homeward, help his wife feed the young kids, count his own meager finances. Some things just take as long as they take, but he’d promised to do the deposit.
A long ladder he keeps safely resting on the ground along the garden wall; Rob set it up against the eaves of the centuries-old log house. In the darkness he carefully climbed up and crawled the couple feet to where the Lucite box was sunk into the cedar-shake roof, opened the trapdoor, and tossed the bills into it. The light suddenly shining out of it was disconcerting to his dark-adjusted eyes, and after closing the door he wisely allowed his pupils to re-accommodate before descending to the lawn. His cell-phone chirped ’11 PM’ .’ Great’, he thought to himself. ‘I’m happy, he’s happy; what a wonderful planet!’

And so I sit on the edge of my bed, putting on my shoes still dirty from yesterday’s concrete job. Off to work, but wait: there’s still time for fleeting but deep thoughts about Time, Space, Distance, and Simultaneity…
 Were Rob and I actually in the the same world, for a moment?

The imaginary-but technically-possible telephoto shot from The Moon seemed to confirm it, yet their ‘time-stamp‘ was ‘late’ by a second or so. Speed of light… or Reality?
One big issue to fix, ‘first things first’ is to toss into the trash that silly ‘Time-Zone’ source of confusion and cognitive duhs:
‘Different Strokes (of Midnight) for Different Folks’? Who needs it? I’m thinking we would be wiser to do without.

Give the folks at Greenwich a cheap and painless ‘why not?’ honorary medal. ‘World Time’ (aka GMT, UCT.’ Rob, my US benefactor and I can then shake hands at an easily-remembered ‘0400 hours GMT‘ on both of our clocks. Kinda…
I’ll not belabour the Einsteinian time-like/space-like separation issue. Who even knows; the nano-second-critical act of our hands clasping, in our disallowed ‘mixed-frame of reference’, might be observed by most anyone else as a ‘mutual annihilation’ explosion’ as the electrons in the outer layers of our separate skins seek to reconcile their quantum vibration wave-forms. Only a carefully-chosen point on the Moon’s surface will see it as a nice gesture of gratefulness.
Luckily, we survive quite well ignoring real, physical, hidden, aspects of our modern life here.
And the money will go to a good cause: school taxes, textbooks, whose carbo-hydrate covers might have at least some nutritive value for today’s students.

Thank God, Michelson, Morley, and the folks in the title for the Box. Look ’em up; so they shouldn’t have died in vain.

 

“If/ When U Come/Go Home”: Song

Nothing consoles a dear soul fearing having been jilted like imagining the entire Bright-Side Baptist Church choir agreeing to ‘be there for ya’ on the chorus back-up.

I’m hoping that any reader, no matter how un-eventful his/her love-history, can identify with sitting, wasting one’s precious life-moments waiting for a lover who was supposed to be ‘home’ already.
The maroon-gowned singers, who needeth not my musical notes, would’ve sung from the heart….for ‘Jesus’s Second Coming’ or whatever apocalyptic re-appearance I dreamed of.

In the end, the prodigal-daughter  here did ‘come home’… and with an excuse that I accepted in a ‘willing suspension of disbelief’. What else could I do?
However.. ‘suspension’ reminds one of ‘A bridge too far’, or else W.C. Fields famously grousing about a fellow wearing suspenders: ‘How can ya trust a Man who can’t trust his own belt?!’

It took the singer/ writer/victim  here another year, thereabouts, to consider re-recording the tune with altered lyrics: “Won’t you go home!” Please!
At any rate, enjoy the moment:

Oh, and for the former Colonists: enjoy your fireworks today. King George is Dead. I appreciate the feeling “Hey, you want tea, buddy..It’s right here on the sea-bottom.” 

Strikes me that Independence is definitively not sitting, as in this tune,  by the phone waiting for someone to whom  you’d stupidly  given administrative rights to set/re-set your ‘Happiness’ level.

Happy Independence Day!

Lyrics:

 

If You come home
I’m gonna be so good to you

When you come home Baby…
I’ll be so good to you
When you come home

You know I tried, I tried, I tried, I can’t try no more..
Y’ know I just sit right here,
and I watch the door

You know there’s changes, changes, changes for you, changes for me, girl
An’ I know we live and learn
But what are we living for?
I’ll be there to open that door

Come back, Baby
What are you waiting for?

Girl, I’ll be there to open that door
I’ll be so good to you
You know I’m gonna be so good to you, Baby
When you come home…

Oh, Sugar…
-Instr-

‘We’ll start all over?’
When you come home . (Lather, rinse, and and repeat to well past midnight……. OK, 6AM)

 

 

New!! ‘STONE NOTES’ is all I’ll ever need to read!!

Forget ‘Steel-Joe’ Stalin and his dumb reductive alphabet! (Oh, and also my rant at losing Google News Feed):

From the minute the sweating UPS guy with the hand-truck delivered my first edition of ‘STONE NEWS’   (we’re at 100/100 these days in Israel ; 100F + 100% humidity) I knew my life had changed forever.
The publication (lithograph?) will now be delivered curb-side, until my subscription erodes. (5 Kilograms for less than 10 British pounds was the offer I clicked on at their website; {STONE-TOSS.NET} of this iconoclastic breakaway outcrop from the otherwise stolid ‘Today’s Lithography’ Journal.

stone news vol one
Billed as “an igneous metamorphosis… not for the sedentary!” my new news source is written mainly in ‘Pentagraphic’ a startlingly easy language to acquire: (within hours I was reading it, Braille-like, in bed under the covers.
‘S-T-O-N-E’  comprises the entire alphabet; a smart-shopping choice, no?
Chipped into stone in a delightfully-Neolithic font, the journal is a veritable pyroclastic flow, a conglomerate of articles and opinions worthy of their claim: ‘News you can take for granite!”

Ok, today’s edition leads with a bas-relief cartoon depicting Trump falling over a rocky cliff with the title: NOT TOO SOON!
But, politics aside, lets look at the other Sections on the Rock:

Food: ‘Ask Stella Glyph:’ discusses the importance of minerals in diet

Film: The irrascably sinless critic team ‘ENOS ‘N SNOOT’ , in their ‘CASTING STONES’ column take a look at the hit re-make: “TO SEE ‘N NOT TO SEE”
History/trivia asks: “SO, NO ONE’S SEEN NESS’S NOOSE?” , detailing the mysterious disappearance of Elliot Ness’s favorite rope-trick in his pursuit of outlaws.

‘Culture’ talks about the latest craze in the UK: “TEN TENSE ETON TEENS ON STENO!” Apparently a re-dux of the cramming telephone-booths of the 60s. Some things never change. ‘Ink-arsed tossers’, he calls ’em.

Biblical Archeology attempts to rebut a spurious claim about the Kumran cave-dwellers: “ESSENES NEST EONS… ON NEON NESTS?? NONSENSE!

And finally, in health, the current obsession of having a ‘NO-SNOT NOSE’ gets petro-glyphically pooh-poohed by Dr O’Steen.

Ok, Bravo! to the tectonic shift in journalism which this effort represents. My only fear is that, having un-earthed the low-lying gems in the alluvial fan here in the first offering, they be hard-pressed to live up to the blurb ‘Finally, read the News on a real Tablet!’

I’ll await any suggestions for follow-up articles.

ANAIS NIN ‘NAILS’ STALIN IN “ATLAS SLANTS” (!)

-“Toward the end he must have suffered horribly”-

Gazing at the recent photos leaked from the Oval Office of ‘The Donald’, miniature hands clutching small crayons and working at his DIY coloring-book hidden behind a coffee-table volume of ‘Archimedes: A Life: it’s hard not to pity his paucity of anagrams for the sad name ‘TRUMP’. ‘A PUMP on the RUMP for TRUMP’? That’s kinda it?

But after just now reading Anais Nin’s tour-de-force bio of the Soviet-era brute Jozef Stalin, the parallels are unavoidably painful.

Written in the actual six-letter ‘revolutionary’ script he considered forcing upon his rightly-fearful nation in the final years, Nin’s volume retroactively fulfills ‘Uncle Joe’s’ aberrant dream.

Even though ‘Dementia’ was unfortunately not in his ‘New’ dictionary, though it very well ought to have been.

In Chapter three, for example, the gifted author gives a glimpse into his madness:
‘STALN’S ‘LAST LISTS’:

Limited by the party-approved use of only the 6 letters in His Name: S-T-A-L-I-N: in ‘Hexagraph’ as he intended to call it; one feels the iron curtain of constriction and claustrophobia, distinctly.
(Trump has, at least, 140 characters after all, including 2nd-grade misspellings.)

Stalin scrawls:

SALT IN TINS
SLOTS
SLATS
SILTS

STILTS
SALSA (?)
(Of the last entry, decadently non-Slavic, Nin explains by saying ‘STALIN AIN’T A SAINT!’)

He continues shopping:

SNAILS
NAILS
A STILL
LINT (?)
TINSAL {sic}
LANTANA (a bitter plant, after which he appended ‘TALL’

And TANNIN (enough for curing 6+ million human hides?)

Okay, one gets the point. The man ‘wasn’t right‘. Sound familiar yet?

His ‘to-do’ list: (for the First 30 years of un-elected office:)

‘SIT AN’ INSTALL ‘TINSAL’ (those low-ceiling dachas are perfect… for an elevator-shoed midget)
A STINT AS A SAINT? (a wish granted, posthumously …. until the truth hit the fans)
LATIN? ( might need it.. you know, in S.A.)
SATAN? TINT? (Yup, a ‘precident; orange hair, a comb-over, spray-on TAN. They only found the spiked TAIL during the autopsy)

And that’s my review, pending Reader imaginations. Kudos to Ms Nin for her research.