tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91440933213032294752024-03-18T22:09:01.948-07:00beetbeethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-86568819599612209912018-04-11T11:08:00.000-07:002018-04-11T11:10:36.819-07:00The Soy Burger<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 15px; line-height: normal;">
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">The ritual of having children has never quite caught hold of me. I am, perhaps, what some might call a “serial monogamist.” Perhaps back in primitive days I’d have been some sort of absentee father, trudging across the African savannah in 50,000 BC, addicted to the scent and subsequently impregnating a farmers daughter here, fixated on the shimmery flesh of a hunter’s wife there, perhaps narrowly escaping a stoning, or perhaps nothing. Perhaps people didn’t even think in terms of daughters and wives, romance. Perhaps we simply gyrated against and within each other for a small duration, having no clue what we were doing, simply enjoying, and simply going about the rest of our day hunting, farming, which may have simply consisted of following a herd of cattle around, spearing one in the ribs when we were hungry. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Perhaps my life rituals live on from these humble roots in an era some might call the nanny-state, a state of multiple choices, where perhaps no true choice exists. Perhaps the only theory is the pheromone theory, and I am trotting round this fair planet with a emitting a pheromone signal that shouts “potential wives and mothers, be gone, this is not provider material, find a different man, perhaps in a suit, to provide you offspring and meat!” </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Well, that might be part, but perhaps it’s more truthful that when I decided there was such a thing as artist, and that I should be one, there was a notion that the act of being an artist was akin to devoting one’s life to the priesthood. Early Somerset Maugham summarizes my philosophy. But is the role of an artist just an ego-driven folly? Is the act of procreation the same? In both one replicates ones self into future rituals. Is the entire course of human activity simply a series of human follies? How and why does one justify their “chosen” path? </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">I imagine humans have been lazily repeating social and sexual patterns since above mentioned cave man days, and in these modern times, I somehow have not been privy to the ritual of providing a nest for offspring, or consequentially pro-creating. Perhaps it is a choice, but it is a lazy, only semi-conscious choice resolved in part by looking at the paths available to me. The fact that I never had kids could be due to my family background, it could be due to perceived dangers in the world, it could be many things, which I will now contemplate. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Let us contemplate the soy burger — an excellent protein source. Perhaps in some parallel universe soy protein is a gourmet delicacy, but in our US of A it is most often forced to fit into the ritual of hamburger cooking and eating. In this ritual, it would only occur to one to eat soy rather than meat, if one is conscious that meat is a bad choice for feeding oneself. So the vegetarian proselytizes to the carnivore, attempting to trick his or her hard-wiring into substituting soy for meat, and to do so, soy must mimic the beef hamburger ritual. The soy must be hearty substance, able to withstand grilling, often over an open fire. The soy burger must fit within 2 pieces of bread, and should be good company for garnishings like tomatoes, pickles, lettuce, catchup, cheese, mustard, and occasionally mayonaise. It can then be readily passed around a group of friends or relatives and consumed on a sunny summer day, preferably in close proximity to a beach or perhaps just a beer. The fact that it is a SOY burger, lets one continue to a large extent with the ritual while clearly eating something that is a better choice within that ritual, a choice that is easier on the planet to create, easier on the body to digest, one that does not contain the fats that adversely affect the heart, one that is not cruel to sentient beings in its production. However, part of its virtue is also its shortcoming: Blood, being the most obvious, the savory liquid that is the proof of an animal sacrifice, one that assures the consumer he or she is atop the food chain, even the grease, the unhealthy film that is left on one’s fingers, lips and chin when grabbing a burger fresh off the grill, is a sensuous reminder of its authenticity, and lest we forget, the soy burger’s smell is not that of roasting flesh, but rather dons a slightly medicinal quality, like the lab-created replication that it is. Alas, the soy burger’s supreme creators managed only to make it mimic meat as far as it can mimic meat, and thereafter it is simply an inferior burger. Even if you corrected this nuance or that, it would never be as good as a straight-up beef hamburger.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">In like spirit, today’s ritual of a red-blooded American family man consists of: </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">1. Owning a truck and/or a luxury car, proving one’s ability to provide an adequate nest. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">2. One should enjoy sports, preferably having gone fairly far in one, perhaps have even gone pro had it not been that one was accepted into Business School. Preferring particularly violent sports like football or boxing shows a comfort level with violence, and thus, the more likely it is one will provide adequate protection for the nest. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">3. One should support the actions of our military (3a) while at the same time proclaim one’s belief in Jesus Christ, (3b) while at the same time espouse a hearty lust for silicon-breasted women with spray-on tans. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">In short, one must not think at all, should the inherent contradictions of the above philosophies become apparent. The ideal family man is a neanderthal with an MBA. This is the strain of gene that tends to dominate in our culture, although my evidence is entirely anecdotal.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Lo, I am but a soy burger of a man, barely able to make a living, a person who studied the history of art, alongside numerous gays and —god forbid — women. It is a smart social combination, given my lack of machismo. Women who chose me must choose to deny that ultimate turn-on of a high-income muscle-bound protector, the man comfortable with violence, the one who ultimately will go the distance, which is marriage and children. Pretty much, I’m a fag who happens to fuck women. I haven’t been in a fight since, say, 7th grade, and heck, I can barely even watch football!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">But I’m comfortable as a soy-burger man, a role I have perhaps lazily slipped into. Before my effeminate discipline of study, I was previously labelled a soy-burger of a boy — or should I simply say a defective boy -- by people within our Seventh-Day Adventist community. My parents divorced, there were a couple domestic violence events, substance abuse, my mother’s chronic depression, constant moving from town to town, in general, we were a mess. One look at our fractured family, and we were a social project for do-gooders to prop up their own role. A stigma followed me. Dating as a teenager, there were parents who felt I had no role models, and would not mature to become one, though I’m certain they piously hoped for the best. Even as an adult, in more than one relationship, discussions return to my upbringing, which according to some partners, has taught me little in the ways of family loyalty. Certainly, I will die with the “not family material” label upon me, and it will have been true, and perhaps even a bigger contributor to my soy ritual than some primordial urge. I don’t argue against that, but I will argue the validity of my choices, which due to my background, I’ve had the freedom to choose.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">From the non-Seventh-Day Adventist culture at large, we did more often eat Soy Burger than beef, as the religion espouses good health, the body being the temple of God, or what have you. We were also conscientious objectors, i.e. — it is sinful to bear arms. Man has no moral authority to kill another man, as it is written right there, in the most obvious commandments from God, written in friggin’ stone, given to Moses, who shared with God’s chosen: “Thou shalt not kill.” To reinforce that, the Son of God taught us to “turn the other cheek.” I’ve chosen to retain this in my personal moral code, even though I’m either agnostic or atheist, depending upon which mood you catch me.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Although I don’t feel compelled to mimic any particular role model, I do espouse, from high atop this soap-box, the general philosophy of Christ (whether he existed or not) that no one is perfect, we are all works in progress, and to forgive imperfections. I believe in a broader morality than personal gain, or even tribal gain, or that my family is better than yours — which also stems from my Seventh-Day Adventist upbringing. All god’s children are equal, therefore, we never had intramural sports, nor even grades in one school. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">To some people, this is abhorrent mediocracy. They might project the “work in progress” philosophy to parenting, but set bars that are concrete. They guide their children through discipline, religion and politics. Being somewhat of a self-parented child, I have at points applied all the bull-shit to myself, and mostly, have realized I should be free. Whether I achieved this point of view from liberal teen and early adult psychotropic drug use, I cannot be sure, but given the hostile nature of the environment in which I was born, feel I should not adhere to the model of a family, nor larger lessons our culture teaches us, which is largely a study on the value of war, nor place a virgin soul into this mess. I discourage most friends to pro-create, but if they do, I discourage living up to the conflicting standards of that family man, lest they wind up, in the words of Henry Rollins, “a twice-divorced alcoholic like me.” No, the innumerable conflicting standards read like a match against flint to my sensibilities, and I see flints ignite from Oklahoma City to Iraq. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Nor I do have that desire to attack life as if an invading marine, grabbing that career, that wife, creating my tribe. I’m much happier dabbling in my paints, or music, or writing new characters or what have you. My so-called artistic achievements will be my legacy (even if I have no agent or publicist). I can attack the color orange within that art, be as violent as I want to that hateful color, without hurting anyone. Or I can write a murder ballad, again without hurting anyone. Since a small child, I have always locked myself in my room, drawing my secret drawings, building imaginary cities, my fantastical life of no consequence while the misery of my parents’ doing continued outside. If it may seem like escapism, it is actually much more than that. Let’s call it a philosophical “sketch-pad” which enables an artist to act without consequences, revealing human nature with fictitious scenarios, empathize within imaginary scenarios and characters, allows one to freely explore themselves and others, and eventually hone one’s “real life” activities into actions that reflect a kinder personal ethic. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">In reality as opposed to art, all events have direct and immediate consequences that manifest themselves physically and block or open future paths in real time in real lives. They can maim or kill, or at the least, hurt feelings, or just hurt. Sometimes they even leave offspring. Jack Kerouac proposed the first thought is the best thought, but in my experience, a thought that has undergone contemplation is much better. That said, I cannot escape the conclusion that life is a series of joys and pains, no matter what you choose to do, no matter how many souls are swirling about in similar patterns.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Sure, it is obvious that bringing a soul into this world, especially one’s own child is a joy that outweighs pain. But let’s dwell on the pain: When my sister had a baby, I could not help but think of it as the most barbaric act left in western culture. She did it naturally, a very long labor, which pushed her to her limits of pain and exhaustion, afterwards using a doughnut shaped pillow to sit on wherever she went to alleviate the pressure while healing from her horrible birth wounds. Why more feminists do not protest against this barbaric victimization of women is beyond me. Simply put, birth should be illegal!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Likewise, I find the casual regard about bringing a new soul into this existence stunning. People even ASSUME that they will have children. As if they have no say in the matter! As if there is no other way to contribute to society, or to not have children is not fully contributing. These days, to opt out of procreation is almost as freakish as being gay was before Stonewall. Now, even gays are rushing to procreate! Where is the contemplation? Don’t they realize that contemplation is the luxury of the first-world homosapien? Frontal cortex, people, frontal cortext!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">The generation in which I was born has passed its youth and created the next generation. I am stuck with THEIR children. In a way, I can’t help but think the lessons of the sexual revolution, the lessons of self-realization, the lessons of pure and simple ecology were at least partially lost. Intellectually, I know this may be incorrect, but looking around me, emotionally I feel the wrong people had children. The new hipsters that surround me here in good ole Brooklyn have gone back to pro-creating in their 20s. Many mothers are content to shun careers, though to be fair, there is the bourgeoning class of stay-at-home dads. Even if they shop at Whole Foods, their personal rituals seem Monsanto grown…OK… I’m ready to reduce this to what I really feel: PEOPLE ARE BEING REPLACED WITH HYPER-CONSUMING, BABY POOPING CORPORATE COGS BEARING STUPID TATOOS, TALIBAN BEARDS, AND BABY STROLLERS! </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Ahem… Sorry. It’s not the heat, it’s the humanity…</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Here in once dilapidated Brooklyn, the once sparsely populated G-train is now cheek-to-backpack in humanity, as their brand-named bags are apparently too precious to put on the floor. I’m forced increasingly to deal with their snarky “Daddy-issue” manners, with which I have no clue how to handle, as I’m no “Daddy”! It just exacerbates my anxiety about how capable they are to handle the future. Each time a brownstone is torn down, I dread the Ikea-manufactured 7-story baby-pod that will replace it, spewing these dewey youths that recklessly destroy any authenticity in their wake. “Oh, look, they’ve opened new bank.” Even if a small boutique business opens, as opposed to a faceless chain, it is so precious, you can’t help but think the proprietor got a blue ribbon every 1/2 hour of their lives from their first poop to losing their virginity. It will soon pass that our brief generation of punk-rock offspring-denyers never existed, and will be forgotten like a discarded appendix, a vague memory of a bad taste left in one’s mouth by a soy-burger. Only the empty slogans of punk rock, piercings, tattoos will live on. The content is, as someone from a previous generation pointed out, just the dull stuff between commercials. One soy-burger consumes the other.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">In the olden days, before Brooklyn was gentrified to provide a “Truman Show” set to anyone who has the cash to participate, there was what one once was called “struggle.” There have been books written about it by Howard Zinn and so forth, and I believe MTV or TLC network might have a reality show that approximates this historic phenomenon. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">A quick aside: In 1967, when the monkeys went to heaven, before my parents went crazy, when I was in kindergarten, our neighbors had about 8 or 9 kids — I don’t remember the exact count, and probably neither did the parents. I asked my mother why there were so many kids in their family. My mother said it was because they were Catholic. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">My Sicilian-Catholic great-grandma was a mere 14 when she was sent off from Palermo, Sicily to her aunt in Chicago circa what, 1910 or 20? Well, it wasn’t technically Chicago. Back then Italians were shunned from Chicago proper, and “Italian-towns” cropped up just outside the city limits. They were nick-named “Ciceros.” One still exists as a bonafide suburb. Anyway, while she was in line to be processed on Ellis Island, a couple n’er-do-wells abducted her, put her in a fishing crate and transported her up the Hudson River to Albany where they intended to sell her into the “white slave” market. While at this hoodlum’s house, they found that her aunt that she had been planning to live with in Chicago, was a childhood friend of their mob-boss in Albany. In their Sicilian-neanderthal world, when a woman stayed under another man’s roof, it was the same as losing her virginity, which she had just done. Therefore, she was no longer suitable wife material, therefore, she probably could only make a living as a prostitute. The family of that virgin replication of Mary, mother of God, would sensibly retaliate by killing whoever it was who took that un-wed virginity. They quickly realized that their boss would whack them… unless… wait… unless they found someone to quickly marry her! So they wed her to a 35 year old man, my great grandfather, and together they had 12 children. What a joyous, romantic story, eh? Put that in your sock-hop. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">On my Southern Baptist side, I have a retarded cousin, Niki. I’m sorry: learning impaired. He’s nearly 70 now, and has lived a relatively happy, fulfilling life. He is, however in another way, a “soy-burger man.” He was oxygen deprived during birth. When my aunt Lavinia was in labor, her doctor was out of town. It was a small god-fearing town in west Tennessee along the Mississippi River, mostly poor dirt farmers or other just-under-subsistence wage dwellers. There were 3 doctors, the other two refused to cover for my aunt’s doctor who was out of town when she went into labor, thus sending the under-trained nurses into panic mode. The nurses bound my aunt’s legs together until her doctor returned the next day. Yes, brain damage.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">Nevertheless, once past the threshold of life, Nicky has lived a happy fairly happy one. A devoted Roy Rogers fan, his biggest life event happened in his 40s when he and a dozen or so people of his ilk visited Roy and Dale at their ranch in California (btw, Roy and Dale apparently parented 30 or so adopted children). Now that his mother has died, he lives in a group home with other dependent types out there in the town he grew up in, Dyresburg, TN, and I hear works in some sort of a wood workshop that employs people with his level of competency. The point is, his IQ is perhaps very low, yet most of his life has been happy, and even productive with peaks and troughs like any other life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">A couple decades ago, my then devout feminist girlfriend and I sat and watched Pat Robertson with Niki’s mother Lavinia the morning before a family reunion in in Dyresburg. We had been talking for a while, and were quite comfortable in each other’s company when Lavinia confided that had she known how Niki’s life would be she would have opted for an abortion. After all, she wasn’t even convinced she was in love with my uncle Quentin. He was just some sexy guy that raced motorcycles who managed to get into her nickers. Lavinia’s choice to procreate was the most profound choice she made in her life. So much so, that she still contemplated whether she made the RIGHT choice some 60 years later, despite the fact that she was a Southern Baptist, who despite the philosophical box in which she was born, still vocalized that thought even while watching Pat Robertson. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">My mother, herself, though happy with me at the time of my birth endured an unhappy marriage, domestic violence, and barbiturate addiction. She never said she regretted having me, but I did overhear one phone conversation that she had with her sister after a poignant argument with me. She was telling my aunt that just looking at me reminded her of Jerry (my dad, her ex-husband), and she hated me for that. I’m not saying this for sympathy, I simply think it’s an interesting dilemma. Like Lavinia, she wanted to go back in time and abort me, though there I was, a full-fledged teenager resembling her life nemisis. Consequentially, asserting her authority, she refused to let me live with my father, ie - let him or his psychic offspring, win, which I pleaded for numerous times. Instead, she first sent me to live with my music teacher. WTF? The following semester to a Seventh-Day Adventist boarding school in northern Michigan. Finally, I was liberated from her latent indecision regarding the merits of my existence, and allowed to live with my dad mid-way through my junior year of high school. In short, she was a woman who desperately wanted to backtrack and make better decisions. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">My sister’s best friend, Linda Yalem, was jogging in a park adjacent to her college in Buffalo, NY. She was abducted by a sex maniac who strangled her to death with a wire while fucking her. This was his fifth sexual attack on young women within a short period of time, at the same small section of the running path. Why hadn’t the school warned the students? Simple: the administration did not want to tarnish their reputation by making the previous rapes public, and consequently Linda became his first murder victim. This was a common practice by Universities in the 80s for which I can supply other examples. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">If warning students of danger is bad marketing, and this is how we treat our “gifted” children, how is the underclass treated? Ask Michael Brown. Ask the boat people constantly sinking in the Mediterranean, the Mexicans routinely suffocating in the back of box trucks that smuggle them into the US.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">In an early Marina Abromovic performance, she stood in a gallery for 6 hours with items of pleasure or detriment such as feathers, roses, whips, and a gun on a table in the gallery. Anyone could interact with her. At first, she describes the attendees as playful, but soon the performance became carte blanche for abuse. Her clothes were torn off, the long-stemmed roses were stuck into her flesh, one person placed the gun in Abromovic’s hand and began forcing her fingers to pull the trigger, another grabbed the gun saving her. Shia LeBeouf did a similar performance in which he wound up being raped by a young woman — in front of her boyfriend! (So it isn’t solely testosterone as villain). </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">At any time I can see Linda Yalem’s murderer staring back at me from my computer screen. He has his own Wikipedia page. They tally up 20-some rapes to this guy, and the lives of 5 women. His story is that he hated women from an early age because he claims his mother used to humiliate him. He was a model father — a classic family man. He coached his two boys’ little league teams. He went to church on Sunday… and occasionally raped and strangled women. He was eventually caught after dinner with his family at a restaurant. A rape victim who survived had since been working with the police and identified him while he was eating. They took his fork (I would venture to guess he wasn’t eating a soy-burger), and were able to get a DNA sample to match that which was found on this woman’s body. I don’t know what the notion of family, nesting, nurturing meant to him, or how he arrived at his rituals. Some have suggested he’s like an animal, without thought, and should be put down like a dog with rabies. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;"> I remember growing up hearing the argument, “the wrong people are having kids.” If that is the case, one of “us” is OBLIGATED to have kids, it is our duty, for the sake of the planet. How could you possibly argue against it? It’s so flattering that to argue against it would imply self-hatred. Or, if you could be possibly more arrogant, you could adopt, i.e. save those “other children” from poverty and ignorance. Most well-informed liberals will not adopt puppies from a puppy farm, yet Asian BABY FARMING is a full blown industry complete with brokers, and of course, and I’m not even touching the whole domestic serogate mother issue. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">My partner Laura and I have discussed adopting, but I fear cats are the closest we will come. Laura’s suggested adopting a war orphan, or a kid that come from drug-addled families (like mine?). I respect the notion of mentoring someone already in dire circumstances more than the more traditional, narcissistic model of parenting. Mentoring, to me, is what parenting is about. Which is also what you can do by simply living your life and contributing to our culture in a way that makes this life a more interesting, more rewarding place. But perhaps that’s just my soy-burger narcissism kicking in. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">If the world were not overpopulated, if civilized society was not in a free-fall, if there was a welcome net for that off-spring to land, or even a wilderness, I may commit to the act. But even if I were a caveman, without a notion of overpopulation or the end of time, I may still be more interested in my most recent cave painting, or perhaps how to smelt bronze. Seriously, does the world need yet another over-consuming westerner to drive a farting car, eat the meat of farting hormone-fed cattle, to fart themselves? My abstaining from procreating is my fart-free duty fullfilled.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-kerning: none;">This entire pro-creating world of insipid violence wears the face of a family man, a so-called “religious” man, to boot. The notion of loyalty, devotion, it is a two-edge sword. I don’t even agree with the ideological frameworks that encourage procreation, family, nationalism, so why on earth would I want to bring a new souls into this environment? To make a young man or woman in my image to endure the cultural entropy which will be yet a further generation along? To send them to war, to clobber Mexicans escaping local thugs only to be greeted by new thugs? Am I going to raise the next Messiah? Have you read the story of Jesus? That’s not what I want happening to my theoretical kid. </span></div>
beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-714296946474508712013-01-25T05:42:00.000-08:002013-01-25T05:42:43.439-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The immigrant falls in love with the lady. She is well educated, he is not. She is beautiful, he is not ugly, but of plain peasant stock. He buys her garish flowers. She reluctantly accepts if only not to hurt his feelings. They see each other in the street about twice a week. It is a random encounter for her, but an event for him. Each time they meet he is ready with another batch of flowers. Finally, she tells him they are too gaudy. He tells the florist this. The florist, an immigrant as well, is hurt, but gives him white lillies for her. The immigrant gives them to her. She says they are nice, though resemble a wedding, almost inappropriate, considering they hardly know each other. Also, his t-shirt makes him look like he is sophomore trying to look like a junior in high school. </div>
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Our immigrant goes to a store that looks rather chic and tells the clerk this story. He cannot afford any of the clothes but the clerk, a gay man with a liberal political bent, is touched by his love for this random woman and accompanies him to the Salvation Army. There, they assemble a new, subdued yet stylish, adult wardrobe. </div>
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He meets her on the street with a single purple and yellow orchid, clothes and a ready smile. Will you go to dinner with me? he asks. No, she says. Well, OK, she says, in appreciation of a man who does his best to please her. They face each other across the table in awkward silence. They've nothing in common. Suddenly, during the main course, she leaves.</div>
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A couple days later in the street, he sees her and expresses his horror. How he's done everything to try to please her and every effort seems to be met with greater and greater rejection. She says nothing. He gives her flowers, as usual. There is a homeless woman. She hands the flowers to the homeless woman and runs down the street to escape. Days later, in another neighborhood he spots her. Quickly, he finds a florist. He waits with flowers outside the building he saw her enter. A man comes out to tell him that the lady does not want the flowers, nor his attention. Oddly, the same homeless woman is standing near by. He gives her the flowers and leaves. </div>
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The next day, he seeks the advice of the store clerk. He tells of their uncomfortable dinner. The clerk suggests that he listen to certain kinds of American music that he guesses the girl might enjoy. The immigrant buys a recording. In the street, in their usual location, he sees her, tells her about some wonderful music he has been listening to. She is touched that he appreciates at least a similar sort of music she appreciates and agrees to another date. </div>
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They see a movie, and he tenderly holds her hand and kisses it at one point. She pulls away and runs from the theatre. He is devistated. He tells the florist this story. The florist gives him a tall, exotic bouquet. He waits in front of her office the whole day. Finally she appears. She is crying. Look, she tells him, you need to give up. You need to find an object of desire that desires you in return. I am simply the wrong person for you. He gives her the flowers, she gives them to the homeless lady and runs away, tears streaming down her face. For a moment he looks at the homeless lady. She is not alltogether ugly. Perhaps an immigrant herself. Yet, somehow, it would feel like defeat if he nurtured a relationship with this homeless lady. She would be grateful of his attention perhaps. Certainly she would appreciate a good meal and flowers. At once he is filled with rage (afterall, he has done everything correct, yet he remains frustrated). </div>
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A couple days later, he watches her leave her office. She is frightened and wears a pair of large sunglasses. She looks around the street with trepidation. She does not see him and proceeds. He emerges from the shadows with flowers. She cries profusely, "leave me alone!" </div>
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"Please take the flowers," he says. </div>
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"Leave me alone," she says and hands them to the homeless woman. </div>
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Now, he begins to simply stalk her, as the authorities might say. He knows where she lives. He knows her favorite bar. He knows she has 4 good friends, three women, one man. He watches through the window of the bar. She is describing the horror of her stalker, him. Nearing midnight, they appear to be smiling and laughing. In front of the bar they part ways. The immigrant, flowers in hand, approaches her, arms out bearing his gift of flowers. She screams. She hands the flowers to the same homeless lady who is randomly in front of this bar, and runs into the street trying to flag down a taxi. He is afraid she will be hit by a car and chases her down. She is completely hysterical. She falls in his arms. It is raining. He does not understand what she is saying. Though she is saying how much he hates him, he kisses her. She begins to kiss back, then with a sick feeling in her heart, she bites his lips and rips his pants open against the cab. They get in a cab and immediately fuck. At a stoplight, she slips the driver a 20 dollar bill. She slaps the immigrant, calls him a bastard, and runs away into the night. </div>
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He waits all day in front of her office. He waits all night in front of her apartment. Alas, in the morning she emerges on crutches. He finds some cheap lillies from the Korean deli near by. He approaches her. She laughs hysterically. The same homeless woman is standing nearby. </div>
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"Are you with him?" she asks the homeless woman.</div>
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"No," she says, "but I am as concerned about you as is he." </div>
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"Your concern is killing me, you stupid slut." She fumbles with her crutches and from her purse she takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lights one. "See I'm smoking! " She's yelling this to the homeless woman without actually acknowledging the presence of the immigrant, whose breath she can nearly feel against her shoulder.</div>
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He presents flowers to her. She violently shoves them into the homeless woman's chest. She hobbles away over the uneven slate sidewalk, on her crutches, juggling a cigarette. She turns and looks at them. "Don't just stand there, you morons, hail me a cab!" The immigrant runs into the Avenue, flags down a cab and opens the door for her. At first he tries to get in with her, but she pushes him away. He watches her give the driver directions. The taxi disappears into traffic. </div>
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beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-16883096899970331642011-06-10T07:26:00.000-07:002011-06-10T07:51:14.847-07:00New Art by Teddy SchapiroI visited my buddy Teddy Schapiro yesterday. Picked up 30 drawings. I've posted some here before. His style has since simplified into a black and white, thick and thin lined graphic a la caricatures from the 60s, which is consistent with Teddy's interest in toys and pop culture of that era. Thematically, there are a lot of "Toys as Best Friends", his signature fascination with women, feminists, lesbians, Kafka, and his curiosity about death and the trappings of funerary culture, including this rather grim "morgue shot." In a way, he has focussed on some point in his development and decided to simply strip-mine that phase of his emotional development. I enjoy the free association, the automatic drawing frame of mind, the freedom of it. At times they seem glum and claustrophobic, but in another way imaginative and an escape into the mind's interior, as opposed to a vista in the countryside. Anyway, here are 3 of them. I'm selling them for $25 ea. I have 27 others. I sold the entire last batch I had, so act quick! You can find me at the 25th Street Garage fleamarket (where I met Teddy in the first place).<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghEwuphnlhBpfS7D4JtesoyFKPdlJD7DOgBlu93mUl92GUtsgKgF-YMd7sK1kupgfBMq6tBH2Gap7h0ZafGPWRG8VSq-BvVExAfp7-PG9iKH8PE8pI9IRBFn8AqGoyg0qZWDMptitslugR/s400/Teddy.11.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616601185430069714" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 400px; " /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4xjsuahcMOLs-aE4S4z-3ceS172d25ckXZGNgy_lCr9CmSfH-5xUHoVHXHdoiz70o8jp5OuFJRT47cm3Vx6EPAlv5S82WirpYuWoeNMre2reubJ9xdiPZatxw98JiZ4NOJZ0pfcQpLJo/s1600/Teddy.11.2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4xjsuahcMOLs-aE4S4z-3ceS172d25ckXZGNgy_lCr9CmSfH-5xUHoVHXHdoiz70o8jp5OuFJRT47cm3Vx6EPAlv5S82WirpYuWoeNMre2reubJ9xdiPZatxw98JiZ4NOJZ0pfcQpLJo/s1600/Teddy.11.2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4xjsuahcMOLs-aE4S4z-3ceS172d25ckXZGNgy_lCr9CmSfH-5xUHoVHXHdoiz70o8jp5OuFJRT47cm3Vx6EPAlv5S82WirpYuWoeNMre2reubJ9xdiPZatxw98JiZ4NOJZ0pfcQpLJo/s400/Teddy.11.2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616601189424278706" style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbxfVvqWs3gXj_wH5bdBwM2I1bkC9k7aY_D7cAw0at7gQnl4eifmCKp4ECaZIy6OmMkIQU9Pa9SiSjMpCjvXDhCPtae6oX8ybC8jpkCC-tjA8XVjjhvgeNH27Wx7pmydPUSmG6i2GWhcm/s1600/Teddy.11.3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbxfVvqWs3gXj_wH5bdBwM2I1bkC9k7aY_D7cAw0at7gQnl4eifmCKp4ECaZIy6OmMkIQU9Pa9SiSjMpCjvXDhCPtae6oX8ybC8jpkCC-tjA8XVjjhvgeNH27Wx7pmydPUSmG6i2GWhcm/s1600/Teddy.11.3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbxfVvqWs3gXj_wH5bdBwM2I1bkC9k7aY_D7cAw0at7gQnl4eifmCKp4ECaZIy6OmMkIQU9Pa9SiSjMpCjvXDhCPtae6oX8ybC8jpkCC-tjA8XVjjhvgeNH27Wx7pmydPUSmG6i2GWhcm/s400/Teddy.11.3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616601198750313042" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk4xjsuahcMOLs-aE4S4z-3ceS172d25ckXZGNgy_lCr9CmSfH-5xUHoVHXHdoiz70o8jp5OuFJRT47cm3Vx6EPAlv5S82WirpYuWoeNMre2reubJ9xdiPZatxw98JiZ4NOJZ0pfcQpLJo/s1600/Teddy.11.2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-34273956242765394352011-03-17T07:57:00.000-07:002011-03-17T08:00:36.946-07:00Bicycles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgot6VE-OdRPIf9G_Llx0VRl6_RsJrIE6w2j_v0jOebnIRw_-PEX1sjX9xVw2ECofUjyEkkD4_Jub0MbF9GQ9cuNdF1b1ZPO508IF-Gy1DO42A6m7PVM73b5c1mkZAzCmbU2MEjDZwyRyX-/s1600/bicycles.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgot6VE-OdRPIf9G_Llx0VRl6_RsJrIE6w2j_v0jOebnIRw_-PEX1sjX9xVw2ECofUjyEkkD4_Jub0MbF9GQ9cuNdF1b1ZPO508IF-Gy1DO42A6m7PVM73b5c1mkZAzCmbU2MEjDZwyRyX-/s400/bicycles.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585063894591812994" /></a><br />I got these a while back. Thought I might take them to the Greenwich CT ephemera show, but I think I'll just keep 'em...beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-9806470970271754232010-08-08T16:02:00.000-07:002011-07-04T05:47:43.001-07:00THE HIDDEN TRUTH BEHIND FAMILY PORTRAIT CAMPAIGN POSTCARDS:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33nhk_0j_cI1UZwvaeMZBwJbuZD3tFhaCZCEnklSMewuAxcVttTR5EkKfMcfYJZSKJcA0DJsffz-CBjOs7xjOpbp2SuhCwWEqHTeV2K9XyHnpaBTOFQk2apPtEjm-6pwN1Uf8keJBkAjh/s1600/gonenative.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAA9efoS3j0v98U-ty2HxMfla7lPgEyX4urGFTHZHDFTJh8tDkmDSM31n2p1gK-vEQRzbFmTJK2vTHzAflO-wTZOYhow6Z84_tai5tk1PlZaeSSaL6POw99n4csQkFX4GbFSPAQ8JKjY0/s1600/hairspray.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoEbMYc6IEOEAghhzjWwnhS3eXwLuouHIfi8X9sIWWXuNqzTXM7XGqXJh5CaBWO6Nx31QSNAxzplWaZ-cJSZDO_JhiVPijn7wofEZYN4hHkoVZQv1okQB7l45-aiGaK3iHKuAUplQKMEL/s1600/spector.1..jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoEbMYc6IEOEAghhzjWwnhS3eXwLuouHIfi8X9sIWWXuNqzTXM7XGqXJh5CaBWO6Nx31QSNAxzplWaZ-cJSZDO_JhiVPijn7wofEZYN4hHkoVZQv1okQB7l45-aiGaK3iHKuAUplQKMEL/s400/spector.1..jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503181366924915442" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; "></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Dear friends and peoples of the internets, I picked up these political campaign family postcards at the Allentown paper show. I can't stop looking at them. They are a creepy reminder of the fragility of the human spirt, as well as a creepier reminder of American ambitions, which are: You got your basic human beings overcompensating for their weaknesses by joining forces with the megalomaniacal Satan, Prince of Darkness to conquer and rule other people. This in turn reminds me that no matter how hard we try, how far we go, inside we're a weak karmic-biological mess: moist to the touch, in a mildly off-putting way, with a specific odor that triggers the instincts of large, toothy animals to kill -- yet we are afflicted with a cruelly ironic need to cuddle. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">So you cover your weakness with that charcoal suit and power tie. You look into the mirror, gazing into your own eyes with that smile meant to project utmost confidence and say, "You are a winner, Sir! Go run for public office!" But no matter how much hairspray or hair tonic, deodorant or cologne, any amount of shaving...wherever you shave... or starching of clothes, me and you is just people. People too often under the influence of a certain prince in red, with a forked tongue, horned head, tail with a spade at the end, who roams this earth on a shopping spree for sinners' souls... </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">See, Satan, gains control of an average feller's mind and tells him he is better than all the other fellers. That is why they run to rule, rule to run, rule to rule, and sometimes run to run. They want your money as bad as TV preachers, they want your devotion as if they are the Lord above. In the meantime, they prey on their fellow man's fears, weaknesses, and sinful appetites. Depending on which course will bring the most political gain, they alternately seek reward or retribution for themselves and the general populace over human behavior that always has been, and always will be, creating demons and false idols along the way. Sure, we all meet our demons. Most of us in the depths of our souls. But some meet them right there the media spotlight for all the world to see. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">EXIBIT A is in the above 1967 Arlen Specter for Mayor campaign postcard. The first question is: Why must a politician put his entire family on a pedestal when running for office? Why must two 8 year olds in uncomfortable wool and polyester church clothes shout "Yay for Daddy!" instead of shouting "Get me out of these itchy things!"? Because. Because the devil makes their daddy's ass do it. And you will see in some of the other cards, the complex netting the devil has woven to capture souls. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">[By the way, a pencilled note on the back of this card put there by a previous owner says that Arlen Specter lost this race. I wonder if this photo was the tipping point in voters' minds? -ed.]</p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">EXHIBIT B:</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAA9efoS3j0v98U-ty2HxMfla7lPgEyX4urGFTHZHDFTJh8tDkmDSM31n2p1gK-vEQRzbFmTJK2vTHzAflO-wTZOYhow6Z84_tai5tk1PlZaeSSaL6POw99n4csQkFX4GbFSPAQ8JKjY0/s400/hairspray.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503181371097149650" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 400px; " /></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">This postcard was made the year they invented hairspray, and was in fact the inspiration for the John Waters most sinfully embellished movie titled "Hairspray." There's also an underpinning of baroque drama in it all...or in shall I say, they are opposite of the cast of Dangerous Liaisons. Such a quandary: Although embarking on a quest for power, these people, if they were ever allowed in the French court would have been laughed out, or even executed for such profound buffoonery. Luckily they are American. Allowed to wallow in their professed innocence. And they are kind of sweet... Refreshingly not aristocratic, in that powdered wig sense. Perhaps they are just regular folks...NAW! ARE YOU KIDDING? Has the devil once again placed his cloak of deceit over your eyes? Wake up, Leviticus! </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Although the kid with the crewcut is completely captivating, in reality, he's simply race trained. His dad has just said, "now put on that 'good-boy' smile we talked about," and turning to his wife said, "You, too, Gertie." Little do we suspect that overgrown cherub is in fact the class bully, leaving a trail of crying, pants-wetting wimps strewn around the elementary school playground after every recess. But there it is in a postcard, mailed out for thousands to scrutinize. If that there James R. Cavanaugh (with such a nice, tongue-tickling Eerish name) produced this smiling little kid, what will the city budget look like?</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">This card also reveals the family "dark side," and her name is Gertie... Is his wife completely world-weary or what? Don't worry, Gertie, next year valium will be all the rage. And the attire for that little girl on daddy's lap? Holy cheesecake! ...do you see that?... Uh... I can't see that passing muster in today's pedophile-phobic environment. I mean, it looks like -- and I'm just sayin "looks" like -- he's ever so subtly lifting up his little girl's skirt as some kind of practical joke! I think I know what the city budget will look like now: Completely transparent. The other daughter is speaking to the camera in a secret, evil code. She's saying, "when I'm 17, I'm splittin' to Vassar. But first I'm gonna reach under my baby-sister's dress and pinch her ass!"</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">It doesn't end there. Upon further examination I discovered the similarities in the smiles between Gertie and son...you see it as plain as I do, don't you? Their lips, their eyes, their bewitching wiggling noses. Fer sher: They house spirits of darkness. The knowledge of evil. Now look at the son's ear. Now look just above it: the pin on Gertie's blue dress. That is a huge clue: 'Tis the ring of the dark Lord Sauron, secret suitor to "Mrs. Cavanaugh" and father to that loathsome bastard in a pint-sized suit! Folks, before you is not simply the offspring of an aspiring Philadelphia politician, 'tis non-other than the son of evil, Daemien, the Beast as prophesized in the Book of Revelations! </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Ah, whatever, you say. Life goes on. As for the politics of James R. Cavanaugh, he is fighting on the side of the workers, with the Retail Clerks and Upholsterers' International Union. Or is he a typical Philadelphia mobster embezzler? Oh, but his PR team is pumping him as a watchdog to a corrupt democratic city hall. I can't find any wiki entries to verify the outcome of his life one way or the other. Perhaps he just lost and continued working with the unions. A pro-union Republican, back when that might occur. At least in local politics. At any rate, the internets bear no clue of the kid, but just be aware, evil can spring up anywhere!</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>*</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">EXIBIT C MY TEETH:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMogBbwpmoU2hkkrbEMmXHIHFNTEguQIa5hGSDhNzSD9l56TkuHb08lVJkMq0cVK4LiSGkjIfMu731XKOU_qXGAahVmK7SZt2s8fmVNrzs6N-4VDHlsEfh1c-n8bx5KQbtbvhhCBPwB-F/s1600/teeth.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMogBbwpmoU2hkkrbEMmXHIHFNTEguQIa5hGSDhNzSD9l56TkuHb08lVJkMq0cVK4LiSGkjIfMu731XKOU_qXGAahVmK7SZt2s8fmVNrzs6N-4VDHlsEfh1c-n8bx5KQbtbvhhCBPwB-F/s400/teeth.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503181372166467042" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px; " /></a><br /></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Lud Zupancic gained notoriety for his brief but torrid campaign against Fluoride and his familial involvement with the KGB. Running soon after our nation's water was first supplemented with Fluoride, a batch of water went hideously awry causing an apparent outbreak of lock-jaw and zombification. That's right, thousands of average Pennsylvanian volks were rendered zombie-slaves to their teeth. In this shot, though they appear to be a family with just very attractive teeth, the teeth of the Lud Zupancic family are indeed ciphers of their souls, and most certainly calling the shots, dragging their helpless bodies from dentist to dentist, sink to sink, toothbrush to toothbrush, tube to tube, in search of bigger and bigger doses of Fluoride, and sometimes even forcing them to watch sports. That is why they call Fluoride "the elixir of evil."</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Of course, the Fluoride manufacturing lobby loved it. "Fluoride today, Fluoride tomorrow, Fluoride forever!" was the cry. There was a civic Fluoride holiday complete with a parade of marching zombified tooth-slave people dressed as toothbrushes and streamers made of floss, ironically held in Carbon, PA. Pennsylvania was soon nick-named "The Whitest State in America." It was impossible to stop. No insurgency could ever get off the ground due to the zombification Fluoride was able to cast over it's victims. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Part 2 of the Lud Zupancic saga is Carbon my friends... or rather a simple carbonated beverage (that contains a glut-load of sugar). </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">While touring a Coca-Cola bottling plant in anticipation of a whopping campaign contribution, the deeper, inner "Lud Zupancic" was growing sick of his zombified state. Pushed to the brink, Lud Zupancic attempted suicide by diving into a large vat of the world's most popular synthetic beverage. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"I was emersed in all the bubbles and the sweetness and the caffeine," Lud Zupancic recalled years later with a slight lisp, "I was prepared to meet my maker. Just floating in that dark, rich, sweet froth, gathering my last thoughts on earth. I had just mustered all my will to step foot over the guardrail of that factory ramp and leap into that gurgling vat of Coca-Cola. All the while, I was saying in my head, 'here I am oh Lord my God! Take me! Take me away from this Fluoride Beast! Take me to that special place you made just for me, Lud Zupancic.'"</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Ah, but the devil is a tricky bastard! No sooner had Lud Zupancic re-gained his wits, dog paddled to the top of the vat of Coca-Cola and re-gained his breath at the rim of what an observer might say the largest Coke-float ever, then Beelzebub waltzed right over to his big tattooed arm in the form of Lady Wantsalot. You see, the only antidote to King Fluoride was to bathe in Coca-Cola. Lud Zupancic was suddenly aware that he may be the only fully sentient human being in the state of Pennsylvania. What power! What awesome power! But what would he do with it? With whom would he share the conquest? When he got home later, he called his brother Cvetko back in what is now Slovenia. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"Cvetko, my brother!"</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"Ah, yes, my brother Lud Zupancic!"</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"Cvetko, my wife, my son, my daughter, my peoples in my town, my superiors, my governor, my..."</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"What, Lud Zupancic my brother, what do you want from me on this very expensive long distant call that makes me now awake at such an hour?"</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"It's just... it's just..." Led Zupancic suddenly broke into tears over the telephone. He cried over their mother's death, the milk Lud Zupancic and his brother Cvetko would steal as a childen from their baby sister's bottle which eventually caused her to have rickets. How bad he felt leaving their small village festering in ticks and poverty and insurmountable amounts of incomplete paperwork that filled the streets of such inconsequential socialist villages, the endless yet useless piles of diplomas from free education, unbearable hum of vaguely intellectual conversation, the constant splash of refugees diving after cargo ships on which to escape to unknown ports. Yes, this ambiguous pain that hit poor Lud Zupancic like a ton of bricks was homesickness. He missed the old country. He love the old country so. But here in Pennsylvania they had cars. He promised his brother a car if he would join him in the states. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Mr. Zupancic's brother Cvetko, detecting the severe urgency in Lud Zupancic's voice (and also looking forward to driving something besides a Yugo) schemed a way to get from his poor village, to the USA. He bribed a local bureaucrat the equivalent of $3.97 for access to the eastern block. Armed with a pocket knife and a story that was all heart, he traded his pocket knife to a Soviet bureaucrat for his citizenship in the great Union of Soviet Socialists. By bribing a Soviet immigration judge with a small, shiny trinket he had bought from a street vendor in a brief visit to Kosovo for the equivalent of 29 cents, he gained access into the Soviet air force. A Soviet aircraft pilot to whom he slipped the equivalent of 8 cents, was able to sneak him onto Soviet spy plane. Aboard this great craft, some 70,000 feet over Pennsylvania, with his last possession, a stick of gum, he was able to bribe a paratrooper into giving him a his jumpsuit and parachute. The paratrooper gave him only the briefest instruction, and in one quick nudge Cvetko was out the hatch. It was a glorious free fall, then a soft, angelic glide strapped to a parachute over the lush land of Pennsylvania, until he landed on the hood of his brother's gas-guzzling sedan. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Little did Lud Zupancic know, but his brother Cvetko was still bitter over the mutual love of their life, the svelte Ancka Svetandrojcek. Though Cvetko originally arrived with the best intentions, he quickly was overcome with long past romantic jealousies and jealousy of the bright red color of Lud Zupancic's Galaxy 500. It also occurred to him that this was a prime opportunity for an aspiring communist spy. On the first eve of his arrival Cvetko and Lud Zupancic drank to their health and happiness. However, inside his government issue long-underwear, eluding the scrutiny of his cleverly bribed superiors, was a hot and hearty 127 proof national beverage of their native land, much able to mask the taste and smell of high octane Fluoride mint toothpaste. He got Lud Zupancic all hopped up on the zombifying drug once again. Lud Zupancic slipped into the back of his "Lud Zupancic" soul as if the sweet freedom of that glorious Coca-Cola bath had never happened. Cvetko gained complete control over Lud Zupancic, Mrs. Lud Zupancic and the children of Lud Zupancic, thereafter heartlessly controlling the entire family under an oppressive Fluoride fist, providing the KGB with numerous inane details of life in Allegheny County. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Enter Dottie Tassel, a 22-year-old Pittsburgh steel-worker's daughter, exotic performer, and most importantly, mistress and stylist to J. Edgar Hoover. On a visit home she noticed something peculiar. Her father's neighbor's brother Cvetko seemed to be the only person in town with bad teeth. "Why, who would go around with those nasty brown things pointing all this way and that?" she was quoted as saying by an FBI informant, "it's simply uncouth." </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">This immediately brought the entire family under suspicion. Several inquiries were made as to the motivations of Lud Zupancic and his brother Cvetko. Although it was at first a small domestic, covert operation, Hoover made sure no amount of money was spared. The UPS man was in fact an FBI plant. The phone company tapped wires. In after a brief time, endless amounts of Pentagon resources were spent monitoring the activities of this family of Fluoride zombies and their one sentient uncle. The conclusion: The uncle was a misfit. And to Cvetko? Disappointed in the vacuous whiteness of Pennsylvania, the watery beer, the soggy pretzels, the Pittsburgh Pirates and Mister Rogers, Cvetko caught the next garbage barge out of town, and was off to freedom in New Orleans, where he made a living by playing his concertina in the streets with a sage monkey (to whom he eventually married) and a string of indigent, tap dancing street urchins of color, to whom he taught a vast repertoire of Slovenian minstrel song and dance bits that eventually gained the attention of the one and only, Louis Armstrong. But that's another beverage altogether... </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>*</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">EXIBIT 4:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMeTlgM0ojS6SFCaWyL4isG3iScNyWOmviq5mWa7EBx03rawgevbf3xSrS9sng3TOQVbsC5nITT4LuzLkPSAB3LnDS1DiOhs_IzfYk68RG24ydDrHrXcV6moSQh1z4TIIZEF1sO95gWGE/s1600/that70s.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMeTlgM0ojS6SFCaWyL4isG3iScNyWOmviq5mWa7EBx03rawgevbf3xSrS9sng3TOQVbsC5nITT4LuzLkPSAB3LnDS1DiOhs_IzfYk68RG24ydDrHrXcV6moSQh1z4TIIZEF1sO95gWGE/s400/that70s.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503181382914200994" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 259px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMogBbwpmoU2hkkrbEMmXHIHFNTEguQIa5hGSDhNzSD9l56TkuHb08lVJkMq0cVK4LiSGkjIfMu731XKOU_qXGAahVmK7SZt2s8fmVNrzs6N-4VDHlsEfh1c-n8bx5KQbtbvhhCBPwB-F/s1600/teeth.jpg"></a></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Fancy Eastern Liberals. Just look at them. I'm not even spending time on them. Them and their hippy-hair, snazzy striped sports jackets, poofy peasant blouses, Gay-liberation inspired Stars-and-Stripes cut-off shorts. Women in pantsuits! Go on! What was he running for? Pot dealer or massage therapist? On the back of the card has this plea for 1973:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">ELECT THE FIRST DEMOCRATIC CONSTABLE IN CHELTNHAM TOWNSHIP HISTORY!!</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">The double exclamation may as well have been "fat chance" in parenthesis. Well, don't count this north-of-Philly follically deprived dandy out for the count. Nay, Harvey Portner went somewhere...check <a href="http://www.cheltenhamtownship.org/admin/index.htm">THIS</a> out. I didn't say somewhere fabulous... just somewhere. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>*</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">EXHIBIT [BAN THE JACKSON] 5:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJO_zDu1Xqrqe5rN4MlqqWpSZLGvgFeO-1pfuD-Dg1j3-FKzH85vaV9oYoFYRUrtZsL8lqjYLDukoTtNitGB-l2oKeouNtiwXbzkNNgoNHZMWq-RkXLb0gD7Xzod4SNSMy146jufrpDRbs/s1600/segregation.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJO_zDu1Xqrqe5rN4MlqqWpSZLGvgFeO-1pfuD-Dg1j3-FKzH85vaV9oYoFYRUrtZsL8lqjYLDukoTtNitGB-l2oKeouNtiwXbzkNNgoNHZMWq-RkXLb0gD7Xzod4SNSMy146jufrpDRbs/s400/segregation.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503181385710200770" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 400px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMeTlgM0ojS6SFCaWyL4isG3iScNyWOmviq5mWa7EBx03rawgevbf3xSrS9sng3TOQVbsC5nITT4LuzLkPSAB3LnDS1DiOhs_IzfYk68RG24ydDrHrXcV6moSQh1z4TIIZEF1sO95gWGE/s1600/that70s.jpg"></a></span></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"My daddy's the most famous racist in the whole USA!" Yes, the family of Alabama's own George C. Wallace. Talk about sins of our fathers! Being the son of George C. Wallace must be like being birthed from something that just farted. Watch: That little zeppelin he's holding will now burst into flames. (Oh, the party favors at those klan rallies.) His mother has just been infiltrated by a satanic spirit and presently has stuck her index finger through the back of his scull to insert a soul sucking, mind-controlling, barcode reading computer chip.</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">The wiki entry for boxer-turned-politician <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Wallace">George C. Wallace </a>reads part like the education of an imbecile, and part like a story to end all stories. I will refer you to the actual wiki entry, but to give you the gist... While early on in his political career as a circuit court judge, he appeared to be somewhat liberal: "He was the first judge in Alabama to call me 'Mister' in a courtroom," recalls one Afro-American Lawyer. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">However, after apparently deciding to ride the populist surf of racism, in 1968, Wallace decided against having Happy Chandler, former baseball commissioner as a running mate for president because Chandler had years previous been in favor of the Brooklyn Dodgers hiring Jackie Robinson. Of course, most of us remember George C. Wallace most fondly for this ole chestnut:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever."</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">As for the enemy, hippies, he told this (anti)Christ-like parable: "If some anarchist lies down in front of my automobile, it will be the last automobile he will ever lie down in front of..."</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Just think about it: There was this cracker out there running for president, started his own party and in 1968 gained 13.5% of the vote, the best run for any post-WWII non major party candidate, and his politics were to the RIGHT of NIXON! The would-be assassin's bullet, shot by another whacko, the Milwaukee-born loner Arthur Herman Bremer, left George Corley Wallace wheelchair-bound, and the historical event inspired the film "Taxi Driver." (: Always a silver lining ;) </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">As bizarre, and unfortunately violent as George C. Wallace's story may have been, it apparently inspired son-of-the-south, George C. Wallace, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Wallace,_Jr.">JUNIOR</a> to follow in his father's footsteps. Hmm. Look at that picture once again... the soul-sucking, chip implanting mother... with parents like this, I doubt even a social worker could turn him around. Predictably enough, Junior grew up to be a Southern-fried Manchurian Candidate. He ran a successful covert campaign to thwart the popularity of Neil Young through his secret authorship of "Sweet Home Alabama." It caused such stress in the lovable pothead Neil Young's psyche that he consequently put out the worst record of all times titled "Trans." Junior ran and gained more visible offices under both the Democratic and Republican Banners, but with the historical climate of the nation firmly planted against racial segregation, Junior's national popularity always seemed just out of reach.</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Just where exactly did Junior stand in the political spectrum? In 2005 a speech by George C. Wallace, Junior opened the national convention of the Council of Conservative Citizens, a group described as white supremacists, as well as appearing as a guest on "The Political Cesspool", a white nationalist radio talk show. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Poor kid. He never had a chance. </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; "><span class="Apple-tab-span">*</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></span>*</p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">IN CONCLUSION, A SOBER WARNING:</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; "><i>Tuesday calls for no alcohol followed by no pot Wednesday. Barbiturates are nada for Thursday, and crank has headed for the hills on Friday. Manischewitz is celebrating a Holy Day on Saturday, wine is only allowed in the smallest amount at mass Sunday, and I don't know why I don't like Mondays... oh... get thee behind me, Satan...</i></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">Alas, these here modern days have overtaken them-there sweet foibles of the past. So, has it become more humane for political families? Have politicians scrutinized the errs of their past? Have political strategists and spin doctors consulted the greater good? Or is it the other way around? Were political family portraits as seen in these election campaign postcards simply a "gateway drug" to bigger sins? Let's ask Former President Bill Clinton: </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">"What a bunch of uptight old church bitties this country become. A rock star can't even splooge a groupie! Even if his wife is a lesbian! I had to pee in a cup just to get my white house pension check! There's a 25-year-old MBA out there repainting the traffic lanes of New York City, and people are still blabbin' on about that whole Monica thing! That was her name, right?" </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">In short, Bill Clinton's presidency was not taken down by any policy, political act or conviction, no bill shuffled through congress, NAFTA or otherwise, no bombing of foreign territory, provoked or unprovoked, no cocaine-for-cash-for-weapons-for-the-contras of Reagan years, not even the war crimes of the Nixon and "W" years. No, Bill Clinton's presidency was brought down by his not living up to "family" expectations; that he wasn't the "family man" a postcard of this ilk might project, and that's freakin' scary. Yes, it certainly seems Fluoride is king, but there are still glimmers of a Fluoride-free world. There are a chosen few who muster the audacity to elude the ever beating war drum...</p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; ">My friends, they are your not just your teachers, your priests, your doctors, boy-scout troop master, your governors... They are your ATHEIST teachers, your GAY priests, your PRO-CHOICE doctors, your PACIFIST boy-scout troop leaders, your CONSTITUTION ABIDING AND SEPARATING CHURCH AND STATE governors, your . They are you! You my human friends. You who refuse to put on that God-damned Fluoride smile, and God-dammit, even you who refuse to be happy about wearing it! Throw it away! Be free! You are healed! We are all sinners and saints rolled into one whiney baby god, capable of brilliance, capable of pooping our pants. You malcontents, you collegiate brats, you working class union ruffians, anarchists, baby-sitters, bare-assed babies, or as the French say, you freakin' buck-naked pagans! </p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33nhk_0j_cI1UZwvaeMZBwJbuZD3tFhaCZCEnklSMewuAxcVttTR5EkKfMcfYJZSKJcA0DJsffz-CBjOs7xjOpbp2SuhCwWEqHTeV2K9XyHnpaBTOFQk2apPtEjm-6pwN1Uf8keJBkAjh/s1600/gonenative.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33nhk_0j_cI1UZwvaeMZBwJbuZD3tFhaCZCEnklSMewuAxcVttTR5EkKfMcfYJZSKJcA0DJsffz-CBjOs7xjOpbp2SuhCwWEqHTeV2K9XyHnpaBTOFQk2apPtEjm-6pwN1Uf8keJBkAjh/s400/gonenative.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503182231840991474" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 283px; " /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJO_zDu1Xqrqe5rN4MlqqWpSZLGvgFeO-1pfuD-Dg1j3-FKzH85vaV9oYoFYRUrtZsL8lqjYLDukoTtNitGB-l2oKeouNtiwXbzkNNgoNHZMWq-RkXLb0gD7Xzod4SNSMy146jufrpDRbs/s1600/segregation.jpg"></a></span></p><p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;">PS... Aug 23, 2010... I sold the Cavanaugh postcard to Mr. Brainwash at the fleamarket over the weekend. He just honed in on it! If you get the chance, you should see the movie about him by Banksy called "Exit Through The Giftshop." One of the best documentaries I've seen in years. Though he's in no need of my lil' plug here, just thought I'd let you know, Mr. Brainwash presently has his work on exhibit at 415 W. 13th Street in the meatpacking district in Manhattan.</span></p> <p style="text-align: left;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; "><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-58906595125587517812010-03-23T14:55:00.000-07:002010-03-23T16:13:56.059-07:00Gene Bilbrew: Picasso of Porn<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPJ0-zbzP0nBFdqhX31StExXJFZ9VIH_Rff-KAsC9nneq8neYhRqXVIt2R8Z1RZpQVhCw2GrGopyCxs_w45s8vgA32ugaHuUxX7je7XxlT1HU_MVB0ddgtEvEY4rz5XLCPMT03PoypkEU/s1600-h/sc00150a2c.jpg"></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Just got in a new batch of vintage porn & I'd like to share...</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Z2i6b2W3mjItVSkA9s1T4J7PZbe0XstxjiLgypzq0g0OtcPboBwWVT2UdnWCN5xccaUv5EM5JlhyMxShIKx9aBHHLrhJc0_WwBYW3UkBpbaPy5jR2yH3yhyphenhyphen-JTFeZ69L6vUWRHfFBBq0/s1600-h/sc000e6455.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Z2i6b2W3mjItVSkA9s1T4J7PZbe0XstxjiLgypzq0g0OtcPboBwWVT2UdnWCN5xccaUv5EM5JlhyMxShIKx9aBHHLrhJc0_WwBYW3UkBpbaPy5jR2yH3yhyphenhyphen-JTFeZ69L6vUWRHfFBBq0/s400/sc000e6455.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451952516392249394" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Gene Bilbrew, like his classmate at the Art Student's League, Eric Stanton, is birthed from the age of Madison Avenue media culture that also illegitimately birthed Mad Magazine. Bilbrew, Stanton, Mad, they all share an apparent sensibility both in straight up line and color style, ie- amusement park caricaturishness and garish colors, as well as a subversive twist on mainstream advertising style. But Bilbrew's similarity to Mad Magazine doesn't bear a simple wink and nudge, but is rather located just this side of the sexual deviant wing of Bellevue. And I don't mean this in a bad way. I just mean it's "edgy". Obviously aware of his "underground" status, lettering is done in a purposeful home-made style like the afterthought $5 price tag on "ToGetHer" or "Frustration" where the lettering seems to have been done with white-out (had it been invented).</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q08WZd5J1p5g8EJ5fXcWRinHztac2b31Wm98jLylGLYhB-TXyViIhlj79mibvNxzNHz5whOZPzu5gEXhHyAc-cMCaPnOHJKQFn2iNm-3bNBAV76UaU75S2nmMbulYJ5NWnzowzpKU4K_/s1600-h/vintageporn.3.jpg"></a></span></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q08WZd5J1p5g8EJ5fXcWRinHztac2b31Wm98jLylGLYhB-TXyViIhlj79mibvNxzNHz5whOZPzu5gEXhHyAc-cMCaPnOHJKQFn2iNm-3bNBAV76UaU75S2nmMbulYJ5NWnzowzpKU4K_/s1600-h/vintageporn.3.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 304px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Q08WZd5J1p5g8EJ5fXcWRinHztac2b31Wm98jLylGLYhB-TXyViIhlj79mibvNxzNHz5whOZPzu5gEXhHyAc-cMCaPnOHJKQFn2iNm-3bNBAV76UaU75S2nmMbulYJ5NWnzowzpKU4K_/s400/vintageporn.3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451952503993969714" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Bilbrew's women are oddly drawn cardboard cut-outs, billboards gone awry, collages made from random scraps laying around the drawing board, with dimples and creases almost randomly applied to buttocks, legs, underarms or whatnot... a seemingly mental ward folk-art fetishizing of female bulges and creases assembled into a superwoman of the mind. Compared to Stanton, Bilbrew's men look more sinister, more menacing, more lecherous, his women more depraved, wanton, and perhaps they get kickbacks from the STD clinic down the block. I feel like putting a condom over my head just talking about him! BILBREW.... It just conjures yeast.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKQZf-oWGJQIrirwGaobDiPv9YkgyOhoZ-CtrCaanG7zQp-7EEHx8ONQAgwmAXZfEYLgT6Nch9i-wEHS-o6qAsw8dgCHkm638FF7bjMoML5HVHJ3BwWtOrWSel6X9V5HCk6rR6soJwWGD/s1600-h/vintageporn.2.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKQZf-oWGJQIrirwGaobDiPv9YkgyOhoZ-CtrCaanG7zQp-7EEHx8ONQAgwmAXZfEYLgT6Nch9i-wEHS-o6qAsw8dgCHkm638FF7bjMoML5HVHJ3BwWtOrWSel6X9V5HCk6rR6soJwWGD/s400/vintageporn.2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451952500245524882" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Love the exquisitely penned lacy detailing to the undies on the left, while the corset to your right is a piece of architecture straight out of the Futurama exhibition at the '39 Worlds Fair. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3T4J3W877EmoNufLvrsokVG47gHWSfkB0A7Xng0JuRqwor-BPZXsBdHaLw7xoWy7pp6qvH1IbrR3i4We2pcuwLKHkM_zAf9kG1JXnu_6IICsYyVpiwjaQzzReLcLoUjm_X2EpuFgGb-wN/s1600-h/vintageporn.4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3T4J3W877EmoNufLvrsokVG47gHWSfkB0A7Xng0JuRqwor-BPZXsBdHaLw7xoWy7pp6qvH1IbrR3i4We2pcuwLKHkM_zAf9kG1JXnu_6IICsYyVpiwjaQzzReLcLoUjm_X2EpuFgGb-wN/s400/vintageporn.4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451952488900465282" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">This group is all from the late 50s, many printed right here in Brooklyn, by Rainbow Publishing, B & B Press and Kinney Publishing. They did not exactly run a shop with their name on a shingle... rather, they sold "discreetly" through finer retailers in the Times Square area. Publishers and retailers were constantly dodging the law, in Justin Kent's case (a nom de plume you see on a couple of these), he was held as a material witness for a month after police raids on Times Square shops! There's an interesting article by Jay A. Gertzman </span><a href="http://efanzines.com/EK/eI15/index.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">HERE</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The format is straight up octavo, 8 1/2 x 5 1/4 inches, or an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet folded, larger than the usual 12mo sized pocket paperbacks that is the format of most pulp fiction, which is mostly where you find Bilbrew's art. These were the early days of illegal porn. Before Ginzberg's Eros. When much the dirty stuff was still being imported from France! </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlPJ0-zbzP0nBFdqhX31StExXJFZ9VIH_Rff-KAsC9nneq8neYhRqXVIt2R8Z1RZpQVhCw2GrGopyCxs_w45s8vgA32ugaHuUxX7je7XxlT1HU_MVB0ddgtEvEY4rz5XLCPMT03PoypkEU/s400/sc00150a2c.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451961814574914290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 311px; " /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anyway, hope you dig these illos as much as I do... if I find out more about them at the Long Island Antiquarian Book Fair this weekend in Garden CIty (see sidebar -->) I'll add (or subtract if appropriate) to this post. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Go </span><a href="http://vintagesleaze.blogspot.com/2010/03/self-portrait-of-gene-bilbrew-tiny-and.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">HERE</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> to see what is said to be a Bilbrew self-portrait...</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-91981220449664029542010-03-20T13:51:00.000-07:002010-03-20T14:15:14.757-07:00Greek-out with Jeffrey Cyphers Wright...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LxdivY4UZ8iPL6RJ4YAPhEJ4SlyTIaY3xBucf-uHow-ouuU7GdHf0IfUT-buP438BUjIuZtYUMQpsXW2KTUAFxISg3sahyeOHXy21Rx9qiehRYHeig0_7oPPs4ECUVuajJSROzcWKHfS/s1600-h/Have+Nots2%2B.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LxdivY4UZ8iPL6RJ4YAPhEJ4SlyTIaY3xBucf-uHow-ouuU7GdHf0IfUT-buP438BUjIuZtYUMQpsXW2KTUAFxISg3sahyeOHXy21Rx9qiehRYHeig0_7oPPs4ECUVuajJSROzcWKHfS/s400/Have+Nots2%2B.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450822231518236114" /></a><br /><div><div><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; text-indent: 36px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; min-height: 16px; "></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Cambria; min-height: 14px; "></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; "><b>MADE IN ITHICA</b></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; min-height: 16px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">As time trickles through the <i>Chambre des Deputes</i></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">The tendrils of my nose crinkle at its acrid passage</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">Time empties out the notion of authenticity</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">Time, you are a nervous imposter</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">You can remake yourself in the blink of an eye</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">Rodin pestering Phidias, Nestor attesting to glory</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">Time loves the one who knows love</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">I guess you had better guide me through the ropes</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">I dreamed a white robe walking to Morgantown</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">My broken watch weeps in a false spring</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">I wake bound to the railroad tracks</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">Emily Bronte sitting beside me on a wasp nest</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">We wait inconsolably in our vast ardor</p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 72px; font: normal normal normal 14px/normal Cambria; ">As time trickles through an excess of small delay</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; "><br /></span></span></div><p></p><p></p></div></div><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria"><b>MADE IN CHINA</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Come on down to my boat, baby</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ready to flame the lawless airbrake</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ready to dazzle the bedraggled marmadukes</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ready to fray the nightie of Big Foot</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Tell me about it, Hermes</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Chupacabre to the rescue</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Because we have yet to reinvent the past</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ink from the pen the filthy sun begging</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">I woke as a carpenter measured my remains</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ready to rip the bark off the stars</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">And claw my way in looking for grubs</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">A psychotropic melody strips the veneer</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Scrolling down Emily Bronte’s heart </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Ready for anything you can see clearly now</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; text-indent: 36.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria"><b>MADE IN CUCAMONGA*</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Astarte walks through the Negro streets at dawn</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">I said a hey babe, you are everything you are to me</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Let’s throw some darts at the imagination farmers</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Taketh my hand and lead me on</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Exult in your originality, phantom grafter</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">VISIGOTHS PLAYING AT HELL’S DRIVE-IN</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Astarte lies under the stars in Bernadette’s dream</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Camilla threw her javelin across the Tiber</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">May spins its wrecked gentians across your path</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">I wake in the fugitive tunnel glow</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Emily Bronte [mug shot] dying for sanctuary</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">Deserted abruptly Time’s raft pitch and toss </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">This is what they say about you, Astarte</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria">The lion, the horse, the sphinx, the dove</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 108.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria">*Shoshone for sandy place</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Jeff Wright", as he is known to Hollywood insiders, published the famed Cover Magazine from 1986 - 2001... 80 issues! (as a publisher of a much humbler print endeavor, I'm floored!) He's a terrific poet, curator (reading series at the Bowery Poetry Club, La Mama, etc.), and general man about town. He can even be found in various East Village Gardens beckoning fairies from flowers with the sweet nectar of verse and a puff of pixie dust... or maybe the pixie dust was just in the 80s... he even has a </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeffrey_Cyphers_Wright"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">wiki entry... </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">so hello posterity!</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; font: 12.0px Cambria; min-height: 14.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 72.0px; font: 14.0px Cambria"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Cambria, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span></p><p></p><p></p></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-21155055632065896382010-03-03T08:14:00.001-08:002010-03-03T08:24:50.393-08:00Something I found under my bed just now...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqBibIF7d5_OHj_B_p8l2Cd4YHM97Heu1v3wSr3P7zOXYm_cJUzy7I3exSqyEzSZI_jFC26ye499AkZ2M9NXHUkipO5RcSJ_IKdWrak0KeADK9G07DaVpvRQ9PEuiFqpTenl3xe0VD78l/s1600-h/IMG_1315_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqBibIF7d5_OHj_B_p8l2Cd4YHM97Heu1v3wSr3P7zOXYm_cJUzy7I3exSqyEzSZI_jFC26ye499AkZ2M9NXHUkipO5RcSJ_IKdWrak0KeADK9G07DaVpvRQ9PEuiFqpTenl3xe0VD78l/s400/IMG_1315_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444442061138358770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1OaCaIiZWs97NU6LhqZJkd31mkAWGtHuhX7JSMVKEZnr_uv5THD-fgEoFT1DiMwrA32POExHsPe1pvY-B-2WNTddDi3scZLuXdw92I6XwrSIMPAbBUnRdqCkwV2obkEcL0nkYsQlMQoN/s1600-h/IMG_1314_2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1OaCaIiZWs97NU6LhqZJkd31mkAWGtHuhX7JSMVKEZnr_uv5THD-fgEoFT1DiMwrA32POExHsPe1pvY-B-2WNTddDi3scZLuXdw92I6XwrSIMPAbBUnRdqCkwV2obkEcL0nkYsQlMQoN/s400/IMG_1314_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444442050484331346" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">...I don't know what they mean, but I think I did them in my 20s...</div><div style="text-align: center;">(I had a job as a supply clerk in the basement of Butler Library @ Columbia!)</div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-8521414273929394122010-02-15T15:53:00.000-08:002010-02-15T16:13:45.601-08:00Woody Allen Parking-lot: a meandering meditation on Movie Magic<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPGbk-_bMFi7Sbyn4WWuVJFs8xm3qAiENkZiKb_7Efrypj6iLIsFuvx5mYmSP8pKamXiSg_iL4l8jmkQ0fdtuK8GmTgQUwjyCG8fp_xpRLsKe9mjngCWw2_bmlA-zz1cs2_kc7nwRPLuY/s1600-h/WASP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 374px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDPGbk-_bMFi7Sbyn4WWuVJFs8xm3qAiENkZiKb_7Efrypj6iLIsFuvx5mYmSP8pKamXiSg_iL4l8jmkQ0fdtuK8GmTgQUwjyCG8fp_xpRLsKe9mjngCWw2_bmlA-zz1cs2_kc7nwRPLuY/s400/WASP.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438623196540951698" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><br /></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">During that summer my girlfriend Laura and I had split up for a few months, I was cast as an extra in a Woody Allen movie. It came about out of the blue one hot, July day at the garage indoor flea market where I sell books. The ventilation is not so great there, and to compensate, they set up these giant fans with mesmerizing hums that tend to just blow around a lot of dust and exhaust soot from the cars parked there through the weekdays. The overall effect is a hazy sleepiness that's difficult to shake, only occasionally offset by a pretty woman passing by my booth or the occasional $100 book sale. As I unconsciously scoped out potential new mates, my thoughts meandered from "what a babe" to "why bother, it'll just be a disaster like last time."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">My groggy, downward spiral was interrupted by a slightly overly smiley man and a very officious lady with a clipboard who started talking to me about this Woody Allen movie they were working on, with the working title of WASP (Woody Allen Summer Project). Thinking she was shopping for W.A., I tried to sell her an Edward Gorey first edition, but as her lips moved, something resembling $500 if I set up my booth on their site at Saint Marks Church, came out, so I actually began to listen. I was supposed to show up on a Wednesday morning, and I could even make an extra $125 if I was in a scene. Then another Joe, this kind of chubby metrosexual vintage clothes dealer came and said Scarlett Johansson was going to be in it. $625 for a half-days work, and the prospect of me, chubby, depressed, recently single, perpetually broke, middle-aged loser, being in proximity of stunning Ms. Johansson? Kind of an I heart New York, moment, eh?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I drove my beat up '93 Mazda MPV chock full of books and shelves to the East Village on that Wednesday morning, where they were to stage a flea market scene in a garden along the west wall of the church. It was a huge operation. Many people with orange flags and pointers on the street instructing me to go this way and that, until I reached a sort of central traffic director who simply said, "Pull over here." They had dozens of people kind of...well...just standing around. Usually, when I show up at the flea, there's that dreaded moment of lifting and dollying things to my booth. Not here. As soon as I pulled a box from my car another and another production assistant would whisk it away. It was my glance into movie magic, where armies of production assistants just make things happen. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Another guy with a flag directed me to park around the corner. I meandered to a line of trailers along 11th street, behind the church. I imagined that was where they did make up and costumes, and the stars binged on chocolates and valiums. Another PA with a headset enthusiastically directed me to a row of checkered table clothed tables next to the trailers bearing coffee, juice, tea and an assortments of pastries, yogurt, fruit, bagels, lox and cream cheese. What appeared to be a bona fide starlet emerged from one of the trailers. We smiled at each other while she applied jam to her English muffin and I lox and cream cheese to my bagel. Her ridiculously penetrating blue eyes made my arms go limp, and the blood rush from my head. I dropped a couple bagel shavings and a swatch of salmon into a bowl of berries. I gathered my faculties and quickly ambled back towards my made-for-the-movie flea market booth before any further missteps could occur. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I lingered in the graveyard next the church trying to shake off her stupefying fog, examining rows of 17th century grave markers bearing names like Stuyvesant and Van Cortland. You know that yard by the side door of St. Marks Church, if you've been there, where you go to see poetry readings or trek upstairs to see Richard Foreman plays, or the offices of the Poetry Project. So strange. St. Marks Poetry Project is a focal point for so many friends and acquaintances. All these mignons of high culture maintaining that New York mystique, armies of wee struggling poets, artistes, meant to set this city apart from anywhere else. All of us just beating our brains out trying to make something, anything, that might culminate in a glimmer of brilliance above our work-a-day environs, while here this Hollywood production just waltzes in with it's union guys, battalions of 25 year old PAs, breakfast buffets, Woody Allens, Scarlett Johansens and random starlets, effortlessly taking over and enveloping the place in an aura of a production in production. This aura of movie magic. At that moment, as I walked towards the front of the church now engulfed in the art of filmmaking, the church seemed more hallowed by Hollywood, than by the religion that built it.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Let's examine the 4 fieldstone steps going from the sidewalk to the garden, where the flea market scene is staged. In reality, as opposed to in movie wonderland, no flea market dealer would want to participate, or they would grudgingly, because you'd have to carry boxes over 4 steps sans dolly. The WASP production magically changed those 4 steps from a nuisance to a picturesque detail. A picturesque cluster of moist New York State slate, nearly sensual enough to lick, overgrown with English ivy. And past those steps, panning across the ivy covered yard stands the lot of us: grimy, past our prime, vaguely intelligent but not enough to be employable, rather cynical, money grubbing losers, temporarily donning this tinsel magic to become colorful backdrops, like the ivy, the slate steps, the iron fence, the church, for WA and the stunning Ms. Johanssen.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The perpetually smiling art director, or production designer, whatever he was, spotted me in my pensive moment on the colonnade landing of the church's main entrance, and sort of patted the side of my arm while greeting me with my jumble of coffee and whatnot. "I see you found the food table, Mr. Heterosexual slob," I imagined him saying. He was supposed to be famous in his field, Joe, the metrosexual vintage clothing guy told me. Joe knows everything that is fabulous enough to know. I often am struck that I have no clue what he is talking about. At the flea market, he'll start saying something, and the first sentence, I'm like, "ha, ha" then almost immediately I realize I'm watching his lips move without the faintest clue about what is coming out. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">We say hello and wave as I walk by his booth. Joe is already holding court with an effusive older woman from the art direction staff, and a couple gayish guys who may be set dressers, or fiddle with lights or something. They are all unfurling fabrics of skirts and shirts against their outstretched arms, their faces agog with the wonder of fleamarket discovery, compounded by the glory of it all being on a movie set. It's a feel-good environment on steroids, and I'm bathing in my post-break up rawness. Or rather, I feel like I suddenly woke up in a cold shower. They turn their heads and wave to the art director who is escorting me to my booth. I don't feel part of this environment, but I wave back in tandem with the art director anyway. Although I'm really happy to be here, to get away from the pointless obsessing of a relationship gone awry, the energy level is exhausting. I think it would be for anyone. To perform a quick assessment of the people hovering around Joe, any of them would be more upbeat than the most upbeat people I know, even Joe. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">We arrive at my booth and the art director extends his arm sort of Bob Barkerish from The Price is Right, introducing me to my home, my fake book selling booth for the morning. It was an picnic tent without any sides, certainly typical of those seen at outdoor flea markets, but with varied bubbly 70s orange, green and blue Turkish looking stained glass lamps hanging inside from the structural tubing of the tent. The lamps were quite a nuisance, as they dangled just above eye level, but not above head level, so that myself, and the various other extras would continually bump our heads into them during the course of the morning. However, I suppose they were low enough to hang below the ceiling line of my tent, so that the camera 100 feet away at the end of the isle could pick up on them. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I had gone through the trouble of getting colorful art books and whatnot, so that should a camera pan across my booth, there would be all sorts of splashy colors and textures to greet the camera. I took my job as extra quite seriously. Also, should it pan across me and my goods, that would be quite decent advertising. I discreetly placed my cards throughout my booth. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I brought a few books of value. Derriere Le Mirror, a large format art magazine famous for it's big splashy Miro or Calder covers. A gorgeous early 19th century American Bible with unusually nice red, straight-grain morocco that I later sold to the Bauman's, a first Olympia edition of Burroughs soft machine in jacket. I began unpacking, thinking of placement, what would impress Scarlet Johanssen and whatnot. Perhaps being a haggard, embittered, recently Xed middle-aged slob, made me focus inappropriately to the task at hand, the rare chance to impress the likes of a Ms. Johanssen.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">But there was a whole other level of this human stage prop thing, and that was the level of the professional "extra." Now, don't I'm belittling anyone's job, nor their desire to become famous. After all, I'm a writer and as we all know, writers in general spend their lives begging for agents, deals, publishers, in short: fame and money, though the fame is more approval of ones craft, not celebrity. But according to a vaguely hip 20-something guy in cargo pants who was an extra stationed to my booth, most of the extras had studied acting in school, and were poised to move up the ladder to parts with lines, and theoretically following with starring roles. Just like the jumble of assistant directors coaching them. I saw the girl from the breakfast buffet with another beautiful girl. I guess they were extras. They listened intently to another woman who I guess was some sort of assistant director giving them instructions for the scene.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Then this extra named Harry entered my booth. He was quite jovial and didn't seem to be as concerned about the professionalism as the cargo pants guy, the two girls and the assistant director. "I was a tuna fisherman for a while," he told me. "Then, I was a cop. Now, I just want to do something fun in retirement." So here he was, 78 if a day, long Italian nose with kind of a bulb at the end. He wore a mostly white golf shirt, with red and black triangles and whatnot, deco-style, the type that Joe probably sold for $75. Harry no doubt picked it up at Sears ca. 1947 for 50 cents. At first glance, Harry seemed to be the kind of guy who was most comfortable holding holding a martini, while telling wife jokes. It was one of those "whoa" moments where you're looking at the guy telling you his life story and you realize: Jeez, the guy is straight out of a Woody Allen movie! No, wait. This guy IS in a Woody Allen movie, and like, I'm like so gratified that Woody Allen put up this huge production just to entertain me, Joe Maynard, for like 4 hours on a Wednesday morning, I could just pee myself, and if I did, another PA would just direct me to one of those trailers and give me another pair of pants to wear, anyway. Probably nicer than the jeans I came in with.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">A few other people came in the booth. The art director lady that was in the other Joe's booth looked through my Lartigue book. If you don't know Lartigue, he took a bunch of photographs of his family in France when he was around 10 years old in the circa 1910s. Because they were quite wealthy, and had hobbies like tinkering with horseless carriages and flying machines, the photos are quite amusing. He spent the rest of his 80+ years on this planet promoting and selling his photos from this brief slice of his life, culminating in a thick, oblong book meant to look like the family album that it is. He designed the book himself around 1960. So I told her all that, and offered it for $225. She said she'd think about it. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I turned around to put a loudly colorful Miro book face-out at the front of the booth, when I noticed the two lovely extras planted themselves in a sort of bored standing position in front of my booth examining the lower shelf facing out to the isle. The girl from the food table sheepishly smiled at me. It was an adorable smile with a hint of pink gum line above her brilliant pearly, orthodontically perfect teeth. "Hi," I said through my crooked, coffee-stained accidents. I thought it was an incredibly smart introduction. Straight forward, unpretentious and absolutely dull in that sense that if you are immersed in the fabulosity of movie making, there is no need to say anything to compete with it.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Harry clocked my efforts. Now too self conscious to continue, I retreated into my booth putting empty boxes under the tables.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"> "Quite a number of pretty young things, eh?" Harry commented over my shoulder. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"What a gig you've got going," I said. "Is it like this every movie?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Yeah. If I were 30 years younger, that one with her hair tied back..."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"It's torture."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"So what, are you single? Married?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Just broke up."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Ah, that's too bad. Get over it. Look at her! Look how elegant she is. Her chin, her nose, so delicate. Now, that's a classically beautiful dame." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">She was. 25ish, a bit more worldly, than the other, like she had been to a prestigious eastern college, or kicked around Europe for a couple years -- at least spoke French as a second language. She was slightly darker, hint of freckles, an elegant neck, and her eyes also quite piercing as they darted around the ersatz fleamarket. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I'm partial to the other one I met in the food line," I said nearly inaudibly fearing she may hear. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">He smiled like he was my grandfather or something. "You never got to date that cheerleader in high school, did you?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Two other attractive women suddenly appeared in entirely too much make up. What I mean by too much make up is even an understatement. You've imagined too much make up, now quadruple it. It was immediately apparent that they were "in" the movie, and made up for the camera. The two pretty extras eyed them with casual smiles, everyone in the courtyard seemed to face them, or if they were turned away seemed to be in tune with their movements. One was about 20-something, the other pushing 40, both small, about 5'2", thus substantiating that saying that they really are smaller in real life. The older one was wearing some sort of leopard patterned tights with high heels, huge sun glasses. The younger one was just plain foxy. I've learned from IMDb, that they were Evan Rachel Wood and Patricia Clarkson. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">They went through the stuff in my booth, both of them picking up this and that, and slipping in and out of fake southern accents. Though I was flattered by their attention, I was also hoping for their patronage! But with the accent thing, I realized they must be priming themselves for their scene, so I didn't want to be too intrusive. They left my booth and continued down the row of vendors with a couple guys humming around them with I suppose light meters, sound meters, or something. Then they disappeared. Tech discussion broke out among the crew. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">This laid back hippie type, about 50 or so, shoulder-length hair, introduced himself to me. Let's call him Henry. "So I'm the foreman. If you need anything, if anyone asks you for anything, just let me know. I've got some paper work here." He held out a clipboard. "This paper says that you have set up your booth and will be paid said amount, and the other is a SAG agreement that as a freelance extra you'll be paid $125 if they use you in a scene. If you're in two more movies, you'll be asked to join SAG -- and don't worry: You'll be in the movie and get that 125."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Turns out he was a creative type as well, but the steady paycheck sort of made him happy and lazy, according to his own account. That too is part of the movie magic spell. A subtle paralysis that comes over you with all the fabulousness. Like everything you do, say, touch or shit is golden. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Henry told me it was his last movie, that he was retiring. Pension and all. Perhaps he'd become an artist again. That or go to the Caribbean. Mexico. Somewhere warm with a beach.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">When Henry left, I saw the two pretty extras had been looking around my booth. The breakfast buffet girl smiled. Harry kept staring at the other one until he started talking to her. I'm sure it was all very gentlemanly, but in a hushed tone. She seemed to like his attention. Well, if the old man can do it...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Are you an actress extra?" I asked immediately choking from the awkwardness. "I mean, do you do this as a job."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Do I pay my rent with it?" she said. "Yes."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"They pay well?" </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"$160 a day." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Really? They're paying me a lot more -- oh, sorry. No one likes a bragger."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Well, it's one of those things you do when you want to be an actress," she said. "You just don't want to get too comfortable in it, though, or you're just be a career extra."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I introduced myself. She introduced herself. She was Cassie. From Tallahassee. Her parents were hippies. She'd been studying acting as long as she can remember. Played Julliette in high school. She also waited tables at a barbecue place not far from the flea market. I told her about our little garage flea market, how the smiling man and lady with the clipboard picked a handful of us for the movie. Cassie picked up some disbound chromolithograph pages that were a from a 19th century children's alphabet book. The C and D pages were especially of interest. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Your names sake?" I inquired, assuming "C" for Cassie.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"No," she said smiling. "I like the other side." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">It was "D" for Darkie, with a minstrelesque black man in what resembled an Uncle Sam suit, top hat, etc., and spectacles...I guess that would be an Uncle Tom Suit. I told her it was $20 but she could have it for $10. I didn't want to be a push-over. But I should have just given it to her. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Woody Allen walked past. He was short, older than that frozen image of him in Annie Hall. He seemed kind, lacking in any gregarious gestures that one might expect from a show businessman. A couple assistants pointed him to a monitor that had black metal light shield around it. He said a few things to another assistant who in tern shouted instructions to everyone else. Apparently, there was too much motion on the street outside the gate to the churchyard. A PA or two cleared people from the sidewalk in front of the church. The two made up actresses appeared again. They said something to me, but honestly, I couldn't tell you what it was then or now, what with their pretend accents. I also felt like we were in parallel universes and just happened to exist a few feet away from each other, without ever really being able to communicate. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Cassie and the other girl took their mark about 5 feet from in front of my booth. Harry took to his decided pose looking down into my glass case. The board snapped, the scene began. The actresses looked at books on the shelf facing out of my booth, then walked down the stone isle towards the camera. Then it was over. A new murmur of activity. The union guy came by to remind us to do exactly what we had just done once again, which for me was absolutely nothing. Everyone took their marks again, Harry, Cassie and the other girl, the two stars, and the whole thing was repeated. Then Woody Allen muttered something to a guy with a megaphone, "10 minute break everyone, then the next shot."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I still hadn't seen Scarlet Johanssen. I was a bit disappointed. However, Cassie and the other girl were quite lovely. I began considering whether a fat old fart like myself had a shot at a gorgeous young thing like her. But wait, she came back into my booth again. I told her about the things in my glass case on the table, the William Burroughs first edition and the like. She once again picked up the Darkie Chromo. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Are you at the flea market every week?" she asked. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"No every week," I said. "I do these antiquarian book fairs, but I'm at the flea once or twice a month."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I go there all the time, I've never seen you."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I've never seen you either, and I find that more remarkable." </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">There. I'd done my duty: flirted. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I'll look for you next time I go," she said smiling. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Everyone listen up!" said an assistant director with a megaphone. He explained the next scene. At the opposite end of my isle, they were setting up a shot where the girl played by Evan Rachel Wood, meets a young love interest. About a second after his explanation the scene started. The Union guy, Henry, gestured for me to step out of the booth. When I was near him, he said to just get in line behind two other people and another guy would signal for me to walk through the scene past the two stars. "Just don't look into the camera," he said. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Now, I'm not proud of this. It was no doubt counter productive to the movie cause, but I could not help but turn and face towards the actors, and incidentally, towards the camera while walking past them. I mean, there I was walking along and, 'Hey, there's a big fucking camera poking in my face!' But aside from that, I felt I should be looking at what the actors were holding, which was an antique handkerchief. Partly, because at the flea, when people are scouting around, people always look at what other people are picking up. If someone else notices it, it must be worth something. That's the psychology. But in this scene, I'm certain it appeared, I was just facing the camera. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The take was finished. Henry instructed everyone to get back to where they were, lined up all of us who were walking past the actors, and said to do exactly the same thing. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">In the next take, I was in a quandary, but I did exactly the same thing. I faced the camera again! And the next take again. And the next take, the fourth, I actually wondered if I was fucking up the whole works, as the other shot was done in only a couple takes. But they would tell me, wouldn't they? I reasoned with myself. So I did it again. No one said anything to me, but I had this vague uneasiness. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Then an assistant director announced the scene was done and thanked us all. We could go home now. I started packing, Harry, the cargo pants guy, the two pretty extras, all said good bye. I told Cassie again I hoped to see her at the flea. It was all very brief and the extras dispersed. As I packed, I started thinking about the money sunk into all those extras. 35 or so paid extras just in this scene, times $160 comes out to $5400. Then about 12 or so vendors at $500 each is $6000. Quite an expensive minute or so scene. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">A couple weeks went by. Sure enough, on another hot summer day, Cassie showed up at my booth. The other young girl she was with was a bit surprised by Cassie and I being so familiar. I explained to her about the movie. Somehow, it came out that Cassie was 18. Wow. I had the hots for someone nearly 30 years younger than I. Someone who, if we were in a primitive culture, could be my grand daughter. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I didn't realize that," I said. "You're just so beautiful, I had no clue how old you were."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Oh, men..."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Here, just take the print." I said. "A gift."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"You sure?" she asked.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Yeah," I said. "It was kind of a special day, and I'd like for you to have it. After all, they paid me more than they paid you."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">And off she went. That beautiful young thing. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The Weeks past. Fall set in, the rich people returned to the flea after their summer absence in the Hamptons. It was closing in on Christmas. Laura and I had gotten back together. I was broke. It was cold. There are a few celebs that frequented the garage. One is this supermodel Helena Christiansen. I didn't know who she was when I met her, although, I certainly noticed her looks, but everyone else filled me in on her fame and fabulosity. That first time she came in my booth she had bought some Edward Gorey first editions. She's hard not to spot what with her Euro-supermodel-fabulosity. Her 8 year old son is usually with her, and they sweetly examine everything together. When they had checked out my Gorey books, she turned the pages with him and they remarked on Gorey's rare twisted humor. She bought 3 of them, 2 signed, for a tidy sum of money, for which I am ever so grateful. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">A couple weeks later, I had these two Jersey guys in my booth. They often set up and sell pulp fiction paperbacks, porno, sci-fi, rock posters and such. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Come on, cut me some slack here!" the one was saying holding up a paperback copy of SIDEWALK SIN. "The corner's all bent and the back is stained like somebody came all over it!"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">And suddenly, there she was: all six feet tall of Helena Christiansen. This elegant being from the parellel universe, with her son in tow, and hopefully (forgive me, I'm not greedy, just perpeturally broke) with money. And I've got these two clowns in my booth chiseling away and talking splooge in their Jersey accents. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I was temporarily paralyzed. Just then, Ms. Christiansen dropped a bag in the isle nearly at my feet, and every guy within a 12 foot radius jumped to pick it up -- except me. I just stood there frozen with one of those one size fits all uncomfortable smiles. She thanked whoever it was for picking the bag up, politely smiled at me and walked in my booth. I remained smiling. The two bushy-browed Jersey guys hovered around her with their crooked smiles while I hoped to God they wouldn't say or do anything else more embarrassing.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">At that exact moment, I heard from about a foot behind me, "I really like my Darkie." I turned around face to face with Cassie, no make up. I felt all soft and fuzzy noticing a zit over her eyebrow. She had her jacket unzipped and beneath was wearing a silk top that resembled a slip. She looked so young, so sweetly flat chested. I suppose it was her innocence clearly contrasted against Ms. Christiansen's worldliness, but I realized, in the nicest way, she was way too young for me.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Glad you like it," I said. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">She didn't break her step, just clocked the whole situation with the Jersey guys, Ms. Christiansen and all, waved her mitten good-bye from at sort of hip-level disappearing into the crowd.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 14.0px Helvetica">.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Recently, the smiling production design guy was walking through the flea market. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Remember me?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I looked at him quickly trying to reference all the ambiguous faces and names I meet at the flea. Was he a John? Michael? Definitely not a Helena Christiansen. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"The Woody Allen Movie!" He said emphatically with his usual smile.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Oh, yeah."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Seen it yet?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"I didn't know it was out?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Months ago," he said. "Unfortunately, I don't think you made the final cut. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Oh, well," I said. "Maybe I'll netflix it..."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">So Laura and I netflixed it. I have to say Laura and I, because I don't want it to seem like I'm just cringing at something I'm a bit close to, it's much the opposite. I've always enjoyed Woody Allen, especially the early funny ones. I had no real expectations, I was just curious about how it turned out. However, Laura and I were stunned that "Whatever it Takes", or any movie, could be as bad as it was: Not funny, nor dramatic, nor clever, nor innovative, just a bizarre failure.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">First, the overall wit of the film did not have any consistency. Like it wasn't quite biting satire nor laugh out loud funny. More like a bunch of kids in a class as a group project decided to do a Woody Allen Movie and they each threw in different random "Woody Allen" cliches. It had the cranky older, neurotic Jewish intellectual. The young love interest. Lots of didactic dialogue. Lots of New Yorky stuff. However. Larry David, though I know it may be part of his schtick, was so charmless, disbelief was never suspended, and at some points just you wonder why he decided to act. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The basic plot is that a small town Louisiana cheerleader runs away from home to New York City, where she immediately shacks up with the charmless Larry David who hurls continuous insults at her. He's so caustic, and is so misanthropic, especially towards her kind, why would a young hottie move in with hairy old that? It's just 90 or so minutes of mean spirited attacks on cardboard cut-out of a clueless middle-American Shiksa, as if some sort of Bush era lefty anger therapy session. Any humor or satire is short-circuited by bitter, blunt, witless insults. The coquettish "domolestic" scenes of the scantily clad blonde showing off her panties and cleavage while changing channels on the old man's couch, are just way too much information. Sooner or later the unfortunate image of wrinkly, charmless, hairy-necked LD struggling to achieve orgasm is gonna pop in your head, and no matter how hard you try to make it go away, it'll stick there like the old man splooge on her smooth, under-aged ass. If she were just tied up, beaten and raped mercilessly for 2 hours, it would have been more honest -- and at least it would have an edge.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">But let's not blame everything on poor charmless Larry David. Evan Rachel Wood put on such a memorable (unfortunately), cloying southern accent throughout, within moments you just want to make her go away. It seemed she was playing her part slapstick, while Larry David was playing deadpan. In the end, they had no screen chemistry whatsoever. Just annoying verbal cacophony. Laura and I soldiered on watching gag after gag fall flat until...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I think the decisive moment arrived when Evan Rachel Ward went to see some sort of punk rock show with a guy she met on the sidewalk. The name of the band on the marquee was "Anal Sphincter." We both laughed. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Nice zinger, grampa!"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Maybe you audition for Regis and Cathy Lee!"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">In the morning, after Laura left for work, I made breakfast and settled in front of the TV to watch the rest. Mainly, to see if perhaps I may have snuck on screen, egomaniac that I am, but also, just out of some sick curiosity about how bad it could get. At some point, you have to ask yourself, how hard is it to squeeze out a middle-brow, vaguely funny feature, anyway? Well, apparently, harder than one would imagine. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">With my plate-full of eggs and potatoes, a glass of orange juice and my 3rd mug of coffee, I sat to watch the thing in its entirety. There was a scene in the apartment, where the ERW and LD were talking about fate, their differences etc., and it occurred to me that this was some half-assed attempt at a more comical Eugene O'Neill play. I never really was a fan of Eugene O'Neil, nor did I ever see the connection between WA and EO before. But now I do. This scene drew me in. Laura's comments about how this was nothing more than a pathetic old man's wet dream aside, these scenes with Larry David speaking to the camera were perversely fascinating. The didactic monologue. Left leaning philosophy-lite. The grimy urban texture. Stir in a quantum physicist's theories of Chaos, and you have nice cup of cinematic warm milk served by a teenage girl in panties. Larry David's wise old man character, said to have been nominated for a nobel prize, is saying stuff that stoned kids in a college dorm say at 4 am after a few hits of acid and a half-dozen joints. Only to their advantage, they have that sparkly patina of youth on their side to detract from the mediocracy of what is coming out of their mouths. There's no sparkle of any kind on Larry David. Just a cloying, dull curmudgeon that won't shut the fuck up.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Now if ERW, the young hottie were saying the same lines, which a kid from Louisiana who is adventurous enough to run away to New York City could certainly come up with -- perhaps after having first heard them from a Woody Allen Movie she saw on HBO when she was 12 -- it would have produced a modicum of sparkle power. However, her lines are dumbed down even dumber than the dumb "smart" lines of LD to the point of being simply unwatchable, and let me remind you: not funny. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">One notable detail was that LDs apartment had a wall of empty barrister cases. I realize this may have been for visual effect, clean cinematic lines or some crap having nothing to do with furthering the character or story, but since when does a New York intellectual have a house full of empty bookcases? It could have been a funny plot twist (lord knows this film could have used one). LD could have had a tantrum burned all his books, SHE could have burned or thrown out his books, or better, HE could have burned them all after being converted to philistinism by young, fresh pussy. So, ironically, I was hired as an extra to play a bookseller in a movie that was censoring the portrayal of books.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">OK, I'm getting too worked up here, but at the 47 minute mark (I took some notes over my eggs), the film is flying high with its Eugene O'Neill philsophe remarks, the grimy urban texture, empty bookshelves, etc. Suddenly, the mother, played by Patricia Clarkson appears out of no where portraying an 1850s lilly-white plantation heiress! Oddly, everything else is so joyless, she brightens up the screen immediately with the sweet relief of non-sequitor physical comedy. But whenever the camera is not fixed on her, the dull charmlessness, which is the expected texture of this film now, takes over. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">At nearly exactly the one hour mark, is my scene. Sadly, you can only barely see the back of my folding shelves behind the two actresses are walking through the flea market, but at a point when the main male love interest is talking to the Evan Rachel Ward character in the flea market, I clearly saw my profile, my head of salt and pepper disheveled hair disappear behind the actor for a split second, then I am magically photoshopped out of the scene. There is no "Joe" coming out the other side of the actor's head. I'm certain it was because I was looking back at the camera and probably fucked it up... I don't know. Anyway, whether or not it I fucked up, I was in one of the worst movies ever made, but at least I was in a Woody Allen movie. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I have more notes, but let me just summarize:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Lilly-white Baptist Patricia Clarkson, although she is two-dimensional, her slapstick approaches watchable. For her to accomplish watchable in this movie, she must be a genius. So... Lilly-White, the first chance she gets, turns into a polyamorous avante-guard photographer after getting laid by a guy who tells her pretentiously that he writes, "on the aesthetics of photography." I mean, give me a break! Who says the AESTHETICS of photography, unless you're a complete pretentious douche. At least not in conversation. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">At some point, Ed Bigley Jr., playing the father literally barges through the door of the set in his first scene appearing as if he hadn't been given any direction at all. He continuously flip-flops between comedy and drama. Not as if he's blurring the line, but simply as continuity problem. His character is so unreliable, it doesn't allow other actors to bounce ideas or textures off him. He's a dramatic sink. To make matters worse, his character, a Bible-thumping jock from the south suddenly confesses to being gay over the briefest of conversations at a bar. Its like an overheard party conversation where someone says, "Yeah, those football jocks with their tight ends and such are just a bunch of closet cases. The first chance they'd get, they'd probably go gay..." Yeah, right. And that's the whole pathetic level of this movie. A bunch of really simplistic assumptions about middle Americans, and dullard's fantasies about what one does when exposed to the likes of New York fuckin' City. Rather than cutting through and illuminating bullshit, it simply piles on another layer. And lest we not forget Whatever Works is a comedy...that's just not funny. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">You'd think there'd be someone pre, during, or post production saying, hey, this sucks, but apparently there wasn't. Laura and I had a lengthy discussion more recently wondering how a director who made Vicky Christina Barcelona the year previous, could follow up with Whatever Works? Was W.A. now senile? (I'm sorry, that's a terrible thing to say, but seriously...). Was it acting out to dissolve an unwanted contract? Was it a pay-off to unions to film one in New York? Close. I just read, for the purpose of writing this piece, that he was looking for a quick script to dig up during the writers strike that was happening while this film was in pre-production. He had originally written this script in the 70s for Zero Mostel. But with the strike, he needed a quick scipt to work on and drug this gem into the open air. So basically, this film could be crucial evidence of how important well-seasoned writers are. I can see it now in history of film classes in the NYU MFA dramatic script writing program for generations to come as the prime example that the film is only as good as the script. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">But what about all that hub-bub in the Hollywood take-over of St. Marks Church, or anywhere else around town WASP may have filmed? All that movie magic that went to my head during my 4 hour stint as an extra? The lovely extras, famous director, the stars? Well, I now know first hand, it doesn't amount to anything. It all just boils down to the quality of artistic intent. I'll take my oddball Richard Foreman production, and second tier poets at the Wednesday night St. Marks reading series over "Whatever Works" any day. I'm sorry Mr. Allen. At least you know your next film's gonna be better.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Adieu, Joe Maynard</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">PS. I forgot to say, Scarlett Johanssen was never in it. (other Joe, you liar!)</p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-38920209908258633182010-02-10T15:06:00.000-08:002010-02-10T15:12:51.375-08:00Boiling An Egg by Tsaurah Litzky (cont. from Jan 31 post)<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I managed to stay invisible during my next two classes, political science and biology, which was very good since I hadn’t done the reading for those classes. When my school day was over about noon, I went to the Sugar Bowl Luncheonette just off campus on Albemarle Rd. and had a chocolate malted. I needed energy, my morning adventure had knocked me out. I was glad my new job did not start until tomorrow. I went back on campus to the library, caught up on my readings and studied commonly used phrases for my French class on Thursday. <i>Ou est la salle</i> <i>de bain</i> means Where is the bathroom? <i>Avez –vous quelque poissson</i> means do you have some fish? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I did not get back to Manhattan until five. When I opened the door to my new apartment I was greeted by a smell I had not noticed before, a sour smell, a mixture of dust, dirty sweaty clothes and vinegar. My apartment door opened into a small room rectangular room which led rail road sytle into my kitchen. The kitchen consisted of a refrigerator, sink and a stove set against the wall plus my bathtub. The tub had a white enameled top so it could be used as a table and it was set on the horizontal to create another room, my living room. The only furniture in the living room was the battered green studio couch I was using as my bed. Two windows at the end of the room looked out on the fireescape and the backs of other tenements. The cardboard cartons holding my belongings were yet to be unpacked and were piled in a dismal clump in the center of the room. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I sank down on the studio couch and immediately an errant spring poked into my bottom. I fell asleep the night before without making the bed up with the sheets I had brought from my family home. A vision of my mother and father standing outside our house as I drove away in Eddies car floated into my mind. (My brother had refused to come outside to see me off. When I went into his room to kiss him goodbye, he yelled “Traitor,” and buried his head in his pillow.) My parents were standing at least two feet apart, my mother was looking at the receding car with an anguished expression on her face, my father was looking at his wristwatch. If I stayed with Eddie we could end up like them, a scarey prospect. The weird smell was even stronger in this room, maybe it was a ghost, the residue of someone who had lived their life alone here. Suddenly I was hugging myself and rocking back and forth. What had I done? What would happen to me now? I felt cold and empty. My stomach was growling. I was very hungry. If I was home my mother could make me cinnamon toast or a cream cheese omelette. In planning my adult life I had not realized I would have to cook for myself. I didn’t know how to cook.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> My mother did all the housekeeping, all the cooking. If I offered to help she chased me away, told me to go study. She had to keep herself so busy to keep from falling apart. Hortense was not my father’s first mistress. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I could get a slice from the pizzeria on the corner of Bleecker and W.3<sup>rd</sup>. but I had to start to take care of myself. Now or never! I had an idea, I would boil an egg. I had seen my mother do it plenty of times.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I looked in the cupboard above the sink. There was some silverware, an old white enameled sauce pan with rust on the bottom and a few dishes in the blue willow pattern. I would boil the egg in the saucepan and eat it on buttered bread on one of the dishes. I took the small roll of bills in my book bag and went out, being careful to lock the door with my new key. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I walked down McDougal street passing Ali’s Souvlaki and the Café Wha with a sign outside that said “Dave Van Ronk Mondays, Open Mike Tuesdays.” Next to Café Wha was a small grocery with a blue neon sign in the window that said Emilio’s. I went in and brought a dozen eggs, a loaf of Wonder Bread, a stick of butter and a quart of milk from the woman behind the counter. She was very fat with three chins but she still managed to smile as she put my purchases into a brown paper bag and gave me a quarter for change. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> On my way back up the stairs the bag ripped open between the second and third floor. At least only four of the eggs were broken. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> Once back inside my apartment, I discovered that no matter what faucet I turned, the water ran only cold. I scrubbed and scrubbed the saucepan in the cold water using the bar of soap I had brought with me from my family home. I was trying to get the rust spots out. Finally I realized the eggs would be protected by their shells. I filled the saucepan nearly to the brim with water, set it on one of the burners on the stove and dropped the egg in gently so as not to break it. I turned the burner on and went to sit on the couch wait for the egg to boil. Soon a noxious smell filled the room. It was gas. I had not thought to buy matches. I opened both windows and went back out to Emilio’s. With my quarter I brought a box of 300 wooden matches. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> Back upstairs I turned on the burner and struck a match under the pot but there was still no flame and the gas stink spread out into the room again. I had turned the wrong knob. I tried again and got it right. I watched the egg in the water until the water was boiling merrily and the egg was bouncing from side to side. When I went to sit down on the couch, I noticed a big crack on the ceiling right above my head that looked like hammer. If the plaster cracked it could fall down on my head and kill me while I was sleeping. I could sleep with the pillow over my head but then maybe I would suffocate. I got up, moved the cartons out of the way, pushed the couch to the opposite wall so I would be safe when I was sleeping. As I was pushing it, I noticed some little black beads rolling across the wooden floor. I looked closer and saw they were ugly black bugs. I realized they were the famous New York City cockroaches that all apartments in Manhattan were supposed to have. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> Then I went over and checked the egg again. The shell had cracked open and the egg had oozed out into the water making a white and yellow mess. Boiling an egg was quite complicated, a very big deal as Holden Caulfield would say. I took care to turn off the flame, picked up the saucepan and went out into the hall to dump the contents in the toilet.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> The toilet was filled with such a thick coil of brown feces , maybe the last creature in there was a horse I dumped the egg mess on top and gingerly pulled the handle. To my relief a loud gurgle came from somewhere inside the plumbing and it began to flush. I went back into my apartment, rinsed out the pan and started all over again.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> My stomach was growling like a starving dog. This time I kept the flame lower and I stood over the pot watching as the egg boiled in the water so if it started to crack I would take it off the flame. I recited the Jabberwocky poem five times. It was the only poem I knew by heart, to make sure the egg boiled at least three minutes because I knew hard boiled eggs were also called three minute eggs. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> Then I turned the flame off and dumped the water out in the sink. There was my egg, whole, perfect. When I picked it up to peel, it was so hot it burned my fingers. I remembered seeing my mother peel eggs under running water in the sink. I picked up the egg, cracked it on the side of the sink and started to peel it. My fingers were clumsy and whole sections of the egg came away with a shell. In the end, the egg wasn’t oval any more but a kind of mis-shapen square.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times"> I took down one of the plates and a tarnished spoon from the cabinet. I washed and dried them on my sweater. I used the spoon to butter a slice of the Wonder Bread and put the bread on the plate. I put the egg on the bread and mashed it with the spoon to make an open faced egg sandwich. I sat down on the couch to eat my dinner. From my vantage point against this wall I could see more sky out the window. It was twilight. I could see clotheslines strung from the fire escapes of the other tenements. I could see towels, shirts, aprons and bloomers waving gently like welcoming flags. I balanced the plate on my knees, picked up bread and took a bite. I had never tasted anything so good. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times">Tsaurah Litzky</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times; min-height: 18.0px"> </p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-47957068438012352962010-02-06T14:30:00.000-08:002010-02-07T07:11:11.559-08:00The Art of Teddy Schapiro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi43QNKMLe1SotFe_iGYTaMalHco2yYGOrquxZpWe57q7dS69foRXsaWLl3FS81xaqD9I2yufA5XAma-a3AhmkA8gcHAWPcewf6DIkepJcEB0vUkfk_9e76QCYCUXbCUaOOmBmtZAkSMmrj/s1600-h/Teddy.2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi43QNKMLe1SotFe_iGYTaMalHco2yYGOrquxZpWe57q7dS69foRXsaWLl3FS81xaqD9I2yufA5XAma-a3AhmkA8gcHAWPcewf6DIkepJcEB0vUkfk_9e76QCYCUXbCUaOOmBmtZAkSMmrj/s400/Teddy.2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262794715227170" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQzk-gP6hSJ89nu4likzLGFipXngZg_ALmX6lD8G9twDI5l8RvT14tCEBwpsPweBCPq_clCmNy-700jfz-H1-XaRK3GHarDyuVLZPzhYuDBl8dnYK895AK-L0w-jg30pKImErifZ_UnmB/s1600-h/Teddy.3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQzk-gP6hSJ89nu4likzLGFipXngZg_ALmX6lD8G9twDI5l8RvT14tCEBwpsPweBCPq_clCmNy-700jfz-H1-XaRK3GHarDyuVLZPzhYuDBl8dnYK895AK-L0w-jg30pKImErifZ_UnmB/s400/Teddy.3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262537345734130" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndo4j6-fu4PvCydXnkQk-stO9w15izdbmmKWGRPLTYMrH-1wdNVAw1v3P5QFhuiOG38fbtw-pTe2lQ7wxVvf3aHAMhcZuZvP4w8KM71AuqAXUJ2d80VrDSGvTswN4n4uZVDdnVkzpA2CB/s1600-h/Teddy.4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndo4j6-fu4PvCydXnkQk-stO9w15izdbmmKWGRPLTYMrH-1wdNVAw1v3P5QFhuiOG38fbtw-pTe2lQ7wxVvf3aHAMhcZuZvP4w8KM71AuqAXUJ2d80VrDSGvTswN4n4uZVDdnVkzpA2CB/s400/Teddy.4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262529036300130" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23JHnlpQ_WcahZpxyYEb2WpVBAORn9at-mJRT8ayCZ5IlW8WKKnIs4R53IiuPvryQ2VJCWEbMKlAXNOXnJvU67B8s-zJKqU-XP9RivoBDkYJKoyYflC1VXFtKsha1rnXL_l3-8Kk1gVHP/s1600-h/Teddy.5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23JHnlpQ_WcahZpxyYEb2WpVBAORn9at-mJRT8ayCZ5IlW8WKKnIs4R53IiuPvryQ2VJCWEbMKlAXNOXnJvU67B8s-zJKqU-XP9RivoBDkYJKoyYflC1VXFtKsha1rnXL_l3-8Kk1gVHP/s400/Teddy.5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262528066652098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlj3uYfQW9cWSCcWCSkxcOOnQY4zmhvdj0vHIyt8VmReZaZLECszbIUBIWq4Ms6a_kAlYAQsTJkQg2ThJnfeWTkAt8Og9yfODMfQLj4qVoCt_ajuagoWCQJ0tA4qA9U_17An99r9EY2kg/s1600-h/Teddy.6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlj3uYfQW9cWSCcWCSkxcOOnQY4zmhvdj0vHIyt8VmReZaZLECszbIUBIWq4Ms6a_kAlYAQsTJkQg2ThJnfeWTkAt8Og9yfODMfQLj4qVoCt_ajuagoWCQJ0tA4qA9U_17An99r9EY2kg/s400/Teddy.6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262520818123842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5ecy_JIP0TDojwuauyyyadzvyGvTao5ZcOjQWeBQs47FraKJipjCB4-npdLJeDjAHE6DHyPCio5hoElIS43jcKMvbrzCv2eUbeHaV4f3rnkzNXc4mDxAB86RBmBBGmdl5J0avvbTsq8D/s1600-h/Teddy.1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5ecy_JIP0TDojwuauyyyadzvyGvTao5ZcOjQWeBQs47FraKJipjCB4-npdLJeDjAHE6DHyPCio5hoElIS43jcKMvbrzCv2eUbeHaV4f3rnkzNXc4mDxAB86RBmBBGmdl5J0avvbTsq8D/s400/Teddy.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435262513857307250" /></a>Teddy Schapiro is another fleamarket buddy of mine, though I haven't seen him around in a while. Everyone at the flea knows him. He collects home-made mickey mouse art, antique toys, graphics on funerals and funeral homes, psychiatry and mental hospitals. He sold a dozen or so of these automatic drawings to me about 5 years ago. He has mounds of these, all on 9 x 12 inch cardstock. I really love the free associations, the whimsy, what have you. Teddy, though he may appear to be some sort of outsider art, actually went to Cal Arts, studied under Mike Kelly, and was actually on the cover of the gallery guide early in his career in the 80s. If you are a bonafide art dealer, hey...here's an untapped resource in Mr. T. I can sell these to you for $25 each, if you'd like one.beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-223359319324582102010-02-06T13:32:00.001-08:002010-02-07T07:12:07.505-08:00Long-Life Poem by Henry Fireater:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIG7oZUUs2EZWhmgikq8oqNvzim23d_dUuTod94YuZhBacnBr-bBxTMxSZu125NG_DTbeSwjJO4zrYEMK2ulPdLymtast5W2rImWG8XseP-L9ReBfH0BpSXXBgHK-C5x7O7O_PZOYYfuvx/s1600-h/FireEater.3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIG7oZUUs2EZWhmgikq8oqNvzim23d_dUuTod94YuZhBacnBr-bBxTMxSZu125NG_DTbeSwjJO4zrYEMK2ulPdLymtast5W2rImWG8XseP-L9ReBfH0BpSXXBgHK-C5x7O7O_PZOYYfuvx/s400/FireEater.3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435251557617845010" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzOyYS9T_LmyByhRVTWjHhG8bTyJoYWjhCDLTHVFJP7YhnrILFaM-IV2oSqqhBU9tDIo44QKP439NrB00d8AUBvYWs7HvArKpvPiXPijo3cbWZNcxQfsVH2FWK4eGcLWfwJ4shWihHjXb/s1600-h/FireEater.2of2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzOyYS9T_LmyByhRVTWjHhG8bTyJoYWjhCDLTHVFJP7YhnrILFaM-IV2oSqqhBU9tDIo44QKP439NrB00d8AUBvYWs7HvArKpvPiXPijo3cbWZNcxQfsVH2FWK4eGcLWfwJ4shWihHjXb/s400/FireEater.2of2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435250462514887490" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 306px; height: 400px; " /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_G7qWwpJGsmosfpt1-qE_xcdL9iyafel_vn3bF5SYTBgM1H9OhZkEdWTfpSsc6dqjSs_abYR1PgCYxnFra4eoZWzguNGjZNBjrX5rctmxHaB6jtCSVR4xm6NM1bHC4ZBIBgTzS7byF4lz/s1600-h/FireEater.1of2.jpg"></a><div><br /></div><div>I know Henry through books. When I had my shop, fleamarkets, fairs. He's out there. And now he's in here. Ex boxer. Irishman. Consumate New Yorker. A classmate of Vito Acconci. Nearly got thrown out of art school for doing a performance involving walking around shroud in an actual sheep skin from a butchershop while a transistor radio blaired 1010 wins news radio through the class. Someday he will write an explanation of that, and you will see it published here. For now, I am to remind you that the above poem is the copyright of Henry Fireater. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-26574203680828412842010-01-31T12:01:00.000-08:002010-03-10T18:54:03.415-08:00My Adult Life. by Tsaurah Litzky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBfjqTd1umurDIkQQ34C9SsJN7icEf33PqCha8SAosM87L4_oOPw0oMA-5Y7Q5J6e_dLe1eMyO4THoDHn7yPdI763BXNiBSvAybGt6liTdleRsHtg8kuJ3rrQ9xCkbpB_lp_YpjudUmTM/s1600-h/IMG_1270.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVBfjqTd1umurDIkQQ34C9SsJN7icEf33PqCha8SAosM87L4_oOPw0oMA-5Y7Q5J6e_dLe1eMyO4THoDHn7yPdI763BXNiBSvAybGt6liTdleRsHtg8kuJ3rrQ9xCkbpB_lp_YpjudUmTM/s400/IMG_1270.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433004422165699426" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I began what I hoped would be my adult life in the same year that President Kennedy urged Americans to “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country” and then did us in with the Bay of Pigs fiasco. It was right after the summer that Ernest Hemingway committed suicide that I made my big move, in the September when 1010 WINS New York was constantly playing Patsy Cline singing “I fall to pieces.” </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I left my family home in Canarsie Brooklyn and moved to Manhattan, to my first apartment on McDougal Street between Bleeker and W.4</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">th. </span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">My grandmother, who lived with us, covered all the mirrors in the house and sat shiva for me as if I was dead in an attempt to shame me into moving back home but I vowed never to return.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Our family life was a shambles; my father had a mistress named Hortense. On the rare occasions he was at home evenings, he and my mother had screaming battles. My fourteen- year-old brother was always in his room, door closed, reading comics and masturbating to Playboy magazines. I don’t know how he got them but he kept them under his mattress. My grandmother, who was eighty-seven, spent all her time shopping for and cooking Kosher food for us because she believed good food would fix our fractured family. As a result the refrigerator was crowed with kasha varneskes, brisket and stuffed cabbage that no one in the house had the stomach to eat except for her. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I was entering my sophomore year at Brooklyn College and eager to take my life in my own hands. I found my apartment I had found through the New York Times, $32 a month for a forth floor walk-up with a toilet in the hall that was shared by the other 3 tenants on the floor. I used money I saved from my babysitting jobs for the first month’s rent and security deposit. Through the want ads I found a part time job afternoons as a file clerk at Capitol records on Forty-fourth Street in Manhattan. I could subway into Brooklyn for my classes in the mornings; go back into Manhattan for my job afternoons and then down to McDougal Street to do my homework in the evenings. I had it all planned out. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>My boyfriend from the neighborhood, Ed Goldstein, drove me and my few cartons of possessions over on a Sunday evening. Later he became a Hare Krishna and an amphetamine addict. He wanted to stay over, and make it with me on the studio couch left by the former tenants that was to be my bed. We had been going together three months but I was already beginning to tire of him, especially the way he always pulled out of me always a minute too soon, peeled of the condom and said, “that was great, did you come too?”</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I sent him home, unpacked, arranged my clothes in the closet, and packed my book bag for tomorrow’s classes. I fell asleep dreaming of Paul Newman. Eddie and I had just gone to see </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The Hustler</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. In the dream Paul Newman was inside me and his cock was as big as a pool cue. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>The alarm clock woke me at 6:30 am. My first class was an early one, art history at 8 o’clock. After waiting ten minutes for hot water, I washed my face in the cold water from my sink. Then I dressed, grabbed my book bag and was out the door. I walked over to Seventh Avenue to catch the subway at 12</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">th</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> street. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>On the downtown number 3 train, the only other people in my car were an old Orthodox Jewish couple. The bearded man was wearing a big, black hat, his long white prayer curls peeping out from either side. The woman had a kerchief on her head and a long wool skirt that fell below the tops of her shoes so that her ankles could not be seen. I took a seat at the opposite end of the car from them and got out Xeroxes my professor had given us at the end of last weeks class. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>He was a famous artist named Ad Reinhardt. I had to take an art elective. I choose the class he taught, Oriental art, because of my mother. She had a small collection of Rose Medallion China, which she had brought piecemeal at flea markets. The china featured stately court scenes painted in shades of pink and green with accents of gold. I thought I’d spend the semester looking at images of pagodas and fine ladies in elegant kimonos drinking tea. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Ad Reinhardt had other ideas. Last week, during our first class of the semester; he announced the oriental art we would be studying would be the art of ancient Asia. He had spent some years in Asia and the xeroxes in front of me were color photos he had taken of the ruins of Ankor Vat in India; huge sculptural friezes filled with copulating couples. They were certainly more interesting then the ladies strolling in gardens on my mother’s ornamental plates. Reinhardt said we should study the photos for homework and we would talk about our impressions in class. I looked at the heaving buttocks, breasts big as watermelons, male members the size of baseball bats. As I gazed at these tableaux of passion, I felt a moistening between my thighs, a certain rising heat that I loved. I didn’t think I could talk about this heat in class. I was too shy. I glanced up from the page I was looking at, trying to distance myself from the source of my arousal.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Right in front of me was standing a huge, fat man wearing a red ski cap, his raincoat open. One hand was holding on to the pole next to his head, the other was grasping his thing, jerking it, pulling it up and down. It was so swollen he couldn’t get his big, meaty hand around it. It looked as big as the specimens at Ankor Vat and made Eddie’s little thing look like a toothpick.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>On the purple tip there were a few glistening drops of white creamy stuff. I knew enough to know that this meant very, very soon a big jet of that goo might shoot out all over me. I grabbed my stuff and galloped wildly to the other end of the car. I plopped down in the seat next to the old couple. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>They looked at me distinctly annoyed. I tried to explain but couldn’t get the words out.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“He, er, he….”I gasped, pointing to the end of the car, ‘He …” Their eyes followed the direction of my arm but the man was gone. He must have slipped into the next car. The couple continued their discussion in Yiddish, ignoring me. I tried to compose myself; I took long deep breaths like I was meditating. The conductor announced, “Atlantic Avenue, change here for the Long Island Railroad.” There were only a few stops left before Flatbush Avenue, the Brooklyn College stop. I had better look at the pictures and think about what I could say in class.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>As I gazed at them again, all I could think was that the frenzied figures feeding on each other, sucking flesh into every orifice looked like they had gone mad and it was the end of the world. Suddenly, I was conscious of a silence next to me. The old couple were staring, their mouths open, at the papers spread out across my lap. He grabbed her hand and they ran as if the devil was chasing them to the other end of the subway car. They stood there, silently facing the door and got off at the next stop.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I got to class five minutes late. Reinhardt looked at me disapprovingly. He was a tall, dour man who wore a black suit and black shirt and no tie. Several semesters later he died of a heart attack. The rumor going around campus was that he suffered it while in the saddle with a female student. As if to punish me for my tardiness, he called on me first one to share my impressions of the pictures of the ruins. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I told him I thought that the frenzy of the colossal mating figures looked like they had gone crazy, driven out of their minds by their giant orgies of flesh and it was the end of the world. Then I added another idea that just popped into my head, “Angor Vat,” I said, “could also be seen as the beginning of the world, the carnal labors of the first creation. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>“Sophisticated ideas,” he said, “Surprising in an undergraduate.” His lips curved up slightly in what might have been taken for a smile. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>My next class was English literature and composition. The assignment from last week was to read </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">The Catcher In The Rye. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> I had read the book but I was still shaky from the occurrence in the subway car and, I couldn’t remember all that much of what I had read. My adventure on the number 3 train was like the kind of thing that kept happening to Holden Caulfield, but I definitely didn’t want to talk about it. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, serif;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I got to the room I slumped in a seat at the back and pretended I was invisible, maybe it worked because my English professor didn’t call on me, not even once. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tsauah Litzky </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"> </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><a href="http://www.tsaurahlitzky.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Tsaurah Litzky</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"> and I go back a ways. I enjoy her writing and friendship immensely. I've published her in almost every project I've done. In print </span></span><a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?an=tsaurah+litzky&sts=t&tn=beet&x=0&y=0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Beet</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">, </span></span><a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?an=tsaurah+litzky&bi=0&bx=off&ds=30&recentlyadded=all&sortby=17&sts=t&tn=pink+pages&x=0&y=0"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Pink Pages</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">. She's been anthologized in Susie Bright's </span></span><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio?isbn=0743258509"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Best American Erotica </span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">several times, and has been teaching writing at the New School for several years. She also has a longer piece published by Susie in "Three the Hard Way" a group of three longer pieces of fiction. Here's what you can buy on </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/s?ie=UTF8&rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Cp_27%3ATsaurah%20Litzky&field-author=Tsaurah%20Litzky&page=1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">amazon.com</span></span></a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 30.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-80290910777057623892010-01-20T13:06:00.000-08:002010-01-20T13:11:32.362-08:00Yeasty Yeti...<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A poem by Gary Heidt:</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkTwaEkAaGlOpeLhyphenhyphen5vPi8avNnJL33D4xTvnzVrWmG98H9LXb4d9_sSjqhDo4vfomZ09K8HTyLTx_PSSX48SEtD-9CYiab08nR6uU_7DoaMbo2on3ewwgy-HaNxXrnm3kflG0qte4l2fJ/s1600-h/12.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxkTwaEkAaGlOpeLhyphenhyphen5vPi8avNnJL33D4xTvnzVrWmG98H9LXb4d9_sSjqhDo4vfomZ09K8HTyLTx_PSSX48SEtD-9CYiab08nR6uU_7DoaMbo2on3ewwgy-HaNxXrnm3kflG0qte4l2fJ/s400/12.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428931823955406786" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; ">Besides writing, Gary Heidt is also a literary agent and performs in the band <a href="http://www.myspace.com/fistofkindness">Fist of Kindness</a></span></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-79317562760949067852010-01-19T05:30:00.000-08:002010-01-19T05:34:37.822-08:00Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZz4DxPc9nXdGA8g3XZITbiJvKjhKhcswhykBBRGNc8LB5d4o2IL2EXWhallSrJOKGZAwKklRWP9w1YrtZx6J6QjEQmkLyGfeNNkIqaPoVY8r_SdH6o7obB4KNahyphenhyphenkaxNtZNsAkzmM5B2O/s1600-h/Snowpeg.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZz4DxPc9nXdGA8g3XZITbiJvKjhKhcswhykBBRGNc8LB5d4o2IL2EXWhallSrJOKGZAwKklRWP9w1YrtZx6J6QjEQmkLyGfeNNkIqaPoVY8r_SdH6o7obB4KNahyphenhyphenkaxNtZNsAkzmM5B2O/s400/Snowpeg.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428443222471245858" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Nostalgia can be triggered by almost anything. The snowstorm this past Christmas week did it for me. New York City is rarely motionless, but this storm made it nearly so, even if briefly. Since I couldn't really go anywhere anyway, I just kept looking out the window and writing down all my memories of snow. Mainly, those brutal winters in Michigan -- one time so bad, my mom, a nurse in a kidney dialysis unit was driven to work by the police on a snowmobile. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">I almost feel like adopting some Orville Redenbacher voice here... Just snow and sand in that little town battered against Lake Michigan in the dead of winter. White, more white, except nearly all the people in Benton Harbor were black. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">They called cocaine snow in the movies at the theatre downtown. The same one that occasionally curtained off the screen for live evangelists, call you down the center isle to give your heart to the Lord. Everyone so excited, you start to cry. They give you a "Living Bible" on your way back out into the snow. And there you are looking back at the theatre from the rear window, Chains on tires, spitting up sand and snow into the red of tail lights. Was it real? Was I "touched" by the Lord? Or was it just 2 hours sheltered from the cold?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Besides that theatre, not much else. The Y. We went there with Dr. Allen, our neighbor. He ran 10 miles a day. Even in the winter. One hundred laps around the indoor banked track that overlooked the basketball court. The Red Rooster closed down. Used to like to look at all the gum stuck up under the tables when I was little, our parents rattling coffee cups against saucers above, windows frosty with the steam of cooking. Soon just another empty diner next to an empty hotel, abandoned factories, mom & pop stores with vacant windows through which is seen an occasional odd shoe or hanger. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">"Clarence's Taxi: Here to take you There!" painted by hand on the side of the faded turquoise Checker cab grining from between a mound of snow and Clarence's office, which was about a quarter of an abandoned gas station, mostly covered in plywood and leafless shrubs, next to the railroad tracks where I once ran away from my mom. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">When anticipating snow, the clouds accumulate overhead. Clouds always seem to promise something new, like fortunes in tea leaves, but mostly just look like snow in the sky. So there's that dread every November, you plead with the sky, "C'mon! One more green weekend, one more chance to toss a football without gloves. Then the air turns milky, and the gods dump on your head. Convoys of dumptrucks with plows, dumping huge mountains of sand and snow in the parking lot of the shopping center outside of town. We sled. Crashed like cars, often and everywhere. If it weren't for the snow, you could see that car would be on the sidewalk. Silly snow. Almost slid into someone's living room in a car once. We'd bounced off another car, and went sliding in circles across someone's front yard, ever so slowly, like ballerina. Only the evergreen shrubbery repelled us away from their livingroom window. For a brief second, you could see through the glass a little nativity scene on the window sill and one of those bronze wagon train clocks on the mantle that everyone seemed to have back then. I bet they had Brazil nuts and M & Ms in little cut-glass bowls on a coffee table, had I the time to truly examine. In a blizzard, stop lights forego their red to yellow to green routine. Sometimes they flash red or yellow over and over, other times just die, if you can even see them through the vertical white lines of a wet storm. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Lake Michigan gradually freezes. The iceline moves out further and further from shore each morning, till you can just go wonder out, take a nice, long walk through all these frozen rises and troughs. Seems waves just freeze right there. You can climb right in, Iike a surfer stepping in and out of frozen time. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Snow glazes over everything. Pathways through the woods lost beneath a vague, shimmery surface like frozen cream of wheat. The sound of crust breaking with every step vibrates up your legs, through your body to your ears. It's the only sound due to some sort of felt-covered effect: The hush of every sounding vibration in the air having lost its way. A riot absorbed in the snow: ribbetting frogs, chirping crickets, an occasional misdirected bird. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">One Friday morning in Benton Harbor, I ran away from the car into the snow. My mom was yelling and I was just sick of it. Disappeared in the quiet felt. Walked and walked through several padded alleys and lightly trafficked roads. Took relief from the snow in a phone booth. Remember them? Called some friends. Cruised around as the snow accumulation grew thicker and thicker. I think it was Steve...a long time ago...I forgot his name to be honest. I just remember he was funny, glasses, drove a blue Camaro with big speakers. Smoked pot for 4 days listening to hard rock and Martin Mull. I think we played Yachtzee. Once the snow started, there was no where to go. Just snow. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Stuck at Steve's place, you could look out across the flat fields outside their house. Dead prickly corn sticking through the snow. A cyclone fence. A barbed wire fence. A picket fence directly in front of the house. Each surface capped with white afros. An intersection a hundred feet away. Two roads meet and fade into the white. Straight lines. Roads laid out in quarter or half-mile squares out here. No need for more. Just farms. After a couple days we were stir-crazy enough to drive over to Tony's, sound track of Blue Oyster Cult and a joint.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Tony's family had a horse, or a mule or something in the barn around the side of the house. Don't know how that thing survived the winter. The doors were closed, but damn. It's not like it was attached to the house or anything. Maybe the snow just covered the barn, turning it into an igloo. Like on PBS: they can birth babys and shit, it's so warm. One spring, I shovelled about 3 feet deep worth of shit out of that barn. Got paid ten bucks. Maybe that horse's shit's what's keeping him warm. A fresh steamy one probably heats up his stall for 5 minutes. If he just keeps eating enough and shitting enough...well, I'm no economics professor, but I bet that's how the damn beast keeps warm. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Things can just come up and smack you out of the snow. Like during that sophmore class retreat up north, when my horse ran me into a low branch and I woke up in the snow. For a second, no memory, just looking up through a snow tunnel to the gray sky. Walked back to camp and Cindy told me to go to the bathroom. In the mirror my nose was to one side and streaks of blood radiated from the center of my face. Quickly, before my face thawed, I just popped my nose back in the middle and walked outside. The cold froze my face again into a painless calm. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">At the end of the weekend, we couldn't go home cuz of snow. Our whole class, a hundred or so of us, just stuck in a big, T-shaped cabin up north, under snow. It was a Seventh-day Adventist school, and they sent us up there on some sort of religious brainwashing campaign. But they only had like 3 days worth of programming. Then we were snowed in and they had to improvise. Our teachers organized a talent show. Lord knows, you wouldn't want an idle mind, in all this snow! That really pretty blonde exchange student from Australia sang "You Light Up My Life" -- horribly! We would have never known what a truely horrible singer she was if not for snow. Snow ruined her mystique. Almost as bad as pee-pee pants in second grade. Like one minute, she was this Olivia Newton John fox, and the next, just a really bad singer. "High school," she must have thought, "ruined by snow."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Cindy and I "parked," in snow, behind the Lakeside Tavern. The windows steamed white within the otherwise white backdrop outside. The only colors, her flush cheeks, neck and blue eyes. Our body heat and breath radiated outward but was trapped by the glass. You look up and it's crystalized on the window, like a wanna-be snowflake that was never free to be so. The artist formerly known as Steam never became Snowflake, like a frustrated catipillar unable to escape a cocoon. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Another time she made snow angels. She <i>was</i> a snow angel. Girls are snow-angels, boys are snow monsters, who get to kiss girls in the snow, tongues slick, red and hot licking the sky for snowflakes. Snowflakes melt on her tongue. Not the otherway around. Like saliva didn't freeze on her tongue. Then there was that acid rain scare, and you figure: acid snow. Evil lurks everywhere: Satan in the mind, polution in the air.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">In head on collisions on an icy highway 31. A strangely common place to end one's life. Visually very logical. One's mortal vision is obscured by an act of god (snow, of course). Two drivers, human error results in a collision of fates. People's souls disappear in the whiteness. People are often thrown significant distances through windshields, sailing through that whiteness. That horrid ultra-serious death tone that takes a grip on a community after a road death, conjuring flashing red emergency lights whenever you blink. The sort of week-long paralysis that comes with sudden loss. People saying things like, "but for the grace of God." Imagining yourself evaporated into the white sky. A classmate, like Galen Velting resting in his open casket, a motocross t-shirt, half of his face wax and everyone trying to recall the last joke he told.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Ironically, the very first time I saw real snow was in Southern California. It was our last day, or last week before we were supposed to move with the Macks to Illinois. Bob Mack and my dad had just finished Med school together. It never snowed in California. I had only heard of snow from movies, TV and the Dr. Schivago record cover. My dad gave me a black mitten so I could examine the snowflakes better. Each flake was different. Really. My dad told me we were moving to a place, Chicago, where it snowed all the time. Like the north pole. He was right. We went to an amusement park in Chicago with my grandma called Santa's Village. They said it was the North Pole. They even had a candy-striped pole with a sign at the top that said "North Pole." Must be so! They had snow, and they had fake snow. One was cold, one was poison, my grandma said when I tried to eat it. There was poison in Snow White somewhere, too, but the connection's hazy. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The first day I went back to school after running away, I was pretty much wearing the same clothes I ditched my mom in 4 days earlier. I guess she had called the police. Turns out Cindy's folks were called, and a dozen other friends of mine. People I didn't even know that well, and certainly didn't know she knew. Imagine all that going on during a snowy weekend like that. All that snow whirling around, and all these phone calls and household conversations. Parent to parent, parent to child, child to parent, parent to parent. All these conversations, and she never even suspected I was at Steve's. Nor was I aware enough to consider myself even hiding. We were probably cruisin' around the farms going like ten miles an hour in the snow with Blue Oyster Cult going full steam, coughing our heads off from mounds of pot, and there was Mom coming out of a phenobarbitol stupor going, "where the fuck is he?" (I'm doing drugs, mom!)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Apparently, she'd gone through some Bible class notebook I had in the backpack, which I had left on the car seat in my haste. Everyone in the class was listed, so I guess she just spent the day going through that list. We'd had some assignment to confess a sin or something. I had written a rather sensational account of smoking pot and going to see Ted Nugent -- on a snowy night, even. After the show we spent the night in a college dorm with a bunch of other "party people", as they said back then. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Snow. Snow. Snow. It just goes and goes...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">So she sent me to a Seventh-Day Adventist boarding school way, way up north. Made Benton Harbor seem like Miami. Upstate, like that class retreat, snow could be 8 feet deep. If you were on the first floor, you looked out your window at snow. It would have been flush against the glass, if the actual heat of the building didn't make a slim little 6-inch gap. Suicide was rampant. At least attempted suicide. It may have been a way to pass the time. Everyone just immobilized, no where to go, nothing to do. Chapel every morning, and often the evening too. Jesus, snow, God, snow, the Lord, snow, Savior. Jesus, snow, God, snow, the Lord's will, icicles, Savior. Slice my wrists. Jump off the building. Nothing. Land in snow. Blood flow frozen. Knock on a window to get back in the dorm. At morning chapel, one kid confessed he jerked off. Like just right there in front of 400 schoolmates. One girl confessed to being devil possessed. Now I can see, they were just bored due to snow. Drama to pass the snow. I'm certain. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">On Mondays, we had ski night. That was fun, and a good use of snow. The snow at night under big floodlights that turned the white mountain into a dayglow, plutonium mountain. Swoosh down the hill, then up the lift. Down, then up. Then back on the bus at 10pm. Snow mesmerizes you driving at night. Each flake comes right at you. Little kamakazis. Wee suicidal faeries. A tiny elf cap on each one. So that was ski night. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">And in the mean time, you're a kid, and you try to joke around. Try to have fun. I mean, I'm sure there were a few people who really liked it up there...way, way up there. Let me think... No names come to mind, but some people really are into being snow-bound and force-fed Jesus and hell for months on end. What were their names? Who was an example of someone just made for that envioronment? No names come to mind, but I'm sure they're out there.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">There were girls, sure, but I wasn't quite hip to how it all worked yet. Everyone was German, Swedish or black. I was Italian. My nickname was nose. Suppose I looked like an ogre. At one point, my nick-name was Horshack. I would have preferred Vinnie. I went to a movie, "To Sir With Love," I think, in the gym, with a girl who I thought was the prettiest girl in school. We walked across the blanketed white campus. She was blonde and about a foot taller than me. She told me she wanted to be a missionary in China. Somehow, I found that perplexing. Through the whole movie I thought about her in China. Became completely detatched from the moment, absorbed in the image of her in China, all six foot two blonde of her, wee Chinamen and women scurrying around beneath her like mice. I didn't try to hold hands, kiss her or anything. I don't think we said another word to each other when I walked her back through the snow. Like I was seeing through her, past her, into the future and realized we were so different, I couldn't even begin a conversation. I was probably thinking about her in China the whole next day, too, asking myself, when I should have just asked her, why China?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">On the suicide topic, lets see... how many were in winter? English teacher. OK. That was in the spring after all the students left. The hemopheliac kid who slit his wrists, that I heard about the following fall. Beat-off Baker. Jumped off the roof into the snow. Didn't die, not even injured. There was almost a murder. The black kid from Detroit who'd found his dad chopped up in the kitchen chased another kid around the dorm with a meat cleaver. Odd to have that around in the first place, since everyone up there was vegetarian. There were other suicides. One of my brother's classmates hung himself he was like 12. Well, it may not have been as much of a suicide as one of those auto-erotic asphyxiation incidents. It was one of those "youth problems" in the late 70s. A friend's mother, who went to college with my dad in Tennessee. I think that one was in the winter. Car exhaust in the closed garage. Southerners shouldn't move up north. It's just too bleak for their crackery spirits. In snow everything matches. No primary colored football jacket can cut the uniformity of white. It's practically sublime, the whiteness of the snow, effortlessly overtaking tacky, clashing color with a single sweep of a storm front. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">The Adventists are into work, and into health. Everyone at Cedar Lake Academy had a 3 to 4 hour after school job. There were two campus industries. The picnic furniture factory, and the Choplet factory. I worked at the Choplet factory. Choplets are vegetarian meat. Basically, patties of wheat gluten canned in soy sauce. Wheat gluten is dough with the starch boiled out of it. I'd walk through the snow a half mile or so past the edge of campus to this cinderblock factory. Walk in the door, and there was a little locker room. Hanging in there were my overalls. I took them off the hook and stood them on the floor in front of me. They were caked in starch and stood there by themselves like a paper-machiette statue of myself. I walked over to a shower area and threw them in, softening them a bit, they'd go from that chalky starched color, to the color of wet blue overalls, I then climbed into the wet overalls and went into the steamy main line of the factory. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">This is how the factory worked: First, they had this meat texturizer. This really pretty "townie" girl with only two fingers on one hand shoved dough through this hole in the top, and the dough went through this grinder. Apparently one day some had gotten stuck, and Rick Papendick told her, not very wisely, to just push it through. She and Rick wound up dating and maybe even got married. Memory's fuzzy. Long time ago. Fade to white.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Anyway, after it was texturized, the dough was put through this little chopper thing, like what they use to make frozen hamburger patties. Then there's this long, long conveyor belt that goes through a long aluminum vat of steaming water that runs nearly the length of the factory. All along the approximately 100 foot long route, frothy, white starch is boiled out of the little patty and rises to the top of the long vat of water. It bubbles over the top of the aluminum trough in big white globs onto the floor and over the course of the day accumulates to about a foot deep of what looks like Elmer's glue all over the factory floor. My job was to then squeegee all that white goo into a big hole at the back of the factory. The patties were then packed into cans with soysauce, labelled, and trucked off to Seventh-Day Adventist health food stores across the country.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">A couple times, they had us go door-to-door witnessing. Adventists are also notorious prosteletizers. I wasn't even sure if I believed at this point. They took a dozen of us to town in a van after school. The sun was already down. It was a small town, and apparently used to this. The first door I knocked on, I started the schpeil that we were taught in Bible class to the weary looking man in long underwear and suspenders holding a can of Schlitz. He interrupted me. "I'm watching TV. You're welcome to join." His wife, without a word, put a plate of brownies on the coffee table and returned to working in the kitchen. I watched TV for 45 minutes, saying almost nothing. I can't remember what was on, I just remember being embarrassed for having intruded upon these nice people so randomly. At the end, he said, "Just tell them we talked about The Lord's Prayer." I thanked him for letting me duck out, then shuffled out into the snow, and back to the corner where I was to meet the others. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Things didn't always slow down in the snow. Especially for our neighbor, Dr. Allan, an Osteopath, a surgeon, and one of only two doctors who catered to the impoverished black population. He was perpetually late for something or other. Barrelled through the snow in his red Dodge Dart to his office, then to the county jail, where he was the house doctor, or to county hospital, where he did his surgury, popping amphetimines the whole time while criss-crossing the county. Infact, he took us to school a few times and the black carpetted floorboard was covered with little white pills. He just grabbed a couple pills off the floor when he needed one. Or asked one of the kids to hand him one if it was out of his reach. "Say, Maxie, can you hand me that little yellow one by your foot?" He was real absent minded. So absent minded, that one day he backed out of his garage door when it was closed. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">He took us hunting in the snow once. He wasn't Adventist. Adventists didn't have guns, as a rule. Conscientious objectors, and all. I got a rabbit in my site, but I couldn't shoot it. The mark of a true Adventist. I shot a tree instead, just to see what it felt like. I'd never eaten rabbit, nor did I want to. But Dr. Allen shot one, grabbed it by it's legs after, ring of blood on the snow, and we cleaned it in their newspaper-covered kitchen. Blood everywhere, pulling, grunting, a tug-of-war trying to get the skin off the damn thing. Then I remember we just wrapped up all the newspaper, and their kitchen was as white and shiny as if we'd never been there.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Snow fights took all day. After a while kids changed teams out of boredom. And the memory of which team you were on shifted from year to year. No names of teams, but somehow, from 3rd grade to about 6th, the packs of warriors picked up where they left off from the previous year. Though drifting from team to team according to whim. There was as much snow in my snow suit, as there was outside, compacted into hard, tight packs like concentrate. If you had time, and could take your mittens off, bare hands made really hard, tight snow balls, stuff them in a pocket for later use, often forgotten and dripping to the floor once inside. My mom may wake from slumber to yell about that, but mostly she just slept, if she wasn't working. She played piano sometimes: 'I can't help falling in love with you.' You'd be walking in the snow, the wind whistling up the bluff from the lake, whooshing around the house about strong enough to knock your feet out from under you, and gradually, you'd hear her from the living room playing that song. It created a faint warmth in the air, because you could imagine her in there, at the piano, in front of the fireplace, and you only had a few more steps to the door.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">Sooner or later you realize snow is a long, persistant torture from November to March. All that white, no green. Limiting movement, shrinking your horizons, your range of emotions, snow is "the man." You just get so sick of looking at it you just want to murder it. Or maybe just cry. Spring really means something up there. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">In spring, snow melts alongside the sagging canvas domes over the tennis courts. A spot around the side of the house stays white through April, though early flowers blossom on the sunny side of the house in March. The wetness on the carpet beneath the coat rack, where you hung your wet coats, kicked off your wet boots all winter long, begins to ripen with mildew. Slushy streets. The salt clinging to the lower edge of the car. Rust. The winter a disappearing glacier. The most dreary and monotanous point in the year. As slow as watching snow melt. Trickle down effect. The poor snowman, the shrinking man. Time drifts until the drift is no more. If I'd known the dream would melt like snow, I'd have told myself not to go. The rivers flow with the blood of snow, especially in Michigan. Go, snow. I hate your guts and we've always hated you.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica">At the end of the semester at Cedar Lake Academy, the huge icicle at one corner of the dorm goes from looking like a solid 2 feet wide column from the roof, stratight into the snow, to being a spindly 18 inches at top, and nearly reaching the ground, then to like a foot wide, 8 inches and so forth. Finally, by the last day of school, just gone. I drove back to Benton Harbor with the Gustafson's. Me, Sonja, Eric, each with a footlocker or two in the back of the stationwagon. Drove up the road, exited campus, looking out the car window to the remaining snow along the shoulder of the road, a long thin white stripe where the ploughs pushed it back all winter long, battered with pocks from rain, gravel, black splotches of soot along the shoulder 6 inches high, 6 inches to two feet wide, snaking along at an inconsistent distance from the road, brown grass starting to turn green in May, the cinder block choplet factory, drove past Rick Papendick perhaps walking to his girlfriend's house, still in snowmobile boots, his parka unzipped. Slept in the car while the Gustafsons talked about getting summer jobs. Dreamt about beach grass, or moving to my Dad's in Tennessee.</p></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-42307087485488017702010-01-13T10:26:00.000-08:002010-01-13T10:45:09.512-08:00IT'S NATIONAL CLEAN UP YOUR DESK MONTH...<div>According to the US Census Bureau, 80% of the work involves 20% of the papers. So I took a picture of everyone's desk in my building...very little paper to be found...</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMP21M7MXCRWRqjGnV7GibSx_iOLTlvsllIJISfAxc-DooIOThsKzfYebkW4m1sEEhka2aVW2bo0cy0RWc4iQPQSqjODZABOedbN_MNyv5Q1zmCEkBV7gObV-PqofYCccr2Pd3ZjJNWsX/s1600-h/IMG_1244.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMP21M7MXCRWRqjGnV7GibSx_iOLTlvsllIJISfAxc-DooIOThsKzfYebkW4m1sEEhka2aVW2bo0cy0RWc4iQPQSqjODZABOedbN_MNyv5Q1zmCEkBV7gObV-PqofYCccr2Pd3ZjJNWsX/s400/IMG_1244.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294866554933378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPpHp_7MTFJRFWqMmk0I0gS_k910b5xXARuOWxtDDb3lhifVBw7qkW7b3RIQ3GLsfEc0-Se4q21h0VrqrlmC894-Fw6DPoLLFpDawnQR1LlC_o38hcetXcBMnlDDIU-BMB-P4cRaB2h_0/s1600-h/IMG_1242.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTPpHp_7MTFJRFWqMmk0I0gS_k910b5xXARuOWxtDDb3lhifVBw7qkW7b3RIQ3GLsfEc0-Se4q21h0VrqrlmC894-Fw6DPoLLFpDawnQR1LlC_o38hcetXcBMnlDDIU-BMB-P4cRaB2h_0/s400/IMG_1242.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294861428909954" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4Y19jl7yeOUFgppCmprckErGVkvJ0Dc3pRCCZ8TATUOgncxXgTnB2sPfC6ELf431d4_ltpUoggvS6jh1pxoD2uL0XFxkCapZKWH5zc15igC6BYBOEtA_sEFDquKfoyRtR0c2MciQ1UYE/s1600-h/IMG_1245.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4Y19jl7yeOUFgppCmprckErGVkvJ0Dc3pRCCZ8TATUOgncxXgTnB2sPfC6ELf431d4_ltpUoggvS6jh1pxoD2uL0XFxkCapZKWH5zc15igC6BYBOEtA_sEFDquKfoyRtR0c2MciQ1UYE/s400/IMG_1245.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294498669642722" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY5qAmy3AVyKNdAE1bK7Y5X9UGr0zAsodpjg_LSz_TLgwDLzXqoTAQRTGnpcLFcrc7DuGahmohiMpryCYj2rvO3OdMY3GXYUsu006ytn3-uT3aIe6vGElw5xPzZxTlFhnVM_lDVRrOecW/s1600-h/IMG_1246.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisY5qAmy3AVyKNdAE1bK7Y5X9UGr0zAsodpjg_LSz_TLgwDLzXqoTAQRTGnpcLFcrc7DuGahmohiMpryCYj2rvO3OdMY3GXYUsu006ytn3-uT3aIe6vGElw5xPzZxTlFhnVM_lDVRrOecW/s400/IMG_1246.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294492063655602" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEA3i1j6zM8Z73csZzxckRMMR5hwZRJCDGVq-1j7LrVkCssHqbcd1_dwfGx0jYkhHlP74OgktEOfoB2WEiZuRTh6AVPJW1CSp5QTw65I9QOk20-fgy7liCecdqqcmB0MzVlqjts-urAP2t/s1600-h/IMG_1248.JPG"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEA3i1j6zM8Z73csZzxckRMMR5hwZRJCDGVq-1j7LrVkCssHqbcd1_dwfGx0jYkhHlP74OgktEOfoB2WEiZuRTh6AVPJW1CSp5QTw65I9QOk20-fgy7liCecdqqcmB0MzVlqjts-urAP2t/s400/IMG_1248.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294486142682066" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8nPnEYueTx40YHUXfRkMhNEKaZdg-UP-pP8ke1JfFqkjOWyLqCCcda-AocZqvHKYOCc8-T3k1B1tnqGkb8oSxy6b2ERSlmewVBxd6x_JlvBkGwa0Heuom6k2dNxCup1c2A6yHzktivVZ/s1600-h/IMG_1249.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8nPnEYueTx40YHUXfRkMhNEKaZdg-UP-pP8ke1JfFqkjOWyLqCCcda-AocZqvHKYOCc8-T3k1B1tnqGkb8oSxy6b2ERSlmewVBxd6x_JlvBkGwa0Heuom6k2dNxCup1c2A6yHzktivVZ/s400/IMG_1249.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426294478944148514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1LUUSvYfsBXWQ7Z38LSvtErol2x5thOqJ_CmOaC_NnHqCGunKuJ8_e9NRjcYmLuIX8x57rku8L5QmpINajq4dm-rinoHWTPA9yQdwY6YR1GrZXQtZnkNandlF57OZ8RKn1fEc3gqhtEq/s1600-h/IMG_1250.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY1LUUSvYfsBXWQ7Z38LSvtErol2x5thOqJ_CmOaC_NnHqCGunKuJ8_e9NRjcYmLuIX8x57rku8L5QmpINajq4dm-rinoHWTPA9yQdwY6YR1GrZXQtZnkNandlF57OZ8RKn1fEc3gqhtEq/s400/IMG_1250.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426293899288666738" /><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XjEKz_QPLWVYTXbeJ8MxSvU04IrLpfUW4b6Sb-8I4NGwXs4-Gf_5W2b5SpUyEh24fTKqNVbLFJ4h7OU2t8QQTxAcsBBDCKjbgPOA0E_WvJh6_fLbCFzbmA4u7a6bsgZ9H7suR_TUXI6G/s1600-h/IMG_1251.JPG"></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XjEKz_QPLWVYTXbeJ8MxSvU04IrLpfUW4b6Sb-8I4NGwXs4-Gf_5W2b5SpUyEh24fTKqNVbLFJ4h7OU2t8QQTxAcsBBDCKjbgPOA0E_WvJh6_fLbCFzbmA4u7a6bsgZ9H7suR_TUXI6G/s1600-h/IMG_1251.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XjEKz_QPLWVYTXbeJ8MxSvU04IrLpfUW4b6Sb-8I4NGwXs4-Gf_5W2b5SpUyEh24fTKqNVbLFJ4h7OU2t8QQTxAcsBBDCKjbgPOA0E_WvJh6_fLbCFzbmA4u7a6bsgZ9H7suR_TUXI6G/s400/IMG_1251.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426293891998690354" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9ySJJLai2dPEmeG8NRj0sJLLkDB_SajJhsws8sEjkb_qpEBbq0DE0PjbCZlBDfUgcnou9l_QLMT0IMYIg0QxcB4GytdjIfVUewD0o2tuqJodPE3KBVjZLCMZh3479ZeCg7QWgHF9KVdS/s1600-h/IMG_1252.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9ySJJLai2dPEmeG8NRj0sJLLkDB_SajJhsws8sEjkb_qpEBbq0DE0PjbCZlBDfUgcnou9l_QLMT0IMYIg0QxcB4GytdjIfVUewD0o2tuqJodPE3KBVjZLCMZh3479ZeCg7QWgHF9KVdS/s400/IMG_1252.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426293886132267810" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79Wc3P4-zC2Ms_xebxc-jEQq173uhlko6cUaHSBehes9aSxHQoktDO7F7GQbReSdASwNqftO3h-dP5cGigq_J9JndiYtzztzK_L3g4JnWqdCJWndsom8XhC7ScBKfRFar4XQ1rrL_1rtQ/s1600-h/IMG_1259.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh79Wc3P4-zC2Ms_xebxc-jEQq173uhlko6cUaHSBehes9aSxHQoktDO7F7GQbReSdASwNqftO3h-dP5cGigq_J9JndiYtzztzK_L3g4JnWqdCJWndsom8XhC7ScBKfRFar4XQ1rrL_1rtQ/s400/IMG_1259.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426293880280877282" /></a><br /><br /></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-11756311090799290672010-01-04T16:19:00.000-08:002010-01-04T16:54:40.627-08:00Hal Sirowitz...coming up short...short poems...on...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulNO8GJXxCQZAMJkoGdZisFndeVM5z3L-TltHrwl0Q8-t9f4LhYN3tQK-3Ph_BzAxY95GAlPY-pJKGCkDEIJllt1RShhm9gvmfQ-zW7sxqlgSU9sN5cDJ6D0pqmOhg-49T6peCfA-um0d/s1600-h/basse.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulNO8GJXxCQZAMJkoGdZisFndeVM5z3L-TltHrwl0Q8-t9f4LhYN3tQK-3Ph_BzAxY95GAlPY-pJKGCkDEIJllt1RShhm9gvmfQ-zW7sxqlgSU9sN5cDJ6D0pqmOhg-49T6peCfA-um0d/s400/basse.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423051317223708050" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Relieved by her orgasm –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">at least I knew she was still</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">breathing.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Orgasms galore –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">next time hoping she lets us</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">touch one another.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Don’t ask for whom</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">her body tolls – just help</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">with the ringing.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Casting a vote on sleeping together,</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I placed my right hand over her breast –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she abstained.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The bird was caught in the rafters –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">My hand was caught on her breasts –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Only my hand was removed.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">She killed the fly –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she killed any attempt at conversation –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">she could only kill the fly once.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Hal is... well, many of you know him as....</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">Author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mother-Said-Hal-Sirowitz/dp/0517704978">Mother Said</a>...</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">Author of <a href="http://www.softskull.com/detailedbook.php?isbn=1-932360-27-1">Father Said</a>...</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">...and...<a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Therapist-Said-Hal-Sirowitz/dp/060960130X">My Therapist Said</a>...</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">As the biggest thing to hit <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dome5_hQuZ4">Norway</a> since <a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/SearchResults?an=knut+hamsun&bi=0&bx=off&ds=30&recentlyadded=all&sortby=17&sts=t&vci=994424&x=0&y=0">Knut Hamsun</a>...</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">As the poet laureate of <a href="http://www.queensbp.org/content_web/cultural_affairs/cultural_poetbios.shtml">Queens</a> who we LOST...LOST, I say... to <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://blogs.phillynews.com/inquirer/zozone/phanatic%2520and%2520bush.jpg&imgrefurl=http://blogs.phillynews.com/inquirer/zozone/2008/01/the_phanatic_is_no_1.html&h=450&w=387&sz=25&tbnid=NgR0_S36PyZRJM:&tbnh=127&tbnw=109&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dphilly%2Bphanatic&usg=__Xv1HhdMzg0CxBBuWiAzTenRZJ_I=&ei=TYlCS8OtIc-0tgeR5sSNCQ&sa=X&oi=image_result&resnum=2&ct=image&ved=0CAsQ9QEwAQ">Philly</a>! </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;">As someone we miss here in the city, but oh well....wish him well there too...</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Courier; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman', serif;color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Courier; color: #444444; min-height: 16.0px"><br /></p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-27260770187575232002009-12-30T06:08:00.000-08:002009-12-30T12:30:38.635-08:00Paved With Good Intentions<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(68, 68, 68); font-family:Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">By Ron Kolm</span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">We’ve just left</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Your best friend’s house</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">And so far</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">It’s been a pretty good day.</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">“Hey, I think your buddy</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Has the hots for me,” I joke.</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Out of the corner of my eye</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">I see you pop open</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The glove compartment</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">And fool around inside</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Coming up with a surprise:</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">A stainless-steel can opener.</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">You aim for my eyes</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">And I grab your wrist</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Just in time</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">But I can’t disarm you</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">With only one hand</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">And I need the other to steer.</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">We’re skidding</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">On loose gravel</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">As I pump the brake pedal</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Trying to slow us down</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Until we finally come</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">To a complete stop.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">“You really </span><i style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">don‘t </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">have a clue,</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><i style="font-style: italic; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Do </span></span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">you, Ronnie.” you hiss,</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Sliding back onto your side of the seat.</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">“I’ve been trying to tell her</span></span></span></p><p class="ecxMsoNormal" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 1.35em; margin-left: 0px; "><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">About our problems in bed --</span></span></span></p><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Now she can find out for herself!”</span></span></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><span style="line-height: normal; font-family:Times New Roman;"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">When he's not getting poked in the eye, Ron Kolm is busy organizing a gazillion projects at the same time. For instance, I met Ron when he was busily organizing events with the performance poetry group most active in the 1990s, </span><a href="http://www.unbearables.com/blog/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">The Unbearables</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">. He also has been gathering submissions for the wee </span><a href="http://www.mondorondo.com/pim/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Public Illuminations Magazine</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> for what (?), some 30-some years. (PIM is the first "zine" I ever saw and liked when someone handed me a copy ca. early 1980s at a Black Flag gig in Knoxville, TN!) His huge archive of Downtown New York lit was purchased by the </span><a href="http://www.nyu.edu/library/bobst/research/fales/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;">Fales Library</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"> at the NYU. He'll always be a point man, living reference, keeper of the faith for that sort of stuff. Oh, yeah, and he's a fantastic poet, and occasionally churns out a longer yarn if you coax him just right. </span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CCCCCC;"><br /></span></div><div class="ecxMsoNormal"><br /></div></span>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-73064170858684274652009-12-25T09:44:00.001-08:002009-12-25T09:46:20.398-08:00"Morning After" Santa, ca. 1911:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwNlxIr1X61IKmAyQK8cVM6coYbD0rs8T7-sY87OdJtOn3xfkiWkHtcrrAYCMr7knDMG6z4QWvhSDIob5wq7WbPR4g0h6-yJmtyUUnA2pSVJXb3tDoSvG8fj6SYRLLMsspKB48_3RHWlN/s1600-h/drunk+santa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwNlxIr1X61IKmAyQK8cVM6coYbD0rs8T7-sY87OdJtOn3xfkiWkHtcrrAYCMr7knDMG6z4QWvhSDIob5wq7WbPR4g0h6-yJmtyUUnA2pSVJXb3tDoSvG8fj6SYRLLMsspKB48_3RHWlN/s400/drunk+santa.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419231326037435170" /></a>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-63402919975452664442009-12-22T14:39:00.000-08:002009-12-22T15:55:33.071-08:00What Was Funny Then...Cartoon Gag Postcards ca. 1905-1960<div><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzCmTmNQvb5psx1RxT0H4qIy7ZkCbnfmPfBp-38dEKQOlL37ZIA19WTIq2oXVV5Rd5yirT7O4YIkuZkoCqJ8Tk_Hdh750J-z_jap2aM5aibqR1cDpigylLxVRo_u5LqxuUYkpPnBqBHOeV/s320/moon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418194247442974610" /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldEmtoiMOHbF732SOtSFHFf_GeJ7DwlfFKlPQoF4BiRf-c3FWS16ZSRuCLYD1F0kk9_j3nF4CabLyG4FRCo2lXlo3i6JCIpgTJ6-CbBhXzEqjXK-tQEp_YCARzHuF-TsYngGaK6pGmsHH/s1600-h/3wifejokes.jpg"></a><div><div>This post is here because I've always been a huge fan of Sam Henderson from the 90s zine days, & in general, his kind face cropping up around the hood in the so-called hey-day of Williamsburg. Sam's comicbook, <a href="http://www.tomhart.net/magicWhistle/">The Magic Whistle</a> has always been a favorite of mine. It mines the field of gags that you may find in Playboy, Mad, or even just The Family Circus. His humor is at times oblique and at other times poop-in-your-pants funny...and is often just about poopy pants. To push it all to another pondering level, he has a whole sub-genre of his own work that shows a gag, then has a caption that begins, "it's funny because..." which is funny because...</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo... Sam recently posted some 50s cartoon postcards on facebook. When I mentioned that I had a butt-load of these cards somewhere, Sam suggested I post mine. Today, though I certainly had other things to do, I looked...and looked. Well, I couldn't find the motherlode of exactly that type Sam was looking for, but as is often the case, I got sidetracked into a pretty decent sampling of things that...well...here. A brief overview of the cartoon gag postcard industry over a 50 year span (John Williams soundtrack please):</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">First tenant of the trade: Nothing is funnier than a wife joke. Period. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldEmtoiMOHbF732SOtSFHFf_GeJ7DwlfFKlPQoF4BiRf-c3FWS16ZSRuCLYD1F0kk9_j3nF4CabLyG4FRCo2lXlo3i6JCIpgTJ6-CbBhXzEqjXK-tQEp_YCARzHuF-TsYngGaK6pGmsHH/s1600-h/3wifejokes.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 400px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgldEmtoiMOHbF732SOtSFHFf_GeJ7DwlfFKlPQoF4BiRf-c3FWS16ZSRuCLYD1F0kk9_j3nF4CabLyG4FRCo2lXlo3i6JCIpgTJ6-CbBhXzEqjXK-tQEp_YCARzHuF-TsYngGaK6pGmsHH/s400/3wifejokes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418201280881663362" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Unless a poem about women with dubious morals.</div><div><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aBWCEl4oH3CI-FdpivUSvUIZ5_nPG9NqP3edSHoA-TMaRblWMOQYhdtOjkbNki3l3oByOUxXeT7bjtDl26t4h9rKT-nFrdwEaXnhdwk7NGqEsfFOVsunHxZQxtw2p2ElEuy9vVBPjJVW/s1600-h/mistresses.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_aBWCEl4oH3CI-FdpivUSvUIZ5_nPG9NqP3edSHoA-TMaRblWMOQYhdtOjkbNki3l3oByOUxXeT7bjtDl26t4h9rKT-nFrdwEaXnhdwk7NGqEsfFOVsunHxZQxtw2p2ElEuy9vVBPjJVW/s400/mistresses.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418201047760780162" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div>If that isn't funny enough: FAT Women...perhaps even a fat MAN! (by the way, I think the women are the most Sam's "type" ...of postcard)</div><div><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsARDGXvyV1HJ-4M3fDbP4iAJOIZeWve3rF9XjYj6kPakcWFhpgrBcHMi5CvOhyphenhyphen1loS9UUE3C6d7ef3KxTCp9flCArAGp4Cc0A2xwj76E5yRqXNDa2LBzDW9_RsgWdjLbDtkiXZa-bSeCp/s1600-h/fatties.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 329px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsARDGXvyV1HJ-4M3fDbP4iAJOIZeWve3rF9XjYj6kPakcWFhpgrBcHMi5CvOhyphenhyphen1loS9UUE3C6d7ef3KxTCp9flCArAGp4Cc0A2xwj76E5yRqXNDa2LBzDW9_RsgWdjLbDtkiXZa-bSeCp/s400/fatties.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418200841682261250" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Here are a few more of the 50s-60s era "Sam type":</div><div><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKjvNarIAGVHBUHuK6xc_7nCSkj7ZOrkv9aaJqw6P8wnhVorfW_a6SqAiQaoU9RYwmAiRcu8whGCF_mkoruUJoFbiLscIVxG3CexAMbYs3ODiWk_2OQivhzq6yzn1iOa-rBebra23n2Dw/s1600-h/Sam's+ilk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKjvNarIAGVHBUHuK6xc_7nCSkj7ZOrkv9aaJqw6P8wnhVorfW_a6SqAiQaoU9RYwmAiRcu8whGCF_mkoruUJoFbiLscIVxG3CexAMbYs3ODiWk_2OQivhzq6yzn1iOa-rBebra23n2Dw/s400/Sam's+ilk.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418200596096584450" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">These last three are my favorites of today's seach: "I'm Blowing Myself"; "Pooping Baby"; "The Old Cow Has Sagging Teets"... I don't know why. I just can't stop looking at them. </div><div><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrHFZZyLiC8ef7DtX5q1xuf_xdEZ8phfsyC2VFUCr-duVOwfSuH1Ez05-DJKLY1Vrqxl4m6A0wM_w-mHhVreIKLewJHlleRAw7A0ZCQCXhlSzoDnlPqgKDULqBj4P4F_KJHasoXKnZX_N/s1600-h/blowingmyself.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrHFZZyLiC8ef7DtX5q1xuf_xdEZ8phfsyC2VFUCr-duVOwfSuH1Ez05-DJKLY1Vrqxl4m6A0wM_w-mHhVreIKLewJHlleRAw7A0ZCQCXhlSzoDnlPqgKDULqBj4P4F_KJHasoXKnZX_N/s400/blowingmyself.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418200356031772546" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#551A8B;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">...I guess they're funny because...</span></span></div><div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-12098031285482982402009-12-19T06:26:00.000-08:002009-12-19T07:28:59.564-08:00Jose Padua: melanbucolia awareness...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zZKvFG5azLImVLebQIgIONtO1lQxnKYLHxjXGK3Arp-ox1dsHb71TuiXasUlT2VSSazkSUjyXOuSavD_0NYrBBUdDxGPj5iiOM8n5S92t-kTFxDw-N6VQMayZ7ZHcfyVAaMgKHumyHCg/s1600-h/IMG_0255.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zZKvFG5azLImVLebQIgIONtO1lQxnKYLHxjXGK3Arp-ox1dsHb71TuiXasUlT2VSSazkSUjyXOuSavD_0NYrBBUdDxGPj5iiOM8n5S92t-kTFxDw-N6VQMayZ7ZHcfyVAaMgKHumyHCg/s320/IMG_0255.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416969623250569810" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b>Country Life</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">For lunch today I ate another ham,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">egg, and cheese sandwich with whole</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">wheat Wizards of Waverly Place bread.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">It’s a meal that neither thrills me nor bores</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">me because I am never bored, even by food,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">though there are times when, like a cow</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">chewing grass beside the highway, I am</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">a little less than thrilled, and am a little</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">bit smelly. It’s been said that you are</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">what you eat, which today would make</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">me a pig, covered in cheese, with an</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">egg in its mouth. If the smell keeps</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">those delicate people who eat people</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">away, I’m all for it, but other than that</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I don’t see it doing me much good.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">-Jose Padua</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b>Parade</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">That terrible beauty that waves</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">its hand to you from a float in a parade.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">What is this sinking feeling, I get?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Why, if I return the gesture, is my smile</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">forced and false? Why do I feel that</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">we’ve gotten smaller, that there is</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">nothing but distance between me</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">and her sparkling white crown?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">-Jose Padua</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b>Listen</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Bad poetry I can listen to all</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">day. I can laugh at it, or let it</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">bore me, keep my feet planted</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">firmly on the ground while I reach</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">out for a glass on the table</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">or something to scratch my back</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">with. But when it’s good all day</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">is too much. I just want a little</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">of it, and then I want you to shut</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">up. I want you to leave me alone.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">-Jose Padua</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px">Jose's sardonic sense of humor is sorely missed in this city and lost (apparently) to rural Virginia... He and his wife Heather Lynne Davis do a great blog:</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><a href="http://shenandoahbreakdown.wordpress.com/">http://shenandoahbreakdown.wordpress.com/</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-62665626461288342102009-12-18T04:54:00.000-08:002009-12-18T05:16:45.219-08:00Tim Tomlinson on failures to communicate...<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Breakfast</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In Heartbreak a half hour till sun-up</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the barman dances with his best friend’s wife</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex,”</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">a loaded handgun tucked into his</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">beltless jeans. Opposite the jukebox</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the game of 8-ball in the green felt glare</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">stops on a sloppy break that sends the cue</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ball rolling between the legs of a bride</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">from Indiana whose husband is</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">interested</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, he tells the barman, in some</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">breakfast</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. That gets a laugh from the few of</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">us still hearing in English. The barman</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">says, “Well, could all use a little breakfast.” </span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The couple laughs like they heard some kind of joke.</span></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;color:#444444;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">FIVE-LINE POEMS</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Walking Home</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On Sterling Place</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I walk behind a man</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">walking home. He waves</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to nine people who wave back.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is, like, New York.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Belief</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">tonight</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">you no longer believe</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">things will change.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tomorrow,</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">you might.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Failure</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the failure</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">of your ex-wife’s poems</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pleases you.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">your own –</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">that hardly matters.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Questions</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">you have learned</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not to ask questions</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when they cry in your bed—</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">questions</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">have answers</span></span></p> <p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Times New Roman'; "> </p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tim is a great writing teacher. Was mine! I took his workshop in the 90s when I first started writing, you know, seriously. He now part of this New York Writers Workshop. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://www.newyorkwritersworkshop.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">http://www.newyorkwritersworkshop.com/</span></span></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and here's an interview with Tim:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://www.webdelsol.com/Algonkian/interview-tim.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">http://www.webdelsol.com/Algonkian/interview-tim.htm</span></span></a></div><div><br /></div></span></div></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-27558275602323234802009-12-17T05:05:00.000-08:002009-12-17T07:01:15.990-08:00Land & Airscapes of Ernest Hilbert...<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Batang"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Batang"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Batang">The Envelope, Please </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Thank you, oh, thank you (<i>hold up statuette</i>)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Thank you (<i>breathe</i>) so much. This is just too much. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I couldn’t have done it without the drugs . . . </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">And the booze. It took a whole lot of sweat</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">And tears. Mostly sweat. It’s such</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">A huge, huge honor to be here. It sort of bugs</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Me that it took so long, but here I am.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I’d also like to thank the drugs. Wait, did</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I say that already? Okay. The booze?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Right. Well, man (<i>sob</i>), I had fun (<i>slam</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><i>Award on podium</i>), and they were really good</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Drugs. I’d also like to thank (<i>ignore cues</i>)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Fans, friends, you at home, dealers, mom and dad,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">But most of all I’d like to (<i>cut to car ad</i>).</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 14.0px Batang">Diary of a Sex-Starved Communist</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Something churns me from sleep.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I float and circle in a clogged toilet</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Of 2AM and a pile of notices.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I watch streetlights click white and buzz.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Turned out of my lumpen mattress,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I wander bleak square footage.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Each step creaks like a bent hull.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">A mass moves, so huge, we can’t see it,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Only feel it tug us against ourselves. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Too much coffee, just enough grief,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Or not enough, hard to figure. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I know how the world works, or did. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">It labors to a time when we’re equal</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">And love each other in turn as family</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Should but never seems to. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Piles of pamphlets and books drag me </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Along like hooks in my skull. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">This evening I wonder<span style="color:#000080;"> </span>what do I give? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">A good man against tyrants, a tyrant</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Against time, I sit at the window </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">To watch pearled remains of clouds</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Bank desperately against a crowded moon. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 14.0px Batang">The Day He Became Omnipotent </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 14.0px Batang">While Trying to Read at the Airport</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">First I sought those </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I despised on sight </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">And destroyed them. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Then I sought those </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I wished merely to spare </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">(So few seemed worthy),</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">The quiet woman </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Reading a good book, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Smiling boy at the coffee stand.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I spared no one.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Batang">Bonehead</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right; font: 10.0px Times New Roman"><i>For Andrew Hallman</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">The sunset took hours to drain off and left</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">The sky an ocean of azure and ash.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">The prehistoric van, heaving with books,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Sputtered out of gas on thirteenth. I laughed,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Got out, smoked, looked around. A siren flashed,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">But the cop sped past. Others threw looks</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">But then cruised slowly on. The city warmed</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">In the electric haze of spring; couples</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Sauntered by, unaware of my jam—I had rolled</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">In front of a hydrant. Life grew loud and swarmed</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">From all sides. Time adds trouble to troubles.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Music erupted from a dark bar door. I strolled</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Across the intersection for a quick one,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">As they say, to stay the long, ruthless run.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px">Other booksellers will know this feller immediately. That cheerful, talkative dude from Bauman's Rare Books that is so often at book fairs. Ernie is somewhat the lit-star lately. A very satisfying collection, Sixty Sonnets, is out in book form. I also have the collector's edition of the Sixty Sonnets beer bottle, but it is not for sale. What was that you say? How much? Perhaps we're getting close...tempting, but perhaps you can find your own bottle here:</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><a href="http://www.sixtysonnets.com/">http://www.sixtysonnets.com/</a></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-17901802835105409742009-12-16T12:00:00.000-08:002009-12-16T12:04:17.380-08:00By far the best fund-raising letter of the Holidays by Harmony Korine for Printed Matter:<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00eNotZWi0AqhmZAUgf4FHGpfxSJA_X-CGkj6FxbwzptHXxMFy3VJPusNbCGO6uEp3QJPvHamGRpIVRMfrE-lX0k2fUbK9rPb2EXdUycDRo5FlIxKiVzYP3Teqk0mUZA_968GzIUydBa9/s1600-h/korine:pm.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00eNotZWi0AqhmZAUgf4FHGpfxSJA_X-CGkj6FxbwzptHXxMFy3VJPusNbCGO6uEp3QJPvHamGRpIVRMfrE-lX0k2fUbK9rPb2EXdUycDRo5FlIxKiVzYP3Teqk0mUZA_968GzIUydBa9/s400/korine:pm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415926930314836594" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9144093321303229475.post-68120444105583910562009-12-15T06:03:00.000-08:002009-12-17T13:30:06.723-08:00Here, this'll cheer you up: A few poems by auteur Michael Randall:<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b>LISTENING TO WAYLON </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">When you smell the smoke it’s clear </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">there’s no more time. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Young girls just get lonelier and </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">every year the peacock </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">with its tail and buzzing </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">batteries is dying while </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">the starfish, by candlelight, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">stands idly by. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Barely moving inherits the earth </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">while the rest of us </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">pitch fits just to get paid. Big-headed chicks </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">fall first from the nest </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and it seems to go: outlaw, outlaw, whore, whore, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">fat whore, town drunk, troubadour. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Now you know how babies get made down </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">here in Texas. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b>THE SEVEN DAY WEEK </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Sunday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Partly cloudy, chance of thunderstorms </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Monday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Chicken Noodle </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Yankee Bean </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Tuesday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">‘s just as bad… </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Wednesday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Ladies Drink Free </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">10-12PM </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Thursday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">: nothing. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Friday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">somehow becomes transparent </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b>Saturday </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Night Fever made Travolta </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">a star. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b>HERBICIDE </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">There’s all that herb I smoked in high school and then </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">there’s my father Herb who sold refrigerators, air conditioners, dish- </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">washers. Liked football games, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">white belts & westerns. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Also valued for his flavor, scent and other qualities. Peaches and Herb were once </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">America’s Sweethearts of Soul </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">and although there have been numerous Peaches, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Herb Feemster </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">has remained a constant. Born in Anacostia, an area of Washington, DC, in </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">which my father sold TVs </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>when the maw-maws and jungle-bunnies weren’t stealing them </i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><i>off the trucks,</i> Herb Feemster </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">grew up knowing that Love Is Strange and also how to Shake His Groove Thing </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">which would have annoyed, confused and disgusted my father, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">not smudging him, but certainly making the sauce </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">taste funny. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Helvetica"><b>HYMNS ANCIENT AND MODERN </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The elevator doors in the lobby </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">of the hotel </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">over by the bus station open. She’s in town </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">from Caracas </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">until early tomorrow on her way </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">to see her brother </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in Florida. Puffier than I’d remembered </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and much sadder her mother </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">dead and also one of her friends </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and mine. I take her out </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">for bad shrimp creole at a fake Cajun place on </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Ninth Avenue that </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I’d heard was good. The food isn’t but the table’s </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">by the window and the sunset </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">silhouettes her dyed-black hair. We drink slowly </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">at first and I pretend </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I can see the pictures of undead friends </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">on the tiny screen </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">of her camera. She’s 53 and lost trying </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">not to cry and when </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">she goes out on the street for a cigarette </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">she taps on the glass </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and waves to me through a bright cloud of </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">amber. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">Mike is also the auteur responsible for the much more cheerful boobsploitation flick "Girlquake", where a bunch of hot chicks come out of the center of the earth to look for their leader who apparently resides in Coney Island. Hey, did you know Jimmy Rodgers spent his last day on earth at Coney Island? Mike also does some great paintings, very cheerful and not at all like the stuff published above. You can check them out here:</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><a href="http://michaelrandallnyc.com/home.html">http://michaelrandallnyc.com/home.html</a></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><img id="artwork_img" src="http://michaelrandallnyc.com/assets/6S9eT1WC.jpg" alt="Idea 68.5/09" style="left: 80px;top: 0px; " /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p>beethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08983736170123559065noreply@blogger.com0