My Little Box of 45s

Inspired by early Nick Lowe and by seeing a little 45 box at a store like one Jimmy used to have (or was that Creagh's?), which was already sold when I tried to buy it.



I’m sitting by the record player
Silent thanks to you, betrayer
Because of you, you cruel homewrecker
I have lost my favorite records….

We never would have quarrels
Listening to Ray Charles
Lee Allen and his jumping jive
How could we have troubles
Listening to the Rocking Rebels?
But you took away my box of 45s

You took away
     You took-a-took away
          My little box of 45s
My little, my little
     My little woah-uh-woah
           My little box of 45s

We’d buy a six of Yuengling
Dance the frug and shing-a-ling
The boogoaloo, watusi and the fly
And for some crazy reason
We’d dance like Jackie Gleason
But now I’ve lost my box of 45s.

You took away
     You took-a-took away
          My little box of 45s
My little, my little
     My little woah-uh-woah
           My little box of 45s

I don’t care for Pandora much
And I don’t want an Ipod touch
I want something with a hole and label
I can spin on my turntable

My box was quite a relic
Rather psychedelic
A moiré pattern running down the side
The front was kind of checkered
Full of my favorite records
You took away my box of 45s

You took away
     You took-a-took away
          My little box of 45s
My little, my little
     My little woah-uh-woah
           My little box of 45s

Still Life (with scone)

I’m rushing to get to the place we had named
Then stop on the sidewalk: you’re perfectly framed
By the rectangular window of the café
A still from some cinema verité
Just this:
Still life

You’re sitting at the table alone
Frowning at some stupid thing on your phone
Without really looking, you’re trying to pick up
The scone sitting next to your coffee cup
Just this:
Still life

Perfectly frozen, this moment in a picture
The window a frame, you within it
Not quite real, not quite a fiction
A memory, a dream, something infinite

You see me and wave, the spell is then broken
I’m not quite in a dream, not yet awoken
Between two worlds, I can’t quite decide
Then I smile, wave back and go inside
Is this
Still life?

In the news

I just saw Johny Blood listed as a contributor to the new Magnetic Fields album on Pitchfork Media. I'd clip and save the article if it weren't made out of electrons.

Happy birthday, Jymn.  We may not fuck much with the past, but we sholey do fuck with the future.

RIP to Granddad

A good father, and a really great granddad, moved on this morning.

Occupy 42nd Street

A little while ago I saw a revival of "Nymph Errant", a Cole Porter play from 1931, and I thought of an update of that kind of musical: "Occupy 42nd Street".  A producer looking for fresh faces goes out to Zuccotti Park and meets a lovely young protester.  She agrees to be in his show, they fall in love, everyone sings lots of songs.  You know.

This is what I came up with as an opening chorus.  And James, before I present this, what news from Occupy Silver Spring?


Drop your schoolbooks and your bong
Come join the march and sing our song!
We’re on the move and can’t be swayed
You don’t need a list of demands
Just grab a bullhorn, join the band
Democracy is on parade

Tell Mr. Goldman and Mr. Sachs
We’re on our way and won’t turn back
No, my friends, we’re not afraid
No need to be a socialist
Just a sense of being pissed
Democracy is on parade

The president, he feels our pain
We’re all in the same boat
He’ll help when the election’s won
So don’t forget to vote!

Well that’s thoughtful Mister President
We really give our thanks
But we can’t ask you to leave behind
Your good friends in the banks

Is freedom just the opportunity
To buy a new hi-def TV?
What kind of country have we made?
Let’s build up our neighborhoods
A good life, not consumer goods
Democracy is on parade

Happy Birthday Baby!

What a wonderful year was this past one -- I got to visit you in your natural habitat! And what a pleasure it was.
Hope this coming year is full of like pleasures for you and me.
I'm singing you a little birthday tune in my mind.

Any local dope on Kim and Thurston, Tracy?

Spinning On the Dance Floor

You and I are on the dance floor, spinning
We don’t see the cheap décor, spinning
And the tourists and the hicks
Who only want to pick up chicks
Don’t know that there’s something more, spinning

As I look into your face, spinning
We’re all alone in this place, spinning
Those silly girls are so mistaken
Waiting to get their pictures taken
Don’t they know all time and space are spinning?

While we’re dancing, while we’re spinning
In your eyes I think I see
Worlds exploding, worlds beginning
A small map of infinity

In a pond, amoebas with no sound are spinning
Eddies flowing underground, spinning
I only pity those poor clucks
Who smooch and feel each other up
And can’t see the galaxies go round, spinning

Today is Tracy's birthday
So please blow out the candles
Then serve yourself some cake--
As much as you can handle!


Happy birthday Tracette!

When I'm Old In Washington Square

One day I’ll be old in Washington Square
Just a bit the worse for wear
One sunny afternoon in fall
Facing the church of Saints Peter and Paul
The parrots squawking in the trees
Stopped for mid-day causeries
Or maybe I will just have caught again
A glimpse of the ghost of Richard Brautigan

And I’ll look up and see you there
On the other side of Washington Square
You’ll be walking straight-on towards me
And be kind enough not to avoid me
Still elegant, sophisticated
A beauty time will not have faded
How strange it is that we should meet
Near our old house on Chestnut Street

“Hello,” you’ll say and I’ll reply
And you will smile and I will try
To keep my voice sounding steady
When I say, “Gee you look pretty”
I’ll ask about our one-time friends
The ones I’ll never see again
Those same friends now talk of us
Of how things were and what once was

“Well”, you’ll say, “I have to go
But we should stay in touch, you know”
And then I’ll feel my heart go crack
As you disappear and don’t look back
And you will leave me sitting there
All alone in Washington Square
Perhaps by then I just won’t care.
When I’m old in Washington Square

Chano dreams that his inside is out

Notes from the New Depression: The Overnight Journey from the Last Depression to This One [by rail]

I’d just gotten to sleep, I guess, when the train pulled out of the station.  There were all sorts of people in car: there was a hillbilly band, and some chorus girls, but mostly just ordinary folks, people who’d spent their last dollar trying to get someplace better.  There was a tall blonde woman in black wearing a veil, staring out the window.  I wondered if she was with the show.  Across from her was a man in glasses and a worn-out suit, writing furiously in a notebook.  A poet, maybe.  Probably a refugee.  The old lady was sitting upright, not talking to anyone, and the bandleader was talking agreeably with the preacher.  The fiddler had a mason jar of gin he was sharing with a bleach-blonde chorine.

All of a sudden one fellow, he’d probably had some bad hooch, his face all red, started shouting, “It’s on fire!  It’s on fire!  The world’s burning up!”  The preacher walked over to him and put his arm on his shoulder.  “Now son, I know these are hard times, but you’ll be alright.  You’re among friends here.”  And he nodded at the fiddler who started playing:  “I saw a bird fly overhead, as beautiful as night…” and some folks started dancing, others clapping and smiling.  Another pint of gin appeared from somewhere and the fellow seemed to relax a little.  Even the old lady was nodding her head.  Me, I just wanted to go back to sleep.  What a mess.  I hope the next depression is better than this one.

Portrait of the Moron as a Young Artist

I played a kid's show at the Union City library last weekend, you know, "The Hokey Pokey", "The Bunny Hop", like that. One little boy was particularly concerned about the tuba being loud and asked me several times if it would be too loud.  Finally the drummer told him, "If it's too loud, you're too old."

I took my nephew to the Alameda Pinball Museum (also known as Lucky JuJu).  They had Xenon, the machine with the tubes that sometimes hold your ball and release it later.  Nena's "99 Luftballons" playing on the jukebox:  Place Molard, 1983.

I drove past the Stop n Shop!

Yesterday afternoon, on Route 128. Was thinking of, but not listening to, the boss version of "Peggy Sue" by Lou Reed from the new Buddy Holly covers CD. It's by far the stand-out contribution, though Patti Smith's moody "Words of Love" is also kind of nice. The latter is much more a "natural" than the former, which is what makes Lou's so nice.
What else is on the jukebox?

Spartan Bar touches down at 560 Mason Street

We have all been here before

General Eisenhower's constant companion in his conquest/liberation of Europe was James "Jimmy" Preston, his caddy. Coincidence?

Can't Go Home

Looking for suggestions, additions or rewrites to this one....

From an early age
I felt like I was living in a cage
And dreamed of the freedom I’d have some day
Like a sparrow
My world was too narrow
But I would fly, fly, fly, fly away

My mama said
I’d have a bed
That she would always love me come what may
But now I’m lost
I’m worn out and wind-tossed
And I cannot go home this way

Ran out of luck
And I got stuck
Sleeping by the roadside on the ground
I can’t go home
Can’t even phone
Till I can somehow get my life all turned around

My mama told me
She wouldn’t scold me
No matter how far I went astray
But I have sworn
Better not to have been born
Than to go home this way

What do you think, Spartan Brothers?  Keep, fix or scrap?

Ash Wenesday

I wake up in a stranger’s bed
With unsure stomach and empty head
No more feathers, beads or masks
Mardi Gras is gone and past
What I remember’s kind of rotten
And I’m not sure what I’ve forgotten
So I’m left to wonder when
These dead bones will rise again
I hear the church bell far away
Oh boy, oh boy, it’s Ash Wednesday

I find my pants after a search
And try to make my way to church
I go inside, sit by the aisle
It’s quite a show but I can’t smile
The priest just puts a little ash
On my forehead—another mask
It makes me look like I’ve repented
Almost as if I really meant it
Another role, another play
Oh boy oh boy it’s Ash Wednesday

Now and in my hour of death
Be with me till my last breath
Don’t treat with complete disgust
My stupid drunkenness and lust
I’m still hoping for the best
That by some grace I may be blessed
I believe it ‘cause I must.
“Remember man that thou art dust”
So I am sent on my way
Oh boy oh, it’s Ash Wednesday

One seldom hears from the Critter, but he's made one more complete revolution around the sun.  I loves ya, Big Dummy.

The Song to the Sluggard

Hear me, you sluggard
Leave your slothful ways
You slumber all night and
Sleepwalk through the days
Ye who are so lazy
Consider the ants
They work hard all day but
Have time to dance

Consider the busy bee

Gathering the pollen
When the bell sounds at five
Oh man alive
He gets out of his hive
And gets his stinger hauling

O rise ye sluggard
Turning over in bed
When you should be turning
On the dance floor instead
Don’t let your feet fail
To do their duty
Get up and move to
Love and beauty

Life on the farm is kinda laid back,

ain't nuthin an old country boy like me can't hack:)

Today's House

http://www.weichert.com/37015118/

For you, special price:)

Today's Verse: 28 March 2011

Elusive celebrity
Untouchable star
Flickering shadows
Conceal what you are

First you're discovered
Then you're exposed
Fumbling to cover
What everyone knows

You think it's a secret
But nobody cares
The lies you believe
At night in your prayers

The seventh veil slips
No suspense no surprise
The mystery vanishes
You were hypnotized

Listen to me
I'm your true friend
This is the future
This is the end

I love how you don't know despair!

Songs for the New Depression: In Wisconsin

This is my attempt at a Woody Guthrie-style labor song.  Does anyone remember Michel Coss's nuclear protest with the refrain, "We want sunshine/We want wine/We want babies that do not whine"?

Though time rushes by, some things stay the same
The scoundrels are back at their usual game
They tell us the working man’s always to blame
They’re playing that game in Wisconsin

Thy tell us, “Sorry, that’s the way that it goes
We don’t have enough for you regular Joes.”
Well, we’ve had enough of their sorry-but-no’s
Yes, we’ve had enough in Wisconsin

It true that we all have to make do with less
But they tell us that we cannot ask or request
For what’s rightly ours, ‘cause the bosses know best
That’s what they say in Wisconsin

It isn’t just money, it’s a question of pride
They think with one loss we will just turn and hide
But we’ll all stand together on the working man’s side
Yes, we’ll stand together in Wisconsin

The fight for our rights has only begun
But we must be united for this to be done
For we are all strong when we work as one
And we will work as one in Wisconsin

Some people tell us we must stand alone
That each one must fight and win on his own
But that’s certainly not what history has shown
Let’s all fight and win in Wisconsin

Inside

Lost in the thoughts,
that rot.
Stinking stuff, that never ought to have stuck around.
Lost wheels, spinning in shit, slipping uselessly, never forward.
Never back, never nowhere, rotating, dum, dum, dum.
Was there a good one in there somewhere? Sometime? Tomorrow?
Of course!! But it is lost right now.All in the mix.
The soup turned brown.

Famous Last Words

We the living keep occupied
Punch your ticket, enjoy the ride
The pleasure’s finished before it’s begun
You can’t remember if it was fun

Tiny insights flash and go
And disappear before you know
It doesn’t matter when you’re through
Because the dead just want to screw

Those special moments
So quickly gone
Don’t mean a thing to
Those who’ve passed on

Maybe you think when you’ve lived
You will love and you’ll forgive
Catch your breath and say thank you
But the dead want is to screw


The ambitious seek out strife
Toil and triumph make up their life
Other people turn to art
Or think that books will make them smart

Maybe if you wrote a novel
Life will not seem quite so awful
You could express your point of view
But the dead just want to screw

We all seek honor
To be loved and admired
But none of that matters
Once you’ve expired

You can be gentle, good and kind
Which can give you piece of mind
However many good deeds you do
All the dead want is to screw

Spartans Tonight

This turned up along with Jim Preston's hair.  Sorry I'm not better with the scanner.

Thoughts, Feb. 15

Last winter a neighbor's goofy dad was visiting and tried to engage me in a debate over whether or not there was a multiplicity of infinities or not. I declined the invitation, of course, since I was only walking the dog and throwing the frisbee, but took some time to reflect on the matter. It seems faro;y clear that the idea of one infinity violates the whole concept of infinity, as, if there is one infinity, then there are an infinite number of each of these raised to an infinite power every single time forever including even tomorrow morning and yes I would like some eggs!

But on the other hand, some things are less elusive than Infinity. Reality, for example, completely circumscribes Denial. There is a boundary.

My sister-in-law and family will be moving into the house I grew up in, and she has been going through a lot of stuff that I left there, kindly offering to send treasured boyhood possessions.  We were talking on the phone yesterday as she was in my old room and said, "There's a whiskey box here and I don't know what's in it, but it's marked, 'Jim Preston's hair'".  It was of course James' hair that I bought at Reality Auction.  I hope you don't mind James, but I told her she could let it go.

We learn from Dottore Ghiberti that Mr. Starr was ordained as a Russian Orthodox priest last week.  He is evidently still teaching at the Santa Fe campus.

Loosely adapted from Sonnet 55:

A statue that’s erected for one madman’s dreams
Can yet be torn down by U.S. marines
While there’s this song
You’ll last beyond
The statues that are built for kings and queens
Oh we can climb
Outside of time
While there’s this song

The mighty heroes who are now forgotten
Their great ideals and all the wars they fought in
We have this song
But they are gone
Their bodies in the ground, unmourned and rotten
Oh we can climb
Outside of time
While there’s this song

The great men in their tombs and mausoleums
Their portraits gath’ring dust in the museums
Can’t last too long
They have no song
For them there is no more of “carpe diem”.
But we can climb
Outside of time
While there’s this song

I finally, at the age of 51, heard "Blue Jeans and Moonbeams".  It's not as awful as I had expected, though it's certainly not very good Beefheart.  It's strange that both he and Bryan Ferry covered JJ Cale's "Same Old Blues".