Sister Odetta de Crécy

Robert Wyatt Interview

This is a great interview on Pitchfork in which Robert Wyatt talks about his favorite albums through the years. Guess what he listened to when he was five.

http://pitchfork.com/features/5-10-15-20/8776-robert-wyatt/

He sure does look great for 67!

Purim Spiel

I asked her, “Would you come down
Wearing nothing but your crown?
Sing for me and then I’ll make you kneel”
She thought it just the worst abuse
To send her naked to the noose
But really it was just a Purim Spiel

I’m not sure just who you are
Your light shines like the Morning Star
Shadowing far more than you reveal
Let’s be lovers, let’s be cousins
It sort of makes sense, mostly doesn’t
These are just roles in this Purim Spiel

The clown in the three-cornered hat
Who planned and plotted like a rat
Only serves to make us laugh and squeal
And yet like him we have our dream
Of making adversaries scream
Oh relax, it’s just a Purim Spiel

He made a bargain with the king
Who signed it with his signet ring
For ten thousand bucks they had a deal
I didn’t bow down at the gate
Which of us more filled with hate?
Oh just watch, enjoy the Purim Spiel

Two goats stand before the priest
One gets killed and one released
Like the twin who grabbed his brother’s heel
Blessings, curses, both the same
Roll the dice, it’s just a game
That we play and call our Purim Spiel

So which is you and which am I?
Haman, Esther, Mordecai
Tell me what’s a mask and what is real
Come, let’s give each other treats
Things concealed in little sweets
Live it up, today’s our Purim Spiel

We, The Sons of Bryce Jacobsen

It looks like the old alma mater is looking for a gym teacher

There is a place without music
A place of quiet and rest
There’s a place with no words
A place for the bless’d.

And yet dear Lord I love this world
Its troubles and its joys
O sinner that I am I love
The blather and the noise

Once you cross the river
There can be no violence
No word or sound can ever break
The beauty of the silence

And yet dear Lord I love this world
Its troubles and its joys
O sinner that I am I love
The blather and the noise

There’s a beautiful garden
Where the wind never blows
And the flame that burns there
Can’t consume the rose

And yet dear Lord &c.

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".

Drink & Drive

A seasonal song for New Year's Eve:

When I'm with you
I've never felt so high
When I'm with you
There's no time to wonder why
It's a short time we're alive
Come on, drink and drive

We're going 80
And you say let's go faster
We're going 90
Doubled over with laughter
Too fast to stay alive
Come on, drink and drive

We're falling forward
And the world is falling back
We're falling forward
'Til the moment of impact
We're can't come out alive
Come on, drink and drive

Just a thought

I wouldn't particularly recommend the movie 'Bad Santa' unless you were in the mood for a something that cuts a little close to the bone.

The Captain passed away today.  Oddly enough, I'll be meeting with some people this weekend to discuss playing tuba in a Beefheart tribute band.

The Past That Never Was (and the Future That Never Will Be)

I used the bridge that Jimmy wrote for "Hard Times"  to seed a new song:

Oh how I long to see again
The home I left behind
Where every hand’s a friendly one
Where folks are good and kind

There neighbors help each other out
We’re all one family
I’ve left the past that never was
For a future that never will be

It's hard to recall
Easy old days
Sunshine my love
Disappears in a haze

Oh dear mother weep no more
Please do not cry for me
I’ve left the past that never was
For a future that never will be

Oh now I work for principles
Of love and hope and change
We’ll build ourselves a world that will be
Beautiful and strange

We’ll fight for justice, freedom and
For equality
I’ve left the past that never was
For a future that never will be

It's hard to remember
But it hurts to forget
I was born in December
And I'm not finished yet

Oh dear mother weep no more
Please do not cry for me
I’ve left the past that never was
For a future that never will be

Juliana's New Car

What’s that coming down Cornell Ave?
That special ride the other girls don’t have?
Hey, hey, it’s Juliana’s new car
Why look, it’s clean and spotless
It’s going to make every Hot List
Lookee there, it’s Juliana’s new car

Now even a crude vulgarian
Tips his hat to this veterinarian
When he sees Juliana’s new car
She drives by so perkily
The very pride of Berkeley
Watch out now, it’s Juliana’s new car

It’s really super duper
Her brand new Mini-Cooper
It’s really very sporty
And it goes 140

She’s the crème de la crème
She’s our favorite DVM!
Coming by in Juliana’s new car
As she cruises through the city
Taking care of every dog and kitty
My my my, it’s Juliana’s new car

All her patients at the VCA
Bark, mew and shout hooray
When they think about Juliana’s new car
They wag their tails and purr
Want her for their own chauffeur
Take a ride in Juliana’s new car

It’s really super duper
Her brand new Mini-Cooper
It’s really very spiffy
And it goes 150

And even when it’s stormy
She can take a ride with Normie
How else, but in Juliana’s new car
She can ride with her Akita
Visit Boo-boo and Chiquita
Here she comes, it’s Juliana’s new car

Hey hey hey, Juliana’s new car
What’d I say, it’s Juliana’s new car
Good gosh a’mighty, Juliana’s new car
Yeah, Juliana’s new car

Cannonball Flower Season

Happy birthday, Jim!  I wish we were all together.  It's cold and wet in Berekeley.  I could make some fondue and maybe even scare up some Valaisanne and we could sing all the old songs.  I hope you have a happy day in Mumbai!

Oh man, I had a terrible dream last night that James was using junk.  Don't do it Firestone.  Choose life.

A profile of third-floor type James Schamus. It's nice to see he has his film students read Plato.

I remember too

1985, it seems like a square root or something, I know before it was one year and after it another, and yet it doesn't really reside in temporal sequence.  I remember that James was working at Hasbro and came up to visit and get away, and I think we bought the big black-&-white TV then that only seemed to get Maude.  I remember that we lived in the basement on St. Stephen Street that didn't get any sunlight and all the houseplants died, and I'd never lived in a place with cockroaches like that, having only lived in the roachless worlds of 1) the suburbs 2)  college and 3)  Switzerland and yet 1985 doesn't seem much further away than living in Jackson, than watching The Flintstones after school as a kid, than the last time I saw Jim or even Jim, less than a year ago.  I'm not sure if this addled perception of time is a benefit of a aging or a result of drug use, if it be love or just confusion.

Skinny Guys are nice too?

Some say yes.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Annie and I are doing a little cleaning and thought we would share some of the less dusty fruits of our labours.
Merci a tout!

the day after diwali

http://www.ndtv.com/video/player/news/obama-addresses-india-inc/174038

18:15, the colon hangs above my naked head and attentive ears

Happy Birthday Johny

love you

Very boring

People in love can be very boring
Over and over with the same stupid stories
People in love are so painfully dumb
I’m afraid that’s exactly the bore I’ve become

People in love always tell such clichés
Enough to fill up five Kate Hudson screenplays:
Her eyes are like stars, her lips are like roses
Pearls for her teeth and piggies for toeses

But I love her smile and I love her laugh too
I shouldn’t go on, but golly I have to
When she wrinkles her nose she becomes kind of elfish
Not to share such a wonder would be selfish

People in love are seldom good company
Being around them isn’t much fun for me
But I’ve become just what I abhor:
I’m a man in love. I’m a bore.

People in love can be very tedious
If they’re so happy why are they the neediest?
People in love are so tiresome
And yet that’s the bore I’ve become.

People in love talk quite stupidly
In baby talk, all Betty Boop-ily
“Papa wants baby, do papa do”
But now I talk just like that too.

People in love are utterly terrible
Watching them smooch is completely unbearable
But I’m in love with a girl so adorable
I have to admit I’ve become quite horrible.

I’ve tried to be detached and clinical
But I’m too happy to be very cynical
Now I’m a Pooh though I was an Eeyore
I’m a man in love. I’m a bore.

Laura

Listen to and download Robert Wyatt singing the theme to the beloved and inscrutable Gene Tierney movie here

This is the Magnetic Fields movie Tracy had mentioned many months ago. Apparently I can be heard but not seen in it very briefly.

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/39849523/ns/today-entertainment/

In memory

http://www.tmz.com/2010/10/16/barbara-billingsley-dies-jerry-mathers-leave-it-to-beaver/

Today's Verse: 15 October 2010

Goodbye breakfast. Tears and snot
Bear away the fruit, crust, crumbs
Of deluded endeavour
On a shallow, idle stream
(T'es déguelasse. -- C'est quoi déguelasse?)

So? The morning sun shone in warm intimacy
As if caressing hall and hearth
Still, in equipose, not expectant or relieved,
Just dawned on me
Like an idea
That seemed familiar
Once it's thought

So? I lied all the time
About my split personality
The bifurcation was convenient, handy
Now it's gotten out of hand and landed
Me in the soup of someone else's lunch
To which I fear I'm not invited, either of me
Don't fuck up my neighbor whispers insistently picking at my sleeve
Don't worry we mutter in unison to ourselves
We're used to it by now

So. The afternoon is brutal, crushing, possibly diseased
I'm writing this letter to the warden
I know he'll never read
The night will evening follow, I'll wander off to dream
And wake in semi-darkness, rain pounding on the street
I wish I had a happy bed
Comes rising from the deep
I wish I had a happy bed
Remember as I fall asleep

You're Like Dope

This is supposed to be like if Cole Porter wrote a song for Grace Slick:


You are uppers, you are pot
You’re purple haze and micro-dot
Oh, baby, you’re like dope

You’re hashish, you’re PCP
Magic mushrooms, ecstasy
Oh, darling, you’re like dope.

You are blotter, you’re sugar cube
You’re tequila and a bunch of ludes
Oh, baby, you’re like dope

You’re blue heaven, you’re white death
You’re mescaline and crystal meth
Oh, honey, you’re like dope.

When I’m with you dear all I feel’s
A crazy happy glow
They say that I should leave you but
To them I just say no

You’re a lid of Mary Jane
You’re a shot in a collapsing vein
Oh, baby, you’re like dope.


You’re black beauties, you are dolls
You’re dilaudid and Demerol
Oh, baby you’re like dope

You are yellows, blues and greens
Footballs, goofballs, Dexedrine
Oh, darling, you’re like dope

You’re red devils, you are bennies
You are soapers, dust and nembies
Oh, baby you’re like dope

You’re a quick poke in the leg
You fry my brain just like an egg
Oh, honey, you’re like dope

You always keep me happy dear,
You never disappoint
I wish that I could roll you up
And smoke you like a joint

You’re peyote, Special K
STP, MDMA
Oh baby you’re like dope
Oh baby, just like dope.

Songs for the New Depression: Hard Times

Stephen Collins Foster wrote a beautiful song called Hard Times. Dennis suggested I try something with the same title.

A friend called up to tell me
He was stuck in a mine
He didn’t like to bother
But he’s afraid that he is dying
Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

I look out the window
At the street on which I dwell
Abandoned houses in a row
Like husks or empty shells
Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

I heard a man who talked about
The things that lie between us
I thought he was the president
But he was selling vacuum cleaners
Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Entire cities have been destroyed
By earthquake, fire and flood
And men been made invisible
Unseen, unknown, unloved
Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Last Weekend

I went to Homecoming at St. John's last weekend. The class of 1980 was there for their 30th, and there was a nice wine-and-cheese reception in memory of Donald Esselborn, who we lost some years ago. The people my age seemed incredibly old, and the younger people seemed to be locked into the kind of stuff that seems like a broken record by the time you have gotten your kids through high school. The students, of course, live a blissful existence, centered around 'the nature of the good', and the schedule for the next soccer game. Everyone asked about you all, and I told them that our hearts still beat as one. The place is much less decrepit now than it was in our time.

On the other hand..

I have some leaks. There is a leak around the bathtub upstairs somewhere that has compromised my kitchen ceiling. I have not been able to isolate it. I had another leak from the roof that seems OK but the damage has not yet been repaired. The other day, all of the transmission fluid leaked out of Jessie's car and I had to spend a lot of money to get it fixed. Today, we were trying to fix a section of the wall in the kitchen that I thought had been damaged by one of the known leaks, and I found that it was actually caused by another, very small and annoying supply line (pipe) leak. These leaks are not a lot of fun. They are quite a bit like a sticky valve on your horn, in the sense that they are something that you do not really understand why you have it, when you really don't want it at all, and when you try to change it, it is still there.

drip, drip, drip

We shall, in fact, overcome, but it is kind of leaky sometimes.

Here's something we know you'll really like!

www.outofprintmagazine.co.in

Our friend Tracy, quite a swifty
Always neat and always nifty
And today she's as old as I am

We were sitting around late at night in some fantastic foreign city where we were going to be giving a show the next day, drinking and getting high and thinking about how great our show was going to be. Robert Richards was there, and Jennifer Anniston. Jimmy and James went out to get some more drinks, and it was late and I was tired so I lay down for a while until they came back. And then I was sitting in a car and I couldn’t remember how I got there, but the sun was out and it was the next day, except it was actually two days later and I’d slept too long and missed the show. I started to cry, I was so upset, and Tracy was nice and gave me her coat, since I was still in my pajamas.

The Fix Is Better Than The High

I’m sitting at a café waiting for you to show
When you get here I’ll soon be bored silly I know
But now I’m excited, oh please tell me why
Is the fix always so much better than the high

I’m thinking about you, going into a frenzy
I can’t for the life of me remember what sends me
About you, my darling, so please tell why
Is the fix always so much better than the high

What is that makes me so impatient?
Some mirage of my own creation
Why am I so impossibly naïve?
Once you’re here, I’ll be ready to leave

I’m now so worked up, I’m now so upset
It seems while I’m waiting I always forget
All the times I have wanted to tell you goodbye
The fix is always so much better than the high

I wonder ...

Whence the expression "peter out"?

After S.D. Simko

I have my directions
Written in some uncertain kind of code
I know the groves and orchards
But not the people I see on the road
I have changed my money
For the paper they use here to pay
At stores where they speak another language
Where street lamp shadows slip on the doorways

And I don’t feel like dancing
Maybe you can hold my hand tonight
No I don’t feel like dancing
All I ask is that you hold me tight
‘Cause I don’t feel like dancing
No I don’t feel like dancing any more


It is snow. It’s snowing.
Footprints running like a line of news
Or history written on lined paper:
Only insults, nothing but a bruise.
The fields here don’t quite fit
Like a map I don’t know how to fold
It’s one story. It still matters
For as long as that story’s told.

And I don’t feel like dancing
Maybe you can hold my hand tonight
No I don’t feel like dancing
All I ask is that you hold me tight
‘Cause I don’t feel like dancing
No I don’t feel like dancing any more


Even with my eyes closed
I know this place that might have been my home
The woods where trees are still scarred
With my name that’s carved in like a poem.
I barely fill my coat up
The sleeves are empty as the twilight sky
Heading to the empty
House where I last saw my father cry

And I don’t feel like dancing, &c.

Today's Verse: 12 August 2010

My pillow smells like butter
It's a comfort when I lay
My head down to sleep

Last night I dreamed I was dead. I was in a big institutional building, and I had two choices: I could either simply cease to exist or I could stay in the building. Most people just choose to stop exisiting, because staying in the building is kind of boring. Mostly you just have to stay in your room. However you can get extra privleges on the grounds by earning points, which you acquire by getting testimonials from your friends. "Oh," I said, just before waking up. "I hate being dead."

The secret film was filmed secretly!

Peter Fernandez, 83, who helped introduce the United States to Japanese animation in the 1960s by adapting the series "Speed Racer" for American audiences, died July 15 of cancer at his home in Pomona, N.Y.

Mr. Fernandez, a voice actor who was also a writer and producer, gave voice to fast-talking action hero Speed Racer and wrote the English lyrics to the catchy theme song that can still cause many now-grown fans to bust out a line from the chorus: "Go, Speed Racer, go!"

A former child actor who had worked in radio, Mr. Fernandez was specializing in English dubbing of foreign films and animation when he was asked to adapt "Speed Racer," which first appeared in Japan as "Mach Go Go Go."

"The only instructions I had was to 'Americanize it,' which meant I could name all the characters and write the dialogue the way I wanted," he told the Houston Chronicle in 2008.

The 52-episode series debuted in 1967 and featured voice-overs by Mr. Fernandez and three other actors who took Speed Racer and friends on adventures in the Mach 5 super-car.

Naming the characters was the most fun, Mr. Fernandez often said. He called villains Cruncher Block and Guts Buster, and he delighted in writing such lines as "The secret film was filmed secretly."

Mr. Fernandez was born Jan. 29, 1927, in New York City. When his father's import-export business failed during the Depression, he started modeling at 7 to bring in money.

As a teenager he appeared in several Broadway shows, including Lillian Hellman's "Watch on the Rhine" (1941). During World War II, he served in the Army and was assigned to the Pentagon, where he worked in communications, his wife, Noel, said.
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After the war, he sold stories to pulp magazines and acted in radio, television and film. The Los Angeles Times called Mr. Fernandez a "new-found film star" in 1949 after he appeared in the movie "City Across the River" with Tony Curtis.

In the 1960s, Mr. Fernandez segued into dubbing and wrote scripts for two animated Japanese imports, "Astro Boy" and "Gigantor," which led to "Speed Racer."

The series experienced renewed popularity when it aired on MTV in the 1990s. In the 2008 live-action film "Speed Racer," Mr. Fernandez had a cameo as a radio announcer. He continued to work as a voice actor and director until about a year ago.

Prone to exclaiming "jeepers" in interviews, the kindly Mr. Fernandez would try to explain the enduring popularity of "Speed Racer" by pointing to children's fascination with cars and the show's emphasis on Speed's family relationships.

He also admitted that he "always tried to get across a subtle message of some kind about decency or fair play."

In addition to Noel, whom he married in 1978, he is survived by three children; a brother; a sister; and nine grandchildren.

Today's Verse: 17 July 2010

Old fat bald
I've become a cliché
I resemble myself less
Than I fancied I did
In shocking youth
Now my ejaculations wild
Seem perfectly sane
Irrelevant
My identity is reduced
To a small pyramid
The base the length of a finger
Squeezed in the center
Of my face
Now I'm the spirit
Shuffling through the attic
In the dark
Dim and searching
Still lit but fading on the page
Losing shape and distinction
I'm not bored
Or afraid
I'm mildly disturbed
By the way things work out
Even when you're
Enlightened
Fulfilled
Satisfied

Motherfucker's Day

Mother is dying once again

While we are driving
The old rotten hen
Won't lay anymore
Who laid plenty then
Felt slayed by each one
And pained every time
Betrayed by the moment
She desired the cock

That old rusty cock's
Paralysed
Wagon's busted
Back broken
Recessed
He won't lay a finger
On her now

We're very far away
Feeling her dying
It's agony
See him holding his breath
He cannot believe what is happening

Mother is dying all over agin
Sucking him
Into a hole
Leaving him
Empty and crazed
And seething to murder
Wh0's already dying
With him deep inside

There's nothing we can do about it

Tuli Kupferberg

Wave your freak flag at half-mast. Oddly enough, I just listened to the first Fugs album the other day (I have your old copy James.)

Dance Where You Are

Dance where you are
In Berlin or Kandahar
Dance in Lackawanna
Ghana or the Cote d’Iviore
Oh yeah—
Dance where you are

Dance where you are
Whatever’s in your repetoire
There can be no style
That's too wild or too bizarre
Oh yeah—
Dance where you are

Dance where you are
To tuba and guitar
Or to a marimba
Or kalimba or sitar
Oh yeah—
Dance where you are

World Cup

Congratulations, Switzerland! If I knew the Swiss national anthem, I'd sing it. But help me out, Spartan brethren: Didn't Spain beat Germany in 1982, the summer we watched it in the Nautilis? A-and the Spanish workers partying all night, and "Viva Espana"? The man down the street who sells poutine says Italy won that year, and disturbingly, Wikipedia seems to favor him over my increasingly unsteady memory. Was it all a crazy dream?

I ain't nothing but a man in love

Today I heard "Modern Don Juan" by Buddy Holly for the first time in many years. Man, that's a great song.

Apollinaire

I went down to the Piraeus to catch the second show
Watching the crowd, I felt like a real wise guy
Then Rachel and Suzie came in and said, ah Johny
Don’t you want to go outside and go get high
Well I did but I didn’t because all of a sudden I got confused
I thought I’d just seen heading up the stairs
Smiling almost laughing to himself
The ghost of Apollinaire.

The lights dimmed and I went to get myself a drink
I felt like lying down though I wasn’t tired
Behind the bar the TV was showing last night’s news
It looked like half the city was on fire
“Hey change it” somebody said “put on the game”
But everything they showed had the rocket’s red glare
I couldn’t look away but I could see
The ghost of Apollinaire.

And the band was playing and a couple kids were dancing
But all I heard was a seashell roar
And the room began to fill with light until it felt
Like pushing your cart at the grocery store
And my tongue felt numb and suddenly I couldn’t talk
Laughing and scratching, crawling and gasping for air
And I looked around but I had somehow lost
The ghost of Apollinaire

I could see right through the ceiling and the stars were turning backwards
Trying to uncount the last hundred years
I dreamed I was at home in bed and everything was OK
It was just reflected through the barside mirror
I woke up and thought I was on stage playing in the band
And realized I was just sitting in a chair
Smiling almost laughing to myself
Like the ghost of Apollinaire.

Today's Verse: 28 May 2010

My beard is naked
As a finger
In a cool dark room
Fluorescent
As a shadow
On the moon

Today's Verse: 13 May 2010

Makeshift
String, twigs, any old strut
Hang it
Low down
Deliberate
Home, habit, hobby construct
Uniform erection array
Imperious
Till the accident
Or just plain
Decay

An den Kritter

I almost let the day close without wishing many happy returns of the day to the delightful Mister Leach. Let it flow with you, Stephen. Let it show with you.

Later today, 4.30

Though liquor is quicker,
it's blood that runs thicker.
Sometimes
the answer is 'four'.
Ariston men udor.

Today's Verse: 30 April 2010

Waves of burlesque contort the air
Carry away
The atmosphere
That whirrs, clicks, spits, groans
Around my head
Taunt my ear holes at attention
Mock menace my defenseless temples
O! mysteries of summer lawn
Before I knew I was a faun

Maggie posted a couple of new recordings here. "Twine Time" has a sort of wacky tuba solo.

There's a deep bitter river

There’s a deep bitter river
That runs underground
Oh, I’ve been to its banks
And stared all the way down

I’ve been down to the river
So dark and so clear
And its waters are frightful
And as bitter as tears.

I looked down in that river
And felt a cold in my bones
Though I wanted to run
I felt myself turned to stone.

And I saw a baby
All swaddled in white
Rise up from the river
And dissolve into light

And I saw my mother
On the opposite shore
Till a thick fog arose
And I could see her no more.

And I heard a trumpet
That blew from a cloud
And I heard a voice call me
So deep and so loud

And I looked in the sky
And saw fire and smoke
And I felt myself shiver
As the voice above spoke

It said, “You must cross through
This river so black
And once you have started
You cannot turn back.

So go down to the river
Go down and dive in
Though the waters will scald you
And blister your skin.”

I must dive in the river
And go all the way down
Though I’m too scared to swim
And afraid that I’ll drown.

And where the river takes me
I know I must follow
Though the water’s so foul
That I can’t drink or swallow

There’s a deep bitter river
That runs underground
Oh, I’ve been to its banks
And stared all the way down

Thoughts 4/14

You take a step.
You take a breath.
You take a chance.
You take the time.
You take a shit.
Oh, no you don't!
You give a shit.
It's just a fact.
You almost never
take it back.

Why bother?

I could press my only good shirt
And pretend to flirt
But why bother?

I could put a suit and tie on
Try to dress like Lord Byron
Why bother?

Why bother when the global warming
Is going to make the whole thing moot
I doubt I'd be very charming
Underwater in a scuba suit

I could work on my coiffure
Get a manicure
Why bother?

I could sing a nice serenade
Slightly dumb and cliched
Why bother?

Or I could try to write you a sonnet
Aw, but then dawgone it
Why bother?

Why bother when Iran and Korea
Are going to drop a bomb on our heads?
Why bother when the only thing to fe-ah
Is the fear that we'll all soon be dead?

I could be the guy who brings roses
Quite a metamorphosis
Why bother?

I could stay in your favor
On my good behavior
Why bother?

I could even act adoring
When you're so boring
But why bother?

Why bother when the War on Terror
Always remains at Code Red?
Should I fear exploding underwear or
The fact that I can't use the head?

I could say I'd love you forever
Quite a noble endeavor
Why bother?

I had occasion to say today, "Soak it up, Miss Sponge. I'm a-gonna love squeezing you dry."

What next?

I think that we should write a pop song. I think that that would be super. I think that we should choose a theme, and write the song, and that it would be the best. No bullshit, just write a pop song. I was in a room the other day, painting, and singing the St. Matthew Passion with an old buddy. No limits, no limits. We could do it. It would make a good story :)

Today's Verse: 16 March 2010

If Shakespeare had been Jesus
We would worship irony
And all those priests
Would we disgrace
Who lacked guile and subtlety
Being chaste would be a waste
Whose surfeit we'd deplore
Sensation pricks the mind to seek
And finding seeks for more
If there were sin
It would lie in
Dull hypocrisy
And special pains
Would be retained
For making life a bore

If Jesus had been Shakespeare
His sonnets mayn't be written
The tragedies might be sermons
We'd hear but wouldn't listen
He'd drop the pen, he'd quit the stage
Perhaps he'd try to lure
The virgin queen to partnership
With vows of chasteness pure
And how they'd reign, how they'd rule
Supreme in separate spheres
But that's another history
Unsuited to our years

Just a story, Mar. 15, 2010

About two years ago, when we were doing the big push to finish the poolhouse before Memorial Day, we had a serious drought in the region. As a result of the drought and perhaps other factors, a large number of squirrels had found themselves in the fetid pool, unable to find an exit. As the weather warmed, the ripeness of the detritus began to reach a level that could be sensed on a step-by-step basis as one approached the actual pool. It is rare to experience space olfactorally, but it can happen, under such intense conditions. Many questions arose as to how to handle the situation, so eventually I got a few buckets and garbage bags, and went down there early in the morning and used a skimmer to extract the bodies into multiple layers of plastic bags, tied them up nicely, and took them home to my garbage cans. I had learned in the restaurant business that there were some jobs that were so nasty that the boss had to do them himself while nobody else was looking. It was a nice sunny morning, though, and they didn't smell anywhere near as bad as they did when the garbage men took them away a few days later. I would contend that you have to practice if you want to know how to have fun doing that kind of stuff. If it wasn't any fun, I wouldn't have bothered. We opened on time, although we have not yet scheduled the body-painting festival.

which miracle?

Ellen moved out today. It has been difficult. An old friend said to me once, "I don't know how you do it.?", to which I responded, "It's different for me. I work without a net."

Anyone up for a little game of 'guess the reference'?

Well well, I just learned recently that the Paca-Caroll favorite, "Pogo Dancing" is by Chris Spedding, not Nick Lowe. How the rest of you must have been laughing at me all these years!

Our Town

Thw Spring production at the Washington Latin Charter Skol (WLCPS) will be 'Our Town', the Pulitzer-prizewinning play by Thornton Wilder, set in the fully segregated northeast, and a true monument of modern American art. I believe that I have been tasked with the construction of the ladders, lanterns, and tombstones, but any further stage direction would be more than welcome. As usual, thanks in advance, hermanos et Tracy, y todo il mundo.

Get away. Live free.

Orange denotes security and signifies men working on the highway are vigilant while they work.
You don't get orange for free, except in nature which gives with one hand and takes right back with the other.
Like living in the moment: the culmination of everything that's come before and the single point of departure for everything that follows.
So when you say "let this love last forever", you're asking for what already has happened to happen again, and keep on happening, for every moment to be the same, for time and change to end. Like repeating the same note.
For the men working the road, it goes on forever, till quitting time. They get out of the sun, cool down, have a drink, something to eat, and figure out how to fill the hours before sleep -- that infinity before work resumes again.
They too love and lust.
When they're naked, their vigilance relaxed, maybe viewed, maybe viewing, eyes brimful of glee or mirth, they're like fires lit on hilltops in the dark -- signalling.
The flame is orange yellow from a distance. As you approach you perceive different colors of the spectrum, especially blue and red. They line its black heart.
It's a hungry road and a thirsty road, and, unlike the way to heaven, it's curvy as hell. It'll take you where you're going but it won't set you free.
Doesn't have to, you are already.
Free to moan.

Anecdotally, Mar. 4 2010

I've really got to catch up on this whole Magnetic Fields phenomenon. Considerable Buzz, as far as I can tell.

It has occurred to me lately, that remembering some times back in Buffalo, that there were a lot of nights that ended with someone saying, "Well, fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." Sometimes it was said with a bloody nose, and sometimes with a bloody fist, but somebody usually had to say it, just for the tradition. I often watched, usually in agreement with the sentiment.

I had a reunion of sorts with Stephin and Clodia, playing on a few songs this weekend, in both Oakland and San Francisco where the Magnetic Fields were playing as part of the Noise Pop Festival.

And Tracy, although I did not see the movie you'd mentioned, apparently my horn (but not my face) makes a brief appearence in a clip from the last Zinnias show at Now and Then. You may recall it; you took some double-exposed pictures that night.