Bobbi's Coming Back

We've had our little summer fling

Our brief clandestine tryst

But I can't see you any more

Please go now, I insist…

Bobbi watches all her fellows

Her temper's bad, and she's jealous

Better run girl, girl run faster

If she catches you, it'll be a disaster

Tell your priest to start saying mass

'Cause Bobbi's going to kick your ass

All the way to Indiana

She's a new Tura Satana

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You won't like the resolution

Of her acts of retribution

But Bobbi's coming back to town

Sure we had a brief flirtation

But it's time to change your focus

Weren't you talking about taking a vacation

To visit your sister in Ho-Ho-Kus?

Don't think she'll get any softer--

Now she's taking her earrings off her

She will go and snap your body

She knows kung-fu and karate

Bobbi has the force when she gets vicious

Of a few well-armed militias

She'll do grievous bodily acts of harm

Someone just might buy the farm

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You better get your bags packed

If you don't want to get whacked

'Cause Bobbi's coming back to town

                                      The original Tura Satana

The Old Bear to Delmore Schwartz

Poor bear

     His toothless mouth that cannot bite

     His eyes now clouded milky white

     His sad, unending appetite

The old bear’s fallen down

Poor bear

Making wild faces like a brute

Pulling tricks in his charm suit

Panting, roaring, what a beaut

The old bear, man about town

Poor bear

Shambling with his funny trot

Humbled in a bunny squat

Looking for his honey pot 

The old bear of renown

Poor bear

In his sleep lets out a scream

All he ever does is dream

Of eating candy and ice cream

The old bear’s lost his crown

And even when I think I'm alone

He apes every move I make

I hear his sad, pathetic groan

The vast world of his bellyache

Poor bear

The joker with his rubber ball

His shoes too big, his pants too small

They clap and laugh to watch him fall

The old bear's just a clown

Poor bear

Takes one more round on stage

He growls and lunges out in rage

Ha ha!  Too funny! Doesn't need a cage

The old bear's going down

Bye, Ray

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/ray-collins-original-mothers-of-invention-singer-dead-of-heart-attack-20121227



(not to be confused with Lieutenant Tragg)

The Chatter and The Noise

An Along Came Jones studio recording: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5f9ATPbocDw

 

Happy birthday Jymn!  Let it flow with you.

F-hole

My wife

            with the dimple on her scrollwork

            with the smell of spruce and rosin

            the small of her back that vibrates

            as gently as a sound post

And her little f-hole

My wife

            her tongue a run of eighth notes

            arpeggio eyelashes

            allegretto fingers

her thighs two even half notes

And her little f-hole

           

And from somewhere within her

There beats a hidden metronome

A rhythm that I can’t quite capture

The ocean, my own secret home

My wife

her breasts a bit rubato

her navel a fermata

her cleft is like the moment

            between the up-bow and the down-bow

And her little f-hole

With thanks to Man Ray and André Breton's "L'Union Libre"

Let me be the first

To wish you happy birthday, Johny.
It's just past midnight in the departure lounge. Was hoping to write you a rhyme about all the gifts I wish you had, or I had to give you, or you had to get, but inspiration fails. So I'll settle for taking advantage of living half a day ahead of you to wish you all the best, first.
Love

On Martyrs

Here's what I ended up with, Jim:

When I think of my love for you

It’s like staring right into the sun

Maybe we only really see

When the story’s finished up and done

Loving you is as bottomless

As a dark infinity

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

My heart’s spitted on a stake

Burning with a clear, undying flame

Ashes rise up into the air

Spelling out the letters of your name

Oh you are my true lode star

You’re my only destiny

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

Poor old Saint Bartholomew had his

Skin flayed off him while he lived

Anthony was stabbed so many times

That he started leaking like a sieve

Saints embrace their suffering
And that suff’ring makes them free

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

One Roll of the Dice ...

RIP Mister Wilson

http://www.stjohnscollege.edu/news/memoriam-wilson.shtml

RIP Lol Coxhill

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jul/11/lol-coxhill

The Devil Took My Woman

Dennis suggested the title, Euripides suggested the rest.  Μωροσ γαρ μορα λεγει.

The devil took my woman

Rose before the dawn

Flew out to a hilltop

As her spirit filled up

She tore a fawn to pieces

And made a fleece of

That little fawn

The devil held a wolf pup

To my woman’s breast

She just calmly smiled

Thought it was her child

She nursed a bear

Snakes in her hair

Loose and untressed

The devil took my woman

He gave her the power

As a fortune-teller

Blind as Helen Keller

Strumming on a lyre

With a bolt of fire

He broke my tower

Then the devil took me

Turned me to a goat

Well, up came the priestess

Wearing a meat dress

Like a housewife

She grabbed a stone knife

And slit my throat

This is true: I had eggs today with Michael Coss and young Mike Junior.  He remains a king among men, if that needs saying.

We're all swinging and we're all satisfied.  Happy birthday, Poppa!

My Lonesome Cowboy Shirt, Reekin' at Ya

I'm Just Glad It's Not Christmas

My recollection is that Jimmy wrote a song called "Christmas Is Laughing At You", though all I remember is that title.  I know one of his finest post-FF songs is called "The Last Day of Christmas".  

Oh poor George, father of his country

He lost his day, to speak quite bluntly

He shares with forty other guys

And there’s no longer cherry pie

Mostly sales at used car dealers

Selling ATV four-wheelers

But I can smile and half-pretend

I’ve got big plans for the weekend

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With the presents round the tree

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

This is not the way Christmas should be

Father’s Day is not so bad

All I do is call up Dad

We don’t have to talk too much

It’s just nice to stay in touch

So we talk about the Knicks

Or (very lightly) politics

Dad’s had his heartbreak, I don’t doubt it

But we never talk about it

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With the mistletoe and the holly

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

‘Tis no season to be melancholy

Memorial Day’s for what’s been lost

And how we live and what’s the cost

We don’t like to think about the past

Or why the flags are at half-mast

And I, like any normal Yank,

Would rather leave the past a blank

And not think much about what’s dead
Pretend there’s better times ahead

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With Santa Claus and all his little elves

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

Cause I can’t stand to be all by myself

Mister Bluebird

We're planning to release this as a 7".  I had imagined Nick Lowe singing it when I wrote the lyrics: Mister Bluebird link

After All These Years...

Bat Chain Puller has finally been released.

http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/16625-bat-chain-puller/

Eye Sore

I do believe today is Perfesser Ghiberti's birthday.  Happy birthday, Bugsy--may you rule beneficently over Geneva for many years to come.

Pachuco Cadaver, the Beefheart tribute band that's been about to start for the last year and a half, will make its debut as part of a (post-) Mother's Day Zappa Tribute at the Bay View Boat Club tomorrow.  We'll be playing "Harry Irene", "Candle Mambo" and "I'm Gonna Booglarize You Baby".

You & Me & Suzanne

We were the Three Musketeers:

            You and me and Suzanne

We were punk rock cavaliers

            You and me and Suzanne

Now there will be no such antics

Suzanne’s no longer a romantic

She’s more like a Lars von Trier

            Oh, you and me and Suzanne

We were like those Stooges Three

            You and me and Suzanne

On an endless, madcap spree

            You and me and Suzanne

I was Curly, she was Moe

You’re too sweet for Larry, though

That’s the way things used to be

            With you and me and Suzanne

We were once the best of friends

            You and me and Suzanne

Funny it came to an end

            You and me and Suzanne

But she lost you to another

That she thought of as her brother

Did she know you still like men?

            You and me and Suzanne

I guess I thought that I was just joking

            You and me and Suzanne

But it’s over, completely broken

            You and me and Suzanne

It was wrong, but I still did it

I’m an asshole, I admit it

The morning’s cold and we’ve awoken

            You and me and Suzanne

Saint John's has a new fight song:

True love of wisdom is sheltered in her halls
Seekers of virtue will answer to her call
Books and a balance are all the tools we need
St. John’s forever! She will make us free.


I was working on one myself, which I did not submit:

Saint John's forever
To her we pledge our youth
Steadfast are we in our
Grand pursuit for truth

Our search for wisdom
Surely cannot fail
Lovers of wisdom
We will always prevail

Here's a link to a couple of songs performed live last month.  It's just a cassette in-the-room recording, so the mix isn't all it could be.

Beatitudes

Blessèd are the poor in spirit
The end is near but they don’t fear it
Blessèd are the broken hearted
Now that all the madness has started

Bless’d are those who dare increase
The slender hope there may be peace
Bless’d are those who show some kindness
In a world so often mindless

Blessèd are all those who hunger
For justice in a world gone under
And blessèd are all those who mourn
May their hopes somehow be reborn

May the weary too be bless’d
May they somehow find their rest
And may the weakest ones be bless’d
When it’s done, they’ll inherit this mess

A blues in the Highway 61 style.  Since Dennis will be singing it and I don't like to drive, I wrote myself in riding shotgun.


I went down with the Moron, headed for the border
Searching for a cure for his sleeping disorder
Since he had the narcolepsy
I shot him a Pepsi right away
He opened his eyes and said where are we?
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Well we saw a couple hitchhikers, so we pulled over
Turned out that it was Marguerite and Casanova
He had powdered wig
He was late to his gig as DJ
We turned on Camino Real
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Well I saw a marble lady who exposed her breast
They locked her away, I suppose it’s for the best
They said save your quarters
You can afford a Doris Day
I tried to pay with Green Stamps
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

I met a man who said he’d lost his youth
To Marsden Hartley and to Charles Demuth
He said, Behold!
I saw the figure 5 in gold on display
Wheels rumbling through the dark city
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Mother Theresa met the Dalai Lama
He said to her let me tell you mama
In my horoscope
It said I will be the pope one day
But saints won’t give you nothing
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

Well I guess we took a wrong turn back at Albuquerque
The Moron said can you take me back to Berkeley
I just told him phooey
And I made a U-ie mid-highway
I don’t know if we’ll make it
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

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.