6:30 am

New York - New York (That Toddlin’ Town).
With all the brass and everything.
It might as well have been Ethel Merman or summat.
OK, I’m awake now, now what?

Feh

Todays earworm
I’m Back in Baby’s Arms - Patsy Cline
Sorry, that is all, midterms over the next 4 weeks. Maybe after spring break starts on Fri.

Dreamin’ earworm

Donald And Lydia - John Prine

It seems funny that as I’m transitioning from dream to awake my head is singing:
“Dreaming just comes natural
Like the first breath from a baby”

XXXIX

So There

Maybe I aspire
to the petit bourgeoisie
I ain’t no lumpen

AM Earworm

Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill. We were talking about it about 3 days ago, odd how it just hung around waiting to wormasize itself.

XXXVIII

Forked tongue, devil ears
he who hath them let them hear
you make rotten years

Pull up to the bumper baby

Woke up at 4:30am from a dream of going into bondage/fantasy apparel shop. I was checking out several items including this big, crochet, pink, sweater that you then strapped on yourself with your choice of long leather or rope cords. I was then looking at shoes, and I pulled out a catalogue where I saw what I called” the Grace Jones boots” ( black flat sandal style with open work flat lateral leather straps all the way up the calf). I was talking about the first time I had seen Grace Jones wearing them in 1976 with the shop girl (an immensely tall, thin, pretty white boy TV) when she gave me a spontaneous “reading” mostly about PCH*, an Egypto-mystic sect I supposedly had some connection with which ended with her very long fingers going up my nose like at the end of the tenth rolfing session. I then told her how lucky it was that I had previously been rolfed or I would have completely freaked out not to mention she would not have been able to get them up there. We were reviewing the notes she’d been writing while sort of “ channeling” when I woke up.

*You don’t have to point out to me that PCH can also stand for Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Kuchen

I’m sitting around lazily drinking coffee, mucking on the computer, listening to muziks (Oliver's current passions are The Bottom 99, Dead Meadow, Black Mountain, Black Keys and The Espers so there’s been alot of those) and eating coffee cake (boughten - not my amazing, fabulous, sour cream pistachio one).

Suddenly I really think, not passing thinking, focused thinking, remembering how my Mom always liked to have a coffee cake ritual on Sunday mornings. I think by the time I was the only one left home she knew it was a safe bet because traditionally I didn’t like coffee cake. Good thing she never discovered Entemann’s that might have changed the safety factor.
I never understood her fascination with the tea ring style, pecan or almond dotted drizzle glazed, flaky style, coffee cake. Until now. Now I can get a decent one down on the corner and it’s just packed full of things that are just bad. And it’s really fun to eat one too many pieces of it, buttered, with a cup ‘o’ devil joe liberally laced with half & half. It’s downright petit-bourg-ie and decadent.

So as I sit and savour my sorta, suburban style, indulgences I watch the squatter couple from around the corner walk into town, if l'm any judge (and there’s reason to think I am) to make a couple bucks of her butt, to support the habit I am also relatively sure is a factor keeping them spiraling in the squatter nebulae. I feel really weird having drawn police attention to them on occasion, but then again when footprints in the snow indicate someone from that direction has been peering in my and my neighbors windows, as well as a rash of petty thefts from cars parked near their back door have occurred, other than engaging with them face to face, it seems like the most likely way to make sure they know that we know they are there and are keeping an eye out.
But jeez all this ”us” and “them” talk. It’s frustrating to have to be on the creeped out side of that. I really couldn’t have cared less until the funky shit started happening. And the thrice nightly trips past our house to the dope house are also weirdly disconcerting. The police have been singularly unhelpful and I can see why. But it really feels like one of those powder keg situations, we’ll get a reaction when it’s actually a chain reaction and I’m betting it won’t be pretty.

Weasy

Temporarily disabled by;
Too much reading of deadly LAWNET officers poetry, temporary haiku bereftness, sick headaches, watching Johnny Depp bio’s, the counseling against the swirling pain and legal issues like a maelstrom I’m in the eye of. Laziness that is never temporary enough to my taste. Prayerfully temporary freezingness that makes me crippled with the rheumatiz and inertia. Going from stick to stick and task to task only as absolutely necessary and unavoidable. This is avoidable, mores the pity, so therefore undone.

AM earworm explained

I dreamed I was DJ-ing at a party in an abandoned childrens museum you had to SCUBA through a sewer to get to. I had a huge stack of old 45’s that were what we were working from. Ergo I woke up with UB40’s Red Red Wine playing in my head.

XXXVII

grrr i’m over this
it’s getting a little old
i’m a little cold

XXXVI

My new fuzzy socks
and naan’s new drag-about toy
are one and the same

XXXV

My ears are freezing
and down in their deep hollows
the driven snow melts

XXXIV

I did it again
No one’s paying attention
I played past the time

XXXIII

That’s adorable
Quick Joe, get the camera
it’s kitties first puke