Antiques

TheOldGent that I work for popped out with this while we sat on the patio watching the local flora & fauna:

“A bluebird flew into the barber shop
It crapped on the razor
and it crapped on the strop
It would’a crapped on me
but I run too fast”

I asked him if that was from when he was a kid? He confirmed. That puts it at about 1930. Who says they weren’t bold, daring and innovative in them olden days?

By Stella's mom*

Mothers Day

I

Her belly swelling, growing
responding without volition
giving, always giving
her life’s substance.
Her breasts, too, swell
flowing with milk
on demand.
Love and pride rise
with the yeast of the child.
Her mind and heart expand.

So much to learn

recognizing a rubella rash
treating scraped knees and bloody noses
why the sky is blue,
the floor colder than the rug
rituals for burying dead turtles
words to ease the pain
when invitations fail to appear
new math, computer spreadsheets
nuances of funky fashion
pantomime communication
when ears are Walkman plugged
turning apron strings into elastic bands.

A mothers mind and heart
may be more crowded than a pregnant belly.
Still the possibility of growth
quickened by her children
and their children
is not lost.

II

She had survived one more
disappointing Mothers day
too much food, unwanted gifts
her children drinking and smoking
speech like knives
stabbing and cutting each other.
But it was the day after Mothers day
which was circled on her calendar.
The day she secretly anticipated all winter long
when it was safe to assume
all danger of frost was past
and she could move her infants
out of their protected nursery.
Since first implanting the tiny seeds
in the fertile growing medium
she had nurtured them
lovingly controlling their environment.
Wearing her prettiest flowered dress
she carried the flat of tomato seedlings
to the garden. Her trowel,
bent and scratched scooped out holes.
She gave each plant a drink
of nourishing transplant solution
dressed it in a pleated white bonnet
for protection from the sun.
Last years crop had failed
to produce the bounteous harvest
she expected as a fitting reward
for months of devotion
but her special, private Mothers day
had come again
bringing another chance for offspring
who might develop
in a way that would make her proud
to be their mother.





*I'm not saying it's good or bad art. Just that this was some of my (dead) mom's art.

No AM Earworm!

Sometimes it’s really nice to wake up w/out anything insisting in my head. Especially after last weekends (at least) 48 hours of “Tiki Temple” by the Tsars. For 2 or 3 days there, it was so bad that I dasn’t turn off the TV or itunes or stereo because every time there was an empty space in my brain it would go right back to filling with hot lava while chanting goobah gaba and vestal nymphomaniacs were ceaselessly preparing aphrodisiacs and chanting jungle prayers. If it had been something like “Rhinestone Cowboy” going on in that fashion I would have shot myself dead and I’m not kidding. I can say this with great certainty as I once had “Afternoon Delight” in there for just a day and it made me want to go to psych ER and beg for Thorazine.

The reason I had “Tiki Temple” stuck so badly was that I was asked to write some prosody publicity for said Tsars. They asked for in the style of Andrew Looge Oldham and/or old Nancy Sinatra liner notes. What they’ve received (so far) instead is that ‘orrible, ‘orrible, bit of dreck below, “Put Another Nikolai In”. Although, I must admit to liking the bit about Aqua Velva and Tigress parfum. I wrote it in one session with the muses on Friday night. For inspiration I listened to their myspace playlist three or four times through. That was what proved to be my ultimate undoing.

I’d like to give it another whirl but I am slightly terrified that I will be doomed to another lost weekend of running from thing to thing trying to drown out “My Martini” or “734”. because believe you me, I am so skipping right over “Tiki Temple” this time. Just talking about it has started the whole surfey guitar and tomrolls thing right back up. I’m frickin’ doomed.

Reprint of a reprint

Thanksgiving Prayer

Written and delivered by William S. Burroughs, 1986.


For John Dillinger
In hope he is still alive

Thanks for the wild turkey and the Passenger Pigeons,
destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts —

thanks for a Continent to despoil and poison —

thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger —

thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin, leaving the carcass to rot —

thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes —

thanks for the AMERICAN DREAM to vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through —

thanks for the KKK, for nigger-killing lawmen feeling their notches,
for decent church-going women with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces —

thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers —

thanks for laboratory AIDS —

thanks for Prohibition and the War Against Drugs —

thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business —

thanks for a nation of finks — yes,

thanks for all the memories… all right, let’s see your arms…
you always were a headache and you always were a bore —

thanks for the last and greatest betrayal,
of the last and greatest of human dreams.



(Copped off the brilliant Brett Schutzman site - Maproom Systems - http://www.maproomsystems.org/ As usual I can't manage a hyperlink and I don't link him over there ---> because I haven't met him (yet). I can't seem to get the gumption and the transportation together to ever get over to one of those "beer with bloggers" things in Ypsi. Not that the quality of the blog lately has been up to that par, (you know why I can't get it up). But I really, really like his site and he reminded me of this Burroughs thing I had forgotten about. It sums up one facet of my holiday feelings, especially about "Black Friday".

The Burroughs things I can ever reliably remember are that life is "the ticket that explodes". There are some personal quotes I'll always remember but it suddenly seemed not right to print them here since it was in conversation with a friend of mine who disseminated the most interesting of them.)

"And everythings a dollar in this box"

“besides, I never talk to strangers anyway”
Tom Waits


When I was first starting to write songs I prayed that I could be like Tom Waits. Please tell me, if Leonard Cohen has a pulitzer, why doesn’t he? Recently I was making a Tom Waits collection for my friend/lawyer/employer Lizard Breath and I realized that between David Bowie and Tom Waits, just the 2 of them alone, have written probably 40% of all my favourite songs.
If I had to pick one song each, this year it would probably be “A Soldiers Things” by Tom Waits and “Eight Line Poem” by Bowie.

I used to wish that I could ever do anything remotely as genius as Tom. I was deep in the throes of “A Foreign Affair” and the “Tom Waits Anthology” at the time and “Burma Shave” and “Somewhere” were just slaying me. To this day his version of “Somewhere” will break me down on the spot, (I’m not much of a weeper, I’m more a leaker). For some reason, which is as muddled as any of those evocatized memory triggers we all have can be, it makes me think of the relationship I both had and didn’t have with my Mom as she was dying for 13 years. Tell me that wouldn’t kick anybody's ass.
Anyway, as I was wishing, praying and cogitating on just what made him so very exceptional, I began having great difficulty singing. In retrospect I know that the most likely reason is that I was working a phone job, as well as performing and rehearsing a lot without having had any formal training. I get this, but I find it really amusing looking back, that for all that wishing, what I ended up with was - singing like him. For two years I had chronic laryngitis. Luckily Evil Pete had been on the road for the Vertical Pillows and had learned a remedy for when the show just had to go on.

Here tis:
Separate an egg
feed the yolk to the cat or something
Stir the white and add a few drops of peppermint or wintergreen oil
Sip whenever necessary to vocalize clearly, it really works.

Here’s the drawback, as can be surmised, it tastes like holy hell. Also, I can assure you that throwing a little dark beer in only makes matters worse. For two years I had to steel myself to it on a regular basis. Gahhh. It also gives you the most peculiar peppermint burps. Of course nowadays most people are sensible enough to NOT EAT RAW EGGS on the advice of some TWIT on the inter web AREN'T THEY?

So there you have it, and I think its worth a dollar, my advice is to NEVER, EVER eat raw eggs except when you’re eating raw eggs.