Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Vain Hobo Coughs Up Bloody Phlegm

No more excuses, thought Oggy, as the rain breached his final defenses, the tarp made of dream fabric and recycled self torment, bound by Lenin-stitches and Marxist thread. The bay leaf stump was not going to be the end of his fruit and nut utopia, no. In fact, the entire pre-conceived cliché, his use of the philosophically commercialized term “Project” to describe his activities was part of the problem. The roots, Socrates wisely taught, were always the ultimate source of failure or success and Oggy’s fruit and nut utopia project was no different. Once Oggy had defined the objective as a “project” then it could never evolve into a reality. It was a project, like a defeated era of the 1960s, an experiment in idealism, media-enhanced, subjugated by commercial terms, co-opted, ethically plagiarized from a failed and poisoned culture and that was why it had failed to gain support. The re-imagined Fruit and Nut Collective began to hover on the immediate horizon of Oggy’s soggy vision, mice and earth worms forming his immediate army. The disdainful golf course crawling with pastel pants and false teeth, the elitist and whore-filled crystal clubhouse, the awful, disgraceful “seafood” restaurant, literally buried in the rotting corpses of crustaceans and coerced butter sauce, must be appropriated for future generations…Oggy saw no other solution. The land was ideal for the Collective and had access to the seaside mansions that would also be appropriated for common housing during the revolution. The cursed elite of Santa Cruz were snug in their usurped houses while the exploited Ohlone Indians crouched in homeless shelter tents…the forecast called for Justice.
Oggy winced gravely as he shifted his meatless hips on the bed of crushed redwood leaves and re-purposed artichoke leaves. His throat was raw with disappointment and bacteria but his eyes remained focused on the future where love songs were authentic, sung around a healing fire, the light pollution that obscured the stars would be part of a discredited past. The alternative, Oggy knew, was a continued decline into a commoditized psuedo-culture where the indiscriminate price tag and the catchy slogan on the painted lips of the trashy spokeswoman was gospel to a bewildered congregation of flash mob boot lickers and pop culture tampon dispensers; fruit flavored toiletries, pre-tarnished jewelry, travel-sized ethics, lion shredded jeans, bears shitting out coffee beans for the smug elite morning cups. Oggy shuddered from acute disgust: Civilization was already collapsing, obviously, as the divide between the elite and the field hands grew more and more obtuse. So, against all odds, he would rally support for the fruit and nut collective, the antithesis of the awful decline into internet masturbation chat rooms and fertile land forever poisoned by dental products and wasted, rotting IHOP pancakes.
In the morning, rain or shine, throbbing prostate pain or not, Oggy vowed to camp outside City Hall, abstain from food, surviving only on the plentiful rainwater, until he could impress upon the blind Council members that the golf course property must be returned to the starving people. Oggy’s legs had fallen asleep in the crooked positing the tree stump forced him to lay and his neck ached and his prostate pulsed with infection and alarm…all these details gave him strength because a fight was only worth fighting if the stakes were life and death. Oggy had his Spanish Street School to consider, and the weekly vegetable pickup at the Farmer’s Market and his piano recital at the nursing home, but he believed these playful activities would not hinder his important mission to further the advancement of ultimate submission by the unconscionable dominant McGovernment. God, everything Oggy thought sounded like a manifesto, but he couldn’t help it. He was vain, he admitted and his pine bough mattress was an awful affront to environmental sovereignty. He might as well have dug up a cemetery and build a hammock factory on the rotting bones of Spanish priests.

Fool On Piano

This is too self-pitying to be totally accurate to my current situation but I couldn't help it. The song and the lonely piano player and the white walls, barred windows like a prison...I don't know...it works as a self-pity anthem...which I have sung proudly more than once. But I'm actually relaxing, eating exotic food...I have my whole life to live here in Puebla...I have postponed my masterpiece for too long and am trying to motivate my disdain. But notice the flat finger technique that I now use on the keys...this is Erroll Garner's influence and the sustain pedal is no longer treated like a throttle on a VW Beetle with a bad ignition coil. The angst and agony of traveling with a full sized keyboard that has to sleep in my bed until I need it was the definition of frustration. Imagine moving a piano every night and morning for a year when you need to lay down or get a tool to fix your aged van or moped. It was done with one objective in mind: me alone with a piano and time to kill. Now I have this objective met and I can hear the maturity and vain arrogance on display in my playing. What kind of fool am I? That's a difficult question to answer, but it's a good question to ask.

This tune is in my fakebook and I don't have a good story of why I'm playing it. I turned the page and read the lyrics and thought, "Hey, this sounds like someone I know." The jazz standards are like that. This horrible windows movie maker credits feature was the only way I could figure out how to get all the lyrics to scroll up...but it forced me to break them into two columns so there are odd spaces that make it look like I was trying to write poetry from someone else's words. I'm not that pretentious so I blame Bill Gates.
I tried to pick up the tempo on the 2nd verse...but it's too advanced and also it isn't even the right approach when I consider the words and the mood of this song. It is not a dance tune with fingers snapping like the sweaty young turks on Hollywood Blvd. scoring crystal meth. It's about self pity and should be played like a noose is somewhere nearby. The Great Sammy Davis Jr. recorded a strong performance of this show tune.

Pastures of Heaven

Zeta Cartel Employee Hard at Work in Cocaine Field... Scares 400 million Americans away with 20 year old garden tool.

It is a relief to return to the road weary blog...carburetor dust in my lungs...jarritos soda on my parched lips...torta sándwich remnants in my clogged colon. Setinbeck´s book was kind of titled as a mockery of the truth...the poverty and violence and earthlike symbolism...Heaven is where you find it is one message to be construed from Steinbeck´s tales. 5 Years ago I decided I would go to Puebla, Mexico and it took 5 years to get here after a troubled expedition to the Northern Lakes of Labrador. I might set down and write the last 5 years out...it has been unusual.

I knew I had arrived in Mecca when I saw this Wall painting. I can wear my belt buckle proudly here.
 I hope no one has used the 2nd person generic in the past week. I have my spies everywhere so I will know.
Is it good luck when a butterfly photobombs your volcano selfie?
This is a nice puebla in Puebla. There is a volcano that I think is active...the legend is that the volcano is a fire kept by a god to warm his sleeping lover who is laying next to the volcano. I think the monotheistic approach makes things simpler but was it so intollerable to The Spanish having Huehuecoyotl as a God of dance and music?
Oggy in a previous life.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.