I read this attack on The Beatles and I felt it needed a response even if the blogger isn't posting anymore and won't read the comment. Somehow, I think it matters. He doesn't like The Beatles. Considers Rubber Soul a piece of trash. How could I let this stand?
Here's a quote I took from him to begin my comment:
"For sure, these guys have a grand collection of incredible tunes; if only they had opted to consolidate such greatness over two or three albums instead of the numberless albums, international editions, compilations, singles, etc." -Mad Hatter
Hatter, please remove "Band Manager" from any list of future aspirations you have.
Brian Epstein managed The Fuck out these four guys who easily could've ended up playing The Cavern Club for five years and then returned to Liverpool to work in the coal mine.
The lifespan of a good/great band is ten years. Unless you are REM (talk about numberless albums) and fool everyone for 20 years then you have one decade, probably less, to make sure you don't end up opening up for a Poison tribute band in your twilight years or performing karaoke style lip-syncs like Harry Nilsson in his final days. Newsflash: Your opinion is not factored into most musician's game plan.
Surfers don't have the luxury to wait for "that one perfect wave". Surfers surf. Writers write. Musicians make music. They don't sit on the golden egg waiting for it to hatch #1 hits. It's pop art, not commissioned operas. Their career happens in real time and there were so many bands throwing down incredible albums in 1965 and 1966 that if they skip a year to ponder their craft then The Beach Boys or The Hollies or Dylan OR ANYONE basically takes their place and Let it Be and Abbey Road never get recorded. Every song on Rubber Soul is good enough to record. Are they all "Stairway to Heaven" good? No. But they're good enough to record and that's what musicians do.
That's what keeps music vital: it waits for no man. You play and record RIGHT NOW and if you are talented under the gun then you produce great music. If you can't take the heat then it all crumbles. Either way, you can't call a time out in the music business. The blitz is always on and if you need to wait for inspiration then you can collect your welfare check with everyone else. I'll pay you $5000 to write me a publishable essay on the Israel/Palestine conflict that doesn't repeat anything already written about that topic. Can you do in it the next 24 hours? A good writer can. If you need two weeks then welcome to blogsville.
The Beatles recorded for 7 years and they bowed out with dignity. It's not their fault the zeitgeist beatified them in a way The Seekers never enjoyed. Don't confuse your music reviews with your pop culture criticisms.
Eat this:
"They cried the tears, they shed the fears,
Up and down the land,
They stole guitars or used guitars
- So the tape would understand,"
It's a dirty business and I like it that way.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
Oggy is Out of Shape
I want to blame the quiche for my lack of health. This is the second quiche this week and this one has jalapeno pepper slices in it. I'm immune to peppers after eating real Mexican food for 8 months. Maybe I burned a hole in my esophagus. 
ex:
I'm bicycling past the Babe Ruth field after a tour of downtown. I'm still in my painting clothes because I don't much care what I wear. My beard covers half my chest so it's not like a clean shirt is going to make people want to shake my hand.
So I'm watching the kids play baseball and pondering my lost youth when I hear "whapwhapwhapwhapwhap" real fast over by the tennis courts where I had been practicing serves about half an hour earlier. I know that sound and it is someone hitting against the practice board. That means it's someone without a partner and I've got my racquet. So I fly over there like it's a date and I can hear by the speed, consistency and echo of the ball off the board that this person doesn't miss and is slamming the ball. And the visibility is terrible because it is 9PM. I haven't even seen them swing and I know it's a player. As I think this I see the guy flub a swing and sends the ball over the board into the court I'm in. I fetch it.
"Up for a game?"
"I'm waiting for someone but we can volley until he gets here."
I'm thrilled because I've been hitting 50-100 serves a day to practice and I haven't found a partner to impress. My beard scares everyone away.
He comes over and has a perfect top spin on every volley that makes the ball pick up speed when it hits the ground. I find myself competitively swinging for the fences and ignoring my swollen knee pain. I grunt involuntarily like Bjorn Borg in the French Open.
"You've got skills," he says as his volley sails past my gizzard. I swing and the ball hits my forearm but manages to bounce back over the net.
I want to respond but I'm out of breath.
"Yeah," is all I can sputter out.
He's got me running all over the court so I charge the net and he lobs it over me and I run back and hit it left handed. His backhand swing is with two hands and is flawless. His forehand has a nasty spin that kills it dead before my worn sneakers.
Finally, I step back to serve. This is where practice takes over. The serve is all about technique and method. It's the same motion over and over. It's the one part of the game you can control exactly, like free throws. Everything else is competition. Serves are about perfect routine. The serve is you against yourself. So, the method involves toeing the line, bouncing the ball once with my hand and once with the racquet, tossing the ball straight up with my left hand as I rock back on my heels and then eyeing the ball until it just begins to come down at which point I use my 6ft of height and 3 ft of reach to hit it at the highest point with a slight side spin so the ball doesn't take off in flight over the fence. Even though we're practicing I try to show off and I haven't mastered the serve yet so the ball goes wide. He returns it easily. My next serve is the best I can do, right down the line. He hardly moves and returns a wicked slicing ball that I merely watch sail past me because I never got in position for a return.
"I played in high school," says the guy.
After some more volleying his partner shows up and I'm flailing at the ball because my perception is failing since I'm light headed and thirsty and seeing spots as I gasp for breath. I figure we played enough points for two games (unless his serve is atrocious he won both of them), so barely half a set. and about 1/16th of a match. And I couldn't breath.
"My name is Mike. Thanks for the volley."
"Yeah....my....name....is.....Oggy.... Thanks...."
"You look pale, Oggy."
"Can't....catch....breath....need....water...."
"You need an ambulance?"
"If....I...do....then....I....deserve.....to....die."
So, I'm going to try to make this a priority. What is more important than health? If playing tennis is wrong I don't want to be right. When was the last time you were out of breath?
ex:
I'm bicycling past the Babe Ruth field after a tour of downtown. I'm still in my painting clothes because I don't much care what I wear. My beard covers half my chest so it's not like a clean shirt is going to make people want to shake my hand.
So I'm watching the kids play baseball and pondering my lost youth when I hear "whapwhapwhapwhapwhap" real fast over by the tennis courts where I had been practicing serves about half an hour earlier. I know that sound and it is someone hitting against the practice board. That means it's someone without a partner and I've got my racquet. So I fly over there like it's a date and I can hear by the speed, consistency and echo of the ball off the board that this person doesn't miss and is slamming the ball. And the visibility is terrible because it is 9PM. I haven't even seen them swing and I know it's a player. As I think this I see the guy flub a swing and sends the ball over the board into the court I'm in. I fetch it.
"Up for a game?"
"I'm waiting for someone but we can volley until he gets here."
I'm thrilled because I've been hitting 50-100 serves a day to practice and I haven't found a partner to impress. My beard scares everyone away.
He comes over and has a perfect top spin on every volley that makes the ball pick up speed when it hits the ground. I find myself competitively swinging for the fences and ignoring my swollen knee pain. I grunt involuntarily like Bjorn Borg in the French Open.
"You've got skills," he says as his volley sails past my gizzard. I swing and the ball hits my forearm but manages to bounce back over the net.
I want to respond but I'm out of breath.
"Yeah," is all I can sputter out.
He's got me running all over the court so I charge the net and he lobs it over me and I run back and hit it left handed. His backhand swing is with two hands and is flawless. His forehand has a nasty spin that kills it dead before my worn sneakers.
Finally, I step back to serve. This is where practice takes over. The serve is all about technique and method. It's the same motion over and over. It's the one part of the game you can control exactly, like free throws. Everything else is competition. Serves are about perfect routine. The serve is you against yourself. So, the method involves toeing the line, bouncing the ball once with my hand and once with the racquet, tossing the ball straight up with my left hand as I rock back on my heels and then eyeing the ball until it just begins to come down at which point I use my 6ft of height and 3 ft of reach to hit it at the highest point with a slight side spin so the ball doesn't take off in flight over the fence. Even though we're practicing I try to show off and I haven't mastered the serve yet so the ball goes wide. He returns it easily. My next serve is the best I can do, right down the line. He hardly moves and returns a wicked slicing ball that I merely watch sail past me because I never got in position for a return.
"I played in high school," says the guy.
After some more volleying his partner shows up and I'm flailing at the ball because my perception is failing since I'm light headed and thirsty and seeing spots as I gasp for breath. I figure we played enough points for two games (unless his serve is atrocious he won both of them), so barely half a set. and about 1/16th of a match. And I couldn't breath.
"My name is Mike. Thanks for the volley."
"Yeah....my....name....is.....Oggy.... Thanks...."
"You look pale, Oggy."
"Can't....catch....breath....need....water...."
"You need an ambulance?"
"If....I...do....then....I....deserve.....to....die."
So, I'm going to try to make this a priority. What is more important than health? If playing tennis is wrong I don't want to be right. When was the last time you were out of breath?
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Dancing on Graves
My brother wanted me to discuss a video from the 1980 cartoon Return of the King where some orcs sing "Where there's a whip, there's a way."
Instead, I'd like to metaphorically tie that in with this event that happened in the capital: It's really only 5 minutes long if your attention span is tested.
First of all, America isn't free. America presents itself as "Free" like Burger King presents its menu as "Food". I listened to a radio interview with Jonathan Simon a voting rights activist at the Election Defence Alliance.
Audio of the WSCA interview
Man, the lies that keep people under the boot are crazy. It's hard to know what to do when elections are not only bought and paid for but just to make sure our vote is worthless the candidates actually cheat. So, not only do you vote for people who lie in their campaign, misrepresent, suck more corporate cock than a high class hooker, and are basically thieves, but the fuckers have to rig the electronic ballots too. You can't win!
But, when I see some kids getting arrested at the Jefferson Memorial I have mixed emotions. First of all, it's a defacto demonstration because it doesn't protest anything.* It's antagonistic. They want to test the limits of free speech but they aren't actually sure what crime they are going to commit or what freedoms are being infringed until they do it. So, these aren't exactly modern day Martin Luther King activists sitting down at cafeteria benches to protest segregation. Specific goals are important in activism. This action seems very much like that "boarding" phenomenon where people take pictures of themselves laying flat in strange locations. The challenge is to do it in interesting places. Flash mod dancing is a similar phenomenon because you get to video tape it and post it on youtube and laugh a little. Flash mobs may be early rehearsal for the real revolution so they have some function. But the current challenge is to do it where there is risk involved and someone had the idea to go to the Jefferson Memorial (maybe the Lincoln Monument was closed for renovation?) The cops there are probably legitimately on guard against actual lunatics with bombs (while in a mall or McDonalds there is not the same threat or security) so their patience is about five seconds long...which is five seconds shorter than the average cop. So right there this is a disaster of a plan. If these cops drew their guns and shot five of these kids dead in order to "keep control" half the country would applaud and the other half would think it was a fake staged event or a trailer for a bad Sean Penn movie. A tiny minority would object in blogs that have no audience.
I feel that this is public property but it is also a memorial. Is it appropriate to be used as a prop for your narcissistic youtube video that clearly is empty activism?* No. Go in front of the White House. OR go somewhere a federal park patrolman with a gun is not going to warn you to leave. And, when the cop warns you to leave or face arrest, then don't be surprised if they arrest you. It's defacto activism because they are basically reacting to the warning and not to any political issue.* They couldn't even make a banner that says "Save The Ocean" or "Thomas Jefferson was Gay" to give some legitimate excuse to get arrested. No, their arrests were in defiance against the authority to arrest people. It's so muddled and pointless. A few blocks from there is a homeless camp where the cops don't arrest anyone! Basically, their desire to conquer the challenge to dance at the memorial was usurped by the cops' desire to maintain a controlled atmosphere which an appeals court ruled IS THEIR SWORN DUTY. Is this some kind of infringement of civil liberties? Let's examine that.
Here's an example: I firmly believe a major change has to take place in mankind's relationship with the environment if the Arctic wolves are to be saved. It's probably too late but I'll pretend there's hope. So, my plan is to raise awareness of the plight of the wolf through a trip to the arctic. It's important enough to take up two years of my life and the closest I've gotten is St. Louis. But, if I crossed the border illegally, something that you'll agree would be a totally harmless act when done for my purposes of reaching Ellesmere Island, then I'd be prosecuted as a federal criminal. My argument in court would be simple: "Your honor, there is no time for me to justify my plans to border police. We have to act today to save the wolves and I'm not going to let political fine print keep me from this mission. It's bigger than your laws and bigger than international borders."
Now, you'll agree that the salvation of an entire species of animal and the altering of mankind's relationship with the environment is more important than laws or international borders. (I seriously hope you agree) And you'll agree that by illegally crossing the border the only thing I've done is break a paper and ink law so we aren't talking about a major blow to Canadian Sovereignty. Am I still justified?
No. Maybe ethically I am justified but legally I'm wrong. The court would say no, there is no exemption for you, Mr. Bleacher, regardless of your self described "mission of wolf mercy". After two months in federal prison, you will serve a suspended 5 year sentence and be required to pay $15,000 in court fees, blah blah blah.
But what about the wolf? The wolf will be a footnote to my trial and my whole message will be obliterated by legalese. So, I must cross that border legally. I want Canada to welcome me with open arms even though I think it's insane that my mission is so hindered. And then I will proceed to make my video of the wolves.
So, the video of kids getting arrested actually made me laugh. They wanted to make an entertaining video and that is what they made. I particularly thought it was funny when the cop says, "This is your final warning" three or four times. hahaha. You will get three final warnings. This is your second first warning. Or when a kid says, "You hate freedom don't you?" Yeah, the cops all sit around the Washington Monument plotting the overthrow of America. They are anarchist secret agents! Revolutionary, it is not. The cops trampled on civil rights? No.
what do you think? One lawyer's opinion would be to challenge the definition of "dance" which sounds like my self-defense in the camping ban fiasco in Santa Cruz by challenging the definition of "sleep".**
Maybe I just don't care about people anymore.***
*The issue seemed to be that a recent appeals court decision declared monuments like TJ memorial places of "reflection and contemplation" not dancing or sleeping or fucking or killing. So, there might've been a point to this and I'm sure the appeals court is losing sleep that their decision caused such trauma and deprivation to these kids. Note: When the activity that gets you arrested is totally legal twenty feet away then it might be you that has the problem.
**I was embroiled in a lengthy legal battle to decriminalize poverty, specifically my poverty that led to my living rent free in the state park outside of Santa Cruz. I didn't try to get caught but the fuckers actually hunted me down with dogs deep in the forest one night. Here was a case of a city generating money with cops. But the plan backfired because most of the homeless people cited for illegal camping never paid their ticket and ended up using their bench warrant notice as toilet paper and suddenly an $82 ticket turned into a jail full of homeless people. This is one way California led to 30,000 people overflow in jails (although the private jail owners never blinked as they made money hand over fist thanks to Reagan and Bush Sr.) And it backfired even further because I personally cost that city thousands of dollars in court time and appeals and delays and making a total mockery of the court system always toeing the line of contempt with ragged clothes and a shaggy beard and long philosophical rants and a 40 page essay "IN DEFENSE OF LIBERTY" that I submitted as my affirmation of my movement to dismiss the charges. The city attorney must've laughed his ass off reading that paper but he was required to type out a response which he summed up mostly with the words, "Conspicuously absent from Mr. Bleacher's essay is a clear argument against the law itself."
Anyway, the decriminalization of poverty is a huge issue with real complaints. When poverty leads to actions that are criminal (like sleeping in your car) then you are being victimized because of your bank account. No free country would fine someone with no money because they were sleeping in their car. The funny part is that I was only one of a dozen activists who were protesting the economic hierarchy in Santa Cruz. Our response was to intentionally sleep on the sidewalks or in cardboard boxes outside the city hall to protest the law. If every homeless person who got cited for camping did the same thing as us the whole court system would've collapsed. None of this did any good but it's going to make a unique book. You'll agree it's not as frivolous as dancing at a monument but ethically it's in the same ballpark.
***True.
Instead, I'd like to metaphorically tie that in with this event that happened in the capital: It's really only 5 minutes long if your attention span is tested.
First of all, America isn't free. America presents itself as "Free" like Burger King presents its menu as "Food". I listened to a radio interview with Jonathan Simon a voting rights activist at the Election Defence Alliance.
Audio of the WSCA interview
Man, the lies that keep people under the boot are crazy. It's hard to know what to do when elections are not only bought and paid for but just to make sure our vote is worthless the candidates actually cheat. So, not only do you vote for people who lie in their campaign, misrepresent, suck more corporate cock than a high class hooker, and are basically thieves, but the fuckers have to rig the electronic ballots too. You can't win!
But, when I see some kids getting arrested at the Jefferson Memorial I have mixed emotions. First of all, it's a defacto demonstration because it doesn't protest anything.* It's antagonistic. They want to test the limits of free speech but they aren't actually sure what crime they are going to commit or what freedoms are being infringed until they do it. So, these aren't exactly modern day Martin Luther King activists sitting down at cafeteria benches to protest segregation. Specific goals are important in activism. This action seems very much like that "boarding" phenomenon where people take pictures of themselves laying flat in strange locations. The challenge is to do it in interesting places. Flash mod dancing is a similar phenomenon because you get to video tape it and post it on youtube and laugh a little. Flash mobs may be early rehearsal for the real revolution so they have some function. But the current challenge is to do it where there is risk involved and someone had the idea to go to the Jefferson Memorial (maybe the Lincoln Monument was closed for renovation?) The cops there are probably legitimately on guard against actual lunatics with bombs (while in a mall or McDonalds there is not the same threat or security) so their patience is about five seconds long...which is five seconds shorter than the average cop. So right there this is a disaster of a plan. If these cops drew their guns and shot five of these kids dead in order to "keep control" half the country would applaud and the other half would think it was a fake staged event or a trailer for a bad Sean Penn movie. A tiny minority would object in blogs that have no audience.
I feel that this is public property but it is also a memorial. Is it appropriate to be used as a prop for your narcissistic youtube video that clearly is empty activism?* No. Go in front of the White House. OR go somewhere a federal park patrolman with a gun is not going to warn you to leave. And, when the cop warns you to leave or face arrest, then don't be surprised if they arrest you. It's defacto activism because they are basically reacting to the warning and not to any political issue.* They couldn't even make a banner that says "Save The Ocean" or "Thomas Jefferson was Gay" to give some legitimate excuse to get arrested. No, their arrests were in defiance against the authority to arrest people. It's so muddled and pointless. A few blocks from there is a homeless camp where the cops don't arrest anyone! Basically, their desire to conquer the challenge to dance at the memorial was usurped by the cops' desire to maintain a controlled atmosphere which an appeals court ruled IS THEIR SWORN DUTY. Is this some kind of infringement of civil liberties? Let's examine that.
Here's an example: I firmly believe a major change has to take place in mankind's relationship with the environment if the Arctic wolves are to be saved. It's probably too late but I'll pretend there's hope. So, my plan is to raise awareness of the plight of the wolf through a trip to the arctic. It's important enough to take up two years of my life and the closest I've gotten is St. Louis. But, if I crossed the border illegally, something that you'll agree would be a totally harmless act when done for my purposes of reaching Ellesmere Island, then I'd be prosecuted as a federal criminal. My argument in court would be simple: "Your honor, there is no time for me to justify my plans to border police. We have to act today to save the wolves and I'm not going to let political fine print keep me from this mission. It's bigger than your laws and bigger than international borders."
Now, you'll agree that the salvation of an entire species of animal and the altering of mankind's relationship with the environment is more important than laws or international borders. (I seriously hope you agree) And you'll agree that by illegally crossing the border the only thing I've done is break a paper and ink law so we aren't talking about a major blow to Canadian Sovereignty. Am I still justified?
No. Maybe ethically I am justified but legally I'm wrong. The court would say no, there is no exemption for you, Mr. Bleacher, regardless of your self described "mission of wolf mercy". After two months in federal prison, you will serve a suspended 5 year sentence and be required to pay $15,000 in court fees, blah blah blah.
But what about the wolf? The wolf will be a footnote to my trial and my whole message will be obliterated by legalese. So, I must cross that border legally. I want Canada to welcome me with open arms even though I think it's insane that my mission is so hindered. And then I will proceed to make my video of the wolves.
So, the video of kids getting arrested actually made me laugh. They wanted to make an entertaining video and that is what they made. I particularly thought it was funny when the cop says, "This is your final warning" three or four times. hahaha. You will get three final warnings. This is your second first warning. Or when a kid says, "You hate freedom don't you?" Yeah, the cops all sit around the Washington Monument plotting the overthrow of America. They are anarchist secret agents! Revolutionary, it is not. The cops trampled on civil rights? No.
what do you think? One lawyer's opinion would be to challenge the definition of "dance" which sounds like my self-defense in the camping ban fiasco in Santa Cruz by challenging the definition of "sleep".**
Maybe I just don't care about people anymore.***
*The issue seemed to be that a recent appeals court decision declared monuments like TJ memorial places of "reflection and contemplation" not dancing or sleeping or fucking or killing. So, there might've been a point to this and I'm sure the appeals court is losing sleep that their decision caused such trauma and deprivation to these kids. Note: When the activity that gets you arrested is totally legal twenty feet away then it might be you that has the problem.
**I was embroiled in a lengthy legal battle to decriminalize poverty, specifically my poverty that led to my living rent free in the state park outside of Santa Cruz. I didn't try to get caught but the fuckers actually hunted me down with dogs deep in the forest one night. Here was a case of a city generating money with cops. But the plan backfired because most of the homeless people cited for illegal camping never paid their ticket and ended up using their bench warrant notice as toilet paper and suddenly an $82 ticket turned into a jail full of homeless people. This is one way California led to 30,000 people overflow in jails (although the private jail owners never blinked as they made money hand over fist thanks to Reagan and Bush Sr.) And it backfired even further because I personally cost that city thousands of dollars in court time and appeals and delays and making a total mockery of the court system always toeing the line of contempt with ragged clothes and a shaggy beard and long philosophical rants and a 40 page essay "IN DEFENSE OF LIBERTY" that I submitted as my affirmation of my movement to dismiss the charges. The city attorney must've laughed his ass off reading that paper but he was required to type out a response which he summed up mostly with the words, "Conspicuously absent from Mr. Bleacher's essay is a clear argument against the law itself."
Anyway, the decriminalization of poverty is a huge issue with real complaints. When poverty leads to actions that are criminal (like sleeping in your car) then you are being victimized because of your bank account. No free country would fine someone with no money because they were sleeping in their car. The funny part is that I was only one of a dozen activists who were protesting the economic hierarchy in Santa Cruz. Our response was to intentionally sleep on the sidewalks or in cardboard boxes outside the city hall to protest the law. If every homeless person who got cited for camping did the same thing as us the whole court system would've collapsed. None of this did any good but it's going to make a unique book. You'll agree it's not as frivolous as dancing at a monument but ethically it's in the same ballpark.
***True.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Lame post on Last Day of May
This staircase is my nemesis now. There is a good reason it hasn't been painted in ten years. It's like painting a Rubic's Cube that has been unscrambled and you have to visualize which parts will need paint and how you can reach them. Furthermore, I'm the worst painter in the world as several of you have witnessed. I think I abide by the Russ Peach law of painting which is, "never paint anything that you can drip motor oil on so the horses don't chew it." Unfortunately, Russ was one of a kind.
And when the hell did paint start costing $46 a gallon? Holy shit! I'm convinced anyone paying $46 out of their pocket HAS NO VALUE FOR MONEY BECAUSE THEY DON'T EARN IT. Not a chance in hell would a normal person who actually gets paid for their labor inch by inch with zero gray area (you produce or get paid nothing) pay $46 for one gallon of paint. Only a lawyer who gets paid win or lose would casually say, "I think we'll paint the porch this summer."
Yeah, if a painter worked on those same principles they would spill 50% of the paint in your toilet and still get paid $75K a year.
$46 dollars?? That was the cheap paint. I wouldn't even trust someone who gets their house painted because there is no way an honest dollar is being spent on super expensive paint. Not a chance in hell. They're probably running guns to Al Qaeda.
As for this project, I'm going to use $100 worth of paint, tops, and if that gets me to the last flight of stairs then I'm going to stop and write a big sign that says, "PAINT IS TOO DAMN EXPENSIVE" and leave it bare wood. $46 is a joke for a gallon of paint. Each brush stroke is like $2 worth of paint. Sherman Williams might as well have a cover charge to get in the door.
End of Rant.
Tonight, although I wanted to get spinach and tofu tacos at Dos Amigos I am conserving money (let's ignore the $14 worth of White Russians I wasted watching the Red Sox lose).
So, it was the old standby of vegetable stir fry and buckwheat soba noodles.
I overcooked the noodles and the frozen vegetables were tasteless. So I dumped salt on them and they tasted like salt.
Luckily, the chicken man delivered Faahm Fresh eggs so I made a deep dish ham and cheese and broccoli quiche. Together, the noodles, tofu and quiche made a dinner I could stomach.
Moving forward, the chances of me resisting the urge to get ice cream downtown at one of the three boutique scoop stores is very slim. I feel the diabetes and fat belly approaching but I have to have a cone of ice cream. Maybe a hot fudge sundae. Did I tell you all about Ted Drewes Frozen Custard in St. Louis? Custard is ice cream with 10% buttermilk, 2% egg whites and less than 20% overrun air. IT'S 100% AWESOME. I ate so much that my gut jiggles when I run up to the donut shop. I now wear suspenders to keep my britches up. They don't have custard here but my craving is beyond measure along with my hypertension. If they made white russian flavored frozen custard I think I'd die.
And when the hell did paint start costing $46 a gallon? Holy shit! I'm convinced anyone paying $46 out of their pocket HAS NO VALUE FOR MONEY BECAUSE THEY DON'T EARN IT. Not a chance in hell would a normal person who actually gets paid for their labor inch by inch with zero gray area (you produce or get paid nothing) pay $46 for one gallon of paint. Only a lawyer who gets paid win or lose would casually say, "I think we'll paint the porch this summer."
Yeah, if a painter worked on those same principles they would spill 50% of the paint in your toilet and still get paid $75K a year.
$46 dollars?? That was the cheap paint. I wouldn't even trust someone who gets their house painted because there is no way an honest dollar is being spent on super expensive paint. Not a chance in hell. They're probably running guns to Al Qaeda.
As for this project, I'm going to use $100 worth of paint, tops, and if that gets me to the last flight of stairs then I'm going to stop and write a big sign that says, "PAINT IS TOO DAMN EXPENSIVE" and leave it bare wood. $46 is a joke for a gallon of paint. Each brush stroke is like $2 worth of paint. Sherman Williams might as well have a cover charge to get in the door.
End of Rant.
Tonight, although I wanted to get spinach and tofu tacos at Dos Amigos I am conserving money (let's ignore the $14 worth of White Russians I wasted watching the Red Sox lose).
So, it was the old standby of vegetable stir fry and buckwheat soba noodles.
I overcooked the noodles and the frozen vegetables were tasteless. So I dumped salt on them and they tasted like salt.
Luckily, the chicken man delivered Faahm Fresh eggs so I made a deep dish ham and cheese and broccoli quiche. Together, the noodles, tofu and quiche made a dinner I could stomach.
Moving forward, the chances of me resisting the urge to get ice cream downtown at one of the three boutique scoop stores is very slim. I feel the diabetes and fat belly approaching but I have to have a cone of ice cream. Maybe a hot fudge sundae. Did I tell you all about Ted Drewes Frozen Custard in St. Louis? Custard is ice cream with 10% buttermilk, 2% egg whites and less than 20% overrun air. IT'S 100% AWESOME. I ate so much that my gut jiggles when I run up to the donut shop. I now wear suspenders to keep my britches up. They don't have custard here but my craving is beyond measure along with my hypertension. If they made white russian flavored frozen custard I think I'd die.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Portsmouth Poem II
I say these words to the red brick sidewalks, the tourist shops and the broken Indian promises: walk softly and carry a big wallet because Portsmouth traps the rats with the big hair and the plastic cards that go "pop!"
Whisper to each other in the now illuminated alleys where the fingers found flesh and the knives dug deep. The ghosts of those dead colonists walk among your recyclable sushi boxes.
Fog lies low on the wide river hiding the flood tide from all eyes except the sleepless lobster boat captains in their rented Maine shacks.
The summer shorts have been freed from their winter prisons and Oggy has an eye full of legs on waitresses back from college to pay off loans and pay for the gas to drive them from Rochester to where the tips roll in for low cut shirts like the tide off Four Tree Island.
Two kids are playing a grudge match 1 on 1 basketball game at the foggy south street courts, the only figures alive tonight as the great white spaceship knocks out eleven warnings to those souls left unsaved in the great tip off between God and Satan. Satan is taller but God has the longer reach.
Change is the mandate in Portsmouth. You can hear it in the wind through my gray beard and the worn nubs on my swollen fingertips as they drum a plaintive rhythm on the wholesome granite curbstones your taxes paid for so every street in Portsmouth is now only wide enough for one car. Way to go city planners! Or maybe they are smarter than I know and plan for the days when cars are outlawed and these streets are plenty wide for electric bicycles purring along in utopian bliss as cats and mice play in lawns of cauliflower.
These brick sidewalks have been my bed and my roof, my friend and my savior over the years. Don't you spit on them in disrespect as they gave birth to freedom in a time when Lobster rolls wasn't a delicate dish to eat with your martini but something a sea creature did when it died. Walk proud on my brick streets and if you must vomit your frothy blue ribbon then do so with dignity and in the morning say a prayer to Mather von Strawberry who brewed the first keg of beer on these shores and died from botulism.
Awake ye draft beer drinkers and rejoice because your worries will soon be buried in the new baseball field near the junior high school, buried deep beneath the old bleachers that will be the stage for a new generation of romance and betrayal and wins and losses. Dig all you want but your accumulated conquests will never be found: First base with Rose McCorley in a tent near the Sagamore river. Her wet lips on yours. Her breath like a hurricane electrifying your sexually challenged brain. The second base gravestone of fleshy globes, forbidden in a seaweed jungle near New Castle. Reaching Third Base on Pierce Island with a girl whose name you never knew but the gleam in her eyes was irresistible and that Bruce Springsteen song you both knew the words to brought you together in a blissful embrace that dissolved with the sobriety of the eastern sun's rising heat. And the home run in your parent's bed when they were out of town on a teacher's conference with the girl of your dreams who would marry a systems analyst from college but who did pretend to love you at that moment and it was enough. You made it sweet and the scoreboard is gone, along with all the bases, now in an out of town dump. Those bleachers where you first made eye contact with the shy girl who had just moved to town have been trucked to the dump leaving behind a freshly dug field with good memory drainage. All those initials and hearts carved into the wood are gone too but a new crop of games will be played.
Even the old houses get face lifts. Dust isn't welcome among the living. Visit a museum if you want to see the past because the walking dead, pale and bent before the gravity of disease and war will, nonetheless, obey their biological imperative to live until their last breath is ripped from their lungs. In all the games of baseball I've seen at the holy Leary Field I've never witnessed a batter walk back to the dugout before taking a third strike. No one ever gives up in Portsmouth.
Whisper to each other in the now illuminated alleys where the fingers found flesh and the knives dug deep. The ghosts of those dead colonists walk among your recyclable sushi boxes.
Fog lies low on the wide river hiding the flood tide from all eyes except the sleepless lobster boat captains in their rented Maine shacks.
The summer shorts have been freed from their winter prisons and Oggy has an eye full of legs on waitresses back from college to pay off loans and pay for the gas to drive them from Rochester to where the tips roll in for low cut shirts like the tide off Four Tree Island.
Two kids are playing a grudge match 1 on 1 basketball game at the foggy south street courts, the only figures alive tonight as the great white spaceship knocks out eleven warnings to those souls left unsaved in the great tip off between God and Satan. Satan is taller but God has the longer reach.
Change is the mandate in Portsmouth. You can hear it in the wind through my gray beard and the worn nubs on my swollen fingertips as they drum a plaintive rhythm on the wholesome granite curbstones your taxes paid for so every street in Portsmouth is now only wide enough for one car. Way to go city planners! Or maybe they are smarter than I know and plan for the days when cars are outlawed and these streets are plenty wide for electric bicycles purring along in utopian bliss as cats and mice play in lawns of cauliflower.
These brick sidewalks have been my bed and my roof, my friend and my savior over the years. Don't you spit on them in disrespect as they gave birth to freedom in a time when Lobster rolls wasn't a delicate dish to eat with your martini but something a sea creature did when it died. Walk proud on my brick streets and if you must vomit your frothy blue ribbon then do so with dignity and in the morning say a prayer to Mather von Strawberry who brewed the first keg of beer on these shores and died from botulism.
Awake ye draft beer drinkers and rejoice because your worries will soon be buried in the new baseball field near the junior high school, buried deep beneath the old bleachers that will be the stage for a new generation of romance and betrayal and wins and losses. Dig all you want but your accumulated conquests will never be found: First base with Rose McCorley in a tent near the Sagamore river. Her wet lips on yours. Her breath like a hurricane electrifying your sexually challenged brain. The second base gravestone of fleshy globes, forbidden in a seaweed jungle near New Castle. Reaching Third Base on Pierce Island with a girl whose name you never knew but the gleam in her eyes was irresistible and that Bruce Springsteen song you both knew the words to brought you together in a blissful embrace that dissolved with the sobriety of the eastern sun's rising heat. And the home run in your parent's bed when they were out of town on a teacher's conference with the girl of your dreams who would marry a systems analyst from college but who did pretend to love you at that moment and it was enough. You made it sweet and the scoreboard is gone, along with all the bases, now in an out of town dump. Those bleachers where you first made eye contact with the shy girl who had just moved to town have been trucked to the dump leaving behind a freshly dug field with good memory drainage. All those initials and hearts carved into the wood are gone too but a new crop of games will be played.
Even the old houses get face lifts. Dust isn't welcome among the living. Visit a museum if you want to see the past because the walking dead, pale and bent before the gravity of disease and war will, nonetheless, obey their biological imperative to live until their last breath is ripped from their lungs. In all the games of baseball I've seen at the holy Leary Field I've never witnessed a batter walk back to the dugout before taking a third strike. No one ever gives up in Portsmouth.
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