I dreamed I took pictures

Sometimes I see Advanced News and use my tie clip camera.


"Behind the glass frame is a portrait of three stacked targets in front of a backdrop of thick red and white stripes wrapped in a soft glow that hints at an approaching dusk. The scene is slightly patriotic, slightly menacing, simultaneously evoking pride and suspicion."

Here is the prize winner.

more of the article...

Old Dylan (the young man)

I noted in a previous post that Sean at Right Wing Bob has an article published in The Weekly Standard. It's now online one jump from here. Titled "What Dylan Is Not".

Now, I am a fan of the old man Dylan, since ruining my friend Zigfield's copy of Street Legal, but here is something special. It is a Dylan appearence on the Steve Allen Show, singing "Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll".

I just watch and think my gosh, no wonder. Such self-confidence. He took them all by storm. He can sing, too, what are you talking about. He's as good as Caruso, man! And when he was drunk , knew it and said so. (You should hear him hold a note while singing "I Don't Believe You" on the Live '66 album.)

Such a compelling story too, well told, oddly told...

Anyway, here it is from the Magic youtube.com

From 1964, enjoy...



Here is a Mother Jones' article on William Zantzinger.

Introducing Puck

This is my wee future biographer, and namesake. (I imagine he will want to know who he was named after and after a little google investigation will become very curious about this humpty dumpty man.) (Plus, by then I'll already be somewhat famous just for my public speaking at various chautauquas).

He is my phooka's son, and therefore I guess he's a puck, or possibly a boga. You can't tell by the picture neccesarily but in person he takes on the appearence of the ideal baba. Perfectly formed, good natured, serene old soul.

"Oogi goo wabi googie, ba gada dadada!" he comments. 'Let me say this about that', he is saying in baba slang. 'It's all good.'

I guess what you do is put aside 1/4 of your crop for him and all is well forever and ever.



His mother is very intelligent and I think you can tell by this picture that he is too.

"Look. I'm ready. And you all just stand there talking. Closing the door soon?"

When he looks at me I kinda jump and then go :-| and :-D, with embarrasment. Like it's me who's got him into this world, like I know what's up. Nuh, uh. I met your mama when you were already on the way. Conjured her up, I think sometimes.

Florie has to fight for the Puck. Long sad story. I'm on her side, knowing all the details both from her and from third parties.

All in all it's been a fast week, and I'm reflecting that life is unfairly easy for me. There was some yin, there was some yang. My scar is coming along nicely, refusing to heal, looking more like there was a scuffle at a floating craps game.

When the nurse removed the stitches she stepped back and told an aide to go get a doctor.
The doctor came and said go get the doctor who did this.
HAHA, you think I make this up. Then they were all talking to me at once, like they were business people explaining how, now, this happened, but it's not that bad really. They said it may be infected, maybe not, and I got another three weeks worth of anti-biotics at a special mark-up. (Good God, I was planning on spending this money to make Florie's apartment my second media home. And buying a car.) (I'm saying the pills, they are expensive!)

Work blows, though. Even just 28 hours spread lightly over six days, it leaf blows. I'm not even in the main coliseum with the stitchers and inserters, and the racket is somehow always on it's way to an uproar. Very aggravating if you let it aggravate you, which you mustn't. Today I was thinking again: 40 hours here, no sir, I wouldn't like it. (Another drawback is that I will have to give up Returns if I go full time, for some reason. I'd be on line every day, all day, shifting my weight from one leg to the other turning my will over to God over and over.

I've just recieved a call from Florie. She wants to know how much Droopy I can find in the vaults of You Tube. I think that's a fine idea. I've already found another episode of Red Dwarf for her too. But for now we both work and can't have our late nights.

New York Times to Topeka Day, tomorrow, then a day off for me. Maybe not for her. She always recites her schedule for me a whole five days ahead at least, and I'm only asking about tomorrow and stop listening. They change her schedule a lot anyway, always adding more hours it seems.

Makes her happy, which makes me happy, though perplexed.

thanks for visiting, then!

Garfield Pajama-Night-night bandage

I get the stitches out tomorrow. It changes everyday but so far I'm liking the scar. It's like a mean nick after some friendly Prussian fencing, back in the school days of the young Krup. But I'm afraid it's getting better. Yes, everyday, even a little smaller, drat.

I don't have a doctor's excuse for those two days off work. Need a scar at least.

Sent Mrs. Anonydoc a pic and she wrote back she thought that, by the way I talked, she thought I'd be in a full head wrap.

Man I resented that. Want to lash back somehow...

She turns 00 this year, did you know?

OW! I feel bad. Zeroed that out like an odometer. No, she's not turning a hundred. Yet. She will be someday though. (Hope I'm still around but I doubt it, men in my family tend to drop down the chute around 65).

Nice day and week for me so far. No one's jumping at me anyway. The Imaginary has been staying over since one of the brethren bicycled away one afternoon last week. (My room mate, good luck, Ralphie boy.) She works 12 hour days and her gas is shut off and anyway the walk home from her work isn't so safe now that it's dark.

She's turning out to be quite talkative, did I tell you? I thought she'd let her hair down about four months ago, but I guess not. And she's happy-chatty, sort of like a girl having a snack after school. All these NAMES , this cast of characters she's got from two jobs and relatives from broken families and foster families. I love her because she'll stop all of a sudden and say "Hey, you're not paying attention!" but she isn't mad. And there are duplicate names I'm supposed to remember. Travis, which Travis? Leslie? And strange names, black po' folk names, Eastern Euro names, family names like they call the wind , WHO?

Garrulous Phooka. It's like when you're dreaming you're reading a book and it occurs to you , what the hell i'm making all this up! And then it's like, no wait this is real.

"Travis called in sick, says a relative died, third funeral in one month he works at Gebes too , they haven't seen him in a month at all but he's still employed there I don't know how... but you know what Leslie says, short Leslie i mean, the one who said you're lucky to have me for a girlfriend, haha! she says it's probably his second cousin once removed now twice removed. Sheila and I laughed and laughed at that. So he's getting fired I'm sure. Candy is going to be so glad, she can't stand Travis. I can't wait to tell her, she's off this week though because of that one thing you know. The Problem."

The Problem?

"You know, the problem with Travis."

"Travis? Wait a minute."

"No, no, I mean the other Travis, her boyfriend. You're not listening are you?"

I feel good having her around. She'll watch anything on TV and fall asleep with me to any old time radio shows I leave playing (she says they help her sleep because she thinks too much). What a dream boat.

I make a play list just before turning out the lights. Start out with Elmer Davis giving a nine minute commentary on Germany's march into France, que to a Blondie and Dagwood 30 radio comedy, then Amos and Andy, Jack Benny being visited by the I.R.S., Jack Benny losing Ronald Coleman's Oscar, then back to William L. Shirer in Berlin for CBS to remind us what decade we're in and that it's Mankind in Hell. Then some more Amos and Andy because it is the most quiet radio program , and calm and lightly amusing. Of course she's asleep by then.

And then it's hard to believe but the morning comes and , my god, she's got to go back to another 12 hour day. I'm not trying to sound funny when I say it kinda hurts to have to wake her up. Like, delivering bad news. But then, she's not like me. All this over-time represents Good PlentifulTimes for her and her baby boy, who is being cared for by a teacher freind.

Yeah, Florie. I love her. She doesn't read this. Knows where it is, but doesn't. I like that, for some reason. I guess that she likes me in person and I don't have to re-interpret myself in print for her.

She's not here tonight to see the Garfield badge she gave me this afternoon, though. Can't have a slumber party every night, then it's not as special, the la choy egg rolls and other kid snacks aren't as fun. You can't have those every night or it'd be like Saturday night every night and you'd start to notice: where is everyone? what happened to people??

And that'd be scary like a Friday creature feature.

_____ ____ Bob !

Our friend at my favorite erudite, watchful Bob Dylan protection site has had an article published by the Weekly Standard! How about that! It's not available to the proletariate (ow, i cringe when Dylan sings that line in Workingman's Blues) but there is an excerpt on the _____ ____ Bob site.

Oh all right. "Right Wing Bob". :-D

And it wasn't called "Untitled"

Renee won first prize in Our university Town's Photography competition. This is The ARts WEek here or something.

I knew it! I knew it I knew it I knew it. If people ever saw one of her holgas they'd surrender money and ribbons.

I drove over and she and Pa and I spent half an hour going through her portfolio online, selecting our own favorites to see close up.

Later at the reception I'm surprised how many familiar faces I see from the Sunrise Sober At Seven Group. The woman explaining the judges' reasoning to Renee didn't acknowledge me, not even a farkin' wink, and I hated her with a fury you shouldn't believe because that's too strong a word. I resented her though. And I'm not doing a fourth step over it.

The Bank hosting this served Hawaiian Punch and cookies. I didn't want any.

After trying to stay as close to our star as I could, wanting to be seen with her, I finally gave up because, you know, that never works. So after walking through the exhibition going "phhht" at every picture and giving people my up and down skeptical look, I stepped outside to blow some smoke.

Decided to take some pictures of my own.







I didn't notice that lovely red hair until I got the picture home. (Gaaa, aaaah..."love's not an evil thing"...) Probably paying too much attention to that invader from Mars.


Great, memorable occasion of course. I was sorry the Phooka was at work, she'd have been impressed anyway.

I went back in and found Renee admiring a small close-up photo of a blade of grass or something. She said she could probably do that and I thought: "??" because I just don't understand visual artists.

Renee's photo passed two tests: the first was that it was the one she chose to present. The second was when the judge said it was the best.

Earlier she had to explain it to me, granting that it was subjective--- just as I was thinking finally, no, it's not subjective because it passed two tests, not just one.

She explained then why she chose that particular photo to exhibit (with one other). I began to see what she meant, which was a goose.

I know what I like but I want to know what's Good, and why. I get this flickering of understanding sometimes of the Bible. Or I'll get something about a Dylan song lyric and it's like understanding a different type of intelligence, even a higher intelligence (that's the goose, see?) So I appreciated that.

What else, since I last wrote? Mrs. Applebones got a fan letter, that's something else. Some guy from New York who likes Robert Benchley, so he can't be all too bad, and it makes sense he'd like her style.

Tomorrow, I've decided to return to work. This little outpatient procedure of mine was too successful, and for sympathy I finally had to take a picture of myself and send it to my mother, who wrote back "great pic!" Just enough too-much-love to feel it evaporate. Then she continued from last letter about my Aunt Wilma, they tried to get committed once. Haha! Wilma is smarter than them all. We enjoy that.

First they cover your eyes

It's like having a toothache outside your face. I require a shot of love or demoral, preferably demoral.



Anonydoc is dismissive, says do I really expect prescription pain killers for an intradermal inclusion excision. Says to the effect, who are you kidding get an ice pack.

I said it's like someone stabbed me with a fork during lunch. Hell, that's exactly what happened.

Do you know when you get stabbed, it feels more like pressure than a cut. I was awake when they put a tube in my chest (20 years ago) for a collapsed lung. Knife felt more like a heavy stone.

Ah, the mysteries of my suffering. My mind is little disordered, you'll excuse me, but sympathetic women make up for it all. If only I could find one.

The Pooka, she likes to make me laugh, which causes me to go 'ow, god dammit'.
______
Anyway the bandage after this will be a Spiderman or Capt. America one. I've got all sorts for when I go back to work someday.

i'm happy except for all your troubles

"Me too," she said.

Just passing by as my Pooka has business downtown (haha,cute). Never mind that sign, what kind of flowers are these orange flowers? And don't say "orange flowers". They're very pretty and unexpected (by me!)


Turn the corner here...


Oh. No. This is just wrong. It looks photo-shopped in real life, sorta. Gee whiz. I wonder what a Youseum is.


Then, "no I don't".

Moving along. About being 'dry drunk', let me say this about that.

Oh my stars and bars there's a new favorite expression. "let me say this about that". It will replace the now worn, "because you know why?"

Step 12 is about how we keep our sobriety by doing what the group has come to call "service work" with another addict or alcoholic. I'm discovering that you can leave the other alcoholic out of it. Let them fend for themselves, God looks after drunks and small children (say meh).

I drive and wait during emergencies, and Florrie has plenty, so I've been getting out, always with my camera ready in case I find another camera enthusiast like the local news girl here...


photo from a post-modern day I had once years ago


Getting away from this insalubrious dorter seems to give me better peripheral vision. I've long thought that depression sort of narrows it.

I mean on nice days like this especially, when you're not trudging to work or your destiny, just out and about with a pooka who has a team of lawyers and social workers (haha, cute!) working something out; Not really having anything to do with the day's business except to marvel at the slack.

I'm poorly dressed and unshaved, my hairs like hat hair... just like I was at work. But nope, I'm not, I'm free a lot this week!

Is it service work? Naw, too easy. But it's plentiful even outside the recovery movement. And this is unlike me, let me tell you. I could have been home listening to Dylan's "Love And Theft" still,

with lyrics like this:

There ain't no limit
to the amount of trouble women bring
Love is pleasing,
love is teasing,
love's not an evil thing

Dry (drunk) as a bone on Sunday

Waiting in Hospital City. This is a before and after picture, I was angry when I snapped it and angry after. (Look at that. Bad neglect, nature taking over. In a better frame of mind, I'd see some humor maybe. The experiment within an iron gate, with signs like grave markers. Surprise, the corn prevails.)

I'm starting to wonder again, what was my escape plan, surely I had some way out, even a compromise, what was it? Because this is 15 months now.

Same time next week

In the lobby of the paper, with my special telephone camera.



Closer inspection. All this month, every Thursday:



Twilight Festival, eeeeee, Florie it's that time again. We'll eat at Booches, cheese burgers served in wax paper, best in town, and we'll watch the local famous people.

Mingle together. Yes, only with one other.

You animate me. I like that. Today I got on bad terms with a co-worker and then I was publicly vindicated. Don't let anyone tell you that isn't a good feeling. Even if we are on even worse terms now. Today was funny, how was yours.

We'll walk from the armory through the crowds of the courthouse forum, down Cherry street past tattoo parlors (wondering how did tattoo parlors become hang-outs.)

So crowded past the film house and coffee shop, got to take your hand so we're single file. When the crowd thins it's so people can dance to a street corner band.

This is a long walk. I didn't think of that, do your feet hurt? Oh, that's right, you're on them all day and you walk to and from work, what am I thinking. You should be asking me how my shoes fit then.

Pretty good! I just slip 'em on now, don't have to tie 'em.

Continuing daily with one accord

Someone just referred to the year 2007 and i thought, that's YEARS from now. First mention of 2007 I've ever heard. In my entire life.

It's a year lost in rumpled bed sheets, or down the couch cushions.

Maybe a piece of candy someone put in their mouth, didn't like, and just now put back in the box.

2007 sounds benign. We'll just have to wait and see. 2007.

Today I'm all the more aware of having no energy or ambition, no dreams or hopes. It's a Dry Alcoholic malady, I'm sure, no reason to worry. Everyday is not the same thing.

I was shopping in a pawn shop, one of those doubly offensive for putting on a family-friendly appearance. I have never shopped hock, and I felt the presence of guns and ammo but none were to be seen. I was looking for a Tv and a microwave and found some reasonably priced---well, Walmart priced, I should go there of course.

The clocks will fall back sometime. Since I never know when that's going to happen, I make it worse for myself, and besides the sun is going down too soon as it is, and there is that slant of afternoon light that for some reason makes me hate my parents, brothers and sisters. (I think it turns me into a misogynist too. Yes, women get the worst of it, the ones I loved.)

Good Lord! Am I the guy who hates Autumn, yes I am, that's me all right.

So usually after work it bothers me even if I have to stop on my way home for a pack of ciggies. I want home, to go into what my teen age friends called my room/womb/tomb, a hundred years ago.

But today I'm looking for what I need to establish a second getaway. The sprite, Miss Vanderbilt-Royce, has a nice house but I "never" go over there, she says. She doesn't have cable tv or a microwave, though, don't you know.

And I'm thinking this fall, at last, here may be a dream. We will microwave popcorn and sit on the very nice deep cushy soft couches and begin to watch movie classics from the 30's to the 50's.

For months. Until April. Break for work.

First up: Life With Father. Then she'll have my world view, and I sure hope she likes it because it's too late now, 'gate. Next, some Nick and Nora Charles, I imagine.

Now my mind starts to go like it should in a daydream. (I will always want it to be nighttime during the Fall, btw.) Her favorite TV Dad is Fred MacMurray, so we will venture into Disney Color, with all his movies and son of movies. Maybe go off into Dean Jones and Sandy Duncan, the Million Dollar Duck, yaaaaaaay! Are my hopes up now!

They say the alcoholic/addict is determined to run the show, be the play director, set designer, all that. Perhaps this aspect of my personality is being given too much room. Maybe there's too much love! as Louis Even-Stevens once exclaimed.

But what ought to concern me is that this is my dream, not hers. (And it's such a damned modest dream it's shameful.)

Anonydoc says to go outside and face the sun for a few minutes. It will help. I believe her, but there's something about me that wants to be sad this time of year. And I think there's something about the Alcoholic, where he wants to be an invalid so bad he'll shoot off his foot if he has to. Not to be nursed, but to stay home alone. A sick, desperate individual convinced that life is meant to be appreciated in solitude. Right now I can't think of a more backwards idea. Not off the top of my hat.

Solitude is for prayer. You whisper the truth, "well really what's happening is this" and then go back into the fun games that make life what it is.
___
I'm reading Acts.

It's early, right after Jesus, and Peter says repent. The holy spirit enters everyone who hears and then... Then! --- (I want to see if this grabs you as it grabbed me) :

...fear came upon every soul: and many wonders and signs were done by the apostles. And all that believed were together, and had all things common; and sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every man had need.

And they, continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, did eat their meat with gladness and singleness of heart,
praising God, and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to the church daily such as should be saved.

Whenever I "get it" while reading the Bible, the experience is similar to deja vue, and then suddenly I don't get it anymore. I recollect having my understanding, only it's gone.

But one notion remains. Somehow, I understand why they were suddenly fearful. Not because they would be persecuted as a group, no. Not because they had doubts or reservations still.

For a moment, reading this, I understood their fear (which came after the good news of their salvation.)

I understand why they clung to one another so. That's natural.

Here is how I figure it:

They for once and all understood there was a God, and in a way that's deeply frightening.

"I AM", as Paul explains well, is the end of the argument. There will be trouble. Seeming caprice. "Why" is for children, philosophers and poets.

Me, I'm none of those. I'm like a dim flicker of myself after doing so much to escape through drugs and alcohol and time traveling old movies--- escaping alone, for heavens sake, how wrong, how selfish.

Now I'm in a pawn shop, sober, plotting a very thin future with a woman I can't even fully acknowlege is real. TV, DVD player, gas heat, telephone in sick after staying up til three.

Like I say, it's a dry drunk, not to over worry about it.

by his truth i will be upright
by his strenth i will endure
by his power i've been lifted
in his love i am secure
-Saved (Dylan)

We're both patient, Florrie and me. Six weeks go by, and nothing. Then, a computer. Then a couch she can sleep on. I picked up an encyclopedia set, a Monet, a little end table at a defunct garage sale on a Wednesday, this summer, a few months ago. She decorates and paints and goes to work 57 hours a week.

Yesterday she finally got a bed delivered, she'd bargained for last June. A kitchen table and four chairs, too.
____
These aren't knots, they're cables that keep a ship docked.

I'm homesick. Maybe Memorial Day I'll go home. But for now I stay within the city limits.

Darfur

When I shuffle the newspapers for the GMA 2500 inserter, I get them in a neat stack of about 50 copies. Then I wait with the spine of the paper up, ready to put it into the hungry 'pocket'.

Yesterday, it happened that some very small type was directly on the spine of the papers. 50 times, I read over and over, "We are crying for help!"

Click here for the story and different ways to help. At the very least, there is a ready-made letter to the White House, and you can just write your name and addy and hit send.

Pooka Smile

My imaginary make-believe is crazy about me.

I stop taking Effexor, what do you make of it, she's still there.

I stop taking Seroquel, think I'm alone at last, what do you make of it, she's shooting rubber bands at me while I'm composing a letter to my shrink on the computer.

I get sober and go to the AA dead end club, first night, then every night, what do you know? She had a coterie of friends. Evidently she was their leader. It was interesting. One wore glasses fixed with scotch tape and had a band-aid on her nose, and I about swooned in love. Pooka laughs.

I ask her name and it's different everytime, except it's always the same too. E.G: "Elizabeth Jane Boswell-Royce", "Edith Charlotte Vanderbilt-Benz", "Sara May Chevrolette".

She is a spirit with airs and I'm falling in love. Send help, I'm a bachelor.
_______
Something about this Monday had a suggestion of realignment with actual Monday, I mean the rest of the world's ordinary, get to it Monday. I was up early to drive a friend across town on some errands, so I got to witness some rush hour traffic, which is unusual. No big hurry.

We hit all the red lights behind the same van, and toward the end of the trip, spiraling into the suburban woods and winding roads, it seemed we were a part of a caravan, wtf? I worried the passengers would think we were following them. And they did seem like the paranoid types, too, what with 50 bumperstickers on the back all lauding what's bad and proclaiming up was down, left was right.

That took enough time so that I went on to work as if that were my original project. It was noon, so the alignment was already off just that tiny bit.

But I enjoyed this Monday Monday. It made me reflect how the money in my wallet is not conterfeit, or borrowed. This is all currently in currency, all I got here. Means I can trade it for oil without having to kill a third worlder (or the third worlder is already dead, I don't know. Read ALL those bumperstickers).

Then I got off early as usual because my job is a phony baloney job, and yes, that was a little more misalignment but still not much, not like I've been accustomed to for weeks and weeks. Tomorrow is definitly Tuesday, that's not just wishful thinking.

Email from New Zealand. Now, wait. Yes, it's dot NZ. A friend of a friend, asking me where is our friend?

TV. Two days in a row of 9/11 retrospectives.

Out of the blue here, but I read at Lileks the other day that the Worlds Fair of 1939 lasted well into 1940. I don't know why, with a sort of top heavy momentum you have when you stumble? He noted that Italy had closed it's pavilion.

Gave me the chills, made me mad to read that.

It was already Tuesday. Or maybe it was Sunday there, I don't have my kick-globe anymore to check where the international dateline is.

Pooka rang my cell phone and said I'd driven past her in the rain. No complaint, just a hey, guess what, I was right there at Cherry and Broadway and didn't get your attention in time.
______
Nine eleven seems like yesterday except for putting us in a completely different age.
The video of Tuesday morning, nine eleven, such a clear bright (election) day, warm for September. People on their way to work. The cheery Today, GMA shows with the fans outside holding signs 'Hello Here We Are!'

Watching that shook me terribly, for some reason. The violence of the day, the crack in the world, not so much anymore.

And now I am writing after midnight and listening to Love and Theft so I can get around someday to learning Modern Times.

Now that you're thoroughly confused, I'm satisfied. Thanks for visiting! And have a pleasent tomorrow.






____

Congratulations

to the blogger here for finally persuading the Christian Science Monitor to issue this correction:



If you follow "Right Wing Bob", (and even if you aren't a Dylan fan it is very well written political site) you can imagine how frustrating it's been for the writer. Did it take two weeks, I believe, after they acknowleged the mistake, to print this?

Will those who read the original article, attributing that quote to Dylan, read the correction?

No, they will probably not. Dylan will always belong to the Left, no matter what the man writes, sings, says, does. Yesterday I saw an interview with Dylan from 1965 and even THEN he was angry about being called a "protest" singer. He modestly wants to be considered an "entertainer", is all. Some of us believe he is a brilliant, inspired poet and certainly the best song writer of the last four decades.

I don't believe the original "intention" of a true artist should be at issue; if there is a question about the intent, then the artist has "failed". But the point isn't to get messages across, usually. (Sure there are overtly polemical Dylan songs, like the pro-Israel "Neighborhood Bully".) An artist is something of a magician or mystic. Seeming ambiguity is meant to allow the reader/viewer/listener to let the work of art work subjectively. That is "success" for the poet or painter.

Still, given Dylan's popularity and influence, I can understand why there is a site devoted to correcting popular misconceptions about the man's work. In the post below, you'll notice Dylan's quote about people poisoning the minds of the nations's youth, and reaping "great profits". That's a clear rebuke of the day's pop culture and its art and music.
____
I suspect this was no mistake at all, of course, but I'm one of those barkin' mad so never mind.

Thank God for You Tube and just everything !

Last year the internet turned into the Museum of Broadcasting. I didn't notice because they had me landed , pressed up against the fence you might say, for months.

Perhaps You Tube means I won't have to wait for a corporate executive to realize there's going to be a market for, say, reruns of old Dick Cavett interviews...

Anyachoo...

Via my mysterious friend at (what I call) "Bob Is Right" (link to left in the blogroll, he's got a terrific scroll but I can't stand the European term 'Right Wing', see) here is Bob Dylan singing Hank William’s song "Thank God" for the Chabad Telethon in 1986.

An oddily oddily oddily! (to borrow a mel blanc phrase)



" This is Bob Dylan. I’m in England[?] right now, working, so I can’t be there tonight, but I’d like to say that I think Chabad is a great organization helping people in need, helping to set them free from the misconceptions and devastation which is destroying their lives from within.

Of course this a fierce battle, for those responsible for poisoning the minds and bodies of America’s youth are reaping great profits. If you can help Chabad to help others who have fallen victim to the lies and deceits of those who are much more powerful, do so. "

Sometimes a bad impression

I was writing Anonydoc about this zit I have up my nose killing me and I wanted to use an elegant word so I chose "papule"

failing to notice this



Yeah, real funny, bust a gut. I got internal nostril face pain for the last ten days and zero sympathy enough because the nose is trivial. "Mind if I squeeze the wheeze?"

No you can't squeeze the wheeze, it's about a 10 on the pain richter where the circle face springs tears.

Then she wrote back and didn't even correct me. And it was the shortest letter from her ever. That she was going to dinner with her sister.

Here it is:

I'm going to dinner with my sister.

She's probably going to write back, 'John, was that the word the doctor really used?'

No, I'll reply. And we'll both leave it at that.
Not, 'No, why do you ask?'
Just: "No."

There, now you see it's nice to have a blog, and be able to share this with so many people!

Couple of years ago I was going on about something earthy and was addressing Anony as one should address her, as a Southern Lady I mean, obliquely, and she shot back something like 'for heavens sake I'm a doctor!' (This was during the time I was still convinced she was Florence King ---I still half-suspect she is--- so that was a surprise.)

It took me two weeks to get her to tell me what kind of a doctor she is. She said I'd hate her if I knew.

I wrote "pshaw! haha. i mean, you're not a psychiatrist, are you? hahahaha! :-D"
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This could be worse, I don't know...
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So today I went to the dermatologists at our University Clinic and let me tell you, man. Really, I'm gonna put this down so you pick it up, 'gate.

Those lady dermatologists are so pretty and vivacious and up-beat , eeeeee, they made me smile, and act in my best manners, and lower my voice to sound more manly, and do my best Sam Spade impression while I received compliments for my pasty complexion. (Mean Mr. Sun, you stay away from him!) They fixed my nose and and and checked my back for moles and they all just had such good genes, you know? One's name was Edison, so her genes especially. They scheduled me for the scalpel in three weeks but I didn't mind that.

You've heard of beauty school drop-outs, (there is indeed a song), so maybe these are beauty school PhDs? I wonder if they started in beauty school and someone informed them for the first time that they were especially bright.

They charged me a thousand dollars! I smiled, that's ok, I was expecting this to cost ten thousand dollars! (Actually, I was.)

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I sign off not knowing what to make of this day. Off beat at work, feeling like a stranger there sometimes. During smoke breaks, I notice I'm sitting farther down the benches from my co-blings, just to think.

And this Dylan lyric came back to me today:

When I was in Missouri,
they would not let me be;
I had to leave there in a hurry
I only saw what they let me see;

But I'm the same everywhere, of course.

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2006 Games

Crowd control

Hours later...

rabble, pre-game. note there is already one head wound.


caption this "especially worrisome" (1910 Police Gazette)

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Just because you're 45 doesn't make certain aspects of college less mysterious to you. Never met or talked to any football people. I still don't know what "tail-gaiting" is.
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I stopped by a high school, drawn by all the purple.







After school and after everyone goes home the clanging of the flag pole chain is the only sound left.

By the way, those mystic people pictured above might have had our culture built around them, instead of the other way around. They might not be the conformists they're villianized to be.

And traditions may be brand new each year. Like, "coincidentally, the student counsel decided this year to crown a homecoming 'queen'."

Atmospherics, genes, logical neccesity, love. Love has something to do with all that.