Friday, April 17, 2020

A Funny Thing Happened...

I'll tell you a racist joke, and you tell me if it's funny or not. 

When I'se a yoot, full of salt, vinegar and idealism the whole "reason to be" was to end the Vietnam War. We all of us millions and millions of kids dressed in costumes recognizable a mile away - colorfully patched jeans, tie-dyed shirts, and coats bought dirt cheap from Army/Navy stores, and long (as you can grow it) scraggly hair. 

Our symbol was the "peace" sign. Our motto "fuck the war." We smoked marijuana peace pipes from dusk til dawn, then filled 'er up again. Was a great big party we thought would never end. And it was the greatest movement in the history of America. The entire country was caught up in it, regardless of which side you were on. It was all anyone talked about - the tv shows, the news, the music, everywhere. And it went on like that for years. It was our way of life.

But when the war ended around '75 or so, our "reason to be" ended as well. The sad fact is, we no longer had "any" reason to be. And the entire Hippie movement that'd shut down the "New York state thruway" and brought down a President, was over. Not with a bang but a whimper. We scattered to the winds like dried petals of discarded flowers.

So here's the joke. For those whose entire existence is defined by race, what happens when race is no longer defined?

Monday, April 13, 2020

How to Read (part 3)

Reading my three books, I'm slacked by a slog. Then it hits me, like a whap from above. You lazy-ass piece of shit, 'stead of sloppy-reading what others has wrote, you could be writing yer own ferkin novels. To wit (t'wit fer Republicans): living yer own short life 'stead of aping others. 

Tho I must admit, I'se taken back to days of yesteryear (no, not the intro to Lone Ranger from when I'se a kid) but to when I'd argue with dummies on MySpace (Lord of the Unpublished Book or some such shit) 'bout they being no rules to write. Okay, maybe they is some. 

Or even an argument with my sister (as a continuance of same with my late father). So I was at State Prison ...no, that's another time. Okay, was boy's reform school (lovely horse-ranch place) where my goddaughter Rita & mum visiting their brother/son, and as it's a locked-in setting fer bad boys, lovely lil teenybopper Rita wearing yoga pants fer all the boys t'harden they fortitude, I guess.

Anyway, y'caint smoke on campus so I drives out to spring blooming sunshiny corn field dirt road to light up cigarette and call my sis who live down 'Sippi way. And as we speak of life, she says she always wanted to be a police detective. Solve mysteries, lock up villains, make streets safe fer decent folk. An' I tells her - easy 'nuff - just write stories or books with yersef as the clever detective/hero. But she resists - doesn't know how - to write like yer 'sposed to. 

Whereupon I start to scream cuss and abuse - who the fock say what e're way you does it isn't the "right way" that everbuddy else too stupid to know til you show 'em? Then again, like I say, I'm in a slog here. My three books has stalled a bit. Slowed to a crawl, that is. So, p'raps we should look under the hood. 

Think of it like eating, like nourishment. Like you's all day down in the coal mine in How Green Was My Valley an' finally drags yer ass home t'evening where mum say "I hired a French chef t'prepares yah dainty lil delights scattered about yer porcelain white plates...or...I got big bowls a hot beef stew. Take yer pick. 

Y'see? Nourishment taint 'bout how the ferkin food look, is 'bout what it do. Fill yer gut would be the operative concept here. So let's go o'er the rules, such as they are. Books are wot y'eat when yahs hungry - not a taste testing competition fer Connie's sewers. Okay then.

Rule one - do hit taste good? Cuz y'aint gonna eat the shit if tastes like shit. (Correlative) don't gotta be no fancy-ass frills arranged like a Caravaggio canvas. Gimme the fokkin stew, Ma, I'se hungry. 

Rule two - is filling? Like, how much this shit I gotta eat fer I feel like I dun et sumpin? Like I said - in a slog here - tha's why I'se writin' 'stead a readin'. A wise old... Fuck it, I once said: reading something writ, better be the best thing you could be doing right now...otherwise the author fokkin wasted yer time. So tha's rule one...two...ever goddamn rule they is.

But.......how can the author be so boldly God-like t'know that reading they writing is the one most important thing you could be doing with your time? Hah, see rule...whatev. If taint that, don't fokkin write. I kin waste my time watchin' the tv or fixin' up the house or million other thangs. Wastin' time aint a problem. Is "not wastin' time" wot we gotta figure on. Y'see?

Anyway, just picked up Thomas Chatterton Williams' book Self-Portrait in Black and White. And is tasty.

PS - that Anderson feller can write t'hell outta the spoken word, caint he?



Friday, April 10, 2020

Leadership & Crisis Management

Prior planning prevents piss poor performance, per US Army. But...most peoples don' wanna be leaders - they let other folk do that for 'em. Wot make fer all sorta scheiss. But consider those who seek leadership roles. 

Three come to mind - school superintendent, Gov Cuomo and Donnie Trump. I'se already said Cuomo makes Trump look stupid (and Trump does too). But dig deeper.

Why TF would Donnie seek THE leadership role? To wit (t'wit fer Republicans) why the fock would Trump want to be Pres of US and leader of free world? Wull, he don' wanna be leader of world - made that clear from git go. An' I 'spect his randyness (quoting idiot-boy Chris Matthews) t'be Pres was (likely) wot Trump thot would be a big money-maker for him; and ego stroking commensurate with his unlimited neediness. 

Cuz obviously the amazing fool never thot he'd be any Moses-type leader who could actually guide people to a better life fer all. His itty-bitty brain don't go that deep. Like askin' Teddy Kennedy why he wants t'be Pres. "Uhm......duh....I dunno." But Shirley, every fool who seeks leadership has tooken that to consideration, no? Yah fockin' moron - the concept is - guide everbuddy to better life fer everbuddy. If'n y'don' git that, y'ahs too fockin' stupid to lead, or want to. Okay?

Fer example, as new kid in Nebraska school (I'se from Georgia, but we moved) when I'se 12 or so, I'd never played baskyball. But as kindly German-Cathlic kids let me play wid 'em, knowed Tim was by far best player in school. So when he thowed ball t'me (cuz he's quadrupled teamed) I looked 'round...an' thowed it right back to him. An' he takes one...two...three steps (through recess-time gym with couple hunnert kids runnin' screamin' like kids do) and through all that kiddie madness, he finger-rolled ball into basket.

Contrast to high school - every "small group" of three-four kids (the far-king teachers was always wantin' us to work in small groups to promote...what, dog shit? I dunno). Anyway, I was never in small group where I didn't have to be the leader, cuz nobody else could or wanted to.

And (kinda what teachers wanted - but wanted someone else to do the work for them) I'd try my goddamnest to get every ferkin butthead to participate & contribute to the group effort. Kinda like "so, Bobby, whatcha think?" "Duh...I dunno." An' when the ten minutes up & teacher want feedback, I report fer group "Bobby thinks we oughtta..." Much to amusement of classmates who know Bobby never say jackshit 'bout nuthin' concerning school work. 

And so, we got school cancelled for...forever, or at least for who knows when. And we got kids studying at home while they books are safely locked away inside school lockers what they can't now or never get to. Okay, I can adjust. And I can quote too "prior planning prevents piss poor performance." If'n y'wanna lead, taint 'bout the prestige of bein' homecoming queen - is about fokking leading when folk has t'have somebuddy in charge of wot the fock we's gonna' do. Got it? (Or as Donnie J puts it "that's not my job.")


Thursday, April 9, 2020

Meaning of Life

Ask any teenager in America - what's the meaning of life - and they'll tell you. "To be entertained...duh...I never asked to be born, so whoever fukketh my mom owes me a lifetime of leisure and entertainment." About that time y'get the whap upside the head and "guess agin' dipshit."

Trubble is, most of us never get past that. We see the guy with the fancy house, motorcycle, pool, RV, and "gee, he's got it made, wish I was that lucky." Like Mike Wilbon's wink & nod to Hugh Hefner - man, he gets to fuck every slut who'll get naked for pics - must be the greatest man since Epstein. 

And y'has t'wonder at this here advanced theoretical logic what's been imprinted on every American baby brain - entertainment of self. Kinda like "gotta hurry home from work to catch the NBA game...or Super Bowl, Premier League, or what the fuck. The trick is - don't ever get the anxiety/depression of what the fok kinda life I got that's sucks so bad all I gotta look forward to is some clown bouncing a ball on the floor. Gotterdam, tha's really depressing. Make fer all sorta self-loathing. Like pissin' all over a person's time on planet, or short little life.

Lee Rourke finds this shit boring. To be fair, he never grew up in Yemen, and I didn't neither (though I did mention that idea on page 3 of my book I done wrote years afore I ever met Lee at Appomattox) (okay, wasn't Appomattox, but has a nice ring to it, no?) 

Yay verily did I leave Nebraski fer California in search of gold and young girls willing... (sorry Wilbon, didn't mean t'pick on you). I guess that's why geese migrate (Gertrude & Heathcliff) "why the hottest girl goose always gotta fly so damn fast?" 

But you don't gotta read half-way through Ben Myers book t'get Dulcie to explain things. I'll give you a quick short story what tell all. 








Nuts

Two squirrels sitting in a tree. Ebu says to Otis “hey Otis, you got your nuts stored up for wintertime?”
“Fuck it man!” says Otis “is that all anybody can talk about around here...you got your fucking nuts stored up for winter? Isn’t there anything else to talk about.”
“Hmm...like what?”
“Well...like philosophy or poetry or art, or something like that.”
Ebu thinks about it for a moment “you can’t eat those...can you?”
“Of course not, but that’s not the point. Look at poor Kracko lying down there in the street. He was the hardest working squirrel I ever saw.”
“Yeah...he had it made” says Ebu “big fancy nest, and all that.”
“Had it made? All he ever did was bust his butt to store up more and more nuts. Now look at him. Some car comes by...and splat, it’s all gone.”
“Goddamn humans” says Ebu, looking down at the poor dead squirrel. “Say...what do you suppose he did with all those nuts?”
Otis gives him a look of disgust. Then, thinking about it says “well he’s got that big-ass family to support.”
“Yeah, and that fat-assed wife. Poor guy.”
“You see” says Otis “that’s what I mean. There’s gotta be something more.”

Ebu considers this. “So...you wanna go hump some bitches?”
“Shit” says Otis “you know how hard it is to catch one of them bitches. All they do is run around like mad all over hell, around the tree, across the lawn, up the tree, down again. Jeez, makes me tired just thinking about it.”
“Stupid bitches” says Ebu “why do you think they do that...you know, run away all the time.”
“They want us to chase ‘em. Makes ‘em feel good, like they’re worth it. Damn... sometimes I’d just as soon hump an acorn.”
Ebu knows the feeling but doesn’t care to think about it “humping bitches feels better.”
“Yeah, if you can catch one” says Otis. “And then if you do, they want to have a family right away. And then you’re stuck...storing up nuts every second for the rest of your goddamned life.”
“No shit” says Ebu “and when you’re doing that, all you’re thinking about is...jeez, I’d sure like to be humping some other bitches.”
“Exactly, it’s just a rut you get stuck in.”
“I’d sure like to rut with that Honey Squirrel” says Ebu thinking out loud. “Get something stuck in her.”
“Who wouldn’t” says Otis “that’s one hot little squirrel.”
“You think...she’s doing it with somebody?” asks Ebu.
“I dunno...she’s pretty fast...be hard to catch up to that little bitch.”

Both squirrels let their minds wander to the thought of humping the hot young Honey Squirrel. Then Otis has an idea. “You suppose we could ...you know, gang up on her? Like you could hold her down, and...”
“Man, you pervert” says Ebu “you’re sick. You wanna rape some sweet little bitch like that?”
“Nah...just thinking of...how to make it easier, is all. A guy gets tired of humping acorns all the time.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Say...did you...ever think of doing it with a male squirrel?”
“Fuck you!” says Otis “get away from me. You’re the pervert.”
“Well, I dunno” says Ebu “maybe it’s...cool.”
“Shit, man, you oughta go hang out with Bilbo Squirrel, he’s queer as a three dollar bill.”
“You know” says Ebu “they say that he’s hung like a horse.”
“Goddamn! You sitting around talking about some squirrel’s dick. What kind of shit is that?”

Just then a truck comes by and runs over the dead body of Kracko Squirrel, splattering his insides all over the street.
“Goddamn!” says Otis “did you see that. That son of a bitch just squashed Kracko’s guts all over fuck!.”
“Shit” says Ebu “motherfucking humans.”

A mailman gets out of the truck and starts making deliveries along the street. The two squirrels jump up and down and yell at him from the tree, screaming obscenities in squirrel. But he doesn’t pay them any mind. Finally they start to throw walnut shells at him, some of them landing on his head and back. He turns and looks up at the two squirrels. Then picks up a walnut and hurls it back at them, striking Otis in the face.
“Motherfucker! Son of a bitch put my eye out.”
“Goddamnit!” yells Ebu.
He rushes down the far side of the tree and comes up behind the mailman. Then scurries up the man’s pants and bites him on the nuts. “Yeee ow!” screams the mailman, clutching at his crotch and pounding at the squirrel inside his pants. He falls down in agony. Ebu staggers out the other pant leg, battered but pleased with himself.

Much later, dark out now, there’s a meeting of the squirrel council to discuss what happened. “You dumb son of a bitch, Ebu” says the head squirrel “what the hell were you thinking?”
“He asked for it” says Ebu “goddamn humans.”
“Yeah!” screams the head squirrel “and all afternoon and evening, we got Sheriff’s deputies and cops and...goddamned boy scouts...shooting squirrels out of the goddamned trees!”
“Poor Bilbo got his dick shot off!” says one of the councilmen.
“Yeah” says another “and poor Dilbey took one up the bung hole...or two, I guess that would be.”
“Look...I’m sorry” says Ebu “but they got no respect for us.”
“And a lot less now” yells the head squirrel “all of ‘em scared to death of ‘mad squirrels’ on the loose. They won’t be satisfied ‘til they kill us all.”
“Well hey” says Ebu “maybe I can go to them...and negotiate something.”
“Negotiate my ass!” says the head squirrel “you can’t reason with them.”
“Okay, then I’ll turn myself in, and let ‘em do...whatever they want with me.”
“Sure” says the head squirrel “and how the hell they gonna know it was you?”
“Well, I’ll find that mailman...I’m sure he’d remember me.”

After the meeting breaks up, Honey Squirrel comes over and sidles up to Ebu. “Gosh” she says “I thought that was real brave of you...what you did.”
“Really?” says Ebu “so...you wanna go roll in the leaves?”
“Oh...no. I just thought we could talk is all...”
“Okay” says Ebu “and then after we’re done with that...”
“No” says Honey, again “is that all you ever think of?”
“Wull...of course not” says Ebu looking into her warm golden eyes “there’s lots of stuff I think about.”
“Like what?”
“Well...like philosophy...and poetry...and stuff like that.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“Yeah” he says, hoping she won’t ask any more about it. “So...what do you wanna talk about?”
“Oh...I dunno” says Honey “um...you got your nuts stored up for winter?”

Exerpted from Ivan Gall

John lifeless leads the caravan
I hear the red wolf howl
through centuries of rusted sand
the spirit of my religion
cracking bones at midnight
on the caverns of my blood
that dream again and dream again abroad
the key to this oblivion
in desert’s lifeless skin
sail on sail on traverse eternity
from dawn to tomb
my kin they die of thirst and hope
at both wrists open veins
that prove to them
and wish my love would rot
no bitch I need to chase
offering those who covet - salt
to yoke the ancient nothingness
the hunger of a jackal
the strength of my religion
inside the prison and the walls
amidst the wonder 
and the beauty of it all

Tuesday, April 7, 2020

Cherry

From Stein's retweet of Karlin's thesis which I read (& skimmed a bit). 

I must disagree with the good doctor. Rap Brown usta say "jealousy is as American as cherry pie." Self-judgment is the  essence of a consumer-based economy, and as necessary as breathing. 

We wouldn't spend (out our asses) like stupid sheep if t'weren't fer keeping up with our Jones'es. An' Wall Street would collapse quicker'n you can say corinavus, which is wot Cain was try'nt'a impress upon Able. 

How we view ourselves is largely based on our view of others, fer better or worse, til death parses us.

Take the boys in Out There - a fabled yarn (or tangled web) 'bout life in the Hippie era after The Nam. You might say "Kurt became a big wig in a major US company" with a perty house (& wife) in upper Empire State. And Buddy became a dope dealer with the demons of deceit, and Rodey became a writer. But whatcha caint say is "who's better off?" That is, which one should be jealous of t'uther. 

Cuz we all - all of us - worshiped Buddy, as he was the most clever, the most talented, and the most fun to be around. His was the magnetic pull that all our little lives orbited 'round. Quite symbolically (and factually) a charismatic dope dealer is the literal epicenter of the whole Hippie culture. And personally we all wanted "t'be like Mike."

Why? Well, is simply a measurement tool - like all discernment. Discrimination is the mental capacity to distinguishing apple from orange (lessen it's BlueOrange) (great play, btw).

Like correctional officer Dickhead said 'bout his shiny new Oldsmo'bubble "is a real pussy magnet." Now he may been a fokkin' moron, but most young dumb girls would assent t'his assertion. Or like Kazzy - Buddy's pal, who reminded me a lot of (sheik) Rudolf Valentino said 'bout the meaning of life "well, I popped a lotta cherries in my time." An' fer some reason, I was jealous.

But again, the real perty girl Katie (the other magnetic center of that particular universe) once said 'bout her life "no...I guess I wouldn't change it...I got my three boys, and that's everything to me." Hopefully all parents feel that way. Y'see, what each of us gots aint trade-able. But the only way we can know that is to measure it 'gainst everbuddy else. An' like Lennon said "I don't believe in Zimmerman." 

The angst, the dread and self-loathing is "we coulda done better." And the guilt is "yeah, we shoulda done better." But the reality is - we didn't - and we got diff'rint reasons for that. But at least "it was wild...sorta."