Bill Ectric Time a Day

The setting sun compels me looking through the looking glass deciding TV news awash in colors blue and red and orange... 

Blue/Orange intriguing play we saw in London years ago and grabbing drink at the pub before a different show across the street (the theaters so close at hand) I see the actor from that play run down the street amid the cars five minute til the curtain call and yell at him "you're great" he waves his hand not turning back to look but scurries on, I guess he's late. 

...but mostly dark and shining blue upon the TV screen. It fascinates attracts but setting sun compels - I follow out to big round porch and open air and watch amazing skies immensely trailing clouds like plumes and yet there's something more so vast. There's always more - O'Neill says we are never satisfied. And so I leave, get gloves and coat, it's chilly out, get on my bad motor scooter and ride. 

(It's just a bicycle) but all the world before me as I chase the setting sun along it's westward way. Past cars and shops and Burger King smells grand of frying food beside the Lutheran Church all filled with cars. Joanne's not there but she's a saint in heaven now just like she was on earth if that's much comfort to the ones she left behind, I guess that's all of us. 

I look for alleys and passageways where cars do not exist. The little nooks that only bicycles traverse. A giant loop I travel far away then nearly home but want to see what's yond the Catholic Church and schoolyard parking lot. Across the street the vacant lot where that young priest was gardening the years away and further down the small Italianate white brick a hundred years ago and someone living there behind the sign that says for sale.

So down the crick trail way beside the schoolyard always gaining speed along the creek beneath the bridges underpass it goes by quick. And up to street again, and down an alleyway I hear the girls at play at dusk I'm like a kid again. Playing late along the streets in Michigan. I haven't thought of that in sixty years almost.That feeling, playing late and having to go home. 

All cool and sweaty out of breath and running home in darkening autumn air as Tommy's mother yells for him to come and signals all of us to go so Tommy's not the only one who has to leave the yards where children play. I don't even know who those kids were or if they're still around. And nearly there as if a warp in Bill Electric/Serling ever changing space and time around us like an envelope that folds and never ends. 

I'm home now and dismounting in the driveway there's a shower of feathers like a snow. The yellow cat I saw the other day, great feral beast he likes to hang around cuz no one's here. He must have kilt a bird up in the tree, I look but no, a hawk there in the yard. 

He's standing there on top his kill, a smaller bird, and stabbing at it ripping bits of flesh into his beak as feathers fly about. Amazing thing, his legs so stout and sturdy like an owl almost they're white with little specks of grey. I've never seen one this up close before. If I were Native it might be a sign. So what's it mean Tom (Crowhorse) is it good or evil, is it nothing but a day in time. A hawk dismantling its prey before my eyes and setting sun. 

Bull (Shit) Market

I been sayin for years that the stock market is a fuckin Ponzi scheme that only works if more and more people buy into it. Trouble is - most folk got no idea what a Ponzi scheme is - how it works, and why it's a crooked stupid gamble.

The idea is - you give your money to some fellers to buy into a corporation they expect everbuddy else gonna buy into, thus it just get bigger & bigger & bigger. An' by the time anybuddy figger out that the balloon about t'bust - them 'vestors'll move yer money into a new get rich quick scheme. So's y'won't be losin' all that money. 

Perty cool huh? Wull what happen if'n it all go to shit? Wot happen if a billion folkers wake up one morgen and figger out "duh...I doesn't need a new phone; old one werk jus' fine." Don't need new car, jus' gotta fix up old one. Same fer th'house. And durn, whattif I jus' wash some them clothes 'stead a goin' shoppin? Ferkin' A, ah bet the whole system fall down like a straw hut inna stiff breeze.

Y'see folkers, if'n y'realize that y'aint gotta buy buy buy, an' if a billion other folkers figger the same - then the fur kin bloon aint gonna keep expanding. And the fur kin Ponzi scheme gots t'start paying out wid nuthin t'pay y'ahs wid, cuz they income is based on folk keep puttin' in - not folk start takin' out. And then they's (& you's) is fucked up d'ass.

Now I isn't no 'conomist, but even a durn fool cud figger that out, n'est pas? Exxon might be a fur kin giant, a rael big boy. But if'n Ramco come along an' is a bigger boy, why'n't all the Exxon 'vestors sell yer stock & start buyin' Ramco? Kinda leaves you fukked & holdin' de bag, don' hit? Wull, tha's the stock market in de nutshell. An' tha's corporate economics inna nutshell. An' like the old hookers say t'the young 'uns - know before you blow.

An' by the way, wot happens to the thousands of folk what work fer Exxon? An' the thousands more whose jobs depend on the spending power of those workers. Well, tha's another story. 

Silly Rabbit

Saw on Facebook an announcement of a great new collection of short stories by a whole buncha fine writers, I reckon. So I added a comment - buy my new book. And the feller who compiled the short stories responds "wot's that got to do with..." 

So I deleted my comment cuz obviously he don't get it. The facts a life be thus - he came into into my living room (via computer) trying to peddle his book of short stories (I mean, he didn't announce the publication just cuz it's Wednesday.) So - he wanna sell his book, I wanna sell mine - fokkin' simple, no?

And that's pretty much my reaction to everything book - you got one to sell or promote - me too. You think yers gonna revolutionize world thought - me too. Did I mention mine's free if'n you gots Amazon Prime? Caint beat that. All is gonna cost y'ahs is the time it take to read. An' by golly, is so much fun, y'won't even notice time slippin' by. An' even if y'don't gots Prime, you can buy the damn thing fer a few pennies what would feed Knut Hamsun fer a week. So think of it as a donation to the arts - you could get a coffee mug from PBS, or a book from me.

I'll even tho in a blurb "Imagine there's a fool in the White House...how we gonna fight back? Maybe there's a way...to take back what's ours...by means necessary. Yeah...we gonna make some changes 'round here." Now that's like the main thing we gotta figure out right now, n'est-ce pas? How to save the planet from the idiot fat boy in DC. So, I done wrote this book for to try an' change things; and as Arlo say "y'gotta sing a whole lot louder'n that if y'ever wanna stop a war."

But the deal was this - I took my granddaughter to the clinic, holding the little kid in my arms. And she's pointing at the photo on the desk, by the nice older lady receptionist. So the lady says "you recognize Gina in the photo? Maybe she goes to the same daycare as you do honey." So I ask her about the fellow in the picture with the kid. "My son" she says. Then explains "he's in Minneapolis now, at the hospital. Was badly wounded in the war. No, he won't be coming home soon, or ever. It was a head injury, a bad...bad thing." 

And after a few months, the newspaper say "President visits local youth in Army hospital." And still later "local youth dies from wounds in war." And I couldn't take anymore of this shit. Why are those assholes killing and maiming decent people; destroying families forever, for their goddamned oil and their goddamned money. That kid who died, was in school with my youngest daughter. He was nineteen, and never got older. Fuck that shit.

So I done what I could - to inform public opinion - that we the people here don't want their wars. Cuz if I'm gonna tell you what I think, it oughta be the most important thing I got to say; and the most important thing you hear. Otherwise we're just wasting time - as if time were all that we have. And I could try to trick you - like "let's be friends" when what I really want is "read my book" (self-interest is pretty high up on Maslowe's spectrum). But I'm old, and aint got time for games; and anyway - silly rabbit - trix are for kids. Now I don't need money and I don't want medals, as Dylan and Col Jessup are wont to say. Fame, fortune, and long remembrance dudden matta t'me. Like Van Gogh, after all these years:

The news of Van Gogh's death saddened me.
For I have been insane almost
unable to discern.
and nothing is worse than a tortured mind
haunting itself with horrible visions
taunted by self-assured fools.

I was young then
apart from a part of the circus
of clowns who do not know themselves.
I would cipher in costumes and painted smiles
to hide myself and reveal my motive
failed. it will not succeed.
there was seen not the meaning but only the clown
in all eyes an obvious fool.
and the ladies or girls scouts or something between
that I loved of them could not discern
the words of my poetry.

so I was a puppet and unattached
as the nights grew longer with fear of death
or life, and the stars...
the stars will dismantle a man to his nothingness
pushing him into the ground like an ant.
it is poison there in the solitude
with the stars, the darkness, and millions of stars.

I was shuttered by Van Gogh's paintings,
the turmoil, the whirling pain
all inside and alone
and no one to share it with. 
loving him now that he's dead.

The Death of Champagne

A Review of Sick City by Tony O'Neill

The writing is superb. Call it the curse of Scott Fitzgerald - I don't know if O'Neill can tell a bad story - he writes too well. And I'm sure Henry James and Fenimore Cooper coulda told us great things if they could only tell it better, could only get us to read them. Like the first couple of books I read when I'se maybe thirteen or so - a Fitzgerald and a Hemingway from the local Carnegie. Pretty sure it was Farewell to Arms - and yes spooky rabbit - the earth moved.

But while Hem told a great story, he did so with awkward skips and the ever present Agent Kay style "no ma'am, the FBI has no sense of humor that I'm aware of." On the other hand, Scotty could write like a bugger, just didn't say a whole lot. Don't even remember the book, but pretty sure it wasn't Gatsby. So of the great books I been reading, there's - sames and differs, largely in format. O'Neill's format is sort of "two junkies walk into a bar..."

Which is great, like no place you'd rather be than reading his books. Is intoxicating, addictive, just what you need. So it's hard to separate subject from form. Though maybe junkie stories don't appeal to you, but just set that aside if you can. O'Neill's characters are essentially the Steinbeck or Dickens castoffs of our time. The meandering street crud who are barren of any past, future, or purpose. They're just there, like little roaches scurrying about. 

Trouble is, there's not much distinction between the disgusting little bugs and anyone else. The rich and famous TV doctors who live in mansions and can cure whatever ails you - are no better. In fact, they're just like us, they just package and sell it better. In that sense, the main character in our story would be Champagne - who naturally - makes only a brief appearance. And "the death of Champagne" is sort of a sequel to O'Neill's earlier work "what killed Hemingway." 

But you'd have to read him to understand that Champagne is a fatally attractive transvestite, while Hemingway is the name of a house cat - formerly beloved, now completely ignored by a careless junkie. You'd also have to understand champagne as symbolically our ultimate toast to success. And that Hem is so admired we'd name our most cherished pet after him, and...let him starve to death. 

Cuz the problem isn't just the drugs - they're more like a symptom. The problem is - An Officer and a Gentleman - the young cadet-trainee on his knees whining to the mean old drill sargeant "I got no place else to go." That's the problem. And in a God-like sense, O'Neill tells his audience - do with that what you will. 

In a perverse way (which is normal in Sick City) the most complete character is the arch-villain, Pat. He's big, mean, and doesn't suffer fools. In O'Neill's spin-off of the Tate-LaBianca murders, Pat is Charlie Manson - if Charlie were cool and level-headed. Yeah, Pat is evil personified, a junkie's worst nightmare. But if you're born into that world (or this one) it's just par for the course. Cuz nobody cares about the death of another mindless junkie. It happens a lot.

The key is to tell that story - the story of us - in such an appealing manner, you can't turn away. The sick city, Hollywood and fame and fortune, is a fantasy land we all live in. It's alluring, addictive; it fascinates us and draws us into the spider's web. And like everyplace else, it's the land of make believe. And as O'Neill says "the trouble with us junkies is, we always want something more."

The Candy Bar Caper

What happen was I went for a bike ride cuz is such a lovely sunny day, and you know where my granddaughter said the bike trail was closed and I said it wasn't and damn that's a steep dirt hill past the barricade what say "trail closed" and the bulldozer sittin there in the hardened mud like "you want sumpin?" 

So I head back thu the historical homes district which is a durn nice part a town to live in, or even just to bike around if'n y'don't. Like exploring the ancient wonders of Greece and Rome as fashioned into these grand old relics rich folk maintain. In the sunny warm breeze is quite the awesome splendor. Man them folk had it made afore the horseless carriage invented urban madness. You can even see where the smaller homes beside the big ones, were like for servants and tenants. And the sprawling yards were fer folks and their kin and horses and such.

And lost in all this reverent grandeur, I'se home now and find the door ajar. Which sounds like a Persian - Ajar Haddat maybe - or a close relative to our African cousin Akimbo. But no worry, was a time when nobody even locked their doors 'round here. So with a nice cup a coffee, I settle down to relax with a bite of big old candy bar I keep alongside the easy chair just so is handy. But is gone.

Dangit, the kid found it and swiped it. That's why y'gotta keep the stuff hidden-like. But no, is just moved a little ways, with little teeth mark holes in the side, and bits a paper strewn about. Is what happen when the door is ajar - y'get visitors. So I find some better mouse traps, and break off a couple chunks of chocolate as bait. Next morning, the big chunks of chocolate are gone. Luckily the traps are still intact. Hungry little rascal, hope t'high heaven it aint pregnant and stocking up for the blessed event.

But what t'hell kinda rodent tries t'drag off a giant candy bar, then when y'feed it a couple big chunks, it say thank y'ahs, and doesn't even bother t'trip the trap? I wonder...is it nesting somewhere in my old Crate amp, or inside the old console stereo my great aunt left me? I guess it still works, but I just use it for the speakers which I hooked up to an old Marantz receiver I got fer five bucks from a feller in Kentuck when me and the ex-Panamaniac spouse went out t'get an old used washing machine so many many years ago.

Pretty cool. We found him in the freezing cold dark country night, happy as a lark in his work shop shed, what's filled with everything refurbishable you can imagine. He's sittin there beside the old Ben Franklin stove that's so all over toasty warm from the coal you kin pick up right off'n the ground out there in the Kentucky hills. Bill Pancoast would know 'bout that; as he's from there, I think. 

So anyway, when I tried to make the garden fresh green beans that my granddaughter wouldn't eat, I figured I'd eat 'em mysef so as not to tho 'em out. And ever damn time I go to work on the 'puter you can tell the beans are done by the burning smell from the stove. Why is that? So I offer some to the rodent, and I guess they weren't so bad after all. Poor little rascal.

On Faure's Weinstein

The biggest fear of conservatives, in our ever widening cultural chasm, is that liberals don’t know right from wrong, and wouldn’t care if they did. The Left, in rejecting the moral authority of God, has no basis for what’s good or evil. 

Though both sides seem oblivious to twenty-five thousand years of trial and error, resulting in standards for societal norms lasting up til the end of the Vietnam War.

We are our myths, according to Northrup Frye. Achilles was loyal to his friends, vanquished his enemies, and is forever our hero. Odysseus was faithful to his wife, defeated his rivals, and set his own lands in order. These are the ideals we live by. They’ve been tempered by Jesus and Mohammed, but remain largely intact, as so eloquently orchestrated by William Shakespeare. It’s who we are.

But the upheavals of twentieth century wars left Troy demolished and Ithaca adrift. The falcon cannot hear the falconer. So where do we go now.

Well the whole point of mans’ twenty five thousand years of trial and error, is to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Thus the point of the cultural revolution of the mid-sixties through mid-seventies was to put that to the test. Because if a pragmatist has values, other people don’t. So what have we learned. Hopefully, right from wrong.

Humping little girls isn’t right or wrong because it offends God, it’s right or wrong depending on whether it’s disruptive to social order or not. Which is a very simple equation, and reasonable as well. Thus - it’s a no, don’t do it. Because we can easily see that humping little girls just doesn’t work for a functional social order. Therefore laws should discourage it.

Laws are to effect social order. Little girls shouldn’t hump or be humped until such time as they are no longer children. Which they can’t decide for themselves cuz they aint got the wisdom or experience to do so. The whole of the problem is that their parents likely don’t either. Which is the inherent trouble with laws - they deprive the citizenry of learning for themselves - why laws need be.

Quite simply - flood your community with 14-year old mommies and you’ll understand. Add to that, all the men in the neighborhood saying “yeah, that could be my kid…or maybe not.” But you get the picture. Who wants to acquire basic knowledge by way of endless misery.

The alternative is to teach these basic life skills to the kiddies in the first place. Yes, we’d be less drown-prone if we were all taught to swim. But don’t assume young ‘uns are stupid. Humping doesn’t offend God. Hell, He invented it. But what it does, is potentially screw up yer life. And that’s what y’oughtta be schooled on. Which is something both sides need to learn.

Right from Wrong

I'm told - I'm too judgmental. Which is fine, everyone should say what they think without fear of reproach. Not that they won't be reproached, ridiculed, or scorned - just that they shouldn't be afraid of it. The corollary is - everyone should think before they say. Which would make for less reproach, thus less fear of it. 

Judging is (duh) the ability to tell right from wrong. So if folks don't like that, or aren't able to do it - that's on them, not me. I greatly value discerning right from wrong. I call it reality. And those who don't participate, I call - stupid. The Bible says "judge not, less ye be judged." Which has to mean something, right? I mean, it's Biblical, thus has the force of "authority." God didn't write much, but when he did, people listen. God and EF Hutton. 

Now I get - fear of being judged - we join groups in order to survice (a wise man once said). And no one want to be left out cuz that's the ultimate death of the soul. But it isn't the "be all end all" of judging right from wrong. We can say "okay, you're acceptable as a member of the group" but there're caveats - you gotta adhere to the group norms or you get kicked out. So be careful what groups you want to define yourself by. Maybe that group's no good, as Nietzsche might say. Or maybe you oughtta take a leadership role and steer that group in the right direction. 

But to do that, or damn near anything - you gotta know right from wrong. Doesn't mean you have to read and study all laws since Hammurabi; or all philosophy since Socrates. But that'd be a start, cuz those guys had ideas too. And no use spending your life trying to figure out something you'd already know if you'd just read Hegel. That'd be kind of a waste of time. And folks'd say "yeah, he don't read much." 

But be not afraid - I aint never read much of Hegel either, and what little I did, don't much recall. Doesn't mean I'm dumb, just eager for scholars to fill me in on stuff. And mighty damn skeptical of those scholars too - cuz how I know they aint shuckin and jivin me? Ah...there's the rub, as Billy Shakespeare say. The only way I can know - is by developing an abiltity to tell right from wrong, duh. 

But how to? you ask. Ah yes, folks been wraslin' with that since Adam said "you sho that snake din' poke yahs in the private?" An' Eve just smile an' shake her head.

So - Thomas Hobbes said (around 1650 or thereabouts) "that which doesn't contradict itself,  is at least not wrong." He couldn't say for sure it was right, but he could say for sure - that which isn't self-contradicting is a least not in the group - things we know are false. So that was a start. Kinda like Heisenberg finding atomic particles by where they aren't. (and to think, I coulda been listnin' to Stevie Smith on ESPN)