Tip O' The Cap!

One of my last college acquaintances has a blog, OldPanther, and on it she had a cool list to reply to, so here goes! Original question in plaintext, her reply in Bold, and my reply to her reply in Italics:



Comment to this post and:


1. I'll respond with something random about you
You are one of the most intelligent men I know.

Needless to say -- you need to get out more.

2. I'll challenge you to try something
Read The Celestine Prophesies
Crapper book, check! I'll have to retire my Best of Screw collection for awhile then!


3. I'll pick a color that I associate with you
A deep olive green. I don't really know why, but it feels right
The association of myself and Sgt. Rock of Easy Company is a natural one, but in this case I think you're channeling my eerie resemblance to Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull...

4. I'll tell you something I like about you
See number one
You do? I've missed the bowl again! Good thing I AM retiring the Best of Screw...

5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you
Sitting around my kitchen table playing strategic/statistical war games with Gordon, Ed, et.al.
I still own most of them! I remember T.H.E. Football a lot...ask Gordo about it!


6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of
A blood hound, al la Duke from the Beverly Hillbillies
That's your spouse talkin' there! A blood hound only dreams of having my jowls someday...

7. I'll ask you something I've always wanted to ask you
I can't really thing of anything. I've always asked you anything I've wanted to know.
Cop out! Cop out! C'mon OP, there must be SOMETHING! I have many questions that could be asked of me, which you don't know the answers to, which you might even like to know! Ask me anything! Although I reserve the right to only answer privately, I will answer you truthfully!


8. If I do this for you, you must post this in your journal
This is done. Would you post mine now that you are doubly won? -- slight twist on "Kill" Bill Shakespeare, Alls Well That Ends Well

I take Cammie's Challenge -- Again!

Here be my list!

10 Years Ago: August 1996
When my heart was sore, I started hanging with Camie at her then-place of work...and havin' a blast!

5 Years Ago: August 2001
Was in a deep fog of emotional pain...

1 Year Ago: August 2005
Was/am in worse financial shape than Camie, which has been lobotomizing me one neuron at a time.

5 Songs I know all the words to:
"I'm Putting All My Eggs In One Basket" -- Irving Berlin
"It's Been A Hard Days Night" -- The Beatles
"Kiss Me, Son of God" -- They Might Be Giants
"Freddie's Dead" -- Curtis Mayfield
"Jeepster" -- T.Rex

5 Snacks:
Reduced Fat Ruffles Potato Chips (not NO FAT!)
Cashews
Lightly Salted Peanuts
Zingerman's Corned Beef
Caprese Salad

5 Things I would do with $100,000:
Massive down payment for a house in Ann Arbor -- like Camie!
Get a new car (haven't had one since 1984) -- like Camie!
Get a good education for The Little Man.
Set up The Fabulous Fluffy Travel Fund for me those I deem FluffyWorthy.
Pay back my friends! -- like Camie!

5 Places I would run away to:
Midtown Manhattan
Greenwich Village
Under my covers
Northern Italy
The Old West Side of Ann Arbor

5 Things I would NEVER wear:
My dignity with pride.
Any outfit wore by The Villiage People
A business suit, if I could help it
Clown Shoes with A Tux
A club tie

5 favorite T.V. shows:
Veronica Mars
Gilmore Girls
Washington Journal on Fridays with Brian Lamb
Action
So You Want To Dance and Blow Up Every Reality Show On TV
(written, directed, produced and starring me!)

5(+1) Greatest joys:
My best friend Camie (Vog)
The Little Man, who I bought a Hummer for. ("For us to DRIVE?")
Sandy Bullock
Fred and Ginger
My Novel (which still electrifies me from time to time)
plus a special shout-out to Art Gurl too!

5 Favorite toys:
My digital camera
My Board Games
My Music
My DVD collection
My Maxfield Parrish repro

The Wendy Story, Part 5

We leave Wendy and Ramon for just a tic, as we explore the history of the present owner of the Maxty Building...


Feldspar Mjolner owned the Maxty Building since the late '30's when Old Man Maxty died. Despite several attempts to rename it over the decades, ( Liberty Building, FM Towers, Hammer INC., etc. ) the only name anyone would use was "The Maxty Building." Feldspar liked to say that the Mjolners' made their fortune in the fur trade; there was some truth to this. Third level 17th century bureaucrats, the Mjolner family wound up on the wrong side of the Bourbons just in time to help Canada rid itself of its excess beaver population. Quite a lot of money was made, enough to keep the family in booze and political chicanery for almost 200 years, but by the early 20th century Mjolner arrogance and family size had pretty much sluiced off the revenue stream.
The Mjolner family fortunes were saved, oddly enough, by a 15-year old Feldspar and Prohibition. Feldspar stumbled onto a flavorful, strong, bathtub gin mixture that quickly became THE bootleg hooch for sophisticated alkies for blocks around. As the fame of "Mjolner's Hammer" spread, a disturbing side effect was noticed; some people would go blind, others would die. The first to go blind was Feldspar's abusive father; three days after this sad event, he stepped in front of traffic and was killed. It was noted that a black shoeshine boy was the first person to him after he was hit and he passed away before help could arrive. It was then made known that a reward was there for the taking if the young buck would come forward and tell the family of any Last Words of Import. Robert Cletus Johnston, later referred to as "Uncle Robby", wide-eyed, anxious, and frightened that this might be some kind of cruel trick, told the Mjolners, in trembling voice, that the old blind man just said "On purpose." As the white people paused to take this in, Robert snatched the $100 bill from Feldspar's hand and fled, never to be heard from again, despite his having won a Silver Star at Tarawa. The rest of the family consoled themselves by assuming that Grandpa, out of sheer grief, took his own life, but if there was another interpretation of "On purpose", only Feldspar knew it , and he kept his own counsel.
Normally, blindness and death would not constitute a good product recommendation, but Feldspar and his family were able to turn the truth into what would later be called Urban Legend. Instinctively, Feldspar's exploiting of these events made the noxious brew even more popular. Using an artist whose half-Munch, half-Frazetta style would be revived in the mid-2010's, the "Are You Man Enough to Pick Up Thor's Hammer?" ads sucked in the stupidly macho and Feldspar's way of combining colorings and bizarre flavorings from Chinatown, drew in the ladies, especially after he cut it with water. When Prohibition ended, the Mjolner's decided to clean the stuff up and go legit. Not content with just alcohol, they expanded into flavored tobaccos, multi-colored rolling papers for those still making cigarettes at home, and Hummel-like ceramic incense burners with their catch-phrase, "It smells good!" molded along the base. By 1938, the sales of all these products allowed the Mjolners' to save enough cash to purchase the Maxty Building.

Half Naked Thursday!

That's what I'm talkin' about!

Rhythm fights boredom

I must admit it was a low energy day today. I must stop blaming entropy for my own personal laziness, but I can't even muster the energy to do that, and I'm not even trying for a pun there!

But I wasn't bored, which is odd. Somehow the events of the day had a rhythm about them, and with rhythm in my corpus, I don't get bored. Things got done 'in rhythm,' meaning I did them at the time I wanted to, not when I had to. Even though it was a low energy day, I got a lot done. So, I'm quite delighted with myself.

What bores you? What gives you energy? Does rhythm matter to you?

and....Action!

Wow, my 25 peeps pic came through, and now I feel obliged to be entertaining! Let's see...what to say....what to say...man, I'm SOL!

I know, read the Wendy story! Scroll down,it's there....meh, not much of a salesman, eh?

Well, here's the blog, fellow blogflys, read on and enjoy yourselves!



Fluffy, his own bad self

Proposed Term

I've noticed how people hang out at groups of blogs, partially by their interest, partially by social bonding. What is this like? This is like how the same groups of people will frequent the same bars, often for the same reasons as the blogs! Thus, I propose to call such folks "blogflys", like "barflys." Someone could alter that Blogger "B" to look like a fly, that'd be cool!

Whatcha think about it?

I take Cammie's challenge!

5 Things in my freezer

1. Frozen French Fries
2. Martini glasses!
3. Empty ice trays
4. Pepper Stoli!
5. Empty ice container

5 Things in my closet

1. Ancient wargames
2. Ancient Playboys
3. A sign from a long-departed local candy store that reads,
"Sorry -- The Walnut Room is filled to capacity this evening."
4. A box of old calenders, kept for the cool pictures
5. Matchbox cars

5 Things in my car

1. One lousy quarter
2. Spider webs
3. A small wrench
4. Sunglasses
5. Febreeze

5 Things in my purse (now if I can only find it!)

1. Shakespeare First Folio
2. My common sense
3. Autographed copy of Old Testament.
4. Jet-Pack
5. 12 billion dollars

5 Friends I'm inviting to join the game:

1. Old Panther
2. Ack/Nak
3. Art Gurl
4. Mike D
5. George

I promise I won't stay serious for long!

This post is not intended for the world, but the half a dozen of you who show up on occasion who understand the range of crisis that have been occuring here at Chez Fluffy Stuffin'. It's been two months of panic attacks, depression, sorrow, fear, and more existential dread than a Kirkegaard/Schoepenhauer festival, but for the moment things are in the clear. This happened last Thursday, and just now am I able to write about it. Let's make it clear: I'm not out of the woods just yet, and there is a bit more strategic pressure on me, but there is a plan, and I'm going to try and act on it as best as I can. Watch this space: In another month, I may well be climbing the walls again. We will work to prevent this. Why am I writing this post? To stand up and thank those who need thanking.

Firstly, I want to thank those in the blogosphere who have help me financially and emotionally. You know who you are, and I think what you did was both incredible and wonderful. We may never actually met, but I am grateful to you in ways that trancend mere appreciation. If there were a Karmic PayPal, you'd be gettin' emails from it.

Next, I want to thank those who, in an oddball fashion, are also trying to help, even if not directly. You know it comes back to you as well. One of you is trying to get the Fluffy novel published; if this event comes through, and I sense you know you can make it happen, what boons would I grant you? Don't use your imagination; let me use mine. If you step up, I promise I will 'Release the Kraken' and let my mind pour itself onto blank pages like Bondo on a '68 Chevy. I could do no less. Think about that.

I also want to tip the cap to my spiritual bodhisattvas, who keep the day alive within my mind. Who are these? They range from Nietzsche to Groucho to Ginger to Sandra to Old Tree Town itself, and without them, I have no structure grounding me to both art and living.

Lastly, I must save special space for Cammie; she is the family I have never had, worth more to me on a bad day than my biological family was on a good day. She's done something no one has ever done with/for me; she has invested in me. It's not just help, and it's not just placing some kind of pressure, but both put together tightly, all there to make me more human. I can only give what love and care I can to you Camie; we will pull each other through one mess after another, and I think that when we triumph it will also be together as well. Not just for ourselves, but for the Little Man as well! I can't forget how much of a help he is, even though, right now, I don't think he gets it. But he will, we'll make sure of that.

This crisis is not without a casualty. Someone I've known for a long time has called it quits on me. I was saddened by this at first, but upon further review, I should have punted this person a while back. If you can't hang when things get tough, exit to the left, more beer for the rest of us! If this is the only price I have to pay to get through this grief, wow, have I made out cheap! This, by far, is the surest sign I've gotten old; I used to spot the worthless a lot further off, and acted accordingly. Ah, well, I'm only human-all-too-human.

A little They Might Be Giants for all y'all!

Right into the danger zone...of Ypsilanti

Back in '88, when there was a Mrs. Fluffy, we went to an air show, and I climbed into an F-15, just for my photo op as 'Imperial Oppressor of the Month.' I'm grinnin' 'cause I turned on the FLIR, got that Sidewinder growl tone, and blew an AMC Pacer back to Kingdom Come...who wouldn't grin at that?

The Wendy Story, Part 4

We finish our first Wendy and Ramon segment...

Man, this is gonna be just the best! I'll use some of that bullshit-o Spanish she loved so much, Ramon said to himself as he rounded the corner and all he could see as he came into the room was that ass, that unbelievable ass, as she was there, right there, up against the window, OH MY GOD he thought, this is just incredible, she knows my thoughts, she can see my very soul, like I don't even have to say anything and she just fuckin' knows ( a few neurotransmitters in Ramon's brain raised the question of marriage and were told "No" by the vast congress of both hemispheres so quickly that it did not really qualify as "a conscious thought") but when she turned her head, he froze and all he could see were the tears going down her face, tinted red by the neon hot dog sign two stories above across the street. She figured it out and she was going to go through with it ...for me... even though it's gonna.....really bad.... even though she thinks I'm a...and I am a...thoughts of asking the forgiveness of the Virgin Mary brought the erection down and into himself like the raising of a drawbridge, and between blustery apologies,teary gasps, and whip-stings of self-flagellating guilt, Ramon gathered his clothes hurriedly and left the apartment so quickly even Wendy could hardly say anything.

.....the outer door slammed shut, and Wendy had her answers. "The shit I have gone through to avoid using the goddamn vibrator on a Saturday night," she said aloud, this time fighting back tears of laughter at poor Ramon again. A deer in the headlights of self-discovery she knew she couldn't go backwards; raising the stakes makes it that much more seductive, and that much more necessary. Staring out the window at the object of her desire, this time out of awe and not fear, she knew she no longer needed a man, but a skyscraper. Wendy, and Wendy alone, had to have the Maxty Building.

The Wendy Story, Part 3

Wendy and Ramon...still talkin' to themselves...

The reason Wendy admired and was fascinated with men so much is that they did things. I mean, not always well, but so what? If it didn't work out, you moved on. Men did; women waited. She had emulated the men in her life well enough to have a decent place in Manhattan, but she had never completely turned the corner. She had occasionally wondered if this were an accident, but each time she had such doubts, she just ratcheted up the intensity of her competitiveness. She had to; it's how you stayed in the game, the game where money was the maguffin. But this was different; she knew she had won. What kind of self would she be now? The sheer amount of money meant she would no longer need to hustle, no longer need to count coup. Hustlers would come to her; she would wait. She couldn't turn a blind eye to all this; she couldn't turn the money down could she? No, no, unthinkable; the future would never forgive her.

Wendy stood up, and still nude, went to the patio window overlooking Hell's Kitchen. Leaning tiptoe, legs splayed, she pressed her forehead and palms flat against the large sheet of glass. She couldn't help but look out and down, the car horns and taxis a B-movie backdrop like bluebirds and daffodils would be to someone from the country... She took all the succor she could from this image; she now felt she would have to leave New York as well. Too many familiar snarls, too many psycho-land mines to step on, too many people like who she used to be... Like every other person running away from themselves she wanted to stay right here. Her tears came when she closed her eyes and just listened... She imagined each self she no longer needed falling to the street below, being taken away by New York, being left screaming in pain and crying for help in New York, unsure who would be left up here in the air to look out over New York each morning. Anyone at all? Anyone she could stand? And if you win, and are not you, did you win? She longed so much for kindness now, and realizing that no man ever understood that it's kindness when you need it, not when they feel like giving it to you, the tears came harder and she pushed the glass even more, hoping...


Should, like, I grease her up?, thought Ramon. Like that big fat Brando guy, in that really dumbass movie she made him watch twice? It's not really easy to be aggressive and sneaky all at once, but it's what he wanted to try...maybe this wouldn't be so cool after all....Ah, fuck it, let's do it. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it and went into the next room.

Her loneliness had hardened the air in the room, in her space, when the door creak clued her in... Who?.... She had totally forgotten about Ramon, when he stomped in not so much a man as an erection and a smirk. She really didn't need this now. Keeping her nude self facing the City she turned her head to tell him to go when....

The Wendy Story, Part 2

We continue with a little internal dialogue...



In New York there was Disnification, and there were rumors of Disnification. When the Fairy Dust of East Asian capital hit mid-town, the Lost Boys slithered back to their Soho nightspots, the men with meathooks for hands went back to Brooklyn, and the Boys Who Would Not Grow Up flitted back to the East Village, all for the noble cause of Greater Tourism. Ever since then, every time two bankers from different hemispheres got together for lunch in the upper '50's, people for ten blocks around, knew,in their heart of hearts, that their rattle-trap of an elevator-less building would be plowed over to sell coon skin hats, Goofy neckties, and Scrooge McDuck Money Bins to endless strangers from Kyoto, Singapore and Seoul, so that by the simple virtue of having sat there and having done nothing at all, they would be allowed to leave the Greatest City in The World for West Palm Beach bank statements intact. But that evening, Wendy had pieced together the real truth; that right here in her backyard, would be where the tsunami of greenbacks would hit, and if she were quick enough, she should be able to buy a damn building out from under some saps nose, and turn it around with such force, that, well, the Darwinian struggle for survival would be over. The fortune cookie made her think of how all these people she's been chatting up individually didn't know much, but the logic of their combined knowledge led to unflinchingly obvious conclusions. She had even gone so far as to figure out the building to buy, a building whose placement was crucial to all of the proposed plans for the area. What she couldn't figure out was why this knowledge had left her so depressed.

From behind? Ramon wondered about this as he toweled himself off and, looking about, found some bitchin' oil that would make his pretty damn buff bod look like it had been through the spray wax at the car wash. Yeah, I think it's time. I mean, she knows I'm not a tough guy, she knows that it's time to move the sex life up a notch, time for him to show her he could take control.

"I came here for the witty conversation." "What witty conversation? This is the Internet" "I was misinformed."

You scored as Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart is your classic movie persona. Trenchcoats and classy dinner jackets are all you. People are instantly drawn to your suave charisma and nonchalance. Your cleverness enables you to solve mysteries. You're probably the classiest one of the bunch! Humphrey Bogart 67% Cary Grant 50% Ginger Rogers 42% Audrey Hepburn 33% Fred Astaire 25% Marilyn Monroe 8% Which classic movie actor/actress are you? (pics) created with QuizFarm.com

The Wendy Story, Part 1

Here's our opening....


She deliberately, consciously, let her toes uncurl. She kept her eyes shut.
Now....who was this? The mumbled Spanish, the way he held on to her left breast like a doorknob, let her know this was Ramon. Good. She really wasn't feeling very talkative. Their relationship had moved to a very comfy place of non-verbal interaction. He looked up with the same puppy dog eyes which asked for some sign of sexual approval. Her downward unsmiling stare simply stated, "Off." As he withdrew and stood up chastened, her tilted head, slightly crinkled pixie-grin, and widely spread thighs denoted, "Thank You." This was as much as he would get, but he was pleased. Easily pleased. This was one of the reasons Wendy liked Ramon and called him far more often than any other man. He was about as subtle as a freight train, but he had the energy of one as well. About the moment of her own exhaustion, he was more than ready to keep going. It was at this point that she had to lose just enough control to make things... interesting.

As Ramon bounded off to the shower, Wendy pulled herself up and sat staring at the wet spot. Solitary post coital technical analysis had been a very good snuggling partner for Wendy her whole sexual life, but this time something wasn't right. It's not that Ramon had been perfect -- good god, no! -- but, really, what did she expect from someone so inexperienced in, well, everything? "Not Much," she caught herself saying aloud. Still, her sadness lingered in the room like the smell of the sheets. For a tiny second she pressed this analogy too far and hoped that a bit of fresh air (maybe a new man, someone much more skilled...) would clear things up. But she knew deep down, this wasn't true. Time was against her, and the "Married, filing jointly" option was just an admission of defeat, of capitulation, of total surrender. She knew herself so well that this would never even vaguely be a possibility.



Man, this chick was just fucking unbelievable! Well, at least unbelievable at fucking! Ramon laughed at his own joke in the shower, now regretting using her shampoo. Its delicate floral scent, which he really loved last night, would cause no end of teasing from his older brother Cristobal, and intense probing questions from his mother who would warn him for the 100th time to stay off of Bleecker Street. Still, he knew why she hung around with him; he knew that he wasn't like his brother and his cruel friends; he knew that she could see his inner gentleness, his love of art and flowers. All he needed was a chance, a bit more exposure to class and he knew that his love for her would grow, and like, her love for him as well. That's why he was grateful she got him the job delivering sandwiches to the Stock Exchange. Man, what a step up from that damn busboy job!
They fucked that first -- no wait, he caught himself, we made love that first night -- and women don't do that without... without...love? He was afraid to say it, but he knew it was true, because, man that's just how chicks are. Everything for them was about love and that's why he smugly knew he was better than nearly every man he'd ever met. He loved women; and he was happy that he found one that could see that, and that, with time, and care, she would love him too. Ramon recited these little speechments in the quiet of his room many times, but this was the first time he did it at her place, talking to the wash cloth, gesturing and pointing in the steam. The blood rushing to his groin indicated that he was gearing himself up for another round.

What was wrong? This ate at Wendy to the point that she was disturbed by her own obsessiveness. This itself was disturbing; she had never worried about her obsessiveness before. All her life she had saved up for this series of moments and now that they had come she just couldn't bring herself to believe it. How different life would have been, if six weeks ago, she had ordered the Woo Dip Har as she normally did, instead of what she had ordered.
Wendy didn't save every fortune cookie message, but each one she did save had to be tacked onto a little framed cork board in a particular order forming a kind of PostModern Book of Days, with the occasional touch of duck sauce or sweet-and-sour lending an organic verisimilitude to this life's work. These cork boards - now numbering 7 - would constantly be shuffled around the bedroom walls as if some kind of fractured English feng shui would produce inner peace, but dammit, it just wasn't working. Why she got the Egg Foo Young that night she honestly couldn't say; maybe the longing for a childhood comfort food? She ate it, but didn't really bond with it enough to check out the fortune. Just as she thought this, she dropped the cookie into the gravy making a sploosh of coagulated grease on the table, her clothes, her face. A burst of anger made her tear open the cookie and melodramatically read its contents: "Awareness of others will lead to an awareness of self." So many of her recent thoughts and problems resolved themselves so cleanly when she read it each word sounded like a bank vault tumbler clicking open.
She had been trolling her usual information nets; mailroom clerks, CEO's, financial consultants, the tired huddled masses of cubicle drones, the survivors of corporate downsizing, their employee numbers practically tattooed on their arms. Wendy knew what every good bartender knew; people ache to unburden themselves on you. If you seemed to be a light, a warm place, a comforter during a rainstorm, the amount of information they were eager to tell you was amazing. It was as if a small betrayal of confidence compensated for the removal of any form of life outside of work. Wendy had long ago honed her trust-building techniques -- quiche and latte for the ladies, whiskey and fellatio for the menfolk -- but if people honestly didn't know the truth they couldn't impart it in the leather and mahogany confessionals of Park Avenue. Gossip was the die that cut the truth into puzzle pieces, and intelligence is seeing the patterns of those pieces where others did not. Wendy hyper-concentrated on this baroque jumble of kooky glances, statistics, ennui, and thinly suppressed postalrage until she couldn't concentrate on anything else. Certainly she knew what to do when she had been in this position before; she needed to get laid. She had stopped for tortilla soup at a place near Washington Square. It was small, cramped, disgustingly dirty -- but it had the cutest wait staff. It was the way Ramon tried to conceal his obvious staring that she found attractive. He was easier to pick up than the check. By mid-afternoon of the next day, she had forgotten all about him. But then, 3 days later, he called! He whined about her not calling him the next day, he whined about her leaving while he was still asleep -- he really,really,really wanted to see her again, maybe get a sno-cone or a hot dog and walk through the park feeding the pigeons off the hot dog bun while he told her how important Freida Kahlo was to him as not just an artist, but a person. She bit her lip, each tear of laughter finding its way into the speaking part of the phone. She couldn't help but agree to the next date -- and the next. The reason it was great was that when she decided it was over there would be no reasons; one day she would not answer his calls anymore and that would be that.

If you grow your hair like this as well, you get extra dough...

People in America get paid to drive around cars with product placement on them...This one is parked near my friend Lucy's apartment in Seattle...

The Wendy Story, intro

Because Puppy requests it, I may put up The Wendy Story chapter of my novel. Each chapter of this novel begins with a quote from the lead character from the chapter before, so here's the Crazy Mike quote to start us off...



The Wendy Story


"... in short, gentlemen, your entire cognitive enterprise is a load of crap, a polysyllabic abstraction forced upon you by an over demanding professioriat. Look, the whole damn problem is pretty simple. Our subconscious minds are one gigantic roller coaster, a roller coaster with every possible drop, water slide, and 360 degree corkscrew imaginable. Our conscious minds, our 'rational selves' are US, the passengers in that roller coaster, side-by-side in the cars of personal space, all connected in the Great Human Chain of Thought! The reason people are unhappy is simple: they fail to realize that THEY and they alone, bought the damn ticket! God's role in this is equally simple: he takes the tickets, straps you in, and you're off! He says only two things to you: "ticket, please" and "exit to the left." The rest is up to you! So, all this mock white-knuckle terror and screaming, all this dizziness and puking, is not about the fear of death, but the failure to see the joy in being free of gravity! The most intelligent people, while they're riding, throw up their hands and laugh! And the most noble, beautiful people, the strongest willed, the most gracious of heart know exactly what to say when it's all over and their feet are firmly planted on the ground: 'What a rush! Let's go again!'"

-- Crazy Mike, in a letter to the Journal of Cognitive Psychology July 1986.

Ransom Waldo Maxty

Because I love you all, my friends....and...(sits on the edge of the stage, like Garland at the Sands) I do...love you all, I enclose a chunk of my novel. This is a self-contained chunk, telling the brief history of a guy who owned a building way back when that my wierdo characters are now fighting over in the present. Enjoy!



Ransom Waldo Maxty formed Maxty Cap and Clasp as a maker of customized caps for expensive fountain pens and ladies brooches in 1906. Despite its odd specialization, Maxty was successful in this trade. Unlike most such 19th century businesses, Maxty did not succeed by niggardly levels of thrift, but rather, by intense concentration on his customers tastes; no amount of filigree, or jewel encrustation was too much for those who desired to be truly unique. This even extended to his more modest lines of pen caps, for Maxty reasoned that even the average man wanted to stand out from his fellows. The growth of his business allowed Maxty to move from the Lower East Side to Hell's Kitchen in 1912. On the day the Maxty Building was christened, Maxty's only son and his beloved wife were killed in an automobile accident by a corpulent fool going 50 mph down Broadway. He never remarried, withdrew within himself, and the business suffered.

The defining moment in the corporate history of Maxty Cap and Clasp came in November of 1918. A small child, bleeding and dazed, walked into Maxty's own offices and presented R.W. Maxty with a broken "Tradesman's Pride" model pen cap, claiming that, as the owner, he must fulfill the warranty for her father as soon as possible. Maxty looked out the window at the crushed Chevrolet with the dozens of beer barrels on top, still flailing spooked dray horses on their sides, and one hand sticking out from it all in a wash of blood and foam, closed his eyes and told the child to return within a week. Six days later, Maxty fulfilled his guarantee with what has since been considered the finest example of their craft; a cap whose use of several colors of diamond, solid pieces of jade, and flame rubies in a Celtic cross pattern still inspires Colleen Killian-Wordsworth today as she sits and watches the Tempe sun reflect off of it each dusk. Maxty had intended for her to sell the cap to one of his wealthier clients, but when word of his gift reached her neighborhood, the neighbors would not let her dishonor her fathers memory, and instead raised money amongst themselves to send the girl to a distant relative in Albany, putting the cap in a safe deposit box. Though Maxty never referred to this event ever again, his respect amongst his own neighbors rose, and his business grew forthwith.

Throughout the late teens and early twenties, Maxty never varied from his daily routine, and when he took his afternoon constitutional, his pockets had enough candy for everyone. When St. Patrick's day occurred during Prohibition, the use of a secret code word at certain locations, would allow any decent Irishman a drink , all paid for by Maxty. If there was a crisis back home, or at certain key events in someone's life, passage back to Dublin would be arranged through St. Bridgit's, from "divine sources." At the height of his success in the late '20's, Maxty very discreetly requested the Irish policeman of his precinct to escort his female employees now working the newly created 2nd shift home for their safety. Clothes line gossip quickly distributed the truth which enhanced Maxty's already strong image, and nearly every mother felt obliged to show her child that men like Maxty were why penmanship truly mattered. Pen caps were handed down from father to son in a passage rite that couldn't be explained to someone from Queens, much less the world at large. On his birthday in 1928, the women of Hell's Kitchen surprised Maxty by bringing in their children for a song-and-dance program so moving to him that for all the years until his own death, Maxty would send each child from that day a card on their birthday written in a hand so beautiful that many people would exchange them just to admire the different cursives, accents, and capital letters.

The Depression hit Maxty Cap and Clasp hard. Maxty was reluctant to let people go, his misplaced faith in Herbert Hoover perhaps the strongest indicator of his now, suddenly, being out of sync with the times. As his fortunes dwindled, people left out of guilt from "stealing from the Old Man." In 1938, while playing Santa at the Horace Greely Young Persons Social Club 32nd Christmas Ice Cream Social, Ransom Waldo Maxty passed away after asking for a "moments respite." His wake reduced productivity for blocks around for a week, and was the closest Italians, Irish, and Poles would be for a long time before and since. When in the late '50's drunken hoodlums stole the giant brass fountain pen from the top of Maxty's black marble headstone, no one really objected, as the Deco gewgaw didn't fit the quiet solidity of a man who founded and ran a successful business in Manhattan for 32 years, light years away from the folie circulare of Wall Street, without ever caring about a quarterly earnings statement, without ever having heard the term "junk bond", and without ever, even once, having meet a person from Japan.

Racing around in circles like a wolverine with it's butt on fire!

Ok, it's late, I should be sleeping, but my mind is General Paulus in the Stalingrad that is my life, so here I am trying to find some damn thing to type that isn't 1/10 as depressed as I feel. Things are bad, but I'm workin' on it. Will it do any good? Any good at all? I need a sign. A relief corps or three. Camie, where are my vitamins?

Idiotic song lyrics are also stuck in my head and emerge at the strangest moments. "Every hotsi-totsi Nazi is here!", from the ought five Producers just showed up, connecting my previous Stalingrad reference to musical comedy! Sure, why the hell not?

I could sing again, but why torture people? At least I give the fizmeister a chance to mock my mockable Brit accent! Ah, fear not! I vill sing....and do ze Time Warp again!

How much would I like to connect a word, a tone, a gesture, a scent, and what my mind and heart have wrought, into a neat item, a charm or token, something I could pass on to those I care for.... made by me, for you, for good, for your good.

I put it all in the dribble glass of my consciousness and stand here, yer 'umble 'n obed'nt baggy pants vaudevillian, waitin' to see if you get the punch line.

Gone...and Forgotten

So, it's Father's Day, and I've been hearing a number of people talk about it, in both blog and meat worlds. I left a comment on Althouse's site about it. I'd like to say happy things, good memories, and the like, but I don't have a lot of them. He got sick, and I had no contact with him -- my choice. (There is a long explanation there, but I'm not in the mood to give it.) He died, and I didn't go to the funeral, and I don't even know where he's buried. Nor do I, at this particular moment in time, care to know this. Don't count on much change to this attitude in the future.

Not all holidays are good ones.

Old Blue Veins is Back!

As per your request lads!

"Let's Face The Music and Dance"

This is for being "egged" on by the inestimable fatfiz. I'll do one more Astaire number from the same picture as the last one, Follow The Fleet. I'm thinkin' of others to do, so you're duly warned!

Things have been melancholic around here lately, so the song fits the Fluffy Stuffin mood....

This is for my good eggs...

Because 4D said to keep doing it...
For LK to listen to when I send her movies that make her cry...
For The Little Man to give him something to laugh at...
For the sublime Art Gurl who is...[looks out window towards California], yup, who is still amazingly beautiful and sweet...

and for Camie who is the Escoffier Omelette of The House of Fluffy Stuffin...

A Big Fluffy Hello For Camille Vog & Nomar!

"The Eye-a-toll-ah of Rock-and-Rolla!!!"

Sorry, man, he's been deposed. It's ok; Rock and Roll continues without religious guidance, and The Main Man himself is on a beach in ExDictatorStan, tens of millions wrung out of the blood of his fans as surely as borscht is made from beets.

But did you ever wonder about the deposed royalty of other musical forms? Wonder no more...Fluffy Stuffin has done some research for you!

• What does Mark Knopfler know about the overthrown Sultan of Swing? Is his band name -- Dire Straights -- a clue of some kind?
• A close personal 'friend' (shout out to A.H. in Caracas! 9 more years until the big 7-0! Party on the Unter der Linden, baby! Oops, should I be using my 'aloud' voice? M'bad!) informs me the Emir of Easy Listening has slipped back 'in country.' Ohio, one assumes...
• The Caliph of Calypso has become a true rotter; even his 'girlfriends' won't cover up for him any more...sad...
• The Rajah of Reggae is now living in East Orange under the name 'Arthur Pynche-Smedley', selling golf equipment to Sunbird Wannabes, and has a restraining order keeping him away from any member of the Marley family for reasons unknown...
• The Potentate of Punk & the Princess of Punk do their Sid and Nancy re-enactments in the Chelsea Hotel on demand. When you check in, make sure to ask for 'Pedro' and mention that 'Balthazar Getty is still playing pool somewhere up near 64th and Lex', which will get you the show...
• Le Pope du BeBop trolls the Loire region, hustling wine tourists with the sale of the occasional beret, and hasn't been the same since his contract for clove cigarettes came to an end...

Sounds grim, don't it? But this last bit of good news, obtained through mystical means involving the burning of a "Rockin with Dokken" t-shirt, a lock of hair from a Monkee, a Beatle, and a Cricket, and some sweat off the top of Brian Eno's head, should cheer you up:

The Monarch of Muzak is eternally in a elevator that has buttons for floors, but no floors, and plays Ute Lemper, Yma Sumac, Primus, Diamanda Galas, Gwar and a toy piano and a theramin, all at the same time, while the elevator goes up and down and up and down...in the Twilight Zone.

I take the tag 2!

from Camie:

I AM: filled with an evil sparkling energy which constantly seeks outlets, and a wisdom full of pranks.
I WANT: a home of my own, in a woods in a city.
I HATE: slickness, vanity, having to constuct a life which is mainly a lie just to hold a 'job.'
I MISS: travelling -- with Camie.
I FEAR: being abandoned by everyone.
I HEAR: that that Scarlett Johannson has some major league hooters. I must investigate.
I WONDER: why I bother even trying.
I REGRET: not seeing that the person I choose to marry would have been such a big disaster to me.
I AM NOT: all that interested in careerism.
I DANCE: with Ginger Rogers every chance I can get. Camie knows what this means.
I SING: badly, but freely and unafraid.
I SEE: that life is mostly a pain in the ass. Feh!
I CRY: deep, heavy tears, that no one ever sees.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: the most tactful.
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: little ingots of words, drip, drip, drip.
I WRITE: to create the shape of my mental form, the words forming the boundry between the inner chaos and the outer world.
I CONFUSE: people who sound good with people who do good.
I NEED: find a reason to wonder why should bother trying.
I SHOULD: stop needing and wondering.
I START: my car with a key. Everything else, I don't start, I react and watch.
I FINISH: things that need to be killed by killing them.

For Camie: Icy Roads, Human Evil

Yes, Camie, the field I just described for baseball purposes was in fact the land where much winter meyhem took place. Let me share this mayhem now with the world.

Rather than launch into a Garrison Keiler-like narrative filled with nostalgic syrup, let me lay it on straight. It was a land of much evil. This was a Westinghouse warehouse (now a mental institution!) which had a narrow road which ended in a downward sloping loop, between two warehouses near a railroad track. The trucks would come down and back into the receiving dock of a warehouse and off they would go after they unloaded. Except of course in winter where packs of weasly street rats would grab buckets of water and throw them on the downslopes, with the intention of creating a glare ice surface. This would be done after daytime work hours, so that in the morning, we would hide and wait for the fools who would try and brake on that ice, with our goal being their skidding into the train tracks, and, if we were especially lucky, perhaps a toppling over of some semi truck! I never saw this event, but heard rumors of it being seen, which was good enough to fill us full of delighted mallace.

This was not the worst of the Winter Follies; not as long as our games of "Crack The Whip" were being played on the very same road. It was the dumbest of ideas: we all skate down in a line, (no one had actually skates, just worn-out shoes) and somehow, the "winners" would be the persons who could skate back up the hill on the other side of the loop. This was basically impossible, so for those kids who actually figured it out, they knew the real goal was to get your enemies careening into each other with as much billiard-ball like violence as possible. Injuries? Good! Blood? Very Good! Something broken? Ah...that's just the best! And yet...everyone played in it!

Have I gotten to the bad part yet? Nope! Snowball Fights...from hell. Kids would form cliques based on the dumbest of reasons. I remember joining up with kids all wearing blue, and I was in red, which, by kid logic, entitled me to be 'captain', which everyone agreed with! Throwing the snow around that was nice, but then people sought protection which led to the creation of Snow Forts from which produced an upspiral of technological horror! The Snow Catapults and Snow Mortars didn't work so well, but dunking the snowballs in water, and giving them enough time...these kinetic penetrators did a pretty good job of chopping off the turrets of the Snow Forts, but upon seeing a kid or two wacked with essentially a Snow Hardball, some clever tyke thought that....if you packed ball bearings in the snowballs, even more violence would take place, and sure as shootin', that was true! Which in turn led to the Mark III SnowBall With Ball Bearings Dunked In Water, for an even more sublime understanding of the fragmentation weapon principle.

But the Wonder Weapon that was built but never used? Snow, Ball Bearings and...fishhooks, dunked in water briefly. Yikes, you'd rip off a kids face with one of those! Well, yeah, I think that was the idea! The little degenerate who made like 20 of these things got caught by his mom when he tried to hide them in the freezer! All hell broke loose after that and even our lackadaisical parents got involved in saying that they would put an end to the Snowball War that ended all Snowball Wars. Which they did.

People ask me, "How can we Bomb a Dresden? or Rape a Nanking? or Build a Gulag?"

I never wonder about such questions; I learned the answers at a very young age, on a snowy field in Detroit.

"I'll be damned, here comes that..."

This is the first in a series of posts, all of which will connect at some point.


As a kid I played a lot of baseball. Where I was growing up, there were organized leagues, Little League and such, but the kids in our neighborhood shunned them all in favor of the way we played, which was not unlike the formation of Italian Governments; pure chaos. Cliques would form, friendships would rise and fall, sometimes you'd play on the same team as kids you hated just because you were bored with your friends, none of it mattered. What mattered was getting good; you stunk, you sat, and nobody said boo about it. Practically any random assemblage of us would have creamed any of the organized teams because they didn't play enough. We would be out there sunup to sundown, hammering away.

We played on a series of overgrown grassy fields connected by Westinghouse warehouses. Those warehouses were a trip themselves, but I'll save that one up. One of the fields required a regular catcher,etc., but the other was against a wall sort of, flanked by cherry trees that served as 'dugouts' because they were the coolest place to sit on those hot ballyards. The trees were close, but not too close, to the warehouses, such that the howler monkeys among us would clamber up the trees and leap onto to the tar roofs of buildings chasing after foul tips. Other things would be bring down from up there, like half-empty liquor bottles, parts of mysterious design, and, a working typewriter. The grass ended in a gracefully curved arch, that was a roadway for trucks to come through, and after that gravel and glass nightmare, was a second grassy area that extended to the next warehouse.

I was a scrawny kid with a good arm for my age, and the only bat I had for the longest time was a 42 ounce monster with Harry Heilmann's name burned into it somewhere around 1925. There was no knob, so one was formed out of electrical tape, rubber cement, and more electrical tape. In the summer months, it would just slide off like a goop of tobacco chaw, and I'd have to choke the bat practically half way up. Given that the bat was almost bigger than me, this meant I had to slap a lot of singles every which way, and I became a Master of Bat Control. If I could've run better than a fireplug, I'd have been the greatest bunter on earth, but alas...

This all changed when I got a 33 ounce Henry Aaron bat with a whippet-thin handle and a huge bat head. I felt like The Hulk Unchained from that point on, and I extracted revenge on everyone who dared played third base. I viewed them like ducks in a shooting gallery, and more than once did I hit a liner so hard it knocked the glove off some saps hand! It was tremendous.

But one kid, who did a lot of pitching...I just had a hard time hitting him, he threw hard and had an odd Tiant-like motion, which I just couldn't see. I can't remember the kids name, just that he had a face like the cartoony mascot of the Cleveland Indians, angular, squinting, always some kind of daffy, toothy grin, even when he wasn't smiling.

But this time I saw the pitch when it was behind his head, still in his hand. By the time it was closing in on his ear, I thought, “I’ll be damned, here comes that little shit fastball he throws,” saying that in my mind just like I had read it in Ted Williams’ My Turn at Bat, only in Ted’s case, it was about Jim Bunning. Those words…they weren’t obscene, or even cranky to me, it was a Zen coen of how much you could see of the world in so little time….

I knew I was going to crush it, and when I knew that, everything relaxed. My hands were loose, I was set up just so, mind, head, heart. I didn’t want to hit another of my frozen rope liners, I wanted to drive it, and drive it as deep as I could. And that’s what happened; it took off so quickly and so high, I couldn’t see it, so I watched the centerfielder, who took two steps back, and watched it sail over his head. On the fly, of all things, it hit the sidewalk of the Second Grass, the one that led to a door that led to…what? We never knew. When it hit the sidewalk, on one hop, it crashed through an unprotected glass pane – tink! – almost soundlessly, the ball never to be seen again, perhaps winding up in a jet engine, but most likely made into a refrigerator.

It wasn’t the hardest baseball I ever hit; there were times when you close your eyes and whip the bat through the zone, and like sub-atomic particles, the bat and the ball go all Hiroshima and you get a dinger. But I was never before or since as conscious about hitting the ball as I was in that small moment.

Are these things happy accidents without a context? Do they mean something more than mere good performance? I wish I knew. But I do know this: I’ve never forgotten it.

Can this be?

The ever-charming Sundries?

We were discussing Easter clothes Over There at her blog, when she mentioned she had her red garb all set to go! So I searched the Entire Interweb, and I believe that I have in fact located her picture.

Yes, this seems about right! The non-headless one on the right that is!

Chico Marx explains the War in Iraq!

Welcome Chico, we're glad to have you explain the Iraq War to us!
Chico: I'm-a joost glad I can-a help.

First, Chico, what can you tell us about WMD?
Chico: My doc, he's-a say, "Baravelli, you must quit drinking," and I say, "Doc, you-a crazy!" But, sumagun, he's a-right, I quit drinking and I no see-a the WMD! The President, he's a-quit drinking too, so that explains it. It's a-simple when you think about it.

But what about the Straights of Hormuz?
Chico: Me, I seen-a that movie three times, and I still-a not know! Are they straights or hormuz? Groucho, he say-a to me, "If you can't tell that, I've got more land in Florida for you to invest in." But I gotta the rule: never invest-a ina da land of a clean sheep herder. Groucho, he say, "I'll bet if they offered you a cigar on Castro street, you'd take it," and I-a say, "I'm-a no smoke so close to Cuba, it's a bad for da digestion." I get-a bad case of the Abu grahib.

What about Abu Grahib?
Chico: OK, I lied, itsa-easy, I getta that after shellfish, too. A little-a bicarbonate fixa yoo right up.

What are your feelings on say, Blix? or Rice?
Chico: Blix and Rice? Atsa dance team, I think, workin-a' some dive near the East River.

No, no, Condelezza Rice!
Chico: Condelezza? She's that woman in the painting with-a the big smile. (Smiles) No wonder she-a dump-a that Blix guy, she's a gotta better job!

Zarqawi?
Chico: ZowCow-i? I'm a fine-a, Zow are you?

Do you have any feelings about the Kurds or the Shia?
Chico: Back in-a school, we do-a the skit about the Kurds and the tuffet, and the Little Miss Muffit, but we-a still too young, we know no She-a then! We let Zeppo do it, cause-a he knew-a the right whey.

The Sunni Triangle?
Chico: Ah, life, she's a good to me! I live-a in the California, the Florida, and the Italy, what more-a Sunni could you get a triangle?


Thank you Chico! Come back next week, folks, as Harpo explains the deficit as only he can!

"Eh, Whadda gonna do?"

It was a hot day, and I was doin' some stuff which generated a fair amount of sweat and stink. I'm drivin' around and I didn't want to cook. I spy a fast food chain, let's call it Chalupa Glockenspeil. I coulda picked up the stuff, and cruised on home, but mmm, the Air Conditioning at CG is better than my tumescent cold air blower, so OK, I'll eat it here.

I place my order at the front of the line, and slidddde on down to the end of the line, and pay the nice lady with the "manager" badge.

She hands me a tray with a whole pile of stuff, none of which is what I ordered.

"Excuse me," I say very politely, "this isn't what I ordered." She looks up at her fist-sized blinky blinky screen, looks at my tray, and then says the title of this post.

"How's about giving me what I ordered?"

"Well, I could, but it'd take more time, I'm busy, and besides, you've got more food!"

I grumpily sit down and eat what I am given, all nacho cheezed off about it. As I walk the door of this particular Chalupa Glockenspeil, n'ere to return, I see a sign on the door, with the 800 number for complaints, and even the store number. That settles it -- I'm rattin' you out, store number Blah Blah Woof Woof!

When I call I get a GlockenDrone who's more used to dealing with employees about what exactly is covered when you "accidentily" stick your tongue in the deep fryer, than actual complaints. Being only a 2nd level Adept in ChalupaGlockenSpeilGedanken, it takes her several minutes to find out in the Big Book of WhatTheFuckToSayToTheMasses, the right script. She begins:

"OK, what's wrong?"

"I ordered this. I got that. I wanted this. Manager showed more indifference to my plight than Baseball shows to the General Public."

"Yes, but what's wrong with that?"

"Huh? I didn't get what I ordered!"

"Yes, but what's wrong with that?"

We go in a loop like this a few more times, all the while I'm thinking that this is the conversation that I will remember on my deathbed! Finally, my inner Corporate Obi-Wan deduces she's asking about the quality of the food itself! (low rat feet count, etc.)


"Nothing was wrong with the food." If they could've wrapped her sigh of relief in a tortilla, they'd have probably the best thing on the menu. Moving on!

Flip, flip, flip go the pages, until we get to our Proper Response:

"Would you like a Senior Chalupa Glockenspeil Executive to return your call about your complaint, or would you like to complain anonymously?"

My sense of paranoia came into full bloom; "ummm...I'd like to complain anonymously."

"Very Well. What is your name and address?"

"Do you not comprehend what anonymously means?"

"Well, we're not going to use the information! We merely want it for our records!"

I hung up, realizing I would just take the tray next time, and enjoy my undeserved bounty.

Somewhere, Rod Serling tilts his head back and laughs....

Quiz of the Day!

Which Brat Pack Character are you?

Me?




Take the Which Brat Pack Character Am I? Quiz

Set phasers on...caress

Batshit crazy Bill Shatner turned 75 yesterday! 75! He's the reason there's hope for us all; he's gone beyond making fun of himself, into parodying the parodys of the parodys! Isn't that how we all should live? Making fun of the wackier aspects of ourselves, and cashin' big checks for doing so? So, I, too, will lust after the Princess of The Green Computer and will hide behind paper mache rocks, for all the good it will do, which as it turns out, may not be so bad after all.

And if you're not careful...I'll record an album!

Mama, Zucan has a...

blue friend coming for The Little Man!

Just so he knows...

I, too...

have cleared the 1000 mark on visits like Cammie the other day! How to celebrate? Blog-pinions, people?

I take the tag!

Me songs:

1. I won't dance -- Irving Berlin
2. Just like honey -- Jesus and Mary Chain
3. Cool Thing -- Sonic Youth
4. El Picador -- Calexico
5. The Strand -- Roxy Music
6. Bomb The Twist -- 5,6,7.8's
7. Around My Smile -- Hope Sandoval

Freedom's just another reason for me to snooze

The Porch Light's out.
And my Engine Mount keeps me movin' into the future.

The Porch Light's out,
And The Little Man has us all behind the 8 ball
"That's Mine," says Cammie,
"All Signs Say No, Mama."
But Cammie forgets to add her lucky 7 so 15 she gets.

The Porch Light's out,
And as Fluffy Lies in his Iraq of a loveseat, Sunni Triangle in one hand, remote in the other, he knows he Lies in wait, a Uboat of other people's careers. And he laughs.

The Porch Light's out,
And the other guy wants to know if it's a treat to beat his feet in the Mississippi Mud.

The Porch Light's out,
The ham's gone, and the Hash Browns are on their last legs, leaving just the bean,
the holy bean, the sugar and the cream.
On mornings like this we fly, all through the day, waiting for the night, the deep, deep country dark and the joy of knowing

The Porch Light's out.

Ham!

I was going to have a ham sandwich with pea soup today, but I got sidetracked by an excellent pot of coffee, so no lunch!

I think instead I'll fry up the ham with some hash browns and even more coffee for breakfast, in what?, a few hours?

sigh, again... but a sigh with ham!

That Deep, Deep Country Dark...

It was amazingly dark last night, as the street lights went out, and there was no traffic, and only occasional lightning flashes to remind me I was still in the world. It was the kind of enveloping darkness that was so comforting, so deliciously a void, that sleep came easily and deeply. Well, as deeply as it could on a loveseat that's auditioning for the lead in Fluffy Stuffin' II: The Quickening, anyway...

It was the kind of dark that I wished I could have shared with Cammie, where we would hear each other but not see each other...almost a rhetorical coversation between two people, like the other person is just a voice in your head, and Cammie is good for giving me thoughts I don't normally think myself...


Tonight, they fixed the street lights and they cast their pinkish/orange in my living room, the girl in the back apartment has left her porch light on again, and so, sleep is just heat shimmer on the highway... I watched Bergmann's Smiles of a Summer Night, (delightful!) and now I'm here posting away...

sigh.

Top shelf, inside door, normally where the eggs would be

See that jar of Cherry Preserves up there? Sure you do. There's a story attached to that jar, and now I'm gonna tell it.

I had a friend who lived in this town many, many moons ago in a very cool place, a sort of Eagles Nest of bachelorhood, (minus the Wehrmacht dinner plates) a cubbyhole tucked away in the dense urban underbrush of Ann's Arbor. It was above a bar, which gave it an unintentional animus in the evenings, and much quiet during the day. My friend filled it much music himself, two good keyboards worth. It was modern and came with a sunporch which gave the grandiosity of a nice downtown view of nearby buildings while keeping you grounded by the stench of the bar trash cans in the alley behind it. It came with strong Anti Evil Spousal Defense Shields, (and cable) which were necessary for my friend to recoup his energies. He was emerging from a Gallipoliesque marriage, and this fallow time was necessary for his later Churchillian marital triumphs, a good thing on many fronts.

But what it didn't have was parking. Oh, yeah, a block down (and down a hill!) and a block over, which was bad enough in good weather, but in rain? with groceries? Or how's about the Sunday when there's rain, groceries, and a friend (moi!) in tow? The triple whammy of anti-parking! So what does my friend do? He parks across the street from his place in the lot for the gardening/oddments store, the lot with a sign that says "Customer parking only, even on Sundays."

Does my friend do what most of the world would do, just park and unload? No, he has to buy something! Yep... that jar at the top of the page. He would not be struck by a thunderbolt from an angry Jehovah; he was a customer! Did he want Cherry Preserves? Hell no, he tossed the jar to me.

What I wonder is: Why did I keep it? I honestly don't know; I could do worse than to say that I somehow feel that the fates will tell me, that he and I and this jar are connected. Is it our Cask of Amontillado? If this were a Hitchcock film, is it a Macguffin of madness and murder? If this were a Kurosawa film, is it what gets found on a wind swept field after we both get killed defending the fortress of Lord HungaDunga? Is it the prize of an unspoken tontine, with the last one left opening it up to find a long lost ruby, ("Of course! A ruby in the Cherry Preserves!") placed there by the infamous pirates of....of...[reads label] Traverse City, Michigan? I'm not sure I want to open it; it looks like what comes out of the crankcase of an Indy car after a "pit" stop on lap 482! So in the fridge it sits, awaiting its unknown and unknowable future, like the rest of us

A Puffin, a Hedgehog and a Bunny Discuss: "Top Hat" vs. "Swing Time"

Pete the Puffin: [sings] I'm puttin' on my Top Hat, tyin' up my white tie, brushing off my tails... I don't know why you even bother asking me to comment on this question, you know where I stand!














Fund the Hedgehog: C'mon dude, I'll give you the wacky Deco dreamscapes, but George Stephens was really the only auteur director in the Fred and Ginger series, he had a much greater sensitivity to Rogers as an actress, bringing out her best work, (with the possible exception of Carefree, of course!) and you have to admit the songs and dance numbers are at least as good!














Pete: Well, what do you think?













D.Bunny: ummm...whichever one has "Let's face the music and dance". That's my favorite number, so I guess that would be the best film of the two.













Pete and Fund: You half-wit! That's in Follow the Fleet!














D.Bunny: Oh. Well, I guess this bunny doesn't have a dog in this fight!














Pete and Fund: Oy! Split decision!

Suddenly, Re-Pete, Son of Pete, appears!













Pete: Son! Surely, you can cast the correct deciding vote!








Re-Pete: Sorry dad, I know you're all about the love of the tux, but "Waltz in Swing Time" remains the greatest expression of Hollywood Classicism in dance this young bird has ever seen! It inspires my very moves today!

Well, folks that settles it, Swing Time is declared the winner!

The other stuffed animals have asked me to chorograph them in "The Continental." Maybe...but they've got to finish their location shooting of The Wild Bunch first!

Thanks, Noahie!

I know it's a simple drawing, but he was very eager to give it to me today...and I'm grateful for what love I can get!

Cammie, Kapusta!

Ok, here's a chunklet from the Crazy Mike portion of the novel, written today (mostly), about his reaction after he thinks he's Jesus and gets all his followers killed:

[starts tape recorder. Coughs twice]

I suppose this is to talk about the end of our relationship…

[stops recording. Stares ahead for several hours, then starts recording again]

Life is a series of mistakes, and each mistake, is like a small death. Is entropy a mistake? That would explain a lot. Now if that is true, I suppose we then all go through those, those “stages”, right? Denial, Pissed-off, Acceptance, Grumpy, Sneezy, Doc, Dopey, something like that. Unlike death, we go through these damn stages and still keep living! (Wait – are those things for us, or the dead? I’m never sure) So, if the mistake is large enough, we have to still construct a self that we can live with, a bigger one, so the first thing that loses is memory, than other people who could point out our flaw, and finally reality itself, since it, well, stands in the way of living.

What makes it all worse is sometimes we don’t make a mistake; we see the truth.

In my own life, I would ponder the idea that I was chosen by God for some Really Important Thing, because, well, the idea of that is, er, ah, crazy, but I don’t ponder it because the reality is that knowing that, seeing that, feeling that Divine Truth is what’s made me crazy. And I’m really fine with that, all right? It’s cool. I mean, if God wants my past life, everyone I’ve ever loved, my rational mind, and any hope I might have had for the future, sure, he can have it! I mean, I’m as human as the next guy, it’d have been nice to get something like a Power Ring, or the ability to fly, or something in exchange, but hey, he’s God, so who am I going to complain to if I don’t think he’s being fair?

No, I know the truth – God wants me to stop the Evil. That’s what I call it, anyway, the Evil. I mean, it might not be evil, it just might be misunderstood. Maybe I’m the Evil. I thought about those last two sentences for a couple of minutes, and knew that was just crap. I just include them to let you know that I’ve really given this quite a bit of thought…..See, I know in the most profoundly human way possible – whatever it is I’m fighting must be the Evil because it’s not me! Got that?

It’s what I did with that knowledge that went kerflooy. Not that I’m blaming myself or anything; what did have to go on? Not having passed the aptitude test for “savior”, I looked around for a decent role model. I just couldn’t see myself with the body image of the Buddha, and I don’t that have that crazy atomic mad-on like I was taught Mohammed had, so that pretty much left Jesus, and I thought, well, I could do worse, right? So you go and do the walk-on-water-assemble-followers kind of thing. And you go forth and try to slay that bad ol’ evil. But all that did was get all of the followers killed, and you never really wanted that, now did you? It’s your mistake for thinking you can wear the sandals of William Defoe, and it’s their mistake for thinking you could as well. So I guess I could take myself off the hook by saying that it is their fault for believing in me, but even though that is what my therapist tells me time and time again is what I have to believe, it just doesn’t cut the mustard, the mustard on the Bratwurst of the Soul that I have to spread. The mustard that is, not the soul. ( sigh, I do miss Tony so…)

It was only right of me to go catatonic when I went got caused the deaths of other people, people who had faith in me. [ stops tape. Lies catatonically for hours on floor in their memory. Starts tape. ] Catatonia shows you really care, like a Hallmark card, like chocolates on Valentines Day. Now maybe I was wrong up there a few lines ago to blame people who followed me, but I think about it now after a good nap, and I think that I was correct in my judgement. Why did they need a savior so much that they would follow ME? What were they thinking?
You do kind of hope that they figured that out in the moments before their death, when the lights came on in the home just before it got blown to hell, but hey, I’m a positive person about that sort of thing.. I’m convinced that they were in as much touch with their angry, terrified selves in that moment as was possible. Enough about them, I’m the only one who really matters here. Still, you just can’t get people wasted, even if I’m not to blame, and even if it is really their own fault for being my stupid followers; there has to be some kind of atonement. And karmically atone I did, which we, you know, you and I, have gotten it down to a brilliant shorthand – any job which involves wearing a tie is atonement for some past life transgression. [stops tape] Even Mike knew what self-deceiving bullshit this was.

Then he knew what he had to do. It wasn’t what the Son O’ God Employee Handbook said you were allowed to do, but maybe this is how he was different, his sublime transgressive act, which I guess was just about right; either he’d come back in three days, or all the past accounts would be squared.
Again, how? There were thoughts of guns, one to the side, one in front, “his cross,” but Bob Vila he wasn’t so he couldn’t really set that one up easily. Ropes came to mind, but no matter how hard he tried his rope looked more four-in-hand than noose, so he reasoned he needed a bit of sancta simplisimus and recall those days when he felt that sailors in uniform with corncobs pipes would idly stroll down the street and make for him the things he needed to hang himself. But this didn’t happen either… He tried hanging around the docks. His encounter with drunken sailors didn’t “exactly go as planned,” to quote Mike, which is all he would tell me.

Ah, the oven…1st attempt, oh, yeah, forgot the pilot to the broiler, well…2nd attempt, right got everything squared away…but while lying there, all he could think of was…the smell of farts. And memories of childhood rhymes happened, and things got shut off, and besides Echo and the Bunnymen were playing in the background, and who could go out to that?

Now…what? He knew why he was here, just not how to be here, the day-to-day, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other plodding how, where he’d still have a purpose buried in the detritus of tax forms, and pedicures, and mocha lattes, and more ephemera than one man can stand. This was his cross to bear, being a creature of electricity in a world of wood. He would bring on the pretty in pink heavy horses, and find some way to do what he was supposed to do. He wisely decided not to destroy his terrifically written suicide note, which he passed on to an agent. Said agent sold it as a sitcom pilot, with a bit of re-writing, became a show about 6 people sharing an apartment and their wacky hijinks, which, much to Mike’s annoyance became highly successful and gave him even more of what he didn’t want, money. God may indeed have granted Mike the gift of reviving things from the dead; he just didn’t tell him what.

The job done went elsewhere!

...there ain't much that can be done, as my Helper Monkey has been replaced by a call center in Bangalore!

Is Noahie a good Helper Monkey, asks Fishwah ever so sweetly?

Nope, I guess I gotta write the dern post outta my own cogitatin' cabbage, so I'll put the mental stove on and make some sauerkrauty ideas!

Step 2

...think about posting something longer than this teaser. On the other hand...

Don't touch that dial!

Hey, Cammie, maybe I'll...

Why write when I can bask?

Rather than drone on about myself on this, my birthday, I decided just to share pics of the women I love dearly...

Cammie, of course, looking through a Portal To The Future, I think...


Ah, I see Nicole has brought a present!


Mira, impatiently waits for...? I can't tell...


Hey, Julianne! Whatcha lookin' at?


Sandy, don't get all goofy on me now!


Hmmm...Ginger seems to have a clue...


Scarlett, aren't you going to get ready for the party? Well...maybe nevermind!



And once the ladies have left us? Well, Noahie and I will have fun with just a straw...

I'm Open To Suggestions!

Me Birthday is next Tuesday, the 31st...What I'd like to ask people is what should I do? If it's interesting, I may well do it, and blog it also!

vox populi, vox dei!

Victoria asks, so I'll have a bash!

If you check the loverly (my Dick Van Dyke British!) Sundries blog, she has a great post on this fantastic Egyptian theatre in her neck of the swamp...and in the comments she asks me to come up with other Florida related films.

let's see...

Key Largo, of course
The Cocoanuts, complete with Marxian Florida Land Speculation ("Why a Duck?")
Earl Morris has a cool doc, Vernon, Florida
2 Fast 2 Furious! for the cheese value.
A Florida Enchantment, 1914's answer to Transamerica!
Miami Blues, an odd and funky Alec Baldwin vehicle

Cammie's son, 3 1/2 year old son Noah, gets in a vote for Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, which has nothing to do directly with Florida, but is tropical in spirit I suppose. He would vote for CCBB for greatest Film Noir as well, which shows a loyalty to the script and the director which exceeds the bounds of film criticism, which is a good thing.

All I can think of offhand!

An Early (for me!) Morning post! What does it mean?

I just thought I'd give Cammie something to chew on, as Washington Journal ain't ringin' my bell this morning!

Sometimes I view the Internet like my neighborhood, and I like to start the day by making my "rounds," not unlike walking around downtown to see what's new! The drawback is that you can easily get too locked into certain places, which makes exploring a bit tricky...on the other hand, it's near-inifinite in it's ability to surprise you!

I shall now make more coffee, and seek more cheap thrills...

My moods -- like taxi cabs!

So I stand in the rain and wait for one, but the wrong one comes along, and the next thing I know is that I'm headed downtown, when that's NOT where I wanted to go! So I get out, catch a mood going uptown, but dammit, it's the wrong mood, and not wanting to shoot myself somewhere in the upper 40's, I get out and walk. Can't afford a limo, and the subway? I'm just not ready for the subway of my mind just yet. Could I take the bus? Sure why not? So that works for awhile, but I see just the right mood out the window of the bus, and I stop to try and catch it, no matter where it's going...but I never do. Always in a cab, even if I have no place to go.

The Cars, Like Jewels

Maybe it's me, but don't the cars in films in films from the late '40's to the early '60's look fantastic, better than they do now? I noticed this looking at Liz Taylor's little Sunbeam in Butterfield 8. Then I saw it in Dorothy Malone's Allard in Written on The Wind, and again in Grace Kelly's car (what is it?) in To Catch a Thief. Is it just the women's cars? Do we have to wait to James Bond to get a cool ride for men?

Just thinkin' about it!

Cammie's Coffee defines the Year!

Nothin's going on, which, at this point in the year is how I like it! Yes, so far, it's about the sublime enjoyment of coffee and the pedestrian enjoyment of taco chips.

mmm....coffee....

Ashes and Dogs

My next door neighbor growing up was a woman named Fern, who, of course, I called Aunt Fern. She was a very sweet person, and even her husband Bud, Uncle Bud, was basically a nice guy. Bud didn't talk much, and didn't hang out. What he did was sit on his stoop and watch the world. He wasn't doing anything in particular, but it was important for him to acknowledge those who would pass by, half friendly, half like an MP. As he got older and grayer, he became more and more motionless on that porch to the point of being sphinx-like. He seemed to me like an ash on the tip of the cigar of the world; as long as he stayed still he could seemingly be there forever, but one quick motion and he was gone for good, which, as it turned out was how he left us...

I have many stories of Aunt Fern, but for now I'll relate the happiest. She had a small bay window area that overlooked the backyard, and she filled it with both books and plants. Growing up in very claustrophobic houses where "airflow" was almost a dirty word, a place that you wanted to go to because you could both read and breathe was a better attraction than a roller coaster for me as a kid. Aunt Fern enjoyed having me there, and we would take turns reading her books aloud.

For my birthday one year she got a book that remained a childhood favorite; Man's Best Friend, a National Geographic book on dogs. It didn't have the greatest prose, or the most technical advice about dealing with dogs; what it had were paintings. The dogs in those paintings...they were almost the Platonic Form of their respective breeds, serene as a President on a coin, and always in the best form of presentation. Working dogs working, toys having fun. Those paintings gave the animals a gravitas that mere photos could not; even when you knew the "specifications" of each dog, (height, weight,etc.) the seriousness of their image told you that was the right creature, perfectly aligned with the natural world; having a fistful of factoids about them trivialized their real power. As a child you could also gain love for both the written word and art for this book combined them to give you knowledge, and I knew in my heart how much in love with knowledge I was through simple books like this.

As an adult of course, you know that Truth and Beauty are not necessarily conjoined; but I think you actually have to believe that for a time in your life, just so that when you grant them their divorce in adolescence, your appreciation of them as individuals is that much more mature...

I am depressed...but then I remember...

"I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would be not one cheerful face on earth. Whether I shall ever be better, I cannot tell. I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible. I must die or be better it appears to me."
--Abraham Lincoln

Good enough for him; good enough for me.

I don't want to stay depressed; it's just not easy to see the way out. But I will see the way out.

Ennui -- with Ranch

Today was a day to forget -- a bit of wackiness, a cool call from Cammie early in the evening(!), -- hey where's master Noah? -- even in the background he seemed full of energy that could not be contained by the apartment...thus his urge to trash the place..., and a pack of Veronica Mars to watch! Plus Butterfield 8 which, to my surprise, was produced by none other than Pandro S. Berman, the producer of all the Fred and Ginger musicals! I'll be damn! Potato chips...too many were consumed...why eat dinner when a plastic bag is full of BBQ goodness....Potatoes and I, we go way back...

No editing here, consciousness in full stream mode...perhaps I will dream of dancing spuds...Adieu!

Cammie and I worry about Holiday Spending

"Isn't everything just ducky, Cammie, darling?" "Why yes, Ron, every little thing is just wonderful!"

I'll take up Cammie's Challenge!

I am 43% Punk Rock.

Well, I may know what punk is, but... Okay maybe some people think I am punk, but is that enough? Nope.

Take the
Punk Rock Test
@ FualiDotCom

Ah, but that means I'm from Green Day...

All Earthly Blogging is Fleeting

B and S showed up for a brief visit last Sunday. I've known them a long time, and they remind me how much I enjoy long time friends. Even though we haven't seen each other much, due to work things, when we get together you can just leap right in and start swingin' the bat. I think the time of awkwardness for getting back with long time friends is a sort of middling time, a week or two. People do change, in ways that they would notice and adapt to if they were around regularily, but it's a bit of a shock when you see a bunch of small changes over a few days. You get over it, but the that reconnecting time is odd...

Anyway, we went to lunch, (good lunch!) and well, I got off a one liner that broke S up! I mean, it was funny, but she laughed so hard it got me laughing at that! B sat there a bit nonplussed as the lunch conversation was takin' a Saturn V right to the gutter! We pulled it out, but it made my afternoon, and I was going to put it up here. Then I let it go...

Yesterday, I found that S's sister is very ill and may pass away. She has gone to be with her, and I send her deep, long term love and support. So I'm puttin' this up to remind me to catch the blooms when they're fresh, and share them on the blog. You never know how long your blogroll will go on!

Off to that Great Chicken Run in the Sky

With the probable exceptions of Vartina and Diamanda Galas, the tune that has most annoyed my friends over the years is the now late Link Wray's Run Chicken Run. I always that this was unfair; if I ever directed a low-budget Smokey and the Bandit, that would have been my 'chase the moonshiners through the hills' car chase music!

Mr Wray, thanks for so many cool tunes!

Between C-SPAN and Oprah, life is starting to look more a game of The Sims.

People gesticulate wildly, babble on like howler monkeys on crack, and eventually curl up in a fetal ball in a pool of their own urine. And those tend to be the happy people!

The Sims reveals the dirty secret behind Life, as brought to you by therapy; happiness consists of routinization and stuff. I was tempted to add "lotsa stuff", but hell, "lotsa routinization" also applies. I know this, because even though I bought him a toilet with a heated seat, a toaster oven, and Wi-Fi, my Sim still lies in a pool of his own urine, but at least this time he does it in the bathroom, so my gameplay must be improving. You've got to get him in an even tighter routine! If you don't he'll fail, and it will be your fault!

Go ahead, tell me that's not how you're feeling about your own life. Life's events are incessant, and you'd better hit your marks like the machines you purport to be operating, or you'll eventually set fire to yourself in a 2x3 room, and it won't even be a cool fire like those monks from the Vietnam War, it'll be a charcoal brickette soaked in too much lighter fluid kinda fire! In some sort of Cosmic Justice, your life will go towards making some creature-in-another-dimensions burger get done before halftime. All because you let too many newspapers stack up on the lawn. Remember that the next time you think of just....Taking Off!

The Oprah side of the equation is definately the 'stuff' side. Oh, you can yak about books or Life Changing Events all you like, the one people remember is the one where everybody got a car! Isn't it interesting how both in The Sims and life, taste and sensitivity are trumped time and time again by gaudiness and 'uniqueness' both of which have theraputic value for you! It doesn't matter that the color you've chosen for the walls makes Safety Orange look subtle, as Long As It Makes You Happy. And how many of you out there just now went, "Well, yeah!" 'Nuff said.

It's unfair that I stick C-SPAN with the 'routinization' blame, but, hey, Washington Journal shows up every single day at the same time, (repeated later in case you were too slothful sitting in your Atomic Recliner to actually try and call in early in the morning!) so they can't be too far off the beam. But I always tip my hat to the various hosts of that show, because between the lying, obfuscating guests and the insane ranters who always call in on the wrong line, they keep their cool no matter what. Now that's a role model! They deserve sainthood before some twit who saw Jesus in a Taco! Why is it the Ben Afflecks who get the Save The World shots in movies, when the guy who should have that role is Brian Lamb? Hey, why am I lumping C-SPAN in with these other things I'm complaining about, given the praise I just gave? Oh, yeah...it's about politics.