From A to Zantzinger (Revoking Bob's poetic license)

I was fooling around with my long term recall and a recollection came to light concerning a story about a fellow named Zantzinger who was living on a sailboat in Maryland.  Now that name strummed a chord in my head and out rolled a 1963 protest song called "The Lonesome Death of . Hattie Carroll." Well as every folk boomer knows, Mrs. Carroll was "killed" by William "Billy" Zantzinger with "a cane that he twirled 'round his diamond ringed finger."  OK now, what do you see? 24 year old Billy Z bashing the 53 year old bartender to the ground with one of those blackthorn sticks with a heavy knob like TV's  "Bat Masterson" used to keep order in the wild west.  I bet I'm close, right? Well that is just what I thought and the fact there were racial implications involved made me mad enough to learn the song and even perform it. It is interesting to me at least, that Bob Dylan claims the tune was inspired by his recent introduction to the work of Kurt Wiell and Bertolt Brecht.  I don't see that myself, and I'm pretty knowledgeable about their work.  In fact what I infer from reading about Dylan is that he showed up in NY as a blank slate with a talent for turning a phrase and as he was turned on to the work of  different players  and the philosophy of what was hip he exploded as a major talent. These days he says he can't write like that.  I believe him and after researching the facts behind "The lonesome death..." and finding his version wanting, well I just look at Bob Dylan as a writer who does not allow the truth to get in his way.  Pretty harsh, huh?  Still the story needed to be told---so

Meanwhile back in Baltimore: Zantzinger shows up at a exclusive affair hammer knocking drunk and equipped with a 25 cent novelty cane made of bamboo. A toy he had picked up at some event earlier his wife) and acting like a general drunken ass.  In a attempt to gain some bourbon, he tells a black server to get out of his way, calls her a nigger and swats her with the cane for good measure. Now he confronts Hattie behind the bar and when she does not respond quickly enough he calls her a nigger as well and taps her on the arm with the toy cane leaving no mark or wound.
He leaves the area.  Some minutes pass and the shaken Mrs, Carroll tells her coworker that she is feeling ill: "sick to death"  She is taken to an area by her friends so she can recover, but her condition worsens and she is taken to hospital where she dies of a ruptured vessel in her brain.  The autopsy shows the 53 yo mother of 11 was suffering from athrosclerosis or "hardening of the arteries" and hypertension, so while she was not beaten to death with a cane, the stress of her encounter most likely paid a heavy contribution to her death.

Billy Z got a 6 month sentence for involuntary manslaughter.  Rumor had it that his sentence was light because a longer stretch would have put him in the big house, a prison with an overwhelming black population where it was feared he would be at risk. (Big Time)  Personally, I think they should have given Billy the chair, but I also think there was a good topical song to be written without the hyperbole of Dylans piece; a tune that is more H.L. Mencken than Kurt Weill.

PS for Billy: he was in trouble for taxes and slumlording and died in 09 to no ones great sorrow. Hattie Carroll slipped into a coma in the company of her friends.  One wonders whom had the more lonesome death

Blow Me! (Your catchall offensive statement)

Ha Ha Ha,  You probably think I'm heading back into that silly sex boasting I was on yesterday, but no!  Todays topic has to do with handy all around conflict stoppers.  Now when some person is giving you downright inexcusable trouble there are legions of insults to put paid to the conflict.
(I should insert here that I am not talking about physical altercations that might escalate into a real fight.)  What I'm about is the situation where some person says "May I help you?" when he or she means it as a chalenge of your right to exist in some place held holy by their herd.  That sort of attitude really gets to me because I was raised as a gentleman of fashion and breeding, so the snotty implication is very clear.  Of course the normal response to this attack might be "Oh go fuck yourself!" That will stop your average snoot head, but it is also a form of assault. For real! Jumping on someones case with profanity is illegal and touching them is battery.  So, say someone lays that "...help you?" riff on you and you say "Fuck off bitch" and push past the lady or gent, you could be going down for A&B. That's why I prefer the catch all shutdown, "Blow Me!"

Now most people know what the term implies, but unlike the more descriptive "Suck my dick!"
Blow Me! balances on an inference.  Hell, it's a non-sequitur.  You say it's a request for oral sex?
Well Buck, go down to some sex palace whiskey bar, walk up to some handsome woman and say "Blow Me" chances are you might get hurt. If you are a man and try the same routine at a same sex man's club, well gay people are sort of all about sex, so it's hard to figure what they might do.

Well I'm tired again and starting to hide puns, so it's time for old texino to mosey.  I know I'm writing a little out of tune, but I'm trying to get ahead of this disease.  I'm not sure what is going on.  Could be that I am becoming a Zombie; I mean I feel dead and alive in equal parts, but I am not hungry for your brains. (at this time)

I better clean this up before I fall to sleep at the keys.  So please remember, do not use profanity or put your hands on your assailant.  Just tell them to blow you and walk away.  If that scares your sense of propriety do the "Popeye" and say "Blow me down!"  There is always a way. Also do not forget that "Blow Me!" while not profane is an impolite statement and probably should not be used for anything but an insult. Remember it is a non sequitur which means "does not follow"
So Texino says, you want something to happen, just be nice and gentle; give and you will get.
Me, I've got to cast aside this memory issue and start acting my age. Oh how sad is that?                                                                                                                        

Texino Attempts to Discuss Memory,( but Implies he knows secret sex stuff)

The last time I posted, my son caught wind of it and posted a rant (mostly true) about what a loser I am. I am going to attempt another essay and hope for the best.  This is about memories.

I tuned Emmylou Harris' guitar at an open mike show at The Cellar Door back in 1963.  She was a local girl and played out in the DC area before moving to Nashville and becoming famous.  The point here is, when I look back I realize that Emmylou could tune her own guitar just fine and maybe she was trying to get my attentions.  We were 15 and I cared more about bluegrass music and Martin guitars than I did about getting dates. Still for a short time we had a connection long enough to make a memory.  I have lots of memories.  In fact, I pretty much live on and in them these days.  That's due to my staying in bed around 24 hours on any given date, so long as I don't have a doctors visit in the plan.  It's not so bad, as I have always been lazy and seeing that I worked hard for many years at jobs which were either dangerous, or jobs with 24 hour shifts.  I stuffed music in there as well but I rarely made any serious money at it.  Hense the need for the other jobs i.e. high steel painter, and Firefighter /Paramedic .  Now some medical folks like to expound on the topic that being a war soldier set the stage for me to desire jobs holding a degree of excitement and danger.  Maybe they have a point, although I did not seek employment where I might, by chance, kill someone. (a cop, mobster?) OK?

So go the memories.  To me they are bound to little cubes of thought; bright little moments you might say. I can pull up these little films of my time like a personal YouTube.  Pretty much true to fact good and bad.  I remember women; God I have been in love with every girl who gave me a chance.  Thing is, I could not just go and get a date.  I was shy.  Fortunately the girls liked me and would invite me home after a gig.  If I was in a popular band, I might be asked out by a waitress and the word would get out that I knew the drill and soon most every waitress on the job would ask me home.  Those memories are all there, sharp as lightning.  I don't mean to hang out with the sex, but folks take interest in that kind of stuff. I could probably write a texino sexual suggestion and technique manual. It's been done, besides I spent a longtime figuring out the female mystery and I'm not certain the girls would pleased if I were to blab about how to put them    in a state of bliss.

Now I have more to say about memory, but my care givers are on to me with trivial pursuits  about whom to call if I croak or take a serious fall.  This is directing me to disease central and I do not want to talk about that, so bye for now. XOX  Fr Tomas Texino SJ

Do not write November

November is the true February; it is a month of 29 deadly days regardless of the menomic which holds that 30 is it's true calender-Don't doubt me here, for I know the friendless truth of being pulled from freedom and sent to war school in pine cone Carolina where my skin gained grime that still stains a rag these 45 years gone- My only thanks is that the evil month flies; it's guilty greasy days slide off and slink into the worst of the pastime's cells and rot like the false crops of an Indian Summer

The Hangman

A Cold Christmas season finds me lurking outside Danny's Pawn in the early darkness. Danny's is shut tight against those who would loot the riches Danny tickets for cash from the little barred cave in the back. That stuff, the valuables of an losing life-cycle is too grown up for me. What has drawn me close the back lit show windows are the guitars. Like an incredible riot of outlaws, fat electrics are hung by their necks before committing a singe note of rock and roll. From stands on the floor, silent flat tops seem to look on with smug approval. That's how I remember the scene 50 years gone, but I could not have seen it that way. I must have wanted something, but now I just hold the vision and see my self in a place that is blurred about the edges of the mind's eye.

Hold on to those pictures, if you have them, cause you may need them when you go.

Turn it off

Hi it is Texino. I have been an Internet supporter for quite some time now and I have enjoyed my time here a lot. Well, I used to like flea markets and junk stores too, but now the markets just sell cheap tools, and the stuff in junk stores is all of my own generation, so I don't go there any more. Same thing with the Internet. Sure you can still find cool pictures and interesting information, but to the greater extent, not only has it become a depository to bad pornography and dubious ploys to get your money, but it has given way to all manner of nutty conspiracy theories which far too many people are buying. I know this because I get a kick out of reading this BS and I have to go to the doctors a lot. The doctors office and the x-ray department waiting rooms are great places to pick up on what the average dunce thinks is going on and it's not pretty. The problem comes from the inability of most users to verify information and instead, they just take whatever nonsense that comes attached to their email as fact. It is this sort of skulduggery that has given us The Birthers, and Tea Party folks, as well as any number of hateful "facts" regarding foreigners. It gets worse, but rather than detail it all here, I'll just post my remedy to save the country if not the world: Turn off the internet. We will survive.

40

the news reads that the popular kid's show "Sesame Street" will be 40 or is 40 or has been 40 for some time. 40, that is a grown up age. It doesn't bother me because I have been 40 for quite some time. Where the problem lies is 40 years ago I first heard my daughter sing the blue note in the Sesame Street song, and I realized that she would have talent. I lost both of my kids to my late wife's family. They came back into my life in bits and pieces but then my son got his hands on some of the adoption papers; ones which made me out to be a bad parent. Well duh, if I had been I good parent, I wouldn't have let them go now, would I? I wanted things to work out but I could not fit in. My daughter invited me to her wedding and then let me twist in the wind. I left early. My son didn't bother. The point of this exercise is to let you know that you can be hated forever for no real reason. I did not abuse my children or anything else my son thinks he has read in a one sided investigation that was not for him to see. So my girl is 40. Some of the characters on Sesame St. have died. I'm 62 and have a couple of incurable maladies and a few I can manage. My children have made it plain that they don't care how ill I may be, so I don't count on seeing them again. I guess this is just my admission that I will end up as nothing. I have seen this happen before, but the victims seemed to deserve it more. That's the bug, maybe I do deserve to die forgotten and I just can't see it. It is scary that's all I can say. I hate to bring anyone down, but that's the way it goes
T. Texino

Bill Monroe

Hi it's Texino, and it has been a while since I spoke about my nemesis on
the hard court, Mr. William S. Monroe. Now I've never made it plain how
"Bill" became such a lion with the round ball because I don't know, but he
surely was and I battled him many a time in the school yards and gymnasiums
half way around this world. I couldn't beat him either. Oh I might score
more points, but then he would call the game a draw cause he had to go play
his mandolin some place. I'm sure most people here know that Mr. Monroe was in a band and they played professionally. Well you can read about that in books, but this tells another side to the man.

There are some who say that Monroe would take advantage of a situation just
to come out on top. I'll just say he was clever and leave it there. Last
time I shot hoops with Bill was outside the Station Inn. I was there with
two gals and like most nights back then I was a bit the worse for drink.
Well Bill had showed up with a beautiful young woman in tow. Right when I
got there he was climbing up on the stage and I could tell from his
countenance that he was going to rip into a real barn burner. Then he seen
me and suddenly he got all droopy looking and sang two slow songs about
being an old man in misery and all that. Then he sits down and looks over
to me like he just noticed that I'm in the audience. He nods his head and I
nod back and he gives me this "you and me outside" sign. Well, like I said
I'm about drunk and I figure if he wants to fight what the hell? I'm a
trained boxer, but then, I'm not stupid so I decide I'll back out some way
because pounding a legend of country music in a nashville parking lot won't
look good on my resume'.

So I follow him outside and he's gone over the the rear end of some big car.
He pokes at something and suddenly the whole rear opens up and a regulation
basket ball hoop unfolds. I stand there with my mouth open an the next
thing I known Bill whips one of those old style ABA balls at me. You know
the ones that are red white and blue. "One on one" he says, "let's go cause
I got a date." I'm stating to clear up and tap the ball back to him.
Bill makes a move to cut around so I try to knock his hat off. No good,
some kind of hat cement I reckon. He had all the tricks common to KY
Basketball: Boot lifters, knee springers, finger extensions, slippery Rayon
suit; I think I mentioned hat cement already. It's not cheating; it's just
the way hillbillies play ball.

We run around that dusty parking lot with him charging from the shadows and
into the sodium lights like some great spectacular bird just beating the
nightlights out of me till I had enough and when he come by for a layup I
grabed his legs and jumped with him. That jump raised old Bill so tall that
he got his hat jammed in the hoop and with the super cement he had employed
and there he stayed. Well I dropped to the ground but I must of tripped a
wire or something because the whole hoop device swollowed back up in that
big ride taking Bill Monroe, the daddy of BG with it. I had sobered up a
good bit as a hard session of one on one B-Ball has that effect, plus my
thoughts were starting to form a man slaughter defense, when I hear old Bill
raging from the inside the trunk of that vehicle.

Now, if you ever been to the emergency room of a hospital you probably
notice that there are a lot of foreign physicians at work and you might get
the idea that everyone from Central America is an MD. Well you would be
about right because medicine is a core subject in our schools from the 3rd
grade through 12th and by the time you get out of high school you can go
right into med school if you want. Not everyone does of course but lots do
because it's a good way to earn extra $. In fact, I'm a doctor but I have
not practiced since 2000. The point I make is from the noise that Mr.
Monroe is making, I know that his airway is not compromised and from what he
is saying I deduce he is just stuck by his hat and not in any real danger.
So I go back in side an I see Bill's date has got his keys. She looks ar me,
taking in my dirty disheveled appearance and says "Stuck in the hoop again?"
I nod and say "in the car too". She says, "Can you hear him callin"? I say
yes and she points out that my dates have left me. Then she says "You might
want to be somewhere down the road when I let him out." I say OK and she
gives me a telephone # to call if I need help. I notice it's my number but I
just say thanks and walk out.
Texino
Talking about Bill
Lyons CO

Hi it's Texino, and it has been a while since I spoke about my nemesis on
the hard court, Mr. William S. Monroe. Now I've never made it plain how
"Bill" became such a lion with the round ball because I don't know, but he
surely was and I battled him many a time in the school yards and gymnasiums half way around this world. I couldn't beat him either. Oh I might score more points, but then he would call the game a draw cause he had to go play his mandolin some place. I'm sure most people here know that Mr. Monroe was in a band and they played professionally. Well you can read about that in books, but this tells another side to the man.

There are some who say that Monroe would take advantage of a situation just
to come out on top. I'll just say he was clever and leave it there. Last
time I shot hoops with Bill was outside the Station Inn. I was there with
two gals and like most nights back then I was a bit the worse for drink.
Well Bill had showed up with a beautiful young woman in tow. Right when I
got there he was climbing up on the stage and I could tell from his
countenance that he was going to rip into a real barn burner. Then he seen
me and suddenly he got all droopy looking and sang two slow songs about
being an old man in misery and all that. Then he sits down and looks over
to me like he just noticed that I'm in the audience. He nods his head and I
nod back and he gives me this "you and me outside" sign. Well, like I said
I'm about drunk and I figure if he wants to fight what the hell? I'm a
trained boxer, but then, I'm not stupid so I decide I'll back out some way
because pounding a legend of country music in a nashville parking lot won't
look good on my resume'.

So I follow him outside and he's gone over the the rear end of some big car.
He pokes at something and suddenly the whole rear opens up and a regulation
basket ball hoop unfolds. I stand there with my mouth open an the next
thing I known Bill whips one of those old style ABA balls at me. You know
the ones that are red white and blue. "One on one" he says, "let's go cause
I got a date." I'm stating to clear up and tap the ball back to him.
Bill makes a move to cut around so I try to knock his hat off. No good,
some kind of hat cement I reckon. He had all the tricks common to KY
Basketball: Boot lifters, knee springers, finger extensions, slippery Rayon
suit; I think I mentioned hat cement already. It's not cheating; it's just
the way hillbillies play ball.

We run around that dusty parking lot with him charging from the shadows and
into the sodium lights like some great spectacular bird just beating the
nightlights out of me till I had enough and when he come by for a layup I
grabed his legs and jumped with him. That jump raised old Bill so tall that
he got his hat jammed in the hoop and with the super cement he had employed
and there he stayed. Well I dropped to the ground but I must of tripped a
wire or something because the whole hoop device swollowed back up in that
big ride taking Bill Monroe, the daddy of BG with it. I had sobered up a
good bit as a hard session of one on one B-Ball has that effect, plus my
thoughts were starting to form a man slaughter defense, when I hear old Bill
raging from the inside the trunk of that vehicle.

Now, if you ever been to the emergency room of a hospital you probably
notice that there are a lot of foreign physicians at work and you might get
the idea that everyone from Central America is an MD. Well you would be
about right because medicine is a core subject in our schools from the 3rd
grade through 12th and by the time you get out of high school you can go
right into med school if you want. Not everyone does of course but lots do
because it's a good way to earn extra $. In fact, I'm a doctor but I have
not practiced since 2000. The point I make is from the noise that Mr.
Monroe is making, I know that his airway is not compromised and from what he is saying, I deduce he is just stuck by his hat and not in any real danger.
So I go back in side an I see Bill's date has got his keys. She looks at me,
taking in my dirty disheveled appearance and says "Stuck in the hoop again?"
I nod and say "in the car too". She says, "Can you hear him callin"? I say
yes and she points out that my dates have left me. Then she says "You might
want to be somewhere down the road when I let him out." I say OK and she
gives me a telephone # to call if I ever need help. I notice it's my number but I just say thanks and walk out.
Texino
Talking about Bill
Lyons CO

Making Whoopee

Oh Lord. It has been more than a month since I have written and I am fearful that this foul disease is slowly taking me down the road to physical and financial ruin only to leave me as a dead old person or one whose every breath is tied to social welfare. Still, I must preserve a shred of dignity by standing to one hard and fast rule: I will never take anything from the all around entertainment icon, Ms. Whoopi Goldberg of the USA. I admit that nearly every morning I awake with a ill thought directed at MS. Goldberg mostly in conjunction with fellow funny person Billy Crystal, a person whom I also loathe. The only thing saving Crystal from being randomly smashed some night by thugs under my control is his habit of constantly hogging Goldberg's time during comic relief programs by "channeling" some long winded worldly hipster jazz musician who rambles ad nauseam "can you dig it?" "I know you can." The trouble is that Crystals recitations all sound like the stuff or your average Menshe rather than the black person he aims for, and this has to bug Whoopi who, contrary to her bio, is a negro but is not really a Jew.

There is just something about Whoopi G that disqualifies her as a human in my world. For instance there is her recurring character in one of the star trek shows where she plays at being the all knowing bartender at the X-roads of the universe (or something)however; the whole concept is blown to hell by her costume mostly centered around a huge saucer shaped hat that belongs to a future complete with flying cars and vertical cities. I don't know WTF she and Ted Danson had going, unless she was using the relationship as a means to hone her bar tending skills.

Now Texino was a guy who enjoyed a sexual encounter as much as one could. Illness has robbed me some desire but I still simmer for a taste but try as I might, I could not bless the blankets with WG. I know that style Mavin Miss Martha Stewart of CN. may not be the green tea of your taste, I would gladly put that little shiver and smile where it goes without messing up things too much, just enough so she would remember my name in the comfort and safety of her night moves. I am a nice man,

an inconvienient time to die

Mary Travers died. She had blood cancer-a tiresome disease-and on as good a day for living as there is, she died anyway. I can't blame her, but I fault the unstoppable grim tide. Summer's end is a showcase of life and to leave like the smell of last mowing of the hay is to miss the harvest. A time for collecting life and giving prizes for food stuffed in jars and warmth stitched into quilts; a time for death to take a break with his scythe and wait for a day when the streams are choked with ice, the hollows filled with wood smoke and the ground crackles like the distant rattle of bones as the departed is trundled to the perfect cold of the grave. But will he wait up? No. I sit here and write perfect purple vignettes for death to follow and though he will use them all, he never takes a break and seems to delight in cutting the ones I love down like summer grasses, on the most perfect days to live. I'm not trying to stop death, but I would certainly appreciate it if he were to follow the plots I lay down in my dark hours and just stop killing like there was no tomorrow.
You'd think the shade would give a root boy a break. But he don't stop for horses or high waters, so people pack up your good deeds and your sorrows too and keep them close to hand cause you just don't know when that man be stepping around your corner and catching your eye. For truth.

Raj Savage

Well it has been a while since I talked about my favorite Ocean Rower Roz Savage. First I should say that Roz really is my favorite ocean rower and I have a huge amount of respect for her courage. SOMEHOW, however, I have gotten on the Roz supporter bad boy list and I'm not sure why. I mean I've poked her a few times when I felt here writing was getting flat but I have not called her a fraud or in anyway implied she is anything other than someone trying to be the first woman to row the Pacific from East to West (S.F. CA. to OZ) in three stages. The problem arises from Roz picking up a lot of new supporters here in stage two of the row and, of course, a few are vying for top position in getting their comments acknowledged in her daily blog. Now I know a lot more than I need to about Roz and like I said I have little to quibble about. Therefore, it is not helpful that some naysayers, one using the initials T.T, have joined the fray implying that there is some skull duggery afoot in aid of Roz's choice of where to end stage two of the row. It was to be on the Internet friendly and slowly sinking isle of Tuvalu where big plans were being set out to dovetail with Roz's recent induction to the green planet through less plastic society. Well for reasons know only to a few, Roz suddenly cut her comm links, went into a black hole for two days and then re-emerged practically in Tarawa. A closer but less than ideal spot for an Eco-Warrior plus one with a society which, from what I can gather, doesn't hold to the ladies letting loose down the boozer-something that team Roz enjoys after a 3000 mile solo row. (who wouldn't) Anyway this has led to Roz making some impolitic statements concerning some customs which have been held for several Melania by the country which seems to be doing it's best to make her welcome. In a small country, small slips can become big trouble so if some one's 3000 year old ancestor worship doesn't fit with your plan to store your uneaten provisions, it is probably best not to say your not keen on having your supplies eaten by "some one's Aunt Jemima" (referring to the custom of not killing rats) Then there is the constant off handed reference to the polluted lagoon. (sorry we're in the 5Th world here) and lastly, using the old Internet too slow to blog excuse to avoid updating on the valid questions: Why drop communication to the point of shutting down GPS locater; how were you able to go from nowhere to somewhere in a very short time without some help. Also there are pictures of the boat obviously under tow with Roz wearing the clothes she arrived in Tarawa in which would imply that the tow was in force after being met by her crew boat (look at photos at rozsavage.com) Of course, the inference to be drawn is that facing a deadline to be back in the states for an upcoming book tour and all out blitz to "make Roz" acquire the highest celebrity quotient possible, "adjustments were made to end the "row"ASAP. There is a lot of leeway to be given here providing Roz wants to address these talking points quickly and without fuss. I really hope this is done because they are the sort of thing any reporter will grab, while a boring technical brush off will most likely have them getting back to the human element with little or no comment. I hope this happens. As I have said, I had a pretty snide bit to file under "Raj Savage" what with the quips about the natives and their silly (3000 year old) customs. I'm going to lay off however until the vanguard of savage supporters settle out that this TT negative poster is not me. I'll continue to report on the savage story as major items emerge. Texino

Bat shit crazy with loaded guns

Oh what a beautiful morning in the tropics! Then I turn on the mojo wire and read about the latest fool fest surrounding our duly elected President. WTF is with these people who are attacking the man with total hair brained lies? Don't they realize that they can get a guy killed with this loose talk. The history of this country is full or such tragic outcomes. Sometimes, I think it would behoove the citizens of the US to realize that by and large they are here because, at some point in the past their forebears couldn't handle it back home.
Well folks, this is the last stop; no where else to run. So you get a leader who wants to make your worthless life easier for you and what to you do? Do you listen to common sense? Noooo, instead you listen to scrap gossip on the fucking Internet. Let me clue you. If someone broadcast the point that he or she is going to tell the truth, they're not. You got to listen to information and make your informed decisions. Information from informed sources. Sure it may be hard to form you own opinion but that's what we have to do. It's the price of freedom.

Not to worry

I was just reading a history of America in the year 1908 and was inclined to write about it while running a fever. I feel somewhat better today, but I cannot get the writing apparatus in gear. I am hoping that yesterdays struggle did not bend a valve or something. That would be a shame.

King Maddness Rules!

There are no reasons to fly in panic over wars or rumors of wars that are being spread by the yellow press as we speak. John Chinaman can simply cut his cue and grow fond of American names like, Jason, Roy or Huck. Warning, if you lose your gas service do no go into the street to faint like a communist. Simply run a hose to your good neighbor's home
and pipe your own for the few minutes it will take the gaza to be repaired good as new! Commie= coward! So pay no attention to their cries of "torture" Keep your feet on the ground and visit the ball park Roasted Peanuts 5¢! Extra Extra Alice Roosevelt Longworth the daughter of President TR. has given birth to a negro baby! Terrible mistake says TR from Africa. DRs prove Mrs Roosevelt "too small to have carried the child". Meanwhile search continues in the Baltimore area where the large baby had acquired a straight razor and was setting up house in the Harbor district living on blood and mild electricity. Evidently this electric blood diet is going to put the citizens of 1909 far ahead
of our wildest dreams for progress. Meanwhile "Scientists" Nicolo Tesla and Albert Einstein are predicting a vast slow down. Writers HG Wells and Jules Verne go on to write many fanciful stories based on this incident. It would seem Mrs. R was mad. Beware of things to come! Wireless electric aircraft will fly! Negroes will Join Marine Corps. Bad things happen. Marines and White House share blame. Nation enters the years of horror.

I am not getting old

No, my memories are a series of rock hard vignettes where I can hear the music play and revisit the happy out comes of so many foggy afternoons and moon lite nights. The miles I traveled for love are uncounted for they were all for free and not open to the tax man's imagination. It is truly amazing how much I loved certain combinations of sound I was part of, but couldn't stay because my temper.

How an old sofa almost killed live music

Three guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionairesThree guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionairesThree guys sitting on an old sofa on an album cover and me in Mill Valley in 1968. I saw that picture and felt at home. The record wasn't astounding but there were acoustic guitars and harmonies and that damn picture. The picture was home. A place where pickers came by and played the stuff till all hours. But it wasn't happening in San Francisco in 68. Now the Rowan Brothers would be around but only paying at some small joint at Tam Junction. I kept looking for the stuff, but it was not happening. Dan Hicks? Maybe. But every where I went looking it failed me. I went to the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park to hear The Dead. I will swear to any God you know, I thought they were tuning up for 8-10 minutes before I caught on that it was a jam. Jerry was tuning his low E string way down and the tuning it way up. Experimental as all get out! I must report that the combo was snatching gayly colored balloons from various spots on the stage and sucking the "air" out. Nitrous Oxide was the deal. So you get a band who is not very good and get them all high on laughing gas and turn them loose on a jam. It was a free show. Then comes the famous Jefferson Airplane and they flew right away. Finally, CS&N OK! No it was not. They could not sing live! They tried to sing Suite Judy Blue-Eyes. A long and complex song. It was cold blooded murder. I wanted to go home-home but instead I had to go to Berkeley and work. Driving home that night, I passed The Red Lion in San Rafael and saw a sign saying "Bluegrass". I was about ready to kill the next poser I came across, so I loaded up my gun and walked into the bar and just about run over Little Donna Stoneman! Damn if the whole outfit wasn't there excepting Pop (dead) and Scotty (drinking in Baltimore) But very few patrons, so I called some people who came by and liked it. I felt the better for it too and went back
each night of their gig. I had to leave and go back down Virginia. I drove x-country with my sister in a VA bus and that CS&N followed me all the way. I wanted to holler "I seen these guys a bunch and they cannot do it live" Finally, I was back where I could see and hear bands who could deliver it live and CS&N hired Neil Young a wacky Canadian who could write but fit right in to the new acoustic-electric thing because he could not deliver live. Turned out these guys were total holicks and dopers but people were still going nuts wanting to hear them live no matter that they really sucked and took months to get the vocals down on record that single album bands like the Grass Menagerie could work out life in 5 minutes flat.
What I am getting at folks is bluegrass is music for real people. People who understand the beauty of the clear clean harmony and feel the meshing of the musical gears. The people who play it do not have to be sexy or hip. There are some fairly outright out laws in the game and there have been more in the past.

Today, look at that and King Wilkie, they just gave up posing as a BG band and there are more than a few others who could change their stripes. Then look at someone like Lynwood or Phil
RaymondE or Tom G. You have four different men right there but don't think they would leave the music. I am saying right here Bluegrass in it's true original form is good because the people who made it believed in a simple policy and that was doing the music the way it came. Now I am not saying the new groups can't be good, it is just important perform and record honestly and not fall into the pop scene where naked emperors and empresses strut around in the smug security that the foolish patrons will never have the courage to say "That Sucks" Take your lip synched over hyped shows to vegas.

Now as far as acoustic-rock The Eagles and Emmylou and Graham with a bit of Clarence White put things right, but LA and Nashville have always dealt in the past and they shut SF down while the Grateful Dead hung on to become quiet multi millionaires

This aint right

Now I'll be the first to admit that the old porcupine has not been 100% of late and I did have that spell put me to the hospital. But then today I go to see that neurologist from Hindustan and she puts me on Alzheimer's medicine! Boy that really made my day. I got the early Alzheimer's starter kit which comes with a booklet showing people interacting with their care givers like this is not big event. I read the part about the early disease and it sort of fit. I do have a bit of forgetfulness like I burned up a pan of water on the stove the other day cause it slipped my mine I was going to make noodles. It was a good pan too. Oh well, I remember lots of stuff. I do worry that the personality is fading in my writing. I feel like I'm running down the page with blunt scissors and have lost the sharpness that I need in the depth of my prose. Here, I wrote a story about the mysterious BEKs, The Black Eyed Kids:





Re: Black Eyed Kids

Postby texino on Fri Aug 21, 2009 11:13 pm
I was visiting my Tia Loupe Texino-Ruiz in Baltimore and those kids come wanting some cheese. I told Tia Loupe to get the biggest pistol in the house and sit on the floor. Loupe is "white" but I am a Black man and the children had not seen me. I come round the side of the house stropping a cut throat razor. When I got close, I snapped the strop together like a gun shot, but those two boys played it cool. "We just need some government cheese Mr." one said. "Ask that lady to let us in brother man" (brother man?) I knew it was time for a diagnostic test. Taking a silver dime hung on a red string from around my neck I swung it toward the nearest kid it pointed rod straight at his eyes and began to hum. A spooky green light highlighted the angular bodies of the children as they gathered by Tia Loupe's front door their dark eyes tracking the dime as it slowly traced the figure for infinity with laser-like sharpness. There were several more than I had noticed and still more seemed to be sliding into the light "Aye Loupitta!" I yelled. "It's OK to open up." Tia Loupe fired her Glock 9mm with extended magazine, from a sitting position. "Bang-Bang-Bang" each shot removed bits of the old door and bigger pieces of the nouveau zombie kids. She was firing blind but I was directing the fire by way of the silver dime. The bullets were not killing the zombies per se just making it hard for them to slip away. I would have to finish them off myself. As I surveyed my killing field I noticed the black hate blinders had slipped from their eyes. Now they glowed an evil red and the ones with intact faces were hurling vile curses far away from the gentile voices they had used to try to gain entrance a scant few minutes before. As I stood in that pool of hell I was reminded of my earthly ties by the sounds of sirens approaching from every point. In a flash Produje un pequeño barrilete de nitrato de plata y de combustible diesel, and with a consuming fireball and a muffled blast, the street was swept clean. I had to split because Tomas Texino is a name not unknown to police in major port cities,. I knew Loupe would have things in order and a good alibi if needed. Those people understand zombies and I don't think you will be hearing many BEK stories from that town in the future.

Now the people who I was trying to entertain with that story had a lot more interest in BEKs than you probably have so they seemed to like it. Still when I talk about depth of prose I mean like, If you got killed by a bear, for instance, you'd want him to have a nice coat of fur and good sharp teeth, right? I mean a mangy jackass could kill you with a well placed kick, and I'm not saying that couldn't make a decent story. I'm just saying if you are dead and they stuffed the animal that did you, you would get more props for a big shiny 10' tall brown bear that you would a scrawny donkey. I really should not have used the donkey the construct that simile because getting killed by a donkey has a lot of plot potential while a bear just walk up and eat you. See my brains working here, but I'll just forget important stuff sometimes. I reckon it's difficult to pin down some of these diseases and maybe the doc is just giving me a month tryout of Alzheimer's medicine to see what it does. She increased my Parkinson's as well. Maye I'm a bit more frightened than I realize. I've worked with all kinds of sick people and I've seen the absent minded Alzheimer's patient and the shaky PD person, but I've also seen the stark terror that occurs when a person has no memory and is eternally lost to life-they simply do not know what it is. People at that stage are medicated rather severely, but woe be it to one who happens by when that medicine gives pause and sends the person into unending tunnel of panic. The brain is dying you see and it takes a good long time before it gets around to shutting down the rest of the machine we call the miracle of life.

The Silent Drum

I wrote about a young man who died. Today they had a service over at the big church. It was religious and it was musical. People told stories; Old people held it together while the younger folks broke down a little bit. I really don't know about the honesty there, but as grownups we have had to hurt people in more serious ways than the younger group, so maybe we pack our sorrows like a concealed weapon and go shoot them off in private. When the service concluded, the coffin was wheeled out. It no longer had it's white and gold drape; in stead it now law covered in the flag of the land. It is a good flag for happiness and a proud flag for a fight. I think most people in this country like it. At each end of the coffin stood a special soldier. A man and a woman dressed in the dress blues one rarely sees. Alex the boy who died had been a member of a famous Army unit, the ones who guard the unknown war dead at Arlington, VA and conduct burials in that famous place. Now with quiet precision they were doing it far away.
We stood in the street, suddenly 7 rifles spit the silence 3 times and a bugle played taps. The soldiers at the casket saluted and soon an elegant officer marched into the tableau.
Then to the sound of a silent drum the men and women went to work. They folded the flag to a perfect rhythm-beats and rests both. Once folded the woman took the perfect triangle and rotated it softly with her snow white gloves to the silent drum beat. She handed it to the officer, a perfect Black Man born with no smile but eyes of such deep compassion that when he handed the flag to Alex's mother it was as touching as a mother receiving her new born son. In a way, she was receiving her son because as she took the flag more perfect troops appeared and with not a nod or a wink, just the perfect beat of the silent drum the marched the casket into a waiting hearse and then simply disappeared, leaving the civilian funeral corps to handle the shell that was once someone I knew. A kid who's spirit will fly between that flag and the beat of the drum the dead can hear so well.

When a long time becomes a short life

A young man died yesterday. He drowned in the sea. That's all I know about that for now. I did however know this man all his life, A bit less than thirty years. That's a good number of years, but now in death it springs back upon it self and the young man is suddenly a boy who has not lived long enough at all. We as a specie are not designed to out live our children. When times are tough we do not turn them away or eat them so we can try again when spring comes. No we care and teach and if we do well enough, they will return in the coldest winter and calm the fears of dreadful loneliness that waits. I really can't say much more other than that I am more than sorry, more than sad and the rock solid understanding that things like this will happen with or without our attention does not help me one bit.

How Sweet it is

There, I remembered the title. I say that with some pride having been in hospital since we last spoke and am wondering if I have lost my channel with "the Great One" but wait! We are still standing in the Bowery while Gleason rocks back and forth like he needs to pee. It doesn't surprise me when he steps out of the light for a bit and returns seemingly lighter on his feet. Lots of talk about big men being light on their feet. This may be factual but it doesn't mean they will be light on yours, so take a tip from Texino and watch your dogs if you ever help a big drunk up the stairs. Speaking of the sauce that was what was getting to Jackie. He was doing his night club shows and then boozing it up all night at the hotel. Well the only thing I could think to do was suggest he head on out to the coast and get into the pictures. I got him a gig with Bogart and Lorre in "All through the Night" Old Peter Lorre was always good luck for a fat guy in the flickers.
Well things worked out for Jack. He got into TV and using some Busby Berkley routines with The June Taylor Dancers and the Honey Mooners skits, he did OK. Did a lot for Miami along the way as well. When you think of it, things turned out alright for a guy who got kicked out of The Stork Club and ran into some Ju Ju man taking a stroll in time.