Bruce v. Al

Yesterday, on CBS Sunday Morning, there was a profile of the 30th anniversary of Bruce Springsteen's Born to Run. "Jungleland," from that album, remains one of my favorite songs from the Boss. But this post is not about Springsteen. It is about a different musical genius who is extremely underappreciated and underrated. His name is "Weird" Al Yankovic.

The class clown never gets the credit he deserves. The parodist is the same. Weird Al made a cameo on last night's Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and I just added song 7777 to the iPod: Weird Al's "Melanie" from his most commercially successful album, Even Worse.

Yes, I said that Weird Al is a genius. Few may agree, but I stand by that claim. Not only is he a master of mimicry, but he also writes original songs that pay homage to an artist's sound. It may not be a direct satire, but sounds like the genre. Not to mention his polka-medleys. My favorite, "The Hot Rocks Polka" is a fabulous medley of Rolling Stones' songs on the accordian.

Let me share some lyrics from one of my favorite Weird Al songs that is sung to the tune of "American Pie," and an homage to Star Wars:

The Saga Begins

A long, long time ago

In a galaxy far away

Naboo was under an attack

And I thought me and Qui-Gon Jinn

Could talk the federation in

To maybe cutting them a little slack

But their response, it didn't thrill us

They locked the doors and tried to kill us

We escaped from that gasp

Then met Jar Jar and Boss Nass

We took a bongo from the scene

And we went to Theed to see the Queen

We all wound up on Tatooine

That's where... we found... this boy

Oh,

My my this here Anakin guy

May be Vader someday later - now he's just a small fry

He left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye

Sayin' "Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi, Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi"

Did you know this junkyard slave

Isn't even old enough to shave

But he can use the Force, they say

Ahh, do you see him hitting on the queen

Though he's just nine and she's fourteen

Yeah, he's probably gonna marry her someday

Well, I know he built C-3PO

And I've heard how fast his pod can go

And we were broke, it's true

So we made a wager or two

He was a prepubescent flyin' ace

And the minute Jabba started off that race

Well, I knew who would win first place

Oh yes, it was our boy

We started singin' ...

My my this here Anakin guy

May be Vader someday later - now he's just a small fry

And he left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye

Sayin' "Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi, Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi"

Now we finally got to Coruscant

The Jedi Council we knew would want

To see how good the boy could be

So we took him there and we told the tale

How his midi-chlorians were off the scale

And he might fulfill that prophecy

Oh, the Council was impressed, of course

Could he bring balance, to the Force?

They interviewed the kid

All training they forbid

Because Yoda sensed in him much fear

And Qui-Gon said "Now listen here"

"Just stick it in your pointy ear"

"I still will teach this boy"

He was singin'

...My my this here Anakin guy

May be Vader someday later - now he's just a small fry

And he left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye

Sayin' "Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi, Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi"

We caught a ride back to Naboo

'Cause Queen Amidala wanted to

I frankly would've liked to stay

We all fought in that epic war

And it wasn't long at all before

Little Hotshot flew his plane and saved the day

And in the end some Gungens died

Some ships blew up and some pilots fried

A lot of folks were croakin'

The battle droids were broken

And the Jedi I admire most

Met up with Darth Maul and now he's toast

Well, I'm still here and he's a ghost

I guess I'll train this boy

And I was singin'

...My my this here Anakin guy

May be Vader someday later - now he's just a small fry

And he left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye

Sayin' "Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi, Soon I'm gonna be a Jedi"

++++++++++++++

Pure Genius

Sunrise from the Brooklyn Bridge

What would possess someone to ride their bike at 6:00 AM in 40-degree weather?

Well, the view from the Brooklyn Bridge is always inspirational, and at sunrise, it is doubly so.

The photos do not do justice to the transcendent experience of riding in crisp Autumn air and looking into the jungle of Manhattan illuminated by the first rays of a dawning day.

Billy Collins, continued

Let's tie up some loose ends.

For the first part of the Billy Collins post, read here first.

Billy Collins. Great Poet. Yet, despite this opinion, he is scoffed at by a lot of the literary snobs and "academic" critics.

Case in point, and perhaps a subject for a later post, the literary critic William Logan, who is a hoot to read, at times, has a new book out, excerpted here. Logan has high standards for poetry and his chief bugbear is the dearth of poetry being published that is, in his words, bad. Including a lot of award-winning and anthologized poetry. I think Collins has met or would meet Logan's blistering criticism.

Why? Well, look at "Litany" from yesterday's post. It's an easy poem to read. It's whimsical. It probably doesn't have the legs to represent the age a century from now. The critic wants poems to mean something and effectively and structurally touch on lasting universal themes. Take a gander at Logan's essay, if you dare. It's, well, criticism, and although not as dry as others', does take some effort to absorb.

Back to Collins, here is my recap of the reading:

Very little of Billy Collins' work is not amusing. He's a funny, affable guy. He was also late.

Ok, only 7 minutes late, but someday, when I do a reading at Barnes & Noble, I'll be on time.

He read mostly from his new book The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems.

He started with "You, Reader" then read a bunch of unpublished "new poems". They were "Brightly Colored Boats Upturned on the Banks of the Charles," "Ballistics," which was based on the famous Harold Edgerton photograph of a bullet passing through a book, "August," "January in Paris," which spun off the Paul Valery quote "Poems are never completed, they are only abandoned," then he read "Monday," "The Trouble with Poetry," and "Litany" (published here yesterday).

"Litany" brought down the house. He then stuck to the current book for the rest of the evening, reading "The Lodger," "On Not Finding You at Home," "The Lanyard," "The Order of the Day," "Flock," "Constellations," "Carry," "Genius" and ending with "Revenant."

He also mentioned earlier that he once won $25 for writing a haiku for a magazine, which he thought was the most lucrative payoff he ever received: "At 17 syllables, you do the math," he quipped. The haiku was:

Mid-winter evening
Alone at the sushi bar
Just me and this eel.

Then he did some Q&A, nothing spectacular. One thing I jotted down was "95% of revision should be eliminating, paring."

Next came the signing. I was front row so I was third in line, and I was fully loaded. I've talked about my Best American Poetry collection, here is a pretty picture of it:

I've seen Collins before, so I didn't bring everything, but I did have him inscribe a copy of the new book and a Poetry in Motion subway poster from several years back:

Hunger

The fox you lug over your shoulder
in a dark sack
has cut a hole with a knife
and escaped.

The sudden lightness makes you think
you are stronger
as you walk back to your small cottage
through a forest that covers the world.

He also signed my Best American Poetry volumes from 1993, 1998, 1999, 2003, and my two extra copies from 1992. Also, my paperback copy of The KGB Bar Book of Poems.

A nice event with plenty of signatures.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Part 4

Here's the latest from our friend, The Tree. For perspective, check here.

Blogday and Billy Collins

BillyBlog's 2-month Blogday came and went yesterday with little fanfare. Hurrah!

Speaking of Billy, last night I attended a book signing and reading at the lovely Barnes & Noble, Union Square. The guest of honor? Billy Collins, New York State Poet Laureate and former U.S. Poet Laureate.

I have a personal affection for Billy, as he was one of the poets responsible for my madcap obsession with The Best American Poetry anthology series. In the Fall of 1997, freshly Gothamized, I attended a Best American Poetry (BAP) reading at Borders, Park Avenue. Billy was one of four poets reading and they all signed my copy of that year's edition. Prior to that, the only signed anthology I owned was Grand Passion, an L.A. poetry anthology which I had found multi-signed at the Barnes & Noble in West L.A.

8 years later, I would argue that I have the finest BAP collection in the world. (Yes, I know, that's quite bold, but wait....). I have the entire run of the series, from 1988-2005, that's 18 volumes plus an extra '91 and two extra '92s and The Best of the Best American Poetry, so 22 volumes in all, all hardcover, all signed by multiple poets, some copies upward of 20-25 poets.
Don't believe me? See photo of my BAPs in the glass case.

Anyway, I could go two routes here. I usually give a detailed dispatch of readings, which can be a bit tedious, especially for those of you out there who are not poetry enthusiasts. I'm thinking. It's 6:18 AM and the brain doesn't like to work this early.........OK, I know what to do. I'll break the post into two pieces. Yippee. Problem solved. Now, I just have to write it.






Billy Collins is a rare egg, he's a funny poet. And I don't mean he is a funny guy, I mean his poems are funny. And accessible. They are not difficult. They are simple. And funny. For example, he read a poem called "Litany," one of his "greatest hits," so to speak. I've heard him read it before, and will no doubt hear it again. Sorry, can't...fight...urge...must...reprint....here...
and ramitdownyourthroats:







Litany

"You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine..."
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

to be continued.....

"We Do Not Torture"

Marathon Sunday

First, I thought I'd throw another photo out there, from my Sunday ride. Two days in a row! Incredible! And in November, no less. This shot is on 92nd Street, facing East, with the sun rising in the mist over Dyker Beach Golf Course, the only golf course in Brooklyn. It was brisker than Saturday, but still pleasant.

The mist on the course made me reminiscent about the countless mornings as a teenager, riding my bike to school on the Date Street bike path along the Ala Wai Golf Course in Honolulu.

I would see the mist and the lyrics to a certain Black Sabbath song, "Children of the Sea," would echo in my head:

In the misty morning, on the edge of time

We've lost the rising sun, a final sign

As the misty morning rolls away to die

Reaching for the stars, we blind the sky

We sailed across the air before we learned to fly

We thought that it could never end

We'd glide above the ground before we learned to run, run

Now it seems our world has come undone

Oh they say that it's over

And it just had to be

Ooh they say that it's over

We're lost children of the sea

Anyway. Since moving to Brooklyn, we've always gone out, on the first Sunday of every November, to watch the New York City Marathon pass by. The weather yet again cooperated and we walked the half block with our chairs to cheer the tens of thousands of runners as they whizzed by. It's always tons of fun, a local bar band sets up in the gas station across the street from our corner and jams. We're at about the 1 or 2 mile mark, so nearly everyone is in great spirits.

It's always inspiring and the kids love doing it, cheering and high-fiving passing runners. The mass of humanity that passes us is staggering (36,000+). Below is one shot of one young Brooklynite cheering on a passing runner.


Having parents who both ran a marathon or two, I am always inspired and moved by this display. I annually vow that I will endeavor to run in the following year's marathon. For about a minute or two, until reason is restored to my brain. I have never been a runner, nor do I anticipate ever becoming one. But one can certainly see the appeal of running in a race with close to 2 million spectators. Bike Tours are a lot less interesting to folks here in NYC.

It's also a little misleading from our vantage point at mile 2. People endeavoring to run a marathon can usually make it 2 miles. If we were at the end of the route, watching the pain and agony of people as they hit "the Wall," perhaps it would not be such a tempting endeavor.

Then again, if Yavuz Sap, of Turkey, can finish in 36,893rd place, after 9 hours 59 minutes and 58 seconds on the course, why can't I?

Saturday Cycling

It's gorgeous in New York right now, unseasonably pleasant for November. I finally mustered the will to dust off the bike and go riding, in order to take advantage of the 60-degree weather. Thought I'd share photos from my normal ride, a loop that takes me from our place down to the 69th Street Pier, near Owl's Head Park. I then follow the path along the Verrazano-Narrows, under the bridge made famous in Saturday Night Fever, and one of the longest suspension bridges in the world (it was #1 from 1964-1981, but is currently #7 at 1298 meters. The top honor goes to the Akashi Kaikyo Bridge in Japan, but Verrazano still holds the U.S. record).
The loop continues along the Belt Parkway, near Fort Hamilton, and then circles back through Dyker Beach Park, next to the Dyker Beach Golf Course back to 92nd Street. In all, it's 7 miles door-to-door, and a nice, brisk, scenic ride.

The pictures to the left are from the 69th Street Pier at 7:30 AM, looking South to the bridge (top) and North to Manhattan (bottom).
The sun rises behind some trees along Shore Road (above).
To the left, the path looking East to Coney Island....the cluster of buildings in the distance are the apartments Trump's father built to start the family fortune. Next, looking back (West) at the Verrazano. Then, some wild geese congregating in the grass between the Belt Parkway and the bike path.
And finally, from the footpath over the Belt, looking back at the Verrazano in the distance.

Blogdrums

Blog Doldrums here. Let me ask, O Loyal Readers, is the Blog Bogging? Although my iPod post has generated some discussion (10 comments and counting), am I boring y'all with book and music thoughts?

Send me your comments in the comment section. Tell me what you want and I shall respond. This Blog is My Blog, This Blog is Your Blog....

Top 20 Books, #14

Number 14 on my list is a classic, Albert Camus' The Plague.

Published in 1947, this tour de force by Camus is one of the most frightening books I've ever read.

Especially in light of today's news headlines, the simple narration of an onset of Bubonic Plague resonates into the 21st century.

A tasting:

"... we tell ourselves that pestilence is a mere bogy of the mind, a bad dream that will pass away. But it doesn't always pass away and, from one bad dream to another, it is men who pass away..."

"No longer were there individual destinies; only a collective destiny, made of plague and emotions shared by all."

"The truth is that nothing is less sensational than pestilence, and by reason of their very duration great misfortunes are monotonous."

"No, we should go forward, groping our way through the darkness, stumbling perhaps at times, and try to do what good lay in our power. As for the rest, we must hold fast, trusting in the divine goodness, even as to the deaths of little children, and not seeking personal respite."

"... what we learn in time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise."

Needless to say, as the possibility of an avian flu pandemic hovers on the periphery of our national consciousness, you may want to re-visit this fantastic novel.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Part 3

The tree across the street is approaching maximum awesomeness. This is this morning's photo as the sunrise illuminated it. To see previous chapters, click here.

A quick follow-up to yesterday's post. My Peter Case The Man With The Blue Post Modern Fragmented Neo-Traditionalist Guitar CD is missing. More to come.

UPDATE: Found it at work. Listened to Case's first eponymous solo release, which predates the Guitar cd, and it's pretty damn good too.

Peter Case

Last night I added song #7500 to the iPod. The winner is.....

Peter Case's version of "A Working Man Can't Get Nowhere Today" from Tulare Dust: A Songwriters' Tribute To Merle Haggard.

Before you all think I've gone off the deep end (I mean, Merle Haggard?), it is no small coincidence that Peter Case is the honoree here. Case is one of my favorite musicians.

Not many people know who Peter Case is, at least those familiar with mainstream music. Usually I get blank stares when mentioning him. It's not until I mention the 80's hit "A Million Miles Away" by a band called the Plimsouls, does a spark of distant recognition cross someone's face. Despite their one-hit-wonder-dom, lead singer Peter Case has continued to be active in the music scene. Rolling Stone's website categorizes him as "modern folk." He has released 10 studio albums since 1986, and appeared on over half a dozen compilation albums.

My senior year at Occidental, I was working as a staff writer for the Arts section of the college's newspaper when, at an assignment meeting, my editor handed me the LP of Case's second solo effort: The Man With The Blue Post Modern Fragmented Neo-Traditionalist Guitar. I gave it a rave review. I'd recommend you go out and buy it, but it's out of print, although you can get a used copy through Amazon.com. In fact, I just discovered that I do not have this on my iPod (horror of horrors!). This is shocking to me, as I consider this to be one of my favorite records of all time. There is hardly a weak track on the record, and it is one of the most bluesy, haunting, uplifting recordings I know of.

Case's later albums are strong as well, but none move me as much as this initial introduction to his music. Here's one fan review on Amazon:

"Case's second solo effort fulfills much of the promise hinted at on its predecessor. The songwriting is more fluent and self-assured, as is his singing; with contributions from David Lindley, Jim Keltner and Los Lobos' David Hidalgo, the musical settings are more varied and distinctive. Case delivers some startlingly precise character studies ("Poor Old Tom," "Travellin' Light"), stark emotional dramas ("Put Down the Gun," "Two Angels") and sharply observed sense-of-place vignettes ("This Town's a Riot," "Entella Hotel"). Perhaps most notable, though, is the born-again artist's new-found deftness at bridging spiritual and secular concerns, which he does effectively on "Hidden Love." - Ira Robbins/Harold DeMuir, Trouser Press"

I had the pleasure of seeing Case play with his band in the early '90s in Pasadena at the long-defunct Toe's Tavern, a surf-themed bar a block off of Colorado (behind the Academy Theater). As spectacular as it was to see him in such an intimate setting, and to be able to chat with him outside after his set, it was maddening that so many people there seemed to just be there for no other reason that to drink beer, and couldn't seem to care one way or another about Peter Case.

Anyway, I strongly recommend his music to anyone interested and am going to be adding his website to BillyBlog's list of interesting sites. Check him out, and hear samples of some later work, at his website here.

New, Quick Read

The Bay Ridge Jewish Center has a new reading group, with our first meeting tomorrow night. We are starting off short with Michael Chabon's The Final Soultion; A Story of Detection. Melanie has finished it and I am just starting, but at 130 pages, should be good to finish it by tomorrow night.

So far, so good.

What else?

It is Halloween and I have not quite gotten into it here. Unfortunately, the nature of my job is such that an all-out costume could be problematic. You don't want to be addressing employee issues while in some sort of get-up.

I'm wearing my Nightmare Before Christmas shirt and have a clown mask and a wig if the spirit moves me.

One of my HR staff spoke of a woman on the train this morning who was not making any friends in her elaborate ostrich costume. Apparently, it is best to avoid crowded subway trains while sporting large feathers. Go figure.

In a Foul Mood

I fell back.
I smelled a rat.
The costume party ended in disaster.
Where is the product placement in my life?
They still call themselves the Redskins.
Hurricane Beta trashes Nicaragua.
I smelled a rat.
I fell back.

The candy corn lay scattered
among the dead, brittle leaves.

Trapped in the iPod

Blah blah blah. Will I ever shut up about my iPod? Probably not. The iPod is the vessel from which I pour out all the meaningless drivel that I find interesting about music. I'm not one of those psychotic iPod geeks who has the iPod photo and the nano and the phone with iTunes etc etc. In fact, I don't sport the white headphones, or carry it about in my hand so everyone can see how cool I am. It's in the cheap slipcase it came in and the headphones were $4.99.

Ok, so what's the deal? Why keep on saying my iPod this, my iPod that? It's easier than saying MP3. I dunno. I am proud of the huge range of, for lack of a better word, crap that I have on it. I mean, if it holds 60 gig, why not try and fill it?

And why bring it up again, in this post? Oh, I'm-a going somewhere with this. My iPod is approaching a landmark, currently sitting at 7472 songs, twenty-eight short of the 7500 mark.
I would expect to hit 7500 some time this weekend, so y'all can go out and buy me the special cards Hallmark has created for those nuts who keep track of such things.

(By the way, that's only 30 gig worth of songs, or 21.7 days. I could conceivably go up to 15,000 songs).

In all fairness, they're not all songs, there is a lot of spoken word and poetry too. But mostly music, and I wide range, as I tend to have eclectic tastes. Really, those who knew me between 1983 and 1988, my formative years, may remember as exclusively heavy metal, with an occasional dash of the Beatles and a sprinkling of Harry Chapin.

In June, I was hanging in San Diego with my brother Seth at the Hilton where I was staying near our offices there. The rooms came with clock radios that had adaptors for mp3 players. We played a game, "Stump Bill's iPod". The object is to name an artist not on my iPod. Not impossible, but it takes some work. Seth got me after maybe ten guesses with a band whose name escapes me now, but it was a metal group I had heard of but did not have on the iPod.

The other day, as I was leaving work, I was chatting with Tina, a manager at work, and we played, and she got me after six or seven tries. I impressed her with having a track by Ani DeFranco, Sevendust, and Etta James. But she got me with R. Kelly. No R. Kelly on the pod, until today.

Now, I've got me some R. Kelly. And not his "I Believe I Can Fly," but his "Trapped in the Closet," parts 1-5. Oh, if you haven't seen the video and heard the songs, you haven't lived. "Trapped in the Closet" is a video soap opera that I believe is meant to be a serious artistic endeavor, but is so, well, over the top, that it is hysterical. Hey, I'll hand it to R., the tune is catchy, and it's interesting in the sense that it's interesting to watch nature films.

I'll spare you the plot. Oh no, I won't.

Rolling Stone calls "Trapped in the Closet," "a brilliant five-volume, sixteen-minute soap opera about a cheating husband." When asked by RS, "What line of yours makes you laugh every time you hear it?" Kelly's response is: "There's a whole lotta laughs. I'd say on the first chapter of "Trapped in the Closet" [sings]: "Shit/Think/Shit/Think/Shit/Quick, put me in the closet."

Now that's quality songwriting, and it actually works. If you have managed not to see this, and you want to see for yourself, check out part 1 of "Trapped in the Closet" here. You'll either like it and appreciate it, or you'll find it hilarious. I'm in the middle.

[Clarification: I don't have 7471 unique songs. According to my iTunes, I have 924 "duplicate" songs. Not quite. I have different versions of the same song. My admiration for Pearl Jam borders on obsessive, I have ten (10) concerts of theirs. Pearl Jam makes all their concerts available to fan club members after their shows, and I started with the show I attended at Madison Square Garden on July 9, 2003. Since the band never plays the same set, every concert is a variant of the others. That said, I have over 600 tracks (studio and live) from Pearl Jam alone (yes, 11 different versions of "Alive"). Cue: roll your eyes. I could spend another thirty sentences justifying it, but it's a losing battle, I know. But that may explain the high number of songs, although, technically speaking, there are over 1500 individual artists or combinations in the mix. This is why the shuffle feature is so appealing. There, I've beat the dead horse. Aloha.]

Nightmare

Ha. Tricked you! No nightmare here, but rather, one of my favorite films of all time, Tim Burton's A Nightmare before Christmas.

Strangely, my iPod shuffle has seemed to have been in the seasonal mood lately, playing a greater ratio of songs from the film soundtrack, most notably: "What's This?," "Making Christmas," and "This is Halloween." The songs are composed and written by Danny Elfman who has gone from Oingo Boingo frontman to one of the most recognized score and soundtrack producers in Hollywood. You can almost guarantee he has done the scores for all of Tim Burton's films, but he has also worked on Good Will Hunting, Dead Presidents, Spiderman, Mission: Impossible, and the Men In Black films.

If you enjoyed the film, watch it again this weekend. Buy the CD, the music is wonderful and is great from October 15 through December 31, and pretty much the rest of the year, too.

Top 20 Books, #15

Top 20 Books, #15

Those who know me know that I was a huge Bukowski fan in the late '80s and early '90s. I still like Bukowski, but am no longer avidly awaiting the next volume of his posthumous poems.

Poetry aside, as poetry is where Bukowski made his biggest mark, he also wrote some great fiction, as well.
In fact, many critics of Buk bemoan the fact that his poems aren't really poems, but prose pieces broken into poetic lines. But this is not about that argument.

Bukowski's first novel Post Office, showed people that he could write longer fiction that his short stories which found their way into underground newspapers and dirty magazines in the late '60s and early '70s.

To me, however, his crowning achievement in fiction came in the form of Ham on Rye.

I realize that, when discussing books #20-16, I could have, should have included an excerpt to illustrate the text. So here's a memorable passage from this novel, based on the author's life growing up in Depression Los Angeles:

One day Mrs. Fretag gave us an assignment.

"Our distinguished President, President Herbert Hoover, is going to visit Los Angeles this Saturday to speak. I want all of you to go hear our President. And I want you to write an essay about the experience and about what you think of President Hoover's speech."

Saturday? There was no way I could go. I had to mow the lawn. I had to get the hairs. (I could never get all the hairs.) Almost every Saturday I got a beating with the razor strop because my father found a hair. (I also got stropped during the week, once or twice, for other things I failed to do or didn't do right.) There was no way I could tell my father that I had to go see President Hoover. So,I didn't go.

That Sunday I took some paper and sat down to write about how I had seen the President. His open car, trailing flowing streamers, had entered the football stadium. One car, full of secret service agents, went ahead and two cars followed close behind. The agents were brave men with guns to protect our President. The crowd rose as the President's car entered the arena. There had never been anything like it before. It was the President. It was him. He waved. We cheered. A band played. Seagulls circled overhead as if they too knew it was the President. And there were skywriting airplanes too. They wrote words in the sky like "Prosperity is just around the corner."

The President stood up in his car, and just as he did the clouds parted and the light from the sun fell across his face. It was almost as if God knew too. Then the cars stopped and our great President, surrounded by secret service agents, walked to the speaker's platform. As he stood behind the microphone a bird flew down from the sky and landed on the speaker's platform near him. The President waved to the bird and laughed and we all laughed with him. Then he began to speak and the people listened.

I couldn't quite hear the speech because I was sitting too near a popcorn machine which made a lot of noise popping the kernels, but I think I heard him say that the problems in Manchuria were not serious, and that at home everything was going to be all right, we shouldn't worry, all we had to do was to believe in America. There would be enough jobs for everybody. There would be enough dentists with enough teeth to pull, enough fires and enough firemen to put them out. Mills and factories would open again. Our friends in South America would pay their debts. Soon we would all sleep peacefully, our stomachs and our hearts full. God and our great country would surround us with love and protect us from evil, from the socialists, awaken us from our national nightmare, forever...

The President listened to the applause, waved, then went back to his car, got in, and was driven off followed by carloads of secret service agents as the sun began to sink, the afternoon turning into evening, red and gold and wonderful. We had seen and heard President Herbert Hoover.

I turned in my essay on Monday. On Tuesday Mrs. Fretag faced the class. "I've read all your essays about our distinguished President's visit to Los Angeles. I was there. Some of you, I noticed, could not attend for one reason or another. For those of you who could not attend, I would like to read this essay by Henry Chinaski."

The class was terribly silent. I was the most unpopular member of the class by far. It was like a knife slicing through all their hearts.

"This is very creative," said Mrs. Fretag, and she began to read my essay. The words sounded good to me. Everybody was listening. My words filled the room, from blackboard to blackboard, they hit the ceiling and bounced off, they covered Mrs. Fretag's shoes and piled up on the floor. Some of the prettiest girls in the class began to sneak glances at me. All the tough guys were pissed. Their essays hadn't been worth shit. I drank in my words like a thirsty man. I even began to believe them. I saw Juan sitting there like I'd punched him in the face. I stretched out my legs and leaned back.

All too soon it was over.

"Upon this grand note," said Mrs. Fretag, "I hereby dismiss the class..."

They got up and began packing out. "Not you, Henry," said Mrs. Fretag. I sat in my chair and Mrs. Fretag stood there looking at me. Then she said, "Henry, were you there?" I sat there trying to think of an answer. I couldn't. I said, "No, I wasn't there." She smiled. "That makes it all the more remarkable." "Yes, ma'am..." "You can leave, Henry."

I got up and walked out. I began my walk home. So, that's what they wanted: lies. Beautiful lies. That's what they needed. People were fools. It was going to be easy for me. I looked around. Juan and his buddy were not following me. Things were looking up.


Bukowski's prose flows naturally. It is not flowerly or academic. He does not take on airs and writes about our most base functions in a matter-of-fact way. He can be crude, but he can also be eloquent while speaking in the language of everyday life. Ham on Rye is pure Bukowski at his best, and his descriptions of Los Angeles, like John Fante's, are powerful and moving. Knowing this book is autobiographical also helps newcomers to Bukowski crawl into his head and get an idea of why he is who he is.

A Random Snapshot of What's on the iPod

Here's a new meme: set the iPod on shuffle. Count to the number of days it is. Talk about what comes up, with authority.

Attempt #1

"Whole Lotta Love" from How the West Was Won by Led Zeppelin.


Oh, Zeppelin fans, unite! If you missed this release in 2003, you missed an event. How the West Was Won is a 3-disc concert CD from Zeppelin in their heyday, much earlier than the adequate-but-disappointing-in-retrospect The Song Remains the Same.

The discs actually combine the pre-Houses of the Holy tour dates in Los Angeles and Long Beach in 1972. Widely regarded by Zep-heads as the finest concert performances on bootleg, this set has been re-mastered and cleaned up for mass release. And oh, it is so worth the wait.

The crowning achievement starts off disc 3 with the classic "Whole Lotta Love." I just re-listened to this, no easy feat at a whopping 23 minutes and 7 seconds. How did Plant/Page/Bonham/Jones stretch it out so long? With fine guitar solos, drum flourishes and vocal acrobatics from Plant. And they also made it a medley. It starts and ends as "Whole Lotta Love," but it weaves its way through John Lee Hooker's "Boogie Chillun," Wanda Jackson's rockabilly classic "Let's Have a Party," and the classic "Hello Mary Lou (Goodbye Heart)" before finishing with a flourish. I was listening to this imagining what it must have been like, and it is truly spine-tingling. Check it out if you can.

Weddings, by Fellini

The bride is a Valley Girl turned Orthodox Jew.
The groom, born in Israel, aspiring director.
The temple, off Sunset, in West Hollywood.
Add an open bar, and sweet, loving, bedlam.

Chaos begets more chaos, passionate guests,
drunk with joy and religious fervor,
singing, dancing, shouting, crying,
and the wedding hasn't even started yet.

A beautiful woman offers a platter
with stuffed grape leaves and other hors d'oeuvres.
I stare at the chuppa, holding my drink,
rum and coke, thinking this can't possibly be right.

Before beginning, the grey-beard rabbi asks the sexes
not to sit together, please, men on the right -
women on the left, a murmur of movement,
the shifting and resettling,

and the rabbi clears his throat, corrects us,
I meant my right. Watch now,
see the room, parted like the Red Sea,
coming together in an embrace,

then receding into separate halves.
After the ceremony, the crowd fills
the hallway, overloads the lobby,
packs in front of the entrance to the Judith Levine

Garden Room, I find myself trapped
in a doorway marked LADIES.
I am elbowed into oblivion by desperate women,
aching to empty their bladders.

Once inside, the dance floor dis-
plays its split personality - potted palms
divide the room into two realms:
men dance North, women South

and there are the typical
ceremonial delays, the anticipation,
then the arrival of bride and groom.
I could never have expected such a spectacle.

Ribbon-lined hoops sit like fancy wickets
and there is a roar reminiscent of
a football team storming the field,
Hebrews returning from routing the Philistines.

The photographer's flashes, two beacons
on tall, thin antennae-like poles, blind me,
daze me, trick me into seeing things that can't
possibly be there, but they are.

The newlyweds are rushed in,
obscured by buckets of confetti and
other debris, canned string sprayed
wantonly into the crowd, arms flailing.

There are party hats and backflips,
costumed jesters, bearded men who,
normally appear pious in conservative
black suits, thrashing wildly like men

drowning in air -wigged women wear masks
and hula skirts and artificial leis and,
I swear to God, there is a clown with a huge
flyswatter, smacking dancing people as if

they were squirming insects caught
in an energetic web. It is like
Mardi Gras without beads and breasts.
It is a festival, a celebration.

The clown re-emerges in a gorilla suit
and I'm in the corner, exhausted and jealous,
because I can barely muster up the energy
to watch, let alone dance.

The bride is beautiful and glowing, the groom
sweats with exhilarating joy as I watch
a group of men dance with their hats on fire.
It is the performance of a lifetime.

And I do not believe I am actually
witnessing this spectacle, live,
and it is a wedding,
and there is chaos, beautiful madness,

and at the center of it all: two lovers,
around whom the world revolves
in a dazzling display
of bright and penetrating light.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, part 2

The first part of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn can be found here. First, from October 1, originally posted here.






The next stage as the season progresses. Photo 2 from a rainy October 13.

And yesterday, October 23, the patches of red peeking out.

Mmmmmm-malasadas

The latest issue of Honolulu Magazine has a familiar mouth-watering sight. It reminded me of ths picture I took when we were in Honolulu in August at Leonard's Bakery, home of their world-famous malasadas.

Those of you who have been to Hawai'i know. The malasada is the local donut, but they are scarce on the mainland. I once won some on eBay freeze-packed. Thus came my saying: "A bad malasada is still a good malasada." On August 15, 2005, we breakfasted on Leonard's malasadas on the way to the airport back to the Big Isle. Aside form the plain ones, we shared coconut and guava-filled varieties. I had previously been a malasada purist and, upon seeing malasadas with filling at Tex Drive-In in Honoka'a, near my Mom's place in Pa'auilo, spurned the thought of anything corrupting the unified purity of a freshly-fried malasada.
I tell people who are going to Hawai'i: make sure you get malasadas from Leonard's. They are like zeppole in New York, or beignets from Cafe du Monde in New Orleans (which just re-opened last week, hurrah!), but only better. They are paradise packed into light, fluffy, sugar-dusted dreams.

Early Morning Ramblings

Friday the 21st was a rare day when I couldn't even blog a wee bit. The demands of work were such that I couldn't sneak off and throw a few thoughts down just to scratch the blotch (I just coined that version, blog + itch = blotch). I guess it sounds dirty, but it's not. Anyway, the amazing vomiting wondercat Goblin was apparently so distraught over my lack of a post for Friday, he decided to regurgitate me awake. Hmm. Again, sounds icky, but don't take it literally.
So, faced with the prospect of cleaning up catspew, hear I am, blogged in.

First of all...hello loyal readers. Thanks for your e-mails and your posted comments. I encourage those of you who have not posted comments to do so, if anything, just to say hi. For example, later in this post, when I start talking about strippers, please feel free to post a comment about how that offends you. Or not.

Second of all, I have started a new book: House of Thieves. It is a book of short stories by Hawai'i-raised author Kaui Hart Hemmings. You can read the New York Times book review here. I have only read the first story, "The Minor Wars," and am in the middle of the second. So far, I like very much. First of all, they are stories set in Hawai'i. Secondly, they're dark, containing what the Times' reviewer calls "a New England winter's worth of dysfunction and gloom." I had just read the review last month in the paper when I heard from my rabbi that he had just read the book and was extremely impressed by its depth. For me, there is an extra bonus, as the subjects originate in Hawai'i. A little online research reveals that Ms. Hemmings attended Punahou School (bitter rival to my Iolani). That gives Punahou a 2-0 edge in the established literary writer race, with co-alumna Allegra Goodman in the Buff-N-Blue's corner. Am I the Red Raiders only hope? Hardly, I would guess, but two fiction writers trump a poet, and I am not on pace to win a Nobel in Literature, at any rate.

I digress. Check out the book. Dem Punahou girls know fo write. As long as I'm plugging Hawai'i lit. Iolani's prestigious Keables chair was held this past year by journalist-fiction writer-playwright Lee Cataluna. Ms. Cataluna wrote a marvelous book of short story/anecdotes called Folks You Meet in Longs and other stories. It is written mostly in Pidgin and is published by Bamboo Ridge Press.

Ok, I realize I cannot put off the catspew much longer. SO high-brow, eh, this blog? Sheesh, too much talk about Hawaii books and da Pidgin wen start creeping in, eh?

Yesterday I wanted to post the front cover headline for Gotham's Daily News. I missed the opportunity so you'll all have to close your eyes and use your imagination. Well, don't close them yet. Read the headline and then close your eyes. It was: LAP DUNCE.
The story, which still leads today's edition of the paper, but under the less-inspiring headline "OH, WHAT A NIGHT!", has to deal with American Express suing a business man who ran up a $241,000 bill at Scores, a popular and exclusive "gentleman's club." That's two hundred and forty-one thousand dollars. At a strip club. Supposedly in one night. Here's a priceless quote:

Scores spokesman Lonnie Hanover said "We can't go to a customer and say, 'Are you sure you want to spend another $50,000?' He would be insulted. If they are millionaires and they are sober, they are free to spend."

There have been many disputes over this, at least three separate lawsuits against Scores for their priceyness, including this gem of a case:

"Insurance executive Mitchell Blaser filed suit against the club in May 2004 after being handed a bill for $28,000.

Scores said he charged five magnums of fancy champagne at $3,200 a pop and paid for 350 lap dances by as many as 12 strippers.

Blaser, the 53-year-old chief financial officer of Swiss Re's Americas division, claimed he was intimidated into signing a fraudulent bill."

Obviously, I think this hilarious. And worthy of being a front-page news item too. And the perfect anecdote to any literary highbrow-ness this post started off with.

Damn cat.

What the Years Do

I have been in a pensive mood for the last two days after googling old classmates and seeing: "Police turn to public to learn woman's whereabouts... In January 2002, a state district judge in Santa Fe issued an order granting Ava Sandrock, now 37, a legal name change to the one-word name...".

Further investigation turned up this webpage and the following story:


"TAOS, N.M. -- A body found in the Rio Grande just south of the gorge bridge is that of a missing Santa Fe woman.

State police say the state Office of the Medical Investigator today identified the body of a 37-year-old woman who went by the single name Naia.

Her body was spotted by rafters on Saturday and recovered from an area about two miles south of the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge on Monday.

Naia had not been seen since her car was found at the rest area near the bridge February 23rd. She was officially reported missing on February 27th -- under her birth name of Ava Lauren Sandrock.

State police say the preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma. However, they don't speculate how she sustained the fatal injury.

The bridge -- 650 feet above the Rio Grande -- has a reputation as site for accidental deaths, suicides and serious accidents."

If you hadn't guessed, I knew Ava at Occidental. We dated for about 2 weeks in our first month in school. When meeting me, and learning I was from Hawai'i, she told me that she had dated a boy in Hawai'i named Danny Ocean. Small world, Danny went to neighboring Punahou School and we saw each other regularly for a while at Sunday School at Temple Emanu-El. He had his bar mitzvah reception at Sea Life Park. He was older, and I wasn't invited. I went out once with his younger sister Karen. I think we saw the movie Chariots of Fire together at the Cinerama Theater on King Street. Funny, what we remember.


Anyway, Ava and I were only an item for a couple of weeks. But we still hung out in similar circles. She played the role of The Paramour in the freshman production of Everyman, starring Dawson Nichols. I had the minor role of The Debtor, who is sent off to prison by Everyman, while his Paramour watches. [Just added, June 7, 2007, Ava's picture from the Occidental Lookbook 1985, the pre-MySpace, pre-Facebook, print medium that gathered all the pictures of all the new students between two covers.]

Ava left Oxy either during or after our sophomore year. I cannot recall any real interaction with her after October 1985 (it was twenty years ago today...), but I'm sure we still crossed paths, exchanged pleasantries, etc. I remember sitting at a table in Clancy's (the Oxy dining hall) with her and five or six others, everyone talking about going to the Grateful Dead show the night before. I was the only one who had not gone, and felt out of place as each person at the table rattled through the cornucopia of mind-altering substances they each had ingested the night before.

So clearly, Ava was not someone who I had been close to, other than those first few weeks as a freshman. But those who know me, know that I connect with people, and hold on to their memories like scrapbooks. It is always interesting to see where we end up. I mean, 20 years ago I could never have imagined living in New York City, working in Human Resources for a Collection Agency, being happily married with kids. Most 18 year olds don't think in those terms.

Anyway, Ava Lauren Sandrock died late last winter in Taos, apparently commiting suicide by jumping off a bridge into the Rio Grande River. Why does this disturb me so? I guess that's a loaded question. The act itself is disturbing to anyone. The fact that I knew the person once makes it that much harder for me to fathom.

I have had the fortune (I won't say good or bad) of being distanced from death. I have only attended two funerals in my life, both in-laws, Melanie's grandmother Sadie and her Great Aunt Pauline. For a 38-year old to say that illustrates that I have not seen death up close, seen Death take soneone close from me. My paternal and maternal grandparents have all passed on, but I was not able to attend their funerals. Perhaps this is why, when someone I once knew has died, I am stirred.

I look at the digitized rendering of Naia Naia, the woman formerly known as Ava Lauren Sandrock. That photo is the only marker I have of a blip in my life. Two weeks is a very short time, but it still represents a fragment of my time on earth. I look at the photo. I can see the faint impression of the young woman I knew who, I just remembered, was the person who went with me to Eagle Rock Plaza to get my left ear pierced. It was her idea for me to do it. I figured, why not, I'm in college, I can do what I want.

I touch my ear and squeeze. I can feel the scar tissue from the piercing still under the skin. A faint hole remains. It is barely noticeable, but I know it's there. It will be with me always.

My Famous Classmates, part 1

I don't remember this guy. He was in my class at Occidental College. I don't remember seeing him, but based on his interests, I'm assuming we didn't cross paths very often. He was an English minor, so I may have had a class with him. Who knows?

I asked classmate Tino about him and he says he remembers him, but not well. Tucker was a Poli Sci major, so maybe that was it. Incidentally, his photo does not appear in any of the four La Encina yearbooks. Guess he was too busy doing something else. Wonder what that could have been....

You can read about Joel Tucker (Oxy '89) in the Los Angeles City Beat here.

Top 20 Books, #16

My #16 favorite book, Ask the Dust by John Fante, is a relatively obscure title. If you're thinking of getting me a signed first edition for Chanukah, you probably will think twice, once you see that one copy can be found online at Alibris for $3498.85. That's an amazing fact, since so few people have ever read Fante, and the number of Americans who would even recognize his name is microscopic.

I discovered Fante, like so many others, through the championing of Charles Bukowski. Don't groan if you are Bukowski-haters, for Fante is not Buk, just as Buk was not Fante. Fante was who Bukowski read in the '40s and '50s. Ask the Dust is considered his masterpiece, but other titles like Wait Until Spring, Bandini, Dago Red, The Brotherhood of the Grape, and The Road to Los Angeles are quite good as well.

Fante's stories are autobiographical in nature, those of a child of immigrants from Italy, growing up in America during the Depression. Ask the Dust, published in 1939, is the story of a young novelist, full of piss and vinegar, trying to make it as a writer in Los Angeles.

I just checked out the Internet Movie Database to see if this novel ever made it to the screen, as I know that Fante, who wrote for Hollywood, also had two of his books made into movies. His novel Full of Life was released on film in 1956 and Joe Mantegna played the title role in Wait Until Spring, Bandini. I am pleased to see that Ask the Dust was completed this year (no release date yet), starring Colin Farrell, Salma Hayek, and Donald Sutherland, in a film written and directed by the great filmmaker Robert Towne. This is particularly exciting because Towne wrote the screenplay and won the Oscar for the classic Chinatown, in which Depression-era Los Angeles is also a major "character," in the same sense that Manhattan is a character in the films of Woody Allen.

But I digress. This is about the book, not about film. Fante's writing is beautiful in its simplicity. I remember reading this in the early 1990's, in Los Angeles, and being amazed at how Fante's writing was so powerful in its description of L.A. in its early days. The imagery of the growing City of Angels is so vivid, you can taste the grittiness of the dust floating up from the words as they bound across the pages.

Unusual Items on My Desk at Work

Ok, those who know me know that I am a packrat and can tend to be a little cluttered. I've changed my settings here so that you do not (or should not) have to be registered with Blogger to post comments. So I ask, nay, I insist that you participate in this bit of meme, and play along at home. (What's a meme? Click here for some background).

Aside from regular desk crap, list all the unusual items you have on your desk. For example, these are the unusual items on my desk at work:

Stuffed "Catbert: the Evil HR Director" doll.

Three shot glasses: one from Trinidad Tobago, one from the Dominican Republic, and one from Guatemala.

A St. Lucia key chain.

Two political buttons, both with pictures of George W. Bush, one reads, "The Emperor has no brains" and the other says "A VILLAGE IN TEXAS HAS LOST ITS IDIOT."

A bottle of "Bull Snort Butt Burner" Jalapeno Pepper Sauce.

Two coffee mugs, one of Jack Skellington from A Nightmare Before Christmas, the other from the TV show, "The Apprentice" that says in BIG RED LETTERS "YOU'RE FIRED."

A small circular tupperware container (3.25 inches wide, 3.25 inches tall) containing tea. This was a memento of an employee I liked very much who was laid off last October.

A small green glazed "pinch pot" made by Shayna in kindergarten, containing 62 cents.

The May/June and September/October issues of The American Poetry Review.

A CD case from the New York Public Library that holds the album Hawaiian Drum Dance Chants. (It's eclectica like that which explains how I have 7300 tracks on my iPod (also on my desk).

Ok, that was fun. Now you go.

Disclaimer: Those items that you may feel are "inappropriate" to be displayed visibly on the desk of a Human Resources Director are located strategically and positioned in such a way so that people sitting in front of my desk would not see them.

Ayatollah's Challenge

Hurrah! The sky is blue! There are no clouds! The sun is shining! It's a beautiful day in the Big Apple!

Last week, amid the Noah-like deluges, I received an e-mail from friend Chris in Southern California:

"Bill -
More about this later, but I was on the phone with Tino yesterday, and he
accepted a challenge I put to him...for each of us to write a short
story of at least 10 pages by January 1, 2006, for submission (which will not be
accepted, of course), to at least one outlet. He suggested I let you know about
this, which I thought was a great idea. The timing of this is partially related
to the fact that I will be off-track in November-December, and he is likely to
be furloughed with the end of the summer fire season..."

Challenge accepted, of course. I love a good challenge, especially if it involves writing. Details to follow, but I'd like to consider publishing our submissions here on BillyBlog. Of course, Tino and Chris have not agreed to this, but hopefully they will agree.

I am referring to this as "The Ayatollah's Challenge." Why? Well, much to Chris' embarassment, his ATO pledge name was Ayatollah. Why? Because no one could come up with anything obscene for Chris, and in a moment of desperation, Mike Smotherman suggested the name of the late Iranian madman. Chris is neither Iranian, nor a religious fanatic, nor one to pronounce fatwah on Indian-born novellists living in England and/or New York.

So, game on, dudes. Perhaps this public declaration will further spurn us on in this creative endeavor.

BillyBlog's New Look

Sorry all, if you got attached to the old blog. I have revamped and redone, with a couple of added features. Of course, it would have been easier had I been conversant in HTML. But, I improvised anyway. Hope you like it. If not, nothing is ever permanent. Change can come at any time.

Catching Up with The New Yorker

I have been catching up with some back issues of the New Yorker and thought I'd discuss a few things I've found well-written and fascinating. First is a short story by Jeffrey Eugenides called "Early Music." You can read it by clicking here. Perhaps it is my incessant guilt in keeping Eugenides' novel Middlesex off my top 20 list. But, Eugenides is a skilled writer who tells riveting tales. This one is no exception.

Second is a two-part series about the railroad by John McPhee. Alas, this is not available online, but it is in the October 3 & October 10 issues. If you don't have them and want copies, e-mail me or post a message and I'll see what I can do.

I first came across McPhee in The New Yorker when I first started reading the magazine in the 1980's. He did a multi-part series about the Merchant Marine, which eventually became the book Looking For a Ship. Despite its length over several issues, I was riveted. If you are interested in checking out McPhee, check out his website here.

In other news, I have been having some formatting issues, if you can't tell. All my sidebar stuff on the Blog is down at the bottom. I have added some nifty bells & whistles, but they seem to have stuck themselves to the back tire, so they can't be seen right away. You have to scroll down all the way to see them, which is sort of self-defeating. Oh well, I am confident they will all work out in the end.

Do Re Meme

Saw this on Bonnie's blog (Frogma). Bonnie is an old classmate from Iolani:

"Hey, and as long as I'm doing memes...I'm going to do one I saw on Rivertyde too. This is such a nice simple one that even I can't complicate it...only I'm going to, a little. Here are the rules: 1. Grab the nearest book. 2. Open the book to page 123. 3. Find the fifth sentence. 4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions. 5. Dont search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do whats actually next to you."

Here's what I got:

"However, the scales on the skin did not overlap as they do on some reptiles."

from A Guide to Dinosaurs, by Brochu, Long, McHenry, Scanlon, and Willis.

Don't ask why this was the nearest book in my office, but it was. The text refers to a Carnotaurus, only one specimen has ever been discovered, in Patagonia.

Interesting. That got me thinking. Then I got distracted. What the hell does she mean by meme? She's been blogging much longer than me, so I dug a little. Meme meme meme.

One of the definitions: "A meme is a cognitive or behavioral pattern that can be transmitted from one individual to another one."

OK, so meme (rhymes with dream) is/are simple, yet complicated. We use them often. Just in context, one can determine that meme are patterns that differ per individual. The meme above follows a pattern, and if someone else does it, will achieve the same result, but with a similar structure. Most common are the "surveys" that get e-mailed around to everyone where you answer your name, sign, favorite movie, first place you were hit with a mango, etc. The key to it being a meme, is that it "infects" others, it is transmitted to other people, i.e. the dreaded "send this to everyone you know."

For example, if you look at my post on October 8, "Billy Needs", that is also an example of a meme. I encourage any and all readers to do what you will with these when I come across them.
Hey, post them as messages if you so choose.

Just to illustrate my Meme-ness, I have unearthed the following treasure. Although not particularly interesting, it is more fascinating that I still have access to this and that I recalled doing this when talking about meme.

From my earliest journal, roughly covering my formative years (HA!), 1983-1986. The journal had the working title of Your Guess is as Good as Mine, Jr.

August 23, 1983: "Right now, I'm going to pick a book (I'm in a library at Univ. of Cal./Dominguez Hills) & I'll take the first word from each chapter (repeats: I'll take 2nd word etc.) & try & do something with it!

[At this point, at Cal State/DH, not Univ. of Cal., I randomly grab a book where I am sitting trying to while away the time as Dad works]

Book: Aspects of Educational Technology Volume III
Damn! No chapters! Try again
Damn! Volume IV! Try again
Damn! Software for Educational Computing by K. Ahmed, D. Ingram, & C.J. Dickinson has only three parts. Try again
Let's try Educational Research in Classrooms in Schools: A Manual of Materials & Methods by Louis Cohen

Sec 1: Individual Sec 5: Whereas Sec 9: Science
Sec 2: There Sec 6: What
Sec 3: Methodical Sec 7: To
Sec 4: As Sec 8: In

[And here is the result. I warn you. It's not pretty. It is juvenilia at its worst.]

"As to what Methodical individual?" he asked, pulse racing.

"Whereas," she gasped, "There! In SCIENCE."

"Goddamnit!" he screamed. He looked very angry. "Cecelia, what does methodical individuality have to do with science?"

A pause. She stared at him coldly. "Look, Dave," she whispered as she pointed to a nearby periodical on the nightstand.

"Forgive me Cecelia," he cried as he saw that she had pointed to the latest issue of "SCIENCE" magazine, "I'm so. . .".

"The article on methodical individuality is marked, Dave," she said. Then, putting on her clothes she left his bedroom. She told him that she never wanted to see him again. But,unfortunately for Dave, he did not hear her. He had become engulfed in the article.

When Dave woke up in the morning, the magazine still in his hands, he noticed her absence. She was the second most important thing to him, and he loved her. He never found her and died brokenheartedly.

Cecelia, on the other hand, had moved to Indianapolis, married an orthodontist, had three children, and lived happily ever after.

+++++
Creative efforts of a 16-year old. Interesting? I guess, but moreso in the latest context as the meme from Frogma reminded me of this self-imposed writing exercise from 22 years ago.

Found Found

My pal Jill and I were chatting the other day and she said that my recent post about what I found on the subway reminded her of the venture known as Found Magazine. It's all about interesting things people find. It's worth clicking the link to check out their "Find of the Day", which I plan to link on this site, once I get around to it. This was most likely what was in the back of my mind when I picked up my sample of "Stephanie Texture".

A Sign of the Apocalypse

Not in the habit of posting twice in one day, but must mention this. Fence magazine is an establshed literary mag. Well, a New York established one at least. They're in their eighth year. Anyway, whoever says poetry isn't sexy would be astounded by the cover of Fence's Summer issue seen here. Check it out now before the Feds shut down the site.

San Diego Zoo Coup

Ok, so we all know the California Los Angeles Anaheim Orange County Disneyland Angels in the Outfield defeated the Yanks of New York two nights ago. Please note the Yanks at least went down fighting, unlike those "idiots" in Boston. However, this post is not to lament the end of another disappointing season (silver lining: no more late nights watching the Bronx Bombers in a nail-biter). Rather, I'd like to give props to the marketing Genius at the San Diego Zoo who booked the outfield wall space in Angel Stadium of Anaheim. It is heartening to see that, despite selling its wall space, they don't play at "Disney Stadium" or some other corporate moniker. Nevertheless, one not following baseball might have thought that the Zoo folks paid a pretty penny for prime advert space on the front page of The New York Times. Every major paper seemed to focus on a key photo of two Yankees bungling a fly ball in front of the ad space. I mean, look again, that's a pretty big photo for the front page of The Times. Imagine if the home team had won?

Anyway, Yankee-haters nationwide subliminally have a greater hankering for the pleasures of the San Diego Zoo (91.78 miles from Angel Stadium, incidentally) whereas New Yorkers may be forever adverse to visiting. Still, publicity is publicity.