What Just Happened, part II

I’ve been waiting to update my previous post for some good concrete political news from Italialand. There’s finally news, but is it good? is it concrete? This long period without a government is like purgatory, living under the limbo bar, suspended animation, like traveling where you never seem to arrive but spend every day in waiting rooms watching the clock. Or like walking on ice, unsteady, sure to fall, to break thru and drown and freeze at the same time. Okay, you get it.

Remember the 30% x 3 + 10 split that came out of the last elections? Since the anarchistic 5 Star Movement seems unwilling to even speak to any of the others, that leaves 30 + 10, left and center, which is not enough, or the dreaded 30 + 30, the left and right together to form the government. The insane election law prevents new elections from changing the equilibrium, so that’s not a realistic option, although all parties threaten: If you don’t do as I say, we’ll call new elections and that’ll teach you!

Our 88-year-old president, Giorgio Napolitano, a true blessing for the country, was re-elected for a second seven-year term in a desperate attempt to impose a compromise. It might work. It’s full of traps and paradoxes. The left-wing leader, Nichi Vendola, is right when he says that the same people who created the problems can’t fix them. Napolitano is also right when he says that there’s no alternative. So every group gets the in-or-out call (out is lots easier), and those who are in have to form a coalition with their worst enemies. That is tough to stomach.

Imagine writing new political ethics laws together with Berlusconi, the tax-cheat, the briber, the judge corrupter, the sex criminal, the perjurer, the mafia’s favorite politico, accounting books doctor, embezzler, media fair-play cheater, prostitution ring leader, etc. ad vomitum. Imagine sitting across the table from him, the grinning demon, listening to his filthy jokes, looking at his thick make-up and fake hair waiting for it to jump out at you. If that’s what it takes …

So, go figure, the Democrats self-immolated in parliament (because all the leaders hate each other’s guts) and the odd one-man Right Wing seems almost saintly now. People can’t remember that, apart from the Monti technical government, the rulers who caused the current crisis are the ones who are protesting the loudest against it now. Berlusconi says the country’s gone down the shithole, as if he wasn’t shoving it there himself for nearly twenty years. Oh, I forgot, he also paid some senators 3 million euros each (30 pieces of silver, adjusted for inflation) to vote against their democratic Prodi government and bring its downfall, so he could slither back to the top. “Money can’t buy me love.” As if.

Is it in the definition of politics to make pacts with the devil? Enrico Letta, Mr. Clean, is working out the details as we speak. What will be the final cost for us? Nobody knows. What I want to know is if someone can turn things around before I have to sell my house. Because, while politics may be Italy’s favorite game, it’s connection to people’s real lives is finally becoming clear: a million new unemployed last year, a thousand businesses close every day, 50% youth unemployment. We’re spending our life savings to pay the grocery bill. Welcome to a worser world.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt:  Question: Why do supermarkets make the sick walk all the way to the back of the store to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front?

Jeff:  I’m answering a question with a question: Why do banks leave vault doors open and then chain the pens to the counters?

Mutt:  Why do we leave cars worth thousands of dollars in our driveways and put our useless junk in the garage?

Jeff:  Why does the sun lighten our hair, but darken our skin?

Mutt:  Why is it that doctors and attorneys call what they do 'practice'?

Jeff:  Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?

Mutt:  Why is the time of day with the slowest traffic called rush hour?

Jeff:  Why isn't there mouse-flavored cat food?

Mutt:  Why didn't Noah swat those two mosquitoes?

Jeff:  Why do they sterilize the needle for lethal injections?

Mutt:  If flying is so safe, why do they call the airport the terminal?

Jeff:  Why don't you ever see the headline 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?

Mutt:  Enough questions?

Jeff:  About twenty too many.

Mutt:  You’re moaning today, but you’ll be re-telling them tomorrow.

Jeff:  Oowah!

What Just Happened?

I’m writing this not to explain Italian politics to my faithful readers on the day after the weirdest election in history, but I’m merely trying to understand it myself. An election with no winner? What happens now?

I’ll begin by reminding myself that Italian representative democracy really began after WWII, and that each government rewrites the rules to their advantage (cheats), so that there’s very little democratic tradition to build on. Something like the U.S. at the time of William Henry Harrison. A troubled youth.

Italians have the highest tolerance for chaos I can imagine. No functionable government, a problem? Nah. Another election (150 million euros)? Sure, bring it on. They enjoy the comedy, the sport, the endless barstool debates. They joke about Berlusconi (on trial for numerable serious crimes, including pedophilia and running a prostitution ring). He’s the most famous/infamous Italian politician, and he acts like a class clown. Or a trickster actually, from ancient folktales. Making and destroying our world.

Why would anyone vote for the old man who failed as Prime Minister and then supported the Monti government only to betray it? His ties with organized crime are undeniable. He called the judiciary “worse than the Mafia” on the eve of the election. He justified bribery as a “necessary practice.” His billions are hidden in offshore accounts to avoid paying the taxes he promises to cut but actually raises. Etc. etc., so many scandals they don’t count.

I don’t know a single person who will admit to having ever voted for Berlusconi. I’d like to talk to one, to find out why. What they hope he will do that he hasn’t done already. How they view his counter-reform program, taking everything public apart piece by piece. Nobody, yet some 10 million people voted for him. He won big in Sicily. Aren’t they ashamed, you ask? I’m afraid not. But everyone was shocked, the polls all wrong. The egg-faced Democratic candidate, Bersani, had been celebrating his victory for weeks before the vote.

Somebody proposed a two-party system once. Didn’t fly. So when four parties who cannot get along each get roughly a quarter of the vote, what happens? More chaos. The Battle Royal. Big Time Wrestling. Entertainment.

Parties? Are there political parties in Italy? I suppose the Democratic Party is a normal political party, though somewhat of a dinosaur, which means career politicians. That’s another thing that this election meant. A stiff middle finger at all career politicians. So Grillo’s 5-star Movement plan is to have young ordinary citizens run the country for a while on the theory that they can’t do any worse. But parties? A single person is not a party. A tycoon (Berlusconi), or a technocrat (Monti), or a comic (Robin Williams, uh, sorry, Grillo), cannot be, by definition, a political party, yet they are. That’s something that maybe needs a little work.

As does the idea of right-wing conservative versus left-wing liberal. Lost in Italy. Berlusconi and Grillo want Italy out of Europe, for example. The Northern League wants three northern states to secede from the country. Or at least they say they do. That fiery rhetoric gets lots of votes, but they were in power for nearly 20 years and didn’t cut the country in two. No more taxes gets lots of votes too. Berlusconi promised to return last year’s property taxes. With what money, you ask, who cares, we all know he’s lying. The others charged him with trying to buy votes, which he’s always done anyway. Like reality television, we know it’s all staged and like it because it’s so “real”. The truth is lost in overlapping smoke screens. Or maybe there is no truth back there. How should I know?

Grillo’s success is largely anti-political. They’re all rotten. Kick ‘em out. Majority and minority equally guilty. Yeah, well, true and not true. I read the 5-star program and liked many points, but I didn’t vote against governing the country. As John Wayne would say, “It’s a dirty business, but somebody has to do it.”

So I continue, as a foreigner, to be non-plussed by Italian ways and means. Or self-mutilation. Or love of carnival anarchy. Mussolini, who Berlusconi praises frequently, said, “it’s not hard to try to govern the Italians; it’s pointless.” Or words to that effect. Plus tomorrow everything'll change again. Still I have a lot of questions.

Oh, by the way, what’s the REAL reason the Pope quit?

Happy trials, Martin Pedersen, reporting.

 

Mutt:  Speaking of which, did you hear about Walt Disney?

Jeff:  Did he run for political office or the papacy?
Mutt:  No, but he didn’t die either. He’s in suspended animation.
Jeff:  I have a question.
Mutt:  Just one?
Jeff:  Yeah. What do you do when you see an endangered animal that is eating an endangered plant?
Mutt:  Okay. What's another word for thesaurus?
Jeff:  When companies ship Styrofoam, what do they pack it in?
Mutt:  When it rains, why don't sheep shrink?
Jeff:  When sign makers go on strike, is anything written on their signs?
Mutt:  When you open a bag of cotton balls, is the top one meant to be thrown away?
Jeff:  Where do forest rangers go to "get away from it all"?
Mutt:  Why do people who know the least know it the loudest?
Jeff:  Why do they lock gas station bathrooms? Are they afraid someone will clean them?
Mutt:  Why do they report power outages on TV?
Jeff:  Why is the word abbreviation so long?
Mutt:  Why isn't there mouse-flavored cat food?
Jeff:  Would a fly without wings be called a walk?
Mutt:  I think that’s enough.
Jeff:  I’m going to vote again.
Mutt:  Again?
Jeff:  Sure, come on, it’ll be fun. I’m voting Mickey Mouse.
Mutt:  Goofy for me. Whoopee!

The Big Three

I wrote these three articles in the 1980’s, and I post them now because they should remain relevant given the topic. As you can see, I had some trouble with re-formatting and there may be some errors, but I hope they will be useful to someone.

In 1985-6, I got a Masters degree in Independent Studies/Special Major: Folklore & Education from San Jose State University. It was a very positive experience; I found teachers, especially my advisor, cultural anthropologist James Freeman, who were willing to give me the latitude to explore whatever interested me. 

I worked my butt off. Doing far more on my own than if I’d followed any standard course of studies. That’s what made it so great. My thesis was 420 pages, but I cut out at least that many again.

My academic interests and my music have taken different directions, naturally, since then, yet I am fond of these early papers because they remind me of the person I was back then. An enthusiastic fellow with a long beard, working several jobs, classes and library study until late, writing into the night, alarm at six, do it again.

I believed that the world needed to hear what I had to say. Now I write more, but I’m less sure.

Here’s the Trilogy:

1. American Studies Through Folk Songs

2. American Studies Through Folk Tales

3. American Studies Through Folk Speech

Quite similar actually to the Henry Miller trilogy, The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus, Plexus, Nexus). Okay, maybe not that similar.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt:  For the love of Mike, it’s my long lost pal Jeffery!

Jeff:  You saw me yesterday at the races, Mutt.

Mutt:  Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!

Jeff:  I read in the Times that they arrested a monkey for throwing Rhesus feces at zoo attendants. Was he your nephew?

Mutt:  I don’t know. What was the charge?

Jeff:  Turd debris assault.

Mutt:  I don’t know. But I do know that a chicken crossing the road is poultry in motion.

Jeff:  I know that a boiled egg in the morning is hard to beat.

Mutt:  I know that when a clock is hungry it goes back four seconds.

Jeff:  And I know that a bicycle can't stand alone because it is two-tired.

Mutt:  Watch out, if you don't pay your exorcist you get repossessed.

Jeff:  Have no fear. The man who fell into an upholstery machine is fully recovered.

Mutt:  Do you think it’s true that every calendar's days are numbered?

Jeff:  I don’t know, but I do know that those who get too big for their britches will be exposed in the end.

Mutt:  And I know that those who jump off a Paris bridge are in Seine.

Jeff:  So that leads me to my final question: What's the definition of a will?

Mutt:  I know this, I know this.

Jeff:  It's a dead giveaway.

Mutt:  See, I knew it.

Music in Memoriam, 2012

This was a year of generational renewal for world music. So many of the great ones died: Doc, Earl, Ravi, Dave, Etta, Whitney, Lucio, Levon. And so many poets and other people who have touched my life in some way. When the Olympians die, someone needs to take their place. Get busy.

Here’s the full list:

Adam Yauch
Andy Williams
Barney McKenna (Dubliners)
Bill Dees (songwriter: Oh, Pretty Woman)
Billy Scott
Bob Welch (Fleetwood Mac)
Bob Weston (Fleetwood Mac)
Charles “Skip” Pitts
Charlie Collins (Roy Acuff Band)
Chuck Brown
Cynthia Dall
Dave Alexander
Dave Brubeck
Davy Jones
Dick Clark
Doc Watson
Don Cornelius
Donald “Duck” Dunn
Donna Summer
Dory Previn
Doug Dillard
Earl Carroll (The Coasters)
Earl Scruggs
Ed Cassidy (Rising Sons)
Elliott Carter
Etta James
Everett Lilly
Hal David
Herb Reed (Platters)
James “Sugar Boy” Crawford
Jimmy McCracklin
Joe South
Joe Thompson (inspired Carolina Chocolate Drops)
John Lord (Deep Purple)
Johnny Otis
Kathi McDonald
Kenny Roberts
Kitty Wells
Larry ‘Rhino’ Reinhardt (Iron Butterfly)
Levon Helm
Louisiana Red
Lucio Dalla
Margie Hyams
Mark Abrahamian (Starship)
Martin Fay (The Chieftains)
Marva Whitney (James Brown)
Marvin Hamlisch
Michael Hossack (Doobie Brothers)
Mickey Baker
Mike Auldridge
Nick Curran (Fabulous Thunderbirds)
Ravi Shankar
Richard Adler
Robert Sherman
Ronnie Montrose
Scott McKenzie
Terry Callier
Tony Martin
Whitney Houston

Poets & Writers:

Adrienne Rich (poet)
Carlos Fuentes (writer)
Daryl Hine (poet)
David Rakoff (writer)
Donald J. Sobol (writer)
Doris Betts (writer)
Ernest Callenbach (writer)
Gore Vidal (writer)
Harry Crews (writer)
Irene McKinney (poet)
Jake Adam York (poet)
Jean Craighead George (writer)
John Miles Foley (writer)
Kathi Kamen Goldmark (writer)
Larry L. King (writer)
Louis Simpson (poet)
Mark O’Donnell (writer)
Maurice Sendak (writer)
Nora Ephron (writer)
Ray Bradbury (writer)
Reed Whittemore (poet)
Tonino Guerra (poet)
Wislawa Szymborska (poet)

Others:

Andy Griffith
Charles Durning
Celeste Holm
Daniel Inouye
Ernest Borgnine
George McGovern
Jack Klugman
Jacques Barzun
LeRoy Neiman
Mike Wallace
Neil Armstrong
Oscar Luigi Scalfaro
R. G. Armstrong
Rita Levi-Montalcini
Sally Ride
William Windom.

Happy trials, New Year's, Chanukah, Christmas, What-Have-You, Martin

Moving Picture Shoe, 2012

As you know, every blogger is required by international law to post their list of favorite films. And as you know, I watch films of the boob tube in the comfort of my home, which admittedly takes away some of the zing. And, therefore (as you know), some of the films I viewed this year are from years past. Who cares? Here’s my list, best films seen in Ought 12.

A Single Man

Anonymous
Beginners
Cemetery Junction
Enemy at the Gates
Flypaper
Game Change
Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events
Punch-Drunk Love
Sunset Limited
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
The Black Swan
The King’s Speech
True Grit (2010)
Within the Whirlwind

Happy viewing trials, Martin

 

Mutt:  Atheism is a non-prophet institution.

Jeff:  Question: Why do we still have troops in Germany? Answer: To keep the Russians in Czech.
Mutt:  When asked to explain his large number of children, the pig answered simply: "The wild oats of my sow gave us many piglets."
Jeff:  You can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish. Unless, of course, you play bass.
Mutt:  Being in politics is just like playing golf: you are trapped in one bad lie after another.
Jeff:  Did you hear about the little moron who strained himself while running into the screen door?
Mutt:  Why can a man never starve in the Great Desert? Because he can eat the sand which is there. But what brought the sandwiches there? Why, Noah sent Ham, and his descendants mustered and bred.
Jeff:  Where do mathematicians go on weekends? To a Möbius strip club.
Mutt:  “Take the prisoner downstairs," Tom said condescendingly.
Jeff:  Tired yet?

Belly Up to the Bar Code

Lots of teachers and writers will guilt trip you into thinking that reading automatically makes you a better person. Don't buy it. Ask yourself always: what are they selling? There's a price sticker and barcode on every book. It's called the book business. Lots of writers write thinking about their electric bills and mortgages. And for every writer, there are a hundred others taking a cut off the hog. They say that if you buy their books it will do wonders. I say:

 

Go outside for a walk. Talk with your friends. Sit and cuddle with your significant other. Cook genuine food. Garden. Knit and sew. Build something at the work bench. Make music. Paint. Get yourself unplugged and get your head out of books and get into the real life of the real world, here and now.

 

All lies, sorry. I wouldn't follow my own advice even if I believed it. I'd stick my head in a book to avoid the squalor and the stress any day. Escapism, hell yeah. But there's something else in those musty pages, rare flecks of mica or maybe gold. I don't know (care?) about you, but books have made me a better person.

Here are the Best of 2012, it's a short list. So what? It's my list.

A Study in Sherlock, Laurie R. King & Leslie S. Klinger, eds.

A Treasury of Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A Zen Forest: Sayings of the Masters, Soiku Shigematsu

Body Trauma, David W. Page, M.D.

Eat, Drink and Be Merry, Dr. Dean Edell

Giles Goat-Boy, John Barth

How to Write Poetry, Diane Mehta

My Antonia, Willa Cather

My Cousin the Saint, Justin Catanoso

O Pioneers, Willa Cather

Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood

Ramona, Helen Hunt Jackson

Snow Falling from a Bamboo Leaf: The Art of Haiku, Hiag Akmakjian

The Adventure of the Stalwart Companions, H. Paul Jeffers

The End of the Road, John Barth

The Floating Opera, John Barth

The Jewel of Seven Stars, Bram Stoker

The Sibling Society, Robert Bly

The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner

The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, Michael Chabon.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: Howdy. A pig goes into a bar and orders ten drinks. He finishes them up and the bartender says, "Don't you need to know where the bathroom is?" The pig says, "No, I go wee wee all the way home."
Jeff: Sloppy. A sandwich walks into a bar. The barman says, "Sorry, we don't serve food in here."
Mutt: A skeleton walks into a bar and says, "Gimme a beer and a mop."
Jeff: A snake slithers into a bar and the bartender says, "I'm sorry but I can't serve you." "Why not?" asks the snake. The bartender says, "Because you can't hold your liquor."
Mutt: A termite walks into a bar and says, "Is the bar tender here?"
Jeff: You're gonna hate this one.
Mutt: I already do.
Jeff: A drunk guy is sitting in a bar. There is a very buxom lady a few seats down. A fellow at the end of the bar calls for a beer. The bartender fills the mug and slides it down the bar. It hits the lady's breasts and spills all over them. The bartender goes over, retrieves the glass and licks the beer off of her breasts. This happens a couple more times. The next time, the drunk jumps up and starts to lick her breasts. She decks him. He's laying on the floor and moans, "Why do you let the bartender do it?" "Because he has a liquor license!"
Mutt: I like the word "buxom" though.
Jeff: Me too. Just goes to show: Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.
Mutt: How sweet it is!
Jeff: And away we go!

Everybody knows, nobody knows - What is Gangnam Style?

Everyone on Earth (except you?) is crazy about a song-dance-video that no one (except Koreans) can understand. Maybe that’s what we want: stun me, numb me, infect me with viral, yank me around like a kite, just don’t make me think. Only Psy is not co-operating. Gangnam Style is a wonderfully intelligent cultural phenomenon.

The Gangnam district of Seoul is where the rich folks live. ‘Up on the hill where they do the boogie,’ as John Hartford called it. Where the Beverly Hillbillies moved to. Where they have private security and exclusive schools. The Elite. The Upper Crust. The 1%. Wait, this is a song about the Occupy Movement dichotomy of the 1 versus the 99%??? Wasn't that Romney's subliminal message: 99 vote for 1 and you could get rich too? Didn't work though. Well, not for everyone.

Neal Socks It To 'Em

Neal’s sitting in the outer office waiting for his job interview. There were several other chumps in there, but Neal was confident in his abilities. Plus he thought he could charm the personnel director, since she had already eyeballed him when she opened the door to call in the first couple candidates. Yet something, as usual, was not quite right.

Somebody in the room had incredibly stinky socks on. Sheesh, Neal thought, wash your socks, dude. This isn’t a football locker-room, this is your big chance at a prized job. Get your act together. That stench got worse as all the folks sat there smirking and twisting their noses. Neal looked at the guy across from him, maybe it was him that smelled, and smiled. He smiled back.

Neal was sure he didn’t get it, or maybe it wasn’t him. Neal lifted his hand to his nose and made a surreptitious P.U. gesture. The guy snorked. Snorking is when you choke a laugh, spit and swallow all at once, mouth and nose backflush. The stench was really filling the little room by now. Christ, man, what kind of slob doesn’t wear clean socks!?

The others waited in silence, like they were about to get their prostates checked, except the one woman in the gold pant suit who, perhaps, had the expression of a pre-gyno exam. They all needed some kind of relief, so Neal made the P.U. gesture again, only clearer. Somebody should get the hint and go change their socks. This was ridiculous. The others tittered.

Finally, Neal was called by the hot woman who turned out to be an assistant or secretary. She took his application forms and looked at him like she was constipated. Then he went into the main office with the big walnut desk. The suit behind it had that vaseline in his white hair that smelled to Neal like his greasy grandfather. Maybe charming him wouldn’t work, but Neal had references. His old boss at In ‘n Out Burger wrote him a great letter. A power letter.

The phone rang just as Ol’ Whitey was about to ask Neal something to test his knowledge of the job he’d never done before. The usual ‘experience necessary’ thing. But the boss was on the phone jabbering, and Neal noticed that smell again, the stinking sock smell. Oh, it was strong. Man, somebody farted! It smelled like a pig farm in there. Must be the old timer.

Neal’s alarm hadn’t really functioned correctly that morning. That is, it went off at 7, but he pressed the snooze button about 7 times in a row before jumping up, shaving, dressing, wet washcloth the armpits, and rushing out to get the bus. He made it to the office right on time. Neal was good. He had organizational skills. He’d laid out his clothes before going to bed. Brand new thin black stockings.

He’d been up late because he had a city-league softball game the night before. He wore his lucky socks to that, the ones he didn’t wash all season. Now those really stunk bad. Actually after the game he went out for beers with some buddies and then at home played a few video games before knocking off. Okay, maybe three hours of video games. Then Neal went to bed and slept like a baby. He didn’t wear pajamas but slept in his underwear because women find that sexy, he’d heard somewhere. However, he did wear socks to bed because it got cold in there.

Last night when he went to sleep about 3 am, he, what?, he wore his softball socks probably. Yeah, guess so. And then this morning, in the rush to get out the door, he, what?, put on his new black socks. He turned his feet inwards and looked down. Yes, the black socks. Then Neal lifted his pant leg slowly so the boss wouldn’t catch him, until he could see the top of the black stocking. Then he coyly slid his finger inside the sheer black and pulled it down until he hit a lump. Dang. He had put the new socks over his sleeping socks, his lucky softball socks, never wash ‘em all season. The ones that had helped win the game last night.

Neal excused himself while the boss was still talking. He went to the outer office and said to the secretary that he’d forgotten that his little brother, Lester, was having a liver transplant that day. And he stomped into the waiting room. Everyone was laughing and stopped abruptly. Then they looked at him and all snorked in chorus. Neal pointed to the woman in the gold pant suit and made the closed nose gesture. That’ll teach her.

Happy trials, Martin

 

 Mutt: Guten Morgen, my friend, freund, that is.
Jeff: Where are you? Oh, down there.
Mutt: Hilarious, make fun of the altitude challenged.
Jeff: Sorry. Not really. Listen, can I tell you a story I read in the paper?
Mutt: I’ll make you pay.
Jeff: I know. Okay, at one time, economic conditions caused the closing of several small clothing mills in the English countryside. A man from West Germany bought the buildings and converted them into dog kennels for the convenience of German tourists who liked to have their pets with them while vacationing in England. One summer evening, a local resident called to his wife to come out of the house. "Just listen!" he urged. "The mills are alive with the hounds of Munich!"
Mutt: No way! I know that song. The words go "The ills will arrive, with the sound of mule sick."
Jeff: Yeah, anyway, top that.
Mutt: Easy. The Cleveland Symphony—to remain in the musical sphere—was performing Beethoven's Ninth. In the piece, there's a long passage - about 20 minutes - during which the bass violinists have nothing to do. Rather than sit around that whole time looking stupid, some bassists decided to sneak offstage and go to the tavern next door for a quick one. After slamming several beers in quick succession (as bass violinists are prone to do) one of them looked at his watch. Hey! We need to get back! No need to panic, said a fellow bassist. "I thought we might need some extra time, so I tied the last few pages of the conductor's score together with string. It'll take him a few minutes to get it untangled." A few moments later, they staggered back to the concert hall and took their places in the orchestra. About this time, a member of the audience noticed the conductor seemed a bit edgy and said as much to her companion. Well, of course, said her companion. "Don't you see? It's the bottom of the Ninth, the score is tied, and the bassists are loaded."
Jeff: Groan, groan and more groan.
Mutt: Just jealous.

 

The Storm by Theodore Roethke

 

1 Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces; A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves, And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against                the lamp pole.   Where have the people gone? There is one light on the mountain.   2 Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell, The waves not yet high, but even, Coming closer and closer upon each other; A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea, Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot, The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending, Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.   A time to go home!-- And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley, A cat runs from the wind as we do, Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia, Where the heavy door unlocks, And our breath comes more easy,-- Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating The walls, the slatted windows, driving The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer To their cards, their anisette.   3 We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress. We wait; we listen. The storm lulls off, then redoubles, Bending the trees half-way down to the ground, Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard, Flattening the limber carnations.   A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb, Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead. The bulb goes on and off, weakly. Water roars into the cistern.   We lie closer on the gritty pillow, Breathing heavily, hoping-- For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater, The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell, The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses, And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.

 

Four-Letter Horror

Before spouting off about something we don't know firsthand -- 'rape victims provoked their attackers' or 'deserved it', or 'it's God's will' (Satan's will?) -- let's just listen and learn:

 



 

A Little Gay Goes A Long Way

Watching baseball every night, I snoozed, schmoozed and mused. I admired my guys: viral, studly, naturally testosteroney men’s men. Heterosexuals (mostly). How come baseball players—I asked my sleepy ol’ self—always have a bunch of kids: four, six, eight? I don’t. Most people I know don’t. When the TV scans the players wives’ section then you get it: they’re a bunch of foxy babes, hot cheerleader types. And in the off-season, the boys make up for lost time. Nudge, nudge. Ummmm. Naw, way too pat.

Just because you’re married to a beautiful woman doesn’t mean you get a lot of great sex or have a lot of children. Get real. Okay, answer this then Mr. Smarty Pants, why do these guys seem to have more fun? And a healthier attitude towards fatherhood, husbandhood, loverhood, bodyhood?

Here’s my current theory (5 cents please): baseball players, a micro-society of only males, are constantly touching one another like apes. The handshake is no good without the pat on the butt. The pat on the butt is preferred to the pat on the back or head. The victor gets a group hug that can almost suffocate. The off-duty boys are often draped over the rail and over one another. The hugs are often long and strong, as if  hugging wives and girlfriends. And the group gropes have to get bouncy to be good. The hand-touching rituals can often become complex and personalized. In the clubhouse, the players shower together, touch some more, look long and hard at one another’s handsome bodies. Made even more handsome by artwork covering the skin. You know these men are handsome as hell.

These guys are practically more physical with each other than the crowd at a San Francisco gay bathhouse. Or, more to the point, any random bunch of heterosexuals on earth. I haven’t patted a guy on the butt in living memory. (Maybe I should start.) The last time I stood with naked men was in the high school showers forty years ago. At work say, I would not hug a male colleague or stand with my arms draped around him or go through our own private touching sequence. We’re all too inhibited. Too out of touch. Maybe we want to, but everyone would take it the wrong way. Way too gay?

No. That’s what I’m trying to say. The boys of summer have discovered that the male touch, the male friendship expressed physically is not gay at all. I bet it’s not even considered gay by the hidden ten percent who are. It’s that wholesome and positive male-to-male bonding behavior that the rest of us lost in our forest of neuroses. We envy it when we see it on TV, but we fear doing it in real life. So we collect our hang-ups and can’t get healthy sex figured out.

When the Giants won the series in 2010, Dave Righetti, in tears, kissed his pitchers one by one and told them how much he loved them. At the moment that was the perfect response. Perfect.

So here I am waiting for the love fest after the world series victory, signing off for now with an imaginary pat on the butt to you all,

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt: Was he talking about us?

Jeff: If he was, would that make us so gay we’re straight?
Mutt: Yeah. Post-Gay.
Jeff: Right on!
Mutt: Did you know that rust is edible? After all, it is a form of car-rot.
Jeff: Some river valleys are absolutely gorges.
Mutt: Did you know that Spanish bullfighters use Oil of Olé face cream to beat wrinkles?
Jeff: The Hand family consists of 10 electricians. Their motto is "Many Hands make light work."
Mutt: The Irish government is wealthy because its capital is always Dublin.
Jeff: The sheep rustler who broke out of jail is now on the lam.
Mutt: We ought to rename summer "pride" because pride cometh before the fall.
Jeff: When the Lord said, "Go forth, be fruitful and multiply!" he didn't necessarily have math teachers in mind.
Mutt: When the little boy was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he said "I needed help with my homework." The reason: "God helps those who help themselves."
Jeff: You can have too much of a good thing, but since most people think puns are not good things, they can't have too many of them!
Mutt: Some people say my puns are sleep-inducing, but I keep laudanum anyways.
Jeff: What are puns?
Mutt: Never heard of them.

Luck

 

Tough luck, dumb luck, hard luck, good and bad lucks, rotten luck, beginner’s luck, luck of the draw, stroke of luck, to luck out …

I am talking to Barney at Mazama Village near Crater Lake, and he gets excited like he’s discovered the secret in our conversation:

“Luck, that’s it! We’re here because of luck. We are lucky to get to do this. That’s the key word right there. The big why.”

I agree with Barney. We are privileged to walk this great trail, this beautiful earth. I told him that several of my friends were sick or had died recently so that I felt sad and lucky to have good health and express it by walking in the mountains. I don’t want to just sit around waiting for my turn to go south. I’m northward bound, deeper into the forest, where fear is a friend and luck is your password.

Then I met Scott (you know which one) at Timothy Lake just as he was giving up his historic trek, and he said, "Oh well, what counts is being out here, right? So many people at this moment stuck in traffic, and we get to be here on the trail in the middle of this." And he waved his arms around, and it wasn't corny at all.

If you see me this morning, you might think I’m on a zombie diet. I’ve been staying up all night almost every night to watch the baseball games live from the United States. This year I can not only get them on the computer but also on the tv, at least some of the games. I suppose I could watch the recording the next day, like I usually do, but it's the pennant, man! And after the Giants have done their best all the way to the end, I’ll go back and watch all the games I missed while I was in the mountains in August.

A few years ago all this was a dream. The only way to get a game was to go to Candlestick or tune into KNBR. And when I was young, after we moved away from San Francisco, we didn’t even get games on the radio. Only box scores in the newspaper. That made it pretty hard for a kid to be a fan.

Now what I mean by these two examples—the intense aliveness of hiking for weeks alone and the thrill of good baseball from clear around the world—is not that they are equals. When I leave the unnatural world for the natural, I’m quite happy to renounce silly old baseball. The mountains are real intense life (did I tell you I was the last one to see that guy alive?); the other’s just a game. But when I want some entertainment that’s not about the end of the world or killer monsters, disgraceful news and eco-disasters, I can check out a Giants game anytime. Even from out here on Danger Island. Uh oh, Chongo!

That makes me feel lucky. You plug in your own examples and feel it too.

Happy trials and good luck, Martin

 

Mutt: Did you see that obscene photo the boss put up? Like his post was merely an excuse to objectify a woman’s body.

Jeff: Yeah, I object.
Mutt: Me too, so sexist I didn’t look.
Jeff: Me neither.
Mutt: She did ask me if I wanted to get lucky though.
Jeff: Yeah, me too. I said that I had already been lucky yesterday at the track.
Mutt: Yesterday I read a story about a pony on the pampas called "Little Horse on the Prairie".
Jeff: You can read?
Mutt: Did you know … hands are like bells, especially when they're wrung?
Jeff: I always say: addition in a dark Chinese restaurant is "dim sum".
Mutt: Really, you always say that?
Jeff: Sure. And an expert farmer is outstanding in her field.
Mutt: Oh, nice gender-inclusive touch. Check this out: cannibals like to meat people.
Jeff: Camels live in Camelfornia.
Mutt: An economist: A discount fog.
Jeff: Come again? How about the bear that was hit by an 18-wheeler and splattered all over the place? They said it was a grizzly accident.
Mutt: How about the time the wind stopped blowing in Chicago and everyone fell down.
Jeff: How about if you plug a pizza in the socket and get a pizza delight.
Mutt: Okay, but in San Francisco fog will never be mist.
Jeff: Ha. Look out. Never give your uncle an anteater.
Mutt: Wasn’t going to. And, just for your information, I can read too. I read recently a history of electronics of Biblical proportions: Solomon and Toshiba!
Jeff: Oowah. You know what I call one who does magic tricks with bandages? A wizard of gauze.
Mutt: Oh brother, that’s weak. Here’s the topper: If life is like a bowl of cherries, what's the raisin for living?
Jeff: Okay, what is it?
Mutt: Shut up.
Jeff: What?