Never-ending Game

Mutt: Listen, you know we’ve both loved baseball all our lives.

Jeff: Yeah, so?

Mutt: How about if whoever dies first and goes to Heaven comes back to tell the other one whether baseball exists in Heaven or not?

Jeff: I’m game.

[Unfortunately Mutt died the next night.]

Mutt: Hey, Jeff, wake up!

Jeff: What? Mutt? But you're dead.

Mutt: I know. I came back to tell you about baseball in Heaven.

Jeff: Oh yeah.

Mutt: Well, good news and bad news. The good is that—YES, there is baseball in Heaven and it’s fantastic. More fun than you can even imagine.

Jeff: So what’s the bad news?
Mutt: You start pitching on Thursday.

That’s a joke, right? Baseball in Heaven, baseball as heaven, playing a never-ending game: 9 innings, ten, a hundred, a billion innings. Life and afterlife as an endless season. Isn’t it? (Many of the Giants are already playing Winter Ball to bide the time till spring training starts.) And when a runner gets home and scores and is happy (even without a smile, especially without a smile), if the inning doesn’t end, they get another at-bat to begin again. Infinite do-overs.

And that homer I just hit sailed over the fence, over the bleachers, over the parking lot, over those tall buildings where serious people work, over the mountains and valleys and oceans, never coming down. That ball circling the globe looked down on the green baseball diamonds like connect-the-dots across America and the world. A roadmap to paradise, follow the bouncing ball. Every cornfield hiding a playing field underneath. Every advertising executive “stepping up to the plate” to make a “pitch” for a “home-run” product. Every girl and boy dreaming of player heroes (that’s Buster Posey, Rookie of the Year, in the photo below) before drifting off to sleep. The foul lines continuing on to embrace the universe.

And the bad news? When I’m at the park I sometimes think: What if this was it? What if our whole lives were lived in here? Some sci-fi virus contaminated the city and we had to stay in the ballpark forever. Would that be so bad? Plenty of peanuts. Finally, something to believe in. Fantasy baseball becomes real baseball and vice versa. I’m stepping down there onto the field, turning the double play, getting the infield hit, beating out the throw, lolling out in right, stealing home, smacking the splash dinger. Or maybe I have the ultimate season ticket, where you sleep and eat and make love and enjoy the daily games at the park. No away games, everyone comes to us. Do we ever get old watching baseball? Turn off the clock.

Did you watch LOST? I’ll admit I did. So what did the finale mean? My interp: you go (to Heaven) with all the people you meet by chance on your island or in your stadium or along the twisted trail of your life. Even the ones you don’t like (which for me is many) are all waiting for you in the universal church with the ones you cared for. Or in numbered rows. Or on your plane. Those human contacts are all there is. It isn’t much, just everything.

Ever sit in an airport and watch the people flow by? The features blur. Clothes, hair, nose shapes, skin color, all different until they become all one. I could be in love with that person, but we’ve never met. That could be my dear son, if I had one. What if they were my father and mother instead of the ones I have? If that person was my friend for life? What? Would it all be the same? Are we interchangeable pieces? Plug-in people in one another’s lives? Is it really, 'love the one you're with'? In the stands? (Just so they're not Dodger fans.)

Walt Whitman played and watched the game at its beginnings. He wrote about it in Leaves of Grass, which includes:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Identity, commonality, playfulness, history, family, health, life-death and summer grass—that’s baseball, folks. The poet’s sport. That’s the answer to every question. Try it.

The San Francisco Giants won their first World Series ever. In case you hadn’t heard. I’ve waited my whole life for this. Now I’m ready for Heaven. Hope there’s baseball there too. Otherwise, just send me straight to Hell.

So I posted here on the sidebar a link to my Baseball Poetry article. As my buddy Mike Krukow says (in fake Canadian): Check it ou-ut!

Happy trials, until next season, Martin

Jeff: Did we get promoted to opening act?

Mutt: I betcha it’s temporary.

Jeff: Pay increase?
Mutt: Dream on, boy.

Jeff: I got a question: If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?

Mutt: Um.

Jeff: If olive oil comes from olives, where does baby oil come from?

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

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

Mutt: What do you call a male ladybird?

Jeff: When they first invented the clock, how did they know what time it was to set it to?

Mutt: How much deeper would oceans be if sponges didn't live there?

Jeff: Do you always answer a question with another question?

Mutt: Do I?

Neal Breaks A Leg

“Break a leg,” in English, means ‘Good Luck.’ Not where Neal is concerned.

There are lots of man-holes in Messina (winkwink-nudgenudge-saynomore), and many of the ones on the sidewalks are uncovered. Something happens and the cover disappears so you have a hole about two feet square open to the sky and a thousand miles deep. They are rarely repaired. They can be dangerous and must be avoided.

Neal was walking down the street one bright morning several years ago. Guess what happened. Was he watching carefully where he was going? Did he look down to see the open manhole in his path? You know the answer.

He stepped right in it and broke his right leg. It hurt like hell. Some passersby called an ambulance and helped him lie on the filthy sidewalk until it came. They put a newspaper under Neal’s head so as not to dirty a jacket or something soft. Neal’s head bounced on the cement a time or two as he writhed in pain. They yanked off his cowboy boots, causing a long scream. They brought Neal a glass of water. He wasn’t thirsty.

The ambulance eventually came and picked the heavy Neal up off the sidewalk, picked up his cowboy boots, and carried the crying Neal to the hospital. Not the nearest hospital, which didn’t have the resources to deal with such a rare and complicated accident, but to another hospital much further away. The ride was painful with every bump in the road. In Messina there are many.

In the Emergency Room, Neal waited for several hours. Several hours is a long time to wait with a broken leg. He asked the people dressed like medical personnel (you can never tell who’s a doctor, a nurse or an orderly) if they could help him. Even though he spoke in Italian they acted like they didn’t understand. Finally, they gave him a pain-killer (aspirin) and explained that they had some life-or-death cases to take care of first. Well, nothing to say about that. You wouldn’t want someone to die because the doctors were busy putting your leg in a cast. Would you?

He saw some of them smoking outside, chatting or chewing on candy bars and flirting. Must have been their break; everyone’s entitled to a break. Then, right before Neal passed out, a doctor, Dr. Lempo, finally arrived to take a look. “How are you, American Boy?” Neal is British.

“Okay, here is a bit gonfia. What is gonfia in the English?”

“Swollen,” Neal answered, wondering why the great Doctor was examining the left leg. Probably he wanted to see the contusion and scrape that the sound leg had suffered in the fall. Dr. Lempo was feeling the bone with his thumbs on the ridge of Neal’s left leg—maybe he would then compare the swelling to the broken right leg—but gradually Neal became suspicious that Dr. Lempo had not understood which leg was really broken. As Neal started to say something, the doctor banged the broken right leg with his elbow.

Neal yelped in pain and tears ran down his cheeks. “Oh, don’t being the baby. This leg, this leg … I no think.” Wincing Neal was pointing to his right leg because he could not speak. The doctor said, “No, no, I no think …” and whacked his elbow into Neal’s broken right leg again. Neal screamed again; his right leg was twice its normal size.

“Ma insomma, I can no do examination if you cry like baby.”

A nurse whispered something in the doctor’s ear. “Okay, American cry baby, we take the x-ray now.” And he shipped Neal off to radiology to get rid of him. Two more hours waiting during which the nurses had to cut his jeans off. Neal’s leg was purple, and it was dark outside when Neal’s x-rays were finally ready.

Dr. Lempo was still on duty. He made incomprehensible jokes while he applied the plaster cast to Neal’s right leg (directed by the nurse) and complained that those people in radiology always get things wrong.

Neal had to call his friend Gianantonio to bring him some jeans and crutches, and take him away from his 12-hour ordeal in the E.R. The jeans were too small (very few Italians wear Neal’s size), and they couldn’t find crutches until the sanitari opened Monday morning. Neal had to leave the hospital leaning on his friend in a backwards dressing gown, holding his cowboy boots and dimission papers. The staff cracked up watching.

Neal never got the hang of walking on crutches, of course. As he tried to use them the first time, one got caught behind the heel of the cast and he went tumbling to the ground again. None of us were surprised by that, in fact it was pretty hilarious. Neal was hurt, but nothing new was broken.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: A man—maybe Neal—woke up in a hospital after a serious accident. He shouted, "Doctor, doctor, I can't feel my legs!" The doctor replied, "I know you can't - I've cut off your arms!"
Jeff: Finally a funny one.
Mutt: You know how stress causes falling hair?
Jeff: Yep.
Mutt: When the going gets tough, the tufts get going.
Jeff: Okay, two fish swim into a concrete wall. One turns to the other and says "dam!"
Mutt: Well, I went to the butchers the other day, and I bet him $50 that he couldn't reach the meat off the top shelf. He said, “no, the steaks are too high.”
Jeff: A three-legged dog walks into a saloon in the Old West, he sidles up to the bar and announces: "I'm looking for the man who shot my paw."
Mutt: Two vultures get ready to board an airplane, each carrying two dead raccoons. The stewardess looks at them and says, "I'm sorry, gentlemen, only one carrion allowed per passenger."
Jeff: Why did the golfer bring two pair of pants to the game?
Mutt: I’m afraid to ask.
Jeff: In case he got a hole in one.
Mutt: And last but not least, here’s one about you.
Jeff: Really?
Mutt: Yeah, because outside the bathroom you’re American.
Jeff: Uh huh.
Mutt: But inside European.

Cults and Creeds, Tumults and Greeds, part 2

Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter. (James Joyce, Ulysses)

The top ten world religions (according to wikipedia) are: Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Folk religions, Buddhism, Chinese religions (Taoism, Confucianism), Shintoism, Sikhism, Judaism, Bahà’ì.

What are religions and are they dangerous? What are cults and are they dangerous? Can new religions be invented or are we doomed to choose from millennia-old, dusty, musty, crusty belief systems? I was surprised to find a list of hundreds of new religious movements on the internet. Are they new religions or cults?

Our country, don’t forget, was formed by cultists: Pilgrims, Puritans, Quakers, Mennonites, Congregationalists, Shakers, Anabaptists, Amish—little groups of outcasts bound together by their defiance of the status quo.

Cults are defined as : ‘a social group sometimes accused of mentally, physically, or sexually controlling its members.’ ‘A religion or religious sect generally considered to be extremist or false, with its followers often living in an unconventional manner under the guidance of an authoritarian, charismatic leader.’ ‘A quasi-religious organization using devious psychological techniques to gain and control adherents.’

Words associated with cults by their critics are: indoctrination, isolation, destructive, elitist, separatist, totalitarian, authoritarian, dangerous, fear, violence, brain-washing, mind-control, physical restriction (some adherents have to be abducted by anti-cultists)—in sum, not a very happy picture.

Examples (from various government lists): Order of the Solar Temple, Falun Gong, People’s Temple, Branch Davidians, Heaven’s Gate, Hare Krishna, Transcendental Meditation, Opus Dei, Rastafarians, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Unification Church, Rosicrucians, Satanists, OSHO movement, Aum Shinri Kyo, Concerned Christians, Nation of Islam, Voodoo, Wicca, and many more. I’ve known members of several of these groups, and, frankly, they’re scary.

There are two large cults in the U.S., both of which prefer to be called churches: Mormonism and Scientology.

On a recent trip to Salt Lake City I stayed in the house of a sister-wife, one of the wives in a polygamist harem. The hostess treated us suspiciously. Around town the Mormons seemed a bit like people in a creepy movie, walking around smiling, heads full of holy thoughts. Then I met an ex-Mormon in California, and he went on and on about Mormon underwear and how The Saints pressure and coerce their flock to keep it in line like yapping sheepdogs. Another disquieting zealot.

Are you worried by Scientology? Invented by a science fiction writer, it seems like an elaborate joke. Why the huge draw on actors? And how should we view an actor’s work when we know he/she is a cultist in real life? It shouldn’t matter, right? But it does.

Want a list? (from the internet, may contain inaccuracies)

Scientologist Celebrities:
Adam Beason
Adjowa Hayes
Angelo Pagan
Anita Mally
Anne Archer
Beck Hansen
Beth Riesgraf
Bijou Phillips
Billy Sheehan
Bodhi Elfman
Catherine Bell
Chick Corea
Christopher Masterson
Corin Nemec
Danny Masterson
Darius Brubeck
Dave Brubeck
David Campbell
Doug Dohring
Doug E Fresh
Eddie Deezen
Edgar Winter
Eduardo Palomo (dec.)
Erika Christensen
Ernie Reyes Jr.
Ethan Suplee
Geoffrey Lewis
Giovanni Ribisi
Greta Van Susteren
Haywood Nelson
Isaac Hayes (dec.)
James Packer
James Stacy Barbour
Jason Dohring
Jason Lee
Jeff Conaway
Jeff Pomerantz
Jeffrey Tambor
Jenna Elfman
Jennifer Aspen
Jim Meskimen
John Travolta
Johnny Lewis
Judy Norton Taylor
Julia Migenes
Juliette Lewis
Karen Black
Kate Ceberano
Katie Holmes
Kelly Preston
Kimberley Kates
Kirstie Alley
Laura Prepon
Leah Remini
Lee Purcell
Lightfield Lewis
Lisa Marie Presley
Lynsey Bartilson
Mariah O’Brien
Marisol Nichols
Marissa Ribisi
Mark Isham
Michael D. Roberts
Michael Fairman
Michael Peña
Michelle Stafford
Milton Katselas (dec.)
Mutt & Jeff
Nancy Cartwright
Nicky Hopkins (dec.)
Pablo Santos (dec.)
Pamela Roberts
Patrick Renna
Paul Haggis
Peaches Geldof
Persia White
Placido Domingo Jr.
Priscilla Presley
Richard Elfman
Ruddy Rodriguez
Sharon Case
Sky Dayton
Sofia Milos
Sonny Bono (dec.)
Tom Constanten
Tom Cruise
Tyler Hynes
Xavier Deluc

Former Scientologist Celebrities:
Al Jarreau
Brad Pitt
Candice Bergen
Cathy Lee Crosby
Charles Manson
Demi Moore
Diana Canova
Emilio Estevez
Frank Stallone
Gloria Gaynor
Gloria Swanson (dec.)
J.D. Salinger (dec.)
Jason Beghe
Jerry Seinfeld
John Brodie
Kate Capshaw
Katharine McPhee
Larry Anderson
Leif Garrett
Leonard Cohen
Linda Blair
Melanie (Safka)
Mimi Rogers
Neil Gaiman
Nicole Kidman
Oliver Stone
Olivia D’Abo
Patrick Swayze (dec.)
Paul Haggis
Peggy Lipton
Quincy Jones
Ricky Martin
Robert Hunter
Sharon Stone
Stanley Clarke
Stephen Boyd (dec.)
Van Morrison
William S. Burroughs (dec.)

Rumored Scientologist Celebrities:
Anne Francis
Barbara Carrera
Bernadette Peters
Cassandra Hepburn
Chaka Khan
Christopher Reeve (dec.)
Deborah Rennard
Eileen Brennan
Esai Morales
Gordon Lightfoot
Horst Buchholtz (dec.)
Jada Pinkett Smith
John Savage
Lou Rawls (dec.)
Mikhail Baryshnikhov
Rock Hudson (dec.)
Ron Ely
Ron Wood
Shirley Maclaine
Will Smith

Does this list mean anything? Yes. What? I don’t know.

I’ll leave it to you to expand the topic through your own research. Talk to a current member and an ex-member of any group that interests you to get perspective. Don’t ignore spirituality. Make up your own mind. But don’t go into a room where they lock the door.

Sitting all together with a congregation of like-minded people, dressed up, chanting comforting nonsense, standing, sitting, singing, hoping for the common purpose to be realized before our eyes, praying for victory … wait, am I talking about spectator sports? The Giants in the World Series again? Sorry, got distracted. Maybe the cults don’t have such a hold on me after all. Or maybe being a sports fan is, emotionally, the same drug.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Tell me, my friend, do you know the difference between a well dressed man and a dog?
Jeff: No, I don’t, my friend.
Mutt: The man wears a suit, the dog just pants.
Jeff: Fine. Do you know the difference between a crazy rabbit and a counterfeit coin?
Mutt: I’m afraid not.
Jeff: One is bad money, and the other is a mad bunny.
Mutt: Ahhh. But what is the difference between an ornithologist and a stutterer?
Jeff: Go on.
Mutt: One is a bird watcher, and the other is a word botcher.
Jeff: What is the difference between a miser and a canary?
Mutt: Enlighten me.
Jeff: One's a little cheap and the other is a little cheeper.
Mutt: As long as we’re doing animal humor …
Jeff: Humor?
Mutt: The difference between a unicorn and lettuce? One is a funny beast and the other is a bunny feast.
Jeff: Animal?
Mutt: Okay, what then is the difference between one yard and two yards?
Jeff: A fence.
Mutt: Jolly good.

Cults and Creeds, Tumults and Greeds, part 1

The problem—our need to believe while remaining open to better beliefs and what lies beyond belief altogether—must be resolved existentially, through living it … (Huston Smith)

Breaking News: Jesus made the San Francisco Giants win the National League pennant! (point index fingers upwards) The Lord was with us, against Philadelphia (what sins were they paying for, I wonder), so we tore them to pieces, a Holy baseball massacre. Thank you, God Sir. [Don’t you wish he’d help us win that other game over in Afghanistan? Or are the enemies praying harder to their God?] = example of sarcasm

Did you take the religious knowledge quiz? (http://features.pewforum.org/quiz/us-religious-knowledge/?) I got ‘em all (brag, brag).

Remember when President Obama, in his inaugural address, said: “We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and non-believers.” He raised his finger for emphasis on the last note, as if to say that the atheists and agnostics and don’t-give-a-damners can finally join the nation. (My religious family and religious friends are rejoicing for me, right?)

In fact, I was taught that separation of church and state is fundamental to good government and that freedom and respect for all religions is the cornerstone of democracy. And that belief is a private matter.

Here’s the test: You live in a country where almost everyone practices a different religion from yours (or your none-of-the-above), how do you want that society to respect you? By singing God Bless America at the ballpark? In God We Trust on the money? Forcing you to pledge ‘One nation under God’? Whose God? Our God, not yours. And if you ain’t got one, you ain’t nobody ‘round these here parts.

Going to hell? Been there, done that? Sounds kinda fun, huh, with all the nasty sinners? Dynamiting bridges, taking psychedelic drugs, consorting with biker chicks in leather chaps. Yahoo! Hell is having no self-control? Yeah, whatever. Is there a separate hell for each religion, since the other religions always believe they’re right and you’re damn well going downwards? Sure hope they don’t send me to Buddhist hell by mistake! Boooring.

Sorry, it’s too easy to expose religion to ridicule. The Shroud of Turin, proven to be a fake in 1988 (as the cloth covering Jesus’ corpse (didn’t he rise from the dead?—never mind)), continued to draw millions of faithful viewers at its recent exhibit. And they knew; they’d heard of the carbon dating that showed it was from around 1300 AD. The need for spirituality, strong as the attraction of opium, overcomes reason again.

Can religion survive the sins of the church? (a hint: Jerusalem, the thrice holy city, 4000 years of strife, still there) I mean, when is enough enough or way way too much? When are there so many scandals, so much evil, so much perversion, that one should abandon an organization like a rotten marriage? Never? Till death, murder, rape or terror do you part? How many people must lose their life savings to con artists? How much common sense murdered by credence in aliens, phantoms and superheroes dressed up as religion? How many boys/girls need to be molested, abused, violated, ruined (use the stronger term here if you dare)? There’s an epidemic of pedophilia worldwide (the abused becoming abusers exponentially) that originates partly from the clerisy, often ‘celibate’ Roman Catholic priests. Is anyone proposing a radical cure? Is the church? The pope has waffled so badly recently that his credibility is kaput.

And the anti-gay protestant preacher who pays male whores to bugger him and then, after his habit becomes public, leaves his mega-church to go start another mega-church? (Ted Haggard, for one) And the sheep who follow their pastor? (I used to get the bus in San Francisco across the street from the People’s Temple when 918 of the automatons drank poison.) Sometimes religious people act like they’re insane, idiotic, gullible fools, daft, bonkers, loony tunes, psycho, wacko, batty, deranged, unhinged, stark raving crazy crackers mad.

Ahh faith, they say, faith (immune to critique), mysticism, ecstasy, the unknowable, the mystery. The big lie, others respond. Big Brother’s double-crossing doublespeak. And like fish they all took de-bate.

All I know: When a religious experience is legitimate it deserves respect in the same measure as we must show disdain and intolerance for cheaters, frauds, hot-air blowers, brain-washers, hustlers, swindlers, buffoons, liars, hypocrites, suckers, dupes, demagogues, charlatans, scam artists, phonies, fakes, manipulators, deceivers, rabble rousers, propagandizers, browbeaters, sound-biters, wheeler dealers, exploiters, abusers, sexual predators, and on and on and on and on.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Old ministers never die, they just get put out to pastor.
Jeff: I beg of you ... please.
Mutt: Okay, Jeff. But you know, I once considered going into the ministry myself.
Jeff: Really?
Mutt: Yes, but I didn't have an altar ego.
Jeff: Awright, guess what’s the religion of the woman who had a sex-change operation. No don’t, I’ll tell you: a hethen. Get it, he-then?
Mutt: For the love of Mike. I had a friend, very religious, who owned a pest control company. Every morning when he sent his workers off on their assignments he said, “Brothers and sisters, let us spray.”
Jeff: These religious jokes are way too pat. Let’s knock it off.
Mutt: One more. Here’s an old-timer. Ready?
Jeff: No.
Mutt: Outside a small Macedonian village a lone Catholic nun keeps a quiet watch over a silent convent. She is the last caretaker of this site of significant historical developments, spanning more than 2,000 years. When Sister Maria Cyrilla of the Order of the Perpetual Watch dies, the convent of St. Elias will be closed by the Eastern Orthodox Patriarch of Macedonia.

However, that isn't likely to happen soon, as Sister Maria, 53, enjoys excellent health. By her own estimate, she walks 10 miles daily about the grounds of the convent, which once served as a base for the army of Attila the Hun. In more ancient times, a Greek temple to Eros, the god of love, occupied the hilltop site.

Historians say that Attila took over the old temple in 439 A.D., and used it as a base for his marauding army. The Huns are believed to have first collected and then destroyed a large gathering of Greek legal writs at the site. It is believed that Attila wanted to study the Greek legal system and had the writs and other documents brought to the temple. Scholars differ on why he had the valuable documents destroyed - either because he was barely literate and couldn't read them, or because they provided evidence of a democratic government that did not square with his own notion of "rule by an all-powerful tyrant".

When the Greek church took over the site in the 15th century and the convent was built, church leaders ordered the pagan statue of Eros destroyed, so another ancient Greek treasure was lost. Today, there is only the lone sister, watching over the old Hun base. When she goes, that will be it.
Jeff: And?
Mutt: That's how it ends, with No Huns, No Writs, No Eros, and Nun on base.
Jeff: Lord have mercy.
Mutt: Did the Giants really win the pennant?
Jeff: You betcha brudda! Youuuuu betcha!

What’s Poverty? What’s Wealth?

In 1975 I traveled to Nairobi, Kenya on a gift ticket. I stayed at the YMCA dormitory to save money and spent my days walking around the beautiful city. In Uhuru Park, in particular, pairs of well-dressed articulate young men my age would approach me to chat. I found this delightful, and we exchanged interesting information about our diverse countries. However, this fun meeting, which sometimes even included stopping for tea, always ended with an appeal on their part for money to help with their educational expenses. I expressed my regret that I had none to give, and tried to explain that though I was American, I was not rich. They never bought it and said, “All Americans are rich.” Are they?

Measured on an African scale, they are, we are. An entire district of Nairobi lives by sifting through the garbage pile created by their slightly more affluent neighbors. Few Americans live on garbage, and those that do have a richer lode to mine. Anyway, I was sorry that I was being set-up, sorry we couldn’t have a friendship that did not involve money changing hands, sorry that I was accused of being exactly what I thought I was not, but to them obviously was. Wealthy.

In 1966 I took civics in junior high school. The teacher talked one day about social classes, so I asked my mother, as we rolled newspapers for my route, what social class we belonged to. She had a degree in sociology from UC Berkeley. She answered: “If you judge class by income we’re in the lowest, if you judge class by education we’re in the highest.” We didn’t really fit into the ordinary social distinctions. My father’s pay was so low that people brought us hand-me-down clothes, toys, and food. But he spent 13 years studying at various universities earning about six degrees.

When I was a boy I had just three 45rpm records: One O’Clock Jump by Harry James, Caldonia by Louis Jordan, The Barnyard Song by Alan Mills. They came with the hand-me-down record player, and I played them over and over. That was all my musical education until I got a transistor radio with the money from my paper route. I can still remember those three songs perfectly. (I know One O’Clock Jump is instrumental, and they all had a B-side.) When I see my brother Paul we greet one another by singing, “Walking with my baby, she’s got great big feet …”

Now I have downloaded and collected and bought and pirated so many records and cassettes and CDs and Mp3s that I have thousands of recordings, several 500 gigabyte external hard drives full. Am I happier to have more music than I could ever dream of as a boy? Maybe three were enough. Not so long ago, many old time singers in the Appalachians were famous for singing moving versions of one song, the only song they knew! Is one enough? Or is no number ever enough? Am I sick with musical avarice? What if less is more?

Now that I think about it I had only three books too: A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, The Shirley Temple Storybook, and The Book House (a set of about 10 volumes of traditional stories). Okay, that’s not three books but close. With a healthy public library system it didn’t matter. I read library books since before I started school, checking out the allowed limit every week from first grade onwards through high school.

In San Francisco, they built the Parkside library on Taraval street, about three blocks away, just before I was born. I remember the low flat roof and huge concrete bricks that fascinated me as to how they were stacked to make the walls. In those days a five-year-old could go to the corner and ask any adult to take his hand to cross the big street; my parents let me go alone. In Antioch, the library was one house away from ours, practically across the street, not 50 feet away. I got so many stickers as rewards for reading books that the children’s librarian had to continually give me replacement cards. In Madera, I volunteered to work in the library shelving books and so on. (When my mother retired she also volunteered to work in the nearby public library for many years, so you know where I got all this love of libraries and books.)

Can a few books be enough? The early Americans had a Bible, a primer, maybe a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress or some subscription novels like those of Louisa May Alcott or Harriet Beecher Stowe. Not more than a foot of shelf space anyway. As they traveled across the plains they tossed the heavy books to save the oxen.

Now I probably have 10,000 books filling my home, basement, father-in-law’s garage and computer. No comment needed.

What else? Halloween candy lasted till Christmas, otherwise none until Easter. We played with a broken baseball bat and a tennis ball because we had no real baseball and no glove anyway. I borrowed a bike from my friend David so I could ride my paper route to get enough money to buy my own bike, which only took about two years of savings. And I never remember eating out as a child, except potlucks and a burger once at the bowling alley.

So growing up were we poor or did we feel poor? Yes and no. We probably were but didn’t suffer for it at all. Never crossed our minds. Would I have had a better life with more stuff? No. Do I now? No.

Some economist recently came up with a minimum salary on which to afford happiness or the pursuit thereof. Quality of life can involve basic necessities (hard to smile on an empty stomach), so he says we need at least $60,000 annually. That’s much more than I’ve ever made. Combined with my wife’s pay too. He’s telling us that on his chart we’re out of the comfort zone and in the suffering zone. Yeah, so? It’s my own chart that counts.

I’ll let you answer for yourself the implied question about spiritual poverty or wealth and the meaning of life. Good luck.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Old professors never die, they just lose their class.
Jeff: We’re starting that again?
Mutt: Yes we are. Old doctors never die, they just lose their patience.
Jeff: Old hippies never die, they just smell that way.
Mutt: Old lawyers never die, they just lose their appeal.
Jeff: Old sewage workers never die, they just waste away.
Mutt: Old policemen never die, they just cop out.
Jeff: Old steelmakers never die, they just lose their temper.
Mutt: Old sailors never die, they just get a little dingy.
Jeff: Old hypochondriacs never die, they just lose their grippe.
Mutt: Finally, there is no conclusive evidence about what happens to old sceptics, but their future is doubtful.

I Had a Musical Dream

It was a concert just for me. All my favorite musicians played at the same place, in Golden Gate Park near where I grew up. And it was all FREE!

Earl Scruggs (my nickname in junior high) was still alive and in great form. As were Doc Watson, Ralph Stanley, Hazel Dickens, Jerry Jeff Walker, Peter Rowan and Del McCoury: the elite of old-time American music. Joan Baez, Emmylou Harris, David Grisman, Elvis Costello, Guy Clark, Randy Newman, Rosanne Cash, Gillian Welch, Jorma Kaukonen, Dave Alvin, Steve Earle, Indigo Girls, James McMurtry, Kinky Friedman, Richard Thompson, Carolina Chocolate Drops, David Holt, Jerry Douglas, Laurie Lewis, Robert Earl Keen, T-Bone Burnett, The Dukes of September with Boz Scaggs, Michael McDonald and Donald Fagen, The Flatlanders with Joe Ely, Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Butch Hancock, Dry Branch Fire Squad, the subdudes, The Waybacks, Yonder Mountain String Band, Lyle Lovett, Bill Kirchen, Nick Lowe, Patti Smith, MC Hammer, Buddy Miller and a hundred others.


The music was ethereal; the moment empyrean. Some rich banjo player paid for the whole dang thing. Impossible? Strictly Bluegrass? Hardly.

Next year, meetya there.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: What the heck was that about?
Jeff: Some music festival in San Francisco. (Hardly Strictly Bluegrass)
Mutt: I hate music.
Jeff: Me too.
Mutt: I tried to write a drinking song once, but I couldn't get past the first bar.
Jeff: I hate music.
Mutt: Like the guy who broke into song because he couldn't find the key.
Jeff: Or the musical about a train conductor.
Mutt: What?
Jeff: "My Fare, Lady”
Mutt: How about the Disney movie about the tall-tale-telling champ?
Jeff: The Lyin' King? Oh mercy.
Mutt: Okay, here’s a good one.
Jeff: I doubt it.
Mutt: A guy walks into the psychiatrist's office wearing only plastic wrap shorts. The shrink says, "Well, I can clearly see you're nuts."
Jeff: So are you … both.

The Bush League Defense

There is this to be said in my defense. Almost anyone who can trace their ancestry back to the colonial period in American history is related to some presidents. The Bush family is related to just about everybody: fourteen other presidents (inc. Washington, Lincoln and Roosevelt), Winston Churchill, Princess Diana Spencer and John Kerry. There are hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Americans who are distant relatives of the ex-pres (including Barack Obama). Oh wait, that makes me some extreme distant relative to George’s successor too. I feel better now. (Though I'm tiring of everyone yelling, “Barry, clean up the mess FASTER!!!”)

In case you need a good cry, I found this list on a site about presidential jokes:

George W. Bush Resume

Past Work Experience:
* Ran for congress and lost.
* Produced a Hollywood slasher B movie (The Hitcher).
* Bought an oil company, but couldn't find any oil in Texas; company went bankrupt shortly after all Bush stock sold.
* Bought the Texas Rangers baseball team in a sweetheart deal that took land using taxpayer money. Biggest move: traded Sammy Sosa to the Chicago White Sox.
* With father's help (and his name) was elected Governor of Texas.

Accomplishments in Previous Positions:
* Changed pollution laws for power and oil companies and made Texas the most polluted state in the Union.
* Replaced Los Angeles with Houston as the most smog-ridden city in America.
* Cut taxes and bankrupted the Texas government to the tune of billions in borrowed money.
* Set record for most executions by any governor in American history.
* Became president after losing the popular vote by over 500,000 votes, with the help of his father's appointments to the Supreme Court.

Accomplishments As President:
* Attacked and took over two countries.
* Spent the surplus and bankrupted the treasury.
* Shattered record for biggest annual deficit in history.
* Set economic record for most private bankruptcies filed in any 12-month period.
* Set all-time record for biggest drop in the history of the stock market.
* First president in decades to execute a federal prisoner.
* First president in U.S. history to enter office with a criminal record.
* First year in office set the all-time record for most days on vacation by any president in U.S. history.
* After taking the entire month of August off for vacation, presided over the worst security failure in U.S. history.
* Set the record for most campaign fundraising trips, more than any other president in U.S. history.
* In first two years in office over 2 million Americans lost their jobs.
* Cut unemployment benefits for more out of work Americans than any president in U.S. history.
* Set the all-time record for most foreclosures in a 12-month period.
* Appointed more convicted criminals to administration positions than any president in U.S. history.
* Set the record for fewest press conferences of any president since the advent of television.
* Signed more laws and executive orders amending the Constitution than any president in U.S. history.
* Presided over the biggest energy crisis in U.S. history and refused to intervene when corruption was revealed.
* Presided over the highest gasoline prices in U.S. history and refused to use the national reserves as past presidents have.
* Cut healthcare benefits for war veterans.
* Set the all-time record for most people worldwide to simultaneously take to the streets to protest (15 million people), shattering the record for protest against any person in the history of mankind.
* Dissolved more international treaties than any president in U.S. history.
* Ran the most secretive and unaccountable presidency of any in U.S. history.
* Appointed members of cabinet that are the richest of any administration in U.S. history (the 'poorest' multimillionaire, Condoleezza Rice, has an Exxon oil tanker named after her).
* First president in U.S. history to have all 50 states of the Union simultaneously go bankrupt.
* Presided over the biggest corporate stock market fraud of any market in any country in the history of the world.
* First president in U.S. history to order a U.S. attack and military occupation of a sovereign nation.
* Created the largest government department bureaucracy in the history of the United States.
* Set the all-time record for biggest annual budget spending increases, more than any president in U.S. history.
* First president in U.S. history to have the United Nations remove the U.S. from the human rights commission.
* First president in U.S. history to have the United Nations remove the U.S. from the elections monitoring board.
* Removed more checks and balances, and had the least amount of congressional oversight of any presidential administration in U.S. history.
* Rendered the entire United Nations irrelevant.
* Withdrew from the World Court of Law.
* Refused to allow inspectors access to U.S. prisoners of war and by default no longer abided by the Geneva Conventions.
* First president in U.S. history to refuse United Nations election inspectors (during the 2002 U.S. elections).
* All-time U.S. (and world) record holder for most corporate campaign donations.
* Biggest lifetime campaign contributor presided over one of the largest corporate bankruptcy frauds in world history (Kenneth Lay, former CEO of Enron Corporation).
* Spent more money on polls and focus groups than any president in U.S. history.
* First president in U.S. history to unilaterally attack a sovereign nation against the will of the United Nations and the world community.
* First president to run and hide when the U.S. came under attack (and then lied saying the enemy had the code to Air Force 1)
* First U.S. president to establish a secret shadow government.
* Took the biggest world sympathy for the U.S. after 9/11, and in less than a year made the U.S. the most resented country in the world (possibly the biggest diplomatic failure in U.S. and world history).
* With a policy of 'disengagement' created the most hostile Israeli-Palestine relations in at least 30 years.
* First U.S. president in history to have a majority of the people of Europe (71%) view his presidency as the biggest threat to world peace and stability.
* First U.S. president in history to have the people of South Korea more threatened by the U.S. than their immediate neighbor, North Korea.
* Changed U.S. policy to allow convicted criminals to be awarded government contracts.
* Set all-time record for number of administration appointees who violated U.S. law by not selling huge investments in corporations bidding for government contracts.
* Failed to fulfill pledge to get Osama Bin Laden 'dead or alive.'
* Failed to capture the anthrax killer who tried to murder the leaders of our country at the United States Capital building. After 18 months no leads and zero suspects.
* In the 18 months following the 9/11 attacks successfully prevented any public investigation into the biggest security failure in the history of the United States.
* Removed more freedoms and civil liberties for Americans than any other president in U.S. history.
* In a little over two years created the most divided country in decades, possibly the most divided the U.S. has ever been since the Civil War.
* Entered office with the strongest economy in U.S. history and in less than two years turned every single economic category indicator straight down.

Records and References:
* At least one conviction for drunk driving in Maine (Texas driving record has been erased and is not available).
* AWOL from National Guard and deserted the military during a time of war.
* Refused to take drug test or even answer any questions about drug use.
* All records of tenure as governor of Texas have been spirited away to father's library, sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public view.
* All records of any SEC investigations into his insider trading or bankrupt companies are sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public view.
* All minutes of meetings for any public corporation he served on the board are sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public view.
* Any records or minutes from meetings he (or VP) attended regarding public energy policy are sealed in secrecy and unavailable for public review.
* For personal references please speak to daddy or uncle James Baker (they can be reached at their offices of the Carlyle Group for war-profiteering.)

You can tell this list is out-dated, and you might contest a point or two (or add others), but the big picture remains: What, Me Worry?



Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Did you hear that Soupy Sales died?
Jeff: Yeah, a year ago.
Mutt: Oowah! Hit me like a cream pie.
Jeff: Well, old comics never die, they just keep gagging.
Mutt: Old printers never die, they're just not the type.
Jeff: Old cooks never die, they just get deranged.
Mutt: Old photographers never die, they just stop developing.
Jeff: Old seers never die, they just lose their vision.
Mutt: Old cleaning people never die, they just kick the bucket.
Jeff: Old bosses never die, much as you want them to.
Mutt: Old electricians never die, they just lose contact.
Jeff: Old limbo dancers never die, they just go under.
Mutt: Old preachers never die, they just ramble on, and on, and on, and on....

Dropping Names on my Foote

Dropping Names on My Foote by Earl Martin Pedersen, Dec. 2005

John Foote, an Englishman from Royston, Hertfordshire, England, and my oldest documented ancestor, was born in 1530. He married Helen Warren and had a son named Robert Foote (1552-1607), who married Joane Brooke, and they had a son named Nathaniel Foote (1593-1644). After his apprenticeship in the grocery business, Nathaniel married Elizabeth Deming in 1615. Her brother was John Deming, a magistrate of the Colony of Connecticut and signer of the Charter. Nathaniel and Elizabeth, probably with John Deming, sailed from London to Boston sometime between 1630 and 1633 to start a new life in Wethersfield, Conn. There Nathaniel farmed and was appointed a delegate to the Court. He was the first cousin of Sir Thomas Foote, Sheriff of London in 1649 and Lord Mayor of London in 1650. Nathaniel Foote is nicknamed “The Settler” because he is our first US ancestor. This is where the story really begins to get interesting.

Nathaniel and Elizabeth had two sons and five daughters. Their first son was also named Nathaniel (1619-1655) and his kid sister was named Rebecca Foote (1634-1701). Remember her. Nathaniel Foote jr. married Elizabeth Smith, and they had a son named Daniel Foote (1652-?). Daniel married Sarah, and they had a boy named Jehiel Foote (1687-1740). Jehiel married Susannah, and one of their nine children was George Foote (1721-1755). George Foote married Hannah Hurd, and they had John Foote (1754-1826), who witnessed the Revolution. John Foote married Ruth Searl in 1775, and they had a son named Adoniram Foote, born in Arlington, Vermont in 1780, who died in Turin, New York in 1866.

Adoniram Foote’s second wife was Emily Brainerd, whose brother Lawrence was an ardent abolitionist. His house in Vermont was the last stop on the Underground Railroad to Canada. Hon. Lawrence Brainerd presided over the first convention of the Republican Party in 1854 nominating John C. Frèmont, who won only 16 states. (Abraham Lincoln was the second Republican candidate for the Presidency. He won.) Adoniram and Emily had a son named Norman Brainerd Foote (1820-1900). Norman married Maria Mills in 1848, and their first son was Frederick Norman Foote (1852-1941). Frederick Foote married Nora French Thompson, and they moved from New York to Texas to Minnesota and then to Seattle, Washington. They had ten children, among them Gertrude May Foote (1891-1977), my grandmother. By the way, Frederick Foote’s brother John was the first graduate of Boston (University) School of Theology, which later graduated Dr. Ralph Martin Pedersen jr. (Dad) and his classmate Dr. Martin Luther King jr.

In the meantime, Nathaniel Foote junior’s sister Rebecca Foote, daughter of “The Settler,” married Lt. Philip Smith and they had a daughter also named Rebecca, who married George Stillmen. George and Rebecca had a daughter named Anna Stillmen who married a man named Hezekiah May. They had a daughter named Elizabeth May, and she married David Newcomb. Their daughter, Lydia Newcomb, married Timothy Bush. Lydia and Timothy Bush had a son, Obadiah Bush (1797-1851), who married Harriet Smith. Their son, the Reverend James Bush (1825-1889), married Harriet Fay, and they had a son named Samuel Prescott Bush (1863-1948). Sam married Flora Sheldon, and they named their son Prescott Sheldon Bush (1895-1972), who married Dorothy Walker. Now, Prescott Sheldon Bush and Dorothy Walker had a son too, and his name is George Herbert Walker Bush (b. 1924), 41st President of the United States. George married Barbara Pierce, and they had a son named George Walker Bush (b. 1946), who later married Laura Lane Welch and became the 43rd President of the United States. That makes “Dubya” and myself cousins ten generations removed.

Other branches of the Foote family tree lead to Roxanna Foote (1775-1816), wife of Lyman Beecher and mother of Harriet Elizabeth Beecher (Stowe) and Henry Ward Beecher, three of the most famous Americans of their time. William Howard Taft, the 27th President, is a descendant of Nathaniel Foote senior’s sister Mary, as is Richard Milhouse Nixon, the 37th US President. Coincidentally, Nixon’s boyhood barber in Whittier, CA was Jesse Elvin Strahl (my maternal grandfather). Finally, Mary Foote’s daughter Elizabeth Hewes married Ralph Hemenway, a direct ancestor of Nobel Prize-winning novelist, Ernest Hemingway.

My main sources for these incomplete notes were: Don Pedersen’s High School Genealogy Project, the Foote Family Association of America website: www.footefamily.org, Paul Foote’s site at www.geocities.com/thefootehistory, and Ernest Hemingway’s genealogy at Genealogy.com.

Now you know everything.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Do you believe any of that?
Jeff: That Pedersen’s related to the four worst presidents in American history?
Mutt: Wasn’t he supposed to be Norwegian?
Jeff: Definitely all a pack of lies. We teached him good.
Mutt: You mean, ‘we teached him well’.
Jeff: Oh sorry.
Mutt: Now that I think about it, there’s a joke about four presidents.
Jeff: Be my guest.
Mutt: Four United States Presidents got caught up in a tornado and off they whirled to the land of Oz. They finally made it to the Emerald City and went to find the Great Wizard, who asked: "What brings the four of you before the great Wizard of Oz?"
Jimmy Carter stepped forward timidly: "I've come for some courage."
"No Problem," said the Wizard. "Who's next?"
Richard Nixon stepped forward, and said: "Well, I think I need a heart."
"Done," says the Wizard. "Who comes next before the Great and Powerful Oz?"
Up stepped Bush and said: "The American people say that I need a brain."
"No problem," said the Wizard. "Consider it done."
Then there is a great silence in the hall.
Jeff: Yeah, and?
Mutt: Bill Clinton is just standing there, looking around, but he doesn't say a word. Irritated, the Wizard finally asks, "Well, what do you want?"
Clinton answers, "Is Dorothy here?"
Jeff: Not bad, not bad ... um, not good either.
Mutt: Wit happens.

Still Babbling After All Of One Year

It’s been a year since I started blogging. How’s it going? Worth abiding? (The Dude abides, you know) Well, I’ve gotten around 2,000 reads or presumed reads (the counter came late), a few comments, several hits from unexpected places like Luxemburg, Japan and India (real true friends?).

I’ve learned that controversy pays, even fake controversy. Mutt and Jeff feel underappreciated, though. I’ve learned that when you need a break from real writing, blog. I got a lot more hits after I posted a list that includes names of pretty girls. I wish I had more ‘followers’.

I thought that the Sunset Intersection blog would lead people to my musical page: Martin’s Moan and Drone, but that hasn’t happened. Could it be the name? I thought people would scold me for using borrowed images; that hasn’t happened either. All in all, I’ve had fun. I’ll keep going.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Is he going to threaten retirement every year?
Jeff: I betcha.
Mutt: What do we get out of it?
Jeff: Peanuts.
Mutt: Let’s go on strike then.
Jeff: You mean not eat the peanuts?
Mutt: No, we just won’t be funny anymore.
Jeff: Funny?
Mutt: You know, like this: One frog croaks to the other, "Time's fun when you're having flies!"
Jeff: That’s funny?
Mutt: Well.
Jeff: What is the difference between a frog and a cat?
Mutt: I’m too ashamed to ask.
Jeff: A frog croaks all the time, a cat only nine times.
Mutt: You’re right, we get what we deserve.
Jeff: Peanuts. Told ya.

The Norsky Beat

Does it mean anything at all to be a Norse-American? Even if you don’t live in Minnesota, North Dakota or Wisconsin? Most of us don’t speak the language or observe the customs or know the history. Most of us have never been to the homeland (or Lake Wobegon). And my own ethnic roots intertwine with German, Dutch, and English.

Of all the Norwegians on Earth, about half live in Norway, half in the United States, a few got lost. “With the exception of Ireland, no single country contributed a larger percentage of its population to the United States than Norway.” The second wave finally made it (ref. to Leif Ericson’s trip to N. America in 1000 a.d. and Norwegian immigration in the 1800’s-early 1900’s).

That’s an interesting list over there, huh? McGyver, Matt Dillon, Mr. Phelps, Hercules, Starsky, or was it Hutch? Hutch probably. Anyway, nothing to say, some immense TV heroes, so I’m in good Norski (correct spelling?) company. And the female company isn’t too shabby: Marilyn, Jennifer, Renée, Melanie, Liv, and did I say Paris? (I ain’t sayin’ I saw the videos, and I ain’t sayin’ I didn’t.)

Enough silliness. Oh, did I forget the other squareheads (scandies, vikes, olafs)? One stood on the Moon, one crossed the Atlantic, one Chronicled the Martians, one flew the Jefferson Airplane.

I’m impressed. I’d call my ethnic group’s contributions ‘distinguished’. And there are many more not on my list. Yeah but, what does it mean? What passes from the roots to the tree?

Is my character Scandinavian or just my name? Those roots are stronger than you think. When I was in Africa a friend asked me: “Is it true that there are black-skinned people living in America? Who are they?” But every African-American who’s traveled back has the same experience: Recognition. Returning home after generations. Once I flew to Denmark, Sweden and Finland, and everyone on the plane had my hair! My people.

So if I’m not smiling, if I don’t speak much, if I keep my thoughts to myself (not much fun to argue with), if I don’t go for showy sentimentality, I’m hyper-critical, moralistic, melancholy, conscientious, competent, pragmatic, creative and conservative—am I those? sort of—it’s because I silently but impatiently await Recognition.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Glad I’m not some herring choker.
Jeff: You’re telling me. No sense of humor in those doom-and-gloomers.
Mutt: Met a nice blonde Swedish lass once.
Jeff: Stacked I imagine.
Mutt: Didn’t notice.
Jeff: I noticed a herring who for many years swam along with a friendly whale. He showed up one day without his companion. When asked where the whale was, the herring replied, "How would I know? Am I my blubber's kipper?”
Mutt: Back to my Swede please. There was once a wise man who loved a beautiful maiden, but she lived in a marsh where his car always got stuck and, besides, her father had a gun, so he never did get close enough to tell her of his passion. However, she had a more energetic suitor who purchased amphibious tires for his car and, when her father was asleep, speedily carried her off.
Jeff: Yeah, so?
Mutt: Treads rush in where wise men fear to fool.
Jeff: Third strike. Grab some pine, meat.

Neal Bites the Pulp

At the hip left-wing bookstore there are lots of little rooms full of theme-related books: Marxism for the 21st Century, Feminism for the 21st Century, the history of the union movement (for intellectuals to read on the summer beach), Gramsci, Trotsky, De André, non-violent children’s books, the Sexual Orientation room, the Che Guevara room, and the Little Magazine Room. Every month, Neal likes to get a certain music mag to follow Bob Dylan’s latest shenanigans.

I waited outside on the sidewalk. The people who worked in the cooperative bookstore (the workers) were so chronically depressed and grouchy that they put a funereal pall over whatever brightness might have come from the collected works of François Marie Charles Fourier.

Neal went straight to the back to get his magazine. The political and musical magazines were arranged on a handsome tiered wall-rack of tan wood with low slots so that they all faced the customer, staggered down to the floor like a strip mine. There were hundreds of flimsy, over-priced publications in that rack, all balanced, upright and beckoning. Someone had arranged them like flowers.

With his characteristic enthusiasm, Neal reached out his arm and grabbed his favorite from one of the top shelves, but the corner of Neal’s magazine touched the corner of the magazine next to it pulling it forward. And that one nudged the one next to it and so on.

Talk about dominos. The magazines falling from the upper shelves tapped the ones below and they cascaded downwards onto the floor at Neal’s feet. To his credit, he tried to stop this periodical avalanche, first swatting with his hands and then, since the magazine rack was inclined, he tried to keep a couple magazines from falling by holding them with his knees. “Help,” he muttered meekly to no one. Neal was alone in the magazine room.

Panic. The hundreds of magazines were clicking down one by one to the floor like a Jacob’s ladder toy. Neal spread out his arms to try to hold some in place, save the savable at least; he even held some with his elbows. His legs were bowed outwards like a rock climber on sheer granite.

Then Neal lost his balance and could not remain vertical any longer. On tiptoes, he slid forward about a foot, against his healthy belly, just enough so that he could not return upright. His forehead resting against the magazine stand, saving the last few magazines, the main pile around his ankles, he was stuck, unable to right himself. Neal whispered, “help,” again.

I think I’ll leave Neal spread-eagled there, pressed against the magazine display in an extremely compromising (criminal and/or sexual) position with his left hand saving La Rivista del Manifesto and his right hand saving from the fall a photocopied collection of love poems from prison by Francesca Mambro. Kissing the rack, so to speak.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Good day to you, Honorable Jeff of Leisure
Jeff: Thank you, kind sir, and another happy day of leisureliness to you too.
Mutt: It wasn’t always like this, you know? I used to be a transplant surgeon, but my heart just wasn't in it.
Jeff: I used to be a train driver, but I got sidetracked.
Mutt: I used to be a tailor, but found the work to be just so-so.
Jeff: I used to be a hotel clerk, but then I had reservations.
Mutt: I used to be a shoe salesman, till they gave me the boot.
Jeff: I used to be a carpenter, but then I got bored.
Mutt: I used to work at an orange juice factory, but I was canned because I couldn't concentrate.
Jeff: I used to be a marathon runner, but couldn't stand the agony of de feet.
Mutt: Well, I used to be a baker, but I didn't make enough dough.
Jeff: Well, I used to be a nun, but I got expelled because of my dirty habits.
Mutt: Really, seriously?
Jeff: Absolutely. Like Pedersen, I’ve spent most of my adult life a broad.
Mutt: Poor thing.

The Post-Modern Blues

Pedersen sez: I stick by every word.
But sir, you said one thing then totally reversed yourself, ‘against’ and ‘in favor’?
I know, and I stick by every word.
Is this some kind of semantic joke?
No, it’s the post-modern blues. Either/or, you’re out the door.

Not the truth, but no longer the post-Obama black and white only truth. Not Orwellian doublethink (or maybe it is):

The power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them....To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies — all this is indispensably necessary. Even in using the word doublethink it is necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one admits that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one leap ahead of the truth. [Nineteen Eighty-Four. p 32.]

Not the two sides to every coin. Flip it fast and see them merging. Heads, tails, both, neither. A pretty vase or a woman’s face? No, this is a case of such a broad topic that both opposing opinions fit comfortably inside it. A shoebox full of leftover pros and cons. Yes, at the same time.

In sum, the music of the 80’s was, objectively measured, of inferior quality, AND the music of the 80’s was, subjectively measured, some of the best of the century. It moved people, myself included, got the feet moving and the head nodding. But ethno-musical history is only an example. (Oh sorry, can’t use obj./sub. dichotomies any more. Oh sorry, dividing the past in decade blocks is an artefice.)

Syncretism is the technical term. I don’t want to go too far into philosophy with its illusive jargon and autoerotic complexities. But just think of the one you love most on earth. Ahhh. Most of the time. Is that love always white, never black, never gray??? Checkered? Striped? Cappuccino? When you love and hate the same person, usually first one then the other, perhaps no outer cause can be found, your feelings just inverted, or you feel both clashing feelings at the same time. Pinch.

I know, it was easier to experience reality when every question (or daisy) had an A answer and a B answer (check one only), but then we saw that that was a childish distorting viewpoint. We saw that, right? When that poor tree in the lone forest came crashing down, it made a tremendous noise AND it made no sound at all. Then again, how would I know?

Does Santa exist? Come on, fess up. On so many levels. Like being on trial and the judge says: Just answer yes or no! And all you can think of is how badly you need to explain your answer because it’s not as simple as yes or no. ‘Please can I …’ ‘NO!’

Does God exist? Angels, ghosts, aliens?
Does Mr. Death exist? Mother nature?
Do you exist? At home or Lost on an island?
Does any truth exist? Justice? Right, wrong?
Does this universe exist? In a glass snowball?
Prove it.
And disprove it.

Debate used to be considered a noble sport and a fine practice of the intellect. Can I believe in mine, and allow you to believe in yours? Think Islam-Christianity. Often tolerance is a mask for ‘I will allow you to be wrong, because I can’t convert you’. Whatever happened to ‘I will defend to the death your right to your opinion even if I disagree’? Bull, you say. Bull, I say. At least we agree on that.

Nowadays everyone, including me, is spouting off all the time in public, but who’s listening? Who is quiet? Is there arrogance or shame in continually expressing oneself, ignoring the counterpart of silence?

Pete Seeger said, “An open mind is a wonderful thing. Just don’t let it become a tunnel of winds.” In the end you need to say what you believe, this is my yes and my no, line in the sand, which side are you on, this is what I will fight for, however hard it is nowadays not to see both sides at the same time with our immobilizing po-mo cross-eyed perception. Thanks a lot, Martin Heidegger!

Here’s a song from my Myspace collection: http://www.myspace.com/emartinpedersen:

The Postmodern Blues

Talkin’ out both sides
Hi ho the derry-o
You get it all and its contrary
In frequency modulation stereo.

chorus: Oh, Foucault
Daddy’s got them post-modern blues
Don’t Derrida me
Just hand me down my deconstruction shoes.

Reductionism’s my top ten
Ding dong the derry-o
But to ride a pony into the wind
At the Alamo theme park near San Antonio.

I fear the noosphere
Hiddy hiddy hiddy ho
Professor Eco get me out of here
As I spinning down the vortex go.

With “and/or” tattooed over my ear
A-bee bop a lula
Hello, goodbye, life, death – aloha
She’s my baby, dancin’ the hula.

Wars of the worlds of uncertainty
Sing ring around the rosey
All absolutes fall down (crash bang)
That’s the way the monkey goes-y.

Embrace me ambiguity
Pop! Goes the weasel
Put your tongue into my mouth
And paint your nude on top of my easel.

Epistemology – I thunk, I thunk
Hey diddle diddle me, please
Your implosion of my meaning
Could collapse my theoretical hierarchies.

Placeless, nameless, postness, sameness
Rain rain go away
A paradigm won’t buy you coffee
Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, you’re so passé.

© E. Martin Pedersen, 2009

And lastly, I got 200+ hits on my blog during the 80’s music debate, so you’re stuck with me for a while. I did not, however, get thousands of hate mails; that was a lie. One leap ahead of the truth.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Police arrested two kids yesterday, one was drinking battery acid, the other was eating fireworks.
Jeff: Let me guess. They charged one and let the other one off?
Mutt: A chicken and an egg, lying in bed side-by-side, each smoking a cigarette.
Jeff: I know, I know: "Which came first?"
Mutt: There were two ships: one had red paint, one had blue paint. They collided.
Jeff: Yeah, yeah, the survivors were marooned. Jeez!
Mutt: A grenade fell onto a kitchen floor in France …
Jeff: Oh, really?
Mutt: Linoleum Blownapart.
Jeff: That’s just wrong.
Mutt: Two peanuts were walking in Central Park, one was assaulted.
Jeff: Man, that one was old when Adam was pinning leaves and picking fleas. Don’t you know any new jokes?
Mutt: All jokes are new in Amnesia.
Jeff: Are we scraping the bottom of the barrel yet?
Mutt: Not even close, pal, not even close.

A Rant in Favor of the Music of the 80’s

E. Martin Pedersen is under attack. Thousands of angry music-lovers have been sending him hate mail including threats on his life. He may go into hiding, but first this note.

The 1840’s & 50’s were a great time in American popular music. Stephen Foster wrote many hit songs that we still sing, Dan Emmett wrote Dixie, Old Dan Tucker and so on. The minstrels appropriated the slaves’ music and melded it into the common idiom, honoring it at the same time they interspersed it with racist jokes and gags. Negro spiritual choirs were performing around the world raising money for the abolitionist movement. The country was struggling in music with the issue that would tear it apart.

The Gay 1890’s were another rich period in song. The barbershop quartets sang the classic songs of Tin Pan Alley. Orchestras of all types were formed (banjo or mandolin orchestras, for instance). Pianos, guitars and autoharps filled parlors. Marching bands played the Sousa hits. Vaudeville variety shows replaced the minstrel shows. Immigrants brought their sounds from around the globe. And ragtime was being invented by Scott Joplin.

In the 1950’s rock and roll, founded by Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley, swept aside the crooners. But it came to full form in the 60’s and hit its peak in the 70’s. Then what happened?

These things go in cycles. That’s clear. And technology can have an effect. Radio didn’t exist in the first two periods I mentioned above, but songs were extremely popular, sold as sheet music, sung in theaters and around the fireplace. In the 1950’s single 45 rpms could put the A-side in the top 40. Radio was king; TV didn’t come to our house until the 60’s.

In the 1980’s the two new shocking technologies were video commercials and CDs. The walkman also replaced the transistor radio, but that just gave the listener a bit more choice. However, recording technology also changed, meaning that a single person with a computer and keyboard could make records in their basement. See Todd Rundgren, Lindsay Buckingham, Enya and many others. Some of those multi-track recordings could not even be played by a band in public. Even singers could modify their voices unnaturally, better than live. Electronic music swept the world like a wildfire.

I think this made the 80’s the “infancy” of a new musical era with new intricate tools, a reaction against the amplified acoustic sound of the past and an experiment for the future, which is now. Plus, almost for the first time, young people had money, lots of money, to spend on music.

So to judge the results as immature is unfair, to compare to before or after is unfair. The 80’s were essential … and fun as hell. Cyndi Lauper bouncing around was fun!!! Michael Jackson’s Thriller was fun! Devo was a blast! Alice Cooper. Culture Club. We Are the World.

Ignore the copy-cats and parody-artists, anyone who can make others feel good is doing valuable community service. The war is over, let’s dance!

There were plenty of truly great singers in the 80’s: Whitney Houston, Elton John, Lionel Ritchie, Tina Turner, Bobby McFerrin, Sade, Annie Lennox, on and on.

Yet maybe the major contribution of the era is in hard rock: AC/DC, Black Sabbath, The Clash, The Cure, Deep Purple, Def Leppard, Genesis, Guns n' Roses, Iron Maiden, Journey, Judas Priest, KISS, Megadeth, Metallica, Motley Crue, Ozzy Osbourne, The Police, Rush, Sammy Hagar, Scorpions, Thin Lizzy. Not stuff I listen to every day, but high-voltage music that changed the world.

Oh, and rap, sorry, RAP! Hip-hop. And all-girl bands. And boys dancing and harmonizing a cappella. New Wave, New Age, Newgrass … and, my favorite, Funkytown.

A good song is … one that you like, no matter how silly. If you were young, just starting out, when you heard it, it will remain with you for life. A good song lives in your head. If I say Kim Carnes, Betty Davis Eyes, you can hear the opening chords and the electronic drum beat, right? Try this: My my my my …

MY SHARONA! (I see you. You're shaking your head to the beat.)

Things are so bad right now (they aren’t really, but we’re told they are), that everyone on earth is suffering severe depression, impotency, überangst. We need the good-time music of the 80’s more than all the pills in the medicine factory. Didn’t MTV recently invent MTV Gold a channel of 80’s music (see also VH1 Classic)? Isn’t the biggest Broadway event of the current decade a re-visitation of Abba songs? (Mamma Mia!) Forget raves (way too 60’s), this year adolescents (and former adolescents) are having 80’s parties. Wine coolers and Hall & Oates: what could possibly be wrong with that?

And Cyndi baby, thanks for one of the best songs of all time … Time After Time.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Just covering his ass.
Jeff: Like always.
Mutt: Heard any good jokes lately?
Jeff: Nope, the usual duds. You?
Mutt: Sorry. Did you know the Energizer Bunny got arrested?
Jeff: Really?
Mutt: Charged with battery.
Jeff: You know, Mutt, if you want to practice safe eating, I say use condiments.
Mutt: I agree. Condoms should be used on every conceivable occasion.
Jeff: I used to work in a blanket factory, but it folded.
Mutt: Oh well, I used to have a hangover, the wrath of grapes.
Jeff: And a pessimist’s blood type is b-negative.
Mutt: And a Freudian slip is when you say one thing and mean your mother.
Jeff: I used to work … oh, I said that already. Corduroy pillows are making headlines.
Mutt: Banning the bra was a big flop.
Jeff: Sea captains don’t like crew cuts.
Mutt: Without geometry, life is pointless.
Jeff: A gossip is someone with a sense of rumor.
Mutt: When you dream in color, it’s a pigment of your imagination.
Jeff: Dancing cheek-to-cheek is really a form of floor play.
Mutt: And finally, if electricity comes from electrons, does that mean that morality comes from morons?
Jeff: Maybe, but if ‘pro’ is the opposite of ‘con’, what is the opposite of congress?
Mutt: Ha Ha.
Jeff: Yuck yuck.

A Rant Against the Music of the 80’s

MTV and drum machines ruined music. My wife is at a party tonight with all her high school friends dancing to music from the 1980’s. I’m home pouting.

MTV and drum machines, indeed, and CDs, colder than a witch’s teat.

Whatever your tastes let me reel off a few names from the 60’s and 70’s: Janis, Jimi, The Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Morrison, CSNY, Beach Boys, Creedence, The Dead, Simon & Garfunkel, The Who, Joni, Elvis, Aretha, Pink Floyd, Sex Pistols, Bee Gees, Bob Marley, Queen.

Now a few from the 80’s: The Knack, Kiss, Madonna, Prince, Spandau Ballet, The Thompson Twins, Duran Duran, The B-52’s, Aerosmith, Blondie, Boy George, Simple Minds, The Bangles, New Kids on the Block, Adam Ant, Wham.

Point made or not? Young people in the 80’s, not only girls, rightly just wanna have fun, but most of their songs turned out as jokes. So what? What’s wrong with a decade of comedic music? Oh, did I forget Devo? How could I forget?

The best album of the decade, Paul Simon’s Graceland, was a serious opening to world music, but look at the texts. They’re bizarre and funny, weird and coy. Still some sort of joke.

I can imagine the early years of music videos filled with directors yelling, “Dance around, honey, do something colorful. This is video! You’re not just singing songs anymore!” The actors got silly out of take-75 boredom (And since when was music ever boring? Don't like it, turn it off. No need for funny hats.) Then the MT videos got choppy and neurotic, and the line between a commercial for a song and a commercial for cornflakes disappeared.

Now we have these Gaga mega-concerts with disturbing flashing lights, dancing girls and boys, dancing singers, sets, costume changes, smoke fog and bubbles. If you don’t like to go out and pay money, it’s all over invasion tv too. As if that were music. That’s Ziegfeld’s Follies, Cirque du Soleil. Often it's soft porn. But is it music? What’re those empty words they're chewing on? Is the drummer playing with his hands or a memory card? Anyone under 50 remember Leon Redbone, who plays sitting down, singing softly?

Can someone—pick a card, any card: Maria Muldaur singing Midnight at the Oasis—do it for you without the tricks, give you the love that songs are for without any medicine show con-artist mirrors and distractions? Somebody like Christina Aguilera has the pipes, but is she singing a song or just shouting: Look at me, over here, everybody, check me out!?

Here’s a good song. A really good song.
By whom?
Dunno.
Not interested.
No sexy video either.
Double not interested.

Here’s a good song from the 60’s and 70’s: Let It Be
Here’s a good song from the 80’s: Walk Like an Egyptian
(What? 80’s music, jokes? Says who?)

Nirvana came along and saved us all. Pearl Jam. Dave Matthews. Ben Harper. Natalie Merchant. U2. Green Day. Dido. Chili Peppers. Black Eyed Peas. Oasis. Shakira. Plenty of decent stuff came after the 80’s. I’m not stuck in my high school/college years, too much. Okay, we all are to some degree [I posted Born to be Wild on my YouTube channel http://www.youtube.com/user/emartinpedersen], but if you can consider my point without nostalgic prejudice, I may be onto something.

Or I may not. I may just be trying to provoke any reaction, because I don’t get much response to my blog, and I’m wondering whether I should continue writing if no one’s reading. My brother says: if you can’t be good, be controversial. I’ll be watching the comments box for infuriated 40-somethings who feel their beloved music’s been offended. Give me your best shot.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: He does like trouble.
Jeff: Masochistic retrograde song terrorist.
Mutt: Got a poem for you, my man.
Jeff: Have at it.
Mutt: Here.
"The attributes
Of bathing suits
For lasses of lithesome limb
Make me inquire
If this attire
Is worn to slink or swim."
Jeff: For the love of Mike, that’s a zinger!
Mutt: ... well?
Jeff: Okay.
"A bachelor is a cagey guy.
He has a load of fun.
He likes to check out all the chicks,
And never Mrs. one."
Mutt: Oowah! You win. Uncle! I can’t stand it anymore.

Dr. John to the Rescue

I’m listening to The City That Care Forgot by Dr. John. It’s a record of anger and sadness, cutting deep, about the shameful response to the disaster in New Orleans. I find myself shaken, moved by the harsh beauty of the raw. Sometimes a song can hit a nerve you weren’t expecting. It’s happened to me before.

It takes a good writer to tell a tragedy without melodrama or vanity. I can’t do that very well yet. I’m working on a set of songs I wrote the day my mother died. So far they seem pathetic, verging on banal.

So I remembered other songs that have struck me, provoking an excessive response when compared to my emotional reaction to events in my life or in the real world as shown on TV. For example, I was shocked and enraged when Katrina happened (worst natural disaster in US history, as you know), but even more so by the songs of this noble spokesman for the nearly 2,000 victims.

Here’s a list of songs that, for whatever reason, drew blood:

City That Care Forgot, Dr. John
Enola Gay, Utah Philips
Prison Song, Bryan Bowers
Follow the Flag, Randy Newman
Love Sick, Bob Dylan
John Brown, Bob Dylan
Motherland, Natalie Merchant
California, John Mahal
Where is Maria? Greg Brown
Miss Ferris, John Hartford
Blue, Lucinda Williams
Beloved Wife, Natalie Merchant
America, Paul Simon
City of Immigrants, Steve Earle

If you put those together you’d get too many punches, but you’d see what I mean, or just meet my nostalgia. Tell me, if you like, what’s the saddest song you ever heard? When did a song choke you up? Anybody remember Johnnie Ray who sang Cry every night of his life and cried every time?

While we’re all under machinegun attack by the vendors and liars, tragedy milkers and two-for-one dope dealers, at least we can still let ourselves be affected by a few simple words and a soulful tune.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Which is the most feared of the forest inhabitants?
Jeff: No idea, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.
Mutt: Well, a hawk claimed that, because he had the ability to fly, he could attack anything from above, and his prey wouldn't stand a chance.
Jeff: Okay.
Mutt: But then a lion pridefully said, "Due to my strength, no one would dare challenge me!"
Jeff: Right.
Mutt: The skunk, incensed, said, "I need neither flight nor might to frighten off any creature!" So the trio were debating the issue, when a grizzly bear came along and swallowed them all ...
Jeff: Yeah?
Mutt: Hawk, lion and stinker.
Jeff: Oh man, did you just cut one?