Neal Kicks the Bucket

 

Have no fear, Neal is not dead. He just kicked the bucket.

When Neal was a teenager, about 13 or 14, in the so-called ‘stupid’ years because that’s when you tend to misunderstand cause and effect relationships, Neal was in the backyard looking after his squirt little brother, Noel. Noel was about 3 or 4, sitting in the sandbox, drooling. Neal was often called on by his working mom to look after Noel, but he disliked his brother because he was a baby.

Neal wanted to be a football star, kicking was his specialty. He was, in fact, dribbling a volleyball and bouncing it against the outer wall of the house. If anyone had been inside at the moment, he would have been in big trouble.

Then he got bored, but he had no intention of going down to play in the sandbox with his little squirt brother Noel. Then he spotted it. Noel had left a plastic bucket of sand outside the sandbox on the near side. He was inside the sandbox gurgling and shoveling sand up and down like an idiot.

Neal made a plan. He would take a running start and place-kick the bucket so that the sand would spray all over Noel like a sandstorm. He could see it all before it happened. The running start, the plastic bucket full of sand, the tidal wave on his brother’s head – the perfect plan.

Neal shifted his weight back and then forward on his left leg. Then he took the five or six steps to the bucket. Then he put all his weight and muscle into the kick. Then he screamed. Noel looked up in his direction. What’s your problem? Noel went back to shoveling sand.

A plastic bucket full of sand may as well be full of cement. It’s not powdered sugar or fairy dust. It is extremely heavy. Perhaps the sand was even wet. Neal rammed his foot into the bucket and the most it did was topple over on its side. No spray. Only a scream of pain. Neal would have felt the same thing if he’d kicked with all his might the side wall of the house. His big toe started to swell inside his tennis shoe.

When his mother came home, Neal said that everything was fine. When she saw him limping, he said he’d gotten a splinter in his sole, but had taken it out. That was a lie; his big toe was broken. Neal tried to hide his pain and the swelling and discoloration for several weeks, until his toe partially healed. Getting out of gym class was particularly challenging. Things inside his shoe eventually got back to normal.

The price of a practical joke: that’s what Neal learned from this episode. He’s now in his fifties, and every so often his big toe on his kicking foot still hurts like hell. It reminds him that, although his dear brother, Noel, is in his forties, Neal would still like to dump a load of sand on his head.

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt: An electrician was out late one night and met his wife in the kitchen as he sneaked in the front door.

  His wife asked, "Wire ya insulate?"
  He replied, "Watts it to ya, I'm ohm, ain't I?"
Jeff: Not electrician jokes again!
Mutt: That wasn’t a joke.
Jeff: I know. Okay. A manufacturer of electric light bulbs was talking to the owner of a theater. "I'd like to supply you with bulbs for your marquee," the manufacturer said, "and it won't cost you a penny. It will enable me to realize a lifelong ambition."
  "If I accept the free bulbs," the curious theater manager asked, "will you tell me about this ambition of yours?"
  "Certainly," the man said. "It's just that I've always dreamed of seeing my lights up in names!"
Mutt: Mine was better. If electricity comes from electrons, does that mean that morality comes from morons?
Jeff: You would know. Say, did you hear that in Baltimore, the Psychic Friends Network has filed for bankruptcy. They say they never saw it coming.
Mutt: Hey, Some people are wise, and some, otherwise.
Jeff: And I wanted to be a mime, but I talked myself out of it.

Annual Quiz Winners

Hello Fans,

The response to this year’s quiz was terrifyingly terrific. Literally or figuratively thousands of you responded, all wrong of course. I'm keeping all the prizes. The most popular answers were that all those bigshots listed were alien spies or that they all spoke of the pompetous of love or both. I’ll give the correct answer in a second, but let me tell a story first.

 

I was in Yreka, California in late August trying to get to Tracy, California. Seems simple enough, they’re both on Interstate 5, about a 5 hour drive. But I had no car. When I got to the local bus station, an hour walk on sore feet, they said I could take a Siskiyou Stage bus to Weed. I was a bit suspicious of a town named Weed in the cannabis heart of the West. I got traveling clothes at Walmart. After 8 hours in Yreka, I got the bus to Weed.

 

The Greyhound station was smaller than my living room and on the outskirts of town. So what? The fat Jackie Gleason guy chewing an unlit cigar said he’d sell me a ticket but the bus came through at 11 pm, an 8 hour wait. Then I’d have to wait over 5 hours in the Sacramento station, most of the night, to get the morning bus to Tracy. I took the ticket and walked around town in 100 degree heat,  sore feet and giardia. Weed, named after Abner Weed, had a nice lumber industry museum that nobody had visited in weeks. It was air-conditioned. The volunteer docent wanted to talk. I also sat on a bench in the shade outside the crafts store and strolled all the aisles of the supermarket without buying anything. Then the whole town closed and it got dark. Then several hours later the bus came. Does it sound like I’m complaining about public transportation services in Northern California? I had nothing but time, 30 hours in all. O.k. yeah, I wanted to get home.

 

In Sacramento I asked if there wasn’t a faster way to get to Tracy. Yes there was. Go through Modesto. I’ll take it. Got to Modesto at 5 am, leaving at 8:30. Except that the bus station was closed and overrun with the homeless. It was interesting to be the only person who was actually traveling amongst about 100 roaming, ranting, awake and prowling unfortunate souls. Most asked me for a cigarette, and everyone checked the trash can next to me hoping there’d be a half sandwich sitting on top.

 

It was a bit like being in an open air insane asylum. Not as scary as you’d think, no one seemed threatening (though I'm sure they had it in them). Everyone conserved some dignity. One young woman sat next to me and spent half an hour on her skin care, her mirror hanging on her shopping cart. I mostly sat reading my book, but also talked to a few of the inmates (outmates?) with pleasure. Finally it got light, the station opened, I got my ride and home. Sunrise amongst the homeless Modestoans was something I won’t forget.

 

O.k., you guessed it. Everyone on the list was homeless at some time in their lives. Some for a short time, living in a car or sleeping in the park, some for years. Be kind to the homeless, they may be next year’s stars.

 

• Benjamin Franklin
• Burl Ives
• Carmen Electra
• Cary Grant
• Charlie Chaplin
• Colonel Harland Sanders
• Daniel Craig
• Danny Bonaduce
• David Letterman
• Debbie Reynolds
• Djimon Hounsou
• Don Imus
• Dr. Phil McGraw
• Drew Carey
• Eartha Kitt
• Ella Fitzgerald
• George Eads (CSI)
• George Orwell
• Gordon Parks
• Halle Berry
• Harry Houdini
• Heather Mills
• Hilary Swank
• Jack Kerouac
• Jaco Pastorius
• Jean-Claude Van Damme
• Jean-Michel Basquiat
• Jennifer Lopez
• Jewel
• Jim Carrey
• Jim Cramer
• Jim Morrison
• Joan Rivers
• John Drew Barrymore (father of Drew)
• John Garfield
• John Muir
• John Woo
• Kelly Clarkson
• Kelsey Grammer
• Kurt Cobain
• Lil’ Kim
• Martin Sheen
• Patti Smith
• Rose McGowan
• Sam Worthington
• Shania Twain
• Sly Stone
• Steve Jobs
• Sylvester Stallone
• Traci Lords
• Troy Donahue
• Tupac Shakur
• Tyler Perry
• Vachel Lindsay
• William Shatner
• Woody Guthrie

Oh, wait, there’s a name missing. I was traveling by thumb and 10 cents a day through the Middle East (not Middle Earth, though I was reading the Trilogy) in 1978-79, and more nights than not I slept in the fields or behind the train station. Once I slept under a truck, for two weeks I slept every night on trains. The benches in the parks aren’t that uncomfortable. All for poverty and adventure. I didn’t eat out of trashcans, but I did accept handouts a lot, lived for days and days on Arab bread alone, slept in garages and storage rooms, once on an office desk. The cops mostly left me alone. In Greece a German woman put 5 marks in my hand while I was napping on top of my backpack. I bought ice cream. Then I took the ferry to Italy and the rest is his-story.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt:  Show me the first president's dentures, and I'll show you the George Washington Bridge.

Jeff:  Show me a famous composer's liquor cabinet and I'll show you Beethoven's Fifth.
Mutt:  Show me where Stalin's buried and I'll show you a communist plot.
Jeff:  Speaking of criminals, Arthur Winchester lives in a small town where everyone calls each other by his or her first name. In fact, everywhere he goes, Arthur is greeted by calls of "Hey there, Arty." "How's it going, Arty?" or "How are the kids doing, Arty?"
            One fine afternoon, Arthur decided to go shopping. So he went to Pop's Grocery store and got everything he needed. Then he went to the counter to check out and chatted with Pop for a while. Finally Pop rung up Arthur's bill and Arty paid gladly. But when Pop was handing Arthur back a dollar bill as change he dropped it and it fell to the floor. Pop's son, who happened to be there as well, picked it up, but before he could hand it to Arty, Arty suddenly got outrageously mad and grabbed Pop's son by the throat and squeezed and squeezed until Pop's son dropped the dollar.
           Then Pop's wife picked up the dollar bill. Again, Arty got very angry and grabbed her by the neck, throttling her and shouting, "Give me my dollar! Give it to me now!" Finally, she dropped the dollar.
            Then Pop picked up the dollar. Arthur then grabbed him by the neck and strangled and strangled, shouting for his dollar bill until Pop too let go of the dollar and Arty was able to get it and go on his way.
            The whole town was buzzing for months about the headline in the next day's paper: Arty chokes three for a dollar at local grocery store.
Mutt:  Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Annual Sunset Intersection Quiz

Time again for the annual quiz. The question's the same as last year: What do these people have in common? Send in your answers on the comment page to collect valuable prizes.

 

Benjamin Franklin

Burl Ives
Carmen Electra
Cary Grant
Charlie Chaplin
Colonel Harland Sanders
Daniel Craig
Danny Bonaduce
David Letterman
Debbie Reynolds
Djimon Hounsou
Don Imus
Dr. Phil McGraw
Drew Carey
Eartha Kitt
Ella Fitzgerald
George Eads (CSI)
George Orwell
Gordon Parks
Halle Berry
Harry Houdini
Heather Mills
Hilary Swank
Jack Kerouac
Jaco Pastorius
Jean-Claude Van Damme
Jean-Michel Basquiat
Jennifer Lopez
Jewel
Jim Carrey
Jim Cramer
Jim Morrison
Joan Rivers
John Drew Barrymore (father of Drew)
John Garfield
John Muir
John Woo
Kelly Clarkson
Kelsey Grammer
Kurt Cobain
Lil’ Kim
Martin Sheen
Patti Smith
Rose McGowan
Sam Worthington
Shania Twain
Sly Stone
Steve Jobs
Sylvester Stallone
Traci Lords
Troy Donahue
Tupac Shakur
Tyler Perry
Vachel Lindsay
William Shatner
Woody Guthrie

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt:  Did you see that picture the boss put up?
Jeff:  What about it?
Mutt:  Look at the last one with the hat and glasses. It's a self-portrait, dude! It's him.
Jeff:  Yeah, remarkable resemblance. You're right.
Mutt:  Damn  right I'm right.
Jeff:  Then if you're so smart maybe you know this: If a word is misspelled in the dictionary, how would we ever know?
Mutt:  How do you spell 'misspell'?
Jeff:  Like the dictionary.
Mutt:  Ok. Why do we say something is out of whack? What is a whack?
Jeff:  Ooway, got me there. Why do 'slow down' and 'slow up' mean the same thing?
Mutt:  Why do 'fat chance' and 'slim chance' mean the same thing?
Jeff:  Why do 'tug' boats push their barges?
Mutt:  Why is it called 'after dark' when it really is 'after light'?
Jeff:  Why are a 'wise man' and a 'wise guy' opposites?
Mutt:  Why do 'overlook' and 'oversee' mean opposite things?
Jeff:  Why is bra singular and panties plural?
Mutt: Yeah, and if love is blind, why is lingerie so popular?
Jeff:  If work is so terrific, why do they have to pay you to do it?
Mutt:  Good one. But that grumpy cat is still scaring me.
Jeff:  Me too. Let's fly.
Mutt:  Can we do that?
Jeff:  It's a free ... no never mind.

I'd Rather Walk

On the thru-hiker bench next to the gas station at Castella, California with Sheepdog and El Jefe, joined by people nicknamed Peter Pan, a woman, Mr. Green, Starfox, Chikchuk, Birdhouse, Tapper and so on, we watched the RVs and Motorhomes, 5^th Wheels and Bus-sized contraptions pulling jeeps and SUVs behind, and someone commented (me), “Work hard and  be rewarded,” since it takes a life of work to afford those monstrous toys. Then we, in the name of all our PCT comrades, said one by one, “I’d rather walk,” “I’d rather walk,” “I’d rather walk.”

When we’d had our fill of milk and cookies (I had only one box of Lorna Doones), or beer and smokes, we slowly got up, one by one, shouldered our friendly packs and made for the 5000 ft climb back up to the alpineland, high-altitudeland, the cloudland, rocky peakland, timberland, motherland, wonderland, where you can only go on foot, Castle Crags and the Trinity Alps, in this case.

“I’d rather walk,” to me stands for the wisdom of human beings to choose. Don’t hike [insert whatever] unless you like it. Do things that last. Can happiness be bought? Is bigger better? Newer better? A promotion, a lottery win, a new lover the answer to your yearning? When your phone is also a geiger counter or your car parks itself, is that progress? We can opt out of the phony world presented by the ad-powered popular PR-ess and go back (or forward rather) to pastimes that touch both the earth and us. Learn to swim and sell the jetski. Pull the plug on that maxi-screen and play the dulcimer or read a book in a foreign language. Garden. Knit. Sing in harmony. You want to relax, sit, lay around doing nothing? It’s a lot sweeter when you earn it, like we did, after a twenty-miler. And look, you do not need another garage full of stuff, it'll just make you feel guilty. As Greg Brown said, “We have no knowledge and so we have stuff, and stuff with no knowledge is never enough … to get you there.” But I digress.

I had a good walk this summer, cut a bit short by fires, a trick knee and giardia, more testing of my physical/mental limits and perhaps less ecstasy than other years, still important, fundamental. John Muir, the Sierra Saint, in his journal from his first summer in the mountains said,

Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, inciting at once to work and rest! Days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. Nevermore, however weary, should one faint by the way who gains the blessing of one mountain day; whatever his fate, long life, short life, stormy or calm, he is rich forever.

Rich forever.

A record-breakingly fast kid named Broken Toe told me, “If you come to the mountains to find yourself, meet people, or for an inspirational experience, you’re doomed. The only reason to hike is if you love hiking. You gotta love hiking.” True I’m sure, very true, but I met people, got inspiration and a bit of self-knowledge in the bargain. With, I might add, no carbon imprint, no electronic circuitry, no celebrity news, no deodorant, no politics, just good old walking – the best preventative and curative medicine, especially against the dis-ease called angst.

See you next year, mountains, don’t burn everything please. I need the green. We all need the green. To walk in.

Happy trials on happy trails, Martin

 

 

Mutt and Jeff are on vacation in Atlantic City; they'll be back soon.

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.

Psy said, "People who are actually from Gangnam never proclaim that they are—it's only the posers and wannabes that put on these airs and say that they are "Gangnam Style"—so this song is actually poking fun at those kinds of people who are trying so hard to be something that they're not."

Start with  an Uncool Psy-cho Wannabe lounging on a rich-man’s dream beach in the tropics, except that it’s a sandy playground in the projects with little kids ruining the effect. Then the horse-riding scene, but Psy’s not really on a horse, just pretending badly. Then, with two bunnies on his arms, he walks toward us like a playboy, but he’s in a trash storm (in a dump?) then a snow-storm (is everything fake?). Then the ambivalent sauna scene; are those Korean gangsters he's buddies with? Then Psy dances his superiority among chess players, tennis players and a tour bus of senior citizens. The thinking chess players blow up (bad Hollywood). Then he's dancing on a motor boat (probably rented by the hour), and then Psy shuffles into the yoga class, mooning over a girl’s moon (mocking adolescent sexual attitudes).

Next Psy meets a celebrity in a yellow suit driving a Mercedes, and they dance a duel in the parking garage. Then, in the elevator, Psy is in a compromising position between the legs of a pelvis-thrusting guy (also a Korean celebrity). Then Psy sees a pretty girl on a subway (pole-dancing), drops his jaw, and loses it. That’s what we’ve reduced love to--sleepwalking. Then the spa pool coming up for air scene. Then the nightclub where the hip people go (if they can get in). Then master rapper Psy gives us the straight dope, how Big Brother (Oppan) really is Gangnam Style, but, oops, he’s sitting on the toilet (like everyone else, except the rich and famous). Then more horse-dancing. All the world wishing they had their own stables and expensive cars and loud clothes and sex with gorgeous people and powerful friends. People who ride other people or, more often, are ridden.

The Psy of the video is a fool. The Psy (Park Jae-sang) who invented him apparently not. Social satire is serious. The horse-dance is silly. It has been performed in public squares by thousands of flash mobs around the world. In Palermo there were 9,000, in Rome 15,000. Psy, who doesn’t look like a dancer, has outdanced just about everyone famous, including my brother’s friend from Tracy, MC Hammer. Who’s the wannabe now? President Obama says he's learned the moves. Dozens of parodies and more to come. What fun.

In the real Gangnam, there's a problem because the affluent people have gotten deeply into debt and are about to lose their shirts and lifestyle. Because the song's serious message is buried under the yuckadoo, some have even called it subversive. For example, the lyrics refer to girls who eat cheap soybean paste in private so that they can afford to drink Starbucks mocha frappe lattes in public. For example, the lyrics are mostly about lusty longing for a 'classy' girl who can behave like a proper prude by day and turn into a sex kitten at night, because the man, like all rappers (all men?), is a sex machine in his mind. Lyrics please.

Oppa (Big Bro) is Gangnam style
Gangnam style

A girl who is warm and natural during the day
A classy girl who knows how to enjoy the freedom of a coffee
A girl whose heart gets hotter when night comes
A girl who makes that kind of change.

I’m a guy
A guy who is as warm as you during the day
A guy who gulps his coffee before it even cools down
A guy whose heart bursts when night comes
That kind of guy.

chorus:
Beautiful, loveable
Yes you, hey, yes you, hey
Beautiful, loveable
Yes you, hey, yes you, hey
Now let’s do it until the end.
Oppa is Gangnam style, Gangnam style
Oppa is Gangnam style, Gangnam style
Oppa is Gangnam style.
Hey Sexy Lady, Oppa is Gangnam style
Hey Sexy Lady, oh oh oh oh oh.

A girl who looks quiet but plays when she plays
A girl who lets her hair down when the right time comes
A girl who covers herself but is more sexy than a girl who bares it all
A sensible girl like that.

I’m a guy
A guy who seems calm but plays when he plays
A guy who goes completely crazy when the right time comes
A guy who has bulging ideas rather than muscles
That kind of guy.

chorus

On top of the running man is the flying man, baby baby
I’m a man who knows a thing or two
On top of the running man is the flying man, baby baby
I’m a man who knows a thing or two.

You know what I’m saying
Oppa is Gangnam style
Hey Sexy Lady, Oppa is Gangnam style
Hey Sexy Lady, oh oh oh oh oh.

Who Let The Dogs Out meets La Macarena. The Secretary General of the U.N., Ban Ki-moon, who does understand the lyrics and K-pop or hallyu, called the song, ‘a force for world peace’. Right on! Psy said he did it to: "make people laugh like crazy even in the midst of all this global economic slowdown."

So, besides not being able to get the song out of my head, I’m grateful that an enjoyable, wacky, joyous social critique, making a mockery of the phony values that modern society is based on: be beautiful-get lucky, get rich-buy toys, screw your neighbor before he screws you, and so on, has toppled and replaced that teenage fluff by Justin Bieber, appropriately named “Baby,” as the Number One Song on the Internet of All of Human History. Almost 1/8^th of the world—men, women and children—are dancing Gangnam Style and more every day! Yes, dance, sing, laugh and be merry. We need it.

Happy trials, Martin

Mutt: I say, I say, WHAT?
Jeff: Something bothering you?
Mutt: Did you read what the boss put up? He’s gone bonkers. Stooping so low into the slums of popular culture!
Jeff: Yeah, we’re way too sophisticated for that stuff.
Mutt: Wanna do the dance?
Jeff: Oowah, yes.
Mutt: First, listen up. A wealthy man decided it would be fun to have himself cloned. The clone turned out to be an exact duplicate of the man except that it spoke nothing but extremely profane language. After several months of listening to this, the man got fed up, took the clone up into the mountains and went to the edge of a steep cliff. Looking around and not seeing anybody, he pushed the clone over the cliff. Just then, a cop stepped out from behind some bushes and said, "I'm going to have to write you a ticket." "What for?" "For making an obscene clone fall."
Jeff: I love it when the rich get their due.
Mutt: Here’s yours. A German farmer with relatives in America sent them a package consisting of some pork sausages made from his old pig. When they complained that the package had not yet arrived, he wrote: "Cheer up. The wurst is yet to come."
Jeff: Three strikes and you’re out.
Mutt: During the Korean War, Syngman Rhee's son went to work for Henry Luce. But as the North Koreans came pounding down the track past Seoul, the young man got lost in all the confusion. Well, every correspondent in the Time-Life empire was sent out looking for him. After many hours of searching, one of them found him. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "sweet Mr. Rhee of Life, at last I've found you!"
Jeff: Oppan Gangnam Style!
Mutt: Hey, Sexy Lady!