Mutt and Jeff to the Rescue

Mutt:  Think the boss's unwell?
Jeff:  Why? Cuz he ain't written his stupid blog in a while?
Mutt:  Like a hella long while.  Oowah!
Jeff:  An embarrassing long while.
Mutt:  Maybe he's super-busy with some super-important project.
Jeff:  Maybe he's just a super-lazy slacker. A gold-bricker. Layin' down on the job.
Mutt:  Yeah. As Confusedest says: Never put off until tomorrow what you can put off until the day after tomorrow.
Jeff:  And just who is Confusedest?
Mutt:  Ancient sage from New Jersey.
Jeff:  So what do we do till he gets his (euphemism alert) ACT together?
Mutt:  Keep the boat afloat, baby. It's up to us now.
Jeff: Okay, baby. Let's see, heard any good jokes lately?
Mutt:  As Peewee Herman would say.
Jeff:  As Jimmy Durante would say: I got a dozen of 'em!
Mutt:  Adjusted for inflation.

Jeff:  You're a scientist, do you know Cole's Law?

Mutt:  Enlighten me.

Jeff:  Thinly sliced cabbage. 

Mutt:  If a parsley farmer is sued, could they garnish his wages?  

Jeff:  To me, boxing is like a ballet, except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.

Mutt:  Well put. Did you read about the truck carrying copies of Roget's Thesaurus that overturned on the highway?

Jeff:  How terrible!

Mutt:  The local newspaper reported that onlookers were "stunned, overwhelmed, astonished, bewildered, and dumbfounded." 

Jeff:   I would have been shocked, stupefied and shook up.

Mutt:  Did I ever tell you how many existentialists it takes to change a lightbulb? 

Jeff:  No, but I bet you will.

Mutt:  And you can't stop me. It takes two. One to screw it in and one to observe how the lightbulb itself symbolized a single incandescent beacon of subjective reality in a netherworld of endless absurdity reaching toward a maudlin cosmos of nothingness.

Jeff:  For the love of Mike.

Mutt:   I also know that the parts of speech are lungs and air.

Jeff:  The inhabitants of Moscow are called Mosquitoes.

Mutt:  A census taker is man who goes from house to house increasing the population.

Jeff:  Define H2O and CO2.

Mutt:  Way too easy: -- H2O is hot water and CO2 is cold water. 

Jeff:  A virgin forest is a forest where the hand of man has never set foot.

Mutt:  The general direction of the Alps is straight up. 

Jeff:  Are we on a roll yet? 

Mutt:  Say: ... Where do baby storks come from? 

Jeff:  Oh my, I don't know. Maybe I'll go jump off the bridge ... of your nose.

Mutt:   I'll jump on your mug first. Put up your dukes, you scallywag!

Jeff:  That does it! I'm not telling you my best joke then.

Mutt:  Aw, come on, please Jeffy, please.

Jeff:  After Quasimodo's death, the bishop of the Cathedral of Notre Dame sent word through the streets of Paris that a new bell ringer was needed. The bishop decided that he would conduct the interviews personally and went up into the belfry to begin the screening process. After observing several applicants demonstrate their skills, he had decided to call it a day. Just then, an armless man approached him and announced that he was there to apply for the bell ringer's job. The bishop was incredulous."You have no arms!" "No matter," said the man. "Observe!" And he began striking the bells with his face, producing a beautiful melody on the carillon. The bishop listened in astonishment; convinced he had finally found a replacement for Quasimodo. But suddenly, rushing forward to strike a bell, the armless man tripped and plunged headlong out of the belfry window to his death in the street below. The stunned bishop rushed to his side. When he reached the street, a crowd had gathered around the fallen figure, drawn by the beautiful music they had heard only moments before. As they silently parted to let the bishop through, one of them asked, "Bishop, who was this man?" I don't know his name," the bishop sadly replied, "but his face rings a bell." 

Mutt:  Say 'Happy trials'.

Jeff:  Happy trials.

The Changing Light by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The Changing Light by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The changing light
                 at San Francisco
       is none of your East Coast light
                none of your
                            pearly light of Paris
The light of San Francisco
                        is a sea light
                                       an island light
And the light of fog
                   blanketing the hills
          drifting in at night
                      through the Golden Gate
                                       to lie on the city at dawn
And then the halcyon late mornings
       after the fog burns off
            and the sun paints white houses
                                    with the sea light of Greece
                 with sharp clean shadows
                       making the town look like
                                it had just been painted

But the wind comes up at four o'clock
                                     sweeping the hills

And then the veil of light of early evening

And then another scrim
                  when the new night fog
                                        floats in
And in that vale of light
                      the city drifts
                                    anchorless upon the ocean

To Pete Seeger

Goodbye Pete and thanks.
Pete Seeger just died, and I need to write this because he was the most important public figure in my life. I only met him once, but he was a mentor to me in my days of singing folk songs in public schools and hosting a radio program, for a decade, of American traditional music "With a banjo on my knee", plus a Master's in folklore with a massive song collection and analysis as my thesis. In my 1960's elementary school, we listened to his records and learned the songs by heart. His music rang throughout the anti-war protests and anti-nuclear demonstrations of my teen years (We Shall Overcome). His impact on American politics is great, but his impact on American music even greater. He taught us Americans our own music, not the commercial products forced down our throats. When he was blacklisted and starving, he recorded hundreds of traditional songs in Moe Ashe's tiny Folkways studio, many of which might have been forgotten without his careful conservation. Influenced by his musicologist father and classical musician mother, Pete studied and transcribed and recreated from live musicians (see Rainbow Quest) and scanty recorded sources. He reconstructed a nearly lost heritage that inspired the Folk Revival.

"I showed the kids there's a lot of great music in this country they never played on the radio."

I have his records and books, but I also have several old-time banjos. Would so many people be playing this peculiar instrument without the promotion Pete did for the five-string? Maybe some bluegrass players in the Scruggs style, but not the 60's style folk banjo, frailing, clawhammer, old-time. He drew a banjo on the book he signed for me.

When I met Pete Seeger at his after-concert birthday party in the mid-80's, I was singing regularly in the Sicilian schools with a program of American folk songs and a booklet of translations and historical context. I told him about it and thanked him for his example. He thanked me for keeping the tradition alive, taking it abroad; Carry It On was the name of the book he'd just produced. I had had the impression that he was a crusty New England hermit-type, but he was warm and friendly, wanting to know who I was and how I got to where I was. We shook hands, and later he was given a banjo-shaped birthday cake. After we sang him the song in three-part harmony, Pete gave the first piece to me. It was the best cake of my life.

Carry it on. I tried to copy Pete in my playing and singing and life-style, as did thousands of other people, almost a generation. He always wanted everyone to sing along, and so we did. I'm sure I'll have more to say about Pete Seeger in the coming days, but this is for gratitude and remembrance.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt and Jeff are busy playing banjos and acoustic guitars in the next room, singing at the top of their voices the American Favorite Ballads.

Getting Old in Good Company

I had a birthday recently.
So?
Along with the beautiful people in these pictures.
Bitchin’!

 

 

I got a letter recently.
It came in the mailbox, hand-addressed, with expensive American stamps on it, little works of art.
It felt like the 80's, when you could keep these precious expressions of love and friendship in a box in the basement.
My mother wrote me once a month back then, and I answered.
I miss hand-written letters.


I met an old friend recently.
We knew each other in the 80's and, apparently, had great times together. He listed them.
He was thrilled to see me again, invited me over, would not take 'no'.
I smiled and nodded.
I have no idea who he was, no recollection of him at all.
I tried but nothing.


My nephew wrote an essay for school recently.
It was all about me, his mythical uncle.
He told about the great things I do or have done.
He left out a lot that he doesn't know about.
Some of it would not impress him if he did.
The essay, though, was flattering, almost a eulogy.
According to him, my birthday should be made a national holiday.
Am I that far gone?


Are you getting old too?
Do you feel the fire dying down inside?
I don't.
I'm feeding it more than ever, like a fireman on a steam locomotive, who does the opposite of a fireman in town.
I may look nostalgically back down the track, but there's still plenty of road ahead. Shovel that coal, blow that whistle, and catch me if you can!
Plus I got plenty of beautiful people to ride with. As do we all.

Happy trials, Martin


Mutt: Hey Jeff, did you ever work for a living?
Jeff: A living? No. I worked for money once. No, just kidding.
Mutt: One time I worked in the woods as a lumberjack, but I just couldn't hack it, so they gave me the axe.
Jeff: I tried to be a tailor, but I just wasn't suited for it. The job was only so-so anyhow.
Mutt: I attempted to be a deli worker, but any way I sliced it, I couldn't cut the mustard.
Jeff: I wanted to be a barber, but I just couldn't cut it.
Mutt: My best job was being a musician, but eventually I found I wasn't note worthy.
Jeff: I studied a long time to become a doctor, but--guess what?--I didn't have any patience.
Mutt: I got a job in a shoe factory; I tried, but I just didn't fit in.
Jeff: I became a professional fisherman, but discovered that I couldn't live on my net income.
Mutt: I thought about becoming a witch, so I tried that for a spell.
Jeff: Seriously?
Mutt: I managed to get a good job working for a pool maintenance company, but the work was just too draining.
Jeff: My last job was working at Starbucks, but I had to quit because it was always the same old grind.
Mutt: After many years of trying to find steady work, I finally got a job as a historian, until I realized there was no future in it.
Jeff: I tried working in a muffler factory once, but that was exhausting.
Mutt: Yeah, so is this.
Jeff: You got that right.
Mutt: Confucius had it right.
Jeff: Yeah, tell your boss what you think, and ...
Mutt: And?
Jeff:  The truth will set you free.

The Dead by Susan Mitchell

 

The Dead by Susan Mitchell

At night the dead come down to the river to drink.
They unburden themselves of their fears,
their worries for us. They take out the old photographs.
They pat the lines in our hands and tell our fortunes,
which are cracked and yellow.
Some dead find their way to our houses.
They go up to the attics.
They read the letters they sent us, insatiable
for signs of their love.
They tell each other stories.
They make so much noise
they wake us
as they did when we were children and they stayed up
drinking all night in the kitchen.

Dear Faithful Readers

Dear Faithful Readers … both of you,

Like every year I have some lists to post. I don’t want to, but I am required to do so by international conventions, treaties, accords, and my blogger contract. I’ll put them all in one post this time. Hope you don’t get indigestion. Oh, go ahead, eat up.

You are more than welcome (what does that mean?) to respond with lists of your own. These are not complete, they’re mine. Here are my favorite films seen in 2013:

Another Earth

Blue Valentine
Bobby Fischer Against the World
Cedar Rapids
Cosmopolis
Crank
Diaz: Don’t Clean Up the Blood
Drag Me to Hell
Flight
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Gran Torino
Hannibal
Hugo Cabret
Hunger
Italian for Beginners
Killer Joe
Margin Call
Martha Marcy May Marlene
Moonrise Kingdom
Never Let Me Go
Ruby Sparks
Sugar Man
Synecdoche, New York
The Boat that Rocked
The Company You Keep
The Disappearance of Alice Creed
The Ides of March
The Iron Lady
The Lady
The Way
This Must Be the Place

Here are my favorite books read in 2013:

A Visit From the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan

Civilwarland in Bad Decline, George Saunders
Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
Grace (eventually), Anne Lamott
Mountain Sage, Elizabeth Stone O’Neill
O Jerusalem, Laurie R. King
Pastoralia, George Saunders
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard
Pirate King, Laurie R. King
Red Moon, Benjamin Percy
The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, Laurie R. King
The Canary Trainer, Nicholas Meyer
The Final Solution, Michael Chabon
The God of the Hive, Laurie R. King
The Good Rain, Timothy Egan
The Last Skin, Barbara Ras
The Lost Years of Jesus, Elizabeth Clare Prophet
The Plot Against America, Philip Roth
The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop., Robert Coover
The Wilding, Benjamin Percy
The Women, T.C. Boyle
What I Didn’t See, Karen Joy Fowler
 

Here are the musicians, writers and others that I mourn from 2013:

Alan Myers (Devo)

Alan O’Day
Alvin Lee
Ann Rabson
Bob Brozman
Bobbie Smith (Spinners)
Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland
Bobby Rogers (Miracles)
Bobby Slone (Kentucky Colonels)
Claude King
Cleotha Staples (Staples Singers)
Colin Davis
Cowboy Jack Clement
Damon Harris (Temptations)
Deanna Durbin
Don Shirley
Donald Byrd
Enzo Jannacci
Eydie Gorme
Faith Petric
George Duke
George Jackson
Gordon Stoker (Jordanaires)
Hugh McCracken
Jack Greene
James DePreist
Janos Starker
Jason Molina
Jim Hall
JJ Cale
Jody Payne (Willie Nelson band)
Joey Covington (Jefferson Airplane)
Leroy 'Sugarfoot' Bonner (Ohio Players)
Little Willie Littlefield
Lou Reed
Louis Killen
Magic Slim
Marian McPartland
Marshall Lytle (Bill Haley & His Comets)
Mulgrew Miller
Neil Smith (AC/DC)
Noel Harrison
Patti Page
Patty Andrews
Peter Banks (Yes)
Phil Ramone
Philip Chevron (Pogues)
Ray Manzarek
Richard Street (Temptations)
Richie Havens
Rick Huxley (Dave Clark Five)
Roberto Ciotti
Shadow Morton (writer of Leader of the Pack)
Slim Whitman
Tony Sheridan (original Beatle)
Toshi Seeger (Pete’s wife)
Van Cliburn
Yusef Lateef

non-musicians:

Allen Arbus
Annette Funicello
Dale Robertson
Dr. Joyce Brothers
Eiji Toyoda (100)
Esther Williams
Franca Rame
Jean Stapleton
Joan Fontaine
Jonathan Winters
Julie Harris
Les Blank
Margherita Hack
Nelson Mandela
Otto Sander
Ray Harryhausen
Roger Ebert
Ruth Asawa
Scott Carpenter
Sir David Frost
Stan Musial

writers:

Albert Murray
Amy Wallace
Barnaby Conrad
Bernard Waber
Carolyn Cassady
Chinua Achebe
Christopher Koch
Daniel Hoffman
Dena Epstein
Don Payne
Doris Lessing
E.L. Konigsberg
Elmore Leonard
Jack McCarthy
Jack Vance
John Hollander
Louis D. Rubin, Jr.
Oscar Hijuelos
Paul Kane Dufault
Paul Williams
Philip Slater
Richard G. Stern
Seamus Heaney
W. Watts Biggers
Wanda Coleman
William Harrison

So who gets their picture posted this year? The only person on any list that I really met. liked, and talked to at length at a fund-raiser for the Resource Center for Nonviolence about 30 years ago – Toshi Seeger.

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt: Happy Holidays, Your Jeff-ness.

Jeff: Same to you, jolly good old chap-ness. Got any good ones for the new year.
Mutt: No, fresh out. I am becoming increasingly worried and concerned that there isn't enough anxiety in my life. Plus I'm still not sure if I understand ambiguity.
Jeff: Hey, the world's full of apathy, but I don't care.
Mutt: Don't be redundant by repeating yourself. Twice.
Jeff: I have a twin brother; he's identical, but I'm not.
Mutt: Listen, amigo, if the cops arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?
Jeff: What do you get when you cross the Atlantic Ocean with the Titanic?
Mutt: Oh boy, I don’t know.
Jeff: Half way.
Mutt: This is true. A boy was bagging groceries at a supermarket. One day the store installed a machine for squeezing fresh orange juice. Intrigued, the young man asked if he could be allowed to work the machine, but his request was denied. The store manager said, "Sorry, kid, but baggers can't be juicers."
Jeff: Wow. That’s awful.
Mutt: Every one a winner.
Jeff: And Best Wishes to you too.

Mandela & Mom

The death of Nelson Mandela made me think of Mom. We did some things together when I was a kid, but there were usually other brothers involved, or she just didn’t have time for an outing because she worked hard. When the boys all moved out, I’d go back home to visit, and me and Mom would go out for a walk around the Crystal Springs Reservoir or do something else. In the summer of 1990, she announced with a giggle of excitement that we were going to see Nelson Mandela who had just been released after 27 years in prison. She’d bought tickets for the two of us on the field at the Oakland Coliseum.

Willie Brown, flamboyant San Francisco mayor, spoke. Ron Dellums, radical representative, spoke. Harry Belafonte sang. They tried to make a cause-effect connection between the anti-apartheid movement in the U.S. and the changes the ANC demanded in South Africa. They passed the hat. Then the Great Man came to the microphone and stunned us with his presence. He explained the suffering of his people. He asked us for help. He thanked us. He repeated One Person, One Vote. He warmed our hearts. Then he left.

The cheering crowd was silent walking back to their cars. Mom felt like she’d witnessed an historical event. I was glad we’d done it together. I get my progressive politics from my mother. I get other things too, like my love of the Sierras and walking, libraries and baseball.

Did Mom need to be present when Mandela came because of her childhood in multi-racial Berkeley? Of course. And her college friend Bev who fell in love and married a black man in about 1950, who was disowned by her family and had only one friend left in the world, only one person attending the wedding, Mom.

Was my experience that day enhanced because, as you read below (way down), I spent the summer of 1975 in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) during the civil war that lasted twenty years? Of course. The social make-up of that country was similar to neighboring South Africa at the time, but the future would be almost the opposite. Zimbabwe in 2013 still has no peace (see Robert Mugabe); South Africa is an example of prosperity and multiethnicity … thanks to the man who would be, a few years later and for a few years only, President Nelson Mandela.

So thanks Mom. I can say I was there. We were there.

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt:  Hey Jeff, you ever eat Scottish-Asian food?

Jeff:  I know where this is going.
Mutt:  Where does McDonald's get its burgers from?
Jeff:  Macau.
Mutt:  Okay, how did Hitler tie his laces?
Jeff:  Ummm.
Mutt:  In little Nazis.
Jeff:  Hilarious. How did the dentist become a brain surgeon? Give up? His drill slipped.
Mutt:  Okay, how many sides does a circle have? Two: an inside and an outside.
Jeff:  You didn’t give me time to answer. What are half-sized quartz watches?
Mutt:  Pintz watches?
Jeff:  I don’t get it.
Mutt: You told it.  Okay, what are tired Army clothes?
Jeff:  Too easy. Fatigues. What city has the largest rodent population? You won’t get this.
Mutt:  Ummm.
Jeff:  Hamsterdam.
Mutt: What cruises down the riverbed at 60 mph?
Jeff:  A motorpike with two side carps.
Mutt:  You’re good. What did Godzilla say after eating a four-cylinder Datsun?
Jeff:  No idea.
Mutt:  "Gosh, I could have had a V-8!"
Jeff:  What did the alien dandelion say to the Earth dandelion?
Mutt:  "Take me to your weeder!"
Jeff:  Then what did the guitar say to the musician?
Mutt:  "Pick on someone your own size!" Got you.
Jeff:  Shut up.
Mutt:  You shut up.
Jeff:  You shut up.

BIG C omplaint

 

A friend of mine died of cancer recently. Can you say the same thing? Probably. It’s not the first time for me; I’m getting fed up with it. Too many people I know have cancer, have had cancer, will have cancer. I even had a small tumor removed this week. I’m fed up, enough already!

But it won’t be enough, will it? It will continue and get worse (see Fukushima Dai-ichi, btw, how’s that tuna sandwich?). Who’s next? You, me, the lottery? It’s not but it seems contagious like the flu. One cough and you’re done for. Like the Black Plague, half of Europe dead in a couple years. What, why, how? Give us a break.

This blog post is not going to be very good because I can’t answer my own questions. I can’t explain why so many people I know have cancer. One rumor is Chernobyl, 25 years later. Another is diet (now food is toxic?), then there’s smoking, and don’t forget stress, which often comes from work because we want it all and we want it now (and that’s not working out too well). So what if we take all the fish from the ocean, the oil from underground, cut down all the trees, huh? Gotta provide a better life for the kids.

We in the developed world got that already, and …. How’s the sacrifice of our ancestors and the rape of the earth made our lives better than when we were kids – cell phones and videogames? Technology as the answer to all the problems caused by technology? Is it consume, reproduce and die like salmon? Sadly, I digress. Back to cancer (or rather not).

I have no explanations or solutions to propose. Nothing. I feel like when I got lost in Disneyland as a kid. I turned around and my parents had disappeared. I’m tired of people disappearing. Sick and tired. Stop!

I know there are typhoons and earthquakes, tornadoes, volcanoes erupting and droughts and floods and fires all over the world. It’s hard to steady one’s ship and keep it on course, if you know your course. No hope then? Oh maybe, a couple years ago a friend of mine was cured of an incurable disease. How about that? Age of Aquarius, we're still waiting.

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt: Hey, Jeff, thanks for bailing me out, or coming to pick me up rather. A harrowing experience. I got arrested yesterday by the Batkid. The charge was being a criminal mastermind threatening the well-being of the citizens of Gotham City, but then the cops and I chatted, and they dropped the mastermind charges.

Jeff: Yeah, well. They also arrested a man for passing himself off as the comedian named Seinfeld. The charge was playjerism.
Mutt: Oh, I heard lots of stories like that in the joint, the big house, the crowbar hotel.
Jeff: You were in jail for half an hour. It wasn’t even a real jail. Plus, the Batkid is five years old. [Good luck, Miles!!!]
Mutt: Okay, but they arrested a woman for causing an accident while on her cellphone. She was charged with driving while intalksicated.
Jeff: I heard that they arrested the barber for running a clip joint.
Mutt: They arrested the Pfizer pharmaceutical rep for hitting a pharmacist because he wouldn't buy their popular pill. He was charged with Viagravated assault.
Jeff: They arrested the former chewing gum manufacturer for unlicensed ex-spearmints.
Mutt: Yeah, and they arrested the hock shop owner for indecency. He was selling pawnographic materials.
Jeff: And they arrested the Chrysler salesman and he couldn't a-Ford bail.
Mutt: They arrested the owner of a threatening bull. He was brought up on charges.
Jeff: Had enough?
Mutt: Of time in the slammer? Definitely. The can, the cooler, the brig, the calaboose, the poky, the hoosegow, the pen, the clink …
Jeff: Stop!

A Sign I Can't Read

I was having a hard day, not because it was 20 miles between highway 3, Scott Mountain Summit, where I’d camped and highway 93, Carter Meadows, my proposed destination—Siskiyou County, Northern California—but because it started with several miles straight up hill; then it leveled; then it went up some more. ‘It’ being the trail. Yeah, this is a trail story, sort of.

I knew there were fires up ahead (usually are), but I needed to get to Etna, California, to rest a couple days. You know when you need a break or you will break? So I was climbing—left knee going wah wah wha—and determined to get to the next road, an illusion of safety perhaps, a way out. I crossed a ridge at lunchtime, and the smoke got a lot thicker. The fire was near enough to smell; then my eyes watered; then I started to cough. I was climbing into hell.

I met only one guy all day coming the other way. He was my age, taller, stronger, with a much larger pack that looked home-designed, very neat. He said he was sure glad to get out of the smoke he’d been walking through for a week. He said he could finally breathe; I said I have minor respiratory problems.

I knew the trail wasn’t officially closed, though people were evacuating. The Russian Wilderness fire, the Marble Mountain Wilderness fire, the Etna fire, these were not right next to the trail, I’d heard, but one can’t help wondering as the smoke gets thicker and thicker. All afternoon I kept telling myself that flames would not appear around the next bend, up the next rise. Plus I absolutely had to get to the highway because that was the plan. All this weighed on my mind as I walked through the dark forest completely alone.

Out of the blue, all of a sudden, without warning, right beside me on the left, ten feet away, a tree branch comes crashing to the ground. A six foot long branch fell out of a tree and slammed to the ground right as I passed. I screamed, of course. Stopped a few feet ahead, looked at the branch—it was dry; lots of trees are diseased or burnt these days—and then I started laughing out loud, really loud, alone with the spirits. I echoed as I laughed for a while at the absurdity. What just happened? Why me? Who is trying to communicate what? Of all the times to fall …

I got to the highway, and friendly Sheriff Chris Callahan drove me to Yreka. The smoke continued clear to Oregon and the Etna wildfire would continue, he explained, until it rained. There was even a freak landslide blocking the only road the fire fighters could use to get to the blaze. Almost as bizarre as a tree limb falling right next to a lone hiker as if some joker were throwing it at him from above. BLAM!

Maybe the tree was thinking, “If I fall in the woods, and nobody’s around to hear me, do I really exist?”

Happy trials, Martin

 

Mutt:  For the love of Mike, it’s Sir Jeffery, the supreme wit.

Jeff:  Hello Mutt. Can I tell you a sad story about my girlfriend?
Mutt:  I already don’t believe it. You’ve never had a girlfriend.
Jeff:  Yeah, well. Penny was a hard working, conscientious girl, who lived on her own. Her dream in life was to go on an ocean cruise around the world. So she scrimped and she saved until finally, one day, she had enough money to go on her ocean cruise. She booked passage on a cruise liner - first class all the way. The cruise started off in a grandiose scale, dancing and parties every night. But Penny was a cautious girl, so she never drank, but just danced the night away.
One night, after they had been at sea for a week, Penny was walking back to her cabin, when the heel on her left shoe broke throwing her off balance. If that wasn't enough, the ship chose that moment to tilt to the left. As a result, Penny was thrown overboard. A hue and a cry were immediately raised, and after about five minutes they found Penny. Hauling her aboard, the ship's crew realized that it was too late, poor Penny was dead.
Normally, they would have done a burial at sea, but as I said before, Penny was a very conscientious girl, and had written a will. In it, she specified that she wished for her body to be cremated, and kept in a jar on her parent's fireplace mantel. Her wishes were fulfilled, which just goes to show you that a Penny saved is a Penny urned.
Mutt:  That just goes to show me I should have gone to the races today.
Jeff:  If you want I’ll tell you how I met Penny.
Mutt:  Shoot. Take me out of my misery.
Jeff:  I was dining in a fancy restaurant and there was a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table. I had been checking her out since I sat down, but I lacked the nerve to talk with her. Suddenly she sneezes, and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards me. I reflexively reached out, grabbed it out of the air, and handed it back.
“Oh my, I am so sorry,” the woman said as she popped her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you.”
We enjoyed a wonderful dinner together, and afterwards we went to the theater followed by drinks. We talked, we laughed, she shared her deepest dreams and I shared mine. She listened. After paying for everything, she asked me if I would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast.
We had a wonderful, wonderful time. The next morning, she cooked a gourmet meal with all the trimmings. I was amazed. Everything had been so incredible.
“You know,” I said, "you are the perfect woman. Are you this nice to every guy you meet?"
“No,” she replied, "You just happened to catch my eye."
Mutt:  Do you know the expression ‘too much information’?
Jeff:  Let’s go to the races anyway. I feel lucky.
Mutt:  I feel woozy.

Gathered at the River by Denise Levertov

Gathered at the River by Denise Levertov

for Beatrice Hawley and John Jagel

As if the trees were not indifferent…

A breeze flutters the candles but the trees give off

a sense of listening, of hush.

The dust of August on their leaves.

But it grows dark. Their dark green

is something known about, not seen.

But summer twilight takes away

only color, not form. The tree-forms,

massive trunks and the great domed heads,

leaning in towards us, are visible,

a half-circle of attention.

They listen, because the war

we speak of, the human war with ourselves,

the war against earth

against nature,

is a war against them.

The words are spoken

of those who survived a while,

lying shadowgraphs, eyes fixed forever

on witnessed horror,

who survived to give

testimony, that none

may plead ignorance.

Contra naturam. The trees,

the trees are not indifferent.

We intone together, Never again,

we stand in a circle,

singing, speaking, making vows,

remembering the dead

of Hiroshima,

of Nagasaki.

We are holding candles: we kneel to set them

afloat on the dark river

as they do there in Hiroshima. We are invoking

saints and prophets

heroes and heroines of justice and peace,

to be with us, to help us

stop the torment of our evil dreams. . .

---------------------

Wind threatened flames bob on the current . . .

They don’t get far from shore. But none capsizes

even in the swell of a boat’s wake.

The waxy paper cups sheltering them

catch fire. But still the candles

sail their gold downstream.

And still the trees ponder our strange doings, as if

well aware that if we fail,

we fail also for them:

if our resolves and prayers are week and fail

there will be nothing left of their slow and innocent wisdom,

no roots

no bole nor branch,

no memory

of shade

of leaf,

no pollen

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.