When I first began this blog, my intent apart from attempting to create a timeline of my life was to provide insight into my justifications and rationale for the various miscreations in my life. Share my hopes and dreams. My most difficult task along the way, writing-wise, has been to tread the line refraining from divulging personal sh*t in a fashion that is self-serving. I must endeavor to avoid the creation of a battlefield, from which there would be no return. Instead, find within myself the strength to see the light in life. Hope and urge others to find their way. I am never happier than when I am able to bridge worlds of seeming discord into a mix. But Zelig one cannot be, for like, forever.
Bob Dylan had a whimsy as a young man. He wanted to wear a grin he could parade for all, such was his joy to wrangle and wrestle a good story. He obviously cared enough to find his inner poet to dissect for lovers such lament of loves’ sad ebb and flow, be bold enough to spout open dissatisfaction with social constructs oppressing so many in the interests of so few, and also to have a good time.
First of all, Rosemary hung for it. It really doesn’t matter. No one gets away. No one wins. To scoundrels hoping for sad disarray to take me over? I believe it is Sun Tzu, or maybe Confucius who said something about ashes in the mouths of those swallowed in their own hatreds. Geez, my mixed metaphors aside, it must every moment be a horror flick to seethe with hatred. I would imagine it a bummer. I deal only in rationale. My sublimated sadnesses are not rageful; I tend to lance the isolated pocket and extract. Forceps, anvils and hammers, the whole schmeer. The occasional opportunity to illustrate, reiterate even, for those who don’t yet know me, or are seeming hard of hearing
I’m more of a cochlea man
I am not adrift. I merely had a bad stretch.
I have come to certain conclusions. We are engaged in a class struggle, and a struggle for equality and justice in our embattlement with the corporations with whom we share such horrid sociological implication in the future of mankind, in an all-out war for the survival of our species, literally of this ecosphere, directly with the individuals owning and operating these corporations.
I’VE BEEN THROUGH the ringer. When I was young, my wonder at the ferris wheel was self-serving. Would the ride operator see my girl and me, so obliviously happy together? and would he know instinctively that we should be the ones?
he said my friend you’re in a dream
and things are never what they seem
No. Things are never what they seem.
Steven Wright once remarked he had a dream where he was born eight months premature. Just sayin’. I don’t think that sounds reasonable. In fact, I don’t think he was being a reasonable man, but stranger thangs’ have happened. Just sayin’.
strike three called!
Hey I’ve sat on 222 posts long enough. I think I need an editor. Determination in my dissolution proceeding kinda made me avoid what is known as talkin’ trash. I am born again in the faith and devotion to my loving companion and hers in me. I always shut up when The Illustrious Lovely throws shade. Look it up, Bartlett.
As is typically the case, when my words become unbearable for people, I think they stop listening. I am ill. I have some semblance of cognition but had lost my willful desire to proceed in life. It is a by-product of intractability. Intractability in my obviously failed marriage, in my career, in the failure I have been in protecting precious Abigail. But when those close to you turn away rather than reach out it’s because they don’t wanna hear what is said. Taking the time to acknowledge this disconnect the disabled feel when the stresses of life long endured have clearly boiled over is the only dignified way for those who care about someone in trouble emotionally to address mental disability. Otherwise, it’s like Scorcese where she says
shut up, you’re always talking
When decorum presented its’ ugly head, I think my family should have simply voice-voted me off The Island, not witnessed my brother’s debacle and scattered truth to the wind. My brother was heeded, held harmless and sat quietly while I murdered all crows.
My state of anxiety has for many months precipitated such recurring and agitated behaviors as to frighten people for my well-being. To me, I just start talking and have a lot to say. Is not the critical element of personal ownership of my own body the right to speak freely? Is not the appropriate cultural and legal responsibility to any gathering or group, private or public, the right to request I absent myself from the social setting, willingly or unwillingly, but under RCW not to proceed to physically lay hands upon me in a protracted assault?
I say that every time simply because I’m a reasonable man
My family’s position, apparently, is that my verbosity many times in family gatherings, deemed belligerence by most all, would not have needed more than voice-vote. I’m gone, it’s expected. I did indeed for some time frighten, concern and eventually anger all parties, in solely my family’s position, to warrant acts of the magnitude Ken engaged in upon my person. All but my mother are held harmless by rule of law, filter it in the fashion they choose: except of course the children. It is true what I wrote. Then and just now. Olivia was alone at the trunk; to me, this was my death.
I’ve many times over the years heard acquaintances describe their loss of family relations. To hear someone casually trail off a sentence abruptly while describing such horror minimizes the awful impact of the words, but it was never lost on me what they were discussing. I always thought to myself, if you have no relationship to those to whom you were born, if you must now make sense of the world and your singular place in it without the people, the only people, to whom you attach yourself, who brought you into this world
How exactly do you go on living? Why?
Why have you forsaken me?
This precusor to destruction of any manageable relationship with any of these people, save my mother, is no less a parallel to and probably holds some validity as a factor, a teetering or tipping point causally, in the manner of end game of Petitioner/Matron in my now-embattled former marriage. I detested the woman to whom I was married; her misery subjected me to a near-constant state of belligerence directed at me as I attempted to recover from the closing of my seven year retail store venture and morph my salvage inventory.
back into the music little ditty from The Smashing Pumpkins
eleven million views can’t be wrong.
No apologies ever need be made
I know you better than you fake it to see
Harry Nilsson lived and played hard. I don’t think he was a tortured soul; he could lay it out there, though. He felt it. He had an eloquence in his manner of delivery. And was so damn tall. He wistfully pulled at your heartstrings; witness his penning of the mega-Three Dog Night single “One”. The man appealed to the sense of whimsy in fans of all ages, and wrote in several genre. Nilsson suffered a heart attack Valentine’s Day 1993, and spent that year putting together an LP anthology eventually released, but after his passing January 15, 1994.
The time has come the Walrus said,
to call your friends by name.
On May 25, 2012 documents were executed at Lyman, WA that effectively gifted me, for no remuneration, a fifty-year trove of collectible adult magazines, books, 8mm and its’ Super 8 cousin and multiple thousands of hours of rare, out-of-print adult content collected diligently for decades.
It’s worth something.
I say that every time.
Cuz’ I’m a reasonable man.
Dorothy Priscilla (“Patsy”) Bullitt Collins was a Seattle philanthropist. Born in Seattle on September 24, 1920 to the wealthy A. Scott Bullitt and Dorothy Bullitt, she died June 24, 2003.
Yup. That’s it from here.
I NEVER UNDERSTOOD this whole celebrity deaths come in 3′s thing. It takes a presumption to deem someone a celebrity to begin with; some people are legend in their innovation. Others it is thrust upon for unknown serendipity. As a kid, experience taught me there are better things to be known as than what’s called infamous. Celebrity? cause celebre maybe. parlez vous?
The Fate of another Patsy Collins
He was a bodyguard and roadie for Deep Purple. He died December 4, 1975 in Jakarta, Indonesia. He reportedly fell down six floors of an elevator shaft after an argument with local promoters because of money owed the band. Deep Purple blogger I.S. Harahap tells us of the literal nightmare the man endured.
Chaville porte de Mare Adam arche
SOME THINGS should die; but not innocents. Besides, it is more mutual surrender once aware of dysfunction, in relations personal OR professional. A coming to the table, admittance even, of shortcomings must be made. Shortcomings of spirit, of commitment and effort, followed by honesty with others of those truths evidenced empirically. At a minimum.
I’m a patsy in this whole thing, people.
The Death of Amy Winehouse
ORIGINAL POST 7/23/11
In other news across the globe, from LONDON, early morning reports of a celebrity death. Some people live comparatively short lives despite (or due to) what would seem to those unknowing, great successes.
Who knew there were so many languid,
tortured ways to say “black…”
You sang, “I died a hundred times.”
Maybe it’s a case of hardness of heart
But I’m down for the count
And there’s got to be someway
To clear out whatever keeps us apart
I’ll do this
and I’ll do that
I’ll be burning canyons for you
Well, that’s a Big Duh to the ’77. This is the phrase I use to describe chagrin, and more, at the hands of life these days. It declares success or disregards circumstance I should have seen coming, usually when I haven’t. Foremost is the overtness of the obvious. My marriage was a babysitting chore. We stayed together for the kids; y’know, ourselves. Losers. Talking over the music.
But life is like Clapton’s epic Layla, the studio version. The first time, ya don’ know the birds are coming. After that, you never forget halfway through to make sure to still be listening at the end. Sure, inevitably, the announcer guy lays in there just where ya’ don’t need him. Nowadays even the programmer dudes know, them birds, they got yer ear.
OK, so it’s the end. And I hear birds.
Yeah, a little birdie told me. That’s it.
(1) Felony. Unless a different maximum sentence for a classified felony is specifically established by a statute of this state, no person convicted of a classified felony shall be punished by confinement or fine exceeding the following:
[ ... ] (b) For a class B felony, by confinement in a state correctional institution for a term of ten years, or by a fine in an amount fixed by the court of twenty thousand dollars, or by both such confinement and fine.
[ ... ] (4) This section applies to only those crimes committed on or after July 1, 1984.
Petitioner was born in May 1977
that gets her mother off the hook…
But, yeah. It’s true.
I’m loaded with rocket fuel!
Children are like those ubiquitous Burma Shave, just not sticking in the ground. They say something, it generally rhymes with the flow of justice and strength, assimilation and absorption and the like. They raise a voice above the din. That’s why elders always said “children should be seen and not heard.” They had a hankerin’ fer bending the truth, adults, when I was growing up, no doubt as had their forefathers and natures’ mothers before them. I don’t think we were the first generation ever saw ourselves as somehow above the fray of life’s conundrum. I do recall coming to understand the danger of not looking before you leap, and that kids recklessly think they are immune or immortal, even. I’ve lept and injured, we all have, but I am not wizened with age, just older, and the notion that immortality might somehow rescue us is not something reserved for children.
Abby is forever.
Abby is my child.
I am her father.
People tell me to flesh out the edges in my writing.
Sure, listen for the birds. They know better than we do.
Orpheus’ efforts to save Eurydice is one of the great tales of ancient Greek mythology. Eurydice was an oak nymph, one of the daughters of Apollo (the god of light). She was the wife of Orpheus, who loved her dearly; on their wedding day, he played joyful songs as she danced through the meadow. Caught up in dancing with naiads and the satyr they apparition, Eurydice steps on a venomous snake, dying instantly. Distraught, Orpheus played and sang so mournfully that all the gods wept and told him to travel to the Underworld and retrieve her, which he gladly did.
Is it all an apparition?
His music softened the hearts below, of HADES, and of PERSEPHONE; he began the task of returning his betrothed back to the world of the living.
STUDENTS MAY RECALL A VERSION whereby Orpheus lyre puts the dog CERBERUS, HADES’ guardian, to sleep after which Eurydice was allowed to return with Orpheus to the world of the living. Essential to any working of the fable is the condition attached that he must walk in front of her and not look back until both reach the upper world. Of course he doubts she is truly there; possibly HADES had deceived him. Just as they reach the portals of daylight, he turns to gaze upon her face. Eurydice vanishes back into the Underworld.
As Orpheus had feared
and HADES had said,
his promised drowned back
to the world of the dead.
Waves of anguish and despair engulfed him. Shuddered with grief, he approached the Underworld again but this time, he was denied entry, the gates hard shut, GOD HERMES sent by ZEUS standing guard. From then on, the heartbroken musician wandered in total despair. He could find no consolation in anything. His misfortune tormented him, forcing him to abstain from contact with any other woman and slowly but surely he found himself shunning devotion completely. His songs were no longer joyful. His only comfort was to lay on a huge rock and feel the caress of the breeze, his only visions were the open skies. There he floundered. And so it was that a group of irate women, furious for his scorn towards them, chanced upon him. The sirens cut his body into pieces and threw them and his lyre into a river.
The world’s first rock critics.
It is said that his head and his lyre floated downriver to the island of Lesvos. There the Muses found them and gave Orpheus a proper burial ceremony. People believed that his grave emanated music, plaintive yet beautiful. His soul descended down to Hades where he was finally reunited with his beloved Eurydice.
from wiki, shmoop greekisle et al DONT TURN AROUND
her bedroom eyes were like a button she was pushing
costello always demands a thick listen.
THAT’S BRUCE THOMAS’ BASSLINE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH
In 1977, Elvis Costello formed his own permanent backing band, The Attractions; Steve Nieve, born Steve Nason, keyboards; Bruce Thomas, bass guitar, and Pete Thomas on drums, unrelated to Bruce. These guys go back a long way, man. Bruce Thomas was the oldest group member (29 when he joined), with the most professional experience prior to being an Attraction. He had previously been a member of the band Quiver, who had released two albums on their own in 1971/72. Thomas was also a member of Moonrider for their lone album in 1975, and recorded as a session musician for Al Stewart in the mid-seventies. Pete Thomas had minimal experience. Nason, who had classical training, was just 19, a newcomer to rock. The Royal College of Music student also joined The Attractions in 1977.
Lore states Nason received his musical moniker “Nieve” (pronounced as “naïve”) while on the Attractions’ first tour for Stiff Records: it was bestowed by fellow tourmate Ian Dury who had been astonished by Nason’s innocent query, “What’s a groupie?”
Elvis Costello and the Attractions made their recording debut with the March, 1978 single (I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea“. From there, the Attractions would back Costello on all of his albums and singles through 1984. On 1984′s Goodbye Cruel World and its associated tour, The Attractions’ keyboardist was billed as “Maurice Worm”; this is yet another pseudonym for Nason/Nieve. In late 1986, Costello hooked up with The Attractions to record the album Blood & Chocolate, but this would prove to be the final Attractions release for several years. Growing antipathy between Costello and Bruce Thomas contributed to the Attractions’ first split in 1986, and the rift was exacerbated by what Costello felt was his unflattering portrayal in Thomas’ 1990 book The Big Wheel. Despite this, the original group reunited for several tracks on Costello’s 1994 album Brutal Youth and toured together over the next two years. They recorded one further album as a group (1996′s All This Useless Beauty) but split for good in 1996.
Nieve and Pete Thomas continued to back Costello through various touring and recording lineups and as of 2011 are still members of his current backing group The Imposters. The split between Costello and Bruce Thomas appears permanent, however; Bruce made a brief appearance with his former bandmates when the group was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2003, but when Costello was asked why Bruce did not play with them at the event, he reportedly replied, “I only work with professional musicians.”
Thirty-five plus years of listening I finally figured out Costello. Fucking PRIMA DONNA. He hates. He uses gentle tones and rhythms to mask his pain, but it’s there. Always has been, frankly, ever since ALLISON bolted and the Waiting For The End of the World began. circa 1977. Mysterious lyrics once unraveled point to a chauvinist mentality of small-brained female the lesser.
MOTHERSISTER deserves respect. If not now, then when she steps up. Cuz she will. Women are the glue of this society. Mistreatment of the holiest of holies is a crime against humanity, even if it’s just dropping quarters and ping pong on the boys (self-inflicted). MEN ARE WEAK. Certainly Costello has proved it with his behavior over the years, evidenced here and in his wiki; again, it may be a cultural thang’ over there. Men long emasculated of esteem AT THEIR OWN HAND by their own weaknesses and fears certainly can’t be resolved by such castigation.
I dunno if he thinks he’s entitled, HAVING HAD BAD experiences exacerbated by his mania. Certainly the underlying current of open hatred towards those formerly professed loved by the protagonist, well if that’s the final word from McManus (Costello revealed)
EXCEPT MY ANCIENTS
came west to
about a thousand miles
and a thousand years
cal -if or ni-ay
c’mon, get in my car…
cuando conduzco más rápido
harken back, if you will
1! 2! 3! 4!
Well I’m going out west
where I belong
Where the days are short
and the nights are long
…well, we’re out there having fun
in that warm California sun
When the Ramones ventured to CALI,
the plane, the limo, hotel security
and their vampirism protected them
from any pesky sunlight, I’m sure…
that’s a snack. back to work
ahhh, here it is
The Rivieras were a rock group active from 1962-66, made up of teenagers from South Bend (IN) Central High School. Originally The Playmates, they opted out upon notice there was already a group of that name. In simpler days, they renamed themselves after the Buick Riviera. The first incarnation of the group found success in 1964 with “California Sun”, nearly reaching the top of the U.S. pop chart. In fact, these kids, teenagers at the time, really, were one of the last pure American rock-and-roll songs on the Billboard Hot 100 chart before the onslaught of the “British Invasion”. Founding members Marty “Bo” Fortson and Joe Pennell left the band shortly after recording the single, joining the United States Marine Corps.
casey kasem reminds us
Here’s “California Sun” at
its’ peak chart position of
#5 the same week
The Beatles landed the first of
nine consecutive chart toppers with
“I Want to Hold Your Hand”
and off we went!
but before we all walked away,
we had sumthin’ here
that sound was uniquely American but…
it wasn’t like the beach boys invented it…
what good is the dawn
that grows into day
the sunset at night
or livin’ this way…
that stuff was contemplative, man.
BW is a deep thinker.