Song for the Times

 

Richard Thompson

Genesis Hall

 From 1969 Fairport Convention album

Unhalfbricking

 

 

My father he rides with your sheriffs
And I know he would never mean harm
But to see both sides of a quarrel
Is to judge without haste or alarm

Oh, oh, helpless and snow
And you don't have anywhere to go

You take away homes from the homeless
And leave them to die in the cold
The gypsy who begs for your presents
He will laugh in your face when you're old

Oh, oh, helpless and snow
And you don't have anywhere to go

Well one man he drinks up his whiskey
Another he drinks up his wine
And they'll drink 'till their eyes are red with hate
For those of a different kind

Oh, oh, helpless and snow
And you don't have anywhere to go

When the rivers run thicker than trouble
I'll be there at your side in the flood
T'was all I could do to keep myself
From taking revenge on your blood

Oh, oh, helpless and snow
And you don't have anywhere to go
Oh, oh, helpless and snow
And you don't have anywhere to go

2 Guys Talkin'

B-Meooooowww!!

J-Sorry, dude-petting works up a lot of static.

B-Dammit that hurt!

J-That spark did light you up, lol

B-It’s not funny!

J-Here, jump down and I run a wet cloth over you.

B-Really?

J-Sure, c’mon.

J-BRB

 

 

B-Ohh, that’s better. Thanks man.

J-Sure. Tail down please so I can type.

B-Sorry. Well, Happy New Year. You order up this weather?

J-You too and no, I didn’t. It’s really getting old and we just started February. Hopefully, the rodent won't see his shadow tomorrow. We can use all the good karma we can get.

B-I know. I miss going outside. Getting too old to be out in that zero degree stuff.

J-Yes, you are. Hey, I saw The Black Kitty hunting the other day.

B-Who? Where?

J-Oh, a big black male whom I’ve been seeing patrolling out back at work.

B-Still have his hardware?

J-Nope. Big jaw, though. Walks like a miniature panther. No collar or tags. But looks way too good to be feral.

B-Don’t know him.

J-Well, I watched him sit on a dry concrete walk and stare into snowy tall grass for quite awhile. Suddenly, whomp! He got a mouse. Sat down and ate it head first. Everything but the squeak.

B. He was using THE VOICE.

J-What?

B-He was using THE VOICE on the mouse.

J-And….what does this ‘VOICE” do?

B-It’s how we manipulate others. He probably told the mouse to come over to him.

J-Come over to his certain death?

B-Yep.

J-Is this another one of your “alien connection” things?

B-Yep. I told you we can communicate empathically. We use THE VOICE.

J-Yes I remember, but you have said nothing about THE VOICE. So, y’all know the language of all creatures? You know mousese?

B-Sigh, you apes and your language-you know communication isn’t always verbal. We can also place a series of images suggesting a particular action we desire.

J-Well, that’s scary. Don’t want the NSA or Homeland Security getting their hands this.

B-We do it all the time with you and Mom. Along with staring to reinforce, (yawn) works pretty well when we want pate or laptime. Throw in a few pathetic mews and it’s a done deal.

J-So how come the three of you are not the greatest hunters of all time if you have this gift? The Calico rarely catches anything. And you, my friend, just had a major drought if I may direct your attention to a couple of chats back?

B-The Calico is dumber than a rock and works on pure instinct. The Grey is quite good and considering she’s a chunk, it’s a damn miracle she manages  to grab the birds.

I just lost my touch-it’s like golf-you have to keep at it to keep your skills honed. Shrug-some have developed The Voice better than others. I’d say this black cat is a master.

J-Well, he does seem zen-like out there. I have seen him sit stock still for an hour.

B-Oh yes. Mice are dumbass shitting machines.  If you stay still long enough, they forget your scent and presence. If you apply THE VOICE at this point, they’ll walk right over to you. Curtains!

J-Ya know, this really sounds familiar. Sounds like Star Wars. Yeah, Yeah…

C’MON MAN, YOU’RE SAYING YOU GUYS DO THE DARTH VADAR ROUTINE??? LUKE, I AM YOUR FATHER???OHH THE FORCE IS STRONG IN THIS ONE???

B-Where do you think Lucas got his idea?

J-OH COME ON!

B-Yep. His cat told him. And the bastard didn’t give him credit. Mr.Creative Genius made a boatload of money and pimped his cat.

J-What was he supposed to do-list on the credits-“based on an idea by Mr. Jingles”??

Trust fund for the kids?

B-At the very least.

J-Oh please, you’re doing the Soviet crap again-taking credit for everything.

B-You just can’t handle the truth.

J-I can’t handle your whoppers.

B-Well, you do need two hands (snare drum, cymbal) I’m here all week folks. Try the meatloaf!

J-So what happened to the cat?

B-Dunno. I did hear he pissed on a bunch of Asshole’s Norman Rockwell print collection before he split. Ha! That’s rich! I can’t stand Rockwell’s sentimentality.

J-Hmm just trying to visualize how he was able to piss that high…

B-No, you knucklehead, not the stuff on the wall. Lucas had some out of storage that he was looking through one night. Left them out and that’s when the cat gave them a distinctive provenance, lol.

J-That’s just wrong, man.

B-We tolerate a lot but if you cross us-we will exact our pound of flesh.

J-I ‘spose one of yours helped the Bard.

B-He was quite fond of cats and several lived with him but no, they did not manipulate or interfere with Shakespeare. He’s great. We appreciate his acute observations of humanity and hope people will learn about themselves by reading him.

B-Seriously, we don’t go around messing around with everyone on a whim. Just those who mistreat or disrespect us. That’s only fair.

J-Fair enough, buddy. And glad to hear something my kind has done, he did on his own.

B-Awwww-no need to get an inferiority complex about this. We had nothing to do with going to the moon for example. We thought you apes were absolutely nuts hurling yourself out of our atmosphere by sitting on several tons of explosives. To go where? A friggin’ lifeless, uninhabitable piece of rock. And then sit around and pound your chests like your hairy cousins proclaiming how great of an achievement it was. Only you guys, I swear.

J-We are a restless bunch-always have been. Got that mountain to climb. Just because.

B-Hmm, that is quite true. Always on the move, striving for stuff. Oh, makes me tired thinking about it. (yawn) You people need to nap more which sounds like a good idea. (stretching)

J-Want a snack before you nod off?

B-You bet! You’re the man!

Christmas music from my childhood.

One of my favorites as a child. Sure, some would argue-oh, so depressing. Well, no. To me, this is the urban bookend to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." It brings to mind walking through a neighborhood late at night, no wind and it is quietly snowing. Folks' houses lit up with Christmas lights inside and out. Just you under a dark sky with snow coming down without a sound. Inside these homes, families are gathered with those they love and cherish, on the darkest night of the year. Soon you'll be home to yours.

2 Guys Talkin'

B-Nice fire.

J-Sure is. Windy out, I can hear it and the trees are really moving. Nice to be inside.

B-You bet. Colder than mouse titties out there. 
B-Mom in bed?

J-Yeah, I tucked her in. Where are the girls?

B-The Grey Meatloaf is sprawled out in the library, snoring. The Crazy Calico is curled up on the loveseat.
 
J-Just the guys standing watch.

B-As it always has been. (stretching) Oh, nice and warm.

J-Yeah.
J- Man, that was good eats tonight.

B-It smelled good, what was it?

J-Individual shepherd’s pies, ‘shroom filling for Mom, cow for me.

B-Blechh on the fungi but those meat scraps were quite tasty.

J-It turned out. Mom was pleased but she is easy to please.

B-Family recipe?

J-No, just an Anglophile thing.

B-Well, that explains the claret, the Handel and All Creatures Great and Small on the telly.

J-(chuckling) Yep.

B-What did you have for Christmas Eve as a kid?

J-Well, my mother loved Christmas and was big on creating traditions. She lost her parents quite young and had a disjointed childhood. On Christmas Eve, as a nod to the ancient Swedish side of the family, she created a smorgasbord.

B-Ohhhhh yum! Fish?

J-Not so much as I was (and still am) a fussy eater. But one of the little things she made that Dad loved was an anchovy dip. I remember dishes and dishes of food. She cooked for a couple of days.

B-I bet that was good.

J-It was, we had leftovers for days. Dessert was crescent shaped pastries filled with ground nut paste called kolache. With a bit of powdered sugar on top. A recipe from my Slovak grandmother, my Dad’s Mom. I’m going to make some this week. They’re great with coffee.

B-Hmm sounds good.

J-You would just lick it, you wouldn’t like it at all. Guaranteed.

B-I might!

J-I’d be pitching it outside for Blossom.

B-What is Mom’s infatuation with that possum?  That animal looks like big, lumpy rat.

J-She’s not a rat, she’s a marsupial.  And Mom thinks she’s cute and is thrilled Blossom lives under our deck in the winter. You know how she loves critters.

B-Sigh. Well, I can’t object too much. I lived in the gas house the winter I was abandoned so I can’t really deny someone shelter.

J-Yep.

B-Whatcha drinking there?

J-Nose out of the glass, please. Cream sherry

B-Portuguese?

J-No, Spanish-Jerez.

B-Oh yes, the priest I lived with had that.

J-Must have been big doings this time of year at the Vatican.

B- You bet. The Catholics do know how to put on a good show.

J-I would hope so, this is their big day.

B-True that. But you apes have been meeting up around the winter solstice for ages, long before the Christians latched on to it. In fact, what we’re doing tonight has occurred ever since you guys came out of the trees, got a grasp of the climate and learned to make fire. It’s in your DNA, thousands of years of gathering around the fire on the longest night of the year. Hoping for the return of the sun, warmth and the miracle of life reviving. It’s a really old, old celebration. No wonder the Nazareth prophet story resonates so deeply with people.

J-And even if one doesn’t recognize that particular tradition, who cannot at least embrace the spirit of the season: peace on earth, goodwill to all?  Too bad it doesn’t work out.

B-Sigh-let’s not get morose. You need to enjoy the time you have left. Nothing you can do about the misery in the world. Always has been, always will be. But what you can do is not be miserable yourself. And not spread it to others. That’s the best you can do.

J-Ok, Bindiwan (scratching ears)

B-What’s that?

J-Hmmm?

B-Off in the distance.

J-Not catching it-you have the better ears.

B-Ahh, how lovely that they still do that here. Bells. It’s midnight.

J-Merry Christmas, buddy.

B-Merry Christmas, What do you have there?

J-Oh, a little something.

B-For me?

J-Yes, I’ll open it for you.

B-(nuzzling hand) Thanks, man. Oh! Something smells good. Good and fishy!!

J-Some treats.

B-(munching) oh yummers. Good Stuff!!! Check out your stocking, at the top.

J-You have something for me?

B-Sure, via Mom.

J-Hmmm, she did a good job wrapping this darn thing. Oh, Mozarts. How did you know?

B-(washing face) I know things.

J-Mmmm the chocolate/hazelnut goes with the sherry. Thank you! Oh look! It’s snowing.

B-Yes it is.

(sound of wind, fire crackling, distant snoring of a cat)

B- Well my friend, I’m going to settle down over here in the corner of the couch. You staying up?

J-For a bit. Watch the fire and finish my drink. You have a good winter’s nap, Bin.

B-You too. And a Merry Christmas to one and all.

Monty Python: On Creativity

Heard on NPR or Fun With Insects

I was listening to NPR last week and a segment came on reporting potential progress in developing a new mosquito repellent. DEET, which has been the gold standard since World War II, is relatively expensive for extensive use in developing countries. While seemingly benign when absorbed into human skin, it does eat through plastic. Scientists have been working to find a cheap yet effective alternative and it seems they may have stumbled on an important finding.

What got my attention was one of the scientists while describing the experiments nonchalantly mentions that they luckily had access to genetically altered fruit flies whose antenna will glow green when they sense DEET. So, they reasoned-let's expose these flies to a wide array of substances. If their antenna react, then perhaps this is a potential mosquito repellent. Turns out extracts of plum, orange and jasmine did the trick. Cheap and pleasant smelling. Such a deal!

NOW WAIT JUST A MINUTE!! GENETICALLY ALTERED FRUIT FLIES???

How the hell did anyone figure out that fruit fly antennae would glow to begin with, no less glow when exposed to DEET? Who is doing this stuff?? Who funded it?? What kind of Frankenflies were created when the experiments...ah... well...didn't turn out as planned?? And what is PETA gonna say about this??

On one hand, fascinating. On the other, it just boggles the mind.

2 Guys Talkin'

B-Crazy apes, crazy crazy apes. 
 

J-You read, huh?

B-Your species never fails to astonish. The adage about cats and curiosity should really apply to apes. Our curiosity is merely patrolling with the desire to uphold our personal security. You idiots make atomic weapons.

J-Those were developed for the same reason: security.

B-That's not my point and you know it-your curiosity could end up killing us all. If it ain't messing up the climate or poisoning everything, it will be some stupid- we did it cuz we can and we had funding-experiment that has unintended consequences. You guys are really good at creating OOOPPS situations.

J-Geez you're in a filthy mood. Calico giving you extra grief?

B-I'm just grumpy.

J-I noticed you have been finicky about your food.

B-I'm bored with it.

J-Hmm general malaise?
 

B-I haven't killed anything in a while.

J-Wait. You're feeling bad because you haven't murdered anything recently?

B-We don't murder-we hunt. It's what we do. Your Bambi killers aren't referred to murderers are they?

J-Well, depends on who you ask...

B-Don't get me started on the animal rights people. “Oh kitty cats are wiping out whole species of fucking sparrows, oh the tragedy, oh the humanity”. They're SPARROWS!

J-We don't mind the mice being decimated. Just wish they would be dead when you guys bring them in.

B-Well-that's HRH who is doing that. That tub of lard is deceptively quick. She gets quite a kick out of wiping the grins off those doomed rodents who point and laugh at her.

J-Now that is unkind to the Mollster-she is a chunky breed.

B-Chunky, my furry black ass. That girl is BIG. We all heard the vet. She should be going to Weight Watchers.

J-Back to you-what seems to be the problem? You having a bad patch?

B-Mice,moles, birds,chippers, insects -they have been the luckiest sons-of-bitches on the planet, I swear. Worse, the Calico has been snickering. I've had just about enough of her brand of bullshit.

J-Now, let's not have another spate of fighting. You know how that upsets Mom.

B-I know, but I don't like being humiliated.

J-You seem to still be in pretty good shape for an older gent-you still have your moves.

Maybe you're just trying too hard. Give it a break. Stop obsessing. Relax. It's like riding a bike-it will come back.

B-Any other cliches you'd like to trot out?

J-Boy, you just want to wallow. Ok. How about a scritch.

B-Naa.

J-Oh c'mon. It will make you feel better. How about there?

B-Meh.

J-How about a snack?

B-Meh. I'm gonna take a nap. I'm feeling old. Mom called me “grizzled”.

J-Well, she was referring to both of us and she meant it as a term of endearment.

You were drooling and getting a tummy rub at the time. Now, you are upset?

B-Meh.

J-Ohhhhhhhhhh

B-What?

J-I know what's going on. I wondered who knocked that book down. You've been reading Yeats.

B-No I haven't.

J-Yeah you have. You get into these moods when you read Yeats. And you holler at me for listening to Tom Waits. You're just as bad.

B-It's fall, I'm feeling my age, the world is a mess and I can't hunt anymore. No country for old men.

J-Sigh. Can't argue with you there, buddy. Things suck sometimes. But, they get better. The world keeps turning, keeps running around the sun. It's life and it could be so much worse. We could be living in Somalia.

B-I know-the hell of having First World problems.

J-C'mon, how about a tooth treat before you nap?
 

B-You mean those things that look like wine corks?

J-Yep-crunchy-supposed to help ward off gum disease.

B-What the hell do you think those bony sparrows are for? Of course, I wouldn't know because I haven't killed one in weeks so sure, let's by all means have a tooth treat since I am incapable of getting a natural one anymore and while we're at it, let's get out the pate since I cannot feed myself anymore and here, get a leash and take me for walksies like a fucking dog because I can't take a shit anymore unsupervised and while you are at it, just shoot me and put me out of my misery. I'm ready for the next life.

J-Are you DONE? Gawd,nothing worse than a sulking cat. What the hell, man? Why don't you go take a nap for crying out loud.

B-I just will.

J-You do that.

B-I will if I can get this fucking door open but of course I can't because those bastards took out my front claws.

J-Here you go. Have a nice day.

B-Fuck you.

J-Sour puss

B-Asshole

J-Tooth treat?

B-

B-

B-

J-My final offer.

B-Sure.

Yeats: Sailing to Byzantium

 I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
---Those dying generations---at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Home from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Tomi

My beautiful Calico Girl. Her given name is Thomasina, in reference to one of C's favorite films from childhood. Tomi was C's first cat in Paris. I shortened her name to Tomi as it fit her personality: if human, she would be a spoiled girl from a bourgeois Paris family, working as a model. She sashays around swinging her hips as the models do on, well, the cat walk during fashion shows.

She freaked out the most during the move from Paris to East Lansing. She hid most of the day in her secure castle in the basement of our duplex coming out when I was asleep in the bedroom. Only then she would come up to visit C who was up late working in her study. In the morning, if she happened to fall asleep on the couch, hearing me flush the toilet would send her frantically scurrying down to the safety of her castle. Eventually, she got to know me but when we moved to our house, she repeated her behavior: downstairs in her castle, on the highest level of some shelving. Finally, I discovered her weak spot: ham. And ever since, she is my hammy-girl. Working with it at the kitchen counter will bring her from most anywhere in the house, twining around my legs, tailing me with intent, with little meowrs of anticipation. She is Daddy's girl.

Tomi is not a lap cat. C can count on one hand the times she has jumped up in her lap. She does not like to be picked up. She enjoys petting and will emit a loud, rumbling purr when one does so. 

As readers of this blog know, she is the bane of Bindiwan's existence. She despises his presence and constantly is mean to him. She is a lurker, ready to put a fist to his grill as he comes around a corner. Or will crouch down and feint a charge just to mess with him. She is, a mean girl.

There's nothing under this carpet. You're seeing things.

Like the rest, she is a hunter. Her prey of choice are birds although she is comically, unsuccessfully. We'll be eating dinner on the deck watching our version of Wild Kingdom unfold in front of us. They all go back to the grasslands of the Seringeti in their heads when they go into their hunt mode. Occasionally, she will go after mice but unfortunately more often than not, will not kill them outright. We always know when they are bringing in a kill through the portal: them give out what C calls a croon. Which we understand-yes, proud mighty hunter has proved herself again except when she opens her mouth, the mouse, albeit stunned from the swift paw to the head, explodes out her mouth into our house. At this point, she and the others are worthless and things pretty much unfold as seen by Tomi:

What fun! See Mom and Dad run all over the house chasing the mousey! Hear Dad say bad words! See Mom get upset with Dad because he is saying bad words! Oooo what’s that where the couch used to be? Oh, a corn chip-a treat? Why are Mom and Dad yelling at ME??? I’m not in the way! I’m hungry. They never feed me. They are so cruel.

Ten minutes later if we are lucky and the damn mouse hasn't run under the piano, Mr. Mouse has been deposited in the back 40, and we're putting the furniture back. Our crew? Oh, they are asleep or washing or hollering for pate. 

Mo' Music

                                         Neo-psychedelia from the Tame Impalas.

Uncle Jeff Hollers

This morning, the sound of pipes and drums echoed through the canyons of Manhattan. The names of the dead were read. A bell tolled the fatal hour. High Mass at Ground Zero: another September 11 anniversary was observed as America fetishizes a tragedy. The professional 9/11 widows and orphans were in attendance. A cousin of one of the dead resurrected the notion to turn this date into a national holiday. Are we to get the day off? For remembrance or celebration? Would a BBQ seem tacky? Will Gordy from ABC Warehouse have a special 9/11 appliance sale?

A golf course owner found himself enmeshed in a grim sectarian clash between usually amiable American cults: the free enterprise system and patriotism. Marc Watts, owner and general manager of Tumbledown Golf Course near Madison WI offered a 9/11 special in memory of the day: 9 holes for $9.11. The response was swift and overwhelmingly negative including phoned-in death threats.

How American. How typically, hypocritically, American.

Evidently, it is fine for Hollywood to churn out movies about 9/11 and make money. It is fine for everybody and their brother with whatever tenuous connection to the event (or none at all) to write a book about that day and make money. But for some schmuck out in Podunk to run a special on HIS golf course, with what I am sure was the best patriotic intention, this is considered a paragon of bad taste and craven exploitation of people’s death. Yeah, the guy is an idiot and rather clueless, but death threats? C’mon.

I’m afraid what isn’t remembered by so many is that the 9/11 attacks were the consequence of decades of American and European foreign policy. And the result of the attacks brought forth our latest boogieman: The Terrorist. So, we launched our “War on Terror” and twelve years later what have to show for our efforts? Invasions of two sovereign nations beginning fruitless wars, the reasoning for one based entirely on lies told to us by our leaders. Thousands of our sons and daughters killed, tens of thousands maimed and hundreds of thousands of civilians dead. Both countries are in shambles, a trillion dollars was spent with borrowed funds which who knows how many generations it will take to pay off. And like most wars, research and development resulted in astonishing technological innovations leading to egregious intrusions into our privacy with the threat of further violations of by future leaders. All in the name of security.

After all this, nothing has been gained. Nothing.

And I fear nothing will be learned either. Not until we as a people begin a serious conversation about what our leaders have done and are doing at present. But judging from today's spectacle in New York City and the raw emotions unleashed upon a foolish business owner, I don't foresee this happening for many years. Meanwhile, the same mistakes will be made, the same messes will be created. Many more people will die. It never ends. And that's the true tragedy here.

Photo credit: National Park Service