Rolling

It's Sunday night. I've dutifully taken out the trash. I loaded all my pills into this little device I have that says SMTWTFS across the top. I don't know what that means, but I use it because those letters happen to coincide with the days of the week. Seems convenient.

Captain Beefheart has died. I have a copy of "Trout Mask Replica" in front of me. In it's day it was the favorite album of every wannabe hippie. The fact they'd never heard it never seemed to be a problem for them. They just "knew" it was good. And it is pretty good. It can be a lot of work to listen to, but so? It's sort of music, but more performance art. Disjunctive chords over which Beefheart (Don Van Vliet) shouts his poetry. The notes are crowded together and don't fit, like immigrants on a train against a Chinese city skyline.

So it was the best of times, and it was a distant time. I roll through the old neighborhood now, and it's turned into one long endless crummy strip mall of pawn shops and fingernail places. Half the signs aren't in English. Paper-cup parking lots and shops with people without teeth. Everybody around here looks orange. Phone plans, and consignment clothes. Faded paint on the Fatman's sign. A staggering, dying dynasewer. Shall we carry our tears in the rusty tin cans?

Off we drift into the cosmic frownland.

Travelogue

Recently yahoo posted a rare piece of footage on it's news platform. It was film from the mid 20's and in it there was a woman who appeared to be talking on a cell phone. It was called "Time Traveler Caught on Film" and it was interesting to say the least. And so since this whole time travel thing seems to be coming unraveled I have a slight confession to make.

Not long ago I was doing some reading, and decided something had to be done. So I borrowed a reinforced Chevy blazer, and several AKs and Mac 10s from a friend. I filled her up with gas and ammo. I picked up my pals Bill Murgan, Jerry Ford, Bill Baker, and ironically Jim Hoffman, our high school drama coach. We all loaded into the Blazer and we were off. We found a nearby time space/continuum wormhole and we drove into it. I was at the wheel and it was hard to concentrate with Hoffman constantly asking where Scott Morey and Bob Jackson were.

We got to the other side and my calculations were correct. We parked up in some trees far above Cemetery Ridge in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It was July 3rd, 1863. We spent about 45 minutes up in the trees with our long range superior weapons and none were the wiser. Let's just say we made the little "Pickett's Charge" thing go away.

We got back into the Blazer and drove in silence all the way home. That is, except for Hoffman chattering on and on about "Barefoot in the Park"... sheesh he can be annoying. We all arrived safely back about an hour after we left and history was altered forever.

Not that we're looking for anything special, but next time you see Bill, Jerry, Bill, and Jim, or me... hey, buy us lunch, or at least a drink. Dang, we preserved the union after all. Is a drink really to much to ask?

Trying to call the USA from Paris.....

I was in Paris and frantically trying to call home to wish my brother a happy birthday. "USA si vous plait" wasn't working with the operator. I gave it up. Instead was invited across the hall to the room of an Australian family. We we all staying at a quaint but inexpensive hotel in the Latin Quarter. I think about that whenever I hear the Tom Waits song "Phone call from Istanbul".

I dreamed I died and went to Heaven. I was sitting in a club and I was at a table with Jack Kerouac, Charles Butkowski, Allen Ginsberg, and the apostle Paul. Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, and John Coltrane were on the bandstand. Paul kept yelling "blow that thing, man!" I kept wanting to talk to Kerouac, but Sam Kinison kept coming over to our table monopolizing all of his time between songs. Finally I just went over to the bar and sat with George Harrison, Miles Davis, and Willie Shakespeare. I paid for a round of Diet Mountain Dew. There is no alcohol there.....

That Kinison is getting annoying.

coffee time

Last night I was sitting on the moon looking down and the Earth, and it looked windy. All of the clouds around the planet were swirling as they do in Van Gogh paintings. My legs were dangling and I was afraid to lean forward much for fear of slipping off the curvature and falling. I hate the idea of falling, but in space, I guess it would be more of a drift. I could do "drift", I guess.

My coffee maker is struggling and in the mornings it moans as it goes to work. Building up all that white calcium is hard work I suppose. It creates this calcium that is like the glare off fluorescent light, the stain of a concrete skyline, the look of a widow's face. I swirl my creamer into the aromatic eddy and ponder the state of my guts. Is it stress? Am I dying?

I'm older. But am I wiser?

Proper Residence

A While back I noted that Allen Ginsberg should have lived in Howell.

That made me realize that:

James Brown should have lived in Seoul.

Ray Kroc should have lived in Hamburg.

A young Earl Anthony should have lived in Bowling Green.

Rudy Vallee should have lived in Charleston.

Oscar Meyer should have lived in Frankfurt.

And of course, obviously, Thomas Crapper should have lived in Flushing.

Thank you for your kind attention.