Saturday, June 16, 2018

June Is Busted: Over and Out

Trump’s Old White Nutjobs
versus COUNTRY values

Good Golly, Miss Molly, but ain’t
the Silly Season blossomed b__________,
damn Liberty’s blind lyin’ eyes!

Peckerwoods are peckin’ out orders to
seal the Grand Kanoodler’s leakin’ b______,
damn Liberty’s blind lyin’ eyes!

So let’s all have a jolly good collude
with the Devil we'd love to b______,
damn Liberty’s blind lyin’ eyes!
















Friday, May 11, 2018

My Camelot Moment


It's May! It's May! The Lovely Month of May!

Generally speaking, I would describe myself as "cautiously pessimistic" regarding the "human condition", rather than outright pessimistic. I think this came about because an agreeable combination of good luck, easy living, and a moderate temperament has served me well enough to grant me more happiness than grief. (Not that there haven't been some deep valleys between these green hills of earth at times). No slopes, thus far, slippery or perilous enough to have me choose to become an angry loner or an overly disappointed curmudgeon, because of the good hand life has dealt me. So, relative to many people, I suspect that I have little, or nothing, to complain about. Perhaps, I simply choose to be happy by thinking less, feeling less, and doing less.

As long as my run of luck holds out, I’ll be fine. It’s a crapshoot, though, and I don't recommend this way of surviving to those who can’t deal with accepting the inevitable (that shit will happen) as well as I can.

Pass/Don’t Pass, but ante up.

Saturday, April 28, 2018

An Old Philosophe's Escutcheon

Peace of Mind, Pussy, and Paella--
an unholy trinity, perhaps, but
in life, when you get down to it--
we choose our colors,
as we choose our gods--
with much hope and abandon.

Some carry themselves lightly--
some stumble along in their chains.
All--on time--arrive and depart.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

DeFaced by An Unreliable Narrator



Millions of people are today dealing with a problem primarily of their own making. While hardly as serious, forinstance, as needing to decide whether “To Be or Not to Be,” it nevertheless presents a psychological dilemma that, for many, can be excruciatingly difficult to resolve, namely, “To Delete or Not To Delete” one’s on-line identity from the planet-wide legions of users addicted to the virtual connectivity offered and overseen by Facebook.

There are, for those who choose to withdraw, as I have, for now temporarily, from their habit (or custom, if one prefers) from the postings of their own and/or others' positions and posturings, going to be some symptoms with which they must reckon.

As nearly as possible, I have learned from personal experience that it is possible to cease and desist, regardless of how long, how little, or how much one has been a participant and/or an enabler in the pursuit of virtual friends and/or of cyberian relationships, and come away even happier, healthier, and decidedly more fit company in the real world (in the likely event that that situation should ever again present itself).

Here are just some of the things (I've discovered recently) that one can do while away from the blinking screen and the accursed keyboard that might be helpful restoratives to one's psychic rehabilitation:

Read, write, listen to, or recite a story or a poem.
Take a walk to someplace or nowhere.
Actually reflect upon stuff along the way.
Make and/or converse with a friend about something, anything, or nothing.
Exercise your libido or have someone exercise it for you.

If none of these work, if some of these work, or if all of these work, just remember that you can always resort to becoming a Blogger (like me).




 

Sunday, February 4, 2018

Supercallousfragileandbasicallyatrocious


How odd it is being here situated in New York on this superlatively hyped-up Sunday and find myself thinking more about Benjamin Franklin's beginnings as "The First American", (rooted as they were in Boston and Philadelphia) than the grand spectacles of diversion occurring today in Washington and our beloved twin cities of Mary Tyler Moore and Scotchtape fame.

I plan to fight off this malaise first by taking my blood-pressure, cholesterol, and diabetes medications, then reading this article from the New York Review of Books, entitled "The Business of Learning," and follow that up with a long walk among the wooded hills of home with my wife, Hajnalka, before we shop for healthy half-time snacks.

We will be beaten, one and all, so, finally, why not then lie back and enjoy the bloody game?

Saturday, January 20, 2018

10 Words Beginning With the Letter 'B' That You Can Discover Just By Reading Stuff

In my May 2015 post I randomly entered 10 words that begin with the letter "a" that I had encountered in my reading during that month that required my consulting one or more of my reference books. This current post lists 10 words since that previous post that start with the letter "b" that I had to lookup.
brasser: a cheap whore bought for a brass coin
brachycephalic: having a relatively broad, short skull
botts: a disease affecting a horse's digestive system
boreen: a little road, or country lane in rural Ireland
boojum: an imaginary dangerous animal
bombe: A device designed by Alan Turing to decrypt Nazi Enigma messages
bombazine: a cotton, linen, or silk material, in black for mourning
Boadecia: Briton queen who led revolt against Romans c. 60 A.D.
blebs: blisters or bubbles
blart: to sound loudly and harshly like an airhorn

Friday, December 8, 2017

New Old Europe Beckons



It feels strange to know that I’ll be laying-over in Brussels in a few days. Belgium, who knew, is now the restive center of the New Old World. That city of my mother-in-law’s birth will be the first-leg of a Diamond Jubilee, my 75th birthday celebratory visit to a couple of former empires, Italy and Austria-Hungary.

My wife asked me today if I was excited. I answered, “Delighted.” Which is odd, because I have no recollection of using that subtly self-illuminating word before as a response during my first three-quarters of a century here on Earth.

Once upon a time an ugly American heading abroad would not have his arm-hairs bristle, or be made to see formations of Pig-Penish clouds gathering around him. As always, these are new times, and yet . . .

Travelling in the northern hemisphere in December and January is not for the faint-of-heart under the best of circumstances, but these days it is not something as easily predictable as the weather that causes a thinking person to ponder the possibilities of a chance forever lost of finally answering the riddle of the self, or lo, the meaning of life.

History, if one has read any at all, teaches that managing to be in the right place at the right time is an impossibly difficult endeavor, even for the most diffident of homebodies. For starters, Troy was sacked.

So, despite all the trepidations of venturing forth as a representative of the New America: the overriding sense of embarrassment, the full expectation of a reciprocal intolerance, the crying shame of having to bear witness to profound civil failures and echoes of the zippy codas of age-old marching songs, on my honor, I will do my best . . .

. . . when I return (fingers-crossed) to restore the Spirit of ’76.