This Is What I Have In Mind

Works to Complete (In this order as I do breathe)
Plays — Message Kit; Orientation; Pentecost
Novels — Eleusis; Mystery Novel
Screenplays — Adaptations of works cited above.
Humor — As it rolls in…
Blogs — Luther Wolfgang Spleen; Fictional Non-Fiction; Non-Fictional fiction; Happy history; and others; let’s build an empire!!


Diary Day

1) Listened on utewb –

Jungleland by What’s His Name.  Talented kid.  Poet, guitarist, band leader.  Is he a good driver?

Rock’ Roll by that Brit group.  Ragged.  They make a mistake then compound it by trying to correct it.  Bonham is a great drummer, though I hear the man is dead.  Too bad.  I’ve always thought that goddamn movie Spinal Tap – was terribly hard on drummers.  Gotta hear that thump-a-dump.

Comfortably Dumb by Goat Cheese — I made up that name cuz I can’t recall their real one.  This song which I once enjoyed now bores me from the repetition.  I know every single curve and twinkle of Guitar Solos 1 & 2.

2.  Apocalyptic News — Jesus Christ Has Returned!  O Happy Day!  The Son of Man touched down at 6:00pm EST near Jerusalem.  He is scheduled to appear in America tomorrow at 8:00 am.  Quick and Dead will be judged at noon.  Dress comfortably.

3. My side of the Multi-Cultural Festival is complete.  I got all we needed.

4. Bought L-Thenine and Smart Thought.

5. I’m tapped.

Going to bed very very soon.

Happy HS

In 1967, I graduated from Revere High School between Akron and Cleveland, which makes me 176 years old.  When Abe Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address, I stood in the press section (I worked for the Athens Thunderbolt) behind a tall gentleman wearing a stovepipe hat.  I asked him if her would remove his hat — he was very gracious about it and said no.

After the speech, then after the war itself, I signed up for the SPACE PHARMS depth probe with orgy.  Twenty years later we reached our destination planet, whizzed around it a couple of times, and decided it could sustain life.  By the time we returned to our planet, I was 15 earth years old.  What the hell, everyone said – “send the kid to high school. He missed a warm and wonderful part of life.  He’s a good kid, he should go and meet girls.”  So I ended up at Revere.  My story is long and complex, so lets start with a short simple tale, one that doesn’t shake the sheets off the clothes line.


Mr. Pamer, Mr Smith, Coach Greynolds

Mr. Pamer taught Advanced Math and Physics.  He pushed us pretty hard.  Any grade you got from him was earned.  He invented the concept “firm, but fair”  His explanations of slippery concepts were clear and to the point.  No question was stupid, even the stupid ones.  When I re-entered college in 1980, much of what he taught still lined the inside of my skull.  It lasted through my engineering career.  This is a characteristic of an excellent teacher.

Sadly, Mr. Smith was my English teacher only for my senior year.  His personality was sometimes (how shall we say) eccentric.  If  you could handle the mood changes and the occasional bombast, he was very intelligent and a great communicator.  He treated us like college students to present concepts like “death wish”, existentialism, sexual motifs found in literature, and others.  Preparing us for college, he said, and that he did.  Sometimes when I got my themes back, I wondered if he had cut an artery over it.  The grade of the  paper he wrote so large that everybody in the class saw it – there was no hiding from it.

I never took Interscholastic Basketball I, II, III from Coach Greynolds.  I just had him for Driver’s Ed.  Every so often Coach tossed the Driver’s Ed book out the window to cover what he called the practical stuff the school doesn’t teach us.  So he taught how to balance a checkbook, how to buy a new or used car, what to look for in a house, how to apply for a loan and so forth.  Was he giving us the right scoop?  In my experience, his advice was pretty sound, especially about buying new car.

Don’t Fly Into The Fire Clouds

People are always interested in stories about my life.  Why?  I don’t know.  Maybe they see themselves in me or they want me to see them – I can talk to them: I tell them about them and they tell me about me.  We should all do that for each other.  Better that then twiddling you little brown hole.

You know kids who were able to ride a bike as soon as they planted their stinky butts on the bicycle seat?  I wasn’t like that.  Seven or  eight years old when a got on my brother’s machine: my brother barked at me, “Put your feet on the pedals and push forward on them.”  Since I was heading down the sidewalk rather than up or level, pushing off was easy.  A few seconds later, I realized the huge gap in my bike-riding education —  I did not know how to stop it.  My toes barely reached the road but not enough to stop the bike.

The next tactic — find an object to run my bike into.  A car wouldn’t work.  Cars are made mostly steel and hard plastic.  Their atoms in are solid and stand tall and uniform — like a Roman legion.  Ramming into to a human being would destroy even further my reputation in the neighborhood.

Smashing my bike into a person with a body, vocal chords, and a healthy pair of lunch would be very ungood.  Consider the crime of attempted murder.  An 8 year old charged with that?  What big black checkmark in the Book Of Life that crime will draw? 

Jack Webb pledged to fly to Barberton, arrest me then take me to Central Booking.  How can I stand up to him?  Where is Cenral Booking?  I commited the deed in Akron.   Sleepy WVA?  Call this distributive justice?

The last paragraph describes a dream I had couple nights ago.  My dreams are simutaneously noble and funny.  Read more about my dreams — I start a section on this blog called DREAM CLOSET.  Send to me your precious inner night movies unless they are boring.  If you don’t know if they are boring, show it your parents, a friendly teacher, a guidance counselor or your coach if you trust him.

For now, until the screen layout is done, the dream analyses will appear in this blog italicized.  I do try to be helpful.

My Latest Band — SMOKING PENIS, Part II? “Where the hell is it?”

I don’t really understand why it’s necessary to curse.  Anyway, I have been unable to concentrate enough time WORTHY OF MY FANS on the penis project.  My depression kicked in this morning around 9:00, I have a cold, my bowel is blocked (this is the same bowel as we discussed in LITTLE SHORT).  Call it a literal “kink in my colon”.  And my back is sore.  And I have a head cold.

Unti I rid myself of at least one or two of these maladies my effectiveness as a teller of the SMOKING PENIS tale is severely compromised.

Thank you for the cards, letters, telegrams, money, cookies and candy, half-off coupons to a wide variety of restaurants.  Believe it or not, somebody actually sent me a brand new automobile!  Just a tiny baby Ford.  Mother said I shouldn’t accept it, but I am!

Better go beddie now!

Little Short

I have been blubbery over the last 2 or 3 days over that ugly old beat up arthritic senile schizoid sociopathic murderer 2011 falling into an open grave and cutting his own throat with his scythe.  Oh, how I hated that apparition: sickening eyes glowing green and orange and his mangy two-legged dog hanging from his white and yellow hair.  Death and garbage is all that man is about.

Who has taken his place?  A baby with open sores covering his tiny body.  His eyes are missing – anybody find them yet?  How tragic!  His ears look like earthworms that spent too long in the sun.  His IQ dances around the 30 point line and his little green spine doen’t fuse properly.

I ran into talked old-timer today while walking my ferret, an old hand at this and he informed me about how abysmal the quality of New Year’s babies has become lately.  “We’ll might have to switch over to chimps”, he bleated.

Yesterday was Sunday so today I must create a new bowel movement.  As I said when I, as best man, proposed a toast at my brother’s wedding, I have scheduled my bowels after much pleading and tears from both sides to perform every other day or 182 days a year.  I don’t give a damn about quantity, quality, safety or any other issue.  Just come out with or without a song and disappear.  By the way, the wedding guests fell over themselves giving me my 131st lifetime standing ovation.

My Latest Band — SMOKING PENIS, Part I

This great band blends German Country Musik with Delta Tub-Thumping sex attacks to create a sound that leads most listeners to massive headaches and spontaneous diarrhea.  So why is this band my favorite despite its odd effect on human health?  Excuse me, I have the sniffles so hold on while I wipe the snot off my nose.

You can do without these “details”?  So could I.   Call my aesthetics “stark realism” or “gross writing” or “pig droppings”.  This hurts but I care; I care: Ooooo, do I care!  But I shall never show it.  Stew will bubble in my gut but wait for the spectacle of suicide at the Super Bowl on the 50 yard line!

Back to Smoking Penis.  The band consists of 11 musicians, a dancer, a comedian, 5 actors, a plumber and a corpse (usually my gramps).  All rappers are shot.  Mimes are castrated then shot.  Politicians are welcomed then degraded then shot.  Or is it shot then degraded?  I need to consult the manual.

No recording studio will allow them inside its building.  Generally, Gramps is the restrictive factor.  He is the band’s lyricist so the the studio people says he must stay in the hearse because he doesn’t play an instrument.  This not acceptable.  I personally informed Rolling Stone about this injustice and they were sweet enough to send us a card.

My career in rock’n roll spans seven continents, 23 time zones and 16 planets.  To complete the time-space construct, the “Career” has bounced around seven or eight centuries.  I played saxophone for JS Bach.  He could burn down every Lutheran organist in Germany, but what an asshole!  I heard he smacked around his wife.

Sooner or later, around World War I, I decided to shuck this beautiful music bullshit.  Why can’t music be ugly?  The war taught us how grotesque the human body looks after a mustard gas attack, or how hand grenade can blow away most of a man’s face but leave his jaw.  Ugliness needs to be heard, thus I founded the Stark Realism Movement.

Good night.  I’ll post Part II in the future.