Show Mercy

Henry VIII marries his fifth wife in tonight’s episode.  She is a long skein of light tweed named Katherine Howard.  Her feet are huge; toes long and thick enough to flatten Akron, Ohio: a city that needs flattening.

A Katherine Howard stood in the back of my life in my version of Akron (OH).   In 1967 I shared this life with the following people who I would name except I fear them lobbing lawsuits at me, but Katherine stalked me.  She showed up quite unexpectedly in the old stone student union of Hiram College, home of the Bookends.  Tight, tight ski pants dug into the skin of her sturdy legs and noble rump.  Her breasts were airplane wings – blow a straight wind across them and she would lift off the ground, a few inches at least.  She didn’t belong here.  She was out-of-context.  I stared at her for a bit; like I said she was out-of-context.  When my brain finally placed her, I looked back me Hiram friends, clad in denim and suede.  They eyed her through the darkness of the room and could see (it was in her their eyes, especially from the eyes of Tim, the folk singer).  The polyester, the acrylic, the remaining shreds of  plastic — the Hiramites knew the girl from Akron was uncool.  “They call the wind Pariah”.

Of course, I about-faced and returned to Tim and the others.  Cowardice is comforting, at first.  The agony and the head spinning comes later along with the attempts to run the Old Clock backwards.  After a while one realizes that nothing good ever comes from following one’s friends.

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The idiot is so stupid that when he dies, he won’t even know he’s dead.

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Freelance Dollars

Preparation: Have plenty of breakfast.  Shoo everyone out the door.  If you are alone, throw a pillow out the door.  Set your music and temperature.  Lock pets in your closet.  You need absolute silence to prevent novel notions to escape the room.

Flip on your computer.  Listen to the grunch of the rolling hard drive, the jingles lasting the length of a thumb.

If you believe you will need a pencil, pick one off the  floor and sharpen it.  Grab a tablet of yellow legal paper while you are at it.

If you foretell a pen in your future, steal one off a friend’s desk or shirt pocket.  Expose the point.

Paper, computer, writing tools and your teeny, tiny brain… you are ready to write!

Write about what?  Oh, just look around you: hummingbirds and chicken hawks, roses and condoms, diamonds and broken teeth.  So much to touch, smell, feel, stick up your butt.  Bring a vast appetite to life — a spoon the size a drained out lake with the dead fish on the lake floor and the dead children drowned in the lake by their parents over the years.  Terrible!  The horror haunts me and makes my cock stand on end.

Sit down, Writer!  Scribe!  I ain’t done you yet.  Grab that bowl, no, the clean one.  I’m gonna pour it full of whiskey make you dead of cancer in an hour.  Chug a Jug, Slug.  Now you’re ready.  Just remember what I just told you and you’ll be ten steps of everybody else.

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.

MY FAVORITE TEACHERS AT REVERE.

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!