New Series: People to whom I owe debts of gratitude:

No, not Ilya Kuryakin, but around the same time as The Man From Uncle came out, a thin, tall fellow named David Silver who looked for all the world like a young Ilya crossed with super nerd (pocket protector and extreme far away look) was "kept back" into my sixth grade class.

He always sat in the back and remained somewhat aloof, although he would display a very satisfyingly weird but funny sense of humor from time to time. And although he had been "kept back", it seemed the general impression of him was more one of "weird" then the expected stupid. He was weird in that he was more inward then the rest of us, but not creepy, or at least to my finding.

As I was also a borderline "weirdo" taken to angry emotional blasts, organizing student strikes, the class muso (violin and choir) and not really being accepted into the A list, I found myself sometimes stuck out with no one but him to relate to. My family at the time, was flying off the centrifuge into atomic dispersal and I was forging my own way with a strong will towards getting out of it. This could be seen in my 8th grade (1966) science fair project being on the joys of lysergic-acid diethylamide!

Dave invited me over his house, which was a good size wooden frame, first quarter 20th century house on a far side of town (how his father rangled him into our district is a question I have never pondered before). His father taught at MIT and was never around in my experience. I do not remember a mother figure at all. In a large room up under the eaves of the house was his father's, and by extension David's, lab! WOW! This is 1965-66 mind you, but there was a REAL computer terminal, on line to some computer at MIT! There were also all sorts of electronics and a very good hi-fi. Pig heaven to a guy like me. On a week end night, we might smoke a joint and relax. Now David's idea of relaxing was to try and write a program that would determine if a number was prime or not (and this was a guy who was "kept back"). This was not my cup of tea, but I would bathe in the sound of "The Blues Magoos", "The Count Five" or whatever cool records I stole from my big sister that week on the hi-fi, while Dave silently poured over his computer printouts, breaking into excitement every ten minutes. Really cool :-)!

Here is how history records Dave at the time:

By 1966, when David Silver took his first elevator ride to the ninth floor of Tech Square, the AI lab was a showcase community, working under the hallowed precepts of the Hacker Ethic. After a big Chinese dinner, the hackers would go at it until dawn, congregating around the PDP-6 to do what was most important in the world to them. They would waddle back and forth with their printouts and their manuals, kibitzing around whoever was using the terminal at that time, appreciating the flair with which the programmer wrote his code. Obviously, the key to the lab was cooperation and a joint belief in the mission of hacking. These people were passionately involved in technology, and as soon as he saw them David Silver wanted to spend all his time there.

David Silver was fourteen years old. He was in the sixth grade, having been left back twice. He could hardly read. His classmates often taunted him. Later, people would reflect that his problem had been dyslexia; Silver would simply say that he "wasn't interested" in the teachers, the students, or anything that went on in school. He was interested in building systems.

From the time he was six or so, he had been going regularly to Eli Heffron's junkyard in Cambridge (where TMRC hackers also scavenged) and recovering all sorts of fascinating things. Once, when he was around ten, he came back with a radar dish, tore it apart, and rebuilt it so that it could pick up sounds--he rigged it as a parabolic reflector, stuck in a microphone, and was able to pick up conversations thousands of feet away. Mostly he used to listen to faraway cars, or birds, or insects. He also built a lot of audio equipment, and dabbled in time-lapse photography. Then he got interested in computers.

David, noticing my interest in music, brought me over to the student radio station at MIT (at that time WTBS, now WMBR). He, being a "child" of MIT, knew the place and its attractions like the childhood playground it had been. He had grown out of radio, pop music and the like, but he left me there to get my FCC radio engineer's license by 14 years of age. I slept on the floor of the record library, typing file cards for the library, taking request phone calls and pulling/delivering them to the DJ (along with another young "townie" named David Massey) to earn my right to hang about. Soon I had my own radio show and produced and engineered many others. All of this changed my life in a complete way, and I send out a great cosmic thanks to "Dave Silver" wherever he may be. He also turned me on to the tech model railway society, but that is an altogether other kettle of fish. (I still know that hand made console in the picture in my sleep. That may be Sasse John "ten thumbs" in the photo. I remember when we got those new tone arms. Notice the tall .05 Coke, ice cold from the machine. MIT was Coke powered, and ashtrays were often full.)

Indeed, there would be a whole slew of patient and wonderful, accidental teachers who were there at WTBS who all deserve a great thanks from me.

The last time I saw Dave (that I remember) was in the hall of the High School, he had just come from the office where he had officially dropped out. I, being of a middling intelligence and unable to fathom Dave's real life, and basically a bourgeois prude to be, was worried for his future.

It seems David Silver is a very common name, the best I can make from this here 'net is that after wowing everyone as a teenage hacker, he made a name for himself in robotics with the invention of the "Silver Arm" pictured at right, in 1974. After that I loose him in a noise of David Silvers. I wish him the best.

Eminent Domain

Once again I find myself at odds with both the left and right on the recent Supreme Court ruling about eminent domain in Connecticut.

The left are aghast as they see this as playing into the hands of big business (such as Wal-Mart) and the right are trumpeting this decision as proof of the liberal commies dominating the court and thusly making it more then reasonable that they might expect to put Atilla the Hun on the court come replacement time.

I was brought up that one should gladly give up one's sentimental property (as everyone is guaranteed "market rate" reimbursement for actual property) for the good of the many. It is not always nice, it may seem unfair ("why meeeeeee") but I am the sort to believe it may well be a privilege. Maybe they should spice up the pot a bit by paying more then "market rate", as an honest read of the "market".

Oh silly me, but it does make "local" elections much more important then some people have heretofore thought.

A great example....

.... of the wrong type of musical recording for the job. I watched this western today, called The Unforgiven (1960). What was not to like, John Huston, Burt Lancaster, and most strangely Audrey Hepburn (whom I've always found the hottest, but in this film it just did not work)? Lots of good performances admist some not to good (Ms. Hepburn just comes off all wrong), some wonderful photography and production design. Yet... it just doesn't gel, maybe why Huston was never proud of it.

But most interesting was Dimitri Tiomkin's score. Once again, some good bits but all in all not one of his better westerns (for which he is known). But the score was recorded in Rome, and obviously in a concert hall. The music carries the hall with it onto the open prairie. Maybe it is just my sensitivities, but it is amazing how a room meant for the live performance of music can have such an imprint onto the sound, making it as plain as can be in an unnatural setting such as a film, and just wrong. I once had a slightly less obvious problem. I had to record a music library for a television series, with an Orchestra in Lithuania. Although the smaller orchestral music we recorded in a proper "sound" studio with the expected controllable effect, the larger groups 60-80 piece stuff we did in the big hall in Vilnius. It always carried a bit of that sound with it.

A walk in the June gloom...

... brought some serenity back. Passing through an alley of forty foot queen palms, foxtail agaves (always making me think of a natural microwave uplink dish to the stars) and Mexican purple sage at their base. The ocean seemed subdued and grey under the low cloud cover.

After the bloom of spring has fallen, and the steady heat of summer comes, the wild fennel takes over. It had just about flowered this week, but a city gardening crew came through and wacked most of it, but leaving their bases. This has greatly amplified the smell of licorice wafting in the air, all mixed up with eucaluyptus and sage. Salted by the air.


The ground squirrels are running rampant, and although cute as the dickens,the city has taken up a policy of poisoning them as they burrow through the cliff causing collapse. This is very valuable real estate, can't have these varmints messin' with it. There are a goodly lot of feral cats living here abouts (all breeds, there is something very interesting about a feral Siamese cat). I would think they would have a wonderful time on the squirrels, but now I worry about the poison being passed down. This is a scaled down war discussion in these local parts. Seems it's the same everywhere, kill, kill. Eat and be eaten.

The fog had burned off by the end of my walk, in more ways then one.

A dear friend wrote...

... an interesting and intelligent response to a private emailing I did about this
(he is a regular visitor, albeit a shy commenter). I found myself back in the daily philosophical frame of mind, weighing, thinking etc. Then I remembered, oh yeah, PEOPLE ARE DYING-DEAD while we discuss the finer points. There is nothing else to discuss. The killing must end must stop, NOW! There is nothing else to ponder until the KILLING STOPS! Sorry to appear such a simpleton, but..... PEOPLE ARE DYING ON MY DIME! That has to take a huge precedence before anything else. These people dying will not get up tomorrow to discuss these finer points. I do not care what the Supreme Court does, I don't care what the Christian right, the commie left or who Tom Cruise likes, PEOPLE ARE FUCKING DYING.

STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP
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Stop !

"Hey Kids, What Time Is It?"

It's Howdy Doody time,
It's Howdy Doody time,
Bob Smith and Howdy Doo
Say Howdy Doo to you.

Lets give a rousing cheer,
'Cause Howdy Doody's here.
It's time to start the show,
So kids, let's go!

You have to be a 'mercan of a certain age to recognize that. My family finally got a small black and white television when I was around five, my mother had won it at the local supermarket. But a few months later, my father came home from work and dismayed at his children's rapt attention on the device, took the beast and threw it out in the street, never to return. I only have a dim memory of Howdy and Clarabell, although the theme song has lasted through fifty years.

I am not unfond of the "children's" genre. Blowing my own horn, I produced this album with Cheech Marin back in the early nineties, and had great fun pitching the humor at children (I'd say buy some now, but Lou Adler, who executive produced, takes his greatest pride in not ever paying royalties until the other party is dead broke from legal fees (Hollywood baby) besides it is getting rare).

If I remember right, Howdy was a bit of a blowhard. As a matter of fact most of us humans can blow pretty hard at any given time, and aging seems to inspire greater production of hot air. This to lead up to a little poke at a world class blowhard named Jim Kunstler (of Clusterfuck Nation). A man who is as silly as his tie. Having come up with a pretty damn good name for his blog, he holds forth to great admiration. Okay, he severly badmouths Los Angeles (where I happen to live) in a recent blog, but his sheer nothingness in his argument just goes on to help one see how completely specious all his arguments are. What a blow hard.

LA IS a horrid big place, but for all sorts of reasons he doesn't even take the time to care about. His sole argument is about the CARS, and oil is his big selling stuff these days. But there is nothing wrong with LA that isn't wrong through out the rest of the country. I know I travel alot, although I do not venture to the south and avoid Texas and Florida like the plague they are.

I am fulfilling a duty of feeding my neighbors cat while they are away (this will tie up). They are the loveliest people whose own sense of duty has allowed me great freedom in travel these many years. While visiting tonight, I put on their own TV (I having followed my father's lead in my own house) while I hung about to give (the otherwise disinterested cat) a little human company. One hundred channels of childish twaddle. Even the so called "educational" stuff was aimed at the five year old. I will admit the spectacle of professional wrestling, with its equal opportunity idiocy was almost fun for a moment. I loved that these big stupid jerks came in different races and guises (an ersatz Arab) with out that being a source of ridicule. But com' on folks, this was sheer idiocy. The relaxed state of the childish fun (on CNBC some guy named Jim Cramer made some kind of comedy out of investment discussion?) felt like when I was five with my kid brother. It is comforting, "everyone is stupid like me", but it is completely vacuous and inane. And this runs right across the country, idiots can't wait to get home from work to watch this shit. It was uncanny in its terribleness. I looked everywhere! Oh fuckin well.

Hell In The Pacific

No things are fine, here on the left coast (no matter what I think). Just watched a wonderful film. Hell In The Pacific (1968) by John Boorman and starring Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune. I think I have heretofore, missed it. A really great score by Lalo Schifrin, is really important as there is almost no dialogue in the film. Mostly the occassional grunt and yell. The sound work is very pointed as well, tasteful use of delay for those times.

It is hard to imagine such a film coming from the likes of ABC etc.

It could just be...

.... that those fun lovin' chumpsters, AKA Democrats, are being played for the biggest fools on this Bolton to the UN biz.One of the simplest ploys, of course, is to present something completely ridiculous and to stick to that position, until the absolute last moment.

So I would not be surprised if finally, Bush comes up with someone, if possible, equally repugnant (but seen as having less obvious problems then Bolton), such as an Elliot Abrams (truly despicable, dangerous asshole). Then it would be impossible for the Dems to say no without appearing poorly indeed, even "obstructionist" (don't you just hate people who get in your way?).

They might be walking right into it.

Hey! For the truly sick and weird, a birthday or anniversary even, you can buy this real cute "autographed" photo (of afore mentioned asshole Abrams) here.

An island in the river....

I have spent some time, living/working near this island that is no more (Ill Seguin). First there is an island, then there is no island, then there is (which is the apparent state of the plans for it now). In this huge plant, thousands of men were employed to build, perhaps, millions of Renaults. I have written about this factory several times, an imposing, hulking, mystical presence. Home of Vulcan, banging out the machines that who knows how many frenchmen were conceived in. It is gone now. On the right bank (left) there used to be other factories, movie studios and who knows what, Further down the left bank was home of Citroen. They have all moved far from Paris.

Joey Harrison always has some nice photos from our US rustbelt. Same forlorn state. Echoes of heavy machinery. The old Packard plant ( I remember Packards about still, when I was young) is very sad. Packards were pretty snazzy in their day.

I am very embarrassed at my strange nostalgia, or possible identification with these places. But I am fascinated.

Every once and awhile...

... while farting around on the net when I should be working, I link in to a real !!!WOW!!!. As I am trying to limit myself (somewhat unsuccesfully) from the political horrors of our time, I am happiest visiting the daily goings on in the "not" Nolte household, so domestic, and somehow familiar. Even the Madame, who shoots poetry out like razors when she is angry, has been a bit angry lately.

But through Harry, who has been the source of so much !!!WOW!!!, I linked into this, "An open letter to the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan – on loyalty", maybe the single best discussion of the war I have yet scene. A new hero to me, one Stan Goff, whose blog "Feral Scholar" this is on. Do go and read it, you will be happy (or not).

Oh-oh, here I go again.

There is a bit of a familiar panic about NPR's funding (Nation Public Radio-the supposed, almost BBC like thing we Yanks have). Although they have been crying wolf about this for many years, this time it appears somewhat perilously close to happening.

This is where I will probably run afoul of most of my friends, I feel that NPR and all it's affiliated stations have become such corrupt institutions, a mere wraith of its original state, that they should have the stake driven through its heart. Ever since the camel's nose got in the tent, with corporate sponsorship, they have drifted firmly into the same ersatz middle brow so much of the US's media pretend to. They can feel completely comfortable having all sides of an argument covered with just one fellow from the Hoover Institute and one from the American Enterprise Institute (who have someone interviewed on NPR at least three times a day now).

Here is the Hoover's "mission statement". Their own emphasis.

"This Institution supports the Constitution of the United States, its Bill of Rights and its method of representative government. Both our social and economic systems are based on private enterprise from which springs initiative and ingenuity.... Ours is a system where the Federal Government should undertake no governmental, social or economic action, except where local government, or the people, cannot undertake it for themselves.... The overall mission of this Institution is, from its records, to recall the voice of experience against the making of war, and by the study of these records and their publication, to recall man's endeavors to make and preserve peace, and to sustain for America the safeguards of the American way of life. This Institution is not, and must not be, a mere library. But with these purposes as its goal, the Institution itself must constantly and dynamically point the road to peace, to personal freedom, and to the safeguards of the American system."

Yup, from these loins spat Condi Rice.

Then there is The American Enterprise Institute (shudder),

The American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research is dedicated to preserving and strengthening the foundations of freedom--limited government, private enterprise, vital cultural and political institutions, and a strong foreign policy and national defense--through scholarly research, open debate, and publications. Founded in 1943 and located in Washington, D.C., AEI is one of America's largest and most respected "think tanks."

As someone who worked as a volunteer (FCC licensed radio engineer) for many years in public radio, back in the sixties-seventies, I would say the abundance of resources has not brought better "public" radio. Take the money out of the equation and a lot of the idiots will leave. I would hope that a grass roots radio movement might re-grow, maybe on the somewhat still languishing AM dial (medium wave) as the citizenry and its representatives have completely forgotten about the concept of the "people's" ownership of the air waves.

Unfortunately, Pacifica, the only real alternative, are completely lost as to the medium. As honorable as their intents may be, their complete lack of understanding of the power of radio, and inability and/or unwillingness to harness it, makes them a very sad joke.

Maybe it is time for pirate radio, again.

"hate paying for tv?"

... from one Jesse S. Scofield.

For a while, last year, I became fascinated with the huge choir of voices haranguing me to go in on a deal with them (what is referred to as 419 scams) that came as email. A pathetic litany of stories, sent as a perverted messages in hundreds of bottles. I toyed with fashioning some kind of libretto out of them, setting them to music. But on further pondering it struck me that the entire message was "money,send me money, I want money, I need money, I need more money or I am afraid I will die" (and Berry Gordy has already done that one quite nicely, thank you). The song of survival, the same song an amoeba sings. The one song of all time from biologically active creatures.

This year it has become pure junk mail. All selling pharmaceuticals (as if the drug companies are not doing enough of that), sex, stolen things for free or cheap such as pirated music/movies/software and other quick, feel good, "get out of jail free" cards. I get over fifty a day, the majority being weeded out by software. But a few slip through and need to be junked by me, manually ("money,send me money, I want money, I need money, I need more money or I am afraid I will die").

This coming Wednesday, there is to be a public meeting held in my local. The phone company wishes to convince us that the cell phone antennae tower they want to build across the road from me will make my life better "money,send me money, I want money, I need money, I need more money or I am afraid I will die".

I find myself in a kerfuffle (maybe ruffling some feathers) over a bit of "comment" spewing I practiced a day or two ago. It was some venting on my part, about the "rap" "artist" Snoop Doggy Dog. Like most other rappers, I find his sole rap is "mo' shnizzle,send me shnizzle, I want shnizzle, I need shinnzle, I need mo' shnizzle or I am fo' shnizzle to fizzle".

I ask my black, yellow, brown and white sisters and brothers, is there any other song? Should we consider the possibility of singing, writing, advertising, painting, drawing, photographing etc. etc., any other song? Is this all we are here to do? It could be, I am just wondering.... after all.

I do not have a TV other then as a monitor (tape/DVD). I hate paying for tv through advertising costs, through the atrophied minds of my fellow humans, and basically, I can't afford a TV because I must have money,send me money, I want money, I need money, I need more money or I am afraid I will die.

"please confirm everything" (sic)

... was the title of an email junk mail. More of a prayer it seems to me, from the erstwhile "roxie torres".

Yeah, yeah, yeah, the place is rockin' and a rollin'. We've had a flurry of earth quakes in these parts. Todays 4.9 near San Bernardino had me hanging on to my desk as the Aeron chair did a little roll around, and that is 75 miles away!

Got me up and out, topping up the fuel tank, battaning down the hatches, jus' cause sometimes these are... FORESHOCKS!!! ie. something much bigger comes along.

Now it is off to my daily walk along the cliff, with a little extra spring in my step!

Hometown Gov' takes a lickin'.....

.... but he don't care he will just keep on ticking. The terminator he is, he won't be stopped, although he did seem a bit conflicted when confronted with almost half a graduating class and faculty booing him as he gave the commencement speech. He studied (conspicuously absent from his credits was "graduated from") here at Santa Monica College (community). I was made proud by the protesters, as I ate my dinner listening to the live radio broadcast.

As a long time resident of this burg, I have rubbed elbows with the Austrian Oak at various social circumstance. He is a reasonably nice guy/bully. One comes away thinking "what a nice guy" only to realize at some later time that the reason you thought he was nice was that he didn't actually kill you.

When I moved here twenty-five years ago, what Raymond Chandler had referred to as Bay City was a sleepy Californian beach suburb. It had a long history as a retirement center, and of a conservative bent. This is partially due to the large presence of The Rand Corp (da-da-da-dum, dark and evil, the original military think tank famous for engineering all that was most despicable of the US's policy in Vietnam). But the battle of rent control that started in 1978 started a city government referred to by the commie haters as "The People's Republic of Santa Monica".

Ronnie Reagan, who was (at the time of his 1980 election) from just next door in Pacific Palisades, also was soundly booed here.

In anycase, I had a good walk with the resulting endorphin bump. The marine layer produced dark and stormy clouds at around a thousand feet. These limited visabilty to about ten miles, but the sea was gentle with big, good surfing, swells. I read in the paper today, the water is about mid sixties (farenheit). The clouds come to a stop a few miles inland. I had to venture to the much hotter and harshly sunny San Fernando valley earlier (five miles over the Santa Monica mountains), and once again I was so glad I live at the beach

I am a bit surprised....

.... at my immediate happiness, my completely unexpected "yes!" on the news of Michael Jackson's acquittal. I have kept no opinion on his innocence/guilt, and accept his day in court as proof. His accusers were so distasteful in many ways, I am glad to see this modern day Frankenstein's monster, this very strange entity be allowed to retreat back to his eccentric reclusion.

I am happier still, over the re-emergence of Mike Golby, whose blog was such a great inspiration in my first stumblings into this bloggo-world, now still not a year ago. It seemed he was quiet for a long time, but that is how time is in bloggo-land, a bit untrustworthy. Myself, with any luck, will be too busy for much this summer myself.

I have been trying to move forward in my work, through a shining, beautiful air that is summer. And yet it holds and clings to me, slowing me down to a crawl, words in sloooooo-mooooooo. My emotional self crumbles as my body responds beautifully, once again, to the ministrations of the exercise I was built for (a big lad). I live in complete faith of the universe, whether one chooses to call it god or what, that is up to ourselves.

No I am not....

.... ranting. I am too tired and don't care enough to rant. I am calmly uttering the truth (as I perceive it) when I repeat my claim the US is a nation of willfully ignorant and dangerously greedy. The UK is close behind.

If you look in this week's Economist, whose factual reporting is almost as strong as their analysis is weak (they are "economists" after all), you will notice the amount of money owed by the US and UK (current account deficit and budgetary deficits) are whole orders of magnitude larger then anyone else. So you have a fat cat US and a pudgy cat (UK) driving big snazzy automobiles, bought on credit, telling the world they are idiots and they should listen to how they do it. (cautionary tale: The Three Little Pigs, the pigs with the straw houses are telling the others how they should be doing it).

I receive the Economist every Friday in the mail, and have for over a decade. I know how bad their ability to predict is. It is about even with the astrologer in the LA Weekly. But they also love to tell countries/people what to do. They and their sister company, the Financial Times are two main mouthpieces (with the WSJ) of the asshole class.

I am now, as cynical about the world as ever. I remember hearing a story, someone talking to a holy man about the holy man's theory that the universe rested on the back of a giant turtle. The man, thinking he has the holy guy by the short and curlies exclaims "Aha! So what is the turtle standing on, huh? Huh? Tell me THAT Mr. Oh So Holy". The Holy Man calmly replies, "oh, from there it is turtles on down".

I was brought up to believe that people, and institutions are good, and want to do right, will do right in almost every situation. Our teaching stories passed down from generation to generation as manifested in popular culture (movies etc.) show us how good always wins out, that most will do the right thing, and that great men are always great. To that I say it is turtles on down.

Beware the suit, the office, the oh so humble display of success. The conservative is usually someone over compensating for an innate weakness.

Unfortunately, this way of life is deepening its grip. A daily radio show called "The World", that had once been a collaboration between the BBC and the Christian Science Monitor ( a reliable newspaper) has lost its footing when the Monitor left to be replaced by the likes of Merck and the Economist. Out went Tony Kahn, its intelligent anchor. Out went any sense of purpose other then to front the asshole class's interest. Today there was an especially irritating bit of business in a description of the goings on in Bolivia, and why we really shouldn't like these terrible pinko leftists. The almost hysterical British reporter (and there is nothing more ass kissing then a Brit asskissing, they have centuries of institutional experience), in breathlessly enumerating the terrible things that these stupid peasants want (the poor sods, no economic training, what could they know if they were not so led astray). Why the fucks demand, YES!, demand so much as to leave the poor suffering corporations "almost unprofitable"!!!!! Damn that's tough! Why,that would mean they would only be.... profitable! You see, unless the poor down trodden corporations can make RIDICULOUS money (after all, they need to make ridiculous money to cover for the poor management), it is completely wrong and unfair! Fucking peasants with those stupid Andean hats! And worse still, it appears these idiot peasants might actually have a certain regard for that desperate murderous dictator, Hugo Chavez (who must have some WMD somewhere, no?). Don't they know he eats children for breakfast and wants to allow homosexual marriage! KILLLEM!!!KILLLEMMMM!!!KILLL the EVIL PINKO, LEFTY BASTARDS NOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!

Do you think I am being dramatic? The last century and more is littered with the dead evil, pinko, lefty bastards killed en mass by wiser humans, who inbetween killings have fun seeing just how much of all that is wrong with the world they can pin on Stalin. Read your history (no that doesn't mean watch the History channel). Do you want me to post photos of all the dead lefty pinkos? More piles of dead human bodies we have become so used to seeing. Jews, lefties, Tutsis, arms, legs sticking out hither and yon, forlorn shoes looking lonely for livelier times. It's all the same, bulldoze them under like Palestinian homes. But the roll call of murdured lefties is almost never read. Is it worse to kill a lot of people at once, or a lot of people in many different times? Do the asshole class think they will finally bulldoze the idea of a better humanity under? Today it seems like they might. But it is your children who will live in that world, I don't care.

Very few come here, so I can say these things safely........

;-)

Almost makes me laugh, how's about you?

The fact that .....

.... my "old" blog gets twice as many visitors some days, nay, does not discourage me, for I walk through the Palisades Park of Life. I even (in my strange power walking gate) get to saunter by the end/beginning of Route 66 (depending how.... ) on my way to the pier and back.

I have taken to some coaching by, Santa Monica Track Club (home of Carl Lewis etc.) veteran, Jerry. Jerry, a life long marathoner now in his eighth decade, hangs around offering free coaching to those wise enough to take him up on it. I do.

I wore "Jacks" as my main, daily (not athletic), footware from the time of high school, for maybe thirty years. Jack Purcell was a world badminton champion, which seemed about my speed. They disappeared from stores circa five years ago. Now I have found a source, yippee!

And now, as this is turning into a serious potpouri, and I made a fine vegi aloo tonight if I do say so myself, a friend has sent this along (young Spike of Wandsworth, thank you Spike). A fellow student at my uni named Kama, she lives blocks from my old pad! She is a Devadasi. Damn! And I kind of like her blog, but men, may I suggest checking out her web page! It is linkable from her blog.

Had a nice chat with Madame L today. One of things we discussed was the state of the feminine blogosphere. Well, I submit Kama as a certain type of feminin blogger.

I hide out....

... in some kind of emotional snit. Too many things, in my world, are not how I want, are not what I want. Translated it amounts to one big waaaaah! waaaaah! waaaaaah! Weather is clement, I have started an exercise regiment that leaves me, some times, exhilarated, and other times exhausted.

I have retired, this evening to a movie. The Last Valley (1971), a bit ham fisted, and far from John Barry's best themes. It is as though he tried to add too much medievalism, although the movie is set during the thirty years war. Nowhere near as good a score as The Lion In Winter of a few years before. But an hour in, it is improving. Michael Caine is better then his surroundings as usual. I like his would be Arnold accent (years before Arnold left his mountains and found his road to government). The politics and simplistic "lessons" are close on to 1970's tv, from which James Clavell sprung. Little house in the valley. Anything with old character actor Arthur O'Connell immediately becomes television somehow. He makes a very poor German.

In anycase, it keeps my restlessness, my irritability, my discontent on a dull boil until sleep (in hopes of a brighter awakening).

Smells like summer....

.... although "June Gloom" has replaced "May Gray", it started burning off early today (Beware! dangerdanger! Truly mundane to be found just ahead).

I went out into my local with a long list of things to get done. Voila, a parking spot in front of the local barber, and although I had been letting it grow (almost six months) and inspite of my ex-girlfriends bad dream that I had let some woman cut my hair, I let some woman cut my hair. She and I were the only ones in this old place, the quiet sound of the occasional car wafting by the front door. I almost fell asleep. Bzzzzzzzzzzz, Bzzzzzzzz. A radio playing rancheras or some kind of latin American music tickled far away (I think she was Peruvian). I walked out in a much more "presentable" state.


As long as I was parked I walked to the bank, and then stopped into a bath/soap place, called Palmetto. There is a hedonist side of me in the shower, lots of hot water and a good soap can make my day. But although the usual, Magno soap is my sense of home, sometimes I like to change up with a pine, sandalwood or lemon type of thing. So I picked up a couple of "surprise" bars (amazing what one has to do for kicks when you have stopped drinking and smoking).

The warmth of the sun, and the now, weeks since there has been rain, the dust is building up, the flowering mountains of bougainvillia and jacaranda trees are looking a bit thread bare and tired. Piles of wilting leaves around their bases.

Two blocks up, this fool and his money were easily parted (which makes me think of John Ford's The Informer (1935) which I watched last night). Any cleaners whose frontage and signage is of such taste and "exclusive"-ness, well they do, do the best job on my good suit. I laughed to pay $55.75 for a suit being cleaned. Maybe it hung next to some movie stars rags (living vicariously?).

Like I said.... MUN (fuckin') DANE!
And this was just the start, there was lunch and several other stops (the original errands) on the way. All because of an open parking space!

Oh no...

... I don't like Mondays. The littlest things are pushing my buttons. I would blast off here, but instead, to make the psychologists happy, I will... disingenously, personalize my comments.

Listen up!

1. I am SICK & TIRED of my (idiotic) belief in symbols and will stop doing so this instant.
2. Nothing MEANS shit, there is only what is. To react or respond to a SYMBOL is as idiotic as to believe a holy ghost impregnated a virgin, and here COMES Santa Claus.
3. I will stop parading my fears as assets!!! I will not foam all righteously indignant when some one/thing frightens ME! I will not make YOU pay for MY fears. I will not seek to enshrine MY fears in legislation.
   
4. And yet, I will be tolerant of myself, allowing all transgressions of the above making everything including WHAT IS, finally, meaningless.
5. But, I will remember to be myself, and, have fun kids.

(harrumph)

Am I the only one....

... or am I just stupid enough to find this fun for a moment.

Here is some examples of its dirty work;

As wiv any scholarly publication, healffy, ronick chats are encouraged. However, right, we ask that yer refrain from ad 'ominem attacks and naughty language. The editors reserve the bleedin' right ter edit or delete any comment or trackback that violates these rules.

Es veet uny schulerly poobleeceshun, heelthy, ruboost deescoossiuns ere-a incuooreged. Bork bork bork! Hooefer, ve-a esk thet yuoo reffreeen frum ed humeenem ettecks und pruffuneety. Bork bork bork! Zee ideeturs reserfe-a zee reeght tu ideet oor delete-a uny cumment oor treckbeck thet feeuletes zeese-a rooles. Um gesh dee bork, bork!

As wif any schowawwy pubwication, heawthy, wobust discussions awe encouwaged. Howevew, we ask that you wefwain fwom ad hominem attacks and pwofanity. De editows wesewve the wight to edit ow dewete any comment ow twackback that viowates these wuwes. Oh, dat scwewy wabbit!

This is fun for a moment as well.

An open mind has saved my life!

He has suggested I go here if desperate, I have gone there.

Look for me in the park, here.

Thank you, open mind!

The other night.....

("as I lay sleeping" oops, get out of here Mr. Charles)

... driving to the opera with friend, he had the radio tuned to his favorite "AirAmerica". I got to hear some of both, Franken and this Robynn person. I, uh, don't get it. I don't care wether I agree with the premise of the person yelling "CACA POOPOO", I am too old to listen to "CACA POOPOO" for more then three minutes.

Thank God Harry, and his crew, have appropriately lambasted it!

EuroYank has a large essay on Europe (that Europe problem). I am so sick of how the two true assholes/idiots of the world (USA/UK) keep jumping up and down screaming CRISIS!CRISIS!CRISIS! Shut up, sit down, thank you for sharing. I am more and more convinced we are seeing the the last gasp of civilization before capitalism takes it down. When those with two cars and three tv's are getting their possessions rammed up their ass by someone with one car and two tv's I am really going to laugh! Watch EVERY fuckin' BODY get ooh sooo spiritual in the next five to ten. Ashrams, now there will be a good business! No facials with the blood of extinct animals, instead cold gruel, daily whippings!

Now back to food, I don't care anymore.

A little bit nuts...

.... today, all this blogging. I must be wanting to communicate SOMETHING.

I am avoiding politics. It is such hell now, the world is insane, everyone seems to bullet point the same old insanities over and over. I don't care anymore. Don't tell me its crazy, I just want to scream and get off the pot already. Tell me when it is over.

I made a pasta with a simple garlic, black olives, capers sauce with fresh parsley. A small watercress and tomatoes salad, lots of fresh parmagiano cheese over it all. San Pellogrino, the lemon slice sending a freshness up my nose I settled down to La Commare Secca, made by a 21 year old Bertolucci. My first viewing, I loved it. What a precocious young director.

I have a particular love of Pier Paolo Pasolini's films of this era. He had just made his first film Accatone, on which Bertolucci was assistant (Bertolucci's father, a famous poet, was friends with Pasolini). Pasolini wrote the story of La Commare Secca, and it is shot in the Roman slums along the Tiber that was common in much of his early writing. So what was not for me to love. An added advantage, is that Bertolucci's camera eye is much more modern and moving, whereas, although I love Pasolini's frontal style, it is not as exciting as Bertolucci's always moving camera. A really nice score, filled with interesting, jazzy textures from Piero Piccioni. The double espresso finishes nicely.

Kudos, Big Blue Bus

I know it is considered "crazy" to even consider taking a bus in LA, if you are white and middle class, but I always find it interesting. The last time was on an LA Metro bus which was dirty and irregular and basically HELL. The buses are the largest part, by far, of the LA mass transit system, so this city of millions of immigrants pass through these daily.

But as I delivered my own vehicle to the shop for new brakes today, I had to repair to the bus myself (a big tip of the hat to Zuckett Import Motors who did a great job too quickly, and to Backrow Bob for the suggestion). I walked a long, sun brightened/bleached stretch of Washington Boulevard. Sidewalks of the type used less then frequently, car repair shop after fast food joint. Then I hopped on a bus at the corner of Lincoln. If you saw the movie Speed, you saw the big blue bus. But there are some newer models now. BBBs are operated by the city of Santa Monica. They are $0.75 to ride, including a transfer! Nicely air conditioned, peopled with professional drivers who seem polite and helpful yet firm in maintaining there busdom. Each bus is equipped with a $100K plus ramp system that folds out and allows wheelchairs to come on board. One old guy on a motorized chair, oxygen tank and mask strapped on, drove on as if he does it everyday. The process did add a few minutes to the trip, but all the riders seemed used to these delays, and seemed glad to see someone afflicted doing well.

Good on Santa Monica and our Big Blue Bus, and Zuckett for doing such a good job.

More distraction....

.... but related.

With old friend Priscilla, we wandered over to the Director's Guild for a screening of Opie's new piece of kiss/punch, Cinderella.. Fella.... uh.. no, that was Martin & Lewis. Well something like it. Anyhoo, the big draw was a talk given afterwards by the composer Tom Newman and his music editor.

I will refrain from review, as it will be everywhere. Newman did one of his best (by that I mean most emotionally accurate) scores. Geez, I got to hate him. I think he is the best and the smartest film composer working, and at my age he looks like Tom Cruise. I mean, someone who has not gone substantially grey by his fifties seems... just unnatural?

It was a very revealing discussion, and as one of my ongoing projects is about certain kind of sports cue, this was useful to my work (the film, Cinderella Man (in case you live under a media rock comme moi, is about a boxer). And yet fun, also! And Priscilla is maturing with age (an improvement).

Okay, Okay.....

.... I am trying to get stuff done.... but

Life is sweet, rich in presents. Wednesday evening, my friend's (Roger) wife was not up to the opera, so I once again found myself in a wonderful Orchestra seat, enjoying an opera (twice in two weeks). I am not a huge fan of opera, I can find it sleepy going at times, but exposure over the last five years (maybe ten operas) is developing a taste. This was my second Rosenkavalier, the last one was a much straighter performance in Washington DC. This one had wonderful "Alice In Wonderland" costumes by Gottfried Helnwein, although his sets were minimal at best. Very Hollywood in style, directed by the actor Maximilian Schell, it was lots of fun. Roger aptly described Strauss as a composer with ADD. He winds on and on, but it is all such beautifully orchestrated music you don't mind the ride. I am not one to fall for the soprano type, with a couple of exceptions. Boy, this had an exception. The soprano, Elizabeth Futral, who played the young Sophie, had my jaw having to be repeatedly picked up off my lap, the drool cleaned off my shirt. As she came down the grand staircase, lighted from behind, well, to quote Big Joe T. "I can't believe all of this belongs to you!".

A lovely interlude, but nothing was done as to my work that evening. Thank you Roger.