I sat down to write the opening rant to my article and this little story tumbled out. I used it instead. I think it's called:
the Curmudgeon: Part 1
The Curmudgeon returns to his porch; hes crusty, full of bile and mustard packets. He wears a scowl that insists that the world crawl off and die. Hes so old, hes not even retro. He buys 30+ year old technology because its cheap, not for its cool-factor, Whatever that is, he mutters irritably; he is pure sloth and malice.
Young, smiling faces make him mean. He scoffs at Health, which left him alone so many years ago. He plays a busted Harmony guitar that has drywall screws holding the neck together. He has to use a pair of vice grips to tune the strings - and to hold down the bridge. He sings his songs of malaise into an ancient Tascam reel to reel and a queer old microphone. The take-up reel has a bit of a swagger and renders the timing and pitch at piquant angles.
In disgust one day - with the process; with himself - he tossed the whole lot into the trash behind his garage. Two delinquent boys found it the next day while they were rummaging about, as bored young boys will do on long, hot summer days. They lugged all of it home, not quite sure what they had, but certain it was a treasure.
With help they figured out how to set-up the recorder, glued down the bridge and found a tuner in the Garageband program on their MacBook. The tapes, with their lopsided lisps, fascinated the boys, who listened to the old mans rambling vitriol with growing curiosity and impish designs.
They grabbed a digital camera and stalked him, staging fake deliveries just to get him to the door for a photo. They took the photos and stylized them so they were unrecognizable. They digitized some of the songs and created a MySpace page, calling him Arnold Pain, and befriended every floozy and wingnut they could find. They never re-visited the page. They were high.
The Old Farts songs became a lo-fi sensation. There were thousands of people listening to them every day, some in horror, some with sheer delight. Friend requests multiplied, record companies sent emails. Sullen songsters quoted him and played his songs. He became a cult phenomenon.
One night the boys liberated a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and set out to destroy the evidence, among other things. They dragged the recording gear to the top of the garage. The first boy heaved the recorder into the air. The other boy waited, cocked back his arms and swung the guitar with precision, meeting the tape-machine exactly 3 feet from the ground, splintering the guitar into so many toothpicks, knobs and wires. Later: mailbox tag took on a new dimension with the aid of the microphone and its XLR cable. The first boys broken arm is healing well, though his pitching days are over.
The Curmudgeon didnt bother to fix his mailbox. Nothing but bills and junk mail, was his acrimonious mutterance. The mail eventually stopped. When the royalty checks eventually came, they were all sent to the Dead Letter Office.
the Curmudgeon: Part 1
The Curmudgeon returns to his porch; hes crusty, full of bile and mustard packets. He wears a scowl that insists that the world crawl off and die. Hes so old, hes not even retro. He buys 30+ year old technology because its cheap, not for its cool-factor, Whatever that is, he mutters irritably; he is pure sloth and malice.
Young, smiling faces make him mean. He scoffs at Health, which left him alone so many years ago. He plays a busted Harmony guitar that has drywall screws holding the neck together. He has to use a pair of vice grips to tune the strings - and to hold down the bridge. He sings his songs of malaise into an ancient Tascam reel to reel and a queer old microphone. The take-up reel has a bit of a swagger and renders the timing and pitch at piquant angles.
In disgust one day - with the process; with himself - he tossed the whole lot into the trash behind his garage. Two delinquent boys found it the next day while they were rummaging about, as bored young boys will do on long, hot summer days. They lugged all of it home, not quite sure what they had, but certain it was a treasure.
With help they figured out how to set-up the recorder, glued down the bridge and found a tuner in the Garageband program on their MacBook. The tapes, with their lopsided lisps, fascinated the boys, who listened to the old mans rambling vitriol with growing curiosity and impish designs.
They grabbed a digital camera and stalked him, staging fake deliveries just to get him to the door for a photo. They took the photos and stylized them so they were unrecognizable. They digitized some of the songs and created a MySpace page, calling him Arnold Pain, and befriended every floozy and wingnut they could find. They never re-visited the page. They were high.
The Old Farts songs became a lo-fi sensation. There were thousands of people listening to them every day, some in horror, some with sheer delight. Friend requests multiplied, record companies sent emails. Sullen songsters quoted him and played his songs. He became a cult phenomenon.
One night the boys liberated a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 and set out to destroy the evidence, among other things. They dragged the recording gear to the top of the garage. The first boy heaved the recorder into the air. The other boy waited, cocked back his arms and swung the guitar with precision, meeting the tape-machine exactly 3 feet from the ground, splintering the guitar into so many toothpicks, knobs and wires. Later: mailbox tag took on a new dimension with the aid of the microphone and its XLR cable. The first boys broken arm is healing well, though his pitching days are over.
The Curmudgeon didnt bother to fix his mailbox. Nothing but bills and junk mail, was his acrimonious mutterance. The mail eventually stopped. When the royalty checks eventually came, they were all sent to the Dead Letter Office.
I just finished a Dec 29, 2008 Sports Illustrated article about Michael Vick's Pit Bulls and what happened with them. After the raid of Vick's Virginia farm, where 51 Pit Bulls were kept, bred, trained and fought, PETA and the U.S. Humane Society both agreed that the dogs were too violent and dangerous and should be put down.
PETA spokesman Dan Shannon is quoted as saying: "The cruelty they've suffered is such that they can't lead what anyone who loves dogs would consider a normal life." It was considered a waste of time and resources to try to rehabilitate these animals.
Luckily, not everyone felt the same way. People from the ASPCA, a group called BAD RAP (Bay Area Doglovers Responsible About Pitbulls) and numerous others gathered together and lobbied the Judge of the case to allow them to evaluate the dogs on a one by one basis.
Of these 51 dogs, all but four dogs were sent to be rehabilitated in foster homes, dog sanctuaries, and family homes. Of the four, only one was put down for being too violent. Two died in the shelter and one was put down due to illness. Several of the dogs are therapy dogs and one is a part of Paws for Tales, a program that helps children read aloud.
Despite the success of the rehabilitation - funded by Vick when he was sentenced, to the tune of almost 1 million dollars - PETA's Shannon remains uncowed: "Some will end up with something resembling a normal life, but the chances are very slim, and it's not a good risk to take."
I don't know what the fuck PETA is supposed to be doing, but I suppose it's easier for them to kill an animal once it's rescued than to actually follow through with the work they are supposed to be promoting. Idealism can suck it.
Here in Colorado:
With her head on my foot, snoring soundly, is Leica, a rescued female Pit Bull from the Athens Co. Dog Shelter. Jesse rescued her from there a couple of years ago. She had been bred and abandoned and was extremely skittish and full of anxieties. The Dog Warden posited that she would likely be put down and not adopted out. Two years later she is possibly the sweetest dog I know. She is the cuddliest, lickin'est dog I have ever met.
The other day while walking Leica, a male of my species - not a man, certainly - was walking with his wife and small daughter. The little girl said "Doggie!" and was delighted to see Leica. The man rushed to get between his daughter and the obvious baby-killing machine we walked and said "No, that's a Pit Bull!" I was appalled and I said, "No, she's a dog." To which he began another round of stupidness, to which I favored him with the two-handed, double finger salute as we walked down the hill. I can only hope for his daughter that she will not grow up to be as ignorant as her dad. The girl was obviously in danger of having her dirty face licked clean.
The SI story can be found here:
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/magazine/12/22/vick.dogs/index.html
Sources cited in the article are:
http://www.aspca.org
http://www.badrap.org
http://www.bestfriends.org
http://www.recycledlove.org
http://www.ourpack.org
Pictures of the adorable Leica can be found in my photo section. Adopt a dog or cat, and as Bob Barker always said - don't forget to spay or neuter your pets!
Athens folks, is your dog the BOMB? The Best of Mixed Breeds? We'll find out soon, maybe this summer. Stay tuned!
I'm back in Athens soon,
- luvbug
PETA spokesman Dan Shannon is quoted as saying: "The cruelty they've suffered is such that they can't lead what anyone who loves dogs would consider a normal life." It was considered a waste of time and resources to try to rehabilitate these animals.
Luckily, not everyone felt the same way. People from the ASPCA, a group called BAD RAP (Bay Area Doglovers Responsible About Pitbulls) and numerous others gathered together and lobbied the Judge of the case to allow them to evaluate the dogs on a one by one basis.
Of these 51 dogs, all but four dogs were sent to be rehabilitated in foster homes, dog sanctuaries, and family homes. Of the four, only one was put down for being too violent. Two died in the shelter and one was put down due to illness. Several of the dogs are therapy dogs and one is a part of Paws for Tales, a program that helps children read aloud.
Despite the success of the rehabilitation - funded by Vick when he was sentenced, to the tune of almost 1 million dollars - PETA's Shannon remains uncowed: "Some will end up with something resembling a normal life, but the chances are very slim, and it's not a good risk to take."
I don't know what the fuck PETA is supposed to be doing, but I suppose it's easier for them to kill an animal once it's rescued than to actually follow through with the work they are supposed to be promoting. Idealism can suck it.
Here in Colorado:
With her head on my foot, snoring soundly, is Leica, a rescued female Pit Bull from the Athens Co. Dog Shelter. Jesse rescued her from there a couple of years ago. She had been bred and abandoned and was extremely skittish and full of anxieties. The Dog Warden posited that she would likely be put down and not adopted out. Two years later she is possibly the sweetest dog I know. She is the cuddliest, lickin'est dog I have ever met.
The other day while walking Leica, a male of my species - not a man, certainly - was walking with his wife and small daughter. The little girl said "Doggie!" and was delighted to see Leica. The man rushed to get between his daughter and the obvious baby-killing machine we walked and said "No, that's a Pit Bull!" I was appalled and I said, "No, she's a dog." To which he began another round of stupidness, to which I favored him with the two-handed, double finger salute as we walked down the hill. I can only hope for his daughter that she will not grow up to be as ignorant as her dad. The girl was obviously in danger of having her dirty face licked clean.
The SI story can be found here:
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2008/magazine/12/22/vick.dogs/index.html
Sources cited in the article are:
http://www.aspca.org
http://www.badrap.org
http://www.bestfriends.org
http://www.recycledlove.org
http://www.ourpack.org
Pictures of the adorable Leica can be found in my photo section. Adopt a dog or cat, and as Bob Barker always said - don't forget to spay or neuter your pets!
Athens folks, is your dog the BOMB? The Best of Mixed Breeds? We'll find out soon, maybe this summer. Stay tuned!
I'm back in Athens soon,
- luvbug
Well, I have finally figured out the whats and wherfores about my winter migration. I will be flying instead of driving to Colorado on January 21. I'll be back in Athens by early March. The downside is I won't be able to take my dog, but he'll be fine without me. It's like going on a long tour.
If anyone has good ideas about Colorado, lemme know. Looking for places to play and people to meet - and snow!
- junebug
If anyone has good ideas about Colorado, lemme know. Looking for places to play and people to meet - and snow!
- junebug
This is something brand new. It came out words, then music, pretty much just like this. The last verse is actually the chorus for the song, but as it also came out last it maintains the integrity of the revelation, if not the meter. I call it:
In your smiles
So magick is this tragic love
that hides behind ten paces;
worrisome looks and miles of sighs,
i mistake the myriad faces.
Successive takes Possessive turns
divining in the dark,
clawing upward through my soul
i leave and bear the mark.
"I'm all tied up," right now you say,
and this i know to be true;
the scent i know a mile away,
i'm crawling back to you.
the shining light nocturnal smiles
the beams, they brighten my days;
with glowing fire, eternal might,
you set my heart ablaze.
why run, why hide from such as this?
the hurt shall never end;
do not hide out; hurt, alone,
seek to absorb your bliss.
Rolling down the highway,
putting back the miles,
if I have things my way,
I'll be in your smiles.
In your smiles
So magick is this tragic love
that hides behind ten paces;
worrisome looks and miles of sighs,
i mistake the myriad faces.
Successive takes Possessive turns
divining in the dark,
clawing upward through my soul
i leave and bear the mark.
"I'm all tied up," right now you say,
and this i know to be true;
the scent i know a mile away,
i'm crawling back to you.
the shining light nocturnal smiles
the beams, they brighten my days;
with glowing fire, eternal might,
you set my heart ablaze.
why run, why hide from such as this?
the hurt shall never end;
do not hide out; hurt, alone,
seek to absorb your bliss.
Rolling down the highway,
putting back the miles,
if I have things my way,
I'll be in your smiles.
Coasting on the high that followed an amazing night of music in the town of Athens by my band the Royales I found myself at the Casa Cantina when this poem stumbled into me. It said:
i am vast
a force of nature
i moved the mountain
and Love flowered in its place
i couldn't have been more pleased.
i stuck my fingers down the throat of desperation
regurgitation my reward
i swallowed whole
the sorrow that besot me
i was not impressed
and it did not fill me
for i am vast.
i am vast
a force of nature
i moved the mountain
and Love flowered in its place
i couldn't have been more pleased.
i stuck my fingers down the throat of desperation
regurgitation my reward
i swallowed whole
the sorrow that besot me
i was not impressed
and it did not fill me
for i am vast.
Each Raw Nerve Exposed to the Chill Wind of Reality
or
How I Spurned to Loathe the Bomb (in Three (sl)Easy Sextions)
I.
"Whoosh," went the dead line, so i hung up the telling foam,
spraying, "I sea"
as my Legos turned to rubber.
My harp jumped into my mouth.
When i Toheed,
er, rather, Swallowed,
It gut struck in my throat,
lodging just bequeath my Adam's Apple (of my pie),
stiff and saluting like Douglas McArthur park
(the ass trill-ology charts blamed it on the Harmonica Virgins).
i dis-sighted that this Eve i must get In The Beginning of this peace.
Word.
God, i hope i am Abel to get this done.
i think i Cain do it!
II.
Reports of my breath were grapely exasperated.
Recovering from a Daylight Savings-related Dark Night of the Soul
left me swimming in the low end of the gene pool,
trying to rinse the afterbirth of my self
from my battered and deep fried nerves.
(i never liked them raw).
A wildlife Peep show sat pondering its uhh sex,
Drinking a red Bud before springing into action.
An American towed my realty away.
It was a trailer,
not a tailor,
Though it was a little seamy,
Always following me around and
A round is a song that continually starts again and
A gain is better than a loss,
Useless you are talking about
Wait, i need to tell you about the pitter patterns
of the quilt of my existence,
and the guilt of my remittance,
as i spelt out my insistence,
and fired my assistants,
so dire was their resistance
that their pay was but a pittance.
III.
This is my Random, and i am the Ran of all i display.
Almost a story,
A bit of truth in the form of doggerel,
Written for my dog, Earl,
To plant the seed of randomness in your head
so you can sprout it out
and put a ring around your collards.
Whoa, man!
Don't get me hot and buttered,
like my cobbler, gimping, mentally limping; a hobbler.
Stop "Killing Me Softly," within song,
"Que sera, sera," whatever doobie will be,
A wolf in sheets clothing,
Not a sheep,
more of a lamber,
a rambler, a heartbreaker
(breaker One-Nine for a D3).
My feet hit the street looking for a country
rode hard, put a weigh, vet.
The urge to drift off to the sea of sleep
purchase a stream
the American
(towed away my realty,
a movie trailer to the)
dream of consciousness,
i real eyes i should sit up write
and Finnish this Dane thing.
or
How I Spurned to Loathe the Bomb (in Three (sl)Easy Sextions)
I.
"Whoosh," went the dead line, so i hung up the telling foam,
spraying, "I sea"
as my Legos turned to rubber.
My harp jumped into my mouth.
When i Toheed,
er, rather, Swallowed,
It gut struck in my throat,
lodging just bequeath my Adam's Apple (of my pie),
stiff and saluting like Douglas McArthur park
(the ass trill-ology charts blamed it on the Harmonica Virgins).
i dis-sighted that this Eve i must get In The Beginning of this peace.
Word.
God, i hope i am Abel to get this done.
i think i Cain do it!
II.
Reports of my breath were grapely exasperated.
Recovering from a Daylight Savings-related Dark Night of the Soul
left me swimming in the low end of the gene pool,
trying to rinse the afterbirth of my self
from my battered and deep fried nerves.
(i never liked them raw).
A wildlife Peep show sat pondering its uhh sex,
Drinking a red Bud before springing into action.
An American towed my realty away.
It was a trailer,
not a tailor,
Though it was a little seamy,
Always following me around and
A round is a song that continually starts again and
A gain is better than a loss,
Useless you are talking about
Wait, i need to tell you about the pitter patterns
of the quilt of my existence,
and the guilt of my remittance,
as i spelt out my insistence,
and fired my assistants,
so dire was their resistance
that their pay was but a pittance.
III.
This is my Random, and i am the Ran of all i display.
Almost a story,
A bit of truth in the form of doggerel,
Written for my dog, Earl,
To plant the seed of randomness in your head
so you can sprout it out
and put a ring around your collards.
Whoa, man!
Don't get me hot and buttered,
like my cobbler, gimping, mentally limping; a hobbler.
Stop "Killing Me Softly," within song,
"Que sera, sera," whatever doobie will be,
A wolf in sheets clothing,
Not a sheep,
more of a lamber,
a rambler, a heartbreaker
(breaker One-Nine for a D3).
My feet hit the street looking for a country
rode hard, put a weigh, vet.
The urge to drift off to the sea of sleep
purchase a stream
the American
(towed away my realty,
a movie trailer to the)
dream of consciousness,
i real eyes i should sit up write
and Finnish this Dane thing.
Yesterday was the beginning of my Independence Day celebrations. I quit my job. For 5+ years I have been working Tech Support for a small college near Athens, OH. The weekly 8-5 combined with my weekly gigs and whatnot has been running me into the ground. I have been holding on for dear life hoping that someday I would find a hole in the wall I have been running into such that I might step through and see what was on the other side. Such a hole presented itself to me the other day. I'll spare you the details as they are as unimportant as the job I have been holding. Let's just say I have finally let go!
I am my own boss now. I am going to book a couple of clubs and I am increasing my gigs, as well as do some work for my friends marketing firm (why is it a booking agency and a marketing firm?).
All that and I got a tractor! Look out weeds, look out driveway, look out world!
- jb
I am my own boss now. I am going to book a couple of clubs and I am increasing my gigs, as well as do some work for my friends marketing firm (why is it a booking agency and a marketing firm?).
All that and I got a tractor! Look out weeds, look out driveway, look out world!
- jb
