SAW THE MOON
I saw the moon this morning
I really saw the moon
turns out prescription goggles
were a fine idea
for in the outdoor pool
at the health reclamation center
in that hour before dawn,
the astronomy rivals
the rhythm of the thirteen strokes
on one held breath
and the roll over
to take in the moon, our moon,
in waning gibbous phase,
just two days past its fullness—
like an encore or
a party winding down
and Mars glowed too
at perigee this week
as close as it can be
to you and to me, in my pool, belly up
I paused to float, motionless,
for just a moment
and I'm sure I felt the moon pulling on me
just a little bit…
when the outdoor speakers erupted—
a diligent employee
had turned on the music service for the day—
somewhere, someone was making John Kay
sing Born to Be Wild all over again and
it was just so wrong it made me laugh as
I considered that he must be 63 by now—
shouldn't he get to sing a song about
his porch and dog instead?
And the magic that had been in the air was gone
but it did not matter—
the sun was coming up,
I could just begin to see the
first oaks on brown hills
and it would be a good day.
--Mark Trail
Well, this blog has really taken off. Nine issues in and it gets as much traffic as a crossroads in the Antarctic. True, I haven’t done much to publicize it. I haven’t done all the things that one must do in order to boost one’s hits. And I don’t mean by ticking off the local crime boss, either. I mean visiting every idiot blog you can find to leave moronic comments, linking to the other idiot blogs in the hope that they will link back to your idiot blog, getting it mentioned on “Conan O’Brien.”
No, I’ve done none of these things and still I’m disappointed. Ah! Human nature!
--LJC
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN (REVISED)
God save our gracious Queen.
She uses Afro-Sheen
Upon her head.
Her hair will never nap,
Not even in a cap.
So, everybody shut their trap.
God save our Queen.
--LJC
November 05, 2005
October 29, 2005
Number 8
This is a gala day for The Conning Tower. Today we publish our first serious poem, and are doing it with our serious faces on. Now, serious up and put your hands together for:
ONE HEN
Ten years ago we bought twelve little chicks-
four turned out to be roosters
and finding homes for them
was no easy trick
until we met a woman who had moved out from the city
and had heard that having roosters would keep the
rattlesnakes away.
So we had eight hens- Barred Rocks and Araucanas-
the eggs were aqua-blue and brown and beautiful
the hens flocked and made great sounds and things were good
Time passes and animals die and chickens don't live that long…
except these last two.
Through years seven, eight and nine, only two old hens remained.
One always in front, with fuller feathers, and one behind-
Getting second-best on the food that was put out
and being pecked away- get back, stay back.
Last night I found her dead
with a layer of dirt kicked over her.
No, not the one behind, but the one in front,
and now I worry and wonder how the other
old hen will go on alone.
The nights are getting cold again
there doesn't seem much point- she lays one egg a month.
So I clucked to her as best I could and fed her well
and she ate first
and seemed to be alright.
--Mark Trail
And now for the usual dreck:
I HEARD VOICES BUT THERE’S NO ONE THERE
Your door is ajar.
Your jar is a key.
Your key is a house.
Your house isn’t free.
Your freedom is missing.
Your misses are found.
Your foundation is slipping.
Your slip’s on the ground.
Your ground isn’t hallowed.
Your hollow’s a creek.
Your creek is a river.
Your river’s a leak.
Your leak is a problem.
Your problem’s a car.
Your car is a voice:
“Your door is ajar.”
--LJC
ONE HEN
Ten years ago we bought twelve little chicks-
four turned out to be roosters
and finding homes for them
was no easy trick
until we met a woman who had moved out from the city
and had heard that having roosters would keep the
rattlesnakes away.
So we had eight hens- Barred Rocks and Araucanas-
the eggs were aqua-blue and brown and beautiful
the hens flocked and made great sounds and things were good
Time passes and animals die and chickens don't live that long…
except these last two.
Through years seven, eight and nine, only two old hens remained.
One always in front, with fuller feathers, and one behind-
Getting second-best on the food that was put out
and being pecked away- get back, stay back.
Last night I found her dead
with a layer of dirt kicked over her.
No, not the one behind, but the one in front,
and now I worry and wonder how the other
old hen will go on alone.
The nights are getting cold again
there doesn't seem much point- she lays one egg a month.
So I clucked to her as best I could and fed her well
and she ate first
and seemed to be alright.
--Mark Trail
And now for the usual dreck:
I HEARD VOICES BUT THERE’S NO ONE THERE
Your door is ajar.
Your jar is a key.
Your key is a house.
Your house isn’t free.
Your freedom is missing.
Your misses are found.
Your foundation is slipping.
Your slip’s on the ground.
Your ground isn’t hallowed.
Your hollow’s a creek.
Your creek is a river.
Your river’s a leak.
Your leak is a problem.
Your problem’s a car.
Your car is a voice:
“Your door is ajar.”
--LJC
October 15, 2005
Number 7
HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW
His eye is on the sparrow
His hand is on the plow
His mind's on Nova Scotia
His ear is on the cow
His nose is on the rosebud
His chin is on his chest
There are more Chins in the phonebook
In Beijing than Bucharest
Where was eye, on the sparrow?
His tongue is on the pole
He's going to rip some skin off
So much for grand control
His thoughts are with the meek ones
His will is with the low
His love, it lasts forever
Or until you have to go
His eye is on the sparrow
His knee is on your throat
His heart is in the highlands
He treats you like his goat.
--Mark Trail
YOU’RE THE SALT
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you come around
I head underground.
It’s a feeling I cannot deny!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
You’re like a weekend in Hades.
You’re like a desert July.
I’d rather swim up the Euphrates.
I think that I’d much rather die
Than spend time with you.
I tell you, we’re through!
I’ll hang you with that awful tie!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
When we’re together
It’s such heavy weather.
You’re just like a faceful of sleet.
When I see you coming,
I stare and start humming
And hide so we can’t possibly meet.
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you’re in the room,
My heart fills with gloom
I’d happily pluck out your eye!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
--LJC (from a notion by me and Mike Nuttall)
“There was a Christian once. But don’t worry. We caught him and crucified him.”
--Mark Twain (who else?)
THE IVORY-BILLED WOODPECKER’S BACK
Now males have a red crest, while females have black
So we know he’s a he- one we’re glad to have back
For it’s been sixty years since an authenticated
Glimpse of this type of pecker’s been credibly stated
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you’re around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
He laid low for a long time in the Arkansas wood
And his reasons for doing so are understood
But his rumored extinction? Pure exaggeration-
He’s got lady woodpeckers at three nesting stations!
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
If you’re lucky, you’ll follow to where his call’s led
Note the large, white wing patches and the stripe down his head
With his light-colored, chisel-tipped bill to admire
I’m left with one thought, and that is to inquire-
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
--Mark Trail
“I’m a victim of circumstance.”
--Jerome “Curly” Howard
His eye is on the sparrow
His hand is on the plow
His mind's on Nova Scotia
His ear is on the cow
His nose is on the rosebud
His chin is on his chest
There are more Chins in the phonebook
In Beijing than Bucharest
Where was eye, on the sparrow?
His tongue is on the pole
He's going to rip some skin off
So much for grand control
His thoughts are with the meek ones
His will is with the low
His love, it lasts forever
Or until you have to go
His eye is on the sparrow
His knee is on your throat
His heart is in the highlands
He treats you like his goat.
--Mark Trail
YOU’RE THE SALT
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you come around
I head underground.
It’s a feeling I cannot deny!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
You’re like a weekend in Hades.
You’re like a desert July.
I’d rather swim up the Euphrates.
I think that I’d much rather die
Than spend time with you.
I tell you, we’re through!
I’ll hang you with that awful tie!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
When we’re together
It’s such heavy weather.
You’re just like a faceful of sleet.
When I see you coming,
I stare and start humming
And hide so we can’t possibly meet.
You’re the salt in my coffee.
You’re the thumb in my pie.
You’re the hair in my toffee.
Now, maybe you’ll understand why
When you’re in the room,
My heart fills with gloom
I’d happily pluck out your eye!
‘Cause you’re the salt in my coffee;
And you’re the thumb in my pie!
--LJC (from a notion by me and Mike Nuttall)
“There was a Christian once. But don’t worry. We caught him and crucified him.”
--Mark Twain (who else?)
THE IVORY-BILLED WOODPECKER’S BACK
Now males have a red crest, while females have black
So we know he’s a he- one we’re glad to have back
For it’s been sixty years since an authenticated
Glimpse of this type of pecker’s been credibly stated
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you’re around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
He laid low for a long time in the Arkansas wood
And his reasons for doing so are understood
But his rumored extinction? Pure exaggeration-
He’s got lady woodpeckers at three nesting stations!
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
If you’re lucky, you’ll follow to where his call’s led
Note the large, white wing patches and the stripe down his head
With his light-colored, chisel-tipped bill to admire
I’m left with one thought, and that is to inquire-
Oh where have you been, you Ivory-Bill?
Did you hide in the forest, out beyond the last hill?
Is part of your range the outskirts of Billville?
We’re sure glad you're around- seeing you’s such a thrill!
--Mark Trail
“I’m a victim of circumstance.”
--Jerome “Curly” Howard
October 08, 2005
Number Six
AN ODE TO HARRIET MIERS
Harriet Miers
Somehow aspires
To work at the ol’ Supreme Court
When O’Connor retires
And returns to the shires
To take care of her ailing consort.
When Bush chose Ms. Miers
From all the appliers
Who thought they’d be good for that spot.
He touched off some fires
Among the deniers
Who thought that his choice was not hot.
Poor Harriet Miers.
She seldom inspires
Support from the Right or the Left.
The Left’s filled with criers
And the Right lately tires
Of noms sans ideological heft.
O! Harriet Miers!
You have so few buyers!
Your High Court robe and seat might be lost.
Just like our empires
And corp’rate high flyers,
How long can it be ‘fore you're tossed?
--LJC
BRIDGET OF PAMPELONNE
I want to lie down in green valleys
I want to sprawl out along hills
I want to feel free by the river
I want to give Bardot the chills
Why can't I lie down out in public?
Why can't I do just what I want?
Why can't I give Bardot the fever?
Because she's really old and she lives in France
That sound that you hear is the scraper
As my barrel's bottom gets scoured
Six straight weeks of poetry's drained me
This poet's no longer empowered
So I issue this poetry coupon
It's yours to redeem or to hold
It's good for one meaningful stanza
From Len, cuz his stuff's good as gold.
--Mark Trail
‘Though Mr. Trail is kind,
It has been opined
That my verse is worth less than is gold.
As for good, that’s debated.
Let’s say it’s not hated.
It’s less close to gold than to mold.
--LJC
Bev Doolittle, Thomas Kinkaid, Charles Wysocki, Billy Flanagan. These names are more than mere trademarks. These are the artists of the cute, the quaint, and the insane. The power of their works reverberate through our inner organs like a bad Hungarian meal. And they can all be found here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse. If you've seen it on a discounted calendar from 1998, you'll find it here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse at $19.99. We have stacks of original van Goghs, Monets, and Rothkos just laying around for the taking--um, I mean, buying. And once they're gone, Herschel van Gogh, Murray Monet, and Mark Rothko will be happy to churn out more! They're manacled in the basement so that we can pass the savings along to you. And you can take my word for it, or I'm not Big Daddy Mammon! Remember, that's the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse, three blocks south of the charnel house on Route 16!
--LJC
Harriet Miers
Somehow aspires
To work at the ol’ Supreme Court
When O’Connor retires
And returns to the shires
To take care of her ailing consort.
When Bush chose Ms. Miers
From all the appliers
Who thought they’d be good for that spot.
He touched off some fires
Among the deniers
Who thought that his choice was not hot.
Poor Harriet Miers.
She seldom inspires
Support from the Right or the Left.
The Left’s filled with criers
And the Right lately tires
Of noms sans ideological heft.
O! Harriet Miers!
You have so few buyers!
Your High Court robe and seat might be lost.
Just like our empires
And corp’rate high flyers,
How long can it be ‘fore you're tossed?
--LJC
BRIDGET OF PAMPELONNE
I want to lie down in green valleys
I want to sprawl out along hills
I want to feel free by the river
I want to give Bardot the chills
Why can't I lie down out in public?
Why can't I do just what I want?
Why can't I give Bardot the fever?
Because she's really old and she lives in France
That sound that you hear is the scraper
As my barrel's bottom gets scoured
Six straight weeks of poetry's drained me
This poet's no longer empowered
So I issue this poetry coupon
It's yours to redeem or to hold
It's good for one meaningful stanza
From Len, cuz his stuff's good as gold.
--Mark Trail
‘Though Mr. Trail is kind,
It has been opined
That my verse is worth less than is gold.
As for good, that’s debated.
Let’s say it’s not hated.
It’s less close to gold than to mold.
--LJC
Bev Doolittle, Thomas Kinkaid, Charles Wysocki, Billy Flanagan. These names are more than mere trademarks. These are the artists of the cute, the quaint, and the insane. The power of their works reverberate through our inner organs like a bad Hungarian meal. And they can all be found here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse. If you've seen it on a discounted calendar from 1998, you'll find it here at the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse at $19.99. We have stacks of original van Goghs, Monets, and Rothkos just laying around for the taking--um, I mean, buying. And once they're gone, Herschel van Gogh, Murray Monet, and Mark Rothko will be happy to churn out more! They're manacled in the basement so that we can pass the savings along to you. And you can take my word for it, or I'm not Big Daddy Mammon! Remember, that's the MoseArt Discount Factory Warehouse, three blocks south of the charnel house on Route 16!
--LJC
October 01, 2005
Number Five
The Ballad of Smallish the Dog
(To Waddell, in Memoriam)
He was a Crescent Moon dog
On a Crescent Moon night.
He was sleepin' like a log
While his master's gettin' tight.
He was catchin' forty winks,
Takin' shelter from the storm,
Just as silent as the Sphinx,
He was busy keepin' warm.
Though his master called him Smallish,
In his heart he felt like Jim.
Never Ringo, George, or Paulish;
Not a tiny bit like Tim.
But it really didn't matter
If his moniker was bad
When some food was in his platter
And his master was his dad.
--LJC
NORBERT AND THE MAGIC SPONGE
I got taken to a spa
thought it seemed kinda girly
our appointment was at nine
and that seemed kinda early
for a stranger to be rubbin'
and massaging on my feet
when she put pressure on my coccyx
reservations did retreat
now I'm laid out and relaxing
with cucumbers on my eyes
I don't even feel embarrassed
'bout seaweed wrapped around my thighs
I smell soothing herbal essence
it's aromatherapy
I'm having visions of nirvana
it's like laid-back LSD
they say next I'll have a sauna
and a thrilling icy plunge
then a fellow who's named Norbert
will complete me with a sponge
(time passes)
now I'm all done at the spa
and I admit I had some doubt
but I'm coming back next week
for what Norbert calls "the grout"
at least, that's what I think he said.
--Mark Trail
(The kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. Abbott and Costello get shoved through the swinging doors by the Manager.)
Manager: You no pay for your food, you cook for others!
(The Manager leaves.)
Abbott: All right! All right! Let's get started here! Fortunately, I know something about cooking.
Costello: And I can be your assistant, Abbott.
Abbott: That's fine. That's fine. First, I want to make sure I have everything I need. Bok choi?
Costello: I don't know if this is bok choi or fron' choi, but it's one or the other.
Abbott: Give me that! Now I need a sauce. Hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What are you doing down there?
Costello: But you said--
Abbott: I said to hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) Get up off the floor! What's the matter with you?
Costello: I'm just doing what you tell me. I'm a good assistant.
Abbott: If you want to be a good assistant, then do what I tell you. Now, hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What the matter with you? Aren't we in enough trouble?
Costello: How should I know? I'm spending half my time on the floor!
Abbott: I don't know what gets into you! All I ask is that you do me a simple favor, and you can't even do that.
Costello: I'm trying, Abbott! I want to be a good assistant. Please let me help you, Abbott.
Abbott: Then do what I ask you and give me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What's the matter with you? Why won't you hand me the duck sauce?
Costello: You mean they named some sauce after a duck?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Well, now I've seen everything!
--LJC
Raymond Chandler used short stories he had written, usually combining two or three together, to produce his first three (and best) novels. He called the process “cannibalizing” his own work.
I wish that I could say that I’m cannibalizing my work, but the fact is that I’m just plain stealing. A good 50 percent of what I’ve contributed to “The Conning Tower” so far has been stuff I’ve either posted on another blog or came up with in my reckless youth. (Come to think of it, that’s not true. My youth was fairly recked.)
It’s not easy to admit when one (I always use the circumlocution “one” when what I mean is “me”) has sunk to such levels as to pilfer from oneself, but there it is. Thief and victim, all in one am I.
--LJC
(To Waddell, in Memoriam)
He was a Crescent Moon dog
On a Crescent Moon night.
He was sleepin' like a log
While his master's gettin' tight.
He was catchin' forty winks,
Takin' shelter from the storm,
Just as silent as the Sphinx,
He was busy keepin' warm.
Though his master called him Smallish,
In his heart he felt like Jim.
Never Ringo, George, or Paulish;
Not a tiny bit like Tim.
But it really didn't matter
If his moniker was bad
When some food was in his platter
And his master was his dad.
--LJC
NORBERT AND THE MAGIC SPONGE
I got taken to a spa
thought it seemed kinda girly
our appointment was at nine
and that seemed kinda early
for a stranger to be rubbin'
and massaging on my feet
when she put pressure on my coccyx
reservations did retreat
now I'm laid out and relaxing
with cucumbers on my eyes
I don't even feel embarrassed
'bout seaweed wrapped around my thighs
I smell soothing herbal essence
it's aromatherapy
I'm having visions of nirvana
it's like laid-back LSD
they say next I'll have a sauna
and a thrilling icy plunge
then a fellow who's named Norbert
will complete me with a sponge
(time passes)
now I'm all done at the spa
and I admit I had some doubt
but I'm coming back next week
for what Norbert calls "the grout"
at least, that's what I think he said.
--Mark Trail
(The kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. Abbott and Costello get shoved through the swinging doors by the Manager.)
Manager: You no pay for your food, you cook for others!
(The Manager leaves.)
Abbott: All right! All right! Let's get started here! Fortunately, I know something about cooking.
Costello: And I can be your assistant, Abbott.
Abbott: That's fine. That's fine. First, I want to make sure I have everything I need. Bok choi?
Costello: I don't know if this is bok choi or fron' choi, but it's one or the other.
Abbott: Give me that! Now I need a sauce. Hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What are you doing down there?
Costello: But you said--
Abbott: I said to hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) Get up off the floor! What's the matter with you?
Costello: I'm just doing what you tell me. I'm a good assistant.
Abbott: If you want to be a good assistant, then do what I tell you. Now, hand me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What the matter with you? Aren't we in enough trouble?
Costello: How should I know? I'm spending half my time on the floor!
Abbott: I don't know what gets into you! All I ask is that you do me a simple favor, and you can't even do that.
Costello: I'm trying, Abbott! I want to be a good assistant. Please let me help you, Abbott.
Abbott: Then do what I ask you and give me the sauce.
Costello: What sauce?
Abbott: Duck. (Costello falls to the floor.) What's the matter with you? Why won't you hand me the duck sauce?
Costello: You mean they named some sauce after a duck?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Well, now I've seen everything!
--LJC
Raymond Chandler used short stories he had written, usually combining two or three together, to produce his first three (and best) novels. He called the process “cannibalizing” his own work.
I wish that I could say that I’m cannibalizing my work, but the fact is that I’m just plain stealing. A good 50 percent of what I’ve contributed to “The Conning Tower” so far has been stuff I’ve either posted on another blog or came up with in my reckless youth. (Come to think of it, that’s not true. My youth was fairly recked.)
It’s not easy to admit when one (I always use the circumlocution “one” when what I mean is “me”) has sunk to such levels as to pilfer from oneself, but there it is. Thief and victim, all in one am I.
--LJC
September 24, 2005
Number Four
MEETING MUSCLES
It takes more muscles to frown
Than it does to give up and lie down
It takes more muscles to smile
Than it does to just wait a while
It'll take better slogans at work
To keep me from being a jerk
As in: "Meetings prove that none of us,
are quite as dumb as all of us!"
To truly feel part of the team
I'll need Valium topped with Jim Beam
To enjoy our group bonding sessions
I'll need self-lobotomy lessons
Dialog's the catalyst of great change-
May I leave and let things stay the same?
Motivation builds from synergy-
May I hope that the Sea Change is me?
If one must be the change that one wishes to see
I envision myself with that door behind me
If your attitude outward's what you'll be receiving
My attitude is "I give up and I'm leaving."
---Mark Trail
A traveling salesman named Franz Kafka stops by a farmhouse in hopes of finding a place to sleep for the night. The farmer reckons that it would be okay, but allows that the only sleeping space available would be in the bed with his buxom, young daughter. Kafka agrees and, after downing a sumptuous meal, climbed into bed with the nubile young woman.
The next morning, after a fitful sleep, he awoke to find himself transformed into a giant bug.
--LJC
I’m afraid, my friends, that that was the last of the Kafka jokes. They were all written about 20 years ago out of sheer boredom. You see, one of The Many Jobs of Len was a long-term temp position with the quasi-governmental entity FNMA, better know to the mortgage lending and borrowing world as Fannie Mae.
I was enlisted as part of a huge effort to computerize and balance all the files of that huge organization. By the time I was brought in, the work of the group I was assigned to had been pretty much done. I did some idiot job for about two weeks and then was informed by my supervisor that there was really nothing else for us to do.
Fortunately, our jobs were not going away, just the work. Our group turned into a kind of social club, and we amused and entertained the 100 or so other temps on our floor. (Those poor schmucks had to actually work every day.) As part of my humble way of keeping myself from going insane, I used to draw cartoons and write poems and other strange things on the blotter that I inherited as part of my office furniture.
I filled up sheets with my doodlings, including one that was entitled, “Spot the Firesign Theatre References.” The Kafka jokes developed from a little drawing I made of a nondescript building. Under the drawing, I put a caption that went something like this:
“Franz Kafka’s last apartment, located on the third floor of the Prague Arms, which can be found next door to the Prague Legs.”
After six months or so of this amusement, I decided to get into the legal assistant biz. More proof about suckers being born every minute. My great victory on that job was this: My boss’s boss, Wayne, on my last day asked me if he could keep my blotter sheets. I hope he still has them.
--LJC
There was a lady who worked for the temp agency on that job whose duty it was to come remove anyone who was being terminated. Her name was Romina. A coworker dubbed her “The Ax Lady.” I immortalized her and the job thusly:
(to the tune of “I Just Called to Say I Love You”)
No donut day,
Vacation pay.
You’re on the skids.
Just hit the bricks
And go away.
Romina’s here.
Your future’s clear.
‘Cause she’ll stop by,
You’ll look up and hear her say,”
“I just called to say ‘You’re fired.’
I just called to put my ax in play.
I just want to say, ‘You’re fired.”
And we don’t even give you sev’rence pay.”
We’ll eighty-six
Your benefits,
And we’ll deny
Your reasons why
You need a raise.
Romina’s here.
Her ax draws near.
And she’s not come
To coo and hum
To you your praise.
“I just called to say ‘You’re fired.’
I just called to put my ax in play.
I just want to say, ‘You’re fired.”
And we don’t even give you sev’rence pay.”
It takes more muscles to frown
Than it does to give up and lie down
It takes more muscles to smile
Than it does to just wait a while
It'll take better slogans at work
To keep me from being a jerk
As in: "Meetings prove that none of us,
are quite as dumb as all of us!"
To truly feel part of the team
I'll need Valium topped with Jim Beam
To enjoy our group bonding sessions
I'll need self-lobotomy lessons
Dialog's the catalyst of great change-
May I leave and let things stay the same?
Motivation builds from synergy-
May I hope that the Sea Change is me?
If one must be the change that one wishes to see
I envision myself with that door behind me
If your attitude outward's what you'll be receiving
My attitude is "I give up and I'm leaving."
---Mark Trail
A traveling salesman named Franz Kafka stops by a farmhouse in hopes of finding a place to sleep for the night. The farmer reckons that it would be okay, but allows that the only sleeping space available would be in the bed with his buxom, young daughter. Kafka agrees and, after downing a sumptuous meal, climbed into bed with the nubile young woman.
The next morning, after a fitful sleep, he awoke to find himself transformed into a giant bug.
--LJC
I’m afraid, my friends, that that was the last of the Kafka jokes. They were all written about 20 years ago out of sheer boredom. You see, one of The Many Jobs of Len was a long-term temp position with the quasi-governmental entity FNMA, better know to the mortgage lending and borrowing world as Fannie Mae.
I was enlisted as part of a huge effort to computerize and balance all the files of that huge organization. By the time I was brought in, the work of the group I was assigned to had been pretty much done. I did some idiot job for about two weeks and then was informed by my supervisor that there was really nothing else for us to do.
Fortunately, our jobs were not going away, just the work. Our group turned into a kind of social club, and we amused and entertained the 100 or so other temps on our floor. (Those poor schmucks had to actually work every day.) As part of my humble way of keeping myself from going insane, I used to draw cartoons and write poems and other strange things on the blotter that I inherited as part of my office furniture.
I filled up sheets with my doodlings, including one that was entitled, “Spot the Firesign Theatre References.” The Kafka jokes developed from a little drawing I made of a nondescript building. Under the drawing, I put a caption that went something like this:
“Franz Kafka’s last apartment, located on the third floor of the Prague Arms, which can be found next door to the Prague Legs.”
After six months or so of this amusement, I decided to get into the legal assistant biz. More proof about suckers being born every minute. My great victory on that job was this: My boss’s boss, Wayne, on my last day asked me if he could keep my blotter sheets. I hope he still has them.
--LJC
There was a lady who worked for the temp agency on that job whose duty it was to come remove anyone who was being terminated. Her name was Romina. A coworker dubbed her “The Ax Lady.” I immortalized her and the job thusly:
(to the tune of “I Just Called to Say I Love You”)
No donut day,
Vacation pay.
You’re on the skids.
Just hit the bricks
And go away.
Romina’s here.
Your future’s clear.
‘Cause she’ll stop by,
You’ll look up and hear her say,”
“I just called to say ‘You’re fired.’
I just called to put my ax in play.
I just want to say, ‘You’re fired.”
And we don’t even give you sev’rence pay.”
We’ll eighty-six
Your benefits,
And we’ll deny
Your reasons why
You need a raise.
Romina’s here.
Her ax draws near.
And she’s not come
To coo and hum
To you your praise.
“I just called to say ‘You’re fired.’
I just called to put my ax in play.
I just want to say, ‘You’re fired.”
And we don’t even give you sev’rence pay.”
September 16, 2005
Number Three
With Apologies to E.A. Poe
Do you hear the phone?
Get the phone!
Oh, wait! That cursed ringing
Isn’t just some new ring tone.
It's this new, unending jingle--
Not a pingle nor a dingle—
That's imparted a queer tingle
As it mingles in my ear.
It’s a ring-a-tingy-tinging
And inside my head it’s singing
Less a bonging than a binging
That inside my head is clinging
Like a head upon a beer.
Now, I think I know the answer
To what caused this aural cancer,
Just what sort of necromancer
Was advancing its career:
I’ve got a case of the tinnitus in my ear, ear, ear, ear, ear, ear, ear.
Just the tinny-tin tinnitus in my ear.
--LJC
AUTOMATED RESPONDER
I'm sending out liberal email
Promoting great causes unknown
I don't really take time to read them
I'm a merely a sycophant clone
I don't pause I just hit "send this message"
As more fresh template letters come in
They're excited for all kinds of causes
I say now let the MoveOn begin
BioGems, for example, has got me
As is true with sage Sierra Club
Concerned Scientist's elbows are offered
And in perfect union I rub
Environmental Defense knows my address
They know just how compliant I'll be
Within days my fine state congress persons
Send responsive form letters to me
They point out their support for my causes
They're involved in the issues I tout
You can bet here in North California
Their correctness should go without doubt
Still I compulsively send them all forward
Robert Redford's one persuasive man
But when they ask me for money, I falter
And their text looks like it's from Japan
So, sadly, I'm a fair-weather liberal
As is obvious when chips are down
My inbox, once active, now reads "full"
I guess I must be out of town.
--Mark Trail
In my other blogging persona, I get a significant number of hits because of people searching for a particular name, last name Bergman . I’m not actually familiar with Mr Bergman, although he appears to be someone who builds engines for racecars. (I get the visits because my other blog mentions Peter Bergman of the Firesign Theatre and the Internet alias of a pal of mine, one B. Splim. I would’ve spelled the entire first name out, but that would only result in more of these misguided folks coming to this blog.)
I can’t imagine what they think when they land on my site. NASCAR is conspicuous by its absence, and there is nary a head gasket or spark plug for miles around. The poor things often come around a couple of times, undoubtedly remarking to themselves by the second visit, “Goddamn it! I’ve already looked at this piece of crap!”
--LJC
Why did Franz Kafka cross the road? He was making a futile attempt to flee the horrors of existence.
--LJC
The Peacemaker
They call that man a peacemaker
Who brings all folks together.
And that is where this verse should end,
With peace and love, however,
There is another sense to it,
And one that's less appealing,
A sense of loss and doom, my friend,
A sense that is revealing.
They dreamt it up out west, I think,
Most likely for the flickers,
And out it spread across the land,
Through voice and bumper stickers.
In Middle East and Middle West
We try to get things done
With the other kind of peacemaker,
The kind we call a gun.
Do you hear the phone?
Get the phone!
Oh, wait! That cursed ringing
Isn’t just some new ring tone.
It's this new, unending jingle--
Not a pingle nor a dingle—
That's imparted a queer tingle
As it mingles in my ear.
It’s a ring-a-tingy-tinging
And inside my head it’s singing
Less a bonging than a binging
That inside my head is clinging
Like a head upon a beer.
Now, I think I know the answer
To what caused this aural cancer,
Just what sort of necromancer
Was advancing its career:
I’ve got a case of the tinnitus in my ear, ear, ear, ear, ear, ear, ear.
Just the tinny-tin tinnitus in my ear.
--LJC
AUTOMATED RESPONDER
I'm sending out liberal email
Promoting great causes unknown
I don't really take time to read them
I'm a merely a sycophant clone
I don't pause I just hit "send this message"
As more fresh template letters come in
They're excited for all kinds of causes
I say now let the MoveOn begin
BioGems, for example, has got me
As is true with sage Sierra Club
Concerned Scientist's elbows are offered
And in perfect union I rub
Environmental Defense knows my address
They know just how compliant I'll be
Within days my fine state congress persons
Send responsive form letters to me
They point out their support for my causes
They're involved in the issues I tout
You can bet here in North California
Their correctness should go without doubt
Still I compulsively send them all forward
Robert Redford's one persuasive man
But when they ask me for money, I falter
And their text looks like it's from Japan
So, sadly, I'm a fair-weather liberal
As is obvious when chips are down
My inbox, once active, now reads "full"
I guess I must be out of town.
--Mark Trail
In my other blogging persona, I get a significant number of hits because of people searching for a particular name, last name Bergman . I’m not actually familiar with Mr Bergman, although he appears to be someone who builds engines for racecars. (I get the visits because my other blog mentions Peter Bergman of the Firesign Theatre and the Internet alias of a pal of mine, one B. Splim. I would’ve spelled the entire first name out, but that would only result in more of these misguided folks coming to this blog.)
I can’t imagine what they think when they land on my site. NASCAR is conspicuous by its absence, and there is nary a head gasket or spark plug for miles around. The poor things often come around a couple of times, undoubtedly remarking to themselves by the second visit, “Goddamn it! I’ve already looked at this piece of crap!”
--LJC
Why did Franz Kafka cross the road? He was making a futile attempt to flee the horrors of existence.
--LJC
The Peacemaker
They call that man a peacemaker
Who brings all folks together.
And that is where this verse should end,
With peace and love, however,
There is another sense to it,
And one that's less appealing,
A sense of loss and doom, my friend,
A sense that is revealing.
They dreamt it up out west, I think,
Most likely for the flickers,
And out it spread across the land,
Through voice and bumper stickers.
In Middle East and Middle West
We try to get things done
With the other kind of peacemaker,
The kind we call a gun.
September 10, 2005
Number Two
GETTING OFF
I'm going to get off of my roof
I'm not up here because I'm aloof
Helicopters will come
Dangling ropes can be fun
I look forward to leaving this roof.
Soon I'll have ice cold water to drink
Not the brown stuff downstairs in the sink
It will be fresh and clear
I might even have beer
Soon cold water is what I will drink.
I look forward to getting to eat
Something filling, followed by something sweet
Chew and swallow, swallow chew
I know just what to do
I look forward to the next time I eat.
If a big flood wiped out Malibu
How long would it take for rescue?
Would they get me much quicker
If I was whiter and richer?
I'll leave that question's answer to you
Right now I just want off of this roof.
--Mark Trail
*****************************
Let us speak for a moment about online map services. Oh, you know them. We’ve all tried them. We’ve all printed out the directions with their nearly infinite number of twists and turns, including separate “turns” and mileage amounts for on-ramps and off-ramps. We’ve all placed them on the seat next to us and stolen quick peeks in traffic, hoping to not start a major pileup while we try to decipher exactly what is meant by BEAR LEFT ON STATE RD. 10 .01 Miles.
I’ve had several adventures with online maps in recent years, most of them frustrating. I usually do pretty well until I get near my destination, then everything—to use the British expression—goes all pear-shaped. I then spend the next expanse of time wandering around some foreign metropolitan area and wondering why I continue to use the damn online maps.
The problem, to me, is in the settings available to the dupe when he or she is mapping out his or her trip. One can choose from two options currently, shortest or quickest. I would like to propose a third choice: Most Sensible. Until they take up this modest proposal, I’m going to revert to the old fashioned method of using a real map. Really.
************************
WHEN IN TAO-BT, TAKE THE NO-WAY OUT
An unclaimed man of lost-and-found
Looked down to find his hand
Was a Good Samaritan's suitcase handle
Shinkichi Takahashi looked down
And found his feet had become
The Tokaido railway
Now we've all got a ticket
For the first train to run
When time runs out
Meanwhile, on the other foot,
The shoe was wearing it
While waiting for it to drop
That shoe was our last hope
And time's last stop
There's a French cartoon cat
That can read my prayer book
Better than I (By the way,
No one knows why she--
No, not the cat--started it all
When she swallowed a fly
Let the figure of infinity
Figure it out)
If I swallowed that cat
Would I drink the milk
Of heaven from a bowl?
Would I purr, like her,
The Unpronounceable Name?
(Just asking; let's not be late
For the train)
In a still small voice or
In a whirlwind on the Mount
The fire signs in the language of the deaf
It has a million seeing-eye hands,
Each with an eye in its palm
This is called "the angel of the ordinary"
As familiar as my imagination's pet
That burning cat-in-the-bush
Who reads my prayer book
Purrs the Unpronounceable Name
And is not consumed (or not yet)
The Good Samaritan spares his brother
But sacrifices on a dime
The Tokaido railway waits for no one
Now's the time to wear
The shoes that time forgot
And to arrive walking backwards
Along the edge of the sword
That cut the Gordian Knot
Chuang, that old vagabond of space,
Played with Great Nature's fire
And never got burned
Like a child he put his hand
In the Hand of Naught
The ten-thousand trains
Can all be named
Which is why he taught:
The Tao that can be named is Tao-bt
When in Tao-bt, do as the Tao-bters do,
And take the No-Way out.
--Robert G. Margolis
****************************
THE STORY OF BEER
Quite by accident, one day a long time ago, a simple farmer created a new beverage. His wife, who was called Edith, asked him what he would call it. “Beer,” he said, for no particular reason.
Proud of his invention, he gave free samples to his neighbors, and soon word of this “beer” of his spread across the land. Eventually, word got as far as the King, who decided that he’d like to try this marvelous new beverage. And so, the farmer was summoned to the castle, and he went, bringing with him only his wife and his lone barrel of foamy goodness.
Once in front of the King, he pulled a draught for His Royal Majesty. The King tasted the beer and pronounced it “good.” “In fact,” he said, “I like it so much that I command you to leave your entire supply with me.”
The farmer refused.
The King, being no stranger to ultimatums, repeated his demand. The farmer, flustered, begged the King for some alternative to this most drastic command.
“Fine,” the King said and cast his eye on the farmer’s toothsome consort. “You can either leave me your beer or leave me your wife.”
The moral of the story? It’s simple. You can’t have your keg and Edith, too.
************************
(From the files, to the tune of "Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite")
For the benefit of Beatles fans,
Confused by rumors while they scan
"The Love You Make,"
I'll run across the rumors all
Starting with the death of Paul
For their sake,
With the backwards tapes
And license plates
And all the secret messages about drugs.
And, by jingo, not much Ringo or much George.
According to the rumor mill
Paul was in a fatal spill
In sixty-six.
A man named Bill then took his place.
They changed his voice; they changed his face.
What a fix!
And this caused John
To write a song
That when played backwards
Told us Paul is dead.
"I buried Paul, I buried Paul, I buried Paul."
"Now, Lucy stood for LSD,"
Said Sgt. Pepper acidly,
Or so I'm told.
And here's a test for you to pass:
Do you feel when smoking grass
Rubber-souled?
And you know the Yellow Submarine
Is just a kind of pill to bring you down.
And, of course, Henry the Horse stands for Heroin!
So there you have my Beatles song,
I hope I didn't keep you long
From anything.
The band broke up in seventy.
(Watch it go in "Let It Be.")
O! Death, thy sting!
Some people say
It's Yoko's fault,
But others say it's Linda's dad
Instead.
But I say, what the hey! forgive and forget!
I'm going to get off of my roof
I'm not up here because I'm aloof
Helicopters will come
Dangling ropes can be fun
I look forward to leaving this roof.
Soon I'll have ice cold water to drink
Not the brown stuff downstairs in the sink
It will be fresh and clear
I might even have beer
Soon cold water is what I will drink.
I look forward to getting to eat
Something filling, followed by something sweet
Chew and swallow, swallow chew
I know just what to do
I look forward to the next time I eat.
If a big flood wiped out Malibu
How long would it take for rescue?
Would they get me much quicker
If I was whiter and richer?
I'll leave that question's answer to you
Right now I just want off of this roof.
--Mark Trail
*****************************
Let us speak for a moment about online map services. Oh, you know them. We’ve all tried them. We’ve all printed out the directions with their nearly infinite number of twists and turns, including separate “turns” and mileage amounts for on-ramps and off-ramps. We’ve all placed them on the seat next to us and stolen quick peeks in traffic, hoping to not start a major pileup while we try to decipher exactly what is meant by BEAR LEFT ON STATE RD. 10 .01 Miles.
I’ve had several adventures with online maps in recent years, most of them frustrating. I usually do pretty well until I get near my destination, then everything—to use the British expression—goes all pear-shaped. I then spend the next expanse of time wandering around some foreign metropolitan area and wondering why I continue to use the damn online maps.
The problem, to me, is in the settings available to the dupe when he or she is mapping out his or her trip. One can choose from two options currently, shortest or quickest. I would like to propose a third choice: Most Sensible. Until they take up this modest proposal, I’m going to revert to the old fashioned method of using a real map. Really.
************************
WHEN IN TAO-BT, TAKE THE NO-WAY OUT
An unclaimed man of lost-and-found
Looked down to find his hand
Was a Good Samaritan's suitcase handle
Shinkichi Takahashi looked down
And found his feet had become
The Tokaido railway
Now we've all got a ticket
For the first train to run
When time runs out
Meanwhile, on the other foot,
The shoe was wearing it
While waiting for it to drop
That shoe was our last hope
And time's last stop
There's a French cartoon cat
That can read my prayer book
Better than I (By the way,
No one knows why she--
No, not the cat--started it all
When she swallowed a fly
Let the figure of infinity
Figure it out)
If I swallowed that cat
Would I drink the milk
Of heaven from a bowl?
Would I purr, like her,
The Unpronounceable Name?
(Just asking; let's not be late
For the train)
In a still small voice or
In a whirlwind on the Mount
The fire signs in the language of the deaf
It has a million seeing-eye hands,
Each with an eye in its palm
This is called "the angel of the ordinary"
As familiar as my imagination's pet
That burning cat-in-the-bush
Who reads my prayer book
Purrs the Unpronounceable Name
And is not consumed (or not yet)
The Good Samaritan spares his brother
But sacrifices on a dime
The Tokaido railway waits for no one
Now's the time to wear
The shoes that time forgot
And to arrive walking backwards
Along the edge of the sword
That cut the Gordian Knot
Chuang, that old vagabond of space,
Played with Great Nature's fire
And never got burned
Like a child he put his hand
In the Hand of Naught
The ten-thousand trains
Can all be named
Which is why he taught:
The Tao that can be named is Tao-bt
When in Tao-bt, do as the Tao-bters do,
And take the No-Way out.
--Robert G. Margolis
****************************
THE STORY OF BEER
Quite by accident, one day a long time ago, a simple farmer created a new beverage. His wife, who was called Edith, asked him what he would call it. “Beer,” he said, for no particular reason.
Proud of his invention, he gave free samples to his neighbors, and soon word of this “beer” of his spread across the land. Eventually, word got as far as the King, who decided that he’d like to try this marvelous new beverage. And so, the farmer was summoned to the castle, and he went, bringing with him only his wife and his lone barrel of foamy goodness.
Once in front of the King, he pulled a draught for His Royal Majesty. The King tasted the beer and pronounced it “good.” “In fact,” he said, “I like it so much that I command you to leave your entire supply with me.”
The farmer refused.
The King, being no stranger to ultimatums, repeated his demand. The farmer, flustered, begged the King for some alternative to this most drastic command.
“Fine,” the King said and cast his eye on the farmer’s toothsome consort. “You can either leave me your beer or leave me your wife.”
The moral of the story? It’s simple. You can’t have your keg and Edith, too.
************************
(From the files, to the tune of "Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite")
For the benefit of Beatles fans,
Confused by rumors while they scan
"The Love You Make,"
I'll run across the rumors all
Starting with the death of Paul
For their sake,
With the backwards tapes
And license plates
And all the secret messages about drugs.
And, by jingo, not much Ringo or much George.
According to the rumor mill
Paul was in a fatal spill
In sixty-six.
A man named Bill then took his place.
They changed his voice; they changed his face.
What a fix!
And this caused John
To write a song
That when played backwards
Told us Paul is dead.
"I buried Paul, I buried Paul, I buried Paul."
"Now, Lucy stood for LSD,"
Said Sgt. Pepper acidly,
Or so I'm told.
And here's a test for you to pass:
Do you feel when smoking grass
Rubber-souled?
And you know the Yellow Submarine
Is just a kind of pill to bring you down.
And, of course, Henry the Horse stands for Heroin!
So there you have my Beatles song,
I hope I didn't keep you long
From anything.
The band broke up in seventy.
(Watch it go in "Let It Be.")
O! Death, thy sting!
Some people say
It's Yoko's fault,
But others say it's Linda's dad
Instead.
But I say, what the hey! forgive and forget!
September 03, 2005
The Second One
FLOTATION DEVICE
I'm swimming in the gene pool
thinkin' 'bout the Laps
pondering Northern Europeans
Japanese are on my maps
I'm considering the Hutu
the Bantu and the Greeks
I wonder 'bout Italians
and the famous Saudi sheiks
In the deep end of the gene pool
Canadians reside
with Australian Aboriginals
standing at their side
Mongolians are splashing-
keep it up and get kicked out
the Inca aren't offended
it makes Yanomamo pout
Now I'm floating in the gene pool
just lying on my back
wondering if some folks are special
and if there's anything I lack.
--Mark Trail
IN MEMORY OF EMILY DICKINSON
I like Death because it’s Romantic.
I like Death because it’s Dramatic.
I like Death. There’s lots that’s unsaid yet.
I like Death because I’m not Dead yet.
--LJC
Since this blog was inspired by Franklin Pierce Adams (hereinafter “FPA”), I thought a quick story might be appropriate.
At a party one night, Adams found himself in the host’s study with Alexander Woolcott. Woolcott, spotting one his own books on the shelf, carefully retrieved it and flipped to the printing information. “Ah,” he sighed, “what is so rare as a Woolcott first edition?”
“A Woolcott second edition,” FPA replied.
Franz Kafka walks into a bar. He orders a dry martini. The bartender asks, “Do you want that with an olive or a twist?” And Kafka replies, “I choose despair.”
As long as I’m bringing up FPA, I thought I might reprint his most famous poem:
Baseball’s Sad Lexicon
These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double-
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
FPA allegedly coined the word “gonfalon,” which Merriam Webster’s Collegiate (11th Edition) defines as “1. the ensign of certain princes or states (as the medieval republics of Italy) 2: a flag that hangs from a crosspiece or frame.” Since the word itself goes back to 1595, I’m guessing that he really pioneered it use as an adjective.
Which all brings us to the timeless question, “Earl? Where can I get me one of them gonfalon bubbles?”
**********************************
Tao on Five Dollars a Day
(in tribute to 95% of the poems I've read in The New Yorker)
In the spotted moonlight
I bend aghast
To reach the loathsome branch
To beat the rustic squirrel.
He is dusty
And I am large.
I meditate on sinful death
Whose spherical presence,
In contrast to my own,
Attends the woeful gnat
Who is stuck on some bark.
I bleat at Nature.
Nature bleats back.
We end the inning
Four to one.
Impecunious night
Gives way to the bulging dawn.
I look down
And my hand is on fire.
--LJC
I'm swimming in the gene pool
thinkin' 'bout the Laps
pondering Northern Europeans
Japanese are on my maps
I'm considering the Hutu
the Bantu and the Greeks
I wonder 'bout Italians
and the famous Saudi sheiks
In the deep end of the gene pool
Canadians reside
with Australian Aboriginals
standing at their side
Mongolians are splashing-
keep it up and get kicked out
the Inca aren't offended
it makes Yanomamo pout
Now I'm floating in the gene pool
just lying on my back
wondering if some folks are special
and if there's anything I lack.
--Mark Trail
IN MEMORY OF EMILY DICKINSON
I like Death because it’s Romantic.
I like Death because it’s Dramatic.
I like Death. There’s lots that’s unsaid yet.
I like Death because I’m not Dead yet.
--LJC
Since this blog was inspired by Franklin Pierce Adams (hereinafter “FPA”), I thought a quick story might be appropriate.
At a party one night, Adams found himself in the host’s study with Alexander Woolcott. Woolcott, spotting one his own books on the shelf, carefully retrieved it and flipped to the printing information. “Ah,” he sighed, “what is so rare as a Woolcott first edition?”
“A Woolcott second edition,” FPA replied.
Franz Kafka walks into a bar. He orders a dry martini. The bartender asks, “Do you want that with an olive or a twist?” And Kafka replies, “I choose despair.”
As long as I’m bringing up FPA, I thought I might reprint his most famous poem:
Baseball’s Sad Lexicon
These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double-
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
FPA allegedly coined the word “gonfalon,” which Merriam Webster’s Collegiate (11th Edition) defines as “1. the ensign of certain princes or states (as the medieval republics of Italy) 2: a flag that hangs from a crosspiece or frame.” Since the word itself goes back to 1595, I’m guessing that he really pioneered it use as an adjective.
Which all brings us to the timeless question, “Earl? Where can I get me one of them gonfalon bubbles?”
**********************************
Tao on Five Dollars a Day
(in tribute to 95% of the poems I've read in The New Yorker)
In the spotted moonlight
I bend aghast
To reach the loathsome branch
To beat the rustic squirrel.
He is dusty
And I am large.
I meditate on sinful death
Whose spherical presence,
In contrast to my own,
Attends the woeful gnat
Who is stuck on some bark.
I bleat at Nature.
Nature bleats back.
We end the inning
Four to one.
Impecunious night
Gives way to the bulging dawn.
I look down
And my hand is on fire.
--LJC
August 27, 2005
A Sample
The Song of the Seasons
We are waiting for nuclear winter
Once greenhouse-gas summer is through.
Our pesticide spring
Will kill ev'rything
Except for me and you.
In the autumn the leaves will all fall down
And most of the people will, too.
Oh, we're waiting for nuclear winter;
There'll be a new world before it's all through
.—LJC
**********************************
THE UNIVERSAL KEY TO HOW ALL JOKES WORK (OR: CHUANG TZU GIVES US THE FINGER AND CHANGES OUR HORSE IN MID-STREAM)
"Instead of using a finger to demonstrate how a finger is no-finger, use no-finger to demonstrate how a finger is no-finger. Instead of using a horse to demonstrate how a horse is no-horse, use no-horse to show how a horse is no-horse. All heaven and earth is one finger, and the ten thousand things are all one horse." --Chuang Tzu, The Inner Chapters (translated by David Hinton).
--Robert G. Margolis
**********************************
Did you hear about the court jester and his fiancee who were killed because of their religous beliefs? It's terrible, but you know what they say: "A fool and his honey are soon martyred."
--LJC
**************************************
"Cell phones were everywhere."
--Sheldon Reber
***********************************************
The Trouble With Topical Humor
We've just been watching disk four of the "Looney Tunes Golden Collection, Volume Two," which is a miscellany of cartoons called "Looney Tune All Stars: On Stage and Screen." Three of the cartoons, all directed by Bob Clampett I think, show the limitations of topical humor. Two were set in libraries, the conceit being that the titles of the various books (although he cheated and used titles from plays, movies, magazines, and radio shows as well; his allegiance was to the joke rather than the conceit) come to life after some point in the evening. The third was set in Ciro's nightclub, and showed a gathering of Hollywood's then elite.
As I sat there with my six-year-old son watching these, I wondered what meaning he could be taking from any of the three. "A Corny Concerto" also worked in various and sundry figures associated with Swing, such as Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, and Frank Sinatra. I doubt that Sam put the image of Harry James together with the person he's seen a couple of times in an episode of "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour." If he did, he hid it pretty well.
"Have You Got Any Castles" started with a caricature of Alexander Woolcott stepping from a publication called "The Town Crier" to perform that function. Since I'm probably the only person in the metro area under 80 who got that reference, I wasn't really surprised when Sam thought that it was a caricature of Wayne Knight, famous to him as Officer Don Orville on "Third Rock from the Sun.
"I really should have narrated "Hollywood Steps Out," and at time I did. He asked me whether a caricature of Clark Gable was Groucho. In fact, the only ones he recognized were Groucho, Harpo, and The Three Stooges. (I'm an involved parent.) Ann Sheridan, Sally Rand, and Dorothy Lamour were lost on him. (Give him a break. He's six. The dedicated ogling of girls is still a few years away.)
And this is the limitation of topical humor: It dies sometime later that week when the next story comes along. This is why I attempt (and usually fail) to find the themes under the headlines. Just a thought.
--LJC
We are waiting for nuclear winter
Once greenhouse-gas summer is through.
Our pesticide spring
Will kill ev'rything
Except for me and you.
In the autumn the leaves will all fall down
And most of the people will, too.
Oh, we're waiting for nuclear winter;
There'll be a new world before it's all through
.—LJC
**********************************
THE UNIVERSAL KEY TO HOW ALL JOKES WORK (OR: CHUANG TZU GIVES US THE FINGER AND CHANGES OUR HORSE IN MID-STREAM)
"Instead of using a finger to demonstrate how a finger is no-finger, use no-finger to demonstrate how a finger is no-finger. Instead of using a horse to demonstrate how a horse is no-horse, use no-horse to show how a horse is no-horse. All heaven and earth is one finger, and the ten thousand things are all one horse." --Chuang Tzu, The Inner Chapters (translated by David Hinton).
--Robert G. Margolis
**********************************
Did you hear about the court jester and his fiancee who were killed because of their religous beliefs? It's terrible, but you know what they say: "A fool and his honey are soon martyred."
--LJC
**************************************
"Cell phones were everywhere."
--Sheldon Reber
***********************************************
The Trouble With Topical Humor
We've just been watching disk four of the "Looney Tunes Golden Collection, Volume Two," which is a miscellany of cartoons called "Looney Tune All Stars: On Stage and Screen." Three of the cartoons, all directed by Bob Clampett I think, show the limitations of topical humor. Two were set in libraries, the conceit being that the titles of the various books (although he cheated and used titles from plays, movies, magazines, and radio shows as well; his allegiance was to the joke rather than the conceit) come to life after some point in the evening. The third was set in Ciro's nightclub, and showed a gathering of Hollywood's then elite.
As I sat there with my six-year-old son watching these, I wondered what meaning he could be taking from any of the three. "A Corny Concerto" also worked in various and sundry figures associated with Swing, such as Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, and Frank Sinatra. I doubt that Sam put the image of Harry James together with the person he's seen a couple of times in an episode of "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour." If he did, he hid it pretty well.
"Have You Got Any Castles" started with a caricature of Alexander Woolcott stepping from a publication called "The Town Crier" to perform that function. Since I'm probably the only person in the metro area under 80 who got that reference, I wasn't really surprised when Sam thought that it was a caricature of Wayne Knight, famous to him as Officer Don Orville on "Third Rock from the Sun.
"I really should have narrated "Hollywood Steps Out," and at time I did. He asked me whether a caricature of Clark Gable was Groucho. In fact, the only ones he recognized were Groucho, Harpo, and The Three Stooges. (I'm an involved parent.) Ann Sheridan, Sally Rand, and Dorothy Lamour were lost on him. (Give him a break. He's six. The dedicated ogling of girls is still a few years away.)
And this is the limitation of topical humor: It dies sometime later that week when the next story comes along. This is why I attempt (and usually fail) to find the themes under the headlines. Just a thought.
--LJC
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