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.”

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.

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!

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