My dad was a city councilman in my hometown, and he worked assiduously on public transport -- in this case, buses. For his service, he was awarded a "gold bus pass" (probably brass) good for free bus transit for life. As a child, then, when moneys weren't forthcoming for bus passes, I would ask for the gold pass. After shaking down the couch, always good for at least 75 cents, and really earnestly requesting money...
Two boiled potatoes strained through a kitchen sieve, Softness and smoothness to the salad give; Of mordant mustard take a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites too soon! Yet deem it not, thou man of taste, a fault To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar procured from town; True taste requires it and your poet begs The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs. Let onion's atoms lurk within the bowl And, scarce suspected, animate the whole, And lastly in the flavoured compound toss A magic spoonful of anchovy sauce. Oh, great and glorious! Oh, herbaceous meat! 'Twould tempt the dying Anchorite to eat, Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl. -- Sydney Smith
New chapbook / eChapbook! Catherine Daly has published a new chapbook, available (online, http://limitcyclepress.blogspot.fi/) and in print from limit cycle press. This was written using the different ways a nintendo controller functions in different games -- the games were actually the free previews of games in a hotel room where I was very ill, about ten years ago. My original intent was then to take these behaviours, and use them to "play" various books and paintings. It could still happen... http://www.amazon.com/Controller-Seedbed-Catherine-Daly/dp/1500209821/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1403731373&sr=8-5 applying the poem from earlier on this blog: http://cadaly.blogspot.com/2009/07/from-new-poem-controller-seedbed-first.html
Upon moving to Florida, I met many people with varying opinions about guns and experiences with them. As most of my opinions, I am willing to revise, but when I'm moving not from opinion, but from experience, I work anecdotally. Unconcealed carry is scary and real, but "a real cowboy knows the guns and exits." And unconcealed carry fosters this. Cue: "Don't Bring your guns to town." Johnny Cash Quote: "Cowboys sit back to the wall." Wild Bill Hickok (not taking own advice) In many ways, this is just as living life as a woman, but I guess it is living life as a person. Concealed carry has the extra -- well, you didn't know I had this, did'ya? -- factor. But then one's knowledge is more limited. There are illegal guns. But legal guns are, well, also guns. I prefer to know my threats. An outrider thought I had the other day is that Clinton's take on abortion (safe, legal, rare) applies to guns, expect that anybody can buy a gun. Then I thought, but takes two to make a victim and target. Then, I thought, makes two to make a baby, and not getting distracted by the movie Gun Crazy nor by guns 'n butter ways of understanding economics, thanatos & eros, thought... a number of things [censored]. Just wanted to post this, and have a space to think more clearly... more about mental health and gund, fer shure! :) gah
Black Bart, the Poet, of course lived in Decatur, Illinois. Bowles was convicted and sentenced to six years in San Quentin Prison, but his stay was shortened to four years for good behavior. When he was released in January 1888, his health had clearly deteriorated owing to his time in prison. He had visibly aged, his eyesight was failing, and he had gone deaf in one ear. Reporters swarmed around him when he was released, and asked if he was going to rob any more stagecoaches. "No, gentlemen," he replied, smiling, "I'm through with crime." Another reporter asked if he would write more poetry. Bowles laughed and said, "Now, didn't you hear me say that I am through with crime?" Copycat poem written by another criminal in 1888: So here I've stood while wind and rain Have set the trees a-sobbin, And risked my life for that box, That wasn't worth the robbin. Authenticated poems: I've labored long and hard for bread, For honor, and for riches, But on my corns too long you've tread, You fine-haired sons of bitches. —Black Bart, 1877 Here I lay me down to sleep To wait the coming morrow, Perhaps success, perhaps defeat, And everlasting sorrow. Let come what will, I'll try it on, My condition can't be worse; And if there's money in that box 'Tis munny in my purse. --Black Bart, 1878
from JohnnyO There's a good reason that you couldn't decipher that part...because it's gibberish. In Nat's original version, there's a tip-off sentence that explains the whole thing. Here first is Diana's version, followed by Nat's. Each of them, by the way, uses a different gibberish line in the song, so each has been given the one specific to that performer. Having said that, I must, in all fairness, give equal time to those who have a dissenting opinion. Quoting from the liner notes to Mosaic's 18-CD set, "Some older musicians contend that, while the title made as much sense as "Shoo Fly Pie," in fact there really was an "Ausen" bakery that served something called "chefafa" on the side." Personally, I wonder more about what those "older musicians" had been drinking than what they had been eating...especially in light of Nat's final line. There was a wealth of material to choose from for Nat, this being one of his most-recorded songs, including a V-disc recording and at least 3 live versions that have been issued on CD alone, ALL of which include the final line that explains the whole thing. I went with the domestically-released studio version for the transcript. Anyway, it's a shame to realize that my dream girl has feet of clay... leaving out the joke without which the song makes no sense. But she compensates for it with a neat stride intro which sounds a lot like Fats Waller with a hangover...as opposed to Nat's own intro, which sounds more like Art Tatum on 'ludes...and I must say it's refreshing to know that this is the second lyric from Diana/Nat I've been asked to post here... Diana Krall Frim Fram Sauce All For You (A Dedication to The Nat King Cole Trio) I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Well, you know, A girl, she really got to eat, And a girl, she should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread, You heard what I said. Waiter, please, I want mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Shoo, doo-doo-doo-ya, doo, doo; Shuuba doo-ya doo, sheeya-did'n'doo. I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Now you know, Girls. we really got to eat, And you know we should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread, You heard what I said. Waiter, please, I want mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With the oss and fay With shifafa on the side. Ooh, with shifafa, uh, on the side. --- The Frim Fram Sauce Nat King Cole/The King Cole Trio I don't want French-fried potatoes, Red, ripe tomatoes. I'm never satisfied. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. I don't want pork chops and bacon. That won't awaken My appetite inside. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. A fella really got to eat, An' a fella should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread. You heard what I said. Waiter, please serve mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. A fella really got to eat, An' a fella should eat right. Five will get you ten I'm gonna feed myself right tonight. I don't want fish-cakes and Rye bread. You heard what I said. Waiter, please serve mine fried. I want the Frim Fram Sauce With feeossanfay With shifafa on the side. Now, if you don't have it, Just bring me a check for the water. ---
from Stills The Maltese Falcon Dingus, falcon, black- bird in Sam Spade’s hands, grasped by Humphrey Bogart. Spade portrait: shadow falcon on the wall, against it, that blonde devil burns information leading to Brigid and in front of Effie, projects shade, almost reflection, smokes with the fake dingus prop, photographer struggling to encapsulate the film, to capture evil or Peter Lorre, corrupt Sydney Greenstreet or Astor portraying a betraying angel, Mary, whose unshot still would end the movie now. The Thin Man Train car martinis (luggage in foreground says “train”) dressed in p.j.s and Asta, always, before the one with the kid made them too human, William Powell and Myrna Loy at the boxing match, slumming, drinking at a speakeasy, when that speakeasy really was 21, a clue decadence requires a cover, a detective, too, and money keeps ethnicity and your name from all the papers. The Big Sleep Photos promote film, but also stars, so this film is a love story between the actors, reposed in the studio: Bacall in her furs, reclining to kiss “behind the scenes” and “candid.” It’s also character. Caught behind a webwork of lies, Bacall wears a hat, black netting pulled over her puss. Two in league with each other, she posed next to the passed out girl lying on an ornate bed. They cringe under a shadow which appears to be bars on a jail cell (only slightly illicit, unwed). Double Indemnity Stanwyck, MacMurray bargain in the grocery store. She’s blonde, she’s brunette in some of Wilder’s chosen lighting. He’s limping, wounded, on crutches, in a cast on the train; he’s sent down for ever….