I IS FOR "I WANT TO LIVE" & "IDJITS"

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“It gets rid of unwanted facial hair
It gets rid of embarrassing age spots . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
I IS FOR “I WANT TO LIVE” :

The following poem I wrote in June of 1981 when I was 20 years of age. It doesn’t need much introduction as I feel it’s pretty self-explanatory. (Just know, people, that when I’m reduced to posting my own poetry, I’m simply dry of ideas. Have a little pity, will ya? "Say, buddy, can ya spare a dime? How ‘bout an idea?")
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I WANT TO LIVE

I want to live one whole life
By fulfilling my ability
I want to live one whole life
Learning from everything I see

I want to see through Van Gogh’s eyes
To really see and live to tell
I want to feel the darkness in that man’s mind
To know his loveless, mortal hell

I want to know a mother’s joy
When she brings a child to the earth
To feel the infinite power
In that new born baby’s worth

I want to know the determination
In the poor kid growing up on the street
And to spiral down a drain
With the dirt he washes from bare feet

I want to know the rich man’s comfort
To touch the classic art that he can buy
And concern myself with nothing
Except judgment when I die

I want a woman to cry
When she feels the things I’ve left unsaid
I want her to know of the despair I’ve seen
And count the times my heart has bled

I want to love a shy young girl
Like a fortress built of stone
To hold her warm and tight
When she feels so alone

I want to feel all the sadness
When my soul is cold and bare
To hear a shout, turn my head
And find my friends are there

I want to know the void in the author
Who will live but never write
Like a baby bird fallen from the nest
Before it’s known the rush of flight

I want to feel the desperation
That only a supreme artist can survive
To produce work of immortal magnitude
Then scream out, “I’m Alive!”

I want to know all that life has to give
And yet, in God I trust
That still I will be learning
When my body has turned to dust

BAD STUFFS
I IS FOR “IDJITS” :

People, I want to talk to you about-- Wait! Move in a little closer. This may be politically incorrect, so I don’t wanna have to shout it.

-- People, I want to talk to you about . . . you know, those folks in society that have doo-doo for brains; who do stupid, asinine things but think that they’re no dumber than the rest of society. Worst of all, some of ‘em actually think they’re hip and cool an’ all. You know, the sorts of people that Yosemite Sam would loudly call “IDJITS.” But then, of course, Yosemite Sam did everything loudly.

Idjits come in all shapes, sizes and genders. Well, actually, as far as I know there are only two genders – but idjits come in both of ‘em.

Who’re idjits? Well, that guy who cuts you off on the freeway, he’s an idjit. But ya know, you’ll find idjits on both ends of ya: that woman who was tailgating you when the idjit cut you off? Well, she’s an idjit, too. Idjits are those people who blow their noses at the table in a restaurant. "Oh, yeah, that’s why I drove to this establishment and paid these menu prices, so I could hear you blowing snot into a handkerchief one table away while I’m trying to eat this banana pudding."

You know that dude who lets his dog go on barking at nothing hour after hour late at night? He’s not just an idjit, he’s a friggin’ idjit! That woman who parks her SUV in a spot reserved for the handicapped and then bounces out of her vehicle and heads into the sporting goods store to buy a new tennis outfit . . . well, I guess I doesn’t have to say it ‘cause if you ain’t an idjit yerself, you already know what I’m a-goin’ to say about that woman.

You know those people with tattoos all over their bodies like they’re walking billboards selling dragons, Jolly Rogers and Harley-Davidson logos? Well, they’re idjits. And they’re gonna feel like idjits too, when they reach the age of 75: “Hey, Granny! How’s your dragon hangin’?”

Now if you’re a famous Rock group and you and your girlfriends pose nehkid and half nehkid for a photograph to be displayed on the inside of one of your record albums, both you and yer girlfriends are idjits! Pictured below are the Doobie Brothers and their womenfolk in their birthday suits on the inside of their album ‘Toulouse Street’. Is they idjits, or what? “Oh yeah, buddy, that’s just what we all wanted to see – you sittin’ there wearing nuttin’ but a hat over your rooster. Maybe you blokes shoulda been called The Boobie Brothers.”
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Of course, the Red Hot Chili Peppers did something even more embarrassing on their ‘Abbey Road E.P.’ I mean, REALLY! Copying the famous Beatles album cover but doing it nehkid except for white socks hanging over your cock-a-doodle-doos? "Oh, you guys are just sooooo fuuuuunny! I’ll bet every college frat-boy idjit in the country fell down laughing over that one. What cleverness! What creativity! What genius! What a display of Idjitism!"

Well, let’s face it, probably 98.75% of Rock stars are idjits.

The gal who puts her clothes in a dryer at the laundromat and then abandons them for hours; the guy who leaves his macaroni and cheese sauce splattered all over inside the microwave oven at work; the chick who goes to lunch with a friend but spends half of the time yakkin’ on her cell phone with someone else; the dude next-door who revs up his motorcycle at the crack of dawn while you’re trying to sleep . . .
they’re idjits all!

There’s an epidemic of Idjititis sweeping the nation; it's going viral and folks are catching it and then infecting others with it. Good People of America, what we goin’ do ‘bout all these idjits?!

Well, I have an idea: maybe they could all be quarantined in the states of Iowa and Airheadzona where the natives wouldn’t even notice.

Le McQuote Du Jour:
You KNOW L. A. Habra be jammin'!
~ Illiterate Woman
(at a battle-of-the-bands competition in Los Angeles)

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Idjitville, Iowa

Letter Links:
A – B – C - D – E - F – G - H -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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H IS FOR "HEROES" & "HORRIBLE HANKY HAIKU"

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“That's right, it filets, it chops, it dices, slices
Never stops, lasts a lifetime, mows your lawn
And it mows your lawn and it picks up the kids from school . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
H IS FOR “HEROES” :
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In my late teens and early twenties I had three heroes: one an actor, one a painter, and one a musician. Hero worship is a phase that most of us pass through in our youth. It seems we need a person to emulate or inspire us. As we grow older, we come to learn that heroes have feet of clay, we become disillusioned and cease holding up others as necessary examples. In other words, we begin to really find ourselves. Well, some of us do. Unfortunately, it seems that a lot of people never really do discover their own unique voice. I’ve addressed this topic before on this Blog in ‘#1 Rule Of Selfhood.’

At this tired, old stage of my life, I have gone well beyond idolizing other human beings, and other than Jesus Christ, I don’t really have a “hero.” I suppose the nearest person to it would be the late Senator Joseph McCarthy. I certainly don’t idolize the man but I have tremendous respect for him. No mere mortal in history, attempting to do what was patriotic, good and right, was ever subjected to more bullsh#t than was Senator McCarthy; he was and remains one of the most wrongly maligned individuals in humankind’s history.

Below is a poem I wrote about one of my heroes back in August of 1980, when I was 19 or 20. The following month, I left a copy of it on his tombstone in Indiana. It may not be any good but it definitely captured the naïve, youthfully overwrought feelings from that period in my life:

A CHANCE AT HEAVEN

While I sit alone, reels of film play in my head
Flashing on the screen a reality to all I have said
There was a time when my words spoke my belief
But now the thought of each statement only brings grief
For I am older but still the clocks tick away
And tomorrow is here before I’ve lived today

And now in the dwindling days of my youth
I have chosen you as my symbol of truth
Because I know where you were, I can feel your doubt
And like you, I am searching to find a way out
I live in my mind in a world of seclusion
For I can’t find a way to transcend this confusion
Mislaid in this land, a lifetime to roam
Safety in loneliness, the place we call home
To exhibit a vision with your rise to fame
This too is something that I’d like to claim
Breaking through all the boundaries imposed by time
Yet I’m held back by a fear of attempting the climb
And though people argue I have nothing to lose
What becomes of the dreams that I might abuse?

I guess heroes are those who gambled that thought
Got up from the ground and persistently fought
This is my time to try the chance that I clutch
To ascend to the heavens, beyond everyone’s touch
And now I am ready to act the ultimate scene
To reach immortality just like James Dean

BAD STUFFS
H IS FOR “HORRIBLE HANKY HAIKU” :

This is really terrible but it just popped into my mind the other day and made me laugh. (But then - as Lisa has already figured out - I’m weird.)
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“Hand me a tissue;
I am going to— HAIKU!”
“Oh dear! God bless you.”

Le McQuote Du Jour:
Some of what has still to be learned by the West may appear to be almost absurdly simple and elementary, but it is important nonetheless. For example, never to use a long word where a short one will serve equally well, never to write with the idea of proving one's own erudition but rather in order to ensure that one's ideas shall be made as understandable to the reader as possible.
~ Douglas Hyde
(from his book "Dedication And Leadership")

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Hatsastraw, Honduras

Letter Links:
A – B – C - D – E - F – G -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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G IS FOR "GILLIGAN'S ISLAND GRUDGE MATCH" & "GUSTATORY SENSATIONS"

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“Now you've heard it advertised, don't hesitate
Don't be caught with your drawers down
Don't be caught with your drawers down
You can step right up, step right up . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
G IS FOR “GILLIGAN’S ISLAND GRUDGE MATCH” :

In The Holy Bible, the statement is made, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” But since this has nothing to do with today’s Blog post, please forget I ever mentioned it.
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I visited the Blog ‘Porch Ponderings By Rae’ back on “Day-C” and found it humorous. Rae Frazier writes some funny stuffs.

But on Day-C, while writing in the post ‘Oh, Captain, My Captain’ of an upcoming cruise she’s planning to take and making reference to Gilligan’s Island, she made a disparaging remark about Mary Ann. Arlee Bird, who is the culprit behind this whole ‘Blogging A To Z April Challenge’ left a comment:

Never been on a cruise, but I hope you enjoy yours. And don't be bashing sweet Mary Ann -- she was the real heart throb of most of us men.
Lee

I came along later, supported my brother Lee, and in the process, came up with the idea for today’s Blog Bit. Here’s what I wrote:

Yeah, Arlee Bird's right!
Mary Ann: she represents a time when women were women and men were happy.

I've axed many dudes over the years the standard question: "Mary Ann or Ginger?" I'll bet that most women would guess that Ginger wins that contest, but it goes to show how little women really understand us guys. Mary Ann is the answer I've gotten about 97 or 98 times out of a hundred.

Don't believe me? Start axing men that question yourself and see who they'd prefer. It's Mary Ann in a landslide - ah gaarauntee!

In fact, this has given me a good idear. I ain't got nuttin' really worthwhile set up for the letter "G" yet so methinks I'll say, "G Is For Gilligan's Island Poll". I'll make it a Mary Ann Vs. Ginger grudge match and see if it turns out the way it always has.

Alright, I'm suddenly looking forward to the letter "G"!
Thanks for the inspiration Rae and Arlee B.

~ "Lonesome Dogg" McMe

For decades, men have been asking each other, “Mary Ann or Ginger?” If you were stuck on an island for a long period of time, which of these two would you like to be stuck with and stuck on?

Well, as stated above, my experiences show that Mary Ann has been far and away the first choice of the average man. But let’s give it another go and see if that’s still so.

In the left-hand column of this Blog I have installed a 'Gilligan’s Island Grudge Match' poll and I am going to keep it counting through April 30th. Let’s get to the bottom(s) of this issue once and for all!

This is a poll for men only. Guys, please vote, please vote only once, and please vote honestly. The choice is yours: Mary Ann or Ginger?

BAD STUFFS
G IS FOR “GUSTATORY SENSATIONS” :

OK, here’s a short "poem-like thing" that I wrote in July of 1984. It’s short ‘n’ sick but, contrary to first impressions, it’s not entirely nonsensical. See if you have any idea what this might be about. I’ll provide an explanation afterwards:
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GUSTATORY SENSATIONS

CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP!
. Yum. . .Yum. . .Yum.
The brain eats itself and gets sick to its stomach.

Any idea what I yam yakkin’ about there?

Well, I'll tell you: It is a brief commentary on my tendency to gorge myself on my own thoughts until I can’t stomach them anymore. Even too much of a good thing, like gin, ice cream and wild, wild women can have negative ramifications. The same with thoughts. There have been times when I have wished to escape the musings of my own nonstop mind; there have been times when I’ve wanted so badly to get completely out of my head. (And that’s usually where the Jim Beam comes in.)

Le McQuote Du Jour:
There is never enough time to do or say all the things that we would wish; the thing is to try to do as much as you can in the time that you have. Remember, time is short, and suddenly you're not there anymore.
~ Ghost Of Christmas Present

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Glenorglenda, Georgia

Letter Links:
A – B – C - D – E - F -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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F IS FOR "FIRST EXORCISM..." & "FEDERAL RESERVE"

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"Fifty percent off original retail price, skip the middle man
Don't settle for less
How do we do it? How do we do it?
Volume! Volume! Turn up the volume! . . ."

GOOD STUFFS
F IS FOR “FIRST EXORCISM . . .”
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Yesterday I told y’all that back in my late teens and early twenties I used to write this stuffs that I referred to as “poetry.” I also mentioned that, by and large, I only wrote this stuffs while in states of depression, and I suppose that’s pretty normal. I mean, a teenager who isn’t depressed is bodysurfing at the beach, chasing after girls, playing Wiffle Ball or Over-The-Line (forms of baseball) with his friends, or trying to find a Chinese liquor store owner who will sell Boone’s Farm wine to underaged boys. Well, that’s how it was with me anyway.

If you find a teenager (boy or girl) all alone in their room writing poetry, it’s a good bet that he or she is bummed out. Otherwise they’d be out and about having fun doing teenager stuffs. Kids don’t sit in their bedrooms writing about how the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and everything’s okie-dokie.

So, I guess it’s not so unusual that most of my “poems” had a dark edge to them. If I was writing poetry, it was because I was trying to exorcise the depression demon within me by expressing it on paper so I could then let it go and get on with chasing after girls and Boone’s Farm wine. However, it seems that I was conscious of the reasons I wrote these poems, and even when I was sipping Blues and snacking on Angst, my sense of humor never fully abandoned me.

Today’s poem, written when I was 23, has a humorous title (maybe the best one I ever came up with) that scarcely relates to the words that follow. Although it was already April, this happened to be the first “poem” I wrote in 1984, and so I titled it “First Exorcism Of The New Year”. With grey hairs comes wisdom, and I find that there are a couple of lines in this piece that I would now have to take issue with, but in my idealistic youth, I thought like this . . .

FIRST EXORCISM OF THE NEW YEAR

When? When will he let go?
When will he let go of the fear that strangles him day and night?
That choking denial of oxygen.
The personal attack upon himself...
An assualt of anger, then sadness, then
Grotesque self-pity.

When will he let go of his fear of fear?
Of his shameful thoughtz of self-importance
And shameless lack of self-consideration?
Let him GROW older, lean on the faith he pretends to have
And trust that his every action, every thought,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Is right.

God, when will he stop his downward, horror-stricken stare
And leave the diving board with a frightened yet exulted leap
Into the uncertainty of sky and water?
And know that it is divine wisdom and superior thought
To DO instead of think?

Let him learn to live for the moment and die
For the past.
Laugh or cry spontaneously and without any measure of regret:
The beautiful purity of mind triggering emotion.

And, God, help him to close the door on that stifling, degenerate doubt.
Help him pry loose his fingers from his throat
To fill his lungs with the crisp pleasure of renewed life.

When will he let go?
When will he KNOW those things that he presently believes
And realize that success is not the path to heaven
Nor failure the path to hell?

Let him attempt to fly with a desire and need
And should he plummet to death,
Let it be because he could not fly,
Not because he THOUGHT he couldn’t.

When? When will he do what he must?
When will he?

BAD STUFFS
F IS FOR “FEDERAL RESERVE SYSTEM” :
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Based on the things I’ve been posting on this Blog recently, it might come as a surpise for some to learn that, in fact, my greatest areas of interest, and therefore the areas in which I am most knowledgeable, are in spiritual and political matters. While many people think of these things as being divorced from each other – and I myself once made that mistaken assessment – the truth is that religion and politics have a symbiotic relationship that has to be understood.

Mayer Amschel Rothschild is purported to have said, “Let me issue and control a nation’s money and I care not who writes the laws.” The reason for this should be obvious: the issuer of currency can buy off the lawmakers.

There are millions of Americans, both Republican and Democrat, running around thinking themselves to be politically astute and yet they haven’t the foggiest idea of what the principal problem facing America today happens to be. America’s very biggest problem today is the same problem it’s had for almost 100 years. The creators of money (i.e., the controllers of wealth) are not the The Peoples’ representatives in Washington D.C., as the U.S. Constitution states they must be, but they are private bankers who dictate the entire nation’s economic conditions and who pay off the politicians for doing their bidding.

I am providing you below with a link to a full-length magazine article published one year ago by a man named James Perloff. “Our Monetary Mayhem Began With The Fed” is one of the three finest and most educational articles pertaining to politics that I have thus far found anywhere on the Worldwide Web. When you have a little time available to do some “serious” reading, please peruse Perloff’s piece. (By the way, “peruse” is often mistakenly thought to mean “skim” or “read quickly.” Actually, it means the opposite: “to read through with thoroughness or care”; “to survey or examine in detail”.)

Even if you think you are politically savvy now, you will be over 100% more informed after you’ve perused this article. Yes, I realize my statement is mathematically impossible, but I’ve already told y’all that my math STINKS! But no kidding – this story reveals what is truly the United States of America’s most pressing political problem. And to think, you never even knew!

Link: “OUR MONETARY MAYHEM BEGAN WITH THE FED”

Le McQuote Du Jour:
I don't know - I guess maybe it’s just the booze or something.
~ Terry “The Toad” Fields

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Froglegs, France

Letter Links:
A – B – C - D – E -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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E IS FOR "ECHO ECHO" & "EMBARRASSMENT"

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“Act now, act now, and receive as our gift, our gift to you
They come in all colors, one size fits all
No muss, no fuss, no spills. You're tired of kitchen drudgery
Everything must go! Going out of business, going out of business, going out of business sale . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
E IS FOR “ECHO ECHO” :

Theoretically speaking, a professional baseball season is 1,458 innings long. Of course, that’s not taking into account a handful of inevitable rain-outs which will diminish that number slightly.

Also in baseball, every team has a “middle relief” pitcher of mediocre talent who is always praised for being able to “chew up (or eat up) a lot of innings.” What is meant by this saying is that this relief pitcher has a strong, durable arm so he can be inserted into many games without needing a whole lot of rest:

“Joe Schmo’s a great guy to have on this team; he can really eat up a lot of innings for us!” In other words, Joe is one of the better mediocre pitchers who can pitch often, moving the team closer to the season’s finale and without doing too much damage to the cause of winning. Joe’s going to take his lumps often but hopefully he won’t allow the games to get out of hand, giving his team a reasonable chance at victory. He ain’t good but he ain’t terrible either, and he can pitch often.

I have a collection of poems I’ve written over the decades which I’ve titled: “Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, Some Of My Poetry Doesn’t Rhyme.” I am under no delusions that I am anything resembling a poet. I haven’t written a “poem” (if I can use that word) in 16 years, and back when I did try my hand at them, it was usually only as a method of expressing and therefore purging my depression. With the exception of a few humorous pieces that I wrote, when it came to (what I called) “poetry”, I had a dark muse.

However, I have decided to post selected examples of my old “poetry” during this A To Z April Challenge as a way to “eat up some of these letters” and advance ‘Team Stephen’ closer to Z-End. They will hopefully be helpful as I progress through the alphabet. In some cases, I’ll get to copy stuffs I wrote in my raw, idealistic, emotion-driven youth, rather than think up new stuffs for this Blog. And hopefully, for you the reader, my “mediocre, middle-inning relief poetry” which I’m sending to the mound to “eat up some letters” won’t be TOO painful. But feel free to criticize, ignore, or just run screaming away. Stephen’s just tryin’ to survive this April Challenge by posting some things that otherwise would have NEVER EVER seen da Light O’Day.

Yesterday, I posted a Love Letter [sic] I had written back in 1983 to a woman called “T”. Today I’m going to post a poem I wrote in ’85 about our relationship that never really got properly off the ground. I never showed it to her, but I’m showing it to you because it starts with “E”. It’s rather personal, so I don’t expect that anyone could really comprehend it, but it does have about it a certain . . . mood.

ECHO ECHO
. . .(For T.)

Again
I’m floating
My feet desire roots to a mere island of earth
But space . . . nothing there
. . . then . . . here . . . now . . . outside . . . within . . . wooshhhhhhhh . . .

Lost again, am I? Lost again I am. Looooooossssssst.
If you could return for a tangible minute. One.
One minute of redemption.
Of flesh to flesh.
Emotion to flesh.
Honesty to flesh. Honesty for
A REAL minute.

I make love to pain instead of love
Unwilling to rise above an ancient bruise. Again.
And now like a balloon I expand achingly
Filled with next to nothing . . .

Lost. Again.

I apologize to you
And twice to me.
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[And as if that wasn’t bad enough…]

BAD STUFFS
E IS FOR “EMBARRASSMENT” :

Here in Phoenix, Airheadzona there’s a chain of stores called ‘SAVERS’. Savers is essentially just like a Goodwill store where people donate used items which are then sold cheaply to the public, primarily to lower economic income folks who frequent those types of establishments.

Well, there’s a Savers in the neighborhood not far from where my Brother Napoleon (Nappy) and I and my Sister’s family live. We’ve all gone in there from time to time when looking for some item we want cheap and don’t mind if it’s gently used (I got a CD player there once and a leather Tony Dorsett-model football).

They play this game at Savers where they will periodically announce a trivia question over the P.A. system and the first customer in the store to answer it correctly gets 20% taken off their purchase price.

Well, we all gathered at my Sister’s house for our Easter celebration, and at one point, Nappy held up the can of root beer he was drinking from and asked, “Does anybody know which cartoon character’s favorite soda pop is root beer?” No one got it, so Nappy said, “Dennis The Menace. I once got 20% off at Savers for knowing that.”
Then I said, “What is the only female animal that has antlers?”
My Brother-In-Law answered, “Reindeer?”
“Right!” I said. “I got 20% off a leather football at Savers for knowing that.”
Then my Brother-In-Law asked the group, “Which country exports the most frog legs?” Nappy and I both guessed France.
“No”, Bro-In-Law answered. “It’s Japan. I learned that one day at Savers, too.”

And that’s when I started laughing while being struck by a small pang of embarrassment. “Oh, my gosh!” I said loudly, “Do you realize that we are a Jeff Foxworthy joke? If your family gathers around the table on Easter Sunday to share Savers trivia questions . . . you might be a redneck.”
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Le McQuote Du Jour:
Peace cannot be kept by force; it can only be achieved by understanding.
~ Albert Einstein

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Eudeman, Ecuador

Letter Links:
A – B – C - D -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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D IS FOR "DYLAN" & "DOGS"

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“We got a year-end clearance. We got a white sale
And a smoke-damaged furniture, you can drive it away today . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
D IS FOR “DYLAN” :

It may have been early last year or perhaps late in 2008. A friend and former coworker of mine, Pete, contacted me and asked for some advice on the art of writing. Well, I’m no artist when it comes to the written word; I’m just an untrained, mostly self-taught fraud who can fake it. But my friend is a young man in his very early twenties and he was working on a book manuscript for a novel about nanotechnology that he hoped to publish someday. He told me he was seeking suggestions from several people he knew who regularly wrote stuff. Well, I don’t write stuff, but I do write “Stuffs.”

I told my buddy that any advice coming from me should be taken with a grain of salt if not a whole shaker of it. Other than a creative writing class or two that I took in junior high school, and two one-day classes pertaining to screenwriting that I attended in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, everything I know about writing I learned from reading lots of books by the great authors such as Twain and Steinbeck, et al. In fact, I had once even given Pete a copy of Jack Kerouac’s book ‘On The Road’ which I had purchased for him while on a trip that took me through Kerouac’s hometown, Lowell, Massachusetts. I wasn’t proposing that Kerouac was a great writer necessarily, but that he was a unique stylist who people ought to be familiar with.

I suggested first and foremost that Pete read as much as he could of the classic literature. I also recommended a few books to him, such as ‘20 Master Plots And How To Build Them’ (which I’ve only skimmed) and ‘Screenplay’ by Syd Field and ‘Screenwriting’ by Richard Walter, because I feel that there are key elements of writing effective movie scripts that pertain to any kind of fiction writing.

But then I offered Pete the most unusual advice; advice that I told him he would receive from no one else. I told Pete that the best writing course I ever took cost me just $5. (it’s now going for $8.99). Back when I was a teenager and through my early twenties, I frequently listened to the 1965 Bob Dylan album ‘Bringing It All Back Home’. But gradually I sold my LPs and didn’t hear that Dylan recording again until I borrowed a copy of it from my friend The Great L.C. in March of 2008.

Hearing ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ again for the first time in 20 to 25 years, I was absolutely floored to discover how much I had learned to write and how much my style had been inspired by that record. I had been unconsciously absorbing the ability to play with words and manipulate ideas while listening to those song lyrics in my “yoot”. I had never realized until decades later how much Bob Dylan had inspired me. Yes, the dude was a womanizing weirdo – no debating that – but I have to give him credit for opening my mind to the creative potential of wordplay. My way of writing, while definitely my own and of questionable value, was in large part built upon a foundation supplied by music’s second greatest lyricist of all time, Robert Zimmerman a.k.a. Bob Dylan.

And so I told Pete that if he wanted to take a really fabulous writing course, one that would expand his imagination, that would swing wide open the mind’s gate, encouraging the ingression of ideas and inspire him to discover new ways to explore the possibilities of the written word, he should get a copy of ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ and play it rePETEdly.
.

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Without Dylan’s musical example, I probably never would have composed my most memorable love letter. I wrote it to Terrill (or “T”) in June of 1983. "T" was a young woman raised in Holland but living in Greece at that time. I know I’ve posted the letter on this Blog before, and I know it’s the least romantic, most Stream O’Consciousness love letter ever written, but I’m posting it again below just because I’m Da Dictator O’De ‘Stuffs’ and I can do any damn thing I wants here:

June, 1983 :

Wow, I am SO hungover.
Doug and MD are in Palm Springs. Last night, Twinkie and me and Lynth went out and got so drunk. I feel OK except I keep getting these fast bizarre thoughts. I have nothing to do so I thought I’d write, right? (Write, Right…that’s almost like Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or New York, New York.) I’m at the corner of Ocean Ave. and Linnie Ave. in Venice. It’s about 4 or 5 blocks from the beach. I’m sitting in the bed of my truck with my 500 pound non-portable typewriter. I am so hungover. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I got drunk last night. It’s something I’m good at. I’ll bet I’m…I’ll bet I can get drunk better than you. Terrill, I’m worried about your drinking! I like Southern Calif. Out here, you can type in your truck by the beach ‘cause you feel like it and nobody cares. Now if I tried to take my typewriter down to the beach in say, a state like Texas, I’d probably get arrested for disturbing the peace.

I’m not drunk, just hungover. In fact, I haven’t had a drink since last night. Everytime I wake up with a hangover, it seems that I had been drinking the night before. Amazing! I’m beginning to think that it’s not just a coincidence!

Uh, when I woke up this morning (Hey, did you like the way I started this sentence with the word “Uh”? It makes it seem like I’m talking instead of writing. I think that’s neat. I’m going to have to try using that a little bit later in this letter and see if it works just as well a second time. “Uh”, that’s a good word; I wonder who made that one up.) When I woke up this morning I went into Mark’s room and slipped into bed with him. At first he started to complain about it but I said, “Hey, relax, it’s all we’ve got.” But we just talked about our hangovers for a while and then…and then, whatever. But I mean we’re not like people in San Francisco, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Uh, this morning Mark went fishing in Malibu. (Notice I used “Uh” again. It worked as well as it did before…don’t you think?) I don’t like fishing because I don’t like to hurt things, and you know I think fish are probably “things” and when they get that hook through their mouths it probably hurts. I don’t really care about fish all that much but I still wouldn’t want to hurt them! I’ve seen more fish than you, nyahhh, nyahhh, nyahhh!

This is a beautiful day; last night was fuzzy. If you, Terrill, were here right now you know what we’d do? We’d probably be walking along the beach, here in Venice, and you know how people sell their art here? Well, we’d be going by and I’d look at some painting and (it would be a good sized one) I would say to you, “Hey, Terrill…look at this, do you like this painting?” And you would say, “Not especially, do you?” And I’d say, “Oh, it’s OK…kind of interesting, I think.” But we wouldn’t buy it ‘cause we couldn’t afford it. So then we’d go to one of those cafes on the beach and get a beer and watch the waves and the dogs and the Frisbees.

I’m not going to drink today. I’m getting tired of drinking; I think I’ll find something else to start doing.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was Bob Dylan.

So what are you going to do tonight? I might see a movie. I saw one once before and I thought it was pretty good.

I’ll have to Xerox a copy of this letter ‘cause otherwise I won’t believe I wrote it ten years from now. Everytime I just get going, this stupid bell rings and I gotta (see, there it happened again) start a new line.

Some tourists just walked by and stared at me. They probably thought I was some weirdo from California. Oh, if they only knew.

Hey, I hope this letter isn’t scaring you. Is it? It’s not meant to. Sometimes I scare MYSELF. But this is just something fun to do. You know how it is. I’m really not crazy…just mentally disturbed. But seeing as how Father’s Day is coming up soon, I just thought I’d write.

You don’t have to reply to this letter (a boat just went by) ‘cause I’m going to write another one in about a week. A real one. Right now my mind is just in the ozone layer. I think it’s because of the hangover because I don’t usually write letters like this to you. At least I haven’t before.

Hey.

So, anyway, uh, do you think you’re wunderbar? Stupid word. So is groovy and glad and stupid, stupid words. I have to drive because I’m too hungover to walk.

You know what I was just thinking? That if you wrote me a letter all in Dutch I wouldn’t understand any of it. Not only can I not read Dutch but I can’t even speak it. It’s all Greek to me! Get it? Greek. Hey, do all Greek men really have hairy chests and do they all really wear gold chains? I’ll bet a Molson they do!

Some girl smiled at me. She was probably a weirdo tho. You know how these Venice types are!

I’m really something. You probably think this is all real romantic, don’t you? You probably think you’re real cute, sitting there on some street in your truck, typing a letter, don’t you? Think you’re real creative or unique or something, right? Well, you’re not. Anybody can do that. That doesn’t make you a real artist. It proves only your stupidity. Dumb girl.

My leg fell asleep.

I hope this letter doesn’t scare you. You like it, don’t you? I hope so…I’m writing it specially for you. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow. Normal…how boring!

Think of this letter as a post card, OK?

Oh wow.

Hey, I’m going to write you another letter later. Letter later. And I’m going to send a couple pictures, also. Neat, huh? Isn’t the postal service neat? Neat is another stupid word.

Well, listen…I’m gonna go now. I mean, sh#t, you think I got nothing better to do than write you a post card? Hell, I’m a busy guy. Sh#t and hell…two cuss words in one paragraph. Pretty good, huh? Think you can do that?

Don’t cuss. I don’t like it when you cuss. Well, OK, you can cuss but just a little bit. Nothing too vulgar, though. Just like, whatever…sh#t, hell, damn, potty, etc. You know, just ladylike cuss words.

Well, I gotta go. You’ll get a real letter from me in a little while and then…well, whatever…you can read it and stuff like that.

‘Bye. Be good. Nice, whatever. (Wow, I am SO hungover.)

-- Bob Dylan

BAD STUFFS
D IS FOR “DOGS” :

And by “dogs” I don’t mean the canine variety. If it were “Man’s Best Friend” I was referring to here, I most certainly would have placed “dogs” under the “Good Stuffs” category. No, what I mean when I say “dogs” is unattractive females of the human variety:
.

.
Ugly women got no reason
Ugly women got no reason
Ugly women got no reason
To live

They got ugly hands
Ugly eyes
They walk around
Tellin' ugly lies
They got ugly noses
And ugly teeth
They wear ugly shoes
On their ugly feet

Well, I don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
‘Round here

[Ugly women are just the same
As you and I
A fool such as I
All women are my sisters
Until the day we die
It's a wonderful world]

Ugly women got nobody
Ugly women got nobody
Ugly women got nobody
To love

They got ugly legs
That they shouldn’t show
I’d rather run away
Than to say Hello
They got ugly cars
That go beep, beep, beep
They got ugly voices
Goin' peep, peep, peep
They got ugly little fingers
And ugly little minds
They're gonna get you every time

Well, I don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
Don't want no ugly women
‘Round here

And by the way, what I’ve said about ugly women,
that goes for short people, too!

Le McQuote Du Jour:
He not busy being born is busy dying.
~ Bob Dylan

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Dillydally, Djibouti

Letter Links:
A – B – C

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
.

C IS FOR "CONTRARIAN COMPARISON" & "CANCER"

.
“One-tenth of a dollar, one-tenth of a dollar. We got service after sales
You need perfume? We got perfume. How 'bout an engagement ring?
Something for the little lady? Something for the little lady?
Something for the little lady? Hmmm
Three for a dollar! . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
C IS 4 “CONTRARIAN COMPARISON” :

I’m going to compare below two edible objects that I ate yesterday:

OBJECT 1: Dark red.
OBJECT 2: Bright orange.
OBJECT 1: Roundish, but slightly narrower at the bottom than it is at the top.
OBJECT 2: Round.
OBJECT 1: A little smaller than my fist.
OBJECT 2: Slightly larger than my fist.
OBJECT 1: Has a dark, thin half inch stem protruding from its center at the top.
OBJECT 2: Has no stem, but does have a small green nub in its center at the top.
OBJECT 1: Is wrapped in a thin but firm skin.
OBJECT 2: Is contained within a thick, pitted, leathery skin with a white underside.
OBJECT 1: White inside; one pulpy mass.
OBJECT 2: Orange inside with white fibers running around segmented pieces.
OBJECT 1: Is fairly sweet, juicy and crisp.
OBJECT 2: Is soft, sweet and juicy but with a very slight tartness also.
OBJECT 1: Contained three small, dark brown seeds in its core.
OBJECT 2: Contained no seeds of any sort.
* In my opinion, OBJECT 2 tasted better than OBJECT 1.

I have just analyzed the similarities and the differences between a Red Delicious Apple and a Navel Orange.
.

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Now, the next time someone tells you that you can’t compare two items to each other because “it would be like comparing apples to oranges”, you can reply with this: “Comparing apples to oranges is hardly impossible. In fact, I once saw a rank amateur do it rather easily on his Blog.” [Don’t accept that invalid cliché any longer. I say, “Compare away!”]

BAD STUFFS
C IS 4 “CANCER” :
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I want to switch gears on you now and write about something that’s serious. No, not halitosis or incontinence. I mean, something that’s REALLY serious. I want to briefly address the subject of cancer. This is a public service announcement:

Alright, we’re all big boys and girls here, aren’t we? And there ain’t any really stupid dudes or dudettes reading this Blog Bit, are there? Haven’t we lived long enough to have arrived at the conclusion that much of the way “this world” operates revolves around the acquisition of money and power? “Follow the money!” haven’t we all said that at one time or another?

Why then, would any reasonable, logical person with even a modicum of critical thinking capacity believe that this somehow does not apply in the world of medicine? Do the areas of health and medicine not offer plenty of opportunity for human beings to acquire money and power? Or is every doctor, every corporation, and every organization functioning within the realm of medicine solely interested in your well-being?

What if cancer could be prevented or even cured by simple changes in diet? What if avoiding cancer was as simple as getting a sufficient amount of a certain nutrient that is ordinarily lacking in the modern diet? If dietary adjustments could prevent cancer and even cure it in very advanced, even so-called “terminal” stages, would it be in the best interest of the pharmaceutical companies, the makers of complicated diagnostic machines, and organizations that exist only to “fight” cancer, to tell you this?

Well, neither I nor anyone in my immediate family has had a major “cancer encounter”, but alternative views have always interested me. And that’s why years ago I read two books on the subject of Laetrile, or “Vitamin B-17.” These books opened my eyes to the fact that millions of people are living in fear of and dying of cancer when it’s not at all necessary.

I have no association with either author – have never met or even spoken with either one of them – so it makes no difference to my wallet whether or not you buy their books (heck, I’d say get them through an Interlibrary Loan for free!), but I will tell you this: There’s no good reason for anyone to fear cancer or die from it. For sure, The Good Lord is going to call each of us Home someday, but there are better ways to go than at the hand of cancer. Choose another path Home! Read these absolutely astounding books, Brothers and Sisters, and tell cancer to "F.O."

‘WORLD WITHOUT CANCER: The Story Of Vitamin B-17’
by G. Edward Griffin

‘ALIVE AND WELL: One Doctor’s Experience With Nutrition In The Treatment Of Cancer Patients’
by Philip E. Binzel, Jr., M.D.

If your library can’t get these books for you, they can be purchased through G. Edward Griffin’s own website. Here’s a link: ‘REALITY ZONE’

Again, I have no vested interest in any purchase anyone might make; I just hate seeing the Brothers and Sisters whom God gave to me dying in such a horrible manner. (Contrary to popular opinion, I really am a pretty decent guy.)

BONUS MATERIAL:
Since this little episode which occurred yesterday does relate to a person’s car, and since car does begin with the letter “C”, I figured I’d just toss this in so I can close this Blog Bit on a lighter note.

Where I work, I occasionally speak with a woman named Jan. She and I were talking yesterday about the manner in which some Christian churches conduct their Easter services. When she went to leave, she complained to me that recently she had noticed a bad odor in her car but she was unable to locate the source of the smell. I suggested, “Maybe it’s you.”
Jan said, “WHAT?!”
And I said, “Well, do you smell it in your car
when you’re not in it?”

Le McQuote Du Jour:
You just gotta know how to lay it on them dudes, man.
~ Cheech (of 'Cheech And Chong')

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Carpeteria, California

Letter Links:
A – B -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
.

B IS FOR "BASEBALL BATS" & "BEETS"

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“That's right, you too can be the proud owner
Of the quality goes in before the name goes on . . .”

GOOD STUFFS
B IS FOR “BASEBALL BATS” :



It’s pretty simple really, and quite obvious if you ask me. The great symbol of the United States of America is not the bald eagle, nor is it the Statue of Liberty. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with those things, they have their place an’ all. I’ve never eaten bald eagle but I imagine it tastes like chicken. And heck, I’ve been to see Lady Liberty – even climbed up to her crown and looked out through the windows at the world beyond.

But let’s face it, if we’re looking for the most suitable symbol to represent America to the rest of the world, you can’t do better than the classic Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Ask yourself, “What’s America’s pastime?” Go ahead, ask yourself – I’ll wait.

La-dee-dah, La-dee-dah . . .

OK, what answer did you come up with? That’s right! Everyone knows that “Baseball is America’s pastime.” And baseball gave us some of America’s greatest heroes like Babe Ruth and Ted Williams and Hank Aaron. Now did you ever stop to think where those three giants - well, not giants in the team sense as they played for the Yankees and the Red Sox and the Braves respectively, but giants of the baseball diamond – did you ever stop to think where they would have been without baseball bats? That’s right, they’d have been used car salesmen and America would have been a poorer country for it.

History tells us that when he was a boy, George Washington chopped down a cherry tree. But Mr. History, as usual, has it all wrong – he could never pass a real history test. The truth is that when he was a boy, Washington cut down a White Ash tree, a.k.a. an American Biltmore, from which he fashioned America’s first baseball bat. Many years later, while leading the fight in the Revolutionary War, The Father Of His Country lost his teeth due to poor dental hygiene (Ben Franklin hadn't invented the toothbrush yet). He wasn’t too old to command troops, but since he was now too old to play baseball, Washington recarved his baseball bat into a set of wooden false teeth. I’ll bet you didn’t know that Washington’s wooden teeth had hit 127 home runs, did you?

I’ll bet you also didn’t know that Charlie McCarthy was once Babe Ruth’s 73 inch, 142 ounce bat.
.
The best baseball bats have always come from Louisville, Kentucky, and really, what’s more American Heartlandish than Kentucky?

These bats have always expressed violence pretty well as well. Remember that scene in the first 'Rocky' movie, when Paulie, liquored up on good ol’ Kentucky bourbon, takes a Louisville bat and starts to dismantle a dresser top with it? Not even Rocky Balboa wanted to tangle with him then! And wasn’t there a scene in 'Scarface', when Al Pacino, playing the part of Tony Montana, uses a Louisville Slugger to nearly decapitate some dude? We generally associate machine guns with gangster violence, but a baseball bat is so much more personal, don’tcha think?

Just last weekend, I was watching a 1993 movie called ‘Falling Down.’ In one scene, the out-of-work protagonist, went into a little convenience market and, armed with nothing but a baseball bat, single-handedly rolled prices back to 1965. Now THAT’S how you deal with inflation, baby – with a baseball bat!

America was born and raised on violence. I mean, seriously, take the violence out of America and what have you got left? Winooski, Vermont.

My dear friend the Flying Aardvark lives in an apartment in West Hollywood, California. That area is just loaded with unemployed dancers and those fellas can get pretty territorial about the colors they wear. If they think someone is muscling in on their claim to, say, purple or hot pink, it can get pretty nasty. So, the last time I was out there to visit the Flyin’ Aard, I gave her a sawed-off baseball bat to protect herself with. It may not be quite as intimidating as a sawed-off shotgun, but nevertheless, now she doesn’t have to live in such fear of some deranged dancer breaking into her apartment to feed his lavender habit. Still, she needs to be careful walking the streets at night as she never knows when she’ll inadvertently stray into the crossfire of a gangland turf war between the Teals and the Fuchsias.

Any way you look at it, the Louisville Slugger baseball bat is the symbol that, overall, best represents the United States of America.

"Batter up! Play ball!"
"Kill the umpire!"

BAD STUFFS
B IS FOR “BEETS” :



I’m perhaps the least finicky eater God ever created. In all honesty, I like the taste of just about everything. I mean, within reason. I’m excluding those ridiculous unfood dishes like Rocky Mountain Oysters, Cricket Cacciatore, or any stew made from what’s left of a diseased animal after a jackal pack attack.

But of the “real” foods, I like everything in varying degrees, with only three exceptions. And one of those exceptions is beets. First of all, don’t even tell me that those things grow naturally. That horrendous red color could not have been created by Mother Nature; it was clearly invented in some laboratory by some wicked, mad scientist who intends to stain the world and take it over someday. God doesn't even recognize the color of beets!

I own a 1986 NFL films VHS tape titled, “Crunch Time: Highlights Of The NFL’s Hardest Hitters.” There’s a segment in the program on Howie “Caveman” Long who, in his time, was considered professional football’s “most menacing defensive presence.” And yet, Howie hated violence. He says: “I appall violence, it just makes me ill. It’s right up there with beets. Yech!”

I’m tempted to say that all of the most manly men – like Howie and me – hate beets. But then I get to thinking that I best not make such a bold statement. For all I know, Rosie O’Donnell might love beets and might take exception to a statement like that, and he might come over here and kick the crap outta me.

When I see beets on my plate I just start singing like Michael Jackson, “It doesn't matter who's wrong or right, just beat it! Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!”

As I said, there are only three legitimate foods that I hate. Beets are one. To the first person who can correctly guess the other two, I will send 10,000 cases of creamed corn and 10,000 bushels of cucumbers.

Drat! I think I may have said too much.

Le McQuote Du Jour:
It is well to remember that evil is a pretty bad thing!
~ Batman (the 1960’s version)

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Burgville, Buenos Aires

Letter Links:
A -

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
.

A IS FOR "ARLEE BIRD" & "ARITHMETIC"

.
“Step right up! Step right up! Step right up!
Everyone's a winner, bargains galore . . .”
.

.
WTF?! [Or, INTRODUCTION]
My McBuddy, Arlee Bird (I call him rLEE-b, but you might know him as Lee), concocted this concept one day. He noticed that, excluding Sundays, there’s 26 days in the month of April. So, in a moment of inspired lunacy he said something like, “Hey, I know, kids! Let’s put on a show! Everyone post a new Blog installment every day in April – excluding Sundays – based on the order of the alphabet.”

To get the lowdown on all the rules, regulations, bylaws, the registration sheet, the certificate of completion (suitable for framing), and the rebate form, you can go to rLEE-b’s Blog ‘Tossing It Out’ and read a full explanation of “THE BLOGGING FROM A TO Z APRIL CHALLENGE.”

After much back and forth deliberation, I finally, in the eleventh hour, gave in and decided to join the fun. (In other words, rLEE-b talked me into it by using smooth words . . . and by threatening to send Rocco over to my house to break my legs.) Also, I woke up yesterday morning hearing this sentence in my mind: "S is for Stream Of Consciousness." I took it as a sign of some sort. Uhp! I'm an idiot!

Well, for me, posting at least 100 words on any topic from A to Z is like eating bread (an ancient Hebrew expression meaning “it’s easy”). Heck, I could burp 100 words about Astrophysics – a subject I don’t know even the first thing about. So, this idea didn’t really present me with much of a challenge.

Charles Dickens said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Led Zeppelin said, “Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my share.” Fred Astaire said, “You like potato and I like potahto; You like tomato and I like tomahto; Potato, potahto, tomato, tomahto. Let's call the whole thing off!” So, to up the ante a little, I’ve decided to make this a dual sorta 'Stream Of Consciousness' thang. Every day (excluding Sundays – can’t you remember that?!) I will post a Brief Blog Bit about something I like, or consider positive, and something I dislike, or consider negative, and both will begin with the same letter of the alphabet.

I’m going to keep it short and flying fast; free-form thoughts written rapidly without a whole lot of regard for continuity, logic, facts, details, grammar - a semi-Stream O’Consciousness flow spewed off the cuff; on the fly; shoot first, ask questions later; off the top of my head while rolling through “Stop” signs and flipping the bird to the Language Police as I go by.

Afterwards, I will go back and try to make heads or tails of (or make amends for) what I’ve written prior to posting it. In other words, I’ll try to tidy up my act a tad before subjecting you to it.

Reading this “Stuffs” for the next 26 days (no Sundays!) might be a little like trying to understand what I’m saying when I’m yakking while very intoxicated. Only I won’t be yakking, I’ll be writing, and I won’t be liquidated, I’ll be sober . . . unless you’re buying, in which case I’ll have Grand Marnier on the rocks and you can leave the bottle and call me a taxi.

Buckle your seat belt, put on your crash helmet, stick some baseball cards in the spokes, and hang on, Saint Christopher – I may be hard to follow and clean up after.

GOOD STUFFS
OK, today is April 1st and that means . . .
A IS 4 “ARLEE BIRD” :
.

.
[rLEE-b, lower left - 1964]

Arlee Bird, or Lee, is my friend. He’s a good guy and I like him a lot. We’ve never actually met face to face, but Lee has a bottle of Grand Marnier he’s promised to share with me if that day should ever occur.

You know how I first met rLEE-b? Of course you don’t, that’s why I’m about to tell you. The very first thing Lee ever said to me was: “Georgia On My Mind ---- so many different versions, so many different styles --- everyone must have one version of this lovely song that they like.”

No, Lee wasn't calling me "Georgia", and no, I hadn't been on his mind.

Do you feel like you just walked into the middle of an ongoing conversation? Well, you did . . . and so did Lee. I met him on a discussion board that I had started at the Amazon.com website. The title of the thread was “The One Song Every American Likes?” I was proposing the idea that the one song more Americans like (once they’ve gotten to know it) ...or, to look at it from the other end, the one song the least number of Americans dislike, is “The Battle Of New Orleans” by Johnny Horton. Readers of this discussion board were suggesting other song titles that might be contenders in this category and Lee came out of nowhere to put in his two cents for “Georgia…” – a valid offering, too, I might add.

But what I now find interesting is that Lee first spoke to me on April 1, 2008. No foolin’! That is to say that I have known Lee now for exactly two years this very day!

Unfortunately, our fun discussion came to an abrupt end when Amazon.com unjustifiably kicked me off their website and deleted every comment I’d ever posted there (it’s a long, sad tale not to be repeated today, but to put it in a nutshell, the Political Correctness Police busted me). But the remains of that mangled corpse can still be seen today. Link: The ONE SONG That EVERY AMERICAN LIKES?

After getting the boot from Amazon, I began blogging right here at 'Stephen T. McCarthy STUFFS'. I guess Lee started reading my Blog and began blogging at Blogspot.com himself, and now blames me for his addiction. (Lee, own up to your own issues, man! Face it, you have a Blogging Problem! Pour me another Grand Marnier and I’ll tell you how to overcome your addictions. Leave the bottle.)

I ordinarily post one or two Blog installments a week, but Lee talked me into this Blog-A-Day thing for April. It’s not the words I’ll spend that concerns me, it’s the time. I love Lee; he’s a smart, interesting guy who has lived a pretty unusual life, but I know that long before I get to "Z" (April 30th), I’m gonna wanna kill my friend for talking me into this. I’m basically a nonviolent dude, but rLEE-b must die! Of course, he’s a friend of mine, so I won’t want to hurt him (too much), but just kill him after torturing him, preferably for 26 days.

This is a little out of my area of expertise, so any suggestions any readers might want to make pertaining to methods of slow, torturous, but not overly painful, death will be appreciated. We have all month to come up with something.

(Look at the bright side, rLEE-b, at least you will be free of your Blogging addiction. But don’t DELAY – make out your Will TODAY! Leave me the bottle?)

BAD STUFFS
A IS 4 “ARITHMETIC” :
.

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Y’all think I’m just foolin’ when I joke about how bad my arithmetic is, don’tcha? No, No, No! If math skills were swords and this were a survival of the fittest society, I would be the first person slain!

I don’t know what it is about the way my brain works (or doesn’t, as the case may be) but I have always, since my earliest childhood, had a mental block when it comes to numbers. Which side of the brain relates to numbers? Right Brain? Left Brain? I can never keep that concept straight. But for me it’s definitely “Lame Brain”. In fact, I would suspect that one entire side of my brain is missing if it were not for the fact that I’ve always been a fairly decent chess player. And wouldn’t numbers and chess-move-thinking-thinking be guided by the same grey matter hemisphere?

Now I do like a few numbers: One represents God; Three is a favorite (I prefer odd to even numbers); Eight is cool because it’s a very spiritual kinda number that means a new beginning; Ten is acceptable because it’s such a well-rounded figure that I can wrap my mind around it and think in those terms. Ten out of a hundred is ten percent – even I can grasp that concept. And Thirteen I like pretty well because it's such a rebellious, nonconformist. But every other number can go straight to hell!

Eight is a likeable enough fella by himself, but get him together with other numbers as in “eight times” something, and I break out in a cold sweat and my mind immediately goes blank. I’m good with my Times Table up through Five, but the trouble starts with Six. It all goes in the tank after that, except for well-rounded Ten, and Twelve times Twelve which is one hundred forty-four – the ‘Pee Chee All Season Portfolio’ tells me so.

But despite my arithmetic handicap (yes, I’m allowed to park my car in the handicapped spaces), I still do something I’ll bet half of you don’t: I balance my checkbook every month. Praise God for the calculator and praise my employer for the small paychecks which make balancing my checkbook easier.

Le McQuote Du Jour:
Don’t be DOWN on what you're not UP on.
~ Anonymous (the ancient Greek philosopher)

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
Doggtor of Semiliterate, Half-Naked Blogological Studies
Stream O’Consciousness University in Airheadzonaopolis, Arizona

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.
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MUSIC'S ALL-TIME 15 BEST ALBUM COVERS

Alright, let's admit it right from the opening bell: this is obviously a very subjective subject. Ask 101 dudes and dudettes "What are the 15 best album covers of all time?" and the odds are you'll wind up with 1,515 different choices. Since there is no way to prove which 15 are truly the best, I'm merely stating that the following 15 selections are my own personal choices. That they also happen to be, unequivocally, undebatably, without a doubt, the 15 best album covers ever created is pure coincidence. In making my selections, I jus' got lucky.

Truth be told, there really aren't a lot of great album covers. There are many that are pretty good, many more that are just OK, and innumerable covers that ain't very good at all. The truly "great" ones? They are few and far between. Most music album covers just feature a photo of the musician or the band and rarely display much creativity or originality. A lot of them are decorated with artwork, but most of it is immediately forgettable.

Some old album covers have, over time, achieved iconic status, but a cold, detached, unsentimental examination of them will, more times than not, reveal them to be rather pedestrian. For example, an album cover like the one created for 'Meet The Beatles' is immediately recognizable - it inspired countless other covers by other bands - but it really isn't anything special. The same goes for Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side Of The Moon' - while it is considered by many to be a classic because its triangle/prism symbol has become so identified with the group, I seriously doubt that many teenagers who bought that album when it was first released in the 1970s immediately thought: What a great album cover! I was certainly one of those teenagers who purchased it within a few years of its release, and I know that I never thought the cover was anything especially unique or "bitchin'" (as we would have said back then).

A fair number of album covers which I admired back in my teenage years have failed to hold up over the decades. I imagine that had I compiled this list back when I was 18 years old, Emerson, Lake & Palmer's cover for 'Brain Salad Surgery' would have made the grade. The same for one or two 'Yes' and 'Uriah Heep' album covers. But time changes our perceptions.

So, what was my criterion for selecting the 15 below? Well, it was pretty basic, really: Which album covers are supercool and/or superclever? I figured the most memorable ought to readily present themselves to my mind without a whole lot of thought 'n' searching. And they did.

I believe I could have extended this list to 20 or 25 selections, but after that, the drop off in quality would have been quite noticeable. This goes to show how, in my opinion, few truly "great" album covers have ever been created. Here are my choices for the Top 15 in no particular order.
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WHIPPED CREAM & OTHER DELIGHTS
Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass (1965)
The album cover that launched 100,000 prepubescent fantasies (and that's counting only my own!) My Grandpa had this record when I was just a tot. I remember staring at it often, wondering what was beneath all that whipped cream, and thinking that I would certainly be willing to eat my way through it to find out.
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ON YOUR FEET OR ON YOUR KNEES
Blue Oyster Cult (1975)
Man, this is just the creepiest album cover ever conceived. It's even creepier than that one by Black Sabbath with the witchy-looking woman standing before that haunted-looking house. This is definitely horror movie material!
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CHICAGO X
Chicago (1976)
My Ma mostly hated my music way back in the day; she was always yelling at me to "Turn that racket down!" But she later admitted that she loved this album cover. She told me it was all she could do to keep from taking a bite out of it.
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THE DIRTY BOOGIE 
Brian Setzer Orchestra (1998)
"Cool Lounge" cover for the neo-Swing crowd. Great illustration in "cool" colors and great music behind the image, too!
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THE FREEWHEELIN' BOB DYLAN
Bob Dylan (1963)
A Jewish boy "doin' his best James Dean." The girl is just hangin' on for the ride (and what a ride it turned out to be!) I love the Old School 'Americana' of the Greenwich Village buildings and the fabulous automobiles of a bygone era! How cool was that?
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ASTRAL WEEKS 
Van Morrison (1968)
When I first put this Blog Bit together, I had 'Waylon Jennings' Greatest Hits' in this spot. And although that album does include a really great cover featuring "The Nashville Outlaw" looking his coolest and cockiest, I realized shortly afterwards that I had overlooked Morrison's 'Astral Weeks'. This was a particularly odd oversight in light of the fact that I have always considered 'Astral Weeks' to have one of the best covers ever conceived.

Well, as you can see, I have corrected my unfortunate error. Here we have a deep, dreamy and introspective cover for an album of deep, dreamy and introspective music. An eye-catching photograph that perfectly illustrates what the buyer can expect to hear on the record.
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NILS LOFGREN
Nils Lofgren (1975)
The colorful, flamboyant atmosphere of Rock And Roll is expressed in the circus painting background and in Nils' T-Shirt. The punky attitude of Rock comes across through the black leather jacket. And the youthful rebellion that is Rock music is illustrated by the singer swilling 80-proof Grand Marnier right out of the bottle. Everything that is Rock 'N' Roll can be found in this album cover! For my money, Rock music's best cover ever. (How do I know that's Grand Marnier that Nils is tilting? I axed him. "Read all about it.")
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WILLOW IN THE WIND
Kathy Mattea (1989)
The black and white color combination expresses the sturdy Country-Western outlook. But the flowing willow branches and the pretty, delicate pattern of Kathy's dress speak of her lovely femininity. If only more modern women felt this comfortable with their femininity, and stopped trying to pretend that they are men, then maybe more men like myself would consider marriage.
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.AMERICAN GARAGE
The Pat Metheny Group (1979)
Remember seeing those 'silver bullets' On The Road? What a perfect cover for an album that includes song titles such as 'Cross The Heartland', 'Airstream', and 'The Search.' Songs and a photograph which celebrate life on the open road. It's not Metheny's best recording but it is his best album cover.
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TEQUILA
Wes Montgomery (1966)
The wood patterns in the table, guitar, and knife handle contrast beautifully with the clear, smooth glass of the bottle and shot glass. The title and the lime wedge add just a touch of bright color. A very artistic concept. Tequila itself is a poison extracted from a certain type of cactus and it nearly always leads to jail time. Avoid real tequila like it's the plague (you're even better off taking your chances with deadly absinthe), but the music is great. And Wes Montgomery is without question one of the best guitarists of all time!
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THE CALL OF THE WILDEST
Louis Prima (1957)
One of only two covers on this list with a sense of humor. My Pa owned this record when I was a kid and I spent what seemed like hours upon hours staring at it. I don't know why it appealed to me so much back then, but I know why it appeals to me now. Prima wasn't even really there - a close examination reveals that his image is merely superimposed over the background.
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But even if Prima had been there, his safety was guaranteed: those animals couldn't have eaten another bite; they were stuffed! But my favorite aspect of this cover is that the photographer deliberately gave it all away: Study the bottom left corner and you'll notice that it's a potted plant there. Ha! Funny stuffs! How Primaesque! Great tunes inside, too, including one of the funniest songs ever recorded: 'There'll Be No Next Time.' (Right, Mr. Paulboy?)
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RUNT: THE BALLAD OF TODD RUNDGREN
Todd Rundgren (1971)

Take it from a guy who used to wear a gold noose charm on a chain around his neck, this is a classic cover. However, it's unfortunate that Rundgren didn't save this idea for his album 'The Ever Popular Tortured Artist Effect' released twelve years later.
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GREETINGS FROM ASBURY PARK, N.J.
Bruce Springsteen (1973)

Springsteen's debut album reproduced an illustrated postcard from the area where he first made a name for himself. A pretty clever idea for a New Jersey chucklehead.
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EVEN IN THE QUIETEST MOMENTS...
Supertramp (1977)

Although released the year I graduated from high school, a time when I was buying a lot of music, I have never actually owned this record but I always appreciated its cover. A cool photo in more ways than one.
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RHAPSODESIA
The Ultra-Lounge Series; Vol. 6 (1996)

An ultra-clever cover from the Ultra-Lounge folks! A compilation of lounge music for the Vegas Barfly inside ya. Dim the lights, light a cig, make yerself a martini, play 'Rhapsodesia' and pretend that you and your lady friend are at The Algiers cocktail lounge, sharing a booth with Deano, Sammy and Frankie.

OK, those are my choices for 'Music's All-Time 15 Best Album Covers.' How'd I do? Did I score a 100% on this test, or what? 

CONSCIENCE-CLEANSING CONFESSION: 
Yesterday, Brother Nappy and I went to an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. In a weak and famished moment, I ate a piece of spinach quiche. And as if that weren't bad enough, I later stopped at a grocery store and purchased a box of fabric softener sheets for use in my dryer. These unmanly acts have been eating away at me for over 24 hours now (I could hardly even sleep last night). I just wanted to come clean about these things and assure you all that I have already agreed to attend meetings at my local 'Quiche-Eaters, Fabric Softener-Users Anonymous' organization. Please don't judge me too harshly.

Whew! I do feel better. That's a huge weight off my mind. 

COMING ATTRACTIONS: 
For Your Information, the next thing I intend to post here at 'Stuffs' is a Blog Bit about reincarnation and The Holy Bible. After that, I am going to compose a Bit about my all-time 15 favorite music albums, music-wise rather than cover-wise. In conjunction with that, I will be asking all of you friends of mine (you know who you are) to list your own 15 favorite "Desert Island" music albums. I WILL even call you out individually by name if necessary, so you might want to start giving some thought to your own music list now while it's still early.

Of course, it's also possible that on a whim, I might post a bunch of other stuffs here at 'Stuffs' before I get around to composing these aforementioned "Coming Attractions." After all, it's a doggone quiche-eating, fabric softener-using girlie-man's prerogative to change his/her mind. 

.~ Stephen T. McCarthy 

YE OLDE COMMENT POLICY: All comments, pro and con, are welcome. However, ad hominem attacks and disrespectful epithets will not be tolerated (read: "posted"). After all, this isn’t Amazon.com, so I don’t have to put up with that kind of bovine excrement.