Notes from the Spittoon

Morsels, tidbits, bric-a-brac, hodgepodge. Non sequiturs. Commonplaces. Sunday sports page notes columns. I love them all, any gathering of offhand, disconnected, inessential information or opinions.

A couple of models: I cannot be the only human who misses the old Larry King weekly column in USA Today. Found poem musings on the inconsequential, these jottings were trite, fawning, and fully entertaining, especially when read with Larry's tone of voice in mind (If there ain't anchovies, it ain't pizza, gang...Kareem Abdul-Jabbar would be a star in my book even if he were five foot four and armless...If Tom Clancy's writing it, I'm reading it...Black licorice for me. Only...Tony Danza could crack me up at my wife's funeral...and on and on).

Just a bit more sophisticated, there's David Markson, a novelist whose last four novels on the surface are nothing more than collections of (often dark) artistic anecdotes. He calls them "nonlinear, discontinuous, collage-like, an assemblage." Whatever they are, they're completely absorbing, and I re-read all four them in succession about once a year. Again, the tone is wonderful. Cryptic, self-referential, allusive. Love them.

So here's my initial foray into the genre, just thankful there's an excuse to overuse ellipsis. A public unloosing of some of the arcana, echoes, and noises bouncing around my mind, if you will. And having just finished reading Salman Rushdie's rambunctiously beautiful novel, Midnight's Children, where a spittoon is raised to major symbolic status, I can't think of a better title for this possibly re-occurring segment than "Notes from the Spittoon."

Hot as hell, ain't it, Prez. Babe Ruth upon being introduced to the President of the United States at a ballgame. Calvin Coolidge, I believe...Michael Jagger. James P. McCartney. David Jones...Crocus Behemoth...Me and the Spitter...The taxi smelled of ouzo...Herta Muller, Elfriede Jelinek, Dario Fo, Claude Simon, Jaroslav Seifert, Odysseus Elytis, Nelly Sachs, Salvatore Quasimodo. Nobel Lit Laureates all...Always amused that two of rock's all-time great anthems, "Like a Rolling Stone" and "American Pie," begin like fairy tales. "Once upon a time..." and "A long long time ago..." respectively...Where the soul of man never dies. Sam Phillips on Howlin' Wolf's voice...Dave Stewart and Pat Corrales...No Philip Roth...Holden Caulfield would be nearing 80 these days...Put the bottle down, son. The tip's good...The night he played "That's All Right (Mama)" for the first time, legendary Memphis DJ Dewey Phillips, after tracking him down in a movie theater and getting him in the radio studio, immediately asked Elvis Presley what high school he had attended. So listeners would know that Elvis was white...Angel Hermoso, Joe Lis, Horace Speed...Throw to first, back safely...Ian Stewart, the piano player who was kicked out of the Rolling Stones for looking too square, and stayed with them the rest of his life as road manager and occasional keyboardist, refused to play minor chords...The black ones. Bob Dylan on his favorite keys...Arthur Miller married Marilyn Monroe after she was divorced from Joe DiMaggio. Inspiring the hopes of generations of four-eyed non-athletic scribblers...God kicks back and laughs...Dylan, McCartney, Rushdie, Brian Wilson, JFK. Geminis all...Eldrick...Fustigate, defenestrate, garrulous...I done a tornado, but I ain't ever done a hurricane...Mom, are we Goth?...If Chris Smither's playing it and singing it, I'm listening, gang...I'm not paying for anymore noses...Joe Gaul, Diane Tuason, Dominic Mandalfino...Don't ever forget to smile, Mr. Rourke!

Chris Smither-Leave The Light On

Dan Rourke-That's All Right (Mama)