Before The Month Is Out...

It's been a crazy month, this April. Natural disasters, royal weddings, birth certificate furors. Unfortunately, with all this hubbub, April's annual celebration, National Poetry Month, has been kind of pushed away from everybody's consciousness, I'm afraid. Whereas usually the month is filled with poesy-spouting kids, strangers pulling you aside to recite an octave or two, and politicians vociferously demanding more tax dollars being diverted to poets, this April has been overwhelmed too much by talk of what a particular dress is going to look like (am I the only one who thinks all wedding dresses look the same?), the squeal of weather sirens, and the dementia of a big-haired demagogue. My fear is that some budding young poet, all excited by the promise of a month devoted to his or her would-be passion, will see a dream crushed and be pulled into the mundane life because proper attention has not been paid. Well, just as the month is about to end and that tyro rhymester is about to burn up his or her first notebook of poetic scribbles, I'm here to pay attention and to do my part to inspire. If just one novice bard is saved from a practical, sensible life and is nudged slightly closer to a wonderfully poetic life of poverty, obscurity, and counting syllables on his or her fingers by my words here, I will feel a deep, Trump-like pride in myself. I wrote the following poem last year when I heard that another of the poets I was scheduled to read with one night was bringing his teenage son to read a few of his own poems. And a fine poet he turned out to be. So folks, take the opportunity to turn off the TV and write or read a poem before it's too late (or at least re-contemplate the results of the American Revolution in light of the fact that in a couple years we might be living in a flooded country ruled by President Trump instead of King William).



To A Young Poet


Psst. Hey kid,
Wanna be a poet?
Well, you don't need
a goatee, so
there's no waiting.
Get to it, now.
Disarm yourself and
leap heedlessly into
the whirl of words
with all your
stunning hormones amok.

Look the other way
kick over rocks
ignite all tethers
insist on gray
see the space
displaced by mere things
push away all pull signs
read to write
and cry out to laugh
drink lots of water
don't smoke
and always carry a pen
(paper is superfluous;
you can always write
on hands
walls
clouds
and the eyes of others).
Believe or not
in whatever
but trust that
the next poem
will always be your best.

BREAKING NEWS: Donald Trump Is "Very Proud Of Myself"

With The Donald's earth-shattering announcement today of just how proud of himself he is, we expect film at eleven of several of these other monumental announcements sure to be following in The Donald's trailblazing wake:

• Print, a fabulous and time-saving way to communicate, is here!
• Bread: Now it comes sliced!
• Christianity, the movement spawned by the late Jesus Christ, is making inroads in previously pagan communities.
• Women beginning to sense men don't adequately communicate.
• Could the Earth be a bit rounded at the edges?
• New "wheel" makes a helluva lot of things easier.
• Get a load of this! Alcohol, consumed orally in moderate to large amounts, causes all sorts of funny and not so funny things to happen.
• Congress bickers.
• Fat ones sing the best, opera critic concludes.
• Fire, hot!
• "I ain't seen one fly yet," says local pig farmer, "but boy that bacon tastes gooood."
• Irish not the most taciturn race.
• Some fans slow to warm to Dylan's mellifluous singing voice.

If She Were A He

Pardon the interruption; I've been out back the last few days building an ark.

Which (all this rain), coupled with Earth Day and my impromtu gender thing theme last week, got me thinking--why is it Mother Earth/Mother Nature and not Father? Not that I'm the kind of chauvinist who's going to launch a campaign for a more equal masculine presence in representations/personifications of Nature/Earth, just that I'm curious, what if? Sure there's Father Time, but really, what does that entail, winding some kind of cosmic watch every eon or so? Time is tedious, relentless, and unchanging (spare me the Einstein dope I never I understood, please), which, fine, fits a paternalistic view of things, but still--the woman gets domain over Nature/Earth and the man gets what, a golden watch?

Now I'm not advocating a Father Nature/Father Earth pardigm, believe me. The more I've contemplated the idea these last few soggy days of non-blogging, the more I end up whimpering "Mommy," even despite her (Mother Nature/Earth's) rather severe moodiness lately. Because, trust me, I've envisioned a world of Father Nature/Earth, and I'll modestly speak for the human race and say, fine, give us your monsoons and quakes and twisters and hot flashes (for you global warming believers) and everything else, dear mother, just keep father occupied by his tick-tock and far away from the winds, the waters, and the heavens.

First of all, if you do indeed believe in man-caused (and let's not just blame men, here; I gotta believe all that hairspray, predominantly used by women, has some effect) global warming, try this on for size: Father Nature/Earth always leaves the lid up on the ozone layer whenever he's through piddling about in earthly affairs. And he likes plenty of ice with his pre-prandial cocktails, so one way or another, the polar ice caps would have been long kaput. And of course the Old Man is a bit confrontational, even impulsively violent at times. You think he could abide, let alone live in harmony with, the moon? Especially with all its pull? Hell no. The moon would have been blasted out of the cosmos millennia ago. And whereas Mother N/E adopts the "oh, don't mind us, we'll just keep on spinning here, nice to see you, have a pleasant trip" attitude towards asteroids and comets and such, Father N/E is a wee bit more combative in the No Trespassing sign/"hey kids, get off my lawn" mode. Star Wars indeed.

And despite all the carping about her we do (oh, there's just two here: winter and road repair) regarding the seasons, Mother N/E does indeed provide us with four semi-regular and -distinct ones. But Father? Look at it this way: mom's orderly magnetic family activity calendar on the refrigerator vs. dad's garage. We'd have dozens and dozens of seasons, employed in an erratic, quite random pattern (sic) that would make our daily lives an ADD's/OCD's/neurotic's nightmare. The good old Five Day Forecast (with due apologies to A.J. Colby, the last vestige of some alchemical/oracle/seer pagan hope ritual we have left in this modern world) would be totally (as opposed to semi-dependently) superfluous and worthless. Talk about mood swings: "thanks for the tropical weather, Fath-- ur, where are my snowshoes, honey?"

Has anyone else had the same weird introduction to the French Quarter in New Orleans that I did, arriving by boat? You get about halfway down the three or four flights of steps before reason hits you (probably for the last time until you get way beyond the French Quarter's boundaries) and you think, wait a minute, I'm walking one hundred or so steps down from the river to dry (?) land, that's crazy (or, that's counter-intuitive, if you're one of those people). The non-sensical juxtaposition that is New Orleans (and thank God for it) would be the norm, not the quaint exception. Because in his natural inclination to tinker with things, gerryrig everything, not follow directions ("I know what it says, but this way's going to be much better, believe me"), let's just see what happens if we do this, hey, wouldn't it be cool if...Father N/E, being at heart a man, wouldn't abide by the "rules of nature"; hell, being Father Nature, he wouldn't even have written them in the first place, and if he did, they'd have gotten lost, "somewhere around here; look under that old toolbox, will you, son." Some waterfalls would fall up, stretches of desert would be found at the poles, the river would hardly ever run to the sea, and sure as hell, day wouldn't always follow night, necessarily. Oh, the tinkering that man's man would do: let's see what happens if we spin this planet the other way, or, better yet, roll it, pole over pole; I'm kinda tired of this blue, a bit too wimpy for me, let's paint the sky a sorta mahogany, give it a den-like feel; go ahead son, squirt some of that lighter fluid on the sun there, goose the old bastard a bit. And so on.

And let's face it, with a man in charge, volcanoes would be erupting everywhere at anytime.

Chaos, I tell you, sheer chaos with a man at nature's helm. Let the cantankerous, why don't we see what a little rubbing alcohol, duct tape, ammonia, and this new torch I just picked up at Ace will do to this rickety old hot water heater, old man fuss with his watch. Mother Nature/Earth, despite your tough love at times, we're sticking with you.

Men Are Better Than Women (At A Few Things, I'm Pretty Sure)

Today I was asked about a new book I had never heard of before, Man Down. The customer, a woman, said it was about how women are better at a lot of things than men. My response: "It's only one volume?" Turns out the book has quite a sub-title: Man Down: Proof Beyond a Reasonable Doubt That Women Are Better Cops, Drivers, Gamblers, Spies, World Leaders, Beer Tasters, Hedge Fund Managers, and Just About Everything Else (check it out here). Turns out too that the book was written by a man, Dan Abrams, which just goes to show you. What, I don't know, but it should show you something. Now I could take some potshots at that sub-title (beer's for drinking, not tasting; just who wants to identify him or herself as either a world leader or a hedge fund manager these days?; drivers?! Mr. Abrams has never driven the streets I drive!) and I suppose I could read the book and review it here (though I'm sure a woman blogger could do a better job), but I've reached that stage in life (post first grade) where I'm really only interested in things I don't already know. Of course women are better at most things; I've been saying it for years, truly.

But.

"Just about everything else"; "most things"; not everything. There are definitely a few skill sets left out there that men excel at and at which they totally out-perform women. So while Mr. Abrams is out there doing the media thing and singing the praises of women, I think it's only fair that a little equal time is given over to the prowess of men right here right now.

Scratching. May seem trivial to you, but just wait a few minutes until you get a really bad itch. Hands down, men scratch--in a utilitarian, not pugilistic sense--way better than women. Growing hair. Yes, as far as I know there's no such thing as female pattern baldness, but knuckles, ears, noses, backs--men can grow some serious hair. I mean, compared to taking someone else's money, lifting a wet finger to the times, and taking an educated guess, i.e. hedge fund managing, growing a nice bushy patch between one's shoulder blades is godlike.

Spitting. That's a given, isn't it? No argument there, right? In keeping with this blog's theme, I'll go a step further and claim that men are much better than women at chewing gum, too. Men work the gum, gnawing on a wad of it; women frenetically chimp chomp a tiny square piece at the back of their mouths and snap it. In terms of chewing gum, men are like DaVinci, women are like etch-a-sketchers. And while we're in the vicinity of the mouth, burping. Spend ten minutes around five 13-year-old boys, and if you come out of it still sane, you'll grant the less fair gender the burping crown, no question.

Artisans of the remote control. I cry tears of pride and wonder when I watch one of my nephews work a TV remote. A woman with a remote in her hand only gives me a nic fit.

Grilling/barbequeing. Yeah, you're going to argue that one?

Getting ready. For anything. Except maybe a fantasy football/baseball draft, but since I despise fantasy sports, that doesn't count.

Killing creepy crawling things. I'm sure she exists, and I'm sure she's good, but you never think of the Orkin Woman, do you?

Carrying on a half-hour conversation using less than a hundred words. Physically impossible for women, nirvana for two good male friends.

Laughing at one's self (just a hunch).

Prelude to 110 or 220/Women of the World--Jim O'Rourke by spitoutyourgumblog

I Know A Guy

I know a guy who fell asleep on the toilet and later asked me if I had ever done the same thing.

I knew a French guy named Guy (pronunciation rhymes with Bye, not Bee) who had a sex change operation but didn't change her name.

I know another French guy (Henri, not Guy) who hates Jerry Lewis.

I know a Chinese guy who jumped off a chair two seconds before the earthquake hit San Francisco in 1989.

I know a guy who custom orders Sudokus with every 1 filled in and two random 9s and he solves them in less than twenty minutes.

I know a guy who sings the long-forgotten second verse to "The Star-Spangled Banner" at sporting events.

I know a guy who knows a guy who swears he knew me in 1957, years before I was born.

I know a guy who puts ketchup on celery and calls it lunch.

I know another guy who prefers the word catsup.

I know a guy who claims he saw Thomas Pynchon knitting a shawl in the Detroit Greyhound station the same week Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.

I know a guy who, after telling his friends he was going to propose to his girlfriend on a weekend trip, chickened out. He came home and had to go to the bathroom where he sat in embarrassed horror as his girlfriend checked the answering machine and heard a message from one of his friends asking how the proposal went.

I know a different guy who, on his honeymoon, got knocked senseless by a wave and as his new bride hovered over him on the beach to see if he was all right said to her, "Don't panic. I know I should know your name, but I can't remember it."

I know a guy, a pretty good athlete, who could never synchronize coughing and opening a contraband can of pop in biology class and who eventually had me cover cough for him.

I know a guy who once won a lip synch contest lip synching to an instrumental.

I know two learned guys who, while waiting in a long ride at an amusement park, started joking in Classical Latin about all the weird people around them. They became conscious of two middle-aged women nearby who seemed to be laughing with them a bit too much. Finally the women told the guys that they were nuns and understood everything the guys were saying and wanted to tell them before the guys started talking about them, the nuns.

I know a guy who used to go into work in the morning, leave his jacket on his desk, go out to the racetrack all day, come back and get his jacket, and go home.

I know a guy who was the last to leave a party and two minutes later knocked on the hosts' door and when they opened it said, "I locked my keys in the car. Do you have a brick?"

I know a guy who claimed he didn't know any guys who had ever done anything special until I told him I once wrestled a bear.

'This. This Is Important To Me.'

Ironically, I found this picture of my all-time favorite record store, Vintage Vinyl in Evanston, Illinois (great memories from college), on a Cleveland radio station's website, which is too bad, because Cleveland still has a few good record stores. Anyway, in honor of Record Store Day, here's my favorite "record" movie clip--from what seems to be now an underrated and too unknown great movie, Diner: Daniel Stern explaining to his wife Ellen Barkin how important records are to him. Anyone with the disease can relate, if not excuse, his behavior here.

Thank you music, and all the great stores over the years.



Put Records Back In The Record Store--Coo Coo Party Time by spitoutyourgumblog

The 17th Robin Of Spring Chirps His Mind

Yeah, we finally flew in late last week. No sense rushing things when Spring Break's in full swing in Lauderdale (we're strictly east coast snowbirds; none of that noveau riche west coast frippery for us). Pelican Jack treats us real good. Doesn't break out the real good stuff until late in the season. Made our way up slowly, stopping off in the Carolinas to party with some blackbirds we met one crazy night in Pompano a few years back. Good God the hummingbirds in Wilmington are enough to make you give up flight. Gorgeous. The wife nearly broke my beak off one night just because I chirped at one.

So I'm the seventeenth robin this spring, hunh? Like I give a squirt. That early bird gets the worm nonsense? Right here, woodpecker. You ever taste a worm? Believe me, there's always more worms. And don't get me started on Rusty Williger, but since you did, here's what I think of Rusty Williger, the perennial "first robin of spring": an obsequious white-nosing preener. Everytime I fly by him (which isn't often, trust me; more likely than not I'm just getting back to my nest while he's up and at 'em and leaving his to put in some appearance somewhere) I flip him the human. That's what I think of Rusty Williger. You should see him down in Florida. It's just barely getting good and hot down there and he's tweeting all day about getting back north and heralding spring for all the goddamn humans. I've hardly got a base tan and he's packing up the nattering little Willigers and heading north to peck at everybody's window the first time the temp tops forty--"Look here, folks, it's me, Rusty Williger, the first robin you've seen in months; spring's a-coming!" Gag me with a twig. Let me tell you, folks, the "first robin of spring" is nothing but a marketing ploy. Poetry, my tail feather. Rusty Shilliger we all call him. I hear that behind his nest twigs he prefers to be called "The Muse." Show me an unmarked sliding glass door. The first robin of spring is nothing but a prudish, self-esteem deficient cold bird looking for some Cheerios tossed out a foggy back door.

Ah hell, that's enough grousing. I gotta build a nest or the wife's gonna have my breast for dinner. Spring's just a drawn-out tease. I can't wait for some really hot weather. Nothing's better than gorging on some tardy worms and looking for a convertible to bomb.