Archive for February, 2005Show has gelled for Sunday. Radio Dystopia, as most of you know, on KBGA, this week featuring Missoula’s own Purrbot, and various other sites/artists, listed below. The show is geared up to be a downtempo affair with a little bit of weirdness mixed in. From the Conet Project site: “Shortwave Numbers Stations are a perfect method of anonymous, one way communication. Spies located anywhere in the world can be communicated to by their masters via small, locally available, and unmodified Shortwave receivers.” The show should be a fun one. Archive Audio “For more than 30 years the Shortwave radio spectrum has been used by the worlds (sic) intelligence agencies to transmit secret messages. These messages are transmitted by hundreds of ‘Numbers Stations’.” Tags: ” Turn back the pages of history and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs, but they lived rather than existed. Where would the world he if all men had sought security and not taken risks or gambled with their lives on the chance that, if they won, life would be different and richer? It is from the bystanders (who are in the vast majority) that we receive the propaganda that life is not worth living, that life is drudgery, that the ambitions of youth must he laid aside for a life which is but a painful wait for death. These are the ones who squeeze what excitement they can from life out of the imaginations and experiences of others through books and movies. These are the insignificant and forgotten men who preach conformity because it is all they know. These are the men who dream at night of what could have been, but who wake at dawn to take their places at the now- familiar rut and to merely exist through another day. For them, the romance of life is long dead and they are forced to go through the years on a treadmill, cursing their existence, yet afraid to die because of the unknown which faces them after death. They lacked the only true courage: the kind which enables men to face the unknown regardless of the consequences.” –HST 1955 Tags:So, Peppermint called for a writing challenge, and I challenged her to a match of Polaroid Fiction. This may become a regular feature, who can tell. Turns out she writes better on a keyboard, I write better longhand (there was a time when I wrote better on a keyboard, but this is another conversation). She accepts the challenge. I email her the pic about which we will write. We agree to 30 minutes. This is 10 minutes longer than which I am accustomed to writing in this fashion, so I take the opportunity to do a little research, different than my usual style, but pretty raw, none the less. Anyway, here are the results of the experiment. Contrary to tradition, I hold off on posting the photo from which I drew inspiration. Instead, I encourage you to visit Peppermint’s take on things first. [update] Peppermint dropped out of the blogoshpere recently. 06.05.07 08.21.1903 - Nothing Ever Happens in this Town Charlie stood with his elbow on my shoulder. “Nothing ever happens in this town,†he said, and I had to agree with him. Nothing ever did happen. Mom always had our peanut butter sandwiches ready for us in the afternoons. Dad always came home smelling like Benzedrine, rubber, and stale beer. The fish never took the worms from our hooks and the girls always figured out where we hid their dolls. But today, something had happened. I was eating my peanut butter sandwich at the table when there was a loud crash outside. Mom rushed out to see what the commotion was and said, “Oh, my Lord Jesus.†Mom never cussed like that, and so Charlie and me knew it must be bad. Charlie stood up so fast his chair knocked over the plant near the table and I just tried not to let the screen door hit me in the head as I chased him onto the porch. We stood there for a minute and saw the smoke coming from the cables. The car had jumped the tracks and almost run clean into old man Peter’s living room, where I knew he was listening to the Cleveland Blues on the radio. Moore was pitching a no-hitter in the bottom of the seventh and it was all I could do to tear myself away from the radio to go outside and have a look. Dad came home from work at Firestone Aircraft just after ten, so I knew he ain’t on that train but I hoped Jessup waren’t on it, ‘cause he was out lookin’ fer work, today, an’ Jesus knows when he might come home. We ran off the porch to see the wreck. People all hysterical and whatnot, but it seemed like everyone was okay. Pretty soon, two police cars roll up. There musta been thirty people milling around, what with the conductors and the passengers all out in the road all shook up. Mamma? She on the phone to Firestone telling them that there was a big crash just before stop 97. Gram came running over from Long Street ‘cause she heard it from Mrs. Tippet there had been a crash. Well, it took them a long time a pullin’ the car out of Old Man Peters’ yard, but they did it. Turn out, the kids in the neighborhood done threw their shoes up in the cable. Who ever heard of sech a thing? Guess they daddy done made some money down in Texas at the oil fields and they ken ‘ford to throw they shoes aroun’. Since no one got hurt we set on th’ porch watchin’ all the ruckus. Drinkin’ lemonade. I reckon we’ll git our pitchir’ in the paper tomoor’, seein’ as how Charlie an’ me stood out in the middle o’ th’ road in front of all o’ the people. I jus’ glad Daddy still at the shop with the hose between his teeth. All dusty an’ smelly like, before he stopped at the tavern on South Main on his way home. He usually walked there, but caught the last car home. But I always thought he might go to the tavern early. ‘Cause sometimes. Sometimes, he came home before dark. ———————————————————– View the photo that inspired the writing here. Note on the photo: The back was inscribed in pencil with the following: ” Aug 21 -1903 Accident on [illegible]+[illegible] (34th). North side of car” I carry around a 3×5 notebook to write shit in. Ideas for stories, songs/bands/movies/books people recommend, phone numbers, dates. Fits perfectly in my backpocket. Pretty handy, actually. It was a gift from Shy Girl, who is the one who likes to modify magnets, you might remember. One Saturday I’m sitting in Bernice’s Bakery, writing in the journal, reading the paper, getting jacked up on coffee, and the (formerly known as) The Most Beautiful Girl In Missoula strolls in. As she sat there, making lists and phone calls and trying to buy herself a car, I hijacked her colored pencils. I used a clean page. Now, two months later, this is what it looks like.  A while back, The Most Beautiful Girl in Missoula moved to Denver. I had to practically kick her out of Msla. Every time I saw her, it went something like this: Me: You still here? Her: Yeah. I think I will leave next week. (The next time I see her…) Me: I thought you were leaving on Friday. What are you still doing here? Her: Well, I meant to leave, but ___________. (Fill in the excuse of the day). I love her very much, and I was sad to see her go, but I knew she had to leave. In the middle of helping her move, she gave me a fair sized box. Looks like a box in which to store photos. I had no use for it, really, and asked, “What am I going to do with this?” “Oh, you’ll find some use for it, I’m sure,” she said. And I immediately knew what I would do with it. I took it home, and filled it with art supplies for her, to inspire her return to creativity. Oil pastels, drawing paper, a little notebook for list-making (she likes to make lists), some coffee from Butterfly Herbs , and lentils, traditionally known in Brazil to bring one luck and good fortune. (She had recently visited Brazil.) Maybe some other things, too. Then I painted and collaged all sides of the box. The scans from that are here. For whatever reason, I did not scan the top of the lid. The inside of the box would not scan (depth, I guess). Back
 Front
 Side1
 Side2  Then I sent it to her. I have miss for you, oh, the Most Beautiful Girl in Denver. I love you, Babe. Tags:I had an interesting weekend, and Valentine’s Day started off right. With a car wreck. Smacked into some guy’s truck because some jackass decided he wanted to make a left-hand turn without signaling. Swerve to miss him, smack into a different truck. That’s why I have insurance.Had to laugh at Peppermint’s Valentine gift from DCD:  Contains 78.3 percent more angst than leading Valentine’s Day cookies and New and improved chewy bile-filled centers!More Valentine’s fun…  Since I just fixed my laptop, I was not able to do a download show this week. Did a Valentine’s show instead. Great setlist. Get the setlist. More writing upcoming. Oh yeah, found this, too. Echos a previous post.  A little digital collage I did by cutting/pasting/arranging slices from a photo taken at the CPFA Day in Photos by LoungePatriot. See the original here  Unfortunately, tonight, I cannot find the photo that inspired this next piece. I’ll update and post it when I find it. ————————————— We hadn’t ever known anything but the yard. The sun reflected off the steel cars bright in our eyes. The dust from the cinders. We had gone where the work was. Our fathers laid the track that the Northern Pacific rolled on and now we replaced the tracks and coupled the cars in the dead of night under a moonless sky. We filled the cars with lumber from the mills, coals from the mines, an dour hearts and souls. Me and Tommy and Roy. Met back in ’38 and had been on the rails since. Me, I started work in Billings when I was caught riding the rails by the yardman there. I had caught the train from Butte and was trying to get east, to Chicago, maybe. I was sixteen then, and he told me he’d give me a job, that riding the rails was dangerous for a boy like me. I took the job in Billings and learned how to hook up the cars. By the time I met Tommy and Roy – they were cousins – my body was hard with work and we had all three of us grown our whiskers. We worked fourteen, sixteen hour days and were glad to do it. It was July, 1947, when Tommy left the trains to Roy and me. He holed up with some broad in Alberton for a few days, and her father put him to work at the house. He musta took a shine to her, ‘cos he never did come back to the rails. The day I remember, though, is a hot June in ’47. We had been working since four that morning and word was that another train was coming in from Spokane, and it was a real red ball. The west siding switch at Spring Gulch had been removed, so that meant a re-route, and the kingpins always acted surprised when that happened and they got to the bowl, though it had made the invoices by the deadline. I bunged my hand up pretty good, and Tommy wrapped it in my shirt he tore up for that purpose. Tommy’s boots were hurting him, and Roy was having a hard time standing up for want of sleep, and for his blatant disregard for rule G. We had just finished preparing the Bozeman bound rig, and the engineer was making his final checks. He gave the highball, and the sun was bright and the sky was bluer than I remember it being again after that. The whistle howled, long and low, and I leaned on Tommy and Roy was leaning up against the car and I was tired and happy and aware of being alive. Tags:Yesterday, as I spoke to ArmyWife , I was reminded of a conversation that I had with one of the customer trolls that used to frequent Kinko’s when I worked 3rd shift there back in Akron. ArmyWife’s and my conversation resulted from yesterday’s mail, which is too good to degrade by shrinking it down to fit here. Have a look at the envelope, and then, once you wipe the beer that you shot through your nose from your computer monitor, have a look at the front and the back pages of the enclosed letter. Once you have been convinced, please have a look at the prayer rug The front of which reads, “Look into Jesus’ Eyes you will see they are closed. But as you continue to look, you will see His eyes opening and looking back into your eyes. Then go and be alone and kneel on this Rug of Faith or touch it to both knees. Then, please check your needs on our letter to you. Please return this Prayer Rug. Do not keep it.” Why do they want it back? “Alright, alright, Marc, what’s the conversation to which you referred earlier?” Fear not, faithful reader, for I will soon come to that. In fact, we have arrived. The conversation, which I will reprint here, is a segue to the country-western song I wrote back in 1999, which still does not have any music associated with it. I’m certain the song will guarantee me a place in hell in some people’s eyes, but I believe Jesus has a sense of humor. Anyway, first, the conversation. Jesus Freak: Do you know the Lord Jesus? Me: Of course I do. Jesus Freak: When’s the last time you talked to Him? Me: Why, just last night. Jesus Freak: You spoke to the Lord last night? Me: Can I ask you a question?* Jesus Freak: Certainly. Me: Do you believe that The Lord Jesus Christ is in each and every one of us? (I’m sure there is innuendo here, lurking.) Jesus Freak: Yes. Me: Well, then, I was at Annabell’s last night, drinkin’ whiskey with ‘Ole Jesus. He’s a pretty Good Guy. Well, it went something like that. —— * Don’t you hate it when someone says, “Can I ask you a question?” Ask, YDMF. Ask your question. Sheesh. —— Anyway, I wrote this song about Jesus, the Swearing Sailor, and the Seven Deadly Sins. I am still looking for someone to write some music for it. Takers should email me,and maybe we can arrange something. The Ballad of Jesus and the Swearing Sailor Jesus and the Swearing Sailor cursed themselves a blue streak. Lucifer’s little one it seems had been talkin’ trash on Jesus. Get ye back to hell my boy,†said my Brother Jesus. “How’d you do that Brutha Man how’d you do that trick? “It’s all real simple, son—listen up real good: Envy’s got its price you see, don’t you look so stunned. The Sailor now, you see, my friend, Greedy for another sign, he did taunt Our Lord. Jesus was then heard to sigh Wipe greed from thy heart The Sailor he was angry, see? Jesus slowly wiped his brow For wrath an’ rage are Devil’s friends The Sailor then did quiet fall, Jesus hollered, “Oh, the gall,†“Put away your pride good son The Sailor he did want to run, Jesus said “A bite to eat†Then they ate the fruit you see, “Sailor, son, slow it down, Eat only what you need good sir Sailor laughed and wiped his mouth, Jesus shook his head again “Help me Father get to him The Sailor and the Savior then, went out, that then there day, Looking down the beach a ways Christ shook His head and smiled some, They walked along, Christ and His new friend, She wasn’t wearing any clothes. “Well, now Brother Jesus now, “Sailor turn your other cheek Jesus an’ the Swearing Sailor |
