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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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hey there say, feralfae... finallly got mail out to you,
in the RIGHT spot now...
:)
this here is for mouse:
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zBrown
Ice climber
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I've heard that mfm is over a JE's practicing Armenian, so's he can handle them Armenian gangsters in Merced.
Where you from?
Որտեղի՞ց ես:
(Vorteghits es?) informal
or
Որտեղի՞ց եք:
(Vorteghits ek?) formal
Ես Otay
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 10:04am PT
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Whillans sat there, nonplussed in his plus-fours and three wet and saggy-baggy wool sweaters, sipping at his pint.
He looked up with squinty eyes and said, "It also bloody rhymes to Muddy Fuddy Duddy, Mate. And I'm not your buddy."
And then he hit him.
"Slaunch" is a Cormackian favorite as well. "Sleer" is yet another quixotic exotic used by the Border Wrider.
Marlow knows...
Hey, sorry to leave like that, gang. I am no Werner, whose presence was likewise soon apparent, but it's nicely satisfying to see what went on.
You did well, all of you, figuring out the mouse-droppings, re-constructing events, blah-blah-blah.
I feel like some venerable teacher might. But this last week I have been, indeed, on a "financially-induced sabbatical." I chose Vienna as my destination. I was influenced greatly by Edward Selden, and this influence was enhanced by the circumstances of poverty in which I find myself of late.
Opportunity taken and I think that I made the best use of it by practicing my crafts of expression, photography and writing. I consider myself not a fine arts kind of photographer but rather an illustrator, as did Norman Rockwell, the painter of America as a GREAT NATION, where only Prods, Mackerel Snappers and Kikes seemed to live, and many of them trying to be Negroes.
Captions are my best friend when it comes to photography, sez Cosmic.
Herewith is my journal, my little book, done at random as things happened.
DMT, every page of The Flames is a milestone. Thanks for the consideration, "Buddy." :0)
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 10:04am PT
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10 :12 pm
February 24, 2017
A good time to do this. I’ve been meaning to and the internet’s out and the phone as well--
I’m going through a rough patch and it sure is hell.
So I have time on my hands. I am unable to connect to the world electronically.
For now. This is a chronic condition brought on by lack of money.
Call it poverty. I’m legally poor. But I spend money less wisely than I should. Because of this certain bills, beginning with the electrical bill, do not get fully-paid, leading to periods at the middle and end of the month where I lack a full larder (never really had one) and must rely on other things besides the internet for entertainment and forgo calling my family (about the only people aside from the VA Health System who I call) or being called by them or by friends who might want to say hi or so-and-so died or any old thing at all.
And so I set this into motion, a ramble of sorts through a landscape of memory. I have an accurate memory. For my age, as I am finding out. I’m a Baby “Boomer” first and a Baby Boomer second. So I’m old by younger standards, but I’m not by mine. Mine have changed, as will those of the younger among you. The older of you will realize the truth of how time works on the brain. Memory loss is one of the first things to go. Personally, I find I get confused, as well. Don’t ask me to explain how confused I get or else I’ll start to ramble. Then you’ll most of you get confused yourselves and stop reading, bored as sh#t like me because of no internet.
I’d blaze one but I already did and I’m just a little more bored because of it. Probably for the best, or I’s never be done with this. Not that I want to be finished...it’s supposed to be therapy for the boredom. It’s new, I’ve never completed a “longer” work, just relatively short stories and some poems.
It’s not a book yet, and it well may never be, but that is what it may become. It is mostly a ramble, a Ulysses-like journey returning me to home. The journey is the reward, I enjoy writing and creating, and it pays to write about what you know, the writers tell us. So rambling is what I do a lot of, verbally. I post things I’ve written on the internet.
I do it on a website surrounded by similar people who go there ostensibly to check the climbing news found there, stop in to the “Forum,” and never leave. It’s entertaining for me to read others comments on certain topics on this forum, be they on- or off-topic. If you have ever taken part in a forum discussion on the net, you are aware of the ins and outs and not much else be said. It would be like trying to tell a layman about how to rock climb, anyway. It’s too complicated. It’s confusing. We’ll skip both introductions and just assume you know certain terms, situations, and other basics of both communicating on the net via a forum and climbing rocks, mountains, boulders, and crags.
I did not toke up, just now, in fact, as I just kept typing and rambling, bother with attitude adjustment. I’ve got one whole page processed as a result. See how it goes? So this is for reals, reader. I’m gone, though, for now. Enough is enough for one day’s session, especially the first day’s. .
Check out supertopo.com in the meanwhile, if you know little or nothing of the topics of net forum decorum or climbing and its practitioners.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 10:05am PT
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2
I spent several days away from the keyboard and concentrated on shooting pictures up and down the block and around the corner and down the street and back to home. Photography has become a hobby in the last four years. I’m constantly prowling the neighborhood, take occasional bike rides elsewhere, and ride the bus around as well. No car, you see. They are evil.
I’m learning bit by bit the ins and outs of photography. Lately I’ve discovered more gadgets and ways of getting better pictures with more clarity and definition and I’ve gotten really stoked. I put these up on supertopo along with a clever caption. The caption writing is a lot of fun. It can make or break a shot, I think.
Of course, no pics will be posted until I return to the online mix and the fray of spray about My Latest Whatever and Whining About Politics and Carping About Religion that is supertopo. But I don’t want to talk about that. I’d rather write about what I’ve been seeing the last several days.
I’m living in the same town I did when I was twelve. I came here from Sacramento and before that lived in Redding in the north end of the state. I moved out of town to go to college, dropped out, enlisted in the Navy during VietNam, then came home after serving one year and getting busted and booted out for smoking weed, never having left the shores of the Golden State. I then took up rock climbing in Yosemite, but did not stay with it on an everyday basis, getting married and becoming employed by The North Face, a premier maker of outdoor equipment for skiing and climbing.
I’m back in Merced, the Gateway to Yosemite, and have been here since 1983. I remarried, have two stepsons by the second wife, and one daughter by my first wife. I sit here wishing I had more contact with them and other people, but the place I live is an old hotel, access is restricted to tenants, so a visitor cannot just pop in without calling to gain entry to the building. I’ve been here sixteen years and the isolation is part of living here. It’s downtown, so there are people out there on the street and I enjoy seeing them, talking with them, and taking pics of them and the town itself.
It’s one way to fight the isolation, and I thank God for the camera and the computer daily, or try to remember to do so. My so-called sanity is preserved.
Unlike the street folks who I meet, who sometimes make me nervous, but only sometimes. In general, homeless people are just people, though they may seem odd at first. It’s because of their circumstances. They feel defensive, some of them, while others not so much. Like any mix of humans, there is a range of personalities and attitudes. And most of the people out there are not homeless, just on the street. The camera, I find, is a magic tool for entering the world of others. It has helped me become more empathetic. It has helped me come out of my shell and become more of a part of the world.
Far better to get out on the street and away from the TV (I haven’t one now—sh#t-canned) with it’s pull. I have Real Reality TV on the street. Some realities are really and absolutely funny, some are seriously serious. The channel changes on its own, too. I hang out on the corner in the sun, soaking rays and getting warm after the time in the concrete tomb I call home. It’s far more enjoyable being on the street thaon the street because my legs will swell after standing upright and walking. Blood circulation ann locked in a chair staring at a monitor. But I need rest. I’m getting on in years. I can go only so long d pressure suffer when I do, so I must sit and elevate the feet and spend time flat on my back in bed to overcome the problems of heart and lung ailments which have cropped up after a lifetime of abusing my body. And then there’s the getting old. My mindset is young, however. It’s a my contact with the supertopo Forum helps. I receive encouragement from my friends there. I am not alone. And this is why I miss the place, ultimately.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 10:07am PT
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3
An exciting morning today, filled with mundane scenes enlivened by the chilly air of the last day of February.
I walked out into the morning dew, but there wasn’t any.
It wasn’t frosty, just crispy.
Il fait beau, au jour d’hui.
Around three blocks of downtown later, I came on my old friend from my time as an Explorer Scout, Peter Padilla. He and I have known one another since I moved here. He and his two older brothers were in the Boy Scouts of America, along with my older brother. The Scout Troop evolved into an Explorer Post. Unlike modern Explorers, our post lacked any direction or purpose as they all seem to do nowadays, specializing in Law Enforcement or some other facet of the looming adulthood which faces all teens. We were just a bunch of rowdies, looking to have fun however it came, I think, more than we were ever interested in our futures.
Pete, as I call him, is one year younger, but has lived most of his life here in Merced, whereas the other brothers have moved away long ago. Pete ran for a spot on the City Council recently, has been in the insurance business most of his life, and considers Merced a fine place, which he should, because it is.
He shared some tales of his brother Mickey’s antics growing up. Pete has certain things he holds against his brother, as do I with my own older brother. His oldest brother, Joe, doesn’t come under the fire like Mickey. And my older brother gets less understanding from me compared to our younger brother, Tim. Siblings are to be treasured, however, but we don’t have to respect them totally. Love calls us to have a different approach. Aw, blame it on the Jehovah’s Witnesses that I met this morning. They gave me a Watchtower and I’ve awakened, as it were, to this conclusion: you cannot be your brother’s critic without being critical of yourself. But that doesn’t mean the stories need to be hidden.
Mickey was a snot, according to Pete. He did sh#t that made me wonder, “Did I ever know Mickey?” I did, of course, but not the way Pete did. We went through similar episodes. One involved new clothes, like when Pete bought himself new pants, shirt, and sweater at Julio’s Men & Boys. Later that evening, downtown, Pete saw Mickey and Mickey was wearing the whole ensemble, fresh out of the cellophane wrapper. This led to animosity, of course. I did this to my older brother once, wearing a new Madras shirt to school. He found out later that day and I needed to hit him on the chin, knock him down, and run from the bedroom, out the front door, and as far down the street as I could get until he calmed down. I never wore any of his stuff again, but he never hassled me very much any longer following that bop on the chin.
What would Jesus do? Who cares? There are no stories of Jesus boyhood, so we must assume nothing, only conjecture about how Mary put up with this kind of crap in her home. My mom kind of got off on our fights, maybe. I don’t know,,,just an idle thought. But she did encourage me to stand up to Mike, fight him hard when we did fight, cheered me on as if it was WWF night. And this is a new thought for me. My mom wanted peace in the family, of course. But she hated to see the bully come out on top every time. Walks out in the air can be liberating when this sort of thing happens. Catharthis, which means “The light bulb came on!”
Pete’s mom, Betty, was kind to me, letting me stay out at their place when I got off work at the fire station in Raymond, since that summer of ‘66 I was on the outs with the folks and needed to stay somewhere. Mickey was also employed by the Division of Forestry, and he asked Betty for me if I could stay there when off work. This was good for about a month, then I left for college.
Betty was ill for some time at the end of her life, and according to Pete, he was the one who took care of her and his dad, too, when it was time, to some extent. He assumed not the role of son, but caretaker. Mickey never came around to visit, Betty was hurt deeply, and this rankled Pete. He will never forget. But will he forgive? Time will tell, but I’m not too sanguine. Fate will be fate and all will be well with the world without end. We "Fallen Away" are all Catholic boys in the end, no getting around it.
Which subject came up with another old friend after Pete had gone back out to attend to business. I was sitting at the window seat still when Steve Cassady came in for some eggs. Steve is a published author, but self-published. One of his titles is “Bouncing Outside.” Today he told me of his experience with Amazon and their publishing arm. He has gone for the gusto and decided to take his stories out into the larger world. This made me happy, for his stories are well-told and reflect California history in the smaller mirror of Merced. He was at one time a close associate of John Madden and Raiders football was his beat. Steve also published a fine book on the history of the building of the Golden Gate bridge. He’s seen some stuff and been around several blocks.
From the POV of a kayak paddling womens’ softball coach who also teaches Shakespeare, since he’s made his home in Merced, he’s written about Merced.. He made the big time here by becoming the AD for Merced College and wrote a book on that experience as well called “Bridging the Gap,” about college athletics at the community college level. His softball teams were always very successful, by the way.
I was highly entertained by Steve’s tales this morning. One story involved Spade Cooley, one of the several stories of California Crime which he is publishing sometime in the future after it gets the “Amazon Treatment.” Something to which we can all look forward.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spade_Cooley
Maybe Caryl Chessman’s story will be re-told. Steve grew up over in the area of Salinas, so he’s a native Cali boy, a rarity nowadays.
A rock ‘n’ roll kid from Salinas
Just ninety miles away,
He loved to blow his harp,
Dear Lord, and paddle away his day.
The Salinas River is not the Merced River, though. Steve’s not been paddling this winter, it’s too cold and he’s been busy with the manuscript, so he’s looking forward to the spring weather so he can get out and see the changes from the high water up and down the San Joaquin and other spots with good kayak water. My envy of his ability to cruise the backwaters and forewaters is probably showing.
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Barbarian
climber
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Prodigal Mouse has returned. We rejoice!
You were missed, brother.
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Gnome Ofthe Diabase
climber
Out Of Bed
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WE TILT AT THE WIND-MILLS OF OUR OWN CHOOSING.
Crickets live under the flat rocks that adorne the top of the stump
The stump castle is a hovel compared luxurious digs that the tiny planter provides.
5 years ago I built it out, the way I wanted it
In, what I insist, was deliberate, the end result were purposely
badly spaced & cemented into place mis-used stones.
I like to call wall stones " 2man" that would be 300 pounds or 150 of akward angles.
This '2man' rip-rap is a dependable but still nearly handed able size of stone.
The piles of rock, the stone - rows, that are the property lines,
became targets of the neighbor's, If so,- I too!
I built a small 'U' shaped planter at the end of a rotting walk-way
with the need for a step or three.
I hired a stone wall highly illegals, they do great work,
but do not communicate,
please and thank you, is a lot.
So 'joilo' Junior ? - gets left to do the tiny thing for stupid giring-go.
It goes so badly ,
in three minutes he has ripped out the corner !
I loose it , explode, I mean the Corner?!
So I point out how on each stone, I want every face to be showing
How I want each 2man used showing the longest face. Making sure to
maximize the height of each bigger stone,
Taking chalk, I mark the ' corner stones' re-stating that the
corner facing the parking spot is to be made of the largest stones
set to take full advantage of the slope
"standing up" as it were.
Three of the hand picked and moved from beautiful spots,
are sandwich'd -done wrong- one atop the other-!
It is not just 'cosmetic'. Those stone have flat bases that are now what I see
So, picked to stand up and stack, having already stood three years, and
without mortar or cement, they were laid with disregard for voids or gaps
that, now after one light winter, need re-pointing.
(not that serious or surprising)
(but now the boss is pissed she wants them back! NO way!)
The use of the three largest stones in the wrong location is Forcing a wet corner
of an abandoned, "1car under, -Slot-. garage", to remain a problem every spring.
I send him off before finishing the work.
Hiring his dad had been fine a good deed that
the Justice Of The Peace, who lives up the street saw
and thanked us while on a hot August stroll.
but now every time I look at the sub standard whatzit, that Wallewardian,
Charged & finished for me,
I sizzle.
Essentially the fix broke what was hanging in by a thread.
I think of the stones, and of the faces that I had chosen them for,
turned, Laid one on top of the other
pulling the drainage into, -instead of away from the slab.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 10:59am PT
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Hiya, Scott!
Dingus, sweet shots all.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Do not let me count the ways in which this is so,
Else I shall be counting until lunchtime.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 11:16am PT
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4
“Foolyatoons”
Extended haiku
To take in the sights and sounds
Of my daily rounds.
Little pictures
Snapshots of little moments
Of later moment.
The French, it is said,
Use the mot juste like science
Often the last word.
Well, chapeau, monsieurs.
My hat is off to all you
Lingua Franca-ites.
Feuilletons: Literary glints of understanding revealed concerning the place in which I live, the present, intended as a present for future philosophers of science or of life and how it was lived once upon a time in the Western States. Or Nepal. Or Vienna. Or Yosemite, Berkeley, Chula Vista, or in a hole in the ground in ‘49. Or the modern reader who happens to glance this way, seeing the image out of the corner of his eye, possibly, just like a sparkle of light coming from something he is not fixed upon, but does a double-take anyway.
Voila. How Stacey sang the house down around some happily camping coeds at the Cinema Cafe. Playing their guitars and holding a bull session out on the sidewalk in the open air, caressed by the cool wind off the street, but warmed by the sun, they are all university students brought together here to witness this startling performance by the thrush of the Central Valley, Stacey. She sings Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit and an ad hoc adaptation of Bobby McGee, but smokes at the same time. This is not some chanteuse in a bistro, but some broad living on the street and spilling her vibes over these youngsters, who may or may not care, but seem to dig her and don’t mind her sharing their table-top campfire. None of them is a smoker, so that’s off-putting—they do seem to be thinking to themselves, some of them, “OMG, nobody smokes anymore, do they?”
She hacks her way to the end of her version of whatever she sang (I cannot remember the song’s title, not having written it down—I miss a lot by not doing that—sorry)* and I turn to watch the little dogs laugh and go romp in the middle of the intersection, oblivious to traffic, knowing they are invincible.
“The little dogs laughed to see such a traffic tie-up at noon.
And so they barked at a non-existent moon.
Then I went home to write this foolyatoon.”
These little vignettes (another French word) are held together by the flimsiest of literary paste, but so long as the topic is “My Town, My Time,” we are good. Not immortal, yet hopeful that the next four years go well in spite of recent events of a political nature, which are not in our purview right now, but may be as we proceed.
There was a man named Claude Laval living in Fresno in the last century who amassed hundreds of thousands of black and white photos of everything he could find, seemingly. “Pop” was his nickname and he was a friend and companion of Ansel Adams, the local light, the sine qua non, if you will, of classic black and white. He
Pop made enough money providing the local Fresno paper with scenes of the town, not newsworthy events in a world sense, but good for the commercial advertisers in that he probably affected the paper’s circulation with his homey touches. He would write small items telling of how it was that day to accompany his shots which appeared in print. Adams, of course, was not reliant on commercial work after his fame spread--the dream of many artists, to escape the chains of having to work for hire, not to create for its own sake. His works became legendary upon being “discovered” and especially after the publication of his epic “Monolith” which was of Half Dome, of course. It’s nice, but how much of a story does it tell?
It’s different, of course, because it is regarded as Art. Art is required to “move” one, and that is sufficient. On the other hand, here is Pop down in Fresno, telling stories in both mediums. Ansel was a fine writer, as well, and his biography will prove that. But how many have heard, let alone have read, one line of what Pops wrote, or even seen one shot he made?
The world is made up of many audiences. We observers of the world need to choose the audience, make our intentions clear, and go ahead with trying to describe what we experience in a way both informative and entertaining.
An Adams print is nothing more than a feulliton, but raised one degree. It will stand the test of time, but the rest of the story is found elsewhere. This print has received its share of print, what with all the commentaries on it: historical accounts of how it was made, the climbing involved by the party which helped tote Adams’ heavy photographic artillery, the angles and trajectories, the sessions in the darkroom where this genius’ genius worked alongside him, and the technical aspects of tone, lighting, contrast, f-stops, shutter speeds, the music which played in the background while all this went on, and the wife’s attitude during all of this, even, I suspect.
There is always more to every story, be it photo or essay. And the rest of these stories are found where they are found. You won’t see them unless you look or unless another points them out. This is what I try to do. I like to share my admittedly odd and weird views with others. I’m a fool for ya, but like what I do. I’m not risking a thing, either. I’m just doing it because, ultimately,
“It keeps me from going even more crazy.”--Old Lodge Skinflint in The Big Easy Man
or in the interests of inclusion,
“It keeps me from going insane.”--Merle Haggard
https://vimeo.com/101979266
"Are you really sure that you really want what you see?"
*Fixed. It was "White Rabbit."
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 01:54pm PT
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5
March 1, 2017
Stacey, who had been singing with the young Bohemians from UCM at lunchtime yesterday is a real, live person folks, a unique lady, full of surprises. She does have a rough voice, but sings with gusto and can make up her own lyrics.
A Women’s Ad-libber
And I ain’t no fibber.
I ran into her once again after that lunchtime jam. It was on the street corner in front of the Cinema Cafe around sundown while I was jiving with my old street acquaintance Dan the Deranged. He’s telling me about the lady who yells at non-existent people and pussy grabbers –just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean she cannot--who he knows well, OR SO HE CLAIMS. Let us face the fact that Dan is deranged. He may or may not know this person with the loud demeanor. He is a well-known prevaricator. But this is what the topic was as Stacey came up the down sidewalk with her companero, Kenny.
Kenny was cool the whole time, saying one sentence to me when I asked him a question, “Say there, hey Kenny,” I said. “Did we meet yet? My name’s Brian, but they call me Mouse.” As we shook hands, he said, “I was on the bench this morning by the park and saw you taking pictures and was freezing my butt waiting for this wench on the green bench.”
He had this cardboard box fixed with a handle run through a hole in the box and held in place with a nail in a hole drilled through the end of the handle. It dragged along behind just fine with no wheels, though it was a bit noisy. I wonder how big a payload it takes and how often it needs replacing. Duct tape on the bottom might help with wet weather, I suggested. He reached into the box and held up a roll of pink duct tape (my own personal favorite color) and smiled. “Anything is possible with duct tape, especially keeping your stuff dry. I never leave home without it.”
Well of course he wasn’t that good an ad-libber—I made that up about the duct tape--but he did have the wheel-less cart. Dan’s rig is a standard baby stroller, by the way. Stacey had a bookbag loosely stuffed with stuff, and a backpack and a plastic bucket for carrying more stuff, but it wasn’t heavy because it was stuffed with plastic bottles. I could manage this much, even.
There is a safe amount of weight a sixty-two year old woman should carry in the “green zone” located in front of the abdomen, and where things that we carry get carried best, alleviating back injury. She did not have to tell me that because I laid that on her. She agreed with this and I immediately thought “Gear Review Item” but maybe that’s not gonna fly here.
Bruce’s golf cart was a great idea, though. I saw him the day before on the other side of the intersection and he boogied over to show me his new rig. He sure was proud. It meant he could carry his backpack on the frame mounted there with nylon straps. He carried his hickory stick with the mean ferrule on the tip stuck in the rig so he could grab it in a hurry. Dan, when I mentioned Bruce’s rig to hem, immediately expressed his downright contempt for Bruce, saying things which applied to himself, I thought.
Say, maybe a Gear Review for the Homeless might fly.
Golf Pig
O! Cmac have you heard or seen of this wicked new machine
Guaranteed to be fast and lean for both the oldster and the teen
The Bolt Cart makes it easy now to haul your stuff up the Prow
I think that Bruce should take a bow and Dan should just say “Bow Wow”
Because all men are dogs who carry tween their legs all big and hairy
A thing they think is O! So Scary So says Stacey who won’t marry
Casting stones at another’s success is something that Dan ought to confess
Though I like him really, nonetheless, his own life’s a shambles, a real big mess
But he’s Happy being a dwarf. Did I mention that? They abound in Middle Earth.
So Stacey did a little number, accompanied by Kenny’s smile, her own inner lights, and Dan keeping time with his numb-chuck made from a gum tree branch. As my feet tapped in time, I wondered how many times Bruce Lee films have shown at the old theater there on Main Street.
Under the marquee of friendship I almost danced.
Then two small dogs from earlier in the day came trotting across Main, oblivious to Traffic, returning from their daily incredible Journey. The black one was still interested in the brown one’s behind and this prompted Stacey’s remark, “All men are dogs.”
Then she asked me would I send off a letter for her as she had no stamps. “Of course—I have a forever stamp at home. Glad to do it.”
Then she informed me that she had just come in from Yosemite (!), pointing out the return address on the envelope:
Stacey So So
c/o Yosemite Village General Delivery
Yosemite National Park
There was a line on the back reading: “Don’t mind the camp dirt. It’s harmless.” The less she knows the better, so I said nothing about that. Let her keep her illusions. I work the weigh-in station at Yosemite Facelift (a yearly YCA event celebrating garbage and featuring BURNING MEAT).
It was being sent to her son, who works as a baker in Laramie, WY; the address was in Portland, OR. She explained he doesn’t like personal mail coming to his place of work. How he’ll get that letter is anyone’s guess. She said she doesn’t have much to do with her kids. She let me have a sketch she made on the spot of Dan, with the addition of a cryptic line written across his baggy pants that says: “Thief
Con-artist
War
A real ass”
Probably not at all harsh, considering Dan’s NOT RELIABLE. He did promise to repay me the $55 he borrowed years ago, saying he dis-remembered, of course. Then he went on embellishing, saying he had to pay so and so her such and such, and so on. He promised but Stacey had him pegged.
As she sketched Stacey rapped about Jesus being of the Order of Melchisedech. I rolled my eyes and forced myself not to laugh as she made this stuff up on the spot—or not—but not bothering to look at me for signs of belief. No, she was intent on the careful execution of the new boots Dan had found, the baggy pants and long robish affair he wore, like a smoking jacket, but without the flair of David Niven. Hardly Invisible, I thought, as his likeness came to like.
Stacey folded it and I stuffed it in my shirt pocket, proud to be the owner of such profound ART by an unknown STREET ARTIST and PERFORMER. I gave her a dollar when she asked me for a quarter. It was worth it to see her smile.
Meanwhile, the dogs moved on and Dan barked and he moved on and Stacey and Kenny said ta-ta and nothing respectively and they moved on and I took one last picture in front of the old Picture Show Showing Place as the sun went down for the count and I marched home in the chilly wind as time marched on into March.
John Decker, my friend and “Jeopardy!” opponent will be gone the Ides for a reunion of the old boys from Nam, 101st LRRPs guys like him.
A: This was the timely warning given to Julius Caesar.
Q: “What betides thee, Julius Caesar, er, Be aware of the Ides of March?”
Alex: “Ohhh, you nearly got it for the daily double. You should have lost the ‘a’ and dropped the ‘of.’
You’re now in the red. Select again, please.”
“’I’d like to buy a vowel’ for six hundred.”
“This is the missing vowel in ‘LRRP’,” a military acronym.”
“What is you’re pulling my ‘Leg’?”
“Final answer?”
“No, I was f * # kin’ with ya. My final answer is, ‘WTF are you talkin’ about?’ With this proviso: tell me WTF ‘WTF’ means? How’s that?”
I don’t need no stinkin’ ST
I needs me some Jeopardy!
I’ve come to enjoy the distance between us as a diverting experience, ignoring the pain of separation.
Karsh Kale from Music & Electronica – Distance
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVREtX8XVU4
And here’s a trick for the liberal-minded chair aerobics set, but try this sitting down first.
First, have a light source on the same side as the hand which you are placing palm down atop your happy hoppy head.
Then close your eyes and play the above musical selection.
Move your happy hoppy head to whichever side the light abides.
Do it to the beat. Give it hell.
You might give it a try with a slower number, say Taj Mahal singin’ Natural Blues.
So far, so good. An unexpected vacation.
“I’m gonna write a postcard,
Telephone every town I know...”
--Natural Blues
But the muse never is far away.
Meanwhile, back at the Bunny Ranch in Mound City--
“I believe the time it ain’t long.
I’ll be back like that old dog Rong.”
--MFM
Staving off boredom, metering my feet, never leaving my seat, except to excrete, pee, rehydrate, stretch, and find my seat again...everyone got up and headed for the stalls at the same time and I dashed to the john and when I came out the line was as long as this sentence.
I went back to sitting and had time to dash off this little ditty about a guy Rod Whittaker once knew and to give Rod his due this is a blend, not a collaboration...he has no idea I’m using some of his Unique Entertainment but wouldn’t give a coyote fart anyhow.
Little Bully
Bully ate my pet frog.
Little Bully kicked my old dog.
I hate little Bully.
Little Bully stole my girl.
Broke her heart, said,
“She was just a whirl.”
Just a rotten kid and a bad apple.
I hate little Bully.
He once came at me with a pool cue.
But I gave little Bully his just due.
I took that cue and made nun-chucks
Then stuck him in the eye.
I hate little Bully and I wish he’d die.
He’s such an evil, creepy old man.
Lives in the White House garbage can.
I smell little Bully when he walks by.
It’s like onions, it makes me cry.
To some it may sound awful crude,
But I love to hate the little dude.
And it makes me hate myself as well
That I simply ignore that smelly smell.
Which makes me hate him that much more,
Way more now than I did before.
Thanks, Little Bully.
I hate you, Little Bully.
Writing this made me forget to post the letter for Stacey.
I blame you, Little Bully.
And I hate you postal now.
Wooly Bully gonna come fo’ ya’ tonight
In yo’ sleep in yo’ rancid garbage can.
Sweet potato peel dreams.
Yo’ nevah gonna get one o’ dem Golden Globes, Mirror Jockey.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 02:04pm PT
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6
Much later on
Rolling on ‘n’ on ‘n’ on
Turning back grandaddy’s clock
On the road they call White House Rock
Back When
--Rod Whittaker, Bard from Bear Creek
I remember back when I was 44
Good fortune and good friends were always at my door
And I was never the kind to live alone
So good fortune and good friends
Were always welcome in my home
Well I blew right through my 20s
Chasing girls and wasting money
Living through the high times of my life
And I struggled through my 30s working hard and getting dirty
Providing for 2 children and a wife
I remember back when I was 62
We’d reminisce about the crazy things we’d do
And I’d laugh about the fool that I had been
And if I had the chance I’d love to do it all again
I remember back when I was 23
Everybody over 40 seemed so old to me
I never thought I’d live past 35
But now I’m in my 60s and by God I’m still alive
Still alive.
By God, I’m still alive.
Back When We Were Not Great Any Longer
I remember back just last late year
When we were all shocked to hear
That it had come to pass that a horse’s ass
Had booted out the incumbent mules;
And of the knowing pollsters he’d made fools.
Better learn to accept that God is on his side, rolling in laughter.
But I still hate the Russians.
I hate but don’t fear them cuz God’s on his side.
Don’t ask any questions when God’s on his side.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 02:23pm PT
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7
Uniform Chapter Length from Chapter Books on up to Nobel Literature: Is it necessary for an enjoyable read?
No. Say what needs to be said* and then STFU.**
*I do not recommend (on the advice of Ambrose Bierce, who strongly objected to their use) the use of adverbs. IF they must be used, try another approach to sentence construction.
**Footnotes count in the word total used by publishers when paying off and all n00b writers should be aware of their money-making potential, not to mention the clarity they may add to your work.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 02:40pm PT
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8
This could be the last chapter in this effort. The creek’s not rising, so it will probably be tomorrow when I regain my internet access.
And then what?
The same grind as before?
But I ask myself now, having been sidelined and unable to enter the stadium, so to speak, “Was it all that? Was it nothing, really? Was it a glitch or a rent in the fabric of my life or does the ‘ST experience’ add to it in significant ways, extending the yardage, so to speak?”
The big question: WTF have I missed?
In the words of a now-deactivated forum poster interviewed recently, in answer to a similar question, “Was your time on ST a good online experience?” said:
“F*#k no. Look at me. My life is better now in so many ways that it’s pathetic. It used to be f*#kin’ miserable.
It used to think I was stupid and useless when I was posting on ST. Everyone thought that, I’m sure. They can all bite me.
Now I have a pet dog to bite anyone who comes NEAR me.
And I came across a neat-o peat-o old f*#kin’ golfbag cart to carry my sh#t.
I never had a dog when I was climbing or posting about it.
I now see how great pets make you feel.
And it’s nice not to have all my crap hanging off my shoulders.
We share the doggie biscuits, but he has his own water bowl.
Here, Muttly. Sic’em, boy!
Where did I put that free phone?
I’m gonna call someone, anyone, and see if they give a f*#k.
Or maybe I’ll leave a message on his phone, telling Cmac it ain’t over--
it’s something to pass the time.”* **
The following is only one person’s opinion , mine.
If you read it fast and forget it like you do most stuff on the web,
it will be truly meaningless, which is my intention.
Passing Time Passing Gas
or
Anything I say will be meaningless
I meant to say more
And I mean nothing less
But if you cannot resist
Then I must insist
You should read this and fast
So your impressions will last
Like a bullet of lead
Going into your head
Slow inspiration
Brings on constipation
Get in and get out
Please do no doubt
The sudden burst of clarity
Is a literary rarity
Write fast and read lean
Ya know what I mean?
Like a Flame driving slow
And his shotgun riding low
Is not how to read
Things written at speed
--MFM
*You should know this person’s ST account was deactivated by the site administrators and was not voluntary.
**Having added footnotes, this seems to be a good place to quietly end this chapter.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 02:59pm PT
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9
What is verse?
About.blank In the Wallgarden
There is nothing profound
There is no sight or sound
The blank screen is white
I am in my darkest night
I cannot pay Comcast
My service did not last
Beyond day twenty-five
But I am still alive
So I sit here and mope
Though there is a ray of hope
The monthly stipend’s near
That may restore my cheer
I’ll be online again
But I’m not certain when
It’s been a good vacation
But I hate this situation
If I were more frugal
I might still have my Google
--MFM
What is better?
Mousetrap
Cheese Snap! Fail
Wife Knife! Tail
Cat Pounce! Missed
The wife, obviously. Three at a time, too.
Yesterday was dull. I sat and read and cooked apples and potatoes and bell peps and Romatomas and onion into a tasty glop that was also filling. I sneaked a bit of left-over home-fries with gravy from the Cinema into the mix, too. I used “Tajin” - a Mexican powdered spice blend - to flavor it. That’s special stuff. It adds to anything all by its lonesome.
I took one picture of note, only. I wasn’t very sharp at “Jeopardy!” yesterday, either. And Final Jeopardy!’s answer was one that was easy, providing no challenge at all. But in the novel I’m reading, the main character is relieved to find out that the woman with whom he’s involved, though he thought was a stranger is, in fact, his grandmother,.
However, the man who he believed to be his grandfather all of his life has been shown not to be, so things are confusing, but this is the second time I have read this Little Book, so it’s not really. But it is still enjoyable and good philosophical fodder.
Time to hit the street, the cafe, and the street again.
Yeah, I got out of the building one time yesterday to take out the garbage.
I have a sore knee again, if you wanna know, and I’m sure this morning’s ramble will be slow and shorter than normal.
And perhaps I should end this chapter here.
“Which should end this part of my tale, but we shall see about that,” said the Blind Mouse to the other Blind Mice.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 03:36pm PT
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10
Decimalia: the 10th wave.
Hi, I’m waving.
I have returned and seen several shades of greenery.
O! Tis ST. Patrick’s Day
They envy the Irish, turning green.
They are as many as the shades of green in the old sod of the Auld Sod.
They can go sod themselves.
Or have someone do it for them.
A leprous leprechaun from Loch Wobegon
Could not tell which leg he was standing on.
He was drunk as a skunk
From his head to his trunk
While his feet seemed to have his green shoes on wrong.
And that’s not all that was green—
Which you should have seen,
Before he flushed--
My sainted mother would have blushed.
And my sot of a Dad
Would have been glad
If he could have in that tidy way puked.
But without a pot for pissin’ in,
Thus depriving his kin, which is a sin
For which he should be rebuked.
I like to think of these
The green of a new stand of corn
The green of the hills out of town
The green of a new hundred dollar bill
“Greenthink.”
“Greenspeak.”
“Greening.”
Green is the combination of blue and yellow, I think,
But I can’t google that to find out. Let’s just go with it.
And keep thinking “green.”
The green of the moss under the camellias at City Hall
Which are suddenly now all gone because they were old and not pretty enough.
The green of the moss covered still with last week’s rain water
Is enhanced by tiny bubbles of air clinging to them and reflections appear on their surface.
The green of the moss on the rocks of Fern Spring
Soaked with moisture and fresh as Irish Spring.
You know you love it and I love it, too!
Using Irish Spring and drinking gallons of puke-green beer is one way non-Irish can hope to “be Irish.”
Women can be Irish by injection, according to my sainted wife, who was honored, thus.
Liz might be shocked and appalled by what I say.
Then she would have laughed, bless her,
And jumped my bones.
Tis better than any woman deserves,
But if it keeps them quiet and happy to be in the kitchen with the babs
And content, give your Sweet Patootie a new pair of Earth Shoes
And even some support hose,
But just remember, especially, to hand her own bottle of poteen as well on St. Pat’s Day.
It’s all in knowing what a woman needs, mates.
And right now YOU need your supper.
“Pass the corned beef, My Pet?”
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 03:48pm PT
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11
After all that, this final chapter.
Stillness. That is what I want.
Stiffness. That is what I have.
Feels like the left knee is falling off when I stand and unbend that leg. There is a great deal of pain but not the swelling—I’ve been on water pills for BP. I’ve taken more Ibuprophen the last several days than I ever have in my life, Total. I am barely able to hobble and need to get out today to take care of biz. I am not in ecstasy over the coming agony I know I will endure.
I BELIEVE that one or another of my knee’s cruciate ligaments is shredded, just like the right one was. That surgery was successful, requiring one exploratory and one to replace the anterior cruciate.
I KNOW that the pain is ex-cruciate. I have known it in the past and it’s the kind to last if it’s not corrected. The knee pain flared up a few weeks ago. feralfae and I discussed it and using Chondroitin. The problem went away on its own.
I had similar visits by stiffness and pain when I was in my twenties and had the ACL surgery. It wasn't there all the time until one day it just would not go away after repeated recurrences.
As many of my friends here know, I also tried to have hernia surgery a year and a half ago but ended up having to have a heart valve repaired instead before I was considered a safe risk for the in and out hernia procedure. This is just the way it is and the docs won't bend. Any plans for other surgery were but on the warming shelf.
I think the time of the hernia surgery is nearer than the time of the knee because the hernia has grown enormous and its a constant inhibitor of some things, dang painful when I cough unexpectedly. It inhibits coughing and when sudden things happen it stings; and it adds its salty comments like “Have a sharp pain and die.” Or “Watch this! It will killya.”
Maybe the surgeons can agree to all meet and go for it on one day with one round of anesthesia, so that I’d have the hernia under “Lights Out Lite” and then go under for the “Round of Pain Like Only a Just-Operated-On Knee Can Produce.” Dread. Loathing. But not fear. I know what to expect, either way.
Avoiding pain has been my climbing style, too. It’s why I never got good. I’ve always shunted the blame on having married, but that’s just avoidance and I now confess to being just me, a guy with no known ambition, little determination in tough spots, and a highly inflated ego inside.
Enough. The vacation catharsis is not so painful, though. I’ve realized what I said about my climbing has been in the mental stew a long time, since I began trying to re-acclimate to being a climber and having that fail, what with the aging process.
I think my writing has matured, though, in exchange; and I hope all this has not been a bore for you readers.
It began as a ramble and who knew it would take me here? But here I am. I don’t know where you are in your heads.
Wish me luck getting around today and completing errands in the most painless ways possible.
And have a good day. Thanks for visiting.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 3, 2017 - 04:12pm PT
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