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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 17, 2017 - 10:49am PT
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Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha......
[deep breath]
yer killin' me and I haven't had my Irish meal yet!
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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 17, 2017 - 01:35pm PT
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Chow Time!!!!
Simple fare for natural energy.
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Lynne Leichtfuss
Trad climber
Will know soon
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Mar 17, 2017 - 07:41pm PT
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The Beauty
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Lynne Leichtfuss
Trad climber
Will know soon
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Mar 17, 2017 - 07:47pm PT
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Friends at Fondas ..... party time. Hello Robert, thanks for all your hospitality!
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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 17, 2017 - 08:41pm PT
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Cosmac Cragsmon.
Pazeltov.
Lynnie, grandeur and grandad. How poetic. And Gomez, why are you laughing?
Pub Crawl night to support the Art Hop.
Art Hoppe — American Journalist born on April 23, 1925, died on February 01, 2000
Art Hoppe was a popular columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle for more than 40 years. He was known for satirical and allegorical columns that skewered the self-important.
Many columns featured whimsical characters such as expert-in-all-things Homer T. Pettibone and a presidential candidate named Nobody. Occasionally, Hoppe reined in his humor for poignant columns on serious topics, such as "To Root Against Your Country," a noted 1971 column against the Vietnam War.
Hoppe began at the Chronicle as a copy boy in 1949 and was promoted to reporter before beginning his own column. At the peak of its popularity, Hoppe's column appeared in the Chronicle five days a week and was syndicated in more than 100 newspapers nationwide. His close friends included fellow columnists Russell Baker and Art Buchwald.
"If there is no God, who pops up the next Kleenex?"
"Who knows? Maybe my life belongs to God. Maybe it belongs to me. But I do know one thing: I'm damned if it belongs to the government."
"We all worry about the population explosion, but we don't worry about it at the right time."
--All Art, all the time
Art Hoppe was a word artist, and a fella named Phil Frank used his Sherwood Anderson-like illustrations to great effect for Hoppe's column. I read the Chronicle each morning through high school and Art Hoppe and Herb Caen were stars in the Hearstian sky.
I think it would have been a good night of fun on a pub crawl with the three of these legends. As it would to have done the same with Sherwood and his band of Golden Agers.
Barring that, with Gomez and the Bird and Lynnie.
Maybe Walling would do it for a sixer?
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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 17, 2017 - 09:04pm PT
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March Madness.
Blarney.
Fairy dust in my eyes.
Oh, Danny Boy...
Wearing of the green.
Green salsa! Hijo la!
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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 17, 2017 - 10:59pm PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
You got no right to deceive it, so love it or leave it, Mr. T.
"Fool! Don't you abuse MY good name."
http://sangamoncountyhistory.org/wp/?p=7446
"Abe did not take Fido to the White House, but he is said to have purchased another dog in Washington named Jip or Gyp."
http://www.abrahamlincolnsclassroom.org/abraham-lincoln-in-depth/abraham-lincoln-pets-and-children/
The Lincoln household was a home for the lost and neglected. Cynthia Owen Philip wrote about an incident in which a dog named Jet adopted the Lincoln family:
In mid-October 1861, during the bleak months after the Union defeat at Bull Run, President and Mrs. Lincoln were driven across the Potomac River to Alexandria, Virginia, to present flags to newly formed volunteer regiments assembled there.
On their return to the capital, a sleek black hunting dog trailed their carriage all the way to the White House, trotted after the President right through the front door, and to the delight of the Lincoln children, quickly made himself at home.
Unfortunately for the boys, the dog had abandoned his owner, army surgeon George Suckley. He read about the new White House resident in a newspaper and went to the White House to claim him. He and Mr. Lincoln agreed that Dr. Suckley would furnish one of Jet’s pups in exchange for return of his father. But by the time the exchange was to be made in December, Jet had again disappeared so Dr. Suckley withheld the puppy.
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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 17, 2017 - 11:25pm PT
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[Click to View YouTube Video]
Sawdust
Someone always does the dirty work
Someone always acts the stupud jurk
Someone else is standing there
Someone else don't really care
The climber climbs into the leaves
Then on the trail rope he heaves and heaves
He tops the crown and it falls on down
Mashing the stupid clown on the ground
Now he's not standing there standing 'round
Instead he's just lying there on the ground
Covered with sawdust and branches galore
I can't look for he's covered in gore
He never saw it when it was sawn
He was stifling a great big yawn
Now he's staring at the sky in Cypress Lawn
--Axel Axe
The Band Perry - All Your Life
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpdh4pPl0Ck
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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 18, 2017 - 03:20am PT
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I woke thinking about this question.According to HL Mencken, the difference between philosophy and religion is this:
A philosopher is a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn't there.
A theologian is the man who finds it.
According to MF Merced, these persons, the philsopher and the theologian, can be Ween strangling and wrangling on the Mind thread and similar threads.
ween
verb (archaic) - To be of the opinion, to think, or to suppose.
"I ween the Boston Strangler weened certain women did not deserve to live."
--EL Chapeau
Creampuffs and bourbon and the music was louder
My wife was competing in a game of chance
The party raged and the guests were screaming
I could have danced all night
--Ween, "Your Party"
And if you ever catch the midnight rambler
I'll steal your mistress from under your nose
I'll go easy with your cold fanged anger
I'll stick my knife right down your throat, baby and it hurts!
--Rolling Stones, "Midnight Rambler"
"I ween that Larry McCray is responsible for the worst cover of Midnight Rambler EVER."
--Randy Way Witherspoon
"Forsooth, it is heinous, a scandal, and should be rubbed out. Are you hungry, my son?"
--Young Lodgeskins
L McCray - Midnight Rambler
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jFYOygVIiec
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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 18, 2017 - 03:35am PT
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Hang on to yur party hats, Flames!
We are gonna see some Midnight Gamblers in action!
"V Two! A silent rocket coming right into your chimney. O-o-oh my!"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Mad Bingo Caller
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wMHyHkRtzU
Apparently, the New Brit Bingo lacks the letters. Or maybe the entire Bingo World has switched the rules on me?
I may have found my "calling."
"Come and have a drink with me."
[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 18, 2017 - 03:52am PT
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On the Weejes of Sin *
Poster Boy.this pad is full of bags
and bachelors; drinking,
hard-climbing fools.
fighting and insulting the ladies, we.
posting tasteless photo-stamps
of our barely-respectable adventures.
messing things up in general.
yelling our heads off.
and in comes bushman.
with a poetic broom
and amicable demeanor.
stepping around our
wretched, sweating, flailing frames
while sweeping up our emotional spoils.
though he's a lifetime logger
and tobin's little brother;
though he's been to the bottom
of the bottle and back,
dragging himself at eden
with fettered feet,
he somehow has graduated
unto grace;
broke the damn stride-shackles
of shame
and now wears among
us a crown of humility
beaming forth
golden prose
in a poetic structure
that completely strips
the utility from
our strangled communication medium
and leaves only art,
with his message
a bystander,
idling next to
the expression.
thanks bushman.
it is always significant
to meet someone
who knows no other
way than extraordinary.
--norwegian, Oct 1, 2015
Not a Riposte, But Acclamation
Your word-smithy seems to have a back-log, Bushperson.
The generation of quality poems by you in the past several months
have provided me with endless hours of emulation,
most to no satisfactory conclusion.
The mind works like a river works:
There are log-jams of thoughts.
There are the whirlpools of lost rhymes.
There are crumbling banks of weak imagery.
There are long runs of ideas with no outlet,
damming up and breaking loose constantly.
There are quiet runs where pleasant couplets,
titillating triplets, and cute little quatrains flow by 'neath the scrunched-up brow.
Once in a while a lunker comes to the surface and reveals himself,
only to sink back to the bed of the stream of consciousness,
out of my control.
And there are flash floods, where ideas just fly by, waiting for rescue.
There are the 'big trees' of fallen poets across the stream, too,
thus giving us access to the 'other side' with their classic words.
And it all flows eventually somewhere.
The Lake of Humanity is large and its depths are un-plumbed.
These poems we make will raise the level of the lake if we are not careful.
Then there will be a flood of useless old words on the land.
If we lived to a great old age, like a Sequoia, maybe we can fill the lake in a trillion billion years.
Meanwhile, the petals keep fallin',
the moon still rises into the lake,
and the sun still sets in splendor somewhere, every day.
You need your toilet bowls scrubbed, weej, I'll be your 'volunteer.'
--MFM, same date
* REPOSTING ALERT. No replies needed.
Miss the Weej.
Remember the Alamo.
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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 18, 2017 - 04:28am PT
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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 18, 2017 - 10:56am PT
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Back to Deep Sleep, Dreams Be Waiting
Drifting off to deepest blankness
Filled with scenes of outlandish frankness
I lay under a ton of blankets
There I encountered to my surprise
A glaring phantom with three purple eyes
Squatting under the Bridge of Size
There was no light in this demon place
I began to sweat and my heart to race
I quickly did an about face
But the bridge was gone the rest was missing
Behind me that trollish menace was hissing
So into the abyss as my butt I was kissing
Falling out of the non-sky back into my head
I woke up sweating--I'd drenched my bed
Thinking I was dying with utter dread
And wishing I'd had my camera along for that one
--MFM, indebted to Bushman
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 18, 2017 - 12:50pm PT
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Thank you for all the accolades, Sir Mouse, I'm undeserving. Dreams can be crazy but the best source for original inspiration. Some say all knowledge is recycled. When the dreamstate fantasy nightmare takes hold of us we should rightfully tremble in fear. But often there's some ripe new material to glean from the experience if we can wake soon enough to remember it.
Lately, a few times when I've been having nightmares, I realized I was dreaming and have woke myself up purposely to extricate my mind from the uncomfortable situation. That's when I've remember the most from my dreams.
Ok, here's the poem I posted on the Dog's Life thread today, dreamster.
LUKE
The biggest sibling
A dog of noble stature
Loving and kind
Who moans ever sweetly
With the slightest affection
And every soft kiss
He stands at the ready
His nose pointed forward
To sound the alert
Or to bolt into action
Long strides o'er the garden
To run down his prey
With his duties extending
To locating scat
In tall grass where it hides
He's perceptive and wise
Showing exceptional intellige...
"Hey, don't eat that!"
-Tim Sorenson
03/18/2017
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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 18, 2017 - 04:15pm PT
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When I went down to check the mail and the outside atmosphere (it's so dank and stuffy in here) I met an energetic (some might call him high-strung, I just call him awfully young) and enthusiastic new friend (a friend to mice and men and all) BLACK LAB named MURPHY.
Before I forget, since I just awoke from a snooze (rested but groggy and Rich was walking his doggy), I wanted to post this video for aldude, who had asked on another thread a pertinent question, one for the ages, in my estimate (though eyes biased),
"Where's In Flames?"
[Click to View YouTube Video]
"If you could see it
If you could see it through my eyes
Why are we so different?
Want you to feel it
Want you to know what it was like
Then maybe you'll understand" said Murphy,
Though he had to ask with his eyes and tail.
"Call that a 'bridge?'" is another question some (like DMT and the dentist) will be asking.
And I just look out the window and sigh.
It's the best that I have on a groggy afternoon.
Makes me stop and think
That's a cyclops, that kitchen sink
Gnawmean, Luke?
Like Luke can't enjoy the odors lingering in that drain-eye still after all the long-gone years of potato bits, dishwater, and gosh-knows-what-all that have traveled through the bottleneck...aw, what the heck.
The past is gone, buried like a bone in the tall grass
So I'll just sit and lick my
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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 18, 2017 - 04:31pm PT
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Mystery Trending.
Hot topic, dreams.
"I have a dream."--ML King Jr.
That's a start, Rev Martin.
Connecting to Las Vegas, NM.
Or sometimes a winch is just a winch,
Dragging logs inch by inch
To their waiting fates
As toothpicks or as garden gates
The Mystery Trend was an American garage rock band formed in San Francisco, California in 1964. The band was among the first wave of San Francisco rock groups to emerge from the city's growing music scene.
Exhibiting music prowess leaning toward R&B, the Mystery Trend were set apart from their contemporaries (such as the Beau Brummels) who later developed into psychedelic rock groups. (No surf music, Murph.)
Their recording output was limited, with the group's one single, "Johnny Was a Good Boy", being released in 1967.
Who ARE these guys?
Let me see with my eyes.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[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 18, 2017 - 05:35pm PT
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Il est temps pour votre leçon de français, Flames.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
[Click to View YouTube Video]
Je m'appelle Chuck Berry, le duc de Berry, ou Berry Maguire, monsieur.
Quoi que ce soit ou qui que vous voulez que je joue dans votre bel établissement.
Translate, please.
This is an open book test for the climbers in the audience only.
You may use your iPhone if you did not bring your book.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Mar 18, 2017 - 05:54pm PT
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You're in the wrong place my friend, this ain't the Louie Louie thread.
-Richard Berry
I was stuck with having to root for Arizona as an almost west coast team. Thank God for Saint (don't call me Serra) Mary's. You go Gails.
Won't be the first set of wildcats to get their lunch today.
Badger Badger Badger
Dude can't dunk, but he can dribble two balls and his athleticsim is beyond reproach.
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Mar 18, 2017 - 05:58pm PT
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