John Henry Haney's funeral video (June 2020)

https://www.cannonclevelandfunerals.com/obituary/john-haney

John was the owner of Ft. Indian Springs Antiques and Flea Market in Flovilla, GA for more than 25 Years. He was very proud of the fact that he obtained a military driver’s license that allowed him to drive any motor vehicle.  He also had a Nascar driver’s license and raced at the Peach Bowl in the 1960’s.

Back in 1983, all I knew him as was Ginny's father. And that he drank a lot of Cokes every day. And that he didn't want me and Ginny to visit a Unitarian church.

He and Ginny's mother (Joan) and Ginny and I traveled to Georgia in the summer of 1983 to visit his mother. On the way back, he and Joan, and Ginny and I, shared one hotel room together. Ginny and I giggled surreptitiously while watching the sexier scenes from "The Blue Lagoon" on the hotel-room TV, hoping the parents were truly asleep.

In the fall of 1983, Ginny ran away from home to Austin, where I was.

In 1984 or so, after Ginny had left me, he opened a bookstore. I stopped by one day, hoping to see Ginny there. Bought a Nietzsche book instead.

In 1985, I wrote this memoir for Ginny:

Sitting still on your wind-rattled plank balcony
Cigarette in your hand, cloth-laid thigh warming me
Ever-subtle we stretch, turning months into years
I could love you or leave you, provoke fractured fears

In the smoke swirling 'round with the mist from our lips
We traced our initials with numbed fingertips
And laughed 'til our ice-faces threatened to crack
The wall etching lines in the small of our backs.

And Daddy knock-knocking, an endless tattoo
Just what was it your Daddy wanted of you?
Our thoughts? Wedded secrets, more guarded by far
Than the battered wood door, kept unlocked, left ajar

But I don't want to go, with your face shadowed doubt
I could stay, pleading faith, heavy voice wearing out
Saying things far too desperate, too tangled to claim---
So I run from confusion, the taste of your name.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I suppose this man could have been my father-in-law.

George Jones: I'd Rather Have What We Had (1983)

George Jones: I Just Don't Give a Damn (1975)

George Jones: She's Mine

George Jones: When the Wife Runs Off with Another Man (1969)

I've lost so much weight from living on hate...

Tammy Wynette and George Jones: "We're Gonna To Try To Get Along" (Florida, 1973)

Rock-n-Roll Honky Tonk Ramblin' Man: Rick Broussard, Johnny X Reed (7-24-15)

Be it Rick Broussard or George Jones playing out on the street: Cool is Cool.

Rick Broussard at Carousel Lounge (2014): We Used to Fuss...

Rick Broussard at Saxon Pub (2015): We Used to Fuss...

City Hall Sessions 24 - Rick Broussard (2018)

Extremely embarrassing setting. (For one thing, can't stand the utterly inept Mayor Steve Adler. And why on earth would anyone want to perform on such a generic non-stage before the City Council?)

The performance is great, despite the setting.

The interview afterward = Only mildly embarrassing. (Broussard is a nearly-60-year-old man, but he talks like a kid. I'm old-fashioned: Post-40 or 45, men should talk like men.)

Not quite prepared for this week-long winter storm!

Well, I did KINDA prepare... I did fill up water bottles and a couple of jugs on Monday, and I did do grocery shopping early Sunday (among my usual stuff, I specifically got multiple cans of beans and, most importantly, cigarettes). But LIGHT-wise, I was woefully UNprepared!

Last Thursday, I saw on the news that power outages were expected, so I gathered up what flashlights I had in the house... Very pitiful. Two were samples had been given out at trade shows or something (given to me by mom and a co-worker years ago). The third was a small flashlight I'd bought myself years ago but that no longer worked, even after changing batteries. I jerry-rigged it with tape to keep the circuits (or whatever they're called) rubbing against each other, but I still had to constantly press the "on" button to keep the weak light going.

 

So Thursday I immediately went and ordered a camping flashlight/lantern and plenty of batteries from Amazon. Supposed to have arrived this past Monday or Tuesday. Still not here (Wednesday). Delivery delayed because of weather! :)

Once the storm hit Sunday evening, I had power up until Monday at 6pm. Then it went out completely (along with no gas for cooking and no Internet) for the next 24 hours. (Whatever happened to the alleged planned "rolling outages" for about 1 to 2 hours?!) I basically spent the dark hours of that time lying bundled up on the couch, reading my new Sylvia Plath book "Red Comet" using the tiny flashlights, with 4 or 5 candles to lend a bit of glow to the living room (and help me see in the bathroom!). (The cats were a little freaked out by the weird shadows everywhere!)

Food-wise: I tried not to open the fridge/freezer doors too many times to conserve the cool temps inside. By Tuesday afternoon, though, I was about to load all the perishables up in a plastic bin and set them outside to keep them cold, but fortunately electricity came back on Tuesday about 5pm. (And it's still on Wednesday at 10pm, as I write this, thank goodness, though news reports say power could still go out again between now and the upcoming storm coming late tonight.)

On Tuesday around 2pm, my apartment complex turned off all of the water----it still is not back on. Luckily, I'd filled up lots of bottles and jugs the weekend before, so I still have plenty of drinking water for me and pets. But, frankly, I'm starting to smell! I need a hot shower!! (Or at least the ability to wash my now-gritty hands. I have managed to brush my teeth.)

For toilet flushing, I didn't fill up the bathtub early, like the news recommended, but when the water was still able to at least drip out of the faucets, I did fill up a couple of popcorn bowls with water and I still have them sitting there in the tub. I also, upon local news recommendation, scooped up some snow/ice in another big bowl and am waiting for it to melt and help out. Luckily, I have two toilets, and there were the two "free" flushes after the water first went out! :) Thanks also to the one guy on the local news who told me where exactly I was supposed to pour this extra water! (I didn't know if it was directly in the toilet, or in the tank---turns out, either one should work.)

The bad news today (Wednesday) was that my central heating stopped working. The air was still blowing, but blowing cold. My apt complex gave me a very tiny space heater. During the 24 hours with no power at all, the apartment was down to about 53 degrees. Right now, with the space heater, it's at 59. (I'm lucky, though, compared to some people I've seen on the news whose indoor temps have gone down to about 40!)

 

 

So...it's been interesting! Despite currently having no heat and water, I'm very grateful for at least electricity for light and so I can watch TV. Oh, and, after not drinking all week, today I bundled up with my old NYC red rain boots and made a mile-long trek to the nearest gas station on Burnet Road that had power and sold beer. (My usual corner store across the street is still shut down.) A minor Triumph of the Will: "Dammit, I WILL find beer!" (The 10-year-old rain boots proved tread-worthy but CRACKED with age---I got home with wet socks. And now I've ordered new red rain boots for next time.)

This all has also served as somewhat of a palate cleanser. Lying in the cold and dark reading Plath by flashlight/candlelight was peaceful. Not having obnoxious kids running around right outside my window was peaceful. (The ubiquitous kids, while non-existent on Sunday and Monday because of the super-cold, made their annoying reappearance outside my window on Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons when the cold was not quite so extreme. Not for long, but long enough to remind me what type of "frolicking" was in store in the spring and summer, when the daylight hours extend to nearly 9pm. I need to GET AWAY FROM HERE.)

Sylvia Plath: Last Words (October 1961)

[NOTE: In October 1961, the month that this poem was written, Plath and Hughes had just moved to their Court Green home the month before. Their son Nicholas was born January 1962. Assia Wevill wouldn't appear on their hearth until May 1962; "the phone call" occurred July 1962; and Plath kicked Hughes out of the house in October 1962. All of this to say: Had Plath written this poem within a few weeks/months of her death in February 1963, critics would be claiming that this poem was a result of outward events. On the contrary: She obviously already thought like this.]


I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already --- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over ---
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.

I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my turquoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.

Sylvia Plath: Winter Trees (November 1962)

The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing ---
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.

Knowing neither abortion nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history ---

Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.

Sylvia Plath: The Times Are Tidy (1958)

Unlucky the hero born
In this province of the stuck record
Where the most watchful cooks go jobless
And the mayor's rotisserie turns
Round of its own accord.

There's no career in the venture
Of riding against the lizard,
Himself withered these latter-days
To leaf-size from lack of action:
History's beaten the hazard.

The last crone got burnt up
More than eight decades back
With the love-hot herb, the talking cat,
But the children are better for it,
The cow milks cream an inch thick.

"Social and Emotional Learning"

I first heard the phrase "social and emotional learning" in passing about 10 years ago, when my sister-in-law, then an educator-in-training and now a vice-principal of a local middle school, was working on a paper.

Since then, I've heard the exact phrase repeated over and over again by educators on national news stations (including tonight on Fox, supposedly a conservative network, where the concept was not challenged by the host). "Social and Emotional Learning" seems to be the driving force behind education today.

Could "Social and Emotional Learning" be a factor behind why today's young adults are so ignorant of basic things like history and science? If my sister-in-law was spouting this phrase 10 years ago, the concept has been in the works for at least a decade, when most of today's Tweet-ers were just kids.

Here's one definition of "Social and Emotional Learning" from the National Conference of State Legislatures:

Social and emotional learning (SEL) refers to to a wide range of skills, attitudes, and behaviors that can affect a student's success in school and life. Critical thinking, managing emotions, working through conflicts, decision making, and team work—all of these are the kind of skills that are not necessarily measured by tests but which round out a student’s education and impact his/her academic success, employability, self-esteem, relationships, as well as civic and community engagement.

[My Note: "Critical thinking" has obviously never been part of the SEL process.]

The site goes on to say: 

The Collaborative for Academic, Social and Emotional Learning (CASEL) identifies five competencies of SEL: self-awareness, self-management, social awareness, relationship skills, and responsible decision making.

Note that the above (in)competencies leave out the all-important "critical thinking" and are also not very "academic." In fact, the above five items have nothing whatsoever to do with LEARNING. They all seem to be leftovers from some 1970s California self-help retreat.

This is what the teachers of your children are being told to focus on. Not Math, Science, English, History, Geography. But rather: Self-Awareness.

Here's a pet peeve of mine regarding the current "Climate Change" public conversation (fueled by many ignorant people on Twitter, as well as many left-wing news sources):

Yes, the global climate is currently warming. It's the warmest it's been in 200 years. But guess what: Temperature records have only been kept for about 200 years. The Earth is 4.5 billion years old. And during that 4.5 billion years, there have been numerous massive climate changes, usually occurring every 15,000 years or so. The southern part of the US used to be completely under water. The northern part of the US used to be covered by glaciers. We're currently at the end of a 15,000 year cycle.

I happened to learn the above while working for a geological group. Had I not worked for the group, would I have known the facts? Shouldn't school-kids be learning the geological facts instead of being told to rely on their "feelings" or their "relationship skills"? (Twitter, for example, teaches that you must agree with the crowd instead of thinking for yourself, or risk being ostracized and mocked. "Relationship skills" = "Being a sheep.")

Peggy Lee: It's All Over Now (1946)

Peggy Lee: I'm A Woman (1963)

My favorite line:
I can make a dress out of a feedbag, and I can make a man out of you...

Peggy Lee: Pass Me By (1965)

I especially like it when she starts SWINGING at 1:35! :)

Waltons Update

I've now figured out the regular time that Hallmark Drama shows Waltons re-runs: 10pm to 2am Central. So, mildly disappointed as I was with the first batch (from Season 1) that I saw a couple of weeks ago, I've been tuning in when it's time to go to bed.

Last night I watched 4 episodes from Season 5 ('76 to '77):

The Ferris Wheel: Elizabeth is sleepwalking because she's been traumatized by something that happened at the carnival. Today, the reveal would be that she was sexually abused by a carney. Nah---she just saw a carney guy die the year before.

The Elopement: Erin is 16 and in love with a local boy (played by Michael O'Keefe, later of "Caddyshack" fame). He asks for her hand in marriage, but John and Olivia say "no," not until she's graduated from high school (which, since she's 16, I expect to be in 2 years or so). The couple run off at midnight to a county Justice of the Peace, but, depressed by her surroundings, Erin declines the nuptials. Papa/Mama Walton show up, and all depart amicably sans any fist-fights. (Confused Note: The voice-over epilogue says that Erin went on to graduate high school while helping this boy build his home on the mountainside, BUT: See "The Career Girl" below.)

John's Crossroad: Papa John Walton lucks into a government job (and buys a fancy new hat to go with it). Mama Walton misses having him around and they kiss a lot. Papa's boss turns out to be cold-hearted, and he quits soon after. (More interesting would have been a couple more episodes of Papa Walton trying to fit in with the workaday life.) The sub-plot is Grandpa not able to find any boys to go fishing with until he settles on Elizabeth, the youngest. They have a good time until Mama Walton is disgusted by the mud on Elizabeth and she tells Grandpa to stop bothering her so she can be a girl. (Today, I was expecting some conflict out of this, but, no, Elizabeth puts on a dress and stops trying to hang out with Grandpa.)

The Career Girl: Erin graduates from high school. From "The Elopement" episode only 2 weeks earlier, I wasn't expecting her graduation so soon! OK...So I then expected the Caddyshack guy to show up again and to claim Erin for his own. No, he didn't exist any more. The jist of this show: The teacher announces the future plans for all other graduates as they march across the stage, but when she gets to Erin, she awkwardly can't think of anything to say. (Really? The teacher couldn't just say that Erin will continue working as a telephone operator for the time being?) Erin then has a Life Crisis---her actual part-time telephone operator job seems to have no future, so she gets a job as a waitress at a rough diner---Papa Walton is fine with it. Near the end of the episode, brother Jason stops by to take her home from work---only to catch a patron grabbing...her ARM. The men get in a fist-fight. (I understand that this is a family show, but couldn't the patron at least have mildly grabbed her ass? I'm sensing a real need here to re-do all Waltons episodes in a REAL-LIFE manner!) The voice-over epilogue says that Erin went on to business school and to have a family of her own. But, but... WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GUY FROM ONLY TWO EPISODES EARLIER THAT SHE WAS GOING TO MARRY WHEN SHE GRADUATED HIGH SCHOOL---the guy that she allegedly helped build a house with??

Bad writing is annoying.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some other interesting tidbits that I found out while surfing the Internet today:

Both Grandpa Walton and Grandma Walton were gay in real life. Well, Grandpa Will Geer was probably only bisexual: He was married but had an affair with Harry Hay in his youth:

Geer became involved with the young Harry Hay, who later became a homosexual activist.^[3] In 1934, Hay met Geer at the Tony Pastor Theatre, where Geer worked as an actor. They became lovers, and Hay credited Geer as his political mentor.^[4] 

And Grandma Ellen Corby had been living with her partner Stella Luchetta since the 1950s.

Oh, and according to Michael Learned, both Ralph Waite and Learned (Ma and Pa Walton) were alcoholics during the time of The Waltons filming, and fell in love but never did anything about it.

Sigh. Does absolutely EVERYONE have to be weird and troubled? (Note to self: Did you actually think these were all simple Country People?! They're actors...)

Yoko Ono: Yang Yang

As one poster on YouTube said: "Hate Yoko. Love this song."
Guitar by John Lennon.

An Unusually Good Day

Today, not a single thing happened in my apartment community to get on my nerves! What a shocker!

Maintenance guys in the room next door didn't do a single bit of banging on our adjoining walls or yucking it up for hours.

Maintenance guys cleaning up the apartment on the other side of me didn't blast their music.

Not a single kid was running up and down the sidewalk outside my apartment (or on my roof), or running around screaming, or throwing rocks, or bouncing basketballs in the area next to my apartment.

The guys in #115 weren't parked in the parking lot blaring their car stereo; nor were they setting off fireworks.

I didn't hear a single thing all day and all night! WOW! So unlike other days...An idea of how living here could/should actually be.

That said: Today on Amazon I ordered a box of black magic markers (for labeling boxes), and I received a moving dolly that I'd ordered a few days ago. Mid-March, I have to decide whether or not to renew my lease. I'm prepared.

Finding Religion

When I was younger, I---in my post-Modern cynicism---assumed that old and sick people, and prisoners, "found religion" because they were desperate for something/anything to assure them they would go on to a happier life after their current misery. (And, plus, for prisoners, acting religious might make them look good for the parole board.)

Now, in my 50s, though, I see it from a slightly different angle: When you're old, or very sick, or in jail, the outside world and its gaudy attractions/distractions/illusions have been stripped away. You're basically left with yourself and four walls. Once all of the outside chatter has subsided, what, then, comes to the fore? I think the enforced quiet time allows something purer and more delicate to be heard, something that was formerly drowned out in the cacophony of mainstream life.

The Library

My apartment neighbors and the maintenance guys (in the maintenance room right next door) have been so irritating in the last month that I've been fantasizing about moving. But...daaaaamn. I've got a lot of books (and other shit---oh, and FIVE cats!) to move!

If there were no people around me, this place would be pretty OK: 1200 sq ft, 2 bedrooms (one used for my library), and a small backyard. The downside: Absolutely no view of anything. And I can't really go out to my backyard and sit and read because there's a row of neighbor apartments 20 ft away. I'd ideally like a small two-story townhouse/duplex in an actual neighborhood, not an apartment complex, which is within my price range.

I'm currently on the fence, leaning more toward staying, primarily because of the HUGE hassle of trying to round up my 5 cats. (And once the Wuhan quarantine is over, I won't be working from home and having to listen to the maintenance guys next door all day long.)

What might be a tipping point: My next-door neighbors, two guys who sometimes blasted their stereo, moved out a month ago. I'll see who I get next. If the next people are loud, I'm pretty sure I'll decide to move when my lease is up in May. If I do, THAT will be my very last rental. After that, I'll have the money to buy something. (Ideally, though, I wish I could just stay put until the house day comes.)

In the meantime... Aside from setting up my Thomas Hardy area, I also cleaned up the rest of my study. Including getting rid of the second cat-litter box I had in there (which I moved to the spare bathroom). I want to be able to go into just ONE room where I can RELAX and not have to clean up after little creatures! (There's still the cat hair on the chair, but at least not the daily scooping and semi-daily sweeping...)

 

My Thomas Hardy Shrine

My 1905 Harpers set of Hardy novels is almost complete.
 

Aside from having read the major novels Jude, Tess, Far from the Madding Crowd, and Mayor of Casterbridge---plus various bios---in the past 6 months (in various editions), I've also embarked on reading all of his novels in the order published, from the complete 1975 Wessex Edition: I recently finished his first, Desperate Remedies, and just started on the second, Under the Greenwood Tree.

I almost have all of the poetry in individual volumes. (And, lordy, I am not looking forward to tackling The Dynasts, whatever genre THAT might be considered...)

And I just bought a wooden frame and some postcards from the UK to go in it, to crown the whole collection.

 

Mendelssohn: Hebrides Overture (1830, written age 21)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hebrides_(overture)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Felix_Mendelssohn

Mendelssohn: Song Without Words, Op. 109

Mendelssohn: A Midsummer Night's Dream Overture (1826, written age 17)

The Waltons: The Lunchbox

The Hallmark cable channel shows old episodes of "The Waltons" (which aired '72 thru '81, though once they got to the War Years they jumped the shark), and while trying to doze on my couch yesterday, I ended up watching 5 of the episodes, sticking with it to determine if the show was as wonderful as I found it back in the '70s when I was a kid. I used to LOVE that show!

In fact, one of the nicest memories of my mother is the day we were shopping for my 3rd-grade school supplies, including that year's lunchbox (VERY important, because you had to live with it all year and what you had chosen was on display for all of your friends and said something about you).

We had picked up most of the supplies, including a lunchbox (I can't remember which), at one store. And then we went to another store...which had THE WALTONS lunchbox! OH MY! MAMA, MAMA! Now, normally, my mother was very no-nonsense. And we'd already bought a lunchbox, which meant that there was no reason at all to take the first one back and get another. But this one time... Magic happened! My mother allowed me to get this Waltons lunchbox, and we returned the first one!

I don't still have my beautiful Waltons lunchbox, but I found pictures online:

Really? I got so excited over changing a car tire and Grandpa getting a haircut?? :)  

Now, as for the 5 episodes from Season One that I saw last night (falling asleep intermittently):

The Actress

The Fire

The Love Story

The Courtship

The Gypsies

Seen in a row, they ended up seeming like episodes from "Gilligan's Island" (which I also loved as a kid, except... "The Waltons" was supposed to be serious!)---What random, oddball character would show up next? Or else there was a left-wing Morality Lesson.

The Actress: Wacky, alcoholic aging actress whose car breaks down in Virginia teaches Mary Ellen how to put on makeup and then puts on a show to earn her way back to New York City.

The Fire: Crazy right-wing nut sets fire to the school because the teacher is teaching evolution.

The Love Story: John-Boy falls in love in a week (family all coos over the fact that he's in love---after one week) and then girl has to leave.
The Courtship: Big-city banker down-and-out because of the Depression learns to give up his fancy dreams and settle for local thrice-married local widow. (OK, this one was more subtle; I enjoyed the talk between Grandpa and the Visitor about their favorite rivers to fish in.)

The Gypsies: Gypsies break into the Baldwin sisters' temporarily empty house and set up camp there. Instead of chasing them the hell away, the Waltons welcome them with open arms and invite them to live in their own house.

"The Gypsies" episode was pretty much the last straw---I felt like I was right back in 2016-21 again! Enough of THAT Crazy! :)

 

I did enjoy watching the interesting, comfortable Will Geer and Ralph Waite, though. Unfortunately, Michael Learned and Ellen Corby spent much of their time pursing their lips. (And I never want to see the actress who played "Mary Ellen" again.) 

Essential Oils

Among other things, got my mother a set of essential oils and an oil burner for Christmas. She didn't have any interest, so she gave the oils back to me. I've had my own oil burner for a couple of years, but my only oils have been the basics: peppermint, lavender, and lemon, bought by the "jug" (i.e., 4 oz) years earlier, for use with a vaporizer in my work office.

I'm now obsessed with both the Orange and the Ylang-Ylang scents. The former is both stimulating and friendly, and the latter smells like sex! (I had to look up the latter online to find out WHY it smelled like "sex" to me---as it turns out, ylang-ylang is used as an ingredient in many perfumes/colognes. I'm guessing both in Amarige de Givenchy and Royall Lyme!)

From the gift box returned and my own subsequent second order from Amazon, I also know that I absolutely HATE Tea Tree and Eucalyptus. And I want to get to know Clove better. And I've just ordered a third set, curious about Vetiver and Frankincense and Cinnamon.

Oklahoma City Police Officer MSgt Phil Paz Sings 'Imagine' (2019)

Better than John Lennon's own version. Yeah, really.
p.s. I've been a Beatles fan since I was 15. I have every Beatles album and every John solo album (and most of Paul's). This is a GREAT version of "Imagine." I actually got chills listening to it.

And, as I just discovered on YouTube tonight, this guy sings EVERYTHING great---including George Jones!

$806.76

Current full price of an Expedia round-trip plane ticket to Los Angeles in June, AND 4 nights at the exact hotel I want to stay at. ($600 would be covered by the upcoming Covid check.)

Was too scared to book this early, though! I guess I'll pussy-foot around for another couple of weeks, and keep checking and re-checking. 

DO IT.

Paul McCartney: Long Tailed Winter Bird (2020)

Paul McCartney: When Winter Comes (2020)

Tammy Wynette: Your Good Girl's Gonna Go Bad (1967)

Tammy Wynette: Til I Can Make It On My Own (1976)

Tammy Wynette: Yesterday (1968)

Tammy Wynette: Crying in the Rain (1981)

Rick Broussard at a car show in Lockhart (2018)

Rick Broussard should've been a legend. It pains me to see people milling about instead of rushing the stage. Ozymandias, y'all.

George Jones (and guests): It Don't Get Any Better Than This (1998)

George Jones and Jim Lauderdale: Tavern Choir (1988)

Merry Christmas to Me (from me)!

 Oh wait---the chair is my mom's Christmas gift to me (she's going to pay for it; I ordered it and put it together tonight). The REST is from me to me! :)

 

Van Halen: Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love (1978)

The REAL Van Halen.

Van Halen (with Hagar): Why Can't This Be Love (1986)

Van Halen post-David Lee Roth isn't the real Van Halen. The dumbing-down of Van Halen in the mid-'80s is the same thing that happened to Cheap Trick and Heart, and others.
However...
I've been hearing this song in my head for the past 3 days:

Love the music/arrangements and the very catchy tune. 

Don't think much of Hagar's generic voice and the generic lyrics. 

It's not a real Van Halen song---anybody could have recorded this---but it's a real good, super-catchy, super-produced '80s song.
|

The Kinks, 1964: You Really Got Me / All Day and All of the Night

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh! Birth of Metal? Birth of Grunge? Listen to that undertow!

The Kinks - Better Things (1981)

Here's wishing you the bluest sky,
And hoping something better comes tomorrow.
Hoping all the verses rhyme,
And the very best of choruses to
Follow all the doubt and sadness.
I know that better things are on the way.

Here's hoping all the days ahead
Won't be as bitter as the ones behind you.
Be an optimist instead,
And somehow happiness will find you.
Forget what happened yesterday,
I know that better things are on the way.

It's really good to see you rocking out
And having fun,
Living like you just begun.
Accept your life and what it brings.
I hope tomorrow you'll find better things.
I know tomorrow you'll find better things.

Here's wishing you the bluest sky,
And hoping something better comes tomorrow.
Hoping all the verses rhyme,
And the very best of choruses to
Follow all the doubt and sadness.
I know that better things are on the way.

I know you've got a lot of good things happening up ahead.
The past is gone it's all been said.
So here's to what the future brings,
I know tomorrow you'll find better things.
I know tomorrow you'll find better things.

Christmas 2020

I can't remember the last time I decorated for Christmas! 

Everyone is calling the year 2020 a "dumpster fire" of a year... But for me, 2020 was actually pretty good. 

After complaining about a job for years, I quit in late 2019 and then got hired in Spring 2020 via phone (during the initial stages of Wuhan) for a new job that pays more than I've ever made, and that I like---and that does tele-working pretty well. I got VERY lucky, and I am VERY grateful.

Being at home constantly can be stifling---but it's also sometimes nice to just wake up and roll off the couch to the computer without having to shower and put on makeup and commute and deal with people all day! I haven't had a sick day in 8 months! :)

Also: After 3 years of not talking to my mother, and over 10 years of not talking to my father, 2020 brought a rapprochement with both. Which makes my soul feel happier. As I wrote my mom earlier in an e-mail: "It's not like I'm 35 and you're 60, and we have decades left to not speak."

So today, after years of not decorating for Christmas, I finally dragged down my box labeled "Christmas" and put up a few things. And sent out my first Christmas cards in years: to Mom and Dad.

OJ Simpson "If I Did It" Interview, 2006

I just recently re-watched the excellent 2016 ESPN doc "OJ: Made in America." Which led me to order a cheap used copy of the 2007 book "If I Did It," allegedly the confession of Simpson---originally intended as a money-making project for him but, through the courts, the rights to the book were ultimately turned over to the family of murder victim Ron Goldman.

 

Simpson was interviewed for the book in 2006 by Judith Regan. The interview was initially scheduled to air on Fox in that year but was shelved after widespread protest. In 2018, the below interview was finally aired for the first time.

After reading "If I Did It" and watching the interview, I don't think of Simpson as "The Devil." I think his crime was rather typical---yes, typical. The history of the world is full of angry, jealous lovers killing each other in the heat of passion. And "heat of passion" is the key. I just went and looked up California law: A murder committed in the heat of passion can either be 2nd-Degree Murder (15 years to life) or Voluntary Manslaughter (3, 6, or 11 years). The prosecution, in their quest for publicity, insisted on making this a 1st-Degree Murder case---which I don't think it was.

As Simpson admits ("hypothetically" or not) in this interview, he went over to Nicole's house to either peek in her window (as he'd done before) or actively confront her about some perceived sexual/drug-related "misdeed." His daughter's recital only hours earlier, and his scheduled flight an hour later to Chicago, make it clear, to me at least, that Simpson wasn't thinking about intentionally murdering Nicole when he went over there. The fact that something "set him off" (Goldman's appearance, or did Nicole have a knife at the door?) isn't an excuse for murder, but I think it's an excuse for not being "the Epitome of Evil." Rather, this is a real-life case of a one-time hero brought down by his emotional weakness for a woman---the centuries-old tragic stuff of both literature and myth. Told here in a banal fashion, but tragic, nonetheless.

Trying to Make Sense of Apartment Weirdos

Over the past 6 or 8 months, there's been a kid problem at my apartment complex. 

First, there were the two boys who would skateboard, ride bikes, race cars, etc., on the sidewalk in front of my apartment for hours on end most evenings. I complained to management about them, and, miraculously, the racing outside my window stopped.

Then, there was the autistic girl who jumped my backyard fence and actually entered my apartment on two occasions. I complained to management about her, and she hasn't "visited" in a couple of months.

In the past two weeks or so, there's been a completely different set of kids running amok. One little girl with a couple of varying companions who run SHRIEKING throughout the apartment complex between the hours of 5pm and 7pm. Accompanied by a dad walking his dog AND, apparently, his kids. Because I can hear him making his way around the complex yelling after both the dog and the kids. The kids shriek both directly outside my door and all around the complex. A couple of nights ago, after multiple screams, I walked out to find where the hell the noise was coming from: The man and his dog were sitting outside of the pool, and the kids were running around the pool screaming. I didn't say anything, just made eye contact with the guy and went back into my apartment. Though on two occasions, I've heard the screaming right outside my door and stepped out of my apartment and confronted the kids directly: "You guys have got to stop screaming." (No, no yelling, as I yelled at the autistic brat who had entered my apartment.) Each time, the kids were actually polite and said "Sorry" and then went away.

The above was all a preface. The little screaming girl mentioned above is apparently with the guy in the below story:

Recently, I've been ordering a lot of both personal and Christmas stuff online, which is sometimes delivered to my mailbox, sometimes dropped off at my apartment doorstep. Because I know I have a lot of stuff incoming, I ALWAYS open my front door both in the morning when I wake up and late at night to check to see if I have any packages sitting on my doorstep.

This Saturday morning (12/12), I woke up about 9am, opened the front door to check for packages (none), made breakfast, watched TV, etc. Then fell back asleep on my couch in the early afternoon. Around 3pm, I got up and started to do chores around the house. When I opened my door to take the trash out, I saw a dented package sitting there---it had NOT been there earlier in the morning. As I was standing there looking at the package, a man walked up the sidewalk toward me. 55-ish, white, gray hair, non-shaven, wearing pajama pants and house-shoes and a knit cap. He said to me: "Yeah, last night about 1am, I saw someone trying to steal your package. I chased him off and called the police. They showed up and couldn't find the guy. I would've knocked on your door, but I didn't see any lights on and didn't want to bother you."

Here's the thing: Friday night around 1am, I was fully awake, lying on my couch watching TV. I saw someone passing in front of my window, back and forth, about 6 times. No police officers were there.

And when I got up Saturday morning around 9am and checked outside my front door, there was no package there. Yet at 3pm, this guy walks up and says he saw the package at 1am the night before.

I didn't argue with him, just said "Thanks." Then a few hours later, around 6pm, there's a knock on my door. It's the same pajama-clad guy, this time accompanied by the girl who's been screaming all week. He hands me a different package: "Looks like they delivered this to the wrong door." It was some shoes for me, all right. Really? They delivered them to this guy's apartment?

It's weird and creepy. He obviously lied about the first package. But was the alleged mis-delivery of the second package a coincidence, or did he pick that up from my doorstep and then lie about that, as well? (It made it a little less creepy that he had a child with him when he came to my door---yet it was the obnoxious shrieking child from earlier...)

I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure, based on some of my neighbors, that the apartment complex I'm living in has both "regular rent" apartments and then Section 8 apartments for the decrepit and mentally ill. I have a nice apartment amid some weirdo lowlifes. When I was 20 to 30 (and for patches afterward), I was poor and expected to live around creeps. Post-50, I'm fucking sick of them.

Reading Thomas Hardy

Like many office workers, I've been working from home since last March. And sometimes there's down-time during the official work day. When you're at a real office, you can't pick up a book and start reading (looks bad, so people just surf the Internet---when you're staring at the computer screen, no one can tell if you're working or not). In my at-home case, I got bored with Internet surfing and started going through my bookshelves when I had down-time, trying to read some classics that I normally would not have been immediately compelled to read. (Last time this type of spare time happened, when I was temping in 2010, I got through most of the bios of Tennessee Williams, though not that many of the actual plays.)

I first chose Nathaniel Hawthorne's stories---read a couple, got antsy and quit. Then I chose Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles---a Norton edition left over from college---and immediately got hooked on Hardy. Since last spring, I've read Tess, Jude the Obscure, Mayor of Casterbridge, Far from the Madding Crowd, and nearly every major bio (except for the 1925 one). And I also got caught up in buying both sets and individual items on eBay. I now have a semi-complete set of the 1905 Harpers (New York) edition of Hardy, and the complete 1975 Macmillan (London) "New Wessex" set. Plus lots of (to me) interesting ephemera like Talks with Thomas Hardy, and various pamphlets from both Hardy contemporaries and Hardy scholars meeting up in the 1960s, etc. 

The complete 1975 "New Wessex" set is my current reading set. I've just started at the very beginning with Hardy's first published novel (1871), Desperate Remedies, and the goal is to work my way through every novel in order. (The "New Wessex" set doesn't include the poems or the short stories. I now own the Complete Poems and several original poetry volumes, plus only one short story collection, and will aim for those later, as I continue to collect them.)

Here are photos of my "Hardy Shelf":

The Animals: It's My Life (1965)

"I'm gonna ride the serpent..."

The Animals: Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood (1965)

The Animals: We Gotta Get Out of This Place (1965)

The Animals: Boom Boom (1964)

I forgot that I knew how to dance! I can still fuckin' dance! :)

'Bye-bye 1985 Panasonic microwave!

My mother first bought this trusty Panasonic microwave on 12/18/85 (see receipt). I can't remember the year she passed it along to me. But I have been using it up until... TODAY! When I finally bought myself a bright-n-shiny new red no-name model, just because it matches my kitchen. Goodbye, Family Heirloom! Will your generic replacement last 35 years? Ha! I'll give it 5! :)

I'll let ya know when I get my new phone (and couch and desk chair)! :)

Ozymandias (by both Shelley and Smith, 1818)

 Percy Shelley’s “Ozymandias”

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

 

Horace Smith’s “Ozymandias”

In Egypt’s sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:—
“I am great OZYMANDIAS,” saith the stone,
“The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
“The wonders of my hand.”— The City’s gone,—
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder,—and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro’ the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------

The American version of the above sentiment was expressed cinematically in the last shot of "The Planet of the Apes" (1968).

 

Drummer Hodge (Thomas Hardy, 1899)

 

[Britain's Boer War in South Africa, 1899-1902] 

 

I

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
     Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
     That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
     Each night above his mound.
 

II

Young Hodge the Drummer never knew—
     Fresh from his Wessex home—
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
     The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
     Strange stars amid the gloam.
 

III

Yet portion of that unknown plain
     Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
     Grow up a Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
     His stars eternally.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner (Randall Jarrell, 1945)

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,

I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.

When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Junior Brown: Too Many Nights in a Roadhouse

Junior Brown: Broke Down South Of Dallas

George Jones: You Couldn't Get The Picture (1991)

Only George can sing a meaningful song about Post-It Notes.

Thomas Hardy: The Voice (1912)

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,

Standing as when I drew near to the town

Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,

Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness

Travelling across the wet mead to me here,

You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,

Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,

Leaves around me falling,

Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,

And the woman calling.

Untitled for Ginny (July 22, 1985)

Oh! to have you

on my doorstep

in the cloud

and through my hair

what fun

with you here!

the roaches for laughing

orange and green

the height of art decor

Come! and make me Picasso

these walls I tame

and will paint for no one else.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote the above at age 19, when I was miserable in my first college apartment. Today, at age 55, I still miss Ginny. At the time, I thought I would eventually meet someone who would fill her space, someone to make things better, no matter how terrible. As it turned out, no other person ever came along. But at least, thankfully, scar tissue finally did fill said "space." There's no longer a gaping hole, at least. THAT is what I'm now thankful for.

Eric Clapton - Hello Old Friend (1976)

As I am strolling down the garden park,
I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique;
I had to bend down just to have a peek.

[Chorus:]
Hello old friend,
It's really good to see you once again.
Hello old friend,
It's really good to see you once again.

I saw you walking underneath the stars;
I couldn't stop 'cause I was in a car.
I'm sure the distance wouldn't be too far
If I got out and walked to where you are.

[Chorus]

An old man passed me on the street today;
I thought I knew him but I couldn't say.
I stopped to think if I could place his frame.
When he tipped his hat I knew his name.

Goodbye, Old Friends

This week I finally ordered a new phone and a new microwave oven.

My current old phone is a tiny Nokia that I got for free when I signed up for cell service for the first time in early 2007 right before moving to New York City. As of 2020, it still works fine. But people have long been mocking me for not having a Smart Phone. And not having one is starting to affect me at work. (Plus, what are these wondrous "Apps" of which people speak??)

My current old microwave is a Panasonic hand-me-down from my mother. She bought it in 1985 (passing on the instruction booklet with attached receipt showing the date purchased). As of 2020, it still works fine (at 35 years old). But I'm starting to ask myself if I'm being poisoned.

Real Ale Brewing: Black Is Beautiful

 https://realalebrewing.com/news/the-black-is-beautiful-initiative/

How odd for the Real Ale brewing company outside of Austin: Ostensibly supporting blacks by brewing a "Russian Imperial Stout with Lactose." (OMG---What if said supported blacks are lactose intolerant?! And I don't think your fellow leftists would go for the "Imperial" part.)

When will this utterly mindless politically correct idiocy stop? I found the following especially stupid, the idea that the Real Ale brewery will be "...hopefully bringing forth change to a system that has fractured so many families and has been broken for decades."

How could a brewery, of all random places, ever be "bringing forth change to a system that has fractured so many families"? (As long as you serve all people, you're doing fine. Dare I say it: Shut up and brew.)

And, by the way: What is the "system that has fractured so many families"? Most black families don't have a male present. Most black males are killed by other black males. What is this "system" that you so glibly speak of? Could it be that black people, like all other people, should be held responsible for their own behavior?

And could it be that this brewery is jumping on the politically correct bandwagon, sans any thought whatsoever? I have no respect at all for such suck-ups.

Neil Diamond - Brother Love's Travelling Salvation Show

ONCE UPON A TIME IN HOLLYWOOD - Official Trailer (HD)

Once Upon a time in Hollywood (2019) | Flamethrower Scene

Next time an intruder comes on your property. (If only Sharon Tate had had a flamethrower.)

Cliff Booth vs Hippies | Once Upon A Time In Hollywood

When psychotic left-wing hippies show up at the wrong house.

Once Upon a Time in...Hollywood

While spending the night at Mom's the day after Thanksgiving, got to watch some of her free HBO after she went to bed. I'm not a big blood-n-guts violence fan, but in this movie's case: It was extremely gratifying to watch the Manson hippies get smashed in the face multiple times by Tarantino's tough Texans (played by DiCaprio and Pitt).

A side-note: Back when I lived briefly in San Francisco in the mid-90s, I was riding a bus when a thug got on and didn't want to pay his fare. We sat there for 10 minutes while the punk and driver argued, and various kind white bus-riders offered the scum-bag a dollar for his fare. He refused all dollars. Just wanted to ride for free for the hell of it. The bus driver ultimately caved and let the thug ride the bus. At the time, I remember thinking: "This would never happen in Texas." (Today, in 2020, it's happening all over America, including Texas.)

Bucket List Places to Visit

In the US:

Nashville/Memphis (Graceland)/Washington DC/Southern Civil War battlegrounds

Los Angeles (studios, Joan Crawford homes, Manson sites)

Massachusetts (Plath, Sexton, Lizzie Borden sites)

 

In Europe:

Germany (Berlin, family sites in Wolfsburg and Braunschweig)

England (North: Liverpool Beatles sites; South: London plus Thomas Hardy and Plath/Hughes sites in Wessex/Devon)

 

In Russia:

Moscow and St. Petersburg, plus Romanov sites like Yekaterinburg.

After the above, I guess Paris (via chunnel) and the pyramids of Egypt.

For Sandra (January 1986)

 Poem for a Water Sign

There is something left unsaid: for wounding eyes,

a cut of silence bled for washing clean.

In frequent deep, voices unwed; lone

divers careless in this wet sky,

a stroke above the clouds that

part their waves to meet God.

She swims to this sign,

a glass-winged girl

heaven-sent,

stirring

sluggish soil

and flooding deaf

horizons with the

brook's gurgle, a babble

academy loosing its

flow, dismissing what may shatter

stone. There is no fear of drowning, no

caution at the water's edge. All is safe

she will say, in sinking to the sea below.

Honey, it's OK.

Marlene Dietrich and Joan Crawford, 1954.

 

How to Deal with the Autistic (and Otherwise Challenged)

As I've mentioned on this blog earlier, an apartment neighbor a few doors down has an autistic girl who has, since July, jumped over my low backyard fence on two occasions and actually either attempted to enter, or actually entered, my apartment. On both occasions, I chased her away, then reported her to apartment management.

Earlier this evening, the same child (about 8 years old) was making her way from the parking lot of the apartment complex to the apartment that she lives in (a couple of doors down from mine). And she chose to shriek at the top of her lungs the entire time. I first heard her shrieks coming from the parking lot, then kept hearing her ear-piercing screams as she made her way to her apartment. As she passed my front window (which was open because of the nice weather), she was still screaming. At which point I yelled at the top of MY lungs through my screen: SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And, miraculously, the little brat immediately DID shut the fuck up. I momentarily scared the Crazy out of her.

The effect of my yelling led me to think: Should we probably not be mollycoddling certain people? The Obnoxiously Autistic (think "Sandy Hook"), the Homeless, the Criminal, the Professional Race/Gender Victims. You can be sympathetic up to a point, but once that point is crossed, then ENOUGH already: Shut up, stop camping on our streets, stop expecting sympathy when the police shoot you when you resist arrest (and when the actual #1 cause of your own deaths is being shot by other young men of your own race, not by police), stop expecting everyone else to buy into your own mental problems (no, you're not a woman, and no, we're not going to start saying "zie/zim/zer" per instrux from Academia).

Perhaps, given the hell-hole state of many cities of our country, it's time for no more leftist mayors or police chiefs or judges. Note to women and "people of color" and other left-wingers who have been placed in positions of power: If you can't handle running your cities or police departments, then turn them over to people who can. You're doing a terrible job. Your mollycoddling is not working at all. You're a poster child for a return to "Old White Men" running things. (Think "Weimar Era." You're exactly that right now.)

The Church: Unguarded Moment (1981)

So hard finding inspiration
I knew you'd find me crying
Tell those girls with rifles for minds
That their jokes don't make me laugh
They only make me feel like dying
In an unguarded moment

So long, long between mirages
I knew you'd find me drinking
Tell those men with horses for hearts
That their jibes don't make me bleed
They only make me feel like shrinking
In an unguarded moment

So deep, deep without a meaning
I knew you'd find me leaving
Tell those friends with cameras for eyes
That their hands don't make me hang
They only make me feel like breathing
In an unguarded moment

The Church: You're Still Beautiful (1990)

It was only seven years ago
Your mirror finally broke
Your little bunch of followers turned you into a fool
The butt of all their vicious jokes, screaming

You're still beautiful baby
Nobody can take that away
You're still beautiful baby
Even when you fall down that way

You turned up backstage at the palace
We thought you was wearing a mask
I felt so fucking embarrassed
When you looked at your reflection and asked, you asked

Are you still beautiful baby
Nobody can take that away
You're still beautiful baby
Baby don't believe what you see

Once upon a time I would have killed for you
I'm sorry that you got in this mess
But you're the walking picture of Dorian Gray

At least it's artistic, I guess...I guess

Times Square 1980: Your Daughter Is One

The problem with this song is:
The scumbags that you sought out in lieu of your parents were often truly that: scumbags. 

They did not give one shit about you.

And your parents usually were not "scumbags," and they DID care.