Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: January, 2016

Breasts

Breasts simply are not given the credit they deserve.

I started out being kept alive by them. Then they disappeared, encrypted in bras and starched dress canopies. I, of course, was hormonally designed to think of little else.
I spotted not one until I found a National Geographic Magazine, which permitted the naked breast under the auspices of anthropology.
That was pretty much it until high school when dark automobiles established the breasts as “first base.”
In college, as a hippy, I plowed happily into the women’s movement. Women used their breasts as a symbol of liberation, and I never knew a man that quickly did not come on board.
Corporate television maintained it’s ban on them. The major networks CBS, ABC, and NBC, hold on to this righteousness to this day keeping some aging folks happy.
The rise of cable TV is indebted to naked breasts. It simply would not exist without them. Nor, as it happens, would the internet, which uses information as an intermission for its porn.

Poem: To Please Him

He climbs on me at night
to do bug things.
“Remember our first time,”
he whispers in the mean humming pitch
of warm August night locusts?
“Always,” I whimper.
He smoothes his antennae over our pillows,
like the handsome actor.
“Are you ready to die?” He sighs,
like small talk.
“Yes, I will die.” I plead.
He is pleased,
and I am safe.

It knew
I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in thick brown paper
and ran straight home
after it raped me.
I could not leave it there.
Not knowing where it was.

At breakfast
he asks, “So what shall we do today?
So casually that I am confused.
He touches my hand, his carapace hard
and unalive. I watch my thumb caress
the shell.
In small back and forth dread.
“What would make you happy?” I said
He smiles
and I exhale.

I told him tonight
His grubs live in me.
I feel them tearing to come out.
Praying daddy longlegs scraping
and burrowing for air.
His head on my stomach
listening and whirring insect songs to them.
I stroke the needle hairs on his back.
I know he loves me.

My deceit holds no estate in him.
I have vanished into what has hurt me.
Life forbids I feel nothing at all.
I will love my children.

Rock’s Biggest Fuck up

I was the tour manager for Genesis during the years that Peter Gabriel was with them. I was also largely responsible for what was arguably rock’s most embarrassing moment.

This was how it had been planned and rehearsed so long ago.

Peter Gabriel, showman that he was, would be dressed in his “Gods of Magog” outfit , consisting of a long, velvet black cape and a giant triangular headpiece . Through this helmet, only his green iridescent eyes could be seen because of the black light. At the very climax of the set, he was to be made invisible to the audience by a combination of controlled explosions coming from pods on the front lip of the stage.

This would temporarily blind the audience!

These canisters were filled with a martini of flash and gun powder, which would be criminally outlawed today, whereas back then they were simply banned. This was a working example of “don’t ask, don’t tell”. We never told anyone we were going to do it. One of our roadies , Goeff Banks, filled them a couple of hours before the show and would set them off electrically.

Peter was to be further camouflaged by smoke machines (they looked like leaf blowers) and an intense fog that bubbled up by dumping blocks of dry ice, by hand (gloved), into huge buckets of water by the crew. They would explode with vapor, filling, if the prevailing winds permitted, the entire stage. Synchronous with this, Peter was to throw off his hat and cape while keeping a grip on his microphone, as he was “shot,” (hoisted) fifteen feet into the air by nearly invisible thin metal wires, “ called flying” in those days. He would finish the song, in a silver jump suit, as the curtain closed. End of show.

This incident took place somewhere between 1973 and 1975 either in Cleveland, Ohio or in Berlin, Germany. Believe me, in my world, this is terrific accuracy.

I think had Genesis attempted to do more shows than they did during my years it would have required time travel. I can pin it with such exactness because at that time we would only play proscenium arch stages which allowed for curtains and flash pods, as well as the overhead latticework necessary to hang wires for the flying equipment.

Here’s how the “flying” was to work. I had brought in an “expert” who had flown Elton John and his piano into the air a few months earlier. This guy was harnessed to the wires which were connected to Gabriel and he climbed to the top of a tall ladder on stage left, out of sight and waited. On my cue, he would leap off the ladder and because he was the counter balance, up our artist would go. I did the cueing only because I had no other real job, having finished my very important job of literally running around hallways closing doors so no breeze would alter the course of our stage fog.

I sweated the cue because if I got it wrong, Peter would be mid-song and everything else would fall to shit. Well, I thought I nailed the fucker, but I was maybe a second too soon and all hell broke loose. Peter went up fast and sadly, crookedly. His left shoulder was at least a foot and a half higher than his right. In his surprise, he launched his live microphone forward, onto the stage and into the preternaturally loud explosions of the gunpowder pods, sending the blast sound through the mic and into the giant audience speakers deafening Lord knows how many of the punters.

Meanwhile some asshole had clearly opened a door so all my smoke was blowing backward towards the dressing rooms leaving the mayhem clearly visible. The flash pods ( we were later to learn from the fire dept.) had been way over loaded becoming perhaps the first incident of real canon fire ever, during a show, in the history of rock. Peter’s mic sound , as my luck would have it, also went through the band’s stage speakers. Tony Banks, the keyboardist, I saw out of the corner of my now tearing eyes, was hitting Geoff, the explosion roadie, over the head with a tambourine, (of all things) screaming “I am deaf, you made me deaf”. Now all this was happening within a nightmare zone of about ten seconds.

So let me recap, seeing as we both have come this far. I have Gabriel nearly horizontal, fifteen feet in the air, with no microphone and a black cape dangling from his foot. I have the keyboardist in the middle of the stage pounding a roadie as the roadie is desperately trying to extinguish the residue flames pouring from the canisters. I have an audience in a state of mass shock and I have smoke filling up the dressing rooms. So what was the absolute last thing this God could think of to do with me? The front curtain would not close.

In my mind’s eye, even today, this was not a tidy episode. To their credit and my forever resentment, most of the audience hung around to watch us try to get Peter down. It took such a long time.

Regis Boff (from his blog early 2013) – used with permission.

(Steve Hackett confirmed it was 19.2.75, The Ekeberghallen, Oslo, Norway!)

In the 1991 Documentary Genesis A History where Tony, Mike and Phil remembered it differently with Phil Collins saying “I turned around to the tour manager and said YOUR FIRED! “Rock’

Its Great Not To Be Black

There is a glaringly uneven and racist distribution of concussions going on in America. Black students are lured to the college football plantation under the pretense of a free education while white kids protect themselves from skull fractures simply by paying their way out.
It is the Vietnam War playing itself out again on African Americans only, this time, it’s on the gridiron. These universities have more than enough money to give scholarships to needy students without demanding they earn it in their stadiums. But they love money. They need to gain tenure. How else can the NFL survive?
There is an undeniable parallel between the percentage of blacks in prison and the players in the NFL. I’ll bet though I am not certain the same holds true for our armed services. Three doors, concussion, prison, or battle. It’s great not to be black.

Go Patriots!

 

 

The Oscars

I have decided to boycott the Oscars unless the concussion film wins for best picture. I come from a generation of athletes who were presumed, accurately, to be profoundly stupid. But this movie made me understand that the athletes of today relinquish their potential careers in academia to play football for us.
I think to myself, ” Is the specter of the Syrian refugee crisis, even a tragedy compared to the horror of ex-football stars bumping around the walls of their thirty-two million dollar mansions, forgetting which is the guest or master bedrooms?” I think not.

Poem: The Unanchored Mother and Her Cupcakes

The unanchored mother
is sure-footed
when she bakes.
She floats the cupcakes in shallow seas of Crisco.
Riding them in neat lines
side by side
In crimped colored tissue,
like well-dressed immigrants,
on an ocean voyage
to the oven.

The unanchored mother
broke from her moorings,
today.
The husband is gone.
Cakes will take his place.
She daydreams of icing slapped mouths
and what she will say
about the hole,
at the end of the table
where their anchor used to sit.
The Cyclops eye of long marriage,
that photographed the past, is patched and blank now.
She has only her two eyes left
To remember the children.

The unmoored mother bobs in her waters
of empty plates and crumbs.
The kids hurry through the suppertimes
glancing rarely at the hole.
Then they floated away.

The unanchored mother,
rocks in her childless, noiseless sea,
and reaches for another cupcake.

 

 

Poem: To Be Weak

 
I hunt for proverbs all day long.

To steer me through my day.

They don’t help me much,

melting as they do

like ice,

against my determination

to be weak.

 

 

 

Poem: Wondering About Wisdom

I have come to wonder about wisdom.
I doubt such a thing
could be real.
Philosophers reason,
the novelists report.
But all are only
small moments of cleverness.
Like Platitudes and Proverbs
coaxing a better behavior
that lasts a morning.
God offers certainty and hope
but charges you death.
If that is wisdom,
what is nonsense?
Is wisdom ever a tool?
It disappoints me
that I am not wise
I expected that by now
I would be.
Wealth and prestige come with age,
the sexy petticoats of envy.
They confuse you
when you are young.
And the old are stubborn
and ashamed to admit it.
So they whisper to the young
” come near for I am wise.”
And they do
At least for a while.

Concussions

I find myself on the wrong side of everything. I refused to go to that concussion movie because I felt it might eventually interfere with the violence in professional football. I mean, I watch it for the violence. Then I hear that the wife of the star of the movie is all pissed off that her husband didn’t get nominated, and she is trying to get Chris Rock to pull out of being the host. I was only going to watch the Oscars because of Chris Rock. My day is proceeding darkly.

Squirrels, Hating Trump,and Smart Hot Women

It is lucky for all of you I am not part of the voting electorate.
I want Trump to win.
All the Republicans hate him because he is a New York Jewish liberal and deep down they know it. They also hate him because the wealthy party members have spent so much money buying off the other idiots. The Tea Party hates him because he has never eaten a squirrel.
The Democrats hate him because he is male and surrounds himself with strong, smart, mostly pretty women, ( just like the media does). Unlike the news women, however, his can do mathematics. These are females who do not fear to piss off Oprah Winfrey. Women who deserve what they have because of what they have earned. Not because it is their turn.
The media all loathe him. Talk radio, CBS, NBC, ABC and FOX detest him because he makes them look ridiculous. It is he who has bought them.
He says things we are not allowed to say. Walls should be built to keep living in America valuable. People who hate us should not be shoved into our country because we are afraid to say no. We should drive hard bargains in trade. What dream world have we fallen into where it matters if other countries like us? The real world is not FaceBook. We should demand that the world envies us; it will give them something to do.

We need to manufacture things, so our poorest cities like Chicago and Detroit can grow again. Black people are poor because the Democrats want them to stay that way, and the Republicans could care less. They should be the most powerful people in our country, instead of living in the narcotic bread lines. If Black lives matter when cops extinguish them, don’t the millions of black men rotting in prisons while their families disappear matter even more? It is not racist cops that are the problem it is the racist laws.

Presidents have purchased the job before and have done quite well. At least half of our Presidents came from this pool of the wealthy. Certainly many were better than those picked by our media.

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