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: September, 2018

How do you write a song with someone after you have hit him on the head with a guitar? The Who

I don’t pretend to know much about musical collaboration except that when it happens, it can be a crowning human achievement. The inherent complexity of writing of a piece of music is so high it is a wonder that things like rock bands exist at all. Those stresses were indeed there with Genesis. Steve left, and Phil Collins always felt thwarted. But if you take the time and listen and know just how smart and stubborn these creative motherfuckers were you have to be impressed with what they did.
I would have to guess when one writer is governing like Pete Townshend does with The Who things are more straightforward. From what I witnessed, Pete would write and then “teach” Roger the song. He then would naturally make the sound his with his voice. The others then built on that. I understand that this is no revelation but when you factor in that occasionally one member of this band would break a guitar over the head of another player the process becomes riddled with stress.

Genesis with Peter Gabriel

Genesis with Peter Gabriel tour as much as any band. When they went into the studio I was out of a job until they went back out. After my first tour, I had to go home to Pittsburgh to wait. Their manager and my great friend, Tony Smith, would keep me posted on their progress by calling in on the rotary phone in our kitchen and playing me new tracks as they were completed from London.

No to Judge Kavanaugh

I hope Judge Kavanaugh doesn’t make it onto the Supreme Court. The weight of his challenge to a woman’s right to be a woman, to protect herself and her unborn child supersedes all other kindnesses. Abortion is her business. Taking that away would destroy every woman………every woman. No man should want that. No God should want it either.

We had science too

I am closer to the last Ice Age than most of you. You are nearer to Earth’s guaranteed scalding flameout. We are both wedded to our fears.
Moving glaciers scared the shit out of me as a kid. It was certified by our schools that they would get us. That was if a thermonuclear exchange didn’t murder us first. At night in my dreams, these continental size icebergs came gnashing relentlessly towards me. They would overwhelm and crush our family 1956 Chevy while mashing our too slow to react dimwit of a family dog.
Glacial speed is fast to a child. I knew where my hooded fur coat and my galoshes ( bet you haven’t heard that word for a while) were at all times, even in the summertime.
Today’s children and village idiots are​ encouraged to fear incineration by slow global baking. But I won’t change​​. I’m betting on ice. We had science too.


Saying “no” to a man does not come with a bookmark.

Sex with Meryl Streep at the Emmys

I am a Democrat, posing as a Republican so I can hide the fact that I love Trump. It is a bumpy road to travel on where I live in ultra-rich Westchester, NY. Hillary is still hiding in our woods, and all original liberal thought comes from here.
I am jealous of the famous people at the Emmys because they are so good-looking, rich and smart. Mostly, though, I crave having as much sex as they do. I want nearly everybody I saw. Well, almost everyone. I was not sure about the presenter who was there merely to play the game of “what am I.” I might have found that annoying after a few rolls in the hay of gender unsureness because I am also a woman, posing as a man but who wishes he was gay. That may be too many players on the field.
I figure President Trump has a similar political confusion as I do a sexual one.
Hollywood hates Trump because he is one of them. The best one. The big winner who regularly shits on them. You know, Meryl Streep. He always wins.
With every announcement last night, the camera cut to the loser’s faces and none of them could hide their bitterness. It is the way they look at Trump. They wish him dead.

Eating the family pet

I have buried or put to sleep many dogs. My dad did too, maybe more. I am not sure where they go when they turn paws up. I reckon there is a place for minor souls. I hope it is a spot where stealing food and pooping are rewarded.
My father would buy dogs the same way he would buy anything, cheaply. Like Picasso, he would strip “dog” down to its essentials, nose, fur, and maybe a tail. Then he would search out a “deal.” He may have once or twice stolen one from our neighbors in his thrift. We were not sure. Pet animals had no intrinsic beauty in the fifties. They were closer to food than charm.
Our animals were treated like animals. They were smacked with whatever was handy. They were expected to not only obey all commands from birth but often were obliged ( if they knew what was good for them) to be foresighted. The phrase “good dog” might be used if the beast dragged a baby out of a burning house but this was not binding.
Our dogs growing up died with a kind of regularity that would make less trusting families sift through their dinner meat suspiciously. They roamed dangerously free back then and came back only for meals, just like us kids. One afternoon after school I found my father crying in his chair. He said the dog was dead. I asked where he was and he told me dogs know they are going to die sometimes, so they bury themselves.
My dad’s words were a kind of science to me. I still expect there to be some truth in this.

The Caucasian’s Guide To Black Barbecues

From Carl Griffin

The Caucasian’s Guide To Black Barbecues
Michael Harriot

As interracial dating, integration, and cross-cultural friendships increase, many people find themselves attending events in which they are the minority, and have no frame of reference from which to base their etiquette. In an effort to help bridge the cultural gaps we all have to traverse at some point, I have created a few rules for all my Caucasian friends who might find themselves at a black cookout.

1. You gotta bring something. One time, I went to a co-worker named Tom’s barbecue and brought a pasta salad. He looked at me like I had shit in the middle of his living room.

At a black cookout (yes, if there’s more than seven black people there, the name automatically changes from “barbecue” to a “cookout”), only the meat and the grill is supplied by the host. Everything else is brought by attendees—and no, this is not “potluck.” Black people don’t do potlucks. Potluck dinners are for Caucasian bible-study meetings where one can bring store-bought dishes. Here, you either show up with a homemade dish, or they’re gonna look at you funny. And please don’t try no new shit like potato salad with raisins or vegetarian shish kabobs. If you can’t cook, or you don’t have all the required black seasonings, just bring some cups and napkins. Or LOTS of aluminum foil. I don’t know what the hell black people do with all the aluminum foil at cookouts, but they ALWAYS need more. I have long suspected that black cookouts were ploys by hosts to get free aluminum foil. In any case, you are expected to bring something.

2. It’s a cookOUT. Black people’s cookouts are outside. At the previously mentioned Tom’s barbecue, everyone mingled in his living room. I was nervous as fuck, because for the first hour, all I could think was, “These motherfuckers are about to have an intervention on me.”

You don’t go into the house unless you have to pee, which means there a few things you should bring:

1. A chair.

2. Bug spray.

3. Another chair (because someone is going to sit in your first chair when you go pee).

3. Don’t arrive on time. If they say they’re going to start around 3 p.m., that means you can arrive around 4:47. CP time is a very complicated algorithm to figure out, but the published start time at a black BBQ is the time when they start thinking about preparing to get ready to almost light the grill.

4. Learn how to do the “Wobble.” Then consult a local ballerina/choreographer to add your own variation to one of the moves. I don’t do line dances, but I’ve noticed that white people feel SO included if they know how to do them. I believe line dances should be used by the United Nations to prevent war. You can’t be THAT mad when you’re adding your spin shimmy kick to the Cupid Shuffle.

5. Make friends. Here is a FOOLPROOF method to making a new black friend at the cookout:

1. Bring a bottle of dark liquor.

2. Keep it in the trunk of your car.

3. SOMEONE (usually Tasha’s new boyfriend) is gonna ask, “Way da liquor at.”

4. Wait. (I know you’ll want to rush up to him or say something, but ignore your white-people-timing instincts just this one time, and give it a few minutes.)

5. When he changes the subject, walk over to him and say, “Walk to my car with me.” He’ll know what you mean.

6. When you pop that trunk, you’ll have a friend for life.

6. DO NOT PLAY SPADES. Even if your black friend tries to teach you how to play. They’re gonna get you FUCKED UP. No matter what you do, don’t get on the spades table talking ’bout you “learned” how to play. You do not learn how to play spades. Black people just know. Like we just know how to do the Electric Slide or get diabetes.

AND, if you mess around and renege, your partner is gonna give you the side-eye all night when they take those three books.

AND, you might get in your feelings over the shit-talking, because James is going to call you a bitch. He always does that.

AND, if your spades game is weak, no one is gonna want to be your friend. Not even Tasha’s boyfriend.

7. Park down the street. Trust me, you don’t want to have to wait for someone to move their car so you can get out. Especially after your bitch ass let James them run a Boston on you. (See? I bet that offended you, and you probably don’t know what it means. That’s why you shouldn’t play spades.)

8. Don’t worry about the drunk uncle. You know how at white people’s Thanksgiving, there’s always that ONE drunk uncle? (Yes, there is a White Thanksgiving and a Black Thanksgiving. White people’s Thanksgiving has pumpkin pie and wine. Black Thanksgiving has pound cake and Crown Royal.)

Anyway, at black cookouts, ALL our uncles are the drunk uncle. Except Uncle Jerome, who is saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost. In fact, Uncle Jerome is starting a new ministry that confronts the evil of drugs and alcohol.

But if you take him to your trunk, he’ll have a nip.

9. For dominoes advice, please refer to rule no. 6. You know what I said about spades? The same goes for dominoes. It’s like spades with math. Most black people don’t even play dominoes as well as they think they do. And the shit-talking factor is even higher. James is going to call your mama a bitch. He always does that.

10. Listen. As the evening progresses and the alcohol flows, it becomes more dangerous to be at a black cookout. We all know that white people get drunk and fight, too, (probably more than black people), but here’s the difference:

Black people can fight.

There is, however, a very simple and effective way to know when a black cookout is getting dangerous: the music.

Music is not just entertainment at these gatherings; it is like the terror-alert warning system. The intensity of the music is inversely proportional to the danger it represents. Here are the Black Cookout Music Alert Warning indicators:

Pop/current music. If you hear the Weekend, 2 Chainz, or Fetty Wap, you’re pretty safe. That means the kids are around, and everything’s cool.
Old-school R&B. When Al Green or Parliament is playing, everything should be okay. Everyone is getting lubed up and eating, and Tasha’s boyfriend has been waiting on you by your car.
Old-school hip-hop. By now, only the guys are left. Mostly the drunk ones. They’re arguing about whether Rakim was better than Tupac, while Uncle Jerome is talking about Kool Moe Dee being the G.O.A.T. Shit is getting sketchy. You better get ready, because it’s going to jump off soon. The spades table is pumping, the dominoes are being slammed down, and then you lock eyes with one guy, and you can tell he’s thinking, “If James call my mama a bitch ONE MO TIME ….” Man, just start getting your stuff together and making your way to the car.
Gospel Music. If you hear we fall down, but we get up … run, motherfucker. Get the fuck out of there. Leave those camp chairs, and tell Tasha’s boyfriend to get the fuck away from your car with that screwdriver trying to break into your trunk.
Aren’t you glad I told you to park down the street?

I don’t agree with people who believe that if one rich person exists then all human dreams are within reach if we share.

The oddness of friends

There are several people on FaceBook who, because of my posts, I interact with daily but really don’t know them or remember who exactly they are. There are a bunch of people who I was a child with and have had no contact with for 60 years. These have taken on a value that clearly shakes and diminishes the significance of many real-time associations and friendships.
The oddest, hands down, is the affection and respect I hold for a kid whose older brother was a good friend to me growing up but has since died. This younger brother, ( two years), was of course in the “little brother” background. I recognize him now as an important friend and in my mind’s eye, still the brother who died. Does this make me insensitive or desperate or simply lost in the wilderness of context? I can feel so strange at times.

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