When No Means No, Plus Happy New Year Dear Readers

I sometimes don’t understand people; people who don’t know the meaning of the words “no” or “stop.” I know several such people I have crossed paths with over the past several months. One of these persons is none other than a woman I dated by the name of Peggy.

Peggy and I dated for a few months and everything seemed to be ebbing and flowing quite nicely, until one evening after a musical we saw together, A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum, I believe, when she decided to tell me something about herself that was in essence an earth-shattering event.

She wanted to tell me something, yet wanted to remain friends with me after the fact. Little did I know when I said yes to her request earlier in the evening over dinner, little did I know what she was going to tell me and when she told me, I just felt so angry and hurt and everything else combined that I had to fly away from her for some days at a time to think it over.

Of course, if you’ve been reading my blog regularly and past blogs, you’ve probably been able to figure out that Maggie and Margy are both the same woman, who is of course Peggy. As some of you might gather, I tend to keep my personal life open to a degree, as it does sometimes affect my entire life on a whole other level and it with some hope that you won't fall into some of the same queer twits like I do.

The thing is Peggy is still carrying on a secret love affair with a married man by the name of Steve, who lives in Aurora, a western suburb of Chicago. They’ve been “going together" for at least four years now, but who knows anything for certain.

Unbeknownst to many, she carries on this affair as if nobody knew; she has photographs of him in her car and even carries a CD full of phone messages from him. Kind of odd, don’t you think? I certainly do.

According to what she told me at the time, let’s see if I have this straight, oh yeah…they meet clandestine inside her little white car once a week at her place of work. He’ll come down to her office as she doesn’t really go to his home; it’s rather impossible, if you catch my drift!

On the Jewish personals website where I met her on or found her profile earlier this year (http://www.jewishcafe.com/), rather, she says that her favorite place to vacation is Fort Lauderdale, Florida, the same exact place she meets her lover Steve once a year during the summer for a couple of weeks. So that’s it, huh? That’s very nice; very clever; very ingenious of her, don’t you think?

And here she was telling me about this guy, who isn’t even Jewish; I bet her teenage daughter didn’t even know about that now, did she?

It is awfully odd that she claimed to have had a previous abusive marriage (so she told me), like most Modern Orthodox women I have come to know. Most of them stay in those situations, why, I don’t know, but I suppose it’s the convenience factor, I’m not really sure, but back to the story.

One night, when I came over to the place where she was living temporarily at the time (her home had been previously damaged by fire earlier in the springtime), she had to take a phone call, when she came back Peggy looked rather harried. Later, I was told that a friend of hers had a heart attack.

Of course, that friend turned out to be Steve.

Well, I guess the love affair isn’t so secret after all; I guess Steve’s children resent her for good reason, had to tell Peggy what happened to their father (Steve), yet it was their father (Steve) who had to tell his children to call her up and give her the terrible news.

I didn’t know any of this until this surfaced the night of the big event.

There would be times during our brief courtship that Steve would call Peggy in the middle of dates, leaving a message here or there stating that “he loved her” and she passed it off as if it was nothing. Peggy claimed that she was trying to get out of the relationship with him, but since Steve “touched her soul,” so she said, she couldn’t really help it.

Yeah right.

Then came a week in September; for some odd reason Peggy claimed to have been busy through an email, but I knew better; I knew something was wrong and it was so heart-wrenching to hear her call me at work after Labor Day in the morning when she told me “I want you to walk away,” her version of telling someone to get lost, when in reality she was the one that left me in the dust to choke to begin with.

So I said to myself, okay, fine and I let it go. The sadness and anger set it almost immediately and while I tried not to show it at work, some days it became a little too much for me and most of my friends and other co-workers saw fit to take care of me; they fed me lots of chocolate, hugs, love and warmth, most of all, they made me smile through my tears and I appreciated that.

But then a funny thing happened. A few weeks later, Peggy started making contact with me again through emails and I didn’t understand why if she had just broken up with me, why the heck was she making contact with me and open up a fresh wound all over again?

So I wrote her back and told her to stop contacting me forever. And you know something? This time it worked! I was happy and I could move on to greener pastures. Sure I thought about her, but it was more in the anger state and like most other ex-girlfriends, she faded to black.

Everything was fine until this past week, when I happened to be back the aforementioned Jewish website, when I found an email addressed to me…from guess who???

Peggy! It was Peggy’s little email wishing me a happy birthday. The message stated the following words: “hoping all your dreams come true in the coming year.” Does she have a kook wish or something? I told her to stop contact forever and yet she persisted and thought she’d be clever and send an email to a site where I rarely get to these days.

Peggy just doesn’t get it, does she? When I say “stop contacting me forever,” I mean STOP CONTACTING ME FOREVER! But does she get it? Of course not! She thought she was so clever going into a secluded area where I rarely travel to and leave a message for me!

Oh Peggy! Are you that dense! If I say stop bothering me, I mean stop bothering me!

Let’s see how long this lasts.

I’ll be taking off from blogging for the next two days, just relaxing and getting ready for a brand new year, so I hope to see all of you sobered up ready to rock and roll next Tuesday night!

And finally, my dear readers, I have a special message for you: Happy New Year to you one and all, good will to hens (Ya hear that Moonbeam?), hope to see you all ‘round the blog fire next year. Party hearty, but above all be safe and happy. Good luck in health, wealth and happiness in 2006!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Last Poem Of The Century

Well, here we are, the last Friday of the year!!! It was definitely one of trhe slower weeks that passed us by again so quickly, didn't it? That quiet little capper always has a way of finding us, doesn't it? In keeping in step with the approaching New Year and some of you are already celebrating, aren't you? Well, I think this poem is fits in well with the moment! And my dear, gentle readers, please remember always, always, enjoy!!!

Last Poem Of The Century

Semolina pilchards

Walk silent in rows

The sad, beat century drawing to a close

Happy to bounce out the door

The dancing ghost places the crown of teeth upon her head,

Her face sunken and old

Gratified, in the middle of a forest

The soluble alchemy-

A new generation of men with four left feet, maybe three

Brown blues for white people, I cannot see

I awoke from a sad dream, full of glee

But my knees are silent

25,000 monkeys used 25,000 typewriters

Played flutes like drums

Held their breath while passing cemeteries

Never stop going till’ they get there

Empty souls no longer worry

Raining holy water

God is bathing

In

Warmth

An Open Letter To Big Chief Bluefoot

Dear Big Chief Bluefoot,

I recently overheard through a reliable source, Heap-Wampum Stool Pigeon that you support our President and also a Republican to boot. I have never heard of a Republican Injun, let alone an Injun that supports the great terrible Yonegi who sits on his tuchas in the White House and has been systematically taking away your human rights for the past five years.

Well, now wait-a-second here, I do remember meeting an Injun once who was a Republican, conservative as all hell, oh but I forgot, he was an Injun from India and not an Injun from the United States of America, so forget I ever mentioned it, alright?

Now tell me Big Chief Bluefoot, why do you support our President? I can’t believe that you could a support a man that is, as I stated earlier systematically whittling away all of your basic human rights, spying on your own people, running your country into heap plenty debt, a man whose ancestors probably maimed, raped and murdered plenty of your relatives because his people felt your people were invading “their” space.

From what Heap-Wampum Stool Pigeon tells me, you are a proud man, a kind man and a good man to boot and I believe it; what I believe too is that one shouldn’t criticize the position that a man takes once he is elected to office; I agree with you that it is a tough position to handle and maneuver and I am sure that if any of us mere citizens tried to do what he does, we’d also run into the same set of problems.

You can’t please everyone and our President certainly knows this well. He was elected by the people and for the people, as stated by the United States constitution and even though I didn’t vote for him in either the 2000 or 2004 elections, he is according to you, doing the best job he possibly can and the pick of the crop of senators, congressmen, cabinet members and his staff are also helping him out to see that he gets to do what he’s supposed to do and what he can’t do, someone else will.

That is the will of the people, Big Chief Bluefoot; to complain, gripe, whine, bitch, complain and do whatever it takes to get it out of their systems.

But if you’re happy with the way the President is running your country straight into the ground, happy that your people (the Native Americans) are still being treated like crap, even after all these years, happy that your natural resources are drying up quicker than you can sing the token “10 Little Indians” song, than who am I to question your beliefs system?

Who am I to tell you what to think, do, be, act or feel? I’ll let the great, terrible Yonegi do that for you; he’s doing a great job for you already!

Most sincerely and a heartfelt handshakes of Wa-Do to you kind sir,

The MishegasMaster

PS-How does your Missus, Heap-Wampum Stool Pigeon live with a Republican Injun that supports our President? I bet that’s an awfully hard feat to accomplish, yet I guess she does have her share of druthers too, but that’s another story for another time!

To All The Little People For Whom This Would Have Been Impossible Without…Thank-You! Thank-You! Thank-You!

Sometimes I find that I don’t say “thank you” enough in my life, so today, that’s exactly what I’m going to say; thank you to all those who were involved with the recent “from Art to Zine” exhibit held at Columbia College’s Book And Paper Arts Center in Chicago from Friday, November 5, 2005 through Saturday, December 17, 2005.

First, a great big thank you goes out to Quimby’s Bookstore in Chicago for posting a notice in their September, 2005 email newsletter mentioning that Columbia College’s Book And Paper Arts Center was looking for participants for the fanzine show. Had I not seen that notice, I never would have known, so…thank you!

Then there was that nice gallery curator fellow Bill Drendel, who took what I brought him from my Cops Hate Poetry archives between mid and late October and arranged it nicely in a huge wall display case. He remained kind and very helpful up to and through the end of the exhibit, so, for his gentle kindness, I say thank you!

Of course, there were those that showed up on opening night and beyond. I must have emailed close to 100 people and while most didn’t come on opening night, some did go see the show during the time it was staged.

I did a lot of self-promotion too and a friend of mine, Lew Rosenbaum (who formerly ran Guild Books in Chicago several years ago) even mentioned the event in his email newsletter. I guess you can only bug your friends so much and they either show up or they don’t, so to those that did and to Lew, I give you all a great big thank you!

Then there were all those nice folks who were looking at the wall case that Cops Hate Poetry was housed inside, as I stood there beaming from ear-to-ear with pride, some 20 or 30 during the ebb and flow of opening night, both older and younger people, pointing and looking up and reading all about Cops Hate Poetry, so to them, I say a huge thank you!

Also, there was that nice student news photographer from the Columbia Chronicle, Mike Jarecki, the same student newspaper, I used to write for when I was a student at Columbia College almost 16 years ago.

Mike just happened to be walking around the exhibit, with his camera around his neck and was kind enough to take several shots of me standing and sitting in front of the display case that Cops Hate Poetry was housed in, (when I asked him to) kind of like the one you see above tonight’s blog. Doesn’t Mike take nice photographs? To Mike: several beaucoups of thank yous!

Lastly, a knowledgeable book editor by the name of Jonathon Messinger from the weekly TimeOut Magazine (Chicago edition), who came to visit the exhibit twice (per that nice man Bill Drendel) and wrote my fanzine up was the “true gem” of the show. He went on to call Cops Hate Poetry not only a “landmark poetry zine,” but “one of the underground press’s most influential zines.”

The magazine even showed a photographed image strip taken from the wall where Cops Hate Poetry memorabilia and the rest of the fanzines were housed. The article ran in the November 24 to December 1, 2005 edition. Although I phoned Jonathon and thanked him graciously for the write-up a week or two later, I still wanted to thank him publicly, so to Jonathon I say a truckload of heartfelt thank-yous!

Thanks to all the well-wishers in-between; folks like Mykel Board, and all the long-ago secret publishers, people and servers who I crossed paths with over the many years while I was publishing my fanzine and helped me find my way around, thanks for making me feel especially proud of my accomplishments and contributions to the Chicago fanzine scene of the late 1980s to early 1990s.

It feels good to be praised and noticed every once in a while.

I bet my late Uncle George would have truly been proud of me.

The NunBun, The Virgin Mary In The Grilled Cheese Sandwich And Other Silly Impressions

“…If The Beetles are more popular than Jesus, than The Virgin Mary hasn’t got a chance…”---Roger Dogma

It happens every few years, in fact for several years now this strange phenomena has been occurring and it gets stranger all the time; I can’t figure it out, but somehow or another, there’s two relatively new markets in the world for objects/stains that either have strikingly similar likenesses to religious figures or religious statues that appear to shed tears when no one is looking.

In the past there’s been the likeness of The Virgin Mary in a cheese sandwich, statues of Jesus or The Virgin Mary that appear as if they are crying, the image of The Virgin Mary in a tortilla, the salt stain beneath the Kennedy Expressway viaduct in Chicago that appears in a likeness of The Virgin Mary and then of course, there’s the infamous NunBun that was stolen on Christmas Day of this year from a display case inside Bongo Java, a coffeehouse in Nashville, Tennessee.

The NunBun is different from the others, as it bears likeness to the late Mother Teresa and even set a precedent when Mother Teresa said herself shortly before she passed away in 1997 that not only did she want her name on the cinnamon bun, but she didn’t want anyone making a buck off her good name, which is understandable.

But what is it with people these days looking for something that they can’t find, yet claim to find and make others believe in this hocus-pocus? Magicians used to perform We used to do that with clouds, whereas images or outlines of objects of people and things could be easily contrived or found within reason or perhaps it’s truth-stretching by just a touch.

Almost anybody can say they saw an image of a religious icon or a famous person within the confines of a processed piece of junk food or feces; it’s all relative, you know?

And come to think of it, I used to see the likeness of the late Doors singer Jim Morrison in the kitchen wall tiles of my parents old home address 5632 West South Park Avenue in Morton Grove, Illinois; if you don’t believe me, you should Mapquest it and then you really you ought to ring the doorbell of the relatively new occupants and ask them if you can see it.

Then of course, there’s the likeness of the late ex-Beatle John Lennon’s head I see outside my apartment window when I go to bed each night within the criss-crossing of trees across the alley.

That’s the trouble with these sorts of things; you can see whatever you like within the space of your mind, similar to the Rorschach inkblots. One sees what they like to see and then believe what they want to believe.

And the list goes forward, for those that believe that those images are real also probably believe that apparitions, ghosts, explained and unexplained and UFOs exist. I’m a believer, that’s for certain in ghosts, apparitions and UFOs, but those images imprinted in pastries and stains, is carrying it a little too far.

In fact, I’d venture to guess that those who believe in imprinted images are missing something within and what that is, only their God knows for certain.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>1961

Well, here's Friday that last day in a beautifully nice quick week and only two more days until you-know-what! The Chicago Bears Vs. The GreenBay Packers and by God, I hope the Bears lose! Thank goodness for that wonderful capper to top everything off and yes, it's time for another poem! So in keeping with the spirit of my 44th birthday yesterday, I'd like to offer this little poem.

I'll be offline for the next few days getting plenty of rest and hanging out with friends and family, like most of you, ready to tackle the relatively short week and will be back with you all next Tuesday, in the meantime, to all those who celebrate, have a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah & Happy Kwanza. Be happy and stay safe and my dear readers, please remember always, always, enjoy!!!

1961

Blood is a vesseled sunset

How I so admire it

Trees not yet born and bowing down already

Like peasants in morning bright

Wires buzz frail, songs of luminosity

In the crackling Christmas night

How I Spent My Last Day As A 42-Year Old Man On Planet Earth & Became 43 In The Process Between December 21-22, 2004

What came down in the forest outside the small town of Kecksburg, Pennsylvania on December 9, 1965? Some residents claimed to see an acorn-shaped metal object with strange, hieroglyphic writing on the side half-buried on the forest floor. Further proof that something came down, they say, was the presence of local police and National Guard officials who took the object away for study. Others in the sleepy hamlet in southeastern Pennsylvania say the reported sightings are no more than the fanciful musings of wishful thinkers. A UFO isn't the only possibility for the Kecksburg object-astronomer Von del Chamberlain has written that if it was anything at all, it was a meteorite. NASA consultant James Oberg has theorized in the past that the object may have been a failed Russian probe, but now believes, too, that it was most like a meteorite that witnesses in Kecksburg saw that night. For nearly forty years, the debate has raged both locally and in the national press-often referred to in UFO circles as the "Pennsylvania Roswell," the Kecksburg story has enjoyed treatments by "Unsolved Mysteries" in the early 1990s and was the subject of a two hour program hosted by Bryant Gumbel on the Sci Fi Network in October of 2003. The Sci Fi Network took the additional step of joining local UFO researchers in pressing NASA and the Air Force for the release under the Freedom of Information Act of any documents related to the case. In late December 2003, NASA released thirty-nine pages of material, followed by the Air Force, which released 2,800 pages on the case from its files. The only thing that seems to have been conclusively proven with the release of the government documents to date is that the object over Kecksburg was not a Russian probe. But for UFO enthusiasts, researchers, and the residents Kecksburg there are still many questions that remain to be answered: What, if anything, came down in Kecksburg? Did the government cover it up then and does the cover-up continue to this day?”---The History Channel CONSPIRACY! Series Kecksburg Program Notes…

There are only a few times during the course of the year that I stay up longer than 24 hours and that’s mostly when it’s a Friday through Sunday situation, but never did I expect to last year to be pulling an a 39-hour stint for being an extra in a national cable series that when eventually filmed and broadcast, made everything seem a whole lot better, but then I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was back in mid-November, 2004, when I was trolling around the website called www.craigslist.org and just happened to look in the “Talent” section of the site, when I first came upon the posting looking for extras in a cable program to play either soldiers or townspeople AKA UFO eyewitnesses.

I had just finished my first film “Tough Times,” in which I had played “Rabbi Sterling,” which was a tiny role in an independent film, but it was still a role and I was elated nonetheless. So to me, seeing that role available, appealed to me, even though I had a feeling they weren’t going to pay at all, but I knew there were other perks.

Two other friends of mine were in on the deal too, but the trouble with the production company (Tower Productions) filming it, was that they kept on switching dates, mostly weekend days in early December (2004), which those two guys couldn’t do, so, finally I thought, “well, hell’s bells, it’d do or die time,” and there I was, ready and poised to do whatever they asked me to do.

The plot was simple; it was one of those UFO sighting programs and whether or not it was a real UFO that had landed in a small town in Kecksburg, Pennsylvania or not in December, 1965. One of the assistant producers who kept in touch with me, told me that since it had a 1960s feel to the program, they wanted us to dress in that fashion.

Well, seemingly, since the 1960s never seem to go out of style, I felt I was pretty lucky, since half the clothes in my closets are from the 1960s and beyond! I went through my closet and picked out a bunch of clothes that I felt I needed, threw them into a couple of duffel bags and I was set to go! The next order of business I had to complete was trying to get to the site on a midweek shoot.

Luckily, I scored a half-day of work and left early at noon, flew out of there like a bat out of hell, drove my car down to the Howard Street garage and took a Red Line El train down to the production office, where I needed to hitch a ride to. The walk to the production office was two and a half blocks away from the El stop, yet with the two duffel bags I was carrying, plus my backpack upon my back and it being an extremely cold day, it was in the teens temperature-wise, that two and a half blocks made it seem like eternity before I finally reached my destination.

When I arrived at the building, I took the elevator up to the office and went to the front desk. Originally I was told to be there at 1pm and I did worry about not making it there on time, but I did. When I went to the front desk to check in, the male receptionist never bothered to look up from the computer and asked me who I was there to see. When I told him, he just nodded and told me, he’d be out in a little while.

Well sir, let me tell you, that little while lasted nearly an hour, before someone cam over to me and asked me who I was there to see. When I told her again, she told me the assistant producer and one of the script writers were running a few errands and would be back within 10 minutes. She then offered me a cup of tea. She was to say the least, the most polite in that office and perhaps the only one who was polite, but again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

By the time the assistant producer got back it was well past an hour. We eventually left at 2pm, but of course we got stuck in traffic on the Eisenhower expressway and didn’t arrive to our destination in Sandwich, Illinois (the set) until 3:30pm, just an hour and a half late.

There wasn’t much I learned from talking to the assistant producer, other than what I what I gathered from him, that he was an arrogant and rude upstart who just graduated from college nearly a year ago, interned at this production company and got lucky when an opening became available. The script-writer seemed more congenial, as she explained the plot to me in more detail.

By the time we got there, it was late and the sun was beginning to set. It was cold and I was told to go into a little shack where the rest of the actors and extras were situated. This was it, I thought, but of course, we waited for two more hours until we were told anything more.

So I sat and talked with others, traded stories and listened to wild and daring acting tales from the more professional actors, the boys and girls that do it for a semi-living, while holding down jobs like insurance agents, students or landscapers, you know the hardcore stuff that makes America strong!

At last 6pm had arrived and the first scene I shot involved yelling at Army soldiers who wouldn’t let the UFO eyewitnesses go beyond the wooden horse that were set-up to make it look as if the forest had been cordoned off, due to the supposed UFO that had landed in the woods.

It was cold out there and they gave us little heat packets to stuff in our pockets and boots, so we wouldn’t feel so cold. For that scene and the rest of the night and into the morning, I wore the same two recognizable items; my dirty trench coat and my gray pull-over winter cap with two circles around it that I had found at Union Station in downtown Chicago while waiting for my date to show up, but that’s another story for another time.

We must have shot that scene 15 times until they got exactly what they wanted. That’s the trouble with being an extra; you don’t exactly know what they want out of a person and sometimes neither do they, when they ask you for certain emotions, which on top of it being all foreign, it was mighty cold, which tends to put a damper on anything when it comes to thinking with a clear conscious.

But when production companies aren’t paying anyone to be there, they couldn’t expect much, now could they? So, the next best thing to do is to try and act the best way possible.

For that scene, they wanted us to be natural, but not totally aggressive with the soldiers, but when you’re trying to get across wooden horses to see a supposed foreign object, you can totally lose sight of what you’re doing. There must have been 10 or 15 of us out there, all play-acting and “struggling” with the soldiers. We had to shout at them, get in their faces, which I have had previous experience with cops and others as a young reporter fresh out of college, so that was no problem for me.

By the time we finished shooting that scene, it was 8pm and time to take a break, go back inside the warm wooden shack and have dinner. I sat by myself for the most part and spoke to a few folks here and there, but for the most part I kept to myself, just soaking in the sounds and the aura of the entire scene.

Between breaks and shots, I wandered around outside, cutting through the forest and I phoned my parents and a few friends just to say hello. It does get boring and repetitive if you don’t have anything to amuse yourself with, other than other people and I didn’t exactly find them amusing either; maybe if the producers had introduced us to each other, I might not have felt so odd about things, but anyway…

At 9pm, we had to re-shoot the first scene I was in. by the time 10pm had rolled around, some of the cast and extras were dismissed as their scenes were over. Hoping to catch a ride with one of them whom I had befriended, a man from Evanston, Illinois, I asked him to wait to see if I was done. “No,” quipped the assistant producer I had hitched a ride with, we still need you.”

So, I sat around and waited for another three hours until close to 1am, when I was called out to do another scene. This time, I had to act “surprised,” as the “object” (UFO) was being towed away by a flatbed U.S. Army truck. That scene took nearly an hour to shoot and then I was done. By the time I was finished however, I had to stick around until 4am, in order to catch a ride home with another extra actor, who was a stockbroker by day, but played an FBI agent for the show.

I tried to catch some sleep, but even at 2am, that was nearly impossible being inside an unheated shack, along with film crew members, a skeleton crew of producers & a few actors left. I felt a little frustrated as well, because I was never informed of anything and they just expected us to act on impact, which is not always a good thing to do.

By the time 4am showed up, I was glad to see my ride and off we rode to a local gas station, bought a couple of bottles of soda pop and away we sailed home. I don’t remember much during that time, as I drifted in and out of sleep. We talked a little and I thanked him for the lift home, as he dropped me off at the Howard Street Station garage.

It took me about 20 minutes to get home, considering traffic was light that morning. I schlepped upstairs to my apartment with my costume clothes in tow, unlocked the door, grabbed some fresh clothes for work and hopped into the shower, did the usual “morning routine,” left my apartment, seminally awake in a zombie state of mind, got to my car and flew down the street and drove in to work.

Thankfully, I got through work in one piece, went to the library to check my email early grabbed a pint of beef chopped suey at a local Chinese restaurant, drove home, sat up in bed, took two swallows, put down the cardboard box and slept solidly for the next 10 hours! The next day I felt a little better, but it was a birthday to remember for sure!

The show itself ran on The History Channel as scheduled on Sunday, March 6 (2005). Selected friends and family members, including Louie, The Arizona Babe, Rex Pâtér Homo, Benjy and Botox Frankenstein, plus many others around the United States were able to see the program that night and subsequent nights that the program ran in reruns.

I believe they are planning on running the program on the United Kingdom version of The History Channel, on Sunday, January 1, 2006 at 8pm, but you might want to check your local listings for those of you who read my blog and live in England and other parts of Europe.

This year, my birthday will be a quiet one; most of the celebrations will take place this weekend with friends, family and close loved ones; that’s the way it should be spent.

Ah, to been seen on English television again after a five-year absence! God Save the Queen! God help you all!!!

Shut-Up Britney Spears, Shut-Up!

Shut-up Britney Spears, shut-up! Go back to wherever you crawled from and quit crying already! You have the family life you always wanted along with the career and enough dough to keep you happy for possibly the next 40 years when you’ll be trying your hardest to yank on a mic, swaying your body to the rhythm of the music and tapping a cane while on some stage in Vegas, granted you’ll still be able to sing when you reach 60 years of age, granted even more so that you can’t even sing now!

It’s not enough that Britney Spears can’t stay out of the limelight like she claims she wants to, but chooses not to, as her latest diatribe against the world is a $20 million lawsuit against the likes of US Weekly magazine for “fabricating a story that she and dancing bear husband Kevin Federline made a sexually explicit video together and worried it might be made public,” that ran earlier this year in October.

Now come on. What is it with celebrities these days, especially those who are so terribly worried about their images? Anyone can find photographs of Britney Spears half-naked or naked on the Internet if they really wanted to, but I’m not sure how much someone would want to, to begin with, because she’s really nothing to look at, but where was I, oh yeah, so what is it with rock stars worried about their images for god sakes?

Maybe these rock stars and celebrities, who so desperately want and seek stardom and the accolades that go with it, really do deserve everything they get. After all, this is what they strive for when they first start out, all that attention, all those fans, all those limousines, all that special treatment, all those red carpets, all that privacy, all that dough…

The trouble with Britney Spears is that she brought this one on herself and doesn’t do anything to stop it. She was the one that bought two new breast augmentations a few years ago, she was the one that agreed to pose so provocatively on the hundreds, if not perhaps thousands of magazines she’s been on the covers of; she’s the one that wanted the fame and publicity, she’s the one that kissed Madonna on an awards show, she’s the one that chose to do a reality show based on her courtship with her now-husband based on self-shot tailor-made videos, she's the one who married Jason Allen Alexander, an old childhood friend in Las Vegas and then annulled the marriage 55 hours later, she’s the one who…the list goes on and on and on, but you get the idea.

And Britney Spears was also the one who earlier this year criticized US Weekly for publishing photos of herself and her husband (Kevin) Federline when the two honeymooned in Fiji during 2004, according to BBC News.

Said the magazine of the lawsuit, “Coming from a celebrity who sold pictures of both her wedding and her stepdaughter, it's unlikely the issue here is privacy. Britney (Spears) should start her own magazine if she'd like to dictate her own coverage," responded Us Weekly.

The trouble you see, isn’t with the media or the fans, it’s Britney Spears herself, for you see Britney (Spears), your fans gave you exactly what you wanted, those 60 million albums that your fans bought and you eventually bankrolled because you enticed them with your shitty music, you enticed them with your personal life splashed all over the press, television, your website, magazines and newspapers, but most of all, you enticed them with your sex appeal; your youthful appearance, your supposed sexiness, your supposed everything that makes you who you’ve become, which another pop-star who will fade away with time.

If all else fails, Britney Spears can always become a porn star, after all, she is a natural when it comes to faking it with her music and her videos...

So, what do you do with a living, breathing Louisiana Barbie doll whose willing to yell her lungs out on stage, sell her soul for a few million in tight-fitting clothing, provocative outfits sing suggestive lyrics and pose seductively on her albums in and photographs designed?

You ignore her and put on the new Franz Ferdinand album. Now that’s an awesome record!

Christmas Music To Be Heard!

As many of you have noticed by now, I don’t celebrate Christmas. I do however like one little aspect of it and that being the music that’s played toward the days leading up to the holiday itself.

As a result, over the years I have collected several pieces of music that are in some small way related to Christmas itself. Going through my audio cassettes and compact discs, I have a rather limited, but eclectic collection of Christmas music including artists and if someone were to make me a couple Christmas mix CDs (hint-hint Junior), I’d be most obliged!

I don’t have all the standard pieces of music like I should, but I do have some of the cooler stuff, like: Nat (King) Cole’s “The Christmas Song,” The Beatles: “Christmas Messages 1963-1969,” John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s “Happy Xmas: War Is Over (If You Want It), Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime,” Judy Garland’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”/“Merry Christmas,” and Charlie Parker (and friends), “White Christmas.”

I can’t exactly remember how I got into collecting Christmas music to start with, but I think it had something to do with the novelty of a holiday, other than Halloween, which there are plenty of records out there to start with. There’s a whole market on holiday songs, but they only seem to be sold when the market is right or whenever the holiday approaches.

I seem to recall that several radio shows host holiday music programs, which is fine I guess, but I suppose it’s like dragging out the plastic fake Christmas tree along with the dull ornaments that are hung upon it and it gets so old after awhile.

Locally, we have two really cool radio stations that host special programs on or near Christmas Day, like “Blues Before Sunrise,” hosted by Steve Cushing and broadcast locally on WBEZ (91.5 on the FM dial) and syndicated by National Public Radio. Then there’s “Those Were The Days,” hosted by Chuck Schaden and broadcast locally on WDCB (90.9 on the FM dial). Schaden usually runs thematic programs, just as Cushing does and he does a fine job of it.

There are other programs I am sure, like syndicated shows on the weekends that will play Christmas music, both novelty and modern musicians of all genres and then there is at least one radio station in town, WLIT (93.9 FM) that plays nothing but Christmas music beginning after Thanksgiving, up to Christmas Day.

Even though I celebrate Hanukkah, which the music as far as modern stuff goes isn’t a whole lot to choose from, other than traditional stuff, although there’s been a movement afoot lately for new tunes, anyway, having said that, I think I’d still probably prefer Christmas music over other holiday music.

There are tons of novelty records too numerous to name, but I will tell you about at least two great Christmas albums you might consider owning. There’s this guy, late great guy named Harry “The Hipster” Gibson, who rose to fame in the 1940s with his novelty hit record, “Who Put The Benzedrine In Mrs. Murphy’s Ovaltine,” who back in 1976, put out a great Christmas album called “Harry “The Hipster” Digs Christmas, a real rollicking boogie-woogie pianist if there ever was a great pianist! The funniest cut on there is an original, called “I Wish My Mother-In-Law Don’t Visit Us This Christmas.”

Then there’s Spike Jones, who along with his City Slickers made buttloads of comedy records in the 1940s & 1950s, most notably, “Cocktails For Two,” and “William Tell Overture,” but back in the 1950s, he scored pretty solid with a hit called “All I Want For Christmas (Is My Two Front Teeth).” In 1956, Jones released a great, absolutely hysterical, yet serious, which seems hard to believe, but true Christmas album called “Let’s Sing A Song Of Christmas.” Perhaps the best cut on there is the version of “Jingle Bells” in pig latin! You have to hear it to believe it!

But, I’m digressing slightly, now where was I? Oh yeah! Continuing onward with a couple of great mix CDs I’d love to have, which would definitely have to include Allan Sherman’s “The Twelve Gifts Of Christmas,” a parody of the hymn “The 12 Days Of Christmas,” followed by Lord Buckley’s version of “Scrooge,” then “Beatnik’s Wish” by Patsy Raye and The Beatniks, followed by “7’O Clock News/Silent Night,” by Simon & Garfunkel, then Sun Ra’s “Happy Christmas,” the those crazy, annoying Singing Dogs version of “Jingle Bells,” followed by “I Yust Go Nuts At Christmas” by Yogi Yorgesson AKA Orion Samuelson, then a dose of Frank Sinatra, Jackie Allen & Judy Roberts & Vince Gauraldi.

Rounding out my listening pleasure, I’d like Tom Lehrer’s “A Christmas Carol,” followed by Tom Waits’ “Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis” and finally, the capper of all songs, “12 Days Of Xmas,” sung by none other than the late great blood-and-fecal and honorary mishegas master, GG Allin!

Now, I couldn’t think of a better way to treat my ears to some great, great music!

The Sickening Of Christmas Like A Sad Sour Broth AKA The Christmas Commentary

Dear Readers,

The following essay was first published in my poetry fanzine Cops Hate Poetry in December 1987. When it first ran I received a lot of criticism for suggesting Santa Claus was a communist; I even received a letter from a fan/subscriber in Virginia who called me a fascist! In 1989, when I was attending Columbia College in Chicago, Illinois and worked on the college newspaper, The Columbia Chronicle, I had an uphill battle of trying to get this essay published. I fought tooth and nail with an editor by the name of Lance E. Cummings, who only wanted to give me three inches (that’s journalism jargon for three paragraphs) or nothing.
Cummings contended that he didn’t want any negative attitudes in the newspaper about such a supposed positive and sacred holiday like Christmas. With the help of a few other people like editor Mitch Hurst and newspaper advisor Don Gold, I was able to get the full nine yards, 15 inches to be exact. I was proud and happy! The only stipulation was I had to rewrite it to make it sound more positive than negative, which at first I balked at, but eventually softened up and rewrote it in its present-day form (that of which you see below). Lastly, when I was both a managing editor & columnist for a tiny farming community newspaper called The Fountain County Neighbor in Attica, Indiana, I republished it once more, again experiencing the same tooth and nail fight with publisher Bette Schmid. She relented and let me publish it. When it ran, I received an eight-page letter from a local townswoman who told me to take my opinion and shove it, which led me to believe, as I always did and do, that people in general cannot stand to hear the truth or perhaps other opinions when it comes to supposed sacred holidays like Christmas. It is with great hope, heart that you will read this essay with an open mind and understanding…

Christmas has become an uncontrollable disease. Let me explain how I arrived at this. For the past few weeks, on television, radio, newspapers and the Internet, we have all been reminded over and over again that Christmas is coming and we better be on our best behavior or Santa Claus won't bring us anything. If you don't celebrate Christmas, then it's not supposed to affect you, right?

Well, I thought that way up until three years ago, when I had the opportunity to "play" Santa Claus at a local mall near my home. My decision to do it was based on thinking that it would be a positive experience; however, I received more than I bargained for, once I started "being Santa Claus."

The questions I thought about constantly were, "What does Christmas mean to those who really celebrate it?" "Is it a time to be happy and joyous, or is a time to expect a new stereo system from your friends or relatives?"

Soon, I started to answer my own questions.

Commercialism has invaded the bloodstream of Christmas to a point where it's become sickening. Certain symbols are used at this time to warn us of the coming holiday, such as trees, bells, wreaths and jolly, old Saint Nick, better known as Santa Claus.

In my opinion, Santa Claus is the root of ALL Christmas evil.

For years, he has been pushed onto folks as a guy in a red suit (who's probably a communist) who brings toys and gifts to all whom have been naughty and nice. In a way, he is like a spy, like the CIA or FBI, who watches all of us, and if we disobey, it's curtains for us.

While playing Santa Claus, I went through child after child telling me what each wanted for Christmas, demanding that I bring them certain gifts/toys, via coaching from their parents, laughing constantly as their child sat upon my knees. Some of their demands included: "Santa, I WANT a Rambo...," "BRING me a computer...," "I WANT a Barbie...," "BRING me a Tonka Truck...," and "Santa, I WANT a bicycle..."

Perhaps the cruelest acts the parents forced upon their children was to get them to take photographs with Santa Claus (me), so the parents could have an everlasting memory of their child coming to see him. They bribed their children with food, promises of gifts or just told them that Santa Claus would skip their home if they refused.

There were also children who didn't celebrate Christmas, who sat on my lap and told me what they wanted for Christmas, while their parents looked on with what appeared to be guilt-ridden faces. One instance included a young Jewish boy, with a skullcap upon his head and Jewish star around his neck, telling me what he wanted for Christmas.

Now don't get me wrong, I think that Christmas is a wonderful time of the year, but unfortunately it's at the level of terminal illness, with no turning back. The happiness that goes with it is phony, because I think the only reason folks are happy is because they know they will be getting a gift, no matter how they acted throughout the entire year.

Let's face it, Christmas is fake.

It's lost its traditional values and nobody really cares anymore, because now it's a tradition to be phony once a year. There was one exception, however. One child of the many children who sat on my lap told me, "Santa, the reason I like this time of year so much, is because we celebrate the birth of our savior Jesus Christ."

Whoopee.

The Circus-Tent Lady-A Semi Modern Working Class Tale

For lack of a better reason, I have a choice to write about many things, many subjects or whatever is boiling within my brains at any given moment. But for today’s purposes, I shall tell you a little story, a story about greed, a story about lust, a story about passion, all in the name of food!

There’s this outfit that I hang out with most of the week and for the most part they are a sad-happy sort of bunch. Like me, they have their ups and downs, their crimes their misdemeanors their efforts, their energies that can sometimes be fantastically rewarding, while other times terribly, terribly depressing and dreadful.

Every so often, a few of us get together and just hang; shoot the shit, bump the breeze, bang the buck and generally, have a good time with it. When we hang, we don’t do much but acknowledge each other’s presence and present needs, concerns and reward our egos righteously.

Everyone needs a little self-praise and horn-tooting once in a while, at least I think so.

Lately, there hasn’t been a lot of that, it’s just more like biting the bullet, shut-up and just do what we are put on this mighty earth to do; slave to the man, pay the bills, mop the floors, grease the pans, kiss a few asses, blow a few noses, rattle and hum like a bunch of Botox Frankenstein monsters clomping with our lunch pails to the local beanery and clomp back to our proper sitting place in the eternal brown-nose trailer-park.

Most recently, some of my pals got together and threw a happy hour bash. Lots of people participated; brought food, drink, sweets and everything else in between. When I heard about it at first, I turned a deaf ear.

I don’t like bashes or big parties in general, primarily because I feel socially awkward and most often, claustrophobic. I know I have been that way in the past and most recently too, even amongst my pals, though they may not realize why I often decline such things. I’m no social butterfly, though I suppose I can be one at times, but it’s more of a rarity than anything else.

I was approached by one of my pals, Miz Lou, who asked me if I was going to join her and everyone else. I told her at first that I really wasn’t sure and got kind of nervous inside. I then asked her if she really wanted me to come and she said yes. She told me it wouldn’t be long and I could pop in later if I desired.

I thought about it and I told her that I would try to make it. All week between gigs of writing and slaving to catching or getting rid the mice that seem to love my apartment, as evidence to the following of myself finding Mouse Number 19 dead or perhaps it was sleeping eternally in one of my gym shoes recently.

At last the big day arrived and I was still not in the mood to go. As I stated earlier, big crowds give me the Willies, why I don’t know, but they do, but they always say for food bashes, come early or the good stuff will be gone.

And what an understatement that was! The local beanery was packed to the gills, considering that virtually everybody heard about it and brought their friends, well, it was publicized I guess, so that’s partially true.

Everybody all showed up at once, which is always a problem at these sorts of shindigs, too many bodies, not enough courtesy, all the multiple stomachs have only eyes for oodles of sweets, crunchy potato chips, glorious pieces of fried chicken, picturesque plates of hot dishes of macaroni & cheese, steaming spaghetti with meatballs or meat-sauce, the kind that would make even The Prince Spaghetti Boy’s mother weep and go green with envy, because she wasn’t even invited!

But then there are those that couldn’t care less about those that arrive late and think only of their stomachs. They have their own S. O.S. (Save Our Stomachs) flags flying high for everyone else to see and they are proud of it.

From what Miz Lou told me, by the time I arrived, after slaving and unsuccessfully trapping Mouse Number 19, I braved the cold weather and came out to the local beanery only to be told that the Circus Tent Lady filled two body bags full of food to take home to feast on!

What a greedy pig I thought, although by the looks of her, you’d know she was; yes that’s mean, but when you think about it, is taking food without asking anyone else if it’s okay to take food home to begin with, well that’s just downright rude, arrogant and unladylike.

Clearly Miz Lou was upset and I understood it from both sides, though my brain didn’t exactly understand why the Circus Tent Lady filled the body bags to begin with. I didn’t think by the looks of her that she wasn’t exactly starving.

The morals of this story are: greed is greed and pigs are pigs; from tiny to circus-tent size. They only think with their stomachs and not their hearts when it comes to reality. Free food is free food. And I personally wouldn’t trust them at a young child’s birthday party, as when no one is looking, they might rip off the candles on the birthday cake with the flames still brightly burning, thereby stealing the future wishes, hopes and dreams of a child!

Shame on you, Circus-Tent Lady, shame on you!