Where Has The MishegasMaster Been For The Past Week? Act 1>Food Poisoning

So, where were you last week MishegasMaster was the most frequently asked question when nobody saw I had posted a blog in now what’s been close to nine days…well, I guess I didn’t bother to tell anyone, but the bottom dropped out from under me and I got sick as in food poisoning and an old friend came to visit me from New York City and it sort of went like that.

These things do happen I told myself, but you know I am never supposed to believe it until it actually does and of course you never think it will happen to you until it actually does and sure enough it did.

A week ago Friday evening, I went out to hear my good friend Joe read a selection from the book “My Year Of Meats” by Ruth Ozeki, along with selected readings by other writers from Upton Sinclair’s classic book “The Jungle,” as part of a 100-year anniversary celebrating the book’s publication held at The Book Cellar in Chicago.

It was well-attended, a packed café to say the least and I did meet a few of Joe’s old friends from his New York college days, as well as got to see a few old friends of mine, including the man who organized the event, Lew Rosenbaum.

During the drive up to the reading or maybe it was afterwards, or maybe it was in between all of that, Joe’s girlfriend DiDi and I were casually chatting about where we going to go out for a bite to eat afterwards and I told her about this great restaurant called Garcia’s, a good cheap Mexican restaurant that stays open well past 1 am and makes damn good steak burritos to boot!
Sometime during the reading, DiDi passed me a message stating that if I was wrong about Garcia’s not being open past 1 a.m., she was going to bite me.

I welcomed the idea, more so to think how fun it would be to have someone bite me just because they were hungry…you know, a personal fantasy of mine is to live out that old joke that dates back to vaudevillian days, “a man walks up to another man and says, “I haven’t had a bite in three days.” So what does the other man do? He bites him!”

On the note I passed back to her, I reassured her that Garcia’s would not close past 1am. After the reading, we all decided to go out to eat, but not to Garcia’s. It was another Mexican restaurant not far from Garcia’s but the name escapes me for the moment. And for that spare moment, that place should consider themselves damned lucky!

It wasn’t that far a walk to the other location on Western Avenue, a slight half block south of Wilson Avenue. It looked clean, almost too clean and too new of a restaurant to even be considered a restaurant; maybe it was it a storefront for an illegal immigrant’s poker party, but then again, it probably was the real McCoy.

The food was good; almost too good. I had a steak burrito and some of the fresh guacamole. I don’t remember much more of the night other than Joe and his college friends were talking about sports, in particular baseball and basketball. Kind of felt like I was the odd man out, but it does happen on occasion.

It wasn’t more than 24 hours later when I began feeling sick to my stomach and chills; and I mean really sick and I mean really chilly. I couldn’t keep anything up or down within my throat or intestines. I sort of felt like shit; but that’s putting it mildly.

Every few hours it was trips to the bathroom; retching or clutching my stomach as nothing but colorless residue shot or flew from out of me on either crevice.

I’d never felt so fucking sick in all of my life, save for the stomach flu or a year ago when I lost my voice and couldn’t talk. I felt terrible. And then I went to work the next day…but of course,

I never slept the night before, as I had to drive out to the local Walgreen’s drug store and pick up a 24-count box of terrible-tasting mint chewable Imodium advanced formula tablets in order to quell the and conquer the poisoning.

Food poisoning; oh I’ve had bad chicken before and raw chicken and bad meat and moldy cheese and expired bread and sour milk and all sorts of other things before, but nothing ever like this from a restaurant.

Things settled down after a day or so, but it kept me from doing something that I mostly desired and that is write; I was too tired to write, let alone struggle without having to think how or when or were or what I was going to write about.

Sure I took mental and physical notes just as I do each and everyday, but this threw me for a loop and I just didn’t have any sort of strength to write.

About all I wanted to do was sleep. And that’s about all I did. And eventually the bad poison was flushed out of my system, but it fucked me up, because I couldn’t drink my tea I normally drank and instead all I could have was water and I didn’t eat for the next few days.

All I could think about eating was stuff that would bind me up inside; stuff like rice or noodles I couldn’t eat my one passion and that being of course, dead and lifeless flesh.

So, damn it all to hell and full speed ahead; I felt better in the days that followed and up until a few days ago, I was back to my regular eating habits. I can and will go back to eating Mexican food, just not the place I went to and be damned if I ever step foot in there again.

Ironically the night of the reading ran around the theme of meat, how good it was and the working conditions that surrounded it and what happens?

I get sick from someone who evidently cannot cook for squat and I paid for it by shitting my ass out and vomiting my guts up.

There are not enough stories written about restaurants that choose to cook and serve food in crappy conditions, i.e., not wear hair nets, gloves, proper clothing, roach and mouse infestations, dirty kitchens, not washing their hands frequently when returning from the toilet, etc., etc.

The only time the broadcast press seems to report these stories is during May/November sweeps when ratings mean everything and exploitation is $$$$ to the selected broadcast station itself.

On a related note, how is it in college towns that college newspapers almost never run stories about bad restaurant conditions? Well, that’s an easy answer; do that and the advertising revenue dries up almost immediately.

Being bad is good. It sells well. It gets a reputation and it stays put…like forever.

And with expectations like that, how can anyone say no?

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Great Big Poem About Me

Good evening and a quick tip of the kippah to you all! My, my, my, it's the third week in May and it's still so cool outside like a crisp autumn night. This weekwas so much better for me, despite the loss of a good friend. Yes, thank goodness it's Friday and our good capper buddy is waiting for to ease us into a gentle weekend once more. And now, for a golden oldie of a poem! Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always-always-always-always enjoy!


Great Big Poem About Me

I feel alone in a great big poem
Written about me
This is another metaphoric way
That no one would discover unless I told them
So friends and strangers
Will never know the dangers
I live, strung out on my own pathetic life
I hold like a knife against my throat of my own redemption which is re-invented on page three, line 32
And they all ask who?
And I laugh outloud and say, he’s on first!
But no one gets the joke
And no one understands but me
So alone in a great big poem
About me

American Yarnprose>Just The Way It Ought To Be

Just The Way It Ought To Be

So many good people. Worn batteries in cupcake crumbs. Nosy eyes. Gassed Indians. Cracked coffee spilled all over Turk pikes. Red hair. Clown flies into walls. Falls into broken hilltop. Wolfman Jack flips his body to the east. Swings over a tree and smashed his asset to a pulp. Just the way it ought to be.

A Letter To My Dear Boy

My Dear Boy,

I guess you never did learn that some women don’t really care about you as much as they care about your assets, personal wealth and finances. In the old days of dating, they called it “gold-digging.” Apparently the sneaky, stylish trend has snaked its way back into the social norms of society.

Oh My Dear Boy! Those trends never seem to go away, do they? It’s kind of like when some nervous Jewish people start proclaiming that anti-Semitism is on the rise again just because the Anti-Defamation League releases a statement decrying anti-Semitism.

Anti-Semitism never goes away, as it always remains packed and hidden among the many items overstuffed in the extra baggage often left behind in the unclaimed department within our minds.

Gold-digging is the same as being labeled as either a “sugar-daddy” or “sugar mamma.” Lord only knows My Dear Boy, that there are plenty of men and women looking for someone of that ilk to set them up for life.

And pray-tell, what do they offer in exchange for your lifetime of hard labor? Superficial love and babies who will get your hard-earned dough and have it spent on trendy items that go out of style the minute it’s bought!

Oh, I’m not against having children at all My Dear Boy, it’s just having them for the wrong reasons in order to please someone. Marriage is good for the right reason, meaning when you truly find someone who loves you for everything that is you and not just your money.

When I was in my 20s, My Dear Boy, I found too many women who were looking for financial security, even though they were unable to convey it to me verbally.

I found out the hard way that some women will settle for second best, i.e. jerks with houses and other fine assets, because for them ultimately it’s better to be treated like property and smacked around, than it is to be naturally loved for the true soul of the soul.

It’s truly terrible, My Dear Boy. I’ve seen scads of gold-digging sugar daddy/mamma seekers listed on websites like www.jdate.com, a Jewish dating website.

At least two personal ads I read illustrated the point righteously and brought it home directly. The first ad I saw specifically placed by a woman, wished to acquire a “doctor, lawyer or dentist,” knowing full-well that she wanted to be set-up for life.

Then there was the Japanese woman who placed an ad looking for “a Jewish husband,” perhaps believing in the old stereotype that all Jews are wealthy and filthy rich. If that’s so, I have yet to meet one such person!

Then of course there’s www.craigslist.com, where folks sometimes disguise the words gold-digging, sugar daddy-mamma for the word “muse.”

Good looks don’t stretch as far as they used to these days, even with the great advancement of digital photography, the Internet and the hundreds upon hundreds of advertisements that promote sexiness via magic health treatments.

I know you know all of this and much more too, My Dear Boy, but I just want you to be careful in case that soon-to-be separated & perhaps divorced from that one-legged blonde bimbo partner of yours decides to rent a dozen Brinks trucks to cart away your amassed fortune.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Your Sincerest Fan,

The MishegasMaster

The MishegasMaster Tells It Like It Is, Late On Tuesday Evening!

There are some very sick and vicious people in this world that we germinate within; people who would stop at nothing to get what it is they are really after while destroying everything in their path in the process.

Some of them are to the point where they are blunt and will use hateful words just to bring others down. I’ve been dealing with a number of those factors lately and quite frankly, those people have been whacking away at me with a strange vengeance, as if I’ve been somehow fucking up their livelihood based on my own life’s happiness.

But of course they have it all wrong and are taking what I say out of context, as opposed to taking it for either face value or with a grain of salt-peter. Worst of all, they think I have a personal axe to grind with each and every one of them.

But you know what? They’re wrong; in fact they’ve always been wrong.

If these people who have been portraying themselves as brilliant minds and as intelligent as they claim to be, you know I have yet to see that brilliance.

For a brilliant mind will often follow a straight line of cause and effect without thinking and will shirk its responsibility off into a landmine field and spew forth their anger, hatred and most of all, show their jealousy toward my abilities to tell it like it is and not be afraid of what the future holds once it is out in the open for all the world to see.

Anyone who has ever read what I write in general knows I respond to those negatives and positive factors that fill up my soul like a flaming Molotov cocktail that will be thrown back through the window to the world by myself for positive effect.

The idea of turning a negative into a positive absolutely is deplored by some of these people and in essence, they are the ones with the real personal axes to grind and will stop at nothing to pick-axe their way into a happy soul until it’s splits in half and bleeds to death.

But you know something, folks? I’ve unplugged you because I know how unhealthy you’ve become over time itself. Unplugged, meaning you are no longer significant in my own life history.

There are demons everywhere I step. There are aliens in the shadows who are just that; demonic shadows who have nothing in life to look forward to other than their own putrid bitterness.

And I laugh at their weak stupidity.

Because they deserve everything that they get.

Requiem For Terry Dickerson 1946-2006

I first met Terry Dickerson some years ago through my mom, The Arizona Babe, when she had him as a student in her tutoring days here between 1994 and 1995, long before she and Rex Pater Homo moved to The Valley Of Golden Happiness in 2001. Terry was a well-loved man, very jovial in nature, yet at that point in his life, held onto a very tightly-held secret inside, to which this point only The Arizona Babe was privy to and was able to let go with her.

When Terry made his way through the Alabama educational school system back in the 1950s, he received a poor education, meaning his teachers failed miserably when it came to teaching him how to read, write and understand what he was doing. Sure he got by on what he did know, but that was never enough.

The Arizona Babe saw fit to change all of that and took Terry under her wing and taught him properly. In between those sessions, she and Terry spoke of many things, among them she mentioned to Terry she had four sons, two in particular though that perhaps he could relate to; a musician (Benjy) and a poet (me), but onto Benjy first.

When Terry & Benjy actually met, it was Terry who encouraged Benjy to begin playing the stand-up bass for the jazz band that Terry was newly forming. Terry was a seasoned jazz drummer who had gigged with the likes of Howling Wolf, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Dave Brubeck, Fred Anderson, Billy Brimfield & others. Terry was even offered a spot to play in the world famous Sun Ra Arkestra, but had to turn it down as he was starting to build a family with his wife Yvonne.

And that’s what Benjy did for the longest time, play stand-up bass and learn the tricks of the trade for jazz that is. And Benjy learned them well, I might add as I saw the band perform a number of times locally. But I do have to agree with my brother Benjy when he often said Terry was a little too critical of him and his bass playing, especially when he so unprofessionally criticized him in front of an audience while onstage.

While Terry played well most of the time, it was his lack of management skills that impeded him most of all. Yet for Benjy, being nurtured by Terry was indeed a blessing in disguise.

Perhaps it was those dogged management skills that Terry lacked that caused my brother Benjy and the rest of his band mates to quietly abandon Terry and form their own jazz group, that has led them to places far greater than Terry could ever imagine.

Terry always asked Benjy, “How’s Charlie?” referring to me. This particular phrase has found its way into our staple of memorable phrases between us, which leads me to my personal relationship with Terry, was that of writing and sharing poetry, which we didn’t get to do all that much.

Early on, The Arizona Babe had given Terry a collection of my poems, which from all accounts, he enjoyed very much. Terry’s writing style was along the lines of the June-moon-spoon genre, not my favorite kind of writing style, but when you’re a musician writing lyrics, it seems to be an easier way to write. I only know of two poems that Terry wrote, one to my mom, The Arizona Babe, which she displays proudly in a blue frame in her home and “Bebop Valentine,” which was published in the Evanston Roundtable newspaper, nearly 15 months ago…

Be Bop Valentine

Be Bop, Be Bop, Be Bop
Wake up, wake up, friends.
Faithful friends
Good friends
Best of friends...
Make new friends and keep the old.
Be Bop, Be Bop
In praise of friends
Right here
Over there
And everywhere...
Friendship is love without wings.
Be Bop, Be Bop
Friend, won't you be my Valentine?

Terry once gave me the opportunity to perform one of my poems at a gig, but I wisely declined, for I primarily didn’t feel it would be fair to the other members of the band, but you see; Terry was always like that, giving friends and strangers good solid opportunities when the situation presented itself.

Over the years, I heard a lot of stories about Terry, mostly funny stuff that his band mates repeated, including my brother Benjy and also The Arizona Babe, who said that Terry was heavily involved with youth within the city of Evanston and elsewhere.

Terry was always helping children out, giving them the opportunity to be someone special, perhaps something far greater than they could ever know.

The last time I had spoken with Terry was not more than six months ago. It was a brief conversation and he seemed distant and tired; that’s what kidney dialysis and diabetes was doing to him, destroying him slowly. At least our conversation was pleasant and he seemed happy to have heard from me.

It was late last week when I received the phone call from my brother Benjy, who informed me that Terry had suffered a massive stroke and had gone into a coma since Easter. He seemed remorseful as we spoke, but then he quipped, “How’s Charlie?” lightening the pensive mood up considerably.

After I hung up with him, I phoned Terry’s wife, who filled me in on the details regarding Terry’s condition. I knew it was fatal when she said “We have to tell Terry that we’ll be fine…”

After giving her my condolences, I hung up with her and sat in deep thought, mostly in a daze. I was asked by an acquaintance shortly thereafter if everything was alright, since I seemed more quiet than usual.

That’s when I broke down crying and spoke of Terry. It was understood right away. These past five days have been sad and difficult for me. Other than stepping out briefly on Sunday, I spent my entire Saturday indoors, sleeping, crying, thinking and praying for Terry and his family.

Earlier today, Terry began his final journey on Earth as he passed over the universe one final time and peacefully settled into the next. Perhaps he’ll catch up with Sun Ra and jam with him and everyone else for that matter.

My heart and prayers go out to Terry’s family and all of his friends.

Terry had so much going for him, it’s just a shame that he left us so early.

I’m gonna miss you, man…

Elegy For Singing Bird

I walk east toward the lake on Belmont Avenue, on the south-side of the street where quaint houses meet dank alleys and two churches are stuffed between each side of the street.

As I make my way up the street on the side of the smaller church, there on the sidewalk lay a wounded grackle. It looks as though one of its wings has been injured or perhaps its leg was broken, but I’m not too sure, as I stare down at it in bewilderment.

I decide not to touch it for fear of being bitten, so I stand there frozen just looking at it, until a Welsh-speaking man stops beside me and asks me what the trouble is.

As I point it out, we both are sad-faced and beyond belief. The two of us watch as the bird helplessly struggles and spins itself around, until finally it is able to stand on its own two legs briefly, but falls back to the ground.

Shortly thereafter, the Welshman and I decide to take the bird and gently push it onto a piece of cardboard, hoping that it will be able to gain flight in mid-air and find its way to a safer ground.

1-2-3 and whoosh! Off the grackle flew…for five seconds and then crash-landed into the middle of Belmont Avenue. At that point we knew full well that the bird was doomed.

Perhaps one of the more pathetic moments was all the people passing us by on the sidewalk not bothering to stop and help as if we and the wounded bird never existed.

Strangely enough, however was the sympathetic action of the drivers who saw the wounded bird and swerved to avoid hitting it. This included a CTA bus. Yet as immense as a beautiful gesture like that was, it also broke both of our hearts.

“I can’t watch this,” said the Welsh-speaking man, as he walked away from the scene and disappeared into a building a few doors away.

In a moment of kindness, we do what we think is best, but perhaps it’s not really that way at all. As I made my way up Belmont Avenue and then onto Broadway, I thought about the bird, hoping upon hope that it would make it through its last breathing moments.

Later that night as the rains fell into my hair and slipped into my eyes as I walked west onto Belmont Avenue from Broadway, I looked toward that same spot that I was at nearly two hours earlier, I saw the pile of feathers and crushed body…and I knew right away that as much as life gives us pleasure, it also takes it away from us in a most dramatic fashion.

I knew that night that the soul of the grackle was in a much better place than its crummy beginnings here on this Earth.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Dad! You Swung So Hard! (For Terry Dickerson)

Good evening and a quick tip of the kippah to you one and all! Well, here we are the second week in May and it feels like the end of winter, that is if you live in the middle west that is. Everything seemed fine until yesterday morning when I received the news of another friend passing over the universe and I truly feel heartsick about his passing, but thankfully, that good old capper is here to easy me into a healing process once again. Having said that, it's time once more for a poem which was previously published in a Chicago jazz magazine called Creativity in 2004. Although it was dedicated at the time to late drummer Elvin Jones, I'm dedicating it to my late friend Terry Dickerson, who was also a jazz drummer. I will be posting a recollections essay in the next few days on Terry. My heart and prayers go out to his family. Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always-always-always enjoy!

Dad! You Swung So Hard! (For Terry Dickerson)

I got a million ideas all running freight 'trane
espresso jazz-jamming outta
my head pouring outta my ears so smoky,
tight & intense...Derails. Traffic
jizz-jam jangle-dangles my collective
thoughts. Makes 'em clear as tears
streaming down my cheeks

Taking The Man’s Money And Stuffing It Their Pockets

Somewhere in Canada this evening, Sunshine is beaming. Not any old Sunshine mind you, but my good online friend Soulmated Sunshine in Canada. She must be beaming at least 1,000 points of light upon hearing the news, that the immigrants’ reform movement has adopted the Neil Diamond song, “America.”

Even Neil Diamond was elated upon hearing the news and was quoted as saying, “I’m delighted…That’s what it’s (the song America) is there for…”

There was formerly a period of time when companies and campaigns, be they political, humanitarian or otherwise, would create their own songs and perform them for the soul purpose of selling their point of view to the general public.

There are virtually hundreds upon hundreds of examples of these commercials available, as a great many of them can be easily heard on recorded radio broadcasts, commonly referred to as “old-time radio.”

In the late 1980s, the atmosphere seemed to change for the worse. Beer manufacturers began to approach mega star artists, musicians & bands for permission to use their songs to promote beer.

During an interview I conducted with the band Pussy Galore in 1987 at Gaspar’s (now Schuba’s) in Chicago for my then-fanzine Cops Hate Poetry, I recalled quite fondly this conversation I was having with band members Julia Kaiference, Bob Bert & Royal Trux on the subject of messages within the context of songs.

It was what Bob Bert said on that day that has stuck with me for nearly 20 years and that is, “I’m more offended by Phil Collins singing a song and then selling it to a Michelob commercial," though I think he meant Eric Clapton. Nonetheless, once familiar songs heard on records, tapes and the radio, were showing up as backdrop music as beer jingles.

And it didn’t stop there; it extended to banks, financial institutions, car commercials, fast food restaurants, hotel & motel lodges, hospitals, insurance agencies, political campaigns, lingerie, sports programs, sporting events and virtually anything else one could think of selling products with or to.

Now, dinosaur bands, musicians & artists like James Brown, The Clash, Bob Dylan, Beethoven, Bach, The Rolling Stones, Aerosmith and (shudder to think!) The Beatles & Paul McCartney can gain an entire new fan base, due to the increased exposure of their music to a wider audience.

Unknown bands also get a shot, a long-shot at that to promote mutant wares, as well as their singing & playing abilities too. Few too many make it to the top.

Then there are also companies that will use jazz music to promote their stuff, rather as some say, background music, kind of like the way jazz is currently promoted in coffee shops, both independent & retail.

Perhaps we can term it as the allurement of window dressing to lure the customer in to buy their stale baked goods and overpriced burnt coffee that tastes like 12 melted brown crayons in hot water.

What a terrible way to wreck absolutely good music by mass-prostituting it to a narrow-minded public, who has to be teased, tormented and beaten into submission to buy, buy, buy what is often labeled as jazz, but is nothing more than crap on a manufactured compact disc overly-priced just to pay the rent.

What geniuses! What smart-guys! What brilliance! What a way to move stagnant music nobody in their right mind would buy…oops; I mean what beautifully composed lyrics and melodies, finely packaged and priced right that is with purchase of a cup of coffee and a muffin…

Makes me want to puke when I have to hear how much money is far more important than the contents of the music itself. It’s all about the money, taking the man’s money and stuffing it into their pockets, is what big business promotes day in, day out.

Seems to be far more emphasized than the pure enjoyment of music itself…well, I suppose the RIAA (Record Industry Association of America) has to recoup their losses somehow…ridiculous!

Keep on disc burning, baby, keep on disc burning!

From The MishegasMaster Archives-Spooky Ouija Board Notes

Once in a while I come across various bits and papers in my MishegasMaster writing archives and tonight's find is no exception dear readers. Back in the late 20th Century, (late 1980s-early 1990s) I used to play Ouija Board a lot with mostly women friends. Only once did I contact a spirit, but that's another blog for another time.

In the meantime, tonight's entry is a handful of Ouija Board notes. Take a gander and try to read between the lines, dear readers...

"To see him and to learn how. Quit fooling around, Uda."

"This is stupid."

"Fine, it b kool here, sombre...state of Hurst."

"X is the letter for rats."

"You can do all these things; I judge you camp dead."

"If Hilton of time can come through the gates of hell and the leopard in the woods is sin; all is well. I know your hug is fine."

"We will see beyond you."

"Your hope is here, I know it..."

Fight! Fight! Fight! Some Boys And Their Bites!

There are very few things I don’t enjoy in the very thread of my own existence and one of those things is fighting with someone over ceaseless and pointless battles over silly stuff.

Debates are different. Discussions are different, but arguments? No! They can often be bloody, cruel, and heartless and often times people devote an awful lot of energy to a ball of nerves that cannot be resolved.

God only knows I had a lot of those kinds of violent fights with my brothers and sister when I was growing up and past my college years too In fact, if I think about it, there were just too many to count and attempting to understand them would take time, but that’s another blog for another time.

Even now, some of my more liberal friends love to fight with me. When I say liberal though, I don’t mean democratic or left-wing, I mean liberal! That is of course, meaning liberal as in generous with opinions or evidence for the sake of argument.

I’m not sure why Republicans, conservatives and right-wing swingers call Democrats liberals, when some of them can be extremely liberal with their own suitcases full of evidence and opinions!

It would be extremely generous of me to name names of who I barb and joust with on a daily and weekly basis, but I’m not going to do that, for that would please each and every one of them to have their name in my blog-space and thereby, they could send off links and printed copies to all their friends and relatives by the truckload and write brief notes to them that would say; “Hey! I was in the world-famous MishegasMaster’s blog,” but no that’s not gonna happen, not by a long-shot!

And what is it that makes these blood-thirsty vultures so bent on arguing points that will not be so terribly important in years to come?

Does it pay to take psychological swings at your friends and colleagues, knowing all the damage, scars and hurt it will bring? Does having a cock for a brain help? Is power uber alles more important than a good tight friendship that could possibly last for decades?

Only these Bozo-wanabes know for sure. But hell! Stomping out other people’s value systems, ideals, ethics and dreams sure is a lot more fun now, boys, isn’t it?

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Measurement

Well, we've made it! The first week of May, okay! Happy Cinco De Mayo, everybody! It's been a nice healing week for me and I'm glad to see that my good friend Botox Frankenstein is on the mend. Having said that, a hearty good morning and a quick tip of the kippah! The weekend has combined its efforts that sweet little capper, arriving just in time to rescue our energy and refuel us for the coming seven days ahead. Having said that, it's time once more for a golden oldie poem from my poetry e-book, Shortness Of Breath (still available on request through this page). And remember my dear readers, please always-always-always enjoy!


Measurement

You can’t hang onto the past
And still expect to ride into the future
Alone
Change comes from the soul
(And) not from your pockets

Goodbyes Are Never Easy (For Vida Wolk)

In less than one week I will be going through a change in my life; one mentor disappearing into the abyss, while another mentor arrives to take his place, but as that old butchered cliché goes, “(fill in the blank) _____________ is irreplaceable.”

For Vida Wolk, that much I can agree with. I remember the first time I met my mentor Vida Wolk almost a year ago, when my other mentor, Bard Zimmerman was moving onward to the land of apples and honey, liturgical music and ash can bomb insurance and introduced me to Vida.

I wasn’t totally sure of Vida at first, mostly since I was afraid that I would like him too much and that he’d become a good guide in my life and how much I would hate to see him move on when the year was up and Vida would take the next step in his long and fruitful journey.

From the get-go, I knew that Vida was a hip man; after all he knew what throat-singing was and that’s a big plus in my eyes. He was also pretty sensitive to my needs, which for me, these last 12 months has been a truly great transformation, a big metamorphosis and is still happening, as far as I’m concerned.

For those of you who read my blog know what I am referring to, as I almost every movement or action I go thorough, is reported back to you, the reader in some shape, way and form.

As even some more of you might know and understand, I don’t usually share or speak of my most inner deep dark secrets or extremely close encounters I engage in with people I allow within my tight inner circle; whether they stay within for a year or 21 years, that is of course unless they’ve wronged me somehow or have done something extraordinarily well, to which I would praise them highly!

In the year’s time I’ve spent with Vida; rather the time he’s spent with me, I can honestly say he is a kind, hip and funny guy with a sensitive edge, who has a keen sense of spirit that will take him places far better and great than he ever expected to go.

Perhaps he already knows that.

Vida opened me up to different approaches and takes within my own life, that for until whatever circumstances it seemed to fall under, I seemed to fail to see it. He pointed out several alternatives to the basic simplistic approach I was always used to doing or being.

Vida also knew how to corral my intense personality and made a diligent effort to formulate it into a much softer image, without curtailing my other barbed-wire characteristics I tend to display when a stranger or perhaps friend has dared to cross my persona for the umpteenth time.

I’ll miss the brightness of his eyes when he encouraged me; the sneer of his jovial and sometimes sarcastic laughter whenever I’d rattle off some brilliant remark, something he read in my printed copies of my blog or after telling him one of my endless amout of mishegas stories and the determination in his soul when he gently pushed me in the correct direction.

I’m also going to miss voice-blogging with Vida, an invention of his own making; a tool that worked well between us in-between the periods of time when we would not see each other for days or weeks.

I am crying as I write this and believe me, dear friends, I don’t write too many tear-jerking blogs.

Goodbyes are never easy during transitions.

Next week is our last full session together and then it’s off into different directions we fly into. Thanks to Vida I’m a better person and for this I am so grateful.

I’m going to miss Vida so much.

How To Get Rid Of Your Anger Through Scatting

There are days and there are nights when I come home from a long day either from driving away from chaos & disorder and the old Arthus Janov method of screaming doesn't always work, so I turn right to music and channel out my frustrations through throat-singing and through scat music. I suspect most people don't know how to throat-sing, let alone know how to scat. But lo and behold through the miracle of saving old files, I have a simple and dandy little scat chart you can follow. And always remember my dear readers, getting angry and holding it inside, only makes you grow greyer faster and gives you ulcers.

Happy Scatting!

Common Scat Syllables

Scat syllables should reflect the rhythmic articulation. In addition, for melodic sequences, it sounds more natural to use the vowel sounds ah and oo for the lower notes and ee for the higher notes. The closer to the right of the list, the shorter the note length.

Scat Words

Shwee Du Dah Bop
Skwee Ooh Sha Dop
Dwee Shu Wha Vop
Bee Bu Bah Bot
Vee Sku Yah Zot
Zee Vu Vah Dit
Wee Dow Dot
De Duh Yot Shot
Doot Dup Bup Dut
Doot-n Doodle-n Dot-n Dweedle-ee Du-ee-ah

You can start with these as a pattern and make up your own as you go along, in other words, you do not have to follow the patterns above, and you can always create you own spontaneous beat!

I’m Number Eight! I’m Number Eight! (Out Of 75)

“Glad to hear it's coming along for you. Any plans on becoming Poet Laureate? I'd imagine after your present position, anything else would be a major letdown. HaHaHa!” ---Mark Sigler

Well, cats and kiddies, The Second Annual Great Free-For-All was truly a smashing success! Now in case you don’t know what I am referring to, dear readers, between midnight Monday morning, May 1 to midnight Tuesday morning May 2, Poetry Superhighway website creator Rick Lupert made 75 e-poetry books available to download for free within a 24 hour period.

Throughout the month of April, Lupert collected these e-poetry books and near deadline time, he had 57 e-poetry books donated. As the time grew nearer, I decided to partake in the great e-experiment, but I had never created an e-book before, let alone ever understand what a PDF file was, but thanks in part to Lupert’s posted instructions on how to make a book, it seemed as easy as pie.

But I thought which book I would choose and what poems would I use, were the real questions at hand. So I thought for a minute or two and decided to rely on old faithful and used my first & only poetry chapbook, “Shortness Of Breath.” The original hardbound chapbook was 20 poems in length and had a pink front and back cover. The front cover had an illustration of a flower with a rabbit face, illustrated by my good friend, Suzanne Hirsley.

As I stated earlier, making the e-poetry book was simple to create, as all I needed to do was to re-type of the poems, all the original and new booklet information, pick a format and I was set to go!

Not knowing exactly how to format photographs and also realizing I was pushing up too close to the e-book deadline, I decided to forgo the photos and just did a straight type, using “chiller” font. It took me an hour and a half to put everything together before I emailed it off to Lupert early Sunday morning, five minutes after midnight.

When I awoke much later that morning, much to my surprise, an additional 18 e-poetry books (including mine) had been submitted, totalling out to 75 e-poetry books.

Yesterday, before I left for work, I must have emailed over 70 people the link where to download the book, plus I posted the link on the Chicago version of Craigslist, but for some unknown reason it was flagged and removed.

When I came home yesterday afternoon, I checked my email and saw I had at least eight responses regarding my e-poetry book, mostly from friends who said things like “thanks,” “congratulations” and even my good pal Srdjan from Belgrade in the former Yugoslavia downloaded my book and promised to read it during the summer; I found it very amusing as I know he’s not an avid poetry reader, yet was thrilled nonetheless!

During the 24 hour period, I too, downloaded approximately 38 e-poetry books too, my favorite being by Jim Bennett, called “Elvis In Liverpool.” I too will make time soon to read all of those e-poetry books and perhaps review them here on my blog.

This morning, Lupert posted a list on his website of how many times each e-poetry book was downloaded. Although there was no official Top Ten List of the most downloads per e-poetry book, according to his list, my book was downloaded a total of 37 times, which came to being number eight out of 75 e-poetry books, which isn’t bad at all. Just think of it this way, 1 & 7/12 per loaded book per hour.

Yes, my dear friends I am tooting my horn on this one, but I deserve to be proud every now and again, don’t I?

For those of you who didn’t get to a chance to download my e-poetry book or would like a copy for yourself, email me in care of this blog (see blog profile for email address) and I’ll be sure that you receive one. You’ll also make me darned happy too!

Thanks to Rick Lupert for making this e-poetry book experiment a positive experience for me and the other poets who participated. Here’s to 2007!

The I’m-M-A-Grants (Sic)

For as many arguments that there are for immigrants rights as there are against foreigners coming into the United States and taking our jobs away, lowering real estate & property values and standing around the streets all day, selling narcotics, just remember one thing; they’ve come here to seek a better life, as opposed to where they formerly came from.

The argument that times were different when our parents and our parents’ parents came to America to escape oppression or other deadly forces bears no fruit and holds no water. They were looking for better and greater opportunities, just as today’s immigrants are, although remaining illegal, certainly don’t help the cause.

When I think about everything I’ve read about or heard from the immigrants of old, their stories both colorful and harrowing are much the same as today’s immigrants, more so being taken advantage of and being looked down upon as a lower class of people, as if they were aliens to us naturally-born Americans.

But you know they’re not.

Even as we give ourselves fancy sub-titles like Afro-American, Arab-American, Irish-American, Filipino-American, Serbian-American, Polish-American, Russian-American, Mexican-American, Jewish-American, Native-American; it doesn’t matter, despite your roots intact. You’ll always have your roots. No one can take those away from you, despite what others tell you or want you to believe.

My mom, The Arizona Babe attended the graduation ceremony yesterday for the US Citizenship class she’s been co-teaching for the past two months, with another teacher in The Valley Of Golden Happiness.

Only two days earlier, she read to me over the phone the commencement speech that she was to give to the graduates of the class. She was so excited yesterday as she was getting ready to leave and I couldn’t be more proud of her and her students.

That’s teamwork for you. The Arizona Babe, her co-teacher friend and their students, who WANT to become American citizens of our sovereign nation. It was a great day for them all.

But back to the matter at hand; it’s so easy to gripe and complain and bitch and it’s also very easy not to do anything about those complaints. But those folks are in the minority, as perhaps as many as several million marched around the world in cities and villages, listened to speeches and remain hopeful that their voices could be heard for their rights.

In the meantime, maybe those who want to stay here, pay their taxes and learn to live within their means will work toward becoming US citizens.

I only hope those that participated in today’s marches & demonstrations, will keep true to their word and make it mean something, instead of just another lame excuse to have gotten out of work, school or worse still, just another story to tell the grandkids when they reach the oldster stage.

For those of you who know someone that is considered immigrant status, encourage them to become American citizens; it doesn’t mean they have to give up their roots or their natural born instincts, but if they want to stay here and be entitled to the same rights we American citizens have, then that time is now to move ahead.

Square one doesn’t look as pretty on the opposite side of the fence, now does it?