2 Jews Beat Poets-Act III: Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor; The Last Pre-Tour Date Before The Actual Tour Begins!

It's Sunday morning, right about 8am; my cellphone has already buzzed three times. It’s my big brother Louie, leaving behind messages something to the effect that the Chicago Cubs have just been shut out of the divisional playoffs by the red-hot Arizona Diamondbacks the night before.

I’m up early because today is the day I’ve been waiting for a couple of months. Two performance dates; the first is set for the late afternoon downtown at the Chicago Cultural Center as part of John Cage's Music Circus Chicago 2007, with me and my boys…Furbies that is, plus the band, $2 Cockroach and the other is the evening date, the first night of the 2 Jews Beat Poets 2007 tour at the Green Mill.

It’s slightly after 8:30, as I run outside and make a few final phone calls to both Rat Niptik, the bassist and Dr. Wes Heine, the electronicist, to make sure they are on their way; both reassure me they are.

That’s the only trouble I’m having this morning, is making the calls; both the clouds and the wires don’t seem to want to cooperate. By the time I leave my apartment, it’s closer to 9am.

Walking to the El never seemed so exciting than today, as my backpack is tight, full of flyers, poetry chapbooks, my spoken word CDs and a full water bottle, with a dark green duffel bag slung over my left shoulder while dragging behind me and ever as noisily the baker’s dozen Furbies. It seems longer than usual walking to the El that is and I gather, that it’s probably due to the weight of everything that I am carrying, but all the discrepancies aside, everything else seems okay.

But of course not.

The real trouble begins. As I get to the corner of Main and Sherman in Evanston, I begin to notice the back of my legs and shirt are getting wet and I can’t figure out why, until I put my pack down and realize the water bottle wasn’t shut tight enough.

It’s leaked all over my backpack, causing everything inside to get wet, no drenched including the new and older poetry chapbooks, flyers, business cards and most importantly, the instructions for my band-mates to follow, when we perform this afternoon.

When I finally reach the El station, the security guard tells me that my backpack is leaking and I, out of spite, tell her “My oxygen tank inside my backpack has just exploded and if I don’t get another one soon where I’m headed for, I’ll simply die.”

She doesn’t believe me, as she angrily tells her friend on her cell she was gabbing to for several minutes before it looks like as I came in, that she has to call her back because of my wetness, silently grabs a mop and wipes the cement floor from where I’ve just passed through and shoots me a dirty look. I just smile.

Once I get upstairs, I rearrange my backpack and salvage what I can and put the rest into my duffel bag. The Furbies are still causing a ruckus, but nobody seems to notice, as the Purple Line train pulls up and I get on.

The only person who seems to notice the disturbance they are making is an older black man, who stares at the suitcase in which they’re housed in to see if I really do have an Asian child locked inside.

The train makes one more stop and then pulls into the Howard El. I wait about 10 more minutes until a long empty Red Line train pulls into the station, opens its doors and lets its waiting passengers in.

As more people get on the train, I notice they are carrying signs. Then it hits me; I forgot today is also the day of the Chicago Marathon, a smorgasbord of sweaty runners and their own personal cheering squads to encourage them toward the finish line.

Many are wearing homemade tee shirts with their runners of choice name emblazoned on it, while still others are holding placards and banners to wave up and down at them like a bunch of idiots one usually seems at a sporting event or the Today Show in New York, in order to get on TV. As we arrive at the Belmont stop, scores of passengers load in and I am beginning to feel the crush of frantic human traffic all trying to get to the same place at once and my third problem kicks in.

Claustrophobia.

I feel like a sardine in a tiny tin can on electric wheels. People are talking loudly to each other inside the car, when all of a sudden, my cellphone rings. I look at the number and I see it’s Wes. I tell him that the Furbies were nervous and have peed on me. A couple of people listening to my phone conversation look at me and laugh.

I tell him I’m on the way, but I’ll need to end the conversation as the train is going underground, so I tell him I’ll be there in about 10-15 minutes tops.

Meanwhile, I devise a plan on how I’m going to get out of the crowded train of over 300 plus, a train car that probably is only supposed to hold 100 at the most.

We stop at North & Clybourne, Clark & Division, Grand and Chicago, less people getting off the train and more are getting on. I start to sweat, in hopes I will be able to get out of the packed train with ease.

A few passengers nearby help me out; they will pass my luggage to me and all I need to do is try to finagle my way out of the car. At last, the train pulls into the Lake Street station.

I jump up, grab my luggage and in a loud, projected voice, I yell, “Out please, out please!” swinging my duffel bag like a giant purse, thereby smacking 10 passengers in the process. I apologize and smile as I get out of the stopped sardine can. At last, I am out!

I work my way up the stairs and out onto the upper sidewalk. Down State Street I trod, with luggage and Furbies in tow until I get to Randolph and hang a left and go east. I whip out my phone and call Wes. He’ll be there in 10 minutes, can’t seem to find parking. I tell him no worries.

It’s nearly 11am.

I get closer to the Cultural Center and take a short cut. As I get closer to the steps of the building facing the Michigan Avenue side, I see Rat is already there, waiting.

We talk and go inside to the designated “Green Room” area and sign in. I get a couple of water bottles and we settle in with the varying groups of people. They tell us, that if we leave, our gear will be safe, but Rat wants to see the space we’ll be performing in and asks me all sorts of questions, questions I can’t answer for the moment, as I myself haven’t seen the space up close either.

I tear out a couple of pieces of paper from a yellow legal pad and begin writing out an instructional set list for myself to direct with. It is similar to the one I emailed only days previously to Rat and Wes. My phone rings; it’s Wes; he’ll be there in 5 minutes to unload his gear and then go look for a parking space somewhere in the already altered parking situation in the Loop.

Rat and I head outside and wait for Wes, who shows up shortly thereafter. We grab his gear and wait inside. About 20 minutes later, after Wes has found a parking space, he comes back and meets us and together the three of us ride the elevator to the 4th floor, where we park our gear and move around a little.


We all come back into the space about 2.30pm with our requested gear; an extra table for the Furbies. Meantime, curious onlookers want to get inside the suitcase where they are housed temporarily, to see them all.

As the time gets closer to our slot, I notice that the group ahead of us shows up late, making us even later.

That doesn’t please one man, an older and presumably Jewish gentleman who has come to the show just to see me perform and insists I tell them to stop playing, just so he can see me perform and then move onto another performance he wants to see.

I politely tell him I can’t do that and it only makes him angrier and insists I do it. I tell him it’s not my call and sure enough, he flashes me a “dirty Jew” look, the kind of look I used to get by non-Jews when I attended grade school in the middle 1970s.

We begin setting up shop and about 3:10pm, we begin performing Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor. Rat and Wes take direction very well, as they fly hard on their instruments, trying to get my little Furbies to speak up.

After a couple more minutes and a few more set changes, the Furbies are taken out of their suitcase cage and placed onto the table, one by one.

A crowd forms, waiting to see what will happen next.

Not much does, as the Furbies actually cooperate with me, Rat and Wes for a change.
This almost never happens when they remain silent.

A true miracle indeed.

The performance ends. We take our bows and then let the Furbies bow.

As if they ever could.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act II: Strangers In The Night

There’s a certain special affinity I held for audiences that came to our shows all throughout our 2 Jews Beat Poets Tour 2007 earlier this month; they were all strangers.

I get along easier with strangers. God only knows it’s harder for me to get my friends to come to any of my shows and when they do come it’s a total surprise.

As in unexpected.

Planning for this tour was a challenge; a challenge I was up for and succeeded at with flying momentum.

But when it came to friends coming out to a show; well, that was virtually harder than taking candy away from a baby and giving it to Jesus Christ.

Lots of people promised they’d come out to support me, but…always that big but; they couldn’t. Something about having to work late into the night and getting up the next morning and then were the promises of co-workers who said they would come and didn’t bother to show up.

I quit asking co-workers a long time ago wherever I worked; just would mention it sort of off-the-cuff to closer co-workers than others. Enough had seen me to know what they wouldn’t be getting; something atypical of what they’re used to seeing.

So, when it came to this tour, I sheepishly and perhaps foolishly blabbed about it a little too much to co-workers. Enough people knew about it, but hell! Only two people showed up; my bass player came to two gigs, other than the pre-tour Sunday show at the Chicago Cultural Center in downtown Chicago during the John Cage festival, amidst the overheated runners from the annual Chicago Marathon, that became national news due to the death of a runner from Michigan and mismanaged plans.

Then there was the man I’ll refer to as “Dizzy Diz.” He’s the man that pushed me to try a class at the Peoples Music School in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago this past summer.

Dizzy Diz came to the Green Mill show the night of October 7 and had his socks knocked off; raved about the show as far as I remembered; he was impressed. A music man himself, one of the few men I can talk to at the spit sink almost daily about music in any form and he understands where I’m coming from.

Because I took up trumpet at the Peoples Music School, he calls me “Miles” or “Mr. Yiddish,” which other people refer to me as.


They see my work on YouTube and seem to get enthused, but to make it to a show?

Impossible.

Something always comes up. Excuses like, “I had to wash the cat” or “I saw you & Mykel (Board) performing, but I just didn’t bother to come in.”

I’m not saying friends or co-workers show up; they do, but it’s a more often scenario that some won’t come for one reason or another. I am guessing that the individual, who doesn’t show, probably believes it’s all the same; the doldrums of poetry; their inability to comprehend it or even grasp something that is not conventional or bad memories from their educational careers, perhaps.

Maybe it’s professional jealousy. I’ve run across that before and it’s a main reason I don’t mention it to certain colleagues I’ve befriended in the past. They seem to want to support you, but not really; words might soothe and stroke the ego, but in making it a known presence, actions count and by not showing up, the presence statement is almost louder than mere words alone.

My favorite among these folks, is the newly-self-styled film-maker with a Sony camera purchased from Best Buy, whose original use for the camera was for baby films, but has since graduated to fantasy baseball league documentaries and whose new film I’m in; the story based on his life (ugh!) and he had the nerve to tell me, “I’d love to support you, but I have to get up early and go to work.”

Like I don’t daily?

Still, he expects me to be part of his film, while taking off from my regular 9 to 5, cutting into my schedule and work for free.

I don’t think so.

It’s because of that school of thought, that I rely heavily on the kindness on strangers. It’s a way to build-up audiences. Try out new material; see what works and what doesn’t work. I can be myself in front of strangers, which is why I greatly enjoy performing outside my home territory.

They won’t know my work and will most likely be hungry for something innovative and different.

And that’s what I tend to work for, whether it’s an art party in Seattle, Washington, an open mic in New York City, a featured performance in my hometown of Chicago or a couple choruses of throatsinging amongst the silent cactuses and howling coyotes in the deserts of Arizona.

They will listen; listen with intent and curiosity, willingly and hoping to come away with something they haven’t heard before and apply it to their own lives.

That’s my intention. Expect the unexpected. Only then will one learn what is brought to the table and eat.

Eat heartily, that is.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act I: Origins Of A Tour

There’s a time in everyone’s life when you learn a new skill. Mine? Booking a spoken word/performance tour! Never did I think that I would do that, but here I am on the road, somewhere on the road, touring with Mykel Board, headed toward our first destination tonight in Bloomington, Indiana, after having spent the first half of the week performing in Chicago. But let me back up a bit, tell you a bit of history between Mykel & I, tell you about our performance history, a bit of booking experience and a bit of everything else in between!

It’s spring, 2007 & Mykel…no wait, let me back up even further to last fall, 2006, when I arrive in New York City to do a few gigs. Mykel meets up with me as I arrive at the venue via taxicab, with a driver who absolutely hates his job. Don’t we all?

The venue is a small studio on Times Square; I’m one of three features, while Mykel gets up on the open mic portion and reads some of his work. Vivianna Grell the host dubs Mykel, “Mykel Board The Bard.”

That same week, we perform at a friend of mine’s bar, Grey Lodge Pub in Philadelphia, a performance that took us five hours to drive to due to an unusually hard and long torrential rainstorm. That same afternoon, a light plane flying along the Hudson River, piloted by New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle and his flight instructor takes a wrong turn and smacks directly into a 42-story apartment building on the upper east side of New York City, killing both men instantly.

Not knowing if it’s a terrorist attack or not, United States President George W. Bush takes no chances and sends fighter jets to protect New Yorkers. The plane accident ties up traffic for hours…

But back even further to Madison, Wisconsin and Chicago, Illinois, late May, 2005. Mykel’s just published two new books, I-A-Me-Ist & Even A Daughter’s Better Than Nothing and is on a book tour filled with up with Illinois & Wisconsin tour dates.

It’s Mykel who encourages me to go back out on the performance circuit once more after a few years of sitting out, if for no better reason, for at the moment escapes me. He tells me he’s got a gig at the Reversible Eye in Chicago and wants me to be a part of it. So I agree to do it. We both do seemingly well, the audience is extremely polite and attentive and well; looks as if I’m hooked on performing again!

A few days later we drive up to Madison, Wisconsin with another friend, where I open for Mykel at Rainbow Books with a little throatsinging that ends up scaring away four potential audience members. Mykel doesn’t seem too pleased by that, but I figure if I can scare them away here, I can scare them away anywhere and do whatever I please in terms of performance.

Some hours later, Mykel goes on his way and I head over to an open mic with my friend and play an unmemorable, no-rules game of Scrabble in which I get the title for my next (and third) CD, I mean of course, the word, holfatzib.

I discover later that night, as my car radio stops working and to amuse myself and in order to keep myself awake, I sing at least 100 different versions of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” I realize that I am digging what is transpiring...

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>The Greatest Revolution In Birdland!

Well, hello my good friends! A quick tip of the fedora and a great good late evening to you, one and all! Ah, Friday has at long last arrived and yet, it was not the day I looked forward to, but in many ways, it's a day I will long remember and will make me stronger in the days ahead. But, Friday! woohoo! It's come around again and so has our good friend, that crazy, capper to help us lift our spirits high and mighty for the next 48 hours. And speaking of poems, it's brand-spanking-new poem time!!! Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, always, enjoy!!!

The Greatest Revolution In Birdland! (For Jobie Hughes)

Once upon a dream ago
I was a jailed canary bird
Never thought much about flying, just laying eggs and strutting in line with all those other feather-brains.

One day, I heard a young finch's voice, so beautiful, so pure, singing a tune I ain’t never heard before, so I asked this finch where it learned that tune and the finch showed me, note for note, line for line.

I knew something was different, as I felt myself cooing inside, still I had this feeling, I hadn't felt in years.

So I spread my wings and began to fly around my cage, almost clumsily at first, then I got back onto the perch, directly into the line of fire, much to the chagrin of the prison raven's demonic (des) ire.

It was then that I began to sing.
And sing loud and clear.
Sung a song so dear and meaningful, that it rattled the rest of those caged birds, and so it began the greatest revolution in Birdland, that ever ceased to be.

And out of their cages they flew, they strutted, shook a tail feather or two and twittered and tweetered and cheeped and chirped.

And now, I fly and strut and sing on my own.

I looked around to thank that young finch, but it was already gone, flown the coop.

I was glad to have listened, knowing now that I can bail myself out of my nest in a pinch.

Oh! But this finch left me more than an inch, (more like several), still shoveling his poop, with a bag and a winch.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Last Moments Spent With You

Well, hello my good friends, hello! It's been such a very long time since I've made a visit to this space, let alone near my blog in many, many weeks, but I am back! Back with a new look as well, back with brand new ideas, opinions and poems to share with you, one and all! And speaking of poems, here it is Friday! That day that I as well as you look forward to and who should be here waiting for us? Why, it's that sweet capper, ready to take us into a busy & fun-filled weekend, that's who! And yes you guessed it, it's brand spanking-new poem time!!!Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, enjoy!!!

Last Moments Spent With You

I never liked sad endings, so let’s get this over with, just as soon as we can
Though I like it when it’s drawn out,
Nice & slow, so I can savor the last moments and remember, the happiness of the day, for what will seem like a lifetime
And in the end, as this is ending
I can shed a few tears in the brief moments left with you, privately
And thank you for everything
Walk out the door and feel nothing but happiness, while crying a river, then a flood.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>E-Love

Well, hello my good friends, hello! It's been a long time since i've been here, but, this being Valentine's Day, I guess it's as good a time as any to post a poem for you...And yes you guessed it, it's brand spanking-new poem time!!!Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, always, enjoy!!!

E-Love

He made the mistake of letting her break his heart into one million pieces.
Sadistic statistic, e-love baby
He got his signals mixed, sank into the abyss
What is this thing called, e-love?
Online cupid? You expect him to believe that?
One million hearts all screaming out at once?
Well, he's not stupid, he's no dunce.
One million hearts all looking for the same thing,
a big fat wallet and a diamond ring

What Would Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Do?

I spent the latter half of my Saturday night after dinner and took in a long walk to the campus of Northwestern University, not far from my pad. Other than the hundreds of females I saw marching toward the student union as I was leaving, not a whole heck of a lot was going on there, other than movie night. After catching my breath and looking at the lovely artwork within the union, I’d have to say it was relatively dead night at the union.

During my brief sojourn there I noticed an upcoming event for today, which was centered on the celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, a national holiday in the United States.

Lots was happening at Northwestern University, the usual stuff, like speakers, films and other activities that concurred with the *legacy* of Dr. King, yet it got me to thinking; what would Dr. King do today if he saw violence on the upswing in sports? And not just the major leagues either? What would he think about the fact that there’s violence on the field and off the courts?

Dr. King aside for a moment here; the very idea of violence in sports on the upswing is alarming. Something must be done to quell the thirst of violence in sports once and for all, period.

Of the four major sports, baseball, football, basketball & hockey, hockey by far is the most violent, what with constant fighting game after game, blood splashed on the ice, broken noses, black eyes, fistfights, but the fans eat it up, strangely enough.

Then there’s baseball; all it takes is a baseball thrown by a pitcher at the opposing player’s body to cause a fight. A few punches are thrown, both team benches clear and voila! A good old-fashioned fight ensues. By the time it’s over, a few players are ejected from the game, suspended, and fined and that’s about it.

Although football and basketball are seemingly the least violent of the four major sports, that’s starting to slowly change and it’s not necessarily the players who are initiating the fights either.

Enter the fan; the end-all instigator of the newly-renewed violence in sports facilities, especially at baseball and basketball games. Often times the fan will taunt the players anyway they can. That’s nothing new, but to actually taunt the players with malicious intent, including and not limited to jumping on the court or field, showering the athletes with debris or inflict bodily harm, well, that’s just uncalled for.

But the violence doesn’t end there, oh no! The big leagues have passed the savings onto the little leagues too, especially when parents take a swing at a coach, an umpire, another parent or even another child. It’s outrageous!

Just because their offspring didn’t make the cut or are bench-warmers or a call wasn’t made in their favor. Parents’ responsibility should be that of support, not the role of beast-slayer; that’s what coaches are for and always have been for.

Violence does not belong anywhere near sports, period!

What would Dr. King do? Unlike today where sit-ins and demonstrations seem to do little, other than make the evening news in a five-second clip, with an equally effective sound bite, probably nothing.

After all, you can’t hypothetically play guessing games when you’re dead.

New American Yarnprose>Frankenstein Boy Wonder Emerges With New Screw-On Wrists

There are some feelings you try to fight off like a bad cold & you struggle hard to be rid of those germs, but sometimes they never escape you & you come under viral attack in many varied ways.

I’ve been wondering lately where I belong, who I belong to, why I belong, what do I belong for & when I can stop belonging. Thinking too much gives me headaches. Crying too much gives me sadness and frustration & lately I’m full of that.

I’ve been trying to unload a rather old home full of baggage lately, but it’s been frustrating when roots get in the way. The trouble with roots is that they cling to you, like the way vines cling to walls & sometimes pulling these roots out can really hurt, especially if it’s not done correctly.

Within a circle of destiny, there are places I tried to get into, but they were never available; there were opportunities made for me, but I never took advantage of them; there were so many initiatives I tried to make on my own, but I failed, failed miserably & so I withdrew.

And I kept withdrawing. Withdrawing was much easier than facing the world. As I found myself withdrawing more, I discovered a whole new world within myself, but along with that I also found half a dozen other vices that just about ruined me.

Still, everyone needs a fix & lord knows that I have tried every legal fix there is, but it’s only quick & temporary, leaving me desiring more. Those fixes made me sick, putting me into strangleholds I didn’t want to be in, dug holes so deep & wide, that I wondered if I would manage to climb my way out alive.

The strangleholds are harder to slip out of though, because you can strangle yourself for the longest period of time & not even realize what you’re doing, until someone takes you by the hand, stands you next to them & forces you to look into the mirror & shows you how your reflection has become jaded & cracked.

You need new blood. Perhaps a transfusion or an injection of some kind, a shot in the arm that will make you a new person is what they tell you, like say Frankenstein Boy Wonder, a positive, passionate, peculiar person, who might energize an aging skeptical nation full of amazement, ready to take on anything he is handed.

Time is on his side, sometimes, but often as the Frankenstein Boy Wonder gets his feet wet, there are plenty of wolfmen, phantoms and bitter old Draculas, just waiting to take a bite out of him, a him who tries his best to be all positive and happy, because they themselves cannot have those desires and are determined to bring them down to their level, just like a fallen house of cards.

Frankenstein Boy Wonder knows that situations happen for a reason; that success is not overnight & that working out the kinks is far better than taking everything handed to him as is.

There are one thousand, million, billion, zillion, gazillion other Frankenstein Boy Wonders out there, all roaming around, trying to accomplish the same darn thing, with the same darn results, but they fail, due to lack of originality.

And they try to ape him, but can’t.

And he’s so darned glad.

Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! An Occupational Hazard>Act 35

Disclaimer: We become innocent when we are unfortunate. In innocence there is no strength against evil, but there is strength in it for good. What can innocence hope for; when such as sit her judges are corrupted! O God, keep me innocent; make others great! Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that if powers divine our human actions, as they do, I doubt not then their mind of innocence consciousness laughs at the lies of rumor.

Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Sadly, as the shouts rang out in and around the execution chambers recently here on Devil’s Island, it seems as if the execution chambers have been reactivated in the most jovial of spirits.

To listen to The Ozman tell his story just moments before he was led away in shackles amid shouts and cheers of “Do The Oz!” you’d swear they were executing an innocent man.

The Ozman came to Devil’s Island long ago and far away on a trumped up charge of perjury, back in the day when such issues were one-sided and rarely checked, so he was sent up the river for a spell.

The Ozman developed a likeable personality everywhere he stepped, trotted and walked in and around Devil’s Island; that is to everyone except The Most Devine Heart, whom never did see eye-to-eye, rather going for each other’s throats many years ago at the annual Devil’s Island’s Prisoner Men vs. Prisoner Women Softball Charity Game, whose proceeds went to lining the pockets of the most finest of thieves in and around Devil’s Island.

It seems that The Ozman who managed the men’s team, disagreed with a game call made by the game umpire, The Most Divine Heart. At first the disagreement was light, then it became heated; mostly cursive in nature by The Most Divine Heart.

Apparently the play the two were disagreeing about was a deliberate pitch from Lugsy McTurk that turned out to be a bean ball against the head of Danceman Daryl, which knocked him down to the ground flat! That cleared the bench and a brawl ensued.

As Lugsy McTurk was led off the prisoner field, The Toothless Terrorist & Broadcast Betty could be seen moving in and around the crowded field, interviewing other prisoners, who of course were potential witnesses full of details and that always pulled in the attention of The Toothless Terrorist & Broadcast Betty.

In the meantime, the argument became more heated & cursive, when suddenly, The Ozman was ejected from the game. As The Ozman slowly walked off the Devil’s Island prisoner field, he said to himself that “enough was enough,” took a quick look around to make sure the coast was clear, scaled the turned-off Devil’s Island electronic fence and walked free.

During his brief time on the lam, The Ozman worked odd jobs; fixed cars, pumped gas, washed dishes, walked dogs, swept streets and shined shoes, until one day someone recognized him from a “Most Wanted” poster placed on a bulletin board at a local post office near the shop where he shined shoes.

Devil’s Island Upper Prison Brass was notified and The Ozman was promptly arrested, taken back into custody and placed straight back into solitary confinement for several months, until it was deemed he was safe enough to be placed back into the prisoner population once more.

The Ozman turned out to be a model prisoner, kept to himself, but made a few friends along the way, but when the snap decision came down to execute The Ozman quite suddenly, no one was able to stop it.

As The Ozman was escorted down to the execution chambers, prisoners shouted, “Do The Oz!” “Do The Oz!” “Do The Oz!” from every corridor possible, thereby forcing The Most Divine Heart to hear the love of the innocence about to die wrongfully.

When asked if he had any last words, The Ozman turned directly toward The Most Divine Heart, as he was preparing the execution chamber emotionlessly. The Ozman looked at him square in the face and said, “Yeah man, as a matter of fact, I do! Do The Oz! Do The Oz! Do The Oz!”

An innocent man he was.

A Quick Happy New Year Note From The MishegasMaster

It's a reasonable assumption that I haven't been writing that much in the last 17 days, mostly since I have been trying to tie up loose ends from the previous year and it's been rather difficult these past three weeks between sickness and the recent death of a friend's spouse, so before I get carried away with another one of my essays, I'd like to step away from the messy entanglements and wish all of you, my dear readers, a very, healthy & prosperous new year.

In the coming days there will be a few last minute leftovers from the previous year and then from there, on we shove off into the new year, with lots of new stories to share, plus a few new features here in this very space.

Until then, see you soon, gang!

The MishegasMaster

New American Yarnprose: Lefty Dizz And The Morning After>Act One

In the realm of the big picture, the morning after has come and gone and already, I feel sick to my stomach. I actually slept straight through the night for a change, but my mind is laden with such heavy decisions now.

Not that it wasn’t before, but this time it’s very life-altering, changes that would take me far beyond what I have always been used to in previous years. I live a simple life now; as simple as can be. I go to the harvest, come home from the harvest and do whatever I feel is necessary to live out the rest of the gospel based on the harvest.

The last two weeks haves been very difficult, as I’ve been dragged down from walking right into a black sea of pneumonia, stuffed up with a bad head cold and in general, unable to function properly.

It’s cost me dearly: two lost weeks of no writing anything; no poetry, no essays, no songs, no nothing! Still the flow of ideas bubbled over in my brain, but now, now it’s the long morning after: Fidel Castro is extremely sick, more American soldiers are being blown to bits by another god-damned homemade bomb in Iraq for George W. Bush Junior’s “Quagmire For Freedom,” retail stores are cashing in on day-after Christmas sales and like everything else, it’s business as usual.

But is it really? I feel less grim. I had a great night at the neighborhood saloon with my pals the other night, one of the best nights I had in years, coming home sloshed with a girl on each arm and the antics that followed, hoo-boy!

It’s the morning after and I feel sick, upset stomach I think, though maybe it was stress and not the effects of the booze in my head. I get some shortbread and that does the trick, turns the key in the keyhole and I’m ready to face the day, though the day is the night and another night, the night after the morning after, is bound to be adventurous!

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Secret Stories

Good extremely late evening to you one and all! A quick tip of the kippah and yes, it's Friday! Here we are in the second week of December and only 14 more shopping days until my birthday! Our friend, the happy capper has been waiting patiently all day to take us into a busy weekend! And now, yes you guessed it, it's brand spanking-new poem time!!!Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, always, always, enjoy!!!


Secret Stories

If you let me kiss your lips
I will tell you stories with my tongue
When you tell me I'm a bad little boy and you bite my ears,
I will bite you back, so have no fear
Oh! You ask me, do you love me?
Oh! You want me, like I want to get inside your heart oh-so-much
It is clear
I need no crystal ball
I know where my future lies,
All snuggly in your arms asleep

Post-Partum New York Stories>Act Three: Strawberry Fields Forever

Earlier today, marked the 65th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, while tomorrow marks the 26th anniversary of the murder of musician John Lennon. In light of these two tragic events, I’d like to share something positive that occurred while I was in New York City back in October.

It was a relatively warm day in Central Park, as I walked briskly to Strawberry Fields, specifically to a spot I call Imagine Circle, a site that was dedicated several years ago by Lennon’s widow, Yoko Ono, which has turned into a memorial where fans of Lennon can gather and assemble peaceably in quiet reflection.

It was sometime after 10 am, on Monday, October 9, 2006, when I watched the day slowly unfold. Self-designated Unofficial John Lennon Celebration Day organizers had already begun setting up shop and I snapped a few photos, as the organizers were confronted by Central Park Rangers & representatives from the New York City mayor’s office, explaining to the organizers that on no uncertain terms would they allow, according to the mayor’s office, “no electric or acoustic guitars or any other instruments,” still the Rangers and the mayor’s office said, “a capella music would be allowed.”

After the Rangers departed, the organizers made a quick plan, whereas one man acted as lookout scout for signs of the cops in case trouble brewed, while the other men began to set up shop.

Not a moment was wasted as musicians with acoustic guitars began arriving in droves, as well as people came trickling in little by little, until a small crowd gathered to celebrate the birth of one of the greatest men to ever step in front of a microphone with a guitar in his hands and a song in his breath, but would often yell gibberish into a microphone, yet the whole world listened.

The songs were all familiar; they were his songs, along with his writing partner’s songs and sometimes his band mates’ songs, plus the songs he wrote and recorded after he split on a permanent basis with his band mates.

Those songs were written for pure enjoyment, but as you listened to each song, they expressed compassion, love, pain, happiness, hilarity, sadness, depression, silliness, innocence, color and finality.

Wherever he and his band mates went, so did the overabundance of the screaming girls and cops and never enough time to enjoy their privacy. Ah, such was the life of a musician who wanted to be heard and listened to differently than all the rest. He most certainly was, as fans would hang onto his every word and every breath he omitted from his lips.

Sometimes, his words got to the best of him, taken out of context and then he’d have to apologize to everybody saying that wasn’t what he meant. He was so used to it back then. After him and his band mates split, he and wife kept on making statements, whether they were appropriate or not and took the consequences of his words in stride and didn’t care what the critics though, just as long as they heard the message loud and clear.

The crowd kept on growing all afternoon, swelling to almost 600 people, 10 deep within the Imagine Circle, as I stood on my feet singing for nearly seven hours, throat dry, while sucking on slippery elm, but it was those words and his music that kept me fueled. I even saw my old friend the Howard Stern impersonator within the crowd.

At approximately 3:30 Eastern Standard Time, the song Strawberry Fields Forever, started to be strummed by at least one dozen guitarists, accompanied by a portable keyboard, light drumming and over 550 voices.

As the vocals grew louder and more distinct, without warning the sunshine that we felt on our faces all morning and afternoon was suddenly blotted out for the entirety of the song and the whole of Central Park. Oohs and ahs echoed throughout the crowd when that occurred and just as the song wound down to the final chords, the sun had mysteriously came back from whence it disappeared.

Stranger still, was that the 3:30 time factor, for it was also the approximate age (33) that Jesus Christ had died. Could John Lennon have indeed predicted the truth that The Beatles were bigger than Jesus and proved his point by blotting out the sun?

A lot of us in the crowd wondered aloud and to ourselves as to what had just happened, but all in all, we knew that indeed someone was listening to us, listening to our message of love and appreciation of the man and his music.

And the man, whomever he was, had definitely approved.

Merry Christmas? Try Merry Axe Mess!

"All nature is a gigantic struggle between strength and weakness, an eternal victory of the strong over the weak..." Adolf Hitler, Christmas, 1944

This time of year seems far more gloomy for me than any other time of year, but not because it’s the end of the year and this is right about the time I’m making my year-end assessments of what good and bad I did or didn’t do, no! It’s more like having to deal with the disease of Christmas and watching others behave irrationally, based on the holiday itself.

I’m so fed up with the same dreadful old crap, that I’ve even switched radio stations to avoid getting bombarded with messages of Buy this! Buy that! Buy this useless piece of crap, when I first wake up in the morning.

And that’s a problem whether one realizes this or not; perhaps people have built-in immune systems to ward off the commercialism of Christmas, mine comes and goes in spurts, but it’s everywhere I turn, from the workplace, to the gas station, to the next door neighbor’s house, to Internet banners.

There’s such a slick phoniness to Christmas and the complaints that circle it like Conestoga wagons and though mine might sound that way, mine are of a legitimate concern because as much as anyone can stomach with their eyes and ears, it’s really nothing more than a carefully planned attack by CEOs of mega-corporate companies and retail giants along with their public relations teams who carefully execute their plans so as to not miss their mark or targeted audience, who buy their mutant wares that are manufactured in other lands for a relatively cheap rate and keeps them rolling in the dough, all fat and happy, while the lowly consumer becomes penniless and ends up paying for a piece of crap that falls apart in days and pays for it the next six months.

It is often said that Christmas is designed for children, but whoever said that was lying through their pearly whites, because everywhere you travel, the message is quite clear, buy, buy, and buy more.

“I need this Harry Potter DVD,” says Cousin Mitch. “I want this GG Allin CD,” says uncle Lew. “I’ll just simply die if I don’t have Sony PlayStation3,” says Brother Jason. “I’m gonna kill myself if I don’t get a new set of golf clubs this Christmas,” says Father Tim.”

What is the one universal message that comes out of all those wants and needs?

Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Christmas has nothing to do with buying gifts for family or friends. It has more to do with the celebration of the birth of the savior Jesus Christ. Somewhere along the line, Christmas became distorted, interpreted badly, exploited by the big business monkey who have robbed and ridiculed the simple of idea of Christmas totally.

It’s a hijacked holiday as far as I’m concerned, full of competition; changes people into greedy evil monsters for approximately one and a half months, until the first of the year and then those feelings of joy splatter like loose bowel movements into the toilet bowl until they turn back into hard stool full of grim and ugly facial expressions, ready to spew anger, disappointment and dismay because all of those Botox Frankenstein-like injections that they were given in early November to appear happier, have all petered out.

Yes, there is no Merry Christmas; it’s more like Merry Axe Mess and we have corporate America to thank for that. God bless America, the land of several million gentle souls all marching to the beat of corporate attitude and spend, spend, spend and never get out of debt. I doubt Jesus Christ would have liked what he would have seen, if he were walking on this earth today.

Heil Wal-Mart! Heil Sears! Heil Tweeter! Heil Sony! And Heil to all those other corparations who couldn't give a fuck about all those American jobs that they exported just so they could save a little pocket change!

Makes me want to puke.

The Hiss Within A Leak Within A Crack: An Occupational Hazard>Act 34

Disclaimer: Beware of the little expenses; a small leak will sink a great ship. One leak will sink a ship: and one sin will destroy a sinner. We are eager to tunnel under the Atlantic and bring the Old World some weeks nearer to the New; but perchance the first news that will leak through into the broad, flapping American ear will be that the Lucia The Magnificent has the whooping cough. We seldom lose our faith by a blow out, usually is just a slow leak. We must have infinite faith in each other. If we have not, we must never let it leak out that we have not. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that lying down and listening to the crabgrass grow, is like listening to babies who leak at both ends; the drips, the leaks and the dew drops do catch up with each other eventually.

It is often said that there is slickness to The Most Divine Heart, a slickness that tends to ease up once certain criteria is in place, say like something pleasing to the eyes or ears. Mass confusion consumes the tragic priest, but unlike the Lochness Monster or The Jersey Devil that is rarely seen, The Most Divine Heart makes sure it is seen, heard, felt and will stop at nothing to punish the innocent and praise the guilty.

One might believe that the opposite would be true, but not for The Most Divine Heart. While the feelings appear to be mutually gratifying, underneath the surface of it all, there appears to be a leak within the system, a crack within the pipes and a slow hiss that can be heard throughout the echoing walls on Devil’s Island.

A hiss so loud, that The Most Divine Heart is doing its best to cover it up. Ah, the cover-up! Even Laurel & Hardy, The Marx Bros., Abbott & Costello & Borat combined, can do a far better job of covering up than The Most Divine Heart!

But that doesn’t matter; The Most Divine Heart has its work cut out for it; but to help with its campaign of misinformation, Broadcast Betty & Dirt-Dishing Daisy are already spreading the foundation quickly with false rumors, left behind or perhaps designed to trip up the most hardcore of prisoners on Devil’s Island.

Tripping up prisoners is nothing new for The Most Divine Heart, as it has spent most of its life averting, diverting, skirting and otherwise avoiding the inevitable, that yes, someone else knows what it is up to and that not only tripping up tactics combined with false punishment and misinformation is cause for celebration!

So let us rejoice! Rejoice in the mere fact that punishment is good! False information is excellent! Still, covering up a crack in the pipes is merely a temporary fix. A temporary fix, added onto so many other fixes, piled high and deep, until the original fix is compounded by complications and unknown pressure.

And once the pressure starts to mount and mount further, there’s no telling when the leak will balloon up, explode and expose the nasty hiss that’s been hidden all this time. The Most Divine Heart has been avoiding this moment for so long, but then again, how does one know for certain? The nasty hiss is mirrored in its eyes; etched in its brain; spoken in its swagger; stained within its swaddle!

Yes, that is how!

You can see it for yourself when The Most Divine Heart passes by with its ominous stare of doom and despair; a look that Broadcast Betty & Dirt-Dishing Daisy seem to have adopted quite handily when they scour Devil’s Island for miniscule clues or mindless details on any given subject matter.

The Most Divine Heart wants to make itself known, other than what it is, but in order to do that, it must work harder to rid itself of its nasty demons, such as the demons that persist in its mind; snap at its heels; flail upon it every chance that it opens itself up for.

Far too late to hide the hiss, the hiss has exposed more than The Most Divine Heart would want to show in its hand.

Devil’s Island lifer Lucia The Magnificent sums up the situation at hand like this, “Exposure of the skin is the greatest single weapon one can use in destroying its enemies.” Lucia can be so brilliant at times, so very brilliant.

For The Most Divine Heart, having a hiss within a leak within a crack is thrice what could have been forecasted and in a way, that’s kind of cool.

For many know, the future on Devil’s Island is unpredictable, yet that being said, The Most Divine Heart knows what it must do to keep afloat. Its days are numbered, dark and mysterious. God help the day when the hiss is awakened like a dormant volcano and spews forth its wrath upon all those that crossed its path previously.

That could only happen in one place; Devil’s Island!

Death Comes In Threes: The Slow Demise Of The Retail Music Shop

This past weekend, I drove out to one of the northwest suburbs to go and trade some musical stuff for store credit at Music Recyclery, only to find out to my disappointment and dismay, that after several years of being an anchor to a particular mall, that the shop was closing its doors for good.

Similarly, Tower Records declared bankruptcy and decided to shut down all of its retail locations worldwide. Midway in the year, a favorite local record shop hang out of mine, Hi-Fi Records in Evanston, close to work also closed its doors for good.

Sign of the times sadly, but I still don’t get it, once pride-beloved record shops, where we used to wait with anticipation for the latest hot band/heartthrob’s new single/album to arrive, are folding up little by little, until one day, all record shops will soon be shadows of the past.

I first discovered Music Recyclery a few years back when there used to be a plethora of used CD/vinyl shops along the Belmont/Clark/Halsted/Broadway corridor in Chicago. I had just come from Reckless Records, a record shop that prides itself on carefully picking and choosing carefully only the finest & best and leaves you holding the bag, literally!

So, after getting a pithy amount of store credit, I stopped inside Music Recyclery and unloaded everything else I had and received a much better store credit from them and of course I was hooked!

The CD stock wasn’t exactly all that great, but as I learned later on, the stock varied depending on which neighborhood you were in. Of the many finds in those shops, I always found that the most extraordinary, were the CDs in the jazz, vocals & easy listening sections, as they seemed to be virtually untouched.

That weekend, as I entered the store, the prices had been slashed to $2 per CD, plus the ever-popular buy one get one free CD was set in place. What a great deal I thought, as plowed my way through hundreds of no-name bands and eventually found enough CDs to make me happy…at least for the next few weeks.

According to management, the only stores that will remain open are the ones strategically placed throughout the Illinois Tollway System’s Oasis’s and the web-store, which is good, considering I still have a considerable amount of credit left with them.

Similarly Tower Records, a mainstay in the retail music industry for at least 30 years, decided to close their doors too and of course it was bargains galore, once the store closing announcement was made.

It turned out, the weekend I was there, Thanksgiving weekend; the deals were sweet and sharp, with plenty of good music still to be had. The discount went deep; 40 percent off of any CD, plus if you bought four CDs, you get a fifth CD free, depending on the cost of the lowest-priced CD. That is a great deal by far, plus I picked up a bunch of great music and saved a load of dough to boot!

For all the good that Tower Records has done, I believe the greatest service they provided me with, was when they took my fanzine, Cops Hate Poetry on consignment for a few issues. Overall, Tower Records was extremely open-minded when it came to the plethora of fanzines on the market, both great and small, and dared to carry them, long before giant retail stores would have ever considered carrying them.

On Memorial Day weekend of this year, local CD/vinyl music shop Hi-Fi Records in Evanston on Central Street closed its doors forever, sadly due to its poor sales figures purportedly noted by the shop’s owner, who has a shop in Chicago. Most items in there were reasonably priced, plus they had a freebie box, always overstuffed with magazines, vinyl, posters, CDs, promo items and other cool stuff.

It’s sad when you think about how decent record shops with good knowledgeable staff, great selections reasonably priced are going the way of the dinosaur, closing up little by little, just like good jobs that are shipped out overseas for cheap labor.

Pretty soon there will be nothing left, but giant corporate mega-world music shops, where all the prices will be the same and everyplace will carry the same thing.

Hmm, funny sort of thing, it’s already being done as we speak. It’s called progress.

The City Of Evanston Throws A Snow Emergency Party And I Wasn’t Invited!

Thursday afternoon, winter weather advisory, six to 16 inches possible…oh shit!

I’ve just moved to the city of Evanston within the last few months from next door neighbor Skokie and already I’ve experienced the maximum that any person could possibly experience, both good & bad. But nothing could have prepared me for the snow emergency that was declared this past weekend in the city of Evanston and the aftermath that followed.

Thursday afternoon most Chicago radio stations forecast a winter storm warning consisting of everything that I didn’t want to hear; snow, more snow and even more snow for the entire listening area.

So I prepared for it righteously. I called my landlord the day of the impending forecast and asked him where it would be *safe* to park in the neighborhood. He told me where it was generally safe to park and where specifically to avoid, both being ticketed & towed.

By all means he told me, avoid Asbury Street, he said.

After I arrived home Thursday evening, I parked in the safe area. I got home, laid out my winter clothes, made my lunch and even went to sleep early, a rarity for me on a Thursday evening. My logic was simple; get to work on Friday in one piece and not slide all over the road.

The snow was expected after midnight, so I had an even break; just barely. Strangely, I awoke at 3 am, slipped on a pair of jeans and went up to the lobby of the building to survey the damage. It didn’t look that bad, I told myself and went back to bed. Two hours later, I awoke again and it looked as if the snow was getting heavier, so I decided to get ready, clean off my car, start the engine and let it warm up.

I left my apartment at 6 am and went according to schedule. At 6:15, I saw a local taxicab do the unthinkable; the driver attempt to do a U-turn by turning into an icy, snow-covered alley and then back out halfway, but of course, the car became stuck in the snow.

As I watched him struggle, I walked over to him gingerly and asked him if he needed a push. At first he declined, but then when he saw he was spinning, he gladly accepted the offer. He asked me in broken English, “You want drive car?” I politely declined and give him a good firm shove and out he went from the alley and into the street. As I walked back to my car, he passed me, honking at me enthusiastically, as I gave him a thumbs-up for good measure.

I brushed the snow off my car with my gloves & the extra snow brush I brought along with me & once the car felt nice and toasty inside, I prayed that I’d get to work safely, pushed the automatic stick to *D* (drive) and off I flew. But I didn’t fly that fast, more like 20 miles an hour, with a line of cars in back of me, none to happy I suppose.

But, snow is snow and it’s one kind of weather I don’t mess with. I made it to work in record time, 45 minutes ahead of schedule; I took no chances and waited inside my car and took several dark and terribly bad photos of the street near my workplace.

The rest of the day flew off without a hitch; it was a light work day & not that many people came in nor were there a lot of cars on the road neither. People at last heeded the advice of both the weathermen & newscasters; avoid driving if you can; take public transportation if at all possible. This time it had worked.


By the time the work day had ended, the roads were clear. It looked so picturesque outside, almost like a picture postcard from the early Twentieth century. And thinking it that the roads were clear, I parked in front of my building as did a few other cars; on Asbury Sreet.

The next afternoon, as I went to start my car and get my afternoon going, I found a ticket attached to my driver’s side car door; due to a snow emergency the city had declared & according to the sign, I wasn't supposed to park there and yep; I was ticketed accordingly.

When I spoke to a Evanston police officer that afternoon, after picking up an item from Freecycle, the officer explained to me that since the city was still on the *declared* snow emergency, that was the reason I received the ticket, even if the street had been cleared.

That didn’t make any sense to me and I told the officer that it seemed as if that was interpretive law, meaning that those in charge could make and bend the law to their liking. The officer then told me that I was lucky I wasn't towed. I agreed and hung-up.

In late September, when several funnel clouds were reported in the area, tornado air raid sirens were sounded. When it comes to snow it seems we citizens have to find things out on our own. I guess snow is far less destructive, other than the fact that a person can get frostbite or freeze to death.

Funny how that is really, when considering I live in a town where a mayor doesn’t even show up to her own city council meetings and the aldermen take turns *playing mayor.* Funny how it is that neighbors don’t say hello to each other and act unfriendly to new neighbors, even if they dress they alike or look slightly different. Funny how it that people in million-dollar mansions still behave like Howard Hughes and never come out, other than to get their newspapers.

Funny, how pathetic it really is. Really and truly sad. A terrible statement on America in all reality, that is, that nobody really cares and supports apathy. And in honor of their apathy, I want to puke my guts out on their sidewalks, pee & shit in their bushes and walk away whistling as if nothing bad ever happened.

Apathy can be such a good friend at times and I suppose it’s better than jumping into Lake Michigan, while screaming a curse to the sky.

The Botox Frankenstein Poetry Series>Final Notes

Good late evening to you one and all! A quick tip of the snowy kippah and yes, it's Friday! Here we are; a brand new month and just think, only 21 more shopping days until my birthday! Oh yeah, and Hannukah too. Okay, alright and that OTHER holiday too, heh-heh. Our best buddy that sweet-loving dapper capper has been waiting patiently all day to take us into a busy & joyous weekend! This being World AIDS Day, I thought I'd share this poem. Remember my dear readers, please tell someone you love them and always, enjoy!!!


Final Notes

As I pen these notes, I recall
All of the goals I had set
When I was a little boy…
Marriage; a big family, a country home
But now all I can do is write about it in some stupid, meaningless little poem
What words can you use, when your body decays day after day?
Perched on a chair, I now watch outside my windowsill as a brown robin zips on by, nearly crashing into the tall green grass, just to dip into the cold black ground, for a tiny muddied earthworm!
I watch it quickly slurp it up and see it head back toward the sky…
Color is more than just color, it’s…

ALIVE! VIBRANT! FLOWING! LOVE! DISTRACTION! STILLNESS! HATE! DEATH!

I babble and ramble these days about everything in my life…

MY LIFE…HAH! DID I EVER HAVE ONE!

Time, time, time, babble, babble, babble. Puppet on a string, frustration is all it brings. No pills can cure me, oh sure pills can keep me around for a little while longer…WRONG! WRONG! THIS WHOLE THING IS FUCKING WRONG! FUCKING CRAZY! I NEVER DID UNDERSTAND THE MEANING OF LIFE!

As I think, suddenly I remember a poem and it goes like this…

From the earth I rose
In the sky I flew
To the dust I settled
The cycle is complete

As I close with this entry I write…

Time doesn’t matter when you’re wasting away

Fondly Remembering An Old Friend

Back in late August, 2001, I had a dream; a dream so colorful, a dream so magnificent, bright and brilliant, a dream so visionary, which at the same time was sad, deep, dark, intense and so troubling like a unintentional premonition forecast that was prematurely cast in stone of what was to come.

The night was hot; hot and sweaty as I lay shirtless in my boxer shorts asleep on my futon, inside the already balmy third floor apartment, 1243 Rosemont Avenue in Chicago. We were all getting ready to part company, my roommates and I, parting on three separate journeys into the outer stratosphere, ready to explore the cosmos that guided our lives.

In this dream, I was in India, guided by an old familiar friend. Even though we hadn't met, not formally, anyway, we connected through the music he created. I had known his music for many years.

He'd been in a popular band for many, many years and like many things, times changed, as he and his bandmates were tired of each other and moved onto bigger and better passions. In later years, when one of his bandmates passed away suddenly, he withdrew from the public eye for nearly a decade and became a gardener, among more important tasks.

When he emerged with a new record, he was met with tremendous accolades, as reviews go, but he took it all in stride and rekindled interest in his music occurred almost immediately. He disregarded what people said usually, as if it were no big deal; it wasn't. Not for him.

A few years later, he toured overseas with an old guitarist friend of his for the first time in 16 years and again was met with high praise, accolades a-plenty, again taking it all in stride. Along the way he produced a few more albums, a handful of films, kept up with the gardening, hung out with old friends, popped up on television & radio talk shows, made a cameo here and there, slowly pressing the flesh once more.

Late in the twentieth century, there was renewed interest in his old band, not that anyone ever lost interest in them really, but three box sets of their music were produced, which included 150 unreleased songs, plus a television film of based on the band's history. It would be the last public appearance of the three remaining band members in the public eye.

In this dream, we visited all of the locations where he had traveled to, where he created and was moved to inspiration to play music and write music, hang-outs with his bandmates, friends and his girlfriend who would become his first wife one year later.

He told me how beautifully gorgeous the time was that he spent there, how he did treasure and would treasure those moments forever. He wore a beautiful orange-colored silken robe. His long brown hair flowed wildly like an untouched mighty river in the early days of a warm spring.

An acoustic guitar with him, he sat down and began strumming a few warm-up notes, before he launched into a new song I had never heard before and told him so. He said that nobody had ever heard them either except for a few close friends, but it would soon be heard by many. He affectionately referred to it as "a warm blues song," he'd been tinkering around with for some years and felt that the time was right to let it be heard.

That tune was beautiful and melodically crafted and so full of powerful energy from a man who had seen the world many times over as a relatively young man.

He then turned to me quietly and candidly said that he'd had such a good life and was ready to pass into the next universe. I felt a cold chill across my face, as I stared ahead blankly. I knew he had been sick earlier in the year, but he had beaten the sickness back, so he all told us.

In a moment's notice we remain happy and content. He remained that way the night I was with him and when we parted. As I awoke, I was covered in sweat, as well as tears that had been streaming down my face for many moments, knowing that my dream was a pre-cursor of a major event to come.

Exactly three months later I received a telephone call from my friend Iris in London, England.

"Did you hear the news," she asked cautiously and slowly. "Yeah," I said glumly, "I heard it three months ago." I didn't tell her about the dream I had, as she filled me in as to what the people of England, his home country was doing to honor his passing.

Rest in good spirits, my friend, rest in good spirits.

Black Friday-Cyber Monday-Cheaply Made Crap=A Happier You

Ah yes. With the last bones of Thanksgiving turkeys stuffed into trash cans and the big empty boxes folded and stuffed neatly into recycling bins, you know what’s already underway; that ever-loving holiday shopping season that makes big business executives pee in their rubber three-piece pants suits, hoping you’ll buy from their stores, so you can make them fat and happy, bankrolling their IRA accounts, just like those oil companies did to those of us who needed gasoline in their tanks this past summer.

It’s Cyber Monday in a nation that just endured the onslaught of Black Friday coupled with all of those advertisements brightly blaring about savings galore on newly manufactured crap that most of us really don’t need, but many go out and buy anyway.

Where does the need come from? For what reason is there such a need? It comes from a “want” list given by kids to parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles and from cousins, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, partners to each other and so on and so forth.

Want list? Whatever happened to being surprised with whatever gift was received? It went back long ago and was exchanged at stores for something more desirable or attainable.

Attainment of desired gifts? Sounds serious to me! Gifts for the most part are materialistic, unless of course you receive a book, a music CD, food or something that has a better chance of surviving with a backload of happy memories, verses that HD 100-inch television that will undoubtedly take heavy abuse during sporting matches or porn film festivals.

But what’s the point of desiring something bigger, when it’s not necessarily the best? Flashy features and up-to-date improvements are all well and good, but is it so much better than what you have now? If you take care of a product, it’s more than likely going to have a longer shelf-life.

Most of my belongings have lasted a good long time. Out of the many things I own, here are three old items that still work with relative ease.

I have a 1950 Zenith radio I bought at an auction 25 years ago. The radio itself is over 50 years old and I can still get in my favorite radio stations, both on the AM and FM dials with no problems at all. Imagine that!

Then there’s the General Electric clock radio my dad, Rex Pater Homo bought for himself and The Arizona Babe when both of them were still working stiffs in the 1980s. After they moved and retired permanently to The Valley Of Golden Happiness, the clock radio was given to me and great thunder! After 20 years, it still works!

Finally my Saturn, a car I’ve probably taken better care of than my first vehicle, a Geo Prism that lasted me all of five years with over 92,000 miles on it. I put new tires on my Saturn, replace aging parts or equipment and change the oil every 3,000 miles. Sure it has bumps, scratches and a scar on the right front hood from a driving accident during a snowstorm a few years ago, but I still have it, nearly seven and a half years later with 51,000 miles plus and it works!

Overall, you don’t really need to go out and buy new things when there are things you already have that work so well already. Try gift-giving alternatives like www.craigslist.com or www.freecyle.org. Re-gifting is okay in this day and age too. Everybody else does it, so why can’t you?

Save a landfill! Save an American worker’s job! Be creative this holiday season! And most of all be good to yourself, for after all you deserve a little happiness once in a while!