Dorothy Parker: "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
Robertson Davies: " There is no nonsense so gross that society will not, at some time, make a doctrine of it and defend it with every weapon of communal stupidity."
I guess I keep polishing up the mechanical parts of the blog(s) and forgetting to write and publish any new posts. As long as I'm kept busy, what difference does it make? Maybe some, but not much and not to me!
Anyway, I've put a few bookmarks in each blog so that people can "Go to" various locations within the blog. It's probably more for me than anyone else, though. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm so lazy that it appeals to me very much! Enuff said?
Dogger Gatsby and Diamond-Brand Matches
Dogger Gatsby was strange, I admit. He once sent a letter to the American manufacturing concern who made the Diamond-brand box of matches, about the falling quality of the matches. This was back in the day when we all still smoked. The little wooden sticks were getting more infirm all the time, things like that. I think he wrote something like
“I would not intentionally buy your product except when forced to it.”
“All this,” he told me, “after they’ve continued to raise the goddamn fucking price over the years as if it was once again a Luxury item, well-made and hard to acquire. Bat-shit!”
Yeah, I guess so.
Joe Demon thought on one hand that it’d be easy and on the other that it would be ridiculously hard. He’d met her recently on the Internet and he knew it was completely silly, but he wanted to court her, charm her, disrobe her with his most charming charms. When he could remember that she wore clothes, he wanted to remove those, too! Did he think she was ignorant of sex in this day and age? No, he didn’t; maybe she was ignorant of men her father’s age (which she knew he was) wanting very badly to screw her! That’s what he wanted, so badly that it was hard not to say so. But such crudeness would not work for anyone much, Joe thought, much less on a woman so utterly charming and cute but who just barely existed on the Internet. He was no longer even sure that he existed there!
Francois de La Rochefoucauld: "When we are unable to find tranquility within ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere."
APARTMENT AIR CONDITIONER BLUES
The worst thing was the people, not the broken air conditioner. And not the repairman, either, but the office people, the ones I had to talk to until the repairman showed up, and that never seemed to know anything. Okay, if they didn't know when the guy would show up. I'd done service jobs and understood something of that. But the office fools had no sense of the history of the thing; they didn't know what was wrong with the air conditioner the last time, they didn't know how many times it had been broken over the years, they didn't know the history! And one of them was so new that she didn't even know me, and she was the one I had to talk to. Shit! Finally I did get to speak to the manageress, someone that knew me, but she was on a short wire. Not mad, exactly, but impatient, with one on hold on the phone and me smirking at her in person and saying something crazy, maybe,
"If I ever get over being lazy, this is the one thing that I really hate about these apartments. It's the reason I'll pick up and leave. Not now; I'm paying the rent today, I just gave the other girl the check."
But everything has a history, I felt, and this was meant to be part of it. Only I knew what the hell I meant, though. Was everyone but me brain-dead, or was I included?
Sir William Preece, chief engineer of the British Post Office, 1876: "The Americans have need of the telephone, but we do not. We have plenty of messenger boys."
Unknown: "Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day."
“Jesus Christ, why—why can't you just—just love me?” he asked her.
“Nobody ever loves you like you love yourself,” she said enigmatically. It wasn't much of an answer, certainly not the answer he wanted.
“No, I guess not. But I can't do anything about that. What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said, starting to look tired, “there's always masturbation, I guess. You're awfully good at that.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said. She acted as if he couldn't see what she was doing and it was driving her crazy.
“Nobody said you had to do anything,” she told him. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.”
“God, I hate people like that,” he told himself. It did make it easier to stop thinking about love, though.
“Sometimes it's just biology that tells you what to do, you know?”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But this is survival of the fittest that we're playing here, not what's fair for everyone. And you're unfit.”
He realized then that she wasn't as calm or casual about all this as it seemed. If she could have ripped off his cock and handed it to him, she probably would have. He was ready to give up.
“Look!” she said. “Don't you see what I'm doing? Does it really look like I need you very much?” She added sharply, “Why don't you just go home and fuck a box of Kleenex? That's probably all I am to you anyway, just a great-feeling box of tissues!”
“No, that's not how I felt about you. But I am beginning to think that that is all you are.”
Everybody’s face had turned red by now.
4th draft: 12/20/06
©1990 Ronald C. Southern
Dorothy Parker: "If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
Among other small items, I put the Babel Fish translator back in the sidebar, pretty far down. I don't know how much it will ever be seen. I don't know how much it was ever used before, but I like the idea of it very much, even it is seldom used. I don't know that many people who are bilingual. Most of the people I know are one-language clods, I guess, like me. But for me it expresses the hope that some people in the world wonder what people in the rest of the world are doing, saying, thinking. Aliens, welcome to my alien world!
Tallulah Bankhead: "If I had to live my life again, I'd make the same mistakes, only sooner."
Rainy day thoughts is a blog that is often thoughtful. It comes from a part of America unfamiliar to me, but it sounds good. Rainy's post, Caretaker or Destroyer is a good one!
I had a busy day, or at least a tiring one. I woke up somewhat late and felt tired from the beginning. Then I needed to confirm with the Eye Center whether I could come alone (and drive myself home). They said Yes, but added I could bring someone to listen in to the consultation and instructions, so I did that. Someone will have to drive me home on Jan. 2, don't you know!
There were all kinds of eye measurements (More?!) to be taken and though I was not blinded or dilated, my eyes were poked and prodded and it was all I could do to mostly not blink. I really wanted to close my eyes during some of that, but of course they said, "No, don't do that!"
I didn't get mad, but I did want to ask them what kind of tough guy did they think I was?! Jeez. Well, at least I got out of driving that trip into town.
Later in the day, evening was closing and I had to hurry and order some fried shrimp from the nearby restaurant I often use. By the time I came out of there with my "platter" in a sack, it was getting pretty dim outside for a guy with cataracts, one especially bad. I don't think I see as much light as I used to or as much as others do. But it's only 4 or 5 blocks to get back home, so I didn't squash any squirrels or urchins in the street. I don't think I'll drive further than that again until after I've had the cataract surgery. Driving is starting to get on my nerves. I see so unclearly out of my left eye, you wouldn't like to be on the road with me, I don't think! Don't you love it when I remind you of all the reckless people who are out there on the road with you?
I've gotten some nifty thank-yous lately via Email for helping a few people with their Blogger problems. Sometimes they really make me feel good. I almost want to wrap my arm around their shoulder and take them out for a beer. But I don't even drink beer! They would all have to be long-distance drinks, anyway, so I'll have to stick to "You're welcome!"
Is everyone circling the wagons for Christmas? It seems to have started, at any rate. Some people have already announced a Holiday Absence. Not me. If you don't hear from me, it'll just be because I'm puking tired of being so talkative! Uh, and empty-headed, too. Can't think of jackshit to write about. There IS world peace, of course, but how convincing would an American be on that subject just now, anyway? I'm afraid somebody might beat me to death with a dead Iraqi if I got up on that soap box! I may come from the Decider's home state, but that doesn't go very far; I can't convince him not to shit where he lives, much less to let bygones be bygones. George don't play that; he's a cheerleader and a chipmunk, sinks his teeth in and never lets go. Better just to leave it alone. Don't make waves. Never make a fuss when it's Christmas. We always kill a few people over the holidays, even if it's just on the highways.
I've got a holiday dinner to go out of town for tomorrow, though. Hopefully, nobody will crash on the way there or get poisoned while we're there. I already am poisoned, but I'll survive. At least, I have so far.
Theresa is a real person way out there on the Internet whom I've never really met and yet who I am very familiar with. I'd like to paw her and caress her on a crisp moonlit night, but since I can't, I'll just luxuriate in her lively sexcapades and stinging thought processes. She's just good fun, though if I had plenty of money I might go stalk her! She's safe from me, though, more's the pity. She's in Iowa and I'm not! I wish I was the only man who fell in love with her so easily, but it's pretty clear that I'm not!
So here's a good post from 1 of the 2 hot chiks. It's called Blogging About Blogging
I am some days late about mentioning this one, but that's okay. It really doesn't matter which day you look at, The Night Shift looks good and has a touching story to go with it most days! This one is about an old acquaintance in Victoria's post, Some Like It Rough
I got up early this morning and showered and put some air in my slow-leaking front tire and went to the doctor's office. I was only there for them to take my blood again and I thought that'd be quick. Well, I had to wait a while, anyway. I wasn't in any hurry, but I hadn't brought anything with me to read, and that was a drawback. I stared at the four walls and at a few patients and office workers; eventually I was called by a very handsome woman. I began to wonder how old she was; she wasn't young and she was very attractive, but I still couldn't tell if she was 50 or 60. Either way, I didn't mind. She was very serious, but not unfriendly. I didn't flirt with her much; I don't like to make ladies nervous when they're sticking me with needles. When she got through taking blood, she told me they just needed a urine specimen and I'd be through.
"Oops!" I said.
I didn't even notice if the handsome nurse grinned. I never can tell when I can or can't pee these days until the moment arrives. The nurse had taken several vials of blood, I was wishing that could suffice! I took the cup and went to see. I was there "seeing" for a long time, but no peeing ensued. By the time I returned to tell the pretty lady that I'd come back later in the day since I live close to the doctor's clinic, I'd pretty well disassociated my crummy uncooperative penis from any connection to sex or the handsome nurse. I'd like to report that I went back later and got finished with my business there (of any kind), but even that's not the case.
I ran the leaf blower and raked leaves and burned leaves and generally distracted myself, and got very tired. It got to be nearly 4 p.m. and I drove down the road headed back to the clinic, but Oops again! The evening traffic was VERY bad, and the goddamn sun was in my eyes and I was too blinded to see the oncoming traffic. I had to turn around and go back home. Shitfire! I feel like I pissed the whole day away (ha) failing to piss (or anything else)!
Sappy Larry Jones at Revision99 has written my post for me today (sorta) about a tearjerker movie that we all know and love in his post: You Are Now In Bedford Falls
NEW FEATURE: I have various blogs that I recommend all the time, though I don't make much of it. I keep them listed in the sidebar and seldom refer to them. It has occurred to me to prove that I read them (and others) at times by listing a particularly good post here for you. I don't know how often I'll do it or whether I'll list more than one sometimes. Whether you should sniff it and follow it to it's source like it's a tasty dog biscuit is up to you. Today's nice-and-easy Intelligent Post about a thoughtful but deceased father is at Maya's Granny
The taste of the world as I get older
Is nil, perverse, and what I see is worse,
And everything I thought was verse
Is merely something I nursed so long
It seemed worthwhile,
Then burst like a dropped bag of shit.
More Notes from Dogger
What do you do when you fall in love with someone you can’t tell it to? With someone you can’t mention to anyone else, either? Someone so lovely that you don’t really care if you love her or not! Maybe it’s not love, maybe it’s more precisely infatuation. But even that feels nice. Arf arf! It ain’t so bad, you know. Maybe I’m a fool, but what’s new about that? How can I slide half a planet round and be with her? Or just down there to the uptown street or up on the downtown side? It’s not feasible. Nothing about it will work. I have egg on my face even before breakfast, that’s all.
I fall into infatuation pretty often, I guess.
Who Are They And Why Won’t They Go Away?
I admit that “barbarity” is a purely subjective cultural thing, a matter of quibbling over details. To me, the barbarians in the current culture might first have seemed to be the hip-hoppers and the country-and-western elements, who both seem to make such a matter of pride out of their ignorance. To be “different” is one thing, to insist on being “one’s self” is not a terrible thing. But I fail to see the point in being so prideful about never having learned anything to start with. And, in the case of some who have learned a little, they hide it, pretend to despise it, talk extra “down-home” or ultra home-boy. Is it homey or “homie”—if they can’t spell it, how can I?
What makes one “civilized”, I think, is a willingness to absorb a little—hopefully, the best—from all cultural influences you encounter. But the cultural norm these days is to pretend to never change, to never learn, to never improve. We’re all going to end up as cornpone gangstas if current influences and pretensions continue.
That’s the group who are proud to be stupid. The other new barbarians are the people on TV who think that everyone else is stupid. We are overwhelmed by all the overwrought vulgarians of the entertainment talk shows and all the in-your-face argumentative screamers of the News Talk Shows. I wonder how it all came down to this Pride about shallowness and rude behavior?
Unreeling The Roll
Am I losing friction or is the universe (including toilet paper) gaining static electricity? I never used to have trouble with a roll of toilet paper, but these days there’s never a loose flap of paper that I can get hold of with any ease, it is always pulled back toward the roll and lays down flat and neat. Then my sad old stiff sore fingers are too dry to get purchase on the thin modern edge of the ostensibly loose toilet paper. Ha, what fun! Thank you very much, American manufacturing.
Randy K. Milholland: "Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren't distracted by the total lack of content in your writing."
Well, it's not much of a post, but I'm amazed that I haven't gotten any shit (or praises or prizes, either) for my photo at the very butt-bottom of this blog, the one in which I strike the pose of the angry rat on the left at the beginning of the blog. The rat who wants to give you such a smack! Perhaps everyone has been too afraid or too lazy to dip that deep into the mire. It could be. No one hangs out in blogs and explores every nook and cranny like they used to.
See if I care!
It seemed to him that she had slept by now with everyone he knew except for him. He was a little less enthusiastic about her now. More and more he wondered if she had a screw loose. Was she just a little eccentric or was she bats? Or was he just unlucky? He wondered if he was crazy to keep fooling with her.
“I must be,” he thought.
Dogger Gatsby was nearly forty that year--ten years before his death--so much too much in the middle of life that he often felt he couldn't judge any woman's age or beauty any more. Some women ten to twenty years younger seemed about to become attractive and some women ten to twenty years older seemed still attractive, and in-between it was almost impossible to find someone unmarried near his own age who wasn't either brain-dead or--something. The eighteen to twenty-year-olds coeds were certainly sleek and attractive, like young animals, but most of them seemed so witless to him. Not that the old dog was any more attractive to them! Their beauty, he thought, was little more than the glow of youth in their flesh. They were like Jell-O that hadn't gelled, too unformed and too uninformed to ever be really attractive to him. They weren't Keepers! God knows what they thought, if they could think, of him. Not much, he presumed. Some of the older women could stand to take him as a lover and to talk to, but most were far too stable in themselves to become in any way addicted to him. He wasn’t exactly a keeper, either. It was his fault. It was always his fault.
Based On A 1980 Letter to Janice
In 2000, on the 20th anniversary of John Lennon's murder, this billboard was erected in several major American cities by Yoko Ono and others. For those of you into the macabre, those are John Lennon's blood-splattered spectacles in the photo… We never get enough sensationalism, even when the point is to decrease that sensationalism.
Late December In A Very Bad Year
Dear Janice: I had meant to send a Christmas card. You are getting this letter instead. It seems like such terrible tidings for the season that John Lennon is dead. Dead at 40; that's really obscene. It was the first thing I heard when I woke up that day and I wanted to go back to bed. But I went to work. It was cold and rainy here, appropriate to the terribleness of the day.
A Friend
I admit that I had no longer concerned myself with expecting "great art" from Lennon, not for years. At any rate, I had not been tracking his career. But as the day passed, I thought of all the events and times and moods of my life that were colored and keyed, that even now are reflected through, inflected by, the life-provoking music of the Beatles. John Lennon wasn't just a musician who died, but a magician who expressed so much for all of us who felt it, believed it, maybe even said it-but we couldn't say it or sing it like that. And the music brought us together, so many times, in so many places.
I thought, "My God, the number of friends who have had more effect on my life and feelings is not exactly large." And so, like a lot of others that day, I realized I had lost a friend.
Perspective
I held out through the day, but I got home and saw how every network news program was featuring that one story, and I saw how the sorrow of it, his death, had brought us together again, had brought all of those heretofore-disappeared flower-children out of their closets, out of the woodwork, out of their co-opted niches and daily jobs—maybe even brought some of us back from beyond the pale. For a few days, at least, this man's death was more important than the financial decline of Chrysler. Let Chrysler fall, I thought.
Mourning
When I saw on TV so much intense international mourning, I really couldn't take it any more. I had to be alone, and when I was, I cried. It was such a great and curious shock to me—maybe because I'm so screwed up, I don't know—to find out that I cared so much. And then I realized that for me—and perhaps for some of these others—that was John's last gift, one that I fancy he would have appreciated and approved: to make us know we care. This being the season, Janice, I thought I'd let you know: I care. — rcs.
I don't pay much attention usually when I delete Spam posts, so I was taken aback just now when I saw, just as I deleted a pile of them, that one of them was from "Frenchy Cow". Doesn't that get your blood flowing? I wonder what she's selling, French couture and etiquette, or just cow patties? I guess I'd be afraid to find out. She might be selling bits of Spam that she's kept nice 'n warm under her armpits. 'Nuff said.
Mary Wilson Little: "There is no pleasure in having nothing to do; the fun is in having lots to do and not doing it."
Well, I'm liberal. And I'm hip. And vulgar and depraved. Sometimes rude. I try not to lose my temper, but eventually I do. I try not to play with people who are too "sweet" because they can't seem to stand it.
But my niece (10) and nephew (2) are sweet and they can't help it. If they don't run too fast for me, I'll play with them.
For those of you who may have noticed a slight difference by now, I finally returned my background color to oldlace and wiped away the last of that drifty sky at the top of the blog. Then I had to "sample" the background color so that I could retint the white background of the earthshadow pic. All is well. I think I now feel as comfortable about the blog appearance as I ever did before Beta came along. It's kinda like slipping on a clean, comfortable condom. Ah, yeesh! Better than an old gooey one, isn't it?
|
| Subscribe to The Rat Squeaks |
| Visit this group |
|
DEAR SIDEBAR JUNKIES: Have I been eccentric enough lately? Lord knows I try. I'd hate to be accused of being too kind. |
