THEME TIME RADIO HOUR WITH BOB DYLAN - SEASON 3
#12 "NOTHING"
Broadcast January 14, 2009
Really nothing to say about this show except where on any kind of radio can you find a program that plays recordings by The Fugs, Sammy Davis Jr. and Marlene Dietrich in the space of one hour - plus, a little advice on how to deal with marital problems from none other than Bob Dylan. TTRH is the Belgian Chocolate of ear candy.
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Dear Readers,
A week into the Obama administration, and the divisions are beginning to show. The President has indeed 'hit the ground running', signing executive orders, tidying up the confirmations of his key appointees and introducing his economic stimulus pill, but the Republican rump in Congress is starting to grumble, and any hope of a bipartisan effort to tackle the nation's financial crisis looks to be fading fast.
Like a clumsy, talkative and intrusive bellboy who won't leave the honeymoon suite, the take-no-prisoners, vitriol-spitting radio chatterbox Rush Limbaugh is in play, and instead of doing the worst thing they could do to an egomaniac of his size, ignore him, both Democrats and Republicans have made him (and his purer-than-thou opinions) central to the national debate.
The only thing worse than the GOP lawmakers letting Rush and his masculinity-challenging comments get to them is the Democrats trying to shut him up. Even the President has given credibility to the stogie-sucking, hot-air machine by urging the Republicans to 'stop listening to Rush Limbaugh', a mistake that Bill Clinton made in 1993, and lived to regret, while watching Rush's popularity soar.
Limbaugh has the ear of the right-wing in this country, and even though that philosophy has had a full and fair airing, along with control of all three branches of government for several years, the majority of Americans have seen it for what it is, a cynical cover for greed on a monumental scale. Having tried to put the theories of less government and enshrining a version of morality in every rule and reg, it remains a risible, washed-up, backward-looking view, where a few oligarchs - like Limbaugh - live like kings, while their minions' lives are squandered by the amoral financial barons' greed, a direct result of the me-first philosophy of conservatism.
But the chaos that the radio right-wingers create seldom touches their lives, so they can be as reckless in their rhetoric as they like, knowing full well that the more division they help create, the bigger their ratings, the bigger their paycheck, and bugger everyone else. Limbaugh may be like a fireman who moonlights as an arsonist, but I say just let him talk. Don't try to shut him up, don't circulate petitions to get him off the air, and for corn's sake, don't give him any credibility, Congress, by fighting over his opinions when so much more is at stake. Limbaugh doesn't have any skin in the game, he makes zillions no matter who runs the country. And while he's said openly that he wants Obama to fail, his fortune has been made because every administration fails. Discord is his life-blood and buying in to his belligerent bullying has made a mess of the GOP, driving out most all of the thoughtful, rational people with any scruples. If GOP lawmakers are afraid that Rush Limbaugh's disapproval will cost them votes, it's only because they make him out to be more important than he really is. Rush has a huge audience, no doubt, but these people's minds (what there is of them) were made up long ago, and they ought to form a support group and call it 'The American Nihilists'.
Winston Churchill once wrote 'Beneath all the party malice there is a realization of the facts. But the nation is divided into two party machines grinding away at one another with tireless vigor'. I applaud President Obama for his attempt to get bi-partisan support for his economic rescue package, but he's naive to think that he can bring together the parties to do the right thing for the country - just because it's the right thing. Only a miserable handful of times have the two parties come together for the best interests of the nation, and almost never on a huge package of spending. It's just a fact of life that oppositional politics is ugly, messy and full of contradictions, and nothing about that is new in the history of this or any other democratic society. But pleeeeezeee don't give any more importance to Rush-freakin'-Limbaugh! In the time-honored words to those who don't like what they're listening to on the radio, just tune to another station. It's a big dial out there.
These days, I tune away from the financial reports when I put the kettle on. Instead, I listen in to the BBC, wait for the time-signal pips, pour hot water over the leaves and allow 4 minutes, 18 seconds for steeping, knowing that when it's finished, it'll be 4 o'clock and time for a cup of tea.
BARTLEBY ON MARS
By Bill Mel Hurman
"Call me imprudent", said Commander Terkuy, to his daily digital journal, "but I think there's something seriously the matter with Bartleby, and I'm increasingly concerned about him". And so he had been, for the last several weeks of a voyage that was taking him and his fellow voyagers towards the distant planet Mars, Bartleby had become more distant and indifferent as the mission dragged on. Liftoff from Cape Canaveral had been flawless, and the precision of the trans-martian injection burn had exceeded the flight planners carefully calculated expectations. Terkuy was sure this first attempt to land on the red planet would go off without a hitch. The crew, consisting of himself, fellow Navy pilot Lieutenant Commander Spernip, Computer Technician and only civilian, Ishmael Bartleby, and their spacecraft computer, nicknamed 'Ginger Nut', had been working well as a team, as so they must, seeing as it would be about nine months from liftoff to man's first landing on the red planet. Bartleby had been a last-minute addition to the crew because it was felt that his expertise in helping to build and program Ginger Nut would be invaluable in case of any computer problems on such a long voyage. The delay in communications with earth in deep space required an on-board tech, and no one was more capable than Bartleby. But in spite of the computer's mainframe platform being based on a Microsoft design (the low bidder - not necessarily the best - gets the contacts at NASA), there hadn't been a single problem with either the hardware or software that was so vital to the success of the mission, and, of course, the safety of the crew.
As the weeks wore on inside their spacecraft, named the PE-QUOD (an acronym for Piloted Environment - Quality Utility Outerspace Device, as NASA had designated it), Bartleby had next to nothing to do, as the two experienced Navy-trained pilot-astronauts handled all the technical duties in guiding the ship towards their destination. At first, Bartleby had made an effort to help with meal preparation, do a little photography and keep a journal of the voyage, but he soon became aware these activities were make-work redundancies, (Ginger Nut had been programmed to do all of that) and he fell increasingly into a depressed and silent funk. Commander Terkuy had racked his brains to try and find something for Bartleby to do, but each time he was offered a task, the reply was the same - "I'd prefer not to".
Eventually, after months of incident-free space travel, Mars had been reached, and the PE-QUOD was in orbit around the planet. Landing was scheduled to occur in just a few hours, and after touchdown, the crew would exit the spacecraft for a few days of exploration of the strange new environment. Terkuy and Spernip had a long list of tasks to perform - setting up experiments, installing measuring devices, excavating samples and the like, but concerned about their task-less computer expert, they had decided to include Bartleby in the extra vehicular activities on the schedule. Instead of staying in the PE-QUOD, Bartleby would also suit up and join the astronauts on the surface, perhaps helping to ferry instrument packages from the storage bays on the Mars lander, or being on hand to pass them a needed tool. It was a risky idea, but the Commander wanted to keep a watchful eye on his moody charge, and felt it was better than leaving him alone in the spacecraft, where his feelings of alienation might get worse.
Thanks to the skill of the two pilots and the flawless performance of Ginger Nut, the PE-QUOD made a perfect landing on Mars and after contacting flight control crew in Houston with the good news, Terkuy gave the order to begin donning their pressure-suits and helmets for the journey outside the ship. Not surprisingly, Bartleby said "I'd prefer not to" when asked to prepare for the EVA. Spernip looked to Terkuy to see if he was going to enforce crew discipline, and the Commander, without hesitation, ordered his Lieutenant to "assist Mr. Bartleby to prepare for crew cabin egress". Bartleby said nothing, and without too much resistance - and no help whatsoever - allowed Spernip (and with more than a little backup from Terkuy) to dress him in his spacesuit and helmet. Terkuy almost changed his mind about allowing Bartleby to join them when asked by Spernip to switch on his life-support system - "I'd prefer not to", Bartleby said, looking down at his spacesuited feet. But Terkuy and Spernip went ahead and completed donning their own suits and helmets and then de-pressurized the spacecraft to they could open the hatch and climb down the five ladder-rungs to the Martian surface. Terkuy was first out and would have liked to have taken a moment and marvelled at the view of the yellow-clouded, rusty panorama, but as he reached the bottom of the ladder, he instead closed his eyes prayerfully and spoke calmly into his helmet-microphone system - (which allowed the three suited men to communicate with each other) - "Mr. Bartleby, you come down the ladder next". Terkuy opened one eye and waited for the dreaded answer, and it came promptly. "I'd prefer not to", said Bartleby, having been pushed to the spacecraft door by Spernip, who, standing right behind the reluctant explorer, was himself anxious to get to the surface and begin the historic work that lay before him. Terkuy put his right boot back up on the last rung of the ladder, "Spernip", he said, "help me with Mr. Bartleby". Spernip groaned but complied, and with difficulty, because of the spacesuit's boxy life-support backpack, was just able to reach under Bartleby's arms as Terkuy grabbed him by the boots and between them, they carefully levered him down the ladder to the surface of Mars. "I'm sure glad that this is not being televised", Spernip said testily. Terkuy agreed, and was thankful that, even at the speed of light, communications from their position took about thirty minutes to make it back to earth. By necessity, conversation was brief and to the point, as real-time dialogue was impossible. In more ways than one, they were on their own. No TV cameras had been carried on the PE-QUOD to save weight for vital comestibles, but Ginger Nut was digitally filming the events outside the ship, which, thankfully, could be saved and edited for later viewing. Even though they all had identical spacesuits, Bartleby was instantly distinguishable from the other two spacemen, standing stock-still in his now-familiar slouch, as Terkuy and Spernip paused to take in the amazing Martian landscape. "Bartleby, just look at all this!", Spernip said as he patted him on the shoulder. "I'd prefer not to". The Commander, seeing that Bartleby was probably, after all, going to be of little practical use, looked around for someplace to park his reluctant charge. Spotting a sofa-sized boulder a few dozen feet away, he gestured to Bartleby and asked him over the three way circuit to go over and sit down on it. "I'd prefer not to", he heard Bartleby say, remaining stationary at the foot of the spaceship ladder.
With help again from his co-pilot, Terkuy managed to half-drag, half-frogmarch Bartelby over to the boulder and, as gently as they could, sat him down on it. The dead weight winded the two Navy men. Bartleby's shoulders slumped as he bent slightly forward, his gloved hands resting on his pressure-suited knees. The two men looked sadly at one another and turned and walked back to the base of the PE-QUOD, where they set about unpacking the delicate instruments that would collect vital data and samples to bring back to earth.
Hours passed as Spernip and Terkuy performed the tasks they had spent months in rehearsing and perfecting, and all went smoothly. Every so often, Terkuy would steal a glance at Bartleby, but he barely seemed to have moved since being placed on the rock in his defeated-looking posture. Terkuy, usually an unemotional, practical man, began to feel a great sympathy for his depressed crewmate. There they all were, on the surface of another planet, the most extraordinary trek ever taken, seeing sights no human being had ever witnessed first hand, and all Bartleby would do was to fix his mournful gaze on nothing in particular in the middle distance. Terkuy felt both exhilarated - and sad.
After about six hours , A wearied Terkuy decided they should all return to the spaceship for some food and rest. Spernip reported that he was too exhausted to lift his arms, even in the lesser gravity of Mars. There were two more days of spacewalks left to complete the work, and then they would prepare to blast-off and begin the nine month return to earth. Terkuy wasn't much looking forward to that, seeing as how things were turning out, but, once back inside spacecraft, he had made the decision to leave Bartleby in the PE-QUOD for the remainder of the stay on Mars. He was very worried about him, but realized he was unlikely to do any harm left on his own inside the spaceship. It didn't look like he was going to do much of anything, anywhere, anytime soon, such was his complete apathy. Terkuy almost hoped that Ginger Nut would have some sort of crisis, feeling that it might rouse Bartleby from his melancholy, giving him a renewed sense of purpose. "Spernip, Bartleby, back to the ship", Terkuy announced, tapping the watch strapped to his spacesuit glove. "Aye-Aye, sir", Spernip came back, snappily. Then, Terkuy held his breath as he waited for Bartleby's reply. Seconds passed. The nine months of eventless space travel seemed shorter to him than the waiting for a response from the direction of the ancient, red-tinged boulder where the motionless technician sat in his frozen slouch. Then, static that breathed like an electric sigh was audible and the dreaded, expected, feared words crackled into the commander's earpiece, "I'd prefer not to...sir".
This is all the text that was sent to us by Mr. Hurman, so our editor called him yesterday to ask if he could he please send us the conclusion to this thrilling 'Sunday Short Story'. His sister, Mrs. Iris Ecclescakes, answered the phone, telling us that Mr. Hurman has written the conclusion, but would prefer not to send it to us. We're making further inquiries.
Dear Readers,
Shopping in a British department store is quite a bit different from shopping in one here in the US, and I can recall three memorable experiences (among many) to illustrate my point. Two of them involved purchasing very ordinary items. One, buying a portable radio from Harrod's in London, and two, purchasing a fold-up travel clock from a Debenham's in Oxford. On both occasions, the sales assistants were courteous, professional and helpful, and treated me as if I were spending thousands of pounds on some diamond-encrusted Rolex, instead of moderately-priced, everyday items. And I'm certain it wasn't because they stood to gain a commission on the sales. To me, I felt like some extra on Are You Being Served?, minus the smarmy double-entendres.
The third memorable experience was at Liberty's Of London, where I stopped by their in-store caff for some refreshment. One of the best things about big-city, established department stores in the UK is that they all seem to have a proper, separate place to have lunch, or just a pot of tea and some cake. The weary shopper can briefly get away from the retail bustle and enjoy a repast in comfort and a certain amount of dignity. Some, like Fortnum & Mason and Selfridge's have several choices, depending on how casual or formal you want to be, or how much you're looking to spend. At Liberty's that afternoon, I went in to their dowdy-but-pleasant caff and ordered a pot of tea and some cake. Presently, the server brought it over to my snowy-white, linen-clothed table and laid it out for me. Pouring out a cup, I promptly stained the cloth, as the teapot dribbled some of it's contents down the outside of the spout. I felt awful about it, but I later discovered that it happens all the time. It's the design, you see. No matter how careful you are, a teapot dribbles, especially small ones. It's traditional. But now, I read that Debenham's have introduced a new, improved dripless teapot in their in-store caffs (see graphic above) and I just wanted to share this leap forward for humanity with you all, as you know how important a nice cup of tea is to me. Word is, that if a hit with the tea-shop crowd, a version of it may eventually go on sale to the public. (I suppose the proof of success is how many pots will get nicked)
So well done, Debenham's. Thanks for a tardy but welcome innovation!
THEME TIME RADIO HOUR WITH BOB DYLAN - SEASON 3
#11 "WORK & JOBS"
Broadcast January 7, 2009
At a time when jobs are getting harder to find, Bob works in a lot of tunes where people are complaining about their employment situation. Seems that nobody ever writes songs about wanting a job, but perhaps among the millions who lost their jobs recently, there may be a budding songwriter who's been freed to write a few tunes about the desire for work.
The set punches in with The Burnadettes singing First You've Got To Recognize God, (which, pray tell, may or may not be a prerequisite to being hired these days). But listening to it, I was reminded of how The Beatles used to admire the sound of US girl-groups of the early sixties, and how they not only covered some of the best (Please Mr. Postman, Boys, etc.) but maybe un-self-consciously copied the structure and feel of the songs as they penned their own tunes at the start of their career. They easily could have covered this one, had it not been such a out-and-out gospel number. But I have a terrible feeling that the Fabs would have continued to write such pastiches, and might even have become the world's first 'boy-band' had Mr. Dylan not introduced them to the wacky weed. Oh, how history was changed by one doobie!
Complaining about having to go to work made great fodder for AM radio hits back in the day, and Bob gives us a right old lunchbucket full of them. The boppin' and bitchin' by T-Bone Walker, Merle Haggard and Jimmy Reed is only relieved somewhat by Sarah Vaughan's jazzy take on Nice Work If You Can Get It, as the playlist begins to take a slight metaphoric detour. We have to work through a bit more job-kvetching before getting to a very early Ray Charles platter I'll Do Anything But Work (which may or may not be a gigolo's anthem). Brother Ray is almost unrecognizable, vocally, as I guess he was still working on his style. Nice job, though.
At least one positive view of work sneaks in as we get to hear - I'm not kidding - Whistle While You Work, the version (complete with sound effects) from the Disney cartoon, Snow White, as sung by the forgotten Adriana Caselotti. Divorced from the visuals, it seems less childish and
more of a timeless standard, except towards the end, when I started seeing those damn Dwarfs in my mind's eye. As Bob tells it, the writer of the song apparently committed suicide years later, an image that will now, unfortunately, stand alongside the diminutive Disneyites in my head if I ever listen to that tune again, which I promise not to.
Toward the end, we get back to music about how crappy jobs can be, as Tom Waits grunts through one of his extremely perceptive songs about work, I Can't Wait To Get Off Work(And See My Baby On Montgomery Avenue). Did this guy really have broom-pushing jobs? He sure sounds as if he did - last week, in fact. He's great, but thank goodness there's no such thing as 45 RPM singles anymore, as Waits' paragraph-long title would leave little room on the label for anything else.
Dylan, without resorting to playing worn-out cliches like Take This Job And Shove It and Get A Job, realizes this week's theme with his familiar mix of rarer Soul, Blues, Country and Novelty sides that really work, without being too laborious. In one of his informational filler-segments between songs, he gives us a list of jobs that you can't get anymore, or soon won't be able to get anymore, like milk man, travel agent, typesetter, sewing machine operator, elevator operator and Polaroid Plant Worker. Bob could have added yet another job to that list- a person who plays the music they want to on a over-the -airwaves commercial radio station. In other words, a deejay. Stay on the satellite, Mr. D.
Dear Readers,
When it comes to formal ceremonies, Americans just can't get the rebelliousness out of their systems. We're a nation of rules that resents having to have rules, so we tend not to be too formal, even when the occasion demands - It's somehow not very democratic. Just think, if we'd played by the rules during our revolutionary war, we never would have hid behind rocks and trees to shoot Redcoats while they marched towards us in a disciplined line. And vastly outgunned and outnumbered, we would have lost the rebellion that made us. So it's no surprise that today's Inauguration of President Obama adds another chapter to our informal-formality history.
I can't resist the opportunity to offer a small, constructive critique of this morning's ceremony. As political theatre, nothing in the world touches the peaceful transfer of the awesome power of the Presidency, but compared, let's say, to a British state occasion, it had all the polish of a junior high school production of Our Town. In retrospect, I would have cut a couple of items: First, there was no need for the instrumental music written by John Williams. The opening -and I assume, original -portion was dismal and better suited for a state funeral. Then, Williams drops in a huge chunk of an Aaron Copeland shaker-inspired tune. That's nice, but sticking it in Williams' funereal dirge made no sense. It was a ham-handed mashup, at best. Besides, what needed to follow Aretha Franklin's expressive take on My Country 'Tis Of Thee? (I do wish she had sung 'Natural Woman' instead, but that's a highly personal preference). Why follow the 'Queen Of Soul' with the 'Master Of Droll'? The Quartet, led by Yitzak Perlman and Yo Ma-Ma was brilliant, but wasted on such a pointless piece of music, and the positioning on the Capitol Balcony, above the inaugural platform, reminded me a little of the ascent into 'Kitchen Stadium' of one of the Japanese Iron Chefs (Iron Chef Italian, I think), the one who rises up accompanied by a string quartet. Plus, Obama and Vice-President Joe Biden had to wrench themselves around in their seats to look at the players (mostly, I suspect, out of politeness), which made them both look awkward and uncomfortable. Or maybe they couldn't believe that such A-list musicians were playing such dreck -especially since there was no way to upstage Aretha.
Second, the 'poem', written and read by some famous chick poet was awful. To my trained ears, it sounded a lot like a fifth-grade civics essay. It didn't have any sort of iamb that I could discern, and didn't even rhyme. Why do Inaugurals have to feature a poem anyway? Just because JFK had Robert Frost read out a specially-commissioned poem, every President thinks he has to have a poem, too. If poetry is sooo important to the swearing-in ceremony, why don't they just get someone like, say, James Earl Jones to read out a really good one, like 'The Charge Of The Light Brigade'? Too bad George Carlin's dead, as he would have been my choice for both poet and reader. And considering my estimation of how we conduct formal ceremonies, totally appropriate.
Joe Biden was funny as he stood up to take his oath of office. He had his hand up before he got to his feet, like he had a last minute question or something. Biden seemed over-prepared, probably because it's the same oath that a US Senator takes, and he's been in the senate for about 12 terms, so I'm sure he says it in his sleep. It looked like he wanted to go on swearing some more oaths after he had completed, but was forced to sit down for the main event.
President Obama had his hand up early, too, but maybe it's because he had no confidence in Chief Justice John Roberts' ability to do his job correctly. The Chief Justice usually asks the President if he's ready to take the oath of office (Warren Burger was the master at this), then asks him to raise his right hand, something Roberts never even attempted to do. Then, he compounded his lack of protocol by screwing up the first line of the oath! Poor Obama, hearing the mangled intonement, looked nonplussed, and seemed to want to say, you what? I wish he had. Don't they even practice all this stuff? Even the guy who plays '1st man' in some play where he walks on and off stage within 30 seconds shows up for a few rehearsals. They eventually stumbled through the swearing-in, but I wish they had just stopped and started again. (Maybe Obama got thrown off when Justice Roberts used his full middle name.) Anyway, they looked like two guys who were meeting for the first time.
When it came to his inaugural address, President Obama kept to the safe and serious tone that he's adopted since his election. His rhetoric was sensible and sound and never strayed into the hubristic. He delivered the words well, looking sure and confident, but there wasn't much poetry (it was a bad day for poetry) and at first, it seemed more like a to-do list than a call to arms. But he rallied at the end, taking on the cadences of a well-seasoned evangelist. It seemed like a speech with attainable goals and rhetoric he could back up with real action. Obama came across as a guy who would rather ditch all this ceremony pffaff, and get right down to work - a stark contrast to George W. Bush who looked like a guy who couldn't wait to get to Camp David, as soon as his inaugural speeches were finished. At the end, the Reverend Joseph Lowery, one of the last survivors of the original civil rights leadership, gave a spirited and canny closing prayer that was the best job from the podium all day - even surpassing Aretha.
If there was little drama in the President's speech, then dying Senator Ted Kennedy provided plenty when, at the post-inaugural luncheon at the Capitol, he had a seizure, scaring the bejesus out of everyone and nearly wiping Obama off tomorrow's front pages ( 'Kennedy Dies At Lunch....oh, and Obama Sworn in"). Ted's going to be OK, but it was a close one. But the rest of the day went according to plan, in spite of the delays which put much of the Inaugural Parade in the gloaming. Give Obama credit though, he earned his first Presidential bones by staying for the whole interminable pageant. I know that I wouldn't want to be forced to sit and watch 55 high-school bands blarting out marshallized versions of 'We've Only Just Begun' for hours on end while I was dying to get my feet under the desk in the Oval Orafice.
So, in spite of a few glitches, we begin a promising new chapter in American life. Obama could have just walked on the platform, taken the oath, said 'thanks' and walked off and this day would still rank among the greatest in US history. He didn't, of course, and went along with the fractured formality that passes as American ceremony. We're not royalty, we don't practice curtsying for weeks and we don't prance around in period costume when we do something important. Dude, it's America, not Luxembourg! Though some of our leaders have tried to elevate public ceremony to Asian or European levels, it usually doesn't work, and thank goodness it doesn't. We've had as many Presidents deliver their maiden speeches with soup stains on their lapels as not, yet we're still the envy of the world. The most important thing is that our leader is a guy we chose, and if we don't like him, we can dump him next time around. But I have a sneaking feeling that this guy, Obama, is going to be one of the best, and we can all take credit for that, informally.
Well, I would have been too choked up with pride to put the kettle on today, but I had a look at my 401-k and decided it's going to be rocky for a while longer, and I needed a little comfort. So brew up, America, because 4 o'clock is happening everywhere, and it's time for a cup of inaugural tea.
Dear Readers,
I hear the nation holding it's breath today, preparing to expel a huge sigh of relief, set to go off tomorrow, around noon. Yes, the George W. Bush era finally reaches the end of it's natural lifespan at that hour, expiring, in full public view, on a platform built for somebody else. I've seen a fair few of these handovers, and I'm always amazed at how flawlessly it always happens. Politicians reach the top of the pile by being willing to claw out someones innards to get ahead, and no one is immune from being 'thrown under the bus' in order to advance their power, but in this most unique of situations, the old President - still breathing - meekly, peacefully, nay happily surrenders the keys to the castle and walks away from the throne.
Perhaps the current occupant of the Oval Orafice hands over power happier-ly than most, as Bush leaves office having presided over eight years of the most gilded chaos in American history. The party of free-enterprise, less government and avoidance of hopeless foreign entanglements has left the country divided and unsure of itself. Perhaps the only uniting and certain thing about us this day is that we are all relieved to see the old government go. Hardly the outcome envisioned, I should think.
Why on earth do people want so badly to be President, anyway? Ego, I guess, is the first thing to mind, but there's got to be more. Is it merely to enrich ones friends, business associates and families? Is it all a contrived scheme to get yourself a library with your name on it? Are Presidents people who are so craven and cynical that just getting there was the whole point? Does anybody seriously believe they will implement the party's platform? Or are Presidents a magnificent malfunctioning mix of our best and worst aspirations, a jerry-rigged mess of conflicts and contradictions? The true schizoid man (or woman, someday, surely) -that's our leader.
George Bush may turn out to be the most spectacular example of this theory, as he rode into office on the backs of the ironic right-wing - a group that wants to tell everyone else how to live, but don't want government interference - and betrayed them time and time again. For their pains, he gave them (and us, the collaterally damaged others) a brace of no-win wars, a giga-bloated federal deficit and a government giveaway program that makes LBJ's Great Society legislation look like a free bowl of soup at a Salvation Army lunch-wagon. Surely, even the right must feel a little let down. Plus, Bush failed to push through constitutional amendments banning gay marriage and legal abortions -hobby-horses chosen by the right wing to impose on an unwilling nation. (Why they chose those biblical taboos to enshrine in the constitution, I'll never understand - why not some of the better of the Ten Commandments first?) By any measuring stick, the Bushies failed, succeeding only in making everybody miserable in one way or another.
In his embarrassing farewell to the nation, Bush cited his success in preventing another 9/11 as his proudest achievement, forgetting, conveniently, that he was the President when it happened in the first place. It's a crime that some 3,000 people had to die first to give Bush the theme for his dubious presidency. That crime led to countless other deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan - Bush 'gifts' that keep on taking. And while his homeland-security satraps issued a blizzard of silly color-coded alerts, his government sat on it's hands while Hurricane Katrina wiped away most of New Orleans.
I can't think of too many Presidents who left office having achieved all their goals (thank God!) but I'm still glad we have a system that functions to the degree that someone with so much sheer power gives it all up without a fight. And I'm still romantic enough to believe that, no matter how inept, wrong-headed and destructive a President was, he mostly intended to do the right thing by the country. In spite of all the divisions, hatreds and suspicions we have of one another, there is an American spirit that exists that keeps us all striving for the same goals of comfort, security, opportunity and satisfaction, a spirit that's almost impossible to upend, even by the worst of leaders. It's a weird, wonderful something in the air that keeps us hopeful, and makes us able to recognize the good and bad reflections of ourselves in those who we choose to govern us. We may crash and burn, but we never even think of quitting. It's out there and it's real. Maybe it's time the Presidential oath of office was amended to include a line from Star Wars - 'use the force, Luke', ...err, even if the guy's name isn't Luke. We'll all understand.
Sadly, I was not invited to Warshington to see the Inaugural, but I'll be watching on TV and cheering as we sweep out the old crowd for good. And I'll keep the kettle going, knowing that somewhere, all day, it'll often be 4 o'clock, and time to toast the new crew with a nice cup of tea.
AN APPRECIATIVE OBIT
The death of American Artist, Andrew Wyeth, the other day briefly revived the old argument as to whether he was a proper artist, or 'merely' an illustrator. In every obit I read about him, the subject seemed to be the central issue on which his whole career pivoted. I'm sure the art world elite will get a few party-miles out of slagging off the old guy anew, but I'd bet my boots they would just love to own one of his pictures, no matter how unfashionable, simply for the profit they'd make, seeing as the flow of product has been shut off, so to speak.
Art patrons - for the most part - are indistinguishable from fashonistas in the sense that it's all about image and being thought of by their peers as the last word in modernity. Standing above and apart from the prolotariat is all in that rarefied world. Nothing new there. Art critics travel in the same circles and therefore, absorb the self-absorption of the absorbed. Wyeth managed, over a long career, to give art critics fits because he was both common and extraordinary. I fantasize that he must have had a good, cosmic chuckle at the way his paintings divided opinion among the elite. They say he was calculating, crass and commercial (insert your own insidious comparison with his community of 'peers' here) and anybody who created pictures that, in endless reproductions, wallpapered many a college dorm, simply could not be credible. But the art elite are a fickle lot, and they cannot stand anyone who becomes successful without their seal of approval. I don't know a great deal about Mr. Wyeth, or what he thought, but I rather think he could have cared less. He succeeded anyway. Being critic-proof is anathema to a critic.
I liked a lot of Wyeth's work. His was a pale, stark and ponderous view, but I never considered him anything but one of America's finest painters. He had the freedom to pursue art in his own fashion and became monumentally unique operating within a rather narrow stylistic universe.
But so what? A darling of the art world, Jeff Koons is all over the place, and it's all crap. (Talk about crass!) Yet I believe Wyeth's world will endure, long after Koons' porcelain monstrosities have become worthless risible tat. (I know that currently, it's expensive risible tat, but that's a matter for the accountants.) 'Real' artists and critics will continue to piss on Wyeth from a great height, but his work was solid and real and wonderful, and his individuality, more than anything else, was mighty inspiring to a proletariat like me.
Dear Readers,
Once the incoming President has settled into office, it seems that the closing of the prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuber, will be closed. This limbo-land of terrorist suspects, safe from the precepts of the U.S. Constitution, has been a forgotten embarrassment to most Americans, falling somewhere between Abu Ghrab and the latest Tom Cruise movie, Valkerie. On one hand, I will be glad to see this shameful 'Cheney City' go, but on the other, it seems wasteful, considering how much money has been poured into it over the years.
But the money spent on 'Club Gitmo' pales in comparison with the money handed out to the mega-banks of America. It looks like a further $350 Billion dollars is going to be used to bail out the big banks, and no one bats an eyelid. I can't believe the luck of these corporate crooks, for on the very day that a congressional report comes out revealing that huge mega-muckety-muck institutions like Citigroup, Bank Of America and Morgan Stanley, among others, have billion$ in assets tucked away in tax-free ,offshore businesses, a US Air jet does a three-point belly-flop on the Hudson river, a miraculous deliverance for 155 lucky souls. So while we marvel at wall-to-wall coverage of the feel-good story of the century, corporate perfidy on an unimaginable scale is scarcely noticed.
I feel bad, though, for poor Bernard 'Super-Ponzi' Madoff, because he probably missed seeing the airplane-landing spectacular from his $7-million gilded prison. In a life full of good fortune, he probably couldn't see a thing from his penthouse, as it's on the wrong side of Manhattan Island to get much of a view of the Hudson River. He did have a good week, however, as his bail was continued - much to the chagrin of the prosecutors - with only a few, new restrictions to his house 'arrest'. Apparently, he will have to limit himself to domestic Champagne only and he'll be limited to one vote a week for the new American Idol. Hard time.
So, with all this corporate crime happening in broad daylight, we do have some good news. First, the Bush-Cheney years are nearly over, (albeit leaving the nation in a twisted wreck) and a genuinely smart good-guy is taking over. But President Obama has a mountain in front of him that makes Mohammad's look like a mole-hill built by mice.
Now I'm a near - complete boob when it comes to understanding the economy, but the situation, as I see it, is that our country is borrowing money from the Chinese, which we, as taxpayers will have to pay back eventually, so the US Government can give it to the big banks (with no strings attached) so that they can turn around and lend it back to us - at a nice profit - so we can return to our buying spree of products, mostly made in China, in order to preserve jobs and harmony in America. No wonder people shove impossible-to-fathom news aside to marvel at a jet-rescue story. You can understand that. Disaster - deliverance - hero - applause.
But maybe we could put the economic follies in a more populist light by using hard-won knowledge and existing infrastructure. Let's face it, people in banking need a stiff dose of reality, and there ought to be some kind of punishment meted out for their recklessness, wouldn't you agree? So, maybe as a condition of continuing the cash gravy-train to the banks, we rounded up, say 155 bank executives at random (in finance, everyone is guilty of something) and flew them to Guantanamo Bay, landing, not at the airstrip, but in the bay itself! After all, that US Air captain has proved it's possible, right? Then, once they've been picked up in the water by a group of freelance escapees from Cuber on rafts, they're taken to the cells at Club Gitmo for, say 30 days of contemplation. No charges would be filed - just like the detainees already there - just a precautionary detention, so they couldn't potentially wreak any further terrorism on the citizens of the US. This could be done on a rotating basis, until the economic crisis has passed, and things are back to normal again(no waterboarding, of course. heh-heh). Naturally, the guy in charge would be Mr. Madoff. He could be given a free hand to finance the 'detention center' in any way he seems appropriate - perhaps a new hedge fund financed by the bank executive-detainees, eh? We could teach these villains a lesson at no charge to the taxpayer, other than the Marine guards on Gitmo, who would be there anyway. Let the financial scoundrels have a go at the resident terrorist suspects, too. They can them teach them their slick economic schemes, then, release the terror suspects back to their home countries, and let them bring hostile governments to their knees, financially, with their newly-learned economic terror-techniques. Now that makes the prison at Guantanamo an offshore asset worth having.
I know my plan is a fantasy, but at least I still have a real kettle, an object I bought myself without government guarantees. I need it, so I can have a nice brew-up. 'Cause even at Club Gitmo, it's sometimes 4 o'clock, and I would allow plenty of time for a civilizing cup of tea.
Have a look at my fancy new website. It puts my old website in the shade.
Dear Readers,
Let's face it, we all let the economy down this past Christmas season by not shopping enough. As we've learned over the last few months, the US economy has basically come down to selling stuff - most of which we don't make in this country anymore - to each other. But I read the other day about a retiree in England who not only did more for her nation's economy by shopping so compulsively that her house was completely stuffed with stuff, but actually died as a result of all her stuff caving in on her and suffocating her. True story. I swear.
It seems that the poor lady fell victim to her addiction on Christmas Eve, as she had returned home from a shopping foray with her automobile jam-packed with clothing, appliances and other such season-appropriate purchases. She probably died as a result of trying to find a little room in her small house to put all the new items, causing years-worth of unused and unremembered buys to entomb her. She is said to have had over 100 tea-kettles - however did she make a cup of tea?
I never knew anybody that do-lally, but I did once have a friend who had a floor-to-ceiling wall of LPs. For those of you under the age of 30, LPs were long-playing records that people used to buy at record stores which were... (crumbs! I'm going to have to start footnoting these blogs, in the unlikely event that someone under 30 can tear themselves away from vlogs long enough to read this)...anyway, he had such a huge collection of LPs, arranged on - what looked to me -a really rickety-rackety steel-shelf arrangement. I wondered if someday I would hear about his being crushed to death, his shelves having collapsed, bringing a tsunami of rock, soul, folk and classical down on his head. Did that poor lady in the UK suffer, at the last, from any music abuse? I wonder.
No such worries for the modern music-collector. Nowadays, you can carry your entire music collection up your nose, practically. The ipod, the memory stick and other such devices allow you to walk the streets with the vast sweep of musical past and present at your beck and call. Forget something? No problem, just log on to the interweb and download that missing Lil' Wayne track from a free music-sharing site. And as you walk beneath that skyscraper where, on the 44th floor, a music executive quietly seethes at your action, (and the millions of others who do much the same thing) shed a small crocodile tear for the coming extinction of mega-record companies.
As a borderline luddite, which means...oh, hell...(insert link to wikipedia here), I must take a rare side with the modern music user, as I only wish that something like mass-sharing of music was available in my youth.
Sales of the LPs successor, the music CD...(look it up in wikipedia) have fallen off a cliff of late, not merely as a result of the weak economy, but also because of on-line sharing. While the sales of single songs on Itunes and the like have increased, they don't come close to making up the megabucks that CDs used to bring in. It's a double win for the consumer, as they can get the songs they want, and avoid having to pay for the self-indulgent filler that make up the content of 95% of album-length recordings. Don't worry about the artistes, as they will more than make up for royalty losses through touring and licensing fees. The free custom-hospitality suites for inflated musical egos will still be there in future, trust me.
While all this music flying around in 'the cloud' is great, something is lost - the album graphics.
LPs were the best, once. When artists began to sell so many units that they became indispensable to the record-company bottom-line, they began to have their visual-art way on the covers of LPs, which was an extra delight to record-buyers, as they had something really cool to look at while listening to the sides(often in states of mind-alteration). Today, record sleeves mean nothing to a downloader, and very little to the lesser-spotted CD buyer. As an artist, my feelings are hurt, a bit. But, I suppose in the age of multitasking, nobody just listens anyway.
So we don't buy enough music, don't buy enough cars, just plain don't buy enough stuff anymore - what is society to do? I see a future where the blackberry-texting-iphoning generation of today grumbles about their kids, who are getting the chips implanted in their skulls that allow them to listen to their favorite tunes by just thinking about what they want to hear, as they communicate telepathically with their friends. But what will today's generation of young trendies have that will fall in on their heads and kill them bizarrely, having accumulated so little in the way of possessions? Maybe some will choke on their old, free-file-share-stuffed Ipod, as the spirit of some long-dead record company executive looks down and smiles benignly.
Well, not having done my bit lately for Mother Economy, I have only the one kettle, which I will set to boiling just as soon as I finish this. For somewhere, it's 4 o'clock, and time for a cup of tea.
Dear Readers,
A few years ago, I saw the movie The Departed, a film which garnered high praise and many awards. The director, Martin Scorsezzie, won his first Best Director Oscar for it, though I'm fairly sure that it was a mercy win, a 'sorry-about-you-not-winning-for-Raging Bull or Goodfellas' award. I didn't think it was much of a movie, just a rather long, predictable waste of fine acting talent. But it did occur to me that the real star of the film was the cellphone. Tell the truth, the little pocket-sized bastards stole the movie, didn't they? There they are, in every scene, playing a key role in every plot twist, and the actors seemed to be saying their lines into their 'phones more than to each other. When Ray Winstone whacks Leonardo DiCappucino's broken hand to see if he's faking it, I was amazed he didn't hit him with a Motorola.
I concede cellphones are part of the very fabric of everyday life (I even have one) but the obsessive way people seem to be constantly on them seems odd to me, and often annoying. I belong to that minority of people who get irritated when having to endure someone else's private conversations in public. Most people don't seem to mind, but there have been a few 'phone rage' incidents here and there, a reaction I publicly denounce (but privately applaud).
But having been around for a good few years, I think I've seen this all before.
Since seeing The Departed and being amazed at the fawning reaction to it, I began to pay less attention to contemporary films and turned to the past, finally beginning to catch up on movies that I've always heard about, but never saw. The list is long, but thanks to my new favorite TV channel, Turner Classic Movies, I'm not only filling in the gaps in my cinematic CV, but I'm really enjoying them as well. But there's one you notice when watching old Hollywood (and foreign, for that matter) films - everybody smoked - constantly. Apart from Shirley Temple and Rin Tin Tin movies, most acting - back in the day - was performed in a haze of cigarette smoke. Studios must have had to hire extra crews to sweep up the fag ends after a hard day's filming! The Movies are usually either setting or following trends, so I guess the whole nation operated in a thick fug back then.
It's much different now. The percentage of people smoking has steadily declined over the years, and those who still indulge are feeling more and more outcast. Banned - in most places - from smoking inside any public building, bar or restaurant, they make up a stubborn, stubbing-out minority. As I see the new departed, standing just outside the doors of buildings, puffing away, more often than not, they're on a cellphone. Am I witnessing the faint beginnings of a future trend - the ostracizing of cell-phone users? Is it possible that, in years to come, those thoughtless idiots who yak-yak-yak without the slightest regard for other people will someday replace the shivering smokers exiled to designated areas? Most people used to smoke. Most people today use a cellphone in a anti-social way. Is there a parallel?
I was encouraged to read the other day that a local suburban commuter railroad is going to try an experiment by offering a 'quiet car' on one of it's lines. No cellphones, no loud ipods and conversations limited to the short and soft variety. I hope it works, just like the early, non-smoking cars on trains. Those cars soon became the norm, and pushed smokers to a single, designated car, then eventually off the train altogether. It took a while, but it happened. The anti-smoking crusade was greatly helped by heaps of sobering medical evidence, and reformed smokers were some of the fiercest crusaders, but I've yet to hear of a reformed cell-phone user.
No, the tide is still firmly against The Annoyed, as a whole generation who have had cellphones stuck to their ears their entire lives begins to reach maturity. I fear the tipping point for civility in cellphone use is still a long way off. So steel yourself, dear readers, for years of distracted drivers, interrupted concerts, plays and movies, hellish commutes and spoiled quiet moments. For the time being, when the silly, tinny ring-tone goes off, it will be us - the minority - who, for some peace and quiet, will have to depart.
Oooh, after an intense blog, I don't have to smoke or call someone, I fill up the kettle, for I know that somewhere, it's 4 o'clock, and time for a nice, quiet cup of tea.
Dear Readers,
Even without the attendance of former Saturday Night Live comedian and 225-vote-margin election winner, Minnesota's Al Franken, you gotta admit that the U.S. Senate is one funny place.
Yesterday, as newly elected and appointed senators arrived in Washington for their official swearing-in ceremonies, one was refused admission to the august body. That person was someone named Roland Burris, and he was denied his seat because he was appointed to the post by Illinois Governor, Rod 'The Mod' Blagojevich, who's under suspicion of having tried to sell the Obama-vacated position to the highest bidder. Now Blagojevich may be under a cloud and may go to trial on any number of corruption charges, but he is still the rightful Governor - the only qualification he needs to legally make the appointment - and he's yet to be proven culpable of any wrongdoing. Ergo, he did his duty.
OK, I agree he's probably guilty of some sort of corruption, and I'm no fan of his eff-you brand of slimy politics, but you have to admit that the Cabbage-Patch-Kid-faced Governor has outsmarted his political opponents by naming a guy who's scandal-free, probably didn't pay a cent for the job, and is African-American to boot, making the Senate look like a bunch of southern bigots by refusing to seat Burris. Brilliant! Blago has shown the federals who's still in charge of his state.
What I find so funny is that The U.S. Senate justifies it's refusal to seat Mr. Burris on the grounds that the Governor who appointed him is under suspicion and therefore, any power he exercises is illegitimate. But wait! This is a political body that happily voted authority to start a useless war to a President who, some would say, was 'elected' illegitimately, thanks to a questionable Supreme Court decision! Then, as it turns out, there was no legitimate reason to start the war in the first place! Practically every decision that George W. Bush made that needed to approved by congress during his first term could be considered illegitimate. What do you intend to do about that, Mr. Senate tough-guy? Does the nation's fortunes stand or fall on who becomes the junior senator from Illinois? What brave people! Finally taking a principled stand!
The Senate continues to try and extract laughs from us by refusing to seat the legally rightful appointee from Illinois, but nobody finds it very funny, when on practically the same day, they vote themselves a pay increase in the teeth of the worst economic climate since the Great Depression. And that's after last fall's farce of handing over the keys of the U.S. Treasury to a handful of rich-beyond-all-imagination Wall Street Banks. I've no problem with Minnesota sending a person who once made his living as a comedian to the Senate, but let's face it, we're already laughing so much, it hurts.
Well, at least the Senate has no jurisdiction on my kettle. So, while it comes to a boil, I'll wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes and check my world-timezone gadget to see where on the planet it's four o'clock, 'cause, by my watch, it's time for some tea.
THEME TIME RADIO HOUR WITH BOB DYLAN - SEASON 3
#10 "NUMBERS ELEVEN AND UP"
Broadcast December 17, 2008 on XM Radio
Instead of wrapping up the calendar year with the usual 'Countdown' (or Top Ten) show, Bob takes us in a different direction this time and sees off 2008 by looking at songs containing references to larger numbers. Considering the huge flurry of bad numbers the year produced (see my blog of 12-30-08), Dylan offers up a nice batch of good numbers in this hour.
A lot of the songs seem to be about human size and measurements, starting off with Bobby "Blue" Bland's 36-22-36, which I'll let you guess as to what that's about. Later on, we get to hear Ann Peebles sing about her weight in 99 Lbs. - a song subject not much explored by today's tunesmiths - followed up by Howlin' Wolf bragging about himself in 300 Pounds Of Joy. Two rather bizarre numbers round out this numerical subcategory, one, by The Snowmen (I never heard of them, but the lead singer sounds a little like Tom Jones, way before anyone ever heard of him), who croon a paean to an extreme version of female measurements, 39-21-46, and the other, by someone named Jim Ford, who decides he's a 12-inch ruler (as in measuring stick) in the remarkable 36 Inches High. It came out in 1969, which may explain it somewhat.
Money is all about numbers, and is fairly represented by Dylan favorite, Prince Buster, with his early-reggae-sounding Thirty Pieces Of Silver. The Joe Mooney Quartet cautions against greed and worrying about money in A Man With One Million Dollars, a song that recommends a treatment for ulcers (something no longer needed, thanks to government bailouts for the avaricious), and somehow works cartoon cutups Tom and Jerry into the lyrics. Country music - as usual with Bob - gets a look-in with the gleefully up-tempo 100,000 Women Can't Be Wrong by the completely un-modest Lattie Moore, and the show's number is up when Merle Haggard achingly longs for retirement in C'mon Sixty-Five. Do they still give out gold watches anymore?
The between-platters banter segments are numerous and informative. One, by frequent guest-by-cassette-tape, Tom Waits, gives us a number on how the Baker's Dozen came to be, and Mr. D. himself explains why the number 40 crops up so much in the Bible. While this show might not number among the greatest of TTRH, you can always count on the host to be endlessly entertaining as he shares his record collection - which must easily run into the millions. Read more...
Dear Readers,
The response to last fall's guest columnist, Harry L. Geeseberger, has been enormous. So, we here at 'Tea With S.B.' have asked Harry to be a semi-regular columnist for 2009 (It's a one-year contract). We've given 'The Geeze' the 'Modern Lifestyle And Technology' portfolio, so you'll be reading Harry's reviews of new gadgetry and modern trends. Our staff couldn't think of anyone more qualified to take on the task of 'telling ourselves about ourselves'. Also, Harry has agreed to work for nothing.
So enjoy the new column, called "RICE PUDDING".
Hello all telegraph operators and ships at sea!
It's a pleasure to be back and I've been assigned to review the new video game, Grand Theft Auto IV, and I must tell you, it's a hum-dinger! I didn't actually buy the thing, but I was staying with my son, Melvin, and his wife, Judy, over the holidays, and they bought the game for their 5-year old grandson, Kyle. Kyle's parents are my grandson, Jason, and his girlfriend, (he calls her his 'partner'. What? Are they in business?) Crystal. They came over about 1 in the afternoon on Christmas. I answered the door and Crystal pushed past me without a word, talking on the phone and pushing a baby carriage with what looked like a baby that had just been born on the way over in it. Jason had Kyle under his arm in a headlock while Kyle was fiddling with what looked like a calculator, but was in fact, a hand-held computer game, something I found out later (too late, in fact, to review for this column). Jason came through the door and dumped Kyle on the carpet and said 'Hey, Gramps' and headed straight for the kitchen. I hardly recognized him, because he's shaved his head and got a new neck tattoo since I saw him last, about 2 years ago. Kyle ran past me and screamed 'where's the presents?', diving under the tree, nearly knocking it over. Jason came back into the livingroom holding a can of beer and reached under his shirt and pulled out a VHS tape and handed it to me. 'Surprise! Merry Christmas, Gramps', he said, while pulling the ring top off his beer, 'thought you'd like this'. It was a tape called "World War II's Greatest Explosions"(a tape I already have). It was unwrapped with the 99 cent price sticker still on it. I handed the professionally-wrapped, silver double-photo frame I bought for them to Crystal. "Thanks, Gramps", she said, idly tearing it open and giving me an air kiss, still on the phone with somebody. Taking the baby out of the buggy, she reached into a tote bag and drew out a disposable diaper and gave it to me. 'What's this?', I said. 'Duhhh, it's a Huggies, isn't it?, Merry Christmas'. I told her I didn't need it, but she said I eventually would and to save it for later. By then, Kyle had torn through his gifts and found Grand Theft Auto IV and had already set it up and was playing. What violence! Reminded me of Salerno in '44 - this is OK for a 5-year old? I told Crystal that Kyle shouldn't be playing a game like that but she told me to stuff my Huggie...somewhere. So I got out my new Checker Set that Judy had got me for Christmas and went over to Kyle and said ' let's play this instead'. 'What's that?', he said. So I set it up on the coffee table and showed him how to play. I went into the kitchen for a second to get a cup of java and came right back, but found Kyle had returned to Grand Theft Auto IV. I looked at the board and noticed there was a red checker missing, so I asked Kyle where it was. 'I fed it to my stupid sister', he yelled, without looking away from the screen, where a car had just blown up. Well, chaos ensued! You'd think the car that just blew up in Grand Theft Auto IV had just gone off in the livingroom. Everyone was shouting and wailing - Jason, especially, calling me several unprintable names. Crystal got off the phone and grabbed the baby and everyone - except me, Melvin and Kyle - rushed out the door, piled into Jason's SUV and headed for the hospital. 'Thanks, Dad', Melvin hissed at me as he bent down to quietly speak to Kyle about how wrong it was to feed a checker to a baby. Pretty soon, he and Kyle were happily playing Grand Theft Auto IV, ignoring me. So I decided to go for a walk and got on my hat, coat, scarf and gloves and stepped outside. It was only then I remembered I was in Florida and it was 78 degrees.
So, until next time, my friends, tell 'em kilroy was here!
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