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RIPOSTE
     
by RIP RENSE

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DONCHA THINK?
(July 12, 2010)

         When I look out my window, many sights to see. . .When I look out my window, so many people to be. . .And it’s strange. . .---Donovan.


          Trixie the cat looks out the window a lot. I mean a lot. She parks herself half on my scanner, and half on the sill, folds her paws in “cat position,” because she can’t help it, and watches.
          Me, I try not to watch.
          Trixie watches the thundering garbage and recycling trucks as they screech and ka-boom, the cars that roll through stop signs, the hulking walker screaming profanities for undoubtedly good reason, the hostile and raucous little kiddies walking slowly home from the nearby high school, the psycho neighbor who impresses everyone as “such a nice guy.”
          I’ve seen it all before.
          Oh, I sometimes join her in watching a hummingbird, or a butterfly, or the squirrels playing on the roof next door. These are my lifelines to the real world, the non-human world, which humans have largely traded for television, Angus burgers, and Lady Gaga. So I have Trixie to thank for this reminder.
          Truth be told, and it seldom is, I can barely stand to look out the window anymore. For that matter, I can barely stand to go out among the humans. But don’t tell anybody, or they might get the wrong idea. Like I’m an agoraphobic or something. Hell, I like rabbit wool sweaters, as long as no rabbits are harmed in the making of this film.
          What’d he say?
          I’m sick of writing. I think it is of less consequence than farting. Farting, after all, has entertainment value, let alone arguable impact on global warming, especially when performed by cows. Especially when those cows are fed massive amounts of genetically modified corn in corporate slaughterhouses in order to fatten them up supernaturally so as to quickly be transformed into corporate Angus burgers. In order to be badly digested by corpulent humans who will then fart nearly as much as the corn-fed cows. (Billions and billions served.) Who will then become addicted to Prilosec and other antacid “medications” for temporary relief of minor heartburn pain. Which will fatten up pharmaceutical companies whose heads will unleash metaphorical oral flatulence in opposing any/all sane health care proposals by government.
          Writing is of no consequence. Well, if you want to stretch a point, nothing is of any consequence. We don’t know what we are, where we are, why we are, how we got here, where here is, or why dogs aren’t bothered by the smell of each other’s asses. But that’s beside the point. What is the point? Hell if I know. But I do know that writing only means something to the writer who might get an egotistical or monetary reward from the act, and to the reader who is stimulated to some intellectual or emotional response. That’s a pretty impotent closed system, don’t you think?
          Don’t you think? Now there’s a good all-purpose rejoinder to drop into conversation. But do it slyly, so the recipient is not aware of the double meaning. Just tack it on to the ends of sentences spoken to blowhards and dunderheads. They’ll never catch on. Doncha think?
          Yawn. Somebody just sent me a bunch of links about that shooting trial involving that kid on the BART train in Oakland. One of the links goes to Youtube video, where some dumb (white) transit cop allegedly thought he was going to “tase” the (uncooperative, black) suspect, but whoops---wrong gun! Suspect dead. And there were lots of links to angry “Black Panthers” saying lots of angry Black Panther things. Yawn. So sick of racial crap. It’s endless. A cancer on the society. It will never, never get any better. People write about it, and write about it, and write about it, and yack about it, and pass laws about it, and yack about it some more, and write about it and. . .it doesn’t ever change. I don’t want to know anymore.
          That’s really it. I no longer want to know. Anything. I know enough. Or as Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart and countless other actors must have uttered in B-movies, “He knows too much!” What is the point of knowing all the things you can possibly know? Party conversation? What is the point of arming yourself with all the news and commentary of the day? Schmooze ammunition? Okay, hey, have a ball. But I think people are spending way, way too much time knowing things, and jabbering about them, and knowing more things, and jabbering about them, than is healthy. I think people should be content with what they know, and mostly shut the fuck up.
          Knowing, talking, writing. All pretty much a waste of time. I mean, people write, and write, and be a villain. Which is to say, nothing is affected or changed much by writing these days. Everything is still acrimony. The Internet, in fact, has made acrimony official. The world is shrouded by the cacophonous yapping of irritated humans. Almost literally. Everyone has become a writer and jabberer, and despite a lot of very smart, very knowledgeable writing and jabbering floating in the ocean of verbal cyber-sewage, none of it changes the acrimony. In fact, the acrimony just gets more acrid. Whoops, got to be careful. That’s almost "writing."
          So stop the jabbering. I mean, what does “talk radio” accomplish? What, you are better informed? So what? What changes due to being better informed?  Everything not only stays screwed up, but it becomes exponentially more screwed up--- from all the talking. Here’s some reality: governments beholden to invisible corporations that usurp the environment to keep SUV’s rolling while millions of children die of AIDS and millions more are born to contract AIDS while space junk circles the earth and women are stoned to death and whales and dolphins suffocate in Gulf oil and futile wars are fought out of lies and paranoia and incomprehensible greed and banks pay billions in bonuses while skilled people who have worked long and hard can no longer get jobs. Do you think that being informed, and jabbering, and writing, will change any of this?
          Pardon me while I make a sound like a dying rooster.
          Perhaps you think I am being facile, or a reasonable facsimile. Well, all the jabbering and writing that took place before BushCheney’s Iraq invasion did nothing. It was widely and definitively reported that there were no real grounds for invasion. Yet the largest protests in world history did zip to stop it. That’s about as compelling an illustration of the futility of “discourse” as I can conjure.
         Whatever power there was in jabbering and writing has been rendered inert by the Internet. “Marginalized,” as the popular expression goes, if not trivialized. If everyone is a jabberer and a writer, who is listening and reading? Other writers and jabberers. Who, in turn, will be prompted to write and jabber. No one’s right if everybody’s wrong, to quote Buffalo Springfield.
          The media, the mass-produced/dumbed-down/force-fed “popular culture,” the demographers, the marketing rapists, the avatars of political correctness, the hustlers, the "icons," the “entertainment industry,” the supragovernmental corporations---they all have a lock on global everything. Children---babies, almost---are programmed by “popular culture.” Primed to accept the brought-to-you-by reality, primed to consume. How hilarious is it that “individuality” and “self-expression” have been co-opted by corporate mass-marketing? Want to express yourself, kiddies? Get more designer shoes, get more tattooes---just like everybody else. Definition of that monolithic marketing phenomenon, “cool:” conformist. Try substituting conformist every time you say, or hear someone say, “cool.” It’s all a done deal, a rigged game, a Pavlovian orgy, and it isn’t likely to change, no matter how much jabbering, no matter how much writing.
          Everything is a forum for everyone to run their little games, mostly. That's about all. From pundits to presidents to Prince to BP.
          But you just ignore me, now, and keep smiling, and keep tuning in that KPCC and all other important talk shows full of important topics hosted by important people so you can be better important informed! Know the minutiae of all those important issues that have no direct impact on your life whatsoever, and that you are absolutely powerless to change! Get informed about Iran and Israel! Get informed about illegal immigration! Get informed about Afghanistan and Hezbollah! Argue about it all with friends! Get that important “dialogue” going so you can know what is going wrong with the world, or your community, in order to have exactly no effect on it at all!
          It’s really a lot like soccer, or football, or as the entire bozo planet now pronounces it, “foop-ball.” People run around like mad and try to control a ball without using their arms and hands. (Now there’s a humorous idea for a sport.) Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of every foop-ball match consists of this ridiculous, chicken-without-the-head bloogledoogle. Fleegledeegle. When a goal is scored---an analogue of change!---it is just shocking. This, of course, is why people love sports. There are definitive changes, and real outcomes.
          And so, as the west sinks slowly in the west, I leave the looking out the window to Trixie the cat. She likes it, bless her. Yes, it’s quite a show, to her eyes, judging from the hours she spends watching. Me, I’ve seen the show. I’ve done a lot of writing about it, too, though hardly as much as many writers. Yet I’ve learned something that many other writers either don’t learn, or override with drugs, booze, ego, or paycheck: there’s no point. What's more, the more I think, and the more I am informed, and the more I write, and the better I write, the less peaceful I become. I’m in favor of peace on earth, so you see, my contribution must be. . .less writing. Maybe no writing! That’s it. What is the greatest thing I can contribute to ongoing “discourse?” To quote Edwin Starr in the great song, “War”. . .
          Absolutely nothin’!

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I can now add you to that list! FYI: "alaska" is capitalized. "Somewere" is spelled "Somewhere." And you meant "intolerable," not "tolerable."

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THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING?
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If You Don't Read L.A.Observed.com,
You don't know what's going on in L.A.
civilized news about the news

SHAFTS. . .
 
by The Lamplighter

                                      updated capriciously. . .

DEVIL-OPERS
McCartney wrote a decent little song a few years back that went, in part, "We live in hope of deliverance from the darkness that surrounds us." I'm surmising he does not live a lot in L.A., where there is no such hope, except among the infantile, naive, and stupid. Darkness is all that surrounds here, despite sunshine that is no more relentless than Sarah Palin. The city is forever, at least in the last 30 or 40 years, intent on destroying all quality of life by greasing the way for sociopathic developers who care as much about aesthetics and density as Larry King cares about doing research before an interview. As far as LA is concerned with LL, it's R.I.P..

Consider the fact, alone, that Huge Heiffer just had to bail out the Hollywood Sign. Now, why a giant sign leftover from a real estate development in the '20's is a "beloved landmark" is another story (or maybe the story---L.A. enshrines developers!), but the fact that the shitty, I mean city, would not step in to save the goddamn thing is astounding. Yes, developers wanted to tear it down in order to rape and destroy more nice chaparral hillside in order to cash in with "exclusive homes." And L.A. did nothing. Just as it has done nothing to stop the destruction of landmarks and neighborhoods all over the city, in order that developers can profiteer by building hundreds of thousands of unnecessary apartments and condos---and, of course, further destroying the "quality of life" with insane density.

Then we have the proposal to---and Your Illuminator can barely bring himself to type this, it's soooo depressing---cover the Harbor Freeway, or portions of it downtown, with parks. What? What's wrong with that, you wonder? It will make things prettier? Sure, the way keeping your insane uncle in the cellar while you have elegant dinner parties upstairs is pretty. Imagine bottling up all that exhaust and pollution, so you have to drive through it every day. It's bad enough to have to breathe above ground here. Imagine all that exhaust and diesel particulate matter spilling out of tunnels and making such a nice atmosphere in all the parks above. Mommy, how come all the leaves are covered with black dust? That's not dust, honey, that's L.A. air! What really needs to be done, of course, is not to cover the Harbor Freeway with parks, but to replace the Harbor Freeway with parks. Right, replace it. Gasp, sputter, whaaaat did he say??? Get rid of a freeway? How will we get anywhere? Answer: you can stay home, or live closer to where you work, or take the subway or light rail, or ride a bike, or walk to work through a nice downtown park.

And then we come to Marina del Rey, or rather, we don't come to it. Not at least, without getting into near gridlock, which is locking more by the day. George Harrison wrote a song (well, seeing as we've quoted Paul above, why not?) called "The Devil's Been Busy," which goes, in part, "sometimes you're better off not knowing/ how much you've been had." Yes devil-opers are working overtime on destroying the Marina, a once rather sweet and negotiable place, and everybody's being had. There are plans to essentially raze all the old Marina apartment complexes and replace them with comparative high-rises. Never mind that one such project, last LL looked, remains empty because it uh. . .is sinking. Seems devil-opers um, miscalculated. The marshland landfill was not meant to support giant condo hives. Speaking of which, how 'bout them devil-opers turning a nondescript couple of streets off the Marina into an "arts district!" Sounds nice? Well, sure, except there are no "arts" there. Just massive ugly gray rectangular buildings full of starting-at-$500,000 condos meant to attract "cool" younger "professionals." Why, then, is it called an "arts district?" Because it sounds "cool." It's the art of the con.

And let's not even discuss Playa Vista. It's bad for the heart.

LL wonders, did you approve any of the development wiping out L.A.? Did I? Funny thing, we didn't! Who did? The government? Oh, there were a few votes here and there? Right, I remember. Campaigns entirely funded by devil-opers. With the "media" (that's you, L.A. Times) not raising the slightest objection.

Lights out, Los Angeles.

QUEEN JAN, APPROXIMATELY

As Quick Draw McGraw used to say, "Hold on thar!" Hm. Never thought Lamplighter would be quoting Quick Draw McGraw in a commentary, but referring to a cartoon character while writing about L.A. Councilwomanperson Jan Perry is wholly in order. Perry would be funny were she ink instead of flesh-and-blood, but the fact that she wants to be mayor is not funny at all.

Well, no funnier than Little Anthony Villaraigosa wanting to be mayor, anyhow.
 
Ms. Perry, of course, is known more popularly as "Queen Jan" since her quip about appointing herself "Queen of Los Angeles" while serving as acting mayor during one of Little Anthony's innumerable holidays abroad with his favorite TeeVee Newsbimbo. And by golly, the good old Rip Post wrote about the "Queen Jan" incident way back in ought-three! Why, Queen Jan actually sent an e-mail to The Rip Post then, which you can read in Rense's column, "Queen of Los Angeles." In fact, if you have the slightest notion of voting for this goofball, you'd damn well better read that column, and send it to friends. I mean, gasp, and double-gasp.

And let us not forget that Perry's former chief of staff, Daryl Sweeney, pleaded guilty to 15 federal charges related to a bribery scandal involving a lucrative trash-hauling contract.

So it was with some horror that LL read the Jewish Journal's puff-piece about Jammin' Jan's candidacy last week. But then, what could editor Rob Eshman do? Perry just blew into his office, apparently unannounced, to announce. Plus the black lady representing south-central and downtown is also Jewish, having converted 20 years ago, so there was an extra angle, see?

What plunged Your Illuminator into darkness, though, was not Perry's crassly obvious pitch to the Jewish community for donations, but the things Queen Jan ticked off as her accomplishments as councilpersonwoman from the Ninth District. Ready for this? Wrote Eshman:

Perry handed me a blue folder with a couple of Xeroxed sheets listing her accomplishments. Among them: two wetland parks in highly urbanized South LA, a new $15 million multi-use City Hall there, a giant Fresh ‘n Easy grocery store, the LA Live complex of housing and retail across from the Staples Center.

Wetlands parks? Hey, very nice. Hats off. (Though I would like to have seen her accomplish this where the real estate is a bit more in demand.) And as for a city hall in south Los Angeles (is that a separate city now?), well, any new building in that part of town is probably a good thing, though one drools at how that $15 million might have been spent on, say, schools. Or, yes, potholes! And. . .do L.A. city officials really need another building for themselves? Anywhere?

Now comes the funny wacky crazy cartoony part:

A "giant Fresh 'n' Easy grocery store" is an accomplishment? Call LL dim-bulbed, but we sorta kinda think that, you know, improving schools and paying teachers and fixing streets and fighting gangs and confiscating guns and inspiring community pride is the job of a councilwomanperson or councilmanperson. Isn't a grocery store a profitable private institution? How exactly is "Fresh 'n' Easy" helping to keep kids in school? Stopping gang violence? Well, okay, maybe His Brightness lives in an idealistic dream world. New business is new business, after all, but here's the real kicker, the punch-line, the coup de grace:

Queen Jan is claiming that "L.A. Live" is her accomplishment! Hell, there's reason to not only not vote for her, but to throw her out of office.

Even if you somehow buy into the knee-slappingly hilarious idea that Jammin' Jan singlehandedly built or funded or designed or created "L.A. Live," this is like taking credit for, oh, the invention of Twinkies. Only not that good. "L.A. Live" cost $2.5 billion, which is chump change to sponsors Anschutz Entertainment Group, Wachovia Corp, and MacFarlane Partners, but not to L.A. taxpayers---who also funded this gargantuan piece of downtown Ugly.

Imagine, folks, what $2.5 billion invested in citywide light rail, or public schools where the bathrooms don't work, or after-school programs for poor kids, might have done. Or, yes, business investment in south-central. Evidently, Jan didn't. Instead, she imagined a colossally, ridiculously, insanely unnecessary, definitively gratuitous complex of garish theaters, pretentious restaurants, and hyper-expensive hotels that have all the aesthetic appeal and dignity of a Vegas hooker on Sunday morning.

Vote for Jan! Turn downtown into the Vegas Strip! Think I'm kidding? It's Queenie who is also still pushing big-time for the absolutely stark-raving-drooling cuckoo $3 billion Grand Avenue Project. You remember that, yes? Dubai was bankrolling it until Dubai's bankroll went bust, but Perry is still banking on it. No unnecessary hyper-development is too unnecessary for the Queen of Los Angeles.

And let us remember, just for fun, that it was Acting Mayor Jan who begged money from L.A. taxpayers and, well, the. . .entire world. . .to cover the costs of security and traffic management incurred for the big Michael Jackson tribute at Staples Center! Begged. Really.

Cough. Is it just Lamplighter, or does anyone else think this woman is lighting without a candle, knuckling without a ball, meowing without a cat?

ADD QUEEN JAN:
Good old L.A. Weekly! The L.A. Times fiddles around with page sizes and news deadlines while L.A. burns, but the Weekly under editor Jill Stewart (ex-Times) continues providing the kind of reporting that this place so badly needs. And that is so condescendingly dismissed by all the rah-rah L.A.-is-great journalism wonk clique-elite that is forever blandly discussing the same old issues-that-never-change.

The Weekly, you see, is covering Queen Jan's latest screwball comedy: her astonishing continuing support of the $3 billion Grand Avenue Project at a time when the country is bankrupt, L.A. is nearly bankrupt, and the state of California is auctioning off everything except Schwarzenegger's cigar butts to raise money.

And let us wonder why it is not on page one of the L.A. Times every single day that Perry was the one who cut a deal with Dubai sheiks to build this thing---just before Dubai went financially due bye-bye. Any paper worth its ink should be campaigning to drive this ditz directly out of office. After all, what, you wonder, is an L.A. City Council member doing, making deals with Dubai? Doesn't Perry represent south-central as well as downtown? And aren't south-central's needs a bit more pressing than a $3 billion downtown development deal for elitist condo towers and "gourmet" restaurants designed by the "magic pencil" of Frank Gehry?

Oh, never mind. Just L.A. bidnis as usual. As was the latest meeting of the Grand Avenue Authority Board (whatever that is) to decide the fate of this  huge chunk of downtown public land between City Hall and the Music Center. But wait! Gee whiz---seems the public was not welcome! Here's Paul Teetor in the Weekly:

The reason for the lack of public participation in a development slated to rise on choice public land owned, collectively, by about 9.8 million people, is manifold: The meeting of the obscure but powerful Grand Avenue Authority board was its first in two months, and the authority gave the citizenry just 48 hours' notice, the bare minimum California law requires the board to provide. Unless your e-mail was on the digital list for notification, you wouldn't have heard about it. And the meeting was held, as usual, on a Monday morning, when working people cannot attend, in a building so difficult to access that unless you had $20 for parking — or a reserved "VIP" spot — it might be prohibitive to show up.

And Queen Jan, that wacky, fun-loving "Mayor of Downtown," as she's known, was the acting Grand Avenue Authority chairperson. Judging by her arrival, though, you'd think she was acting the part of Oprah. Teetor again:

Then at 10:14, a man in a dark suit with a cell phone glued to his ear solemnly announced: "She's in the parking lot." That generated a buzz from a gaggle of Los Angeles city and county officials, developers, support staff, bloggers and three members of the media. Everyone scurried to their seats, and veteran photographer Gary Leonard got ready to take pictures.

You know, the stretch from the Music Center down to City Hall is quite nice as it is, don't you think? Landscaped, sloping, peaceful, lovely. Grinders sure like it! Anybody want to tell Lamplighter why high-rise condos, glitzy-ritzy shopping center, multiplex movie theater and a "gourmet supermarket" is needed in this space? Have the denizens of nearby Skid Row suddenly developed taste in the finer things in life?

All you really have to know about the Grand Avenue Project is that one of the stated justifications for this atrocious thing is that designers publicly objected to the fact that you have to climb a few steps to get to the Music Center. Seriously. This, they said, makes the Center seem aloof, elitist. No, we're not kidding. The plan is to---and Tim Burton did not dream this up---raise Grand Avenue so people can walk directly into the Music Center grounds. Thus bringing the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, Ahmanson Theater, and Mark Taper Forum down to street level, you see, with all attendant symbolism applying. (Including dumbing it down and making it less. . .grand.)

Gawd.

Hey, Jan, how about a downtown wetlands park instead?

You want a paper that keeps putting L.A. into pointed, blunt perspective? Read the Weekly.

CUT!
It's not often enough that Your Illuminator's filaments fill with radiance, and he beams, but this happened the other day when he read Michael Kinsley's piece in The Atlantic, "Cut This Story!" Kinsley astutely---well, it would be astute if it weren't so damned obvious---notes that one of the reasons newspapers have declined is that they forgot how to be punchy and concise. Never mind that this website has made the same point countless times through the years. The Rip Post is the tree that fell in the forest.

Kinsley's point cannot be overstated, though. Newspapers---even when they were doing superb investigative work---grew flabby and verbose. In the '70's and beyond, they became more like magazines or books than snap-crackle-pop daily fishwraps. Reporters long ago either forgot how to write tight ledes (remember "terse, tight, and telegraphic," ex-J-school students?) or just stupidly abandoned the form as an anachronism (fully enabled, aided, abetted by editors.) You look at the rags these days, and there are ledes that are literally 80, 90 words long---paragraphs as fat as the pre-stomach-stapled Al Roker. Five w's, anyone? Twenty five words?

The L.A. Times of the last 30 years is a wonderful example of ponderous, unfocused, self-serious ledes and interminable articles. The so-called "nut graf" phenomenon, of which the Times was a foremost "exponent," is possibly the dopiest and most crippling thing to ever happen to newswriting. You write your story as if you are writing The Great American Novel, and somewhere along the line---somewhere in the 250 inches of copy---you insert this mysterious "nut graf" that supposedly magically ties everything together. How silly. Yet editors dived into this septic tank by the thousands, and called it a swimming pool. Well, most of 'em are out of work now, and frankly, it serves most of 'em right.

It's the Internet, Kinsley avers, that makes the case. For all its slipshod crapola and irresponsible reporting, the 'Net is nothing if not short and to the point. And many news sites are very well organized, with easily apprehensible headlines and articles that cut to the chase. Michael Kinsley, Illuminator of the Week.

PARTY DOWN WITH KPCC
One of the most inane things---no, the most inane thing---Lamplighter
encountered in any media during the 2009 hollandaise season was KPCC's astoundingly informed, issues-saturated Patt Morrison interviewing some ditzy girl (woman, I guess) who was "party consultant," or an "entertainment engineer," or a "festival therapist," or some damn thing. I tried to find the show to link to it for you, folks, but I'll be hornswaggled if I can figure out the KPCC website.

Anyhow, Patt had the woman on the air by phone, and she punctuated silences with husky Patt chuckles here and there to make it sound all funsy and convivial, but the subject was handled with all the seriousness of how to capture Bin-Laden. I mean, Party Lady was twittering (old sense of the word) like a 12-year-old Northridge princess about "do's and don'ts" (or something) of "holiday office parties"---as if this was a discussion about the death penalty, or abortion.

With much foreboding and consternation, she warned listeners that with Youtube and iPhones, you'd better be darn circumspect in your celebrative demeanor! Of course, she didn't say "circumspect," and probably would think the word refers to a particular religious ritual involving the penis. But this was just the general tone, not the gist. One major point that Party Lady was making---and that Morrison was intent on pursuing---involved (get this) what is okay to talk about at holiday parties.

That's correct, folks---you are now supposed to worry in advance about what sort of conversation to make at parties. Can you say. . .insane? I mean, let's just worry about worrying! Correct Your Illuminator if he is wrong, but aren't parties for something that used to be known as fun? Relaxing? Shooting the breeze? Well.

But the part that caused me to hit the button on the car radio and declaim in fashion and content not generally approved for Christmas, Chanukah, New Year, was this: Party Lady referred to holiday celebrations that might be happening at your "church, synagogue, or mosque." Yes, mosque.

Mosque? I'm sorry, but to the best of LL's knowledge, which admittedly has enormous holes, Muslims do not celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, or wait for Santy to come down the chimney with a new BMW. Do they? Am I mistaken here? Are mosques filled with burka-coated women singing "Here Comes Santa Claus" or "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing?" Is Osama in some nice guano-reeking cave in Pakistan having a little eggnog and kissing one of his wives under the mistletoe?

Mosque? Patt missed this. Or maybe she didn't, and just let it go. After all, the PC in KPPC stands for nothing if not Political Correctness. It is PC central on the air there, at all times. So here, Party Lady had liberally expanded the already PC holiday phrase, "church or synagogue" to be even more inclusive---adding "mosque." Yessir, can't have even the slightest hint that we do not love our Muslim brothers and sisters, right? Uh. . .wonder if Party Lady knows any Muslims. Come to think of it, LL doesn't know any Muslims. Kind of hard to speak to women whose heads are covered with cloth, and who frequently do not seem to speak English. . .

But the point here is that if Party Lady does know some Muslims, then apparently she knows Muslims who are having "holiday parties" in honor of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer or Baby Jesus, right? Or was she just indulging in more mindless political correctness of the ilk that makes it objectionable to say anything other than "Happy Holidays" during the CHRISTMAS season. Think LL is being extreme? Then explain this:

How do you account for a choir singing what must have been titled, "The Night Before Holidays," seeing as the last little bit that LL heard on the radio was "Happy Holidays to all, and to all a good night?"

Please forgive us, Party Lady, if this is not the sort of conversational fare that you deem appropriate for holiday parties.

THANKS, BUT NO THANKS
Yesterday Your Illuminator was suffused with darkness of spirit after spending a full hour on the phone to India---the apparent home of all American enterprises---trying to determine why Verizon is refusing to send some of my e-mail, marking them as "spam." The pinhead on the phone (who gave her name as "Mary" or something), was following the little prescribed program of checking my settings, etc., and doing essentially everything that did not need to be done. Addressing the actual problem was as important as a non-celebrity is to Larry King. Your Indefatibable Brightness made many, many speeches. The first (repeated about five times) went something like this: “No. I do not need you to check my settings. I do not need to follow your little formula checklist. There is nothing wrong with my computer. There is nothing wrong with Outlook Express. There is nothing wrong with my settings. There is something wrong with VERIZON. Verizon. Verizon, Verizon, Verizon. VERIZON has decided that some of my outgoing e-mails are spam. Some are, and some aren't. The problem comes and goes. I have never spammed anyone anywhere anytime ever. Period. End of story. Didn’t happen. I want to know why VERIZON is doing this. I wrote to the “spamfaq” section of VERIZON and received zero help. Nothing. Nada. No response. So what you need to find out is why VERIZON is doing this to me."

Naturally, her response was to try and check all the things that do not need checking. We went back and forth like this for quite a while. 

My concluding speech, after an hour in which the problem was utterly ignored and LL was told such things as, “If you still feel there is a problem. . .” and "If your opinion is that this has not solved your problem. . ." was this:

"Listen: I hope you go home tonight and think about your job. I know you won’t, because you are trained to ignore people like me. But I want you to go home and think about your job. Think about how you are trained to do things that have NOTHING to do with solving problems or helping people. NOTHING. You are trained like a monkey to do simple things that have NOTHING to do with efficiency. NOTHING. Your job is ridiculous. Your job is useless. You are living a lie. You are wasting people’s time. That’s actually what you do for a living. You waste people’s time. You steal their lives. This is what you have agreed to do with your life in exchange for a little bit of money. I realize you live in India, and things are tough there, but what will Krishna and Shiva think of you? Your job is false, your profession is false, much of your daily life is false. You have not solved my problem. This is not my "opinion"---this is fact. I hope you go home tonight and think about these things. And think about how you stole an hour of my life, and increased my being upset exponentially. And did nothing---NOTHING---to help me or solve my problem.”

Of course, she repeated her speech, ‘If you still feel there is a problem," but this time added these magic words:

"I will transfer you to our expert help department, but they will have to charge you for their work.”

No, I am not thankful for this on today, Thanksgiving Day. I am thankful for my health, what there is of it, and the friendships of good people, and kitty-cats and dewdrops, and the all-too-rare justice done to a vile person, but I am not thankful to corporations, or Verizon, or outsourcing, or India.

ABOUT DUDAMEL. . .
Someone asked Your Illuminator, "Is Dudamel as good as they say he is?" and here is my response: "Well, yes, he is as good as they say, but I would qualify that. He is unquestionably brilliant. When he conducts, you get the distinct idea that he knows exactly what is going on with every single instrument at all times, and is also intent on controlling what is happening with every single instrument at all times. This has prompted seasoned musicians in the New York Philharmonic to remark that he “overconducts,” a situation that they suggest will pass with time. Maybe, maybe not. I saw Dudamel conduct the Berlioz “Symphonie Fantastique,” which I never expected to hold my attention again. Well, he made it a joyride. It was great fun to hear, start to finish. The word I would use is “terpsichoric.” Did the music have anything beyond that? Beyond it being realized with utmost color and zest? No, but maybe that piece requires nothing more. . .

"Now, I also heard him conduct the Mahler 1, 2nd movement, on Youtube---after Rich Caparella on KUSC raved about how unusual his approach to that movement was, when he conducted with the L.A. Phil a couple weeks ago. Well, Rich was right that it was unusual, but I part company with his assertion that 'Ah, this is the way it's supposed to sound!' You probably know this movement. It’s a 'Landler,' a type of dance popular in the 18th century, and not much more. No great 'profundity' in it, certainly not in the sense of other Mahler. It's more or less a scherzo equivalent in this symphony. Lyrical, charming. The range of interpretation of this movement generally is measurable mostly by tempo. But Dudamel radically changed things, as Caparella said. He threw in strange rubato at the beginning, making it hurky-jerky, and then slowed things down again at improbable moments---and also sought to (I would say) turn moments of quiet second-theme exposition into things that suggested darkness and mystery. Now all this sounds pretty good, right? The up side is that it does make the music fresh, and interesting. The down side is that this movement in particular doesn’t need such intensity of approach. This points to what I think is the guy’s flaw, which is also the thing touted as his strength: the “passion.” He seems to regard everything he conducts as an opportunity to wring every bit of extroverted expression conceivable from it, even when this is not appropriate. I think this is a sort of one-note interpretive approach. He reminds me of writers who use too many italics, adjectives, and adverbs. So yes, Dudamel is a brilliant conductor, technically, and you are guaranteed an interesting listen when he conducts, but I think it does not come from the head so much as the gut. And that is a limitation." Here is a comparison of that Mahler 1st 2nd movement, as conducted by Dudamel and by Rafael Kubelik:

Kubelik (conventional interpretation, conductor serves the music):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVYZluRnFwM 

Dudamel (radical reinterpretation, conductor interferes with the music):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlyWBHmNAeM&feature=related

ABOUT DAVE. . .
As far as Lamplighter is aware, Dave Letterman is not President of the United States, or even honorary mayor of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. As far as Lamplighter is aware, Dave Letterman has broken no laws. As far as Lamplighter is aware, Dave Letterman seems to enjoy the company of women. Shocking, isn't it, that men and women in the workplace fornicate with one another? Stunning, isn't it, that bosses sleep with women who work for them---or should we say, women sleep with their bosses? For all the coverage that LL has watched features oodles of morally outraged women with deeply knitted brows talking about "there are laws against this sort of thing" and "inappropriate behavior in the workplace" and "favoritism toward employees." And Your Illiminator has yet to hear one commentator refer to the fact that women routinely use sex to hustle men in power. Um. . .by the way, laws against what sort of thing? Against sex? Well, there probably should be, as that would improve the quality of life on this planet, but that has yet to happen in this society. Guess we can leave that area, and the banning of music, to the Taliban. You know, perhaps Dave has busted a hymen or two, but as far as we know, he has not been accused of breaking any laws. The implication that repressed Midwest Lutheran Dave used his power to somehow induce women to bed down with him causes LL to roar with laughter rivaling the nights when Dave interviewed Brother Theodore. Look. When you spend much of your life in an office workplace, this tends to restrict your dating pool. Ask anyone who has worked in a newsroom. Bigger dens of iniquity do not come readily to mind. Dave broke the old unwritten workplace rule (plug your ears, kiddies), "Don't put your meat where you get your bread." Hell, it was convenient. And some of those assistants of his were rather fetching, weren't they? So did Dave "reward" them by putting them on the air? Nah. He's not the type. He put them on the air, we'll bet our Larry "Bud" Melman Late Night coffee mugs, because he liked them, and thought they would be funny. And what kind of a boss pays the law school bills for one of his paramours? One who is being hustled? Maybe. Or one who is just a. . .nice guy. If that term stretches the imagination, then how about. . .a generous person. What is most astonishing about this whole stupid thing is that the media are focusing almost exclusively on Dave, and not the fact that he is the victim of an attempted $2 million blackmail! Which has, in its revelation, done much to tarnish Dave's reputation. The creepo lawyer for the creepo alleged extortionist, infamously revealed as CBS News "48 Hours Mystery" producer Joe Halderman, is talking about how there is "another side" to this story, and how despositing the (fake) check he extorted is not against the law(!), and how he fully intends to reveal more facts about Letterman's affairs. Um. . .another side to extorting a public figure for two million bucks? LL doesn't think so. And revealing more about Letterman's dalliances is strictly slander at this point, no matter the legal justification for bringing them up. The worst thing that Dave will be found guilty of here, probably, is a little frolicking behind his wife's back. Dumb? Wrong? Sure. Illegal? Unusual? Oh, yeah, illegal and unusual as an ethical, decent lawyer.

NEW DRESS ON PALIN
For those lantern-lighters who are ever in the dark about economics. . .For those who find Ky Risdall's "Marketplace" on NPR a smug, slick, cool recitation of nonsense. . .Here's a little clear explication of the seemingly inexplicable. . .

Keep hearing all that jabber about how the "Recession is over," and "we're in recovery," etc., yet you can't reconcile it against tales of job loss and housing market drops? Yeah, Lamplighter, too. Well, here is lantern-lighter Dave to the rescue:

"It would be natural to see a slowing of the drop in economic activity, because now they're measuring the downturn against an already slowing economy from the year before. According to the economic institute that monitors recessions, this recession began in December 2007--that is, starting in Dec. '07, the economic numbers on output, spending, etc. started downward and unemployement started upward.

"So at this point, when we compare the economy today to a year ago, we're comparing it to an economy that had already been in decline for eight months. Obviously, the decline is going to be slower against that standard than say the figures for February '09, which are being measured against an economy that had only been in recession for two months."

But. .but. . .Dave, why doesn't Ky Risdall report this?

"They don't talk about this," said Dave.

And the future?

"We could easily continue to slide at a 1% rate, and still be sliding, or we could see the economy flatline at some low level, and stay there for months or a year or several years. We could even see a slow rise in economic activity, but from that low baseline. Technically, if economic activity measures started to improve, even by a fraction of a percent annually adjusted, they could say 'The recession has ended!' but it would be hell for most people."

In other words, it's all a lot of skewing of numbers to make things look good. Like a new dress on Sarah Palin. It's still Sarah Palin underneath.

BLACK AND WHITE
The arrest of Harvard Professor Henry Gates by Cambridge Police Sgt. James Crowley could not be more black and white. Or should Your Glowing Truthiness say, could not be less black and white? Our old pal, the heroically principled and inimitably straight-shooting (pardon the expression) writer, Dave Lindorff, says this was an abuse of power. He's right, but not in ascribing blame to Crowley, which he does. This was an abuse of power, yes---by the African-American Professor Gates, who immediately began hysterically and belligerently shouting about racism at Crowley. Nope, no racism, folks, except on Gates's part. If you happen to live on the moon and don't know, a neighbor saw Gates prying open his own jammed door with help from a limo driver. Cops were notified. Hey, if Lamplighter saw two guys of any description prying open any door, he would call the cops, too, and the cops would have every cause to respond with the strong suspicion of finding an ongoing crime. But never mind about that in race-deranged America, 2009---this must have been "racial profiling!" Had the two men not been black, no one would ever have called the police, right? Nonsense. The only profile in question here is that of a jackass, in the form of Gates.

Yes, some cops certainly abuse the hell out of their power, as Lindorff suggests. But let us remember lesson 1 of Dealing With Cops 101. You NEVER get uncooperative or hostile with police officers. It's a very, very poor idea. They have power, guns, and aren't always in the best of moods. Any idiot should know this, let alone a Harvard prof (!). But Prof got high and mighty and began snarling about racism, right out of the box. This is part of the legacy of political correctness, Affirmative Action, and media/pop culture/university curriculum "teaching" that the United States is the most fiendishly racist and sexist country in the history of the planet, if not beyond. Gasp. Double gasp. It has created an atmosphere of suspicion---no, assumption---of racism on the part of any white authority figure. As Your Illuminator has said ad-ad nauseum, the USA, for all its acknowledged (and incessantly repeated in media) history of discrimination and segregation, has no corner on racism. What's more, this country has done more than any in history to redress the evils of racial and gender persecution, through legislation (largely written and enacted by white people.)

LL despises Gates'  childish reactionary hatred. Crowley repeatedly advised him to calm down, yet Prof not only persisted in belligerence and insult, but made the incredible mistake of PURSUING the sergeant as he was trying to leave. Dealing With Cops 101, Lesson 2: never chase a cop! No, you just don't do that. Hey, Prof, next time this happens to you, trying saying these magic words: "Officer, this is my home. My door was stuck. I had to force it open. Here is my ID. Whatever you need me to do, I will cooperate." Had Prof done this, there would have been no trouble. The second cop on the scene was black, for gawdsake, and backed up his sergeant "100 percent." Crowley was totally within his rights to have at least cuffed and detained Gates. Taking him to jail on a disorderly charge was also completely legal, although possibly punitive. But under the circumstances, even that was justified, in my view. You don't yell at and chase a cop.

And let's do the reverse-race test! Hmm. . .yes, you are right! If the prof had been white, the story would have stayed local, would have been a source of amusement, and the prevailing public opinion about it would have been that the prof behaved like an idiot.

What is really sick here is that this is a huge story, on all front pages, and endless fodder for nattering on CNN, Fox, etc. What is really sick here is that Prof has not apologized to the country for making a mountain out of a molehill, further inflaming racial enmity (already a cancer in this country), and dragging (his friend) the goddamn president into this thing. Obama could be seriously, seriously damaged by having stupidly called this cop "stupid." This could actually help defeat him in the next election, and calls into question his judgement, and the credibility on race relations he established during the campaign with that brilliant speech on the subject. So Prof was 100 percent wrong in this. There was NO racism, except on his part, and no excessive force or prosecution. Remember: a rotten cop would have beaten the hell out of Prof and who-knows-what-else. Stay tuned as the USA continues to slit its wrists over race relations, or lack of same. . .

MENOR VILLARAIGOSA
Late in the summer of Michael Jackson and Walter Cronkite, LL is nothing short of astonished. No, nothing short of stricken mute, drooling, incontinent---not by the Parade of Famous Demises, but by "Mayor" Villaraigosa and his white newsbimbo beeyatch, Lu Parker. Villaraigosa is such a repulsive, oleaginous puff of nothingness that Your Illuminator marvels at how seemingly intelligent people ever voted his glinting teeth into city hall. Let alone how Downtown News city editor Jon Regardie is suddenly buying the Mayor's (let's call him the Menor from now own) new buckle-down, knuckle-down act. (City Editor, thy name is player!) This, of course, proves that intelligence is kind of like Ketchup. There's a hell of a lot of it around, but it's hard to get out of the bottle. (Huh?) Recall how the celebrated liberal writer, Harold Myerson, practically ejaculated in print about how Little Anthony was the second coming of (get this) Bobby Kennedy? (Gasp.) Yes, really! He did! You know, these lefties need a good dose of cynicism, or maybe piles---but, of course, they reject cynicism as "mean-spirited," etc. The operative reality is that cynicism (disappointed idealism) is the realm of the non-player, and most people who seek to wield influence are nothing but players who buy into conventional, diseased stasis reality. Oh, they have their little poses and opinions that are passed off as principle and conviction, but trust LL: it's all calculated to keep them in the influence game. Guys like Myerson and Regardie are complicit with Villaraigosa for the woes of this sorryass city. We are moved to return yet again to the axiom of the departed seer and all-around paragon of insight, R. Turo Lorenzo, who famously observed, "Anyone who runs for office should automatically be disqualified because of desire to seek public office."

Villaraigosa is a wimpy, priapic, aging teenager (and four-time bar exam failure) who long ago figured out how to con and gladhand, and that the Affirmative Action Yellow Brick Road was there to trip merrily down (he headed the ethnic separatist group, MECHA, at UCLA.) Somewhere along the way, he affected a totally bogus touch of "street cred" (read: brutishness) by getting "Born to Raise Hell" tattooed on his shoulder. Oooooo. I'm scared! But of course, the hell that The Imperious Little Anthony raises has mostly been with his poor abandoned wife and children, that chicana newsbimbo he schtupped and dumped (or was it the other way around?), and of course, this tragically ruined city. Yes, ruined. How else to describe a big roaring layout of density, profiteering development, and congestion that comprehensive light rail would not relieve if Santa Claus brought it overnight? The problems of the city have long been as plain as the hose in Little Anthony's slacks, but never you mind about that. He spent his four years of service to L.A. by angling for the Goober-natorial race, recently dropping out after being outfoxed by the other philandering mayor of our state, Gavin Newsom. And, of course, the Menor has been having a grand old time photo-opping his way through his job, and taking nice vacations in Africa with Lulubelle. (Don't let it be said he does not support journalism.) "The people?" Hell, they don't care, and who can blame them? The big broad-stroke problems of L.A. have been sitting on the place like bad-day smog for 50 or 60 years, and nothing changes. Turns out that LAPD Chief Bill Bratton, who recently said the city is as safe now as it was in the 1950's, well, Wild Bill was just funning. Seems the LAPD stats were as cooked as the books of good old Enron. Then there is a little matter involving LAPD anti-gang efforts that appears to have been headed by a. . .gang member! (Wonder if he had "Born to Raise Hell" tattooed on his arm.) And Wild Bill has the gall to call post-Laker rioters "knuckleheads." So once again, Your Illuminator is left to sit behind his computer, laughing, shaking his graying head, and wondering why the hell he isn't laying on a beach in Maui with some Classic Marijuana (yes, there is such a thing---the good old weak '60's stuff), a bronze maiden or two, and fresh coconut parfaits. Oh, that's right, being a disappointed idealist doesn't pay. The players control the purse strings, see. As for Menor Villaraigosa, who rode to office on the latino vote, LL remembers talking to a latino citizen before the election who said he was voting for "Antonio" because "he's from my neighborhood." Yessir, it's La Vida Loca, all right, here in the city of fallen angels. His Honor? Har! Honor Blackman has more honor than the Menor. (Honor Blackman for mayor!) Of course, keep watching former Daily News of Los Angeles editor Ron Kaye, whose Ron Kaye's L.A. movement is trying hard to become. . .a movement. Kaye is a player, no doubt about it, but his ideas about what's wrong with L.A. are on target. The fact that he never punctuates or capitalizes e-mail should put him right at home in city hall.

UNFULPHILLED
So Lamplighter applied for a job recently. Really. I know, I know, you hear
Maynard G. Krebs yelling "Work!" in horror, in your mind's ear---at least, if you are over 50, you do. Your Illuminator applied for a publicist job with the L.A. Philharmonic. Why? LL knows a hell of a lot about classical music, and has attended concerts at the Phil since 1969. What's more, LL has written countless reviews and features concerning the orchestra, from his high school paper through college and later two major L.A. newspapers. Why, His Brightness was even L.A. Phil official rep at high school and college! What's more, contrary to what one might conclude from reading this column, LL has a long background in public relations, and at one point founded, organized, promoted, and hosted a titanically successful weekly opera presentation at a large West L.A. restaurant. What's more, Lamps organized and hosted the only tribute to Mario Lanza in Los Angeles history---a three-night concert/film/lecture extravaganza that sold out two shows per night---at which Lanza's family and friends were present. With all this and a heavy background in music writing (including awards), LL figured on getting a callback. Until, that is, he spoke to a local music critic crony, to tip him off about the job opening. "Crony," said LL, "I'll bet I have no chance. They're probably looking for blacks, latinos, women, and gays only, as is the politically correct case with the marketplace---especially in the arts---today." Said Crony: "Right now they have a British woman running the department, with three young females (two of them black, the other a very sweet, 38-ish girl from Long Island with a pop background) in the office." Long way, I told Crony, from the days when music critics were recruited---yes, recruited---by the L.A. Phil to join the publicity department. Well. To make a long story a little longer, LL received a form-letter rejection from the "Department of Human Resources" a few days later, along with the suggestion that he check the Phil website to see what other jobs might be of interest. Your Illuminator wrote back. Two words: "Custodial work?" You see, everything is demographics and political correctness. The Phil mentality is that if they have young, demographically cool employees---their backgrounds in music are secondary, or simply irrelevant---this will help the orchestra to attract these segments of the potential audience. The crushing irony, of course, is that while banal and "cool" advertising and promotion ("Phil your world!") with testosterone-dripping photos of new conductor Gustavo Dudamel might indeed manage to snag a few young, demographically cool audience members, these people will show up largely because going to Disney Hall and seeing a young Latino conductor is "cool," not because they have any understanding of, or interest in, the music. Such people will certainly never become blue-hairs. Translation: they will not be long term audience members or financial supporters of the orchestra. The Phil has essentially turned its back on and taken for granted the segment of the audience that is, and has always been, its biggest base of support.

GAD. ZOOKS.
Your Illuminator steps out into the sticky California summer sunshine, and can only find darkness. It's probably brain chemistry, but still. . .Take the other day, when LL was headed down the 405 to poor little old bankrupt, raggedy Gardena for lunch. Traffic designed by the Marquis de Sade? Sure. A given. Dumb beasts in 3,000-lb. machines playing obliviously with your life, and theirs. These were not the problems. Rather, what was dimming LL's bulb was what was to be found on the radio. Gad. Zooks. Consider: NPR was interviewing some Persian guy about "heavy metal" music in Iran. I kid not. The NPR interviewer was speaking as if this was a subject of enormous weight and consequence to all humankind. One of his statements was something like this: "An Iranian in an Iron Maiden T-shirt. I guess that says it all." Help! Yes, that does say it all, really, though not in the way he intended. It "says it all" concerning the worldwide rush to embrace ugliness, narcissism, self-indulgence, anger, aggression, disdain, and most other ignoble qualities. And the guest, oh my, the guest. . .was saying that "Heavy metal has bloomed like a flower in the desert." I don't know about you, folks, but there is very little similarity between this so-called music and anything as delicate and gorgeous as a flower. It's like comparing Rush Limbaugh with a ruby. Again: Gad. Zooks. Then they played some of the Iranian "heavy metal" that so many Iranians were allegedly embracing for reasons of what the guest described as "catharsis." It made Led Zeppelin sound quaint. There was just a wash of the ugliest, ugliest, ugliest grinding guitar and dumbshit bass and drums---no discernible pattern here---and emanating from the middle of it all, a voice so deep, so distorted, so grotesque, so frightening, as to almost make one believe in De Debbil. This is not music. This is anger and hatred as noise. I weep for humanity! So I switched the station, and was promptly relieved to hear some jazz piano fronting a combo. For a good twenty seconds, it was refreshing, uplifting, and then I noticed that the pianist was slipping in all manner of hipster-jazzbo-insider-weirdo chords in his comping. Ugly chords. Not as ugly as Iranian heavy metal, but not pleasing, and definitely at odds with the melodic line in the right hand. That is, unless you are a hipster-jazzbo-insider who speaks Chord, which I am not. And once again I was reminded of why I dislike so much jazz. It is insider music for insiders---at least a lot of it has become this way. When I finally realized that I was listening to a mutant version of Gershwin's "Summertime," that was all she wrote. I don't care for a lot of Gershwin. It's a white man's version of black music, and hokey at that. I've never understood why it is so widely embraced, and I find "Summertime" to be particularly humorous in its depiction of de lazy, care-free neeeegro lifestyle. Gad. Zooks. So I switched to the classical station, KUSC, and as usual, was hit with the same goddamn lobotomy music they play almost all the time: innocuous baroque or romantic melodies. The dumbing down of symphonic literature to Muzak for ratings. Just sickening. So I played the old "once around the dial" game, despite the fact that there is such a dearth of personality and variety to be found on radio since demographics weeded these things out in exchange for pandering to lowest common denominator response. I paused momentarily on KLOS, because the woman's voice was pleasant, and listened to this DJ talking about a new Doors documentary. She mentioned that KLOS's Jim Ladd could be heard on radio in the documentary, along with KLOS, and that this was "so cool." I wanted to scream. Cool is the Hitler and Stalin and Mao of our time. Just bless something with the word, "cool," it loses all meaning other than a kind of anesthetizing glaze. Hey, I just painted my truck red. Cool! Did you know that people self-asphyxiate for erotic fulfillment? I saw it on the Internet. Cool! I mean, why the hell was it "cool" that Jim Ladd and KLOS were mentioned in this documentary? That is simple self-promotion of the crassest and most undisguised kind, but add the word, "cool," and hey---it's fine. Cool is the ugliest four-letter word in English. It reduces everything into exactly one thing. I switched the station until I found some people speaking Mandarin on some AM station, and left it there.

FOODIE HELL
Lamplighter
noticed this sign of the times. . .Not far from Lamplighter Paradise, there is a little restaurant on a busy boulevard. When it opened, it was a high-end Japanese joint, heavy on style and atmosphere. Millions were spent on the dark, elegant interior decore alone. That lasted a few months, before it was sold and repackaged as a high-end tapas bar. Same dark, elegant interior, same off-the-scale prices. Same no customers. That lasted a few months, before it was sold and reopened as a. . .bar. Right, just a bar. With a big banner now plastered over the tres chic exterior, proclaiming "FREE HOT DOGS!" Your Illuminator likes hot dogs---well, veggie "Smart Dogs"---and loves the fact that "foodies" (read: spoiled gluttons) are apparently staying home.

 JIM BELLOWS
The ttitle of his autobiography was "The Last Editor," and I believe this to have been the case. Jim Bellows was 86. My guess is that he had no complaints about anything. He had a nearly mythical life, and did incalculable good for journalism and journalists. He was one of the rare people who had the remarkable knack of getting the best out of everyone. I carry a card in my wallet from Bellows, and will until it wears out. It reads: "Begin at once, and do the best you can."

Bellows Remembered, by Mary Anne Dolan
The Old Smoking Workplace
Tom Wolfe on Jim Bellows
Tony Castro on Bellows, Hollywood, the Her-Ex
Bellows obit by Elaine Woo.
The Last Editor.
Making Funny.
New York Times obit.
Jim Lehrer Hour interview.

WHY NEWSPAPERS ARE DYING. . .

Your Illuminator had a little exchange recently with an old friend and veteran journalist---a guy who has reported and edited for a lot of papers during the last 40 years. Call him lantern lighter Boss.

I mentioned to Boss how crackpot corporate buffoons who call themselves editors and publishers are still--still---talking about charging to visit their newspaper websites! As was mentioned on this site some weeks go, the only thing for papers to do is to pull entirely off the web. This will ensure what they used to have: exclusivity. (And the NYT media columnist agreed, by the way.) Papers should go heavily local, adopt a populist anti-power-elite tone and agenda---"raise hell," as the late Jim Bellows would say---advocate on behalf of the underdog, dog the mayor and city council, bark at overdevelopment, density, gangs, traffic. They should add huge consumer-complaint sections, helping to bring back their reputations as places that people could turn to for help.

Anyhow, in response to the news that idiot editors are still yapping about charging to visit their paper's website, Boss had this to say:

"I know. It shows how desperate these guys are that they'll come up with something like that. It will be interesting when the scholars write the newspaper's obituary. There were a lot of things they could have done. Like:

_ Shelved the outdated delivery model that put the papers in the hands of winos, drug addicts, social deviants and tons of other people who just didn't give a shit if it got there or not.

_ Stopped pandering to corporate stockholders who demanded insanely high returns every quarter and said we're going to have to invest in the new technology.

_ When they finally did put those web sites up, actually updated them during key traffic periods and been ready when a big story broke.I read a story on a study that on Sept. 11, after everybody saw the planes hit the towers on TV, they immediately went to their computers to read more about it. The result, the candy-assed newspaper sites all crashed. Or if they didn't people quickly noticed that they were being run like a print newspaper and wouldn't be updated for another 12 hours.

_ Hadn't been so arrogant after beating back challenges from radio and TV, which never really could compete directly with them anyway, that they thought this silly little toy called the Internet certainly couldn't hurt them.

_ Those and about a hundred other fuck-ups.

"There were no visionaries."

DYING NEWSPAPERS, PART TWO:
Lamplighter had further discussion with Boss, beginning with "Billionaire Eli Broad" (as he is usually identified) and his remarks about how he might be interested in buying the remains of the L.A. Times even though, as he said, "I am not sure it can be a national paper, or have the same aspirations it once had."

Broad is chirping without a bird. The last thing the L.A. Times should do is try to be a "national newspaper!" Them daze is gone with the breaking wind. What a howl. Nobody seems to get it. Nobody seems to grasp that newspapers need to get tough, get irreverent, get gritty, get funny, and cover the hell out of their home towns. Start over. Expect huge circulation drops, and build from there. Here is what Boss had to say:

"Yeah, I saw Broad's statement too. That seemed so silly because all that national newspaper nonsense amounted to was the Times trying to prove it was just as good as The New York Times. It's like they don't realize that that game is over and now they're simply in a struggle to survive.

"That's exactly right, too, when you say newspapers have to become a friend of the community. When they had a monopoly they could get away with being rude, indignant and full of themselves. But those days are over.

"And no one in journalism has really addressed that issue yet: That in recent years hardly anyone in the community really liked the newspaper anymore.

"The local businesses hated it because the ad reps were rude and gouged them because they knew they could tell them to take it or leave it because there was no other vehicle in town for them to advertise in that got that kind of exposure.

And of course everyone hated the reporters and editors because, as a general rule, most reporters and editors are rude, mean, petty bastards who no one really likes anyway.

"And they didn't like the delivery people because they were just lazy jackoffs who didn't care if the paper got there or not, who drove on the wrong side of the street to deliver it and who, if you complained, might toss it on your roof just to show you they could.

"Then you'd read the paper and there would be no sense of humor or humanity, nothing to endear you to it.

"So now that the paper is in desperate shape most people, I think, don't really care. They figure they've got the Internet and Facebook and twitter and all that other stuff, so who the hell needs it. They will discover they were wrong once it's gone, I think, but their misunderstanding now is natural. As Sean Penn said, he realizes how hard he is to like. Newspapers are the same, they just don't realize how hard they are to like.

"When I was in Chicago I read an interview in a local magazine with Ron Rappaport who once was an L.A. Times sportswriter and then a Chicago Tribune sports columnist before going into writing books. Some big shot columnist had just been fired by the Tribune. Not Mike Downey but someone else.. Rappaport said that even though the guy was good nobody would care because nobody in town, or at the paper, liked him. He said Mike Royko may have been a curmudgeon but if you approached him in a bar he'd sit down and have a beer with you, and that was one reason everybody liked him. Newspapers lost almost all the Mike Roykos years ago.

"I remember back at college, one of my professors used to go on about how newspapers being taken over by big corporations would ultimately be a terrible thing. I never quite got it at the time but it became obvious after a few years in the business. As the prof said, you may have loved or hated guys like Hearst and Pulitzer but those were their newspapers and they were going to run them as they saw fit.

"When the corporations took over, the publishers kowtowed to the shareholders who demanded 10, 15, even 20 percent returns on their investment when people in any other industry were happy to get 5 to 10 percent. They just saw the thing as a cash cow and the publishers were too stupid, or cowardly, to tell them anything different. So they went along for the ride as the corporations finally ran those cash cows into the ground.

"Instead of visionaries, you got guys in fancy suits with expensive haircuts and corporate jets and country club memberships who either had no clue what they were doing or were too frightened of giving up the good life to say anything. Or maybe it was a little bit of both."

Now you know why LL calls him "Boss."

MIKE MARTH
I didn't know Mike Marth well, and I hadn't seen him since the 1970's when I heard he died at 72. Marth was a sort of San Fernando Valley beat/hippie-ish poet who somehow snagged a day-job at the Valley News and Green Sheet in the 60's, editing what they then pathetically called the "Teen Page." This was the paper's sort of wretched concession to rock 'n' roll and pop culture coverage in those days. I met Mike in 1974, sometime after I started work there as a copyboy. He was the amiable, shaggy-black-haired features editor, but I think he had a sort of independent contract that gave him a degree of autonomy. Which is perhaps why he was able to begin a Sunday tabloid section at the paper called "Inside The News," and it couldn't have been more at odds with the sensibilities of the Republican publisher and button-down managing editor (who were both liberal-minded enough to allow it, nonetheless.) Marth must have intended Inside to be a sort of literary/commentary/investigative magazine, and the idea of such a thing being found in the pages of the provincial Valley News was no weirder than finding sushi on a Denny's menu. I tried to write a few pieces for it, though I certainly had nothing very mature or weighty to offer. Yet Mike always encouraged me, and I recall one incident in which he responded to criticism over a piece I had written by declaring, rather pointedly, "At least he THINKS!" I took that as encouragement, and you see some of the results on this website, for better or worse. Mike long ago moved to the Midwest, and was still writing poetry, last I heard. He always struck me as a good guy with a generous heart. Thanks for the push, Mike. Sorry I never got to tell you while you were here.---RR.


GRAN TORINO
Of course, "Milk" is the PC movie of the moment. Sean Penn is undoubtedly as good as everyone says he is in portraying San Francisco Supervisor/gay community leader Harvey Milk, murdered by a looney colleague (no need to print his name here.) And there is even a sex scene to enable gays to accuse repulsed heterosexuals of "homophobia!" Oh, yeah, and everyone is also raving about the Nixon/Frost flick, but Lamplighter remembers the actual horrific murder of Milk and the actual horrific near-murder of the country by Nixon. . .so why would he want to see these things again as fiction?

The movie to see, in the not-so-humble critical opinion of LL, is "Gran Torino." Yes, Eastwood hams it up every now and then in a sort of aged "Dirty Harry" way, but Your Illuminator loved every second of it. Yet this is no law-and-order/kill-the-bad-guys romp. It's not only powerfully acted, skillfully directed, operatically moving---it's an important movie. It is one of the few films in recent memory to portray gangs as what they are: a blight that cannot be corrected through social work. ("American Me," which earned Edward James Olmos a death sentence from the Mexican Mafia, comes to mind as another.) True, a lot of kids who get into gangs would probably like to get out at some point. The miraculous Homeboy Industries in downtown L.A. is the obvious proof of that. But gangs are tribalized criminals and the slaves of organized crime, and on the whole, social rehabilitation of these people is a liberal's pipe dream, nothing more. Eastwood knows it, "Gran Torino" writer Nick Schenk probably knows it, and the movie makes it clear.

Folks, we have too long lived in a bizarro world where gang "lifestyle" has been celebrated, exalted by media. Rappers, hiphoppers, homeboys have had near dominance in popular culture in terms of fashion, film iconography, and so-called music for twenty or thirty years. From Snoop Dog on down, these figures are emblematic of nothing but debauchery, violence, banality, mysogeny, brutality, narcissism, threat, guns. It's about time that a movie came along and condemned this vile crap in no uncertain terms.

You know, to hear government, law enforcement, and media talk about gangs, you'd think this was a problem along the severity of rain, or traffic congestion. "The gangs," "gangbanging," "the gang problem" has become as much a cliche as a TeeVee Weathermannequin's "offshore flow." Does anything ever change? Haven't you been reading and hearing about gang murders most of your life?What is ever really done to combat it? Answer: nada. It is accepted, like potholes and Mayor Villaraigosa's crass philandering.

In watching "Gran Torino," LL was reminded again that Bush's "War on Terror" could not have been more misdirected. The cities and suburbs of this country are infected, infested with terrorists---in the form of gangs. Think of the countless billions of dollars wasted on fighting the nearly mythical "Al-Qaeda," on creating the Department of Homeland Security (which has taken the bold anti-terrorist step of making you take you shoes off when you fly)---and think of what that money might have done to countermand gangs.

Oh, how to do it? Money is forever thrown at fighting "gang activity," you say? True. Money, but not sanity. The only way to stop gangs is to take a cue from Bush, as revolting a notion as that is, and declare war. The National Guard should never have been sent to Iraq, it should have been dispatched to American cities. Neighborhoods from Pacoima to South-Central Los Angeles should simply be occupied by the Guard until gangs are eradicated. All gang members should be arrested on sight and "indefinitely detained," civil rights be damned. What rights do people have when they adopt a life of thuggery? As for the Mexican Mafia, which operates gangs all over the western hemisphere---right from inside U.S. prisons!---well, how insane is that?

Of course, these things have no chance of ever occuring here in the land of the free and home of the brave, so not to worry, Tom Hayden. Government and law enforcement are afraid to take on this problem in any serious way, and who can blame them? There are probably more assault weapons in the hands of punks in L.A. then in the hands of soliders in Iraq and Afghanistan. And then,  Uncle Sam is ultimately to blame, what with Byzantine involvement in drugs and guns via the CIA, and the corporate infestation of government which erased any illusion of community responsibility on the part of most elected officials long ago. And let us not forget the cheapening of all human experience by demographic calculation (greed as a science), engendering apathy and entertainment-addiction (read: complacency, haplessness.) It's all part of the same decay, the same devolution. And yes, it is true that rebuilding the education infrastructure is the only real shot this society will ever have at ever recovering any semblance of health. But the fact remains that gang members are savages. Tribal savages whose ethos of death and brutality does not belong in a civilized society. And "Gran Torino," thank Clint, makes this clear.

CARNIVAL OF LIGHT
Of course it should be released. What’s the controversy? George Harrison didn’t care for it? Well, back in the ‘60’s, John Lennon pronounced George’s songs “daft,” and sometimes did not play on them. Yet they were released. Harrison’s “Electronic Sound” album is every bit as experimental as “Carnival of Light,” and nowhere near as interesting.

Eh? You don't know what Lamplighter is ranting about? You're reading about this first, courtesy of Your Illuminator? How appropriate. Well, here's the dope: a Beatles recording whipped up for a psychedelic show in London in 1967 still languishes unheard---unless Paul McCartney manages to persuade the other three parties representing "The Beatles:" Ringo Starr, Yoko Ono, Olivia Harrison to release it. Paulie has allowed in recent interviews that he wants te bizarro avant-garde hoot, "Carnival of Light," to see the day.

Amazingly enough, this has promptly become a matter of controversy, debate. Newspaper columnists are weighing in, left and right. The UK Guardian said recently that releasing the thing would damage The Beatles' legacy.

You know, I don't think an H-bomb could damage The Beatles' legacy.

Releasing that earlier version of “Huckleberry Finn” found in an attic a few years ago sure destroyed Mark Twain’s reputation, didn’t it? Releasing the “Devil’s Trill” prelude of Chopin---a short, fairly insane, dissonant outburst probably written during a high fever---has forever tarnished all the works of Chopin, right?

The sad thing about “Carnival of Light” (lovely title!) is that it has become so legendary, and now such a. . .cause. It was just a goof. A chaotic free-form improv to illustrate a light show, done in madcap spirit. In short: it was fun.

And it is also sad that McCartney is using it to once again trumpet how he was the first Beatle to take an interest in the avant garde, not John. Yawn. So what. It’s not so unusual to take an interest in avant garde music. Millions have done it. Yoko beat Paul to that punch, and John Cage beat Yoko, and Varese beat them all. Who’s on first! For McCartney to endlessly drop Stockhausen’s name as a means of touting his artistic sophistication is just embarrassing. The world is well aware of the varied musical abilities and achievements of Sir Paul.

If “Carnival of Light” is released, it will, of course, fetch massive publicity and rivers of serious reviews---which is too bad, considering it is not a serious piece of music (no matter how Paul colors it.) It should have been a no-brainer to put the thing out with no great fanfare long ago, perhaps on some special Beatles occasion, as a lark.

Yet it is true that the track does have historical interest outside of it being a Beatles work from the sixties, as it really was a sort of precursor to Lennon’s “Revolution # 9” sound collage, to the extent that bits of “Light” show up in “Num-bah Ni-eeen.” (How ironic, then, that McCartney was luke-warm to “Rev. 9” when Lennon enthusiastically played it for him during the “white album” sessions.)

Yes, “Light” should be released, but not strictly as a piece of music. Better to issue it according to its original purpose, which was to illustrate another work. In other words, McCartney and “The Beatles” should commission someone to produce an animated film as free form as the music to accompany the release. “Fantasia” it, in other words, a la the film’s abstract opening sequence, set to Bach’s “Tocatta and Fugue” in D-minor.

But the chances are that Yoko, who can't stand McCartney's incessant self-promotion campaign, and Olivia, being true to George's taste (he opposed releasing it on "The Beatles Anthology," will keep "Carnival of Light" in the dark for now.

IRAN FROM THE TRUTH
Your Illuminator is flickering nervous over all the new talk about an Obama strike against Iran. That person reputed to be so careful, restrained, pragmatic would possibly be plotting to "de-nuke" Iran makes you wonder if maybe they know for a fact that Iran plans to use the damn Bomb. LL put this question to lantern-lighter Og Oggilby, who wrote back:

"Yep, gotta remember that these mullah types HATE America. They believe that the West is an abomination in the eyes of Allah and it is meritorious to attack us. And when they see us killing Muslims in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, etc., it confirms their fear that the Great Satan is bent on destroying Islam. It was the presence of U.S. troops on Saudi soil that drove Osama bin Laden over the edge.

"That said, Bush and the war profiteers have looked upon the war on terror as a gigantic profit opportunity, wasting vast sums of money and taking or ruining vast numbers of lives. Of course, the inequities and repression in many Muslim countries make them prime breeding grounds for terrorists. We've done nothing but make matters worse. We are seen as an evil presence. And our alliance with the faux nation of Israel remains a constant outrage.

"We could have used that Iraq war money for diplomacy, education, social and economic development and won friends throughout the region by taking an approach of justice and compassion. Instead we are the leading source of death and destruction. America is the beast that stalks the world, leaving financial and ecological ruination in its path. But that's what America is all about. Greed, profit and power. At least that's what it has become.

"Maybe that nice Mr. Obama will change that to some slight degree. I doubt it. Biden let slip what the script will be:

http://elections.foxnews.com/2008/10/20/biden-obama-tested-world-months-administration/

"The mullahs, the militant Israelis, the U.S. war party, none of them will change their stripes. We're gonna ride this baby into oblivion.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wcW_Ygs6hm0

"Fun, huh?"


HEY! "SHAFTS" ARCHIVE HERE

"Sometimes the light's all shining on me. .
Other times I can barely see."

                                                 
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Shafts. . .is dedicated to the memory, if not the politics, of Ferdinand Mendenhall, the original Lamplighter and publisher of the Valley News and Green Sheet.

IN MEMORIAM: P.J. CORKERY

P.J. Corkery, Rense at Washington Square Bar and Grill, 2006.

Hey, Martha! by Rip Rense
http://www.riprense.com/corkery.htm
Obituaries:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/09/24/BA82133MP3.DTL&hw=obituaries&sn=002&sc=967

http://www.sfexaminer.com/local/Former_columnist_Corkery_dies_at_61.html
Interview:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5039509655991114701
And. . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgQCPifM-p8
HALF THE FUN OF HAVING FEET. . .
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Once upon a time, in a Los Angeles far far away, there were. . .newspaper wars. There were five---count 'em, five---papers in town, and as many as 12 editions per day for each one. Rob Leicester Wagner, grandson of original Daily News reporter Les Wagner, is the only writer ever to put the history into a book. This was an uncrowded, freeway-less time of paste-pots, cigars, Red Cars, and just a touch of alcohol. Red Ink, White Lies.
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---------------------------------------------------
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LESS THAN SATISFYING ENCOUNTERS WITH HUMANITY---ILLUSTRATED.
THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION. . .
Measured by its attitude.


"You have more 'less than satisfying encounters' than any three other people I know.  I've given this some thought and my conclusion is that it is your unhappy fate to be something of a "schmuck magnet." Unpleasant-incompetent-self-aggrandising people enter your close orbit with greater frequency
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BARRY WHITE READS

CASTORIA

AMOS 'N' ANDY

MAKE A THANK YOU MOVIE


KITTY

TARZAN

HARPO SPEAKS

KOOKABURRAS

TONGO CONGO ROOSTER

MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE

AOLFRED E. NEWMAN


OXYGEN CAFE

CAT RANCH!


SYRIAN UNDERWEAR
 

MORE FUNSY HERE

ClownA Verse to You:
Starring Rip Post resident laureates Scott Wannberg and Jack Oakes
visit their archive

Il perche non so
mi chiamano mimi
il perche non so
my name is this
I don’t know why
things pump into
neurons
sensory flesh
groceries into bag
dogs play in yard
bestial shouts from windows
supernova roses expand
petals to Betelgeuse
super apes trail offspring
hungry
no cookie
love pondered
gland obeyed
sun nuclear fire
moon barren
little mites feast
littler mites
amoral
pernicious
chanters hum
terrified pray
wail impotent trill
murders of joy
painter wipes fix
moment gone and beauty
crack and fade
universe and skin
blue eyes and harlequin
il perche non so
---Charles Bogle 7/12/10

Raj Reads!
Heard it once? Hear it twice!
Listen to Raj Bavnani's annual
 end-of-year poem:

 

Listen at:
 
http://rense.gsradio.net:8080/rense/special/Raj_Bavnani.mp3
Raj read this epic poem for 2010 Jan. 3 on "The Music Never Stops," with Barry Smolin, on KPFK. He is available for private readings. Bookings: Charles Bogle at boglepr@yahoo.com happy to
Happytogladtodyingto
Get me up in the morning to
wash dishes brush teeth feed cat
scratch ass stare out the window
wonder why and what
At least I wonder don't I
happytogladtodyingto
Get on the phone with hungry ghosts
asking for money calling me sir
India outsourced peasant fool robot
stealing lives for corporate America
Stare at the tube and write things
Go fly a kite things slight things
email eat a snail step on a nail
stomach burns world turns
happytogladtodyingto
Starbucks
culture mucks
might as well
be quacking ducks
Out on the street meetin cretin
nearly run over by el spunky
surrounded by savages yelling scared bitch!
sunshine superman yacks about script into unseen cellphone
isn't he impressive makes me manic-depressive
happytogladtodyingto
Wait in line with 80 stunned people mailing
gifties weight shifties while amorphous postal clerks take breaks
giggle and make very small talk stealing time ain’t it fine
just makes me pine for
better days other ways Shakespeare plays forgotten lays
happytogladtodyingto
Drown in ego suffocate with self
hide from horror might as well turn off the sun
Betelgeuse screaming jokes from the cosmic topsy-turvy
Humans never get the punchlines
Too busy fighting terror speechifying leechafying preachafying chicken frying
Death defying
happytogladtodyingto
Facebook, book my face out of here
A face can be a book but a computer screen is no face
And I can’t face most books
They are designed to screed, not read
They are bankbooks
Making fins for hucksters, not Huck Finns
The last book I read was the last book I will read
Kindle is a swindle
Twitter makes me want gin and bitters
Happytogladtodyingto
And someone told me he was tired of all the whining
About how this has been the worst decade of our lives
And how he’d been hearing this same moan since 1970
Get over it, people, he said, well
I’d like this guy to tell the people who lost people in the desert follies
In Iraq and Afghanistan that they are whining
I’d like this guy to tell broken people who lost their jobs to automatons in Sri Lanka and the Phillipines to get over it
I’d like him to tell the people whose people died because
They could not afford health insurance to get over it
Wounds don’t heal, they scar, but then,
as George Harrison said, with antidote pen
time wounds all heels
Happytogladtodyingto
It’s a time of ephemera, chimera, and etcetera
Everything is a substitute for substance
Demographers are the cartographers
antacid is the new acid
Pop a few and it’s way cool consuming fool office pool
Drop a stool think its jewel you’re just a ghoul out of fuel
Happytogladtodyingto
Sloganeering domineering my eyes are tearing
Reality shows, reality slows
Social network since you can’t get work
Media mavens are terrorist havens
Mexican mafia al qaeda being paraded everyone jaded
How’s it rated are you sated hell’s not gated don’t you hate it?
happytogladtodyingto
Salute the stars and bucks
Stars and bucks forever
May I help the next guest?
My mind is the fresh daily grind
Decaf short two percent Americano
Senior citizen barista tip jar bank account
Fatass cheap suit laptop cell-phone short-sell frappuccino freelancer
Oh say can you see
the dying of the light
happytogladtodyingto
Political correctness porno erectness
Mayors and presidents blowing smoke
Makes me choke kills all hope
Say okeydoke have a diet Coke take a toke
you’re getting soaked
It’s all set-up for same old joke
Happytogladtodyingto
Internet has privatized everybody’s ears and eyes
Everyone’s a hustler, a corporation, institute
Everyone is a singer-songwriter-dancer-director-artist-filmmaker-writer-author-mobile pet groomer
Every man is an island
I post, therefore I am
microcircuit circus
none can flee
Friends in Alabama Antarctica Alaska Anoka
And Bismark, Nice, and Raton Boca
You’ve never met them and never will
Nostalgia youtube is your pill
happytogladtodyingto
Beware the nice police
They will come in the night and
Steal your irony and kidnap your sarcasm
And hold your truth for ransom
And they will torture your reason with
Euphemisms and smiles and platitudes and clichés
And waterboard your psyche until you speak
Like Larry King and Oprah and Tavis Smiley combiney
happytogladtodyingto
Sometimes I find poetry in cigarette butts that will soon
Go down storm drains and stop up dolphin blowholes
And sometimes I find poetry in blue skies
And the other day I found it in a goddamn computer
Dialogue bubble when I went to erase some websurfing
And it said “All history will be cleared. This action cannot be undone.”
And I thought it sounded like Nietzsche or Schopenhauer
And should have been read aloud by Rutger Hauer
As he gave that astounding speech in Blade Runner
All these moments will be lost in time like tears in rain
happytogladtodyingto
child species walks and flops and sings and drops dead
full of curious eyes and larcenous lies
Upright two-legged tool using fool bluesing
usurping and burping
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time greenhouse gassing
Humans are on the way out and winds on the way in
Winds that will whistle through ancient rock and petrified log
For no one to hear and no one to fear
Winds that no one will hustle or paint of sing or ride
or rhapsodize with ecstatic soliloquies
Oh, tiger lily please
don’t go
happytogladtodyingto
---Raj Bavnani

i didn't see all that much but boy do my eyes hurt
in the hallowed building
that forgets where it lives
i saw a way of life
try to shove itself into a tube of toothpaste
the teeth of the world
chatter
when love runs naked
through the battle
that dances up and down
the road out of town.

periodically the reaper fellow
comes through selling subscriptions
but frankly his pitch needs grease
and the navy can't tread the water
you shower in.

i didn't see all that much
honest
but boy do my eyes hurt
every time you ask me to leap off the ledge
i remind you i still haven't earned anything
resembling a wing

tell the rage
to act its age and smile
once every now and then
anything it can throw at me
i've already fielded
in a time
when popcorn fell from the sky
and wounds grew gardens.

going home time
finally slipped through the wire,
treat it gentle,
pass the veneer
ache no more
for at least a minute, anyhow
heard a rumor
we were being pulled back
to a rhythm
that wouldn't break us.

killers will eventually get monuments erected in their honor.
and the pigeons will rejoice
through impending snarling weather
asleep on the side of the road
you will find civilization
rolling dice in pitch black night
one more round for the survivors
wherever they crawled off to

the highway refuses to comp you
pay as you attempt
anything
meteors aim their best profiles
at our hacienda
raise your vulnerable face
to their fire
tell them the story
you never finished
the one about the woodsmoke
the shiny people
and when its time
to wander upstairs
to a room that goes on for hours
place your heart on mine
make some music
they claim vaudeville is coming back
together
we'll bring down
the leaking
roof

scott
florence,oregon
10/27/09
tom russell
blood and candle smoke

while
Here’s a rhyme
On a rainy day
When there’s no time
To while away
The drips drip down
And drizzle, too
And the clouds crowd
And the coffees brew
People scurry,
and hatch their schemes
And cats are furry
Asleep with dreams
---Charles Bogle

ignorance
Do ants ignore?
And do they snore?
Trailing in and out of particulate ant reality
Pushing sandgrain boulders aside
Do they know that they know only what they need to know?
No.
People, though, are blessed with peepholes
Through which they can see
Alternative reality
To shade and color their thoughts
With pointillist light
Rembrandt realism
Mondrian steelism
So why do they ignore
(And they do snore)
Trailing in and out of particulate people reality
Pushing the sandgrain world aside
Pushing the peepholes aside
Content to burrow inside anthills
And closet in caves
Of no thought or art
No daub, no sweep, no dab
Of synaptic brush
And scarcely a blush
What compels
A marvel to be unmarvelous
A miracle to be unmiraculous
A thinker to be unthinking
The ants have an excuse
Survivability is their be
But what of we?
---Charles Bogle
 

let's dance

What does dancing have to do with anything?
What does anything have to do with dancing?
Prisoners of skeletons, unite!
When all is said and done, there will be nothing more to say and do
So do the exclamation point while the sun shines
Come on baby, let’s do the twist
Mashed potato yeah yeah yeah yeah
It’s the latest
It’s the greatest
But dancing is confused with groin and loin
By the banal and anal
When it can just as easily be done on paper
Or in silent thought
Or turn of brush, trill of flute, stroke of lute, expression mute
The trick of the steps is in forgetting the stepping
The trick of the thought is in forgetting the thinking
The trick of the being is in forgetting the being
The thought of the being is forgetting the tricking
Dancing is moot
Atomic astute
Come on baby, let’s do the quark
Mashed electron yeah yeah yeah yeah
It’s the latest
It’s the fatest
Synapse bone’s connected to the sun bone
Time bone’s connected to the heart bone
Night bone’s connected to the moon bone
Poem bone’s connected to the math bone
Now hear the word of the Chord
Shake rattle and roll
From Betelgeuse to bell toll
Toe tap tree sap sky map noon nap
Blood pump eye blink live die sigh think
The best stuff of life is the best life of stuff
It’s all important and it’s all fluff
Trip on toes and bump your knees
And fall down waltzing if you please
Be a fool’s the golden rule
While hosted by the molecule
---Charles Bogle

better off
We were better off
When the sun went around the earth
And the seas had an edge
Where ships full of heart sailed off
And gods made the stars wink
We were better off
When books were read by monks
And there were no lights
And no galaxies tumbling through universes
Tumbling through other universes
And pictures were painted
And saints were sainted
We were happier to have a sky
Instead of infinity
And deities to control our destinies
Instead of DNA
Howling at the moon was science
Trees were television
Words were mathematics
We were better off
Frightened of the dark
---Charles Bogle 6/22/09

all your berlin walls couldn't put humpty dumpty back together

the wailing wall of berlin
just got a spectacular haircut
and cheerleaders everywhere
cannot ever die,
according to a well known
scientific journal.

i'll take room in the mayhem suite
i hear it's the best view in the entire hotel.
no bartender i ever met
came close to being lethargic.
back scratchers for the first fifty
lucky callers.

telephone pole ran into a car
the car got hot and made a scene
sandra dee in gidget
meets freud
the musical

tell all calls to hold on
they got narratives in every ear
the house is just big enough
a doctor could be in it

humpty dumpty had eggs for breakfast.
he'd just discovered the mother lode.
when he fell
all the cell phones died.

the tall signposts
begin to strut,
the earth
tosses its dice
and the catch of the day
hasn't yet
been
born.

scott
florence,oregon
june 21 2009
car wheels on a gravel road
lucinda williams

 

put your landing lights on, i wanna come back down to earth

the monsters are lonesome
they have no dates for the prom
they talk about suicide
they ask me for a donation
i hold up my doorway
i watch the traffic do whatever the hell it wants
the speed limit here just revved up its adrenalin

the queen of sheba with king solomon on a leash
she came by to borrow a coffee filter
we talked about anthony mann's westerns
and she shimmied right in front of my pain

all the literary movements
begin and end in the mens' room at the deft lingo gas station
where the manager's half-breed son
dances on car hoods
claiming he's the reincarnation
of fats waller

the castles, at this time,
they implode and fall all over themselves.
all those self-important kingdoms
are now amusingly vulnerable.
Sir Not Much wants to joust with the sun
but his lance just became a pacifist
and has lit out for the new territory.

hold your horses
even if your stable is empty.
put your landing lights on,
i wanna come back down to earth.
people there seem friendly.
i keep my fingers crossed that they truly are.

Tarzan is seen reading Eugene O'Neill's The Hairy Ape.
Jane wanted him to go to college and get a degree.
Ungawa turns to I feel Sartre overstated his theory of...
Cheetah becomes an Animal Cop on the Animal Planet channel.
Don't ever get your chimp mad.
They bite and fling shit.
Just like humans, I guess.

the mutilated pages of our world
just came home from the binder's hospital.
they claim they are more than ready
for us to read their vitals anew.
get the fire going.
tell all you know its time to come in from the cold.
nobody needs to freeze
and we'll make do with the food rations.

you'll all get an ample chance to share your story.
take your time in the telling.
explore the waters of your body.
visit the magic show of your heart.
at the end of another broke down day
on the ongoing war that is the earth
we throw our weapons of mini-destruction
into the bonfire of relax and take a deep breath.

yes, the bones ache something fierce,
and the circulation in the legs requires compressed
stockings. no matter.
we accept all torn up humans here
and the animals will sing
if you allow them.

slowly sit your tired everything down.
i see where you're bleeding.
you see where i do as well.
we mix our blood in a bowl
and it becomes wine.
we drink and our shadows dance across
the sky.
slowly explore yourself at this most crucial non-time.
what is it that you need or want to do?
as long as you hurt no one
or yourself
the entire game board belongs to you.

the tired species of human
sighs in the impending harmony.
we sing to each other
through our eyes.
be aware of the man and woman next to you.
they might be executioners.
they might be best friends.
let's simplify it, okay?
all executions now are illegal and null and void.
that means they now can only
be best friends.

we tell tall tales and sing crazy tunes
through our eyes.
it is our road home.
it is our bones learning flesh.

we've got no legs
but we love to dance.
we'll be doing it for hours.
if our dancing keeps you up
join in
and
teach us
your
steps.
---scott
florence,oregon
may 29 2009
bob dylan,together through life
david munyon,acrylic teepees


Radioactivity in the Lunch Boxes of the Poor
tiptoe through the scar tissue tonight, love
there lives unease
rowing its leaking canoe
over a remarkable rapid
in the age of water
in a time of little faith
why did god
put so much radioactivity
in the lunchboxes of the poor
let the cat out
or maybe keep it in
the password sometimes can't tell
derelicts carry out their duties
witnesses are sworn in
my back is killing me
the ambulances know where i live
mardi gras just lost my phone number
don't worry too much
i don't play a lick of tennis
but i can widen the net
the boat gets rocking
the short end of the stick
the messiah is afraid of gnats
in tolerance you must
i got my end
up
bring on the mob
bring on the soft shoe
inventions need reinventing
in the garrulous
days
of our
flute.

---scott
florence,oregon
april 23 2009
norman and nancy blake
natasha's waltz

Going to Townes
The latest failure
turned the curve
You're travelin'
with the herd.

The calamity
called humanity,
claims unfounded
rejected, rebounded.

Snapshots, scattered,
the last thing,
failed to compose
a photographic
memory,
why don't you
recall it?

You'd prefer
to let it fade
to sepia like
rotogravure
eidetic reveries.

Going to town
world-renown
clown obit
proclaims
legends
offered,
chiseled
visages
proffered

Old man of
the mountains
Fountains
of youth
eluded

Cantankerousity
has replaced
curiosity
Verbosity has
replaced
perspicaciousness.

No lines left to
rehearse, no
time to slam
into reverse.

Call it a day
Ave, universe!
I've seen my day
no more struggle
for one last verse

I'm checking out
without a doubt
Will survey landscape
one last time, not a
pleasure trip, not even hip.
Down with the ship
Chilly winds blow
Closing the show,
last one tonight.

---Jack Oakes


A Great Long While
It’s been a great long while

since fortune did smile

upon our humble enterprise

So it should come

as no great surprise

that your recitations,

incantations and recipes

are no longer on file.

 

Dangle awhile upon

cliff sides and participles

It’s best to have no disciples

lest you draw a following

for your sketches and explanations

 

The chosen few, rent asunder,

walk amidst lightning and thunder

Assiduous students practice darshan

and greet Ezra, Rimbaud, Don Van Vliet

Kleptomaniac kelp gatherers convene

on beaches, cobblestone robbers

leave no pebble unturned as tidepool

gazers, count galaxies amid sandy grains

 

We go against the grain, we embrace

the rain and salute the sunset, it is

our traditional ways that we have lost

so we fabricate new canons of the soul

Kerouac, Ginsberg and Snyder might

appreciate the noblisse oblige of our

rustic rhetoric and rusted-out meteoric

resonance with the cosmic spheres anew

I’ve got this and I’ve got you, callay calloo!

 

The propensity of humanity toward density,

defying the obvious and reviling the propitious

Is a curse and a conundrum without cure

Make a choice for bliss, the devil blues abjure

Once and for all, last chance, last dance,

cast aside your curses, select a path that’s sure

Not much time left, so best play on through

 -- Jack Oakes 2/19/09

Ramblin' Boy

What can you
imagine for a
new tomorrow?
Where can you
roar like lions
at the dawn,when
everything's almost
forgot, if not gone?

It's a new era
of hope, so we
are again told.
But I don't
think truth
is so easily
bought or sold.

Who are we to
gauge what
is the infinite
trapped as we
are in this amber,
the dimensions
we call "years"?

What we know
is soon enough
caught by the tide
and swept to
realms well beyond
blood and tears

We'll all fall prey
to some malady,
or perchance
an accidental
fatality. That's
all in the script,
you might
well remember
your lines before
the curtain falls.

Meditation on the
knowable, does
it open windows
or just pass time?

Take a step back,
you want to be fed,
and patted on the head,
like some good dog
who fell from the sky
with a mission unclear.
Must you, great huntsman,
always be barking
up wrong trees?

Your friends and kin
will always embrace
you, provided you've
learned the right
dance steps and
keep in perfect pitch.

Beyond that, what is
there than this surge
of billions of souls
we deem humanity,
arising and dying
under the light
of ancient stars?

You think you've
found one star that
will grant each
wish, but you
keeping wishing
for more wishes
when soon enough
all will be gone.

No raging at the
dying of days,
last train takes
you way out
west, far past
familiar places.
long gone are
beloved faces
faded away are
the songs you
could tune
your soul to.

This rattletrap
will eventually
collapse and
that will be that.
-- Jack Oakes, 2/7/09|

slums of gold
the slums of gold
are having open houses for all the affable c.e.o.'s and financial wizards who have taken their bailout money to build shiny brand new executive bathrooms and finance relaxing weekend retreats far from the noise and fear of the street.the slums of gold have king size beds that will make the most tired and achy executive feel so human and tender.
special guarded elevators will take these new stylish tenants to the penthouse,but wait a second, sometimes the penthouse has no roof and the vultures soar overhead awaiting their next happy meal.
the slums of gold find themselves eventually under a fierce rain which washes that fake gold off revealing corroded iron and brokedown wood.
it's a new year
homicide will soon reach its deductible
and its bills will reduce greatly.
the slums of gold are having a block party.
bring all your favorite yes men and women,executives.
bring your bylaws and meeting minutes.
you'll have to budget the air
inhale just so much oxygen.
the banks glow in the dark.
they begin to pull up stakes
and slither across the earth
looking for food.
meanwhile,all humans with no health care whatsoever become kings and queens for one day.
they are asked to pose for high profile pictures.
as soon as you're through coughing up blood could you smile and say cheese.
the c.e.o.s have blood in their underwear.
should they panic?
should they take a happy pill?
all the happy pills forgot their distemper shots.
they are not agreeable this morning.
when you go to open them up to ingest one they bite your fingers.
---Scott Wannberg, 1/24/09

old man
Old man
cross and
stooped
scurries
round the
corner
with half
a look

Education's
not something
learned in
a book.
Remembrances
forgotten,
recollections
mistook.

Let's
congratulate
everybody,
a universal
salute.

Half-step
imperfect,
we can't
do that
dance.

The tune
cannot
be heard.
The follies
we've seen
cannot disturb
the complacent
cats sitting fat
atop the heap
The rest of us
gooba-gabba'ing
like so many freaks.

Comforting laments
of the old school
Companionable
plantings on
planets unknown.
The sheep are
shorn, and time
is on loan.

You ask for
reason, and
I give you
the sense
of truths
you could
have embraced.
Life's not a waste.
---Jack Oakes 1/5/09

you wonder
You wonder at what
you’ve heard and you
ponder remembrances
of songs no longer sung
You await now until
the last bell is rung.

You’ve slowed down
the playback to the
point at which you
can hear the real words.

Then someone pulls
out the drum again,
the 11 dimensions
convolute and unfold,
leaving our slight lives
in the dust of stellar
dissolution.
---Jack Oakes 12/08

When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley
here
Watch: "The Cremation
of Sam McGee," by Robert
W. Service
here

Dispatches
Crisp, neatly folded, addressed and sealed,
The dispatches pass from hands to post
To hands again, but trembling now.
Cold, precise, their message read,
They find their way to a private place,
Lined with despair and a grain of hope.

How strange, but fitting,
These silent couriers are,
That tell of loved ones killed in war,
Precise and neatly folded,
Tucked away in some sylvan spot,
Cold with despair
And a grain of hope.
---Gary L. Coffman

Sun Zoom Spark
Nothing makes it move
From the bottom to the top
Does it start at the bottom?
Or does it start at the top

Magnet draw day from dark
Sun zoom spark
Sun zoom spark

Now which hand's got it?
Bottom, or the top?
Neither hand's got it
It's just got it
Hope it don't stop

Magnet draw day from dark
Sun zoom spark
Sun zoom spark

Think you can uh hold it
Once it start
I don't care who ya are or what
size ya are
I'm gonna magnetize ya

Magnet draw day from dark
Sun zoom spark
Sun zoom spark

Ohh, don't let it get away
I'm gonna zip up my guitar
'n then when I've gone too far
I'm gonna zip down my guitar

Magnet draw day from dark
Sun zoom spark
Sun zoom spark
---Don Van Vliet (from the 1972 Captain Beefheart album, "Clear Spot.")

When the lie's so big
They got lies so big
They don't make a noise
They tell 'em so well
Like a secret disease
That makes you go numb

With a big ol' lie
And a flag and a pie
And a mom and a bible
Most folks are just liable
To buy any line
Any place, any time

When the lie's so big
As in Robertson's case,
(That sinister face
Behind all the Jesus hurrah)

Could result in the end
To a worrisome trend
In which every American
Not "born again"
Could be punished in cruel and unusual ways
By this treacherous cretin
Who tells everyone
That he's Jesus' best friend

When the lie's so big
And the fog gets so thick
And the facts disappear
The Republican Trick
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!

Just who do they really
Suppose that they are?
And how did they manage to travel as far
As they seem to have come?
Were we really that dumb?

People, wake up
Figure it out
Religious fanatics
Around and about
The Court House, The State House,
The Congress, The White House

Criminal saints
With a "Heavenly Mission" --
A nation enraptured
By pure superstition

When the lie's so big
And the fog gets so thick
And the facts disappear
The Republican Trick
Can be played out again
People, please tell me when
We'll be rid of these men!
---The late, great Frank Zappa
copyright the Zappa Family Trust.

A Verse to You Archives

Why should not old men be mad?
Some have known a likely lad
That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist
Turn to a drunken journalist;
A girl that knew all Dante once
Live to bear children to a dunce;
A Helen of social welfare dream,
Climb on a wagonette to scream.
Some think it a matter of course that chance
Should starve good men and bad advance,
That if their neighbours figured plain,
As though upon a lighted screen,
No single story would they find
Of an unbroken happy mind,
A finish worthy of the start.
Young men know nothing of this sort,
Observant old men know it well;
And when they know what old books tell
And that no better can be had,
Know why an old man should be mad.
                         ---W.B. Yeats

THE REMORSEFUL DAY
How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.

---A.E. Housman

A Love Letter, by Nanao Sakaki

http://www.levity.com/digaland/nanao.html

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