"It is genuine Pilsner from Bohemia! It has expelled the sugar from my blood!"
--James Gibbons Huneker (1860-1921), letter to H.L. Mencken

I am feeling considerably better today, though it has taken me a full twenty-four hours to achieve this equilibrium. (American) Pilsener from Utica is part of the reason, but also I bask in the afterglow of a happy deed. It is akin to the feeling of reprieving a condemned mutt from being "put to sleep" at the dog pound--I saved a 100-year-old Oliver #3 typewriter from being made into costume jewelry. I had been watching the auction all week on e-bay, and when I noticed that the only bid on the poor old beast was from the bracelet person (who--I can scarcely bear to type this--tears apart vintage machines, turning the keys into "fashion statements"), I jumped in with my nominal offer--and WON. So, I'm going to be getting a nice big package from Iowa next week with my treasure in it (shipping wasn't THAT bad)--there is no such thing as an "unwanted" typewriter at the Utica "Bide-a-Wee" Home for Aged Office Equipment.
  ¶ 11:41 PM 0 comments

  The cleaning process proceeds apace (or half-apace) in preparation for the girls' visit. Mainly, it consists of putting books on shelves and creating a clear path of floorspace. The white-glove standard shall not apply. It is merely enough that this place no longer resembles the Collier Brothers' last digs. My office (so neglected since we installed this electric time-waster in the dining room) now looks as if one MIGHT do some actual writing there--not that one WILL, of course.

"Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live."
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)

DANGER: BITCHFEST UP AHEAD
Did I mention that diabetes really, truly SUCKS? Oh, sure--"they" say that with "proper care" one can live a "normal life." HAH! I've had this sonofabitch for 29 years, and my life has been anything BUT normal. Oh, it's normal, if you consider a TOTAL LACK OF SPONTANEITY normal. I made the mistake of assuming a dinnertime meeting tonight was going to actually include DINNER. It was basically drinks, canapes, and dessert--which had the effect of driving my sugar up around 500 without actually satisfying my need for a MEAL. I came home, took a slew of insulin, and passed out in my chair for an hour. Of course, I had forgotten to take the PILL my doctor prescribed to help me process my shots better--so I'm STILL all messed up. I do so much better when I eat my own cooking at home--I can even swill pilsener and remain somewhat in control. As a recluse, I'm fine. But cocktail parties? Forget it. Trying to navigate like a NORMAL human being is suicide.

I live a NORMAL life insofar as the contraption of a life I have come to live has become NORMAL for me. (And the Sanctimonious Monkeyhead squashed stem-cell research--He should have to live with MY diabetes for a month. That'd learn him, real good.)

  ¶ 11:43 PM 0 comments

  I finally contributed to WFUV for all the enjoyment I'm deriving from "The Big Broadcast" show and archives. For all my many failings as a human being, I have never been comfortable being entertained at someone else's expense. And "The Big Broadcast" entertains the hell out of me.

At this writing, I have one aunt who is trying to escape from a nursing home--and who called me to see if I would abet her in the getaway, one uncle who is headed to state prison for probably nine years for repeatedly harassing and threatening a former girlfriend, another aunt who is my biological mother (whom I haven't spoken to in six years, and who has cancer), a mother who is my biological aunt (and with whom I get along much better since I left home at age 34, but who has worse cancer than her sister--but not as bad cancer as her OTHER sister had who died last year), and a President who couldn't give a flying fuck about any of us. Is it any wonder I look forward so to the first Saranac Pilsener of the evening?  ¶ 12:03 AM 0 comments

  Misery loves company so much that it forms service clubs called "families."  ¶ 12:52 PM 0 comments

  There is so much sorrow in the world that, without beer, life would be intolerable. Good jazz helps, too. If I have to endure four more years of Bush (in addition to all my real personal problems), I shall probably be a confirmed alcoholic--with one kick-ass record collection.  ¶ 12:16 AM 0 comments

  Everything I have written tonight has slipped into a parallel universe--not that it will do any good THERE, either. I started to write the same rant three times, and three times it disappeared. Now I know why I love manual typewriters so much.

It's bad enough trying to get letters printed in the lousy Utica O-D. THIS is really pissing me off. I think I'll finish up here before I wind up smashing $2,000 worth of computer equipment that isn't yet paid for, and drink a beer or do a crossword or something--something ANALOG.  ¶ 2:42 AM 0 comments

  "Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday."
--Don Marquis (1878-1937)

For all its myriad boons, the Electric Internet is pernicious in one particular--it has enhanced my tendency to avoid doing what must be done. Sue's daughter and granddaughters are coming for a stay one week from Tuesday, and the house is in deplorable condition. Susan and I have become web-addicts in the eight weeks since we became citizens of the New Century. Not that I was conscientious about cleaning when I was still living in the analog universe--but this is much, much worse. My new obsession, besides reading Bartcop, is drooling over the fountain pens and typewriters on e-bay. I love pens and old typewriters--and the virtual garage sale offers DOZENS of items to covet. I'm a sick man. Miss September? The Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue? Forget it. Who needs porn when there are full-color photos of old Smith Premiers, and Olivers, and Parker Duofolds? Sometimes the dishes sit in the sink for days while I scour the web for new beauties. The irony is just too obvious--the digital world has made me the uber-analog guy. And, as I type this, I'm listening the my favorite music show, "The Big Broadcast" on WFUV.org--1920s and 30s music, played off old 78s! And still the kitchen floor languishes, unmopped.

Yes, I'll get around to it. I must, of course. It would be most unpleasant for the Board of Health to issue a citation just as the girls are arriving. Yet here sits the computer, with its come-hither glow and promises of new treasures, just waiting for me to log on. . .

  ¶ 11:24 PM 0 comments

  "Politics make strange bedfellows."
--Charles Dudley Warner (1829-1900)

Okay, I admit it--I had to look up the source of the quote in "Bartlett's." (I always thought it was one of those things that were just THERE without anyone having actually said it first.) But somebody DID say it, and it's TRUE. So much for exploding old saws. ("Watch out for exploding saws!"--Robert Benchley)

Susan and I attended our mid-month Howard Dean meeting at the Hotel Utica last evening, and it was a great turnout. There was even a truncated notice in the (lousy) O-D--which at least was accurate regarding time and location. Though two key members could not be there, we drew a dozen supporters, including a medical-school classmate of Howard Dean's, a local global warming activist, my apolitical friend Alex, and Sue's ex-husband, Mr. Wonderful. "And," he said, "Sue's ex-husband, Mr. Wonderful."

My little girl is growing up. I'm so proud. Instead of leaping from her chair and stabbing him in the carotid artery with her pen when she finally recognized him (he had changed so) Sue kept her temper under control for the good of the group. In fact, he presented such a benign aspect to her that she actually said "Hi" to him before she realized who he was. (She did not address him directly thereafter, but remained civil.)

How quaint a juxtaposition! She had just JUST finished paying off her divorce lawyer (thus reallocating funds that we could have spent on frivolities like roof repairs)--in fact, "the check," as they say, "was in the mail." (Anon.) So here was this phony, tax-evading, philandering waste of flesh who had taken food from our mouths, and SUSAN DID NOT KILL HIM.

Well, we wanted to be able use the lobby for future meetings. (The carpet-cleaning bills ALONE would have been DEVASTATING.) Plus, it would have reflected poorly on the Dean organization as a whole. There ARE more important things than revenge. The main one is voting the Psychopathic Cowboy out of office. So, for the time being, Mr. Wonderful is in our group. He's another vote for Howard Dean, at any rate. (I guess this is what they mean by "realpolitik.")

Out of respect for Sue, I did not offer to shake the man's hand. It was the least I could do.

"I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you."
--Louis Armstrong (1901?-1971)
  ¶ 11:01 PM 0 comments

  "You'll find you're so incredibly moronic
You'll wish you'd kept your love affair platonic."

--Andy Senior (1962- ), "Love Isn't Blind, It's Retarded"


One of the great mixed blessings of married life is that, having left the savage blender of singleness, one is often called upon to act as a consultant in the affairs of others. Last Saturday evening Susan and I were pressed into the capacity of tag-team relationship counselors by my best friend and his former long term girlfriend, both suffering in their new relationships. These two are still deeply involved in each other's lives and see more of each other than many actual married couples. Sue has been trying to get them back together--as if they'd ever really been apart. My friend is still trailing after this young artist chick, practically begging to get his heart stomped on. His ex, who left him because he was marriage-phobic and reluctant to evince signs of adulthood, is now living with a sweet-natured young man who seems to have tried every medication in the Physicians' Desk Reference (as well as those not officially sanctioned).

Ah, young love. Ah, phooey.

Here's another romantic snippet from one of my old songs:

"I want a Brain Enema--
A minty Brain Enema;
Oh, please rinse my love away--
Let me think again TODAY!"


  ¶ 10:30 PM 0 comments

  "At that, there might be worse things than being left in Utica."

--Robert Benchley (1889-1945)


I used to think so too, Bob. But now I am REALLY stuck in Utica. Shecters, the local fat-ass store, is closing. This shatters my world. Wal-Mart, et alia, do not cater to my ass size. (Though the "alia" isn't as many retailers as it used to be.) Simply put, I have been tried in the Court of Ass Sizes and found "homebound." I might as well start trying recipes out of the Sylvia Plath Cookbook. ("Insert head in oven, blow out pilot, wait for bright light at end of tunnel. . .")

Seriously, this truly depresses me. Hey there, Mister National Retailer, I have a fat ass and I am NOT about to stay off the street as if this were some low-rent Potemkin villiage. This is the Internet, is it not--where are all the the fat people who have nothing better to do than net-surf who will join me in protesting such things? I want to declare a NATIONAL DAY WITHOUT PANTS. Is anybody with me on this one? "Fat asses of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your pants!" How about a "Donald Duck" march to the nearest Wal-Mart to shock and disgust those sizist bastards into relenting and carrying a full line of fat clothes? "I regret I have but one ass to give for my country." Soon Wal-Mart will be the ONLY major retailer in America (having killed all the competition) and they need to know that there are good Americans who CANNOT FIND TROUSERS IN THE PROPER SIZE.

Now that the independent fat-ass store in Utica is CLOSING, I demand satisfaction! I WILL NOT BE HELD HOSTAGE BY MY OWN ASS! This July Fourth, I will be PANTS-FREE. This is MY DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE! GOD BLESS (PANTSLESS) AMERICA!  ¶ 12:54 AM 0 comments

  "I often think it comical--Fal, lal, la!
Now Nature always does contrive--Fal, lal, la!
That every boy and every gal
That's born into this world alive
Is either a little Liberal
Or else a little Conservative!"

--William Schwenk Gilbert (1836-1911), "Iolanthe"


Maybe. Perhaps I am an anomaly, but I have always been somewhat double-jointed in the above regard. I evince a strong Conservative streak when I feel the minions of the Nanny-State breathing down my neck, imploring me to desist in my self-destructive (Pilsener swilling) healthstyle. But when I see right-wingers beating up on one of their stock scapegoats, my heart begins to bleed like a Romanov family reunion. This current regime is overtly nasty, cynical, avaricious, sanctimonious, hypocritical, puritanical, and monochromatic. Thus, I am a proud registered Democrat who loves America, with liberty and justice for all--not that I don't think that most Republicans share those values. It's just those Radical Righties who now hold the reins that make me want to sigh in technicolor.

As of this writing, this is a LIBERAL SITE. (Maybe not musically, but it is politically, for certain.) When I see atop the archived entries for The Dyspeptic Tank, that THE LEFT HATES AMERICA (advt.) only a sense of fairness keeps me from screaming, "NO! FUCK YOU MAN! THE RIGHT HATES AMERICA!" Maybe SOME members of the right demonstrably hate America (at least the "freedom and justice for all" part). And there are some on the far radical left who hate America, for whatever reason. But you can sure as fuck LOVE AMERICA and still believe that the Chief Executive is a Monkey-faced, Earth-raping, sociopathic, imperialistic, people-hating, murderous son-of-a-bitch. GOD BLESS AMERICA, IN SPITE OF BUSH!

Pertinent to the above quote, Tony Blair has abolished the 1,400-year-old post of Lord Chancellor in favor of a U.S.-style Supreme Court. Jesus Christ! Just what they need! It's obvious that that little jug-eared Bush-licker wants to keep his job. (Could he grant Rhenquist and Scalia dual citizenship?)

At least I managed to fix my e-mail. Thank heaven for small miracles.

"Up in the air, sky-high, sky-high,
Free from Wards in Chancery,
He will be much happier, for
He's a very susceptible Chancellor."

--ibid.
  ¶ 11:48 PM 0 comments

  "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or entered some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk;"

--John Keats (1795-1821)

You said it, Johnny baby! It's really been one of those decades. In addition to being depressed about the incorrigible romantic idiocy of my best friend, and overwhelmed by house and yard work that I have absolutely no inclination to do, I am now completely unable to send anything through my primary e-mail account (a possible computer virus) and I grow increasingly weary of politics. I managed to drag myself out of bed today and even do the dishes, but all I feel like doing is lolling about languidly like some Lake Poet, doing British crossword puzzles.

I have been having second (and third) thoughts about Dennis Kucinich. I admire the hell out of the man, but he did vote in favor of that legislative Trojan Horse, the Flag Desecration Amendment. I got involved in a heated discussion on the Kucinich4President newsgroup, discovering that there are practitioners of Flagianity on the left as well as the right. Howard Dean (whatever his perceived shortcomings when viewed beside St. Dennis) might be the one to whoop for after all. I don't want to burn Old Glory, but if the Amendment is passed I might just be tempted. Codified PATRIAUTISM is just another tool of the far right to stifle dissent and make questioning our (unelected) leaders seem un-American.

I have to unsubscribe to all these newsgroups. They are just sapping my energy and wasting hours of my life. To Hell with it. To Hell with politics, religion, controversy, EVERYTHING. That Keats kid (obviously a Democrat) gets the last word:

"And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing."
  ¶ 5:26 PM 0 comments

  It occurs to me that I am repeating certain phrases, with slight variations. I suppose it would pay for me to re-read the previous post before launching forth into my rant du jour. I will retire the locution "trigger-happy pseudo-cowboy" and the stock sentence that trails after it forthwith. I apologize for any tedium this may have caused.

On a different note, one day I noticed that they were advertising the Venuti & Lang Box Set up top here. I couldn't believe it--Eddie Lang is my all-time favorite guitarist, the WHOLE REASON I took up playing the guitar. (I actually SOUND like Eddie, too--on one of his bad days, and with much lighter gauge strings, when the lobster-claws I call hands are unswollen enough to permit such musical attempts.) Really--Eddie Lang is the BEST GUITARIST EVER. (I'll rhapsodize about ART TATUM and his influence on my piano playing another day.)

  ¶ 3:53 AM 0 comments

  Sue was on the computer all evening, trying to gather every scrap of evidence that she could find that the whole purpose of the Bush "government" is to put itself out of business--which is to say, put only business into "government." Every one of their happy little laws seems calculated to kick workers out of the public sector and privatize their positions (with no collective bargaining or benefits or anything). I used to be a Libertarian until I realized that such "freedom" could go haywire and actually be more oppressive than a Nanny-State. (I admit I was mighty pissed off at Mario Cuomo for all his seatbelt and alcohol control laws--and the so-called Republicans here in New York--Pataki and Blumberg--overstepped their bounds in banning SMOKING in BARS. Where else WOULD you smoke, if not in a saloon? BARS are not health clubs, for God's sake--except perhaps for developing elbow muscles.) Sue thinks the whole "No Child Left Behind" unfunded mandate is a master plan to dismantle public education--and replace public schools with private charter schools (with no tenure, unions, or health benefits). The charter schools would also keep people "in their place"--filling their heads with shit about the dinosaurs drowning in Noah's flood and whatever prevailing hooey the Corporate/Christian right deems sanitary. That trigger-happy, remote-controlled pseudo-cowboy seems intent on dismantling this country like it was some defunct Montgomery Wards store and auctioning it off to his buddies for scrap.

And so, while Sue was going through a rainforest worth of paper and a whole ink cartridge to unearth her various smoking guns (I know--shitty metaphor), I composed a concise Letter to the Editor on my 1937 Underwood about the crying need to IMPEACH BUSH. He lied about those weapons. I saw the clip of Dennis Kucinich at that Iowa picnic--how different he was from the day we saw him in Lake Placid! He was magnificent--I am proud to have shaken his hand. "Where are the weapons, Mr. Bush?" Even people here in Utica are starting to ask that question now.
  ¶ 3:30 AM 0 comments

  Listen: I know what I posted last evening was terribly cryptic. Well, it HAD it be. I have so much spleen to vent on so many issues, and the spectres of Libel and Slander never lurk far from my keyboard when I am in Full Vinegar Mode. (Hence the suppression of the first piece I composed.) I promise the Adminstrator (a person I visualize as being a black-hooded figure, with axe at the ready to execute careless Bloggers and their slurs against recognizable fellow humans) that I shall be more circumspect from here on, hiding my actionable depictions in labyrinthine sarcasm. (I am no stranger to such methods--it was a favorite device of mine to write letters to the editor that NOBODY COULD POSSIBLY BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND.)

I am starting to weigh the whole Howard Dean versus Dennis Kucinich issue again--apparently Kucinich has made an impressive showing at certain venues lately, thus causing me to reevaluate his chances. Would it be terribly wrong of me to support BOTH candidates until it becomes clear which one has a prayer? Sue and I plan to send checks to both campaigns. Both Dean and Kucinich would be wonderful presidents--much better than the trigger-happy pseudo-cowboy who seems determined to dismantle this country and sell it for scrap. Kucinich is a true idealist, and his group backs him with zeal. His retro-New Deal plan might inspire those who feel we are headed for a retro-Depression. (If only we could bring back that MUSIC--if we are going to have another Depression, we need music like Rich Conaty plays on "The Big Broadcast.") Maybe Kucinich will keep us from getting Depressed.

But we like Dean as well--he is not so much our second choice as another FIRST choice. So, whichever. We will just have to deal with our ambivalence.  ¶ 1:05 AM 0 comments

  A PANEGYRIC UPON LOCAL URINALISTS

Oft times the local urinalists are derided, decried. disparaged, and dishonored. My heart aches when those who have given a certain percentage of their all have been so maligned--not merely blameless, they shine as sterling beacons, beckoning us all to heed their clarion examples. There is Dave, noble Dave (he of the moonlight polka rhythms, in his prose as well as in his music) who applies his deft surgical skill to the errant musings of those who would fain march to their own drums. If, in his hands, a patient dies--why it is contumely--ingratitude--for he has done his best, whatever that may be. If his head resembles a hedgehog, then that is just life imitating art, and we must accept it.

And how I miss the wise chortles of Father Joe and the stern (though benevolent) gaze of the incomparable Rusty. Father Joe's rough-hewn wit would keep us smiling for minutes on end. When he would attempt to find anagrams for the name of our town--a futile endeavor, for there are none--we would gasp in admiration. He is in a better place now, somewhat North of here (though some would have hoped SOUTH). Peace be unto his gentle Personage!

Rusty was as long among us as old Father Joe. He judged us severely, and I felt the sting of his disfavor oftener, perhaps, than most. My recalcitrance displeased him, yet I know he could be made to laugh, particularly at his own inventions. When his fancies surpassed his capacity to order them he left us, and not unwillingly. I would like to think I had some hand in that transformation--he is a POLITICIAN now.

Then there is the head of all--the Queen of local urinalists. What name could I apply to her that would do her splendor justice? There is none. She must remain unnamed. To me, she is Athena, Minerva, Diana, Rosie the Riveter--a panoply of divinities! Her wisdom is unparalleled.
When the aged and sagacious citizens of our locality concurred that more shall not be spent upon the education of the young, she reaffirmed their decree. She said, why should the educators of this city have recourse to free appendectomies, when all others must pay? This is selfishness! Let the old ones pay not more tribute, that they may enjoy their lottery wagers and QVC purchases even unto the last day! An appendectomy, after all, may be performed at home with an ordinary can-opener and a simple sewing kit. And then a salute of twenty-one guns was fired, as befitting such a pronouncement.

She is regal, and none dare cross her. I must close my eyes now, lest I be blinded by her glory.  ¶ 4:18 AM 0 comments

  I rather liked the piece I wrote--apparently the Administrator did not. So much for free speech. I'm going to have a beer.  ¶ 12:16 AM 0 comments

  Romance is the pornography of the heart. My entire day was dominated by the plight of a close friend who is trying to bring an extremely messy love affair to a close. Messy? Think: "Of Human Bondage." Think: "The Blue Angel." Think: just about any Woody Allen movie. The whole smitten older man/cute little sociopath thing. My friend (who is my best friend) is an incurable romantic--as if that were a GOOD thing. Unfortunately, romance, in addition to being the smut of the ticker, is (or should be) a childhood disease. A 42-year-old man falling ass-over-teakettle for a 22-year-old free-love-practicing bohemian chick is a preordained train wreck. A third party, a local "shaman" (with the accent on the first syllable) who reminds me of Rasputin without the stamina and Svengali without the staying power, who received regular financial contributions from my friend, knew of his attraction to this girl, and not only did not inform my friend of his prior history with her, he (to put it plainly) fucked her in my friend's bathtub. Sweet, huh?

Well, my friend finally decided (after a brief and overwrought fling with the girl) to save his sanity. He was going to send her a rip-snorter of a break-up letter, one that reminded me of nothing so much as the Spanish translations of certain old popular songs (that have nothing to do with the original lyrics--all tearing one's beating heart from one's own chest to hand to one's love if she will only turn and smile, etc.)--fortunately, some of us were able to dissuade him from sending the girl such a screed. (He posted it to about five of us as an e-mail!) His final draft was terse, cordial, and without romantic bombast. I hope he'll be all right. We'll have a Beer Therapy session soon. (Time and Pilsener heal all wounds.)

"Love is the fart/Of every heart;/It pains one when 'tis kept close/and others doth offend, when 'tis let loose." --Sir John Suckling (1609-1642)   ¶ 10:46 PM 0 comments

  Today was the vote on our local school budget, and if there is one fact as immutable as the law of gravity, it is that the Utica City School budget is ALWAYS voted down. Now, I would have no particular reason to root for its passage under normal circumstances--I attended (note that I did not say "graduated from") Utica schools, and found them only slightly more cheerful than Devil's Island. (When my high school principal died two years ago, it was very nearly the happiest day of my life.) But, irony of supreme ironies, I MARRIED a teacher in the Utica system. So I do have a reason to cheer for budget passage, not that budget passage will ever actually occur--it puts food on the table and Saranac Pilsener in the fridge.

(The "education gap" between my wife and I is nothing worth mentioning--I am Sue's third husband, and the first without a PhD. She asserts that I am smarter than either one, even as a GED-toting autodidact.)

Now, you might get the idea that the people of Utica, N.Y. are narrow-minded skinflints--and your idea would not be wrong. People have been hopping over the city line for decades to the suburban towns that invest much more in education--Clinton, Whitesboro, and New Hartford. So, who's left? You guessed it--the old cheapskates who think everything should cost what it did in 1932, and the poor whites, blacks, and latinos who can't afford to relocate. The resentment between those two groups is so thick you could spread it on toast. And the schools, as a result, are way underfunded.

So Sue and I live in the city, within one half-mile of her middle school--which makes her an exception even among teachers in the district. (Many reside in the aforementioned suburbs.) So we voted for the budget--not that it will do any good. Until we start funding our schools decently, Utica will continue to lurch toward oblivion--only the Saranac Brewery will remain standing.

(Apropos of nothing, I am listening to my Joseph Robichaux CD as I compose this--great stuff! I looked for the New Orleans Rhythm Boys reissues for years until we got the Electric Internet in our house--and found them within hours. Hooray for the Internet!)  ¶ 10:48 PM 0 comments

  Speech is free because talk is cheap and has absolutely no effect whatsoever. Both Monkeyhead and Malignant Polyp heard the impotent roar of the crowd and did what they were going to do anyway. Complaining is our most plentiful renewable resource, rivalled only by urine. On those days when I feel a true sense of what my considered opinion is worth, I sit at the piano and bathe my tired brain in ideas whose force needs no words. Saranac Pilsener does the trick, too. Whichever.  ¶ 3:45 AM 0 comments

  "A day without disappointment is like a day without sunshine." Well, maybe not--but very few days in this city are without their disappointments. (Sunshine in Utica is altogether another matter--we are Seattle without the latte.) Uncle Charlie really disappointed me today--I don't mean MY Uncle Charlie, but OUR "Uncle Charlie." (Truckers of a certain age will get my meaning.) The airwaves are to be further prostituted to the highest bidder, as the Head Pimp, "Malignant Polyp" (son of General Colon Polyp), has intended. No matter that millions of Americans protested this action--what is the limited "focus group" of the citizenry of America compared to the Will to Monopolize of the Truly Greedy? That's okay. I don't watch television, listen to commercial radio, or even read newspapers when I can possibly avoid it. (I used to read the N.Y. Post, but just for the Times of London Crossword.) (Right now I am listening to archives of The Big Broadcast, Rich Conaty's magnificent show on wfuv.org--the REAL STUFF. Check it out!)

Seriously, the new media ownership rules really, really suck. You've heard of "word processors"--the new monopoly papers/TV/radio stations will be employing meat grinders. Whether the great American public will notice a difference in the consistency of their daily tripe, I cannot say. It will certainly encourage that "unity" that everyone is trying to whip up--the bland leading the blind. All I can say is: if you want the truth, stick to the Internet.

(Conaty's playing Bennie Moten's 1932 recording of "Moten Swing"--one of the best records ever recorded! You won't hear THAT on Clear Charnel.)

I am still somewhat in denial about my novel being turned down YET AGAIN. I only spent a year writing that sucker--in blood. Despite what all standard authorities may think, it really IS very funny. (I wrote it on a 1937 Underwood Standard--a very funny typewriter.) Right now I am far too depressed by the FCC (et al.) to be much dented by my own puny concerns.   ¶ 10:54 PM 0 comments

  Yesterday my wife Sue and I were up in Lake Placid to attend the Democratic Rural Conference and see the leading presidential contenders up close. A steamroller had preceeded us into town--clean-cut young men in black suits were tacking "Kerry" signs to every available lamppost, like so many rottweilers marking their territory. Johnny Haircut's paid publicity machine was out in full force, and was doing its best to turn the multi-candidate conference into a Kerry rally.

Inside the hall, the first dozen or so rows had been "reserved" (for Kerry supporters); Kerry literature, signs, and stickers covered every chair, and it was announced that he would be given "more time to speak" since he had to catch a flight to Chicago. My wife, ever-intrepid, ignored the signs and sat us down in the front row, directly in front of the podium. Thus we were among the few to see Rep. Dennis Kucinich at close hand. Our hearts went out to him immediately. He had all the best, most progressive ideas, and the scrappy demeanor of a bantamweight fighter. Too bad the Kerry gang sabotaged his big moment in Lake Placid.

After Kucinich made his stand, the Man of the Hour appeared to hoots, stomping, and sounds reminiscent of the Jerry Springer show: "Kerry, Kerry, Kerry!" As Coiffure Boy stepped up and began to orate, my wife insisted on moving to the back of the hall before she lost her breakfast. We both heard enough to feel nausea. John Kerry is truly Master Thespian--a third-rate tragedian playing Kennedy as a funeral director. The oil in his demeanor could prove a valuable natural resource.

Kerry may have had the money, the matinee-idol looks, and the renegade Mormons on his side, but the next candidate who spoke lifted our spirits skyward. Sue and I felt hope for the first time in over two years. Howard Dean was bright, funny, relevant, and real. (And he got more real applause than Scary Kerry.) Though we both really liked Kucinich, we realized that Howard Dean could actually WIN. If the grass roots surge can keep the rottweilers at bay and the DNC from punting the election, Howard Dean could be the next President of the United States.

When we got back to Utica, we both felt so good that it didn't even matter that we were bone-tired and that I had received a letter from an agent rejecting my novel, telling me she "just didn't find it funny enough." (Everyone else who didn't throw it across the room immediately thought it was HILARIOUS.) Even today, I still feel pretty good.  ¶ 5:29 PM 0 comments