PUD SAYS I'M A FRUIT

My mostly Irish heritage included a meat and potatoes diet. My mom’s French blood meant we got lots of baked desserts. I had no complaints.

But for fresh fruits, I had to go out and pick my own, sort of.

The first tangerine I ate was picked from a branch adjacent to a tree fort in Joe Piantadosi’s yard. The Piantadosis were musical. The name used to turn up in movie credits. This was when my family lived in North Hollywood.

I probably ate two or three of the tangerines before decided I really didn’t like the taste. I still don’t.

Next door to our apartment on Whipple was a home on a half-acre lot, with more than one tree fort. In addition to some good climbing trees, they had two or three fruit trees. My first plum came off one of those branches. Plums are good.

Pud’s all excited about what he’s calling “extended” or “complete” minerality.

“Just because I’m mineral doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a boulder. If I’m mineral, then, say, a plum is mineral. So, I think I’m a fruit. In fact, I’m a plum.”

“The juiciest,” I assured him.

Back to my point about tree forts: my tree-climbing activity has definitely gone way down since childhood.

----- o -----

WOMEN'S MOVEMENT FAILURE

One supposed benchmark of success for a minority rights movement is to see members of the minority ascend to positions of power hitherto closed to them.

For instance, having a black president would signal that black people had “come a long way.”

The power structure can turn this impulse into a cruel burlesque, giving us Clarence Thomas (black), Alberto Gonzales (brown), Elaine Chao (yellow), and Ken Mehlmen (nerd--gays have disowned him).

The current police crisis in San Francisco (cop friends beat Yale choirboys) shows a clear failure of this standard as regards the women’s movement.

The only job description item that makes policing unique is the use of force. A police officer must, when it gets down to it, be willing and able to apply force to apprehend criminals and to protect the public.

The willingness to crack heads, while a necessary trait in the police force, requires effective management. Just as we want police dogs to be gentle and non-aggressive except when aggression is called for by their jobs, the same principle applies to human police.

In San Francisco there are three people who bear responsibility for the behavior of the police: the Chief of Police, the District Attorney, and the Mayor. All three at this time, happen to be women.

All three are defending, or cooperating in the defense of the cops who covered up and the cops’ friends who actually did the beating. This is a setback for the women’s movement.

Heather Fong is our chief of police. She was brought in as some sort of sop after goodoldboy police brass were indicted for covering up a previous off-duty cop beating sandal. I’m sorry, but when I look at her I think Barney Fife. She’s backing up the cop lies.

Kamala (sort of rhymes with Pamela) Harris is our District Attorney. She has done nothing except delay. And as we know from TV, delay is the friend of the guilty. The strategy is to let things cool down, in hopes that the outrageous decision not to prosecute, when finally announced, will cause less outrage.

Gavin Newsom is our mayor. He looks so good, I’m making him an honorary woman. And his behavior in this case is what misogynists used to call “womanly.”

Why? There are two reasons why cop power would trump obvious public interest:

1) The cops, or their friends, have dirt on Fong/Harris/Newsom, that keeps them from doing the right thing,

2) Fong/Harris/Newsom are afraid of being murdered by the police. This has happened before. Dan White, an (ex)cop murdered our liberal mayor and a county supervisor, and his cop friends and the D.A. helped him get off with five years for manslaughter. Our top prosecutor was supposedly caught off guard by the Twinkie defense.

It’s a shame our police department can’t do better. I went to school with lots of kids who became cops, and I would personally vouch for the integrity of most of them.

But the police department is a bureaucracy, and left unattended, bureaucracies will be taken over by the mediocre and the venal.

I wonder how we good-government advocates can make things easier for the great majority of policemen and women who want to do a decent, honest job, and who don’t enjoy licking the asses of our podunk (wikilink) aristocracy.

[Editorial note: Pud thinks that associating Gavin Newsom with the women’s movement is grossly unfair and “stupid.” I tend to agree. To call Gavin Newsom “a woman” is an insult to women everywhere, and I apologize.]

----- o -----

O CANADA

The head of our circulation department, who prefers to remain unnamed, alerts me that we’re receiving regular visits from our neighbors to the north.

SFWILLIE’S BLOG salutes you.

You guys have such a great national anthem. People in your country seem to think it’s kind of corny, but you’re still happy to sing it at the drop of a hat.

We in the United States envy you. Our national anthem is unsingable.

It’s one of Pud’s rants:

“How can we get along without a singable national anthem? It’s like, we don’t even HAVE a national anthem unless someone’s there to perform it for us.

“Our legislators are aware of this problem and refuse to do anything about it. Ask any congressperson or senator to sing it and the can’t, the range is too great. So we pretend that we have a national anthem.

“In the scene at Rick’s where the Germans and French are competitively singing their respective anthems, can you imagine Americans chiming in with theirs? Come on …

“So we don’t have an anthem and our lawmakers all look the other way. That’s what they’re best at.

“Forget about universal healthcare as good as Canada’s, we can’t even get as good a national anthem.”

----- o -----

A FREE PASS

By the time my family returned to San Francisco from our sojourn in the sunny southland, my godfather had become a municipal court judge. He was a boyhood friend of my dad.

I hardly knew my godfather, Bill O’Brien, but Bill O’Brian’s mom, Mrs Obie we called her, or “The Pink Lady,” was a fixture of my childhood. She was a nice old lady who liked to reminisce, she’d tell us earthquake stories.

My dad was only five during the earthquake and fire, but Mrs Obie had been a grown up. My dad would mention vague recollections and Mrs Obie would elaborate. They loved it.

When she babysat us I remember, in addition to her smelling good, that during the parting ritual, she’d always “sneak” a quarter into my pocket, and one into my brother’s too.

In our first months back in San Francisco (I was almost 10 years old) we had an unlimited pass to the rides at Playland at the Beach. Playland was a funky little amusement operation that occupied two city blocks at the west end of Golden Gate Park.

Some of the rides were fun, including a wobbly old mouse roller coaster that scared the crap out of us, bumper cars, and an octopus that got going pretty good.

So my brother and I took some of the kids on our block, whom we were just getting to know, to Playland for an afternoon of free rides. My mom let us use the pass on only three occasions, she was a stickler about not abusing generosity.

So where did the pass come from? Mrs Obie got it for us from her son, the municipal court judge.

I suppose all the judges in town had such passes. I wonder, why would the owners of Playland give free passes to local judges?

Looking back on it, my mom might have been reticent about the petty-graft aspect of it as well. She never much cared for the native San Franciscan thing.

Pud hates it when I mention my godfather’s name. “There’s so much shit I can’t tell you,” he says.

----- o -----

TANGERINES

Do you think there’s something wrong with you because you don’t like tangerines? Do you stay at home and fret about it?

Please be assured: there's nothing wrong with you, you are not alone!

This video presents the audio/visual equivalent of how my mouth reacts to the taste of tangerines—complex, tangy, not something I want to repeat.

When I looked for this song on YouTube I was surprised to find many pages of hits. I guess there was a Led Zeppelin song, or something.

I was pleased to find many videos featuring non-culinary uses of tangerines: tennis ball-substitutes, office pets, or just something to stick a firecracker in and blow up.

I think the popularity of tangerine as a word far exceeds it’s popularity as a taste.

The first four letters spell tang, which is onomatopoeic to begin with. The -er- connotes action—it doesn’t just have tang, it’s a tang-er, it’ll tang you. And the –ine is sort of exotic, feminine and French.

The word comes from “Tangier.” This variant of the mandarin orange somehow got associated with the city of Tangier.

As the history part of the (wikilink) article demonstrates, it’s geographic location and seaport topography give the city a status far more important and permanent than whatever religious or political system happens to be in charge at the moment.

You get the feeling that Tangier itself was and is always in charge.

Wholesomeness is not an attribute that jumps to mind when we hear the word Tangier. Let’s just say William Burroughs didn’t go there for the fresh produce.

Maybe the tangerine’s tang competed successfully with Tangier’s sewer smell.

----- o -----

SURGE THEM HOME

There are opinions and politics and outrage and fear. There is so much sadness.

Sure not all Johnies are coming home. Of those that do come home, some aren't marching too well.

I don’t know if a fife-playing prosthesis has been developed yet, but an armless guy or gal could maybe play the drum ok.

The mission for which they sacrifice lives and limbs was and is not only criminal, but stupid, unnecessary, and not good for our country in any way. That’s what’s really sad.

----- o -----

VIOLENT MUTANT GEEKS

. . .because the cops don’t need you
and, man, they expect the same.
Bob Dylan

It’s sort of a cliché, when a driver stops in a strange hick town, he shouldn’t go too far off the highway, for fear of encountering that town’s contingent of violent mutant geeks.

For an extreme example of what I'm talking about, see the movie Deliverance.

Well, San Francisco is just such a hick town.

I think the Yale choir boy beating story had a brief national play. Here’s a decent summary.

I went to one of the high schools mentioned in the story, and witnessed the development of the kind of violent mutant geeks who are the alleged perps in the beating story.

It’s a Catholic boy high school thing. Half the S.F. police department went to one of the SF's three Catholic boys high schools. Their high school friends expect some leniency in future dealings, especially if wealth or status is involved.

So these alleged perp kids are 1) privileged, 2) burdened by expectations, and 3) twisted by the Catholic sex thing. They are San Francisco’s own Violent Mutant Geeks.

Young men, New Year’s eve, in the company of their male buddies, out looking to beat up other males--now that’s mutant-geeky.

Didn’t anyone tell them they’re supposed to be out looking for pussy?

So, when they beat up some guys, their cop buddies show up and let them go, just like normal. Except this time the victims are Yale choir boys, some with parents who want some sort of justice.

So the usual cop-lies are being exposed.

It’s a disgrace. Especially coming so soon after the death of a young SFPD patrolman who was shot while pursuing a dangerous escaped felon. He was a hero.

I’m a fourth generation San Franciscan. I’m ashamed. Pud is, too.

----- o -----

TUESDAY TRUMPET CALL

This was recorded by friends of the trumpeter. Apparently this is still considered a difficult solo.

The sound is kind of raw, and the voices are not studio-mixed, so you can see some of the inner workings of the piece.

This was the intro to what, Bill Buckley’s PBS show? (Recently a portion of St Matthew Passion was used in a commercial, but only once. I’m sure the sponsor was bombarded.)

----- o -----

THIS SONG ALWAYS MAKES ME CRY

Dion Dimucci (website) has been making highly serviceable pop music as long as I've been conscious.

This song is musically compelling enough to forgive the revisionism. I think it actually made it onto the charts.

I guess the struggle is ongoing. Even these days we actually see, from time to time, people in America going to jail for violating anti-slavery laws.

Happy MLK Day!

----- o -----

VERNON JOHNS

I was going to write about Martin Luther King, Jr. (not a bad wikilink) as just a mediocre career minister who happened to have the civil rights thing thrust upon him by circumstances.

Luckily I consulted our fact-check crew (no holiday for them).

I knew MLK’s dad was a minister in Atlanta and that Jr grew up middle class. I always figured he was kind of a playboy. “Ebenezer Baptist Church” definitely has a silvery ring to it.

I sort of knew that his first gig as a minister was in Montgomery at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. This was his base when he led the bus boycott.

It turns out, the previous pastor of Dexter Ave. was Vernon Johns (wikilink). Vernon Johns was one of the most prominent civil rights activists in the south, prior to the bus boycott and the emergence of King.

That he succeeded Vernon Johns tells me that Martin had already chosen a civil-rights involved career path.

There’s an online biography of Vernon Johns at this link.

I must have heard the name Vernon Johns a few times, but I continue to be astounded by my own ignorance.

The civil rights movement didn’t start with the Montgomery bus boycott. The Gay rights movement didn’t start with Stonewall.

The names of the people who kept the flame alive during the darkest days will mostly be forgotten. They deserve our gratitude, and honor, too.

----- o -----

REVOLUTION--TELEVISED?

It’s ironic that Andy Warhol's main claim to (general public) fame is his quip, I’m sure just a toss-off, about fame itself—the fifteen minute thing. Some people enjoy that kind of circularity.

Everyone has heard the cliché, “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.” How many have heard of Gil Scott Heron?

Here’s the source. Note: When he talks about “the revolution,” it seems like he thinks that some sort of revolution might actually come to pass, more or less soon.

Those were innocent times. No one had even heard of “crack.”

----- o -----

NATIONAL HYPOCRISY DAY

Pud can’t let an MLK day go by without complaining about the Worst/Most Sung Song Ever Written.

“Musically, it’s a dirge.

“Unfortunately, the music completely befits the theme: long-suffering. It’s like, if we can endure the dark days of racism, we can endure this song, and vice-versa.

“Rhetorically, it’s inappropriately personalized, and defeatist.

“Any assertion of, ‘We shall overcome,’ can be dispositively refuted by killing the assertees. At least THEY won’t overcome.

“The assertion should be something less immediately disprovable, like ‘God will overcome,’ or, ‘Truth will overcome.’

“And when are they going to overcome? ‘Someday’? That doesn’t sound too promising. Haven’t they heard of instant gratification?

“’Deep in your heart’? Who gives a shit! (Pardon my french, but really…)

“The second verse is even worse. ‘We are not afraid’? If you have to say it, at all, it ain’t true. Man! Those German Shepherds and those fire hoses, and those crackers with ignorance and hate in their eyes, of course we’re afraid, shitlessly.

“But with truth, and justice and love we overcome our fear. And we take what is rightfully ours.”

Pud also thinks that in order to move forward, America has to deep-six Amazing Grace. “It’s the musical equivalent of ankle-weights.”

----- o -----

OH MAN! RIVERDANCE

“Don’t get me started about dancing,” Pud said. (Oh oh.)

“When I see Irish dancers with their arms held stiffly at their sides, it’s like they’re each saying, 'No, Sister Mary Marie, I wasn’t touching myself!'

“Pretty much sums up Irish culture,” Pud said.

“Except for the lit part,” I said. “Since Dante you guys have shit for lit.”

“We’re too busy cooking,” Pud said.

No matter what you say about the two cultures, there aren’t many Irish restaurants in the U.S., compared to the number of Italian restaurants.

There may be more Italian restaurants in Dublin.

“But really,” Pud says, “Irish dancing is a pretty poor approximation of fun.

“The ideal is to restrict movement to the legs, especially the knee and below.

“It’s like, how much fun can you have without involving your torso? Maybe Irish Catholics view the torso as yucky.

“An angel, to them is like a human with no torso, just a head and limbs. But what’s the use of having hands if there’s nothing fun to touch?

“So answer me this—who the heck pays good money to attend a performance of Riverdance? If watching one person doing it is boring, does it really help to have multitudes on stage doing it? I guess there’s an appeal of synchronicity regardless of domain, but the tickets couldn’t be too cheap!”

“Think of it this way,” I pulled out one of my five calming utterances, “on certain occasions certain people gather in certain venues to watch Riverdance, or Riverdance knockoffs.

“During that time, the rest of us are free to go about our business.”

“You’re right,” Pud said, “if everybody liked the same thing, waits would be endless.”

Pud and I agree on which group, Irish or Italian, is more good-looking—“it’s a toss up, a tie for #1.”

----- o -----

THE GIGUE IS UP

This piece is supposed to be in the French style. I don’t know about you, but I can still smell sauerkraut. (Easier smelled than spelled.) Still, it’s very pretty.

I love harpsichord and I love the sound of the word. “Harpsi,” is so swingy, you know, like “Pepsi.” Those powdered wig guys were cool.



Pud’s annoyed. “Why do they have to call it a “gigue”, when they could have called it a “jig.”

“For the same reason,” I said, “they call it a 'derriere' and not an 'arse'.”

I was pretty old when I realized that a “suite” in music was simply a group of dances (or later a group of any old crap). So there’s gigues, and allemandes, minuets and (wikilink).

Pud had a relative who composed music but also had a full time job as an inspector with USDA. He was always trying to bring his two interests together, resulting one time in a total mess titled, the His Wheat’s Sweet Suite.”

----- o -----

ANOTHER WHITE KID

Achiless here is about the same age as the skinheads discussed in the previous post below. He isn’t a throwaway child. He probably never thinks about his whiteness.



Achiless demonstrates my point that classical music needn’t be played in a monkey suit. Here he is, performing for the biggest video audience in the history of the world, YouTube, and look what he’s wearing.

It’s like, shoot some hoops, eat some cold pizza, play a Bach prelude, maybe watch some TV…

----- o -----

WHITE POWER

A PBS show looked at the White Power movement through the activities and discussions of a white power youth group in Alabama and it’s leader, an auto parts store manager.

His recruitment methods are simple—find white street kids and offer them food and a safe place to sleep.

He tells the kids he’s doing it because they are white and they deserve it. It’s a lot better than the streets. It doesn’t seem sexual, or pervy, except for the constant diet of white power ideology.

It’s sad. Some of the skinheads are appealing, in a young/dumb/fullocum kind of way. Under other circumstances they’d be working or going to school, having fun, and looking forward to their lives.

They were throw-aways, trying to come to terms with a family/social structure that would see fit to throw them away.

So instead of dealing with their low social status, and low expectations, they are taught by the auto parts store guy to blame their predicament on other people, non-whites and Jews, and homosexuals (why homos? why not).

What the white power people say seems plausible. If all Jews and non-whites were expelled from the USA, the prospects of these throw away youth would suddenly improve. They would be needed. They’d have jobs.

Or so they think. They haven’t had much time to study the behavior of their white brethren in Washington and on Wall Street.

My guess is that the poor black folk living in their town would have more understanding and even sympathy for the poor white shinheads than would any super-WASP investment banker.

They want something better for themselves, they just don’t know how to explain it.

So they act-out more and more until it gets murderous and they can’t be ignored. Then everybody wrings their hands and pretends to wonder why.

Why can’t people just accept loser-hood?

----- o -----

FLOWER OF POWER

Powerful cars in the 1960s reflected U.S. power in the world. World War II was the biggest power thing yet and we (U.S.) won.

American kids had the idea that if they saved up, they could afford to buy a Chevy Impala SS (super sport) with an engine that displaced fourhundred nine cubic inches.

A 409 engine is bigger than that of four current Honda Civics. I don’t think there is any passenger vehicle built today with an engine that size. And the 409 was tops for only a couple of years. Other makes soon went even bigger. Wiki has more.

That was the brief blooming of an unsustainable mutation. But it was fun.

I think the the terms “getting scratch” and “getting rubber” have pretty much disappeared.

In my 2000 Honda Civic, cruising along at 65, to pass someone doing the same speed I have to push the throttle to the floor and wait for some additional speed to develop. In a 409 in the same circumstances, if I pushed the throttle to the floor the tires would spin and “lay rubber” on the road.

Exhilarating and excessive. Having won World War II, it was time for Fun Fun Fun.

----- o -----

Thank Heaven

THANK HEAVEN

Sung by smoothie Maurice Chevalier, this song is from the movie Gigi. Leslie Caron was everyone's sweetheart.

This cast photo includes (clockewise from top left) Maurice, Hermione Gingold, Eva Gabor, Louie Jourdan, and Leslie Caron.

As of a recent report over sixty-five American servicewomen have been killed in Iraq.

Each as precious as Gigi!

Each as deserving of fine jewelry from Van Cleef & Arpels.

Each as love-worthy as Leslie Caron.

They are dead.

As treasured by their parents as these two are by theirs.

----- o -----

STAYING STONE

Van Cleef-- The perfect stone . . .
Zales-- Everybody must get stone.
P. Wilson

Here’s another highly positive relationship we have with the mineral world, jewelry.

Once, on some sort of trip, prob mescaline, my roommate, Merry, brought out a box of jewelry. A few loose stones and a couple of simple settings.

She explained their provenance, mostly family, but at least one rich boyfriend, and their quality ratings, which were high. Mostly we just looked at them.

Instances of natural exquisiteness they were. But nothing more, at least in terms of delivering a spiritual message. I’d much rather own a Vermeer (of my choice) than the Hope Diamond.

As a medium of exchange, gems represent the highest concentration of value of any non-exotic material. They’re highly portable and easy to smuggle. Polonium, for instance, probably costs more per gram, but it’s a little hard to handle. Diamonds—no prob.

Remember when the Shah made his getaway—he had more gold than the plane could lift off with, dumbshit. An equal value of gems would have fit in a suitcase. Even cash gets bulky.

Since that experience with Merry I’ve enjoyed looking at jewelry in store windows and museums. It’s not like I have any strong desire to own it, least of all the elaborate settings.

I do admit that understated pearls, fine gold chains, and great solitary stones can be very flattering to the human body.

My last trip to New York was Christmas time so there were rubies in the windows of the stores on Fifth Avenue, giving a chance for easy comparison.

Tiffany – their rubies were too pale, pinkish
Bulgari – yucky orange stuff (when I see Bulgari, I think bulgur wheat)
Van Cleef & Arpels – deep red with intense candlepower

So I’m really easy to shop for, garden gnomes by Bufano, and rubies from Van Cleef.

----- o -----

FRIDAY SONG

Having completed 80% of the week, many workers try to make Fridays as mindless as possible.

If mindlessness is your goal, listening to Henry the Eighth will be a great start.

This is not a well made song. It’s the same words over and over. But it was a huge hit.

Herman's (at the bottom in the picture) so immature looking. Do the screaming girls want to kiss him, or change his diaper?

Warning: there is no effective tool for removing this tune from your brain. Listen at your own risk.

Happy Friday!

----- o -----

tarrega

NARCISSUS

This is a world class performance. Narciso Yepes is a god. Pud didn’t really know about the 10-string guitar. “If it takes ten strings to play Tarrega, then forget Tarrega,” he says.

Truth: Pud’s still working on the chords for Michael Row the Boat Ashore.

I’m wondering about the name, “Narciso.”

Narcissus (wikilink) was not a happy character. Beautiful, but not happy.

He wound up as a flower (not a boulder, Pud points out) and that must be what his mother was thinking.

----- o -----

STONE AGAIN

In my previous post about Tahquitz (rhymes with pockets) Canyon, I extolled minerality—my brother the boulder, and all. Excellent post, I recommend it.

It occurred to me that some sculptures by San Francisco’s beloved Benny Bufano (wikilink), illustrate my point very well, per the three below photos.

I love Benny’s animals with their round curves and minimally formed features, like babies. They're cute and sympathetic. "Yeah," Pud agrees, "screw the critics."

Because so much of the surface is non-feature-filled, we are struck as much by their rock-ness as by their animal-ness. Classical sculpture asks us to forget we are viewing rock, and gives us the illusion of viewing, say, Apollo, or Aphrodite.



These Bufanos don’t try to hide the fact that they are rock. They are sort of halfway between a rock and the subject animal. Boulder, or animal? Both, just like us. At least just like me and Pud.

So I pictured Bufano taking a hunk of marble and doing the least possible removal to reveal the animal form.




But no. My crack fact checkers tell me these works are cast-marble, or other cast-stone. This totally bummed me. Cast stone (little link) is something I wish I didn’t have to know about.

Anyway, IF Bufano had carved these things from solid rock, they would have brilliantly illustrated my point. But, hey, I still love those cuddly critters.

My friend Michael did a Bufano related photo essay (highly recommended) in his pre-blog days.

----- o -----

Blueberry Hill

BLUEBERRY ISLAND

Pud says the polar ice caps are history.

“Trying to maintain a steady state, for instance keeping sea level where it is now, is futile. We should know by now that the only certainty is change. We try to foresee these changes but even our predictions are subject to change.

“The change now in progress is the disappearance of natural ice. Icecaps gone. Glaciers kaput. Snow-capped peaks hatless.

“We hear about an historical period called the ‘Ice Age,’ and supposedly there was a ‘little ice age’ in there somewhere.

“But now we are witnessing the end of the real ice age, defined as the period of time when there was naturally occurring frozen water on earth.

“The question is how long the ‘water age’ will last—how long before we enter the ‘steam age’.

“Entrepeneurs and other forward thinkers are already planning for the new exigencies.

“For instance, people will still be seeking thrills on Blueberry Hill, but it won’t be a hill anymore, it’ll be an island, and people will be arriving by watercraft.

“Personal solar-powered watercraft will be big. We’ll all be scooting around like a bunch of goddamn jesus-bugs.”

“We’ll be dead by then,” I reminded Pud.

“None too soon,” Pud said.

----- o -----

PUD MAINTENANCE

1) Sometimes I go little overboard and Pud has to pull me back. Pud is the kinder, gentler of us. He says I had no right to refer to Falun Gong members a “fucks.”

On a denotative level, I say that we all result from fucks, so, essentially we all ARE “fucks.” But I understand how some people could take this the wrong way. So, whenever I refer to someone as a “fuck” just think “nice person.”

2) Pud thinks he should be up in the top box along with Heraclitus, Diogenes and sfwillie. He points out that he is the only “Pudinhand Wilson” in googledom, whereas, as he so charmingly puts it, “half the drunks in the history of Ireland were named either “Willie” or “Morrissey.”

“Or both,” I added. Pud has a point, and I’ll consider his request.

3) Pud thinks I’ve been intercepting his fan mail, and my denials don’t impress him. He’s insisting on having his own email address, so we’ve changed the Who is Pud link to read "Who is Pud?—contact" for his kajillion fans.

Pud's new email address is sfpud@comcast.net.

4) Pud is pissed that I used “Pud’s an asshole” as a label on a recent post. “I don’t mind for myself,” he said, “but what if my mother sees it—she’ll expect me to kill you.”

I told Pud that the label has been removed, and that he can assure his entire family that such a clerical error will never happen again.

----- o -----

Colours

WELL MADE SONGS

To be “well made” a song needs either a chorus, or a bridge, or both. The words need some sort of unity, whether of diction, imagery, or domain. The words need to seem to “work with” the music. And there needs to be some sort of “hook.”

The Donovan song above, sweet as it is, has no chorus or bridge, it’s just three or four verses. Describing the beautiful woman you wake up with is a strong enough hook. The words work well with the music, but there’s no perspective or commentary, which would be provided by choruses and bridges.

Poor Donovan, all that sweetness wasted. The second clip is another song that almost makes it, Catch the Wind has a timid little musical bridge that doesn’t really help. But the sentiment is sweet.

There’s a YouTube clip of Donovan talking with Pete Seeger about, then playing, Colours, with an extra verse. Donovan was wise not to include the extra verse in the official version, it was terrible.

Anyway, Pete passed up his chance to tell Donovan that Colours needed not an extra verse but a damn bridge.

By contrast, Desperado is a very well made song. I found this version by Ken Hirai. Never heard of Ken, but what a nice voice! Check his site.

Written in 1973—Watergate was breaking, Vietnam was broken, inflation was high, and gas lines were long—this song is an enduring standard that will be jerking tears from willing listeners for many years to come.

I’m a total softy for this stuff.

----- o -----

Donovan - Catch The Wind

Desperado

GOING, GOING, GONG!

When we see a struggle between two opponents, it’s quite natural to look for a rooting interest.

We tend to favor underdogs, the mouse vs the cat, David over Goliath, good guys over bad guys. Sometimes the side we root for is arbitrary, or based on personal, unarguable preferences.

For instance, when my life is nadir-ing and I find myself actually watching college football, I apply a toilet training distinction—I root for the team with the more anal-emissive offense, and against the anal-retentive.

I’ve come to love Sylvester and Tweety and the Road Runner cartoons, but I didn't used to. The rooting interest was too obvious: Tweety and Road Runner were the good guys, Sylvester and Wile E. Coyote were the bad guys. The thwartings of Syl & Wile just seemed gratuitously sadistic.

Then, as I got older, I was amused to find myself rooting for Sylvester and Wile. E. Coyote. I suspect most grownups do. No matter how numerous and painful his failures, I want Wile E. to keep trying until he kills that annoying, worthless bird. Nonetheless, I'm going to hang on to my Acme stock.

And Sylvester, when you catch Tweety, don't mess around with bibs and salt shakers, bite the damn bird's head off immediately. It's the lesson of James Bond movies.

Anyway, when stories were told of persecution by the Chinese government of a small religious group, I naturally assumed that the Chinese government were the bad guys and Falun Gong were the good guys.

Then I forgot about it--until I saw pictures, on sfmike’s blog, of a Falun Gong “performance.” [Warning: these pictures are disturbing.]

Now, I hate to say it, but, based on the sfmike’s pictures, I sort of sympathize with the Chinese government. This is a terrible point to reach in my life.

Even the most repressive regimes are expected to perform some basic functions, such as locking the doors of the damn insane asylum.

Maybe this Mose Allison classic will "cleanse the palate."

Then we'll have to investigate how these fucks slipped through Homeland Security.

----- o -----

YOUR MIND IS ON VACATION

Resource Alert: DEVIL'S DICTIONARY

Ambrose Bierce (wikilink) was an odd duck who thrived on and enhanced the odd-duckiness of San Francisco. I never saw the movie, Old Gringo, but I knew that the nature and occasion of his demise remains a matter of mystery, which is both amusing and befitting.

Many of us had to read “Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” in high school, which makes him, I guess, an exemplary short story writer. He was a newspaper guy, and cynical as hell.

His great work, the Devil’s Dictionary (link) is out of copyright and available on line. Not only are there some very funny gems, but the way he bends elegant Victorian prose into the roughest satire is really fun to watch.

Here are two entries:

RELIGION, n.
A daughter of Hope and Fear, explaining to Ignorance the nature of the Unknowable.

RICHES, n.
-A gift from Heaven signifying, "This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased."
…John D. Rockefeller
-The reward of toil and virtue.
…J.P. Morgan
-The savings of many in the hands of one.
…Eugene Debs
To these excellent definitions the inspired lexicographer feels that he can add nothing of value.


Ambrose Bierce is a major inspiration to me and Pud.

----- o -----

Motors - Airport

JET SET

One of the geists of my youth's zeit was “The Shrinking Planet.”

Historically, distance of space meant distance of time.

People conducted inter-personal communications through first class mail. There was something called “penmanship.”

Long distance telephony was expensive and used sparingly. “I’m on long distance,” would get anyone to stop bugging you.

My home didn’t have a TV until I was five years old. In my teens I saw the first trans-atlantic live TV show.

And travel demanded significant time investment. In 1958 my folks went to Europe for the first time on a Constellation, the biggest commercial passengerairplane at that time. It was the first generation of planes that could go from the west coast (we were in L.A.) to Europe non-stop. Still, it was many hours in the air..

When my parents were born, the only way to cross the Atlantic was by boat.

In the early 1960’s, jet engines were introduced to commercial aviation, which was a major shrinkage of the earth. Travel, the locomotion part, ceased to be a major investment of time.

You could board a plane in New York, have a drink, take a nap, and deplane in Puerto Vallarta, or on the Riviera. We’d read marveling reports of breakfast on this continent, lunch on that, and dinner on yet a third.

The first prominent users of jet travel were the rich and the rootless, the Jet Set. I think of Liz and Dick.

Mine was the first generation for whom the cost in money and time was a not very significant factor in travel planning. A lot of kids spent some of there extended, idle adolescence hanging out in Europe, interacting with each other.

Not so rich, even more rootless, they were Eurotrash, deformed offspring of the Jet Set.

The new technology was extolled in pop music. There was a popular instrumental called “Telstar,” about a damn satellite. The ‘60’s car songs, GTO, 409, Little Deuce Coupe were still celebrating automobility—great stuff!

This greater mobility became a theme of love songs, too. Today’s guilty pleasures are two of my faves.

BTW: I'm amused by the use of the word "set" to mean a social grouping. My favorite graffito appeared in a large demented scrawl on a blank wall near a prominent "punk" cafe in the late '70s:

The Psychosurgery Set

----- o -----

Please Come to Boston

MORE DRAG

Some Protestants think that the Biblical “whore of Babylon” refers to the Roman Catholic Church. Looking at these two queens I have to agree.

They’re not turning many tricks these days, but they still like to pull out the rouge and the fine, if somewhat out of date, fashions, and reminisce about the old days when a good whore could get a little respect.

The guy on the left, Stanislaw Wielgus was promoted to be the head priest of Poland. The Pope, a former Hitler Youth himself, thought this old fuck was just the right guy for the job.

NYT gives an entertaining account.

Then reports circulated that Father Wielgus had been a secret collaborator with the former communist regime’s hated secret police, a whore/pimp relationship. He was spying on his fellow Catholics, including priests, and turning them in to be tortured and murdered, or something.

Like any corrupt corporate executive he denied the reports, thinking that all documentary evidence had been destroyed.

When documents did surface that clearly showed he had been working for the communist secret police, he had to admit to the collaboration, but claimed that his actions had somehow been non-harmful.

He’ll stick with that story until additional documents, if any, emerge.

Simpler than changing the policy on married priests, the church should outlaw all but cotton and wool garments for its clergy. By removing silk as a perk of promotion, a lot of priest-pervs will go elsewhere for their jollies.

Recently SFWILLIE’S BLOG, in the classic post Silly Goose, poked some gentle fun at gay uniform fetishists. Clothingwise they are pikers compared to the Catholic hierarchy, but morally so much more wholesome. As Pud says, "which would you want to take care of your kids?"

It’s long been my theory that people aren’t put in positions of power unless they have deep dark secrets that can be used to blackmail them out of any idea of independence.

Pedophilia has long served that purpose for Catholics. Now that the press and the victims have queered that deal, so to speak, past political crime seems to be the new cudgel.

Supporters of Bishop Wielgus blame ”the Jews” for his ouster.

----- o -----

STONE

Pud gets annoyed when I refer to his “seventy-five acid trips.”

“Seventy-five is just a ballpark number,” he reminds me, “And it wasn’t all acid. There was lots of mescaline and psilocybin in there.”

“That stuff was so cheap! Two or three bucks a pop, for a twelve hour trip! And you couldn’t do it more than once or twice a week.

“Not everyone can afford to winter at Krishnamurti’s institute in Ojai. But even the groundskeepers there could afford a few square mms of windowpane on a Friday night.”

Pud and I agree that the ultimate insight to be obtained, either from years of meditation or from a few hours on LSD, is minerality.

We are taught there are three existences: animal, vegetable and mineral.

This is false.

It’s all mineral.

I refer to my own enlightenment on this topic as “my brother the streetcar.”

It was the day after an acid trip, and I had to take the streetcar downtown on some errand. The joint I smoked before leaving started my visual plane swirling again.

Swinging around a turn I realized that the molecules that made up the streetcar I was on and the molecules that made up me were completely identical as to global position and directionality. We bonded, the streetcar and I.

Life, whether animal or vegetable, is a particular, temporary configuration of molecules, all of which are mineral, which makes it so amazing.

When you see expert ballet dancers on stage doing a pas de deux, the choreography might be more or less aesthetically pleasing, but the awesomeness that underlies the event is that we are watching boulders that somehow got up and started moving around.

Sfmike sent some photos of our hike up Tahquitz (rhymes with "pockets") canyon. (See his post here.) In the photo below we see Palm-Springs-Tony in the foreground. (To say that Tony is sfmike’s better half grossly understates the math.) Of the boulders we see behind Tony, one has a special name. It’s “sfwillie.” Can you pick it out? (Hint: white cap.)

Death is the loss of the particular organization of minerals called “life.” And it's the loss of the illusion of non-minerality.

Our delectation of beautiful human bodies seems unexceptional. “From fairest creatures we desire increase…”

Less clear to me is why we delight in beautiful landscapes and vistas. Why, especially, do we ever enjoy looking at rocks? Why did I so enjoy the hike up Tahquitz Canyon?

I contend it’s a “my brother the boulder” thing. Just as we are drawn to another human body with becoming-oneness as a goal, so we are drawn to beautiful earth-forms.

In Tahquitz where the strata of sheered cliffs show the twists and groans of geologic time, I feel contained. My spirit, when I die, won’t go flying off into nowhere. It will be welcomed, as when lovers unite at the end of Act III, by the mineral world, and held tight and secure.

This all comforts me. I won’t be nothing when I die.

"Yeah," Pud says, "you'll be a goddamn rock!

Pud is often misunderstood. Sometimes you think he’s saying, “I’m stoned.”

What he’s actually saying is, “I’m stone.”

----- o -----

FATS FEELS YOUR PAIN

Does the prospect of starting another work week not completely thrill you?

Does your “song of self” sound like a scratchy old vinyl 45?

Mr Domino understands completely. He’s right here with you.

----- o -----

Fats Domino Imperial 45: BLUE MONDAY

CHAMPAGNE, CAVIAR

A drawback to longevity is that one sees the same battles re-fought repeatedly. It gets boring after awhile.

Take, “Support Our Troops,” please.

Like an old comic’s material that never changes, but gets “discovered” by successive generations, this support-our-troops crap just won’t go away.

Basic to a soldier’s mission is to die if necessary, and to endure injury and discomfort in defense of the country. The most important support we can give our troops is to expend their lives and limbs wisely.

When an adventure is unwinnable because it’s unjust, we must bring our troops home.

Back in Vietnam war days Pete Seeger was so pissed off by the support-our-troops bullshit that he performed this really sub-par song to try to get his message across. That’s a weird kind of artistic compromise.

Pud wants to support our troops with champagne and caviar “on their flights home.”

Immediate, complete, unconditional. Caviar and champagne (and milk and sodas) on the flight home right now, today, or tomorrow at the latest.

“And free meals in high class restaurants when they get back,” Pud says, “I’m sure the American Restaurant Association would be happy to reserve their best tables and their best wines for our returned troops, as a way of showing their support.”

The first video is included as illustration. SF WILLIE’S BLOG does not endorse it as a well made song.

You know, I’ve always felt a little creepy about the fake folksiness of Pete Seeger. He sort of talks down to his audience, and he tries to be way too nice, usually.

Pud says Pete Seeger reminds him of guys who wear Greek fisherman’s caps. “Like, even Greek fishermen look dorky in Greek fisherman’s caps.”

Don’t get me wrong, the world is a better place, and my own life is richer, for having had Pete Seeger in it.

The second video provides a contrast to what I call fake-folksiness. The song isn’t well made either, there’s no bridge, but the folkness seems genuine, and the guitar picking is great. BTW: I think Mississippi John Hurt is responsible for the subversive classic., Candyman.

The third video is a guilty pleasure. It IS a well made song. And it contains one of the great couplets of bubblegumdom:

The roller coaster ride we took is nearly at an end.
I bought my ticket with my tears, that’s all I’m gonna spend.

Don’t be ashamed if you enjoy it, you’re in good company (Pud).

----- o -----

Bring 'Em Home: Pete Seeger

Mississippi John Hurt - Lonesome Valley Blues

Red Rubber Ball

Eric Andersen's THIRSTY BOOTS

THIRSTY BOOTS

I’m really touched that such a young man even knows about this song.

The words might sound all sentimental and folksy, but the context was way scary.

This was a time when it was a big deal for black and white folk to ride a goddamn bus through the South together. Pud says, “Black or white, there ain’t no pride when you’re riding the dog.”

Let’s just say the Freedom Riders met with some opposition. (Story here.)

These nice looking men were arrested for trying to purchase a bite to eat along the way. They look like the kind of folks who would make great neighbors.

Not just arrested, they and their black and white colleagues got their asses seriously kicked in more than one town.

The lyrics “dirty words and muddy cells,” weren’t metaphors. They were, if anything, an understatement.

These kids got murdered for helping black people register to vote. (Story here.)

It was really bad.

But the song, seemingly starry-eyed and idealistic, was correct, the dirty words and muddy cells HAVE been judged insane.

At least those dirty words, and those muddy cells.

----- o -----

SILLY GOOSE

Katie Wolf’s favorite schoolgirl riddle involves an important zoological discrimination:

Q. What’s the difference between a snake and a goose?

A. A snake is an asp in the grass, a goose is a grasp in the ass.

But really, whose fucked up idea was it to have an army march goose-step? Maybe it’s just historical prejudice, but, let’s face it, when we Americans see a bunch of soldiers goose-stepping along, we’re NOT thinking, “Hey, here come the good guys."

Pud speculates, “Maybe goose-steppers have tighter buns.”

The two armies I think of as goose-stepping, Germans and Greeks, have way different uniforms, I mean, just the footware. Germans wear those tall black boots, Greeks soldiers wear these little pumps with a floppy pompon on each toe.

The Greek army uniform is the closest that military fashion gets to negligee.

Over the years I’ve been slightly aware of a subset of gay people who are uniform fetishists.

One time a first baseman on my team gave me the gruesome details of a bitch fight he was having with another guy over a particular rare belt buckle needed to complete a Marine uniform of a particular vintage. A tedious boring account indeed.

A couple of early evenings in Eureka Valley (“the Castro”) I saw guys in spit and polish uniforms of many genres, parking their cars and moseying all toward what must have been a uniform gala. These photos are from the Phoenix Uniform Club of San Francisco.

But, can you imagine… A gay wedding in which the groom-guy is wearing the full black SS get-up, with the bride-guy tritzing down the aisle in a Greek army uniform?

Parents, cousins, coworkers, favorite teachers, are all there at the reception to go “ahh” as the two guys feed each other wedding cake, and maybe mist up a little as the happy couple goose-steps off into their new life together.

On the other hand, some guys just look good in uniforms.

----- o -----

SIGNING STATEMENTS

Pud says the Sanskrit root of “theory” means something close to “mental spasm.” At any rate, Pud had one.

“You know,” Pud began slowly, “most kids who go to school in the USA have to take some civics courses. Right?

“And civics is complicated and most grownups are a little embarrassed about all they don’t know about civics.

“So, when President George Asshole Bush issues a ‘signing statement’, people think—Oh, I must have been absent when they taught about signing statements.

“They’re thinking—Ok, right, yeah, a signing statement.

“Hello America,” Pud was rolling, “there’s no such thing as a signing statement!

“Let’s say I, Pudinhand Wilson go into the DMV and apply for a new license. On the application they make me sign some statement like—I promise to obey all the laws of the State of California, and all that.

“So let’s say, on the application, I put an asterisk next to the ‘all’ in all laws, and, at the bottom of the page write ‘*except speed laws’.

“Well the clerk sees this and doesn’t give a shit. But what effect does my ‘signing statement’ have? None, except it could be used against me in some future legal action—let’s say I was in a crash where somebody died—to prove my intent to break the law.

“It’s not like I’m gonna tell some cop who pulls me over that I never agreed to obey speeding laws.

“So too Bush’s signing statements, they are just gratuitous statements of intent to violate or ignore the law. That Bush issues these statements at the same time he signs the laws he intends to violate might be ironic, but it gives the statements no more force than my asterisk on the license application.

“He may as well issue a signing statement saying black is white, day is night, war is peace... you know.”

----- o -----

NINA SIMONE

I was eleven years old in the damp of an SF winter looking forward to a sale at a downtown record store, ten 45’s for a dollar. As the weekend neared I came down with a cold or flu or something and a huge storm arrived from the Aleutians. It looked like I would miss the sale and I was way bummed.

So I prevailed on my older brother to go in my stead and pick out the ten best singles available. I guess he didn’t have anything better to do. And I parted with my dollar.

Of the ten records he bought only four were by artists whose names I recognized and they weren’t bad. Of the other’s the song that caught my ear was a very straightforward version of Nina Simone singing Little Girl Blue.

At that age I had no idea of Miss Simone’s place in the firmament. I was fascinated with the admixture of Good King Wenceslas. I played it over and over.

The next time I thought about her was 1977, I was age thirty going on a vacation to NYC. It would coincide with the jazz festival which, the big buzz was, would feature Nina Simone’s first US performance in exty-scratch years.

She’d been, I gathered, self-exiled in France.

Then, the news, she’d actually arrived in New York, but it made her too nervous. So she returned to Paris.

The word “diva” has been cheapened lately. Miss Simone (“official” fan site) was the real deal.

----- o -----

Nina Simone: Here Comes the Sun

Pud Rants: "SO THEY KILLED THE MF"

Pud is upset with all the hand wringing about the timing and manner of Saddam’s execution. BTW: the infamous video is available on YouTube.

“These pussies are upset that Saddam’s death wasn’t pretty enough. They’re upset that a video got out. One or the other, or both.

“They say we should have waited, or the execution should have been more ‘dignified.’

“We’ve killed tens of thousands of Iraqis under conditions a lot less dignified than Saddam’s execution. At least Saddam’s body remained intact, unlike the targets of 500lb bombs.

“These TV pundits are the same assholes who’ve used the phrase, ‘Hunt down and kill…’ so boldly, not they themselves doing the killing, someone else’s kids can take care of that.

“I praise the people who killed Saddam, I guess you could call them the Iraqi Government. They have learned the lesson of James Bond movies—when you get the drop on James Bond, kill him, don’t wait, don’t fuck around.

“So they killed his ass. And the talking heads are shocked.

“Puling, squeamish, hypocrites!”

I guess Pud’s pissed.

----- o -----

LEGAL UPDATE

Last night we had our quarterly review with the head of SF WILLIE’S BLOG’s legal department. Actually my old friend, Bill, IS our legal department. He assures me, however, that he has access to an “A-Team” of negotiators and litigators ready to pounce at any hint of trouble.

Bill isn’t licensed to practice law in California (or anywhere else for that matter) so he’s asked that I not use his last name. This conspicuous prudence is wasted on me.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, “with a retainer from SF WILLIE’S BLOG that consists of four meals a year in a moderately priced (but clean) Chinese restaurant, no one’s going to accuse you of ‘practicing law’.”

Because he’s big, with a big voice, and a hearty laugh, which contrasts with his staunch anti-heroic lifestyle, you could call him Falstaffian. (I can’t call him Falstaffian because I’ve never read or seen a play in which Falstaff was a character. Shakespeare could certainly turn a phrase, but, let’s face it, his plays are boring. The plots are so swaddled, so buried, in verbiage, that after a couple of acts it’s like, ok, run on your sword already, or like, take the poison now!)

What qualifies a person to be the legal department for SF WILLIE’S BLOG? A rare combination of erudition and dissolution. Bill is perhaps the most erudite and dissolute person I know.

Growing up non-Mormon in Utah, Bill got his B.A. at Amherst College. Then he studied law at the University of Chicago, where he was articles editor of their law review, earning a J.D.

From there he went to Wall Street where he worked for a big firm specializing in anti-trust law (“actually pro-trust” he quips). Bill was saying last night that while on Wall Street he discovered an inability to dissimulate. He couldn’t keep a straight face while grossly misleading people.

So he went to the University of Virginia law school to be a full professor. This worked well for a while, then it gradually became clear that he preferred the company of beautiful male students to that, say, of his fellow faculty. In those primitive days, mid-1960s, this would have been a tenure issue.

So he chucked it all and drove cross county to San Francisco, where he devoted himself to sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Actually, it was sex, a few drugs, and classical music.

For the following twenty-five years he worked out of his home editing law books, classifying and synopsizing new cases. This gave him a very broad view of developments in many areas of the law.

Bill is retired and lives in a Buddhist Dharma Center, located on the Panhandle of Golden Gate Park, about as close as you can get to the site of hippiedom’s big bang. I kid him unmercifully about the religious thing. The term “rice-bowl Buddhist” comes up.

Gee, when you put together Bill’s resume with Pud’s, then you look at our fact-checkers and the rest of our crack staff, a theme starts to emerge, “abject.”

It’s a good thing we’re so darn insouciant.

[They video below is dedicated to Bill and all the wonderful people who make SF WILLIE’S BLOG possible.]

----- o -----

FMA Thats Life

Heartbreak Hotel [1956]

DANGER: CHILDHOOD

One of the downer stories of the past year was the movement to ban the playing of tag and other active games during school recess. I believe there was one school that tried to ban running on the playground altogether.

The logic of such a ban is easy enough to understand—we can trade spes (the supposed benefit of letting kids run around at recess) for res (measurable reduction of injuries and related expenses).

The obvious refutation is that the benefits of letting kids run around far outweigh the costs of the predictable accidents and even deaths.

But forget the analytical level. On a purely aesthetic basis, what kind of human being would propose a ban on kids playing tag. Might as well wear a sign that says, I’M A STUPID ASSHOLE, or I’M FROM ANOTHER PLANET.

When I think of the incredibly dangerous things we boys did, and survived, I wonder what overly supervised kids do these days to test physical limits.

A couple of brothers on our block would build rudimentary soap box racers, plywood, 2x4s, skate wheels, or wheels from red wagons, broomstick and rope for steering, and when they were finished, they’d “test” the cars.

Testing a new car meant driving it halfway down a hill directly into a telephone pole. As there were a number of poles on that downhill block one could intensify the “test” by choosing a telephone pole nearer the bottom of the hill, so that the car had more time to pick up speed.

The whole idea was that the car would eventually crumple and be thrown away. It’s not like they were good for anything. I think this was before the term “crash test dummy” entered our parlance.

Here’s another amusement I now cringe to think back on. We had lots of what we called “plane” trees down by the zoo and Fort Funston, their branches spread out in horizontal planes. I think of the branch formation, similar to but thicker than Monterey cypress, as affected by the steady winds off the Pacific Ocean.

We discovered that it was impossible to fall through the outspread arms of these trees. So, we’d climb to the top, balance on the top nub, and dive out into the branches. Then we’d sort of swim through the branches back to the tree’s trunk and repeat. None of us got seriously injured.

Heck, the first time I hitchhiked I was eight years old. Our parents didn’t mind.

Now it seems you have to be fairly poor to have a normal childhood. Middle class kids are scheduled and supervised and picked up and driven. When do they have time to get in trouble?

And when do they ever have to invent their own fun?

[The tree picture was taken from the superb Civic Center Blog, a link is in the right column.]

----- o -----

SMOKIN' VIOLIN

I find the reverence and solemnity associated with high art to be incredibly stupid. It drives away the more down-to-earth people. Maybe that’s the intent.

The whole idea of “meaning” is very off-putting. What is the “meaning” of Beethoven’s Fifth, or of Michelangelo’s Pieta?

I think it was TS Eliot who described a poem’s promise of “meaning” as a trick to get the audience to enjoy the sensual pleasure (the music of the poetry).

One of the evils of the illusion of “meaning” in art is that people sit through all sorts of boring, painful music and poetry because they want to understand the meaning, or worse, they pretend that they actually do understand the meaning, and the meaning is enough.

In the clip below, Heifetz is wearing white tie and it’s all very noble, but the music has all the nobility of a juggling act. Paganini would do anything to show off his virtuosity. It’s world class acrobatics. It's fireworks. It’s just for fun. It don’t mean shit.

Pud especially likes "the plucking stuff."

----- o -----

Paganini #24 Caprice by Heifetz

THE MIDDLE VIRTUE

The middle virtue correlates negatively with the middle finger.
P. Wilson

We all sort of understand what is meant by “Faith,” and by “Charity.” But, of the Christian trio, Faith, Hope, and Charity, what the heck is “Hope”?

In religion class we were always taught that “hope” means “trust,” that one really trusts that he or she will go to heaven and experience eternal bliss.

The way that I explain it to myself is that “hope” means acting as if what you believe is really true. So for instance, Mother Theresa’s mad pursuit of extraordinary medical means to preserve her own life demonstrates that she really didn’t believe all the crap she spewed about a blessed death.

The synonym I come up with is “cheerfulness.” If you really believe Christ’s message, you will be constantly cheerful.

I was the 1958 Boy of the Year of the Toluca Lake Optimist Club. I was on the Little League team they sponsored. It seemed like any other fraternal organization or service club. So I looked at the website of Optimists International.

Here is their creed. Are you an optimist?

The Optimist Creed

Promise Yourself-
To be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind.
To talk health, happiness and prosperity to every person you meet.
To make all your friends feel that there is something in them.
To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true.
To think only of the best, to work only for the best, and to expect only the best.
To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own.
To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future.
To wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature you meet a smile.
To give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others.
To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble.

----- o -----

Vivaldi Winter II

PERSON OF THE YEAR

Don’t worry, it’s not you.

SFWILLIE’S BLOG’s first annual Person of the Year awardee doesn’t have a name or face. But he or she does have a number. Our Person of the Year for 2006 is American #300,000,000.

He or she was born in or immigrated to the United States in 2006.

The roundness of the number is a story in itself, like an odometer turning 100,000. You say, “Wow!” Then you think about lunch.

What makes this the story of the year and hence American #300,000,000 our Person of the Year is the alarm sounded about population growth. [The Census Bureau has a neat website. ]

The U.S. Population reached 100,000,000 in 1915.

It reached 200,000,000 in 1965.

It reached 300,000,000 just a few months ago in 2006.

A person born in 1915 would be about 90 or 91 years old today, so it’s not impossible that we could gather all in one place, Americans #100,000,000, #200,000,000, and #300,000,000.

This explains why I’m so damn cranky. Things REALLY ARE more crowded. Life TRULY IS shittier.

According to Census Bureau projections, U.S. population will reach 400,000,000 in approximately 2043.

I guess we all have to scrunch over.

So American #300,000,000 reminds us of a non-transient, non-horse-race global political issue. As population increases and resources are used up, ecological disruption and political struggle will render human life on earth if not extinct, certainly way less fun.

Some of our best scientific minds recommend colonization of space. Pud points out that we can’t even afford to deport our illegal aliens across a shared border, “I’m sure we’re gonna like, send them to Mars!”

Face it, our species is earthbound, at least for all practical purposes. Efforts to peacefully and voluntarily control the earth’s human population are pretty much futile. Resources are finite, especially our atmosphere’s ability to deal with heat and other byproducts of consumption.

Hopeless? No. Miniaturization is the solution. What’s important is a species’ total biomass, which equals total population times average size per individual. The consumption of resources is a factor of biomass, not of numerical population.

Take seagulls and staph aureus (bacterium). There are probably billions of staph aureus bacteria in any given city, and they go unnoticed. Put billions of seagulls in even the largest city and people are going to say “We have too many seagulls.”

Since we can’t control the number of humans, let’s control their size. “Nano” used to be hot, now it’s necessary.

If bioengineering can reduce the average size of humans to that of, say, ants, there will be plenty of food, water, and fresh air for many centuries to come right here on earth. There is no reason to think that the experience of being human can’t be just as good if not way better at that reduced size.

Sci-fi? Pud says all sci was once fi. Pud asks, “Can you say 'annihilation'?”

This needs to happen in just a few generations. Time’s a-wasting.

----- o -----