No Sleep Till Valhalla

It should be mega obvs that you’re NOT going to drop off to sleep easily when Helter Skelter pops into your head just as it touches the pillow. That right there is a harbinger of wakey-wakeyness.

Helter-skelter
     adverb
     in undue haste, confusion, or disorder

     noun
1 : a disorderly confusion : turmoil
2 British : a spiral slide around a tower at an amusement park      

     adjective
     confusedly hurried : precipitate

…Paul remembered: “We got the engineers and [the producer] to hike up the drum sound and really get it as loud and horrible as it could and we played it and said, ‘No, it still sounds too safe, it’s got to get louder and dirtier.’ We tried everything we could to dirty it up and in the end you can hear Ringo say, ‘I’ve got blisters on my fingers!’ That wasn’t a joke put-on: his hands were actually bleeding at the end of the take, he’d been drumming so ferociously. We did work very hard on that track.” (source) 

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide,
Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride,
Till I get to the bottom, and I see you again,
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!

Paul ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ McCartney wrote this absolute ripper, this screamer? That will always blow my mind. I could totally see John Lennon, who always seemed more emotionally raw but Mr. Fluffy? Clearly I was wrong about Paul.

NOT a screamer but Richard Thompson’s Wall of Death is another favorite song with a carnival ride metaphor. If I haven’t mentioned it already (and I probably have) I absolutely hate carnival rides – always have. Life is scary and unpredictable enough without them. The symbolism is perfect.

Another tune lodged in my bean yesterday, (though it didn’t keep me from entering the Land of Nod) was Bruce Springsteen’s Atlantic City.

Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night
now they blew up his house too
Down on the boardwalk they’re gettin’ ready for a fight
gonna see what them racket boys can do

When Springsteen first came out, Daddy proclaimed him the second coming of Bob Dylan. My old man was stoked! I didn’t really see it but I was more into Elton John, Paul Simon, and Bowie at the time.

By the time Springsteen's Nebraska came out in ‘82, I was totally sold. That album was perfect! My musical tastes had expanded. At that point I was mostly listening to bands like Human Sexual Response, Mission of Burma, Talking Heads, John Cale, and the list goes on and on and on. There was room for Bruce.

Well now everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
Put your makeup on fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City

What’s gonna play on the internal turntable today?

Beastie Boys – No Sleep Till Brooklyn

Hard Day

Yesterday, December 29, 2024, was a rough one.

Jimmy Carter was the first president I voted for. I solidly believed in him. While he was a devout Christian, he actually walked the talk. He lived the teachings of his god as opposed to the political charlatans, grifters, and lackeys fucking over the world whilst spewing bible verses.

Jimmy Carter, the 39th president of the United States, a broker of peace in the Middle East in his time, and a tireless advocate for global health and human rights, has died, it was announced on Sunday. He was 100 years old.

“My father was a hero, not only to me but to everyone who believes in peace, human rights, and unselfish love,” said Chip Carter, the former president’s son, in a statement.” (source)

Carter, like Biden, became president after his corrupt, despicable, power-mad predecessor fucked us over good. Both Carter and Biden had giant messes to clean up.

The Republican Party ratfucked us out of another four Carter years by, amongst other things, meeting with Iran to convince them to delay the release of American hostages in order to sabotage his re-election campaign. Republican fuckery gave us an easily manipulated (by them) B movie actor. Between 1981 and 1990 Reagan killed 100,777 Americans through his inaction on the AIDS epidemic. Sound familiar? 

In the final year of Donald Trump’s presidency, more than 450,000 Americans died from COVID-19, and life expectancy fell by 1.13 years, the biggest decrease since World War II. Many of the deaths were avoidable; COVID-19 mortality in the U.S. was 40 percent higher than the average of the other wealthy nations in the Group of Seven (G7).
     ~~~
His incompetent and malevolent response to the COVID-19 pandemic capped a presidency suffused with health-harming policies and actions. (source)

And yet, he was re-elected. Those who don't pay some goddamned attention and fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it.

While the President of the United States, George W. Bush, was planning war on Iraq in the autumn of 2002, former President Jimmy Carter was awarded the Peace Prize for undertaking peace negotiations, campaigning for human rights, and working for social welfare. According to the Chairman of the Nobel Committee, Carter ought to have been awarded the Prize as early as in 1978, when he successfully mediated a peace agreement between Egypt and Israel. (source)Gee, ya think?!

Yesterday was also the anniversary of the Wounded Knee Massacre of December 29, 1890.

Ghost Dance Drum by George Beaver

“When I look back now from this high hill of my old age,” survivor Black Elk recalled in 1931, “I can still see the butchered women and children lying heaped and scattered all along the crooked gulch as plain as when I saw them with eyes still young. And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud and was buried in the blizzard. A people’s dream died there.” (source)

This country is built on eejit racism and lies and the Republican Party is the standard-bearer for hate. They inspire fear, resentment, and violence against all of us who won’t bow down to their ridiculously rigid edicts and prejudices.

Earlier this year, the Pentagon announced it would review 20 Medals of Honor awarded to soldiers who took part in the massacre as the military continues efforts to acknowledge the role that racism may have played in its past and that not all of its awardees meet modern standards of heroism. (source)

Gee, ya think?! It certainly took the military long enough to notice.

Ain't Life Grand

High Top Sneakers worn by Jon Provost
in the role of Timmy on TV Series Lassie,
National Museum of American History

I’m Back-In-My-Day years old now.

When I was in grade school we didn’t have sneakers with velcro closures. NO, we had shoelaces like god intended AND we had to learn how to securely tie them too.

Also, wearing sneakers to school? Pfffft! We had uniform shoes! They were either saddle shoes or black Mary Janes PERIODT!

When I was in elementary school we didn’t have iPhones or iPads. We didn’t use laptops in junior high or high school either. Hells bells, the very first laptop didn’t hit the market until after I graduated from college!

Developed by Adam Osborne in April 1981, the Osborne I was the first truly portable computer and was recognized as the first true laptop computer. It weighed 24½-pounds and had a 5” display. (source)

Ya know what was a really big deal back in my school days? Those four ink colors pens—blue, green, red and black all in ONE pen. WOW! COOL!

When I was in college (in the late ‘70s—christ, I sprouted three more grey hairs just thinking about how many years it’s been) weed was illegal EVERYWHERE. Penalties, back then, were all over the damn place. It depended on where you lived, how rich and well connected your daddy was and, of course, how much melanin you rocked. Check out the spreadsheet (page 110, Table IV-4) for the 1977 state laws and penalties.

Fer instance:

Richard DeLisi is a 71 year old man serving a 90-year sentence in Florida at the South Bay Correctional Facility (SBCF) for marijuana. Richard has no history of violence and has been in prison since 1989 – 31 years. (source)

GW Bush was busted for cocaine possession (not weed!) in 1972, but had his record magically expunged. Mr. DeLisi clearly lacked connections, unlike the 43rd president of the United States. Gee, ain’t life grand for those born into the aristocracy.
Back to me, me, me—in my little college town it was easy to score AND my dealer delivered and let me sample the product before purchasing. Way back then, a nickel bag was five bucks, a dime bag went for an even sawbuck. An ounce? Fer Bast’s sake, we (Kevin and I) were broke art majors—an ounce (at maybe 20 simoleons) was well outta our price range.

44 years later it’s legal to light up (or savor a lovely edible) in 25 states, D.C. and Guam. Those 25?

Colorado,Washington, Alaska, Oregon, Washington, D.C., California, Maine, Massachusetts, Nevada, Michigan, Vermont, Guam, Illinois, Arizona, Montana, New Jersey, New York, Virginia, New Mexico, Connecticut, Rhode Island, Maryland, Missouri, Delaware, Minnesota and Ohio.

In what backward-ass states is the herb still fully illegal? Idaho, Wyoming, Kansas and South Carolina.

Check out the interactive map here to find out the weed status in your state. Is it legal for medical use and decriminalized. Not decriminalized but medical is AOK? Decriminalized? CBD with THC only? Very confusing. Just make it AND abortion legal across the boards, dammit.

Ain’t Life Grand—Widespread Panic 

Not Nothing

I did absolutely NOTHING yesterday. Okay, not entirely true. I scrolled the news and social media, blogged and took a shower. Yeah, not exactly a whirlwind of successful achievements. Naturally, I fell into my usual crater of I’ve-done-fuck-all-in-the-past-four-years. It’s not a pretty or at all comfortable pit. In an effort to give myself a bit of credit, I started listing what I have managed to do since 2020. Here, I’ll share.

Things I’ve managed to accomplish in the past four (and some change) years:

• Survived and, more or less, recovered from two brain and two spine surgeries (my next bean slice-up is in 29 days).

• Taught my beleaguered brain to communicate with my left leg again so that I could (and did) regain the ability to walk (mostly with a walker). The connection between the brain and leg had been severed in one of my brain ops. I’m still working on rebuilding strength, endurance and balance.

• I had months of proton radiation to halt and hopefully reduce the size of my big fucking thoracic spinal tumor. Reduction hasn’t, so far, come to pass but there’s been no fresh growth.

• • Started chemo. The hope being that the med will stop the growth, and maybe even reduce the size of my remaining tumors. This hasn’t worked on the meningioma living on my prefrontal lobe BUT it seems to be affecting the others. For now.

• • Survived the loss of my beloved 13 year old sweet baby kitten Coco. She had cancer.

• • Adopted a nine year old very good boy. Cake had just had his tail amputated (due to some unknown tail trauma) and was still regaining his balance and learning how to walk. (HEY, just like me!)

• Lost 40 pounds (of the 55 gained while in hospital and rehab for the better part of two years).

• Mourned the death of my father from a distance (having recently gotten out of the hospital, I was unable to travel to attend the funeral). I’ll never stop missing him.
  

• Endured seven rounds of formal outpatient rehab. That shit’s killer, mes amis.

• Got vaccinations for COVID, pneumonia, flu and whatever else was on my primary care doc’s list.

• Caught COVID anyway. Didn’t die because I’m VACCINATED to hell and back. YEA!

• FINALLY dealt with two of the three teeth which were broken during my two year surgery odyssey. Extractions—NO fun.

• Watched some great television over at Jen and Oni’s place. I can now walk over there (their back door is 12 feet from our front door but the living room is another 25-30 feet beyond) withOUT the walker. HUZZAH! Yes, Ten spots me the whole way but, hells bells, this is something.

• I’ve blogged on most days (even from hospital and rehab!). I’m obvs, no Shakespeare, Vonnegut or Scalzi but, HEY, creative outlets are self-care.

• I’ve doodled a bit—not much though. My hand/eye coordination is pretty banjaxed. Is that recoverable? Dunno yet.

• I’ve VOTED in every election (if I can do it with all the nasty ass health shit I’m juggling, you can too)!

• I bought a gorgeous emerald green electric MINI. Still haven’t gone for a scenic road trip in it though. Trips to Mass General Hospital don’t count. Maybe later this summer?

So, it’s a close thing but I actually haven’t been a total lazy putz these past four years. On most days it just feels like it.

Funeral for an Acquaintance

A man I worked with absolute eons ago has died. He was 101 years old and went peacefully while sleeping.

We weren’t close though we worked in the same building for yonks. He was old school and I was trying to grow and learn in a male dominated industry. Women in pressrooms were salespeople at most, not Production Managers.

While it was sweet that Peter told me, on more than a few occasions, that I reminded him of his youngest daughter, it felt as though he couldn’t see past this. That is, as long as he was seeing me as just like his kid, he wasn’t paying attention to what I was telling him about the print work we were trying to produce for his customers. Maybe he took me seriously, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t exactly the most patient human in my early 30s.

None of this matters now (and hasn’t for 30 years). I could have employed diplomacy and grace. He could have refrained from treating me like a little girl. Neither of us did.

The point is that he lived a long, happy, healthy life. He had a wonderful wife, loads of grands and great grandkids and a shitload of friends. Good for him. I’m sincerely happy he had such a full, wonderful life.

I’m also angry—that doesn’t feel like the right word. I’m, perhaps a bit jealous (?), maybe resentful (?) that he got to live so very long and The Amazing Bob didn’t. I’m peeved (?) that Peter had such tremendous health but TAB didn’t and I don’t. That’s not especially evolved of me but, to be fair to myself, it’s just a petty shadow, not the full picture by a long shot.

Peter Orlando in the radio room aboard the USS ATR-2 in 194

I imagine that his wake and funeral will be huge events. He was dearly loved. The family might need to rent out a coliseum. I mean…fer reals. On top of being a nice guy, he was one of the last veteran’s of D-Day still standing.

Fer Bast's sake, the President of France awarded him the Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
“as a sign of France’s infinite gratitude and appreciation for your personal and precious contribution to the United States’ decisive role in the liberation of our country during World War II.” (source)

Should I go to the wake? I want to pay my respects but also it’d be nice to see so many people not seen in years.

Is this crass of me? Ultra déclassé? Not cool? Yeah, probably.

I’d like to apologize to a few folks. For what? Having been a rabid wildebeest and just generally socially weird in my early-mid 30s. I’d like to completely avoid a few. Then there are the ones I’d like to embrace and thank for their grace, support and kindness.

I’d like to go but this has the potential to be a MONDO awkward occasion. The last time I saw any of these folks, I had hearing, my face wasn’t twisted with nerve damage and I didn’t need a walker or wheelchair to get around.

I think I probably won’t attend. 

I’m envisioning the co-worker who gave me shit about needing more volume on my phone (he was in charge of the company’s phone system). He attempted to shame me for even mentioning my failing hearing because TAB had REAL health problems—NOT me. Dude, I’m not two dimensional—I can take care of and love TAB and be concerned about my own health AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. Neat, huh?

I’m thinking about the manager I had who mocked my hearing loss, saying, amongst other things, that I had “selective hearing” as opposed to brain tumors that would grow and steal my audio. Yeah dude, nice “jokes” at my expense. When did you become an expert on my auditory system and Neurofibromatosis type 2?

I was completely deaf five years after these boys had their fun.

Yeah, I’m gonna stay home. Maybe donate to some charity in Peter's name.

Unbidden Memories

WAY back in the mid 80s, I was working at a copy shop with an adorable little blonde, blue eyed woman. We must’ve been close to the same age but she came off as though she was 15 and Mom just popped her out of the Easy Bake Oven. It seemed obvs that none of life’s nasty-ass vicissitudes had, at that point, left a mark on her.

Debbie had a perky as all fuck attitude. ("Debbie," NOT her actual name. NO clue what it was. I mean, rilly now, how’m I supposed to recall some rando’s name from four decades ago?)

She gave off serious nothing-bad-has-or-will-ever-happen-to-me (except maybe a cavity but just one) vibes. Sure, she was nice enough (if you go for the always smiling, innocent as a newborn fawn, vacuous American Doll schtick) but then I discovered her dark side—she was an enthusiastic member of an evangelical cult that met at the Boston Garden each Sunday.

Cake is unimpressed

American megachurches use stagecraft, sensory pageantry, charismatic leadership and an upbeat, unchallenging vision of Christianity to provide their congregants with a powerful emotional religious experience, according to research from the University of Washington. (source)

God as a drug. God as a glitzy status symbol, as a flash disco or high status social club. God as a sequined promise that nothing bad will ever happen to you (as long as you keep those donations coming). God as a product that’ll make you rich, attractive and cherished. God as magic mushrooms, ecstasy and China white rolled into one.

I don’t know if there are any big box cult centers in Boston now. I doubt it, primarily because rents and real estate are insanely expensive here. Also, if a homeowner has paid a hot mil for a South End condo, I would imagine they’d not be keen on having their neighborhood overrun by charlatans, chumps, patsies and other assorted suckers every Sunday morning.

Frankly, I was stunned that pure, not-so-bright, little Debbie applied for a copy job. I thought all those white American Jesus propagandists kept to themselves unless they were ‘witnessing’ (always in groups) to us misguided heathens. Was she a plant sent to infect us obviously devil worshipping and vaguely demonic copy jocks? Could be. Her handlers had clearly failed to read the room—we were not the sort to be taken in by such a shallow pool.

Little Debbie didn’t last more than a few months, if that.

That was 40 years ago. I expect she married a fellow Jesus fucker, moved to rural Kansas, spawned a dozen insufferable Future Republicans of America (who went on to birth hundreds of future MAGAts) and, possibly, learned how to macramé and can squirrels for winter din-dins.

I could be wildly wrong. Perhaps instead, she embraced her intelligence, backbone and dreams of being more than some dweeb’s bangmaid and broodmare. She might’ve gone on to be a high powered lawyer for the American Civil Liberties Union—working for truth, justice and equality for all.

Nah. It’s a nice dream though.

Whalom Park

Way back, a zillion years ago—when I was a mere eight years old, we lived in Townsend, Massachusetts. Townsend is about 50 miles northwest of Boston and, more or less, 40 miles north of Worcester (which is, by the by, pronounced Woostah {double o as in look} or Wistah {i as in list} Also, anywhere west of Worcester is considered Midwest...you're welcome). Townsend sits on the Massachusetts/New Hampshire border and is an absolutely gorgeous area. Additionally, it’s the locale of my bestest, most consistently happy childhood memories.

Just one town south of Townsend is Lunenburg which used to be the home of Whalom Park—a small, by today’s mega-park standards, funfair. It shut in 2000.

Whalom Park was built by the Fitchburg and Leominster Street Railway (in 1893) as a trolley park. In the early 19th century, trolley parks became popular along or at the ends of streetcar lines in many larger cities. The idea behind the trolley parks was to get people to use the street car services on the weekends. To that end, they were quite successful. Undoubtedly, the most famous of these trolley parks is Coney Island in Brooklyn, New York. (source)

The trolley line that Whalom was at the end of was out of Fitchburg. My father taught at the college there and this was the town in which my younger sister Celeste was born. Happy times.

Though we only lived in Townsend for one skinny year, Daddy took us to Whalom at least a few times. I absolutely loved the place. The Tilt-a-Whirl was my favorite ride, followed closely by the ferris wheel and carousel. The roller coaster, while small, was too scary and I couldn’t understand the appeal of the bumper cars. What was the point of going mobile if you were just going to BLAM into other cars?  That's like going up in a perfectly good airplane just to jump out of it. I don't, and will never, get it.

By the by, The Cars filmed their 1982 video for Touch and Go there. Yes, the vid is cheesy as all hell but…hey…it was the early ‘80s. Honestly now, what, I ask you WHAT could you reasonably expect?

Why did Whalom Park come to mine this morning? Beats the fuck outta me. My bean is a random collection of memories—good, divine, bad, horrendous and, of course, embarrassing.

Chocolate, Dragons and Plainchant

I’m gonna eat chocolate and read all day. Okay, maybe not. Seems like a fine idea though.

It’ll be up in the 50s later. Possibly Ten and I can take a walk over to Off The Hook (formerly Louis’), the neighborhood seafood restaurant, for lunch. That’d be a long hike, for me, especially over the rough roads and broken sidewalks around here. Still, it could be a great way to push myself, expand my abilities and shit. Plus, I’d have a nice, lengthy, restorative break (LUNCH) in the middle of all that exercise.

Problem, the wind’s due to kick up to Red Flag Warning (‘the fuck? Why is this capitalized on weather.com?) conditions at noon. So, NOT safe walking weather for yurs truly.

This, naturally, brings me back to reading in bed whilst snarfing chocolate eggs. A splendid plan.

The book I’m reading now is about a murder in a small, remote, cloistered monastery in northern Québec. The monks are known for their Gregorian chants.

I believe it must have been Daddy who introduced me to plainchant. Despite my bone deep love of bombast, the exquisite, simple purity of Gregorian chants drew me in like Odysseus hearing the Siren’s song for the first time. (little known fact, Odysseus was an easy mark, a total round heels)

Now, 18 years after my hearing took the last train to the coast, I can’t bring so much as a single phrase into my aural memory. This, as I’m sure you understand, blows gangrenous Krayt Dragon chunks.

My father converted to Catholicism but not until after his mother, Grandma, had died. Why convert at all and why wait?

Daddy did it for his wife, my mother—she was quite devout (if you’ll plz recall, I survived an elementary school education at the hands of angry nuns). More than for her, possibly, he became Catholic for the music. Daddy absolutely loved singing in the choir. (gotta say, from what I recall, the Catholic hymns were, in fact, musically superior to the Protestant ones)

Why wait until his own mother was gone before joining? Ruby never lost her fury over what the church had done to Ireland. Her family left Derry, in Northern Ireland, at the end of the 19th century, settling in Canada. Grandpa’s family had left a small village on the Ring of Kerry around the same time, settling in Buffalo, New York.

Daddy was well aware of the church’s sins but wanted to make his wife happy AND he had lost his heart and soul to the music. Here are two quotes from Louise Penny’s The Beautiful Mystery. The first is by a monk who had joined the order specifically because of the Gregorian chants. Like my father, he’d fallen in love.

“What did falling in love do for you? Can you ever really explain it? It filled empty spaces I never knew were empty. It cured a loneliness I never knew I had. It gave me joy. And freedom. I think that was the most amazing part. I suddenly felt both embraced and freed (by the chants) at the same time.”

This second quote is from a detective whose family had left the church.

The Catholic Church wasn't just a part of his parents' live, and his grandparents', it ruled their lives. The priests told them what to eat, what to do, who to vote for, what to think. What to believe.

Told them to have more and more babies. Kept them pregnant and poor and ignorant.

They'd been beaten in school, scolded in church, abused in the back rooms.

And when, after generations of this, they'd finally walked away, the Church had accused them of being unfaithful. And threatened them with eternal damnation.

I wish Daddy was still alive so we could compare religion’s manifest wickedness alongside the brilliant works of art and music created in its name.

That’d be one hell of a satisfying convo.

Monday Rambles

Our furnace, here in Cat Central (AKA Valhalla) is misbehaving—one minute too hot and the next, it’s MIA. For some odd reason this unearthed one of my earliest memories—watching a coal truck dump its load down a chute into the basement of our house in rural New Jersey.

I couldn’t have been more than four years old and found it so damn exciting. I ran from outside the house, where the truck’s bed was tilting up, to the top of the basement stairs where I watched the coal tumble down next to the furnace. Fascinating!

What was it about the delivery that intrigued me so?

Was it the wildness of watching those jet-black rocks tumbling through the basement window, falling into a messy heap on the floor?

Had I never seen our basement and its fire breathing furnace before?

Maybe I’d just learned where the house heat came from?
~~~

Bat god (see below)

Just got an alert—a Special Weather Statement— on my telefonino:

SLIPPERY TRAVEL POSSIBLE EARLY THIS MORNING...

A light coating of snow fell in many locations late last evening and earlier this morning. While the light snow has ended...patchy ground fog has developed across portions of the region. Temperatures well below freezing may allow for this fog to freeze on untreated roadways. Motorists should drive with extra caution…

Frilled Dragon (see below)

Seems funny and unnecessary to get a watch-your-step warning. Honestly, this is New England and it’s the dead of winter, fer fuck’s sake. OF COURSE the sidewalks and streets are gonna be slippery!
~~~
During our weekend tea time we’ve begun watching The Book of Boba Fett. I’m not a Star Wars aficionado—it took me mucho googling to figure out who the fuck Boba Fett is and get his total backstory. What he’s not is Galactic Empire or Rebel Alliance. There’s a whiff of Man with No Name about him. As a Spaghetti Western fan, I wholeheartedly approve.

Actress Wēn Míngnà plays Fennec Shand, Fett’s partner in crime boss-dom on Tatooine. She kicks astounding amounts of ass. I may be in love.

Ya know what else I like about this show? The pace—it’s slower than other space adventure flicks. Sure there’s rock ‘em/sock ‘em battle scenes but the general flow is more zen-ish.

Also, Boba and Fennec aren’t kids. The actors are, respectively, 61 and 58. Still younger than me but this isn’t a teen superhero action-fest. Cool.
~~~

At some point I believe we’ll need to adopt a herd of capybara. Why? They’re adorable and I like the name. Do I need a better reason than that? No, I do not.

Also, we’ll need a small colony of bats. Why? CHOCOLATE!

Over 300 species of fruit depend on bats for pollination. Bats help spread seeds for nuts, figs and cacao — the main ingredient in chocolate. (source)

We’ll need an aye-aye. They’re loners and only get together for
the occasional bonk. In order to keep the species going, I’ll talk with distant neighbors—they’ll need to adopt aye-ayes too. We can set up play dates.

Some people native to Madagascar consider the aye-aye to be an omen of ill luck or a harbinger of evil, and will even kill them on sight. Another superstition about the aye-aye is that if it points its narrow middle finger at someone, they are marked for death. (source)

How ‘bout a frilled lizard or two? (AKA frilled dragon, AKA dragon lizard) They eat insects and, in their self-protection aggression displays, they’re impressive as all hell.

I’ll name them Fred and Ginger.

Movie Land

In my attempt to NOT doomsurf Twitter yesterday, I came on one of those tweets where you’re asked to name your favorite band, artist, movie, whatevs.

In this case, the request was to name four movies that you were certain you loved more than anyone else.

My quick list?

Brother From Another Planet

The Brother (Joe Morton) is an alien and escaped slave on the run from his home planet. After he lands in New York City, he tries to adapt to life on the streets of Harlem. Although the Brother is mute, he does have great abilities at fixing machines, and he gets a job. As the Brother tries to blend in with his new culture, he finds an apartment and gradually makes friends. Meanwhile, he is pursued by two agents from his home world who are intent on returning there with him. (source)

I totally fell in love with the star, Joe Morton AND the director John Sayles. I was familiar with him from the abso-brill Return of the Secaucus 7. The Big Chill, which came out three years later was a GIANT, slick Hollywood ripoff of this wee indie hit.

I haven’t seen a lot of Sayle’s films but I’d love to do a binge-watch weekend of them.

Second on my list is Run Lola Run.

The setup: Lola gets a phone call from her boyfriend Manni. He left a bag containing 100,000 deutsche marks on the subway, and a bum made away with it. Manni is expected to deliver the money at noon to a gangster. If he fails, he will probably be killed. His desperate plan: Rob a bank. Lola's desperate plan: Find the money somehow, somewhere, in 20 minutes. Run, Lola, run! …the story of Lola's 20-minute run is told three times, each time with small differences that affect the outcome and the fate of the characters. (source)

All I can say about this is that it was a fab thrill ride. Mesmerizing.

Third: Truly, Madly, Deeply. This came out soon after my bestie, my love Kevin Scott died. I was devastated and didn’t know how to handle my monster grief.

"Truly, Madly, Deeply," a truly odd film, maddening, occasionally deeply moving. It opens as the story of a woman consumed by grief. Her man has died and she misses him and his absence is like an open wound. Then he returns. He steps back into her life from beyond the grave and folds her in his arms, and the passion with which she greets him is joyous to behold.
~~~snip~~~
the movie takes a turn toward the really odd, as various new pals of the man return from the next world to join him. This eventually leads Juliet Stevenson to deliver one of the most memorable lines of dialogue of this or any year: "I can't believe I have a bunch of dead people watching videos in my living room." (source)

I sobbed shamelessly in the theater along with the Juliet – I totally felt and understood her grief. When the movie shifted to the odd fantasy bits, I got it. We grieve forever but the sorrow becomes less oppressive/easier to bear. Us survivors – we can get the most out of life at the same time we hold our lost loves in our hearts.

The last of the four feels like a cheat because everyone, or so it seemed, LOVED Wings of Desire – the Wim Wenders' original versus the Hollywood remake

The angels in “Wings of Desire” are not merely guardian angels, placed on Earth to look after human beings. They are witnesses, and they have been watching for a long time--since the beginning.

...We follow two angels: Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sander). They listen to the thoughts of an old Holocaust victim, and of parents worried about their son, and of the passengers on trams and the people in the streets; it’s like turning the dial and hearing snatches of many radio programs. They make notes about the hooker who hopes to earn enough money to go south, and the circus aerialist who fears that she will fall, because it is the night of the full moon. (source)

It’s beautiful, luminescent and transporting.

I believe I’ve found a way to make it through these awful last (BETTER be the last) months of the Treasonweasel administration. I'll escape into movies that take me to another, possibly soothing, place.

Decades

From Chapter Eighty-one: A narrow escape & a discouraging word...

My good friend Bob Ray, author and artist of the Cap'n Haphazard comics and axeman extraordinaire, brought up something that’d slipped past me in my focus on 2019's end. This was also the finito of a decade – an action packed one for both of us.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, it was one hell of a decade. I ain’t gonna lie, it was a hard one. A mean one. I won’t miss most of it.

I lost too many people. Too many friends. Martita, Marie, Cliff, Tom Harker, Grace Kitty, Tiger, Al, Grandma Lowe, John, Shep, Thomas Spurgeon... and those are just the ones I knew best. Too many. I miss them all every day.

I watched the world go from “hey, we’re in a lotta trouble, but maybe we can start fixing it” to “we all hate each other and it’s all on fire, so what’s the point?” I don’t really know where we’re headed from here, but I try to remain hopeful, because I’m stupid like that.

There were good things, too. I started drawing comics again. I played a lot of music. I made a lot of new friends. I remarried my wife Melissa on our 25th anniversary. I had a heart attack, which was no damn fun, but it was ultimately a good thing, because it made me lose 10 pounds and start thinking about the value of every day.

So, I’m 10 years older. I lost some folks and I made new friends. My body gave me a wake up call that I’m still figuring out how to heed. I have a realistic view of the past, utter disappointment with the present, and irrational hope for the future

Happy New Year, everybody. 2019 can kiss my ass. To hell with the Teens. Bring on the Twenties.

Be good to each other, I love you all. ❤️
~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m also light more than a few loved ones due to life flames being extinguished OR phenomenally cold, indefensible actions.

Losing The Amazing Bob was a devastating nuclear blast to my soul that felt unendurable. With the calm, loving and constant support of friends, family (Jen, Oni, Celeste and Daddy!) as well as the wise words of those who’ve walked this path through wretched misery before me (Michal, Maria and Ten) – I made it.

There’s been my personal health bullshit – eye, bean and back.

The Cyclops – Odilon Redon

It occurred to me this morning, as Ten helped me put the PROSE lens in, that, without his devoted assistance each and every day, y’all may very well be calling me Cyclops Donna now.

Speaking of Ten, I discovered that my life has a second act – with TAB’s death I’d NOT entered my denouement after all. There is still joy to be had – multiple joys in point of fact!

And while my hand/eye coordination has been banjaxed by that cretinous interloping tête tumor, I continue to paint – exploring abstraction.

We have art in order not to die of the truth.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Like Bob Ray I hold some hope for our disgustingly abused country. The asswipian Republi/Fascist fuckers and their insane treasonweaseling leader are on the wrong side of humanity, history and the planet. We’ll win as long as we hang tough and together like the Lakota, Dakota and Cheyenne did at the Battle of Greasy Grass.

We CAN do this and, YES, bring on the twenties!

Well, THAT Was Epic!

2019 was a year of health ordeals, surgeries and recoveries (as uzsh). It was a year of being horrified by how just how low, obscenely rapacious, vilely disgusting and cruel our country has become. And it was a year of joyous new beginnings with Ten joining me here in Valhalla.

Ten visited from his high desert home last January This brought to mind the wise words of Balzac – solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine OR co-solitude is better.

Later that month I discovered that it’s very important, in this age of insanity, to keep a fine, creative stock of insults at the ready.

Jen and I went to our Silica Heaven (AKA Iceland) in February, not the uszh late autumn due to that rude, late 2018 bout of spine surgery. Before dipping into the rapturous waters, I had to have one last rant – just needed to get it outta my system.

In March I asked a few of my fellow scribblers why – Why Do We Blog?

ALSO, Ten and Donna’s excellent adventure went live! My wild squeeze moved from West to East coast to be with ME, ME, ME! Jen, Oni and Coco too. We are lucky ducks. Me especially!

Standout states along our 3,000+ mile journey:
Montana, my favorite apart from all the dead animals hanging out in the hotels. Apparently, NO hostelry is complete without half a dozen or so.

We left behind the evocative, intriguing and sometimes terribly amusing place names e.g.: Crazy Woman, Dead Horse and Wild Horse creeks, Devil's Tower, Reliance, SD and Keister, MN – I gotta wonder what the high school football team is nicknamed – The Fighting Butts? Are the cheerleaders and baton twirlers referred to as the Sparkling Assettes?

Minnesota – lurved me some Minnesota.

We had a grand art break while there, visited with my friend Susan and Ten’s grands.

Afterward we zoomed into the flat, dull as dirt states of Indiana and Ohio – the hardest part of our trans continental crossing. I expect there are pretty, if not striking or stunning parts, but ya just can’t prove that by me.

From there we were in the Valhalla homestretch, more or less – stopping in Western Pennsylvania to introduce Ten to Daddy and friend Michal.

And then, 3,259 miles and two and a half weeks later, we were home. Our adventure continues.

In late April I began my six months and counting eyeball saga, coming WAY too fucking close to having the old left orb sewn shut. Pretty sure I’m finally outta the deep, dark, smelly woods here – that I get to keep the eye thanks to my PROSE lens and my brill cornea minder, the fabola Doc Jacobs.

In May I had a few rants and, unrelated, came to the conclusion that forgetfulness is a form of freedom.

June saw grief anniversaries, frustration and anger with the ass twits for “god”  and, separately, generally, my happy luck.

I received some profoundly insulting, obtuse “advice” from an otherwise awesome friend in July. I cleaned out my camera phone – and found treasures. Also, for a half assed sec, I thought I’d run for Prez.

In August Ten and I motored up to Cindy and Giovanni’s blissfully bucolic farm in upstate Vermont – Valhalla North, Yurt Central and shit.

September brought a family emergency and the fervent wish for us all to be spared from the well meaning and dangerously clueless.

Be brave. Get to know yourself so well that folks aren’t left saying, in an attempt to speak something nice “she could fuck up a peanut butter sandwich on white bread but she means well.”

Our original October plan had been to once again motor up to Valhalla North – do a little leaf peeping and socializing. September’s events, however, left us flat out knackered (flat broke too) so we made do with a coupla cool visits to Townsend – home of my best childhood memories.

And then I, temporarily, turned into a unicorn/centaur.

In November I inadvertently found out that one of the meningiomas in ma tête is now the size of steroidially enhanced eggplant. Joy. More surgery comin’ up.

December rounded the corner and, once again, I had cause to be blindingly grateful and thrilled with my new cornea minder.

And Jen and I got to return to the land of ice and snow where decompensation, (body AND brain sick of working overtime to make up for that fat, eggplant in ma bean) moved in fer realies and trulies. I honestly felt like I’d started my journey on the road to death. Not imminently and shit – I’d make it home to Ten and Coco – but I felt as though final chapters were being written. Too fast.

I had Doc Plotkin’s little green, not-magic-but-close-enough, pills AND the brill calming waters of my geothermal lagoon. If yur bod’s gonna shit the bed, well, is there a better place for it?

And that was the year that wuz.