Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Now There Are Four
For Violet Maria Petty
Born on the Commemoration of Saint Thomas of Canterbury, 2015
The sweetest gift under the Christmas tree -
Saint Thomas now bless you, dear fourth little V!
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Bonfire Deferred - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Bonfire Deferred
If there is no Christmas bonfire this year
And Epiphany drifts into January
Lit only by the silent dance of stars
Serving in the office of votive lights
In peaceful solitude while through the trees
Coyote sings for his elusive supper
We’ll plan the children’s bonfire for next year
Sparklers and firecrackers and merry laughter
Built from the happy glow of memories
If there is no Christmas bonfire this year
Mhall46184@aol.com
Bonfire Deferred
If there is no Christmas bonfire this year
And Epiphany drifts into January
Lit only by the silent dance of stars
Serving in the office of votive lights
In peaceful solitude while through the trees
Coyote sings for his elusive supper
We’ll plan the children’s bonfire for next year
Sparklers and firecrackers and merry laughter
Built from the happy glow of memories
If there is no Christmas bonfire this year
Contra Julius and Gregory - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Contra Julius and Gregory
A year does not fail, because there are no years
There are only seasons dancing through being
The choreography of Creation
Written with meteors dreamed out of stars
And so the first day of January
Is the thirty-second of December
And neither is either or even itself
But only a mark that says left foot forward
Continuing a step from beyond forever -
The year does not fail, because there are no years
Mhall46184@aol.com
Contra Julius and Gregory
A year does not fail, because there are no years
There are only seasons dancing through being
The choreography of Creation
Written with meteors dreamed out of stars
And so the first day of January
Is the thirty-second of December
And neither is either or even itself
But only a mark that says left foot forward
Continuing a step from beyond forever -
The year does not fail, because there are no years
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Why We Love James Bond - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Why We Love James Bond
He drives too fast, he drinks, he bets,
He smokes too many cigarettes!
Mhall46184@aol.com
Why We Love James Bond
He drives too fast, he drinks, he bets,
He smokes too many cigarettes!
Peter's Pence - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Peter’s Pence
After Belloc, The Path to Rome
What capital did Saint Peter possess?
A pair of shoes, perhaps, a coat, a stick
A bitter memory of a dead-cold night
And happier memories of sails and ships
Of sunrise over the sea, and fish-heavy nets
And not so many words to burden a man
But only the Word - the Word and then the Cup
And a Chair which he found uncomfortable
His final inventory was written in red
What capital did Saint Peter possess?
Mhall46184@aol.com
Peter’s Pence
After Belloc, The Path to Rome
What capital did Saint Peter possess?
A pair of shoes, perhaps, a coat, a stick
A bitter memory of a dead-cold night
And happier memories of sails and ships
Of sunrise over the sea, and fish-heavy nets
And not so many words to burden a man
But only the Word - the Word and then the Cup
And a Chair which he found uncomfortable
His final inventory was written in red
What capital did Saint Peter possess?
Bread of the Presence - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Bread of the Presence
For Victoria,
In thanks for a gift of challah
For the people of the Word, and of bread:
Manna and matzo are the breads of flight
Of exile and wandering, Passover,
Diaspora, the Pale of Settlement,
And always “next year in Jerusalem…”
But challah is the bread of victory
A double portion of the kindness of G-d
The Temple built again in every home
Where the kitchen table is the Altar
And the blessing begins “Baruch atah…”
Mhall46184@aol.com
Bread of the Presence
For Victoria,
In thanks for a gift of challah
For the people of the Word, and of bread:
Manna and matzo are the breads of flight
Of exile and wandering, Passover,
Diaspora, the Pale of Settlement,
And always “next year in Jerusalem…”
But challah is the bread of victory
A double portion of the kindness of G-d
The Temple built again in every home
Where the kitchen table is the Altar
And the blessing begins “Baruch atah…”
We Are One Debris - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
We Are One Debris
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Discarded outside by an errant child
Culturally appropriates among the leaves
It seems to want to join its fallen brothers
Raw and natural in their native state
In multicultural deconstructions
Like, you know, all spiritual and stuff
Becoming one existential leaf-mold
Filtered through November’s hipster glasses
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Mhall46184@aol.com
We Are One Debris
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Discarded outside by an errant child
Culturally appropriates among the leaves
It seems to want to join its fallen brothers
Raw and natural in their native state
In multicultural deconstructions
Like, you know, all spiritual and stuff
Becoming one existential leaf-mold
Filtered through November’s hipster glasses
A paper napkin with a turkey on it
Welding and Philosophy
Lawrence Hall Hall, HSG
Mhal46184@aol.com
Welding and Philosophy
Recently a candidate for public office stated that America needs fewer philosophers and more welders.
Someone countered this allegation, and then someone else counter-countered, and then I turned the page and read the funnies.
One concludes that those promoting this artificial quarrel are neither welders nor philosophers, for while not all philosophers are welders, all welders are philosophers.
“Philosophy” (I’m told the word is Greek; I don’t know any Greek beyond “Kyrie Eleison.”) means, quite simply, love of wisdom. By extension, philosophy applies to rational thought.
Roget’s International Thesaurus, 3rd Edition, 1962 lists 68 elementary metals, 101 alloy metals, and eight leaf metals. This fifty-year-old book, an ordinary desk reference for any reader, mentions 177 different metals. A welder would respond with “Only 177? What a quaint old book. This must be for children, for there are many more metals than that.” The welder knows this because he is a philosopher, a lover of wisdom.
Welding is the science of applied metallurgy. A welder accomplishes a lifetime of study and a whole lot of rational thinking in order to cut, bend, blend, and shape those 177+ metals or any combination thereof in the ways he (or she) wants. The welder does not cut, bend, blend, or shape those metals without a plan. He cannot plan to cut, bend, blend, or shape metals without a deep knowledge of metallurgy, electricity, chemistry, physics, geometry, gasses, health, safety, and goodness knows what else. A welder might cut, bend, blend, and shape metals on a high building on a high mountain, where the changing air means he must adjust his chemistry, or far beneath the waves, where he must adjust his chemistry, know all about deep-water diving, and watch out for sharks.
A welder must also ask himself if he may with good conscience cut, bend, blend, and shape metals for specific purposes. If he is part of a team maintaining an oil field his conscience is clear, for despite the facile opinions – hardly rational thoughts - of the shallow-minded, drilling for oil is a very good thing. Without oil we don’t exist. If, however, a welder is asked to help construct a gallows, a bomb, a warship, or some other engine for the destruction of his fellow humans he will want to search his soul in the matter. Sergeant Kalashnikov may have developed his rifle with only the safety of the Soviet state in mind, but in the end neither he nor the Soviet State could control his invention, which has since been used against the Soviet State, its successor state, and lots of other folks.
To infer, then, that a welder is not a philosopher is a failure in philosophy, a failure to think, a failure to love wisdom. One might as well (or unwell) say that a woman cannot be a mother because she is also a daughter and a doctor, that a pilot cannot also be a cowboy and a merchant, or that Saint Paul could not be an Apostle because he was also a tentmaker and a Roman citizen. All humans, as Plato is said to have said (I’ll ask him the next time I see him), by nature want to know things. Knowledge does not come packaged in discrete categories. Thus, a farmer is by nature a biologist, chemist, geologist, and lots of other things, and to put all this knowledge together, that is, to synthesize it, he must also be a philosopher. Dreams and wishes and hopes and ideologies do not make the corn grow.
A politician who makes a public statement suggesting that philosophers and welders are discrete categories of being is either not thinking or is thinking malevolently. Perhaps the politician does not want philosophers – that is, ordinary thinkers – because they might examine his finances, his writings and speeches, his ideologies, and his actions with and against others, and determine for themselves whether or not he is worthy to represent them.
Roman legend speaks of Cincinnatus, a farmer and a wise man (for they are the same thing), who was plowing his field when a deputation of citizens came to ask him to lead Rome and save the City from invaders and from its factions. So Cincinnatus left his plow, took his cloak from the fence post where he had laid it, and went to rule Rome for a year. When the year was over, and Rome was saved, Cincinnatus returned to his farm, flung his old cloak over the same fence post, and continued his plowing.
That’s the stuff – not a philosopher-king, but a philosopher-worker.
Tyrannies cannot exist if there are philosophers; republics cannot exist without them.
-30-
Mhal46184@aol.com
Welding and Philosophy
Recently a candidate for public office stated that America needs fewer philosophers and more welders.
Someone countered this allegation, and then someone else counter-countered, and then I turned the page and read the funnies.
One concludes that those promoting this artificial quarrel are neither welders nor philosophers, for while not all philosophers are welders, all welders are philosophers.
“Philosophy” (I’m told the word is Greek; I don’t know any Greek beyond “Kyrie Eleison.”) means, quite simply, love of wisdom. By extension, philosophy applies to rational thought.
Roget’s International Thesaurus, 3rd Edition, 1962 lists 68 elementary metals, 101 alloy metals, and eight leaf metals. This fifty-year-old book, an ordinary desk reference for any reader, mentions 177 different metals. A welder would respond with “Only 177? What a quaint old book. This must be for children, for there are many more metals than that.” The welder knows this because he is a philosopher, a lover of wisdom.
Welding is the science of applied metallurgy. A welder accomplishes a lifetime of study and a whole lot of rational thinking in order to cut, bend, blend, and shape those 177+ metals or any combination thereof in the ways he (or she) wants. The welder does not cut, bend, blend, or shape those metals without a plan. He cannot plan to cut, bend, blend, or shape metals without a deep knowledge of metallurgy, electricity, chemistry, physics, geometry, gasses, health, safety, and goodness knows what else. A welder might cut, bend, blend, and shape metals on a high building on a high mountain, where the changing air means he must adjust his chemistry, or far beneath the waves, where he must adjust his chemistry, know all about deep-water diving, and watch out for sharks.
A welder must also ask himself if he may with good conscience cut, bend, blend, and shape metals for specific purposes. If he is part of a team maintaining an oil field his conscience is clear, for despite the facile opinions – hardly rational thoughts - of the shallow-minded, drilling for oil is a very good thing. Without oil we don’t exist. If, however, a welder is asked to help construct a gallows, a bomb, a warship, or some other engine for the destruction of his fellow humans he will want to search his soul in the matter. Sergeant Kalashnikov may have developed his rifle with only the safety of the Soviet state in mind, but in the end neither he nor the Soviet State could control his invention, which has since been used against the Soviet State, its successor state, and lots of other folks.
To infer, then, that a welder is not a philosopher is a failure in philosophy, a failure to think, a failure to love wisdom. One might as well (or unwell) say that a woman cannot be a mother because she is also a daughter and a doctor, that a pilot cannot also be a cowboy and a merchant, or that Saint Paul could not be an Apostle because he was also a tentmaker and a Roman citizen. All humans, as Plato is said to have said (I’ll ask him the next time I see him), by nature want to know things. Knowledge does not come packaged in discrete categories. Thus, a farmer is by nature a biologist, chemist, geologist, and lots of other things, and to put all this knowledge together, that is, to synthesize it, he must also be a philosopher. Dreams and wishes and hopes and ideologies do not make the corn grow.
A politician who makes a public statement suggesting that philosophers and welders are discrete categories of being is either not thinking or is thinking malevolently. Perhaps the politician does not want philosophers – that is, ordinary thinkers – because they might examine his finances, his writings and speeches, his ideologies, and his actions with and against others, and determine for themselves whether or not he is worthy to represent them.
Roman legend speaks of Cincinnatus, a farmer and a wise man (for they are the same thing), who was plowing his field when a deputation of citizens came to ask him to lead Rome and save the City from invaders and from its factions. So Cincinnatus left his plow, took his cloak from the fence post where he had laid it, and went to rule Rome for a year. When the year was over, and Rome was saved, Cincinnatus returned to his farm, flung his old cloak over the same fence post, and continued his plowing.
That’s the stuff – not a philosopher-king, but a philosopher-worker.
Tyrannies cannot exist if there are philosophers; republics cannot exist without them.
-30-
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini-as-a-Hippie Complex
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini Complex
Can you remember the last time you visited someone’s house and it didn’t have all those hippie commandments posted all over the walls? You know, those pretend-antique signs telling you to do stuff, like “DANCE AS IF NO ONE IS LOOKING.”
The logical rejoinder would be “Why the (Newark) should I?” but then you’d be talking back to a sign.
And then there is “EAT. LOVE. PRAY.”
Really, does anyone need a made-in-China sign tacked to the wall in order to remember to eat? One longs to see a sign that says “STARVE. HATE. INDULGE IN VAGUE, FUZZY THOUGHTS.”
People’s walls are beginning to look like jail reception areas, or maybe a cosmic boot camp, only with crystals and some groovy Peter, Paul, and Mary sounds instead of “NO SMOKING,” “REMAIN SEATED,” “NO TALKING,” and “STAND ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS.”
Here’s another Miz Bossy Beatnik life instruction: “LIFE ISN’T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS. IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.” Well, just as you wish, but if you dance in the rain around here you’re likely to get struck by lightning.
“LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED.” Oh, I dunno, something to eat, clothes, shelter – these are needful too
“DO NOT FOLLOW WHERE THE PATH MAY LEAD. GO INSTEAD WHERE THERE IS NO PATH AND LEAVE A TRAIL.” The problem here is that the National Park Service posts their own signs telling you not to do any such thing.
“FOLLOW YOUR HEART.” Aw, now, couldn’t you follow your pancreas instead?
‘THINK DEEPLY, SPEAK GENTLY, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH A LOT, WORK HARD, GIVE FREELY, AND BE KIND.” Wait, wait, don’t tell me – that’s from the Bible. Or Shakespeare. Or NCIS.
“BREATHE BELIEVE EMBRACE SHARE SMILE LOVE LIVE LAUGH CREATE TRUST CARE BREATHE CARE SING.” Yes, I believe those sentiments come from the Internal Revenue Service. Or maybe that was a comforting little something Sergeant Schneider sang as a lullaby to us lads at Camp Pendleton.
Even Christmas candies now tell us what to do. The foil wrapper around a chocolate ordered me to “HIT SNOOZE X 5.” The sequel to that would be my boss advising me that my services are no longer required.
Another wrapper instructed me to “GET LOST ON PURPOSE.” Happily, I’m not a truck driver.
And another: “BECAUSE YOU CAN.” Because you can what? Is there a cause that goes with that because? Is there a moral or ethical sanction functioning here?
Only one bossy sign would sound just right: “TAKE DOWN THE BOSSY SIGNS TELLING PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.”
Let us return to decorating our walls with lovely pictures instead of with edicts. Something classy, like dogs playing poker.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
When Walls Suffer a Mussolini Complex
Can you remember the last time you visited someone’s house and it didn’t have all those hippie commandments posted all over the walls? You know, those pretend-antique signs telling you to do stuff, like “DANCE AS IF NO ONE IS LOOKING.”
The logical rejoinder would be “Why the (Newark) should I?” but then you’d be talking back to a sign.
And then there is “EAT. LOVE. PRAY.”
Really, does anyone need a made-in-China sign tacked to the wall in order to remember to eat? One longs to see a sign that says “STARVE. HATE. INDULGE IN VAGUE, FUZZY THOUGHTS.”
People’s walls are beginning to look like jail reception areas, or maybe a cosmic boot camp, only with crystals and some groovy Peter, Paul, and Mary sounds instead of “NO SMOKING,” “REMAIN SEATED,” “NO TALKING,” and “STAND ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS.”
Here’s another Miz Bossy Beatnik life instruction: “LIFE ISN’T ABOUT WAITING FOR THE STORM TO PASS. IT’S ABOUT LEARNING TO DANCE IN THE RAIN.” Well, just as you wish, but if you dance in the rain around here you’re likely to get struck by lightning.
“LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED.” Oh, I dunno, something to eat, clothes, shelter – these are needful too
“DO NOT FOLLOW WHERE THE PATH MAY LEAD. GO INSTEAD WHERE THERE IS NO PATH AND LEAVE A TRAIL.” The problem here is that the National Park Service posts their own signs telling you not to do any such thing.
“FOLLOW YOUR HEART.” Aw, now, couldn’t you follow your pancreas instead?
‘THINK DEEPLY, SPEAK GENTLY, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH A LOT, WORK HARD, GIVE FREELY, AND BE KIND.” Wait, wait, don’t tell me – that’s from the Bible. Or Shakespeare. Or NCIS.
“BREATHE BELIEVE EMBRACE SHARE SMILE LOVE LIVE LAUGH CREATE TRUST CARE BREATHE CARE SING.” Yes, I believe those sentiments come from the Internal Revenue Service. Or maybe that was a comforting little something Sergeant Schneider sang as a lullaby to us lads at Camp Pendleton.
Even Christmas candies now tell us what to do. The foil wrapper around a chocolate ordered me to “HIT SNOOZE X 5.” The sequel to that would be my boss advising me that my services are no longer required.
Another wrapper instructed me to “GET LOST ON PURPOSE.” Happily, I’m not a truck driver.
And another: “BECAUSE YOU CAN.” Because you can what? Is there a cause that goes with that because? Is there a moral or ethical sanction functioning here?
Only one bossy sign would sound just right: “TAKE DOWN THE BOSSY SIGNS TELLING PEOPLE WHAT TO DO.”
Let us return to decorating our walls with lovely pictures instead of with edicts. Something classy, like dogs playing poker.
-30-
Santa Claus Hijacks a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Santa Claus Being Bad
Santa Claus began Advent by hijacking a helicopter in Brazil.
A man dressed as the larcenous old elf hired a helicopter at a Sao Paulo airfield for a flight. Santa then forced the pilot to set the aircraft down in a rural area where he and that girl from Ipanema tied up the pilot, abandoned him, and flew away singing “And to all a good night!”
Suspicion immediately fell upon the USA’s jolly Secret Service, those merry pranksters loaded with booze and automatic weapons. If an undocumented helicopter appears in the presidential fleet, questions might be asked in Whoopsie’s Adult Night Club just off K Street in the Magic Kingdom of D.C.
Presidential candidate Donald Trump immediately blew to the occasion: “We’ve, got, y’see, these mobs of alien Santa Clauses flying over our borders and no one but I can stop ‘em.”
President-Elect Hillary Clinton denied receiving any campaign contributions from Santa Claus.
The president of Turkey, Tayyip Erdogan, threatened to shoot down the helicopter if it violated Turkish air space, Turkish air space being whatever Mr. Erdogan says it is.
President Vladimir Putin of Russia took off his shirt and punched out a shopping mall Santa in St. Petersburg.
Students at the University of Missouri demanded that reporters stop talking about Santa Claus pinching a helicopter since this takes attention away from them and their specialness.
The Dalai Lama said “Let us be one with the crystals of helicopterness so that the healing sands of peace and harmony may sift through the holistic sunrise of the optimal oversoul and actuate the full potential of my 501C.”
The United Nations voted a resolution blaming the helicopter theft on global warming, and sent Americans workers the bill.
Fox News demanded boots on the ground for nation-building at the North Pole. Fox News says boots on the ground because boots on the ground sounds ever so much nicer than saying young Americans are to be killed in yet another undeclared war.
Local television outlets all over the world labeled the helicopter hijacking iconic because the FCC requires them to use the term several times during every broadcast. They don’t know what it means; they just say it.
In response to the Santa helicopter threat, West Point armed all its cadets with semi-secret M24 Flying Pillows of Death.
Westboro (who don’t know how to spell “borough”) Not-Really-Baptist Church blamed Starbuck’s.
China declared the helicopter to be sovereign Chinese territory.
In the Hallmark Christmas movie version the helicopter hijacker is a newly-widowed father and stockbroker named Ridge whose adorable little daughter Chloe-Zoe is conflicted about why Santa Claus allowed her mother to die. Ridge didn’t really hijack a helicopter; he only rented it to make some plot-gap point to Chloe-Zoe. The helicopter pilot is Brooke, a spunky, independent, thirty-something single woman who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus. Ridge and Brooke meet-cute and then they hear jingle bells and fall in love and get married while snowflakes fall and Chloe-Zoe gives a thumbs-up to the generic central-casting clergyman whom she knows to be Santa Claus in disguise.
Santa Claus stealing a helicopter - that makes no more sense than people beating up each other for discount vegetable steamers for Christmas.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Santa Claus Being Bad
Santa Claus began Advent by hijacking a helicopter in Brazil.
A man dressed as the larcenous old elf hired a helicopter at a Sao Paulo airfield for a flight. Santa then forced the pilot to set the aircraft down in a rural area where he and that girl from Ipanema tied up the pilot, abandoned him, and flew away singing “And to all a good night!”
Suspicion immediately fell upon the USA’s jolly Secret Service, those merry pranksters loaded with booze and automatic weapons. If an undocumented helicopter appears in the presidential fleet, questions might be asked in Whoopsie’s Adult Night Club just off K Street in the Magic Kingdom of D.C.
Presidential candidate Donald Trump immediately blew to the occasion: “We’ve, got, y’see, these mobs of alien Santa Clauses flying over our borders and no one but I can stop ‘em.”
President-Elect Hillary Clinton denied receiving any campaign contributions from Santa Claus.
The president of Turkey, Tayyip Erdogan, threatened to shoot down the helicopter if it violated Turkish air space, Turkish air space being whatever Mr. Erdogan says it is.
President Vladimir Putin of Russia took off his shirt and punched out a shopping mall Santa in St. Petersburg.
Students at the University of Missouri demanded that reporters stop talking about Santa Claus pinching a helicopter since this takes attention away from them and their specialness.
The Dalai Lama said “Let us be one with the crystals of helicopterness so that the healing sands of peace and harmony may sift through the holistic sunrise of the optimal oversoul and actuate the full potential of my 501C.”
The United Nations voted a resolution blaming the helicopter theft on global warming, and sent Americans workers the bill.
Fox News demanded boots on the ground for nation-building at the North Pole. Fox News says boots on the ground because boots on the ground sounds ever so much nicer than saying young Americans are to be killed in yet another undeclared war.
Local television outlets all over the world labeled the helicopter hijacking iconic because the FCC requires them to use the term several times during every broadcast. They don’t know what it means; they just say it.
In response to the Santa helicopter threat, West Point armed all its cadets with semi-secret M24 Flying Pillows of Death.
Westboro (who don’t know how to spell “borough”) Not-Really-Baptist Church blamed Starbuck’s.
China declared the helicopter to be sovereign Chinese territory.
In the Hallmark Christmas movie version the helicopter hijacker is a newly-widowed father and stockbroker named Ridge whose adorable little daughter Chloe-Zoe is conflicted about why Santa Claus allowed her mother to die. Ridge didn’t really hijack a helicopter; he only rented it to make some plot-gap point to Chloe-Zoe. The helicopter pilot is Brooke, a spunky, independent, thirty-something single woman who doesn’t believe in Santa Claus. Ridge and Brooke meet-cute and then they hear jingle bells and fall in love and get married while snowflakes fall and Chloe-Zoe gives a thumbs-up to the generic central-casting clergyman whom she knows to be Santa Claus in disguise.
Santa Claus stealing a helicopter - that makes no more sense than people beating up each other for discount vegetable steamers for Christmas.
-30-
Christmas - It's All About Stealing Other People's Exploding Stuff
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Christmas – It’s All About Stealing Other People’s Exploding Stuff
Most people, the sort who have jobs and lives, first learned of the existence of they-don’t-really-hover-boards through news reports of house fires and robberies.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are battery-powered toys upon which the operator stands while the gadget wheels him or her about until its batteries perish. Then the operator charges the batteries until they explode and set fire to everything around them. They’re sort of like a certain American-made electric car, only with two wheels instead of four.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are expensive, flimsy, prone to self-arson, and useless. Naturally they are very desirable to those for whom Star Wars is their religion and Che Guevera is their prophet.
Doubtless there are deputations of the cartoon-tee-shirted appealing to city councils everywhere to commit millions of tax dollars to build they-don’t-really-hover-board parks so that, following the success of midnight basketball, the Republic might be saved from cultural and moral decay.
The theft of they-don’t-really-hover-boards has become as common as fist-fights in the Ukrainian parliament. In Wisconsin a man (so to speak) put a gun to a seven-year-old girl’s head in order to rob her of her it-doesn’t-really-hover-board. Thus the poor girl was endangered twice, first by a lemming parent who gave her an explosive device and then by a worm with a firearm.
There’s nothing that says “man” like stealing a toy from a child at gunpoint.
When that he-man takes the stolen it-doesn’t-really-hover-board to his room and its batteries start a fire that destroys all his Will Ferrell posters, will he sue the kid for microaggression?
Donald Trump will promise to stop all they-don’t-really-hover-boards at the borders, Marco Rubio will ask for the child’s credit card number, Bernie Sanders will demand free they-don’t-really-hover-boards for all the unemployed, Hillary Clinton will deny taking illegal campaign contributions from the little girl, Ted Cruz will blame Canada, Sinead O’Connor will blame the Pope, the President will blame the renegade culture of assault batteries, Moustache Guy on Fox News will blame public schools, Turkey will blame Russia, and Vladimir Putin will rip off his shirt and take down a Toys ‘R’ Us with one punch, maybe two.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Christmas – It’s All About Stealing Other People’s Exploding Stuff
Most people, the sort who have jobs and lives, first learned of the existence of they-don’t-really-hover-boards through news reports of house fires and robberies.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are battery-powered toys upon which the operator stands while the gadget wheels him or her about until its batteries perish. Then the operator charges the batteries until they explode and set fire to everything around them. They’re sort of like a certain American-made electric car, only with two wheels instead of four.
They-don’t-really-hover-boards are expensive, flimsy, prone to self-arson, and useless. Naturally they are very desirable to those for whom Star Wars is their religion and Che Guevera is their prophet.
Doubtless there are deputations of the cartoon-tee-shirted appealing to city councils everywhere to commit millions of tax dollars to build they-don’t-really-hover-board parks so that, following the success of midnight basketball, the Republic might be saved from cultural and moral decay.
The theft of they-don’t-really-hover-boards has become as common as fist-fights in the Ukrainian parliament. In Wisconsin a man (so to speak) put a gun to a seven-year-old girl’s head in order to rob her of her it-doesn’t-really-hover-board. Thus the poor girl was endangered twice, first by a lemming parent who gave her an explosive device and then by a worm with a firearm.
There’s nothing that says “man” like stealing a toy from a child at gunpoint.
When that he-man takes the stolen it-doesn’t-really-hover-board to his room and its batteries start a fire that destroys all his Will Ferrell posters, will he sue the kid for microaggression?
Donald Trump will promise to stop all they-don’t-really-hover-boards at the borders, Marco Rubio will ask for the child’s credit card number, Bernie Sanders will demand free they-don’t-really-hover-boards for all the unemployed, Hillary Clinton will deny taking illegal campaign contributions from the little girl, Ted Cruz will blame Canada, Sinead O’Connor will blame the Pope, the President will blame the renegade culture of assault batteries, Moustache Guy on Fox News will blame public schools, Turkey will blame Russia, and Vladimir Putin will rip off his shirt and take down a Toys ‘R’ Us with one punch, maybe two.
Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?
-30-
Prince Albert's Christmas
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Prince Albert’s Christmas
Even the best prepared among us cannot anticipate everything contingency, and so everyone finds himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral) in a series of traffic jams and shopping lines just before Christmas, feeling that perhaps Scrooge was right.
Advent, after all, is intended to be a season of quiet reflection, not a descent into the serial cruelties of a Secret Santa gift exchange. Cue Scrooge stealing Tiny Tim’s crutch.
And then there is the annual cycle of What Christmas is Really All About selfies on the telescreen, as if that topic weren’t covered far more accurately in the Gospels.
One cannot get through Advent without being told yet again that the happy little nonsense song about the twelve days of Christmas is a secret Catholic catechism. Sure, and each candy cane is poisoned by cackling vampire Jesuit Templar Masonic spies who are guardians of Jesus’ earthly DNA which they have concealed for centuries in a mysterious glowing brussels sprout buried in a Prince Albert can behind a convenience store directly across from Oak Island in Nova Scotia in a direct solar-lunar-astral line with Jerusalem which must be true because it was on tellyvision.
Heaven knows what dark mysteries silly men who ought to know better might find in “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Since your ‘umble scrivener has not been vouchsafed any new revelations about Christmas, he submits instead a few family-friendly, non-Scrooge, no-shopping-required wheezes suitable for Twelfth-Night merriment around a merry bonfire:
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, yes, son, we do.”
Small boy: “Then you’d better let him out before he suffocates!”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, no, son, we don’t.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Prince Albert is, like, you know, so yesterday. However, we do have a festive selection of cigars rolled from Cuban-seed tobacco by barefoot maidens who breathe clean mountain air and think pure thoughts. Now this cigar, the Hoya de Bulgaria, is a bargain at only $25 plus applicable taxes.”
Small boy: “I sure miss Prince Albert.”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Yes, and he needs to get out; people are waiting in line.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy making a prank call: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Receptionist: “You dialed the wrong number; this is the No Puffin hotline.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “A can of what?”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “I say, young chap, this is England. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “This is Newfoundland, lad. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin, eh.”
Small boy: “Eh?”
Whenever we hear a good joke, a real groaner, we think of those who would enjoy it. But sometimes we realize that a dear friend is no longer with us. This is as true during Advent or Christmas as any other time as we remember with sadness someone who was at the Christmas Eve liturgy last year is not here this year. And so the joke remains unsaid, or perhaps sent only in silence, as the candles are lit in the darkness. The universe is said to have no limits at all, so merry laughter too must a part of the eternal merry Christmas.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Prince Albert’s Christmas
Even the best prepared among us cannot anticipate everything contingency, and so everyone finds himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral) in a series of traffic jams and shopping lines just before Christmas, feeling that perhaps Scrooge was right.
Advent, after all, is intended to be a season of quiet reflection, not a descent into the serial cruelties of a Secret Santa gift exchange. Cue Scrooge stealing Tiny Tim’s crutch.
And then there is the annual cycle of What Christmas is Really All About selfies on the telescreen, as if that topic weren’t covered far more accurately in the Gospels.
One cannot get through Advent without being told yet again that the happy little nonsense song about the twelve days of Christmas is a secret Catholic catechism. Sure, and each candy cane is poisoned by cackling vampire Jesuit Templar Masonic spies who are guardians of Jesus’ earthly DNA which they have concealed for centuries in a mysterious glowing brussels sprout buried in a Prince Albert can behind a convenience store directly across from Oak Island in Nova Scotia in a direct solar-lunar-astral line with Jerusalem which must be true because it was on tellyvision.
Heaven knows what dark mysteries silly men who ought to know better might find in “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
Since your ‘umble scrivener has not been vouchsafed any new revelations about Christmas, he submits instead a few family-friendly, non-Scrooge, no-shopping-required wheezes suitable for Twelfth-Night merriment around a merry bonfire:
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, yes, son, we do.”
Small boy: “Then you’d better let him out before he suffocates!”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Why, no, son, we don’t.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Prince Albert is, like, you know, so yesterday. However, we do have a festive selection of cigars rolled from Cuban-seed tobacco by barefoot maidens who breathe clean mountain air and think pure thoughts. Now this cigar, the Hoya de Bulgaria, is a bargain at only $25 plus applicable taxes.”
Small boy: “I sure miss Prince Albert.”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “Yes, and he needs to get out; people are waiting in line.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy making a prank call: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Receptionist: “You dialed the wrong number; this is the No Puffin hotline.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “A can of what?”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “I say, young chap, this is England. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin.”
Small boy: “Uhhh…”
Small boy to store clerk: “Mister, do you have Prince Albert in a can?”
Clerk: “This is Newfoundland, lad. You should ask if we have Prince Albert in a tin, eh.”
Small boy: “Eh?”
Whenever we hear a good joke, a real groaner, we think of those who would enjoy it. But sometimes we realize that a dear friend is no longer with us. This is as true during Advent or Christmas as any other time as we remember with sadness someone who was at the Christmas Eve liturgy last year is not here this year. And so the joke remains unsaid, or perhaps sent only in silence, as the candles are lit in the darkness. The universe is said to have no limits at all, so merry laughter too must a part of the eternal merry Christmas.
-30-
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Thanksgiving - Places for Everyone
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Thanksgiving – Places for Everyone
Somehow there are places enough for everyone
A tectonic shifting of tableware
A tsunami of saucers, plates, and bowls
The good Thanksgiving and Christmas settings
A rare bottle of Chateau du Supermarket
Gallons of iced tea, and soda for the kids
So many at the children’s table this year
And who will now sit in Grandfather’s place?
This year he dines at that Table in Paradise
Where there are always places enough for everyone
Mhall46184@aol.com
Thanksgiving – Places for Everyone
Somehow there are places enough for everyone
A tectonic shifting of tableware
A tsunami of saucers, plates, and bowls
The good Thanksgiving and Christmas settings
A rare bottle of Chateau du Supermarket
Gallons of iced tea, and soda for the kids
So many at the children’s table this year
And who will now sit in Grandfather’s place?
This year he dines at that Table in Paradise
Where there are always places enough for everyone
Aves Lost and Found - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Aves Lost and Found
Like years one’s Aves softly slip away
Across the lips and heart as songs of love
Unlike lost years, one’s Aves come again
Mhall46184@aol.com
Aves Lost and Found
Like years one’s Aves softly slip away
Across the lips and heart as songs of love
Unlike lost years, one’s Aves come again
The Chestnut Street Cafe - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Chestnut Tree Café
Another glass or two of Victory gin
A drag on a Victory cigarette
A game of chess, idle conversation
Nothing to do now, and no place to go
A corner table just for them
Ungoods confessed and shriven by the State
Cautionary examples doing penance
Beneath the ever-busy telescreen
Purging themselves of ambiguities
Awaiting only the bullet of love
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Chestnut Tree Café
Another glass or two of Victory gin
A drag on a Victory cigarette
A game of chess, idle conversation
Nothing to do now, and no place to go
A corner table just for them
Ungoods confessed and shriven by the State
Cautionary examples doing penance
Beneath the ever-busy telescreen
Purging themselves of ambiguities
Awaiting only the bullet of love
Old Robes - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Robes
“Lest our old robes sit easier than our new”
-Macbeth II.iiii
A re-sale blazer is liturgical
The appointed vestment for ordinary time
Dignified, yet humble and comfortable
Vested in the sacristy at Goodwill
Five dollars’ worth of human dignity
Free of ornaments and advertisements
A good old coat, blessed in its past owner
Now tried before the looking glass, approved
Then out onto the altar of the world
To celebrate again the mass of life
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Robes
“Lest our old robes sit easier than our new”
-Macbeth II.iiii
A re-sale blazer is liturgical
The appointed vestment for ordinary time
Dignified, yet humble and comfortable
Vested in the sacristy at Goodwill
Five dollars’ worth of human dignity
Free of ornaments and advertisements
A good old coat, blessed in its past owner
Now tried before the looking glass, approved
Then out onto the altar of the world
To celebrate again the mass of life
Two Drowsy Old Dogs - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two Drowsy Old Dogs
The adventures are pretty much over now
And the field gear was turned in long ago
An old dog dozes in front of the fire
Dreaming of rabbits he chased as a pup
An old man dozes over an open book
Dreaming of what was, and what might have been
In letters, words, and lines upon a page
Shaped into mountains and rivers of fire
And sunrise over the rim of the world
Where awaits the greatest Adventure of all
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two Drowsy Old Dogs
The adventures are pretty much over now
And the field gear was turned in long ago
An old dog dozes in front of the fire
Dreaming of rabbits he chased as a pup
An old man dozes over an open book
Dreaming of what was, and what might have been
In letters, words, and lines upon a page
Shaped into mountains and rivers of fire
And sunrise over the rim of the world
Where awaits the greatest Adventure of all
The Dying Romantic Mathematician - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Dying Romantic Mathematician
“Your trapezoid is vectored to a sphere”
She sighed, “and parallels are polygon.”
“All, all is perpendicular,” he coughed,
“And arcs are so rectangle to sad Pi
Equiangular in the radius
And rhombus has gone Pythagorean.
O canst thou concave the isosceles?”
“Yes!” she coplanared. “Yes!” he gasped in pain,
“Oh, yes, our love is solved for X!"
He died,
Quadratic equations upon his lips
Halloween Storm - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Storm
October’s wind and rain are being bad
They beat against the windows and the walls
Demanding to be let inside the house
Then thunder and lightning from the darkness leap
And shout “Baroom! Barrrrrrroooom! Boom! Boom!” and “Boo!”
Small children burrow deeper beneath the covers
Along with Bunny, Bo-Peep-Sheep, and Bear
And giggle through the stormy night because
It’s just Old Thunder laughing like Santa Claus,
And October’s wind and rain, making life fun
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Storm
October’s wind and rain are being bad
They beat against the windows and the walls
Demanding to be let inside the house
Then thunder and lightning from the darkness leap
And shout “Baroom! Barrrrrrroooom! Boom! Boom!” and “Boo!”
Small children burrow deeper beneath the covers
Along with Bunny, Bo-Peep-Sheep, and Bear
And giggle through the stormy night because
It’s just Old Thunder laughing like Santa Claus,
And October’s wind and rain, making life fun
The Unbeliever's Rosary- Poem
The Unbeliever’s Rosary
On the Occasion of a Passing
Say:
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Our thoughts and prayers are with you.
Then say:
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Funerals are for the living.
Followed by:
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
This is a celebration of life.
Then tie a stuffed toy to a chain-link fence, check your emails, take a selfie, and depart in peace.
The Deposit of Faith - a Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Deposit of Faith
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Our ancient Faith is a tangle of ruins
Where Aves and Paters are never heard
The only sounds now are ghosts arguing
Accusing each other of desecration
And keyboards clattering in ecstasies
Of outrage at synods droning in time
To the bowel sounds of bitter partisans
Other than gossip and mutual sneers
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Deposit of Faith
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Our ancient Faith is a tangle of ruins
Where Aves and Paters are never heard
The only sounds now are ghosts arguing
Accusing each other of desecration
And keyboards clattering in ecstasies
Of outrage at synods droning in time
To the bowel sounds of bitter partisans
Other than gossip and mutual sneers
Do Catholics believe in anything now?
Twinky-Twank Jesus - a Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Twinky-Twank Jesus
These are my church clothes; it’s all about me
Dressed to praise Jesus in my sneaks and my tee
I’ve got my electric worship guitar
Drums, keyboard, and cymbals (but no sitar)
MY Bible all dressed in a fluffy pillow
I’ll clap and sing, and sway like a willow
I’ll wave my hands all up in the air
Which is good for drying my armpit hair
Twinky-twank is salvation, don’t you see
And Jesus is lucky to have precious me!
Mhall46184@aol.com
Twinky-Twank Jesus
These are my church clothes; it’s all about me
Dressed to praise Jesus in my sneaks and my tee
I’ve got my electric worship guitar
Drums, keyboard, and cymbals (but no sitar)
MY Bible all dressed in a fluffy pillow
I’ll clap and sing, and sway like a willow
I’ll wave my hands all up in the air
Which is good for drying my armpit hair
Twinky-twank is salvation, don’t you see
And Jesus is lucky to have precious me!
So Who's the Snowflake?
Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
So who’s the Snowflake?
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves…”
- Julius Caesar I.ii.140-141
A good citizen is always hesitant to believe anything that flashes across the little screen of The Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz). While respecting this caveat, the reports of students at something called Mizzou expressing anger that the murders of over 100 people in France displaced attention from the students’ hurt feelings are not surprising (http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-rise-of-the-college-crybullies-1447458587,
http://nypost.com/2015/11/13/sorry-kids-a-real-movement-needs-more-than-hurt-feelings/, http://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2015/11/14/mizzou-campus-activists-and-black-lives-matter-complain-about-paris-stealing-the-spotlight/.)
Most people have never been blessed with the opportunity to study at university. Last week some of the privileged few, alleging hurt feelings based on nyah-nyah he-called-me-a-bad-name moments never substantiated, demanded the submission of the university administration. Over hurt feelings. As in a Soviet show trial in the 1930s and 1940s the president abased himself and resigned. Unlike the sequel to a Soviet show trial, he was not shot.
And now the protesting Mizzouzi snowflakes – who weren’t treated even to a whiff of tear gas – are outraged that their look-at-me-me-me moment has expired as the world turns its attention to other young people, young people who were murdered during a sustained attack in Paris.
The immaturity and the bullying of Missouzi students has been well noted. However, none of this should be a surprise. What else have they ever known? That is how they were raised. Consider the adult – adult - role models the Mizzouzi students (so to speak) have known since infancy:
The Secret Service
Bill Cosby
The NFL
The Veterans’ Administration
Bradley / Chelsea Manning
General Petraeus and his flying harem
President Clinton
Senator Clinton
Al Sharpton
Al Gore
The Diocese of Boston
Black Friday shoppers who trample people to death
John Kerry and his band-aid Purple Heart
The 50% who don’t vote in presidential elections
The 90+% who don’t vote in school board elections
The Khardassians
Jerry Springer
That strange woman who twerks
The View
The Brothers Castro
Helicopter parents
The list could go on and on.
In sum, why should Junior be expected to show good manners and remove his cap at a funeral when his father doesn’t remove his, and his mother is taking a selfie? Why should Zoey Kloey restrain herself from yelling obscenities when that is how her grandmother expresses herself?
There are rumors that this is not consistently so – rumors that there are young people who want thoughtful sermons, not guitar sing-alongs; genuine challenges and risks of failure, not participation ribbons; Tolkien and Chesterton and Lewis and even Dostoyevsky, not coloring books; real music, not three-chord poseurs shrieking propaganda; soap and water and vigorous health, not self-disfigurement; a few turns with a pipe wrench instead of making a Power Pointless Presentation; sunlight slanting across the autumn woods, not vampire videos in a dark, unclean room; a day on the deer stand instead of smoking marijuana behind a dumpster.
Sadly, when young people do try to better themselves and grow up to take a man’s place or a woman’s place in the worlds, their efforts are often in defiance of the poor role modelling by the grownups around them.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
So who’s the Snowflake?
“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, / But in ourselves…”
- Julius Caesar I.ii.140-141
A good citizen is always hesitant to believe anything that flashes across the little screen of The Abominable Autoscribe (cf. A Canticle for Leibowitz). While respecting this caveat, the reports of students at something called Mizzou expressing anger that the murders of over 100 people in France displaced attention from the students’ hurt feelings are not surprising (http://www.wsj.com/articles/the-rise-of-the-college-crybullies-1447458587,
http://nypost.com/2015/11/13/sorry-kids-a-real-movement-needs-more-than-hurt-feelings/, http://www.breitbart.com/national-security/2015/11/14/mizzou-campus-activists-and-black-lives-matter-complain-about-paris-stealing-the-spotlight/.)
Most people have never been blessed with the opportunity to study at university. Last week some of the privileged few, alleging hurt feelings based on nyah-nyah he-called-me-a-bad-name moments never substantiated, demanded the submission of the university administration. Over hurt feelings. As in a Soviet show trial in the 1930s and 1940s the president abased himself and resigned. Unlike the sequel to a Soviet show trial, he was not shot.
And now the protesting Mizzouzi snowflakes – who weren’t treated even to a whiff of tear gas – are outraged that their look-at-me-me-me moment has expired as the world turns its attention to other young people, young people who were murdered during a sustained attack in Paris.
The immaturity and the bullying of Missouzi students has been well noted. However, none of this should be a surprise. What else have they ever known? That is how they were raised. Consider the adult – adult - role models the Mizzouzi students (so to speak) have known since infancy:
The Secret Service
Bill Cosby
The NFL
The Veterans’ Administration
Bradley / Chelsea Manning
General Petraeus and his flying harem
President Clinton
Senator Clinton
Al Sharpton
Al Gore
The Diocese of Boston
Black Friday shoppers who trample people to death
John Kerry and his band-aid Purple Heart
The 50% who don’t vote in presidential elections
The 90+% who don’t vote in school board elections
The Khardassians
Jerry Springer
That strange woman who twerks
The View
The Brothers Castro
Helicopter parents
The list could go on and on.
In sum, why should Junior be expected to show good manners and remove his cap at a funeral when his father doesn’t remove his, and his mother is taking a selfie? Why should Zoey Kloey restrain herself from yelling obscenities when that is how her grandmother expresses herself?
There are rumors that this is not consistently so – rumors that there are young people who want thoughtful sermons, not guitar sing-alongs; genuine challenges and risks of failure, not participation ribbons; Tolkien and Chesterton and Lewis and even Dostoyevsky, not coloring books; real music, not three-chord poseurs shrieking propaganda; soap and water and vigorous health, not self-disfigurement; a few turns with a pipe wrench instead of making a Power Pointless Presentation; sunlight slanting across the autumn woods, not vampire videos in a dark, unclean room; a day on the deer stand instead of smoking marijuana behind a dumpster.
Sadly, when young people do try to better themselves and grow up to take a man’s place or a woman’s place in the worlds, their efforts are often in defiance of the poor role modelling by the grownups around them.
-30-
"At this Point, What Differend Does it Make?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
“At This Point, What Difference Does it Make?”
The Constitution, through a series of complexities including the Electoral College (and, hey, is their team going to a bowl game this season?), provides for the election of certain federal officials through a cloud of obscure words and run-on sentences, and a complete lack of paragraphing. Quick, now, sort this out:
The Electors shall meet in their respective states, and vote for President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the person voted for as Vice-President, and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, directed to the President of the Senate;-The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the votes shall be counted;-The person having the greatest number of votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person having such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the vote shall be taken by states…
Got all that?
This is only the beginning of an excerpt from Article II, modified by the 12th Amendment, itself later modified by the 20th Amendment. To understand the Constitution requires neither an attorney nor the Delphic Oracle, but a miracle. If our repeatedly patched-up, added-on, and torn-from Constitution were a building it couldn’t pass the plumbing code in Tupelo, Mississippi.
At present the Constitution seems much ignored anyway, with rule by executive and judicial fiat, and now selection of candidates by comedy programs on declining television networks.
Is there a presidential candidate in the last three or four election cycles who hasn’t been required to present himself or herself for an inquisition by talk shows, comedy shows, or the screaming coven on daytime teevee?
Imagine George Washington in a comedy sketch – “Okay, George, we’ve got this really funny set-up. You’re back at Jumonville Glen in 1754, okay, ha-ha…?”
Or President Truman – “Right, then, it’s 1945, late at night in the White House; you are in prayer for hours about whether to use the atomic bomb, and an aide sneaks up behind you and pops a balloon. What a classy network comedy moment, eh!”
Lyndon Johnson could guest on Gilligan’s Island in a skit about the Professor performing an emergency appendectomy on the President, bungled by Gilligan’s well-meaning attempts to help. The President then holds Gilligan up by his ears. Broadcast date 4 August 1964.
Given that broadcast television is declining, perhaps in 2019 potential candidates will be selected by the number of their electronic friends on MyFaceSpaceBook. President Justin Bieber right there in your in-box, pitching a shrieking hissy-fit so intense that his junior high school tattoos fly off.
In the meantime, stay tuned for next week’s Dancing with the Stars featuring Kim Jong Un.
On this Veterans’ Day we may well reflect on how all of us, especially young Americans in the military deployed in hot zones all over the world, deserve constitutional government, not arbitrary rule by personalities in two of our branches of government while most – there are noble exceptions - of the members of the third branch sit around, form committees, and investigate things without results.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
“At This Point, What Difference Does it Make?”
The Constitution, through a series of complexities including the Electoral College (and, hey, is their team going to a bowl game this season?), provides for the election of certain federal officials through a cloud of obscure words and run-on sentences, and a complete lack of paragraphing. Quick, now, sort this out:
The Electors shall meet in their respective states, and vote for President and Vice-President, one of whom, at least, shall not be an inhabitant of the same state with themselves; they shall name in their ballots the person voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the person voted for as Vice-President, and they shall make distinct lists of all persons voted for as President, and of the number of votes for each, which lists they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to the seat of the government of the United States, directed to the President of the Senate;-The President of the Senate shall, in the presence of the Senate and House of Representatives, open all the certificates and the votes shall be counted;-The person having the greatest number of votes for President, shall be the President, if such number be a majority of the whole number of Electors appointed; and if no person having such majority, then from the persons having the highest numbers not exceeding three on the list of those voted for as President, the House of Representatives shall choose immediately, by ballot, the President. But in choosing the President, the vote shall be taken by states…
Got all that?
This is only the beginning of an excerpt from Article II, modified by the 12th Amendment, itself later modified by the 20th Amendment. To understand the Constitution requires neither an attorney nor the Delphic Oracle, but a miracle. If our repeatedly patched-up, added-on, and torn-from Constitution were a building it couldn’t pass the plumbing code in Tupelo, Mississippi.
At present the Constitution seems much ignored anyway, with rule by executive and judicial fiat, and now selection of candidates by comedy programs on declining television networks.
Is there a presidential candidate in the last three or four election cycles who hasn’t been required to present himself or herself for an inquisition by talk shows, comedy shows, or the screaming coven on daytime teevee?
Imagine George Washington in a comedy sketch – “Okay, George, we’ve got this really funny set-up. You’re back at Jumonville Glen in 1754, okay, ha-ha…?”
Or President Truman – “Right, then, it’s 1945, late at night in the White House; you are in prayer for hours about whether to use the atomic bomb, and an aide sneaks up behind you and pops a balloon. What a classy network comedy moment, eh!”
Lyndon Johnson could guest on Gilligan’s Island in a skit about the Professor performing an emergency appendectomy on the President, bungled by Gilligan’s well-meaning attempts to help. The President then holds Gilligan up by his ears. Broadcast date 4 August 1964.
Given that broadcast television is declining, perhaps in 2019 potential candidates will be selected by the number of their electronic friends on MyFaceSpaceBook. President Justin Bieber right there in your in-box, pitching a shrieking hissy-fit so intense that his junior high school tattoos fly off.
In the meantime, stay tuned for next week’s Dancing with the Stars featuring Kim Jong Un.
On this Veterans’ Day we may well reflect on how all of us, especially young Americans in the military deployed in hot zones all over the world, deserve constitutional government, not arbitrary rule by personalities in two of our branches of government while most – there are noble exceptions - of the members of the third branch sit around, form committees, and investigate things without results.
-30-
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Given the numbers of garage sales, yard sales, flea markets, and resale shops, and telescreen shows about them, one wonders how much of the national economy at present is based on the population selling their old stuff to each other. In line with the times, I’m thinking of starting my own internet resale site. I’ll call it MeBay:
Cheap – two first-class tickets on an airplane owned by a leasing company in one country, flown by a SomethingJet airline based in another country, and crewed by a bunch of folks who can’t understand each other.
Hitler’s Childhood Rubber Ducky – we’ve got, like, papers and stuff, like, provenance, y’know, to prove it.
Bargain Landfill – made-in-China electronics. Sold by the ton. Some of it might not be all that toxic.
Scientology – a granola bar with an image of L. Ron Hubbard that appears in a glowing green color when the lights are turned off. The world’s greatest scientists have not been able to explain this mystery. Imported.
Ancient Critters - the skin of a genuine chubacabra. Or maybe a sophomore. Just the thing for your ManBro Toronto Blue Jays corner.
Carpeting – from John Boehner’s office. Smoke detectors sold separately.
Blimp – a fixer-upper. According to the U.S. government blimp technology is the future of surveillance technology. You and your friends will enjoy the Hindenburg experience aboard your own genuine military surplus blimp as this nation continues its progress into the 19th century. Some re-assembly required.
Stock Certificates – Enron, Radio Shack, Pan Am, Westinghouse, Kodak, Texaco, Hudson’s Bay. Begin saving for your future now.
Black Rifles – in a crumbling adobe warehouse just south of Magdalena, New Mexico our investigators found a cache of Viet-Nam-era Black Rifles in the original boxes. Never used. Some of them might not jam every two or three rounds. Maybe.
Doctor Zhivago – a rare first edition in the original English. With a certificate of authenticity.
Music – from 1962, Frank Sinatra Sings the Best of Happenin’ Elvis. LP record. Mint condition. Together with random Pez dispensers of the 1945 Boston Red Sox.
Fine Art – a velvet painting of President Reagan, Stephen Harper, Vladimir Putin, Teddy Roosevelt, and Rin-Tin-Tin playing poker. A classic.
Sherlock Holmes – a matched set of combination Holmes and Watson apple corers and pencil sharpeners.
Sergeant Preston of the Yukon – The Lost Episodes. These rare VHS tapes were discovered in a secret vault in an abandoned (and said to be haunted) Tim Horton’s in Salvage, Newfoundland. Most people don’t know that Sergeant Preston of the Yukon episodes were used as training films in the RCMP for years. “Hush, you muskies!” Or something.
You really want that C.I.A.N.S.A.N.C.I.S. blimp, don’t you! Nobody can tell us we’re behind the Russians and the Chinese in military technology. Have they got a blimp? Nooooooo.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Used Spy Blimp for Sale
Given the numbers of garage sales, yard sales, flea markets, and resale shops, and telescreen shows about them, one wonders how much of the national economy at present is based on the population selling their old stuff to each other. In line with the times, I’m thinking of starting my own internet resale site. I’ll call it MeBay:
Cheap – two first-class tickets on an airplane owned by a leasing company in one country, flown by a SomethingJet airline based in another country, and crewed by a bunch of folks who can’t understand each other.
Hitler’s Childhood Rubber Ducky – we’ve got, like, papers and stuff, like, provenance, y’know, to prove it.
Bargain Landfill – made-in-China electronics. Sold by the ton. Some of it might not be all that toxic.
Scientology – a granola bar with an image of L. Ron Hubbard that appears in a glowing green color when the lights are turned off. The world’s greatest scientists have not been able to explain this mystery. Imported.
Ancient Critters - the skin of a genuine chubacabra. Or maybe a sophomore. Just the thing for your ManBro Toronto Blue Jays corner.
Carpeting – from John Boehner’s office. Smoke detectors sold separately.
Blimp – a fixer-upper. According to the U.S. government blimp technology is the future of surveillance technology. You and your friends will enjoy the Hindenburg experience aboard your own genuine military surplus blimp as this nation continues its progress into the 19th century. Some re-assembly required.
Stock Certificates – Enron, Radio Shack, Pan Am, Westinghouse, Kodak, Texaco, Hudson’s Bay. Begin saving for your future now.
Black Rifles – in a crumbling adobe warehouse just south of Magdalena, New Mexico our investigators found a cache of Viet-Nam-era Black Rifles in the original boxes. Never used. Some of them might not jam every two or three rounds. Maybe.
Doctor Zhivago – a rare first edition in the original English. With a certificate of authenticity.
Music – from 1962, Frank Sinatra Sings the Best of Happenin’ Elvis. LP record. Mint condition. Together with random Pez dispensers of the 1945 Boston Red Sox.
Fine Art – a velvet painting of President Reagan, Stephen Harper, Vladimir Putin, Teddy Roosevelt, and Rin-Tin-Tin playing poker. A classic.
Sherlock Holmes – a matched set of combination Holmes and Watson apple corers and pencil sharpeners.
Sergeant Preston of the Yukon – The Lost Episodes. These rare VHS tapes were discovered in a secret vault in an abandoned (and said to be haunted) Tim Horton’s in Salvage, Newfoundland. Most people don’t know that Sergeant Preston of the Yukon episodes were used as training films in the RCMP for years. “Hush, you muskies!” Or something.
You really want that C.I.A.N.S.A.N.C.I.S. blimp, don’t you! Nobody can tell us we’re behind the Russians and the Chinese in military technology. Have they got a blimp? Nooooooo.
-30-
Monday, October 26, 2015
A Few Fragmented Thoughts in Search of a Thesis
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Few Fragmented Thoughts in Search of a Thesis
A cracker purported to be from the Titanic (how do they know?) has been sold for $23,000 at an auction. That’s no big deal; crackers that old were packaged in C-rations.
Or maybe they were talking about one of y’r ‘umble scrivener’s relatives.
Maybe we should sort through our pantries and find genuine antiques to sell – “Hey, John Jacob Astor was carrying this bag of potato chips aboard the Titanic – you can have it for a mere $23,000.”
Election ballots should feature a “none of the above” option at the bottom.
The literacy challenge of our time is for any news writer to generate an article without using “iconic,” “absolutely,” “actually,” “jaw-dropping,” “ground-breaking,” “makeshift shrine,” “_____ of the century,” “worst _________ ever recorded,” or “raising awareness.”
“Snowflake” as a metaphor for a spoiled brat should be good for another month or so.
The recent synod in Rome seemed to be the Church’s equivalent of a staff meeting – a bunch of people sitting around and talking about stuff while hoping some brave soul will make a motion to adjourn.
The death penalty is inappropriate. No judge, jury, prosecution, or defense is without human error. If a man is wrongly imprisoned, he might someday be released. If he has been killed by the state, a “We’re sorry” and a settlement are meaningless. If we really believe in a culture of life then the death penalty should be ended. Except for advertisers whose pop-ups block the Orwellian telescreen.
Chris Christie, who used to be somebody, was recently chastised by Amtrak for being loud and obnoxious while aboard a train. And we had forgotten about this great hope for the Republican Party, who celebrated him for being loud and obnoxious. And then Ted Cruz was the great hope. And then somebody else. And now a wealthy bigot. Once upon a time the Republicans were the party of Eisenhower and Reagan. Now their leadership of both the Republican and Democratic parties is a guest list for one of those old-women-screeching-at-each-other shows.
When Ireland won her independence from the British Empire a century ago she then sadly forsook her ancient traditions, murdered a number of her truest sons, and formed yet another tawdry republic whose ethics would disgrace a Chicago street gang. Ireland has been blessed with many great artists, poets, musicians, and good folk, but they seem unwilling to vote for a government that respects them.
Perhaps modern Ireland’s greatest gift to the world was Maureen O’Hara, who died last week at the age of 95. Ireland, although a republic, from 1920 until her death had a great queen in the fiery redhead from Dublin. Maureen O’Hara - ‘Tis Herself indeed.
-30-
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Listen to the Moon - A Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Listen to the Moon
When you are very old, speak to the moon,
Just as you did when you were very young
And if you listen, listen carefully
The moon will continue telling a story
That she began in the long, long ago
Just at the moment when you thought yourself
Too grown-up then to listen to the night
She smiles, and waits, that queen among the stars
For you to grow as wise as once you were:
When you are very old, listen to the moon
Mhall46184@aol.com
Listen to the Moon
When you are very old, speak to the moon,
Just as you did when you were very young
And if you listen, listen carefully
The moon will continue telling a story
That she began in the long, long ago
Just at the moment when you thought yourself
Too grown-up then to listen to the night
She smiles, and waits, that queen among the stars
For you to grow as wise as once you were:
When you are very old, listen to the moon
The True-Born Englishman Wants his Nap - A Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The True-Born Englishman Wants his Nap
Whenever an Englishman wants to sleep
He attends a cricket match, where snores are deep
Mhall46184@aol.com
The True-Born Englishman Wants his Nap
Whenever an Englishman wants to sleep
He attends a cricket match, where snores are deep
Another Inadequate Baptismal Metaphor - A Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Another Inadequate Baptismal Metaphor
September rain is a baptism of sorts
Redeeming summer’s woods and fields from drought
From death, at least a little while, so they
May vest themselves in robes liturgical
For late October’s frost-time funeral mass
Is celebrated with true festal joy
As in cathedrals, forests of the heart
With autumn filtering down through leafy prayers
The green months then slip softly out of time -
September rain is a baptism of dreams
Mhall46184@aol.com
Another Inadequate Baptismal Metaphor
September rain is a baptism of sorts
Redeeming summer’s woods and fields from drought
From death, at least a little while, so they
May vest themselves in robes liturgical
For late October’s frost-time funeral mass
Is celebrated with true festal joy
As in cathedrals, forests of the heart
With autumn filtering down through leafy prayers
The green months then slip softly out of time -
September rain is a baptism of dreams
Where are the Squirrels of Spring? - A Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Where are the Squirrels of Spring?
(John Keats wrote much of the first line; I helped him with the rest)
Where are the squirrels of spring? Ay, where are they?
Flattened by a log truck, just yesterday
When old enough to leave the autumn nest
They ran into the road, there flattened, pressed
Though cautioned by their wise sciuridaean sire
They panicked before an approaching tire
They had little time for a valedictory squeal
Before they died, so young, beneath the wheel -
So even if the old folks seem such a bother
You really ought to listen to your father
Mhall46184@aol.com
Where are the Squirrels of Spring?
(John Keats wrote much of the first line; I helped him with the rest)
Where are the squirrels of spring? Ay, where are they?
Flattened by a log truck, just yesterday
When old enough to leave the autumn nest
They ran into the road, there flattened, pressed
Though cautioned by their wise sciuridaean sire
They panicked before an approaching tire
They had little time for a valedictory squeal
Before they died, so young, beneath the wheel -
So even if the old folks seem such a bother
You really ought to listen to your father
Deer Season
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Deer Season
An autumn morning in the chilly woods
The campfire mostly ashes grey and warm
Some early riser fumbling with the stove
To light the gas and set the coffee pot
On a hissing circle of thin blue fire
While an outraged fox squirrel protests everything
The leaves are damp, pale-pearled with yawning light
From a weak, shivering November sun -
Dogs, men, boys, guns, boots, biscuits, pipes, cigars
Dawn sighing in the pine tops this perfect day
Mhall46184@aol.com
Deer Season
An autumn morning in the chilly woods
The campfire mostly ashes grey and warm
Some early riser fumbling with the stove
To light the gas and set the coffee pot
On a hissing circle of thin blue fire
While an outraged fox squirrel protests everything
The leaves are damp, pale-pearled with yawning light
From a weak, shivering November sun -
Dogs, men, boys, guns, boots, biscuits, pipes, cigars
Dawn sighing in the pine tops this perfect day
Night Terrors - A Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Night Terrors
When in the darkness monsters creeping near
Chase all the dreams from a little boy’s head
And have him clutching the covers in fear
He remembers the flashlight beside his bed
And aims it at the noises in the dark
Grim midnight’s hiddenness and mystery
Where monsters gibber and mutter and bark
He snaps it on – and what there does he see?
Curled warm in her bed, all in a tiny heap
It’s only the dog, snort-snorting in sleep
mhall46184@aol.com
Night Terrors
When in the darkness monsters creeping near
Chase all the dreams from a little boy’s head
And have him clutching the covers in fear
He remembers the flashlight beside his bed
And aims it at the noises in the dark
Grim midnight’s hiddenness and mystery
Where monsters gibber and mutter and bark
He snaps it on – and what there does he see?
Curled warm in her bed, all in a tiny heap
It’s only the dog, snort-snorting in sleep
Halloween Follies of 2015
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Follies of 2015
Halloween is dismissed by some as a superstitious folly, though of course it is far less superstitious than the belief that throwing a bucket of cold water over one’s head will cure a sickness suffered by somebody else. Otherwise rational people also believe that a paint stripe will keep two cars from crashing into each other, and that the lights and noises crackling from a little box constitute friendship.
Once a religious observance in honor of all saints, both known and unknown, Halloween was later kept as a children’s amusement but has since deteriorated into the first gimme-more-stuff day of our secular distraction season extending to Super Bowl Sunday
Children once dressed in old bedsheets or other homemade costumes to trick-or-treat under the watchful protection of adults. Adults now act far more childishly than any child, and the children themselves must be kept inside so they will be safe from looting and arson.
Children require only newspaper hats and wooden swords to present themselves as pirates or as Robin Hood. Adults spend money on manufactured costumes, a far more childish thing to do. Instead of cowboys and princesses, adults pretend to be the very persons they dislike, which can’t be much fun. Who would want to be a president or a secretary of state instead of a hero?
Given that Halloween is a political mess, here are a few unhelpful contributions to this year’s weirdness in costuming and in decorum:
Costume suggestion - a MePhone with a little human surgically attached.
A man in a suit stumbling around in confusion – clearly this Halloween character is a Republican Party leader.
An ensemble - an anti-gun Democratic congressman protected by guards with guns.
A wireless executive – after accepting the candy this character then advises you that by giving him candy you have agreed to a two-year contract and must give him treats every night or be subject to a fine for early termination of the contract.
MyFaceSpaceBook – this costumed character doesn’t go out and trick-or-treat; it slumps in a chair and friends (sic) pictures of chocolate.
A federal sky marshal – the character points a weapon at the householder and demands better candy.
A vegetarian vampire biting into a head of lettuce.
Donald Trump – this costumed character doesn’t ask for anything; he sends local armed authorities to seize your Halloween treats under Eminent Domain.
Trick-or-treating at the White House: “When the Secret Service man sobers up he’ll give you a nice, healthy acorn, sweetie.”
Trick-or-treating at tech support – “Your visit is important to us. The next available candy will assist you in (click) four (buzz) days. Your visit is important to us…”
Trick-or-treating at the home of an Air Canada cabin attendant: “NO! There isn’t any more candy, eh! We ran out of candy twenty rows ago! Go away!”
Trick-or-treating at the home of a United Airlines cabin attendant: “There’s an extra charge for that.”
Trick-or-treating at the home of an Aeroflot cabin attendant: “We have lots of candy. In Syria. Have you ever visited Syria? Would you like to visit Syria?”
Trick-or-treating at the home of a modern poet: “I, I, I, me, me, me, candy you say trick you say treat you say but my my my my oppressed marginalized victim voiceless voice cries out potty-mouth in serene thunderous existential angst against like stuff I, I, I, me, me, me.”
Yes, merriment is always much better when little pirates, princesses, cowboys, fairies, and heroes are in charge of it.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween Follies of 2015
Halloween is dismissed by some as a superstitious folly, though of course it is far less superstitious than the belief that throwing a bucket of cold water over one’s head will cure a sickness suffered by somebody else. Otherwise rational people also believe that a paint stripe will keep two cars from crashing into each other, and that the lights and noises crackling from a little box constitute friendship.
Once a religious observance in honor of all saints, both known and unknown, Halloween was later kept as a children’s amusement but has since deteriorated into the first gimme-more-stuff day of our secular distraction season extending to Super Bowl Sunday
Children once dressed in old bedsheets or other homemade costumes to trick-or-treat under the watchful protection of adults. Adults now act far more childishly than any child, and the children themselves must be kept inside so they will be safe from looting and arson.
Children require only newspaper hats and wooden swords to present themselves as pirates or as Robin Hood. Adults spend money on manufactured costumes, a far more childish thing to do. Instead of cowboys and princesses, adults pretend to be the very persons they dislike, which can’t be much fun. Who would want to be a president or a secretary of state instead of a hero?
Given that Halloween is a political mess, here are a few unhelpful contributions to this year’s weirdness in costuming and in decorum:
Costume suggestion - a MePhone with a little human surgically attached.
A man in a suit stumbling around in confusion – clearly this Halloween character is a Republican Party leader.
An ensemble - an anti-gun Democratic congressman protected by guards with guns.
A wireless executive – after accepting the candy this character then advises you that by giving him candy you have agreed to a two-year contract and must give him treats every night or be subject to a fine for early termination of the contract.
MyFaceSpaceBook – this costumed character doesn’t go out and trick-or-treat; it slumps in a chair and friends (sic) pictures of chocolate.
A federal sky marshal – the character points a weapon at the householder and demands better candy.
A vegetarian vampire biting into a head of lettuce.
Donald Trump – this costumed character doesn’t ask for anything; he sends local armed authorities to seize your Halloween treats under Eminent Domain.
Trick-or-treating at the White House: “When the Secret Service man sobers up he’ll give you a nice, healthy acorn, sweetie.”
Trick-or-treating at tech support – “Your visit is important to us. The next available candy will assist you in (click) four (buzz) days. Your visit is important to us…”
Trick-or-treating at the home of an Air Canada cabin attendant: “NO! There isn’t any more candy, eh! We ran out of candy twenty rows ago! Go away!”
Trick-or-treating at the home of a United Airlines cabin attendant: “There’s an extra charge for that.”
Trick-or-treating at the home of an Aeroflot cabin attendant: “We have lots of candy. In Syria. Have you ever visited Syria? Would you like to visit Syria?”
Trick-or-treating at the home of a modern poet: “I, I, I, me, me, me, candy you say trick you say treat you say but my my my my oppressed marginalized victim voiceless voice cries out potty-mouth in serene thunderous existential angst against like stuff I, I, I, me, me, me.”
Yes, merriment is always much better when little pirates, princesses, cowboys, fairies, and heroes are in charge of it.
-30-
Sunday, October 18, 2015
An American Hero Who Wasn't an American
Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
An American Hero Who Wasn’t an American
An American hero died this week. He wasn’t an American, though, so just why he is an American hero needs some explaining.
In 1979, when the President of the United States was so useless that even a Merovingian might despise him, the Ayatollah Khomeini and his murderous mobs decided to seize the American Embassy in Tehran.
Fifty-two Americans were imprisoned and humiliated for 444 days while the President of the United States did little but wallow in his own helplessness.
Happily, not every nation was as feckless. Six American staffers who happened not to be in the embassy during the takeover were smuggled into the Canadian Embassy through the help of others, including – and we must not forget this - Iranians.
Ken Taylor, Canada’s ambassador to Iran in 1979, along with John Sheardown and his wife and other Canadians, hid the Americans for three months while planning an escape for them. The Canadian government generated false passports and a good cover story, and despite poor decisions by the C.I.A. which almost ruined everything, Ambassador Taylor and his staff managed to smuggle the Americans out of Iran on a commercial flight before escaping themselves.
Had this gone bad the Canadians might have been murdered by any of the mobs whose riots and murders and shifting allegiances constituted the Iranian government under the Ayatollahs.
Hollywood, in gratitude to Canada and Ambassador Taylor, made a movie about the operation in which the C.I.A. got the Americans out while the Canadians did little to help. This – and the threat of a wall – is how our nation often treats its best friend and strongest ally.
Mr. Taylor reminded everyone that there were Iranians who knew of the fugitive Americans and risked their own lives in not ratting them out. Not for these brave Iranians and Canadians the concept of “what difference…does it make?”
The other Americans in Tehran spent another long and dreary year in bondage until the day a good man, and a good friend to Canada, took the Oath as President.
Thanks to an American hero who wasn’t an American, Ken Taylor of Canada, six Americans were saved from that horror and degradation.
“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and make perpetual Light to shine upon him.”
-30-
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Prayer for Saint John Paul II with a Bar Code - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Prayer for Saint John Paul II with a Bar Code
A homily scrunched onto a prayer card
A catalogue of petitions and prayers
With barely enough room for the bar code
Fitted to the bottom mechanically
Condense the happiness, remembering
A merry moment not so long ago
The young chanting
“John Paul II, we love you!”
Over and over in the happy night
And that joyful man at the window there
Replying to them
“John Paul II – he loves you!”
Erase the card’s long lines of words, and then
Write only this:
V: “John Paul II, we love you!”
R: “John Paul II – he loves you!”
Blood Moon - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Blood Moon
The end of the world is upon us again
Twice in one month our planet has been cursed
Or doomed or something; it’s all about sin
And cobbled superstitions badly versed
Oh, no -
For we are given a September night
Incensed with last week’s rolled-up summer grass
And blessed with choirs of autumn stars for light
A silver sanctuary lamp, and prayers to pass
In procession solemn this Saint Michael’s Eve
And joyful to us who trust and believe
The Long Retreat - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Long Retreat
Everything seems to be sad twilight now
Our golden dusk has dimmed, and slipped away
Built of ego and credit card receipts
The barricades were easily overrun
Desperately in time, desperately out of date
The battle hymns of yesterday ring out
Through the corridors of the old folks’ home
As leaden oldies groovin’ to the past
Let us stand down and vigil the Dawn, for
Everything seems to be sad twilight now
Song of the Wild Sheep - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Song of the Wild Sheep
Does a sheep ever long to be a free spirit?
While waiting in a pen for shearing time
And flocked with other sheep between the rows
Of fences channeling them here and there?
Does it imagine itself a timbersheep
Stalking poor winter grass through snowy woods
Or a furry hippie groovin’ at Sheepstock
Or yet a philosopher named Ovis?
If a sheep ever mahhhhhs a manifesto
It will be set to mewesic by Mahhhhhler!
Cane, Shillelagh, or Pilgrim’s Staff?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Cane, Shillelagh, or Pilgrim’s Staff?
A walking stick does not walk at all; it is carried by fashionable gentlemen who employ it both for adornment and for balance.
An acquaintance who shall rename nameless…don’t tell them your name, Pike! Oops – too late. Anyway, my buddy Pike must work with some uncooperative knee joints just now – knee joints are like that – but resists using his walking stick. My buddy Pike is like that.
Thus, I ask the reading public to help persuade Pike to take his walking stick with him on his adventures. Here is a beginning:
With the addition of a straw boater Pike could work on his Maurice Chevalier routine: “Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise…”
For football games Pike could bring out his weekend sports model, a walking stick with a portrait of Elvis carved into the handle.
All the cool kids have walking sticks this year.
An aluminum walking stick is a serious babe magnet.
Well, okay, a quadrupedal aluminum thingie is not cool, but for amusement Pike could name each of the four feet: Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Donald Trump, perhaps, or maybe Larry, Moe, Curly Joe, and Trevor.
Some walking sticks have a little compass in the handle. What could be more important than knowing where north is while roaming free in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store?
If Pike carries a walking stick and moans in pain occasionally, people won’t expect him to help move furniture.
A walking stick makes any elegant boulevardier appear even more elegant.
Pike could carry one of those clever walking sticks with a little flask of brandy concealed in the handle.
“Open Channel D.” Pike’s walking stick could also be a secret radio for transmitting T.H.R.U.S.H secrets to Mr. Waverly at U.N.C.L.E.
A walking stick can be used to measure the depth of street puddles and the Atlantic Ocean.
A swordstick would be handy for dealing with Commie assassins on darkened Berlin streets. It would also amuse TSA agents at airports.
A walking stick is good for beating snakes to death, especially the endangered species.
Why a walking stick? Because a walking pine cone just won’t do.
Most of all, I think my friend Pike should use his walking stick because without it he might fall and hurt himself. And that would make me very sad.
Pike would be sad too.
-30-
Monday, September 21, 2015
On the Shortage of Farmhands - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
On the Shortage of Farmhands
Or
Got Gratitude?
No televised awards for milking cows
No presidential medals of milkdom
No red carpets or memorial plaques
No offices, carpets, or retirement plans
The poets are silent on those who milk
Those pretty girls in cool convertibles
Are never known to swoon over good farmhands
And no one sings “She thinks my Jersey’s sexy!”
No takers? No need to wonder why and how
Since no one honors the man who milks a cow
Autumn Equinox with Heat and Dust - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Autumn Equinox with Heat and Dust
Perhaps old Janus is an autumn god
His door is open to the summer too
Open both ways at this the equinox
Upon tired heat and fall’s pale promises
Sunsets are earlier, and now the dusk
Is noisy with the mowers of late-summer
Still making hay while tractor headlights shine
Upon sad, dust-blown fields for one last turn
This is Saint Matthew’s Day, and summer still
Hangs heavily, like poor Macbeth’s late summons
An Offset Wing - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
An Offset Wing
A pine nut rotors down, suspended from
Its only wing for this its only flight
Dreamed long ago, and sung into this autumn
To free-fall-spin on warm September’s wind
This aviator of the mono-wing
Knows nothing of machined efficiency
Or scheduled maintenance according to
Electric rhythms in a plastic box
Its flight is brief, but changes everything:
A pine nut rotors down, and moves the world
Variant:
An Offset Wing
A pine nut rotors down, suspended from
Its only wing for this its only flight
Dreamed long ago, and sung into this autumn
To free-fall-spin on warm September’s wind
This aviator on a mono-wing
Knows nothing of machine efficiency
Or scheduled maintenance for turn-around
Its brevity is for eternity
The flight is brief, but changes everything:
A pine nut rotors down, and moves the world
Notification of Death - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Notification of Death
A sheet of paper is a forest leaf
Two sides of life reflected in the sun:
On one side is written the joy of youth
And on the other side an elegy
A single leaf is but ephemera
When one side disappears into the mist
So does the other one – or maybe not:
We are told both sides are corrected and kept
Fair-copied cleanly by a steady Hand
And folded then into the Book of Bliss
The Joint Task Force Combat Commando Pillow Brigade of Fluffy Death
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Joint Task Force Combat Commando Pillow Brigade of Fluffy Death
During the American Revolution, West Point, nee’ Fort Clinton, nee’ Fort Arnold, was fortified in order to keep the British Navy from controlling the Hudson River. The position was so important that the British paid General Arnold a great deal of money and a generalship in the British Army to betray the soldiers in his command. The plot failed but General Arnold got his British general’s uniform and maybe a nice pillow.
The matter of the Great West Point Pillow Fight of 2015 seems to have gone to sleep in the past few weeks. The thoughtful reader will remember that West Point ends its summer training with a pillow fight, just like the Marines, the 300 Spartans, the Samurai, the SEALS, the S.A.S., and the Spetsnaz.
The West Point Ye Olde Army Pillow Fight is said to be a century-old tradition. Several West Pointers from the 1970s report never having heard of it. Maybe West Point is like other schools, inventing brand-new old-time traditions every week or so.
One does not easily imagine Meade, Sherman, Lee, Patton, Pershing, Eisenhower, Abrams, Clark, Merrill, Ridgeway, and Haig pillow-fighting. Or their commandant ordering them to do so.
This year some of the lads decided that placing hard objects such as their helmets into the pillow cases would add to the merriment. Emergency room admissions followed. Nothing says Army Strong like breaking a fellow soldier’s arm or skull through a Benedict Arnold-ish dirty trick. In future wars these young officers will certainly know how much they can trust each other.
Since this is how future officers of the U.S. Army go all frat boy on each other, will they respect the service and dignity of the young enlisted men and women under their command?
The Russian army and air force are now active in Syria, and the Chinese navy is poking about in the ocean off Alaska. Russian bombers play double-dog-dare along the air spaces of free countries in Europe. In response, West Point is training the future leaders of the American army through Cub Scout hijinks.
Perhaps that’s in Sun Tzu’s The Art of Pillow.
“This is my pillow. There are many like it. But this one is mine.”
No doubt our young soldiers posted to Whose-Stupid-Idea-Was-This-Istan make their way into camp after exhausting patrols and small-unit action in the dust and heat and then amuse themselves with a jolly pillow fight.
Just like their superior officers.
The superintendent of West Point, a modern, sensitive sort of general who refers to soldiers as teammates, promised a full investigation, followed by short-sheeting the perpetrators.
Jokes aside, the New York Times reports that thirty cadets were injured in the pillow fight, with twenty-four of them suffering from concussion. In a pillow fight.
A pillow fight.
Thirty casualties.
In a pillow fight.
What would the odious Benedict Arnold think of that?
-30-
Room at the Inn
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Room at the Inn
If Jesus had been born in Newfoundland, the folks there would have found room for the Holy Family.
Many Americans fly over Newfoundland on their way to and from Europe, but too few visit that beautiful island. Fourteen years ago, when all flights to and from the USA were forbidden, a great many people of all nations found themselves taking an unexpected time-out there.
This piece of 9/11 history comes from Newfoundland via a friend of a friend there. Heather McKinnon, the operations manager of the Delta Hotel and Conference Center in St. John’s, relates this remembrance of 9.11.2001 and the days following:
I will never forget this day for the rest of my days. It was a Tuesday, on Sept 11, 2001. We became aware at the Delta that we would start accepting the passengers whose flights were landing in quick succession at YYT [St. John’s]. The first group of guests who arrived were flight crews from two United Airlines flights who had just lost many of their colleagues. They were shell shocked. Then the passengers started arriving - hundreds more than we could handle comfortably. And they kept coming. They slept on the floor in the ballrooms and meeting rooms, on couches in the lobby, anywhere they could find a space. This went on until the following Sunday. And my team here at the Delta displayed a level of humanity I won't soon forget. They swung into action. Worked an 8 hour shift and then volunteered to stay behind as unpaid volunteers for another 8-10 hours - served food, read stories to the children, organized games, took passengers to their homes for showers, did pharmacy runs. It went on and on. Corporate partners like Margot Bruce-O'Connell at ExxonMobil reached out to help us manage the masses. George Street United Church ministers conducted an ecumenical service in our lobby and everyone gathered together. Air Canada and United Airlines stranded flight crew showed up in their uniforms as a sign of respect to the fallen air crew of the US flight crew. It was heart breaking.
We had to ask all the ballroom sleeping bag guests to pack up their belongings on the Saturday before they left so a wedding could go ahead. Once the dinner was over, the bride threw open the doors to the ballroom and invited the passengers to the dance. For the first dance, they all joined hands in a massive circle around the wedding couple as they took their first dance. These passengers arrived as strangers. On Sunday, they left as grateful friends. On this day, every year since, I still receive messages from some of the guests from that week. They say the same thing. They will never forget. I have kept every one of those messages. What a week that was.
Amen.
An excellent book related to the thousands of travelers grateful to have been given sanctuary by the generous citizens of Newfoundland is Jim DeFede’s The Day the World Came to Town, New York: Harper Collins, 2002.
-30-
Monday, September 14, 2015
Enemies Foreign and Domestic - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Enemies Foreign and Domestic
Some battles are fought in dripping woods
And others along rivers lost in mist
Still others are fought in book and pen and thought
And in unhappy dreams, still lost in mist
About Those Purple Socks - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
About Those Purple Socks
Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote
The world had no more use for any of them:
An old Communist, an old priest, an old car
All of them well into their horsemeat days
And so they fled, and crashed into the truth
On a chivalric quest for purple socks
Wandering on the road to Golgotha
Their Stations of the Cross a cinema,
A pair of Guardia, a brothel, wine
And so they fled, and fell into the truth
There at the foot of the Altar of God
The History Side of Wrong - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aolcom
The History Side of Wrong
How very joyful then to be condemned
For serving on the wrong side of history
Stubbornly refusing the Kronos-trap
And laughing at a clock that isn’t there
Poor centuries are but long lists of lies
Death’s dated data-base of next best things
That weren’t, as pointless as a game of Pong
Played out by polyester Arians
For the tired thoughtcrime of not groovin’ in time:
How very joyful now to be condemned!
A Salvage Sunday Morning - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Salvage Sunday Morning
Pearly morning mist over our little harbour
The water sloshing a few feet away
A censer swinging, wafting goodly odours:
Sweet water, air, and earth, consubstantial
With coffee in a mug from Canadian Tire
A morning offering in gratitude
From this small porch, for all of Creation
For the quiet before Bert starts cussing his boat
(Because the engine is balky again) -
For here where we have found a Heaven indeed
Room at the Inn
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Room at the Inn
If Jesus had been born in Newfoundland, the folks there would have found room for the Holy Family.
Many Americans fly over Newfoundland on their way to and from Europe, but too few visit that beautiful island. Fourteen years ago, when all flights to and from the USA were forbidden, a great many people of all nations found themselves taking an unexpected time-out there.
This piece of 9/11 history comes from Newfoundland via a friend of a friend there. Heather McKinnon, the operations manager of the Delta Hotel and Conference Center in St. John’s, relates this remembrance of 9.11.2001 and the days following:
I will never forget this day for the rest of my days. It was a Tuesday, on Sept 11, 2001. We became aware at the Delta that we would start accepting the passengers whose flights were landing in quick succession at YYT [St. John’s]. The first group of guests who arrived were flight crews from two United Airlines flights who had just lost many of their colleagues. They were shell shocked. Then the passengers started arriving - hundreds more than we could handle comfortably. And they kept coming. They slept on the floor in the ballrooms and meeting rooms, on couches in the lobby, anywhere they could find a space. This went on until the following Sunday. And my team here at the Delta displayed a level of humanity I won't soon forget. They swung into action. Worked an 8 hour shift and then volunteered to stay behind as unpaid volunteers for another 8-10 hours - served food, read stories to the children, organized games, took passengers to their homes for showers, did pharmacy runs. It went on and on. Corporate partners like Margot Bruce-O'Connell at ExxonMobil reached out to help us manage the masses. George Street United Church ministers conducted an ecumenical service in our lobby and everyone gathered together. Air Canada and United Airlines stranded flight crew showed up in their uniforms as a sign of respect to the fallen air crew of the US flight crew. It was heart breaking.
We had to ask all the ballroom sleeping bag guests to pack up their belongings on the Saturday before they left so a wedding could go ahead. Once the dinner was over, the bride threw open the doors to the ballroom and invited the passengers to the dance. For the first dance, they all joined hands in a massive circle around the wedding couple as they took their first dance. These passengers arrived as strangers. On Sunday, they left as grateful friends. On this day, every year since, I still receive messages from some of the guests from that week. They say the same thing. They will never forget. I have kept every one of those messages. What a week that was.
Amen.
An excellent book related to the thousands of travelers grateful to have been given sanctuary by the generous citizens of Newfoundland is Jim DeFede’s The Day the World Came to Town, New York: Harper Collins, 2002.
-30-
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Perhaps Today - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Perhaps Today…
The sun appears each dawn, predictably
In its accustomed cosmic liturgy
Arising from the baptism of the night
The sins of yesterday now washed away
It smiles upon all earthbound penitents
And sings a morning hymn of sacraments
For now a theme, a dream, to dance as light
Thin filaments of air, soft-sighing there
Are teasingly presented, and then – withdrawn:
Another night of feverish, ragged sleep
Untamed Poem - Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Untamed Poem
A writer in an online 'zeen issues
An edict that must not be disobeyed:
By order poetry will be untamed
Untamed and free! (to specifications)
Now unmuzzle the trammeled trimeter
Let trope and trochee gallop wild and free
Release pentameters to pentabout
And dactyls to anaphora their dreams
O wild little poem, telling truth through metaphor -
You will be neutered by the editor
Whatever Happened to Gilligan's Castaways?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Whatever Happened to Gilligan’s Castaways?
After a busy day we are all tempted to take a well-deserved break from work and family chores in order to flop into a comfortable chair and vegetate in front of jolly post-war Italian cinema, the merry visions of Fritz Lang’s silent German films (silent, and somehow still loudly German), or the fluffy Soviet films of Sergei Bondarchuk, Sergei Eisenstein, and Grigory Chukhray.
Who hasn’t shed tears of joy and laughter as the cackling, sneering, moustache-twirling Czarist cavalry run down innocent, granola-earing, flower-sniffing workers and peasants through the thoughtful character development and in the subtle artistry for which Soviet films are famous?
We have to remind herself that for the sake of intellectual and ethical development we should occasionally challenge ourselves to consider more demanding works of the visual arts: Gilligan’s Island comes to mind.
The exposition is this - in the autumn of 1964 the tour boat Minnow is disabled by a storm and beached on an unknown island. In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales the Skipper is a pirate, but now he has reformed and doesn’t murder people. Although the Skipper is an experienced seaman, hiring bumbling Gilligan as his ship’s crew does indicate a tendency to self-destruction. Also aboard, and then beached, are a rascally Republican millionaire and his wife, a movie star, a professor, and a farm girl.
For three years of half-hour programs and then a series of television movies and cartoon remakes the castaways enjoyed adventures among themselves and with hundreds of visitors – including Soviet cosmonauts and the Harlem Globetrotters – on that supposedly unknown island.
The irony of Gilligan’s Island is that while the castaways want to leave the beach and the palm trees, the rest of us think that a month or so of sloshing around in the lagoon and drinking refreshing beverages from a coconut shell would be great therapy. And let the people say “existential.”
And what happened to the castaways?
After returning to the USA Gilligan became the lead technology guru for the State Department.
The Skipper, as a middle-aged white male, was declared redundant. He is said to spend his days on the beach in Florida bumming spare change from tourists and singing “Margaritaville” in bars.
Thurston Howell IV is currently the director of the Donald Trump campaign. Mr. Howell’s wife, Lovey, left him for Brad Pitt. The bitter custody battle over her pink poodles and Mr. Howell’s famous suitcase full of cash continues to this day.
Glamorous Ginger, now over thirty, finds work only as erratic mothers in guest spots in unimaginative, heavily laugh-tracked sitcoms.
The Professor was vetted by his university for ideological correctness, sensitivity, and multi-culti, and is permitted to continue teaching and research as long as he understands that physics, chemistry, and the maths are not objective realities, and can be changed often since they are always subject to the collective needs and cultural visions of The People.
Mary Ann developed a television cooker show called The Ruthlessly Chipper Cupcake which was a staple of daytime programming for years until she was convicted for poisoning three husbands, four boyfriends, and an unknown number of unhappy staffers. Her case was not helped when she baked the judge and prosecutor a batch of happy-face cupcakes sodden with a rare poison she discovered while on the island.
Does anyone imagine that Gilligan’s Island, with its innocent plots and gags and physical comedy, would be accepted for prime-time programming now?
The little ship Minnow is said to have been named as a dig at Newton Minnow, the chairman of the FCC who famously dismissed television as “a vast wasteland.” If Gilligan’s Island is a wasteland, well, this poor old world certainly could use a little more waste.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Whatever Happened to Gilligan’s Castaways?
After a busy day we are all tempted to take a well-deserved break from work and family chores in order to flop into a comfortable chair and vegetate in front of jolly post-war Italian cinema, the merry visions of Fritz Lang’s silent German films (silent, and somehow still loudly German), or the fluffy Soviet films of Sergei Bondarchuk, Sergei Eisenstein, and Grigory Chukhray.
Who hasn’t shed tears of joy and laughter as the cackling, sneering, moustache-twirling Czarist cavalry run down innocent, granola-earing, flower-sniffing workers and peasants through the thoughtful character development and in the subtle artistry for which Soviet films are famous?
We have to remind herself that for the sake of intellectual and ethical development we should occasionally challenge ourselves to consider more demanding works of the visual arts: Gilligan’s Island comes to mind.
The exposition is this - in the autumn of 1964 the tour boat Minnow is disabled by a storm and beached on an unknown island. In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales the Skipper is a pirate, but now he has reformed and doesn’t murder people. Although the Skipper is an experienced seaman, hiring bumbling Gilligan as his ship’s crew does indicate a tendency to self-destruction. Also aboard, and then beached, are a rascally Republican millionaire and his wife, a movie star, a professor, and a farm girl.
For three years of half-hour programs and then a series of television movies and cartoon remakes the castaways enjoyed adventures among themselves and with hundreds of visitors – including Soviet cosmonauts and the Harlem Globetrotters – on that supposedly unknown island.
The irony of Gilligan’s Island is that while the castaways want to leave the beach and the palm trees, the rest of us think that a month or so of sloshing around in the lagoon and drinking refreshing beverages from a coconut shell would be great therapy. And let the people say “existential.”
And what happened to the castaways?
After returning to the USA Gilligan became the lead technology guru for the State Department.
The Skipper, as a middle-aged white male, was declared redundant. He is said to spend his days on the beach in Florida bumming spare change from tourists and singing “Margaritaville” in bars.
Thurston Howell IV is currently the director of the Donald Trump campaign. Mr. Howell’s wife, Lovey, left him for Brad Pitt. The bitter custody battle over her pink poodles and Mr. Howell’s famous suitcase full of cash continues to this day.
Glamorous Ginger, now over thirty, finds work only as erratic mothers in guest spots in unimaginative, heavily laugh-tracked sitcoms.
The Professor was vetted by his university for ideological correctness, sensitivity, and multi-culti, and is permitted to continue teaching and research as long as he understands that physics, chemistry, and the maths are not objective realities, and can be changed often since they are always subject to the collective needs and cultural visions of The People.
Mary Ann developed a television cooker show called The Ruthlessly Chipper Cupcake which was a staple of daytime programming for years until she was convicted for poisoning three husbands, four boyfriends, and an unknown number of unhappy staffers. Her case was not helped when she baked the judge and prosecutor a batch of happy-face cupcakes sodden with a rare poison she discovered while on the island.
Does anyone imagine that Gilligan’s Island, with its innocent plots and gags and physical comedy, would be accepted for prime-time programming now?
The little ship Minnow is said to have been named as a dig at Newton Minnow, the chairman of the FCC who famously dismissed television as “a vast wasteland.” If Gilligan’s Island is a wasteland, well, this poor old world certainly could use a little more waste.
-30-
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
September at Last - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
September at Last
A dawn under clouds – September at last
No one longs for August, or misses it
The heat and humidity linger still
But the mythology of the calendar
Has drawn the summer’s metaphorical fangs
And grownups now anticipate cold fronts
Like children who know that Christmas will come
Although the season seems to be taking
Its own sweet time in bringing home its gifts
Of chilly mornings, and geese winging south
The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom
As with rattlesnakes, fire ants, and presidential candidates, the purpose of wasps within the glory of Creation is a great mystery.
Big red Communist wasps, their wicked, batlike wings pulsating slowly to the degenerate rhythm of a pagan blood-song of pain, lurk in porch corners - or along any of Donald Trump or Scott Walker’s Berlin walls - and then attack with a sting as painful and bitter as a glare of disapproval from a poll watcher from the other party who sees you voting in The Wrong Primary.
As the old hippie song does not say: Wasps! Unh! What are they good for!? Absolutely nothin’!
And if the county agricultural extension agent tells you that wasps are a beneficent species because they blah, blah, blah, she’s probably a Fascist or something. So there. Tell me something. End of. And stuff. And other logical rebuttals.
Real Americans buy aerosols of toxic poisons for sending wasps to the Grendel-doom they’ve earned. If the environment must be destroyed in order that wasps die, that’s a fair and reasonable exchange.
Usually the sprays work, but sometimes the wasps fly insolently away, unimpressed with better dying through chemistry.
What this world needs is a really good wasp spray. The ideal wasp spray would not kill wasps instantly, though. Oh, no. The perfect bug bomb would send each wasp spinning down like The Red Baron in flames, thudding to the ground still alive but dying in such gruesome (or is that grueful?) pain that the progressive Renaissance practice of hanging, drawing, and quartering would seem like a walk in the mall.
The American consumer wants that wasp to feel the soul-destroying existential despair of a freshman football player at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville when he (or “zhe”) is told that the name of his (or “zher”) team has been changed from The Tennessee Volunteers to The Incredible Edible Eloi.
The dying wasp must wallow in the same agony as a traveler doomed to wander throughout eternity the wretched-hive-of-scum-and-villainy hallways of Newark International Airport.
The dying wasp must be made to feel the ghostly chill that reduces even the bravest, strongest young manly-man into a quivering emotional puddle when he arrives at school on Monday morning and suddenly remembers that he is scheduled to take an algebra II exam at 0800.
The dying wasp must experience total bleakness of spirit as he realizes in his last moments that, just like a Republican in the summer of 2015, his life suddenly has no meaning after all. And that’s really hairy.
The dying wasp must sob in spasms of grief and sorrow, rather like a hungry child standing in line for her Michelle Obama lunch.
The dying wasp must be made to scream in horror like an ear-banging-hammer-metal-scum-rock DJ who finds that he is scheduled to work the three-day All Lovin’ Spoonful All The Time Festival.
Anyone who has ever applied cold compresses to a swollen, wasp-stung ear can only wonder why wasps were allowed to board the Ark and unicorns were not.
We need a meaner wasp spray.
-30-
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Make America Change and Hope Yet Again
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Make America Change and Hope Yet Again
Roderick Spode: “…this great country can go forward once more to glory!...Citizens…I say to you that nothing stands between us and our victory except defeat! Tomorrow is a new day! The future lies ahead!”
Man in audience: “You know, I never thought of that.”
-Jeeves and Wooster
Just like poor Charlie Brown believing, despite humiliating experience, that this time Lucy is not going to snatch away that football, the American people believe, over and over, that this time they’ve got a candidate. But again and again their football of happiness is snatched away - by Senator Clinton, Governor Christie, Senator Cruz, and a series of other Lucy Van Pelts.
As John Keats did not say, where are the candidates of spring? Ay, where are they?
They are gone, lost down the Orwellian Memory Hole along with pet rocks, the End of the World in 1999, the Hale-Bopp Comet spaceships, the End of the World in 2000, Jade Helm ninjas, the End of the World some other time, unmarked UN helicopters, the End of the World yet again, the Central Texas Disney World, the End of the World we really mean it this time, global-warming, the End of the World this September 13th, and those buckets of magic ice water that were said to cure disease.
Quick – who were the candidates who stood against George H. W. Bush in the primaries? Who was Bill Clinton’s first pick for vice-president? Who were the big noises for each political party only last June?
The current big noise promises to make America great again – just like all the other big noises since George Washington.
As a modest contribution to the low-Prole unreality show that by populist acclamation has replaced thinking in this nation, here is a matrix of well-used terms, some of them quite international, for future presidential campaign slogans. Read them, and then follow the instructions below for each candidate who is really going to save us this time, just like that last one, and the one before that, and the one before:
We are the people we are the 99% transparency we shall triumph the whole world is watching make American great again sustainable forward together hope and change long live our glorious leader the buck stops here remember the Maine power to the people no war but class war Le Québec aux Québécois justice for everyone je suis Charlie it’s Scotland’s oil heim ins reich every man a king Ross for boss change we can believe in si se puede bread and roses me no frego let’s keep fighting for progress Peron o muerte where’s the beef? reigniting the promise of America not just peanuts he’s making us proud again kinder gentler nation for people a new American century time for a change it’s time to change America integrity vote for change commitment honest putting people first building a bridge to the 21st century in your heart you know he’s right a time for greatness to begin anew peace and prosperity a revolution is coming happy days are here again he kept us out of war fighting for us rum Romanism and rebellion go Greens turn the rascals out forward the people’s president a green new deal for America had enough? strength and experience reform prosperity and peace drill baby drill America first country first hope let America be America again taking America back vote for leadership a real choice for America defeat the Washington machine unleash the American dream a safer world and a more hopeful America tea party working for America the choice is clear a stronger America prosperity and progress compassionate conservatism leadership for the new millennium we can’t wait everyday Americans need a champion I want to be that champion from hope to higher ground the people united will never be defeated bread and freedom a chicken in every pot I’ll build a wall it’s time for a change death to world capitalism greater together.
And stuff.
Cut up this scribble into individual words. Dump all of them into a gimme cap. Pull any four words out of the cap. Have those four words stitched onto the cap. Practice saying the words over and over while taking selfies. And there you are, all ready for Campaign 2016 for any political party you choose.
-30-
Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches - poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches
In life one suffers many twists and turns
And this is why one takes a wrench in hand
And turns the good things forward, the bad things back
When mending broken gadgets, lives, or hopes
So take the wrench, and turn the twist aright
Or take the wrench, and twist the turn aright
And spiral something beautiful into being
Because, as a worthy Marine might say,
This is a wrench. There are many like it
But this one is in the hands of an artist
Hurricane Tracks - Two Poems
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Hurricane Tracks
What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares
You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright
But you are free not to follow the lines
Because your life is not a gridded map
Hurricane Tracks – The Kirk Briggs Variant
What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares
You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright
But you are free not to follow…oh…wait:
You could also stall, strengthen, or fizzle out!
The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty - a poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty
Left-handed children will write prettily
To Old Lady Stalin’s specifications
When Buna, Texas freezes over – twice
Or wicked Palmer rises from the dead
“Why can’t you write neatly, like your brother?
Just look what a chicken-scratch you’re making
You’ll stay in from recess and write it over
And don’t you waste so much paper this time…”
No stories, no thoughts, only soulless curves
Left-handed children will write angrily
Corporal Himmelstoss - A Poem About the Office
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Corporal Himmelstoss
Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss
That dutiful office functionary
Bully and thief, master of the resume’
Keeper of the entrance to the boss-cave
A creature of fluorescent lights, a worm
Obsequious above, brutal below
The listener at doors, the writer of reports
The examiner of secrets and lies
The administrator of loyalty oaths
Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss
Two Cups of Coffee - a poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two Cups of Coffee
Two lovers surely sat here long ago
One evening early, as the winter rain
Slid down the windows like children at play
The raindrops teasing and chasing each other;
Across the table shyly flirting eyes
A little bit unsure, a little bit lost -
But happily so – they also teased and played
As softly as the winter’s window-mist
Two lovers surely sat here long ago
“Yes, sugar, please,” she said. “How did you know?”
The First Lesson in Diplomacy - poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The First Lesson in Diplomacy
A fountain pen cannot be monitored
By frightened Norks at ranks of glowing screens
Or hipster graduates of M.I.T.
Submissive to their way-cool boy-gods
A sheet of paper never breaks an oath
Or whispers carelessly across the sky
A bottle of ink stands firm upon your desk
And knows all secrets only ‘til they dry
A fountain pen cannot be monitored
So take it up, and not that spying ‘phone
High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry - poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry
Negates stultifying silencing I
Originary events negate me
Bible Belt culture of racism I
Nuanced imperialist grappling we
Compelled surrounding culture footnote I
Grew the poetry community me
Identify attitudes impulse I
Literally typically dismissed we
Cursory recurring dismissal I
Imbalanced anemic valuing I
Who is That Absurd Old Man? - a poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Who is That Absurd Old Man?
Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?
The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life
But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!
Monday, August 17, 2015
Pretty Klan Girls - Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Pretty Klan Girls
Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
So fresh and lovely in their springtime prints
A daring bit of makeup, hair just right
At early breakfast with their moms and dads
But sitting at a separate table so
Their youthful giddiness does not disturb
The adults’ serious, prayerful conversation
Over coffee in the no-smoking area
Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
All pretty for the rally later today
Elias and the Broom Tree - Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Elias and the Broom Tree
Asleep beneath a broom tree in Judaea
A man brought low, and lost among the waste
Stopped there to die, exhausted and alone
In refuge from a queen’s pursuivants
But in a little while a Messenger
Unseen will leave a gift of water and of bread
Food for a journey to the Mountain of God
But now, for now, for a few healing hours
Guarded in holy silence, only a man
Asleep beneath a mysterious Tree
Who is That Absurd Old Man? - Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Who is That Absurd Old Man?
Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?
The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life
But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!
mhall46184@aol.com
Who is That Absurd Old Man?
Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?
The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life
But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!
The Ninja Jade Helm Dinner Roll of Flying Death
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Ninja Jade Helm Dinner Roll of Flying Death
South of Springfield, Missouri, in the little town of Ozark, the hungry traveler will find Lambert’s Café, where the staff throw dinner rolls. There are two other Lambert’s Cafes, one in Sikeston, Missouri and another in Foley, Alabama, where more rolls are thrown.
And why do the waiters and waitresses at Lambert’s throw dinner rolls?
Because throwing green peas just won’t work.
Except for one-year-olds. A one-year-old can fling a mean cloud of peas.
Lambert’s is a highway-side establishment cluttered with the usual garage-sale debris tacked to the walls and which serves good, honest, industrial-strength-cholesterol road food. Lots of cafes do just that, so to stand out Lambert’s bills itself as The Home of the Throwed Roll. The diner who wishes another dinner roll catches the waiter’s eye and holds up a hand. The waiter then skillfully tosses a roll for the patron to catch. Your ‘umble scrivener has dined at Lambert’s. He caught his second dinner roll (hey, the first one was a bad pitch, okay?) without bodily harm, and can testify that it’s all good, low-prole merriment.
Naturally, Lambert’s is being sued by a customer who was brutally mauled by a ninja jade helm dinner roll of flying death.
The complainant alleges a catalogue of head injuries just short of decapitation. Apparently Lambert’s light, fluffy dinner rolls are really stealth gluten toxic death bombs.
Grievously wounded by a poof of flour and air, the diner went all Donald Trumpy hissy-fitty and demanded the cost of a new car instead of dessert. After all, she could not possibly have read the signs about the “throwed” rolls or have seen the aerial celebrations of the in-house baker’s art flying as gracefully through the air as spring butterflies.
One is reminded of the story, some years ago, of the high school girl who sued for a spot on the football team and then sued again because a blocker on the opposing team knocked her down during a game. Her grounds for the second lawsuit were that no one had told her she could get hurt playing football.
But to be taken down by a dinner roll - oh, the humanity.
Thank goodness the weapon wasn’t something heavier and sharper, such as a marshmallow.
Lambert’s might need to place warnings on its dinner rolls: “The Surgeon General of the State of Missouri has determined that food is dangerous to your health.”
Think of a carbohydrate movie treatment: Sergeant Preston and his husky King keep Canada safe for the Empire with just a dog sled and a buttered croissant.
Or Casablanca: “Get away from that ‘phone! I was willing to fling an English muffin at Captain Reynaud and I’m willing to fling an English muffin at you!”
Hunters will have to pass day-long bread safety courses before they can legally take to the woods with a biscuit.
The United States Senate, aka The Marx Brothers and Sisters, will hold hearings on the racism of flinging dinner rolls made of white flour.
Many businesses do not lend themselves to the concept of flinging. Auto parts come to mind: “Hey, Joe, here’s your new exhaust manifold…catch!”
Or children’s health clinics: “Okay, kids, who wants to play dodge-the-flu-shots?”
Many people take up hobbies that feature some element of danger: skydiving, mountain climbing, skiing, motorcycling, and beating Vladimir Putin at chess come to mind. But no one would have thought of the lurking menace (cue the Jaws shark music), the raw, savage, blood-crazed, edge-of-your-seat terror in asking the waitress for another dinner roll.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Ninja Jade Helm Dinner Roll of Flying Death
South of Springfield, Missouri, in the little town of Ozark, the hungry traveler will find Lambert’s Café, where the staff throw dinner rolls. There are two other Lambert’s Cafes, one in Sikeston, Missouri and another in Foley, Alabama, where more rolls are thrown.
And why do the waiters and waitresses at Lambert’s throw dinner rolls?
Because throwing green peas just won’t work.
Except for one-year-olds. A one-year-old can fling a mean cloud of peas.
Lambert’s is a highway-side establishment cluttered with the usual garage-sale debris tacked to the walls and which serves good, honest, industrial-strength-cholesterol road food. Lots of cafes do just that, so to stand out Lambert’s bills itself as The Home of the Throwed Roll. The diner who wishes another dinner roll catches the waiter’s eye and holds up a hand. The waiter then skillfully tosses a roll for the patron to catch. Your ‘umble scrivener has dined at Lambert’s. He caught his second dinner roll (hey, the first one was a bad pitch, okay?) without bodily harm, and can testify that it’s all good, low-prole merriment.
Naturally, Lambert’s is being sued by a customer who was brutally mauled by a ninja jade helm dinner roll of flying death.
The complainant alleges a catalogue of head injuries just short of decapitation. Apparently Lambert’s light, fluffy dinner rolls are really stealth gluten toxic death bombs.
Grievously wounded by a poof of flour and air, the diner went all Donald Trumpy hissy-fitty and demanded the cost of a new car instead of dessert. After all, she could not possibly have read the signs about the “throwed” rolls or have seen the aerial celebrations of the in-house baker’s art flying as gracefully through the air as spring butterflies.
One is reminded of the story, some years ago, of the high school girl who sued for a spot on the football team and then sued again because a blocker on the opposing team knocked her down during a game. Her grounds for the second lawsuit were that no one had told her she could get hurt playing football.
But to be taken down by a dinner roll - oh, the humanity.
Thank goodness the weapon wasn’t something heavier and sharper, such as a marshmallow.
Lambert’s might need to place warnings on its dinner rolls: “The Surgeon General of the State of Missouri has determined that food is dangerous to your health.”
Think of a carbohydrate movie treatment: Sergeant Preston and his husky King keep Canada safe for the Empire with just a dog sled and a buttered croissant.
Or Casablanca: “Get away from that ‘phone! I was willing to fling an English muffin at Captain Reynaud and I’m willing to fling an English muffin at you!”
Hunters will have to pass day-long bread safety courses before they can legally take to the woods with a biscuit.
The United States Senate, aka The Marx Brothers and Sisters, will hold hearings on the racism of flinging dinner rolls made of white flour.
Many businesses do not lend themselves to the concept of flinging. Auto parts come to mind: “Hey, Joe, here’s your new exhaust manifold…catch!”
Or children’s health clinics: “Okay, kids, who wants to play dodge-the-flu-shots?”
Many people take up hobbies that feature some element of danger: skydiving, mountain climbing, skiing, motorcycling, and beating Vladimir Putin at chess come to mind. But no one would have thought of the lurking menace (cue the Jaws shark music), the raw, savage, blood-crazed, edge-of-your-seat terror in asking the waitress for another dinner roll.
-30-
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
It Begins With an Unreferenced Pronoun - Poem
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
It Begins With an Unreferenced Pronoun
That which is not winding down is gearing up
Then said to be however under way
Exciting year anticipates even better
Rekindling old friendships short enjoyable
Forward to the high school cafeteria
Another great please plan to join and look
Begin another year preparing it
To seeing you has convocation it
Committed to excellence each of you
That which is not gearing down is winding up
A U-Haul Box - Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A U-Haul Box
A cardboard U-Haul box is a time machine
Which stores the years in careless unity
A lonely chessman lost and wandering
Along the childhood lanes of Candyland
Next to a napkin from the senior prom
Some keys that don’t seem to fit anything
And an unlabeled videocassette
Of a cousin’s wedding in ‘89
Old pens, old plates, old dreams, old high-school jeans:
A cardboard U-Haul Box is a time machine
mhall46184@aol.com
A U-Haul Box
A cardboard U-Haul box is a time machine
Which stores the years in careless unity
A lonely chessman lost and wandering
Along the childhood lanes of Candyland
Next to a napkin from the senior prom
Some keys that don’t seem to fit anything
And an unlabeled videocassette
Of a cousin’s wedding in ‘89
Old pens, old plates, old dreams, old high-school jeans:
A cardboard U-Haul Box is a time machine
Monday, August 10, 2015
Lions and Dentists and Trumps, Oh, My!
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Lions and Dentists and Trumps, Oh, My!
The world remains outraged over the death of Trevor the Hairpiece. Trevor, beloved of everyone in the U.S.A., was slaughtered by a dentist from Zimbabwe who hired two local guides to help him in his search for a prize hairpiece to kill, kill, kill.
The alleged hair murderer is Dr. James Mbiriri, an orthodontist from Harare. Dr. Mbiriri is unavailable for comment, and his office is closed until further notice.
Reports from Iowa indicate that the guides, Megyn and Roger, lured Trevor the Hairpiece from Donald Trump’s head by bribing a disgruntled lone wolf rogue stylist taking secret orders from Chewbacca the Wookie through a secret radio transceiver in the basement of the Vatican barber shop. Once Mortimer was outside the otherwise empty crawlspace, Dr. Mbiriri cruelly dispatched the poor hairpiece with the little scissors of his Swiss Army Knife despite Trevor’s tearful rendition of the title song from Hair.
Trevor the Hairpiece died a slow, agonizing death, sort of like veterans waiting for the government to do right by them.
School children all over the world are crayoning tearstained pictures of their hero and inspiration, Saint Trevor the Hairpiece. Their parents are lining up outside stores to buy Trevor the Hairpiece backpacks and Trevor the Hairpiece pencils and crayons for the new school year.
In Paris the obedient sort of people who wear Che Guano tees are chanting “Je suis Trevor the Hairpiece!”
The Cackling Woman Cookery Show on The Gourmand Channel has gone dark in mourning, and its angel-hair spaghetti is being flown at half-mast for thirty minutes or until the rinse-and-set is complete.
In response to the hairpiece crisis the State of Texas has directed all appraisal districts to raise property taxes again.
Dr. Mbiriri’s selfie of himself and the trophy hairpiece has gone as viral as pouring buckets of ice water over secret Jade Helm ninjas skulking in the dark corridors of an abandoned Wal-Mart atop Bald Mountain.
Protestors have blockaded the Swiss embassy in Harare and are tying stuffed toy Trevors to the fence in that all-purpose response to anything, a makeshift shrine, which is of course a contradiction. When a reporter for the ZBC asked a demonstrator if she could define the term makeshift the demonstrator filed charges of insensitivity against ZBC. “We’re outraged that Switzerland promotes violence to free-range hairpieces all over the world through its obscene manufacture of itty-bitty pocket knives with ittier-bittier scissors, and the ZBC are interrupting my script with an appeal to rationality!” she shrieked.
According to Poncy Tworbst, BA, MA, Certified Grief Counselor, and Ordained Holistic Aromatherapist, consultant to The Times of Zimbabwe, “This is another example of a privileged supremacist hirsutest imposing his tonsorial appropriation occupation syncopation centrist views on a primitive culture, Iowa, through his psychologically dubious quest for trophy follicles.”
The Speaker of the Parliament of Zimbabwe has called for hearings, ‘net mobs have called for the extradition of a Zimbabwean citizen to the U.S.A. based on ‘net gossip, and the Minister of Defence has called for every commander to confiscate all scissored pocket knives from Zimbabwean soldiers and airmen.
In his morning minute Tim Brocaw said “I, I, I, me, me, me was once among hairpieces when I, I, I was a barefoot all-American lad in West Dakota. I am not a bad hairdo, but I, I, I am honored to have lived among them, and I, I, I am so special and aw-shucks cute.”
The Church of Elvis is re-naming itself The Church of Trevor the Hairpiece, and new streets will be named for Trevor. Every morning all really sensitive Zimbabweans will pledge allegiance to Trevor-ness, and statues of so-last-week Zimbabwean heroes will be pulled down and replaced with memorials to Trevor the Great. There will be Trevor the Hairpiece Editions of the Bible with commentaries by Trevor the Hairpiece in the margins. The peoples of the world will unite in perpetual adoration of Trevor the Hairpiece, and will forswear all food because rainbows, sunshine, and gluten-free air are all humanity needs for nutrition and for holistic dental care.
The relics of Saint Trevor will be enshrined in St. Ambrose’s Cathedral in Iowa City. A basilica will be built over the site of his martyrdom, and will be consecrated by Rosie O’Donnell with a Sacred Liturgical Twerking of the Salisbury Rite of Rebuke Against the Trumpness.
All hairpieces everywhere will be allowed to roam wild and free in their natural habitat, and will not be murdered by greedy humans looking for a hair-raising thrill.
Justice for Trevor the Hairpiece! The ‘Net Mob demands it!
And justice for murdered children? Still no word on that.
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