Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
More Things People Never Say
So how is wearing a red clown nose going to help anyone other than the manufacturers of red clown noses? And what happened to that money I gave someone else last year when I threw a bucket of ice water over my head?
My son’s been arrested several times. Clearly I didn’t raise him better than that.
I really miss the Habsburgs and the Romanovs. The Saxe-Coburg-Gothas are okay in their own way, of course.
I think he’s found all his marbles.
It ain’t over until the skinny gentleman sings.
Vote for me – I’m a Washington insider.
I sure hope Japan kills more whales this year.
Blue Bell wasn’t all that good anyway.
Harp seal – it’s what’s for dinner.
A new tie is a great Fathers’ Day gift.
Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.
He’s an undecorated veteran.
My lips are unsealed.
Soon to be a minor motion picture.
Pay it backward.
At least he died doing what he didn’t like.
This new book is a must-not-read.
You’ve got some small shoes to fill.
When they made him they kept the mold.
The experience was jaw-lifting.
This next speaker will not change your life forever.
Why, yes, I am surgically attached to my MePhone.
Here’s how we attract the youth to church – we tell them the simple truth and cut out all the entertainment.
Ya gotta find your periphery, man; ya gotta find your periphery.
When I grow up I want to be a cop or a teacher.
Oh, do look at the house; it’s not such a mess.
My homework ate my dog – that was one wild biology experiment.
I’m going to the camera shop for a selfless stick.
The other kids and I are reading The Brothers Karamazov this summer. So cool!
-30-
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Embrace Your Inner Adult
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Embrace Your Inner Adult
With the last of the fictional, cliché-sodden, wish-fulfillment graduation speeches cluttering up our in-boxes we can now turn to the more casual summer pattern of talking back to the filler-language of reporters and interviewers:
This video is going bacterial.
We’re in charted territory.
We need to educate for the 12th century.
Follow your works.
Let’s think inside the box.
There is something new under the sun.
Be careful what you wish for; you might not get it.
Let’s throw more money at the problem.
This isn’t ridiculous! This isn’t ridiculous!
The times need to get with the Church.
That’s just the way the world doesn’t work now.
We didn’t dodge the bullet; the bullet dodged us.
OMZ! OMZ! (for “Oh my Zeus!”) on the repeated amateur footage of tornado porn on what used to be a weather channel.
I say “Kafka-esque” a lot, but I don’t know what that means.
He pushed in all the stops.
The storm was imperfect.
He’s not a lone wolf. Lone gerbil, maybe.
You need to give 95 percent.
Write from your pancreas, not from your heart.
Inexact change, please.
I’d like some extra cholesterol with that.
That is so new school.
And, as a farewell to graduation speeches until December,
I just love guest speakers at graduation. I only wish they would talk longer. After all, I’m not much interested in seeing my child receive her diploma.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Embrace Your Inner Adult
With the last of the fictional, cliché-sodden, wish-fulfillment graduation speeches cluttering up our in-boxes we can now turn to the more casual summer pattern of talking back to the filler-language of reporters and interviewers:
This video is going bacterial.
We’re in charted territory.
We need to educate for the 12th century.
Follow your works.
Let’s think inside the box.
There is something new under the sun.
Be careful what you wish for; you might not get it.
Let’s throw more money at the problem.
This isn’t ridiculous! This isn’t ridiculous!
The times need to get with the Church.
That’s just the way the world doesn’t work now.
We didn’t dodge the bullet; the bullet dodged us.
OMZ! OMZ! (for “Oh my Zeus!”) on the repeated amateur footage of tornado porn on what used to be a weather channel.
I say “Kafka-esque” a lot, but I don’t know what that means.
He pushed in all the stops.
The storm was imperfect.
He’s not a lone wolf. Lone gerbil, maybe.
You need to give 95 percent.
Write from your pancreas, not from your heart.
Inexact change, please.
I’d like some extra cholesterol with that.
That is so new school.
And, as a farewell to graduation speeches until December,
I just love guest speakers at graduation. I only wish they would talk longer. After all, I’m not much interested in seeing my child receive her diploma.
-30-
Casablanca - The Remake
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Casablanca – The Remake
In the re-make of Casablanca most scenes take place in Rick’s Juice Bar
Americain, where a cast of international characters seek desperately for the
Downloads of Transit signed by the Belgian government. The villains are
agents of Boa Constrictor Wireless Service who want to prevent Victor and Ilsa
from switching to cheaper and better data access.
The dialogue must be brought up to date, of course:
“Perhaps tomorrow we’ll be on the Amtrak.”
“To all officers - two Belgian couriers carrying important official downloads murdered on Amtrak from Oran. Murderer and possible accomplices headed for Casablanca. Round up all suspicious taxpayers and search them for illegally downloaded games on their MePhones. And for made-in-China designer knockoffs. Important.”
Captain Renault: “What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?”
Rick: “Broadband access. I came to Casablanca for the broadband access.”
Captain Renault: Broadband access? What broadband access ? We're in
a dead zone.”
Rick: “I was misinformed by the ap.”
Rick: “I have the downloads right here.”
Captain Renault: “Tell me, when we searched the place, where were they?”
Rick: “Sam's MePod.”
Captain Renault: “Serves me right for not being musical. “
“I am shocked! Shocked! To learn that there is smoking going on in here.”
“Your Cuban cigars, monsieur.”
“Oh, thank you very much.”
“I remember every detail – the Germans wore grey; you wore a ‘Spawn of Satan’ baseball cap.”
Captain Renault: “Oh no, Emil, please. A bottle of your best champagne, and
put it on my bill.”
Emil: “Very well, sir.”
Victor Laszlo: “Captain, please...”
Captain Renault: Oh, please, monsieur. It is a little game we play. They put it
on the bill, I charge it to my Republican National Committee credit card. It is
very convenient.”
Sam: “We'll take the two-cylinder, environmentally-friendly car. We'll let the
computer drive all night. We'll play video games. We'll get matching Bro tattoos
and stay away until she's gone. “
Major Strasser: “You give him credit for too much cleverness. My impression
was that he's just another blundering American.”
Captain Renault: “We musn't underestimate American blundering. I was with
them when they blundered into Korea, Viet-Nam, Cambodia, Laos, Iran,
Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Somalia, Haiti, Sudan, Bosnia, Ethiopia,
Pakistan, Yemen, Libya, Cuba, Liberia, Panama, Serbia…”
“If you can program it for her you can program it for me. Program it, Sam.”
Rick: “And remember, this tazer is pointed right at your heart.”
Captain Renault: “That is my least vulnerable spot.”
“We’ll always have Louisiana State University’s $85 million swimming pool and kiddie-park…um…educational support center.”
Rick: “Now, you've got to listen to me! You have any idea what you'd have to
look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we'd both wind up
in a mandatory sensitivity training program. Isn't that true, Louie?”
Captain Reynaud: “I’m afraid Doctor Reverend Major Strasser would insist.”
“Round up the usual taxpayers.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid – and I say that without any hint of patronizing male chauvinism.”
Victor Laszlo: “Welcome back to the discussion. This time I know our side will
try to understand genocidal maniacs better.”
“Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship if the Federal Trade Commission and the Supreme Court are okay with it.”
(Rick and Louis walk away into the fog as Lindsey Khardassian twerks to the Belgian national anthem.)
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Casablanca – The Remake
In the re-make of Casablanca most scenes take place in Rick’s Juice Bar
Americain, where a cast of international characters seek desperately for the
Downloads of Transit signed by the Belgian government. The villains are
agents of Boa Constrictor Wireless Service who want to prevent Victor and Ilsa
from switching to cheaper and better data access.
The dialogue must be brought up to date, of course:
“Perhaps tomorrow we’ll be on the Amtrak.”
“To all officers - two Belgian couriers carrying important official downloads murdered on Amtrak from Oran. Murderer and possible accomplices headed for Casablanca. Round up all suspicious taxpayers and search them for illegally downloaded games on their MePhones. And for made-in-China designer knockoffs. Important.”
Captain Renault: “What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?”
Rick: “Broadband access. I came to Casablanca for the broadband access.”
Captain Renault: Broadband access? What broadband access ? We're in
a dead zone.”
Rick: “I was misinformed by the ap.”
Rick: “I have the downloads right here.”
Captain Renault: “Tell me, when we searched the place, where were they?”
Rick: “Sam's MePod.”
Captain Renault: “Serves me right for not being musical. “
“I am shocked! Shocked! To learn that there is smoking going on in here.”
“Your Cuban cigars, monsieur.”
“Oh, thank you very much.”
“I remember every detail – the Germans wore grey; you wore a ‘Spawn of Satan’ baseball cap.”
Captain Renault: “Oh no, Emil, please. A bottle of your best champagne, and
put it on my bill.”
Emil: “Very well, sir.”
Victor Laszlo: “Captain, please...”
Captain Renault: Oh, please, monsieur. It is a little game we play. They put it
on the bill, I charge it to my Republican National Committee credit card. It is
very convenient.”
Sam: “We'll take the two-cylinder, environmentally-friendly car. We'll let the
computer drive all night. We'll play video games. We'll get matching Bro tattoos
and stay away until she's gone. “
Major Strasser: “You give him credit for too much cleverness. My impression
was that he's just another blundering American.”
Captain Renault: “We musn't underestimate American blundering. I was with
them when they blundered into Korea, Viet-Nam, Cambodia, Laos, Iran,
Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Lebanon, Somalia, Haiti, Sudan, Bosnia, Ethiopia,
Pakistan, Yemen, Libya, Cuba, Liberia, Panama, Serbia…”
“If you can program it for her you can program it for me. Program it, Sam.”
Rick: “And remember, this tazer is pointed right at your heart.”
Captain Renault: “That is my least vulnerable spot.”
“We’ll always have Louisiana State University’s $85 million swimming pool and kiddie-park…um…educational support center.”
Rick: “Now, you've got to listen to me! You have any idea what you'd have to
look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten, we'd both wind up
in a mandatory sensitivity training program. Isn't that true, Louie?”
Captain Reynaud: “I’m afraid Doctor Reverend Major Strasser would insist.”
“Round up the usual taxpayers.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid – and I say that without any hint of patronizing male chauvinism.”
Victor Laszlo: “Welcome back to the discussion. This time I know our side will
try to understand genocidal maniacs better.”
“Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship if the Federal Trade Commission and the Supreme Court are okay with it.”
(Rick and Louis walk away into the fog as Lindsey Khardassian twerks to the Belgian national anthem.)
-30-
The Heart of the House
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Heart of the House
In the place of honor, a great flat screen -
No sacred image of Our Lady Queen
No crucifix, cross, or ikon Hellene
No painting of some calm pastoral scene -
No, only a glowing, pulsing flat screen
On which nothing worthy is ever seen
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Heart of the House
In the place of honor, a great flat screen -
No sacred image of Our Lady Queen
No crucifix, cross, or ikon Hellene
No painting of some calm pastoral scene -
No, only a glowing, pulsing flat screen
On which nothing worthy is ever seen
The Fall of Man
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Fall of Man
A Christian walking down the street -
A dog came by and tripped his feet
The man fell down; oh, gosh, it hurt!
Another man (his name was Bert)
Said
“We don’t agree on what’s essential;
I, you see, am existential
I’ll call my friend; you’re in a fix -
You’ll need two walking agnostics!
(Thank you. Thank you very much.)
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Fall of Man
A Christian walking down the street -
A dog came by and tripped his feet
The man fell down; oh, gosh, it hurt!
Another man (his name was Bert)
Said
“We don’t agree on what’s essential;
I, you see, am existential
I’ll call my friend; you’re in a fix -
You’ll need two walking agnostics!
(Thank you. Thank you very much.)
Birdsong
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Birdsong
St. Matthew 10:29
A fledgling dead, its little body limp
Not yet devoured by cats and ants and time
New russet feathers shining back the sun
And silent wings that cannot weave the wind
A handsome beak that now will never know
The sensual savour of seeds and worms,
Or gossip and prate around the leafy lawn
Where summer romance sweetens the twilight air:
We only know that this small life was sent -
And that may well explain the universe
Mhall46184@aol.com
Birdsong
St. Matthew 10:29
A fledgling dead, its little body limp
Not yet devoured by cats and ants and time
New russet feathers shining back the sun
And silent wings that cannot weave the wind
A handsome beak that now will never know
The sensual savour of seeds and worms,
Or gossip and prate around the leafy lawn
Where summer romance sweetens the twilight air:
We only know that this small life was sent -
And that may well explain the universe
Decoration Day on A.M. Radio
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Decoration Day on A.M. Radio
Willing to die for their country subscribe
Made the ultimate sacrifice buy stuff
All gave some some gave all your credit card
On the beaches of Normandy buy now
In the jungles of Viet-Nam on sale
In Afghanistan this offer ends soon
We honor those who served at a discount
Thank you for your service to our profits
Obey us if you love America
And buy more stuff from us radio heroes
A Bonfire of the Tree of Life
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Bonfire of the Tree of Life
Ireland 2015
Who made a bonfire of the Tree of Life?
And grilled snakefingers on the glowing coals
With one last autumn apple for dessert
And one last walk through gardens of decay
Then out through wooshing automatic doors
Guarded by cameras with flaming lenses
Against fig leaves and the popular vote
And tattooed Albigensians at play
In the fields of evolutionary regress
Who made a bonfire of the Tree of Life
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Bonfire of the Tree of Life
Ireland 2015
Who made a bonfire of the Tree of Life?
And grilled snakefingers on the glowing coals
With one last autumn apple for dessert
And one last walk through gardens of decay
Then out through wooshing automatic doors
Guarded by cameras with flaming lenses
Against fig leaves and the popular vote
And tattooed Albigensians at play
In the fields of evolutionary regress
Who made a bonfire of the Tree of Life
The Mobius Strip
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Mobius Strip
What is more obvious than a smooth flat plane?
The clever Mobius begins as such
Thus promising an end somewhere out there
Deceiving soon the careless voyager
With loops that are not loops, and yet they are
With straights that are not straights, and yet they are
In disappearing back into themselves
They never go away or come again
Life twisting into a twist that is no twist -
What is more devious than a smooth flat plane?
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Mobius Strip
What is more obvious than a smooth flat plane?
The clever Mobius begins as such
Thus promising an end somewhere out there
Deceiving soon the careless voyager
With loops that are not loops, and yet they are
With straights that are not straights, and yet they are
In disappearing back into themselves
They never go away or come again
Life twisting into a twist that is no twist -
What is more devious than a smooth flat plane?
Why is the Man in the Moon Always Happy?
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Why is the Man in the Moon Always Happy?
The Man in the Moon is smiling tonight
His duty is his joy, to take his place
Within the celestial liturgy
Whose rubrics were appointed before time
So that the spheres in happy dignity
Perform their sacred offices to God,
Ab Introibo ad Benedicat,
As ceremonies of grateful creation
And that is why, with angels, stars, and us
The Man in the Moon is smiling tonight
Mhall46184@aol.com
Why is the Man in the Moon Always Happy?
The Man in the Moon is smiling tonight
His duty is his joy, to take his place
Within the celestial liturgy
Whose rubrics were appointed before time
So that the spheres in happy dignity
Perform their sacred offices to God,
Ab Introibo ad Benedicat,
As ceremonies of grateful creation
And that is why, with angels, stars, and us
The Man in the Moon is smiling tonight
Our Lady of Walsingham
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Our Lady of Walsingham
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Queen of our hearts and hopes, and of the May
Sweet Empress over forest, down, and dene,
And happy Sunrise over the pilgrim’s way
O let us crown Our Queen with leaf and flower
Gathered this morning in the dawnlit dew
For we in this island are Her true dower
Pledging our faith with thorn and rose and yew
She gives us Her feast day, cool and quiet and green -
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Mhall46184@aol.com
Our Lady of Walsingham
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Queen of our hearts and hopes, and of the May
Sweet Empress over forest, down, and dene,
And happy Sunrise over the pilgrim’s way
O let us crown Our Queen with leaf and flower
Gathered this morning in the dawnlit dew
For we in this island are Her true dower
Pledging our faith with thorn and rose and yew
She gives us Her feast day, cool and quiet and green -
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Baby Boomers
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Baby Boomers
For William Kristol Epiphanes
Children of privilege getting up at four
To herd milk cows in from ice-sleeted woods
And then at dawn running late down the lane
To catch the rattling school bus into town
Self-indulgent baby-boomers sentenced
In the gasping heat of Indo-China
Along the banks of the Song Vam Co Tay
Not optimistic about seeing the dawn
A useless, indolent generation
Working double shifts at the shop by night
Chaucer, geometry, history by day
Coffee, noodles, used textbooks, the laundromat
Those insolent, unfocused layabouts
On pilgrimage along the American road
Jobs, families, house-notes, voting, and taxes
But judged and found wanting by Divine Bill
Mhall46184@aol.com
Baby Boomers
For William Kristol Epiphanes
Children of privilege getting up at four
To herd milk cows in from ice-sleeted woods
And then at dawn running late down the lane
To catch the rattling school bus into town
Self-indulgent baby-boomers sentenced
In the gasping heat of Indo-China
Along the banks of the Song Vam Co Tay
Not optimistic about seeing the dawn
A useless, indolent generation
Working double shifts at the shop by night
Chaucer, geometry, history by day
Coffee, noodles, used textbooks, the laundromat
Those insolent, unfocused layabouts
On pilgrimage along the American road
Jobs, families, house-notes, voting, and taxes
But judged and found wanting by Divine Bill
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Mockingbirds on Patrol
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mockingbirds on Patrol
At dusk the slithering cat stalks mockingbirds
Oozing in silence ‘cross the no man’s lawn
Of bread and seed contested by raccoons,
Squirrels, birds, and an unhappy ‘possum
Her target those most insolent mockingbirds
Who bully the doves and cardinals about
There driving them from the supper they want
And mockingbirds in turn supper for the cat
But no! the victims form squadrons like Spitfires -
At dusk the mockingbirds stalk the cringing cat
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mockingbirds on Patrol
At dusk the slithering cat stalks mockingbirds
Oozing in silence ‘cross the no man’s lawn
Of bread and seed contested by raccoons,
Squirrels, birds, and an unhappy ‘possum
Her target those most insolent mockingbirds
Who bully the doves and cardinals about
There driving them from the supper they want
And mockingbirds in turn supper for the cat
But no! the victims form squadrons like Spitfires -
At dusk the mockingbirds stalk the cringing cat
A Keeper of Civilization
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Keeper of Civilization
A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now,
This ornament that keeps a tie in place
But no one wears a tie, so what’s the point?
Like cufflinks, collars, and humility
This bourgeois affectation is passé;
A tie is not Authentic like a tee
Garnished with a cartoon grotesquerie
Aggressively proclaiming empty noise.
A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now
And that is why it is useful indeed
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Keeper of Civilization
A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now,
This ornament that keeps a tie in place
But no one wears a tie, so what’s the point?
Like cufflinks, collars, and humility
This bourgeois affectation is passé;
A tie is not Authentic like a tee
Garnished with a cartoon grotesquerie
Aggressively proclaiming empty noise.
A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now
And that is why it is useful indeed
Dimitri in America
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dimitri in America
Did Mitya escape to America?
He might have changed his name to Bob or Al
Married Myrtle in the Methodist Church -
Myrtle, nee’ Agrafena Alexandrovna -
And worked the candy counter at Woolworth’s
Riding the trolley downtown every day
While saving up for a new Model T
In obedience to his New World staretz
Horatio Alger hissing behind a tree
Was Mitya sentenced to America?
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dimitri in America
Did Mitya escape to America?
He might have changed his name to Bob or Al
Married Myrtle in the Methodist Church -
Myrtle, nee’ Agrafena Alexandrovna -
And worked the candy counter at Woolworth’s
Riding the trolley downtown every day
While saving up for a new Model T
In obedience to his New World staretz
Horatio Alger hissing behind a tree
Was Mitya sentenced to America?
The Witanagemot
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Witanagemot
Under wide oaks men sit with pipes alight
And soft old amber single-malt to hand
The sun has just now set, the failing day
Resolves itself into a cooling dusk
Tobacco, talk, and time incense the air
And silent fireflies dance until the stars
Join with them in a festival of lights
While birds make wing to Shakespeare’s rooky wood
Crickets and frogs sing to celebrate the moon
And good men sit and talk, with pipes alight
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Witanagemot
Under wide oaks men sit with pipes alight
And soft old amber single-malt to hand
The sun has just now set, the failing day
Resolves itself into a cooling dusk
Tobacco, talk, and time incense the air
And silent fireflies dance until the stars
Join with them in a festival of lights
While birds make wing to Shakespeare’s rooky wood
Crickets and frogs sing to celebrate the moon
And good men sit and talk, with pipes alight
Subversive
Subversive
Lapsing into 1968-Speak
The television priest says “subversive”
While waxing (and polishing?) discursive
He says it often, at least thrice a week
Lapsing into 1968-Speak
The television priest says “subversive”
While waxing (and polishing?) discursive
He says it often, at least thrice a week
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Exeunt omnes, pursued by a bore waving a little green book about
Mhall46184@aol.com
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Exeunt omnes, pursued by a bore waving a little green book about
The Ten-Thirty / Seven-Thirty Shift
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Ten-Thirty / Seven-Thirty Shift
For Nurses
No one writes verses much about nurses
Though no one more deserves a few kind thoughts
No, not about the lady with the lamp
(Not with all that oxygen around!)
Nor the nurse with eternal sad-me crises
Who often calls in sick and leaves her work
To be taken up by others – by you
So these poor lines are for wonderful you
Driving to work in your ten-year-old car
And carefully tending life throughout the night
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Ten-Thirty / Seven-Thirty Shift
For Nurses
No one writes verses much about nurses
Though no one more deserves a few kind thoughts
No, not about the lady with the lamp
(Not with all that oxygen around!)
Nor the nurse with eternal sad-me crises
Who often calls in sick and leaves her work
To be taken up by others – by you
So these poor lines are for wonderful you
Driving to work in your ten-year-old car
And carefully tending life throughout the night
No One Ever Said the War was Over
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
No One Ever Said the War was Over
No one ever said the war was over
They were honest in that one thing, at least
Since that which never began cannot end
Not for those in a war that never was
Some made fortunes, some got a bus ride home
Some shook it off, and made it out okay
And some stare vacantly in lonely rooms
Red, yellow, green – what did they ever mean?
“Thank you for your service” – what does that mean?
No one ever said the war was over
Mhall46184@aol.com
No One Ever Said the War was Over
No one ever said the war was over
They were honest in that one thing, at least
Since that which never began cannot end
Not for those in a war that never was
Some made fortunes, some got a bus ride home
Some shook it off, and made it out okay
And some stare vacantly in lonely rooms
Red, yellow, green – what did they ever mean?
“Thank you for your service” – what does that mean?
No one ever said the war was over
Invasion of the Metaphors
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Invasion of the Metaphors
On the Orwellian telescreen a woman recently returned from Nepal said that the country looked like a war zone.
One never hears young men and women returning from any of this nation’s many undeclared wars saying that the ditches and gullies and rocky slopes where they fought to stay alive looked like an earthquake.
What, exactly, is a “war zone?” Is that just a two-syllable way of saying “war?” Just say “war.”
Congress won’t, of course.
In the neverending quest (how’s that for filler language?) for metaphors, “war zone” appears to be most fashionable just now. Earthquakes, storms, messy rooms, the litter left after a football game, leaf-fall after a storm – all are grist for the war zone mill (mixing several tired metaphors).
If a family is killed by a building collapsing in an earthquake, we do their memory no service by saying that the wreckage looks like a war zone. It doesn’t. It looks like the result of an earthquake, and that is because it is the result of an earthquake. It isn’t like anything else; it is itself.
A common metaphor along our stormy coast is to allege that trees snapped like matchsticks. Does anyone ever maintain that matchsticks snap like trees? Does anyone sit around snapping matchsticks anyway? No one ever says that trees snap like cheap plastic cigarette lighters, which would be slightly more logical because almost no one uses matches anymore. Anyone wanting a box of matches might be advised to check the newsstand, over by the pay telephones, in the railroad station down the street past the Packard dealership.
Our part of the planet is subject to strong winds because of tornadoes, hurricanes, and thunderstorms, and sometimes these winds break trees. We should state this simple fact, that winds break trees, and not pull from a rag-bag (another tired metaphor – what is a rag-bag?) any of a collection of old metaphors that occupy space and obscure clarity of thought.
If, in the same storm, the winds toss your 1956 Plymouth about, they toss it about like a 1956 Plymouth, not like a toy, because a 1956 Plymouth is not a toy. It is itself. The toy comparison has been done, over and over and over, for decades. Now if you say that your 1956 Plymouth was tossed about like a referee after a close soccer match between Sheffield and Arsenal you’d be making a fresh and praiseworthy metaphor. Even so, it would probably be better to state the plain, clear fact that strong winds blew your 1956 Plymouth about, especially when making your case to the insurance company: “Like a toy, eh? Okay, here’s a voucher good for a Fisher-Price replacement, with a Ken and Barbie deductible…”
In East Texas another tired metaphor is to say of a child’s room not that it needs tidying up but that it looks like a hurricane hit it:
“But Dad, my room’s not here. The whole house is gone!”
“Exactly right, my son. Your room looks like a hurricane hit it.”
Sometimes reality is not subject to a metaphor at all.
-30
Mhall46184@aol.com
Invasion of the Metaphors
On the Orwellian telescreen a woman recently returned from Nepal said that the country looked like a war zone.
One never hears young men and women returning from any of this nation’s many undeclared wars saying that the ditches and gullies and rocky slopes where they fought to stay alive looked like an earthquake.
What, exactly, is a “war zone?” Is that just a two-syllable way of saying “war?” Just say “war.”
Congress won’t, of course.
In the neverending quest (how’s that for filler language?) for metaphors, “war zone” appears to be most fashionable just now. Earthquakes, storms, messy rooms, the litter left after a football game, leaf-fall after a storm – all are grist for the war zone mill (mixing several tired metaphors).
If a family is killed by a building collapsing in an earthquake, we do their memory no service by saying that the wreckage looks like a war zone. It doesn’t. It looks like the result of an earthquake, and that is because it is the result of an earthquake. It isn’t like anything else; it is itself.
A common metaphor along our stormy coast is to allege that trees snapped like matchsticks. Does anyone ever maintain that matchsticks snap like trees? Does anyone sit around snapping matchsticks anyway? No one ever says that trees snap like cheap plastic cigarette lighters, which would be slightly more logical because almost no one uses matches anymore. Anyone wanting a box of matches might be advised to check the newsstand, over by the pay telephones, in the railroad station down the street past the Packard dealership.
Our part of the planet is subject to strong winds because of tornadoes, hurricanes, and thunderstorms, and sometimes these winds break trees. We should state this simple fact, that winds break trees, and not pull from a rag-bag (another tired metaphor – what is a rag-bag?) any of a collection of old metaphors that occupy space and obscure clarity of thought.
If, in the same storm, the winds toss your 1956 Plymouth about, they toss it about like a 1956 Plymouth, not like a toy, because a 1956 Plymouth is not a toy. It is itself. The toy comparison has been done, over and over and over, for decades. Now if you say that your 1956 Plymouth was tossed about like a referee after a close soccer match between Sheffield and Arsenal you’d be making a fresh and praiseworthy metaphor. Even so, it would probably be better to state the plain, clear fact that strong winds blew your 1956 Plymouth about, especially when making your case to the insurance company: “Like a toy, eh? Okay, here’s a voucher good for a Fisher-Price replacement, with a Ken and Barbie deductible…”
In East Texas another tired metaphor is to say of a child’s room not that it needs tidying up but that it looks like a hurricane hit it:
“But Dad, my room’s not here. The whole house is gone!”
“Exactly right, my son. Your room looks like a hurricane hit it.”
Sometimes reality is not subject to a metaphor at all.
-30
The Bates Motel and Recording Studio
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Bates Motel and Recording Studio
John Hinckley, Junior is a spoiled misunderstood, self-indulgent sensitive, vicious artistic, treacherous creative, disgusting delicate, back-shooting generous fecal impaction seeker after truth who all his life has been occupying space and breathing air that might have been used for better purposes trying to find himself. After all, we try to see the good in everyone.
In 1981 Hinckley, fascinated with a cinema actress instead of with life, decided that he would prove himself worthy of her by murdering the President. At close range he discharged a revolver and struck police officer Thomas Delahanty, White House Press Secretary James Brady, Secret Service agent Timothy McCarthy, and President Reagan. James Brady spent the remaining decades of his life paralyzed and in pain, and his death in 2014 was ruled a homicide.
Despite the movie scripts, no one, no matter how young and healthy, ever fully recovers from gunshot and fragmentation wounds. Everyone Hinckley shot that day received a life sentence of pain and disability.
For assault, treason, and murder, John Hinckley was sentenced to – the hospital.
Adolescent shoplifters have received sterner punishment.
Come to think of it, you’ve received sterner punishment. When you went to see the justice of the peace about that out-of-date inspection sticker the judge did not say, “You know, I understand your needs. I’m sure you forgot about the annual inspection because you had a rough childhood. Since your mumsy and dadsy are rich and connected, let’s skip that fine, and talk about your feelings.”
For the last three decades, gentle reader, you have been working and paying taxes to support John Hinckley’s hospitalization, psychiatric care, and, yes, music therapy. You get up and go to work every day; John Hinckley hangs out and practices the guitar.
For the past few years Hinckley has spending much of every month with his 89-year-old mother. Well, hey, family is everything, right? His family, of course, not yours, and certainly not the families he destroyed.
Having committed murder and ruining the lives of many individuals and families, this detritus inspirational singer-songwriter wants to start a band, which is pretty much the dream of every 60-year-old.
One can imagine the rehearsals – “Stan, you might want to strengthen that opening note when you come in on ‘Baby Baby Baby Yeah Yeah Yeah’ – or die. Just a thought, dude.”
If Mrs. Hinckley Senior suggests it’s time for Junior to go night-night, will our geriatric artiste respond with “Mumsy, don’t make me go all Bates Motel on you, okay?”
When Junior does achieve his dream of putting his band together, the first number could, appropriately, a cover of the Beatles’ “I’m a Loser.”
Music might not be Junior Hinckley’s thing, of course, in which case he seems perfectly fitted by disposition and experience to be a customer service representative for an internet company.
He could do something with drones.
Or maybe the new Secret Service.
And since Junior is soon to be released from hospital completely, perhaps his room will then be given to an injured worker, a war veteran, or someone else who has made an effort to do something meaningful in life.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Bates Motel and Recording Studio
John Hinckley, Junior is a spoiled misunderstood, self-indulgent sensitive, vicious artistic, treacherous creative, disgusting delicate, back-shooting generous fecal impaction seeker after truth who all his life has been occupying space and breathing air that might have been used for better purposes trying to find himself. After all, we try to see the good in everyone.
In 1981 Hinckley, fascinated with a cinema actress instead of with life, decided that he would prove himself worthy of her by murdering the President. At close range he discharged a revolver and struck police officer Thomas Delahanty, White House Press Secretary James Brady, Secret Service agent Timothy McCarthy, and President Reagan. James Brady spent the remaining decades of his life paralyzed and in pain, and his death in 2014 was ruled a homicide.
Despite the movie scripts, no one, no matter how young and healthy, ever fully recovers from gunshot and fragmentation wounds. Everyone Hinckley shot that day received a life sentence of pain and disability.
For assault, treason, and murder, John Hinckley was sentenced to – the hospital.
Adolescent shoplifters have received sterner punishment.
Come to think of it, you’ve received sterner punishment. When you went to see the justice of the peace about that out-of-date inspection sticker the judge did not say, “You know, I understand your needs. I’m sure you forgot about the annual inspection because you had a rough childhood. Since your mumsy and dadsy are rich and connected, let’s skip that fine, and talk about your feelings.”
For the last three decades, gentle reader, you have been working and paying taxes to support John Hinckley’s hospitalization, psychiatric care, and, yes, music therapy. You get up and go to work every day; John Hinckley hangs out and practices the guitar.
For the past few years Hinckley has spending much of every month with his 89-year-old mother. Well, hey, family is everything, right? His family, of course, not yours, and certainly not the families he destroyed.
Having committed murder and ruining the lives of many individuals and families, this detritus inspirational singer-songwriter wants to start a band, which is pretty much the dream of every 60-year-old.
One can imagine the rehearsals – “Stan, you might want to strengthen that opening note when you come in on ‘Baby Baby Baby Yeah Yeah Yeah’ – or die. Just a thought, dude.”
If Mrs. Hinckley Senior suggests it’s time for Junior to go night-night, will our geriatric artiste respond with “Mumsy, don’t make me go all Bates Motel on you, okay?”
When Junior does achieve his dream of putting his band together, the first number could, appropriately, a cover of the Beatles’ “I’m a Loser.”
Music might not be Junior Hinckley’s thing, of course, in which case he seems perfectly fitted by disposition and experience to be a customer service representative for an internet company.
He could do something with drones.
Or maybe the new Secret Service.
And since Junior is soon to be released from hospital completely, perhaps his room will then be given to an injured worker, a war veteran, or someone else who has made an effort to do something meaningful in life.
-30-
The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill
“The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill” sounds like the title of a Robert W. Service poem, but is in fact a matter of some discussion – who should replace stern, handsome, Trail of Tears President Andrew Jackson on the price of a cup of designer coffee?
That President Jackson will be replaced is not in doubt, and a mature discussion (which you certainly will not find in my scribblings) of the matter by Steve Inskeepmay can be found at: www.nytimes.com/2015/05/05/opinion/should-jackson-stay-on-the-dollar20-bill.html.
Curiously, Mr. Inskeepmay proposes replacing President Jackson, a slave owner, with John Ross, another slave owner, but since Mr. Ross was a Cherokee that’s okay with Mr. Inskeepmay.
As we know, the one-dollar-bill features George Washington, inept British colonial officer in his youth, slave owner, general of the armies in the American secession from the British Empire, later president, and still a slave owner.
The five-dollar-bill gives us Railsplitter Abe, a handsome man save for that fungal growth at the end of his chin, a fashion statement he shared with Democrat Jefferson Davis and with Doctor Ben Carson, like Lincoln a Republican candidate for the presidency.
Gentlemen, please, if you love your country, step closer to your designed-in-Holland-and-made-in-China Norelcos. Please.
The tenner shows another dignified man, Alexander Hamilton, who later found fame as drummer for The Dave Clark Five. Or was he one of the guitarists?
Easy, The Alexander Hamilton Fan Club. Just a little attempt at humor. Your Alexander Hamilton posters are not threatened.
After Andrew Jackson the poor man’s wallet enjoys little familiarity with presidents, although President Grant is known to be on one of the holiday-in-Davos bills. But he drank whiskey and smoked cigars, and we can’t have that, no, sir.
Whose face will next grace the twenty? My prediction is Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth, who accomplished wonderful things without later becoming involved in genocide, land swindles, or the ownership of their fellow human beings.
In the meantime, we are free to indulge in a little whimsical wish-fulfillment in considering other possibilities for adorning our national currency:
How about a three-dollar bill with President Clinton on the front and Lindsey Lohan’s reverse on the reverse?
The problem with President Obama’s picture on a currency bill is that the reverse would read “You Didn’t Earn This,” and he would take the money away from you.
President Hilary Clinton’s twenty-dollar bill would have her “WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE!!??” moment embedded in a little audio chip.
President Hilary Clinton? Deal with the reality, Republicans: you complain but you don’t vote.
Hey, how about Louis Armstrong on the twenty? But, no, he made people happy, and that would never do.
Here is an idea for an image on the twenty-dollar bill that no one has yet considered: the now-forgotten American worker. Put a picture of a worker on our currency. I propose variants to be printed on the face of the twenty in monthly or yearly cycles: a farmer harvesting wheat, a woman behind the counter at a fast-foodery, a bus driver, a welder, a logger, a nurse’s aide, the nice lady in the ticket window at the movies, a (gasp!) police officer, a private in the Army, a miner, a railway engineer, a mechanic, a lineman in a thunderstorm, a kindergarten teacher, or any other worker, all without any reference to DNA.
Nah, it’ll never happen.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill
“The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill” sounds like the title of a Robert W. Service poem, but is in fact a matter of some discussion – who should replace stern, handsome, Trail of Tears President Andrew Jackson on the price of a cup of designer coffee?
That President Jackson will be replaced is not in doubt, and a mature discussion (which you certainly will not find in my scribblings) of the matter by Steve Inskeepmay can be found at: www.nytimes.com/2015/05/05/opinion/should-jackson-stay-on-the-dollar20-bill.html.
Curiously, Mr. Inskeepmay proposes replacing President Jackson, a slave owner, with John Ross, another slave owner, but since Mr. Ross was a Cherokee that’s okay with Mr. Inskeepmay.
As we know, the one-dollar-bill features George Washington, inept British colonial officer in his youth, slave owner, general of the armies in the American secession from the British Empire, later president, and still a slave owner.
The five-dollar-bill gives us Railsplitter Abe, a handsome man save for that fungal growth at the end of his chin, a fashion statement he shared with Democrat Jefferson Davis and with Doctor Ben Carson, like Lincoln a Republican candidate for the presidency.
Gentlemen, please, if you love your country, step closer to your designed-in-Holland-and-made-in-China Norelcos. Please.
The tenner shows another dignified man, Alexander Hamilton, who later found fame as drummer for The Dave Clark Five. Or was he one of the guitarists?
Easy, The Alexander Hamilton Fan Club. Just a little attempt at humor. Your Alexander Hamilton posters are not threatened.
After Andrew Jackson the poor man’s wallet enjoys little familiarity with presidents, although President Grant is known to be on one of the holiday-in-Davos bills. But he drank whiskey and smoked cigars, and we can’t have that, no, sir.
Whose face will next grace the twenty? My prediction is Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth, who accomplished wonderful things without later becoming involved in genocide, land swindles, or the ownership of their fellow human beings.
In the meantime, we are free to indulge in a little whimsical wish-fulfillment in considering other possibilities for adorning our national currency:
How about a three-dollar bill with President Clinton on the front and Lindsey Lohan’s reverse on the reverse?
The problem with President Obama’s picture on a currency bill is that the reverse would read “You Didn’t Earn This,” and he would take the money away from you.
President Hilary Clinton’s twenty-dollar bill would have her “WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE!!??” moment embedded in a little audio chip.
President Hilary Clinton? Deal with the reality, Republicans: you complain but you don’t vote.
Hey, how about Louis Armstrong on the twenty? But, no, he made people happy, and that would never do.
Here is an idea for an image on the twenty-dollar bill that no one has yet considered: the now-forgotten American worker. Put a picture of a worker on our currency. I propose variants to be printed on the face of the twenty in monthly or yearly cycles: a farmer harvesting wheat, a woman behind the counter at a fast-foodery, a bus driver, a welder, a logger, a nurse’s aide, the nice lady in the ticket window at the movies, a (gasp!) police officer, a private in the Army, a miner, a railway engineer, a mechanic, a lineman in a thunderstorm, a kindergarten teacher, or any other worker, all without any reference to DNA.
Nah, it’ll never happen.
-30-
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