Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mr. Dogg and the Cop
Several weeks ago a Texas state trooper took an off-duty gig on his own time, providing security for a concert in the capital of our fair state. Afterward, one of the musicians asked the security guard to pose with him for a snapshot.
The photograph shows two middle-age men, one in a DPS uniform and another, balding and wearing eyeglasses, who looks much like a middle-school math teacher. This second man is Snoop Dogg (possibly not the name on his birth certificate), said to be a famous musician.
Some busy individual at the Department of Public Safety was not happy with this harmless photograph because Mr. Dogg is a convicted drug offender. Apparently Texas DPS troopers are not supposed to associate with convicted drug offenders. One supposes that if Rush Limbaugh, also a convicted drug offender, had been in the photograph along with Mr. Dogg the DPS would have been, like Marty the Martian, very, very angry.
As it is, an official with the Texas Department of Public Safety gave the DPS trooper a reprimand (in DPS-speak, “a one-time coaching opportunity”) for associating with Mr. Dogg. A DPS trooper may protect Mr. Dogg from harm but must not be seen to do so.
If a Texas DPS trooper helps provide security for a Wagner concert directed by James Levine, should the trooper run a computer check on Mr. Levine’s background? How about the trumpet section? And are drummers ever to be trusted?
And then, hey, about Richard Wagner – he didn’t pay his debts, he participated in revolutionary activities, his music instigated riots, and he was anti-Semitic. Would a DPS trooper who was seen at a concert featuring the music of such a disreputable character be given a “one-time coaching opportunity?”
A Texas state trooper cannot possibly know the criminal histories of everyone with whom he (the pronoun is gender-neutral) comes into contact, nor should he: firefighters, medics, reporters, tow-truck drivers, the shop assistant who sells him a new bullet, and, of course, the waitress at the doughnut shop.
Maybe some in DPS administration ought to leave their Austin offices on occasion and take a night shift on the streets in order to remind themselves where they started.
The trooper was not taking bribes.
The trooper was not being racist.
The trooper was not sexually harassing anyone.
The trooper was not smuggling drugs.
The trooper was not trafficking in human beings.
The trooper was not nekkid.
The trooper was not using his badge and his office for official oppression.
The trooper was not whooping it up with the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement agency, and some, oh, fun dates.
The trooper was not doing any of these things. What got him into trouble was appearing in a snapshot by the request of an American citizen who, whatever his past, was not under indictment and who was going peaceably about his lawful daily business.
As for a “one-time coaching opportunity,” the only coaching that the trooper seems to require would be for a weight-loss regimen. To re-phrase an old gag, maybe Mr. Dogg stays so skinny by running laps around his favorite Texas DPS trooper.
-30-
Sunday, April 19, 2015
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.om
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Several years ago Butch and Debbie Pachall sold me a nifty metal detector which has proven to be great fun. I don’t use it often enough to sort out the subtleties of sound like Debbie can, but I have never switched it on without finding something of interest. Since assisting in archaeology sites in California in my youth I’m easily interested in anything old, and a brass hinge or a long-lost knife are for me good finds. Debbie, however, has practiced the arcane (to me) art of interpreting beeps and the computer images so assiduously that she can identify most objects before taking out the trowel: “That’s a penny…another penny…ring tab…a piece of pipe…a quarter…”
Recently I learned to practice another form of metal detecting, with a big, heavy magnet from the hardware store. Several summers ago I had the lads make some modifications around Chateau D’Aula, and upon completion of the strengthening of fortifications I used a big magnet to pick up the unseen nails, screws, and other bits of metal before the lawnmower did.
In the event, the magnet is almost as much fun as the electronic metal detector. Most of the nails and screws I find are re-usable, as are many of the hinges and bolts. In Ye Olden Days, these objects really were manufactured better than they are now. Nails, screws, and bolts were made in the USA of extruded steel; what is sold now is often the unhappy result of odd scraps of pot metal melted down and cast in molds in China.
Using recycled ironmongery for my own back yard projects is thrifty in itself, and even after years of lying in the ground the American nail is often more durable than the Chinese one.
There was a dairy farm and another house on this site long ago, and in addition to ferric objects the ground often covers other modest treasures. Where there are nails and screws, there are often bottles (usually in fragments), coins, brass objects, ceramic doorknobs, game pieces of glass or lead, switch plates, expended bullets, axe heads, tractor parts, a sturdy length of chain, a canning lid made in Canada, marbles, and other oddments.
I haven’t yet found Jean Lafitte’s treasure, but I’m looking. Beep-beep-beep…bonk – maybe that’s it…
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.om
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Several years ago Butch and Debbie Pachall sold me a nifty metal detector which has proven to be great fun. I don’t use it often enough to sort out the subtleties of sound like Debbie can, but I have never switched it on without finding something of interest. Since assisting in archaeology sites in California in my youth I’m easily interested in anything old, and a brass hinge or a long-lost knife are for me good finds. Debbie, however, has practiced the arcane (to me) art of interpreting beeps and the computer images so assiduously that she can identify most objects before taking out the trowel: “That’s a penny…another penny…ring tab…a piece of pipe…a quarter…”
Recently I learned to practice another form of metal detecting, with a big, heavy magnet from the hardware store. Several summers ago I had the lads make some modifications around Chateau D’Aula, and upon completion of the strengthening of fortifications I used a big magnet to pick up the unseen nails, screws, and other bits of metal before the lawnmower did.
In the event, the magnet is almost as much fun as the electronic metal detector. Most of the nails and screws I find are re-usable, as are many of the hinges and bolts. In Ye Olden Days, these objects really were manufactured better than they are now. Nails, screws, and bolts were made in the USA of extruded steel; what is sold now is often the unhappy result of odd scraps of pot metal melted down and cast in molds in China.
Using recycled ironmongery for my own back yard projects is thrifty in itself, and even after years of lying in the ground the American nail is often more durable than the Chinese one.
There was a dairy farm and another house on this site long ago, and in addition to ferric objects the ground often covers other modest treasures. Where there are nails and screws, there are often bottles (usually in fragments), coins, brass objects, ceramic doorknobs, game pieces of glass or lead, switch plates, expended bullets, axe heads, tractor parts, a sturdy length of chain, a canning lid made in Canada, marbles, and other oddments.
I haven’t yet found Jean Lafitte’s treasure, but I’m looking. Beep-beep-beep…bonk – maybe that’s it…
-30-
Let's End a Conversation
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Let’s End a Conversation
An all-purpose campaign speech for candidates of all parties:
My immigrant Native-American parents came to this great country with only a few dollars and a dream of beginning a conversation in order that no child should be left freedom of choice behind the American dream while we still have a lot to do time for a change and a new beginning with real leadership to win the war on drugs and break the gridlock in Washington because I’ve met with real Americans just like you in the heartland where dreams live in a good ol’ down-home pickup truck defending freedom around the globe as leader of the free world building a bridge to the 22nd century by reaching across the aisle by running a positive campaign unlike the Fascist scum running against me and empowering people to put children first because at the kitchen table the other night my six-year-old reminded me of the hunger in Martha’s Vineyard and together we can build a future that will once again make America great by turning the key that unlocks the focus on the issues not partisan politics by growing the economy across party lines and celebrating diversity because no dream is beyond our reach through fresh new real leadership as I sit with my head bowed in church I know the middle class deserve a tax break in order to grow the small businesses that are the engine of our campaign and America with affordable birth control for seniors that change the tone in Washington and along the highways and byways of this great land of one people united in fresh approaches and a common set of common ideas where the real credit belongs to the American people whose heritage of winning the hearts and minds of the people will empower the stake on which rests our children’s bright future because together, united as one, we will build a future in order to get America working again and keep America great in the forefront of technological innovation that will see our dreams to the stars and beyond joining with you little people who join with me in shared sacrifice in a conversation around a table in a roadside diner where the true heart of America beats with the rhythm of the lottery-ticket machine as I order a plain, honest cuppa joe while wearing my plain good-ol’-workin’-folks blue jeans because deep inside my soul I’m just as common as you are in these tough economic times because I know what it’s like to get my hands dirty in the clean, honest soil of real America planting corn, and, like, stuff and although I live in a modest apartment in Manhattan my true heart is in the deep, rich soil of Kansas…oh…this is Iowa…where real Americans wear made-in-China baseball caps and worry about the multi-cultural weather and fertilizer, and, like, stuff, because deep down inside I’m just one of you people with my Bible and a dream that all can be one united in the diversity of the American dream for a greater tomorrow because the past is behind us, the present is now, and the future lies ahead because your children are going to die for one side one week and the next side the next week in undeclared wars while my children attend Columbia Law School…wait…did I really let that slip…?
May the deity or the19th century philosophical principle of your choice bless and / or enlighten this great country. Thank you, and good night.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Let’s End a Conversation
An all-purpose campaign speech for candidates of all parties:
My immigrant Native-American parents came to this great country with only a few dollars and a dream of beginning a conversation in order that no child should be left freedom of choice behind the American dream while we still have a lot to do time for a change and a new beginning with real leadership to win the war on drugs and break the gridlock in Washington because I’ve met with real Americans just like you in the heartland where dreams live in a good ol’ down-home pickup truck defending freedom around the globe as leader of the free world building a bridge to the 22nd century by reaching across the aisle by running a positive campaign unlike the Fascist scum running against me and empowering people to put children first because at the kitchen table the other night my six-year-old reminded me of the hunger in Martha’s Vineyard and together we can build a future that will once again make America great by turning the key that unlocks the focus on the issues not partisan politics by growing the economy across party lines and celebrating diversity because no dream is beyond our reach through fresh new real leadership as I sit with my head bowed in church I know the middle class deserve a tax break in order to grow the small businesses that are the engine of our campaign and America with affordable birth control for seniors that change the tone in Washington and along the highways and byways of this great land of one people united in fresh approaches and a common set of common ideas where the real credit belongs to the American people whose heritage of winning the hearts and minds of the people will empower the stake on which rests our children’s bright future because together, united as one, we will build a future in order to get America working again and keep America great in the forefront of technological innovation that will see our dreams to the stars and beyond joining with you little people who join with me in shared sacrifice in a conversation around a table in a roadside diner where the true heart of America beats with the rhythm of the lottery-ticket machine as I order a plain, honest cuppa joe while wearing my plain good-ol’-workin’-folks blue jeans because deep inside my soul I’m just as common as you are in these tough economic times because I know what it’s like to get my hands dirty in the clean, honest soil of real America planting corn, and, like, stuff and although I live in a modest apartment in Manhattan my true heart is in the deep, rich soil of Kansas…oh…this is Iowa…where real Americans wear made-in-China baseball caps and worry about the multi-cultural weather and fertilizer, and, like, stuff, because deep down inside I’m just one of you people with my Bible and a dream that all can be one united in the diversity of the American dream for a greater tomorrow because the past is behind us, the present is now, and the future lies ahead because your children are going to die for one side one week and the next side the next week in undeclared wars while my children attend Columbia Law School…wait…did I really let that slip…?
May the deity or the19th century philosophical principle of your choice bless and / or enlighten this great country. Thank you, and good night.
-30-
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Snake, Interrupted
Snake, Interruptedruptedruptedrupted - A Song of Spring
Our merry springtime is a glorious feast
Of joyful sights and scents and happy sounds,
Of breezes turning warmly from the east
Of bustling bees winging their flowery rounds
Above, around, and through a world of green
In dreams of life that move the seasons along
Where each day’s sunrise halos a Creation scene
And every blossom is its own soft song
But the sweetest sound echoing through the glades
Is a snake being shredded by the lawnmower’s blades
Sunday, March 29, 2015
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
The Texas legislature has considered the problem of violence in universities, and proposes to make everything all better by allowing students to carry weapons on campus (http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2015/03/18/texas-senate-approves-concealed-campus-carry-gun-bill/).
One can see the therapeutic value. If drunken frat boys chanting racist slurs are allowed to open-carry .44 magnums on their hips they will sit down together in Christian fellowship, shoot merrily at the overhead lights, and open a conversation about their culture of puerile cloddishness.
Campus-carry could make maths more interesting: “If Tiffany fires her Glock at a sophomore on a northbound train going 70 miles per hour…”
Or languages: “Class, write an ode to a Kalashnikov in Russian. Keep asking yourself how Pushkin might have worded it.”
Or history: “I hope everyone has brought a black or blue pen and a Lee-Enfield to class today…”
Anatomy and physiology: “Class, we’re short on cadavers for our long-term dissection project. Would someone please go outside and bag a couple of sophomores? Do it for science. Do it for your school. And, hey, try not to mess up so many internal organs this time.”
“Professor Bogdown, me and my little friend here would like an ‘A.”
And that graduate student arguing with the clock in the hallway – yeah, she needs a gun.
Those late-night sessions helping each other cope with life’s challenges would become more efficient: “Biff, me ‘n’ the guys know you’ve been having a rough time, what with failing chemistry and your girlfriend leaving you, so we’ve all chipped in and bought you this revolver. We’re going to leave you alone now. Good luck, buddy.”
Dorm rules might require silencers between midnight and five a.m., except on weekends.
Residence hall supervisors would have to adapt: “Okay, people, I’m tired of stepping over all the corpses in the mornings. Let’s all develop a professional attitude in disposing of dead bodies, okay?”
Those friendly rivalries on the sports fields would change: “In the fourth quarter, the score here at Friendship Stadium stands at Redbrick State Teachers’ University 2,329 killed, 4,356 wounded; Our Mother of Mercy 1,242 killed, 3,054 wounded.”
Veterans coming home from the desert might not be happy to see the university campus as yet another outpost shared with unreliable friendlies.
If the Texas legislature permits the open-carry of firearms, would campuses still be tobacco-free zones?
Given that the death rate of university students during spring break alone is pretty much personified in the “Casualty lists! Casualty lists!” scene in Gone with the Wind, the possession of firearms on the job should be limited to trained law enforcement professionals - the Secret Service and the Drug Enforcement Agency come to mind.
Campus carry – no, it’s really not funny at all. Is there no one in the Texas legislature who has served in law enforcement, in the military, or in emergency medicine?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
The Texas legislature has considered the problem of violence in universities, and proposes to make everything all better by allowing students to carry weapons on campus (http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2015/03/18/texas-senate-approves-concealed-campus-carry-gun-bill/).
One can see the therapeutic value. If drunken frat boys chanting racist slurs are allowed to open-carry .44 magnums on their hips they will sit down together in Christian fellowship, shoot merrily at the overhead lights, and open a conversation about their culture of puerile cloddishness.
Campus-carry could make maths more interesting: “If Tiffany fires her Glock at a sophomore on a northbound train going 70 miles per hour…”
Or languages: “Class, write an ode to a Kalashnikov in Russian. Keep asking yourself how Pushkin might have worded it.”
Or history: “I hope everyone has brought a black or blue pen and a Lee-Enfield to class today…”
Anatomy and physiology: “Class, we’re short on cadavers for our long-term dissection project. Would someone please go outside and bag a couple of sophomores? Do it for science. Do it for your school. And, hey, try not to mess up so many internal organs this time.”
“Professor Bogdown, me and my little friend here would like an ‘A.”
And that graduate student arguing with the clock in the hallway – yeah, she needs a gun.
Those late-night sessions helping each other cope with life’s challenges would become more efficient: “Biff, me ‘n’ the guys know you’ve been having a rough time, what with failing chemistry and your girlfriend leaving you, so we’ve all chipped in and bought you this revolver. We’re going to leave you alone now. Good luck, buddy.”
Dorm rules might require silencers between midnight and five a.m., except on weekends.
Residence hall supervisors would have to adapt: “Okay, people, I’m tired of stepping over all the corpses in the mornings. Let’s all develop a professional attitude in disposing of dead bodies, okay?”
Those friendly rivalries on the sports fields would change: “In the fourth quarter, the score here at Friendship Stadium stands at Redbrick State Teachers’ University 2,329 killed, 4,356 wounded; Our Mother of Mercy 1,242 killed, 3,054 wounded.”
Veterans coming home from the desert might not be happy to see the university campus as yet another outpost shared with unreliable friendlies.
If the Texas legislature permits the open-carry of firearms, would campuses still be tobacco-free zones?
Given that the death rate of university students during spring break alone is pretty much personified in the “Casualty lists! Casualty lists!” scene in Gone with the Wind, the possession of firearms on the job should be limited to trained law enforcement professionals - the Secret Service and the Drug Enforcement Agency come to mind.
Campus carry – no, it’s really not funny at all. Is there no one in the Texas legislature who has served in law enforcement, in the military, or in emergency medicine?
-30-
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
V:
She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
Tho’ his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
V:
She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
Tho’ his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Friday, March 27, 2015
A Morning in March
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Morning in March
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Morning in March
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
The Great Gatsby
The Tedious Gatsby, Old Sport
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead.
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
A Letter from France, 1919
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Letter from France, 1919
At an estate sale I considered buying an old letter, and decided not to. Then I considered it again, and bought it after all. It is written from France on stationery printed “AMERICAN YMCA” and ON ACTIVE SERVICE WITH THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.” The envelope is franked “SOLDIER’S MAIL” and features the “OK” and the illegible signature of the censorship officer.
A young man from Orange, Texas, probably a teenager, writes of occupation duty, erratic mail service, the marvels of electricity (few American homes had electricity in 1919), and of frustration because he and his regiment have been kept behind in France for months after their active service in combat.
Although the penmanship from this doughboy of a century ago is elegant, the paper and the ink have both deteriorated and so I may have erred in transcription. The letter is addressed to:
Mrs. M Akins
R. A. Box 69
Orange
Texas
Febuary 5, 1919
My Dear Mother & All:
Well I hope you have heard from me by this time as the last letter I got from you said that you had not heard from me in 3 months and I don’t know what the matter was as I write very often and I sure mail them. Well what kind of weather are you having at home we are having bum weather now it has quit snowing and going to raining but it is not so very cold but last week it was awful cold. Well we are still working on the French roads and I think we are doing fine as you know all of the boys are disgusted as we have been over hear almost 15 months and haven’t got to go home yet and there were some regiments over here that weren’t over here hardly no time and now have gone home and we are still in France and I sure do want to come home awful bad. I sure do want to come home but I guess I will just have to stick it out. Say the country here sure is wonderful you have heard of cave dwellers well there are miles and miles here along the river front some of the prettiest houses you ever seen just dug out in the solid rock and the farms here are all nice all the towns around here have eletcric lights and they sure look old I mean the cave dwellers. And there sure some crooked stretts here and they are about wide enough for a baby buggy.
Well I will ring off for this time and write more the next love to all
Ralph H Akins 17104
30th Company
20th Engineers
American E. F.
Almost a century later we are left wondering about young Ralph, about when he finally got to go home to Orange, what his mom cooked him for supper that first night back, and what he did afterward in life.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Letter from France, 1919
At an estate sale I considered buying an old letter, and decided not to. Then I considered it again, and bought it after all. It is written from France on stationery printed “AMERICAN YMCA” and ON ACTIVE SERVICE WITH THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.” The envelope is franked “SOLDIER’S MAIL” and features the “OK” and the illegible signature of the censorship officer.
A young man from Orange, Texas, probably a teenager, writes of occupation duty, erratic mail service, the marvels of electricity (few American homes had electricity in 1919), and of frustration because he and his regiment have been kept behind in France for months after their active service in combat.
Although the penmanship from this doughboy of a century ago is elegant, the paper and the ink have both deteriorated and so I may have erred in transcription. The letter is addressed to:
Mrs. M Akins
R. A. Box 69
Orange
Texas
Febuary 5, 1919
My Dear Mother & All:
Well I hope you have heard from me by this time as the last letter I got from you said that you had not heard from me in 3 months and I don’t know what the matter was as I write very often and I sure mail them. Well what kind of weather are you having at home we are having bum weather now it has quit snowing and going to raining but it is not so very cold but last week it was awful cold. Well we are still working on the French roads and I think we are doing fine as you know all of the boys are disgusted as we have been over hear almost 15 months and haven’t got to go home yet and there were some regiments over here that weren’t over here hardly no time and now have gone home and we are still in France and I sure do want to come home awful bad. I sure do want to come home but I guess I will just have to stick it out. Say the country here sure is wonderful you have heard of cave dwellers well there are miles and miles here along the river front some of the prettiest houses you ever seen just dug out in the solid rock and the farms here are all nice all the towns around here have eletcric lights and they sure look old I mean the cave dwellers. And there sure some crooked stretts here and they are about wide enough for a baby buggy.
Well I will ring off for this time and write more the next love to all
Ralph H Akins 17104
30th Company
20th Engineers
American E. F.
Almost a century later we are left wondering about young Ralph, about when he finally got to go home to Orange, what his mom cooked him for supper that first night back, and what he did afterward in life.
-30-
Saturday, March 21, 2015
What Was in the White House Package?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
What Was in the White House Package?
That the Not-So-Secret Service seems to consist only of superannuated frat boys carrying firearms is old news, so there is no surprise about their latest comedy routine from The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad.
Paging Detective Frank Drebin…
In their latest (as of this scribbling) comedy routine, a couple of the Secret Action Hero lads drove to the White House under the influence of a late night of merriment and good fellowship, and compromised an investigation into a suspicious package (are there any trusting packages?) left at the gates.
If the local coppers / flatfoots / Peelers / gumshoes / Sherlocks / constabulary / Officer Semanskis had been permitted to investigate we would have known all about the package within a day or two. Given that The Happy Hour Cocktail Commandos are in charge, we can only speculate about what was in the suspicious package left at the White House gates. Some possibilities:
1. An advance copy of the new federally mandated cookbook for schools and hospitals: Gruel – It’s Not Just for Victorian Orphanages
2. Transcripts of a former secretary of state’s misplaced emails
3. A map to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideout where he plans world domination, beginning with Disneyland
4. A copy of the U.S. Constitution
5. A book of Hillary’s cookie recipes
6. Pizza
7. The complete The Brady Bunch Meet The Flintstones on DVD, including The Lost Episodes
8. An invitation to join Governor Christie and his wife for a game of bridge
9. The remains of a fence-jumper who misjudged speed, distance, height, and those really sharp spikes
10. The complete edition of late-night TV Secret Service Jokes in three DVDs dropped by a renegade drone
But I must close now. It’s midnight, and there’s a knock on the door. Wonder who it could be…
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
What Was in the White House Package?
That the Not-So-Secret Service seems to consist only of superannuated frat boys carrying firearms is old news, so there is no surprise about their latest comedy routine from The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad.
Paging Detective Frank Drebin…
In their latest (as of this scribbling) comedy routine, a couple of the Secret Action Hero lads drove to the White House under the influence of a late night of merriment and good fellowship, and compromised an investigation into a suspicious package (are there any trusting packages?) left at the gates.
If the local coppers / flatfoots / Peelers / gumshoes / Sherlocks / constabulary / Officer Semanskis had been permitted to investigate we would have known all about the package within a day or two. Given that The Happy Hour Cocktail Commandos are in charge, we can only speculate about what was in the suspicious package left at the White House gates. Some possibilities:
1. An advance copy of the new federally mandated cookbook for schools and hospitals: Gruel – It’s Not Just for Victorian Orphanages
2. Transcripts of a former secretary of state’s misplaced emails
3. A map to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideout where he plans world domination, beginning with Disneyland
4. A copy of the U.S. Constitution
5. A book of Hillary’s cookie recipes
6. Pizza
7. The complete The Brady Bunch Meet The Flintstones on DVD, including The Lost Episodes
8. An invitation to join Governor Christie and his wife for a game of bridge
9. The remains of a fence-jumper who misjudged speed, distance, height, and those really sharp spikes
10. The complete edition of late-night TV Secret Service Jokes in three DVDs dropped by a renegade drone
But I must close now. It’s midnight, and there’s a knock on the door. Wonder who it could be…
-30-
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
A Funeral
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
Friday, March 13, 2015
Old Karamazov
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Karamazov
Young Karamazov – once upon a time
Strolled dreaming through the happy hopes of youth
And surely wondered about spring and love
Wrote clumsy verse, perhaps, for a pretty girl
Then fell unfortunately into fashion:
The acquisition of proud vanities
Through the disposition of dreams and souls
Until he was only an old man who
Sat brooding through the bitter schemes of age
Old Karamazov – lost upon a time
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Karamazov
Young Karamazov – once upon a time
Strolled dreaming through the happy hopes of youth
And surely wondered about spring and love
Wrote clumsy verse, perhaps, for a pretty girl
Then fell unfortunately into fashion:
The acquisition of proud vanities
Through the disposition of dreams and souls
Until he was only an old man who
Sat brooding through the bitter schemes of age
Old Karamazov – lost upon a time
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Welcome to Texas
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Welcome to Texas
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Museum closed left lane closed right lane closed
The clerk has your receipt no bathroom no
Rest stop closed traffic fines double if you don’t
Slow down for the workers who aren’t there
This is the lane for 287 south
But it isn’t ha ha fooled you again
Detour now past the Blackberry beggar
Who must go to the bathroom somewhere here
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Mhall46184@aol.com
Welcome to Texas
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Museum closed left lane closed right lane closed
The clerk has your receipt no bathroom no
Rest stop closed traffic fines double if you don’t
Slow down for the workers who aren’t there
This is the lane for 287 south
But it isn’t ha ha fooled you again
Detour now past the Blackberry beggar
Who must go to the bathroom somewhere here
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Another world beyond the yellow tape:
Chaos and smoke, confusion, blood, and pain
A wreckage of souls, cigarettes, and beer
Grim death encompassed within appointed bounds.
Some order on this side the yellow tape:
Cheeseburgers and fries, sodas in paper cups
MePhones uplifted in Hitlerian salute
Recording the pagan chant: “OMG!”
Sung by life’s postulants surprised to see
Another world beyond the yellow tape
Mhall46184@aol.com
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Another world beyond the yellow tape:
Chaos and smoke, confusion, blood, and pain
A wreckage of souls, cigarettes, and beer
Grim death encompassed within appointed bounds.
Some order on this side the yellow tape:
Cheeseburgers and fries, sodas in paper cups
MePhones uplifted in Hitlerian salute
Recording the pagan chant: “OMG!”
Sung by life’s postulants surprised to see
Another world beyond the yellow tape
Die Skihutte / The Ski Hut
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Die Skihutte
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Its tiny skiers on their holiday
A tiny bench sits on the lamplit porch
And someone’s skis are leaned against the wall
The tiny door is closed against the cold
But windows with their shutters open wide
Invite a peek into a tiny world
Of bunks and boots and books and bottles of beer
A pot of stew kept warm beside the fire -
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Mhall46184@aol.com
Die Skihutte
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Its tiny skiers on their holiday
A tiny bench sits on the lamplit porch
And someone’s skis are leaned against the wall
The tiny door is closed against the cold
But windows with their shutters open wide
Invite a peek into a tiny world
Of bunks and boots and books and bottles of beer
A pot of stew kept warm beside the fire -
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Dante
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dante
Dante Alighieri
Wasn’t very merry
Whenever he didn’t feel well
He imagined his enemies in (Newark)
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dante
Dante Alighieri
Wasn’t very merry
Whenever he didn’t feel well
He imagined his enemies in (Newark)
A Flicker of Life
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Flicker of Life
Movies are but flickering images
Sometimes, to the observer, so is life
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Flicker of Life
Movies are but flickering images
Sometimes, to the observer, so is life
On the Desecration of Jewish Cemeteries in France
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
On the Desecration of Jewish Cemeteries in France
An obscenity scrawled upon the gates
Is Satan screaming outrage at the Sh’ma
A booted foot crunching riot-shattered glass
Is only death’s passing futility
A smear of swastikas by unclean hands
Is lambs’ blood on the holy lintels of Heaven
A tombstone tipped onto the grass – a throne
In a mansion promised in the long ago
In a happy Garden of eternal spring
Where blessings are engraved upon the gates
Mhall46184@aol.com
On the Desecration of Jewish Cemeteries in France
An obscenity scrawled upon the gates
Is Satan screaming outrage at the Sh’ma
A booted foot crunching riot-shattered glass
Is only death’s passing futility
A smear of swastikas by unclean hands
Is lambs’ blood on the holy lintels of Heaven
A tombstone tipped onto the grass – a throne
In a mansion promised in the long ago
In a happy Garden of eternal spring
Where blessings are engraved upon the gates
Muster
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Muster
There is no American Legion hall
It was sold long ago to pay the bills
A few old men gather in borrowed rooms
To pledge allegiance to a nation that
Has never pledged her allegiance to them
But still they offer their service and faith
To a wonderfully indifferent nation
And to its equally indifferent God
They muster again on the trail because
There is no American Legion hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Muster
There is no American Legion hall
It was sold long ago to pay the bills
A few old men gather in borrowed rooms
To pledge allegiance to a nation that
Has never pledged her allegiance to them
But still they offer their service and faith
To a wonderfully indifferent nation
And to its equally indifferent God
They muster again on the trail because
There is no American Legion hall
Feeding the Beast
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Feeding the Beast
The doors into the flames are open wide
Now shovel that gossip into the fire
Tittle-tattle no one will ever read
Unless a bit of tattle raises a flag
Whatever is flaggy to administration
Unless a bit of tittle raises eyebrows
Whatever is eyebrowy to administration
It’s all HTML, type it or talk it
So shovel it in, little worker bees:
The doors into the flames are open wide
Mhall46184@aol.com
Feeding the Beast
The doors into the flames are open wide
Now shovel that gossip into the fire
Tittle-tattle no one will ever read
Unless a bit of tattle raises a flag
Whatever is flaggy to administration
Unless a bit of tittle raises eyebrows
Whatever is eyebrowy to administration
It’s all HTML, type it or talk it
So shovel it in, little worker bees:
The doors into the flames are open wide
President Jerry Judge Judy Genn Rush Kardashian
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
President Jerry Judge Judy Glenn Rush Kardashian
This nation’s non-stop election cycle continues, along with cooking shows and
Kardashians, but, alas, nothing about cooking Kardashians. Politics is no longer Ciceronian or Jeffersonian, but rather Iphonian.
Every four years about 50% of the electorate choose a president. They do not choose the president’s family. The president, not anyone else, should support the president’s family. If the president wants all his relations to go on shopping tours and holidays, he or she can pay for their airline tickets on American or United out of his paycheck, just like an American.
Every four years the other 50% of the electorate choose nothing. They’re probably too busy complaining.
Why does the president have access to a fleet of luxury aircraft? Why so many armored Al Capone-y luxury cars? Where is the candidate who will foreswear these expensive vanities? The airplanes should be refitted as medevacs for the soldiers wounded in this nation’s many undeclared wars, and the look-at-me- cars sold to record producers.
The President of the United States is not the leader of the free world. If the president were the leader of the free world, the free world would have agreed to this by now. They haven’t. Constitutionally, the president is not even the leader of this country. Let us not elect a Napoleon manque’ but instead a president who wishes to serve the people of this nation.
Let us elect a president who pledges not to play golf, ride a bicycle, or sing with a hillbilly or rock band for the duration of his or her term.
Let us elect a president whose spouse swears a sacred oath not to mess with school lunches or confuse his or her moods and whims for a Delphian Oracle.
Let us elect a president who repudiates all executive power over toilet tanks and light bulbs, and who sacks the EPA as quickly as Monica’s boyfriend sacked the White House travel agency staff (who didn’t deserve it).
Let us elect a president who is at least as friendly to Canada, Israel, the United Kingdom, and our many other friends and allies as he is to China, Viet-Nam, Arabia, Qatar, Cuba, Turkey, Indonesia, and all other tyrannies.
Let us elect a president who once had a real job or who served in the military.
Let us elect a president who will not compromise the dignity of the office by granting faux-absolution to turkeys and messing about with groundhogs. Look, Mr. or Madame President, do your job and leave comedy to Congress.
Let us elect a president who understands that the practice of medicine is predicated on the doctor-patient relationship, not on a money-sucking third party.
Let us elect a president who will never attack another nation without a Congressional declaration of war as required by Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution. This nation thought badly of Japan for attacking us without a declaration of war in 1941. Sauce for the goose…
Let us elect a president who knows that there is no such law as a War Powers Act, only the War Powers Resolution, and a resolution is only smoke drifting in the wind.
Let us elect a president who looks to God, to the at least 6,000 years of human civilization, to the realities of history, and to the Constitution, not to some transient ideological screed he or she read in his sophomore year.
Let us elect a congress equally wise and discerning. And let us be worthy of the good government we say we want.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
President Jerry Judge Judy Glenn Rush Kardashian
This nation’s non-stop election cycle continues, along with cooking shows and
Kardashians, but, alas, nothing about cooking Kardashians. Politics is no longer Ciceronian or Jeffersonian, but rather Iphonian.
Every four years about 50% of the electorate choose a president. They do not choose the president’s family. The president, not anyone else, should support the president’s family. If the president wants all his relations to go on shopping tours and holidays, he or she can pay for their airline tickets on American or United out of his paycheck, just like an American.
Every four years the other 50% of the electorate choose nothing. They’re probably too busy complaining.
Why does the president have access to a fleet of luxury aircraft? Why so many armored Al Capone-y luxury cars? Where is the candidate who will foreswear these expensive vanities? The airplanes should be refitted as medevacs for the soldiers wounded in this nation’s many undeclared wars, and the look-at-me- cars sold to record producers.
The President of the United States is not the leader of the free world. If the president were the leader of the free world, the free world would have agreed to this by now. They haven’t. Constitutionally, the president is not even the leader of this country. Let us not elect a Napoleon manque’ but instead a president who wishes to serve the people of this nation.
Let us elect a president who pledges not to play golf, ride a bicycle, or sing with a hillbilly or rock band for the duration of his or her term.
Let us elect a president whose spouse swears a sacred oath not to mess with school lunches or confuse his or her moods and whims for a Delphian Oracle.
Let us elect a president who repudiates all executive power over toilet tanks and light bulbs, and who sacks the EPA as quickly as Monica’s boyfriend sacked the White House travel agency staff (who didn’t deserve it).
Let us elect a president who is at least as friendly to Canada, Israel, the United Kingdom, and our many other friends and allies as he is to China, Viet-Nam, Arabia, Qatar, Cuba, Turkey, Indonesia, and all other tyrannies.
Let us elect a president who once had a real job or who served in the military.
Let us elect a president who will not compromise the dignity of the office by granting faux-absolution to turkeys and messing about with groundhogs. Look, Mr. or Madame President, do your job and leave comedy to Congress.
Let us elect a president who understands that the practice of medicine is predicated on the doctor-patient relationship, not on a money-sucking third party.
Let us elect a president who will never attack another nation without a Congressional declaration of war as required by Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution. This nation thought badly of Japan for attacking us without a declaration of war in 1941. Sauce for the goose…
Let us elect a president who knows that there is no such law as a War Powers Act, only the War Powers Resolution, and a resolution is only smoke drifting in the wind.
Let us elect a president who looks to God, to the at least 6,000 years of human civilization, to the realities of history, and to the Constitution, not to some transient ideological screed he or she read in his sophomore year.
Let us elect a congress equally wise and discerning. And let us be worthy of the good government we say we want.
-30-
Do Luddies Read?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Do Luddites Read?
If in the past a tyrant wanted to eliminate a book not acceptable to his ego or his ideology he had to go to a great deal of bother to discredit books and their writers. Seizing and burning books meant organizing government or military departments to search out copies, although many university students were (and still are) eager to volunteer in ideological censorship.
With gadgetry our culture has progressed from burning books (which, after all, pollutes the air) to deleting books from the disinformation superhighway by clicking an app.
One of the early sellers of electronic books discovered that it was selling a book without the permission of the copyright owner. The book was not only withdrawn from sale, but all the copies already sold were made to disappear instantly from the little plastic boxes of all the people who had bought the book. The purchasers were given credit, and all was well except for this disturbing reality: any book, or even all of them, can be made to disappear from any electronic reader at any time.
Books on any sort of electronic device can be altered or deleted by someone else upon command. The book you begin to read can be changed before you finish it. Any titles you read can of course be monitored by anyone who is interested in knowing what you are up to.
And this is nothing new, except for improved efficiency in shoving unacceptable words down the Orwellian memory hole. In church, for example, some familiar hymns have been altered for contemporary sensitivities. Church committees and publishers have sometimes determined that our ancestors were wrong, and have then changed or eliminated words, phrases, and entire songs very dear to generations of worshippers.
Destroying art is an ISIS / Taliban thing, not our thing, even when prefaced with “as arranged by…”
However, the words in the printed hymnal do not change while you are holding the hymnal. Any printed book in your hands can be determined by you to be a bad book or a good book. But nothing about that physical book is going to change except for the inevitable decay of physical matter through fire, immersion in water, or the passage of years. The contents of an electronic edition, however, could be whatever the publisher or service provider wants them to be at any moment.
Resistance both to snooping and to changing words and songs and texts is not a matter of being a Luddite, but a reasonable desire that the editors and purveyors of those words and songs and texts remember that they are not Shakespeare, John Newton, or Lord Byron. Ms. Grundy and her doppelganger Josef Goebbels don’t rate a veto on art, music, and faith.
An electronic book is even more ephemeral than Radio Shack™. There is much to be said for – and by – that printed book on the shelf.
And, hey, Luddites – happy bicentennial!
Bloom, Allan. The Closing of the American Mind. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1987.
Finn, Peter, and Petra Couvee’. The Zhivago Affair. New York: Pantheon Books. 2014.
Manning, Molly Guptill. When Books Went to War. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Pubishing Company. 2014.
Shirer, William L. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1960.
Slonim, Mark. Soviet Russian Literature: Writers and Problems, 1917-1967. New York: Oxford University Press. 1967.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Do Luddites Read?
If in the past a tyrant wanted to eliminate a book not acceptable to his ego or his ideology he had to go to a great deal of bother to discredit books and their writers. Seizing and burning books meant organizing government or military departments to search out copies, although many university students were (and still are) eager to volunteer in ideological censorship.
With gadgetry our culture has progressed from burning books (which, after all, pollutes the air) to deleting books from the disinformation superhighway by clicking an app.
One of the early sellers of electronic books discovered that it was selling a book without the permission of the copyright owner. The book was not only withdrawn from sale, but all the copies already sold were made to disappear instantly from the little plastic boxes of all the people who had bought the book. The purchasers were given credit, and all was well except for this disturbing reality: any book, or even all of them, can be made to disappear from any electronic reader at any time.
Books on any sort of electronic device can be altered or deleted by someone else upon command. The book you begin to read can be changed before you finish it. Any titles you read can of course be monitored by anyone who is interested in knowing what you are up to.
And this is nothing new, except for improved efficiency in shoving unacceptable words down the Orwellian memory hole. In church, for example, some familiar hymns have been altered for contemporary sensitivities. Church committees and publishers have sometimes determined that our ancestors were wrong, and have then changed or eliminated words, phrases, and entire songs very dear to generations of worshippers.
Destroying art is an ISIS / Taliban thing, not our thing, even when prefaced with “as arranged by…”
However, the words in the printed hymnal do not change while you are holding the hymnal. Any printed book in your hands can be determined by you to be a bad book or a good book. But nothing about that physical book is going to change except for the inevitable decay of physical matter through fire, immersion in water, or the passage of years. The contents of an electronic edition, however, could be whatever the publisher or service provider wants them to be at any moment.
Resistance both to snooping and to changing words and songs and texts is not a matter of being a Luddite, but a reasonable desire that the editors and purveyors of those words and songs and texts remember that they are not Shakespeare, John Newton, or Lord Byron. Ms. Grundy and her doppelganger Josef Goebbels don’t rate a veto on art, music, and faith.
An electronic book is even more ephemeral than Radio Shack™. There is much to be said for – and by – that printed book on the shelf.
And, hey, Luddites – happy bicentennial!
Bloom, Allan. The Closing of the American Mind. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1987.
Finn, Peter, and Petra Couvee’. The Zhivago Affair. New York: Pantheon Books. 2014.
Manning, Molly Guptill. When Books Went to War. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Pubishing Company. 2014.
Shirer, William L. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1960.
Slonim, Mark. Soviet Russian Literature: Writers and Problems, 1917-1967. New York: Oxford University Press. 1967.
-30-
Rainbows
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Rainbows
Rainbows are nice, and no one has to sign up with Mega-Tentacle Wireless to see one.
At the beginning of Lent the matter of the rainbow in Genesis 9:11 is often one of the appointed readings:
I will establish my covenant with you, and all flesh shall be no more destroyed with the waters of a flood, neither shall there be from henceforth a flood to waste the earth. And God said: This is the sign of the covenant which I give between me and you, and to every living soul that is with you, for perpetual generations. I will set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be the sign of a covenant between me, and between the earth. And when I shall cover the sky with clouds, my bow shall appear in the clouds: And I will remember my covenant with you, and with every living soul that beareth flesh: and there shall no more be waters of a flood to destroy all flesh.
Although the Romantics (with a capital ‘R’), were usually hostile to revealed religion, Wordsworth is one of the more congenial and accessible of that rowdy lot. In one of his first poems he connects the rainbow with humanity:
“My Heart Leaps Up”
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I would wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
In this little poem of indeterminate line, meter, and rhyme, Wordsworth connects the rainbow intimately to three ages of a man’s life on earth: childhood, maturity, and old age. The adult speaker delights in rainbows just as he did when he was a little boy, and hopes that he always will. He maintains that the joys of childhood are important to the development of the man, and that these joys are part of a life of harmony and balance, or “natural piety.”
Rainbows aren’t scheduled. They appear at will, usually around dusk on a rain spring or summer day, and then disappear quickly. Langston Hughes says that “Poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.” Conversely, rainbows are like poems. To go for the camera is to lose the rainbow, and even if not, the pictures of the rainbow don’t really match the real rainbow. Might as well catch the Wordsworthian moment while it lasts.
And, as Christina Rossetti says,
There are bridges on the rivers,
As pretty as you please;
But the bow that bridges heaven,
And overtops the trees,
And builds a road from earth to sky,
Is prettier far than these
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Rainbows
Rainbows are nice, and no one has to sign up with Mega-Tentacle Wireless to see one.
At the beginning of Lent the matter of the rainbow in Genesis 9:11 is often one of the appointed readings:
I will establish my covenant with you, and all flesh shall be no more destroyed with the waters of a flood, neither shall there be from henceforth a flood to waste the earth. And God said: This is the sign of the covenant which I give between me and you, and to every living soul that is with you, for perpetual generations. I will set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be the sign of a covenant between me, and between the earth. And when I shall cover the sky with clouds, my bow shall appear in the clouds: And I will remember my covenant with you, and with every living soul that beareth flesh: and there shall no more be waters of a flood to destroy all flesh.
Although the Romantics (with a capital ‘R’), were usually hostile to revealed religion, Wordsworth is one of the more congenial and accessible of that rowdy lot. In one of his first poems he connects the rainbow with humanity:
“My Heart Leaps Up”
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I would wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
In this little poem of indeterminate line, meter, and rhyme, Wordsworth connects the rainbow intimately to three ages of a man’s life on earth: childhood, maturity, and old age. The adult speaker delights in rainbows just as he did when he was a little boy, and hopes that he always will. He maintains that the joys of childhood are important to the development of the man, and that these joys are part of a life of harmony and balance, or “natural piety.”
Rainbows aren’t scheduled. They appear at will, usually around dusk on a rain spring or summer day, and then disappear quickly. Langston Hughes says that “Poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.” Conversely, rainbows are like poems. To go for the camera is to lose the rainbow, and even if not, the pictures of the rainbow don’t really match the real rainbow. Might as well catch the Wordsworthian moment while it lasts.
And, as Christina Rossetti says,
There are bridges on the rivers,
As pretty as you please;
But the bow that bridges heaven,
And overtops the trees,
And builds a road from earth to sky,
Is prettier far than these
-30-
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
The Yankee Doodle Cigar Box
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Yankee Doodle Cigar Box
Open the old cigar box,
Get me a Cuba stout
For things are running crossways,
And Maggie and I are out
- Kipling
The decay of civilization continues with the demise of the cigar box.
In the not-so-long-ago even the cheapest cigars (Roi-Tan – “The Cigar That Breathes”) were sold in wooden boxes secured with little brass nails.
Little boys didn’t smoke cigars (well…once or twice…) themselves, but a castoff cigar box was a childhood treasure, a source of almost-raw materials for building toy forts, airplanes, cars, ships, and army tanks.
A cigar box also served as a pirate’s treasure chest for hiding old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that didn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, made a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck.
Every child took a cigar box to school to hold crayons, those dinky, stamped-metal, blunt-nosed scissors, and that crumbly white paste which wouldn’t stick anything together. The labels remained, which would now be forbidden under state law as promoting the use of tobacco by children.
Some manufacturers sold empty no-name boxes as school supplies for a time, but these were quickly superseded by the now ubiquitous and iniquitous transparent plastic boxes which somehow seem un-American.
Wooden cigar boxes for cheap machine brands were first replaced by thick, heavy cardboard. These were sturdy enough for squirreling away little oddments in a drawer, but wholly inadequate for building another USS Texas, a bomber, or a railroad station for the three-rail O-gauge (the Marx vs Lionel vs American Flyer debate is deferred).
Sadly, grocery store cigars no longer come in real boxes at all; they are tucked into folding envelopes of thin cardboard, useless in every way. Straight shame.
After the Depression and World War II, the concept of “the richest nation on earth” was almost as much a fiction as it is now. National prosperity didn’t much come down to ex-G.I.’s, but they figured they were blessed in having jobs and food and no one shooting at them, and the promise of a better future. A J. C. Higgins on the gun rack instead of a garand, a pair of dress shoes instead of combat boots for going to church, and the luxury of a six-cent cigar after work or down at the American Legion - all spoke of small victories.
The names of those brands return from the past: Roi Tan, King Edward, Wm Penn, Dutch Masters, White Owl, Phillies, El Producto, Muriel, Swisher Sweets, John Ruskin, most of which have gone the way of the Missouri Pacific, Pan American, and Studebaker. The plain wooden boxes in which those cheap, machine-made, post-war cigars awaiting the touch of the match contained more than cigars, they were cultural artifacts.
Cardboard just won’t do.
Where now is the modern boy to hide his old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that doesn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, makes a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Yankee Doodle Cigar Box
Open the old cigar box,
Get me a Cuba stout
For things are running crossways,
And Maggie and I are out
- Kipling
The decay of civilization continues with the demise of the cigar box.
In the not-so-long-ago even the cheapest cigars (Roi-Tan – “The Cigar That Breathes”) were sold in wooden boxes secured with little brass nails.
Little boys didn’t smoke cigars (well…once or twice…) themselves, but a castoff cigar box was a childhood treasure, a source of almost-raw materials for building toy forts, airplanes, cars, ships, and army tanks.
A cigar box also served as a pirate’s treasure chest for hiding old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that didn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, made a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck.
Every child took a cigar box to school to hold crayons, those dinky, stamped-metal, blunt-nosed scissors, and that crumbly white paste which wouldn’t stick anything together. The labels remained, which would now be forbidden under state law as promoting the use of tobacco by children.
Some manufacturers sold empty no-name boxes as school supplies for a time, but these were quickly superseded by the now ubiquitous and iniquitous transparent plastic boxes which somehow seem un-American.
Wooden cigar boxes for cheap machine brands were first replaced by thick, heavy cardboard. These were sturdy enough for squirreling away little oddments in a drawer, but wholly inadequate for building another USS Texas, a bomber, or a railroad station for the three-rail O-gauge (the Marx vs Lionel vs American Flyer debate is deferred).
Sadly, grocery store cigars no longer come in real boxes at all; they are tucked into folding envelopes of thin cardboard, useless in every way. Straight shame.
After the Depression and World War II, the concept of “the richest nation on earth” was almost as much a fiction as it is now. National prosperity didn’t much come down to ex-G.I.’s, but they figured they were blessed in having jobs and food and no one shooting at them, and the promise of a better future. A J. C. Higgins on the gun rack instead of a garand, a pair of dress shoes instead of combat boots for going to church, and the luxury of a six-cent cigar after work or down at the American Legion - all spoke of small victories.
The names of those brands return from the past: Roi Tan, King Edward, Wm Penn, Dutch Masters, White Owl, Phillies, El Producto, Muriel, Swisher Sweets, John Ruskin, most of which have gone the way of the Missouri Pacific, Pan American, and Studebaker. The plain wooden boxes in which those cheap, machine-made, post-war cigars awaiting the touch of the match contained more than cigars, they were cultural artifacts.
Cardboard just won’t do.
Where now is the modern boy to hide his old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that doesn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, makes a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck?
-30-
The Twenty-One Egyptian Martyrs
Twenty-One Martyrs of Egypt
Baptized into the mystery of death
Simon again carrying the Cross of Christ
But now each Simon carrying his own
Marched to the beach under the whips of scorn
Crowned with humiliation, fear, and pain
Agony, the obscenity of death
Canonized on the Cyrenian shore
Lifted up into eternal Joy
Twenty-one martyrs teach us how to die
Baptized into the mystery of death
Baptized into the mystery of death
Simon again carrying the Cross of Christ
But now each Simon carrying his own
Marched to the beach under the whips of scorn
Crowned with humiliation, fear, and pain
Agony, the obscenity of death
Canonized on the Cyrenian shore
Lifted up into eternal Joy
Twenty-one martyrs teach us how to die
Baptized into the mystery of death
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Cambodia Comes to an End
Mack Hall, HSG
Cambodia
Comes to an End
The Cambodian government recently arrested two American
sisters for desecrating a religious and historical site by taking bare-bottom
pictures of each other in Angkor Wat.
The two young women kept their shirts on, though – perhaps these were tees
printed with “These ARE My Church Clothes®™” or maybe the obligatory portrait
of pathological murderer and capitalist fashion ATM Che Guevara®™.
Someone might ask where their parents were, but, really,
should twenty-somethings need mumsy and dadsy to tell them to keep their
britches on in somebody else’s church?
The government is unsure about the proper
punishment. Given the reported poses, a
few swings with a switch wouldn’t be amiss for the misses.
Many people the age of the moonbeam girls are working
double shifts at minimum-wage jobs to maintain themselves, and can’t afford a
holiday at all. These two consumers, who
enjoy enough disposable wealth to visit a UNESCO World Heritage Site, could
think of little else to do at one of the world’s wonders except to act out the
content of American television programming.
This failure to respect others and one’s self is not
limited to Yanks. Only a week before the
bad American moons arising three French tourists chose to give the temple more
exposure to the, uh, culture of La Belle France than was necessary. The Cambodian government gave them suspended
sentences and sent them home, which demonstrates that Cambodia is more
civilized than France.
The week before that some other tourists, said only to be
“Asian,” also thought that a thousand-year-old religious site was a
clothing-optional experience.
At some point Cambodia might become so exasperated at
those visitors who act like British footie fans that the punishments might
involve more than a scolding and a ride to the airport in a police car. And this might be happening now - as of this
writing, the two young American women are still in a Cambodian holding
facility. No privacy, no
air-conditioning, no MePhone, no television, no menu choices, and maybe only a
damp, crowded concrete floor instead of a bunk.
That must fun.
Although the young women’s lack of a proper upbringing is
probably George Bush’s fault, the reality is that no matter how shabby the
parenting or lack of parenting, a young adult can begin to think for herself
(the pronoun here is gender-neutal). She
can choose not to be fifty shades of victim.
She can choose not to be a cliché, a parasite, or a passive receiver of
destructive sub-cultural indoctrination. She can choose to respect others by
first respecting herself.
Helping visitors grow up is not the responsibility of the
government of Cambodia, who are busy enough recovering from a generation of
Communist horror.
In the end (as it were), Cambodian tourists don’t visit
churches in the USA in order to drop trou for a selfie in front of the
baptismal font.
-30-
Brittle Sunlight
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Brittle Sunlight
Most say a sunbeam’s
glare is beautiful
The February sun
slanting upon
Poor optimistic
flowers opening out
To celebrate the
trickster’s transient warmth
Haze grey is gentler,
drifts of morning mists
Through which ascending
light speaks promises
Of happiness
along life’s pearling dreams
When no sun marks
or assigns us dutiful hours
To those who see
whole worlds in shoaling leaves
Cold February
fogs whisper happiness
National Public Radio Considers the New Cardinals
Lawrence Hall
National Public Radio Considers the New
Cardinals
authentic
marginalized periphery
environment
climate change key issues
chained to the
tradition smacks you in the face
geographical
diversity voices
of the global
church geographic choice
revolutionary
crop developing world
spiritual
Alzheimer’s ideological conclusions
mandarins at the
Vatican the left
upper echelons
hot button dialogue
diverse comments for this thread are now closed
A Flickering Light Among the Winter Trees
Lawrence Hall
Shhhhh - Did You See That?
A flickering
light among the winter trees,
A bell that’s barely
heard within the wind
Like rumors of
poor wandering souls who mourn
Departed glories
through a moonless night
While guarded in
forgotten rites by soft
Mysterious
footfalls heard in the dark
By frightened
men who scuttle quickly back
To where the feeble
streetlamps flail against fear,
Saying nothing
to their pals in the pub about
A flickering
light among the winter trees
Texas' Proposed Open-Carry Law
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Texas’ Proposed Open-Carry Law
All teachers
trample the Constitution
All teachers promote
contempt for the Flag
All teachers
should be in an institution
All teachers are
weird (and that one’s a fag)
All teachers
despise the military
All teachers
should be slowly microwaved
All teachers
hate meat; they’re vegetary
All teachers
hate Jesus; they can’t be Saved
All teachers are
evil; the children are harmed:
And thus, they
say, all teachers should be armed
Upon Learning that the Southern Poverty Law Center Maintains an Enemies List
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Upon Learning that the Southern Poverty Law
Center
Maintains an Enemies List
Does anyone
maintain a list of friends?
The construction flagman who smiles and waves
The neighbor’s boy who visits for a game of chess
The Friday morning coffee commandos
The waitress who flirts with all her old men
The helpful sackboy at the grocery
store
The man who repairs your
air-conditioner
The nurse-practitioner who makes you
all better
Does anyone
maintain a list of friends?
The President Asks Congress to Approve More Corpses
Lawrence Hall
The President Asks Congress to Approve More
Corpses
military force
resolution robust
authorization
national security
interests into
harm’s way absolutely
necessary deployment
enduring
offensive combat
role limits authoritative
document
timetable revisit the issue
discussion
constitutional authority
AUMD ISIL ISIS, stability
integrity necessary
and appropriate
associated
persons or forces boots
Vocations
Lawrence Hall
Vocations
“I consecrate you to a
great novitiate in the world.”
-Father Zosima to Alyosha
in The Brothers Karamazov
The monastery
gate opens easily
If it really needs
opening at all
The road outside
often leads somewhere else
But then it just
as often leads back again
The distance
measured by a crucifix
Where a weary
traveler can pray awhile
Or maybe Harry
Bailey’s hamburger joint
A cup of coffee
and a cigarette
Offered by a
pilgrim in the neon night
The monastery
gate opens easily
The Student Commons
Lawrence Hall
The Student Commons
In the student
commons between classes
Fluorescent lights
over the Coke machine
Cartoons and
soaps on the television screen
Grim thirty-somethings hunched in plastic chairs
Staring like Eloi at the Morlock box
Where Tom chases
Jerry past Vanna White
And then across
the bed where Brook and Ridge
Wrestle in
geographic ecstasy
On the muddy
banks of the sports channel
In the student
commons between classes
One Shade of Going Viral
Lawrence Hall
One Shade of Going Viral
A cloud of
virus-sodden tissues builds
Billow on
billow, like a summer storm
Weathering up
for the afternoon rain,
Or like a
trash-can snowman sneeze by sneeze.
A cold is like a
favorite childhood toy
Discovered in a
shoebox tucked away
Or a Robin Hood
book of summer dreams
Three days’
escape from responsibilities
And pulling at a
tissue once again
A cloud of
irresponsible indolence builds
Does This Machine Kill Fascists?
Does This Machine Kill Fascists?
Does this
machine kill Fascists? Probably not
Unless it bores
them to a yawning death
Through
soporific clichés crudely imposed
Upon a few poor,
battered chords that twang
Like the barbed
wire of an Arctic gulag
Where happy
comrades
Shiver in the snow
Wither in the wind
Starve on slops
Burn with typhus
Rot in the tundra
As they build
the future upon mass graves
While the
anti-Fascist cashes his checks
Lawrence Hall
Monday, February 2, 2015
Cuddly Carnivores
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Cuddly Carnivores
Why do we humans
cuddle carnivores
Give names to yapping
little quadrupeds
Who growl at
socks and shoes and closet doors
And rumple all the
covers on all the beds?
What possible
use is a dachshund pup
Who chews
whatever her tiny teeth reach
And what doesn’t
digest comes right back up -
Little dogs are
impossible to teach!
But in my arms
my Astrid softly snores:
That’s why we
cuddle baby carnivores
For Rod McKuen
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
For Rod McKuen
The gentle singer of my youth has died
The poet of empty Sunday afternoons
And solitary strolls through Balboa Park
Among lovers and Frisbee-chasing dogs
Of laughing with shipmates while cleaning rifles
Because we knew more than the armorer
About dreaming away from learning war
About pretty girls laughing in the sun
A chansonnier in sweater, sneaks, and
jeans:
The gentle singer of my youth has died
Politicians and Potties
Mack Hall, HSG
Deflating the
Float Ball
The thought of political functionaries escorting citizens
to the potty is creepy / stalky, but maybe not unexpected. After all, for years the national government,
unable to cobble together a budget, has nonetheless regulated the capacity of
the toilet tanks to which on some occasions they herd citizens.
Late in January the Democrats of the House of
Representatives held what the news calls a retreat at a hotel in
Philadelphia. Part of the security was
provided by the D.C. Capitol Police, exercising their strong extra-territorial
arm of D.C. law in the state of Pennsylvania.
Whatever the occasion or purpose of the retreat (and why
do they call it that?), the House Democrats suffered the punishment of having
to listen to a speech by Vice-President Joe Biden. Ouch.
Reporters present reported (because reporting is what
reporters do) that if they bugged out of the speech (and who wouldn’t!) to
visit the euphemism they were escorted by an official Democratic Party staffer.
Maybe the EPA sent them so that the reporters wouldn’t
be…you know…beneath illegal 150-watt incandescent light bulbs.
Hey, who wouldn’t want to be the up-and-coming political functionary
who is deputed to watch the watchers wee-wee?
This is why young Americans study political science in our great
universities.
How is service on the potty patrol scored on the
staffers’ annual written evaluation?
And what do the staffers say over coffee or a brew after
their shift?
“Say, Biff, rough day?”
“Watching a CNN crone in the john. ‘Rough day’ – ya think?”
“Don’t feel like Steve Kroft, okay? I and my 4.0 GPA from Columbia fetched toilet
paper for some Fox newsies who wanted to know if it were free-range.”
“Bartender…!”
What is unclear is why some of the Honorable Members of
the House determined that reporters can’t go…you know…without minders. Is the Fourth
Estate notorious for wrapping the House chambers? Do they need reminding to wash their hands and check their zippers and buttons?
Estate notorious for wrapping the House chambers? Do they need reminding to wash their hands and check their zippers and buttons?
The reader wonders how Edward R. Murrow, Douglas Edwards,
Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, and Ernie Pyle would have responded to twenty-something
functionaries supervising their occasional necessary visits.
If someone suggests that some aspects of our government
seem to be in the toilet, well, maybe that’s not a metaphor.
-30-
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
January Weary
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
January Weary
Dark weeks of wind and clouds and rain have passed
Into the east where wild storms go to die
While in the west above the woods the moon
A glowing curve of cold reigns over the sky
Now close the door after a lingering look
Upon silence and frost this January night
And dream by the fire, with blanket and book,
Sweet images of spring in the flickering light
And sunlight tomorrow - the frost won’t last
Long weeks of wind and clouds and rain have passed
News From Russia
Lawrence Hall
News from Russia
The Brothers
Karamazov, Book II
There was little news from Russia today
At the monastery the late liturgy
Was over around eleven or so
The faithful crossing themselves as they left,
Mostly poor folk, walking to their homes for lunch
And then back to work.
They hardly noticed
A party of their betters strolling about
Reading tombstones, giggling about the quaint monks
Waiting to see a reed swaying in the wind
There was little news from Russia today
Je Suis Dust Jacket
Lawrence Hall
Je Suis Dust Jacket
Can’t-put-it-down layered tapestry of
Spell-binding patriarchal must-read rich
Ness woven of cross-cultural patriarchal
Assumptions is a multi-gendered land
Mark of accessible, richly textured
Narratives that will make you laugh, make you cry,
And change your life forever through a unique
Voice of powerful unstinting timeless
Human condition moving milestone land
Mark compelling nuanced epic of searing
Honesty and gripping poignancy burnt
Into the human conscience challenges
The heterosexist patriarchal
Mainstream that will define a generation
Iconic sensual stunning absorbing
Lapidary roman a clef triumph
Definitive edgy in the tradition
Of luminous provocative.
And stuff.
Some Mornings Are Like That
Lawrence Hall
Some Mornings are
like That
The day begins, but not in optimism
Sunrise is tiresome, fresh coffee tastes old
The frost in the fields has been used before
Even the evergreens are evertired
So what will you now do? Give it all up?
Oh, no. Toothbrush
and shaver to the front
A shower, hot, get dressed, laugh at yourself
Lace up your sneakers, however awkwardly
Now touch the Crucifix, take up your work
The day begins – to stand up is a victory
After Epiphany III
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
After Epiphany III
The stripping of the tree is almost Lenten
The ornaments gone, only “bare ruined choirs”
Remain, no comfort of carols or hymns
As it is dragged outside into the cold
It almost seems to shiver in the winter sun
Reduced to poverty and then to scraps
Which in the months to come enkindle then
An evening fire after the cows are milked
But not celebrated with festive lights
The stripping of the tree is almost Lenten
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