Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Hey, We’ve Still got That Other Ice Cream –
Yet More Things People Never Say
“Let’s pull the envelope.”
“Fiction is stranger than truth.”
“We love our internet service provider. The service is excellent, the rates are reasonable, and on the rare occasions we contact customer service the representatives are polite and knowledgeable. We’ve heard that’s true with most internet companies.”
“Better to curse the candle than to darkness the light…or something.”
“Last week I was a high school senior and people were giving me stuff and telling me how wonderful I am; this week I’m just another unemployed adult. What happened?”
“Oh, the places you won’t go.”
“These cans of beans aren’t flying off the shelves at any price. Groceries don’t fly.”
“I’m waiting for the first shoe to drop.”
“I am not announcing my candidacy for the Republican nomination. I think there should be at least one American not running for president.”
“Don’t buy gold from us; if gold were a good investment we’d be keeping it for ourselves.”
“Our company is not on the cutting edge of anything.”
“No, I don’t want to change the world. I need to do a better job of changing myself before I presume to run a planet.”
“No fresh half-and-half or cream for my coffee; hand me a brittle packet of that bleached and dried seaweed.”
“I’ve had enough of Duggars, swamp people, duck guys, shrieking harridans, and the creepy old man who wears lingerie and thinks he’s a centerfold. Instead of tellyvision I take my kid to the public library every week to check out a book to bring home.”
“If there really is a such a thing as the bird flu, why do all the buzzards look so healthy?”
“Those rotten soccer people got what they deserve. As for me, I’m a good American and look to the NFL and ESPN for moral and ethical leadership.”
“Is it just me or is it true that drivers are more skilled and more responsible than ever?”
“This new detective novel will not have you sitting on the edge of your seat – that’s a very uncomfortable place to sit.”
“Maybe the company closed the store because it wasn’t profitable. Maybe it’s not a secret government plot to take over the country from itself. At least that’s what the Russian guys dressed in Ninja outfits driving around in an ice cream truck told me.”
“Buy the first two, and we’ll sell you the third at the same price.”
“Finally, as a tribute to the can-do frontier spirit of Texas: We’ve still got Ben and Jerry’s.”
-30-
Monday, July 6, 2015
Dialogue You Never Hear in Cowboy Movies
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dialogue You Never Hear in Cowboy Movies
“The jail hasn’t been built that can’t hold me.”
“I’ve been three months on the trail, and I’m parched from the alkali dust. Give me a nice cup of tea.”
“They’re cattle rustlers. We’re all going into town to discuss our issues and try to understand each other’s existential needs.”
“It’s not just a flesh wound.”
“We’re invitin’ you to a necktie party. All the coolest designers will be there with their autumn neckwear collections – Calvin Klein, Yves St. Laurent, Versace…”
“That’s the most dangerous stallion in the corral. He won’t be broken. He kicks. He bites. He’s put two cowboys in the hospital. His name is Fluffy.”
“Bugler - sound flip-flops and saddles!”
“I’ll be your huckleberry muffin.”
“This town’s probably big enough for the two of us.”
“They died with their open-toe sandals on.”
“That’s Beige Bart, the most mediocre hombre ever to stroll the streets of Dodge City.”
“I’ll see you in the street at high noon, marshal – wait, is that daylight savings time…?”
“Whiskey, bartender – and don’t leave the bottle.”
"I mean to hurt your feelings in one minute, Ned. Or see that you have therapy in Fort Smith at Judge Parker's convenience. Which'll it be?"
"I call that insensitive microaggression for a visually-impaired, overweight person!"
“When you say that, don’t smile.”
“I’ll see what the girls in the back room will have.”
“I’ve got a numb trigger finger.”
“We don’t have company.”
“Head ‘em down! Move ‘em in!”
“Eeeeeek! Native Americans!”
“Now Zeke, here, he’s into French New Wave. I wouldn’t bring up Italian cinema if I were you.”
“Had me a nice little Starbuck’s franchise in Tombstone…’til the Clantons moved in with their Panera Bread.”
“You be careful in the Bucket of Blood Saloon, Tex; I hear they can cut up rough over a game of chess.”
“We have an active shooting situation.”
“Hey, Shortbread! No steak and taters for me tonight. Just mix me up a nice salad.”
“Don’t shoot them rattlesnakes, Amarillo Slim; they’re an endangered species.”
“You caused a lot of trouble here today, pilgrim, and someone oughta punch you in the mouth. But I won’t. I won’t. Really, I won’t.”
“Indians, outlaws, stampedes, trail dust – I sure hope we get these here cows into Abilene in time for the Shakespeare Festival.”
“Yeah, that’s the new sheriff all right. ‘Course she’s only sheriffin’ until that job in graphics design opens up.”
“Why, heck, boys, I’d rather be hung by my friends than by a bunch of dang strangers…you know, that’s the stupidest line in fiction.”
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dialogue You Never Hear in Cowboy Movies
“The jail hasn’t been built that can’t hold me.”
“I’ve been three months on the trail, and I’m parched from the alkali dust. Give me a nice cup of tea.”
“They’re cattle rustlers. We’re all going into town to discuss our issues and try to understand each other’s existential needs.”
“It’s not just a flesh wound.”
“We’re invitin’ you to a necktie party. All the coolest designers will be there with their autumn neckwear collections – Calvin Klein, Yves St. Laurent, Versace…”
“That’s the most dangerous stallion in the corral. He won’t be broken. He kicks. He bites. He’s put two cowboys in the hospital. His name is Fluffy.”
“Bugler - sound flip-flops and saddles!”
“I’ll be your huckleberry muffin.”
“This town’s probably big enough for the two of us.”
“They died with their open-toe sandals on.”
“That’s Beige Bart, the most mediocre hombre ever to stroll the streets of Dodge City.”
“I’ll see you in the street at high noon, marshal – wait, is that daylight savings time…?”
“Whiskey, bartender – and don’t leave the bottle.”
"I mean to hurt your feelings in one minute, Ned. Or see that you have therapy in Fort Smith at Judge Parker's convenience. Which'll it be?"
"I call that insensitive microaggression for a visually-impaired, overweight person!"
“When you say that, don’t smile.”
“I’ll see what the girls in the back room will have.”
“I’ve got a numb trigger finger.”
“We don’t have company.”
“Head ‘em down! Move ‘em in!”
“Eeeeeek! Native Americans!”
“Now Zeke, here, he’s into French New Wave. I wouldn’t bring up Italian cinema if I were you.”
“Had me a nice little Starbuck’s franchise in Tombstone…’til the Clantons moved in with their Panera Bread.”
“You be careful in the Bucket of Blood Saloon, Tex; I hear they can cut up rough over a game of chess.”
“We have an active shooting situation.”
“Hey, Shortbread! No steak and taters for me tonight. Just mix me up a nice salad.”
“Don’t shoot them rattlesnakes, Amarillo Slim; they’re an endangered species.”
“You caused a lot of trouble here today, pilgrim, and someone oughta punch you in the mouth. But I won’t. I won’t. Really, I won’t.”
“Indians, outlaws, stampedes, trail dust – I sure hope we get these here cows into Abilene in time for the Shakespeare Festival.”
“Yeah, that’s the new sheriff all right. ‘Course she’s only sheriffin’ until that job in graphics design opens up.”
“Why, heck, boys, I’d rather be hung by my friends than by a bunch of dang strangers…you know, that’s the stupidest line in fiction.”
-30-
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
For Friends in Canada
Canada Day? Just One?
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
But Canada goes on; these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
With love from an ‘umble Yank
But every day is Canada Day!
The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada
The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada
Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway
Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest
The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?
To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada
Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”
Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read
The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada
A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada
But Canada goes on; these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!
Sunday, June 21, 2015
With True Prayers
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
With True Prayers
“…but with true prayers
That shall be up at heaven and enter there”
-Measure for Measure II.ii.151-152
A study table is an Altar too
Whereon repose not only holy books
But also hopes and prayers and coffee cups
On Wednesday evening – there in fellowship
To crown the middle of the busy week
With an hour or two of quiet discourse
And, yes, laughter, joy, and merriment
Among dear friends, our happy gifts from God -
Evil cannot veto, even with our blood
The truth: this table is an Altar too
Mhall46184@aol.com
With True Prayers
“…but with true prayers
That shall be up at heaven and enter there”
-Measure for Measure II.ii.151-152
A study table is an Altar too
Whereon repose not only holy books
But also hopes and prayers and coffee cups
On Wednesday evening – there in fellowship
To crown the middle of the busy week
With an hour or two of quiet discourse
And, yes, laughter, joy, and merriment
Among dear friends, our happy gifts from God -
Evil cannot veto, even with our blood
The truth: this table is an Altar too
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
The Photographs of D.T. Kent, Jr.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. I
“Old men forget…”
-Henry V
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Still standing tall on a Kirbyville street
Leaning upon a crutch or stick or friend
Or sitting in the summer shade at home
Shelling peas, shucking corn, mending harness
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
Loggers, farmers, railroaders, sawmill men
Always summoned to the government’s wars
But never to the White House for a medal -
That honor is not for the likes of them
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. II
“...she is a woman / More worth than any man…”
-The Winter’s Tale
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Standing on the steps of the Methodist church
The worthy women of the Bible Class
More dutiful than any old bishop
In teaching, preaching, healing errant souls
Whether daughters or sons, husbands or mules
Shelling peas, shucking corn, mending a quilt
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
And never taking tea with the First Lady –
Who would be welcome in for supper, though
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. III
“…an aery of children…”
-Hamlet
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Playing on the steps of a country church
Or running barefoot in the cow-cropped grass
Before Ma’am rings the bell for Sunday school
Getting up the milk cows, fishing in the pond
Or sitting in the summer shade at home
Made to shell peas, shuck corn, mend harness
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
If they were asked to the White House to play
Momma would make them wash behind their ears
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. IV
“It was a lover and his lass…”
-As You Like It
We see the girls in D.T.’s photographs
Discreetly flirting on a Kirbyville street
Under the stern-browed matrons’ watchful eyes
Or jitterbugging to the new jukebox
In some joint Momma wouldn’t approve of
Cokes, Nehis, and Dr Peppers raised high
Because the sawmill hands got paid today
And the other boys are home from the war:
Oh, look how happy they are, our moms and dads
Forever young, forever in our hearts
Thank you, Mr. Kent
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. I
“Old men forget…”
-Henry V
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Still standing tall on a Kirbyville street
Leaning upon a crutch or stick or friend
Or sitting in the summer shade at home
Shelling peas, shucking corn, mending harness
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
Loggers, farmers, railroaders, sawmill men
Always summoned to the government’s wars
But never to the White House for a medal -
That honor is not for the likes of them
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. II
“...she is a woman / More worth than any man…”
-The Winter’s Tale
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Standing on the steps of the Methodist church
The worthy women of the Bible Class
More dutiful than any old bishop
In teaching, preaching, healing errant souls
Whether daughters or sons, husbands or mules
Shelling peas, shucking corn, mending a quilt
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
And never taking tea with the First Lady –
Who would be welcome in for supper, though
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. III
“…an aery of children…”
-Hamlet
We see them in D.T.’s old photographs
Playing on the steps of a country church
Or running barefoot in the cow-cropped grass
Before Ma’am rings the bell for Sunday school
Getting up the milk cows, fishing in the pond
Or sitting in the summer shade at home
Made to shell peas, shuck corn, mend harness
Because idle hands are the devil’s workshop
If they were asked to the White House to play
Momma would make them wash behind their ears
The Photographs of D. T. Kent, Jr. IV
“It was a lover and his lass…”
-As You Like It
We see the girls in D.T.’s photographs
Discreetly flirting on a Kirbyville street
Under the stern-browed matrons’ watchful eyes
Or jitterbugging to the new jukebox
In some joint Momma wouldn’t approve of
Cokes, Nehis, and Dr Peppers raised high
Because the sawmill hands got paid today
And the other boys are home from the war:
Oh, look how happy they are, our moms and dads
Forever young, forever in our hearts
Thank you, Mr. Kent
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Posing for Selfies at the Foot of the Cross
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Posing for Selfies at the Foot of the Cross
A Doctor Mengele can cut and sew
Fragments of human flesh into a lie
And hide with perfume, paint, and filtered lens
This mockery of the embalmer’s art
That writhes in coils around the Tree of Life
Dressed richly in the colors of decay
And hisses through an anaesthetic smile
“That’s just the way the world works now.”
And let The People say how brave it is
To pose for selfies at the foot of the Cross
mhall46184@aol.com
Posing for Selfies at the Foot of the Cross
A Doctor Mengele can cut and sew
Fragments of human flesh into a lie
And hide with perfume, paint, and filtered lens
This mockery of the embalmer’s art
That writhes in coils around the Tree of Life
Dressed richly in the colors of decay
And hisses through an anaesthetic smile
“That’s just the way the world works now.”
And let The People say how brave it is
To pose for selfies at the foot of the Cross
Sunday, May 31, 2015
More Things People Never Say
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-
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-
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-
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Upon Re-Reading The Brothers Karamazov
Just now I finished re-reading The Brothers Karamazov, not without relief but with more appreciation, especially for the trial. The defense speaks of Russian justice as redemptive, quoting Peter the Great’s aphorism that it is better that ten guilty men are acquitted rather than one innocent man be convicted. The defense attorney sees redemptive justice as Christian; I don’t think Peter the Great saw it that way.
Rachael and Eldon advised me to look for the humor, and they helped me to see that, both the ironic and the gentle, and Tod Mixson suggested that I remember that there is much drama of the old pulp magazines sort, and I became aware of that too. Ingrid said…oh, what did Ingrid say?
But the trial – that is something I mean to re-read soon.
So great is the worth of Dostoevsky that to have produced him is by itself sufficient justification for the existence of the Russian people in the world; and he will bear witness for his countrymen in the last judgment of the nations.
-Nicholas Berdyaev, quoted in The Brothers Karamazov: Worlds of the Novel, Robin Feuer Miller
Rachael and Eldon advised me to look for the humor, and they helped me to see that, both the ironic and the gentle, and Tod Mixson suggested that I remember that there is much drama of the old pulp magazines sort, and I became aware of that too. Ingrid said…oh, what did Ingrid say?
But the trial – that is something I mean to re-read soon.
So great is the worth of Dostoevsky that to have produced him is by itself sufficient justification for the existence of the Russian people in the world; and he will bear witness for his countrymen in the last judgment of the nations.
-Nicholas Berdyaev, quoted in The Brothers Karamazov: Worlds of the Novel, Robin Feuer Miller
Monday, April 20, 2015
Emmaus isn't on the Map
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Emmaus isn’t on the Map
The road from Emmaus is not in the book
Emmaus isn’t even on the map
Still, people walk to Emmaus every day
And then they go away to somewhere else
Because while everyone visits Emmaus
It’s only for supper and a new assignment
Although the directions seem somewhat vague
Those who have been there seem to know the way
The road to Emmaus is in the book
The road out of town is mapped in the heart
Mhall46184@aol.com
Emmaus isn’t on the Map
The road from Emmaus is not in the book
Emmaus isn’t even on the map
Still, people walk to Emmaus every day
And then they go away to somewhere else
Because while everyone visits Emmaus
It’s only for supper and a new assignment
Although the directions seem somewhat vague
Those who have been there seem to know the way
The road to Emmaus is in the book
The road out of town is mapped in the heart
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
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!
And 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.
Mhall46184@aol.com
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!
And 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.
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
The Styled One
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Styled One
“What are you rebelling against?”
“Whaddaya got?”
“A philosophical matrix predicated
Upon experience analyzed rationally
Without incessant self-reference
Or submission to transient fashions.
This matrix considers natural law,
Epistemologically demonstrable,
Ecclesiastical law, which is subject
To discussion because of variant
Concepts of divine revelation
And then secular law, which grounds
Even a republic, in its origin,
In the Jewish-Christian Mosaic law
But which is subject to modification
According to the federal constitution
And the various state constitutions
Expressed by popular will according to
Due process of law, that is, elections.
Applying the Hegelian dialectic,
One can sort out for himself a mode of life
In harmony with both his conscience
And with the needs of a multi-cultural state.”
“Got a beer?”
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Styled One
“What are you rebelling against?”
“Whaddaya got?”
“A philosophical matrix predicated
Upon experience analyzed rationally
Without incessant self-reference
Or submission to transient fashions.
This matrix considers natural law,
Epistemologically demonstrable,
Ecclesiastical law, which is subject
To discussion because of variant
Concepts of divine revelation
And then secular law, which grounds
Even a republic, in its origin,
In the Jewish-Christian Mosaic law
But which is subject to modification
According to the federal constitution
And the various state constitutions
Expressed by popular will according to
Due process of law, that is, elections.
Applying the Hegelian dialectic,
One can sort out for himself a mode of life
In harmony with both his conscience
And with the needs of a multi-cultural state.”
“Got a beer?”
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
Said to be a Suicide
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Said to be a Suicide
Adrift among old sheets in a shadowy bed
Emptying breaths into an empty space
A purse, a bottle, a pack of cigarettes
No minutes left on a no-contract ‘phone
A truck-stop bracelet that was pretty on her
Pale bathroom light through a half-open door
Traffic rattling by on the two-lane
Beery laughter from the parking lot
But only stillness here, an empty form
Adrift among silence in a shadowy world
Mhall46184@aol.com
Said to be a Suicide
Adrift among old sheets in a shadowy bed
Emptying breaths into an empty space
A purse, a bottle, a pack of cigarettes
No minutes left on a no-contract ‘phone
A truck-stop bracelet that was pretty on her
Pale bathroom light through a half-open door
Traffic rattling by on the two-lane
Beery laughter from the parking lot
But only stillness here, an empty form
Adrift among silence in a shadowy world
Two in the Morning
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two in the Morning
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
When the insolence of catalogued years
Accuses the restless sleeper of age
Sends him out night patrol, and back again
To ponder through the empty, sleepless hours
An Altar stripped of light and hope and dreams
A unmade sacrifice in swirling chaos
Pillows and sheets and life formless and void
Cold, vaporous blue light dying in the air
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
Mhall46184@aol.com
Two in the Morning
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
When the insolence of catalogued years
Accuses the restless sleeper of age
Sends him out night patrol, and back again
To ponder through the empty, sleepless hours
An Altar stripped of light and hope and dreams
A unmade sacrifice in swirling chaos
Pillows and sheets and life formless and void
Cold, vaporous blue light dying in the air
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
False Autumn
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
False Autumn
Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day
Heavy and low, months-old cold, drifting mist
And sodden leaf-mould from the autumn past
Scented with coming life as it decays
The morning frogs sing with enthusiasm
The mourning doves sing with reluctance
A solitary goose flaps sort of north
All uncertain about their calendar
But for now eccentrics are happy with
Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day
Mhall46184@aol.com
False Autumn
Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day
Heavy and low, months-old cold, drifting mist
And sodden leaf-mould from the autumn past
Scented with coming life as it decays
The morning frogs sing with enthusiasm
The mourning doves sing with reluctance
A solitary goose flaps sort of north
All uncertain about their calendar
But for now eccentrics are happy with
Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day
Secrets and Seasons
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Secrets and Seasons
Even a lover of autumn must yield this point:
This mild March morning disposes a world
Of flowers red and pink among the mist,
Bathed fresh with dew in anticipation
Of hours glorious but brief until the sun
Awakes, and shakes his fiery beams to fall
Upon the leafy, grassy, silent scene
Like a sergeant censoring an errant smile
Lest happiness corrupt the young recruits
Who only in secret may love the seasons
Mhall46184@aol.com
Secrets and Seasons
Even a lover of autumn must yield this point:
This mild March morning disposes a world
Of flowers red and pink among the mist,
Bathed fresh with dew in anticipation
Of hours glorious but brief until the sun
Awakes, and shakes his fiery beams to fall
Upon the leafy, grassy, silent scene
Like a sergeant censoring an errant smile
Lest happiness corrupt the young recruits
Who only in secret may love the seasons
Palm Sunday Travel Tips
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Palm Sunday Travel Tips
At last we have come to Jerusalem
Spiritual gawkers checking out the sites:
The Beautiful Gate today, the Temple tomorrow
Juices and maps from vendors who charge too much
That statue of Jupiter really doesn’t work -
What is that procession? A local folk thing?
We don’t want to get into trouble with the law
We’re only here for Passover, okay?
Let’s avoid whatever that is because
At last we have come to Jerusalem
Mhall46184@aol.com
Palm Sunday Travel Tips
At last we have come to Jerusalem
Spiritual gawkers checking out the sites:
The Beautiful Gate today, the Temple tomorrow
Juices and maps from vendors who charge too much
That statue of Jupiter really doesn’t work -
What is that procession? A local folk thing?
We don’t want to get into trouble with the law
We’re only here for Passover, okay?
Let’s avoid whatever that is because
At last we have come to Jerusalem
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Said the owner, most intently,
“Mind, now, how you drive my Bentley:
Always drive it confidently,
Never, ever insolently
‘Sure to watch the road intently
Take the sharp curves very gently
Follow my rules most excellently
Then you’ll never get a dent, see?”
Mhall46184@aol.com
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Said the owner, most intently,
“Mind, now, how you drive my Bentley:
Always drive it confidently,
Never, ever insolently
‘Sure to watch the road intently
Take the sharp curves very gently
Follow my rules most excellently
Then you’ll never get a dent, see?”
Sola Scriptura
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Sola Scriptura
“It’s right here in the Bible!” she said,
Waving around her smart ‘phone over her head
Mhall46184@aol.com
Sola Scriptura
“It’s right here in the Bible!” she said,
Waving around her smart ‘phone over her head
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children
From an idea suggested by Kelly Rogers
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
And Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
Mhall46184@aol.com
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children
From an idea suggested by Kelly Rogers
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
And Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
Chertkovo
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Chertkovo
For Eugenio Corti
Perhaps the site is now a garbage heap
A parking lot, a drainage ditch, a field
Where little children chase a soccer ball
Among the flowers of a Russian spring
Whispering a memory of Italy
For here a good Italian soldier died
His life ripped from him in a desolation
Of screams and violence and frozen horror -
But he is a candle, lit again, in Heaven where
His feet are always warm, and “Savoia!” is a hymn
Mhall46184@aol.com
Chertkovo
For Eugenio Corti
Perhaps the site is now a garbage heap
A parking lot, a drainage ditch, a field
Where little children chase a soccer ball
Among the flowers of a Russian spring
Whispering a memory of Italy
For here a good Italian soldier died
His life ripped from him in a desolation
Of screams and violence and frozen horror -
But he is a candle, lit again, in Heaven where
His feet are always warm, and “Savoia!” is a hymn
Old-People Coffee
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old-People Coffee
A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents
But coffee – how can it be a senior –
Is it graduating from high school?
Someone decided that I am not worthy
Of the Social Security I paid
And the Veterans’ Administration
Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence
But corporate America still loves me:
Every morning McDonald’s greets me with
A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old-People Coffee
A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents
But coffee – how can it be a senior –
Is it graduating from high school?
Someone decided that I am not worthy
Of the Social Security I paid
And the Veterans’ Administration
Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence
But corporate America still loves me:
Every morning McDonald’s greets me with
A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents
Economic Exile
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Economic Exile
Another dreary airport boarding gate
Ear-phones, MePhones, travelers huddled in
Leatherette seats between flickering signs
Feet up upon duffles and each other
Like refugees waiting long nights for trains
In Doctor Zhivago, with different dreams:
Youth longs for adventures in Italy
While age is often content to journey through books
Like Bilbo in Rivendell, not waiting here
At yet another airport boarding gate
Mhall46184@aol.com
Economic Exile
Another dreary airport boarding gate
Ear-phones, MePhones, travelers huddled in
Leatherette seats between flickering signs
Feet up upon duffles and each other
Like refugees waiting long nights for trains
In Doctor Zhivago, with different dreams:
Youth longs for adventures in Italy
While age is often content to journey through books
Like Bilbo in Rivendell, not waiting here
At yet another airport boarding gate
Pasch
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Pasch at St. Michael’s, 2015
What sort of man sits in the silent dark
And waits for a small candle to be lit
When he could reach over and flip a switch
For the miracle of electricity
Bravely to course through the building’s wired veins
The march of progress with a touch controlled
By the hand of humanity triumphant
Over old Byzantine superstition
What hopeful sort of man waits for the dawn,
For Light to appear from a cold, sealed tomb?
Mhall46184@aol.com
Pasch at St. Michael’s, 2015
What sort of man sits in the silent dark
And waits for a small candle to be lit
When he could reach over and flip a switch
For the miracle of electricity
Bravely to course through the building’s wired veins
The march of progress with a touch controlled
By the hand of humanity triumphant
Over old Byzantine superstition
What hopeful sort of man waits for the dawn,
For Light to appear from a cold, sealed tomb?
Contra Ivan Karamazov
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A little exposition: In The Brothers Karamazov Ivan is an agnostic who cannot reconcile faith and his Euclidian mind. My thesis (last line) is that everyone and everything, understood by us or not, is in unity with God.
Still, about those fire ants…
Contra Ivan Karamazov
Though some maintain that parallels don’t meet
And three-point-something is the sum of pi
And whether X is found; no one knows why
(Was it lost, perhaps wandering in the street?)
Curious matters all Euclidian
Even for the bold mathematician
Are as obdurate as obsidian
Each an illogical proposition
To the rationalist impossible, and yet -
Parallel lines are at the Altar met
Mhall46184@aol.com
A little exposition: In The Brothers Karamazov Ivan is an agnostic who cannot reconcile faith and his Euclidian mind. My thesis (last line) is that everyone and everything, understood by us or not, is in unity with God.
Still, about those fire ants…
Contra Ivan Karamazov
Though some maintain that parallels don’t meet
And three-point-something is the sum of pi
And whether X is found; no one knows why
(Was it lost, perhaps wandering in the street?)
Curious matters all Euclidian
Even for the bold mathematician
Are as obdurate as obsidian
Each an illogical proposition
To the rationalist impossible, and yet -
Parallel lines are at the Altar met
The Wandering Gentile
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Wandering Gentile1
For Tod on his 75th birthday
How odd to be Bilbo at Rivendell
Or Jack and Warnie in the Little End room
Finishing up that book you meant to write
From the long ago, but not knowing the subject
Until this now, when sunset-softened light
Makes clearer the Words on the eternal page
More morning than ever any morning was
Sunlight and moonlight on the pilgrim road
Until you realize, with a gentle laugh:
How odd ever to have been here at all
1An allusion by Rabbi Shulman in the last episode of Northern Exposure
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Wandering Gentile1
For Tod on his 75th birthday
How odd to be Bilbo at Rivendell
Or Jack and Warnie in the Little End room
Finishing up that book you meant to write
From the long ago, but not knowing the subject
Until this now, when sunset-softened light
Makes clearer the Words on the eternal page
More morning than ever any morning was
Sunlight and moonlight on the pilgrim road
Until you realize, with a gentle laugh:
How odd ever to have been here at all
1An allusion by Rabbi Shulman in the last episode of Northern Exposure
Searching for God and a Lost Shoe
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Searching For God and a Lost Shoe
For a university student
The morning sails through your window as light
Dark blue when winter rests upon the world
All green and golden in the happy spring
But welcome every day, in every way
The silence is soon broken by the noise:
A rattling faucet, a rattling roommate,
The merry chaos not yet organized
Into the poetry of this day in God
So sing while searching for that other shoe:
The morning shares with you its hymn of joy
Mhall46184@aol.com
Searching For God and a Lost Shoe
For a university student
The morning sails through your window as light
Dark blue when winter rests upon the world
All green and golden in the happy spring
But welcome every day, in every way
The silence is soon broken by the noise:
A rattling faucet, a rattling roommate,
The merry chaos not yet organized
Into the poetry of this day in God
So sing while searching for that other shoe:
The morning shares with you its hymn of joy
Mr. Dogg and the Copp
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-
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-
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
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