Week 577: Can’t Teach a Shark to Kill Tofu

(Elliott the Header Pigeon is on vacation this week. PDQ Peety is filling in and is also  filling  himself with PDQ Pilsner.)

Introduction

I again found myself undertaking the idea of the End of Humankind. Which is not to be confused with the End of the World because that will happen a few billion years from now when the sun dies, at which time it will greatly expand and obliterate everything on out to Jupiter. Like the rabid cur shot dead by Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird a dead sun is still a dangerous sun.

Unfortunately, for the purpose conveying philosophy, my mind tends to bounce from topic to topic, like a Bee going from Rhody to Daisy to Rose to Dandelion; my mind buzzes all about the Thought Garden, collecting various bits of intellectual pollen, with all the precision of a drunk wobbling home.

Therefore, concise Big Question writing, such as my current task on the End of Human Days, as far as I go, is nonexistent; therefore I expect what I will soon present to come off, at best, as slightly disorganized to the gentle reader. Yet I feel that the point might get across in a unique fashion, and creating new approaches is what I am about. Although some might think that I am claiming “it is the journey”, the fact remains that whenever I try to tamper with my indirect thinking process, force it into a more A to B mode, indecision creeps into the sentences along with a strange sense of preemptive apology, which I fear has already begun in this paragraph.

Yet at the end of these three little mental queries, I arrived at the notion that Humankind will not go extinct, not without a fight, which will make us the first species either smart, brave or crazy enough to square off in the ring against Mother Nature.

My Three Thoughts involve aggression, intellect and poetry:

Thought One: You Cannot Teach a Shark to Kill Tofu

I believe Sharks enjoy killing more than eating. Oh, they will take the chum–not saying they won’t, but if you contain blood and are moving, well, that’s better. Sharks have been around as long as anyone due to their simple natures and efficient violence. Yet within their pitiless eyes you may occasionally glimpse a trace of a trace of a rudimentary personality. A sensitive artist might see a POV in which killing is not only necessary but kinda fun. Although it’s safe to assume there are no Hamlet moments in the lives of Sharks, long ago Nature may have arrived at the idea that if Sharks were to be along for the long haul that they must get a kick out of murdering shit or apathy will set in. Therefore I believe that a sense of euphoria evolved in those best described as especially speedy dispatchers of life.

Should Shark-kind see another hundred million years, I predict that the more monumentally vicious of their number will develop the ability to smile. Whenever I seek the contrast between people and Sharks I see little difference. To be honest, if we had less in common with Sharks we would be sleeping with the Trilobites. Therefore I believe, down deep, we are just cruel enough to heed the advice given to children by a wrestler named Ken Patera: “Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat.”

Thought Two: Only Smarty Pants Give Themselves the Eternal Wedgie

I’ve previously stated in a previous post that the Dinosaurs were too stupid to self destruct, hence the comet. The world was overrun with their A to A kill or avoid being killed actions/reactions for eons and might still be at it if not for a gigantic association of stone and ice that fell from the sky and ruined them. It takes as much thought to step in Dogshit as it takes to die like a Dinosaur. Yes, people are far more clever. Too clever, when you consider the stockpile of atomic weapons lying in holes, almost everywhere. Moreover, I feel it is a fair measure of our species’ intelligence to laud it for the creation of Hamlet and music and The [early] Simpsons and damn it for making it possible for billions to prefer to die from immediate incineration rather than to stick around and experience the meltdown down of radiation sickness. And yet The Bomb is the only one in the measuring stick that was deemed “necessary” at inception. Perversely the ownership of such destructive things is now a basis for wars that could easily get out of hand and lead to the detonation of what was sought to be prevented. (If that last sentence makes sense to you, then you probably understand that no one who can order the use of the bomb knows how it works.)

But, with all that said, the instinct for self preservation is powerful, and we will do almost anything to stay alive. Couple this with the fact that most human beings have the empathy of Sharks yet are much smarter than a Brontsaur, I arrived at my second conclusion: Even if Sylvia Plath was in the White House instead of JFK during the missile crisis, we’d still be here today because I cannot imagine Gomer Pyle committing suicide.

Final Thought: “Alas, we never do.”

I know I’m saying nothing new here, of course. But the artistic task is an old one, and being such there will always be familiar faces. These usually are seen on Horseback galloping from one apocalypse to another, much like my Bee-like journeys in the Thought Garden. We do not appear to have completely come to grips with the concept of peace and love. Maybe that is because it needs better imagery, finer words, and more fucking truth than what you find in Parroting the same dreary false hopes. That album of a somewhat sunsoft John and Yoko, naked, holding hands, and the Coca-Cola poetry of “All you need is love” are nowhere close to the effectiveness of the art that grew from Dante and the visions of death and hell.

Regardless, I admire Lennon. I like all the Beatles, but he came off with the clearest personality, and frankly, it is not a coincidence that the boys stopped saying interesting things after 1980. And I feel that Yoko was treated poorly (although I also believe she could have made things easier on herself: “aloof bitch” is not a public persona you want to cultivate). John was pathologically honest, yet he was also a human paradox who appeared to have been keenly aware of his contradictions. I cannot imagine a man of his wit and intelligence actually believing that Rod McKuen, hug your neighbor philosophy, saccharine empty words like those in those cheap “Footsteps” tapestry so many people used to hang on their bathroom doors in the 70’s and 80’s (been a Dog’s life since I’ve seen one of those; always wondered why hang it in the shitter?).

Save for graphic images of Jesus on the cross, humankind struggles with the vision of Holy. And I must ask is there a portrait or fresco in which any of Heaven’s big hitters smile, save for the occasional Cherub? But we damn sure continue to create brilliant portraits of H-E-double toothpicks. If there really is a Mecca of perdition, an anti-land supposedly even worse than, say, Pol Pot’s Cambodia, Stalin’s Russia, Amin’s Uganda, Iran, Afghanistan then I bet Satan works extra hard on culling the souls of artists to help expand, or at least maintain the expected image of the place up (or down) for the freshly damned. It would be a tremendous blow to the Horn’s ego to have newcomers find the aesthetic of Hell second rate compared to the album cover of Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell. (I once was threatened with a write up for suggesting we hang “To Ye Who Enter Abandon Hope” to the entrance of the Goodwill Warehouse.)

Yet I believe that the more you know about ugliness, the better prepared you are to trust and perhaps savor the rare beauty in life. Like most, I’ve seen some stunningly ugly situations that gave me a sense of “Has it come to this?” about myself that never fades completely. But I also believe that there can be something gained in examining what it is like to read a suicide note or see a toddler playing in a playpen inside a drug house at three o’clock on winter a Sunday morning.

Still (and of course, this is my belief only) for artists who hold foolish hopes that their work might make a difference in the world, I must tell them they are wrong. You will not change a goddam thing, but if you word it just right and tell the truth, you might be able to connect to the heart of someone reading your work. You might win a special place in that person’s heart; what a wonderful thing it must be to have a drunk recite your words! The little wins count–I do not think that anyone can move an entire ocean with words, but Mellivlle was able to do great things by telling of the actions that happened during a few years spent at sea. Like “love” artistic inspiration is a small power. Effective, but it is meant to be understood and never wielded as a weapon against your enemies.

Art need not be a pretty victory either; for example, the often Apish, misogynistic asshole that Charles Bukowski clearly was (and admitted to being) from time to time has won many hearts and has created several wonderful memories in mine. There’s something fantastic about understanding the monster inside and communicating fairly about it that is fearless and heroic. W.S. Burroughs, although light years apart from Bukowski stylewise, was like that too. And, although most might disagree, I believe that the keen love for Cats these different souls displayed, speaks volumes for their strength of character. It’s hard work getting along with Cats.

Dogs (who perhaps are the perfect souls) make themselves easy to love. We know how it goes with Cats. A Cat will understand the WSB line “if you wanna bring a man down during intercourse, light a cigarette.” Your average Dog is too pure of heart.

(Although this deviates too far from the course–I’ve always wondered why Cats are portrayed as villains in old cartoons. I sniff misogyny in that. Dogs are loyal and brave men, devious Cats are scheming women. I love Dogs because they would not allow such a thing if they could do anything about it. I love Cats because they wouldn’t care either way.)

Anyway, there is no conclusion here. Art and humor and beautiful small behaviours are our saving graces. Yet, to date, homelessness, pain, ignorance, despair and people who should be in prison are still running the show. But we keep moving forward, this strange and complicated association of arts, hates, doomsday threats, superstitions, wonder science and plain old fashioned Looking Out For Number One.

For me it all pulls together in a four line poem written by Dorothy Parker. Mrs. Parker once placed herself in the hospital with slashed wrists and another time for drinking a bottle of shoe polish. She eventually died alone (save for her last Dog, named “Cliche”–who was adopted by one of her friends) in a hotel, from natural causes on a sunny New York day at age seventy-three, back when such was considered a ripe old age (and still might be for maintenance alcoholics). Yet she bowed out with class, willing her estate to Martin Luther King; upon his death, a year later, the NAACP gained ownership of her works. (At the time they were valued between ten and twenty-thousand dollars. She is still in print to this day, and although there is no information on the sum, one should assume they are now worth a much prettier penny.)

The Flaw in Paganism

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,

Love the midnight reeling through

For tomorrow we shall die!

(But, alas, we never do.)

Dorothy Parker, 1931, from the collection Death and Taxes (Buy a copy if you are interested in donating to the NAACP)

The Latest Week That Was

For anyone who missed the Sunday rerun or the original publication of the story itself, please do not forget to check out Artificial Love by L’Erin Ogle (who happens to be from old Burrough’s last shooting grounds, Lawrence, Kansas). Although we do not see as much of L’Erin as we would like, her stuff has always been first rate.

Ever shining Christopher J Ananias (who is also a top shelf nature photographer) returned with The Stringer this Monday past. Christopher’s intelligence allows him to foresee potential plotholes and fix them a long time before even the nitpickiest editor can scream foul! That skill is worth millions, and although I hope that the people who drive the money truck will discover the talents of all our writers, “CJA” deserves special notice.

Dan Schiffman debuted Tuesday. His Confessions of a Digital Nomad is a tale that appears, at first blush, to be based on technology, but it is a sensitive piece that understands (well, at least some of them) the motivations of the human heart. We see way too many undead, political, Bad Dad, “Wonder Years,” dementia and tech items. But stories like this show that anything can be interesting when the author honestly connects to the material s/he produces. It should be as close to you as your blood.

Long time site friend Harrison Kim returned on Wednesday with When I Almost Became a Monk. Now I do not know if this was autobiographical in any way (although I am certain Harrison has never been as down and out as the MC), but Harrison strikes me as a very soulful writer and a man of great intelligence. And works like this one suggest that he would be a first chair Monk if he ever chose to commit to the Friar Tuck hairdo. The story of misplaced dreams and the inability to dig deep enough into yourself to connect is brilliantly told and you wish the MC best, but the odds are against him.

Thursday brought Scales by another one of our long term friends and fine writers, the wonderful David Henson. You have to be game for everything when you enter David’s literary world. Up and down are not always as advertised and he has a way of convincing the reader that anything, and I mean anything is possible. The same goes for this one. It is strange when you examine cerain ideas–like here, you should expect the unexpected, but really how do you do that without a clear cut version of the unexpected in mind? That is what David does best, he keeps you off balanced and on your toes.

We closed the business of the week with Wolf.Normal by Lynne Curry. Speaking of expecting the unexpected, this piece will also be pod-casted by the author–which should be wonderful, yet I cannot yet imagine how that will work out. “Well” for certain, but the “how” eludes me.

The story itself is as well done as anything I’ve read in ages. The beginning is brilliant and hooks you. It is one of our longer presentations, but it never flags and we certainly look forward to seeing and hearing how it all works out.

(Friday is also my brother’s 69th birthday. He is still working full time, and he sort of makes me feel guilty about retiring before him….well, not really, actually not at all!)

It has taken a bit longer than usual to reach the finale this week. Or so it seems, but without further delay…

A Long Delayed Common List

I imagine a top ten record list is one of the most common lists that listing types of persons (such as I) create. I see it up there with films, television shows, actors, cartoons, etc. Yet for nearly five years of list publishing I have never presented one of my own. Well, that oversight ends today. The only real problem is there are at least a hundred worthy candidates for this list. Only three (Blondie and one each for the Beatles and Queen) are certain to male the top ten every time. To once again quote Kurt V., “so it goes.”

Like most mortals I began collecting music when I was in my mid teens. The first record I ever bought with my own money was the Beatles’ Let it Be at “The House of Values,” which is now a parking garage (incidentally, a couple years back, I called 911 to alert the Law to a car fire I saw going in that structure. No one was hurt but that was one Honda that didn’t leave on its own accord).

Now, there is a possibility that the first record I bought was K-Tel Oldies via the mail. But you have to admit the Beatles is a classier choice, so I will stick with it. And like most young teens (thirteen or fourteen), I discovered if an artist was not of high caliber albums were usually two hit songs and a bunch of claptrap. I usually bought singles for a long time after because there was usually nothing at all very listenable on a four dollar record by your typical One Hit Wonder. Therefore my album list does not have a lot of surprise entries. Please add your own. (Note: All the records in this list were purchased before I turned twenty.)

(Another note: These are not listed in order of importance. Whatever number fifteen might be, if I went that far, it would be “equal” to number one on this list. I am a firm believer in levels of excellence, not particulars.)

• Parallel Lines, Blondie. (Still a brilliant record. Even though it contains the big hits One Way or Another and Heart of Glass there are songs on it I like even better than both–and I like them just fine. Not a single miss on the record. I used it for my driving to work cassette throughout 1979)
• Tapestry, Carole King (A law was passed in the early 70s that required ownership of this record by all persons under age forty)
• A Night at the Opera, Queen (In my junior year of high school, Queen became my number one band, supplanting the Beatles. Neither band ever produced a “that sucks” record, which amazes me)
• News of the World, Queen (Over the years, I think this one was their best, but Innuendo is the certainly finest last album ever recorded)
• Photographs and Memories, Jim Croce (like Holly and Otis, what might have been)
• Abbey Road, The Beatles (the second side is as brilliant as anything ever recorded. But I haaaaate the Silver Hammer song)
• Sgt, Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, The Beatles (Absolute genius, groundbreaking to use a cliche, except for that terrible Harrison sitar thing that was like stripes on plaid)
• Highway 61 Revisited, Bob Dylan (DWB can expand on this far better than I. this was when rock and roll grew up)
• Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Elton John (Also required ownership, like the King record and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. For some reason my favorite album to listen to when completely drunk on a sunny day)
• Double Fantasy, John and Yoko (although there are a great many albums better musically, and it is tough to cut great stuff like Supertramp’s Crime of the Century or Cohen’s Death of a Ladies Man, Bruce’s Born to Run and Nebraska from the list, I add this because something more than just John Lennon died. Not necessarily an epitaph yet it marked when any hope of a return to the 1960s ended)

Also, I again want to wish a happy birthday to my big brother, Jack, who turned 69 yesterday. At six-two, two-fifty, he’s still working and drinking beer full time! He is the creator of the header image. “JR Freeman,” which is his professional name)

Leila

Two clips: One being a Queen song written by the quiet genius, John Deacon; it deserves much more airtime, at least in America. From number album four on the list. The second is my brother’s all time favorite song. It is by Badfinger, a group that should have been great but ended, eventually, with two suicides caused by the greed of Evil Management. I found Napster funny. It put some assholes out of work who needed a good dose of humility. I recall the four-foot tall drummer of Metallica getting sore about that. Too bad, lil’ fella. Consider it payback for selling two dollar tee-shirts for fifty a crack.