Author Archives: scrunchymacscruff
Mysteries, God’s private mysteries, abound! for example: What output of synthetic energy will it take? to overtake..speed of sound! (aks Wernher von Braun, –A:G=6.67×10″Nm2kg2); or, wherever you are step out at night, and see! stars, spread everywhere, strewn about, they are, like..Creation’s blight; like that unclean box, of the cat’s! solid, and liquid wastes piling up and spilling over, it, makes no sense..whatever; and who takes responsibility, for that?? (not the cat!) and like, who invented the plastic?, to make plastic appliances, and bottles, and things like that more numerous, than sands, next to the sea..that’s just so we could take a drink of pure water, anytime/anyplace if WE wanted to, that’s you, and that’s me, oui..Oui-Oui! Ach ja, but..if we,WE! saved several thousand of the empty’s – bottles, that is – and kept the cap’s..we could tie ’em all together in one great bundle, fashion’d, like, –into a raft! make a paddle out of junked wind-turbine blades and start paddling for the moon..think of all the money that saved! And just think, too, if you could harness un-tapped energy of the sun and beat the speed of sound, the game, it’s won, it’s over, over and out! and, that’s, way too much fun; but for now it’s impossible, the impossible dream..stuck out here on ocean’s mirror chasing Blue Moon half-way to China, on a slow float..junk! holding tepid, cup-of-tea in hand, green,GREEN tea and a lantern, dangling on a pole – so da mice can fin’da cheese falling like snow – stroking at glassy currents under all o’ dese stars, see? left behind for us, by..Cosmic litterbug, “Ole!”
~c. P-s: And i know WHO! here comes the sun I seen it, first mouse on the moon, it’s, too soon..when all da mice’s away da cats can’t play.
Today, Friday, December 9, is the date of my birth – with a .01% margin of error – and the rest is history (and the f.b.i. is probably celebrating with us, any excuse to get out of work). Mom said she was in labor for 19.5 hours with me and that it was a terrible experience for her. She always brought that up on my birthday, and sometimes other times, as well. I am sure she had a rough time of it but not like the company that first hired me to drive their big trucks, after I got older; and like Mom, I had no previous experience with it, but at least, after she gave birth to me, she didn’t have to right away come bail me out of jail, like they did (she didn’t have to do that until at least 7 or 8 years later, because, until then, I was always excused for my crimes..although on that occasion I wasn’t actually arrested, I just had to go downtown with Dad and sit in a small room and answer some questions). So anyway, so it’s my birthday so what does it mean..Well, like Sheriff John said, in musical terms, and he actually sang it to us kids on his kiddy-show on the tele-vision in the afternoon’s, –or maybe it was morning, but anyway it went, “Put another candle on my birthday-cake, I’m another year old to-day!” That was great (it was actually at lunchtime). And the best part of it was he never came out of the TV box to slap a pair of hand-cuffs on me and take me to jail for my birthday; and so I was able to continue my classes at the public school without needing to have another excuse for the principal why I wasn’t there, the end!
~c. P-s: The rest of it was, the chorus part “We’ll have some cake..and chocolate ice cream, too..” and blah-blah-blah, so on and so on. It was an original song they made up just for the show and I suppose that was because they couldn’t use the real Happy-birthday song, which (not without express permissionContinue reading “Today, Friday, December 9, is the date of my birth – with a .01% margin of error – and the rest is history (and the f.b.i. is probably celebrating with us, any excuse to get out of work). Mom said she was in labor for 19.5 hours with me and that it was a terrible experience for her. She always brought that up on my birthday, and sometimes other times, as well. I am sure she had a rough time of it but not like the company that first hired me to drive their big trucks, after I got older; and like Mom, I had no previous experience with it, but at least, after she gave birth to me, she didn’t have to right away come bail me out of jail, like they did (she didn’t have to do that until at least 7 or 8 years later, because, until then, I was always excused for my crimes..although on that occasion I wasn’t actually arrested, I just had to go downtown with Dad and sit in a small room and answer some questions). So anyway, so it’s my birthday so what does it mean..Well, like Sheriff John said, in musical terms, and he actually sang it to us kids on his kiddy-show on the tele-vision in the afternoon’s, –or maybe it was morning, but anyway it went, “Put another candle on my birthday-cake, I’m another year old to-day!” That was great (it was actually at lunchtime). And the best part of it was he never came out of the TV box to slap a pair of hand-cuffs on me and take me to jail for my birthday; and so I was able to continue my classes at the public school without needing to have another excuse for the principal why I wasn’t there, the end!”
Masks, mask; it came, they went. 2020. And with all of that, a keen sense of thee olde individuality, your..personness, happentude; genderhood’s, eyes without a race, eh! place, –good? Colleges they were the perfect proving ground for re-educational standards revision..revisions, recisions..reclusive recusion’s plus additional decisions; and no repercussions, +/-/=; et al (divided by the leadership’s, times corruption’s read your history..sport’s). Your, –top brains! already trained all them minor brains, major-minoring in nil’s..nihilisms, philosophy of; in schools, schools of fish-brains, train..swimming, upstream in u-ni-so-nic division’s going for the gold, unisex,UNIVAC, –unefarious, reversing tides of social criticisms, ages old discriminatory and hell-u-cin-o-genic anti-anti-intellectualizing’s ‘concerning’ the facts of the matter’s..Alma! it’s all academic, gr-rfrie-end! 10% OFF (wit da coupon) aksing,asking, rather, asking the body, “What’s whats?” or “What’s U wants?” the pivotal determiner for futures for all, suturing-in the great vaccinations’ man-date’s, latest to come down the pipes from the prelates back east, Mellonta tauta! work it out, uh, just before Spring-break’s, ah-h, bar-racks, eh! skating-rink’s..go for brr-oke’s, –Yikes, Grr! (hit PAUSE) Sleepers Awake! So I awoke..to choice ‘n health’s swapped for ebt credit’s at the on-campus book-store, an FOOD! wit da FREE POP-CORN an da pencil’s an maps, d’air,@DIEU*..die, Die Meistersinger, Die Monster, Die! die, you; and all of the rest, RIP, Pi, –Yep! next they’ll, you’ll..you know, be saying, you know, “We are free.” (Et cetera) Thank God Almighty i-Pee’s free at last! (Ya know? Watteau??) Imagine that..so. Wear your maks,mask. Go head! Put it on over your face, –FOO! ban all trace, of, you know, whatever..was; because, as we all know, once you buy a mak’s it’s yours to keep..for free. The new math, um, mask! take a chance, take a bath..in the tub (wear your mask). Right, Kitty? Correct?? A+ (*Di’s.Interested.Ed.U)
~c. P-s: Prof. Scott’s a pendejo mariposa and wouldn’tr knowart from a hole in the ground!
In glancing at Faulkner, to wit, THE OLD PEOPLE, I find reading him like taking a broad, long, pocket-knife to the wedding cake of the new bride’s..virginal, laced full on the insides with blood sausages, freshly-chopped fish, carrot sticks, sea cucumbers mixed-in the sugar and slicing away at it, right there in full view of all the assembled family and guests..Horrified! like being drawn swiftly, back to that familiar old political assassination gala event – splashed across the pages of LIFE – hosted by the two Korea’s and their parties; at the autopsy afterwards, yeah, chicks in Korea..neat. I confess I don’t know why you must cram so much descriptive information into one paragraph at four levels of simultaneous multi-faceted quick-slow actions unfolding in riveting perspectives, stitching them together, proses, and the like, stretched on skins to present your flat, layered generational issues, hunting safety tips, and all of the rest of it, –like viewing the piled-up remains of marine fossils, and others – shells, bones, embedded in canyon walls (requires an interpretation, right??) – and then go straight to re-stating the premises again, and again, and dragging your reader down,DOWN! through the muck of civilization, so-called! with each new-old paragraph. Why, for the love of God, should the minutia of race, and blood guiltiness require so much of an infinite and intense scrutiny on our parts? my part! If that’s your literary bag, man..fine! just don’t drag me into it. Man, –Southern man; and the quadroon you rode in on. Yep. That’s all I got (three pages was all I could take..there’s your happy-birthday cake).
~c. P-s: If you must insist on slamming all the poetry, Mr. Faulkner, may I offer you a better model to work off of? “Here I sit, all alone with a broken heart; I took three white pills..and my semi-truck won’t start!”
So what’s college (depends how you define WHATs). For a bunch of people’s, college is a stepping stone to success. That is what they think, and how they think; Mom&Dad always thought so (Mom went to Univ. of Minneapolis and UCLA, Dad got his Bachelor’s at UC Berkeley and his MA from San Francisco’s Theological Seminary in San Anselmo..where I was born; so you see, it’s in my blood). How it works, you pay a lot of money, you go there, get stepped on by the prof’s and don’t squeal (it’s easy to succeed that way I found). Dad learned a valuable lesson about ‘A’ vs. ‘B’ at UC Berkeley, when he was going there on the G.I. bill (he had just got out of the navy after single-handedly defeating the Imperial Japanese Fleet and its forces, –pacifically, in the South Pacific); and the lesson? If you want the A instead of a B all you have to do is kiss their A. (A friend of his who got all A’s had to explain it for him.) I had a friend that went there, too, when I was going to Frisco’s college, ranked as a state college at the time, which made it a lot easier to get in, now they’re calling it The University, the University at S. Frisco..real prestige, right?? (SOS) Carlos’s prof over in the East Bay pushing philosophy’s at UC Berkeley above Oakland and all the low-life’s, there, held him up after class on that last day of the semester to tell him about his term-paper: “Oh! it was so wonderfully refreshing to read it because, Carlos, you are my most brilliant student! Your thoughts are so lofty, et cetera, etc., yeah, you get it! Why can’t all my students be more like you!!” Stuff like that. Carlos explained to me all he did was stop getting drunk for the weekend long enough to start chugging down coffee, read the assigned books and go over the lecture notes and type up a paper that sounded like what the prof had been saying all semester, only just put in a few different words into the phrases that said the same thing so he will get flattered his thinking had rubbed off and give you the A, –you know, the standard formula, ‘A’?; and then he gets this. “I wanted to throw up.” Carlos said. “All I wanted was the damn A, not all that crap!” That was Dad’s experience too, to a T..’A’. I guess Dad didn’t remember the lesson well, because, well, very many years later, after he had pastored churches all over California, from ‘Weed’ to El Centro..and written sermons every week, he fancied he would go for the Ph.D, and increase academic prestige – just for the flock – so he went back to do that and they rejected his thesis because it wasn’t the right stuff they were looking for, Thank you very much! and there he was, stuck again..WTF (what the flock). He had forgot about the necessity to kiss the feckless ring. All through school I got that, too, but I didn’t give a ____! (a rat’s A, ‘A’) it was more important to me to piss off the stupid teacher and make them know I’m smarter than them, than get a leg up in the college community..hopefully, rattle them enough so they wouldn’t sleep good for a couple of weeks at least. In Kindergarten my teacher Mrs. Rose gave me sh** about my class work ‘concerning’ something that I drew that afternoon and I didn’t buckle. I passed K., but just barely. In fact when I went to Kinsergarten the first time they said (to Mom&Dad) I better wait a year because I wasn’t ready, –eff them. Same thing happened in college but they kept me because they liked the money they were getting for putting up with me; however, I think if they could have, they would gladly have given the cash back at least at my first junior college in my exceptional case, rather than have me to have to be dealing with, and the necessity, on that occasion, to have to file a report on me with the Fbi over some stupid, or ill-advised letter I had written to the dean of students that gave them the idea I was a terrorist, way before anybody thought fashionably about that sort of malfunction, because I got pissed off over something he did that made me feel he was overstepping his authority. Anyway, that was my legal opinion about it. But what do I know! Everything! that’s what and they don’t know sh**, that’s what I learned in ciollege. And they knew it, too, and that’s why they give you a sh**y grade, because they know you know they are b.s. and you know they know it! and that it’s true. And they don’t like that fact, you can check me on that. Another time in college, this time at USC I had to go to the dean’s office of the art department to tell him my Dad was going to come up and kick his a** for messing with the opening date of my senior art show (he wasn’t really, I made it all up); because Dean Rasmussen was afraid something bad might happen to get a lot of bad attention for the school on his watch because of a conflict over scheduling (a lot of nice people were expected to show up the same night for the art show of a respected faculty member..and wine and crackers). I sat down inthe chair across from him at his desk and cheerfully toild him that, the threat about my dad. I was a little bit buzzed, too, and he didn’t get ruffeled oranything, but I guess that gave the guys at Fbi some more useful material to deal with keeping up my active file that had been operned all those college years back there at the desert. There was a few times I had to straighten out the people at USC/SOFA (School of Fine Art) about the line that separates students from the faculty, as far as The US Constitution and what it says (about the line), well..you know, the 1st Amendment and all that stuff; actually it was a constant process thinking back on it, and I kept after them constantly, with challenging them on this and that until finally I successfully didn’t graduate..from there; but I came that close! I don’t recall ever having the nausea like you get when you’re going to vomit because of kissing the ring for thee A..A; but certainly from drinking like a pig, sometimes, I got it..Carlos came to my L.A. aprtment for my latest going-away-from-college party (I wound up going back to Frisco after it, for one last escapade, there..during the AIDs ‘crisis’), for the free beer and chance to have long discussions with others getting beer for free,too..and argue his points; I actually thought I graduated that time (but later discovered otherwise). Having gotten his Master’s from UC Berkeley, he was back at UCLA going for his Doctorate..I said Hey Carlos! when you get your doctorate, what are you going to do, then? (about getting free government money for being in college..to avoid getting a job; plus perk’s for being a minority) and he goes, “Well, you know, there’s always Post-doctoral studies, A..”) To be continued..
Just a old man, here, trying to make the fire go..slo-poke Sam, still trying to run the show. Doctors said, “You won’t make it/You’ll be good!” (Well which is it?? sucker!) So I’m sitting in the house freezing, can’t catch the firewood on fire..cause the kindling’s wet. Old age blues, old brown shoes..what’s to lose? You’ll get old, too, my friend, you’ll see..old like me. Well DMV took away my license, and the cops they took my car, ha! now I’m driving these old brown shoes to town, can’t go very far. Old age creepin’ up, my place a mess, –won’t do! old age blues, old age blues. Someone gave me a bicycle and so I git hit by a car..contusions, compound fractures and all. Thanks, my lucky star. So here I’m laying on the couch stiff like ah icicle! ran out the food-stamps, too, can see my breath hanging in the air..can’t hear it though, stuck watchin’ Oprah all day, –an’ Joy, too, Whoopie! what a square..Hundred ‘n’ fifty a month for that sh**, Boy! life it ain’t fair. Why they put these ugly old broads on my TV? all for me?? I guess, it’s the..’s just the old age blues, old age blues, yeah, ladies and gentlemen, yes, getting old really sucks, I want you to know that. So here’s muh, here it is, my..Last wee-ill an’ tess-a-ment: Just bury me with mah TV..my TV and that old car-key, Old’s 88, –and put on me a new pair of shoes, thanks, thank you! Sign’d, another old guy, older and no wiser..old age blues (they may get you, too).
~c. P-s: Don’t care nothin’ bout the politic’s..there’s a silver lining!
Dr. Pepper. The horse that broke my little girl’s heart. He wasn’t much; but he was her horse, her first. He came from a YMCA camp and he was old, and not fast, and not a big animal and he only knew WALK and TROT; but he was just right, and she rode him wearing pink cowboy-boots..pink boots that sat on the floor by her bed at night. And she learned on him; and he was strong for her. She went to his stall and gave him treats every day. Once, we took him and put him in a stall over by our house, but he didn’t want to stay. Something upset him about moving to a strange place all by himself..he got spooked! so back to the stables he went, with others like him. And there, he did well. She rode him out on the trail a lot, and in contests. One afternoon, in the home-stretch at that event..he found a gallop! we don’t know where; and they won! and so it went..until one day it was time for her to give him up. So we trailer’d him down to a place way out in the desert that took old horses, who outlived their use..for some. She led him into a corral as the sun fell, and said goodbye to him, “Goodbye, Dr. Pepper!” That was his name she gave him when he first came to her..with love. And it was just him, and her in that corral, in darkness, saying goodbye to her first horse..wearing pink cowboy-boots, and petting him, telling him it was alright. And I imagine, too, there were some tears, tears in the sand of a corral, isolated..at night, hugging his neck with tears, tears, and a lot of love. And only the warm earth shared their secret..petting tears that fell in the hair of an old horse, and onto the soft sand. She went back to visit him once, to check on him. Children were riding him, happy..waiting in line. He never looked back. And it has been a long time since we saw pink cowboy boots; and Dr. Pepper, a horse we once knew, and shared.
~c.
Everybody, everybody’s talking here, music doesn’t seem the same..only songs from the youth. Kids don’t sing the same tunes, they don’t find words for my troubles..troubles we all knew. Generations follow, follow my generation, following the generations before..we all came in this way, now, we’re all out the same door. I can’t find the reason, reason why we run..run from the same ghosts that spooked our folks, yeah, they’re the same, same, never change. We’re chasing them, chasing down roads that run to nowhere..to the next dream of love? Winters come and go, it’s here now, with cold echoes of the past. Somehow we all know, they won’t last..put in another piece of wood. Soon, summer will be here; and girls in bathing-suits will measure the days. And Beach Boys will play songs that solve all the problems..no worries, ever. Again.
~c.
It’s easy to see why people hate poetry..I, poet! consider my life a poem; everywhere I look I see odd bits of wonderful correspondences among patently unrelated objects that are regarded by the masses as crap! “Pure rubbish,” they’ll call it, “haul it to the dump”; and throughout my life I have been rejected..rejected and spurned by the community at large because of what they perceive to be ugliness. People do not like poetry, no! they do not. Ohh, they pretend, they put on airs and try to appear cultured; and even if they do cite an occasional nursery-rhyme fondly remembered from childhood..and they can even quote it, possibly! well, you may say they love the poem and hate the poet. Poetry is a messy business, it is! and respectable people hate messes; and prefer order. That’s just a fact and you may check it. So what they did about that, they created the Poetry Police to regulate the poets into compliance with their scheme for the way things aught to be, complete with poem-sniffing poetry police-dogs, K-9’s, –(rhymes with FINES) to harry poet-mongrels barking poems all night (mongrels like me); and these bureaucrats handle all us poets – and the poems – like it’s serious business and you do not want to wind up in their case load, which will become your life’s calling once they get started, yes! because once they get started they will send you to the DMV (Department of Motor Fascists) if your car’s ‘statement’ looks too junky, or FONKY for their tastes causing blight (you’ll see); or, they’ll have the Fire Chief’s Number 1 flunky ‘Chief Wannabee’ come around with his charms, feathers, and rattles and straighten you out about your firewood poem, they just might “Chim-chim-cher-ee-ya!” It does not matter if it’s the safest most flame-proof pile of big, beautiful poetically stacked eucalyptus rounds the world has yet seen..even green! they will find the fault..it’s their college and they’re The Dean! (and you’re left all alone); he may not even attempt to refute logical and righteous objections..or questions concerning that, it’s just “Do as we say!” not as we do; and, “THIS MEANS YOU!!” Though actual criminals may scurry around the town, getting the cheese all the day long, –with relative ease, a poet and his contraband, –a song! are top priority with these, poetry police, policing scums (scums like me) “..calling all cars, calling all cars! be on the lookout for a suspect-poet..said poet-suspect being described as ‘nondescript; although not altogether indescribable..a suspicious looking character with a furtive look’, –if he has a pen in his hand, that’ll be your man, Look! look in his book, and you are sure to find some prickly piece of partisan poop in there.” Yep! poetry, poetry is a prick..a prick with a pen.
~c. P-s: Thee ‘N’
Scruffy's..Blurgh! 