A Two Stout Buzz - Fords Lashed Around Trees - Enticing Country Driveways

The ”Name Game” by Shirley Ellis is playing. The guy behind the counter tells his co-worked that it’s the worse song ever done. But it was number three in 1965. And I’d rather listen to it anytime in preference to Bobby Vinton whose “Red Roses for a Blue Lady” was at the top of the charts for forty weeks straight. God I hated that song, not because it was so bad but because I had to listen to it over and over – again and again. It was then that I stated to learn to hate media campaigns with legs – OJ Simpson, Princess Di, Michael Jackson, Jessica Simpson – just shut up and go away, for God’s sake. There’s nothing more horrid than a top ranked story, song, movie, celebrity hogging the airwaves. They have been playing the Stones (Love is Just a Shot Away, Just a shot away) over and over. I like the Stones but this is too much – that damn speaker is just a shot away.

The GNP was designed to measure how much defense output could be produced during World War II. It was not intended to be a measure of economic welfare nor of wealth, although there has been some minor adjustments to address those concerns. The primary concern remains “The analysis of economic activity in the short run, with a focus on inflation, the business cycle and fiscal policy – Richard Ruggles – The US National Income and Products Accounts, 1983 p332

It’s a lazy gray cold weekend. I had two beers on Saturday and I was zonked. I’m not feeling like doing anything today. I went to the Coffee shop and read the paper. I lounged around at home, had a hot bath and took a short snooze and then went to the coffee shop again. All of the tables at the Royal Ground were occupied so I caught the #3 Jackson downtown and wound up at the San Francisco Brewery for a short $1 dollar, the Alcatraz Stout.

The lover of delicate things / Can reach out and destroy / That to which he most clings – Barbara Howes – Collected Poems, 1995 p70

Technical details of the Wrights Brothers’ wing warping, drag, elevators and counter rotating propellers are being explained by a guy sitting two stools down. He’s not talking to me but to someone who is absorbed in hearing about his expertise. He says that he has often fantasized about going back to that time with the knowledge that he know has (it appears to be extensive). Langley was unable to fulfill his $7,000 contract because he could not control all three axis of control. Happy hour is over and the bar is clearing out

When you don’t get the answer you want, change your question

Homo Economicus is not
        Home economics
He’s more like a Venus Flytrap
Whatever tickles his fancy
        Defines his desire
Or a pitcher plant where
        Anything that falls in
        Get digested
There is no recipe for
         What he eats
Help I’ve fallen down and
         I can’t get up


That no relative value can be
         Distinguished
Is a simplification for the purpose
         Of quantification
Malevolence and spite are outlawed
         While greed is crowned god
This is defined as value-free behavior
Oh, Homo Economicus you are such
          A lowly creature

What lies at the end of enticing / country driveways, curving / off among the trees? Often only / a car graveyard, a house-trailer, a trashy bungalow – Denise Levertov – The Great Unknowing, 1999 p54

Factoid: The list of extrasolar planets now exceeds 400 – about half of all sun-like stars host planets

What you make / will hold awhile solid as stones seem, / will house your panic till the day break – Marcia Lee Anderson “Fear of Falling”

Academic disciplines are disciplinarian. So are all institutional cultural activities – to the extent of the ability to establish and enforce standards

Photography is acquisition in several forms. It its simplest form, we have in a photograph surrogate possession… we also have a consumer’s relations to events [and]… through image-making and image duplicating machines, we can acquire something as information rather than experience – Susan Sontag – On Photography, 1977 p156

Studs Terkel often lamented the fact that his social worker and activist wife Ida had a more robust FBI file than he did. Still, 269 pages is nothing to sneeze at. NYCity News Service has a nice piece on the fragmented narrative sketched out in the 147 pages of the report released under the Freedom of Information Act

When your arms are too short to reach your asshole you get tracks in your shorts. He said he never wore underpants. Don’t you get tracks?, I asked. No!, he exclaimed. I looked and he had long arms. And he said, I never dip into the rice bowl with your left hand.

Giving junk food to rats can make them into addicts, exhibiting similar behavior to heroine junkies

I plan an excursion to all of San Francisco’s brew pubs in a single weekend. That should not be too difficult, there are only four [actually there are six]. I’m now at the 21st Amendment with an Oyster Point stout. Alison Krauss is singing along with Sting. A Japanese customer is familiar with Sting but not with Allison. I order sweet fried plantains. Six pears come stacked like logs for a campfire. The United theme - its time to fly.

The ‘occult’ was anything that lied about man’s basic creatureliness, anything that tried to make out of a man a lofty, spiritual creature, qualitatively different from the animal kingdom - Ernest Becker – The Denial of Death, 1973 p96

Another Op-Ed in The New York Times, another well balanced political essay in Foreign Affairs, another eulogy to a departed soldier, another boring politician, another retired military commander, another demand for more troops, another demand we pull out now, another request for more helicopters, another comparison to the Soviet invasion, another Vietnam, another rant, another point of view… I just see dead people.
[More]

Billy Crystal and Robin Williams are so Twentieth century. When do we get to start living in the future. The TV camera pans across Will Smith and his wife - some Afro-Americando get limelight, a selected few. How will would a gangsta identify with Will? I want to know. I should hope not at all. Clap, Clap, applaud applaud, self congratulations to all the club members. What kind of bike are your riding? Duccate. I just took my motorcycle qualification the Japanese man is saying . Pretty dangerous stuff.

Although frequently expressed as judgement of high-end tastes, our “pecuniary emulation” is actually motivated by a desire for relative advantage, achieved by conspicuous excess or by conspicuous economy, as the times demand – Mark Kingswell – Harper’s Magazine (Nov 2009) p77

Having anything to eat. Pure alcohol, the nectar of the Gods. Ha, Ha, Ha - that was a twitter of don’t annoy me laughter. I continue to scribble in my notebook. Mr Duccate is more than half way through his burger by now. He is holding it in his right hand as the watches the Academy Awards. They are showing a Peter Sellers clip. He is on parallel bars. His specialty his character is saying. A new customer walks in. The barmaid interrupts her conversation with her boyfriend. Both she and her boyfriend are short and stout. Your pizzas are not quite ready she says to the new arrival. I haven’t ordered yet, he replies. Oh, I got you confused (actually she was confused). Can I see a menu he asks? Here she says and interrupts her conversation again to take his order. The dishwasher goes around the bar gathering dirty glassware.

Pray for us / that we receive // at least a bruise, / blue, blue unfading / we who accept survival – Denise Levertov – The Great Unknowing, 1999 p61

Blake Edwards gets a special award. Sean Connery is looking serious. The celebrities are all beaming. There are gleaming white teeth everywhere. It’s very intoxicating. So who got the lifetime achievement award? Was it Blake Edwards or Peter Sellers? Talk about shoveling elephant poop. Mr. Duccate’s burger is gone. He squeezes a fresh glaup of ketchup to dip the last of his French fries in.

I look for omens: / not birds broken, not Fords lashed around trees, / But some item showing that fate is open… Barbara Howes – Collected Poems, 1995 p79

I have a two stout buzz. I can no longer read. I think I can still write. It’s time to head home