Thursday, March 6, 2008

Have I told you about my experiences as a kid having to go once a week to Ms. Bagbee's social dancing hour? She was approximately 150 yrs. old, said event took place weekly in the St. Thomas Moore Gym, boys on one side, girls on the other, awkwardly dancing to obscure, multi-generationally removed tidy society songs along the lines of pretty belles whispering confidences of amore alone beside murmuring streams, and the sort of pre-Welkian stanched white big band music so stiff it seems the record should just crinkle up and blow away like a dried, nibbled leaf long since fallen from the tree. At the recess we were served room temperature coke in the old fashioned bottles which we sucked through a straw. 1 remember headaches. Boys and girls sat facing one another, 10 year old faces sizing the other up, or more likely inspecting bitten fingernials. Upon my side there fell the traumatic task of walking across the gym to select a dancing partner. 'Out from the trenches boys! Go engage the enemy in all their downy mystery! These girls, who during the day were simply our runny nosed, pencil clutching class mates now became exotic, pre-adolescent ingenues painstakingly assembled under a mother's watchful eye and experienced hand. And Ms. Bagbee herself- a crinkly relic from the time things had an obligation to be above all else 'nice', 'proper', 'decent', and in line with genteel southern protocol.

my theory- Reaganomics turned Bill Cosby into a white guy. Compare Cosby's 'Uptown Saturday Night' or 'Fat'Albert' with his unctuosly caucasion weekly sitcom. The former were products of the '70's, while the latter festered into prominence during the '80's reign of Reaganomics.

sigh, does no one else upon this watery planet share my enthusiasm for the Jazz Butcher's 'Scandal in Bohemia'?

today, an overcast tuesday, the sort of late to rise early afternoon that makes one listless, feeling like an inhabitant of those thin, charcoal gray Edward Gorey panels

in his tearful farewell letter to an adoring public, Signor Monthwop had this to say:

"...all my desires, hopes, dreams,

all located right within the magazine of this .38..."

"Cambodia By Balloon"

Saw Mill Love Theme plaid clad loggers practice pirouettes burly foremen dream a little dream machine drivers compose sweet nothings

tree choppers send forget me nots

linecooks wait desperately by the phone

branchbailers steal kisses under the old oak tree

loosend OC's feverishly tear open valentines

logpullers caught in mid-swoon deforestration exec's press wild/lowers

-a deep sea navy SEAL had lost his way, never really learnt how to express himself, couldn't figure out that tricky emotional jam

-a jet pilot who'd rather bail out than work things through

-a chopper pilot more content to hover away than talk it out

-a valorous green beret who couldn't bring himself to flirt

-a young ne'er do well & an aging fighter pilot, their love, a scortched earth policy

-a SWAT captain trapped in hit & run dating

-a marine felled by the arrow of love

a few kinds of hairstyles- antigrav locks

the 'et tu brute?'

the pubic underbrush

whigger 'fro

Sampson's mane

frosty tenured distinction

Corner Pyle DIY

a few ways of classifying poo's- brown gold

slithering anaconda

cranky toad

tough ol' buckshot

chocolate symphony

smooth HI' BB's



triple flush slush

charming the chocolate python

drooling driblets

a formidable loaf

violent caffeine ejections

hot on the heels of dinner

spiteful and malicious demon

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