Tips For Road Ragers

 Clever Cohorts and Miffed Motorists,

Daily, if we drive an automobile, we are forced to deal with all sorts of things on the newly Obamasized highways and roads of our nation. Many of  them can and will annoy us, while others drive us, literally, to distraction.  Manners are in short supply but nowhere is the supply shorter than on our roads.

People do not care about the other driver anymore. It is like a battlefield out there some days. In the film, It’s A Gift, starring W C Fields, we see roadhogs get their due when our tipsy hero buys a whole fleet of cars to follow him around and purposely crash into roadhogs.

Roadhogs are one of the worst problems. They cause a lot of the rage. Roadhogs come in all shapes and sizes, like the Harley-Davidson rider who feels he belongs in the passing lane while going 40 miles an hour, because he is a ‘biker’. No wonder we hate bikers so much. It brings back the Carlin line about how people used to ride bikes to piss off the squares and now it is the squares who ride the bikes.

When not slowing traffic down, they often feel the should ride on the center of the double-yellow lines, to show their ownership of the road, which they bought with the title to the cycle…probably because they could not afford a decent car. If you see one on the double-yellow, swerve towards them. You are really doing them a favor, since the increase in heart-rate and blood flow will keep them more alert and less prone to injury. Plus, the look of terror on their faces is always a gas, too. Bicycles are the same way. They really do need to make separate paths for bicycles, as these idiots in the shiny pants (which leads one to question their sensibility to ride a skateboard, much less a bicycle) are some of the rudest variety of roadhog…the self-righteous alternative transportation roadhog. A blare of the horn as you edge up behind them always gets a little jump out of them, if you do not have a squirtgun full of warm milk handy.

Tailgaters are maybe the worst of all, next to the cellphoners. Tailgaters show some of the more developed asshole tendencies. Often they will drive 45 mph in a 55 mph zone, and to be sure they slow down everybody else, they do this in the passing lane. Remember the passing lane? It used to be for passing. If you pass a tailgater on the inside lane and then shift over to the fast lane because you are in passing mode, they will often speed up just to tailgate you for passing them. They were in no hurry before you passed them but they took the move as a personal affront and feel like they must tailgate your car so you know they can go fast, too. Of course, we know the most common way to deal with this is to ‘brake check’ them, that is to hit your brakes hard so they almost hit the back of your car. Keep in mind that if they hit you from behind, it is always their fault, by law.

Sometimes such an action will rile up the offending party and they will continue the dangerous habit of riding your bumper.  If you have a car (which is really the only thing to drive if you do not haul heavy junk and are environmentally responsible), you may have windshield wipers that spray washer fluid over the roof of your car and onto the windshield of the car behind you. If so, a good thing to do is to lay on the sprayer a few times until you see the car behind you put on the windshield wipers. When they are distracted by that and cannot see clearly due to the wipers, hit your brakes then! It usually scares all hell out of them. Again, it may only rile them up, so we suggest keeping a few rolls of pennies or a cup of old rusty nuts and bolts in the console of your vehicle. These metal objects, when flipped over the top off your car, will bounce off the highway and, depending on what speed you are traveling, bounce up into the  grill of the car behind you or, if you are lucky, the windshield. Old golf balls from the shag bag are good for this, as well, as the large white orb has a scarier effect when flying toward you. The good thing about using pennies is that they are barely visible, should an officer look for evidence of projectile-influenced rage.

Sunday drivers have been an annoyance for nearly a century now. They are usually old and have no idea what is going on. If you rage at them, it does no good. They have to turn up the hearing aid just to hear you honk at them and that action alone slows them down by another 10 mph. If you have to drive on a Sunday, take valium.

Most offensive these days is the cellphone user. Most roadhogs and tailgaters are cross-addicted to the cell. This works in your favour because they are distracted. To them a brake check is especially terrifying. They really ought not to be on the phone and most states have laws against it. As much as we at CFYSA hate the law, we try to help the enforcers of the laws when it comes to these selfish, talkative bastards who think they are so important that if they do not phone to say where they are at the moment, the world will stop.

 If you see someone on a cell, lay on your horn. The person on the other end of the line will get an earful, as well. Better yet, here is a trick we learned by mistake a few weeks ago. Sitting at a red traffic light, we looked over and saw a driver yapping inanely on the cell, waiting for the light to change. We were not even with this car but our hood was about even with the driver’s window, perfect for a blare of the horn. We were in a two lane left turn exit from a shopping plaza that dumped onto a well-trafficked road. Reckoning to give the driver/cell-user a little blast of sound, we hit the horn. When we honked, the car abruptly pulled out, through the red light, into traffic.  Apparently, they were used to being honked at for sitting through green lights while yapping and thought they had done it again. Luckily, they did not get hit by another car but it certainly opened a whole new avenue of fun to us. Try it sometime and see for yourself! We encourage you!

There are many other ways to deal with the rogues of the road but we just wanted to throw out a few helphul hints for the novice ragers in the ethernet. Happy motoring!!!

On Occupying Wall Street…What Would Allen Ginsberg Do?

 Gentle Readers and Reasonable Minded Thinkers,

 We see here a photo of Allen Ginsberg, taken by Jerry Aronson, maker of The Life and Times of Allen Ginsberg, which is reviewed (with four more exclusive photos) in Beatdom Issue 9. It was taken at Grant Park, Chicago, in 1968 during the infamous riots at the Democratic National Convention.

 Ginsberg chanted to distract the protestors from marching because he did not want them becoming active due to his presence and ending up with their blood on his hands because he incited them to challenge armed police.

 Allen Ginsberg is universally-known as a good and kind man. In Aronson’s film, a comment is made by counterculture icon Ed Sanders about how to decide if a course of action is right or wrong. He offers that the best choice is to ask ourselves, ‘What would Allen do?’

Today, someone took umbrage to the fact that we stated that the list of ‘demands’ offered by the protestors have nothing to do with day to day trading activity on Wall Street. The demands, if anything, would benefit Wall Street. Take the end of the war on drugs, for instance. If that were to happen and sweet marijuana were made legal, it would open up a whole new industrial segment and provide jobs for millions and bring billions into the economy yearly. Companies would be formed, like the already existing Medical Marijuana, Inc, (MJNA.PK), which would put a whole new breath of air into the sagging sails of the US economy.

The protestors want student loan forgiveness. If student loans were forgiven, people would have more money to spend on other things. This would lead to an increase of profits by many industry segments, including food, clothing and consumer discretional spending, to name just a few. The increased profits would lead to stronger balance sheets and the value of the stocks of these companies would rise with the tide. How is this an anti-Wall Sreet agenda?

How about ‘free education kindergarten through college’?  That one seems to undermine the whole financial system, alright, as who is going to pay and since we have never had any children we certainly hope these protestors have pockets that are deep enough to pay our share. Again, though…what does this have to do with Wall Street…not one bleeding thing!

Oh, and let us remind you all that these are ‘Official’ demands. Who is the official? Did the protestors elect another Obama-like figure who is the Official and presides over them? Speaking of His Nibs, the Prez, most of these protestors look like the same foolish bastards that were campaigning for Obama in the first place and if it were not for the pissing contest between Obama and the GOP in Congress, we would not be in the bad economic shape we are in.

The problem lies in Washington, not on Wall Street. Regulatory statutes are not voted on by the men and women who broker trades on Wall Sreeet. They are voted on by the elected official picked by the american voters. Put the blame in the right place if you expect any real action. This is the real world. School is out for ever, as Alice Cooper said.

Then we have the repeal of capital punishment…another hot topic on Wall Street. We guess what happens is that when somebody is meant to be executed, they are transported to New York City, where a bunch of stock brokers have a secret back room where they hang, dismember, gas, stab, shoot and stone the poor people who do not have jobs because Obama does not agree with Congress…does this make sense to you? Odd, it makes no sense to us but this is what people are getting their heads busted over.

Who is the great mind who thought of having all the kids go out and get gassed and clubbed by the garda? Who put the lives and safety of all those people behind their own twisted ideology and is responsible for the violence that the protestors wear like the red badge of courage? Who is the face behind this? That is your criminal. There is the evil force du jour.

Equal Rights for women…gee, we have seen many successful women on Wall Street. As long as they can hustle the equities, they are equal. As long as they make money for their company, they are equal. In the minds of the protestors, however, Wall Street is a place in New York City, once the most progressive city in the world until LA got the jump with medical marijuana, where woman are held in dungeons and treated like serfs. This is all getting a bit silly but we reckon you get the idea.

Why Wall Street? It does not make the laws. Wall Street is their saviour, if these moron would open their eyes. If they had jobs, they would not be in the park. If they were looking for a job, they would not be in the park. If they had not voted for Obama, they would not be in the park. Why not Washington? Why not in front of the White House?

These kids are amateurs, for one thing. They have no grasp of how society works, if they are in NYC and the problem is in DC.

They will affect no real change, except for the change in a few profiles when the billyclubs break their noses and open their foreheads. It is more likely that some old guy, some old WWII veteran, who’s wife died because she could not get the proper medical attention or because they could not afford medicine due to the tactics of our elected officials – the ones who are paid to represent our voices and then take money from lobbyists to stick up our collective ass. One of these old guys is going to take his hunting rifle down off the wall, where it has been collecting dust for 20 years and go to DC and plug himself a few pols. As he is led away in cuffs, some of his buddies from the VFW will see him on TV, while drinking at the bar, and feel the ‘band of brothers’ emotion that got them through that great war and take to DC with their own guns. They will not care about mace because they will just shoot. They are not far from dead and what they had is being taken away bit by bit, so what do they have to lose? Not a damned thing. The old guys are our hope for change, not these young wankers who think it is time for a party and may as well get their childhood agressions beat out of them by a uniformed cop.

Occupy Wall Street? Why not occupy Disneyworld?  That would hurt a lot more people. It would dent the tourism, airline, automobile rental, hotel and restaurant businesses from Florida to all ends of the USA because people would not be buying gas or taking planes or stopping to eat or staying at a hotel on their way to the wonderland of american moronism. This would really hurt Wall Street.

With the elections coming up, all this protesting does is to keep focus off the real issues and agendas facing the american people…like voting for somebody with a brain who can get us out of this mess.  This is the sort of thing the FBI of CIA could arrange to keep the country is a state of upheaval so the light is not shone of the FEMA camps they set up in Denver, CO, this weekend. Did you hear about that? – or was there not enough space for the news on both so you hear about the protestors, instead? These kids in the parks deserve what they get. Anybody who is dumb enough to challenge a policeman, whether you are on the right side or the wrong side of moral boundary, is gonna get one up against the side of the head. That is how it works. It has always been that way and if you do not get it, you are a right imbecile!

These people act surprised that the police are hurting them…what the fuck? The city is broke enough and can’t feed kids in school and has other programs where funds have been cut and now they have to pick up the tab for all the overtime the police are working to contain this foolish fracas.

We hope that every cop who gets paid overtime for working the Wall Street Occupation, cashes his check and takes that money right to Wall Street and purchases some stock in American companies. Then, the ‘occupation’ would actually help the economy. We wonder how many displaced pretzel and falafel vendors have gone out of business because they could not find space to park their food carts. This occupation is for idiots but we are a nation of idiots so it will probably drag on for a while…but on the bright side, at least they are not teabaggers.

 

 

 

By Popular Demand (sort of) The Fabulous Ferd!

 

Since we started this blog about one year ago, we have introduced you to the ignoble character of Ferd.

While we are told we could not make such a person up if we tried, we often wonder why we would try.

 

Here you see a photo of the man, himself, drunken – on our money, as usual – on strawberry drinks at ChiChi’s, the once popular chain of ‘mexican’ restaurants.

Personally, we do not know how that chain lasted as long as it did, as to me no restaurant can call itself truly ‘mexican’ unless they have tamales on the menu.

ChiChi’s, coincidentally, is the only place where Your Humble Narrator ever worked in food services. That was enough.

 

So, about Ferd…what do we say, how do we explain?

First, let it be known that he has known Your Narrator since the tender age of eight years old. He remembers things that have vanished. He validates our (my) childhood by being the only other person who can remember it.  A year older, he claims he met Your Narrator at the Egypt Playground in the sandbox, when we threw sand on him

at age seven. It has been pretty much the same ever since.

 

We also went through quite a few psychedelic experiences together, even having had the same hallucination at the same time.

We believe this psychedelic connection formed a bond between he and we (the editorial we, as explained in The Big Lebowski by The Dude), as evidenced by the way we came into contact with him after 18 years of not seeing him.

An annnoying jackass was sending me drivel that he called a novel about his time in the US Navy. He sent me some every other day and thought it to be amusing but, as with many writers, he produced useless crap. His useless scribblings being about the Navy reminded us of the box of letters received from Ferd during his time on the high seas. One day, we dug out the box and looked at one letter. It was funny and showed a sense of style and humour which have long since been given up to the dementia of what is known as a ‘wet brain’.

Anyway, that very night we had a dream, a dream that Ferd was in some kind of trouble. It was not Ferd in the dream. The image was of Your Narrator, standing in a doorway, sweating. We knew it was Ferd, even though it looked like us. That is how dreams are.

It did pique the curiousity, however, and after 18 years we decided to look Ferd up…which is not too hard. We took to the internet and after finding a few embarrassing news articles which found him involved in strange behaviour, we procured the address and phone number.

Upon calling the number, we were greeted by the long-unheard voice of Ferd.  He was stinking drunk and had no idea who we were. We tried to make sense to him, until a shrill voice shouted from the background, “If you do not get off of that phone right now, I am leaving this minute!’…whereupon the phone was hung up on his end.

Imagining this to be a singular event, we tried the call the next day. Still drunk, we felt his mind reel over the wire. Then, using a phrase that was shared between only he and we, we managed to startle him into a brief moment of cognizance…”Mike…?” He sputtered. “Ferd!” We replied, to which he countered, “I had a dream about you the other night, you were standing in a doorway!” Amazing but true, how the common bond formed by the use of the funny stuff kept us so connected after so many years.

So, we made plans to get together and picked up our association with each other. He is too stupid to be a friend, so he says we are his ‘friend’ and we say, ‘He is our Ferd.’

 

When this blog started it had a slightly different title, which was Celebrating 50 Years of Substance Abuse. An opportunity showed itself, a while back, to see what LSD had become in the 21st Century and also to be able to achieve tripping over the course of four decades, just to be able to say so. We can tell all of the parents out there not to worry if their child has taken the acid of today. It is as weak as a baby kitten. We paid $20 a hit for what was called ‘triple-dipped’ blotter and had high hopes of a happy high.

Since Ferd had tripped with us a minimum of 400 times, we figured it best to employ him in the test of today’s intoxicants.

Not having used such stuff since the 1990s and way before the death of our parents, it was with a small bit of trepidation that we suggested to Ferd that we retire to our house to try the stuff. We arrived and, since it was supposedly ‘triple-dipped’, took a half a dose each. In the 1990s, a quarter dose of a single tab would be enough to elicit euphoric blissfulness.

We swallowed it and sat on the sofa, listening to Bob Dylan while watching him on Youtube. We started to feel a little ‘sproingy’ in the joints, that rubbery feeling in the elbows and knees, like there is great power there trying to take over us.

We didn’t feel much else, to be honest, and the whole affair seemed pretty mundane until the moment Ferd spoke.

“Opie got in trouble with his bike on the sidewalk,” he offered.

“What???,” we queried him, “the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know,” came his voice from his dazed haze, “When that rich kid told Opie it was okay to ride his bike on the sidewalk and he got in trouble with Barney.”

Incredulous, we thought about that last statement, until it dawned on us, “You are talking about the Andy Griffith Show? From the 1960s?…and you expect me to know what you are talking about.”

“Well, you know,” he countered, “Barney told him not to go on the sidewalk…”

Waves of laughter finally rolled over us, just like in the old days. Ferd sat there, uncomfortably wondering what was so funny. Everytime we stopped laughing and looked at him, we started involuntarily guffawing. It went like that for a couple hours. Everytime, we stopped laughing, we thought of Barney and the laughter returned, while Ferd sat – literally - twiddling his thumbs. It still makes us smile but it was also a sad moment because that was when we realized that the wet brain had affected Ferd to the point that he was no longer ‘with it’. He had gotten old in his mind. He had become the very thing we used to make fun of, with his beer-belly and tv addiction.

Having undertaken numerous attempts to bring him into this century, we finally gave up. We spoke to a shrink about it, who told us that Ferd was ‘demented’. Laughing out loud when the doctor spoke the word, we drove immediately to the home of Ferd to treport the findings.

“I am NOT demendet,” he insisted. His inability to say the word properly resulted in even more laughter and this was weeks or months after the Opie Incident. Since then, he asks regularly how to spell ‘demendet,’ so he can look it up and see if he really is. We do not give him that satisfaction.

 

One thing to consider here is that Ferd is probably the only person we know who we can post a photo of on the internet and he does not care. He does not have the internet. We created an email address for him and encourage him regularly to get a PC from the Veterans Administration or go to the library, even if it is just to watch videos of Bob Dylan or Barney. We tell him that we write about him but he is unphased. He does not care.

That is typical of Ferd, as one thing we can say on a positive note, is that he has never been known to do harm to anyone. He is pretty much incapable of being mean. He is too dumb. We will tell him we wrote this and posted his photo and he will blow it off like yesterday’s fish and chip papers. At least he remains himself and maintains his own character – which is a lot more than we can say for most people these days.

Thank The Supreme Court And Ferd For This Post (contains explicit language)

Gentle Readers,

Given the subject matter in this blog, we tried to find a nice ‘lunatic’ image but ended up with an image of a ‘luna kit’ and since it is a cool image we may as well just go with the flow and take what our graphics department comes up with!

Why a lunatic? Ferd is quoted here, that’s why the lunatic!

Ferd does not have a computer and does not even have an email address. We told him we were writing about him several times but he has never taken the time to look at the screen to see what we say. That said, let us consider that the Suprme Court recently took all penalties off of using foul language and determined that is is perfectly legal to write, type or speak the words ‘fucking asshole‘.  We find this reassuring to know that when we are pulled over for yet another traffic violation, we are allowed to exclaim, “Thanks a lot, you fucking asshole” to the ‘officer’ who has cited us.

Thanks to our cultural heroes, it is now legal to curse in public and it is with the blessings of the High Court that we relate the following:

One recent hot, sunny Summer day, we found ourselves at the door of Ferd’s domain. Outside and sitting in the sun with no water and not enough leash to reach the shade was his cat, Willie. After pounding on the door, waking and berating him, he unhooked Willie and took her inside (“her” because Willie is short for Wilhelmina). Willie flopped on the floor, exhausted. We questioned Ferd on the lack of water for Willie, at which point he filled a bowl and Willie immediately started to lap it up. Feeling sorry for poor Willie, Your Humble Narrator looked at Ferd and called him a fucking asshole.

Many people would take humbrage or offense to such a remark but Ferd took it in stride. In fact, he complimented me on it. He recounted a day, some 40 years earlier, when Your Narrator was with a group of school friends and Ferd. Pot was pretty unavailable and five of us stood in a circle while the bowl was filled with our last remaining stash. Putting a light to the bowl, we took the first toke and passed it to Ferd, who immediately dropped it on the ground, where the remains could not be recovered.  Everybody cursed him, even himself. This incident had long been forgotten, albiet in the the mind of Ferd. He recounted the occasion and how we had called him a fucking asshole forty years earlier.

“You know,” said Ferd, seemingly amused at being insulted, “Do you remember that time I dropped the bowl?”

“No,” we countered, “and what does that have to do with anything and why can’t you take care of your cat?”

Blowing off the bit about the cat, he related the story of the dropped bowl. “You sound exactly the same calling me a fucking asshole today, as you did when you called me a fucking asshole forty years ago. I can close my eyes and it is like going back in time.”

Great, we thought, a fucking asshole in a timeless warp…or ‘Ferd…An Asshole Through the Ages’…

We thought this was humorous enough but, more recently, we were moved to refer to Ferd as ‘an imbecile’ and he objected strongly to the remark. He had his reasons. He said that being an imbecile was a part of normal human development and that he had passed that stage.  As he put it, “You are born, and from the time you ‘come out of the shute’ you are an imbecile. Then, later you develop into an idiot, until you become a moron. These are the stages of a child’s brain development. I read it in a book!”

We are not sure what book Ferd had his nose in that time – or what he had his nose in before he looked at the book – but  we actually searched the internet to see how he could have come up with such a classic way of distinguishing between inbecility and idiocy. Being a master of both, we almost hoped to find something to support his jive but could not find a single thing to back him up.

He must be a moron. 

 

Dylan Blog Featuring Handicapped Bullies And Linda Ronstadt

Gentle Readers,Who watch your parking meters,

We find ourselves half-blindly pecking at the keyboard to give you an account of the Bob Dylan/Leon Russell show the CFYSA crew took part in this evening, or last night or last month or whenever you read this…to all Gentle Souls.

The trip to the show began with the drive to collect Ferd, who dressed surprisingly normally for a victim of dementia (haha), with the exception of too many gadgets, which posed later problems, as you shall see.  Ferd  saw the last Dylan show in the area with us and it was a great show but this one was better. The sound was spot-on, although we still heard morons in the parkinglot after the show saying ‘couldn’t understand a single word’. Perhaps if one has a vocabulary, one notices words and understands them and if one does not read and has no vocabulary further than rudimentary gobbles and the drive-thru menu at McDonalds, it would be hard to understand. They should buy a dictionary and try to read one book a year, for a start…then see if they understand.

So, the show was great and the setlist is available on www.expectingrain.com …the link is on the page above. We shall comment more on the event as a whole, rather than the sterling performance of the most influential force in pop music over the past 50 years. Ferd played a key part in the fun. While ‘dressing down,’ he still managed to be turned away at the entrance when they scanned us for metal items and found him to be carrying a knife, among other contraptions…ironic, since earlier in the day, we had told our close friend and confidant, Electra, about his gadgets and about his cap with the four mini-mad-lights on the brim, with a flashing light for good measure, and the knives and radios and Three Stooges Zippo and the myriad of junk he carries. Electra was amused but nonplussed at why a person should outfit themself in such a way.

At the Main Entrance, he was sent away, instructed to hide his knife under a rock…which he did and after standing in line again - while we drank cider inside the venue - he entered and was proud to note that they only found one knife and that the better one was in his back pocket. Why do we need knives in this day and age…portable knives, not at the workplace, that is? They come in handy for crude types to pick their teeth with but are an inconvenience, otherwise, as evidenced by Ferd’s second trip through the entrance gate, where he still ‘beeped’ on the security equipment; but they were so tired of him they just flagged him through…terrorists, take note! haha…

As enjoyable as the show was (the highlight for me was Dylan playing guitar while singing Beyond Here Lies Nothing, the first song on his latest LP, and theme song for the first season of some hoodie-kid-vampyre=tripe show, the name of which escapes us in our slight inebriation, post concert…True Blood perhaps?) we were disturbed by an idiot urging us to sit down. Our seats were in Row 13, so twelve rows of standing flesh would have blocked our vision, were we to comply. It turns out the person was handicapped and did not want to sit in the section where he could have seen the show nicely. Perhaps he was being independent by shining his flashlight in the faces of four rows of people while hissing/begging, “sit down, you bastards!!!” …Not an effective approach!

He poked Your Humble Narrator in the back twice with his finger, Your Narrator being 6’4” and often suspect of shenanigans when tall people are guilty of things…but personal intrusions like poking are bullying behaviour and we had to inform the patron that his index finger would soon be handicapped, should he poke one more time…an empty threat but effective.       

Handicapped people at public events can be quite mean. They expect special attention but do not make arrangements ahead of time. Some people have themselves declared as handicapped just to get a good parking space. More power to them? Having cheated cancer the hard way, we have no mercy…we live on borrowed time, so do not disturb!

Also, another bully memory goes back to the 1970, when we were in the employ of a regional daily newspaper and, having carved a niche in entertainment writing, was sent to do a review of a Linda Ronstadt show, when she was at the height of her fame. This was in the 1970s and Ferd was home on leave from the Navy and we were bending the rules of chemical consumption and blending hallucinogens, when it occurred to Your Humble Narrator that a story was due at the city desk by 1030pm…Putting two words together was a challenge, much less opining on the performance of songs we were only half-familiar with. Heart Like A Wheel was her best LP to date but she had gone pretty commercial. While not knowing what to write, the City Desk waited…Deadline waited…and so we made our way to a payphone in front of an ice cream vendor and put a dime in it…yes, a dime, and yes…a payphone!!!

The editor, a true friend, was helpful, writing the story for us while pumping for details so it sounded like he was writing about an event that actually happened! The reporter’s notebook in my hand contained most of the names of the songs she sang, but that was it, aside from what she wore. He took the information and crafted it into an acceptable concert review, slapped my byline on it and saved my career - but it took a bit of time to get the facts over the phone to him.

Dimes were no problem, compared to what was to come next. A small army of handicappers in wheelchairs surrounded me at the phone. Our brain was split betwen two realms of psychedelia. These pushy, wheely cretins wanted to call to get their ride home.  They deserve the designation of ‘cretin’ due to behaviour, not handicap. 

The story was only half done and the phone could not be given up. By the time we finished phoning in the story, no less than ten handicappers were cursing me with tongues a-snarling and using language most foul, they waved canes menacingly…multiple canes ready to strike…it is always shocking to hear the infirmed curse you and wish you unwanted anal penetration and this is not a blanket indictment of all people in wheelchairs. They were mean. They were bullies in wheelchairs. They have a way of milking the sympathy out of a person to get away with anything. Shocking, is what it is!!!

It reminds us of Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo in Kiss Of Death…

If this blog seems intolerant, it IS. We paid close to $90USD for those seats and we do not need to be stressed in our post-cancerous state, It is stressful. It is mean. It is bullying…from now on, we think twice about “hiring the handicapped” and will only hire the ones who have good manners…because manners, Dear Friends, are the glue that holds society together!!!

 

Tips For Conversationalists or How to Stop Interrupting Others

Gentle Readers (as Miss Manners used to say).

We have entered the dawning of a new era. For centuries, humans have tried to make others feel welcome in their lives by being gracious and mannerly. The ‘gentle’ in ‘Gentle Readers’ comes from the art of being a ‘gentle person’ as opposed to a rude one.

These days, people have an inflated sense of self-worth…and it is inflated to the point of bursting. Self-importance is the order of the day and nowhere does it show it’s ugly head more than in the simple art of person to person communication. Having been known to slip at times, Ourselves, we look to an expert for a look at this phenomenom and for way to handle it. That said, we turn to Vicki Santillano of Divine Caroline, a manners repository. Here is what she has to say about the state of modern conversation, along with some tips on how to be a Gentleperson. Thank you, Vicki!!!

Conversation Killers: How to Stop Interrupting Others

By: Vicki Santillano

I’m always surprised at how blasé some people can be about interrupting and talking over others. That is, until I catch myself doing it in conversations, too. It’s so hard to quell the impulse to interject, especially when you have a relatable story or a point you don’t want to miss making. Perhaps that’s why chronic interrupting is a trait shared by so many, including some of the nicest, most caring people I know. Likewise, I don’t consider myself a rude person by nature, yet I make the same conversation faux pas from time to time. Simply knowing how frustrating it is to be talked over isn’t enough to stop it from happening; otherwise, none of us would ever interrupt anyone else. So how do we learn not to breach such basic etiquette? 

What’s Behind the Need to Interject
When someone interrupts us, we feel annoyed primarily, but also disrespected. Regardless of what we’re talking about or who does the dirty deed, being interrupted sends the message that our words carry less weight than the interrupters’. And that’s partly true, at least in the interrupters’ opinions. Think of the times you’ve stopped someone mid-sentence. You thought something was so crucial to the conversation that it had to be voiced immediately—that your point was more important, or so important that you didn’t want to risk it not being heard. 

Some psychologists differentiate between types of interruption when analyzing conversation patterns. There’s competitive interruption, which is an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction. Cooperative interruption is when the comment is meant to add to the conversational flow—such as adding a related opinion or even making supportive statements—but still stops the original speaker from smoothly finishing his or her thought. The well-intentioned among us tend to cooperatively interrupt, but etiquette-wise, that’s not much better than the competitive kind. Both prevent the other people we’re conversing with from speaking their minds freely. Both make them feel that their feelings on the matter aren’t worth as much as ours. 

Learn to Wait Your Turn
According to The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Etiquette, “interrupting is the most common and among the most irritating errors people make in conversation.” But just because many people do it doesn’t make it less of an etiquette no-no. It’s hard, but by no means impossible, to overcome such an ingrained impulse. Like any other bad habit, not interrupting others requires reworking how we look at the situation (conversation) and re-training ourselves within it.

Often, people who run conversational interference aren’t listening as well as they should be. They might hear a sentence or two, form an opinion they feel should be voiced, and listen for a slight pause or hesitation in conversation that allows them to interject. At this point, the attention is on themselves rather than the speaker. Instead of wanting to make points as they come to your head, have a notebook handy to jot down notes for later or make mental notes. This is especially good advice for people who tend to interrupt their coworkers and, even worse, their bosses during meetings. (Don’t feel bad if this is you; I’ve been guilty of it, too.) While you may want to make a great impression and showcase your enthusiasm or knowledge, speaking over peers and managers only demonstrates a lack of respect and patience. 

Rather than waiting for a moment to get a word in, pay attention to the way the speaker talks and the points he or she’s making. It’s possible the person will reach the same conclusion you have if he or she’s given the opportunity to finish speaking. Similarly, you may reach a different conclusion once the speaker’s done. If it feels nearly impossible to keep quiet, try subtly putting a finger over your lips as a reminder. Asking friends or coworkers to politely point out when you’re interjecting too much can also be helpful. The reminding should be slight and kind instead of disparaging; experiencing the latter could make you too afraid to speak at all. 

Dealing with Other Interrupters
Since most of us have been guilty of interrupting at some point, we’ve all been victims of it, too. When you have to deal with a chronic interrupter, try speaking quickly so that the person doesn’t jump on a break in conversation. If someone starts talking over you, raise your voice slightly and continue on. When interrupters are allowed to do so unabated, it only reinforces the behavior. Parents teaching their kids good manners are told not to acknowledge them when they demand attention in the middle of another conversation. Just as children have to learn to wait their turn, those of us who interrupt need to be reminded of that lesson, too. 

There are times when interrupting is more excusable. “I don’t understand what you’re saying” or “Stop talking, there’s an emergency!” are perfectly valid things to bring up in the middle of a conversation. But for the times when you’re itching to make a point or stir things in a different direction, it’s best to pipe down and let the speaker finish. Few things are so pressing to discuss that it justifies hurting someone else’s feelings in the process. When the urge to interrupt hits, just remember how it feels to be talked over and open your ears instead of your mouth.

Updated December 13, 2010

 

 

 

‘It Done Something To Him’…A New Perspective on Sexuality

Gentle Readers,

We are all little lambs who have gone astray, to a degree, and some of us stray more than others.  We at CFYSA have strayed from our planned topic for today due to some information received from a familiar source, on the topic of the nature of human sexuality and homosexuality.

     The source of our data is the inimitable Ferd, who gesticulated in the Summer sun, while dress completely in black and sitting on a little chair that folds out from a cane. He does not use the cane when riding bicycle but likes to sit when he can and so carries this piece of handicappana…

     At any rate, a recent death in the family resulted in the usual get-together and, in asking about his relatives, it would appear that the high point of the ceremonies was the appearance of Ferd’s cousin, Wanda, who used to be cousin Willie.  The sex change did not cause so much a stir as the in-your-face maleness of the new-born Wanda. While now a woman, she retains quite the mannish figure.

    But how does this happen? The debate rages on whether sexual orientation is a product of genetics or one’s environment. Convincing arguments are thrown out by both sides but no one, true answer is accepted. In the Case of Wanda, Ferd feels, it was 100% environment.

     The environment in question, as odd as it seems, is a pasture where Willie and Ferd used to play as children. First cigarettes and countless candy bars were consumed in said pasture, which was bound by an electric fence to keep the livestock from wandering.  In Ireland, they paint the livestock so that, if they wander, you can tell which sheep belongs to whom by the spray swatch on its back.

     Willie would have liked that.

     One day, when they were eight or nine years of age, they played in the pasture until Willie was overcome by the urge to urinate. It is not uncommon to urinate outside on a farm but, at the same time, it is a good idea not to do it on an electric fence, should one be handy.

     Willie happened to be near one that was handy and let a stream go right onto it. This was followed by a series of screams and caterwauling such as Ferd had never heard in his young life and which he can still hear to this day. The electric jolt from the fence drove its way straight up the stream of urine and zapped Willie senseless. He was never right after that.

     “It done something to him,” notes Ferd. and that ‘something’ not only made him want to be gay but to go the whole route and change his sex. There is no other evidence is his sheltered life to show any other reason for such a radical turnaround.

     It just done something to him…so speculators, haters, members of the GLBT community, keep this incident in mind when discussing how we become what we are. It could be a diamond which shines a light of truth on a tough subject to reckon out. It could be that Ferd is just whacked out, too.

     Who knows?

Some Good Reasons To Buy Beatdom Issue 9

Cats and Kittens, Cherished Readers,

Open minds that have no leaders,

We return to you today after quite a long break in the action, although we see you have been reading daily and we appreciate the patronage!

Our disappearance was caused due to the fact that Your Humble Narrator is now Co-Publisher of Beatdom Books and we published our first two exciting volumes in the month of July…Beatdom Issue Nine and Zoning by Spencer Kansa, which we shall tell you about in the next blog.

     So why buy the new Beatdom? Ten dollars…one dollar per reason…as we have changed the format to that of a more traditional literary journal and also have gone to black and white, save for the excellent cover illustration by R.H.Harper, an excellent Philadelphia artist.

     First and foremost, you will find a lot of great writing from our regular crew of writers, as well as some new faces. We have new, yes NEW, photos of Allen Ginsberg, William S. Burroughs and Norman Mailer which have never been published before and were donated to us by the remarkable Jerry Aronson, whose DVD, The Life and Times of Allen Ginsberg is reviewed at length, as well as a review of the PBS Naked Lens film by filmmaker Yony Leyser,  William S. Burroughs: A Man Within. You can find reviews of both of them on this blog space if you use the search function but the review in Beatdom, with the photos from Jerry, make an exceptionally fine piece.

     The cover is so nice that you will be sure to look hip while reading it, so that is a reason in itself and it is a real conversation starter…just look at that cover…and there are numerous other great illustrations inside…you may ascertain from the cover that this is our ‘Drugs’ issue, so we have a number of articles with a droogy theme, as well as straight essays and poetry.

     …which brings us to yet another reason, which is the excellent fiction by Katy Gurin, Chuck Taylor and Dan Leo (as well as by Your Humble Narrator) and the accompanying illustrations and art by award-winning filmmaker Waylon Bacon and Haydn Lock.

     Then, we have the scholarly studies from around the world, like the essay on Hunter S. Thompson in Kentucky, by Rory Feehan in Ireland, and a detailed look at Mr. Burroughs’ forays into the jungles of South America in search of yage by Nick Meador and Geetanjali Joshi Mishra’s insightful look at Allen Ginsberg, From Ganja To God, about the late poet’s experiences with ganja in India, and a look at Burroughs’ groundbreaking work with yage by David S, Wills, our fearless leader.

     We have poetry smuggled out of the heart of a womens’ prison, poetry about addiction and poetry about supermarkets, plus more poetry, for the verse-lovers in the crowd.

     Another fine reason to buy this treasure-trove of Beat knowledge and enjoyable fiction and poetry, as we mentioned earlier, is that we have made it available at the ridiculously low price of $9.99 a copy, plus $2 for shipping…that is two dollars in America and two euros for international customers. Our first copy was sent to a reader in Australia…if you order quickly (www.beatdom.com) you may even get your copy before the first one hits the land down under.  We have squeezed the large, airplane-browsing-sized, full colour issues into a standard format literary journal, so it is easy to keep in pocket or purse. In fact, we dare you to find something better to read at that price and if you find something even half as hip, we want to know about it.

    This is actually an old reason, but Beatdom is the world’s most popular Beat-themed literary journal. We have readers on every continent except Antartica and we may open an office there just to stimulate sales…when we have the cash, that is…which may be a while since we only hope to break even on this endeavor…as has always been the case with Beatdom, all along…we are not here to get rich on your hard-earned book money. We are here to keep the Beat spirit alive and let you know what is happening in the world of Beatdom.

     This issue was printed and bound by the prestigious Sheridan Press. We chose them so that we could offer you the best in quality, not just in the writing and art but in the reproduction of such fine work. Sheridan is a venerable force in the publishing industry, printer of the best among literary journals…and that is why we chose them to bring you the finest Beatdom possible.

     It will not be online for immediate free download, like the older, more expensive issues were. It will be in the future - but at the moment, the only way to see it is to open a copy and start enjoying yourself. To older readers, consider this a literary take on ZAP Comix…great art, good messages and hip from beginning to end.

      Also, check out the cover illustration for David Wills’ upcoming (on Beatdom Books) novel The Dog Farm. You may have heard recent news about the glow-in-the-dark dogs which were created by those krazy koreans but Mr. Wills gives you a whole new view of South Korea.

    So what are you waiting for? You can buy it with check, money order or Paypal. Orders paid with check or money order will be shipped once funds have cleared, which is overnight in the day of instant wire transfer…so take a chance…don’t be a mooncalf, don’t be a fuddy duddy…get hip and get yourself a copy of Beatdom Issue Nine…it may sell out before you get the chance…

Do Police Get Tested For Drugs and Steroids????

           Gentle Readers,

Forgive the fomatting, as the PC is still vexing us.  Speaking of vexations, many are disturbed by the presence of man-made monsters, one of the most famous of which is Frankenstein’s Monster.  Some people refer to the monster simply as ‘Frankenstein’.  There are a lot of these Franskenteins in the world, the most famous being the United States Government.  We create and enable them and then they rattle the chains, break loose from the stone walls of the government buildings and come create nightmares in our lives.

At one end of the scale we have Bracarat Obama, Disaster in Chief of These United States and on the lower, lower, lowest end of the scale are those we pay to protect ourselves and our property…the police.  Currently, the Obama administration is using these police as a tool of terror and fear as it employs them into the Neverending War we are involved in.  It used to be nice when wars ended. 

It also used to be nice when a police officer was a sign of safety, not a call for fear.  On Youtube, for instance, you have numerous instances of police beating innocent motorists because the civilians have the temerity to film the jackboot thugs in action.  These days, if you buy a gun or a camera, you need to buy both, not one or the other.  If you buy a gun, you need a camera to show the unjust way the police treat you when they try to take it away from you.  If you buy a camera, you need a gun to protect yourself from being beaten by officers wearing uniforms that you paid for.

We pay a lot in taxes, to the fed, to the stores but most disturbingly, to our local governments.  In our instance, we must pay several thousand to the school district, even though we have never spawned a child.  Why do we have to pay for the education of a bunch of little wankers when we had the good sense to ‘keep it in our pants’?  We pay for our trash to be collected and we just has an increase in our water and sewer bills.  So if you pay for the water, the schools, the trash and sewer – why do you have to fork over even more cash to have the township collect all the other checks we send?  We have to pay the police, of course.

Did you ever get pulled over for speeding or some other minor infraction of traffic codes and have some beast with ‘roid rage bark at you through the window, while flexing biceps which are unusually bulging with veins, like those veins in his neck as he screams at you for asking a question.  If you are like us, and have long hair and look like a liberal, it is even worse.

If noise comes from our yard, we are confronted by one of these monsters.  It has not happened for a long time.  If noise comes from another yard and we call the police, the chief tells us that they do not have equipment to measure decibels and so the ordinance is unenforcable.  So we are paying to have laws unenforced.  A judge told us to sue the township but the fear of harrassment stops us.  If a neighbor is persistent in destroying a section of our property and the cops are called in, the focus is not on the neighbor who is trying to build on my property…we get grief because the officer sees long hair and for some reason ‘roid ragers hate that.  Maybe because a lot of them go bald from using the stuff.

This is a bigger issue than our yard and long hair, however.  The drug war, which is the biggest waste of money ever to face a country which cannot balance a budget and even threatens to take Social Sevurity away from senior citizens. allow police to search homes, yards, automobiles, test your breath and your blood.  In all our years of paying taxes, we have never seen a breakdown which shows payments for drug tests on policia.  A lot of them are known to confiscate drugs and keep them for personal use and it is obvious that many of them use steroids in order to be bigger and stronger than the bad guys…they do not realise that the rage induced by the steroids makes them criminal in the cranium.

Office workers, Walmart workers, garbage truck workers, forklift operators…all of these people are subject to random drug testing…what about the police? The dangerous ones with the guns, pepper spray and lots of buddies to help beat on you.  If you pay a tax, you should demand that police be tested for drugs and, specifically, steroids.  Why would anybody be afraid to do this unless they were terrified of the thugs?

We know that not all police are bad.  Our own grandfather was a typical drunken, irish paddy precinct copper.  He used to beat his wife and kids and they did not even have steroids back then.  The thing is…just pay attention the next time you get pulled over or see somebody else in that unfortunate position.  See if the cop is red in the face.  See if the veins in his neck look ready to pop.  See if you can make him chase you by taking his photo.

They had cops like this in Nazi Germany and also in Russia, back when it was the Soviet Union.  Then, America was too good to allow such shit.  Not anymore.  This weekend, when you are on your way to a fun event and notice the ton of cops on the highway, earning overtime while getting high on confiscated pot, think about the fairness of them NOT being tested regularly.

Spring is Here, With All Good Cheer. Birds Chirp. Frogs Burp.

     Bargainhunters, Runts and Punters,

     If the title of this post sounds familiar to you, it is because it was lifted from a book by the late Bennett Cerf, called Write Me A Poem, Baby.  This was a favourite book from my youth, in which Cerf asked children to write poems and collected them into a book, maybe even a second volume.

     What does that have to do with ratty, old shoes?  What?  Do you think we start these blogs without a solid purpose in mind for each and every one? Of course we don’t!  We write these by the seat of our pants for a few lovely people who look forward to them.  The shoes, by the by, have seen more wildlife than many children who live in the city.  They have been thrown at rabbits, squirrels, dogs and a few other small mammals. 

     Purchased in December of 2002, while picking up a pair of black oxfords to wear to my dad’s funeral, these became my ‘going to the office shoes’ until we were downsized in 2004.  They had an easy life for a year after that, until they were no longer fit for casual wear in public.  At that point, a new pair of dock shoes were purchased and these became the ‘lawnmowing/snowshoveling’ shoes.  They have weathered feet of snow, countless walks through my lawn, which by any definition is not actually a lawn.  At this time, it is mostly pretty, blue violets, as you can see…

     This sort of thing drives my neighbors crazy, as they think lawns should be green and comprised of grass.  We do not have a lawn so much as some grass mixed with violets, strawberries, dandelions and whatever the birds drop there.  The birds come for the flowers, we think.  We also believe that the creator puts those blue flowers there to sooth us and get us through the days of Spring Fever.  We enjoy sitting on the porch and letting our eyes relax to a blur and letting the colours sink in while we listen to the laboured grunts of all the neighbors who are on hands and knees on their lawns, digging and poisoning these little gifts of the season.  These people wear big boots and use noisy equipment in the maintenance of their yards, protecting their tootsies from mower blades, slips from ladders, icy patches and all those thing we ignore while shovelling and mowing barefoot in worn-out dock shoes.  These people have a work costume for each season.  It is the only funny thing about living here.

     The birds do enjoy my yard, as the returning families of robins, bluejays, cardinals and doves attest.  Plants are put in for their benefit, so that they swoop in and expose themselves to my cats, who sit in the window and think about what they would do to them.  This year, we may build a small chicken-wire-and-wood house for the kitties, so they can be outside on nice days.  Up until now, they have had to settle for the fresh catnip which grows out back and is already about eight inches tall, as you can see…

      If you have cats and do not grow catnip for them, shame on you.  You need to be a better pet owner and that is the fact, jack.  It is pleasant to see the catnip up so early and our pals, Inkie and Budderz, are quite happy with the fact.  What does worry us a bit is the early bloom of the lilacs.  We love the smell.  Some are put in a bedroom vase to evoke dream images from Springs Gone By.  It seems that they usually do not bloom until late May or early June but it is time, as you can see…

     That smell sure brings back the memories.  It reminds me of Mother’s Day and the hope of Summer.  The lilacs are nice and we are proud of them, even though they were here when we bought the house.  Prouder still are we of the fern, which we planted along the whole North side of the house and the tendrils of which are just pushing through the soil and reaching to the sky, like so…

     If you were to see the neighborhood the house is situated in, a white trash hell where Nascar is King and the proof is in the trucks parked on the lawns, you might understand why plants and pollen are so important.  Most of these plants upset those boot-people near me, since they cannot cut them to a height of one inch nor be sure all the blades of grass point in the same direction.  Birds appreciate what humans do not.

     As we started this rambling tome with a poem, allow us to end it with a piece of primordial literature, mined from the files and spilled from the skull of a nine-year-old Michael Hendrick, who in the Fifth Grade showed great slyness in using words to waste space in order to avoid being ruler-whipped by a nun who was easily enraged by blank spots on sheets of paper.  This may be one of the earliest works of art by the young Poet, as he learned words were to become his salvation.  Please enjoy ‘Spring’s Charms’.