I hitchhiked from Pompano to the Coral Ridge Cinema to meet my friend Tony and see Alice’s Restaurant. Tony gave me some Seconal; I think I took 4 or 5. We watched the movie and afterwards Tony was going to hitchhike home south. I had to go north, but didn’t want to thumb so I went across the street to the mall to take the bus, but I didn’t have any money left.
I started panhandling, a task Tony taught me, and was immediately presented a dollar bill by an old lady. Wow! Why not keep going?
I kept asking for money and people kept giving it to me. Next thing I knew THE COPS were talking to me and I was in the back of THE COP CAR being driven north.
“What were you doing there?” asked one of THE COPS.
Oh I went to the movies.
“What did you see?”
Alice’s restaurant.
“Are you a draft card burner?”
I’m only 16. I don’t have a draft card yet.
I must have given them my address because we were pulling up at my house. No one was home. I got away with it!
I saw THE COPS pulling out as I went in the front door. And then I saw MY DAD pulling in, saw them having a conversation.
Shit!
He started beating on me as soon as he came in. Threw me into the shower so I had no place to run. Fortunately Seconal has anesthetic properties so I didn’t feel a thing. I remember laughing through the whole beating.
“You can get anything you want…”
Note to National Security Personnel and Stasi Agents: This column is at best a reinterpretation of a childhood memory and is not meant to advocate the use of illegal or illicit chemical substances, smarting off to duly appointed law enforcement authorities, or to vote for anyone not approved by the Trilateral Commission.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Christmas Pageant
I attended the First Baptist Church Christmas Pageant last night. I had been before and wouldn’t have gone again except my sister Gerri asked me and my sister Nancy was going too. We bought the tickets months ago. It wound up being Gerri, Nancy and her husband Joe, Dorine – Gerri’s friend, and Mike and Leslie – Gerri’s friends and neighbors.
Very heterosexual, until you throw me into the mix. I bring out the homo in everyone. Come on…I had gotten a pedicure the day before with French tips and Dorine and I were grabbing at Gerri’s Clinique lipstick before we left the house. My father would be proud to know I drew the line at putting glitter on.
This is the 24th season of the pageant and it’s a big deal in Ft. Lauderdale. The first half of the pageant is usually Christmas carols and the second half is a passion play (not the Jethro Tull kind either). Last time I went the first half was very Gay 90’s in costume and staging. I was happy to see that they had brought it up to date with a kind of rock-a-billy opening. Note to self: I must get a poodle skirt. Would it be too much to wear it out to Ramrod on New Year’s Eve?
In the midst of my musings about the happy members of the congregation building a concentration camp for the likes of me I noticed something happening on stage. They had inter-racial couples doing the dance numbers. Wow! I knew it was an integrated congregation, but this surprised me. I guess they’re not Bob Jones Baptists. Another couple hundred years and they may have men dancing with men.
Anyway, back to the Christ child and the second half of the pageant. The narrator is Simon Peter, but the star of the show is J.C. He starts out as a baby as you probably know and they had a little baby on stage, not to mention shepherds, camels, donkeys, sheep, three kings, their retinues, and about 100 other people dressed in robes. There’s a scene where Joseph (the bible guy, not my brother-in-law) holds baby Jesus up (à la Lion King) and Gerri starts bawling. I think Dorine was bawling too.
Fast forward to the Hosanna scene. J.C. is working the crowd and riding a donkey, and walking through the congregation. My big chance! But my eyesight is not as good as it used to be. I turn to Dorine, “What color are his eyes?” I get the answer I was hoping for. “Blue, I think,” says Dorine, oblivious to my obsession with blue-eyed Jesus, Max Von Sydow, and Mel Gibson.
Speaking of Mel Gibson, they really bloodied Jesus up this year at the pageant. Nancy’s sitting on my right and now she’s crying. She told me later it was because the pageant was so beautiful, but I know it was because she saw Jesus suffering. They’ve got good hearts, my sisters.
Very heterosexual, until you throw me into the mix. I bring out the homo in everyone. Come on…I had gotten a pedicure the day before with French tips and Dorine and I were grabbing at Gerri’s Clinique lipstick before we left the house. My father would be proud to know I drew the line at putting glitter on.
This is the 24th season of the pageant and it’s a big deal in Ft. Lauderdale. The first half of the pageant is usually Christmas carols and the second half is a passion play (not the Jethro Tull kind either). Last time I went the first half was very Gay 90’s in costume and staging. I was happy to see that they had brought it up to date with a kind of rock-a-billy opening. Note to self: I must get a poodle skirt. Would it be too much to wear it out to Ramrod on New Year’s Eve?
In the midst of my musings about the happy members of the congregation building a concentration camp for the likes of me I noticed something happening on stage. They had inter-racial couples doing the dance numbers. Wow! I knew it was an integrated congregation, but this surprised me. I guess they’re not Bob Jones Baptists. Another couple hundred years and they may have men dancing with men.
Anyway, back to the Christ child and the second half of the pageant. The narrator is Simon Peter, but the star of the show is J.C. He starts out as a baby as you probably know and they had a little baby on stage, not to mention shepherds, camels, donkeys, sheep, three kings, their retinues, and about 100 other people dressed in robes. There’s a scene where Joseph (the bible guy, not my brother-in-law) holds baby Jesus up (à la Lion King) and Gerri starts bawling. I think Dorine was bawling too.
Fast forward to the Hosanna scene. J.C. is working the crowd and riding a donkey, and walking through the congregation. My big chance! But my eyesight is not as good as it used to be. I turn to Dorine, “What color are his eyes?” I get the answer I was hoping for. “Blue, I think,” says Dorine, oblivious to my obsession with blue-eyed Jesus, Max Von Sydow, and Mel Gibson.
Speaking of Mel Gibson, they really bloodied Jesus up this year at the pageant. Nancy’s sitting on my right and now she’s crying. She told me later it was because the pageant was so beautiful, but I know it was because she saw Jesus suffering. They’ve got good hearts, my sisters.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
The Difference Between Poetry and Prose
Poetry:
I like it when
A cold day
Makes my dick
Hang lower than my balls.
Prose:
I like it when a cold day makes my dick hang lower than my balls.
Blue-eyed Jesus 2
Blue-eyed Jesus be on your way
Brown-eyed Jesus too.
Don’t need no boss man in my life.
Don’t need no boss man you.
Don’t need no teacher telling me
What to do today
I’m old enough to run my life
And live it my own way.
Don’t need no smart guy Brookings man
Thoughts in disarray
Another college liberal
To tell me what to say.
Don’t need no Falwell preacher man
Showing me the way
To pay for mama’s corporate church
To tell me how to pray.
Just leave me off your fix-it list
Leave me on the brink
Don’t need your damn authority
To tell me how to think.
Brown-eyed Jesus too.
Don’t need no boss man in my life.
Don’t need no boss man you.
Don’t need no teacher telling me
What to do today
I’m old enough to run my life
And live it my own way.
Don’t need no smart guy Brookings man
Thoughts in disarray
Another college liberal
To tell me what to say.
Don’t need no Falwell preacher man
Showing me the way
To pay for mama’s corporate church
To tell me how to pray.
Just leave me off your fix-it list
Leave me on the brink
Don’t need your damn authority
To tell me how to think.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Adieu John Frum
Ok, so I’ve been ragging on John Frum and Vanuatu a bit during November. This is in honor of the 50th anniversary of the establishment of the John Frum Movement. John Frum is a messiah figure in the local cargo cult. Although an apparition of John Frum first appeared to village elders in the 1930’s, the cult was reinforced by the appearance of American troops during WWII and the huge amounts of cargo the Americans brought with them.
One of the original teachings of John Frum was that the natives (or whatever the p.c. term is these days) should trust in their own customs instead of blindly following the ways of the modern world (or whatever the p.c. term is for us). This works for me as long as the local customs don’t include ex-gay ministries, concentration camps, precision bombing, or George W. Bush.
Now many people think that the good people of Vanuatu are a bit backward because they have these funny ideas about ‘cargo.’ For example, since the cargo came on American aircraft during the war, cultists build wooden airport towers and wooden airplanes so as to entice cargo to appear. In the West we call this sympathetic magic. We think it’s quaint or superstitious or silly, but we don’t think we do it.
After all, we would never do anything like that. No, we don’t use wood; we write laws. For example, if the educational system is not working we pass a law and call it No Child Left Behind. This will cause the teachers to teach better, the students to learn better and the politicians to get reelected. Here’s another example: The government does not have enough revenue so we cut taxes (revenue) so that the invisible hand of the market will cause people to buy more, thus increasing the GDP, thus providing the revenue (cargo?) for all of us.
Anyway, we think that the cargo cultists are a bit off the mark. I mean, they think this cargo is sent to them by “the ancestors.” In the modern world we have given up this idea of ancestors providing for us. Instead, we cut taxes, increase spending, have wars that we don’t pay for and we are going to let our descendants pay for it all.
This is a much more rational way to look at things because we’ve got a growing economy, a lot of credit, and Paris Hilton. So what if we’ve also got a growing underclass and declining standards of living and there are only three people left in the U.S. who know who Aldous Huxley is.
Well that’s it for John Frum November at obscurebeat.blogspot.com. I promise to lay off third world messiahs during December. (But Jesus, the Pope, and George W. Bush are still fair game.)
One of the original teachings of John Frum was that the natives (or whatever the p.c. term is these days) should trust in their own customs instead of blindly following the ways of the modern world (or whatever the p.c. term is for us). This works for me as long as the local customs don’t include ex-gay ministries, concentration camps, precision bombing, or George W. Bush.
Now many people think that the good people of Vanuatu are a bit backward because they have these funny ideas about ‘cargo.’ For example, since the cargo came on American aircraft during the war, cultists build wooden airport towers and wooden airplanes so as to entice cargo to appear. In the West we call this sympathetic magic. We think it’s quaint or superstitious or silly, but we don’t think we do it.
After all, we would never do anything like that. No, we don’t use wood; we write laws. For example, if the educational system is not working we pass a law and call it No Child Left Behind. This will cause the teachers to teach better, the students to learn better and the politicians to get reelected. Here’s another example: The government does not have enough revenue so we cut taxes (revenue) so that the invisible hand of the market will cause people to buy more, thus increasing the GDP, thus providing the revenue (cargo?) for all of us.
Anyway, we think that the cargo cultists are a bit off the mark. I mean, they think this cargo is sent to them by “the ancestors.” In the modern world we have given up this idea of ancestors providing for us. Instead, we cut taxes, increase spending, have wars that we don’t pay for and we are going to let our descendants pay for it all.
This is a much more rational way to look at things because we’ve got a growing economy, a lot of credit, and Paris Hilton. So what if we’ve also got a growing underclass and declining standards of living and there are only three people left in the U.S. who know who Aldous Huxley is.
Well that’s it for John Frum November at obscurebeat.blogspot.com. I promise to lay off third world messiahs during December. (But Jesus, the Pope, and George W. Bush are still fair game.)
Thursday, November 22, 2007
I've been informed that the links posted earlier for John Frum and Frank Cristillo did not work. In keeping with Radio Vanuatu's goal of All John Frum, All The Time, I sincerely apologize for the technical difficulties and hope you will take the time to use the links listed below.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Frum
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Costello
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Frum
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Costello
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The John Frum Show!
Opening scene from John Frum’s new sitcom:
John Frum: Honey, I’m home!
Alice Frum (wife): From where?
JF: Frum here!
AF: Don’t give me that Abbott and Costello stuff. Where were you?
JF: Out collecting cargo. I bring you cargo. (Presents wife with a piece of WWII era sheet metal).
AF: Oh John! (Sighs).
JF: One of these days to the Moon Alice!
AF: They’re delivering cargo from NASA now?
John Frum: Honey, I’m home!
Alice Frum (wife): From where?
JF: Frum here!
AF: Don’t give me that Abbott and Costello stuff. Where were you?
JF: Out collecting cargo. I bring you cargo. (Presents wife with a piece of WWII era sheet metal).
AF: Oh John! (Sighs).
JF: One of these days to the Moon Alice!
AF: They’re delivering cargo from NASA now?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
John Frum at Woodstock
Joan Baez did not sing the following at Woodstock:
I dreamed I saw John Frum last night,
Alive as you and me.
Says I "But John, you're kinda dead"
"I never died" said he,
"I never died" said he.
Says I, "A plane ran over you
while walking in a field."
Says John, “You bitch I was in a ditch
Knocked on my ass you see.
Knocked on my ass you see.”
"The Cargo Cult you founded John,
Is 50 years old" says I.
"That’s a lot of stuff you gave to us"
Says John "I didn't lie"
Says John "I didn't lie"
In Tanna, Vanuatu man,
on every landing strip,
where cargo-men pick up the stuff,
it's there you find John Frum,
it's there you find John Frum!
I dreamed I saw John Frum last night,
alive as you and me.
Says I "Hey John, give me some stuff"
"I’m keeping it for me" said he,
"I’m keeping it for me" said he.
I dreamed I saw John Frum last night,
Alive as you and me.
Says I "But John, you're kinda dead"
"I never died" said he,
"I never died" said he.
Says I, "A plane ran over you
while walking in a field."
Says John, “You bitch I was in a ditch
Knocked on my ass you see.
Knocked on my ass you see.”
"The Cargo Cult you founded John,
Is 50 years old" says I.
"That’s a lot of stuff you gave to us"
Says John "I didn't lie"
Says John "I didn't lie"
In Tanna, Vanuatu man,
on every landing strip,
where cargo-men pick up the stuff,
it's there you find John Frum,
it's there you find John Frum!
I dreamed I saw John Frum last night,
alive as you and me.
Says I "Hey John, give me some stuff"
"I’m keeping it for me" said he,
"I’m keeping it for me" said he.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
John Frum
John Frum is the name of the messiah of a cargo cult in Vanuatu in the South Pacific. Some say he was a native of the island of Tanna; others say he was an American. Either way he considered the Jesus Christ of their religion.
I discovered a rare 78 RPM recording of John Frum being interviewed by a Frank Cristillo. I believe from some of the other content on the on the record that it was recorded about 1946 or 1947. The interview provides some evidence to the theory that John Frum was an American from the Midwest. This is my transcription of the interview.
John Frum: Hi, I’m John Frum.
Frank Cristillo: Oh, ok, where you from John?
JF: My name’s John Frum
FC: Yeah? From where?
JF: No, I’m John Frum
FC: From where?
JF: Frum right here.
FC: No, I mean what’s your name?
JF: I am John Frum.
FC: Yeah, but where are you from?
JF: From Bismarck, North Dakota to the Bismarck Archipelago.
For more information on John Frum see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Frum
Information on Frank Cristillo can be found at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Costello
I discovered a rare 78 RPM recording of John Frum being interviewed by a Frank Cristillo. I believe from some of the other content on the on the record that it was recorded about 1946 or 1947. The interview provides some evidence to the theory that John Frum was an American from the Midwest. This is my transcription of the interview.
John Frum: Hi, I’m John Frum.
Frank Cristillo: Oh, ok, where you from John?
JF: My name’s John Frum
FC: Yeah? From where?
JF: No, I’m John Frum
FC: From where?
JF: Frum right here.
FC: No, I mean what’s your name?
JF: I am John Frum.
FC: Yeah, but where are you from?
JF: From Bismarck, North Dakota to the Bismarck Archipelago.
For more information on John Frum see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Frum
Information on Frank Cristillo can be found at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lou_Costello
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Valentine's Babe
Babe, you dropped me
on Valentine’s Day ’04.
You liked what was in my head
or so you said.
You liked what was between my legs
your hips told me that.
You dropped me after dinner
at a gay café
but did you have to do it
on Valentine’s Day?
on Valentine’s Day ’04.
You liked what was in my head
or so you said.
You liked what was between my legs
your hips told me that.
You dropped me after dinner
at a gay café
but did you have to do it
on Valentine’s Day?
Friday, October 26, 2007
From My Travel Journal
Here's a snippet from my travel journal dated May 4, 1989:
…took a bus to Grand Bazaar then wandered through streets to Eminönü – water bus station & took boat up Bosporus to Pashabahce, took bus to Üskuder then ferry to Eminönü – total cost (including glass of tea) 60¢!
…took a bus to Grand Bazaar then wandered through streets to Eminönü – water bus station & took boat up Bosporus to Pashabahce, took bus to Üskuder then ferry to Eminönü – total cost (including glass of tea) 60¢!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Three Haiku
Standing at a wall
face against the brick
dying leaves
Leather couch, hard candy
26th Street traffic
rain clouds
Riptide on the radio
St. Augustine grass
balloons blowing west
face against the brick
dying leaves
Leather couch, hard candy
26th Street traffic
rain clouds
Riptide on the radio
St. Augustine grass
balloons blowing west
Friday, October 5, 2007
Middle-Aged White Guys on the Run!
Middle-aged white guys are being forced out of jobs everywhere as The Ruling Class discovers that they are being paid 2% more than a recent graduate could be paid.
The findings of a study by Barfleigh’s and Associates in Miami, FL indicate, “that while a middle-aged white guy who’s been with a company for 5 years or more may have practical knowledge and experience, they tend not to be able to just follow the orders and dictates of upper management without questioning the premise of the order or dictate.”
Ms. Lourdes Byudimarc, Vice-President for Human Resources of Haatpantz Inc., a local consulting firm adds, “Middle-aged white guys may bring a certain level of continuity to a company that cannot find the procedure manual: It’s easy to stop them in the hallway and ask a question; it’s even kind of fun knowing that with their weak bladders and prostate problems you’re causing a certain delay to them relieving themselves. Uh, where was I, oh yeah, the point is that it’s more profitable to cut costs than to have that kind of knowledge available.”
“It’s a problem of expectations” said Darius Pendejo-Cochnillo, 22 – a recent graduate from an online university. “These old guys want things like health insurance, vacation pay, a lunch room. What do they think this is? Europe?”
Where do middle-aged white guys go after they lose their jobs? “Oh, we don’t worry about that,” remarks Byudimarc, “as long as they don’t try to collect unemployment insurance. That could throw the budget numbers way off!”
The findings of a study by Barfleigh’s and Associates in Miami, FL indicate, “that while a middle-aged white guy who’s been with a company for 5 years or more may have practical knowledge and experience, they tend not to be able to just follow the orders and dictates of upper management without questioning the premise of the order or dictate.”
Ms. Lourdes Byudimarc, Vice-President for Human Resources of Haatpantz Inc., a local consulting firm adds, “Middle-aged white guys may bring a certain level of continuity to a company that cannot find the procedure manual: It’s easy to stop them in the hallway and ask a question; it’s even kind of fun knowing that with their weak bladders and prostate problems you’re causing a certain delay to them relieving themselves. Uh, where was I, oh yeah, the point is that it’s more profitable to cut costs than to have that kind of knowledge available.”
“It’s a problem of expectations” said Darius Pendejo-Cochnillo, 22 – a recent graduate from an online university. “These old guys want things like health insurance, vacation pay, a lunch room. What do they think this is? Europe?”
Where do middle-aged white guys go after they lose their jobs? “Oh, we don’t worry about that,” remarks Byudimarc, “as long as they don’t try to collect unemployment insurance. That could throw the budget numbers way off!”
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Blue-eyed Jesus
Don’t need no blue-eyed Jesus
Don’t need no holy boss
Don’t need no Max Von Sydow
Hanging from a plywood cross.
Keep your protestant Christ
Played by Aryan men who are tall and fair
Blue-eyed, blond hair
Dispensing platitudes of peace
As they hang there
On a perfect King James Version cross.
The Incarnation
Knocked out by a new class of scholars and translators
Making a buck, joining the Writer’s Guild,
Working for Mel Gibson.
Gimme the short little guy
Who worked with his hands and hardly got by
Who discovered that stand-up gig
And got free meals
And hung out with cool guys
And fast chicks,
The guy who got in trouble and didn’t get away with it, but maybe could have.
© R. Scardino
9/27/07
Don’t need no holy boss
Don’t need no Max Von Sydow
Hanging from a plywood cross.
Keep your protestant Christ
Played by Aryan men who are tall and fair
Blue-eyed, blond hair
Dispensing platitudes of peace
As they hang there
On a perfect King James Version cross.
The Incarnation
Knocked out by a new class of scholars and translators
Making a buck, joining the Writer’s Guild,
Working for Mel Gibson.
Gimme the short little guy
Who worked with his hands and hardly got by
Who discovered that stand-up gig
And got free meals
And hung out with cool guys
And fast chicks,
The guy who got in trouble and didn’t get away with it, but maybe could have.
© R. Scardino
9/27/07
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Black Night Full Moon
Two figures running across the road
Black boys in dark clothes seen against the asphalt
Yellow lights casting green-gray shadows.
One runs swift with jeans three quarter ways down his butt
Showing off light blue boxers
Light blue framed by black and blue.
The second eclipsed by the first
A dark star beneath the full moon
Soaking light from light clouds on a humid night.
The two absorbing my attention
Like runners on a Greek vase
Not Keats’s urn, but legs all legs crisscrossing
A moment in time
With urgency to run
To be free
Not caring about traffic
Not defiant with a slow walk staring through the windshield
But joyful proud in speed.
© R. Scardino, 1/3/07
Black boys in dark clothes seen against the asphalt
Yellow lights casting green-gray shadows.
One runs swift with jeans three quarter ways down his butt
Showing off light blue boxers
Light blue framed by black and blue.
The second eclipsed by the first
A dark star beneath the full moon
Soaking light from light clouds on a humid night.
The two absorbing my attention
Like runners on a Greek vase
Not Keats’s urn, but legs all legs crisscrossing
A moment in time
With urgency to run
To be free
Not caring about traffic
Not defiant with a slow walk staring through the windshield
But joyful proud in speed.
© R. Scardino, 1/3/07
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Dubya Khan
(With Apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
In old Iraq did George and Dick
a great democracy decree,
where Tigris and Euphrates flow
through oilfields of proven reserve
down to the Persian Sea.
With presidential palaces there for play
for the pleasure of Saddam and Uday,
past muddy ground and ruin’d towns
past Badhdad to the sea.
Past torture chambers bright with light
and sleepless nights, perhaps a knife
and sensory deprivation, cold, and dark
and water-boarding for a lark.
With pyramids of naked men
Abu Ghraib is in the ken
of newsies 'round the world who see
futility and maybe more:
Democracy is the great cure,
said Dubya happily by the shore of
anyplace with oil galore
to power the humvee of legend’ry lore.
The war goes well, said Dick the demon lover
of this “crusade.”
Oh wait, that’s probably not the word
I want to use, but nothing Dick will say
Will fit the rhyme scheme anyway.
There was a General with a howitzer:
There is a way to make things right,
A surge will make them leave or fight,
A hundred thousand men will do
Don’t forget the women too.
We’ll kick some butt and after that
Tell the congress where it’s at,
We got it right this time for sure
Just keep the funding source secure!
“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!”
This war ain’t going anywhere
we’re winding down because because
we’re running out of troops to toss
into the maelstrom of Iraq
and getting ready for Iran.
© R. Scardino, 9/15/07
In old Iraq did George and Dick
a great democracy decree,
where Tigris and Euphrates flow
through oilfields of proven reserve
down to the Persian Sea.
With presidential palaces there for play
for the pleasure of Saddam and Uday,
past muddy ground and ruin’d towns
past Badhdad to the sea.
Past torture chambers bright with light
and sleepless nights, perhaps a knife
and sensory deprivation, cold, and dark
and water-boarding for a lark.
With pyramids of naked men
Abu Ghraib is in the ken
of newsies 'round the world who see
futility and maybe more:
Democracy is the great cure,
said Dubya happily by the shore of
anyplace with oil galore
to power the humvee of legend’ry lore.
The war goes well, said Dick the demon lover
of this “crusade.”
Oh wait, that’s probably not the word
I want to use, but nothing Dick will say
Will fit the rhyme scheme anyway.
There was a General with a howitzer:
There is a way to make things right,
A surge will make them leave or fight,
A hundred thousand men will do
Don’t forget the women too.
We’ll kick some butt and after that
Tell the congress where it’s at,
We got it right this time for sure
Just keep the funding source secure!
“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!”
This war ain’t going anywhere
we’re winding down because because
we’re running out of troops to toss
into the maelstrom of Iraq
and getting ready for Iran.
© R. Scardino, 9/15/07
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Senator Craig
Senator Craig. What can I say? I did NOT have tea room sex with him. Now, I'm kinda thinking he ain't too bad looking. (I think I need a date.)
The oldest guy I ever had sex with was about 70. I was maybe 27 or 28 and was in a bathhouse just minding my own business walking down the hall. This old guy with white hair and lots of freckles comes out of his room and says, "you've got to help me out. I'm real hot right now." In other words he was close to coming. I decided to give him a hand (a tongue actually) and he got off in like 3 seconds. I thought of it as my good deed for the century and also that if I did him when I was cute and in my 20's then when I was in my 70s a cute young guy would get me off. Talk about magical thinking.
There's a scene in Taxi Zum Klo where Frank, a teacher and consummate tea room queen, shares his hope that his pension will be large enough so that he will be able to afford a boy* prostitute occasionally. I think I'll set my goals a bit higher.
* Note to National Security Personnel and Stasi Agents: The word 'boy' here means 18 to about 22 years old. This is my interpretation of the sub-title 26 years after I saw the film.
The oldest guy I ever had sex with was about 70. I was maybe 27 or 28 and was in a bathhouse just minding my own business walking down the hall. This old guy with white hair and lots of freckles comes out of his room and says, "you've got to help me out. I'm real hot right now." In other words he was close to coming. I decided to give him a hand (a tongue actually) and he got off in like 3 seconds. I thought of it as my good deed for the century and also that if I did him when I was cute and in my 20's then when I was in my 70s a cute young guy would get me off. Talk about magical thinking.
There's a scene in Taxi Zum Klo where Frank, a teacher and consummate tea room queen, shares his hope that his pension will be large enough so that he will be able to afford a boy* prostitute occasionally. I think I'll set my goals a bit higher.
* Note to National Security Personnel and Stasi Agents: The word 'boy' here means 18 to about 22 years old. This is my interpretation of the sub-title 26 years after I saw the film.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Shades of 7 Eleven
Out of the sun and into the shade I park by the 7 eleven
Out of the shade and into the sun I walk to the store and enter
I get my bottle of water.
In line
A delay at the register
The cashier:
Big hair
Blue eye shadow
Blue contact lenses
Looking down looking down
Perhaps new, perhaps shy, painfully shy.
After each sale she looks into the customer’s eyes and smiles
Direct contact if you want it.
Some ignore her
Some do not.
My turn.
I take off my shades to pay the bill
And receive the gift of her humanity
Then out into the sun.
© R. Scardino
Out of the shade and into the sun I walk to the store and enter
I get my bottle of water.
In line
A delay at the register
The cashier:
Big hair
Blue eye shadow
Blue contact lenses
Looking down looking down
Perhaps new, perhaps shy, painfully shy.
After each sale she looks into the customer’s eyes and smiles
Direct contact if you want it.
Some ignore her
Some do not.
My turn.
I take off my shades to pay the bill
And receive the gift of her humanity
Then out into the sun.
© R. Scardino
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Bladder Blather
Whale bones on the ocean floor
covered by the dust of a million billion plankton,
a scene of desolation so vast, but only seen up close.
Near it’s clear, dark, calm.
In that clear, dark, calm, a fin covered eye
looking down and beyond any feeling of safety
spies a life in ruins,
a tiny speck amid the cosmic dust.
A voice calls out from the bladder of a starfish,
muffled by the hardened skin that keeps it in:
It’s good enough to be alive alone
Or dead upon the throne in life’s own realm.
What is and isn’t comes and goes in swells
The manic lover wearing naught but bells.
covered by the dust of a million billion plankton,
a scene of desolation so vast, but only seen up close.
Near it’s clear, dark, calm.
In that clear, dark, calm, a fin covered eye
looking down and beyond any feeling of safety
spies a life in ruins,
a tiny speck amid the cosmic dust.
A voice calls out from the bladder of a starfish,
muffled by the hardened skin that keeps it in:
It’s good enough to be alive alone
Or dead upon the throne in life’s own realm.
What is and isn’t comes and goes in swells
The manic lover wearing naught but bells.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Put Down, Beat Down, & Shit Upon, Part 2
We’re put down, beat down, and shit upon
And then we leave our childhood home
A sad sad planet to roam
Where we find folks to make us feel again at home:
Put down, beat down, and shit upon.
If we get real good we learn to live alone
Where we put down, beat down, and shit upon ourselves.
I rise up, lift up, my heart, my soul, my inner core and my coil spring mattress too.
In this moment I:
Eye myself into seeing my beauty
Ear myself into hearing the good about me
Sniff the aroma of my humanity
Taste the cheese grits and eggs of a life out the bounds of other folk’s strictures
Feel you touch me with your own humanity as we create our own scripture
The gospel according to my own freedom, salvation from gin and life everlasting
At least ‘til I cum.
R. Scardino 3/2/07 after I was called in to work on my day off.
And then we leave our childhood home
A sad sad planet to roam
Where we find folks to make us feel again at home:
Put down, beat down, and shit upon.
If we get real good we learn to live alone
Where we put down, beat down, and shit upon ourselves.
I rise up, lift up, my heart, my soul, my inner core and my coil spring mattress too.
In this moment I:
Eye myself into seeing my beauty
Ear myself into hearing the good about me
Sniff the aroma of my humanity
Taste the cheese grits and eggs of a life out the bounds of other folk’s strictures
Feel you touch me with your own humanity as we create our own scripture
The gospel according to my own freedom, salvation from gin and life everlasting
At least ‘til I cum.
R. Scardino 3/2/07 after I was called in to work on my day off.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Mind Kampf
They already built the camps in your mind
Lines of buildings saying “you’re no good.”
The kind of huts that let you know:
Only those who follow what they say are allowed
to stay in the realm of those allowed to speak.
The camps went up in the new year
Surrounded by the barbed wire of not belonging
To the right sect of believing the right way
Of voting the right way
Of sacrificing your sons and daughters without murmur
In the right war at the right time.
The time is now to free yourself from the illusion
That building democracy in a sandstorm
Will make you safe as you watch Wolf Blitzer
And your children make Kool-Aid
And your dog digs a hole under the electronic
Zone that surrounds the mind control box
Called the TV set.
Sunday morning is the best time to drop
The Zyklon B into the hole that leads straight
To the heart of the matter:
Being queer
Not using deodorant
Being black
Not able to get a pardon
Being disposable
Not having enough money
Or the right connections
Or the education
Or the right election
To get into college
To move to the suburbs
To get a job
To pull the strings.
So there’s the pipe
And you know it’s not the answer.
So you go back to the camp
And you go to your hut
And you hope that the fleas and the stink
Keep the guards out
While you think your way through,
Think how to get out.
R. Scardino
12/21/06
Lines of buildings saying “you’re no good.”
The kind of huts that let you know:
Only those who follow what they say are allowed
to stay in the realm of those allowed to speak.
The camps went up in the new year
Surrounded by the barbed wire of not belonging
To the right sect of believing the right way
Of voting the right way
Of sacrificing your sons and daughters without murmur
In the right war at the right time.
The time is now to free yourself from the illusion
That building democracy in a sandstorm
Will make you safe as you watch Wolf Blitzer
And your children make Kool-Aid
And your dog digs a hole under the electronic
Zone that surrounds the mind control box
Called the TV set.
Sunday morning is the best time to drop
The Zyklon B into the hole that leads straight
To the heart of the matter:
Being queer
Not using deodorant
Being black
Not able to get a pardon
Being disposable
Not having enough money
Or the right connections
Or the education
Or the right election
To get into college
To move to the suburbs
To get a job
To pull the strings.
So there’s the pipe
And you know it’s not the answer.
So you go back to the camp
And you go to your hut
And you hope that the fleas and the stink
Keep the guards out
While you think your way through,
Think how to get out.
R. Scardino
12/21/06
Prinsengracht
Shall I say dear kitty when I walk through the house
Of someone who went into hiding when she was just a girl
And died when she was not yet a woman?
Shall I say dear kitty when a 5 year old is killed
Playing with her dolls in the front yard and
Police are looking for a light-skinned man with dreads?
Shall I say dear kitty when the pan-African Diaspora
Is drowned with the son of God in the Florida strait?
Where is my mother who died before her time
Consumed in bitterness and bewildered by her fate?
Where is the sweet innocent in the
Chicken-head who is trying to get the next rock?
Why do we waste the lives and talent of women
Who can’t afford to live behind a gate
And crush the spark from those closed behind the veil
Of ignorance and hate?
On her last birthday the old woman said
From her nursing home bed
Dear kitty.
R. Scardino 7/3/06
Of someone who went into hiding when she was just a girl
And died when she was not yet a woman?
Shall I say dear kitty when a 5 year old is killed
Playing with her dolls in the front yard and
Police are looking for a light-skinned man with dreads?
Shall I say dear kitty when the pan-African Diaspora
Is drowned with the son of God in the Florida strait?
Where is my mother who died before her time
Consumed in bitterness and bewildered by her fate?
Where is the sweet innocent in the
Chicken-head who is trying to get the next rock?
Why do we waste the lives and talent of women
Who can’t afford to live behind a gate
And crush the spark from those closed behind the veil
Of ignorance and hate?
On her last birthday the old woman said
From her nursing home bed
Dear kitty.
R. Scardino 7/3/06
Let It Ring Twice
“Let it ring twice,” my mother always said
While waiting news of someone newly dead.
I wonder if she learned this from her mom
A ploy when she was beautiful and young,
A scam so boys would think she didn’t care
So they’d feel snubbed and then their love declare?
Were phone lines so bad when she was 14
She the eager one waiting for a ring
And didn’t want to lose that call again?
She met my future father at a dance
He called her on the phone at every chance
A score and six years later did they part
He left her dangling on the wire of his heart
Rejoined in death, a single grave apart.
R. Scardino 4/1/07
While waiting news of someone newly dead.
I wonder if she learned this from her mom
A ploy when she was beautiful and young,
A scam so boys would think she didn’t care
So they’d feel snubbed and then their love declare?
Were phone lines so bad when she was 14
She the eager one waiting for a ring
And didn’t want to lose that call again?
She met my future father at a dance
He called her on the phone at every chance
A score and six years later did they part
He left her dangling on the wire of his heart
Rejoined in death, a single grave apart.
R. Scardino 4/1/07
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)