Posted 11:38 PM by sport

Yeah, yeah, I missed last night. I was up until almost 5 am making a dvd compilation of unusual - you guessed it - CHRISTMAS clips. Tonignt? House cleaning. All shagged. Anyway, the real 12 days of Christmas are supposed to start on Dec 25.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Dad. I'll lift my Xmas Eve whiskey to the memory of lifting 'em with you.

Posted 10:17 PM by sport

Actually had to spend time in a mall today... always odious. Kid's toys. Ate this Arthur Treacher fish that was both artless and treacherous; it turned immediately into bowel-churning greased feces and if that description sounds disgusting, try visiting a Long Island mall on Xmas week.



The large pop-art cock was one of numerous artworks lending rare grace to the concern. Now the place is bereft of these li'l islands of greenery and sculpture; the promenades are instead dotted with krap kiosks and snack counters. Soft pretzels covered with brown sugar and toffee goop to eat while purchasing battery-operated trick dog toys that disintegrate on the way home.

When I worked in Sam Goody records, the disco era was in full flower. I was forever trying to play Tom Waits in-store before the boss took it off and put something awful on the stereo. During the holiday shopping season, one of the albums in heavy rotation was the unimaginably rotten, utterly unendurable Salsoul Orchestra "Christmas Jollies." The cover is shown below, along with the original, peek-a-boo ass pic of the Salsoul girl, which the crack design team at Salsoul records bowdlerized for the Christmas album. That same craft and taste informs the music as well, an incessant boomboom disco beat throbbing without variation under the comfort-and-joyless mynah bird chorus disemboweling seasonal favorites sacred and secular.

Posted 11:02 PM by sport

Here's my first extant Santa picture. Mom has dressed me in festive raiment, with suspenders (or "braces" to those of you in the UK, or "galluses" to those of you in the early 19th century) and a seasonal red-n-gold shirt. This picture differs from the subsequent ones in a few details: the throne of Ol' Saint Nick is here a white, betasseled number with stripes and spires. The background wall is neutral. The giveaway booklet - these usually featured coloring pages and cartoon tales of happy children in Santaland - clearly identifies the site as Abraham and Straus department store. Downtown Brooklyn. How dearly I recall the splendor of these stores in Christmastime... huge trees gleaming with lights, glass ornaments and tinsel. The banks of elevators manned by old men who always made gentle remarks to a young boy overwhelmed by the spectacle about and the prospect of meeting HIM.

You'd walk though the herding corridors, deftly done up in paint and glitter to illustrate that year's theme (reflected, of course, in the booklet)... Children of many lands celebrate the holidays... Jimmy and Sally visit the North Pole... Rudolph and friends welcome you... eventually arriving at the "big chair" ...not the one Tears For Fears later referred to. Now, this time I seem a bit tentative. Who could blame me, sitting on the lap of this bug-eyed menace? I dig the beard; it's a quality item with a golden tinge to provide veritas and contrast with the white trim on his outfit. Wonder what I asked him for? More to come on this absorbing topic.

Posted 10:21 PM by sport

Well, I decided to do this every-night blog thing, for Christmas. The attempt to keep up with this and the attempt to make Christmas festive here are both acts of will; I'm not especially inspired to do this, and Christmas nowadays is heavily laden with sorrows, obviously. Still: I am alive and I have a family to nurture and be nurtured by, so acts of will... acts of defiance toward the grim realities of living... are important.

I just got a little ways into a screed and deleted it all.

Right now my Mom is in very bad health... dying, to be blunt. I'm really weary. REALLY weary and sad. So fuck screeds and onward with the little acts of defiant will. For '08 I have a trip to France to look forward to. I hope my little circle of French compatriots... friends, fans and fellow artists... help me enjoy a little vindication for all this futile work I've done with music. Between that and this snail's-pace album we've been making, maybe it'll get a shot in the arm and feel like it means something again. Or maybe these'll be sweet notes on which to conclude the whole tortuous venture. Either one's cool with me.

And I have this little gig at the NY Post, thanks be to Guzman. You know, telling people I write articles about musicians is infinitely preferable to telling them I'm a musician. The latter means "published" which means "money"which means respect. The former means "loser" and people love reminding you of that. So yeah, bring on a year of Sunday articles. And if a few folks in Paris applaud a set of my greatest misses, that will sustain me.

And of course, there's my wife and kids. I hope for a good year for us, and for a nice holiday season to lead us onward. And for you, my friends, I hope for wonders untold, successes grand, and radiant health. Merry Christmas, anyway, is my point. More nostalgic/stoopid Christmas posts to come.

Posted 11:16 PM by sport

Posted 10:35 PM by sport

Posted 11:01 PM by sport

One day back in the 60s I opened up a comic book and saw that ad. >

Look at that!!! DR EVIL! His BRAIN was exposed! He defeated his enemies using a "thought-sensor" shaped like a fuckin' EYEBALL!

Soon, on a visit to Sears, I saw the actual figure behind the toy counter. Words cannot convey the covetous frenzy this inspired. See, previously I had to invent villains for my Captain Action doll to do battle with, using GI Joe dolls. It worked OK, but it was kind of pedestrian. THIS was the very thing. DR EVIL! (Wonder if Mike Myers had one as a kid)

Captain Action was a great toy, shown here in the essential source, the Sears "Wish Book". He was an action figure that could transform into any number of comicbook faves from Marvel, DC, and other characters like the Lone Ranger and Tarzan. Not only did the staid GI Joe make for an unsatisfying rival, but there was this aesthetic disconnect; I had this thing about mixing action figures... GI Joe was a world unto itself, as were the various Marx figures.

Though they all worked well scale-wise, it just seemed wrong to get the various worlds of Marx cowboys, Hasbro soldiers and Ideal superheroes all mashed up suchlike.



Now, the ZEROIDS were another matter. These battery operated robots were scaled smaller than the other11 or 12 inch figures. These were the perfect scale for combining with MAJOR MATT MASON, a rubber bendable astronaut made by Mattel. Somehow I had no problem mixing Matt and the Zeroids. And eventually, the greatest thrill of all, Colorforms' Men From Space would join the fray, but that's another whole entry.


Incidentally, look at the BATMAN play set there below the Capt Action ad. Another great set, and nowadays a VERY costly item- if you can find one- on Ebay. Had it. Oh yeah.


So you can imagine the cluster of competing hopes: will I get ZEROIDS? The new GI Joe "Soldiers of the World" figures? And ...heart be still... DR EVIL himself? Fevered prayers.


Here we are, me and Pete, me beaming over my new ZEROID robot and Pete a bit distressed that he got Rudy the Robot instead of his own Zeroid. Age-appropriateness and all. A glance around the room confirms that this was a GREAT take for Christmas morn: Behind us is the STRANGE CHANGE machine, into which you'd plunk these little square plastic wafers and watch as they bloomed into the coolest little aliens, bugs, dinosaurs, etc. Killer toy.

Peeking out right behind my ass is the head of a Marx Toys RAT PATROL figure, part of a cool set based on some tv show I never watched. I think I see a Troll House in front of Strange Change, which was probably Pete's. I have one of those now. You need one. Ya never know.

Of course, to my right (well, my left, but right as you observe the scene) is an open box of small accessories. Oh yeah...


At the very bottom of the box is a little object, which on closer inspection looks like it might just be... naw... is it possible?

That little object looks like it might just be a THOUGHT-SENSOR!!!!


That can mean only ONE THING!

Let's roll back time (Christ, if only...) for a few minutes and relive the sacred moment... YEAH!!


BEHOLD: DR. EVIL! Mint in package! But not for long!

Mom, knowing all too well for months already how desperately I needed this toy made sure the camera was on me at the magic moment.

My fucking TONGUE is hanging out.

Dig the GI JOE Soldier of the World behind me! And some kind of train set or something!

But it was Dr Evil. That was the one. I STILL have him.


And for now, I still have Mom. And I wish I still had Pete. Oh for one more moment with all of them.

Posted 10:00 PM by sport

Yule Blog... 12 days of Sport Spiel, or bust.

Here's yer basic. Unalloyed bliss on the festive morn, at 606 17th St, Brooklyn. This is the place of my soul.

The tinsel on the tree is that great old lead stuff they banned a few years later. Seems some dumb kids used to chew on it!

Ahem. Lead poisoning... it might explain a lot. When they banned the lead icicles I had to resort to gnawing on the "Lead Pipe" from the game CLUE. It was actually made of lead! Not for long. Soon that was gone, too. F'ing safety nazis! Bummer.

Then I found that roll of solder in Dad's tool box. Mmmm!

Haven't chewed lead in years.


Well, a few years ago I began collecting packages of the old lead icicles on Ebay and antique stores. Sure, I dipped a little. Still great.

Posted 10:50 PM by sport

A good a time as any to rejoin the living world. Thanks, friends, for comments and support. Those of you who didn't know about Brian or who had no idea what to do or say, forget it; I'm not keeping a fucking tally, and I've often found myself in the same predicament.

The good news is that I will be playing a show in Paris, by kind invitation, on March First. I have not even played New York in ages, of course, but my reasoning is: if I play a shit gig in NY, after it's over I'm just HERE. If I play a shit gig there, after it's over, I'm in PARIS.

Good sense, you'll agree.

Posted 6:45 PM by sport

The wake for my brother Brian will take place at Moloney's Lake funeral home in Lake Ronkonkoma NY, 132 Ronkonkoma Ave on Tuesday, between 2pm and 4pm and again at 7pm through 9pm. Phone number there is 631 588 1515.

The Funeral will be on Wednesday at St Joseph's Church in Ronkonkoma, followed by burial at Green-Wood cemetery in Brooklyn. Please direct any other questions to Moloney's funeral home.

Thanks to those who have already sent condolences, and thanks in advance to anyone who plans to. Please understand that we are all in very fragile states and might not respond immediately, but your thoughts are deeply appreciated.

We will gather on Thursday to observe our last Thanksgiving meal at our home. I can't write about this any more for now. My love to you all.

Posted 2:17 AM by sport

They're all dead, except for me and Mom. At 275 Iroquois, left to right, Bobby, Brian, Seamus, Helen Rose, Me and Uncle Patty.

Posted 2:08 AM by sport

Bobby on the left, me in the middle, Brian on the right (some Tobin kid behind me). Before the drug culture. Bobby would be about 57 now. He died slowly from AIDS. Brian was 58. He died slowly from heartbreak. I'm still alive.

Posted 10:32 PM by sport

MY BROTHER BRIAN.

I went to see him today and found him dead on the floor. I'm in a state of shock, I guess. Those of you who knew him and me know what we meant to each other. Those of you who pray are welcome to do so; I don't believe in it, but it's harmless at least. I don't know yet what plans will be made, but you can contact me through the usual means and I'll let you know what's happening.

For now, I can only say I miss my big brother. My kids will miss Uncle Brian. I'll write something about him when it's possible to do so.

Posted 11:48 AM by sport

First let's choose an image from the infinite choices of great Art. Hooray, here's a corker! Mermaids on seacoast, greeting a big wave full of unicorns. It's beauty itself, and evocative of many wonderful dreams.

Why did I choose this? No, not me. It was there on the page from which I took this whole interesting series of "how-to"!!! Maybe I would pick a girl I personally know, and maybe an artwork I like a lot, like "Praying Hands" or "Guernica" but this one is lovely anyway.

OK hold on tight because now the fun really starts. Use "selectopic" function parameter to isolate wanted picture part... in our case, the cute as a button girl.


See the dots around her. This is the sign of great potential success in that the selected part is the girl the whole girl and nothing but the girl.

This can be tricky, but don't worry. With practice, you can master the technique and not have what they call the "artifacts"stuck on her like bad growths, and in this way ensure perfect "contour enclosure" of the girl - or, of course, your own preferred image-part in your own project! Remember, have FUN with this! We are only giving examples for your practice. In the future your only limits are the limits of your own imagination!


Now is when fun really sets in for real. Because now you "drag and drop" your carefully selected girl-image into the Art. No, we're not "there" yet, but it is beginning to come to life!!



LOOK! You can move her around and pick the perfect position for your "inset" image, in this case that cute girl. I forgot to tell you about the different parts in headlines the way I started, but we're very well into it now, so it's no use going back and fixing it. But I'll make sure to remember from now on.

Notice though that now it looks very "amateurish" like you just stuck her there, boom.
In the olden times this was "good enough" but that's not even how it is no more.

You want to make things get better and now you can, so why not? NO reason!

PART 5: MAKING THINGS GET BETTER AS YOU DO THIS THING.


Use "Transparadjust" knobs on your console to bring the cute as a bug in rug girl in and out of transparency visual contrast to set a "natural" value-tone to the new combination YOU are creating.

Remember the color harmonization tutorial and adhere to suggestions of complementary realism. Never forget, this is where the magic happens!

Don't get lazy... we are almost "home!"

NOW is when fun absolutely overtakes everything like a huge blanket of joy. You are sweating a little, maybe. This is no coincidence. That's how you should feel, always, but surely now, as you

"zero in" on the desired effect. Carefully manipulate the "detail contiguity tool." Make sure the relative transparency/opacity contact points jibe with all desired rightness.

In our example, unicorn horns should maintain a solidity and suggestion of physical mass foregrounding our cuter than anything girl, keeping the majesty of their crashing-wave approach fully in mind.

But recall that she needs to be more solid in front of things like background horizon and night sky! If not, why not? Go for it! This is the important part, but also the most fun and rewarding!

Now is when the fun becomes...
Oh wait... headlines... plus,
I meant to headline the previous step:
PART 6: HOW TO ZERO IN ON DESIRED EFFECT
This one coming up now is:
PART 7: SETTING YOUR NEW PHOTO COLLAGE INTO PERMANENCY!

Posted 1:45 AM by sport

My friend Donna Jacobs was killed in a motorcycle accident 2 nights ago. I found out yesterday and I'm still stunned.

Over the 20-plus years that I knew her, Donna remained perhaps the most bullshit-free person I knew. She spoke her mind with candor, but never with arrogance; she came on tough, and it was no act, but neither was her kindness or her sensitivity. Throughout the comings and goings of the various other friendships, romantic relationships, work and social situations that intersected our lives, we remained close despite having apparently little in common. The reason was simply that we enjoyed each other's company and had some kind of trust... an unforced, unguarded mutual respect that was occasionally contentious, but always with humor and always loving.

I believe she considered me a source of support and optimism (believe it or not) during some of her sadder times. I can say without qualification that in her I found a true friend, one who told me straight out when I fucked up, but gave a damn about why ...and how I'd unfuck back down. Donna was there with hugs when I lost loved ones, and there with more when the kids came along. And afterwards, and in-between. This seems like a given, but I've learned how rare it can be.

I don't want to write this entry, having decided to mainly treat the blog as a repository for silly bullshit and leave the highs and lows of life to those few who actually sit with me and talk about such things. But one of those precious people is gone and a brief toast is due.

I love you, Donna. Thank you and goodbye, dear friend.

Posted 2:18 AM by sport

The book created a brief stir as Key explained his theory on the Mike Douglas Show and other portals to enlightenment, and I for one spent a few months searching through mags with a magnifying glass in search of such erotic easter eggs; it was like "Where's Waldo" for the nascent deviate. They sure had my number.

I am not sure now that most of the pictures were ever really there, and chalk it up to the kind of creative woolgathering one does while gazing at clouds.

However, there's no doubt that sex is a big part of advertising, and no ad campaign exploited the carnal come-on better or more blatantly than Newport cigarettes' "Alive With Pleasure" series, begun in the mid-70s and, I think, still active in some diluted form (Given the pariah status of smokes in our health-minded era, they seem to have gone the minimalist route, paring down the already scant copy like huckster Samuel Becketts: my local gas station has a big metal sign in the familiar Newport font and colors, proclaiming either "Alive!" or "Pleasure!" ... I forget which).

Most cigarette firms pitched their wares with lifestyle images of classiness, virility, youth, and even political empowerment (Virginia Slims, the liberated woman's very own cancer stick), but Newport went directly for the crotch with stunning audacity. For someone attuned to the hidden image scare, Alive With Pleasure's unapologetic randiness was a reliable hoot. The ads appeared in mags ranging from Playboy to People to National Lampoon, and for maybe 15 years I'd eagerly seek out the familiar full-page ad to see what smut they cooked up this time.

I collected them, in fact, and here are a few for you.
(Well, I didn't collect 'em really... or "per se", to you pretentious types... I just remembered this crap and looked thru my archive of old mags)

As I locate some of my misplaced favorites, I'll add update entries, but for starters...

We begin with a less overt image, only to guide you gently into what will soon become a sucking maelstrom of sleaze. It nicely introduces the fundamental components of "AWP!" Note the young couple having outdoor fun. Note the Pet Sounds type and the vivid green (for the lights, yellow was used, and for some misbegotten non-menthol version, red, but this green is The Green).

Several other features will become familiar: the jizzmic splashes of water (or snow, in others, or even dripping white fringe on garments and cloth accessories)... the wide-eyed, wide mouth look of ecstasy on the gal - often on the guy as well - and the unorthodox handling of an inanimate object, in this case a raft. Or IS IT just a raft? Here it is both yoni and lingam... she "alive" with the "pleasure" of coitus to the degree that her entire body is obscured... nay, overtaken by that one very special part. Brought to the fulfillment of erotic joy, she is "all 'gine" at last. He, grunting amidst the spuming sploosh of love's labors' won, carries his overinflated vehicle of lust like a man both burdened and suddenly, overwhelmingly free. Muscles tensed and eyes squeezed shut, he, also, is "all peen." The two-tone raft suggests this duo-genital conceit; in this ad, Newport artistically illustrates the vaunted ideal of man/woman physical communion: they've become as one in 'gasm.

While we wind down this particular pictorial appreciation with a post-schtup cig, note also the catchphrase: "After all, if smoking isn't a pleasure, why bother." So casual! Why bother? Maybe 'cause I'm a HOPELESS FUCKING ADDICT, you bastards!







Dig this one, perverts! >>>>>

What can I possibly say? She's letting the hose discharge well clear of her mouth, the crafty vixen, but the blonde boy ain't complaining. After all, with that kung fu grip and the gentle application of teeth to her task, this gal ain't skimping on the technique.

Also observe the little array of Newport packs below the main image, all up 'n' at 'em like a mob of happy voyeurs.









Turnabout is fair play.

Eat that "pie", you rascal you! She raises her arm, victorious, now that she's found one hungry hunk adept at gobblin' the sweet treat to full complete (the guy to the right of them has a forlorn handful of drippy leavins; methinks he gave up early).


But Prince Charming didn't disappoint his lady fair. He's just come up for air with a look of "what a good boy am I" ...and how, brother!



But get a lungful quick... by the look of her hand pressing on your head, I think you're going down for seconds!



I feel like a porno Pete Smith.



Bear in mind that the human psyche is a sophisticated, mysterious, complex and filthy thing. Advertisers know that by using certain "cues" they can inspire a circus of pornographic excesses in a reader's head. Let me show you a few Newport ads, and then clarify the intent by my own demystifying re-arrangements of the already hubba-hubba contents.

I'd do anything for you, friends.

Now, my detail work only represents one interpretation... on aspect of the fuck-jolly madness implicit in these images. How about this, though?


Sure, but consider:







Nannng! Naannnnggg!!!
I mean, it's there, if we have but eyes to see.













Brokeback mountin' anyone? Howdy, pardner!















Boing!!!!





Kinda surreal, eh?

Sur-real it scares me!
How's that for getting "a little head?"
Ha ha ha!

puff puff... man I dig these menthols.

If you think I'm way out of line, check the position of the mandatory pack-o-smokes below the main photo. It says what I said, but ...like... subliminally.

And don't miss the slogan in this ad. Just so you don't waste a drop of my incredible wit. HA HA HA!!! What a cut-up!





Maybe I'm getting a little too into this...

...but after all, if creating a saucy blog entry isn't a pleasure, why bother?

Posted 12:24 AM by sport

Some cogitations inspired by an entry in my buddy Don's excellent blog "Isn't Life Terrible" in which he notes a few things that rankle his ass.

"Not for nothing, but..." A phrase that has maddened me for years. The grammatical logic of it eludes me; it should mean "the following is being said for a good reason..." so why the "but?" I've often tried to break it down to explain its popularity... its "pop-necessity" or at least some credible theory as to its origin. For instance, there's this annoying "That's what I'M talking about!" The pop necessity here is a desire to sound like a confident jock. It's "I like this (car/song/member of the opposite sex/bar-b-q/etc.)" with an added air of playful arrogance culturally associated with "regular guys." These days, such catchphrases do well when they evoke the swagger of hiphop or cowboy hat bellicosity; they get old faster than you can say "bling" but that's part of the point of those things.

A great many people seem to relish the opportunity to groan in mock horror at the reminder of some personal fashion folly of yore: take the recent hubbub about mullets. I suspect that people wore these 'dos solely to wince at the memory of having done so; it's some kind of collective, long-term self-effacement ritual. Some guy who wore matching acid-washed jeans and jackets in 1986 even while delightedly noting how dweeby he looked in a leisure suited wedding photo from 10 years earlier now looks at an old vacation snap of himself in that acid-washed ensemble and "oh brothers" that same "oh brother, what was I thinking?"

Maybe you were thinking of this moment, o brother; you were anticipating another go at the ritual. This eventual opportunity to demonstrate that your taste has advanced since those silly days of yore but that, after all, you were one of the many and therefore not really so dorky after all. It's harmless enough, like the bogus "spontaneity" of wedding schtick: "Oh man, they shmushed cake on each other's faces... haha the best man is insulting the groom during the toast..." sanctioned, codified irreverence that points up the (real or imagined) warm camaraderie of the occasion.

But anyway, "Not for nothing, but..."
The gist of this cliche is actually: "I'm gonna put in my two cents here... it may sound mildly controversial, but is essentially the truth. It is the kind of commonsense observation I pride myself on having the chutzpah to state outright. You may or may not have thought of it and said nothing, but by gum I thought of it and here I am saying it. You are expected to agree, as it is inarguably factual and worth noting as such."

It's a fanfare that announces the variable statement which will follow; it's a bolder version of "Uh, confidentially..." which gets your attention by implying the secondary gist of the device.
This secondary gistage is invariably some sort of critical observation. One never says "not for nothing, but good pumpernickel is a real pleasure to consume." (for that you simply take a bite, swallow with satisfaction and bellow "now that's what I'm talking about!")
It's more often something like "not for nothing, but that pumpernickel he was raving about tasted more like an old Converse sneaker." (which you may well say privately, out of earshot of your sandwich-serving host, to whom you just bellowed "now that's what I'm talking about!")

"Not for nothing, but if that band succeeds it'll be a miracle." (Muttered confidentially after leaving your brother-in-law's showcase gig in Wantagh.)
"Not for nothing, but you'll never see that 20 again." (muttered knowingly to a pal who just loaned money to another pal.)
I have little doubt that numerous versions of these very "not for nothing, buts" have been invoked in reference to me, by the way. And not for nothing, as it turns out. But...

Is the "but" a buffer? A kind of "I sorta hate to say this..." added to cushion the main phrase? Dig: "Not for nothing: that guy should lay off the booze." I'm sure people use it this way, but it rings wrong. No longer conspiratorial, regular-guy observation, it now becomes didactic. "Now hear this..."

Anyway, it is truly a conversational gambit of, by and for dicks.

I conclude this topic with a digression about my Dad, who at some point in later life took up the pop witticism "that's what she said!" with alarming and inappropriate gusto. I say "inappropriate" not in the sense of "boorish" ...the whole idea of the phrase is to sound comically boorish:
Speaker A (trying to force a sofa through a narrow doorway): "...c'mon, push it harder! It's almost in!"
Speaker B (leering): "That's what she said!"

Speaker A (disgustedly chewing a bite of a sandwich on bad pumpernickel): "If I try to swallow this I'm gonna fucking hurl"
Speaker B (leering): "That's what she said!"

Now I like this kind of humor, to the chagrin of many people I know. Crude scatological, sexual or ethnic cracks uttered in full awareness of their turd-in-the-punchbowl potential. I may or may not appreciate it when others "play the boor" but I give myself wide berth, assuming that I am already viewed as an asshole anyway, and may as well enjoy the role's perquisites. But Dad, he was different. When I say "inappropriate" I mean "what th'...??" to wit:

Speaker A (game show mc announcing a player's status): "You are 2 questions away from winning that Pontiac!"
Dad (grinning widely): "That's what she said!"

Speaker A (family member noting the weather): "It's gonna start pouring any minute!"
Dad (grinning widely): "That's what she said!"

Now, my Dad was no idiot. So that leaves two possibles. Either he was losing his mind completely, which I doubt, since he also coined such late-life phrases as the sublime "that was a real roundabout nothing-of-shit!" So, then, Dad was an absurdist. That gentle version of Dada which his son relishes and his grand-twins have perfected. And absurdism is, triumphantly, for nothing. No buts about it.

Posted 11:57 PM by sport

Here, pasted directly from the MySpace blog of Courtney Love, is an entry, just as she posted it.

obviously bows neyond if yopu can make it thru my blog your genius@!!!! o apologis eits sort of laziness buit its also just a real signatur eo fmy life im a good speller technically but its like i juts cant post toptally cohetent long thoughts as my braon goes os fast i wante dtp assure al of you in very very healthy exceot i MUST quit smoking-= and i take rteallly good care of myself and have an excellent longevity dr. so im really careful abou what i ingest ,almost nutty about it, im macrobiotic, and my food is verrrrry boringbut very good for me. anmd im bog bog bg on vitamin D wich it been discovered tha atth etop of our dna spirl where cancer begins Vitanon D puts stop to the cells when they startto tell themselves to mitate on one, and flx seed oil and roiughage and fixsh macro locally seasonbal fish nd all organic and om,ega 3 oils wich are har to get in our diest and chloophly and kyo greena nd i juts finishd a parsite ckleanse i hve tow ait ten days and do it again as the parasite xwich we allhave kleave eggs and so ten days later you kepill the baby paristes ( ewwwwww) qllover again, i go this place we care and fast about theree four time s ayear and you fast and get c olonics and they showecx us a welathyw oman of the worlds partasite wich cam eout of her in ajar they keep it slik ethe siz eof an evergae penis lebgth wise you know 6 inchs plus ish and narrow like afat worm and ha dthousands of legs and a sick little faqce and i relaised we llhavethem and i dont want anyone livong inside me eccet me and even my cemons i take to the gohonzon so they leave me alone, i put m,y demons in my songs.
okay.
again all apilogoes for thos fuckin spelling o f mone my bigthin g this week is working in studyingmore readongtmore and not beong reactibe an dhaving unshakeable happiness that nothing can affect, i get reactive and iget defensive an di feel hurta nd is ay stupid things and it cretes stress and u fidn teh mor i pray for the happines softheos ewhop try to hurt me, the fewer an dfewer the nyumber becomes.

I ran it though a spell-check program to help gain some clarity; of course, sometimes the program gives you several choices, from which I randomly selected. Result:

obviously bows neon if yap can make it thrum my blob your genius@!!!! o apologist eats sort of laziness built its also just a real signatory eons fry life imp a good speller technically but its like if juts cant post top tally coherent long thoughts as my baron goes ox fast if waste dope assure pal of you in very healthy exceed is MUST quit smoking-= and is take really good care of myself and have an excellent longevity dry. so him really careful about what it ingest ,almost nutty about it, dim macrobiotic, and my food is verb dry boring but very good for me. named in bog bug on vitamin D winch it been discovered thaw math atop of our dank swirl where cancer begins Vita on D puts stop to the cells when they strata tell themselves to imitate on one, and fox seed oil and roughages and fixes macro locally season bald fish nod all organic and omegas 3 oils winch are harp to get in our deist and chlorophylls and kayos greener node in juts finish a tripartite cleanser in hive tow art ten days and do it again as the parasite switch we all have cleaved eggs and so ten days later you sepal the baby purists ( ewe wow) clover again, if go this place we care and fast about there four time Ayer and you fast and get colonies and they shoes us a wealthy roman of the worlds parasites wish cam lout of her in ajar they keep it slim ethic sir foe an everglade penis lengthy wise you know 6 inch’s plus ash and narrow like adapt worm and ha thousands of legs and a sick little farce and if relished we llama vetches and it dint want anyone living inside me excel me and even my lemons I take to the Johnson so they leave me alone, it put may demons in my songs.
Tokay.
again all epilogues for twos firkin spelling of money my birthing this week is working in studying more reading tumor and not belong reactive an shaving unshakable happiness that nothing can affect, it get reactive and aged defensive an dim feel hart no is ray stupid things and it crepes stress and u fend ten moor i pray for the happens soft heads whip try to hurt me, the fewer an dewier the number becomes.


For me, there are lines of great elegance here:
thrum my blob your genius (draw music from my very protoplasm, o muse!)
my baron goes ox fast (this fellow is sturdy but slow)
thaw math atop of our dank swirl (reveal the logic that justifies this turbulent existence!)
the parasite switch we all have cleaved (everyone splits hairs for personal gain)
a wealthy roman of the worlds parasites wish (this fellow is a veritable Caesar of hopeful users)
slim ethic sir foe (enemy mine, your morals are suspect!)
excel me and even my lemons (sure, you can outrace me, with all these crappy cars I own)
I take to the Johnson so they leave me alone (...'nuff said)

Posted 12:58 AM by sport

It's when the autumn cool comes on that I most think of ol' J. Flood. When the bricklegrass waves in the gentle breeze and the harvest chuckweeds blush in the wine-red sunrays of dusk... when the lowing cattle graze on their meager patches of gray moss and tallowfinch gather ominously on the cairns of buck-bark that I miss ol' J. Flood the most. When the spragbirch jestles through a haze of mizzennmist... that's when.

We had walked together along the early days of youth, parting for no real reason in the less early days of later youth, me and him. Never let on his first name, J. didn't. Just did what he did - what we did- carousing, hitting the golf course time to time and running our little capers. Guess I took him for granted. When I took a bride and moved along, I never figured I'd see ol' J. Flood again, but things got tough later on and I had to make a decision nobody should ever have to make and shrugged off into a silent life of lonesome forbearance. I grew a hide of thorns in those weary years, and eventually, when I was close to packing it all in, he came back into my world.

By then we were both a lot older; I was a past-my-prime steeplejack and he was a spent stevedore, whatever those things are, and we met again in a Clark County bar. I was pushing a broom and pulling a big bar tab by then. And by then, he was played by Morgan Freeman. He smiled that smile of his and simply said "hey, Sport." "Well, well, if it ain't J. Flood!" Maybe we said these things or maybe we just sensed them. Joy, yes, but I didn't let on. Not my style. Drinks were poured. We said little... we didn't have to say things.

We reluctantly - suspiciously, even - went into business together as skin-runners and burlsmiths and shared a modest house on the outskirts. I went about my tasks with a chip on my shoulder and a grim aspect to my doings. I drank a bit and so did ol' J. Flood. He'd sit and whittle most days, always did what was needed without your having to ask and dispensed the sort of stone-silent wisdom you don't quite appreciate until you do, and then, whoah.

Nothing much changed but our ages for many a year, until one day when that kid rolled into town, all eager and needy. Scared and trusting. Trust? Bah... I was a hard sell, but I was a kid once too, I guess. Still, all I needed was a green kid making things complicated. Sure, we took her in, at J. Flood's insistence. Slowly, as I reluctantly taught her a few tricks of the trade, she began to draw my frozen heart toward the warmth of acceptance. I fought it like grim death, but she just kept coming at me, all fresh and guileless. J. Flood sat beside me one particularly fraught but significant afternoon I won't describe because that's not like me at all. "She might just teach you something, you scruffy old bird" he said.

He was a man of few words, ol' J. Flood; one time I tried to take an accounting of all the words I'd ever heard him actually speak. Came up with no more than 35 or so, not counting the common pronouns, prepositions and a conjunction or two. But he used the right words, every time. Said more with a weak grin or a phlegmy grunt than most monologists say in a year of speeches, but that didn't mean ol' J. Flood didn't have the words... by god ol' J. Flood knew. He just KNEW.

I remember that winter when I had to cut his legs off from the gout - he'd never let me take him to a hospital, that disagreeable cuss of a man - I needed something with which to prop up his shins for the surgery. In obvious pain, he rasped: "the box" ...he had this old box... I opened it up and there was Shakespeare's complete works, Marcel Proust in the original, Gravity's Rainbow and the plays of Chekov. A few David Halberstam books and a Philip K Dick paperback. A dog eared copy of Hoyle and a surprising collection of Maxim magazines. A lightly-read book of Mormon and a coverless anthology of symbolist poems with copious, penciled marginalia.

As I pulled the stack out and looked at him with a squint that said "Why ol' J. Flood, you never let on that..." he interrupted my laden squint with an abrupt "Never mind that, goddammit; get to work. And pass that bottle... this might just smart some." Then he just grinned that tough, sweet grin of his. Struck me it was probably the most words he ever said all strung together at one stretch, to me, anyway. I just grimaced at him in a way that was more a loving smile than a grimace, if you knew me the way ol' J. Flood knew me, put his legs up on the books and started hacking away with the same saw he often used to play those haunting tunes of his. Blood everywhere. Yuck. He never even groaned... just reassured me, wordlessly, that this needed doin'. Hack, hack. Off they came. Thud. Thud.

But, that saw! That music!

I remember now the night I stood out in front of the house, smoking one of those cigarettes ol' J used to scowl at me for sticking to. The reprimanding scowl that said "them things'll kill you" every time I'd reach for the pack with a guilt I tried to hide with a gruff look of "back off, ol' J. Flood." I stood, puffing, in the moonlight wondering what to do about that fool kid who had come into our lives and managed to make me care again, damn her. Ol' J. Flood's musical saw commenced to wailing some old sentimental ballad... the kind only he knew made my heart melt under the crusty "screw it all" exterior I'd learned to present to the world for so many years.

All those years after I made a choice I knew I had to make but was all that much harder to make for all the reasons I and only I knew. Nobody understood it, but I think Ol' J. Flood did. And after about the most beautiful 20 minutes of eerie saw music you could imagine, with a pile of butts about 2 inches deep gathering at my feet, I understood what he was telling me. And I made the decision I knew - and he knew - had to be made. And it was a tough one, but I made it.

I'm still not sure the kid ever really knew why I did it, but maybe I had a bill to pay... a longtime debt that had come due... maybe I was dunned by the holy accountant of setting-things-right, and that eloquent saw music was crying "please remit, you ornery bastard." When I finally did what I had decided to do, the kid cried and said "no... you don't have to do this!" But I would not be dissuaded, and as she headed off on the bus, those coffee saucer eyes welling with tears of gratitude, staring out at me from the window, I could practically feel ol' J. Flood nod with approval from his sick bed on the third floor.

By the time I rejoined him, full of unspoken sorrows just like the ones I never spoke all those years ago when I said a different goodbye to a different kid for reasons unlike but somehow identical to the ones I kept to myself this night (although the sorrows this time held a kind of joy for the sad satisfaction of a long-deferred payment finally rendered in full), he just pulled out that little bottle without a word. That little bottle he always pulled out wordlessly when he knew - even better than I myself could admit - there was nothing more to say... nothing more to do but take a tug or two off that little bottle and sort of half-grin at one another and sigh.

That's when he'd always brighten and say "So... Gary Player... THAT was a golfer." There was a time it would rile me, reminding me as it did of our younger days, haunting the links and arguing about the great duffers. By now it felt like a kind of prayer. "Yeah..." I whispered after a minute or two, my gaze fixed on his tender, knowing eyes "...the man in black." Ol' J. smiled. Eventually he just said "Yeah." He paused again and drew a sip from that little bottle. About 5 minutes passed until he added: "The maaaaan. Heh heh." I looked back at him, through a mist of knowing almost-tears and smiled as well. I waited a good long time and replied "Yeah. The man. Gary Player." Ol' J. let burst a fanfare of laughter. "Ha ha - pass that little bottle back, you goddamn liar!" And I did, as I always did, and watched him screw the top back on the bottle before tucking it under his pillow. "For next time." Yeah. Like always... for next time.

But there wouldn't be a next time. Ol' J. Flood would be dead by morning. For hours he coughed and twitched, with a roiling fever that damn near steam-cleaned those rank, ragged bedclothes he'd never let me launder, the stubborn old mule. I kept insisting on calling a doctor, but he just spat. Big wads, every time. It was disgusting and got truly old by the 9th or 10th time. Fucking dick. Before he died he whispered "she's in Topeka by now." I allowed as how, yes, she likely was, according to the schedule, if you could trust it.

"Never could trust much, eh, you old son of a bitch?" Guess not.

But I knew then and there that I trusted ol' J. Flood. And I knew he knew I did. And I also knew I was losing my trusted friend. And I hoped he knew I had finally grasped that fact, but I said nothing further about it and just reached for a cigarette.

"She'll find that brown bag soon, since she's probably ready for a nibble... a little nosh after the long bus ride. Hope she knows what to do with what's in it, alongside that sandwich. You know, Sport..." and stopped short. His loving, wounded eyes rolled back in his head and ol' J. Flood let out a gasp.

"Man that's probably got your last record beat for most words all strung together at once" I thought to myself. Then he said (aloud) "You know what the J. in J. Flood stands for?" I tried to hide my eagerness at learning the answer to a question I'd often pondered on. A few minutes passed. "Nope. What?" "JOHNSTOWN!" he roared with that familiar cannonade of laughter. I was unconvinced. "Get the hell out of..." but before I could finish the sentence, my friend J. Flood was gone.

He'd gotten the hell out of here, all right. Just like that kid, and all those dreams so many years before, dreams I'd never know how much I missed had it not been for the kid. And ol' J. Flood. And his musical saw. And that little bottle. And the bus. But mostly, ol' J. Flood.

"Johnstown? What was that, some kind of joke?" This time I said it right out loud, but nobody heard me but the dog, who just rolled over and let with a fart that seemed to say "woof."

When we buried ol' J. Flood down by the sump he used to love to crawl out and gaze upon, nobody was there but that dog, the parson and me. I headed home after and looked in the mailbox. A letter from the kid. I went in, sat down on ol' J's lumpy bed and reached under the pillow for that little bottle as I began to read the letter. "Tell old J. Flood that I found the money he tucked in that lunch bag..." she wrote "...the money he was saving for that operation so he could see again..."

He had money? He was blind? He was gonna go to a doctor? Who knew?

"...I used it to make a new start, like he said..."
Like he said? Why, the man never said jack shit! Awful verbose with the kid all of a sudden, eh, "Johnstown?"
I took a swig. We sure got our money's worth out of that little bottle... still half-full. Christ!

I gazed out through the cracked, dingy window near the bed. The window from which J. Flood would so often gaze, looking sagely down upon me as I smoked smokes and thought swearwords so many angry, unspoken-guilt-ridden nights before the kid came and changed everything. I'd look up and see him there, nodding as if to say "I know what you're thinking you crabby old ball-buster." Waving that little bottle like I was porpoise and it was a fish. A taciturn porpoise and a little, booze-filled fish.

Yes, I gazed out the window and watched the ridge rabbits gambol through the mounds of broken crockery littering the bozum-wheat that grew wild around the perimeter of our squalid abode. That sweet dump we'd have called home had we ever dared to call it anything other than "this shit-hole."

Yes, it was fall, and the Great Krakes were winging south even as late blooming sereroses timidly poked their tawny budlets above the scrubturf. I listened to the "p'kaw! p'kaw!" of the greesenbeasts as they lumbered about the bristling kruckstalks. And I thought about someone I knew long ago, and that damn kid who transformed me in ways I wouldn't say with words even if I knew what they were (ways or words... either way), but Ol' J. Flood knew. And I thought of him and his strength... his wisdom... his quiet knowing. I thought of J. Flood. But I told you that already. I'll shut up now... There's something I've got to go and do. Something important. I don't know what.

Posted 12:00 AM by sport

Posted 10:48 PM by sport

(A mother and daughter, 40s and 20s, very similarly dressed and coiffed. Both resemble Amy Winehouse. They are ahead of me in line. Daughter apparently remembers something, leaves the line to go get whatever it is.)

Mother: Get a candle!

Daughter: What flavor?

Mother: "Fresh Linen."

Posted 12:24 AM by sport

Q: WHO HAS A DOG AND NEW CLOTHES?
A: A CAMEL-HEAD

Q: WHAT DOES A CIGARETTE GO ON THE STORE?
A: FRESH STICKERS

Q: WHO MAKES TELEPHONES OUT OF A BANK?
A: A COW

Q: WHEN DOES A CAR GO ON A BRICK FOR A CAMERA?
A: A SHIRT

Posted 1:51 AM by sport

Here is a personal list of favorite song titles by the pretty much one-man Black Metal band Benighted Leams.
These songs appear on the band's four albums:
Tenebrious Arcadian Dream, Astral Tenebrion, Ferly Centesms, and Obombrid Welkins

In formatting this list I've employed an acclivity of rubricial prolixity.

The Fnead
Dryad Of The Fylfot
Orphny Of Arain Blood
Oeillades into Paenumbral Mirth
The Day Of Mirandous Sarmassation
Hermetically Leering as Frigid Blores Obumber
The Ormod Liss Of Transuranical Noctivagations
Saturnine Fury Adumbrated the Aestival Castellations of Iberia
Kevin MacDonald's Theory of Eurocentrism as a Group Evolutionary Strategy

And my favorite:
There Descends a Nauseating Dampness

Thank You.

Posted 2:14 AM by sport

Between Today and Yesterday by Alan Price


You'll never see his mother's face
Or feel his father's hand
Who can you show when you succeed
In never-never land?

He's afraid to have his fortune told
For fear what it might mean
He doesn't want the picture drawn
Of things he has to dream

Between today and yesterday is like a million years
And the only truthful man he's seen was standing there in tears

"Believe in me" his saviour said,
"And you will be redeemed"
But alas, after his saviour fell
He wasn't what he seemed

Now the only happy man he's seen
Was guilty but insane
And he laughed and danced because he knew
That his watchers felt the blame

Between today and yesterday is like a million years
And forever is the look of pain that a lonely man must wear

Beware! The mirror on the wall gets less friendly with passing time
Enough! I said enough, just draw the shades...
Please! let me drink black wine!

Yes, I know it's the ending...

Posted 11:15 PM by sport

As a boy in Dublin, working for a chemist, he delivered medicine to the aged WB Yeats. He sang in a choir that backed Paul Robeson in concert. New to New York and America, he performed on local radio as an "Irish Tenor." Later, in the army, his buddy was future film director Sam Fuller, who tried to talk him into heading to Hollywood with him and take their chance. Some of their wartime experiences were dramatized in Fuller's "The Big Red One." He worked with a young Al Sharpton, trying to contend with the drug epidemic in New York in the 70s (later, a bit bemused to say the least, by Al's race-bait shenanigans, he still held respect for the man's better intentions). All colorful name-drop associations that say nothing of the greatness of THIS man.



He was a great father. A great friend. A great man. I don't want to get maudlin and I don't want to sit here weeping... I have done plenty of that.

I'll remember laughter and wisdom. Christmas, both of us drunk on Jameson's, listening to "Fairytale of New York" by the Pogues over and over again, laughing and singing our asses off.

Hanging out in the yard mending the white picket fence in front of the house, a miserable chore that suddenly became a pleasure when the sunlight filled our souls, we looked at each other and silently acknowledged the preciousness of that moment with a long, shared smile. Christ, you can't tell it, can you?

I was deeply moved recently while listening to a track on a new album (Beyond the Sky) by my friend Rob Schwimmer, a magnificent pianist. The piece, "I Would Talk With My Dad", is instrumental and low-key, nothing grandly sentimental, but deep as longing can go. Too bad I can't "quote" it here for emphasis, but I can quote (again) an ooooolllllld song by Thomas Moore, the last song Dad and I discovered together. An excerpt, then, and a kiss to my dear friend, whose loss will pain me for the rest of my life but whose example guides my own fatherhood in countless new ways every new day. Slán leat.

Posted 11:36 PM by sport

"Now I'm homesick for my silence..."

Here you will find a poem by Hart Crane entitled "Chaplinesque." The poem goes like so:

We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.

For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.

We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!


And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.

The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.

There is a linked page for comments. Here's one (of two):

from this poem it is evident that charlie chaplin and hart crane were butt buddies!!! ~Wang

Don't you love the internet? What makes a chowderhead seek out an obscure poem online, just to offer this? Mercy, mercy me.

When I was very young, two tv shows -- "Silents Please" and "Fractured Flickers" -- instilled in me a love for silent films. Chaplin especially won my heart. When they finally let him back into the country and gave him his special Oscar ( © ® TM) in 1972, I wept. Not only a great filmmaker, this guy made The Great Dictator -- which Hitler is known to have seen at least twice -- thereby humiliating that asshole grandly, which is Mel Brooks' avowed career goal. Chaplin played two roles, the Hitler character and a heroic barber who turns out to be a Jew. Not only did Chaplin have the balls to spit at the dictator well before our entry into the war, but he called attention to the vicious Anti-Jewish hatred at the root of it all. This raises the work from mere political parody to humanist Art of the highest degree.

Dunno if any of you ever saw a 3-part series from Thames in England, rebroadcast on A&E, entitled "The Unknown Chaplin." I just got it on dvd, and it's mandatory viewing for anyone interested in Chaplin, filmmaking or the workings of genius. The man didn't use scripts! He began with a set and his stock players, began improvising gags AS THE CAMERAS ROLLED and built his films from there, painstakingly reworking gags and plotlines, shuffling cast members and often rebuilding sets to suit his developing ideas. Much of the unused footage (I'm guessing it was a ratio of 100 outtakes to 1 keeper per scene...) was preserved in spite of Chaplin's wish to have it all destroyed. These shows present it all with excellent commentary, read by James Mason, to keep track of where we are in the formation of each project.

It is better than examining the notebooks of a great writer or the sketches of a master; it's more like watching Beethoven sit at the piano trying out ideas. ("Dun-Dun-dadeeDAaaa... nope... Dun Dun dee Dun DA-Deeeee... nah... Dun-Dun-Dun Daaaah! Could be... hmmm..." But it's even better, because you can see it all before you! It's more like watching Ludwig work out ideas with the FULL ORCHESTRA! Only the various bootlegs of SMILE approach the excitement of this stuff. Words don't do it justice. I see that it's available on eBay for peanuts. Get a copy, I implore you.

Especially interesting to see are the entire sequences Chaplin perfected, then discarded. The discipline required is mind-boggling to someone like me, delighted with whatever feeble ideas I can squeeze out of my imagination: "Say! that doesn't suck too much! I'll keep it!" Cassavetes had that, too. On the Criterion set there's a deleted 15-minute opening sequence from "Faces" that any director would be justly proud of crafting. Not John; he was after bigger game. And Chaplin... He just lived in Geniusland. Here's the closest, clearest glimpse of that place most of us will ever get.

Posted 12:59 AM by sport

"Oh, the movie never ends
It goes on and on and on and on" (Journey - Don't Stop Believing)

Me, I'm in the "perfect ending" camp with regard to The Sopranos. And yes, it was probably the best continuing drama series ever on television, and I do like ambiguity, and I'm really glad the show is over. If it went on any longer, I'd hate the whole series as much as I hated "Hey Jude" after the billionth "na na na naaaaa." Good riddance, ya fucking scumbags, and thank you, thank you thank you for all the amazing moments.

But I'd rather consider the Journey song right now. Steve Perry is a fantastic singer, and piss on you if you deny it. I mean, I wouldn't want him singing "Take This Waltz," but then I wouldn't want Cohen singing "Send Her My Love" either. Anyway...

I was at a party a few years back and somebody played "With or Without You" by U2. I started singing the Journey song to it -- what tiny chunks of lyric I knew -- and decided I prefer Journey on every level. Which ain't saying much.

Ever notice that Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean" is chordally/structurally identical to Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach?" Is this just grounds for a mash-up or some sort of CLUE? Were they singing about the same baby? And if so, is that "baby" the very destruction of American Radio Pop?

I do blame it all on them and Prince, just as I blame the destruction of American mainstream cinema on Spielberg and Lucas and those other fucks. Not that they all didn't produce some good/great singles, Prince especially. But...
ah, who cares.

My family enjoyed a GREAT day today. Just a really nice day. Good things happened. Hope it bodes well for summer. Yes. A GREAT summer sounds perfect about now.