POEM: forward

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(originally posted August 2, 2011)

Yesterday I had the pleasure of spending time with my friend Susan and her two boys: 10-year-old Riley, and Aiden, who turns 2-years-old today! We fed ducks - or at least the boys did.  

Naturally, the newest walker of the four of us led the tour around the duck pond.  Aiden's determined and fearless leadership inspired me to write the following poem.  

Happy Birthday Aiden!

forward 

i don't know where i am 
i don't know how i got here
and i don't know where i am going
but i am determined to get there

i feed the ducks
then walk down the path

there are no steps backwards

i need no arrows
i need no directions

everything and nothing is in front of me

i speed up recklessly on a whim
to celebrate the simple joy of movement
to help me get somewhere faster

my stiff-legged steps may be awkward
but my steps are right

i am momentum

i am in the lead

i am propelled forward
it is the only way i know to go






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My Neighbors: Ernie And Rita

Ernie and Rita, the hard of hearing elderly couple who live in the apartment beneath me, just flagged me down at the front door to our apartment complex.  Rita said "Ken, we just want you to know that you are the best neighbor ever."  Apparently, they wanted to thank me again for "everything that you do" (although it mainly only involves hauling their trash can to and from the curb) and for making them feel "so safe here."   

That's right.  Rita called me Ken.  No matter how many hundreds of times Ernie and Rita have read "Kevin Smith" on my incoming mail, they continue to call me "Ken."  I don't have the heart to correct them.

Ernie has emphysema and was also just recently diagnosed with cancer of the kidney and so when the ambulance pulled up late Monday night I thought "Uh-oh . . . Ernie." Well, according to today's firsthand update, Ernie was just fine - curled up in bed, baggin' some zzzzs - that is until he woke up to take a pee and found that Rita had taken a tumble and was out cold on the dining room floor.

Even though I always tell them that I am fine, Ernie and Rita keep insisting that I let them know whenever they can do something for me. But I have to confess, I'm thinking that my sweet tooth is probably going to get some serious action this Christmas.

In the meantime, I am sure that Rita will continue to unknowingly entertain me with church music. Rita plays the organ at her and Ernie's church. Trust me, you truly have never heard "Leaning On His Everlasting Arms" until you've heard it from the slow and methodical hands of my downstairs neighbor.

Rita practices nearly every Saturday. All things considered, it's pretty damn sweet watching my Notre Dame Fighting Irish while "Onward Christian Soldiers" plods its way upward through the plaster and the floor boards.




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1964 Class E City Champions

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As some of you (seven) already know, next March will be the 50th anniversary of St. Anthony's winning the City of Dayton Class E basketball tournament. I was on that team. It was the first athletic team that I ever played on. Unfortunately, it was also the last time that I would be a member of a championship team.

My claim to fame that year was that I was one of only three 4th graders to make the 5th and 6th grade team. That proved to be my only claim to fame as I spent most of the season "riding the pine" (although I did get to play in the waning seconds of the championship game). Our coaches were Mr. Lang and Mr. Detrick. They were really nice guys, and great coaches.

The championship game was played at the Dayton Boys Club that used to be located near the intersection of Keowee and Xenia avenue, adjacent to what is now US route 35. Our opponent that night was the other St. Anthony's Class E team. Deepest East Dayton ruled the hardwood in '64.

I still remember the final score of the game. It was 14-10. The reason that I remember the score is because those were the call numbers for the local rock and roll radio station, 1410 WING.

Later in March the City of Dayton hosted an awards dinner for our team at the Montgomery County fairgrounds.

We had chicken.

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Trayvon Martin

It is night time and you are a teenager once again, walking down the street to your father's house, when you notice a car is slowly following you.  You call a girlfriend and tell her what is going on.  While you are talking to her the car stops and a person gets out and begins to follow you on foot.  When this person catches up with you you ask them: "Why are you following me?"  An altercation occurs and during this altercation the stranger pulls out a concealed weapon and shoots you once in the chest. A very short time later you lay dead on the ground

Florida has decided that this is not a crime.  If you agree with their decision please do not ever share that opinion with me.  I do not want to know that about you.

Also - if you think that the photo is inappropriate, please keep that to yourself as well because I do not give a damn.

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The Case Of The Errant Breath Mint or, Is That A Breath Mint Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

I went to see the movie "Mud" at the Neon Movies this afternoon (good movie by the way). After the movie ended I made a quick trip to the restroom and, because I'm a jerk, grabbed a handful of the red & white breath mints from the tray next to the sink. When I jammed them all in my front pants pocket I noticed that one was unwrapped and really sticky. I licked the stickiness off my fingers and headed out of the theater. I got to my car and pulled all of the breath mints out of my pocket and stashed them away into one of the cup holders. Once again I noticed my hand got really sticky from the unwrapped breath mint and so I licked at my fingers and headed down the road. On the way home I made a quick stop at a music store to grab a CD that I had squirreled away over the weekend. Then I stopped at a Subway, but it was too crowded, and so I went to Jimmy John's instead. I finally got home at about 5:30 and as per usual immediately slipped into a t-shirt and shorts. When I went to take my jeans off I noticed, very much to my surprise, that the unwrapped and very sticky breath mint was stuck to the front of my jeans. Apparently it had fallen into my lap when I transferred the mints from my pocket to the cup holder of my car. And when I say that the mint was stuck to the front of my jeans, I do mean the front of my jeans - right in the middle, exactly half way between my belt and my crotch. Yep. That's right. I had just spent the last 45 minutes walking around town with a breath mint stuck to my fly. Unfortunately, I was unaware of this because my belly hid it from my view. But I am fairly certain that it was not hidden from anyone else because - trust me - a red and white breath minute attached to a pair of black jeans is hard to miss.  I have no idea how many people at the music store or the two subway shops noticed my strategically located breath mint. I also have no idea whether anyone thought that I may have placed the breath mint there intentionally. And finally, I have no idea what anyone may have thought I meant by doing this.  What I do know is this: 1) I want to put all of this behind me; 2) I do not want to visit any of those three stores for at least a month; 3) I want to begin the healing process; and 4) I want to get on with my life.

Ted Nugent

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I have a theory that even the people who like Ted Nugent secretly agree that he is an asshat. I think that these people might even have occasional meetings to confirm this - kind of an asshat inventory if you will. 

Of course, not being the sharpest tool in the shed, Ted is oblivious to this and continues to whore himself out for any neanderthal cause that wants him, all the while reveling in the limelight thinking that he is a respected "spokesperson" when everyone knows that he is nothing more than an ego-driven lapdog. 

It's kind of funny that the guy who got out of being a member of the military by intentionally filling his pants with shit now gets out of being a cognizant member of the real world by filling his head with the same.

Hey Ted? 

The joke's on you. Trust me on this.


http://gawker.com/5983634/patriotic-american-ted-nugent-shit-his-pants-to-avoid-the-draft

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Crosley Field

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When I was about 5 or 6-years-old my Dad took me to Crosley Field for my first Reds game. We sat in the top row way down the left field line, but of course I brought my glove in case of an errant foul ball. 

While introducing the starting lineups, the PA announcer would say each players complete name, pause for a bit, and then repeat the last name. Naturally my Dad couldn't resist this opportunity: 

PA announcer: Starting in right field, Frank Robinson . . . 
Dad: Who?!
PA announcer: Robinson!
Dad: Oh - OK.

I thought this was about the funniest damn thing that I had ever heard.

When we got home I told the rest of the family that my favorite player, Vada Pinson, had looked at me and smiled on his way out to center field. I remember everyone kind of nodding and smiling a little uncomfortably just like in the final scene of The Wizard Of Oz when Dorothy tells everyone about her adventure.


http://youtu.be/w-e_UJOGF4E

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"Introduction to Babies" by Congressman Todd Akin

EXCERPT from: "Introduction to Babies: Where You Done Came From (1st & Final edition) by Congressman Todd Akin (Missouri State Board of Education, Tea Party Press, 2012):

The way this works is that when them womens is goin' through their ovulatin' cyclicals, something God put inside their uteruseseses is able to see which sperms is wearin' white hats (good sperms) and which sperms is wearin' black hats (bad sperms).

Then there is like this pair of "divine bouncers" - each workin' a door of the flopian tube station - and these guys has like a "hat check" responsibility, and them there divine bouncers say "you go ahead" to the white-hatted sperms, but all of them there black-hatted sperms get tossed out with extreme prejudice via the vaginal canal system.

And then nine months later a baby is borned.

Or not.

It depends on whether the womens egg and a white-hatted sperm get along. You know, whether they feel comfortable with each other, or as we like to say in church: "compatiBIBLE."


[ATTENTION STUDENTS: If you find yourself wanting more information on this subject, just pray. 'Cause remember: An inquisitive mind is the devil's soil. Let your faith be your Weed-B-Gone®!]

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Tommy's Vomit

In 1986 and 1987 I was Head of the Social Sciences department of the Dayton public library.  This meant that every fourth Saturday I was in charge of the Main Library and all 18 branches.  Typically, this was not a problem.  But the threat of a serious event always kind of hung over my head like a cloud.

Early one Saturday morning, Mike, the Pinkerton guard, walked into my office and said "We got a problem."  I couldn't imagine what, since we had just opened, but Mike indicated that I should follow him.

As we headed toward the front staircase I noticed one of our regular homeless guys (I'm pretty sure his name was Tommy) sitting at a table.  He looked up at me rather sheepishly and then quickly turned away.  Tommy was a frail older guy, maybe in his mid-to-late 60s.  Tommy was also an epileptic.  When I saw that he wasn't seizing up I immediately thought that this "problem" couldn't be that bad.

Mike walked straight up to a narrow planter that ran parallel to the front staircase.  Standing directly over the planter, he pointed.  I looked and immediately saw (and smelled) a large splatter of vomit.  When I glanced back at Mike he nodded towards Tommy.  By this time Tommy had taken on the appearance of a whipped pup.  After a few seconds of us looking at him, he blurted out in a feeble attempt at self-defense: "At least most of it's in the planter."

Normally, my next move would have been a no-brainer.  Call the maintenance department.  Unfortunately, it was a Saturday morning, just after 9:00, and the maintenance guy didn't come in until 11:00.  I weighed my options and decided that rather than taking advantage of the always helpful "other duties as assigned" section that appeared at the bottom of everyone's job description, it would be simpler just to clean the mess up myself.

By the time I returned from the maintenance closet with the mop bucket and cleaning supplies, Mike and Tommy were both standing at the planter, gazing intently.  I started working on my very unexpected Saturday chore when Mike announced: "Damn, Tommy - you gotta chew your food better!  I can see everything that you ate."  Tommy explained that he was always hungry and so he usually ate pretty quickly.

I stopped mucking homeless hurl for a couple of seconds and stared at the wall - replaying the conversation that I had just heard.

As soon as I got back to cleaning up, Tommy suddenly became quite animated and indignantly asked: "Where are my green beans?!"  He then explained to Mike that he had eaten green beans at the shelter the night before and that they should be represented in his vomit.

That's right.  Tommy felt gastrointestinally short-changed. 

I guess when a person is destitute and living day-to-day the parameters of ownership are completely redefined.   

After I finished cleaning up, Mike asked me if he should kick Tommy out of the library.  I said "For vomiting?"  He just kind of shrugged.  I told him "No" that he should not kick Tommy out of the library.  But I did ask him to make sure that Tommy remained seated very close to an exit door and that he should hustle Tommy outside if he senses any sort of heaving that is not epilepsy-related.

I am happy to report that Tommy made it through the remainder of that Saturday without any type of incident. 

Bird Of Paradise

I worked at the Dayton public library Social Sciences reference desk during the mid-80s. The desk was at the end of a long hall that led to and from one of the library's main entrances. To the left of the desk, along the west window, there were several plants, including a very large bird of paradise.

In about 1983 or '84, a black man, maybe in his late 20s, took a considerable liking to both the bird of paradise plant and to me. He was a really nice guy - always polite to staff and patrons. He also was as gay as gay could be, and in both senses of the word. Political correctness and stereotypes be damned - this guy literally pranced about the building.

He would visit the library every week or so. I always knew when he had entered the building because when he got about halfway down the hall - heading straight towards the Social Sciences reference desk - he would immediately begin singing out: "Mr. Smith! . . . Oh Mr. Smith! . . . How is our bird of paradise today?!"

Naturally, I turned about eighty shades of red. But being a public servant in a public building, I was required to stand my ground and greet him as he very quickly approached the desk. For better or for worse, I was this guy's captive audience.

The only way that I could take control of the situation was to walk him away from the public reference desk and over to the greatly admired bird of paradise. He would take considerable delight in showing me how much it had grown since his last visit. Sometimes he would also do some minor hand pruning.

One time I tried to explain to him that since the library was publicly funded, the plant was technically not "our" bird of paradise, but actually belonged to the entire community. He would just gaze at me and smile - not buying any part of my public funding presentation.

I know for a fact that the bird pf paradise plant is long gone, but I often wonder what happened to that guy. He was actually pretty entertaining, and had a great sense of humor. He knew full well that he was embarrassing the hell out of me every time he came into the library, but so be it. The guy simply refused to be denied his fun, and for that, I will always respect him.

I Am One Lucky Fellow

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Much to my delight, they've opened a new Subway about a half a mile from my apartment. To celebrate this blesséd event, coupons were sent out about two weeks ago, and then identical coupons were mailed once again over the weekend. Included in each of those sets of mailers were two coupons for a *free* 6 inch sub at the new store - no purchase necessary. So that means I have four free sub coupons that do not expire until June 30th, right?

Wrong.

The three elderly folks that I share a mailbox with always pitch their junk mail into a shared trash can by the front door. Yep. That's right. I snatched up them sonsabitches and so I now have *16* coupons for a free sub. And since I drink water (no soda for this guy - how do you think I keep this ghoul-uh . . . I mean, girlish figure?) - that's 80 bucks worth of free grub!

Now that's what I call *REAL* sandwich value! 


Butt weight . . . there's more!

In case you didn't know, Tuesday is "free cookie" day at Subway. Guess where you can find me every Tuesday until July? That's right. I'll be at Subway!

But my story doesn't end here.

Today, while I was enjoying my free 6 inch BMT on wheat (not toasted) with all da trimmins, what four songs should happen to come on the in-store music station? It would be these four songs:

"I Feel Good" by James Brown "
"Kid" by The Pretenders
"Everlasting Love" by Robert Knight . . . and
"Teddy Bear" by The King himself, Elvis Presley

Oh yeah. That music station went "yard" four times . . . folks, we're talkin' four "taters" . . . back-to-back-to-back-to-back!

It don't get much better than this, people.

"You load 16 subs
And whatdya get?
Another pound bigger*
And closer to death"
(M. Travis/K. Smith)

*ED. NOTE: that would be another pound *per sub* - your poundage may vary.

My Very First Musical Listening Device

 
This is a stock photo of my very first musical listening device.

It is called a "radio" (pronounced: ray-dee-oh). 

It was part of Magnavox' 1966 line of portable transistor radios. I was 12-years-old and in the 6th grade at the time of purchase. It came w ith a fake leather protective case.

I heard many a Beatles, Rolling Stones, Monkees, and Who song (and other great bands) for *the very first time* on this little 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inch eight transistor box 'o tuneage.

The radio went with me everywhere. I walked around the house with it. I took it outside to the front porch, to the backyard swing set, and to Highland Park - located just on the other side of the alley behind ye olde Smith estate (i.e. deepest East Dayton). I also slept with it under my pillow every night for several years.

That radio rocked.

And I rocked with it.

That radio and I made rock.

My Scariest Concert Experience

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Back in December 1978, an old girlfriend and I went to see The J. Geils Band and Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes at Hara Arena. We were down on the floor near the right edge of the stage, surrounded by these leather-clad biker dudes. Southside opened the show and almost immediately there was some serious bad blood between The Miami Horns (Southside's amazing horn section) an d these hard-core biker guys (back then The J. Geils Band had this weird biker subset in their fan base).

It was pretty obvious that something had been brewing for awhile. There was lots of shouting, finger pointing, and a bunch of crap being thrown back and forth (and I don't mean hotel keys or panties). Had the thing really blown up, I probably would've put my money on the biker guys, but the Jersey fellas in The Miami Horns were definitely no slouches (imagine five guys from "The Sopranos" with horns).

Of course, it didn't help the tension level that my girlfriend was really hot (Hi Margo!) and the biker guys had duly noted the same. I mean, I would have defended her honor (and my vested interest), but unfortunately, basic physics teaches us that throwing punches while running in the exact opposite direction can be a bit problematic, or at least highly ineffective.

I thought about crying out "C'mon people! No more Altamonts!" and then seeing if maybe the biker dudes wanted to join hands for a swaying version of "Kumbaya" (preferably the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement), but I opted to shitcan the idea. I'm pretty sure that my girlfriend was grateful for that decision - and not because she wasn't fond of the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement, because she was.

Unfortunately, we didn't stick around for J. Geils' set because when Southside was done more bikers started to crowd around the stage area.

I still wish that we could have all just gotten along.

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Blue Ribbon Dinner With The Big Guy

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Apparently, tonight's White House dinner for UK prime minister Cameron will be served on The White House South Lawn. The theme of the dinner is "America's Backyard." The event is intended to be a tribute to the "quintessentially American tradition" of backyards as gathering places:

"The first course will be crisped halibut with potato crust, served on a bed of braised baby kale harvested from the White House garden. Dessert will be steamed lemon pudding, prepared with huckleberry sauce from Idaho. The guests will then dine on bison Wellington -- a close relative of beef Wellington."

Oh boy - you just gotta love the great tradition of the American picnic.


["Hey - B-dawg! . . . Yo! . . . Big Guy! Over here! Yeah! Hey - any chance you could hook my bison up with a slice a cheese? . . . Huh? Yeah - pepper jack is fine. Hey! Where'd Michelle get to? Damn! I told that woman we was up next for Jarts!"]

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New Jersey Governor Chris Christie

(pictured left to right: Governor Christie, Governor Christie, Governor Christie, some chick with a phone - photo on loan from the Rutgers University Wide Angle Lens Collection)

Yesterday at a political rally, New Jersey governor Chris Christie called one of his constituents - Iraq Navy Seal veteran and current Rutgers-Camden University law student William Brown - an "idiot."

Hmmm . . . what is it about this Christie fella that makes me think that engaging in a game of name-calling might not be to his advantage?

Case in point: "Hey Governor! Is that your half-sister pictured with you? Oh - wait. I guess that technically *all* of your sisters are half of you!"

[boom-boom CHISS!]

On a separate note, if our higher education system has turned our current crop of law students into "sluts" and "idiots" then President Obama may want to re-think his hopes for every young person receiving a college education.

Just a thought.


"Damn, man, I'm governor, could you just shut up for a second?!"
(C. Christie, "explaining" himself to the crowd after William Brown was escorted from the rally site)

Three Jokes

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I couldn't sleep last night so I made up three jokes:


1) I went to the cardiologist yesterday. He said that I should watch my sodium intake, so on the way home I stopped by the Family Dollar store and bought a mirror.

[boom boom - CHISS! . . . crowd roars!]


2) Before I left the cardiologist, they hooked up one of those "Holter heart monitors" to my chest. It's this boxed shaped recording device with all of these wires attached to it. The nurse said that I can't take a shower with it on. I told her that won't be a problem. The problem will be trying to stop myself from ripping off my shirt and running through the food court at the mall screaming "Allah is great! . . . Allah is great!"

[boom boom CHISS! . . . crowd roars!]


3) And speaking of terrorists [some nervous laughter from the crowd] . . . I flew on an airplane for the first time last week [smattering of crowd applause] . . . Thanks. It wasn't that big of a deal. The key is to start way back in the coach section and then run up the aisle flapping your arms as fast as you can.

[boom boom CHISS! . . . crowd roars!]


Thank you! . . . Thank you! . . . No, really - you're too kind! . . . I will be in Dayton through this weekend and the remainder of the life!


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Sequoyah Hawk McMaster

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It makes me very said to say that Sequoyah Hawk McMaster passed away unexpectedly on Thursday at the age of 20 months.

Sequoyah was a perfectly healthy baby in utero, but was born with very serious health problems because of mistakes made at the hospital at the time of his birth. Sequoyah's mother, Rowena, works with my good friend, Sylvia.

Rowena, and Sequoyah's father, Philip, could not have been more loving and adoring parents. You can see it in every picture, and I heard it in every story.

In a very brief time, Sequoyah taught many people how to love. Soon after his birth, the town of Grass Valley, California held a fund raiser for Sequoyah. Nearly the entire town participated in some way.

How sadly beautiful that this little baby boy, who was unable to smile, laugh, or cry, was able to make so many people - ten, fifteen, twenty times his size - feel and give so much. Sequoyah must have taken his "big" name very seriously, and because he did, everyone that knew and embraced his story is a better person.

There has to be a heaven. If not for us, then at least for Sequoyah.

Thank you, you sweet little boy, for showing us the way.

You were a gift and a blessing.

May you be in peace.













. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Sequoyah"

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Origummi

Things have been a little slow lately so I thought that I would take up this "origummi" that I have been hearing about on TV.

It's pretty cool.

I think what I like best about it is you don't throw anything away so it's like easy on the environment and stuff. If you make something that sucks you just eat it.

You should check it out if you get a chance.

(Starting to work on an origummi idea. I like to refer to this part as "the creative process")


(Beginning to formulate a "proto-type." This is the "nuts & bolts" of the process. As you can tell by my furrowed brow, it typically takes the most time and involves the most work)


(This is the actual "origumming" process. This is where vision starts to become reality. Although this is my favorite step, it is also the most intense and tedious, and requires complete concentration. I am frequently quite fatigued after this process)


. . . . . (The final product. This is what makes it all worthwhile!)

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Back in the day . . .

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"andy . . . remember when your dad used to dress like a baby and hang out with bootsy collins?"
(kurt moorman)



[photo of a photo by kurt moorman]
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A Very Sweet Valentine's Day Story

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One of my son Andy's best friends at the bank where he works is a fellow teller, a gay guy who is also named Andrew. Andy said that Andrew is absolutely hilarious and they have a blast working together.

Andy wasn't working this morning, but he got a call from Andrew who was at the bank. It seems that Andrew had forgotten that it was Valentine's Day and he didn't get a gift for his sweetie, Christopher. Andrew asked Andy if he would take a dozen roses to Christopher at work and sing "You Are My Sunshine" to him (Andrew knows that Andy is a singer and loves his CDs).

Andy, being Andy, said "Absolutely!" and so he did. He picked up the flowers, delivered them to Christopher, and sang "You Are My Sunshine" to him. :-)

I guess Christopher works in a fairly open office at the University of Dayton, so there were lots of folks there to enjoy Andy's performance. Apparently, one petite and very cute gal - who Andy said wore a great big smile throughout his entire performance - gave him her phone number before he left.

I suppose that proves once and for all: what goes round, comes round . . . and what makes the world go round, is in fact, love. :-)

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"Lights" A New Song

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This is a "whittled down version" of my son Andy's new song "Lights" and Andy's new lead guitarist Tyler.

I find this melody - and Tyler's playing - to be a thing of beauty.

And there's a boatload more where this came from. That's right folks . . . the hits just keep on comin'.

:-)


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzUxX6SkDHQ

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"There's a hole in Daddy's arm where all the money goes"

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The Department of Defense is reporting that in 2010, 462 soldiers died in combat and 468 soldiers committed suicide (this does not include reservists statistics). This is the second straight year that suicides have exceeded combat deaths.

How sad and painfully ironic that these statistics will probably be ignored when Congress attempts to slash the budget deficit. A budget deficit that was largely created by unnecessary wars that almost certainly contributed greatly to the mental issues, and subsequent suicides, of these soldiers.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6TG5YKDyRIA


Sam Stone
(J. Prine)

Sam Stone came home,
To his wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knee.
But the morphine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a Purple Heart and a monkey on his back.

Chorus:
There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
Mmm....

Sam Stone's welcome home
Didn't last too long.
He went to work when he'd spent his last dime
And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin' other peoples' clothes

(Repeat Chorus)

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair
Well, he played his last request
While the room smelled just like death
With an overdose hovering in the air
But life had lost its fun
And there was nothing to be done
But trade his house that he bought on the G, I. Bill
For a flag draped casket on a local heroes' hill

(Repeat Chorus)


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War Stuff

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Please Welcome Country #53 To The "Jumbostatz League Of Musical Nations!"

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We here at Jumbostatz Inc (me and my cat) are very happy to welcome our 53rd country into the Jumbostatz League Of Musical Nations. That's right folks! Let's hear it for our newest member [insert drum roll here] . . . Hong Kong!

This afternoon at 12:06 PM, Mr. Winston Liu purchased the CD soundtrack to the movie "Toys" from the good folks here at Jumbostatz Inc., making Hong Kong our 53rd nation served.

"Jumbostatz . . . bringing *all* of the music to *all* of the people since August 2001! . . . 53 nations and still counting"

So without further adieu, I would like to ask Siouxie Sioux and her band of Banshees to take us on home. Siouxsie?! Whatdya say?


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgE41B3JQF8


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It Was Nice Talking To You, Dad

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Hey - I think that I just had a brief, but very enjoyable chat, with the spirit of my late father (please see my previous post regarding the 20th anniversary of his death).

I was waiting in line at Books & Co. and I noticed a commemorative magazine on display titled "Ronald Reagan at 100." It featured a 1970ish photo of a very dapper looking Reagan on the cover.

Some old guy behind me in line obviously noticed the magazine as well because he very dryly and bluntly said to nobody in particular: "Reagan at 100? I thought he was dead." The other two folks in line fidgeted a bit, but I cracked up.

I turned to the guy and deadpanned: "Yeah - he's looking pretty good for 100, isn't he?" The guy gave me a big smile and said "I thought we were supposed to stop counting when we die." I said "Not if you're famous. They just keep counting." Without missing a beat this guy says: "Well, thank God I'm not famous because I never want to be 100-years-old." :-)

It was odd because it wasn't until I headed down the road to the post office that I suddenly realized: "Damn. That was probably the exact conversation my dad and I would have had if we had been standing in line together at the book store."

Those kinds of casual and fleeting occurrences give me faith. Faith in what, I don't know - but faith nonetheless.

It was nice talking to you, dad.





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20 Years Ago Today

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Monday will be the 20th anniversary of my father's death.

By day, he would kick anyone and everyone's ass in golf.

By night, he would summon the Gods and soothe the savage beast with his violin.

Throw in a deadly sense of humor that was drier than the Sahara - and a wit that re-defined "quick" - and you begin to get a picture of my father, John C. Smith.




January 31, 1991


I speak directly into your ear
and your head twitches, then pivots,
your mouth gaping as if surprised.
But there are no surprises here.

You are childlike and helpless
so I kiss you. Your cheek is whiskered
and warm, your skin a thin casing
barely holding the heat and bones
that want so badly to leave.

As you focus above me, staring
at something I cannot yet see,
I tell you exactly what I am doing.
More for my benefit than yours.
To excuse this invasion of privacy.

Death seems a formality now.
It is the dying that I'll remember.

With each full breath
you move further away.










Dad: How's that pig gonna smell if you cut his nose off?
Mom: John . . . not again.
Dad: Terrible.

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Today's Fortune Cookie

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I don't know how, but my Chinese brothers and sisters sure have got me figured out.




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The United States of America

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"This is America, where a white Catholic male Republican judge was murdered on his way to greet a Democratic Jewish woman member of Congress, who was his friend. Her life was saved initially by a 20-year-old Mexican-American gay college student, and eventually by a Korean-American combat surgeon, all eulogized by our African American President." (Mark Shields, PBS)


And the word on the street - the one that runs north-south, from my head to my heart - tells me that when the news of the shooting flashed on the TV screen above the jukebox at O'Leary's Pizza Emporium And More in Chinatown, NYC cabbie and art student, Abdul Sahib, his wife, and their daughter, set down their gyros, joined hands, and said a prayer for the victims and families of Tucson.

It's true.

If you believe it.



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Have You Ever Wondered What Love And Devotion Look Like?

.17 Jan 2011 02:43 pm

"A dog named Leao, sits for a second consecutive day, next to the grave of her owner, Cristina Maria Cesario Santana, who died in this week's catastrophic landslides in Brazil, at the cemetery in Teresopolis, near Rio de Janiero, on January 15, 2011."

[By Vanderlei Almeida/AFP/Getty]

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BIG in Holland!

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"Big in Japan" is so yesterday. The true test of a 21st century band is whether they are big in Holland:

http://www.altcountry.nl/blog/2011/01/andrew-and-the-pretty-punchers/


Here is a fairly rough translation of the above review:


"Andrew and the Pretty Punchers come from Dayton, Ohio, a city with a certain reputation in the field of garage rock. "No Longer A Lover" is a fairly busy blade with only from time to time a rest point, such as the ghostly stalk guitar in as a result, to Triffids the inclined "Hide & Seek (For Her)."

Garage rock with soul music is there in "Timewaster." Much of the numbers of Andrew Smith (sing, guitar) have themselves defined as hectic new wave. But in "Shitty Teeth" the guitar bring zomaar what southern rock in that English striking as sound.

The number most particular stands on the end of this short CD. "Cloudberries" start as soundscape as if a strange connection is achieved between a dark bunch full bird sounds and the universe where strange votes sound. It has not only the environment of Bonnie `Prince' Billy, it also dovetails a group such as Deer Tick. The open acoustic agreements, the drums, slow building to a climax with guitar, these are the most beautiful number of No Longer A Lover. Gregory Saluke (sing, guitar) wrote it with Andrew.

The group exists further from lead gitarist Kevin, bass player Joshua, and drummer Schmike. Available at CD Baby."


I was thinking while reading the very nice review: if I was living in Holland right now I would probably be listening to Andrew and the Pretty Punchers, too. Wooden shoe?

Heh-heh . . . ol' Kev just made a funny.


Congratulations to Andrew and the Pretty Punchers!

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