Propriety

Without haste or care,
Winds lightly deal our piled leaves
Back to their own yards.
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revelation

Yellow. Orange. Red.
At the sun's silent signal,
The green mask slides off.
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today's report

The North Wind, laughing
At soft pink buds that believed
Its lying zephyrs.

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Kip's Wonderful World of Color presents:

PAINT THE BIRDS

Paint the birds, tuppence a can
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a can
"Paint the birds," that's what she says
While wings make rainbows above in the sky

In Saint Paul's shadows, the colorless statues
Of famously suffering saints
Look on in wonder, their eyebrows ascending
To see how she peddles her paints.

Though the cans are tiny and cheap
Listen- Listen- She's making a heap!
"Paint the birds, tuppence a can
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a can!"

Sparrows and pigeons, despondent and jumpy
All grey as the smoke from the coal
Unloved and stepped on, depressing and dumpy,
Bright colors could perk up their soul.

"Buy a can, buy one for your kid.
Two full ounces, a brush in the lid.
Paint the birds, tuppence a can.
Long last! Dries fast! Tuppence a can!"
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Christmas stuffing

 I finally got the cards started. The cards themselves are fully realized, corporeally existing, bearing individual proofs, visible to me, of the haste and trauma of their creation. "Thouth" jumped out at me first, the sign of not having time for a round of having the sisters look at it for me once. There's a small "f" that's partly obscured by the signatures (now ten or twelve years old). I hope I'm the only one who "notices" that the photos weren't really optimized this year. I just went with them the way they were, RGB, not CMYK. Not resized to the printed pixel. Just let it go as is, merry Christmas.

The labels exist, part of the same marathon session at Fedex (formerly Kinko's, copy shop of my single years), coping with recalcitrant machines and NOT adding to the burden of the two women doing all the work. They knew I was there and always came when they could, and I am genuinely grateful and told the one who checked me out that it had been easier than I was expecting. (I didn't mention that I almost got there the first time and couldn't find a mask in the car and went home for one.)

The postage exists. I waited in pleasant silence. Was there no background music at all? It was just a guy getting through a stack of packages and flats to go out, weighing each or whatever. I didn't watch him. There was one other guy in there, waiting quietly far in the rear, maybe pondering the steel gated area where lines wait for service during non-Sunday hours. I enjoyed that part. The envelopes were already home, left over from other years.

So I'm stuffing the envelopes first, manila-colored 6" x 9" ones. I'm very pleased to see that these are self-sealing, so I won't have to moisten any sponges this year. My first dry card day. There are three empty labels at the end, showing where I deleted an address for someone who'd died this year, and for whom no one else remains to open a card. My end-of-the-year reel of people who I've exchanged jokes with, run into here and there, gone to their house. Rest in peace, Howard. You were always smiling, and I think you always got a raw deal. Rest in peace, Terry. I was sad when Mary went, and now I'm sad again. Rest in peace, Dad. I remember you.

And here's a label for my oldest friend, by which I mean the human I'm not related to who I've known the longest. I met and played with him when I was almost three, and the last time I saw him was 1990 or earlier, and I remember when he was impressed that I knew Photoshop (he's a painter and digital artist) his annual cards have been a triumph of impossible photorealism for years, but I haven't gotten one in a while. Three years? Five years? I don't know how many years things are. I consider peeling the label off and discarding it, or writing a note. I expect I'll just send a card and hope for a Hallmark moment.

Back to the envelopes.

 

ps: Holy cow, I already have a label that says "christmas holiday death." 

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A Defeated Supervillain Clarifies

Listen, I'm a villain, sure,
I've done a few bad things
Killed pizza guys I should've tipped,
Gave girls exploding rings.
I've tortured friends to steal their stuff
And enemies for fun.
But please, don't say I kicked a dog
Cause that's not how I run.

It's true I ran fake charities
To profit off of death
And my polluting factories
Were also selling meth.
I bought your representative
With loot from quacks I flog
But I swear on my mother's grave
I wouldn't hurt a dog!

The explanation's no big deal,
I simply tried to go
From my desk to the oubliette
Where I had stashed my foe
I turned en route to choose a laser
From several in the crypt
The dog was underneath a chair.
My foot just sort of slipped.

Anyway, that's all it was,
I misstepped. Kind of dark.
I didn't know the guy was there
Until I heard him bark.
And now, I know, I'll have to pay
For my crime-laden slog
But be fair when you tell my tale:
I did not kick the dog.

The Big Tent

I've been watching The Mickey Mouse Club for the last couple of days, having stumbled on two six-hour tapes of half-hour editions of the show from the Disney Channel, recorded in 1998. This is a windfall, because the DVD I bought only has about a week of shows from the first week of the first season, cut to oddly different lengths. Disney+ also has the exact same sad, disappointing little package. This is much better. I'm hearing a pair of sisters from Los Angeles singing an upbeat harmony number right now. That's not in the set.

I have no idea when these were originally broadcast, but I think these are the same 1960s cuts we used to watch in the later rerun days of the show. There's some jumping around, but we get a lot of Spin & Marty continuity. The Spin & Marty show dominates, in fact, taking up half or more of each episode. Since each starts with the same theme song followed with a measured daily schtick, there's only time for one act before the serial starts. At the end, the credits seem to reflect each show's contents, which is why I'm guessing they're the 60s rerun. They look like an optical credit roll.

What interested me most after a while was the opening segment that goes by each and every time a show starts. Mickey is tossed on a hoop like firemen catch falling kids with, and celebrated by a cast that consists of Ranger Woodlore, Four Bears (one of whom would be Hubert), Horace Horsecollar, Clarabelle Cow, Minnie Mouse, Daisy Duck, Huey, Dewey, Louie, Goofy, The Three Pigs, Black Pete (aka Peg Leg Pete), and The Big Bad Wolf.

I noticed Pete first, and it's nice to see the company villain allowed to join in the fun, and there's the Wolf as well, cheerfully working that hoop with Mickey in it. But wait. I'd seen the longer version of the opening, and something felt off. I dug it out. It's three minutes long and starts with built-in callouts to the sponsor. Suitable for an hour-long show, maybe! The fanfare is familiar, but then we have some different bits. Pete smiles in a star-shaped cameo early on! The Wolf, on the other hand, is seen tied up, for frogmarching and ritual humiliation in the triumphal Mickey Mouse Club parade! 

The minute-long version is in there too, though, and even in this earliest opener, we have the hoop finale with Pete and Big Bad as cheerful voluntary participants. They have it both ways! I hope B.B. is getting extra pay for being tied up and kicked. That's simple stunt work, right? All cartoon characters can do it, and it pays the bills, and then everybody goes to the cookout. Well, not Ferdinand--ha ha!

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Never Thought This Could Happen To Me

I knew at the time it happened that this was unusual, but as it recedes into the past, I still can't help being impressed at the sheer unlikeliness of it all. 

 

I came home from working at University of Houston one PM to find that someone had nailed a door up over the front window of our two-bedroom ground floor apartment. It turned out that this was because the front window had been breached. It turned out to turn out that we'd been robbed.

By the time I entered the story, the police had already been there. As it will turn out, they already knew who did it, and where they were likely to find them. Then they found them and brought them in. This is because our apartments, about a city block away from The Astrodome, were all on an electronic security system (which I accidentally tripped at least once). Our criminals didn't set it off when they broke in the front window to enter, but in order to easily carry our color TV out, they had to open the door, setting off the alarm.

The alarm, in turn, alerted the security guy for the apartment complex, a policeman under any name, he lived rent-free in return for willingness to check things out. He heard the alarm, saw the act conclude, and followed the perps enough to bring in a description and license.

The police, as they told me later, had been watching the criminals (a couple? oh, details) for a while, and when they "caught" the "squeal" as we savvy folk say, they asked the pair's preferred pawnbroker to kindly let them know when they came in with the stuff, and they did, and the cops took them in.

It stood this way for a while. We waited to hear back. We were anxious to have our new TV, which we'd purchased at Target only weeks before, instead of the tiny black and white portable that my sister had imparted to me in the 70s, which was too insignificant to steal. When we realized we would need to prove ownership, I went back to Target and found that the serial number was recorded in a registry they had to keep for thirty days, and since I asked on Day Thirty, they gave it to me so I could prove it was our TV. 

I called and asked if there was something I needed to do, since I wasn't hearing back. Oh, yeah, they said, come on in and get your set. Perhaps that's when I went and got the number. Anyway, I went in, and was treated to the glory of the vast property room (rooms, really) of the Houston PD. The guy who brought me down watched me pick out my comparatively humble set and gestured back at what seemed like three caverns full of consumer bounty: "Any of this other stuff yours?" he asked. Which is why I have all these projection TVs and yachts and things, if you've wondered.

But there it is. Our apartment was violated. They had the crooks before I got home and found out. They got the goods. They got us our TV back. If I'd called sooner, we'd have had it back sooner. There were never any echoes or repurcussions. 

I know! Hard to believe, right?

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Neighbors

One year, early on in our time here, I took Sarah trick-or-treating through the neighborhood. A block from our house, almost parallel with it, was a house that was being rented to a Chinese family. This was their first Halloween in the neighborhood, maybe their first ever, and they were in compliance with the needs of the holiday, having chosen a treat, which they were handing out to costumed kids at the door. These were fruits, the size of a big gumball, wrapped in clear plastic.

To my horror, they were all over the ground, starting just steps from the doorway.

My neighbors were coming to the door, saying their bit, receiving the candy, and then dumping it on the ground. It was thicker than crab apples under the lawn mower.

I took mine, thanked them, and ate it on the spot, for all the difference it made. I never saw any of them around after that, and someone else has lived in the house for quite some time.

My neighbors. I'm still disgusted.

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On The Set

"You don't need an invisible god threatening you with Hell to live a moral life." I said on a social network. "You only have to believe, as I have since youth, that you are the star of your own TV show. Now, if you will pardon me, I have to sing my background music."

As usual, it was true. When I was four and traipsing around the block (and in later days, to neighboring ones), I was The No. Because why not. Somewhere in there, I remember drawing a flashlight on a tiny chalkboard, with "THE" in front of it, and this was a logo for The Flashlight, but I never was The Flashlight, you see. I was The No, and I hum-sung the theme, roughly to the tune of the chorus of The Erie Canal (14 tons).

The No
Is a comin', comin', comin',
The No
Is a comin' to your town
You can always tell your neighbor
You can always tell your friend
That the No's moving pictures
Are never gonna end.

Or maybe aren't a-comin' to an end. I had alternate versions, which is another story. Not sure what The No's essential nature was, apart from being mine. Not sure what The No did, apart from walking around whilst pondering how good I must look from the camera's point of view.

I also did Magic Man one time, for the duration of one iconic pose. Got the shot? One and done! Classic.

Uncle Don vocalized wherever he went. There's a photo of him in a stroller with his mouth joyfully wide to its greatest circle, and he told me "I was probably singing. Maw said I was always singing a little tuneless son, happy as anything." Similar, but not a theme song. Not a TV show (or, considering the exact wording of the song, an endless series of motion pictures*).

Scoff if you will, but it keeps me on the straight and narrow. In keeping with the times, there's barely a shred of the theme music (though it's alluded to frequently when Our Hero goes over or near the ubiquitous Erie Canal, for instance), and the camera work is fashionably wobbly. Once in a while, another character is featured prominently. This never used to happen!

Hey, I know what! Maybe our shows could do a guest thing. Nothing big, just maybe a quick cameo. Those are great for ratings.

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* I remember pretending once, at that age, in that particular yard, that I'd just invented motion pictures, by putting a bunch of slides on a turntable (tangent to the rim) and shining a light through. Even then, I knew that wouldn't quite work, but I also knew on some level that we were kids playing a game, and it wasn't going to have to stand up to scrutiny from the Royal Academy. 

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No Mow I

It's not that I hate to mow the lawn. I do. But I also think it's better to let the stuff grow. We have all this heat, and it was dry for a while, and I didn't want to cut off grass that was shading grass. We shouldn't have these crewcut turf lawns, acre on acre, that can only be serviced by bands of roving lawn guys with no mufflers. Let it grow longer. Let it seed itself. Let different colors of blooms contend.

The back part of the yard is slowly being returned to conditional ferality. With no cross-yard traffic from up the hill, it's less critical to keep a path mowed. I'd hoped that the fireflies might make a comeback here, like the year or two back there when I could see them IN MY OWN YARD. I've left undergrowth to grow under. I've shut off my lights--but that's a drop in a bucket of endlessly illuminated nocturnal existence. The fireflies don't stand a chance, even if the people I live among were to never pour another drop of RoundUp on their pool-table lawns ever again.

Noise is the side-product of it all. If I mow my lawn on Monday, the lawn guys might arrive before I'm done, or they may wait a whole hour before they descend to mow the two yards alongside ours and one of the ones across the street--same service, all three, and I think they HQ in a former firehouse, playing Euchre while they wait for the bell and sliding down a pole to race over here and run their motors. (Actually, I think one of them lives next door, based on the sound of the motor of his pickup, which he starts every morning before eight, and runs for ten minutes or so before getting back into it and pointedly revving it a few times, then he motors off. To the firehouse I mentioned before, which is v. important to my story.)

a day off Twitter

The day is best started in the company of a dog, preferably Murray, who meets the world with fortitude and humor. Be like the dog. Sniff things.

Moving forward with tech plans for the Knickerbocker Ensemble of Rochester (me and Karen and Tony). The mic stand, which would have been the perfect solution, turns out to have been made for a different model of Ultimate keyboard stand, but now I know, so we'll be approaching with Plan A again, a stand and a boom and a mic and an amp so we can stop borrowing Greg's setup, and so we'll have a mic that can get right up to my vocal apparatus for the two or three numbers I sing.

Murray is all, like "Hey, remember that great walk we just took? Good times, man."

Just scored 80 points at "Classic Words" with WIBBLES. I feel powerful.

Some time we'll find out whether the candy shop in Escanaba will let us bring in a jar to fill with Jelly Bellies, so that when I sort them by color, they stay sorted for at least a while.

Passing time in an acceptable fashion now, mostly by playing through a somewhat detailed WIZARD OF OZ anniversay folio, with the entire Munchkinland sequence spelled out for me. Note to self: "If I Were King of the Forest" is about my favorite number in musicals. It's right up there with "Frank Mills."

Murray and I walked again, first around the house (I dealt with the bunny 'hiding' on the hillside by turning us away for half a minute, and it luckily absquatulated.) and then around the block, where I smiled at hearing voices wherever we went--the neighbor behind, new family at 1, then a mom and two young sons. Murray startled the older one by trying to run beside him, and then a car was coming, so conversation resumed when everybody was there. I explained that Murray likes to run when he sees someone else run, because he likes to play. Alexander, the younger of the two, said he'd like to invite Murray to his upcoming birthday party, and he could play games. Not sure that'll happen, but the sweetest thing I've heard today. His mom mentioned my name as they were leaving, so Murray and I are not unknown to folks. Then I got involved in a text message as dogs were hailing us from various places, and we walked a couple of houses before I suddenly realized I'd made the ultimate faux pas in simply walking away from something instead of bagging it. We retraced our steps and I corrected the error. The dogs barked.

added to as the spirit or dog moved me. huge thanks to the five page views!

Hospice Dad

 

Comforted by bed, blankets, and morphine,
He dreams of ninety-eight years.
From cabins to tents to farms to town,
Mastering piano as a performer,
Supporting a family on a musician's pocket
And an entitled sportsman's distractions.
When he wrote of his memories, some time back,
He didn't mention any of us. We were in his life
But we didn't do much to speak of.

In perpetual not-quite-retirement,
Building boats, he found his milieu.
He was popular, part of the conversation.
Then the strokes started subtracting him,
Shock by shock, never finishing the job.
He came back from it each time
Always diminished but still unreeling,
Still unwinding, years of string, floss, threads of past events,
Loosed and spun away from the shrinking core
Until his final bit flakes off on a breeze
And he goes from being more here than gone
To being more gone than here,
Remembered by the ones he forgot.
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To A Scrubbing Pad On Its Last Day

All right, then. I'm bringing you back from the ceramic cup for a special job. You came to us fresh, clean, and ready to work. I remember. You were going to clean the world with your yellow sponge side and your green Scotchbrite scrub layer. You went right to work on the day-to-day work, and sanitized with little effort, and I always rinsed you out carefully and put you back in your optimal spot by the tap. 

Time went by, and yes, there was a limit to how much even careful procedure and aftercare could do to prevent your yellow side from slowly greying and the green side from gradually congealing, all due to the grease that seems to be everywhere. You were finally retired with honor after your excellent work, and put in the cup for the occasional stove top or counter problem, and you were just right for that job as well.

But today, you have a final job, one that you won't come back from. It's inevitable that we are all temporary here, even the plates and knives and people using them, and today you will serve your employers once more in cleaning the trash receptacle itself, which deserves to be at least occasionally in a state of apparent non-repugnance. It's temporary, too. 

With your help, the garbage can will be briefly a representation of its original shade of white, plausibly newish and unwrecked. More, you're giving it an inside cleaning of the lid that it hasn't had in many cycles. Thank you for that.

In a few moments, assuming I forget to run you around the floor in this corner first, I'll deposit you in the trash and put this now-cleaner lid back over it. I do this with respect, and sorrow, and even a twinge of a physical sensation on the same spectrum as discomfort and pain. 

Well done. 

Thank you.

Goodbye.

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Boxing Days

Oh, so how's it going, with the cleaning up of the box room and all that? Well, when Kathryn left here and went home, she'd cleaned the former box room, now the guest/dog room (but not guest dog room: we have limits), and had talked it over and done some things here, and I was going to keep going back to the stuff regularly, building up my muscles of discuration just as I had earlier built up my muscles of acquisition. As we're at the part of the fairy tale where all the characters march past and vanish over the horizon in a line, it turns out I'm the one who has to operate them. (Who said that's only fair? This is because it's mostly my stuff, right? Typical.)

So. On a day to day basis, I've been going back in and deciding, reckoning, a few things at a time, just up to where my brain begins to fill with small white styrofoam pellets and I have to stop. I've freed up a number of boxes, partly through the clever trick of taking the stuff out of them and piling it here and there, but the piles have meanings: There are stay piles, and there are go piles.

And today I took out the low-hanging fruit by cleaning up boxes from places in the box room, and in the dining room, and the angle of the stairs in back, and in the garage. I emptied whatever was left in them (packing junk, mostly, though I discovered that my window fan came with a bug screen, which I promptly attached), then flattened them and cut them up and stacked the pieces in the largest of the boxes. If they leave us that box, as they generally do, it'll be one of the next to go. I keep finding books I know I can get rid of before other books, so they go on a pile for that. I found my harmonicas. I find boxes that are over 50% air. This'll get easier and harder, variously, but I'm in it.

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