Today is July 14th. Bastille Day in France. Today's trivia question is this: Which two Beatle songs could you not buy for a period of approximately 15.151515- - - years back in the late sixties and seventies? One of them is a Stephen King book title and the other title is related to the title of a Petula Clark song. OK, I know you all have the answer.
It was Tuesday June 16th. that I lost my internet connection. I replaced the modem and redid all the wires and connections with new equipment and the thing still didn't work. It would seem to have been A T & T's fault. I was unable to answer their securety question of "What is your favorite resturant"? That question makes about as much sense as asking Elvis Presley to name a girl he's had sex with. You could probably narrow it down to about thirty, but they only give you two guesses. Once I sent them three pieces of mail with my name on it, I was easily able to get back on. That occurred a little after three o clock yesterday afternoon.
Two or three other items have dominated my personal life lately. In Dr. Levy's class he was talking about writing poetry. Apparently a man told Dr. Levy that his poetry was too wordy and they make it "too easy" for the reader to figure out what you are saying. I wouldn't call that a bad thing. For myself I tend to be excessively brief in both my writing and my song lyrics- - perhaps due to all those years hanging around Mark Campbell. One time my Dad was reading some papers he thought were mine but talked about "Mental free association sentenses". This is the practice of stringing together a lot of tripped out individual sentenses or thoughts together to meditate on. But the other "model" for myself is Bob Dylan and many of his songs are quite explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. (Am I allowed to say "explicit" over national television?) Rubin Hurricane Carter is one of these very detailed songs.
It was Saturday July 4th. that our family had a "Marge Simpson" moment, if you saw last night's Simpsons. It's a posh retirement community for my mother, where they give you three gourmet meals a day and have a lot of other services. You eat your meals in a chandeleered resturant setting with white table cloths. We had drippy barbecued ribs the day I was there, which you had to pick up by hand, which would exclude certain segments of the population. As with Marge Simpson, I worry whether my Mom fill "fit in" and somehow won't be snobbed by the others. She'll have to give up some things she enjoys doing like baking bread or puttering around in the garden. It's called the Regency, and it's at the top of a hill with a nice view in El Toro, even if they don't call it that any more. Because of this she had to hold a furniture sale for some items that wouldn't fit in her new place. Last Saturday I and Pete Richards moved my things, mostly records and books and a couple of musical instruments, and an electric typewriter, over to a mutual friend of both of us. His father saw a lot of active service at sea during world war II. Here's another quiz for you all. His father and mother while dating before marriage had a favorite song they played at his funeral. It's a song they later made a du-op version of in the early 'fifties, that occasionally got played on Bryan Berne's Saturday night show on KRTH. Name It. Here's a blogger exclusive factoid. As you know this friend of me and Pete's has a brother and a sister both of which were married and had children. But one of the two of them (I forget which) converted to Hassidic Judaisum and the kids too.
Last Saturday I went to a six month belated Funeral. It was also approximately the 12th. anniversary of when my long term neighbor Ken, had a sudden violent heart attack one Saturday morning in 1997 and died en rout to the hospital. This funeral (last Saturday) was for an Uncle of mine who was a colonel in the Air Force, and I was in the minority of those attending that were actually blood related to the deceast. There were besides the immediate family, one first cousin, two second cousins, and one baby third cousin. My cousin has been married three times. The third husband had two daughters and one of these had a baby eighteen months old, who was there, a blond haired boy. But it was the other baby who was blood related to me who was part Black. The last name of the third husband is Funkhauser. The patriarch of the gathering who had the most blood relations was Gary Johnson. He had a son and daughter who were step second cousins to me. Each of these married and had kids many of which were teenage boys, and these are step third cousins to me. Also there was the son of her first husband, who brought a girlfriend. We first met in that gezebo type thing where they had their military ceremony. Then Pete Richards stepped forward as the groups spiritual leader to do the religious part at the grave site. He was wearing a pale yellow long sleved shirt. I was wearing a black long sleved shirt and light kakis. For all the bragging about how religious the decedant was and a good Episcipalian, it would surprise you that they hadn't been to church in thirty years such that there was no minister available to perform the ceremony.
The grave was way out accross a field of unmowed grass and lumpy ground that was hard to walk accross because parts of the ground were soaked and parts were so dry the grass was dying. At my brother's recomendation we often viered off of Van Buren onto the "scenic rout" back road en rout. It was about a ten mile trek from the cemetary to the place we ate lunch at, the Cheesecake Factory, where we ate at a humungus long table out in the ninety degree heat, and there were over twenty of us. I didn't have desert because since I wasn't paying the bill I didn't want to be piggish. Here is another blogger exclusive. As we were coming over the Santa Ana pass, my Mom raised the charge that I had "Aspburger's Sidrone". This is a desease where kids get into a lot of fights at school because "they don't know how to relate to the feelings of other people". Judy defended me and said I didn't have it. Of course you know what R. P. Mac Murphy said was his problem in Coocoo's Nest, he said "Too much fighting and fucking". There is a guy who used to live here named Gary, whom I suspect would have gotten the shit beat out of him a hundred times over were he not here. But they don't allow fighting in this place. They kick you out.
Finally I'd like to suggest that like Marge Simpson, my mother learn how to play Bridge. Both of her parents are accompolished Bridge players. It makes about as much sense for her to play Bridge as for me to learn Spanish in this place. Not knowing Spanish in this place and this neighborhood is like not having a car in Southern California. It's a thing that would certainly come in handy.
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