Rodeo Tail-Flip Beats Dinosaurs

Part 8 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

World records are a lot of fun. Of course they take various forms, the big huge official stuff, like when the first guy ran the 4-minute mile. Which is what a good laxative can do for you. Then the unofficial stuff no one thinks of, and maybe it never happens, like, say, the guy who wore his dentures the longest without taking them out. Someone had to! Just glad it wasn't my dad.

And that record could be beaten by now if we knew all the details. My dad had false teeth and put them in a container at night. So obviously he had no discipline when it came to world records, unless it would be the longest unbroken streak of putting them in a container every night. If he would’ve striven to keep them in his mouth the longest, that might've been something. But he didn't care. If you want the glory you gotta have the guts to put up with a little discomfort. In dad’s case, he was too crabby to try.

I’m probably the world-record holder in something without even knowing it. You can do dubious things and honorable things. For example, I keep my lawnmower in the dining room. I needed a place to keep it so it wouldn't be stolen and my dining room's pretty safe. But how would I find the current world's record? I could even actually push it room to room everyday, with lots of world records attainable. But it's not a great distinction. A bigger distinction would be “The longest a guy’s kept a lawn mower in the Big City without someone stealing it.” And I can’t brag about that because the thieves would show up.

Mam & Pap were always looking for unique aspects of the show to advertise to bring out sightseers to share the glory, but whenever it seemed they had something it turned out to be average. Finally, the perfect rarity jumped its way to immortality, a horse whose tail cleared an extraordinary 9+ feet, the highest such clearance reported since the time of the dinosaurs, which was the distant past. Way back before the Pilgrims, before the Model T, and predating Abraham Lincoln, incidentally my spirit animal, totally ancient compared to me.   

The tale of the tail is a great record, having been scrupulously documented, the documentation now lost. I heard some yammering naysayers were disputing Mam & Pap's claim. To which I say, Give me a break! Mam & Pap lived a good moral life. If they said something about their horse's tail, their word's good enough for me! These people were good as gold, and their word better. But because dinosaurs are no more, obviously there's no way we can show a dinosaur's pathetic vertical leap again. Think about it, though, a dinosaur tale weighed around a ton and a horse's tail is about 12 ounces. Which would be more likely to flip higher with a vertical jump?

February Survives -- I Blame Hugh Hefner

WE CAME THAT CLOSE TO WINNING,
BUT FINISHED THE BATTLE WITH
NEXT TO NO SURVIVORS, ONLY
ME. AND I'M GOING INTO HIDING.

I was up early this morning, looking for signs of success against February. My heroic attempt to destroy February as a month on the calendar, then divvy up most of its days with other months and preserve a "stump month" of 10 February days, hung in the balance. Alone in my prayer citadel -- other than the courthouse the highest point in the county -- I tried to have faith, but reports coming in from around the world painted a dismal picture. There was no popular groundswell, none whatsoever, to do away with February.

I held out hope, biting my fingernails to the quick. Various lieutenants and family members climbed up to check on me. The braver ones warned me to be prepared for bad news. They said reports arriving from other states and countries showed the chances of destroying February as bleak. Legislators were not meeting, Congress pitched pennies instead of working, and the United Nations was closed, ambassadors laid off without pay.

Finally, I realized I had to put on a brave face. And show that everything was fine with me, in spite of my disappointment. I stripped off my outer layers of clothing. (It's a cold day.) Then my thermals. Last, I shed the rest of my clothes and stepped out on my citadel balcony, totally naked, me against the world! In one last expression of defiance, albeit vain, I peed. Reasoning, if I can't destroy February, I can go for the Guinness world record for the longest adhering urine stream. I was stoved up with two pots of freshly ground coffee -- jet black! My stream might still be flowing -- somewhere, somehow -- even as I write this two hours later.

So what happened? It's too early for a complete post mortem. I won't get into the details of my agitating government and the media. I put my heart into it, but it wasn't enough. I would like to mention, as an incriminating aside, that there seems to be a lot of old-time XXX movie houses very close to the Capitol. Could it be our "faithful representatives" are more "hung" up on some "pressing" matters of the flesh than they are "coming" to the aid of their people? 

OK, I did the government thing, but the heart of the campaign had to be this very blog. I put the word out there everyday -- with a worldwide outreach -- and what did people do with it? That's what I'd like to know! I know you'll say this is in bad taste, but frankly I'm shifting much of the blame to my readers, whose personal pleasure was their only real concern. Pretending to be on my side, pretending to do the heavy lifting, but then ... not really. I'd guess most of them are also into XXX entertainment, whether in some rundown smelly/sticky theater, or right there with their iPhones "in hand."

I've suspected all along that I've been dealing with mental cream puffs, halfwits, and the usual run of dim bulbs you meet on the internet. They're spoiled, there's no commitment. You know what, I remember the internet back in the '90s, man. Back in the '90s, man, you'd run a campaign -- destroy February, replace Christmas with Worship a Pine 2 x 4 Day -- and you'd get it done. Then the 2000s came -- 9/11 and people became pansified -- and now we're so soft we've essentially melted. It's 2015 and you couldn't raise an internet volunteer to YAWN on cue; they'd be asleep already before you flashed the sign!

OK, you had your chance. So don't come looking to me next year when February rolls around again. Just suffer. Because I'll still be nursing a grudge -- an eternal grudge -- stewing over how you deserted me, then even went so far as to callously stab me in the back right when I was on the brink of victory. The very worst time for betrayal, because the hurt never leaves. I'll always remember ... this time back in 2015 when I took on this literally thankless task. When my readers were so "into pleasure" they couldn't be bothered to support a brother in his hour of need.

It's a lot different from what I grew up with. I grew up hearing about the Depression, with my relatives' memories being how they stuck together, through thick and thicker. So where did things go so wrong with society? You know what I blame it on? There was strength in World War II, then a huge letdown, and people relaxed. When, guess who, Hugh Hefner comes along and fills the vacuum with Playboy magazine, setting the old mores aside as well as the old values. Look it up in any sociology text. Hugh Hefner gave us the dawn of a hedonism that would've made Caligula blush. And therein is the reason we couldn't destroy February.

So it's a problem with our government, and a problem with my readers, existing as they do in this reckless XXX world. And apparently there's nowhere to find better ones. Even the most prominent think tanks can't find people. They're all so hopelessly wasted, there's probably no one but me who'd even be smart enough to apply.

Mental Parasitism -- Organization Man

The following is a record of my inaugural communique with our membership upon the demise of the old Institute of Mental Parasitism and the immediate arising of the new:

Demonstrating the reach and power of my blog -- the rallying point of our revolution -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism has been destroyed. The word went forth and mental parasites the world around have responded. You canceled your membership, simultaneously receiving details on membership in the new Institute, under my aegis, and most who are qualified to join us have already done so.

The few stragglers who have not joined, who have not even submitted the first of their paperwork, we can only surmise, are lukewarm, or have waited to see which side would be victorious before committing themselves. Those people make me sick, and if they do not submit at least a note of inquiry, and I mean pronto, they will find themselves completely out, unacceptable to one and all.

The new Institute of Mental Parasitism, a dignified name that replaces what came before -- the old Institute of Mental Parasitism -- I promise will be an organization of complete integrity. It will be an organization of compassion, forever untainted by ambition, corruption, greed, and malevolence. Our goal -- our only goal -- will be to provide everything that you, our honored members, need so you may be all you can be in our common cause.

Once again, after many tiresome years of constant shenanigans by the scurvy monkeys who ran the old Institute, then eventually ran it into the ground, you have an Institute to be proud of. As far as we of the new Institute are concerned, the scoundrels who mismanaged the old Institute will never again be a part of our community. They have already been left behind, left fend for themselves, if they're able, and we can only hope that they shall be consumed in some way, enveloped, engulfed, and destroyed.

Not to belabor to the point of tedium their despicable stewardship of the organization, we can only say their mismanagement and exploitation of us and our resources was completely intentional. I personally tied President X to a chair and mentally consumed him for the space of an hour, nearly wasting his mentality down to its bare nubbins, before taking even one mental breath. And I can report my findings, that Mr. X had -- and for this reason we might perhaps honor his memory in a small way -- some small degree of regret for his perfidy.

In working through the data gleaned, it shakes out like this: The more Mr. X exploited the organization, the more he regretted it. The nature of his regret, however, was not positive. It was a case of seeking to destroy, out of self-loathing, that which he at one time loved. So Mr. X did the sad work of exploitation and regretted it, but then only doubled down on his destructive impulses. Recall, I took in his mentality, and was able to discern this much and more, so of course I'm not feeling 100% at this time.

I have also given an executive order to remove Mrs. X from all Auxiliary work, effective immediately. It is good to note that she has been completely innocent in this whole matter. And yet we suspect were she left to continue, she would foolishly seek to advocate for her husband. And with no one to give credence to anything she says, we fear she might initiate other terrible works of sabotage against us. Therefore Mrs. X has been banned from all Institute facilities and meetings. If at any time you see Mrs. X where she should not be (let the reader understand), please notify security immediately and they will deal with her.

Please let me express my personal regret that any of this has occurred, that it came to this. You didn't ask for this fight nor did I. We were guilty of nothing, unless it be trusting people too much, too readily. Warning signs were there, of course, but most of us were not in a position to recognize them as anything other than static on the wire. The investigation continues, however, to ferret out anyone who did know, or were in a position to know and did nothing.

I cannot comment to any real extent on the investigation, except to say that I hear there are potential suspects who must be dealt with. I have directed our team in the computer side of records to correlate the data in such a way to determine if any of the "lukewarm" ones, noted above, who have not completed their paperwork for admission to the new Institute, may be among them. If so, we will have a better handle on their hesitancy. If found complicit, naturally they will be excluded. It is to be seriously regretted that we shall not have the benefit of their dues, but the cost of integrity at times is high.

Friends, all around me I can see and hear the hustle and bustle of the new Institute's staff, eager beavers each one, and I am pleased. But I now ask your leave to be excused for a time, to rest and recharge. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not by nature an Organization Man. Those of you who have tasted my mentality -- in private session -- will attest to that. Even without mental parasitic activity trained on me, but only from the day to day grind we're dealing with, I feel myself nearly drained. And so I must -- I'll repeat that, I must -- leave our world headquarters for a time. Perhaps to sleep, more likely to sequester myself away in the dark corner of a university town coffee shop, to train my attention, to direct my focus, on the eyes, face, lips, hands, feet -- the entire body -- of vital, vibrant subjects just waiting, desirous and even begging (however unconscious they are of it) for a mental parasite to completely sap them. I shall become stronger as their depletion proceeds.

One day -- I hope soon -- I shall regain my strength, thanks to those unwilling subjects and thousands of others. Then you and I shall together do the day to day work of running this great organization -- the best little Institute of Mental Parasitism in the world, the new one, run by men of integrity (along with some minor help from the ladies Auxiliary), world without end.

Check Out These Sexy Album Covers

I've been finding some pretty sexy album covers in my discovery of new and old music. This album of rare oldies but goodies has a definite goodie awaiting the discriminating music fan. I see a very nice looking old record, a little bigger than life-sized sharing a hot date with a true music lover. The fade-outs on her back and other more southerly regions are not welcome, but still are not entirely bad. It's one of those cases, like with optical illusions, where the eye fills in the blanks, then ... lingers ...

I'm not sure how famous Flow Tribe is, but I'm a lifelong fan, thanks to this sexy cover. Notice how risque it is: They're pregnant with a baby called Funk. How exactly they got pregnant, they being represented by the winged goddess on the cover, is anyone's guess. Perhaps divine hanky panky, but I like to picture it being done in the good old-fashioned way, with some mysterious guy, probably chunky, they met on tour. Up till then, they were strictly lounge music, with an unsatisfied hunger for flair. Then the guy approaches, and before you knew it, little baby Funk was in utero. Check out his umbilical cord, attached to headphones. Cool.

I've always loved this album cover by Del Shannon and the song "Little Town Flirt." This was a hugely sexy song in the early '60s. "You can get hurt, fooling around with that town flirt," thanks to her being involved "with every guy that goes by." Then there's the artwork. And I know I'm dating myself -- even going steady -- but to me this is what cute girls should still look like, the way they looked when I first noticed them. Yes, the old world ways are still the best! My cousins and I used to look at this album cover, then immediately go prowling the campground at the state park. Which was about the time I also discovered how suspicious and wary fathers could be.

Isn't this a great one? You think, "Yeah, I already have most of the one hit wonders on this album," then you take one look and say, "But I guess I could always use a back-up copy." The way she's sitting, I have to tell you, I remember some of the old teachings, and this wasn't what they taught. But still, sometimes music brings out the animal in you. Then with some satisfaction, you're wistful, daydreaming, and casually setting the record down as you contemplate. Some guy comes by and wonders, Why couldn't it have been a 45?

 

Speaking of 45s, what's those big gold blotches? Some kind of starburst thing, that, frankly, we could live without. Come on, I like to read record labels, being an old record collector from way back. But let's say something about the cover: Give me time, I'm thinking, I'm thinking! Wow! She's cute! One hand gloved, one hand not. I'd like to see her twisting the night away in one of those dance cages on Hullabaloo, at the Au-Go-Go!

Sorry, boys, if this last cover's a total downer for you. But in many ways this is the sexiest of all, because it was Hardrock Gunter, unbeknownst to you, who got your grandparents or great-grandparents going, and if it weren't for him, you might not be here! Honest to God truth!

Hardrock Gunter was doing the wild thing back when doing the wild thing could get you in lots of trouble. They had the vice squad, censuring preachers, beak-nosed teachers, and mom and dad at the door. And yet, there was Hardrock, blasting out that hot country swing, and turning a blind eye when the kids drifted off to ... who knows where?

What about birth control? Except for a bottle of Coke, there wasn't any. Ever wonder why Grandma and Grandpa had five or six kids? Notice the title, "I'll give 'em rhythm." Hardrock meant it two different ways, but, alas, only one way was actually reliable, the music! But a lot of kids took it on faith, and so, here you are today, generations later.

Hardrock Gunter and his rhythm stick, sexy as can be! Pull up a chair at the Hardrock cafe!

Is It Strange For True Love To Be So Young?

I've got an old record -- and of course you can find it on YouTube -- by Tony Bellus, called "Robbin' the Cradle." It always strikes me as fairly lascivious although it's an entertaining record with nice echo. But the main theme is, "They say I'm robbin' the cradle, little darling ... Is it strange for true love to be so young?" We might say, Well, Tony, it all depends, how young are you talkin'?

It used to be -- sometime between the ancient Greeks and the 1950s -- that the field of "love" was wide open. Then we developed a few more morals and really cracked down on these sorts of activities. That and dating first cousins. Although I used to have some distant cousins who got together and they never had any problems. Both were blind as well as three or four of their kids. But that was it.

The ancient Greeks, I'm not 100% sure what they were up to. But I am sure that's why you never see an ancient Greek living within 2,000 feet of a school. Whatever it was, their lovers hadn't graduated yet and gone on to college. But that was when the human race itself was young, and they were still feeling their way toward a modern standard of right and wrong. It's like that in most societies; you have to run through every option before you winnow them down to the right ones. Like slavery, we look at it today as a big duh.

Because today we know the difference between right and wrong. At Walmart you have to show ID if you look under 40. They overcompensate just to be on the safe side. The corollary when it comes to dating is, If she doesn't look 40, she might be 17. We know the difference between right and wrong! And woe to those who don't! Yes, I'm looking at you, the occasional bad apple teacher I read about at Huffington Post! It's not love, folks, it's sick. There's an interesting thought: You bring a juicy apple to the teacher, but what if the teacher himself (or herself) is a bad apple!

And with that, let me wish everyone a Happy Valentine's Day. May all your love be completely kosher.

Please Don't Drag That String Around

I've got the great Elvis Presley song "Please Don't Drag That String Around" in mind. I'm pretty good at singing it, at least according to the way I hear things. Probably if I heard it played back with no accompaniment and my bare, crummy singing voice, it'd sound like crap. But thanks to the inner voice and the great acoustics in the shower, it's all good.

It's a great song, though, and I'd love to line up a dozen different versions on Spotify and listen to them. Except the only artist who does the song besides Elvis is someone called The Tuesday Blue Express. What is it about that song that no one does it? It's on Elvis' Gold Records Vol. 4 and the '60s Masters box set, two places. It's on a 45 I have at home. And of course The Tuesday Blue Express, whom I hadn't heard of before, but if they do this song despite the rest of the world, they have to be great.

OK, I just listened to their version. It's just a straightforward version, not at any different than Elvis,' with kind of a rockabilly jump sound. I don't know that it has any real reason to exist, which may be is why no one else does the song. What's the use, if you're not going to do anything with it? You can't outplead the King, baby.

"Please don't drag that string around." In the song, Elvis is a "puppet on a string" to his baby, recalling another of his great songs. His baby must realize his heart is tied to the other end, but maybe she just doesn't care. So he needs to plead, she's oblivious to what she has in this devoted man. Personally, I'd rather have a more equal relationship than that, not having to "jump to your command" like a puppet. That's probably why no one else does the song; it has kind of a pathetic theme.

Still, I love the song. And big plaudits go out to The Tuesday Blue Express for at least taking it on. To the rest of the assembled artists of the world, those who have turned your back on this song, shame on you. Beatles, Stones, Matt Monro, Dolly Parton, Porter Wagoner, Tex Beneke, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Dick Barnett (a kid I knew in school), and Paul Peterson, I'm looking right at you!

As Of This Writing

As of this writing, it's 6:39 in the evening, April 25, 2011, and, there it goes, it's now 6:30 p.m. Meaning I must've started the paragraph at some point mid-minute.

But it's fresh, that's for sure. That is to say, as of this writing, it is the present moment. And just so you'll know I'm not writing it two weeks ago, I'm holding up a copy of today's newspaper, like Castro always does, who, by the way, as of this writing, is still alive. And his brother, too.

Most of the posts I write have an evergreen quality to them, that's been pointed out to me by others, and as of this writing, I agree. But this one might be different, since time is advancing on, it now being 6:42. Gotta chug along, so I'm not still writing at 7:00 p.m. I don't want anyone to get the impression that I labor over these posts for hours at a time.

It's a matter of minutes, like that Madonna song, "4 Minutes," which, as of this writing, is about what it's been since I started. I've only got four minutes to save the world. I just saw that CD yesterday at a store for $1.00, and to think I paid that a few years ago just for the title song! I could've waited and had the whole album. But I didn't want it anymore. As of this writing, my interests have shifted.

Speaking of albums, guess what, I bought the New York Dolls' LP yesterday for $10, then when I came home and played it, there was a terrible skip on the second track, "Stranded In The Jungle." It didn't skip ahead, but kept backtracking on one line toward the end. So I tried some stupid internet theory for fixing skips with a sewing needle and a paper horn. Naturally, as of this writing, my record is all scratched to hell from the needle. It seems there's no way to guide it and actually find the scratch with a needle. So instead of having a nice LP, I've got it shoved in the case and will probably throw it out in Wednesday's garbage. As of this writing, I'm bummed out about it.

6:47 p.m. - I might have dawdled a little too much on that paragraph. I don't know if you realize it -- you probably do -- but "Stranded In The Jungle" is an old '50s song, recorded by several artists. We had the 45 of it by one of the groups when I was a kid and always liked it. As of this writing, it's still one of my favorite memories from childhood. My mom had some good records, but as of this writing, she probably doesn't.

All kinds of things, as of this writing, are either banal or profound facts. If you're reading this on some kind of super internet archive in 2050, most of the things that are true right this minute won't still be true then. As for me, as of this writing, I'm alive, but in 2050, unless I'm extremely lucky or unlucky, will be dead. At that point I won't have a favorite song from childhood.

Even big facts, of course, will no longer be true. Things as of this writing that we take for granted -- like who the president of the United States is -- will be easily outdated, and, if we still have presidents in 2050, it will be someone else. Maybe one of Barack Obama's daughters, who, as of this writing are still children.

Well, sorry to everyone in 2050, but I have to cut this little exercise short. Because as of this writing I have duties around the house I need to complete. As of this writing, to put the big finale on it, it is 6:51 p.m., and it just switched over to 6:52 as I was saying that.

If You See A Red Dog Running Free

I woke up today in the greatest mood, with a song that I heard yesterday running through my mind. It's on repeat mode because it's the only thing I can think of.

The song is "Abergavenny," by Shannon. I have a 45 rpm record of it and it's also on an LP. I love it, stuff like this, "Taking a trip up to Abergavenny, Hoping the weather is fine, If you should see a red dog running free, Well, you know he's mine." And it's also got some great stuff about "Paradise people, fine by me." So, wherever Abergavenny is, "I've got to get there and fast!"

I love that "red dog running free" line. I take my dog for a walk and she used to run free. But now we have a roaming cop in the area all the time, who I call Deputy Dawgcatcher. And he's constantly on the lookout for vicious curs tasting freedom. My dog was running free one time and I saw Deputy Dawgcatcher coming into the area, so I have a deal with my dog, when I give out a high pitched shriek that only she can hear, that means "Come." Then we're walking along, my dog on her leash, and we crossed paths with Deputy D and he pointed out to me some other guy over there whose dog was running free. He's got to cite him.

Anyway, we don't want dogs running free that are going to kill us. But most wouldn't!

So I'm having a great morning, in the greatest mood, with the greatest song running through my head. If you know the record, it has that marching band in there. It's very nice.

Speaking of bands, tonight's the Friday night grange dance, Johnny Hotshot's band, the works, the grange people, the horses, matrons, farmers' daughters, black hooded Grange Brotherhood. I'm definitely going -- especially as everything's loosening up very nicely for me. I'm fitting right in, making some decent alliances, etc.

There are always ways of dealing with people to your best advantage. Put on a good face. Listen to happy music. Get yourself stoked up about your own qualities. See yourself divinely led, divinely inspired. Know you've got the entire divinity right there in your heart. Crap, it isn't rocket science, it's better. It's the secrets of the universe in a one inch cube right behind your navel. With the spiritual superhighway leading right by, with several on and off ramps to your brain. People look at you and they don't know what hit 'em.

Then you've got all the instincts it takes to arrange things, chairs, tables, gift baskets, flowers, smiling, touching shoulders, commisserating, strategic yielding, other people's wisdom taking your breath away...

That's the way I'm going tonight, with gift baskets and gift cards. A modest investment in gift baskets and gift cards will pay off handsomely. Wait and see!

But as for this morning:

Sunshine forever, lovely weather
Don't you wish you could be.....
Ah, taking a trip up to Abergavenny
Hoping the weather is fine
If you should see a red dog running free
Well, you know he's mine!

----------------------

"Abergavenny" music and lyrics by Jack Geller & Frere Manston, performed by Shannon, aka Marty Wilde, 1968 recording.

Wang Dang Doodle (Today's Tweets)

As you are, I once was. As I am, you will be. (You wish!!!)

Wang dang doodle. I shall prevail.

The whole thing with the Octopus/Snake fight riled up something in my spirit, a fierce force that can't be dismissed. I've one thing to do:

And that's to listen to this record, as recorded by Joanie Sommers, "Johnny Get Angry"...

"Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad; Give me the biggest lecture I ever had; I want a brave man, I want a cave man; Show me that you care..."

Because I'm soon going to lead the Brotherhood (a rural mafia-type group), I went to buy some organic eggs. My connection to the country.

It's true, I did buy some organic eggs. First time ever.

Our 78 rpm Records

I was going through some of Grandma's old 78 rpm records the other day and noticed that one of my all time favorites was broken. Boo!

It's by the biggest selling singer of a couple of Grandma's generations, Mr. Bing Crosby. And the song is called "I Didn't Slip, I Wasn't Pushed I Fell." This has to be one of my favorite Bing records and it doesn't seem to be such a hit as to appear on current hits compilations. But there it was, in two pieces, one bigger piece, one piece separated from the original whole. A nasty thing to have happen.

Really, it's too bad they made records back in those days the way they did. So breakable. You can't count on them. You go get one and five of them will be broken. Must be the shifting of molecules, or molecules retiring and going to live in a home.

I looked up this song. I know it's out there; there was a Chronological Bing Crosby collection a few years ago, maybe they're still putting it out, everything he did. They definitely don't have the song at Amazon or I Tunes. I think there's a Doris Day version.

I did some work on it, though, trying to salvage what I could, taping the broken piece back as best I could, then recording the results. Naturally there's a couple good sized clicks every time it goes around. But with a little work on the file, it's not as bad as it could be.

Someday I'll find another copy. I suppose I could check eBay, but haven't yet. That's a great song. Other great songs, just off the top of my head, from our collection: Ballerina, Galway Bay, A Hot Time In The Town of Berlin. One of these, maybe Ballerina, I didn't see last time I looked. Possibly broken and thrown out.