Lucky 13 Skeletoons

 

Teenage Werewolf -- The Cramps

I Walked With A Zombie -- Roky Erickson & The Aliens

Dinner With Drac -- Zacherley

I Put A Spell On You -- Screaming Jay Hawkins




The Brain That Refused To Die -- Slickee Boys

Monsters From The Surf -- Monsters From The Surf

Who Do You Love -- Bo Diddley

Zombie Jamboree -- Eloise Trio

Vampira -- The Misfits




American Psycho -- D12

Frankenstein -- Edgar Winter Group

Creature From The Black Leather Lagoon -- The Cramps

Jack The Ripper -- Screaming Lord Sutch

Welcome New Blogger: Narcisstic Nihilism

My friend Drew has started a blog today, and I wanted to welcome him to blog-o-sphere.  He can be read at:

Narcissistic Nihilism

http://3fingeredsalute.livejournal.com/

 

 

It was Drew who gave me this photograph, that I am still trying to think of something to do with it:

     

Washington Cube     http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

Silly Sea Birds...And Losing My Marbles

 

We have a mixed relationship with seagulls. Some rhapsodize how "...no dreams may possess you, no voices can blame you for sun on your wings," while for others of us they are flying rats. When you live in isolation with these birds, they get to know you and your own habits and patterns while you witness theirs.  Every morning when I am up and stirring about, they fly reconaissance past the wall of glass, coming in slow and low to see what's for breakfast. Usually it's oatmeal, half a bagel, or yogurt, which is of little interest to them. I've discovered seagulls have their likes and dislikes, yet you wouldn't think it possible the way they eat. Unlike the communal crow who will call others of his troop when food is located, even holding off eating until the others have joined him, the seagull is all about swoop, grab and gulp. I've seen them eat all manner of things:  a carcass from roasted chicken, leftover pizza and popcorn.  Their true desire, however, are for those rare mornings when I make French toast or waffles with honey.  I've seen them go into a frenzy over sweetened, eggy bread.  I've wanted to say at times, "I am not making crepes for you winged beggars."

                                Path on the Cape Cod Canal

 

The Cape Cod Canal cuts in from the sea, effectively breaking off what was called a peninsula and now forms a truer island.  Along the length of the canal, from it's sea entrance, to the Sagamore Bridge, which is the chief means of crossing onto the Cape from land, there is a paved walkway which is taken over by walkers, bicyclists,  rollerbladders, and birds.  The sea birds have learned to use the sidewalk as a tool. You can see them diving into the water for their meal, then they will fly inland, hover over the pavement and drop their catch. They have learned through practice and time that the hardness of the surface will shatter open the quahog shell and save them the labor of prying with their beaks. Authorities having to deal with this shellfish detritus have tried everything to unlearn the birds, even an attempt to try alarm them by painting the shape of a man with arms upraised in white outlines on the black tarmac. The birds are not dissuaded, and they continue to drop and feed.

One time, in a pique of whimsy, I bought a box of Dunkin' Donuts on the last day and threw out donuts for them. One bird was so pleased with his booty, he strutted around with the donut in his mouth in front of fellow gulls, turning his head to the left, then right, to show off his treasure. Once I am gone, they know it's a long winter of sand crabs and clams to come.

I'm not without my own quirks. One autumn when I was on a stretch of sandy beach, watching an old man methodically move along with his mine sweeping metal detector, it came to me to start burying coins under the sand. We all seek potential treasure whether in Powerball or pennies. I realized it would give him such pleasure to hear his sweeper beeping while he took his walk and that it was more about the moment when the meter starts to click and the anticipation of what might be there. Beachcombing is much more than discovering what the sea has washed up. It is returning to a childlike fascination with the found object.

A few years ago, I decided it would be fun to toss marbles back into the sea while I take my strolls. I went to a local market and found a tray that displayed 500 or 1,000 marbles of varied sizes and styles: cat's eyes, ghosts, agies, shooters and alleys. The largest marble in the collection, sometimes called the moon marble, is black irridescence, and I always held onto that one for last. As Tibetans tie their hopes and prayers to pieces of paper that flutter in the wind, I would wish, hope and pray with each lobbed bit of glass into the water. I had a fantasy that it would be nice if the marble could work it's way back to shore, with the movement of the tide and some nice hot summer day a child walking on the beach, bent over in search of treasure, could find one washed back up amidst the rocks and shells of the shoreline.



     This is not French toast....and it's cold....and where's the honey? 

Moorings

                               My beautiful ship

                                       O my memory

                                       Have we sailed far enough

                                       In waters vile to drink

                                       Have we sailed far enough

                                       From the beautiful dawn

                                       To the sad evening

                                             ~~Apollinaire

                                                Cape Cod Bay

 

   When you live in rooms that stand at the end of land, you can sense that you are floating into nothingness at times. You turn from the room to the sea for too long, and you are suspended in the sky and adrift. At other moments, you turn your back on the sea and retreat into your shell like those creatures you find on the rocks and sand. Walls become your second skin, and the space that you inhabit is indistinguishable. You are sheltered from vacuity.   The wind coming at you from the sea speaks of places unseen and unknown. You look for mental paths to return you to your life and the things you should be doing. You mind becomes a bridge built from driftwood and scraps of sea salvage and everything remains fraught with meaning: the book lying bent on it's spine, the glass reflecting sunlight on the counter. Staring off into objects, you think back: shared moments of happiness and sorrow, and your joys and regrets bob like buoys.

                                    A flooded road.  Scorton Creek.   

Is this what life is finally all about? The imperative to go forward and the varied paths, some flooded with misreadings? Solitude seeks answers. Walt Whitman said, "To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means...I think I will do nothing for a long time, but listen and acrue what I hear unto myself." Introspection can lead you to deeper levels of memory, and you can easily sink, wondering if you will ever surface again. We remain in each other's memories...for as long as we chose to. For those we have lost-- we know they won't be swimming to shore, shaking away time, joining us with where we have gone on in our lives.

Ultimately, we can never truly know others. At best, we guess. We are condemned to being these isolated islands of self. What remains important is to keep trying to break through, even though we know we can't. Tonight, I watched clouds pushing against the sky and setting sun, pushing their heads against the darkening sky. I turned my face back to the land hoping the way will be smooth: trying to remain true on course and keep from taking false steps again.

 

 

Washington Cube     http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

 

 

Co-Inky Dink...Or Not?

 
I was on the computer last night, dropping comments around the D.C. blogger's pages, when a friend sent me an instant message. He had just returned from a bad date and wanted to know if he could talk through it with "his girls." His girls would be my friend Laura and myself. I rounded her up, and we went into a chat room to listen. I'll call him "George," since the woman he dated said he reminded her of a buffed up version of George Chakiris in West Side Story.

I should say that George definitely falls in my range of what I define as a "guy" guy. He does all the normal things you expect of a man, and there are no quirky little shadows. We were watching the Redskins game on Sunday, and he was yelling at the television during the game, something a "guy" guy does. He's the lucky owner of shared season tickets, so half of the time he's yelling at the Skins live, but on those off weeks, he makes do by yelling at the t.v. During the first quarter, Clinton Portis was getting yelled at a lot on blown plays. I kept hearing "Fuck you, Portis, you fucking suck." This went on until Portis finally did something right, then George said, "We love Portis." I added, "...for the moment." Another talent George possesses that I marvel at is that he can predict the next play before it happens. I told him on Sunday that I had fond memories of my father and brother yelling at the television during sports games. Laura said her brothers and father did the same. Someone needs to add that habit to their potential date's "pro's and con's" list. Last night, while we were waiting for Laura to join us, George told me "Fuck the tuck rule."


George was at a local watering hole. I asked him, "upscale, or dive." "Dive," he said. Sitting at the bar, to his left, was an elderly man. On his right was another guy, and to that guy's right were two women. The younger guy (not the geezer) was talking to the two women as George arrived. The man made a comment to George about a football game on the television above the bar, and when he got to talking to him, he realized he used to play against him at pickup football games. They swapped "how is so and so stories" for a bit. George said, "I wasn't really in the mood to talk...I was pissed that the bar was playing music during the game." "Communists," I said. He joined the group of the man and two women, and they wound up talking at the bar for three hours. He said, "She was definitely showing the signs: hand on arm, compliments, etc." At some point she asked him if he wanted to listen to someone who sounded like Alison Krauss. He said to us, "I was game, so the four of us headed back to her place, but before we left the bartender was giving her a hard time about picking me up." "Orgy time," Laura replied. Laura and I had to divert him at this point to ponder what kind of a woman would ask a man if he wants to listen to some chick who sounds like Alison Krauss. She did other weird things, as well, like played her saxophone for him. I mean..am I missing something?

We asked what she looked like, and George stated, "She had a young Liz Taylor-Lynda Carter thing going." I commented, "you mean like Black Irish: dark hair, blue eyes, fair complexion?" "EXACTLY!," he said. He went on to say that things were "pretty cool" at her house. He couldn't remember the name of the singer she was playing, but he wasn't too impressed. Regarding bar girl, I said, "Does she sit and scream "Fuck you Portis at her television? I think not." He laughed and said, "The evening ended nicely, and "No, I didn't close the deal." Laura said, "Good. We can't have you being slutty." Bar girl asked him to call her later, so when they finally talked, they decided to hook up yesterday and met again at the same watering hole. I'm guessing he was at something like the Grog and Tankard in Glover Park, but he didn't say. Laura and I went off on a tangent about football, and Laura pointed an arrow back to her screenname and typed, "guy guy." I said, "We are guy girls, Lau."



George went on with what he called "pertinent information." The girl had just broken up with her "artsy" boyfriend who had majored in theatre lighting. Laura said, "That's a hard major. I bet he pulled all nighters." I snorted. He said, "Okay. Back to tonight...", but we couldn't let it go. "Can you imagine", I asked, "Theatre lighting is my major?" Laura shot back, "I'd think you'd learn everything there is to know about theatre lighting in three credits." "Two," I quipped, "with one credit for lab." George said, "I love my girls. Group hug." He pulled us back into the story by saying the girl had started pondering if his family would like her or not. This is what I mean about some of her weird ways: Alison Krauss, saxophone playing and "what would your family think of me?" On a first date?

George continued, despite our interruptions. "We're sitting in the bar and out of the blue, her old boyfriend walks in." I stopped him and asked, "Did she set you up for this for some jealousy thing? He just "happened" to walk in?" "Yes, Cubie," he said. "Stringy long hair, smoker's face...I didn't consider him competition." "Not when you look like George Chakiris," I shot back. He went on. "Well..talk about a buzz kill." I raised my hand. "Yes, child?", he asked. My question was, "Is this one of her regular watering holes where she and her ex-boyfriend hung out?" He said, "I didn't gather that." I replied, "Rotten in Denmark time." George observed how her demeanor was with him, so he went off to the bathroom, and when he got back he told her he was going to call it an evening. She walked him to the outside of the bar and as he put it, "handed me a line about wishing that it was the ex-boyfriend that was leaving." George simply said "good night" to her and left.

Laura asked, "Can you tell if a person is sincere or not? Do you have a gut feeling about this girl and what her motives were?" He said, "My gut right now is based on circumstances and her reaction, but my instinct is that I was being used, that it was too improbable to be a coincidence." Laura said, "Well...that's what a coincidence is: an improbable occurrence." We all laughed at that, but we agreed the odds were not in her favor on this one. She said to him, "You're probably not going to call me back, are you?" I told her to go fuck herself." Laura screamed, "GEORGE!" He said, "I felt like saying that, but I only said good night." We asked who chose their meeting place, and he told us she did. Laura told him that in the future he needed to pre-clear his dates with us, and he said, "It sure would have helped in this case." Laura said, "Even if this was co-inky dink (which none of us believe it was), I really think she is on a major rebound, which is not good news either." My take was that she set him up to make her "ex" jealous and try to get back with him. We wound things up. It was getting late. So. What do you think? Co-inky dink...or not?

 

Washington Cube     http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/

What's It Worth, Mary?

 

What's It Worth, Mary?

Washington Cube     http://washingtoncube.blogspot.com/