The Conservative Cave
Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: franksolich on July 24, 2010, 06:16:41 PM
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http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=105x9442412
Oh my.
Thanks to our esteemed colleague Shadeaux, who found this.
Redstone Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 01:40 PM
THE BIRD-SMACKING STONED RED-FACED PRIMITIVE, CHIEF S ITTING BULL
Original message
She was not one of the great loves of my life, but she was definitely one of the most recurrent ones, as we intersected now and again - actually quite frequently - through the latter half of the 1970s; which is not to diminish the passion sparked by each encounter and re-encounter. Not at all.
My Debbie.
I think of her today, as I remember how we met: Me sitting down at the table in the bar where she sat with her friends, all strangers to me, I inviting myself to that table because the bar was crowded and there was an open chair, and her remarking almost immediately that she was an artist, and that I had the most graceful hands she'd ever seen, and would I allow her to paint a portrait of my hands, some day? (Beats the hell out of "What's your sign?" as a pickup line, doesn't it, especially given that this was back in the inexpressibly callow days of the 1970s.)
I was a classical and flamenco guitarist then, so of course any praise of my pampered hands worked a charm.
How many other times had I sat in a workman's bar, drinking a Rock and a shot of Jack, only to end up having to punch the shit out of a stranger of a steelworker with my hand that he'd noticed and criticized, the right hand with the beautifully-manicured and polished fingernails (the homegrown fingerpicks) - not that the ignorant **** would take the time to notice that the nails of my LEFT hand were persecuted beyond existence...
But those are nuances. And nuances that are beside the point as well, historical filler though they may provide. And Debbie, I'll mention even though it's not germane to that point either, was one of those women of southern Italian heritage who, although she may not have been a Playboy-class beauty, possessed that smoky sexuality (I'm not going to cheapen that quality by diluting it to the term 'sensuality') that simply would NOT allow itself to be resisted.
At least not by me.
I think of Debbie today (Did I refer to her as 'my' Debbie above? Forgive me for that arrogance, Deb; I know you were never 'mine' any more than you were anyone's other than your own) as I look at my hands, those once-agents of my identity, now long and irretrievably lost to arthritis and overuse. I've not been able to use those hands to coax the sounds from a guitar; those sounds that would bring me to something as close to tears as anything ever could, those sounds that would open a woman's heart to the feelings that would be the same from a man's heart, though he'd not show them in public (unless he were Spanish) for well over ten years now.
Those hands are no longer so elegant that they attract the notice of an artistic woman. These days, they attract only the notice of joint-replacement specialists, and perhaps the odd stranger who might note the bone spurs.
Deb, I'm sorry. I apologize that I have not been able to maintain the hands that brought us together (and the ones, I hope, that you remember bringing you so much pleasure) to the standard that you would have expected that I should have done.
But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?
None of that matters now.
All that matters today is this: I look at my hands, and I think of you, Debbie. Go with God.
Bertha Venation Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 01:53 PM
Response to Original message
2. Redstone
You've moved me.
What part did Chief S itting Bull move? The bowel, perhaps?
ippywife Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 01:55 PM
MRS. ALFRED PACKER
Response to Original message
3. I'm so sorry for your losses, Redstone.
All of them, babe. You share them so eloquently, it's difficult not to respond, but with which words it's also difficult to choose.
Rest easy and take care of yourself.
CaliforniaPeggy Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 02:38 PM
THE POETESS CALPIG PRIMITIVE, #10 TOP PRIMITIVE OF 2009
Response to Original message
5. My dear Redstone...
Ah, sweetie...You may not be able to move a woman with the beauty of your hands on the guitar, but your words have much power, and they brought me to tears...
What an eloquent and loving piece this is.
I feel so very fortunate to have been able to read it...
Thank you.
Redstone Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 06:08 PM
CHIEF S ITTING BULL, THE BIRD-SMACKING STONED RED-FACED PRIMITIVE
Response to Reply #5
6. I cannot move her anymore, with my hands or otherwise, but I may yet be able to influence/inspire a young person through my words of experience...partcularly if I am able to use the words of positive experience rather than the ones of the negative times I've lived.
WinkyDink Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 06:13 PM
Response to Original message
7. The moments were. That's all we can ultimately hope for.
Moondog Donating Member (1000+ posts) Sat Jul-24-10 06:15 PM
Response to Original message
8. I am searching for the words to describe this -
Appreciation
Epitaph
or
Obituary -
it was, in addition to being obviously heartfelt, excellent.
One hopes that the lady in question is looking down from wherever and smiling.
I hope that when I finally kick it that someone remembers me so fondly as to write something like this.
Oh, and dude, take it easy on yourself. Life, if we are not careful, is a series of regrets.
By the way, it seems Chief S itting Bull's wife is hitting the bottle again.
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How many other times had I sat in a workman's bar, drinking a Rock and a shot of Jack, only to end up having to punch the shit out of a stranger of a steelworker with my hand that he'd noticed and criticized, the right hand with the beautifully-manicured and polished fingernails (the homegrown fingerpicks) - not that the ignorant **** would take the time to notice that the nails of my LEFT hand were persecuted beyond existence...
Talk about stupid and nonsensical tripe. ::)
Yeah,you are the one there Internet tough guy...what a load of sh!t.
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All I got from that tripe was "But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?". Way to WOW a dead woman.
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All I got from that tripe was "But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?". Way to WOW a dead woman.
Yeah, that comment did stick out like a sore thumb.
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How many other times had I sat in a workman's bar, drinking a Rock and a shot of Jack, only to end up having to punch the shit out of a stranger of a steelworker
I always imagined that Redstone would only have the balls to hit a woman. With his freshly ironed silk shirt, perfectly manicured nails and immaculately trimmed haircut, he wouldn't put up much of a resistance.
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Redstone
How many other times had I sat in a workman's bar, drinking a Rock and a shot of Jack, only to end up having to punch the shit out of a stranger of (sic) a steelworker with my hand that he'd noticed and criticized, the right hand with the beautifully-manicured and polished fingernails (the homegrown fingerpicks) - not that the ignorant **** would take the time to notice that the nails of my LEFT hand were persecuted beyond existence...
At least now we have a theory why he has arthritis. If a sissy boy like Redstone really went around picking fights with steelworkers, good chance his hands weren't the only thing that got crushed beyond recognition.
.
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All I got from that tripe was "But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?". Way to WOW a dead woman.
I thought the same thing. What was THAT?
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And still nary a mention from ol' RS about the 'intellectual property' he was going to have an attorney work on for him. I still wonder what THAT was all about ....
KC
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And still nary a mention from ol' RS about the 'intellectual property' he was going to have an attorney work on for him. I still wonder what THAT was all about ....
Yeah, that was two, three, years ago, when Chief S itting Bull got the other primitives all agog and excited about this "sure winner" of an idea the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive wanted to "patent."
Chief S itting Bull had found the end of the rainbow. It was sure financial bonanza.
But then utter silence.....
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All I got from that tripe was "But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?". Way to WOW a dead woman.
I wonder if she is actually is dead or just absent from his life and he is reminiscing...that's what I got out of it. :uhsure:
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I wonder if she is actually is dead or just absent from his life and he is reminiscing...that's what I got out of it.
What I got out of it, actually, was that Chief S itting Bull wanted to remind the other primitives he used to be a Don Juan, even though he's not one any more.
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This seems less an elegy to a (presumably) deceased woman and more an ode to his own "artistic" and (reading between the lines) amorous feats. :violinwhack:
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What I got out of it, actually, was that Chief S itting Bull wanted to remind the other primitives he used to be a Don Juan, even though he's not one any more.
Or was then....but a man's gotta dream... :-)
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I thought he was going to Arizona to punch out a cop. What happened, did the arthritis in his hands act up?
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Obviously he fell flat. I thought the woman was dead yet others thought she was just a notch on his bedpost and he was just remembering her "kind of" fondly.
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Upon re-reading the thread title after reading the OP makes one wonder, which did he name Debbie, the left hand or the right? :innocent:
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What I got out of it, actually, was that Chief S itting Bull wanted to remind the other primitives he used to be a Don Juan, even though he's not one any more.
There ya go - we age and are no more longer lovely. That's how it works.
We are the lucky ones to to get to age, don't ya think?
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I would just like to state.....that I have never met a flamenco guitarist....at least not "up close and personal". :innocent:
This seems less an elegy to a (presumably) deceased woman and more an ode to his own "artistic" and (reading between the lines) amorous feats. :violinwhack:
I was thinkin' the same thing. He is rather ...um...proud ? of his hands, isn't he... :uhsure:
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Why would he be lamenting over a woman who is not his wife?
I have, and assume we all have, had thoughts of past romances, but nothing that would make me want to make a public spectacle of the way Redstone has. This is both denigrating and an insult to his wife. It doesn't matter if she's drinking again.
Loyalty is a trait that is rare, if non existent on the island. The island represents, and I know this sounds contradictory, the collective narcissism.
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And still nary a mention from ol' RS about the 'intellectual property' he was going to have an attorney work on for him. I still wonder what THAT was all about
One Sunday night, back in 1988 RS and some buddies were sitting around the hookah watching The Tracy Ulman Show segue into Married, With Children with a Simpsons short. RS emerging from the haze, in front of witnesses mind you muttered these immortal words. You know, this channel is funny. They should do their own news.
That's how FNC was born and now RS wants his piece of the pie. :-)
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Everyone has said what they got out of that so here's my thoughts.
RS was a sissy loser that tried to play the guitar...even though he was a sissy loser, a fat gal once fell for him...even though he was a sissy loser, he had gotten lucky once in life....but being the sissy loser that he was, he mistreated her because she was the only person that would put up with his sissy loser ass...but even a fat gal eventually gets wise and dumps a sissy loser...now he self lothes his sissy loser ass.
Obama has failed him...he ordered a female pony...she took one look at the sissy loser and jumped the fence.
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One Sunday night, back in 1988 RS and some buddies were sitting around the hookah watching The Tracy Ulman Show segue into Married, With Children with a Simpsons short. RS emerging from the haze, in front of witnesses mind you muttered these immortal words. You know, this channel is funny. They should do their own news.
That's how FNC was born and now RS wants his piece of the pie. :-)
You, sir, obviously are aware that Chief S itting Bull was once best buds with the lying tits primitive, the "TominTib" primitive.
So it wouldn't surprise me if the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive "adapted" some of the lying tits primitive's manners.
It's true, very true--during the late 1960s, the two of them hitch-hiked all over the Great American Southwest, during which time Chief S itting Bull, born and raised in New Hampshire, got this romantic notion that he was partially of Native American derivation.
It's one of the ways primitives "identify" with the oppressed classes; they pretend to be one of them.
To my knowledge, no primitive has ever alleged to be descended from one of the oppressor classes; only the oppressed classes. In addition to the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive, sir, I offer as additional examples Doug's stupid ex-wife and the primitive woman bothered by cold weather (the "TroubleInWinter" primitive), all of whom are as likely to be Native American or Latina or Samoan as franksolich is to be Chinese.
Anyway, three years ago, the lying tits primitive, living in California, decided to head back east to visit his old pal. Chief S itting Bull got all agog and excited at the prospect of a reunion, and was really looking forward to strumming on a guitar, recollecting old times with an old friend he hadn't seen for years and years and years.
The old friendship apparently evaporated when the bird-smacking stoned red-faced primitive found out that his best bud had come 3,000 miles to see him, not to talk about the good old days, but simply to borrow some money.
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Wow. I had the same intestinal reaction to that as I do to calipigs poetry.
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What I got out of it, actually, was that Chief S itting Bull wanted to remind the other primitives he used to be a Don Juan, even though he's not one any more.
Is there such a thing as a metro-sexual DUmmie Don Juan?
Cindie
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Did Debbie die? What brought this on?
I am sure Debbie is just thrilled to know that she was not one of the great loves of his life.
Was this a tribute to his hands?
What an arrogant conceited jerk.
When writing about someone, you should try to mention memories of the person not memories about yourself.
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Pathetic link (http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=105x9442412#9442426)
Redstone Donating Member (1000+ posts) Click to send private message to this author Click to view this author's profile Click to add this author to your buddy list Click to add this author to your Ignore list Sat Jul-24-10 01:40 PM
Original message
She was not one of the great loves of my life, but she was
Edited on Sat Jul-24-10 02:17 PM by Redstone
definitely one of the most recurrent ones, as we intersected now and again - actually quite frequently - through the latter half of the 1970s; which is not to diminish the passion sparked by each encounter and re-encounter. Not at all.
My Debbie.
I think of her today, as I remember how we met: Me sitting down at the table in the bar where she sat with her friends, all strangers to me, I inviting myself to that table because the bar was crowded and there was an open chair, and her remarking almost immediately that she was an artist, and that I had the most graceful hands she'd ever seen, and would I allow her to paint a portrait of my hands, some day? (Beats the hell out of "What's your sign?" as a pickup line, doesn't it, especially given that this was back in the inexpressibly callow days of the 1970s.)
I was a classical and flamenco guitarist then, so of course any praise of my pampered hands worked a charm.
How many other times had I sat in a workman's bar, drinking a Rock and a shot of Jack, only to end up having to punch the shit out of a stranger of a steelworker with my hand that he'd noticed and criticized, the right hand with the beautifully-manicured and polished fingernails (the homegrown fingerpicks) - not that the ignorant **** would take the time to notice that the nails of my LEFT hand were persecuted beyond existence...
But those are nuances. And nuances that are beside the point as well, historical filler though they may provide. And Debbie, I'll mention even though it's not germane to that point either, was one of those women of southern Italian heritage who, although she may not have been a Playboy-class beauty, possessed that smoky sexuality (I'm not going to cheapen that quality by diluting it to the term 'sensuality') that simply would NOT allow itself to be resisted.
At least not by me.
I think of Debbie today (Did I refer to her as 'my' Debbie above? Forgive me for that arrogance, Deb; I know you were never 'mine' any more than you were anyone's other than your own) as I look at my hands, those once-agents of my identity, now long and irretrievably lost to arthritis and overuse. I've not been able to use those hands to coax the sounds from a guitar; those sounds that would bring me to something as close to tears as anything ever could, those sounds that would open a woman's heart to the feelings that would be the same from a man's heart, though he'd not show them in public (unless he were Spanish) for well over ten years now.
Those hands are no longer so elegant that they attract the notice of an artistic woman. These days, they attract only the notice of joint-replacement specialists, and perhaps the odd stranger who might note the bone spurs.
Deb, I'm sorry. I apologize that I have not been able to maintain the hands that brought us together (and the ones, I hope, that you remember bringing you so much pleasure) to the standard that you would have expected that I should have done.
But you weren't close to perfect yourself, kiddo. Were you?
None of that matters now.
All that matters today is this: I look at my hands, and I think of you, Debbie. Go with God.
Redstone
I suspect he's trying to get CalPeg and the other seniors moist with this drivel. What an ass :tool:
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"bump" in memory of Redstone.