franksolich gets infested with primitives

[franksolich]

“Who’s this?” the guest asked when I returned back inside the house, having installed another winter window on the north side of the house.  Because of my cardiac condition, I put them up only one at a time, one in the morning and one in the late afternoon.

It’s got to be done, but there’s no hurry.

And being a nice guy, I’m loathe to bother the property caretaker, Joe Gomez, Jose O’Brien, or the guest about it.  If I can handle something, I handle it.

Oh, I said; “Ludmilla Matsyura, the greatest organist ever.  She’s of eastern European derivation, quite possibly like myself distantly related to the cousin nadin out in San Diego, but last I knew, she’s head organist of a famous medieval cathedral in Spain; this was only a performance of hers, at Notre Dame d’Paris.

“The greatest organist since the Creation of the World; nobody’s ever come close.  A sheer joy and delight and ecstasy to hear.   Even God sits down to listen when she plays.”

“But everybody’s ‘the greatest’ to you,” the guest pointed out.   â€œYou’re deaf, and while I can understand you manage to ‘hear’ some things, I wonder if you’ve heard enough of things to make any judgement about them.”

Well, I admitted, “I’ve probably heard about one-one-hundredth of one percent—really, no kidding—of all that hearing people my own age have heard in their lives, but there’s a difference.

“I heard all that I’ve heard, whereas they ignored most of what they’ve heard.

“When listening to music, instrumental or vocal or both, with twenty pounds of weight on my head, I’m concentrating on the music, and nothing else.  I’m a dedicated listener, who when ‘listening’ isn’t doing anything but sitting there absorbing sounds.

“As you know, it inevitably gives me eye-crossing throbbing headaches, but it’s worth it.

“Hearing people, when playing music, are usually at the same time yakking on their cellular telephones, conversing with other people in a room, watching television, cooking supper, dining, dancing, vacuuming the floor, driving the car, hopping around in the sack, fighting with the wife or girlfriend, scolding the children or pets, chopping firewood, whatnot.

“The music’s only a faraway background to them, and they don’t really hear most of it.

“Me, I don’t miss a damned thing.

“That, despite my deafness, makes me a superior judge and critic; don’t forget that since I’m taking everything in, I’m probably ‘hearing’ things in it that get by hearing people unheard.

"So when franksolich says something's good, one should believe it."

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Well, he’s kind of like the retrowire primive on Skins’s island,” I said; “from a dirt-poor family, reminiscent of ‘white trash,’ but unexpectedly bright and with potential to acquire class and taste, although it’d be a really big job.

“In case you didn’t know, the retrowire primitive comes from real poverty, bona fide poverty, authentic poverty…..out of the 1930s Dust Bowl although out of North Carolina, not Oklahoma.  It’s a shocking, haunting, daunting sort of poverty no other primitive’s ever lived.

“The lyrical primitive’s got nothing on him, when it comes to stark poverty.

“So he’s here for a couple more weeks, until there’s room for him with a member of the family up in South Dakota.”

“Well, be sure he doesn’t get to hang around longer than that,” she said. 

“Oh, absolutely not,” I said, “because I’ve got a busy Christmas coming up, and won’t have any time to improve anybody, it takes time being Henry Higgins to somebody.

“But it is a pity, because he does have the potential, more potential than the philistines Attila Marc the Hun or Big Mo even during their salad days when they could’ve been influenced to improve themselves, to acquire some class and taste and manners.

“They’re way too far gone now.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

She and I went out to dine tonight at the bar in town.  Swede, the cook of Norwegian derivation whose speciality is Italianate cuisine, is off for the week, his place being taken by Cao Chu-tsu, whose speciality is Finnish cuisine.

She had his famous kaalikääryleet, along with perunamuusi and lihapullat and for dessert, vispipuuro.  I had my usual, a hamburger very well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease, french fries cooked on the grill rather than in the fryer, and a side dish of sour cream.

“How’d your day go?  How’s your guest?” she asked.

Well, the guest spends most of the day in town at his sister’s, even though she loathes him, and as it’s slow with work for me, I’ve been spending much of my time devising a brand-new categorization of primitives.

“You already know about the PoP and PonP, ‘primitives of prominence’ and ‘primitives of no prominence’ and the five tiers of primitivity—non-primitives, first-tier primitives, second-tier primitives, third-tier primitives, les risibles primitives, and drek primitives.” I reminded her.

“Now I’m categorizing them as PwC, PpwC, and PwnC, ‘primitives with class,’ ‘primitives potentially with class,’ and ‘primitives with no class.’

“And there’s sub-groups in the last category, such as ‘primitives with no class but who think they have class’ and ‘primitives with no class who don’t care.’”

“Could you give some examples?” she asked.  She’s not as much into the primitives as franksolich is, but she has a good working knowledge of them.

“Well, there’s two that I haven’t yet categorized, because while I’m sure they have class and manners and style and grace, but I'm not sure where to put them—Skins and the buzzy one. 

“There’s two I know for sure have class, the brooklynite primitive and the husband-hating elleng primitive, although the brooklynite primitive’s somewhat too cutting-edge, avant-garde, arte nouveau for my personal tastes.

“Also, the long-gone NikkiStone primitive, and the long-ago AllentownJake; they had class.

“I’m pretty sure retrowire has the potential to have class, but it’d be a lot of work.

“And so far there’s three primitives who don’t have class and who don’t give a damn—Big Mo, my good friend Atman, and cousin nadin.

“There’s mountains of primitives who don’t have class but think they do; primitives who wouldn’t know good taste and good manners if slammed into their faces.  Bores, boars, and boors who suppose themselves God’s gift to humanity; the Bostonian Drunkard, the Bostonian Drunkard’s maternal ancestress the Raven primitive, the aristus primitive, Ms. Vanderbilt-Astor the NJCher primitive, the sparkling old dude’s much-younger trophy wife, and Attila Marc the Hun, are good examples.

“I just started working on the list today, so I’m far from done compiling and categorizing them.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Why the fascination with Lyndon Johnson?” the guest asked me while we were having a late night snack.

I noticed that lately when talking with me, he’s been writing notes in a small spiral notebook; I dunno what he’s writing, but I hope I’m not flattering myself too much when I suspect perhaps franksolich has acquired a Boswell.

“He was a liberal Democrat, but you seem to admire him.”

“Of course I admired him,” I replied, “but not for reasons of politics, in which he was lousy, bad for America.  He was a great influence upon me though, during my childhood.

“He taught me one of the greatest lessons in life; that no good deed goes unpunished.

“As a Republican enfant, I wasn’t too pleased to see how he dispensed so many freebies to special interest groups, the young, the aged, women, minorities, the poor, the hippies.

“For example, he was already paying slavery reparations to Lamond’s older brothers decades before Jesse Jackson ever thought of it, with all of these lavish dependency-creating social programs.

“Everything and anything they wanted, the special interest groups got it.

“Even when young, I never considered Lyndon Johnson personally generous, being aware that he was simply being generous with other people’s money, just as Vast Teddy soon thereafter learned to do.  He got all the credit for being such a nice guy, while the people actually doing the giving got yelled at for being selfish, for not giving enough……again, just as Vast Teddy did later.

"It's easy to be generous with other people's money.  With one's own, no, as Vast Teddy knew.

“But regardless, he gave the young, the aged, women, minorities, the poor, the hippies, more than anybody else had ever given them before.  And so they should’ve been grateful, but they weren’t.  The more he gave them, the more they hated him.

“I suspect they resented that they were getting such largesse from this guy, rather than from their dead idol John Kennedy, who never gave any of them a damned thing, but whom they admired anyway, as if he’d given them lots and lots.

“They hated Lyndon Johnson’s guts and drove him from office, a tired old man worn out from giving them things.

“It wasn’t America’s finest hour, the way his beneficiaries treated Lyndon Johnson.”

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

As I got up to clear the dishes from the table, I continued.

“You know, I think he’s owed something, by those to whom he gave so much, at least by those still alive today, such as the sparkling old dude or Minnesota Moses or any other ancient primitive.

“I think they need to build a pagoda-like temple in San Francisco dedicated to him, inside which there’s a large golden seated Guatama, a seated Buddha with the head and face of Lyndon Johnson, and with his pot-belly exposed, showing off the scar from gall bladder surgery.

“And then every year on his birthday, whenever it is, the surviving beneficiaries of Buddha Lyndon’s generosity, should gather in San Francisco near the temple, shave their heads, don those yellow robes, and carrying the huge seated Guatama Johnson on an open-air sedan-chair, march around the temple eight hundred times, chanting ‘oh Ram, oh Ram, oh Ram,’ and tossing lotus-flower petals in front of the procession.

“And every so often, those carrying the sedan-chair should pause, one of them gently shoving the back of the seated Lyndon’s head so as to tip him a little bit, making it possible for the primitives walking by to pause and kiss his golden ass, in gratitude for all that he gave them.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

"It looks as if professional music critics disagree with you," the guest said while we were sitting at the table in the dining room, he jotting down notes in his little spiral notebook and myself trying to repair a broken shoe-lace.

"How so?" I inquired.

"They don't think that Phillip Smith of the New York Philharmonic is the greatest trumpet player in the history of the world, like you do," he said.

"Well, that's too bad," I dryly commented; "if they don't think he is, they don't know shit about who's good with a trumpet, and who's not.

"Anyway, I really don't want to argue.  I'm all burned out watching the primitives watching the elections, and if I could, I'd pay attention to them only on Tuesday, not before. 

"It's very discouraging--and troubling--that criminality seems 'okay' with so many people in this country today.  I wish they could have the government they deserve--the problem being, decent and civilized people would have the same government, with the same primitive disregard for the rule of law, for equal justice under the law.

"We have to live under theirs, or they'll have to live under ours.

"I'm tired of living under theirs."

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"But I'd like to know," the guest persisted, "why you think so lowly of the conductor James Levine of the New York Philharmonic while professional music critics think rather highly of him."

Hold on, hold on, I interrupted.  "I don't think lowly of James Levine; in fact, I think rather highly of him.  He's a stellar conductor, and any symphony that can get his services is a very lucky symphony indeed."

"But you think the late Nicolas Harnoncourt was better," the guess argued; "you said he was the greatest conductor in the history of the world."

Yes, I said that, I agreed, "but that's hardly any detriment to James Levine.  Harnoncourt was so good, so excellent, that to be a mere third as good as he was, still puts one in select company, in the top five or ten in the world."

"But why do you think Harnoncourt was better than Levine is?"

"Levine lacks the gravitas of Harnoncourt," I replied.  "Levine is a bubbly, effervescent, animated, sprightly, buoyant, vivacious conductor who hops around like a Mexican jumping-bean, and whose facial expressions are easily deciphered; a great conductor for someone who's deaf, and follows the music simply by watching his body language.

"Levine's a joy to watch.  I could watch him for hours without getting tired.

"But he needs to put a little solemnity into his conducting; Harnoncourt is better than him because although expressive Harnoncourt is as serious as God."

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

"Why do you call Samuel Ramey, who you describe as the greatest male singer ever, in the history of all mankind, simply a 'male singer,' and not what he is, a baritone?

"You have 'greatest male singer,' 'greatest female singer,' and so on; wouldn't it be better to consider them by their voices, the greatest bass, the greatest alto, and so on?"

"Because I'm not sure if Ramey's a baritone or not, and so it's just safer to insist he's a 'male singer.'

"I don't hear well enough to differentiate voices; I can barely discern the difference between a soprano and a bass.

"And.....and.....and....." I pushed a certain point, "even hearing people can't seem to differentiate.  I can't tell you how many times I've seen it, where a guy's sometimes described as a bass, and then as a tenor, and then as a baritone, and finally as a counter-tenor.  The same guy, but whose voice is identified four different ways by four different music experts.

"You describe Ramey as a 'baritone;' if I searched youtube, I could probably find some examples where he's described as a tenor, or at least singing parts designed for a tenor.

"I suspect--without having any way of knowing, though--that what a voice is, is a matter of individual subjective opinion; it doesn't seem possible to scientifically measure it.

"You got these teachers having their students yodel in front of a tuning-fork, which ostensibly tells them something--I have no idea what or how, though--after which they declare her to be a soprano.

"But a second music teacher, watching the tuning-fork vibrate, might deem her an alto.

"I think the tuning-fork's a device simply meant to make it look as if the test is 'scientific;' after all, to be 'scientific,' some sort of 'tool' must be used, to 'measure.'  It looks 'scientific,' but it's just a distraction.

"Really--although again, I have no way of knowing anything about it--it seems to me hearing is individual, and highly subjective, and so people's voices are whatever a particular listener calls them.

"Anyway, so I'm really dragged out and tired, so good night."

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You look like Hell,” she said, when we met at the bar in town for lunch today.

“I know,” I said; “when I feel like this, shaving’s the first thing to go, and then the gauntness kicks in.

“I’m just really tired of watching the primitives watching the elections, and thank God they’ll be over Tuesday evening.  The primitives nauseate me, the way they’re such greedy, self-centered, arrogant, two-faced, pusillanimous, retarded, depraved people.”

“But you don’t have to watch them,” she said.

Uh no, I disagreed.  “It’s a civic duty, a public service for the good of humanity, to keep one’s eyes on them, given that while most of them are weak harmless impotent entities, there’s a few who present a real and present danger to our liberties and freedoms, to the Constitution, to the Republic, people who’d sell us out if they could find a buyer convinced they had the goods to sell.

“As it’s engraved on the walls of the Nebraska State Capitol, ‘eternal vigilance is the price of liberty,’ and then somewhere else there, ‘the salvation of the state [i.e., the rule of law] is the watchfulness of the citizen.’

“I wish they’d all die so we wouldn’t have to pay attention to them.”

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

Olga, the cook of Hindu derivation whose specialty is Argentinian cuisine, was working, but as it was only lunch, no big deal.  She had a large salad with blue cheese dressing; as I wasn’t especially hungry, I had a dish of sour cream, which I dined upon as if it were ice cream.

“How’s the house guest?” she asked.

“Well, right now he’s with his sister, and they’re up in South Dakota until this evening, where he’s going to be moving in a couple of weeks.

“I’m sure they’re having a great time cooped up together in a car, as she loathes and detests him…..which of course is why he’s staying out at my place, instead of with her.

“Her husband begged me to take him in so as to keep his wife pacified, which was silly; he knew that franksolich is one of the most willing, one of the most hospitable, people one can ever hope to meet.”

“Well, I’d be nervous,” she said, “given his violent criminal past.”

Yeah, right, I sneered; “that’s the first objection everybody brings up.  True, he has a past that isn’t exactly commendable, but think of something.

“Think of the hundreds of people I’ve had as guests out there the past eleven years, most of them camping down on the river, but some of them inside the house, all of them utter strangers to me, many of them far from aesthetic or otherwise not respectable-looking.

“I’m sure there’s been many with a ‘past,’ even a violent criminal past, but here I remain, whole and intact.  I’ve never been touched—although the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer’s hippyhubby Wild Bill one time tried to garrote me when my back was turned and I didn’t know he was there--and the only thing that’s ever been stolen was an unopened package of three pairs of white briefs.”

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“Well, still, be careful,” she nagged.  “You look as if you can handle things, take care of yourself, but that’s only an impression, not reality.  Because of your fragile infrastructure underneath the strong-looking surface, just about anybody could beat you up, beat you into a pulp.

“In fact, this worried me a lot at first,” she said, “when I was concerned you’d do something to purposely offend him, after you’d been told he was the prissy, fussy, finicky sort of person—“

‘You forget,” I said; “that’s my job, my purpose in life, the reason God made franksolich—to considerably discombobulate prissy, fussy, finicky people, to get them all upset and bent out of shape until they come to understand how silly they are. 

“And you have to admit I do it very well, but I don’t seem to have offended him thus far.

“I tried, but he took it with aplomb.  And then after I found out he’s queer, I was very happy he took it so casually, not getting any ideas about me.

“But at any rate, as things have evolved, I’ve been more and more impressed.  Despite his white-trash trailer-court background, that he never graduated from high school, and his criminal past, his spelling and grammar are impeccable, his vocabulary vast.  His handwriting eminently legible.

“It’s a joy and delight to see a note from him, laying on the table when one returns home.

“Atman on Skins's island, despite his good breeding and affluent background, can’t spell worth a damn.

“I dunno how that happened, but as you know, such things happen, certain characteristics and skills in people one least expects to find them; the peasant well-mannered enough to dine with a prince, the prince [another one] not fit to sit down with pigs.”

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The guest keeps notes on what I tell him, I proudly pointed out to her.

“it’s very rare I encounter anyone who thinks I know something about anything.

“Last night, however, he dared argue with me.

“He insisted there can be exact, scientific measurements of the human voice, as most hearing people insist, whereas I insisted that ‘hearing’ is such an individual, personalized, custom-made thing, that no two people hear the same voice the exact same way.

“Of course, being deaf, I’m the last person who knows what I’m talking about here, but still, that seems a damned solid theory to me.

“He wanted to argue it further, but as I had a headache, I had to go to bed.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

note: photobucket appears to be down, so no photographs at this time, alas

https://youtu.be/D1NdcAjBKb4

“So…..who do you think was the greatest woman writer, ever?” the guest asked me, sitting down at the dining room table, plopping open his spiral notebook so as to take notes.

The question startled me; usually I’m not asked my opinion on anything, and if I try to offer it, I get commented back, “Oh, what do you know?”

Such is the fate, even when adults and even outside of one’s own family, when one was born at the tail-end of a large family; I got used to it a very long time ago.

“Actually, there’s been three of them,” I answered; “women writers sans peer, ne plus ultra, primus inter pares.  No other women writers have come even close to these three.

“That of course,” I cautioned, “is by putting Mari Sandoz on the shelf, her own distinct place.”

I’ve done this before, because there are certain “greatest this” or “greatest that” which deserve their own individual place, too good to be in competition with anybody or anything.

In music, for example, with all of its own “greatest this” or “greatest that,” one is compelled to put the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, on the shelf, out of contention, because there’s nothing in the world impressive enough with which it may be compared.

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“The first was Rebecca West, whose writing and whose wit dripped with cerebrality.

“The second was Barbara Tuchman, surely one of the most thorough writers ever.

“And the third is Doris Kearns Goodwin, the only writer of a biography of Lyndon Johnson that treated him fairly and compassionately; also Wait Till Next Summer, about her girlhood being a New York baseball fan.

“Now, if Ruth Bader Ginsberg had kept up her writing about growing up Jewish in New York City, instead of throwing away her talents in law school, and gone on to become the Head Patroness of abortion on the Supreme Court, she’d be on the list too.

“I dunno why people with a remarkable talent in something chose to not use it, and go on into something for which they’re considerably less gifted.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

After watching a campaign speech by a certain candidate broadcast live on youtube, I went to the bar in town, to see if anything was going on, as there was nothing going on here.  The guest is still up in South Dakota.

The property caretaker was there, with a couple of his friends, and so I joined them, even though I don’t drink, and they do.  Lots.

Some time during the course of the conversation, the property caretaker mentioned I was engaged in improving the mental, intellectual, and spiritual state of a guest out here, much in the manner of Henry Higgins remodeling Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady.

He commented the guest keeps a notebook, in which he enters lists of things I assure him it’s important to know, if he wishes to attain class and taste.

It’s a big job, I admitted, “but the kid”—actually he’s 28 years old—“has the talent for it.  If he wants taste and class and grace and manners badly enough, he’ll get them.

“Which would be remarkable considering his background, in which he makes Tobacco Road look Country Club.”

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The property caretaker mentioned that I itemize for him lists of “great” things, but then suddenly out of the thin air changed the subject.  “You know your history," he said; “what was the greatest football game, ever, that was played?”

Oh man, that’s easier than strawberries-and-cream, I replied.

“The greatest football game, ever, was Texas at Arkansas in 1969.  Texas won that game 15-14, and it was a stellar example of what happens when an irresistible force runs into an immoveable object.

“There’s never, before or after, been a game as great as that one; no other game’s even come close.”

Well, this of course is Nebraska, and so inevitably someone pointed out the game where Nebraska played at Oklahoma in 1971, the alleged “Game of the Century.”

“It wasn’t, though,” I said; “we were expected to beat Oklahoma, and we did, 35-31.  A game with an already-expected outcome is hardly a history-making game.

“This ‘Game of the Century’ was just so much television hype and hoopla.

“In fact, I’ve always considered the Oklahoma-at-Nebraska game in 1978 as a greater game than the one seven years earlier.  Oklahoma was expected to win that game, but we did, 17-14, when Oklahoma’s Billy Sims fumbled the football on the Nebraska three-yard line with just seconds to go in the game, and Nebraska recovered it.

“That was an unexpected outcome, so that was a great game, greater than the ‘Game of the Century’ in 1971.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I went to town this morning to speak with the brother-in-law of the guest, asking him to convey a message, as obviously I can’t do it myself, unable to use a telephone.

“I don’t know what’s going on, and it’s probably not any of my business anyway, but something really odd happened during the middle of the night, and I think he ought to know about it.

“I was sleeping when the cats began making a ruckus—you know of course that because I’m not a cat person, I’ve always trained the cats as if they were dogs—indicating to me there was some mischief afoot somewhere on the property.

“As I didn’t want to give any clues I was awake and alert, I got up in the darkness and found the 1-3/8” S/K adjustable wrench with the 17” handle in the drawer of the bedside table, and walked around, checking the inside of the house.

“I didn’t see anything until I was in the living room, and caught, through the picture-window, a flicker of movement on the front porch.

“So I walked over to the front door, and as I opened it, also turned on the porch light.

“There were three guys there, and I’d caught them by surprise, because they didn’t move, just standing there and staring.

“’May I help you, gentlemen?’ I asked, but then they suddenly ran off the front porch down onto the front lawn, got into a car and drove away.

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“By then, I’d turned on the yard lights, which as you know are pretty bright, and saw that the car had license plates—I wasn’t quick enough to get any number, though—from the blue state where your wife and her brother had been born and raised.

“Now, your brother-in-law told me once that there were ‘some people’ ‘after him,’ so I think he needs to know about this before returning here from South Dakota.

“I have no idea why they’d be ‘after him,’ but they didn’t strike me as especially friendly.”

“That’s good, you scared them off,” the brother-in-law said; “they saw you, and got scared.”

Thank you, I’m flattered, I said, “but I have no idea how I might’ve scared them.  It was probably the death-wielding wrench I was carrying, although there didn’t seem to be enough time for them to absorb what it was.”

“Good God, man, you’re the most fearless, the most confident, person around,” he replied.  “You didn’t say anything about getting dressed when the cats woke you up.”

I blushed.

“It’s your boldness, your sheer audacity, your brazen impudence, that scares them.”

Oh, I said.

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

Okay, he said, he’d pass on the message, and if given any information that would be illuminating for me, he’d pass that on to me, too.

“But really, the wife was afraid, when you agreed to have him for a couple of weeks, that you’d care too much—‘he’s a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet,’ she said, ‘a saint, a friend of the friendless and taker-in of the abandoned, franksolich can’t help himself, caring.'

"After all, he’s been a lot of trouble for people all his life, and he’s queer besides.”

I begged to differ on the first point, although admittedly he’s been around here only about a week.

“Really,” I said, “after speaking with your wife, I’d been set for all sorts of problems—nothing which I couldn’t handle, though—but for whatever reasons, there haven’t been any problems at all.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

I went to the big city to have lunch with the former business partner.  I live about forty miles east of the big city, while he lives about 200 miles west of it, about halfway from here to dutch508’s vast cattle barony on the western fringe of the Sandhills of Nebraska.

I say “former” because after the heart attack a year and a half ago, I had to fold up my cards, cash in my chips, in the endeavor.  I felt badly about it, because while it contributed only a minuscule portion to his own income (he does two other things, each of them larger than this ever was), it was a major part of mine.

But well, things happen.  All one can do is shrug the shoulders and move on.

He brought with him a DVD of the music of Mozart, which flattered me much.  He’d found it among other things at an auction, and thought it wasn’t any big deal, but I reminded him it is; “I could go bankrupt buying all the DVDs I’d like to get before I die.

“The day before yesterday, I finally got around to ordering the DVD for the 1960 NBC television production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Mikado, starring Groucho Marx and Helen Traubel—best always to wait for the income to flow in, before the money flows out again—and in theory, it’s supposed to arrive here next Wednesday, the day after the elections.”

https://youtu.be/idyOV6XoKmY

He inquired about the primitives.  Not that he cares about them, but like me wishes they’d all die.

“You know, I’ve never in my life,” I told him, “seen a group of people so persistently and muleheadly stick with ideas and notions that are decades old, long past and gone.  It’s like you and I are living in the twenty-tens, and they’re still mired down in the nineteen-sixties.

“They still, for example, romanticize themselves as rebels, revolutionaries, counter-culture, anti-establishment, against ‘the Man,’ non-conformists, iconoclasts.

“Well, they once were…..a whooping fifty years ago.

“Democrats, liberals, and primitives have been the Establishment, the Man, for some decades now; my guess is since the mid-term elections of 1974, which ousted the last bastions of WASPery.

“Richard Nixon, John Mitchell, Spiro Agnew, Lyndon Johnson, Curtis LeMay, the Rockefellers, Sam Yorty, John Wayne, &c., &c., &c., have all been dead and buried a long time now.

“The national defense outlays, more than two-thirds of federal expenditures under their idol the dead Kennedy and their demon Lyndon, hardly makes up pocket-change in today’s defense outlays, but yet they persist in believing it’s the main component of governmental spending and can be cut down considerably so they can get more free things.

“I swear, their brain-cells are petrified.

“Everything on the hippie agenda of the 1960s was either legal or at least socially-respectable, by 1980.

“They’ve had their way more than the past forty years, in addition to their total takeover of the news media, academia, the bureaucrats, Hollywood, Madison Avenue, and popular culture.

“They’ve been the Establishment, the Man, far too long now, and decent and civilized people the outsiders, the non-conformists, the counter-culture.  My God, it’s nearly an act of sedition to have a son in the Boy Scouts or a daughter attend home economics courses in high school these days, brazen rebellion to be monogamous or to work for a living.

“As an outsider, as a rebel, as anti-establishment, I think it’s high time the Old Order, the Democrats, liberals, and primitives, got sic transit gloria mundied, consigned to the dustbin of history while a new society, a society built upon decency and civility, the rule of law, evolves.

“And we’re probably going to start seeing that on Tuesday, although there’s so much shit to get rid of, it’s surely going to take years and years; after all, it takes much longer to build, than to destroy.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

Being bored out here, I went to the bar in town to see if anything interesting was happening.  There was a time I went to the bar only to pick up an order of my usual to bring back here, but since the heart attack eighteen months ago, it seems as if I spend more time there than someone who actually drinks.

I suspect it’s a perhaps unreasonable—but very real—fear of being alone when the cardiac organ throws a temper tantrum and I’d have to deal with it all by myself, as I did six years ago when the esophagus exploded.  I’ve always handled such personal crises when alone, but really, it’s better that if one’s going to have one of them, that someone else is around too.

There were a lot of people there, mostly grousing about our loss to Ohio State in football, and such a lopsided loss it was, 88-3 or something like that.   After it got way up to 62-3 I quit caring, and Ohio State probably scored a bunch more times.

“You know, do we have a right to feel sorry for ourselves?” I asked.  “I think we brought this all upon ourselves fifteen years ago, when we let the then-athletic director fire the then-winningest coach in college football.

“We had the finest football possible, but weren’t grateful.  It wasn't enough.  We wanted more.

“Of course, I can exclude myself and some other Nebraskans from the blame; we weren’t the ones wanting anything to change, and we weren’t the ones all agog and excited about what all these new people were going to bring to Nebraska football.

“Keep in mind that for more than forty years Nebraska, then the smallest, tiniest, state in the union with a major college football team, was the terror of the gridiron.  Big blue states such as California, Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Minnesota, quailed in horror at any prospects of playing little itty-bitty red Nebraska.

“But then about twenty years ago, television, and Nebraskans who wanted us to be hip, trendy, cool, with it, just like everybody else, started complaining, ‘oh, it’s so old-fashioned the way Nebraska plays football; it’s boring, and we want to see something different, something new.’

“Never mind that Nebraska won tons of football games—against much larger states with many more people and vastly more resources—being old-fashioned and boring.

“Well, here we are…..”

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

The brother-in-law of the guest came in, obviously having been out looking for me.  Because franksolich is unreachable by telephone, one has to go out and look for me.  But it works the other way around too; when I’m looking for someone, I have to go out and physically hunt-and-search.

I figured he’d want to pull me aside and tell me what was up, but instead, in front of the large assembled crowd, he announced, “I talked with him [the guest, who’s up in South Dakota at the moment], give him your details, and then he gave me his.

“You don’t want to mess with them; they’re bad news.  Since they know where you live, you can’t stay out there, you’ve got to go somewhere else.  These aren’t nice guys—“

I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space.

“Now, why would they have anything against me?” I asked; “they’re trying to get [the guest], not me.  As long as he’s safely up in South Dakota, they aren’t going to bother with me.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“How many guns do you have out there?” I was asked, by someone sitting across the table.

I looked at him as if he were Bozo from Outer Space; obviously he didn’t know me.

None, I replied; it’s probably the biggest square mileage of gun-free in the whole county.

However, I went on, “that’s not because I’m anti-gun; far from it.  In fact, I’m more a friend of the Second Amendment than even owners of firearms.  And owners of firearms are free to bring and use their own personal implements out there, no problem.

“It’s just a ‘personal preference’ thing; I don’t know a damned thing about using a gun, and I suspect that given my temperament, I’d be useless trying to use one.  I don’t have the patience; when dealing with a difficult or hostile person, I’d just as soon get up close and personal as quickly as possible, and start pounding.

“I’m a close-quarters brawler, not a from-a-distance marksman.

“My weapon for self-defense is a 1-3/8” S/K adjustable wrench with a 17” handle and, as I know how to use it, am comfortable using it, I suspect I’d be far more lethal, if I had to be, with that, than someone with a gun.”

These are my people, and I love them dearly, but some of them irritate me, when they insist a firearm’s the only effective means of self-defense.  To each his own; whatever works, and whatever one’s most comfortable and competent using.

“What about him?” I was asked, the question referring to the guest.

He’s not around right now I said, “and if he were, well, just as he’s not allowed to drive a motor vehicle, under the conditions of his release back where he’s from, he’s not allowed to carry and use firearms.

“But as long as he’s far away from them, and from me, neither he nor I have anything to worry about.”

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

“Why’d you come back?” I asked the next morning, seeing him sitting in the kitchen

“I was afraid you’d be in some sort of danger, and thought I needed to be here,” he responded.

Great, I thought; he’d jumped from the frying-pan into the fire, and at the same time shoved me off the kitchen counter onto the stove.

But what’s done can’t be undone, so one might as well accept, adapt, and move on.

As we were dining on breakfast—he made it, eggs over medium, whole wheat toast, hash browns heaped with sour cream, and strips of bacon very well done—he pulled out his little spiral notebook and turned to the page headed ‘facts a person with taste and class would know.’

“You said that St. Jerome, a guy from the fourth century anno domini, was the first person to read without moving his lips.”

Uh huh, I replied, “he was.”

“But how do you know that?” he asked.

“It was from a New Yorker magazine of the 1930s,” I said; “when I was a kid, I used to collect and read ancient magazines, and while Time was my favorite, the New Yorker ranked up there too.  I used to buy them if I could, but most of the time, people cleaning out their basements, attics, and garages just gave them to me.

“I practically grew up on 1920s editions of the American Mercury, Liberty, and the Literary Digest; ate them up, every word of them.”

“But how would the New Yorker know this?” he asked.  “It seems questionable; why would you believe them so blindly?”

“I believe it because if it wasn’t true, it wouldn’t have appeared in the New Yorker.

“Just as with Time magazine under Henry Luce 1923-1964, the New Yorker under Harold Ross 1925-1951 was never known to print an untruth.

“Henry Luce of course was famous for the use of denigrative adjectives, especially for people he didn’t like, but that had nothing to do with whether or not he was telling the truth.  Henry Luce may have expressed opinions, but he never lied.

“The news media’s changed considerably since then.

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

“Both Luce at Time and Ross at the New Yorker kept on their staffs dozens and scores of college coeds, sorority girls from the fancy eastern women’s colleges such as Radcliffe, Vassar, Briarcliff, Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Smith, and somesuch.  They were usually daughters of friends of theirs, and their job was to check all statements a writer made, to be sure the writer had related all the facts correctly.

“Which they’d indicate by making a circle above the appropriate word or phrase.  If all the words of an article didn't have circles above them, the foreman in the printing shop couldn't put it on the presses.

“If they rejected a word or phrase as being untrue, the writer, no matter how ‘big’ and famous, had to rewrite it, to make it true.

“These fact-checkers, shy modest slim 19- and 20-year-old girls, wielded enormous power over some of the biggest names and egos in the literary and journalism worlds of the time.

“Most of the time, a writer, usually someone left-leaning, and usually one of the blowhards with too high of an opinion of himself and his talents, would rage and storm about having to re-write something to make it true, but whatever one of these young women said went, and that was that.

“Those skirt-wearing fact-checkers were good.  So if it was in Time magazine or the New Yorker during the 1920s and 1930s, it was undeniably true, as true as if God had said it.

“I dunno the source of the fact that St. Jerome was the first person able to read without moving his lips, but as it'd been checked out and because it’d been allowed to appear in that magazine, it’s true, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“Whoa, you’re all tensed up,” the neighbor’s wife said.  “I’ve never seen you this tight before.”

I was in the kitchen of their house, where I’d gone and taken off my shirt, bending with my elbows on the table, so she could massage the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders.

“I’ll bet it’s the elections,” she added; “everybody’s all worried about them.  It’s a good thing they’ll be over tomorrow, and life can get back to normal.”

No, it’s not the elections, I told her.  “I got an e-mail from amazon.com this morning telling me that the DVD of Groucho Marx and Helen Traubel starring in The Mikado—a television special from 1960—had arrived to the post office in town.  This was two days earlier than they’d promised.

“The only thing of it available on youtube is a single song, and I’ve been anxious to get the whole thing, to see if I remembered the comic opera correctly.

“I did.  It’s fifty-two minutes long, as the original show had been—meaning it was considerably cut down from the real two hours and some minutes it takes to perform in its entirety—and I played it four times, sitting ramrod straight in front of the computer so as to not miss a single thing because I moved around.

“So now I’m stiff and sore again.”

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

“Well, how are you feeling about the elections?” she asked, returning to that.

“As usual, while a little tiny bit concerned, for the most part laid back, relaxed, mellow.

“Whatever happens, happens, and one can’t do a damned thing about it.

“It’s far more important to be prepared to react in the best possible manner, to whatever happens, than it is to worry about what’s going to happen.

“Win or lose, I suspect franksolich is all set to react appropriately.”

You know, I said, “I wish people—which includes my own people—would stop allowing the news media and popular sentiment dictate how they feel about things—pessimistic or optimistic, negatively or positively, melancholy or joyous.

“They need to evaluate information and speculate outcomes themselves.

“I can’t tell you how many times the past few months I’ve heard, especially from our side, ‘oh, I’m so worried’ or ‘oh, we’re going to lose’ or ‘it’s no good, there’s no hope.’  And then upon inquiring why they felt that way, it turned out they were allowing the news media and popular sentiment to dictate to them how they were supposed to feel.

“I’m the only person I know—the sole solitary person—whose feelings about the election, and speculations about its outcome were based upon my own brain, independent of pollution by pundidiots, pollsters, and prophets.

“Of course, because I don’t do television or radio, that’s easy for me to do, coming to my own conclusions without being influenced by other, most likely selfish special, interests who want me to think their way.

“There’s an advantage to living in a world where one doesn’t hear anything, and has to make judgements based only upon what one sees.

“I’m not going to tell what I’ve concluded, only to say that I’m defiantly relaxed, laid back, and mellow about the whole thing.”

to be continued